Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian walked the forest alone.

He relished the darkness, the way the weak evening sunlight barely pierced the thick foliage, the challenge of ragged tangles of roots and leaf litter beneath his feet. He felt hidden.

If Jiang Cheng had been here, Wei Wuxian might have gone to him instead. Jiang Cheng had questions like everyone else, but he would never ask them, and that made him one of the few people it was safe to be around, when he wanted to be around anyone. But Jiang Cheng was at least two days' travel away, out of Wei Wuxian's reach. So Wei Wuxian walked, and hid.

It had been almost a month since a small contingent had been ordered to break off from the front where Jiang Cheng was still fighting to scout a new path that could potentially provide a strategic advantage. The area was poorly mapped, thickly forested, difficult and dangerous to fight in.

Dangerous for normal weapons, that is. No trouble for Wei Wuxian. It hadn’t been a surprise when he was ordered to join them.

The surprise had been Lan Zhan insisting on going with him.

A small fuss had been made. Lan Zhan had been a constant by his side for some time before that — ever since they left the Unclean Realm — but until a month ago he had taken orders the same way he had always followed rules: silently and without objection.

It turned out that Lan Zhan’s way of objecting to orders was mostly silent too, but that just made it more difficult to argue with.

Wei Wuxian kicked petulantly through the damp undergrowth, and tried not to think about Lan Zhan. He tried not to think about the infuriatingly delicate way he frowned when he was disappointed, and his relentless, stubborn repetition of the same arguments, and the way he dropped his gaze when Wei Wuxian said something cruel, and how he was the only person who would seek him out and sit with him after a battle.

He should head back.

It was by now late enough that when he returned Lan Zhan would not come to sit with him, and he could comfortably pretend it was because of the hour and not the sour note on which they had parted earlier.

You promised to let me help you.

Is that what this is?

He reminded himself, as he did with increasing frequency lately, that he had Jiang Cheng and Shijie to protect if nothing else. He owed it to them to continue, every day, until they won the war. After that — it didn't matter what came after that.

He turned and started back along the way he had come, relying on glimpses of sunset through the trees to judge the direction.

They had not scouted this part of the forest yet, but it felt familiar enough. The same occasional narrow paths that suggested people used to walk here, before Wen Ruohan's puppets had started ravaging the countryside. The same threads of resentful energy tangling thicker where those puppets had blundered through.

There didn’t seem to be as many out here as at the main front, even when they clashed with living Wen soldiers. The fight earlier that day, though — they seemed to come from everywhere, like they were sprouting from the forest itself. It had been an ugly, messy battle. Unexpected, and prolonged. He could still feel the exhaustion of it, laid over the perpetual exhaustion that never quite left him.

Perhaps that was why it had happened, both their tempers frayed thinner than usual, catching the undercurrent of frustration that sat beneath most of their conversations and setting it alight.

He was so deep in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the sound at first. It drifted through the trees, faint, but distinct enough from the regular forest noises to eventually catch his attention. He slowed his steps and listened.

When he finally recognised it his whole body froze, helpless against the wave of unchecked fear.

It was always the same, however many battles he fought in; that brief moment of instinct. Then the training kicked in, loosing his limbs, and before even consciously choosing to he was running, directly towards the sound of clashing metal.

Low branches ripped at his clothes and hair, the uneven ground twisted beneath his feet, the difficult path he had chosen mocking him now he needed to move fast. As he got gradually closer he realised that it didn't sound like a normal battle. There were shouts, the heavy movement of bodies over undergrowth, but the noise of striking weapons that had first drawn his attention was far less prominent.

Eventually the trees thinned out ahead of him to reveal a small clearing filled with scrubby grass, tree roots twisting round sporadic mounds of rock, and several figures. Before he was close enough to see any other detail, even in the greying light, he recognised the Wen colours.

There were maybe a dozen standing, and more lying still on the ground. Though he made no attempt to disguise his approach, none were looking in his direction. Instead their attention converged on a single point at the far side of the clearing.

He didn't think about what that might mean. There was only one thing he needed to do when faced with the Wen. He stopped at the edge of the trees, and brought Chenqing to his lips.

Yet as he drew breath for the first note, several soldiers were sent sprawling back across the clearing toward him. Where they fell away, a flash of white robes.

The breath stuttered in Wei Wuxian's lungs.

Others lunged forward to take the place of their companions. It was impossible to tell from this distance how many were puppets, if any at all. The last light of dusk glinted on Bichen as Lan Zhan knocked them away once more. One fell and did not rise, but the rest regrouped, and those who had kept to the sidelines rushed in, obscuring Lan Zhan again from sight.

Wei Wuxian had seen Lan Zhan decimate rows of enemies with his qin, and at first did not understand why he was not using it now. Then he remembered the lilt in Lan Zhan’s usually perfect posture as they returned to camp only a few hours ago. The dark fatigue around his eyes as they sat together after.

Wei Wuxian steadied his racing heart enough to begin to play.

As the first note flowed it still beat fast and hard against his ribs, and his lungs still ached, but his focus narrowed automatically to the music alone.

The soldiers nearest to him whipped round, only a brief flash of shock crossing their faces before they attacked.

This too he had done now countless times before. He knew how to block blows with Chenqing, how to use an attacker’s momentum to throw them off balance, without ever having to strike a blow himself. There was a rhythm to it, sure as any song. Dodge, create distance, attack.

The fading sunlight and dark clouds of resentful energy combined with his constant movement quickly disoriented him. He could not keep looking for Lan Zhan, and was forced to trust that he was still there, still fighting, or risk losing his concentration entirely.

He knocked back another soldier, the end of their sword whistling past his cheek before he was able to guide a tendril of resentment tight around their neck, dragging them to the ground and not letting go until their movements ceased.

He was barely able to catch his breath before another lunged towards him from his left side.

“Wei Ying, behind you!”

Without thinking, he ducked and spun away to the right. A blade swung down, tearing into the earth where he had stood. Before he had even stood upright he was playing again, a series of sharp notes, and the previously unseen attacker was enveloped by a mass of furious, grasping, ghostly hands.

He turned in the direction of Lan Zhan’s voice, and for one heart-stopping instant, between the swirling darkness and sea of enemies, their gazes met.

A blade sliced across Lan Zhan’s arm. He twisted gracefully away from it, narrowly managing to parry several more that swiped at him from the other side. Red bloomed along his sleeve.

At the same time a puppet rushed suddenly from the tree line and barrelled into Lan Zhan’s side.

The two of them fell hard against one of the rocky outcrops, Lan Zhan’s head smacking horribly against the surface. He twisted out of his attacker’s grip and brought Bichen up to slice at its waist, without finesse but with enough force to cut it open. He righted himself in the same movement and turned swiftly on the spot, seeking the next target.

Then he staggered, and swayed. His sword arm fell.

The remaining Wen swarmed him, and he was gone from Wei Wuxian’s sight.

Panic shot through his body, numbing every nerve, whiting out every sound. Lan Zhan’s name died in his throat without the breath to cry out. He had to reach him.

Two soldiers already flanked him, and two more turned from the fray to rush over and support them. He spun to avoid slicing blades, making a few steps of progress before having to halt, block, weave. He stepped back, lost ground.

He's already dead.

His foot slipped on the soft earth and stinging heat flared on his arm, just above the bracer. He spun and shouldered his assailant out of the way.

They killed him.

More bodies surrounded him, and he couldn't keep track of them, their number or positions. He couldn't push past them. He was too far away. He was too late.

His ears started to ring, merging with the voices of the dead. Numerous, inseparable, and screaming with rage.

Make them suffer.

He leaped backwards, separating himself by a short, precious distance. He felt Chenqing at his lips, but could not hear the music.

Darkness descended on the Wen in a rushing wave.

Bodies were plucked from where they stood, flung across the clearing, crunching to the ground or snapping against trees. He did not consciously direct the ghosts he had called, but they were acting regardless, outside of him, through him, their violent anger meeting his own like two great rivers joining into a torrent of resentment.

Pain pulsed through his body and he could feel the ghosts grow stronger, as if it was feeding them. Their energy tore through him, stripping him raw, but it felt somehow good, the relief of a prolonged, helpless scream, going on, and on, and on until there was nothing left.

It seemed like a long time before he was able to hear his own thoughts again. At first they simply echoed the wails of the resentful dead, a repeating cycle of anger that eventually ran itself out into wrenching grief.

He dropped Chenqing to dangle loosely from his hand, fighting for breath, great hitching gulps of air that never quite became sobs. The heavy stillness of the clearing pressed back in slowly. It was the sort of stillness that usually brought relief, a fight ended, but which now only beat senselessly against his despair.

Lan Zhan would never look at him again. Never play music for him, never argue with him, never sit beside him, a quiet anchor in the wake of battle. He would never hear Lan Zhan’s voice again. He would never—he would—

He swayed on his feet.

The fog of resentment had dissipated from the clearing, and beyond the expanse of carnage weak threads of sunlight picked out a still white shape.

He stumbled towards it.

Lan Zhan was on his back, his robes tangled and bloodied. There was a tear visible in one long sleeve, where it was pulled up and spread onto the ground behind him. His head was turned away, and as Wei Wuxian came closer he was gripped by the sudden fear of seeing the same lax, sightless expression he knew from countless other dead.

The fear was fierce enough to make him hesitate. And in that moment of hesitation, he saw movement.

The subtle expansion of Lan Zhan’s ribs. An unmistakable breath.

He wrenched his body the last few steps before falling to his knees. A hand on Lan Zhan’s chest, warm and solid and damp with blood. Breathing, though. He could feel his breathing. “Lan Zhan?”

He could not have expected a reaction, but it still sent a spike of alarm through him when none came. In a flash of madness he wondered if Lan Zhan was just ignoring him – but Lan Zhan had not ignored him for a long time.

He had never touched Lan Zhan’s face before, and it felt wrong – everything about this felt wrong – as he carefully did so, turning his head towards him.

A shock of blood covered the right side, from his hairline down his temple and along his cheek. Soaking into the ribbon, sticky on the edge of his eyebrow, and on Wei Wuxian’s fingers.

“Lan Zhan, please.”

There were two long slashes on his front, one across his chest and the other, shorter, at his waist, both radiating red into the white robes. Bleeding heavily but not, from what Wei Wuxian could tell, so deep that moving him would be dangerous. If he just woke up, Wei Wuxian could help support him back to camp.

He had nothing else to give. No spiritual energy, no specially saved pills or powders tucked in his robes.

He knelt by Lan Zhan’s side, helpless, useless, a hand on his chest to check he still breathed, his eyes hot and stinging but unable to look away. He knelt until the first drops of rain, cold on his skin, and pattering lightly onto Lan Zhan’s unmoving face, shocked him out of paralysis.

If they stayed here, Lan Zhan would die.

He took Bichen first, pulling it from Lan Zhan's slack fingers and sheathing it uncleaned in the blood-spattered scabbard. There was nowhere he could put it — too large to fit under his belt like Chenqing — so he was forced to hold it while also attempting to gather Lan Zhan in his arms.

It took three attempts to secure his shaking grip under Lan Zhan’s shoulders and knees well enough to attempt a lift, and two more before he was able to steady himself on his own feet, his boots slipping on the flattened grass.

The last of the light had faded behind the trees. The clearing was a mess of bodies, and he would have been relieved not to have to see it properly, except for how much more difficult it made it to pick his way through to the tree line. When he finally reached the edge of the clearing it was a relief to find something like a path, the one Lan Zhan must have taken, to confirm he had guessed the correct direction.

He was already blinking rain out of his eyes as he headed into the trees. It was not much longer before his arms began to ache, and his legs weaken. Lan Zhan’s head pressed against his neck, and he had to keep rearranging the weight of him in his arms to keep it from lolling back. Soon an image began to loop in his mind: of dropping Lan Zhan, through necessity or choice, leaving him in the wet undergrowth; he would be faster without him, he could run to the camp, bring back help—

With each loop he stopped to adjust his hold, to grip Lan Zhan tighter.

The rain pushed through the canopy, oppressive, endless, loud. The low murmur of Lan Zhan’s voice was almost lost beneath it.

“Wei Ying?”

Wei Wuxian managed not to stumble, though his already racing heart skipped at the brush of Lan Zhan’s breath against the wet skin of his collarbone, the shocking relief of hearing him speak. “Lan Zhan." His chest burned with the effort of speaking at all. “I’m here, just hold on.”

There was nothing for several painstaking steps, then a murmur so faint Wei Wuxian could only catch one word.

“...Hurt?”

He pushed down a spike of lingering, vengeful anger. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t—” He awkwardly tilted his head down to brush his chin over Lan Zhan’s hairline, an inadequate gesture of comfort. “We’re nearly there. You won’t hurt for long.”

Lan Zhan’s fingers found the collar of Wei Wuxian’s robes and held on, the grip horribly weak. He did not speak again.

The path, barely there to begin with, became thick and slippery. His fingers lost sensation from the rain’s chill, and the relentlessly tight grip on Lan Zhan, and the hard edges of Bichen’s scabbard digging into his flesh. His foot caught under a root and he wrenched his knee in the fight to stay upright, Lan Zhan’s weight tipping dangerously. Lan Zhan’s arm hung loose, the meagre grip on Wei Wuxian’s robes broken.

Finally, breaking the neverending darkness, he glimpsed flickering torchlight ahead.

At first he could not see the guards he knew should be patrolling the perimeter. He was seized immediately by the fear that the camp had been ambushed while they were gone, that he would find only more massacred bodies akin to what he had left behind. The thought was so vivid that when he did catch movement in the darkness his heart beat into his throat with the instinct that he must somehow find a way to fight them.

As the two figures came closer he forced himself to focus on the colours they wore. He did not recognise their faces.

The man in Nie colours reached him first, faltering with a gasp. “Hanguang-jun—”

“Get a doctor.” The air stung Wei Wuxian's lungs, and what he had hoped would be commanding came out thin and desperate. “Send them to Hanguang-jun’s tent.”

The second man, younger, Jiang colours jarring against his unfamiliar face, nodded quickly and hurried away.

The Nie guard hesitated. “What—”

“An ambush.” Wei Wuxian turned in the direction of Lan Zhan’s tent. His legs had stiffened with even the brief pause. “I—it’s taken care of.”

He wove through the camp with leaden, clumsy steps. The downpour was blinding now, the sputtering torches in his peripheral vision shredding his nerves. When they finally reached the tent and the Nie guard stepped ahead of him to open the flap, he was unable to keep from flinching at the unexpected movement.

The interior was dry and familiar, but dark, the single brazier unlit.

He had stood here only hours ago. Lan Zhan had looked up at him, solemn and stubborn, from behind the low table. He had walked away.

He set Lan Zhan too heavily on the bed, his strength finally failing. Lan Zhan’s arm banged against the frame. It was only then that Wei Wuxian felt the first hot tears of frustration spill down his cheeks.

The Nie guard was there again. He took hold of Lan Zhan’s ankles, careful but efficient, lifting them up onto the bed while Wei Wuxian arranged Lan Zhan’s head on the pillow. Incongruous flashes of memory – another bed, another room – mingled with the present, disorienting.

A bustle of noise and movement behind him made him tense defensively. At least three others entered the tent. The brazier flared into life, making him wince. He felt a tug on his hand, the one still tightly gripping Bichen, and he snatched it away instinctively.

The attendant’s eyes were wide with confusion.

He stared at her for a held breath, then let her take it from him. His fingers ached as they unclenched.

They were loosening Lan Zhan’s clothes, parting blood-streaked layers to reveal wounded skin. It felt like a violation. Outrage welled in Wei Wuxian’s throat, and he struggled to fight it.

They were helping him. They were saving him. This is what he had brought him back for.

Hands reached towards Lan Zhan’s head and he snapped.

“Don’t touch that.”

The attendant flinched at his voice, looking at him with uncertainty and a hint of fear. His hands hovered at the ribbon, but did not touch.

Wei Wuxian thought he might be shaking. “He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t want you to.”

“It’s alright.” Another man — dark blue robes, face vaguely familiar, a doctor, he thought — paused in his examination of Lan Zhan’s injuries and half turned his head towards the attendant. “Send for Zewu-jun.”

Lan Zhan’s skin was clammy. His face was so still, no twinge of pain, not even a flicker of eyelids. Wei Wuxian couldn’t look away, afraid he might miss a minute change, a hint of movement. Anything. Anything at all.

“Wei-gongzi.” The doctor’s voice was steady and calm. It felt wrong. “Thank you for bringing Hanguang-jun back. You should let us work now.”

Wei Wuxian looked up at him. The doctor held his gaze for a moment, then lowered it meaningfully to the bed. Wei Wuxian followed it, and saw that he was clinging to Lan Zhan's hand with both his own. He did not remember doing it.

Beside him another attendant hovered with a wary urgency, a bowl and cloth in his hands, reluctant to move any closer.

“Wei-gongzi.”

With effort, Wei Wuxian dropped Lan Zhan’s hand. He felt adrift.

He forced his numb legs to move.

Outside it was quiet, bar the hissing of the rain. He thought there should be chaos; people rushing about, shouts of shock and despair. Yet he saw no one, the camp suffused with eerie indifference.

When he reached his own tent the rain had washed much of the blood from his skin but it still soaked his clothes in large patches visible even against the dark, wet material. He could smell it too, sickly and cloying.

He stripped and dried himself, shivering even in the heat of the brazier, and dressed in a couple of clean layers. Then he lay on the hard, narrow bed, the aches in his muscles and the bruises under his skin settling and blooming as they never would have done if he had a core, and did not sleep.

*

Four days passed with the camp at a standstill.

Wei Wuxian kept out of sight, as much as he could. It had always been harder to do in this smaller camp, and he felt the exposure more keenly since Lan Zhan’s injury. Word had spread, inevitably, of the circumstances around it. That Wei Wuxian had brought him back bloodied and unconscious. That the clearing in the forest was a site of unimaginable carnage, worse than any of the battlefields seen in the war so far. That he and Lan Zhan had argued, sometimes. That maybe they had argued that night.

A few months ago he might have been defiant. He used to challenge anyone treating him with suspicion or hostility with a mere look, itching for a confrontation. Now, the fight had drained from him.

He did not approach Lan Zhan’s tent again. He had no more right than anyone else in the camp to see him, or know of his condition, despite the persistent sense of protectiveness that continued to simmer under his skin.

It didn’t stop him closing his eyes to visions of Lan Zhan's still, bloodied body. It didn’t stop his imagination playing out what would have happened had he not heard the fighting, or not heard it soon enough. If he had arrived after Lan Zhan had been overwhelmed. If he had arrived to a clearing containing only one corpse.

When Zewu-jun arrived with his small contingent of Lan disciples, it was late at night, the sun long set. Wei Wuxian heard them pass his tent, recognising Zewu-jun’s soft, concerned tones even if he couldn’t make out the words.

It was foolish to follow them, but time had frayed his willpower. He couldn't stay away any longer.

He caught up quickly, cutting through the shadows, slowing only when Lan Zhan’s tent came into view. A torch flickered beside it, lighting the pale robes of the two disciples standing guard by the tent’s closed entrance.

Their conversation drifted into focus as he neared.

“…without him, I heard.”

“Well, someone needs to watch him." While the other disciple had spoken loudly enough to suggest he did not fear being overheard, his companion kept her voice lowered, and looked out into the camp with wary eyes. “Did you not meet him during the guest lectures?"

A delicate snort. “I didn’t have the pleasure.”

"Hanguang-jun spent much of the summer supervising his punishments. Perhaps that's why he has taken the responsibility to keep an eye on him now."

"I assume at the guest lectures it didn't involve nearly getting killed."

“No." She lowered her voice even further. “Maybe now Zewu-jun will insist he return with us.”

The words sent an unexpected ripple down Wei Wuxian’s spine.

“I hope so. If one keeps reckless company, it's inevitable that—”

The flap of the tent opened suddenly, and both disciples immediately straightened and fixed their eyes ahead. Zewu-jun stepped out, levelling his steady gaze at each of them.

“You should both rest,” he said, his voice quiet and even. “We will be leaving again in the morning.”

Without even glancing at each other the two gave quick, neat bows and swept obediently off into the darkness.

Wei Wuxian knew he should do the same. Lan Zhan must be fine, if they were staying for only one night, and the overheard conversation had begun to curdle his thoughts in a way that made him even more reluctant to be seen.

But his gaze happened to catch on Zewu-jun’s hands. Within them, carefully folded, was a bloodied ribbon.

There was another reason Zewu-jun might leave so soon. Visceral dread shuddered through him. His stomach turned, like the world had shifted suddenly beneath his feet.

He had already taken several steps into the light before he realised what he was doing.

Zewu-jun went very still. It was the only indication of his surprise. When he spoke, his tone was gentle as always. "Wei-gongzi?"

Wei Wuxian couldn't look up to see his expression — to see if there was surprise there, or grief, or admonishment. He couldn't tear his eyes from the ribbon.

“Ah." Zewu-jun rearranged his hold on the ribbon, folding it smaller, obscuring the worst of the stains. “I am only going to clean it, ready for when he wakes.”

Beneath Wei Wuxian's feet, the world shifted back. He forced his eyes up to meet Zewu-jun’s. In his mind he could see Lan Zhan lying in the churned grass at the edge of that clearing, the blood soaking the side of his face.

The heat from the nearby torch burned. It should have been welcome in the damp air, but instead it made his skin itch.

“He’s not awake, then." His voice sounded strange, scratching its way up his throat, and he realised it was the first time he had spoken since leaving Lan Zhan with the doctors.

“I am told he has been, but has been sedated in order to heal more quickly.” He smiled, though there was something uneven about it. Wei Wuxian could see now the tiredness in his face, pale even in the warm light, and his eyes bright with worry and too little sleep. "My brother is not a particularly obedient patient.”

If Wei Wuxian hadn't felt so wretched, he might have found that funny. He thought of Lan Zhan walking stoically on a broken leg, of his tense, immovable posture in that dank cave, his skin hot beneath Wei Wuxian’s cold fingers.

“I want to thank you, Wei-gongzi.”

Wei Wuxian's gaze had already slipped away, towards the entrance to the tent, where the flickering torch light gave the illusion of movement. It was only the absurdity of Zewu-jun's words that dragged it back. “For what?”

“I am told you saved his life.”

He said it so gravely, and so gratefully. Wei Wuxian felt faintly nauseous.

He thought of meeting Lan Zhan's eyes across the clearing, the shouted warning, the distraction providing the sliver of advantage the enemy needed. He had plucked at the memory so often over the past few days that it came easily, vibrant with use.

“Will you take him back with you?”

He didn't mean to ask it — Zewu-jun didn't owe him the answer — but he couldn't stop himself. He needed to know.

Zewu-jun’s expression shifted in a way he couldn’t interpret. “No doubt it would be safer," he said, his words careful. "And I would always prefer to have him safe. But I would not force him, and he already made his position clear." He looked at Wei Wuxian with that quiet attentiveness which had once seemed charming, but now made him feel hunted. "Would you prefer that he leave?”

He should. If he truly cared about Lan Zhan’s wellbeing, he would.

If Lan Zhan hadn't been in this camp, he would never have been ambushed in that clearing. If he stayed here, he would continue to seek Wei Wuxian's side, and that would always be a dangerous place to be.

Yet the idea of facing the rest of this war without him filled Wei Wuxian with a hopelessness as deep as any he had felt since returning from the Burial Mounds. Every distance he built between them — every sharp word, every cool look — he did so with the certainty, in the deepest recesses of his heart, that Lan Zhan would always be there.

It was unbearable to imagine a future in which he was not.

His throat stung. “I can’t force him either.”

Zewu-jun nodded, as if that had answered the question. For the first time he looked away, towards the tent. He was silent for a moment, very still. Then he took a breath and turned back with a measured smile. “Then I trust you will continue to look out for him.”

I want to. I can't. "I will."

Zewu-jun left him with a soft smile, his brother's bloodied ribbon in his hand. Wei Wuxian watched him until he was gone from sight, and he was alone outside Lan Zhan's tent.

There was nothing stopping him from going inside. It would soothe him, perhaps, to see Lan Zhan’s condition for himself.

He turned and headed back to his own tent, feeling the growing distance with each step, like a string pulling taut behind him.

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian did not sleep until the sun had already risen and woke many hours later, lurching fitfully out of a nightmare of corpses and bloody earth. He reached automatically for Chenqing, the hard shape of it grounding him.

The earth beneath his boots was damp and soft as he stepped outside, the sun already low behind grey, miserable clouds. All was quiet. Zewu-jun and the disciples he brought with him must have long departed.

He trailed the outskirts of the camp, searching automatically for the pull of any resentful energy. It was sometimes difficult to discern dangers from the constant background weight of the restless dead that seemed to follow them wherever they camped. Increasingly it felt that he was pulled towards them, rather than them to him, like the mud sucking at his boots with every step.

There was another pull that was stronger.

He circled back, passing a few soldiers grouped around torches, rubbing their hands against the chilly air. The Nie soldier who had helped him that night acknowledged him with a curt nod. His two companions only kept their eyes on him as he passed, wary.

As he approached Lan Zhan's tent, a figure emerged from it. Wei Wuxian ducked into the shadows without thought, his heart hammering, even though he had every right to be there, or anywhere in the camp.

The torchlight flickered over the figure's features, and Wei Wuxian recognised her as one of the camp doctors.

In that moment, he considered turning back. There was no more reason now to see Lan Zhan's condition with his own eyes than there had been the night before, or the days before that. There was no reason at all, except that he could not shake from his mind the Lan disciples' words, or Zewu-jun's. And he could not hold out any longer.

The doctor did not see him, but he waited until she was some distance away before silently slipping into the tent himself.

The air inside was warm, smelling faintly of incense and a medicinal tea he had himself been prescribed for an injury sustained a few weeks earlier. At the opposite end of the tent was the pallet on which he had laid Lan Zhan almost a week ago.

Now Lan Zhan sat upright on the edge of it, alive, awake, and looking right at him.

He was clad only in sleep clothes, thin trousers and shirt. His hair was neat and half tied but unadorned; his forehead bare, clean of the mud and blood that had covered him when Wei Wuxian had seen him last. He looked like a fresh, new version of himself.

For a long moment they simply watched each other.

Then Lan Zhan stood, stiffly, lacking some of his usual grace. He seemed somehow more vulnerable standing than he had when seated. His clothing draped the long lines of him in a softer way than Wei Wuxian had ever seen before, bar a single illicit glimpse in the Cold Spring, so, so long ago.

“Wei Ying." His voice was dry but clear.

“You’re awake.” Wei Wuxian could not look away, shocked by how greedy he felt for the sight of him after only a few days. He had gone so much longer without seeing him before this, and not craved it even half as much.

Lan Zhan nodded, a tiny tilt of his head, and took a few steps towards him.

His feet were bare, Wei Wuxian noticed belatedly. It was too much, too vulnerable, and he tried to claw back his composure. “How do you—are you healed?”

“Mostly.” He was studying Wei Wuxian’s face, trying to read him, familiar and uncomfortable. “Wei Ying, were you hurt?”

“Me? No, I’m…I’m fine." The question threw him, entirely unexpected. "It was your injuries — don’t you remember?”

“Not everything.”

Not what Wei Wuxian had done after he had fallen. Lan Zhan was well familiar with his methods, but the violence, the rage, that had fuelled him in that clearing — that had been different.

If Lan Zhan had remembered that, he might not speak to him so softly.

"I do not remember whether you were hurt." Lan Zhan looked him over again, as if to make sure he was truly uninjured. “I remember you saved my life.”

Wei Wuxian felt himself flinch. He hoped it hadn’t shown on his face. “Lan Zhan,” he said, and then could not find the words to follow.

He wanted very much to touch him.

It was not a new want. He had fought it since returning from the Burial Mounds, and each time he failed — allowing a brush of Lan Zhan's hand against his side, or a supportive arm around him as he left a battlefield injured — was a bright, guilty rush.

But Lan Zhan looked so brittle like this. If Wei Wuxian touched him now, he didn’t know what it would do.

“Why were you there?” he said abruptly. “Your spiritual energy was low. You can’t have been sent out.”

“To find you.” He sounded slightly confused, like the answer was so obvious he was unsure he had understood the question.

Wei Wuxian had known, deep down he had known, and still the confirmation winded him.

“I could not find you. After.” After they had argued. After Wei Wuxian had finally worn through Lan Zhan’s already limited patience. “Your spiritual energy was also low.”

Wei Wuxian had looked him in the eye and lied to him so many times, and smiled while he was doing it. How strange that he could not bear to do it now. “You didn’t need to get hurt." Frustration welled beneath the words. "You didn’t need to look for me. I can take care of myself.”

Lan Zhan continued towards him. It was so quiet in the tent that Wei Wuxian could hear the faint rustle of the fine white fabric as he moved, and of the groundsheet beneath his careful steps.

“Even so." There was a hesitation in it, like he couldn’t decide whether to say what he was truly thinking. "I am glad you are well.”

"Lan Zhan." The frustration expanded quickly into something else, something like fear, or anger. At Lan Wangji's foolish risk-taking, his guileless concern, his controlled words. He could feel the air between them grow tense with the potential for argument, for the same argument they had been having for months.

From the way he pursed his lips and lowered his eyes, he thought Lan Zhan could feel it too.

Wei Wuxian forced his breaths to slow, backing away from the edge. “Your brother was here. I thought he might take you back with him.”

“I would not go.”

Wei Wuxian looked at him. The healed cut and fading bruising at his right temple, disappearing into his hair; the unsteady exhaustion still clinging to him. Beneath it all, the familiar stubbornness in his eyes.

There was something else there too. Something caught in glimpses when Lan Zhan failed to hide it, and Wei Wuxian failed to ignore it. It was a tension different to the sparking of an impending argument. It was knowing, without quite understanding how, that Lan Zhan wanted to kiss him.

He couldn't recall when he had first noticed. Days and nights melted into each other since they began the advance toward Nightless City, and he had lost count of battles fought and the weary hours of recovery between. But at some time, in those hours, he had seen it, the warm, frightening echo of his own desire. After, in his weaker moments, he had looked for it.

It could not happen. He could not let it. With a wrenching effort, he turned away.

"Wei Ying." Lan Zhan’s hand wrapped tight around his wrist, his voice almost pleading.

With the last of his resolve he tried to tug his hand free of Lan Zhan's, and was caught off guard by the firmness of the hold. He had expected it to be a mere gesture; he had expected Lan Zhan to let him go with only the slightest resistance. Instead Lan Zhan held fast.

Wei Wuxian closed his eyes, and thought of every time he had maintained their distance, and every time he had sacrificed comfort for the necessity of isolation. All for nothing, if he fell now.

He stepped forward.

Lan Zhan pulled him back.

It was sharp enough to make him stumble, twisting back round as he caught his balance, and finding Lan Zhan suddenly, shockingly close.

He was aware of his heart thundering rapidly in his chest, sure that Lan Zhan could hear it, or feel the way the pulse of it sped in his wrist. Lan Zhan's lips were parted on a breath, or a word that never came, and his eyes were wide, as if he had surprised himself as much as Wei Wuxian. Then all in quick succession he blinked, and frowned, and leaned in.

It barely counted as a kiss, just a firm, dry press, but so full of warmth and potential that it ached. When Lan Zhan drew back with a trembling inhale, Wei Wuxian could not let it end.

He kissed him hard and reckless, with a momentum that had Lan Zhan grabbing the front of Wei Wuxian's robes to steady himself. They were fully against each other, along the length of their bodies, and he could smell Lan Zhan’s skin, clean and faintly medicinal, and taste the tea on his lips, a sudden, crushing intimacy.

The last time he had been this close, Lan Zhan had smelled of blood and earth, of death, and now he was alive under Wei Wuxian’s hands.

Lan Zhan separated them again, briefly, just enough so they could look at each other. Wei Wuxian could not interpret his expression exactly, but understood it as much as he needed.

They stumbled towards the bed as one. Lan Zhan collapsed onto it and Wei Wuxian sat heavily beside him, following him down, hungry for contact. He was uncoordinated in his eagerness, noses bumping, catching the corner of Lan Zhan's mouth, off-target, until Lan Zhan tilted his head, opening to his clumsy plea.

Lan Zhan’s hands found his waist, holding tight enough that he could feel the curve of his long fingers through the thick layers of his clothing. He could feel the moment they knocked against Chenqing.

He jerked back violently, grabbing Lan Zhan’s hand and dragging it away from his waist.

Lan Zhan’s eyes were wide, his pale cheeks stained pink, and he looked at Wei Wuxian like he had been caught, like this was his failure, and not Wei Wuxian’s.

“Sorry, it’s not…” He fumbled Chenqing from his belt. For a moment he was uncertain what to do with it, knowing only that Lan Zhan must not touch it. But Lan Zhan was still so close, and his lips still tingled.

For all the security of having Chenqing at his waist, he wanted Lan Zhan’s hands there more.

He stretched hastily over to place Chenqing on the small table by the head of the bed, barely glancing away from Lan Zhan, a quiet clatter as he pushed objects aside to make space for it. Then he took Lan Zhan's hand and moved it decisively back to his side.

Lan Zhan's hold was immediately firm and grasping, and this time Wei Wuxian revelled in it.

He tugged at his belt until it came loose, flinging it blindly away from him, wanting to feel Lan Zhan's touch properly, the dig of each individual finger against his flesh. Lan Zhan's hands found the ties of his outer robe, yanking them loose and slipping beneath, blissfully hot through the inner layers of fabric.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian said, hot between their mouths, because he could not say anything else, "Lan Zhan…"

He kicked off his boots with clumsy haste and climbed over Lan Zhan, straddling his legs, covering him with his body. The sprawl of his skirts got tangled between them and he had to yank them free, spreading over them both like a blanket.

He slid his kisses feverishly to Lan Zhan’s jaw, then pressed his face fully against the side of his neck, nuzzling below his ear, tasting the clean tang of his skin. He took a final full breath of him before kissing back to his mouth, then paused, resting their foreheads together. His lungs felt tight with the reality of it: that they had finally come to this, that both of them were alive for it to happen.

He stroked his thumbs along the sides of Lan Zhan's face. His skin was so warm, perfect. He never wanted to stop touching him. "Are you angry with me?"

Lan Zhan’s lips parted on a tiny, shaking gasp. "No."

It was a comfort, of sorts, but Wei Wuxian wouldn't have minded if the answer was different. He was used to Lan Zhan's anger, and would have embraced it, gladly, if it meant that Lan Zhan was here to feel it. "You were before."

"Not angry." His fingers flexed at Wei Wuxian's waist. "Frustrated."

Wei Wuxian gave a short, unsteady laugh. His eyes stung suddenly, and he squeezed them tightly shut. "Frustrated?"

"That you refuse my help."

It hit like a knife, a sharp pinching pain. You promised to let me help you, Lan Zhan had said that night, far from the first time. It had become a script that they followed, almost meaningless. Or else it meant too much, the entirety of their conflict, distilled into a few words.

Is that what this is? It had come out louder than intended, crueller than was needed.

He recalled the flash of hurt across Lan Zhan’s face, satisfying something rotten within Wei Wuxian as he had walked away.

He stroked his thumbs along Lan Zhan's cheeks again, just for the feel of it, to remind himself he was there. "Is this you helping?"

Lan Zhan's hands slipped from Wei Wuxian's waist to his hips. His thighs shifted as much as they could under Wei Wuxian's weight. "If—if it does…"

Wei Wuxian's stomach swooped. If it does. If giving himself to Wei Wuxian would help, he would be willing to do it.

Wei Wuxian did not know if it would help. He only knew it was what he wanted.

He recalled the last time he had felt this kind of arousal. It had been many, many months. He hadn't even really thought about it until now. Like so many things, it had mostly been a luxury of his old life.

But the night he and Lan Zhan had talked on that rooftop — that reconciliation, partial and imperfect. Lan Zhan luminous in the moonlight, his concern and his faith.

He had made his flippant promise and returned to his room, and taken himself in hand, lying on his back in an unfamiliar bed, shamelessly picturing Lan Zhan behind his eyelids.

Now he had Lan Zhan beneath him, kissing him, slick and unrestrained. He dragged his hands down Lan Zhan's body, pushed them up under his shirt. Lan Zhan made a soft, muffled sound of pleasure, and knowing that his touch was the cause of it caught on his own desire and sparked it into flame. He slid one hand out to pull the tie loose, peel the shirt open, lay his hand on hot skin.

Lan Zhan flinched. Wei Wuxian flinched too, pulling back.

There was the long red line of a mostly-healed wound, cutting straight from Lan Zhan's shoulder diagonally across his chest, stopping just at the base of his sternum. Another, shorter but a deeper, angrier red, curved around his waist.

Wei Wuxian had known they would be there. He should have been relieved, in fact, at the speed of the healing. Lan Zhan's body was so strong, his cultivation so high, they probably wouldn't even scar.

"Sorry," he said, his mouth twisted into something like a smile.

"Wei Ying." Wei Wuxian couldn't tell what lay behind his tone: there were so many ways Lan Zhan said his name, he would never learn them all. “Please keep going."

It was a reprieve. It was Lan Zhan saying they didn't need to talk about this now, perhaps not ever, and the relief of it was breathtaking, as if he could really take everything Lan Zhan offered, and give away nothing.

He skimmed his hands carefully above the wounds but pressed firmly over the unmarred skin, learning the shape of him, nipples hardening under his fingers, the twitch of the muscles of his stomach, the dip of his navel. At the same time Lan Zhan kept kissing him, hot and insistent, pushing life into him.

He was so consumed by it he didn't notice Lan Zhan undressing him until the last layers were untied and hands pushed between them, sudden on the sides of his ribs.

His own scars were numerous, and permanent. Soon, he thought, there would be no part of his skin left clear, until only resentment held him together. He had accepted this, and the discomfort of having Lan Zhan discover it was fleeting enough to ignore until fingertips brushed low on his belly and he knew, without needing to look, where they rested.

There was no reason to think Lan Zhan would recognise it as any different to his other scars. It was small, neat, as likely to be from a sword as any other blade, a convincing lie if Lan Zhan were to ask.

But through the soft swim of his distracted thoughts came the sharp truth: he could lie about the scar, but his body would not lie if Lan Zhan went seeking something that he no longer had.

He grabbed Lan Zhan's hand and pulled it forcefully away from him, pressing it back against the bed beside Lan Zhan's head. When that failed to assuage his sudden panic he fumbled for Lan Zhan's other wrist and pressed it hard against the bed too, leaning over him with his full weight.

Lan Zhan blinked up at him, wide-eyed, his breath coming quick and loud like he was struggling to catch it.

Wei Wuxian tried to calm his battering heart. He could stop now, and walk away. He could be certain, then, that Lan Zhan would never find out.

Yet he ached, with finally having Lan Zhan like this, and with the threat of ripping it away.

Helplessly he lowered himself back along Lan Zhan, not quite chest to chest, mindful of the wounds. He could feel his pulse trembling through his whole body as he pressed his lips to Lan Zhan's ear. "If you want to help me," he said, the words coming with terrible ease, "just let me touch you."

Lan Zhan made a soft, cut-off sound. It was more of a surrender than any words, and it made the hairs on the back of Wei Wuxian's neck stand on end.

It took only a slight turn of his head to catch Lan Zhan's mouth once more.

Lan Zhan pressed into it, open, wholehearted, and without hesitation. Wei Wuxian could feel the push of his hips, the tension in his arms, where he strained beneath Wei Wuxian's weight holding him down. Not fighting – he had more than enough strength to push Wei Wuxian off if he wanted to – but yielding, with an abandon of which Wei Wuxian would never have thought him capable.

Perhaps he wouldn't be, with anyone else.

He could feel Lan Zhan's hardness and rubbed his own against it, a shameless grind that made his face hot with the lewdness of it. He wondered if he could make Lan Zhan come like this, with his kiss and the friction of their bodies. He wondered if he himself could come like this; he felt the arousal gathering within him like lightning, could almost imagine it flowing through his meridians in place of the resentment that had lodged itself there.

But he didn't want to come like this, if Lan Zhan would allow him more.

He let go of Lan Zhan's right wrist and shifted to allow his fumbling hand between their bodies. He curled his fingers round the shape of Lan Zhan's cock through his trousers and it twitched in his hold, desperately thrilling. Lan Zhan turned his face to the side to take a laboured breath.

Wei Wuxian untied Lan Zhan's trousers and tugged them roughly down as far as he could. They bunched up around his thighs, caught against the bedding and their bodies, but it was enough to free his cock and allow Wei Wuxian to give it a couple of long strokes.

There was something so filthy about it, to be touching Lan Zhan so boldly. A giddy, unmoored feeling bubbled in his chest.

Lan Zhan's right hand still lay pressed against the sheet beside his head, curled into a fist.

Wei Wuxian leaned down again, curling himself over Lan Zhan's body to press his open mouth against Lan Zhan's throat, to drag it up to the hinge of his jaw.

"You want this," he heard himself say. "Me touching you."

He felt Lan Zhan swallow. "Yes."

Lan Zhan's cock felt so good in his hand, smooth, and slick, and hot in the narrow space between their bodies. Lan Zhan strained towards him even as he bore down, pressing close and making it difficult for Wei Wuxian to stroke him properly, as if the proximity was more important than his release.

Wei Wuxian was taut with the excitement of it, the illicitness, Lan Zhan’s vulnerability and his trust.

He squeezed Lan Zhan's wrist, tendons flexing beneath his hold, and the words spilled thoughtlessly out of him. "If you thought it would help—help me be good…"

Lan Zhan made a high, desperate sound.

"Would you let me do anything to you?" He had to tilt his face away from Lan Zhan's neck to speak, but stayed close, lips brushing skin. "Would you let me fuck you?"

Lan Zhan's breathing went hitched and uneven. "Yes."

Wei Wuxian smothered a groan against Lan Zhan's neck. Then he sat up, hurriedly unfastening his trousers to pull out his aching cock.

In that brief separation he looked down at Lan Zhan beneath him, the shirt spilling off his shoulders, his hair dark and messy across the pillow, obscenely bare down to his where the trousers bunched around his upper thighs.

The possibilities spread before him like images in a spring book: sliding onto the bed behind Lan Zhan and fucking him that way; turning him over onto hands and knees and rutting into him from behind; sucking Lan Zhan’s cock; having Lan Zhan suck his.

He needed to decide, if this was his one precious chance, but more than that he simply wanted to be close, to feel Lan Zhan's skin against his, and without thinking he lay back down and let Lan Zhan's searching mouth pull him into another long, needy kiss. He missed Lan Zhan's hands on him — both still where Wei Wuxian had placed them, knuckles pressing into the sheets — but he could feel the straining tension across Lan Zhan's chest, the front of his shoulders, proof of Lan Zhan's effort to do what Wei Wuxian had asked of him, and that felt almost as good.

He tried to stroke himself but the angle was awkward, his knuckles dragging against Lan Zhan's belly, or grazing his cock, impossible to maintain a satisfying rhythm with the restless, frantic way they were both moving. Frustrated, Wei Wuxian let go of himself and used the hand to instead brace on the bed, the inside of his clothed wrist pressing against Lan Zhan's ribs. That was better. He rocked his hips against Lan Zhan's, and together, they found a rhythm.

He should slow down, think, do this properly — he wanted, and Lan Zhan had said he could — but now in the moment it seemed so complicated, hindered by his inexperience, and his raw, impatient need.

He moved again, rearranging his weight, fitting them together a little differently, lowering his head to press the flat of his tongue to Lan Zhan's collarbone. Lan Zhan tipped his head back, allowing it, encouraging it. He was breathing so fast, each exhale ending on a tight, quiet groan.

His cock slipped with each thrust along Lan Zhan's hip, the crease of his groin, and then, just briefly, the narrow space where his thighs were restrained by the waistband of his trousers.

He choked a sound against Lan Zhan's throat. It was almost right. It was near enough.

Shoving a hand between them again he took hold of his cock, and guided it to push roughly between Lan Zhan's thighs.

Lan Zhan gasped. The tendons in his wrist tightened under Wei Wuxian's palm. "Please." It was so quiet Wei Wuxian nearly missed it.

He braced his hand back on the bed and moved. The first thrust was uncertain, but it was perfect, the new way Lan Zhan's body held him, the sustained friction and pressure unlike the tease of before. His head fell forward to rest heavily on Lan Zhan's chest.

For the first time Lan Zhan moved his free hand, urgent, fumbling for Wei Wuxian's where it rested on the bed. Wei Wuxian grabbed it to press it back against the mattress, except now they were palm to palm, fingers linked together and holding fast.

Then it was easy. He found their rhythm again, pushing into and between until the inside of Lan Zhan's thighs grew slick and hot with sweat and precome. "Fuck," he said, hot between his mouth and Lan Zhan's skin, "You feel so good, I want you—I want you to…" His voice sounded distant beneath Lan Zhan's low, breathy moans, and the grounding pain of the grip of their twined fingers. He wasn’t sure if Lan Zhan would hear. Any other time he wouldn’t want him to, but it suddenly felt more important than anything that he understand. "Lan Zhan, stay, stay with me, please—"

Lan Zhan let out a broken sound and Wei Wuxian knew he was coming, the way his fingers clenched and his body shook, and then he could feel Lan Zhan's cock jerking against his stomach, exciting and strangely triumphant — that he had helped Lan Zhan to this, this peak of pleasure, in spite of everything. He had been close already and with a wave of relief he let it take over him too, a freeing wash of euphoria, without even having to fight for it.

He sank down, body loose and tingling. Lan Zhan was murmuring his name. Nothing behind it, no demand, no accusation. Just his name, in Lan Zhan's mouth.

Lan Zhan extricated his hands from Wei Wuxian's loosened grip to wrap them around his back in a firm embrace, and he could not bring himself to resist. If the pressure made Lan Zhan's injuries sting he gave no sign of it. And it felt so good to be held.

They lay like that for a while, blanketed by Wei Wuxian's outer robe, Lan Zhan stroking small, slow circles over the top of it, rubbing warmth between Wei Wuxian's shoulder blades. Wei Wuxian nuzzled into his neck, unthinking, and Lan Zhan tipped his head towards him. Then they were kissing again — slower, softer, all the earlier urgency gone, leaving only affection, and intimacy.

It could not last. Before long the usual aches of his body, temporarily relieved, began to return, and with them his senses.

He swallowed down the dangerous emotions crowding his chest and moved stiffly off Lan Zhan, collapsing into the small space beside him. Lan Zhan moved with him, turning onto his side, refusing to look away.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian whispered, not quite meeting his eyes. "I've made a mess of you."

Lan Zhan's fingers brushed lightly across his temple, pushing his hair behind his ear, before withdrawing. "Will you sleep?"

Wei Wuxian shook his head, the thin pillow grazing his cheek. "There's no room here." It was true, the bed so narrow it couldn't possibly hold them both comfortably; even lying this close, face to face, he could feel the edge of it beneath him.

Even if it were three times the size, he could not stay.

He knew Lan Zhan was watching him, but didn't dare imagine his expression. Eventually, Lan Zhan's head brushed against the pillow in a small, accepting nod.

Distant voices drifted from outside, a reminder that they were not alone. Anyone could intend to visit Lan Zhan, as he had — a doctor, an attendant with food or drink. He hadn't thought to ask Lan Zhan if any of these things were likely before behaving so recklessly.

It must not even have occurred to Lan Zhan. Or maybe everything else felt far away to him as well, like within this tent there was somehow no space for anything — the rest of the camp, the war, the resentful dead — but the two of them.

He finally met Lan Zhan's gaze, and held it as Lan Zhan's blinks grew longer, his eyelids lowered, and eventually closed in sleep.

Wei Wuxian had every intention of getting up once that happened. But his breathing had slowed with Lan Zhan’s until they were in tandem, and his intentions drifted, fragmenting into nothing.

*

He woke to darkness, and silence. The brazier had burned itself out, and the air in the tent was cool. They still lay facing each other. At some point in sleep he had taken hold of Lan Zhan again, and their hands were clasped between their chests.

Lan Zhan's breathing remained steady and deep, his eyes closed.

He propped himself carefully up on one elbow and looked around, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. The blanket was half hanging off the end of the bed, crumpled beneath Lan Zhan's bare feet, the corner of his own outer robe laying over Lan Zhan's hip like a poor substitute.

Over the other side of Lan Zhan's sleeping form he saw the small table. A shallow bowl, a teacup, crowded precariously near the edge. A pale ribbon, clean, neatly folded. Chenqing, resting across the top of it.

He should leave. He should let Lan Zhan leave.

Their hands were still clasped, Lan Zhan's fingers curled around his own, holding on. It would be difficult to let go without waking him.

He reached down to the end of the bed, pulling the blanket gingerly up over Lan Zhan's feet, arranging it at his shoulder. He lay back down, careful not to jostle Lan Zhan.

Just for a moment, he thought. Just for now.

*