[ it is by force of habit and not some inherent nature that jiang cheng rises early; he sleeps restless and light - he sleeps with an ear and an eye open for any signs, sighs and sounds that differ from what he is used to, and even here it is no exception. he has not gotten himself used to sleeping besides them and between them, yet. the jagged pieces of his edges have not smoothed yet, and he feels the awkward fit - yet they return to each other again and again each night. wei wuxian and lan wangji both, they touch him with more than just their hands. their breath quieted and even in sleep, their voices low and hushed in the darkness, they should be all familiar things now.
even so, he awakes as lan wangji wakes with the breaking of the dawn outside their small room. he wakes, but remain with his eyes closed, just a little more, just a little, counting numbers that grow double digit in his head with his chin tucked over the curve of wei wuxian's head and his hands curled, like some young bud, over the creased bedding they share.
just a little more. let him savour the warmth, for just a little more.
he is by nature restless. jiang cheng is though branches that shakes with the faintest pick of wind, the way that the wide green leaves of the lotus. he cannot remain in one place for so long - his body seeks movement and action and progress, and he counts once more in his head another hundred, a hundred hundred, before he gets up.
it is without sound that he pads out of the room into the kitchen, the lounge visible from the way, the small balcony outside with its ladder leading up toward the roof. his hair is down, the messy curls that lay over the tuck of his ears, the way it wisps against his neck now, grown longer but not enough.
( wxc; these our bodies possessed by light )
even so, he awakes as lan wangji wakes with the breaking of the dawn outside their small room. he wakes, but remain with his eyes closed, just a little more, just a little, counting numbers that grow double digit in his head with his chin tucked over the curve of wei wuxian's head and his hands curled, like some young bud, over the creased bedding they share.
just a little more. let him savour the warmth, for just a little more.
he is by nature restless. jiang cheng is though branches that shakes with the faintest pick of wind, the way that the wide green leaves of the lotus. he cannot remain in one place for so long - his body seeks movement and action and progress, and he counts once more in his head another hundred, a hundred hundred, before he gets up.
it is without sound that he pads out of the room into the kitchen, the lounge visible from the way, the small balcony outside with its ladder leading up toward the roof. his hair is down, the messy curls that lay over the tuck of his ears, the way it wisps against his neck now, grown longer but not enough.
he is not looking, not exactly, but he also is. ]