( He is beautifully pristine, this wayward husband, skin lessened of its scarring in a second life that abided the Patriarch scarred only by his misfortunes. Pretty, were the needle-eye's width of his waist more girlish, the soft roundness of his gaze doe-eyed. Handsome does not yet suit, bones unrefined by age that never lived them. He exists somewhere on the liminal cusp between tender juvenile youth and maturity, a constant reminder that Lan Wangji's interest was snagged by a boy raised to a man only by duty. )
Three... two... ( A heartbeat, echoing and dark. ) One.
( Grit of his teeth clumsy and tight, as if he suffers with Wei Ying's suffering — but he tugs all the same, qi sweetening his strength to drag his husband in just as the river's waves swell, low-humming, and crash and burn to crisps with cold and smears of spume that give Wei Ying's welcome.
He does not hesitate: covers ground, wades in waters, traverses to accept Wei Ying in both arms, to silently bring up cupped streams and descend them on the brittle, narrow bridge of his lover's shoulders, the crown of his head. In between, a minor indulgence: to unfold the span of his headband and bind it, half to his own wrist, half to Wei Ying's and have them impossibly, familiarly wedded, as every river demands of them. )
Good morning.
( Then calmly, saccharine and honest and true, and his sword arm never wavering —
He sets both hands on Wei Ying's shoulders and dunks him down to submerge him in the river's depths. If it were an abyssal cliff, you would have long ago fallen. Ah, but they are not so bittersweet yet, so intimate with their tragedies. )
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( He is beautifully pristine, this wayward husband, skin lessened of its scarring in a second life that abided the Patriarch scarred only by his misfortunes. Pretty, were the needle-eye's width of his waist more girlish, the soft roundness of his gaze doe-eyed. Handsome does not yet suit, bones unrefined by age that never lived them. He exists somewhere on the liminal cusp between tender juvenile youth and maturity, a constant reminder that Lan Wangji's interest was snagged by a boy raised to a man only by duty. )
Three... two... ( A heartbeat, echoing and dark. ) One.
( Grit of his teeth clumsy and tight, as if he suffers with Wei Ying's suffering — but he tugs all the same, qi sweetening his strength to drag his husband in just as the river's waves swell, low-humming, and crash and burn to crisps with cold and smears of spume that give Wei Ying's welcome.
He does not hesitate: covers ground, wades in waters, traverses to accept Wei Ying in both arms, to silently bring up cupped streams and descend them on the brittle, narrow bridge of his lover's shoulders, the crown of his head. In between, a minor indulgence: to unfold the span of his headband and bind it, half to his own wrist, half to Wei Ying's and have them impossibly, familiarly wedded, as every river demands of them. )
Good morning.
( Then calmly, saccharine and honest and true, and his sword arm never wavering —
He sets both hands on Wei Ying's shoulders and dunks him down to submerge him in the river's depths. If it were an abyssal cliff, you would have long ago fallen. Ah, but they are not so bittersweet yet, so intimate with their tragedies. )