and so too, like all this bitterness, he pulls it within himself. jiang cheng’s words sting at their edges, are meant to sting at their edges. jiang cheng has no reason to. no matter their exchanges, no matter their shared histories— there is nothing between them to be said at all. all that there is sits between them, pulls them in together as though needle to thread, as the mending of robes, as the tying off of kite tails. there is nothing that binds jiang cheng to him, jiang cheng, whom wei wuxian followed all those years ago. jiang cheng, who turned against wei wuxian in the end. and he thinks, still—
he carries this within himself, pieces it apart. he holds it and quiets it, because what is will be and what is not will not. jiang cheng is though a dog injured, left to snapping at the heels of others for all that he has lost after all that he had gained. and is a rawness in him that comes through, like the hands that jiang cheng once warmed. it bites across his features, as soon as is that jiang cheng dares turn teeth to wei wuxian again, his hand prepared to steer wei wuxian behind him, but—
but, wei wuxian’s hand is at his shoulder. it is at his shoulder, and all the fury that brews within him is snuffed out. it is snuffed out, pulled close as though the cast of arms about his middle, made pliant through words and sentiments— the discomfort that spills between them all now, tugged free and opened. like the raw of lotus seeds, still so sour and young and new. ]
I, [ starts, after a moment. confusion and disbelief catch the corners of his face, dissolve as quickly as it passes through. even if it is inclusive, it does not matter. what wei wuxian says—
and yet, this compulsion does not touch him.
there is something in the working of his lips, the cut of his own teeth against the inside of his cheek. his eyes touch on neither, but his fingers climb. like young ivies, they catch at wei wuxian’s sleeve, attempt to hold themselves steady. he wants to say: with me, there is no need for sorries. these things have already been forgotten. take care of you— he wants to say anything at all, but the words catch in his throat. they root into his heart, the heat of his frustration and his needing and his want climbing the pale of his throat. it stains the skin, stains the lobes of his ears, burns across his cheekbones ( and though it does show here, it is close ). it burns enough, that even the dark of his lashes seem to droop against the impact of it. as though he had been teased, as though he had back then. back then, crowded by wei ying in the pavilion, his young heart relentless and temperamental and hot. and now, he wonders if much has changed at all. he wonders this, as the dam that once held back his words break bank as though a torrent. as though, with no place left to go, they flow through it. through all that is proper and polite and reserved. but, lan wangji has never been anything, but honest. it does not stop now. ]
I will not deny you. [ and it comes whispered, hoarse. like the dry rush of grass after heels, like lan wangji’s endless traveling. like himself, in all that was left of him, gathering all that remained of wei wuxian in the years and years and years without him. and though he cannot look up, his fingers tremble with a strain that lan wangji cannot convey to him. he does not wish to have lan wangji, not like this. he does not desire lan wangji as lan wangji desires wei wuxian. no matter how he now presses nearer to lan wangji, seems to retract and reaffirm his rejections again— still, it is that the threat of happiness that wishes to spill out from his chest. it is that threat of something more, but he will not impose upon him this. he will not, no matter how much he wishes to hold within his hand wei wuxian’s, to let him feel what it is he is feeling. to make him understand what it is these words have always done to him. he wants, he wants so much, all and everything that wei wuxian will afford him. he has always wanted nothing more. and he will not ask for it, he will not implore. instead, it is only that he continues, stripping his words of the full and leaving only part. an unfinished garment to dress his own wounds, but instead passed to wei wuxian instead. ]
What you want— [ the words skip, uncharacteristic. like a stone’s leap across the still of ponds. and still, it sinks. they always do. ] What you want, I want too.
[ for you, it goes unsaid. but, he need he say it? take care of you properly, wei wuxian had told them. you’re both so important to me. and even spoken like this, even couched like this, lan wangji’s grip shudders as it tightens. it is more than he would ask for, more than he could ask for— and yet, the thrumming of his pulse continues.
no subject
and so too, like all this bitterness, he pulls it within himself. jiang cheng’s words sting at their edges, are meant to sting at their edges. jiang cheng has no reason to. no matter their exchanges, no matter their shared histories— there is nothing between them to be said at all. all that there is sits between them, pulls them in together as though needle to thread, as the mending of robes, as the tying off of kite tails. there is nothing that binds jiang cheng to him, jiang cheng, whom wei wuxian followed all those years ago. jiang cheng, who turned against wei wuxian in the end. and he thinks, still—
he carries this within himself, pieces it apart. he holds it and quiets it, because what is will be and what is not will not. jiang cheng is though a dog injured, left to snapping at the heels of others for all that he has lost after all that he had gained. and is a rawness in him that comes through, like the hands that jiang cheng once warmed. it bites across his features, as soon as is that jiang cheng dares turn teeth to wei wuxian again, his hand prepared to steer wei wuxian behind him, but—
but, wei wuxian’s hand is at his shoulder. it is at his shoulder, and all the fury that brews within him is snuffed out. it is snuffed out, pulled close as though the cast of arms about his middle, made pliant through words and sentiments— the discomfort that spills between them all now, tugged free and opened. like the raw of lotus seeds, still so sour and young and new. ]
I, [ starts, after a moment. confusion and disbelief catch the corners of his face, dissolve as quickly as it passes through. even if it is inclusive, it does not matter. what wei wuxian says—
and yet, this compulsion does not touch him.
there is something in the working of his lips, the cut of his own teeth against the inside of his cheek. his eyes touch on neither, but his fingers climb. like young ivies, they catch at wei wuxian’s sleeve, attempt to hold themselves steady. he wants to say: with me, there is no need for sorries. these things have already been forgotten. take care of you— he wants to say anything at all, but the words catch in his throat. they root into his heart, the heat of his frustration and his needing and his want climbing the pale of his throat. it stains the skin, stains the lobes of his ears, burns across his cheekbones ( and though it does show here, it is close ). it burns enough, that even the dark of his lashes seem to droop against the impact of it. as though he had been teased, as though he had back then. back then, crowded by wei ying in the pavilion, his young heart relentless and temperamental and hot. and now, he wonders if much has changed at all. he wonders this, as the dam that once held back his words break bank as though a torrent. as though, with no place left to go, they flow through it. through all that is proper and polite and reserved. but, lan wangji has never been anything, but honest. it does not stop now. ]
I will not deny you. [ and it comes whispered, hoarse. like the dry rush of grass after heels, like lan wangji’s endless traveling. like himself, in all that was left of him, gathering all that remained of wei wuxian in the years and years and years without him. and though he cannot look up, his fingers tremble with a strain that lan wangji cannot convey to him. he does not wish to have lan wangji, not like this. he does not desire lan wangji as lan wangji desires wei wuxian. no matter how he now presses nearer to lan wangji, seems to retract and reaffirm his rejections again— still, it is that the threat of happiness that wishes to spill out from his chest. it is that threat of something more, but he will not impose upon him this. he will not, no matter how much he wishes to hold within his hand wei wuxian’s, to let him feel what it is he is feeling. to make him understand what it is these words have always done to him. he wants, he wants so much, all and everything that wei wuxian will afford him. he has always wanted nothing more. and he will not ask for it, he will not implore. instead, it is only that he continues, stripping his words of the full and leaving only part. an unfinished garment to dress his own wounds, but instead passed to wei wuxian instead. ]
What you want— [ the words skip, uncharacteristic. like a stone’s leap across the still of ponds. and still, it sinks. they always do. ] What you want, I want too.
[ for you, it goes unsaid. but, he need he say it? take care of you properly, wei wuxian had told them. you’re both so important to me. and even spoken like this, even couched like this, lan wangji’s grip shudders as it tightens. it is more than he would ask for, more than he could ask for— and yet, the thrumming of his pulse continues.
he aches all the same. ]