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

( 4th nov )

[wangxian]

( lwj & wwx: i think i'll find a warmer state )

[wangxian]

[ it had been an agreement, perhaps.

an agreement, wrapped in trepidation— wrapped in the uncertainties of what could be and what might be. it had been almost uncharacteristic, in many ways, for them both. for them both, who had once been so comfortable with their knowledge and their base, their ability to command and contain as they needed without turning these upon the other. without, lan wangji thinks, having to place these upon each other's shoulders, no matter the scope of their willingness. but, lan wangji trusts wei wuxian innately. lan wangji trusts him with the whole of himself. lan wangji—

it's what worries me a little.

and he thinks, he thought he could have told him were he braver and were he more selfish: no worries. are we not already so close?

but, lan wangji hadn't. he hadn't. he had instead taken these words and held them, as he holds now a bag from the restaurant that wei wuxian had once attempted to take both he and jiang cheng, in his hand and curled his fingers about them. he had caged them, warm and ashen things, until they had burned into the fair skin of his palms and lived there. remained there, as they remain now, beneath the fabric of gloves that the safe house had spared. they are dark things, at odds at who he is. it suffocates, in ways he does not mention and cannot yet express. and yet, should it be that he hurts no other, then that is the least he might do to provide that comfort. that he does not hurt jiang cheng, wei wuxian— this token is but a small thing. it does not matter, if these were to have been eaten once or not. lan wangji has always been this way. he has always sought to give, to continue to give. he has always wanted to share what in part was his. and with wei wuxian, these actions are in all ways effortless. they are in all ways willing, as much as wei wuxian would want.

and in some ways, it is too an apology for what has occurred. no matter where the fault rested, lan wangji takes responsibility for what he has contributed and what he has desired as he most often does. it matters little, what he had come away with in the aftermath. the ugliness of bruising, the shifting of purples to greens— it is nothing. he holds no grudge for it, the lingering ache. he holds not grudge for himself. but, in this way, wei wuxian has been spared that fate. he had spared this slow and residual healing, the coloration about the pale of his eyes making them ever more vivid.

but, he spares no thought to it himself. instead, as he comes to where they had agreed to test ( a stairwell, quiet and disused ), he raises a loose fist.

he knocks once, twice upon the door to it. they are lighter than they would have once been, gentler. they are not tentative, but conscientious. in the other hand, he keeps careful grip of the bag and attempts not to jostle the full of its contents. ]

[laozu]

It doesn't look as bad, now.

[ they are the first words that leave his mouth, when he opens the door to their quiet stairwell for lan wangji; said, because his eyes flick from the bag the man holds to the bruising on his face ( jiang cheng has always had a mean hook, a talent for being able to hit the right spot and cause the most damage -- ). wei wuxian reaches up to it, his fingertips as soft as the souls of the departed, brushing a stray lock of still-growing, dark hair from lan wangji's temple to be able to see it. gusu-lan's blood runs thick, warm. he's felt it, trapped alongside lan wangji in a too-small bed, sweltering against the other man's warmth. is it any wonder, he thinks, that that same blood allows him to mend swiftly?

not swiftly enough, though. not against burns. not against lashing. ]

What --

[ the second thing that he says is abortive, fragmented as he takes in the sight of lan wangji's hands in gloves.

he understands, now, what happened to them in the noodle shop. the urge to be frank and speak plainly, to say the truth as it was known to them? it had come about because of the contact of skin-on-skin between them. it made him consider that the venomous, virulent thing that he felt from jiang cheng was not his feelings, but a strain of power. something new, like his music, like lan wangji's touch. and for that, he feels guilt. it overcomes him like a first snowfall, silent and weighted and unmarred. ]

Does it scare you, Lan Zhan? Being able to invoke honesty from the living, who still have a voice, when once it was the dead, who needed the voice?

[wangxian]

[ there is much to be said for gusulan. there is much to be said for the way their blood runs warm, runs thick. there is much to be said for their rules, their knowledge of medicines, their ability to be still and be quiet. there is much to be said, but there is little to be said of it here. here, in this place, where all is flat and harsh and washes them in all their colors wan and sterile, pale. but, to lan wangji—

to lan wangji, wei wuxian stirs him. he has always, in this way. in this way, as though springs to winter melts. as though a sun, who burned brighter than anything else. and burned, so brilliant, that even lan wangji could not save it as it burned itself out. no matter how he had attempted, no matter how he had tried to tell wei wuxian, wei ying, back then— be well and I love you. what guilt wei wuxian harbors for him now is not his to own. it is for himself. it is for himself and these regrets, that he could not speak clearly until now.

and still, wei wuxian treats him as though he is a delicate thing. he treats lan wangji, in such small movements, as though the lay of his body is porcelain, as though the skin he touches here ( an ugly thing, a bitter thing, a reflection of what anger and envies lived inside himself ) were as though a soft relief. as though, this too, was an intricacy carved into jade embellishment. as if he were to not feel lan wangji's heart, somehow, beat as the oars of a boat unmoored or the gales against the mountains.

it is that touch, fleeting as it is, that aches more than the punch did.

and it is all that he can do, to close his eyes and allow it. allow it, for as long as it may last.

curved loose at his side, curved steady about the handle the bag he's brought, his fingers tremor. as indistinct and indiscernible as it is, they do. they do, as though his lashes tremble. as wei wuxian tucks his hair behind his ear, as he traces what jiang cheng has left him with, it is all he can do to think of the bruises that wei wuxian too had left upon himself. his hands, at his own throat—

does it scare you? he asks.

there is a quiet, that rests in him. it aches too, as much as the touch does. as much as the question does, as he wills himself to answer it. but, this too takes time. it takes time as he hums out a soft affirmative, a thinner "mn," as wei wuxian first tells him it looks better now. that it heals, in part due to jiang cheng's provided medicines. that it heals, because all things do. eventually.

does it?

lan wangji's eyes flutter open. no matter the calm he presents to him, the pale of lan wangji's eyes are dimmed with concern for something he does not vocalize. they cloud, or perhaps fog, as the edges of his mouth dip. as though cool mornings, as though those mornings just beyond the library pavilion, his lips part but the words are not there for him. not immediate.

his empty hand comes up, is careful as it nearly ghosts the curvature of wei wuxian's own bruises. even through the gloves, though this touch does not settle, is somehow all the warmer for it. ]

Qin is an exchange, [ he says, his voice both too low and quiet. yes. and: I have hurt you. a soft knit forms between his brows. ] It is understood, that their honesty is needed.

[ most often, it is. he knows there is no need for distinction. not for this. wei wuxian— wei ying is not a dark and incurable thing. he is a human, a man— free and bright and all the things that lan wangji wants to see him live from himself. even if it were to mean that lan wangji could not be at his side.

finally, the hand retracts. his gaze cannot touch on wei wuxian, for a moment. it touches upon his other hand instead, freed from confines. it gladdens him, a little, that wei wuxian need not suffer this too. ]

Until I can control it— [ he pauses, his mouth twists. minute, but there. it is there, too, when his eyes again lift. ] I will not hurt you.

[ not again. ]