( They were men born into the gasping end of a period of decades stretching peace, still raised orphans before orphans became of their juniors the uniting truth. Violence as a language has formed him, as have the interstices of gentleness that he finds harder to accept without swallowing himself whole, and here, too, he can understand this.
A hand, steel, at his shoulder. The shove of it, the fall broken, the chair cracking with meaning that warns of lessened sanctity of self; forgotten, because it is not the crack he anticipates, is not the pain a part of him presumes, assumes, embraces to follow. If his heart beats, it stutters along, adrenaline not a pleasant sensation in its inevitable, speeding rush toward precipice, blood howling in his ears. There is, however, the reassurance in it: the warmth of Lan Zhan's body, his heat in words, the wood at his back holding him up as words wrest past Lan Zhan's teeth, as if this is the first which sought to swallow Wei Wuxian whole using his voice.
He has no room for answering, between them. No room before the house quavers, cries out in the long, aching manner of the geriatric rousing from bed, and crumbles as completely as underbaked clay around them, on them, Wei Wuxian falling back before he flails his arms, clutching at Lan Zhan's robes to keep from pitching back into the gaping maw of the rotten house seeking to consume his flesh for his bones, for the sake of reinforcing itself as the sawdust rises over them, a malignant cloud, and the bound spirit of the once-fair-maiden shudders away in her containment, caught and captive to the destruction of the living. What a force, she might intuit, to be reckoned with, if she has anything left with which to intuit at all.
Here, he clings, here he ducks his head forward and presses his forehead, his right eye, too firmly against Lan Zhan's chest, too close to the nape of his neck, and violent is the movement of his head at an angle, pushing, brushing, forcing the lines of ribbon up, enough that one eye blinks free into settling dust, slamming shut again only to slit open, peering at a pulse too close, to a dark curtain of hair, and not the table beyond, not any of the rest.
He coughs, realises he's been coughing, and sighs, burying his face in Lan Zhan's robes and nuzzling to force the ribbon higher, away from his other eye. )
I can take your explanation, Lan Zhan, but the wall couldn't.
( Sharp, explosive force, and his body knows it, has endured it before, will endure it again. Yet still, spoken reasonably, as if this were a reasonable situation, as if he doesn't feel wood in his hair, down his collar, coating his lungs, lining his nostrils. A barrier spreading across his skin. )
I know how that tastes. Now I know how the wall tastes. Lan Zhan—
( There, on that table, in the settling detritus of a thankfully not structure supporting wall, a spirit shimmers, and the remnants of another wisp their destruction. That, too, needs dealing with. Requires reckoning. )
no subject
A hand, steel, at his shoulder. The shove of it, the fall broken, the chair cracking with meaning that warns of lessened sanctity of self; forgotten, because it is not the crack he anticipates, is not the pain a part of him presumes, assumes, embraces to follow. If his heart beats, it stutters along, adrenaline not a pleasant sensation in its inevitable, speeding rush toward precipice, blood howling in his ears. There is, however, the reassurance in it: the warmth of Lan Zhan's body, his heat in words, the wood at his back holding him up as words wrest past Lan Zhan's teeth, as if this is the first which sought to swallow Wei Wuxian whole using his voice.
He has no room for answering, between them. No room before the house quavers, cries out in the long, aching manner of the geriatric rousing from bed, and crumbles as completely as underbaked clay around them, on them, Wei Wuxian falling back before he flails his arms, clutching at Lan Zhan's robes to keep from pitching back into the gaping maw of the rotten house seeking to consume his flesh for his bones, for the sake of reinforcing itself as the sawdust rises over them, a malignant cloud, and the bound spirit of the once-fair-maiden shudders away in her containment, caught and captive to the destruction of the living. What a force, she might intuit, to be reckoned with, if she has anything left with which to intuit at all.
Here, he clings, here he ducks his head forward and presses his forehead, his right eye, too firmly against Lan Zhan's chest, too close to the nape of his neck, and violent is the movement of his head at an angle, pushing, brushing, forcing the lines of ribbon up, enough that one eye blinks free into settling dust, slamming shut again only to slit open, peering at a pulse too close, to a dark curtain of hair, and not the table beyond, not any of the rest.
He coughs, realises he's been coughing, and sighs, burying his face in Lan Zhan's robes and nuzzling to force the ribbon higher, away from his other eye. )
I can take your explanation, Lan Zhan, but the wall couldn't.
( Sharp, explosive force, and his body knows it, has endured it before, will endure it again. Yet still, spoken reasonably, as if this were a reasonable situation, as if he doesn't feel wood in his hair, down his collar, coating his lungs, lining his nostrils. A barrier spreading across his skin. )
I know how that tastes. Now I know how the wall tastes. Lan Zhan—
( There, on that table, in the settling detritus of a thankfully not structure supporting wall, a spirit shimmers, and the remnants of another wisp their destruction. That, too, needs dealing with. Requires reckoning. )