lan wangji remembers remedies, methods, manifestations— they all flit beneath the skin, between the skin, the warmth of wei wuxian’s hand in his sending each possibility scattering like so many frightened fish, silver and soundless. fleeting, perhaps, the disorientation that wei wuxian feels becoming one with his. he is awake, but not yet awake. this place ( new tokyo, new amsterdam ) does not reveal itself to him, does not allow himself to say it by its name. and yet, yet there too comes the prickle of concern, the steadfastness of determination, the unquestioning nature ( with him, he would go anywhere ), the need to protect— each and every shy and shivering thing that catches on its edge ( like lantern light against low winds, flaring and receding in hope it would not be snuffed again ).
but, like grasses that chase heels, lan wangji lets himself be led. he lets himself be led as he was led from the cloud recesses, as he was led from the caves, as he was led through thirteen years on the cusp of wei wuxian’s name ( you are everywhere the chaos is, they’d come to tell him, you are always where the chaos is ).
the hour is late. he knows it as they pass through empty halls, knows it as the time keeps fast within him. like the passage of sun, that too had been built into him. it has been built within him since he can recall it, as much as all rules that he breaks now come to the forefront. and yet, he finds himself without worry of it. he finds himself instead inside a room for looping stairs, squared against the far walls as wei wuxian releases him. in absence of the tug, his fingers curl upon themselves. they wait, as lan wangji waits, for why wei wuxian has called to him. he settles near, just across. upon the same stair, two steps would bring wei wuxian to him as much as it would bring lan wangji to him.
the light of lan wangji’s eyes follow his movements, his mouth dipping into the minutest of frowns. he sees the way wei wuxian shivers, draws near to himself. part of lan wangji thinks to offer his coat, but that had been left in the dormitory. he thinks to move closer, but the thought for is discarded. instead, he resolves to do what he can. but, what matters now is what troubles him. wei wuxian.
what troubles him is— ]
[ where is it, he'd asked. all through the cloud recesses. all through each room, he'd searched for it. he'd torn through each trunk, each chest. he'd pried into each storage shed, his brother said, with that body of his back then. back then, the white of his robes speckled with red. he'd come back from the burial mounds, a child in his arms and an empty jars in his palms. he'd come back and had not rested until he could find some scrap of him, some scrap of anything at all that reminded lan wangji of him.
and yet, he'd never found chenqing.
he'd never found it. and now, it is in wei wuxian's hands.
he holds it out for lan wangji to examine.
lan wangji takes a breath. he takes a breath and his brows knit, his eyes flitting from chenqing and up again. up to wei wuxian, the shadows that rest behind them conflicted and puzzled, sharp and pained. he would know it anywhere, the shape of it. he would know the color, the way it rests. and yet, that too fades. and what is left is focus upon what it is that remains. what is left is this: the desire to understand, to assist, to listen and to hear.
his lips move, for a moment, before the words are there. they pass between them, low as they are always. the acoustics in this place are in part muffled, a blessing in disguise. ]
I have been told of these, [ he starts. a boy had mentioned it to him. a boy near the age of lan sizhui. his his eyes flicker, bring down the sweep of darker lashes, showing presence of the thoughts that stir just beneath. ] But, not of their results.
[ he continues, a touch quieter than before. his mouth tugs downward, but does not give more. ] Are you the only?
[ the only one, it should be said, to receive such things as this. ]
no subject
lan wangji remembers remedies, methods, manifestations— they all flit beneath the skin, between the skin, the warmth of wei wuxian’s hand in his sending each possibility scattering like so many frightened fish, silver and soundless. fleeting, perhaps, the disorientation that wei wuxian feels becoming one with his. he is awake, but not yet awake. this place ( new tokyo, new amsterdam ) does not reveal itself to him, does not allow himself to say it by its name. and yet, yet there too comes the prickle of concern, the steadfastness of determination, the unquestioning nature ( with him, he would go anywhere ), the need to protect— each and every shy and shivering thing that catches on its edge ( like lantern light against low winds, flaring and receding in hope it would not be snuffed again ).
but, like grasses that chase heels, lan wangji lets himself be led. he lets himself be led as he was led from the cloud recesses, as he was led from the caves, as he was led through thirteen years on the cusp of wei wuxian’s name ( you are everywhere the chaos is, they’d come to tell him, you are always where the chaos is ).
the hour is late. he knows it as they pass through empty halls, knows it as the time keeps fast within him. like the passage of sun, that too had been built into him. it has been built within him since he can recall it, as much as all rules that he breaks now come to the forefront. and yet, he finds himself without worry of it. he finds himself instead inside a room for looping stairs, squared against the far walls as wei wuxian releases him. in absence of the tug, his fingers curl upon themselves. they wait, as lan wangji waits, for why wei wuxian has called to him. he settles near, just across. upon the same stair, two steps would bring wei wuxian to him as much as it would bring lan wangji to him.
the light of lan wangji’s eyes follow his movements, his mouth dipping into the minutest of frowns. he sees the way wei wuxian shivers, draws near to himself. part of lan wangji thinks to offer his coat, but that had been left in the dormitory. he thinks to move closer, but the thought for is discarded. instead, he resolves to do what he can. but, what matters now is what troubles him. wei wuxian.
what troubles him is— ]
[ where is it, he'd asked. all through the cloud recesses. all through each room, he'd searched for it. he'd torn through each trunk, each chest. he'd pried into each storage shed, his brother said, with that body of his back then. back then, the white of his robes speckled with red. he'd come back from the burial mounds, a child in his arms and an empty jars in his palms. he'd come back and had not rested until he could find some scrap of him, some scrap of anything at all that reminded lan wangji of him.
and yet, he'd never found chenqing.
he'd never found it. and now, it is in wei wuxian's hands.
he holds it out for lan wangji to examine.
lan wangji takes a breath. he takes a breath and his brows knit, his eyes flitting from chenqing and up again. up to wei wuxian, the shadows that rest behind them conflicted and puzzled, sharp and pained. he would know it anywhere, the shape of it. he would know the color, the way it rests. and yet, that too fades. and what is left is focus upon what it is that remains. what is left is this: the desire to understand, to assist, to listen and to hear.
his lips move, for a moment, before the words are there. they pass between them, low as they are always. the acoustics in this place are in part muffled, a blessing in disguise. ]
I have been told of these, [ he starts. a boy had mentioned it to him. a boy near the age of lan sizhui. his his eyes flicker, bring down the sweep of darker lashes, showing presence of the thoughts that stir just beneath. ] But, not of their results.
[ he continues, a touch quieter than before. his mouth tugs downward, but does not give more. ] Are you the only?
[ the only one, it should be said, to receive such things as this. ]