[ Later, he will think, there might have been protocol, forewarning, tradition. There might have been shame and poetry, and petty inspiration from rumours wild-eyed schoolboys trade in the dark. There might have been countless components to right the wrongs of impulse, but then (then) there is Lan Zhan, prone and uniquely sighted, in a new day that barely blinks away the blindness of Jin Guangyao's rule —
And Wei Wuxian thinks, it's ended, it's done, no more ills can be righted, or deaths avenged, or stones turned, or secrets unravelled, they've exhausted themselves among spatters of blood, and now they've come together again, like dark and nameless somethings, starved, stomachs concave.
Lan Zhan holds his hand. Anchoring, Wei Wuxian grasps back, and closes the yawning gap between them, two worlds colliding in the predictable dissonance of an untrained kiss — mouths too harsh, when Wei Wuxian invades without positioning, chins clashing, breath stirred and knocked out. No force or skill, only the stubborn heat of Wei Wuxian's mouth, carving out a path on the pursed line of Lan Zhan's lips, his jaw in clumsy derailment, like drunken calligraphy, blunt and brittle on hard wood, Wei Wuxian lives, Wei Wuxian was here.
Pressure builds in his ears like blood to a drum's beat, cloying and thickened. The smell of coming storm and livened greenery, electricity granular between his teeth. He pulls back, lashed by his own impertinence, sharp-elbowed, too long-limbed, unwieldy. The strings that stich-bound him in place come undone, and his knees fall, back slovenly, his hand bloodless in Lan Zhan's.
He sits back, struck and dazed, as if he were thralled to action, and now the spirit's left him. Two wars won, two lives lived, two leaders of the cultivation world unseated — and this, his first tryst.
For shame. ]
Paid.
[ Unasked, unchartered, perhaps unwelcome. But delivered, and Wei Wuxian's gain made. ]
no subject
And Wei Wuxian thinks, it's ended, it's done, no more ills can be righted, or deaths avenged, or stones turned, or secrets unravelled, they've exhausted themselves among spatters of blood, and now they've come together again, like dark and nameless somethings, starved, stomachs concave.
Lan Zhan holds his hand. Anchoring, Wei Wuxian grasps back, and closes the yawning gap between them, two worlds colliding in the predictable dissonance of an untrained kiss — mouths too harsh, when Wei Wuxian invades without positioning, chins clashing, breath stirred and knocked out. No force or skill, only the stubborn heat of Wei Wuxian's mouth, carving out a path on the pursed line of Lan Zhan's lips, his jaw in clumsy derailment, like drunken calligraphy, blunt and brittle on hard wood, Wei Wuxian lives, Wei Wuxian was here.
Pressure builds in his ears like blood to a drum's beat, cloying and thickened. The smell of coming storm and livened greenery, electricity granular between his teeth. He pulls back, lashed by his own impertinence, sharp-elbowed, too long-limbed, unwieldy. The strings that stich-bound him in place come undone, and his knees fall, back slovenly, his hand bloodless in Lan Zhan's.
He sits back, struck and dazed, as if he were thralled to action, and now the spirit's left him. Two wars won, two lives lived, two leaders of the cultivation world unseated — and this, his first tryst.
For shame. ]
Paid.
[ Unasked, unchartered, perhaps unwelcome. But delivered, and Wei Wuxian's gain made. ]