we_bring_hell | (no subject)

He cracks a lopsided smile. "He is that," he says, "and he is also very stubborn. It may be."

The smile fades, and he drags his hand down his face.

"Of course he is also very used to following endless, meaningless rules that dictate everything from when he can rise in the morning to when he can sleep at night."

"Yes," she says. "Yet in my experience, he does not allow those rules to harm those he cares for. Have you seen otherwise?"

"If the Eighth House kept the tome as Lan Wangji does, their reputation would be other than it is."

He could crack a joke about how those rules cost him a very nice bottle of Emperor's Smile once, but he knows that is not what Harrow means. (And even if it was, one could further argue that he and Lan Zhan barely knew each other then.)

"No," he says, quietly. "No, I have not." He lifts his hand as if in a shrug. "And he has already broken them for me, in the eyes of his sect. He did not reject the crooked path."

She nods. "I really think there is no obstacle other than his feelings, Wei Wuxian. Do you truly fear he would judge you for seeking companionship? Or desire anything but your happiness?"

"What is it you fear?"

"That he will turn away from me."

He cannot look at Harrow any longer.

"That I will -- ruin this."

That I will lose my last piece of home. The one good piece remaining. The one who knows me best, even still; even after all I have done.

However Wei Ying sees me is his choice. That is what I accept.

"No," she says simply. "I do not believe there is anything that could do that, Wei Wuxian."

"He may not reciprocate your desires. It may be excruciatingly awkward." Amazing pep talk, Harrow. So good. "But abandon you? No."

Though he is still looking down at the bar, he cannot help but crack a smile at her brutal honesty.

"So I will only have to live at the bottom of lake for several days, not forever," he says.

Her lips curve faintly. "I, too, value my dignity highly. But you have said the current situation is untenable."

"My experience with such things is trivial. But surely once you know for certain, you will be able to find a way forward together." She colors faintly under the paint. "As... lovers or simply... zhiji."

Her pronunciation is mediocre, but she's only heard it twice, and it has a couple of difficult consonants in it.

His head snaps up.

All words have fled; all he can do is stare at Harrow in pure shock.

She holds his dark gaze with her own black-on-black eyes.

Hoarsely, mouth dry:

"He told you?"

She breaks the eye contact. "I told you I have carefully considered the path of duty in this."

"It is a word I learned here, from one who has experience with the concept," she says guardedly.

Who else could it be, though? There is only him and Lan Zhan. Perhaps there is someone from a world similar to theirs, but if he has lived at the inn for over a month and hasn't met them yet -- and he knows he would remember it, as one meets a traveler from their own land when they are far from home --

He is breathing a little unsteadily.

"We were, once," he says, helpless. "I thought we were."

"Do you think that has changed?" she says gently. "Or that he feels it has?"

"How could it not?" He laughs a little, without humor. "He wanted to play Clarity. He wished to exorcise me. All he could talk about for a time was the harm the resentful energy would do to me."

Swiftly, he pinches the bridge of his nose to swipe the gathering tears from his eyes.

"I told you we had drifted apart before I died, but in truth, Harrow, I pushed him away. Because I thought I could not trust him. And now -- "

Now, he doesn't know what to do. Only that his chest burns with raw feeling, so intense he fears he will never be able to ignore it.

"Then before you ask him about his feelings" she says, just as delicately, "you must decide if you can forgive him that, and trust it will not happen again, yes?"

"That seems to me the far more important question than anything--carnal."

What he thinks of now, of everything that happened the night before, is not the moments his mind went blank, or Lan Zhan looked at him strangely, or he tripped so hard over his own words that all he wished were to snatch them back out of the air.

What he thinks of is sitting curled up on the floor of the washroom, wracked by so much pain he could only breathe enough to sob the air right back out of his lungs. The small sliver of light on the other side of the door. Lan Zhan's voice, quiet and calm: You are not fine, but you will be.

How he did not hide forever, as he thought he might, but instead chose to walk back out into the light. To the softness of a shared bed; to music, hummed softly against his hair.

To Lan Zhan.

Oh, he thinks. Maybe this is why.

"I do trust him," he whispers. Soft wonder unfurls through the words like a flower blossoming. "I forgive him."

"That is precious indeed," she says quietly. "To be forgiven is all I hope for, anymore. And more precious by far than being told I did nothing wrong."

"I must tread carefully," she says. "For I hold more than just your confidences. But... I think, if you do forgive him, that there is nothing you can lose by telling him of your feelings. Not truly. Only the risk of embarrassment, weighed against the possibility of..."

Her face grows warm. "Of possibility."

He nods, slowly. At last he manages to look up from the bar and meet Harrow's eye.

"I have survived worse than embarrassment, I suppose." His mouth quirks, wryly. "I have not survived everything, but I have still survived worse. Though I apologize in advance if I am miserable for several more days after making a fool of myself again. I'll get over it."

"One thing you must consider," she says--and again she is choosing her words with obvious care-- "Is that those of us who guard our composure sometimes take comfort in others who are more free. They can say and feel things we forbid ourselves."

"Your apology is accepted."

The now-thoroughly-cooled porridge vanishes and is replaced with a thick slice of bread. It is slathered in jam, but for whatever reason the Bar has been moved to compromise.

The crooked half-smile softens. "I will keep that in mind," he says, quietly. "And I thank you."

He catches movement at the corner of his eye, and glances to the slice of bread Madam Bar has seen fit to provide. "She seems to be fussing over you this morning."

Harrow picks up the bread and nibbles at the crust. "She is proving exceptionally recalcitrant on subject of my morning meal," Harrow says sharply, her tone directed at the wood.

The Bar responds to this by producing a piece of paper--not a napkin, as is usual, but something narrower and flimsier; a receipt. Harrow reaches to crumple it up.

He frowns, slightly. "Is it not what you wish to eat? Or do you have no appetite at all?"

"I requested bread and water to break my fast, as is customary." She crumples up the receipt and flicks it aside. "I believe she would like me to expand my palate."

There is something tight and uncomfortable in the way Harrow discusses this topic.

Wei Wuxian sighs -- but it is good-natured this time, not the woeful (and, to be honest, often melodramatic) sighs of the past fifteen minutes.

"Madam Bar," he says, as he places his palm flat against the wood and inclines his head in a small bow. "You would not switch my meals with Lan Zhan's with no warning, would you? Show mercy to Harrow."