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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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?"

"No," he says. "I do not need it. I am not in pain."

Wei Wuxian glances over his shoulder, all set to shoot Lan Zhan a skeptical look -- but to his surprise (and not-insubstantial relief), Lan Zhan does not carry the same avoidant posture as before, when he insisted he was fine even while half collapsed over a table.

"All right," he says again, more cheerfully. "Then -- "

He scoots around to Lan Zhan's back and uncaps the ointment, dabbing it onto the lacerations.

He stays still and patient throughout as Wei Ying applies the ointment, while quiet wonder blossoms in his heart once more.

Only once Wei Ying finishes, once he hears the quiet click of the cap snapping back into place, does he turn to him and put both arms around his waist, burying his face in Wei Ying's shoulder.

The embrace squeezes a startled laugh out of Wei Wuxian, even as his arms go around Lan Zhan without thought to draw him closer.

"Lan Zhan, what is it?" he asks.

He shakes his head, saying nothing, and just holds on.

A tiny spark of worry ignites under his breastbone. With care, he smooths a hand down Lan Zhan's back; touches his lips to his hair, breathing in the scent of him.

"I am here," he whispers. "It's all right."

He nods, this time.

"Yes."

He holds Lan Zhan a moment longer, continuing to run his palm over his back in slow, careful strokes. Already, he has begun to learn the map of his scars, fingertips meeting each ridge and valley without surprise. He will not grow used to it; he cannot. But he can accept that they are and shall remain a part of Lan Zhan.

Eventually, he coaxes Lan Zhan's head from his shoulder so he can draw him into a kiss, small ans sweet.

He kisses him back, then smiles up at him, slight but clear.

"Thank you."

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