"No core," he translates, for the peace of his own ears. Sickness betrayed by symptom. And action — the loitering lines of Wei Ying's hand, the tug — poisoned by reaction — he pulls back, strength applied in misdeeds of offence. Coarse strength, repurposed against a man weakened by — absence.
No heat to roam Wei Ying's body, reinforce the marrow of his bones. To make of him a molten pulse at the heart of viscous, gravel, cracked grey. He nods, then gives Wei Ying a child's mercy, drags his hand under the grave mantle of Wangji's sleeve, pressing his fingers in to borrow close to the warmth of the wrist. If this were Sizhui, a beanstalk ill grown, he would have nestled as deep as the first few layers of Lan Wangji's collar, seeking beads of heat.
A strange thing, to raise a child, and taste the small pleasures in the knowing of whom he becomes, as you see him grow. Whom you become, as you bear him witness. To bloom to his full potential, a son must walk his father's grave.
"When Sizhui..." But it dies, cold on his lips. Again. "When Yuan." No. "When I raised a child alone." When you abandoned me to the task. But there is no spite to it, no rancor — only the aftertaste, lavender-like, of melancholy. "Our winters sowed his misery."
Disagreed with him, precious burden of the Wen, sun-kissed and a boy of the summer season. What a thing to remember, here, now, buried in the ashes of Wen ancestors. He breathes white.
no subject
No heat to roam Wei Ying's body, reinforce the marrow of his bones. To make of him a molten pulse at the heart of viscous, gravel, cracked grey. He nods, then gives Wei Ying a child's mercy, drags his hand under the grave mantle of Wangji's sleeve, pressing his fingers in to borrow close to the warmth of the wrist. If this were Sizhui, a beanstalk ill grown, he would have nestled as deep as the first few layers of Lan Wangji's collar, seeking beads of heat.
A strange thing, to raise a child, and taste the small pleasures in the knowing of whom he becomes, as you see him grow. Whom you become, as you bear him witness. To bloom to his full potential, a son must walk his father's grave.
"When Sizhui..." But it dies, cold on his lips. Again. "When Yuan." No. "When I raised a child alone." When you abandoned me to the task. But there is no spite to it, no rancor — only the aftertaste, lavender-like, of melancholy. "Our winters sowed his misery."
Disagreed with him, precious burden of the Wen, sun-kissed and a boy of the summer season. What a thing to remember, here, now, buried in the ashes of Wen ancestors. He breathes white.
"He hunted his warmth."