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 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.

As promised, it does not take him long.

He returns with tea (already prepared), a small folding table that can be set up at the side of the bed (since Wei Ying had settled there), an incense burner and sandalwood incense, and a wooden basin.

The incense burner (not yet lit) and incense go on the low table near the door, as does the basin, for now. He carries the rest over to Wei Ying and sets up the folding table, then places the tea service on it.

He kneels down in front of Wei Ying and pours a cup of tea, then takes his hand and places the cup in it, holding on until he is sure the other man has it secure.

He is not entirely immune after all: Lan Zhan's touch sets off a small shock through him, like lightning grounding itself. It brings him back to where he sits. The floor under his bare feet. The soft give of the mattress. The warm blanket draped over his shoulders.

Tea cupped in his palm, and Lan Zhan's fingers curled around his.

His hand is steady, but he can't make himself move to lift the cup. Instead, desperate to hang on to the present, he wraps his other hand around Lan Zhan's where it rests against the ceramic.

He stays in place, utterly still, clasping Wei Ying's hand and the teacup between both of his, Wei Ying's other hand now curled over one of his own.

After a single frozen moment in which he makes himself ignore the sudden hammering of his heart, he begins to stroke his thumb gently back and forth over Wei Ying's curled fingers, hoping to soothe and comfort him somehow.

He bows his head, as if by hiding behind his loose hair he could also hide how he has stopped breathing.

Surely Lan Zhan can feel his pulse rabbiting against his fingers. The touch is not grounding any longer -- it is overwhelming, so much for such a small, simple movement. They are too close together. It would be too easy to reach out and pull him even closer, and --

He can't. He can't.

His hands tremble, then still again. With a ragged breath, even as his mind cries out not to let go, he pulls his hands free of Lan Zhan's to take a sip of tea.

He shifts backward and rises to his feet in a single graceful movement, drawing a quick breath as he does so, then goes to the low table near the door and sets up the incense burner and lights it with a spark talisman.

As the warm scent of sandalwood curls through the room, he returns to the bed. His hesitation is only an instant, not enough to easily be noticed, before he takes a seat on it beside Wei Ying -- near, but not so close as to overly crowd him.

He stays quiet for now, waiting for Wei Ying to speak in his own time.

Wei Wuxian draws his legs up to sit crosslegged on the bed, setting his hands in his lap with the cup cradled between them. He endeavors to straighten his back and breathe deep as if he were just learning how to meditate. The incense slows the jitter of his heart; he focuses on that, rather than the slight dip in the mattress from where Lan Zhan sits next to him.

Breathe. Wen Qing is quieter now, as if knowing she has left him in good hands.

(And then there is Harrow, from mere hours earlier: He is so obviously the most important person in your life. And it is just as obvious that nothing matters to him as much as you.)

Yet he can only bear so many devastations in one night. If he bares his heart to Lan Zhan and ruins everything --

He can't.

He ought to appreciate what they have while it lasts.

It is not very long before his shoulders slump again, his focus gone, and -- still without a word -- he moves closer to lean his head on Lan Zhan's shoulder, in the same companionable way he has before.

As he has in the past, he puts his arm behind Wei Ying to brace and support him as he leans against Lan Wangji's shoulder.

"I am here," he murmurs. "We are both here."

Whatever this nightmare was, it has shaken him deeply. He will not press; not until Wei Ying can speak of it, not when it had driven him to hide.

He nods against Lan Zhan's shoulder, watching the far wall.

"I'm glad you are," he whispers. "I know I have -- not been myself tonight. But it is not because of anything you've done."

(Except stand there and be beautiful, he thinks, and has calmed enough -- or grown tired enough -- that he can even find a touch of humor to it.)

There are no sudden shocks beneath Lan Zhan's touch now: only a quiet, steady warmth. He imagines the blues and whites and greys of Lan Zhan's energy enveloping him like a second blanket; the brilliance of his golden core illuminating the blackness of the nightmare, driving it back as surely as a sword.

"Mn."

Relief, selfish as it may be, rushes through him in a wave. Whatever is wrong - and it is even more clear now that something is - it is not something that he has done, not some unintended harm that he has caused Wei Ying.

"I am here," he repeats. "You do not ever need to hide from me."

There is nothing of accusation in the quiet words, only affirmation.

"Sometimes I do."

Quietly said, with no rancor -- or any other emotion.

"When it is very, very bad. Like this. It does not happen often, but it is bad enough that I would even hide from shijie were she here. And it is not your fault either."

Oh, Xianxian.

The hair at the nape of his neck stirs at the ghost of a ghost of a presence, invoked by his earlier desperate thoughts and her brother's own quiet words - and before that, by a ritual at the water's edge. He will have to play Inquiry tomorrow, just in case, but not now.

Now, memory is more important; the memory of Jiang Yanli standing in front of him in the Unclean Realm, gentle and kind and with the strength of bright steel.

Second Young Master Lan. I need to ask you something.

And then again, later, sitting at the bedside where Wei Ying lay unconscious while he himself played guqin, day after day, the two of them united in their determination and the quiet understanding between them.

I promise you, he tells her now, in the silence of his mind, the same words he had spoken to her then. I will do everything I can.

For an instant, he thinks he can feel a breath of air pass through the otherwise still room, drifting lightly over Wei Ying's hair before it fades and is gone.

Lan Wangji closes his eyes, and draws a slow, careful breath of his own.

"Then when you do," he says. "When you must. I will be here when you come back. Like this."

Equally quiet, and very certain.

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