He thinks he can yet name the moment, crepuscular like the pinked, bruising light that absconds Wei Ying's shape gently, erodes his edges. He looks, from a distance, as if sundown's born him, as if blink the once, miss the sketch of him, watch him smear to nothingness of blister and charcoal.
There is freedom in fixing this moment, the catch of his fingers serpentine, when Lan Wangji leans, but Wei Ying has receded, back a wall to him, and his bearings gathered, and the alien thing of their communal grief black, but nothing's passed here, no man's died. Silence wails, and rains batters hard ground, and they grieve the absence of slick sliding skin against skin. He pulls his hand back first, knots it carefully at this spine, where he can anchor himself.
And he asks, gravelly: ]
How do we mend from this?
[ The hour, come, gone. The sibilation of wonder, elided truths, the theft of choice, the hypocrisy of meandering between that which one heart wants in selfish notion and another accepts. They are paper and parchment and rags, and they must sew back, fresh stitch on sixteen years of stitches. ]
no subject
He thinks he can yet name the moment, crepuscular like the pinked, bruising light that absconds Wei Ying's shape gently, erodes his edges. He looks, from a distance, as if sundown's born him, as if blink the once, miss the sketch of him, watch him smear to nothingness of blister and charcoal.
There is freedom in fixing this moment, the catch of his fingers serpentine, when Lan Wangji leans, but Wei Ying has receded, back a wall to him, and his bearings gathered, and the alien thing of their communal grief black, but nothing's passed here, no man's died. Silence wails, and rains batters hard ground, and they grieve the absence of slick sliding skin against skin. He pulls his hand back first, knots it carefully at this spine, where he can anchor himself.
And he asks, gravelly: ]
How do we mend from this?
[ The hour, come, gone. The sibilation of wonder, elided truths, the theft of choice, the hypocrisy of meandering between that which one heart wants in selfish notion and another accepts. They are paper and parchment and rags, and they must sew back, fresh stitch on sixteen years of stitches. ]