#BL #Danmei #BxB #GayRomance #18plus #ExplicitContent #NSFW #MDZS #MoDaoZuShi #TheUntamed #TianGuanCiFu #Hualian #WangXian #Fanfiction #EnglishAdaptation #SnowNight #HurtComfort

(original Russian text adapted for English-speaking readers while preserving tone and style)

The door swung open, and a burst of icy wind tore into the jingshi—so sharp and merciless that even the candles on the table shuddered, their flames stretching into thin, trembling tongues as if trying to flee from whoever had entered. Shadows on the walls flinched and twisted like wounded birds whose wings had been cut off and left to die in silence.

Lan Wangji stood on the threshold, his white robes coated with frost, a seamless continuation of the winter he carried with him—as though all that cold, all that snow, all that relentless whiteness had settled inside him.

His gaze—clear, distant, frozen—glided slowly across the room and stopped on Wei Ying.

Wei Wuxian sat by the low table, the lamplight falling on him in such a way that he looked carved from a single piece of night—black hair, black robes, black eyes. Before him stood two wine jugs and two porcelain cups.

He lifted his head and tried to smile—habitually, broadly—but the smile came out crooked, because in Lan Wangji’s eyes he saw absolute absence.

“Lan Zhan!” His voice sounded deliberately cheerful. “You’re back. Must be tired. Sit, drink with me. Been a while since we talked.”

Lan Wangji didn’t move. The scent of wine hit him—heavy, sweet—and something in his chest twisted. He remembered another taste—cold, with the bitter edge of longing and the metallic sweetness of blood. A taste that lived on his lips now like a brand he could never erase, and one he did not want to erase.

“No,” he said—and in that single word lay everything he had not said for years.

“No?” Wei Ying chuckled, but the chuckle was like a blade dragged across skin, leaving blood behind. “Again? Another no? You always refuse. Always with your rules, your boundaries, your… your silence. Do I even exist for you, Lan Zhan? Or am I just a stain on your white wall you wipe away whenever it starts to bother you?”

Lan Wangji didn’t answer. He took off his outer cloak—slowly, as if each movement cost him the last remnants of strength. He hung it up, then unfastened his sword. His actions were habitual, practiced, like a man who had already died inside and was simply performing the final rituals before laying himself in the coffin. Then his gaze fell on the shelf.

Dark wood. A lacquered box. Open. Empty. On the wood—one shriveled petal. Dark crimson. Like dried blood.

Something inside him tore.

He rushed to the shelf.

“Where?” His voice was quiet, but a thin, sharp string vibrated in it—ready to snap. “Where is what was kept here?”

“Oh, that dry flower?” Wei Wuxian took a sip, never breaking eye contact. “I threw it out. Strange keepsake for someone like you, Hanguang-jun. Honestly—almost inappropriate.”

Silence. A silence in which one could hear something breaking inside Lan Wangji—quietly, soundlessly, forever. He took a step forward. His eyes—two shards of glass—reflected the entirety of this ruin.

“I can’t do this anymore, Wei Ying. I’m suffocating. In my own home. In these walls. I asked you… I begged you for so long—” His eyes moved meaningfully to the wine jugs. “I’m losing myself. There’s nothing left that’s mine. Nothing! This was… it was mine. Do you understand? The only thing that belonged to me alone.”

“Yours?!” Wei Ying shot to his feet, the table crashing over with a deafening thud. Wine spilled across the floor. “Since when should there be ‘yours’ between us? Aren’t we supposed to share everything? We’re a pair!”

“You were never mine.” It wasn’t an accusation. For the first time, Lan Wangji’s voice cracked into a scream—quiet, hoarse, torn from deep within. “You were the wind I tried to catch with my hands! You were the fire I tried to burn in! But I can’t burn forever, Wei Ying! I need a home, not a pyre! And in this home there’s the smell of alcohol, the noise of your comings and goings, and I can’t sleep because I’m listening—listening if you’re coming back! I lie awake listening to your footsteps, which always lead somewhere else and so rarely—to me! You can’t live quietly—you need chaos, war, noise to feel alive. I tried to reach you! Again and again! But you don’t want silence. You want an endless celebration, and I’m nothing but decoration on it.”

He exhaled—and everything he had held inside for months turned itself inside out. He looked at Wei Ying—his wide eyes—and saw no understanding. Only hurt and anger.

Wei Ying opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes were red—not from wine, from something else.

“You… you speak like I’m a stranger to you,” he whispered.

“You are a stranger to me,” Lan Wangji said.

He turned sharply, grabbed his sword, stepped toward the door.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying shouted, voice cracking. “Where are you going?”

“Away,” Lan Wangji answered without turning back. “While I can still walk out on my own.”

And Wei Ying was left alone. With two jugs. Two cups. And silence that no longer belonged to him.

He sank to the floor, face in his hands. And for the first time, he cried. Quietly. Without sound. The way cry those who understand they have lost something forever.

Lan Wangji stepped out of the jingshi into the courtyard. The cold hit his face—clean, merciless. Snow crunched under his feet like breaking bones. His steps were steady, but inside everything was collapsing: every heartbeat felt like the last. He didn’t know where he was going. He only knew one thing—if he stopped, he would fall and never rise again.

He passed the library. The assembly hall. The pavilion of junior disciples where someone was still awake. He didn’t hear. He moved through walls, through people, through his own life like a ghost who hadn’t yet realized he was already dead.

He walked. Faster. Then began to run. His lungs burned. Snow blinded his eyes. His heart pounded as if it wanted to escape and remain behind—with the one he had left.

Lan Wangji ran until his legs gave out, until he collapsed into the snow, until the world narrowed to a single rhythm—the thud of his heart, the rasp of his breath, the crunch of snow under his soles. He didn’t know how he reached the lower town: a moment ago there was forest, and now—narrow streets, lanterns, the smell of fried oil and hot wine. He stood in the road wearing only one hanfu, no cloak, hair tousled, lips blue. Passersby stared, whispered, recognizing Hanguang-jun, but he didn’t hear, didn’t see, didn’t feel anything except the emptiness that now lived where his heart once was.

And then warmth settled on his shoulders. Heavy, familiar, smelling of night wind and something quietly eternal. Someone’s hands—he knew whose—closed around his shoulders, gentle yet unyielding, and a voice at his ear spoke with feigned lightness:

“Is my beloved gentleman in white taking midnight walks without a coat again?”

The word beloved struck straight through his chest like a heated needle. Beloved. He called him beloved. Lan Wangji trembled, unclenched his fist. A single crumpled petal lay in his palm, cracked from how fiercely he’d been holding it.

“He… threw it away,” Lan Wangji whispered. His voice broke. Tears burned his eyes but didn’t fall—frozen on his lashes like frost. “He threw away the peony.”

Hua Cheng went still. He looked at the petal, and something ancient, bright, and deeply wounded flickered in his single eye. So he had kept it. Carried it close to his heart. All this time… he loved.

He pulled Lan Wangji into his arms—tighter, until bones protested—as if letting go would make him shatter into snowflakes. His lips brushed Lan Wangji’s temple. His breath was hot though the skin beneath it was ice.

“Forget it,” he whispered into his hair, his voice trembling as if he, not Lan Wangji, had just lost everything. “You’ll have a whole field of flowers. A grove. A garden. As many as you want. But right now… let’s go home. You need hot water. And you need me.”

He took his hand—fingers to fingers, cold to warmth—and led him through the narrow street.

Snow began to fall thickly, softly, settling on Lan Wangji’s hair, on the red cloak around Hua Cheng’s shoulders, on their joined hands. Lanterns glowed with warm, oily light, reflecting in the flakes, and each flake melted on Lan Wangji’s cheek, leaving a wet trace like a tear.

They walked past closed shops, past windows, past other people’s lives, and Lan Wangji realized he had never truly been here. He knew this city like one knows a map, but had never known how warm smoke smells, or how the snow creaks under two pairs of feet.

Hua Cheng stopped at a gate. Opened it.

“You… live here? Alone?” Lan Wangji’s voice was hoarse; he heard his own foolishness—speaking to the man who appeared at his bedside in the middle of the night as if such things were normal.

Hua Cheng brushed his thumb over Lan Wangji’s lower lip—carefully, as if it might melt at his touch.

“I didn’t live here,” he said quietly. “I waited. Waited for the silence of one particular gentleman to grow louder than words, until he stepped across this threshold himself.”

Then he tugged him forward.

“Come in, before you turn into an icicle.”

The door shut behind them. Snow stayed outside. Inside was warmth. And silence. The kind of silence in which one doesn’t need to pretend. In which one can be broken—and still be loved.

Lan Wangji let himself fall. Into these arms. Into this silence. Into this home.

The house was small but warm, and in this warmth Lan Wangji felt his frozen body begin to thaw—not only from the hot water but from the gaze following him with such tenderness it burned hotter than any flame.

Hua Cheng undressed him completely. Fabric fell to the floor, and Lan Wangji stood bare—like sculpted jade, with perfect shoulders, a slender waist, long strong legs, and a hardening length impossible to conceal.

Hua Cheng looked at him—openly, without shame. His eye darkened, the pupil dilated, and Lan Wangji felt that gaze on his skin: over his nipples, his stomach, his thighs, his hardening cock—like being touched by a tongue.

He had never let anyone see him like this.

Never stood naked before a man—except one.

And now he stood.

And didn’t want to hide.

Hua Cheng undressed himself, slowly. Cloak—on the floor. Outer robes—on the floor. Inner robes—on the floor. And Lan Wangji finally saw him. Entirely.

Hua Cheng’s body was different—not jade, but dark marble carved by storms. A man’s body. A body that wanted him.

When Lan Wangji lowered himself into the water, it embraced him like long-forgotten arms. He tilted his head back, letting his hair spread across the surface like black ink. The water caressed him, but the real heat came from Hua Cheng’s gaze, following the way the water slid over his nipples, down his tense stomach, over his hardening length. He didn’t hide. He let himself be seen.

Hua Cheng watched him for a long time, unblinking. In that single eye lived everything—hunger, tenderness, fear of loss—and when Lan Wangji opened his eyes and looked back at him with such silent pleading, words were useless.

Their bodies finally touched fully—skin to skin, cold to warmth—and they both gasped at how perfectly they fit. Hua Cheng’s hands moved over him—over shoulders, chest, nipples he pinched until Lan Wangji trembled and moaned, arching toward him. Lower, wrapping around his hard cock until his moans grew ragged.

Hua Cheng turned him onto his back, spread his legs, and when oiled fingers slid inside—one, then two, slow but deep—Lan Wangji gasped, arching so sharply a raw, animal sound tore from his throat. Hua Cheng groaned in answer—because this wasn’t just a body; it was a soul opening to him completely.

“I…” Lan Wangji’s voice was rough. “I’ve always been the one on top. I didn’t… know it could be different. I’m not what you might expect.”

Hua Cheng froze, his breath scorching his skin.

“I expect nothing,” he whispered. “I see only you. And I want to feel you inside me too. All your strength, all your wildness… given to me.”

He entered Lan Wangji—slowly, fully, until Lan Wangji trembled.

Lan Wangji gasped. A real, unrestrained sound.

He had never been underneath. Never allowed it.

And now he allowed it.

It hurt.

And it was right.

As if everything he’d carried inside finally found a release.

Hua Cheng moved—slow, deep, each thrust a confession. Lan Wangji moaned, arched, fingers digging into Hua Cheng’s back. He felt him inside—completely, sending shivers through his stomach. And it wasn’t humiliation. It was trust. Absolute.

When the wave of pleasure receded, Lan Wangji looked up. A new fire burned in his eyes. Without a word, he pushed Hua Cheng onto his back—uncertain, but purposeful.

“I want…” He didn’t finish, but his hands on Hua Cheng’s thighs said the rest. “I want to feel you.”

Hua Cheng nodded silently.

He had never allowed this.

For eight hundred years.

And now he allowed it.

And it was right.

As if everything he had carried finally found a home.

Lan Wangji’s focused expression, the way he bit his lip trying to restrain himself—Hua Cheng found it more sinful than any touch.

They changed places. Again. And again. There was no top or bottom. Only them. Two bodies. Two wounds. Two loves.

When Lan Wangji came—inside Hua Cheng, crying his name— and when Hua Cheng came—inside Lan Wangji, whispering his— they were equals.

Completely. Entirely.

They lay side by side, shaking, breathing, speaking no words.

Because everything had already been said.

And for two fools who had learned the value of silence— there was finally something to share beyond the past.