I stayed. Like weed and poisoned ivy, climbing the crevices of Wei Ying, the fever of his rebel youth, where the heat of the Wen sun burned roots before their latching. Look at Wei Ying, the imprint Lan Wangji has made on the universe, a man so beautiful, so hunted, touch could only whet him, stones could only sharpen his hurts.
"They made you anew, with hands so soft," and he whispers it, fearful to speak, loud and joyful for the heavens — a secret like incisions of a razor blade, lines dimmed and thin and barely strong through their addition, Wei Ying's secret to own and hone. Bite by bite, bleed a man whole.
Wangji is an animal pacing himself, his convictions. The white, bright slab of his fangs hounds bated breath. Beneath the blunt ledge of his knees, Wei Ying's floor groans and strains, creaks traded between heartbeats. A forest breathes just so, in increments of rustle. He feels himself a snake, laired, burrowing, striking only now as he catches Wei Ying's wrists and opens the bloom of his palms, as if it is a precious thing. He rounds the petal of his fingertips against Wangji's cheeks, pressed in. Breathing, the swell of his cheek fills out the gauntness of Wei Ying's grasp, pushes against his bird bones.
"I did not know," he rasps, the humanity of his body so little lived in. "Your hands could be so gentle. You did not teach me."
Only want and grief, sixteen years taut on their string, how he'd spill the beads bubbling in his grasp. What was Wei Ying's to give? A widow might have had his war stipend, his name, a child to warm her belly, her arms. A paramour of mere association would have earned at least a claim to the flagrant suffering that soubrettes and mistresses of history have worn as a shroud of dignity. We, who were not wives, pity us.
And Lan Wangji? Friend, adversary, tremulous soulmate shielded by anonymity. He has inherited only this, the whimsy of his pulse trapped beneath Wei Ying's fingertips, danced and honeyed, but strong. "I cared for a man with hands so coarse." I wed him, failed him. "He gave me my son. He died. And you are not bound for him."
He looks at Wei Ying now, and there is an emptiness that means Lan Wangji has rallied the banners of his strength, but his soldiers deserted him. He has been so, on the battlefield, remembers his brother at his back, and their disciples a fury white and distant, held at arm's length by the disparity in their skill. Now, he kneels to worship his equal, and Wei Ying's hands slip his, he sets both down.
"When you find a wife," it scratches him to speak so, burns. Knows it right. "I shall give you the bride price."
Of Wangji's own estate, of the stretches of silver his clan and his mother forfeited him gladly. So bear this, until then. Survive the indignity of nights spent in chased warmth, like animals huddled against the quiet shape of their mourning for the same man who was and will not be again. Bear the thought of a marriage in name, absent obligation, easily unspooled. Bear shared custody of their son, beautiful jewel who shares kinship with half the cultivation world, but is theirs alone for the keeping.
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"They made you anew, with hands so soft," and he whispers it, fearful to speak, loud and joyful for the heavens — a secret like incisions of a razor blade, lines dimmed and thin and barely strong through their addition, Wei Ying's secret to own and hone. Bite by bite, bleed a man whole.
Wangji is an animal pacing himself, his convictions. The white, bright slab of his fangs hounds bated breath. Beneath the blunt ledge of his knees, Wei Ying's floor groans and strains, creaks traded between heartbeats. A forest breathes just so, in increments of rustle. He feels himself a snake, laired, burrowing, striking only now as he catches Wei Ying's wrists and opens the bloom of his palms, as if it is a precious thing. He rounds the petal of his fingertips against Wangji's cheeks, pressed in. Breathing, the swell of his cheek fills out the gauntness of Wei Ying's grasp, pushes against his bird bones.
"I did not know," he rasps, the humanity of his body so little lived in. "Your hands could be so gentle. You did not teach me."
Only want and grief, sixteen years taut on their string, how he'd spill the beads bubbling in his grasp. What was Wei Ying's to give? A widow might have had his war stipend, his name, a child to warm her belly, her arms. A paramour of mere association would have earned at least a claim to the flagrant suffering that soubrettes and mistresses of history have worn as a shroud of dignity. We, who were not wives, pity us.
And Lan Wangji? Friend, adversary, tremulous soulmate shielded by anonymity. He has inherited only this, the whimsy of his pulse trapped beneath Wei Ying's fingertips, danced and honeyed, but strong. "I cared for a man with hands so coarse." I wed him, failed him. "He gave me my son. He died. And you are not bound for him."
He looks at Wei Ying now, and there is an emptiness that means Lan Wangji has rallied the banners of his strength, but his soldiers deserted him. He has been so, on the battlefield, remembers his brother at his back, and their disciples a fury white and distant, held at arm's length by the disparity in their skill. Now, he kneels to worship his equal, and Wei Ying's hands slip his, he sets both down.
"When you find a wife," it scratches him to speak so, burns. Knows it right. "I shall give you the bride price."
Of Wangji's own estate, of the stretches of silver his clan and his mother forfeited him gladly. So bear this, until then. Survive the indignity of nights spent in chased warmth, like animals huddled against the quiet shape of their mourning for the same man who was and will not be again. Bear the thought of a marriage in name, absent obligation, easily unspooled. Bear shared custody of their son, beautiful jewel who shares kinship with half the cultivation world, but is theirs alone for the keeping.