Can. Need not. Values and nuance, and Wei Ying lukewarm against his back, limbs the dark-rooted extension of a willow tree learning its bend. He hangs, and Lan Wangji decides, in that cold-hearted winter's widow of a moment, to trust the leap — to lift himself, gently, first crouching, then to stand, then the walk. One foot, the next.
He does not surrender himself, not before the dog who is tall, or Wei Ying who is molten, or the prospect of their son, wandering the rooms.
"Play dead, then." Close your eyes, he needn't say, should we pass him by. He has gone through every pains of calculation to secure their itinerary, but the odds of the dog moving to greet his human companions aren't as slim as the kindling bone of Wei Ying's wrist, slack against Wangji's back. His step quiets, eases, dissolves into ground — two ghosts, carrying out their haunting.
"What passed throughout your watch?" Distraction is the better part of value. Discretion and Wei Ying's penchant for vigilance, despite the wards he's raised on their doors, stalwart defenders.
There are whispers and there are wisps, invitations like honeyed streams in dripped milk — a rich, riotous pleasure whose decadence only spoils the recipient. Exorcism has taught Lan Wangji the merits of indifference. Wei Ying struggles still, father to every shadow-born stray. Listens. Heeds.
no subject
He does not surrender himself, not before the dog who is tall, or Wei Ying who is molten, or the prospect of their son, wandering the rooms.
"Play dead, then." Close your eyes, he needn't say, should we pass him by. He has gone through every pains of calculation to secure their itinerary, but the odds of the dog moving to greet his human companions aren't as slim as the kindling bone of Wei Ying's wrist, slack against Wangji's back. His step quiets, eases, dissolves into ground — two ghosts, carrying out their haunting.
"What passed throughout your watch?" Distraction is the better part of value. Discretion and Wei Ying's penchant for vigilance, despite the wards he's raised on their doors, stalwart defenders.
There are whispers and there are wisps, invitations like honeyed streams in dripped milk — a rich, riotous pleasure whose decadence only spoils the recipient. Exorcism has taught Lan Wangji the merits of indifference. Wei Ying struggles still, father to every shadow-born stray. Listens. Heeds.