[ he believes it not at all peculiar, wei wuxian's clear thinking.
lan wangji has seen him, wei wuxian. lan wangji has seen him, with the disciples that call themselves of gusulan. he has seen wei wuxian with lan sizhui, his young face alight with studious curiosity. bright and pensive— ever-reaching, he knows that wei wuxian too will foster within the three these same qualities. he knows, because lan wangji has known his own. he knows, because lan sizhui is theirs. and still, it is a truth he keeps within his breast. it is a truth that he holds within his fingers, with all the carefulness of being. and it is a truth that too will be wei wuxian's own, eventually. eventually, when the time sits still and properly.
eventually.
and so, that wei wuxian expounds upon what it is that lan wangji himself believes, it does not rest as strange. to work hard upon one's studies requires one has room to breathe. it requires that one too has room to rest, to find within themselves their pockets of relief. it requires access, to all who might hold answers to what it is they're seeking. wei wuxian, beyond his whimsy, is precisely whom lan wangji remembers him to be: tenacious and devoted, a gentle heart despite impossibility. he is a warm thing, wei wuxian, that lan wangji watches even when it is not himself that wei wuxian sees. even if it may not be. and it is an ache that he leaves to overgrow about the ribs, to wilt in its own jealousy. it is an ache that he does allow to bask, contenting himself in silence to what is shed upon him, regardless of its meaning.
then we will try, is what it is he wishes to say. he will try, because he wishes to as well. he wants to try for their juniors, wei wuxian had told him. and so, how could he not? for them, for him. little, it is always so very little, that lan wangji can refuse him. now, and for the rest of the time they are given, he wants to give. he wants to give, with all that he is given. he wants to give, with all that is still his.
and yet—
jin guangyao is dead.
he is dead. he is dead, and the words fill him as though the scent of fire, the tongues of whips. they fill him, as the absence of his brother in the aftermath once did. in that rubble, in that emptiness— in the fields of blackened flowers, tokens of affection that his father ( and sick, so sick he was back then ) had once laid beyond that prison. they fill him, and it is here that lan wangji finds himself, his eyes upon his hands and blinking. as though struck, his lashes tremble only just minutely. the dark of his brows, they knit. his brother, having already lost one who held such importance to him— his fingers curl upon his thighs, retreating. how is that so, that it would come to this conclusion? how is it so, that jiang cheng knows an ending that they have not seen yet? how is it so? he wants to ask. how did he die?
how could we prevent this?
and yet, there is nothing. there is no sound that rises in his chest. there is no acknowledgement, a softer hum to confirm that it is he is hearing. there is nothing, but the quiet pull of breath.
no subject
lan wangji has seen him, wei wuxian. lan wangji has seen him, with the disciples that call themselves of gusulan. he has seen wei wuxian with lan sizhui, his young face alight with studious curiosity. bright and pensive— ever-reaching, he knows that wei wuxian too will foster within the three these same qualities. he knows, because lan wangji has known his own. he knows, because lan sizhui is theirs. and still, it is a truth he keeps within his breast. it is a truth that he holds within his fingers, with all the carefulness of being. and it is a truth that too will be wei wuxian's own, eventually. eventually, when the time sits still and properly.
eventually.
and so, that wei wuxian expounds upon what it is that lan wangji himself believes, it does not rest as strange. to work hard upon one's studies requires one has room to breathe. it requires that one too has room to rest, to find within themselves their pockets of relief. it requires access, to all who might hold answers to what it is they're seeking. wei wuxian, beyond his whimsy, is precisely whom lan wangji remembers him to be: tenacious and devoted, a gentle heart despite impossibility. he is a warm thing, wei wuxian, that lan wangji watches even when it is not himself that wei wuxian sees. even if it may not be. and it is an ache that he leaves to overgrow about the ribs, to wilt in its own jealousy. it is an ache that he does allow to bask, contenting himself in silence to what is shed upon him, regardless of its meaning.
then we will try, is what it is he wishes to say. he will try, because he wishes to as well. he wants to try for their juniors, wei wuxian had told him. and so, how could he not? for them, for him. little, it is always so very little, that lan wangji can refuse him. now, and for the rest of the time they are given, he wants to give. he wants to give, with all that he is given. he wants to give, with all that is still his.
and yet—
jin guangyao is dead.
he is dead. he is dead, and the words fill him as though the scent of fire, the tongues of whips. they fill him, as the absence of his brother in the aftermath once did. in that rubble, in that emptiness— in the fields of blackened flowers, tokens of affection that his father ( and sick, so sick he was back then ) had once laid beyond that prison. they fill him, and it is here that lan wangji finds himself, his eyes upon his hands and blinking. as though struck, his lashes tremble only just minutely. the dark of his brows, they knit. his brother, having already lost one who held such importance to him— his fingers curl upon his thighs, retreating. how is that so, that it would come to this conclusion? how is it so, that jiang cheng knows an ending that they have not seen yet? how is it so? he wants to ask. how did he die?
how could we prevent this?
and yet, there is nothing. there is no sound that rises in his chest. there is no acknowledgement, a softer hum to confirm that it is he is hearing. there is nothing, but the quiet pull of breath.
there is nothing. ]