( Like like staccato more than crescendo, he feels the wave of lust like abandon, a childish and infinite joy, brimming, warm. Wei Ying is incandescent, and it strikes him like the difference between beholding light and tasting flame on his fingertips — before, two men on the road setting to right the wrongs done against Wei Ying's reputation, he had thought he had glimpsed Wei Ying's honest laughter. Now, his soulmate's delight is a wicked and impossible contagion, a force that suspended Lan Wangji's life before the war — reshaping it.
He bides his time, looks away with the bashfulness of a bride bereft the red of her veil, yet too modest still to accept the stalwart gaze of her husband. Lethe shudders behind him, head peering beneath his elbow, because there is a bond between them, this babe of lizard and death and passion for the sun, and she echoes her master's amusement. The strip of Wangji's headband droops light and frail in his hands, like a second skin.
Less said, sooner concluded: he wrestles Wei Ying's hand, fetters the ribbon tight until it nearly throttles the hard jut of bone. Not one to be lost or overlooked, ends of it flickering in the breeze, let loose like the moment, like their morals. )
The rice you have spilled cannot be picked after. ( But he absents heat or stains of a grudge. ) Wei Ying should remember his refusals.
( And before the Unwinding, both their mouths unstitched-torn, and Let me have you, unanswered. Perhaps one of them yet has the pride to sting. )
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( Like like staccato more than crescendo, he feels the wave of lust like abandon, a childish and infinite joy, brimming, warm. Wei Ying is incandescent, and it strikes him like the difference between beholding light and tasting flame on his fingertips — before, two men on the road setting to right the wrongs done against Wei Ying's reputation, he had thought he had glimpsed Wei Ying's honest laughter. Now, his soulmate's delight is a wicked and impossible contagion, a force that suspended Lan Wangji's life before the war — reshaping it.
He bides his time, looks away with the bashfulness of a bride bereft the red of her veil, yet too modest still to accept the stalwart gaze of her husband. Lethe shudders behind him, head peering beneath his elbow, because there is a bond between them, this babe of lizard and death and passion for the sun, and she echoes her master's amusement. The strip of Wangji's headband droops light and frail in his hands, like a second skin.
Less said, sooner concluded: he wrestles Wei Ying's hand, fetters the ribbon tight until it nearly throttles the hard jut of bone. Not one to be lost or overlooked, ends of it flickering in the breeze, let loose like the moment, like their morals. )
The rice you have spilled cannot be picked after. ( But he absents heat or stains of a grudge. ) Wei Ying should remember his refusals.
( And before the Unwinding, both their mouths unstitched-torn, and Let me have you, unanswered. Perhaps one of them yet has the pride to sting. )
Today, he hunted death. Earned sleep.