*seductively crawls out of hell* (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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.
( 13th oct )
CHENQING DREAM TIME.
( 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!
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it is a rarity, a blessing without cause— an empty, ephemeral dark.
these days, perhaps since always, lan wangji has known little of these things. he has known little of dim recesses, each absence of sound. he has known little of things that did not cause within him conflict, that did not cause within him a storm of contradictions. when he was young, it was the dark of unbound hair. it was that hair pressed to the floors of the library pavilion, that mouth that tormented him so calling again and again: lan zhan, lan zhan. it was his own hands, stained and caught within the black of robes that had truly made it. it was his own words, his own tongue, his own body that had told him that there was nothing more that he could do to contain it. it was all that his uncle had fought against, railed against. it was all that lan wangji was not supposed to dream of. it was that passion, that same passion, that had taken his mother, that had taken his father. it was that same passion that led him to remember little of the one who bore him, her warm eyes and warm hands wrapped in rumor that her isolation was only for her illness so as to not bring shame to them.
but, what little good had it done? was it then not suiting, that illness was later what had taken her bridegroom in her stead?
as he grew older, it was flame. it was the strike of fever, tears shed within a cave. it was the sound of wangji, his fingers telling of a song that was written for the one that had come and that had gone. it was dedication. it was all he desired, all that he could want—
tonight, it is his own voice that echoes back to him. it is his own voice, in a city without night. it is his own voice, later, that says all that he'd wanted to back then. it is own voice, his own hands, that takes up the bones and ashes of what he loves. it is not for condemning you, it is to hide you, to keep you from—
but, there is no change. there is never any change. no matter how he lives, the scars remain. the brand remains. the words wei wuxian, his wei ying answers with:
get lost.
get lost, get lost, get— ]
[ lan zhan!
his eyes open. the voice is one he knows, one he follows. he does not question it. were it to tell him to flee with it ( as it does now ), he would. were it tell him to come to him, he would. it is only mercy that there remain no others in this dorm, as lan wangji pushes himself up. he does not consider more than pulling on his boots, pulling up the looser collar of the clothing he's been subject to. that soft urgency, that secretive edge, it scrawls within his heart a nervousness. it does not permit hesitation at all.
it is only the barest pause before the door is open. it is only the barest pause before he steps out, closes the door behind him. his eyes, light as they are, catch trouble in the depths of them. his dark brows, though minutely, knit. ]
Wei Ying. [ it is not a question. it is a statement. it is an agreement. an understanding:
tell me what it is. allow me to shoulder it with you. ]
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( his disorientation passes between them; the shivering of his heart, the urgency, the unknowing. )
his path brings them from the warm inside to the chill of the halls, from the halls to a flight of stairs where he first peers down, and then up. listening and looking for anyone who may be coming or going. once there, he backs himself up, up against the railing that guards against falls and hikes himself up, balancing his hips across it, his bare toes clinging to the metal rail. it's chilly, not painfully so, but the cold of the metal and the air descending to floors below them. in his thermal wear, he shivers - hands and wrists pressed to his chest, not only due to the chill, but the need to hide it, to keep it from sight. until now, as he lowers his hands and allows chenqing to lay quiet and dark across his palms. ]
Our dreams have a power here that I haven't seen before.
[ it's truly chenqing, it reverberates in time with him; reaching for his core, hidden behind so many layers, so bleakly. ]
Before you arrived, I dreamt that I was a rising star - a performer, an idol - when I woke, thousands of people knew me. Now, I dreamt of...
[ he lifts his flute, until the tassels dangle freely, delicate and red ]
I woke up with it in my hands.
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lan wangji remembers remedies, methods, manifestations— they all flit beneath the skin, between the skin, the warmth of wei wuxian’s hand in his sending each possibility scattering like so many frightened fish, silver and soundless. fleeting, perhaps, the disorientation that wei wuxian feels becoming one with his. he is awake, but not yet awake. this place ( new tokyo, new amsterdam ) does not reveal itself to him, does not allow himself to say it by its name. and yet, yet there too comes the prickle of concern, the steadfastness of determination, the unquestioning nature ( with him, he would go anywhere ), the need to protect— each and every shy and shivering thing that catches on its edge ( like lantern light against low winds, flaring and receding in hope it would not be snuffed again ).
but, like grasses that chase heels, lan wangji lets himself be led. he lets himself be led as he was led from the cloud recesses, as he was led from the caves, as he was led through thirteen years on the cusp of wei wuxian’s name ( you are everywhere the chaos is, they’d come to tell him, you are always where the chaos is ).
the hour is late. he knows it as they pass through empty halls, knows it as the time keeps fast within him. like the passage of sun, that too had been built into him. it has been built within him since he can recall it, as much as all rules that he breaks now come to the forefront. and yet, he finds himself without worry of it. he finds himself instead inside a room for looping stairs, squared against the far walls as wei wuxian releases him. in absence of the tug, his fingers curl upon themselves. they wait, as lan wangji waits, for why wei wuxian has called to him. he settles near, just across. upon the same stair, two steps would bring wei wuxian to him as much as it would bring lan wangji to him.
the light of lan wangji’s eyes follow his movements, his mouth dipping into the minutest of frowns. he sees the way wei wuxian shivers, draws near to himself. part of lan wangji thinks to offer his coat, but that had been left in the dormitory. he thinks to move closer, but the thought for is discarded. instead, he resolves to do what he can. but, what matters now is what troubles him. wei wuxian.
what troubles him is— ]
[ where is it, he'd asked. all through the cloud recesses. all through each room, he'd searched for it. he'd torn through each trunk, each chest. he'd pried into each storage shed, his brother said, with that body of his back then. back then, the white of his robes speckled with red. he'd come back from the burial mounds, a child in his arms and an empty jars in his palms. he'd come back and had not rested until he could find some scrap of him, some scrap of anything at all that reminded lan wangji of him.
and yet, he'd never found chenqing.
he'd never found it. and now, it is in wei wuxian's hands.
he holds it out for lan wangji to examine.
lan wangji takes a breath. he takes a breath and his brows knit, his eyes flitting from chenqing and up again. up to wei wuxian, the shadows that rest behind them conflicted and puzzled, sharp and pained. he would know it anywhere, the shape of it. he would know the color, the way it rests. and yet, that too fades. and what is left is focus upon what it is that remains. what is left is this: the desire to understand, to assist, to listen and to hear.
his lips move, for a moment, before the words are there. they pass between them, low as they are always. the acoustics in this place are in part muffled, a blessing in disguise. ]
I have been told of these, [ he starts. a boy had mentioned it to him. a boy near the age of lan sizhui. his his eyes flicker, bring down the sweep of darker lashes, showing presence of the thoughts that stir just beneath. ] But, not of their results.
[ he continues, a touch quieter than before. his mouth tugs downward, but does not give more. ] Are you the only?
[ the only one, it should be said, to receive such things as this. ]
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the idea of losing control, of dreaming without sense or cohesion or command that he could exert over himself has affected him far more than he thought it would. he remembers his past in patchwork, looking to lan wangji for confirmation of the names of those he's killed against those he wasn't responsible for. knowing that by the end of all things, he had been insane and out of control - so, the dream scares him. chenqing, dark and beautiful in his hands, does not scare him. it is his beautiful, loyal weapon; he had saved suibian from such a dark fate.]
If our dreaming on such a mass scale changed the world even slightly, I doubt believe I'm the only one. I have so many questions about it, how it happened, if it can be replicated, controlled, directed. We could do it, you and I. We've been trained, even if Mo Xuanyu was... more inexperienced in many ways.
[ slowly, he curls a hand back to his chest, pressing chenqing down the line of his sternum. secure, protected.
when he looks up next, the haunted sort of dark that had crept in around the pretty, violet-grey of his eyes has faded a little. replaced by a spark, as he tips back along the rail a little, one foot hooked into place to keep himself from falling down the center, down to the ground floor. his free hand reaches out, offered to lan wangji. ]
I had a bad dream, Lan Zhan. Aren't you supposed to hold someone after such a fright?
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he sees, as he had seen in tortoise cave so many years ago. he sees and holds it steady, the fledging of uncertainty. he props it against himself, as he had so carried wei wuxian upon his back— as wei wuxian had so once carried him. wei wuxian, his memory in pieces, does not recall much at all. it is only in that moment, before he was brought here, did wei wuxian gather together the profundity of that moment. it was only just then, his blood upon lan wangji's cheek, that he could tell lan wangji with certainty: just like this. i really have carried you before.
and it had been so, that he had carried with him lan wangji's heart ever since. since before even then. since before even that, that moment he'd glanced wei wuxian from the library pavilion. that first time and that last time and now, in this place, wei wuxian perched like a dark bird upon the stairway's guarding ornament. ( here, with all contained. here, where lan wangji's reach him for more than just a moment. here, where no matter how lan wangji stands beside him, he does not condemn lan wangji's presence in all his wild grief. )
and still, these little movements are caught. they are bottled in his understanding, his light eyes skimming to the place that wei wuxian holds chenqing. it has always been a beautiful thing. it had always been more beautiful in the hands that held it, that played it sharp and shrill and stirring hatreds. and yet, lan wangji had listened even then. he had listened, as wei wuxian freed his long hair, as he had grown tired and gaunt and pale.
he had listened.
and now, he nods. ]
These are possibilities, [ he says, catching the edge of wei wuxian's thoughts. he rests there only briefly, before he looses them. this is to be discussed, he knows, at length later. it is to be discussed when the dream is not as fresh, when the ceaseless questions are not piled against the core of wei wuxian's confusion, his anxiety. these emotions still curl beneath lan wangji's skin, become a part of his. ] We must be careful.
[ it is all he says, until the hand is extended to him. until, like always, wei wuxian angles after the softest parts of him. and yet, what is lan wangji, but obedient? these whims, after thirteen years of calling—
the odd bright of lan wangji's eyes is a tumult, as they raise to meet wei wuxian's again. it is a quiet acceptance, an uncertainty, a deeper sense of wanting ( needing ). it is many things and it is these words that find him after a longer moment. it is these words that come to rest upon his tongue. he speaks them, when he knows his voice is steady. ]
Come down, [ he implores, more than he commands. his heart thrums against his ribs, the same and painful notes he had lived with all these years. can you hear it? he'd always wondered. and yet, his hand is placed gently in wei wuxian's own. it rests there, the warmth of wei wuxian ebbing into him.
the blue light within him glows dimly, at first. it flares, as though a sudden impulse. no matter how calm lan wangji is, it becomes evident that lan wangji is calm for him. it is evident that he houses in him worry, that the ache that gilds it belongs solely to him, to wei wuxian. and yet, it is not in wholly unpleasant. it is only that same devotion. it is only that same desire to help him shoulder all that faces him. it is only that same, persistent emotion.
and it is brighter than anything, as he offers to guide wei wuxian down to him. ]
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[ the yunmeng-jiang's motto was attempt the impossible, that which was considered the antithesis of the possible. to him, they are simply things he can attain, given time and focus. alongside lan wangji, he had slain a semi-mythical beast, poisoned by malice. he had created an entirely new path of learning, corrupt as it had been ( he still resents that sort of thinking; as though there was only one route to follow, as though it has simply sprung up and had not been worked upon, adjusted, amended, over time and generations ). wei wuxian is known for his pursuit of even the slimmest possibility - the possibility he would hit his target, the possibility he would survive the tortoise cave, the possibility that he would make it out of the burial mounds alive...
the possibility that lan wangji will take his hand so gently, and he will feel the ebb and flow of his emotions yet again; glowing blue around his chest, illuminating the underside of his chin, the angle of his jaw, the soft arch of his cheekbones, the raven-black of what hair has been left to him. he feels lan wangji as though he is the flex of a willow tree's limb, buffeted by the storm. wei wuxian snaps and flutters in that breeze, caught up in just how much his companion feels under his stoicism, his beautiful and serene face. he holds fast to chenqing, slipping his toes free from the railing he's clutching with them, and steps down from his precarious perch. hand aloft, glowing vibrant and blue.
what should he think, of lan wangji's devotion? it's there, naked and obvious between them. he thinks he can pass it off, perhaps, as the only thing that gusu-lan's finest is able to commit to in this foreign place. there are no others from their country in new amsterdam, so it is thoughtful and wise to turn one's focus on the familiar - on those who are bound together by history and circumstance. that's wise of lan wangji, he thinks; if he doesn't buckle under the weight of such focus, such sharply-centered thoughts and feelings. ]
You're unhappy to see Chenqing.
[ ( he should have known; lan wangji could not abide the path of dark cultivation either. he is troubled, his eyes focus on the flute and wei wuxian can feel the lingering throes of old pain. )
quickly, he pulls his hand back, to bundle the flute away where it does not have to be seen by eyes other than his own. not ashamed, he's not ashamed of himself! ardyn be damned, sinking such words into his mind, letting him think such things. he's not ashamed, he's just -- being cautious, moreso than he once was. being respectful, mindful. things he should have been, thirteen years prior. ]
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what is anyone, if not that? possibilities, probabilities, all things shifting fast and endless. what little quiet there is exists instead in pockets— it exists under the skin, momentary and fragmented. it exists in instances like these: in the way wei wuxian’s hand fits against his, in the way his shorn hair catches the light that is cast between the pair of them. it is underpinned, in the way his grey eyes are drowned in blues, in the way his quieted mouth dips. it is lost, in the aftermath.
it is lost as wei wuxian’s touch is, his hand pulled back. it is lost as it was lost back then, in the residual notes of inquiry, in the sharps of chenqing. it is lost, as it was lost as his fingers bled in hopes to save anything, to keep anything, the library pavilion burning around him. it was lost as he was, thirteen years and counting them in the marks against his skin. it was lost, before all was dead and buried— before all lan wangji had left to hold to his heart was ash and dust and nothing.
and still, what can he say to him? still, what can anyone say? lan wangji has never mastered the flight of words. he has never mastered the way they fall together like so many threads, his voice clear and low, but useless in face of trials like this: like this, the retreating back, the moments he’d wished he’d called out to him—
but, in wei wuxian, lan wangji is painted soft and sure. he is painted as though poetry, as though the brush of ink against parchment. he is all these things. he is all these things and none of what it is, none of what has been. none of what has been since they were young and full of youthful arrogance, thinking that such peace would last for more than a moment.
and perhaps, perhaps that is why his mouth twists at one edge. it is a subtle movement, something interwoven and complex. it is like all of what he is, a gale upon the mountains. beneath the stillness, the endless winters pressed against the valleys and the ridge, left to pine in sight of spring down in lowlands, cradled against the earth that he had been forever taught not to brush with.
and still, lan wangji finds within himself a set of words. they come with the downward sweep of lashes, the uncertainty that rushes warm up to his neck. it does not kiss the skin, not really, but there is something that burns in wake of it. no matter how he looks at him ( or perhaps does not, not too directly ), at wei wuxian, the pale of his eyes flicker like a fires against winds.
he shakes his head. the movement is soft at first, but firmer at the end. ]
It is not that, [ he says, forcing his attention back. and with that, his first syllables catch. they catch, before smoothing, like they had once at the nightless city. yet, that pain is residual now. it has dulled within his, within wei wuxian’s, presence.
does he really think that way of me? is what drags at the edge. since wei wuxian had returned, it had only been— he tucks the thought behind the ribs, to think upon at length and later.
he takes a breath, soundless.
he widens, opens the space between his arms. ]
Wei Ying.
[ come here, is what is given. it is what is not said. ]
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wei wuxian believes him, without fail. there's never been a reason to mistrust lan wangji, to not hear his words and take them as what they are there for: purpose, precision, directness. it's not chenqing that he is made uncomfortable by, so he doesn't know what it is then... perhaps the image of yiling's patriarch reclaiming his deadly, dangerous weapon, even if the connection to his core is muted and off-center. he can still sing and play, and bend minds to his will; the minds of the living, now. ]
You're such a good boy, [ he praises softly, when lan wangji opens his arms so obediently; a far cry from what he would have done in his youth.
so, he steps into them, bare toes curling against the ground as he slides his arms around lan wangji's strong waist and presses his nose into the material of his sleepwear. like this, he's able to calm himself - surrounded by warmth and the dark space he makes against the folds of cloth and the body beneath them ( how strange -- ). ] Thank you.
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gentle words and gentle praises — gentle, strange, and wanted. wanted, so wanted, to the quieted core of him. to the quieted core of what he can no longer access, not as he had, the golden edges skimmed. impaired, as he had known wei wuxian's to be, perhaps. and yet, lan wangji and wei wuxian are here. they are here, contained within foreign walls in a foreign land. they are here and chenqing lays neat against him, against wei wuxian, in the absence of wangji and now in absence of what once could have been played together, in played in pair. and, despite all this, despite all this, it is that comment that makes his lashes flutter, makes his heart beat quick and stuttered within his chest. it is that singular instance, as wei wuxian steps in, that makes all in him deafen and all in him bloom and ache and struggle against what it is he fears to place his words to, lan wangji's arms and hands and music still somehow not enough even after all these years.
and yet, he waits. he waits, patient and accepting ( yes, he must be ) of what may come to pass. and yet, lan wangji is a human. he is a human and that is all he is, as wei wuxian presses up against him. he is human, so painfully human, as wei wuxian's arms wrap about his waist and somehow, still, lan wangji hesitates. for a moment, for a portion of passing time, lan wangji debates where and how to hold him, wei wuxian. he debates, but yet he finds his arm settles about the round of shoulders, where it once would have pinned wei wuxian's dark, fine hair. but, now, there is nothing there besides the warmth of skin beneath the clothing he wears. it is smooth beneath lan wangji's fingertips as he keeps wei wuxian in place, the other arm pairing low about wei wuxian's mid-back.
he knows there is no means through which wei wuxian cannot hear the thrumming of his heart in his chest. now, so close to him, there is no way about it. and yet, he trusts wei wuxian as much as wei wxuian trusts him. he trusts that even if wei wuxian does not understand, he will understand that what he means to say is not what is conveyed through parceled emotions, caught like the scales of silver fish or the pieced petals of plum blossoms forming across the damp earth a careful carpet.
wei wuxian would not harm him, not on purpose. no matter what has passed between them, there is no disgust within him. instead—
lan wangji shakes his head again. it is a movement, felt more than it is seen. it is a rumble in the chest, an acknowledging, but directive "mn."
wei wuxian needn't thank him for any of this. ]
AND NOW FOR BODY WARMTH MEME, IN-GAME EDITION.
Please, stay.
[ he's unsure, how these things go when two people who had once been so close had fallen so far from one another's graces; when they're forced back together, injured and furious, how do they collaborate on anything without burning resentment, bleak insecurity rising to the surface. all he remembers in this moment is what sora told him. kind, wise words from a boy who he had openly admired for his simplicity, the way he viewed the heart of a matter and weighed it as more important than the nuances. ]
If you leave, I'll just have to follow you - and we're both likely to get lost in the dark.
[ in the depths of his pockets, he hides chenqing. the early morning had brought it from his dreams, laying it in his hands as though it needed to be there, with him - and knowing jiang cheng was around, waiting and watching and distant and dangerous, meant that he knew better than to bring it from its quiet, hidden place before his eyes. what matters now is that jiang cheng stays inside, even if it means he must stay in close contact with wei wuxian and the small family that has been so generous, inviting them to stay where there are four walls and physical warmth spreading through an enclosed room. but now, he stands just outside that space, layered in thermal gear and freezing from his toes upwards, trying to convince a man who is disgusted with the thought of him to stay the night. ]
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I don't need the likes of you to follow me.
[ in any way whatsoever, not anymore, like a sword cutting through tangled silk knots his voice is firm and scathing.
the light falls across the snow from behind him casting his shadow on the uneven disturbed surface - his own, and, to one side, shoulder to shoulder, wei wuxian's. he turns his gaze away. ]
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[ there are no lights here, a maze of drift-heavy streets and rapidly dropping temperatures. for jiang cheng to loathe him so much that he would spurn the goodwill of a family with little to their name but their own bodies and warmth - he opens his mouth to offer himself in jiang cheng's stead. it's so easy to think of it, to know that the best decision for them both would be foe wei wuxian to brave the cold and leave the sect leader to shelter safely. ]
But of course, you can hardly bear to look at me - do you want me to cover my face? Will that bring you inside, or should I get on my knees to beg you?
[ naturally, as with all things that concern jiang cheng, what he wants to say or do is never the thing he says or does. instead his tone is as scathing as jiang cheng's own. ]
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[ it's a disorientating, unsettlingly familiar feeling that rises within his gut, the irritation, the niggling feeling that as always, wei wuxian makes it all sound so easy. it seems like it had always been this way - him as carefree as a cloud floating in the sky, and jiang cheng on the ground, looking up yet being unable to.
so instead he clicks his tongue, a sharp, irritated sound that speaks numbers on his temper. it isn't right for him to start a brawl like common street children would, not when the offer of hospitality stands with open door just behind the other man; he isn't such a callous man as to openly shun it.
two boys, close in age. could almost be twins, if you weren't looking so closely. ]
Fine, then. [ as always, saying things that they don't intend, the words that should be spoken locked away under seven keys and chains, shrouded and buried in grave-dirt.
he turns halfway, glancing over his shoulder, jaws set tight, eyes only narrow slits against the frost. ]
Prostrate yourself before me, then. Touch your forehead to the ground three times and maybe I'll consider it.
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My submission pleases you, does it?
[ the words are dark, they'd be coy if he wasn't lowering himself to the snowy ground already with a soft sigh; if this is what he has to do, to perform, to get jiang cheng to agree to stay the night with him, then he's perfectly willing to prostrate himself before the master of the lotus pier on the off-chance that he'll consider staying. he tips forward, once on his knees and presses his brow and the bridge of his nose into the snow that has already begun to build on the road once more. against it, he is dark as a raven's wing, and with his hair shorn so much, it exposes the nape of his neck as he stretches there and speaks with as much gravity a she can muster.
( it should worry him, that it isn't difficult at all to comply with jiang cheng's command. ) ]
Sect leader Jiang, please come inside.
[ he speaks with his head raised, and bows a second time into his terse plea ]
For your continued well-being, I beg for you bear the burden of my existence until dawn breaks.
[ and a third time, whereupon he lifts his head and settles onto his knees there; easy and slack, his eyes dark and steady on his former brother-in-arms. ]
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it reminds him of a time long ago. it had been much the same look on his face, before.
it infuriates jiang cheng to see how easily the other submits to the demand - how easy it is for wei wuxian, yet again, over and over again, to lay down everything he possesses; his dignity, his pride, his life, perfectly willing to let jiang cheng trample on those things as if they matter not. as if he matters not in the grander scheme of things. as if he had not been the one immobile, steadfast presence in the landscape of his world, that cutting him out of the picture is the same as cutting through his own flesh and blood.
( playing the hero again, playing the sacrificial lamb, the scapegoat to everyone's problems - and the blade soaked in blood is still clutched in his own hands. )
no, it doesn't please him. ]
... [ standing in the ankle-deep snow, looking down at the other, jiang cheng has to resist the sudden, violent urge to kick him down, to tussle among the dirty downtrodden snow as children do, to beat wei wuxian into the ground until there is some other expression on his face, until there is something more fiery and red and dark blooming like bruises, like flecks of blood, on that face he can no longer call familiar.
he exhales sharply; a cloud of white, frosted air between them, containing everything that he could never put into words - all ghosts of the past, a lifetime ago and more, nothing more than empty words that holds no meaning.
till death do us part, is the way it goes - but death has already parted them.
jiang cheng is the one who breaks the contact first, his eyes turning away as the rest of him does, turning to the family standing congregated, worried, in the doorway beyond wei wuxian. a few, curt words of thanks, and he turns his back on the other, like he did many, many years ago, like he has always done since then. ]
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he can hear jiang cheng's feet in the show, passing him by in the direction of the house, of the family who linger and worry and ask him if they are okay.
behind him, wei wuxian climbs back to his feet, loose-limbed and feeling strange. as he brushes himself off, dusting fallen snow out of his hair and off of his knees, his brain and bones feeling slack and watery and unlike himself. like he's been unmade momentarily and must bring himself back together in the wake of something that has passed him by again, yet again. another opportunity he's lost with jiang cheng. quietly, he follows in his wake, into the house with a few warm words shared with the family, looking concerned and confused about their conduct. his knees wobble as he crosses the room to where the children await armfuls of his and jiang cheng's damp, cold clothing to lay out to dry.
it leaves him bundled up in a blanket for modesty's sake, barefoot sitting with his back pressed to a wall by the cookfire they rely upon to heat the small, barricaded area of their home, waiting for jiang cheng to inevitably be brought into the same room, perhaps in the same state. a cup of heated tea, placed in his hands, brings him back from the brink he settles into - time passing before him without his awareness, bodies suddenly pressed to his side without his knowledge. outside, the leftover light granted to them by the sun finally gives way to dusk, to dark. seated across the room from jiang cheng, his feet cross under the blanket, his tea forgotten and cold.
his mind keeps drifting, in this place. but he rouses himself to watch over yunmeng's sect leader from time to time. ]
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in the darkness, the different breaths mingling in the air, it reminds jiang cheng of the old days of the campaign, oft forced to sleep rough and congregated in fear of ambush or in preparation of one, pressed back to back for warmth. it reminds him of even earlier, the home that used to be his, theirs, the room that used to be theirs, sharing secrets in the dark, laughing at whatever silly thing that wei wuxian managed to rope them into doing.
one of the boys - the younger, the older, he can't tell, but the shock of dark hair and big eyes and the sheer determination has jiang cheng at a loss, and he lets the boy press up against one side of him for warmth. there is a hollow feeling in his gut like hunger, like an ache, as he leans his head against the wall and watches the boy's head lolling onto his knees in sleep. the nape of his neck is pale, naked and fragile, with dark hair curled against the skin.
( dark hair against snow, skin as pale as the snow flutters with the motion, settling on his hair, his forehead. eyes like some calm water at night, still and dark. )
he isn't entirely awake, but he isn't entirely asleep either - somewhere in between, evening out his breaths almost out of age-old reflex as he is wont to do, as he's been taught to do; the golden core thrums, slightly off sync to the beat of his heart. ]
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the children sleep so soundly, despite their discomfort. eventually, he has to unwrap the one he has from where he has curled himself among the blanket like a small animal, returning him to his parents's side gently. tucking him in, fluid and practiced - a parent himself, who could not protect his own child in the end. not from anyone, not even from himself.
he thinks, soon, that jiang cheng is mostly asleep. drifted away far enough that his shape in the dim glow of the cookfire breathes evenly, doesn't hold itself so tensely. with the child removed, wei wuxian is able to re-wrap the blanket around himself for modesty, and to slip across the room, sinking to his knees once more as he peers at jiang cheng in the dark. it's difficult to see him, but he would know his face in a crowd; he would know the way his brow creases when he regards something he must do, but is loathe to - he knows the way his eyelashes flutter when he laughs, because jiang cheng laughs with his body more than his voice. even thirteen years later, he can see elements of the boy that the man had been, before everything. before him.
but he also doesn't recognize the cruelty, the tales whispered of jiang cheng's single-minded focus to rip out demonic cultivation, root and stem, from the world.
wei wuxian takes up his hand softly, working it free from the blanket wrapped around his shidi, to bring the tips of his chilled fingers up to his mouth - cupping his palms around them as he blows warm air across them, to unthaw jiang cheng's fingertips, to warm him. he can feel the humming, blue glow build in his chest ( i still care, is the sentiment, i can't deny you, please be safe, be well, i wish you well ) and part of him hopes jiang cheng, wherever in his mind he is resting, will feel it. will hear it. will believe it, though it comes from someone he is disgusted with. ]
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perhaps even, there is only just one remaining. come back from the dead to haunt him not just in memory now but in a body of flesh and blood, too real and tangible yet nothing more than a familiar stranger.
he is only half asleep - mostly asleep, drifting between phantom dreams that flick through his mind like arrows in the dark, fletchling whistling voiceless cries in the air. half asleep, forever wary even still, within the confines of this home that proves no threat or danger, the silent rustle of bodies cocooned in blankets, turning in sleep for some sad comfort.
a hand takes his, in the dark, in the silence. a breath in the dark against his fingers, stirring the frigid air barely warmed by the fire.
it is only through some conscious, stubborn reflex that keeps him from stirring; something in his chest aches, shivers like an injured animal is wont to do in the last throes of death, like a drop of dew would shiver with the first light of the sun that breaks over the horizon; it feels like death, it feels like rebirth.
maybe he hears it, in his heart of hearts, in the deepest recesses of age-old wounds that are yet to heal ( oh so slowly ). something inside him burns and aches with acrid longing, bitter and sour, the fingers wrapped around his own, the breath against his skin.
but hearing and believing are two separate things. two halves of one, jiang cheng sits motionless as if his entire being is held in the palms of the other, cradled in his hand, his soul converged, concentrated within that moment, entirely upon that single bit of contact. the glow from his chest is faint, barely discernible through the blanket, but there is no mistaking it -
wei wuxian has always been, and will be, something of a midsummer heat - like a kite flown freely, a speck of colour in the sky. in the river, in the boat, floating freely out of reach.
so he does nothing. he chooses to do nothing, as he has resolved to do. the jiang cheng of old would have grasped back, would have pulled him to himself like the days when they shared the room together, whispering until someone had come to interrupt, alerted by the sound of stifled laughter, but it has been long since he had much to laugh about, these days. the person in front of him is not the same boy he had known, and neither is he. ]