( 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. )
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( 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. )