*seductively crawls out of hell* (
laozu) wrote in
meadowlarklogs2019-04-21 07:05 pm
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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.
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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
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]