[and true to his word, wei ying arrives, prompt as a rarity, if clearly hastily dressed. he waves enthusiastically at lan zhan, smiling as bright as the sun might, every line in his body positively thrumming with pleasant energy. wei ying's voice is clear as a ringing bell, if overloud, when he calls out to lan zhan.]
[ Every line limpid, each edge sharpened by light. He sees Wei Ying in his borrowed Yunmeng robes and remembers Wei Wuxian, hero of a generation, slaughterer of a battle not yet fought. Hands drenched and untainted, pads and crevices concealing a wealth of life's red.
Cursed by the world in ways I can only dream. Xue Yang, and the brush strokes of his hostility, carved out in deepened bruise lines and petty cuts on Lan Wangji's arms, his legs. His back. Plaques of winter underfoot, a wasteland of white and storm.
He haunts this ice as he did the one in Cloud Recesses, one blink here, the next beside Wei Ying, step silent, the pull of his mouth distant. In one hand, the swell of a small wine flask, lone and encumbered — enough for Wei Ying to know his promise met.
He falls in step, nodding at the forest spread below, stone and tree root collapsed in a crown of thorns lined by crevasses. Innocent, but for a distraction of footing, a slip on crystal and injury on smeared dirt. ]
What do you see?
[ Death in abyss, blood spilled between them, Wei Ying's hand sliding down, Jiang Wanyin like wind howling. Lan Wangji knows what he sees with his own eyes. ]
[wei ying answers with no small measure of confusion. it's not quite trepidation, not yet, but it's early in the day, and the snow is soft underfoot; there's time for something exciting to happen, even if lan zhan's company seems to all but forbid it from even becoming a thought. he takes a few steps forward, walks up to the edge of the steep drop. it's not too deep, maybe a couple or so zhang, but the snow has not covered the broken shrubbery, the jutting rocks. it'll be an unpleasant experience to fall down to the bed of the gully, wei ying decides.
he peers for a second longer, then turns to lan zhan with a questioning look. he hasn't missed the bottle of liquor so distinctly held like a longstanding offense, and paired with the location... wei ying's frown deepens, as he puts on the affectations of someone dramatizing their hurt.]
Lan Zhan, you better not be planning on pushing me down this gully! That would be mean. I've been so nice to you too!
...Unless we're here to appreciate the view?
[true enough, it's not a terrible sight. the scenery is pretty, in the way baubles and trinkets are, but it pales in wei ying's mind when compared to the flush colors of yunmeng. it doesn't have the serene grandeur that the gusu mountains possess, either; compare this place to either location, and it's wanting both ways.
wei ying sets his hands on his hips, swivels round towards lan zhan.]
Well, we can't sit on the ground. It's wet with snow!
[ Laughter, sourer than he remembers, extirpated from his mouth and his mind. Rain, when Wei Wuxian drove out his fresh tribe of scant followers in the wilderness of defection. Downpour. Deluge.
And the blood that followed it.
Wei Ying travels the precipice, foot doe-light but unsubtle — learned in the theory of the night hunt, but not the extended practice that comes with veteran battle, the onslaught of an assassins' war. Young.
It calms the start of storm, but doesn't quench it. The wine in his hand is slipped, gently, on the whisper of a snow mound, white calling to white. Best that Wei Ying not forget it; it cost dearly enough. Closer, Lan Wangji joins his side, gaze dark. Some hours (now), he keeps himself sane with cruelty: here, the look of Wei Ying, volatile shadow near the cusp of disaster, where he is to sway for the better part of a young life. Candle burning at both ends.
Lan Wangji's hand goes out to Wei Ying's wrist first — withdraws, before the touch lands. They've tried this game, eager grip steeling when it came to fall, only to give way. A friend's grasp is not enough.
A part of him withers, another sickens, the third — triumphant — simply perseveres. Face the same frost as surrounds them, he strips off the band of his forehead as he might a bandage, or a sash, or a second skin — done before, what difference does it make, what difference did it make? — and ties it fairly around wrist, and iron-like around Wei Ying's — tighter, maybe, than comfort intends it. Let him suffer the littlest bit. Only right.
Only then, does he tug them back to the edge of the gully, to gaze down at the fall. ]
Look down. [ Again. Again, until Wei Wuxian's eyes blind and bleed, like Lan Wangji's did once. Search stone and pebble, until nothing else remains. ] What would you call a man who falls down the abyss?
Uh, literally or figuratively? [give him a half-minute.] Lan Zhan, we're not in the lecture halls, why are you punishing me like this?
[he has his answers, of course, for both - but that they're discussing such things in the here and now is throwing wei wuxian for a loop. whatever expectations he might've had about this meeting, it certainly didn't include this, an existential exercise in the middle of a veritable nowhere with the promise of alcohol and good company as a lure.
wei ying huffs, and pouts, and then exclaims loudly when lan zhan ties his wrist with his forehead ribbon— as if he's a child! he should take offense!
(but he doesn't. he just feels fond, and also like he's forgetting something important, something that's wrapped up in the warmth of a memory. meanwhile, the brand scar on his chest aches.)]
A gully is hardly an abyss, but a man who falls into it is either a fool for forgetting his own feet, or a victim of a betrayal, if he's surefooted in the company of another. But if you truly mean the abyss— Lan Zhan, isn't that a little too dark, even for you?
To fall into the abyss - to fall willingly - is to yield to suffering. To suffer alone, and see no end or hope. The abyss welcomes the desperate, doesn't it?
Lan Zhan, is that why we're here? Are you troubled?
[wei ying turns his wrist, so that his fingers are grasping at the length of ribbon not in lan zhan's hand. they're not touching, not yet, but wei ying's grip is firm as he pulls on the band.]
[ Friends. Fate-bound. Brothers in arms. Turn back to an enemy, and he is made weapon — compromised as you are, blunted. His teeth and claws dulled, his fate irrevocably intertwined with the man he spared, and joined in tacit, implicit insurgency.
Trust unmade Lan Wangji once. He trusts only the grip of his hands now, the hardiness of his bone. Wei Ying pulls, and for a moment, his feet deepen their stay in the ground, to make his point of opposing the summon — then he pulls back in kind, children playing tug of war. This is the trouble with him, this young master of Yunmeng Jiang. No man before has dared deny him. ]
We are fools. Or desperate. [ Even here, before the meagre teeth of a gully, snow banished from earth around them in the sullen steps of a quiet dance. Let them both look down then, gaze thunderous. ] Is the foolishness of a man who falls forgivable? His despair.
[ Xichen's patience, Jiang Wanyin's poison, master Song's choice ambivalence. It was worthwhile, the man who wore his name and his face pledged. All of them, so fickle and sparing with direction.
Forgive and forget, play at alliances but ask nothing. The weakness of Wangji's heart. He has tired, so very tired, of three things since arrival: the games of fate, the pulse of his temples, and the wavering of the men around him. Wei Ying, at least, never hesitates. More fool he (and desperate). ]
Take care. [ Stop tugging, so Lan Wangji can win this war. ] You slip, I slip.
[ He warns, before ideas can coalesce. They are not tumbling down in this gully. ]
Everyone has reasons for falling. I don't think we should judge a person's heart just because they've done something we don't approve of.
[it's a delicate subject, too delicate for wei ying's stumbling maturity to handle with grace. the base of it is that they're talking about ending one's life, or at least that's what it seems to mean to wei wuxian. there's a certain distance to lan zhan that he's not sure he knows how to bridge - if he even wants to, if he's as brazen as he knows he can be, to pry so indelicately and shove himself where he might not be welcome. xuanwu cave is still fresh in wei wuxian's mind, as are the wounds and injuries that resulted from it. certainly his mind hasn't been dulled by something so simple as a cut or two, but lan zhan—
lan zhan was already bearing the weight of the qishan wen's advances, even before the farce of indoctrination lectures had begun. and as much as wei wuxian wants to take on part of that weight, as much as he wants to halve his heart and give it to lan zhan so that his own might find some rest, he understands that there are places even he shouldn't go.
oh, but he wants to. so much. he wants to dig deep into the spaces between lan zhan's bones and nestle his soul against them, so that he'll never have to hurt again. it's different from the steadfast love he has for jiang cheng, for shijie; he wants to see lan zhan smile again, and see him rise above all the way wei ying knows he could. the cultivation world should be celebrating him, not trying to bring him down to his knees. why can't the world see that?
wei ying pulls on the band again, gentler this time but no less firm.]
But we'll drink, yes? You're not leaving me to drain that flask by myself?
[ His mind. His cultivation. His body. He has judged each of these aspects of Wei Ying, courtesy name Wei Wuxian, so styled the patriarch of Yiling — and found them wanting.
His heart. Fickle and little trusting thing, knot of sinew and contractions, function of frenzy. A claustrophobic chamber of illicit secrets. Who knew the heart of Wen Ruohan? Many yet judged him.
And Wei Ying holds himself above the forgiveness of one and all.
The token surrender: Wei Ying pulls. Black rock grows beneath strands of snow Lan Wangji's boots strike past, like tumour. He inches close, starts to unfurl the web work of his headband. ]
Binding talisman. Cast it. [ This puppy still warrants a leash near the stones' edge, but he's earned a wider berth. Lan Wangji nods at the lone flask of wine, stranded in the snow case. ] Then drink your fill.
[an urge spurs wei ying to cling to the ribbon, to hold onto it before lan zhan finishes unwinding the binding around his wrist. his own boldness takes him by surprise, in and of itself something of a miracle in the face of wei ying's innate shamelessness. he holds on, refuses to let go when lan zhan intends to yank the hand free from his grip. a rising urgency in him insists on holding on, on keeping this point of contact between them, and it's visceral in the way it rises from within wei ying.
it's heady, oversweet on the back of his tongue, and wei ying lets go just as suddenly as he had seized on the band, only to move his hold onto the other's sleeve. cast a talisman, lan zhan asks him, but wei ying shakes his head against it - what for, what use is a talisman when he has two hands, real as anything in this world? he wrinkles lan zhan's sleeve, unapologetic for it, uncommonly serious as he faces the other and nods.]
We'll drink together. You and I. I'll catch you if you fall asleep.
[ Three lines of silk in fold. A fourth, deepening. The fifth threatens, humble shadow before the gaunt press of Wei Ying's thumb on jutting bone. Shame and dishonour on Lan Wangji's sleeve. Wrinkles.
Death turns their base inhibitions to absurdity. Three thousand rules unfold under Lan Wangji's eyes, and Wei Ying's grip tramples them each in kind. Perfection is like flowers, only beautiful wilting. What point was there in his sleeve, kept untarnished? What good will it do him, now, better than it failed to achieve before?
He tugs his hand only to take back his band and start the pained process of fitting it across his forehead, Wei Ying's grasp free to follow him. First one end of the circlet, then the next. Middle of the forehead, where skin has yielded like snow to common path, softer for the constant, protective friction. ]
You'll fall.
[ If history has taught them anything, it's that, for Wei Wuxian, every cliff is a siren's call and early opportunity. Lan Wangji's nails nip at his forehead band, nudging it up, then drawing down, then — deprived of looking glass or silvered plates, beyond the certainty of habit — he searches Wei Ying's face for the answer. ]
Orderly?
[ He has killed for this man, ruined his arm, denied his own people; the least Wei Wuxian owes him is a proper measure of whether Lan Wangji's headband is crooked or right. ]
wei ying takes in all of lan zhan - the regal slope of his nose, the sharpness of his eyes, the disciplined line of his shoulders. the slight list on one arm, which has him frowning in question-- but later. he can focus on that later. there's the matter at hand, of lan zhan's ribbon sitting crooked on his forehead, and wei ying forges on with no hesitation, sure as a mountain goat on a steep mountainside as he nudges the cloud emblem into place.
there. now it sits in perfect center, and wei ying nods solemnly.]
There.
Ah, but Lan Zhan... [a frown mars wei ying's expression, as he looks down onto lan zhan's arm. the man moves economically, no single action wasted, but his arm is particularly stiff by any measure, and wei ying is suspicious of it.] What happened to your arm?
Did you— Have you been injured? Is this why you wanted me to wait three days, so you could heal? You should've said so! You need Chroma to heal!
[wei ying holds out his hand - an offering to the pyre, should the fire choose to take it.]
[ His arm, offensively imbalanced, limp and ill-used like the afterthought bracket of a body that should have known better to defend it. It startles him enough to realise not that he's suffered the hurt, but that he's failed even to mask the weakness.
His headband finds its way into righting. Wei Ying's fingers leave him, trail of sickly warmth behind, where the dying fever of another's skin touched what only family should. On his back, lashes spell the same defilement.
His teeth grit against the intrusion, but he survives the burdens of cosmetic correction. The hand calling him sparks every ounce of the anger he'd thought buried with snow. ]
What I asked, you would not do.
[ Now, Wei Wuxian asks in turn. The talisman spell yet cast, the wine undrunk. How can they fault Jiang Wanyin for his temper, when he is constantly afflicted with the stubbornness of his brother, the mule? Belatedly, Lan Wangji starts to find idle strings and strands of sympathy that dies no sooner than it's woken. ]
Cast the talisman.
[ One bargain for another. Price for paying. His chin rises, arrogant. ]
[wei ying puffs up like a blowfish, cheeks filling out as he frowns and pouts at lan zhan. the man is hurt, then - no contradictions to the questions asked about it practically confirm it, and wei ying wants to argue, to refuse to budge from the issue until it's been seen to. but wei ying also knows this, of lan zhan: they're well-met in stubbornness, and lan zhan has the better sense of patience between the two of them.
so wei ying rolls up his sleeves, enough to expose his wrists to the cold, and casts the talisman with pointed gestures.
it lands firm, steadfast, binding to lan zhan's good wrist, this thin blue line connecting the two of them together.]
Done. [hands on hips, like a mother scolding a child, though wei ying feels less of a mother than he does an overly attached... something. barnacle, perhaps. or a stubborn pet that refuses to be ignored.] Lan Zhan, I'm serious, you have to moonlace. You could die if you don't.
[ Ugly spider's bite of a charm, sorcery that grazes and gnaws. Flesh off his bone, this talisman won't break, but the intrusion of foreign cultivation still stings pride he thought he'd shed.
Between them, the thread knots and holds, hardening. Wei Ying watches him like the chicken he'd claimed to chase once, fat with smug self-satisfaction. Trickery that comes too easily was forged once more. What feat, Wei Wuxian! What mastery.
Brows perching north, Lan Wangji tries the resilience of the talisman's bind, then tugs with a hard pull to draw Wei Ying close. Lan Wangji's hand out this once, one coin to repay the other. If this is Wei Ying's prize, then he may come to claim it. ]
Do not speak to me of death.
[ He could die if he breathed, might as well have died the day his ideals paled and the sun rose in the dawns of a new cultivation era. Wei Wuxian did die, and now he thinks to presume something close to reprimand. ]
You meant to have wine.
[ So let them choke on each gulp that thin, begrudged flask may offer. ]
With you, [wei ying answers, whip-fast, blazing right past the mention of death and its implied unpleasantness. wei ying would ask, and ask, pulling at the edges of questions until something fell out or yielded to the ministrations of his mortal hands, but this is neither the time or place for it - even he has moments of self-preservation, rare as they may be. let lan zhan keep his secrets - wei ying will continue to wear himself on his paltry sleeves, bleeding out his heart like a fountain never-ending.
(but it does end, at some point in their future, the current drying up under the unrelenting gaze of a brief lifetime's suffering. wei ying bleeds, and will continue bleeding, for a world that has never liked men like him. what room is there for the bright-eyed and the selfless, beyond the immortalizing embrace of a grave, a funeral plaque?)
he takes lan zhan's hand, holds him firmly, chroma forming and coiling under their skin before being drawn out and into the sleek braces they both wear. ]
[ With him. With him, as if Lan Wangji were a paid companion, a musician or a palace dancer. (With him, because no one but Qing of the Wen would share Wen Wuxian's table.)
Under and in skin, needlework of sorcery Lan Wangji didn't invite again. Violation that his body absorbs like medicine and immunity, all the more devious for its stealthy infiltration. He mouths the word even as he fights the shiver of pulling his fingers away, Chroma.
The talisman first, now this exchange. Barter struck and executed on Wei Ying's part. No matter. Lan Wangji will abide the hold for a few moments, then call their slates equally cleansed.
He drags them both forward, to the snow mound, where he recovers the wine flask. Let Wei Ying have the first drink?
Ah. He stares it down, lusciously pale in its ceramic, a misfortune of the senses. He is tempted, briefly, to pour it over (Promised.)
Cutting Wei Ying with the edge of his glance, he thumbs the cap of the flask off, and takes the first sip instead, colld as wine should not be. Vile. Btterness and bile straining the inside of his teeth. Tongue lulled and slow. He swallows down.
Poor, compared with the warm edges of the Emperor's Smile. Still enough to induce the start of a blistering haze.
He offers the flask over. ]
Not poisoned. [ And another tug of the talisman-leash. ] Drink and walk.
[wei ying half-expects lan zhan to topple over as soon as he's done drinking from the flask, and he's numbly receiving the the blasted thing while staring at the lan as though he'd grown a second head. lan zhan - drinking! and straight from the flask without any hesitation! wei ying is promptly alarmed, and finds himself complying with half of the given missives.
one foot in front of the other; wei ying walks, aimless, along the length of the gully. where to? where else? he's still staring at lan zhan when he brings the flask to his own lips and drinks sedately-- and winces. it's poorly made, too sweet and too fresh, but it still has the distinct flavor of alcohol lacing through it. it'll do. wei ying takes another swig, deeper this time, and offers it to lan zhan.
lan zhan has yet to draw his hand away from wei ying's grip. the chroma meter ticks on ever upwards, polite in its slowness.]
Lan Zhan... You're worrying me a little. [it comes a little too fast, a little too honest, but what's been said can't be taken back, can it? words cannot be unheard, or at least wei ying hasn't figured out how to manage it yet.] Is everything alright?
[ All right. At balance. Even. At ease with the world and its place within it.
Nothing is all right, but here they are, two shadows stabbing the horizon. Lan Wangji leads, and for once it's Wei Ying who follows, dragged along like a foolish child — lesser than a-Yuan, who at least found the cunning to command Lan Wangji to carry him.
The flask swivels back towards him, his turn to poison his mouth again. By right, he should accept it, part of the bargain Lan Wangji should have known better than to strike, for all it's stripped of him: his patience, his dignity, control of his one good hand. Still fastened to him, the other pulses in sharp increments of tender pain that revives before dimming, whipped down under the empire of luminous chroma. ]
Too sweet.
[ He gives by way of refusal, grimace smearing the better part of his lips, then fading into ether. This much, Wei Ying can understand: too sweet by far, a mistake of flavour. And too heady, Lan Wangji's next few steps fickle, as if straight lines have personally and indelibly offended him.
There's a short stretch to cover til the mouth of the forest, if only they limp it carefully. ]
Is this not as you wanted?
[ Wine, an encounter. True to the letter of Wei Ying's demands, if not their spirit. ]
[too sober, that answer. wei ying drains the rest of the flask, then, for want of a better means to shut himself up; hisses when the burn of alcohol clambers down his throat inelegantly.
wei ying looks at where their hands are joined together, the pleasant effects of moonlacing loosening what worries stick to wei ying's mind; here, like this, he can help lan zhan. this is something that he can do, something that requires the very least of him even though wei ying is ready to give so much more if lan zhan should ever ask.
it's just handholding. it's the most basic of interactions, outside of conversations and filial embraces. it doesn't explain the way wei ying's heart feels both elated and distraught, the two feelings alternating in between the spaces of his heartbeats. joy. sadness. happiness, soaring sky high, but yearning too, yanking wei ying by the collar of his robes and anchoring him firmly to the ground.
this is an indulgence. he's late in recognizing it, but it's clear that lan zhan is doing all this for wei ying's benefit. perhaps there's a perceived debt owed that wei ying hasn't paid attention to? is this an apology, perhaps, for the injuries sustained at mt. muxi's cave? but they're friends - lan zhan owes wei ying nothing.
maybe wei ying hasn't been clear enough on that front. fault of his character, then; it must be corrected.]
Lan Zhan. I want you to be happy, too. Even if that means refusing me. I'm just Wei Ying - you don't have to worry about offending me if you say no.
[ Kindness is an instinct, honed but not learned. Wei Ying always displayed it excessively, like every peacock who's shown the gaudy spread of its feathers.
Migraine, wine, glints of the crystalline forest, the elusive spell of Wei Ying's quiet voice. Lan Wangji is meant to be happy too. Then — ]
...let go.
[ But whispered with the air of every request he hasn't articulated since arrival, shreds of the weakness his brother's hawk eyes glimpsed first. He doesn't tug his hand free, vulnerable to Wei Ying's decision. This was their bargain, transacted fairly. Wei Ying can demand it upheld.
Too much, all at once: hands, cliffs, falls, the undead. Time, misplaced. The hurt in Lan Wangji's arm, abated but still burrowing beneath skin and into bone. If he is to have one indulgence, it is this: each trickle of the deluge, on Lan Wangji's own time. ]
Resume later.
[ Dose it out, like hurt for a man learning his tolerance. ]
[wei ying nods solemnly, and lets go of lan zhan's hand. his hand feels unbearably warm, the ends tingling, and he's not sure if it's because of their held hands or something else, some residual magic that still clings. is this why people moonlace so often? is the parting too painful, like happiness cut short? wei ying feels a small amount of regret, all of a sudden. this was a bad idea. he shouldn't have pushed, should have just stayed behind the line drawn between them.
but like a moth drawn to a flame, wei ying just can't resist. never could, with lan zhan.
he'll just have to work harder.
he puts on a smile, straightens out his shoulders, pushes his chest out.]
Do you want to go anywhere else? We could go and eat! If you're not too tired, that is. I'll walk with you back to your place if you want to rest now.
[ Their hands unwind, Lan Wangji's retreating in a tender, broken slither of print and flesh. The world fades in colour, between sneers of step on squeaky snow. Reproaches seed and linger: did Wangji need to let go? Did he need to question his own desires? Connection, here, is like addiction, a deep-rooted opiate. Smoke and absorb, do not question.
He startles to find himself suddenly, irrevocably awake. Unbidden, he reaches for Wei Ying's sleeve, fingers catching purchase on silk. Flesh traded for embroidery. Easier, for now. ]
I have no place. [ No, beyond that. ] No purpose.
[ The sects undone, reduced to leadership that holds no meaning without the men to follow. Shaped and educated to rule, now deprived of land and people. Futility is epidemic, a sickness of the affluent and the second born. Strident here, where they are all equally afflicted, but worsened in the wasteland of his sect-cleansed 'home.' ]
[lan zhan reaches for him this time, and though wei ying can see it happening, is witness to lan zhan moving of his own volition towards him, it still catches him by the throat, yanking his heart up to beat rabbit-fast against his tongue. he seizes the moment, seizes the hem of lan zhan's bat sleeve too, hungry and pathetically desperate for contact now that he knows how it feels like to hold lan zhan's hand.
pale imitation, certainly. but even a silhouette is a blessing for the previously blind.]
I mostly just train in the afternoons, [wei wuxian starts,] and then explore the city as much as I can. It's a big place! And there's so much that I've never seen before, that there's always something new to discover, something new to learn.
And... ah. I've made some friends here, and I visit them often to spend time with them - and to moonlace, as well.
[wei ying can feel his cheeks flushing, saying things so plainly in lan zhan's presence.]
I'm very physical to begin with, so it's pretty easy to just moonlace with a stranger by just holding their hand or embracing them, but moonlacing with someone you like feels so much better to me. I could be imagining it, though. I haven't fully tested the limits of what moonlacing can do.
Ah, but I tried! I asked around, and I found some people who volunteered to help me learn about the extent of moonlacing practices, and—
[and the implications of that, as he's said it, slaps wei ying in the face a moment too late.]
You probably don't want to hear about it. I'll stop now.
[ 'Moonlace'. Courtesy word for sorcery that trades affection, too often erotic by end-game, if not design. Days passed now, Lan Wangji's touch on Xue Yang's cheek, spelling hate and still achieving the same result as acts construed best between cultivation partners.
And Wei Ying, spitting in the face of modesty, inheriting nothing of his clan but the boldness to seek out — strangers for the contract. 'People who volunteered', so he might pursue this practice, like he did the demonic arts. A steward of ingenuity, no matter its dignity and form.
The roil of his skull-ache ramps, sea simmering before the storm's hit. A totality of events led here, each sharp on his back like new lashing. He looks at Wei Ying, and for the first time sees him — not the man who joined Lan Wangji so recently in battle, but the boy who yearned for nothing for paltry pleasures. The abyss behind them, distant with each new step, and somehow also yawning between them: Lan Wangji, meaning to carve himself a destiny. Wei Ying, still so keen to let others suffocate his own. What good will his new friends and partners do him, when the noose rounds his neck once more?
No matter. Not one for Lan Wangji to determine, between the troubled, fractured inclines of his head. Wei Ying's sleeve slips between cautious fingertips, the wrinkle inevitable. ]
Congratulations... to Yunmeng Jiang on your matches. [ What would Xichen's words be, his calculated kindness? What would a modern man decree, past Lan Wangji's instinctive contempt? ] Compliments to Jiang Wanyin.
[ Better. Accept the elegant dress of Wei Ying's circumstances. ]
[why does he feel the keen urge to defend himself, now? he hasn't done anything dishonorable, and yet here wei ying stands, lamenting lan zhan's surrender of his sleeve, wei ying's own following in step as conduct demands.]
It's hardly anything like that, [he protests, but the thread of his voice is... not defeated, no, this isn't a fight to be won. but he certainly feels like he's missing something, like he's only seeing a part of the whole, and it frustrates him in a way he can't quite articulate even to himself.] I'm not planning on choosing any of them as cultivation partners, and anyway Jiang Cheng will have to consent to that, since he stands for the sect while we're here.
Lan Zhan. I wouldn't dishonor a stranger like that! I'd never take what isn't freely given, and even then - it won't be just anyone! They'll be someone I like, someone I trust, someone who I can care for and who would care for me in return. An equal in matters of the heart, if not in skill. That would be nice, though - if we were evenly matched. And then we'd take on the world and never look back, carving our own path. Even if it's just the two of us in the end.
[wishful thinking. in its own way, subversive. wei ying feels the weight of lan zhan's judgment and despairs, but stands by his words.]
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[and true to his word, wei ying arrives, prompt as a rarity, if clearly hastily dressed. he waves enthusiastically at lan zhan, smiling as bright as the sun might, every line in his body positively thrumming with pleasant energy. wei ying's voice is clear as a ringing bell, if overloud, when he calls out to lan zhan.]
Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, over here!!!
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Cursed by the world in ways I can only dream. Xue Yang, and the brush strokes of his hostility, carved out in deepened bruise lines and petty cuts on Lan Wangji's arms, his legs. His back. Plaques of winter underfoot, a wasteland of white and storm.
He haunts this ice as he did the one in Cloud Recesses, one blink here, the next beside Wei Ying, step silent, the pull of his mouth distant. In one hand, the swell of a small wine flask, lone and encumbered — enough for Wei Ying to know his promise met.
He falls in step, nodding at the forest spread below, stone and tree root collapsed in a crown of thorns lined by crevasses. Innocent, but for a distraction of footing, a slip on crystal and injury on smeared dirt. ]
What do you see?
[ Death in abyss, blood spilled between them, Wei Ying's hand sliding down, Jiang Wanyin like wind howling. Lan Wangji knows what he sees with his own eyes. ]
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[wei ying answers with no small measure of confusion. it's not quite trepidation, not yet, but it's early in the day, and the snow is soft underfoot; there's time for something exciting to happen, even if lan zhan's company seems to all but forbid it from even becoming a thought. he takes a few steps forward, walks up to the edge of the steep drop. it's not too deep, maybe a couple or so zhang, but the snow has not covered the broken shrubbery, the jutting rocks. it'll be an unpleasant experience to fall down to the bed of the gully, wei ying decides.
he peers for a second longer, then turns to lan zhan with a questioning look. he hasn't missed the bottle of liquor so distinctly held like a longstanding offense, and paired with the location... wei ying's frown deepens, as he puts on the affectations of someone dramatizing their hurt.]
Lan Zhan, you better not be planning on pushing me down this gully! That would be mean. I've been so nice to you too!
...Unless we're here to appreciate the view?
[true enough, it's not a terrible sight. the scenery is pretty, in the way baubles and trinkets are, but it pales in wei ying's mind when compared to the flush colors of yunmeng. it doesn't have the serene grandeur that the gusu mountains possess, either; compare this place to either location, and it's wanting both ways.
wei ying sets his hands on his hips, swivels round towards lan zhan.]
Well, we can't sit on the ground. It's wet with snow!
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[ Laughter, sourer than he remembers, extirpated from his mouth and his mind. Rain, when Wei Wuxian drove out his fresh tribe of scant followers in the wilderness of defection. Downpour. Deluge.
And the blood that followed it.
Wei Ying travels the precipice, foot doe-light but unsubtle — learned in the theory of the night hunt, but not the extended practice that comes with veteran battle, the onslaught of an assassins' war. Young.
It calms the start of storm, but doesn't quench it. The wine in his hand is slipped, gently, on the whisper of a snow mound, white calling to white. Best that Wei Ying not forget it; it cost dearly enough. Closer, Lan Wangji joins his side, gaze dark. Some hours (now), he keeps himself sane with cruelty: here, the look of Wei Ying, volatile shadow near the cusp of disaster, where he is to sway for the better part of a young life. Candle burning at both ends.
Lan Wangji's hand goes out to Wei Ying's wrist first — withdraws, before the touch lands. They've tried this game, eager grip steeling when it came to fall, only to give way. A friend's grasp is not enough.
A part of him withers, another sickens, the third — triumphant — simply perseveres. Face the same frost as surrounds them, he strips off the band of his forehead as he might a bandage, or a sash, or a second skin — done before, what difference does it make, what difference did it make? — and ties it fairly around wrist, and iron-like around Wei Ying's — tighter, maybe, than comfort intends it. Let him suffer the littlest bit. Only right.
Only then, does he tug them back to the edge of the gully, to gaze down at the fall. ]
Look down. [ Again. Again, until Wei Wuxian's eyes blind and bleed, like Lan Wangji's did once. Search stone and pebble, until nothing else remains. ] What would you call a man who falls down the abyss?
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[he has his answers, of course, for both - but that they're discussing such things in the here and now is throwing wei wuxian for a loop. whatever expectations he might've had about this meeting, it certainly didn't include this, an existential exercise in the middle of a veritable nowhere with the promise of alcohol and good company as a lure.
wei ying huffs, and pouts, and then exclaims loudly when lan zhan ties his wrist with his forehead ribbon— as if he's a child! he should take offense!
(but he doesn't. he just feels fond, and also like he's forgetting something important, something that's wrapped up in the warmth of a memory. meanwhile, the brand scar on his chest aches.)]
A gully is hardly an abyss, but a man who falls into it is either a fool for forgetting his own feet, or a victim of a betrayal, if he's surefooted in the company of another. But if you truly mean the abyss— Lan Zhan, isn't that a little too dark, even for you?
To fall into the abyss - to fall willingly - is to yield to suffering. To suffer alone, and see no end or hope. The abyss welcomes the desperate, doesn't it?
Lan Zhan, is that why we're here? Are you troubled?
[wei ying turns his wrist, so that his fingers are grasping at the length of ribbon not in lan zhan's hand. they're not touching, not yet, but wei ying's grip is firm as he pulls on the band.]
Talk to me. Are we not friends?
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Trust unmade Lan Wangji once. He trusts only the grip of his hands now, the hardiness of his bone. Wei Ying pulls, and for a moment, his feet deepen their stay in the ground, to make his point of opposing the summon — then he pulls back in kind, children playing tug of war. This is the trouble with him, this young master of Yunmeng Jiang. No man before has dared deny him. ]
We are fools. Or desperate. [ Even here, before the meagre teeth of a gully, snow banished from earth around them in the sullen steps of a quiet dance. Let them both look down then, gaze thunderous. ] Is the foolishness of a man who falls forgivable? His despair.
[ Xichen's patience, Jiang Wanyin's poison, master Song's choice ambivalence. It was worthwhile, the man who wore his name and his face pledged. All of them, so fickle and sparing with direction.
Forgive and forget, play at alliances but ask nothing. The weakness of Wangji's heart. He has tired, so very tired, of three things since arrival: the games of fate, the pulse of his temples, and the wavering of the men around him. Wei Ying, at least, never hesitates. More fool he (and desperate). ]
Take care. [ Stop tugging, so Lan Wangji can win this war. ] You slip, I slip.
[ He warns, before ideas can coalesce. They are not tumbling down in this gully. ]
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[it's a delicate subject, too delicate for wei ying's stumbling maturity to handle with grace. the base of it is that they're talking about ending one's life, or at least that's what it seems to mean to wei wuxian. there's a certain distance to lan zhan that he's not sure he knows how to bridge - if he even wants to, if he's as brazen as he knows he can be, to pry so indelicately and shove himself where he might not be welcome. xuanwu cave is still fresh in wei wuxian's mind, as are the wounds and injuries that resulted from it. certainly his mind hasn't been dulled by something so simple as a cut or two, but lan zhan—
lan zhan was already bearing the weight of the qishan wen's advances, even before the farce of indoctrination lectures had begun. and as much as wei wuxian wants to take on part of that weight, as much as he wants to halve his heart and give it to lan zhan so that his own might find some rest, he understands that there are places even he shouldn't go.
oh, but he wants to. so much. he wants to dig deep into the spaces between lan zhan's bones and nestle his soul against them, so that he'll never have to hurt again. it's different from the steadfast love he has for jiang cheng, for shijie; he wants to see lan zhan smile again, and see him rise above all the way wei ying knows he could. the cultivation world should be celebrating him, not trying to bring him down to his knees. why can't the world see that?
wei ying pulls on the band again, gentler this time but no less firm.]
But we'll drink, yes? You're not leaving me to drain that flask by myself?
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His heart. Fickle and little trusting thing, knot of sinew and contractions, function of frenzy. A claustrophobic chamber of illicit secrets. Who knew the heart of Wen Ruohan? Many yet judged him.
And Wei Ying holds himself above the forgiveness of one and all.
The token surrender: Wei Ying pulls. Black rock grows beneath strands of snow Lan Wangji's boots strike past, like tumour. He inches close, starts to unfurl the web work of his headband. ]
Binding talisman. Cast it. [ This puppy still warrants a leash near the stones' edge, but he's earned a wider berth. Lan Wangji nods at the lone flask of wine, stranded in the snow case. ] Then drink your fill.
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it's heady, oversweet on the back of his tongue, and wei ying lets go just as suddenly as he had seized on the band, only to move his hold onto the other's sleeve. cast a talisman, lan zhan asks him, but wei ying shakes his head against it - what for, what use is a talisman when he has two hands, real as anything in this world? he wrinkles lan zhan's sleeve, unapologetic for it, uncommonly serious as he faces the other and nods.]
We'll drink together. You and I. I'll catch you if you fall asleep.
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Death turns their base inhibitions to absurdity. Three thousand rules unfold under Lan Wangji's eyes, and Wei Ying's grip tramples them each in kind. Perfection is like flowers, only beautiful wilting. What point was there in his sleeve, kept untarnished? What good will it do him, now, better than it failed to achieve before?
He tugs his hand only to take back his band and start the pained process of fitting it across his forehead, Wei Ying's grasp free to follow him. First one end of the circlet, then the next. Middle of the forehead, where skin has yielded like snow to common path, softer for the constant, protective friction. ]
You'll fall.
[ If history has taught them anything, it's that, for Wei Wuxian, every cliff is a siren's call and early opportunity. Lan Wangji's nails nip at his forehead band, nudging it up, then drawing down, then — deprived of looking glass or silvered plates, beyond the certainty of habit — he searches Wei Ying's face for the answer. ]
Orderly?
[ He has killed for this man, ruined his arm, denied his own people; the least Wei Wuxian owes him is a proper measure of whether Lan Wangji's headband is crooked or right. ]
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wei ying takes in all of lan zhan - the regal slope of his nose, the sharpness of his eyes, the disciplined line of his shoulders. the slight list on one arm, which has him frowning in question-- but later. he can focus on that later. there's the matter at hand, of lan zhan's ribbon sitting crooked on his forehead, and wei ying forges on with no hesitation, sure as a mountain goat on a steep mountainside as he nudges the cloud emblem into place.
there. now it sits in perfect center, and wei ying nods solemnly.]
There.
Ah, but Lan Zhan... [a frown mars wei ying's expression, as he looks down onto lan zhan's arm. the man moves economically, no single action wasted, but his arm is particularly stiff by any measure, and wei ying is suspicious of it.] What happened to your arm?
Did you— Have you been injured? Is this why you wanted me to wait three days, so you could heal? You should've said so! You need Chroma to heal!
[wei ying holds out his hand - an offering to the pyre, should the fire choose to take it.]
I'll help you.
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His headband finds its way into righting. Wei Ying's fingers leave him, trail of sickly warmth behind, where the dying fever of another's skin touched what only family should. On his back, lashes spell the same defilement.
His teeth grit against the intrusion, but he survives the burdens of cosmetic correction. The hand calling him sparks every ounce of the anger he'd thought buried with snow. ]
What I asked, you would not do.
[ Now, Wei Wuxian asks in turn. The talisman spell yet cast, the wine undrunk. How can they fault Jiang Wanyin for his temper, when he is constantly afflicted with the stubbornness of his brother, the mule? Belatedly, Lan Wangji starts to find idle strings and strands of sympathy that dies no sooner than it's woken. ]
Cast the talisman.
[ One bargain for another. Price for paying. His chin rises, arrogant. ]
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so wei ying rolls up his sleeves, enough to expose his wrists to the cold, and casts the talisman with pointed gestures.
it lands firm, steadfast, binding to lan zhan's good wrist, this thin blue line connecting the two of them together.]
Done. [hands on hips, like a mother scolding a child, though wei ying feels less of a mother than he does an overly attached... something. barnacle, perhaps. or a stubborn pet that refuses to be ignored.] Lan Zhan, I'm serious, you have to moonlace. You could die if you don't.
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Between them, the thread knots and holds, hardening. Wei Ying watches him like the chicken he'd claimed to chase once, fat with smug self-satisfaction. Trickery that comes too easily was forged once more. What feat, Wei Wuxian! What mastery.
Brows perching north, Lan Wangji tries the resilience of the talisman's bind, then tugs with a hard pull to draw Wei Ying close. Lan Wangji's hand out this once, one coin to repay the other. If this is Wei Ying's prize, then he may come to claim it. ]
Do not speak to me of death.
[ He could die if he breathed, might as well have died the day his ideals paled and the sun rose in the dawns of a new cultivation era. Wei Wuxian did die, and now he thinks to presume something close to reprimand. ]
You meant to have wine.
[ So let them choke on each gulp that thin, begrudged flask may offer. ]
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(but it does end, at some point in their future, the current drying up under the unrelenting gaze of a brief lifetime's suffering. wei ying bleeds, and will continue bleeding, for a world that has never liked men like him. what room is there for the bright-eyed and the selfless, beyond the immortalizing embrace of a grave, a funeral plaque?)
he takes lan zhan's hand, holds him firmly, chroma forming and coiling under their skin before being drawn out and into the sleek braces they both wear. ]
Here, let me have the first drink.
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Under and in skin, needlework of sorcery Lan Wangji didn't invite again. Violation that his body absorbs like medicine and immunity, all the more devious for its stealthy infiltration. He mouths the word even as he fights the shiver of pulling his fingers away, Chroma.
The talisman first, now this exchange. Barter struck and executed on Wei Ying's part. No matter. Lan Wangji will abide the hold for a few moments, then call their slates equally cleansed.
He drags them both forward, to the snow mound, where he recovers the wine flask. Let Wei Ying have the first drink?
Ah. He stares it down, lusciously pale in its ceramic, a misfortune of the senses. He is tempted, briefly, to pour it over (Promised.)
Cutting Wei Ying with the edge of his glance, he thumbs the cap of the flask off, and takes the first sip instead, colld as wine should not be. Vile. Btterness and bile straining the inside of his teeth. Tongue lulled and slow. He swallows down.
Poor, compared with the warm edges of the Emperor's Smile. Still enough to induce the start of a blistering haze.
He offers the flask over. ]
Not poisoned. [ And another tug of the talisman-leash. ] Drink and walk.
[ That damned gully still stares at him. ]
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one foot in front of the other; wei ying walks, aimless, along the length of the gully. where to? where else? he's still staring at lan zhan when he brings the flask to his own lips and drinks sedately-- and winces. it's poorly made, too sweet and too fresh, but it still has the distinct flavor of alcohol lacing through it. it'll do. wei ying takes another swig, deeper this time, and offers it to lan zhan.
lan zhan has yet to draw his hand away from wei ying's grip. the chroma meter ticks on ever upwards, polite in its slowness.]
Lan Zhan... You're worrying me a little. [it comes a little too fast, a little too honest, but what's been said can't be taken back, can it? words cannot be unheard, or at least wei ying hasn't figured out how to manage it yet.] Is everything alright?
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Nothing is all right, but here they are, two shadows stabbing the horizon. Lan Wangji leads, and for once it's Wei Ying who follows, dragged along like a foolish child — lesser than a-Yuan, who at least found the cunning to command Lan Wangji to carry him.
The flask swivels back towards him, his turn to poison his mouth again. By right, he should accept it, part of the bargain Lan Wangji should have known better than to strike, for all it's stripped of him: his patience, his dignity, control of his one good hand. Still fastened to him, the other pulses in sharp increments of tender pain that revives before dimming, whipped down under the empire of luminous chroma. ]
Too sweet.
[ He gives by way of refusal, grimace smearing the better part of his lips, then fading into ether. This much, Wei Ying can understand: too sweet by far, a mistake of flavour. And too heady, Lan Wangji's next few steps fickle, as if straight lines have personally and indelibly offended him.
There's a short stretch to cover til the mouth of the forest, if only they limp it carefully. ]
Is this not as you wanted?
[ Wine, an encounter. True to the letter of Wei Ying's demands, if not their spirit. ]
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[too sober, that answer. wei ying drains the rest of the flask, then, for want of a better means to shut himself up; hisses when the burn of alcohol clambers down his throat inelegantly.
wei ying looks at where their hands are joined together, the pleasant effects of moonlacing loosening what worries stick to wei ying's mind; here, like this, he can help lan zhan. this is something that he can do, something that requires the very least of him even though wei ying is ready to give so much more if lan zhan should ever ask.
it's just handholding. it's the most basic of interactions, outside of conversations and filial embraces. it doesn't explain the way wei ying's heart feels both elated and distraught, the two feelings alternating in between the spaces of his heartbeats. joy. sadness. happiness, soaring sky high, but yearning too, yanking wei ying by the collar of his robes and anchoring him firmly to the ground.
this is an indulgence. he's late in recognizing it, but it's clear that lan zhan is doing all this for wei ying's benefit. perhaps there's a perceived debt owed that wei ying hasn't paid attention to? is this an apology, perhaps, for the injuries sustained at mt. muxi's cave? but they're friends - lan zhan owes wei ying nothing.
maybe wei ying hasn't been clear enough on that front. fault of his character, then; it must be corrected.]
Lan Zhan. I want you to be happy, too. Even if that means refusing me. I'm just Wei Ying - you don't have to worry about offending me if you say no.
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Migraine, wine, glints of the crystalline forest, the elusive spell of Wei Ying's quiet voice. Lan Wangji is meant to be happy too. Then — ]
...let go.
[ But whispered with the air of every request he hasn't articulated since arrival, shreds of the weakness his brother's hawk eyes glimpsed first. He doesn't tug his hand free, vulnerable to Wei Ying's decision. This was their bargain, transacted fairly. Wei Ying can demand it upheld.
Too much, all at once: hands, cliffs, falls, the undead. Time, misplaced. The hurt in Lan Wangji's arm, abated but still burrowing beneath skin and into bone. If he is to have one indulgence, it is this: each trickle of the deluge, on Lan Wangji's own time. ]
Resume later.
[ Dose it out, like hurt for a man learning his tolerance. ]
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[wei ying nods solemnly, and lets go of lan zhan's hand. his hand feels unbearably warm, the ends tingling, and he's not sure if it's because of their held hands or something else, some residual magic that still clings. is this why people moonlace so often? is the parting too painful, like happiness cut short? wei ying feels a small amount of regret, all of a sudden. this was a bad idea. he shouldn't have pushed, should have just stayed behind the line drawn between them.
but like a moth drawn to a flame, wei ying just can't resist. never could, with lan zhan.
he'll just have to work harder.
he puts on a smile, straightens out his shoulders, pushes his chest out.]
Do you want to go anywhere else? We could go and eat! If you're not too tired, that is. I'll walk with you back to your place if you want to rest now.
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He startles to find himself suddenly, irrevocably awake. Unbidden, he reaches for Wei Ying's sleeve, fingers catching purchase on silk. Flesh traded for embroidery. Easier, for now. ]
I have no place. [ No, beyond that. ] No purpose.
[ The sects undone, reduced to leadership that holds no meaning without the men to follow. Shaped and educated to rule, now deprived of land and people. Futility is epidemic, a sickness of the affluent and the second born. Strident here, where they are all equally afflicted, but worsened in the wasteland of his sect-cleansed 'home.' ]
What do you do here?
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pale imitation, certainly. but even a silhouette is a blessing for the previously blind.]
I mostly just train in the afternoons, [wei wuxian starts,] and then explore the city as much as I can. It's a big place! And there's so much that I've never seen before, that there's always something new to discover, something new to learn.
And... ah. I've made some friends here, and I visit them often to spend time with them - and to moonlace, as well.
[wei ying can feel his cheeks flushing, saying things so plainly in lan zhan's presence.]
I'm very physical to begin with, so it's pretty easy to just moonlace with a stranger by just holding their hand or embracing them, but moonlacing with someone you like feels so much better to me. I could be imagining it, though. I haven't fully tested the limits of what moonlacing can do.
Ah, but I tried! I asked around, and I found some people who volunteered to help me learn about the extent of moonlacing practices, and—
[and the implications of that, as he's said it, slaps wei ying in the face a moment too late.]
You probably don't want to hear about it. I'll stop now.
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And Wei Ying, spitting in the face of modesty, inheriting nothing of his clan but the boldness to seek out — strangers for the contract. 'People who volunteered', so he might pursue this practice, like he did the demonic arts. A steward of ingenuity, no matter its dignity and form.
The roil of his skull-ache ramps, sea simmering before the storm's hit. A totality of events led here, each sharp on his back like new lashing. He looks at Wei Ying, and for the first time sees him — not the man who joined Lan Wangji so recently in battle, but the boy who yearned for nothing for paltry pleasures. The abyss behind them, distant with each new step, and somehow also yawning between them: Lan Wangji, meaning to carve himself a destiny. Wei Ying, still so keen to let others suffocate his own. What good will his new friends and partners do him, when the noose rounds his neck once more?
No matter. Not one for Lan Wangji to determine, between the troubled, fractured inclines of his head. Wei Ying's sleeve slips between cautious fingertips, the wrinkle inevitable. ]
Congratulations... to Yunmeng Jiang on your matches. [ What would Xichen's words be, his calculated kindness? What would a modern man decree, past Lan Wangji's instinctive contempt? ] Compliments to Jiang Wanyin.
[ Better. Accept the elegant dress of Wei Ying's circumstances. ]
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It's hardly anything like that, [he protests, but the thread of his voice is... not defeated, no, this isn't a fight to be won. but he certainly feels like he's missing something, like he's only seeing a part of the whole, and it frustrates him in a way he can't quite articulate even to himself.] I'm not planning on choosing any of them as cultivation partners, and anyway Jiang Cheng will have to consent to that, since he stands for the sect while we're here.
Lan Zhan. I wouldn't dishonor a stranger like that! I'd never take what isn't freely given, and even then - it won't be just anyone! They'll be someone I like, someone I trust, someone who I can care for and who would care for me in return. An equal in matters of the heart, if not in skill. That would be nice, though - if we were evenly matched. And then we'd take on the world and never look back, carving our own path. Even if it's just the two of us in the end.
[wishful thinking. in its own way, subversive. wei ying feels the weight of lan zhan's judgment and despairs, but stands by his words.]
I'll cherish them for the rest of my life.
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