Lan Zhan comes, and he is as undone as Wei Wuxian can remember him, sharp edges and frayed nerves, when he enters to kneel without a request made, a confession before a conversation. He knows the shape of that movement, what it is to see and accuse and be accused without the words exchanged, what defense is, what surrender feels like.
Fingers fumble through hair, untying a ribbon that leaves its mark across Lan Zhan's forehead, held out as if to ask for some meaning returned, some acknowledgement of supplication. No apologies offered, but cut words, presumptive of one man to state and claim one side as meaningful, to cut two men and declare them both free. Wei Wuxian knows the shape of that story, rises a man not happy, not angered in the way he had been earlier. Quiet, exposed with his layers, and sets the papers, the quill aside. Spreads fingers to catch at the bundled cloth, carries it forward on quieter feet, to stare down for less than half a heartbeat before he sinks down too, knees hitting the floor.
There is an anger born of distress that he knows well, clawing at his heart. Wei Wuxian sets the bundle down between them, reaches for the ribbon weighed down by meanings he had known in side associations, and he who breaks rules, who bends them, who flirts with pushing hard and harder to learn what boundaries he can survive crossing or coming close to, says nothing at first.
Let it settle for heartbeats joined, that silence. While fingers miraculously undyed by ink are delicate with silk, stroking over it, over Lan Zhan's hand without touching.
"Twice," he says, "Scant weeks ago. We slept in reds, and before my adopted ancestors, you tied ribbon to wrist." He can draw the conclusions, as he lifts Lan Zhan's ribbon free, as he shifts to toss one end over his shoulder, to keep the length of it from trailing down to flirt with dust and dirt and stone. "You've used silence to deny me family twice, Lan Zhan. You make decisions the way I did before I died. Without discussion, bearing consequences alone."
He smooths the ribbon, moves to loop it around Lan Zhan's wrist, fingers deft so long as he doesn't fight, doesn't pull back, isn't more the alcohol laced creature who bears teeth and wounds scarred over into whites starker than his mourning. Another loop, then. Securing, before he shifts and the ribbon spools back over his shoulder, leaves a swooping length between them, metal and stylised clouds floating soft. Wei Wuxian binds his wrist meditatively, eyes darker, expression difficult to read for his own difficulties.
After, he reaches for the cloth between them, ribbon dancing along with one hand's motion, not tight enough to tug as tether, but to suggest nonetheless. Light catches from fire and lantern, dances bright along a form wrought in silvers, impression of mountains embraced by clouds, a sun that rises over, piercing through. Gusu, on some mornings, and the light one of them is named for.
He lifts the crown, such as it is, holds it up, high enough as suggestion. Gifts that had nothing to do with these bindings, but with the ones that Wei Wuxian knew, and he cares, fumbling and angry and breaking and sweet and sour and whatever else he is, flawed, to use inopportune moment to gift.
no subject
Fingers fumble through hair, untying a ribbon that leaves its mark across Lan Zhan's forehead, held out as if to ask for some meaning returned, some acknowledgement of supplication. No apologies offered, but cut words, presumptive of one man to state and claim one side as meaningful, to cut two men and declare them both free. Wei Wuxian knows the shape of that story, rises a man not happy, not angered in the way he had been earlier. Quiet, exposed with his layers, and sets the papers, the quill aside. Spreads fingers to catch at the bundled cloth, carries it forward on quieter feet, to stare down for less than half a heartbeat before he sinks down too, knees hitting the floor.
There is an anger born of distress that he knows well, clawing at his heart. Wei Wuxian sets the bundle down between them, reaches for the ribbon weighed down by meanings he had known in side associations, and he who breaks rules, who bends them, who flirts with pushing hard and harder to learn what boundaries he can survive crossing or coming close to, says nothing at first.
Let it settle for heartbeats joined, that silence. While fingers miraculously undyed by ink are delicate with silk, stroking over it, over Lan Zhan's hand without touching.
"Twice," he says, "Scant weeks ago. We slept in reds, and before my adopted ancestors, you tied ribbon to wrist." He can draw the conclusions, as he lifts Lan Zhan's ribbon free, as he shifts to toss one end over his shoulder, to keep the length of it from trailing down to flirt with dust and dirt and stone. "You've used silence to deny me family twice, Lan Zhan. You make decisions the way I did before I died. Without discussion, bearing consequences alone."
He smooths the ribbon, moves to loop it around Lan Zhan's wrist, fingers deft so long as he doesn't fight, doesn't pull back, isn't more the alcohol laced creature who bears teeth and wounds scarred over into whites starker than his mourning. Another loop, then. Securing, before he shifts and the ribbon spools back over his shoulder, leaves a swooping length between them, metal and stylised clouds floating soft. Wei Wuxian binds his wrist meditatively, eyes darker, expression difficult to read for his own difficulties.
After, he reaches for the cloth between them, ribbon dancing along with one hand's motion, not tight enough to tug as tether, but to suggest nonetheless. Light catches from fire and lantern, dances bright along a form wrought in silvers, impression of mountains embraced by clouds, a sun that rises over, piercing through. Gusu, on some mornings, and the light one of them is named for.
He lifts the crown, such as it is, holds it up, high enough as suggestion. Gifts that had nothing to do with these bindings, but with the ones that Wei Wuxian knew, and he cares, fumbling and angry and breaking and sweet and sour and whatever else he is, flawed, to use inopportune moment to gift.
"May I?"