[ The noble miracle of teaching, the privilege of watching a young soul's bright eyes widen and capture and hold the terror before him — until it mellows into the safe and the known with each careful, calculated inclination of Qingbai's foot in clear, clever water. Lan Wangji teases more than he descends him, tips of Qingbai's limb — now pinked toes, now furred, at all times wriggling — grazing surface to write ripples.
In the end, the yao is submerged, and Wangji — possessed of that rare indignity only a parent brandishes when his child has finally acquiesced to cooperation or silence — follows shamelessly on his cue. On leg in, the second. Heat suffuses over Lan Wangji, one man turned island when Qingbai wrestles close and mounts him, clumsy and feverish, kicking at waves. The treasury of Lan Wangji's patience depletes itself in slow increments: he allows it, careful to soak both hands in salts and salve, to avoid the trappings of his floated, swollen sleeves, as he bathes clothed.
Qingbai is an easy compromise of cooing and muffled sound and the press of his sweet, milky cheek against Wangji's collarbone, defeated. He allows the torture and disgrace of Lan Wangji's diligent scrubbing, one leg, then the next, and the arms and the narrow, trembled span of his spine. Then, behind the ears — short or long &dmash; and in those parts rendered intimate. Soot, grime, blood. Half shed off Qingbai, half quickly deserting Lan Wangji's own form.
He finishes the child early, then completes his own ablutions and rises wing Qingbai cradles in his arms without care for the deluge of damp each footstep curses freshly on the floors. Merciless in this, as in everything, the military precision of his advance irrefutable. When he presents Qingbai to Wei Ying and his sullen-faced brother, his hands shake for the endeavour. ]
Thank you. For him. [ This, to Wei Ying, words trickled and mouth slow. ] For those who came before. Those who may follow.
[ They trade blows so much more often than gratitude, and yet here lies Lan Wangji's heart, bleeding. He has earned another son, whose hair whips against his arm, whose round bulk narrows in a pleased coil around Wangji's chest. Their heartbeats, war-drummed and matching.
Wei Ying made a gift to him of this. He does not hasten to return it. ]
no subject
In the end, the yao is submerged, and Wangji — possessed of that rare indignity only a parent brandishes when his child has finally acquiesced to cooperation or silence — follows shamelessly on his cue. On leg in, the second. Heat suffuses over Lan Wangji, one man turned island when Qingbai wrestles close and mounts him, clumsy and feverish, kicking at waves. The treasury of Lan Wangji's patience depletes itself in slow increments: he allows it, careful to soak both hands in salts and salve, to avoid the trappings of his floated, swollen sleeves, as he bathes clothed.
Qingbai is an easy compromise of cooing and muffled sound and the press of his sweet, milky cheek against Wangji's collarbone, defeated. He allows the torture and disgrace of Lan Wangji's diligent scrubbing, one leg, then the next, and the arms and the narrow, trembled span of his spine. Then, behind the ears — short or long &dmash; and in those parts rendered intimate. Soot, grime, blood. Half shed off Qingbai, half quickly deserting Lan Wangji's own form.
He finishes the child early, then completes his own ablutions and rises wing Qingbai cradles in his arms without care for the deluge of damp each footstep curses freshly on the floors. Merciless in this, as in everything, the military precision of his advance irrefutable. When he presents Qingbai to Wei Ying and his sullen-faced brother, his hands shake for the endeavour. ]
Thank you. For him. [ This, to Wei Ying, words trickled and mouth slow. ] For those who came before. Those who may follow.
[ They trade blows so much more often than gratitude, and yet here lies Lan Wangji's heart, bleeding. He has earned another son, whose hair whips against his arm, whose round bulk narrows in a pleased coil around Wangji's chest. Their heartbeats, war-drummed and matching.
Wei Ying made a gift to him of this. He does not hasten to return it. ]
One day, you will tire of gift giving.