Chapter Text
When Lan Wangji launches his latest attack, he is armed with both highlighters and Wen Qing, which – according to both him and the rest of the cultivation world at large – should result in a ‘Kitana-wins-flawless-victory’ style triumph. As it stands, he really just feels like crying.
“No, I went to med school with that guy. Wouldn’t trust him to pour water out of a boot even if the instructions were on the heel.” Wen Qing viciously strikes a Jin candidate off both the printed list she is holding and their shared excel spreadsheet, before unceremoniously feeding his sub-standard profile into the shredder.
“You did not mention knowing him in our preliminary screening,” Lan Wangji says, trying not to sound accusatory as the one-page dossier he had meticulously prepared is turned into rabbit bedding.
The look his best friend gives him indicates that he had not quite succeeded. “It wasn’t worth my time to learn his name, I only recognised the headshot.”
They had blocked out the whole weekend for this and it is now, alarmingly, Sunday evening. Wen Qing had even taken off the weekend shift from the hospital as evidenced by the red, stiletto, press-on nails that are tap-tap-tapping away at the laptop. It is summer but even so, the hour is late enough that the light is slowly fading off the coast of Gusu, bringing with it a chill that rises softly like fog up the mountains. Lan Wangji's open-plan living room is cast in a golden glow that would be lovely against its soft blues were he one iota less fucking stressed. Sizhui should be returning from Jingyi’s soon, and Lan Wangji really does not want his son to witness the extreme amount of directly-inspired panic that is currently laid bare by the neat piles of stationery arranged across the fine oak of their dining table. Each stack is grouped by sect; at this stage, they have managed to work their way through the most of the major and minor sects to leave behind only a small pile of maybes for each one. They have mainly ignored the main branch of the Wen sect due to some ongoing disputes about waterways. Lan Wangji thinks he might ask Wen Qing to humanely euthanise him and then harvest his organs for donation if he has to resort to hiring an instructor from the Yao or Moling sects, but it is looking more and more likely.
“Oh,” says Wen Qing, blinking a little in surprise as she looks at the newest paper in front of her. It looks like she has moved onto the rogue – unaffiliated, Lan Wangji mentally corrects himself – cultivators rather than deal with the Yao sect pile. “He could work.”
She tilts the paper to show him.
Wei Ying. Thirty. Nationally accredited, NDIS approved. Specialises in rehabilitative flying, especially for lower body injuries. Trauma-informed care, LGBTQIA+ friendly. Member of Flying for the Disabled since 2012, member of the Jiang Flying School since 2006. Previous Head Disciple of the Jiang Sect.
“He smiles too much,” Lan Wangji says, frowning at the pixelated headshot of the instructor. Flippancy is not necessarily forbidden, but it is strongly discouraged, especially when one is a thousand feet above ground instructing the light of someone else’s life.
“He does,” acquiesces Wen Qing, “but I can vouch for him, peripherally at least. He went by Wei Wuxian, when I knew him.”
“How does he fly?” asks Lan Wangji, begrudgingly. He does have the presence of mind to acknowledge that this attitude is likely why they have not yet found a suitable instructor for Sizhui. Really, what Lan Wangji wants is a carbon copy of himself that has twenty years of experience flying with hip dysplasia. What Lan Wangji wants is to pick the Lan Sect up by its shoulders and give it a good shake and hope that it knocks some deep-seated structural change loose like a faulty cog.
“Last I saw? Too fast, too reckless, too good. The kind of flier you want with you when a Category Five cyclone comes through without warning.” Some of Lan Wangji’s incredulity must show on his face because Wen Qing lays her small hand on his arm. There's a bit of a chill in her fingers and Lan Wangji makes a mental note to turn up the heating when he refills their teacups, which he is going to have to do because obviously, they are going to be searching for a suitable instructor until the cows - or at least, Sizhui - come home. Gentle but brusque, Wen Qing continues, “I think it would be good for Sizhui. You’re a brilliant instructor but you’re textbook. The whole point of this is to get him someone that can show him how to handle himself if things go wrong, right? Someone to take him off-book and show him how to fly for his body and his limits?”
Wen Qing knows him well enough to take the purse of his lips as a yes. Taking the paper from her hands, Lan Wangji looks again at Wei Ying’s profile. The blurriness of his headshot only leaves the impression of sharp nose, long black hair and an out-of-focus smile that could belong to anyone. He is wearing the purple flight uniform of the Jiang Flying School, so Lan Wangji assumes that he is not wholly disaffiliated or at least, has not been kicked out in disgrace.
“A trial,” he says. “We can call and do a trial lesson.”