( 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. it’s like a compulsion, almost, wei wuxian’s insistence on glorifying him. always so genuinely, so blindly, his trust unshaken. can’t 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 it’s no wonder he’s so afraid of heights now.
his gaze drops. warmth dissipates around his wrist, and it’s where he looks, nails digging into his palm. ) Wei Ying. ( low. hoarse. a plea or a warning--it’s hard to tell. it sounds like anger. it isn’t, not fully. it’s 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. it’s too cryptic, or perhaps not cryptic enough. he doesn’t want flowers, and he’s so damn tired. )
Speak your mind. ( maybe he’s angry, too, underneath all that trust. at him. maybe he should be.
[ Years have passed since he's heard his name in that tone, in that voice, a sense memory so profound that it blindsides him with its intensity. He's stopped on the road before he even understands that he needs to and Little Apple continues without him, content to stray to the sweeter grasses ahead.
He knows this feeling. Knows it, as it crawls up the nape of his neck, creeps over his scalp, closes in around his shoulders. His fingers itch, grasping at nothing at his sides, and they curl into his palms as he turns, caught. Maybe he should have known better, maybe he should have read between the lines. His stomach lurches as the prickle of anxious fear spreads outward and even the laugh he forces just hangs between them, blatant and obtuse. He knows better. He should.
Speak your mind, but to what end? Which wrong has he caused? Which line has he crossed? Has he offended? Or is it something else, something deeper, something that might pin him to his secrets and flay them open one by one? ]
Lan Zhan, [ he tries, and the way Lan Wangji gleams in the dark is almost punishment now, something borderline celestial and out of reach. A taunt. He doesn't even bother trying to make a joke out of it. ] You'll have to forgive this one, he's used to being told otherwise. What am I speaking to?
( a twitch, there, just between his brows. yet again they stand together on the edge of a precipice, and lan wangji wavers. l’appel du vide. the call of the void, and his heart calls back, deafened by its own beats. wei wuxian’s laughter is hollower than it has any right to be, and the solid ground beneath lan wangji’s feet fractures, melts, sinks.
he doesn’t do impulsive. all of him, shackled by restraints as resilient as his resolve, hardened by years of harsh discipline, bleak and barren. years of drought. it’s what happens, when you’ve been deprived your entire life. you starve, and lan wangji wants. but above all, he grieves, and the words he spoke too fast now resound in the back of his mind; he stares a little agape, a little frightened, and something blooms in the middle of his chest, something impossibly soft that rises higher and wets the corners of his eyes. )
Wei Ying. ( it’s there in his voice, too, but what is there to say now, and what is there to ask. wei wuxian doesn’t owe anyone anything. he doesn’t even owe him punishment, and lan wangji realizes, not without a sting, that it’s what he’s waiting for. but it’s selfish. it’s deserved, but what is punishment, if not a chance for one’s pain to alleviate? lan wangji’s in no position to demand anything from him. not the mysterious depths of his heart, and not his anger, either.
so his mouth closes, lips slightly trembling. he’s on the verge of apologizing--for nothing in particular, for everything--when lil’ apple brays and trots farther away, drawing his attention. for one merciful moment, he regains some semblance of composure as his gaze follows the beast, a tip of his chin in its direction. ) Your steed. ( is sort of running away, maybe. )
[ He doesn't bother to spare his donkey a glance--months enough on the road at this point and he knows roughly how far it's willing to stray before it wanders back. He's the one with the apples, after all, and in the balance of what's important here, Lan Wangji tips the scales. It would be arrogant to call himself knowledgeable in the expressions that break the surface of that calm, reserved pool, but he's spent time enough staring, time enough studying what it takes to eke out something new that he sees it now.
This is new. Or--as he allows himself a hesitant breath and casts back for what he knows of Lan Wangji--it's very, very old. ]
Lan Zhan. [ Soft, little more than a whisper. He cradles the sound in his mouth like it's not just a name, but something to treasure, a gift granted years ago he's not willing to lose. And maybe he should lose it, maybe he should give up the privilege he's been granted because he's caused enough hurt over the years (the years and years and years) but he's a coward all the more here, too, because he doesn't want to let it go. Selfish, again, fingers desperately digging into whatever hold he still has here, because any Lan Zhan is better than no Lan Zhan and he'll temper what needs tempering but.
But.
Something is splintering. He doesn't know what. He can feel it as he dares a step closer toward Lan Wangji and a thousand voices call him a fool for not retreating. He should. He should he should he should-- everything is a mess and he's lost grip on what's real and what's not outside of how very fragile Lan Wangji has turned, a paper lantern about to light. His question is just as tremulous, a crossroads of understanding, reverence, and fear, hesitant even as the words trip out past his tongue. ] Lan Zhan. You feel so very much, don't you?
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his gaze drops. warmth dissipates around his wrist, and it’s where he looks, nails digging into his palm. ) Wei Ying. ( low. hoarse. a plea or a warning--it’s hard to tell. it sounds like anger. it isn’t, not fully. it’s 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. it’s too cryptic, or perhaps not cryptic enough. he doesn’t want flowers, and he’s so damn tired. )
Speak your mind. ( maybe he’s angry, too, underneath all that trust. at him. maybe he should be.
maybe lan wangji wants him to be. )
no subject
He knows this feeling. Knows it, as it crawls up the nape of his neck, creeps over his scalp, closes in around his shoulders. His fingers itch, grasping at nothing at his sides, and they curl into his palms as he turns, caught. Maybe he should have known better, maybe he should have read between the lines. His stomach lurches as the prickle of anxious fear spreads outward and even the laugh he forces just hangs between them, blatant and obtuse. He knows better. He should.
Speak your mind, but to what end? Which wrong has he caused? Which line has he crossed? Has he offended? Or is it something else, something deeper, something that might pin him to his secrets and flay them open one by one? ]
Lan Zhan, [ he tries, and the way Lan Wangji gleams in the dark is almost punishment now, something borderline celestial and out of reach. A taunt. He doesn't even bother trying to make a joke out of it. ] You'll have to forgive this one, he's used to being told otherwise. What am I speaking to?
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he doesn’t do impulsive. all of him, shackled by restraints as resilient as his resolve, hardened by years of harsh discipline, bleak and barren. years of drought. it’s what happens, when you’ve been deprived your entire life. you starve, and lan wangji wants. but above all, he grieves, and the words he spoke too fast now resound in the back of his mind; he stares a little agape, a little frightened, and something blooms in the middle of his chest, something impossibly soft that rises higher and wets the corners of his eyes. )
Wei Ying. ( it’s there in his voice, too, but what is there to say now, and what is there to ask. wei wuxian doesn’t owe anyone anything. he doesn’t even owe him punishment, and lan wangji realizes, not without a sting, that it’s what he’s waiting for. but it’s selfish. it’s deserved, but what is punishment, if not a chance for one’s pain to alleviate? lan wangji’s in no position to demand anything from him. not the mysterious depths of his heart, and not his anger, either.
so his mouth closes, lips slightly trembling. he’s on the verge of apologizing--for nothing in particular, for everything--when lil’ apple brays and trots farther away, drawing his attention. for one merciful moment, he regains some semblance of composure as his gaze follows the beast, a tip of his chin in its direction. ) Your steed. ( is sort of running away, maybe. )
no subject
This is new. Or--as he allows himself a hesitant breath and casts back for what he knows of Lan Wangji--it's very, very old. ]
Lan Zhan. [ Soft, little more than a whisper. He cradles the sound in his mouth like it's not just a name, but something to treasure, a gift granted years ago he's not willing to lose. And maybe he should lose it, maybe he should give up the privilege he's been granted because he's caused enough hurt over the years (the years and years and years) but he's a coward all the more here, too, because he doesn't want to let it go. Selfish, again, fingers desperately digging into whatever hold he still has here, because any Lan Zhan is better than no Lan Zhan and he'll temper what needs tempering but.
But.
Something is splintering. He doesn't know what. He can feel it as he dares a step closer toward Lan Wangji and a thousand voices call him a fool for not retreating. He should. He should he should he should-- everything is a mess and he's lost grip on what's real and what's not outside of how very fragile Lan Wangji has turned, a paper lantern about to light. His question is just as tremulous, a crossroads of understanding, reverence, and fear, hesitant even as the words trip out past his tongue. ] Lan Zhan. You feel so very much, don't you?