( He waves the wrist, tries the binding tight-loose, until the ribbon knots and nooses and chokes his bone like delicate striations on nascent marble. Wen Chao could not have wished deeper shackling upon him.
The first stroke of Wei Ying's hair lands flat and warm on the top of Wei Ying's head, clumsy for gravity and the lock of knuckles and finger bone, their clasp gaunt. Wangji does not — inspire ease naturally, does not reassure or bring comfort. It is a learned thing with rabbits who behold him, young oily dapplings of white and darks, sweet-nosed, humming. Lan Wangji raises one animal, then another, then the next, and gives them the reins of the land — his arms, the bridge of his shoulder, the sharp slope of his back. They cascade, graze and conquer.
And what came after? Lan Yuan, no greater than a garden creature, glued to Wangji's leg like grains of sticky rice. Possessed of the sterile sagacity and instinctive wisdom to climb Lan Wangji's hip, but not claw it. Lan Wangji offered short, aborted caresses on his nape and neck, the rare refitting of his robe collars. Play. Feverish kisses on Yuan's temple, once sunset rusts slipped him into night's sleep, and Uncle could not complain of Wangji spoiling the infant.
This is a different exercise, its subject long, lean, meaner. Thinned like candle wick, ever prepared for his own burning. Lan Wangji peels his fingers back and tries to stroke again, to capture Wei Ying's hair, to draw it back as if he intends a second binding of it, or a braid — only to release it down in cascade. )
You do not speak of them, as you do of Sizhui. ( As often, as hearted. ) Your parents. Tell me.
( There is greed in this, in counting the coin-wealth of Wei Ying's secrets, watching it gather in Wangji's cupped hands. )
no subject
The first stroke of Wei Ying's hair lands flat and warm on the top of Wei Ying's head, clumsy for gravity and the lock of knuckles and finger bone, their clasp gaunt. Wangji does not — inspire ease naturally, does not reassure or bring comfort. It is a learned thing with rabbits who behold him, young oily dapplings of white and darks, sweet-nosed, humming. Lan Wangji raises one animal, then another, then the next, and gives them the reins of the land — his arms, the bridge of his shoulder, the sharp slope of his back. They cascade, graze and conquer.
And what came after? Lan Yuan, no greater than a garden creature, glued to Wangji's leg like grains of sticky rice. Possessed of the sterile sagacity and instinctive wisdom to climb Lan Wangji's hip, but not claw it. Lan Wangji offered short, aborted caresses on his nape and neck, the rare refitting of his robe collars. Play. Feverish kisses on Yuan's temple, once sunset rusts slipped him into night's sleep, and Uncle could not complain of Wangji spoiling the infant.
This is a different exercise, its subject long, lean, meaner. Thinned like candle wick, ever prepared for his own burning. Lan Wangji peels his fingers back and tries to stroke again, to capture Wei Ying's hair, to draw it back as if he intends a second binding of it, or a braid — only to release it down in cascade. )
You do not speak of them, as you do of Sizhui. ( As often, as hearted. ) Your parents. Tell me.
( There is greed in this, in counting the coin-wealth of Wei Ying's secrets, watching it gather in Wangji's cupped hands. )