[ He is animal in this, the sterile, muted, manic quality of his gaze chasing Wei Ying's finger, singeing Wangji's mouth, penciling his own, taste of blood, his blood on another's man tongue — and he was born second only to Zewu-Jun, raised by his hand, bolstered by a sect.
He is no lamb to serve as sacrifice, to watch the wolf and know the spike bolts of his denture, and hear the hollow crackle of these fangs on his bone, suckling his marrow. He will not yield, for it is pretty to spill red and expire with noble splendor, in timid paintings.
Wangji's teeth grind first, his jaw aches in points of tension. ]
First shameless, then coy. Now coward.
[ Steps, as in sword dance: first the plunge, then the recoil, the fall back. Now, the wander. Wei Ying, fixing his balance between tugs of futile gravity, gripped by hands of guilt that thieve and hinder.
And in his grasp, Lan Wangji, the toy he will not concede or crush or consider, only coax, from roll to collapse, to empty rise, to wonder — and is Wangji to blame in this, his inertia? Uncle named the sin of it, hubris, latticed his back raw, but made of him a man repenting. Now, plaything, he simulates: catches one of the precious, voluptuously fleshed fruit, the false loquat that spins obediently on the dust-licked span of a sharp table.
His thumb dances the edge, teases the rich skin, sinks until it too bleeds, wet-golden. Lethargic, Lan Wangji's waxing gaze on Wei Ying's face stabs. ]
Decide the pledges you want.
[ And live and breathe and be as a fortress wall, stood by them. Decide: to want a resurrection. Name the indulgence, salute it for its toll. Decide: to surrender that right in recognition of another man's dignity, but speak not of grief and choice flatteries, after. Decide: to have a companion true to himself, or wish him shaped gem-like, cut to the perfection of a choice ring piece.
Decide: nothing, as is Wei Ying's way, whimsy on a rooftop, until one wrongful step, the trick of breeze, and the maws of the abyss unhinge open beneath him. Until the fall is but foregone conclusion. ]
You had an errand. [ Limpid, with the wave of a hand — the chief cultivator's flourish, sending an envoy with the parting rose light of a sunset alive in its last brushstrokes. ] I dismiss you.
( Decide: nothing, as a man who has decided and stood with conviction at every decision, to have his legs cut out from under him again and again. Who has guilts and griefs that are barely two handfuls of months dulled, and here, his time old means to address them, by shoving them off, by being fine, by being whatever it is people need him to be.
The juice of the date down Lan Zhan's hand, and he feels an intense, sudden thirst, and he laughs with it, a short, dark bark of laughter, that turns tired, a note too high. Cups his hands, turns, and makes his parting way out the window with the floating words left behind: )
As you wish.
( Wishing has made neither of them the people they are in flesh and bone. Wishing has carved from both of them their marrow, the cavities of their chests, and figuring out who it is they see, what it is they are, well. In that, he hopes Lan Zhan has the advantage.
Wei Wuxian disappears into the stretching bleedover of day into night, and he is but light steps and an empty basket and a stomach left levels below where he walks, ghost of the rooftops, to return and keep his appointment with a woman who is half of everything in politics he finds boring, and half of what he finds bearable, and for a quarter of the same reasons.
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He is no lamb to serve as sacrifice, to watch the wolf and know the spike bolts of his denture, and hear the hollow crackle of these fangs on his bone, suckling his marrow. He will not yield, for it is pretty to spill red and expire with noble splendor, in timid paintings.
Wangji's teeth grind first, his jaw aches in points of tension. ]
First shameless, then coy. Now coward.
[ Steps, as in sword dance: first the plunge, then the recoil, the fall back. Now, the wander. Wei Ying, fixing his balance between tugs of futile gravity, gripped by hands of guilt that thieve and hinder.
And in his grasp, Lan Wangji, the toy he will not concede or crush or consider, only coax, from roll to collapse, to empty rise, to wonder — and is Wangji to blame in this, his inertia? Uncle named the sin of it, hubris, latticed his back raw, but made of him a man repenting. Now, plaything, he simulates: catches one of the precious, voluptuously fleshed fruit, the false loquat that spins obediently on the dust-licked span of a sharp table.
His thumb dances the edge, teases the rich skin, sinks until it too bleeds, wet-golden. Lethargic, Lan Wangji's waxing gaze on Wei Ying's face stabs. ]
Decide the pledges you want.
[ And live and breathe and be as a fortress wall, stood by them. Decide: to want a resurrection. Name the indulgence, salute it for its toll. Decide: to surrender that right in recognition of another man's dignity, but speak not of grief and choice flatteries, after. Decide: to have a companion true to himself, or wish him shaped gem-like, cut to the perfection of a choice ring piece.
Decide: nothing, as is Wei Ying's way, whimsy on a rooftop, until one wrongful step, the trick of breeze, and the maws of the abyss unhinge open beneath him. Until the fall is but foregone conclusion. ]
You had an errand. [ Limpid, with the wave of a hand — the chief cultivator's flourish, sending an envoy with the parting rose light of a sunset alive in its last brushstrokes. ] I dismiss you.
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The juice of the date down Lan Zhan's hand, and he feels an intense, sudden thirst, and he laughs with it, a short, dark bark of laughter, that turns tired, a note too high. Cups his hands, turns, and makes his parting way out the window with the floating words left behind: )
As you wish.
( Wishing has made neither of them the people they are in flesh and bone. Wishing has carved from both of them their marrow, the cavities of their chests, and figuring out who it is they see, what it is they are, well. In that, he hopes Lan Zhan has the advantage.
Wei Wuxian disappears into the stretching bleedover of day into night, and he is but light steps and an empty basket and a stomach left levels below where he walks, ghost of the rooftops, to return and keep his appointment with a woman who is half of everything in politics he finds boring, and half of what he finds bearable, and for a quarter of the same reasons.
Shadows take him. Those, at least, he knows. )