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Wei Wuxian is awoken, as he often is, to the sensation of being kissed.
Usually it’s not quite like this, though. Usually he comes to, half-drowsing, as his husband plants a quick kiss to his forehead or his cheek, then carts him over to the bathtub to get ready for the day. Sometimes the kiss lingers, a fond press to his lips that deepens. Those particularly are some of Wei Wuxian’s favorite mornings; when he’s caught in the sticky sweet of half-dreaming, then wakes to the reminder that the far better dream is his daily reality, which is Lan Zhan, handsome and doting, his favorite person, and his.
This morning feels different, somehow. Lan Wangji is still kissing him even after Wei Wuxian makes it clear he’s fully awake. He doesn’t stop even when Wei Wuxian mumbles a few incoherent, questioning words against Lan Wangji’s mouth. Lan Wangji is kissing him seriously, with deep focus, not fleeting or thoughtless or habitual. It is indeed very nice, but still a little strange.
Wei Wuxian being an awake participant seems to alight something in his husband; the kiss deepens further, a familiar sting of teeth, a wet slide of tongue into Wei Wuxian’s open mouth. They do often kiss like this, especially during lovemaking, enough to where sometimes Wei Wuxian surfaces from the battle with a bloodied lip. Today is gentler, but no less unrelenting. Lan Wangji keeps kissing him until Wei Wuxian can’t breathe, until he’s lightheaded and panting against his mouth.
“Good morning,” Wei Wuxian croaks out when Lan Wangji finally lets him breathe. He aims for coyness, but he’s too breathless and flushed to fully sell it. “To what do I owe the, aha, pleasure?”
Lan Wangji doesn’t answer him. He slides a hand into the open gap of Wei Wuxian’s inner robe, palming the sleep-warm skin over his ribs. His mouth follows, charting a path down Wei Wuxian’s neck and to his collarbone.
“Is it my birthday?” Wei Wuxian murmurs, then has to take a concerning moment to wrack his brain on whether or not it is, in fact, his birthday. He sneaks a quick, assessing look out the window. Wrong time of year. Thank heavens.
Minutely, Lan Wangji shakes his head. His unbound hair tickles Wei Wuxian’s sternum.
“Is it your birthday?” Lan Wangji ignores him, the dark crown of his head dipping lower. A single bolt of fear cracks through Wei Wuxian; if he’d somehow lost track of days, as he’s wont to do, and hadn’t done anything for — “Our anniversary?”
“Of sorts,” Lan Wangji says quietly.
Hm. Cryptic. Lan Wangji likes to play games like this with him almost as much as Wei Wuxian does. It’ll take some maneuvering — or, more likely, sexual favors — to get a solid answer out of him. Wei Wuxian opens his mouth to pester him some more, but makes an unintelligible question-mark sound instead when Lan Wangji pushes open the rest of his inner robe, letting it pool at his sides. By simple habit, Wei Wuxian is already half-hard, a stirring of interest as Lan Wangji drags his teeth over one of his nipples, then the other. Wei Wuxian exhales, digs his fingers into the backs of Lan Wangji’s shoulders.
“Lan Zhan,” he warns, then squirms ticklishly when Lan Wangji’s mouth finds the soft mound of his belly. It isn’t concave as it once was, when Wei Wuxian had inherited Mo Xuanyu’s starved body. Over the years, a stubborn pouch has formed there, a fullness he hadn’t expected from overindulging in food and drink. Lan Wangji sometimes treats it like Wei Wuxian’s actually cooking up a baby underneath it, rubbing and kneading and biting kisses into the soft skin. His thumbs press there now, his palms wide enough to fit the breadth of Wei Wuxian’s hips. Wei Wuxian is fully awake now, his cock extremely interested in the direction that the morning is taking.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says again, but Lan Wangji ignores him in favor of pulling his loose sleep-pants halfway down his thighs. A sharp exhale skids out of Wei Wuxian, his thighs falling apart on reflex, thinking that Lan Zhan means to — but no, he’s still going with his mouth, nipping the insides of Wei Wuxian’s thighs before he settles onto his front, his intentions clear.
This too is unusual. Lan Wangji has, of course, sucked his cock before, an uncounted number of times. They’ve been married for long enough that there’s nothing they haven’t tried, no surface area of skin left uncharted or untouched. But Lan Zhan is usually a “plunge first, ask questions later” type when it comes to this sort of thing, especially impromptu morning sex. With this and the wakeup, Wei Wuxian can’t shake the odd sense that he’s missing something significant — and then any coherent thought disintegrates when Lan Wangji takes him into his mouth, a deep and wet slide.
“Ffffuck,” Wei Wuxian says — still somehow surprised, after all this time, by the clout of his own pleasure at Lan Zhan’s mercy. His hips punch up off the bed, and Lan Wangji, proficient at literally everything, deep-throats him without so much as a flinch.
“Fuck,” Wei Wuxian reiterates with feeling. His breath shakes out of him again when Lan Wangji reaches up between his legs, finding his target without error. Wei Wuxian is still wet from their activities yesterday, open and soft, so Lan Wangji slides two fingers inside of him with zero difficulty, unrelenting even when Wei Wuxian shudders out a moan and starts to rock his hips. Lan Wangji buries his fingers to the second knuckle, then the third, scissoring him open in a burning stretch he knows Wei Wuxian likes. They fuck often enough that Wei Wuxian’s days of being anywhere near tight are far behind them, a youthful figment of memory; even two of Lan Wangji’s long fingers feel small, but the fullness is enough to be satisfying, and Lan Wangji knows him better than anyone, knows his body even better than Wei Wuxian does — knows he needs something inside him to clench down on when he comes.
It takes only two more swallows to finish Wei Wuxian off; he releases with a whimpering, trembling sigh, spilling down Lan Wangji’s throat, rocking against Lan Wangji’s fingers for the right angle against his prostate. He can feel Lan Wangji watching him up the length of his body; knows his husband is crazy for it when he comes, loves to watch him, sometimes makes him come alone just to watch him like this.
Lan Wangji doesn’t let up even through the aftershocks, even when Wei Wuxian has gone soft in his mouth and is whining nonsensically for mercy. He pulls off, looking all in all very delicate and put-together about it. No indication of the act he’s just performed other than the ruin of his mouth, the pink flush in his ears. Neatly, he tucks the rest of Wei Wuxian’s spend off the corners of his lips with his thumb.
“Okay, sssso,” Wei Wuxian says when he can speak. He’s still a little out of it. “Good morning?”
The tiniest smile tugs at the corner of Lan Wangji’s mouth. He moves up the bed to stretch out next to Wei Wuxian again, tugging his boneless body into his arms. Wei Wuxian tucks his face contentedly into the crook of Lan Wangji’s neck, where the scent of him is often the strongest.
“Don’t you need to . . .” he mumbles sleepily around a yawn. He starts to grope around mindlessly until he finds the sizable bulge in Lan Wangji’s sleep trousers, a hot iron press against the fine silk.
Gently, Lan Wangji catches his wrist and tugs his hand away to slot their fingers together. Wei Wuxian frowns. Stranger and stranger.
“You’re being very sweet,” Wei Wuxian says suspiciously, “for the man who threatened to impregnate me yesterday.”
“That still stands,” Lan Wangji says, perfectly without inflection.
“Okay, so what’s going on?” Wei Wuxian moves to prop himself up on an elbow as Lan Wangji watches him. His gaze is unmistakably warm, a touch of sunlight.
“Am I being punished?” Wei Wuxian continues, narrowing his eyes.
“If it were punishment, you would know,” Lan Wangji replies.
Wei Wuxian maintains a straight face with his best effort, despite the shiver of heat the words elicit. Lan Zhan never used to be such a fast wit before, when they were kids. Or maybe he had, and he’d simply been too busy trying not to snap every inkbrush in his vicinity to utilize it. Lan Zhan is potentially the most lethally funny person on the planet, but his delivery is usually such that it’s only Wei Wuxian who bursts out laughing, everyone else around them left quizzical and confused.
“Okay, so not punishment, the real or the sexy kind,” Wei Wuxian says, ticking off on his fingers. “Not a birthday, not our wedding anniversary. Please enlighten your humble laopo, Hanguang-jun, I know not even how to read the words on a page, let alone how to develop theories of my own.”
Lan Wangji’s mouth twitches. Wei Wuxian’s latest schtick has been to play the role of an illiterate housewife, no matter how exasperating his husband finds it.
“Today,” Lan Wangji says. He’s gone serious now; the mood between them has undeniably shifted. The knot of his throat bobs up, then down. His lashes shutter. Wei Wuxian unthinkingly puts a hand on his arm to stroke his thumb there and thinks, without knowing why, Oh no.
“Today,” Lan Wangji says again. “We have been married for more days than you were gone.”
Wei Wuxian sucks in a surprised breath through his nose. His hand stops moving. He hadn’t expected . . .
“Oh,” is all he can say.
Lan Wangji watches his expression closely, a flickering of his pupils.
“Hanguang-jun keeps track of such things?” Wei Wuxian says weakly to deflect.
Lan Wangji nods. “Of course.”
Wei Wuxian digests this information for another moment, the gravity of it. Then he huddles in closer to Lan Wangji, breathing in the cool scent off his skin. “Mm. Cause for celebration, indeed.”
Lan Wangji kisses the top of his head. Wei Wuxian thinks on it some more, and Lan Wangji, of course, doesn’t hurry him for another response.
“I really like not being dead,” Wei Wuxian says at last, then cringes. For all his verbal dexterity, he’s always been garbage at words where it counts. But Lan Wangji doesn’t react to the subject the way he once might have, with stiffness and pinched inhales. He only strokes a hand down the length of Wei Wuxian’s back, waiting him out.
“You’ve really . . . ” Wei Wuxian hesitates, then picks his next words with care. “You’ve really made this second lifetime of mine the happiest one, you know?”
“Hm,” Lan Wangji says softly, then pulls away from Wei Wuxian to study him closely for a moment. At the beginning, when they’d first gotten together, it had taken Wei Wuxian a while to get used to it — to be looked at like this. To be the recipient of something larger than he could understand, something that required the treatment of such gentle, careful hands. He basks in such attention now; cannot remember a time in his life when he did not have it readily within reach.
“All of these years, Hanguang-jun,” Wei Wuxian muses, then combs his fingers through Lan Wangji’s unbrushed hair. He loves his husband the best like this, a little unkempt and the way no one else in the world will ever see him. “You haven’t grown tired of me yet?”
“Every day,” Lan Wangji replies evenly, without hesitation, “I surprise myself by how much more capable I am of loving you.”
Wei Wuxian tries to shove him off the bed, to middling success.
◈ ◈ ◈
It takes a little more time until they’re fully up and ready for the day. Wei Wuxian does eventually cajole Lan Wangji into fucking him properly, not that it requires much effort. Wei Wuxian is familiarly, pleasantly sore by the time he’s managed his way into his clothes, one of Lan Wangji’s white inner robes peeking out under the layers of black and red. He lets Lan Wangji tie up his hair in its usual ponytail — he’s better at it, anyway — and then they’re out of the jingshi, Lan Wangji gently directing him toward the heart of the Cloud Recesses.
“Please don’t tell me you have a display planned,” Wei Wuxian says anxiously as they walk. He’s not a huge fan of surprises or receiving gifts, although usually Lan Zhan is the only one who can get away with it. The whole ordeal of it makes him antsy.
“No gifts,” Lan Wangji answers promptly. Wei Wuxian relaxes a little.
“Really, it’s fine anyway,” Wei Wuxian insists. “You already give me the best gift every day.”
“Sex,” Lan Wangji agrees, deadpan.
Wei Wuxian is nearly startled into a laugh as he shoves at Lan Wangji, to zero avail. “Such an unromantic!!”
Lan Wangji slants a warm look at him sideways, and despite himself, Wei Wuxian feels his breath catch in his throat. Even after everything, their thirteen years together, he still feels his heart trip over a beat, when Lan Zhan looks at him like that.
“You know it’s not the sex,” he says helplessly. His insides are mush.
“I do,” Lan Wangji says, sparing him.
Wei Wuxian bumps their shoulders together, and then after a moment’s thought, he amends, “Not just the sex.”
“Mn.”
Wei Wuxian hugs his arm as they walk, and Lan Wangji lets him hang onto him even as other disciples pass them by, the deeper they get into the Cloud Recesses proper. They greet Lan Wangji and his human barnacle without batting an eye, and Lan Wangji returns their greetings with stoic, wordless nods. Everyone around these parts had grown used to them a long time ago.
Lan Wangji’s destination, Wei Wuxian discovers, is the lanshi. Lan Wangji stops him outside of it, telling him to wait for a moment, and Wei Wuxian does, although “standing still” and “patience” aren’t his strong suits. As they wait, Lan Wangji’s hand idly finds his ass and rests there. Lan Wangji often keeps a hand anchored on Wei Wuxian’s ass as if it’s a grounding practice. Or stress relief. At the end of long days, Wei Wuxian has often complained about bruises when Lan Wangji unconsciously squeezes too hard during stressful meetings, with the inhuman strength in his hands.
(“It’s not even my ass,” he’d whined to Lan Wangji, a little self-consciously, early on in the days of their marriage.
Lan Wangji had inclined his head next to Wei Wuxian’s, leaning in close. “You’re right,” he’d murmured hot against Wei Wuxian’s ear, then sunk his teeth into the lobe. “It’s mine.”)
Wei Wuxian does reflect upon this seriously sometimes. He surmises that Mo Xuanyu, a known cutsleeve, would have probably been honored to know his body would host a specimen like Hanguang-jun in his ass everyday. He’d sacrificed his body for a greater and nobler cutsleeve purpose. Wei Wuxian hopes he’s happy and at rest, wherever he is.
“Wei-qianbei,” a familiar voice says, startling him out of his thoughts. At some point, Sizhui and Jingyi had materialized in front of them, and they’re both smiling expectantly at Wei Wuxian. The two of them are fully grown now, not juniors any longer — although Sizhui still maintains traces of baby fat in his cheeks, a perpetual, youthful roundness to his face, and the glint of mischief in Jingyi’s eyes hasn’t abated at all with age. Has worsened, if anything.
“Sizhui-laoshi,” Wei Wuxian says with a quick salute, smiling. Sizhui presses his lips together, fending off a smile, but he bows back with the same solemn respect.
“Hanguang-jun said today was a special anniversary for Wei-qianbei,” Sizhui says, then darts a glance at Lan Wangji. “But he didn’t specify which.”
“Oh, we’re celebrating my not being dead,” Wei Wuxian says. “I wasn’t expecting such an occasion of it.”
“Morbid,” Jingyi notes. “Not that that’s ever stopped you before.” He narrows his eyes, looking curious. “I was just a kid at the time — how long were you gone for, anyway?”
Wei Wuxian waves a hand and says wearily, “Aiyoh, how can I be expected to remember such — ”
“Four thousand, eight hundred and thirty two days,” Lan Wangji answers at the same time.
A strained hush falls over their small group. Wei Wuxian blinks, his eyes gone hot and dry, a thick cottony feeling in his throat. He had been more or less asleep for that span of time; of course he hadn’t felt the passing of days. He tries to imagine even one of those days without Lan Zhan and feels his shoulders tense, his mind shying away from the idea.
“Shall we?” Lan Wangji says, nodding toward the lanshi. He slides a hand over Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, cups it briefly to the nape of his neck as if to say I know. Wei Wuxian relaxes at the touch.
“Mn,” Sizhui agrees, and leads them in.
There are about twenty children in session today, their heads all ducked as they toil over pieces of parchment with their small inkbrushes. It's one of the youngest groups; they can't be older than six or seven. A disciple younger than Sizhui and Jingyi is overseeing at the head of the room, but when he spots Sizhui, he gives a quick bow and says, “Da-shixiong,” and departs the lanshi.
All of the kids glance up at their entrance, each of their little forehead ribbons moving in unison, and their eyes widen when they see Lan Wangji. They scramble to their feet to salute him, chorusing “Hanguang-jun” as they do. Lan Wangji nods to let them know to sit again, and they do, sneaking bashful peeks at him before they go back to their work.
“Such diligent young students you’ve cultivated, Sizhui,” Wei Wuxian says, loud enough for the kids to hear, and he sees some of them start to smile, peeking up at him shyly as well.
“That can be attributed to Hanguang-jun and Wei-qianbei,” Sizhui says diplomatically.
Wei Wuxian hand-waves the compliment away with a scoff. “Tell me what exactly it is that I’ve done? All props go to Hanguang-jun, of course.”
Jingyi has started to make the rounds around the room, gently correcting the way some of the kids are holding their brushes or leaning over to make commentary on whatever they’re working on. Sometimes, it’s still strange to see him and Sizhui so grown, as adult men now; as leaders within the Lan sect, in their own ways. They’re both nearly as old as Wei Wuxian had been when he’d returned to life. Sometimes it feels like time swings to a standstill inside the jingshi, the rest of the outside world rushing by quickly around them in a flurry of color and light. He and Lan Wangji have both dual-cultivated enough by now that their semi-youthful appearances have stagnated and settled. Even so, there are moments now when Wei Wuxian catches a strand of silver in his hair, or a streak of it in Lan Zhan’s, and thinks — time is passing for them, indeed.
“They’ve worked hard today,” Sizhui says, pulling Wei Wuxian out of his musings.
“Copying rules, I imagine,” Wei Wuxian says in amused reminiscence.
“Not quite,” Sizhui says, then offers Wei Wuxian a small, enigmatic smile.
Jingyi has finished making the rounds by now, and without Wei Wuxian’s noticing, he’d collected a stack of about twenty papers in hand. The kids are all sitting upright in their desks, watching the four of them with perfect, well-trained silence and attentive eyes.
Jingyi deposits the papers into Wei Wuxian’s hands with a flourish. “For you.”
Wei Wuxian blinks down at the pages in surprise. It takes him a moment to comprehend what he’s seeing. Each one, he realizes as he leafs through them, is a drawing addressed to him.
“You said no gifts,” Wei Wuxian murmurs to Lan Wangji around the sudden burning sensation in his throat.
“Hm,” Lan Wangji says peacefully, without contrition. “I did.”
It’s clear that the drawings have each been done with heartfelt, meticulous effort. The subjects vary from page to page. One is a bunny, clearly depicted on the back mountain, another a neatly drawn dragon; yet another is an attempted likeness of him and Lan Wangji. There had been a time, Wei Wuxian thinks as he pores through them — early on in their marriage, in which he hadn’t been allowed to step foot in the lanshi. A stubborn cloud of suspicion had darkly fallen over him in those first few years living in the Cloud Recesses, and although Lan Wangji had tried to shield him from the worst of it, of course there were moments Wei Wuxian had overheard what he shouldn’t, or been subjected to outright malice. He couldn’t blame any of them, either, even if his husband could. He had caused irreparable damage; had killed some of their own, when he hadn’t been in his right mind. There are still rules specific to him on the Discipline Wall. Of course Wei Wuxian couldn’t begrudge people their suspicion and their anger; of course not.
But many years have passed, now. For Wei-qianbei, each of the clumsy drawings say.
“Hey,” Jingyi’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Are you crying, Wei-laotou?”
Wei Wuxian snaps a hand out to thwack Jingyi with the stack of papers. “Eh!! Who are you calling laotou?!”
Some of the kids have started to giggle against what are obviously their best efforts, trying to hide their laughter behind their hands.
“Such insubordination,” Wei Wuxian pontificates loudly with a wagging finger to his small, giggling audience. “Here, children, you’ve seen a classic example of flagrant disrespect toward your seniors. Don’t take after your Jingyi-shixiong. Understand?”
“Yes, Wei-qianbei,” the kids chirp in unison.
Wei Wuxian puts one fist to his open palm and bows deeply toward the class. “Thank you for your kind gifts, young masters. I will treasure them as long as I live.”
The kids all beam at him, looking quite pleased with themselves, and when Wei Wuxian sneaks a look toward Lan Wangji, he finds himself being watched with that same look from earlier; warm and honeyed, a small smile tucked out of sight.
Seeing Lan Zhan so happy, Wei Wuxian thinks as his twice-born heart skips a beat, is truly the best gift he could ask for.
◈ ◈ ◈
“You didn’t have to do all of that,” Wei Wuxian says later, once they’re back in the jingshi; once night has fallen over the Cloud Recesses, and the frogs are throat-singing across the mountain. Lan Wangji had had some of Wei Wuxian’s favorite dishes delivered from Caiyi, as well as Emperor’s Smile and a few other types of liquor. Wei Wuxian’s statement also refers to this, although given the warm fullness in his belly, he truly can’t complain about it.
“I know,” Lan Wangji answers. “I wanted to.”
“Still,” Wei Wuxian says softly. “Thank you.”
Lan Wangji curls an arm around his shoulders and pulls Wei Wuxian into his side. They’ve come as far, by now, that thank you no longer invokes the same negative association in his husband as it once had. Although it mostly goes unsaid between them, Wei Wuxian still does sometimes feel the need to say so, when other words fail to convey what he means.
Wei Wuxian sighs sleepily and drops his head onto Lan Wangji’s shoulder. He starts to thumb through the drawings in his lap again as a small smile pulls at his mouth. “Such talented students. Sizhui has taught them well. Their drawings are even better than the one I gave you when I was twice their age.”
Lan Wangji still has that insolent portrait somewhere, yellowed and faded with age and tucked away in a safe place. It’s half-charred, from where he’d almost lost some of his belongings when the Cloud Recesses burnt down before the Sunshot Campaign. Wei Wuxian knows that the rest of Lan Wangji’s possessions had gone up in flame that day. He has never voiced aloud the question as to why it was only his keepsakes that survived the destruction. Some things do indeed still go unsaid between them.
Wei Wuxian moves to settle into Lan Wangji’s lap, and Lan Wangji easily folds his arms around Wei Wuxian’s front, his chin resting on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder to watch him flip through the drawings as Wei Wuxian talks.
“Sizhui mentioned a night hunt in Yunmeng today,” Wei Wuxian says. “If we’re still in a celebratory mood, we can travel around the area for a few weeks — it’s the perfect time of year to see the lakes, and I owe Jiang Cheng a visit, anyway, with some of the new additions to Lotus Pier. What do you think?”
Lan Wangji nods against Wei Wuxian’s neck, his mouth nearly brushing the skin. “Wherever you like.”
“Our thirteenth honeymoon,” Wei Wuxian muses, and he feels something in his belly turn over, hot and liquid and trembling, at the sudden concept of how many more they’ll have. It’s a wide world, and a better one, to have Lan Zhan by his side for it.
As if sensing the thought, Lan Wangji sweeps the hair off the back of his neck to kiss the skin there, his arms tightening around Wei Wuxian’s front.
“It’s nearly hai shi,” he says, a hum against Wei Wuxian's skin. “Let’s rest.”
Wei Wuxian yawns and leans back limply against Lan Wangji’s chest in acquiescence. “Alright, but you’ll need to carry me to bed, Hanguang-jun. You wrecked my poor, exhausted body this morning and I can’t move a —”
Easily, Lan Wangji does.