[ even here, he sees it; the way their palms and bodies pressing together in one whole unbroken line.
it is a better fate for him, he thinks, the selfsame part of him that tells him rest, the part that tells him to lay his head down, to turn away, to swallow the words and the poison back before it could hurt. it is a better fate than some, to place his life upon such hands as that of lan wangji. it is better than what he himself could offer up and indeed had. and what had come of it? ghosts and scars and soul scattered as if fallen autumn leaves upon a wind. an end met in the mountains which had before swallowed him whole. an end with no one to mourn and no one to remember.
rest, it tells him. some tired part whispers it is enough, you have done enough, but his ( brittle, unforgiving, bleeding ) heart would not quiet. the golden core within him that burns as wei wuxian had once burned with all the warmth of the sun, it would not let him. jiang cheng can only split and crack like wet wood thrown in fire, can only shiver through the serrated edges of all the hairline fractures of his being. ]
You're right, it wouldn't be Wei. [ it burns out of him, the poison like thick plume of smoke, dark and smokey and angry. ] You would have done better in my place, in Yunmeng Jiang. My father thought so. Everyone thought so. And you think that as well, don't you? You have always been better.
[ he cannot stop - he cannot rest, and jiang cheng advances upon them with every word, every step a thunderous crack upon the pavement.
you won't see it if you don't look, you won't believe me if I say. he does not see it, he has eyes and ears but they are as if blinded and muted as he had been in his trust in wei wuxian - when he had slipped that blindfold over his eyes, when he had told him to - go, to never speak, to never look. when wei wuxian had told him to believe. now, he believes as he has not done before, the stilted admission, the touch of his hand fitting into the curve of his jaw, the heat of the fire all linger still but it brings him no comfort. ]
Well, why don't you, then? Just fucking say it! Say how much I am in your debt, that I cannot have achieved anything without your help....
[ his voice cracks, the fractured splinters lodged in his voice, in his eyes, under his skin. it hurts. he wants it to hurt. ]
Tell me how much you have done for me. See if I fucking believe you.
[ another step closer, close enough to see the pale of lan wangji's eyes, to see the cut-ice expression on his face.
it is so much to see him between them.
it is so much, and jiang cheng feels some fresh new surge of anger burst forth from within like old wounds ripping open anew - a savage and ferocious one, all gnashing teeth and claws. lan wangji stands there as if he had always been there, as if he would always be there between them; it is as if he comes to reclaim the place between ( beside ) wei wuxian and the insurmountable distance between them has never let itself known to jiang cheng as this very moment now.
that space, the widening gap when there previously had been none - and there had been hardly room between them, nor had he wanted there to be - he had been so very content to be and breathe in the all encompassing presence of him. he had been the sun and the rain to him, the laugh and the warmth and the reassurance of a hand always being there for reaching out. they had been less two halves of a whole than one being split in half, one breath and one heart shared between them, but
no more.
now lan wangji stands there, a figure dressed in mourning, in ashes, in the light of frosted moon as it awaits the rising of the sun in some far off dawn, and jiang cheng as a caged animal would dash himself to piece by bloody piece against that immovable wall until it breaks or he would.
he slows - stays his steps as if he could somehow stay the furious seething in his heart, but it is more like the coiling of a snake as it readies for a strike - do not, it says, with the way he inhales sharply, rearing back, eyes narrowed and incandescent, the way his whole being seems to snap and fizz with bitter acrid acidity. do not be here. do not interfere.
what does he care about him? why should he?
it is petty, it is an action that perhaps, later, he would come to regret - but he has plenty of those enough in his life already, one more would not hurt.
there cannot be any excuse in the way he swings out with a fist; he hurts, he shatters by lashing out, he does the one thing that wei wuxian has requested of him otherwise ( he could laugh, really, he could; it is as if some kind of crazed madness descends upon him ). ]
no subject
it is a better fate for him, he thinks, the selfsame part of him that tells him rest, the part that tells him to lay his head down, to turn away, to swallow the words and the poison back before it could hurt. it is a better fate than some, to place his life upon such hands as that of lan wangji. it is better than what he himself could offer up and indeed had. and what had come of it? ghosts and scars and soul scattered as if fallen autumn leaves upon a wind. an end met in the mountains which had before swallowed him whole. an end with no one to mourn and no one to remember.
rest, it tells him. some tired part whispers it is enough, you have done enough, but his ( brittle, unforgiving, bleeding ) heart would not quiet. the golden core within him that burns as wei wuxian had once burned with all the warmth of the sun, it would not let him. jiang cheng can only split and crack like wet wood thrown in fire, can only shiver through the serrated edges of all the hairline fractures of his being. ]
You're right, it wouldn't be Wei. [ it burns out of him, the poison like thick plume of smoke, dark and smokey and angry. ] You would have done better in my place, in Yunmeng Jiang. My father thought so. Everyone thought so. And you think that as well, don't you? You have always been better.
[ he cannot stop - he cannot rest, and jiang cheng advances upon them with every word, every step a thunderous crack upon the pavement.
you won't see it if you don't look, you won't believe me if I say. he does not see it, he has eyes and ears but they are as if blinded and muted as he had been in his trust in wei wuxian - when he had slipped that blindfold over his eyes, when he had told him to - go, to never speak, to never look. when wei wuxian had told him to believe. now, he believes as he has not done before, the stilted admission, the touch of his hand fitting into the curve of his jaw, the heat of the fire all linger still but it brings him no comfort. ]
Well, why don't you, then? Just fucking say it! Say how much I am in your debt, that I cannot have achieved anything without your help....
[ his voice cracks, the fractured splinters lodged in his voice, in his eyes, under his skin. it hurts. he wants it to hurt. ]
Tell me how much you have done for me. See if I fucking believe you.
[ another step closer, close enough to see the pale of lan wangji's eyes, to see the cut-ice expression on his face.
it is so much to see him between them.
it is so much, and jiang cheng feels some fresh new surge of anger burst forth from within like old wounds ripping open anew - a savage and ferocious one, all gnashing teeth and claws. lan wangji stands there as if he had always been there, as if he would always be there between them; it is as if he comes to reclaim the place between ( beside ) wei wuxian and the insurmountable distance between them has never let itself known to jiang cheng as this very moment now.
that space, the widening gap when there previously had been none - and there had been hardly room between them, nor had he wanted there to be - he had been so very content to be and breathe in the all encompassing presence of him. he had been the sun and the rain to him, the laugh and the warmth and the reassurance of a hand always being there for reaching out. they had been less two halves of a whole than one being split in half, one breath and one heart shared between them, but
no more.
now lan wangji stands there, a figure dressed in mourning, in ashes, in the light of frosted moon as it awaits the rising of the sun in some far off dawn, and jiang cheng as a caged animal would dash himself to piece by bloody piece against that immovable wall until it breaks or he would.
he slows - stays his steps as if he could somehow stay the furious seething in his heart, but it is more like the coiling of a snake as it readies for a strike - do not, it says, with the way he inhales sharply, rearing back, eyes narrowed and incandescent, the way his whole being seems to snap and fizz with bitter acrid acidity. do not be here. do not interfere.
what does he care about him? why should he?
it is petty, it is an action that perhaps, later, he would come to regret - but he has plenty of those enough in his life already, one more would not hurt.
there cannot be any excuse in the way he swings out with a fist; he hurts, he shatters by lashing out, he does the one thing that wei wuxian has requested of him otherwise ( he could laugh, really, he could; it is as if some kind of crazed madness descends upon him ). ]