[ He will not lose to Wei Ying's diversions of language or food, though he knows the importance of both. Looking down at him, fingers flitting over the silver before pocketing it, Lan Zhan feels conflicted. The warrior in him doesn't want to surrender this battle, no matter how painful the fight or devastating the final defeat. A softer, more private part of him, the one that is still very much the boy kneeling in front of the Jingshi and waiting for his mother despite the snow freezing in his hair, fears that forward action may ruin him. Retreat means giving up the ground he has gained, but advancing could mean giving up Wei Ying and the ease of his companionship.
Well, not ease. Nothing about Wei Ying is easy other than the understanding he has and exploits in Lan Zhan. It's not a comfort, either, not when his chest tightens at the sight of him, fond and aching and wanting. Wei Ying challenges him in every sense of the word. He challenges Lan Zhan to see the greys in the world and to question the very tenets of his sect. Who decides what is evil? Those who have won wars and instated themselves as the just. Who decides if hope is blind? The one who cannot see a possible future. And what of terrible ideas? Perhaps the one most frightened of their outcomes.
Lan Zhan bows his head to allow Wei Ying close enough to tie his hair. He bites his tongue to contain a sigh of contentment at the skilled fingers combing against his scalp, drawing the hair back, exposing his face though he feels less vulnerable with his hair tied properly. A paradox. He'd been willing to stand disheveled in front of Wei Ying, and he's been reminded of propriety by the most unlikely source. ]
Stop running. [ He lifts his head again but stays close to Wei Ying. His palms skate over the tight sleeves of Wei Ying's robes until he can catch his hands, fingers gentle but firm, shying away from slotting between Wei Ying's but encircling his wrists. They silently plead for the end of Wei Ying's diversions. There had been a kiss, two, and Lan Zhan hadn't been the one to seek out the first. ] Tell me how to live, and I shall. If my hope is blind, remove the blindfold. If the idea is terrible, teach me the proper way to think. But please, Wei Ying, do not leave me alone on this cliff again.
no subject
[ He will not lose to Wei Ying's diversions of language or food, though he knows the importance of both. Looking down at him, fingers flitting over the silver before pocketing it, Lan Zhan feels conflicted. The warrior in him doesn't want to surrender this battle, no matter how painful the fight or devastating the final defeat. A softer, more private part of him, the one that is still very much the boy kneeling in front of the Jingshi and waiting for his mother despite the snow freezing in his hair, fears that forward action may ruin him. Retreat means giving up the ground he has gained, but advancing could mean giving up Wei Ying and the ease of his companionship.
Well, not ease. Nothing about Wei Ying is easy other than the understanding he has and exploits in Lan Zhan. It's not a comfort, either, not when his chest tightens at the sight of him, fond and aching and wanting. Wei Ying challenges him in every sense of the word. He challenges Lan Zhan to see the greys in the world and to question the very tenets of his sect. Who decides what is evil? Those who have won wars and instated themselves as the just. Who decides if hope is blind? The one who cannot see a possible future. And what of terrible ideas? Perhaps the one most frightened of their outcomes.
Lan Zhan bows his head to allow Wei Ying close enough to tie his hair. He bites his tongue to contain a sigh of contentment at the skilled fingers combing against his scalp, drawing the hair back, exposing his face though he feels less vulnerable with his hair tied properly. A paradox. He'd been willing to stand disheveled in front of Wei Ying, and he's been reminded of propriety by the most unlikely source. ]
Stop running. [ He lifts his head again but stays close to Wei Ying. His palms skate over the tight sleeves of Wei Ying's robes until he can catch his hands, fingers gentle but firm, shying away from slotting between Wei Ying's but encircling his wrists. They silently plead for the end of Wei Ying's diversions. There had been a kiss, two, and Lan Zhan hadn't been the one to seek out the first. ] Tell me how to live, and I shall. If my hope is blind, remove the blindfold. If the idea is terrible, teach me the proper way to think. But please, Wei Ying, do not leave me alone on this cliff again.