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

[sandu]

What the fuck are you doing?

[ 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.