Chapter Text
The proprietor of the small inn, already closed for the night, opens her doors with some suspicion. Few travellers are still out at this time, but once they are all inside the large communal dining room and their fine robes are evident, she straightens up quickly, hurrying forward to take their cloaks and getting a young man to ready the upstairs.
“I’m afraid we only have cold cuts and rice left at this time. We usually just get common folk stopping by here, so we’re a humble place," she says, wringing her hands as she leads them upstairs. “Are you sure you only want two rooms, good sirs? These are our largest, but we do have a third almost as big.”
“This will do us nicely. Cold cuts and rice sounds perfect,” says Wei Ying, mustering a smile. “If you could bring it up to the room along with some wine?”
It’s fortunate they’re not travelling as themselves; she might be even more overwhelmed if she knew she was hosting nobility. As it is, she bows low to them and scuttles backwards without looking. Wei Ying decides to save Lan Jingyi from whatever mental calculations he’s trying to do about how they are going to split the bedrooms, and leads Lan Zhan into the larger of the two rooms with a “Good night, Jingyi.”
It’s not until the doors are closed behind them that it feels like a weight lifted off their shoulders, sloughing off the sombre atmosphere of the long evening they’ve just had. Lan Zhan sinks gracefully onto a cushion, while Wei Ying heads first for the basin the corner, set up with a bucket of water.
“It is not as bad as it looks,” Lan Zhan says, as Wei Ying helps ease his arm out from his robe sleeve.
“You were injured saving me. It’s treason to allow the Emperor to get injured, you know,” says Wei Ying mullishly, cleaning the wound carefully with a damp cloth. Judging by the width of the wound and the clean edges, the sword had cut in and out neatly at least.
“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan with some exasperation. Fine, Wei Ying knows it’s not actually treason, but that does little to assuage the guilt. It’s only because Lan Zhan's reflexes are so abnormally fast that he still has a working shoulder.
“Let me bind it up at least.” Wei Ying carefully presses a pad of clean cloth against Lan Zhan’s shoulder and squats in front of Lan Zhan for a better angle to wrap it up with more boiled cloth. It’s not until he’s smoothing out where the fabric creases under the armpit that he looks up to see Lan Zhan’s face right there next to his, watching him with such softness in his eyes that Wei Ying has to look away again immediately. “What is it?”
“I am very glad that you are here with me,” says Lan Zhan. Wei Ying feels his skin flush in the face of such bald sincerity, so he is already distracted when Lan Zhan dips his head forward to tap a small kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying jerks – in surprise, only – and would have lost his balance entirely if not for Lan Zhan scooping his hand around Wei Ying’s hip, tipping him neatly into his lap instead of ass-first onto the floor. He finds himself clutching at Lan Zhan’s good shoulder, and looks up to see a profoundly pleased look on Lan Zhan’s face. On a lesser man, one might call it smug.
“I hope you’re very pleased with yourself, Your Imperial Majesty,” grumbles Wei Ying, adjusting his robes so that he’s more comfortable and unsubtly ensuring the injured shoulder is bearing none of his weight.
“I am, husband,” agrees Lan Zhan.
The food arrives with a knock on the door; Wei Ying had almost forgotten it was coming. When he retrieves the tray from the sleepy-looking young man, the smell hits him and his stomach growls immediately, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten anything for hours.
“It must also be treason to let the Emperor starve,” murmurs Wei Ying, uncovering the plates and shoving the mushrooms and pickled vegetables into a bowl for Lan Zhan. “Here, let me.”
They both pretend that Lan Zhan cannot possibly use his chopsticks with his shoulder bound, so that Wei Ying must press close against his side and feed him piece by piece.
They're too emotionally drained to do anything other than shovel the food away in silence, Wei Ying washing it down with mediocre wine that smells of nostalgia, more akin to what he drank when he was in exile than anything he's had in the palace since. While the bed is spacious for one person, it’s cosy for two and they take the silence excuse to press together closer than they strictly need to, the press of bare skin against bare skin more comforting than anything else right now. Wei Ying fussily arranges himself so that his head rests on Lan Zhan's uninured shoulder, throwing his knee across Lan Zhan’s hip. Usually, it takes Wei Ying a while to fall asleep, but surrounded by the gentle sounds of cicadas in the fields and Lan Zhan's arm looping around his waist, he drifts off before he even has time to question it.
When he wakes, everything hurts. More specifically, a cramp in his calf is what jolts him awake and Wei Ying hisses, reflexively kicking his foot out to relieve the pain and connecting with Lan Zhan's shin. Wei Ying bolts up right to see Lan Zhan looking at him with crinkled eyes.
"Lan Zhan! I'm sorry, did I hurt you? I - ow," Wei Ying breaks off to gasp as the cramp stabs through his calf again.
"Never," says Lan Zhan immediately, sitting up and hooking his hand under Wei Ying's foot to press it flat and easing his leg up until Wei Ying grunts with the relief the stretch brings him.
"Did I wake you?" asks Wei Ying. Lan Zhan looks distressingly awake and alert. "I'm sorry for startling you."
"The sun woke me." Lan Zhan tips his head at the window, where they hadn't even had the foresight to close the shutters before tumbling into bed. "But I didn't want to wake you."
Wei Ying is going to have to get used to that if they are to spend the night together more often now. He hasn't really had the time to think on it clearly, given the crush of recent events, but he suspects Lan Zhan will propose it to him soon enough. "You can get up even if I'm not awake. Don't let me prevent you from starting your day."
"I started my day exactly as I wished," Lan Zhan says as if it's a reassurance that he just spent several hours looking at Wei Ying and not much else.
Once the pain in his leg has subsided, Wei Ying takes stock of the rest of his body. These aches are recognisable, though admittedly he hasn't suffered it from a long time now. He massages the muscles at the side of his ribcage with the heel of his palm, and gingerly inspects the raw skin on the inside of his thighs. "Lan Zhan, Your Excellency also does not regularly ride anymore, are you not also saddlesore?"
"Let me,” says Lan Zhan, pulling Wei Ying around by the ankle so his legs drape over Lan Zhan’s lap and he can massage them meticulously. Wei Ying notices that he didn’t answer the question, which probably means he’s completely fine while Wei Ying is rediscovering muscles that have atrophied. It’s his turn to watch Lan Zhan, the way he has a tiny little frown between his eyebrows as he concentrates, tilting his head this way and that to examine the muscle, how he is firm but gentle, always watching for whether Wei Ying tenses up, the way his hair is slightly rumpled after sleep.
Lan Zhan looks up once, to see Wei Ying watching him through half-lidded eyes; a single blink betrays his pleasure and the tips of his ears turn pink.
“Wei Ying will ride every day if he so wishes,” murmurs Lan Zhan, looking as if he is quite ready to issue an imperial edict to make it so.
With a laugh, Wei Ying pulls himself up and tugs Lan Zhan along with him. His muscles are still tired, but at least they are no longer congealed solid; he kisses Lan Zhan’s knuckles in thanks. “Jiang Cheng would laugh at how soft I’ve become.”
Lan Zhan makes a face. “Please, do not bring Jiang Wanyin into the room with us.”
By the time they make it downstairs, Lan Jingyi is at a table, and appears to have been there for hours already, his half-eaten bowl of rice cold on the side as he inks a report.
“Your Excellency!” says Jingyi, starting when their shadows cast across his work. It’s fortunate it’s late enough in the day that other travellers have already finished their meals and left. Still, he flinches and snaps his mouth shut, eyes sliding to the innkeeper across the room who has gone white.
“You make your escape first, Lan Zhan, I’ll meet you in the stables,” says Wei Ying dryly, filching the money pouch from Jingyi’s waist since neither he nor Lan Zhan are accustomed to carrying money anymore. He goes to settle their bill, thanking their host for the late night arrangements cheerfully enough; from the corner of his eyes he can see Jingyi hastily gathering his things as they speedily – but casually – leave.
“You’re very welcome, Young Master,” says the woman nervously, looking as though she wants to drop into a full kowtow on the ground. “I mean – Your Excellency? I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear.”
“Oh, no, not me,” Wei Ying reassures her. “I’m just a regular man who serves His Excellency. We were in somewhat of an emergency yesterday and you were of a great help. It would be of even greater help if you could keep it a secret.”
She exhales, stumbling over herself to reassure him that she will. Wei Ying hefts the weight of the full coin pouch, thinking rapidly. “And you know what would be the greatest help, good lady?”
“Any trouble?” asks Lan Zhan when Wei Ying finally emerges in the stables.
“No, but I solved several of our problems before they even arose.” Wei Ying preens. With one hand, he produces a string of rice parcels wrapped in bamboo leaves, freshly steamed and still hot, and with the other, he gestures to the caravan at the front of the stable. “My thighs are saved, and we don’t have to worry about being seen on our way in.”
“Useful,” says Lan Zhan. “Jingyi, you ride ahead and let the guards at the gate to look out for this caravan and let it through. Gather a team you trust and return to the estate to complete the investigation as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Hanguang-jun.” Jingyi bows and near leaps onto his horse, looking delighted not to be reprimanded for an easy mistake.
“Ah, youth,” says Wei Ying, watching him canter off. “He’s a good kid, but he need some more experience.”
“Mm,” agrees Lan Zhan, turning his attention to their horses. Meticulously bred and trained for battle and long-distance riding, they flicker their ears, bemused, as Wei Ying hitches them to the front of the caravan.
Though the horses have stamina aplenty, the caravan moves at only a steady pace, the wooden wheels threatening to catch every rock in the ground if Wei Ying nudges them any faster. It’s barely more than a large cart with a wooden roof, but its homeliness lends comfort that a more formal carriage would not. Wei Ying basks in the sun, pointing out sights of interest for Lan Zhan, even though Lan Zhan is balanced on the wooden driver’s bench right next to him. “Lan Zhan, that pig over there is enormous!” “Lan Zhan, there are so many flowers on that bush!” “Lan Zhan, see the baby bird in that tree!”
At first Wei Ying thinks Lan Zhan is merely indulging him, turning his head in every which direction that Wei Ying points out, but after a while he notices Lan Zhan’s gaze lingering on whatever creature or fauna caught Wei Ying’s eye. Perhaps being out of the palace is good for the both of them.
When they get closer to the capital, they switch places, Wei Ying taking the reins as he ushers Lan Zhan into the interior of the caravan. They might not be wearing their own robes, but Lan Zhan’s face has been well-known among nobles and sects even before he became Emperor and even the ordinary person who doesn’t know him would look twice at that jawline.
“Now you know what it’s like to arrive at the capital in a carriage, to be presented at the palace for your future husband,” calls Wei Ying over his shoulder as he dons a wide-brimmed hat and tugs it low over his face. It feels like years ago, a different time and place and he a different person, even though he recognises the same view that he had glimpsed outside of his own carriage.
“Tell me about my husband-to-be,” says Lan Zhan, playing along. His voice curls close enough to Wei Ying’s ear that Wei Ying can tell he’s sitting just inside the caravan door, his shoulder pressed on the same panel of wood that Wei Ying is leaning against.
“Some people say he’s unrestrained, with a wild mouth. Some say he committed treason and betrayed his own kin.”
“How terrifying.”
“Most importantly though, everyone I have spoken to says that he is charming. Handsome. He might steal your heart, Young Master,” says Wei Ying in the tone of an old man imparting sage advice.
“When he steals it, I hope he treats it kindly. This humble one’s constitution is very weak.”
“Lan Zhan, of course I will!” says Wei Ying, breaking character entirely as he ducks his head inside the caravan to look at him indignantly. “You have treated me so well, and I have caused so much trouble for you the last few months, and you have just been the best, and–”
Wei Ying breaks off as the caravan veers off the road, the horses taking advantage the moment he takes his hands off the reins. He lunges to get them back on track and throws a look over his shoulder to see Lan Zhan laughing silently at him. He flings one hand behind him, groping around in the shade until he can clasp Lan Zhan’s hand. Lan Zhan squeezes back, no words required.
Upon their arrival back at the palace, Wei Ying is braced for any number of situations depending on if Jin Guangyao’s supporters have made any moves in the last day, but all seems to be running as usual. They are let through the gates with no questions asked and one of the guards hands Lan Zhan a substantial letter sealed along all the edges with thick wax. “Senior Lan Jingyi requested you be given this immediately.”
Wei Ying isn’t sure anyone should be calling Jingyi a senior, until he peels the wax off to reveal an impressively thorough report penned in equally impressively atrocious handwriting. He squints, before giving up and handing it to Lan Zhan.
“He has left with his team again. We must have missed him on the road. He has apprised my uncle of the situation but kept the news from everyone else, and also arranged for a discreet watch on Qin Su so that we may apprehend her without tipping her off. All nine houses visited by Su She are still under surveillance and have made no further moves. Jiang Wanyin has been informed we are returning shortly and is prepared to hold court for as long as necessary, but will likely push through an agenda for exclusive fishing rights along Yunmeng’s eastern border while he does so. Additionally, Mo Xuanyu is well but remains in Jiang Yanli’s guest quarters and there are some unsavoury rumours already spreading that His Highness – referring to you, Wei Ying – may wish to curb quickly. I used to mark his study essays when he was a boy,” adds Lan Zhan wryly, noticing Wei Ying’s surprise that he can read the calligraphy so easily.
“Busy boy,” Wei Ying says admiringly.
“I suppose we can concede the fishing rights,” says Lan Zhan with the tone of someone who is too dignified to roll his eyes but dearly wishes to.
Qin Su’s ‘discreet watch’ turns out to be a casual game of jianzi conveniently outside the administrative offices where she and her father work. Sizhui, along with half a dozen other young nobles, spread out across the gardens, running back and forth and in general making it difficult for anyone who might wish to leave.
“Your Excellency,” says Sizhui breathlessly, dropping into a bow as he spots them and promptly getting smacked in the head by the feathered shuttlecock as someone kicks it to him. The culprit, another young noble in blue and purple robes, drops to his knees with a wail.
“Carry on,” says Lan Zhan, magnanimously ignoring it all.
Lan Zhan hangs back at the entrance as Wei Ying requests to see Qin Su, so as to not alarm anyone. As he waits, he watches people move about or work at their desks, the humdrum mundanity letting him know that no rumours have managed to make it back before them. He’s not sure whether this will make the ensuing conversation easier or harder.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, I’m afraid this humble one was not prepared for your visit,” says Qin Su when she arrives, quickly showing him to an office that looks hastily cleared. She looks harried, the shadows under her eyes showing despite the powder on her face and her cheeks sunken as if from a sudden change in weight.
“Just a moment, please.” Wei Ying opens the window and peers out, waiting for Lan Zhan to round the side of the building. If the presence of Wei Ying had rattled her, the sight of the Emperor himself climbing in through her office window shocks her completely. The colour drains from her cheeks and she inhales sharply, then cuts herself off when she realises her reaction.
“Your Imperial Excellency,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead down to her shaking hands. Wei Ying exchanges a glance with Lan Zhan, who tilts his head, content to let Wei Ying take the lead.
“Qin Su. We’ve never met, it’s nice to meet you,” says Wei Ying, waving her to sit back upright and she flinches, then freezes, as if she had been expecting him to do something else. He pulls his hand back, holding it palm up and away from her. “We have some questions we wish to ask you, but before we do, you should know that Jin Guangyao is dead.”
The realisation sets in slowly. Wei Ying watches her through the transition of a frown, then the wide-eyed shock, and finally her lip wavers as her face crumples entirely and she presses it into her hands. The sound she makes is a low keening that fills her throat and Wei Ying mistakes it for grief before she raises her head and he realises it is jubilant. She presses her hand over her mouth as if she can shove the sound down but it resonates out through her throat, her chest, her shoulders.
“A-Su? A-Su!” Someone hammers on the door urgently. Her father, presumably. Lan Zhan indicates for Wei Ying to stay with her, and rises the open the door. Whatever he says is inaudible, but Wei Ying hears the gasped ‘Your Excellency’. The conversation is short, Lan Zhan closing the door on him.
Qin Su recovers her composure admirably quickly. Her eyes are still wild, a little too much white showing around the edges, and her hands are white fists trembling on her knees, but she pulls herself together enough to say, “My abundant apologies, Your Excellency, Your Highness. I don’t know what came over me.”
“You hold no allegiance to the former Emperor, then?”
“Not willingly.” She pauses, then blurts out, “If I may be so bold, will I be able to meet with my son? Rusong. Jin Rusong. Jin Guangyao kept him in his estate, he said that I would be allowed to see him as long as I – worked in the palace. He has never been apart from me for so long. He might be Jin Guangyao’s son also, but he was never declared crown prince, he is not a threat to His Excellency, and he has many health complications. Please.”
Chills raise the hairs on Wei Ying’s arm. She doesn’t know Rusong is dead. He glances at Lan Zhan helplessly as Qin Su trembles in front of them. “I–”
“Among other crimes, Jin Guangyao is suspected of filicide,” says Lan Zhan quietly.
This time, Qin Su doesn’t scream. She makes no sound at all, not even a gasp, as the blood drains from her face. She sways and Wei Ying thinks she’s going to faint. But swift as the wind, her hand darts out to seize Suibian by the hilt, drawing the sword and bringing it up to her own neck in one motion. Wei Ying reacts barely in time, snatching at the blade of the sword with his bare hand heedless of injury. He sees the blood well up before he feels the slice across his palm as he uses his other hand to wrench Qin Su’s hand away.
Suibian clatters to the floor, the only blood on it Wei Ying’s. Lan Zhan swoops across, pulling Wei Ying back behind him, but Qin Su doesn’t try anything else, merely slumps across the floor.
“I’m fine,” says Wei Ying quickly, stemming the bleeding with the handkerchief that Lan Zhan presses to his hand. “But I think she needs a physician.”
“She hurt you,” says Lan Zhan fiercely.
“She wasn’t trying to. The only person she wanted to hurt was herself.” Wei Ying is tired. He had been prepared to confront another conspirator in Jin Guangyao’s web, not whatever is happening here.
The secrecy cannot be contained after that. The whole administrative building heard her scream already, and if not that then surely her father making a ruckus. Wei Ying sends for Wen Qing to come and there is more commotion when people realise the Wen are roaming the palace, and more again when Qin Su’s father catches a glimpse of her, ashen-skinned and catatonic and Wei Ying’s blood dripped on the floor. By the time Wen Qing organises for a covered palanquin to carry Qin Su out and Sizhui’s band of young nobles valiantly but loudly volunteer to carry her, leaving confused displaced servants lingering on the lawn, all sorts of rumours are presumably flying across the palace. So much for Jingyi’s hard work.
The final piece of the puzzle drops into place with Lord Qin. He had been remarkably complaint, immediately turning over all letters from Jin Guangyao to his daughter. His mind is clearly elsewhere, caught between his concern for his daughter and relief at not being arrested for treason, his sentences almost incoherent. “You will not find it in the letters, but – and Your Excellency, you must understand that this only came to light recently, after the late Emperor’s death – Jin Guangshan was enamoured of my wife. My daughter, she did not know of this until well after Rusong was born. My wife and I, we had thought... what were the odds? But then Rusong grew older, and he was such a sickly child, and we – we knew. And then it transpired that Jin Guangyao knew before he ever even married Qin Su, and continued with the engagement regardless. A-Su loved the child regardless, but Jin Guangyao stole the boy away and threatened to reveal the secret.”
Wei Ying exchanges a quick glance with Lan Zhan. From what Wei Ying knows of Jin Guangyao, he would have never revealed this shame about himself, his reputation the only thing he had left at the end. It would have been a bluff, but there is no benefit or comfort to telling Lord Su or Qin Su that now.
“We will have to wait for the full investigation, but it looks like Rusong died just a few days after Jin Guangyao kidnapped him,” says Lan Zhan. “Qin Su cannot blame herself, he never had any intention of letting her see her son again.”
When Lord Qin bows his head, the two of them drop a step back, giving the man his moment to grieve along.
“You must know that when I wished for some more excitement, this isn’t what I had in mind, Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying quietly.
“More horse riding, less assassination,” agrees Lan Zhan. Wei Ying snorts, and subtly leans in against Lan Zhan’s side.
They leave Lord Qin with Lan Zhan’s uncle for further questioning and Qin Su with Wen Qing after a diagnosis of shock, and somehow end up back at Wei Ying’s palace. Wei Ying shuts the door behind them and collapses into a chair, immediate relief flooding through him knowing that he and Lan Zhan are safe in here. No more assassination attempts, no more politics, no more plots and schemes. Just them.
“Stop that, you’re injured,” Wei Ying protests when Lan Zhan hunts around for the paraphernalia to make tea, pottering back and forth for a bucket to fetch water.
“Wei Ying is also injured,” says Lan Zhan, patting his bandaged hand away when Wei Ying tries to take the bucket from him.
“Where are all my things?” asks Wei Ying when he can’t find his teapot. He glances around, suddenly realising how tidy it is in here. Gone are the stacks of books and the table full of woodwork and half-fletched arrows. Mo Xuanyu tidies up, but he doesn’t generally move things around, knowing that Wei Ying has preferences for where everything lives. The only things remaining are the various decorations that were already here when Wei Ying moved in.
“Ah.” Lan Zhan blinks, as if remembering something he had forgotten. “Moved. Into the Western Palace of the Rising Dawn. I took the liberty, forgive me.”
“Oh! Then let’s go there!” Wei Ying beams at him suddenly. He hadn’t thought that Lan Zhan would move on that little offhand comment so quickly, but now that he has, Wei Ying wants to see it immediately.
Aside from just moving Wei Ying’s things into the Western Palace, it’s clear that Lan Zhan had ordered for alternations and decorations to have been made. When he has had time to organise that, Wei Ying cannot fathom. Wei Ying has visited this palace before – if by visiting he means having seen from the rooftops as he ran across the grounds – and he doesn’t remember the blooming flower bushes. A pond has been dug and planted with lotuses, a small artificial stream weaving across the gardens and separating it into different areas punctuated by bright flower bushes. One strip of lawn has been cleared of grass and converted into an exercise arena with a tamped dirt ground and archery targets at the far end.
“This is too much,” protests Wei Ying when Lan Zhan takes him down the covered walkway so new it still smells of fresh wood.
“Shh.” Lan Zhan advises him of an argument he will only lose.
“No, that is – stop that, Lan Zhan. I mean, this is too much for a palace I won’t even live in.”
“You don’t like it?” Lan Zhan stops suddenly.
Wei Ying hurriedly clarifies himself as he links his arm through Lan Zhan’s elbow. “I love it. What’s not to love, there are even little dancing koi on the side of the gazebo, see? But this would be mine in name only. I intend to stay with you. If you wish, Your Excellency.”
Wei Ying gasps as Lan Zhan pulls him forward so quickly the air is crushed out of his lungs. And then Lan Zhan’s arm is around his waist and his hands fly to Lan Zhan’s shoulders to steady himself naturally. Lan Zhan’s face is right in front of him, his eyes crinkled ever so slightly as he whispers, “I wish.”
When Lan Zhan ducks to kiss him, Wei Ying meets him halfway, pressing as much of his body against Lan Zhan’s as possible. His lips are warm and eager, Wei Ying wobbling on his tiptoes as Lan Zhan backs him against one of the walkway pillars. He cups Wei Ying’s jaw with one hand, his thumb rubbing at the soft skin under Wei Ying’s ear, and Wei Ying’s mouth falls open to let Lan Zhan’s tongue slide against his.
Even after a morning on the road, Lan Zhan’s hair is silky, perfect for Wei Ying to wind his fingers into and pull closer to himself. He has not had the opportunity to explore Lan Zhan’s mouth like this yet, to simply enjoy the moment and linger with no purpose other than to enjoy each slow movement.
The back of Wei Ying’s heels hit wood; he had barely been aware of stepping backwards at all but he has tugged Lan Zhan along with him until they are nestled together against one of the walkway pillars, still joined at the lips. Wei Ying pulls away from kissing Lan Zhan – shushing him lightly when he hears the tiny rumble of discontentment in Lan Zhan’s chest – to nuzzle against his neck, his collarbones, under his jaw. It is not the frantic, possessive rush of the previous time but indulging in every small touch in a way it feels like they haven’t had time for yet.
It almost makes Wei Ying giddy to think that now they can do it like this, or like the last time, or like any number of ways in between, that all of that is to look ahead to in his relationship with Lan Zhan.
“Do you have a handkerchief?” Wei Ying asks suddenly, peeling himself from Lan Zhan’s side. Lan Zhan blinks; his expression could be described on a lesser man as a pout, but he produces a large handkerchief from his sleeve obligingly.
Wei Ying cannot help the rivulet of giggles that escape him as Lan Zhan’s expression turns even more confused when he drapes the handkerchief over his head in a diamond. He tucks the far corner securely into his topknot and lets the rest of it fall over his face in an imitation of a veil. Sinking onto his knees and sweeping down into a bow until his forehead touches the ground, Wei Ying murmurs, “What does His Imperial Majesty wish of his most humble servant on their wedding night?”
“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, his voice decidedly strained. In a good way, he decides. Lan Zhan takes his hands, tugging at him to stand.
“His Imperial Majesty will have to guide this lowly one,” says Wei Ying, clasping Lan Zhan’s hands with his fingers. There is the faintest touch of lips against the knuckles of his left hand, then Lan Zhan leads him, walking backwards slowly towards the palace building.
There is an odd sense of familiarity and yet also the unknown. Wei Ying remembers then, the frustration of not being able to see through the veil, not knowing what to do, compared to now as Lan Zhan meticulously lets him know whenever there is to be a dip in the ground, a pebble, a step, as they make their way into the Western Palace. This time, when Wei Ying pulls Lan Zhan’s belt undone, Lan Zhan merely lets him, shrugging his robes onto the ground carelessly so Wei Ying can slide his hands under the silk to press along his stomach, his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, and document every swell and dip. He returns the favour, pulling Wei Ying’s robes loose until they frame him.
Guiding Wei Ying to sit on the edge of the bed – soft, the way Wei Ying prefers it – Lan Zhan whispers, “Wait.”
“This humble one is at your command.” Wei Ying uses just his ears to try and figure out what Lan Zhan is doing as he moves around the room, cradling the sense of anticipation that’s growing in his gut. He can hear cupboards opening, the rustle of paper, the squeak of a metal hinge, the familiar strike of a firelighter and the smell of a wisp of smoke that gives way to lavender and magnolia and something else.
By the time Lan Zhan closes the shutters and the bright daylight disappears, Wei Ying realises that he has lit lanterns to recreate a night mood, and exhales a laugh. The lower half of Lan Zhan’s body appears in front of Wei Ying, pressing in so close that Wei Ying spreads his knees so Lan Zhan can kneel between them, tantalisingly close to his half-hard cock. He knows Lan Zhan can see the outline of it through his trousers now that his robes are parted. Slowly, Lan Zhan lifts the veil up, revealing his handsome face watching Wei Ying as intently as Wei Ying watches him.
“My bride.” Something in the way Lan Zhan says those words makes Wei Ying’s mouth go dry. He cups Wei Ying’s chin with one hand as he leans in for a kiss. “I would have you perform your familial duties for me tonight. It is imperative for me to conceive an heir, after all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” says Wei Ying. He tries to lean forward for another kiss but Lan Zhan’s grip on his chin is firm, letting him get close enough to feel Lan Zhan’s warm breath on his cheek but no further. He watches Wei Ying steadily, making him wait for a heartbeat, two, before closing the gap himself to relieve him. Wei Ying groans into it, forgetting to maintain the fiction in his wave of desire. “Lan Zhan.”
Lan Zhan plucks the handkerchief free from Wei Ying’s hair and tosses it aside, his arms already around Wei Ying’s waist and bodily lifting him further up the bed. They sprawl, Lan Zhan’s weight crushing against Wei Ying’s chest, the hardness of his cock insistent against Wei Ying’s thigh, and yet Wei Ying loathe to let go. The look in Lan Zhan’s eyes is wild, as if he is barely managing to restrain himself against Wei Ying’s ridiculous advances; it bodes well for Wei Ying recreating this moment again in the future. Which he anticipates wanting to do, many times.
“Your Majesty, what if–” Wei Ying lowers his eyes and makes his lip quiver and his speech breathy. He moues his mouth, and hears Lan Zhan inhale sharply. Anything he can think of to provoke Lan Zhan. “What if this humble one is incompetent and unable to provide Your Excellency with an heir after tonight?”
Lan Zhan hisses, his hand on Wei Ying’s hip clutching so hard he will surely have fingertip bruises there later. When presses his mouth close to Wei Ying’s head, the whisper of his words tickle against Wei Ying’s ear, sending a frisson down to his gut. “Then I will require for you to spread your legs for me as many times as is necessary until you can bear me a child.”
THREE MONTHS LATER
There is uproar in the Forbidden City. “An intruder, or something,” says Wei Ying happily. “You know that the Emperor himself went out to chase him.”
Jiang Cheng looks up from the lawn in absolute disgust. “You could at least pretend – you’re still wearing the mask, for Heaven’s sake.”
“Do you want the good wine or not?” Wei Ying holds out a jar and Jiang Cheng snatches it from his hand as soon as he’s climbed all the way up. They’re on the rooftop of the Western Palace of the Rising Dawns, but only because doing this on Lan Zhan’s palace rooftops is just a step too far. Wei Ying’s not trying to give any of Lan Zhan’s elderly relatives a heart attack, after all; should a real assassin arrive, he still needs the guards to be vigilant.
Wei Ying unties the mask, sliding it inside his black robes as he settles down to watch the little clusters of torch flames bobbing in the distance, trying to find him. Lan Zhan is out there somewhere, likely running interference for him. Wei Ying managed to evade him this time by ducking inside and then back out of the palace kitchens, which means that Lan Zhan will want to bed him fiercely later (which is a different kind of fierce bedding that occurs when Lan Zhan does manage to catch him) and he squirms, relishing in the anticipation.
“It is good wine,” says Jiang Cheng, looking grumpy about it.
“You don’t have to go,” says Wei Ying. “If you stayed, you could have this all the time.”
Jiang Cheng is due to head off in the morning. He’d been offered a permanent position in the court, Lan Zhan proposing it before Wei Ying had even thought to ask, but Jiang Cheng had merely banged out some negotiations that were easier to have in conversation than via letter, and then declared it time to go home.
“Absolutely not, I refuse to witness the two of you any more than I already have.”
“Master Wei, is that you?” Mo Xuanyu calls up, peering out of a window. He looks sleep-rumpled, as people are wont to do when woken in the middle of the night.
“Not me, a fearsome assassin,” says Wei Ying. “Here for the Emperor.”
“You’re ridiculous,” says Mo Xuanyu with a sigh, and closes the shutters on him. He would never have dared to speak like that when they arrived in the palace; Wei Ying is not the only one who has changed for the better. This is his palace in reality now, Wei Ying having moved entirely into Lan Zhan’s palace quarters. He still insists on sleeping in one of the side rooms, which is ridiculous given the main bedroom sits empty, but Wei Ying has hopes he can wear Xuanyu down. He might even arrange for him to go to a matchmaker soon.
“I’m consulting with the Ouyang sect on some crimes in Baling tomorrow morning,” says Wei Ying instead of saying that he won’t be able to see Jiang Cheng off.
“I’m stopping in the city to see a-jie, I won’t have time to wait for you,” retorts Jiang Cheng, instead of saying that it’s alright, he doesn’t need Wei Ying to see him off.
After Jin Ling was unceremoniously adopted into Sizhui and Jingyi’s circle of young noblemen, Jiang Yanli has decided to stay in the city. Wei Ying isn’t sure exactly what conversation she had with Jiang Cheng about it, only that both of them ended up crying. She’s taken up a townhouse where she shares the cost with Qin Su, Wen Qing and Wen Ning, even though Wei Ying insists that he can pay for it from his Imperial stipend.
They make most of the rent through setting one of the rooms up as an apothecary, Jiang Yanli preparing the herbs and poultices, Wen Qing treating the patients, and another room as a nursery run by Qin Su and Wen Ning. They’re close enough to the Forbidden City that Jiang Yanli still comes to visit every few days whenever she wants to see some greenery and the lotus ponds, and Wei Ying goes to visit her whenever he wants the bustle of city life. Once or twice, Lan Zhan has even snuck out with him, disguised as a commoner.
Wei Ying sits in silence with Jiang Cheng, passing the jar of wine back and forth between them. Neither of them are in the habit of letterwriting, but Yunmeng is not that far away, especially now Wei Ying has regained his saddle legs. He leaves a jar of wine for Mo Xuanyu on the doorstep when he and Jiang Cheng eventually slide off the roof, clasping each other’s shoulders and pretending it’s to help their balance.
It’s been long enough that the search for the intruder has been called off, the guards relapsing back into their regular watch. As Jiang Cheng rounds the corner back to his rooms, Wei Ying slips the mask back on and leaps over the fence. He has an Emperor’s palace to invade.