[ He is animal in this, the sterile, muted, manic quality of his gaze chasing Wei Ying's finger, singeing Wangji's mouth, penciling his own, taste of blood, his blood on another's man tongue — and he was born second only to Zewu-Jun, raised by his hand, bolstered by a sect.
He is no lamb to serve as sacrifice, to watch the wolf and know the spike bolts of his denture, and hear the hollow crackle of these fangs on his bone, suckling his marrow. He will not yield, for it is pretty to spill red and expire with noble splendor, in timid paintings.
Wangji's teeth grind first, his jaw aches in points of tension. ]
First shameless, then coy. Now coward.
[ Steps, as in sword dance: first the plunge, then the recoil, the fall back. Now, the wander. Wei Ying, fixing his balance between tugs of futile gravity, gripped by hands of guilt that thieve and hinder.
And in his grasp, Lan Wangji, the toy he will not concede or crush or consider, only coax, from roll to collapse, to empty rise, to wonder — and is Wangji to blame in this, his inertia? Uncle named the sin of it, hubris, latticed his back raw, but made of him a man repenting. Now, plaything, he simulates: catches one of the precious, voluptuously fleshed fruit, the false loquat that spins obediently on the dust-licked span of a sharp table.
His thumb dances the edge, teases the rich skin, sinks until it too bleeds, wet-golden. Lethargic, Lan Wangji's waxing gaze on Wei Ying's face stabs. ]
Decide the pledges you want.
[ And live and breathe and be as a fortress wall, stood by them. Decide: to want a resurrection. Name the indulgence, salute it for its toll. Decide: to surrender that right in recognition of another man's dignity, but speak not of grief and choice flatteries, after. Decide: to have a companion true to himself, or wish him shaped gem-like, cut to the perfection of a choice ring piece.
Decide: nothing, as is Wei Ying's way, whimsy on a rooftop, until one wrongful step, the trick of breeze, and the maws of the abyss unhinge open beneath him. Until the fall is but foregone conclusion. ]
You had an errand. [ Limpid, with the wave of a hand — the chief cultivator's flourish, sending an envoy with the parting rose light of a sunset alive in its last brushstrokes. ] I dismiss you.
no subject
He is no lamb to serve as sacrifice, to watch the wolf and know the spike bolts of his denture, and hear the hollow crackle of these fangs on his bone, suckling his marrow. He will not yield, for it is pretty to spill red and expire with noble splendor, in timid paintings.
Wangji's teeth grind first, his jaw aches in points of tension. ]
First shameless, then coy. Now coward.
[ Steps, as in sword dance: first the plunge, then the recoil, the fall back. Now, the wander. Wei Ying, fixing his balance between tugs of futile gravity, gripped by hands of guilt that thieve and hinder.
And in his grasp, Lan Wangji, the toy he will not concede or crush or consider, only coax, from roll to collapse, to empty rise, to wonder — and is Wangji to blame in this, his inertia? Uncle named the sin of it, hubris, latticed his back raw, but made of him a man repenting. Now, plaything, he simulates: catches one of the precious, voluptuously fleshed fruit, the false loquat that spins obediently on the dust-licked span of a sharp table.
His thumb dances the edge, teases the rich skin, sinks until it too bleeds, wet-golden. Lethargic, Lan Wangji's waxing gaze on Wei Ying's face stabs. ]
Decide the pledges you want.
[ And live and breathe and be as a fortress wall, stood by them. Decide: to want a resurrection. Name the indulgence, salute it for its toll. Decide: to surrender that right in recognition of another man's dignity, but speak not of grief and choice flatteries, after. Decide: to have a companion true to himself, or wish him shaped gem-like, cut to the perfection of a choice ring piece.
Decide: nothing, as is Wei Ying's way, whimsy on a rooftop, until one wrongful step, the trick of breeze, and the maws of the abyss unhinge open beneath him. Until the fall is but foregone conclusion. ]
You had an errand. [ Limpid, with the wave of a hand — the chief cultivator's flourish, sending an envoy with the parting rose light of a sunset alive in its last brushstrokes. ] I dismiss you.