( The surge of waters as Lan Zhan stands, the rainfall of his approach, and tides shift for lesser things, like the moon. Qingshan lifts his head and pushes out his lower lip, he hinted start of a pout that doesn't press further, knowing its effectiveness in quiet more than the dramatics other children learn to throw in similar circumstances. He waves his arms, then opens and closes his fists, reaching for his soaking father, reaching for the furred then pink skinned brother he's taking in as part of his egocentric universe: this, too, is his, nevermind that until the day before, no such part of his world had been married in quite this form.
At least one child would wear the earnest possession of his father as a badge of honour due, and temper it in the time after with Lan considerations, but not lose it, no matter the anchoring.
He looks upon the dripping form of third son and singular husband, in whatever fractured way of it they had as a knowing between each other. There are times where he reflects Lan Zhan has unfairly beautiful genetics; that his reputation as a handsome man has only grown with his distinguishment, that his title, handed over in a war that did little service to their souls and much to the reforging of their world at the time, matched him for its matured meaning, and not simply the ruthless precision of his military might. Dry haired, outlined in unfairly sheered silk, all the angular planes of muscle hinted at with the steady drip that plasters cloth to skin. How many times now, over the years? How many times to see without understanding? When does admiration change forms? When did he start trusting in it, without that fatal leap so easy to concede: what wants for owing. No, it's a language of giving, and not to appease. Giving because one wants in turn, and not the dark, bleak belly of a want that cries out in lonely guilt and obligation, wretched as it was once inevitable.
He's saved from wandering thoughts by the words that find purchase on Lan Zhan's tongue, and Wei Wuxian blinks, swallows against a dry mouth and redirects his dark eyes to Lan Zhan's. Puts one hand to Qingshan, who holds his thumb, then ruthlessly tosses it away, to better offer both his hands forth again, for the father who holds his brother, and not him.
It gives him that moment to collect the drying cloths, to step forward and drape the first over Lan Zhan's arms and the crescent moon of Qingbai's cleansed form. He's healed further from his injuries the night before, and that may be part of his nature, not human and not animal, trapped as he is in this form of a yao most would consign to a death that lays undeserved, this child innocent. He will steady. Is steadying now, breathing in matched harmony to Lan Zhan. A gift in turn. )
I don't imagine, ( He says, smiling with the slow, seeping warmth of genuine and deep affection, turning to catch up the larger drying cloth to his dry hands, ) that will be any sooner than when you're tired of me.
( A step, and the toss of the cloth, settling over Lan Zhan's shoulders and draping down his back and sides. Qingbai's eyes flutter open and watch, rounded and curious. Qingshan stills in his silent pouting and clutching of fists, mouth opening into a perfect, curious circle. He steps closer, one hand reaching out to run over Qingbai's head. Then he reaches for Lan Zhan, but the sides of his neck, one hand coaxing his hair free and over to spill down directly on the cloth drier than he is. The barest brush of fingers against skin, and he scalds himself, without scolding. His other hand, catching hold of the cloth so it doesn't shift away for the short duration, drops away again, fingers lingering a second too long. )
You're welcome, Lan Zhan. Thank you, for accepting each one of them.
( Their sons, spanning decades, small celestial bodies pulled into their gravitational well. Fixing in steady orbit, steady and beautiful for Lan Zhan's hand on them, for his sect's in their raising, for the warmth that runs deeper than the chill of their cold spring's well. )
And for your answering affections for each, and all the ones to come.
( The curve of lips into silent amusement, and a warm promise, to not forget: a daughter, next. )
i like how this is the horniest tag you're getting out of wifi so far
At least one child would wear the earnest possession of his father as a badge of honour due, and temper it in the time after with Lan considerations, but not lose it, no matter the anchoring.
He looks upon the dripping form of third son and singular husband, in whatever fractured way of it they had as a knowing between each other. There are times where he reflects Lan Zhan has unfairly beautiful genetics; that his reputation as a handsome man has only grown with his distinguishment, that his title, handed over in a war that did little service to their souls and much to the reforging of their world at the time, matched him for its matured meaning, and not simply the ruthless precision of his military might. Dry haired, outlined in unfairly sheered silk, all the angular planes of muscle hinted at with the steady drip that plasters cloth to skin. How many times now, over the years? How many times to see without understanding? When does admiration change forms? When did he start trusting in it, without that fatal leap so easy to concede: what wants for owing. No, it's a language of giving, and not to appease. Giving because one wants in turn, and not the dark, bleak belly of a want that cries out in lonely guilt and obligation, wretched as it was once inevitable.
He's saved from wandering thoughts by the words that find purchase on Lan Zhan's tongue, and Wei Wuxian blinks, swallows against a dry mouth and redirects his dark eyes to Lan Zhan's. Puts one hand to Qingshan, who holds his thumb, then ruthlessly tosses it away, to better offer both his hands forth again, for the father who holds his brother, and not him.
It gives him that moment to collect the drying cloths, to step forward and drape the first over Lan Zhan's arms and the crescent moon of Qingbai's cleansed form. He's healed further from his injuries the night before, and that may be part of his nature, not human and not animal, trapped as he is in this form of a yao most would consign to a death that lays undeserved, this child innocent. He will steady. Is steadying now, breathing in matched harmony to Lan Zhan. A gift in turn. )
I don't imagine, ( He says, smiling with the slow, seeping warmth of genuine and deep affection, turning to catch up the larger drying cloth to his dry hands, ) that will be any sooner than when you're tired of me.
( A step, and the toss of the cloth, settling over Lan Zhan's shoulders and draping down his back and sides. Qingbai's eyes flutter open and watch, rounded and curious. Qingshan stills in his silent pouting and clutching of fists, mouth opening into a perfect, curious circle. He steps closer, one hand reaching out to run over Qingbai's head. Then he reaches for Lan Zhan, but the sides of his neck, one hand coaxing his hair free and over to spill down directly on the cloth drier than he is. The barest brush of fingers against skin, and he scalds himself, without scolding. His other hand, catching hold of the cloth so it doesn't shift away for the short duration, drops away again, fingers lingering a second too long. )
You're welcome, Lan Zhan. Thank you, for accepting each one of them.
( Their sons, spanning decades, small celestial bodies pulled into their gravitational well. Fixing in steady orbit, steady and beautiful for Lan Zhan's hand on them, for his sect's in their raising, for the warmth that runs deeper than the chill of their cold spring's well. )
And for your answering affections for each, and all the ones to come.
( The curve of lips into silent amusement, and a warm promise, to not forget: a daughter, next. )