un: absterge | video, might as well get a show with your wake-up

[downswing]

( The stage, set: pale dawns drowning fair maiden Emilia's boudoir, mid-invasion. The lady, aghast, but bravely holding back (onto?) Wrath — one of three gentlemen drenched in chimney soot for their orgy visit.

RIP: four porcelain bowls shattered on the floor, a wall stabbed with dining cutlery, a decapitated statue, inked parchment (protective, silent) littered on the balcony and ceiling spreads. A table broke its back to sweeten Jiang Cheng's fall. The man himself lies sprawled or scratching (unclear). Chimney bricks are still coughing down into the fireplace.

In the midst of the chaos, a dishevelled Lan Wangji — perched precipitously on the back of a chair — calls for silence. A heartbeat later, he sets the communicator closer to the balcony, so that everyone who neglected to turn off their device overnight can bask in the shouting and screaming of anti-Macaluso protesters outside.

Enjoy a minute of that. Violence is good for the ears. )

The lady's quarters — ( ...quite. ) ...lack vantage. What stokes their anger?

( And then, an awkward pause later: )

Morning's greetings.

( ooc: backdated to the first day of protests. Enjoy your 5:10am wake-up call, in between the ruckus of Jiang Cheng, Lan Wangji and Wrath slipping down the wrong chimney into Emilia's quarters, and Macaludo's protesters raising a storm. Just. Enjoy that. )

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[downswing]

[ If you wish chased, run.

Instinct teases him, coaxes the fledgling glimpses of momentum — he dips, leaning to preserve the spread of his physical distance to Wen Kexing, but remembers himself (his wayward, roof-challenged balance) at the last moment. Withdraws, bones and posture stirred, night's whispered wind crawling in latent, sparked shivers that lick his back.

The xiao stalls. Brother might have defended the play. Stark, crepuscular differences in comfort, artistry, strategy. In how the xiao fails to extend Wen Kexing's arm in the proprietary, soul-bound way of Gusu Lan predilection. It sits a splintered instrument, a part independent of the whole.

It strikes him a romantic folly, to pity the flute. He bides Wen Kexing's time to reassemble himself standing, then: ]

You seek that which you waste.

[ Wen Kexing requires, no doubt, more than is freely available to him. And yet. ]

[wenderer]

Pfff!

[ He stands. Balanced perfectly on the rooftop's apex, he brushes his long hair back and rearranges his clothes, tucking the xiao into his lapels. ]

Saving your words as if they were gold pieces, don't you ever worry about being misunderstood? Tsk, tsk! "You seek what you waste," what is that supposed to mean? Wasting music, can't I play under the stars for my own sake? Wasting energy, isn't it my own to squander also? I'm not hurting anybody, so why are you chasing me with a sword, this seems unjust! Or do you harbor some kind of ill intent or improper feelings towards me?

[downswing]

[ A man unseen, misunderstood. Wavering nuances, like clots of spume in river water. What difference will it make?

Like every crow or craven, Wen Kexing withdraws and casts his first concerns the way of his vanity, shielding his body from harm, then his shadow from unrighteous shape. The xiao's lacquered hide glistens, doling a parting wink, then crawls back, burrowed in his robes.

In a bounty of dark, Lan Wangji's gaze scatter, seeing only flimsy morsels of presentation. The truth evades him, his blade Bichen drawing a scattered arc, then settling rigid at his side.

He says —

Intends nothing.

— says, after: ]

Who hurts?

[wenderer]

[ Who hurts? As if he'd ever reveal his soulmate's secret. He lifts his arms as if in supplication and says with a woeful expression: ]

Who hurts, isn't that me?

[ Raising his eyes and his voice, he recites: ]

Standing alone at the edge of the sky, I weep for distant places!

[downswing]

[ They would show, distant and glistened and pouring down, down. Beneath moonlight, skies sundered, storms stripping. Wet calls to wet, and the blasphemy of a man's tears betrays itself.

He does not flinch with the passing shiver, does not surrender posture. On white wings, birds soar and scatter in rash indication that the scalding current of chimneys, stoked, has called close creatures that begrudge the spring chills. Here, leaves evergreen, he is told they know nothing of winter.

Here, barely the scandal of five layers enshrouding him, menacing one man and the smear of his broken shape on an idle rooftop, Lan Wangji knows nothing of himself. ( And what would Wei Ying say? Do not befriend evil, but also, pass the wine. )

He tips his head, yields the one truth: ]

Your eyes come dry.

[ Extrapolated, for he cannot see the abyss of them, dark. But Wen Kexing's cheeks haven't been ploughed by fresh, trembled waters — that much, natural pallor and licks of moonlight reveal him. ]

You fled a man unscratched by wounding.

[ The one who hurts is not Wen Kexing.
The one who weeks is not Wen Kexing.
The one who lies is — ]