( What part of him notices Lan Zhan's arm around his waist notes it clinically, firm and steady before it, not flinching, not leaning in. Two disproportionate responses, two disproportionate inclinations, one memory, one dream.
These are the steps he takes. These are the choices he makes. This is the trust that sings through him as true as his song plays, commands, directs, when Lan Zhan tells him he shouldn't trust him, and Wei Wuxian knows, That's precisely why I must.
He is as steady when that arm unwinds, missing the warmth of it, tensing with a lifetime ago's remembrance of what comes next. Only it does not: he does not feel the hand in his back, does not feel the kitten weakness in his legs, does not feel gravity take hold as resentful energies reach up and up, cancerous and thick, to wind around him, welcome him down. With his aching, empty core, and his aching, bright hopes for his brother, his sister, his friends.
The ones he loved, long before he'd claim the word. To make the claim is to have a weakness. To have something to lose. Love them in action, in deed, in smiles shared and burdens buried communally, love them without the words to call it what it is. )
We break so many promises.
( Isn't his answer, but it's the thought that finds breath and tongue to it before his head turns, just enough to see some flicker of Lan Zhan over his shoulder. )
Nevermind that. They know, yes. Until he steals them back from me, there's enough of who they were to know.
( Caught in the rough amber of this moment, moving with the sword by simply not needing to move at all. He can hold himself to it when his energy isn't what powers it, and he laughs to himself, deep within his heart, and cries, somewhere deeper. )
I can play through, Lan Zhan. Then we burn them. This is not our world, and that is not their shattering. Will you trust? Will you catch me after?
( That sometimes, the support he needs is this: defense, and the arms grown used to guiding his falls to the ground, to not slam down and weep but for the damage he won't be aware of until he claws back from the depths of his unconsciousness and breathes in the free air, changed.
The dead rend, and numbers atrophy, piece by piece. The time of contempt is nigh, but lo, in the screams of stone and slit throats and harpies clawing at the air for purchase they cannot find on rended wings, it has been here ever since, and low, low this place seeks to fall still. )
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( What part of him notices Lan Zhan's arm around his waist notes it clinically, firm and steady before it, not flinching, not leaning in. Two disproportionate responses, two disproportionate inclinations, one memory, one dream.
These are the steps he takes. These are the choices he makes. This is the trust that sings through him as true as his song plays, commands, directs, when Lan Zhan tells him he shouldn't trust him, and Wei Wuxian knows, That's precisely why I must.
He is as steady when that arm unwinds, missing the warmth of it, tensing with a lifetime ago's remembrance of what comes next. Only it does not: he does not feel the hand in his back, does not feel the kitten weakness in his legs, does not feel gravity take hold as resentful energies reach up and up, cancerous and thick, to wind around him, welcome him down. With his aching, empty core, and his aching, bright hopes for his brother, his sister, his friends.
The ones he loved, long before he'd claim the word. To make the claim is to have a weakness. To have something to lose. Love them in action, in deed, in smiles shared and burdens buried communally, love them without the words to call it what it is. )
We break so many promises.
( Isn't his answer, but it's the thought that finds breath and tongue to it before his head turns, just enough to see some flicker of Lan Zhan over his shoulder. )
Nevermind that. They know, yes. Until he steals them back from me, there's enough of who they were to know.
( Caught in the rough amber of this moment, moving with the sword by simply not needing to move at all. He can hold himself to it when his energy isn't what powers it, and he laughs to himself, deep within his heart, and cries, somewhere deeper. )
I can play through, Lan Zhan. Then we burn them. This is not our world, and that is not their shattering. Will you trust? Will you catch me after?
( That sometimes, the support he needs is this: defense, and the arms grown used to guiding his falls to the ground, to not slam down and weep but for the damage he won't be aware of until he claws back from the depths of his unconsciousness and breathes in the free air, changed.
The dead rend, and numbers atrophy, piece by piece. The time of contempt is nigh, but lo, in the screams of stone and slit throats and harpies clawing at the air for purchase they cannot find on rended wings, it has been here ever since, and low, low this place seeks to fall still. )