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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.
no subject
clear, yet impossible to read. far-sighted, but sometimes unable to look beyond where he stood. never able to look at he and his companion straight in the eye, as if he is looking through to something in the beyond.
spaces that exist between spaces, words that exist between words - it is something invisible, immeasurable, an intangible thing that cannot be explained but see how they are both so aware yet so comfortable in their existence within such; jiang cheng falls into step beside him, across from him seamlessly as if he had been but waiting. like a musician would join an ensemble for a tune that they have been playing tirelessly and hopelessly for a lifetime and more, like some strange harmonious chord that allows one forest bird to find another.
sandu shengshou is not a man known for his silence; he has had to make his voice heard from an early age, standing before his elders who had nary a good word to say for a boy his age, crazed with the destruction of his home, with none of the reputation as the twin jades do; he had learned during that time that without skills, you are without voice. he really is an untouchable thing - the new master of lotus pier, the young sect leader; a hard jagged shell that he has had to forge for himself precisely because he had nothing and no one to rely upon.
but what lays beneath the jagged rough edges? but what lays beneath that exterior, like the mud at the bottom of a lake, like sunlight shattering on the windblown frosted field?
it is silence within silence within silence, encased petal by petal, layered as some lone flower bud in winter waiting for the first sign of some warmth. it is incense smoke and prayers and wishes wrapped in swaddling cloth, wrapped in funeral garb, soaked in saltwater and blood.
wrapped yet unwrapped petal by petal, the flame sheds and blooms within the space between jiang cheng's hands.
satisfied, he looks up - there is a tilt to his head that speaks of some hidden triumph, some sense of childish elation lending light in his eyes. ]
-Hanguang-jun, [ after a moment to observe, he calls out - voice pitched low but it reaches the other, perhaps. ]
Come sit by the fire.
no subject
it had been like that too, back then. back then, in a cave for seven suns and seven moons. between the humming of a nameless song and the dappled heat that suffused lan wangji's skin from the fire and wei wuxian's fevered skin. and though his heart recognizes that it is not at all like it was back then, it is a soft thing. it is a soft thing, with bruises that are still set to healing. the old blood has gathered beneath the muscle and the flesh is thinning and lan wangji's heart thrums, so eager and unsteady, in thought of him ( and where is he? he wonders. where is he? and the remaining portions of his rationality cut through with the scent of cold. it bites into the pads of his fingers— nips as he so often does when placed in states like these, impulse and frustration and desire setting his teeth to aching ).
but, what was he to be doing? he mulls on it for a moment, before the snows are gathered into his cupped hands and he turns, catches the light in jiang cheng's eyes like he's so often caught the light in wei wuxian's. there is a similarity in the smallest things, the tiniest of pleasures. and at once, there is something in him that envies and yearns. why is it that he did not observe it, even back then? when wei wuxian would call to him to just glance at him. just to look at him, though lan wangji knows now that he would never glance from him again were he just to ask.
lan wangji's dark brows knit, the internalized irritations at himself cast outward as his eyes flit to the snow that he carries in his palms ( in his arms? yes, his arms too ). but, he goes. he goes, because it would be rude not to go, he reasons with himself. and now that he has gotten what he was after, he has no arguments. ]
... Mn.
[ he settles himself again, dumps the pile of snow he has gathered beside him. his pale hands are stained red and raw with the chill of it, the fine bone of them set to absent trembling in hopes of regathering some means to warm themselves again. lan wangji neither seems to notice nor take care with it, his sitting posture as always so pristine and so perfect. he tips his head in subtle degrees, watches the fanned flames catch all the debris he had so carefully accumulated for jiang cheng.
they will be again heated in a moment, he knows. why wouldn't they be? it hardly matters that his fingers now pull to himself small piles of it, the snow, and shape it into rounded bodies. it does not matter that his nails mark out grooves with which to add more detail later, his pale eyes focused and long fingers so gentle.
it will be warm again in a moment. ]
no subject
they had been miserable, both jiang cheng and the child, the latter unused to the change in scene and weather, the former unused to the lack of seasonal gaiety - the halls of his personal quarters too empty and devoid of guests. when he had rebuilt the house, piece by piece, he had hoped for more than this. he had hoped for better things than the empty rooms that will never get used, the makeup stand, the empty scent bottles that line the counter in his sister's room.
it had snowed heavily then, just his luck too that the first time jiang cheng makes an effort, some wild force of nature just decides to shit all over it - but jin ling seemed fascinated, coming from a land where it was even milder than it is usually here, the golden, flourishing tower of jinlin having never seen any more than a flurry of snow that melts as soon as it lands. that first visit had ended with jin ling catching a heavy cold and being laid up for the entirety of his stay.
there is not a change in his expression as he glances first at the other man's face then down to his hands at the armful of snow he has carried back with him. Hanguang-jun is a grown man, not a child at all but there are traces of it, the little tilt of his head, the minuscule furrow of his brows as he moves his hands frozen red and raw to pack the snow into small rounded bodies.
jiang cheng cannot imagine, somehow, of this man ever having been a child; as terrible the thought us, he seems as if descended from the heavens with the way he behaves ( him and his brother both, but lan xichen has always had more of lightness in him, like a breeze to lan wangji's clouds ). but maybe he could have been something like this. ]
Are you an idiot?
[ the click of tongue holds more annoyance than amusement, but the tone is less scornful than the words themselves as he reaches out, taking one of lan wangji's hands in his; his palm is thickly calloused, the pads of his fingers rough from Zidian, from Sandu, from a lifetime of fighting every tooth and nail to climb to where he is now. warmed by the fire, lan wangji's hand is icy against his skin, and jiang cheng pulls the other closer against the warmth, turning him to the fire. ]
Let go. [ meaning, the little mound of snow still in his other hand. ]
no subject
he is firm and he is resilient. like the sharpened blades of leaves, the cut of thorns into flesh. he shields himself like this, in these little ways, as much as lan wangji shields himself in silence. beneath each is what is left, careful and guarded and given with caution to those who know it lives there. if death and more death has not taken it yet, then it is likely nothing more can. he knows, in his rational mind, that jiang cheng has seen the way fire climbs. he has seen how homes become stripped to the bones, how no such anger or bitterness can rebuild anything.
what is it that lives in lan wangji? this is small part. this is what has not been realized, what has not been permitted to unfurl like the flowers of yunmeng, to blossom in ways both free and unbridled in the softness of youth. this is what remains, what could have breathed and lived. this is what it is reduced to, the sputtering coals of what could be hoped.
but, that is not for lan wangji of the moment to ponder. it is not for him. what is, is the seemingly abrupt way that his hand is captured. seemingly, as many things are seemingly when one has been drinking. but, his hearing ( though blurred ) is clear.
and he hears jiang cheng, without doubt left of what is declared. ]
Not an idiot, [ he mumbles, in a way he feels is sudden. but still, he leans. he nudges his full hand past jiang cheng's grip, but seems to change his mind at the last moment. he pulls it back and sets the little pile of snow ( so gently ) by his left knee instead. the impression that it would have gone by jiang cheng is there, had he not been displeased by accusation. the corners of his mouth, against the low firelight, seem to dip. but, it is impossible to tell whether it is the play of shadow or the souring of his mood. at least, until the heat of jiang cheng's hand begins ( at last ) to seep into his.
he takes a small breath, almost as if he need remind himself to sit straight and behave, the click of jiang cheng's tongue like the chime of gusulan's bell. it is not for his approval, but rather it is ingrained. it is ingrained, as the calluses upon jiang cheng's palms are ingrained, as the scent of blood is beneath the pads of each of his fingertips. it exists within lan wangji, as a habit and a memory. this reaction, this compulsion— it skims through the lines of his form as hands find the chords of inquiry, of rest. and perhaps, it is in that moment, that it becomes most evident that lan wangji has never known it any different. he has never known the sleepy summer days, the winters spent bundled beneath furs and blankets. he has only known his discipline, his restraint, and this— this quiet observation that leads him to mimic the exploits of wei wuxian, of nameless children ( odd shapes and odd figures carved in snow and left to the roadsides; if jiang cheng makes himself aware, this too will become apparent ).
it will become apparent, as what filters through to jiang cheng is undercut with the bluer skim of light. it is buried, trapped beneath the confines of lan wangji's new clothes, but it is there. it breathes as their quieted cores do, reaching out with all the bluster and inconsistency of any drunk. and still, even in the fragmentation of emotion that flees from him as though grey birds ( discontent, comfort, a desire to find, a sort of missing, a wondering where, and the realization that jiang cheng is softer in this moment than he has ever been toward lan wangji before ), it is there. that child is there, at the core of it. even if his hands are roughened with the weight of swords, with the strings of beautiful instruments. the palms are somehow smoother than jiang cheng's own.
lan wangji has always been as though gusulan's cool springs. he had always been quiet, still upon the surface. it is what is beneath, as he lays his other palm upon his own knee to let jiang cheng do as he pleases with it, that one should concern themselves with. it is what is beneath that feeds it. and somehow more contained, more obedient after his initial protestations, he remains as he is. ]
no subject
on his knees before the other, the ends of his lashes tremble slightly over downturned eyes at the other's remark ( petulant it is, as he has never seen lan wangji before, as if he were not a man but a child less than five summers old ). it is as if in laughter, in an echo of some ripple of amusement deep within, ringing up from a well long since dried; yet there is little tenderness in the way jiang cheng turns the other's hand over, curling his hand into a fist against lan wangji's palm, knuckles pressing against the skin to seek out pressure points for warmth, for blood, to flow through skin that's as icy as the springs of gusu he had only heard of rumoured in passing. his other hand remains against the back of the man's hand - rough but warm, thumb sliding against the crook of thumb and forefinger to hold his hand steady.
there is again still, the familiar irritation from jiang cheng; it always must be so, that every emotion felt and filtered through must be tinged with it. he is not a man who is easy to crack open, a man who has had a lifetime to shield himself with layers and layers of hostility and thorns as sharp as the bite of zidian. but it is but a surface thing, a thin film of oil over the surface of water, a layer of ice over glass, and underneath is - a mix of emotions, memories and thoughts alike floating wispy, wistful. he remembers the winters as it had been, the autumn and the summers and the springs each filled with colours and sound of laughter, of sun-warmed waters and drying themselves off at the worn wooden surface of the pier, of persimmons smuggled in from the storehouse to be shared in the darkness. it occurs to him vaguely that - perhaps the man before him has never had a chance to.
it is a rare moment for someone like jiang cheng to be caring for anyone who is not of his flesh and blood, rare moment of silence, of some kind of acceptance and understanding that is more of the heart than of the mind. the core in his chest quietens, aligns itself with the beating of his heart at the feel of the other's hand in his own, the clear, cool brush of the contact like the first breath of spring, lifting the weight off of his chest that he had not known before. ]
Sure you aren't, [ feeling the other's hand slowly beginning to warm in between his own, he breathes out short and sharp, a huff of satisfaction. ] The great Hanguang-jun cannot possibly be thinking of playing with the snow.
no subject
the smallest of memories, tepid and delicate things: lan xichen in the gardens, the call of mountain birds, the scent of sandalwood on skin soft and white and warm in ways that lan wangji can no longer place description. childhood, to lan wangji, had only been a moment. it had bruised as though the crush of plum blossoms beneath feet, had departed like no more than a fickle wind, all voices lost to him as soon as they had started. unlike jiang cheng, unlike wei wuxian— he could not recall the face of a mother, could not recall the downward tremble of lashes in laughter, could not recall his father's touch ( a praise, delivered in the soft lay of a hand against the crown of his head ). he cannot remember these things, so he does not. he does not.
he does not, in the spaces between spaces. he does not as jiang cheng overturns his palms, his chest caught tight with some unknowable meaning. for all the small details that jiang cheng affords, he thinks someone else had laughed like that. it stirs within him a deeper ache. it thrums against his temples, makes him tilt his head as though a child. fevered with an illness that he cannot place title to, he thinks it to be somehow unfair. he thinks it as somehow an envy, if only he could place a word to it. all these nameless and hungry things, all these emotions that climb against his ribs as though a stubborn frost in spring— still, he thinks instead of the words of approval passed down to him. he thinks of how, despite lan qiren's best efforts, even he could not keep lan wangji from such ends. he could not keep lan wangji from the empty caves, the burial mound. he could not keep lan wangji from the whip, the years spent wandering.
and yet, despite the unsettled feeling that washes up against him, his pale eyes flicker at the starting shape of play. as if he has forgotten all such things, placed them aside so suddenly, he repeats: ]
Play? [ surely, jiang cheng cannot be suggesting such things. jiang cheng, no matter how he thinks of stealing persimmons, how there is a summer in his skin— he is not unlike lan wangji in moments of clarity. he no longer knows the contexts, the possibilities. never to be repeated or never repeated to begin with, lan wangji had only known that jiang cheng had been capable once. he did not feel it, as though living the months of the cloud recesses somewhere new and humid, warm.
it is not a wonder then, that he does not hear anything else? ]
no subject
[ jiang cheng repeats himself, canting his head just so that he can glance up at the other man, his gaze quietly curious, as he lays down his hand gently on his lap and takes up the other in his own, beginning the same treatment again on the raw, cold skin. The movement is slightly gentler, a fraction less hurried, and he lets the silence settle around them again like a flurry of snow calming after a breeze, before speaks again - barely above the crackle of the fire. ]
Isn't that what you are doing?
[ as funny as the idea sounds - there might be a trilling faint note of something that resembles pity, like a morning fog that rises up in front of the rising sun; a faint glow of warmth, from the contact, the warmth slowly transferred from his to the other's.
that stupidly hopeful tone of his voice cuts like a knife through fine silk; it's like talking to a child, almost, and jiang cheng has nary a good memory of dealing with one - just that of darkened shaded hall, of funeral pyre and smoke, of incense, and that incessant, pitying cry echoing through the halls of the koi tower. too young to know, but maybe old enough. they had all been old enough, still.
something that someone had said a long ago in passing - about madam Lan's delicate health, of her seclusion - floats into his consciousness and he exhaled hard without meaning to, digs the knuckles of his hand into the flesh of the other's thumb harder than intended, before pulling away, just a bit. a silent apology in the way he rubs at the skin, watching the frostbit flesh warm and soften under his hands. ]
We are both too old for that.
[ too young, made to grow old too fast. they have both watched the fires climb - they have both known the blistering heat and the freezing cold, and he likes to think - grown stronger for it. but jiang cheng also knows that he himself is all but hollow inside, as fruits are often wont to do. he wonders - he hopes, but it is merely a fool's thought. ]
no subject
were it a moment of sobriety, were it a moment a clarity— were it anything, but this? were it them, seated beside the fire, their hands laid upon their respective knees and their eyes cast toward the pit? perhaps, perhaps it would have been. perhaps it would have been so that they were too old, that they were too conformed and confined and molded to roles both precise and pristine and expected. perhaps it would been that lan wangji would have have agree, his glass-like eyes revealing both nothing and everything. but, here is the lan wangji that jiang cheng has reaped: childish, petulant, every bit as troubling as hands that steal from ponds the ever riper pods— fingers peeling seeds from their darker caches, never theirs to taste so sweet and sudden to begin with.
it might have been that jiang cheng would have never felt the raw edges of lan wangji's palms, would have never felt him much at all, his emotions and memories a noiseless shoal that crowd beneath the surface. it might have been that jiang cheng would have never learned that there was much else to lan wangji at all, the fog about his form a thing pressed close to dissipating. it might have been that lan wangji would have glanced along this bitterness, would not have spotted beneath the earth and the soil and loam the fingerlings of something green and pale and light-less. and still, that is a lie too. in rational thought, lan wangji had always seen it. he had always seen it, but would not cross. he would not place his feet upon the darkened boards, the rot of these recollections, to reach the other end. he would not choose to dip his hands into the swells of vulnerability, see beyond the piers painted little more than by the words of wei wuxian.
but, here they are docked. and here, lan wangji shakes his head ( slight, so slight, as though balancing in a rowing boat ). here, he ignores the way that jiang cheng digs in too hard and ignores the reprimand ( gentle, even so ). he ignores it because he can, his eyes flitting away from the man before him and toward the rounded body he'd made with the snow to his left.
and so, while jiang cheng works, so too does he. he lets him believe he is occupied with that task, with jiang cheng's task, lan wangji's opposing hand not quite as sly as it could be as its fingers amble among the scrap littered across grey stone floors.
not old, is what is underneath the way that lan wangji pretends that such words have not touched him. play.
and it is insistent as, no matter its rejection, lan wangji takes a breath and nudges through the impending ache that spreads from his temples and inward again ( a headache? something, perhaps ). ]
Jiang Wanyin.
[ and whatever it is he has picked up with his freshly warmed hand is being placed beside jiang cheng instead.
a rabbit, down to its smallest details. its little face, if jiang cheng looks, is set into the smallest frown, its ears tipped up and alert despite it.
it looks as though lan wangji has decided. ]
no subject
( but here he was, here they were, a small flickering fire between them and beside them. here they were, with lan wangji's hand caught between his own )
an impossible thing. if someone had suggested it to him even a week ago, a month ago from now, jiang cheng would have had them locked away for suspicions of some delusional curse.
but lan wangji is not some impossible, impuissant thing; he is but a man, the cold frostbit flesh slowly warming under his touch. a man with real blood and real flesh, one that could freeze or burn or scar, as his back must be, for some inexplicable reason that jiang cheng himself cannot fathom. he is a man with scars in both mind and body, someone capable of such, but it is the other's faint childish stare, the curiosity within them, that finally convinces jiang cheng. nothing but a man.
the sound of his name catches his attention and he lifts his eyes, but it is not before the little bundle of snow is deposited beside his knee, shielded from the fire for a moment.
a rabbit; snow white, with details that must have been formed carefully and precisely ( something that he cannot imagine anyone else to be capable of in this state, but as always, lan wangji manages it somehow ). he glances down, following the gesture of the other's hand, and when he sights the animal jiang cheng merely breathes, a sharp inhale followed by slow, his brows creased in a half frown, lashes curled downward.
a laugh, if it could be counted as one. a laugh, as he had never given one before to lan wangji, not even in their boyhood. ]
What is this? Have I not said that we are both too old for it?
[ then, a little helpless, ] Just what exactly am I supposed to do with it?