acrookedpath | [pfsb]

[pfsb]

Lan Zhan, he writes, I'm swimming in the lake! I love you -- Wei Ying. After a moment's thought, Wei Wuxian adds a smiley face to the bottom like Madam Bar so often does with her napkin notes.

It's unseasonably warm today, more early summer than late fall. The trees have dropped enough of their leaves that Wei Wuxian knows such days will depart for good soon enough. And frankly, if he stares at his latest iteration of the energy-revealing array much longer, his eyes will cross and stick that way. He needs to clear his head.

After leaving one copy of the note in their room and another with Madam Bar, he requests some swimming attire; she provides a black short-sleeved shirt much like the one he wore to London Above, the fabric smooth as silk but much stretchier, and loose red trousers that end just above his knees. A little revealing for a lake shared by many, perhaps, but they'll do.

He changes in the public washroom and walks to the shoreline. Stepping onto one of the larger rocks, he eyes the water with a smile.

Then he backs up, sprints forward to spring off the rock, and cannonballs into the lake with a loud whoop.

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He raises his other hand and traces the curve of that smile with trembling fingers, then nods.

Wei Wuxian returns the nod. With care, he moves their clasped hands from his face so he can catch both of Lan Zhan's hands between his palms; he kisses them, lingering, and rubs his thumbs along their sides as if to warm them up.

"Let me make you tea," he murmurs, studying Lan Zhan's face for any sign of reluctance. "I will not go far. All right?"

He draws a careful breath, and nods again.

The room is not that large. He will not lose sight of Wei Ying. And tea will likely help them both, right now.

"All right," he whispers again, and stretches to kiss Lan Zhan. It is brief, but grounding: I am here.

Wei Wuxian pads the short distance across the room to the kettle and pot. It feels faintly absurd to stand there, preparing water and measuring out the leaves of their stash of Gusu Lan white, while completely naked; it's not as if anyone else will see, though. He absently gathers his hair behind his shoulders as he waits for the water to boil.

Lan Zhan does not scare easily, he hears himself saying to Ciri some hours ago. If I were to count on one hand how many times I have seen him this afraid, I would have several fingers left to spare.

Was it this bad in the earliest days of Cold Pond Cave? Worse? Surely worse, for how Lan Zhan spoke of it before: at least his nightmares are not so frequent now. And at least Wei Wuxian is here to wake him up.

Like he could not for three years.

The kettle's hiss scales up to a whistle. Swiftly, he extinguishes the heat and pours the water into the teapot. Before he can forget, he sketches a spark talisman in the air to push toward the incense burner, then gathers both teapot and cups to return to their bed.

When he turns around, he will find Lan Wangji sitting up at the head of the bed, meditating.

Or trying to, at least. His breathing has steadied, but his eyes are only half-closed, so that he can keep watch over the room.

Over Wei Ying.

He sits next to Lan Zhan at the head of the bed, nudging aside the coverlet with his foot so he can place the tray in front of them. "Here," he murmurs as he pours a cup and presses it into Lan Zhan's hands.

As soon as he's certain Lan Zhan has hold of the tea, Wei Wuxian drapes an arm around him.

He leans into Wei Ying's embrace, and takes a sip of the tea.

A few moments pass before he says,

"I am sorry. If I frightened you."

"Do not apologize, Lan Zhan," he says, quiet but firm. His arm tightens fractionally around him. "There is no need."

It was only a temporary fright, besides. Hardly a concern at all.

There is still a thin line of dampness on Lan Zhan's cheek; gently, Wei Wuxian brushes it away with the pad of his thumb.

"Mn."

He drinks some more of his tea, and stays quiet.

So does Wei Wuxian.

He does not need to know what Lan Zhan dreamt about. It was awful; that is enough. And on the frequent nights Wei Wuxian bolts out of his own awful dreams, he rarely wants to speak of them.

So all he does is hold Lan Zhan, his thumb rubbing a slow circle over the knob of bone at his shoulder, the scent of the tea mingling with the sandalwood smoke of the incense burner.

Slowly, very slowly, he relaxes, sinking further into Wei Ying's embrace.

Eventually, he sets the teacup aside and wraps both arms around him.

He kisses the top of Lan Zhan's head, settling his other arm around him as well.

"I am here," he murmurs again. "And I am safe. So are you."

A shiver runs through him, but he nods.

"Yes."

He bends his head; gathers him closer.

"If it would help to speak of it," he says, no louder, "you can. But you don't have to. We can sit, and drink tea. I will talk more of my projects. I will sing the most ridiculous songs I heard in London Above. Anything you wish; anything you need."

He shakes his head.

“Only be here. With me. Safe.”

The stark, simple request says all that needs to be said about his nightmare, he is certain.

“Whatever you wish to say. Or do. Or not. Just... be here.”

It does. Wei Wuxian nods against his head, the small ache beneath his ribs growing.

"Then I will be here." He runs his palm down Lan Zhan's back; the pale Gusu Lan ribbon tied to his wrist looks like a flash of moonlight against the dark fall of his hair. "Safe in our room, with you."

He turns his face back into Wei Ying’s shoulder, holding him closer.

“It does not happen often. Not any more.”

Muffled, a little, but audible.

"I know," he whispers, even as his heart fractures. "I am glad it's rarer than it was."

He wraps his arms more securely around Lan Zhan, as if to shield him from another encroaching nightmare.

He nods, very slightly, and lets himself be held.

He returns to smoothing his hand along Lan Zhan's hair. The tea cools; the incense burns lower.

Softly, after a short time, he begins to speak again. It is the same musing aloud that Lan Zhan has heard from him countless times: there is an idea I have, but I cannot grasp the shape of it yet. As a written talisman brings something new into existence, so Wei Wuxian's murmuring helps to carve the idea.

This time, though, it is more than that. It is also continued reassurance: I am still here. I have plans for works not yet completed.

I am not going anywhere.

He listens, his head resting on Wei Ying’s shoulder, arms around him. Occasionally, he murmurs a soft sound of encouragement; sometimes, he asks a question.

Each time, more than the words themselves are said.

I am here, too. I am paying attention. You matter to me.

I love you.

It drifts, as conversation does -- even one-sided conversation such as this. New people he has met. New things he is finding at the inn, even now. (There is an enormous stone room underneath the common area he'd never known about until someone mentioned it: it holds row after row of machines, as far as the eye can see, cars and motorcycles of London Above but also mechanical men taller than the steps of Koi Tower. He did not wander far, but perhaps they can explore it together sometime.) Talk of London Above naturally circles to him singing a few bars of a song, muffling laughter against Lan Zhan's hair as he recalls the enthusiasm of the karaoke performers: Strangers, waiting, up and down the boulevard --

Of course he has to explain why he's laughing, then. And sing a little more of the melody for Lan Zhan.

Then another one, as he remembers a deeply heartfelt performance from a young woman not long before he and Ingress moved on to the next bar.

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true
Nothing that I wouldn't do
Go to the ends of the earth for you
To make you feel my love...

The lyrics to this particular song, sung softly in Wei Ying's voice, reach deep within him and take root.

His fingers are trembling, just a little, as he raises one hand to cradle his cheek, stroking his thumb back and forth over the delicate arch of bone.

Slowly, gently, Lan Wangji leans up to kiss him.

Wei Wuxian cups the back of his head as he returns the kiss, sweetly.

When it breaks: "I will learn the rest of that one," he murmurs with a smile. "It may not be a song for us you wrote years ago, but I will still sing it whenever you wish."

Sudden tears sting his eyes at the sweet, loving promise, catching him completely off guard.

Overwhelmed, undone, he buries his face in Wei Ying’s shoulder once more, letting his own hair fall forward to hide him.

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