[ At his worst: stripped down, battered, sincere. An incredulity of torn silks and bark, coiled serpentine around his limbs, and his heart drenched and drowned in the rot of resentment (foreign; escalated). At his worst raw, at his worst unfathomable. At his worst, alive.
Better this, then, the chief cultivator, spine porcelain-pale and arrow-straight, and his forehead blessed by moonlight, intended for the sun. Appeased, his second son nestles, thin fists dancing a war song, knocking down the bridge of Lan Wangji's shoulders. Within heartbeats, Qingshan has travelled the cycle of a imperial grandeur: more than conquest, now he yearns for hard-earned peace, and spreads like the gold powders of gerber daisies and chrysanthemums and chamomile, with luscious wind.
It is Qingshan who catches, delighted and gasping, the first sight of Wei Ying tilting — of Qingbai coming close, in his second father's arms, and what whims childhood affords its subjects without hypocrisy. Moments ago, Lan Wangji whispers soundlessly against Qingshan's temple, half to pacify him, half to admonish, and the whole to excuse a handful of kisses more, You could not bear the company of him. Now, denied, Qingshan aches.
He will grow as his father did, a stalk thrown bones of light from generous sky, blood-thirsting to pierce it. Jealous, in all ways, of all things, even of those he would claim for himself. Years from now. Decades. And who is Lan Wangji to deter him? Never the better man, hand soft when he reaches for Wei Ying's nape beside him, and directs him like a puppet of bound rags or plywood, until he knows to bend and concede setting his head on Wangji's shoulder, or the bench spread of his thigh. Rest. ]
'XianXian is but three.'
[ Shallow incantations, Jiang Yanli's to whisper best. What Lan Wangji usurps now was never his to earn, but he steals it carelessly, drag of his fingers raking the coils of Wei Ying's dark hair, where he may yet find them. One child, strapped to his chest. Another, flattened against Wei Ying's. Wei Ying himself, basking in undivided attention. An evening of domesticity, settling in its maturity. ]
We were spared a sennight for travel. We may linger here, to purify.
[ Slowly, softly, with care. To the exclusion of Wei Ying's notion of a 'vacation,' if for the benefit of Yunmeng as a whole. ]
no subject
Better this, then, the chief cultivator, spine porcelain-pale and arrow-straight, and his forehead blessed by moonlight, intended for the sun. Appeased, his second son nestles, thin fists dancing a war song, knocking down the bridge of Lan Wangji's shoulders. Within heartbeats, Qingshan has travelled the cycle of a imperial grandeur: more than conquest, now he yearns for hard-earned peace, and spreads like the gold powders of gerber daisies and chrysanthemums and chamomile, with luscious wind.
It is Qingshan who catches, delighted and gasping, the first sight of Wei Ying tilting — of Qingbai coming close, in his second father's arms, and what whims childhood affords its subjects without hypocrisy. Moments ago, Lan Wangji whispers soundlessly against Qingshan's temple, half to pacify him, half to admonish, and the whole to excuse a handful of kisses more, You could not bear the company of him. Now, denied, Qingshan aches.
He will grow as his father did, a stalk thrown bones of light from generous sky, blood-thirsting to pierce it. Jealous, in all ways, of all things, even of those he would claim for himself. Years from now. Decades. And who is Lan Wangji to deter him? Never the better man, hand soft when he reaches for Wei Ying's nape beside him, and directs him like a puppet of bound rags or plywood, until he knows to bend and concede setting his head on Wangji's shoulder, or the bench spread of his thigh. Rest. ]
'XianXian is but three.'
[ Shallow incantations, Jiang Yanli's to whisper best. What Lan Wangji usurps now was never his to earn, but he steals it carelessly, drag of his fingers raking the coils of Wei Ying's dark hair, where he may yet find them. One child, strapped to his chest. Another, flattened against Wei Ying's. Wei Ying himself, basking in undivided attention. An evening of domesticity, settling in its maturity. ]
We were spared a sennight for travel. We may linger here, to purify.
[ Slowly, softly, with care. To the exclusion of Wei Ying's notion of a 'vacation,' if for the benefit of Yunmeng as a whole. ]