( Precious. Priceless. Quantified, qualified, shining. A glistened and gracious thing. A gift. How does it change Lan Wangji to be so contorted by a word, like the corners of wrapping paper, curled in and inhaling, in and out and in and out and learning to breathe and function in disfiguration? A wretched thing, to be as others make of you.
Tip of Wei Ying's blunt-blade nail, and there could be a hole in Lan Wangji, an unravelling. The world might pour from him, seep from his edges, the hungry milk moon teething at his lines. He feels white for his silk whites, for his erosion. The blankness of truth, staring back from the wrinkle, broken geometries of Wei Ying's plam in Wangji's hand, turned for soothsaying. Why do you do that — )
To soothe. ( Rasped, low and tectonic. Ill remembered. ) To ease.
( As with the rabbits, tickled sweet by lingered touch, the breeze of running fingers. Wangji tames them, coaxes them to comfort. Persuades himself now, fussing to collect Wei Ying's grasp from the leisurely stretch of the training swords to one battered hilt, to bite at the shape of it. )
Meet me in practice. ( Tomorrow, the week to come. Wake from this idle, confused sleep where the mind drenches in lethargy as if in opiates. ) You held a sword once. ( But not. Not here, not asked on a rooftop, with scents of smoke and crisp cold like calluses, bruising his lungs. He knows what this harkens to. ) I do not hunt my memories in your likeness. I see you.
( Not fraught, the shift of one grip for another, the swords for the hand that wields them. Not cut on their sharper edges, grinding against each other in rasping concerto, but finding the hollower spaces, near liminal, inbetween.
Soothing, and it does not soothe, not for him. Easing, and again, for whom? No fur to set to rights, but a different soothing, side by side, when warmth leeches from and into his hand, with words exchanged and the bottle set aside and left. Soothed in being worth gestures that are incomprehensible at first, at family, at acceptance in some forms, if not all.
By the words, I do not hunt my memories. To be seen, and not to hold the knife's edge of knowledge that cuts deep in hand, waiting for it to fall.
He gives his hand to Lan Zhan, and he smiles, lashes half lowered. )
I see you. ( Gaze raised, to meet Lan Zhan's eyes, dark and rich like the skies on new moons and the depths of waters and tree bark stark against white snow in winter, all things natural and immense and also seen by eyes with a sense of appreciation. )
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Tip of Wei Ying's blunt-blade nail, and there could be a hole in Lan Wangji, an unravelling. The world might pour from him, seep from his edges, the hungry milk moon teething at his lines. He feels white for his silk whites, for his erosion. The blankness of truth, staring back from the wrinkle, broken geometries of Wei Ying's plam in Wangji's hand, turned for soothsaying. Why do you do that — )
To soothe. ( Rasped, low and tectonic. Ill remembered. ) To ease.
( As with the rabbits, tickled sweet by lingered touch, the breeze of running fingers. Wangji tames them, coaxes them to comfort. Persuades himself now, fussing to collect Wei Ying's grasp from the leisurely stretch of the training swords to one battered hilt, to bite at the shape of it. )
Meet me in practice. ( Tomorrow, the week to come. Wake from this idle, confused sleep where the mind drenches in lethargy as if in opiates. ) You held a sword once. ( But not. Not here, not asked on a rooftop, with scents of smoke and crisp cold like calluses, bruising his lungs. He knows what this harkens to. ) I do not hunt my memories in your likeness. I see you.
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Soothing, and it does not soothe, not for him. Easing, and again, for whom? No fur to set to rights, but a different soothing, side by side, when warmth leeches from and into his hand, with words exchanged and the bottle set aside and left. Soothed in being worth gestures that are incomprehensible at first, at family, at acceptance in some forms, if not all.
By the words, I do not hunt my memories. To be seen, and not to hold the knife's edge of knowledge that cuts deep in hand, waiting for it to fall.
He gives his hand to Lan Zhan, and he smiles, lashes half lowered. )
I see you. ( Gaze raised, to meet Lan Zhan's eyes, dark and rich like the skies on new moons and the depths of waters and tree bark stark against white snow in winter, all things natural and immense and also seen by eyes with a sense of appreciation. )
I'll find you. Come morning.