a mistake, and jiang cheng is sick of making mistakes, because they cost many things for such a little affair, because the ripples from a single rock being dropped goes and echoes for many miles, far longer than what people would care for. the sword thrust at his shixiong's stomach, the bones of his arm cleanly broken, they had been the first of many mistakes, the first of many wounds they had left on each other and scars that still burn and itch uncomfortably under his clothing.
over the years, jiang cheng has made many mistakes, and each time he has had to pay up and settle the balance in his own way - he has buried memories and ghosts and ( only rarely ) bodies of his family, and he is sick of it - sick of the way his stomach has been in knots for days now, the way his eyes scan the crowd on the streets, looking for him.
the invitation makes him hope. jiang cheng stamps the thought out before it could form as if it were merely a stray spark from a fire - dangerous if left alone.
the blistering heat of the fire when they had embraced, that brief moment when they had both sought out each other's company without words, it already would feel like a dream almost if it were not for the sensation still ingrained upon his person, of hand pressed against his side, of fingers combing through the still-short hairs low on his nape.
it is so stupid, everything about this. he hates that he still hasn't seemed to learn all these years. he hates that his feet has carried him all the way here without any sort of conscious realization, that he finds himself outside the restaurant, only now dallying and delaying the process.
and of course, when he actually musters up enough a scowl to open the door and step in, the first thing he sees is that.
it isn't all that hard to pick out wei wuxian in the shop; he has spent so long a time orbiting the blistering sun of his presence, then the rest of his life chasing after the shadows it cast, that even in this new body and new face it isn't all that hard to spot him as if drawn to a magnet. and as he is so, from this sort of distance, he can see the way the same sort of effect plays on wei wuxian and lan wangji - how he reaches out and puts his hand on the other's thigh, leaning forward into his space like flower turning its face to the light of the sun. he can see, because he knows. he can see because he had always been like so, turning to the sun.
jiang cheng doesn't entirely know what kind of face he is making - a scowl, it is something that is almost a default with him these days, mouth twisted in a sneer - but he lets the door slam shut behind him. takes one, two, three steps toward the other two ( he really, really doesn't want to, but it is a pull, a magnet, an orbit he is so infinitely familiar with ). ]
Speak. [ he sees the bowl to the right of wei wuxian - something pulls painfully in his gut, at the sight, but he doesn't move to sit down. some kind of ugly feeling burns in his throat and he tries to write it off as bile, of disgust. ]
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a mistake, and jiang cheng is sick of making mistakes, because they cost many things for such a little affair, because the ripples from a single rock being dropped goes and echoes for many miles, far longer than what people would care for. the sword thrust at his shixiong's stomach, the bones of his arm cleanly broken, they had been the first of many mistakes, the first of many wounds they had left on each other and scars that still burn and itch uncomfortably under his clothing.
over the years, jiang cheng has made many mistakes, and each time he has had to pay up and settle the balance in his own way - he has buried memories and ghosts and ( only rarely ) bodies of his family, and he is sick of it - sick of the way his stomach has been in knots for days now, the way his eyes scan the crowd on the streets, looking for him.
the invitation makes him hope. jiang cheng stamps the thought out before it could form as if it were merely a stray spark from a fire - dangerous if left alone.
the blistering heat of the fire when they had embraced, that brief moment when they had both sought out each other's company without words, it already would feel like a dream almost if it were not for the sensation still ingrained upon his person, of hand pressed against his side, of fingers combing through the still-short hairs low on his nape.
it is so stupid, everything about this. he hates that he still hasn't seemed to learn all these years. he hates that his feet has carried him all the way here without any sort of conscious realization, that he finds himself outside the restaurant, only now dallying and delaying the process.
and of course, when he actually musters up enough a scowl to open the door and step in, the first thing he sees is that.
it isn't all that hard to pick out wei wuxian in the shop; he has spent so long a time orbiting the blistering sun of his presence, then the rest of his life chasing after the shadows it cast, that even in this new body and new face it isn't all that hard to spot him as if drawn to a magnet. and as he is so, from this sort of distance, he can see the way the same sort of effect plays on wei wuxian and lan wangji - how he reaches out and puts his hand on the other's thigh, leaning forward into his space like flower turning its face to the light of the sun. he can see, because he knows. he can see because he had always been like so, turning to the sun.
jiang cheng doesn't entirely know what kind of face he is making - a scowl, it is something that is almost a default with him these days, mouth twisted in a sneer - but he lets the door slam shut behind him. takes one, two, three steps toward the other two ( he really, really doesn't want to, but it is a pull, a magnet, an orbit he is so infinitely familiar with ). ]
Speak. [ he sees the bowl to the right of wei wuxian - something pulls painfully in his gut, at the sight, but he doesn't move to sit down. some kind of ugly feeling burns in his throat and he tries to write it off as bile, of disgust. ]