[ mister dark-and-rotted is not even close to being the type to do another's bidding, it seems.
more the kind to enjoy watching someone fall to the ground, maybe make a show of the blood spilled on the pavement from a busted nose or a split head or admire the gravel and debris that slices palms and fingertips as hands are thrown out to break one's fall. wei wuxian does none of those things, because he is not a fool who places his entire wellbeing into the hands of another, even those he does not connect with ( and feel the decay, the rot, the hidden things -- ). so, as ardyn steps back to let him drop to the ground, he twists at the hips. a practiced, athletic gesture that's more akin to muscle memory than not. it lets him plant his toes onto the ground before the rest of him, waist curling to the side as one of his hands snags on the front of the man's shirt. avoiding skin, avoiding that mire inside of him that feels like --
it feels like an old home, and an old life.
he catches himself on ardyn's shirt and his graceful toes, swinging his other arm forward to hook so easily around the man's shoulders. the microphone is tossed into the crowd, several bodies reaching to catch it. it's an effective distraction for a throng of festival-goers, as he leans in with a curled smile and a curious tone and says: ] You did ask me, mister, what it was I wanted from you. Such a wicked man, teasing a poor soul like me with his time and attention, then whisking it away when I yearn for it the most - what a beast, hiding behind that handsome face. You can still make it up to me, don't worry.
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more the kind to enjoy watching someone fall to the ground, maybe make a show of the blood spilled on the pavement from a busted nose or a split head or admire the gravel and debris that slices palms and fingertips as hands are thrown out to break one's fall. wei wuxian does none of those things, because he is not a fool who places his entire wellbeing into the hands of another, even those he does not connect with ( and feel the decay, the rot, the hidden things -- ). so, as ardyn steps back to let him drop to the ground, he twists at the hips. a practiced, athletic gesture that's more akin to muscle memory than not. it lets him plant his toes onto the ground before the rest of him, waist curling to the side as one of his hands snags on the front of the man's shirt. avoiding skin, avoiding that mire inside of him that feels like --
it feels like an old home, and an old life.
he catches himself on ardyn's shirt and his graceful toes, swinging his other arm forward to hook so easily around the man's shoulders. the microphone is tossed into the crowd, several bodies reaching to catch it. it's an effective distraction for a throng of festival-goers, as he leans in with a curled smile and a curious tone and says: ] You did ask me, mister, what it was I wanted from you. Such a wicked man, teasing a poor soul like me with his time and attention, then whisking it away when I yearn for it the most - what a beast, hiding behind that handsome face. You can still make it up to me, don't worry.