In younger years, with secrets new and scabs barely healing, there were words which hurt more for what he couldn't by his own choice reveal: the ridicule received in his deviance only becoming a greater danger, a more palpable threat, if the extent of his weakened state were known. Trust had continued, in his sister and brother, in Lan Wangji and the teachings of his clan that had helped Wei Wuxian retain his sanity, when left to the dead. Retained further, when fighting with the force of them, voices that whispered and clamoured and crept, looking for their release in no way that boded well for himself.
His head rests on his arm, and he half closes his eyes. Denial, time after time, because of what he was worried would be discovered. Uncovered. Seen through.
"Okay."
Denial now feels pointless, in the wake of everything else, where the most rest he had was in rest after the unfamiliar task of controlling alien minds, dead and devoted in their fanatical way to something he only really understood in the aftermath. There was something to be said for having jumped into it unknowing, and relying on the grace of another person steeped in the art of death to drag him back. Tiredly, he wonders if Lan Zhan had been concerned at his oversleeping those days, stuffed elsewhere into the bowels of the brothel and left to heal in the way that meant he felt weak when he finally stumbled out of bed, but reflection questions, figures: no. He'd not been missing, and their son had come, and he remembers Lan Zhan's agony, the concussion and his fingers curled into damp cloth over weathered boards. No, he would have thought the same.
He doesn't open his eyes when asked to brace, trusting to the darkness paired with the warmth of the living to keep him from needing to track each section of space navigated, let paranoia creep in when he prefers not to bed that particular beast. Cold elsewhere means he presses closer, uses qi to keep the worst of the chill off, but measured in that use. He's learned how, in all his wandering. Tempered himself to be a man of many smaller gestures, rather than the grand showiness and talent of his youth, or even the persistent exhaustion of his resurrection out of the heart of darkness. Opens his eyes fully at the bracketing cheek, as if surprised: he swallows, finding he is surprised regardless, each time Lan Zhan makes of himself someone more kind than Wei Wuxian continues to think he really deserves.
Surrounded by turnips and potatoes, all these, and hearing he needn't be alone, he laughs; gravely and low, felt against Lan Zhan's back. "But I'm not, am I? I have you at my side again," said with a smile, his eyes trained down, rather than looking forward or sideways at Lan Zhan's face, next to his. "Sizhui's here, and a handful of the rest aren't so bad."
It's not the same. He knows it, like he knows the whispers and nails digging into wood, tearing at talismans in the night. Like he knows bared teeth on people and dogs, but a childhood's ending at those belonging to dogs has left a deeper scar than the sadness brought about by the baring of human canines.
"I'm used to it," he admits two breaths later, lifting his gaze, now looking forward. "It's not always lonely, being alone."
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His head rests on his arm, and he half closes his eyes. Denial, time after time, because of what he was worried would be discovered. Uncovered. Seen through.
"Okay."
Denial now feels pointless, in the wake of everything else, where the most rest he had was in rest after the unfamiliar task of controlling alien minds, dead and devoted in their fanatical way to something he only really understood in the aftermath. There was something to be said for having jumped into it unknowing, and relying on the grace of another person steeped in the art of death to drag him back. Tiredly, he wonders if Lan Zhan had been concerned at his oversleeping those days, stuffed elsewhere into the bowels of the brothel and left to heal in the way that meant he felt weak when he finally stumbled out of bed, but reflection questions, figures: no. He'd not been missing, and their son had come, and he remembers Lan Zhan's agony, the concussion and his fingers curled into damp cloth over weathered boards. No, he would have thought the same.
He doesn't open his eyes when asked to brace, trusting to the darkness paired with the warmth of the living to keep him from needing to track each section of space navigated, let paranoia creep in when he prefers not to bed that particular beast. Cold elsewhere means he presses closer, uses qi to keep the worst of the chill off, but measured in that use. He's learned how, in all his wandering. Tempered himself to be a man of many smaller gestures, rather than the grand showiness and talent of his youth, or even the persistent exhaustion of his resurrection out of the heart of darkness. Opens his eyes fully at the bracketing cheek, as if surprised: he swallows, finding he is surprised regardless, each time Lan Zhan makes of himself someone more kind than Wei Wuxian continues to think he really deserves.
Surrounded by turnips and potatoes, all these, and hearing he needn't be alone, he laughs; gravely and low, felt against Lan Zhan's back. "But I'm not, am I? I have you at my side again," said with a smile, his eyes trained down, rather than looking forward or sideways at Lan Zhan's face, next to his. "Sizhui's here, and a handful of the rest aren't so bad."
It's not the same. He knows it, like he knows the whispers and nails digging into wood, tearing at talismans in the night. Like he knows bared teeth on people and dogs, but a childhood's ending at those belonging to dogs has left a deeper scar than the sadness brought about by the baring of human canines.
"I'm used to it," he admits two breaths later, lifting his gaze, now looking forward. "It's not always lonely, being alone."