Chapter Text
The paneled wood is smooth below Lan Wangji’s fingers. There’s warmth behind the door and the telltale flicker of candlelight, but surprisingly, no raised voices, no laughter. He resists the unseemly urge to fidget. It’s already obvious that he’s here.
He turns his prepared speech over in his head. Illicit activities are prohibited in the Cloud Recesses. Come with me to the discipline hall at once. Not the first time he has to say such words, and to this particular person. But this occasion feels markedly different. To state the crime is to acknowledge its importance; to solidify its place in the clan rules.
To state the crime is to admit involvement.
There’s a rattling noise. Lan Wangji steels himself, tightening his grip on his sword. Sure enough, not a moment later, he’s face-to-face with Wei Ying.
“Lan Zhan?”
Wei Ying sounds genuinely surprised, but Lan Wangji is not in the mood for deception or games. Against propriety, he cranes his neck to look over Wei Ying’s shoulder. What greets him is an unexpected sight: an empty room. There’s a half-finished scroll laid out on a low table, clouded with ink stains, practice calligraphy, and whimsical doodles of flowers and birds. No robes tacked to the windows, no spring books, no liquor jars. Judging from the empty peanut shells scattered across the floor, Wei Ying had been having a pre-bedtime snack.
Alone.
“What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”
Lan Wangji grits his teeth, the slow fringes of confusion seeping over his initial annoyance. “You had arranged a — a gathering tonight. Did you not?”
Even saying it aloud is bad enough.
“How did you find out about that?” Wei Ying groans. He scratches his head, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “Well… yes. But it doesn’t matter, I suppose. As you can see, I’ve been stood up. No one took me seriously at all. Except for you.”
Lan Wangji seethes, ears flaming. “I’m not here for — for — that.”
“Yes, yes,” Wei Ying slides the door open, a little wider. “Have a look around, if you must. I promise you, no one’s hiding here. All I ask is that you please not spread it around that no one showed up for my party.” He clutches at his heart. “Think of what it’d do to my reputation as a social butterfly!”
Against his better judgment, Lan Wangji sweeps inside. It’s clear from a quick circuit of the space that Wei Ying is telling the truth. This is a guest room built for housing a young visiting disciple: an austere place for youthful contemplation and cultivation of the body and spirit, unsuitable for the more worldly tastes of a noble diplomat or wandering scholar. There are no secret alcoves in which a blushing companion might hide; no loose floorboards under which to conceal titillating drawings or sheaves of suggestive poetry. The rice paper on the windows is intact, unblemished, spread tight over highly-varnished frame.
Wei Ying folds his hands behind his head, smirking at him. “Satisfied?”
He should leave.
Lan Wangji takes one step toward the door, and then another. And then, against all discipline or reason, the fateful words come bursting from his mouth before he has a chance to rein them in.
“What is a ‘self-comfort expert’?”
“What?”
So Wei Ying has decided to act obtuse. Lan Wangji clenches his fist, crushing his sword in his grip. “In your greeting letter,” he grinds out. “You invited some of the other visiting disciples to your room for ‘a night of sensual education’. In the note, you referred to yourself as an ‘experienced expert in self-comfort’, no fewer than three times.”
If he thought deliberately enunciating each syllable would lessen his mortification, he had been sorely mistaken.
Wei Ying tips his head to one side, a teasing grin spreading over his face. “Lan er-gege, ah,” he begins in a singsong voice, but Lan Wangji has, quite frankly, had enough.
“Forget it.” He turns to go.
“Stop right there.”
Lan Wangji obeys, at once. It’s undeniable: the heavy, buzzing pleasure in capitulating, in relinquishing control, in placing himself wholeheartedly at Wei Ying’s mercy. Slowly, he turns, taking Wei Ying in from the corner of his eye. Wei Ying is standing there, shoulders heaving slightly, his earlier playfulness abandoned. There’s a quiet darkness to his gaze now; a certainty, a confidence, a lithe, simmering tenderness.
He has Lan Wangji’s attention, and he knows it.
And what else can Lan Wangji do but wait, as he has always done?
Waiting is second nature to him now. Three years now he has known Wei Ying; three years of watching and reflecting and hoping. He thinks of the high summers: Wei Ying’s booted feet slapping against the stone trail to the cold pond, the pleasing tang of fresh watermelon in his mouth, Wei Ying’s cheerful prattle rising above his uncle’s droning cadence. That first year, Wei Ying had laughed and broken rules and slung his arms around the shoulders of Jiang Wanyin and Nie Huaisang, standing fearless against the threats of the discipline whip and water demons in the deep.
Wei Ying’s second year had been a little quieter — his biggest and only transgression had been inciting a sword-racing competition in the back hills after dark. Lan Wangji remembers, with just the slightest twinge of bitterness, how his brother had been the one to discover them, and not him.
This year, the third year, has been Wei Ying’s most subdued year thus far. Nie Huaisang had not come back to the Cloud Recesses, and neither had Jiang Wanyin — both their respective families had expressed their sincerest apologies in writing, pleading clan and filial duties. But Wei Ying had returned, alone, at Jiang-zongzhu and Yu-furen’s insistence.
Lan Wangji had not asked questions. It was not his place, anyway. He had simply accepted it as fact, and politely refused his brother’s gentle attempts to speak to him about the situation. There was nothing to discuss; no need to read anything more into it. Jiang-zongzhu obviously thought Wei Ying had more to learn from the teachings of the Gusu Lan clan, and that was that.
Never mind that for the first time in three years, Wei Ying had boldly approached Lan Wangji as he’d stood by the gate with his brother to greet the visiting disciples. “Because you’re always turning down my invitations to visit Yunmeng,” he’d whispered with a conspiratorial smile, before tipping a shower of fresh lotus seeds into Lan Wangji’s palm. Lan Wangji had turned quietly away then, careful to avoid his brother’s knowing look. The seeds had been warm in his fist, brimming with trapped heat from a sun-drenched place many li away.
Lan Wangji often thinks of the seasons in between the lectures. Autumn; reddening maple and a crisp chill settling over the grounds, and Wei Ying’s silhouette shrinking into the distance down the winding mountain roads. Winter; blanketed snow and lit braziers and echoing silences. Reflectively tracing the boyish calligraphy in Wei Ying’s sporadic letters with reverent fingers, holding close a nameless wish in his heart. Spring; pink blossoms unfurling on the trees, the sweetness of new year candies from Caiyi, the yearning and anticipation building in him in a slow, concerted wave.
And then, summer again. River water surging in the town canals, swallows darting above the drooping willows, and Wei Ying bounding up the path to the Cloud Recesses with folk poetry on his lips, a smile in his eyes, liquor jars swinging from his hands.
They are no longer sixteen. And perhaps, neither of them has been, for a very long time.
“You really want to know?”
Lan Wangji stays silent. Afraid, as always, of the traitorous rhythms of his heart, of the old emotions that still ride so plainly on his face. He thinks of how his voice might shake, how his eyes might drift, how his blood might race and surge and burn. He wants; and yet, he does not.
“I’ll tell you,” Wei Ying says, in his usual forthright manner. He reaches behind Lan Wangji to slide the door shut. “But you have to promise me something first.”
“What is it?”
Wei Ying skips nearer. His hands are behind his back, and he’s beaming, his cheeks lifting, his eyes curving into dark crescents. This close to him, it’s easy for Lan Wangji to forget to breathe, to perceive the liquid boom of his own heartbeat in his ears.
“That I wouldn’t be punished. Technically, I’m not breaking any rules just by talking about it.” He coughs pointedly into his fist. “Even if some might consider it a topic unfit for well-raised young masters such as ourselves to discuss.”
Lan Wangji actually finds himself considering this. He supposes it’s true. The dissemination of knowledge, even taboo knowledge, is somewhat of a gray area in this instance. As long as no one chooses to act on it, no harm would actually be done. And, if he dares take it a step further, Wei Ying’s information would actually be useful in Lan Wangji’s disciplinary endeavors. Should another recalcitrant disciple decide to replicate Wei Ying’s antics in the future — well, Lan Wangji would be sufficiently prepared for that.
He gives a stiff nod. “You have my word.”
“Such an upright gentleman,” Wei Ying teases, but there’s no heat or malice behind it. He gestures to the calligraphy desk. “Sit down.”
Lan Wangji sits. Lays his blade down before him. And waits, facing Wei Ying directly, hands on his knees.
“Fine. It’s… well.” Wei Ying begins. He drops his gaze, worrying a corner of his robe between his fingers. “Lan Zhan, ah! We’ve known each other for three years. But we’ve never really had this kind of conversation with each other before. I imagine it must be quite awkward for you. It’s certainly very awkward for me! Before I explain, I need to know. Have you, ah… have you ever…”
Lan Wangji blinks up at him, bewildered. Wei Ying looks genuinely embarrassed; he’s staring at the empty peanut shells strewn across the scroll, not meeting Lan Wangji’s eyes.
“Have I ever…?”
“You know,” Wei Ying says, waggling his eyebrows.
Lan Wangji casts his mind back to the invitation. A night of sensual education, Wei Ying had written, so brashly, so shamelessly. Could he possibly be referring to —
Lan Wangji flushes, suddenly and violently. “You mean…”
Wei Ying makes a vague gesture around his own crotch. It’s halfhearted, but there’s no mistaking its vulgarity.
“Of course not!”
He hadn’t meant to shout, nor had he meant to leap to his feet. Wei Ying is staring at him with huge eyes, mouth half-open in shock, arms raised as if to placate. Everything is descending on Lan Wangji, all at once: the echoes and the implications and the intent. It’s too much; being here and having this conversation with Wei Ying, imagining Wei Ying —
Lan Wangji cuts the thought off before it can get any further.
He shouldn’t be here. He ought to go back to his room, right this moment, and light some incense. Clear his mind. Meditate. And reflect, reflect, reflect —
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying tries again, and this time, it’s the shocking gentleness in his voice that makes Lan Wangji stop in his tracks. “It’s all right, really, if you haven’t… I’m not saying that it’s right or wrong either way. You just haven’t, and that’s fine, that’s your private decision, and you don’t owe anyone any explanation, because it has everything to do with you and nothing to do with anyone else. But, but — you see, that was exactly what the greeting letter was about. You’d be surprised at how little most people actually know about self-comfort.”
Lan Wangji is quiet, listening.
“In any case, back to the letter. I guess I’m somewhat of a senior here, seeing as this is my third year in Gusu, and… some of the younger disciples wanted to ask me questions. So I invited a few of them to my room. I didn’t intend for anything indecent to happen. I’d planned to talk to them about some simple techniques I sometimes use to make it feel better. Anyway, you know what happened. No one showed up.”
Lan Wangji takes a deep, unsteady breath. He can’t look at Wei Ying, not with the way his face is blazing, sweat breaking out over his scalp and back and underarms in a fiendish prickle. Abruptly, his robes and shoes feel several sizes too small. If he attempts to say anything, if he makes even the slightest sound, he will trip over his own words, spill his heart into the expanse of space between them, and Wei Ying would see, and know…
Techniques, Wei Ying had said. He had intended to impart his knowledge to other people. His own personal techniques.
A sour taste rises to Lan Wangji’s mouth. What techniques, he wants to ask, but blessedly, the words do not come.
“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying grabs his arm. “Are you all right? You don’t look very well. Here, why don’t you sit down for a moment…”
Lan Wangji finds himself being dragged to the bed. Wei Ying is all over: hovering above him, asking questions, peering into his face, tapping the acupoints on his wrists, smoothing his hair from his forehead with earnest intent. He’s very careful not to touch Lan Wangji’s ribbon, and that in itself brings on a dull, prickling wave of irritation and misery. He thinks about pushing Wei Ying’s hands away, of pulling him flush against himself, of wrestling him down on the bed.
Wei Ying props Lan Wangji carefully against the wall, helps him out of his boots, and sets about arranging his calves and feet in a meditative position.
“Maybe you should close your eyes and relax for a bit. Sit up and breathe deeply, or you’d feel even worse. Wait here, I’ll brew you a cup of hot tea.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji blurts out, unable to stop himself.
“Hm?”
Lan Wangji folds his lips tight. Wei Ying peers back at him, guileless and expectant, the sweet space between his eyebrows furrowed only by the faintest lines of concern. Lan Wangji looks, and thinks about the time Wei Ying had gently placed a pair of soft, wriggling rabbits in his arms. Wei Ying, hooking his chin over Lan Wangji’s shoulder in the early days of their acquaintance, begging him to take a look at his collection of spring books, to visit him in Yunmeng, to pay him just the tiniest bit of attention, please, Lan Zhan, please, look at me.
Over the years, Wei Ying had gradually stopped doing those things. He’d probably expected to be rebuffed, yet again, for the twentieth time; the hundredth. In recent times he hasn’t had much to offer, other than breezy greetings flung in Lan Wangji’s general direction before skipping off to his duties or leisure time. At some point, he had ceased updating Lan Wangji on his comings and goings, or simply asking for his company.
The shift had come without Lan Wangji fully realizing it, so slow and subtle it had been. He and Wei Ying: the pursued morphing into the pursuer, locked in an endless, back-and-forth cycle of seeking and anticipation. An intricate dance, skirting the very edges of their friendship, if what they have can even be called such. Both of them taking it in turns to reach out, to wait, to plead; to harbor the faintest hope of anything more than a quick, casual acknowledgement from the other.
It stings, and it rankles, and it’s what finally tips Lan Wangji over the edge.
“I want to see your techniques. I wish to learn.”
Silence, blanketing them, soft and hazy.
Wei Ying’s mouth has fallen open. Lan Wangji had been expecting laughter, more teasing. Perhaps even anger, for daring to ask for more than what he’d have any right to expect.
But Wei Ying just continues to stand there, quiet and disbelieving and owl-eyed, and Lan Wangji can feel a flush creeping up his own neck, spreading over his ears, swift and unforgiving as running water. This is it: his transgression, his contempt of the clan rules. He ought to apologize, and offer to take back his words now. If he were the type to stretch the truth to save himself some face, he might even blame it on the heat, or the sudden advent of an unexplained illness, or the lateness of the hour…
Wei Ying gulps, face reddening. “Uh. If you’re sure.” He lets out a high-pitched laugh. “You’re, ah. You’re one of my best and oldest friends, Lan Zhan. If there’s anything you need help with, all you have to do is ask.”
Lan Wangji bites his lip. Friends. If that is all he is to Wei Ying, then why is it so difficult for them to meet each other’s eyes?
Wei Ying peels off his boots and climbs on the bed to sit beside Lan Wangji. His feet are warm and dry, the calluses on his soles brushing Lan Wangji’s calves pleasantly against the sheets. Lan Wangji watches, heart in his mouth, as Wei Ying hitches up his own robes and reaches for the ties on his trousers.
This is unthinkable; heinously presumptuous. It has the maddening quality of a dream, an improbable, unspeakable fantasy brought to life by the monstrousness of his question, and most worryingly of all, Wei Ying’s lukewarm acquiescence. Was Wei Ying only doing this to appease him, because he somehow felt that Lan Wangji was pressuring him into it?
He catches Wei Ying’s wrist. “Wait.”
Wei Ying actually stops. “Is everything all right?”
Has the act of breathing always felt so laborious? Air pushing through his lungs, in and out, in and out, in and out, in a conscious cycle of heaving and receiving? Lan Wangji gasps, teetering at the very precipice of refusal; of assent.
“Wei Ying. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Of course I do,” Wei Ying says, huffing out a laugh. He raises a hand to rub Lan Wangji’s shoulder in a reassuring way. “We’re both men, aren’t we? There’s no shame in seeing a close friend enjoying himself in an intimate way. Don’t worry about me, Lan er-gege! If I didn’t already trust you, I wouldn’t have offered!”
Slowly, Lan Wangji releases him. “You don’t have to.”
Wei Ying’s face falls, just a little. “But don’t you want to?”
“I… yes, but…”
“Then I want to, as well,” Wei Ying declares, and before Lan Wangji has time to steel himself, perhaps to wind his fingers around the headboard and take a deep, grounding breath or several, Wei Ying kicks his trousers to his ankles and takes himself boldly in hand.
In the moments and days that follow, Lan Wangji will often find himself returning to this moment. Sights and sounds and textures, lodged forever in the cruel, infinite grasp of memory. Indelible as spilled ink, irreversible as a lightning bolt cleaving a mountain stone in two. Before, he had only beheld Wei Ying as everybody else had: a swish of hair, a series of light footsteps, a smile as quick and bright as midday clouds. This was the version of Wei Ying who simultaneously belonged to everyone, and to no one.
And after, and after.
A lurid blur of images and sensations, each more real and wondrous than any of his prior imaginings. This was a different Wei Ying, dark and honest and visceral. A Wei Ying who shamelessly haunted Lan Wangji’s mind and heart in the deepest of nights, brought to life by the invisible line he had so inexplicably and effortlessly crossed.
Wei Ying, slowly fisting his own cock for Lan Wangji’s careful attention, narrating his actions in a hushed voice. Secrets falling from his lips like filth flying off the pages of his spring books, a sheen of sweat creeping across his brow, his bright eyes never leaving Lan Wangji’s face. There’s a precise, academic quality to his tone, a sort of feverish glee, words rising and falling in perfect time to the rapid, faltering beat of Lan Wangji’s pulse.
“Look, Lan Zhan. Look over here. See how I apply more pressure on the shaft, then loosen up and twist as I get to the head. The head is a lot more sensitive; I don’t know if that’s true for everyone, but it’s certainly true for me. There’s this spot, just below this groove, right here… if I touch it on the upstroke, it gets me there a lot faster. Hey, are you listening? Watch and learn, watch and learn. I’ll be expecting a practical demonstration from you later, that’s it, oh…”
Lan Wangji sucks in his breath, hears it rattling loudly around in his own head. He can’t take his eyes off Wei Ying; his quivering mouth, his shifting hands. And, his cock. Wei Ying’s cock. Large and curved and solid, dark with blood and heavy with arousal. Shaped differently in contrast to Lan Wangji’s own; a perfect and natural counterpoint, simultaneously sordid and startling in its beauty.
Close enough to touch, perhaps even to taste. Lan Wangji shifts, and he aches, and he keeps his mouth firmly sealed, lest any piteous noises escape and give him away.
“You might want to slow down as you’re about to come. It helps draw things out a bit longer. But, ah… you probably don’t know what I’m talking about, considering you’ve never so much as touched yourself before. Well, I’ll show you. I’m almost there, fuck — fuck —”
Wei Ying’s voice cuts off, sliding into a loud moan. He shudders violently, thrashing against Lan Wangji’s side, his hand flowing over the head of his cock. Lan Wangji looks, and he breathes, and he catches it: the precise moment Wei Ying’s orgasm descends — eyes sliding closed, body tensing, mouth going slack. There it is, a jet of white spurting up and across Wei Ying’s exposed belly, sliding down over his knuckles, heavy and fresh as spring dew.
His mouth feels raw. His eyes, as well. He’s fairly sure he’s going to pass out. Nothing could ever have prepared him for this — no book, no lecture, no rote memorization or diligent recitation of his clan rules. Lan Wangji swallows around the clicking dryness in his mouth, his heartbeat punching a harsh tattoo against the back of his throat.
So many things he ought to do. Steady Wei Ying. Get up. Fetch Wei Ying some clean clothes and linens.
Look away, look away, look away.
Wei Ying is cleaning himself with a silk handkerchief. He’s humming to himself, cheerfully absorbed in his task, cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink. There’s a brief lull, in which Lan Wangji surreptitiously watches as he tucks himself back into his trousers and fastens the ties. When he’s done, Wei Ying turns to face him.
“How was that? Did you find the demonstration useful?”
He‘s smiling, but there’s no mistaking the question in his eyes.
Lan Wangji coughs. “Yes.” And then, after a moment’s deliberation, “I really appreciate you taking the time.”
Wei Ying waves him off, grinning sheepishly. “Aiya, so gracious as always! There’s no need — in fact, I’m sorry I didn’t last that long. I’m not used to being looked at while I do it. I could really take my own advice about holding back!”
“You did fine.”
“Just ‘fine’?” Wei Ying chortles, slapping his thighs in amusement. “That’s high praise, especially coming from someone inexperienced like you. Hey, that reminds me, it’s your turn now. Do you… do you want to touch yourself as well? I could give you some advice along the way, if you’d like.”
Lan Wangji takes his time to think. In the furthest reaches of his heart, he knows Wei Ying is not the sort of person who would ever hold it against him for refusing. He’d just laugh in that summery way of his, his hair falling over his eyes. Sure, Lan Zhan, just let me know if you change your mind! The very notion stirs something deep in Lan Wangji, a heated thrill racing through his meridians.
To be at Wei Ying’s mercy, to be under his instruction. To be watched, and taught, and held, and praised, and known. Lan Wangji squirms, flushing in the wake of this sudden realization. His first time, and what a privilege it would be to have Wei Ying beside him, expressly and endlessly devoted to his personal pleasure. Wei Ying, whispering rapidly in that husky voice of his, the soft tremor of his breath ghosting across Lan Wangji’s ear, the heat of his gaze resting on Lan Wangji’s erect cock.
Besides, Lan Wangji thinks suddenly. It’s only fair. By his earlier demonstration, Wei Ying had already given Lan Wangji a part of himself. Selflessly, unabashedly, asking for nothing in return but Lan Wangji’s full attention and acceptance. Surely, he could do the same for Wei Ying as well. A shared experience, an unadulterated exchange of hearts. And, if he might selfishly hope — a memory to hold fast to during the long, lonely winter months.
Lan Wangji swallows. “I want to.”
Wei Ying’s eyes curve upwards in delight. “Ah, I knew you would! All right, take off your pants.”
Very slowly, Lan Wangji reaches for the ties of his trousers. Breathing, closing his eyes, wondering about how Wei Ying might react. Would he recoil, or laugh, or perhaps exclaim?
Would he be impressed?
How shameful. Lan Wangji tamps down on the thought, almost angrily, pushing it away to a corner of his mind. He is not here to show off, nor to incite in Wei Ying the same nameless emotions that Wei Ying so adroitly brings forth in him. He is here to learn. To cast his reservations aside, and to repay Wei Ying’s patient instruction, in kind. Right now, his hesitation is the last bastion between him and the next stage of their friendship.
Only courage and trust and time will tell.
Wei Ying does not say anything about the obvious way Lan Wangji’s fingers shake as he undoes his trousers. He remains respectfully silent, even as Lan Wangji wrestles the silk down past his hips to pool around his ankles. Wei Ying, shifting closer, his gaze steady and solemn and reverent, his fingertips brushing Lan Wangji’s wrist, slow enough to draw sparks. Warmth radiates from him in waves, and Lan Wangji thinks, fleetingly, of capitulating. Of turning towards that palpable, enveloping recognition, of burying his burning face in the homely juncture where Wei Ying’s neck meets his shoulder.
“Wei Ying.”
Appallingly plaintive, especially by his standards. Lan Wangji winces inwardly. Would that he could take it back; wrap it in apologies and promises to forget, to pretend it never happened.
“Lan Zhan, you…” Wei Ying starts. He closes his mouth, licks his lips, opens it again. His eyes are wide, and it’s not Lan Wangji’s face that he’s looking at. “You’re so perfect.”
There’s something ragged and artless about his tone of voice, and Lan Wangji instinctively glances down, hoping to see himself as Wei Ying does.
There’s his cock, painfully erect, standing tall and proud between his thighs. He’s already leaking, a gentle drip down the side of the shaft. Carefully, Lan Wangji braces his sweating palms against the bed, abruptly conscious of his bare ass rubbing against Wei Ying’s sleeping sheets; of the shattering sight of his arousal between them, laid open before Wei Ying’s keen, appraising gaze.
Wei Ying leans in a little. “Is this your first time being hard?”
Lan Wangji shakes his head, hoping Wei Ying will not ask for more. Lying does not come easily to him, after all.
“But it’s your first time you’re going to do something about it,” Wei Ying says. His voice is like silk, each word falling with leaden intent. He taps Lan Wangji’s wrist. “Go on, hold the shaft.”
Cautiously, Lan Wangji lifts a hand and wraps it around his cock.
It feels strange, discomfiting even, to be touching himself as such, outside of the context of cleaning or relieving himself. He exhales, making himself take his time. Slowing his breathing, letting his eyes flutter closed as if preparing for meditation, reaching inward to his core. Inside, he finds his qi surging, erratic but vigorous. It roils against his inner walls with the youthful vigor of a spring current, a caged animal fighting to break loose. It’s not a bad feeling.
It’s all right. It’s all right.
He opens his eyes. Looks directly into Wei Ying’s own.
“I’m ready.”
“Good.” Wei Ying drops his voice. “Now stroke yourself, like you saw me do.”
Heart juddering, Lan Wangji complies, his cock jumping eagerly at Wei Ying’s quiet command. His hand rasps, sliding up the shaft, and then down again, clumsily and haltingly, catching the gathered moisture, smearing it across sensitive skin. It feels screamingly dirty: touching himself in this manner, bringing forth this deviant confluence of smells and noises and fluids. And further below, the heat building in him and tapering sweetly into friction, but whether from hand or cock, he cannot tell. He changes the angle in a fit of daring, snapping his hips back to thrust hard into his own fist, and almost loses his mind at the bolt of sensation that floods him, hot and thrilling and volatile.
“Fuck, yes, that’s it,” Wei Ying murmurs. “You’re naturally talented. So good for me, Lan Zhan. Remember, the twist at the head.”
He curves his wrist in an exaggerated motion to illustrate his point. Lan Wangji complies at once, the afterimages of Wei Ying’s earlier demonstration flashing against his half-closed lids, dazzling as sunlight. Wei Ying had touched himself, exactly like this. Wei Ying had made himself come, just for Lan Wangji’s eyes alone…
“Lan Zhan, wait, you might want to slow down, right now!”
Without warning, Lan Wangji’s pleasure spikes and overflows. He arches into the bed, keening, vision going white, the ensuing deluge painting over his senses like an avalanche. Lan Zhan, he hears Wei Ying calling, as if from a great distance, and then abruptly, the good feeling is dissipating, falling sharply away into a blissful, misty nothingness.
He reels, drifting in the aftershocks, stark and bereft. His body feels large and alight and vulnerable, the echoes of his earlier exertion lingering on his skin like flame.
“Lan Zhan, Lan er-gege,” Wei Ying is shaking him gently. “Come back.”
Lan Wangji opens his eyes. He sees the mess first: the copious amount of fluid he’d spilled on his own robes and thighs, and much lower, splashed across Wei Ying’s sheets, dripping to pool on the polished floorboards.
The truth is inescapable; irredeemable. Earlier, he’d had a lapse in judgment, and used a private mental image of Wei Ying as an outlet for his own lust. Heart twisting, he scrambles to sit up. How improper, how unforgivable…
“You did so well!” Wei Ying exclaims. He gives Lan Wangji’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “If I am to be honest, you really surprised me. I, ah… never thought you’d come so quickly. It looks like we’re more alike than I realized! Well, Lan Zhan? Did it feel good?”
“Wei Ying, I… I apologize. Your sheets…”
Very lightly, Wei Ying thumbs his cheek. “Aiya, please don’t worry about that! It’s more important to me that you’re all right.”
Lan Wangji lowers his eyes. “I have been careless. Please allow me to make the necessary reparations.”
I hope you’re not upset with me. I hope you still think of me as a friend. I hope —
“Small matter, small matter!” Wei Ying waves his hands. “As a man, I don’t let myself be troubled by minor things like this. The stains will come off!”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Wei Ying chirps. He slides off the bed. “Wait here.”
He vanishes into the outer chamber. Very slowly, Lan Wangji releases his death hold on the bedding. His cock appears to be softening, shrinking against his inner thigh, the still-dribbling head retracting sedately into the outer skin. Lan Wangji takes a deep breath, and then another, listening to the hiss of air as it moves through his nose; his lungs. Fatigue pulls at him, a vague soreness echoing in his limbs. He thinks of curling up in Wei Ying’s bed without cleaning himself or dressing, and simply dropping off to sleep. Of rubbing himself against these sheets and linens that already smell of Wei Ying’s sweat and come, mingled tastes and memories and sensations washing over him in a dense, heady blast.
Wei Ying’s face appears around the edge of the divider. “I made you some tea.”
Lan Wangji accepts the cup gratefully. It’s boiling hot, not exactly the way he’d have prepared it for himself, but to refuse would be unthinkable. Wei Ying had made this for him. As he takes small, careful sips from the earthenware, Wei Ying reaches down to wipe him clean with a fresh handkerchief.
“I can do it…”
Wei Ying waves him off. “Allow me.”
To be fussed over, to be looked after, to be handled with such tenderness and care. Lan Wangji inhales sharply, breathing around the thick knot rising fast in his chest. Perhaps he has fallen into the realm of the immortals without realizing: a place where a wish like this, degenerate as it is, would always see itself come true.
He has much to reflect on, later.
But Wei Ying is dragging the silk along Lan Wangji’s upper thighs, below his balls, through the patch of coarse hair at the base of his cock. He moves with a limber, watchful thoroughness, and Lan Wangji thinks like he might soon get hard again, just from this.
With difficulty, he catches Wei Ying’s wrist and moves it away. “Thank you. I will wash myself again, once I get back to my room.”
Wei Ying wrinkles his nose. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Fine. But you know, you can always talk to me if you need any advice.”
Lan Wangji can’t help himself. “Do you have any advice for me, right now?”
“You want to know?” The corners of Wei Ying’s eyes crinkle in a smile. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you came a little too quickly earlier. That’s to be expected, though, given that you’re new to it. I’d suggest you practice on your own, but not every day, because if you do, you’ll find yourself taking longer and longer to come, which is annoying in its own way. I know, because it’s happened to me before.”
Another salacious mental picture of Wei Ying, to join the few already seared into his permanent memory. Lan Wangji does his best to cast it aside, to focus on the conversation at hand.
“Is it bad? If I… release… too quickly?”
“Maybe?” Wei Ying shrugs. “It depends on what you want. You’re clearly someone who values self-restraint, so I’d imagine it’d be frustrating for you to lose control more quickly than you’d like. Am I right?”
Lan Wangji looks down, unable to keep the warmth from spreading across his cheeks. Wei Ying understood him. He had actually paid attention to the little things Lan Wangji personally valued, and given him specific advice based on that. Still, there’s a gnawing worry at Wei Ying’s less-than-stellar assessment of his performance.
Wei Ying is talking again. “Think of self-comfort as a form of cultivation. You strengthen your spiritual energy with meditation. You strengthen your mind with reading and writing. You strengthen your body with sword forms and physical training. This is no different — you’re exercising a different muscle, feeding your inner discipline and resolve.”
That is certainly true, Lan Wangji thinks. The very idea that self-comfort could be viewed as a form of cultivation is startling, but strangely natural. Vaguely, he wonders if any of the books in the Cloud Recesses library carry similar philosophies, and whether he’d be able to gain access to them on the innocent pretext of broadening his knowledge.
And then, with a twinge of disquiet, he wonders if his brother knows about this. And his uncle. And — most mortifyingly — the other disciples, even the junior ones. Was this common knowledge? Did the other clans have teachings about this?
Had everyone always known this, apart from him?
“You did very well, though,” Wei Ying says, smiling, and it’s a struggle for Lan Wangji not to turn toward him, to bask in his approval, patent and sincere. “If you’d like me to teach you some other tricks, you can come back here in three days. Same time as tonight.”
Lan Wangji understands he’s being dismissed. He stands, adjusting his trousers and boots, then clasps his hands, bowing deeply to Wei Ying. “I am grateful for your instruction.”
“So formal, hai!” Wei Ying sighs. He lifts Lan Wangji’s elbows and swings them back and forth, just a little. “Lan Zhan, ah, Lan Zhan. You’ve come such a long way in the three years I’ve known you. I honestly never expected us to ever get this far with each other.”
Lan Wangji suppresses a smile. “Neither did I.”
Wei Ying shows him to the door. “One last piece of advice,” he says, as he slides it open. “Make sure you urinate afterwards. There was one Jiang disciple who never did, and his dick itched for days. We only found out about it because he started crying out of nowhere. Eventually Jiang Cheng and I had to make him drink this bitter medicine from the herbalist. I certainly don’t want that to happen to you!”
“I understand.”
“Well,” Wei Ying says. “Good night, Lan Zhan.”
He’s standing in the doorway, his silhouette rimmed in candlelight, his youthful features cast in shadow and flame. Lan Wangji looks, and looks, and knows in his heart that it will never be enough.
“Good night, Wei Ying.”
With a gentle click, the door slides into place. Lan Wangji stands there for a long moment, watching the languid flicker of light behind the paper. Breathing, and thinking, and remembering, his thoughts falling softly at his feet, weightless as snow.
Sleep does not come easily to Lan Wangji that night. He tosses and turns, sweat soaking through his night robes to leave dark stains across his mattress. His mind and heart are full of Wei Ying, of the soaring exhilaration of discovery.
His cock aches. A bright point of attention, and perplexity, and distraction. Throbbing against his belly, tenting his sleep trousers, leaking onto his blanket. All attempts to clear his mind have so far proven futile. How inexplicable, much like everything else that had happened to him on this particular evening. Never before has his usual meditative routine failed to calm his body and quiet his thoughts. In all of his nineteen years, this is the first time Lan Wangji has found himself in such a state of semi-permanent arousal.
He’s sorely tempted to slide a hand beneath the waistband of his pants and relieve the tension a little, just as Wei Ying had taught him. But he doesn’t. As always, the old threads of discipline hold him back.
He twists onto his side, catching a fold of his blanket between his thighs. The sensation is immediate: it rolls through him in a lazy, tormenting wave, and he instantly flips around to lie on his back again, irritated at himself for almost giving in.
This would not do. Perhaps, he should just get it over with. Do as Wei Ying suggested, and… practice.
Choice. Control. Instead of mindlessly rutting against his own bedding like a beast in heat, driven only by his basest of impulses, he will hone his focus. He will set his mind to the outcome, and treat it like any of his other lessons, like a challenge waiting to be conquered.
Lan Wangji sets the covers aside and sits up, slowly. Excitement pools in his lower belly, liquid and sharp, but he forces himself to move at a measured pace, even as he spreads his legs, unlaces his sleep trousers, and pushes them to his knees.
His cock feels alive in his hand, swollen with latent pressure and heat and need. Lan Wangji stifles a groan against his elbow as his arm begins to move. Despite his inexperience, his body seems to be intuitively aware of the specific rhythm it craves. It drives him on; squeezing and twisting and pumping, all speed and grip but no finesse, jumbled thoughts of Wei Ying flapping through his mind like startled birds.
Here, Wei Ying stepping out of his trousers and prancing before Lan Wangji, his cock and balls and ass on full display. There, Wei Ying approaching him before the gate with a jaunty smile, but instead of handing him a fistful of lotus seeds, he’s falling to his knees to bury his face in Lan Wangji’s crotch, mouthing at Lan Wangji over his robes, his hands coming up behind to pinch and knead at Lan Wangji’s ass. And then there’s the other dream, where Wei Ying is the one standing tall above him. He arches his body as he comes, spilling hot across Lan Wangji’s face and neck and chest.
Wei Ying.
He’s lost. Drifting in a blur of half-formed fantasies; unaware even of the minutiae of little discomforts in his immediate environment: the irregular surges in his own breathing, the distressing creases in his bedding, the cool perspiration beading across his skin. Somewhere, he vaguely perceives a small whisper cutting through the fog, speaking in a muddied cadence that sounds both like Wei Ying’s voice, and his own.
Slow down, slow down, slow down.
Lan Wangji ignores it, and he comes.
Fast and violent and all over, his orgasm shaking through him, tacky strings arcing upward to splatter wetly against his collarbone and chin. It wrings him, from outside to in and back again and then some, like a leaf blown hither and thither in a gale. Gasping, Lan Wangji collapses on his side, boneless and utterly spent.
And then a swirling revulsion rises suddenly in him, cold as black water. Wei Ying had tasked him with holding himself back, and he had failed at it. He had reneged on his promise to remain aware and disciplined. And, most abhorrent of all, he had once again sullied Wei Ying’s image in his mind. Twice now he had done it, and much like the first time, he had been unable to stop himself. Was it always this difficult? Did other people struggle with this as much as he did?
Did Wei Ying?
Lan Wangji has no answers for that.
He remains motionless for a long time, lying half-dressed and indifferent to the cooling drips of spend down the side of his body, before his mind sluggishly recalls the last of Wei Ying’s admonishments. Moving gingerly, he leans over the side of the bed to reach for his boots.
Outhouse first, then back again to clean himself and perhaps brew some calming tea. Followed by an hour of kneeling and reflecting, before attempting to go back to sleep. And perhaps, sometime over the next few days, he will seek Wei Ying out again, to admit his difficulties and ask for forgiveness.
Lan Wangji nods to himself, feeling the knot in his stomach loosening slightly at having a clear path of action to follow.
In this, he is determined not to fail.
A chorus of excited young voices drifts from the study hall, rising through the windblown trees like dandelion tufts. Lan Wangji slows his step as he approaches, his heart rising to his throat at the sound of Wei Ying’s bubbling laughter.
“Ha, Cao-xiong! You’ve lost your bet, because I definitely had people show up for my… party three nights ago. Looks like I’m not half as boring as you predicted, eh? Where’s my money?”
“Wei-xiong,” someone groans. “This is the fourth bet you’ve won this week, after that pheasant-hunting competition in the back hills. Here, take it, take it! You’re fleecing me dry.”
Another voice pipes up. “So, who showed up? You can’t keep a secret like that from us!”
Lan Wangji freezes, stomach dropping. Imperceptibly, he tightens his grip on his sword.
“You’re doubting me?” Wei Ying sounds comically aggrieved. “There were at least twenty people — Mu-xiong was there, and the He brothers, and that other guy from the Yue clan, the one with the scar above his eyebrow… I forget his name. Some of the Caiyi girls snuck in as well. We opened several bottles of wine, recited poetry, and grilled some of that fresh river fish. Such a shame you weren’t there! We had a really good time.”
Lan Wangji lets out a silent, shuddering breath. He resists the urge to clutch the door frame for support.
“Twenty people!” Cao-xiong exclaims. “Aiya, Wei-xiong! It sounds like you had a lot of fun. If only I had been there too!”
There’s some scattered lamenting from the other disciples, their disappointment clear. One of them asks, in a hopeful voice, when the next session would be.
“Remind me again in a month or two,” Wei Ying says. “I have some personal matters to attend to in the meantime. Anyway, see you all later, I’m going fishing at the creek.”
Hurriedly, Lan Wangji takes a step back from the doorway. His speech, already well-rehearsed, rests heavily on his tongue. The moment Wei Ying comes out of the room, he will take him aside, admit his indiscretion, and ask for forgiveness. His ears burn at the idea.
“Lan Zhan?”
Wei Ying is standing in front of him, eating boiled nuts from a small twist of paper. His sleeves are already pushed to his elbows, in anticipation of a carefree afternoon spent splashing about in the sun-dappled mountain stream behind the Cloud Recesses. In the late morning light, his vitality is palpable, the lambent crispness of it cutting straight to Lan Wangji’s heart.
Lan Wangji opens his mouth, then closes it.
I saw your cock. I watched you come. And you watched me, in turn, as I looked at and thought of nobody but you.
Lan Wangji glances around cautiously. The hallway is unoccupied, save the two of them. It reminds Lan Wangji of a particular private fantasy of his, in which he and Wei Ying are blissfully alone together, in the warmest and homeliest and most domestic of spaces. He moves forward, very slowly. Wei Ying’s eyes widen at his approach, but he stands his ground, meeting Lan Wangji’s gaze with frank equanimity.
Apologize to him. Now.
“Tonight?” Lan Wangji whispers.
Wei Ying smiles. It’s his private smile, delighted and secret and more than a little provocative. Yet, there’s something unbearably gentle in the set of his eyes, the wrinkle across the bridge of his nose.
“Tonight,” Wei Ying whispers back, close to Lan Wangji’s ear. His voice brims, alive with mischief and assent and promise. He plucks a nut from the paper cone and pops it into Lan Wangji’s mouth.
Casually, nonchalantly, with the insolence and assuredness of an established lover: seeking and expecting and finding intimacy in all aspects of daily living, instead of just under the hurried cover of night. It jolts something deep in Lan Wangji, visceral as a physical blow. Imperceptibly, he feels his cock stiffening in his trousers.
“See you, er-gege,” Wei Ying says. He’s already walking away, raising a hand to Lan Wangji in parting.
Lan Wangji licks his lips, savoring the hot, lingering imprint of Wei Ying’s fingertips on his mouth. The nut slips smoothly across his tongue, its flavor pleasant and mild.
“Ready?” Wei Ying asks.
Lan Wangji draws a deep breath. They’re alone in Wei Ying’s room again, just the two of them, facing each other by warm candlelight. The sheets on Wei Ying’s bed are fresh, and Lan Wangji allows himself to be led over, to be settled, to be soothed by warm tea and calming incense. At the sight of the single clean handkerchief laid out on the bed, he finds himself blushing heavily, anticipation bubbling up in his veins like spring water. Beneath his robes, he’s already achingly hard.
“I’m ready.”
“I made the tea a little too hot the other day,” Wei Ying says, looking a little contrite. “I hope today’s tea is more to your liking.”
Lan Wangji ducks his head. “I am grateful nonetheless.”
“So well-mannered.” Wei Ying grins, eyes disappearing with the rise of his cheeks. “Before we begin, I have a question for you. Did you practice on your own?”
“I… yes.” His tongue feels ungainly, the words tumbling from his mouth in an uncoordinated wave. “That night we parted, before I went to bed. It wasn’t… satisfactory.”
“Not satisfactory,” Wei Ying repeats.
“Yes.” Perversely, he feels his arousal spiking at the turn of the conversation.
“That’s normal,” Wei Ying says, sagely. “Sometimes, you’re just not really in the mood for things.”
That wasn’t the reason, Lan Wangji thinks. Out loud, he says, “Wei Ying, I have a question. Is it supposed to be difficult? To… control one’s thoughts whilst indulging in self-comfort?”
Wei Ying rubs his chin, appearing to consider the question very seriously. “It depends on what you’re thinking about, I suppose. If you’re trying to think of boring things to keep from coming too quickly, then I’d say that’s a worthwhile endeavor, though very difficult, especially if you’re really close. But, Lan Zhan. You shouldn’t be thinking so much! It’s supposed to be fun.”
“But you likened it to a form of cultivation. In itself, that requires hard work and a fair amount of commitment.”
To Lan Wangji’s surprise, Wei Ying lets out a bark of laughter. “Aiyo, Lan Zhan! Always so serious! See here, self-comfort is an art. It’s not meant to be competitive, or stress you out, or wear you thin. It’s good for your health, and it helps you to clear your mind so you can focus on other things, like your martial training, your cultivation, and your studies, music, calligraphy, and so on. ”
Lan Wangji can’t help but bristle at this. “You’re devoting your time to teaching me something very important. I must give it the focus it deserves.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying murmurs. He leans in a little closer, and Lan Wangji is temporarily distracted by the sight of his lips up close, plush and soft and yielding. “If you take it too seriously, like you’re doing now, it’ll only distract and worry you more. Look at me. I’m one of the top young masters in our generation. I might appear undisciplined and lazy to a lot of people, but I’m just as good as you are in terms of cultivation, history, reading, and so on. And why do you think that is? It’s because I indulge in self-comfort on a regular basis. My mind is relaxed, my body is energized, my core is refreshed, and my essence is strong — by purging it frequently, I ensure I remain healthy and virile. Do you see now?”
It’s a good argument, Lan Wangji muses. He looks Wei Ying squarely in the eye. “Thank you for explaining. I’d like to begin.”
It’s beautiful, the way Wei Ying’s eyes darken at his words. His gaze sweeps over Lan Wangji, lush and torrid and authoritative. “Take off your pants.”
Oh. Breathing unevenly, Lan Wangji slides his fingers below his robes and unties his trousers, letting them slip to mid-thigh. Then he shuffles back on the bed, in eager anticipation of Wei Ying’s next words.
Wei Ying’s eyes flick over his exposed cock, heavy as a caress, and Lan Wangji wonders if he might actually be able to come from this, without even being touched. If Wei Ying were to slide his gaze up, and down, would he feel it, like a ghostly hand against his skin? Teasing the head with nimble fingers, playing with his shaft and balls, drawing forth his pleasure from deep within?
I want you to touch me. The thought explodes into his mind with the force of a shout, and his cock rears sharply at the notion, spilling a thick gush of precome against his belly. Just you, and no one else.
“Always hard and wet and ready for me. You never disappoint, Lan er-gege,” Wei Ying says, with a small grin. He reaches below the bed to rummage around. “I have something new to teach you, as promised.”
Wei Ying produces a dainty wooden pot with a carving of two cranes on the lid. Privately, Lan Wangji thinks that it would not look out of place in a lady’s personal bedchamber.
“Scented oil,” Wei Ying says, by way of explanation. He tips a generous amount into Lan Wangji’s right palm. “I think you’ll like this. For a start, I’ll show you how you might use it on your dick.”
Lan Wangji rubs his fingertips together. The oil spools down his wrist, smooth and slippery. It smells faintly of jasmine blossoms, and another summery fruit he can’t quite identify. “What should I do with it?”
In response, Wei Ying makes the same crude gesture he’d made the first night. “Make yourself come.”
Lan Wangji sets his hand to his cock. The slide is breathtaking, and it rips a raw, strangled noise unbidden from his throat. He shudders, convulsing uncontrollably against the mattress, overcome by the senseless intensity of it all. He barely has any time to dwell on his usual fantasies, for his peak is approaching at breakneck speed, just barely contained by the tight, slick heat of his own palm.
He’s not going to last. Any moment — any moment now —
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying taps his knee. “Stop. Now.”
He’s sorely tempted to ignore Wei Ying; to keep going. But he can’t. Wei Ying’s presence looms large and irresistible at the fringes of his consciousness, a shimmering thread tethering him to the here and now, a signal flare blooming in the night sky. And at every opportunity, he will always find himself turning toward it, approaching it with an immense relief reminiscent of homecoming. Obediently, albeit reluctantly, he lifts his hand away from his cock.
He doesn’t even realize he’s sobbing until Wei Ying reaches over to wipe his face clean. “There, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. You did so well, you even managed to keep yourself from coming. You showed so much self-restraint. I’m so proud of you.”
Lan Wangji drops his head, Wei Ying’s words washing over him in a soothing flood. It’s all right. He has Wei Ying’s approval now, and nothing else matters. Wei Ying isn’t angry with him. Wei Ying is proud of him for doing so well.
I’m proud of myself too, Lan Wangji thinks, with some surprise. His cock gives a miserable throb between his thighs, flushed and angry and glistening with oil and precome, but as the bare moments slide by, it becomes easier and easier to regain control of his breathing, to expand his focus, to push the disappointment at his aborted pleasure to a distant part of his mind. If Wei Ying had not pulled him away at the last moment…
Gravely, he turns to face Wei Ying. “Thank you for holding me back.”
“Of course,” Wei Ying says. Is it Lan Wangji’s imagination, or is he blushing a little? “Anything for you.”
Anything for you.
Lan Wangji tries not to think about the implications of that sentiment. It will consume him, he knows, a constant pull at the edges of his imagination, following him through waking hours and dreams in equal measure.
“So… should we stop here for tonight?”
Wei Ying blinks in surprise. “But don’t you want to come?”
“I do, but…”
“I think you can hold back for a little longer,” Wei Ying says authoritatively. “I’m going to teach you something else.” He taps his own chest for emphasis. “Play with your nipples, go on.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Lan Wangji obeys.
He’s never quite fondled himself in this way before, never once thought to unlock the sensitivity lying dormant below his skin, a rippling current racing below quiet waters. The result is immediate and mercurial: a delightful tenderness at the twin points of tension, culminating in a blistering pleasure lancing straight down towards his cock. Impatiently, he tugs at his belt to free his inner and outer lapels, then pushes them roughly down his shoulders to expose his chest in full.
“Fuck,” Wei Ying hisses, wide-eyed. “Fuck, yes, pinch yourself.”
Lan Wangji whimpers, sweating and straining. His nipples feel large and sore and swollen; the tips dark and hard with desire, with the giddy, rumbling ecstasy of having Wei Ying’s attention on him. He twists his hips, thinking faintly of getting on all fours to grind himself against the bed, but Wei Ying catches one of his hands, quick as lightning. Holds it fast and sure, guiding it decisively downwards towards Lan Wangji’s cock.
“Try it at the same time. One hand on your cock, one hand on your nipples.”
He’s swirling, shifting, soaring through the clouds. His body is an instrument, and he’s playing it with devastating precision: reveling in the dawning, the quickening, the instinctive, rollicking turns of melody. He had never expected it to feel like this: heart-stopping, all-encompassing. His hands move faster, gathering and chasing the remnants of the scented oil over his chest and belly and cock, the concerted motions nudging him irrevocably closer towards a sweeping, surging climax.
“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying’s voice is a soft puff of heat against his cheek. “Do you want to come?”
Lan Wangji wheezes, breaths coming more sharply with the rhythmic pushes and draws. “Yes.”
But Wei Ying just shakes his head, ever so slightly. “You must try to slow down. Distract yourself by thinking of something else, like the most boring book you’ve ever read, or the worst food you’ve ever eaten.”
“I… can’t.”
“Surely you can. You’re the second-ranked young master of our generation, peerless in the six arts, a shining example to the other cultivation clans at large. This should be easy for someone of your caliber and standing.” Wei Ying’s voice is light, even, and infuriatingly reasonable. It does nothing to tamp the flames of his desire, and Lan Wangji only feels himself squirming ever more desperately, unable to silence the insistent booming in his blood.
“Wei Ying, I…”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Before he knows it, his body is already shaking, the pressure spilling from him in a series of vigorous, euphoric bursts. He comes long and hard, groaning and sputtering and spurting, mind washed clean; heart overflowing. Wei Ying, he hears himself crying out, throat constricting, rubbed raw with the sound of his indefinite yearning.
Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying murmurs. As the roaring in Lan Wangji’s ears gradually gives way to silence and the first, creeping tinges of mortification, Wei Ying leans in to clasp both of Lan Wangji’s hands within his own, heedless of the spreading mess of oil and come against his own robes and skin.
“Lan Zhan, it’s all right, it’s all right. I’m here. I’m here with you, and I’m not leaving your side. You did so well, performed so beautifully…”
Tears prickle at Lan Wangji’s eyes, sharp and sour as the beginnings of a nightmare. He sniffles, something dark and huge and monstrous rising quietly in his chest, and Wei Ying instinctively shifts forward to wipe his face. Then, unasked, he moves the handkerchief down, dabbing at the sticky mess on Lan Wangji’s stomach and crotch with earnest concentration. Lan Wangji stays still and docile, watching Wei Ying work. There’s something genuinely comforting in Wei Ying’s ministrations; in the way he hums tunelessly to himself as he moves the linen gently around the damp crease of Lan Wangji’s groin, and over his thighs and lower belly.
“Have some more tea.”
Lan Wangji drinks. Warmth unfolds through his mouth and throat and midsection, awakening his nerves and senses afresh. He can feel his thoughts settling, spreading and solidifying into distinct, jagged shapes.
His ears glow at the unthinkable recollection, a thick retrospective shame coursing through him like poison. In the throes of pleasure, he had been unable to stop himself from moaning Wei Ying’s name. Yet, Wei Ying had taken it in his stride and reassured him. If nothing else, he had shown an immeasurable amount of kindness just when Lan Wangji had needed it the most.
But it’s now woefully apparent that Wei Ying had not caught on to Lan Wangji’s true feelings. The alternative stings in equal measure — that Wei Ying had in fact realized, but had instead made a conscious choice not to acknowledge it, for reasons of his own. Lan Wangji looks quietly away, heart faltering. Between the two possibilities, he cannot decide which is worse.
Perhaps he ought to talk to his uncle about going into seclusion. Just like his father, he can almost imagine the clan elders admonishing. A disappointment; a disgrace. Shunning the ascetic, embracing the profane, leaving too many worldly traces of his bare soul on the uncaring.
“Lan Zhan, ah,” Wei Ying’s tentative voice breaks through his thoughts. “Will you… do you still want to continue? There are, ah. Some other fun things you can do with the oil. Other places to put your fingers. If you’d like, I’d be happy to show you the next time you’re here.”
Lan Wangji swallows, hard. He turns to look at Wei Ying, studying the sweet dip of his eyelashes, the heartbreaking set of his mouth. Wei Ying’s eyes are large and fearful for some inexplicable reason, and Lan Wangji briefly considers cupping his face to bring their foreheads together. He thinks of pressing his ribbon against Wei Ying’s cheeks and hands, of threading their fingers together against his heart. Of whispering to Wei Ying in turn, in the slow breaths of time between their bodies, Don’t worry. I’m here.
“Yes. I will come back.”
Wei Ying breaks into a relieved grin. “That’s good! Ah… thank you for trusting me. I’ll see you in three days’ time, Lan Zhan.”
An unbearable fondness, washing over his heart like rain. “See you then, Wei Ying.”
“Lan Zhan! Over here!”
Lan Wangji turns towards the sound, a quiet gladness unfolding in his chest. Beside him, his brother hastily raises a fist to hide a cough.
Wei Ying is skipping down the street towards them, arms laden with shopping parcels and boxes of candy. His grin is wide and infectious, his cheeks flushed with the brilliance of summer, and Lan Wangji knows he will never forget this moment for as long as he lives.
“Lan-gongzi.” Wei Ying bows respectfully to his brother first. Then he spins playfully to face Lan Wangji. “Ah, Lan Zhan! Are you shopping as well? What are you buying?”
Lan Wangji’s brother offers a gracious smile. “We are just browsing the market. Wei-gongzi is more than welcome to join us.”
“Then I shall,” Wei Ying exclaims. He hooks his arm in Lan Wangji’s. “There’s a small stall just up ahead, selling scents. Let’s go.”
Caiyi is wonderfully alive at this time of the year, and Wei Ying’s arm is warm against his, a solid comforting weight against his side. Lan Wangji finds his eyes drawn to him, to the easy familiarity that follows Wei Ying around wherever he goes, as natural as a high mountain stream frothing towards the sea. Spectacular and unattainable, all in one. He clears his throat and turns instead to look at the trailing willows, at the young scholars reciting poetry on the bridge, at the giggling couples on the river boats.
Perhaps, at some point, he and Wei Ying might take a slow boat ride down the canals together. Wei Ying would row them, pulling at the bulky oars with his strong boatman’s arms, and Lan Wangji would read to him from a book of classical poetry. He can almost picture it: Wei Ying responding with witty made-up verses of his own, lounging against the oars with easy nonchalance, pouring liquor straight into his mouth from a jar. And Lan Wangji would drink him in with the softest of gazes. Watch the gentle drip of wine down the finely-edged shelf of Wei Ying’s chin; the hollow of his throat. Take Wei Ying’s hands in his, and press his heart to their joined palms. Wishing, and hoping, and seeing.
He gives himself a mental shake. That will never happen. Not in this lifetime, or even the next. Wei Ying had made that extremely clear the night before.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. They’ve arrived at the stall, and Wei Ying temporarily lets go of Lan Wangji’s hand to reach for a pot of scented oil. “What do you think of this one?” He lifts it to his face and sniffs, wrinkling his nose in concentration. “Hmm…I think it’s orange blossom.”
Lan Wangji goes very still. All of a sudden, he’s acutely aware of his brother standing just behind, peering over his shoulder with a great deal of interest. Heat rushes to his ears, instant and vicious, and he presses his lips together and looks fixedly down at his feet without saying anything.
“Or this,” Wei Ying is saying. He thrusts another jar under Lan Wangji’s nose, frowning in thought. “Peach flower. Do you like it?”
His brother steps up beside them, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Could Wei-gongzi possibly be… choosing a courting gift for a young maiden?”
At this, Wei Ying throws back his head and laughs, long and loud. “Me? A young maiden? Courting? Unfortunately, Lan-gongzi, I’m afraid I do not have any specific maidens in my sights at this current moment in time. This oil is for… personal purposes. Anyone can use it, male or female. I was telling Lan Zhan the other day that it helps me to focus more easily when meditating.”
Lan Wangji steals a pointed glance at his brother, who looks as though he’s trying to hold back a smirk. “I see. Perhaps Wangji might benefit from using some as well.”
“Xiongzhang…”
“Oh, that’s exactly what I’ve been telling him!” Wei Ying chuckles. He bumps Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “See, Lan Zhan, your brother agrees with me.”
Lan Wangji closes his eyes. He thinks, fleetingly, of turning around and marching away from the stall. Of mounting his blade and soaring away to a secluded cave in the mountains, where he would be an appropriate distance away from this conversation and its incriminating implications. But even amidst the turmoil, he can feel his thoughts coalescing, settling on a single, illuminating realization.
Wei Ying was not currently courting any maidens. Either he had no intention of doing so, or he just hadn’t found anyone he liked well enough yet.
In any case, Lan Wangji thinks dourly, it’s going to happen sooner or later. Eventually, there would come a time where he and Wei Ying would both find themselves dutifully married to women. Their wives would be carefully selected from a narrow pool of high-status candidates deemed suitable by their respective clans. Thereafter, he might run into Wei Ying once every few years: during inter-clan activities or special occasions, or never again at all. And perhaps one day decades into the future, he might step into the summer lectures to see Wei Ying’s children seated at the front row of the hall, patiently awaiting his instruction.
Inevitable and unstoppable, much like the meandering trickle of seasons; the passage of stars in the night sky.
He turns to look at Wei Ying, who is eagerly sniffing at a different pot of scented oil. I will not leave you or refuse you anything, Lan Wangji thinks, suddenly. However long I am allowed to stay at your side, I will.
“Try this,” Wei Ying says, lifting it to his face. “I think it suits you.”
Lan Wangji looks at the pot, at the matched pair of mandarin ducks engraved on the wooden lid, and raises it to his nose, inhaling deeply. He smells the top notes first; citrus and hyacinth. Then, the heart: a subtle spice, vaguely familiar, a lost dream hovering around the long-buried trails of memory. And at last, the base, softly dissipating into something rich and earthy and bittersweet. It tugs at him; pithy as an impression, elusive as mist.
Lan Wangji turns to face Wei Ying, taking care to look directly into his eyes. “I like it very much.”
“Good!” Wei Ying turns back to the vendor. “I’ll take a large pot of this one, please.”
“I can pay,” Lan Wangji protests.
Wei Ying waves him off with a grin. “Next time, Lan Zhan, next time! This is my gift to you, a token of our long friendship, if I may. Hey, when we meditate or practice our forms together, be sure to bring this along, all right?”
Lan Wangji’s brother leans forward, eyes sparkling with amusement and good humor. “Wei-gongzi! This is unorthodox, but extremely thoughtful of you. I am confident that Wangji’s skill will improve with your unwavering support.”
“Thank you, Lan-gongzi,” Wei Ying says, with a polite bow.
“Wei Ying, I appreciate the gift.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” Wei Ying says, with an exaggerated wink. He waits until Lan Wangji’s brother is out of earshot before sidling closer and dropping his voice to a heated whisper. “I’m really looking forward to practicing with you tomorrow night, Lan Zhan.”
After the bustle of Caiyi, the journey home is relatively tranquil and unhurried. His brother talks as they walk, broad-voiced and speculative, of lesson plans and clan governance and their uncle’s health. Lan Wangji does his best to pay attention; to nod and interject sensible comments in the right places. It’s not easy, especially with the new weight in his sleeve bumping his arm at every step.
Wei Ying’s gift.
There’s a brief lull in the conversation, and Lan Wangji guiltily allows his thoughts to wander. True to Wei Ying’s advice, he now makes it a daily habit to practice the art of self-comfort on his own before going to bed. Over time, it has gradually become easier; a treat to look forward to, a gratifying consolation for the dreary days in between his regular lessons with Wei Ying. Sometimes, he does it in the mornings as well. Nudging his sleeping robes aside and taking himself quietly in hand even before his eyes are fully open, the cool predawn light painting over the afterimages of his dreams in watery streaks.
Perhaps, he could sample some of the new oil during his nightly practice later. The thought brings forth a delicious rush of excitement, like the start of something whimsical and forbidden. Then almost immediately he shakes his head at himself, a vague disquiet rising in him. No. He ought to keep it for the next lesson with Wei Ying, so they might use it together for the first time.
“…Wangji?”
Lan Wangji gives a start. His brother is looking at him, curiously, brows knitted in concern.
“I apologize.”
“No need,” his brother says. His eyes flick to the shape of the parcel in Lan Wangji’s sleeve, and the corners of his mouth twist upwards in understanding. “You look tired. Why don’t you take some time alone to relax? I have some clan business to discuss with shufu for now. Let’s meet again at the evening meal.”
“Thank you, xiongzhang.”
As his brother’s form vanishes into the distance, Lan Wangji takes several deep breaths, trying to still his racing heart. He’s alone, in the small paved grove leading to the training grounds, not far from the secluded meadow where the rabbits live.
There’s a carved stone bench at the edge of the path. Primly, Lan Wangji moves toward it to sit down. He takes the wrapped parcel from his sleeve and stares down at it, breathing heavily.
He should put away the parcel. He should return to his rooms. He should —
Moving quietly and quickly, Lan Wangji unties his trousers and wriggles out of them. His heart hums in his chest, its beat swift and erratic, swept along by a raging, insatiable fervor from deep within. Freed from the confines of its fabric prison, his cock bounces up at once, twitching and leaking and pulsing against his palm. Instinctively, he squeezes his erection, moving his fist in short, hungry stripes, spreading the clear, sticky moisture thickly down the shaft.
There’s no sound in the grove save for the soughing of the wind through the bamboo leaves, the slick sound of skin on skin, and the cadence of his own ragged panting.
His face burns. His neck burns. His ears burn. How deplorable of him to take care of himself like this, in broad daylight. At any moment, someone might walk down the path to the training grounds, and inadvertently stumble upon him. A scholar, an elder, perhaps a young disciple from one of the visiting clans — what would they think of him if they saw him like this? The second young master of Gusu Lan, the cultivation world’s paragon of discipline and decorum? Besmirching a public space with his lower body wantonly exposed, his trousers pushed untidily to his ankles, moaning and grunting and pleasuring himself to obscene completion?
What if — what if Wei Ying were the one to stumble upon him? Oh, Lan Zhan, ah, he’d say, with a little smirk. So impatient that you couldn’t wait? Come, let me show you an interesting new trick…
Lan Wangji spills then, harsh and hot and heavy, gusts of come pattering on the smooth surface of the stone bench like dewdrops. His mind swims with the enormity of what he’s done, and he struggles to his feet at once, tugging up his trousers with one hand and mopping frantically at the wetness on the bench with the other. The wrongness pulls at him like a stain on his conscience, an indistinct fear looming like a sleeping beast in the valleys of his heart.
Hurry.
Eventually, he’s satisfied that no trace of him remains on the bench, or for that matter, anywhere in the little grove. As he begins the long trek back to his rooms, it takes everything in him to resist the urge to run.