[ It shouldn't rankle him, hard nail on dried scab, flush of an old wound waiting to burst again beneath it; it shouldn't gain the reins of him, not when Wei Wuxian feels them tighter than talisman string or garrote, gnawing at his throat. There, that stretch of skin, where Lan Zhan's mouth put right in him everything that was wrong, only moments before. There, too, itching.
Death. Really. Not even in death, as if Lan Zhan's ever walked those grounds. As if he's known the notes of ghostly lullabies, lacerating bone, peering through the window of his body in the tired temple of his soul, to find it wanting and bare. As if Wei Wuxian cares to think about the possibility of a pale corpse and roles reversed — ( Ah. This is why it riles, then. )
The pendulum arc of their hands stills, and Wei Wuxian pushes it past that lull, back into sway. Hyperbole. This is the Lan way, painted in legend: they speak of life and death and sentiment and pledges, because they hold themselves better than the likes of Wei Wuxian and the whispering stalks of grass crunching beneath his feet, both slaves to their mundane nature.
If Wei Wuxian didn't envy every sharp edge of Lan Zhan's light, he might stifle it in his cupped hands. Impatience still bleeds out of him, between rushed side glances and a snake-sound hiss. ]
[ As if he doesn't have a perfect count of every Lan rule, old and new. ]
Look here. I know you members of the Lan sect like to study, so have a lesson: a wedding bed fits two. [ Observe, two fingers rising. ] If you fill it with your clansmen's convictions, brace yourself to hit the floor. You know, even in death.
no subject
[ It shouldn't rankle him, hard nail on dried scab, flush of an old wound waiting to burst again beneath it; it shouldn't gain the reins of him, not when Wei Wuxian feels them tighter than talisman string or garrote, gnawing at his throat. There, that stretch of skin, where Lan Zhan's mouth put right in him everything that was wrong, only moments before. There, too, itching.
Death. Really. Not even in death, as if Lan Zhan's ever walked those grounds. As if he's known the notes of ghostly lullabies, lacerating bone, peering through the window of his body in the tired temple of his soul, to find it wanting and bare. As if Wei Wuxian cares to think about the possibility of a pale corpse and roles reversed — ( Ah. This is why it riles, then. )
The pendulum arc of their hands stills, and Wei Wuxian pushes it past that lull, back into sway. Hyperbole. This is the Lan way, painted in legend: they speak of life and death and sentiment and pledges, because they hold themselves better than the likes of Wei Wuxian and the whispering stalks of grass crunching beneath his feet, both slaves to their mundane nature.
If Wei Wuxian didn't envy every sharp edge of Lan Zhan's light, he might stifle it in his cupped hands. Impatience still bleeds out of him, between rushed side glances and a snake-sound hiss. ]
Right. Yes, I'm certain. Rule number... six thousand... eight hundred... something-something. Yes.
[ As if he doesn't have a perfect count of every Lan rule, old and new. ]
Look here. I know you members of the Lan sect like to study, so have a lesson: a wedding bed fits two. [ Observe, two fingers rising. ] If you fill it with your clansmen's convictions, brace yourself to hit the floor. You know, even in death.
[ Who cares what 'members of the Lan sect' do? ]