( part of him wishes to say, fine. part of him, so tired and bruised, of being called on to perform for what he can, whatever that is in the moment, and with others to whom he is ever not quite enough. lan zhan as part of that, through lack of fault and for acute faults of his own. wei wuxian, for never being content in and of himself. content with himself.
he'd learned a bit of that, traveling alone. little apple tolerated his irritating necessity, but there'd been nothing else but himself on the road those years ago. now here, the way he's made of himself, and here, rabbits and a husband and a son who is and isn't his, but that he cares for, that he wants the better world for, regardless.
he reflects, quietly, on what he could expect out of his husband. and it's this, he knows: the reminder that his path is his path, wherever it turns, and that lan zhan had no answers. that lan zhan's lack of answers had been a failing of bridges between them, just as wei wuxian's lack of reaching out to ask for help had hastened his fall. as with his brother. as with his attempt to resolve so much on his own, when no one person can.
no matter how talented. no matter how quiet they held themselves after, to coax the world into understanding their gentleness held in a bloodied fist. )
You'd hate that man as much as I'd hate to only be him.
( only, he sayss, because he will do those things in various ways, he without a clan, he without a core, he without the attention span to recall one death lord's name from another. thin as his frame leaves him, bruised as his chasing sleep leaves under his eyes, this world as indifferent to him as it is to any one of them.
he shifts, buries himself in lan zhan's lap with the rabbits and the space meant for children and people who are not him. even with his shijie, he never claimed this much, an expanse of robes pool with fur and heat and knees in his chest, the murmured mumbling of whatever he isn't quite saying and makes a meaningless hum of sentiment.
you'd hate that man, because that man would cease to be wei wuxian. )
You hate enough of what I am like this, ah? Death this, death that, we deal it in different ways now. Death is so far from quiet. It's so loud, loud like grief, loud like a rockfall. Children the loudest of all.
no subject
( part of him wishes to say, fine. part of him, so tired and bruised, of being called on to perform for what he can, whatever that is in the moment, and with others to whom he is ever not quite enough. lan zhan as part of that, through lack of fault and for acute faults of his own. wei wuxian, for never being content in and of himself. content with himself.
he'd learned a bit of that, traveling alone. little apple tolerated his irritating necessity, but there'd been nothing else but himself on the road those years ago. now here, the way he's made of himself, and here, rabbits and a husband and a son who is and isn't his, but that he cares for, that he wants the better world for, regardless.
he reflects, quietly, on what he could expect out of his husband. and it's this, he knows: the reminder that his path is his path, wherever it turns, and that lan zhan had no answers. that lan zhan's lack of answers had been a failing of bridges between them, just as wei wuxian's lack of reaching out to ask for help had hastened his fall. as with his brother. as with his attempt to resolve so much on his own, when no one person can.
no matter how talented. no matter how quiet they held themselves after, to coax the world into understanding their gentleness held in a bloodied fist. )
You'd hate that man as much as I'd hate to only be him.
( only, he sayss, because he will do those things in various ways, he without a clan, he without a core, he without the attention span to recall one death lord's name from another. thin as his frame leaves him, bruised as his chasing sleep leaves under his eyes, this world as indifferent to him as it is to any one of them.
he shifts, buries himself in lan zhan's lap with the rabbits and the space meant for children and people who are not him. even with his shijie, he never claimed this much, an expanse of robes pool with fur and heat and knees in his chest, the murmured mumbling of whatever he isn't quite saying and makes a meaningless hum of sentiment.
you'd hate that man, because that man would cease to be wei wuxian. )
You hate enough of what I am like this, ah? Death this, death that, we deal it in different ways now. Death is so far from quiet. It's so loud, loud like grief, loud like a rockfall. Children the loudest of all.