acrookedpath | [pfsb]

[pfsb]

The latest idea that struck Wei Wuxian mid-lunch: if he combined one of the theoretical energy talismans with a paper doll, would that allow him to search the grounds for resentful energy without having to blanket the whole inn with talismans?

It seems like a sound idea! It won't replace the planned night hunt with Lan Zhan -- nor would he want it to -- but if he succeeds, it will be a fun experiment.

First, though: combining a paper doll with a simpler talisman. Which brings us to Wei Wuxian at a table underneath the Observation Window, not an inch left uncovered by his notes, scribbling onto a tiny cutout with a ballpoint pen Bar gave him. (What an invention!) He completes the last character with a flourish and waves his hand over the doll; it springs to its "feet," and, grinning, he directs it toward the empty cup perched precariously on a corner of the table.

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Wei Wuxian smiles at him, then winces a bit as the comb hits a tangle near the nape of his neck. Carefully, he wrangles the teeth through the knotted hair, smoothing it into place as the tangles give way.

(Yes. He definitely needs to remember to eat, and to take care of himself a little better, if only so Lan Zhan will not have to fuss so much.)

Once he's done, he holds the comb out to Lan Zhan.

He smiles back -- faint and hard to see unless you know him well, but there -- and accepts it, then tucks it away neatly in his qiankun bag.

Hài hour is drawing near, he knows, even though he might wish it otherwise.

"Are you tired?"

"A little." He stretches his arms overhead, twists from side to side, then topples over to sprawl on the bed. His loose hair fans over the pillow. "It was only two ghosts, but it has been so long that I feel like I walked a dozen kilometers."

Edited 2020-09-07 16:42 (UTC)

"Mn."

Wei Ying must be almost boneless, Lan Wangji thinks, like a cat, easily able to lie comfortably draped wherever he finds himself, whether that be on a rooftop, or as now, across his bed.

He himself cannot make himself be quite so casual, but does manage to shift and sit cross-legged on his own bed. Focusing on his posture helps him keep himself from paying undue attention to the black-silk fall of Wei Ying's hair.

"Maybe it will not be as long. Until next time."

Edited 2020-09-07 16:48 (UTC)

"It won't." He aims a grin up at Lan Zhan. "Now that I know it's there, I will have plenty of chances to practice more."

It is ridiculous of him to worry. He knows it. Wei Ying is both brilliant and capable.

And yet--

"I will go with you. When you want."

"Good," he says. "I was going to say -- "

We still work well together.

I have missed this.

" -- I was glad to have you and Bichen at my back."

He feels lightheaded, almost dizzy.

I am sorry I was not there when you needed me.

I will not fail you again.

"From now on," he promises. "As long as you wish."

His smile softens. He watches Lan Zhan a moment longer, then punches the pillow a couple times to make it more comfortable and rolls onto his side.

Let me remember this tonight, he thinks. Let me forget the rest.

"You will fall asleep sitting upright again, Lan Zhan," he warns, lightly.

"Mn."

Wei Ying is ... probably not wrong, he realizes.

Lan Wangji lies down on his back, pillow neatly positioned under his head, and folds his hands over his middle dantian in his usual sleeping position.

"Good night, Wei Ying."

Habit overtakes him, and he is asleep in mere moments.

"Good night, Lan Zhan," he murmurs.

As Lan Zhan's breathing shifts to that of deep sleep, swiftly as ever, Wei Wuxian's smile fades. He props himself on his elbow to study the other man.

Carefully, after a few moments, he swings his feet out of bed to set them on the floor. When Lan Zhan still doesn't stir, he sighs, barely audible, and pads over to the low table to resume his work.

He marks the hour by the arc of the moon; he may not know how long he sits at the table, crafting talisman after talisman, but after what must be several hours, the moon has risen far enough that it no longer shines enough light into his room. He stifles a yawn against the back of his hand, blinking heavily at the latest stack of papers he created. A little longer, he thinks. Just a little longer.

Sketching a line of characters in the air, he conjures a tiny orb of red light, dim enough not to disturb Lan Zhan, bright enough to let him finish another talisman or three. He makes it halfway through the second talisman before realizing his brushwork has become too sloppy from exhaustion; with a sigh, he crumples up the ruined talismans, extinguishes the light, and shuffles back to bed in defeat.

He watches the ceiling. He counts Lan Zhan's breaths. He tries, as hard as he can, to stay awake just a little longer.

But eventually, the exhaustion wraps its arms around him to pull him under, and he is too weak to fight back.

Two hours later, his eyes snap open.

His whole body is rigid, locked in place. He tries to twitch his fingers and can't. His eyes dart back and forth; frantically, he sucks in a rasping breath, struggling to fill his lungs.

Help, he tries to say, but all that comes out is a weak wheeze. Help me.

His breathing is slow and rhythmic in the darkness of the room.

As the faint sound of Wei Ying's desperate, strangled breath drifts through the air, a slight frown draws a tiny line between his eyebrows, but Lan Wangji does not otherwise stir.

He has to get up. He must. If he doesn't, if he can't pull the needle from his neck, if he can't get his body to move in defiance of Wen Qing's attempts to keep him from doing anything --

"Help," he manages to croak, and then all at once, the lock on his muscles breaks.

He rolls from the bed and lands on his hands and knees. Frantically, he scrabbles at the back of his neck -- but he can't find the needle anywhere, where is it, where is it, please --

-- help --

The tiny, miserable cry jerks him from sleep to wakefulness in an instant. As he rolls to his side, trying to see what's happening, Wei Ying falls to the floor and Lan Wangji discovers that he can, in fact, move faster than he ever thought possible.

He scrambles from the bed and drops to his knees beside Wei Ying, throwing an arm around him for support.

"Wei Ying. Wake up. Wake up."

"Lan Zhan -- "

His voice cracks into a sob. He heaves more air into his chest as he keeps clawing at the back of his neck, a curtain of hair half obscuring his face.

"I can't find it -- pull it out, please, pull it out, I have to -- "

"Shh. I will look."

He has no idea what he is looking for, but that does not stop him. He slides his hand up Wei Ying's back to his neck, under his hair, and gently probes with his fingers, carefully searching along the nape of his neck, the sides of his throat, the base of his skull.

While he does, he reaches across in front of Wei Ying to put his other hand on his shoulder. With a light pull, Lan Wangji tries to get Wei Ying to turn and look at him.

"I am here, Wei Ying. I will help."

"Hurry," he begs. "Please. Lan Zhan, I have to stop them before they get too far, they're going to..."

Even if he's half-paralyzed, he can move enough to follow where Lan Zhan guides him. There's no coherence to the gaze Wei Wuxian turns on him; his eyes are too wide, brimming with tears, and each breath moves his chest like a bellows.

Lan Zhan is here, he thinks. He doesn't know why he's here, how he made it to the Burial Mounds or why he wants to help, but he will. He will. He's...

...not wearing his forehead ribbon?

Wei Wuxian's brow knots in confusion.

There is nothing to find, no wound or protrusion or anything to remove. Whatever Wei Ying thought was there must have been part of his dream.

I have to stop them-- They're going to--

The first dim inkling of what this dream may have been starts to seep into his awareness.

His fingers still, leaving his hand gently cupped around the back of Wei Ying's neck as he searches the other man's face, worry visible on his own.

"Wei Ying."

He says it as gently as he can.

There's no pain where Lan Zhan touches the back of his neck. No needle.

Lan Zhan is not wearing his forehead ribbon, and they are in a room, not a cave, with two beds side by side, and a towel draped over the privacy screen that is nothing like the finely-woven cloth of home -- because this isn't home. It's the inn.

They're at the inn.

His face crumples, loosing the tears down his face, as he leans into Lan Zhan.

He puts both arms around Wei Ying as he collapses, weeping.

After a moment or two, it's clear that this storm will take some time to pass. He shifts them both slightly, enough that he can slip one arm under Wei Ying's knees, and then uses his core's strength for support as he heaves himself upward, carrying Wei Ying.

Lan Wangji sits down on his bed, Wei Ying on his lap, puts both arms back around him, and holds him close while he cries.

He wants to feel more ashamed by this. How, for the second night in a row, he has disturbed Lan Zhan's sleep and sobbed like a child onto his robes. And it is worse tonight; no silent tears, but a wretched, keening grief he cannot begin to choke back, as he throws his arms around Lan Zhan's neck and buries his face against him.

Behind his eyelids, bodies sway above the gates of Nightless City.

"She wouldn't let me," he tries to explain, but it's too clogged with tears to be understandable.

Edited 2020-09-07 19:55 (UTC)

He hums something wordless in answer. There will be time to talk later.

For now, he keeps him secure in his arms and draws slow, soothing circles over the middle of Wei Ying's back with one hand.

That great, yawning terror has opened in him again: that he will never stop crying, now that he has started.

And yet, somehow, he does. Somehow the sobs turn into hiccups that hurt his chest just as much; somehow the vise in his throat lessens enough for him to swallow more of the tears back. Somehow, he is still here in Lan Zhan's arms, and for all he feels as if he will shatter like the most fragile of glass, Lan Zhan does not let go.

I'm sorry. He isn't sure if he says it aloud to Lan Zhan, or silently to the faces of the dead he could not save. I'm sorry.

As Wei Ying's tears begin to lessen, Lan Wangji leans his head a little to the side and looks down at him, trying to see his face.

He does not loosen his arms, though, nor does he stop the steady, comforting movement of his hand against Wei Ying's back.

His eyes are closed. Tears still leak from their corners, and he sniffles, hard, his face blotchy with the force of his crying.

When he feels Lan Zhan move, he tightens his hold a little, unconsciously.

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