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

[sandu]

[ faint traces of what he had been, what he was, buried under mountains of corpses and locks made of human bones and hair. there are precious little people who remembers jiang cheng from his boyhood, the sunsoaked windblown careless days of his youth, stripped barren and burnt so early, so suddenly. what they see ( who they see ) is just a shell of what remains, cobbled together from the ruins that make up his home, rebuilt through destruction as lotus pier had been.

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. ]