I have, Jiang Cheng! You have proof of that, everywhere you could have ever turned.
[ stop, he begs himself, one hand rising to seize his own throat - to choke the air from his lungs, to strangle the words that want to be said against his will. horrible things, hurtful things. before them, his own hands crawl to his throat and wring it, unconscious and unconscionable while he fights down the things he wants to say to jiang cheng's face, unhindered and unfiltered. truths that he thinks are what he believes, because he has never reflected differently upon them; has never had reason to. they are not truths he wants to give to lan zhan and jiang cheng, because they are unfinished things. imperfect things. they are angry things, wild things. ]
That you think I needed your permission to keep my promise to you --!
[ his fingers tighten and the words strangle in his throat.
in a burst of fitful, resentful energy he drops his hands to the table, to the bowls he had composed each to their liking. his eyes, the soft grey-violet of mo xuanyu, spark -- energy, red lightning, cascading across his face as it contorts. and he lifts the edge of the table and spills the contents to the floor at their feet. a frustrated wail escaping him, chest flaring blue as he shoves his hands to his temples and doubles in pain ( the documentation warned them, what would happen if they reached for their power -- and still, he did. ) for a moment, wheezing through it. bowls shatter, spilling their contents across their feet - flavors mingling, mixing, meats spilling onto the floor. across the room, other dining inhabitants raise their heads and the staff linger, nervous and preparing to ask the trio to leave.
he's barely aware of lan wangji at his side, even after such soft words were uttered in his support. barely aware of the way he'd once drawn such comfort from his presence, the touch of his hand; the knowledge that, of all people, lan zhan would give up everything for him. part of him wishes jiang cheng would have too, but it's clear now that he did not ever deserve an ounce of the jiang family's love, their protection, the comfort he found in their presence. not when all he'd brought them was ruination. ( lan wangji, he thinks, will not deny him - by his own word, he will not; and it is a thing he cannot allow to happen, not for his sake. ) ]
"I will not deny you"; "I have been waiting" -- I wish you'd both said these things earlier, I wish you'd had half the will to pursue the things you wanted from me instead of this! Now, I've said my part - Yiling's damnable fucking patriarch dismisses you, I'm sure you've both been dying to get away from me.
[ dinner on the floor, spite in his mouth and bruises around his neck from his own hand, he picks up his feet and steps over the shattered remains of their food. one hand pressed to his aching temple as he pushes past both of them, to the door jiang cheng had only just entered through and shoves through it, escaping out into the street to breathe, to gasp through clenched teeth and flee as far as he can from the both of them, into an alley, into the dark where he can be small and away from their brilliance and back where it makes sense to him -- knowing they'll hate him for it, they'll hurt more in his presence or outside of it. it's his fault, in the end, for all of their aches and bruises and pains. ]
no subject
[ stop, he begs himself, one hand rising to seize his own throat - to choke the air from his lungs, to strangle the words that want to be said against his will. horrible things, hurtful things. before them, his own hands crawl to his throat and wring it, unconscious and unconscionable while he fights down the things he wants to say to jiang cheng's face, unhindered and unfiltered. truths that he thinks are what he believes, because he has never reflected differently upon them; has never had reason to. they are not truths he wants to give to lan zhan and jiang cheng, because they are unfinished things. imperfect things. they are angry things, wild things. ]
That you think I needed your permission to keep my promise to you --!
[ his fingers tighten and the words strangle in his throat.
in a burst of fitful, resentful energy he drops his hands to the table, to the bowls he had composed each to their liking. his eyes, the soft grey-violet of mo xuanyu, spark -- energy, red lightning, cascading across his face as it contorts. and he lifts the edge of the table and spills the contents to the floor at their feet. a frustrated wail escaping him, chest flaring blue as he shoves his hands to his temples and doubles in pain ( the documentation warned them, what would happen if they reached for their power -- and still, he did. ) for a moment, wheezing through it. bowls shatter, spilling their contents across their feet - flavors mingling, mixing, meats spilling onto the floor. across the room, other dining inhabitants raise their heads and the staff linger, nervous and preparing to ask the trio to leave.
he's barely aware of lan wangji at his side, even after such soft words were uttered in his support. barely aware of the way he'd once drawn such comfort from his presence, the touch of his hand; the knowledge that, of all people, lan zhan would give up everything for him. part of him wishes jiang cheng would have too, but it's clear now that he did not ever deserve an ounce of the jiang family's love, their protection, the comfort he found in their presence. not when all he'd brought them was ruination. ( lan wangji, he thinks, will not deny him - by his own word, he will not; and it is a thing he cannot allow to happen, not for his sake. ) ]
"I will not deny you"; "I have been waiting" -- I wish you'd both said these things earlier, I wish you'd had half the will to pursue the things you wanted from me instead of this! Now, I've said my part - Yiling's damnable fucking patriarch dismisses you, I'm sure you've both been dying to get away from me.
[ dinner on the floor, spite in his mouth and bruises around his neck from his own hand, he picks up his feet and steps over the shattered remains of their food. one hand pressed to his aching temple as he pushes past both of them, to the door jiang cheng had only just entered through and shoves through it, escaping out into the street to breathe, to gasp through clenched teeth and flee as far as he can from the both of them, into an alley, into the dark where he can be small and away from their brilliance and back where it makes sense to him -- knowing they'll hate him for it, they'll hurt more in his presence or outside of it. it's his fault, in the end, for all of their aches and bruises and pains. ]