[ it is not that. what else could it be, that lingering distress that he feels flickering through lan wangji's palm, smooth and soft against his save for where he is callused from plucking the strings of wangji, elegant and serene. ( he misses the sound of wangji, in that moment; he'd wondered, sometimes, thirteen years ago, what sounds he could have created if he had played simultaneously with chenqing - allied, rather than independent. ) the man before him doesn't lie, he is as honest - as truthful - as the path of the seasons themselves, chilly and remote as the winters, his hands as warm as the blistering sun upon dark-painted wood.
wei wuxian believes him, without fail. there's never been a reason to mistrust lan wangji, to not hear his words and take them as what they are there for: purpose, precision, directness. it's not chenqing that he is made uncomfortable by, so he doesn't know what it is then... perhaps the image of yiling's patriarch reclaiming his deadly, dangerous weapon, even if the connection to his core is muted and off-center. he can still sing and play, and bend minds to his will; the minds of the living, now. ]
You're such a good boy, [ he praises softly, when lan wangji opens his arms so obediently; a far cry from what he would have done in his youth.
so, he steps into them, bare toes curling against the ground as he slides his arms around lan wangji's strong waist and presses his nose into the material of his sleepwear. like this, he's able to calm himself - surrounded by warmth and the dark space he makes against the folds of cloth and the body beneath them ( how strange -- ). ] Thank you.
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wei wuxian believes him, without fail. there's never been a reason to mistrust lan wangji, to not hear his words and take them as what they are there for: purpose, precision, directness. it's not chenqing that he is made uncomfortable by, so he doesn't know what it is then... perhaps the image of yiling's patriarch reclaiming his deadly, dangerous weapon, even if the connection to his core is muted and off-center. he can still sing and play, and bend minds to his will; the minds of the living, now. ]
You're such a good boy, [ he praises softly, when lan wangji opens his arms so obediently; a far cry from what he would have done in his youth.
so, he steps into them, bare toes curling against the ground as he slides his arms around lan wangji's strong waist and presses his nose into the material of his sleepwear. like this, he's able to calm himself - surrounded by warmth and the dark space he makes against the folds of cloth and the body beneath them ( how strange -- ). ] Thank you.