[ lan wangji is no less a storm than he, no less battered and no less bruised. for all that he holds light to his breast, it is only for those who would need him. it is only to shed warmth upon those who need and who want. if lan wangji were able, he would give each part of himself. if lan wangji could, he would bury deeper within himself the boundless curve of his emotion, hungry and yearning as the pale stems of seedlings beneath the shade of larger blooms. and like this, he would choke silent with the passion he was born with. the same passion that made him paint himself distant, made him paint himself severe.

for who without desiring would wish that pressed upon themselves? who would allow themselves to divorce lan zhan from hanguang-jun? who?

and yet, the thin edge of jiang cheng's voice seems to do no more than give him pause, no more than to make clearer the reticence upon his brow. it does no more, than to bring the dark sweep of lan wangji's lashes once again down. ]

I, [ he starts, after a breath. and still, the word comes too soft from the chest. his mouth twists, so slight, but visible. and it is not for sadness that he does this, but for frustration. the words he composed within himself dissolve, between the heart and the tongue. but, he makes himself manage. he makes himself piece together what it is jiang cheng needs hear. ] Back then, at the party, I fear I was too forward.

[ and yet, in that moment, was it not true that jiang cheng too enjoyed himself? he had felt much that evening, but what if he had mistaken it? what if jiang cheng had changed his perspective and declined? ]

What I did, each action was true from my heart. [ and as he says it, the pale of his ears paint themselves redder as each word goes. ] If you should need me to be distant from you, I will not place myself nearer to you.

[ and it is nothing, if not sincere. it is nothing, if not earnest. lan wangji, for all that he is, knows how it is to bear burden. he knows, what it is to be anxious. ]