never getting over burial mounds yllz era wei wuxian. there is so much going on with him

the way he spends his days working himself raw digging up the meager harvest, playing with a-yuan to shield him from the harsh reality of their situation, making a joke of his own laziness when really he is exhausted and sick. stretching himself so thin to keep everyone smiling

and then during the nights he can let down his pretense, grow quiet and focused, all hollow-cheeked, red-rimmed eyes, pouring over the work that will define their survival. thriving on the power that comes from giving in to the dark, the solitude, the aches and pains

one one hand he’s living so painfully close to a dream of his—building a family and a home for himself, ground up, one he knows he’s allowed in, /needed/ in. he can work the earth and play around with inventions and stay up late, drink himself silly, laugh with people he loves

but it’s a slowly dying dream, their harvest less than what they eat each season, sickness a constant threat, political pressure closing in on them. their pocket of the world is closing

and in the end, at nightless city, wwx can only pull all those accusations and fears close to himself like a cloak, become what they want. no need to pretend to be different. and it feels good, so who’s to say it wasn’t always really him?