Caution like white sand meandered, fine-ground, glittered and gone — taming the instinct of white-knuckled fingers to curl and throttle, to grasp and seize, to run. Lan Wangji knows what it means to be an animal, seldom political, chained to their rustling, rickety table by the faint forms of manners, water-wet and diluted.
One finger trails the hungry ravines of table's wood, drenched in clotted ale, saturated. There's a refined adhesion to the furnitures of a tavern, the cleansed and polished stick of drink that's poured once, again, countless times over, bound and made flesh of the place of itself. Friction and a blade alone reduce it, and even then, the sheen lingers, soft enough to mould around the warmth of a visiting hand.
Wangji is a man estranged of the drinking habit, now immersed in it. He feels simultaneously game and a predator, alert to compensate the upcoming dimness of attention of others.
"You deflect," a simple thing, selfish. Lan Wangji is thanked, so that he might be derailed. Perhaps the boy Anduin believes he is of the maidenly sort, requiring courtship before an intimate proposition. "Arrive at purpose."
no subject
One finger trails the hungry ravines of table's wood, drenched in clotted ale, saturated. There's a refined adhesion to the furnitures of a tavern, the cleansed and polished stick of drink that's poured once, again, countless times over, bound and made flesh of the place of itself. Friction and a blade alone reduce it, and even then, the sheen lingers, soft enough to mould around the warmth of a visiting hand.
Wangji is a man estranged of the drinking habit, now immersed in it. He feels simultaneously game and a predator, alert to compensate the upcoming dimness of attention of others.
"You deflect," a simple thing, selfish. Lan Wangji is thanked, so that he might be derailed. Perhaps the boy Anduin believes he is of the maidenly sort, requiring courtship before an intimate proposition. "Arrive at purpose."