Chapter Text
Wei Wuxian feels clean and empty.
(He is neither. Dutifully, he ate almost too much; allowed himself to be bathed, though never enough. Nothing can fill the void deep within him, but small amounts of substance take meaningful time to sink in that far. He understands that he is nourished by what has yet to drain away, food and affection alike. He is scraped raw by gentleness.)
His mouth tastes of cotton and herbal rinse. His robes are no worse than dusty and patched. He can stand with a semblance of steadiness.
Wen Ning is at his elbow, supporting him.
Wei Wuxian leans on that strength, physically and mentally. It is not enough to stop him, merely knowing that he should not. To be ill or injured—with self-inflicted damage, at that—just gives him an excuse.
(Wei Wuxian is weak, needy, shameless. He has only ever done the right thing for someone else, someone he liked, and only after seeing what they needed. On his own, Wei Wuxian is dead to moral behavior, useful engagement with society, fruitful family life. He has tangled his creative energies with half-hidden repressed resentment for as long as he can remember; sacrificing his core only revealed that he was never meant for the grace he was given. Surely, the Burial Mounds have always been calling him home.)
Wordlessly, Wen Ning lets go of his arm as they step out of the shadows of the cave.
Wen Ning has such faith in him, and such willingness to indulge his pointless pride.
The gray light of the Burial Mounds, as dim as a snowy day in winter despite the warmth of the day, stabs at his eyes. Wei Wuxian tenses his back muscles to stay upright. Something in his gut, underneath the scars, sideways of the cold-ash empty hearth of his lower dantian, feels like it twists with each step, a rag wringing endlessly tighter, a wheel squeaking with strain. His feet are very far away. His hands are cold and shaking.
Someone stands just outside the cave. He is very still, but for the breeze moving his hair and his ribbon. He is brightness, a sharp glint of silver above white like summer haze. He is looking towards them, and does not turn away.
“Lan Zhan, you came back,” Wei Wuxian says.
Lan Zhan’s eyes meet his. Brilliant gold, focused as a hawk, inexplicably intense. Real.