( Later, their inn: less crooked and damp and mould-laden than many to have housed them, more withered and husked and dry. A pale thing, chipping and splintering and snagging, when Lan Wangji's bare feet cross the floors, pattering. Crude nails, half risen like a peeling scab. The scent of deep, cloying oud.
He welcomes Wei Ying into a room ill lit, door crawling like a cat in his husband's wake to click shuttered, before the lock comes drawn. A still, quiet settlement, yes, and in its bones a purposeful savagery. He asks nothing, of no one, least of all the courtesy of true hospitality.
It has not been earned. Will not be freely given. He draws Wei Ying back, to himself, to the wide and sandy spread of their thin-linen clad bed. To sit, leg half drawn beneath himself as he watches the jar in Wei Ying's hand with hawkish, sharp interest. Fingers toy over the jar's swell, dance the edge. His lips purse, freely.
He tips the lid over, and the ointment within gives a soft, muted gleam. )
Unnecessary. ( Reedy, slack-tongued. But it is given and received, and he watches the fat of it slowly drip to liquify at its edges, catches the sweet, rising fragrance. Unnecessary, the coin was yours to expend. And so, Wei Ying did.
He looks up, unfastening the sailors' knot of his belts only to loosen the robes above and weep their layers down his shoulders with slow tugs of his sleeves, after. Revealing, if not the full labyrinth of his scars, then at least enough of their humble start to protect modesty.
No need, he suspects, to ask. No need, to consent, to make a spectacle of himself. Actions, before words, but. ) Thank you.
no subject
( Later, their inn: less crooked and damp and mould-laden than many to have housed them, more withered and husked and dry. A pale thing, chipping and splintering and snagging, when Lan Wangji's bare feet cross the floors, pattering. Crude nails, half risen like a peeling scab. The scent of deep, cloying oud.
He welcomes Wei Ying into a room ill lit, door crawling like a cat in his husband's wake to click shuttered, before the lock comes drawn. A still, quiet settlement, yes, and in its bones a purposeful savagery. He asks nothing, of no one, least of all the courtesy of true hospitality.
It has not been earned. Will not be freely given. He draws Wei Ying back, to himself, to the wide and sandy spread of their thin-linen clad bed. To sit, leg half drawn beneath himself as he watches the jar in Wei Ying's hand with hawkish, sharp interest. Fingers toy over the jar's swell, dance the edge. His lips purse, freely.
He tips the lid over, and the ointment within gives a soft, muted gleam. )
Unnecessary. ( Reedy, slack-tongued. But it is given and received, and he watches the fat of it slowly drip to liquify at its edges, catches the sweet, rising fragrance. Unnecessary, the coin was yours to expend. And so, Wei Ying did.
He looks up, unfastening the sailors' knot of his belts only to loosen the robes above and weep their layers down his shoulders with slow tugs of his sleeves, after. Revealing, if not the full labyrinth of his scars, then at least enough of their humble start to protect modesty.
No need, he suspects, to ask. No need, to consent, to make a spectacle of himself. Actions, before words, but. ) Thank you.