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

[laozu]

[ it is not that. what else could it be, that lingering distress that he feels flickering through lan wangji's palm, smooth and soft against his save for where he is callused from plucking the strings of wangji, elegant and serene. ( he misses the sound of wangji, in that moment; he'd wondered, sometimes, thirteen years ago, what sounds he could have created if he had played simultaneously with chenqing - allied, rather than independent. ) the man before him doesn't lie, he is as honest - as truthful - as the path of the seasons themselves, chilly and remote as the winters, his hands as warm as the blistering sun upon dark-painted wood.

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.

[wangxian]

[ you're such a good boy.

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. ]