*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
Enough, [ he echoes lan wangji's words, his tone at first muted as if in shock, shellshocked, than again, as he repeats, some kind of manic, desperate sort of madness ringing the edges of his voice. ] Yes, that is enough.
[ he is not welcome here. the two of them sit, nestled within the cosy confines of this small restaurant, knees and hands pressed, pressing together as if they belong there, a seamless existence made of two people. it had been so, before. it had been so before, with him, and his side ( his right side, his right hand, forever, he had said, and jiang cheng only regrets being fool enough to listen ) aches and smarts with chill he had felt for the past ten and three scores of seasons passing. the two of them sitting there as if they belong, and he, he is like some ugly, terrible thing that a dog has dragged in. ]
You can enjoy your dinner. I have been here long enough.
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[ lan wangji has his back; the thought shouldn't surprise him ( it doesn't, it feels good ), in much the same way that jiang cheng's bitter refusal to sit down, to join him at the table alongside lan wangji, shouldn't either. but it does, it collides with him and rattles around in the stark expanse of his ribcage, pummels his heart and rends into the quiet, private memory of the one embrace they've had together in more than ten years. all he knows is that he does not want jiang cheng to go. he doesn't understand why the man thinks that he must abandon the place he's had made for him ( why can't he see it for what it is ), the ground he's trying to cover to reach him a second time.
he covers it physically, practically diving out from behind the table's edge - rattling the tableware, the bowls full of now-cooling soup, and his hands reach for jiang cheng's wrist. grasping, burning as blue and brightly as he had when he had touched the back of lan wangji's hand -- held it -- and his inner self pours through the connection again ( stay stay stay stay, amidst the burning fear-yearning that he's come to associate with his shidi's presence ). ]
Will you just sit down, don't be so stubborn about this!
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there are pages, pages that jiang cheng has seen that they have not yet. there is a fate that has written itself, as they press within the boundaries of it, always press within the boundaries of it, hoping—
lan wangji does not snare as wei wuxian does. he does not capture. lan wangji instead implores, he offers. he states what it is he wants in the narrow spaces, in the spaces he cannot conquer, in his continued presence of being there until frustration drives him to take all lashings and rejections in the end. and he is there, in the span of seconds breaths. his fingers lay across jiang cheng's opposing wrist, pressed arm-to-arm with wei wuxian as he leans too to assist.
like this, lan wangji's thoughts are as though a muddle. beneath the clear of his own surface, there is silt of darker things beneath it. like feet kicked in the warmer shoals of lotus ponds, beneath the clouds that bloom up are raw sentiments, sediments. like the silver scales of fish, they circle most toward wei wuxian, but are thinning at their edge. as though taken in by rushes, two sets clarify and then divide. and so too, jiang cheng is also touched with the underlying wish to have him still remain, if perhaps largely for wei wuxian's sake. he does not force, but there too is something else. there too is something in the way he glances between jiang cheng and wei wuxian, his eyes settling where it is they most often do ( downward, though, upon where it is they are connected— ), the sharp edge muting in concern for him. for him? for wei wuxian. and, that too, for jiang cheng.
and it is a small thing, grown rogue. it is not a pity, a sort of discontent. it is a thin and mild thing, acidic ( for who? toward who? for what? ) as it is pretty. and be it a thanks for what he has ( within the past ) done or what he has seen beyond the burn of bitterness that writhes and claws within jiang cheng's body, it is uncertain. but, it exists. and it exists there too, as he says nothing, turned inward. his mouth presses into a line, in contradiction, that reads more thin. ]
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too much, as wei wuxian's hand close about his wrist, the swirl of pitiful, desperate emotions enough to set his teeth on edge as he so often would in their shared boyhood, lashing out without care on who ended up being hurt. he wants him to hurt, maybe, he wants to hit and bite and scream as common street urchins might do over scraps of food, but he will not; he will not scramble for scraps of affection from anyone, some leftover emotions, not from anyone and especially not this man before him.
before he could - do what? snatch his hand away, to rip and tear through the fragile connection that is mo xuanyu's delicate fingers around his wrist, a stronger, firmer grip happens upon his other. lan wangji, the ever steady, the ever supportive second jade of lan, as always following behind wei wuxian's wake.
he could laugh - he could scream, but for the rage that burns against both of them, crashing like angry floodwaters against their emotions. it feels like pity, like charity, and the subtler understanding of whatever they are feeling goes unnoticed in the way jiang cheng bares his teeth in a first, fiery open display of his anger.
anger is all he can express. anger is all he can project, outwardly, like some shell of a man that he has become, like the reputation he has built up within the cultivation society. that is all that anyone can see or care to see about him. useful only in that moment when they could channel that rage and direct it wherever it suit them, and then, discarded.
useless and tired is what he feels, like some remains of burnt forest after the fire has swept through; burnt black branches and gaping open earth where it has obliterated even all the droplets of water in it, dry and cracked riverbed with just skeletal remains of life that once lived there.
tired. ]
Let me go, [ it is a hiss, as a snake makes before he strikes, a soft sound of a blade unsheathing itself, but even more than that, tired. ]
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[ he can feel it in jiang cheng: all that exhaustion, the bitter and spiteful feelings he harbors towards him. they're as clear as the waters of the lotus pier, the flicker of lightning-fast carp visible from any given angle. he's reassured, at the least, that he's not feeling jiang cheng's absolute revulsion - that sickly-harsh building thing that left wei wuxian curled over his stomach by the fire's side while his shidi gripped his wrist so tightly he'd crumbled at his feet. it must have been satisfying ( he'd think that, if he didn't feel how brittle and wan and thinly-drawn jiang cheng is.
at his side, he feels the press of lan wangji's arm against his own, also grasping and pinning jiang cheng in place; in this he is not grateful, he wants to snap at those fingers suddenly: let GO of my shidi sits on his tongue, twisted and spiteful and madness-harboring. even though his body is new, his soul is the thing that is stained and broken and filled in with something full of bloodied limbs and sharp teeth, coiled as tightly as his fellow yunmeng-cultivator. suddenly, he wants lan wangji to let go - and the moment passes, violent and sharp and over, and he's so very glad that he and gusu-lan's finest are not in contact. such feelings, he knows, should never reach lan wangji. they're a true voice to the ugliness he hides. ]
I don't care how you treat me, but if you're going to be horrible before Hanguang-jun, I'm going to beat you senseless.
[ this isn't what he wants to say; his mouth twists as soon as he says it, his entire being screams why, because he cannot see what prevents him from speaking plainly with his shidi. ]
You're sick of me, I get it. But for him and for the people who could depend on us, I hope you'll reconsider - immediately.
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he has seen it brush against his door, against the frame of his own body. in the rot and the wet and the emptiness, in the miles and miles that mud had caked the white of his mourning robes, he has seen in it. he has seen all that it has taken from him, from wei wuxian, from jiang cheng. he has seen what it has taken from lan sizhui, his bloodline scattered as nothing in the downwind. lan wangji is no stranger to how it bites as though the tongues of whips, the sting of his own bitterness, kept within the jingshi— the cycles of the stars and suns and moons no closer to an ending than it was to a beginning. and now, with what knowledge he has, he spools nothing from the fragments. like chenqing, like the brand, like flowers pressed within the pages of his books— at once there is nothing upon which he can weave together roots. there is nothing, but the shape of its absence.
and it is something quiet and dark and small in him that aches with it, that absence. it is something with teeth and claws of it its own, that hungers for it. it wants to know, it wants to see, it wants all and everything. everything, stained and broken and ugly. for, had that ugliness too not lived in him? pushed as he was into corners, shouldering and halving as he would. knowing, should he step out, should he draw himself against it— but, it will never be. and he will never ask. and he will never witness, for jiang cheng has ( had ) something he could not contend with. and lan wangji would not, could not, see wei wuxian caged. ( wei wuxian would not be as though his mother. he would not be as though his mother, no matter how each thank you and each goodbye pushed them further toward that cave, further toward that place, further toward— )
get lost.
and what was there to do, but to do so in the end? his tongue as sharp as the edge of his bichen. his brother, his uncle, all thirty-three disciples who must have once adored him— how much had they all suffered, back then?
let me go.
and it is that tiredness, that seizes him. it is that brittleness, that fury buried beneath cinder, beneath bone. it builds as though ash within his throat, like blood, like bile. and lan wangji harbors it within himself, takes it up upon himself. he weathers it, because there is no other way. not like this, though jiang cheng was never seized. he was never captive. he was was always free to do as it was he pleased within this hold ( loose, so loose ), lan wangji's fingers further slackening. there is no grip, not really. there is only inquiry. there is only silence, that slams up in its wake, a cold and transparent thing, climbing as though frost among the plain of his emotions and the stillness of his face. he accepts it. he accepts it for what it is, and yet wei wuxian urges jiang cheng forward. he breaks his tongue against hard syllables and something in him at once unravels and tightens behind his ribs. behind his ribs, with the tide of his frustration ( stubborn, so stubborn, they all are ) and acidity.
and yet, his pale eyes raise to wei wuxian. they raise, but the gentleness of that look is cut with question. it is cut with underlying worry, concern. it is cut with a need to soothe, filtered in below the surface to jiang cheng as though the pull of greenery, the first brush of warmth against his wintering. he cares, lan wangji. lan wangji cares how these words fall. he cares— but, to say this plainly— ]
Wei Ying, [ he starts, the syllables low as they are soft. it is neither a request nor a demand. it does not reprove, but rather it questions. but, that is far as his own voice carries him.
the glare of blue that cuts beneath his jaw stutters and sharpens as his grip releases. as something in him shifts, breaking beneath the skin like the thaw of ice. something in him splits, as his hand chances against their skin ( jiang cheng, wei wuxian ) as he draws his palm up to rest against the crook of wei wuxian's elbow.
and so too, does the unspoken sentiment and his own honesty ( let him sit, it is all right, do not— ). caught beneath the mire of his own tumult, so too does his expression, his dark brows knitting in ways incremental.
whatever this now is, whatever it is that he has exuded, it burns a thin and agitated note like the thread of his own pulse within his ears. ]
no subject
( some hidden unconscious part of him recoils, some tiny part of him aches and longs for it, to enfold wei wuxian into his arms, to take his hand and laugh, thunderstruck and dazzled, and say, i am here,
i am here, i have missed you, i have been missing you, a piece of my soul, all this time. )
but even with that wild sense of yearning, of some hunger that sits deep and secret in his gut, jiang cheng feels sick, feels already overrun by the myriad broken-glass flashes of emotions from the both of them, through the tight and loose contact of their hands upon his skin. ]
Oh? [ the grip is tight, tightening, and even though he could easily break out of that fragile hold jiang cheng stands his ground, his rage a brittle and sharp thing that juts out, jagged and spiked, through the point of contact, seeping needle thin pricks of pain through the skin. ]
You don't want me to shame you in front of him? What a match made in heaven, you two are, to defend each other so.
[ it's an uncontrollable thing now, this anger. he has always said whatever he wanted to say when he was angry, the emotions boiling over like a pot left too long upon a flame, a horse unchecked and run wild. he wants it to hurt, he wants wei wuxian to hurt, and damn everything that stood in his way.
the bitterness swirls within like dirty muddled water, and it is a dark, endless thing that he has tried to keep at bay for so long - a beastly thing that he has held back for years telling it not yet, not yet,
he has not yet returned, he is still waiting.
but he has returned, now. he has returned and left just as soon as he came, leaving threads like the stems of a cut lotus, twisted and bent until something gave, bleeding sap like tears ( like blood ). what's done is done.
i'm sorry.
jiang cheng is tired. he is tired of waiting, of continuing to orbit that haunting presence, of waiting for whatever scraps he would throw at him. he had almost given up once, that night at the pier. he should have given it all up then. now this stupid, idiotic false hope makes him faintly burn as if the other's presence has lit the sparks from cinders, rendering him afire.
( he barely feels lan wangji's grip loosening, the frost in his gaze like the sliver of a moon in early winter night, gleaming like bloodstained strings of guqin. he does not hear the midwinter crackle of ice across his voice, of the ice that is strong enough to split boulders, the quiet warning in the tone. )
he should think something is wrong, but then - everything is wrong. ]
What do I care for him? You think you can just ask things of me so easily? You think mere apologies have ever fixed anything?
I have always- [ he needs to shut up, but it is too far gone, too late for stopping, and jiang cheng does the only thing he could do, with what he has been given leeway enough to do so, under some power he has not realised is working upon him. he shuts his jaws so hard he can hear the crack, tasting blood in his mouth as the flesh inside tears with the force of it, the words cutting like so many blades trapped within. ]
no subject
wei ying.
his name.
i have always --
his calling. ]
I don't want this.
[ it takes him over, wrung thinly out between two men who are doubtlessly important to him. his brother-in arms, his partner-in-deed. ]
I don't want us to be like this.
[ it's raw honesty that falls from him, curling with unspoken pain and simmering wrath ( even that, in the wake of this thing that lan zhan has unconsciously set upon them, the strained thread of veracity that demands he speak truthfully, honestly, plainly -- ), he is a raw thing, like a heap of bloodied meat, a dying heart beating in the palm of a hand. madness in the way he tears himself into two, into three, to satisfy everyone around him, to see to their needs. ]
You're both -- [ like jiang cheng, he shuts his mouth tight, feeling the words rise in him ( so bold, so shameless! so much so that he is even shocked by them ), but he does not let them linger until he swallows them. instead, his grasp loosens on jiang cheng's wrist. it finds his shoulder instead. his other hand rises, to take lan wangji in the same hold as his own shoulders crawl, defensive and braced, against what may be inevitable. he's made his bed, he's done this thing, all of those things - terrible things, in the name of his selfish desires and mad love. ]
You're both so important to me, how else can I say this? No amount of apologizing will mend the things I did, the way I treated you both in the past. You're both here, though and I... I just wanted you to come live with me. So that, maybe - maybe I could try to make amends for what I've done. So that, maybe I could take care of you properly. Like I should have, as your shidi, Jiang Cheng. Like I should have, back at Koi Tower, Lan Zhan.
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and so too, like all this bitterness, he pulls it within himself. jiang cheng’s words sting at their edges, are meant to sting at their edges. jiang cheng has no reason to. no matter their exchanges, no matter their shared histories— there is nothing between them to be said at all. all that there is sits between them, pulls them in together as though needle to thread, as the mending of robes, as the tying off of kite tails. there is nothing that binds jiang cheng to him, jiang cheng, whom wei wuxian followed all those years ago. jiang cheng, who turned against wei wuxian in the end. and he thinks, still—
he carries this within himself, pieces it apart. he holds it and quiets it, because what is will be and what is not will not. jiang cheng is though a dog injured, left to snapping at the heels of others for all that he has lost after all that he had gained. and is a rawness in him that comes through, like the hands that jiang cheng once warmed. it bites across his features, as soon as is that jiang cheng dares turn teeth to wei wuxian again, his hand prepared to steer wei wuxian behind him, but—
but, wei wuxian’s hand is at his shoulder. it is at his shoulder, and all the fury that brews within him is snuffed out. it is snuffed out, pulled close as though the cast of arms about his middle, made pliant through words and sentiments— the discomfort that spills between them all now, tugged free and opened. like the raw of lotus seeds, still so sour and young and new. ]
I, [ starts, after a moment. confusion and disbelief catch the corners of his face, dissolve as quickly as it passes through. even if it is inclusive, it does not matter. what wei wuxian says—
and yet, this compulsion does not touch him.
there is something in the working of his lips, the cut of his own teeth against the inside of his cheek. his eyes touch on neither, but his fingers climb. like young ivies, they catch at wei wuxian’s sleeve, attempt to hold themselves steady. he wants to say: with me, there is no need for sorries. these things have already been forgotten. take care of you— he wants to say anything at all, but the words catch in his throat. they root into his heart, the heat of his frustration and his needing and his want climbing the pale of his throat. it stains the skin, stains the lobes of his ears, burns across his cheekbones ( and though it does show here, it is close ). it burns enough, that even the dark of his lashes seem to droop against the impact of it. as though he had been teased, as though he had back then. back then, crowded by wei ying in the pavilion, his young heart relentless and temperamental and hot. and now, he wonders if much has changed at all. he wonders this, as the dam that once held back his words break bank as though a torrent. as though, with no place left to go, they flow through it. through all that is proper and polite and reserved. but, lan wangji has never been anything, but honest. it does not stop now. ]
I will not deny you. [ and it comes whispered, hoarse. like the dry rush of grass after heels, like lan wangji’s endless traveling. like himself, in all that was left of him, gathering all that remained of wei wuxian in the years and years and years without him. and though he cannot look up, his fingers tremble with a strain that lan wangji cannot convey to him. he does not wish to have lan wangji, not like this. he does not desire lan wangji as lan wangji desires wei wuxian. no matter how he now presses nearer to lan wangji, seems to retract and reaffirm his rejections again— still, it is that the threat of happiness that wishes to spill out from his chest. it is that threat of something more, but he will not impose upon him this. he will not, no matter how much he wishes to hold within his hand wei wuxian’s, to let him feel what it is he is feeling. to make him understand what it is these words have always done to him. he wants, he wants so much, all and everything that wei wuxian will afford him. he has always wanted nothing more. and he will not ask for it, he will not implore. instead, it is only that he continues, stripping his words of the full and leaving only part. an unfinished garment to dress his own wounds, but instead passed to wei wuxian instead. ]
What you want— [ the words skip, uncharacteristic. like a stone’s leap across the still of ponds. and still, it sinks. they always do. ] What you want, I want too.
[ for you, it goes unsaid. but, he need he say it? take care of you properly, wei wuxian had told them. you’re both so important to me. and even spoken like this, even couched like this, lan wangji’s grip shudders as it tightens. it is more than he would ask for, more than he could ask for— and yet, the thrumming of his pulse continues.
he aches all the same. ]
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it is unwanted, unwanted, the words that he had kept away all these years, locked away like some shameful secret. he does not want this, does not want to say it, and like a fish caught in a line ( a hook into an eye, his mouth, his throat ) jiang cheng surges up, drawing himself back and away but wei wuxian's hand hold fast against his shoulder. he is caught fast, forced to hear those words from him, and they bring no comfort nor joy to jiang cheng now. ]
Important? [ the blood is thick upon his tongue, bitter and coppery, and his eyes flash like summer storm, grey and dark and thunderous. ] Make amends?
[ easier said than done. lan wangji's quiet, stilted words whispered to the other escape jiang cheng's notice; it is something again private, something between the two of them, and he has no place in that - the shade to their brilliant afternoon sun, some ugly shadow stretched in the peripheries. ]
What right do you think you have now to say those things to me? I have waited, Wei Wuxian, I would have- [ say it, don't say it, he feels pulled in all directions like a kite buffeted by the wind ] - I have always - [ nausea, tearing through his gut, jiang cheng shudders under the grip, his eyes burning.
within his ribs, trapped by the cage of bones and muscles, the golden core shivers and shakes in time with his heartbeat, reminding him of what he has lost. what he will lose again now, once more, if one more word leave his mouth.
he is tired. he is tired of the raging, tired of the frosty gale that tears through his being whenever he is in their presence, he is tired of feeling unimportant, of being not enough, of always being too late. too late to save his mother and father. too late for his sister. too late, even, to see him that day upon the burial mounds, to take his hand and say I am here, I am here.
his shoulders sag, just a little, with a shivering exhale that rakes through him. ]
I have been waiting, to have you keep your promise.
[ like a fool, like an absolute, stupid fool. ]
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[ stop, he begs himself, one hand rising to seize his own throat - to choke the air from his lungs, to strangle the words that want to be said against his will. horrible things, hurtful things. before them, his own hands crawl to his throat and wring it, unconscious and unconscionable while he fights down the things he wants to say to jiang cheng's face, unhindered and unfiltered. truths that he thinks are what he believes, because he has never reflected differently upon them; has never had reason to. they are not truths he wants to give to lan zhan and jiang cheng, because they are unfinished things. imperfect things. they are angry things, wild things. ]
That you think I needed your permission to keep my promise to you --!
[ his fingers tighten and the words strangle in his throat.
in a burst of fitful, resentful energy he drops his hands to the table, to the bowls he had composed each to their liking. his eyes, the soft grey-violet of mo xuanyu, spark -- energy, red lightning, cascading across his face as it contorts. and he lifts the edge of the table and spills the contents to the floor at their feet. a frustrated wail escaping him, chest flaring blue as he shoves his hands to his temples and doubles in pain ( the documentation warned them, what would happen if they reached for their power -- and still, he did. ) for a moment, wheezing through it. bowls shatter, spilling their contents across their feet - flavors mingling, mixing, meats spilling onto the floor. across the room, other dining inhabitants raise their heads and the staff linger, nervous and preparing to ask the trio to leave.
he's barely aware of lan wangji at his side, even after such soft words were uttered in his support. barely aware of the way he'd once drawn such comfort from his presence, the touch of his hand; the knowledge that, of all people, lan zhan would give up everything for him. part of him wishes jiang cheng would have too, but it's clear now that he did not ever deserve an ounce of the jiang family's love, their protection, the comfort he found in their presence. not when all he'd brought them was ruination. ( lan wangji, he thinks, will not deny him - by his own word, he will not; and it is a thing he cannot allow to happen, not for his sake. ) ]
"I will not deny you"; "I have been waiting" -- I wish you'd both said these things earlier, I wish you'd had half the will to pursue the things you wanted from me instead of this! Now, I've said my part - Yiling's damnable fucking patriarch dismisses you, I'm sure you've both been dying to get away from me.
[ dinner on the floor, spite in his mouth and bruises around his neck from his own hand, he picks up his feet and steps over the shattered remains of their food. one hand pressed to his aching temple as he pushes past both of them, to the door jiang cheng had only just entered through and shoves through it, escaping out into the street to breathe, to gasp through clenched teeth and flee as far as he can from the both of them, into an alley, into the dark where he can be small and away from their brilliance and back where it makes sense to him -- knowing they'll hate him for it, they'll hurt more in his presence or outside of it. it's his fault, in the end, for all of their aches and bruises and pains. ]
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another part of him goes icy hot and cold all at once, numbed from the tips of his fingers to the top of his head, burning with pale flickers of ghostly fire. he is angry, so much so that he can only hear echoes of wei wuxian's voice in the aftermath, the wake of his absence louder than the crash and tumble of the dishes upon the floor.
how had it come to this? how did everything turn out this way?
I wish you'd both said these things earlier.
how early is early? before his sword rend the flesh of his stomach, spilling out guts onto the ground? before that sword flew through the air and pierced through his sister's back? or even before that, when his hands closed about his throat, his tears against his upturned face?
( the dark bruises of his fingers, the press of his palm, stark upon the pale skin of his throat; it had been the same then )
shellshocked, thunderstruck, jiang cheng stares down at the mess on the floor, uncomprehending for a heartbeat before he turns. lan wangji's presence beside him is barely a footnote, an insignificant thing compared to the deafening gap left behind by wei wuxian - and all of a sudden it is as if stepping from the centre of the storm back into the thick of things, at how fast the anger rushes back at him. with barely an idea of what had just transpired here and how it had come about, all jiang cheng could think of is
( a hound, upon a scent ) ]
Don't you fucking dare!
[ he has not been hidden in the alley a minute before jiang cheng stands at the mouth of it, his eyes blazing, sparking as if he contains all of the bright hot power of zidian within his breast. ]
Don't you fucking dare run away after saying that! What the fuck do you mean?
[ get away, get away, get away
leave me alone ]
You never wanted to come back, you said so yourself! [ he has never, never been a choice at all. ] You always fucking do what you want, you think you know what's best for everybody! Well, you can take that and shove it up your ass, I'm so fucking sick of it!
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he has, once. once. he has seen fragments of this, the manic current a knife's edge run against the flesh. and plunged, as though it is, between the ribs (and yet, jiang cheng does not leave it— he is not content to leave it) it is pulled out again. and now, it bleeds. it bleeds, and lan wangji's ears ring with the fury of it. they ring, as though struck (and had he not been?). they ring, as the words filter through and he is placed aside in the aftermath. (does he not remember? does he not? back then—)
and he is not allowed luxury, to process. he is not allowed, as jiang cheng rounds. he is not permitted to, as the lash of their collective anger seizes him, pulls hot and acidic about his poorly tempered heart. (fifteen, sixteen, the library pavilion littered with paper burnt by lan wangji's own thunderous and tempestuous nature— and he has not discarded memory of it, but they have. they have, it would seem.) and for the briefest moment, as jiang takes off after wei wuxian, that light flickers in the center of his chest. it flickers and dies as he clamps down on what it is he wants to access, unconscious and unfiltered and set.
rage lives in lan wangji, but it does manifest as this. it does not manifest as though a relentless animal, but it pins. it pins and it pines and bares its teeth in the darkest parts of him.
it bites against his ribs, claws up his throat. (he is a fool, he is a fool, he is a fool, "be patient and tempered with those—") it finds footing against the knobs of his spine, sets his shoulders squared and back. it tugs him. ("unregulated fighting is forbidden inside the cloud recesses—") it pulls him, an archer to an arrow. jiang cheng may have scented blood, circled in as though a dog to wild rabbit, but lan wangji notches. he notches, the fletching bare against his wrist. (be restrained.) and yet—
words burn at his tongue. they burn to set his teeth on edge. they burn to be bitten off and chewed. like kindling to sparks, like dark ash and soot. like the skeletal fragments of his home, like the blood on the strings of wangji. like this, shattered as though porcelain fragments (ones he too steps over as he too stalks within their path). and—
is it a surprise, that he too is here? is it a surprise, that he too always finds him, wei wuxian?
he does not pause at the mouth of the alley as jiang cheng does.
("unregulated—")
be he unimpeded, he pivots. should he be permitted, his expression makes no concessions. the brunt of it is there. the intent, clung to with fingertips. and yet, it has always been the eyes and the heart. lan wangji, hanguang-jun, cold to all and everyone (and that is all he is, isn't it?).
in the dim cast of the alley, the pale of his eyes is vivid. his fingers curl. wei wuxian, his wei ying— let it be known, it is not the last he will serve as this: a wall, a barrier, a buffer. jiang cheng may spit venom, but he will not see the raise of hands.
do not touch him. it is seethes beneath the skin. his teeth grind against the effort, his dark brows lowering— glare set, like the flicker of bichen.
do. not. touch. him. ]
no subject
he stands again, wiping at the spotting of blood on his nose - the sudden, violent migraine and illness that overcomes him a problem for later, the result of his trying to reach for his core. for the dark energy that he feels slipping through his spirit like worms, like maggots, like a beautiful and elusive song that has bonded to him and yearns to be sung once more. when he turns, it is to the sound of scuffling feet, of bodies sliding past one another ( lan zhan stands between the two of them, and two parts of him want to push past him towards jiang cheng at the same time he wants to push his face between lan zhan's shoulderblades and hide ). unsteady, he goes back to them. he moves in their direction.
drawn to them as they are to him. ]
I'm not sorry for it, it's who I am. If I wasn't this way, my surname wouldn't be 'Wei'.
[ he leads with it, reaching up to press on lan wangji's wrist, to urge him to calm. it's so much, to see him stand between them. ]
But I was always, always at your side. I won't tell you, what I did for you - you won't see it if you don't look, you won't believe me if I say.
[ softly, softly, he draws lan wangji's arms back. he positions himself in front of it, small and too-skinny for his body's age. hungry, lean. mo xuanyu had not lead a full life, especially towards the end. he uses his position to press a reassuring palm to lan wangji's, to pass okay it's okay, don't be mad to him in waves of half-incredulous shock. ]
no subject
it is a better fate for him, he thinks, the selfsame part of him that tells him rest, the part that tells him to lay his head down, to turn away, to swallow the words and the poison back before it could hurt. it is a better fate than some, to place his life upon such hands as that of lan wangji. it is better than what he himself could offer up and indeed had. and what had come of it? ghosts and scars and soul scattered as if fallen autumn leaves upon a wind. an end met in the mountains which had before swallowed him whole. an end with no one to mourn and no one to remember.
rest, it tells him. some tired part whispers it is enough, you have done enough, but his ( brittle, unforgiving, bleeding ) heart would not quiet. the golden core within him that burns as wei wuxian had once burned with all the warmth of the sun, it would not let him. jiang cheng can only split and crack like wet wood thrown in fire, can only shiver through the serrated edges of all the hairline fractures of his being. ]
You're right, it wouldn't be Wei. [ it burns out of him, the poison like thick plume of smoke, dark and smokey and angry. ] You would have done better in my place, in Yunmeng Jiang. My father thought so. Everyone thought so. And you think that as well, don't you? You have always been better.
[ he cannot stop - he cannot rest, and jiang cheng advances upon them with every word, every step a thunderous crack upon the pavement.
you won't see it if you don't look, you won't believe me if I say. he does not see it, he has eyes and ears but they are as if blinded and muted as he had been in his trust in wei wuxian - when he had slipped that blindfold over his eyes, when he had told him to - go, to never speak, to never look. when wei wuxian had told him to believe. now, he believes as he has not done before, the stilted admission, the touch of his hand fitting into the curve of his jaw, the heat of the fire all linger still but it brings him no comfort. ]
Well, why don't you, then? Just fucking say it! Say how much I am in your debt, that I cannot have achieved anything without your help....
[ his voice cracks, the fractured splinters lodged in his voice, in his eyes, under his skin. it hurts. he wants it to hurt. ]
Tell me how much you have done for me. See if I fucking believe you.
[ another step closer, close enough to see the pale of lan wangji's eyes, to see the cut-ice expression on his face.
it is so much to see him between them.
it is so much, and jiang cheng feels some fresh new surge of anger burst forth from within like old wounds ripping open anew - a savage and ferocious one, all gnashing teeth and claws. lan wangji stands there as if he had always been there, as if he would always be there between them; it is as if he comes to reclaim the place between ( beside ) wei wuxian and the insurmountable distance between them has never let itself known to jiang cheng as this very moment now.
that space, the widening gap when there previously had been none - and there had been hardly room between them, nor had he wanted there to be - he had been so very content to be and breathe in the all encompassing presence of him. he had been the sun and the rain to him, the laugh and the warmth and the reassurance of a hand always being there for reaching out. they had been less two halves of a whole than one being split in half, one breath and one heart shared between them, but
no more.
now lan wangji stands there, a figure dressed in mourning, in ashes, in the light of frosted moon as it awaits the rising of the sun in some far off dawn, and jiang cheng as a caged animal would dash himself to piece by bloody piece against that immovable wall until it breaks or he would.
he slows - stays his steps as if he could somehow stay the furious seething in his heart, but it is more like the coiling of a snake as it readies for a strike - do not, it says, with the way he inhales sharply, rearing back, eyes narrowed and incandescent, the way his whole being seems to snap and fizz with bitter acrid acidity. do not be here. do not interfere.
what does he care about him? why should he?
it is petty, it is an action that perhaps, later, he would come to regret - but he has plenty of those enough in his life already, one more would not hurt.
there cannot be any excuse in the way he swings out with a fist; he hurts, he shatters by lashing out, he does the one thing that wei wuxian has requested of him otherwise ( he could laugh, really, he could; it is as if some kind of crazed madness descends upon him ). ]
no subject
don't be mad. don't be mad. don't use words rashly. don't use words in excess. don't splinter them, hone them. do not nock them, an archer's bow and arrow. do not loose them, for harm is needless. to harm is to be cruel. to act on impulse, as he acts on impulse, is to bring all that is he lacks into being. and yet, wei ying is at his side. wei ying, in all his quiet disbelief, presses near to him. his palm, his fingers— the soft wash of blues that subsume him, lan wangji. what is this bond too, if not something lan wangji gives to him? to wei ying, human in all things. as human as lan wangji himself is, as human as he dares. and yet, his arm is though as though a willow's bend. his fingers, a cascade as they acquiesce. they unfurl and then they curl, to the narrow width of mo xuanyu's ( now his ). he soothes as though wei ying soothes, the brunt of his agitation curbed to buffet the divisions between himself and jiang cheng. like a storm up on the mountains, like the snows moved to their peaks, he keeps wei wuxian sheltered in this space. ( and how many spaces now, does wei wuxian own? how many spaces now does wei wuxian not know? lan wangji's body, his heart, the soul. and still, lan wangji finds within himself more room. lan wangji finds within himself the sentiment, cut beneath concern for him, cut beneath the trust offers through to him.
i will not deny you, lan wangji had himself said. and here, no matter the fury and fire and the ire that climbs through all of him, he repeats it again. he repeats it again, soft and steady beneath the hail of dissonance. no matter whether it is deserved or not, whether it is something that can be forgiven or not— wei ying's wounds are wounds that he will carry too with him. lan wangji would ache, he thinks, in place of him.
i cannot deny you. it is a sincerity, an earnestness. it reaches, but does not cross. he will not make wei ying take what he does not want of him. we will not burn the foundations of wei ying's heart from root to stem. he will not cross across all that he has built within himself, wei wuxian, free to be as he so wants ( no matter his thoughts, no matter his wants, no matter ).
and yet, these are the parts of himself that wei ying cannot take within himself. these are the spaces that he will not burden him with. these ugly and envious things, the way they creep against lan wangji's thoughts. muted, in that way, to perhaps him as he remains resolved and righteous and stubbornly put. let it be, that jiang cheng throws himself against the solidity that lan wangji affords. let it be that he dashes himself and all of his hurt against what lan wangji serves as now ( all he serves as now ) to the one who had, at one time, gave realization to what could have been the other he once glanced across within the cloud recesses. in the shade of wei wuxian's, his wei ying's warm sun—
what does it matter, he would think if he were pettier. what does he matter to jiang cheng, he thinks now as their postures do not loosen, as wei ying's words do nothing to quiet the acidity of jiang cheng's bite. and yet, he will not tell wei ying not to try. lan wangji will not dissuade him, though jiang cheng tears through attempt upon attempt to speak through to him any way.
his hands, lan wangji knows, are not poised in surrender.
and no matter how cold lan wangji may make himself, he is rash. he is rash, as he is protective. he is protective, as he is a fool. a fool, to take what it is that comes his way. ( be kind, love all others. love and respect yourself. )
lan wangji does not fight with his hands. he does not touch the world that rests before him. his hands remain to his own. and yet, yunmeng is not as gusu. jiang cheng is not as he, who makes exception only for the only one has waited for all this time. where wei wuxian is warm in his tactility, jiang cheng denies. and here, it is true too.
lan wangji sees it, he knows what it is. and yet, he would not expect it. he would not expect one who claims no threads to care enough to bring the lash of bone and flesh upon himself, as much as lan wangji suffers it.
it is quick enough. wei ying, situated as he is front of him, is gestured back ( and what does it matter, that it was not meant for him? lan wangji knows enough that wei ying is likely to be targeted ). he does not budge ( he did not budge, even then, even beneath the whip— this pain is a pain that he endures as any other ), but he does turn. he turns with it, the grind of his teeth audible as he bites back the hitch of breath, the reflex of expression. and yet, the ring of impact is what has him first ( like this, they are both grown men— jiang cheng, as lan wangji, do not hold back ). it is that and the wild bloom of color, the ache of it all caught within the shock of it, his pale eyes—
it does not hurt, he tells himself. it will not hurt. he cannot let them know. he cannot let either know, as his vision smudges in a singular periphery, his posture still, but his eyes— what is held there is difficult to define, the way they burn with all that he holds steady, with all of his defiance, there is something too beneath.
there too is something underneath the way he keeps his footing, the way that even this will not make him tuck as though a dog its tail between its legs.
he won't.
he can't. ]
no subject
[ how dare jiang cheng say it. how dare he put into words the cloud that hung over the lotus pier, threatening the modest peace he had found among that family; the rumors, false and cruel, that he was the favored. that jiang fengmian, given the chance, would have readily elevated the orphaned son of the woman he was said to have loved over his own wife. the rumors that wei wuxian himself knew of, dreaded and turned his eyes and ears from because he would have never agreed to it, because all that they were - were cruel rumors, designed to tear the jiang family apart from the inside out. he has always known jiang cheng to be fragile of heart, to take things into himself so deeply that they fragment and wound him and those wounds festered, untreated and hidden. ]
What I did, was my own action! Stop taking the things I've done as the weight you think you have to balance yourself against, Jiang Cheng!
[ the words are a roar, furious and aching. i value you, he wants to say, more than life itself.
and then jiang cheng strikes and the words die in this throat. lan wangji interposes himself between them, as if on autopilot, as if yanked by fate itself into the line of fire. he sees the pass of the man's broad shoulders between he and his shidi, the blow blossoms across his face. ( not for me, he wants to yell, don't take this on my behalf. ) words don't come to him, his expression stricken and heartsick with all of it. jiang cheng hurts, because of him. lan wangji is hurt, because of him. it would have been better, he thinks - sudden, violent - if only he'd stayed dead and gone. the wounds would remain, he knows; but, at least they could have become scars.
the flat of his arm finds purchase against lan wangji's ribs, pressing him aside - FORCING him aside - as wei wuxian lunges into jiang cheng's face, fist cocked, expression strangled. he'd told him, he'd told him that if he was horrible to the man who continues to position himself between the harshness of the world and himself, to protect him, to stand by him -- he'd beat the shit out of even his own brother. so, he goes for jiang cheng's face as well, fast and smaller than he used to be, and somewhere between throwing his weight and his fist past lan wangji and connecting with jiang cheng, his hand has opened. it has seized his shirt collar, the other has seized his wrist --
and he twists, rocking at the hip to bring jiang cheng over his center of balance, over his shoulder. to flip him, rough and ungentlemanly, over wei wuxian's own body and onto the pavement below. it's about all he can do in the moment, pouring his weight down onto jiang cheng, there in the alley. it's not enough, he knows. they're both stronger than him; mo xuanyu was sickly, was too-thin and had lost muscle tone by the end of his life. wei wuxian is only now building it back, but he sits on jiang cheng's stomach and grabs for his wrists to pin him down, there on the ground. ]
-- I told you, [ he strangles on his words, ] that I'd beat the hell out of you.
no subject
he could shake him off so easily now - but it is not the weight of the body that stops him, it is the rage, it is the look in his eyes that strikes and pins him down more than anything ( furious and aching, the pain throbs rabbit-rapid against his ribs, the cage of his chest curls and shudder against the influx ). ]
What the fuck do you expect me to do?
[ jiang cheng laughs, because that is the only thing he knows how to do, right now, the knuckles of his hand smarting still, burning still, from the strike he has so boorishly left upon lan wangji.
he lets the laughter rip itself out of him - it claws its way out of his throat like some small, wounded thing, like a thing with too many teeth and tongue and venom, and some pale flickering fire burns in his eyes as he stares up at wei wuxian through blurry vision still smarting from the blow of his fist. he laughs with blood in his eyes and in his mouth, and the sound is harsh like nails on chalkboard, like sword striking stone, and one could almost see white hot sparks thrown from the point of contact where the sound cracks and breaks. ]
You have done - [ some part of him rebel against it, some part still aware of the third presence that had been pushed aside by wei wuxian in favour of such violent reaction - but what does it matter?
what of it? what does any of it matter, when it is jiang cheng himself who tears through what small measure of connection that still exist between them, closing his hands upon the delicate silk strings of some fate that had once bound them and breaks them as if they were nothing? ]
You have given me everything. [ a brother, a friend, beside him and before him, a hand to take in the dark, a voice when he had been blinded. ] How am I supposed to compete with that? How the fuck do you expect me to react, just say 'thank you' and move on?
[ breathing out, he hacks out the words like curses amidst some harsh, cracked laughter, the edges of his gaze raw and red - a broken, bleeding thing. lost. ]
no subject
wei wuxian is a limber thing. limber once, limber now. no matter the body which the soul now holds or the body that now holds him, wei wuxian has always been as such. he has always been able to occupy any and all of lan wangji, been able to mold him beneath the slightest pressure of his palm. and now, this too is true. this too is true, when taken by force. and that action, that sudden and frenetic burst of outrage, stings more than the punch that jiang cheng threw ever could and ever did. he thinks it to be true, no matter how his gaze skews and the struck eye waters, uncontrolled and uncontained.
why would such a reaction be for him, he would have thought. he would have thought, but lan wangji knows better. he knows better, because he knows too himself.
and yet, something ugly and dark and quiet in lan wangji burns. it sits against the edge of skin, works against the edge of bone. and it writhes. it sours. it catches acidic and raw in his mouth, breaks against his teeth. it tastes like metal, like blood, like corpse dirt. it tastes of all that lan wangji tamps down within himself, as though beneath the oxen and spade. it tastes of all the things he has buried so deep within the self that he has forgotten their shape.
and still, he recognizes them. and still, he yokes them. he digs his heels into any purchase that remains. he reminds himself—
how am i supposed to compete with that?
that name, that name he's turned over his tongue since he was young ( so young, when he first saw him ), catches on itself. the syllables knot up in his throat. they are swallowed alongside the acceptance of what he has cascaded. and yet, he had decided even back then that what is wei ying's to face would be his too face. if only he would let lan wangji, if only he allowed. and now, has he forgotten that too? those two days, those two long and tired days. those days, when all he heard— ]
Wei Ying.
[ it is a soft thing. a declaration, that asks to be. it is a statement, that this too was something he chose. this was an action he too elected. like wei wuxian had too decided, in smaller fragments. that movement, like all movements before, was a willingness. wei wuxian needn't do this in part for himself, for lan wangji, for the one who would give and never ask again for the "thank you"s that ended more as partings, as sharp and strange goodbyes.
and yet, it is a reassurance. this too is why he has come to love him. in part, this is what he has understood. just like him, lan wangji would not have been able to check his temper then, would he have?
of course not. of course not, just as back then. just as now, when he had situated himself between them. just as now, as he wishes only to shield wei wuxian from this too.
and yet, he knows he wouldn't. were he in wei wuxian's place, he knows he would not be able to come to his side. and still, he asks without asking. like before, like many times before. it is a request, if not for himself, but for wei wuxian. if not for himself, but so too jiang cheng.
it had already been enough. ]