（ he is seated seiza next to wei wuxian, flecks of ink creating black-on-black constellations across the soft dark cotton of his clothes with his proximity to the messy work migrating halfly across his floor. the inquisitive noise from wei wuxian gets a soft, unsteady exhale, and then he reaches out as if to catch himself on a shipdeck in a storm, seeking the only solid fixture in an endless ocean. the world seems to tilt, shift — his vision blurs and goes bloody at the edges, the stained glass overlay of the sharingan's red, red haze.
his right hand curls in the fabric at wei wuxian's shoulder, twisting there. his shoulders hitch upwards, a breath drawn and exhaled so quickly it seems not to have had any benefit to the body at all. the façade cracks, at first, fault lines that manifest in ragged breath and the clutch of his hand. each thing a microcosm of a peculiar sort of loss and an old and ancient love, entombed as if by amber.
and suddenly his hand is not meant to steady, but to save — the thing he was not quick enough to do, when shisui had put his back to the wind and he felt his fingers close on open air. the next breath is choked on, and a soft, barely-audible gasp of sound is torn from his chest as if someone had cracked open his ribs and snapped heartstrings in symphony.
his lashes glisten wetly, expression a ruin as he bows over wei wuxian's shoulder and presses his forehead against the blade of it, posture hewn in twain. he says nothing. does nothing else. the fault lines buckle, and all his many years of carefully crafted control slough off like burnt skin. there is an awful, silent desperation to the tremble of his shoulders, and he can do nothing else but cry, tears dampening the fabric of the other man's shirt.
he cannot say if it is grief or gratitude. he does not care to examine it — later, perhaps, he will feel an excoriating contempt for his own awful weakness. but for now, in the suspended dissonance of this one, singular moment, he understands perhaps too well that wei wuxian is a safe harbour here. ）
Edited (can't use the same word twice in a paragraph that's illegal) 2023-02-23 01:47 (UTC)
[There's a halted moment where Itachi's hand is in the air and Wei Wuxian doesn't know what it's there for, his eyes wide and curious. Then he glimpses Itachi's face and the playful curiosity washes away, eyes widening further and lips parting in a soft exhale of his own. Itachi's fingers might as well be holding his heart in their grip for how his heart aches when he tightens them and leans forward to rest against his shoulder.
At the first touch he had frozen, afraid that if he moved or breathed too loudly, he would somehow shatter the cobweb spun fragility between them, but when the tears start—a concept so foreign in the context of Itachi—it's instinctive the way he reaches out with one hand and rests it on the back of his neck.
He doesn't know what provoked this reaction. The combination of Finn's desire to kill the mercy held inside of him, and what he knows of Itachi's history is probably a good place to start, and he infers his reference to the matter must be the source. Wei Wuxian finds he doesn't care to investigate.
He closes his eyes as the sounds of Itachi's weeping tears through him, and tightens the hand on his neck, reaching with his other arm to pull him into a more proper embrace. Blinking back tears, he angles his face towards Itachi's bowed head, lips nearly brushing against the inky spill of hair in much the same way he has pressed them to Gwen's and Ziggy's brows in their moments of distress. (It seems a step too far here and the embrace is already more than has ever been allowed.)
The ache inside of him is a physical thing.
I have you. It's alright. I'm here. He does not say.
Wei Wuxian, always so full of words, a dozen thoughts brimming at the edge of his tongue even now, says nothing. He holds onto his friend and he says nothing, a promise in the grip of his hands to ride out the storm together.
（ the emotions are ephemera. they do not — cannot — linger. he is too cognizant of the sway held by unfettered emotion over his kin and kind — control is clawed back with the same will that had once steadied a sword between blooded palms. by the time wei wuxian's arms circle him, the shuddering to his shoulders is already anemic, quieted by the comfort it pains him nearly more to allow than to accept.
only one hand — his right — is raised, fisted in the fabric at the man's left shoulder. the other is limp at his side, trapped against his body by the embrace. eventually, he turns his head so that he is looking away from wei wuxian, out across the spill of papers and books and bottles of ink and pens littering his usually immaculate space. his cheek is pressed against the fabric of the man's overlarge sweater, vision halfly blocked by wei wuxian's arm around him. that obstruction, however benign, rouses a stir of panic in some deep and primal part of him, and resisting the urge to shove him away with a sudden violence is an effort that requires several raggedly drawn breaths. he closes his eyes too tightly, almost flinching from his own wild, breathless dread. after a moment he reaches up with his left hand, thumb and forefingers pressing in against his lids over his father's eyes. it stirs up a vermillion kaleidoscope of colour that flattens out to graveyard gray.
he is off-kilter. balance uncertain, world asunder. he feels terrible, exhausted beyond the worst weariness he's ever felt. even the ravage of kotarō on his body — or its cruel withdrawal — was not so debilitating as this. he's as cold as one who has walked barefoot through a blizzard, and sweat beads at his hairline just the same. his symptoms bear enough in common with shock he finds himself trying to mentally tabulate recent damages done his body, assessing himself for deviations in healing that would account for this peculiar rebellion. ）
I'm sorry, （ he manages finally. his voice is a raw bruise of sound, hoarse and hollow. ） I don't —
[He is painfully aware that to misstep here will force Itachi back behind his walls. The retreat is inevitable, but Wei Wuxian hopes that when it comes it will be soft and gradual, not quickened with the haste of violent shame.
He allows the arm encircling Itachi to fall away. The hand cupping the back of his neck remains, a grounding force if his friend will allow it. It's probably a good thing that he isn't looking at him. Were Itachi to see the empathetic pain in his eyes and the tears that he is hastily blinking away, he doesn't know if he would mistake it for pity.]
It's fine. [He says, aiming for neutral in an effort to conceal the softness that he fears might push Itachi away. He clears his throat a second later, sure he didn't achieve his desired result.] It was beginning to feel uneven with it always being me.
[It's less a joke, and more a lighthearted reminder that their positions have been reversed more times than he cares to count. If Itachi needs to apologize for this, then Wei Wuxian has half a dozen amends to make. Is it obvious, he wonders, how desperate he is for Itachi not to mistake this for pity? For tolerance? The hand on the back of Itachi's neck does not tighten or curl into the hair tickling his knuckles, but neither does it move away.]
（ it gets a laugh. a short, spurious thing, ingenuine by the sharp edges hanging off the sound. his hand spasms into a tighter fist against wei wuxian's shoulder and then is forcibly relaxed. ）
I wouldn't want you to think we stand on unequal ground with one another, I suppose.
（ he draws in a deep breath, the familiar scent clinging to wei wuxian's clothes is almost grounding in a way, the scent of jasmine and earth and growing things. and then his palm flattens out against wei wuxian's chest and he pushes himself back. extricating himself from the grip at his neck, the warmth and safety of it all.
to the second comment, permissive and soft, he says nothing. perhaps that is answer enough. ）
[His hand falls away and he tucks it into his lap where he won't be as tempted to reach for him again. Despite the weight of Itachi's sorrow, his words set a warmth ablaze in his chest and he meets Itachi's gaze with a bright gaze of his own.]
No, that wouldn't do. Not between us. [He says the last part quietly, almost experimentally. He knows he isn't Itachi's equal in combat, but that has never mattered between them. It's not what Itachi infers now.
There is a word for it of course, but it isn't one he has the courage to utter yet.]
I'm going to make us some tea. [He rises then, moving to where Itachi keeps his tea set and beginning to set things up. There is still a little of the Yunmeng tea he'd gifted to his friend, and he chooses it now, making a note to request some more for the next drop.]
（ while wei wuxian busies himself, itachi disappears into the small bathroom adjacent to his quarters. the water runs briefly, and when he emerges again it's clear by the faint ruddy flush to his face that he's scrubbed all signs of the crying away. the walls are back up, even if the brief fracture has given wei wuxian insight he ... finds he does not mind him having. if it was to be anyone, at least it was him.
he says nothing. merely crosses back from the bathroom to the bed, and sits, and waits. ）
[When the tea is done, he brings both cups over, handing Itachi's to him and then sitting back down on the floor. It's comfortable down there and he's far less likely to spill. A glance at his friend tells him that he's put himself back together, and Wei Wuxian knows more than to try digging back into what happened moments ago.
That Itachi hadn't buckled under thunderous shame is more than enough of a win to him.]
Would you like to play a game of go when we're finished here?
（ he curls long fingers around the tea, bowed over it in pensive thought. he does not lift his eyes, but rather than seeming like avoidance, it simply seems like weariness has taken hold and given a gravity to his attention that is not customarily present. he looks worn down, haggard in a way that's older than his body's age, as if every one of those moments lived within tsukuyomi has weighed him down.
he thumbs at the rim of the cup, thumb hitching on a slight flaw in the glaze he knows so well. then: ）
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
is it a panic attack is it a breakdown is it both we just don't know
his right hand curls in the fabric at wei wuxian's shoulder, twisting there. his shoulders hitch upwards, a breath drawn and exhaled so quickly it seems not to have had any benefit to the body at all. the façade cracks, at first, fault lines that manifest in ragged breath and the clutch of his hand. each thing a microcosm of a peculiar sort of loss and an old and ancient love, entombed as if by amber.
and suddenly his hand is not meant to steady, but to save — the thing he was not quick enough to do, when shisui had put his back to the wind and he felt his fingers close on open air. the next breath is choked on, and a soft, barely-audible gasp of sound is torn from his chest as if someone had cracked open his ribs and snapped heartstrings in symphony.
his lashes glisten wetly, expression a ruin as he bows over wei wuxian's shoulder and presses his forehead against the blade of it, posture hewn in twain. he says nothing. does nothing else. the fault lines buckle, and all his many years of carefully crafted control slough off like burnt skin. there is an awful, silent desperation to the tremble of his shoulders, and he can do nothing else but cry, tears dampening the fabric of the other man's shirt.
he cannot say if it is grief or gratitude. he does not care to examine it — later, perhaps, he will feel an excoriating contempt for his own awful weakness. but for now, in the suspended dissonance of this one, singular moment, he understands perhaps too well that wei wuxian is a safe harbour here. ）
no subject
At the first touch he had frozen, afraid that if he moved or breathed too loudly, he would somehow shatter the cobweb spun fragility between them, but when the tears start—a concept so foreign in the context of Itachi—it's instinctive the way he reaches out with one hand and rests it on the back of his neck.
He doesn't know what provoked this reaction. The combination of Finn's desire to kill the mercy held inside of him, and what he knows of Itachi's history is probably a good place to start, and he infers his reference to the matter must be the source. Wei Wuxian finds he doesn't care to investigate.
He closes his eyes as the sounds of Itachi's weeping tears through him, and tightens the hand on his neck, reaching with his other arm to pull him into a more proper embrace. Blinking back tears, he angles his face towards Itachi's bowed head, lips nearly brushing against the inky spill of hair in much the same way he has pressed them to Gwen's and Ziggy's brows in their moments of distress. (It seems a step too far here and the embrace is already more than has ever been allowed.)
The ache inside of him is a physical thing.
I have you. It's alright. I'm here. He does not say.
Wei Wuxian, always so full of words, a dozen thoughts brimming at the edge of his tongue even now, says nothing. He holds onto his friend and he says nothing, a promise in the grip of his hands to ride out the storm together.
You are not alone.]
no subject
only one hand — his right — is raised, fisted in the fabric at the man's left shoulder. the other is limp at his side, trapped against his body by the embrace. eventually, he turns his head so that he is looking away from wei wuxian, out across the spill of papers and books and bottles of ink and pens littering his usually immaculate space. his cheek is pressed against the fabric of the man's overlarge sweater, vision halfly blocked by wei wuxian's arm around him. that obstruction, however benign, rouses a stir of panic in some deep and primal part of him, and resisting the urge to shove him away with a sudden violence is an effort that requires several raggedly drawn breaths. he closes his eyes too tightly, almost flinching from his own wild, breathless dread. after a moment he reaches up with his left hand, thumb and forefingers pressing in against his lids over his father's eyes. it stirs up a vermillion kaleidoscope of colour that flattens out to graveyard gray.
he is off-kilter. balance uncertain, world asunder. he feels terrible, exhausted beyond the worst weariness he's ever felt. even the ravage of kotarō on his body — or its cruel withdrawal — was not so debilitating as this. he's as cold as one who has walked barefoot through a blizzard, and sweat beads at his hairline just the same. his symptoms bear enough in common with shock he finds himself trying to mentally tabulate recent damages done his body, assessing himself for deviations in healing that would account for this peculiar rebellion. ）
I'm sorry, （ he manages finally. his voice is a raw bruise of sound, hoarse and hollow. ） I don't —
（ know what happened. ）
no subject
He allows the arm encircling Itachi to fall away. The hand cupping the back of his neck remains, a grounding force if his friend will allow it. It's probably a good thing that he isn't looking at him. Were Itachi to see the empathetic pain in his eyes and the tears that he is hastily blinking away, he doesn't know if he would mistake it for pity.]
It's fine. [He says, aiming for neutral in an effort to conceal the softness that he fears might push Itachi away. He clears his throat a second later, sure he didn't achieve his desired result.] It was beginning to feel uneven with it always being me.
[It's less a joke, and more a lighthearted reminder that their positions have been reversed more times than he cares to count. If Itachi needs to apologize for this, then Wei Wuxian has half a dozen amends to make. Is it obvious, he wonders, how desperate he is for Itachi not to mistake this for pity? For tolerance? The hand on the back of Itachi's neck does not tighten or curl into the hair tickling his knuckles, but neither does it move away.]
Itachi...[he start a moment later,] this is okay.
[You're allowed to feel.]
no subject
I wouldn't want you to think we stand on unequal ground with one another, I suppose.
（ he draws in a deep breath, the familiar scent clinging to wei wuxian's clothes is almost grounding in a way, the scent of jasmine and earth and growing things. and then his palm flattens out against wei wuxian's chest and he pushes himself back. extricating himself from the grip at his neck, the warmth and safety of it all.
to the second comment, permissive and soft, he says nothing. perhaps that is answer enough. ）
no subject
No, that wouldn't do. Not between us. [He says the last part quietly, almost experimentally. He knows he isn't Itachi's equal in combat, but that has never mattered between them. It's not what Itachi infers now.
There is a word for it of course, but it isn't one he has the courage to utter yet.]
I'm going to make us some tea. [He rises then, moving to where Itachi keeps his tea set and beginning to set things up. There is still a little of the Yunmeng tea he'd gifted to his friend, and he chooses it now, making a note to request some more for the next drop.]
no subject
he says nothing. merely crosses back from the bathroom to the bed, and sits, and waits. ）
no subject
That Itachi hadn't buckled under thunderous shame is more than enough of a win to him.]
Would you like to play a game of go when we're finished here?
no subject
（ he curls long fingers around the tea, bowed over it in pensive thought. he does not lift his eyes, but rather than seeming like avoidance, it simply seems like weariness has taken hold and given a gravity to his attention that is not customarily present. he looks worn down, haggard in a way that's older than his body's age, as if every one of those moments lived within tsukuyomi has weighed him down.
he thumbs at the rim of the cup, thumb hitching on a slight flaw in the glaze he knows so well. then: ）
Stay with me tonight.
（ neither question nor command, it simply is. ）
no subject
In the meantime they take their tea in a comfortable silence, content in each other's company.]