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My quarters are by where the ravens meet.

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[He was not expecting to be given such a thing and it left him a bit suprised.]

You want me to visit?

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When you come in harm's way.

( When, a wiser alternative to if. )

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You have so little faith in me.

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All the same.

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Fine, if I'm in such deep need I will come to you. But only if you wont police me.

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( ...this, again then. )

You distrust me.

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It’s not that....

[Though... did being in a different world with only a few of them make things different?]

...

Maybe it can be different for now, and less complicated.

Though, complicated in another way. Your brother claims to be from over a decade in the future.

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Brother will rest.

( It startles him, to think the day has come already when he must weigh out Zewu-Jun's behaviours and find them, for the first time, wanting.

But this is no fault for Wei Wuxian — of no claim, no sect — to hear of. Not a matter that requires his judgement. )

There are spirits here. Restless. Perhaps you may trust me to seek them out.

( And maybe there's an edge of bitterness to that conclusion: of all the things to be denied, Wei Ying's trust, once all has been said and done — ah, no. )

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I have no doubts of your ability, there are few who are more capable after all.

[He didn’t quite understand why the matter was being pushed in this way. It felt like something was expected that he wasn’t reaching. That there was something he was lacking context for.]

Lan Zhan... I have a question.

[He had a growing suspicion something was just not quite right.]

Are there things you are aware of that I am not? The way Zewu Jun is?

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( He is — agitated. Sickened. Deluded. Disappointed.

...fine. Zewu-jun is fine.

Clipped, for the first time: )

He will rest.

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What does that even mean?

[Rest? What did rest have to do with anything?]

Lan Zhan! What are you not saying?

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( How long can a man watched hold his silence? Four heartbeat, it turns out. On a generous count. )

Leave the flower on your door's step.

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You come and knock like a proper visitor instead of trying to be a thief in the night!

And stop holding your secrets. Do you not want trust between us? How can I trust when you share nothing?

Or is it because Wei Wuxian, Yiling Patriarch, Founder of Demonic Cultivation just isn’t good enough to talk to like an equal?

Do you also know things about me you shouldn’t?

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Thrice here, you have overstepped with accusations.

( More yet, if they count every bite at the feast, every tinkering stab of wordplay. Wei Ying is no innocent of bloodying the men before him and tattering their reputations, only because he achieves this indiscriminately. )

Choose your words.

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Then stop hiding! We are in a strange world with few familiar faces. Must I still be outside? I thought good relations could be had, the invitation to Jin Lings first month celebration shows there is the ability. I understand the cultivation world has it's hate and assumptions. But I have things under control, and the Wen Reminents in my care have never harmed anyone.

Let us work together. We are familiar.

But, there is something off. You're not acting the way you did last I saw you, and with what Zewu Jun claimed... what if there are gaps. What if there is something I'm unaware of?

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...I detest your memory.

( Perhaps he shouldn't speak it so easily, venom a thinned trickle, clotting and seeping in. Brother, battered by the sickness of his guilt. Wei Ying, absorbed by the events of another decade, by Jin Ling's... invitation —

As if direr matters have not touched and tainted them since. As if they have lingered like stone, stagnant and resolute.

He breathes, and it all but tears at his lungs. )

The flower, at midday.

( And Lan Wangji, ending this... mirror sorcery. )

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[Clearly he was the only one lost behind in some way, missing pieces everyone else had.

With his emotions volatile at the best of times he coukdnt help but hurl the mirror against the wall, hoping it woukd shatter into a million pieces.]

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[ Past midday, nearer to evening, enough of the afternoon spilled like rust-ink in a weighty sky. Midday consumed itself differently than intended, with duties he chooses not to name.

He knows himself, slithering close. Knows he reeks of remains, of dust and bone and filth of dirt and vine lining his silks. Knows, too, the discourtesy of bringing death before another cultivator without the formalities of purification rites —

...but, all the same, here he finds himself. He taps Wei Ying's door with Bichen's hilt once, then again, and waits, hand out like every beggar who's pleaded for alms in the market. ]

The flower.

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[He was still feeling mad, and he knew the only person that would be knocking on his door with what sounded like a sword was Lan Wangji.

You can wait!

He rolled over to turn away as if ignoring it would make the problem go away.]

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[ The problem, solidified at Wei Ying's door, reduces itself — lets the weight of the way burden his shoulders down, nudging him to melt and sit by the door, back to hard wood, legs crossing.

Meditation strikes him as a perversion — to take it now, uncleansed, might violate the spirit of the exercise. Still, better to temper himself, each breath decelerating, until he feels the flow of the world coursing through his lungs.

Then, softer: ]

Take your time.

[ Sixteen years on, he has perfected nothing if not waiting. ]

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[That gives him pause. Everyone would say that the great Lan Wangji was a just and patient man. But Wei Wuxian felt that he was quick to judge and demand, and then storm off instead. So being told to take his time felt... off.

He was curious.

He turned over to look towards the door, was Lan Wangji fuming outside hoping he would come out? Was he planning to break in? Probably not.

He crawled over to the door and placed his ear against it, trying to hear what might be going on. Maybe if he opened it a crack to try and see....]

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[ ...the draft, before the creak, the imbalance against his back, the glimpse of a different dark, in the sliver of bed quarter that reveals itself.

It chills him, where the sweat of a day's wander cascaded down the steps of his spine. Begs him to shift, even before instinct consumes him, to stab the tip of Bichen, unsheathed, behind him without turning — slipping it at the lowest point of the door's opening, angled widely to pierce inside without striking Wei Ying's legs.

The rest of him stays as still as the moments before found him: waiting, back to the door, even as his sword secures it can't close on him again. ]

Sit with me.

[ On the floor, like peasants and children and men without care for status, dignity and form. ]

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[Wei Wuxian could not hold back an indignant gasp. How dare Lan Wangji metaphorically stick his foot in to keep his door open! That was something he would do!

With a grumbling sigh he gave up and opened the door fully to come out and sit next to the other properly.]

Fine.

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[ Wei Ying sits like he speaks, relaxed in ways that beg Wangji to retaliate with rigid form and posture, compensating towards balance. Late in the day, it nearly costs him strain to remember to reshape himself around that principle — but then, they fit beside each other again, the bodily geometry of their peace brokered without ado.

He waits, until he feels Wei Ying settled, to close his eyes and let the peace that precedes meditation draw upon him again. ]

Good evening. [ This, to start; he was, earlier, scolded for his manners. ] Apologies. Wei Ying expected me earlier.

[ ...with a door not doubt shut even tighter then, rejection reinforced by Wei Ying's stubborn pride. No matter. The hour was named, the rendez-vous pledged. Of the two, Lan Wangji failed in his duties. ]