( Like an itch, like a scab. It wants unstitching. The rabid, eviscerating attention of Lan Wangji's greedy hands. There is a chasm in him, air cloying. He cannot breathe for himself, lungs strained, beat of his jugular's pulse staggered.
He thinks, I can bear this.
Thinks, He'll claw my heart out.
Hardship is a sequence of beads, tolerable in increments. Slip one at a time, between your fingertips. Let it go. Let it flow. You need only survive the one now, I can bear this —
— leans, hand guts the weed of Wei Ying's hair to wrench him up, crashes their mouths together. Tectonic collision, the kiss lands asymmetrical. Their lips, first, do not fit. He forces the position. It stings, rearranging Wei Ying as if he were doll-like, ragged, tender, foreign — an entity that is barely on the cusp of extension to Lan Wangji, that can still afford a distant, dissonant, separate existence. Asynchrony is only the body recognising that which is not itself. Wei Ying. Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.
He bites his husband's mouth, red of it a foregone conclusion. )
Piss off.
( Taunting, teasing, riling Lan Wangji. What was it Emilia said? Whitening his hair. Constantly speaking only to be heard, to irritate, to spark flame or action. Lan Wangji's hand wrestles free, forcibly, with hope of dropping Wei Ying down. Let him be unmoored, too.
After, he feels worn out, eroded. The extremities of his flesh cold, draft of the stairwell backing its home in him. A rabbit slips by his hip, to huddle, to warm him. )
In this, you are as a woman to me. ( No. Cut breath, stilted. The quiet implications of subjugation that gender designations present in the sects, absent here. ) There are mysteries of you I shall never understand.
( For want of different make, foreign natures. The theory of childbearing — the living, the dead — is simple. The emotional resonance overwhelms. )
Unless you speak them. ( Share, not only the burden, but the banalities. The smallest parts of Wei Ying, asked not to incriminate, but to glean. )
no subject
( Like an itch, like a scab. It wants unstitching. The rabid, eviscerating attention of Lan Wangji's greedy hands. There is a chasm in him, air cloying. He cannot breathe for himself, lungs strained, beat of his jugular's pulse staggered.
He thinks, I can bear this.
Thinks, He'll claw my heart out.
Hardship is a sequence of beads, tolerable in increments. Slip one at a time, between your fingertips. Let it go. Let it flow. You need only survive the one now, I can bear this —
— leans, hand guts the weed of Wei Ying's hair to wrench him up, crashes their mouths together. Tectonic collision, the kiss lands asymmetrical. Their lips, first, do not fit. He forces the position. It stings, rearranging Wei Ying as if he were doll-like, ragged, tender, foreign — an entity that is barely on the cusp of extension to Lan Wangji, that can still afford a distant, dissonant, separate existence. Asynchrony is only the body recognising that which is not itself. Wei Ying. Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.
He bites his husband's mouth, red of it a foregone conclusion. )
Piss off.
( Taunting, teasing, riling Lan Wangji. What was it Emilia said? Whitening his hair. Constantly speaking only to be heard, to irritate, to spark flame or action. Lan Wangji's hand wrestles free, forcibly, with hope of dropping Wei Ying down. Let him be unmoored, too.
After, he feels worn out, eroded. The extremities of his flesh cold, draft of the stairwell backing its home in him. A rabbit slips by his hip, to huddle, to warm him. )
In this, you are as a woman to me. ( No. Cut breath, stilted. The quiet implications of subjugation that gender designations present in the sects, absent here. ) There are mysteries of you I shall never understand.
( For want of different make, foreign natures. The theory of childbearing — the living, the dead — is simple. The emotional resonance overwhelms. )
Unless you speak them. ( Share, not only the burden, but the banalities. The smallest parts of Wei Ying, asked not to incriminate, but to glean. )