*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
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?