"Sixteen years silent. Always speak." And the silence spell, never again to be cast, not while Wangji and Sizhui live to unfetter it. Longing is lace waiting to unspool at the first catch of a nail's snag. Wei Ying has a generous mouth, unstitched wide for laughter. On Mian Mian, Lan Wangji remembers, it rounds as if it were a syrupy moan.
Heat cloys, inextricable. He feels at once armoured in fluttered spasms of warmth and suffocated. In Wei Ying's hand, a rag clots wet and prunes, and Lan Wangji, modesty a limpid but tenuous abstract, leans towards it, head a sloppy weight on the one arm he's slung molten and loose on the rim of the bathtub. His lids draw down heavy, leaden, the world reduced the blade's cut his slanted eyes still perceive, serpentine.
When he raises his hand, waters crash each way, as if he dreamed them high and crashed them down. Sound is absorbed in the heat that slackens his tongue. His fingers trip, knot in air, stretch out before they reach the column of Wei Ying's wreath-marked throat.
"I wish to be a mother's son." And not the father, written in the manacle that rounds Wei Ying's jugular now, in bruise and shadow and swell each time his pulse blooms. Lan Wangji's grip moulds over the marks, qin player's nails strong. He does not clasp down. Releases, nearly instantly, wet of his palm a glistened print, the only evidence of an accident of last night's nostalgia he seems too indifferent to accept and too transfixed to ignore.
"Release my core," he murmurs, but dips his head closer to the wash rag, so Wei Ying might proceed with Lan Wangji's ablutions.
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Heat cloys, inextricable. He feels at once armoured in fluttered spasms of warmth and suffocated. In Wei Ying's hand, a rag clots wet and prunes, and Lan Wangji, modesty a limpid but tenuous abstract, leans towards it, head a sloppy weight on the one arm he's slung molten and loose on the rim of the bathtub. His lids draw down heavy, leaden, the world reduced the blade's cut his slanted eyes still perceive, serpentine.
When he raises his hand, waters crash each way, as if he dreamed them high and crashed them down. Sound is absorbed in the heat that slackens his tongue. His fingers trip, knot in air, stretch out before they reach the column of Wei Ying's wreath-marked throat.
"I wish to be a mother's son." And not the father, written in the manacle that rounds Wei Ying's jugular now, in bruise and shadow and swell each time his pulse blooms. Lan Wangji's grip moulds over the marks, qin player's nails strong. He does not clasp down. Releases, nearly instantly, wet of his palm a glistened print, the only evidence of an accident of last night's nostalgia he seems too indifferent to accept and too transfixed to ignore.
"Release my core," he murmurs, but dips his head closer to the wash rag, so Wei Ying might proceed with Lan Wangji's ablutions.