Wei Ying stopped shivering some time ago.
This knowledge weighs on Lan Wangji’s mind, heavy as a boulder. Though his own golden core is having little trouble keeping him warm, his blood is running cold as the icy water they’re wading through. He had been alarmed when they were pulled under the water and found themselves in Lan Yi’s cave, but since Wei Ying has stopped shivering, Lan Wangji feels real fear throbbing through him. He doesn’t remember much about his treatments on that long-ago night when he’d been dragged from the Jingshi in the snow, but he remembers that the fact that he had not been shivering had concerned the healers greatly.
When Wei Ying first started shivering, miles of twisting tunnels ago, Lan Wangji had grabbed his wrist, trying to warm him through an infusion of qi. He had laughed, the sound chattering through his teeth, and tugged away.
“Aww, come on, Lan Zhan, it’s only a little bit of cold.” This from someone who, up until that moment, had been complaining about how he was going to freeze to death. His nose and ears were edging from pink to red, but the blue hue of his lips did not stain the brilliance of his smile.
Lan Wangji snatched his wrist back. He was so unnerved by how cold the skin under his fingers was that he barely noticed the ever-present inconvenient jolt of electric heat that hissed through him whenever he touched Wei Ying. “You are trying to warm yourself and it is not working,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
Wei Ying is Wei Ying, and had laughed that off too. “Well, yeah, but surely we’re almost out of here, right?”
Lan Wangji wasn’t so sure. The tunnels they were following seemed to be inching upwards, but there were no other signs that they were making progress. Somewhere in the world of sunlight, his brother and his uncle and others would be looking for them, with all the wisdom of the Lans at their disposal. Even if they didn’t find them, he was fairly certain that his ancestors would not let him die here. But judging by the past two hours they had spent wandering since leaving Lan Yi’s cave, it might be a while longer before they found their way out. Long enough that he is concerned about how the cold is affecting Wei Ying--and even more concerned about the way the qi he poured into Wei Ying seemed to make no difference at all. Lan Wangji had kept his grip on Wei Ying’s wrist, and every few minutes he had tried a qi infusion again, but each time it was like pouring water into a cracked bowl.
Under other circumstances, it would make no sense for a healthy young cultivator’s golden core to be overwhelmed by mere cold, much less for qi infusions to be fruitless. But these caves and the tunnels that connect them are no ordinary place. This attack on Wei Ying--because that’s what it has to be--is intentional: this place, suffused with the presence of Lan Wangji’s ancestors, is attacking the presence of a stranger as automatically as a guard attacks a thief in the night.
The forehead ribbon isn’t enough.
Lan Wangji had believed it was. The forehead ribbon had stopped the chord assassination’s strikes, and he and Wei Ying had bowed to Lan Yi together. It should be enough. As far as the wards that protect Cloud Recesses are concerned, Lan Wangji and Wei Ying are now married. Those wards should recognize Wei Ying as under the protection of his husband’s clan. (Lan Wangji won’t let his mind touch those words: marriage, husband. Perhaps, perhaps later in the dark peace of the jingshi he’ll find the courage, but not now, with Wei Ying right beside him, his pulse under Lan Wangji’s fingers.) The wards should let Wei Ying pass as easily as Lan Wangji does.
They don’t. They don’t, and Lan Wangji doesn’t know what to do.
He’s pinned his hopes on Wei Ying’s optimism, focused on getting them out. But it’s been hours, hours of pushing their way through frigid water, sometimes only to their ankles, other times waist-deep, their robes soaked through, their hair and lashes crusted with ice, and Wei Ying’s cheerful complaints and thoughtless commentarylapsed into silence. And then, however long ago, he stopped shivering.
He’s kept going, though. With Lan Wangji propping him up, Wei Ying has kept moving forward, even if each step is slower than Lan Wangji would prefer. The water is just below their knees now, lower than it was a few minutes ago, but Wei Ying stumbles and almost goes down. Lan Wangji’s grip on his arm tightens, and he makes a protesting sound that hits Lan Wangji’s stomach like a punch, even as he lets Lan Wangji haul him upright.
“Be a little gentler with me, Lan Zhan,” he says, and though his teeth are no longer chattering, the words sound slurred. “I’m a delicate Yunmeng lotus blossom.”
That’s Wei Ying’s usual brand of nonsense, so Lan Wangji ignores it, but he can’t ignore what Wei Ying says next.
“Shijie’s tired, Lan Zhan, we have to stop and rest.”
Lan Wangji jerks to a halt, frozen as the icicle stalactites glinting in his blue flame that lights their way. This he remembers from the night he nearly froze in front of the jingshi: his mother had been dead for weeks, but he had seen her face and called to her.
He swings Wei Ying around so that they’re facing each other. Wei Ying’s eyes are both bright and vacant, and Lan Wangji’s stomach lurches. “Wei Ying. Jiang-guniang is not here.”
Wei Ying’s eyelids flutter, but he manages to give him a skeptical look. “Is now a good time to start joking, Lan Zhan? Be nice to my shijie or we’ll break your legs, right, Jiang Cheng?”
For one moment, Lan Wangji allows despair to course through him. It’s colder than ice, sharper than cold. Then he shoves it aside, the reaction well practiced but still requiring every bit of his will, and makes a decision.
“We will rest,” he says.
Wei Ying makes a pleased little sound, the kind that Lan Wangji hears in his dreams. “Hear that, shijie?” Still that drag to his words, like it’s difficult to get them out. Talking has never, ever been difficult for Wei Ying. “You’ll feel better after a rest, won’t you? Hey--no more walking! Lan Zhan, you said resting!”
“Not here,” he answers. They had just come through a small cave that wasn’t entirely flooded; dry rock had made narrow shoulders on each side of the water. It takes longer to get back to it than it had to come this far; Wei Ying is now limp as a puppet with cut strings, and for the last few steps, Lan Wangji has to hoist him up and carry him on his back.
Whenever Wei Ying crowds in close, Lan Wangji is overwhelmed by his warmth. In the library, it had been a battle to keep his back straight and his hands from clutching the text he was reading too tightly whenever Wei Ying would lean in, radiating heat like he carried the Yunmeng summer around inside him. Lan cultivation techniques mean that Lan Wangji rarely sweats, not even as a result of great physical effort, but whenever Wei Ying gets so close to him, Lan Wangji’s robes stick to his slick back.
Now, though, with Wei Ying’s entire weight on his back, that heat is gone. Oh, Lan Wangji can still feel some body heat through the layers of sodden fabric separating them, but not as much as there should be. Not nearly enough.
Wei Ying is giggling. That sound usually slams against Lan Wangji’s nerves like careless fingers against guqin strings (and right from the start, Lan Wangji hadn’t been able to label that feeling. At first he had been certain it was irritation like he’d never known, that made him grab for his sword, wanting to strike out. Lately, though, he’s been fighting the suspicion that it’s something else, something like pleasure or arousal or--even more frightening--delight), but now it’s brittle-edged with hysteria, and all it makes him feel is fear.
“Look, Jiang Cheng! Lan Zhan’s taking me for a ride! Everyone else will be soooo jealous--nobody else gets Lan Zhan to carry them! Lan Zhan, how are you so strong?”
Lan Wangji has carried burdens far heavier than Wei Ying’s weight, but he still finds himself staggering the last steps into the cave. The water here is higher, almost reaching his waist, and it takes a few minutes for him to boost Wei Ying up onto the ledge. His own scramble up is perhaps the least graceful movement of his entire life, and it’s not because of the sopping silk dragging at his limbs.
The ledge is little wider than the bed in the jingshi and almost as cold as ice, but at least it’s dry and mostly flat and rough enough in texture that no one could slide off. Lan Wangji wants to collapse onto his back, lie here beside Wei Ying and let the tears of frustration and despair come, but he pushes Wei Ying close to the sloping cave wall and then unwraps the forehead ribbon from his own wrist before winding it completely around Wei Ying’s. He gets Wei Ying’s sash off and has almost managed to wrestle him out of his outer robe when Wei Ying seems to realize what is happening.
“Lan Zhan!” His voice is more alert now, sharper edged with shock--and perhaps with the assistance of the full forehead ribbon. “What are you doing?”
Wet fabric is unwieldy; it requires all of Lan Wangji’s concentration, so of course he can’t look at Wei Ying’s face. It disturbs him that Wei Ying isn’t making some sly joke out of this whole thing; it’s the perfect opportunity for innuendo, and he has never known Wei Ying to pass that up. His anxiety is slightly soothed by the fact that Wei Ying doesn’t sound angry or offended, but he isn’t sure if the limpness of his limbs is because he has no objection to what Lan Wangji is doing or because he’s incapable of pushing him away.
“Wei Ying is freezing,” he says. “I will share my body heat.”
Wei Ying has gone stiff as the stone they’re lying on, and again he starts giggling. This laughter is just as hysterical as it was before, only more awake. “Lan Zhan, have you gone crazy? Has the cold frozen your brain?”
Lan Wangji does not respond, just goes back to work on Wei Ying’s robes, but Wei Ying pulls his arm back. “And to think just a little while ago you got so angry when I tried to take my robes off in the Cold Springs. Who knew you were so fickle? If you really wanted--”
Either Wei Ying is ramping up to distract him through jokes or he doesn’t understand the severity of the situation. So Lan Wangji allows himself to do what he would never do if they weren’t here in this frozen cave, life leaving Wei Ying’s body the way a candle burns itself out. He reaches out and takes Wei Ying’s face into his hands.
Wei Ying blinks at him, his eyes unreadable. His face is still, expressionless, but perhaps that is the cold. The temperature of his skin against Lan Wangji’s palm and the firmness of the bones beneath remind him of marble. But there’s a give to the skin that loosens the tension in Lan Wangji’s shoulders just a bit: Wei Ying is still alive. He denies himself permission to stroke his thumbs over the sweep of Wei Ying’s cheekbones or the curve of his lip, but even so, it’s still so much, touching him like this. Wei Ying feels small and more delicate than he is, and yet so real and solid, with his face cradled in Lan Wangji’s hands.
“You need to get warm,” he says. “We are lost here. You will not be able to keep moving if you do not warm up.” Wei Ying’s mouth parts, his breathing shallow. No doubt Wei Ying is going to argue with him some more, and Lan Wangji cannot keep the desperation from his own voice as he heads him off. “I do not want you to die.”
He hasn’t let go, and so he feels as much as sees Wei Ying’s swallow. Those eyes--those eyes--are still watching him so intently, still unreadable. “All right,” Wei Ying says.
It’s too much. Only a lifetime of discipline with guqin and sword allows Lan Wangji to keep his hands steady as he returns to his task. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but without his forehead ribbon, he thinks he’s starting to feel the cold himself, stiff fingers struggling with wet fabric. Wei Ying is not nearly as limp as he was before, so it’s harder now. He turns and lifts himself so that Lan Wangji can peel him out of his outer robe, then his inner one. There’s just his underthings left, one last layer, and Lan Wangji turns away. He focuses on using a talisman that dries Wei Ying’s robes, then he spreads one on the ground and gestures Wei Ying onto it. He wraps the other robe around Wei Ying, covering all that smooth, blue-tinged skin. He has to look away from the still-bright eyes peering at him over the hem of the fabric, so he sits upright to remove his own clothes, the top of his head brushing the sloping ceiling.
“Take off your underthings,” he commands, once his back is turned so he doesn’t have to look at Wei Ying. But the way he crows in response is familiar enough that he can picture Wei Ying’s delighted, mischievous face as easily as if he were really looking at it.
“Lan Zhan! And here I thought all along you were a gentleman! Wait til the whole world knows that Lan-er-gongzi goes around ordering people to take their underthings off!”
Lan Wangji clenches his jaw so hard he’s afraid his teeth will crack. A few seconds of a breathing exercise gives him back enough control to speak. “They are wet. You cannot get warm while wearing them.”
“That’s the least romantic line I’ve ever heard, but what else can be expected from a Lan? Ah, Lan Zhan, you have a lot to learn about seduction.”
He very definitely does not respond to that, but he can hear Wei Ying moving around behind him, so he’s probably obeying instructions, which is all Lan Wangji can ask.
“How many layers are you wearing?” Wei Ying demands a few minutes later, and the realization hits him that Wei Ying is watching him. His fingers fumble, and it’s not because of the cold that is creeping into them. “Lan Zhan, do the Lans swaddle up all of their disciples like they’re priceless porcelain vases or is it just because you are the treasure of Gusu?”
Lan Wangji ignores the words, or tries. He’s never been able to ignore anything Wei Ying has ever said, even if he doesn’t respond. He’s also never minded the many layers of his wardrobe, being accustomed to them, but right now they are baffling his fingers. Still, he’s glad there are so many; when they are dry, there will be more to keep Wei Ying warm.
“Well, if anyone is a treasure, it’s Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, because that’s the sort of thing Wei Ying says: flirtatious words that probably mean nothing to him but that make Lan Wangji feel exposed and helpless. “The most beautiful jade in the Gusu treasury should be wrapped in only the finest silks.”
Lan Wangji wants to spin around and put his hand over Wei Ying’s mouth, stop his words, keep him from saying things like that. But he’s going to be touching Wei Ying soon enough as it is, oh gods, he’s going to be--
He struggles out of the last of his robes, lays them down in layers like blankets, talismans them dry, then braces himself. For a moment, he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to do it, but when he glances over at Wei Ying--avoiding his eyes; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to meet Wei Ying’s eyes again after what he’s about to do--he sees that his lips are still blue. With one movement, he throws the layered robes over Wei Ying, then jerks up the edge and slides in underneath.
For the first few seconds, all Lan Zhan is aware of is how cold Wei Ying is. He isn’t as cold as a corpse--Lan Wangji knows what corpses feel like. But he’s also not as warm as Lan Wangji knows he should be--he’s not warm enough to be healthy.
But even with that fear gnawing at his mind, it only takes a breath or two for the reality that he is lying right next to Wei Ying’s bare body to catch up with him. How had he thought he could do this? But how can he not do this? Back to back, that’s probably best. Lots of skin contact that way, but no risk of looking into Wei Ying’s face (no risk of Wei Ying discovering how Lan Wangji’s body yearns for his, which is going to be a problem in a very few minutes when they’re fully warmed up). He’s about to turn over when there’s a rustle beside him and then--
And then Wei Ying is pressed up against him, his chest against Lan Wanji’s side, their feet tangled up together. The sound Wei Ying makes belongs only in his most shameful dreams.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, you’re so warm,” Wei Ying says, and the sound is too close to a moan for Lan Wangji’s comfort. “Warm me up, warm me up, warm me up.” Wei Ying is rubbing his feet--cold as blocks of ice--against Lan Wangji’s calves, and Lan Wangji lies still as death, knowing that at any moment, his body will have recovered enough to start reacting to Wei Ying’s presence. And then Wei Ying’s knee or hip might make a discovery and ruin everything. Wei Ying is tugging at his arm, trying to pull it around him and--gods above, if this continues, there’s no way he won’t find out just what his nearness does to Lan Wangji. His only hope is to take control of the situation.
So he shifts, sliding his arms around Wei Ying (and doesn’t think about how long he’s been wanting to do exactly that), but angling his hips away. Wei Ying sighs from where his head is tucked under Lan Wangji’s chin, and the touch of Wei Ying’s breath against his neck goes straight to Lan Wangji’s groin. But then Wei Ying is wiggling (of course he’s wiggling; Lan Wangji had always known that if he ever, in some other universe where he gets the things he wants, was able to hold him, Wei Ying would wiggle), trying to get his feet back against Lan Wangji’s.
“Lan Zhan!” he whines. “Warm up my feet too! My toes are going to snap right off, and have you ever heard of a cultivator with no toes?”
“Trunk of the body first,” Lan Wangji says, and it sounds reasonable--surely it’s best to warm up the place where the organs are. He refuses to consider frostbite. Wei Ying burrows closer to him, and Lan Wangji shifts his hips backwards once again. But gods, there’s still so much skin pressed up against his, and the expansion of Wei Ying’s ribs with every breath, the little twitches of a body that is never still, damp hair that isn’t his own clinging to Lan Wangji’s neck and shoulders. Even the scent of Wei Ying’s body is overwhelming and there should be nothing appealing about it after what they have been through today. But Lan Wangji is weak for Wei Ying in ways he had never known it was possible to be, and he is going to lose his mind. (He had taken one look at that grin, that night in the moonlight, and known that if anyone could drive him to madness, it was this boy. At the time, he’d thought that madness would come from rage. It’s almost funny now, how wrong he was.)
Perversely, Wei Ying’s teeth are chattering again: he’s shivering. Lan Wangji suspects that that is a good sign, but he can’t be certain. He doesn’t remember enough about healing to be of any use, and he burns with frustration.
“Do you have any idea how many young maidens would give anything to be in your position, Lan Zhan? There are girls at Lotus Pier and Caiyi Town and Yiling weeping because they’re not the ones who are naked with me.”
If Wei Ying says the word ‘naked’ again, Lan Wangji is not sure he will survive. He reminds himself that it’s good that Wei Ying is back to joking: not only does it mean that he’s feeling a little better, but the armor of his flippancy will keep this intimacy from becoming too much. He hopes.
“I wish I’d known you were plotting to get my clothes off, though--I would have insisted on a bed, at least, maybe some wine, and really, this is a whole lot of trouble to go to just to get me nak--ow, Lan Zhan! You’re going to bruise my ribs, and that won’t do us a bit of good, now will it?”
Lan Wangji makes himself loosen his arms a little, though he’s still holding Wei Ying harder than is probably comfortable. But Wei Ying doesn’t protest, lapsing into silence.
That only lasts for a short time before, “Well, Lan Zhan, what are you going to do with me now that you’ve got me like this, hmm?”
Lan Wangji ignores him.
“Lan Zhaaan! Hey! Are you listening to me?”
A quick hand darts out from under the robes and tugs lightly at Lan Wangji’s hair. Lan Wangji rolls his eyes, but he captures the wrist before it can disappear back into the cocoon.
“What are you doing now, Lan Zhan--oh.” Wei Ying falls silent again as Lan Wangji unwraps some of the ribbon from its place and loops it back around his own wrist. That he doesn’t stay silent for long doesn’t surprise Lan Wangji, but what he says does. “What’s going on? Why did it work before and it’s not working now?”
He sounds almost serious--not worried, because Wei Ying never sounds worried (even, maybe especially when he should), but more sober. A little more appropriate for the situation, which is a first with Wei Ying. Also closer to reality; he must be warming up. Hope flares sharp as pain in Lan Wangji’s heart.
“You are not a Lan. This place must know that.”
Wei Ying wiggles again, and Lan Wangji tightens his arms until he stops. “But I wasn’t a Lan before.”
Lan Wangji had intended to never, ever speak of this with Wei Ying. Just the thought of speaking the words out loud makes his insides shrivel. He doesn’t know which would be worse: if Wei Ying were angry, horrified, or if he treated the whole thing like a joke. Lan Wangji’s heart couldn’t take it if he heard Wei Ying laugh at the words that have been echoing like a bell inside his heart for hours. (I’m married. Wei Ying is my husband, and I am his. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know it, if he goes away and finds someone else. In my heart, I will always be married.)
But if Wei Ying is going to die here--and Lan Wangji knows this is still a possibility--then he at least deserves to know why. And at least revealing the truth will take his mind off of the body pressed so close to his. At least he won’t have to look Wei Ying in the eyes.
It’s warmer now, under their little pile of robes. Wei Ying has tucked his head back under Lan Wangji’s chin, and his lips are pressed to Lan Wangji’s collarbone, and Lan Wangji is furious that the blood in his body has started heading in one direction instead of making its proper course to warm him so that he can warm Wei Ying. He wants to swallow to steady himself, but he can’t, because Wei Ying would feel it.
“The forehead ribbon is sacred to our clan.” That’s the easy part, said. “Only the closest family may touch it. Parent. Spouse. It is more associated with a spouse. All that is required for a betrothal is intention and a handfasting with the ribbon.”
Wei Ying is still motionless except for his breathing. Is it Lan Wangji’s imagination, or has that sped up? “You’re saying we’re--”
He will not listen to Wei Ying say it, so Lan Wangji disobeys a Lan rule and interrupts. “There was no intention.” On your part. “But the wards do not know that. They thought we were--” He can’t bring himself to say it either. “--that you were going to to be part of the Lan clan, so they stopped attacking you.”
Wei Ying’s mind latches onto this explanation as quickly as it does any cultivation technique. “Yes, I was fine while we were talking to Lan Yi. My golden core worked just like it should. But why would it stop working? It isn’t like you announced that we weren’t really betrothed.” He finishes the sentence with an awkward laugh, and the sound of it stings Lan Wangji even as the heat of Wei Ying’s breathy laugh on his skin makes him even harder.
He squeezes his eyes shut, searching frantically for a way to say this that will make Wei Ying understand but that won’t prompt the kind of reaction that will hurt his own heart. He knows that’s impossible. No matter what Wei Ying does, it affects Lan Wangji’s heart.
“We bowed.” This time he can’t keep himself from swallowing; he’s tortured with wondering whether Wei Ying notices. “To the elders. An elder. That, the handfasting, intention, are all that is required for--”
He doesn’t have to say the word. There isn’t time for it to come out. Wei Ying shoots upright, right out of his arms. Lan Wangji’s wrist is jerked by the forehead ribbon, and the robes fall down, exposing them both to the cold. Lan Wangji barely notices. “The wards think we’re married?”
Wei Ying was always quick. He’s staring down at him now, eyes wide with disbelief.
Lan Wangji is a coward. He drops his own eyes, but he makes himself say the words. “They thought we were being married. Yes.”
He wants to die.
For a moment Wei Ying sputters, but then his brilliant mind gets itself back on track. “Then shouldn’t the wards like me extra much now? Now that they think I’m the spouse of a Lan?”
The words make Lan Wangji shiver. Wei Ying is shivering again too, and Lan Wangji reaches out, takes him by the wrist, pulls him back down. Wei Ying lets himself be pulled, lets Lan Wangji tug the robes back up over them. But he doesn’t let go of the question.
“Lan Zhan?” he prods, once they’re both back under the covers. They aren’t pressed together now. They’re still touching, of course, arms and legs, as they lie side by side--the robes aren’t wide enough to allow them to spread out. But it’s different now, without Wei Ying pressed up against his side. Perhaps that part is over now. It hadn’t lasted long enough. (A lifetime wouldn’t be long enough.)
“We...started the marriage ceremony,” Lan Wangji says carefully, not looking at Wei Ying. His heart aches. “But we did not complete it.”
“Well, yeah, a marriage should be more than one step. You Lans are so fussy, I would have thought you’d have a thousand rituals that last for a month and have to be performed perfectly to be valid. This whole thing has been very un-Lan.”
“The most important things should be the most straightforward,” Lan Wangji says, quoting his uncle, who had explained it once to him. “What matters is commitment of the heart and will.”
“All right, that’s very Lan,” Wei Ying allows after a moment’s thought. “But you said all that’s required is intention and the ribbon-thing and the bows, and the wards can’t read intent. So since we didn’t finish, the wards thought you changed your mind and didn’t want to marry me anymore. Because we didn’t do the final step which is...” Wei Ying’s voice tips up, asking for an answer.
Lan Wangji stares at the shadowy rock above him and says, “Consummation.”
Wei Ying is perfectly silent for a moment, perfectly silent in a way that Lan Wangji has never experienced from him. Then he lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough. “Ah.”
And then he doesn’t say anything else.
The sound of their breathing. The rush and drip of the water around them. The thunder of his own heartbeat. For a moment that is all Lan Wangji can hear. His pulse is beating against the ribbon tied around his wrist. Do those beats travel the length of the ribbon to Wei Ying’s wrist, their pulses meeting, merging? His arousal is all but forgotten.
Any moment. Any moment now, Wei Ying is going to recover and make a joke. Any moment now, he is going to have to listen to it. It will break his heart, and it will fill him with relief that Wei Ying isn’t angry, that maybe things can go back to the way they were. They’ve been friends lately, haven’t they? It doesn’t matter that Lan Wangji wants to be everything to Wei Ying. Friends is more than he ever imagined he might have.
And after several heartbeats, yes: Wei Ying laughs. And laughs. It’s less hysterical than it was earlier--Wei Ying’s body temperature is rising--but it doesn’t hurt any less. Lan Wangji reminds himself to breathe.
“Ah, I just thought of the look on your shufu’s face if he ever thought we were married. Oh, I want to see that! I’d give up--I’d give up alcohol forever just to see that! Can we tell him, Lan Zhan? Can we tell him that we are?”
“No.”
He keeps laughing, that full-throated laugh that turns Lan Wangji weak and then angry at his own weakness. “But it would be so funny! Admit it, Lan Zhan--” A finger pokes into Lan Wangji’s ribs. “It would be so funny!”
And then he rolls over, not on top of Lan Wangji exactly, but pressed up against him just as he was before, elbowing him and wriggling his shoulders up under Lan Wangji’s arms, still laughing. “Qi deviation!” he hoots as Lan Wangji panics. “Ah, who would have thought this humble disciple could be the one to slay the venerable Lan Qiren!”
His feelings pulling him in too many directions (it is funny, actually, the thought of the look on Shufu’s face, except that it wouldn’t be funny if it were real, if Lan Wangji truly took Wei Ying by the hand and led him to the elders and said, This is my husband, because the thought of their reaction hurts almost as much as knowing he’ll never be able to do that, and yet Wei Ying is lying here against him and Lan Wangji is putting his arms back around him, and Wei Ying is snuggling up against him like this is exactly where he wants to be and--), Lan Wangji closes his eyes and tries to fight down his body’s reaction. If Wei Ying would only be still. But still is not a thing Wei Ying knows how to be.
His laughter finally subsides, and his tone has changed in that mercurial way of his when next he speaks. “Lan Zhan?”
“Mm?”
“Earlier? Did I think that shijie and Jiang Cheng were here?”
“Yes.”
His laughter this time is just a little breath. “That’s strange.”
There’s something serious in his voice now, something that Lan Wangji can’t name. He thinks again of that night at the jingshi and what a solemn-faced healer had told him the next morning: A few more hours of that, and we would not have been able to keep you alive.
Wei Ying is careless with his own safety, and it scares Lan Wangji to death. Accusingly, he says, “Wei Ying was dying of exposure.”
Wei Ying jerks a bit in his arms, then lets out that same humorless laugh. “Wow, Jiang Cheng would really love to know that I was hallucinating him in my final minutes.” He sounds labored, like it takes effort. “Don’t ever tell him, okay, Lan Zhan?”
Lan Wangji doesn’t bother to respond to that. Wei Ying falls silent and it is terrible, because now all Lan Wangji can think about is the now-warm body in his arms, smooth skin over firm muscles, the brush of Wei Ying’s hair against his lips. Think of his own voice saying that word: Consummation. He said that to Wei Ying. Gods.
He tries to take this moment for what it is. He is holding Wei Ying. Yes, he may only have had the courage because Wei Ying needed the warmth, but still: he is holding Wei Ying. Lan Wangji knows that this will be his only chance to have this, and so he focuses on that: on treasuring this moment as a memory he can carry with him into whatever the future holds. Once, he held Wei Ying in his arms.
It would be inappropriate for him to ruin that with his own arousal. Yes, Wei Ying makes him feel as if he’s burning from the inside out, but there are other things he feels, too. That awed admiration when Shufu calls on Wei Ying in class, trying to catch him slacking, and he answers the baiting question with something immediate and brilliant and creative. The warm satisfaction when he sees Wei Ying with his sister, their eyes shining at each other, confirmation that someone in the world adores Wei Ying as he should be adored. Fighting with him that first night, sparring with him later, the challenge in the way Wei Ying pushes him, the thrill of knowing he’s met his match. The way they work in tandem, falling into unspoken cooperation unlike any Lan Wangji has ever known. Even the fear--the terror of knowing he will never be able to predict Wei Ying, that his own life will never be the same now that they’ve met. That he cannot go back to who he was before.
He remembers these things, tries to fill himself up with them until there is no room for the fire of desire. It works.
Until Wei Ying makes a little whining noise and, with no further warning, flips over in Lan Wangji’s arms. It happens too fast for him to brace himself: one moment he is holding his love to his heart, the next moment, Wei Ying is facing away from him, pulling him onto his side, tugging Lan Wangji’s arms around his waist like a sash he’s going to tie, and pressing himself back against Lan Wangji.
“My back is still cold, Lan Zhan!”
Panic--and something hotter--shoots through Lan Wangji like lightning as that ass--gods above, that ass--squirms back against him, pressing firmly against the cradle of his hips. He chokes even as his body reacts, and he jerks his hips back, trying to shove Wei Ying away, but the ribbon has gotten tangled, and he’s about to come out of his skin and--Wei Ying freezes.
He felt it. He had to feel it. There’s no way he didn’t feel it.
Lan Wangji wants to die.
He shoots upright, shoving the robes back. He’s going to get away, never mind that there’s nowhere to go, never mind the slap of the cold, but the damned forehead ribbon tugs him back and then there’s an iron grip on his wrist and he jerks back around to growl at Wei Ying to let him go but Wei Ying hauls him close and--
There are Wei Ying’s eyes again. Hot and intent in a way that terrifies him, but he can’t escape from them, can’t look away. He’s a pebble frozen in ice, irrevocably trapped.
They’re only a breath apart, and he hears a small damp sound as Wei Ying’s lips part, and then the heat of Wei Ying’s breath fans over his own lips, and still that gaze holds him like iron. (There’s a ribbon around Lan Wangji’s wrist, a ribbon connected to the wrist of the hand that still has not released him. A small, flimsy little thing, pretty and delicate, but weighed down with meaning. Either one of them could snap it at any moment. Neither of them does.)
Very slowly, Wei Ying pulls Lan Wangji towards him, and he gives himself permission to be pulled. Very slowly, Wei Ying lowers himself back onto the stone bringing Lan Wangji with him, the distance between them never increasing or decreasing. Lan Wangji has ceased breathing.
When they both lie back down, their faces still only a hand’s width apart, Wei Ying releases his wrist. It still feels like Wei Ying is touching him, and later there will be purple marks in the shape of his fingers on the pale of his wrist, and the thought is so much that Lan Wangji can’t stop his cock from twitching. Slowly Wei Ying pulls the robes back up over them, closing them back inside their little world, only large enough for two.
They lie there, staring at each other, Wei Ying’s eyes burning brighter than any golden core, and the sound of his own breathing is loud in Lan Wangji's ears. They might as well be in the heart of a volcano for all that it is cold between them.
Slowly, Wei Ying raises his hands, the movement pulling Lan Wangji’s arm up as well. When his hands at last settle on Lan Wangji’s face--at first tentative, then firm--Lan Wangji’s eyes fall closed and he releases a long, long breath.
Wei Ying cups his cheeks just like Lan Wangji had held his. The heels of his hands cradling Lan Wangji’s jaw. His calloused palms rough against Lan Wangji’s cheeks. His long fingers firm against the lines of Lan Wangji’s cheekbones. Lan Wangji can do nothing but lie here, eyes closed, trying to hold still and to keep himself from shuddering.
Then, “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes, and it shatters something inside him.
There is no conscious choice to launch himself forward, but suddenly his fingers are burrowing into Wei Ying’s hair, and he’s pulling them together and--
Before Wei Ying, Lan Wangji did not think much about kissing. Sometimes the other young disciples would talk about it, but whenever he was reminded of its existence, his stomach flinched with discomfort; it seemed both disgusting and unnecessary. He could not imagine wanting to do that with anyone at all.
Since Wei Ying, Lan Wangji has thought often about his mouth. He still wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of kissing--the exchange of saliva was still off-putting--but his eyes kept falling to that full lower lip, the curve of it, the color. He’d woken up time and again with Wei Ying’s laughter (and the sounds he makes, all those unnecessary, inappropriate little sounds) echoing in his ears, sticky and sweaty and heaving. Even so, he still wasn’t sure about kissing.
He’s sure now. They’re kissing like they fought that first night in the moonlight: with everything they have. He doesn’t have any idea of what he’s doing, but Wei Ying is meeting his fierceness with his own, and that’s the only thing that matters. When they part, gasping for breath, Wei Ying whines quietly, and Lan Wangji has to dive in again. Lan Wangji’s fingers are tangled firmly in Wei Ying’s hair, holding Wei Ying close to him.
Wei Ying’s hair isn’t like Lan Wangji’s, falling straight as water. It’s thicker, unrulier, like Wei Ying himself, finding ways to work its way loose when Wei Ying pulls it back, brushing against Wei Ying’s face like it can’t keep from touching him. Lan Wangji has had fantasies of brushing this hair, coaxing out the tangles until the red hues hidden in its depths shine in the lamplight. He had never considered, though, what it would feel like to have that hair wrapped around his fingers, holding him as he holds Wei Ying. When Lan Wangji’s eyelids part, he catches a glimpse of his own forehead ribbon against dark brown hair. It’s disturbingly erotic.
The kiss is fierce and aggressive for a time, as if to banish the cold. But then something shifts and the kisses become slower--deeper and less frantic. Lan Wangji makes a noise of protest, but then Wei Ying loops his arms around his neck, pulling their bodies closer.
The hair ribbon is pulled taught, and Wei Ying can’t get that arm fully around his neck, but it’s close enough. It’s so good. His cock bumps against Wei Ying’s hip, a feeling intense as a lighting strike, but it doesn’t matter because Wei Ying makes a high-pitched sound into their kiss as his own erection burns against Lan Wangji’s abdomen.
Wei Ying pulls back, gasping like he’s burst out of deep water, and when Lan Wangji opens his eyes, Wei Ying’s are glazed. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes, and the rasp of his voice makes Lan Wangji’s cock jerk. Wei Ying’s eyes go wide, and then a grin spreads across his face, the kind of smile that makes Lan Wangji want to grab his sword or assign a thousand copies of Righteousness or kiss him until he loses consciousness. “So this was a plot to get me naked.”
Lan Wangji rolls his eyes, but Wei Ying lets out a bright laugh and tightens his free arm around Lan Wangji’s neck. “You didn’t have to go to such trouble, Lan Zhan,” he teases. “A bed would have been better. I wouldn’t have even made you bring me wine!”
“Ridiculous,” Lan Wangji says, and if anything Wei Ying’s smile brightens.
“I like it when you say that,” he whispers, conspiratorial, and Lan Wangji has to kiss him again.
But when they pull back, Wei Ying drops his gaze. His fingers pluck at the ribbon absently, and Lan Wangji tightens the arm around his hip. Wei Ying’s laugh this time is small, almost hesitant. He shrugs when he says, “I didn’t think you even really liked me…”
He’s aiming for a light tone, but he doesn’t quite make it; there is vulnerability underneath.
“You were wrong,” he says, his own voice deeper than he’s ever heard it. Wei Ying shivers against him. “I like Wei Ying.”
“Well, yeah, I guess so,” Wei Ying says in an attempt at flippancy, and he presses his thigh firmly against Lan Wangji’s cock, pulling a groan out of him. “There’s at least one part of you that likes me.”
Lan Wangji tugs at Wei Ying’s hair once, as Wei Ying had tugged at his earlier. Wei Ying whines, but Lan Wangji doesn’t let himself be distracted. “Every part of me likes you,” he says, and an hour ago he never would have believed he’d have the courage to say something like that. Now it’s so easy. “Every part of me likes every part of you.”
Wei Ying makes a pained sound, throwing his head back. “Lan Zhan! Are you trying to kill me?”
Lan Wangji can’t resist the arch of Wei Ying’s neck. Wei Ying moans again and again as Lan Wangji bites and kisses and licks. Lan Wangji slides his hand lower, splayed over Wei Ying’s ass, pressing Wei Ying’s hips against him, his own hips against Wei Ying’s thighs, making both of them moan.
“You are trying to kill me. You were just keeping me alive long enough to get my clothes off of me--you didn’t care if I died, you just wanted to kill me yourself--it would have been a waste if the cold had…” Wei Ying’s babbles are punctuated by sounds so delicious that Lan Wangji wants to taste them, and his lips travel from Wei Ying’s collarbone back to his mouth.
Kissing is even better than the other disciples speculated, but only with Wei Ying. It couldn’t possibly be like this with anyone else. It’s a shame for everyone else in the world, really, because there’s only one Wei Ying, but Lan Wangji doesn’t care, because right now Wei Ying is kissing him.
When he pauses long enough to bite Wei Ying’s earlobe, Wei Ying wriggles against him, and their cocks brush against each other, and Lan Wangji can’t stop his own moan.
“Oh, that’s good,” Wei Ying purrs, even though Lan Zhan is flushed with humiliation. “Oh, I like that, Lan Zhan. I won’t ever forget that sound.”
He leans forward and bites at Lan Zhan’s bottom lip, and Lan Wangji moans again.
“Yes.” He draws the word out long and teasing. “You know what else I can’t forget, Lan Zhan?”
At any other time, Lan Wangji would die of embarrassment, but Wei Ying’s body against his just feels so good, and Wei Ying’s fingers are running through his hair in a way that is so tender that it might just kill him anyway.
“Consummation,” Wei Ying breathes against his ear, and now he is certain he is going to die. “I keep thinking about that. If Lan-er-gongzi had the intention...” Lan Wangji flinches, gasps, as a clever hand presses against his chest, flicks over his nipple, starts to slide down towards his abdomen. “...if he was intent on making this one his…”
For a second, it’s like Lan Wangji is drugged, helpless to do anything but let that voice fill his ears, let that hand touch him. Fingers bump over his navel to the hard muscle below, lower, and--
Lan Wangji pulls his fingers out of Wei Ying’s hair too abruptly, and he isn’t sure if the moan of protest is from the pain or from the way Lan Wangji grabs his wrist, pinning it down and stopping his hand from reaching its destination.
“Lan Zhaaan,” Wei Ying whines. “I want to! I want to touch! Are you really going to stop your husband from touching you?”
Lan Wangji’s heart feels swollen in his chest; with every thud he’s certain it will burst. His hands suddenly clumsy, he releases his wrist, but before Wei Ying can reach for him, Lan Wangji fumbles their fingers together. Together, their hands slide the rest of the way and close around Lan Wangji’s cock.
Wei Ying hisses out some kind of curse, but Lan Wangji is burning alive and doesn’t register what it is. He thinks he hears Wei Ying say something protesting about how he can’t possibly be that big, but it does not register. Lan Wangji loosens his fingers long enough to take Wei Ying in hand, too, bringing their cocks together, coaxing Wei Ying’s hand back into his so that they’re holding themselves together.
They’re both leaking enough to make this work: their hands, their cocks together. They’re teenage boys, both of them, and somehow Lan Wangji thinks that maybe Wei Ying has never been touched like this either. Under these circumstances, not even the most highly-trained cultivators would last for long. Even though he wants this to last forever, his climax looms too close.
The male Lan disciples had received exactly one lecture about the needs of the body, presented by one of the younger teachers (thank heaven--if Lan Wangji had had to listen to his uncle talk about such things, he would have died of embarrassment). The gist had been: wait until you’re married to touch anyone, but your body will perhaps insist on attention, so take care of your own needs quickly and efficiently. It had been profoundly awkward, of course, but there had been no judgment implicit in the lesson.
Still, Lan Wangji had felt ashamed whenever he touched himself. Not because of something anyone else had said, but because he should have been above this kind of need. He was a cultivator; control over his body was required. Besides, he was never going to marry anyway--never wanted anyone to touch him so intimately, not ever--so his aim had been to teach his own body not to have any such useless desires.
It had seemed to be working before Wei Ying came to Cloud Recesses. Those first few years of growing into his body were difficult and frustrating. As he got older, though, he woke up hard less and less often; sometimes he could ignore it, visit the cold springs, fight it off enough that he didn’t need to touch himself. Other times, of course, he did have to bring himself to completion, and that had always felt like a failure. But as time passed, he needed that less often and until the beginning of this year’s lecture, he was certain he was nearing his goal of never needing to touch himself at all.
After Wei Ying arrived, well, all that progress was lost and Lan Wangji had to start from the beginning.
So Lan Wangji knows what an orgasm is like. He’s had them many dozens of times. If they were better--more intense, more satisfying--after he met Wei Ying, well, that was just proof that he needed to work harder to control himself.
Now, though, control might as well be something Lan Wangji has never heard of. When Wei Ying’s rough, clever fingers tease his head and then slide down to cup his balls before tangling once again with Lan Wangji’s hands, his orgasm is ripped out of him so hard that he sees nothing but white. It seems to last forever, pulled out of him by some kind of endless force. When it ends, he aches all over with pleasure, which makes no sense, but is undeniable reality.
He isn’t aware of how tightly he’s still gripping himself--himself and Wei Ying because they are still pressed together--until Wei Ying lets out a sound that might have been Lan Wangji’s name and jerks in his hand. Lan Wangji manages to pry his eyes open to see Wei Ying’s head tilt back, his beautiful, mark-littered neck arching, his face slack with pleasure. His whole body bows back. It’s the most beautiful thing Lan Wangji has ever seen.
Wei Ying collapses back onto the ground, his sides heaving, and he whines, a pained sound, and Lan Wangji releases him, pulling his sticky hand away. He falls onto his own back, and they lie side by side on the ground, their sweaty arms pressed together. The robes are tangled around them or sliding off entirely, but the cold feels good now. It’s like before, but it’s nothing like before.
Like before, Wei Ying laughs. “We’ve got to do that again! But let’s have a bed next time. A bed would be nice. I don’t even need wine--really, I don’t think I’d want it because wine makes me feel kind of all floaty and far from my body and that is the very last thing I want if you’re going to be touching me.” His stream of consciousness stops abruptly, and when he speaks again, his voice is still teasing, but there’s something very...careful underneath. “We are going to do that again, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, because he knows he isn’t strong enough to stop, not if Wei Ying wants him to touch him. As long as Wei Ying wants it, he will give him whatever he wants.
Wei Ying lets out a relieved sigh. “Oh good. Because I thought that might be something you’d do--deciding it was a bad idea, you know? And that would be a terrible waste, because we are really, really good at that, don’t you think? Wisdom says we should nurture our talents and sharpen them through practice. So let’s get a lot of practice, okay, Lan Zhan?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says again, because he’s helpless to say anything else. There is one thing he has to say, though, one thing that’s niggling at him, one thing that must be established before he touches Wei Ying again. “Just--don’t--” Gods, how is he going to say this? “Don’t say that again. That word.”
“Word? Oh, ‘consummate’?” Of course he giggles now.
“No.” Well, he should really avoid that one, too, because for the rest of his life, Lan Wangji is going to go hard just hearing it. But this isn’t about his cock. This is about his heart. He swallows hard, forces the word out. “Husband.”
Even to his own ears, his voice is stripped down, raw. Wei Ying must hear it. Lan Wangji closes his eyes like his brother does when he wants to escape from the reality right in front of him.
“Oh.” Wei Ying’s voice is very small, and Lan Wangji wishes he weren’t so pathetic, wishes he had the strength to turn his head and meet his eyes. “Of course. No intention. Of course you don’t want me to call myself that.”
Lan Wangji’s hands, one sticky and one still looped with a ribbon, close into helpless fists. Something about Wei Ying’s voice is breaking his heart, and he knows he needs to say something else. “It’s not a joke. It’s serious. It’s not--” Words fail him, and frustration surges up inside him. He doesn’t know how to make Wei Ying understand.
“Not something for me,” Wei Ying supplies promptly, and what? “Of course you want to save that for--I mean, it wasn’t a real marriage, just to stop the wards--you’d pick somebody really good and beautiful and--”
Lan Wangji flips over and grabs Wei Ying by the shoulders. Again they’re face-to-face, looking into each other’s eyes, as intense as before. Without the heat this time, but with the same desperation.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, and no words have ever felt so right in his mouth as that name. “That word is yours. Always yours. If you want it. There will never be anyone else.”
It’s so hard to say. Wei Ying likes him now--he’s certain of that now--but he is so beautiful, so brilliant, so bursting with life that many, many people will feel about him the way Lan Wangji does. The whole world is open to Wei Ying. Of course he’ll find someone else.
Someone else less severe, less cold, less taciturn, less judgmental and intense and needy. Gods, he’s so needy. He wants to wrap himself around Wei Ying and never let him go. He wants to be beside him every minute of every day--study beside him and fight beside him and eat beside him and sleep beside him. He wants Wei Ying to always be looking at him, the way he is always looking at Wei Ying. He wants Wei Ying to feel what he feels, the depth of it, wants anything Wei Ying has inside him to be aimed at him.
It’s too much. It’s too much to ask of anyone. But still: Wei Ying has to know. Even as he goes out into the world and meets all the people who might be his someone else, he has to know that for Lan Wangji, there will never be anyone else. There could never be.
Lan Wangji doesn’t mean this as a tether. He won’t hold Wei Ying to him just because of a ribbon and bows and pleasure in a dark cave. But he needs Wei Ying to know. He is needy, and since he will not be able to fulfill his other needs, he will indulge himself with this one.
Wei Ying looks at him for a long, long time: that intense, unreadable stare that makes Lan Wangji’s insides quiver. Then he opens his mouth and says, very carefully (Lan Wangji has never heard him say anything carefully before, and he will never forget this), “I want it.”
Lan Wangji’s hands spasm around Wei Ying’s shoulders and then he jerks back, head spinning, heart throbbing in his mouth. Wei Ying is a joker, he has joked about serious things since the moment they met, and Lan Wangji reminds himself of this, frantic.
“You look like somebody hit you in the back of the head with a log, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying gathers his limbs and, as Lan Wangji just stares at him, he does a little sideways scramble right into Lan Wangji’s lap. They are almost the same height, so this is awkward, but Lan Wangji is too dazed to notice. “Did you hear me? I want it, Lan Zhan. Give it to me! You said it was mine, so you have to give it to me!” His voice is light and teasing as he grabs Lan Wangj’s arms and bossily puts them around his body as best he can with the ribbon still connecting them. But then he loops the ribbon-less arm around Lan Wangji’s neck, leans in close, and whispers right against Lan Wangji’s ear, “Give it to me, Lan Zhan. Say it.”
Every cell of Lan Wangji’s body shudders, and helpless, he gasps, “Husband.”
Wei Ying makes a happy, purring sound. “Thank you, Lan Zhan. Thank you, husband.”
He presses a kiss to Lan Zhan’s mouth and sits back, smiling at him.
It’s a different smile than any Lan Wangji has ever seen on him. Content and joyful and just a little bit smug. Lan Wangji still feels like he’s been hit in the back of a head with a log.
“You--you can’t--” he stutters, and Lan Wangji does not stutter. “You don’t want--I’m not what you--”
Wei Ying thumps a teasing finger against Lan Wangji’s nose. “Hush, husband. If you get to give it to me, I get to give it to you. That’s the way it works.” A thought flickers across his face and then brightness blossoms. “Lan Zhan! We really get to tell Lan-laoshi that we’re married!”
His laughter rings through the small cave. Lan Wangji tightens his arms around him, pulling him further into his lap, putting a stop to that laughter by kissing him deeply. They’re both sticky and sweaty and disgusting, frankly, and the way the ribbon is pulling between their arms is uncomfortable, but Lan Wangji doesn’t care, and judging by the little noises Wei Ying makes as he squirms in his lap, Wei Ying doesn’t care either.
When Wei Ying pulls back, he’s beaming, and he drops kisses on the tip of Lan Wangji’s nose, across his cheekbones and forehead, against his chin, then his nose again. “I want a bed,” he says. “I want to see you. And try new things.” Lan Wangji’s head feels like it’s floating up above the ceiling. “So let’s wash off--isn’t it nice that there’s so much water?--and get dressed and get out of here, okay?”
That’s when Lan Wangji realizes they’re naked. “Are you cold?” he demands, grabbing his husband by the shoulders.
“Nope!” Wei Ying says, his grin cheeky, plucking at the ribbon again. “You warmed me right up! I guess the wards don’t have any more objections now, do they?”
Lan Wangji wants to adorn Wei Ying with his forehead ribbon. Wants to wrap the whole thing around Wei Ying’s wrist, his neck, use it to tie up his hair, to span his waist. Wants Wei Ying to display it to everyone. But that would cause an uproar, and they must speak to the elders first. So Lan Wangji’s husband ties it back around Lan Wangji’s forehead (which is so devastatingly hot that it takes all of his strength not to pull Wei Ying to him again), and they clean themselves off in the cold water, dress, and start down the tunnels again.
When, ten minutes later, they stumble out into the sunshine and are greeted by the very grumpy face of Jiang Wanyin and the skeptical one of Wen Qing, the forehead ribbon is in its accustomed place. But now that Wei Ying has put it on him, all Lan Wangji can think about is when Wei Ying can take it off him again, put his mouth near Lan Wangji’s ear, and whisper, Husband. That word belongs to him now, and he wants to hear it over and over and over, wants to say it over and over and over. No matter what the elders say, they cannot be made to give that word to anyone else.
There was the handfasting and there were the bows and there was intention. That is all the Lan require for a marriage.