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Beeping wakes Lan Wangji from his sleep. He lets his eyes drift open into the cool hum of the cabin’s nighttime atmosphere control, darkness laying heavy around him, and tries to recall the last cobwebs of the dream that still hang from his mind—the trickling of water, and echoing laughter, and a smile brighter than any sun he’d seen or studied. The strangely nostalgic scent of the detention room.
He sits up, leaving any sleepiness behind in the comfort of his mattress, and checks the time on the wall display next to him. Five hours into the sleep cycle. Two before he would normally awaken, and three before the rest of the Bridge crew will. The beeping hasn’t stopped. He gets out of bed.
Lan Xichen is breathing softly in the adjoining sleeping cabin, and Lan Wangji is careful not to disturb him as he dresses. He only joined the ship a few weeks ago, and is still adjusting to cross-galactic life. Sleep is a valuable resource, out here in the depths of space.
The beeping is louder in the corridor outside, and Lan Wangji listens for a second, unfamiliar with the signal—it is not an alarm bell, he knows, because he had all of those memorised his first week aboard the Gentian, several years ago; nor is it the alert for incoming correspondence from the Cloud Recesses. This far into the sleep cycle, only the skeleton crew will be awake, and out here in the nothingness between worlds they usually travel on autopilot—it is likely he is the only person that has heard it.
As captain, Lan Wangji’s cabin is closest to the Bridge. He scans in and the door slides open, the room empty and otherwise undisturbed save for the loud beeping. It seems to be coming from one of the communication panels on the lower gantry, a little white light flashing on the dashboard. Lan Wangji makes his way down to it and wakes up the display.
LOCAL MESSAGE REQUEST FROM UNKNOWN SPACECRAFT flashes across the screen, in time with the beeping. Accept / Deny / Details.
Unknown spacecraft? They are not near any planets or stations, and Lan Wangji had intentionally planned their route to avoid slow intergalactic crawlers. He sits down at the desk, ears ringing with how loud the beeping is here, and selects Details.
An information panel flashes up, one he recognises from his early training days: foreign spacecraft properties, distance, any known information.
Spacecraft origin: UNKNOWN
Model: UNKNOWN
Crew details: UNKNOWN
Distance from CR-GENT.1A.N: 967,090 gs
Message request received 005134nc : Title: HI!
Lan Wangji stares at the screen. The unknown spacecraft is barely fifteen minutes away at the speed they’re travelling, and the distance is decreasing rapidly. The message first came through only twelve minutes ago. But most intriguing—what kind of message request is simply titled Hi?
The ship’s comms defence systems are up to date and secure. The message can’t do them any harm. Lan Wangji exists out of the details screen, and taps Accept.
The main screen flashes to life across the Bridge, and Lan Wangji has to grip the back of a chair to stop himself from falling over.
Because there, blown up to ten times life size and staticy with the void surrounding them, is Wei Ying.
Wei Ying, who flashed into Lan Wangji’s life like a supernova, all those years ago in Nav School, burning bright and hot and unreachable. Wei Ying, who lit Lan Wangji’s world on fire, dragged him in unwillingly by his everything, right into that inescapable light. Wei Ying, who did what all supernovas do, and burnt out in a spectacular display of power, until there was nothing left but darkness.
Wei Ying, who has been dead for thirteen years.
Lan Wangji steadies himself and realises he has missed the entire first half of Wei Ying’s message, the shock was so strong—he fumbles his way back to the system UI, scrambling to restart it. The message must be old, lost amongst the stars. It’s a coincidence. That’s the only explanation. These things can happen, he knows—drifting memories of signal waves sent years ago, echoing in the void, lost in the vastness of the universe—
He hits start again. Wei Ying’s voice echoes out, loud and tinny, into the Bridge.
“Hello! Um, sorry, this is not conventional, I know. I mean you probably can’t even understand me, but hey! Worth a try? So, uh.” He looks, now that Lan Wangji is watching him, and not staring in shock, exactly the same—messy hair that never stayed put in its ponytail, bright eyes, clever mouth. “So I’ve been out here for—well, I don’t know how long, the ship’s calendar systems were bust from the get-go—but maybe, six months? More? Thank fuck there’s a farm system on board, I’d be dead otherwise.” He laughs, and even across the recording it makes Lan Wangji’s heart clench. “Anyway! You’re the first sign I’ve seen of anything else living, so I hope you don’t mind me messaging you. Like I said, the ship’s calendar system is fucked, because so is her nav system, and like. I’m a decent engineer and a pretty alright pilot but I could really do with a little help. Even if it was just to point me in the right direction? I don’t need to come on board, I just. Hah. Have no idea where I am! Sorry.” He laughs again, and looks down at the bottom corner of the screen, and his face jumps. “Oh, shit, sorry, message length nearly up! Um, I’m Wei Wuxian, nice to meet you, get back to me if you want? Haha. Thanks! Bye.”
The message ends on Wei Ying’s grin as he reaches out to end the recording, and Lan Wangji stares. Is Wei Ying—was this—
He leans down and hits the call button on the comms system. It beeps, and then lights up—
“Lan Jingyi? Report to the Bridge as soon as possible.”
Lan Jingyi’s voice is chipper—despite working most night cycles and half the day cycles as well, he seems to have an endless amount of energy. “Sure thing, Captain! On my way now.”
Lan Wangji releases the call button, and sinks heavily into the chair. The beeping has stopped now, and Wei Ying’s laugh echoes in his ears, a phantom memory. There’s no way. It must be old—there’s no other explanation, and the chances of it being anything even close to what the tiniest flicker of his heart hopes—
The whssh of the door sounds behind him, and he turns in the chair to see Jingyi entering, datapad in hand. He’s one of their finest junior navigators, if a little rowdy, and his piloting skills are excellent—almost as good as, well—
“We have received a message,” Lan Wangji informs him. He indicates the comms panel. “I think it’s highly likely that it is a lost transmission that we’ve picked up, but I.” He hopes Jingyi doesn’t notice that he has to stop and clear his throat. “I want to be certain. You are trained in comms utility, correct?”
The juniors receive a wider training now than Lan Wangji did when he was in Nav school. He is certainly capable enough to figure it out itself, but if on the slightest, most unlikely chance that the message is new—he can’t waste any time.
“Want me to have a look?” Jingyi offers, and Lan Wangji nods, standing up to give him access to the panel. Lan Jingyi drops into the seat easily, hands working fast over the UI, humming as he goes. It would almost be annoying, were it not for the fact that this is about Wei Ying, and Lan Wangji is finding it very hard to think about anything else.
After two very long minutes have passed, Jingyi sits back. “Huh.”
“What is it?” Lan Wangji asks, hoping his voice sounds level and reasonable. He is not so sure it does.
“Well, yeah, it’s hard to tell, but from the encode on the outgoing transmission, I would say it’s recent. Is it solid all the way through? Lost transmissions usually have like, bits missing, and damaged audiovisuals.”
Lan Wangji swallows. “It is.”
Jingyi nods. “Then yeah, it’s probably an actual message.” He looks up at Lan Wangji. “What does it say?”
Lan Wangji is staring, again, at Wei Ying’s face, frozen in a distracted smile over the Bridge. Wei Ying’s face that is—apparently—very much alive, and very much mere minutes away from their ship, out here in the middle of nowhere. Wei Ying’s face, that he has not laid eyes upon for thirteen years, and that he thought he would never lay eyes upon again.
“Wake up the gate crew,” he says. “We’re picking up a passenger.”
🚀
In the cool of the docking bay, every nerve in Lan Wangji’s body feels like it’s on fire. The light by the door is flickering, fast, in time with his racing heartbeat. Wei Ying, here, lost in the void. Wei Ying, here, coming onto the Gentian. Wei Ying, alive. Alive. Alive.
He forces his features into neutrality, keeps his hands firm behind his back. It would not do to show his emotions in front of the crew—not when most of them are just as surprised as he is to have found a wandering ship this far out, and not when most of their knowledge of Wei Ying consists of the rumours that have spread like a virus around the galaxy since his death. Or not-death, as it turns out.
The flickering light flashes once, then remains on, and the gate to the docking bay starts to slide open, atmospheric pressure barrier a shimmering film against the blackness of space beyond. And then, little by little, the corner of a wing, the bright light of the an engine exhaust, blackened steel and hardened rivets, the reflection of lights on the glass of the cockpit—
Lan Wangji’s reply had been brief and to the point. Message received. We will be drawing alongside you in six minutes. Please prepare to dock.
It will be good to see you, Wei Ying.
He doesn’t know if Wei Ying will realise what ship he’s joining—doesn’t know if Wei Ying is aware that he was the one who replied to his message—doesn’t know if this isn’t some elaborate hoax by an antagonistic party seeking to come on board and hijack them. It is remarkably unprofessional, but at this point, he barely cares.
There’s a tap on his shoulder. Lan Xichen is still in his sleep clothes, the jacket of his uniform shrugged over his shoulders. “Jingyi told me we were taking on a passenger,” he says. “Good thing I came to look for you on the Bridge first. You left his picture up.” His hand is light on Lan Wangji’s shoulder, but he can feel the weight of everything Lan Xichen wants to ask. “Are you okay?”
Lan Wangji is not particularly okay, not when the person who changed the entire course of his life and then died instead of staying with him to see it through is maybe probably alive and about to board their ship—but he’s not about to tell that to his brother. He nods once, stiffly, and Lan Xichen drops his hand.
The ship is small—designed for quick interplanetary transport, not the vast outreaches of the galaxy—four-winged, with what was once no doubt a sleek exterior and state-of-the-art streamlining. But it’s clearly been through a lot, steel darkened with exhaust fumes and space dust, cut through by sharp metallic streaks telling of a few too many close encounters with asteroid belts. The upper right engine seems to not be working at all, and the others look like they could do with some serious repairs. Lan Wangji makes a mental note to get Sizhui on it as soon as possible.
He still cannot see through the glass of the cockpit, but there’s some awful part of him that doesn’t want to see. What if it’s not Wei Ying? Or what if it is, but he’s changed? Different?
The ship lands on the floor of the docking bay with a gentle thud. Lan Wangji resists the urge to start running towards it.
The minutes before the ship’s door opens are perhaps the longest of his life. Tension stretches through the docking bay like fabric pulled too taut. Lan Wangji keeps his gaze focused on the ship, not sparing a glance for the member of security crew resting her hand on her gunbelt, not watching Jingyi bouncing up and down trying to see into the cockpit, not thinking about Lan Xichen standing just behind him, ready to catch him or hold him back or intervene in the way he always thinks is best.
There’s the sound of a seal unlocking, and the grating of metal, and then—
The person who stumbles out onto the polished floor of the docking bay is smaller than he remembers. Longer hair, more hunched shoulders, bare forearms wiry and littered with tattoos—
But he looks up, and it’s Wei Ying. It’s Wei Ying, alive, and here on Lan Wangji’s ship.
“Lan Zhan!”
He barely has a moment to pull himself out of his frozen state before Wei Ying is barrelling towards him, hands outstretched, grin wide and excited and so so beautiful—and then he has an armful of him, warm and real and solid and alive, alive, alive. He smells like engine oil and stale clothes. His hair is a mess, but Lan Wangji allows himself to tilt his face into it anyway, to inhale the scent of him. He can feel his brother lurking over his shoulder, wishes he would go away, they would all go away and let him have this moment—
But he’s this ship’s captain, and he has to remain professional.
He detaches Wei Ying from the clam hold he has on him with some difficulty, and steps back. “Wei Ying.”
“Hi! Haha, holy shit, Lan Zhan, it’s you! I thought, when the message came back, and was from the Gentian, but—ahh! I can’t believe I managed—I mean, like, what are the chances, right?”
“Right,” Lan Wangji agrees. He is not sure what to do with his hands. He doesn’t know what his face is doing. He hasn’t felt this awkward in years. He desperately wants to get Wei Ying somewhere quiet—somewhere just the two of them, where he can ask him all the questions burning at the tip of his tongue—where, how, when, why, why, why—but he’s aware of the rest of the crew standing in the docking bay, waiting for instructions.
“Are you well? Do you need any medical attention?”
“Medical—? No, no, I’m absolutely fine. I mean, maybe a little hungry, but that’s—oh wow, your brother is here too!”
Lan Wangji sways as Wei Ying rushes past him to sweep Lan Xichen up in a hug, his brother making somewhat surprised eye contact with Lan Wangji over Wei Ying’s shoulder—they hadn’t been close, before, certainly not at the hugging stage—still, he pats Wei Ying kindly on the shoulder, and waits for him to let go. Lan Wangji shakes himself to attention, and turns to Jingyi.
“Get the ship secured and organise an engineering team to have a look at her as soon as they’re awake,” he says. “Sizhui will know what he’s doing.” He waves over one of the support crew who has been lurking in the doorway. “Take Wei Ying to the canteen and find him something to eat. He’ll be needing rooming and facilities too.” She nods, and they both turn to Wei Ying, who is looking at him with a playfully impressed expression.
“You never told me you were the captain,” he says.
Lan Wangji has barely spoken three sentences to him since he landed, of course he hasn’t—-but he can see the teasing glint in Wei Ying’s eye, feels the way his ears heat up at it. “No,” he says. “I apologise. Welcome aboard the Gentian, Wei Ying.”
🚀
Having Wei Ying back—
Having Wei Ying back makes everything feel new. He watches him disappear towards the canteen, and the prospect of eating there with him makes him suddenly starve for the ship’s regular fare of plain proteins and steamed vegetables. He walks down the corridors, can already hear the sound of Wei Ying’s laughter, of his exuberant joy, and the air of the ship smells sweet and planet-fresh. He steps onto the Bridge, and thinks about Wei Ying here, spinning in one of the nav chairs, and the entirety of the galaxy feels open to him.
Having Wei Ying back is a terrifying thing. Because Lan Wangji has sat with his feelings—with his grief—for thirteen years now, and seeing them turned upside-down and spilled open all over the deck is only too real a prospect, now that Wei Ying could walk in and tip them out at any time—has already started the precarious tilt, when Lan Wangji pressed accept on that message and heard his voice beamed across the stars. He cannot let Wei Ying see just how deeply his emotions run. It would terrify him, too.
Lan Wangji returns to his rooms once day cycle starts and the Bridge crew are settling in to their stations, whispers of a new passenger echoing around the ship like firecrackers. He will give Wei Ying time to settle and adjust himself before he goes to find him. He would not want to be attacked with questions the minute he found himself in a place of sanctuary, and he does not doubt Wei Ying would either.
After staring at his datapad for a whole twenty-three minutes and not picking up a single word on the history of interplanetary trade relations in the Shao Fu system, he finally gives in, and goes back to the docking bay.
Wei Ying’s ship is a sleek, elegant little thing; were it not for all the wear he would expect it to be a top-class diplomatic mission sort of vessel. He entertains the thought that Wei Ying might have stolen it. He does not feel as angry about that as he would have before, he thinks.
Sizhui is already at work, perched on top of the ship’s hull with a panel open, wires spilling out from the guts within. He smiles down at Lan Wangji when he notices him, a little smear of oil already on his chin. Out of all Lan Wangji’s achievements in the past thirteen years, Lan Sizhui is the greatest one.
“Captain,” Sizhui greets him. He seems to know what Lan Wangji is going to ask before he even opens his mouth, because he continues, “She’s certainly in quite a state. How he’s managed to pilot her I have no clue.” He holds up the end of a wire, frayed beyond recognition. “Almost half of them are like this. It’s making the most of what you’ve got at its finest, that’s for sure.”
Lan Wangji is burning with the desire to know why Wei Ying was drifting through this part of the galaxy, and how, more importantly, he is still alive—and the state of his ship only adds to the questions. “I am sure he will be willing to walk you through his craft maintenance,” Lan Wangji says, because Wei Ying always has time to teach eager young minds new things, “if you ask him.”
Lan Sizhui’s face lights up. “I will do, captain. Thank you.”
Lan Wangji inclines his head. “After he’s had plenty of time to rest, Sizhui. We don’t know what he’s been through.” And I desperately want to make sure he’s alright, Lan Wangji thinks.
“Haha, yes, captain, of course.”
He goes back to his wires with a smile on his face. Lan Wangji makes a mental note to mention Sizhui to Wei Ying. The thought of two of the most important people in his life getting on—learning from each other. Lan Wangji feels so lucky he could shout.
He doesn’t, and returns to the Bridge. When he enters, there’s an achingly familiar silhouette against the wide nav screen that spans the Bridge, and he gives himself a moment to breathe it in—Wei Ying, here, in his space, in his life.
Wei Ying is leaning over slightly to listen to Lan Jingyi, who is flicking through the various nav panels at alarming speed, taking him through the ship’s workings in an excited fluster. Lan Wangji wonders what he has heard about the famed Wei Wuxian, about his piloting skills, the way he could turn any ship into a smooth-sailing craft that purred under his command, the way he corrupted the entire Conference’s fleet just to save a handful of prisoners of war—the way he lost himself in power of it, turned their own ships against them, mind too embroiled in metal and wires and the steady thrum of a ship’s heart—
Well, in any case. Jingyi is certainly awestruck enough.
Lan Wangji approaches, and Wei Ying turns, spotting him with a wide grin. “She’s a thing of beauty, Lan Zhan,” he says, hands on his hips. “Exactly the kind of ship I would always imagine you leading.”
He looks so good, freshened up and in one of their spare general crew uniforms, high black collar and nipped-in waist. Lan Wangji’s face goes hot. It has been a long time since he has faced this want, but he has never forgotten it.
“She runs well,” he replies, taking over from Jingyi to reset them to the general navigation panel, their course for the Unclean Realm laid out across the star map. “Did you have something to eat?”
Wei Ying runs his hands up and down his arms in the way a distant and yet intimately close part of Lan Wangji’s brain remembers as self-conscious. “A quick bite, yeah.” He pauses, eyes glinting, and then grins. “The ship might be beautiful, but the food is just about as bland as I would expect.”
It feels dangerously good to be teased by him again. Lan Wangji frowns good-naturedly, and turns back to the screen. “It is nutritious and filling,” he says. “There is little else we need.” He makes another mental note to ask the kitchens if there are any spices on board. If not—it would not be too far a diversion to call in at the JX-65 space market on their way—
Wei Ying huffs a laugh. “Hey, kiddo, what were you saying about the fuel recycling system? That sounds cool as fu—heck, where do I get to see more of that?”
Lan Jingyi’s seems delighted to be asked something by Wei Wuxian himself. “Yeah! Yeah, of course, we can go down to the fuel chamber now—I mean, that is, uh, if the captain—”
Lan Wangji fights to conceal his smile. “You may go.”
“Awesome! Yeah, follow me, uh, sir—”
“Please, there is absolutely no need to call me sir, that makes me feel like I’m about to dole out six hours of extra intergalactic flight path studying—”
Their voices disappear as the door slides shut behind them, and Lan Wangji leans forward on the main control panel, staring at the nav screen in front of him. His emotions are still all over the place. He needs to get himself back on track. He needs to ensure the crew handle this well. He needs answers to all the questions burning at his insides. He needs to get Wei Ying alone—
He shakes himself out of it, and sits down in his captain’s chair. The image of his uncle, pacing at the front of his Crew Leadership class, sternly glancing at each student in turn, swims into his mind. The most effective leaders, he had said, and had looked Lan Wangji directly in the eye, are those who can regulate their emotional needs.
Right. He’s going to be perfectly calm, and normal, and maintain a good image for his crew, and ignore all the bursting, brilliant fireworks exploding in his chest just like he did all those years ago. He is Lan Wangji, captain of the CR-GENT.14.N, leader of this ship and her crew and their diplomatic envoy mission, and he is absolutely, one hundred percent, okay.
🚀
Lan Wangji is not, as it turns out, okay.
Three days have passed since they picked Wei Ying up from the middle of nowhere on a lightly-travelled route in a ship that should not have survived low-planetary orbit, let alone the vacuum of space, and in that time Lan Wangji has managed to speak to him a number of times that he can count on the fingers of one hand.
Lan Wangji is the captain, yes, and with that role comes a certain amount of busyness and duty—but he is not without time to spare, or unable to stop and talk to members of his crew. And the ship is of a decent size, with plenty of space, but not so large that it is rare to bump into someone in the corridors. And Wei Ying has been resting and recovering, that is true, and Lan Wangji is glad for it, but Lan Wangji knows that he has also been working on his ship with Sizhui, and hanging out in the engine rooms with the maintenance crew, and generally getting in the way in the way that only he knows best—helpfully, and with infectious energy. So while it is not completely out of the question that the minute number of interactions Lan Wangji has had with him is simply coincidental, he finds himself forced to face a different, more difficult conclusion:
Wei Ying is avoiding him.
It stings, the thought of it—but Lan Wangji cannot, will not blame him for this. The last time they had spoken, before, Lan Wangji had all but begged him to come home, to relinquish the ease of power that he had, to settle back into being an obedient, dutiful pilot under the Conference—and he had not been gentle in his request. He understands why Wei Ying might want to avoid him, if this is still the impression he has of Lan Wangji. Yes, they were close in nav school, but that was before everything that happened, and Lan Wangji knows that he did Wei Ying wrong, back then, even if it has taken him over a decade to realise it. He can see, now, just how corrupt the Conference was—just how corrupt it still is, in parts. He should have stood by Wei Ying’s side. He should have been gentler with him, let him see more of the truth in Lan Wangji’s heart. He should have done a lot of things. But he didn’t, and now Wei Ying is avoiding him.
It is a four week trip from the Cloud Recesses to the Uncleam Realm, at their passenger-friendly cruising speed, and there is barely over a week remaining until they arrive. Lan Wangji is achingly aware of the time slipping away. He doesn’t know what Wei Ying will do when they get there, and can get more parts for his ship—whether he will hang around, or whether he will simply—disappear again.
He does not like to let himself worry, but he finds it hard to ignore the stress clawing at his throat.
The air of the observation deck is cool, a little over-processed for his liking, but carefully calculated to be soothing and calm. He sits on the bench facing the wide viewing window, eyes closed, hands on his knees. It can be hard to find time to meditate during the day. He will be giving Jingyi a stellar review for his performance on this trip for the way he had seen Lan Wangji rubbing his temples, and quietly offered to take over on nav duty so that he could get some air. He may be over-excitable and distractible a lot of the time, but Lan Wangji can see how he will shape up to be a fine captain someday.
He acknowledges the thoughts, dismisses them, and focuses on the quiet hum of the ship. Minutes pass. The room is wide and empty behind his closed eyes, and the starscape outside the window infinitely wider and emptier. He lets the quiet envelop him, seep under his skin, settle the unusual energy there—entirely caused by Wei Ying’s return. He is calm, he is collected, and he is perfectly in control.
The door of the deck slides open with a near-silent whoosh, and there’s the sound of footsteps. Lan Wangji feels himself drifting back up from his meditation, returning with sluggish awareness to the world of the present—
“Oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t realise—I can, uh—I’ll just—”
His eyes fly open, snapping back into the fullness of his body and the ship and the observation deck with what feels like an almost audible thud. “Wei Ying.”
An awkward laugh. “Sorry, Lan Zh—um, captain, I didn’t mean to disturb you—”
Lan Wangji turns, twisting on the bench. Wei Ying is standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the bright lights of the corridor behind him, self-consciously rubbing the back of his head. He is still all in black, passenger uniform, but he’s found a red ribbon somewhere to tie his hair back. The cut of his jawbone and curve of his waist catch Lan Wangji unprepared, and he has to stop himself from staring, drinking him in.
Wei Ying has gone quiet. “Um. Yeah. Sorry. I’ll be off.”
He turns, sheepish, and Lan Wangji stands. “Wei Ying,” he repeats, and Wei Ying freezes, halfway into the corridor. Lan Wangji must be direct with him, if he’s to ever get through to him. “You have been avoiding me.”
Wei Ying turns back to him, slowly, an awkward smile plastered onto his face. He faces Lan Wangji, still several metres away, and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Uh, no, haha, captain, I’ve just—been busy. Lots of new stuff to learn! And so have you. You have a whole ship to captain.”
Lan Wangji stares at him until he bites his lip, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Stop it,” Wei Ying mumbles.
“Stop what,” Lan Wangji asks, knowing the answer.
“Looking at me like that.” Wei Ying stares very decisively at the smooth grey panelling of the wall. “Like you can see right through me.”
“Hm.” Lan Wangji considers him, the sharp, tensed, anticipatory shape of him, and wishes that he could see into Wei Ying’s head, could know exactly what has got them here. He sits back down again, facing the window. “Come and sit,” he says.
There is a long pause. Lan Wangji doesn’t turn back to see what Wei Ying is doing. He knows he will come eventually.
He is right. Wei Ying walks over, footsteps echoing in the room as the door whooshes shut behind him, and perches at the end of the bench furthest from Lan Wangji. He puts his hands on his knees, and stares out into space.
Another long moment passes. Lan Wangji is burning with questions. But Wei Ying does not deserve to be interrogated—not when Lan Wangji already owes him a lifetime’s worth of answers.
“You come here often?” Wei Ying eventually asks, and then snorts, running a hand over his face. “Hah, sorry. I couldn’t resist.” He gestures at the observation window, the deep vastness beyond. “It’s beautiful.”
“Mn.” Lan Wangji wonders how long Wei Ying spent in his little ship, with its hazy cockpit window and blackened steel, floating in that vastness. “It is.”
Wei Ying looks over at him, but he’s turned away again by the time Lan Wangji looks back. He shuffles on the bench, tucking his hands under his thighs. If things were different between them, Lan Wangji would tug them out, and cradle them in his own.
“Are you settling in well?” he asks, the least burning of his questions, but an important one nonetheless.
“Yeah!” Wei Ying is quick to answer. “Yeah, fine. Great. The crew here are all so nice. It’s kinda weird being around—”
He stops himself, and glances up at Lan Wangji furtively. This time, Lan Wangji is ready, and catches his gaze, holding it. Wei Ying flushes and looks away, mumbling something under his breath.
“Hm?” Lan Wangji prompts him.
“Ah, it’s just.” Wei Ying shrugs, and takes a deep breath. “It’s weird being around people again. Nice. I’d kinda… forgotten how nice.”
He sits, shoulders up, tense, clearly waiting to see how Lan Wangji is going to absorb this invaluable piece of information about his past. Although it has only left him with more questions, Lan Wangji nods sedately, and turns back to the window. “They are a good crew.” There is another long pause. Things were never this stilted between them, before. “Wei Ying, may I ask—” He is not unaware of the way Wei Ying’s shoulders tense up further— “How long were you out there? In your ship?”
Wei Ying drops his shoulders, shaking his head. “Oh, you know. Just a little while. A couple of years, maybe.”
Years, floating alone in the vacuum of space. Only metal and energy and the stars for company. Lan Wangji likes his personal space, but the thought is enough to daunt even him.
But Wei Ying has been missing—has been presumed dead—has been confirmed executed—for more than just a couple of years. Lan Wangji bites his tongue at the flurry of questions hoping to escape his mouth. “And were you… alright?” he asks. It comes out softer than he intended.
Wei Ying laughs dismissively. “Yeah, Lan Zhan, of course I was. I’m always alright.”
Lan Wangji absolutely knows this not to be true. But he won’t challenge that now.
“Hm,” he says, instead. And then—
“Please stop avoiding me,” Wei Ying.
And if his question had been too soft, this comes out—aching. He meets Wei Ying’s eye, sees the shock there, the surprise that—that what? That Lan Wangji wants to be with him, here on his ship? Wants to talk to him? Does not, in fact, find him a nuisance?
The people who made Wei Ying feel like he was a nuisance have a lot to pay for.
Wei Ying gapes a little, then nods, slowly at first, then with more surety. “Okay. I mean, yeah, of course, Lan Zhan, I don’t want to avoid you.”
Then why were you, Lan Wangji wants to say. He doesn’t. “Good.”
Wei Ying inhales deeply. “I just. I thought you would hate me. After everything.”
Lan Wangji blinks. Hate him? Hate Wei Ying? After—what?
“Wei Ying, I don’t understand.”
Wei Ying scratches his forearm self-consciously. “Well… after the. What happened. With the Conference. And the Wens. And the fleet. I know—I know we didn’t see eye to eye, back then, Lan Zhan, I thought you might hate me, I thought—I thought you still might.”
Lan Wangji stares at him. Wei Ying can’t hold his gaze, looking everywhere but back at Lan Wangji. The thought of ever hating Wei Ying—even in those early days, when he hadn’t know what it was that he was feeling, but knows now that it certainly wasn’t hate—is one to shrink away from, cold and hollow and piercing. He does not know how to tell him just how wrong he is. Just how much, in fact the opposite is true.
“I don’t,” he says eventually, voice low in the large room. “I don’t hate you.”
Wei Ying is silent for a long time, staring at his hands, fiddling with them in his lap. Then he lifts his head, nods, and jumps to his feet. “Okay. Okay, cool, cool.” He sticks out a hand to pull Lan Wangji up too. “Wanna go find some lunch?”
Lan Wangji can’t fight the feeling of relieved joy that floods his chest—or the way it no doubt shows in his face too. Wei Ying grins, and pulls him away, hand tight in his, and Lan Wangji never wants to let go.
🚀
The conversation on the observation deck seems to flip everything on its head. Suddenly, Wei Ying is everywhere. In the Bridge, flitting about, lounging in Lan Wangji’s captain’s chair, feet up on the arm rest and making remarks about the nav that it would have taken Lan Wangji three times as long to notice himself. In the canteen, barely a proprietary amount of space between them as he drops his tray down next to Lan Wangji’s, already starting to move food from one to the other, telling him with glee that the kitchen staff had found some real dried chillies tucked away in a rarely-used cupboard. In the corridors, waving at Lan Wangji as he saunters by at Lan Sizhui or Lan Jingyi’s shoulder, now in engineering uniform with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and engine oil streaked across his chin, full of life and energy and movement in a way that makes Lan Wangji want to pin him against a wall and make him still for just one moment.
Outside the door to Lan Wangji’s rooms, dangerously close to the start of the night cycle, leaning back with a lazy smile against the hard panelled wall, teasing Lan Wangji with a story from their days in nav school, before everything had happened. Evening-soft and easy-featured and relaxed, like he could just slip inside, into the warmth of Lan Wangji’s bed with him. Only reluctantly pushing himself off to leave when Lan Xichen appears at the end of the corridor and spots them, an awful knowing smile appearing on his face that makes Lan Wangji’s ears heat up like ill-maintained engines.
Lan Wangji had—forgotten is too strong a word, for as much as it’s possible to forget someone like Wei Ying—but Lan Wangji had not spent long enough remembering how easy it is to be friends with Wei Ying. How his sense of humour is teasing and light and crackingly witty, sharp like a pin, how he can soften and tilt his head and listen with steady eyes and intent focus, how he is always moving, humming, fiddling—how he can narrow down all that energy into a simple, beautiful smile, brighter than any star Lan Wangji has ever navigated by. His entire self aches with the need to be near Wei Ying, to revolve in his orbit like a planet revolves around a sun, to never miss another single one of those glorious, brilliant sunbursts.
They will be arriving at Qinghe tomorrow, and Lan Wangji feels bittersweet at the thought. The journey has been smooth—other than the obvious—and hopes to have provided good leadership for his crew. He’s done his duty for Gusu Lan and will continue to do them once they get planetside. He is a good captain.
But—but once they do get to Qinghe, once the ship settles into the interstellar docking bay at the Unclean Realm and they disembark and commence the diplomatic part of the mission, Wei Ying will be able to find the parts he needs to actually be able to pilot his ship, and then he’ll get on said ship, and then he’ll be gone again.
The thought makes something heavy and hollow sit in Lan Wangji’s stomach.
The final full day before docking is black hole of stretched-out time, and everything seeming to snap by in a moment. Wei Ying lingers on the Bridge with him for a good while, but he gets bored eventually of watching their slow approach of Qinghe on the screen, and goes to find Sizhui and his ship. He is subdued, Lan Wangji thinks. Perhaps he is worried that he won’t be able to find the parts he needs.
He pushes the thought into the back of his head, and focuses on his job. Not long now. Not long until they will be pulling into the space port, not long until they will be transferring onto the surface, not long until he will have to bury himself in the rigid familiarity of politeness and policy, of long meetings and diplomacy, of not having to think about where Wei Ying is or what Wei Ying is doing or how soon until Wei Ying leaves or how Wei Ying’s return to his life has thrown everything off-course, sent him spiralling through the galaxy out of control, helpless in the dizzying brightness of his star—
He takes a deep breath. It is going to be a long day.
By the time he is carrying his tray across the canteen at the end of it, his gut feels twisted, unsettled. He has not seen Wei Ying for hours. He sits down with his steamed beans and plain rice and perfectly rectangular protein fillet, and doesn’t want to eat a bite of it.
Lan Xichen joins him, silent, and Lan Wangji forces down the mouthfuls, aware of his brother’s gaze on him. They are not in the habit of talking during meals. Eating, like much else in the life of a Lan, is a means to an end, a necessary requirement for healthy bodily function. He tries not to remember Wei Ying dragging him around the food stalls of the space port at Yunmeng, excitement in every feature as he presented more and more mouthfuls for Lan Wangji to taste, until his mouth was aflame with spice and flavour. Wei Ying’s love for food is like Lan Wangji’s love for the quiet expanse of the stars: a constant, underlying thing that makes him who he is.
He finishes his food, and stands to clear his tray. Lan Xichen looks up at him, and Lan Wangji can feel it coming.
“Wangji,” Lan Xichen says, voice soft. Lan Wangji does not want to have this conversation. He doesn’t sit back down, but he doesn’t leave, either.
“Brother.”
Lan Xichen sets down his chopsticks. “I do not think he is as eager to leave as you assume of him,” he says, and Lan Wangji flushes, stomach flipping. How does Lan Xichen know exactly what’s been plaguing him for the past week?
He sighs—Lan Wangji keeps his emotions tightly under wraps at all times, but his brother has known him the longest. “How do you know that,” he replies, hardly a question.
Lan Xichen eats a mouthful of protein fillet with patient diligence. “I do not for certain, of course,” he says. “But I think—you should talk to him about it.”
Lan Wangji bows his head. He would like to talk to Wei Ying about many things—would like to know anything about where he’s been, what happened, why he’s here now—but there are some things that he cannot simply ask him, like that. And this—what he would be asking, as it would inevitably come out, as it did all those years ago when he didn’t do what he should have done and instead tried to do what he had been told to do—he cannot. He cannot ask that of Wei Ying.
“Hm,” he says, and goes to clear his tray.
They will be arriving only a few hours into tomorrow’s day cycle, and he takes a final tour of the ship to ensure that everything is as it should be, ready to dock and disembark. Closing in on the solar system and planet means that there needs to be supervision of the autopilot in case of conflicting space travel, and Lan Wangji checks in with their night cycle nav officer to ensure she has everything under control. Satisfied, he lets his feet guide him, not paying attention to where he’s going. He has not seen Wei Ying all evening.
His feet return him to the observation deck, the wide wide window looking out on the stillness of the galaxy. The sight of it settles something within him, that restlessness bred from his worrying about Wei Ying reducing into a simmer, rather than a full-blown roar. The room is empty again; he sits on the bench, and looks.
It feels like hours pass. There is only him, and the soft sounds of the ship, and the wide expanse of space. After too long a while, he realises that he is waiting. Waiting for Wei Ying to find him here, again, that perhaps there had been even the slightest chance—their last night, their last opportunity to clear the air between them, that perhaps Wei Ying would want—would want—
What? Would want to spend it with Lan Wangji, sitting in silence and staring at the stars, stars that held him trapped and floating for two whole years, even longer? Sitting with someone who wanted to keep him just as trapped, to keep him quelled, for the rest of his life? Someone with whom he is trapped again now, a trial run of what might have been, what could be, tangled in the snare of Lan Wangji’s selfishness?
No. No, it makes sense now, of course—of course he wouldn’t want to—Lan Wangji has been foolish, has let his senseless hopeful heart get the better of him again, has got himself too caught up in the could-bes and the maybes. He stands up, swallowing, and turns away from the window. He needs to sleep before the busyness that he knows tomorrow will bring.
The corridors echo with the sound of his footsteps as he makes his way back to his rooms, each pace a hollow reminder of how it would never work anyway, not when this is his life now, diplomatic missions and quiet conversations with his brother and the white-grey interiors of a Lan spacecraft. He does not feel trapped, but it is achingly clear to him just how easily Wei Ying could.
Outside his door, he pauses, and looks up the empty corridor. Last night, Wei Ying had leaned back against the wall here, teasing in his eyes, and had laughed about the time Lan Wangji had been forced to supervise him in the detention room, the way Lan Wangji had looked, all stiff and tense and ready to explode. You’ve really mellowed out, he’d said, his smile hinting at something that Lan Wangji hadn’t been able to capture.
He shakes his head. He will ensure that he sees Wei Ying at least once in the morning—even if it is just to say goodbye.
He swipes open his door, and steps inside, the room cool and dark and quiet. The door slides shut behind him, and leans back against it, closing his eyes. Exhaustion is suddenly ready to come crashing down on him, hitting his bones like an unprepared jump to hyperspeed in an ancient spacecraft. He slides a hand down over his face, exhaling.
“Uh, I couldn’t find the lightswitch.”
Lan Wangji almost jumps out of his skin—his rooms are empty, aren’t they, Lan Xichen on a lengthy evening comms call with Nie Mingjue about arrangements for tomorrow—then his brain catches up with him, and he realises whose voice that was.
Wei Ying is more of a shape in the darkness, a shadow against the dim safety lighting along the bottom of the wall.
“Wei Ying?” Lan Wangji says. He is embarrassed at the tone of his voice, at how relieved—how desperate it sounds.
“Yeah, hah. Your brother let me in. I’m sorry, if this is—I can go, of course, I know it’s night cycle already—”
“No.” Lan Wangji reaches out and turns on the lights, soft diffused golden light spreading through the room, and there is Wei Ying, standing awkwardly in the middle of it, blinking as his eyes adjust. He’s changed out of his engineering uniform, and is wearing just the black undershirt and pants of passenger uniform, arms bare. Lan Wangji can see goosebumps prickling along his forearms. The atmosphere control in here has always been too cold.
“So, uh,” Wei Ying says, and chuckles nervously. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, I know it’s—I know it’s not protocol, I probably should have scheduled a meeting or something, but that would just have felt—I didn’t want—Um.” He laughs again, ducking his head, and when he meets Lan Wangji’s gaze his features are no longer teasing, no longer light and mirthful. “I wanted to talk to you. Before, ah, tomorrow.”
Lan Wangji’s stomach flips. He nods, of course he nods, and gestures at the low couch in the seating area. Wei Ying follows his gesture, glances back at him to check that he can in fact sit down, and then does so, perching awkwardly with his hands on his knees. Lan Wangji swallows. “Of course,” he manages, his throat suddenly dry. Wei Ying wants to talk to him. He is not sure whether he’s feeling thrill or dread. Some mixture of both. “Would you like a drink?”
“Thanks.”
Lan Wangji looks over at the water dispenser built into the wall. He doesn’t have anything else. “Ah—it will have to just be water, I’m afraid.”
Wei Ying’s face breaks out into a grin. “Water’s fine, Lan Zhan. Thank you.”
His smile settles the nerves in Lan Wangji’s stomach somewhat, and he produces Wei Ying a glass, setting it on the table in front of him. The atmosphere hasn’t yet lost its tension as Wei Ying takes a sip, and Lan Wangji is aware of every movement as he sits on the chair facing him.
Wei Ying puts his glass down on the table. A long silence stretches between them.
“You wanted to talk,” Lan Wangji eventually ventures, hesitant to push him too far. Wei Ying nods, and rubs his hands up and down his thighs, pressing his lips together. “Is it—”
“I want to say sorry,” Wei Ying interrupts him. His face is tight, unsure. “About everything.”
Lan Wangji stares at him. He remembers Wei Ying’s words, the expanse of space spread out before them. I thought you might hate me. “Wei Ying—what—”
“I need to tell you what happened.” Wei Ying is not meeting his eye, and Lan Wangji can see the nervousness in the fidgeting of his fingers, the tension in his jaw. “Before.”
The word hangs between them, so much caught up in it. Before. Before the war, before Wei Ying had started isolating himself more and more, before he’d turned an entire Conference fleet on itself to save a small group of refugees, before Lan Wangji had demanded that he come back—had tried to trap him, to confine him in a box that would never have held him. Before he’d gone to the Conference, powerful and furious and so, so lonely, and given himself up for his war crimes. Before Lan Wangji hadn’t been able to save him. Before he’d been taken out to the edge of the galaxy, and executed in a place where no one would ever find the body.
Or so he had thought, all these years.
Lan Wangji remains silent. Wei Ying shifts, tucking his hands under his thighs and pulling them out again, taking another sip of his water and setting the glass down again. Lan Wangji will not rush him, not with this.
“It was—” Wei Ying starts, then stops again, and takes another long drink. When he puts it down this time, he meets Lan Wangji’s eye. “It wasn’t meant to happen. The way it did.”
Lan Wangji can see the grief in his eyes. Even now, thirteen years later, he still feels the losses of that war just as strongly as he did then.
“None of it was,” he replies, and Wei Ying nods.
“I didn’t—I didn’t plan for it. I know that people… I’ve heard rumours, among the crew. I know what people think about Wei Wuxian. About how he got his powers, about what he was always going to do, about—I didn’t want it.”
He leans forwards, elbows on his knees, and presses his forehead into his hands. Lan Wangji fights the urge to move over and put his arm around him.
“They’re not even really—they’re not even fucking powers,” Wei Ying says, then drops his hands, and stands up abruptly. Lan Wangji watches as he goes over to the wall, and places his hand against the cool grey panel. “It’s like,” he says, goes quiet, closes his eyes, then continues, “it’s more like I can. Hear the ship? Hear the actual sounds of her, yes, but hear—hear her living. Like inside all of the metal and wires and reactors and engines, she’s got a soul.” He opens his eyes, and looks at Lan Wangji. “You know what I mean, right? You’ve felt it, when you’ve been piloting.”
He says it like it’s not a question, and Lan Wangji knows he’s right. It’s not something they would ever teach in nav school—certainly not in Lan nav school, where tradition and technology and hard cold science are the only true tenets—but he knows exactly what Wei Ying is talking about. The feeling of sitting in a cockpit, the warmth of controls under your hands, the thrum of a ship around you, the wideness of space only held out by that metal and wires and reactors and engines, and something else. Something living. Something that can’t be described with any sort of diagrams or formulae.
“I do,” he says, and there’s a light of relief that appears in Wei Ying’s eyes. He remembers sitting in the co-pilot seat with him, taking down the huge War Turtle that had nearly taken out their entire class, remembers as precisely as if it had happened yesterday the moment when Wei Ying had closed his eyes, leaned forward in his seat, and done—something. Something that he’d never been taught, something that Lan Wangji didn’t know how to recognise then, didn’t know what to do with, but that had made Wei Ying’s body go stiff and rigid, had made his breath come quicker and harsher. Something that had been enough to wrench the War Turtle off its course—turn it towards them, spin it in slow dread, and tear open the thick metal of its underbelly to reveal the shining reactor within. Enough for Lan Wangji to fire a single deadly shot.
The explosion had propelled them tumbling over and over through space, and when Lan Wangji had finally been able to get control of the ship, Wei Ying had been unconscious and going cold. He remembers learning, then, exactly how dangerous whatever that something was.
Here, now, inside his ship, Wei Ying removes his hand from the wall panel. He nods, and comes to sit down again. “I didn’t know,” he says. “How easy it would be for it to take over.”
Lan Wangji remains silent, hesitant to ask too much, to make him freeze up and go silent, like he had in the medical wing of Yunmeng space port when Jiang Cheng had asked him what happened. He is the only person, he knows, that saw what happened to Wei Ying in that moment.
“When—when the war started,” Wei Ying continues, “I knew I could use it. To help us. We were vulnerable, and the Wens were powerful, and their fleet was huge and I—well, you know. I was able to help us. We won the war.” He swallows, and looks up at Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji can almost fill the rest of that thought in for him. But at what cost.
“I could feel it,” Wei Ying says. “The effect it was having on me. I didn’t—I didn’t know how to stop it. It was like…” He pauses, tilting his head, staring at his glass of water on the table. “It was like I was losing myself to it. Whenever I went into a ship’s soul like that, I think I. I left a little bit of myself behind.”
Some long-forgotten feeling of frustration at him makes itself known in Lan Wangji’s chest. Actively continuing to do this when he knew what the consequences were—
He pushes it down. Who is he to tell Wei Ying right from wrong.
“But I had to,” Wei Ying continues, his voice cracking. “The Wens—Lan Zhan, you have to understand, I was doing it for them. I couldn’t—it wasn’t right, what the Conference were doing. You know that. You knew it then.”
The feeling of frustration twists itself into the much more achingly familiar feeling of guilt. “I did,” he replies, softly. If anyone, he is the person who should be apologising here. “I am sorry.”
Wei Ying nods, stiffly, and gives him the tiniest smile. “I know.”
There is another long pause. Lan Wangji knows what happened next. The rumours that had started to spread about Wei Ying, about his unnatural powers. The fear that hung around the tiny planet of Yiling, the war-ravaged desolation that Wei Ying had turned into a home, into hope. The Conference, increasingly angry at him for sheltering innocent war refugees—war criminals, in their eyes, teaching them his unnatural powers, ready to turn on them and make his own bid for power.
The fleet that they had sent to take him down, all ten ships, armed and crewed, and the way they’d all been turned on each other instead, the wreckage that still hangs in orbit around Yiling.
And then the second fleet, ten times the size, and the massacre.
Wei Ying, who had stood in front of the Conference, fire in his eyes and blood on his cheeks. Lan Wangji, who had got there too late. Watching the ship that would take him to his death take off against the golden-brown sun of Lanling.
He swallows, and his throat is dry. He should have got himself a water too, but he feels he cannot move—not until he asks the question, the desperation that has been clawing at him ever since he saw Wei Ying’s face blown up fifty times its size in the Bridge, alive.
“How did you survive?”
It’s dry, rasping, barely more than a whisper. Wei Ying takes a deep breath. He’s still, just as caught in the moment as Lan Wangji.
“I didn’t,” he says.
Lan Wangji’s head snaps up—searching, but this is—this is his Wei Ying, his Wei Ying, that he would know anywhere, that he would know in the empty void of the deepest depths of space, who he has hugged, who he has laughed with, who is alive—
How—
“I don’t fully understand either,” Wei Ying says. “I should be dead. I should be space dust, by now.”
“Then what—”
“They took me out to the edge of the galaxy,” he says. “Do you know they kept me in a wooden box, the whole way? Real wood. It was useless, of course.” His voice is monotone, almost dissociative. “Touching helps, but it’s not necessary. But I didn’t—I knew what I was doing. What I had to do. I could have escaped, but…” He stops, swallowing, and Lan Wangji can see the glint of tears in his eyes. Wordlessly, he stands, and crosses the little seating area, and sits down on the low couch next to Wei Ying.
When Wei Ying looks up at him, his smile is weak, watery. “There was almost a freedom, to stepping into that airlock. No one else would get hurt because of me.”
“Wei Ying—”
“Sh, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, resting a light hand on Lan Wangji’s knee. He takes another great, shuddering breath, and turns away from him a little. The helpless tilt of his shoulders makes Lan Wangji’s chest ache.
“It hurt,” he says. “I think it was the cold, mostly. Or the pressure. But—but then it didn’t—it didn’t hurt anymore.”
Tentatively, Lan Wangji lifts a hand, and places it on Wei Ying’s shoulder. Wei Ying doesn’t shrug it off, which is a good sign, so he leaves it there.
“I don’t know what happened,” Wei Ying says, voice low. “My mind—my soul, maybe. I drifted.” He turns a little, back towards Lan Wangji. “I think, because I’d left so many bits of me, spread across the galaxy… it didn’t want to let me go.”
Lan Wangji sends out a silent thank you to the universe all around them. He thinks of staring out into that expanse, in the void-frigid aftermath of Wei Ying being dead, and not knowing that he was looking right at him.
Wei Ying takes a deep breath, and seems to shrug some great weight off his shoulders. “Anyway, I woke up eventually. I was planetside. No idea where, no idea how, but there was oxygen and sunlight and water and loads of these little crab things, and they were tasty eventually.” He smiles at Lan Wangji, a little more strength behind it now. “All those crash survival lessons actually paid off, Lan Zhan. Who knew I would actually need to know how to weave bits of grass together to make stuff?”
Lan Wangji thinks about the little grass-woven bunnies Wei Ying had made instead of listening to their tutor. He thinks about how they are still tucked in the little box under his bed on Gusu.
“It was kinda nice, actually,” Wei Ying carries on. He is talking more brightly now, as if recalling a holiday. Lan Wangji gently slides his hand off Wei Ying’s shoulder, and Wei Ying frowns at him, and puts it back. Lan Wangji’s ears instantly go hot. Wei Ying carries on as if nothing had happened. “There was no technology,” he says. “No ships, no computers, no reactors. No people, obviously. Just me and all this fucking nature.” He grins at Lan Wangji. “I don’t know how many years I was there, but I got damn good at gardening.”
Lan Wangji twitches a smile at him. He thinks about Wei Ying, alone on an unknown planet for over a decade, so empty and lonely and isolating, and yet—Wei Ying had turned it into a place of hope, of life. Just like he had done with the ravaged land of Yiling, and then people he nurtured there.
Lan Wangji finally lets himself look at it: the vast, enormous, galaxy-wide stretch of his love for Wei Ying. It’s so strong he could choke. He doesn’t know whether to move away, or move closer, or say something, so he just stays put, and lets the power of it wash over him, like the shockwaves after an explosion.
Wei Ying, oblivious to his plight, carries on. “There were these things that were almost like squashes, but they had stones instead of loads of seeds, and they grew on trees—they were so good,” he says. “And various root vegetables which were all like. Huge. The width of my thigh.” Lan Wangji’s brain blanks out a bit as he thinks about Wei Ying’s thigh. “They were all so good as well. Actually, all the food there was amazing.” He grins at Lan Wangji. “I’m gonna take you there one day.”
The promise of one day spreads through him like warm light. “I would like that,” he says.
Wei Ying nods happily, and squeezes his hand on Lan Wangji’s thigh. They are leaning back against the sofa now, more faced towards each other—when did that happen? “Well, anyway, there was a crash landing. The pilot didn’t survive, and most of their technology was fucked. It took me six months to get her working again. Another three to get into orbit.” He shifts a little, and absently takes Lan Wangji’s free hand in his, starts playing with his fingers. Lan Wangji doesn’t let himself be affected by it. He doesn’t. He is not.
“My powers…” Wei Ying mumbles. “I don’t know. It wasn’t like before. I didn’t have as much control, I couldn’t—it all felt super random. That’s why I was up there for two years. No nav, no comms.”
Lan Wangji is connecting the dots. “So the message you sent…”
“I hadn’t managed to use my powers like that for months,” Wei Ying murmurs, eyes on Lan Wangji’s hand. He looks up at him. “Maybe it was because—it wasn’t random. Not when.” He pauses, swallows. “Not when it was you.”
The sound of Lan Wangji’s heartbeat suddenly becomes incredibly loud in his ears. Wei Ying is closer than he had been a moment ago, and Lan Wangji’s hand feels awkward on his shoulder, so he drags it down his arm, takes his other hand too. If Wei Ying is saying what he thinks he is—
“Wei Ying,” he says softly. “I think I should tell you that—”
Wei Ying silences him with a soft finger on his lips. “Lan Zhan,” he whispers. “You don’t have to.”
The feeling that flashes through Lan Wangji is hot and then cold—if Wei Ying already knows, or if he doesn’t want to know, and this is goodbye—this is goodbye, they both know it—and Wei Ying doesn’t want to hear it, then—
Wei Ying leans in closer, closing both his hands around Lan Wangji’s. Lan Wangji steels himself for the apology, the dismissal, the farewell.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. Lan Wangji swallows. “I don’t—ah, fuck. I don’t know how to say this. I thought I’d practised, but now that I’m here—hah. Shit.”
He wants to let him down gently. He has practised letting Lan Wangji down gently. Lan Wangji looks down at their joined hands, and thinks that a cold, hard, cruel rejection would have been kinder.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, and Wei Ying looks at him with confusion. “Wei Ying. It’s okay. I understand.”
“I haven’t told you yet,” Wei Ying says, pouting, but Lan Wangji can see the hesitation in his eyes. He curses himself.
“I am sorry.” A deep breath. “Please continue.”
Wei Ying shifts, bringing his leg up onto the couch. His knee presses against Lan Wangji’s thigh. It’s so warm.
“When I was out there,” he starts. “When I was—stepping into that airlock. When I heard the seal of the door.” He breathes out, hard and fast, and leans in, closer, so that his forehead brushes the bottom of Lan Wangji’s chin, so that Lan Wangji can’t see his eyes anymore. “All I could think about was that I would never be able to co-pilot with you again.”
Something clenches in Lan Wangji’s chest. “Wei Ying?”
Wei Ying shakes his head minutely. “Shh. And then, when I was on the surface. I would see something beautiful, or something that made me smile, or even just some part of that every day mundanity, and… and all I wanted to do was share it with you.”
Lan Wangji’s heartbeat is hammering at the back of his mouth. He’s suddenly aware of everywhere they are touching, of every brush of heat on his skin—Wei Ying’s knee against his thigh, Wei Ying’s fingers entwined with his, Wei Ying’s forehead against his chin, Wei Ying’s hand cradling his jaw—
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers. “Lan Zhan.”
And then he lifts his head, meets his eyes with naked vulnerability, and kisses him.
At first, Lan Wangji is frozen, his brain still processing—Wei Ying close, Wei Ying mouth, Wei Ying kissing, Wei Ying kissing—he is kissing Wei Ying—
He opens his mouth, and kisses him back.
Wei Ying makes a little noise, moving closer, and Lan Wangji sinks a hand into his hair, pulling him in, deepening the kiss. How many times has he imagined just this situation—imagined how Wei Ying might move in his arms, imagined the softness of his lips, imagined the sweetness of his mouth—then Wei Ying’s tongue slips against his, and it’s neither soft or sweet at all anymore.
He cannot get Wei Ying close enough; he grips his shoulders, his arms, his waist in an attempt to pull him closer. Wei Ying nudges at his shoulder and then he’s swinging a leg over Lan Wangji’s and straddling him, pushing him back against the couch, body arched over Lan Wangji’s and aching with the need to get closer. Lan Wangji drags a hand down his back, over the sweet dip of his waist, the solidity of his hip, the plushness of his ass. Wei Ying hums into his mouth, so he grasps it, pulls at his ass, kneads the softness of it, and Wei Ying gasps, breaking the kiss to laugh against his mouth and look at him with heated eyes.
“Like something you see?”
“Yes,” says Lan Wangji simply, and pulls him back in.
The skin of Wei Ying’s back is hot under his undershirt, and really, he doesn’t need to be wearing an undershirt anyway—Lan Wangji leans back only far enough that he can pull it off over Wei Ying’s shoulders, and then there is his glorious chest, his smooth belly, the little brown nubs of his nipples. He puts his mouth on one immediately, and Wei Ying lets out a ragged, desperate sound.
“Lan Zhan, ah,” he gasps, threading his hands through Lan Wangji’s hair, pulling his carefully maintained braid apart. “What—ah—what time will your brother be back?”
Lan Xichen is on a call to Nie Mingjue. It could be hours.
“We have time,” he says, and wraps his arms around Wei Ying, and stands, and carries him through to his sleeping cabin.
He has never been aware of how narrow his bed is until he has Wei Ying lying on it, leaning up on his elbows, watching him through hooded lashes, mouth smug. Lan Wangji unbuttons his uniform shirt and only sort of drapes it over the back of a chair, before climbing back on top of him and pressing him into the mattress. Wei Ying goes liquid underneath him, all gasps and moans and panted words, and he is absolutely beautiful.
Lan Wangji can feel the hardness in Wei Ying’s pants pressed against his own as he sucks a mark into his chin, can feel his eagerness in the way Wei Ying’s hips won’t stop moving. He fumbles a hand between them, finds the zip at the top of his trousers.
“Is this okay?” he breathes against Wei Ying’s skin.
“I need you to fuck me right now,” Wei Ying says.
Lan Wangji flushes, heat flashing through his body, blood rushing to his cock so fast he goes a little light-headed. “Yes,” he says, unzipping Wei Ying’s pants and tugging them down his legs. “Yes, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying makes a high, whining noise, and Lan Wangji gets his hand inside his standard-issue underwear and around his cock and it is everything. The way Wei Ying moves, the noises he makes, the sensitivity of his everything—Lan Wangji wants to be all over him, wants to taste him everywhere, wants to be inside him, wants to fuck him till he cries.
He jerks him off until Wei Ying is writhing, precome slippy on Lan Wangji’s fingers, then he gets rid of Wei Ying’s pointless underwear and stands, divesting himself of his own pants and underwear. Wei Ying looks up at him with a hazy expression, then down at Lan Wangji’s cock, and his expression goes very clear indeed.
“Holy shit, Lan Zhan,” he says. “You never told me you were hiding that.”
Lan Wangji crawls on top of him, dragging his mouth up Wei Ying’s chest. “You never asked.”
Wei Ying’s eyes go wide, and Lan Wangji thinks—what if he had asked, back then in nav school, how would he have reacted—-would they have done this, back then, clumsy and exploratory—
“Ah, ah, Lan Zhan, please,” Wei Ying whines, wrapping his legs around Lan Wangji’s waist and thrusting his hips up towards him. Lan Wangji hisses as their cocks brush. He props himself up on one elbow, and reaches down with his spare hand to circle both their cocks, to roughly jerk them off together, hot and dry. “Fuck,” Wei Ying gasps. “Fuck, Lan Zhan, that’s so hot.”
“Wei Ying is hot,” Lan Wangji tells him, because it’s true.
He kisses him again, hot and hungry and deep, and slides a hand greedily over Wei Ying’s thigh, twists his sac, brushes the soft skin behind. Finds the sweet warmth of his entrance, empty and wanting.
“You’re so greedy down here,” he says against Wei Ying’s mouth, dipping the tip of his forefinger in, just a little. The noise Wei Ying makes is a thing of beauty. “Need filling up.”
“Yes, yes, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying pants. “Please.”
“Mn,” Lan Wangji acquiesces, and kneels up, reaching for the bedside cabinet. Obviously, he had not departed on this trip planning on fucking anyone, but he is a man with needs, and his hands close around the lube in record time. Wei Ying starts chanting when he sees it, please please please please, body writhing on the bed like a live wire sparking.
The lube is cold on Lan Wangji’s fingers, colder still on Wei Ying’s skin judging by the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, and Lan Wangji huffs, spreading it diligently over his hole. He dips a finger inside, just to feel him, the tightness. Fuck, he’s perfect.
He lubes up his cock and presses the tip against Wei Ying’s entrance, not wanting to waste any time until he is in, in, in, just as Wei Ying keeps panting. He’s an artwork: spread out on the bed, flushed down to his chest, hair a wrecked mess, lips glossy and puffy and pink. Lan Wangji wants to devour him whole.
How he manages to slide in slowly, to not simply ram his cock as far deep into Wei Ying as it’ll go and immediately start fucking him into the mattress, he doesn’t know. He goes agonisingly slowly, letting Wei Ying adjust, letting him breathe through it, fist clenched tight around Lan Wangji’s wrist. Once he’s finally bottomed out, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Wei Ying’s chest. Wei Ying moans and pats his hair.
“Feels kinda weird, Lan Zhan,” he says, which makes Lan Wangji chuckle. “But so good, too. Like I was made to be filled up by you.”
Lan Wangji groans, something ragged and hungry, against the kiss-bitten skin of Wei Ying’s left pectoral. He starts to move, slowly, the drag incandescent, so, so tight. Wei Ying gasps with him, his body tensing up, feet crossed at Lan Wangji’s back, and Lan Wangji drags his mouth up his chest, kisses the dip of his neck. “Relax,” he says, low and soft. “Let yourself go.”
Wei Ying whimpers, and Lan Wangji thrusts back in again, the effort of holding back making his thighs shake. Wei Ying’s hand twists in his hair, the prickle of pain across his scalp only adding to the overwhelming rush of sensations cascading through Lan Wangji’s body. “Lan Zhan, ah, please,” Wei Ying whines, “don’t hold back. It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t hold back.”
Lan Wangji pauses, buried deep inside him, mouth open over Wei Ying’s collarbone. “Wei Ying,” he says. “Don’t say something you don’t mean.”
“I mean it, I do, Lan Zhan, please.” Wei Ying pushes him back a bit so that he can see his face, and Lan Wangji is struck all over again with just how beautiful he is. “Lan Zhan. Please fuck me like it’s all I’m made for.” Lan Wangji shifts his hips, minutely, and Wei Ying moans. “Fuck, yeah. Yeah, Lan Zhan, I can take it.”
That’s all the invitation Lan Wangji needs. He pulls almost all the way out, grabs Wei Ying’s hand from the back of his head to plaster it to the pillow, and slams back in.
Wei Ying groans perfectly, writhing against the sheets, and Lan Wangji lets go.
It is everything—everything. He fucks Wei Ying like it might be enough to power a small spacecraft, like if he doesn’t fuck him hard enough he’ll float away and be lost to the emptiness of space again, like if he fucks him deeply enough they could just merge into one being, held together through this revelation, through the strength of feeling that rolls over Lan Wangji, clenches at his heart and chest and soul, Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying. His everything.
He cannot get close enough to him. His thighs burn with the force of it, his forehead pressed firm against Wei Ying’s, panting into each other’s mouths. He can feel the build of orgasm coming—can feel the heat and tightness and perfect softness of Wei Ying around, the needy grab of Wei Ying’s hands at his back, head, thighs; Wei Ying has his eyes squeezed closed, mouth open, a litany of words spilling hot and fast across the bed—Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, love you, love you love you—
Lan Wangji kisses him, deep and filthy and passionate. He pulls back, and gasps his own confession against Wei Ying’s. Love you too, Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying—
When he comes, it’s like breaking orbit: burning hot, intense, overwhelming, and faster faster faster, and then the sweet release of bliss on the other side, floating high in the emptiness of space. He grunts, presses his forehead into the crook of Wei Ying’s neck, and lets go.
His awareness of self comes back in fluttering sensations: Wei Ying’s hot breath against his ear, his hand wrapped loosely around the back of Lan Wangji’s neck, his ass still tight around Lan Wangji’s softening and increasingly sensitive cock. He pulls out tentatively, come slipping out with him; when he glancing down, he sees that Wei Ying has come too, his cock and hand messy with it. Lan Wangji rolls off him, tucking himself into the narrow gap between Wei Ying and the wall, and feels the exhaustion that had been lifted by finding Wei Ying in his rooms slowly sinking back into his muscles.
“Holy shit,” Wei Ying murmurs. He picks up Lan Wangji’s hand, and kisses each of his fingertips in turn. Lan Wangji watches him, mesmerised. This man—this wonderful, beautiful man, who did things no person should be able to do, who escaped death—this man loves him. Loves him.
“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees. He is starting to feel sticky; they need to clean up. But the hygiene facilities feel so far away, and he really doesn’t have much energy to move.
Wei Ying solves the issue for them, rolling over to pick his underwear up off the floor and give them a cursory wipe-down. “There,” he says. “They were super uncomfy anyway, Lan Zhan. No offence to whoever selects your uniforms, but I really think they should look into all the options.”
Lan Wangji loves him. “I’ll make a note.” He pulls Wei Ying into him, tucking his head into Lan Wangji’s chest. Wei Ying makes a happy little noise, and shivers. The damn atmosphere control.
He fishes out the covers and pulls them up. The bed is not big enough to avoid the wet spot, and he thinks it likely that they might have to sleep elsewhere—but for now.
“That was so amazing, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying murmurs. “I can’t believe we just did that, fuck.”
Neither can Lan Wangji. In fact, much of the past week has been something that he has only ever let himself entertain in his wildest fantasies. He pulls Wei Ying closer, inhales the scent of him, sweaty and minty and a little underlying layer of engine oil. He never wants to let him go.
The prospect of the morning looms over him dark and foreboding, and Lan Wangji wonders what this means. Had Wei Ying really only come here to apologise earlier? Or had he, perhaps—
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Wei Ying says, suddenly. His voice is quiet, pensive. Lan Wangji’s fingers pause in their stroking through his hair. Wei Ying lifts his head, shuffling a little so he can look up at him. “I don’t think I realised it, not until—until everything was going to shit, and all I could think about was you, and how things might have been different. If I’d realised earlier.”
Lan Wangji strokes over his temple, down across his eyebrows. “I should have been there,” he says. “I should have stayed with you.”
Wei Ying nudges him, and Lan Wangji rolls onto his back, so that Wei Ying can lie on his chest and look at him, chin resting on his hands. “Everything that happened happened,” Wei Ying says. “We can’t change the past.”
But we can change the future, Lan Wangji thinks. “Stay.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow, when we get to Qinghe. Don’t leave again. Stay with us. Stay with—me.”
Wei Ying’s smile is secretive, pleased. “Oh, Lan Zhan. You silly boy.”
“What?”
Wei Ying leans forward and kisses him, soft and gentle. “You really think you were going to get rid of me that easily?” he murmurs.
Lan Wangji’s stomach does a funny flip. “You are not… wanting to leave?” he asks.
Wei Ying hums. “I had a lot of time to think, on that planet,” he says. “Too much time, mostly. Thinking about what I would do, if I wasn’t trapped there. If everything that happened hadn’t happened. If I could turn back time, make it all go away. What I would change. What I wouldn’t.”
Lan Wangji swallows. “What would you change?”
Wei Ying shrugs. “Turns out, that line of thought wasn’t super useful. So much could have changed. After you’ve thought about it for too long, it gets kinda depressing. But you know,” he pauses, propping himself up a little more, so that he is hovering right over Lan Wangji, the mess of his hair framing his face, “you know what I wouldn’t change?” Lan Wangji shakes his head, and Wei Ying leans down and kisses him, whispers the answer against his mouth. “You.”
Emotion washes through Lan Wangji in a heady wave, and he kisses back, grasping at Wei Ying, pulling him closer. So many should-haves and could-haves, so many missed opportunities and choices to regret—so many things that could have changed. But they didn’t, and instead, the universe has led them here: to Wei Ying in his arms, heavy and warm and alive, alive and real and his.
“I hear,” Lan Wangji murmurs, “that there’s an opening for co-captain, on one of the Cloud Recesses crews.” It’s irregular, in fact, for the CR fleet to have co-captains, but certainly not unheard of. If Wei Ying wanted—
“Hm,” Wei Ying says, scrunching up his nose. “But you know what they say about captains, Lan Zhan.” Lan Wangji raises an eyebrow at him. “They say they’re stuffy.”
“Do they now.”
“Yeah. Sorry. You look sexy doing it, though.” A mixture of fondness and heat trickles down Lan Wangji’s spine. “But you know what role I’d always thought would be really cool?”
Lan Wangji will build a whole new ship—a whole new space port—a whole new planet for him, if that’s what he needs. “Tell me,” he says. Wei Ying smiles smugly.
“Head navigator,” he says, “captain’s right hand, and occasional engineer. All rolled into one. Niche, perhaps, yes, but I think with the right set of skills—and, of course, the perfect amount of charm, brains, and incredible ass, I think it could—”
Lan Wangji silences him with a kiss. “You’re hired,” he says. “Starting right now.”
Wei Ying’s eyes alight with mirth. “Alright, Captain,” he teases, and leans in closer. “I think this cabin’s structural integrity hasn’t been tested quite thoroughly enough. As a profession head navigator, captain’s right hand, and occasional engineer, I think it’s highly important to the safety of our mission that we rectify that right away—”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, unable to contain the affection that floods his voice, and rolls them over.