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Daylight comes late this time of year, late enough that even Wei Ying wakes only a little after dawn. Lan Wangji likes it - the slow, reluctant melting of the night, embracing the day coquettishly and finally sinking into the cold, clear sunlight like someone being held in their lover's arms. He especially likes it now, when he can look up and see Wei Ying's form cuddled up under the quilts, take a breath of his scent that drifts through the room.
It mingles deliciously with the scent of his tea and the sandalwood incense that suffuces his room, a sharp, nose-tingling petrichor. Someone had said once that the Yiling Patriarch smelled of gravestones, but to Lan Wangji he had always, even as a beta, smelled like rain falling on thirsty ground. Wei Ying can't seem to help but mark everything he likes -- his books, the bed, the one particular ink stone that he uses the most. When he's lost in thought he rubs his wrist glands over anything he likes -- any one he likes. Lan Wangji smells like him so much that his uncle had scolded him for it. Vulgar, he said. Common. A gentleman never marked things so obviously.
Lan Wangji didn't care, and neither did Sizhui, who always turned very slightly pink with happiness when Wei Ying stroked down his hair and shoulders when he talked to him. Lan Wangji remembers, how lovely it was when his mother put her scent on him -- how warm and comfortable it felt. He likes it as much as Sizhui does, he thinks -- Sizhui carrying both their scents.
He almost doesn't hear Wei Ying stirring behind him. He puts his book down when he does, ready to get up, but before he can, Wei Ying is beside him, rubbing his head against his shoulder. Lan Wangji smells Wei Ying's scent rising, smudged against his robes in a silent greeting.
Lan Wangji tilts his head against the crown of Wei Ying's head and nuzzles into it, breathing deeply to bask in Wei Ying's scent. Wei Ying responds with a deep, throaty purr, vibrating through his body. "Lan Er-gege," he says, somehow speaking through his resounding purr, "Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan--"
"Mm," he says, lifting his arm up to let Wei Ying cuddle up even closer, if possible.
"Lan Zhan, you're here," says Wei Ying. "You're really here."
Where else would he be? thinks Lan Wangji. But he doesn't say that. He can tell Wei Ying only said it for the joy of making the statement, of saying something that, miraculously, somehow, turns out to be true. Lan Wangji knows. Sometimes he says to himself, very quietly: "Wei Ying loves me" and feels the shattering relief and joy sing through him all over again.
"I'm here," he says, and turns enough to pull Wei Ying into his arms.