*seductively crawls out of hell* (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
laozu) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
meadowlarklogs2019-04-21 07:05 pm
laozu) wrote in meadowlarklogs2019-04-21 07:05 pm
CLOSED.
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.
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
he sits up a little straighter, when told to mind the edge, pulling his legs in underneath his center of gravity so that he's able to stand in the next motion. to cross the roof on bare feet, with bare ankles, and stand over lan wangji. his hands are limp, his shoulders soft and his expression a dark, confused little thing. ]
There's never any need, with you.
[ why, lan zhan? tone curious, he reaches out with his fingertips and gathers lan wangji's jaw into them, tipping his face up from the sight of the greenery and the dirt they keep on their rooftop. ]
You know, you can be angry with me. You can let me know when I've hurt you. You can resent me for the decisions I make.
no subject
to be wounded is no consequence. to be struck as though a stray dog, to be left to wait for scraps of anything — lan wangji is fine, he thinks, so long as wei wuxian is alive. if he is permitted to take part, to help, to in some way provide some measure of happiness — he does not expect anything, but still he wants.
green fans beneath his palms. he listens to wei wuxian, how he talks, and thinks he would not say such things if he knew what lan wangji was. but, want is different from need. and no matter how he wants, how much he would never forgive himself if anything were to have happened, he is twisted up within himself because he was not told, because of all that could have been.
he directs it at himself.
and still, wei wuxian touches him. he comes to lan wangji instead of retreating, but lan wangji burns. he burns with sentences he cannot form, with emotions he dare not put a name to. and yet, all that he sees and all that he projects is wei wuxian.
across the blue, against the sun — against the spines of crooked mountains and all their jagged teeth, he sees him. haggard, but still beautiful, he sees wei wuxian's lips curve around the sound of thank you. and lan wangji feels the heart in chest clench a little tighter still. he thinks that one day he will come upon wei wuxian again, dust along the crow's feet that catch now at his eyes, and wei wuxian will despise all and everything lan wangji could lay down at his feet. he will despise lan wangji, for again asking him to come home.
beneath the skin, it is an angry thing that writhes. it coils like snakes within summer, sluggish and sleep drunk. it presses its tongue to the edge of wei wuxian's fingertips, where all bridges to wei wuxian from lan wangji.
his incisors itch. his mouth parts, but it is not around nothing. ]
Do not touch me.
[ and for all that wei wuxian's expression is shuttered and shaded, it seeks. it seeks, as if lan wangji were something to find. tucked around a screen, made vulnerable and ugly, but still lan wangji's hand catches an offending wrist. he encompasses all that is lean and bird bone beneath his fingertips without customary gentleness, his thumb against the pulse.
like a child who cannot abide the whims of either the mind or the heart, there is something that goes flinty and dark in the pale of his eyes. it aches, as though caught against firelight. as though he were younger, rolled through iron and corpse dirt in the damp of a cave. his eyelashes dip, tremble beneath the weight of it.
he is angry. and he is hurt. and he cannot resent him, because all that wei wuxian is has crawled within his foundations and made itself a home, if only as much as wei wuxian will allow him.
and yet —
i cannot lose you. ]