Take them, and his hands float and rise and go, venomous snakes seeking fresh shelter in the nest of Wei Ying's hair, coiled, clutched, grasping.
There is a pleasure in the give, a rapt, mute exhilaration: Wei Ying bends, and Lan Wangji's touch follows, remembering the first heaving breath of the rabbits, trembled in his hand. How their spines curled, their limbs retreated, twitched like flickers of sunlight between braiding grass blades. How the furred sheen of their muscled side gave way to soft, marine trembles. Breathe alongside them, and keep his caress gentled, breathe and let the universe swell and deflate beside him, let its life pulse.
The water, first. Mouth half-gasped, he collects fresh load, and he knows the trick of things now, of lifting it sweetly and letting it sink, of watching the long trailed drop of it mingled with Wei Ying's hair. He scrunches Wei Ying's tresses first, kinder than an honest scrub might call for — combs fingers through the woven length, then eases them down. Once. Again. The paste, following, until he more strokes the hair than applies himself to it, but pulls back, half-knelt, to explore his handiwork.
"Acceptable?" Never mind the wave of suds lingered on each side of Wei Ying's scalp, the rain of it down, the excruciating knots of worked hair.
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There is a pleasure in the give, a rapt, mute exhilaration: Wei Ying bends, and Lan Wangji's touch follows, remembering the first heaving breath of the rabbits, trembled in his hand. How their spines curled, their limbs retreated, twitched like flickers of sunlight between braiding grass blades. How the furred sheen of their muscled side gave way to soft, marine trembles. Breathe alongside them, and keep his caress gentled, breathe and let the universe swell and deflate beside him, let its life pulse.
The water, first. Mouth half-gasped, he collects fresh load, and he knows the trick of things now, of lifting it sweetly and letting it sink, of watching the long trailed drop of it mingled with Wei Ying's hair. He scrunches Wei Ying's tresses first, kinder than an honest scrub might call for — combs fingers through the woven length, then eases them down. Once. Again. The paste, following, until he more strokes the hair than applies himself to it, but pulls back, half-knelt, to explore his handiwork.
"Acceptable?" Never mind the wave of suds lingered on each side of Wei Ying's scalp, the rain of it down, the excruciating knots of worked hair.