[ He doesn't move away from Wei Ying because he's done doing so, done trying to protect his heart in such ways that he gives the wrong impression. Because that's what it had been, in those days: he, a young man who thought he knew everything there was to know in the world. Wei Ying, a challenger of thoughts. And he'd thought it foolish. He'd thought it rivalry!
But mostly, he'd thought they had time.
Wangji has always been like an adult, patient, mature, solemn. And Wei Ying, tugging at his sleeve, has always been like a sweet, impish child.
But then he takes Wangji's hand, and their fingers slot in place as if made and molded for each other. He looks at them, and back at Wei Ying's face to find his eyes, dark and soulful, full of something like hope and of understanding.
His own reflect back a second of hesitation, wondering: is this real? Is it a trick of the light, or of tea? Of this hotel?
With his free hand, he rests his palm on Wei Ying's heart. Touching his skin is a privilege and a revelation. There is something reverently holy about hearing the beating of his heart with nothing to act as a barrier. His own heart races, as if to match Wei Ying's tempo.
And satisfied with his answer, his hand moves up to caress his cheek. ]
Wei Ying...
[ His voice is soft, intimate in a way he's never called anyone before. Two short syllables, the only sounds his mind and his soul and his mouth remember.
--There is a knock on the door, and the moment is shattered like reflection of moonlight on water.
Wangji's hand pulls into a fist at his side as if shriveled, his hand wrested away; he quickly gathers Wei Ying's clothes so that the staff will see no more of his form. ]
no subject
But mostly, he'd thought they had time.
Wangji has always been like an adult, patient, mature, solemn. And Wei Ying, tugging at his sleeve, has always been like a sweet, impish child.
But then he takes Wangji's hand, and their fingers slot in place as if made and molded for each other. He looks at them, and back at Wei Ying's face to find his eyes, dark and soulful, full of something like hope and of understanding.
His own reflect back a second of hesitation, wondering: is this real? Is it a trick of the light, or of tea? Of this hotel?
With his free hand, he rests his palm on Wei Ying's heart. Touching his skin is a privilege and a revelation. There is something reverently holy about hearing the beating of his heart with nothing to act as a barrier. His own heart races, as if to match Wei Ying's tempo.
And satisfied with his answer, his hand moves up to caress his cheek. ]
Wei Ying...
[ His voice is soft, intimate in a way he's never called anyone before. Two short syllables, the only sounds his mind and his soul and his mouth remember.
--There is a knock on the door, and the moment is shattered like reflection of moonlight on water.
Wangji's hand pulls into a fist at his side as if shriveled, his hand wrested away; he quickly gathers Wei Ying's clothes so that the staff will see no more of his form. ]