( He's sad, for the time he did not have to give to Sizhui, in his growing from the child who he'd been as A-Yuan to the young man he's become, under his father's care, and the attentiveness of a clan around him. He's happy, for knowing that A-Yuan had not died as senselessly as his aunts and uncles and cousin, that he had been granted all that by Lan Zhan, that he'd been loved, and had not lacked, and had become a young man of worthy regard.
Wei Wuxian regrets none of that. It had nothing to do with him, beyond an association, an introduction. Everything else had been on Lan Zhan and Wen Yuan, to end up with Lan Sizhui as the young man he is today.
So he smiles and laughs as Qingshan is liberated from his arms with Lan Zhan's I raised a child, because yes, and also, no. Differences in ages they've both been stumbling with, because neither of them had raised any child so young, and yet look at him: he grows, he commands, he is imperiousness in babbles and the first attempts at words that tumble off his tongue to the ground where, bending, his fathers gather them up like pearls to share with a world already rife with such things.
He doesn't say anything, just smile, let that fondness and his amused understanding of Lan Zhan's need to be with the children, more compelling and driving than the simplicity of affection and its depth that Wei Wuxian settles into. There, there goes his spouse, set to bathing and scrubbing and Wei Wuxian shakes his head, moving to the basin to wash his arms and settle on preparing clothing out of regathered packs from the donkey still stabled outside. Easy, when that reunion had only been a logical retreat for lodgings anyway. )
Are they both to be in the Shi generation when they're of age?
( Asked and curious, because he's not sure at what else that might be, where they join with their brother two decades beyond themselves. Still, he can give them something else, he supposes, and that brings a name to mind, simple. )
Qingbai.
( Meanwhile two sets of children's clothes, the one to be too short for the rabbit son, but warm and clean and soft. Not too tight, to rub fur poorly, though he doesn't know if that's a concern.
A pause, and then: )
Their sleeping robes are laid out, did you want me to fetch yours? My hands are clean!
( He's not smearing dirt and debris and blood and wraiths on cloth, for all they once sung it of him, the great Yiling Patriarch in all his devilish glory. )
no subject
Wei Wuxian regrets none of that. It had nothing to do with him, beyond an association, an introduction. Everything else had been on Lan Zhan and Wen Yuan, to end up with Lan Sizhui as the young man he is today.
So he smiles and laughs as Qingshan is liberated from his arms with Lan Zhan's I raised a child, because yes, and also, no. Differences in ages they've both been stumbling with, because neither of them had raised any child so young, and yet look at him: he grows, he commands, he is imperiousness in babbles and the first attempts at words that tumble off his tongue to the ground where, bending, his fathers gather them up like pearls to share with a world already rife with such things.
He doesn't say anything, just smile, let that fondness and his amused understanding of Lan Zhan's need to be with the children, more compelling and driving than the simplicity of affection and its depth that Wei Wuxian settles into. There, there goes his spouse, set to bathing and scrubbing and Wei Wuxian shakes his head, moving to the basin to wash his arms and settle on preparing clothing out of regathered packs from the donkey still stabled outside. Easy, when that reunion had only been a logical retreat for lodgings anyway. )
Are they both to be in the Shi generation when they're of age?
( Asked and curious, because he's not sure at what else that might be, where they join with their brother two decades beyond themselves. Still, he can give them something else, he supposes, and that brings a name to mind, simple. )
Qingbai.
( Meanwhile two sets of children's clothes, the one to be too short for the rabbit son, but warm and clean and soft. Not too tight, to rub fur poorly, though he doesn't know if that's a concern.
A pause, and then: )
Their sleeping robes are laid out, did you want me to fetch yours? My hands are clean!
( He's not smearing dirt and debris and blood and wraiths on cloth, for all they once sung it of him, the great Yiling Patriarch in all his devilish glory. )