Wangji stares at him, eyes half lidded but unblinking. He can see it. The disbelief on Wei Ying’s face. But how could he know? How could he know the depth of regret he held, for that night?
How could he know that a part of him had died with Wei Wuxian? He wasn’t there to see it.
16 years ago, he would have shrugged the hand off his shoulder. He still would, were it anyone else. But now the feel of Wei Ying’s hand - solid, real - was something he so desperately wanted that he couldn’t even bring himself to push it away. He didn’t encourage it, either - even if he had the stupid urge to take it in his own. That was an impulse too far. But letting it rest on his shoulder... that he could get away with, he thought. That was alright.
Wei Ying didn’t answer him. Not really. He hadn’t thought he would. As much as he wanted Wei Ying to swear to him - to promise to live - he didn’t expect it. But his eyes fell when he didn’t get it, despite himself, and he turned his head away.
The effect of the alcohol was hitting him hard already, making his head foggy and his eyelids heavy.
“It isn’t nine,” he replied, a hint of petulance he wouldn’t normally show slipping into his tone.
But, even as he protested, his head bowed further, his chin sinking. A second later, Lan Zhan was asleep, still sitting upright, perched on the edge of Wei Ying’s bed.
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How could he know that a part of him had died with Wei Wuxian? He wasn’t there to see it.
16 years ago, he would have shrugged the hand off his shoulder. He still would, were it anyone else. But now the feel of Wei Ying’s hand - solid, real - was something he so desperately wanted that he couldn’t even bring himself to push it away. He didn’t encourage it, either - even if he had the stupid urge to take it in his own. That was an impulse too far. But letting it rest on his shoulder... that he could get away with, he thought. That was alright.
Wei Ying didn’t answer him. Not really. He hadn’t thought he would. As much as he wanted Wei Ying to swear to him - to promise to live - he didn’t expect it. But his eyes fell when he didn’t get it, despite himself, and he turned his head away.
The effect of the alcohol was hitting him hard already, making his head foggy and his eyelids heavy.
“It isn’t nine,” he replied, a hint of petulance he wouldn’t normally show slipping into his tone.
But, even as he protested, his head bowed further, his chin sinking. A second later, Lan Zhan was asleep, still sitting upright, perched on the edge of Wei Ying’s bed.