There. The tide and undercurrents, notes feeble and pace known, and the lean tremble of Wei Ying's voice, guiding the song.
"I wonder." When Wei Ying will remember, when Lan Wangji will forfeit the name. A world of nebulous and yawning uncertainty, glimpsed between even breaths, adjusting to fresh axis. Ground, shaking. The air, shedding weight, barely burdened by reverberation when the client's groan trickles out again, syrupy and diffused. 'Please,' 'Mercy,' 'Thank you.'
He is walking, morning sun trailing long shadows when he drags his husk from the wall, and Wei Ying, by limp wrist, like a child (Sizhui) behind him — excusing them both, tatters of a tug binding the parting courtesy. Discretion is the better part of misplaced value. He tires of sharing reunions with every soul of Dafan mountain, the cultivation world, a destitute institution of wanton pleasures.
"Fleeing already?" he murmurs with a sketched glance behind, delivering Wei Wuxian to the square of scrub-cleansed wood and idle straw, where Wangji's bowl of lathers waits, half-emptied. The cloak, Wei Ying's cavalier manner, the air of apologetic frenzy — outside, the weather weeps in trinkets of threadbare snow. Like it, Wei Ying proves flimsy.
Unbidden, he remembers the alms owed, thin rivulet of qi welling from his fingertips to the soft insides of Wei Ying's wrist. A tentative proposition, with Lan Wangji's own strength curtailed. More, to spare later.
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"I wonder." When Wei Ying will remember, when Lan Wangji will forfeit the name. A world of nebulous and yawning uncertainty, glimpsed between even breaths, adjusting to fresh axis. Ground, shaking. The air, shedding weight, barely burdened by reverberation when the client's groan trickles out again, syrupy and diffused. 'Please,' 'Mercy,' 'Thank you.'
He is walking, morning sun trailing long shadows when he drags his husk from the wall, and Wei Ying, by limp wrist, like a child (Sizhui) behind him — excusing them both, tatters of a tug binding the parting courtesy. Discretion is the better part of misplaced value. He tires of sharing reunions with every soul of Dafan mountain, the cultivation world, a destitute institution of wanton pleasures.
"Fleeing already?" he murmurs with a sketched glance behind, delivering Wei Wuxian to the square of scrub-cleansed wood and idle straw, where Wangji's bowl of lathers waits, half-emptied. The cloak, Wei Ying's cavalier manner, the air of apologetic frenzy — outside, the weather weeps in trinkets of threadbare snow. Like it, Wei Ying proves flimsy.
Unbidden, he remembers the alms owed, thin rivulet of qi welling from his fingertips to the soft insides of Wei Ying's wrist. A tentative proposition, with Lan Wangji's own strength curtailed. More, to spare later.