*seductively crawls out of hell* (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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
perhaps it had been when they all were younger— when mountains woke from all their slumber, and the magnolias broke white and fine against the endless lines of blue. perhaps it had been when lan wangji first saw him. perhaps it had been then, that that gentleness had become something that was no longer his. perhaps it was those days, spent within the walls of the pavilion, that lan wangji realized that it was always wei wuxian's to have to begin with. no matter how he held it close within his fingers, no matter how lan wangji did not wish to have it stray, it went anyway. and it grew, before there was nothing left to give and nothing left to give it to. for a time.
for a time, before it once again consumed. before, at the core of all that he had built around himself, it still bloomed. it still thrived, in the scant memories of the downward sweep of lashes. it still remained, in the days a-yuan held onto his leg. and it still breathes, even now. he told himself, in the days that spanned before him, that he would do better this time. that he would show him. that he would stay by him, in ways he had so long ago and once before.
and perhaps, it is better then to say that lan wangji has always been gentle. he had always been trusting. he had always wanted to believe that others held to morality. and yet, it is not always as such. it has never been. and, as he remains awake through will itself, he knows it only as he can. he follows it only as he can. to hurt few, to be kind to many. to save what can be saved and assist what can be assisted. and if he may bring light, then he would find way to bring it.
but now, now he sits beside what illuminates. what has always illuminated him, now made pale and ashen. he had done what he might have, back in those caves. he had done what he can, once jiang cheng returned him. him, wei wuxian even now, knelt beside his cot, lan wangji's fingers curl in smaller increments. they curl against his thighs, the picture of stillness seen in movement if only one knew where to look.
it had not satisfied, only to redress the wounds. it had not satisfied lan wangji to remove from wei wuxian the dirt that had caked him. it hadn't, even now, to wait as he and jiang cheng have always waited. in their own ways, in their own times— in what ways they were allowed.
jiang cheng had come back as lan wangji had. worn thin and worn quiet, the unsettled edge suppressed beneath the skin. he had come back, dark-eyed, and for what inklings of relief were placed upon jiang cheng— they were lost beneath the state of wei wuxian. they were lost, no matter the momentary safety. even together as they all were now, lan wangji finds within himself the anger he inflicts upon himself. to see wei wuxian as this, to have such a thing occur at all—
jiang cheng enters and lan wangji's eyes lift. the pale of them are murky, his eyelids heavy as he blinks. his posture, even still, straightens even more than it already is. the moment that the tea is set before, his words come quiet and certain from his mouth. ]
Jiang Wanyin, [ he says, as though a question. his eyes, after a moment, settle upon the empty space beside him. there, where he has placed a makeshift mat that he has found. it should be of comfort, more than the floor that lan wangji has opted upon which to kneel himself. his gaze returns again, the corners of his brows somehow softer than before the tea was placed before him. a thanks, perhaps. a recognition.
sit down? ]
no subject
maybe they had all been gentle, once.
those days are far behind now. they had both - they had all - seen the way fire climbs. they had seen the way bone breaks, the way blood flows, the way smoke, rising high, obscures the skies and covers it in ash. jiang cheng is still covered in a fine layer of it, though he has washed his hands and his face clean, as they dressed wei wuxian's wounds. as they have been here, as they always will, waiting. even washed, he thinks the blood will always remain, the dry, chapped press of wei wuxian's lips upon his forehead, branded upon him like the brand he knows lay under lan wangji's clothes. like the scars that lay underneath, clothing and skin, white with age.
he calls his name, and jiang cheng follows the shift of his eyes - like the slow waning of the moon - to the place beside him. indicating, with his silence and not words, what he could choose to do - to stay, or to leave.
leaving is something he has done once, twice, many times before. he has left wei wuxian broken and bleeding, he has left him in the dark of night, in the hidden shadows of the day. he has left him alone to his doom, had stood opposite - stood with sword drawn and poison in his heart, nursing a wound that would continue to fester. and lan wangji?
lan wangji had always been - there. there is no surge of venom in that thought anymore, as it is wont to, before.
after all, would you rally against the passing of the seasons, be angered, at the way the sun rises and sets?
futile, futile.
he is tired. jiang cheng does not say it, is loathe to admit it, but he is quiet, he is subdued and caged and chained in ways he has never allowed himself to be. it shows in the crook of his wrist, the way he bows his head, saying nothing, in the fall of dusty, ash-flecked hair.
without a word, he sits. he does not kneel - crosslegged upon the mat laid out on the ground, he rests his elbows on his knees, and closes his eyes with a silent exhale of breath. ]
Drink.
no subject
they had known it, in the reflection of dark eyes. they had known it in the tongues of whips. they had known it, in the white heat of a brand pressed against the breast— as the blackened bones of what once had been their homes. they had known fire, as much as lan wangji had known the scent of gentians. he knew it, in press of soft suggestion. held as though a child, he knew fire pressed to the shell of his ear. he knew fire, long ago and back then, his hands scraping up against the bark as he took from wei wuxian that was not his to start— as wei wuxian kept what had long ago become his.
lan wangji had long since given up his heart. and to lan wangji, it mattered not at all that wei wuxian did not love him. not as lan wangji loved him. it mattered not at all, because it was enough to be beside him. it was enough.
it was enough, to see him live. to share parts he wished to share with lan wangji. it was enough, that someone too understood the years in shapes both different and familiar to him. it was enough. and it was enough, that jiang cheng too chose to join them. for once, too tired to argue. for once, his venom taken in. and something in the dip of lan wangji's dark lashes too conveys relief in ways he can neither pin nor identify as he leans just so to lift the teacup that jiang cheng has brought for him.
were they closer, perhaps he would have reproved him. perhaps he would have told jiang cheng to sit properly, but the humor in the situation is absent. and so too, is the comfort of that closeness. still, they circle and still they circle back. and here, too, lan wangji's pale fingers heat. angry and reddened, cut against eyeteeth— they no longer draw the eye for their shape or their movement. instead, they draw gazes because they are made ugly beneath this and beneath the dust of rubble, so too coated over the white of lan wangji's clothes and the ink of his hair.
and still, he drinks. he drinks and his mind is silent. his body, too, does not speak. as if he is many miles off, as though it is that calmness that is reflexive more than purposeful as he lowers the rim of the cup from his lips. as he extends it to jiang cheng, after a moment, knowing—
there is not enough for two, but there is enough to share. there is enough to take part in together. ]
no subject
he waits; the aches and pains of his body subsiding, slow exhale and inhale, with every breath. he waits, as he always have done, but there is no fire in his veins this time. no impatience eats away at his bones and gnaws at his mind, this time.
maybe, the presence beside him as steady and as immobile as a tree may grow upon a stone.
a shift in air, of movement, catches his attention and jiang cheng opens his eyes but a slit, narrowing with sharp focus, at the hand extended, the cup held within his grasp.
there is a pause - of silence, of waiting, of some thinly stretched tension that sways as if kite string blown in a shift in wind. it takes off, soars as if on a sparrow's wings, as a leaf that fall.
a pause, before he too, extends a hand. inclines his head slightly, as he takes it. ]
no subject
what matter is he to me?
lan wangji holds this remembrance. he holds it, expectant of rejection. but— jiang cheng does not argue. he does not rebuff. and so, it is as though this: an exchange. something has changed, but it is difficult to say. whether it be for wei wuxian or his own sake, it matters not. it matters not, because the tea is a comfort despite implication of it all. the tea is but a balm, a means more to settle and soothe than it is a means for alertness.
in the end, as jiang cheng inclines his head, lan wangji has done as much for a different purpose. it is more a nod, a catch of sleep in the return. it a manner more ingrained, than it is made conscious. and for others, it may be a wonder why lan wangji behaves this way. it may be a puzzle, to why it is that even as this, he is capable of propriety regardless.
it may be a wonder, were it not jiang cheng. were it not for the one who has known of him, of hanguang-jun. it might have been, once.
it is difficult to guess, the time that bleeds between them both. it is difficult to hold, though lan wangji shifts minute and slow time and again to settle upright and even again. to settle neat and proper again, each time his shoulders begin to round forward, each time his head dips down.
each time, until this time. once the tea is nearly gone, lan wangji pauses in receiving it again. he pauses, as his shoulders dip. as he leans, without thought of it at all. without realization, perhaps, that it is the line of jiang cheng's side that he meets.
without realization, that is, until jiang cheng sets to move again. ]
no subject
what matter is he to me? what matter, then, is he to this man?
lodged in his throat, the question lingers. it may perhaps too, linger in the set of lan wangji's mouth, the edges of faded eyes drenched in fatigue that neither of them would name.
he does not argue. he takes the cup, and in turn, in time, it is passed along. the tea grows lukewarm and cool in the pot, but they say nothing to it. they wait, and say no more to each other - that is that.
the way the other sway like some reed upon the slightest wind does not make itself known to jiang cheng. he drifts in and out, like moon behind clouds, caught in remembrance and the passing of time both past and present. inhale and exhale, steady as passing of time.
then-
a weight, settling upon his side. a weight, a touch as light as it is, as careful as dew upon a leaf, it settles, but with a weight of some long suppressed tiredness that travels through upon that one little contact.
without almost realising, jiang cheng holds his breath, air caught in his throat.
what is he to me?
nothing, he would say, in some flare of anger. nothing at all, as if one would look upon some distant, snowy mountain, present but out of reach.
but he is here, and so is he. ]
no subject
quietly, he watches the outline of their figures together; they're within his reach, so he reaches.
the damage to his hand is intensive, he'll have to have it looked at before long. it aches and threatens his consciousness, leaving his vision swimming and his stomach clenching as he moves, as he shifts position slowly and creeps forward along the edge of the mattress. until he can nudge his forehead against lan wangji's shoulder, until he can roll it to the side and rest it on jiang cheng's. like this, he bridges the two of them with a hazy smile, unable to find his voice for the moment.
he wants them to know he's awake, though. the thought of being left out frightens him. ]
no subject
he does not settle, does not dream. he hears jiang cheng's hitch in breathing, hears the way he seems to become as though the mountains of his home. or, perhaps, as though a stone skipped across the lotus ponds that he has never known (but has heard of, has heard of in the evenings when wei wuxian found endless line of conversation). and it is that, perhaps, that would be enough to draw him to sit up. it would be enough, were it not for the dry shift of sheets, the way jiang cheng does not with immediacy shove him to sit properly (though he'd have liked to, for jiang cheng's sake).
but, perhaps it is because of moments just like this, that lan wangji has learned to display that gentleness. like this, his pale eyes dark with momentary slumber as they open. as the press of what he knows to be wei wuxian is against his shoulder. as he recognizes, before ever sending glances over, curbing urge to fully turn around 'lest he jostle him. ]
Wei Ying, [ he says, soft. soft, as he tells him: ] Rest.
[ and it is without thought, that a supportive hand finds its way toward the dark crown of wei wuxian's head. he knows of such injury, of what such injury does to the body. he knows, in scores and lashes. and it is all that he might do, to keep still for him. to suppress the urge to shift, to grant jiang cheng the space he must desire from him. and it is for that closeness, that he feels more discomfort in its incidental display than he does for what he shows to wei wuxian, wei ying.
he wants to say: i am here, but the words lay heavy on his tongue. and instead they come, in the single curve of a single finger— a brush. but, they taste in ways both sweet and acidic, like the sharper tang of alcohol. as wei wuxian too rests against jiang cheng— the bite of it remains. duller, in some ways. perhaps, and even then— perhaps it is too, because wei wuxian seeks him. perhaps it is too, that it is jiang cheng he seeks next. perhaps it is for the way wei wuxian makes himself known, his chest tight with relief and envy that he altogether drowns in the rush of his devotion.
perhaps. for it is always that, that affection. it is forever that, since he could recall for wei wuxian to start with, to begin. ]
no subject
Wei Wuxian, [ he says, near the same time as lan wangji breathes out, his voice no louder than an exhale of breath. ] Rest.
[ in some other time, in better times when the lotus flowers are in bloom, when the gentians exude the sort of sweet smell in the gathering light of the dawn, maybe, they could laugh - if they had not grown bent and twisted.
but jiang cheng does not laugh, he stares forward in front of him unblinking, the edge of his eyes burning, the edge of his chest, tight with a myriad of words wanting to burst forth their way, to carve themselves into his skin like the rules of the cloud recesses - but he does not move, not as lan wangji does, extending his finger ( fingers, cut and bitten through, marked with eyeteeth red and dark ).
this close, he can hear the faint undercut tones in lan wangji's words; the relief, the concern, and it is like stepping into a fine mist only to find some hidden meadow within, some open clearing, within the depths of mountains.
what are they to you? ]
no subject
I am, I am. I was just feeling -- mm. You know, I like when all three of us are together.
[ his voice is raspy and thin, body shifting as he attempts to wrestle his way up into a seated position.
he doesn't make it, it leaves his face squished between them, nose between the seam of their shoulders before he pulls back and relaxes on his side. he feels stretched out and thin, like cloth on a line that's been wind-whipped. his injured hand is clutched close to his chest, protected with all that he has in him - the injuries are extensive, he can feel the damage is a blinding, throbbing ache even now. his free hand, the uninjured one, finds its way to the hairs at the backs of their necks. touching them, each one in turn, to pour his gratitude into them, his guilt, his --
tenderness. ]
ok in the right place this time...
it has always been this way. since before the words had ever risen to his lips, since before wei wuxian had called his name, his mouth turned up about its shape— lan wangji had felt them all the same. he had felt them, as though he had felt the spill of ink. he had felt them, as though the missed strokes, the tremor of his hand. he had lived them, in the hours he spent writing it, that one and single character burnt into the skin. no matter how perfected, he thinks, he had never quite perfected it. he has never quite perfected it in action, all those years back and since, wei wuxian pinning him now as he had once so pinned his sleeve. he wonders if there was ever means to, if there was ever means to write it just as he so wanted to— in every way he could intend, as wei wuxian noses once between the boundary that separates him from jiang cheng.
but, there is little purpose in wishing for what he may have once done different. there is littler purpose in reading further into the way that as lan wangji turns, he is stilled. as surely as the sun moves, as certainly as the flowers follow all along the mountains, the words upon wei wuxian’s lips are no more and no less what lan wangji had expected. they are, those words, no more and no less than what lan wangji could hope. and still, lan wangji feels the ache. he feels it warm, in all its bruising ugliness, as wei wuxian first brushes the dark hairs that curl at the nape of jiang cheng’s neck. he feels it soften, the moment too that wei wuxian’s fingers find him.
he does not think to hope. no matter how the skin pines and prickles beneath the brush of calloused fingertips, he does not think to hope that wei wuxian’s answer has changed. no matter the wash of his answered affections, no matter how lan wangji ensconces all his brittle envies, lan wangji tethers as though a child’s fingers to kite strings the depths of all there is. and still, it is that longing that threads through. it is that longing, pulling all within him lean and thin, that shows itself in silvered threads. as though a fabric finished at the loom, it glimmers here and there beneath his assurances and his concerns. it holds, all together there, before it is pulled.
lan wangji does not shiver through the body. he does not shiver in the ways of his fingers curving back to rest against the tops of his own thighs, but rather in the way his lashes skim the tops of his cheeks. they tremble as they droop, stark against the way his pale eyes flicker. even in the break of light that spills into this cramped and quiet room, they are at once warm and shuttered— clear and opaque. they say more than the lips do, as he hums a tighter ”mn.”
they say as much as the heart does, the pulse. it beats, lean and fast against the throat.
he wonders, briefly, if jiang cheng can feel it where it is there shoulders brush. he wonders, briefly, against the knotting and unknotting of their shared anxieties within the cage of his ribs, if jiang cheng feels—
but, jiang cheng is resolute. rooted now in lan wangji’s place as lan wangji turns in part as though every flower that blooms across the mountains, jiang cheng is a steady thing. a lotus that refuses yet to bloom, a question as questions: what is he to me? but, jiang cheng burns his back against the sun of wei wuxian’s attentions, as lan wangji holds close in careful parts.
perhaps, like he, there are reasons lan wangji can only speculate that jiang cheng cannot hold the brunt. perhaps, like he, jiang cheng wonders what it is his place. ]
no subject
it is the smallest touch and the quietest words that unmake him - the fingers that weave through the short hair at his nape, the faint, barely there voice that cuts through the space between them. it is such a little thing, but so much, so much, that jiang cheng feels - piece by piece, some secret, hidden part of him welling up with the sort of emotion that has not made itself felt in a long time. it is as though their shared room of childhood - of words spoken in darkness, the little secrets and plans made and conspired, of night time raids of lotus pods, of shared punishments from their lessons, of all the aches and pains of growing up.
when have they stopped? when have those words dried up like some riverbed in a draught, only to flow between them no more? when have they stopped facing forward at each other, and instead must always stare just out of reach, must always watch the other leave?
jiang cheng does not turn around - as much as he would like to, as much as the touch speaks of affection - of apology, of other things that he cannot place names to. be well, be well, it says, and with every fibre of his being jiang cheng reaches out through the scant bit of contact as well. be well. he wants to clasp - cradle - those fingers, that hand, that stranger's face so familiar yet not with its myriad of dappling, sundrenched expressions, with its tired lines and the wan smile, to fold him into his chest and never let go.
his eyes close; jiang cheng does not turn around; even as he is himself pulled toward wei wuxian as water in low tide pulled toward the moon, overflowing. surely, someone must notice - someone must see, the way his skin colours, faintly, as if a sunburn. the way he grows warm beneath the touch, supple and pliant in ways he never is, never will be within sight and hearing of ones such as they.
faintly, he feels lan wangji turn toward the other - as he always have done, undoubtedly, every line of his body filled to the brim with something that jiang cheng also recognises, some similar echo, within himself. it shakes and rattles within the cage of his ribs, lets itself known as a shiver and a shake that takes a form of - a breath, a word, caught in his throat, caught within the grasp of what remaining pride he has left.
together, he says. together, he had said, before he folded himself as some last withering bloom in winter, into his arms. together, he says, as if it means anything to jiang cheng. as if he believes ( as he once had, with all his heart ) in anything wei wuxian would say to him now. ]
no subject
Oh.
[ they are silent, after he speaks. in their silence, he hears nothing that tells him they enjoy this state of "together" as well, the three of them together as though each a part of the same whole. it tells him, painfully, that he is the only one who thinks this way - that he should have known it, after the debacle that was his attempt at dinner between the three of them. an invitation for all of them to live together, to care for their juniors, to support one another. i see, his posture says quietly, the curve of his shoulders and the slow blink of his eyes giving him away, one-and-one-and-one does not make a whole. ]
At least let me through, I have to wash my face or piss or something.
[ a bare foot sneaks through between them, wei wuxian's leg stuck out to avoid stepping on their knees, their limbs as he fumbles his way onto his feet. his hips skirt past their shoulders, his hands brace on them to assist his movement - one more lightly than the other, one trembling in repressed agony as he places bare feet on the cool floor of the safehouse.
i want to be "together", he wants to say, but cannot explain himself more than that. it sits like a weight, confusing and irrational, as his emotions bleed from tender to lonely. something howling, something quiet and placid like the dark waters in his eyes thirteen years prior: self-imposed solitude, a distance that keeps everyone safe even if it means being alone. it hurts, not hearing anything from them. he feels lan wangji's yearning, he feels jiang cheng's yearning, and neither say a thing -- so, he assumes it's for good reason that they withhold from him. withdraw their words, even if lan wangji turns to him like a mourning flower and jiang cheng chokes on the things he used to be able to say.
it's because of him. ]
Don't worry, I won't die in there.
no subject
but, he has. wei wuxian has. and lan wangji has heard it.
he had heard it, in the jingshi. he had heard it, his back curved and bloodied— aching. he had heard it, their voices raised in jubilation: wei wuxian is dead! they'd said. what satisfying news! he had heard it and the words struck harder than that of the tongue of the discipline whip. they struck harder, than the moment wei wuxian had told him, his hands and heart both dimmed and darkened (so far, so far from lan wangji's own): get lost, get lost, get lost.
no, the words had worked themselves into the bone— worked themselves into the marrow, and tore from him what little left he had to hang a light upon. come back with me, he'd said. return with me.
i love you. and it is that, that comes to him in silence. it is that, that crests against every edge of him. it is that, as he turns to follow him with the pale of his eyes, that his mouth works to say anything at all. for all that he attempts, for all that lan wangji tries, these sentiments have always failed him. these sentiments always dissolve, no matter how he had told himself that he would be better this time. that lan wangji would resolve to love him more, no matter how he was allowed. and still— ]
Wei Ying, [ he starts, but there is no finish. it is only an abortive thing, a quiet thing. it is a thing that wants as much as wei wuxian does, but cannot bring itself to touch. his fingers curl, a hand lifts.
lan wangji has never mastered the art of language, not in this way. he has never been able to say with the mouth that he says through his actions. and when he has, when he has— his teeth find the inside of his lip, his eyes lowering. a mourning flower, not for what wei wuxian has done, but for his own desires. lan wangji knows better. he knows. he knows better, than push upon others what they do not want.
and so, he does not. he does not, as much as jiang cheng remains silent and still and contained within the self, no matter how his skin warms. no matter how he knows, lan wangji knows, that jiang cheng holds little at all for him. no matter how he knows, he sees how much wei wuxian holds for him, how much jiang cheng holds for him.
what matter is he to me?
the knowledge of it buries deep, a nocked and weighted arrow, into the softer spaces between each and every rib. ]
no subject
[ soft things are not for him; the careful, the delicate things, are not meant for one such as he; as he is, jiang cheng can only do as raging fire in a forest, the waves that carve sharp jagged stones smooth, his voice like a crack of thunder; a harsh, ugly thing against wei wuxian's gentle tones, against lan wangji's, subdued and mournful and with longing so clear that it makes his skin crawl with some form of familiar understanding.
his hand rises, only to settle about the crook of wei wuxian's elbow; it squeezes, inadvertently, his concern manifesting itself in the only way he knows how ( like a child, grasping at its favourite toy ), before he loosens it, before he shifts and slides the fingers so that it rests underneath his elbow - to support rather than to hold fast. nevertheless, he keeps it there, as light as it is - as lingering the impression of his fingers on him, through cloth and skin. ]
Don't make jokes. [ like that. in times like this. he does not say it, does not need to, and it shows itself in the upturned eyes as he half-sits, half-stands, looking up at the other. it lingers in the down turned curve of his mouth, the heavy lowered brows.
I won't die in there, he says, as if it is such a light thing. as if he has not done so already. as if they themselves had not lived with some knowledge of it buried like a sword in their heart the past ten and three years. lan wangji had not been there - he had only heard the news as it has carried on the tongues of men vicious and cruel, curious and ever hungry for rumours. lan wangji had not been, but he had - he had split blood across the tainted ground of the burial mounds, had hewn through flesh and bones of the dead and the living. he had been there, had stood with zidian in one hand and sandu in another, when the cry had gone up - he had seen the way the soul scatter in decaying bits and fragments.
lan wangji had not been there - but it is due to no fault of his own, jiang cheng understands. it seems that he had always known, his sister's blood on his hands, the day that everything he had ever believed and hoped for, shedding its skin like some poisonous snake for what it truly is - some wild ravings of a fool. he had known, since then, since the time of the caves, since the quiet of the jingshi, maybe even before that when he had seen how lan wangji chased after wei wuxian with eyes like the waxing moon.
he knows it now, as he had known it unknowingly then - and even then, he cannot let go, does not remove his hand from wei wuxian's arm.
no more, he says, more with his body than his voice. no more of it. he does not think he could bear it a second time; the brittle dryness of his heart fractured to breaking point. ]
Get someone to go with you, idiot.