( Stilling, he quirks his brow, fingers curling around the calloused strength of Lan Zhan's hand. This isn't as often the type of fear he sees his husband face, and while all beings possess irrationalities by the nature of their perfect imperfections, Lan Zhan rarely strays to fancies not sourced simply from vinegar jars.
Concern to heed, for all he doesn't know the sudden, burgeoning reason behind it. )
They may want us both, Lan Zhan. Likely do, given your strength.
( Yet he sets aside his everything for the moment, his nest beginning, left undeveloped. Leaning into Lan Zhan, turning toward him, he settles his weight against his husband, seeks peace in the sure and steady knowledge of his heart beating. The steadfast nature of his affection.
Such things are never meant to be taken lightly. Neither, in this case, should concern. )
You're going to have to carry me to your morning river, you know.
( Here he smiles, turns his gaze upon Lan Zhan, peering through lashes. Teasing as an outlet of emotion and duress never quite leaves him in full.
He sees no nictating, membraneous blanket of watching eyes. He feels the unease of this mountain, but he is in ways almost off a flavour with it: absent of innocence to the greater world, used to erosion, used to being used as convenient, fighting for what unwanted hopes he claims.
He closes his eyes, knowing sleep arrives late for him, and attempts to sleep.
He does. Then he dreams, of meadows walked barefoot in a summer's heat, but no, there is snow, brief and biting and beautiful, shocks of cold impact, but no, those are stars that fall, willing and weeping, crashing with earth shattering thuds into a dark mountainside, fires spiraling into gravid chaos, winds confused and garrulous, smoke thick enough he cannot breath, he is the hawk the deer the fox the beetle, he cannot breathe —he wakes gasping, coughing, hands at his throat with the taste of ash thick on his tongue, the side of their thin pallet still warm from Lan Zhan's rising.
Dreams hold little importance to him: he calms his coughing, waves off concern, and shoves the fraying mass of memories away as he lurches upward, seeking water to splash across his face. It's not enough of a shock, but it helps wake him better, does nothing to change the taste in his mouth. )
Think they'll have anything like tea?
( He asks, blinking in bleak, bleary confusion as the roster clicks, and clucks, and puffs out its chest. The thinnest, most warbly, astounding crow emerges from its beak. And goes on. And on. And on.
He stares, flabbergasted, before he at last breaks into laughter, coughing as the ash drives itself away, vanquished in the absurd reality establishing sway. )
What kind of call was that? Ah, Lan Zhan, what will we do with that ridiculous thing?
no subject
( Stilling, he quirks his brow, fingers curling around the calloused strength of Lan Zhan's hand. This isn't as often the type of fear he sees his husband face, and while all beings possess irrationalities by the nature of their perfect imperfections, Lan Zhan rarely strays to fancies not sourced simply from vinegar jars.
Concern to heed, for all he doesn't know the sudden, burgeoning reason behind it. )
They may want us both, Lan Zhan. Likely do, given your strength.
( Yet he sets aside his everything for the moment, his nest beginning, left undeveloped. Leaning into Lan Zhan, turning toward him, he settles his weight against his husband, seeks peace in the sure and steady knowledge of his heart beating. The steadfast nature of his affection.
Such things are never meant to be taken lightly. Neither, in this case, should concern. )
You're going to have to carry me to your morning river, you know.
( Here he smiles, turns his gaze upon Lan Zhan, peering through lashes. Teasing as an outlet of emotion and duress never quite leaves him in full.
He sees no nictating, membraneous blanket of watching eyes. He feels the unease of this mountain, but he is in ways almost off a flavour with it: absent of innocence to the greater world, used to erosion, used to being used as convenient, fighting for what unwanted hopes he claims.
He closes his eyes, knowing sleep arrives late for him, and attempts to sleep.
He does. Then he dreams, of meadows walked barefoot in a summer's heat, but no, there is snow, brief and biting and beautiful, shocks of cold impact, but no, those are stars that fall, willing and weeping, crashing with earth shattering thuds into a dark mountainside, fires spiraling into gravid chaos, winds confused and garrulous, smoke thick enough he cannot breath, he is the hawk the deer the fox the beetle, he cannot breathe —he wakes gasping, coughing, hands at his throat with the taste of ash thick on his tongue, the side of their thin pallet still warm from Lan Zhan's rising.
Dreams hold little importance to him: he calms his coughing, waves off concern, and shoves the fraying mass of memories away as he lurches upward, seeking water to splash across his face. It's not enough of a shock, but it helps wake him better, does nothing to change the taste in his mouth. )
Think they'll have anything like tea?
( He asks, blinking in bleak, bleary confusion as the roster clicks, and clucks, and puffs out its chest. The thinnest, most warbly, astounding crow emerges from its beak. And goes on. And on. And on.
He stares, flabbergasted, before he at last breaks into laughter, coughing as the ash drives itself away, vanquished in the absurd reality establishing sway. )
What kind of call was that? Ah, Lan Zhan, what will we do with that ridiculous thing?