( something cracks. a fissure already worn by time, just wide enough to make him stagger on his feet. underneath his robes, it remains unseen. but he feels it. he can practically taste it, bitter in the back of his throat, and a wave of exhaustion washes over him. itโs like a compulsion, almost, wei wuxianโs insistence on glorifying him. always so genuinely, so blindly, his trust unshaken. canโt he see the blood on his hands? the dirt. he wears white for a reason, even now, and he knows his own colors. the same ones everyone else refuses to acknowledge. hanguang-jun. always on a pedestal, and itโs no wonder heโs so afraid of heights now.
his gaze drops. warmth dissipates around his wrist, and itโs where he looks, nails digging into his palm. ) Wei Ying. ( low. hoarse. a plea or a warning--itโs hard to tell. it sounds like anger. it isnโt, not fully. itโs a chasm of old hurts and lingering resentment, but none of it is directed at him.
he breathes, a long sigh. his vision blurs, just slightly in his periphery. he glances up, slowly. itโs too cryptic, or perhaps not cryptic enough. he doesnโt want flowers, and heโs so damn tired. )
Speak your mind. ( maybe heโs angry, too, underneath all that trust. at him. maybe he should be.
no subject
his gaze drops. warmth dissipates around his wrist, and itโs where he looks, nails digging into his palm. ) Wei Ying. ( low. hoarse. a plea or a warning--itโs hard to tell. it sounds like anger. it isnโt, not fully. itโs a chasm of old hurts and lingering resentment, but none of it is directed at him.
he breathes, a long sigh. his vision blurs, just slightly in his periphery. he glances up, slowly. itโs too cryptic, or perhaps not cryptic enough. he doesnโt want flowers, and heโs so damn tired. )
Speak your mind. ( maybe heโs angry, too, underneath all that trust. at him. maybe he should be.
maybe lan wangji wants him to be. )