( He doesn't flinch, not at the pinch, though his lips twitch, considering a smile. Or a frown. Or nothing, in the end, but a neutral line and a languid blink, before he brings his hand up, rakes his nails through his husband's hair and all the dirt, the blood, the sweat and oil that has found a home there, and holds. Doesn't lean in for the kisses he's sought now, with an appetite that grows larger than his body contains, pubescent in a way he hadn't been when he'd lived through those moments in truth. It is not lust, not desire, not something easily identified that coils through him in that moment: a hum he doesn't feel, but senses, in himself.
They would consume each other, but for moderation. Finding their footing again and again to stay in step, for all they stumble, and err, and break, and reform again, still whole despite themselves. )
I want every feeling, good and unpleasant, because every feeling you inspire in me affirms to me that I live. Let's find our reasons to laugh together, Lan Zhan. When I'm sad, or when you're sad, we don't let that live as all we remember. But we allow that it will happen, because we care, and we are not each other.
( His sister's lesson, echoing down the decades, out of a darkness as vast as sixteen years within a death that wasn't dying, in a hell that couldn't end. )
We're men, and men are terrible at this sort of thing anyway. Ask any woman. We'll suffer more, but we'll persist. We'll see happiness.
( His fingers gentle; his hold loosens, then tightens, Wei Wuxian leaning in to his husband, a man of great kindness, great pettiness, so many great things, and so many small ones. He's so much more human like this, so much easier to be with, with all his strengths and flaws in their ugly-beautiful metamorphosis.
Lan Zhan is not perfect. He is beautiful. Wei Wuxian would taste of him for a century to keep his stomach warmed, basking in that edge of him, and the awareness of his kind turns, his awkward pauses, the heart that cares in ways more awkward than Wei Wuxian's, but cares, deeply and genuinely. )
Trust grows, Lan Zhan. So let it.
( Or calcify and shatter before the rebuilding begins, and be on bone shards and bloodied knees, strangling in the silence of a tongue too heavy, for words too fraught. )
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They would consume each other, but for moderation. Finding their footing again and again to stay in step, for all they stumble, and err, and break, and reform again, still whole despite themselves. )
I want every feeling, good and unpleasant, because every feeling you inspire in me affirms to me that I live. Let's find our reasons to laugh together, Lan Zhan. When I'm sad, or when you're sad, we don't let that live as all we remember. But we allow that it will happen, because we care, and we are not each other.
( His sister's lesson, echoing down the decades, out of a darkness as vast as sixteen years within a death that wasn't dying, in a hell that couldn't end. )
We're men, and men are terrible at this sort of thing anyway. Ask any woman. We'll suffer more, but we'll persist. We'll see happiness.
( His fingers gentle; his hold loosens, then tightens, Wei Wuxian leaning in to his husband, a man of great kindness, great pettiness, so many great things, and so many small ones. He's so much more human like this, so much easier to be with, with all his strengths and flaws in their ugly-beautiful metamorphosis.
Lan Zhan is not perfect. He is beautiful. Wei Wuxian would taste of him for a century to keep his stomach warmed, basking in that edge of him, and the awareness of his kind turns, his awkward pauses, the heart that cares in ways more awkward than Wei Wuxian's, but cares, deeply and genuinely. )
Trust grows, Lan Zhan. So let it.
( Or calcify and shatter before the rebuilding begins, and be on bone shards and bloodied knees, strangling in the silence of a tongue too heavy, for words too fraught. )