( 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 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?