Chapter Text
-1-
Lan Wangji thanks the heavens when it’s time to teach GusuLan sword techniques to the visiting disciples. Wei Wuxian, like dripping water on stone, is about to erode the last of his resolve. A physical outlet is imperative to maintaining his control, he is sure of it.
He rescinds his heavenly thanks when he is paired with the aforementioned troublemaker, apparently at his xiongzhang’s behest. Traitor.
Of course, Wei Wuxian, unfortunately being the genius that he is, memorizes the basic techniques within an afternoon. The next day, while the other guest and Lan disciple pairs move through their forms on the training field, Lan Wangji leads Wei Wuxian to a smaller, secluded field.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, if you wanted alone time with me, you only had to ask,” Wei Wuxian needles, flipping Suibian casually into the air and catching it without looking; his gaze is fixed firmly on Lan Wangji.
“‘Respect your spiritual weapon,’” Lan Wangji quotes in response. He wheels around and stops. “Get into a stance.”
Wei Wuxian’s lips slowly curl back, revealing his teeth as he does what he’s told. “So commanding. Maybe Lan-er-gongzi can give me pointers I can use with my shidi so they’ll be better-behaved.”
Lan Wangji draws his sword back over his shoulder, his other hand creating an invisible wall in front of him – a variation on one of the basic forms. Although simple, it is one of his favorites, easily moldable to any circumstance.
He watches darkly as Wei Wuxian mirrors his pose, tilting his head down to watch Lan Wangji through his lashes. Lan Wangji narrows his eyes. “Lead by example, first.”
“I always do,” says Wei Wuxian at the same moment he launches himself at Lan Wangji.
Lan Wangji is ready for him.
Their swords clash with such force, a flock of birds scatters from the nearby treetops in a deafening cacophony. Wei Wuxian’s movements are careful at first, not yet possessing the muscle memory that makes moving through the forms so easy for Lan Wangji, but as they dodge and slice and weave around each other, his movements become more sure.
He’s a quick study. Lan Wangji knows this. He quells his admiration and lunges for an opening; Wei Wuxian neatly sidesteps the attack, the grin never leaving his face.
Lan Wangji’s stamina is unrivalled in all of GusuLan sect save his brother, so he can’t help but be impressed when the first beads of sweat form at his brow and Wei Wuxian is still going strong. It is clear why he is the head disciple of YunmengJiang, as much as his demeanor and everything else about him aggravates Lan Wangji to no end.
Every muscle aches in ways they haven’t for a long time; he and Wei Wuxian have been sparring for what feels like hours, and most likely has been, judging by the sun’s ascent over the treetops.
“Aggh!” Wei Wuxian shouts into a particularly powerful swing, falling back on strength rather than finesse, and that is when Lan Wangji knows he is growing fatigued.
“Stop dodging and fight me, Lan Zhan!” he growls, swiping one hand through his sweat-damp hair. His breaths come out in short little huffs; his lip curls into a sneer.
They’re close. Lan Wangji could reach out and press the tip of his sword to Wei Wuxian’s throat if he had the mind to, at this proximity. His sparring partner’s eyes are dark, blown wide with the thrill of the fight. His black hair falls like ink, cascading down his face and clinging to the sharp angles of his jaw, the smooth line of his neck. Warmth shoots down to Lan Wangji’s groin. He shifts his stance, wishing he could pretend he is unaffected.
“Stop missing,” he retorts, deftly stepping away from another thrust of Wei Wuxian’s sword and adjusting the lay of the fabric down his front. Although the late-morning heat of summer has sweat dripping down his back, the brief thought passes through his mind that he might need more layers. His summer robes, sheer and light to combat the heat, will do little to conceal the unwanted evidence of his awakening.
Across from him, Wei Wuxian bites his lip and gets that look in his eyes, the one Lan Wangji knows means trouble. Wei Wuxian fluidly sheathes Suibian before hurling himself bodily at Lan Wangji’s waist, heedless of Bichen’s sharp blade as Lan Wangji instinctively brings his arm up to block the sudden flurry of movement.
The sword’s pommel connects solidly with Wei Wuxian’s stomach before it goes flying, knocked out of Lan Wangji’s grasp by the force of the tackle.
Wei Wuxian straddles Lan Wangji’s stomach, pinning him down and trying to catch his breath. He grimaces through his grin at the bruise Lan Wangji undoubtedly gave him. It will turn violent and purple later, but he pays it no heed, leaning down into Lan Wangji’s space. He is dangerously close to discovering-
Lan Wangji does not have time to finish the thought before he grabs Wei Wuxian by the wrists, pulling him downward until their chests collide before flipping them over so he can escape. He’s on his feet, stumbling backward until he can put distance between them.
“Wei Ying!” he snaps once he’s far enough away, straightening out his robes – a little more obviously this time, with a good excuse for it.
Wei Wuxian is still lying on his back, dazed, chest heaving. He lets his head fall to the side, lets his dark eyes find Lan Wangji across the field. “Lan Zhan,” he laughs. “You should have seen your face.”
Lan Wangji retrieves Bichen and sheathes it, promising himself he will spend at least an hour polishing his weapon later on to make up for dropping it like that. Wei Wuxian scrambles to his feet and saunters toward him in a way that has Lan Wangji on edge. For good reason, he discovers when Wei Wuxian lunges again.
He catches the attack head-on, grasping at Wei Wuxian’s outstretched arms and using the momentum to flip his assailant onto his back with a resounding thud! that knocks the air out of Wei Wuxian’s lungs.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen in surprise before his grin turns malicious seconds later, and he twists his body around to kick Lan Wangji’s ankles. Lan Wangji’s balance is good and the first blow does not bring him down, but Wei Wuxian combines the attack with a last-ditch grab at the sash on Lan Wangji’s robes. The dual attack topples Lan Wangji into an embarrassingly graceless pile of flailing limbs.
When he finally rights himself, Wei Wuxian’s wide-eyed gaze snaps abruptly to his face from- wherever it was. Lan Wangji doesn’t want to know.
“Something tells me you’ve never wrestled like this in your life, have you, Lan Zhan.”
“We are done here,” Lan Wangji growls, standing up, brushing himself off, and stalking away with a flick of his robes. “You can practice alone.”
“See you tomorrow!” Wei Wuxian calls after him, far too happy with himself.
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The GusuLan disciples’ quarters are blessedly deserted when Lan Wangji returns to his room. He strips out of his dirtied outer robes, smeared green and brown with grass and dirt, and tosses them into his laundry basket. A glimpse of his reflection informs him of the need for a thorough cleansing.
After he pours the last bucket of hot water into his tub, Lan Wangji lays out fresh robes and lights a stick of the incense he saves for these occasions. Smoke curls languidly through the air as he steps gingerly into the tub, sinking below the steaming water with a low sigh.
After a moment’s indulgence relaxing into the heat, he retrieves a washcloth from the low shelf next to the bath and dunks it in the water. As he bathes, Lan Wangji discovers two things: the first is that Wei Wuxian somehow managed to hit him hard enough to leave marks on his skin. Lan Wangji trails his fingers over the red marks on his ankles, along the tender spots along his ribs. He gasps at the soreness, imagines Wei Wuxian kneeling beside the tub, concerned about the wounds.
I am fine, Lan Wangji would say, batting Wei Wuxian’s hands away. They are superficial.
Wei Wuxian’s face would be teasing, as always, but there would be a pinch of concern between his brows as he stubbornly disregarded Lan Wangji’s protests. He would reach into the bathwater, trail his fingers across Lan Wangji’s flank, down to his-
The second thing, he discovers with a gasp, abruptly shattering the fantasy as he thrusts up into his vise-like grip. When had he-? Doesn’t matter, he’s most of the way already-
“Nngh,” he gasps, grabbing for the washcloth with his other hand as he races, unceasing, toward his climax. His release snaps like a too-tight guqin string, flooding his body with discordant relief and shame all at once.
He was wrong. A physical outlet had done nothing more than pulverize the last of his self-control into dust, scattering it mockingly into the wind.