lightamidchaos | [pfsb] sword forms by the lake

Entry tags:

ingress,
wei wuxian

[pfsb] sword forms by the lake

It is late afternoon by the time he makes his way outside.

Lan Wangji is well aware that Wei Ying would probably very much prefer him to be resting again at present, and in truth he likely should be, especially given what had just come to pass in the library not long before.

But. But. It has been three days, and he needs to know how much strength he can regain, how quickly, before he returns to Cold Pond Cave and faces his brother, tomorrow.

(He is fairly certain Shufu did not intend the injuries to be quite as severe this time, either. Fairly certain.)

Bichen flashes into his hand, gleaming along the blade with a faint, icy blue-white shine. Lan Wangji draws a deep breath, and begins to move through each of the Lan sword forms in a slow motion routine, his concentration absolute.

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"On the other hand," he muses, "if I waved my arms around too much, I might upset the tea." He drums his fingers against Lan Zhan's chest, gently. "They will have to be small arm-waves. Or just hand waves. Or I could make faces -- you can read my face very well by now, I know! As I can read yours. To think I once thought you never made faces at all."

He pauses just long enough to kiss Lan Zhan's cheek.

"Stoic Lan Zhan. So much less stoic than anyone knows."

“Perhaps they are just unobservant,” he suggests, blandly.

Wei Wuxian lets out a deeply affronted noise. The one disadvantage of sharing a bed as they are: it makes it very easy for him to dig a gentle elbow into Lan Zhan's ribs.

"Lan Zhan! So cruel and so pitiless?"

Maybe the affronted posture would work better if he didn't start laughing midway through.

“Mn.”

As Wei Ying starts laughing, he puts both arms back around him and pulls him down for another kiss.

Oh. Well, if Lan Zhan's going to kiss him, perhaps he'll reexamine his stance on him being cruel and pitiless.

He sinks into it with a quiet hum of contentment; follows it with another kiss as soon as it ends. If Lan Zhan wants a quiet tea warmer out of this arrangement, this seems like an extremely effective way to get it.

As he wraps one arm around Wei Ying's waist and slides his other hand into his hair, deepening the next kiss, he is tempted, very tempted, to roll them both over in the bed and spend the next shichen or so doing his best to demonstrate the full and complete extent of his feelings for Wei Ying.

Unfortunately, he suspects that doing so will mean he is not in Cold Pond Cave in time for Xichen's arrival.

He breaks the kiss, finally, and draws his hand slowly through Wei Ying's hair, instead.

"I will comb your hair," he murmurs. "Then I will bring you tea. You can warm it, if you wish."

Wei Wuxian, having barely succeeded in fighting off similar temptations, shivers slightly as Lan Zhan runs his fingers through his hair.

"Are you certain I can't get it?" Off Lan Zhan's look: "Ah, I know, I am fussing too much and it is a simple enough task. You can go if you wish."

“I like taking care of Wei Ying.”

Quietly said, and as matter of fact as though observing that the sun rises or water is wet.

He kisses him one more time, then twists to lean down by the bed and sort through his discarded robes for his qiankun bag and his comb.

Wei Wuxian's grin softens to a downright foolish smile. He sits up, the coverlet pooling around his waist, and stretches his arms high overhead; he twists from side to side with a satisfied groan before gathering his hair behind his shoulders.

It does not seem too terribly tangled. That's good. Much as both of them wish he could, Lan Zhan cannot afford to spend ages working out any truly stubborn knots in Wei Wuxian's hair.

He settles back on the bed behind Wei Ying and carefully gathers his hair into a long fall before beginning to run the comb through it, working downward from his scalp with gentle care.

Tonight, he will bring camellia oil, he promises himself.

His hair could use it: he has been somewhat lackadaisical in its care, though not outright neglectful. Wei Wuxian closes his eyes, tips his head back as the comb moves downward, hums low and pleased; he folds his hands in his lap and absently runs his thumb over the Gusu Lan emblem at his wrist.

Already he can feel his mind drawing to stillness again. How can this be all it takes, to find a relative measure of peace? He should never have joked about it last night.

He moves steadily, methodically drawing the comb through short sections, ensuring each one is smooth and untangled before moving to the next.

Once he has done so, he runs the comb's teeth lightly all over Wei Ying's scalp, as much for the pleasure it brings as to help his hair grow, then switches to long, full, slow strokes all the way from the crown of his head to the ends of his hair.

A full-body shiver zips through Wei Wuxian as Lan Zhan scrapes the comb against his scalp. It would be so easy to lean back against him, every limb unknotted, and forget everything except the feel of Lan Zhan's diligent hands at his hair.

It would also make it a lot more difficult for Lan Zhan to keep combing his hair, so he forces himself to stay upright -- though he is visibly looser than he was before, every breath long and slow.

Something flares in his eyes as Wei Ying shivers, but he does not alter the rhythm of his strokes or the gentle care in each languid, soothing pass of the comb through Wei Ying’s hair.

Only once every hint of a tangle is long-vanished and the dark strands lie silken and smooth under his touch does he set his comb aside and reach down for the bright red ribbon. Carefully, he gathers Wei Ying’s hair into its usual style and fastens it securely.

Then, unable to resist, he pulls the other man’s head back to lie against his own shoulder, arching his throat, and bends forward to place a possessive kiss where Wei Ying’s neck meets his shoulder.

So much for his breath staying even: the kiss draws a soft gasp out of him, as he gives into his desire to simply mold against Lan Zhan and stay there. Languidly, he reaches for one of Lan Zhan's hands to tug it over his shoulder, winding their fingers together.

"Thank you, Lan Zhan," he murmurs.

In a moment, he will offer to comb Lan Zhan's hair as well. Or... perhaps more than a moment.

“You are welcome.”

He leaves his fingers entwined with Wei Ying’s and wraps his other arm around his waist, holding him close, content in the moment.

He luxuriates in the quiet while it lasts, held by Lan Zhan, noting every small shift in movement between them without concern or thought. Warm sunlight stretches toward them across the bed, no longer the red glow of sunrise but the yellow light of morning. It surprises him how simple this is. How easy, to do nothing but exist.

But his mind cannot stay quiet for too long. It starts with a few restless threads of music that will not be banished; that, in turn, spins into a web of ideas -- music to call thanergy, music to play alongside Lan Zhan, compositions the library might hold, a trip to the forest to continue his explorations --

He squeezes Lan Zhan's hand to calm the thoughts, noting how the other man's long, elegant fingers feel against his own.

"Here," he whispers, and raises his head. "Let me take care of your hair, and your back as well."

“All right.”

He squeezes Wei Ying’s fingers and kisses his cheek, then picks up the comb and hands it to him.

Wei Wuxian's smile grows at the kiss. He accepts the comb and turns around, beckoning for Lan Zhan to do the same.

The scars do not look any less terrible in the light of morning than they did the night before. A sick knot tightens in his throat; he swallows it away, gathering Lan Zhan's hair so it may fall softly over the marks. He draws his fingers through it in an initial coaxing, as soft and gentle as if they were still lying side by side in bed.

Once that is complete, he sets to work properly combing it with the same care and focus Lan Zhan displayed.

His breath catches.

Lan Wangji is not certain of the last time someone touched him like this. Treatment by a doctor or someone acting as one is different, of course. Even more different, and utterly treasured, is the passion that runs between him and Wei Ying now. But this--

No one touches the icy, remote, peerless Second Jade of Lan. Not casually, and certainly not with such intent. No one reaches for Hanguang-jun, not in passing, and never like this.

No one but Wei Ying. Wei Ying, who has always been easy to touch, who for so long thought nothing of slinging his arm around another's shoulders, of friendly, warm camaraderie, and who cannot possibly realize just how overwhelming that is to him, just how much it means. Wei Ying, who ignored the distance that Lan Wangji had tried to set between himself and the rest of the world from the start, and who now has become the most beloved person in it.

He closes his eyes, tries to steady his breathing, and gives himself over to the sensation of being cared for, with love.

He pauses only briefly, when Lan Zhan's breath hitches, to ensure he did not accidentally bump one of the fresh injuries on his back. Only when he is certain Lan Zhan isn't in pain does he continue.

The tangles of the previous night's exertions give way beneath the comb, little by little. Wei Wuxian hums softly as he works: sometimes a snippet of melody he makes up on the spot, sometimes a line from one of Harrow's songs. Once, even, something he vaguely remembers from his excursion to London Above.

When he is done, he sweeps Lan Zhan's hair forward over his shoulders to lay his back bare. Very gently, he presses a kiss to one of the scars high upon his shoulder blades, lingering, eyes closed.

A shiver runs through him, even as he suddenly holds himself very, very still.

"Wei Ying," he whispers.

Very soft: "I love you, Lan Zhan."

I love every part of you.

A moment passes, and he breaks into a rueful chuckle, drawing away from Lan Zhan. "I also don't remember where your hairpiece ended up. Let me go ahead and tend to your back, then we will finish with your hair."

He huffs out a soft breath that might be a whisper of a laugh, and nods.

"I am in your hands."

"All right," he says, soft and warm.

Dropping one more small kiss on the side of Lan Zhan's neck, he clambers further up the bed to retrieve the ointment. "Ah, there was also the salve she gave you for pain -- do you want that as well?"

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