( This composition... has the exact dignity of two children, squabbling. He tries very desperately not to feel as if he has emerged the one who greets the playground nose-first. )
( Even the precepts agree with the humble ant, as they do, unquestioningly, with Lan Wangji's horror at the spectacle far too literally unfolding beside him.
Forgive him Guanyin, for he has sinned. )
What are you doing? ( No, no. He knows exactly how this goes. )
( 'There is no reason.' 'The cold bites.' 'You have no core.'
The world of Wei Ying's silks tumbles down like snowfall. )
...may I not have this little as my own? ( But he speaks already as a man resigned, knowing the peace of his penance ended. A game of weiqi seen to conclusion from the first few hands. )
( Fingers deft on the ties of his inner robe, tugging them free of their bow. The second tie follows, robe opening with a sigh of silk over silk. He doesn't layer like Lan Zhan: only his innermost robe remains. )
Sometimes. Not this one.
( Sliding off shoulders, caught in arm and swung around to be folded over, then set down, joining the first.
Being who he is, without pants, he then makes to kneel by Lan Zhan's side, the expanse of his dark haired calves left exposed, a glimpse up along his thigh winking out at the world. )
( Beautiful, bare, warm. A proud display, within hand's reach. What is the gamble here? That he will concede, as he ever does, prioritising Wie Ying's welfare over his own hubris. The wretch has learned the way of it: to hold himself hostage until he has gained what he wishes won.
Lan Wangji has but moments, slipped like ashes between fingertips. )
You only push secrecy between us. That I must hereon do this discreetly. ( Hidden, without confession. Omissions are not lies. Silence, the key provider in the house of every great matrimony. ) Is this your wish?
( He allows the possibility of misunderstanding, of probability of prejudice. Wei Ying's own suffering, shaping a scratch-marred lens. Back bowed, face struck by the treacle of night's light turned blue-soft and saccharine, before dawns wake. )
Because you believe it is a thing that cannot be desired. ( Openly, transparently, in full possession of one's capacities. Gracefully and unimposed. ) Only inflicted.
( Because Wei Ying has only suffered it so and assumes it cannot be elsewise. )
( There are moments when he thinks his heart beats with the universe. That Wei Ying, sullen and immature, can be waited out by time. But then, he neglects himself: ignores the deeper dagger swerving, twisting, cutting at himself.
He is his own betrayer, sharp: before Wei Ying can abandon his post, Lan Wangji does it for him, starting to shift and rise up. )
...come. We sleep. ( Like herding a child towards his resting place. )
( asked, soft. dark eyes inquiring, not beseeching. both men know patience in very different forms, and there are few things which make wei wuxian suffer that aren't the harms visited in those he cares about.
( Not in body, not in soul. No part of him is truly, unmistakable prepared. But Wei Ying's discomfort eats at him, the mere possibility of catching a chill.
He rises, holds his hand out and wait, a point of stalwart resilience in the face of his soulmate's constant volatility. )
It is past curfew. ( It was past curfew long before he arrived here. )
( What is the shape of faith, what are its borders and boundaries? He feels s if he defines beauty by chipping away at negative spaces, until he is left with all that something is no.
Faith is not this moment. Beauty is not his mindset. He drifts toward Wei Ying to raise him up. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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( Breathes in sweet vinegary delight. )
A chill envelops. Don my layers.
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( said cheerily, for your vinegar. )
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The hour is late and the night long, he'll wilt asleep on his own. )
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Then there is the deliberate footstep, the presence behind Lan Zhan. The heat of a chilled hand settled on his head.
The crouch of Wei Wuxian by his side, hand in place. )
Find any ants yet?
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( This composition... has the exact dignity of two children, squabbling. He tries very desperately not to feel as if he has emerged the one who greets the playground nose-first. )
Milling.
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( He quirks his brow, studying his husband's face from the side.
Lifts his hand.
... works on unwinding his waistband. )
They're usually so industrious. Dedicated to their causes. Unconcerned with the world at large.
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Diligence is the root.
( Even the precepts agree with the humble ant, as they do, unquestioningly, with Lan Wangji's horror at the spectacle far too literally unfolding beside him.
Forgive him Guanyin, for he has sinned. )
What are you doing? ( No, no. He knows exactly how this goes. )
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Yet they mill around right now? Confusion set in?
( letting the material fall down to the ground, he can work on shrugging out of his outermost robe, the one not likewise tied to him. )
Me? Undressing.
( Said with a crooked smile, shaking his now divested outer robe out. )
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( 'There is no reason.' 'The cold bites.' 'You have no core.'
The world of Wei Ying's silks tumbles down like snowfall. )
...may I not have this little as my own? ( But he speaks already as a man resigned, knowing the peace of his penance ended. A game of weiqi seen to conclusion from the first few hands. )
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( Fingers deft on the ties of his inner robe, tugging them free of their bow. The second tie follows, robe opening with a sigh of silk over silk. He doesn't layer like Lan Zhan: only his innermost robe remains. )
Sometimes. Not this one.
( Sliding off shoulders, caught in arm and swung around to be folded over, then set down, joining the first.
Being who he is, without pants, he then makes to kneel by Lan Zhan's side, the expanse of his dark haired calves left exposed, a glimpse up along his thigh winking out at the world. )
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( Beautiful, bare, warm. A proud display, within hand's reach. What is the gamble here? That he will concede, as he ever does, prioritising Wie Ying's welfare over his own hubris. The wretch has learned the way of it: to hold himself hostage until he has gained what he wishes won.
Lan Wangji has but moments, slipped like ashes between fingertips. )
You only push secrecy between us. That I must hereon do this discreetly. ( Hidden, without confession. Omissions are not lies. Silence, the key provider in the house of every great matrimony. ) Is this your wish?
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( Looking forward, into nothing particular. Tipping his head up, to seek the skies. )
So many threats. Can't we face them, side by side? Even if one or the other believes it's foolish, unbecoming, shameless, silly, certain?
( Head still tipped back, eyes still searching the heavens for answers which have never been there. )
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( It seems a pretty, strategic, acceptable compromise. No more, nor less than would be expected in a partnership: to share, to divide, to delegate.
Only, Lan Wangji rests, stricken — and what sleeps at stake is his own soul. )
...no. Not this. This is mine. As my scars are mine. As Bichen is mine. ( Part and principle. ) This is who I am.
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( He doesn't lower his head, still gazing skyward. Forever forward, if not always upward. If not always in hope. )
Why does it feel stolen?
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Because you believe it is a thing that cannot be desired. ( Openly, transparently, in full possession of one's capacities. Gracefully and unimposed. ) Only inflicted.
( Because Wei Ying has only suffered it so and assumes it cannot be elsewise. )
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For me, it has been. For you, I know it's not. There's a difference when it's a choice.
( Such as the one he made to be here now. He continues studying Lan Zhan's profile, quiet. Waiting.
There are infinities and inflexibilities in his husband, just as his graces and kindness for deeper than the obvious, always.
He is, as ever, protective. )
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( There are moments when he thinks his heart beats with the universe. That Wei Ying, sullen and immature, can be waited out by time. But then, he neglects himself: ignores the deeper dagger swerving, twisting, cutting at himself.
He is his own betrayer, sharp: before Wei Ying can abandon his post, Lan Wangji does it for him, starting to shift and rise up. )
...come. We sleep. ( Like herding a child towards his resting place. )
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Are you truly ready?
( asked, soft. dark eyes inquiring, not beseeching. both men know patience in very different forms, and there are few things which make wei wuxian suffer that aren't the harms visited in those he cares about.
including the self indicated ones. )
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( Not in body, not in soul. No part of him is truly, unmistakable prepared. But Wei Ying's discomfort eats at him, the mere possibility of catching a chill.
He rises, holds his hand out and wait, a point of stalwart resilience in the face of his soulmate's constant volatility. )
It is past curfew. ( It was past curfew long before he arrived here. )
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( Softly: )
Lan Zhan.
( A palm turned toward him, cupped, held out. )
Have faith.
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Faith is not this moment. Beauty is not his mindset. He drifts toward Wei Ying to raise him up. )
You are cold.
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