the way that wei wuxian’s body, now, is one that has never been thrown into the burial mounds or drained of gold for jiang cheng or whipped in front of jiang cheng or tussled with jiang cheng in the lotus pond or cuddled near jiang cheng in sleep
while jiang cheng’s body carries their brotherhood in splinters across his chest and in the humming in his meridians and the flute tucked in his robes. jiang cheng who holds onto everything, everything, even when it hurts him, because he’s the only one left who will carry it
