( His lips twitch, and he smiles, no artifice to it; laughs lightly after, albeit not for long. Lan Zhan brings their hands to his forehead, to the ribbon, to something Wei Wuxian better understands day to day now, and his return, in this, as they walk in pursuit of a daughter, as they speak of the old and the new, isn't thought through. If he allowed it, he would stop, not lift their hands and brush his lips, dry, over Lan Zhan's knuckles, the downward press of a feathered wing over a mountain's ragged peaks. )
At the Mo's Manor, even knowing better, I still lingered for the sight of you.
( And that's enough, he thinks, in ancient confessions, and he shifts, interwoven fingers falling, scalded, to tug forward, onward, toward the child who waits, and who is no small thing, but a large one, nestled in the concavity of their chests, next to cores, or where a core might once have settled, bright and burning and effusive in its pulsing light. )
But then, this is the rabbit, beating heart of Wei Ying stormed, crowded, hidden in his truths dark and memories gnarled, alive in the forest of his beaten, bitten-down defences — a penury of skin cradling bone, and what does he weigh? Dust motes, shivered. Moonlight, distorted.
Lan Wangji's fingers chase the sloped line of his knuckles and feels, You did not give me even the wet of you to grieve. When reckoning comes, this moment will be absurdity: how Wangji's silence fled with him, hand in hand, and the other binding seamlessly at his back, to retain the violent treasure of Wei Ying's mouth-print in sanctuary. To carry words, silent, like mad pulse of fireflies.
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At the Mo's Manor, even knowing better, I still lingered for the sight of you.
( And that's enough, he thinks, in ancient confessions, and he shifts, interwoven fingers falling, scalded, to tug forward, onward, toward the child who waits, and who is no small thing, but a large one, nestled in the concavity of their chests, next to cores, or where a core might once have settled, bright and burning and effusive in its pulsing light. )
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But then, this is the rabbit, beating heart of Wei Ying stormed, crowded, hidden in his truths dark and memories gnarled, alive in the forest of his beaten, bitten-down defences — a penury of skin cradling bone, and what does he weigh? Dust motes, shivered. Moonlight, distorted.
Lan Wangji's fingers chase the sloped line of his knuckles and feels, You did not give me even the wet of you to grieve. When reckoning comes, this moment will be absurdity: how Wangji's silence fled with him, hand in hand, and the other binding seamlessly at his back, to retain the violent treasure of Wei Ying's mouth-print in sanctuary. To carry words, silent, like mad pulse of fireflies.
Wei Ying leads. The girl sets their course.
He breathes — and follows. )