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Lan Wangji hits the cliffside face-first, pain exploding from his right cheekbone. The breath is completely driven out of him when he hits the ground, and for a moment he can do nothing but lie there, gasping ineffectually and attempting to blink the stars from his field of vision.

He is still alive, which suggests that his attack found its mark, even as he was flung away by the yao’s own assault. As soon as he can move again, he twists just enough to confirm it, and is relieved to find that the yao he’s been tracking for the last few days is indeed dead.

This achieved, he gingerly pushes himself up into a sitting position to take stock of his injuries, trying to focus through the awful tearing pain in his right side where the yao had caught him with its sharp claws before it flung him at the walls of the gully. His cheekbone is still smarting, and a careful touch confirms that it is blood he feels trickling down his face from the wound. The skin surrounding the cut feels hot and angry; there will likely be bruising. He is likely badly bruised elsewhere also, from his impacts with the rock face and with the ground. More troubling, however, is the wet warmth he can feel steadily soaking through the robes at his side. The injury is still screaming at him, and it only gets louder when he applies pressure to the wound.

Lan Wangji grits his teeth and reaches for his golden core to heal the damage, only to feel his stomach drop with a sickening lurch when he finds nothing there to answer his call. His reserves of spiritual energy have been depleted far more thoroughly than he would usually allow. He’s been careless.

This is the latest in a long string of night hunts. He’s been too busy learning and composing and refining every piece of cleansing music imaginable to take adequate rest in between them, stubbornly ignoring the little voice that reminds him of Wei Ying’s repeated, vehement refusals any time he tries to bring up the harm his cultivation path is causing him. He’s been throwing himself at the most challenging hunts available, too focused on not focusing on how powerless he feels to do anything tangible to help Wei Ying.

He had tracked this yao across several provinces, with little in the way of food or rest. He had grown momentarily distracted when he realised that he had tracked it all the way to Yiling, recognising the craggy cliffs and the stunted trees from his previous visit to the Burial Mounds, and it was that moment of distraction that had led to his current injuries. Now he is bleeding through his robes, his spiritual energy is dangerously low, and he cannot afford to wait the time it would take to send for assistance from his sect. Foolish.

Lan Wangji steels himself against the pain and leans on Bichen, forcing himself to his feet with minimal swaying. He needs to get help, and he really only has one choice, although he hates the thought of burdening Wei Ying and the Wen remnants with the consequences of his carelessness. He cannot forget Wei Ying’s shame at not having tea to offer him on his previous visit to the Burial Mounds. Everything in him rebels at the prospect of further straining resources already stretched to breaking point with his needless stupidity, especially given his own wealth and privilege.

But the fact remains that Lan Wangji is in trouble. From what he knows of the terrain, he is closer to the Burial Mounds than he is to the town, and the coppery tang of his own blood is strong in his nostrils. He can feel it, sticky and wet against his left hand where it stays pressed against his right side. And, selfishly, he wants to see Wei Ying, wants to see him as he has wanted to see him every moment since they last parted.

It is that ache, piling on top of the stinging throb of his cheekbone and the scream of his side and the dull pain of his torso where bruises are surely forming, that ultimately jolts him into motion.

Lan Wangji mostly manages to walk in a straight line as he advances deeper into the Burial Mounds, getting nearer and nearer to the crackling power of Wei Ying’s wards. Sometimes he pauses to catch his breath against a scraggly tree, but his breathlessness scares him enough that he always pushes off again before long. He looks down at the dark blood staining more and more of the right side of his robes red, and has the offhand thought, filtered through distant panic, that Wei Ying will be unable to make any jokes about his mourning robes. The thought prompts a giggle. Oh dear. Perhaps he’s lost more blood than initially thought. It would explain why the Burial Mounds appear to be spinning slightly.

The spinning is getting worse. He doesn’t like it. He manages to stagger the last of the distance to the wards before he loses his balance altogether. From his new seat on the ground, he reaches a trembling hand out until it makes contact with the wards. He feels the threatening hum of the energy against his skin, but he knows it will not hurt him. Wei Ying is clever. He would not make his wards indiscriminately cruel. What was he doing? Oh, yes. He gives the wards a pat. There. Now Wei Ying knows he’s here. Doesn’t he? “Please tell Wei Ying I am here,” he tells the wards, just in case. Speaking makes the skin of his face pull strangely on the injured right side, the drying blood making it stiff. He doesn’t like that any better than he likes the spinning.

For a while after that, Lan Wangji just concentrates on staying upright, trying not to panic more than he is already, and ignoring the pain as best he can.

He catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye, and realises he’s left a trail of blood behind him in drips and spatters. Looking at the mess caused by his own carelessness, he abruptly feels like crying. He has gone from being unable to help Wei Ying to actively dragging problems to his doorstep.

“Lan Zhan?”

Wei Ying! Lan Wangji swings his head around just in time to watch Wei Ying’s beautiful eyes widen, horror replacing confusion as he takes in all the blood.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying is right there all of a sudden, dropping to his knees in the dirt and putting one of his beloved hands over Lan Wangji’s blood-tacky one, pressing harder on his side wound. He can’t prevent the small noise that escapes him at this as the pain spikes, and he finally loses his fight with gravity, pitching forward until his forehead is pressed against Wei Ying’s neck. Wei Ying’s other arm tightens protectively around his back, and his voice is full of fear when he says, “Lan Zhan, what happened?”

“Night hunt,” Lan Wangji manages to get out, then “stupid.” He curls the fingers of his right hand into the rough fabric of Wei Ying’s outer robe, looks up at his panicked face, and manages to get to the important part. “Wei Ying. I’m sorry. Wangji apologises.”

“What are you talking about?” Wei Ying’s voice goes high and tight with alarm, and he tightens his grip on Lan Wangji, even as he turns momentarily back towards the settlement and bellows for Wen Qionglin.

“Useless. I am useless. Stupid. I cannot do anything to help Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying stills, looking down at Lan Wangji with an absolutely stricken expression. Lan Wangji’s arms feel like noodles, but he manages to reach up and attempt to smooth out the furrow between Wei Ying’s brows. His eyes feel hot, and his vision is swimming a little. He has to force more words out around the sharp ache in his throat.

“Now – now I am causing you worry. Making trouble for you. Worse than useless. I am sorry, Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying swallows, hard. “Lan Zhan, no, you’re not useless, you don’t have anything to be sorry for, okay? Just, just sit tight and wait for Wen Ning, ah? Ah, stay awake! No sleeping, Lan Zhan, don’t fall asleep, it’s not hai shi, what would your uncle say? Lan Zhan? Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji wants to do as Wei Ying says, but his eyelids feel far too heavy to lift, and he finds he’s rapidly losing the battle to stay awake. Wei Ying’s voice washes over him as if it’s coming from a distance, and he wants to make him stop worrying, to tell him that he just needs some spiritual energy and he’ll be fine, probably, but his lips feel even heavier than his eyelids. He hears Wen Qionglin’s voice join Wei Ying’s, and has just enough presence of mind to feel relieved before he slips into unconsciousness.

Wei Wuxian sits outside Demon Subdue Palace, having been shooed out by Wen Qing when he’d tried to follow Wen Ning inside. He looks down at Bichen in his lap, feeling faintly like he’s taken a blow to the head. Months ago, after seeing Lan Zhan off at the edge of the Burial Mounds, Wei Wuxian had wondered if it was the last time he would ever see him. The thought has torn at him. When he’d felt a presence at the wards – not hostile, no ill intent, just waiting politely – a part of him had perked up, wondering if maybe… But he wasn’t prepared to see Lan Zhan like that. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget seeing Lan Zhan like that, crumpled on the ground just outside the wards covered in his own blood, like something straight out of one of Wei Wuxian’s nightmares, looking up at him with tear-filled eyes and apologising to him with heart-breaking sincerity.

And how can he think himself useless? Lan Zhan is so good, he’s one of the best people Wei Wuxian knows. It tears at his heart to know that he thinks such things about himself. But Wei Wuxian hasn’t exactly been letting him do anything to help, has he? He’s been trying to push Lan Zhan away, too afraid that he’ll find out the truth about his golden core, or that he’ll be harmed because of his association with Wei Wuxian. He didn’t realise just how badly he was hurting Lan Zhan in the process. He certainly didn’t think Lan Zhan would blame himself. But then again, Lan Zhan is so good, so sweet – how could he not blame himself?

Wei Wuxian doesn’t know what to do. He couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Lan Zhan because of him. But something has happened to Lan Zhan anyway.

Lan Zhan, who has always been so capable, so untouchable, one of the best cultivators of their generation without a doubt – but Wei Wuxian’s parents had been strong cultivators too, hadn’t they? The idea that Wei Wuxian could lose Lan Zhan the way he’d lost them, to something as simple as a night hunt gone wrong, is deeply terrifying. Is this how Lan Zhan felt, during the Sunshot Campaign? When Wei Wuxian was missing, when he was unconscious after the final battle? It’s unbearable.

And he had felt so helpless, looking down at Lan Zhan in his arms, unable to pass him any spiritual energy. He’d had to call Wen Ning to carry Lan Zhan back to the settlement, knowing that he would be able to do it more quickly and smoothly than Wei Wuxian could. So Wen Ning had carried Lan Zhan, and Wei Wuxian had followed behind with Bichen. If anyone was useless, it was him, not Lan Zhan.

“Wei-gongzi,” Granny Wen says from beside him, startling him out of his thoughts. She squats down in front of him with a basin of water and gently takes his wrist in her wizened hand. It’s only then that it really registers that his hand is still covered in Lan Zhan’s blood, drying sticky on his skin from where he’d been pressing on the wound. He feels sick.

Granny Wen washes his bloodied hand clean as he presses the other to his mouth, trying to breathe through the wave of nausea. When she’s done, she dries his hand with the fabric of her apron, and then simply holds it in her own, steady and sure. She rubs her thumbs back and forth on the back of it, and all of a sudden he has to blink back tears.

“A-Yuan?” he manages to choke out. “He didn’t see anything, did he?”

“No,” she confirms, and something in him relaxes a little. “He’s with his aunties at the stream, helping them with the laundry. They’ll keep him away from here until Qing-guniang is finished treating Hanguang-jun.”

He nods, and she shifts to sit down beside him. She keeps stroking his hand gently, and stays until he stops sniffling, until Wen Ning emerges from the cave and tells Wei Wuxian that he can go inside.

When he does, Wen Qing is transferring Lan Zhan some of her own spiritual energy. It looks like she’s placed some needles to keep him asleep for the moment. His robes have been opened, revealing a truly distressing amount of bruising on his torso, and Wei Wuxian can see that the jagged claw marks at his side have been stitched up neatly.

Wen Qing jerks her chin at the basin of water beside Lan Zhan’s head. “Can you clean his face? I won’t be able to tell whether or not it needs ointment until the dried blood is gone.”

Wei Wuxian suspects that this is a rather transparent attempt at giving him a task so that he won’t feel quite so useless, but it’s effective, so he doesn’t call her on it. Instead, he eyes the stitches worriedly as he places Bichen down with care and picks up the clean cloth beside the basin.

“His golden core is powerful… why did he bleed so much? And why does he need stitches at all? Shouldn’t his core have been able to heal his wounds more than this by now?”

Wen Qing purses her lips. “It should have, were he at full strength. But as it is, I’m having to treat him for spiritual as well as physical exhaustion, on top of his injuries and their associated blood loss. I’m giving his core a little boost, mainly so it can help accelerate the process of replacing his lost blood. Luckily, he was able to reach us before he lost too much for an energy transfer to be effective. With this being the case, he will make a full recovery, but it will take time for his spiritual energy to fully regenerate.” She finishes the spiritual energy transfer with a decisive twist of her wrists and moves to begin applying ointment to the worst of the bruising on his torso, glowering down at the claw marks as she does so. “It’s anybody’s guess as to why he was night hunting in such a state. He needs rest and food, and he hasn’t been getting enough of either.”

“That’s not like Lan Zhan at all,” Wei Wuxian says, uneasily recalling how Lan Zhan had called himself stupid, though the news that he’s going to be okay eases some of the clench around his heart.

He squeezes the excess water out of the cloth and starts swiping carefully at the blood where it had run down from Lan Zhan’s cheekbone and dried dark against the current pallor of his skin. He does feel more settled knowing that he’s doing something to help, even with the worry still twisting his gut.

With his free hand, he gently cups the other side of Lan Zhan’s face to keep his head still as he works. There is a strange and almost unbearable intimacy to this, and Wei Wuxian is doubly glad that he is the one to do it, rather than Wen Ning or Wen Qing. The skin of Lan Zhan’s cheek is very soft where his free hand cradles it.

There’s been something niggling at the back of his mind for a while now. As he and Wen Qing work together in companionable silence, he finds the words are slowly forming on his tongue. “He didn’t try to ask why I wasn’t giving him any spiritual energy,” is what comes out, and he sees Wen Qing’s hands slow in his peripheral vision. “Is that strange? If I could, I – of course I –” and, yep, he’s clearly not as settled as he thought he was. He has to take a few measured breaths before he can continue. “But I couldn’t,” he finally gets out. “And he… shouldn’t he have asked?”

Wen Qing’s gaze is piercing on the side of his face. He feels like she has heard more than what he said, than what he meant for her to hear. “He trusts you, Wei Wuxian,” she replies simply. “With the amount of blood he’d lost, I don’t think he was in a state to question much of anything. But in this case, it doesn’t matter that you couldn’t give him any spiritual energy.” She holds his gaze when his head whips to face her. “No. It doesn’t. What matters is that he was hurt, and probably scared, and he knew that you would help him. Which you did. Which you are.” She nods down at Wei Wuxian’s hands where they cradle Lan Zhan’s face. “Don’t ever think that your sacrifice diminishes your worth. You don’t need a golden core to deserve him. And from what I’ve seen of him around you, I think Hanguang-jun would agree.”

She stares him down until he closes his mouth, wordlessly forbidding him from arguing back, and then, in a rare show of mercy, she grabs a spare basin and marches out of the cave ‘for more water’, leaving him alone with Lan Zhan to scrape himself back together.

If he thinks too hard about all of what she said, he is definitely going to cry, so instead he sets it aside to think about in more detail later, and focuses on removing the dried blood from Lan Zhan’s face as gently as possible. Being so close to him in such a vulnerable state reminds him of the Xuanwu Cave, feeling the silk of Lan Zhan’s hair against his hands as he tied his ribbon back on for him. Like then, Lan Zhan’s features are soft and open in sleep, and Wei Wuxian feels an almost reverent protectiveness as he goes about his task. “Lan Zhan ah,” he murmurs, “Were you scared? You’re safe here, I promise. I’ll keep you safe.” Ah, his heart hurts.

Unlike when he tied Lan Zhan’s ribbon back on for him, however, cleaning Lan Zhan’s injured cheek reveals some very painful-looking bruising hidden beneath the blood, and he hisses softly through his teeth when he sees it.

Wen Qing picks this moment to come back in. Something in her shoulders relaxes when she sees that he’s not a blubbering mess, and he can’t help but feel warmed by her care.

“I think that’s a yes on the ointment, Wen Qing.”

She studies the bruising, nods, and nudges the jar closer to him.

“Aiyo, his poor face,” he murmurs, carefully smoothing some of the ointment over the discoloured skin.

“Thankfully, the cut doesn’t need any further attention. Help me sit him up, and I’ll see about the bruising on his back,” says Wen Qing.

Wei Wuxian crosses to Lan Zhan’s other side so that his poor bruised cheekbone won’t be lying against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, and together, they manage to get him up and leaning forward against Wei Wuxian without incident. Wei Wuxian carefully gathers the silken fall of Lan Zhan’s hair up and away from his back, so that Wen Qing can spread the ointment.

Earlier, by the wards, Wei Wuxian had been struck by how small Lan Zhan seemed in his arms, and he’s struck by it again now. Lan Zhan has always moved through the world with a level of elegance and gravitas that makes him seem larger-than-life, untouchable. But Lan Zhan’s uninjured cheek is as soft as one of his rabbits as it lies against his shoulder. His slender waist is warm under the span of Wei Wuxian’s steadying hand. He knows his memory isn’t the best, but he also knows that he could never forget how it feels to hold Lan Zhan in his arms, to feel his zhiji’s heart beating against his own where they’re pressed together. And as much as he wishes Lan Zhan had never been hurt, as much as he knows the knowledge is stolen, Wei Wuxian is also weak, and he has no wish to forget it. It will be something to cling to once Lan Zhan is back in the Cloud Recesses, far beyond Wei Wuxian’s reach. Wen Qing’s words about what he deserves aside, he knows they’ll most likely be in the Burial Mounds until they die. He knows that the future looks bleak. So for now, while he can, he holds Lan Zhan close, and tries not to miss him before he’s even left.

Lan Wangji wakes feeling safe. The pain of before has dulled to a persistent ache across his whole body, and his core is busily humming away in his dantian. Still heavily depleted, but working to heal what it can. Someone is holding his hand, and he doesn’t even have to think to know that it is Wei Ying. He’s humming Wangxian as he strokes a thumb gently across Lan Wangji’s knuckles. Lan Wangji’s heart feels too big for his chest.

His eyes flutter open just as Wei Ying gets to the end of the song. He’s looking down at their hands, and has not yet realised that Lan Wangji is awake. He looks tired. He’s beautiful.

He squeezes Wei Ying’s hand as best he can, and Wei Ying’s gaze snaps up to his face.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes, drinking in the sight of him as if he’s worried he’ll disappear. “How are you feeling?”

Lan Wangji opens his mouth to answer Wei Ying’s question, but what comes out is “I missed you.” The words are soft and plaintive, naked in their truth, and he finds that they bear repeating: “I missed you, Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan ah,” Wei Ying’s voice is aching. “I missed you, too, of course I did. So much.”

“So much.” Lan Wangji echoes in agreement. Despite the areas in which they chafe, in this, they are in perfect alignment.

“Mn,” says Wei Ying, and he smiles, but it’s worried. “But I thought you’d be safe up in your mountain, or if not safe in your mountain, then at least well-fed. What’s this Wen Qing tells me about you not eating or sleeping enough, ah? You’ve been asleep for an entire day. You needed stitches, Lan Zhan. Why were you out night hunting when your core was so run-down?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t want to answer. He knows it will only upset Wei Ying. But Wei Ying smooths some of Lan Wangji’s hair back from his hairline, his heart in his eyes, and the care in the gesture brings a lump to his throat. After all the trouble he’s brought Wei Ying, does he not deserve an answer?

“How can I rest, when my zhiji is in peril?” he begins. The words sound as lost as Lan Wangji feels. “I do not know how to help. I have tried to stop the lies told at cultivation conferences. But they do not want to hear the truth. I… have been learning new music,” He cannot help tensing, closing his eyes, sure that he will not be able to survive Wei Ying’s anger, “but I fear it is… unwelcome.” Wei Ying does not let go of his hand, and he manages to coax his heart out of his throat again. “When I night hunt,” he continues after a moment, “I can at least do something, help someone. I do not have to think about how useless I am in this. I did not realise that my spiritual energy had gotten so low. It was foolish. I am sorry. It was not my wish to burden you or Wen-guniang.”

Wei Ying cups his cheek gently, and Lan Wangji’s eyes fly open. Wei Ying does look upset, frustrated and sad and guilty, which he shouldn’t be, but there’s softness in his expression, too. There’s a tenderness as he looks at Lan Wangji that Lan Wangji recognises from his own feelings towards Wei Ying.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his voice low and serious, “Listen to me. You are neither useless nor a burden. You can help me by taking care of yourself, okay? You can’t scare me like that again, ah? I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. So you have to take care of yourself. I need you to be safe.” He takes a breath, and says carefully, “And I think – I understand better, now, some of what you’ve been feeling. So later, maybe… we can talk about more.”

There’s a fragile silence, and Wei Ying gives Lan Wangji’s hand a gentle squeeze before setting it down with a pat to grab a nearby bowl, shedding the sombre atmosphere like a cloak. “But for now, you need to eat something. No buts!” he continues, when Lan Wangji frowns slightly. “Things have improved since the last time you were here. We even have a lotus pond! We might not be living in luxury, but we have enough for everyone. That includes you, at the moment, and no, you aren’t straining our resources. The food might be simple, but that should make you feel right at home, ah? Up, up, careful now.”

He supports Lan Wangji into an upright position, and helps him with the turnip stew. Lan Wangji surprises himself with how hungry he is. The food, kept warm by talisman, is gone in no time, and the water Wei Ying brings him soon follows suit. Wei Ying is satisfied only after the cup has been drained three times, and he refuses to let Lan Wangji get up to take the dishes anywhere. This leaves Lan Wangji free to have the belated realisation that he is not wearing his own robes.

“Ah,” Wei Ying laughs a little awkwardly, noticing Lan Wangji’s focus on the coarse grey fabric, grown soft through repeated wear, “I hope you don’t mind borrowing some of mine? Your own are in no condition to be worn, I’m afraid.”

Lan Wangji’s brain has ceased to function. He is wearing Wei Ying’s robes. His ears feel hot. “Mn,” he manages, after a moment, drawing his thumb gently over one red cuff.

Wei Ying seems equally flustered, stammering about the dishes as he gathers up Lan Wangji’s bowl and spoon.

“Wei Ying. You need to eat, too,” Lan Wangji says before he can flee the cave.

“I will, I will, I promise, aiya, you’re as bad as the Wens,” Wei Ying says fondly. “Try to go back to sleep, okay? Wen Qing says you still need lots of rest to recover.”

“Mn.”

Later will bring difficult conversations, painful but needed, like stretching out a cramped muscle. There will be tears, and confessions, and love carried in a song, hummed close between the two of them. But for now, Lan Wangji drops off to sleep quickly with a full belly and a full heart, his golden core recovering as surely as his wounds, cradled by Wei Ying’s care.