*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
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]