acrookedpath | [pfsb]

[pfsb]

The good news: the energy-revealing array works!

The bad news --

It's not bad news, he insists to himself. It just... is. It's a complication, a hole in the road, a little snare tripping him up. That's all. It doesn't have to be more. It might not even be in the first place, yes? He is dead, Lan Zhan is alive, of course seeing just how very alive would stir something in him. That's all it is.

Right?

Never mind that he's fairly certain if he placed the same array on Harrow, or Tom-gongzi, or Ingress, he would not have been struck the same way. That -- it's ridiculous, this is all ridiculous, and that's why he's out here by the lake, standing on a flat rock with another array of talismans fluttering in his hand.

The key is not just luring resentful energy from the forest, despite the suppression around the inn. It is how swiftly he can do it. During his coffee-fueled spree of work last night, he drew up some new lures that ought to work faster than a traditional set. Now he scatters them in a wide circle around his feet, gestures sharply, and sends a bolt of red energy into the yellow paper slips.

Silently, in his head, he begins to count. One... two... three...

At the count of thirteen, something boils at the forest's edge, dark and oily.

Wei Wuxian smiles and lifts his flute to meet it.

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He nods. "Then let us go upstairs."

As prodigious a drinker as he may be, Wei Wuxian is usually fairly good at pacing himself. Not tonight. As they wend their way up to the room, he chugs from the second bottle of wine like a parched man drinking from a river. The bottle is empty before they even reach his door.

Madam Bar, not being able to read minds, did nothing to change the arrangement of the beds. Damn it. She has so much magic, why could she not hear his thoughts, too? This all seems deeply unfair.

Carefully, he sets the empty bottle on the bookshelf and adds both his flute and the portfolio Harrow gave him. Far too late, he realizes he never told Lan Zhan about his second adventure to Canaan House. Perhaps it's for the best; considering how the first attempt went, it would only worry him unnecessarily.

It has been some time since he has seen Wei Ying drink so much, so quickly, and he frowns.

Something is wrong. He is growing more and more certain of it. But Wei Ying had clearly avoided his earlier attempt to inquire, so--

He watches as the mysterious new black book is placed by his flute, and says nothing.

He squares his shoulders -- already he is beginning to feel more loose-limbed from the wine -- and turns to face Lan Zhan with another easy smile.

"You will be sleeping sooner than I will," he says, gesturing to the door of the bathing chamber. "Go ahead."

He nods, and silently crosses the room, then vanishes inside the chamber.

The usual ablutions do not take too long, nor do the stretches. Washing his hair takes longer. He is still drying it with a towel when he comes back out.

In the meantime, Wei Wuxian readies himself as much as possible so he can dash straight into the bathing chamber as soon as Lan Zhan exits. Off come his outer robes; down comes his hair. He winds the ribbon around his hand and tucks it atop the portfolio before setting to work finger-combing his hair.

Maybe he could move the beds apart while Lan Zhan is bathing? No, that would be too obvious.

...No, he absolutely does not need to think about Lan Zhan bathing, either.

Thumping down onto his bed, he grabs the pillow, smothers his face with it, and groans as loud and dramatic as he dares just to exorcise some of the frustration. This is absurd. It's absurd! How old is he, how much did he see in his short life, and yet he can't compose himself enough to keep it together around one of his oldest friends? It may not even mean anything! What if it's only a desperate infatuation because of -- everything? What if his mind is playing tricks on him?

If he says anything to Lan Zhan and it is just his mind playing tricks on him, he will never forgive himself.

(And that is not even getting into this person Ingress wants him to meet, this cultivator who is the best and brightest of his kind just like Lan Zhan, this Vanyel -- )

With another, quieter groan, Wei Wuxian forces himself to take the pillow off his face and neaten the bed a bit before Lan Zhan can see him. Just in the nick of time, too, as Lan Zhan reappears in moments with a towel half-wrapped around his hair.

Breathe in. Breathe out. He stands, coaxes his knees into being a little less wobbly, and gives Lan Zhan a quick smile before breezing into the washroom.

He hangs his things up on the small hooks and puts the outer layers of his robes over the headboard as usual first, then sets to wringing the last of the water from his hair.

That done, the towel goes over the privacy screen to dry before he seats himself on the side of the bed, takes his comb, and begins to work it through the remaining tangles.

It is a painstakingly slow process tonight, and he reminds himself to either return to washing his hair in the waters of the cold spring, or to request camellia oil from Bar-guniang.

The wine hits in earnest midway through his shower. The world tilts a few degrees; Wei Wuxian presses a quick hand to the wall to steady himself, breathes out a sigh of relief, breathes in the humid air billowing around him. He shoves a fistful of wet hair out of his eyes and watches the slight blur to the water swirling down the drain.

He can do this. How he will do this for more than one night, he has no idea, but at least tonight he will keep himself together. Best if he continues not to talk too much, though. He'll blame it on exhaustion again. A handy excuse, that.

Carefully, he finishes combing out the worst of the tangles in his hair, then shuts off the water and gingerly steps out of the tub. After toweling off and wringing out his hair, he slips back into his inner robes and opens the washroom door.

...And promptly can't do anything but stare, face blossoming into fire again, at the sight of Lan Zhan.

(He stands corrected: the wine was a terrible idea and he should just go throw himself into the lake right now to save them both the trouble.)

He hears the door to the bathing chamber open over the quiet hiss he lets out as he pulls the comb ruthlessly through a particularly bad tangle -- and then realizes, after a moment, that Wei Ying has stopped, for some reason, and is standing in the doorway staring at him.

Hands still twisted in his own hair, Lan Wangji looks up at him in confused concern.

"Wei Ying?"

Yes, he thinks. Lan Zhan was right: he will never run out of talisman ideas, because every one from here on out will just involve devising quicker and quicker ways to sink into the floor and vanish forever.

He swallows, hard, and shakes his head -- cautiously, in case the inebriation decides to give him another swift shove. "It's nothing," he mumbles. "Tired. That's all."

The gulf between the washroom and the bed seems to stretch into infinity. With the same care, he puts one foot in front of the other to cross it.

Wei Ying is moving with exaggerated care, and while Lan Wangji knows that the other man's capacity for alcohol is far, far greater than his own, he suspects that even Wei Ying's tolerance may have been strained by how rapidly he consumed the wine.

Swiftly, he sets his comb aside and moves to Wei Ying's side, putting an arm around his shoulders to help steady him.

"Come. Lie down. Rest."

He jolts in surprise, nearly stumbles, and only catches himself by virtue of Lan Zhan's arm around his shoulders. His heart slams up into his throat.

That stupid array. Stupid. Why did he think it was a good idea? If nothing else, he should have just tested it on himself instead of Lan Zhan -- never mind that his own energies would read far differently, and he would need to test it on someone besides himself eventually, but -- it was still stupid. Look where it got him. Messing up a perfectly good afterlife.

Mute, breathing a little too quick, his heart hammering so hard he's certain Lan Zhan can feel it, he lets himself be guided to the bed.

He does not, does not, let himself dwell on the feeling of Wei Ying at his side, the warm weight of his body against him, secure and protected in the circle of his arm, no matter how much he wants to.

He is assisting a friend. That is all this is, all it can be.

Carefully, he helps Wei Ying to sit down on the bed.

"Rest," he says again. "Sleep. You will feel better in the morning."

"Will I?" he mumbles, wryly, and realizes too late he said it out loud.

Wincing, he lowers himself to the bed. The room wobbles again in response, but steadies itself soon enough. He curls up on his side with a quiet sigh.

"Lying is forbidden," Lan Wangji reminds him. "You will."

He spreads the coverlet over Wei Ying and extinguishes the lights before lying down on his half of the bed.

"Sleep well, Wei Ying."

"Good night, Lan Zhan."

If he faces away from Lan Zhan, he can pretend their beds are a full arm span apart. Lan Zhan's slow, steady breathing as he drops into sleep only sounds louder because Wei Wuxian is a little drunk. The coverlet can provide an extra barrier to stop him from inadvertently reaching out in the night.

It will be fine. Maybe he hasn't ruined it after all.

Quicker than he expects, he joins Lan Zhan in sleep.

He does not remember all his nightmares, and he counts it a blessing if he awakes, terrified, but unable to recall what scared him.

This one is different. He remembers nothing but a horrible blackness, and what drags him awake isn't the images in his mind: it is pain, blistering hot, not the sour stomach of too much alcohol but far, far worse.

Only one dream ever wakes him so.

Unbending himself when he only wants to curl up like a wounded animal nearly makes him cry out. He stifles it on the back of his hand, panting harshly, trying to remember what to do. Wen Qing saw him wake like this once in the Burial Mounds and guided him through. What was it she did? How --

Lan Zhan is still breathing next to him.

No.

If he has to endure being held, now of all times, he will crack apart altogether.

With tremendous effort, Wei Wuxian shoves off the coverlet and stumbles to the washroom.

He stirs as Wei Ying staggers from the bed, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings, but does not truly awaken until the door shuts behind him.

Lan Wangji lies still in the darkness and waits for Wei Ying to return, just to be sure that he is all right.

He does not return.

In the dark of the washroom, his back against the tub, Wei Wuxian wraps both arms around himself and tries not to scream. Breathe. That was the first thing Wen Qing told him. Breathe.

He forces his lungs to expand. Hisses out the air in a slow stream. Does it again.

Good. He can almost hear her voice. It is as if she kneels right next to him, her wide eyes on his, nodding encouragement. Keep breathing. This is temporary, Wei Wuxian. It is only a memory. It will not last as long as you think it will.

"This is temporary," he whispers aloud.

Good.

He breathes: in. Out.

Keep breathing.

For the first few minutes, he stares at the ceiling above him, absently focusing on the ingrained patterns there.

Silence drowns the room. Wei Ying does not return.

He sits up and shifts to the side of the bed, feet on the floor, and stares at the washroom door as he waits. There is no hint of brightness; Wei Ying has not lit a candle or lantern.

Worry rises in him like a flood. He does not want to disturb him, but if he is ill--

Lan Wangji moves quietly to the door and taps at it, three quick and quiet knocks.

"Wei Ying? Are you well?"

He jerks his head up as if the knock were a clap of thunder. His stomach twists and heaves; he slams a hand over his mouth to muffle the cry the nearly claws up from his throat.

No, no, no, he thinks blindly.

Breathe, Wen Qing answers in his mind.

He breathes. "I'm fine," he croaks around his fingers, voice shaking so badly that he knows it would not fool anyone -- least of all his dearest friend. "Go back to sleep, Lan Zhan."

The sound to Wei Ying's voice, that desperate quaver, rips through him like a blade.

He has never in his life wanted so badly to break down a door.

"Wei Ying."

But Wei Ying knows - has to know, by now - that Lan Wangji would not mind being woken. Would want to help. Has helped, before. And still, he has locked himself away in another room to hide, rather than --

What should he do? What? He feels panic take him by the throat and squeeze as he frantically tries to think of what would be the best thing, what Wei Ying needs most in this moment, and then the right question hits him.

What would Jiang Yanli do?

A-Xian. He can almost hear her soft whisper, and has to fight the urge to check the room for a gentle ghost.

"Take your time," he says, quietly, hoping he is doing the right thing. "You are not fine, but you will be. Take whatever you need."

After one more moment of hesitation, he moves away from the door and begins to light a few lanterns. Just a few; just enough to paint the room with soft, warm light.

He did not expect this kindness, this mercy, and it undoes him far worse than if Lan Zhan had knocked down the door and swept him into his arms.

He buries his face in his hands. The careful breaths he'd been practicing hitch into sobs; those, too, he tries unsuccessfully to stifle. Hopefully the closed door will do the work for him. Hopefully.

Hunched over himself, he cries until the pain in his belly begins a slow fade, only to find himself crying even harder in sheer relief that the attack has begun to pass. See? Not long at all, he imagines Wen Qing saying gently. There you are. Do not stop breathing.

Gradually, Wei Wuxian trails into aching hiccups. He lifts his head. There is light under the door, he realizes with a sinking feeling. Lan Zhan is still awake.

Well.

He rises to twist on the tap above the small wash basin. He dashes palmfuls of water across his face to try and compose himself, fumbling for another towel once he's done to mop off his face and hands.

He still looks like a wreck when he opens the washroom door.

Edited 2020-09-28 15:30 (UTC)

He has kept himself busy in the room to keep himself from opening the washroom door despite his best intentions.

One small lantern is lit and hanging at the foot of the bed; another hangs over the low table. Wei Ying's coverlet has been neatly folded and laid ready, so that he will easily be able to pull it over himself when he lies down once more.

Lan Wangji is doing his best not to pace back and forth by the hallway door, and has managed it by dint of staring at the bookshelf and thinking of things to add to it. He turns as soon as he hears the door open, but stays where he is.

For now.

"Do you want tea?"

Gently said.

Too tired to object, Wei Wuxian nods silently, eyes downcast.

He shuffles back to his side of the bed and sinks down, unable to stop himself from hunching over even now.

He crosses the room and picks up the coverlet, then places it gently around Wei Ying's shoulders.

"I will not be long," he murmurs. "Wait for me."

He vanishes out the door and down to the common room.

(Next time, there will be a teapot and kettle already in the room, ready in case it is needed. He will see to it first thing in the morning, along with the short list of other items he had found himself wishing for in the last few minutes.)

He tugs the coverlet more securely around himself, burrowing into the soft fabric. Otherwise, he does not move as Lan Zhan departs, does not look up from where his gaze has landed on the bottom corner of the privacy screen.

The pain has wrung him out so utterly that he can hardly remember why his nerves lit up every time he looked at Lan Zhan. It seems so trivial. He closes his eyes, too exhausted to even scold himself for his own foolishness.

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