( a scroll, tied with blue ribbon. there are pages within it, seven in all. each an ink drawing of lan xichen;
1. presiding, official, as a younger man, at the time of their entry into the finishing school of gusu from before the war;
2. smiling with the ease of a man grown used to it, holding a tea cup in hand, relaxed but present still in awareness of his position;
3. softer, in a moment suggesting for wei wuxian to go to the cold springs, apology and awareness and a kindness that he bled more red than his heart's blood in his face and eyes;
4. the look of him as he looked upon his brother, the fondness and the pride and the hopes, none pointed, all soft and presumptive;
5. the exhaustion of a man whose foundations had been so shattered he was unaware of his feet being on any kind of ground;
6. lan xichen, on his flue, playing a melody that wei wuxian remembers now, could play if asked, as he remembers so many things that are and are not inconsequential, forgetting others he certainly aligns as inconsequential;
7. sitting, serious and earnest, wine cup in hand, asking for wei wuxian to do the impossible, or to be as he is, and to leave lan zhan out of it.
there is no summation he can offer, only moments pulled out of memory in no order to make sense of them, these facets of one man, a sect leader, a brother, a nephew, a human whose blood-sworn brothers had torn each other apart, and he, unaware of what needed saving. of there being such deficits in the first.
wei wuxian leaves no note. he simply knows his husband sleeps sooner than he does, and with the haunts that stalk the ships, with the events that stir and shake, these are inks of a time and place divided. protected in their oilskin wrapping, tucked under the bench, safe from easy, errant steps, but not all things.
lan xichen, remembered, living man that he remains, by wei wuxian. )
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waiting in their lifeboat nest
1. presiding, official, as a younger man, at the time of their entry into the finishing school of gusu from before the war;
2. smiling with the ease of a man grown used to it, holding a tea cup in hand, relaxed but present still in awareness of his position;
3. softer, in a moment suggesting for wei wuxian to go to the cold springs, apology and awareness and a kindness that he bled more red than his heart's blood in his face and eyes;
4. the look of him as he looked upon his brother, the fondness and the pride and the hopes, none pointed, all soft and presumptive;
5. the exhaustion of a man whose foundations had been so shattered he was unaware of his feet being on any kind of ground;
6. lan xichen, on his flue, playing a melody that wei wuxian remembers now, could play if asked, as he remembers so many things that are and are not inconsequential, forgetting others he certainly aligns as inconsequential;
7. sitting, serious and earnest, wine cup in hand, asking for wei wuxian to do the impossible, or to be as he is, and to leave lan zhan out of it.
there is no summation he can offer, only moments pulled out of memory in no order to make sense of them, these facets of one man, a sect leader, a brother, a nephew, a human whose blood-sworn brothers had torn each other apart, and he, unaware of what needed saving. of there being such deficits in the first.
wei wuxian leaves no note. he simply knows his husband sleeps sooner than he does, and with the haunts that stalk the ships, with the events that stir and shake, these are inks of a time and place divided. protected in their oilskin wrapping, tucked under the bench, safe from easy, errant steps, but not all things.
lan xichen, remembered, living man that he remains, by wei wuxian. )
no subject
( And if, in this world, this lifetime and the next, eyes shuttered, breath bated and heartbeat stormed, he retains nothing of material value —
Hand trembled, he will keep this, oh, he claims it. Every piece of frayed parchment, every ink stroke, every touch and tear of Lan Xichen's likeness.
He is, he sleeps on paper, his brother is loved. )