( ...a man, distinctly ill at ease with notions of:
1. domestic service
2. the chuckling and laughing trill of women orbiting him like misplaced satellites, moths to the flame of his inadequacy
3. cosmetics, start to bitter, green-brewed end.
And yet, here Lan Wangji is, adrift in his borrowed robes, coarse and ill-fitting linens meant to endure the toil of harvesting peace and prosperity at the inn. He woke to carry water, advanced his morning with paltry tasks of transporting kitchen wares, improved it with calligraphy and now, head bowed where Allison and he loom over a parade of merrymaking women, he —
...is pouring washing water to bathe their hair. The room's drenched with excess heat from braziers, fragrances spilling in wild, cloying wafts. Thrice already, Wei Ying has warned Wangji possesses perhaps too... strong a hand for this service. The woman who's just interrupted the rolling susurrus of her gossip to cast him a frightened, owlish glance, seems to agree that the roots of her hair might not be made for raking. He pulls at the locks in hand all the same, neglecting shallow hisses and waving Allison forward to pour down her cleansing salts, while his victim suffers the agony of attention from a handsome man.
It startles him, when the sea of murmurs resumes, when the women rally in taunts and teasing of the would-be bride, when they neglect their attendants as if Allison and he were invisible, inconsequential — )
...you have shorn your hair.
( This to Allison, tongue slack, clumsy. And they say he has no social graces. )
no subject
1. domestic service
2. the chuckling and laughing trill of women orbiting him like misplaced satellites, moths to the flame of his inadequacy
3. cosmetics, start to bitter, green-brewed end.
And yet, here Lan Wangji is, adrift in his borrowed robes, coarse and ill-fitting linens meant to endure the toil of harvesting peace and prosperity at the inn. He woke to carry water, advanced his morning with paltry tasks of transporting kitchen wares, improved it with calligraphy and now, head bowed where Allison and he loom over a parade of merrymaking women, he —
...is pouring washing water to bathe their hair. The room's drenched with excess heat from braziers, fragrances spilling in wild, cloying wafts. Thrice already, Wei Ying has warned Wangji possesses perhaps too... strong a hand for this service. The woman who's just interrupted the rolling susurrus of her gossip to cast him a frightened, owlish glance, seems to agree that the roots of her hair might not be made for raking. He pulls at the locks in hand all the same, neglecting shallow hisses and waving Allison forward to pour down her cleansing salts, while his victim suffers the agony of attention from a handsome man.
It startles him, when the sea of murmurs resumes, when the women rally in taunts and teasing of the would-be bride, when they neglect their attendants as if Allison and he were invisible, inconsequential — )
...you have shorn your hair.
( This to Allison, tongue slack, clumsy. And they say he has no social graces. )