were it a moment of sobriety, were it a moment a clarity— were it anything, but this? were it them, seated beside the fire, their hands laid upon their respective knees and their eyes cast toward the pit? perhaps, perhaps it would have been. perhaps it would have been so that they were too old, that they were too conformed and confined and molded to roles both precise and pristine and expected. perhaps it would been that lan wangji would have have agree, his glass-like eyes revealing both nothing and everything. but, here is the lan wangji that jiang cheng has reaped: childish, petulant, every bit as troubling as hands that steal from ponds the ever riper pods— fingers peeling seeds from their darker caches, never theirs to taste so sweet and sudden to begin with.
it might have been that jiang cheng would have never felt the raw edges of lan wangji's palms, would have never felt him much at all, his emotions and memories a noiseless shoal that crowd beneath the surface. it might have been that jiang cheng would have never learned that there was much else to lan wangji at all, the fog about his form a thing pressed close to dissipating. it might have been that lan wangji would have glanced along this bitterness, would not have spotted beneath the earth and the soil and loam the fingerlings of something green and pale and light-less. and still, that is a lie too. in rational thought, lan wangji had always seen it. he had always seen it, but would not cross. he would not place his feet upon the darkened boards, the rot of these recollections, to reach the other end. he would not choose to dip his hands into the swells of vulnerability, see beyond the piers painted little more than by the words of wei wuxian.
but, here they are docked. and here, lan wangji shakes his head ( slight, so slight, as though balancing in a rowing boat ). here, he ignores the way that jiang cheng digs in too hard and ignores the reprimand ( gentle, even so ). he ignores it because he can, his eyes flitting away from the man before him and toward the rounded body he'd made with the snow to his left.
and so, while jiang cheng works, so too does he. he lets him believe he is occupied with that task, with jiang cheng's task, lan wangji's opposing hand not quite as sly as it could be as its fingers amble among the scrap littered across grey stone floors.
not old, is what is underneath the way that lan wangji pretends that such words have not touched him. play.
and it is insistent as, no matter its rejection, lan wangji takes a breath and nudges through the impending ache that spreads from his temples and inward again ( a headache? something, perhaps ). ]
Jiang Wanyin.
[ and whatever it is he has picked up with his freshly warmed hand is being placed beside jiang cheng instead.
a rabbit, down to its smallest details. its little face, if jiang cheng looks, is set into the smallest frown, its ears tipped up and alert despite it.
no subject
were it a moment of sobriety, were it a moment a clarity— were it anything, but this? were it them, seated beside the fire, their hands laid upon their respective knees and their eyes cast toward the pit? perhaps, perhaps it would have been. perhaps it would have been so that they were too old, that they were too conformed and confined and molded to roles both precise and pristine and expected. perhaps it would been that lan wangji would have have agree, his glass-like eyes revealing both nothing and everything. but, here is the lan wangji that jiang cheng has reaped: childish, petulant, every bit as troubling as hands that steal from ponds the ever riper pods— fingers peeling seeds from their darker caches, never theirs to taste so sweet and sudden to begin with.
it might have been that jiang cheng would have never felt the raw edges of lan wangji's palms, would have never felt him much at all, his emotions and memories a noiseless shoal that crowd beneath the surface. it might have been that jiang cheng would have never learned that there was much else to lan wangji at all, the fog about his form a thing pressed close to dissipating. it might have been that lan wangji would have glanced along this bitterness, would not have spotted beneath the earth and the soil and loam the fingerlings of something green and pale and light-less. and still, that is a lie too. in rational thought, lan wangji had always seen it. he had always seen it, but would not cross. he would not place his feet upon the darkened boards, the rot of these recollections, to reach the other end. he would not choose to dip his hands into the swells of vulnerability, see beyond the piers painted little more than by the words of wei wuxian.
but, here they are docked. and here, lan wangji shakes his head ( slight, so slight, as though balancing in a rowing boat ). here, he ignores the way that jiang cheng digs in too hard and ignores the reprimand ( gentle, even so ). he ignores it because he can, his eyes flitting away from the man before him and toward the rounded body he'd made with the snow to his left.
and so, while jiang cheng works, so too does he. he lets him believe he is occupied with that task, with jiang cheng's task, lan wangji's opposing hand not quite as sly as it could be as its fingers amble among the scrap littered across grey stone floors.
not old, is what is underneath the way that lan wangji pretends that such words have not touched him. play.
and it is insistent as, no matter its rejection, lan wangji takes a breath and nudges through the impending ache that spreads from his temples and inward again ( a headache? something, perhaps ). ]
Jiang Wanyin.
[ and whatever it is he has picked up with his freshly warmed hand is being placed beside jiang cheng instead.
a rabbit, down to its smallest details. its little face, if jiang cheng looks, is set into the smallest frown, its ears tipped up and alert despite it.
it looks as though lan wangji has decided. ]