hi star! writing this was so much fun! thank you so much for this prompt!! 🙏 hope you enjoy.
(and for that prompt I finally managed to complete the challenge I set upon myself. it's not terribly long! sorry...)
this is also not beta read whatsoever. I apologize for mistakes.
***
tell me what's on your mind
~ 1.7k
(set in 2024)
Lando presses his lips together. He's never been good at maintaining his brain to mouth filter but lately it's been getting worse. And he blames all of than on one Oscar Piastri.
Oscar who had been so shy and also, well, cute in his rookie season. Lando had long since admitted to himself that he found the other cute. He was also sweet and respectful and he liked to make himself small. Even though he was taller than Lando.
But then he had started to open up, to answer to the jokes and innuendos Lando sent his way. He started to initiate conversations. About racing at first, about their shit car and even shittier strategy calls. But then it started to change. They still talked about the car but what they also talked about now were favourite meals and childhood memories and experiences during karting in their teenager years. About crushes and emotions they both thought they weren't allowed to have.
And this is where their conversations have led them now. Somewhere outside a small club in the sweltering heat of Singapore. The team had dragged them both along, to celebrate a double podium and Lando refused to go without Oscar so they all settled on something small for once. And as soon as the situation inside allowed him to, Oscar had fled outside. Away from people. And Lando followed.
The club was on the third floor of a three-story building and somehow Oscar has found a window opening to a small balcony that wasn't visible from the street below. This is where he had hidden, sat on the ground with his back against the wall, and this is where Lando had found him only moments later.
He's climbed outside, careful not to spill his still full glass of something he's picked up from the bar earlier. It looked rather pretty, all sparkly and orange and, well, kind of fitting for a papaya podium. And he also thought he deserved something pretty.
And since then he has sat next to his teammate, sipping his pretty drink and exchanging words and anecdotes. And somehow their conversation has drifted from the sweaty heat of Singapore to the sweat sticking on their skin and Lando's mind had run away with that thought in particular.
And not the only pictures in his mind were Oscar, in his bed, skin sticky with sweat but for a whole different reason.
Just like he had admitted to himself that Oscar was cute, during their second season as teammates, he'd had to admit to himself, that somehow Oscar has managed to now look scorchingly hot. He's grown, not only in height, but his shoulders are wider and his thighs thicker and his arms seem to be so much stronger now. And Lando still hasn't decided if he'd rather have Oscar pin him against the nearest wall and fuck him senseless or if he wants to bite and suck bruises into the flesh of the younger's thighs and make him come with his lips around his cock and his fingers buried in his ass.
"…and I don't know, Lando. I don't even know how someone would pick a random stranger to take home just to fuck. That's not…that doesn't feel right. Without any feelings, you know?"
Oscar's voice, or rather, his name on Oscar's lips, brings Lando back into the present. He blinks at the younger, wants to say that he himself is no stranger to Oscar now, barely stops the words from tumbling out and takes another sip of his drink instead.
But apparently, that only makes it worse.
"But there are feelings involved," Lando adds, looks at Oscar and wants him to know what exactly he thinks. "If only you could see what's on my mind."
Oscar raises an eyebrow at him. Lando snaps his mouth shut. He did not just say that. He doesn't even want Oscar to know what's on his mind. Only, he does.
He takes another sip.
"Yeah?" Oscar prods. His lips are twitching as if he tries to hide a smile. "And why's that?"
"Well, I don't know…" Actually, he does know. "No, that's wrong. I do know."
What?
Now Oscar raises both eyebrows, clearly amused.
"How much did you have to drink?" He asks instead of investigating further into what Lando had hinted at. He takes the glass out of Lando's hand and sniffs at the contents.
"Ey," Lando protests weakly.
"I think that's enough for today," Oscar decides and puts the almost empty glass on the floor out of Lando's reach.
"But it's so pretty," Lando whines. Whines. Where the hell has that come from?
Oscar chuckles and if it wasn't so dark and if Lando wasn't so drunk he could have sworn that Oscar was blushing. But that's Lando's departement. Lando is the one to blush whenever Oscar is around. Oscar with his strong arms and even stronger thighs and…
"How much have you been working out, lately?" Lando asks, puts his hand on Oscar's bicep and squeezes lightly. God, someone help him. This isn't normal. Not even for his drunk-self. What was in that drink?!
But now he can be sure that Oscar is blushing. Lando smiles. "A lot?" He doesn't take his hand away again.
Oscar chuckles but it's breathy as if he tries to contain any thoughts. Or noises. And apparently Lando is way past that.
"I think it looks good on you. Being all strong."
Oscar's blush grows more prominent, now definitely visible even in the dimmed light around them. Lando wants to see how far down it spreads. He wants to tug on Oscar's shirt and—
His hand moves before he can stop it. It's not only his words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them but his actions are running away from him just as fast. In this case, it's his fingers trailing up Oscar's bicep, over his shoulder, carressing over Oscar's pulse point, before they settle on the collar of Oscar's shirt.
The younger doesn't say a word but he also doesn't tell Lando to stop. If anything, Lando thinks Oscar might even lean into the touch.
"You look so good like this," Lando whispers. Even in the darkness, those words feel like a secret. Only meant for Oscar's ears even though tonight everything seems to tumble out of Lando's mouth. Without him able to stop it. "So good. Makes me wanna feel how strong you really are."
And, okay, what the hell? Where did that just come from? How does Lando stop it? How does he switch his brain to mouth filter back on because this is getting embarassing.
But Oscar doesn't seem to think that way. He may be blushing still but he does lean into Lando now, their shoulder brushing and his skin hot underneath Lando's fingers.
"Yeah?" Oscar whispers and fixes him with his gaze. Lando feels incapable of moving. "Would you want that?"
Maybe Lando doesn't want to take his words back. So instead, he just nods. He follows his heart's wishes and lets his fingers slip underneath Oscar's collar, just barely, but enough to touch more skin than fabric. He moves his hand from the other's pulsepoint to the back of his neck, dipping just a bit lower underneath the shirt.
And finally he finds an answer to Oscar's question. "Yeah." It's only a breath. "So much."
And then his brain short-circuits. Because Oscar is moving as well. It's the younger's hand that wraps around Lando's thigh that has him see stars. It's like the sparkles from his drink have returned. Oscar wraps his fingers tighter, digs them slightly into Lando's muscles and Lando moans.
He honest to god, moans. It's quiet. But Oscar has definitely heard it, judging by the surprised look on his face.
"Tell me," he whispers then. He's so close. So so close Lando can see the freckles on his skin even in the dim light. He wants to kiss him so bad—
"I want to kiss you," Lando mumbles. His eyes flicker down towards Oscar's lips and he uses the hand that's still wrapped around his neck to pull the younger closer. Oscar moves along with it, slowly but surely. Their eyes meet just before their lips do. And Oscar's eyes are so dark. So pretty. So sparkly.
Lando closes the distance and Oscar meets him right there. Their kiss is not calm. Lando pulls the other even closer and traps him against his body, keeping him from moving away again. And Oscar?
Oscar lifts his hand off of Lando's thigh and wraps his whole arm around his legs. He pulls Lando close with ease and manhandles him so that his thighs are now lying on top of Oscar's. He's almost sitting in the younger's lap now.
Lando moans into the kiss. "Fuck," he mumbles against Oscar's lips "Just like that." And he means it.
Oscar chuckles into the kiss and breaks it with the sound.
"What?" Lando's head spins. He doesn't know where he ends and Oscar begins. He just wants to tell Oscar so much. So so much— "You're everything, Osc. I want you so bad. And not just now. Not just, you know…"
Oscar moves away a little to be able to look at him better but Lando refuses to let him go. But apparently so does Oscar. Because the younger's hand now slips from Lando's thighs to his arse and dips into his back pocket.
"Not just like a one-night stand?" Oscar finishes the sentence for him and grins.
"Yeah," Lando sighs and pulls him closer again. "That."
Oscar kisses him again and leans so close, he presses Lando against the wall behind him. And isn't this everything he's wanted?
When Oscar's other arms slips around Lando's waist to stead them both, Lando finds more words to say to the younger. "Please, Osc. Please fuck me."
"God, Lando," Oscar chuckles incredulously. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" Lando nips on Oscar's lip. "This is exactly the direction we're heading in."
And it's true, they do. But—
"I'm not fucking you on some tiny balcony right next to a singaporean club," Oscar states, voice strong enough to keep Lando from arguing. It doesn't stop him from whining about it though. "Come on, Lan. Let's get out of here. There's a comfortable bed waiting for us back at the hotel, alright?"
And isn't that something to look forward to?
"Please," Lando sighs before he draws Oscar back into a kiss. "I'd love that."
And it's true, he does. Oscar just chuckles and kisses him back.
Summary: When a hunt leaves you cursed to force truth from anyone you question, Dean's protective fury reveals more than either of you expected – especially when he dares you to ask Sam the question.
Warnings: Truth curse, unwanted advances (shut down immediately), protective Winchesters, mutual pining, fluff, awkward confessions, mild language.
Also any mistakes are my own, please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :)
If you love it, please comment and/or reblog. Let me know your thoughts! :)
**IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT DON’T READ IT**
You stood in the woods with Sam and Dean, weapons drawn trying to find the source of the scream that had made you pull over in this small quiet town. There had been some folks going missing with little to no trace.
As you stood in the clearing trying to listen for another scream, you heard it.
A clean whistling sound.
You shot a look to Sam and Dean, but it didn’t seem like either of them had heard it.
“Did you guys hear that?” You whisper loudly enough for them to hear.
They both looked at you like you had multiple heads. “The scream? Yeah Y/N we heard it. That’s why we got out of the car.” Dean said with quick disbelief.
You sighed. “No, no that whistling sound!”
Sam looked at you confusion in his eyes. “No.. and I don’t hear anything else now. Let’s just keep heading into town.”
You huffed but climbed into the impala as it sped away from the woods towards the town you couldn’t help but wonder what you had heard.
After getting settled at the motel and grabbing some food, you all got dressed and headed to a local dive bar that was apparently the only thing to do in this town.
"Interview time," Dean announced, shoving a burger towards you. "Local dive bar, ‘The Lumberjack’s Axe’. Place the last victim was seen. Let's see if anyone remembers anything... off."
The bar lived up to its name – sawdust on the floor, dim lighting, sticky tables, and the distinct aroma of stale beer and pine-scented disinfectant.
You settled onto a stool beside Dean at the bar, Sam opting to case the pool tables at the back. You ordered sodas – standard operating procedure pre-interview.
Halfway through your drink, a burly guy in flannel with too much cologne slid onto the stool uncomfortably close to you. "Hey there, sweetheart. Haven't seen you 'round here before. New in town?" His smile was all teeth, eyes lingering where they shouldn't.
You offered a polite but closed-off smile. "Just passing through." You kept your tone neutral, hunter-neutral.
He leaned closer, his breath smelling of cheap whiskey. "Passing through, huh? Well, maybe I could show you around? Show you a real good time before you go?" His gaze dropped pointedly to your chest.
Before you could deliver the sharp dismissal forming on your tongue, Dean stiffened beside you. "Back off, pal," he growled, low and dangerous.
The guy just leered, undeterred. "Or what, tough guy? Just offerin' the lady some company." He turned his oily smile back to you. "What d'you say, gorgeous? Bet I could make you forget all about—"
"What do you really want?" you snapped, frustration overriding your usual caution. The question slipped out, sharp as your knife.
The man’s leer vanished instantly. His eyes glazed over slightly, his voice becoming unnaturally flat and earnest. "I want to put my hands all over you. See what you feel like under that hoodie. Take you out back to my truck and do whatever I want to you until you scream."
Silence crashed down around your little corner of the bar. Dean was on his feet faster than you could blink. He grabbed the guy by his flannel shirtfront and slammed him hard against the bar, bottles rattling. "You disgusting piece of shit!" Dean roared, pure fury radiating off him. "You lay one finger on her, I will end you. You hear me? End you!"
The man whimpered, genuinely terrified now, the curse’s compulsion broken by Dean’s violence. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't mean—"
"Get. Out," Dean snarled, shoving him towards the door. The man scrambled away without looking back.
You stared at Dean, your heart pounding. That hadn't been normal. That guy hadn't just been crude; he'd been compelledto confess his vile intentions. Like something had forced the absolute truth out of him.
Dean was breathing hard, fists clenched, glaring at the retreating figure. He finally looked at you, his anger shifting into something more complex – concern, protectiveness, and a dawning horror.
"You okay?" he asked roughly.
"Yeah, Dean, fine. Thanks. But... what the hell was that? He just... confessed everything."
Dean ran a hand over his face. "No idea. Maybe some kinda truth serum in the cheap booze?" He didn't sound convinced.
You scoffed. “Oh come on Dean, what do you really think?”
Then, without prompting, he blurted out, voice tight, "God, seeing that bastard look at you like that... it made me want to rip his throat out with my teeth."
You blinked. That was... unusually graphic, even for protective-Dean-mode.
He continued, the words tumbling out against his will, his eyes widening slightly as he spoke: "It's like when some asshole looked at Mom wrong when I was a kid. That same red haze. You're family, you know? Like a sister. A really annoying, stubborn, ridiculously capable sister who scares me half the time with how reckless you are." He clamped his mouth shut abruptly, a look of utter confusion crossing his face. "Why did I just say all that?"
The pieces clicked. The wendigo scratch. The strange compulsion.
"Dean... I think I got cursed back in those woods. That whistle only I heard? I think... I think if I ask someone a direct question, they have to tell the absolute truth."
Dean stared at you, then groaned, thumping his head lightly against the bar. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Truth curse? Seriously? That's just... peachy."
Sam materialized beside you both, having sensed the commotion. "What happened? You okay?" His eyes scanned you urgently, missing nothing. "Who was that guy?"
"We're fine, Sammy," Dean said, straightening up. He looked at you, a slow, devious grin spreading across his face that made your stomach do a nervous flip. It was the 'I have a terrible idea' grin. "Little truth bomb curse situation. Nothing our girl here can't handle." He nudged you. "Ask him."
"Ask him what?" Sam frowned, looking between you and Dean.
"Ask Sammy a question," Dean insisted, his grin widening. "Go on. Something juicy."
"Dean, no," you protested, flushing. "That's not fair. And I'm kinda afraid of what he might say." The thought of Sam's deep voice confessing something embarrassing or, worse, confirming he saw you only as a sister, was terrifying.
Dean leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Trust me on this one. You'll like what he has to say." His wink was pure mischief.
Sam looked utterly bewildered and slightly alarmed. "Someone wanna tell me what's going on? What truth curse?"
Dean just gestured grandly towards Sam. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Ask him."
Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. Sam was looking at you with open concern and confusion, those hazel eyes searching yours. Dean's confidence was unnerving. Taking a shaky breath, you focused on Sam. Just start simple. Innocent.
"Okay... Sam?" Your voice sounded small. "What... what did you really do with my last box of that pineapple pizza I bought?"
Sam blinked. His expression went blank for a second, then the words spilled out in that familiar deep rumble, flat and utterly truthful: "I didn't eat it. I threw it in the dumpster behind the bunker because it tasted like cardboard soaked in sadness. I ordered us a real pepperoni from Sal's and told you they'd delivered it by mistake."
You stared. "You... you threw out my pizza? You monster." You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped, relief warring with indignation.
Sam looked horrified. "I didn't mean to say that! Why did I say that?" He shot a panicked look at Dean. "Dean? What—?"
"Truth curse, Sammy," Dean explained cheerfully. "Ask her another one," he urged you, practically vibrating with anticipation.
This was dangerous. This was stepping off a cliff. You swallowed hard, meeting Sam's wide, confused eyes again. Dean's words echoed: You'll like what he has to say. Dare you?
"Sam..." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "What... what do you really think about me?"
The effect was instantaneous. Sam's gaze locked onto yours, intense and unwavering. The forced monotone returned, but this time it was layered with an emotional rawness that stole your breath.
"You're... incredible," he began, the words pouring out like a dam breaking. "You're the strongest person I know, mentally and physically. Watching you hunt... it's terrifying and awe-inspiring. You're fearless, but never reckless with others. Just with yourself, which drives me crazy." He took a step closer, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, even within the curse's flatness. "You have this way of seeing the cracks in things – monsters, cases, people... me. You make me laugh harder than anyone else, even when everything is falling apart. That stupid way you snort when you laugh too hard... it's my favorite sound."
He paused, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes held yours captive. "And you're... so beautiful. Not just... physically, though God, you are. Your eyes, especially when you're focused. Your smile... it feels like sunlight. But it's... it's your spirit. Your fire. Your kindness. I..." He faltered for a split second, a flicker of anguish crossing his features before the curse forced it out: "I am completely and utterly in love with you."
Silence.
Deafening, world-stopping silence.
Sam froze. Utterly still. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock and horror. The color drained from his face, then flooded back in a deep crimson blush that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. He looked like he'd been shot. He tore his gaze from yours and stared at Dean, his expression a desperate plea for explanation, for denial, for the ground to swallow him whole. "Why... why did I say that?" he choked out, voice thick with mortification. "Dean? What's happening?"
Dean Winchester, the smug bastard, just leaned back against the bar, crossed his arms, and gave you the widest, most self-satisfied smirk you'd ever seen. He didn't say a word. He just looked at you, raised his eyebrows meaningfully, and mouthed: Told you so.
Your own shock was a physical thing, a tremor running through you. Sam Winchester. Your best friend. Your partner in countless hunts. The guy who brought you coffee exactly how you liked it and argued lore with you until 3 AM. The guy whose hoodie you were currently drowning in. In love with you. Dean had known. Sam had been carrying this... this enormous secret heartbreak.
And looking at him now, frozen in panic and shame, the raw vulnerability in his eyes before he’d confessed... Dean was right. You did like what he had to say. More than liked it.
"Sam," you whispered.
He flinched, bracing himself for rejection, still unable to meet your eyes.
"Sam," you said again, firmer this time. You stepped forward, closing the distance he'd unconsciously widened. You reached out, tentatively touching his arm. He felt like stone beneath your fingers.
He finally looked down at you, his expression a tortured mix of fear and hope.
The words tumbled out, fueled by your own pent-up feelings suddenly set free by his staggering confession.
"You big idiot," you breathed, a tear escaping despite yourself. "You threw out my pizza... and you never said anything? All this time? I... Sam, I feel the same way. I'm crazy about you. I have been for... forever."
The change in his face was instantaneous. The horror dissolved, replaced first by disbelief, then by a dawning, radiant wonder that lit up his entire being. The blush remained, but now it was mixed with a smile so bright, so relieved, it nearly knocked you over. He reached up slowly, his large hand trembling slightly as he brushed the tear from your cheek with his thumb.
"You... you do?" he breathed, his voice rough with emotion, finally free of the curse's compulsion now that your question had been answered.
You nodded, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, smiling through the tears.
Dean cleared his throat loudly from behind you. "Alright, lovebirds," he announced, though his voice held genuine warmth beneath the teasing. "While this Hallmark moment is truly vomit-inducing in the best possible way... we still have a truth curse to lift and a motel room to get back to that only has two beds." He paused, then added with a theatrical sigh, "Guess I'm taking the floor tonight." He clapped Sam on the shoulder as he walked past towards the exit. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do! ...Actually, on second thought..."
Sam didn't even look at him. His entire world had narrowed down to you. His thumb was still tracing your cheekbone, his other hand coming up to gently cup your jaw. The earlier fear was gone, replaced by a tender intensity that made your knees weak.
"Two beds is definitely a problem," he murmured, his voice deep and soft now, just for you. His forehead gently touched yours. "But maybe... we can negotiate sharing arrangements later?" The ghost of a smile touched his lips. "After we figure out how to break this curse before Dean accidentally admits what he really thinks about my hair."
You laughed, the sound shaky but joyful, leaning into his touch. "Deal," you whispered back. The bar, the hunt, the curse... it all faded away.
There was only Sam, his confession hanging warm in the air between you, his hands holding you like you were something precious, and the terrifyingly wonderful truth that changed everything. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself as his lips hovered inches from yours, the unspoken question clear in his eyes.
The truth was out. And it was better than any hunt, any victory, any pizza in the world.
so uhhhh it seems like whitebeard doesnt remember u
...
......
I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to. I don't. Please don't make me talk about this—
I don't know why I expected him to. It's not like I was ever officially part of the crew. I was never really his child. I don't wear the emblem. I was only on the periphery. I was just happy to be a place they could come to be safe for a while and hear about their adventures.
Title: Painfully Honest
Prompt: A truth-telling serum spills into the sewers, and now the turtles and Splinter can only tell the truth for 24 hours (or until Donatello whips up an antidote). What hard truths will they finally admit to each other?
Fandom: ROTTMNT
Word Count: 9881
Author: PhoebePheebsPhibs
Rating: Gen
Characters: The Sando Brothers, Leo, Raph, Mikey, Donnie, Splinter, & Baron Draxum
Warning: There is some vomiting when characters try to resist the truth potion
Summary: After the Sando Bros infect the sewers with a truth potion, the Hamato family is forced to be painfully honest about everything.
Notes: No Beta, We Die Like Gram-Gram!
I want to wrap you in a bunch of blankets, give up a cup of tea and a sandwich and leave you to take a nap
You look so tired :(
Yeah, wouldnt that be nice. I am tired, and i had to rewash a bunch of the infirmary supplies today which was sticky from orange juice and my hair is still badly done uneven blue from the dye prank a couple days ago which feels so wrong. But I have priorities though. [Will shakes his head, letting int hang to the side as he learned last time there wasnt much point resisting this curse] Keep the infirmary running. Keep the kids safe. One person doesnt matter more than that.
It takes a few beats longer than it should for Lan Wangji to turn and spot whoever had called for him; the title is new, and he’s weary from a battle still soaking the hems of his robes red in spite of the cleaning talismans woven into them — he thinks he can be excused the momentary lapse.
When he does turn to look it comes with a strange, detached sort of vertigo as he sees a small contingent of Lan cultivators clearly having just arrived on the field, their robes still a proper gleaming white and not a hair out of place despite their flight that the last few are just touching down from.
(Is this what people feel when he arrives on the battlefield with his own command? Some strange urge in him longs to smear a bloody, muddied handprint across all that gleaming white just to feel less filthy himself, but of course that’s ridiculous.)
Those just arriving sheath their swords immediately – there isn’t a single fleck of blood to stain the blades, so why shouldn’t they? Bichen drips a sluggish, red-black, congealing glob into the churned up mud beneath his boots and Lan Wangji knows he won’t be sheathing his own blade for hours, not until he has the luxury of sitting down somewhere safe long enough to clean and oil it properly.
He pushes the discomfort of the prospect away with the ease of much practice. “Mn?”
“We’ve found an abandoned manor, near enough to walk if necessary. It’s sheltered from the wind and the walls are sturdy enough to maintain a ward without expending too much of our own energy.”
Ah, of course they aren’t stained from battle — it would seem the scouting party that was sent out three days ago to find medium-term shelter for this leg of the campaign has finally returned.
“Provisions?”
“The kitchens have rice enough for all that seems suitable, and the well still runs clear. It will be easy to supplement our remaining rations.”
It’s likely the best they could hope for, and quite frankly Lan Wangji isn’t sure how much longer he can continue like this, sleeping in the open on churned and muddy ground, worried every minute of the day and night that they're going to be attacked again, that he'll lose more comrades in arms just to fight their corpses mere minutes later - though naturally he’ll never let his exhaustion show. It’ll have to work.
“Lead, we will follow.”
The order passes quickly through the small group Lan Wangji leads personally and then further to the rest of their forces, not just Lan but the Nie and Jiang contingents as well, though all under the command of captains rather than their Sect Leaders. Once word has been spread to all who need to hear it, they form up in loose ranks and follow the scouts through the forest, weary ears alert for the sound of more fierce corpses or of Wen troops stopping to make camp themselves.
They arrive at the promised manor without incident, and Lan Wangji spares a few moments and a portion of qi to wash away the worst of his exhaustion long enough to see everyone settled. They’ll camp here for a few days at least to recover now that they’ve cleared the latest round of puppets; to pursue the Wen forces directly is too dangerous with their current numbers, which means they must wait for more puppets to be made and sent to try to force them back from the borders of Wen territory, their only job to hold the line rather than gain the army any extra ground.
Though the respite is as temporary as Wen Ruohan’s whims will dictate, there’s a clear atmosphere of relief as places amongst the rooms and gardens are divvied up with surprisingly little argument.
Fires are lit and the evening meal prepared by the first round of cultivators to have washed themselves, and as the rest bathe and change out of their blood-soaked clothes they come to eat and take over the doling out of the meal to the next round, the first retiring either to their beds or to the first watch along the new wards. Lan Wangji, assured that the camp is running smoothly without his guidance, is about to retire and finally attempt to find a suitable bath for himself when a quiet voice stops him.
“Hanguang-Jun. Pardon the intrusion — this one has a request.”
It’s one of the scouts from earlier, not the leader but someone that Lan Wangji knows personally from his classes that seem as if they last happened a small eternity ago. “Mn.”
The boy — and he is just a boy, the youngest of those who once attended Lan Wangji’s Advanced Music Cultivation lectures with him — holds out his hand palm up to show him a piece of carved white jade, so fine it seems to glow faintly in the fading evening light. The nearest torch staked in the ground flickers in a wisp of a breeze and the carving seems to move with it, shadows shifting and stretching like a simple trick of the eye before the light settles again. It would almost be possible to believe the illusion was simply that were it not for the faint hum of energy radiating from the jade even without probing it with his own.
“We found this hidden in a sandalwood box in the master’s room,” the boy whispers. “It’s Lan, the box bears our insignia and the craftsmanship is unmistakable, but we could not discern its function beyond the sense of some type of spirit lurking in it. This one requests Hanguang-Jun’s expert assistance.”
“I will examine it,” he agrees, curiosity piqued despite his exhaustion. His former classmate (whose name has slipped from his mind like water, but whose familiar presence is comforting anyway) hurries to wrap the carving in warded silk. It feels warm even through the cool fabric, and when Lan Wangji pockets it he tests it with a thread of qi that resonates with a louder answering hum like a plucked guqin string, though the reply, if it is one, feels benign enough to only interest him further rather than cause alarm.
They make camp and rest for four days, but on the morning of the fifth a fresh fight begins in earnest with the garbled cries of swarming puppets surrounding the manor on all sides, and Lan Wangji is no closer to solving the mystery of his strange new treasure. He carries it in a qiankun pouch tucked into the front of his robes as they allow themselves to be harried back toward the main force at a last-minute order from Nie Mingjue, a feint to draw the enemy troops and their puppets closer to the main body of the army that has been advancing towards their position for the last week.
When their frantic flight is interrupted by the main body of the Jiang forces arriving to sweep in like the blow of a hammer against Lan Wangji's anvil — the Wen soldiers and fierce corpses caught in the middle to be crushed — the minor, unimportant puzzle of the jade pressed warm and steady against his chest is the furthest thing from his mind.
–//–
As is always the case in these skirmishes, for a long time the only thing Wei Wuxian is aware of is the screaming of the damned and the piercing cry of his Chenqing adding her voice to the din, the loudest and coldest voice carrying across the battlefield to better call the others to his banner. It rings in his ears for longer and longer after every battle, and he knows that his eyes fade to their usual white and strange silver more slowly every time he fights. Their own disciples hardly seem to notice this evidence of his demonic cultivation, so grateful they are for his help and the power he lends to the Jiang who are so new, so untrained. Other sects aren’t so quick to look the other way on the rare occasions they don’t manage to give him a wide berth, but for now he thinks no one has dared to speak out against him openly.
Well — that isn’t quite true, but to be spoken of by Lan Wangji is an honor in and of itself, even for censure.
He doesn’t know when the Lan forces arrived in this ravine he’s been told to mind. The battle is nothing but a blur of screaming agony — others’, his own, he doesn’t know the difference anymore — and the metallic cloy of clotted, rotting blood in his mouth and the back of his nose. Long gone are the days of sandalwood incense and magnolia blooms on the breeze, but Lan Wangji is here anyway, and that’s truly the most important thing.
The battle ends in victory as battles always do when he takes the field, though Wei Wuxian doesn't ever receive the same awed gratitude for his help that Lan Xichen does, the great Zewu-jun with his reputation for turning the tide every time he appears. It's fair, he supposes, and isn't as if he's here to demand their bowing and scraping anyway. There's only one person whose good opinion he cares for.
“Wei Ying,” his friend, his partner, his zhiji calls, concern barely hinted at in the depths of his gaze. It must not be the first time he’s called for him.
“Lan Zhan?” he asks and finds that it rasps in his aching throat. Clearing it will only bring up stale blood, so he refrains. “When did you-“ he coughs anyway and barely manages to keep the bloody bile in his throat where it belongs.
“Wei Ying, what is wrong?”
Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Lan Wangji is here. What could possibly be wrong?
It’s alright, one of the voices in his head croons, such a welcome reprieve from the screams. You can go to him.
The permission is ridiculous; he’s never been able to truly avoid Lan Wangji, and he’s never truly wanted to try all that hard to do so either. Still, ridiculous and unnecessary as it is, Wei Wuxian is pathetically grateful for it. Lan Wangji is glaring at him, all he ever seems to do these days, but the ghosts would warn him if Lan Wangji were about to kill him, wouldn’t they? Their grasp of time is slippery; they would be screaming in rage as if he’d already died if Lan Wangji were going to run him through with Bichen’s pretty white blade and add to the blood spatters drying on the leading edge.
“You’re here,” he rasps. His next step is a stumble but Lan Wangji’s hands don’t quite extend far enough to catch under his elbows, so he rights himself with an effort. Curbing his tongue turns out to be too much effort to bother with. “I want you here. You should be here, Lan Zhan, ah? Not in some muddy field somewhere else, you should- you should-“
“Stay with me” dies in his throat as he spits out the blood clot in his throat, grimacing around the texture on his tongue and the wet splat of the pathetic little glob in the dirt. “Ugh. Sorry,” he grunts. He swipes a hand against his bloodied chin and tries to smile, but Lan Wangji’s glare doesn’t budge at all and he realizes his pink-edged teeth (which he can only assume are paired with demon-red eyes) probably don’t make for the most reassuring image.
“You are unwell,” Lan Wangji says, the stiffest understatement of the century. Wei Wuxian barks a laugh, humorless and short.
“Aiyah, Lan Zhan. Don’t be silly! Never been worse-“
Better. Never been better. Why the hell did he say worse?
Lan Wangji’s gaze somehow sharpens in the way that cuts everyone but Wei Wuxian, who only feels it like the exhilarating rush of flying on his sword too recklessly for others’ comfort; seeing as he can’t have the one anymore, he’ll just have to content himself with continuing to chase the other whenever he can bear it. Getting close to Lan Wangji is like sticking his hand into an open flame to try to warm the perpetual chill he can’t shake anymore — excruciating bliss.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji calls, and it rings somehow, an echoing gong in his ears and in his mind. He shakes his head vigorously, earning himself another dizzy spell that only passes after he’s taken two more steps forward, thoroughly in Lan Wangji's personal space now but that's allowed, isn't it? That's okay so long as it makes the screams stop, he can go to him-
“Lan Zhan, I think there’s something wrong- what have you-?”
“Hey!”
The shout comes with the smell of ozone and an ominous crackling that still straightens Wei Wuxian’s spine entirely on instinct. It also serves to break whatever strange compulsion has him standing a mere handsbreadth away from Lan Wangji, who’s watching him approach like a hawk seconds away from diving into the grass after a mouse. Wei Wuxian stumbles back a step, and then another, and as the distance grows so do the screams, strangely muted but quickly strengthening again as he gets some space.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Lan-er-gongzi?! Stay out of Jiang Clan business, or else the next time will not be a warning!” Jiang Cheng demands, sneering as he practically spits at Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian wants to tell him to stop but his ears are ringing and the dizziness is back in full force, his head swimming with screams that can’t actually be there as no one else seems to be reacting to them, and that’s usually a good way to judge what’s real.
Wei Wuxian throws his arm around Jiang Cheng’s shoulders as if to jostle him out of his mood, and he’s pretty sure only he knows that he actually just needs the help to keep standing upright. “Aiyahhhh Jiang Cheng, I started talking to him! Don’t bully poor Lan Zhan, ah? Come on, he’s brought back our shidimei all safe and sound for us, let’s go greet them.”
As far as excuses go, it’s one of his better ones as it’s something that genuinely needs doing, but Jiang Cheng still takes it with poor grace. That’s fine, all that matters is that he does listen, and that he drags Wei Wuxian away from Lan Wangji with no small amount of force.
It feels like the only way he’ll be able to leave Lan Wangji’s general vicinity.
–//–
Wei Wuxian can’t sleep.
That isn’t new, he hasn’t been a good sleeper for most of their lives, but it’s different tonight, somehow. Jiang Cheng lies awake on the other side of their tent listening to his brother thrash and twist in his bedroll like a man possessed, though he’s eerily quiet about it. If Jiang Cheng were sleeping it wouldn’t be enough to wake him, even as on-edge as they all are in the midst of the battlefield, but he’d laid awake for some time after they’d blown out the lanterns, unable to stop thinking about what their next move is likely to be now that the army is together again…and now he’s listening to Wei Wuxian in the throes of some silent sort of agony.
He can't let his brother pass the entire night like this - who knows how many times this has happened when Jiang Cheng has been too exhausted to hear him?
“Wei Wuxian.”
“Sorry,” Wei Wuxian gasps immediately, rasping and thick. Jiang Cheng is off his pallet like an arrow from a bow, crossing their tent in a few long strides to drop to his knees beside Wei Wuxian’s shivering form. He's mumbling, “I’m sorry, A-Cheng, I’m sorry-”. A senseless litany tumbling from clumsy lips.
His eyes are blood red again in the faint glow of the strip of moonlight sneaking in between the closures at the front of the tent. Jiang Cheng uses a flash of qi to light the lantern hanging from the central pole, and once he can see he dares to look away from Wei Wuxian’s gaunt face only to find his limbs wreathed in ribbons of resentment, cold enough to leave his skin chafed and raw wherever his inner robe has been pulled or pushed aside in his thrashing.
“What the fuck is going on?” he demands, but as always his brother won’t answer him; he reaches out with one skeletal hand and the weakness of it scares Jiang Cheng more than anything else yet. Wei Wuxian clings to everything he can get his hands on like a limpet, impossible to shake off until he’s ready to let go and absolutely no sooner. Jiang Cheng can tell he’s using every ounce of strength he has to cling to his wrist, but an infant would cling more strongly to a finger than what Wei Wuxian is currently managing.
“Lan Zhan-” Wei Wuxian gasps and Jiang Cheng can’t keep the snarl off his face.
“He did something to you earlier, I fucking knew it-”
“No! He wouldn’t-” Wei Wuxian’s frantic denial cuts off with a wet cough into his own shoulder, and Jiang Cheng can’t pretend he doesn’t see the dark stain he leaves on his red underrobe, not nearly as good at hiding stains as his many layers of black. “Take me to him. Please, it’s- he can help. I need him.”
“I’m not carrying you through camp like this,” Jiang Cheng balks at the very thought. Wei Wuxian’s position in the army is already tenuous at best, and while their own people are the most forgiving of his new eccentricities, entering the Lan camp with a demonic cultivator clearly losing control of himself and his cultivation is a good way to get his brother hurt before anyone would even think to offer their help.
But at the same time, he can’t do nothing. Wei Wuxian sobs just once, nothing more than a brokenhearted exhale that ends on another pathetic cough too weak to accomplish much of anything.
“I’ll bring him here,” he promises, if only to never hear his brother make that sound ever again. “Jiejie is in the medical tents, I can send her here while I go-”
“No! Don’t, just..just Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian’s glassy, red-tinged eyes finally stop roaming around the demons only he can see to fix on Jiang Cheng’s. It doesn’t make him feel any better. “Just Lan Zhan, A-Cheng. Please. No one else.”
“Alright.” Jiang Cheng has never been able to deny either of his siblings anything, really, and tonight is no different. “Alright, I’ll get him. Just stay here.”
Wei Wuxian doesn’t even bother to reply; they both know he’s not going anywhere when he’s curled in on himself in agony, limbs twisted around himself and his fingers crooked into rigid claws tearing at his own clothes and bedding.
Jiang Cheng throws on a single outer robe for the sake of propriety and then, uncaring that he’s breaking camp rules, takes off on his sword, though he at least stays low to the ground to avoid alarming the boundary sentries.
The Lan contingent are on the other side of camp from the Jiang, the entirety of the Nie forces and the small Jin contingent between them. It’s at least an hour’s walk from the inner edge of the Jiang to that of the Lan, only slightly faster by horse and that only so long as the lanes aren’t crowded with cultivators moving between their tents and their duties.
Jiang Cheng alights in front of Lan Wangji’s snow-white tent a mere quarter of an incense stick after he left.
–//–
It’s unwise to ignore the proscriptions for sleep when not required. It’s unwise and more difficult than he’d expected, as well, Lan Wangji's body yearning for sleep even as he forces himself to focus. He’s no closer than before to solving the mystery of the artefact the scouts had found at the manor, but whatever it is it had reacted strangely this afternoon to Wei Wuxian’s presence, and he wants — needs — to know why.
He feeds the carving a delicate thread of qi for the better part of a shichen, but it stays inert in his palm. He’s just standing to retreat behind his guqin to attempt to speak to it through Inquiry when he turns, Bichen flying to his hand before he’s even consciously aware of what’s disturbed him. The hilt collides with another sword with a muted clang, but before he can go any further to take advantage of the opening the clumsy defense has left for him, he realizes who’s decided to disturb him in his own tent.
“It’s Wuxian,” Jiang Wanyin says, his eyes so wide they’re ringed with white all the way around. “He’s asking for you, something’s wrong-”
“Go, I will follow.”
Jiang Wanyin darts back out as Lan Wangji turns to scoop his guqin into the qiankun pouch in his sleeve and then he’s out on the path and stepping onto Bichen, following the purple smudge through the darkened camp, through the white and blue tents of the Lan, the small cluster of gold before the straight neat rows of gray and green Nie. Jiang Wanyin slows somewhat when they reach the tiny knot of the Jiangs’ amethyst tents, many still glowing faintly from within as their owners move back and forth between the silk and their lanterns, but there are thankfully no late wanderers out roaming through the lanes of the camp to see them in their headlong flight.
Jiang Wanyin’s tent is, unsurprisingly, at the very center of the small Jiang encampment, though it’s no larger nor more intricate than those around it to avoid making it an obvious target for ambush. Lan Wangji steps off Bichen and strides into the structure, immediately struck by the overwhelming tang of blood in his nose and resentful energy rubbing up against his spiritual senses even before he orients himself enough to find Wei Wuxian in his tangled nest of blankets and discarded outer robes pulled haphazardly over himself for warmth.
He barely notices Jiang Wanyin’s tense, summer thunderhead presence, his entire being focused on Wei Wuxian looking as much like a corpse as any of the puppets he and Wen Ruohan command.
“Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying’s voice is barely more than a croak and yet still somehow holds an audible smile as he calls back, “Lan Zhan. You’re here.”
He doesn’t say ‘Of course’. He doesn’t say ‘I would come whenever you called’. He doesn’t say anything at all, as there are no words he knows small enough for comfort that are also large enough to encompass everything he’s feeling.
He goes to his knees beside Wei Wuxian and from so close the exhaustion etched into every line of his gaunt, handsome face is painfully clear. His hair is limp and stringy with sweat, his eyes so bloodshot as to appear red, his lips as white as bone. He has somehow still mustered up the energy to smile up at him, tremulous and almost too small to see, but it's there.
“You have something you shouldn’t, Lan Zhan,” he rasps. “Naughty, naughty. What are you walking around with a cursed amulet for, ah?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jiang Wanyin barks. “You can’t just accuse Hanguang-Jun-”
“How do you know?” Lan Wangji interrupts. He has little patience for Jiang Wanyin’s theatrics at the best of times, which this is very much not. “I did not know it’s cursed.”
Lan Wangji stays perfectly still as Wei Wuxian reaches out with one pale hand to brush a fingertip right over where the jade carving is tucked into the breast of his robes. “It’s talking to me,” he whispers, barely audible. He punctuates it with a grimace, and the flicker of his pained gaze towards Jiang Wanyin in the next moment feels like a signal.
“Leave us,” he says, implacable, and without taking his eyes off Wei Wuxian’s ghost of a relieved smile. “I will help him.”
“This is my tent, Lan Wangji!”
“And Wei Ying’s.”
“It’s okay Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian rasps, still smiling with pink teeth. Lan Wangji wonders how much blood he's lost on the battlefield that no one has thought to look for, as it doesn't come from the edge of a blade except for the one he turns on himself with his cultivation. “Lan Zhan’s here.”
Whatever Jiang Wanyin snarls in argument falls on deaf ears as Lan Wangji busies himself with looking Wei Wuxian over for injuries that would explain the reek of blood on him, and he notes it with only the smallest portion of his attention when Jiang Wanyin storms out of the tent in a flurry of anger that doesn’t hide his fear the way he likely hopes it does. On principle, Lan Wangji refuses to sympathize.
The moment they’re alone, Lan Wangji has to brace himself against the weight of Wei Wuxian clutching at the front of his robes to leverage himself up off his sleeping pallet, his breathing labored. Lan Wangji hurries to assist without worrying first that it would be as unwelcome as all his previous attempts to help, but thankfully Wei Wuxian says nothing at all in protest, and Lan Wangji is allowed to curl his hands under his knobby elbows and feel for the first time how truly skeletal he’s become.
“Can I hold it?” Wei Wuxian asks with a glance down at the spot where the amulet is sitting nestled between the layers of his robes. Lan Wangji nods and tries not to squirm as Wei Wuxian just reaches into his robes to grab it for himself, moving with a sort of contained desperation that ends the moment his fingers wrap around the unnaturally warm jade.
DEAD
Lan Wangji jolts, startled by the voice like a gong in his mind. Wei Wuxian stiffens as well, going perfectly still with his hand in Lan Wangji’s robes and his entire body trembling faintly with either cold or pained exhaustion, it’s difficult to tell.
“Wei Ying?”
“It’s cursed,” he mumbles, his blood-red eyes glassy and unfocused. “It’s going to make me…it’s like- like—“
SPEAK
This time Lan Wangji doesn’t jump but Wei Wuxian does, jerking in place like a slumped string puppet suddenly yanked upright. He moves as if to withdraw his hand, but he freezes in place before he can manage it, like something is ensuring he can’t.
“I’m dead, Lan Zhan.”
That isn’t true. Lan Wangji’s entire being balks at the mere idea of it, and not just because Wei Wuxian is sitting in front of him, touching him, talking to him. Wei Wuxian can’t die. Even now, in the throes of his demonic cultivation that’s clearly eating him alive to feed its own unnatural power, there isn’t a world Lan Wangji can imagine where Wei Wuxian’s presence isn’t a part of the very fabric of reality. He can’t die.
Ever.
“No.”
“Yes.” Wei Wuxian’s reply is smooth and even, nearly trance-like in its lack of feeling. “I died, and your voice raised me from the dead for my final purpose in this world.”
That can’t be true, it isn’t possible, but Lan Wangji knows the beloved infuriating shape of Wei Wuxian’s sense of humor.
He isn’t laughing now.
“I wanted revenge, Lan Zhan. I needed it, more than anything. I had it. It was my dying wish, fulfilled. It’s done, I can go-”
Wei Wuxian is utterly emotionless as he says this; not even the cold calculation of when they’d found him hunting Wen Chao colors his voice. He sounds like- like-
DEPART
Wei Wuxian shudders, his hand clenching into a tighter fist around the amulet. With obvious effort he withdraws the jade, finally, from the folds of silk containing it, and Lan Wangji’s eyes fall to it clutched in Wei Wuxian’s straining grip.
“I’m not one of your ghosts,” he grits through his blood-pink teeth, some life returning to his voice as it returns to his gaze enough to glare down at the amulet to speak to it directly. “Foolish little Lan, I don’t banish so easily.”
It’s like Inquiry, Lan Wangji thinks in a sudden burst of clarity. Wei Ying sounded like those who speak to him through Wangji — toneless, dead voices converted to notes that only vaguely resemble music just enough so that he can understand their dying wishes…what it will take to send them on.
The spirit cursing the amulet must say something else as Wei Wuxian stiffens and grimaces a little harder, but now that the jade isn’t touching him Lan Wangji can no longer hear it to know what it is that’s made Wei Wuxian’s lip curl up in disgust. His knuckles have gone bone-white around the carving that is once again glowing with its own internal warmth, and before Lan Wangji can stop it the shadows of resentment twining like a dancer’s silk scarves around Wei Wuxian’s arms race down around his wrists, slither between his fingers, and disappear in lancing bolts of pure black into the little white carving. Between one breath and the next its internal light is snuffed out, and the jade shatters in the protective cup of Wei Wuxian’s hands.
The world seems to suddenly narrow down impossibly small around the two of them kneeling there together, and Lan Wangji’s voice echoes strangely in his own ears as he cries, “Wei Ying!”
–//–
“I loved her.”
Lan Wangji stays very, very still and stares hard at the stranger across from them, his heart caught in his throat. Wei Wuxian is standing straight and tall in front of him, though he doesn’t seem to realize that Lan Wangji is there. It’s uncomfortably reminiscent of laying on top of a rooftop next to Jiang Wanyin and peering down at the strange demon that Wei Wuxian had become, pale and cruel as he’d stalked Wen Chao across a barren room to finish the hunt he’d been dragging on for weeks — an apex predator playing with his food before the mercy kill.
He’s perfectly still now like he had been then, savoring the final torment without anything else to steal his attention.
A Lan cultivator is standing facing them, there-but-not in a way that makes Lan Wangji feel vaguely ill to look at. Concentrating on the figure feels like it takes a supreme amount of effort, but when he doesn’t focus the man’s face blurs and shifts, his entire body seeming formless beyond the vaguest impression of white cultivator robes. Lan Wangji’s head swims and his stomach churns, but the figure is still speaking so he tries his best to ignore the discomfort.
“My sweet Zhou Xin…Her family was haunted. The household had suffered tragedy after tragedy, her parents were desperate for help, but they couldn’t afford to pay for a proper cultivator. I was the best they could afford, an outer disciple ready for his first solo nighthunt. I loved her from the moment I entered their home.”
Lan Wangji turns his attention to Wei Wuxian again rather than attempting to focus on the ghost of this cultivator, this Lan elder whose age he can’t begin to guess.
“There had been many deaths, so many petty jealousies that became a string of brutal murders among the servants. I fell in love with her at first sight, wanted nothing more than to help…but I knew within days that I would be overwhelmed before I could safely liberate or eliminate the angry spirits. I had to petition the sect for help.”
Wei Wuxian is still and silent, his hands loose at his sides and his head cocked ever so slightly to the right. He tilts it slowly to the left, but says nothing.
“I had brought with me a parting token from my parents, a carving they said would bring me luck and safety on my travels. Luck had brought me to her, the love of my life. Perhaps it would also keep her safe for me until I returned. ”
“It didn’t.”
In this strange nowhere place, Wei Wuxian’s voice is a tolling bell, the solemn ring of a gong through the mountains. Lan Wangji doesn’t flinch from it only because it’s Wei Wuxian who speaks. The spirit in front of them seems to shrink and flicker for a moment before he can reply.
“It did, for a time. She was safe, but I died on the road, I don’t know how or why. I never returned to Cloud Recesses, I never found help. As a spirit, I could only attach myself to my single earthly possession, in the hands of my love, and do what little I could to keep the angry spirits haunting her family away from her.”
Ah. Lan Wangji’s heart aches in his chest with a sympathetic understanding. He too would stand as a barrier between Wei Wuxian and everything that means to hurt him, if his zhiji would ever allow it. It explains why the carving behaves as it seems to as well, coaxing the dead into speaking the truth of their final moments and desires before attempting to liberate them — as all Lan are taught to do.
“She died some years later, alone in her home, driven mad by the spirits I could not suppress. She has entered the cycle without me. I cleansed the house over time, left alone with the ghosts. Others moved in, left again when their fortunes changed… on and on and on. I liberated all that I could.”
“You can’t liberate me.” This somehow rings even more loudly. Lan Wangji still doesn’t flinch.
“You are the most persistent,” the spirit says with some vague hint of something that may be amusement, or perhaps irritation. His more human emotions are too faint after so many years as a spirit for Lan Wangji to tell. “However, you have died, and to keep living is as unnatural as those you command. You must lie down and take your turn in the cycle.”
“Pretty rich, coming from a dead man.”
“Your desire to live for those you love is admirable. Your insistence on disobeying the laws of nature to accommodate your stolen core and continue to walk among the living is only hurting those you would wish to comfort.”
Stolen core?
All at once Wei Wuxian has gone completely stiff, his hands crooked into claws at his sides though he makes no move towards the spirit.
“What was given freely cannot be considered stolen, ah?” he snaps in the same tone he uses when Lan Wangji is attempting to talk to him about the exact same concerns. “I gave it away willingly, and now my cultivation protects them! You may be older but I have the weight of centuries of death and anger behind me. I won’t be moved.”
“I know, and to have angered the Demonic Grandmaster, with his armies of the restless damned, will of course be the end of me,” the spirit replies, implacable. For the first time since they entered this strange place he raises his gaze to look over Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, straight into the very core of Lan Wangji’s soul. “But your love deserved to know how you died before I could allow you to destroy me.”
Wei Wuxian whirls around, eyes wide, and Lan Wangji finds he can’t stand to meet his eyes and see the wild-eyed panic there. He drops his own gaze down to Wei Wuxian’s hands twitching at his side, an aborted motion towards his belt where he always keeps his new blackened flute that’s become the terror of so many on the battlefield.
“Wei Ying-”
Far from the tolling bell of Wei Wuxian’s voice, to his own ears Lan Wangji’s sounds soft as velvet, not in the least commanding or impressive. It doesn’t have to be; Wei Wuxian shudders from head to toe and drifts a few steps towards him. Not in the horrible, dragging way he’d come to him after the last battle, apparently drawn to him by the lure of the amulet, but turning towards him like a flower to the sun, bending and swaying closer as if he needs to to live.
Between one breath and the next, the sort of nowhere place disappears like it never was, and after the briefest sensation of falling Lan Wangji opens his eyes to find himself staring at Wei Wuxian kneeling across from him, slumped in a faint over his hands still cupping the shattered remains of the carving. He knows he should summon Wangji, play Rest, send the spirit haunting it on his way to hopefully get a chance to reunite with the woman who’d inspired so much devotion even after death.
Lan Wangji knows what he should do, but what he does is reach out with gentle, shaking hands to pull Wei Wuxian unresisting into his lap and hold him close.
“I died and your voice raised me-” Wei Wuxian had said. Lan Wangji’s bruised and aching heart clenches in his chest. He bundles Wei Wuxian closer, a limp collection of bony limbs tumbled together like bones in a shallow grave, and carefully brushes a limp lock of hair away from his cheek, his skin deathly pale.
“Wei Ying,” he says for Wei Wuxian’s ears alone, cracking and heartbroken.
What else is there to say?
Lan Wangji calls for him until Jiang Wanyin returns, a surprisingly silent specter at his side. He calls for Wei Wuxian until his voice goes hoarse, until his limbs have long gone numb under Wei Wuxian’s lax weight, until dawn lightens the strip of sky visible just beyond the imperfectly aligned walls of the tent. He calls for him over and over and over again and hopes for another miraculous return.
–//–
Sending Lan Zhan away from this nowhere place is painfully difficult; sending the spirit away is the work of a few viciously sharp whistles and the pure fury of the Burial Mounds and its wayward ghosts, distilled to its purest form here in this place without physical restraint.
He’s already metaphorically turning back towards the promise of Lan Zhan’s presence so close at hand — he can already feel him, his touch muted as if through a thick quilt but solidly there — when there’s a yank somewhere around his navel and he’s falling
falling
falling…
“One more,” he hears the spirit sigh, far closer at hand than he should be over Wei Wuxian's shoulder, a scant inch from his ear. “One more evil liberated-”
Wei Wuxian struggles against the pull, the grasping hands trying to force him to rest, trying to save the living from his profane touch. Wei Wuxian snarls and twists and bites and whistles banishing music harsh enough to rip the world around him into blackened shreds—
The hands release him and he’s left floating in the midst of…nothing. There’s nothing. No pain, no fear, no softness, no relief, no sorrow, no happiness, nothing at all.
Is that bliss?
Wei Wuxian pauses and wonders what he was fighting against in the first place. What was he fighting for? Something’s wrong, there was something there, there was someone—
“Wei Ying-”
Ah, of course. Nothing’s wrong. Lan Wangji is here. What could possibly be wrong?
Wei Wuxian opens his aching eyes, sensation flooding back into his body in the way he's already come back to life once before, and he smiles.
