meadowlarklogs | CLOSED.

This was not on the list.

[ a picture is attached, of some kind of fancy looking liquor.. ]

[ lan wangji considers the picture. "considers." ]

For tomorrow.

[ just brushing that accusation to the side, it's fine. and then, an addition: ]

For you and Wei Ying.

[ not for him. he's placed that out there, at least. not that it probably won't also be given to him. ]

It is not needed.

[ jiang cheng keeps his words brief; he does not yet know how to hold himself when talking to the other - the equilibrium of his landscape disrupted, it takes a while to settle. he has not settled yet. ]

Especially for him.

[ lan wangji has had time to adjust, in some ways. in others, he has not. in others, he still needs reminder that what lays now at his hands is true.

lan wangji, for his part, is favored by his succinctness these days. ]

Should I place it higher?

[ it'd be a non-sequitur for anyone else (and certainly a dodge either way), but with the attachment his words are clear. he's sent back the picture of the liquor. ]

Perhaps behind the dry goods?

[ since jiang cheng found it, wei wuxian would certainly. and it provides insight to where jiang cheng was more likely to look. he'd be able to be sneakier next time. ]

[ please. wei wuxian is better at sniffing out liquor than a dog at a hunt. ]

That's the first place he would look.

[ wei wuxian's creativity is his undoing, sometimes. ]

If you don't want him to find it, just put it next to the sink.

[ he knows. he knows more than most that wei wuxian is as clever as he is creative, that secreted stashes are not hard for him to find. lan wangji's placement of emperor's smile had been no error on his part, in the end. those within his sect would have respected the loose board and not have investigated. that is, should they have been permitted to enter that far. wei wuxian, however— ]

Mn.

[ he now knows that jiang cheng thinks similarly. he will have to find spots that compromise. or, perhaps, he will have to be more direct in his ventures next time. but, that hum, even over text, indicates that isn't something he wasn't expecting or didn't know already. ]

The vendor described it.

[ it was very familiar, is the implication. it sounded like the wines one would get in at lotus pier. ]

You are welcome to try it before.

Edited 2019-08-21 14:18 (UTC)

[ it is not confusion, but it is a similar feeling that arises in jiang cheng now - something just as uncertain, just as surprising.

has lan wangji always been this gentle?

he has been, yes, but jiang cheng had never been so directly in the line of it, had never been in the position where he must somehow respond in turn with something else other than the acerbic politeness.

how do you, now, act around a man like him? how would he now have to present himself?

this uncertainty is why he had been keeping his distance from him - from both of them, since the party. the balance disrupted, he is trying to readjust as best he could. ]

It's sealed.

[ as himself, if he were to ask lan wangji. hanguang-jun is only a man, like jiang cheng. he is only himself, at the end of all things. and lan wangji, for all of his titles and bearing, does not impose. he does not demand. he wants, but tethers the strength of it. he curbs it, does not ask directly.

instead, he is as this: he accepts only what is given, what is offered freely. if it is too what he desires, then it is a happy coincidence.

and still, the edge of jiang cheng's storms have lingered. his presence scarcer in the last days, which lan wangji accommodated. and still, he wonders if he perhaps jiang cheng is uncertain - if he has changed his mind, from the visceral and temporary bubble of tentative happiness and hope he'd felt. and how, he thinks, it had become something else. ]

I will be up shortly.

[ and it is true, that response. it is no more than a minute. and when he enters, perhaps it is only that jiang cheng will hear him in the doorway, neatly arranging what shoes have been left there before he trails into the kitchen.

he pauses. he knows what has come of his approaches toward jiang cheng these days and does not press his fortunes as he reveals what he's kept within his hand.

it is a small wine key. ]

To open it, [ he explains, the pale of his eyes settling for a moment upon the bottle that jiang cheng has found and then upon jiang cheng himself.

the implication lingers there, if jiang cheng is willing to accept it.

he will do it. ]

[ he hears him - he pauses, as lan wangji steps in; jiang cheng stands uncertain, the bottle held in his hand which he puts down with a small muted sound of glass against the surface of the table. his shoulders tensed, his gaze averted away to rest somewhere between the other's chin and throat.

and lan wangji does not pursue. he does not chase or hunt as wei wuxian does, he does not press further than the distance that jiang cheng has drawn.

that is, in itself, a kindness.

that is, who lan wangji is.

it touches upon jiang cheng in small measures, warms him with the smallest gesture - and jiang cheng swallows, raising his eyes, finally, warily, as some wild feline creature might, to meet lan wangji's. ]

Fine.

[ jiang cheng remains.

he is stubborn, tentative. jiang cheng, as though an summer storm that has not chosen yet to break. lan wangji, on his own, waits for either the lash of lightning or the lick of rain - but, jiang cheng eyes him with consideration. jiang cheng permits him means to stay and leave, to shelter himself beneath the awnings of his allotments.

and lan wangji accepts only what it is jiang cheng affords, in the placement of the wine bottle upon the table, in the single turn of a single word.

fine, he tells him. fine.

lan wangji does not smile. he does not frown. but, there is something in his expression that softens at the corners of his eyes. there is something that catches in the way his lashes lower. there is a warmth and it remains as he gathers for jiang cheng a glass - gathers for him up the wine bottle and makes shorter work of opening it.

like this, lan wangji says without word of it. he shows jiang cheng, with the insertion of the key and the smooth turn his wrist. the cork releases with a precise tug and it is a satisfying pop that follows it as he mimics what the vendor had displayed to him earlier.

pouring is another process. and yet, he manages to fill the glass to half without wasting any of the liquid within before he sets the bottle (and its key) upon the table again.

and, as shown to him too, he passes the wine to jiang cheng with the soft press of his fingers against the foot of the glass - the turn of his eyes, pale and questioning beneath the dark of his lashes.

for you. ]

[ he stands poised as if for a flight ( for a fight ). his expression torn between the two, like a storm about to break, like the first frost of wintering, like first leaves coloured, red and dark, to signal autumn.

he has never been good at being deceptive with his emotions, to hide what he feels; jiang cheng has always been too easy to read when it came to things close to his heart - and he is suspicious now, he is wary and unsure, uncomfortable in his own skin ( the skin that lan wangji's fingers have brushed over, mapped out the lines as if drawn with a brush ) and it shows in every ungraceful line of his body. sharp and jagged in his uncertainty, like a hedgehog or some spindly plant cloaking itself hidden with thorns.

nevertheless, he watches. the mechanism of the wine key seems simple enough - but the process is something else; it requires some measure of finesse that he is not surprised coming from a man such as lan wangji - something that he feels lacking in himself, but jiang cheng watches, his gaze tight on every turn of his wrist until the cork pops open, and he tenses again, minutely.

jiang cheng eyes the glass, the liquid inside smelling sweet and alcoholic, with a little bitter acidity to it that he finds - somewhat nostalgic, maybe, something that faintly brings a memory of some other time, a long ago.

he does not offer, does not ask lan wangji; he had experienced it before - the almost childish way that he somehow reverts back to, the stubbornness that lays under the surface rearing its head with the haze of alcohol. he himself must be aware of it, as well.

so jiang cheng does not ask. they are more silence than words together, like this, more with their eyes or the twist of brows, microexpressions that say everything and - nothing.

he reaches. jiang cheng is careful, when he takes the glass, so their fingers do not touch. ]

[ much has stirred between them both, between them all. like silt kicked from the bottom, like the warm of ponds in spring— jiang cheng does not obscure, as much as it is he hides from lan wangji, wei wuxian. like fish who swim between the shadows of reeds, that school beneath the duckweed— jiang cheng too has been left sensitive to disturbance, the rush of their affections. and like this, he continues to be still as jiang cheng avoid his eyes, his hands. like this, lan wangji lets him take from him as he wants. he does not chase after the familiarity of jiang cheng's palm against his own. he does not chase anything at all.

instead, lan wangji waits. he waits for jiang cheng to take sips of what it is he has poured. he waits for jiang cheng to pay him further mind. and still, lan wangji's dark brows knit in the smallest increments. his lips, at the corners, are soft in their downturn.

he knows. he knows that jiang cheng, for all that he is, struggles in presence of him. ]

Jiang Wanyin, [ he says finally and at length. should lan wangji had been another, perhaps it is more that would come. but, lan wangji has always found his words at times short. as though caught in drought, his tongue pressed against his teeth in hope of sound, lan wangji only instead lifts his pale eyes to him.

there is something that bothers him, perhaps. there is something more he wishes to tell jiang cheng, should he only invite it. and still, lan wangji does not push the boundary of jiang cheng's uncertainty. he does not drag sentiments across the line, crowd him into smaller spaces. he does not contain with his body, his words, the way his fingers curve uncertain and unsure toward his palms. he accepts only and again what it is jiang cheng will afford. it matters little, what it is that lan wangji wants.

it always has, in this way. ]

[ there is something that bothers him. jiang cheng can feel it without seeing the gaze that turns to him, the lift of his eyes and the downward turn of his mouth altogether too clear, too visible, in the timbre of his voice as he calls to him.

it is only right, he thinks. it is he who makes the air around them heavy and uncomfortable, prickling along skin like charged ozone, crackling with some nervous energy that ripples beneath surface. it is he who thinks too deeply into this, and makes lan wangji stay, stray, further. it is the way it has always been - jiang cheng is used to this. he is clumsy and ungainly when it comes down to his heart; it has not yet had time to grow, it has not known anything else but loss, but regret, but some brutal force that lingers like a bruise bitter and dark.

he does not know how to be anything else but this, twisted and ugly, all of the dark to wei wuxian's summer brilliance. ]

What? [ it is not meant to come out as harsh as it does, but that is how it is. he has not learned - he will never learn.

jiang cheng lifts his gaze, brows drawn low over the grey depths, and he looks not as much angry as he does anxious, uncertain of his footing, as if driven to some edge of a cliffside. ]

[ lan wangji is no less a storm than he, no less battered and no less bruised. for all that he holds light to his breast, it is only for those who would need him. it is only to shed warmth upon those who need and who want. if lan wangji were able, he would give each part of himself. if lan wangji could, he would bury deeper within himself the boundless curve of his emotion, hungry and yearning as the pale stems of seedlings beneath the shade of larger blooms. and like this, he would choke silent with the passion he was born with. the same passion that made him paint himself distant, made him paint himself severe.

for who without desiring would wish that pressed upon themselves? who would allow themselves to divorce lan zhan from hanguang-jun? who?

and yet, the thin edge of jiang cheng's voice seems to do no more than give him pause, no more than to make clearer the reticence upon his brow. it does no more, than to bring the dark sweep of lan wangji's lashes once again down. ]

I, [ he starts, after a breath. and still, the word comes too soft from the chest. his mouth twists, so slight, but visible. and it is not for sadness that he does this, but for frustration. the words he composed within himself dissolve, between the heart and the tongue. but, he makes himself manage. he makes himself piece together what it is jiang cheng needs hear. ] Back then, at the party, I fear I was too forward.

[ and yet, in that moment, was it not true that jiang cheng too enjoyed himself? he had felt much that evening, but what if he had mistaken it? what if jiang cheng had changed his perspective and declined? ]

What I did, each action was true from my heart. [ and as he says it, the pale of his ears paint themselves redder as each word goes. ] If you should need me to be distant from you, I will not place myself nearer to you.

[ and it is nothing, if not sincere. it is nothing, if not earnest. lan wangji, for all that he is, knows how it is to bear burden. he knows, what it is to be anxious. ]

Edited 2019-08-24 14:04 (UTC)

[ some distant part of his mind wonders if he had ever heard hanguang-jun speak more than three words strung together in all the years that he had known the man - but jiang cheng, his mind tells him, but jiang cheng, jiang wanyin, you do not know him. you do not know him as you should.

but jiang cheng does. or at least, he feels as if he does, and the more fool him if it ends up being some kind of deception pulled over his eyes again - but lan wangji is someone too serious and too sincere for such things. he is a good man, jiang cheng thinks. a better man. a man that would be wasted on, being thrown in with the likes of him.

he is too gentle, too reticent ( but has he not felt the tremble of his fingers upon his skin? has he not felt the edges of teeth pressing on flesh till something gave, bruised and softened? ) and as jiang cheng stands there, he sees all the little changes about the other, the way the shell of his ears colour, the way his lashes come down like some protective wings of a water bird, the way those smooth pale brows knit itself in what he could only guess the meaning of.

yet lan wangji is here. he stands, and asks jiang cheng for permission, for forgiveness, for understanding, for something that he himself is not even altogether sure of.

jiang cheng has not - yet settled. he is like some river, flooded out of control and murky with the slit that has been kicked up from the depths. he is some confused, violent force that could suck you in and drown, and he likes to keep his distance. he knows what kind of person he is, and jiang cheng, for all the pride of a son of madam yu, does not put himself very high in actuality.

what is he to him?

what is he, himself, to this man?

in his heart of hearts, within the blue-lit cage of his chest, jiang cheng could say - that he does care, that something within him has already tied itself inexplicably with the both of them like kite string to fingers. he has been drawn to wei wuxian, to lan wangji, caught in a net so fine that he can only guess at it, can only feel it when he struggles as he does now to put some distance.

he feels as the fish may feel, caught and brought ashore, short of breath and missing the cool safety of the floodwaters, being burnt by the sun of their attentions. ]

Fool, [ and it is much like how they had been - there is little venom in the way he calls lan wangji thus, though his eyes narrow over the rim of the glass as he tilts it to drain fully, setting it upon the table between them.

it is poor manners, unbecoming of someone in his position to blame anything on alcohol ( and one as weak as this ), but jiang cheng still finds some comfort in hiding behind fog, in shadows, and it emboldens him to reach out - to step into the other's space.

he looks annoyed, as he usually does, the pearly string of teeth tight on his lower lip, brows drawn down in a deep crease, but he reaches out with a silent drawn in breath and settles his hands against the reddened edge of lan wangji's ears, against the smooth fall of his hair. ]

You worry too much, [ it is as much to himself as it is to lan wangji - and here, he pauses, the flush making itself known over skin, spreading like ink spilled upon paper, before he leans in.

jiang cheng leans in, and like floodwater against the banks of the river, like some storm that breaks over the mountain peaks, he presses his mouth to his. ]

[ and what is lan wangji, the son of a man who once contained within gusulan's high walls the love he could not reconcile with all its many thousand rules? and what is lan wangji, who still lingered in rare moments at his mother's door, caught in sentiment and loss?

a fool. he is a fool, who gives too much and too ardently. he is a fool, but he has come to know it. he has come to know it well enough, that he contains himself. he has come to know it well enough, that he knows where it is his patience will break, where it is his passions will unburden themselves. he knows it, but—

fool.

he remembers the downward dip of eyes, the press of fingers into calloused palms. he remembers the cold, how it bit gentle at himself in face of such insistent warmth. he remembers how it was jiang cheng laughed, much like his mother. what little he remembers, what little he recalls— and though jiang cheng is not as she at all, there is a sentimental ache as the word lands soft, as jiang cheng downs the wine as though wei wuxian and echoes patterns wei wuxian too has drawn with the touches at his ears, the smoothing of his hair.

lan wangji's gaze does not rise, until it is jiang cheng places upon him gentle scolds. it does not rise, until it is almost too late to hold the image of jiang cheng, his cheeks reddened and his teeth cut to the flesh of his own lip.

and then, it is tentative relief. an answer, in the way he leans in to kiss lan wangji as lan wangji had too kissed jiang cheng some nights ago. and it is no sound, that gives way to the thrumming of his heart. it is no word, that catches up against jiang cheng's mouth. instead, it is the way that lan wangji's hands stutter ( brief, before it is they are made inquisitive as they are bold ), settle upon the dip of jiang cheng's thin waist. he does not pull, lan wangji. he does not demand, but his fingers curve. they tighten once, reflexive.

nearer? they ask. nearer. ]

Edited 2019-08-24 22:54 (UTC)

( 5 dec )

( inbox ping: @ wangji.lan )

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( later on; the roof )

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cw wwx's mouth is going hog wild with dirty talk already

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