@cuckoo-among-beasts || Birds of a Feather
“Wei Ying. Xichen has left seclusion.”
Having been left out of the loop for his last combined years of living and dead lifetimes, it is remarkably charming to Wei Wuxian that his husband works so hard to keep him informed that a single sentence tells the tale of many. With Wangji only stopping by Gusu every month or so in their travels and the formal sect leader in private meditation for a year, all of Gusu Lan’s responsibilities fell solely onto Lan Qiren’s weary shoulders. Messages were exchanged back and forth in the form of origami talismans but Wangji clearly read an exhaustion not made apparent to Wuxian’s reading of each received letter. His uncle is proud, too much to protest when despite all his cold stares, he understands this year of indulgence is the one selfish thing either nephew has asked for in over a decade. “He would. He does not ask, help has to be insisted upon.”, replies Wangji when his husband thumbs the crisp parchment, searching through poised calligraphy for whatever made Wangji’s brow furrow an incredibly animated half-inch. Wuxian feels eyes upon him and he turns, asking an unspoken question to the words his lover leaves out. (Like you.) (Does he know his own limits? Or have you and Xichen always been there in some way?)
When Xichen returns to his role as sect leader, neither men are sure it is because his heart has truly healed. A clan’s figurehead going into isolation is a sign of weakness, there are permissions that would be received as insults if anyone but Xichen answered, and Qiren has been a pace more sluggish. Wei Wuxian ties the head-ribbon carefully, drawing out the time before they part. “I’m certain. Now shoo! A man and his sword is a private thing, no matter how acquainted you are with-” a hug interrupts his parting vulgarities.
“Be safe. Write often.”
“Mm. I will.”
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Without a golden core, several paths still lie open, though the bridges that sprawl through them are narrow and of less offensive use. Wuxian found no need to cultivate any other path when the demonic trail had turned upon its stalking hunter and clung to its legs across bodies. What did make him regret his hollow core was how Wangji had to carry him everywhere by blade which, while an excellent excuse to cozy up beside him, struck him on the nights they had to part that he missed the tilt and give of Suibian. Fortunately, there was a land that fueled swords on the chilled whispers in his veins, one with an old friend. Well.
Were they friends? Huaisang had never done Wuxian any personal harm, he was half of the reason a second chance was given at all. No one remains stagnant through the death of their brother and thirteen years, but some nostalgic part of him, the part that still wishes he had a home with a tree that held more than a night of memories, sees Huaisang and notices his hair still curls in the same places. There is Huaisang, leg bleeding from a superficial cut, eyes determined and horrified. Wuxian blinks and he is there once more, with brighter eyes and an eager voice. Both smelled of ink.
The ride to Qinghe is not far, mostly because Wangji had insisted on dropping him only a li away from the surrounding Heibei woods. Already worried of Xichen’s state, Wei Wuxian is in desperate need of a distraction. Two arrive, fluttering like a heartbeat and attached on either side to a blurred grey-brown body. Yellow-beaked, the heavens have sent a bird for Wuxian to chase away his thoughts with! Eagerly clambering off Little Apple, Wuxian leaps, swipes, and even plays the part of a coy court, looking aside as if no longer interested before lunging once more. He hardly looks at where he’s going before a silhouette juts out against the coral twilight of the forests, cradling something small and bloody in his hands.
“..Huaisang? Sang-Xiong? What are you doing out here?”
More than the scent of iron, his gut twists when a familiar air creeps outwards in wisps. Wuxian recalls the sensation of a cracked spirit, he knows it as well as he can trace the raised soldering of his yin tiger tally. When he speaks again, his posture has shifted completely, voice soft. “Lan Zhan's visiting family, What happened?”
