( It startles him, to think the day has come already when he must weigh out Zewu-Jun's behaviours and find them, for the first time, wanting.
But this is no fault for Wei Wuxian — of no claim, no sect — to hear of. Not a matter that requires his judgement. )
There are spirits here. Restless. Perhaps you may trust me to seek them out.
( And maybe there's an edge of bitterness to that conclusion: of all the things to be denied, Wei Ying's trust, once all has been said and done — ah, no. )
I have no doubts of your ability, there are few who are more capable after all.
[He didn’t quite understand why the matter was being pushed in this way. It felt like something was expected that he wasn’t reaching. That there was something he was lacking context for.]
Lan Zhan... I have a question.
[He had a growing suspicion something was just not quite right.]
Are there things you are aware of that I am not? The way Zewu Jun is?
Thrice here, you have overstepped with accusations.
( More yet, if they count every bite at the feast, every tinkering stab of wordplay. Wei Ying is no innocent of bloodying the men before him and tattering their reputations, only because he achieves this indiscriminately. )
Then stop hiding! We are in a strange world with few familiar faces. Must I still be outside? I thought good relations could be had, the invitation to Jin Lings first month celebration shows there is the ability. I understand the cultivation world has it's hate and assumptions. But I have things under control, and the Wen Reminents in my care have never harmed anyone.
Let us work together. We are familiar.
But, there is something off. You're not acting the way you did last I saw you, and with what Zewu Jun claimed... what if there are gaps. What if there is something I'm unaware of?
( Perhaps he shouldn't speak it so easily, venom a thinned trickle, clotting and seeping in. Brother, battered by the sickness of his guilt. Wei Ying, absorbed by the events of another decade, by Jin Ling's... invitation —
As if direr matters have not touched and tainted them since. As if they have lingered like stone, stagnant and resolute.
He breathes, and it all but tears at his lungs. )
The flower, at midday.
( And Lan Wangji, ending this... mirror sorcery. )
[ Past midday, nearer to evening, enough of the afternoon spilled like rust-ink in a weighty sky. Midday consumed itself differently than intended, with duties he chooses not to name.
He knows himself, slithering close. Knows he reeks of remains, of dust and bone and filth of dirt and vine lining his silks. Knows, too, the discourtesy of bringing death before another cultivator without the formalities of purification rites —
...but, all the same, here he finds himself. He taps Wei Ying's door with Bichen's hilt once, then again, and waits, hand out like every beggar who's pleaded for alms in the market. ]
[ The problem, solidified at Wei Ying's door, reduces itself — lets the weight of the way burden his shoulders down, nudging him to melt and sit by the door, back to hard wood, legs crossing.
Meditation strikes him as a perversion — to take it now, uncleansed, might violate the spirit of the exercise. Still, better to temper himself, each breath decelerating, until he feels the flow of the world coursing through his lungs.
Then, softer: ]
Take your time.
[ Sixteen years on, he has perfected nothing if not waiting. ]
[That gives him pause. Everyone would say that the great Lan Wangji was a just and patient man. But Wei Wuxian felt that he was quick to judge and demand, and then storm off instead. So being told to take his time felt... off.
He was curious.
He turned over to look towards the door, was Lan Wangji fuming outside hoping he would come out? Was he planning to break in? Probably not.
He crawled over to the door and placed his ear against it, trying to hear what might be going on. Maybe if he opened it a crack to try and see....]
[ ...the draft, before the creak, the imbalance against his back, the glimpse of a different dark, in the sliver of bed quarter that reveals itself.
It chills him, where the sweat of a day's wander cascaded down the steps of his spine. Begs him to shift, even before instinct consumes him, to stab the tip of Bichen, unsheathed, behind him without turning — slipping it at the lowest point of the door's opening, angled widely to pierce inside without striking Wei Ying's legs.
The rest of him stays as still as the moments before found him: waiting, back to the door, even as his sword secures it can't close on him again. ]
Sit with me.
[ On the floor, like peasants and children and men without care for status, dignity and form. ]
[Wei Wuxian could not hold back an indignant gasp. How dare Lan Wangji metaphorically stick his foot in to keep his door open! That was something he would do!
With a grumbling sigh he gave up and opened the door fully to come out and sit next to the other properly.]
[ Wei Ying sits like he speaks, relaxed in ways that beg Wangji to retaliate with rigid form and posture, compensating towards balance. Late in the day, it nearly costs him strain to remember to reshape himself around that principle — but then, they fit beside each other again, the bodily geometry of their peace brokered without ado.
He waits, until he feels Wei Ying settled, to close his eyes and let the peace that precedes meditation draw upon him again. ]
Good evening. [ This, to start; he was, earlier, scolded for his manners. ] Apologies. Wei Ying expected me earlier.
[ ...with a door not doubt shut even tighter then, rejection reinforced by Wei Ying's stubborn pride. No matter. The hour was named, the rendez-vous pledged. Of the two, Lan Wangji failed in his duties. ]
[It wasn't as if he had been waiting around or anything and lived in the same building. Missing each other and coming back later was easy enough. He hadn't even been in at the time Lan Wangji had indicated.]
[ They sit, he thinks, too closely to spare room for deceit between them. Wei Ying means to have of him more than is Lan Wangji's to give — questions of Zewu-Jun's fate, the truth of the nuances of brother's health in the wake of seclusion. A fractured state, on Wangji's kindest assessment.
He feels, on the first (second, third) swipe of the tongue, the cracks of his lips, the unpleasant ache of his joints after a day's dig. Means to have little less than conversation, and yet, here they are.
He turns, grudgingly, to open his eyes to half-mast and gaze blearily at Wei Ying, like a spoiled house cat. ]
I cannot deny words to a life-long confidant.
[ True, sixteen years ago, when Wei Ying spoke it first. True now, despite the upset of a misused blood flower. If Lan Wangji can trust any man with honesty, it is his accomplice. ]
[He was not specifically asking of Zewu Jun, just if what he spoke of could be true. Could he be from over ten years in the future? Did more than just him and the Wen siblings know about his golden core?
It bothered him.
And now, another strange thing was spoken. And he turned to look towards Lan Wangji in true confusion.]
Who?
[Were they so close? When? Lan Wangji always ran away when he wanted him to stay. He would call them friends, but such a thing, is that not more intimate than what they have right now?]
[ ...another man, of the same likeness. This much, Wei Ying makes certain, from the tired shape of his gasping mouth to the blankness of his gaze, the strain of his jaw.
Perhaps words spoken in the heat of adversity should go forgotten as quickly as Wei Ying's mind expels them. It shames Lan Wangji more to make a nuisance of himself with the reminder, than it does Wei Ying to gently reinstate order. His head inclines, the bend gentle. ]
I overstep.
[ The day's sickness, making house and home in the wraith of Wangji's body. No matter. All the same, no matter. ]
[Again things mentioned he lacks context for, a strange reaction, and no answers.
But, he didn't feel like fighting, he didn't feel like being difficult either. He just felt tired and overwhelmed. So, he stood up, but paused a moment first.]
Lan Zhan, what are you keeping to yourself? What do you know about me?
[If he too knew about....
He turned to go back into the room, retrieving the precious flower then tossing it at Lan Wangji.]
Here, have your memento. She is a kind and lovely girl.
[ The flower, soft and frail, landing sweetly. He catches it in both hands, fingers slow to rise and fortress it, protecting the dying carcass of its form. Like a true flower, burned at the tips by the start of wilting.
He looks up, nods once more. Ignores Wei Ying's earlier question for the exotic undercurrent of his words after.
The girl, in truth, barely remembered. Green eyes, a strange configuration, evoking her vines. Wei Ying, as ever, seems to have befriended the women of the world more closely than Lan Wangji had so far entertained. Kind and lovely.
...was she? ]
Because she is beautiful?
[ Wei Ying's traditional weakness: a gracious smile, a trembling voice, a victim to salvage. Looks are not virtue, but an accident of birthright — trust Wei Ying to neglect that point. ]
[ Pretty and witty and kind. Delightful. May the heavens, in their merciful wisdom, spare Lan Wangji the talents that only crones, gossips and Yiling Patriarchs seem to develop towards ill-timed matchmaking. Perhaps it's Lan Wangji who should reconsider — after all, the girl, green-eyed stranger, is the most that can apparently be hoped for his pairing: alive (for the time) and physically present.
He should only be so fortunate to win her hand, most ambitiously, before it rots away with tangles of vine from her body. He can but hope.
Or perhaps he should direct Wei Ying's efforts towards the plain, the obvious and the practical — the flower Wangji inspects a moment more, before lifting it on high in one hand to return to Wei Ying's tentative reach. ]
Whistle.
[ Catnip for strays, Wei Ying for spirits. To each wrong in this world, its lure. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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( It startles him, to think the day has come already when he must weigh out Zewu-Jun's behaviours and find them, for the first time, wanting.
But this is no fault for Wei Wuxian — of no claim, no sect — to hear of. Not a matter that requires his judgement. )
There are spirits here. Restless. Perhaps you may trust me to seek them out.
( And maybe there's an edge of bitterness to that conclusion: of all the things to be denied, Wei Ying's trust, once all has been said and done — ah, no. )
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[He didn’t quite understand why the matter was being pushed in this way. It felt like something was expected that he wasn’t reaching. That there was something he was lacking context for.]
Lan Zhan... I have a question.
[He had a growing suspicion something was just not quite right.]
Are there things you are aware of that I am not? The way Zewu Jun is?
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...fine. Zewu-jun is fine.
Clipped, for the first time: )
He will rest.
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[Rest? What did rest have to do with anything?]
Lan Zhan! What are you not saying?
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Leave the flower on your door's step.
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And stop holding your secrets. Do you not want trust between us? How can I trust when you share nothing?
Or is it because Wei Wuxian, Yiling Patriarch, Founder of Demonic Cultivation just isn’t good enough to talk to like an equal?
Do you also know things about me you shouldn’t?
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( More yet, if they count every bite at the feast, every tinkering stab of wordplay. Wei Ying is no innocent of bloodying the men before him and tattering their reputations, only because he achieves this indiscriminately. )
Choose your words.
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Let us work together. We are familiar.
But, there is something off. You're not acting the way you did last I saw you, and with what Zewu Jun claimed... what if there are gaps. What if there is something I'm unaware of?
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( Perhaps he shouldn't speak it so easily, venom a thinned trickle, clotting and seeping in. Brother, battered by the sickness of his guilt. Wei Ying, absorbed by the events of another decade, by Jin Ling's... invitation —
As if direr matters have not touched and tainted them since. As if they have lingered like stone, stagnant and resolute.
He breathes, and it all but tears at his lungs. )
The flower, at midday.
( And Lan Wangji, ending this... mirror sorcery. )
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With his emotions volatile at the best of times he coukdnt help but hurl the mirror against the wall, hoping it woukd shatter into a million pieces.]
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He knows himself, slithering close. Knows he reeks of remains, of dust and bone and filth of dirt and vine lining his silks. Knows, too, the discourtesy of bringing death before another cultivator without the formalities of purification rites —
...but, all the same, here he finds himself. He taps Wei Ying's door with Bichen's hilt once, then again, and waits, hand out like every beggar who's pleaded for alms in the market. ]
The flower.
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You can wait!
He rolled over to turn away as if ignoring it would make the problem go away.]
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Meditation strikes him as a perversion — to take it now, uncleansed, might violate the spirit of the exercise. Still, better to temper himself, each breath decelerating, until he feels the flow of the world coursing through his lungs.
Then, softer: ]
Take your time.
[ Sixteen years on, he has perfected nothing if not waiting. ]
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He was curious.
He turned over to look towards the door, was Lan Wangji fuming outside hoping he would come out? Was he planning to break in? Probably not.
He crawled over to the door and placed his ear against it, trying to hear what might be going on. Maybe if he opened it a crack to try and see....]
no subject
It chills him, where the sweat of a day's wander cascaded down the steps of his spine. Begs him to shift, even before instinct consumes him, to stab the tip of Bichen, unsheathed, behind him without turning — slipping it at the lowest point of the door's opening, angled widely to pierce inside without striking Wei Ying's legs.
The rest of him stays as still as the moments before found him: waiting, back to the door, even as his sword secures it can't close on him again. ]
Sit with me.
[ On the floor, like peasants and children and men without care for status, dignity and form. ]
no subject
With a grumbling sigh he gave up and opened the door fully to come out and sit next to the other properly.]
Fine.
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He waits, until he feels Wei Ying settled, to close his eyes and let the peace that precedes meditation draw upon him again. ]
Good evening. [ This, to start; he was, earlier, scolded for his manners. ] Apologies. Wei Ying expected me earlier.
[ ...with a door not doubt shut even tighter then, rejection reinforced by Wei Ying's stubborn pride. No matter. The hour was named, the rendez-vous pledged. Of the two, Lan Wangji failed in his duties. ]
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[It wasn't as if he had been waiting around or anything and lived in the same building. Missing each other and coming back later was easy enough. He hadn't even been in at the time Lan Wangji had indicated.]
Will you talk to me properly?
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He feels, on the first (second, third) swipe of the tongue, the cracks of his lips, the unpleasant ache of his joints after a day's dig. Means to have little less than conversation, and yet, here they are.
He turns, grudgingly, to open his eyes to half-mast and gaze blearily at Wei Ying, like a spoiled house cat. ]
I cannot deny words to a life-long confidant.
[ True, sixteen years ago, when Wei Ying spoke it first. True now, despite the upset of a misused blood flower. If Lan Wangji can trust any man with honesty, it is his accomplice. ]
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It bothered him.
And now, another strange thing was spoken. And he turned to look towards Lan Wangji in true confusion.]
Who?
[Were they so close? When? Lan Wangji always ran away when he wanted him to stay. He would call them friends, but such a thing, is that not more intimate than what they have right now?]
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Perhaps words spoken in the heat of adversity should go forgotten as quickly as Wei Ying's mind expels them. It shames Lan Wangji more to make a nuisance of himself with the reminder, than it does Wei Ying to gently reinstate order. His head inclines, the bend gentle. ]
I overstep.
[ The day's sickness, making house and home in the wraith of Wangji's body. No matter. All the same, no matter. ]
The flower. May I have it?
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But, he didn't feel like fighting, he didn't feel like being difficult either. He just felt tired and overwhelmed. So, he stood up, but paused a moment first.]
Lan Zhan, what are you keeping to yourself? What do you know about me?
[If he too knew about....
He turned to go back into the room, retrieving the precious flower then tossing it at Lan Wangji.]
Here, have your memento. She is a kind and lovely girl.
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He looks up, nods once more. Ignores Wei Ying's earlier question for the exotic undercurrent of his words after.
The girl, in truth, barely remembered. Green eyes, a strange configuration, evoking her vines. Wei Ying, as ever, seems to have befriended the women of the world more closely than Lan Wangji had so far entertained. Kind and lovely.
...was she? ]
Because she is beautiful?
[ Wei Ying's traditional weakness: a gracious smile, a trembling voice, a victim to salvage. Looks are not virtue, but an accident of birthright — trust Wei Ying to neglect that point. ]
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She is kind, we spoke together. She was more concerned with others than her own plight.
You would make a good match, and she seems to have patience to give so perhaps she won't run from that cold stoneness of you.
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He should only be so fortunate to win her hand, most ambitiously, before it rots away with tangles of vine from her body. He can but hope.
Or perhaps he should direct Wei Ying's efforts towards the plain, the obvious and the practical — the flower Wangji inspects a moment more, before lifting it on high in one hand to return to Wei Ying's tentative reach. ]
Whistle.
[ Catnip for strays, Wei Ying for spirits. To each wrong in this world, its lure. ]
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