Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After a respectable two years having sex, Wei Wuxian is sure there’s nothing in this world better than getting fucked by Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan feels perfect inside him: hot, big and right at the edge of too much. It can be so sweet when it’s tender, and so mind-breakingly good when it’s not. Even after these many days with their nights, getting his insides rearranged by Lan Zhan continues to be his favorite activity.

Fucking him is a close contender, though.

From his spot kneeling between Lan Zhan’s legs, Wei Wuxian watches, licking his lips. He could have removed Lan Zhan’s robes, but there’s something tantalizing about leaving them there, moved about and open. It looks almost more indecent than nudity, even: something precious, refined, being defiled.

The thought makes him smile as he toys with Lan Wangji’s hands: tied together with his forehead ribbon, nested on his chest as if he was about to pray. The white silk makes a dramatic contrast with the purple marks all over his body; only second to the contrast to his red well-kissed lips.

Even with his impassive face and the thick, defined lines of his muscles, Lan Zhan still looks every bit like one of those maidens in erotic books; demure, helpless, and about to be ravaged.

“It’s a good thing your ribbon is so strong, isn’t it, Lan-er-gege?” Wei Wuxian taunts, playfully, running a finger down the tense muscles of Lan Zhan’s tense stomach. “So naughty. You promised you’d stay still… Or is it that you can’t wait?”

Lan Zhan’s ears go even redder, his breath hitching. Wei Wuxian laughs. “Ah, Lan Zhan, you’re too cute.”

He’s been teasing him for a while, letting the ghost of a touch dance over pale skin before withdrawing completely. Lan Zhan has been growing more and more incensed, his light eyes following Wei Wuxian like he wanted to rip off his head.

“I have to say, though, we’re all so lucky you became a cultivator,” Wei Wuxian continues, running his fingers over Lan Zhan’s thighs, and then down, down onto that tight, warm entrance.

Lan Zhan’s breath hitches, his body tensing again as Wei Wuxian’s fingers tease his rim for the third time tonight. His other hand ghosts over his cock languidly, just barely.

Lan Zhan twitches, chasing the touch, desperate. The movement is quick, and it somehow pushes Wei Wuxian’s finger deeper into his entrance.

Wei Wuxian laughs, as if he was seeing an overeager little kitten chasing after a butterfly. He withdraws that hand completely, making Lan Wangji suppress a groan.

He looks so beautiful like this: his chest is red; his breath harsh. Wei Wuxian can see the vein in his neck, thumping so wild he can almost hear it, even this far.

Truly, so beautiful.

“See? This is what I’m talking about,” he mumbles, moving his fingers inside; slightly, just enough to make him tremble. “How many men would’ve sold their whole families for a night of this? Had a brothel madam gotten her hands on you, who knows what would’ve happened? Whole kingdoms would have gone bankrupt!”

Lan Zhan chokes, gritting his teeth. Wei Wuxian sees him draw breath, and can almost hear the words he’s about to utter —Wei Ying! Or maybe a muttered shameless!

But they never come.

He grins, smug, as Lan Zhan’s eyes widen.

He chuckles, satisfied.

“What happened, Lan-er-gege? Nothing to say? Does that mean you agree?”

But, of course, Lan Zhan can’t answer now.

Figuring out how the silencing spell worked took a little longer than he would have expected —really, who had come up with this thing? It was way too clever!

The spell was not written down on any of the cultivation manuals in the Cloud Recesses. It wasn’t something the disciples were taught in an environment where he could witness it. He’d even considered it some sort of inherited ability — until he heard Lan Sizhui could learn it.

Then, he started researching. It was tough—even for him! The only thing he had to go about it was his own experience under its effects, and Lan Zhan seemed resolute in not giving him any more of that.

No matter, though. Wei Wuxian has always been resourceful. He’s done way more with way less. It was only a matter of time for him to figure it out. Then, once he was certain he had it, he only needed to find the right moment to use it for maximum effect.

And what a success! Lan Zhan couldn’t have been more surprised. His eyes are wide open, mouth firmly closed. Wei Wuxian hasn’t been able to shock him like this in over a decade. Even before he—

Well, it’s been a long time!

He should probably savor the moment, he decides. When he does this again in the future, Lan Zhan won’t be this surprised. He needs to make it count.

Wei Wuxian removes his fingers with a pop and lets his two hands sit still on Lan Zhan’s hips. He’s been looking forward to this — Lan Zhan’s moans drowned in his mouth, red ears, eyebrows furrowed. Irritated, frustrated, and impossibly turned on.

He wants— no, he needs to see it now.

Wei Wuxian gets ready to enter him, a little disappointed that the irritation isn’t showing up yet. But that’s alright; it’ll come soon enough.

He enters him in a single thrust; quick, but firm, just like Lan Zhan likes it.

He knows how it must feel, right now — the sting of pain that mixes with the pleasure, enhancing it. He knows how to angle his hips; how to make sure he hits Lan Zhan’s prostate just right.

Wei Wuxian thrusts up, just once, just to see him react, but Lan Zhan seems particularly upset right now. He’s doing that thing he does sometimes — when he refuses to give Wei Wuxian what he wants.

Wei Wuxian pouts. He would’ve thought Lan Zhan had gotten used to his antics by now. Is he really that upset? He just wanted to have a bit of fun?

“Lan-er-gege… Are you really that mad at me?” He asks, teasing, giving a shallow thrust of his hips. Lan Zhan doesn’t react to that, either. Every muscle in his body is tense, like every one of them was being held by force. “Aw, come on. Not even a look?”

No response. Lan Zhan stays the same, stiff as a board.

Wei Wuxian clicks his tongue and brings his hand to Lan Zhan’s cock. It feels different than usual, and Wei Wuxian isn’t really sure why—

Has he—

Did he go soft, now?

“Hey, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian calls, not quite knowing what to make of this. Sure, Lan Zhan might be mad at him, sometimes, but that’s never prevented him from being hard before. Maybe it’s a thing of his, or maybe a force of habit, but it usually tends to make him harder.

But Lan Zhan doesn’t react. The room is well lit, because Wei Wuxian wanted to see, and now—

Now he sees.

Lan Zhan’s face has gone ashen. The blush on his ears is gone, as well as the one on his chest. He’s looking at the ceiling without seeing — his eyes glassy.

Wei Wuxian pulls out carefully, abandoning his place between Lan Zhan’s legs to crawl closer to him. His Lan-er-gege remains in the same position, legs spread to the same angle. His face remains the same impassive white, pale as a ghost.

A wave of Wei Wuxian’s hands undoes the spell, and then he is reaching up, trying to find Lan Zhan’s pulse. Something went wrong. He must’ve missed something. He—

He messed something up.

And then, many things happen at once.

Suddenly, there is pain exploding on his chest, and then on his back. It takes an extra second for Wei Wuxian to realize his body flew, and another second to realize he’d been shoved across the room.

Lan Zhan pushed him.

He tries to breathe. The impact expelled all the air from his lungs; and the ache stings in this body, so pampered and unused to pain. But there’s something that aches deeper; harsher.

Lan Zhan has never hit him. Even before, when he was pestering him day and night, he never used his hands to attack him. His sword? Yes. But not his fists. Such a thing would’ve been beneath him. Even with his leg broken, Lan Zhan had resorted to biting him. He’d never—

Since Wei Wuxian came back, Lan Zhan has done nothing but protect him. Even when he gets mad, he sulks and pouts until Wei Wuxian teases it out of him. More often than not, Wei Wuxian pesters him until he fucks his anger out; and the result is primal and delicious in all the right ways. But he—

Lan Zhan has never hit him.

He looks up, to find that Lan Zhan has sat up and is struggling with his ribbon. But he keeps pulling and pushing and it’s—

He’s too strong. If it were any other material, it would’ve ripped off by now. But the Lan ribbons are covered in spells to be stupidly sturdy and stupidly white and—

And Lan Zhan can’t break them, and he can’t seem to find the way out of them. In just a few seconds, the skin is red, and he is heaving, eyes welling up with tears.

It reminds Wei Wuxian of a small animal, struggling with its paw stuck in a trap.

Just like an animal, Lan Zhan’s struggle is only making it worse. Wei Wuxian made the knots to ensure he wouldn’t be able to free himself. The more he fights, the tighter the ribbon traps him; his ungodly force, used against him.

The skin is turning red.

It’s—

It’s drawing blood.

It hits him like lightning. Lan Zhan is hurting himself!

“Stop! Lan Zhan, stop!”

Wei Wuxian jumps to his feet and runs in, ignoring the pang of pain from his back. It’s not the smartest plan: Lan Zhan seemed to be pretty out of it; he’s already pushed him once. He might get himself hit again.

But he doesn’t think about that until later. It’s too late anyways. He’s already charged in, his hand closing in on Lan Zhan’s wrist.

Surprisingly, Lan Zhan doesn’t push him. The second Wei Wuxian’s hand closes on his wrist, he goes perfectly stiff, as if struck. The wheezing stops, as does the shaking and fighting.

He doesn’t even seem to be breathing. The only sign that he hasn’t passed out are his eyes: wide open, big fat tears still streaming down his jade cheeks.

And he doesn’t move. Not in the slightest.

No, that’s a lie.

He’s shaking.

Lan Zhan is shaking, crying, looking ahead without seeing, his lips still closed together without the spell.

“Lan Zhan— hey, Lan-er-gege, can you hear me? Don’t scare me like this.”

No answer. Did he even hear him? It doesn’t—

It doesn’t seem like it.

He tries shaking his shoulder, letting go of his wrist. His arms fall limp onto his lap, like a puppet with its strings cut.

He’s still not moving.

Wei Wuxian feels his throat close.

He pulls at the right point to undo the bindings. Lan Zhan’s arms are crossed by red lines; blood oozing from a spot by his wrists, where the ribbon had tendered the skin. It’s not too bad, all things considered: it’ll probably be healed in a couple of hours.

But he’s still not moving.

Wei Wuxian loses count of how many times he calls his name. No matter what he says, he does not answer. Tears keep rolling down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking. Once every minute, his chest moves as he breathes.

Outside of that, there is nothing.

His spiritual energy is still there; reserves and paths as impressive as always. However, the system has been thrown into disarray; a kind of chaos that only comes from extreme turmoil.

And the tears just won’t stop.

Wei Wuxian’s ears have started ringing. He goes over the silencing spell time and time again. He tried it on himself before, and nothing— nothing like this happened. Did he mess up the execution, somehow? Had he— what has he—?

What has he done?

He can’t find the problem. He can’t fix it.

Maybe Lan Zhan, way more knowledgeable in this spell than him, would know how to fix it. But Wei Wuxian doesn’t.

Out of options, he reaches for Chenqing. At the very least, a cleansing tune can’t make it worse. Chenqing feels cold against his clammy fingers, and even colder against his mouth. He tries to focus on playing, but his own insides are in chaos.

He’s seeing Jin Zixuan in front of him, impaled on Wen Ning’s arm.

He’s seeing shijie, bleeding, eyes open and trusting and loving as she died.

And now Lan Zhan, crying and shaking, seemingly out of his mind.

The ringing is growing stronger, and Wei Wuxian’s hands are starting to shake. But he can’t be shaking. He can’t afford to not do this right.

Swallowing hard, Wei Wuxian plays the one song that always makes him relax.

The notes come naturally to his fingers; more muscle memory than conscious knowledge at this point. He’s played this song so many times. He’s played it for Lan Zhan, about half as many times as Lan Zhan has played it for him. Wei Wuxian loves this song, and Lan Zhan loves him too much to refuse to play it when he asks.

Since he came back, when has he ever refused him anything? The only thing he refused to do was leave him.

His throat feels tight, but he keeps his eyes on Lan Zhan.

It works like a charm.

(He always knew, somehow. Always; that this song was better than any cleansing tune; more powerful than anything.)

He sees when Lan Zhan starts blinking, suddenly more aware of his surroundings. He sees it when his eyes find him and see him, instead of looking past him.

He sees how Lan Zhan moves — the way he looks around, as if he were seeing the room for the first time. He sees him test his arms, slowly, as if he wanted to see if they still work. The tears somehow grow thicker and more plentiful, even as Lan Zhan tries to blink them away.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t stop playing as Lan Zhan fits himself against his chest, hiding his face there, somehow avoiding touching the flute.

And then, Lan Zhan is bawling.

There’s something visceral about the way he cries; pained and unrestrained in a way that doesn’t feel natural.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t stop playing. The song ends and he starts again, and again, and again. Over and over.

Lan Zhan keeps crying. He doesn’t make a sound while doing it; only a soft hiccuping of his broken throat when he draws in breath. The hands that cling to Wei Wuxian’s robes are shaking.

Lan Zhan said apologies were not needed between them, but this-

This is an exception.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry, Lan Zhan.

Lan Wangji wakes up to his head throbbing.

The sensation is so foreign it makes him frown. It's been well over two decades since he experienced this type of small, inconsequential pain. Spiritual energy tends to take care of those before he has any time to notice them.

He focuses, steadying his mind to get his spiritual energy to flow properly. The headache disappears swiftly, as does the sensation of something parched in his throat. He should still drink some water, but the resulting ache is gone.

Wei Ying is in his arms, but not the usual way. His husband likes to sleep on top of him, with his head nested on Lan Wangji’s chest as he lays down in (mostly) proper posture. But they are laying on their sides now, and Lan Wangji’s face is the one pressed against Wei Ying’s chest.

It’s odd.

Lan Wangji tries to remember the night before. Wei Ying had him tied up, he was touching him, and then-

Mortification, worry and shame flood his mind, each fighting for dominance over the other. Shame seems to win the battle, though, followed by a kind of self-reproach he hasn’t felt since he was running after Wei Ying all those years ago, knowing all the great sects were about to swear an oath to kill him.

The size of the upset can’t be compared, but he can recognize the type: a bitter, heavy disapproval of his own past actions.

He should have seen this coming.

When Wei Ying approached him a few days back, pouting and bemoaning some unfairness, Lan Wangji was mostly curious.

His husband has a talent to keep his actual needs frustratingly (even self-destructively) quiet. It’s not intentional, as far as Lan Wangji can tell. It just is; so woven into himself that it seems to speak of safety; of knowing that being refused will be way more painful than never asking in the first place.

The things he actually needs will show up in the smallest ways: an inflection in his voice that dips for an instant before it evens out; a glint in his eye before he closes them on that soft, easy-going smile; a one-second-too-long silence followed by a burst of laughter that’s a little too loud.

Lan Wangji enjoys chasing after these little signs. In his mind, he’s equaled it to nurturing wounds. Sometimes, he will remove the wrong bandage, nurturing an area that didn’t need any medicine, and Wei Ying will smile and kiss him, indulgently. Other times, he will apply the wrong metaphorical salve, making Wei Ying burst out laughing at his poor attempt at comfort. But it’s all worth it, if only for the joy and ease in Wei Ying’s eyes when he gets it right.

He knew that particular dance well enough to know that whatever was about to come out of Wei Ying’s mouth wasn’t a need. It was most likely a whim; a fit of fancy. Something he most likely wanted, but that he wouldn’t despair without.

Lan Wangji still listened, though, as intently as he would have if he truly believed any of the words coming out of his mouth. It’s important for Wei Ying to know that he’ll try; that he is worth trying, and that nothing in this world would make Lan Wangji stop aiming for his happiness.

His words were confusing, though. Instead of becoming clearer, his husband seemed to become more and more cryptic.

He had no idea what he was talking about. It was irritating; to have information so close, yet firmly out of reach. And it must’ve shown on his face, because his husband bursted out laughing.

Finally, Wei Wuxian took pity on him. His husband cupped his cheeks in his hands, as if he was something precious. Then, he’d given him a peck (Lan Wangji’s confusion was truly reaching new heights at that point) and said he wanted to penetrate him.

And Lan Wangji didn’t move.

Internally, he felt his stomach drop. Cold sweat pooled on the back of his neck, and he had to fight to keep his body from reacting. But the tension itself; the sudden rigidity in his muscles, spoke volumes.

Immediately, Wei Ying pulled back, eyebrows furrowed. He asked what was wrong, and Lan Wangji shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said, forcing his body to relax. “If you want to do it, we can.”

Wei Ying seemed vaguely worried still, and Lan Wangji had to keep a steady grip on his emotions to calm him down. It was easier, really, with every question he asked: the signs of worry, of care from his husband, made the choice easier.

He couldn’t refuse Wei Ying. He didn’t want to, for starters: a husband must be doting, and giving. This was something Wei Ying wanted, and he couldn’t refuse without a good reason.

And he didn’t have one. Not one he could truly explain, anyways.

With every worried question from Wei Ying, Lan Wangji talked himself more into it. It’d be hypocritical to not let Wei Ying do something he’d done every night for the last two years. It’d be selfish to refuse him, knowing Wei Ying would never get to experience this otherwise. Even if Wei Ying wouldn’t resent him (and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t), justice isn’t based on consequences. Unfairness is unfairness, even if the other party doesn’t care.

Refusing his husband would be wrong.

Besides, it’s not like it was the first time the thought crossed his mind. He’d wondered, a few times, what it’d be like. Wei Ying seemed to like it so much, and even if he understood the principle of it (the bundle of nerves inside him that made this whole thing pleasurable) he didn’t truly get it. He couldn’t imagine feeling anything from it, other than disgust and despair.

It’d surely be different, he’d told himself, if it was Wei Ying. It ought to be better with someone you love.

Still, he never voiced the thoughts. He told himself it didn’t matter: sex like that wasn’t something Wei Ying wanted, and that was enough to set the matter to rest.

Not anymore.

He knew that, if he said no, Wei Ying would never bring it up again. He’d dismiss the whole thing as a joke, and would pretend he’d never posed the question at all. He’d still want it, but he’d act like he didn’t. He would bury the feeling as deep as he could and look the other way, pretending it wasn’t there.

Wei Ying had buried a lifetime of unfulfilled wants already. Lan Wangji refused to give him even a single more.

He told himself it wouldn’t hurt. He told himself that, even if it did, maybe he’d like it, like Wei Ying did.

It would be worth it. Wei Ying was already giddy like a child that just got a new toy. He’d kissed him over and over again. I’m going to make you feel so good, Lan Zhan… You’ll see- you’re going to love it!

Lan Wangji kissed him back. He resolutely ignored the boulder in his stomach and focused on the feeling of Wei Ying’s lips against his. It would be fine. Even if it wasn’t, it couldn’t possibly be that bad.

Nothing Wei Ying did would ever be that bad.

Instead of doing it right away, Wei Ying had followed their conversation with a negotiation of terms. He wanted ten days of sex like that in a row; for research, Lan Zhan! Research! I need to figure out what you like!

Lan Wangji had agreed without thinking. His head still felt like it was under water, but the feeling was easy enough to ignore when he could hear Wei Ying’s laughter at his acquiescence.

Lan Zhan! You're supposed to barter downwards! Downwards! Aren't you upset at not being inside your husband for ten whole days?

The question made him let out a short snort — his own version of a burst of laughter. He thought about it and concluded that he was, indeed, and Wei Ying laughed again, kissing him. I know you’ll miss it Lan-er-gege… But think about it! When we do it again, I’m going to be so tight… You might break me…

The conversation quickly devolved from there, to the point that their “ten times” required another whole day to start. Wei Ying didn’t talk about it much more besides that. The conversation moved into more familiar directions, and—

Lan Wangji appreciated the distraction. It helped to take his mind off the buzzing under his skin, or the images that insisted on invading his mind.

He tried not to imagine what Wei Ying might do. It’d be no use, really. How could he hope to put together a picture of what he might want with such little reference? Even if Wei Ying has only ever been with him, he’s consumed an incredible amount of pornography. His fantasies always manage to leave Lan Wangji speechless; he can never tell where he’s going to go next.

And using his own experiences as a reference—

That would feel disgusting. Disrespectful. His mind shouldn’t even conjure up Wei Ying in the same thought as that.

He resolved himself to treat this experience as a blank slate: pretend the before never happened; convince himself that this would be his first time in such a position.

If it was, he wouldn’t be afraid. He wouldn’t be acting like a child with trembling hands at the thought. He would be excited; eager, even. At the very least, he would be curious.

And he is, for the most part. He wants to know what it’d be like to do that out of his own free will, with someone he loves. He wants to know what it feels like when it doesn’t hurt.

Besides, he isn’t a child anymore. If he found that he didn’t want it, if he truly couldn’t stomach the act, he would push Wei Ying away; he’d ask him to stop and, if he didn’t, he could stop him himself.

There was comfort in that thought.

But, of course, all his worries were for naught. His husband was more Wei Ying than ever at the encounter: smirk on his face, fingers and mouth finding every crevice of Lan Wangji’s body to make him squirm. He wouldn’t stop talking; taunting him. You look so beautiful like this, Lan Zhan; I wish you’d let me draw you like this… You’d put every porn book on the market to shame.

That (so little, almost nothing) was all it took. Lan Wangji’s mind went blissfully blank; every thought replaced by a cacophony of Wei Ying and please that was too embarrassing to think; let alone speak out loud. Taking Wei Ying into his body was a relief; yes and please the only words he could muster.

The act was ten times more pleasurable than he ever expected it to be. There was nothing to endure or brave through; just simple blinding-white pleasure from head to toe.

If nothing else, the experience had been enlightening. The biggest challenge was, he discovered, to not lose his temper and switch out their positions anyways. He discovered that embarrassingly quickly on their second time, as his hands closed into fists on their bedsheets while Wei Ying’s tongue toyed with his rim. His husband wouldn’t stop talking, teasing him, and Lan Wangji had this huge (almost instinctive, at this point) urge to shut him up with his cock.

Wei Ying seemed to recognize his struggle. For their third night together, he decided to tie him up. Something akin to dread pooled in his gut at the restraints, but it was extremely short-lived. Wei Ying warned him not to get impatient and call for Bichen — pointedly reminding Lan Wangji that, if he truly wanted to set himself free, he could.

And that was all it took, really. The dread evaporated, leaving behind only a warm pleasant feeling.

Lan Wangji would never dare to doubt Wei Ying’s love for him. He would never disrespect him like that, but—

But sometimes he could just feel it; like a warmth coming off his husband’s body, seeping into his bones.

I love you so much, Lan Zhan.

And Lan Wangji loved him just as much.

It was easy, then, to ignore the panic in his chest; to not call for Bichen when it felt like the ribbon binding his arms was tightening his whole chest. He only had to call Wei Ying’s name —just once, softly, like a plea— and-

Immediately, his husband would answer. He would taunt him, calling him impatient, peppering some part of his body with kisses. I guess Lan-er-gege really wanted my attention tonight… How can this husband not oblige? He would check the bindings, taking close note of the skin under them to make sure he was not hurting.

It was that easy, Lan Wangji thought. Wei Ying just had to care, and show that he cared. The fear in his chest turned into that pleasant warmth, and he would melt into bed once more.

He didn’t expect it would be any different this time. It had been relatively simple so far; to stay grounded, to keep in mind who he was in bed with. He felt hot all over, mind-numbing pleasure running all through him until he couldn’t think.

And Wei Ying loves doing that: bringing him so close to the edge and then leaving him there, hanging, almost making him cry. Lan Wangji wanted to be mad about it — he was — but he also knew it’d be so much better later: the orgasm that came after being teased like this was always so intense it risked making him pass out. He was expecting it. He was excited.

And then he couldn’t separate his lips and everything shattered.

His memories get murky, then. He can remember feeling like he was drowning in mud; like his lungs were so full of something and he couldn’t breathe. It was painful, too; so much that, for a few seconds, he was sure he was going to die.

All his careful planning on how to set himself free flew out the window. He couldn’t think straight, or distinguish up from down or left from right. He only knew that he was trapped, and that he wanted the feeling to stop.

He tried biting the ribbon off. Was he crying? Maybe he was. There was struggling and then—

A hand closing on his wrist.

The sensation was achingly familiar. Even after so many years, the signal seemed carved into his bones.

It always hurt worse, after he fought back. If he’d grabbed him again, then it must’ve meant he’d lost again. He’d—

He waited for the bone to break. His patience was limited, and he hated when Lan Wangji fought back.

The sensation that followed was strange, but not unfamiliar. Lan Wangji would describe it as going somewhere: a deep tiny corner of his mind he could squeeze himself in when the pain was too much to handle. The outside stayed far away as his mind wandered.

He could never go when he wanted to, and leaving was always hard once he got there. He couldn’t explain it. And he couldn’t—

He couldn’t stop it.

The passage of time was hard to figure out. He could hear something, but it was distant, like his head was under water.

Suddenly, Wei Ying was there. He could hear him playing their song through the fog. He could feel him close and he wanted nothing more than to reach for him and cry his eyes out.

Given the position he woke up in, it’d seem he did just that.

Embarrassment rolls in his gut. It made no sense. The monster he feared is long gone, and he’d stopped haunting Lan Wangji’s life well before he even met Wei Ying. Knowing Wei Ying was there should have ended his tantrum.

But, clearly, his rational mind has not exactly been in service. He was so relieved Wei Ying was there; no conscious thought attached to it. Just relief of the knowledge that Wei Ying wouldn’t let anyone else touch him.

Thinking of the reaction makes him wince.

He’ll have to explain. Wei Ying deserves that much, at least. He’ll have questions. And Lan Wangji—

He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to answer.

Still, he has to try. He can’t exactly give up just because it would be hard. Wei Ying deserves better.

He deserves so much better.

He'll wash himself, wash Wei Ying, and then go get them breakfast.

When Lan Wangji tries to move him, Wei Ying’s body goes stiff.

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji pulls back slightly to find Wei Ying’s face. He’d originally thought him asleep, but his husband is wide awake, eyes rimmed with red. It’s hard to tell if he got even a wink of sleep.

“Wei Ying—”

He starts, and then stops. For the first time in so many years, he doesn’t know what to say.

To his surprise, Wei Ying’s eyes grow wide — they’re bright. Too bright. Wet.

Lan Wangji chokes.

“Wei Ying?”

Instead of replying, Wei Ying sits up, bringing Lan Wangji’s body with his. His hands close around his arms ever so gently, checking his pulse. There’s something about the way he does it. Wei Ying is always gentle, with him, always, but now—

It’s almost like Wei Ying is afraid he’ll hurt him.

Before Lan Wangji can ask what he’s doing, he lets go; his hands (warm, and just a little shaky) rising to cup Lan Wangji’s cheeks.

“Do you understand me, Lan Zhan?”

The softness is in his tone, too — exceedingly soft, like Lan Wangji was a scared animal he was trying to prevent from running.

He swallows hard.

“Yes.”

He wouldn’t have replied with words, normally, but this—

Wei Ying probably needs this.

It was the right call, it would seem. His face opens in a smile. It’s still wrong, somehow. Too sad. Why does he look so sad? He hasn’t looked that sad since—

He swallows.

“Wei Ying—”

“Can you walk?”

That stops Lan Wangji’s train of thought. He feels his face frown.

“Yes,” he replies, keeping his tone measured. “What—?”

“Do you think you can fly on Bichen?”

“Wei Ying—”

“We need to go back to the Cloud Recesses,” Wei Ying replies, his voice even; calm. “I could try bringing Wen Ning to get you there if you— but it might be faster if we can get there ourselves. And it wouldn’t cause a panic.”

His tone is calm, matter-of-fact. Lan Wangji feels both relief and a worry that intensifies.

He knows, for a fact, how much Wei Ying wants Wen Ning to be free; how much he wants him to find his own way: his own existence and purpose.

If he was willing to call him—

He must’ve been so worried.

Lan Wangji swallows hard, his chest clenching.

He never wanted Wei Ying to worry; never wanted him to suffer ever; not after—

But he should know by now, perfection is not achievable.

He moves slowly, covering Wei Ying’s hands with his own; they are smaller than his; and warm. Oh so warm against his skin.

“I am alright, Wei Ying,” he reassures, keeping his voice level. “You need not worry.”

Wei Ying smiles. It’s vexing to see that expression on his face; lips curled, and no teeth, and that sad look in his eyes. So bitter.

Lan Wangji hates himself for putting that look on his love’s face.

“Lying is forbidden, Lan-er-gege,” Wei Ying shakes his head. “We both know I messed something up. We need to make sure the damage wasn’t permanent.”

Ah.

If anything, the assumption just makes Lan Wangji feel worse.

It makes sense, in hindsight. Wei Ying had seen his reaction, but he didn’t (couldn’t) know the reason for it. And then—

What could he blame, if not himself?

He swallows hard, fighting the urge to clench his teeth and snarl, or start screaming.

If he does, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop.

It’s so unfair.

“You didn’t do anything.”

It is the wrong thing to say. He knows it the second the words leave his mouth once he sees the look on his husband’s face. It doesn’t make the emotions there any better. If anything, his eyes get just a little darker; the self-loathing in them gleaming painfully.

And Lan Wangji hates it — because it’s his fault.

“I think I did plenty,” he says, his voice clipped. “But that doesn’t matter, now. We need to get you to a physician familiar with the silencing spell. We need to go back.”

Lan Wangji swallows hard.

If they go back, a physician could probably tell Wei Ying what Lan Wangji has already said — physically, he is fine. No harm was done.

And then they’ll wonder what happened; what could possibly have caused the symptoms Wei Ying is describing.

And Lan Wangji won’t be able to tell them.

“It will not help,” he replies instead, shaking his head minutely. “My reaction wasn’t a consequence of the spell.”

That gives Wei Ying pause.

Lan Wangji has always known how brilliant he is. How painfully intelligent. It made him feel silly, sometimes, like he’d been looking at the world with half-lidded eyes, and Wei Ying was the first person to get him to open them. Sometimes Lan Wangji wondered if that’s where his disdain for the rules came from: an understanding of how little sense some of them made. A cleverness that forced him to question them.

But irreverence is far from the only way his brilliance shows. His mind is wonderful: a thing of legend, able to make leaps that many would find impossible.

He sees that prowess in his eyes now; when his eyes light up with understanding, even though Lan Wangji has barely said anything.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened,” Wei Ying surmises, eyebrows furrowing. “That you… react like that.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t need to nod — it’s not like Wei Ying is asking a question. He knows.

It happened a lot more, when he was a child: whenever an adult touched him unexpectedly. He was punished time and time again for slapping his elders’ hands away.

One time, when his brother took him to Caiyi Town to meet with the Nie brothers, and a young Nie Huaisang was excited enough at the possibility of a new friend to try and give him a hug.

Lan Wangji had no memory of what came after, even before there were decades in the middle. His brother told him he pushed Nie Huaisang away so forcefully the other one landed in the middle of the river.

The incidents lessened as he got older. Everyone knew that the Second Young Master of the Lan Clan didn’t like to be touched. If you did touch him, he’d push you away violently and glare without a single word.

Always without a single word.

It was set in stone: as true about him as the color of his eyes, or his hair. An immutable truth but not a whole one.

“What-?” Wei Ying continued, now squeezing Lan Wangji’s hands. “Can you tell me what—?”

Wei Wuxian stops himself, his voice having risen an octave too high; that must be why Lan Zhan flinches, as if his words pained him.

“I can’t.”

Wei Wuxian has always been observant; more than he often got credit for. And when it comes to Lan Zhan—

He doesn’t know how not to be. Never has.

He’s familiar with his turns of phrase; with how carefully he crafts all of his sentences, to deliver exactly what he means: not more, and not less.

Lan Zhan didn’t say he wouldn’t tell him, or that he didn’t want to tell him.

He said he couldn’t.

And why wouldn’t he? What could there possibly be, that would prevent him from telling him?

“Could you write it?” He offers, trying to analyze the situation. If it’s a curse or a spell, there’s a chance that he’s unable to communicate the issue at all. A similar problem could raise if he was hiding it due to personal reasons; like something he swore he wouldn’t speak about—

But, somehow, Wei Wuxian thinks the truth is far simpler. The memory from the day before comes back to his mind — blood-curling and daunting, but clear.

Lan Zhan couldn’t speak. The way he reacted wasn’t a choice. It was an involuntary reaction.

So, maybe, when Lan Zhan says he can’t tell him, he means it literally.

His beautiful husband seems to muse the prospect of writing for a while. The corners of his mouth are turned slightly downwards; the look in his eyes incredibly grim.

Wei Wuxian is surprised to see him nod.

What comes after is purposeful and quick. Lan Zhan searches his qiankun pouch to find paper, and ink. Still, he goes to the innkeeper to request more: more ink, more paper, and a candle; Wei Wuxian can only assume that he intends to burn the pages.

It makes him frown.

His husband is calm and collected, but there is a stiffness to it; a tension that reminds him of a bow right before an arrow is let loose. Wei Wuxian can feel the tension in his bones.

The innkeeper brings them food. It sits to the side, forgotten, as they sit one in front of the other. Wei Wuxian is reminded of the Library Pavillion: Lan Zhan’s form perfectly poised as he supervised him.

Age aside, it’s not dissimilar to the way he sits now: his back is perfectly straight, his eyes fixed on the paper; the hand that holds his brush sits in perfect posture, ready to commit words to paper.

His other hand is shaking.

It’s so small, it’s almost imperceptible, but Wei Wuxian can see it.

For the longest time, Lan Zhan stares at the paper, like he was attempting to will the words to appear on their own.

But they don’t and, after what feels like hours of staring, Lan Wangji leaves a few characters on the page. His strokes are quick and precise, not even a drop of ink falling out of place.

When I was a child, someone used the silencing spell on me.

He finishes the sentence and stops, his light eyes squinted. Wei Wuxian looks at the paper, frowning. When he speaks again, his voice is careful.

“I’m not saying you’re lying, Lan Zhan,” he starts, because he wants his husband to know that he believes him, always. “But I don’t think that would— isn’t it a common punishment in your clan? You did it to me all the time. And it wouldn’t…“

His voice trails off, as he fails to find the words to explain. He sees Lan Wangji’s throat bob; his face is as beautiful as always, but his lips are paper white.

Without words, the brush moves again.

After they got married, my—

He stops, like he was doubting his the next words. He seems to decide to continue, though, his strokes almost too quick; hurried.

Like he feared he wouldn’t be able to continue.

After they got married, my father would pay my mother conjugal visits.

When she passed, he would visit me in her stead.

Chapter Text

The last stroke is hurried, the character is deformed; so unlike Lan Zhan’s usually perfect calligraphy.

His face is impassive, as calm as ever, but his chest—

He is heaving.

Wei Wuxian can see it — the way his robes move with his quick breath. He can hear it too, but it sounds distant, like suddenly his ears forgot how to work.

“Lan Zhan—“ he starts, feeling his chest clench, twist. “You don’t mean—”

The hand that holds the brush tightens. He moves the paper to the side, reaching for the empty space.

I’m sorry.

For the longest time, there is just that — an apology. And silence.

Wei Wuxian can feel a part of his reality, of his own self, collapsing.

The thought of Lan Zhan — his beautiful, perfect, oh so righteous Lan-er-gege — being—

How—? How in the—!?

Lan Wangji’s ears are ringing.

His stomach is twisting and rolling. Ignoring breakfast was truly the right choice.

There is no real way to predict Wei Ying’s reaction. He never wanted him to know. He never wanted anyone to know.

He should have made better choices. It was no use to try and live a lie.

“Lan Zhan—”

Wei Ying’s voice breaks, and he stares at Lan Wangji like he was seeing him for the first time. Lan Wangji doesn’t know how to feel about that.

It’s hard — so incredibly hard — to feel anything right now. His emotions are too big — like his body got very tiny — about as big as a six-year-old child with a cold.

“How—?”

Instinctively, Lan Wangji knows Wei Ying is not actually asking. It feels like he’s just trying to wrap his head around it.

But it feels like he’s been still for too long. Everything inside him feels chaotic; it threatens to swallow him.

Writing at least gives him something to do.

He would come into my room the last three nights of every month.

For about six years.

He feels Wei Ying tense upon reading it, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Lan Wangji tries to calm his mind. It takes a lot of effort, he’s finding, to keep his hands from shaking.

But that’s how he’s always been, hasn’t it? Everyone thinks he is so calm and collected, not knowing how easy it is to be, when the situation doesn’t really affect you.

Yet the second something does—

His emotions swallow him whole, all-consuming.

“I didn’t know,” Wei Ying says, and his voice sounds small; broken.

You couldn’t have.

I never told you.

It stopped well before we met.

For some reason, that makes Wei Ying’s eyes widen further. His face is so pale he seems a little green. His hand, the one that usually holds his flute, is shaking.

In the following second, Lan Wangji understands.

When he wrote six years, Wei Ying took that to mean it’d stopped when his father died; that it had been the six years before that.

But, if it stopped well before they met—

Such a simple sum; nothing for Wei Ying’s brilliant mind.

“How old were you?”

His voice sounds hollow; a tint of horror gleaming in the back.

Lan Wangji takes a deep breath.

How careless of him to make that correction. To clarify.

He shouldn’t have.

Now that Wei Ying asked, Lan Wangji can’t refuse him an answer.

Thirteen, when it stopped.

Wei Ying’s face is positively green now. He looks like he might be sick and—

Lan Wangji hates it. He hates to see that look on his face.

Wei Ying’s lips part again. The note of horror is still there, in his voice, but there’s something so much worse — he sounds morose, grief-stricken.

Lan Wangji is heaving again, somehow. It’s subtle; the movement in his shoulders, the rise and low of his chest.

But he can’t stop it.

It feels so much worse because he can’t stop it.

A hand closes on his; Wei Ying’s fingers warm to the touch.

“I’m so sorry, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji swallows hard, hating the pain he can hear in his husband’s voice.

With practice ease, the brush moves. Lan Wangji doesn’t even have to look at the page to see the characters.

It is fine, Wei Ying.

It was a long time ago.

‘It is fine’ was one of the first phrases he ever got used to writing.

It was his most common response to his brother. Lan Xichen would ask after him so much, how he felt about things, how he liked certain things, and Lan Wangji—

He didn’t know what else to say.

He expects Wei Ying to agree. He is, after all, always quick to dismiss his own past sufferings so flippantly.

He should know better, by now. Wei Ying can ignore his own hardships without a second thought, but he’s never been good at ignoring those of the ones he loves.

“It is not fine, no matter how much time has passed,” Wei Ying mutters, shaking his head. “You were so young.”

The knot in Lan Wangji’s throat grows so big he can hardly breathe around it.

It’s not the first time the thought occurs to him. It was recurring as Sizhui was growing up: he was so small at six, and seven, and eight still. So tiny and fragile, and—

He’d been that young, too. He’d been that young when it happened.

It was horrifying back then. It’s been horrifying every time the thought has come to his mind.

And yet—

Something about hearing Wei Ying say it makes his eyes sting with fresh tears.

Wei Ying squeezes his hands, then, bringing him back to the present. Lan Wangji finds that the tears have overflown now: they’re falling limp down his cheeks, uninterrupted.

“You never told anyone,” Wei Ying says. It’s not a question, and it doesn’t need to be. They both know.

Lan Wangji shakes his head.

I can’t talk about it.

Wei Ying purses his lips.

“Is it a curse?”

No.

I just can’t do it.

The words won’t come out.

Wei Ying nods once, his hand still holding Lan Wangji’s.

“And you never wrote it for anyone else?”

No.

I didn’t understand, at first.

I didn’t know I ought to tell someone.

By the time I learned—

It had been years, by then. Lan Wangji was older, and he understood more about his clan, about the world.

About his father.

It wouldn’t have helped.

He was too strong.

Stronger than anyone in my clan.

Anyone who tried to stop him would have died.

I’m sorry.

I know it doesn’t excuse it.

“Excuse?” Wei Ying says once he’s done writing; he seems, eyebrows furrowed. “What would you have to excuse? You didn’t do anything.”

Yes.

I didn’t do anything.

He tried. He really tried. But the gap between them was insurmountable.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian swallows hard, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do anything. You should’ve never been in that situation in the first place.”

Lan Wangji looks at the page, deep in thought.

I knew it was wrong.

I shouldn’t have let it happen.

“Lan Zhan—”

The look his husband gives him is…odd.

There’s something tender about it, and something incredibly painful, too. It leaves Lan Wangji feeling oddly…exposed.

“If I got mugged on the street tomorrow, would it be my fault?”

Lan Wangji frowns.

Wei Ying could easily take care of any robbers.

“Alright, but say that I couldn’t,” he continued, squeezing his hand. “I’m this feeble small young man and someone really bad comes and steals from me in the middle of the night. Would it be my fault?”

No.

It’s the robber’s fault.

“Right,” Wei Ying nods. “Why is what happened to you any different?”

Lan Wangji’s eyes widened.

What Wei Ying says makes sense, of course. Intellectually, he knows it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have any more control over that than he did about inheriting his mother’s eyes. It was something that happened to him, not something he did.

He frowns.

Maybe it’s because his uncle and clansmen were always severe on discipline. Growing up, there wasn’t such a thing as justifying or explaining. There was bad behavior, and consequences. Circumstances were irrelevant.

Even if he didn’t want it, even if he couldn’t stop it—

The act remained.

I could’ve done more.

Wei Ying frowns.

His hands abandon their place around Lan Wangji’s, coming to hold his cheeks. His eyes are sad, still, but so soft, it makes Lan Wangji’s chest squeeze.

“You were trying to survive.” His voice is firm, steady, no trace of its usual mirth. “You were so young and worked so hard, Lan Zhan. I’m so proud of you.”

Lan Wangji’s eyes well up with tears again. He is shaking.

He should’ve known that Wei Ying would be forgiving. It doesn’t befit his character to be stern, even when he should.

Still, Lan Wangji doesn’t stop him: not when Wei Ying rounds the table to sit by his side, not when his arms surround him, pulling him close.

It feels good to be held.

Lan Wangji doesn’t want it to stop.

For the longest time, they stay like this, together; Wei Ying a comforting presence. Lan Wangji feels he could fall asleep like this, holding Wei Ying in his arms, and being held in return.

It makes his chest feel warm.

One of Wei Ying’s hands toys with his hair; the other one rubs gentle circles on his back. It’s so slow, so gentle.

“Lan Zhan—”

Lan Wangji sits up a little straighter, realizing he was about to fall asleep.

“Is there… anything else you want to tell me about?”

Lan Wangji’s brows furrow. Wei Ying seems to sense the question in his body, somewhere, because he is quick to correct.

“I assume there’s more to it,” he clarifies, before he can ask. “I swear, if you don’t want to talk about it, we can stop right now and we never bring it up again, but—”

Wei Ying pauses; the hands in Lan Wangji’s hair keep moving, without faltering. It’s not like he is pausing, exactly; more like he is trying to find the right words.

“It might do you good to talk about it.”

In truth, Lan Wangji has thought about it before.

When he was a teenager, before meeting Wei Ying, he wondered what it would be like just— to tell someone.

He didn’t. He couldn’t, really, but, even if he’d been able to, he wouldn’t have.

It wouldn’t have been fair.

“Too loathsome,” he says, voice calm.

Wei Ying chuckles softly; so small it’s barely audible; but he can feel it against his chest: the movement of Wei Ying’s chest, and the soft tingling of not-quite-laughter on his shoulder.

His laughter remains his favorite sound in the world.

“My Lan-er-gege is so strong, carrying something so heavy, all on his own,” Wei Ying mumbles, squeezing him gently. “But you’re not alone anymore. You should let your husband share the burden with you.”

Lan Wangji feels something like an ache; a deep-seated pain that sears his insides. It feels a bit like sinking into a hot basin: a searing heat, on the edge of too much, at first. But, when it passes, it leaves a pleasant warmth in its wake.

The tears come back, stronger than ever, but Lan Wangji doesn’t try to stop them this time. He hides his face on Wei Ying’s shoulders, his chest aching.

He doesn’t know how much time he spends crying, safely tucked away in his husband’s embrace. He doesn’t know how many hours go by with him there, just shaking.

However, the crying subsides and, once it does, Lan Wangji picks up his brush again. He hesitates, eyes moving about the brand new blank page, deep in thinking.

I don’t know where to start.

Wei Ying chuckles; more audibly this time. His hand squeezes Lan Wangji from across the table, where he is sitting again.

“Maybe the beginning?”

Lan Wangji nods. It makes sense, he thinks: if he keeps the chronological order, it should make it easier to organize his ideas.

Slowly, carefully, the brush begins to move.

Lan Wangji was cold.

It was the first thing that came to mind as awareness of his surroundings returned. He could feel his bed under him; the familiar incense of clove and citrus in the air.

He remembered kneeling in front of his mother’s house. His hands were numb, and his whole body was shivering. He remembered how much his head hurt. It felt like it was full of liquid; something molten and heavy that shifted unpleasantly every time he raised his face towards the door.

But it hadn’t opened. Uncle had said it wouldn’t, but Lan Wangji didn’t believe it. She wouldn’t leave. She always said — that she wouldn’t leave them; that she loved them too much.

They’d pressed flowers together a couple months back. The result was beautiful, and they promised to bring her more flowers so she could have more than gentians. Winter meant they couldn’t find any outside, but Xiongzhang had gotten one of the adult cultivators to buy them some from a merchant. They’d thanked him profusely, and had kept them in water dutifully, trying to prevent them from wilting.

Once Uncle announced Mother was gone, Xiongzhang had stopped looking after them, but Wangji still changed the water every morning, and made sure the flowers didn’t sit too close to the brazier, but he also didn’t dare leave them too far. What if they froze?

(She said frozen flowers couldn’t be pressed.)

He was holding them that morning, as he made his way to his mother’s home. He had knocked on the door and waited.

The door didn’t open.

Wangji had knelt outside to wait. He couldn’t think of a reason why Mother wouldn’t want to see him but, surely, he thought, his chest feeling tight, surely, even if she didn’t want to see him, she wouldn’t leave him sitting outside in the cold.

But the door didn’t open; not as he knelt on the snow, and not when the sun sat high in the sky; not even later, when more snow started to fall and Wangji had to cover his face with his hands to keep it away from his eyes; not even as the sun set, when the tips of his fingers had long turned purple.

He’d sat outside the whole day, and well after the sunset, but Mother didn’t come.

So, it was true, then, that she wasn’t there anymore. If she were, she would’ve never left him there. She never would. She would come to get him.

Where was she, then? Why had she left? Shufu had said she couldn’t leave the house; not even to come to Wangji’s room to tuck him into bed, or to tell him a story to help him fall asleep.

Not even once.

Couldn’t she have taken him with her? Wangji always behaved well. He’d been so good. He wouldn’t have burdened her, and maybe—

Maybe if he’d gone with her, they could’ve come back together.

It was hard to tell what time it was, by the time Shufu came to find him. It was dark. Wangji couldn’t remember everything he’d said (there had been a lot of, “stubborn child!”), but he remembered Shufu’s hands picking him up, and the house becoming smaller and smaller as he rushed him away.

He didn’t remember being brought to his room, or what Shufu had done, after. He didn’t remember anything other than that all-consuming pain in his chest; the pit in his stomach.

Mother was gone. Forever.

She wouldn’t come back.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream.

A hand kept shaking him, though, forcing him away from the memories and thoughts. Lan Wangji was ready to be reprimanded. Shufu had said that Mother wouldn’t be there, and he had been upset when he’d found him. Surely, he would scold him now.

However, the man looming over him wasn’t Shufu.

He looked like him, somewhat, but different. He was, for one thing, bigger. Not much taller, but broader, like a house when compared with a tree.

There was something familiar about him. Lan Wangji couldn’t remember having seen him before, but he looked—

Maybe it was the robes. He was wearing his clan’s, after all, and the ribbon tied around his forehead was—

Covered in clouds.

That struck him as odd.

Wangji knew all the elders of his family; he’d bowed to all of them on his sixth birthday a few weeks back, when he was officially allowed to start learning music. They were all there: three generations of uncles, great uncles, and even a couple great great uncles. The only person not present had been—

His father.

Wangji remembered being disappointed, then, but it was short-lived. Xiongzhang had already warned him — mentioned the man hadn’t shown up for his own ceremony. If he hadn’t shown up for his first born, there was no reason to think he would show up for the second.

But he was in his room now.

Wangji didn’t know what to say. His father’s eyes were strange: rimmed red, glassy, looking—

Not looking at him, exactly. His eyes were locked on Wangji’s face, but he was not seeing him.

Not really.

Neither of them said a word. Wangji wondered, quietly, if this was where his own odd silence had come from; the eerie quality that other children couldn’t seem to understand. He didn’t understand them; why did they feel the need to fill every moment with idle chatter? He didn’t talk unless he had something to say.

When he did, he could talk for hours.

To Mother, always: she wanted to know every minute detail of his life, and he did his best to pack them all together as faithfully as he could, trying to help her catch up on all that time they couldn’t see each other.

He could talk to his brother for a long time as well, when they wondered about the future. Even to his uncle, at times, when he was repeating back a particularly interesting aspect of his lessons.

But he’d never said a word to his father.

He wanted to ask if he knew where Mother was. It was a fool’s errand, but he was a child. He wanted to ask, even then, if their clan leader knew some way for her to come back.

He tried, only to find that he couldn’t speak.

His lips were sealed together.

He knew what the silencing spell was; had seen it used on other children time and time again. They said it encouraged self-reflection. Think before you speak.

But he’d never had it used on himself. He never spoke out of turn, or whispered to other children during lessons. He always listened. He—

He hadn’t even said a word now.

He frowned, puzzled. The man’s gaze never left him; always with that strange, distant, quality.

“Look at me.”

Those were the only words he said.

There were no admonishments, or instructions. Lan Wangji was too small for any resistance to count, and far too young to understand what was happening.

His body could be moved and used at will.

In the years to come, Lan Wangji would remember the words: Look at me. Every time he closed his eyes (because it hurt, it hurt, he didn’t understand, and—) a hand bigger than his whole head would close on his neck and press until he opened his eyes. Every time he looked away, fingers calloused from sword and qin would hold his chin and tilt his head, forcing him to look. Over and over again.

Lan Wangji couldn’t scream. Once he started crying, with snot clogging his nose, he could hardly breathe.

Look at me. Over and over. Until he stayed perfectly still, eyes fixed.

He would remember how much it hurt. He would remember feeling like he was dying; like there was no way he could go through this much pain and survive.

He thought of the house with the gentians, that time, and about the snow. He swore that next time he would sit under the rooftop, covered from the snow or the rain.

If this was the punishment for making himself sick, then—

He would never do it again.

He would never ever be so careless.

He promised.

The next morning, the bruises were gone.

Shufu came to take his temperature, a scowl on his face, and dark circles under his eyes. There was nothing unusual about Wangji; nothing different, except that his eyes were rimmed red, and he scurried away from his uncle’s hands like he was afraid he would be hit.

“I think you’ve had punishment enough,” Shufu said, and Wangji nodded grimly, his hands beginning to shake; so much that he had to curl them into fists to try and keep them still.

The punishment had been enough.

His uncle looked at his hands, frowning.

“I take it that you’ve learned your lesson.”

Wangji nodded, somberly. It took everything he had not to start crying.

“I need to hear you say it, to make sure you understand,” Shufu said, his voice severe; admonishing.

Lan Wangji separated his lips to speak; to swear, as he had so many times the night before in his head, that he would never do it again.

But the words wouldn’t come.

(“You couldn’t speak?”

No.

“At all?”

No.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head, baffled.

“How did no one notice?”

For a moment Lan Wangji stares at the paper. Something about his posture seems grim.

They did notice.)

For his insolence, Shufu made him kneel.

He said Wangji would kneel until he was ready to stop this tantrum and say the words. Lan Wangji pleaded with his eyes, separating his lips, breaths harsh as he tried to force the words out.

They wouldn’t come, though. And so, he had to kneel.

Every now and then, his back would hunch ever so slightly. Shufu would scold him right away, and a rod would land on the offending area, signaling him to correct it.

It took twelve strikes for Wangji’s posture to stop faltering. Keeping the position was uncomfortable, but letting go of it hurt even more, so—

Wangji kept himself upright.

It was afternoon by the time Xiongzhang came by. Wangji’s knees were numb; his legs full of cramps.

He wanted to cry.

“Just tell him what he wants to hear,” Xiongzhang pleaded, urgently. “Even if— even if you do this, Mother won’t come back, and she… She wouldn’t want to see you punished like this.”

Wangji doesn’t shake his head, or nod.

He knows. He knows she won’t come back. He knows.

If she could, she wouldn’t have left him outside in the snow.

If she could, Wangji wouldn’t have gotten himself sick.

If she could—

Wangji wouldn’t have been punished.

He understood. He knew. He would never do it again. The lesson had been learned.

He just couldn’t say it aloud.

Tears spilled down his cheeks, and he let them fall. Shufu had gotten mad at him for that a shichen ago. Wangji wasn’t supposed to move his hands. He was supposed to stay in the proper position; reflecting, repenting.

He couldn’t interrupt that with crying.

Still, he couldn’t stop, so the tears just fell, silent, only followed by whimpers and hiccuping — the only sounds his throat seemed able to make.

He couldn’t stop those, either, or turn them into words.

When Shufu came back, he found Xiongzhang sobbing by his side. He begged him to let Wangji rest, please.

“If someone has to, then I can kne—”

“Xichen! You cannot protect him of his own insolence. You know that.”

As he spoke, he closed the distance between them, grabbing the oldest brother’s arms. He was crying even more than Wangji; ugly sobs that seemed to wreck his whole body.

“Wangji committed the offense; he must carry his own consequences.”

Wangji could still hear his brother crying, as he was dragged outside.

Shufu didn’t come back until dinner time, when he allowed Wangji to leave his position to eat before bed.

His mind felt mushy, like it was covered in cotton. The tears kept falling as he ate, but he couldn’t feel them.

He couldn’t feel anything.

The second day was both easier and harder.

Easier because Lan Wangji already knew what to expect, and what his limitations were. Resignation had dried his tears out, leaving only a dull ache.

He tested his words once every shichen, mostly to confirm what he already knew.

He was now, for some reason, mute.

It wasn’t an easy thing to accept, exactly, but it was harder to try and fail. And Wangji—

He was so tired.

That was what made it even harder: his legs already hurt, and kneeling on them was excruciating. Shufu was angrier, too. His face was ashen with rage, the sentence just like your father uttered through gritted teeth so many times Wangji could feel it in his bones.

The third day was worse.

The news had spread by then: the Second young master of the clan throwing a tantrum and refusing to speak to anyone. Wangji could hear the older disciples move close by, seemingly by chance, but always trying to peer through the windows or the door to catch a glimpse of him. Curiosity, mostly, because everyone knew how upright little Wangji was, and wanted to see what it would even look like to see him misbehave.

Wangji couldn’t understand why anyone would want to see something so miserable.

By the afternoon, someone else came by. Another tall and imposing figure, with clouds on his forehead ribbon.

His uncle’s cousin.

He scolded Wangji, first, for being prideful, stubborn, and disrespectful. It wasn’t that different from Shufu’s scolding, except that, instead of leaving, he came to sit by Wangji’s side. His movements were poised and collected as he pulled a small wooden plank from his robes.

In years to come, Lan Wangji wouldn’t remember what questions he’d asked. He’s not even sure he asked anything. Maybe he just asked him to recite the rules.

He posed the question softly, almost gently, and—

Every time Wangji failed to answer, the plank landed on his hands.

He would remember the changes in color, later: his skin turning pink first, then an angry shade of red, and then purple. Then redder still, when hitting the same spot caused the skin to break, drawing blood.

If he cried, the plank hit harder. Making any sound made it hit harder, because great-uncle thought any noise was a step forward.

Wangji couldn’t make himself stop. He couldn’t make himself speak, either. He couldn’t—

He couldn’t do anything.

It must’ve been hours when Shufu came by. He froze by the door, his hands holding Wangji’s dinner, taking on the scene in front of him.

And then, to Wangji’s surprise, he started screaming.

The ashen face from earlier was now purple with rage. His second cousin screamed back, jumping to his feet. He said something about spoiling, and just like his fath—

He wouldn’t finish the sentence.

Shufu hit him square in the face, sending him tumbling back.

“Get out.”

“Qiren! You can’t seriously be—”

“GET OUT!”

His second cousin groaned and then stormed out, a flutter of sleeves on his back.

Wangji’s ears were ringing from the noise. He watched, distantly, as his uncle barked orders at the disciples — to call someone. Lan Wangji was too tired to try and give a face to the name.

It didn’t matter anyways.

Shufu knelt by his side, mouth set in a grim line, face ashen again. It took everything Wangji had not to squirm.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that his Uncle was feeding him.

It was dinner time, and he’d brought food. And Wangji couldn’t have used his own hands to eat, even if he’d wanted to.

His fingers wouldn’t move.

The woman that came later said as much, as she wrapped bandages around Wangji’s hands. Her voice was soft and pleasant. She spoke calmly, and didn’t seem upset at him for not being able to answer her questions. Instead, she switched them: to simpler, yes or no, structures that he could reply to by shaking his head, or nodding.

Uncle fed him as she finished. The whole situation was slightly embarrassing — he was far too old to be fed. But he truly couldn’t do anything else.

Once she was done with the bandages, she’d given him a small smile. It struck Lan Wangji, all of a sudden, that nobody had smiled around him in weeks. It felt like the very act had been forbidden; ripped out of his life at the same time as his mother.

Shufu stepped outside with the woman once she was done with the bandages. They were talking in hushed, quick voices. Wangji couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he was fairly certain they wouldn’t come back.

Keeping his posture was hard. The pain in his hands had distracted him earlier, but now that those were numb, the ache in his knees, legs, and back seemed to make itself known again.

He was so tired.

He wanted to cry.

Mother used to hold him when he cried.

He wished he could go with her, wherever she was.

She wouldn’t let him get hurt.

He didn’t hear Xiongzhang slip into the room. All of a sudden, he was just there, sitting on the floor by his side. His eyes were red and puffy, like he’d been crying.

“Shufu said there won’t be further punishment,” he announced, voice hoarse, like he wanted to cry again, but was trying to keep it inside. “You will rejoin lessons tomorrow, but it will be sometime until you can practice the qin again.”

Lan Wangji nodded, absentmindedly. He’d heard that part. He’d need to move his hands as little as possible for now, and keep the bandages and medicine from moving too much. He wouldn’t be able to eat on his own, or practice with the sword or any instrument until his hands healed.

They sat in silence for some time.

Wangji pondered the idea of staying awake. He’d probably get in more trouble if he did. He had lessons to attend tomorrow.

But he didn’t want to go to sleep. His bed felt wrong.

When he laid down on it, Lan Wangji kept remembering his father on top of him.

“You look pale… Does it hurt? Do you want me to call the physician back?”

Lan Wangji stared at him, trying to figure out how to answer. He nodded once, paused, and then shook his head.

“It does hurt, but you don’t want me to call the physician back?”

Wangji nodded.

Xiongzhang smiled; his red-rimmed eyes disappearing behind his eyelids.

Wangji hadn’t realized how much he missed seeing him smile.

When he opens them again, he doesn’t seem quite so sad; just pensive.

“You really want to speak, right?” Xiongzhang confided in a low voice. “But you can’t.”

Wangji nodded. He watched as his brother chewed on his bottom lip, still eyeing the door every now and again. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft.

“The physician said sometimes this happens when people are really sad. I—“ he pauses, eyeing the door warily. “Shufu said we shouldn’t tell you, so that you would keep trying, but Wangji— you will keep trying, right? Even if we don’t make you?”

Lan Wangji blinked slowly, and nodded. He’d never felt the need to do it as much as other people did, but he didn’t enjoy not being able to do it. It was frustrating.

If the skill came back, he would use it for sure.

His brother nodded back, like he expected his response. When he spoke again, his voice was different still; more serious.

“It might be time to get you started in writing and reading. If we can’t stop this, we should try to…work around it.”

His brother seemed lost in his thoughts; his eyebrows furrowed.

“Wasn’t there someone that made a vow of silence in our clan…? I think— the creator of Inquiry…”

Wangji just looked at him.

He pondered the idea. Maybe, if he got really good at Inquiry, he could use it to communicate. Sure, it would only serve him to communicate with members of his own clan, but—

But it would be better than nothing.

His heart started to beat a little faster; hope blooming where before there was only despair. Resignation. Because he couldn’t change it.

But maybe he could work around it.

Xiongzhang seemed even more excited than him. His dark eyes glistened, hopeful.

“I will go to the Library tomorrow,” he declared, voice animated. “I’ll gather the facts, and then we can talk to Shufu about it… Well, I’ll talk. I don’t know if I can convince him, but I’ll try.”

His voice was so soft; almost apologetic, like he wanted to say sorry in advance, just in case he didn’t manage.

But it was fine. Wangji knew he might not make it. That was okay.

Because Xiongzhang still wanted to try.

There must’ve been something on his face to give it away; maybe the look on his eyes. Xiongzhang’s face changed; the flurry of emotions so fast Wangji couldn’t follow it.

“Oh, Wangji,” he started, voice sorrowful. “I’m so sorry.”

As he said it, he surrounded Wangji with his arms, squeezing him. And Wangji—

No one ever held him like that anymore.

Only one person had, and she was gone now.

And Wangji thought—

He thought there would be no one else.

His brother’s arms were so much lighter than hers; smaller, thinner, softer; but warm.

So warm.

Wangji didn’t mean to start sobbing.

It just happened. Tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and his breath cut and morphed when he tried to take a breath.

Xiongzhang didn’t let go. Not even as Wangji smeared his robes with tears and snot. He was so tired, and so sad, and—

He wanted to see his mom.

He really, really—

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”

They cried in each other’s arms for what felt like hours even though Wangji knew, consciously, that it couldn’t be longer than a few minutes.

He didn’t realize when he’d tired himself out; when the tears stopped to give space to a familiar drowsiness.

He was so tired.

When he yawned, Xiongzhang pulled back, dark eyes gentle; so caring.

“You must be tired,” he said, and Wangji nodded.

So, so tired.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

Every ounce of sleepiness left his body in an instant.

The memories flooded at once: Qingheng-jun’s hands on his body; on his thighs, keeping his legs parted open. Moving, and it—

It hurt. It hurt so much.

“Are you feeling ill?”

Xiongzhang’s voice was still gentle; so soft, without any idea of the thoughts running through Lan Wangji’s mind.

He didn’t even know how to reply.

Was he feeling ill? No. Sick? Yes. Confused? Terrified?

Yes.

But not ill.

Even back then, he knew that he wasn’t feeling the effects of an illness.

As his hands shook, he grew determined to study the rules harder.

It had been such a harsh punishment. So painful. So terrible.

It must have been listed on the rules, somewhere, together with the crime.

Maybe, just maybe, then—

Wangji could learn to avoid it.

There had been a reason for it the first night: he could recite about two dozen rules about taking care of one’s body, and twice as many about respecting your elders and not doing things that could cause harm.

Wangji knew he would hurt himself if he stayed outside in the snow. He knew he would get himself sick; that he would cause trouble for everyone. He was counting on his mother to stop him, instead of stopping himself.

That was punishable.

It explained the first night, when his father had woken him up to punish him.

It didn’t explain the second night.

And, somehow, Wangji was sure that today there would be a third.

Was it because he couldn’t speak? Shufu had seemed really mad about that, but he had dispensed his own punishment: making him kneel. And two people couldn’t punish the same crime twice. That was against the rules. That must’ve been why Shufu was so upset that his cousin came to punish Wangji, too.

So, it must’ve been a punishment for something else. Wangji just couldn’t figure out what.

It hurt so much. If he could speak, he would’ve promised to never do whatever it was again. Anything, so he didn’t have to go through that again. Even if it was a punishment, even if he deserved it—

He would gladly let his second cousin destroy his hands daily if it kept Qingheng-jun away.

“You got so pale… Are you really okay? Do you want me to stay with you?”

And that made Lan Wangji’s mind stop to a screeching halt.

Xiongzhang had cried so much, seeing him kneel. He had offered to take his place, to Shufu’s admonishment, and—

Wangji was not sure if Qingheng-jun would have the same reservations about transferred punishment.

Nausea climbed his throat, his chest tight with a terror so sheer and cold his blood might as well have been ice in his veins.

His brother, he—

His brother was so good.

Kind and gentle and good in a way Wangji couldn’t even hope to emulate. Always sweet with everyone. He never got upset over anything. He—

He’d hugged Wangji.

He was the only person to hug him, aside from their mother. Probably the only one that would ever hug him, because she was gone.

He couldn’t let him go through that. He couldn’t. He—

He would rather die than put his brother through something like that.

Besides, it wasn’t his punishment to bear.

It was Wangji’s.

And only his.

Resolutely, he shook his head.

Xiongzhang nodded, doubtful, but he didn’t try to argue. He helped him get to his feet and guided him to bed, patting his head softly. He left Wangji’s room with quiet careful steps.

Once he heard him leave, Lan Wangji’s eyes fell closed. Sleep was uneasy, fretful—

And short.

He didn’t wake up when the door slid open, or when the covers were removed from his body, or when his robes were opened.

It was the same hand tugging at his shoulder; the same gruff, almost angry, voice.

Look at me.

Lan Wangji, ever so obedient, made sure to keep his eyes open.