[ In light of day, this would be blasphemy. But they tread twilight, danced in dapples of last light that cross and cut Wei Ying's face, carve out the sharp blade edges of his cheek, paint him a presence golden. Now, Lan Wangji steps, stutters, reaches for him in truth, catches the corners of his elbow, raises the grip to Wei Ying's upper arm, shakes. ]
Did I enforce it, before? [ Remember: Mo Xuanyu, alone, deserted, driven to his own cliff's edge, never recalled. Has Lan Wangji but spoken the name? He thinks it grows in him, gargantuan and aborted, and if his mouth should round it, he will thank, and what will Wei Ying speak then? ] If I wished it —
[ If he weathered the soles of his boots to dust motes and latticework, if he gave search and never found, if he would have, he would have, but didn't, then his fingers should ribbon and knot now, and there will be marks for it, a supplication of bruises, but listen — ]
Damn you. [ Beneath the abyssal hollows of Wangji's breath, in his bloodstream, damn him there. Poison. ] What matters what was wished?
[ The curse of him, watching and waiting, the perennial observer of Wei Ying on rooftops, Wei Ying on stairs, Wei Ying blooded, Wei Ying torn. And he moved — decided, no better than sixteen years too late for a cold and emptied grave, tectonic in undulation.
He did nothing, unto no one, until Wei Ying himself broke with death, and all heads aligned for Bichen's cut, and if this should be his fault, his fate, if every living moment should be drift of wave never cresting, always spumed, if he meandered from point of one wander to the next, searching, scouting, his hands filthy with dirt and gravel, if he knew nothing but the negative spaces carved by the firefly light of Wei Ying's smiled presence, illusory — if sixteen years were dream, and now he woke, what difference, then? ]
no subject
Did I enforce it, before? [ Remember: Mo Xuanyu, alone, deserted, driven to his own cliff's edge, never recalled. Has Lan Wangji but spoken the name? He thinks it grows in him, gargantuan and aborted, and if his mouth should round it, he will thank, and what will Wei Ying speak then? ] If I wished it —
[ If he weathered the soles of his boots to dust motes and latticework, if he gave search and never found, if he would have, he would have, but didn't, then his fingers should ribbon and knot now, and there will be marks for it, a supplication of bruises, but listen — ]
Damn you. [ Beneath the abyssal hollows of Wangji's breath, in his bloodstream, damn him there. Poison. ] What matters what was wished?
[ The curse of him, watching and waiting, the perennial observer of Wei Ying on rooftops, Wei Ying on stairs, Wei Ying blooded, Wei Ying torn. And he moved — decided, no better than sixteen years too late for a cold and emptied grave, tectonic in undulation.
He did nothing, unto no one, until Wei Ying himself broke with death, and all heads aligned for Bichen's cut, and if this should be his fault, his fate, if every living moment should be drift of wave never cresting, always spumed, if he meandered from point of one wander to the next, searching, scouting, his hands filthy with dirt and gravel, if he knew nothing but the negative spaces carved by the firefly light of Wei Ying's smiled presence, illusory — if sixteen years were dream, and now he woke, what difference, then? ]
Nothing was done.