*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
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.