There is a moment, between strike and contact, when he thinks, This man's boot will shatter my teeth.
He does not shield from it. Trembles, with cowardly inexorability, when Wei Ying's heel draws slow and limp, and the convulsive beat of his kicks turns trickled by sleep, wholly flaccid. He has carved out on Wei Ying's skin a bloom of cadaverous bruises — deserves each of his own bones dug out, his skins flayed and flesh left to dry beneath scavenger birds, and even here, now, thin morning light cascading over Wei Ying's cheek like gossamer, Lan Wangji cannot have succour.
Guilt would have made a mockery of atonement. He accepts that what began in finer quarters with the iron of his knuckles shackled keen around Wei Ying's throat does not end here, in heartbeats of tender lethargy. And Wei Ying, compelled by the kindness of instinct more than by his fear, already unburies him a place between the covers, as he might do for a son chased by nightmares. Sizhui should be buried beneath rabbits, and Wei Ying beneath children.
Temptation itches his skin like pox plague. His fingers dance the edge lines of Wei Ying's boot, ride up his covered ankle. Shamelessly, he loosens their laces enough to tease the covers free and the boots released, set to guard Wei Ying's sleep by the bed's side. Linens stretch out meagerly in hand, ridiculing him with the scant warmth provided. He swaddles Wei Ying as he was before, and only lingers enough to powder his ink, make paste, slap strikes on reused parchment —
魏 婴
|
I entrust you my son, sword and apologies, until the curse's pull passes.
Give them care.
|
蓝 忘 机
Until, for far better to presume the ache of hunt that haunted Wangji for a night is fleeting. Better to remove himself, as Wei Ying did once, so he may pose no threat under the thrall.
He is silent in retreat, in parting glances. This too shall pass.
no subject
He does not shield from it. Trembles, with cowardly inexorability, when Wei Ying's heel draws slow and limp, and the convulsive beat of his kicks turns trickled by sleep, wholly flaccid. He has carved out on Wei Ying's skin a bloom of cadaverous bruises — deserves each of his own bones dug out, his skins flayed and flesh left to dry beneath scavenger birds, and even here, now, thin morning light cascading over Wei Ying's cheek like gossamer, Lan Wangji cannot have succour.
Guilt would have made a mockery of atonement. He accepts that what began in finer quarters with the iron of his knuckles shackled keen around Wei Ying's throat does not end here, in heartbeats of tender lethargy. And Wei Ying, compelled by the kindness of instinct more than by his fear, already unburies him a place between the covers, as he might do for a son chased by nightmares. Sizhui should be buried beneath rabbits, and Wei Ying beneath children.
Temptation itches his skin like pox plague. His fingers dance the edge lines of Wei Ying's boot, ride up his covered ankle. Shamelessly, he loosens their laces enough to tease the covers free and the boots released, set to guard Wei Ying's sleep by the bed's side. Linens stretch out meagerly in hand, ridiculing him with the scant warmth provided. He swaddles Wei Ying as he was before, and only lingers enough to powder his ink, make paste, slap strikes on reused parchment —
婴
|
I entrust you my son, sword and apologies, until the curse's pull passes.
Give them care.
|
蓝
忘
机
Until, for far better to presume the ache of hunt that haunted Wangji for a night is fleeting. Better to remove himself, as Wei Ying did once, so he may pose no threat under the thrall.
He is silent in retreat, in parting glances. This too shall pass.