#aeipathic

@aeipathic​ sent:

“a-xu.” he’s wearing his reading glasses — something he used to do only when actually reading, but has taken to doing at strategic intervals ever since the delightful discovery of one zhou zishu’s interest in them — as he leans over the back of zhou zishu’s chair to reach past him and deposit a package on the table in front of him. the glasses are, let’s call it, the icing on the cake and not the cake itself. a bonus. the point is this, rather: “i got you something.”

the “something” inside the package is a set of new paints, expensive, along with drawing pencils of various thicknesses and canvas paper. the thought hasn’t left his mind since he discovered a-xu’s well-hidden artistic talents; surely, with a little prompting, he can lure them out into the open

  ⚍☯⚎ He couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment that Wen Kexing had started wearing those glasses more often, but he got the distinct impression it had something to do with his initial reaction to them. Could it be helped that he’d come home late one night to find his neighbor sitting in his recliner under the reading lamp with a book in hand, those frames perched just-so on the tip of his nose, giving him a studious allure that Zhou Zishu had not anticipated? He had tried to brush it off as a curiosity — have you always been a blind old man, Lao Wen? Is that why you call me a rare beauty? — but the effect could not remain hidden for long; he discovered a notable fondness for the way those glasses fogged between their harried breaths and how Wen Kexing would tear them from his face in irritation for obscuring the satisfied grin on his A-Xu’s lips. 

  Truly they were quite handsome on him, reflecting the way his eyes flashed and danced with mischief and mirth — with adoration. It made him look in turns mature and boyish, learned and studious. Even when Wen Kexing wore them just to rile him, as he did now, Zhou Zishu could not find it in him to be unaffected. 

  So when the man leaned over his shoulder to deposit the package and the elder of them caught sight of those frames glinting in the hanging overhead light he felt a little flutter stir in his stomach like a school boy whose teacher crush paid him special attention. Well that was an embarrassing notion…

  He tore his eyes away from Wen Kexing’s face to eye the package set just beyond the grip of papers in front of him, a brow lifting as he made quick work of checking dates in his head — had he missed an anniversary of some sort? He hadn’t earned a promotion or made any real strides in his work lately, and it wasn’t his birthday… he reached out and plucked it up, finding it to be of reasonable heft as he gave it a little shake. “What’s this?” The rattle was an obscure jumble of sounds, only serving to peak his curiosity more, moving his work aside to set the package down again and pry open the wrapping.

  What met his eye was, perhaps, more surprising than even Wen Kexing’s glasses. Paints. Pencils. Paper. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had tools like this set before him, fresh and filled with purpose. He supposed it had something to do with the box of old sketch books and paintings his partner had found on helping him clear out his closet to afford Chengling more space in his bedroom. When asked why the other had never seen him exercising his talents, Zhou Zishu had given the excuse that all of his supplies had dried up or been lost over time. 

  In truth, he’d felt the creative drive had been sapped from his life when she left; he hadn’t bothered picking up a brush since. He’d thrown away the paints, broken a pencil or two in his frustration, or used them for work, and the only thing that had kept him from shit-canning the box of drawings and paintings was the fact that they were buried behind stacks of files and papers and junk too thick for him to bother with.

  His fingers skimmed over the paints, the metal tubes firm and crisp in their newness, The pencils were sharp. He could smell the woodyness of the textured paper. He was speechless for what felt like too long before he turned his gaze up to the other, meeting his gaze through those glasses, and for a moment he did not see the shapely lenses at all. Only the depth of those eyes. Those beautiful, maddening, ever-watchful eyes that seemed to peer into the very soul of him, knowing the truth of what lay there hidden; the boxes he tried to keep buried. The expression on his own face was complex, but not ungrateful. 

  But words of gratitude came with difficulty at first, as they always had, shielded behind flat humor. 

@aeipathic​ asked: “ by all means, explain.” seteth @ sylvain >:)

There happened to be a moment in which Sylvain found himself in the library, actually perusing for a book he fully intended to read in the comfort of his own bedroom, where Sylvain and Flayn happened to be alone. In the library. Not together, not even talking, truth be told, he didn’t even know she was there until he heard a yelp and the scuttering of feet.

A sidelong glance toward the entrance, a long sigh before he turned back to the bookshelf, ruminating a bit more over the titles, running his fingers along the spine of them before finally making a decision. Grabbing two books, Sylvain tucked them under his right arm, sliding a his free hand into his pocket before turning on a heel and making his way into the hallway.

As he rounded the corner, Sylvain was stopped abruptly.

“Oh, Seteth - !” He looked at the other, he supposed should’ve expected this. Should’ve expected being stopped by the elder man, all but red in the face as he stopped Sylvain in the hall outside his office. He tilted his head, an easy going smile on his face despite the agitation he felt at the hold up - there was a curfew, you know.

“I was just in the library, didn’t think a bit of light reading before going to sleep would hurt.” He grabbed the books from under his arm, displaying only the cover of the first one. It was a bit of fiction, a romantic novel if you will - one that was expected of someone like Sylvain to be carrying around. Not that he’d ever actually read it, it would lay there, discarded on his desk, until he finished the book he actually intended to read, and then return them both. No one would be any wiser and he could be left alone with the book he actually intended to read. 

If everyone assumed he was a fool who read romance novels in hopes of making some girls swoon - then that was on them. 

@aeipathic​ said,  ❝ sometimes…our only choice is to walk away from everything we know ❞ ( yin yu @ sqx )

She laughs, but it’s a hollow sound, a far cry from how it used to sound— like the jingling of little bells or the sweet sound of chimes blowing in the wind. Her smile, too, is dim, as if all the light has been sucked from her being and nothing but a flickering flame remained, dangerously close to being snuffed out at any moment.

“Sometimes the choice is made for us. Sometimes there’s no pieces left to pick up when everything is said and done. Everything blows away but the shell that’s left.”

last  string  of  family.

 ‘   if  you  are  cooking,  just  stop.   ’    there  is  no  way  that  qi  rong  would  put  any  of  that  gruesome  food  into  his  mouth.  better  to  kill  a  deer  and  serve  it  raw.  easier  and  tastier.      ‘   you  have  to  tell  the  officials  that  this  time  it  wasn’t  me.   ’  he  said  as  soon  as  he  woke  up  compeltely.     ‘   though,  it  is  great  that  village  is  removed  from  earth.   ’

𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐘 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 | accepting 

@aeipathic​ said:  ‘ you can’t leave me here alone ! ‘ chengling @ wkx !

Little idiot.

He had one foot out the door already when Chenling’s voice broke through the sounds of those seated around him. His entire body froze, mind moving rapidly in an attempt to come up with some plausible reason for leaving him behind at the inn. “You haven’t eaten, and I need to run a few errands. If you don’t eat, A-Xu will make that face he makes when he is disappointed in me, and I cannot have that.”

Truth be told, he’d become aware of someone following them shortly after they entered the village, though he hadn’t been certain until he took the round-about way down several alleys (telling Chenling that he was certain he’d seen an old friend he wanted to say hello to).  After the second twisting turn and the two men were still behind them, he knew whoever it was had ill intentions.

( @aeipathic​ continued from x )

༺🌕༻ The occasions in which Lan Zhan would drink with his husband were rare for this precise reason: the absolute delight that the man took in goading him and poking fun at his complete drunken honesty. 

  Wangji had already dropped into and risen from his inebriated sleep to find Wuxian sitting there, gazing at him expectantly through those bright, mischievous eyes of his. They were beautiful eyes, he thought. Glowing, lovely eyes that he could lose himself in happily no matter what. And yet when Wuxian brought up Mo Xuanyu Wangji’s expression soured, his thoughts immediately spoiled by the jest that had not intended to guilt him, but did all the same.

  “— No,” he stated sternly, his childlike petulance showing through in the way he rejected being caught in such a way. He had always thought Wuxian’s eyes were beautiful because they belonged to Wuxian. If only he had been brave enough to tell him back then his husband would have no grounds to speak such ridiculous words in his presence.  

    his sect would not have killed him but he would not have been spared either.

    it is panic that brings him to the fold with nothing but the light blooming from his hands, bichen and wangji. he doesn’t know how he survives the journey when fully armed skiffs often come out the other side with less than half their crew. there is a crowd waiting for him when he exits, gasping and astonished and he willingly collapses against strangers who reach to help him. he hears enough before his consciousness slips to know there had been flashes of light from the fold and bleeding bright and golden from his wounds.

    when they pull him to meet the darkling hours after he finally stirs he stands alone despite an injured leg and blood loss that still makes his head feel too light. his training makes his gut coil with distaste even as he repeats that this man is his only chance of survival. his face is blank, eyes fixed carefully ahead as countless gazes examine him like a piece of meat for slaughter.

    every muscle in his body taught as a bowstring he finally meets the other mans eyes with the too intimate repetition of his personal name. there is a defiant jut to his jaw that he uses to keep from drawing in on himself at what feels like an accusation. is the darkling accusing him of lying ? what would he gain, from dragging himself through the unholy rift of the fold and nearly dying, just to spread an untruth that would get him disowned ? everything about this man makes his blood burn with anger.

                             lines that are raw as hell / acc / @aeipathic.

                                                            ❝   a-cheng.   look   at   me.   ❞