lightamidchaos | [pfsb] ritual aftermath

"Mn."

Lan Wangji studies him carefully for several seconds, taking in every nuance of how ill he looks.

"Lie still," he warns, and gets to his feet.

There is a washbasin in the bathing room, and several clean cloths. He fills it with warm water and carries both it and the cloths back to the bed, then makes a second trip for a drinking cup and pitcher of cool water.

He sets that aside for the moment and kneels beside the bed once more. Moistening one of the cloths, he reaches out to wipe Wei Ying's lips clean, just in case any blood remains.

That... feels nice. He had almost forgotten there was still blood on his mouth. Unconsciously, he sighs, eyes drifting closed.

"I expected that to be simpler," he mumbles.

He sets the used cloth aside and repeats the process with a clean one, making sure every drop of blood is gone before setting that one aside, too.

"She did not tell you?"

He takes a fresh cloth, dampens it and wrings it out, and uses it to gently wipe Wei Ying's brow.

Edited 2020-09-13 04:26 (UTC)

"I did not ask," he admits, as he relaxes further under Lan Zhan's touch. "I did not think to. She said it would be a consecration ceremony, and I did not realize..."

He trails off into a sigh.

"Different worlds. Different necromancy. I should have asked more."

He rinses the cloth, then continues his gentle ministrations.

"Next time. If there is one. Ask."

He huffs a weak laugh. "You may rest assured, Lan Zhan, that I will," he says. "Every detail. Every moment. Every word spoken, every energy used, every drop of blood spilled. All of it."

Would he have still agreed to help the Ninth if he'd known this would happen? He would like to think so. But as the dizzying effects of the resentful energy wear off, he sees a lotus blossom behind his eyes, obscuring half of his sister's face.

He wraps one hand tighter into the blanket.

"Mn."

Wei Ying tenses, and Lan Wangji hesitates for a moment, searching his expression carefully before he resumes.

"Do you want water? To drink?"

"No." His voice has begun to fade. "No, thank you."

The damp cloth on his brow feels so wonderful. Is he sick with fever? Maybe. Maybe there will be soup later, he thinks. She will wake him when it's ready. The blood on her robes, the lotus growing through her -- that will only be because whatever illness he's caught is playing tricks on his mind. That's all.

He makes a noncommittal sound, and continues to wipe Wei Ying's brow, refreshing the cloth with warm water as needed.

Slowly, Wei Wuxian's fingers uncurl from the blanket. He does not stir as Lan Zhan draws the cloth across his brow.

A-Xian, he thinks he hears.

He cannot answer before he slips into darkness.

He waits until he is absolutely certain Wei Ying is deeply asleep and will stay that way before he sets the cloth aside and gets to his feet once more.

Moving as quietly as he can, Lan Wangji leaves the room and returns to the ocean inlet.

A while later, he returns, a bag tucked into his sleeve and carrying a tray with hot water (maintained by a warming talisman), a teapot, two cups and a small packet of Yunmeng black tea ready to be brewed. He is not, quite, dripping sea water, having wrung out the excess before entering the inn. His robes are soaked and ruined, however, with saltwater stains up to the middle of his chest -- both from standing in the inlet in the first place and from being splashed by waves driven by the rising tide.

He sets the tray aside on the low table, lays the bag containing the ritual items flat beside it, checks to make sure Wei Ying is sleeping peacefully still, then takes the washbasin, pitcher, and cloths back to the bathing chamber - along with his qiankun bag, which fortunately had escaped the drenching.

A quarter-shichen later, he emerges once more, wearing a clean set of inner and second-layer robes and with towel-dried hair combed through. He hangs the ruined robes over the privacy screen to dry; perhaps they can be salvaged after all, although he is not hopeful. His qiankun bag (with his hairpiece) and his forehead ribbon he hangs from the small bedside hooks as before -- and then he pauses, considering.

Wei Ying is almost certain to have another nightmare tonight, given everything.

With great care, so as not to make noise, he moves his bed sideways, lifting one end at a time, until it rests flush against the side of Wei Ying's bed, with no space between. Lan Wangji crawls into his own bed and lies down, then reaches out to rest one hand lightly on Wei Ying's side, so that he himself will be able to know and will wake immediately if a nightmare begins or if Wei Ying is otherwise disturbed.

He closes his eyes, and is asleep in moments.

In his dream, he is harvesting lotuses from the lake.

The seeds he planted have flourished beyond all expectation. Flowers cover the entire shoreline; between them, a tiny squid darts to and fro, and he laughs as he chases after it, trousers and robes hiked high to keep them clear of the water. The squid likes to steal the lotus blossoms sometimes. He does not mind. They've even made a game of it: the little creature will try to pluck a flower without Wei Wuxian noticing, and if he catches it, it must give it back.

As he splashes through the knee-high water, his feet tangle on something and send him pitching forward with a yelp. The squid burbles with laughter as it swims away. Wei Wuxian is still laughing, too, as he hefts himself upright, shoving his soaking-wet hair from his eyes.

The laughter dies on his tongue when he sees what he's tripped over.

"Shijie," he whispers, horrified. "Shijie, no -- "

She is tangled in the roots of the lotuses, eyes wide and unseeing. Blood drifts from her mouth in a long thin plume. How long has she been trapped down there? He has seen drowned bodies before, bloated by water -- she is too pale, her fine features swollen, but no, she cannot be dead, no --

Frantically, he tears at the plants to free her. For every one he uproots, another grows fast, seizing his hands, trying to drag him down.

("Shijie," he whispers in his sleep, as he trembles beneath Lan Zhan's hand.)

He wakes with a start in the darkness, unsure at first as to why.

Wei Ying shivers beside him, whispering something, and Lan Wangji realizes what is happening.

He rolls to his side, facing Wei Ying, and raises his hand to the other man's shoulder.

"Wei Ying." Softly, softly said. "Wei Ying. You are dreaming."

Wei Ying.

He cannot tell who says his name. It doesn't sound like his sister, but why would it, if she is dead? (No. No, she is not dead, he will not let it -- )

But something shifts anyway, deeper than memory. This is a voice of safety, of good news, and though it leaves the lightest touch on the dream, it is an indelible one.

Wei Wuxian rips at the lotuses, and they do not re-root. They are only plants in his hands now, not malevolent vines seeking to grasp and drag him down to join Jiang Yanli. He throw himself into the water, wraps his arms around the cold body, pulls --

and he surfaces with a bawling, terrified A-Yuan in his arms, the little boy clutching tight to him as if he will vanish.

He nearly bursts into tears himself from the relief. "Shh, shh," he whispers as his adopted son sobs against his shoulder. "I have you, shh. You are fine. It's all right, A-Yuan. Shhh."

(In the waking world, with no gap to cross between their beds, Wei Wuxian draws closer to Lan Zhan. And as he hugs A-Yuan close in his dream, so he wraps an arm around the other man, seeking comfort, providing the same.)

Lan Wangji stops breathing.

Wei Ying is a warm and solid weight pressed close against him; Wei Ying's arm is around him, holding him tight and keeping him near.

Wei Ying is asleep. He would not do this if he were awake.

It does not matter. Lan Wangji can no more push him away than he could forbid the sun to rise.

Dizzy with the rush of feeling, ears burning, he shifts to lie on his back, putting his arm around him as he does to keep Wei Ying close to him, without disturbing his sleep. He guides Wei Ying's head to rest on his own chest and lies still, trying to steady his breathing and calm his racing heart.

Somehow, in the way of dreams, he has become both himself and A-Yuan, comforter and comforted. It is a strange double vision as he tucks his head protectively over the boy's, long wet hair forming a curtain around them, at the same time he clings tight to a person far bigger than him and cries so hard there is no space left for fear.

It's all right. Shh. You are safe. He is old enough to offer it like a prayer; young enough to hear it as a promise.

Against Lan Zhan, he is boneless, untroubled, his breathing deep and even as he returns to sleep.

Wei Ying is relaxed in his catlike sprawl, deeply asleep once more.

It takes some time before Lan Wangji is able to do the same.

When he wakes again, it is not with an abrupt rush in the dark, but due to the innate time sense that tells him it is mǎo hour and time to rise for the day.

Lan Wangji stifles a yawn and starts to turn - then goes absolutely motionless, frozen in place.

Wei Ying is still lying half on top of him, head on his chest and arm draped over him.

He cannot bring himself to move.

Yesterday was... a long day, to say the least, and Wei Wuxian has never been inclined to wake at mǎo hour, even when he has not participated in strange necromantic rituals that ended with him hallucinating his dead sister and feeling a mountain of resentful energy drop on his head.

He shifts a little when Lan Zhan stirs, but otherwise does not move. After a few moments, a tiny snore escapes him.

Well then. It seems that he will not be rising as usual, not today.

Lan Wangji forces himself to relax and makes himself focus his gaze on the ceiling above them, rather than on Wei Ying's face, the fall of his hair, or the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

In the silence of his mind, he begins to recite the 3,000 rules of Gusu Lan. It is not a usual meditation, but it will serve.

Somewhere around rule seven hundred and fifty, Wei Wuxian finally stirs again.

The bed's... warmer, for some reason? Strange. The pillow feels different as well. Is it moving? Why...?

Groggily, he opens his eyes. Blinks.

"Lan Zhan!" he yelps as he bolts upright, so quickly that a shock of pain goes through his head. He hisses a breath and cradles his forehead before he can muster enough self-awareness to keep up the I'm fine pretense. "Ow. I'm sorry, when did -- ?"

Hang on. Why is the bed suddenly big enough for both of them? Where did Lan Zhan's bed go?

"Do not apologize."

He pushes himself to a sitting position and leans back against the headboard, giving Wei Ying space.

"You needed rest."

He can feel his ears flush, and steadily ignores them.

He kneads his temples, still fixing Lan Zhan with a bewildered look.

"Where did your bed go? Is everything all right?"

"I moved it beside yours."

The explanation sounds stiff and awkward to his own ears, but he manages not to wince.

"I thought you might dream, so--"

"--everything is fine."

He shifts position, preparing to get up.

"Oh." Blankly. With care, he runs a hand over the surface of the bed, and... yes, there it is, a seam where two beds have been pushed so close together they may as well be one. "Yes. Right. I see."

The stab of pain when he moved fades to a soft hum of an ache. Much easier to ignore. Trying to will himself to greater alertness, he rubs his eyes and blinks again as Lan Zhan gets up.

"I did dream," he says, a little smaller. "But it was not awful. Thank you, Lan Zhan."

"No need."

Quieter, this time, and less awkward.

He crosses the room to retrieve the tea tray he had brought up last night, and carries it back to the bed.

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