Heat drips down his neck, soaking the collar of his local styled robes, beading and trailing away to be swallowed as tears in the rain. Dampening, cooled mark as he swallows, stills for a moment, passes his rag over Lan Zhan's chest, catching droplets which were never there.
"Seems like you can be," he says, and his wash rag traces the planes of Lan Zhan's face, just one side, from the line of his cheek toward its rise by his eye, to his temple, to his ear. "Seems you already decided to be a mother's son years ago."
Not for the shadows around his throat, but for having let go, for outrunning himself and his incessant need to hold.Come to Gusu Lan cannot be the sanctuary it has been, in brief times, without them both free to walk away from those haunting mountains and their legacy of restraint.
A home to come back to, and a home from which to leave. He sighs, switches the wash rag to his other hand, and as he carefully cleans Lan Zhan's face, his fingertips in their chilling reality tap down on each of the points of pressure across Lan Zhan's chest, down to the one that rests well below the water line, no lingering gaze needed to know its mark.
"You could have done so too," he says, says what they both know, as the qi is freed from its restrictions to allow the warm blossom of its plenitude to unfurl through Lan Zhan's aching form. "Lean forward, ah? Easier for me to pour water through your hair this way."
Not the lazed, slit eyed exhaustion that rested as surely predatorial as languid, but the one that catches more of the water within the basin than without, that he might pour water kept warm in its bucket down through dark locks, work out the dirt and leaves and twigs and filth that accumulates even without a forest's fingers raking through. Wei Wuxian settles the wash rag across the lip of the bath, shifting to take hold of the bucket tucked by its side. Water glistens at his neck, flecked diamonds in the morning's light.
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"Seems like you can be," he says, and his wash rag traces the planes of Lan Zhan's face, just one side, from the line of his cheek toward its rise by his eye, to his temple, to his ear. "Seems you already decided to be a mother's son years ago."
Not for the shadows around his throat, but for having let go, for outrunning himself and his incessant need to hold. Come to Gusu Lan cannot be the sanctuary it has been, in brief times, without them both free to walk away from those haunting mountains and their legacy of restraint.
A home to come back to, and a home from which to leave. He sighs, switches the wash rag to his other hand, and as he carefully cleans Lan Zhan's face, his fingertips in their chilling reality tap down on each of the points of pressure across Lan Zhan's chest, down to the one that rests well below the water line, no lingering gaze needed to know its mark.
"You could have done so too," he says, says what they both know, as the qi is freed from its restrictions to allow the warm blossom of its plenitude to unfurl through Lan Zhan's aching form. "Lean forward, ah? Easier for me to pour water through your hair this way."
Not the lazed, slit eyed exhaustion that rested as surely predatorial as languid, but the one that catches more of the water within the basin than without, that he might pour water kept warm in its bucket down through dark locks, work out the dirt and leaves and twigs and filth that accumulates even without a forest's fingers raking through. Wei Wuxian settles the wash rag across the lip of the bath, shifting to take hold of the bucket tucked by its side. Water glistens at his neck, flecked diamonds in the morning's light.