[ Lan Zhan blinks once, twice. Somehow, Wei Ying is able to derail his mind from thoughts of downy rabbits and forlorn moons to think about soup. His own stomach hasn't had much of an appetite since Wei Ying left Cloud Recesses for his most recent jaunt through the realm, and the thought of food hadn't crossed his mind in the last couple of days. Spilling his deepest secret, the lack of outright rejection, being beckoned to meet Wei Ying—there had been far more on his mind than broth or any other food.
No, the only meal he needs is Wei Ying. To drink in the sound of his melodic rambling, to feast on his explosive and bewitching company, to savor the feather-light touches of his fingertip on the palm of his hand. The fingertip which causes his hand to twitch once as if ready to snap shut and ensnare its attacker. Lan Zhan is not ticklish, least of all on his sword-callused hands. ]
Ginger has many medicinal qualities. [ Meaning: it isn't unheard of to include in food for the sick, though not often indulged in by the people of his region.
At the heavier touch to his palm, Lan Zhan inhales. To others, it would be observed as little more than a sniff, a slight intake of air only slightly louder than a normal inhale; for Lan Zhan, it is a gasp compared to his normally even, silent breathing. His lips part on the exhale when Wei Ying continues in such a tone, making Lan Zhan's bones and blood sing with memories of Wei Ying on an expansive roof, master of his own unique cultivation, danger in the eyes that glittered the moonlight as his twisted melody filled the air.
It is a memory that terrifies Lan Zhan, seeker of peace, and excites Hanguang-jun, Head Cultivator. ]
There is nothing to laugh at. [ Lowering his chin, eyes on their hands, he finally folds his fingers up, a flower closing its petals against the nightly chill, and holds Wei Ying's hand steady. ] I have already yielded.
no subject
No, the only meal he needs is Wei Ying. To drink in the sound of his melodic rambling, to feast on his explosive and bewitching company, to savor the feather-light touches of his fingertip on the palm of his hand. The fingertip which causes his hand to twitch once as if ready to snap shut and ensnare its attacker. Lan Zhan is not ticklish, least of all on his sword-callused hands. ]
Ginger has many medicinal qualities. [ Meaning: it isn't unheard of to include in food for the sick, though not often indulged in by the people of his region.
At the heavier touch to his palm, Lan Zhan inhales. To others, it would be observed as little more than a sniff, a slight intake of air only slightly louder than a normal inhale; for Lan Zhan, it is a gasp compared to his normally even, silent breathing. His lips part on the exhale when Wei Ying continues in such a tone, making Lan Zhan's bones and blood sing with memories of Wei Ying on an expansive roof, master of his own unique cultivation, danger in the eyes that glittered the moonlight as his twisted melody filled the air.
It is a memory that terrifies Lan Zhan, seeker of peace, and excites Hanguang-jun, Head Cultivator. ]
There is nothing to laugh at. [ Lowering his chin, eyes on their hands, he finally folds his fingers up, a flower closing its petals against the nightly chill, and holds Wei Ying's hand steady. ] I have already yielded.