[ The shy-cast girl, sullen and dull, a tragedy of skill she could not demonstrate. Kind, but strange enigma. And Xue Yang, Yangyang, the demon and his five-counted sins.
Bichen remembers him better than Wangji, and the pale glare of her glamour, inches unsheathing, calls his hand to bring her down. Enemy. No. ('I love Wei Ying.' That monster. A fool.)
And Wei Wuxian, who welcomes the snake to his warm bosom, in the face of Lan Wangji's bright-eyed, livid contempt. ]
I remember bloodying him. [ So there is only truth between them, and whatever repercussion Wei Wuxian would reap of that schism. ] The slaughterer of Yueyang Chang.
[ It's the drink in him, all of that mouthful. The drink and the famine of chroma, the fatigue and his wound, blistering under bandage, where his arm mends. He feels too living, prone and close to roaring, as if Wei Ying finally bared himself for a sin that Wangji's anger could direct at — if not the suicide he has yet to commit, then this. This will do. ]
Was there a shortage in gutters, that you had to take your lover from the dregs of our sect murderers?
[anger, for the first time. it rises like a flood, and it drowns wei ying with such force that he stops in his tracks and pulls on the thread that binds them together, pulls harshly that lan zhan might turn to spit the words back to his face.]
He didn't die.
[he throws the words down, for all that their meaning will not be hidden. they've met, and recently - wei ying feeding xue yang chroma by the cup with his fingers, his lips, until his wounds have eased in their pain. but that's not why he's saying the words, isn't it? xue yang is indefensible, his crimes great enough to warrant the righteous fury of qinghe nie; why, then, wei ying's defense?
he persists. wei ying doesn't know what else to do.]
I came from the gutters too, Lan Zhan. It's by Jiang Fengmian's mercy that I stand where I am, and the world has never let me forget that. Wei Wuxian, of Yunmeng Jiang - privileged son of a servant, like many have reminded me, son of Cangse Sanren who turned her back on the privilege of the gentry. I know what I owe. I can't forget even if I tried.
Do you know what he's told me? What everyone's tiptoed around since I came here?
The Wens, dead. All of them, down to the last child. And I stood to bear the blame for the delay of their execution, with no one to stand in my defense - not even my sworn brother, not even you. Nothing I've been told since has gone against it. Everyone's keeping the truth from me, I'm not so blind to not notice, the careful words, the turn of the head when I ask about what lies ahead of me.
Is it true? Surely the great and noble houses must have good reason to wipe out a whole sect. Surely there's a righteous explanation to stand aside and let the murder of so many come to pass. Xue Yang... He told me about Wen Ning. About the experiments. I don't want to believe it, I really don't - what was the whole point of our vows if we're no better than the evils we've sworn to fight?
If he's so despicable to you, Lan Zhan, then refute it all. I'll believe you. If you say it's not true, then it isn't. Tell me that I won't find myself in Yiling. Tell me that the sects have shown mercy. Tell me that I don't fall into the practice of demonic cultivation, that I don't turn my back on the right path. If it's you, if you say it—
Tell me he's lying. Tell me that I don't stray so far from where you stand that I'm left with the dead and the wretched in my wake.
[ The Wen, extinct. The clans in ruin. Cultivation explored past the limits of its very foundation. Murder, mayhem, bloodshed. Wei Wuxian, master of the deadless masses, back to the world, let alone its crossroads.
Call the lies of Xue Yang's viper tongue. Next time, rip it at hungry root.
Jiang Fengmian's mercy, the privilege of a favoured son, Lan Qiren's reluctance — a whirlpool of detail in the dead of nightless winter, corners of crystal glinting like mother's tears between sheets of powdered sleet.
Wei Ying pulls on him, like Jiang Wanyin calls on his dog, and treacherously Lan Wangji''s footing gives in a stumble disciples might know to correct at the last second with a rebalance of their momentum, but a drunk man fails to adjust. Hurt spills in web-work of ripples on impact, one knee thudding down into ice that doesn't crumble. Bichen, handier than a blind man's cane, breaking Wangji's fall.
The talisman-rope bridges them, a leash of Lan Wangji's summon, if not his make. He watches light travel on it, ride up in tip-toe like a cricket's footprint, crawling up Wei Yi — Wei Wuxian's hands, possessed of their malice. Yiling patriarch, oh, but there were signs, there were betrayals, there was arrogance, always, no matter how young. ]
You want to know where you stray to?
[ He rasps, and for once they share the hunger. Wangji rounds the talisman's thread in a loop around his hand once, rises — and pulls in his own right, to drag Wei Wuxian like the limp cloth dolls of peasant girls, steps behind him.
Violence warrants violence, one lesson for another. To the rim then, the teeth of the gully's maw, the very edge — so Wei Wuxian can have his look again, have his fill of it. ]
[he pulls; lan zhan pushes. it's not wei ying's desire to drag the man down with him, wants the opposite, wants him - the realization is sharp as a blade, cutting into his sides.
of course. recognition pierces through wei ying's compromised mind with blinding clarity - this is how his affections crystallize into something tangible in front of him. want cores through his nerves like lighting, carving quick, needle-thin paths straight to his heart, just as his own anger crests, crests still, never stopping.
here sits a difference of perspective between them - it might as well be a chasm.]
'Do not speak to me of death.'
[wei ying slings the words back, finally grasping their meaning. finally, finally, finally - the word turning over and over as it slots into the spaces of what he doesn't know, fitting perfectly. does it come soon? it must; it should. he hopes. let the damned abyss reach up and strangle him, let it drag him into his depths, let it eat him whole.
make him worthy of lan wangji's anger. rain it all down on him, soak him in it.
wetness stings his eyes. pity him, a fool - infatuated with a man who's only ever seen him as anything but a friend. he's begged with his heart for xue yang's words to be struck down; should he bow, should he kneel on the ground? it doesn't come. none of it comes.
so it stands, uncontested: wei wuxian, orphaned son of cangse sanren and wei changze, left alone by everyone he's loved to defend the dredges of a common enemy, doomed to fall into the arms of a murderer as a lover, with no one but his own shadow to watch his back.
madam yu was right. he's not worth the life he's been given.]
Piss off, Lan Wangji.
[words, calmly pronounced, as wei ying pulls on the thread, pulling lan zhan close.
he kisses him on the mouth, just as the last pull on the thread topples them over into the gully.]
[ Step back, his arm's drift, the poorer footing, sour stain of wine on Wei Ying's lips. They fall.
No grace to the dance. No guidance. Only the misery of hitting first hard things, then the snowy soft, smears of dirt and crystal crests — his spine and back grinding. His wounded side, poorly favoured when he controls nothing of the descent, less of the roll, far so of Wei Ying's weight, commanding Wangji's to twist and turn, retaliatory.
The forest is silent when they drop down, not a thud or a hard pronouncement, but a coarse, apologetic rustle, thin wave of ice speckles following them after. The gully was not so tall, the hints of river it may have watched over long frozen. Struck down, Wangji breathes in time with the passage of water he feels coursing beneath the glacial spread, so many lengths below.
Wan sunlight striking white angles into stark-blank snow. Farther out, the starting clamor of arctic geese, rallying against unseen targets. Chills sigh across Wangji's skin, betraying the rupture of cloth where it should fasten. When he moves, it's with the slow tell of the wine fog that stammers his thoughts, more than the clumsy bruising that compounds earlier wounds. A quiet, white noise of ache.
Bichen is close enough for Wangji to suffer the inconvenience of leaning to grasp it close, despite the protests of his shoulders. He raises himself slowly, Wei Ying a dark bundle beside him, visibly living and livid. With a hiss, Lan Wangji untangles them enough to sit, side by side, ungainly pillared by stretches of crystal behind them and brushing at shoulders, hips and the long line of neighbouring legs — all the better to generate the healing chroma Wangji has learned now, on three occasions, he'd sooner have than abandon.
Lethargy floods him, compelling every synapse of his sharpened mind down to the edges of his limbs. Every spark of storm has quieted inside of him. There is nothing to resent Wei Ying here, less to avenge. Give Wei Wuxian the stage of a cliff's lodge, of course he will put on his performance. And what had Wangji hoped for? Words? Explanations? Redemption? A fool's heart can't be understood, let alone forgiven, Wei Ying said so. This played out as well as any disaster between them could hope to. If Wangji's chest weren't a cushion of pins and needles, he might laugh.
His rasping waits until Wei Ying seems to stir back to his senses, alert as much as he is awake. ]
Wei Ying. [ The folds of his sleeve are dishevelled, the under-layer torn, where the outer silk, wind-swept, eluded the groans of gravity and tearing. He lifts his wrist to show wire and bone, the obstinate resilience of the talisman string that's survived the fall in strange, cobalt glimmer. Strong sorcery. Balanced make. If not for the time and the day and the people they've become, Lan Wangji should compliment the craftsmanship. ] Release the bind.
[they sit against each other in a picture of tragic comedy - bruised, disheveled, one half stoically seething while the other is openly crying, the cold wind slapping their cheeks as it howls past them at the bottom of the gully.
wei wuxian breathes slowly, shallowly, uncaring about dignity and pride as he scrubs at his face and nose before the cold can properly freeze his tears and snot. he doesn't look at lan wangji, even though every part of him is screaming at him to turn, turn, turn - see to lan wangji's injury, help him up, offer his help in whatever way he can manage.
it won't be welcome now, a slithering voice reminds him. not that it's ever been welcome before.
that's for the better, isn't it? wei wuxian's made enough of a mess.
he's an idiot. a fool. if it were possible to survive here without seeing another human being he'll gladly subject himself to secluded meditation. it'll be lonely, and he'll miss everyone deeply, but it'd be the right thing to do.
he should not have lashed out. should not have hurt lan zhan like this, should not have hurt him at all. his emotions have blinded him, rendered him a brute, thrown caution and respect into the wind. so what if his heart had shattered to pieces? he's an idiot to have given it away so freely in the first place. did he expect reciprocation? he'd only ever pushed at lan wangji's boundaries, offending the man at every turn, what love is there for someone like him, when all he's ever done is to break every rule he's ever faced?
a man like lan wangji doesn't deserve to suffer a man like him.]
I'm sorry, [he croaks out, voice wet as though underwater. wei wuxian releases the bind, the coil dissipating in a burst of faint light; he keeps his head down, moves to stand. his shoulder aches from the first impact, and his hip is screaming where suibian has refused to yield during the tumble down the gully. small cuts and bruises all over; they might as well coalesce into one large bruise.
he's never felt quite as hollow as he does now.]
I'll just go.
[shame, hot brands around his ankles and neck. wei wuxian flees.]
[ The bind, first: broken. It fragments, dissolving in blinks of sparkle that Lan Wangji has to push himself to stare away from. Whatever his hurt, his perversion, his trickery, Wei Wuxian's sorcery has always been the one one, central beacon of beauty that's anchored him. Even the patriarch of Yiling strove to set the attacks of his corpses to music, the breaths and groans and whispers of the undead to lulls and crescendo of the wind and untamed breeze.
His wrist falls in his lap, listless and as indifferent as Wangji's heart wishes it could still itself, beating to the cadence of guilt in resonance. It rises again, possessed of its own volition — to stop Wei Wuxian, only another breath longer. Drag him back. Say words they should have shared a life that Wei Ying's yet to live before.
Doesn't catch purchase. He'll go — does go, scant and dwindling in the distance, stretch of darkness in plain, blinding white. Fitting, to be abandoned here, in the aftermath of it all, gathering the pieces.
He knows the part. He's bled worse before for it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Bichen remembers him better than Wangji, and the pale glare of her glamour, inches unsheathing, calls his hand to bring her down. Enemy. No. ('I love Wei Ying.' That monster. A fool.)
And Wei Wuxian, who welcomes the snake to his warm bosom, in the face of Lan Wangji's bright-eyed, livid contempt. ]
I remember bloodying him. [ So there is only truth between them, and whatever repercussion Wei Wuxian would reap of that schism. ] The slaughterer of Yueyang Chang.
[ It's the drink in him, all of that mouthful. The drink and the famine of chroma, the fatigue and his wound, blistering under bandage, where his arm mends. He feels too living, prone and close to roaring, as if Wei Ying finally bared himself for a sin that Wangji's anger could direct at — if not the suicide he has yet to commit, then this. This will do. ]
Was there a shortage in gutters, that you had to take your lover from the dregs of our sect murderers?
no subject
He didn't die.
[he throws the words down, for all that their meaning will not be hidden. they've met, and recently - wei ying feeding xue yang chroma by the cup with his fingers, his lips, until his wounds have eased in their pain. but that's not why he's saying the words, isn't it? xue yang is indefensible, his crimes great enough to warrant the righteous fury of qinghe nie; why, then, wei ying's defense?
he persists. wei ying doesn't know what else to do.]
I came from the gutters too, Lan Zhan. It's by Jiang Fengmian's mercy that I stand where I am, and the world has never let me forget that. Wei Wuxian, of Yunmeng Jiang - privileged son of a servant, like many have reminded me, son of Cangse Sanren who turned her back on the privilege of the gentry. I know what I owe. I can't forget even if I tried.
Do you know what he's told me? What everyone's tiptoed around since I came here?
The Wens, dead. All of them, down to the last child. And I stood to bear the blame for the delay of their execution, with no one to stand in my defense - not even my sworn brother, not even you. Nothing I've been told since has gone against it. Everyone's keeping the truth from me, I'm not so blind to not notice, the careful words, the turn of the head when I ask about what lies ahead of me.
Is it true? Surely the great and noble houses must have good reason to wipe out a whole sect. Surely there's a righteous explanation to stand aside and let the murder of so many come to pass. Xue Yang... He told me about Wen Ning. About the experiments. I don't want to believe it, I really don't - what was the whole point of our vows if we're no better than the evils we've sworn to fight?
If he's so despicable to you, Lan Zhan, then refute it all. I'll believe you. If you say it's not true, then it isn't. Tell me that I won't find myself in Yiling. Tell me that the sects have shown mercy. Tell me that I don't fall into the practice of demonic cultivation, that I don't turn my back on the right path. If it's you, if you say it—
Tell me he's lying. Tell me that I don't stray so far from where you stand that I'm left with the dead and the wretched in my wake.
no subject
Call the lies of Xue Yang's viper tongue. Next time, rip it at hungry root.
Jiang Fengmian's mercy, the privilege of a favoured son, Lan Qiren's reluctance — a whirlpool of detail in the dead of nightless winter, corners of crystal glinting like mother's tears between sheets of powdered sleet.
Wei Ying pulls on him, like Jiang Wanyin calls on his dog, and treacherously Lan Wangji''s footing gives in a stumble disciples might know to correct at the last second with a rebalance of their momentum, but a drunk man fails to adjust. Hurt spills in web-work of ripples on impact, one knee thudding down into ice that doesn't crumble. Bichen, handier than a blind man's cane, breaking Wangji's fall.
The talisman-rope bridges them, a leash of Lan Wangji's summon, if not his make. He watches light travel on it, ride up in tip-toe like a cricket's footprint, crawling up Wei Yi — Wei Wuxian's hands, possessed of their malice. Yiling patriarch, oh, but there were signs, there were betrayals, there was arrogance, always, no matter how young. ]
You want to know where you stray to?
[ He rasps, and for once they share the hunger. Wangji rounds the talisman's thread in a loop around his hand once, rises — and pulls in his own right, to drag Wei Wuxian like the limp cloth dolls of peasant girls, steps behind him.
Violence warrants violence, one lesson for another. To the rim then, the teeth of the gully's maw, the very edge — so Wei Wuxian can have his look again, have his fill of it. ]
I want to know why your memory mocks me.
no subject
of course. recognition pierces through wei ying's compromised mind with blinding clarity - this is how his affections crystallize into something tangible in front of him. want cores through his nerves like lighting, carving quick, needle-thin paths straight to his heart, just as his own anger crests, crests still, never stopping.
here sits a difference of perspective between them - it might as well be a chasm.]
'Do not speak to me of death.'
[wei ying slings the words back, finally grasping their meaning. finally, finally, finally - the word turning over and over as it slots into the spaces of what he doesn't know, fitting perfectly. does it come soon? it must; it should. he hopes. let the damned abyss reach up and strangle him, let it drag him into his depths, let it eat him whole.
make him worthy of lan wangji's anger. rain it all down on him, soak him in it.
wetness stings his eyes. pity him, a fool - infatuated with a man who's only ever seen him as anything but a friend. he's begged with his heart for xue yang's words to be struck down; should he bow, should he kneel on the ground? it doesn't come. none of it comes.
so it stands, uncontested: wei wuxian, orphaned son of cangse sanren and wei changze, left alone by everyone he's loved to defend the dredges of a common enemy, doomed to fall into the arms of a murderer as a lover, with no one but his own shadow to watch his back.
madam yu was right. he's not worth the life he's been given.]
Piss off, Lan Wangji.
[words, calmly pronounced, as wei ying pulls on the thread, pulling lan zhan close.
he kisses him on the mouth, just as the last pull on the thread topples them over into the gully.]
no subject
No grace to the dance. No guidance. Only the misery of hitting first hard things, then the snowy soft, smears of dirt and crystal crests — his spine and back grinding. His wounded side, poorly favoured when he controls nothing of the descent, less of the roll, far so of Wei Ying's weight, commanding Wangji's to twist and turn, retaliatory.
The forest is silent when they drop down, not a thud or a hard pronouncement, but a coarse, apologetic rustle, thin wave of ice speckles following them after. The gully was not so tall, the hints of river it may have watched over long frozen. Struck down, Wangji breathes in time with the passage of water he feels coursing beneath the glacial spread, so many lengths below.
Wan sunlight striking white angles into stark-blank snow. Farther out, the starting clamor of arctic geese, rallying against unseen targets. Chills sigh across Wangji's skin, betraying the rupture of cloth where it should fasten. When he moves, it's with the slow tell of the wine fog that stammers his thoughts, more than the clumsy bruising that compounds earlier wounds. A quiet, white noise of ache.
Bichen is close enough for Wangji to suffer the inconvenience of leaning to grasp it close, despite the protests of his shoulders. He raises himself slowly, Wei Ying a dark bundle beside him, visibly living and livid. With a hiss, Lan Wangji untangles them enough to sit, side by side, ungainly pillared by stretches of crystal behind them and brushing at shoulders, hips and the long line of neighbouring legs — all the better to generate the healing chroma Wangji has learned now, on three occasions, he'd sooner have than abandon.
Lethargy floods him, compelling every synapse of his sharpened mind down to the edges of his limbs. Every spark of storm has quieted inside of him. There is nothing to resent Wei Ying here, less to avenge. Give Wei Wuxian the stage of a cliff's lodge, of course he will put on his performance. And what had Wangji hoped for? Words? Explanations? Redemption? A fool's heart can't be understood, let alone forgiven, Wei Ying said so. This played out as well as any disaster between them could hope to. If Wangji's chest weren't a cushion of pins and needles, he might laugh.
His rasping waits until Wei Ying seems to stir back to his senses, alert as much as he is awake. ]
Wei Ying. [ The folds of his sleeve are dishevelled, the under-layer torn, where the outer silk, wind-swept, eluded the groans of gravity and tearing. He lifts his wrist to show wire and bone, the obstinate resilience of the talisman string that's survived the fall in strange, cobalt glimmer. Strong sorcery. Balanced make. If not for the time and the day and the people they've become, Lan Wangji should compliment the craftsmanship. ] Release the bind.
[ So Lan Wangji can piss off. ]
no subject
wei wuxian breathes slowly, shallowly, uncaring about dignity and pride as he scrubs at his face and nose before the cold can properly freeze his tears and snot. he doesn't look at lan wangji, even though every part of him is screaming at him to turn, turn, turn - see to lan wangji's injury, help him up, offer his help in whatever way he can manage.
it won't be welcome now, a slithering voice reminds him. not that it's ever been welcome before.
that's for the better, isn't it? wei wuxian's made enough of a mess.
he's an idiot. a fool. if it were possible to survive here without seeing another human being he'll gladly subject himself to secluded meditation. it'll be lonely, and he'll miss everyone deeply, but it'd be the right thing to do.
he should not have lashed out. should not have hurt lan zhan like this, should not have hurt him at all. his emotions have blinded him, rendered him a brute, thrown caution and respect into the wind. so what if his heart had shattered to pieces? he's an idiot to have given it away so freely in the first place. did he expect reciprocation? he'd only ever pushed at lan wangji's boundaries, offending the man at every turn, what love is there for someone like him, when all he's ever done is to break every rule he's ever faced?
a man like lan wangji doesn't deserve to suffer a man like him.]
I'm sorry, [he croaks out, voice wet as though underwater. wei wuxian releases the bind, the coil dissipating in a burst of faint light; he keeps his head down, moves to stand. his shoulder aches from the first impact, and his hip is screaming where suibian has refused to yield during the tumble down the gully. small cuts and bruises all over; they might as well coalesce into one large bruise.
he's never felt quite as hollow as he does now.]
I'll just go.
[shame, hot brands around his ankles and neck. wei wuxian flees.]
no subject
His wrist falls in his lap, listless and as indifferent as Wangji's heart wishes it could still itself, beating to the cadence of guilt in resonance. It rises again, possessed of its own volition — to stop Wei Wuxian, only another breath longer. Drag him back. Say words they should have shared a life that Wei Ying's yet to live before.
Doesn't catch purchase. He'll go — does go, scant and dwindling in the distance, stretch of darkness in plain, blinding white. Fitting, to be abandoned here, in the aftermath of it all, gathering the pieces.
He knows the part. He's bled worse before for it. ]