I don't know. We're always doing things out of turn.
[ This, at least, they'll both agree on: swearing fealty before elders, binding in caves, delivering last stands in battle, raising up radish sons. Then, bidding each other a good day. It seems entirely reasonable against the erratic pattern of their past life. What's yet another baffling turn of unfortunate events? ]
Dinner? You don't look hungry. [ By his sect's standards, Lan Zhan looks obscene, silks tarnished with taint of weed, ink teasing his fingertips, where he was forced to correct Wei Wuxian's talisman without notice. It suits him, in the way a floor doesn't look lived and warm until heels have drafted the first scratches. ] Eat anyway. Maybe we'll coax some wine in you, too.
[ An unlikely proposition, if only because Lan Zhan's tolerance for entertainment may have broadened with time, but still seems cursed to walk the familiar grounds of poetry, exotic philosophy and, at its most audacious, a clandestine dash of pepper and anise. Of that, and the curious, weighted pace of Lan Zhan's breathing at night, observed during their bound travel to rescue and restitch the tatters of the Yiling Patriarch's reputation, Wei Wuxian plans to speak not a word.
They have a night ahead of them to deflect the discomforts of revisiting the known and the alien and the accomplice conclusion of what those blurred boundaries entail.
Locked in its practice smile, Wei Wuxian's face feels as tight as a sailor's knot. He lifts himself, immune to the parting claw marks of his body's tension, and holds both arms out, bravely volunteering his grip against the Lan arm strength, to help raise up the jade-pale princess as well. ]
Hanguang-Jun, your humble servant begs an audience.
no subject
[ This, at least, they'll both agree on: swearing fealty before elders, binding in caves, delivering last stands in battle, raising up radish sons. Then, bidding each other a good day. It seems entirely reasonable against the erratic pattern of their past life. What's yet another baffling turn of unfortunate events? ]
Dinner? You don't look hungry. [ By his sect's standards, Lan Zhan looks obscene, silks tarnished with taint of weed, ink teasing his fingertips, where he was forced to correct Wei Wuxian's talisman without notice. It suits him, in the way a floor doesn't look lived and warm until heels have drafted the first scratches. ] Eat anyway. Maybe we'll coax some wine in you, too.
[ An unlikely proposition, if only because Lan Zhan's tolerance for entertainment may have broadened with time, but still seems cursed to walk the familiar grounds of poetry, exotic philosophy and, at its most audacious, a clandestine dash of pepper and anise. Of that, and the curious, weighted pace of Lan Zhan's breathing at night, observed during their bound travel to rescue and restitch the tatters of the Yiling Patriarch's reputation, Wei Wuxian plans to speak not a word.
They have a night ahead of them to deflect the discomforts of revisiting the known and the alien and the accomplice conclusion of what those blurred boundaries entail.
Locked in its practice smile, Wei Wuxian's face feels as tight as a sailor's knot. He lifts himself, immune to the parting claw marks of his body's tension, and holds both arms out, bravely volunteering his grip against the Lan arm strength, to help raise up the jade-pale princess as well. ]
Hanguang-Jun, your humble servant begs an audience.