( He learns better and better the sharp toothed hunter beneath Lan Zhan's surface, the one that loves and wants and desires fiercely, the parts of themselves pressed too hard, too indelicate, too consuming to be sensible. The additional spark of it to the smoldering embers he woke with, punctuated by his husband's teeth sinking into the innocent flesh of his nose, pulls the volunteered gasp from his throat, allowed acknowledgement of surprise and pleasure and genuine shock that shouldn't be anything of the kind, with this pointed teasing, this knowing of a when, not an if.
When they do, without further interruptions by pride or frustration or the feckless world.
Behave? He behaves exactly as he intends, and that means the puzzle of the less bruising kiss that follows after Lan Zhan shifts away leaves Wei Wuxian with lips parted, corners upturned. There's a wonder in this that's only less concerned about the missing wife and her distressed spouse because there is no evil, no death, no immediate threat to them all where his focus must slide in, consuming and directed.
He has mind and heart and physicality to share. Laughter too, on an inhale, reaching out and tugging much more difficult to see on his husband's waistband yet again. Nudges him back with flat palmed hands at either hip, until they rejoin the carriage, or the next one. )
Not hunted, ( he says, he agrees: ) but pursued. Lll...
( The one moment where he falters, before he leans in, cheeks flushed with red lingering from Lan Zhan's stolen moment and guided force, the ache in his shoulders a new note ignored much like the lingering swelling of his nose. Leans in, lover close: )
Love...
( But he's stymied himself with framing the word here and now, and so Lan Zhan has the rarity of Wei Wuxian striking himself silent, pulling away only to grant the respectability of property local social distance for a full few seconds before he's wrapped himself around Lan Zhan's side.
Soft voiced, pitched so low it takes cultivated senses to hear, he says: )
Love takes defending and protecting, even from ourselves. Whatever form that takes.
( Including days on days of giving half space and time and incessant messages sent, a pursuit, not a hunting. Reminders, not pit traps.
( Love, Wei Ying says, as children do — bashful, young, stuttered. As if the word might stain his mouth like blood or cinnabar, cloying. And he shares of it and himself, like a gentle lady handing out alms to the starved on temple grounds.
Lan Wangji wants to make him small, smaller than his sister's hands could handle. Wants to curl and coil around him, to keep him safeguarded and close. A precious, timid thing, this massacrer of men, this destroyer of fortunes. Lan Wangji could yet marry him again for it. )
Does she flee to protect Firo, or herself? ( It matters: if the woman seeks only her welfare, or that of her bride. Perhaps they meddle, by following, in ways that come adorned with body counts. )
She fled, willing. Perhaps, changed face. ( And the next swallow's sour, hard. The shapeshifter of hell, heavy on his back, in his qiankun purse, in his memory. ) Now eludes her spouse.
( ...as Lan Wangji himself did, mere days prior, the cut of his gaze dulled as he steers it past Wei Ying's shoulder, onto distant, greyed crowds. )
She changed at each turn to please her spouse's companions. ( And failed. ) Wei Ying. If shame is enough to part her from her bride... perhaps best allowed.
( Celebrate not his small victories where he should, as another man, another person, so boldly tread. But he is a man of withholdings, of hesitations to impose, of easy social manner to allow the shallow attachments he held more common to go uncommented upon, and his deepest attachments to be as wholly consuming as they are even now. Or wholly meant, wholly cared for, and wholly shoved to the side for their sake without consultation.
They both have fled, eluded, decided. Changed aspects to better please, or better appease, the memory of a needing. Here, Lan Zhan staring into the crowd, he turns himself so he looks alongside him, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. )
If we were only made of our mistakes without our learnings, we would not be the men we are today. Do we deny her that opportunity? We, who have not married her?
( A half smile, and another nudge, leaning shoulder to shoulder, keeping elbow close. They do have work enough to do, not just for this mystery but for the enduring ones of their own and everyone's return to homes far distant. Still, here they are. Here they stand. )
Think if I set up a full train announcement for Firo to talk to her errant spouse, it'd help, or send her hiding further?
( It's half joking. Half serious. Given how he'd pursued after Lan Zhan, it's only half of what his own resolutions would lead toward these days. Instead, more seriously: )
Who dreams, and who is dreamed? Do you suspect it of either of the newly wedded?
( We, who have not married her. Excuse this man — your man — the stormed look, mouth gently agape, lip trembled. Uncertainty wrecks and ruins him less than the petty reminder that days have come and gone and dwindled, and he has spent a season whole without a marriage new.
...this must be resolved at the earliest opportunity. He eyes, scathingly, the tips of his headband with stubborn hostility, sharpened by the need to right this great and howling wrong. But then, Wei Ying distracts him with the prospect of efficiency — with questions of true, genuine import —
And he blinks once, incredulous. Again, testing the waters. A third time, for sport. )
Why not both?
( After all, like calls to like. Dreams too must circle and understand each other. The shared commonality of their nature might explain the intensity of Firo and Prassenze's romance — and something in him sparks once more, warmly affectionate. Perhaps soulmates, after all. )
( He smiles at that answer, much as he shifts so he can partly press against his husband's shoulder from behind. It's not something unreasonable in his estimate. This concept of dream born and dream real, energy formed and guided.
Matched as a pair, or seeking in each other fulfillment of their own dreams. There's a sort of balance in all of that. )
Why not indeed? Seems like the elder sister is enough alike in her own way. Think she is too?
( In the end his investment here is most weighed towards ensuring safety. For the rest, for dreamers and dreams given their own imperfect agency, he only hopes: the two women will meet and speak and resolve.
With fewer shifting masks in the process. Here and now, he rests his fingers on Lan Zhan's shoulder, perches his chin upon those fingers. )
Because we do know that whomever has been helping has their own stakes to support three attempts at perfect.
( And does he laugh, does he jest? Shoulder peched by Wei Ying, the look of Lan Wangji a stringent, stalwart stain of luster paint, stripped. A void of man, a lacking, anemic. Can a dream be lesser than him, the shadow he became, reduced by grief?
He thinks, in her mourning, Firo was fire, scorching fingertips. Her bride, storming before them now, a pale face in the distance — is a troubled sea. Their companions are loud, obscene, frivolous, but lively.
There is no absence of life here, dream or living. What difference? )
Only Wei Ying is wakeful. ( The edge of his voice is honeyed with laughter. ) I thank Wei Ying for dreaming me with all ten toes.
On a vessel that sails on dreams through dreams, what of this isn't?
( No difference between when one wakes or one sleeps, but to a man who has spent years awake and sleeping in a darkness unending but for the concept of time passing, so complete, so quiet, so consuming without heat or cold or any contrast worth feeling, oh, does he shudder delicately at the thought. Turn his head in, rest the side of his forehead against Lan Zhan's cheek, his jaw, whatever of the side of his face he finds.
To fall toward the smile and the tease that's half promise, mind shying away from other waking dreams, from nightmares made flesh, from grief that hollowed and stole and hallowed until he was reformed into something smaller and larger in the end, tendons stretched to fit the shape of a different mortal darkness between cartilage and bone. )
What else did I dream of you to your liking?
( These are not things one asks of another, but he lets laughter sweeten his voice, he lets his eyes which closed unnoticed slide open, peering toward Lan Zhan's face and seeing so little of it, one blinded by closeness, the other catching the outline of a beloved nose. )
I'd like to review all the details myself. My memory, you know. It's a thing which desires refreshing.
( A promise, heavier, warmer, viscous between them even when he shifts to straighten, to lean less like a tree felled in windstorm against the break of Lan Zhan's frame. We are awake, we are dreamed, we are living. In the end, the living is what matters. )
Dreaming or waking, we see each other.
( Eyes shifting, sliding, still close and unwilling to part. )
( A man who flatters himself wounds the heavens that carved him from hubris, from unworthiness, from patches and frayed thread of indignity. He offends with his breath, his person, his callous brazenness.
Better, then, to turn the weapon's tip against its wielder, mouth uncharitably soft and skirting the quiet, pulsing flat of Wei Ying's temple by his side. )
You dreamed me wedded.
( Compliments, absent poetry. A man like honey, trickle-warm, smooth. Let no one doubt the formidable prowess of Lan Wangji, an arrow seizing his target. Wei Ying created him as the subject of a marriage to a perfect, worthwhile man. How blessed is Lan Wangji. How tenderly grateful.
But then, past the whim of his fleeting humour, he murmurs: )
Possessed of a sword hand to serve my sect leader. ( His brother. ) A guqin to honour Cloud Recesses. ( His heritage. ) Qi to uphold justice.
( These trinkets of fortune and heavenly kindness that make of him a worthwhile instrument for his people. These attributes that the sect of Gusu Lan nurtures and cultivates, if only the pupil is willing. These, his mother seeded, and men of his father's blood raised. )
( Lashes fluttering as the wings of a moth flirting with alighting on a moon-lit surface, Wei Wuxian listens, lets the calculations of women and dreams quiet the way wine helps his mind quiet, all under the ministrations of featherlight contact at his temple, of words spoken from a man who holds them precious, from the warmth of him, his scent. Wei Wuxian breathes in, allows himself the exhalation of protesting amusement — who dreamed who wedded? — but does not interrupt. Does not interrupt as the qualities he himself had once held in different regard, different importance: not the guqin, perhaps, but he plays different instruments, and if he applied himself, perhaps the guqin as well.
He won't. That's Lan Zhan's realm, the pleasure of his playing, the power of his ruthlessness applied to questioning the dead or curtailing the living. Lan Zhan has delicacy in him, tempered out of the hard edges of control carving him from the stone of Gusu Lan, as much as any of them are carved by circumstance and elders holding chisels, carefully or in carelessness.
Wei Wuxian had learned what it is to have a sword that isn't enough to serve anyone, let alone a man he called brother, let alone a sect that saved him from death in the streets. His flute, like any of his skills, once an honour to those who taught him, then turned, twisted, considered by common agreement anything but an honour, everything in desecration, for the decisions he made, in awareness and in confidence and in arrogance of justice ruling over all, winning over the impossible. The terms of negotiation when qi comes limited, finite the way of most persons, but accessible still for his training and his tendencies.
He would dream Lan Zhan into all of those, hold them dear and sweet and perfected in nuance, with the ache of a long missing tooth, a gap felt and recalled and forgotten until the moments brought it back for examination. Smiling, mix of pleasure and humming understanding of the limitations he'd chosen in his life, and the limitations he's glad Lan Zhan has not had to choose, for all those choices had been in other paths, along other avenues, he stretches. Nuzzles his nose against Lan Zhan's cheek, like Little Apple seeking a namesake treat from a pocket, with fondness and hope and singular attention to specific detail. A hunger, but a simple one. Affection in this case, and touch, always touch, affirmation of this reality, this body, this space and place. )
In all that, and you found your own way forward. That's the truth, isn't it? That in every dream, every life, we must all find a way.
( Nipping at his husband's jaw before he pulls away, rolls his shoulders to reclaim his full upright stance and then the easy languid nature of his posturing. He smiles, back to amused, eyes twinkling with the stars lost to the storming outside. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
( He learns better and better the sharp toothed hunter beneath Lan Zhan's surface, the one that loves and wants and desires fiercely, the parts of themselves pressed too hard, too indelicate, too consuming to be sensible. The additional spark of it to the smoldering embers he woke with, punctuated by his husband's teeth sinking into the innocent flesh of his nose, pulls the volunteered gasp from his throat, allowed acknowledgement of surprise and pleasure and genuine shock that shouldn't be anything of the kind, with this pointed teasing, this knowing of a when, not an if.
When they do, without further interruptions by pride or frustration or the feckless world.
Behave? He behaves exactly as he intends, and that means the puzzle of the less bruising kiss that follows after Lan Zhan shifts away leaves Wei Wuxian with lips parted, corners upturned. There's a wonder in this that's only less concerned about the missing wife and her distressed spouse because there is no evil, no death, no immediate threat to them all where his focus must slide in, consuming and directed.
He has mind and heart and physicality to share. Laughter too, on an inhale, reaching out and tugging much more difficult to see on his husband's waistband yet again. Nudges him back with flat palmed hands at either hip, until they rejoin the carriage, or the next one. )
Not hunted, ( he says, he agrees: ) but pursued. Lll...
( The one moment where he falters, before he leans in, cheeks flushed with red lingering from Lan Zhan's stolen moment and guided force, the ache in his shoulders a new note ignored much like the lingering swelling of his nose. Leans in, lover close: )
Love...
( But he's stymied himself with framing the word here and now, and so Lan Zhan has the rarity of Wei Wuxian striking himself silent, pulling away only to grant the respectability of property local social distance for a full few seconds before he's wrapped himself around Lan Zhan's side.
Soft voiced, pitched so low it takes cultivated senses to hear, he says: )
Love takes defending and protecting, even from ourselves. Whatever form that takes.
( Including days on days of giving half space and time and incessant messages sent, a pursuit, not a hunting. Reminders, not pit traps.
Or so he thinks. )
I suspect she's facing similar right now.
no subject
( Love, Wei Ying says, as children do — bashful, young, stuttered. As if the word might stain his mouth like blood or cinnabar, cloying. And he shares of it and himself, like a gentle lady handing out alms to the starved on temple grounds.
Lan Wangji wants to make him small, smaller than his sister's hands could handle. Wants to curl and coil around him, to keep him safeguarded and close. A precious, timid thing, this massacrer of men, this destroyer of fortunes. Lan Wangji could yet marry him again for it. )
Does she flee to protect Firo, or herself? ( It matters: if the woman seeks only her welfare, or that of her bride. Perhaps they meddle, by following, in ways that come adorned with body counts. )
She fled, willing. Perhaps, changed face. ( And the next swallow's sour, hard. The shapeshifter of hell, heavy on his back, in his qiankun purse, in his memory. ) Now eludes her spouse.
( ...as Lan Wangji himself did, mere days prior, the cut of his gaze dulled as he steers it past Wei Ying's shoulder, onto distant, greyed crowds. )
She changed at each turn to please her spouse's companions. ( And failed. ) Wei Ying. If shame is enough to part her from her bride... perhaps best allowed.
( Prassenze does not deserve her spouse, then. )
no subject
( Celebrate not his small victories where he should, as another man, another person, so boldly tread. But he is a man of withholdings, of hesitations to impose, of easy social manner to allow the shallow attachments he held more common to go uncommented upon, and his deepest attachments to be as wholly consuming as they are even now. Or wholly meant, wholly cared for, and wholly shoved to the side for their sake without consultation.
They both have fled, eluded, decided. Changed aspects to better please, or better appease, the memory of a needing. Here, Lan Zhan staring into the crowd, he turns himself so he looks alongside him, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. )
If we were only made of our mistakes without our learnings, we would not be the men we are today. Do we deny her that opportunity? We, who have not married her?
( A half smile, and another nudge, leaning shoulder to shoulder, keeping elbow close. They do have work enough to do, not just for this mystery but for the enduring ones of their own and everyone's return to homes far distant. Still, here they are. Here they stand. )
Think if I set up a full train announcement for Firo to talk to her errant spouse, it'd help, or send her hiding further?
( It's half joking. Half serious. Given how he'd pursued after Lan Zhan, it's only half of what his own resolutions would lead toward these days. Instead, more seriously: )
Who dreams, and who is dreamed? Do you suspect it of either of the newly wedded?
no subject
( We, who have not married her. Excuse this man — your man — the stormed look, mouth gently agape, lip trembled. Uncertainty wrecks and ruins him less than the petty reminder that days have come and gone and dwindled, and he has spent a season whole without a marriage new.
...this must be resolved at the earliest opportunity. He eyes, scathingly, the tips of his headband with stubborn hostility, sharpened by the need to right this great and howling wrong. But then, Wei Ying distracts him with the prospect of efficiency — with questions of true, genuine import —
And he blinks once, incredulous. Again, testing the waters. A third time, for sport. )
Why not both?
( After all, like calls to like. Dreams too must circle and understand each other. The shared commonality of their nature might explain the intensity of Firo and Prassenze's romance — and something in him sparks once more, warmly affectionate. Perhaps soulmates, after all. )
no subject
( He smiles at that answer, much as he shifts so he can partly press against his husband's shoulder from behind. It's not something unreasonable in his estimate. This concept of dream born and dream real, energy formed and guided.
Matched as a pair, or seeking in each other fulfillment of their own dreams. There's a sort of balance in all of that. )
Why not indeed? Seems like the elder sister is enough alike in her own way. Think she is too?
( In the end his investment here is most weighed towards ensuring safety. For the rest, for dreamers and dreams given their own imperfect agency, he only hopes: the two women will meet and speak and resolve.
With fewer shifting masks in the process. Here and now, he rests his fingers on Lan Zhan's shoulder, perches his chin upon those fingers. )
Because we do know that whomever has been helping has their own stakes to support three attempts at perfect.
no subject
Perhaps all is dream.
( And does he laugh, does he jest? Shoulder peched by Wei Ying, the look of Lan Wangji a stringent, stalwart stain of luster paint, stripped. A void of man, a lacking, anemic. Can a dream be lesser than him, the shadow he became, reduced by grief?
He thinks, in her mourning, Firo was fire, scorching fingertips. Her bride, storming before them now, a pale face in the distance — is a troubled sea. Their companions are loud, obscene, frivolous, but lively.
There is no absence of life here, dream or living. What difference? )
Only Wei Ying is wakeful. ( The edge of his voice is honeyed with laughter. ) I thank Wei Ying for dreaming me with all ten toes.
no subject
On a vessel that sails on dreams through dreams, what of this isn't?
( No difference between when one wakes or one sleeps, but to a man who has spent years awake and sleeping in a darkness unending but for the concept of time passing, so complete, so quiet, so consuming without heat or cold or any contrast worth feeling, oh, does he shudder delicately at the thought. Turn his head in, rest the side of his forehead against Lan Zhan's cheek, his jaw, whatever of the side of his face he finds.
To fall toward the smile and the tease that's half promise, mind shying away from other waking dreams, from nightmares made flesh, from grief that hollowed and stole and hallowed until he was reformed into something smaller and larger in the end, tendons stretched to fit the shape of a different mortal darkness between cartilage and bone. )
What else did I dream of you to your liking?
( These are not things one asks of another, but he lets laughter sweeten his voice, he lets his eyes which closed unnoticed slide open, peering toward Lan Zhan's face and seeing so little of it, one blinded by closeness, the other catching the outline of a beloved nose. )
I'd like to review all the details myself. My memory, you know. It's a thing which desires refreshing.
( A promise, heavier, warmer, viscous between them even when he shifts to straighten, to lean less like a tree felled in windstorm against the break of Lan Zhan's frame. We are awake, we are dreamed, we are living. In the end, the living is what matters. )
Dreaming or waking, we see each other.
( Eyes shifting, sliding, still close and unwilling to part. )
So shall they.
no subject
( A man who flatters himself wounds the heavens that carved him from hubris, from unworthiness, from patches and frayed thread of indignity. He offends with his breath, his person, his callous brazenness.
Better, then, to turn the weapon's tip against its wielder, mouth uncharitably soft and skirting the quiet, pulsing flat of Wei Ying's temple by his side. )
You dreamed me wedded.
( Compliments, absent poetry. A man like honey, trickle-warm, smooth. Let no one doubt the formidable prowess of Lan Wangji, an arrow seizing his target. Wei Ying created him as the subject of a marriage to a perfect, worthwhile man. How blessed is Lan Wangji. How tenderly grateful.
But then, past the whim of his fleeting humour, he murmurs: )
Possessed of a sword hand to serve my sect leader. ( His brother. ) A guqin to honour Cloud Recesses. ( His heritage. ) Qi to uphold justice.
( These trinkets of fortune and heavenly kindness that make of him a worthwhile instrument for his people. These attributes that the sect of Gusu Lan nurtures and cultivates, if only the pupil is willing. These, his mother seeded, and men of his father's blood raised. )
I am grateful.
no subject
( Lashes fluttering as the wings of a moth flirting with alighting on a moon-lit surface, Wei Wuxian listens, lets the calculations of women and dreams quiet the way wine helps his mind quiet, all under the ministrations of featherlight contact at his temple, of words spoken from a man who holds them precious, from the warmth of him, his scent. Wei Wuxian breathes in, allows himself the exhalation of protesting amusement — who dreamed who wedded? — but does not interrupt. Does not interrupt as the qualities he himself had once held in different regard, different importance: not the guqin, perhaps, but he plays different instruments, and if he applied himself, perhaps the guqin as well.
He won't. That's Lan Zhan's realm, the pleasure of his playing, the power of his ruthlessness applied to questioning the dead or curtailing the living. Lan Zhan has delicacy in him, tempered out of the hard edges of control carving him from the stone of Gusu Lan, as much as any of them are carved by circumstance and elders holding chisels, carefully or in carelessness.
Wei Wuxian had learned what it is to have a sword that isn't enough to serve anyone, let alone a man he called brother, let alone a sect that saved him from death in the streets. His flute, like any of his skills, once an honour to those who taught him, then turned, twisted, considered by common agreement anything but an honour, everything in desecration, for the decisions he made, in awareness and in confidence and in arrogance of justice ruling over all, winning over the impossible. The terms of negotiation when qi comes limited, finite the way of most persons, but accessible still for his training and his tendencies.
He would dream Lan Zhan into all of those, hold them dear and sweet and perfected in nuance, with the ache of a long missing tooth, a gap felt and recalled and forgotten until the moments brought it back for examination. Smiling, mix of pleasure and humming understanding of the limitations he'd chosen in his life, and the limitations he's glad Lan Zhan has not had to choose, for all those choices had been in other paths, along other avenues, he stretches. Nuzzles his nose against Lan Zhan's cheek, like Little Apple seeking a namesake treat from a pocket, with fondness and hope and singular attention to specific detail. A hunger, but a simple one. Affection in this case, and touch, always touch, affirmation of this reality, this body, this space and place. )
In all that, and you found your own way forward. That's the truth, isn't it? That in every dream, every life, we must all find a way.
( Nipping at his husband's jaw before he pulls away, rolls his shoulders to reclaim his full upright stance and then the easy languid nature of his posturing. He smiles, back to amused, eyes twinkling with the stars lost to the storming outside. )
How do we convince the lovers of that too?