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“Lan Zhan,” is a mystery voice, echoing by the back of his head where the beauties of rebellion linger. Lan Zhan wishes that this voice would be able to be repeated, once again spoken by the mouth of the one who casts that spell, forbidden where his thoughts stray awry and unadventured. He finds himself cowardly enough to not be able to let himself think of those thoughts anymore, buried under the mounds of books and scrolls that can empty out to fill the empty space of his heart. Not even to its satisfaction, as he reminds himself, harsh and painful that his heart begins to feel emptier.
The characters of his name that is supressed further away into Lan Zhan’s memories find its way to be printed against the untarnished sheet of paper, ink sprawled over with such care that he wonders how it could be that he had not put any thought into that word, and he scares himself, knocking over the pot of black that bleeds out over the floor and staining the hems of his sleeves. He resists that urge to curse himself, to whisper that name that is the reason of the disturbance of his peace, but he instead draws himself enamoured to the strokes that bring out the identification of who it is he longs for the most.
There are gourds of alcohol, just beneath his foot where the floorboard beckons itself with such appeal, and Lan Zhan does not care of the consequences as he reaches out to the one familiar object he has been cornered with his entire few years of yearning.
The blue and white gourd is decorated so beautifully, Lan Zhan has to resist the urge to tear it apart and letting it shatter against the ground, the swelling of disappointment bloating any of the remaining hope in his heart away, years of discipline so carefully crafted cracked as he pours the alcohol into his mouth.
It is not that he dislikes the taste that brings him so much warmth and comfort, but because he recognises the longing to have this together with someone else, the one person too far away to ever be returned. Lan Zhan washes that away, the fruitless idea that he was having this luxury without the person he should owe it to, and he collapses upon the ground with little grace, gourd smashing into the wood and splintering his hands.
He should be grateful, when Lan Huan finds him there, arms to hold him up and clean the scars of blood that begin to smudge upon the gloss of his skin. They seep out, and he tastes the bittersweet taste of the alcohol chase itself off his tongue, teeth icky and head pained. Everything is drowsy, and when Lan Huan pins the board back against the ground, Lan Zhan finds nothing left in him anymore. No more strength to chase away whatever it was that he had before, to fight that weakness in him that is no longer holding on. There is nothing to help him resist that painful ache that pierces his heart, pursues the reason why his chest tightens and his breathing begins to fall off rhythm, and why he thinks.
Why he has to think in order to regain that thoughtless ability, his brother pressing a hand against his back to comfort him, but that warmth that the alcohol gave him gave more familiarity than it ought to, and Lan Zhan was pained. He was pained, and he refused to simply venture further, but he had to. He needed to, because he knew why he was so pained, and the thought he had oppressed to the back of his mind sprung to life.
It seemed to know that he was waiting, waiting and holding on for something that is far from what he could have, and he has to let it go. Eventually, but for now, that pain fills his heart, and his brother attempts a word of comfort that does not seem to quite make its way to his head.
Because he is pained, so deeply pained, and Lan Zhan drops his hand onto the ground, a petal of the broken gourd birthing a scar into his palm, and Lan Huan further frets, but Lan Zhan does not give himself a single care.
“Wei Ying,” he whispers, because that is who he wants. He so selfishly is waiting for him, wanting him, needing him, and he does not even want to acknowledge why. He knows why, so deeply in denial of his love. His love, he thinks, so bitterly, because he never knows now. He will never know, now. Whether or not it truly is love that can fill his heart back up to contentment, to further chase its ectasy of euphoria. “Wei Ying.”
Lan Huan watches him, inquisitively, and Lan Zhan looks down, shame bursting red at the tips of his ears, and he drunkenly whispers again, the name that torments him, the name that brings the butterflies back home to his stomach and to cause chaos that erupts and threatens to tear him apart.
“Wei Ying.”