( 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. )
( Well, then. Very well. A vision of conformity, Lan Wangji drifting as summoned, one hand arrested, drooping to his lower back. The second, rising to meet Wei Ying's palm.
( Tangled, hand to hand, and warmth between them — even he who has been cold runs warm enough in the moment. )
Will it bring you peace?
( Gratitude in his gaze for the offering of skill; even if there are older frustrations on the imposition of it, in specific melodies, hrs never found Lan Zhan lacking in musical accomplishments. As he doesn't lack in so much, including jealousy without merit. Easily forgiven, when it's barely even words. )
( In a way they perhaps should have, but never did explore, too troubled by demands and tribulations to study each other and their affinities.
Music is language and love and legacy for the Lan: a weaving of their souls. A weapon, too, when the intensity of its brute force turns outward. Not tonight, with hands knitting, with Lan Wangji tugging once to bid Wei Ying up and close. )
No songs of clarity. ( No long-trodden, despairingly reiterated plays. ) Only melodies of Caiyi. Market songs.
( A small, small and true, as he rises, one knee creaking in protest, painless and noted. He rolls his shoulders, best as he can while hand in hand with Lan Zhan, and steps close, steps into him, and for a moment leans in, chest to chest, chin hooking over his shoulder, a small sort of collapse and agreement without saying those words. )
Sounds lovely.
( The rumble of his voice caught between them, and then it's a moment past, and it's time to be led onward, to the music as it sings from Lan Zhan's fingers and from Wangji itself, and the not so distant pleasure that has always been part of how he's felt caught in the weaving of Lan Zhan's songs. He doesn't sleep, such as it is; he listens, and he rests, and for a while, his mind slows enough not to be chasing concepts around like birds diving after gnats in the afternoon sunlight, incessant, constant, chaotic.
For a while, he simply is in the sphere of Lan Zhan's playing, and that isn't an expectation, but it is a kindness. Even if, as he suspects, it only is one for him. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. )
no subject
( 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. )
no subject
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. )
no subject
( 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. )
no subject
( Softly: )
Lan Zhan.
( A palm turned toward him, cupped, held out. )
Have faith.
no subject
Faith is not this moment. Beauty is not his mindset. He drifts toward Wei Ying to raise him up. )
You are cold.
no subject
( Still said quietly, softly. )
Is it cooler than in more layers? Yes. Yet Yunmeng nights were colder each winter. I'm truly fine.
no subject
Mere moments ago, you wanted abed. Come.
no subject
I just wanted you. You know I don't tire easily, and you didn't want me speaking with Wen Kexing, are you even going to sleep well?
no subject
Fingers colliding, knotting, shifting, slotting. Palms grazing. )
I shall play for you.
no subject
Will it bring you peace?
( Gratitude in his gaze for the offering of skill; even if there are older frustrations on the imposition of it, in specific melodies, hrs never found Lan Zhan lacking in musical accomplishments. As he doesn't lack in so much, including jealousy without merit. Easily forgiven, when it's barely even words. )
no subject
( In a way they perhaps should have, but never did explore, too troubled by demands and tribulations to study each other and their affinities.
Music is language and love and legacy for the Lan: a weaving of their souls. A weapon, too, when the intensity of its brute force turns outward. Not tonight, with hands knitting, with Lan Wangji tugging once to bid Wei Ying up and close. )
No songs of clarity. ( No long-trodden, despairingly reiterated plays. ) Only melodies of Caiyi. Market songs.
no subject
Sounds lovely.
( The rumble of his voice caught between them, and then it's a moment past, and it's time to be led onward, to the music as it sings from Lan Zhan's fingers and from Wangji itself, and the not so distant pleasure that has always been part of how he's felt caught in the weaving of Lan Zhan's songs. He doesn't sleep, such as it is; he listens, and he rests, and for a while, his mind slows enough not to be chasing concepts around like birds diving after gnats in the afternoon sunlight, incessant, constant, chaotic.
For a while, he simply is in the sphere of Lan Zhan's playing, and that isn't an expectation, but it is a kindness. Even if, as he suspects, it only is one for him. )