lightbearinglord | [ closed post: hold fast to the center ]

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[ closed post: hold fast to the center ]

With Dark behind them, most of Lan Wangji's routine has managed to reassert itself. He awakens at mao hour and disentangles himself from his clinging cultivation partner, who tends to sprout several additional limbs in the night. He dresses and slips away for his morning meditation. He takes Bichen to the air, circles the grounds of the mansion and checks the woods for any changes beyond the known quantities of Ragnelle's nest and Magnus' camp, and runs through his sword forms. He stops in the kitchen and makes breakfast for his husband. By that point, his day can branch in several ways: he can, upon bringing the breakfast to Wei Ying, also opt to return to his bed, a perpetually tempting option. He can find Magnus and indulge in listening to him talking about whatever strikes his fancy. He can practice his qin, work on his calligraphy, retreat to the library for the endless project of educating himself, or embark on some more ambitious culinary endeavor.

Recently, however, Lan Wangji was reminded of a promise he made to someone important. Where possible, he prefers to keep his promises. So this morning, after he has sufficiently fed Wei Ying, made his apologies in the form of several lingering love-bites along his neck and shoulders, and changed his boots for house slippers, he approaches Claudius and Galahad's room. This route is one of the few persistently familiar paths that seem to exist in the ever-changing mansion.

It is early, but not so early. And Claudius did ask him for this, not once but twice. He lifts a hand and knocks crisply at the door.

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Claudius laughs, both from fondness and because he does fear breaching etiquette an inordinate amount -- it feels natural, that Wangji should provide that education for him, the way Wangji taught him how to use chopsticks. He must have started thinking of Lan Wangji as a brother, even back then.

But that's a conversational layer. He starts navigating layers of actual fabric, removing his dressing gown to clothe himself in the zhongyi, unselfconscious as he does so. He also reveals a lot of marks left by Galahad, the rows of roses and peonies planted along his neck and chest.

Lan Wangji is unruffled by standing by, holding the piled layers of clothing for Claudius, and waiting for him. It would be impossible for him not to notice the chains of purpling bruises, however, with the tiniest little twitch of a smile. This must be how Wei Ying would look every morning if he did not have a slowly-growing golden core to speed his healing along. It's something of a shame that he does, in this respect only. He steps in once the zhongyi's components are in place so that he can wrap the skirt around Claudius' waist and tie it crisply for him; then, as he holds out that middle layer of robe with the expectation that Claudius will slip his arms into the sleeves, lets his gaze catch on one of those blossoming marks, now especially visible where the color bleeds beneath the white collar of that undershirt. "Galahad," he guesses, with confidence.

Claudius laughs, not surprised at Lan Wangji's accuracy, but suitably impressed. "Galahad," he says, "is a menace. None would think it of him, particularly if they met him back when he was chaste and would blush at the smallest insinuation of being otherwise. Know'st thou, I think I remember Wei Wuxian saying something similiar. At the talent show: no one back home would ever believe me that Hanguang-jun is so unreasonable ..." At this point, he's entirely teasing. He knows Lan Wangji doesn't remember that part of the talent show. He neatly pulls out the sleeves of his robe, seeing how far they go -- Claudius already knew the cut-sleeve story, but he has a new appreciation for it. Claudius would gladly cut the sleeve off even this fine a fabric, if Galahad were comfortable on top of it.

Lan Wangji does not remember that portion of the talent show, but it sounds so exactly right that he believes it immediately, with hardly any embarrassment. Wei Ying bemoans his husband's cruel and unyielding nature nearly every night.

"Mn." He's temporarily silent as he arranges Claudius' robe for him, smoothing it down neatly and then pulling it around him. He's efficient and practiced, but gentle, and moving more slowly than he otherwise might so that Claudius can observe. It puts him in mind of Lan Xichen, showing him all these same motions when he was still much smaller than his brother, tying his forehead ribbon into his hair for him. "It must be folded left over right," he says, demonstrating as he tucks the collar into place and then continuing, while he unwinds the sash, as if there had been no interruption to the previous topic. "I would think it of him. I first bit Wei Ying years before kissing him." The connection there, which he assumes Claudius will easily ascertain, is that he sees himself in Galahad.

"Didst thou?" Claudius laughs, a sharp, bright laugh like a flash of light down a creek. (Like the sort of example one might look for, when poetry students or disciples. He tilts his head a moment, while Lan Wangji works. "I can imagine it too clearly. What did he say, at that first bite?"

Most of this memory is not pleasant, but looking back at it more than twenty years later softens it. Lan Wangji begins wrapping that sash around Claudius' waist, tidy and focused, as he recites Wei Ying's words -- almost dispassionately, but with an underlying rueful amusement. "'Lan Zhan, you've gone mad today! You're a dog! Stop biting me!'"

Claudius laughs with joy, and even hides the laughter in one of his long, layered sleeves. "What a disrespectful man! Know'st thou, even when Sagramore plays a dog, he is not half so disrespectful. And I --" He holds a finger to his lips, and winks. Tidy and wrapped in Lan Wangji's well-tied sash. "I understand such men need taming and chiding. It's because we have some wild instinct in us, but when we are humbled ... all of us longs for that humbling. Wei Wuxian longs for thee completely. I know this to be true."

This next twitch of a smile is not quite so tiny. "Mn." Lan Wangji takes the time to finish his task, tucking the ends of that sash away and smoothing it all out. He gives Claudius' robe a few businesslike tugs to ensure it falls the way it should. "I know that now."

"Ay, after all thy tribulations," Claudius says fondly -- the two certainly have had their share of tribulations, out of all the lovers Claudius knows. It's part of his fondness for them. "Now thou canst both bite and kiss."

Lan Wangji is keenly aware of all those tribulations, of just how impossibly lucky he has been when, once, he had come to accept that he would never leave his mourning and that he would walk through the remainder of his days alone. His luck came at a price -- but Claudius will learn of that during the story he's agreed to tell. "Every day."

A glance at the jacket Claudius has chosen reveals that his sleeves are not going to fit without intervention, and so Lan Wangji reaches into the wardrobe one final time to produce two long strips of silk, like the ones he uses himself but in a dark grey. He catches Claudius by one wrist, then the other, to brace him as he binds up his sleeves for him. Once that is finished, he retrieves the jacket for Claudius and gives him a mutedly expectant look: What do you think?

"Sleeve garters," Claudius observes with a delighted laugh, as he slips his arms and neatly-bond sleeves through the jacket. "Dost thou know what this is? This is convergent evolution.” The next time a lover tries to pull a shirt over his head and Claudius has to explain there’s a very specific order to how these pieces come off, he’s mentioning this.

In all his layers, Claudius nearly looks the part of a gentleman. Lan Wangji regards him with fondness, quietly pleased with himself, and then glances back up with a second look of expectant anticipation. He knows he needs to do little else to prompt an explanation of convergent evolution.

"Like fruit," Claudius says by way of introduction¹. "Dost remember that charming story I told thee, about the Garden of Eden, and the fruits of all the trees made for mankind to consume? In sooth, trees do not bear fruit in service of mankind. Trees make fruit so that there can be more trees. The oldest forms of plants, simple mosses that grow by the water and in the shadows of stones, spread through spores like the ones Tress uses -- but without the wind to carry them, spores can only spread so far. Trees are far more ambitious. They have more specialized structures, roots and leaves, and woody stems which help withstand cold and heat. They also have flowers, which grow into fruit, and which animals will want to pick and eat. Animals have more locomotion than most trees do, of course, and sow their seeds farther. The more sumptuous the fruit, the more animals prefer it. In many ways, fruit is meant to tempt. It's because fruit is tempting that apple trees have survived; Crowley really only illustrated that fact. You could call him an early patron of agriculture."

While speaking, he straightens the cuffs of his sleeves, and does a testing half-twirl to see how the fabric flows around him. He rather likes it. "But apples aren't the only plant to have evolved for fruits. So have thy loquats. So have tomatoes, which came from the Americas with Mexican cuisine, and are not even a tree, but a vine. In parts of the world separated by vast oceans -- indeed, in thy world and mine -- fruits have evolved independently. All because, as a fashion of seed dispersal, fruits tend to succeed. There's an example of convergent evolution." Idly flexing his hand, showing off his wrist and the fit of the jacket, he says, "The same must be true of style. Some styles are invented, of course, but others evolve -- and naturally some evolve alike²."

¹ Some men will say would you like to hear about convergent evolution and not wait for an answer, or they will wait for the slightest inquisitive look. Between Lan Wangji and Galahad, Claudius is used to this.
² You heard it here, first: sleeve garters are like biological fitness.

Not once did Lan Wangji believe that tale of the Garden of Eden, for more than one reason. All the cruelty of its featured deity aside, he could lend no credence to assuming everything was created with its purpose bent toward serving mankind, constructed out of selfish arrogance. This explanation finds more purchase. The universe wants to sustain itself, in its infinite simplicity and complexity; the growth of the ten thousand things prevents their dying out.

"Humans do not differ so much, even across oceans," he says, watching with satisfaction as Claudius enjoys himself in his new clothing. "Every fruit and every scrap of clothing flows from the same source." And, at last, now that Claudius is dressed: "Are you ready?"

"I am," he says, surprised at himself. When he was drunk -- he can remember it for clearly, for all that men drink to forget. He knows he expressed how much he feared meditation would be like prayer, another desperate call to the universe and the forces that shaped it, begging for something bigger than him to fix him. But the ritual of getting dressed, clothing himself in armor to face the world, always has its way of strengthening him. And now the ritual's shared. Every fruit and every scrap of clothing flows from the source. Even if his prayers go unanswered -- there's an answer. This is something different (and so, so familiar).

Lan Wangji meant it when they spoke by the fire: he knows that this is something Claudius can do, as long as he has guidance, and he considers it an honor to offer that guidance. He doesn't need to lead the way down the mansion hallway, because Claudius knows where to find this little room. He has visited it often enough. Making their way there is merely a short walk with a friend.

Once they are inside, his first order of business is to cross to the corner in order to light a stick of sandalwood incense. A gentle touch with a flicker of qi is all it takes, and then he sits. Telling Claudius to do the same would amount to wasted words.

For once, Claudius sits appropriately, copying Lan Wangji's movements precisely. His usual, sprawling sitting position is best for showing off trousered legs, anyway. The way the skirt settles around him like this is quite comfortable, the scent of sandalwood drifting in the air quite pleasant. "So," he says, "what now? Where do we begin?"

The sight of Claudius with his skirts arrayed around his knees, sitting there in near-perfect imitation of him, threatens to make Lan Wangji smile again. He considers the question, though, and considers Claudius himself. He has a busy mind, one that is always working. He has needed it to survive a life in which the nimbleness of his mind was all that he had to defend against the threat of those larger and stronger than him. Now Lan Wangji has the task of teaching him to calm it and empty it again, and of helping him believe himself safe enough to do so.

"Place a hand over your lower dantian," he begins, demonstrating with a hand flat to his abdomen, "and the other over your middle dantian." His own free hand flattens over his chest. "Breathe, and fill them with that breath. When you release it, do so slowly. If it will help you, match your breathing to mine."

"Dost thou know ..." Claudius can't help but laugh, a fond, fluttering laugh he can feel under his fingers when he mirrors Lan Wangji with a hand to his abdomen. When he places a hand on his chest, he feels the same laugh rising through his abdomen, before the sound spills out. "Sometimes, when thou say'st dantian, I hear it as an untranslated title. And sometimes I hear it as an alchemical term." The translator always leans towards artistic license, with him. It's why he thinks he can still understand so many puns. But before he can go on about it, he breathes -- there are times he's started on a subject and forgotten to breathe -- and makes himself breathe in slowly.

It feels too long, at first. He's too used to shallow breaths, like a rabbit made to run, who hasn't yet lost sight of a predator. So he listens for Lan Wangi's breath, and lets that soft sound guide him.

With a flare of answering fondness, Lan Wangji meets Claudius' gaze. "Internal alchemy," he says, and that will have to be enough of an exploration of the nuances of the translator for now. He doesn't intend to allow them to become distracted. As such, he presses on.

"Shut your eyes. Continue to breathe, slowly, with me, and drop your hands when you are ready." For a collection of breaths, he is silent, his own breathing deep and even. He listens in turn, to be sure that Claudius is with him. "Think only of each breath. When other thoughts come, release them without fighting them. In this room, you need to do nothing but nourish your body with breath and nourish your spirit with qi. Where there is one, the other follows."

His first thoughts, flickering with the low flash of light behind his eyes, are wry, self-deprecating, something about how the shallowness of his breath must speak to the state of his spirit -- he can't stop the thought from starting, but he does go back to his breath before he finishes it. Think only of each breath. How much is there to think? He tries to focus, but every other thought feels like weeds crowding around the edges of his head, strangling the ground before any new seed takes root. He worries about his health. He worries about time passing. He's worries how boring he must be -- not to Lan Wangji, perhaps, but then he worries about a dozen other people not here and what they've always thought about him.

He breathes out, slow, and tries just to think of the air passing through his lips, his chest falling. He's tilling the earth. He pulls up the weeds, then tries to let them go. There's no use in dwelling, in planting them again.

"Good," Lan Wangji says, eyes still on Claudius' face. He knows it well enough now to see, when it comes, the minute release of tension between his brows. He knows Claudius' qi, too. He has scoured his meridians and poured his own spiritual energy into them. Here, with none of that urgency, in a safe room with the sky lightening through the window, he catches the flickering rhythm of its circulation as Claudius breathes and begins painstakingly to settle.

With some, he might remain silent from here. Claudius worried about doing this, though, in the flippant way he has that means he cares very much. His thoughts will want to creep back in and fill his lungs and mind. So Lan Wangji continues speaking, low and measured, carving a gentle path for Claudius to follow. "You share this breath with every other thing in this universe. You share it with me, with Danding and Xiaoxue, and with the trees outside as they wait for spring. Like the fruit, like those scraps of clothing, it all springs from the same source, differing only in name. Breathe and feel that sameness."

Claudius taught himself to identify fabric by feel. When he settles back into his body, every draped layer surrounding him feels like something familiar -- cotton spun from cotton blooms, silk spun from silkworms. Somewhere bolls must form on mallow branches, like white pearls form within the shell. Somewhere there must be groves of mulberry trees, and the children of wild moths emerging from their eggs to feed. Even worlds away, he knows it must be warm there, or the eggs wouldn't hatch. The mulberries wouldn't fruit. It all springs from the same source. Even worlds away, he knows breathing leaves must fill the sunlit air with oxygen. People live and walk beneath them, who couldn't live without them.

There's plenty to think about. Wryly, Claudius realizes that's another ancillary thought -- thinking about thinking, typical -- but he breathes in, sharing that air, the same air that brings Wangji's voice to him.

Voices, too, are breath. He lets Wangji's words fill his lungs, and become a part of him. Perhaps he'll form some fruit from it.

Satisfied that Claudius is with him, Lan Wangji shuts his own eyes. He no longer needs to look to take the measure of him. "There is power and life in you, the power and life that is in everything." These next words are words he knows so well that they ask no thought of him, only the comfort of well-worn pattern. "The one produces the two. The two produces the three. The three produces the ten thousand things. The ten thousand things carry yin and embrace yang."

There are countless ways to meditate. Lan Wangji could be icy and remote in the cold spring. He could be holding brush-straight handstands with Lan Xichen. He could be flowing from one sword form to the next, Bichen alight in his hand. This morning, he is here, caught between worlds and glad for it.

To his credit, Claudius doesn’t scoff — what power? Voices, too, are breath. Lovers’ whispers, demagogues’ declarations, the adages of old men, the murmur of the crowd. They spread like cotton seeds, and drift, touch down and take root. Put Claudius on a battlefield and his breath would quickly tire, but he has enough life in his lungs to join a sea of voices. Enough even to sing, when it suits him.

Cotton seeds, drifting. One touches down, and becomes two, the last seed of the old plant and the first seed of the new. Two becomes three. Generation after generation, season after season, the three becomes ten thousand. Floating on the air, carrying yin, embracing yang.

He could be anywhere, doing anything. Doing something more productive — no. The cotton plant is still, and still produces ten thousand things. It doesn’t rush. He resists the urge to rise and pace, recites Wangji’s mantra in his head. The one produces the two. The two produces the three …

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