It's been thirteen years since Lan Zhan was last in a room with Wei Wuxian, but its been five minutes since he saw Wei Ying teaching art online. Devising a complex plan to save Wei Ying from being framed from murder, Lan Zhan throws his life and he...
Well we are about 4 chapters away and then our Lan Zhan will be in Yunmeng...
I am, I admit a big fan of Andrew Tischler. I discovered his videos on Youtube and I don't even paint with oils...but woah is he brilliant. The prompt that began this story was artist!Wei Wuxian and to do that, meant making him the alt version of Andrew Tischler. :)
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The apartment is so quiet it feels like a tomb.
Lan Zhan was raised in the quiet, to appreciate solitude and self-reliance. Took comfort in the silence, mistook it for control and safety for most of his life, but as Lan Zhan closes his apartment door, all he feels is painfully alone.
That should be comforting. Shutting the door and allowing himself tor relax, here where there are no eyes and hopefully if all his precautions still function correctly, no ears to intrude, to judge him. But it's not.
He's never had more freedom and yet, his world these days is busy but hollow. This place is no longer a sanctuary, but an empty shell.
Methodically, he checks the apartment, safety only ever an illusion since Gusu burned nearly to the ground and then forces himself to focus on a shower. He hasn't been home for days, either of them. The Jingshi or this apartment. He misses his house, the sounds of the forest, the mountain suddenly, viscerally.
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Homesickness is ridiculous considering he spends half of his time in Gusu anyway, but now satisfied his Caiyi home is secure, he takes a moment to light some incense. The entire apartment with two bedrooms, is still smaller than the Jingshi so the smoke curls into the air, spreading sandalwood throughout the space.
His eyes feel gritty and tension has tightened his shoulders into stone forms, the burn scars along his back aching. Lan Zhan strips as he sets the shower and ducks beneath its spray with a soft sound, half moan, half sigh.
His brother however, even as weighed down by responsibilities as he is, has found time to launder his clothes, probably in Gusu and arrange the towels in the blue painted cupboard, sorted by differing shades of white. It makes him smile, noticing the clean sheets on the bed, the scent of sandalwood from his incense sticks perfuming the air.
As he trails back into the main room, he pauses in the kitchen area and sees that his fridge and freezer have been well stocked with Lan Xichen's home made meals, the teapot arranged almost pointedly on the countertop.
He adores his elder brother.
He leans his weight against the countertop for a moment, stretching his back. Taking out one of the meals, a light soup he puts in a pot to reheat. Truly he prefers cooking himself and this is the tradition of their family, a sacred tradition between Xichen and himself as brothers.
