under garden and calicos

[lanclan]

WHO: lan boiz.
WHEN: during unkharil event.
WHERE: xichen's badass hovel.
WHAT: dinner and a sleepover and gossip.
WARNINGS: too much swag.


[ The stone house Xichen has acquired is humble by any measure, but it is also decorated in the flowers gathered from the market with his daily earnings busking with Liebing: a similarly humble new reality, yet one he has taken to easily enough considering how much joy his music brings to heavy hearts. The rugs are roughly spun but thick and the three bedding areas are well-padded against the cold, if plain.

The flowers, though.

They stand in pots on ledges and sills, they hang from baskets by the door in green furls, white blossoms wherever he could get them but splashes of blue and pink and yellow here and there too like a painter swished his brush around the little house and decoration landed wherever it could take root. On the opposite side to the sleeping area is a small stove that the sect leader is tending, food baskets sets aside to keep the meal's components hot while he awaits his family. His guests! While the dumplings and vegetable dishes are simple (a little burned on the corners, perhaps) there is enough for three servings each.

Tea already awaits his guests, ready to be served into the plain brown ceramic cups set on the low table.

With his sleeves tied back and wearing the simplest of blue-and-white robes, a hairstick carved by himself out of wood, Xichen has adapted after months away from the comforts of home to try and create (wherever they are) another, however temporarily. ]

Comments

[downswing]

( His brother has peopled a ruin with the affectations of a home. They reek of the careful, refined despair that an educated man might manifest into embellishments: flowers, choice dinner dishes. Nostalgia.

Lan Wangji, silent in visit, recognises the instinct — to glorify home, to recreate its boundaries, is to ensconce oneself in an environment known, therefore readily controlled. He does not question Xichen's proclivities, only wrenches himself from heat and humidity and the wrongness of silks sticking to his back and presents himself, gift in hand: a bowl of foraged fruit, glistened beads.

Here, they are reputationally worthless, beggars by any other name. Negligible and therefore continuously neglected. But the fruit of the land are not unique to its princes. And Lan Wangji, setting the bowl down alongside Xichen's offerings before taking the knee by the table's spread, has foraged well.

He remembers, absently, to bow — deep, unperformative. A sect leader's due. )

It is good to see brother hosting once more.

[paperbutterflies]

[ Sizhui's cupped hands and bow are easy and cheerful as always, after he has deposited his own donation, a pair of balls of fluff with long ears, on the floor. His eyes are bright, for the many luxuries and shortages they have traveled to, the unmistakable touch of the man who has presided over the entirety of the Cloud Recesses, gently but thoroughly, unmistakable and beautiful. It may be out of place, perhaps, in this foreign place, in this limited place, but it moves in a way that Sizhui chooses to interpret as joy. ]

Zewu-jun! It is good indeed!

[ His smile is measured, not to infringe on rules, but it is also bright. His agreement is slightly pushing tenets of propriety, with him being so much younger and less distinguished, but not of family.

... and while in the Cloud Recesses, he would have stepped up to offer to pour the tea, Hanguang-jun putting Zewu-jun as a host, and thus the two of them as guests, might make them inappropriate, so he hesitates, the question in his eyes gentle and patient. ]

[lanclan]

[ To see them both together makes him smile, warmth in his chest and eyes bright. As tired as his heart is, a worn thing in the cage of his chest, it swells at the sight; they are the reason he continues to avoid despair and seclusion, wrenched out of both back home where he was beginning to curl inward on himself. ]

Sizhui, please attend the tea.

[ Permission, mildly teasing. He undoes his tied sleeves and brings over the baskets with their meal inside, informally setting them on the empty side of the table. ]

Hopefully, the dishes I've cooked will not disappoint.

[ Soft steamed scallions of green onions, mushroom and tofu buns, egg and chive dumplings, roasted green beans, and long hand-pulled noodles in a creamy sauce from the buns: Xichen has been cooking all afternoon to make sure the dough and noodles are right, remembering and implementing all of Wen Kexing's lessons over the past week. He thinks he has done fairly well. It is nothing that would take centre-focus at the dining table in Cloud Recesses but he is pleased to have provided a hearty vegetarian meal for his family.

A little flour remains on his cheek and in his hair as he begins opening the baskets and serving his brother and nephew first, gesturing for them to go ahead and eat. ]

[downswing]

( ...ah. Sizhui, quickly ebb and tiding between the filial presumption of pouring tea and the alien arrogance of playing guest. Lan Wangji, settled curiously and measuring the span of the table, and its — offerings. )

It is — ( ...nearly raw. The very centre of one dumpling appears — of no consequence. He has consumed worse, and the rice seems pleasingly fluffed, besides. Even the beans seem only... slightly controversial, browned at their edges. )

An excess of hospitality. We are unworthy. ( But then, a fleeting nod Sizhui's way, to begin the pour, while Lan Wangji himself takes the service bowls and starts to choose out the finest, least burned pieces, to delegate into Sizhui and Xichen's bowls. ) You both suit peace.

( However fleeting and unstable. )

[paperbutterflies]

Yes, Zewu-jun!

[ And Sizhui sets to it, his motions certain and hands skilled, the years and years of practice not fading at all with the many months in which he has not done this, or only rarely. But since the difference between host and guest batters greatly for this, it was only right to seek the guidance of his seniors - and two of those whom he would trust absolutely. ]

It looks and smells delicious. Thank you, Zewu-jun.

[ ... he is also, for historical reasons, somewhat less picky than many.

Although, once the tea is poured and he has settled down, he tilts his head very slightly towards Hanguang-jun. He does not ask, why only the two of them, and not Hanguang-jun himself. Why he would think he, among the three of them, would not belong.

However fleeting or unstable the peace without might be, there are bonds between the three of them that he thinks... hopes... that are far more enduring. ]

[lanclan]

[ Inclining a nod to their thanks, his quick eyes pick up what Wangji is doing and steals a less-than-perfect dumpling before replacing it with the better one from his own bowl, ensuring Wangji eats well. A fun little tableau for Sizhui. ]

I wanted to learn how to cook us a meal no matter where we are, that way we can always have provisions ready. Peace or not. Wangji, you also deserve it. [ His voice is even and soft, a current of loyalty and devotion running through it that underlies his smile. ] We may not have a sect here to rely on but we have each other and the two of you are always my priority. If I cannot feed my family, what good am I? A sword alone is no real support.

[ The juiciest green beans are deposited in Sizhui's bowl, still a growing boy. ]

What have the two of you been getting up to lately?

[downswing]

( If I cannot feed my family, what good am I?

It stings, propels him into crisp, vinegared posture. He should have thought to provide for them, for his son, his paltry family. Should have learned the rites of flame and foraging and even — a shudder, long-traversing — hunt to create a meal, a way to satisfy base needs for Sizhui, Wei Ying, Wen Qing.

A sword alone, and Lan Wangji's sits, tenderly poised, balanced on his thigh. He quiets her with a steadied touch on her hilt, and takes his cup with both hands, the first sip strained. Local herbs come too weak, faint in flavour and aftertaste. On the back of his tongue, lacing his mouth — gravel. )

Quieting the dead. Far too many, neglected. ( And hideously tortured, anguished and ignored. Made weak by cruelty. ) Past that, the serpent temple.

( Spoken with the air of a boy who learned, obediently, to relay his every step for his Uncle's pleasure. )