Lan Xichen looked up and moved towards it, frowning. It was the middle of the night. His exhausted spirits sank further at the thought that it might be Lan Wangji come to seek comfort, full of fear for his Wei Ying. Then he felt even worse for not wanting to be there for Wangji; what kind of brother did that make him? Swallowing and trying to appear calm, he pulled the door open.

“Zewu Jun,” Meng Yao whispered, and Lan Xichen sucked in a breath, surprised and then immediately relieved. He reached out and lightly touched Meng Yao’s elbow, pleased to see that he was out of the clothes Wen Ruohan had dressed him in and was instead wearing simple sleep robes.

“a-Yao,” he murmured warmly; something in his chest loosened at the small but genuine smile he got in reply. “Are you alright?”

Meng Yao dipped his head once, his arms wrapped around himself. “Mm. I’m sorry to… I just couldn’t sleep. It feels like everyone in the palace must be lying awake, but it’s so quiet. I…”

He trailed off, looking lost and anxious, and Lan Xichen ached to hold him. He kept a careful distance, though, as he gently tugged Meng Yao inside the room. Meng Yao cast a wary glance around, stopping and tensing when he spotted Nie Mingjue asleep in bed. The large guest room was bisected by a row of filigree-style carved wooden folding panels, with a seating area on the opposite side from the sleeping space; this was where Lan Xichen led Meng Yao. He was saddened by the way Meng Yao visibly relaxed when they were screened off from Nie Mingjue’s part of the room. He disliked even more that he himself relaxed, too.

“He will not wake if we are quiet,” Lan Xichen said softly, guiding Meng Yao to sit at the low table and lighting the small stove to heat water for tea.

~

Meng Yao did as instructed, but only to allow for Nie Mingjue’s full focus for his next words. He had never directly spoken to Nie Mingjue about his father, but he knew enough to cut deep. An insult to Baxia’s quality, a comparison with the previous Nie sect leader’s blade, and then the final blow: a mocking taunt making it clear that Meng Yao knew, without a doubt, that Wen Ruohan had murdered Nie Mingjue’s father by tampering with his spiritual weapon.

This time, Nie Mingjue did meet Meng Yao’s eyes, his own shining with tears. Something in Meng Yao’s chest twisted and tugged painfully, but he ignored it. The stakes were too high. He stepped closer, holding Nie Mingjue’s gaze, his heart hammering with sick anticipation.

“When your father received his broken blade…” he murmured, and he was so close now he could breathe Nie Mingjue in, feel the heat from his body. His head spun a little and he suddenly couldn’t hold that burning stare another moment; he dropped his eyes and tilted his head as he leaned in, almost as if to kiss him, finishing his sentence in barely more than a whisper: “… didn’t he die of wrath?”

For a moment, Meng Yao felt so completely off-kilter that he forgot himself; he wanted to reach out, be closer still. To have Nie Mingjue under his hands. To touch.

Then he realized Nie Mingjue was going to hit him, and he couldn’t help himself; he smiled. To be hit is to be touched, after all. In Meng Yao’s life, he took what he could get.

~