[ fall. wei wuxian has always fallen, fell, falling, tumbling headlong into another trouble, another mischief, yet another self sacrifice until he was no more. a ghost. a memory. jiang cheng had lost more than a ghost, that day. he had waited without a hope of waiting, suspended in limbo, a cliff beneath his feet.
all he had wanted was -
the warmth of him. the weight of his body against his, the hair wound around his fingers. his gaze upturned to him, his voice calling his name.
they call him beautiful, but jiang cheng does not see it. he has never seen himself as such, being too conscious, always, of the cracks and the scars, the way he would always be outshines, outnumbered, hounded and tethered in the way they were not. wei wuxian is beautiful, he thinks. lan zhan, too, is beautiful, they are the same way lofty mountains touched by clouds and the sun are beautiful. they are as the breeze against willows and the way a river ripples under touch of fingers, is beautiful.
the flush makes itself known again, spreading hot beneath the touch of wei wuxian's hand. ]
Stop it, [ his voice is low, rough, and he does not know where quite to put his gaze. ]
no subject
all he had wanted was -
the warmth of him. the weight of his body against his, the hair wound around his fingers. his gaze upturned to him, his voice calling his name.
they call him beautiful, but jiang cheng does not see it. he has never seen himself as such, being too conscious, always, of the cracks and the scars, the way he would always be outshines, outnumbered, hounded and tethered in the way they were not. wei wuxian is beautiful, he thinks. lan zhan, too, is beautiful, they are the same way lofty mountains touched by clouds and the sun are beautiful. they are as the breeze against willows and the way a river ripples under touch of fingers, is beautiful.
the flush makes itself known again, spreading hot beneath the touch of wei wuxian's hand. ]
Stop it, [ his voice is low, rough, and he does not know where quite to put his gaze. ]