[ it had started, as these things often do: sudden and expected, unexpected.
it had started as all such things had started, in a volley of words and a volley of sentences— wei wuxian's voice filling all lan wangji's voice does not. and even now, it is no less true. it is no more a falsity, wei wuxian's intentions reaching out to his periphery, asking him to look as he had once had in the pavilion, his dark hair spilt across his shoulder as though the rich of calligraphic ink. ( and had he not known? had wei wuxian never known that lan wangji had always been looking? he had always glanced, when wei wuxian remained both still and quiet. he had always settled his eyes upon him, when wei wuxian himself did not take to peering. and he had never wanted anything more, than to never have purpose to look away again. )
and so, he reads. he reads, as he receives it. like notes passed within the orchid room, both caught and intercepted, lan wangji knows before its opening that there is issue enough.
when we get on our feet, we should all find a place together, wei wuxian writes him. and lan wangji need not truly scan the rest, though he does. he does, before pinpointing the location that wei wuxian broadcasts, sure and resolutely. he knows, as well as lan wangji does. he knows, that there is little lan wangji might do to refuse. there is little he might ever do, his feet finding paths to the location wei wuxian had cast, to rebuff wei wuxian as he had once done in the past— the fleeting tail of youth, a portrait and bichen, pressed out toward the heart that beat within the net of wei wuxian's fingertips ( his own ).
he had taken it, long before lan wangji had say-so.
and he had continued to make it his own, a fragile thing that bruised as though fingers against a guqin's strings. wei wuxian had continued to keep it, unknowing, in the years that lan wangji had followed him, in the years he had searched for him, in the years that had brought to them the dipping of the sun. and he continues to, lan wangji knows, in the balance of cups, in the soft of his shorn hair. wei wuxian keeps it, in the gentle way he tugged upon him. in the rapid way he does now, no matter how wei wuxian once fled from him ( his skin pinkened, his voice soft in acknowledgement ), had turned to lan wangji with a happiness. a happiness, lan wangji wonders ( hopes? ), is reflection of his own.
and yet— the heart that beats against his ribs mutters bright as he drifts through new amsterdam's strange districts. he walks when he can, the bleed of concrete and neon filling him. it is not what he knows, it is not what he has always come to know, but it matters little. he learns, he adapts— he thinks of how best to handle what has been placed before him, until they all go quiet. his questions and suggestions, they dull the moment he opens the door to the noodle bar wei wuxian has chosen. they dull, because this too is familiar. in its own way, the scent of broth pauses him. in its own way, so too does the chatter, low and warm.
and always, it is wei wuxian that catches him. it is wei wuxian, tucked into its corner, that draws him as though a child's hand to kite strings, as though a hunter's hands to arrows. and lan wangji need not say a thing, as he traces his way to him. as he settles ( neat ) beside him, his pale eyes resting upon wei wuxian as though they had never left him in the first place, both considering and soft. ]
Wei Ying, [ he says, despite it. it is a greeting, an inquiry, a request all at once. it is so many things, as wei ying is so many things. he takes a breath, silent, before he continues on. ] Has he accepted?
[ the invitation, he need not elaborate. jiang cheng. he knows that such questions would not be asked, were it him wei wuxian invited only.
( wuxia3: don't go far off )
it had started as all such things had started, in a volley of words and a volley of sentences— wei wuxian's voice filling all lan wangji's voice does not. and even now, it is no less true. it is no more a falsity, wei wuxian's intentions reaching out to his periphery, asking him to look as he had once had in the pavilion, his dark hair spilt across his shoulder as though the rich of calligraphic ink. ( and had he not known? had wei wuxian never known that lan wangji had always been looking? he had always glanced, when wei wuxian remained both still and quiet. he had always settled his eyes upon him, when wei wuxian himself did not take to peering. and he had never wanted anything more, than to never have purpose to look away again. )
and so, he reads. he reads, as he receives it. like notes passed within the orchid room, both caught and intercepted, lan wangji knows before its opening that there is issue enough.
when we get on our feet, we should all find a place together, wei wuxian writes him. and lan wangji need not truly scan the rest, though he does. he does, before pinpointing the location that wei wuxian broadcasts, sure and resolutely. he knows, as well as lan wangji does. he knows, that there is little lan wangji might do to refuse. there is little he might ever do, his feet finding paths to the location wei wuxian had cast, to rebuff wei wuxian as he had once done in the past— the fleeting tail of youth, a portrait and bichen, pressed out toward the heart that beat within the net of wei wuxian's fingertips ( his own ).
he had taken it, long before lan wangji had say-so.
and he had continued to make it his own, a fragile thing that bruised as though fingers against a guqin's strings. wei wuxian had continued to keep it, unknowing, in the years that lan wangji had followed him, in the years he had searched for him, in the years that had brought to them the dipping of the sun. and he continues to, lan wangji knows, in the balance of cups, in the soft of his shorn hair. wei wuxian keeps it, in the gentle way he tugged upon him. in the rapid way he does now, no matter how wei wuxian once fled from him ( his skin pinkened, his voice soft in acknowledgement ), had turned to lan wangji with a happiness. a happiness, lan wangji wonders ( hopes? ), is reflection of his own.
and yet— the heart that beats against his ribs mutters bright as he drifts through new amsterdam's strange districts. he walks when he can, the bleed of concrete and neon filling him. it is not what he knows, it is not what he has always come to know, but it matters little. he learns, he adapts— he thinks of how best to handle what has been placed before him, until they all go quiet. his questions and suggestions, they dull the moment he opens the door to the noodle bar wei wuxian has chosen. they dull, because this too is familiar. in its own way, the scent of broth pauses him. in its own way, so too does the chatter, low and warm.
and always, it is wei wuxian that catches him. it is wei wuxian, tucked into its corner, that draws him as though a child's hand to kite strings, as though a hunter's hands to arrows. and lan wangji need not say a thing, as he traces his way to him. as he settles ( neat ) beside him, his pale eyes resting upon wei wuxian as though they had never left him in the first place, both considering and soft. ]
Wei Ying, [ he says, despite it. it is a greeting, an inquiry, a request all at once. it is so many things, as wei ying is so many things. he takes a breath, silent, before he continues on. ] Has he accepted?
[ the invitation, he need not elaborate. jiang cheng. he knows that such questions would not be asked, were it him wei wuxian invited only.
it is aided too, by three settings. ]