A smile, more teeth, eyes fierce in vivaciousness when he scoffs out the laugh, "No," blood not claimed, and perhaps Lan Zhan should wonder at a man who has denied pain as convincingly as Lan Zhan has, has suffered in the same chosen silences, has deflected and foregone, for if first blood is a convincing end, or if to the pain and to the satisfaction might have been better claims.
Please thrums through him, galvanizing when Lan Zhan comes, forward and sweeping in a graceful, tricky fall of a blade and a hilt that chases laughter in a brief, bitten off statement. An exhalation of surprised, enthralled amusement, Wei Wuxian barely sweeping himself away, and not fully free of impact. Bone will remind him, when he pauses to take stock, later. Not now, when a glancing brush means feet still for standing, and no flash to his following dash in, again pressing Lan Zhan's reach, rendering blades things of crossed natures and not the art of a blade, but the weight of it. Brute strength on a fulcrum, but not to endless press and pressure.
A ghosting grin, the jest in his words, "Like this?" Close enough to reach past themselves and bleed on swords, kiss of flesh and metal, blessing to presage the fight that follows, when they breathe into spaces between them, expanding like lungs. A circulatory system of echoed times, where Lan Zhan has learned the crass, the filth one can fight the world with, and Wei Wuxian, resurrected pebble by pebble, has hosted malevolence in his core.
Death be not proud. If only to be as prideless as that; but a lion knows little of grace in surrender, and Wei Wuxian slides into place, fall of his not-quite robes an extension of each movement, flowing, exaggerating. Flirtation with pain, because there is not, has not been intent to kill, and that dulls every blade. They know, having killed, what it is to fight for anything less than cessation; of a heart, a cause, a calamity. For now, his body responds as a song played through his empty core, filling him with air, light.
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Please thrums through him, galvanizing when Lan Zhan comes, forward and sweeping in a graceful, tricky fall of a blade and a hilt that chases laughter in a brief, bitten off statement. An exhalation of surprised, enthralled amusement, Wei Wuxian barely sweeping himself away, and not fully free of impact. Bone will remind him, when he pauses to take stock, later. Not now, when a glancing brush means feet still for standing, and no flash to his following dash in, again pressing Lan Zhan's reach, rendering blades things of crossed natures and not the art of a blade, but the weight of it. Brute strength on a fulcrum, but not to endless press and pressure.
A ghosting grin, the jest in his words, "Like this?" Close enough to reach past themselves and bleed on swords, kiss of flesh and metal, blessing to presage the fight that follows, when they breathe into spaces between them, expanding like lungs. A circulatory system of echoed times, where Lan Zhan has learned the crass, the filth one can fight the world with, and Wei Wuxian, resurrected pebble by pebble, has hosted malevolence in his core.
Death be not proud. If only to be as prideless as that; but a lion knows little of grace in surrender, and Wei Wuxian slides into place, fall of his not-quite robes an extension of each movement, flowing, exaggerating. Flirtation with pain, because there is not, has not been intent to kill, and that dulls every blade. They know, having killed, what it is to fight for anything less than cessation; of a heart, a cause, a calamity. For now, his body responds as a song played through his empty core, filling him with air, light.