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There is a local legend told among the villagers of Caiyi, about a young merchant, Fang Jian, who met his end in Biling Lake. Tired and thirsty from his journey, he met a beautiful woman on the outskirts of Zhouzhuang. She had ink-black hair that sparkled in the sunlight and a bright, dazzling smile. Her name was Qiao Ehuang, and they spent an evening together, drinking wine and enjoying each other's company. When she offered to accompany him to Caiyi, he declined politely; he enjoyed flirting with her but he had no desire for romance nor a woman as his travelling companion, especially one who was as talkative and improper as she was. Two days later, Fang Jian travelled to Caiyi and found her, leaning against a stone wall as if she had not been in Zhouzhuang a mere two days before. He tried to ignore her as he wandered through town trying to sell his silks. The more he ignored her the more she persisted, always there, always teasing him. He gave in and spent the night with her. In the morning, he left the Wine House without any of his belongings and waved to the villagers as he walked into Biling Lake with a smile on his face.

Peng Boqin, who sold congee from a little hut opposite the wine house, had recounted the tale of Fang Jian so many times over the years that Lan Wangji had lost count. He had heard it for the first time during his tenth year; it had not changed overly much although Peng Boqin's tendency to waffle had only worsened in his advancing years. Its credibility had worsened as well, the tale's outlandishness becoming more and more pronounced, like the silver in the storyteller's ever diminishing hairline.

Listening to the fable, Lan Wangji always struggled to keep his face free of judgement, but the townsfolk of Caiyi were already of the opinion that members of the Lan sect were pompous and self-righteous, and he did not wish to reinforce the notion.

"It is important," Lan Qiren always said, "that they feel as though they can trust us. Otherwise we cannot protect them."

So if Lan Wangji had to stand there and school his features, so be it. Hardly the most challenging thing he had ever had to do.

There was always a crowd surrounding Peng Boqin, and not for his congee, which was nothing special—though admittedly pleasant enough. For some reason other cultivators, travellers, and any number of other folk seemed to really enjoy his fantastical stories.

The crowd that gathers on this particular day between liqiu^[1] and chushu^[2] is smaller than the usual throng, no more than twelve, no doubt due to the oppressive temperature of one of the hottest days of the year. Punishingly humid, the sweat pools in the hollow of Lan Wangji's throat, the collar of his robes slickly adhered to his skin as he wanders through the market, accompanied by his brother and Lan Zhihao. A stern-faced, statuesque young woman, Lan Zhihao has not long been initiated but her aptitude with healing has impressed even shufu in a remarkably short time.

"And what of Qiao Ehuang?" The question comes from a young man of medium height and a scar that intersects his right eyebrow. He wears Jin sect robes, the plush silk extremely out of place in hot, dusty Caiyi. Too much gold and flawless, immaculate embroidery that seems to Lan Wangji to exist merely for show, there can be no practical reason for such a display of wealth in such a simple place.

Peng Boqin chuckles. "Ah, yes, gongzi. It seems as if the young lady had disappeared, like the smoke rising from a freshly snuffed candle. Along with all of Fang Jian's possessions."

"Did they ever find her?" A young woman, balancing a basket of loquats on her hip, asks in a high-pitched, bell-like voice.

The old man shakes his head. "When the cultivators came to question the patrons, they could not even remember what Qiao Ehuang looked like. Other than that she was extraordinarily beautiful. And yet, they could recall Fang Jian's appearance perfectly."

"She must have been a yao!" one of the travellers says.

"A hulijing!"

"Ridiculous," Lan Wangji mutters, a little too loudly, and several of the audience whip their heads around to stare at him. He can hear his brother whisper a gentle admonishment next to him.

Peng Boqin clears his throat. Lan Wangji meets his gaze. The storyteller's annoyance is clear in the eyes, yet he does not drop his polite smile. Sometimes Lan Wangji wishes he could instill honesty in people, rather than begrudging respect.

"Whatever do you mean, Lan-er-gongzi?"

Lan Wangji turns his head around and looks at Lan Xichen. He smiles and waves his hand in encouragement.

"Could not have been a demon," Lan Wangji clarifies, one hand tucked behind his back, his posture as straight and rigid as a stalk of bamboo.

"Why ever not?" The Jin disciple says, arms crossed in front of him. Lan Wangji presses his lips together as the cultivator continues, "they say his body was found in the lake with a big smile on his face. A hulijing could do this."

“No," Lan Wangji says, and turns to look at Lan Xichen who nods, a tiny imperceptible movement that nobody else would have noticed, but Lan Wangji knows his brother's tells just as his brother knows his. Lan Wangji continues, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Yaoguai are indeed powerful, but this story has been told many times and it has been committed to the memories of all who have witnessed its telling. There were marks on his neck, suggesting strangulation. A Yaoguai would not need to do this."

"Besides which," Lan Xichen says, his voice much gentler, more soothing than Lan Wangji's harshly clipped words. Lan Xichen is always good with people. Even as a small child he knew exactly what to say, how to temper his responses. "It is very uncommon for yao to raid their victim's possessions."

Uncommon? Non-existent. And any decent cultivator versed in lore should know this. There are times when Lan Xichen's ability to maintain his careful, polite demeanour in the face of wilful ignorance mystifies him, but Lan Wangji recognises the importance of it.

"So are you saying, Zewu-jun, that there is nothing supernatural in this story?"

"Indeed," he says, smiling beatifically. "I believe that Fang Jian merely caught the eye of a thief and murderer who was beautiful enough to get away with it."

Peng Boqin glares at the two of them and Lan Wangji senses the corner of his mouth threatening to twitch upwards. He does not think they, or any Lan will find themselves being offered a complimentary bowl of congee at any time in the future. At least not while Peng Boqin resides there.

As they turn to leave, he hears the old man stage-whisper, "Well, you know what they say about Lan cultivators. No imagination! I'll have you all know that that woman was indeed a hulijing. I saw her eyes and they were like those of a fox."

Lan Wangji shakes his head as the three of them walk away, the glare of the sun causing him to cover his eyes. Lan Xichen pauses on the path down to the water, inspecting the fresh pastries being sold at the stall with the blue awning by a pretty, petite girl close to Lan Wangji's age. She has flour smeared across her left cheek and down the length of her neck and her smile is slight, but warm.

His brother hands a piece of silver over for six pastries coated in honey. They smell so deliciously fresh that Lan Wangji's stomach growls, embarrassingly loudly. He hasn't eaten in two or three shi^[3], perhaps unwise given the heat. The pastries are wrapped in paper, two in each small bundle, and Lan Xichen hands one of them to both Lan Zhihao and to him. Lan Wangji unwraps the little package and nibbles on one of the pastries, the other rewrapped and placed in his qiankun pouch for later. It tastes as good as it looks and smells and soon he has eaten the whole thing, his bottom lip slick with sticky honey and a smattering of pastry crumbs.

He licks his lips, chasing the dry, sticky remnants with his tongue. "Xiongzhang?"

Lan Xichen turns and nods. He has already cleaned his mouth as if he had not indulged at all. "What is it, Wangji?"

"There is something I have never understood. About the tale of Fang Jian."

"What is it?" Lan Xichen gestures for them to begin walking again, and they make their way down to the water, Lan Zhihao in front, surveying the clusters of people on their way down. Lan Wangji is sweating even more now, moisture beading on his upper lip, on the back of his neck, under his robes and in the creases at the backs of his knees. He craves the relief that the Cold Pond will give, the icy water sliding against his searingly hot skin.

He pauses, considering his words carefully. His brother has a knack for twisting him in knots when he invariably challenges Lan Wangji on the wisdom or fairness of his opinions, always with a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. It is one of Lan Wangji's favourite things about Lan Xichen and also sometimes the most profoundly irritating.

"How could a man have so little self-control as to be incapable of resisting the advances of a mere human?"

"Ah." Lan Xichen nods. "That is a very fair question to ask. They do say the woman was extremely beautiful. Uniquely beautiful, in fact."

"Mn. I still don't understand, brother, why not show restraint? He was ignoring her quite successfully and she was irritating to him. Why would he just give in like that?"

Lan Xichen smiles, a warm smile, rather than a condescending one, but the tips of Lan Wangji's ears start to prickle regardless. "Perhaps, Wangji, one day you might understand Fang Jian's predicament a little better."

Women, beautiful or otherwise, hold little fascination for Lan Wangji, and irritating ones even less so. No, Lan Wangji does not believe he will ever understand how someone could be so undisciplined or indulgent as to just give in to the basest of urges.

It's probably just as well all things considered: he doesn't particularly wish to be strangled and left to perish at the bottom of a lake.

Two weeks later, outside the gates to Cloud Recesses, he meets Wei Wuxian. It's like being crushed with a wheelbarrow dropped from a very great height.

 
 
It's not that Wei Wuxian is the worst person he has ever met. He isn't cruel or violent like Wen Chao or snobbish and a bully like Jin Zixun, or skin-crawlingly obsequious like Su She. But that is hardly the bar that anyone should be considering when judging someone by their actions or their demeanour.

Wei Wuxian probably wouldn't strangle Lan Wangji and leave his body to sink to the bottom of the lake. He is, however, like a cyclone: disruptive, loud, and a threat to the peaceful serenity of Cloud Recesses. A threat to Lan Wangji's peace most of all.

Not only relentless and as relaxing as a natural disaster, he is the rudest, most arrogant, and utterly improper sect disciple that Lan Wangji has ever had the misfortune of knowing.

And it is Lan Wangji's job to discipline him. It is, quite frankly, a nightmare.

"I have been thinking again," Lan Xichen says, after they have cleared their plates of bean curd and mushrooms, "about the story of Fang Jian and Qiao Ehuang."

"Oh?" Lan Wangji takes a sip of his tea. It has been sitting too long and is now over brewed and bitter. He puts the cup back down and pushes it aside. "In regard to what?"

Lan Xichen huffs out a laugh that is so small anyone else would miss it. "I was thinking about temptation and the resistance of such. And how sometimes no matter how hard we try, there are some things that are inevitable."

"Some—things?"

"Some people are placed into our path to test us," Lan Xichen says, cryptically, and takes a sip of his own tea. He grimaces.

"It's far too strong," Lan Wangji says.

"Indeed it is. Perhaps it needs refreshing."

"Mn."

"Speaking of challenging individuals—how are your sessions with Wei-gongzi coming along?"

Lan Wangji's eyes narrow.

"Ah. Perhaps a subject best left for another time, Wangji."

The more time Lan Wangji spends with Wei Wuxian, the more he understands his brother's intimations and the more he wonders if this person—this infuriating, exhausting person—has been put on the earth deliberately to test his restraint and righteousness.

"Lan Zhan," he drawls, every syllable drawn out like he is walking through sap, sweet and viscous. "You should just call me Wei Ying, you're so formal. Are we not friends?"

"We are not."

"So boring!" He laughs and reaches out to touch Bichen, his fingers almost swiping its hilt before Lan Wangji takes a step back and walks around the desk until he is on Wei Wuxian's opposite side. He laughs again: bright, melodic, like the bell that summons the Lan disciples to morning meditations. Laughing. Always laughing and always inappropriate. It makes Lan Wangji's teeth ache.

"Go on Lan Zhaaaan. It's so easy. Wei Ying. Two syllables. Like Lan Zhan. You can do it. You've done it before." He reaches across the desk and lays his hand on top of Lan Wangji's. Wei Wuxian's hand is warm and the skin around his nails is peeling, rough against Lan Wangji's knuckles where it catches.

"Improper," he says, barely getting the word out through the iron-hard tension in his jaw. "Insolent."

Wei Wuxian is just one person. One extremely aggravating person, but one person nonetheless. Lan Wangji should just push him away. Should tell him to get out. Should do a lot of things. He can't quite fathom why he doesn't do any of them.

Instead, he grabs Wei Wuxian and holds him there, his fingers encircling one slender wrist.

"You have very strong fingers," Wei Wuxian says, and giggles. "What are you going to do with me now?"

"Wei Ying!"

"Haha! See? Was that so hard?"

Wei Wuxian is smiling, a wide-open grin, and the library suddenly feels like a prison, the walls pulsing, shrinking in on him. Lan Wangji cannot stay there, pinpricks of dark and light behind his eyes when he closes them. He's shaking with it, his fingernails digging into his palms so hard that there are gouges in his skin.

"Lan Zhan? Are you all right?"

He can barely hear Wei Wuxian as he walks out, doesn't look back, just heads straight for the Cold Pond, his pulse hammering in his ears.

 
 
Barely a week after his last infraction, Wei Wuxian is caught trying to climb over the wall again.

"Aiya, Lan Zhan!" He yells as Lan Wangji drags him to the Hanshi, "you don't have to manhandle me. I'm trustworthy, you know."

Wei Wuxian raises three fingers to his temple and Lan Wangji snorts.

"Was that a laugh? Did you laugh, Lan Zhan? Ha! I knew that I could make you—mmmph! Mmmmmm!"

There is a pleasant warmth that settles in Lan Wangji's core at the sight of Wei Wuxian, flailing desperately and attempting to yell while he points at his mouth.

Lan Wangji bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling.

"If you continue to struggle," he says, "I will also use the incapacitation spell and carry you to Xiongzhang myself. Would you prefer that?"

Wei Wuxian looks at him for a moment, then shakes his head, his eyes narrowed. Such unique eyes, the shape and depth of them rarely seen outside the art books that once sat in his mother's collection in the Jingshi. He hasn't seen those books in years—they now reside in a dusty corner of the library that Lan Wangji is not permitted to access. He remembers the picture that was her favourite, though: a beautiful woman, a courtesan in red and gold, with a small bird perched on one arm, her eyes darkly alluring.

Wei Wuxian's eyes are just like the ones in the painting. Lan Wangji wonders why he has never noticed that before.

By the time they reach the Hanshi, the spell has worn off, but Wei Wuxian has not spoken more than a few words. It isn't as satisfying as Lan Wangji thought it would be; Wei Wuxian's clever tongue silent, his face more impassive than usual. There's a moment where Lan Wangji wonders what he would have to do to make Wei Wuxian talk again.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," he says. It's soft, almost a whisper, but as soon as Wei Wuxian hears it his slack mouth breaks into a grin so wide that Lan Wangji thinks it could swallow the moon.

"Ai, Lan Zhan, you don't have to be sorry!" He claps him on the back, hard. Lan Wangji falls slightly forward, his foot kicking a cluster of pebbles on the path just outside the Hanshi.

Wei Wuxian looks vaguely apologetic and removes his hand from Lan Wangji's back. The patch of skin under his robes where Wei Wuxian's hand had been is warm. It is not completely unpleasant.

"For fuck's sake," Jiang Wanyin growls as he stomps, somewhat gracelessly towards them from the other direction, "you really are a complete disaster."

There is an uncomfortable tightness in Lan Wangji's chest. He removes his hand from Wei Wuxian's sleeve and steps back.

"I mean, not a complete one," Wei Wuxian says, his lips pursed. "It's only because Lan Zhan is so good at everything that I keep getting caught. Isn't that right, Lan Zhan?"

"Mn." He nods.

Jiang Wanyin rolls his eyes and accompanies Wei Wuxian up the stairs and into the Hanshi.

Lan Xichen is already waiting for them, one hand tucked behind his back and his expression soft. A disciple flanks him on either side, Lan Zhihao on his left and Lan Lixin on his right, and Lan Qiren sitting to the side in his usual chair, his face impassive. Jiang Wanyin's own face is red, and he keeps his eyes downcast as he and Wei Wuxian both bow. They are both the picture of perfect contrition.

"I apologise on behalf of Yunmeng Jiang for my shixiong's actions, Lan-zhongzhu. It will not happen again."

"Most humbly, Jiang-gongzi, that is what your shixiong said last time." Lan Xichen is trying not to smile, but Lan Wangji knows his brother, knows the brightness in his eyes and the slight waver at the corner of his mouth. He admires Wei Wuxian, has told him as much, and it's an odd thing to see Lan Xichen, usually such a flawless judge of character, charmed by someone as inappropriate as Wei Wuxian.

Lan Xichen has always been overwhelmingly fair, sometimes to his detriment.

"I—" Jiang Wanyin's eyes dart across to Wei Wuxian and back again to Lan Xichen, "this humble one begs Lan-zhongzhu to consider—"

"Jiang Cheng," Wei Wuxian drawls—the cadence of it makes Lan Wangji's fingers clench— "don't think on it anymore. That vein near your left temple is standing out. You should go lie down. You know how you get with a headache."

It's as if Wei Wuxian is talking to a small child, not the future leader of one of the five sects.

"Wei Wuxian!" Jiang Wanyin hisses, "haven't you done enough damage? Just stop talking."

Wei Wuxian taps the side of his nose several times and looks very serious for a moment.

"I don't need you to make excuses for me, you know." He whispers so loudly that there isn't any possibility that Lan Xichen did not hear him, particularly given the fact he is looking away, trying to maintain a semblance of propriety in the face of this ridiculously familiar display.

Lan Wangji wonders, and not for the first time, if any disciple of any sect throughout history has ever been as disruptive as Wei Wuxian.

"Wei-gongzi," Lan Xichen says after a moment. "Do you have any justification for your actions?"

Wei Wuxian kneels before Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren. "I am afraid I do not, Zewu-jun. It was thoroughly reprehensible and a breach of about five different Lan sect rules."

Wei Wuxian turns to look at him. "I know that because you made me copy them out so many times my hand has started cramping just talking about them. Isn't that right, Lan Zhan?"

Lan Wangji closes his eyes for a moment to just—breathe. Wei Wuxian's voice is as lazy and lacking in propriety as he nearly always is. He does not sound even the tiniest bit apologetic. Lan Wangji is no longer sorry for silencing him and pushing him in such a rough manner. The sheer arrogance of that voice makes Lan Wangji want to silence him again—stop his mouth and draw Bichen so he can press it into the hollow of his throat. Wei Wuxian is still as drunk as he was when Lan Wangji caught him at the wall, though he is no longer swaying on his feet. He absolutely reeks of Emperor's Smile and something else underneath it. Sweet and pungent—peanuts? Perhaps? It sets Lan Wangji's teeth on edge.

"I accept that it was very wrong, and I'll just take my punishment now, Zewu-jun. Unless you want Lan Zhan to give it to me? Since I'm already on my knees and all."

Wei Wuxian grins so wide his eyes crinkle and then he winks at Lan Wangji. Actually winks at him. There are times when Lan Wangji wonders if the intensity of his loathing towards Wei Wuxian is softening. But then he goes and does something like this. Baits Lan Wangji in front of his peers, in front of his sect leader and his uncle, and it's all Lan Wangji can do to stop himself reaching across and slapping him across his smug face.

Instead, he grips Bichen's hilt so hard that after a few moments his fingers start to tingle and stiffen.

"Wei-gongzi," Lan Xichen says, smoothing down the lines of his robes, "it seems as if the threat of physical punishment has no effect on you whatsoever, and as you seem to know the rules quite well yet insist on breaking them—"

"Then you'll let me go with a stern warning?" Wei Wuxian is incandescent, his eyes bright, gleaming like the sunlight that reflects on that one spot in the Cold Pond that almost blinds Lan Wangji if he looks at it for too long. Lan Xichen attempts to repress the grin that clearly wants to spread across his face, while the roguish tilt to Wei Wuxian's own grin makes something twist deep and low and liquid in Lan Wangji's gut.

"Wei Wuxian," Jiang Wanyin spits at him, "just be silent and take whatever punishment Zewu-jun sees fit. I don't want to see how Mama will react if you don't, do you?"

Wei Wuxian inhales, sharply. Lan Wangji can see him out of the corner of his eye, shifting from one knee to the other. Fidgeting. Never calm, always disquieted. The smile is gone now though, his face ashen, his mouth downturned. There's something about it that makes Lan Wangji's chest constrict like someone has plunged a blade into him, slicing through bone and sinew and flesh. Wei Wuxian looks like someone else, not smiling and maddening, but pensive and exhausted. It bothers Lan Wangji more than he cares to reflect on, seeing him like this.

"Don't," Wei Wuxian says, his voice thin and tired, as if he's been depleted of all his spiritual energy, relegated to the ranks of the mundane. "Just. Don't."

"I'm sorry," Jiang Wanyin says, softer, his hand on Wei Wuxian's forearm, "but just—don't make it worse. I don't want—"

Wei Wuxian bites his lower lip and nods. "This one apologises for his insolence, Zewu-jun. The alcohol has made this humble disciple bolder than he should have been. Will you be sending me home to Yunmeng?"

Lan Xichen smiles and shakes his head. He looks across at shufu who merely nods, remaining silent, face like stone. "Ah, Wei-gongzi. No. It would be very quiet around here if you left for Lotus Pier, but you still have much to learn, and your presence is—while not relaxing—certainly invigorating."

Lan Xichen's eyes flick over to Lan Wangji, but he does not hold his gaze for long. Lan Wangji clenches his fists, one behind his back and the other now at his side, his knuckles pressing into the meat of his thigh.

Lan Xichen continues, "You will report to the Library Pavilion every day after lectures for the rest of your time at Cloud Recesses. You will copy the rules for one hour as well as reading every single page of every volume of Master Lan An's Understanding the Fundamentals. You will not venture into Caiyi Town unaccompanied. If you wish to sample the delights that the town has to offer you must take someone with you."

Wei Wuxian grins. "I—thank you, Zewu-jun. That is very—"

"Someone who is not Nie Huaisang," Lan Xichen adds, quickly.

"I understand," Wei Wuxian says. He glances sideways at Lan Wangji, his eyes flickering, a tilt to the seam of his mouth. Lan Wangji wonders if it would be acceptable to break the rule against enacting violence in Cloud Recesses. Just this once.

Those fantasies are not something that Lan Wangji is prone to. It is not enacting violence on people that he enjoys. He likes to win, but he takes no pleasure in causing harm and does not revel in the idea of it. At least, he didn't before. There is something about Wei Wuxian that burrows under his skin, gets into his blood, makes him—makes him a lot of things that seem completely antithetical.

He realises he is glaring, but it doesn't seem to faze Wei Wuxian in the slightest. He taps his lip with the pad of his forefinger and turns away.

"Wangji, you will accompany Wei-gongzi after lectures and ensure he does not get—lost on his way to the Library Pavilion." Lan Xichen stares at him, his face impenetrable, and for once he has no idea what his brother could possibly be thinking.

He nods. "Yes of course, Xiongzhang."

Lan Wangji closes his eyes. He breathes deeply in through the nose and out through the mouth—three times in—three times out. Meditatively, as noiselessly as possible, shutting out everything other than the slow in and out of his breaths. He purposefully does not look at Wei Wuxian, who is probably smirking right now, his arms crossed and that maddening, smug expression plastered on his face. The one that is always present when he gets away with misbehaving.

"It's very late," Lan Xichen says, "I trust that you can accompany your shixiong back to his quarters, Jiang-gongzi."

Lan Wangji allows himself to look now as Wei Wuxian stands and he and Jiang Wanyin execute perfect bows in complete synchronicity with each other, though the way that their bodies navigate space could not be more different. Jiang Wanyin bows in the same precise, clipped way that he navigates everyday life: nothing creative, following what is expected of him, complete economy of movement. Wei Wuxian is—different—he is elegant and there is a flourish to his gestures. The fluidity with which he moves—head and wrists and hips—when he returns to standing is like nothing Lan Wangji has ever seen. There is nothing about Wei Wuxian's comportment that suggests he is breaking protocol, but it is, at the same time, completely original, defying homogeneity.

Wei Wuxian is utterly unlike anyone else that Lan Wangji has ever known, and he is no longer sure if that is a bad thing or not.

 
 
The next day Wei Wuxian angers shufu in lecture again, but he does not push the point as he usually would. He bows his head, contrite, apologetic. Perhaps Jiang Wanyin's words, that seemed to bother him so much, had actually made an impact.

There had been rumours, of course. There were always rumours, and Lan Wangji did his best not to listen to the loose mouths of others but sometimes it was impossible not to. After the lecture, Lan Wangji steps outside and hears them, Lan Liqin and two of the female Jin disciples.

Lan Liqin is a senior disciple who was a favourite of his father's. There are many, shufu included, who see him as a model disciple. But—like the warding spells at the entrance to Cloud Recesses that Wei Wuxian so easily subverted—that which appears to be is not always what is. Lan Liqin lacks—grace—fairmindedness, empathy. In Lan Wangji's estimation he has always been unpleasant—jealous and petty-minded, though he has been clever with obscuring it in deference and obsequiousness.

Above all else, Lan Liqin had always been keen to impress attractive female cultivators and could be found with several hanging on his word at regular intervals. It was, given his history, unsurprising that of all people, Wei Wuxian had been the one to earn the poisonous bite of Lan Liqin's gossiping tongue.

Wei Wuxian may be many things: nauseatingly irritating, improper when he chooses, with ideas that contravene established protocol. He is also more talented and imaginative than Lan Liqin could ever dream to be, and certainly far more beautiful than he has any right to be. Lan Liqin has probably never turned somebody's head with looks alone.

Lan Wangji remains tucked behind the corner, eavesdropping on their conversation.

"I have heard," he says, voice hushed, "that Wei Wuxian has been whipped by Violet Spider so many times he has scars all over his back."

"Can you blame her?" the shorter of the two Jin girls says. "He's so arrogant he probably asks for it, and his ideas are—"

"Blasphemous," the taller one leans in and whispers. "They say that his mother and Jiang-zonzhu—were—"

"Well you know what they say," Lan Liqin says, "what a wife won't do a servant will—even if it's—" He points to his backside. The girls both squeal with laughter.

"Like mother like son, I've heard." The new voice, deep and resonant, belongs to a male disciple from the Yao sect, tall and haughty with sharp cheekbones and a scar that bisects his right eyebrow.

"Oh you can't just say that, Yao An! What exactly have you heard?" Lan Liqin asks, and he and the two girls look positively gleeful. It's as if they are hawks, circling their prey, but hawks have an excuse: they have no choice but to hunt for their own survival. These are beasts who delight in carnage.

"Well. Doesn't anyone else think it's suspicious that Zewu-jun lets him practically get away with murder?" Yao An says, looking around. "I've heard that Wei Wuxian—well—I mean I'm sure he's very talented."

The two girls clap their hands over their mouths, cheeks stained red and giggling, and Lan Wangji flexes his hands into fists, one tucked behind his back and the other gripping Bichen tight, its smooth edges and rough grooves pressing into his skin .

"Zewu-jun would never," Lan Liqin says. "But I wouldn't put anything past him."

Lan Wangji's skin is tight, his pulse hammering in his ears. It is unthinkable what Lan Liqin is hinting at. Wei Wuxian may be many things: arrogant, infuriating, unorthodox, but to suggest—he—it sits at the back of Lan Wangji's throat like rancid fruit: bitter, ugly.

"Lan Liqin." He rounds the corner, making himself visible to the whole group. It's impossible to tell who is more disturbed in that moment: Yao An, who jumps several chi into the air, Lan Liqin, face now as pale as his robes, or the Jin disciples who scatter, like a muster of storks whenever their waters have been disturbed by children skimming stones.

"Er-gongzi," Lan Lixin says, bowing. His hands shake as he holds his sword up. The corner of Lan Wangji's mouth wants to curl upwards, but he ignores it and turns away from the anxious disciple, choosing to look down at Bichen, running his thumb back and forth across the hilt.

"Do you not have somewhere else to be?" Lan Wangji's voice is sharp, slicing through the hushed, vitriolic air. He punches his words out through his half-closed mouth, his front teeth press together and grind against one another, left to right and back again.

"Yes, Er-gongzi," he says, head bowed, his cheeks now stained, the only colour in his ashen face. He backs away from Lan Wangji, head still down as if he's afraid to stare him directly in the face.

Gossip is like aconite. In small doses it is seemingly curative, a way to vent one's frustrations and balance the mood. But it is also toxic, impossible to control, easily mismanaged, and ultimately damaging. People cannot be trusted with gossip, no matter how virtuous they may be—they will always misuse it, and the subject of their talk, or their loved ones, always suffers. The way that the group had spoken about Wei Wuxian and his mother is achingly familiar to Lan Wangji.

Perhaps the two of them were not so different after all.

 
 
Understanding the Fundamentals has sat in the library for as long as Lan Wangji has been visiting there. It comes in five volumes, but nobody, at least as far as Lan Wangji can recall, has read all five of them, not even shufu. Written by Lan An in his final years, the books encompass everything from a detailed analysis of the ethics of the Gusu Lan sect, to the most effective use of the qin, to a detailed breakdown of Lan sword forms, and hand-sketched designs of the robes worn by the clan and disciples. They also examine the history of the sect, the building of Cloud Recesses and the establishment of the Wall of Discipline. The first four books have been well used by the sect over the years: the covers are worn, and the pages dog-eared, making important sections accessible. The fifth book, however, looks brand new, barely touched, and there is dust caked between the pages.

Sometimes, Lan Wangji is glad he has never actually crossed his brother. Lan Xichen may seem more agreeable than he is, but he is also unscrupulous when he chooses. All covered with a warm smile.

Wei Wuxian is groaning. "Lan Zhan, why. Why do I have to do this? This is a waste of time, mine, yours—"

Lan Wangji raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't look up from his page, concentrating on the slow, careful movement of the brush. "I have nowhere else to be. And Wei Ying needs to be punished for his many, many infractions."

"Lan Zhan! Was that a smile? Are you being smug? Arrogance is prohibited, you know."

Lan Wangji huffs, almost violently, through his nose.

"Hey, don't blame me. They're your rules. I wouldn't make a rule that stupid." Wei Wuxian's eyes sparkle far too much for someone who has nearly exhausted every punishment that can be thrown at him.

"Wei Ying would know about arrogance." Lan Wangji looks up then, his face controlled.

"Lan Zhan, you're so mean! I wonder how many people know just how mean you are."

"Be quiet. Work."

"Come on, Lan Zhan, I think you appreciate my spiritedness, don't you?"

"Doubtful," Lan Wangji says, and dips his head back down, expressly not taking note of the way that Wei Wuxian's teeth gleam when he smiles. His brazenness makes Lan Wangji's skin feel too tight.

"You know, I don't think anyone has ever read this volume," Wei Wuxian says. He stands up, slowly, stretching his arms up above his head and yawning. Wei Wuxian's yawns are like everything else that he does: full, nothing held back. Lan Wangji lets his eyes flick back up, watching Wei Wuxian as he opens his mouth wide and tilts his head back to reveal the elegant expanse of his throat.

"Wei Ying. Sit. Read. It is not that difficult. You're lucky that—"

"Ugh. Lucky, yes. Lucky to be reading thousands of words about your illustrious founder's vegetable gardening techniques. I'd rather you just stab me and get it over and done with, Lan Zhan. Then I wouldn't slowly wither away to nothing from the boredom."

He walks over to the desk and sits on the corner.

Lan Wangji looks up. "Off."

"And if I don't?" He laughs. "Relax, Lan Zhan, just keep doing your calligraphy practice. I'll watch.

"Go," he says, pointing towards the entrance, "I have had enough of you for one day."

Wei Wuxian pouts. "I don't know why you don't like me, Lan Zhan. Everybody likes me." He tilts his head to the side as if considering what he is going to say next.

"I am not everybody."

"No," Wei Wuxian says, the corner of his mouth twitching, "you certainly are not."

Wei Wuxian is always so clever with his words. They are as cleverly played as his sword strokes and his footwork: the deft movement a distraction before the finishing blow. Lan Wangji has seen it, the way he makes shufu splutter with indignation, the way all the girls blush and hide behind their sleeves and whisper, their eyes dark and their mouths open. The way the boys look on him with a mixture of envy and—something else.

I'm sure he is very talented.

It's truly ugly to consider Yao An's insinuations as anything other than vile, but the thought of it makes his belly flood with heat. He wonders what Wei Wuxian's mouth looks like when he's not using it to constantly make Lan Wangji's life difficult. Wonders what he would do if Lan Wangji brushed his fingers over it: the pads of his fingers on those full, sulky lips.

His palms are sticky, and damp and he rubs them on his thighs, carefully, slowly, under the desk so Wei Wuxian doesn't see.

Wei Wuxian smiles then, wide, warmer than Biling Lake when the sun is at its hottest. It's as if Lan Wangji has been winded by a flying kick to the chest. He looks down at his page and picks up his brush again. It is either that or let Wei Wuxian see exactly what he was thinking. And no. That would be unacceptable.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian drawls, lazy, elongated. He leans in so his face is close to Lan Wangji's. Too close. Lan Wangji can feel the puff of warm breath on his cheek when Wei Wuxian talks. "Can't we take a break?"

"This is supposed to be punishment. No breaks."

"So predictable, Lan-er-gongzi, so dull. What you need is—"

"Is for you to shut up," Lan Wangji finishes for him, "and if you do not, I will make you."

It's like all those tests that shufu had him undergo in his fourteenth year in the Water Forest near Lizhongzhen. The first had him balancing on a wooden block, barely wide enough for one foot, to test his endurance. In the next, he was blindfolded and left in the woods to fight a group of disciples by hand, to test his intuition and his ability to adapt to extraordinary conditions. The final test had been an examination of his focus: a mound of rice grains scattered among the dirt in a clearing and Lan Wangji expected to count them as an elder disciple recited the sect rules in an attempt to distract him.

All tests that sought to break him. All tests he had succeeded at, excelled in. His body had been subject to exhaustion, frustration, uncertainty, even great pain. He had never given in.

Wei Wuxian is also a test: of his self-control, his righteousness. He laughs and grabs Lan Wangji's brush out of his hand and runs across the room until he reaches his desk. He sits there, twirling the brush between his fingers, that self-satisfied grin plastered on his face.

"You can silence me again, Lan Zhan, but that won't get you your brush back."

Also, a test of his sanity.

Lan Wangji feels like a fishing line that's been held taut, ready to snap at any minute. He crosses the room in one leap and grabs at Wei Wuxian's hands, fingers wrapped around his finely boned wrists. Lan Wangji squeezes them hard, slams Wei Wuxian's hands down onto the desk. He holds him there. He is so close to Wei Wuxian now: hips tilted forward, between Wei Wuxian's thighs. All it would take is for Lan Wangji to just lean in a scant distance and—

It takes a moment: one, two slow breaths before he snatches his hands away, and steps back. His heart is pounding in his chest, so hard that it feels like a rattle against his ribcage.

"Did you. Uh. Want your brush back?" Wei Wuxian's breath is shallow and the sound of it goes straight to Lan Wangji's groin.

"Leave it on my desk. I—need to go."

He grabs Bichen and leaves, not daring to looking back.

 
 
It's an unreasonably hot day in the library and Wei Wuxian is copying out the Lan rules for what must be the thirtieth day in a row.

Lan Wangji concentrates on the strokes of his brush, downward with a vertical hook to the left, pausing before the dot on either side.

"Lan Zhan! I'm so bored. Entertain me?"

He does not look up, just says, "Entertain yourself," and starts his next stroke.

"Fine. I will." Wei Wuxian's voice is soft, much softer than usual, and Lan Wangji cannot help but glance up.

Wei Wuxian is sitting on the desk now. He is also in a state of undress—outer robes discarded on the floor like a cloud of white fabric—flimsy inner robes pushed up above his knees. They are too large for his small frame, exposing the curve of his pale left shoulder, his hair falling onto it like the ink moving across Lan Wangji's page.

"What are you doing?" Lan Wangji asks, spluttering, his mouth suddenly dry. "That is—indecent—and against the rules."

Wei Wuxian smiles and leans back on the desk. "What would you have me do? You told me to entertain myself."

He stands up and moves across the room. He is elegant and fluid, like mist moving across the horizon.

He climbs onto Lan Wangji's lap, his mouth on the curved shell of Lan Wangji's ear, his robes pulled up and his knees on either side of Lan Wangji's hips. He is not wearing trousers.

Lan Wangji can't help himself, it's like an irresistible force, and he grabs Wei Wuxian by the waist and pulls him in.

"Kiss me," he says, "I know you want to. I know you're dying to, Lan-er-gege."

"Yes." Lan Wangji says, because he is, it's all he can think about, his mind racing with thoughts of nothing other than chasing the taste of Wei Wuxian's mouth with his.

He wakes then, his heart pounding. His skin is tight—burningly hot—and he's so hard that he aches with it. Lan Wangji doesn't even think twice about it, just shoves his sleeping trousers down to his knees and strokes himself rough and fast. He presses his free hand over his mouth, biting down so he cannot say the name he so desperately wants to when he comes.

 
 
In many ways, it is as if nothing has changed. Wei Wuxian is as infuriating as he always was, and Lan Wangji spends every day still thinking about how satisfying it would be to silence him and just walk away, his arms flailing and unable to make any noise except for the aggravated, noiseless yelling that he cannot help himself from making.

But that is not all he thinks about when it comes to Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji can't stop thinking about him in every way possible. Wei Wuxian's eyes, the perfect shape of them, beautifully tapered, inviting. The lines of his body where his robes fall, the way his belt cinches his slender waist. His smile and the way he laughs with his whole body—open—warm and utterly unabashed. The way he looked when Lan Wangji wrapped his forehead ribbon around his wrist: hopeful and incandescent like the bright sky after an afternoon rainstorm.

"Wangji? Did you hear what I just said?"

"I—apologise, shufu." He bows, a rapid, low bow to show his contrition.

Shufu's eyes narrow. "You are very distracted, nephew."

"I am sorry. It will not happen again," he says, head still bowed.

Lan Xichen puts a hand on Lan Wangji's shoulder, "Perhaps some air, Wangji? You look a little sallow."

He looks up then. Nods. "Thank you, xiongzhang. It has been a tiring day."

"Hm. Very well." Shufu pulls at his beard, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Go, Wangji, rest. We will send for you if we need anything more."

As soon as he is outside, Lan Wangji closes his eyes, his face directly in the sun's light. He walks briskly down the path to the Cold Pond. There is nobody around. Most of the sect and their visitors are eating after the evening meditations. Lan Wangji is not hungry. He hasn't eaten in many hours, but food is the last thing on his mind.

All he can think about, all that he has space in his head for is Wei Wuxian. Sometimes when he argues with shufu in lectures, Lan Wangji imagines what it would be like to silence Wei Wuxian in other ways. How he would react if Lan Wangji held him with his hands on Wei Wuxian's face and pressed his mouth against Wei Wuxian's. He's always thinking about that mouth—the mole under his bottom lip that sits there like a summons to debauchery. Lan Wangji could press his fingers into it while he thumbed Wei Wuxian's mouth open, he could lick it and bite it. He wonders what it would taste like: sweet, like clementines and honey and maybe a little sour too. Would Wei Wuxian gasp if Lan Wangji touched him like that? Would he hitch forward seeking the friction that Lan Wangji's body would give him?

Lan Wangji is not used to the frightening lack of control that comes with wanting someone as badly as he wants Wei Wuxian. His head is so full of him that it feels like he can barely breathe.

He would never do it usually, the threat of exposure is far too great, but there is nobody around except the rabbits. Oh. Oh gods. The rabbits.

One of them, the one he calls Shao Yun, looks up at him with his tiny pink eyes.

"Don't look," he whispers, and picks the little rabbit up in his hand. Shao Yun is nothing but a cloud of soft fur with a twitching nose, but the shame of it sinks deep into his bones regardless. "Please just—don't look."

He returns Shao Yun to the path and steps behind the tree, eyes closed. It should not take long, the thing he is about to do, but he uses a distraction talisman anyway. It should work to prevent anyone getting too close. It's unthinkable, using talismans for this purpose, there's something—filthy about it. It's a blasphemy that is yet another example of things he would never have even considered before. Wei Wuxian is ruinous and corrupting but not for all the reasons that other people say he is.

It's warm when Lan Wangji lifts his robes, the sun has still not set, and he is unsheltered from its rays as they hit his skin, despite the trees around him. It is not only the sun that warms him, though, and the heat of shame caresses the tips of his ears, the back of his neck, the base of his throat. He imagines what it would be like if he had the time to revel in it, to tear off his robes and push his trousers down and off, seek the relief of the Cold Pond which is so close he can almost feel the bite of the chill on his flesh. But he has already been gone far too long and time is the one thing he does not have. He finds the nearest tree; it is young and its branches and leaves have not spread far, but it gives him a place to stand and brace himself. He unfastens his trousers and pushes them down to his knees, and he must look a picture of degeneracy, leaned over with one hand on the knotted tree trunk and the other pushed up under bunches of satin that look like clouds gathered together before a rainstorm.

He is already sweating by the time he wraps his fist around his erection, beads of perspiration dripping from his forehead onto the bridge of his nose and his cock similarly wet at the head. It feels like sweet relief when he begins to stroke himself—slow at first—a purposeful glide from base to head and his thumb swiping across the wetness at the tip. Lan Wangji's hands are not smooth, and the calluses won in hours and hours of manipulating his qin, of wielding Bichen, are rough against the hardened flesh, but it doesn't feel—unpleasant.

He has done this in the solitude of the Jingshi many times, the candles snuffed out and the dark concealing his shamelessness. But never like this, out in the open where anyone could see him, and although he has taken precautions it doesn't stop the thrill from curling at the base of his stomach all the same. Touching himself out in the open, willingly breaking rules, dreaming about things he should not. Wanting things that are not his to want. All things he would never have done before Wei Wuxian fought him on a rooftop under moonlight, meeting him block for block, strike for strike.

He's so beautiful, so lovely to look upon that it's as if Lan Wangji is being flayed, as if a phoenix has him in its talons, slicing into his flesh and pulling him in different directions. His strokes are coming faster now, his teeth pressing into his lower lip, the hint of pain adding to the pleasure of it. He imagines that Wei Wuxian is in front of him, his robes flipped up and his trousers at his ankles and Lan Wangji pressing into him from behind, rutting against him—just like in the picture that Wei Wuxian shoved into his face in the library. Or more indecent still, the marriage texts housed in the Room of Forbidden Books—so lewdly drawn, so explicit—the mere thought of them enough to make him blush all over.

Wei Wuxian might squirm if Lan Wangji had him like this, he would talk incessantly, he might press back and breathe words like "harder" and "faster" and Lan Wangji would, he would give him anything. He would get Wei Wuxian's cock in his hand and form a tight channel for Wei Wuxian to fuck into just like Lan Wangji is fucking into his own hand right now, just like he wants to fuck Wei Wuxian. It's too much to endure, his hand gripping the rough tree trunk, his other hand on his cock which is so hard it hurts. He's dripping with it, dripping with sweat and with his own wanting and he can't—has to—

"Wei Ying. Oh. Oh." he groans under his breath and he's coming, hard and messy, on his hand, on the tree. When he's finished, breathless and ruined, he touches his soiled hand to his mouth and cleans his fingers. It's an odd taste, somewhat unpleasant but it also makes him shiver. Oh, he's made such a mess of himself, a complete, wanton mess, and gods, were the rabbits watching? He looks over and sees Shao Yun looking up at him and Lan Wangji wants to collapse into a heap and cry, but more than that he wants to be back in his room, free of his soiled clothes, washed and dried and decent.

To be clean in thought, clean in body. Is that even a possibility anymore?

 
 
"You know what strikes me as odd?"

Lan Wangji doesn't respond, just continues to grind, inkstick against stone. His shoulders burn with the effort but there's something therapeutic and satisfying in this, the act of two objects joining together to make something new through sheer force of movement and effort.

"Lan Zhan. Lan Wangji! Ji-xiong! I know you can hear me, er-gege."

Honorifics sound like filth in Wei Wuxian's lazy Yunmeng dialect and Lan Wangji wonders if he will ever hear er-gege again without needing to squeeze his thighs together, without there being a direct line between Wei Wuxian's suggestive tones and his dick which is filling out in his trousers.

Wei Wuxian moves across the room and sits down next to him. Too close. Far too close. His proximity makes Lan Wangji's skin itch as if tiny, biting insects are burrowing under his skin. He inches sideways, and Wei Wuxian follows as if he is Lan Wangji's shadow.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian says, soft and mild under his breath, and that's even worse. It curls around Lan Wangji's ears like wisps of smoke, wrapping around his throat and squeezing him.

He continues to grind, concentrating mainly on the inkstone, stealing furtive glances to his right when he can.

Wei Wuxian groans and falls back onto the floor, his arms stretched over his head. Lan Wangji does look then, can't resist turning to stare properly at the taut line of his body, his slender wrists, the way his legs fall open, framed by clouds of white silk. It isn't righteous the way Lan Wangji reacts to it, the sight of Wei Wuxian, wrapped in Lan robes, supine. It wouldn't take much to push the layers up, to wrap his hands around the back of Wei Wuxian's calves and pull him closer, to press him down into the floor and—

His mouth floods with saliva and he has to swallow before he says, "Wei Ying. Silence."

"Gods, you're so dull, Lan Zhan! I'm going to die of boredom right here with you, never having seen rainclouds over Wushan."^[4]

"Wei Ying!" Lan Wangji stands so abruptly that the inkstone clatters.

"What? It's true! Keep me in here with you and I'm going to die a maiden."

Lan Wangji grabs Bichen and strides towards the entrance to the Library Pavilion. The shock of Wei Wuxian's hand on his arm is enough to make him stop, mid-stride. He whips around and ill-advisedly—impulsively—unsheathes Bichen and thrusts it forward, pressing the point into Wei Wuxian's throat.

"I told you to be quiet," he snarls.

Something pools at the base of Lan Wangji's gut, and in his groin, hot and frightening in its intensity. He is not pushing Bichen hard, not enough to do any damage, but Wei Wuxian's eyes are wide now, wide, and so dark. There's a flicker of fear there but there's something else too, something inviting. Just like that night on the rooftop, and that day on the ridge above the Cold Pond and Lan Wangji wonders for a minute whether he—

"I know you did," Wei Wuxian says, and inches forward, leading with his throat. Defiant, challenging.

It is not an unattractive picture: Bichen pressing into the hollow of Wei Wuxian's throat, the tapered point connecting with the dip at the base of it just above Wei Wuxian's clavicle, and Lan Wangji can see the rise and fall of his chest when he breathes, see the pulse hammering under his chin. Lan Wangji is fully hard now, his cock pressing forward underneath his robes.
Desire, anger, desire, anger, back and forth as if Wei Wuxian is the breeze and Lan Wangji is a tree branch pulled between east and west.

"Why won't you just leave me alone?"

"You could silence me if you wanted—" Wei Wuxian says, almost all breath, "any way you wanted, Lan-er-gege."

Lan Wangji drops Bichen, the sword falling to the ground with a loud crash as he lurches forward, grabbing Wei Wuxian's face in his hands. He kisses him once, his lips pressing hard against Wei Wuxian's, and when Wei Wuxian folds into him, his hands on Lan Wangji's hips, pushing him against the door, he does it again. And again. Wei Wuxian's lips part on a sigh and Lan Wangji mouths at his sharp jawline.

There is a small dot marring Wei Wuxian's skin, a minute trickle of red and Lan Wangji reaches out, trails his fingers down Wei Wuxian's throat as he scrapes his teeth over Wei Wuxian's skin. There isn't much blood, but his fingers come away sticky with it all the same, like a drop of honey smeared across the pads of his forefinger and middle finger. He wonders if it tastes as sweet as Wei Wuxian's mouth.

It's not right, though. Kissing Wei Wuxian after holding him at sword point is not virtuous. It's coercive and wrong and Lan Wangji can taste bitterness at the back of his throat now instead of sugary-sweetness, and he pushes Wei Wuxian away with his hand on his chest so abruptly that Wei Wuxian stumbles and falls onto his ass.

"Lan Zhan?" Wei Wuxian's voice is soft, his eyes searching, full of questions that Lan Wangji is not ready to answer.

Lan Wangji very much wants to kiss him again.

"It's late. Enough for today."

He sighs. "Fine. Whatever you think is best, Lan Zhan."

There's an edge of something in Wei Wuxian's voice that makes Lan Wangji's chest constrict. His tongue is thick and useless in his mouth, and he wants to say something else, but the words dry up in his throat and all he can do is turn away and leave him there.

 
 
The next day Wei Wuxian fails to arrive at the Library Pavilion after lectures. It's not as if it were the first time. When he fails to appear on schedule Lan Wangji usually finds him above the Cold Pond, lazy and unrepentant. Or more often hanging about with girls—always the pretty ones—always leaning too far into their space and making them giggle and stare up at him from under their eyelashes.

The thought of it now—of watching Wei Wuxian with them—sits in Lan Wangji's stomach as sour as plums harvested before their time.

The afternoon sun is relentless and by the time Lan Wangji actually finds Wei Wuxian he's exhausted, sweat uncomfortable under the collar of his robes, his cheeks flushed and his shoulders tight.

Wei Wuxian is blissfully unaware. He is, in fact, fast asleep in a patch of grass, his face pressed into an open book. The pages rustle every time Wei Wuxian breathes out, long, languid exhales that call to mind the late evening wind rustling through leaves. He has pulled off his boots and his slim ankles are splayed open, the hem of his robes hiked up to reveal the sun-tinted curves of his calf muscles. There are two bunnies next to him chewing on the blades of grass that almost brush his cheek every time they move; not Shao Yun this time, but the one with the black mark on her nose that looks like a tiny mustache and the runt with the slightly mangled left ear. Wei Wuxian looks peaceful, and there is a small part of Lan Wangji that wants to walk away and not disturb him. The rest of him is less sympathetic, and Lan Wangji huffs out a heavy, violent breath before nudging him with his foot—not softly—twice in the side of his right thigh.

"Lan Zhan? What are you—oh—did I fall asleep?"

Wei Wuxian moves, and yawns as he moves, his body curling like a snake, stretching his arms above his head, all lazy and lithe as he turns onto his back.

"You are supposed to be in the library. With me."

Lan Wangji hates it. Hates how pathetic he sounds. Hates Wei Wuxian. Hates—himself most of all for— what? Kissing Wei Wuxian, wanting him. He knows better. Stupid, so stupid. He grips Bichen tight. There's a permanent indent now in the palm of his hand, where the skin is cracked and calloused. It matches the patterns on the sword's hilt, a lattice of criss crossed welts that had not been there months ago.

"Oh yeah, sorry." Wei Wuxian hasn't moved. He's still lying on the ground, elongated and feline, his face tilted upwards chasing the sunlight, eyes closed. "I was just so tired, Lan Zhan, your shufu knows his stuff but sometimes it's about as exciting as watching ink dry, you know?"

"Wei Wuxian!" Lan Wangji's throat is tight, and his voice is ragged as if he is the one who has just been woken from slumber. "Have you no consideration for anyone other than yourself?"

Wei Wuxian's eyes open, his sultry, alluring eyes the shape of peach blossom petals, so dark they match the inky curtain of his hair spread out on the grass under him. He has no blush staining his face, no remorse for having left Lan Wangji waiting for him, forced to hunt him down. No respect.

Wei Wuxian makes Lan Wangji swing from lust to rage in less than a hair's breadth, boiling like a steamer basket over an open flame.

"Get up," he growls. Wei Wuxian has barely moved, barely acknowledged Lan Wangji's presence. He is shameless, indecently unapologetic. So unfairly beautiful that it makes Lan Wangji's pulse hammer in his ears.

Wei Wuxian looks up and taps his finger on his nose. He holds up that finger as if to force a pause and shoves his book into his qiankun pouch. He smiles wide, warmer than the sun scorching Lan Wangji's face, his eyes sparkling.

"It's so nice out, Lan Zhan, wouldn't you rather be out here than cooped up?"

Lan Wangji pulls him to his feet and Wei Wuxian sways and teeters, as if his legs have not quite woken with the rest of him. There's a twisting, coiling thing inside of him that Lan Wangji thinks might be guilt for having disturbed Wei Wuxian's rest, or for having handled him so roughly. But Wei Wuxian must shoulder the burden of his own wilful rule-breaking.

"You need to learn respect," he growls.

"Then you should teach me," Wei Wuxian says, and looks up at Lan Wangji through his eyelashes, "won't you teach me, er-gege?"

"Is this a game to you?" Lan Wangji tucks his right arm behind his back, his fist clenched so tight that his fingernails press into the soft flesh of his palm. "Is this just another joke you can have with Nie Huaisang?"

"No," Wei Wuxian says, more serious than Lan Wangji has ever heard him. "I thought this was the game: the one where I push you and you explode and on and on and I could never figure out why it was so important that you looked at me but—then you kissed me—kissed me, Lan Zhan. I figured it out.”

Lan Wangji pushes him against the nearest tree. It's the young one, the one that he——and Wei Wuxian clutches onto Lan Wangji's sleeves, his fingers fisted in the thin layers of silk and inclines his head to bare his throat.

"Is this why you dragged me out here?" Lan Wangji says, his face so close to Wei Wuxian's that their shared breath is like flames on Lan Wangji's skin. "You wanted this?"

Wei Wuxian nods. "I was hoping you might—if I made you angry enough you would—-"

Something wraps around Lan Wangji's torso, tight, constricting. He wants—there is so much he wants, and he can't quite believe that Wei Wuxian is standing there, hands on him, begging for it like the Wei Wuxian in his dreams. He presses his forehead to Wei Wuxian's and whispers, "That I would what? What were you hoping would happen? Say it."

Wei Wuxian laughs. "What do you think? Didn't want to sit on opposite sides of the library watching you grind ink. Wanted your hands on me. Your—" He reaches out and touches Lan Wangji's mouth with his fingers, and it's as if his fingers are directly on Lan Wangji's dick, the sensation is so strong. He opens his licks and lets his tongue flick over them and Wei Wuxian hisses.

The sound of boots on the path near them makes Lan Wangji jump back. "Not here," he says and fixes himself, smoothing his hair back into place and nodding at Wei Wuxian to follow him.

 
 
As soon as they reach the Library Pavilion, fingers fumbling with the lock as he secures the door behind them, Lan Wangji has Wei Wuxian pressed up against the back of the door just like the day before. But this is different. There's a heat between them that's shared, frantic. Wei Wuxian groans, and Lan Wangji grabs him by the wrists when he can feel his slim hips hitch forward.

Lan Wangji holds him there, breathes, "Kiss me, Wei Ying. If you really want this, if it isn't a game, kiss me right now."

Wei Wuxian grins and wrenches his wrists free. With one hand on the back of Lan Wangji's neck, he pulls him in and kisses him, soft and wet. Lan Wangji drags his lips over Wei Wuxian's in response, and Wei Wuxian opens his clever, inappropriate mouth and coaxes Lan Wangji's mouth open enough for him to push his tongue inside. It's so good—hot and wet— and every brush of lips, every sweep of his tongue against Wei Wuxian's is like a direct punch of want to his core, like he's being shredded from the inside out. Lan Wangji grabs Wei Wuxian's wrists again, pushes them up over his head and holds them there with one hand. His other hand free, Lan Wangji splays it across Wei Wuxian's waist, loves how he can cover so much of Wei Wuxian with just the spread of his wanting, possessive fingers.

Wei Wuxian is breathing like he did that night on the roof, Emperor's Smile dripping down his chin, and Lan Wangji gripping Bichen tight to stop himself from touching like he knows now he wanted to. Wishes he hadn't wasted so much time, wishes he'd just pushed him down and licked the alcohol taste out of his mouth. Just thinking about it makes him moan and he moves his free hand up, coaxing the hinge of Wei Wuxian's jaw open, holding him there so he can kiss him deeper, open-mouthed, filthy.

"Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian breathes hot and low into his mouth, so much poured into those two syllables, more than he has the ability to process.

Lan Wangji drags his mouth away from the heat of Wei Wuxian's, reluctantly, so reluctantly. He's so hard it hurts, and he cants his hips forward, presses their groins together, lets Wei Wuxian feel the length of him before he presses his lips to the curve of Wei Wuxian's ear and whispers, "This. This is what you do to me. Every single day."

"Fuck." Wei Wuxian is all fluid hips and jagged groans when Lan Wangji drags his teeth down the length of his throat. "Tell me more. Please. Please, Lan er-gege. I need to know."

Lan Wangji drops his hand down to the front of Wei Wuxian's robes and touches him there, just a shallow glide of his fingers, not enough through the layers but Wei Wuxian gasps anyway, tries to rock himself forward.

"That tree I pushed you against. I—the other evening I was there. I—touched myself thinking about you."

"Lan Zhan. Anyone could have seen you. What were you thinking?"

"Distraction talisman. I wasn't. Thinking. Only the bunnies saw me, though." He blushes and drops his head, lets go of Wei Wuxian's wrists and holds him by the waist, his face pressed into the smooth, salt-tinged skin of his neck.

"The rabbits, Lan Zhan! Corrupting those little innocent fluffy creatures. You're insatiable, you know that?"

Wei Wuxian unfastens his belt, lets it fall to the ground. "I've dreamed about this. For months, Lan Zhan. I thought if I—but you're just too good." He laughs and unties his zhiju, sheds his inner robe.

Lan Wangji lurches forward and kisses him again, rough this time, rough and fast and he doesn't know what to do with his hands, they're desperate, flailing. He places them on Wei Wuxian's face first, holds him by the cheeks, presses his thumbs into sharp cheekbones. Then in his hair, gripping his ponytail tight, pulling just enough to see Wei Wuxian's eyes close and his head fall back, his teeth pressing into his lower lip. Then his waist, his hands shaking as he unfastens the ties on Wei Wuxian's trousers and pulls them down, over his narrow hips.

"'Not that good," Lan Wangji says, one hand on Wei Wuxian's hip, pressing into the indentation and the other poised an inch from his cock. Wei Wuxian is hard, and the head is wet, beaded at the slit. Lan Wangji kisses him once more, licks the seam of his plush mouth, and when Wei Wuxian tries to kiss him back, Lan Wangji drops to his knees and licks once over the head of Wei Wuxian's dick.

"How did you? What—how do you know how to—fuck, Lan Zhan."

"Books."

He licks again, this time lapping at the head with tiny darts of his tongue before pushing forward all the way down. Slow, very slow, because all he's practiced on are his own fingers, shoved into his mouth alone at night in the Jingshi with Wei Wuxian's face flashing behind his closed eyes. It—wasn't like this, hard, throbbing with want. Wei Wuxian's hands rest on his head, pulling at Lan Wangji's hair, his hips moving in minute increments, a look on his face that Lan Wangji will never forget as long as he lives.

Wei Wuxian doesn't last long, eyes closed, breathing hard. He whispers a warning, but Lan Wangji doesn't care, he wants it, wants this. Wants Wei Wuxian to come in his mouth and he does, hard and fast and bitter. It isn't the most pleasant taste but it's fine, it's better than fine when Wei Wuxian stops and looks absolutely ruined, forehead slick with sweat, cheeks stained, and eyes dark with desire.

I did that, he wants to say, nobody else has ever seen him like this. Only me.

"Books? Books, Lan Zhan?!"

Lan Wangji smiles as Wei Wuxian pulls him to his feet, and the two of them remove his clothing completely, kissing until Lan Wangji's mouth is burning and used.

 
 
The next day, Lan Wangji is reading a page from Lan Yi's unpublished manuscript The Qin, the Sword and the Unknowable Beyond when Wei Wuxian climbs into his lap.

"Wei Ying. You have not finished your reading. I cannot allow it. We need to prepare."

"I already know everything I need to about this hunt, Lan Zhan."

"Mn. Of course. Read, Wei Ying."

Wei Wuxian pouts and presses his behind into Lan Wangji's already burgeoning erection. Lan Wangji just raises an eyebrow in response, a smile crinkling at the corners of his mouth.

"Er-gege," he breathes, his voice as wanton as he is, "this humble disciple apologises for his insolence and promises to make it up to you. Tonight. On his knees."

He slides his ass over Lan Wangji's dick, a slow, deliberate tease that makes Lan Wangji want to cry. He pushes him off.

"Shameless. Insolent."

"Yes, yes, improper too." Wei Wuxian's eyes sparkle and his grin is more potent than five jugs of Emperor's Smile. He is so beautiful that it's almost too painful to endure.

Wei Wuxian kisses Lan Wangji when he gets to his feet, a too-brief, cruel swipe of his tongue over Lan Wangji's lips, and Lan Wangji spends the rest of the afternoon trying to concentrate on his book, reading the same sentence about sword forms over and over with his dick aching under layers of fabric.

They fuck for the first time that night, after the hunt is done, in one of the rooms above the wine house in Caiyi Town. A room just like the one that Fang Jiang and Qiao Ehuang had spent their final—only—night in. When he slides inside Wei Wuxian for the first time, Lan Wangji finally understands it. Now, now he understands very well how Fan Jian ended up at the bottom of the lake.

This is what giving up, giving in feels like. Just like drowning.