Self-destruction, to some, was an exquisite art. Men of dubious character would argue that there was no greater masterpiece than the construction of a funeral pyre from one’s own bone. Wei Wuxian could not agree with such an assertion, yet even still he destroyed himself. But he did not make it art, he did not make it beautiful, it did not sprawl acrost pages in brilliant, crimson ink like a fine manuscript. No, it was ugly; the poem written in the dead of night with a trembling, frail hand that threatened to snap at any moment. There was no grace to the path Wei Wuxian had chosen to walk, and each day he seemed to ruin himself more and more. Yet the sympathetic glances only infuriated him more, he felt he did not need the pity–and why should he be pitied? Was this not a hell of his own making? Was this shell he carved of his old form not his craftsmanship? An architect to sorrow, an architect to destruction.
He had overexerted himself. This too he should have foreseen, yet still felt the dread of the matter settle within his stomach. Wei Wuxian stared at his hand, vision blurred, attempting to recognize the ghastly, pallid thing as his own. It trembled, and Wei Wuxian cursed the weakness of his own character.
Another horrible cough–sending his shoulders forward before he fell to his knees, retching blood onto the ground like some leper. And he coughed, and coughed, and coughed, feeling his throat and lungs scream in agony. Was he bleeding? Wei Wuxian could no longer make the distinction betwixt what blood fell from his lips and then his nose. It pooled beneath him, dripping, a macabre mirror of what he was now–what he could never be.
Wei Wuxian’s gaze felt warm, blurring further. Tears? Tears! Tears now! He hardly needed them! What good would crying do? He attempted to laugh, bitterly, yet that too devolved into another coughing fit, and he silently wondered if this one would finally claim his life.
If he had noticed Wen Ning’s entrance, he would have sat upright and acted as if he were not troubled by his own rapidly deteriorating condition. But he did not notice Wen Ning, and so he coughed and sobbed pitifully, with shrill laughter ringing throughout his chamber. He was all the world’s horrors then; mortal foolishness and brilliant rot all possessed by one man alone.
@buganjimo and i agreed on a horrible pain train
For the rest of the clan, the ones who do not know Wei Wuxian as Wen Ning does, it may very well be difficult to tell that something is wrong. His master is somehow both the most honest of men and so very skilled at concealment that getting a real and genuine read on him is borderline impossible, not that he would trust the man any less with his own life, if it still mattered.
Wei Wuxian for the Wens is made of bright smiles and tenacious hope, so much so that even death cannot curb Wen Ning’s admiration for him, but he can ignore only so many subtle signs. The hunching of his shoulders, the falter of his smile when no one, as far as Wei Wuxian himself is aware, is looking; conversations are shorter, family dinners with their gracious host in attendance have begun to dwindle and Wen Ning... he hears things.
Usually, he prefers to afford his master some space, some... privacy. People like Wei Wuxian find some purpose in hiding their problems from others: Wen Ning was that way, when he could worry about things.
This, though, is not one of those days where he can pretend he hears nothing, even if he only ever did so for the sake of his master. His footsteps are not those of some clumsy lumbering corpse, quiet enough that his presence seems to remain concealed even as he begins to circle his master, deadened eyes wide with concern.
“Young master...?” He remembers Wei Wuxian saying that his ability to not only still remember but to feel is nothing short of miraculous, given his circumstances, but Wen Ning cannot remember ever feeling such ugly, restless dread in his entire life. He cannot remember ever wishing to rip away his own heart as much as he does now, seeing his master in this state. “Wei Wuxian...!”
His panic makes him too clumsy for this. Wen Ning collapses before his master, hovering and hesitant to touch him. When his hands finally find Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, they trouble the fierce corpse in the way they tremble beneath him and his ears ring with the strangled sounds of his master’s retching and sobbing. He should have seen– he should have been more aware that his master was pushing himself so far, to such an extent of this manner of sickness. He is not... he does not know what to do, for a short while, though eventually he does find his own voice again. “Wei Ying...?” It comes out as a croak, nearly. “Sister... my sister... I– I’ll g-get jie jie—!”
