[ you have given me everything, jiang cheng says. you have given me everything.
wei wuxian is a limber thing. limber once, limber now. no matter the body which the soul now holds or the body that now holds him, wei wuxian has always been as such. he has always been able to occupy any and all of lan wangji, been able to mold him beneath the slightest pressure of his palm. and now, this too is true. this too is true, when taken by force. and that action, that sudden and frenetic burst of outrage, stings more than the punch that jiang cheng threw ever could and ever did. he thinks it to be true, no matter how his gaze skews and the struck eye waters, uncontrolled and uncontained.
why would such a reaction be for him, he would have thought. he would have thought, but lan wangji knows better. he knows better, because he knows too himself.
and yet, something ugly and dark and quiet in lan wangji burns. it sits against the edge of skin, works against the edge of bone. and it writhes. it sours. it catches acidic and raw in his mouth, breaks against his teeth. it tastes like metal, like blood, like corpse dirt. it tastes of all that lan wangji tamps down within himself, as though beneath the oxen and spade. it tastes of all the things he has buried so deep within the self that he has forgotten their shape.
and still, he recognizes them. and still, he yokes them. he digs his heels into any purchase that remains. he reminds himself—
how am i supposed to compete with that?
that name, that name he's turned over his tongue since he was young ( so young, when he first saw him ), catches on itself. the syllables knot up in his throat. they are swallowed alongside the acceptance of what he has cascaded. and yet, he had decided even back then that what is wei ying's to face would be his too face. if only he would let lan wangji, if only he allowed. and now, has he forgotten that too? those two days, those two long and tired days. those days, when all he heard— ]
Wei Ying.
[ it is a soft thing. a declaration, that asks to be. it is a statement, that this too was something he chose. this was an action he too elected. like wei wuxian had too decided, in smaller fragments. that movement, like all movements before, was a willingness. wei wuxian needn't do this in part for himself, for lan wangji, for the one who would give and never ask again for the "thank you"s that ended more as partings, as sharp and strange goodbyes.
and yet, it is a reassurance. this too is why he has come to love him. in part, this is what he has understood. just like him, lan wangji would not have been able to check his temper then, would he have?
of course not. of course not, just as back then. just as now, when he had situated himself between them. just as now, as he wishes only to shield wei wuxian from this too.
and yet, he knows he wouldn't. were he in wei wuxian's place, he knows he would not be able to come to his side. and still, he asks without asking. like before, like many times before. it is a request, if not for himself, but for wei wuxian. if not for himself, but so too jiang cheng.
no subject
wei wuxian is a limber thing. limber once, limber now. no matter the body which the soul now holds or the body that now holds him, wei wuxian has always been as such. he has always been able to occupy any and all of lan wangji, been able to mold him beneath the slightest pressure of his palm. and now, this too is true. this too is true, when taken by force. and that action, that sudden and frenetic burst of outrage, stings more than the punch that jiang cheng threw ever could and ever did. he thinks it to be true, no matter how his gaze skews and the struck eye waters, uncontrolled and uncontained.
why would such a reaction be for him, he would have thought. he would have thought, but lan wangji knows better. he knows better, because he knows too himself.
and yet, something ugly and dark and quiet in lan wangji burns. it sits against the edge of skin, works against the edge of bone. and it writhes. it sours. it catches acidic and raw in his mouth, breaks against his teeth. it tastes like metal, like blood, like corpse dirt. it tastes of all that lan wangji tamps down within himself, as though beneath the oxen and spade. it tastes of all the things he has buried so deep within the self that he has forgotten their shape.
and still, he recognizes them. and still, he yokes them. he digs his heels into any purchase that remains. he reminds himself—
how am i supposed to compete with that?
that name, that name he's turned over his tongue since he was young ( so young, when he first saw him ), catches on itself. the syllables knot up in his throat. they are swallowed alongside the acceptance of what he has cascaded. and yet, he had decided even back then that what is wei ying's to face would be his too face. if only he would let lan wangji, if only he allowed. and now, has he forgotten that too? those two days, those two long and tired days. those days, when all he heard— ]
Wei Ying.
[ it is a soft thing. a declaration, that asks to be. it is a statement, that this too was something he chose. this was an action he too elected. like wei wuxian had too decided, in smaller fragments. that movement, like all movements before, was a willingness. wei wuxian needn't do this in part for himself, for lan wangji, for the one who would give and never ask again for the "thank you"s that ended more as partings, as sharp and strange goodbyes.
and yet, it is a reassurance. this too is why he has come to love him. in part, this is what he has understood. just like him, lan wangji would not have been able to check his temper then, would he have?
of course not. of course not, just as back then. just as now, when he had situated himself between them. just as now, as he wishes only to shield wei wuxian from this too.
and yet, he knows he wouldn't. were he in wei wuxian's place, he knows he would not be able to come to his side. and still, he asks without asking. like before, like many times before. it is a request, if not for himself, but for wei wuxian. if not for himself, but so too jiang cheng.
it had already been enough. ]