Gusu City AU - Building Homes - Sunset and Dawn (mainly Wei Wuxian POV) - ArchiveWriter - 陈情令 (2024)

Chapter 1: Wei Ying is pregnant (sort of)

Chapter Text

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It’s been a few months since their lovely, perfect, immaculate son Sizhui dropped the baby-bombshell on them1. Wangji’s yet to recover, though he’s trying his best. This comprises throwing himself into wedding preparations with a speed and relentless efficacy Wei Ying can only admire (but then, he admires everything about his love whom he adores without reservations, because Wangji deserves this, because he’s a god!). Wangji might have been thrown for a loop, but he’s rounding the corner like a superhero on acid – whoosh – and he’s out of the blocks from zero to a hundred miles an hour in a blink, juggling plans and schedules, aunties and uncles, intra-Lan diplomacy, Uncle Qiren, dietary requirements and budgets like a professional.

Wei Ying… not so much. Wei Ying’s suddenly spending more time at home. He’s somehow rescheduled things that had been super-urgent only a few days ago. He’s on the phone a lot, but tends to hang up when Wangji or Sizhui get within earshot. He sleeps more and is overall a bit sluggish. He eats a lot of chocolate and even puts on weight (to Wangji’s delight and concern), after years of being skinny enough for a breeze to blow through his ribs. On the other hand, he’s weaving about the house like a restless spirit, opening and closing doors, peering into rooms he’s intimately familiar with (literally and metaphorically, depending on the room – the only space that’s truly virgin territory is Sizhui’s den). He’s developed an affinity for his old room, now a spare office. It’s a cosy little box upstairs, with a view of the garden. He lived there for a time after Wangji found him again, until Wei Ying crawled back into Wangji’s bed and stayed for good. Then the room became somewhat obsolete. Wangji maintains it as a guest room, though they never have guests staying over because Wangji’s intensely private and Wei Ying’s okay with that – their home is their haven from the world. Perhaps Wei Ying’s got a spell of nostalgia, because sometimes Wangji catches him standing just inside the threshold, staring into the middle distance, a foggy smile on his pretty lips, gaze vacant. Wangji’s learned to be quiet when he’s like that, to avoid startling him into a mini-fit (“Lan Zhan, where did you come from? You nearly gave me a heart attack! Aiyah, you’re so quiet, can’t you make more noise? Not just in bed?!”)

Of course Wangji worries. But Wei Ying won’t say what’s bothering him. Sizhui too seems mystified. Wei Ying waves them off claiming he’s fine, “it’s nothing, really, quit fussing, you make me nervous!” He actually gets crabby, and it’s starting to feel like walking on eggshells around him. He goes out at random times, without spending anything on Wangji’s credit card. This is concerning, because either he’s quit shopping (highly unlikely and if true cause for even greater worry), or he’s hiding it (in which case, refer to earlier). It’s very unlike Wei Ying. But Wangji’s got his mind full with seating plans, horoscopes, dinner menus that should cater to a multitude of tastes, allergies, sensitivities and special needs (because it’s a modern wedding, where such things are taken into account, and Wangji’s singularly stubborn about it), whilst also boosting fertility and wellbeing, being balanced and nourishing, whilst not too fattening and old-fashioned. Yes, he’s this specific, in all his sweet absurdity, and Wei Ying has all the confidence in the world that Wangji’ll pull it off with aplomb. He’s perfect, after all! The most perfect spouse, father, friend and lover, ever! Anyone who can’t see that is an idiot, in Wei Ying’s opinion, which he voices loudly, frankly, and often to anyone who cares to listen, and to anyone at all.

The worst of the planning is the guest list, which with their family complications is exceedingly challenging to get right without causing affront or ruining the day. Uncle Qiren needs to be flanked by pleasant people with a thick skin, a classical education, and a kind and patient disposition. Xichen needs to be tucked away with his two boyfriends, close enough but not too close to the top table, to neither diminish his personal set-up (who would they be to do that) nor agitate the more traditional aunties and uncles. Gently does it; they’re not in the business of changing the world, at least not on that day. Something, Wei Ying thinks with wry amusem*nt, where they all agree with Uncle Qiren. Wangji doesn’t rate Xichen’s taste in men; he and his brother had run-ins when the whole mess came to light that had been made of Wei Ying’s life, with the Lans’ active connivance, and it’s this why Wangji doesn’t really care for seeing Xichen and his boyfriends at the wedding, but for Sizhui’s sake he’s making an effort to keep the fragile peace.

So, Wei Ying commiserates. He comforts Wangji when they fall into bed in the evenings, after another day of wrangling with various aunties, uncles, and assorted meddlers of the Lan variety, since both their youngsters are Lans – Sizhui by adoption, his girlfriend by extraction. She’s a true clan princess: Old bloodlines, old money, from a very sophisticated cousin-branch of the main line, but surprisingly they’re less stuffy than Wangji feared. Ever since Sizhui broke the news and introduced the girl (all in one go, with her staunchly by his side to face his parents), Wangji’d been fretting whether her family would accept Wei Ying, and he was quite ready to fight a battle. In the event, it was rather anticlimactic when they finally met, post-haste, for a formal introductory dinner. Wangji had organised it, of course, he won’t yield the wheel to anyone with this, and it was the poshest, fanciest, rooftop restaurant in all of Gusu City, so exclusive that even wealth and name won’t guarantee a reservation, and tables are booked out not months, but years in advance. Wangji of course managed to get one, though he keeps resolutely mum about how he wangled it. He looked distinctly smug that evening, all but soaking up the awed admiration duly paid to him and his efforts. He also looked super-conservative yet dashing in black tie, and Wei Ying spent the evening both smitten and aglow with happiness (Wangji’d told him he looked ravishing, completely in black with only his hair ribbon shining bright red from his silky tresses; he let actions follow suit, once they got home).

oOo

Chapter 2: Negotiating family matters

Chapter Text

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The in-laws are a pleasant couple. Discreet and quiet, like Lans are expected to be, old-school too in their manners – no talking over dinner, no alcohol, no ostentation in dress or ornament (though they did accept the invitation to this particular place). But they seemed surprisingly relaxed in their reception of the news. They clearly loved their daughter, and they had done their research. But unlike Wangji’s uncle and elder brother, they also seemed keen to form their own view of the whole thing, and of Wangji and Wei Ying in particular. What was the verdict? Wei Ying knew Wangji would only permit two outcomes: They liked Wei Ying, and all was good. Or they didn’t, in which case… there’d be problems. As in, no further encounters unless on neutral ground, and bland politeness instead of familial warmth. But Wei Ying was as always, smart and charming, and soon enough he carried the conversation. It was of course serious business, exploring each other’s ideas of how things should work in the future, for the young couple, for their respective families, careers, money, the baby, more babies… Madam Lan1 was tough yet kind and pleasant, and things ping-ponged between her and Wei Ying whilst Wangji and Mr Lan kept drinking tea and listening, and the young couple went to admire the panorama from the sleek, ultra-modern glass-balustrade edging the roof garden. They were holding hands and leaning against one another – discreet enough but with a quiet tenderness that made Wei Ying’s heart flutter for a few breathless moments, and when his gaze flicked to Wangji, he saw his throat bob suspiciously.

It was all good. Wangji’d been happy that evening. They’d said their farewells, and the in-laws had taken a taxi back to Gusu Heights where they lived in a super-expensive town villa, not far from Uncle Qiren’s, and Sizhui had invited his girl to watch a movie. Wangji’d taken Wei Ying to a place they both liked: After the tiny portions at the restaurant, they went for food to the night markets (where they stood out like super models among the rugged crowd), and then – also by taxi – to Caiyi Community Green. They wandered along the slightly unkempt paths, hand in hand in the murky city darkness, until they reached the far end of the park, where the grass was long and bamboo grew in tall, thick stands, and behind that little wilderness murmured the current of Lotus River. There was a small angling pier, no more than a few slippery old boards jutting out over the muddy edge of the water, and there Wangji laid Wei Ying on his back and loved him until he had him breathless and in tears with desire, and all but sobbing for relief. Wangji gave him all he wanted, and then some. Wangji would always give Wei Ying everything Wei Ying might want. Their suits needed dry-cleaning.

He carried him on his back afterwards, all the way home, a ten-minute ride by bus, and a half-hour walk (for Wangji; Wei Ying would have needed much, much longer, especially in his freshly-done state). Wei Ying’d fallen asleep halfway there, and woken up between the sheets at dawn to Wangji slipping into him from behind. It turned into a glorious day, lazy in bed (Wei Ying) and taking care of his love in every sense (Wangji), right down to mouth-feeding him pre-chewed morsels of sweet, sticky-rice-stuffed lotus-root. The bed was a sweaty, sticky, rumpled mess in the evening, Wangji scritched five more notches into the tally-book he keeps in his nightstand to meticulously account for each Everyday with his love, and Wei Ying changed the bedding before they went to sleep. Wangji could be a bit intense sometimes, especially when processing stress.

oOo

But all of that was past, gone swimmingly, and they were almost there. The wedding dress would not quite hide the happy bump anymore, but it would cover it prettily and discreetly enough for the more conservative-minded of the family. The older aunties held that a woman shouldn’t be too skinny – it was a good sign for a bride to put on a bit of weight, so she’d be strong and healthy to bear many sons. Nobody would rob anyone (who wanted to believe it) of that illusion. Then there were intense negotiations about the robes. For all that Lans traditionally favoured dove-greys, near-whites, and indigo blues in their dress, except for richly saturated, jewel hues of blue and blue-greys at weddings, the young couple wanted something red, so red it was. Vermillion. Bright, loud and cheerful, though decorated with the more traditional Lan colours in the shape of appliqeed dragons, embroidered phoenixes, woven through with snowy jade-magnolias and – Wei Ying nearly whooped in delight when Sizhui showed him clandestinely taken pictures – tiny bunnies all over, stitched daintily in silver and black, in gambolling couples. He also pointed out the bottom hem of his own robe, which was edged with a row of slinky black tigers rolling about with fiercely looming, pearl-blue dragons, in flaming yin-yang wheels. Sizhui had the cheek to wink at him, and Wei Ying blushed so hard he felt as if his face was burning off.

Wangji of course had seen everything already, because Sizhui was apparently physically incapable of keeping a secret from him and Wei Ying. Their son blabbed if Wangji as much as looked at him. But Wei Ying was in for another surprise because Wangji’s only comment was an appreciative… growl. Yes, a growl, there was no other word for that sound that rumbled from his broad chest. Sizhui’s cheeks flared red, and he didn’t wait until their dinner was finished but dashed off after he’d eaten his spicy-fried noodles and washed his bowl. Games night with Jin Ling, he claimed. “No bar-hopping!” Wei Ying yelled but was drowned out by the front-door of their house slamming shut in a way that made the windowpanes sing. Wangji shot Wei Ying a tiny smirk that made him turn beet-red. There was a tiny, pregnant pause, before Wangji’s amber gaze narrowed. “Wei Ying,” he said, a husky rasp at least an octave below his regular register.

“My love,” Wei Ying stuttered, about to lose his breath.

Wangji pushed his chair back and rose from his seat to loom over Wei Ying. “He’ll sleep over,” he said, and held his hand out, a gesture somewhere between beckoning and command.

“Oh heavens,” gasped Wei Ying, growing oddly weak in the knees even as he struggled to stand.

Wangji tilted his head, and then he just yanked Wei Ying against his chest and swept him into his arms, to carry him to their bedroom as if Wei Ying weighed nothing at all.

oOo

1She would have kept her own surname on marriage; this is just for ease of reference.

Chapter 3: Dizzy Spells

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Wei Ying is a bit sore the next morning, especially his hip-joints, since he spent much of the previous day and night with his legs spread around his love. “Lan Zhan, it isn’t fun to get older,” he complains over breakfast. Wangji’s answer is to carry him back to bed and proceed to provide him with a thorough massage of his aching body, focusing on those points that work without fail – head, neck, shoulders, the inside of Wei Ying’s elbows and knees, hands, feet and legs, his tailbone, between his thighs and through his vale. Wangji’s hands are deft and warm. His thumbs dipping into Wei Ying’s body to maul and stretch, with no other purpose than to relax him, feel both suggestive and not. Where did Wangji learn this stuff? “Wen Qing,” he says, matter-of-factly, and Wei Ying realises a) he’s asked aloud, and b) the horror of Wangji discussing such things with someone who’s Wei Ying’s oldest friend and knows him inside out (Not literally!!! Only figuratively!!! his brain screeches, to mitigate the shock of it).

In any case, Wei Ying can’t do anything because the massage leaves him boneless and puddly, his mind pleasantly fogged… until he remembers he needs to be somewhere, and Wangji can’t interrogate him because at some point, whilst Wei Ying was dozing, Wangji got up and dressed, and is now stuck in a video call with several aunties and the wedding venue to discuss table arrangements, flowers, room decoration, and other vital details.

oOo

“What is this?” Wangji asks when Wei Ying returns that evening. He only lurks in the hallway when he's uneasy or worried, so he manages to startle his love.

Wei Ying jumps and clutches at his chest, causing him to drop the plastic bag he’d been carrying. “Aiyah! Lan Zhan!”

Wangji is lightningfast in picking up the bag and the mass of glossy brochures spilling from it. Wei Ying grabs at him, but Wangji holds on, his fine brows drawn together in that most minuscule of frowns that tells Wei Ying he’s puzzled. Wei Ying tugs again at the sheaf of papers, which smell like fresh prints, but when Wangji’s determined, one might as well try to budge a mountain. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says accusingly, “give them back. It’s forbidden to snoop.”

“Hm.” Wangji flicks a page and keeps reading. “It is forbidden to keep secrets from your spouse.”

“Not true. You made this up. There isn’t a single rule on that stone of yours that says so. Weird but correct. I copied them often enough.”

At last, Wangji relents. He packs the papers back in the plastic bag – pink, with little yellow rubber ducks printed on it – and hands it to Wei Ying. “Dinner is ready. I kept it warm for you.” You’re late, I missed you, I’ve been fretting all evening, he doesn’t need to say.

Wei Ying leans in and hugs him. “Don’t be cross, hm?”

“I’m not. I’m never cross with you,” says Wangji, and his whole self seems to soften as he hugs Wei Ying back. “Only worried. Sometimes.” He peels Wei Ying out of his dark-red puffa jacket and kneels to undo the laces of his black boots, in spite of Wei Ying’s weak protests. Wei Ying smiles down at him, at his bent back, his clever fingers that know how to dress and undress Wei Ying to the last tiny whatever he might be wearing next to his skin.

He loves him so much.

oOo

“I’ve been a bit unwell lately,” Wei Ying feels the need to explain, after they’ve eaten and settled in bed, with Wangji reading one of the colourful leaflets from the bag. This time, Wei Ying doesn’t fight him over it.

Wangji lets the leaflet drop and turns to him, his gaze alarmed as it roves over Wei Ying’s form. “You should speak with Wen Qing.”

“Ah, it’s nothing, it’s nothing,” Wei Ying demurs, shuffling closer. Wangji wraps one arm around him and pulls him so that Wei Ying can rest snugly against Wangji’s long, warm form. It’s comfortable to be like this, to be held and warmed (and protected and spoiled). Wei Ying smiles a bit against Wangji’s chest.

It vibrates a little when Wangji asks, “Do these brochures have anything to do with it?”

“You’re so clever, my love,” says Wei Ying mushily, lips moving against Wangji’s smooth skin. He licks it a bit; it tastes of salt and Wangji’s sandalwood soap. Wei Ying noses against him, rubbing over his bud in the process. Wangji sucks in a breath, then lets it go slowly. A small hill is forming under the comforter, a bit further South. Wei Ying sneaks his hand under the quilt and cups where he wants to cup. Wangji shifts a bit. Wei Ying kneads. Wangji swallows a small grunt.

“Wei Ying,” he manages, still admirably smooth, though with an undercurrent of tension, “what are your symptoms?”

Wei Ying sighs. “Ah, you know, the usual – the odd dizzy spell, a bit queasy in the mornings, no appetite, then I want to eat hot and sour pickles with jiggly cake – your home-baked version of course – and then I’m throwing up in the toilet at random times. My hips ache all the time. My feet feel swollen, so I try to keep them elevated in your lap.”

“Hm. I will massage them more often.” Not 'I could' or even 'I can' but 'I will'. Very Wangji, and who is Wei Ying to argue?

"Yes my love," he says, "that would be nice." He kisses Wangji’s chest, and then he sucks a bit on his bud. The pressure against his palm grows firmer.

Wangji swallows with an audible click. “Wei Ying,” he says, sounding a bit strangled. “You… ought to consult… Wen Qing. Or I’ll call her.”

Wei Ying freezes, grip tightening unconsciously (making Wangji wince a little). “No! Lan Zhan, how could you! She has needles! She’ll use them to treat me! She’ll learn too much about me! She’ll give you a list of things I can’t eat and do, and use you as an enforcer so I get to live a terribly healthy, regulated life!”

Wangji runs his broad, warm hand over Wei Ying’s back. “Wei Ying,” he says, a soft, soft growl barely above his breath, “those things are good for you.”

Wei Ying shivers. “There are better methods,” he gasps when Wangji’s fingers dip into his vale and touch him intimately.

Wangji kisses him. Wei Ying rolls over. Wangji hooks his arm around Wei Ying’s belly and pulls him tight, his back to Wangji’s front. There are indeed other methods to assuage Wei Ying’s symptoms, at least for a while.

oOo

Chapter 4: Ginger Tea

Chapter Text

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Wen Qing is a consultant surgeon specialising in bones. She works at Gusu City’s public hospital. She also has her private TCM and holistic counselling practice, which she runs from her home in Caiyi Town. There, she and her aged auntie have a house similar to the one Wangji and Wei Ying live in, and only a couple of street corners away. Wen Qing is neither a General Practitioner, nor an emergency doctor. Wangji only consults her if unavoidable (and because Wei Ying resolutely refuses to see any other doctor, for anything at all). She listens to Wangji describing Wei Ying’s symptoms and his own observations. She huffs when he finishes. “Did you also notice increased drive to copulate?” she asks bluntly.

Wangji blushes even though she can’t see it over the phone. “I am not certain,” he says, though he resolves to check his tally book.

“Well, it might yet develop,” she reckons. “Ginger tea. Fortifying soups. Satisfaction. Brace yourself for a wild ride. I’ll write a prescription. No need to worry, unless it gets worse. In that case, bring him over, and I’ll hit him on the head; that should sort him.”

Wangji struggles with her sense of humour, but he respects her expertise even if it’s not her specialism. Perhaps doctors, and surgeons in particular, are like that – a bit crude, and terribly blunt because they’ve seen it all. He thanks her and the call clicks off. The prescription lands in the letterbox the same afternoon, along with several sachets of TCM herbal preparations and a hefty bill, probably dropped off on her way to work a late shift. Wangji appreciates it. He pays via his mobile, then reads the instructions and gets things ready to make herbal broth and ginger tea for Wei Ying.

There’s also a letter from the hospital, on pale blue paper, addressed to Wangji. With everything ready for Wei Ying, Wangji sits down to read it. He stays like that for a while, in their kitchen with its frilly curtains printed all over with plum blossoms (his choice, because it reminds him of Wei Ying). He closes his eyes and breathes to centre himself. He checks the date and time on the blue letter, then books a taxi for the next morning and gets ready.

oOo

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying exclaims, surprise writ large on his pretty face.

Wangji stares. Wei Ying’s in the middle of a corridor labelled ‘Ante-Natal Appointments’. He’s standing with his hands pushed into his waist, his belly stretched forward and… round. His entire front looks lumpy beneath the loose red t-shirt he’s wearing, over black leggings, and soft red slippers on his feet. He looks fat, no, he looks… Wangji does a double-take; his gaze sweeps over Wei Ying head to toe and again gets stuck on those bulging lumps. Two sizeable ones on his chest, and the very large one sticking out from his stomach. Wangji swallows. For just a heartbeat, reality tilts. “Wei Ying? What is this?”

Wei Ying blushes beet-red and cringes. His hands go to his belly and link under the swell, to cup and cradle it. “Aiyah, Lan Zhan, it’s rude to stare!”

Wangji steps closer as he tucks the blue envelope into his inner jacket pocket. “You’re… pregnant?”

Wei Ying turns even redder. He’s starting to sweat. Wangji reaches out and before Wei Ying can sidestep he puts his large hands on that full dome, then glances up. Wei Ying bites his lip, his gaze flits about a bit, until he sighs and meets Wangji’s questioning gaze. “Well…”

“Well?” Wangji rumbles, and his tone is… odd. Somewhere between knowing, soft, hot, and tender.

“I…”

Wangji waits. He’s always been able to wait Wei Ying out, and that’s not going to change.

“Oh well then, since you insist! Sizhui has work. Our daughter-in-law has appointments. Someone has to be there for her when she’s making a little grandson for us, right? It’s only fair. People shouldn’t be by themselves when they go through this. It’s hard work!” He falls silent, his hands beginning to rub his round stomach.

Wangji catches them and rubs his thumbs over Wei Ying’s knuckles. “Go on.”

Wei Ying gives an embarrassed little chuckle. “So…”

“Hm?”

“I asked, and she said it was okay, she was glad, bonding and all that, and her mother and I we got talking about baby stuff, and so…” Another pause, before Wei Ying swallows and says, “I wanted to know how it might feel. So they gave me a fake bump to wear, complete with, you know-” He waves vaguely at the fake breasts hanging from his skinny chest. They’re big enough to rest on the dome. “It’s… weird. Heavy. There’ll be birth simulation classes, later in the antenatal prep.” He shudders. “There’s a whole course; they let me sign up; imagine that Lan Zhan! They even gave me a machine that fakes contractions! I only asked as a joke! But they said it’s great to see more dads doing this, so men don’t just get the easy ride, but learn to empathise more and all that. I said I’m not the dad, I’m the granny, and they were laughing at me! Sizhui’s going too, when he has time. He’s going to be there when the baby’s born. It’s scary stuff. And a bit gross. But only fair, don’t you think?”

Ah. Wei Ying’s always had this thing about carrying his and Wangji’s offspring, and to birth Wangji’s babies from his own body. And here’s an opportunity to perhaps catch a glimpse of the experience, of getting involved in the whole thing (like any grandmother would, thinks Wangji with a soft, sweet melancholy). To help and at the same time get something out of his system.

And Wei Ying, for all his brashness, has a thin skin. He’s not only compassionate but an empath, he can feel other people’s minds with uncanny accuracy. He’ll be the best, thinks Wangji, a surge of tenderness washing through him. Wen Qing’s remarks make much more sense now, as does the prescription. “You’ve felt pregnancy symptoms,” he says.

Wei Ying blinks at him, somehow startled and relieved all the same. “Right? It’s strange. I didn’t expect it. I even get cravings! I can’t drink alcohol until it’s all over, and I need to stick to a food plan; our son tricked me into that. A bet. I can’t lose it or I won’t get to babysit for three whole months. We’re going baby shopping later, nursery things and clothes and stuff – do you know how many types of nappies there are?! – and then to see the nutritionist, and then we’ll meet with her mum and Sizhui to have lunch-”

Wangji pulls him close and kisses him on the nose, then the brow. “Don’t do too much. Does your back still hurt? I’ll rub your feet when you get home. Let me know if you need anything.” He spies their daughter-in-law emerging from a consultation room. She waves, looking happy and aglow in a soft blue dress, her hair in a loose bun and her feet in soft loafers.

Wei Ying quickly kisses Wangji back. “Will you join us?”

Wangji shakes his head. “I have a business meeting with a gallery later; I only came because I sprained my wrist this morning,” he lies, smooth and easy, and because Wei Ying’s caught up in fluffy baby dreams, he buys it. Wangji kisses him goodbye for the day, and Wei Ying happily goes to return the fake belly and breasts to the antenatal staff, and then shopping with their daughter-in-law and their grandbaby-in-the-making. A little later, Wangji gets a text, with an ultrasound image of a small, beanshaped blotch, white on grainy black. “Say hello to your grandson,” Wei Ying texts, and Wangji can all but hear his jubilant tone. It makes him happy.

oOo

The wedding is grand. Everything looks splendid, everything runs without a hitch, and even Uncle Qiren has nothing to criticise (he isn’t ill – Wei Ying confirms this, discreetly, with Sizhui). This, if nothing else, makes it a roaring success. But most importantly, Sizhui and his wife are aglow with bliss. There isn’t a single squabble, not even the hint of discord, anywhere among the gathered families. Nobody gives Wei Ying weird looks. He and Wangji are dressed expensively but simply in sleekly tailored black tie. Wangji wears his glossy mane in a tight bun low at the nape; Wei Ying has his soft tresses in a low ponytail. But when he tried to swap his red for a black ribbon (“I’ts more discreet, Lan Zhan!”), Wangji tied the red ribbon in Wei Ying’s hair himself. He’s all for compromise, but he’s not for denial.

Nobody gossips about them (at least not where they can hear it). They’re discreet but don’t hide, just follow good manners, like everyone else. They brush hands occasionally, but save the rest for more private occasions, and so even the sterner aunties, uncles and cousins can choose not to see, or read whatever they want into their interactions – ‘friends’ being one version; ‘platonic couple’ a more daring one, since it’s undeniable that Wei Ying’s been written into the clan registry as Wangji’s spouse, and he is wearing Wangji’s wristband. In any case, it doesn’t matter because neither of them feels the need to prove anything to anyone (including themselves). And with Lans needing only thimbles of alcohol to get a bit jolly (or outrageously drunk, the silent way), the novelty soon wears off, attention returning to the happy couple, charming and splendid in red among the Lans’ sober rain-blues and cloud-greys.

Wangji seems afloat. Wei Ying feels like bursting with happiness. The world gains colours it hasn’t had before, a whole sparkling rainbow of them.

But Wei Ying still has projects to juggle, and between that and being there for Sizhui and his wife and their baby, schedules are a bit hectic. There’s one site visit he cannot put off without upsetting a whole village. It’s one of his pro-bono works, and Sizhui tells him to just go; there’s a few more months before anything significant will happen, baby-wise. So Wei Ying packs and goes, and though he’s enjoying the project – a new medical centre for a remote village that’s never had one – it’s the first time he really, really would prefer to stay home.

oOo

Chapter 5: Breathe, Wei Ying!

Chapter Text

oOo

It’s an accident that Wei Ying finds out. He’s home early from his latest project because he was desperate to get back, and got things done in record time. The village people were up for it – there was a baby on the way, of course he needed to be back home as soon as possible! He’s got a standing invitation to come back for a party when the baby’s born, so he can be initiated in old-peoplehood, being a granddad and all that. Oh well. He chuckles to himself, pulse quickening in anticipation – he’s gross from the journey, but he’ll speed-shower and then he can throw himself into Wangji’s arms.

The house is empty. This happens, albeit so rarely he can’t recall the last time. Usually either Wangji or Sizhui are there; Wangji often works from home – between preparing lessons for his Associate Teacher job at Caiyi Community College, the evening zither club which he delivers as his contribution to the college outreach programme, and his art, he has a routine, plus some flexibility allowing him to gauge when Wei Ying’s likely to arrive and schedule his work accordingly.

Still, there’s no fixed agreement or anything that means he must hang around for Wei Ying to knock on their door. But there’s something that gives Wei Ying pause: When he unlocks and steps in, he nearly slips on the small stack of promotional mail scattered behind the door. There’s a polite notice outside – , ‘Please do not deliver leaflets to this address. Thank you.’ – which goes largely ignored. Wei Ying’s been planning to put a mailcatcher-basket behind the letterbox opening in the front door, but hasn’t gotten round to it yet. He’ll do it this time when he’ll be home for a few months in a row.

He sets his holdall at the bottom of the stairs. Usually he takes the back door, but he couldn’t find the key – probably buried somewhere in his numerous pockets. He sits down on the lowest step. He’s tired, and he’d been excited about coming home and hugging his love. Dusk is thickening, most of the modest family saloons parking in single file on each side of their street are back from their day’s commute. It smells vaguely of cooked dinners. It’s getting cool, and before long the sodium lamp before their house will flicker on. There’s perhaps two or three days’ worth of cheap glossy leaflets advertising for shops, a couple of local supermarkets, the opening of a new play at the amateur theatre Gusu City Public Library and Museum runs. Wei Ying’s already tossed the flyer with the other junk mail, when something catches his eye, and he fishes it from the pile again. He scans it, turns it back and forth, and then pauses: ‘We regret to announce that the planned charity fundraiser performance, featuring the Light-keeping Lord, aka Lan Wangji, on the ancient zither, has to be postponed. Tickets will be refunded on request. Please call…’

Wei Ying stares. Now and then, Wangji will let himself be engaged in such things. Never commercial, never for profit. Wen Qing’s auntie is involved with the library; they host most of Wangji’s charity recitals, and she even manages Wangji’s public presence for such events. Wangji’ll pass all his proceeds mostly to Wen Ning’s farm and school for rootless youngsters. Or to the couple of children’s homes and homeless shelters he (and, more covertly, Wei Ying) patronises. It’s Wangji’s way of atoning for what he considers his undeserved good fate, and for what he firmly (erroneously, in Wei Ying’s view) believes his failing in preventing the misery Wei Ying had to suffer through. Therefore Wei Ying knows with absolute certainty that Wangji would never cancel, postpone or otherwise mess with a promised performance.

He takes his work-boots off and goes into the kitchen, where he puts the leaflet on the counter. He washes his hands with dishsoap, then boils the kettle and makes himself an instant-hotpot (top shelf, like something disgusting, which it is) and strong black coffee which he enriches with brown sugar to a syrupy goo. Then he sits down at the table to eat and sip the black brew whilst studying the flyer again. There’s nothing else to go by, no clue regarding the reason. He takes his mobile, plugs it in on speed-charge because it’s on its last little battery-legs, and dials Wangji’s number. ‘This is mobile number xxx-xxxx-xxxx. If you wish to be called back, please leave a message stating your name, number, and request.’ Very Wangji. Wei Ying would find it amusing, as always, if he weren’t preoccupied. He tries two more times: nada. He scrolls through to Sizhui’s details and lets his finger hover for a moment, before deciding against calling him. Wei Ying’s probably just being paranoid, and the kid would either laugh at him, or get super-worried. No need for either. Wen Qing perhaps? He bites his lip. What exactly was he going to tell her? Was it a medical emergency? Or a downslide so black, he didn’t want to burden Wangji with it, but needed something to help, or someone to talk to who knew enough of the past? Wen Qing is a busy woman. She’s already doing him a huge favour playing private medical consultant to him and Wangji. She has no time to waste on nonsense.

Wei Ying puts the phone down. He washes the used dishes, dries and stacks them in the cupboard. He unpacks, sorts through his clothes, and sets the washing machine going. He’s feeling out of sorts. Normally, he’d have dropped everything in a messy trail reaching from the door to wherever he’d find Wangji, then ravish and get ravished until they were both unable to lift a finger; the rest could wait until the next morning. Now he’s taking a shower he drags out until he can’t anymore because he’s too antsy and the bathroom is completeley steamed-up. He follows the shower with a soak in the tub until he’s so pruny he can’t feel anything on the soles of his feet, then a shave, a blow-dry, until he’s spotless and runs out of any reasonable excuse to continue primping. He gets a beer from the fridge (alcohol-free so Wangji can drink a bottle now and then without keeling over after a couple of sips), plus dry chilli snack-peas from the cupboard; he eats them straight from the packet and sweeps the crumbs into his palm and eats those too. His mouth’s on fire. He fetches an old-fashioned porcelain flagon with Emperor’s Smile, Gusu City’s trademark wine, and begins to glug. Wangji stocks it for him, partly for nostalgic, partly for practical reasons. It’s the stuff they fought over, when young Wei Ying smuggled it onto the campus of the venerable Lan Private University and Conservatoire and Wangji tried to enforce student discipline. These days, Wei Ying has enough money but would never buy it for himself since it’s become eyewateringly expensive, and he bristles at the idea of paying a premium when cheap booze also gets him drunk. But Wangji’s loaded and thinks nothing of getting him an entire box of twelve (the cloud-patterned white-glazed originals, not the refills in boring brown glass bottles).

He can’t sleep but doesn’t want to hit the pills yet. They’re for when he’s getting splitting migraines and intractable nightmares so bad he’s howling and sleepwalking. He’s too jittery to concentrate on anything useful, not even bringing himself off to fantasies of Wangji in his arms. So he spends a sleepless night lounging on the couch watching stupid television, sound too low to get annoyed by the brainless blather of infomercials, thinly-veiled sales-competitions (‘Guess the price’), and half-naked pop-stars strutting their stuff based on looks and superior audio tech.

oOo

Chapter 6: The letter nobody wants

Chapter Text

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He rouses from the jingle-clack of the key in the old-fashioned backdoor lock, followed by two sets of steps, quiet talk – he recognises his son’s and Wangji’s voices, though he can’t understand the words. Then the door claps again, and he hears steps fade on the paved footpath leading from the house to the street. A moment later, Sizhui’s small electric family saloon buzzes (or rather whispers) off. Wei Ying feels groggy from dozing on and off, from the long and rushed journey home, from a sense of dread that sinks into his guts as he listens to Wangji slowly and methodically making his way in. He’ll take off his shoes, his coat, hang the coat up on the rail near the washing machine, change into his soft house suit and put on his bunny slippers, a gift from Wei Ying – more a gag, but Wangji being himself wears them without compunction, in all seriousness. Wei Ying hears him pause and knows Wangji’s seen his shoes and holdall, neatly stacked in the garage now, where they live when Wei Ying’s not away.

A moment later, Wangji’s quiet, even steps enter the kitchen, the kettle switch clicks. He rummages a bit, then he climbs the stairs, bearing a tray with fragrant magnolia tea (a bag in a mug) for himself, and a freshly made coffee for Wei Ying. He sets them down on the coffee table and leans in to kiss Wei Ying’s tousled head. “You’re home,” he says, and his cool, deep voice flows into Wei Ying’s overheated brain like balm.

Wei Ying finds his smile as he reaches up and hugs Wangji around the waist, tilting back his head to look at him. Wangji’s so beautiful, he thinks on a surge of affection so powerful it drives dampness into his eyes. He’ll always be a crybaby for his love. Nobody else gets to see Wei Ying like that, with red rims and under-eye bags, wet streaks down his cheeks complete with razor burn and morning stubble in spite of the late shave. “I’m home,” he says, on a relieved hiccup, “I’m so glad to be home with you, I missed you terribly, I always miss you, I might just chuck the whole thing in and stay home for good, on your you-know-what, I can use my laptop whilst sitting on you, and you can do whatever creative stuff you need to do; how does that sound, hm?”

A small, soft smile answers him. They both know it’s patent nonsense, Wei Ying won’t chuck his work because it’s important to him and the people whom he helps with his pro-bono projects, who get a new village school or medical centre or community hall, who get irrigation works fixed and a paved road instead of a dirt track that gets washed away by summer monsoons.

Wei Ying gawks and all but melts; he nearly forgets – but not quite. His brain has the silly habit to harbour niggles instead of useful things like valid memories. Niggles that prompt him to dig around, little flags like markers on a computer registry that tell him where to look. It rarely fails him, and not now where Wangji’s concerned. He pulls Wangji into his lap so that Wangji’s knees bracket Wei Ying’s hips, and hugs him more firmly, nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder. Wangji’s wearing his hair in a tight, discreet bun at the nape of his neck. Wei Ying wants to mess it up, but first things first. “My love,” he says against Wangji’s pulsebeat, “where have you been? You always tell me if you’re going somewhere overnight.” And then he realises the odd smell clinging to Wangji’s skin and hair; he sniffs and yes he recognises it, unmistakeable; he spent too much time soaked in the same. “Did you visit someone? In hospital? Someone I know?”

Wangji runs one large, warm hand over Wei Ying’s hair. “You must be tired,” he deflects. “You shouldn’t sleep on the couch.”

Trust Wangji to a) know Wei Ying didn’t go to bed, and b) not answer something he doesn’t want to talk about. But trust Wei Ying to be both bullish and persistent where it matters to him. So, he clamps down as Wangji makes to get up, and holds him fast. Wei Ying, thin and lanky as he is, can be surprisingly strong. “Lan Zhan?” he queries, suspicion thickening. There’s an unease in the pit of his stomach; he doesn’t believe in stuff like premonitions and fate but one never knew. “What’s wrong?”

Wangji doesn’t meet his searching gaze. Instead, he turns his hands in Wei Ying’s clutching grip and gently but with a strength Wei Ying can’t match pries him off. “Let me cook you breakfast,” he says, with a glance at the instant food container and sticky coffee mug from the night before. “Go lie down for a while. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”

Wei Ying knows from experience that it’s no good pushing when he’s like this. So he lets him go and with a heavy heart obeys – goes into their bedroom, undresses bar his briefs, and crawls in. He’s not in the mood for naked talk, and keeps twitching and turning in the bedding until, blessedly, Wangji enters with a bed-tray set with two portions of rice porridge, one with savoury and the other with sweet toppings. He helps Wei Ying sit up – habit and all that – and joins him, leaning against the headboard. “No talking over food,” he reminds as Wei Ying opens his mouth, and they eat in silence. Outside, the day begins to get busy; cars start up and people leave for work, a bus puffs to a halt at the bus stop a few hundred steps down the street, birds begin to chirp in the old trees that grow in single file on the edge of both pavements.

Wangji always eats as he does everything – neither too slow nor too fast, methodically, carefully. Wei Ying wolfs his food down without even tasting it; he’s not in the mood for patience, but he chews the inside of his cheek as he watches Wangji finish his portion, then his tea, though the sips seem to get smaller and the pauses longer. Finally not even Wangji can pretend anymore. “So?” Wei Ying bursts out the moment the mug is empty and back on the tray.

Wangji tries to rise to remove the tray, but Wei Ying is quicker; he snatches it off him and sets it on the floor. He wraps his long, hard fingers around Wangji’s hands. “Lan Zhan, you’re killing me here. What’s wrong? Something’s wrong, you’re never like this.”

Wangji briefly bites his lip, then he reaches into the pocket of his house suit to pull out an oblong, pale-blue envelope. He glances at Wei Ying, but doesn’t give him the paper. “It is too early,” he says quietly. “I did not wish to worry you unnecessarily.”

Something both hot and icy swells in Wei Ying’s chest. His throat tightens suddenly and violently. His skin tingles and cold sweat breaks from his palms. “Lan Zhan,” he rasps, “Lan Zhan, what is it?”

Wangji reluctantly hands him the envelope. “I have received the results of some recent health tests.”

Wei Ying turns the letter to check the address, then pulls the paper out and unfolds it. A single sheet, printed on both sides. His quick gaze flies across the lines. There’s a small table with numbers in neat columns. “Ah,” he whispers, hoarse and shaky. The paper glares at him, a dry, official report from a laboratory addressed to a medical professional whose name Wei Ying doesn’t recognise. He blinks, looks up to meet Wangji’s steady gaze. Only because he knows him so well does he see behind the blankness: A shimmer of fear, quickly banked.

The date of the tests tells Wei Ying that Wangji’d have been in the throes of organising Sizhui’s wedding1. The diagnosis is conveyed in a mix of medical jargon and attempts at making it understandable for laypersons. It’s clear enough – a recurrence of testicular cancer2, thought to have been in complete remission after a treatment that Wangji underwent in his early twenties (when Wei Ying wasn’t there, when he’d gone and gotten himself knocked on the head and imprisoned, and Wangji was alone with a child dumped on him and which he took for his son no questions asked because Wei Ying had written a desperate begging letter before… yes, messing around in other people’s business who didn’t like him much for it and made him pay, which in turn made Wangji suffer… yes, all that. There’s nothing in the world Wei Ying can do to ever make up for it.).

It hits him like a train.

oOo

1My story ‘Camping’ :-)

Chapter 7: Coping, how?

Chapter Text

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Wei Ying doesn’t ask why Wangji never told him. It’s a moot point. But now the fine silvery line down the left crease between Wangji’s belly and thigh has a reason to be there. Wei Ying never paid much attention to it – a birthmark, maybe, or just a bit of a change in skin structure, a blip on the radar in the heat of desire. A surgery scar then. Shape restored with a prosthetic filling, to maintain appearance. Not detectable unless one went looking for it, and why would Wei Ying even think of that? Of course Wangji would never talk about this kind of thing unless he deemed it necessary. But it had been dealt with, no need to burden Wei Ying, right? Right. Some of your own medicine, Wei Ying, swallow and shut up.

“When you saw me in Antenatal…” Wei Ying fizzles out.

“An appointment, to exclude any mistakes,” Wangji confirms. Before Wei Ying can muster the words, the composure, to ask, he continues, “I will attend a consultation discussing the options. I will also invite a second opinion. I do not wish to talk about this until I can be certain what it means.”

Wei Ying does swallow. The silence between them is sudden. It’s clanging in his brain. It hurts his ears. And then he can’t, he can’t, he just cannot shut up. “Lan Zhan, you need to tell me.”

He’s always been sure that Wangji’s an immortal come to earth to save Wei Ying from himself. Because of Wei Ying being Wei Ying, the job’s been exceedingly difficult. He’s made him work overtime, he’s made him suffer and put him through unspeakable things. But now, now, his immortal looks terribly pale, he looks fragile like the thinnest eggshell porcelain, and deep behind the calm of his gaze – like the still pond in their garden he loves so much – Wei Ying sees a shimmer of fear again. It comes and fades because it’s Wangji, and Wangji’s always composed even at… no, not that, not at that door, he can’t be, he cannot, but even in such a situation: Dire, awful, horrendous-

Wei Ying tries to swipe those words from his brain but they keep bobbing, nasty and persistent. He feels the irrational urge to rage. To shout and break stuff. Instead he sits frozen, and his veins feel like ice, his skin as if on fire.

Wangji gifts him a smile. Small, soft, somehow indulgent. “I will. I will tell you.”

oOo

Wei Ying’s been crying. It’s a mild day. Wangji’s gone to weed their garden. Wei Ying’s gone, alone and on foot, to Caiyi Community Green, to that spot where Wangji slept with him the first time after they got together1. Wei Ying goes here sometimes, for sentimental reasons and because nobody else ever goes to that rotten little angling pier jutting into the reed-choked current, where Lotus River curves around the far end of the park. It’s unkempt and a bit wild, with lots of city small-life and flowering weeds. He’s even seen a water vole once, lurking under the planks. Now, he’s curled up on the wet, clumpy grass next to the pier, where the tall reeds are guaranteed to hide him from sight; he’s buried his head in his arms and cried long and hard. Heaven forbid Wangji or Sizhui should see him like this, now, when he somehow needs to be stronger than he can possibly be.

He’s read up on things, with his mobile on the internet, because Wangji sometimes snoops on Wei Ying’s laptop. Wei Ying’s not ready to talk with anyone, though he will, he will call Wen Qing and ask her lots of questions, he’s hoping she might spare him her usual ribbing because he doesn’t feel up for it. He feels weak. He’s scraped raw, just like that, by a sh*tty letter with dry medical bullcrap in black print on pale blue printer paper; what were they trying to do, soften the message via pastel colours? He feels stupidly affronted by that, even though the letter wasn’t for him, and perhaps that was all the office paper they had, or it’s the cancer department’s corporate identity, whatever – he can’t believe his own silly thoughts.

It’s surreal.

Wangji, his handsome, immaculate, perfectly lovely love, his jade prince, his infallible immortal. His unshakeable, strong, wonderful dragon; his beautiful bull… Maybe there’s a mistake anyway; maybe someone messed up lab results and records, or misprinted a name. It’s entirely possible, even twice, right? It’s not a rare condition. It doesn’t affect someone as fit and healthy as Wangji…

Wei Ying starts sobbing again. It’s ridiculous. He’s a grown man. He’s dealt with awful horrors in his life and overcome them all (mostly, at a cost). But… it’s not himself. This time, it’s not him but Wangji, and Wei Ying feels like someone’s rammed a spear into his flank and is watching him die a slow, painful death, like a bug on a needle.

He’s always had Wangji to catch him. Wangji who always caught him, and held him, and comforted and consoled; Wangji who cares for him as if Wei Ying was still a child, who gives him back something Wei Ying’s never had, and loves him like a man loves another man. Wei Ying hates himself for feeling so utterly weak just then, for running away from home to cry on a stinking riverbank whilst Wangji’s home, cooking their dinner, washing the dishes, perhaps doing a spot of cleaning. He tends to clean the house, top to bottom. when he’s upset, even if between the three of them – Wangji, Wei Ying, Sizhui – there’s never any dirt, just a bit of mess in Wei Ying’s spaces.

oOo

He doesn’t buy flowers or anything on the way home, late afternoon, because he thinks that would be macabre.

Sizhui shows up for dinner, smiling as always. He and his new wife – round like the moon since their baby is due in a couple of months – are preparing to move in together. He’s showing photos of their apartment he’s taken with the phone. Wei Ying knows it though his memory is bad. It’s Wangji’s old place, the top floor of the converted villa he bought as his first investment from the trust fund set up for him, when he got access to it on reaching majority2. Wei Ying smiles, tries for charming, misses ever so slightly, but the shadow of concern in Sizhui’s expression comes and goes quickly, assuaged by a small nod from Wangji and the excitement of starting a new life, a family of his own. Wei Ying excuses himself briefly to go to the bathroom so he can cry some more and cool his eyes so they don’t look like painted with red liner. He practices smiling until it looks better than a toothy grin, and goes back to make tea before Wangji rises from the dinner table. So Wangji has time to look at the images properly, though Sizhui’s patently taken them to jog Wei Ying’s patchy recollection.

oOo

He realises he’s touching Wangji like gossamer only when Wangji yanks him close and demands a thorough railing. “I’m not made of spun sugar,” he growls and bites Wei Ying’s lower lip. Wei Ying is too shaky, so Wangji simply rolls them over in bed and gives it to Wei Ying instead until Wei Ying is wailing and crying under him. Wangji holds him afterwards, firm and gentle, pressed against his broad chest where Wei Ying can hear his heart beat, steady as always. Wei Ying’s feeling ashamed. He’s feeling guilty and helpless. Wangji kisses his ear. “Sleep,” he rumbles.

Wei Ying almost thinks he’s dreamed that stupid letter.

oOo

2This happens in my story ‘Are you crazy?’ where the apartment is also described in more detail.

Chapter 8: Preparing

Chapter Text

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It’s not good news when they come eventually (quickly, much too quickly, and not quickly enough). There’s no point dwelling on ‘why’. Sometimes it’s just bad luck. Or something in the genes, or something modern science for all its power has no clue about. It could be simple human error – an oversight, in the rush of everything, when stress can override diligence, and things drop off the table. An accident. Whatever. The cancer has come back, more aggressively than it had been the first time, and it has spread. Perhaps Wangji’s long family line makes him prone to it. Faulty genetics have a habit of either killing their owners off quickly, or accumulating over time, a growing burden on their descendants. The Lans trace their main line back for over a hundred generations1; even if a little exaggerated, it’s a long record Wangji can lay claim to. Maybe his body never quite rebuilt itself from the previous attack and treatment. Or a handful of cells hadn’t been caught – there’s a difficult balance to strike because the cure is almost as bad as the illness: Both can kill. Chemo is judicious poisoning, a bit of science, and a good deal of hope.

Wangji needs to have surgery. He’s going to lose his remaining jewel to the surgeon’s knife; his belly is going to be opened so they can excise the lymphnodes from the back of his abdomen. Resection, the consultant explains. Recarving, thinks Wei Ying, feeling ice-cold as he holds Wangji’s hand whilst they listen to the consultant explaining the treatment plan. It’s the second such appointment, the one where Wei Ying’s allowed to sit in. He suspects Wangji has coached the consultant and they’ve worked out the kindest way of saying what needs to be said, only that there isn’t a kind way because it isn’t a kind plan. It’s aggressive and damaging, fighting fire with fire, so to speak. Side-effects aren’t just likely but certain. Wangji’ll trade off much of his remaining health in favour of a chance that the treatment might kill off the thing that will kill him if unchecked.At this point, some people decline attempts at curative treatment, wanting to live their remaining time as well as possible with good pain management and palliative care.

Wangji wants to live.

He’ll need a prolonged course of high-intensity chemotherapy. They reckon he’s got a sixty percent chance to make it (‘because he’s still young, he’s fit and healthy’ – the doctor’s words ring like sarcasm in Wei Ying’s mind). He’s going to become terribly sick and weak. His hair will go; the lining of his digestive tract including his mouth will go. He’ll be prone to infections. When it’s all over, he’ll have to stay in hospital for a while, in isolation, until he receives a marrow transplant to help rebuild his immune system. He’ll be like a living corpse. ‘But there’s hope,’ the doctor says as if this was a consolation. Wei Ying hates hope with a vengeance. Once Wangji’s through with all that, he’ll need lifelong hormone replacement, and long-term, detailed observation to catch any potential new cancers or heart problems. He might go deaf, or sustain lung damage, or the chemo could wreck his kidneys or his liver. Given the alternative, some of it seems paltry. Much of it feels daunting. All of it can be managed. Something worth swapping for now if one could skip all the in-between. But there’s no such trade, for there’s no devil and no power on earth that can do it, even if Wei Ying would sign away his soul and self without hesitation if it would make any difference at all.

Wangji sits still, poised as always, his expression calm, eyes downcast. Only his fingers, linked with Wei Ying’s, tighten a couple of times. Wei Ying squeezes back, then holds. He’s cold, so cold inside. He wants to smash things. He wants to rage. He feels terribly helpless. The consultant is clinical in his manner and tone. Wei Ying is weirdly grateful for this. He couldn’t cope with overt sympathy right now. It’s easier to just look at facts because it means detachment, and detachment is good for a clear head. They need a clear head for this.

“We offer ancillary services,” the consultant says, when he’s finished outlining the treatment plan, “which your insurance covers. If you want to discuss legal matters, like a living will and power of attorney should you become incapacitated.” Or worse, he doesn’t say. Some of the side-effects could land the patient in a coma, temporarily or permanently. Some could cause brain damage. “Some patients choose to discuss palliative care and end-of-life arrangements whilst they still can. It’s the worst-case scenario of course, and you have a good chance it won’t come to this. It’s important to keep your spirits up.”

They need Wangji to agree to the treatment plan, and to provide blanket permission to medical professionals to take emergency measures should unforeseen circ*mstances arise. He can change this later, once he’s spoken to a solicitor specialising in such things. Right then, he signs what needs signing so they can kick the treatment off. He also agrees to blood transfusions should they become necessary whilst he's unconscious. He names Wei Ying as his next-of-kin.

oOo

Wen Qing doesn’t rib Wei Ying. They sit in the hospital cafeteria whilst Wangji is having a pre-surgery conversation with the anaesthetist and the lead surgeon. He’s sent Wei Ying for a coffee – ‘it’s fine’, he told him, ‘you should go for a break.’ It had sounded more like an order than anything. Wangji prefers to have this kind of talk alone first. Wei Ying struggles with this, too. He feels he's failing Wangji if he isn't sitting in, but he knows Wangji wants to spare him, and perhaps needs time to process whatever he hears, without even Wei Ying seeing him in such moments.

He's been nursing a tepid black coffee with about ten spoonfuls of sugar in it; he lost count; it’s too sweet even for him.

Wen Qing doesn’t drone on about prognosis and risks and whatnot. Instead of a lot of talking, she just puts her small, firm hand over his long, bony one. “Stop crying,” she says, kindly. “You’re stronger than you think. There’s counselling for people who care for cancer patients. You could try it.”

oOo

Wangji’s staying in with immediate effect, the surgery scheduled two days from admission.

It isn’t true that money can’t buy happiness, or love, or health, thinks Wei Ying as he passes through the public wards to the private wing of Gusu City Memorial Hospital. Clean but bare, noisy white hallways with hospital curtains separating the spaces where the patient beds are – eight or twelve to a ward, most without dividers, some with simple fabric screens where someone is suffering too much for others having to see, with plastic chairs for visitors to spend a couple of hours if they have time. Through a few glassdoors they enter the hushed quiet of pastel-peach and yellow corridors, lined with doors leading to single or double rooms, with flower-printed bedding, and television screens mounted on the walls so that patients can watch what they like, whenever they want. The public wards are brightly lit with neon strips but don’t have windows. The private wing does; they lead onto a park and can be opened a little to let in air and birdsong. Wangji’s insured; he doesn't have to borrow or mortgage their home because he also has enough money to ensure treatment doesn’t run out when the insurance does, and that he can access additional care. Things that increase his chances of a good outcome, like nutrition planning, fresh food and supplements, private consultations not only with medical specialists but also with dieticians, physios, even beauticians, all specialising in cancer support. He has an appointment with a Lan solicitor and makes a living will which makes Wei Ying his designated representative should things go really badly.

oOo

1A generation is around 30 years; this might take it back to the mythical ancient fantasy past of the Lans' monkish yet romantic founder, Lan An (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Generation_time).

Chapter 9: Balance

Chapter Text

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Wangji undergoes surgery prep. He refuses the help of a nurse and does the shaving himself. He spends a night drinking the prescribed laxative solution and emptying himself. It's unpleasant but he just gets on with it. Wei Ying plays him music or reads because there isn't much he can do. Wangji tells him it's enough that he's with him. In the morning, he takes a shower and ties his hair in a bun, before a nurse brings him a sedative tablet and a fresh hospital gown to cover his bareness, then people arrive with a gurney.

Wei Ying goes with them, fingers linked with Wangji's. He smiles brightly at Wangji and squeezes his hand before the medical staff nudge him out of the way so that they can push the gurney into the ante-room. Wei Ying catches Wangji’s tiny, drowsy smile before the doors close.

He sits outside the theatre unable to concentrate on anything. He feels weak. He marvels at Wangji’s serenity, projected or real, and tries very hard to hold himself together because he wants to be strong for his love. It’s just… hard. He feels like a bystander, on the sidelines and helpless to do anything but watch.

The surgery takes ten hours. It goes without a hitch.

oOo

Most people can go home after a while, and just check in to ensure the chemo works as intended, or for additional medication that can't be given at home. Once out of recovery and back in his room, Wangji has a long conversation with the consultant who lays out the risk given Wangji’s specific situation. Wei Ying isn’t invited; he doesn't press for it. He reminds himself that he must trust his love to do what feels right for him, and that's the only thing that counts. Wangji chooses to stay in – his treatment will take hours each day, he’ll deteriorate quickly, and he’ll become exceptionally prone to infection. He reckons it wouldn’t be fair to burden Wei Ying with caring for him at home. When Wei Ying wants to protest, Wangji just says, “Humour me. Please.” Wei Ying is disarmed, just like that. When he calls Wen Qing, later, she says, “You should be grateful. It ain’t going to be pretty. It’s lucky he’s able to afford this.”

oOo

Wangji’s bruised and needs to wear firm undies and ice-packs for a while to reduce the swelling. The stitches in his groin and belly heal well. Since he’s a private patient, they’re not stingy with pain management, and he’s comfortable. They don’t wait until the surgery wounds are fully healed, but start Wangji’s chemo in week two post-op, once they’ve reassessed the tissue they’ve removed and reviewed the treatment plan. Wangji gets a drip in each arm, and things get underway.

Boredom is tough on Wangji. He’s often tired and groggy, which means he can’t concentrate much on reading, or even listening to audio-books or watching movies. He finds nothing that holds his attention on the television. Wei Ying brings Wangji’s zither into the hospital, his paintbrushes and easel. He even gets him airdrying clay. These things, familiar and homely, remind Wangji of himself, of who he is beyond being a patient, and he’s happier. He teaches Wei Ying how to shape the clay into toy bunnies, cats, and tiny Guanyins1that fit into an anxiously clenched palm.

Wei Ying’s not fussing because it would upset Wangji to see him upset. He’s stopped bawling because his tearducts have dried up. He’s functioning because he wants to. In spite of appearances, Wei Ying’s got the same steely will as Wangji. When Wangji can get up and move, Wei Ying walks with him – in the park outside, then along the corridors, and later just around the room. When that is no longer possible, he gently massages Wangji’s limbs. They both want skin contact; Wei Ying gives Wangji hand- and mouth-jobs when Wangji still feels like it, in the early stages of treatment. As time wears on, they just huddle and hold hands, or they share soft kisses when nobody’s looking. The zither is too loud, even in this wing where the rooms are better noise-insulated than elsewhere in the hospital, a kindly nurse tells them with a regretful tone to her voice. Wei Ying gets Wangji an electronic zither so he can dial the volume down. He also buys an electronic flute, and they play music together. It’s oddly nostalgic, like an evensong, and Wei Ying dislikes it, but Wangji seems to enjoy, so they do it until Wangji gets too weak for it.

With the treatment having started so soon after the surgery, it’s a race between Wangji’s wounds healing and the chemicals wreaking havoc in his body. It's lucky, they tell him, that he's been so fit before all of this. There’ll be six months of it, at high doses. Gradually but inexorably, the chemo turns him into a ghoul. Wei Ying gets a cot so he can stay and doesn’t have to go home in the evenings. He learns about cancer care from the nurses and doctors. He’s glad he can do something other than just sitting around. He’s glad he gets to hold Wangji when Wangji’s washing and changing into fresh pyjamas, and later when Wei Ying has to do it for him. Wangji’s losing weight; he’s light in Wei Ying’s embrace; it’s all wrong.

oOo

They miss the birth of their first grandson. Sizhui and his wife send pictures and a video greeting; the baby looks scrunched up and wrinkly; it’s bawling until his mother puts it on her breast to feed. Sizhui waves into the camera, then hugs his wife and son and kisses them on their heads. “We named him WangXian,” he smiles into the lens, “we love you!” Wangji has tears in his eyes and a blissed-out smile on his emaciated face. There are black rings around his eyes. He is too weak to hold the phone; Wei Ying does it for him.

oOo

At some point into the treatment schedule, Wangji gets a blood clot, followed by an infarct in his lungs. The machines that have been bleeping and ticking away quietly in the background in his sundrenched room ramp up to blaring alarm; there’s a crazy rush of people in scrubs, and he’s manhandled and jolted and jabbed with needles. Wei Ying can only stand ash-grey and silent in a corner and watch, watch, watch. The worst is being utterly helpless.

It was only a light infarct, the doctor says, it hasn't affected his brain; they’ve adjusted the medication to include bloodthinners, to reduce the risk of further clots. It’s a delicate balance because they don’t want to overload Wangji’s already strained system. Wei Ying watches and learns from the physio specialist, so he can help Wangji move his wasted limbs in light exercises.

In between (there are too many in-between spaces, but they’re bitty, ragged things, insufficient for true rest and recovery because there’s so many people coming and going with medicines, check-ups, for monitor-readings, to change bedsheets, serve food and clear dishes, there’s never a really quiet moment even at night)... in between, he reads him ancient poetry because Wangji likes it and it makes him look relaxed. He even smiles sometimes. His gums are getting too sore, his digestive tract raw, to cope with solids anymore. They’ve added anti-nausea medication so he doesn’t bring up all the acid and burns the tissues even worse. His food now comes pureed, like baby food; his plan includes super-high-calorie shakes packed with vitamins and nutrients. He can’t always control his bowels and bladder. His hair begins to fall out in thick clumps.

oOo

1Guanyin (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guanyin); there are others that could have fitted here, such as the Moon Goddess and her medicine-pounding rabbit for their relation to the elixir of immortality; the Medicine God; the Medicine Buddha, but they felt more like deities / protectors of physicians and other medical people than something a patient might cling to.

Chapter 10: Enduring

Chapter Text

oOo

Wei Ying goes numb. He tries the counselling; it does nothing for him. It’s not the practical course he expected but more of a talking therapy, with people sitting in a circle trying to comfort each other in their misery, and the therapist sharing endless links to other ‘resources’ and ‘signposting’ and more ‘advice’. Wei Ying hates it. It makes him sullen and irritable. He sees how some people benefit from it but he’s always been solution-focused. There are no solutions, of course. He doesn’t want to burden others, or listen to them and sink even deeper in helpless desperation. He’s always been used to carry his load alone; even with Wangji he only shares as little as unavoidable (because Wangji listens in to Wei Ying’s howling nightmares). So he considers it a waste of time, time he wants to be by Wangji’s side. He sleeps in Wangji’s room. He’s taken to holding on to Wangji’s hand, and when the doctor says that this might not be good because it compresses Wangji’s tissues, Wei Ying clings to the frame of Wangji's hospital bed. Like a bird on a branch, with his fingers clenched tightly even in his sleep. Instinct. Visceral.

Sizhui and his family cannot visit because babies are germ reservoirs, since they’re building their immune system by catching and battling anything going, like fierce little warriors, and they get vaccinations, and there’s always a sneeze or something around. As the treatment burns through Wangji’s body, killing cancer and immune cells alike, he’s being moved into a different place, on the top floor where there’s less footfall, with a great panorama over Gusu City and a small ante-room before his actual bedroom. Wei Ying has to begin wearing a regular mouth-mask, then a fitted clinical filter-mask, then he needs to start getting changed and scrub his hands before going into Wangji’s room proper. There’s a machine that pumps filtered gas in and keeps the place under positive pressure to ensure no germs fly in. The doctors have started looking for a stem cell donor matching Wangji’s profile.

Then Wei Ying’s no longer allowed in. They’ve both known this day was likely to arrive, but it’s still a shock. Wei Ying can’t bring himself to let go of Wangij’s hand, and Wangji seems to cling, his grip feeble and anxious. Wei Ying begins to cry when a nurse gently pries their fingers apart and guides him out of the room. A tent made from clear plastic is set over Wangji’s bed. In it, he looks wan and alone. His lungs are weakened; he has to have oxygen. Only people looking after his physical needs may enter, and they must wear full-body suits to not drag any germs into the room because the chemo has scraped his immune system away along with the cancer cells, and he’s as vulnerable as a newborn. Worse, really, because his body is unable to rebuild without help.

Wei Ying feels as if hit by a freight train. He sits on a chair by the door, and he’s unable to do anything at all. He drifts in and out of a cold daze, and only when someone brings him a cup of coffee does his body kick his brain into gear, and he summons just enough strength to go to the hospital canteen to eat. He has to function, he remembers, his own pain doesn’t matter; he has to function so he can be there for his love when Wangji needs him.

oOo

Somewhere in the vast bureaucracy administering the hospital, someone has made it their business to question Wei Ying’s right to be in this place, to get informed about Wangji’s progress, about his treatment and choices, to act on his behalf and in his interest if required. Wei Ying’s sure that there’s a living will somewhere, that Wangji has him on file as next of kin, but this is denied, and he isn’t allowed sight of the records because… ah yes. Catch twenty-two. He’s exhausted, He no longer has the wherewithal to manage his emotions too well. His frustration boils over. He gets angry enough to feel like he’s smoking around the edges. He thinks he might have started shouting a bit. Hospital security arrive; there’s nothing at all he can do as they escort him out, warning him from making a scene lest he find himself slapped with a ban preventing him from getting anywhere near the premises for the foreseeable future. They watch until he calls a taxi and leaves.

He goes home without telling anyone what happened. There, he drinks so much he passes out on the couch, stone-drunk, the television on without sound. Somewhere in between, he thinks on a wave of pained gratitude how great it is that Sizhui’s looking after Wangji’s pet bunnies, who’ve moved in with him and his new family, for the time being. But it also feels terrible, like a bad omen. Of course Sizhui now has his family and can’t come to the house every day, and the bunnies aren’t used to being lonely, or outside in a run in the garden. They’re spoilt little companions used to cuddles and company, and their little bunny-comforts; they’re fed a specially formulated pet-bunny-diet and choice treats instead of foraging. Still, it’s a reminder, a thorn in a wound, to know they’re not here because it’s a long-term thing. Wei Ying ruminates, unable to shut the thought down, so he tries to drown it. He can’t bear going to bed, because it smells of his love, and it reminds him of holding Wangji in his arms, and Wei Ying – for all the resilience he has – is only human, and that’s the night he cracks, when no-one can see it.

The next day, he gets a letter threatening legal action. He wants to rage and finds he doesn’t have the strength. Instead, he takes a long shower to sober up. He shaves. He clears away the empty wine bottles, cooks himself rice porridge the way Wangji would do for him, and eats properly. He changes into fresh clothes, turns the washing machine on, then switches on Wangji’s computer (Wangji’s password is ‘WangXian’), and starts riffling through his emails in search for anything connected to the living will.

oOo

Sizhui receives a letter informing him that his adoptive father’s condition has taken a turn for the worse; would he wish to visit. He can’t – his baby is currently sick with a tummy bug. But of course he clocks that something’s off. He calls Wei Ying who didn’t want to worry him but now spills the beans, helpless and desperate as he is.

Sizhui’s well-settled in the Lan family enterprise. He’s done internships at the company, every term break from his sixteenth birthday. He knows it as well as most of the old hands, and he’s a talented businessman, with a love for numbers and a head for rules as well as opportunities. He’s earned his place as Assistant CFO, working to Xichen. Because of the intrinsic overlap of forensic accounting and legal matters, he’s also familiar with corporate law, and because he’s pleasant and personable as well as exceedingly capable, he’s well connected with the Lan legal team. He listens and doesn’t say much. He doesn’t commiserate or comment. He asks Wei Ying whether he’s getting enough rest, and shows him images of the baby, and of the bunnies in their temporary new home. Wei Ying feels better afterwards and doesn’t expect anything as he returns to searching Wangji’s emails.

A little later there’s a call from the hospital, some admin bod introducing himself as assistant to the Hospital CEO, apologising profusely for the distress, there was some confusion since Wei Ying had been listed under ‘spouse’ but legally two men can’t be married, can they, hence the mess, and generally next of kin must be officially related, the Lan legal team must know this as well as the patient, they were a bit unreasonable in their demands, but given the particularities of the Lan clan1, the hospital is of course willing to show goodwill and come to an out-of-court agreement…

Shut up, Wei Ying thinks, just shut the fudge up, I’m going to kill you later, even as he’s on his way out of the door and to the hospital. He puts the call down; it doesn’t even touch him. All he knows is he can see Wangji again.

oOo

1As they live in my storyverse. They’re laid out in my story ‘Offspring’ (https://archiveofourown.org/works/56404336). The Lans only recognise a marriage as valid when the Lan ribbon has been offered and accepted by the husband / wife (or man-wife), respectively; it doesn’t matter whether the spouses have signed at the Civil Register Office.

Chapter 11: Silent Watch

Chapter Text

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He’s lucky, he thinks, as he sits outside the glass window from which he can see Wangji in his plastic cocoon. He’s lucky that they don’t have money worries. It’s been months, and he’s been able to cancel or reschedule indefinitely all his projects, paid and pro bono alike. He’s informed the college where Wangji’s been teaching, and they’ve been lovely and gracious because they like Wangji there (who wouldn’t, Wei Ying thinks, with a helpless sob and tender scoff). They can live on their reserves. Wangji’s got more money than Wei Ying can even imagine, and Wei Ying’s own income from his architecture bureau has built him a solid reserve which Wangji’s safely invested for him. They are very comfortable. He knows Wangji’s always valued his wealth. He was born into old money, and he’s been careful and circ*mspect with it, as with all his assets, tangible or not. Respect and care for one’s wealth is part of the classic Lan education, and Wangji’s always been a diligent student.

But Wei Ying’s known life with no money at all, for extended periods of time. He’s been accused of being a gold-digger, of exploiting Wangji’s weakness for him, of manipulating him into nearly breaking with his clan for Wei Ying’s sake. It’s part of the enduring rift between Wangji and his uncle and elder brother because they refuse to even consider another version of reality. It’s Wei Ying giving his money to Wangji to manage. Wei Ying’s never been idle, and he’s been ready to jump ship again if Wangji hadn’t confronted him – about being a coward, about abandoning him again after nearly two decades of waiting. That was the only time they truly argued, and it was Wei Ying hugging Wangji’s legs and pleading forgiveness (after hearing Wangji sob, quietly, alone in their bed).

It is true that Wei Ying’s known starvation and homelessness, and how it is to fight for bare survival using brain and brawn alike. His old records have been sealed in the wake of the lawsuit after his release from ten years behind bars. A miscarriage of justice of the kind that can cause toppling scandals and street protests if exploited accordingly. But he, and Wangji, simply wanted Wei Ying rehabilitated and left in peace. During those years that Wei Ying was missing, Wangji’d worked quietly and effectively, and the dossier he presented at trial comprised eight fat volumes of rock-solid facts. It did help that he’d gathered what dirt he could uncover about the clans – the four greats, including his own, who’d all been interested in downing their rival, number five, Wen Industries Inc.

Wei Ying had come in conveniently, with his demands for better treatment of people working at the sweatshop garment factory in the docklands, the industrial district called Nevernight. His conflict with Wen Chao and the man’s enforcer Wen Zhulio after arguing first against their bullying of his friend Wen Ning who was working maintenance at the factory; then for more frequent refills of the factory-floor water dispenser in the baking summer heat, and then against an impossible hike in the workers’ piece work target1; the fact that Wen Chao and his bruisers had beaten Wei Ying up twice, the second time leaving him for dead like a pile of garbage near the sewage works by the brownfield between Yiling Hill and the riverbank. It was a strange coincidence that a police patrol should have met Wen Chao shortly afterwards, and later found Wei Ying to take him to hospital and record his statement. There’d never before been police patrols in that area.

And then the fire at the factory, and people choking and burning on the locked top floor where they slept above their place of toil because they had no work permit and no residence permit and nowhere to sleep in the city after leaving their home villages and rural towns, to follow promises of work and a new life, hoping to send remittances home to their families. Wei Ying had been there; he’d wrenched open the chain-locked metal doors and charged upstairs; he’d broken open some of the barred windows; he’d stolen a truck to take whoever he could scramble downstairs to a safe place before police could swoop and arrest everyone who survived the disaster.

It was all part of an even larger scheme, Wangji showed, a dispute over land – the brownfield, the entire destitute Yiling Hill area which had been marked for urban redevelopment and condemned, including the homeless shelter near the flat Wei Ying had rented following his expulsion from university. But also prime land on both sides of the river, upstream from the polluted dockland area, land where centuries-old claims from the clans overlapped.

oOo

Chapter 12: Hauntings of the past

Chapter Text

oOo

Wei Ying stares into space, his head resting against the glass pane. So what if he’d been or not been the Jiangs’ Straw Sandal1 for a time, to ensure their logistics empire2 could operate smoothly. He’d learned the rules of the streets the hard way; he’d learned fast and thoroughly, and he’d forgotten nothing when the Jiangs took him on as their foster charge. His foster mother was keen to use him, he still believes he owed the Jiangs his loyalty because they’d pulled him out of the messy public care system where he’d been circling in and out of foster placements, and gave him the semblance of a home. Suddenly he’d had opportunities he couldn’t have dreamed of before. Without those, he knows, he’d not have been able to compete for a university scholarship. He won five, he wanted to study architecture and city planning, only to follow the demands of his foster mother and accompany his younger foster brother to the prestigious Lan university, in order to help him through a degree course.

And then he met Wangji.

A small smile curves his lips. He isn’t stupid. He knows the Jiangs exploited him. He doesn’t resent them for it – he liked his foster siblings; his foster sister is a good person, his foster brother… well, their mother wasn’t easy on them. He could be a shield for them, at least for a while. He could hoist his foster brother through university and fencing competitions to save him face and keep their mother from berating him or worse3. He couldn’t prevent his foster sister from falling in love with a pretentious buffoon though he nearly broke their engagement by punching said buffoon into his pretty dolly-face for insulting her. And then – he’ll never understand it – the man somehow matured and didn’t become like his old man Mayor Jin; instead Jin Xihuan turned out caring and responsible and putty Wei Ying’s sister’s soft hands, and it only got worse when they had their baby, Wei Ying’s little nephew Jin Ling. As much as it galls him, Wei Ying isn’t above admitting that his sort-of brother-in-law dotes on his wife and their little boy4. So there. Wei Ying respects him for it, and he’s unspeakably glad for his sister’s good fortune.

oOo

The lights are too bright. He can hear, muted through the thick glass, the quiet sounds of a zither-flute duet; Wangji’s favourite, the song he wrote for Wei Ying to declare his intentions5. Wei Ying closes his eyes and listens. He no longer bothers wiping his face when there seems to be no end to the salty stuff just dripping down his cheeks. When the clan wars flared up again, it wasn’t the old-fashioned brutalising of tattooed footsoldiers or posturing of fat old men with massive gold jewellery, oily hair, and grotesque shirts. Those new wars were fought in planning offices, the city administration, via procurement processes and contracts for building supplies and construction programmes. Villages on the opposite embankment were forcibly cleared, protests shut down via police cordons and water cannons, newspaper coverage about corruption scandals ended with the papers sued for libel and bankrupted to the tune of millions.

Wei Ying kept clear of all this. He applied and was accepted for an architecture masters, even without an undergraduate degree, at Gusu City Public University, and worked at the night markets and fixing people’s computers to earn money for books and materials, and to pay the rent of a ratty flat on the edge of Yiling Hill, the most destitute part of the city. It was infested with rats of the animal and human variety, it was dirty and most of it consisted of condemned brown-brick blocks slated for demolition as part of Mayor Jin’s grand urban renewal programme. But Wei Ying wasn’t afraid of the place. He used to volunteer at Yiling Hill homeless shelter because he’d been staying there a few times whilst living in the streets, between failed foster placements, and he knew it well. He met Wen Qing and Wen Ning there, fellow volunteers because most of the people showing up were uprooted rural Wens, failed in their hopes for a better life in the city. Then the lease for the homeless shelter was terminated, with the declared aim to develop better housing. Meanwhile, people were shunted into a tent city hastily erected on the brownfield edge6. The Wen siblings looked after him, and he looked after their little cousin Wen Yuan when their granny was unavailable. Granny Wen is a librarian at the city public library, where Wei Ying used to borrow books for his architecture degree. So when Wen Ning came home bruised and battered, his stammer worse than ever, Wei Ying went to talk to Wen Chao. Then Wei Ying ‘fell down the factory stairs’, and… well. Not long after that, his foster parents suffered a fire at their Lotus Pier residence which also housed the company records, and one of their river barges was held up and found to carry drugs. On their way to the precinct to meet with their lawyer and provide a first statement, their car’s brakes failed and they careened into the river where the road made a sharp bend, just outside town.

Wei Ying’s foster brother had screamed at him. Blamed him for stirring up stuff that was none of his business, for sticking his stupid nose into other people’s sh*t, for never knowing when to quit and leave well enough alone. “For a bunch of country bumpkins, Wens of all people, what the heck do we have to do with Wens? You ungrateful idiot! Why do you have to play the hero? Do you even know what you’re doing to Sister?” On and on he went, yelling how he hated Wei Ying, how he’d hated him from the day his father brought Wei Ying home and Wanyin’s three husky puppies had to find a new home because little Wei Ying was terrified of dogs because the only dogs he knew were big, starved ones fighting him for food in the streets. Jiang Wanyin raged how he’d hated him for always being better and wanting to be above his station, just like their mother had always suspected. “Mother was right, you’re street trash, she should never have let him drag you into our family, just because you’re his bastard!” He’d thrown Wei Ying out and struck him off the old-fashioned clan roll they still kept, like all of the old clans. They’d even fought; Wanyin had knelt over Wei Ying and choked him; their sister had been so shocked, tears rolling down her face as she watched, and Wei Ying just let things happen. The sky had been so blue that day, the sun so mild, the air balmy. He recalls the smell of river mud and lotus blooms, and not much else.

oOo

Then the garment factory went up in a blaze. Wei Ying remembers the night of the fire, because Wangji retold it in court. Wangji said that Wei Ying had taken a few dozen people upstream by truck, from the burning factory, via the old country road leading into traditional Jiang lands7. He and his foster siblings had grown up in Lotus Pier, a dainty little river town, very touristy most of the year except in winter, with picturesque wooden buildings and walkways on stilts, lakes covered in lotus flowers and full of fish, and further on a place called Yiling Mountain8 (Old Yiling Town is on the other side of it). There, the Jiangs had tried to establish a new resort to capitalise on the wave the Lans had started, but it failed, the place being too gloomy, to haunted. People avoided it – who’d want to holiday on a mountain of bones? Macabre, and ill-omened. Wei Ying and his charges holed up in the old resort, two thirds up an ancient mountain road so overgrown it was barely a pass.

The truck’s rear axle had broken when a pothole swallowed the left rear wheel whole, and they’d scrambled up the mountain, shocked, scared, unsure. They got a few days’ reprieve, in which Wei Ying tried to tell his story to the authorities, to the newspapers, to anyone who’d listen, but nobody seemed to want to know. Reception was poor. His mobile ran out of charge. They found a spring with bitter water, and used wood from the old resort buildings for fire. It had been raining without interruption; the ashy soil turned to knee-deep mud. Somebody, thought Wei Ying, would listen, eventually. Somebody would accept the pictures he’d taken of their scant shelters, the conditions they endured, the conditions they’d endured at the factory. He’d been careful not to show faces so clan security didn’t have the option of hunting people down and beat them up or worse, but the pictures were clear nonetheless. They just needed a little more time to think, to plan, to recover. They needed food beyond the few rusty old tins they found in the former kitchen. They needed medicine and bandages for wound care. In her panic for her little brother and Wei Ying, Wen Qing had chased after them when the flames lit up the sky over the factory, and because she'd been babysitting little Yuan that evening, the child was there too, sick and fevered, too ill to be moved. So Wei Ying gave Wen Qing a memory stick with files and pictures, and Wen Qing went down the mountain to get what she could, and to find someone who would listen and give the people up there a voice.

This place was where Wei Ying’s foster brother led the authorities who’d been told by clan security that they’d find a bunch of heavily armed drug smugglers ready to fight. An exchange. A deal, so the Jiang business would be left alone. So his and their sister’s reputation (and by extension, that of her Jin husband and her son) was saved, and any suspicions deflected. Who wouldn’t believe respectable members of society over Wei Wuxian, failed Gusu Lan student, parentless, thankless, small-time criminal with a juvenile record and gangland links? Didn’t he even have piercings? Hadn’t he always been reckless and impertinent? Hadn’t he a habit of provoking violent arguments, first with the Jin heir, and later with Wen Chao? There was his motive, of course: Envy, and revenge. Plus drugs.

They were loud, those voices. There were many of them. Wei Ying was only one man, with the responsibility for four dozen lives, unaccounted for in the city’s residence records.

oOo

1A Triad’s ‘liaison officer’.

2In my modern Gusu City AU, the five clans have specialised to an extent though not exclusively: the Lans in exclusive hotels, the Jiangs in logistics, the Nies in security work / police careers, the Jin in politics and both cheap and expensive restaurants, the Wens in heavy industry, construction, exploitation of oil and coal, and general manufacturing of anything that’s profitable.

4In my Gusu Cith AU, Jiang Yanli and Jin Xihuan live happily ever after.

5‘WangXian’ / ‘WuJi’, of course :-) ‘Declare his intentions’ is a pun on the meaning of ‘chengqing’ which is the name of Wei Ying’s black flute.

7In modern times no longer clan fiefs, but most likely lingering spheres of influence, or ‘territories’ where one clan dominates the regional economy and possibly power dynamics.

8ling2 – hill; shan1 – mountain. Both close in meaning, but the more literal translation would be unwieldy, and the word yiling if used as a simple loan doesn’t convey the same sense. A yiling is an earthen mound piled over a burial site, a grave or ‘mausoleum’ for an important personage. It is not usually a mass grave, though in the canon story this seems to be the interpretation, and it fits the story. (夷yi2 ancient barbarian tribes; 陵ling2 hill, mound; mausoleum // https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinese_pyramids, https://www.chinesepod.com/dictionary/%E5%A4%B7%E9%99%B5)

Chapter 13: Dark Reflections

Chapter Text

oOo

Wei Ying can’t remember anything because a baton had cracked his skull; his brain swelled and got damaged in the aftermath, before he was imprisoned, without ever being put on trial. But he’s seen the footage and listened to some of the audio when Wangji presented them at trial.

Even after all those years, Wei Ying hasn’t been able to look closely at the images and body cam videos from that night. Wangji’d filmed it; Wangji’d chased after him to warn him, to help, to rescue. To try and stop what was about to unfold. Wangji’d placed himself between Wei Ying and the commanding officer of the SWAT team, trying to negotiate. He’d used his Lan name and reputation to make them pause and listen. And then a shot fell and all hell broke loose. It was never revealed who did it. It couldn’t have been Wei Ying, because Wei Ying never had a gun, the pictures showed this. It couldn’t have been the workers – a bunch of terrified women and a handful of old men. It had been carnage. But Wangji, who’d stubbornly stood with Wei Ying, had been caught by his own clansmen, too many for him to overcome; they’d dragged him off before police could catch him, before a stray bullet could hit him.

oOo

Behind him, the music is on loop. He longs to touch Wangji, enclosed in his glass box like Princess Snowwhite waiting for her prince. He misses him terribly. But kissing Wangji now would kill not wake him, and Wei Ying must wait. He will. Wangji waited near sixteen years for him. Wei Ying can wait a few months, it’s nothing. He’s had the latest now that they’re much more eager to keep him informed (lest the Lan legal team should twitch again, courtesy of Sizhui): The Lans’ main family have frequent occurrences of a specific blood type which is rare, and Wangji’s one of those. An inherited thing, usually not an issue. The pattern means that Lan Qiren is not a match. Lan Xichen would be a partial match but he’s compromised since he sleeps with two men, as the taker, without rubbers, and none of the three takes regular tests for STDs and other stuff since they don’t stray outside their menage a trois, but there isn’t time to check and be certain. Sizhui isn’t blood-related; he undergoes the tests anyway but isn’t a match either. The cord blood from his baby’s birth is not available anymore because someone mislabelled it and it was discarded as past its use-by date. There are two potential donors on the list the hospital maintains with other clinics and hospitals, but one is out of the country, and the other is battling the flu. Wei Ying texts Wen Qing: ‘What about me? Can you get me tested? For the transplant?’ He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can fill the gap. It’s worth a shot. Anything was worth a shot, even if it’s such a long one that he can’t see the target behind the horizon.

oOo

Back then, Wangji filled in the gaps, too. He provided seamless evidence of Wen and Jin tampering with ground analyses for the brownfield, of price fixing involving all so-called ‘great clans’, and corruption in the allocation of contracts to Wen Industries and their strawmen. According to him, this wasn’t hard since this was exposed after the fire, by a PI. Song Lan, along with his lawyer partner Xiao Xingchen, had a reputation as being incorruptible and not shying away from ruffling vultures’ feathers, and they were discreet and willing to work with Wangji’s strategy. So, when his own business-legal expertise became insufficient, he engaged Song Lan as Wei Ying’s counsel1.

In court, Wangji was a dry, rock-solid witness, unimpressed by cross-examination, impervious to personal attacks, and not swayed by attempts at sidetracking and obfuscation. He stuck to the facts he’d painstakingly accumulated over the years. An opportunity for the other clans, he outlined in his cool, methodical manner, to squash their competitor and raze Wen Industries to the ground – stockmarkets are sensitive to rumours, and shares crashed and were bought out in a feeding frenzy by frontmen, stashed mainly by Jin. Mayor Jin’s election campaign majored on Wen Industry’s downfall. His grand city renewal got underway with nothing blocking it, and he was re-elected in a landslide, quashing what was left of Wen power. It was, Wangji argued, a much clearer motif than what had been laid at Wei Ying’s feet. A motif backed by evidence and worth hundreds of millions. Wangji’s logic was razor-sharp, his words clear and easy to follow. They were also impossible to refute. He had witnesses willing to testify, and Wei Ying will always be grateful to Luo Qingyang, and the two prostitutes in whose brothel Mayor Jin breathed his last.

Wei Ying knows that, just before the start of the trial, Wangji’d been confronted by his uncle and brother since Lan Resorts Ltd. had been embroiled too. They’d known enough to be culpable; been distant enough to get away legally, yet close enough to feel the looming spectre of a catastrophic loss of face, echoing the fall of Wen Industries. They’d condoned the clearing of historic villages to make room for expansion on the desirable other embankment of Lotus River, and gained planning permits to build a new luxury resort complex in the nature reserve comprising most of their ancestral lands in Gusu Lan Massif. They’d turned a blind eye to Wei Ying being framed and worse. Lan Xichen’s relationship triple consisted of a personal, intimate affair with Dr Meng Yao, one of Mayor Jin’s natural sons and former business consultant to Wen Industries, newly elected Mayor to tread in his father’s muddy footsteps, and also with Lieutenant Nie Mingjue of the city’s public security bureau who’d been in charge of the ‘security operation’ on Yiling Mountain. It was all rather unsavoury and probably criminally messy should it be dragged to light. It could cost jobs at Lan Resorts, they reminded Wangji, there were responsibilities to the families who relied on those incomes. But Wangji, good, honourable Wangji, remained implacable – Wei Ying’s name needed to be cleared. People could be helped into new jobs. Though it didn’t matter whether the trial – not re-trial, but the first Wei Ying ever had – was public or not. There was no need for an apology, no need for anyone to be humiliated, but Wei Ying’s reputation had to be restored, reasonable retribution be made, and the accusations that had been hanging over his head for near two decades needed to be examined and refuted. Those were Wangji’s demands, on behalf of Wei Ying, who didn’t want anything but peace, to the Lans’ mistrusting consternation.

It wouldn’t have been hard for Xiao Xingchen to scratch the shiny surface, and even the shadow of a doubt would have ruined the painstakingly kept facade of respectability. Wilful ignorance, he declared in his mild, quiet voice, was as bad as collusion, and didn’t actions talk louder than rules? Where had the famous Lan ethics been on that day the clans’ bruisers went to smash up a paltry homeless camp on Yiling Mountain? The trial was held behind closed doors, and the press had kept curiously quiet, but every bucket has a leak if kicked hard enough. Perhaps it helped that Jin Guangyao was eager to settle and quietly resign his public position, returning to his private business consulting out of the public eye. Nie Mingjue claimed he’d just been following orders from Mayor Jin himself, but he too didn’t wish any more scrutiny. He claimed he’d been suffering from intractable high blood pressure and debilitating seizures for some time, so he’d be retiring for health reasons. Xichen never liked confrontation, and this time prevailed upon his uncle. Wei Ying’s foster brother refused to testify. Wei Ying refused to have him forced, or call their sister or her husband on the stand. He’d been tired of it all, unwilling to carry on, but Wangji’d been staunch and persistent for him. Wen Qing was there, too, and the trial also cleared her and Wen Ning; this and finding out what Wangji’d suffered were the main reasons Wei Ying didn’t cop out.

Wei Ying thinks Wangji spoke of other things too when he met his uncle and brother at the latter’s shiny office. Back then, once they’d hauled Wangji back to Gusu and snuffed any noise about his presence at the event, Wangji’s uncle had confronted him with a choice: He’d get the Lan Clan Council to legitimise the child on the Lans’ family register provided Wangji accepted the archaic penalty for unfilial behaviour, and either resumed his musical career or took a ‘respectable job’ in the family firm. Failing that, they’d cast Wangji out and have him and the child shunned. The child. The little boy, Yuan. In those last hours before the so-called ‘Siege of Yiling Mountain’ which the press – so silent beforehand – noisily branded a victory of justice over a bunch of drug lords, Wei Ying had struggled with premonitions. He’s always been a bit superstitious, the pragmatic kind that burns paper money at colourful street altars, and wears a Guanyin pendant around the neck, so he’d listened to the ancient ghosts of the place that were whispering into his exhausted brain. There was an urgency to their voices he didn’t want to ignore. He wrote a letter and stuffed it into a small, lotus-carved bamboo tube. He hung it around little Yuan’s neck using his own red hair ribbon. He hid the child in a hollow tree, near the entrance to a half-hidden cave, its mouth mostly closed by rockfall and brambles. Hidden in plain sight, let them search the obvious and miss the stealthy, he’d thought and been right – after the barrage of teargas and rubber bullets, armed uniforms had raided the cave (and later demolished it with explosives) but not paid heed to a withered old tree. Little Yuan had been terrified, fever-sick, as quiet as a mouse. Once the armed men had gone away, Wen Qing scrambled back up the mountain and found the shocked child; took him and dropped him at Wangji’s doorstep the next day, before going to hide in the countryside among fellow Wens.

Shunning wasn’t harmless. Wei Ying’s foster brother had him shunned. It meant the immediate and complete loss of all support, every connection to family and clan, and a loss of face that meant social and career death. For people like Wei Ying it could mean worse still, but the Jiang clan without its leading couple and an inexperienced Mountain Master2, lacking any underpinnings and as feeble as a kitten, was in no position to hunt down its former Straw Sandal. Wei Ying wanted to believe that perhaps his foster brother might not have wanted to go quite that far. Wangji wasn’t as encumbered by emotional attachment to the Jiangs. He owes them nothing (not even Wei Ying, he reasons, since Wei Ying was himself in spite, not because of them). He never used the kind of wordage Wei Ying had learned and Jiang Wanyin abused him with, but he might have thought it, and he bore an enduring and irreconcilable aversion towards Wei Ying’s ill-tempered foster brother.

But back then – alone, grieving, hurt – Wangji wasn’t in a position to fight, and he had to choose. He choose coolly and wisely, to protect the child and his own ability to raise it. He choose to preserve his social assets along with his financials, to enable him to provide the child with a solid future, a strong education, and the protection of a powerful clan. He also thought of finding Wei Ying. There’d been no clearly identifiable body after the siege (though there’d been many – about fifty lives lost between the factory blaze and Yiling Mountain, just no certainty that Wei Ying had been one of them).

oOo

1It’s not how it works, but it’s not a legal procedural, and I’m taking creative licence.

2The top position in the hierarchy of a Triad.

Chapter 14: A ray of light, exceptionally brilliant

Chapter Text

oOo

Thirteen years after the ‘Siege’, when Wei Ying sat through the trial, he listened to Wangji’s apparently dispassionate narration, and thought how appearances could deceive, and how good Wangji’d gotten at this business. He’d asked him about it one evening, after another endless day of back and forth, tiresome attacks on Wei Ying’s person, his morality, his everything, mudslinging aimed at Wangji too, and the lawyers battling it out. Wei Ying’d been exhausted and wondering whether this was really worth it. He’d been okay doing rubbish jobs as an itinerant worker, after his release from prison. He’d not wanted to burden Wangji. He’d been grafting on building sites and fishing vessels around the coast; in between jobs, he’d been busking with his flute. But Wangji’d found him, playing for whatever people would spare him, on Caiyi Commons Winter Fair and not let him go again. Wangji’d even enlisted Sizhui to bully Wei Ying into rethinking his life. So Wei Ying… ah. It had nearly broken his heart to learn of Wangji’s grief. Not in so many words; Wangji’d not talk about it so much, he’d never been a great talker (except in court, another surprise). But little signs – the music he’d kept, an old phone that had a video of Wei Ying, a shopping list in youthful Wei Ying’s spirited chicken-scratch. Wangji also talked in his sleep. Wei Ying spent nights just crying, stifling himself in the pillows in the little spare room he stayed in, at his own insistence (Wangji had wanted him closer; Wei Ying didn’t trust himself enough). It had still taken him another three years roaming about before he found the courage to settle with Wangji. Before he could believe he’d not ruin Wangji’s and Sizhui’s lives. Before he found it worthwhile to press for trial to clear his name (and scrub it a bit cleaner than maybe, strictly, it should have been).

oOo

That evening when Wei Ying had toyed with the idea of just giving up, when he wondered whether the whole thing hadn’t been another mistake, Wangji’d pulled him close and kissed his brow, then gone to make dinner. Lying might be forbidden by the ancient rules of his clan, he’d told Wei Ying later, in bed, but wasn’t hypocrisy the worst form of lying? And there was no rule in the world that could have induced him to prioritise a rule over the life of a child. After the ‘Siege’, Wangji, for the first time in his young life, used his stoic mask to hide his true intentions. He learned to pretend, and like all he did, he mastered it as an art, as a shield, as a wall for him and the child he took for his son. He endured the beating with the bamboo ruler his uncle’s servants administered. He accepted his uncle’s verdict, sentencing Wangji to three years secluded meditation. He said nothing when Xichen took the child into the household and engaged a Lan paediatrician to help little Yuan get over his fever. There was nothing the old doctor could do to reduce his nightmares; they would fade in time, he suggested, somewhat helpless yet unwilling to admit it. Wangji treasured the child as he treasured memories of Wei Ying, of love and warmth, of fairness and courage, whilst he spent three years in his mother’s old house, in the spacious grounds of his uncle’s respectable town villa. Xichen let him see the child once a month until Wangji’s seclusion was ended, his beat-up back healed enough for him to move about again without collapsing in pain. Then, one morning after a particularly bad nightmare, little Yuan refused to leave. He caused a scene, clinging to Wangji’s ankles as if drowning, and screaming and rolling on the floor when

Xichen pried him off. Xichen looked at Wangji as if entreating him to help. Wangji simply stared back, defiant and frosty. After that, Wangji was allowed to move out, taking Yuan along, to live in the house he’d bought in Caiyi Town for himself and Wei Ying, before the catastrophe that had wrecked their lives.

The house had been a surprise for Wei Ying. A gift of love, a future together.

Wei Ying found out nearly twenty years later.

oOo

The trial ended in Wei Ying’s favour. He was cleared of all charges. Wangji’d pressed for an unambiguous verdict and he’d worked with Xiao Xingchen throughout to ensure there was no lesser outcome. Compensation was awarded for wrongful imprisonment. Wei Ying still isn’t sure how nobody ever came after himself outside court. In the early weeks, he thought he’d been followed a few times, but after that not. No press, no threats, nothing. An eerie silence. Wangji won’t speak about it, only that he’d come to an agreement with his brother and uncle, which meant Wei Ying got his first contract for his new architecture bureau from Lan Resorts – a high-profile redevelopment in the heart of Gusu City, an exclusive corporate retreat on the grounds of the venerable Lan University. Plus a personal endorsem*nt from Lan Xichen in his role as Lan Resorts CFO and Acting President, and an out-of-court settlement for an undisclosed sum, plus healthcare expenses for Wei Ying for life. Wei Ying’s health issues are enduring, but he thinks compared to what Wangji’s going through they’re paltry: There are medications for his migraines and vertigo attacks. He can take painkillers for when his beat-up limbs and multiple old fractures play up and make him limp. He’s got a list of exercises he can do. His memory has always been bad, now it’s a bit worse; there are tools and techniques to help – he’s gotten great at note-taking. His nightmares… they’re now under control, sort of. He knows he’s struggling with PTSD when he’s down, when he’s been careless and run himself ragged on a project or two. But these episodes pass, no matter how black the abyss he’s staring into. They pass because he wills it so, because he has Wangji in his life.

oOo

Wei Ying swallows; his throat is tight and dry; his cheeks are wet. The light in the hospital corridor never changes though it dims inside the little ante-room, the airlock, and Wangji’s bedroom, to offer a semblance of Wangji’s natural sleep rhythm. Wei Ying’s phone pings; he checks it – the screen is too bright now; he dials it down and blinks as he wipes his eyes with the knuckles of his free hand. ‘Wei Wuxian. Come see me at office five on the third floor in an hour. I’ll introduce you to someone who specialises in what you need.’ Wen Qing’s message is the best love letter Wei Ying can wish for. Now, he thinks, is the time to try the impossible.

oOo

He does a double-take when the young man sitting by Wen Qing’s desk jumps up and greets him with a wide smile and outstretched hand. Wei Ying takes it, puzzled at first – and then it clicks. “Zizhen?” he says, “Ouyang Zizhen?”

“Elder Brother Wei!” Zizhen keeps shaking his hand. “It’s… not given the circ*mstances, but… it is good to see you again.”

Wei Ying recalls it clearly enough – Sizhui’s friends, Jin Ling, Zizhen, and Lan Jingyi (surely the noisiest Lan there ever was). They’d come to Wangji’s first charity recital with Wei Ying accompanying him on the flute, after the whole mess was over. To drum up support and funds for Wen Ning’s newly founded rehabilitation centre, a dilapidated farm near Old Yiling. The trial had exonerated not just Wei Ying, but his old friend and former cellmate, and Dr Wen Qing after she’d spent years in obscurity and practicing in smalltown hospitals. A waste, but all she dared doing after coming to a tacit agreement with the authorities. She’d lie low, they’d leave her alone. She had no means to fight it, not knowing of her little brother’s and Wei Ying’s fate. But Wei Ying had insisted on her and Wen Ning’s cases being re-opened too, and Wangji’d not only agreed, but forced the matter with the same quiet, elemental vehemence he’d shown in Wei Ying’s trial.

The kids had blogs. Social media was a thing. Someone called ‘Painted Fan’ amplified their cheering; the guy – only displaying his avatar, a dainty effeminate danmei1 character hiding his face behind a folding fan – had millions of followers on his gossipy blog mostly concerned with saucy clan titbits, ancient fashion, ancient poetry, and inkwash art. He’d shot to internet fame with a meme hinting at Mayor Jin’s womanising, using an old poem illustrated with a faux-ancient ink painting of a fat guy surrounded by women in a brothel, a gaggle of children playing at their feet, whilst spreading a long scroll with city plans across his tented lap. It was crude and daring, and down the next day, but had already been re-blogged too often to cram the spirit back in the bottle. He’d also been mercilessly satirizing the new Mayor Jin until the latter, quite literally, set down his cap of office in the wake of Wei Ying’s trial, and he’d been needling Lan Xichen though in a milder fashion.

Wei Ying got all of this on the periphery, when checking his business emails and unable to escape the automated newsfeeds that stuff the headlines down his throat whether he likes it or not. He’s also learned from Sizhui that Sizhui’s friends apparently think of him as some kind of hero (he feels anything but), and nothing can dissuade them from it. All he can do is try to live clean and tidy to set a good example, and now he’s suddenly super-selfconscious about… everything. His past. His present. Whatever might lie in the future.

And now he’s sitting in Wen Qing’s office, and faces one of those youngsters turned doctor, and feels terribly old and weak.

There won’t be a future without Wangji. Wei Ying has come to that conclusion over the course of torturous weeks and months of watching Wangji grow thinner and sicker in that horrible, pastel-coloured hospital bed. What cure, his brain screams at him, makes its subject worse off than the illness? Rationally he knows why things happen the way they do now. Irrationally, it doesn’t compute. Seeing Wangji keep his stoic front whilst watching the quiet shadows that have begun to gather in his amber eyes. Wei Ying hates those shadows. They remind him of ghosts, of lurking spirits up to no good, smoky and elusive yet growing heavier over time, as if trying to squeeze Wangji dry, waiting to weigh him down enough to drag him into the beyond. Wei Ying’s always been a fighter. But this isn’t his fight, and he can only watch. He’s refused to think about it for a long time, but he no longer does: If Wangji succumbs, Wei Ying will follow him. It’ll be easy; he’s got enough sleeping pills to fell an ox. Sizhui will understand. Wei Ying can never abandon Wangji again.

It is strange that this should settle something in him.

Zizhen looks at him expectantly.

“Ah,” Wei Ying says, “I had no idea. Dr Ouyang. Thank you for seeing me.”

The young man blushes wildly. “Zizhen. Please call me Zizhen, Mr Wei, like always. There really is no need to be formal. I am so sorry. I shouldn’t… I wasn’t sure…”

“Ouyang,”2 Wen Qing prompts from behind her desk, without looking up from her computer screen.

“Oh. Of course, right. Mr Wei, if you will accept it, then I can… I mean-”

“He means he’ll do it pro bono, even though the Lans are loaded,” she cuts in again, finally pushing back her office chair with an air of impatience. “But he doesn’t want their money. He’s an idealistic fool, like you. You should tell him to take it.”

Wei Ying blinks. “It… doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice somehow rusty as if he hadn’t spoken in ages. Perhaps he hasn’t, he isn’t sure. He’s spent a lot of time on that chair outside Wangji’s isolation room, and the nurses and doctors don’t often have time to waste on talking beyond telling him the current state Wangji’s in. Or give him Wangji’s love, time and again – strangely, they always do that, and they always seem to soften a little when they repeat what Wangji might have whispered. Wei Ying clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter who pays, as long… as long as there are options.”

“I understand,” Zizhen says, and suddenly all childishness is gone from him, and he looks calm and grown-up and compassionate, a doctor talking to a patient or to a patient’s family. “It is not important. I will sort everything, no need to concern yourself with this. I had another look at the donor register…” He gestures to a pair of white plastic chairs, by a small coffee table in a corner of Wen Qing’s office. She stands to make coffee with a kettle and instant sachets on her desk. She serves, then sits down behind her computer again, but listens attentively as Zizhen explains the ins and outs of matching donors and recipients, the particulars of Wangji’s case he’s carefully reviewed and cross-referenced with the literature he could find. He’s spent a lot of time and thought on it, Wei Ying recognises, and with it comes a soft relief that stirs his tearducts into action again. He wipes his face; nobody says anything, and he nods. He listens to the details of the tests he’s required to take to see if there’s a chance, and then – to his surprise – Zizhen sets his empty cup down and says, “We can start now, if you like.”

oOo

2She’s using his surname, without title – a bit rude but in Wen Qing’s case expressing familiarity of an elder for a younger whilst not being too familial.

Chapter 15: A prayer never hurts

Chapter Text

oOo

Perhaps there are immortals who listen to prayers.

Wei Ying is the closest match for Wangji’s marrow, much closer than anyone on the donor register. Wei Ying does cry this time, and doesn’t try to hold back. They double-check, then triple-check, just in case, and confirm it. Zizhen is confident, he’s brimming with energy as if glowing from within, and keen to press ahead. He seems certain, even when he tries to caution against the risks and the ever-present spectre of rejection. Wei Ying cries some more. He’s shaking with a roiling mix of elation and relief, terror and desperation. He’s so exhausted, he feels as if he’s crumbling inside, he wants to collapse, but not yet, not yet, not now that there’s hope, that ugly thing. There’s no time to lose. Wangji needs bone-juice, and Wei Ying can give it to him. He can’t wait. He’ll let himself be drained dry if needed. He’s given a proper room and bed, a hospital gown, and instructions how to get himself ready for the surgery that’ll take his marrow. The next day he’s put under and a long, thick needle shoved into his hip-bone. He’s insisted on donor anonymity. Wangji won’t know until the whole thing’s been done; Wei Ying doesn’t want to agitate him. Wangji’s always been a worry bean for Wei Ying. It would be unhelpful in his state.

Of course Wangji frets anyway. He’s suspicious because he can’t see Wei Ying sitting outside his room. But he’s too weak to sustain it, things are touch-and-go, and they do the transplant post haste. Wei Ying – back in his regular clothes – watches, through the glass wall keeping them apart, and wonders at how harmless, how easy it all looks. Wangji’s dozing. Wei Ying tries for a smile when Wangji’s eyes open a little halfway through. It nearly breaks his heart when Wangji’s smiling back – a faint, barely noticeable curving of his chalkwhite lips. He’s so strong, even now, in this state…

Then follows the time when everyone holds their breath, so to speak, to see whether Wangji’s body accepts the transplant, whether his body will rebuild his blood, his immune system. Whether the cancer has really been stopped, and all the metastases been caught. Normally chemo comes first to shring the tumours, followed by surgery to remove the remnants; in Wangji’s case that hadn’t been possible, but he might need to go under the knife again. Wen Qing talks with colleagues. Strictly speaking, doctors aren’t supposed to discuss their patients with outsiders. She’s a surgeon specialising in fixing bones, but she’s citing professional interest, scientific curiosity, and doesn’t mention any names. Doctors are only human. Doctors do like talking about exciting, difficult cases where they get to show off their skill and commitment. She invokes friendly relations, plays into professional vanity too, to pull someone like that recent patient – the young guy with the aggressive recurrence – back from the brink will look good on anyone’s resume – with that name, and such tricky complications, it’s nothing like a routine case. There’s nothing wrong per se with a bit of ambition. It drives people to do their best (or worst, but not here, there’s too many who’ll make sure of it). Wei Ying’s being kept under observation for a few days, which means he goes for check-ups at regular intervals before returning to his post by Wangji’s door. He’s achy all over, he brings his food up a couple of times, his hips are killing him, but he doesn’t care because it’s only the after-effects of the anaesthesia and the bone needles; it’ll wear off. Wangji has the marrow he needs.

oOo

When Wei Ying’s officially discharged, he stays put, on his post by Wangji’s isolation bubble. The medical staff got used to him haunting the spot. They bring him snacks and coffee. A couple of the nurses flirt goodnaturedly, only to try and cheer him up a bit, nobody takes it the wrong way, and it does make him smile a little to think how Wangji’d scowl and feed his jealous dragon if he could see. And then he promptly cries again, because he feels rotten and guilty, as if he’d been cheating, and he wants Wangji back in his arms. The young nurse looks shocked and stammers apologies as she hastily gives him a hankie so he can sob and blow his nose. He shakes his head and tells her it’s not her fault, and she looks a bit relieved. Nobody tries flirting again to lighten his mood.

Sizhui sends him private blog feeds of the bunnies, happy in their temporary home, and his and his wife’s baby; the little boy is cute and reminds Wei Ying of what he’s missed with Jin Ling, and with Sizhui when he was still Wen Yuan, but also what he and Wangji have now: They are, not by blood but for all true purposes of the word, grandparents. Wei Ying feels both incredibly old and much too young for this. He holds the phone against the glasspane between him and Wangji’s bed, and wants to believe that Wangji’s turned his gaze and smiled. Nothing could make Wei Ying happier.

All through this, there’s been the odd message from Lan Qiren sending well-wishes for Wangji. The words are dry and stilted, but Wei Ying thinks the old man must have had a change of heart to send anything at all. Perhaps it was Sizhui, whom Lan Qiren has taken a liking to and whom he considers the person Wangji and Xichen failed to become. Sizhui in turn likes the old man, too. Even knowing the past, and the role the Lans have had in it. Wangji neither hid nor forced the issue, but Sizhui’s smart. He learned about it at his own pace, discovering and examining, and coming to his own conclusions. It was hard. It took some time, yet he’s found it in his generous soul to accept and forgive. Wei Ying thinks that old Lan Qiren is right here: Sizhui is indeed the best of Wangji and Wei Ying. At the beginning, Xichen talked about wanting to visit. Neither Wangji nor Wei Ying encouraged, or discouraged it. But Xichen’s work never seemed to align with visiting times, and then other things came up, and later still Wangji got too sick to have any visitors at all. Xichen sends small texts with cute emojis and childhood pictures of him and Wangji together. Wangji keeps the messages, even if he doesn’t reply. Wei Ying’s neither here nor there about it. Things flow the way they will. Later perhaps, he thinks, for Sizhui’s sake if nothing else. They’re still family.

Wei Ying cries a lot these days. Quietly. With relief if not happiness. When he’s told that the transplant has taken. When he hears Wangji’s been able to tolerate semi-solids. When he’s allowed, for the first time in months, to suit up and step into the ante-chamber (not yet into the room with Wangji in it, but one door closer). When he sees Wangji turn his head and smile…

He looks like a ghost. He looks beautiful, the most beautiful Wei Ying’s ever seen, can ever imagine, and Wei Ying nearly has a complete breakdown there and then. He pulls himself together and saves it for later, when he’s alone, in the dimmed light of the corridor where he knows every dip in the wall and every scuffmark on the shiny lino. He’s never cried so much; he had no idea it was possible to soak an entire shirtfront and another one after that, so that he has to ask a nurse to get a doctor to prescribe him a happy pill, just to tide him over, and lend him something to wear until he can pick up fresh clothes from the hospital laundry the next morning. Wei Ying’s paranoid about this; he considers it more hygienic, and safer, than Sizhui or anyone else dropping off outside-stuff that’s crawling with germs. The irony isn’t lost on him, he just can’t get past it.

It’s strange, he thinks as he lies down to doze on the hospital cot, how he’s getting so brittle, now that Wangji seems to be on the road to recovery.

oOo

Convalescence takes a long time. Months. It’ll be years before they can be certain whether Wangji’s clear of cancer. There might be sequelae from damaged lungs, heart, liver, kidneys. But, in silent understanding, they won’t talk about that. They’ll deal with those things if and when they happen; it’s better to live and focus on what is than on what might be. There are highlights they celebrate: After several extensive sets of tests, Wangji’s tent comes down. Wei Ying’s allowed to don a full-body suit and go into Wangji’s room. Then the protective gear is reduced to gloves and clinical filter masks only. Wei Ying’s shown how to provide personal assistance to Wangji without injury to himself and his charge; they regain some privacy since now there are fewer nurses and fewer intrusions. Wei Ying kisses Wangji’s wrist, careful, with closed lips, through the mask. The plastic filter is cool, but it’s still a kiss. A blessing. A wish. A love song. Wangji starts eating soft solids, like rice and potatoes. He’s still so feeble that he can’t even hold a spoon and Wei Ying feeds him, an inversion of their usual, playful interaction. Wei Ying feels both strong like a tree, and so weak as if it was the spoon holding him up. He disguises it, as usual, behind his most blinding smile and his heart thrums when he sees its reflection in Wangji’s pale features. Wangji regains control over his bodily functions. His mouth heals, indicating that his insides are recovering. His hair begins to grow back as soft, sparse fuzz. He’s considering having a wig made.

oOo

Chapter 16: Crossing the log bridge

Chapter Text

oOo

Planning begins for Wangji’s discharge. Wei Ying, slowly, starts to believe that Wangji is indeed recuperating. He’s feeling dazed, as if in two parallel universes at the same time, because a part of him doesn’t dare trust it yet, the other part is utterly clear-headed and planning ahead. He’s both scared and elated, ready to take on whatever comes his way, so Wangji can finally leave the hospital without risking a major setback. There are several conversations with doctors and senior nurses because Wei Ying needs to prepare their house so that Wangji doesn’t get exposed to too many things at once, can avoid stress, and has the help he’ll need for another while. Wei Ying asks, takes advice, checks in with Wen Qing for suggestions about what additional, alternative therapies could work with the regimen of care and medication Wangji needs to continue. He keeps Sizhui updated, and sends occasional texts to Xichen and Uncle Xiren.

At last, Wangji has his final in-patient appointment. It’s not at an office; instead, the lead consultant visits, so Wangji doesn’t have to walk through germ-filled hospital corridors for longer than unavoidable on his way out. Wei Ying brings Wangji a set of fresh clothes and a new, sealed filter mask to wear. He busies himself shoving Wangji’s few things – some books, his mobile, some toiletries – into a shoulder-bag. He refrains from interfering when Wangji slowly dresses, smart but comfortable, the way he likes, in pressed slacks, an undershirt and soft roll-neck jumper, in his favourite powder-blue and dove grey pastels. Outside, it’s sunny but cool. There’s an unseasonal red puffa jacket with microfibre lining among the items; Wangji dons it without comment, along with a red bobble hat Wei Ying’s stuffed into the coat pocket. When he’s done, they sit side-by-side at the small table in the room he’s been living in for months. Wei Ying takes his hand whilst they wait for the consultant to arrive.

A nurse opens the door and pushes a wheelchair into the room; the consultant steps in after her, and she leaves. “Well, Mr and Mr Lan1, I am glad to see you go,” he says with a wry smile, “you’ve caused a lot of heartbreak.” Wei Ying doesn’t find it funny though he hears an echo of Wen Qing’s kind of humour. He thinks it must be a doctors’ thing. But Wangji’s lips curve in a tiny smile, and Wei Ying’s reconciled.

Normally, the consultant recapitulates, this kind of cancer is straightforward with a high cure rate, especially for young, fit men like Wangji. But since it had been a recurrence, and there were a number of complications which the earlier treatment hadn’t taken into account, it’s been a worst-case scenario. “A rough ride,” the doctor says, with hard-edged sympathy, as he runs his observant gaze over both of them. Wangji is serene as ever. Much thinner, his muscles wasted, his edges sharp under his warm layers. The clothes used to fit precisely; now they hang loose on his frame. Wei Ying keeps holding his hand, gingerly because he can feel the bones shift in his grip, yet unyieldingly. They’d have to hack his wrist off to get him to let go now.

Finally, it’s done; Wangji signs the discharge documents. Wei Ying feels like leaving prison again, the same surreal sensation as if watching a stranger in his own body’s shell, incredulous, mistrusting to thet point of paranoia, yet brimming with relief. Wangji refuses the wheelchair at first because he wants to get fit again, and he leans on Wei Ying’s arm as he takes step by step. Halfway down the corridor he gets too tired and quietly accepts the chair. He’s so terribly reasonable, Wei Ying wants to wrap him up and keep him like that, safe and shielded from whatever might lurk out there. Suddenly, returning to freedom seems more daunting than ever, and Wei Ying has to clamp down on a wave of panic that makes him want to turn tail and stay a little longer in this place that’s been Wangji’s prison but also his cocoon for the past months.

He comes to when he feels Wangji’s hand on his wrist, squeezing slightly. “Home, Wei Ying,” he says, sounding exhausted and happy, and Wei Ying feels a sudden, powerful surge of strength that drowns out everything else. They’ve made it this far, they can do the rest too. “Home, my love,” he says, “I’ll take you home.”

oOo

The bunnies can’t return yet. Neither can Sizhui and his family visit. They make sure to stay in touch via daily video messages, calls and little emoji-laden posts about all the mundane things that form the highlights and the fabric of a contented life. The baby is teething and squalling a lot. The bunnies don’t seem to miss anything, but what do bunnies know? thinks Wei Ying, watching Wangji smile his small smile as he’s listening to Sizhui singing a silly baby-song to the little boy whilst rocking him on his hip. Their daughter-in-law waves and smiles; she looks sweet and happy in the glow of first motherhood. Wei Ying leaves Wangji for a few moments to make tea and cry over the steaming kettle. He doesn’t even know why – with happiness, sadness, and gratitude, maybe. It’s a wild mix that rips through him, tears at his insides as if tearing him apart at the seams. He needs a few minutes to catch himself, wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, and man up enough to finish making the drinks and return to his love.

oOo

Wangji rests a lot; Wei Ying buys a specialist recliner and has it delivered to the back where he can assemble and disinfect it before lugging it into the house on a sack-cart. The chair is to heavy to move around even though it’s got castors; Wangji chooses to have it in his studio, so he can watch the garden through the open French doors. Wei Ying makes sure he has a blanket tucked around his shoulders and another across his knees, because he gets cold much more quickly than before all of that. He fiddles a bit until he’s adjusted the chair so that it allows for some movement, and helps Wangji to avoid pressure sores.

But Wangji doesn’t just want to sit around like some waif. Of course it’s hard to tell for someone who doesn’t know him as well as Wei Ying, but he’s frustrated at what he considers his torturously slow recovery. Wangji’s never suffered from downers, even during his worst years of grieving for Wei Ying, but now he gets nasty bouts of depression. The consultant who checks in via video-link every week prescribes medication, but Wangji refuses to take it – he wants to get through this with a clear head; he wants to stay in control.

Wei Ying suggests that the pills might help with that. “Isn’t that better than dropping?” he says, because he knows how it feels, and it scares him seeing Wangji – his strong, indestructible love – in such a black hole. But he and Wangji deal with such things differently, and Wangji sticks with his resolve. Where Wei Ying seeks solitude like a wounded animal, Wangji thrives on hugs, on Wei Ying’s physical closeness, and Wei Ying gives him that in spades, irrationally glad that he can be useful like that. That Wangji draws strength just from having Wei Ying around.

oOo

Wangji wants a walking frame; Wei Ying gets him one with a little seat and a basket for small things, like his phone and a drawing pad and pens. Because Wangji gets sudden dizzy spells, Wei Ying carries him up and down the steps into the garden when he wants to go outside. They can’t have a stairlift fitted yet because tradesmen might bring germs and dirt into the house, and those can still kill Wangji in his fragile state. Wei Ying is half-glad to have that reason, even if it’s harder for him to carry his love than it had been the other way round, because he’s thin and tall, and Wangji’s still heavy-boned. But he moves their bedroom into the downstairs lounge, next to the kitchen and downstairs bathroom, and after that they don’t really use the upper floor for the time being.

Wangji has a lot of aftercare appointments, via video at first, and after a few weeks nurses start come to the house to take his blood and vitals. Once the bloodwork confirms that it’s reasonably safe for him to begin leaving the sheltered environment of their home again, his schedule gets super busy. Wei Ying ferries him around, makes sure everything fits in: Physio, more bloodwork, scans for cancer remnants, dietician check-ins to ensure Wangji’s food plan is adjusted to match his convalescing body’s needs.

Wangji’s insurance writes to offer individual and couple counselling about coping strategies – he’s neutered (though they use more diplomatic jargon for that), some people in his situation don’t deal well with this. After one session of each, Wangji asks Wei Ying what he thinks about discontinuing them. They decide to feel their way through this together, without professional guidance which they find intrusive. Wangji’s having regular testosterone injections. He learns how to manage them himself because he dislikes the idea of depending on someone else giving the jabs, but he’ll need them for the rest of his life to avoid brittle bones and other unpleasant consequences of having lost his jewels to the illness. Before his chemo, he’d been offered sperm banking, and he’d banked some, because Wei Ying’d been begging him. But it’s neither here nor there for Wangji – he’s never been and still isn’t worried about fertility issues because he’s never wanted children unless he can have them, physically, with Wei Ying, and that’s a scientific miracle that’s not possible yet. They argued over this because Wei Ying thinks Wangji’s goodness should be preserved for posterity, in the shape of offspring from his seed; he’s even tried to convince him to consider surrogacy, but Wangji simply won’t do it. “I’m not a price stud,” he said, thoroughly annoyed, “unless you want me to be? What about you then? Are you planning to sire offspring on random strangers?” A bit unfair, thinks Wei Ying, since he has nothing comparable, he isn’t a godlike immortal like Wangji, just a humdrum guy with average genes. But here, Wangji and he profoundly disagree. Since Wei Ying just wants his love to be happy, he’s accepted it, and that’s that2.

oOo

1He’s punning on them being a couple though of course they don’t share a surname.

Chapter 17: The narrow road home

Chapter Text

oOo

Wangji’s recalled for further tests and consultations. When he’s regained some of his strength, he returns to the hospital for a couple of smaller surgeries which have Wei Ying on edge, but they serve to remove a few inactive tumours the chemo has shrunk, before they can reactivate or become cancerous. The risk is low, they hear, but surgery can reduce it further, the lumps aren’t suited for radiation, and chemo is out of the question for the time being. Wangji goes for it. He wants to be as free of cancer as possible. They have to be extra careful with the anaesthesia because Wangji’s lungs and heart are weakened from the chemo. Wei Ying is there when they put him under. He refuses to leave his seat in the corridor leading to the theatre, so he can be there when Wangji wakes up. He chews his nails until they bleed, but all goes to plan. ‘Smaller surgery’ is a relative term – it takes nearly eight hours (versus the ten for the previous operation); they slice open Wangji’s other flank to dig out the remaining nodes; all going well, he’ll have to stay in for a fortnight before he’ll be well enough to return home. He’s such a trooper, Wei Ying thinks full of fear and awe and everything he feels for his love when he sits with him whilst he’s coming round, and afterwards whilst he’s healing, his body stuck again with staples, stents, drips, and drainage tubes that gradually get pulled, as if the doctors were determined to punch enough holes into Wangji to last him a lifetime. He gets a morphine pump for the first few days, before he's put on injections to manage the pain. Later, he tells Wei Ying that the stitches and staples weren’t the worst, but coming off the morphine drip – he spent an entire night having the shivers and cold sweats, teeth chattering uncontrollably and muscles cramping until it had worn off in the morning. Later, Wangji tells him that the stitches and staples weren’t the worst, but coming down from the morphine drip – he spent an entire night having the shivers and cold sweats, teeth chattering uncontrollably and muscles cramping until it wears off in the morning.

The hospital is terribly familiar by now. Wei Ying’s incredibly glad when he can take Wangji home again, nearly two weeks post-surgery. Scars accumulate on Wangji’s poor belly, alongside the very long one from the first resection that stretches up the left side to almost touch his ribs. Even after all those months, this earlier scar still looks pink and shiny; the new one mirrors it almost perfectly, red and raw. It looks like someone had slashed at him with a sword. Wei Ying smooths vitamin-e oil into the healing skin every evening, gently as not to press into the layers underneath.

As he gets better and the hormone replacement kicks in, physical desire returns, a soft, warm wave that’s gradually suffusing him. In spite of everything, he’s so relieved, his eyes shimmer damp when it happens. Wei Ying’s almost delirious with happiness when he feels him respond to what’s become habitual tenderness, gentle touches, almost like consoling a hurt little animal.

They have to relearn intimacy. They’ve expected this, but it’s still catching them out when reality kicks in. Wangji finds he can’t firm up as readily as he used to. He’s far from fit enough for intercourse, whether giving or taking; even the attempt strains him. He’s quietly desperate to please Wei Ying, and Wei Ying is quietly frantic about Wangji’s singleminded focus. “My love, my love, there’s no need to rush, let me, just let me do all the work, just for a while…” But Wangji’s still his stubborn self, and he wants to be able to at least pleasure Wei Ying with his hand. Even this turns out to be an effort that exhausts him, and most of the time he’s simply too tired. When it becomes clear that their drives and abilities no longer match, he’s overwhelmed by frustration, for the first time in all those months he’s been battling the illness. Wei Ying tells him it doesn’t matter, and makes a point of proving it to him: He takes him in his mouth, kisses and hugs him. He bathes him in tenderness. He caresses him all over so Wangji can bask in the touch of Wei Ying’s hands. It’s unhurried, without aiming for completion, the path its own goal. He stops when Wangji softens again without having spilled, and hugs him some more, until Wangji settles and drifts off to sleep in Wei Ying’s arms.

When his body wants more than Wangji can give, Wei Ying finds ways of discreetly sorting himself out. He does miss what they had before, but it’s fine, because Wangji is back with him, and on the road to recovery.

oOo

He finds that the balance between them has shifted. Beneath all his resilience, Wangji’s shaken. It feels strange, and it takes Wei Ying a while to realise that this might a long-term thing, like a broken, carefully repaired vase: The cracks will remain, no matter how good the mend. It can still be used, but has to be handled more gently, with conscious consideration. The scars are reminders of Wangji’s new fragility, ever-present even on his good days.

Then Wangji has new prosthetics implanted to mimic the manhood he’s lost; it’s purely cosmetic, done as day-surgery under local anaesthesia to minimise the strain on his body. Wei Ying tries to reason that it’s an unnecessary risk: “You’re so handsome my love, nobody sees it, and I’d rather have you as you are-” Than what? He chokes on the rest, he can’t even think it. But Wangji wants this so he can feel whole even if he’ll never be whole again. The lack of heft down there makes him self-conscious, it nags at him, reminds him of what he wants to put behind him as soon as possible. He’s always been good at compartmentalising; lifelong iron self-control be blessed. Reclaiming his natural shape just helps the process along a little.

He crests for the first time after leaving the hospital with his new implants, the stitches still fresh, the re-opened and re-sewn seams in the creases between his thighs and trunk still sore. It’s a gradual rise and fall, a gasp and tremor instead of an explosive white-out. He spills down Wei Ying’s throat, and Wei Ying nearly cries tears of happiness as he swallows him down. There isn’t much, a small gulp of clear, mild-flavoured liquid. Somehow, it feels precious. It shows that the surgeon’s knife hasn’t nicked the delicate nerves that make Wangji function as a man. Wei Ying holds him close afterwards, for a long time even after Wangji’s dropped off into a leaden sleep.

He used to be able to last an entire night, loving Wei Ying to complete exhaustion. He used to spend copiously, a satisfying, sharp-tasting gush down Wei Ying’s throat or into his body, enough to make Wei Ying squelch and drip in a most pleasing manner. He used to be ready in moments, and need only small breaks before going again.

He’d been Wei Ying’s shoulder to lean on, his rock to rest on.

Wei Ying tries to remember how that felt, but all his brain shoves at him are images of the last months, with Wangji looking slight and shrunken in his hospital bed.

He listens to Wangji’s breathing, and when a clammy dawn rises, Wei Ying stops waiting and accepts that he won’t be able anymore to simply drop and have Wangji catch him. He tries to get used to the thought. He feels a little lonely, a little colder for it. A soft chill that whispers through him and makes him shiver a bit. A fright that he might fail this new test, that he might cave when Wangji needs him more than Wei Ying needs Wangji. He’s never considered that Wangji could depend on him, that anyone could depend on him, and now it rolls over him with breathtaking intensity, a new, icy clarity which is as merciless as it is true.

It’s not only Wangji’s life that’s changed, violently, irreversibly. Wei Ying is rethinking his work. They could engage paid helpers, and there might be a need for this from time to time, but he can’t bear the thought just yet, no matter how much Wangji says he’s okay with it. Wei Ying knows Wangji will be, eventually, because he’s so tough and so considerate of Wei Ying, but Wangji’s always been very private, and having strangers in their home will be difficult for him no matter what. Surprising himself, Wei Ying finds that he’s struggling with the idea, too. Many people have been around Wangji in those endless months in hospital. Many hands have touched him to care and treat. But this is their home, and it’s different, and suddenly every moment weighs differently. It won’t be easy to give up much of what he’s been doing, but he could employ people, or set up a foundation, or… whatever. He’ll find a way because he wants to be with his love as much as possible.

The discharge information says Wangji might experience bad spells, and how to watch out for signs of recurrence. They have to be super-diligent, to catch the slightest symptoms and get it treated immediately. He’ll have many check-ups, some of them invasive, over years to come. The wheelchair sits in the garage, next to the washing machine, should it be required. A reminder Wangji doesn’t really want but is pragmatic enough to accept. They might need to reorganise their home so they can live on the groundfloor all the time, or have a stairlift fitted, handrails in the bathroom, and a ramp into the garden, just in case. Then Wangji will be able to move about without asking for help even when he's feeling poorly. It might become harder to find satisfaction in bed, and to reconcile themselves to this. It’ll be a very long time before Wangji can try riding his motorbike, or Wei Ying, again…

Wei Ying takes a deep breath and turns his nose into Wangji’s downy new hair. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, he’ll just become a bit stronger. He’s learned a lot during those awful months he spent waiting around in hospital, and now he’s just grateful: To fate, to the doctors, to everyone who had a hand in giving Wangji back to life, to him.

oOo

It’s still a long road. There’s still pain and angst. Wei Ying thinks they're incredibly lucky not having to worry about work or money. They can’t have visitors yet. They can still only see Sizhui and his little family via video, but at least they can talk now, and Sizhui, this good child of theirs, is red around the eyes when he lifts the baby’s pudgy little hand to give a wave to his granddads. And then, to their surprise, Sizhui tilts the phone a bit, and Uncle Qiren appears onscreen. He holds a baby rattle in his white-knuckled old hand. “Wangji,” he says stiffly, “I hope you eat properly. Your brother sends well-wishes.” Then his gaze homes in on Wei Ying. For a long moment, he says nothing, before opening his mouth. Nothing comes out at first, and suddenly the old man’s eyes get damp, and he swallows and says, quiet and brittle, “You’ve taken good care of him.” Then he reaches out to swat at the camera, and the call suddendly clicks off.

It’s the only time since the whole saga began that Wangji cries, too. Happy tears. Instead of exhausting him, they seem to energise him. Fill him with fresh determination. Sizhui texts later how they look forward to hugging Wangji and Wei Ying and letting them hold their grandson for the first time. Soon, Sizhui says confidently, and adds that Uncle Qiren’s already planning a family dinner, and that he’s taken charge of what he hopes to be a quiet celebration of life. He’s a great-grand-uncle now, after all, and this has long been overdue. It’s a peace offering. A plea. Wangji looks at Wei Ying, and Wei Ying smiles at him. “It’s fine, my love. It’s family, right?” Wei Ying’s seen the best and the worst of it. Wangji’s never wavered, never once shown any signs of regret over his choice – Wei Ying over his family, over his clan, over everything that had made him Wangji. But it’s good to let go, thinks Wei Ying, if there’s a true chance for a new start. Wei Ying will no longer feel like the cause for strife. And in spite of everything, Wangji seems relieved. Wei Ying thinks it’ll boost Wangji’s convalescence if they find peace with one another, Wangji and his uncle and elder brother.

oOo

It helps that Wangji’s used to discipline, and likes healthy eating. Now there’s also a specific goal. He’s actively interested, fully involved in his ongoing treatment and rehabilitation. He’s recovering his sleep schedule. Wei Ying doesn’t. He looks haggard (Wangji doesn’t comment, just feeds him treats as if it were Wei Ying needing care). Wei Ying lies awake at night afraid to go to sleep in case… just in case. He can’t shake the sense of dread that lurks beneath the brittle joy of watching Wangji’s progress gain momentum. Wei Ying likes listening to Wangji breathing by his side, in their bed, in his arms.

There are setbacks in Wangji’s convalescence such as a simple viral cold. It makes him feverish, and he deteriorates rapidly, [dropping like a stone] from a single sniffle to burning up uncontrollably within a couple of hours; it depletes his still fragile immune system, and he becomes so ill, he has to spend time in the ICU until his temperature is under control and his fluids and heartrate have stabilised. It takes much longer for him to return to normal. Wei Ying has long learned how it feels to be quietly frantic, but this hits him so badly that he freezes like a panicked rabbit whilst functioning on autopilot. He’s used to hospitals by now and fits seamlessly into his seat waiting for Wangji to come back to him.

Wangji does. He’s tough and determined. He never complains, though in his sleep he whimpers sometimes until Wei Ying strokes him soothingly. Wangji’s back to wearing a filter mask at all times, at least until he’s no longer a walking landing pad for every germ going. Sometimes he’s too weak to do his personal hygiene; sometimes he starts and has to call for assistance halfway through washing or a toilet break. Wei Ying admires him – where he’d be mortified, Wangji just deals with his body as if it were a thing to manage, without room for embarrassment.

There’s a need to adapt, to learn what they need to do differently whilst Wangji’s body keeps healing. But the day Wangji’s allowed home after the cold-scare is the day that Wei Ying can, for the first time, see ahead and find light instead of darkness, and hope is no longer needed because he’s sure of where he, and Wangji, are going.

oOo

Somehow the seasons have passed without Wei Ying noticing. He’s trying to recall and gets stuck at an image of their plum tree in bloom in all its black-and-crimson glory. But that had been many months ago. Rationally, he knows because he can read a calendar. Irrationally, his inner clock’s broken. It feels as if someone had ripped a black hole into the fabric of time, and all Wei Ying remembers are hospital corridors.

So it’s surprising him that in their garden, in their home, their magnolia tree has started blooming1.

Uncle Qiren texts with a proposed date for the family dinner. It’s a shocker, not because of what he says, but because he’s texted Wei Ying instead of Wangji. After more than twenty years. For the first time, ever. They could visit Wangji’s and Wei Ying’s home, the old man suggests, and cook in their kitchen, because it’s easier and more hygienic than any restaurant. The Lan rules won’t apply in that setting, so ‘You may talk, Wei Wuxian. It is good for Wangji.’. And if they catch mild weather, they could eat in the garden, so Wangji won’t have to breathe all their germs. There’d be Sizhui and his wife and baby, and Xichen, and Uncle Qiren. They’ll reschedule of course if the baby is sick with anything. But it’s a plan, and Wei Ying texts back after checking with Wangji, saying their thanks and how they look forward to finally catch up on what they’ve had to miss during all those awful months.

Wangji wants to see the magnolia blossoms. Wei Ying smiles when he helps Wangji step outside for the first time since he’s brought him back. Wangji leans on Wei Ying’s arm, and Wei Ying looks at him, his familiar features half-covered by a filter-mask, the red bobble hat covering his soft new hair. He sees the traces of battle and tiredness, but also a quiet determination, and marvels at Wangji’s strength. Wangji leans more fully against him, and Wei Ying wants to believe that he feels more solid, that he’s beginning to fill out and regain weight. Most importantly, he’s fought off that infection, with symptomatic treatment but no antivirals. It’s such a small thing. It’s huge.

“I love you,” Wangji says, in his deep, quiet rumble, a bit muffled through the mask, “I didn’t want you to be alone.” And Wei Ying can’t say a thing, only look, for Wangji’s the most beautiful soul under the heavens, and he’s Wei Ying’s.

It is good. They are good. They are alive, together.

It is as if Wangji’s taken a load off Wei Ying’s shoulders.

And Wei Ying knows, with absolute certainty, that Wangji will always be his immortal.

oOo

END

1It would have been over a year – plum blossoms are winter flowers; magnolias bloom in spring to late spring. Because of Wangji's specific circ*mstances, the treatment would have taken up to half a year, and he's suffered setbacks delaying recovery.