I don't know that I can explain the difference between where an heir or their siblings stand and where a regular child without living parents does. Do you see that? In reflection?
You just implied everyone in a sect without living parents will be prostituted.
Lan Zhan.
Have you been one, over the last few years? Have you sold your body for the pleasures of those who pay you for its use? Been given money for nothing but access to what physical needs can be met without your caring or desiring the contact? Have you been disparaged and considered less, less worthy, less clean, less important, for the selling of yourself for sex instead of as mercenary assistance?
( Mark the hours that flow, shadows lengthening against the walls, susurration of voices ebbing and flowing as waves consume the coasts, repeating their retreat and advance without ceasing. He breathes, and his fingers tap against the thick walled mug of the spiced tea this region prefers. A folded missive sits on the table to his side: a bowl of dried fruit as well.
He waits, contemplating, turning quiet eyes and a warm smile in Lan Zhan's direction when his suffused presence makes itself known. )
( The inn, creaking and rundown and atmospherically decrepit, hit with meteoric cruelty by the practicalities of an ageing world. Flinched, splintered flooring here, undulating under a flat, weighted step. Dappled light seeping where the window's nets sleep broken.
A scattering of perches, be they deck tatters or war-torn rooftop tile, balancing on wobbly triads of thick-necked legs. And his husband, sole light of grace and artistry, king in the north of the womb-like chamber, where dust motes sleep.
Fruit, parchment. The rippling thrum of Wei Ying's natural, airy restlessness. The smile that greets Lan Wangji balms; he answers in kind, palm heavy and fast and slapping down to catch Wei Ying's drumming fingers beneath, in idle play. )
I did not. ( But he sits down, silks melting beside him. ) Well met. You are beautiful today.
( Fingers twitch, palm sliding against wood and splaying, oh, but for want is weaving fingers soft as silk threads together, holding. His smile even easier as his husband's words settle, warm, over his shoulders, dripping down to trace pathways of pleasure only traced within the heart.
He winks, tea lukewarm, moments away from ordering it anew. )
I can be ravishing tonight, if you're so inclined.
( Even if not inclined, because he's fairly sure in his husband's eyes, there's always some variety of want, of need. Even the complicated sadness of the urge to feel the pulse of life tethered strong within him. )
The letter's for you, after we speak. It's from the village chiefs daughter, on behalf of her uncle in a nearby town. Up where the mountains and those great trees begin, but that's for later. For now, will you ask your questions again?
( Contemplative, yet not subdued, he adds as he studies the familiar and handsome planes of his husband's face aching, for a moment, to borrow into his arms, breathe in everything of him, taste the sweat at his throat, nibble... but no, he can wait, be patient, ignore the thread of want he's feeling, knowing it isn't limited, rushed, hurried, or even important in this moment: )
( The letter, gaze snagged on the jagged cut of its corners, the methodic calculation of its folds. Wei Ying teases him, knowledge halfway revealed no less tantalizing than the curve of a dancer's shoulder, as silks wilt in spread. Than Wei Ying's glance, knowing. When is it that they crystallixed as creatures of base want, so readily and heatedly subdued? He wishes he housed still in himself the instinct to disdain his own weakness.
Wei Ying's hand feels obedient beneath his own, neither pulling nor tugging nor spasming. He flattens out the spiderweb of his fingers, catching in their maws. )
Why flirt with one and all, without intent?
( The root of whatever evil settled as irritation between them, the heart of Lan Wangji's questions. So innocent is Wei Ying, that the serving girl steals limpidly coveting glances at their table, teeth grazing the skin of the ripe cherry, her mouth.
True, perhaps Wei Ying wants no trophy of it — but he likes, at the very least, the hunt. )
( His fingers slide and still, twitching up only to press close to his husband's palm, seeking. He avoids certain reflections, for various reasons. Finding words, let alone writing them, feels unnatural in the way that he's only been learning honesty of feeling without immediate repercussion as to the necessity of his silence and denial in recent years.
Journeys as twisting and elevated as the path away from Gusu, all those years ago. )
I wanted any attention, I think. Flirting worked for attention, and keeping people... happier? Easier? You have to guess, I wasn't thinking deliberately about it, not until you.
( Which mystifies him in ways, because even that, in reflection, becomes apparent — it wasn't as much at the time. Not in their twenties. Older, he hardly felt worthwhile or worthy enough to contemplate genuine flirtation, and yet.
And yet. )
Attention that wasn't violent had a charm I appreciated. Besides, women deserve hearing nice things about themselves. Especially the kind ones.
( There are aspects of his own development, his childhood, he could see here: times without, times where it's only getting others to smile and laugh that he gains act appreciation for worth and not burdening, times where his sister's kindness created a view of the world he both held precious and played fast and loose with, never intending or desiring harm. )
Even in Gusu, you knew what was in Yunmeng. You've said as much, before.
( A young man who couldn't kneel with silence or respect, who didn't seek punishment, yet gravitated towards it, consuming it without love and with stubborn, quiet pride in endurance.
Enough of life can only be endured, tidal and implacable, the ways the heavens are, the way mountains and seas persist. )
( Not until him. It should not balm his wounded animal's pride, should not tame him. There sleeps within Wei Ying a miracle of love that brims and seeps and cannot, should not know containment — that spreads and spills over. The cascade of his effusive affection, the wonderment of his attention. Candle's light, unstifled. The moon, swollen fat and gravid.
And he wanted any attention, any at all. How is this, then, so very different from prostitution? From trading in his charms for the scant opportunity to be tolerated, for permission to be and breathe and thrive outside the poisoned shadow of Madam Yu's crisply brilliant violence? A woman like her weapon, whip cracking, sting of her wounding vinegared.
Lan Wangji's hand chases the diffuse silhouette of his husband's fingertips over the table, tastes the nooks and crannies and groves of his skin, kissed by parched lips sooner than a sword's hilt. War has yet to beat him into sullen, stubborn submission. Lan Wangji's thumb licks low, slow, syrupy lines of warmth around his husband's digits, teasing him duly. )
I see. ( Crystalline. Clear. He does, oh, he does. ) Wei Ying. If... it yet gives you peace and acceptance to flirt now, with others. ( A slow, measured swallow. He breathes. ) I shall attempt to think of it as... a language, between Wei Ying and the world.
( Not a weapon turned squarely towards Lan Wangji's own chest. )
( Like separate pieces of himself, the digits attached to his palm, attached to his arm, attached to the whole of him. He's known hands can be warm. His shijie taught him that, as did Wen Qing, as did, against any expectation, Lan Zhan. His hand trembles. He ignores it.
His smile in that moment turns wry, eyes less than dry, almost sweet. )
You'll trust that however I speak, there's only you?
( To speak more briefly than his husband is rare, yet the confirmation is in brevity: hearing Lan Zhan, who finds vinegar more easily than most. Shared ways forward share like this, too.
There's a happiness that has little to do with what they speak, and more to do with understanding, suffusing his soul. )
The letter is from out of town, towards the mountains. Disappearances and daughters speaking in tongues Do you want to read it?
I shall attempt. ( A light, threadbare correction, the sign of honesty like a brand Wei Ying's current form has dutifully shed, old skin and old lives and their meanings reborn. Resurging. ) You must instruct me, when I fail.
( When, then, the if a foregone conclusion he no longer has the arrogance to deny. Perhaps this is the truth of abiding by the principles: not spartanly avoiding error on pain of stripping out all joy like rust before sword oils; but navigating stormy waters and knowing that to plunge once is vital for the swim.
He cannot ask more than is given, and Wei Ying has long offered his heart to the world and half his soul to its rightful recipient. And what if his manner is saccharine and trickling honey, what if his mouth is torn by kindness to spare for others in his path? It is a pretty thing to give of oneself so freely. Gentility is a fount unending.
His second hand slithers out on the table. ) May I have the letter?
( Let go. No doubt, a cultivator's contract, an open letter of summons, come who may. Anyone, in straits so dire. )
( A hummed acknowledgement, no specific power behind it, aside from intent and affection. This he's already known, been bemused by, watching his husband before he knew he was husband, watching him since. They both know too much about loss, about the careless nature of the world they lived in, in what world would come, to be as careless as many. No tolerance for being careless like children loved and fed, thinking the world accepting, thinking themselves safe.
They simply respond differently. Jealousy is too fleeting an emotion for Wei Wuxian, too lingering for Lan Zhan. Between them, they find balance. Exuberance and focus, salty sweet.
He holds one hand as it holds his, fingers of his other hand stroking over parchment, slipping to corners, caressing into the air the missive: lifting to settle into Lan Zhan's waiting palm. Not as crisp under examination, the paper showing dirt, dried spots of water as if from rain or tears, yet the paper lacks delicacy of age. )
Tell me your thoughts, after?
( Still forgetting what it is to let go of his husband's other hand. )
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I weep for the children of Gusu Lan.
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Lan Zhan.
Have you been one, over the last few years? Have you sold your body for the pleasures of those who pay you for its use? Been given money for nothing but access to what physical needs can be met without your caring or desiring the contact? Have you been disparaged and considered less, less worthy, less clean, less important, for the selling of yourself for sex instead of as mercenary assistance?
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I asked whether flirtation was to accrue friendship.
Wei Ying said, the way of those without.
Explain.
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And I, condescended.
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Speak with me tonight?
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some time later
He waits, contemplating, turning quiet eyes and a warm smile in Lan Zhan's direction when his suffused presence makes itself known. )
Achieve what you were hoping to?
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( The inn, creaking and rundown and atmospherically decrepit, hit with meteoric cruelty by the practicalities of an ageing world. Flinched, splintered flooring here, undulating under a flat, weighted step. Dappled light seeping where the window's nets sleep broken.
A scattering of perches, be they deck tatters or war-torn rooftop tile, balancing on wobbly triads of thick-necked legs. And his husband, sole light of grace and artistry, king in the north of the womb-like chamber, where dust motes sleep.
Fruit, parchment. The rippling thrum of Wei Ying's natural, airy restlessness. The smile that greets Lan Wangji balms; he answers in kind, palm heavy and fast and slapping down to catch Wei Ying's drumming fingers beneath, in idle play. )
I did not. ( But he sits down, silks melting beside him. ) Well met. You are beautiful today.
( He has learned the ways of marriage. )
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( Fingers twitch, palm sliding against wood and splaying, oh, but for want is weaving fingers soft as silk threads together, holding. His smile even easier as his husband's words settle, warm, over his shoulders, dripping down to trace pathways of pleasure only traced within the heart.
He winks, tea lukewarm, moments away from ordering it anew. )
I can be ravishing tonight, if you're so inclined.
( Even if not inclined, because he's fairly sure in his husband's eyes, there's always some variety of want, of need. Even the complicated sadness of the urge to feel the pulse of life tethered strong within him. )
The letter's for you, after we speak. It's from the village chiefs daughter, on behalf of her uncle in a nearby town. Up where the mountains and those great trees begin, but that's for later. For now, will you ask your questions again?
( Contemplative, yet not subdued, he adds as he studies the familiar and handsome planes of his husband's face aching, for a moment, to borrow into his arms, breathe in everything of him, taste the sweat at his throat, nibble... but no, he can wait, be patient, ignore the thread of want he's feeling, knowing it isn't limited, rushed, hurried, or even important in this moment: )
The ones from earlier.
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( The letter, gaze snagged on the jagged cut of its corners, the methodic calculation of its folds. Wei Ying teases him, knowledge halfway revealed no less tantalizing than the curve of a dancer's shoulder, as silks wilt in spread. Than Wei Ying's glance, knowing. When is it that they crystallixed as creatures of base want, so readily and heatedly subdued? He wishes he housed still in himself the instinct to disdain his own weakness.
Wei Ying's hand feels obedient beneath his own, neither pulling nor tugging nor spasming. He flattens out the spiderweb of his fingers, catching in their maws. )
Why flirt with one and all, without intent?
( The root of whatever evil settled as irritation between them, the heart of Lan Wangji's questions. So innocent is Wei Ying, that the serving girl steals limpidly coveting glances at their table, teeth grazing the skin of the ripe cherry, her mouth.
True, perhaps Wei Ying wants no trophy of it — but he likes, at the very least, the hunt. )
You do not enjoy the attention?
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( His fingers slide and still, twitching up only to press close to his husband's palm, seeking. He avoids certain reflections, for various reasons. Finding words, let alone writing them, feels unnatural in the way that he's only been learning honesty of feeling without immediate repercussion as to the necessity of his silence and denial in recent years.
Journeys as twisting and elevated as the path away from Gusu, all those years ago. )
I wanted any attention, I think. Flirting worked for attention, and keeping people... happier? Easier? You have to guess, I wasn't thinking deliberately about it, not until you.
( Which mystifies him in ways, because even that, in reflection, becomes apparent — it wasn't as much at the time. Not in their twenties. Older, he hardly felt worthwhile or worthy enough to contemplate genuine flirtation, and yet.
And yet. )
Attention that wasn't violent had a charm I appreciated. Besides, women deserve hearing nice things about themselves. Especially the kind ones.
( There are aspects of his own development, his childhood, he could see here: times without, times where it's only getting others to smile and laugh that he gains act appreciation for worth and not burdening, times where his sister's kindness created a view of the world he both held precious and played fast and loose with, never intending or desiring harm. )
Even in Gusu, you knew what was in Yunmeng. You've said as much, before.
( A young man who couldn't kneel with silence or respect, who didn't seek punishment, yet gravitated towards it, consuming it without love and with stubborn, quiet pride in endurance.
Enough of life can only be endured, tidal and implacable, the ways the heavens are, the way mountains and seas persist. )
Do you... see?
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( Not until him. It should not balm his wounded animal's pride, should not tame him. There sleeps within Wei Ying a miracle of love that brims and seeps and cannot, should not know containment — that spreads and spills over. The cascade of his effusive affection, the wonderment of his attention. Candle's light, unstifled. The moon, swollen fat and gravid.
And he wanted any attention, any at all. How is this, then, so very different from prostitution? From trading in his charms for the scant opportunity to be tolerated, for permission to be and breathe and thrive outside the poisoned shadow of Madam Yu's crisply brilliant violence? A woman like her weapon, whip cracking, sting of her wounding vinegared.
Lan Wangji's hand chases the diffuse silhouette of his husband's fingertips over the table, tastes the nooks and crannies and groves of his skin, kissed by parched lips sooner than a sword's hilt. War has yet to beat him into sullen, stubborn submission. Lan Wangji's thumb licks low, slow, syrupy lines of warmth around his husband's digits, teasing him duly. )
I see. ( Crystalline. Clear. He does, oh, he does. ) Wei Ying. If... it yet gives you peace and acceptance to flirt now, with others. ( A slow, measured swallow. He breathes. ) I shall attempt to think of it as... a language, between Wei Ying and the world.
( Not a weapon turned squarely towards Lan Wangji's own chest. )
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( Like separate pieces of himself, the digits attached to his palm, attached to his arm, attached to the whole of him. He's known hands can be warm. His shijie taught him that, as did Wen Qing, as did, against any expectation, Lan Zhan. His hand trembles. He ignores it.
His smile in that moment turns wry, eyes less than dry, almost sweet. )
You'll trust that however I speak, there's only you?
( To speak more briefly than his husband is rare, yet the confirmation is in brevity: hearing Lan Zhan, who finds vinegar more easily than most. Shared ways forward share like this, too.
There's a happiness that has little to do with what they speak, and more to do with understanding, suffusing his soul. )
The letter is from out of town, towards the mountains. Disappearances and daughters speaking in tongues Do you want to read it?
( Never once thinking: now I should let go. )
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I shall attempt. ( A light, threadbare correction, the sign of honesty like a brand Wei Ying's current form has dutifully shed, old skin and old lives and their meanings reborn. Resurging. ) You must instruct me, when I fail.
( When, then, the if a foregone conclusion he no longer has the arrogance to deny. Perhaps this is the truth of abiding by the principles: not spartanly avoiding error on pain of stripping out all joy like rust before sword oils; but navigating stormy waters and knowing that to plunge once is vital for the swim.
He cannot ask more than is given, and Wei Ying has long offered his heart to the world and half his soul to its rightful recipient. And what if his manner is saccharine and trickling honey, what if his mouth is torn by kindness to spare for others in his path? It is a pretty thing to give of oneself so freely. Gentility is a fount unending.
His second hand slithers out on the table. ) May I have the letter?
( Let go. No doubt, a cultivator's contract, an open letter of summons, come who may. Anyone, in straits so dire. )
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( A hummed acknowledgement, no specific power behind it, aside from intent and affection. This he's already known, been bemused by, watching his husband before he knew he was husband, watching him since. They both know too much about loss, about the careless nature of the world they lived in, in what world would come, to be as careless as many. No tolerance for being careless like children loved and fed, thinking the world accepting, thinking themselves safe.
They simply respond differently. Jealousy is too fleeting an emotion for Wei Wuxian, too lingering for Lan Zhan. Between them, they find balance. Exuberance and focus, salty sweet.
He holds one hand as it holds his, fingers of his other hand stroking over parchment, slipping to corners, caressing into the air the missive: lifting to settle into Lan Zhan's waiting palm. Not as crisp under examination, the paper showing dirt, dried spots of water as if from rain or tears, yet the paper lacks delicacy of age. )
Tell me your thoughts, after?
( Still forgetting what it is to let go of his husband's other hand. )
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