'Soulmate.' A man who knows him, mote to whole, part to system, the bindings. If he is flesh, Wei Ying runs red and raw and rust, blood thick. Poison.
He thinks, once upon a time, he lived under a pale, watchful sky, and he bathed growing limbs in cold waters, and he took his sword and his name and is uncle's path.
He thinks, he died at cliff's edge, a restless collision of electric frictions — a storm that never waged itself, stifled with Wei Ying's fall.
He thinks, he has been haze and dreams and steps bridged one after the next, since.
He thinks —
But he says, "Thank you."
And he drinks his stale tea, much as Wei Ying consumes his watered wine, and they comport themselves, loose on their strings, like the puppet show the hour commands, under the weathered, greyed eyes, like morose inertia and sleet, of their curious spectators. What a spectacle they make, two gentlemen in their blood-drenched fineries, negotiating words with the skill of children, gravitating gracelessly towards each other's (absent) cores.
Incomplete, but forcing connection — searching. Lan Wangji's hand trickles on Wei Ying's, on the wine cup. Finding.
Slow, unmoored, but stitching back together through inertia. Place is a function of time. 'Belonging' merely expresses the mathematics. He has the patience to become scholarly, in this.
no subject
He thinks, once upon a time, he lived under a pale, watchful sky, and he bathed growing limbs in cold waters, and he took his sword and his name and is uncle's path.
He thinks, he died at cliff's edge, a restless collision of electric frictions — a storm that never waged itself, stifled with Wei Ying's fall.
He thinks, he has been haze and dreams and steps bridged one after the next, since.
He thinks —
But he says, "Thank you."
And he drinks his stale tea, much as Wei Ying consumes his watered wine, and they comport themselves, loose on their strings, like the puppet show the hour commands, under the weathered, greyed eyes, like morose inertia and sleet, of their curious spectators. What a spectacle they make, two gentlemen in their blood-drenched fineries, negotiating words with the skill of children, gravitating gracelessly towards each other's (absent) cores.
Incomplete, but forcing connection — searching. Lan Wangji's hand trickles on Wei Ying's, on the wine cup. Finding.
Slow, unmoored, but stitching back together through inertia. Place is a function of time. 'Belonging' merely expresses the mathematics. He has the patience to become scholarly, in this.