( He shifts forward, only stumbling for the ache of it, and the ease of which he smiles when Lan Zhan coaxes hair by hair away from his face. There's no need to, nothing demands this, and because of that he wishes to lean closer, to still, to bask in a moment of inconsequence that carries his heart, buoyant, unexpected. )
I will.
( Under rabbits, even if he has to draw them himself, or find those with the skill of hands to show him how to craft them from rags, or find the delicate beauty of cloth dolls in their cotton softness to present to his son, their son, the one Lan Zhan claims. To bring joy to him, for sheer absurdity, because that is laughter delivered, and laughter Wei Wuxian knows how to coax from most mouths, let alone the generous one of Lan Sizhui. A-Yuan. Wen Yuan.
The failures of either as guardians, he can only know his own. Not suspect beyond his own understanding of the meaning of those scars across his husband's back, the ways a clan cares for its own, what parenting is and isn't in his eyes, his understanding. What it matters, in this time, where the sins of the parents are what the children forgive, not what they're burdened by.
Lethe behind them, steps before them, and he smiles, simmering into something not quite content, but easier than he had been, the distress compartmentalised and held for viewing later, when he might act. )
If you're not swift, I might bury you in their fluffy grace too!
( That's not a might. That's a promise, mischief acknowledged. )
( The dragon, despondent. His husband, mind merrily at play. The foreground of the customs points — crowded, sullied, slow. Tanned leathers and slate and tinny voices, and all earth, absent shine.
He suspects, even against a deeper, stronger sky, Wei Ying would have shone bright. Does not speak the words, does not presume. There is affection, and then there is arrogance, and here in the slippery territory of fawning over the man who has claimed the tatters of your heart and promises to stitch them whole lies the risk. )
Mark your words.
( He can be this, smile easily sketched, hidden when they pass under rusted eaves and lattices of pipework, when they're suffocating for the dozens of people around them, when Wei Ying's — their — dragon attempts but fails to create them a sheltered distance from the nearest man.
They'll head to whatever place this wretched world has named their 'home,' and he will pretend not to anticipate the disaster of Wei Ying's next ambitious attempt to locate, lure, tame and weaponise an army of beautiful, well-fattened, kindly rabbits. Pretend, but never succeed. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
( He shifts forward, only stumbling for the ache of it, and the ease of which he smiles when Lan Zhan coaxes hair by hair away from his face. There's no need to, nothing demands this, and because of that he wishes to lean closer, to still, to bask in a moment of inconsequence that carries his heart, buoyant, unexpected. )
I will.
( Under rabbits, even if he has to draw them himself, or find those with the skill of hands to show him how to craft them from rags, or find the delicate beauty of cloth dolls in their cotton softness to present to his son, their son, the one Lan Zhan claims. To bring joy to him, for sheer absurdity, because that is laughter delivered, and laughter Wei Wuxian knows how to coax from most mouths, let alone the generous one of Lan Sizhui. A-Yuan. Wen Yuan.
The failures of either as guardians, he can only know his own. Not suspect beyond his own understanding of the meaning of those scars across his husband's back, the ways a clan cares for its own, what parenting is and isn't in his eyes, his understanding. What it matters, in this time, where the sins of the parents are what the children forgive, not what they're burdened by.
Lethe behind them, steps before them, and he smiles, simmering into something not quite content, but easier than he had been, the distress compartmentalised and held for viewing later, when he might act. )
If you're not swift, I might bury you in their fluffy grace too!
( That's not a might. That's a promise, mischief acknowledged. )
no subject
( The dragon, despondent. His husband, mind merrily at play. The foreground of the customs points — crowded, sullied, slow. Tanned leathers and slate and tinny voices, and all earth, absent shine.
He suspects, even against a deeper, stronger sky, Wei Ying would have shone bright. Does not speak the words, does not presume. There is affection, and then there is arrogance, and here in the slippery territory of fawning over the man who has claimed the tatters of your heart and promises to stitch them whole lies the risk. )
Mark your words.
( He can be this, smile easily sketched, hidden when they pass under rusted eaves and lattices of pipework, when they're suffocating for the dozens of people around them, when Wei Ying's — their — dragon attempts but fails to create them a sheltered distance from the nearest man.
They'll head to whatever place this wretched world has named their 'home,' and he will pretend not to anticipate the disaster of Wei Ying's next ambitious attempt to locate, lure, tame and weaponise an army of beautiful, well-fattened, kindly rabbits. Pretend, but never succeed. )