Five bells toll deeply in the Cloud Recesses, cutting through the howling wind. The ringing reverberates through Wei Ying’s body as his muscles tense and his meridians flow freely with qi. Slumber sloughs off Wei Ying just as—
easily as his loosely tied robes slide off his shoulder. A white hand, long-fingered & calloused, reaches to slide cloth upwards.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying murmurs on the fifth toll, “what was that?”
“Five tolls,” Lan Zhan says in a sleep-rough voice, “for a death—in the main line.”
Wei Ying stiffens. “You told me,” he says, “that there were no issues with the night hunt.” If not Lan Xichen, then could it be Lan Qiren for whom the bell tolls? Or Sizhui, their dear boy?
“I told you,” Lan Zhan says, voice still raspy, “that I was eager to come home to you.”
And Wei Ying had known that of course, Lan Zhan would never come home without fulfilling his responsibilities—without making sure that the rest of his party was safe. This time, it had only been Lan Zhan and Lan Xichen on a night hunt—the first after Lan Xichen’s seclusion.
For Lan Zhan to be home means that the night hunt proceeded without issue and yet, the ghostly toll of a bell remains.
And then a knocking on their door.
Wei Ying raises a hand to sketch out a seal in the air to light their lamps. The darkness seems impenetrable and yet—
Wei Ying fancies he can see twin golden glows in their air where his husband looms. A hand captures Wei Ying’s wrist; it is a piercingly chill grip. Lan Zhan must be sick—cold and quieter than he normally is.
“Do not go,” Lan Zhan whispers.
There is grief in Lan Zhan’s voice.
Lan Zhan knows who died.
Another knock at their door. “Wei Wuxian,” a familiar voice calls through the wailing of a rainstorm. “Wei Wuxian!”
It is Lan Xichen who calls so desperately.
Wei Ying closes his eyes, slumping into his husband’s embrace. Sandalwood, musk, & death.
“I promised you forever,” Lan Zhan says hoarsely. It is the voice of a man who had screamed until he died. Wei Ying does not want to fathom the pain his husband has endured. Already the thought of the Burial Mounds incites unbroken bones to ache.
“I love you,” Wei Ying agrees.
Lan Zhan hums as Lan Xichen shouts.
• • •
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There are strange sounds coming from the cryogenesis room. Wei Ying's contract expressly forbids him from entering the cryo room, lest he inadvertently or purposely sabotages the "goods". He can't even enter the corridor where the room is—
at least not without setting off klaxons and having the spaceship's AI send off a message to the company back on Yunmeng. Nevertheless, it's a pretty cushy job. He just has to sit around and make sure life support and cryo doesn't fail; the ship's AI does most of the maintenance.
Wei Ying is meant to be the human element on the ship, to patch up the gaps of AI. There are a thousand sounds that AI perceives, and in those thousand sounds, Wei Ying hears one: the sound of a guqin emanating from cryo. It's a deep, resonant tone that reverberates through him.
History of Music Cultivation is a grad-level class and yet Wei Ying manages to snag a coveted spot in the class. Wei Ying is accustomed to charming professors into allowing him into their overfull classes—a winning smile and effusive compliments.
And yet Wei Ying somehow thinks that Lan-laoshi is not convinced by the curve of Wei Ying’s mouth & the sweet words from his tongue. Nevertheless, Wei Ying triumphantly brandishes a signed form as he says to Jiang Cheng, “Guess who’s learning musical cultivation this semester!”
“Nie Huaisang,” Jiang Cheng says dully. He swats at Wei Ying’s smugly twitching hand.
“Ha, Nie Huaisang wishes! I heard he got stuck with History of Cultivational Etiquette under Meng-laoshi.”
Jiang Cheng grimaces. “Good luck to him,” he mutters.
What cultivator doesn’t have a bit of inhuman blood in them? Wei Ying doesn’t discriminate! He even has some jiaoren blood in him from his father’s side of the family—just enough for him to breathe underwater.
And yet when Wei Ying looks at Lan Zhan, he thinks that those golden eyes are not “a bit of inhuman blood”. There’s something about the way Lan Zhan’s mouth parts ever so slightly whenever he enters a room, as if catching a scent. His teeth are endlessly white and sharp.
It makes Wei Ying swallow dryly as his eyes flicker around the room, searching for a place—any place to take refuge in. Jiaoren are predators of the sea but on land, they are more prey than predator, with pearls falling from their eyes as they cry ever so prettily.
When Wei Ying was a child, his favorite game was playing house. "I'm Mama and you're Baba," he would say to Lan Zhan. And Lan Zhan would nod solemnly, fat cheeks wobbling.
"This is Xiao Baobao," he would say as he shook his stuffed rabbit. It had a brown stain on one of the ears that Wei Ying as a child could never stand to look at without wanting to cry.
While this would go on, Yu-ayi would be dragging Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli to piano classes under Lan Qiren's tutelage with Lan Zhan's older brother Lan Huan. Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying were the same age, but somehow, Wei Ying was never worthy of extracurricular activities.