CLOSED.

[laozu]

WHO: Ancient China Wuxia Crew ( Wei Wuxian laozu, Lan Wangji wangxian & Jiang Cheng sandu )
WHERE: Various locations.
WHEN: Various times.
WHAT: A catch-all log for literally everything so we don't spam.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Sexual content, discussions of suicide/suicidal ideation, physical violence, difficulties in communication, etc.

Comments

( 12th oct )

[sandu]

LWJ & JC : some menial labour

[sandu]

[ waiting, an endless game of waiting yet fucking again but this time there is no purpose to it, no known outcome that he could predict or discern, nothing to come out of holding his mouth closed keeping his head down but jiang cheng waits, no satisfaction and no closure in the knowledge that there is nothing else to do. he doesn't know what he is waiting for, poised stricken like a prisoner at his executional stand, the sharp blade hanging above his head, hanging by a thread ( a thread, a threat, fraying nerves and tempers saying i hate you, i hate you with baited choked with every poisonous breath ). it feels like an end. it feels like death of all things near and dear to him for the second, third and fourth time, forever more outshining outcounting the stars, and he feels almost helpless in the face of it all, trapped like a fly in some delicately woven net. but he waits.

there is, however, plenty to do physically; until they are properly set up with the 'network' - strange to think that there is some foreign thing within his body, some unknown thing within his head connected to myriads of others, but maybe on second thought

( the slow revolution, the pulsing of the golden core in his chest beating out of sync with his heartbeat, thump-thump, thump-thump, a double consonant striking, echoing dissonant in his ears )

maybe on second thought, it isn't so strange after all.

but until then, they wait. until then, jiang cheng has to content himself with mere aches and strains of his body, some trivial thing that pales in comparison to the storm raging in his head. his skin prickles with a sense of some far-off distant storm, like live current jumping across his limbs, but it is all within him - thunder and lightning trapped in the line of his body and behind the narrowed slits of his eyes as he bends down and drives the point of the shovel into the snow like sword through an enemy's throat, like he has done so many times before. killing is easy. it has never been hard to kill, not for jiang cheng, not with the eyes of all the hundreds who passed away, not with all the eyes of his ancestors behind him. it's never been hard to kill his enemies - not even with wei wuxian, it has not been hard. not in that moment.

but like everything else, like slow-falling rain soaking into fabric oh so slow and oh so quiet, you don't realise it until much later.

( thump-thump, thump-thump )

he breathes out hard from the exertion, and straightens up; there is no getting away from the cold even with the hard labour - his extremities feel frozen solid yet the rest of him runs hotter than molten lava, his blood hot and cold with fleeting thoughts like so many poison-coated arrows, and jiang cheng stares out to the stretch of railroad that they still must yet to clear by the day's end, and scowls. ]

( 13th oct )

[sandu]

CHENQING DREAM TIME.

[laozu]

[ he dreams, again.

( barefoot, the rough bark of the pine tree below his heels as he stretches out beneath the moonlit sky; the wind is crisp, slipping up beneath the draping, loose volume of his robes causing goosebumps to build along his thighs and hipbones. he is long and limber again, his chest emptied and filled with something new and something dark that preys upon his hidden insecurities and forgotten vulnerabilities - no matter how far he pushes them away, they exist as long as the people he loves most are alive.

one foot dangles, toes spread as he plucks pine needles from the branch lazily, flicking them down towards the ground below. in his fingers, he holds the ghost flute with its crimson tassels captured by the breeze, flicking softly before his eyes. it's a beautiful instrument, glossy black bamboo and the most resonant and powerful flute he's ever placed his mouth to. it's a sinister little thing, he knows, by no fault of its own for the weapon often followed in the master's wake - and the yiling patriarch's wake was a bloody, evil thing. below, he thinks he can hear someone calling his name - the sound of their voice unknowable but he feels it as it causes his chest to ache and his to heart twinge and twist within. something tells him he shouldn't come down from the pine, he should stay up high, chilled and apart from it all.

but he doesn't, and instead descends from the pristine heights down, down, down the trunk of the pine to that familiar-but-not voice with the intention of taking their hand and taking them back to where it is warm and safe. he descends, though, onto the dusky, fire-lit battlefield and steps directly into something soft and warm and bloody. the remnants of someone's corporeal form, become meat - just meat, as vultures and furious corpses swarm the remainder of the sinful living and pluck them apart piece by piece. across the field he can hear the notes of chenqing as they wither and die, feeling the sweat trail down the back of his spine and the exhaustion creep into his limbs and lungs.

'once, he played for a whole night - turning his army of ghosts and corpses upon the wicked and innocent alike.'

'had he already lost himself to madness? how foolish, how sad. no good could ever come of a beast that bares its teeth in the face of its masters.'

chenqing calls and calls, plaintive and inscrutable; it calls in his dream, piercing through hazy memories and ramshackle thoughts until he wakes; he wakes -- )

chest glowing, soft and blue in the quiet of the dorms. his two strange bunkmates either missing or asleep in their own ways, unknowing of the way wei wuxian sits up and presses his hands to his aching, twisting chest and coughs softly into his knees, breathing ragged and trembling as he feels it in his hands. feels it slender and unmistakable against his ribs - knows what he will see when he opens his eyes and looks down at what rests in his palms. so, he doesn't look. instead, he gathers his breath, gathers his muddied and disoriented mind as best as he can and slips free from the room before he disturbs his bunkmates, the object tucked below his shirt as he clutches his still-glowing chest and half-stumbles, half-creeps to the door he knows lan wangji is behind.

jiang cheng, he knows, is out. he had seen him vacate, as he does most nights - unable to sleep, unable to settle as he always is. so, wei wuxian calls out from the doorway, secretive and soft: ] Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, wake up - it's important. Come with me, hurry up!

( 14th oct)

[sandu]

( lwj & wwx: menial tasks never end )

[wangxian]

[ the winds pull high.

were it temperate, it may have been the same that caught kites from the hands of children. it may have been the same that caught the flowering trees of gusulan, shaking free their petals. it may have been that same wind, that carried the scent of wine to him that evening on the walls. it may have been that same one, that caught lan wangji within the limbs of wei wuxian – that pulled him beyond the recesses, breaking free more than just the rules of scraps. no, to that wei wuxian too had added curfew.

and to that too, wei wuxian had added many after that.

that lan wangji finds clarity in menial tasks is not surprising, perhaps. the mind goes still and the mind goes quiet as he spears the shovelhead beneath the snow, listens to the weight shift as he brings it up and past his shoulder again and again and again. it is something he had done in the deep winters, using different skillsets. often with lan xichen beside him, they had worked in unison to clear an easy path. they would often work from sunrise to sunset, all without word of complaint pressed against their lot. lan xichen, always lan xichen, offering conversation and song to fill the silence in. he had understood more than anyone the moods lan wangji back then. he could read lan wangji as though his face were his own, each small ripple like the formation of qin.

at times, he thinks of his brother here. at times, lan wangji thinks of how he had sought him, ash and fire. it was all that remained in wake of lan xichen’s disappearance then. it was all that remained in the cave, the passage of seasons turned over to spring. he, too, had been a green and delicate thing. he, too, had no concept of what there was truly to lose, until even these hopes and these wishes had been ripped up from the roots ( never to be interred again, their stems gone white and brittle – bereft ).

and so, is it odd that he thinks of the words his brother had once said? is it odd that he thinks of the mirror of himself, all traits he could not keep upon the skin, as the snow dusts the dark of his boots, catches over the tops of them?

speak with him.

him, who disturbs lan wanji’s work. him, who returns to lan wanji’s side if only to tease him— his grey eyes catching lan wanji as they always had, even back then. him, who he had waited for thirteen long and aching years.

and still, lan wangji cannot find upon his tongue any words with which to say it. still, even still, as the drifts he had moved ( so patient and so diligent ) come avalanching down again.

still— ]

Shovel properly. [ it is all that comes instead, as he finally indulges wei wuxian— his known wei ying, the light in his eyes coming up brighter, warmer despite his chastising. even these commands, cool as they may be, skim as though the ice had long been melting. ] Do not push it back again.

[ and still, he cannot tell him. ]

( 15th oct )

[sandu]

LWJ & JC : rescue mission

[sandu]

[ it's with an unsteady way jiang cheng focuses on the snow-covered street in front of him and the iridescent flickering screen that hovers across his vision at the same time; the words scroll past just as soon as he's read them, leaving imprints in the back of his eyes like streaks of lightning when he closes his eyes, blinking them open after a short while. ]

A child. [ said flatly, with hardly any inflection, jiang cheng does not look entirely impressed with the missive they have received. ]

Wandered out to play, got separated, presumably needing to be found before sunset.

[ what kind of irresponsible parents were they to have let this happen? but jiang cheng does not voice his thoughts out loud, instead giving a glance sideways at the other man. despite what happened the other day ( and the resulting hangover the day after that ) he seem to have recovered well; there is barely a change in complexion or expression that would tell anyone else the tale unless they were privy to it. ]

Hanguang-Jun, [ he calls, once, to make sure that he is still paying attention. it is still so hard to tell with lan wangji. ] Are you ready to depart?

( 18th oct )

[wangxian]

( lwj & wwx: the trouble with networking. )

[wangxian]

[ it had only been just enough.

that junior's words, his determination to bring the topic back around again— it had only been just enough for lan wangji to bite his tongue, to mind himself as others so often did not. when he was young, he had learned the power of such things. he had learned that what he words he selected had sway, that the rules were not written just to chase them away, but to keep to focus that these often spoke louder than anything. they took command where the body could not, poured emotion into feeling, poured out the contents of one's heart like the loosed down of wild geese in early springs. he had remembered that even as a youth, he could never free such things. he could not find the syllables to shape upon his tongue, his throat stopped up like vessels. he could only reach, with his hands and his arms and his gazes. that was all he could do, with persistence and dexterity. no matter how his brother assured him, no matter how the situation called for it—

in the end, even the ones he had given had never allowed him to seize anything. respect and accolades could not be touched with one's palm. but, such things had paled anyway. it was only what he did, what was proper to do for the benefit of all. he could never pin dark hair beneath his fingertips. he could never seize on the smiles that were given to him. he could never find a way to convey that wei wuxian was the one he had gone against the world with. no matter whether these choices were cruel or honorable or correct, it was only him. and now, even now, that anger for him, for wei wuxian, sits like an arrow notched into the lungs. between his ribs, the fletching irritates the skin. and yet, he endures it. he endures it and does not pull upon it, his dorm quiet and empty as it has often been as he traces through remnants of old routines again.

( and still, it sits. still, it bristles at him. still. tomorrow, how will he approach this? what will he say? would it be best to go to him, instead? )

it is only part way through straightening his sleeping clothes that a knock catches him. it is not jiang cheng, that he knows. he had often come in without much circumstance, stormy as he could be. and would he show his face to lan wangji, knowing he too had seen it? it is a question that he is left to ask, as he crosses the cool, impersonal floors to open up the door.

somehow, he'd already known who it is who now greets him. ]

Wei Ying.

[ it is not a question, not in its entirety. it is more a statement. it is a welcome, an inquiry, an invitation as lan wangji's eyes flit over him. even in this poor lighting, the pale of his eyes are quiet and concerned, soft and considering.

wei wuxian need not even say a thing before he steps back from the door, clears a way for him to enter as he pleases. ]

( 31st oct )

[wangxian]

( wuxia3: don't go far off )

[wangxian]

[ it had started, as these things often do: sudden and expected, unexpected.

it had started as all such things had started, in a volley of words and a volley of sentences— wei wuxian's voice filling all lan wangji's voice does not. and even now, it is no less true. it is no more a falsity, wei wuxian's intentions reaching out to his periphery, asking him to look as he had once had in the pavilion, his dark hair spilt across his shoulder as though the rich of calligraphic ink. ( and had he not known? had wei wuxian never known that lan wangji had always been looking? he had always glanced, when wei wuxian remained both still and quiet. he had always settled his eyes upon him, when wei wuxian himself did not take to peering. and he had never wanted anything more, than to never have purpose to look away again. )

and so, he reads. he reads, as he receives it. like notes passed within the orchid room, both caught and intercepted, lan wangji knows before its opening that there is issue enough.

when we get on our feet, we should all find a place together, wei wuxian writes him. and lan wangji need not truly scan the rest, though he does. he does, before pinpointing the location that wei wuxian broadcasts, sure and resolutely. he knows, as well as lan wangji does. he knows, that there is little lan wangji might do to refuse. there is little he might ever do, his feet finding paths to the location wei wuxian had cast, to rebuff wei wuxian as he had once done in the past— the fleeting tail of youth, a portrait and bichen, pressed out toward the heart that beat within the net of wei wuxian's fingertips ( his own ).

he had taken it, long before lan wangji had say-so.

and he had continued to make it his own, a fragile thing that bruised as though fingers against a guqin's strings. wei wuxian had continued to keep it, unknowing, in the years that lan wangji had followed him, in the years he had searched for him, in the years that had brought to them the dipping of the sun. and he continues to, lan wangji knows, in the balance of cups, in the soft of his shorn hair. wei wuxian keeps it, in the gentle way he tugged upon him. in the rapid way he does now, no matter how wei wuxian once fled from him ( his skin pinkened, his voice soft in acknowledgement ), had turned to lan wangji with a happiness. a happiness, lan wangji wonders ( hopes? ), is reflection of his own.

and yet— the heart that beats against his ribs mutters bright as he drifts through new amsterdam's strange districts. he walks when he can, the bleed of concrete and neon filling him. it is not what he knows, it is not what he has always come to know, but it matters little. he learns, he adapts— he thinks of how best to handle what has been placed before him, until they all go quiet. his questions and suggestions, they dull the moment he opens the door to the noodle bar wei wuxian has chosen. they dull, because this too is familiar. in its own way, the scent of broth pauses him. in its own way, so too does the chatter, low and warm.

and always, it is wei wuxian that catches him. it is wei wuxian, tucked into its corner, that draws him as though a child's hand to kite strings, as though a hunter's hands to arrows. and lan wangji need not say a thing, as he traces his way to him. as he settles ( neat ) beside him, his pale eyes resting upon wei wuxian as though they had never left him in the first place, both considering and soft. ]

Wei Ying, [ he says, despite it. it is a greeting, an inquiry, a request all at once. it is so many things, as wei ying is so many things. he takes a breath, silent, before he continues on. ] Has he accepted?

[ the invitation, he need not elaborate. jiang cheng. he knows that such questions would not be asked, were it him wei wuxian invited only.

it is aided too, by three settings. ]

( 4th nov )

[wangxian]

( lwj & wwx: i think i'll find a warmer state )

[wangxian]

[ it had been an agreement, perhaps.

an agreement, wrapped in trepidation— wrapped in the uncertainties of what could be and what might be. it had been almost uncharacteristic, in many ways, for them both. for them both, who had once been so comfortable with their knowledge and their base, their ability to command and contain as they needed without turning these upon the other. without, lan wangji thinks, having to place these upon each other's shoulders, no matter the scope of their willingness. but, lan wangji trusts wei wuxian innately. lan wangji trusts him with the whole of himself. lan wangji—

it's what worries me a little.

and he thinks, he thought he could have told him were he braver and were he more selfish: no worries. are we not already so close?

but, lan wangji hadn't. he hadn't. he had instead taken these words and held them, as he holds now a bag from the restaurant that wei wuxian had once attempted to take both he and jiang cheng, in his hand and curled his fingers about them. he had caged them, warm and ashen things, until they had burned into the fair skin of his palms and lived there. remained there, as they remain now, beneath the fabric of gloves that the safe house had spared. they are dark things, at odds at who he is. it suffocates, in ways he does not mention and cannot yet express. and yet, should it be that he hurts no other, then that is the least he might do to provide that comfort. that he does not hurt jiang cheng, wei wuxian— this token is but a small thing. it does not matter, if these were to have been eaten once or not. lan wangji has always been this way. he has always sought to give, to continue to give. he has always wanted to share what in part was his. and with wei wuxian, these actions are in all ways effortless. they are in all ways willing, as much as wei wuxian would want.

and in some ways, it is too an apology for what has occurred. no matter where the fault rested, lan wangji takes responsibility for what he has contributed and what he has desired as he most often does. it matters little, what he had come away with in the aftermath. the ugliness of bruising, the shifting of purples to greens— it is nothing. he holds no grudge for it, the lingering ache. he holds not grudge for himself. but, in this way, wei wuxian has been spared that fate. he had spared this slow and residual healing, the coloration about the pale of his eyes making them ever more vivid.

but, he spares no thought to it himself. instead, as he comes to where they had agreed to test ( a stairwell, quiet and disused ), he raises a loose fist.

he knocks once, twice upon the door to it. they are lighter than they would have once been, gentler. they are not tentative, but conscientious. in the other hand, he keeps careful grip of the bag and attempts not to jostle the full of its contents. ]

( 11 nov )

[wangxian]

@wangji.lan ( 1/2 )

[wangxian]

Jiang Wanyin.

[ how many misfires has he had? ]

Is

( 12 nov )

[sandu]

[sandu]

[ jiang cheng does not profess himself to be an optimist. he may have been, once - when they were all younger, when the world had been just one vast, unbroken line of horizon stretching from end to end. when they were younger and more foolish and more innocent ( when they had been kinder, softer ) and had thought that with one leap they could reach for the stars. reach for what is impossible.

it has been a while, since he were able to think such things.

he is not an optimist, and the faint sound of pain from wei wuxian from before - the weakness that feels so strange, coming from the man who had once he thought the entire world of, still plays about his ears, discordant and wrong, wrong, wrong, something is so irreversibly, irrevocably wrong. his face does not change at the news - but it is only on the surface. the outer layer may be calm but he is beset with tremors within, the hairline cracks that line his being shivering, for a moment, before he straightens up.

go on. he must go on.

so he does. jiang cheng moves automatically to the kitchens - what little supply there has been stripped bare in the face of what has transpired, the safehouse mostly bare and devoid of people likewise as they go about - playing heroes.

jiang cheng has no need for heroes.

there, in a corner, mostly forgotten, or otherwise left there by some well meaning soul, thinking of who are left behind, who may come searching - a box of tea. while the water boils, jiang cheng manages to unearth a teapot, and a cup - only one still left intact.

with all these in hand, he makes his way back - back to the cot where wei wuxian lays to rest, back to the other who sits there as if made of stone, of marble - waiting, as he has always done. as they both have done.

without a word, he sets the tray down beside lan wangji. waiting. ]

( 17 nov )

[wangxian]

( wwx & lwj: year after year will it break my heart? )

[wangxian]

[ most of all, lan wangji remembers his eyes.

he remembers the dark of their flint, the edge of their lashes. he remembers, distinctly, the way wei wuxian’s gaze held him, as his hands held him. as wei wuxian’s arms held him, as if to keep all that lan wangji was or ever would be against his side.

I am here, he’d wanted to tell him. I have always been. but the words would not come right. they burned along his sternum, burned within the brand— they burned down to his fingertips, worked partway to wei wuxian’s bruised skin. pressed flush and close against the wrist, he’d given him with each assurance all the warmth that laid within. with the pulse of bluer light, lan wangji had given him relief (you are safe), had given him something far more precious and fragile and thin: wei ying. it though it was his name, laid within was the way he’d kept it tight behind his ribs. laid within the intonation, in the way it so often fell just past his lips— it was a summer, a spring when they were only children and knew nothing of the world and all its ugliness yet. it was the feeling that first time wei wuxian turned his eyes to him, tucked away in the pavilion— it’s him, lan wangji had thought then. somehow, some way, his heart had always chosen him.

and for it, he thinks— he thought it somehow suiting, to be caught as this. again, within a cave. again, entrenched in sentiments. why was it so, that he only found means to communicate all that wei wuxian was in such times as this? why was it so, that wei wuxian too was forced to live this?
why was it?

and yet, he thinks he would do such a thing again. he thinks he would give anything at all to wei wuxian if only he should ask it. he thinks – thought – the round of gunfire felt as though nothing at all in face of the expression he was left with.

I am here, he’d wanted to tell him. in the quiet, in the absences and spaces of time behind the heavy lids of his eyes. be well. it was enough, to give him time to escape what they both could not. it was enough, it was—

and still, he’d wanted to know. he wanted to know, if wei wuxian had made it. he’d wanted to know, as he’d wanted to know of the state of wei wuxian’s soul in the unending years between: are you well? are you listening? are you resting?

can you hear me? ]

Wei Ying, [ it comes like a gasp, tinged in urgency despite all of its hoarseness. it comes within a string of moments, where noise and light and touch streams back to him, becomes as though a torrent the moment he forces himself up. he does not know where this is, not for a moment. he does not know where he is, his body mended, but—

strange, so strange. is it wrong? no, lan wangji is alive after all. he is alive, sore, and despite it all— despite it all, lan wangji can see him. he can see him, caught in the dim glow of the overhead lights that wreath each unit below. ]

Wei Ying, [ he says again, still hoarse— but, there is only relief. there is only relief that wei wuxian is here.

that, in the end, wei wuxian is whole. ]

( 30 nov )

[wangxian]

( lwj & wwx: the moon lives in the lining of your skin. )

[wangxian]

[ it is early yet, when he comes back into himself.

voices carry still within the city, sparser now. before, lan wangji had known new amsterdam to be as though a crowded pond — people swam within its confines, sunned themselves within its bounds. and now, lan wangji accustoms himself to its newer silence. and still, it is nothing at all like home. it is nothing at all like the streets that wei wuxian and himself had once walked, wei wuxian's hand tucked against his elbow and leaving only his desires banked beneath the thick of outer robes. he had contented himself to knowing nothing of what could be, what could have been. for himself, he had told it would be enough just to see him, wei wuxian (his wei ying) — his hair dark and wild, body frenetic, mouth parted about words that sunk into lan wangji as though arrows into marks.

but, it did not ever mean he could not want for more. it did not ever mean that lan wangji did not press against himself the scraps of wei wuxian's affections, the gray of his eyes, the way his hand would curve about his and guide without thought of it. it did not mean that lan wangji did not keep all that wei wuxian had given him (since they were children, his flowers pressed into books like wei wuxian's persistent touched pressed into the neat lines of his robes, like the perfume pouch that rested once against his breast — like so many things, so many glances never met and all the words he shared within that cave, all from his own heart).

even softer still about the edge and less defined, lan wangji memorizes the way wei wuxian is pressed to him now. as an oxtail brush to inkstone, his strides blur into wei wuxian's, the buzz of alcohol fading back to lesser hums. he blinks once, catches fragments of what it was they had done: they had looked for more apartments, after they had eaten. wei wuxian had shared with him his alcohol, their knees pressed against one another's beneath the table. lan wangji had given him a glance, at some time, when wei wuxian's fingers found skin.

like now. like earlier, in the days that passed within the safe house. wei wuxian, tugging him down to kiss him. wei wuxian, his knuckles brushing against his stomach. wei wuxian, who could only be silenced in his laughter when lan wangji pulled him up against him and took that laughter for his own. and now, in this part of the city that still lacks transportation, their arms linked and shoulders kissed — lan wangji's eyes seek his. they are clearer now, brighter than they have been. his opposite hand covers the one that keeps lan wangji steady, gentle and without error.

he sees him. ]

After dinner, [ he starts (assures with the touch of his hand: I am awake), ] Have we chosen one?

[ an apartment. he cannot recall, but wei wuxian is warm against him now and lan wangji keeps close. further away, someone calls another's name as lan wangji calls wei ying each time he touches him as this.

it is what he has always done. ]

( 3rd december )

[laozu]

[laozu]

[ the last time that he had all three of them together in a public setting, wei wuxian had tipped over a table in anger and punched his own shidi in the face in retaliation for him ( mistakenly ) decking lan wangji. to say that he was a little nervous, to have invited them -- to have tried, once again, to bring them both out with him in any capacity -- to daisy's holiday party with him, would be an understatement. wei wuxian, on his sixth glass of twice-spiked punch, was anything but nervous; he was warmed, hazy and bright with mistletoe worn like a crown over his head, laughing as brightly as the holiday lighting in the room. he'd done his best to warn lan wangji off the punch and to try and ply jiang cheng with it, fetching cup after cup to bait him into matching him drink-for-drink throughout the evening.

for the most, he attends the party to socialize, to flit from one of the Displaced to another like a delicate, red-and-black clad monstrosity that thrives off of knowing they're okay. they're still alive. the dark circles under his eyes are not as prominent, hidden under a thin layer of concealer he's used since the halloween activities and loves for its ability to mask the way he's wrung out and lost. at the party, he can socialize - and he can distract himself, when he looks to lan wangji and jiang cheng, about the dangers lurking in the world. dangers that had already claimed one of them, and who could claim any of them at any given moment. without his cultivation skills, he could not preserve or protect them.

with a drink in one hand, he slides past lan wangji to fetch up against him and call through the music and the chatter: ] Lan Zhan, come with me! Come with me!

[ it's to jiang cheng that he goes, nearly spilling his drink over himself as he hooks his arm through jiang cheng's as well; move at your own peril, shidi, and find yourself splashed with punch! he finds his way to one of the more comfortable corners of the room, where he doesn't have to yell to be heard and can instead lean into their space -- bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked. he's dressed as boldly as ever, sheer leggings and gold-buttoned shorts, an overlarge red sweater and mistletoe all over his head. he's not kissed anyone, though, despite the tradition associated with it. ]

I realized you two were missing out on the best part!

[ and with that, he unclips two of the little bunched of faux mistletoe from his hair and plants them - one after another, into both jiang cheng and lan wangji's hair. ]

Apparently it's a type of plant that you're meant to be kissed under!

( 5 dec )

[wangxian]

( inbox ping: @ wangji.lan )

[sandu]

This was not on the list.

[ a picture is attached, of some kind of fancy looking liquor.. ]

( 15? dec )

[wangxian]

( & all: suck me dry you uptight fakers. )

[wangxian]

[ little closes in zerzura. and little still refuses them all.

but, as early evening cuts grey and high across limestone, lan wangji finds he recalls in cycles the bleached faces of the mountains, the bend of ancient magnolias. he finds without finding that these memories smudge at their corners as though water against ink stone. he finds, too, without finding that wei wuxian and jiang cheng are two of the three they have made themselves a part no matter the circumstances. the circumstances—

zerzura is small. small, for all that it is beautiful. beautiful, in a way that new amsterdam is not. here, the buildings sit low and cut clean in their lines. they are ornate enough, natural enough. they are not home, but perhaps they are home. lan wangji does not recall or know, pushed into fatigue despite all his determination to discover what there is left to do for all who are left. for those above and those below, lan wangji has little doubt that either need be compromised for the sake of the other.

but, this hour is for investigation within the streets. it is not for puzzling within their room, one offered to accommodate them all. and now, they have come upon a strip of restaurants amid scattered chatter. here and there, people eye them with curiosity and hope ( banked, just barely, within some ). and here and there, some brush closer to scan their faces⁠— to guess at what it is they are able ( maybe ) to do.

it is an oddity to lan wangji, who so often was avoided. it is stranger still, when they do not turn their eyes from him when he turns his eyes to them, stuck close to jiang cheng and wei wuxian. they do not fall behind him, as though afraid to look upon him too directly. and while it is at once not without relief, it is something else entirely.

lan wangji's brow creases, almost imperceptibly. ]

Here?

[ he means for stopping, for the moment. he knows it is closer to dinner for some than others. ]

( ?? dec )

[wangxian]

( & all: wade in past the tide. )

[wangxian]

[ wangji is a faithful thing.

it plays without question of him, responds to the touch of his hands. it hums and echoes through the bone and sinew of him, makes peace with the air it distills within its stretch. like him, it too had been a constancy. it had waited and obeyed, it had yielded and been restrung— and still, it plays as lan wangji focuses his attention upon the strings. it does not make itself a vessel for words as it once did, does not call to itself the blues of spiritual fragments. there is nothing, but himself and wangji's steady weight upon his lap.

it speaks anyway, he knows. it speaks, as his mother had once spoken to him. it teases at the idea of all that could have been, wraps its edges neatly about its span. it stabilizes what is factual and true, like the persistence of an itch about the raw perimeter of a wound. and he remembers, the many moons where he could only think of playing at all. left to listen to the xiao, his brother's tenderness pulled against his disappointment. and it was not for him, lan wangji knows. it was not cast against his shoulders as though the hotter tongue of lashes. it was for what choices were made, what choices were inevitable for lan wangji to make. it was for all that lan xichen could not do because of his position.

and like that sound then, wangji carries under lan wangji's hands a tune that conveys perhaps more than most would perceive it could from one such as him. one such as him, his back straight and his eyes focused beneath the dark sweep of their lashes— it is a distraction as much as it is means to center his thoughts, to soothe the thoughts of those who keep beside him regardless of his state. he knows, now he knows, all of what must be done and what it is they all must do. he had understood it, even when they were deceived. he had understood it, when sleep would not come and fatigue had crested dark against their skin.

and now, it is with his thoughts cleared and his heart decided, that he waits for opportunity to voice what must now be and what may be within the walls of this room this world too had allotted. for all their efforts, it is all that lan wangji could weigh against what there is and what there was and what indeed still could be. no matter the steep of its cost, he had promised wei wuxian one thing. he had promised wei wuxian many things.

and he had intended to keep true to his shared promises. ]

( 19 dec )

[wangxian]

( & all: so this is love )

[wangxian]

[ they had all fallen before.

they had all fallen many times before and would fall many times more, but never once had lan wangji fallen with his hands caught within another's grip. never once had he fallen with the promise that he would not be alone for it, that his pains would too be theirs and theirs his. never once had lan wangji experienced that sensation of knowing that should he die ( and die he did, die they all did ), he would die knowing that he would not leave another behind to grieve for him. he would not leave any behind to grieve for him, to carry all his love for them, to harbor it in their chests until they cracked beneath the weight of it and burst as though the mountain rivers against the burn of winter running thin. he would not unstop the dams within the heart, bleed dry the warmth of skin⁠—

yes, lan wangji had fallen before. they all had. but, never once had lan wangji hoped that any should love him enough to pledge themselves to him. never once had lan wangji believed he could do the same for them, no matter how he had already, no matter how he wished to. no matter how he held within the flesh all that he could not loose, for fear it was too much a burden for either of them to choose. ( all he wanted, all he had ever wanted was to do good. all he had ever wanted was to give what he could, to see happiness bloom with or without him. and so, when it extended, should it not have been surprising that he too wanted nothing more? that he too wanted only to let what he could serve them both, both beautiful and brilliant and all that any should feel fortunate to keep close at all? )

never had lan wangji pushed for it. never had lan wangji dared to think of it. but, the sky is grey and the sky is dark. the ground is wet beneath them all, connected hand-in-hand-in-hand. and instinctive as it is, lan wangji wants nothing more than to turn his head and hold them both against him, to tuck them away from all that remains and all that is left. but, they are alive and all around is green and the worlds meld where they meld⁠ and his chest at once alight and aching with the swell of relief and anxiety. his heart, too, is at once a stuttering thing and it is all he can do to blink back the dampness that stings just beneath the skin. ]

Wei Ying, [ his voice comes muffled and somehow small, pressed to the curve of wei wuxian's shoulder. and it too, calls across to⁠⁠ jiang cheng. his fingers knot tighter through fingers, loosen in increments. they tighten again with renewed determination, almost as if it should hurt to consider letting go of either of them.

and it does, it would seem. it does and lan wangji's breath comes soft and slow and uneven. ] Jiang Cheng.

[ they have died, they are alive. and lan wangji, without needing to say anything, conveys what it is he knows.

do not let go. ]

( 22 dec )

[laozu]

( et al. something overdue. )

[laozu]

[ it takes him some time, to wrangle jiang cheng into sitting in the same room as him without lan wangji in attendance. it takes him saying jiang cheng, i really need to speak with you without jest in his voice to gather his shidi's focus and lure him to the rooftop, where already there are a few blossoming plants in pots - courtesy of lan wangji's thoughtfulness. he sits among them, plucking at the dead petals of one pretty annual of red and orange that has already passed away for the colder seasons, gathering the crumbled petals into his palm idly while he waits for jiang cheng to settle in.

the expression on his face is something of tender wonder, when he looks at his sworn brother. a man who was once a boy he had promised himself to; one that he betrayed, whether he truly meant to or not. one that had saved him, that he had saved in return. one that he had thought lost to him, until by virtue of this world they had found themselves in... their hearts had shyly begun to come back together. when wei wuxian looks at jiang cheng, it is with the echoes of a boy who had loved him. and it is with the newness of a man who has found something new to share with him. his heart, his time. small things, tender things. ]

There's a lot I want to talk about, with you and with Lan Zhan, when he returns. Until then, I thought - you and I could have a moment to discuss some things.

[ he stops fussing with the flower, sets the blossoms aside on the rooftop's structure and presses his petal-stained fingers together under his chin for a moment. contemplating, the pretty piercings he's set in his ears glittering, the rings he wears on his fingers and the bangles on his slender wrists catching the evening light. ]

In Zerzura, we were all together. We were happy, we had built - a family together.

[ when he lowers his gaze, the thickness of his lashes obscure his eyes, pressed to his cheeks as he leans a little closer to jiang cheng. walking his fingers towards his shidi's hand in the hopes of taking it between his own. ]

I still want that. With you, with Lan Zhan. All of us together, I want us to be happy.

[ he squeezes a little roughly, to tell jiang cheng he's not finished speaking. to beg him to let him say his piece. ]

When you came here, I said something cruel to you. I said that I wasn't the boy you had known, in essence - I denied you, the same as I tried to deny Lan Zhan. I wanted you two to go home and forget me, to forget the pain that I had caused you and could still cause you. But - you jumped with me, both of you. I'd already come to reconsider my stance on your presence, but that was the point I knew... should I lose either of you, I'd be incomplete. And you... you're a difficult man, you've always been difficult! Sometimes, you're a real brat and I want to pummel you until you're black and blue!

[ wei wuxian's cheeks puff out, sullen and childish - for only a moment. then he is serious again. ]

I still want that. I still want you. I want to earn that smile I saw in Zerzura, one day.

( ?? dec )

[sandu]

( wxc; these our bodies possessed by light )

[sandu]

[ it is by force of habit and not some inherent nature that jiang cheng rises early; he sleeps restless and light - he sleeps with an ear and an eye open for any signs, sighs and sounds that differ from what he is used to, and even here it is no exception. he has not gotten himself used to sleeping besides them and between them, yet. the jagged pieces of his edges have not smoothed yet, and he feels the awkward fit - yet they return to each other again and again each night. wei wuxian and lan wangji both, they touch him with more than just their hands. their breath quieted and even in sleep, their voices low and hushed in the darkness, they should be all familiar things now.

even so, he awakes as lan wangji wakes with the breaking of the dawn outside their small room. he wakes, but remain with his eyes closed, just a little more, just a little, counting numbers that grow double digit in his head with his chin tucked over the curve of wei wuxian's head and his hands curled, like some young bud, over the creased bedding they share.

just a little more. let him savour the warmth, for just a little more.

he is by nature restless. jiang cheng is though branches that shakes with the faintest pick of wind, the way that the wide green leaves of the lotus. he cannot remain in one place for so long - his body seeks movement and action and progress, and he counts once more in his head another hundred, a hundred hundred, before he gets up.

it is without sound that he pads out of the room into the kitchen, the lounge visible from the way, the small balcony outside with its ladder leading up toward the roof. his hair is down, the messy curls that lay over the tuck of his ears, the way it wisps against his neck now, grown longer but not enough.

he is not looking, not exactly, but he also is. ]

( ?? early-mid jan )

[sandu]

( lwj; yes, i swallow glass, but later )

[sandu]

[ after this;

jiang cheng is still fuming when he returns, hours later, from the gym; when he is angry he shows it for all of the world - he is more force of nature like this rather than a man, and one would fancy sparks of flame and lightning from where he rests his hand against the wall as he bends his head down, kicking his shoes off with little ceremony.

there is always someone about in the home they have made for themselves ( and as usual, he ignores the way the word catches, at once odd and aching ), but really, jiang cheng could not care less about it.

whoever it was, they better have sense to keep well out of his way. ]

( 19th jan )

[wangxian]

( & all: there's a river that winds on forever. )

[wangxian]

[ eleven hours is not overlong.

they have been upon trains once before, smaller in stature and smaller in form. and for all that it is in some ways crowded, there is something comforting in the persistent rock and rumble of the wheels as they skim past unused platforms. here and there, should lan wangji turn his head, there is the impressionistic blur of a landscape unknown to him. like colored ink spilled across an unmarked canvas, lan wangji can look only guess upon what it is for a moment before it changes shade and hue again. and so, it continues on like that. in the stillness of the train car, in the later tail of the day, it sometimes rouses him from shallow slumbers. it waits for him to wake, the wheels loud and contemplative as they roll them underground, the light beyond the windows fading and dimming as though a beacon at the cusp of its dispersal, its impending absence.

and though lan wangji knows these two stay nearest to him, his hands instinctively feel for the warmth of their skin regardless of those who pass and those who visit. his fingers brush onward until they may confirm it, the tension in his body unfurling as though a tangled ball of kite string beneath the constancy of clever touches- a well of some great patience. and when it is they move, it is those same hands that hold them tighter to him. awake or asleep, it is difficult to say, but there is always a delicate furrow between the dark of brows anyway.

after all, lan wangji has always struggled to convey with words what it is he’s wanted this way.

but, his body has no trouble being earnest. ]

( ?? feb )

[wangxian]

( & all: i was sleepin' in the garden when i saw you first. )

[wangxian]

[ the city is always alive.

when he had first arrived, the buildings seemed to stretch impossibly high. where he glanced, people followed. and upon his own feet, he had felt unsettled among the constancy of noise and the constancy of bustle. and though he has now long learned where it is he might go to seek refuge from all that surrounds, it is here that he is most comfortable. it is here, in cramped spaces of their apartment, that all tension in his body and all tension in thoughts come unbound.

and it is here, with his fingers gently lifting the clever features of a cat from a familiar face, that lan wangji thinks he would always like to remain. he thinks, selfishly, that he would forever like to stay at the side of wei wuxian and jiang cheng, for them to never grow bored.

but, lan wangji will never press upon either the emotions that sway after their feet as though a pining grass. he will never force them to love as it is he does. and so, he savors ( greedy, he knows ) each moment it is they are close. each moment, like this moment, that he may look upon wei wuxian's face and smooth the dark of his hair behind the cool shells of his ears. each moment, like this moment, he might watch too the way jiang cheng settles in — removes his own mask with an effortlessness, that lan wangji takes too and places aside with their ties unfurled and their edges kissed.

kissed, like he too had kissed them. not long ago, upon their way back. he had saved jiang cheng's until it is he had passed through their door, but wei wuxian had gotten his in the small and shameless instances. in the instances that lan wangji could not bring himself to say no, as lan wangji could never say no to him. and so, lan wangji had exchanged them in the alley, along their walks, within the festive hum of transportation cars — the city alight with ardor and excitement.

and with his own mask still on and his body heavy with a fatigue that comes only late in the evenings, lan wangji manages to swallow a yawn as he pays mind first to removing his cardigan. ]

I will make tea, [ he suggests, hums out against the threat of another rising yawn that he manages only just to suppress. he folds his outwear neatly, arms tucked with the squared angles of its body, as he finally works it off.

it is the least he might do for them, the least he might be allowed to do for them both. it is a form of tradition, perhaps, molded from the beginning. and something quiet in lan wangji's heart warms at the thought of it, as he turns the pale of his eyes back upon them — them, who he is permitted to touch and to hold and to rest with.

them. ]

( 道侣; sɪɴɢɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʙɪʀᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ɪᴛ ɴᴏᴡ )

[wangxian]

[ and right on time, as per usual: ]

I am heading home.

[ ... ]

Is there more to the list?

[ last chance to ask hanguang-jun for snacks. ]

[sandu]

What list?

I only gave you two items to purchase.

@LWJ, "oops i was an asshole"

[laozu]

[ sorry, i was pressed for time!

lan zhan, they needed help! i couldn't think twice about answering them.

if i didn't go THEN, we might not have succeeded. and you were doing something so important!

seated upon the edge of the rooftop, wei wuxian curls his fingers into the loose material of his shirt, leans over his own knee and sighs into the summer air. warm, humid as a greenhouse, he can see the ivy that creeps and crawls up the building sides - breaking windows, cracking stone and steel alike with the force of its expansion. all of the words he thinks of - the words he could tell lan wangji ( and jiang cheng, though that is a whole other conversation ) are flat and insincere. wei wuxian plays the fool, but he is not one; conscientious of those around him to the point where their health and safety is detrimental to his own, he knows better than to offer such paltry explanations of his actions to his partner.

lan wangji deserves better than that, after all. he has never been anything but understanding, patient and gracious in a way that sometimes rubs like coarse sandpaper over wei wuxian's limbs, ghosts up the length of his spine as though he were a cat being stroked the wrong way. it's too late to prepare his piece, regardless. he's put it off for hours and hours, because nothing short of honesty is what he can offer to lan wangji. he can be sly and disingenuous with jiang cheng. jiang cheng expects that of him. lan wangji... he always finds the best in wei wuxian's actions. ( can he find it now? he wonders, a little tersely; inside of him, his stomach boils. ) ]

I am sorry that I left you behind, [ because he is. it was unkind of him, to do such a thing without explanation.

to have done it again, in their shared lifetime. ]

I can't promise it won't happen again, in the future. Is that something you'll accept about me, as well? Even though it will inevitably cause you pain?

[wangxian]

[ he is still within himself.

it is what he thinks, his movements precise and methodical amid the overgrowth. it is what he chooses to believe, as he cuts back from the roots. when he was young, when the fields about his mother's house were all in bloom ⁠— she would tell him that to thrive, what was pained and browned must be removed. and so, lan wangji would do it. painted white amid the rioting of blues, he would indicate to her those he had made perfect.

but, little ever was. and none could ever be. his body, his heart, life and its trajectory — still, he is left to kneel upon her entry, his fingers clenched tight within his sleeves into the shape of fists.

and still, it is not the longest he has waited. hours, minutes — years, run as though heavy water over the old of eaves. lan wangji does not feel tired, but it is not because he is not fatigued. he does not hurt, but it is not because each pain is as though an absent thing. instead, he knows only that wei wuxian exists, is whole, in his periphery. he knows only that wei wuxian has remained for some time now, gilded at the edge a higher hour. balanced as wei wuxian is at the roof's edge, lan wangji does not offer a verbal greeting. he does not extend his words across the distance. he does not speak, less for the way that his words should form and more for the way they knot up fierce within his stomach. he feels them, sediment and soil, riled and wounded things. even now, transplanting and thinning, the task brings him no escape of it.

he could not control, would not control what choices were wei wuxian's. but, it did not mean he had to like them. it did not mean he needed to approve of them. it did not mean it did not harm to think of him, trusted though he is (and was and always would be) somewhere he could not find him — unable to be reached, unable to be aided because lan wangji could not be there to help him.

when the news touched upon his ear, it had deafened him. as though he were back within the walls he grew up in, each breath a reminder of whose side he chose to take. ( it too is my responsibility. )

and it too is now, for all that he is teeth and the raise hackles beneath the skin. more so than at wei wuxian, it is at himself.

there is no particular warmth in how he turns his head. within the cradle of his palm there is a graveyard of foliage. he leans, pinches with particular force the rotted curvature of leaves that join each body before it. what remains shudders beneath its rawness. it stains the skin with its distress.

i do not want an apology.

he does not want thanks. he does not want anything, he should like to think, but he knows better the hunger in him.

he tamps down upon it.

he is not his father's son. and wei wuxian does not need to — ]

There is no need, [ he says after a long time. he thinks he keeps back the sharpness of his eyeteeth, but there is a strain. a leash held too tightly, a bridle pulled too sternly against the chest. no need to say sorry. no need to ask if he would stay as long as wei wuxian would want him. no need to ask if he should accept each pain that wei wuxian should give him, because love to lan wangji is its assortment and its shades. it is not always a happiness. and to lan wangji — tumult colors him in pallid shades, in the tremble of his lashes as he sets what is discarded in a neat and ordered pile.

to lan wangji, it too was his mother's wasting. it is years spent without him.

when he breathes out, it is audible. it does not loosen his shoulders with it. ]

You are on the edge, [ lan wangji tells him, tepid. he inspects what plants now lie nearer to wei wuxian's gravity, thinks with some gentled bitterness that they too bend toward him. ] Sit properly.

[ and like those flowers too, lan wangji blooms for him year after year after year. ]