( That he must even speak the words, that they ever come to this is testimony to everything that Zewu-Jun fails to acknowledge, to every flaw indelibly entrenched in Wen Kexing's character that turns his smile sweet and his mind murderous.
Far from Lan Wangji to accuse, to doubt — and yet. He turns, one arm bound behind his back, fingers clenching, folding, tightening. Breathes. In and out and sedate, a beast restrained, suffocated by his collar. He dare not push or venture too afar, needn't collide with Wen Kexing's natural inclination to prickle, like a rose in bloom or a scorpion making headway across silt.
What's wrong with the walls? Their gazes lock, crash. He nods to their left, where splotches of ink shape either a man or a transient artistic folly. Beside it, another print. A third, a fourth. All seem... the work of the same dubious genius, innocuous but for how Lan Wangji's glance caresses them, and the brush strokes that shape them... shift. )
no subject
( That he must even speak the words, that they ever come to this is testimony to everything that Zewu-Jun fails to acknowledge, to every flaw indelibly entrenched in Wen Kexing's character that turns his smile sweet and his mind murderous.
Far from Lan Wangji to accuse, to doubt — and yet. He turns, one arm bound behind his back, fingers clenching, folding, tightening. Breathes. In and out and sedate, a beast restrained, suffocated by his collar. He dare not push or venture too afar, needn't collide with Wen Kexing's natural inclination to prickle, like a rose in bloom or a scorpion making headway across silt.
What's wrong with the walls? Their gazes lock, crash. He nods to their left, where splotches of ink shape either a man or a transient artistic folly. Beside it, another print. A third, a fourth. All seem... the work of the same dubious genius, innocuous but for how Lan Wangji's glance caresses them, and the brush strokes that shape them... shift. )
They move.