Chapter Text
The next morning, Lan Wangji wakes early.
Maybe it’s a force of habit—being in an old familiar place makes old familiar routines come back. Maybe he’s just feeling restless. Wei Ying is still fast asleep, so it takes no time for Lan Wangji to untangle from his embrace, slip on some simple robes, and make his exit.
The Cold Springs are as refreshing as he remembers. They soothe his aching muscles and rejuvenate his weathered skin. Their travels have certainly taken a lot out of him. The last time they made such a journey, in reverse, they had taken more time. They hadn’t tried to cover as much ground so quickly. But this time, they could not tarry—especially not in the regions of the major sects. As soon as they crossed into those lands, Lan Wangji was too anxious to allow them much of a pause. The Cold Springs help soothe any regrets he may have had.
It is not long before he hears footsteps in the distance. Lan Wangji doesn’t need to turn around to know who is approaching. Reminded of another life, so many moons ago, he recalls a precocious boy rushing down the steps to join him. Lan Wangji had hastily tied his robe to hide his binder. Now, he stands to face Wei Ying head-on.
“Lan Zhan,” his husband reproaches, placing his hands on his hips as he struts towards him. “That wasn’t very kind of you to leave just like that.”
There’s an edge in his voice that makes Lan Wangji feel hot. His heartbeat accelerates, his breath quickens.
“You were so mean last night,” Wei Ying sighs. “And now, you denied me the pleasure of waking in your arms.”
“I apologize,” he says cooly, playing along.
He seats himself upon the rock he had claimed once more, turning his back to Wei Ying to feign indifference.
“Don’t you dare!” Wei Ying exclaims. “Come here.”
Warmth building in his gut, Lan Wangji obeys. He steps out of the pool and onto the bank, baring himself before his husband.
“On your hands and knees,” Wei Ying instructs.
Wordlessly, Lan Wangji does as he’s told, positioning himself away from his clean pile of clothes. Wei Ying kneels behind him, giving his ass a firm smack. Lan Wangji gasps and bites back a moan. Wei Ying spanks him a second time before he spreads his cheeks open and spits on his hole. Lan Wangji covers his mouth with his hand to muffle any sound.
“Good boy—we can’t get caught,” Wei Ying murmurs, using his fingers to pry Lan Wangji open. His tongue darts around Lan Wangji’s rim before he spits into his hole again. Lan Wangji’s c*nt feels warm as his husband’s fingers roughly breach him.
They have done this many times, but Lan Wangji has never quite gotten used to it. He loves how it feels, regardless. The roughness, the apparent disregard for his comfort, the way his husband uses him.
Wei Ying swirls his tongue a few more times around Lan Wangji’s hole, then he abruptly stands. Lan Wangji hears the sound of his belt unclasping and landing on the ground, then the whisper of fabric opening with a low groan. Then, Wei Ying’s co*ck is poking his ass, prodding his hole until he finds the right angle to sink in.
Lan Wangji bites hard into the meat of his hand. It hurts, as pleasurable as it is. He isn’t sufficiently prepared. The stretch is so good, so harsh. Even though his body is used to Wei Ying, it tries to reject his abrupt entrance. His whole body tenses, but that doesn’t stop his husband.
Wrapping his hand around the ends of Lan Wangji’s hair, Wei Ying yanks his upper body towards him. The sudden motion sheathes him inside completely, and Lan Wangji cries out before he can stop himself. Even with his hand in his mouth, it echoes. Wei Ying clamps his hand over Lan Wangji’s mouth, over Lan Wangji’s own hand.
“Careful, Hanguang-Jun,” Wei Ying warns him, his breath hot in his ear. “Everyone will hear how much of a slu*t you are for me.”
Lan Wangji bites back a moan, the corners of his eyes filling with tears. Wei Ying drives his co*ck into him, hard and fast. His whole body shakes as Wei Ying mercilessly pounds into him, breasts heaving from the weight of the motion. Wei Ying’s free hand roams up his body until he can grope one. He squeezes it harshly, pinching his nipple. Lan Wangji moans behind their hands, tears escaping his eyes as Wei Ying pinches his nipple again, digging his nails in this time. With a jerk of his hips, his husband comes quickly, leaking down Lan Wangji’s shaking thighs.
They kneel for a moment, breathless, before Wei Ying lets go of Lan Wangji’s mouth and pulls out. Wordlessly, Lan Wangji returns to the spring to wash up. He offers Wei Ying a wet washing cloth to clean himself.
“Did you come?” Wei Ying asks as he readjusts his robes.
Lan Wangji shakes his head. He doesn’t mind. Sometimes, the thrill of his husband’s pleasure is enough. He loves how Wei Ying uses him.
“I want you to,” Wei Ying pouts. “Get up.”
Lan Wangji heaves himself out of the pool and lays himself down. Licking his fingers, he spreads his legs. Wei Ying settles in between his legs and spreads Lan Wangji open. He presses his mouth to his c*nt, tongue darting out to lap him up. With his own fingers, Lan Wangji rubs his cl*t, moving faster and faster until he comes.
Wei Ying kisses his puss* through his org*sm, spitting into it as a final act of love. He laps up his own spit and gives his cl*t a final suck, teeth nibbling it just a little bit.
“Lan Zhan, I love you so much.”
The guest lectures begin as they always have. Lan Wangji sees Sizhui off that morning with the children. They wave until he disappears from view, joining the line of other white-clad disciples filing into the main hall.
“What’ll we do now?” Wei Song asks.
“You all will be going to school,” Lan Wangji informs them. “Starting tomorrow.”
While the guest lectures have only just begun, the regular teachings for disciples is ongoing. Once Xichen learned that the entire family was attending, he suggested the children join the regular disciples for their stay. There is much they can learn, and it would keep them amused. The novelty of the whole affair should be interesting to them.
“School?” Wei Huang exclaims. “Why?”
“SCHOOL!” Wei Xiang exclaims. “What’s that?”
Lan Wangji pats her head with a fond smile.
“I never said it would be a vacation,” he says to Huang-er. “As I said before, we are guests here. We must abide by their rules.”
Huang-er makes a face, but doesn’t try to argue with him.
“You may like it,” he teases, reaching over to pinch her cheek.
“Lan Zhan—it’s time.”
Lan Wangji glances up from his book. He had anticipated as much, given that the children are settled in their classes. Wei Ying didn’t just tag along for the fun of it. There is something he wants to do. Something he needs to know.
Lan Wangji closes his book. “Let us go.”
Wei Ying’s transportation talisman is just as powerful as Lan Wangji remembers. One moment, they are standing in the Jingshi, the next they are back where they began. With a rush of his heartbeat, he stumbles forward.
The Burial Mounds look different during the day. The sunlight shines upon the rocks of the Demon-Subdue Palace, washing them in light grey. The sun doesn’t shine as brightly as it would in Gusu. The resentful energy still distorts the sky, filtering it, lessening its strength. Still, Lan Wangji does not feel unwelcome. Like his presence must be purged by the spirits that remain.
There is still a makeshift bed in the corner, worn and decaying with time. Ivy grows between cracks in the rock, fighting to remain alive. Half the leaves are brown and dried, but green remains. Life still holds on.
Wei Ying closes his eyes and breathes the room in. Soft tendrils of smoke-like energy swirl around his husband’s arms, caressing him. Lan Wangji can also sense the ghosts’ presence, but it is different than before. It is… calmer, less angry. These spirits are simply here, with nowhere else to go. Wei Ying’s lips tip up into a soft smile.
“Is it strange that I feel happy now?” he asks, opening his eyes to look at him. “I shouldn’t but…”
Lan Wangji takes his husband’s hand in his. He gives it a reassuring squeeze. “It is not.”
“There were good times here,” Wei Ying murmurs. “In spite of the bad.”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji agrees.
There was devastation here, near-starvation. But there was A-Yuan. There was Wen-popo and the uncles. There was Wen Qing relentlessly scolding Wei Ying. There was Wen Ning.
“I miss them,” Wei Ying says. “I miss them all.”
The ghostly energy snakes around his chest, as though to embrace him. One small tendril caresses his face.
“I think they missed you too,” Lan Wangji says.
Wei Ying closes his eyes and lets the ghosts hold him. A peaceful calm washes over his face, and Lan Wangji sees just how much he needed this. This final time, this closure. They left too quickly before. Wei Ying didn’t have a chance to process anything. He didn’t even have a chance to properly say goodbye.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, eyes still closed. “Do you believe in miracles?”
Of course he does. He must.
“I feel strange,” his husband says. “Like… they’ve been waiting for me. Like they’re part of me.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t know what to say. Though his husband has not used his unique form of cultivation in so long, he never gave it up. He never purged it from his body, never asked to be cleansed. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to, had they tried. Maybe that is what’s keeping Wei Ying alive with him.
“Sometimes, I wonder,” he continues, “if this place is what kept me alive. All those years, feeding me, waiting for me to be revived.”
“We could ask,” Lan Wangji offers. “I could play Inquiry.”
Wei Ying hesitates, considering his proposal. Slowly, he shakes his head.
“I thought I wanted to know,” he says. “But now that I’m here… What does it matter now? I’m alive. What’s passed is past. One moment, I was falling. The next, I was here. And three years had passed.”
“Mn.”
“Do you care?” Wei Ying asks him suddenly, opening his eyes to study him. “Do you want to know?”
“I care about Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji assures him, tucking a strand of hair behind his husband’s ear. “I don’t need to know anything else.”
He can live with one mystery. As long as Wei Ying is happy, as long as they can be together, nothing else matters.
Hand in hand, they roam Wei Ying’s old haunts. The patches of their crops have long grown over. Wildflowers and weeds cover what was once carefully placed rows of potatoes and radishes. The lines the Wen uncles had drawn in the dirt, the rivets Wei Ying helped build, have all but dissolved.
And still, persisting in the deep mud are lotus blossoms.
Wei Ying’s eyes flood with tears. In spite of it all, these blooms have endured.
So will they.
