( And is Wei Ying? Look at the tea dregs of him, withered flower and ash powders and the bones of him greyed, and how he moulds and wilts and fits himself, like the dog he would sooner perish than hear named — sinking in the negative spaces between stone and Lan Wangji and the rabbits, round, to make the least trouble of himself. To hide.
This, then, must have been his learning of Yunmeng: how to occupy the least amount of territory, to supplement the better man who was meant to rise as Jiang Wanyin. Loud, despite it, like a waning summer's sun. Born with cold in his marrow, despite it.
Lan Wangji's fingers meander, tapping the nose of the young rabbit that grazes, ushering it gently away from both their sides. It scuttles, forlorn and begrudging and trickling by, the last of its hop beating Wangji's thigh and Wei Ying's cheek. 'Miss me, why won't you?'
And Wei Ying says, tired. Not too fatigued, notably, to have raised the woman from her death's woes. But then, brute ambition superseded that exhaustion. Wei Ying will forgive himself any fault that starts with testing his own strength. )
Shall I steal you from yourself? ( Breezy, uncontrolled. Unwanted. Come back to Gusu, when Wei Ying would sooner take a torch to the grounds. They can pretend to live in skins beyond their own. ) Be my husband, a farmer of blistered hands. Raise my turnips. Raise my children. Nameless, powerless, indifferent. Of short, thin shadow on this world.
no subject
( And is Wei Ying? Look at the tea dregs of him, withered flower and ash powders and the bones of him greyed, and how he moulds and wilts and fits himself, like the dog he would sooner perish than hear named — sinking in the negative spaces between stone and Lan Wangji and the rabbits, round, to make the least trouble of himself. To hide.
This, then, must have been his learning of Yunmeng: how to occupy the least amount of territory, to supplement the better man who was meant to rise as Jiang Wanyin. Loud, despite it, like a waning summer's sun. Born with cold in his marrow, despite it.
Lan Wangji's fingers meander, tapping the nose of the young rabbit that grazes, ushering it gently away from both their sides. It scuttles, forlorn and begrudging and trickling by, the last of its hop beating Wangji's thigh and Wei Ying's cheek. 'Miss me, why won't you?'
And Wei Ying says, tired. Not too fatigued, notably, to have raised the woman from her death's woes. But then, brute ambition superseded that exhaustion. Wei Ying will forgive himself any fault that starts with testing his own strength. )
Shall I steal you from yourself? ( Breezy, uncontrolled. Unwanted. Come back to Gusu, when Wei Ying would sooner take a torch to the grounds. They can pretend to live in skins beyond their own. ) Be my husband, a farmer of blistered hands. Raise my turnips. Raise my children. Nameless, powerless, indifferent. Of short, thin shadow on this world.