*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.
( 19 dec )
( & all: so this is love )
they had all fallen many times before and would fall many times more, but never once had lan wangji fallen with his hands caught within another's grip. never once had he fallen with the promise that he would not be alone for it, that his pains would too be theirs and theirs his. never once had lan wangji experienced that sensation of knowing that should he die ( and die he did, die they all did ), he would die knowing that he would not leave another behind to grieve for him. he would not leave any behind to grieve for him, to carry all his love for them, to harbor it in their chests until they cracked beneath the weight of it and burst as though the mountain rivers against the burn of winter running thin. he would not unstop the dams within the heart, bleed dry the warmth of skin—
yes, lan wangji had fallen before. they all had. but, never once had lan wangji hoped that any should love him enough to pledge themselves to him. never once had lan wangji believed he could do the same for them, no matter how he had already, no matter how he wished to. no matter how he held within the flesh all that he could not loose, for fear it was too much a burden for either of them to choose. ( all he wanted, all he had ever wanted was to do good. all he had ever wanted was to give what he could, to see happiness bloom with or without him. and so, when it extended, should it not have been surprising that he too wanted nothing more? that he too wanted only to let what he could serve them both, both beautiful and brilliant and all that any should feel fortunate to keep close at all? )
never had lan wangji pushed for it. never had lan wangji dared to think of it. but, the sky is grey and the sky is dark. the ground is wet beneath them all, connected hand-in-hand-in-hand. and instinctive as it is, lan wangji wants nothing more than to turn his head and hold them both against him, to tuck them away from all that remains and all that is left. but, they are alive and all around is green and the worlds meld where they meld and his chest at once alight and aching with the swell of relief and anxiety. his heart, too, is at once a stuttering thing and it is all he can do to blink back the dampness that stings just beneath the skin. ]
Wei Ying, [ his voice comes muffled and somehow small, pressed to the curve of wei wuxian's shoulder. and it too, calls across to jiang cheng. his fingers knot tighter through fingers, loosen in increments. they tighten again with renewed determination, almost as if it should hurt to consider letting go of either of them.
and it does, it would seem. it does and lan wangji's breath comes soft and slow and uneven. ] Jiang Cheng.
[ they have died, they are alive. and lan wangji, without needing to say anything, conveys what it is he knows.
do not let go. ]
no subject
do not let go, his heart says, or what tattered fragments that remain after all of the waking and the wasting and the waiting. he is tired of the waiting. he is tired of the waking, of shaking himself and the others free of the haze of all that had come over them in intermittent fits and bursts. he is tired of wanting what he cannot have and wishes that he did.
with their hands in his, the cold of their fingertips pressed to his palm, jiang cheng is no longer waiting. he is no longer left wanting. because they are here, and they are both - for him.
do not let go.
he had, once before. he had let go many times, before this, before this life and previous. he had let them tear his brother down from whence he stood - whence he had crawled back up with blood in his eyes and in his mouth, for him. it is such debt that jiang cheng knows he cannot repay - but for this, but for his hand in his, for him to bow his head over the windblown hair and say, i won't. not this time.
they fall, and he fall with them. and it is not painful - it is enough to know, somehow, that they are here. it is enough to feel their hands in his and know that they are waiting, they have waited. that they know he will not leave them.
they fall, and it is death, he thinks - but there is grass beneath, and the pain he expects does not come.
nevertheless jiang cheng cries - silently, not out of any sort of physical pain of the body but out of some odd, curious sense of relief, of a thought that does not let itself form into any conscious coherent thing but to not let go, to be here, to keep them here where he can reach for them.
they are here, they are alive, and so is he.
the tears fall into the grass beneath his head. his vision blurred, the outlines soft, but he hears lan wangji - lan zhan - next to him, and he feels the grip against his hand. he feels the pulse beating steadily, faintly, from wei wuxian - from the both of them, from himself, melded through the shared contact - and he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out except for a soft sound, barely a gasp. ]
cw: suicidal ideation
( he wakes, slowly, to the sound of lan wangji's voice. to the hitch in jiang cheng's voice. ) ]
Ow, [ voice hoarse, a tiny thing full of chill and stiffness as he twitches in the grass and rolls himself over onto his side, curling hard around his belly to try and shiver some sort of warmth and fluidity back into his corpse-stiff limbs and fingers. the act pushes him further into the sun-warmed dirt, smearing it across his cheek and the bridge of his nose as he twists and twines and wrestles his own body to sit up. to gaze at his hands and hold one in the other, curling and uncurling his cold fingers.
death had been an unfeeling thing. it hurts to be alive. part of him wishes he had stayed there, and let jiang cheng and lan wangji finally be free of his influence. part of him is so pleased, it urges that sad little thing to be silent for a while longer, to bask in the grey skies and the life that new amsterdam has retained. it is safe. zerzura is safe too, he has to believe in that. ]
In terms of family-friendly activities, I don't think dying together should be on our list anymore.
[ he knows they're there, and he crawls towards them both slowly, tiredly, reaching out with hands to gather their faces into his palms. he seeks to draw them each to his body, to cradle their faces against his throat and treasure them: ] We're okay, it's okay. Come here and warm yourselves again, remember what it's like to be alive.
[ he's done this before, with the sea of undead he'd given a home at yiling. cooing to them like a mother would to her children, calling them back to some form of consciousness. ]
no subject
it is harder to live. it is so much harder to live. and it is something lan wangji himself has learned, upon the other side of it. it is something he has faced since he was young, something he has faced before he knew the word of passing on his tongue. he had waited for her, for his mother then, until he learned it best to carry her with him. and he had waited too for wei wuxian, until he too knew it best to live with their hopes and their wishes— to cherish all that wei wuxian had imparted, had imprinted with surety into him. ( lan zhan was just lan zhan. he was good and he was righteous, but he loved and loved regardless. he honored the truth of all things, what rested as certainties within the heart. and for wei wuxian, he knew what it was that he was. and for wei wuxian, he knows still what it is he is. and still, the words catch up on his tongue and do not come because grief is a fortress, grief consumes. and he grieves for them all here, in this moment. this time, he grieves again for wei wuxian and jiang cheng both though they live.
yes, they all live. )
and like this, he follows the pull of wei wuxian's hands. like this, he leans into him and breathes in the scent of grass and rain that permeates him and thinks, in part delirious, that it is all he can do to bury his love for him within the tender way he cleans the dirt from wei wuxian's skin. hanguang-jun, lan wangji, one who finds such things distasteful— he brushes it from his cheeks with the roughened pads of his own fingers and blinks against the overcast, the grey of wei wuxian's wide eyes and jiang cheng's matted lashes.
and soon, he blinks damply. he blinks again against the cooler curve of wei wuxian's throat, breathes staggered and uneven against the thrumming of his pulse and curls them both toward him as much as he curls himself toward both. and almost, almost as though helpless to keep within himself the feeling, he huffs out a sound that could be read as though a laugh at the comforting nothings that wei wuxian spills between. that could be, if it were not so wet, if it were not so accompanied by the trembling of his body. that could once have been, were it not for the way lan wangji closes his fingers about what he can reach of either of them, wills himself to thaw the stiffness of death that has rested within their bodies.
be warm, be well. you too, you both.
and yet, he again would leap with them. he again would clasp their hands in his.
i am here, he tells them. soundless as it is, he tells them again in the way he warms them too beneath his hands. it is all right. he feels their breaths. he feels their pulses. he feels them, worn thin as he is, and reflects out the intention to remain beside them as much as they will let him, as much as he can.
wei ying, jiang cheng.
i am here. ]
no subject
it is the absence. it is the hollow emptiness in his gut and in his chest and the way he has to swallow back names of those who are no longer there beside him. it is the forgetting, the features and voices growing fainter by the hour and the day until he cannot recall to mind instantaneously the way wei wuxian had laughed one brilliant summer day, the kite string caught in his fingers. the way that the corners of his sister's eyes curve as she stood by, watching from the pavilion.
it is not the dying. it is being left behind, it is watching the back of some retreating figure, it is biting down on his tongue to keep the words from coming.
no more, no more of this.
death is not an unfamiliar thing. he has lived through it. he had brought it upon countless people in his lifetime and perhaps more. even if he had never - not in the way wei wuxian has, not in the way lan wangji has, it is not the fear of it that has him following the touch willingly, to press his face against the warm earthy-smelling crook of wei wuxian's throat and take a shuddering, steadying breath.
they are here. they have not left.
stay, he says, in his gestures more than words, in the way he curls his fingers against their dirt-streaked clothing. perhaps later he would feel ashamed, would think it weak, finding in his actions yet another fault that he should reprimand himself for, to cry like some child that has skinned its knees and need some inane comforting.
stay, he asks, soundless and silent, but jiang cheng knows that he cannot ask it of them. they are like some free floating leaves, some petals blown in the wind, a scent carried in the air. they are like some fierce bursting forth of greenery through snow, like some nameless songs sung by birds in forests untouched, with no restraint and no mastery. they are free, as he has never really been free. the realisation carrys with it as much acceptance as jealousy, of some hopeless, helpless envy, of longing.
but they are here. for now, they remain near him, beside him, and jiang cheng can reach for them. ]
no subject
stretched thin. weak of limb, tired of lung. it is the secondary reason that he drags lan wangji and jiang cheng to him, begging for a few minutes more of closeness before reality and force of personality try to drag them all to some distance again. the christmas party feels so long ago, zerzura's bright and shining happiness a false and empty promise - but it was a promise, it was their ideal. all three of them had begged that world for the same life: one that was spent together, in happiness. one that was spent basking in smiles and fond gestures, in work that complimented one another and struggles that none had to face alone. he can feel lan wangji's promise, that lan wangji will be at his side. that lan wangji will be at jiang cheng's, and he can suddenly think of no better man to have asked to adore his precious shidi as gently as he, himself was adored.
he feels jiang cheng's desperation and can think of no other man who he will feel desperately needed by, desperately clung to in the way that jiang cheng clings to him. in the way that jiang cheng finds solace in lan wangji's calm. he thinks: we are three sides of a whole, and knows that he needs them desperately. for all that zerzura lied to them, fabricating a false life - a happy one, with no loss or war or bloodshed... he sees the echoes of reason in the other two. the reason for the lie, the way that zerzura had built it. because all three of them had the same dream of a life together.
me too, he promises lan wangji in emotion and gesture. he kisses his face softly, pressing his mouth to the arch of his cheekbone.
i'm not leaving, he promises jiang cheng, turning his head to kiss the corner of his eye, gathering the salt of his tears onto his lips. ]
It's okay. I have you now.
[ and tenderly ( love in his arms and the threading of his hands through their dark hair ) he holds them close. ]
We did it all, together. I could have asked for nothing more, than you two at my side -- you're both so good. You're so good, my dearest two.
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i have you, he says. and all of lan wangji burns with it. all of it threads blue and bright against his ribs, comes as though a great storm on the mountains. it comes as though the pull of heavy branches, the loosing of every flower brought about by spring. it comes like years of waiting, like the tucking of mementos between the pages copied text. tucked as though his heart was, until he had held within his palm the certainty that he had come back to them. them, lan wangji and jiang cheng. and now, in their arms, wei wuxian's pulse is a steady thrum and lan wangji presses to it kisses.
i have you, he tries to tell them. but, the words stop up in his throat. his arm, pressed across wei wuxian's chest, catches the way that wei wuxian draws breath. it catches life, as much as his own hand does, molded to the round of jiang cheng's shoulder. it catches them both, but it will not cage them. it will not hold them captive.
and yet— they are here and they are whole and they are all the better for it. they are here and they are whole and lan wangji feels his heart ache against the truth of it. here, he is not dreaming. here, he dreams in waking with the two of them. here, he knows that within their lives he's wanted. he's needed.
for now, an ugliness within him would have once told him. for now.
and yet, in this moment, it is far from him. it is far from him, as he breathes out. as they breathe in. ]
Have you, [ he echoes, after a longer pause. ] Both of you.
[ and he guides them closer still, shares with them the meager heat he has collected. he guides them nearer still, keeps them guarded as much as wei wuxian guards them.
were any to tell lan wangji that he would love as he does now, he would have thought it ridiculous. he would have thought it absurd. he would have thought that his heart could only fix and narrow, could only hold within it the capacity to love a single one. and yet, jiang cheng had been a blessing as much as wei wuxian had been. as different as they were, as uniquely as he loved them—
lan wangji leans into the shape of their desires and knows theirs too are his. ]
no subject
in childhood, he has always basked in the sun - he has lacked for nothing within his sect, his family, and felt that he was needed - even with the thin worn patch of fear that has always told him that he will never be enough, that he will always follow one step behind the one he would readily call his brother. he was here. he was needed. even when they had parted from each other, he had believed that in some ways, in some other world, wei wuxian would need him the same way he had needed him.
even pressed to them like this, his cheek against the curve of wei wuxian's throat, the weight of lan wangji's arm across his bowed shoulders, there still remains a fear - of what they do not yet know but what had already come to pass in reality for him.
jiang cheng, even in his deepest dreams would not dream of ever telling - would rather cut out his tongue than to tell an account of it. it is not for fear of upsetting - it is more of what has come to pass, of what could or would, and now - now that he knows what it feels to be within the comforting circle and press of both of them against him, it is not something that jiang cheng would willingly tear himself free of.
maybe it is selfish, to want such a thing.
maybe he is nothing more than some greedy, self-serving fool, to just let things be.
but his heart is a sore and tired thing. he aches for such things as he had lost, for the ghost of a man he had chased after for all these years, for the one he had only before now looked from afar. he yearns for simple things such as these - the press of lips against his hair, his face, the steady heartbeats and the voices murmured close. ]
Both, [ jiang cheng repeats, stunned and dumb, before he laughs - it is a raspy, choked out sound, born more of some shock than any mirth; at just how they have found themselves in such situation, at the feel of their warmth, their breaths, the sound of them living and breathing and alive, beside him. so alive. ]
Both of you, you are- [ he feels too out of breath - feels as if he has been running too far and too long, to catch up. but he is here now. ]
-both fucking idiots.
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[ he can hear the abortive words that lan wangji speaks; he knows now, how difficult even these small admissions must be for him. lan wangji is many things, but eloquent is not one of them. when he speaks, the words he chooses are truthful and poignant and direct. wei wuxian speaks for his shidi in this moment, not only because it is something he has done, something he always does, but because he can feel it radiate from jiang cheng as well. the wanting. the crying, wailing thing that begs for family and comfort. his brother is a sweet thing at heart, of the three of them, jiang cheng's heart is perhaps the most fragile, the most injured. it wants so much, because it has lost so much. he hears it in the words that jiang cheng says as well - the hesitation and fragility of his heart. ]
Jiang Cheng, you too. You have us.
[ idiots alike, they three may be. they may be fools, they may be endangering themselves, but if he could not push lan wangji and jiang cheng away to protect them, then he will keep them close. he will strangle them with his focus, his protectiveness. he will cast a net across them with words and action to show the world that he will burn it and build in the ashes without shedding a tear for it, as long as his dearest two remain safe and happy. ]
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lan wangji had always been a fool. and it is no less true, as he keeps them in his arms. it is no less true, dirt upon their skins and grasses crumpled underfoot. it is no less true, than the moment lan wangji had realized he was in love with either in the first place.
you have us, wei wuxian tells him. you too, he tells jiang cheng. and slowly, lan wangji warms against the shapes of them. slowly, lan wangji knows that they cannot remain as this, curled against the earth, curled against each other, but lan wangji knows that in this moment he is selfish in his wants. he is selfish, thinking if it could last for just a while longer—
and still, it comes slow. across the pale of their blued bond, it is the shape and bend of the magnolias that flood them. it is the cut of latticed windows, the crest of clouds. it is spring again in the mountains, and the lan wangji of fifteen hears them, wei wuxian and jiang cheng. he sees them, as he settles his brush against the whiter tooth of paper. and all at once, lan wangji is not the same. and all at once, lan wangji is never the same again.
jiang cheng speaks of lan wangji as he passes with his shixiong. he is a young thing, a thing yet untainted by war and by anguish. he does not yet understand what it is to lose another. he does not yet understand, but wei wuxian does. he does, and the wei wuxian of lan wangji's memory is beautiful and framed. and when wei wuxian tilts to him the full of his bright smile, unabashed and unashamed, lan wangji does not yet know the feeling that curls within his chest both tight and hot is love. he does not understand it, even as the lan wangji of then tears his eyes away.
you have us, wei wuxian tells him. and somehow, the corners of lan wangji's mouth twists into something softer, stranger. against wei wuxian's throat, the impression of what could be a smile carries within it a sweeter bitterness for all that cannot be and will not ever be again. and yet—
lan wangji's hold upon them tightens, in degrees both comforting and subtle. he knows that wei wuxian speaks for them all, speaks for what jiang cheng refuses to and lan wangji cannot.
and still, lan wangji tries his tongue. impresses not upon them depth of his affections, but rather offers them. for you, it suggests. if you will have it. ]
Wei Ying, [ he breathes, and the sound warms him from the inside out. ] You too.
[ you have us. ]
no subject
better, softer things, a past and present that is not stained with blood and death and dying. he wishes for them to be whole and unbroken, without the scars like fissures of lightning that winds their way across their being - without the scent of mourning, of temple-incense and gravedirt that is now as much a part of who they are as their blood and marrow and bones.
he wishes he were better. jiang cheng has always felt himself to be - not enough, not nearly so, and to sit cradled here amongst the two of them is too much.
you too, wei wuxian says.
you have us, lan wangji says.
he does not feel enough, as if he is enough, the familiar burn of insecurity that sizzles across his veins in a mix of shame and elation makes him shrink and flare like some fire that burns against wet wood.
they have him. he has them, too, in return. ]
Idiot, [ he says, with a voice that does not sound his own - it trembles, it is soft as he rarely is - with a wavering edge like some wind that washes through reeds in a river bank. ]
( & all: you occupy everything, everything. )
lan wangji knows it, as though the quiet warren of his rabbits. he knows it, as he had come to know the pattern of their evenings tucked beneath the earth, their ears folded close to the soft curvature of their small skulls. he knows it, as easily as he had come to know how they would settle against their kin with ready determination. he knows it, as he waits now as they seemed to for those they were attached to.
half-alert and half-aware, his back straight and his hands curved against the tops of his thighs, he listens to the idle talk that filters through the darkness of their apartment. he catches the fall of water, the smattering of footsteps. and long ago, he had folded down the heavy blankets that he had tucked across their shared futons. long ago, he had pulled them all together and had suggested they ready themselves for bed.
and long ago, he had settled here. long ago, he had soothed himself with the certainty of their movements. and long ago, he had expected at least one to return to him, dressed down and yawning and—
he is not surprised, to see it is jiang cheng who pads in first.
and still, he does not move his lips, does not give voice to the hello that rests within his chest. but, he does lift his head. he does tilt his chin up as though the bluer flowers at the mountain's warmer recess. he does lift his eyes to him, to jiang cheng. beneath the heavy cast of dark lashes, the pale of them are at once unfocused and warm. they do not budge from the face that lan wangji has become familiar with, do not reject a single glance. and gradually, one hand lifts to touch at the handsome cut of his stern jaw. it thumbs against the bone, recognizes the bruises fatigue is leaving and has left. it reflects back upon his own flesh, the impression of sleeplessness. it touches the delicate expanse of his eyelids, looks somehow all the more severe for it. and still—
jiang cheng is beautiful, as wei wuxian is beautiful. as a summer storm is beautiful, as the distillation of energy sent crackling across the mountains, lan wangji finds the calloused pads of his own fingertips burn with it. he finds he will never seek to tame it, as he will never seek to tame the sun of wei wuxian's affections, his attentions.
and lan wangji does not smile, but there is something in the depth of his eyes that swims with comfort in the gesture that he gives. there is something that snags against an adoration, as though birds caught within a net. there is something that submits itself to jiang cheng, downy and new and willing in its flightlessness.
hello, lan wangji tells him. he takes a quiet breath, does not pull for more than jiang cheng is willing to answer with. hello. ]
no subject
he sits upon their bed, the futon pushed together ( and jiang cheng can remember, with startling clarity, the way the distance between the mats have slowly grown thin and no more ). he waits, for the both of them, and jiang cheng is glad at the sight - some corner of his heart is warmed by the gesture, softened and bruised from the battering.
the fatigue sits upon him like some pale fog that sometimes rises up from the peaks of tall mountains; it has settled over jiang cheng also, his hair damp and curling where it sits tucked behind his ears, and the lashes that settle over his eyes tremble as the other's fingers find him - lan wangji finds, with unflinching accuracy, all of jiang cheng's rough edges not yet smoothed away. he runs his fingers along all of the seams of all that jiang cheng is, and he is like the storm dispersing, like a wave that breaks against the shore under the steadying touch.
they do not smile. they do not talk, except in gestures, in the cut of their eyes wherein sits some measure of lightness, of living, of life. hello.
they are alive. they are here.
jiang cheng tilts his head - he lays it, against the curve of lan wangji's hand. he rests, he nestles into it, almost, for a short moment before he straightens up again, eyes downcast and turned away once more. ]
no subject
almost, jiang cheng relents. almost, he presses into the touch of lan wangji's hand. almost, he nuzzles close to his palm as lan wangji has so often done to wei wuxian. and still, there are so many "almost"s that rest between he and them. there are so many brushes, so many individual and soft approximations. and like this, they say hello. they say hello in silence, in the language of their hands and the curve of their shoulders. in this way, lan wangji is fluent. he sees what others long have not, the way jiang cheng's eyes carry forth more answers than are supplied on the tongue. he sees what rests in the the subtle edges of wei wuxian's broad smiles. he sees them, as much of them as they will afford him. he does not ask for more, no matter how it is he wishes to hold each part of them. he does not request, though he tucks his love for them in each way he watches them— listens to what it is they say.
and no matter how foolish or how mundane, he hears them anyway. he gives what they impart to him, shapes what he can into what they keep within their hands. he hears them always. and like this, lan wangji hears him. he hears jiang cheng, in the way he does not pull away, but only straightens. he sees jiang cheng's uncertain efforts and he does not ask that he stay. he does not demand, only suggests in the way lan wangji lets his hand follow jiang cheng's own movements.
the rough of his palm is a warm thing still. like he, lan wangji still holds the imprint of water as his fingers coast the plain of jiang cheng's shoulder, down the strong lines of his arm. they catch at the rise of his wrist, idle there with a looseness that knows itself as easier to bend.
and for a long moment, lan wangji lets his fingers linger there. he lets them remain there, rest along the soft thrum of jiang cheng's pulse. and slowly, his lips move soundless until the word rises in-between them. ]
Sit? [ he knows jiang cheng no longer looks upon him, and so it is not a question. it is not a suggestion. at least, not directly. it is only that he knows that, like he, jiang cheng is tired.
it does not matter what it is that lan wangji desires, it does not matter what it is that lays beneath. ]
no subject
the rough of his palm, the fingertips that press to the inner of his wrist, are warm. they leave pinprickles of heat along his skin, through the robes, through the damp skin over which they traverse. he catches him there, holds him even while he does not. ready to let go, even while he waits.
it is a short sound, aborted before it could properly rise, but it is a laugh. jiang cheng turns his hand within the cage of the other's grip - lingering, wanting, but never pressing. how like him. ]
Hanguang-jun, [ he calls, his voice sounding quite different without the usual edge. almost soft, almost kind. it chides, in so little words but for his name, his title, but jiang cheng is tired, as he is. he will relent. ]
no subject
he knows, as he has always known. he remembers, bright and briefly, the way his mother would coax from him the downturn of his mouth and the brooding of his silence. and yet, he had felt such love for her as she had for him. he understood that this was her means to voice her attentions, her affections. he knew her hands to be warm and her hands to be soft. and he knows others, to be as her in this way. he knows it in the way wei wuxian pushes him, bullies him, until all beneath the skin is alight in frustration, knows it in the way that jiang cheng calls for him ( softly, nonetheless ). and it is lan zhan, who finds himself unable to suppress the slighter frown that catches at his lips.
jiang cheng relents, perhaps, but he does not relent. he is aware, it would seem. he is aware and unaware, as lan wangji turns his eyes so as to not look so directly upon him. and yet—
is it a tug, if it is gentle? does it count, if lan wangji, in the next moment presses his cheek against the curve of jiang cheng's hand? does it count, if he keeps hold a little tighter in the aftermath?
his affections for jiang cheng are green and curious things. they know not the full of their boundaries and curl against the trellis of jiang cheng's body. they do not climb, but chance at climbing. they do not wrap about him as though smothering things, but rest against his lines until they are pushed aside. and it is a moment longer, until lan wangji lifts his head and directs him downward again with the absent flex of his fingers about jiang cheng's wrist. ]
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he has chewed the single word in his mouth, has tasted it lingering, soft against his tongue, has worried it in between his teeth without a voice.
it is a difficult thing. jiang cheng has not been touched as this, by another. he has been as though a lone tree burned beyond growing, beyond the greeneries and the warm blistering sunlight of spring. he has been as though winter frost and snowstorms, and with the curve of his hand now pulled, pressed against the smoothness of the other's cheek, it is the beginning of some softening, some careful unthawing, if it could be possible, of his being.
it is difficult. he has always found such things difficult, and he cannot quell the shiver and knock of his heart against his ribs when the tug comes, as gentle as it is, as unassuming as lan wangji makes it. ]
Lan Wangji, [ he says, and there is the shiver again, a tremble as if a string plucked, stretched to tension as sharp as nails against glass. perhaps he knows. perhaps he recognises that this too, is one such a moment that is balanced precariously on the edge.
if he relents now, he'll -
if he falls now,
maybe, maybe this is something a little like love. maybe this is the way they fall, his hand in his own, as they have fallen before. maybe this is.
jiang cheng moves. he is pulled downward, till his gaze is level with the other's own. his pulse knocks against the fingers curled about his wrist. the word, curled about on his tongue, held back behind tightly clenched teeth, as he lifts his eyes to meet the other's.
it is a difficult thing, to voice. to admit. ]
Lan Zhan.
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he has known love, has lived with it. he has harbored it beneath the skin, folded it close within his mourning robes. he has tucked it behind his teeth, has held it upon his tongue. he has burned with it, has burned within it— and it is an ache that rises still, that catches on an exhalation. it is a declaration, an admittance. and the sound that breaks over his lips is not the sound of something wounded. it is not the sound of something that fears what it is jiang cheng imparts to him, but rather fears what it is lan wangji will do with it.
lan wangji, jiang cheng calls, and the pale lobes of lan wangji's ears pinken. they pinken, as he opens his mouth to call back to him, to speak his name as though he'd spoken it in the grasses. his lashes stutter against his cheeks as he drags his eyes to him, as the pale of them at once brighten and then darken.
lan zhan.
and it is as though he is young again. it is as though his impatience and his frustrations have broken free of the skin, have lapped against the shores of his own body, have worn him thin. ( lan zhan, wei ying had long since called him. in the library pavilion, his hair as dark as ink stone and his hands so near to his. lan zhan. )
and like this, in this apartment, in this dark corner of their room— he pulls him down beside him. he does not think, he does not think to think. instead, it is only the connection that casts in blues between them that indicates the strength of his restraint as his hands tremble against jiang cheng's frame, against the wet curls of his hair as he cushions his head against the force of it.
the force of it, that is, as he is nudged upon his back beside him as lan wangji too relents to what it is he has been seeking.
in the next breath, lan wangji is kissing him. he is kissing him, firm and bruising and slow. ]
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there is something vulnerable in the way he meets the other's eyes, but jiang cheng is - he has always been - too adept to a fight. too used to wrapping himself back up in some cloak of thorns and lightning, and the slight crease of his brow, the line of his mouth shutting, firm and defiant, after the word ( the name ) as if he dares - as if he seeks to know what lan wangji would do with it, even if his skin grows cold, pricking like shards of ice under the touch.
the blue-lit glow within his chest feels almost uncomfortable, in that pause between one moment to the next.
it is fear, but there is also some distant, fatalistic part of him which expects otherwise - that surely it must mean little, coming from him. he must mean so little.
the silence lingers. in the dark of the room jiang cheng cannot spy the way the other colours as if touched by some invisible heat - the way his ears pink, though he hears the intake of breath, the way his mouth parts, as if to speak, but think better of.
and he feels something a little very much like fear.
he should - leave. he should rise, to turn back, to withdraw as if nothing has happened, anything to get them out of this awful suspended mess that is his own making, and jiang cheng drops his head even as he moves to pull his arm out of the other's grasp, but.
but for that little movement. for the change in the other, so immobile and silent, to something akin to a sudden whirl of motion that it almost catches at his breath as jiang cheng is caught up, is pressed upon his back, and there is that faint surprise again, of panic, and he cannot even voice a note of enquiry or question before their lips meet. ]
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that they chose to fall with him, to die at his side - it has touched him in more ways than he wants to let on. it has both soothed an old wound he had long since tried to ignore, as well as ripped it open - a yawning cavern of solitude and loneliness, crying out to be seen, to be heard, to be held. he had died alone, once. this time, they chose to go together. they choose to live together, now. and it is in the doorway, dressed loose in his spare sleeping robe with his hair curling at the ends with dampness and his eyes red-rimmed from rubbing too hard at them for too long (he is tired, his grief and his aches come in fits and bursts-- ).
this time, he says nothing to disturb them. he draws the sliding door (made, for aesthetic as well as to keep the already-small space from becoming crowded with swinging doorways) closed behind him and presses it into place with barely a sound. barefoot, barelegged, he crosses to the futons on the floor where jiang cheng is underneath lan wangji and he can lean down, over lan wangji's shoulder to kiss the man's throat. he is a weight, light and airy, that half-leans to lan wangji's strong side as he kisses, as he mouths soft against the line of throat and shoulder, as he moves his hand to trace the length of jiang cheng's waist too, pressing his hand to the same space as lan wangji's.
he says nothing, but watches with dark eyes. ]
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he has always felt far too much and far too deeply. he has always buried within him his wants and his affections, afraid to know if his too would form within him ugliness. he had only known what it was his parents had suffered, had only known what his uncle had tried so hard to forbid. and still, lan wangji had fallen regardless. no matter his best efforts, no matter the strength of his resolve, lan wangji loved and loved without hope of its return at all. he had loved, knowing that what was good and what was just was difficult for others to guess. he had loved, when no one else believed him.
and now, jiang cheng says his name as lan wangji says his. he presses it against his lips, breathes it into the warmth of his skin: jiang cheng, he tells him. and beneath that, it is the bloom of his intentions. it is the pale, green things that love him. it is named and it is desperate, but it chokes within lan wangji's chest and does not free itself. it waits. it waits and waits and still, had it not been that they had all met each other in the end? had that they not all ended here, tangled in the cramped space of this apartment, tucked against each other as though the distance was intolerable? ( and for him, it is - for lan wangji, it is. )
lan wangji has always been a tender thing. and he still is, as wei wuxian gently presses up against him. he still is, as he lets out a soft and shuddering breath as he scrapes his teeth against the fullness of jiang cheng's bottom lip.
wei ying, he says too. muffled and quiet, still and obedient as wei wuxian entrusts his weight to him. and yet, he balances. he threads his fingers through wei wuxian's, makes the movement one and tender as he guides them to touch across jiang cheng's waist, across the rise of his hip. he warms through where it is they are linked, his adorations banked and barely as something so close to grief, to relief catches at his lips.
these two have meant more to him than lan wangji could once articulate to himself. and yet, he knows now. he has known and knows and knows now as he keeps close to them in any way he is permitted, in any way he can. ]
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do not let go, it says to him, and he will not, he cannot, for fear of leaving.
he reaches down, his hand laid atop of theirs, fingers barely skimming over the knocks and rise of knuckles.
it was his choice to fall. his choice to die with them, next to them, and there is no regret in the action upon recalling - it is, in a way, freeing - it is a settling of debts, of a kind. it is acceptance. it is forgiveness. it is understanding that which has carried him through, sustained him during the years of wanting and waiting.
with no one and nothing else to blame, jiang cheng lays open, and it seems to him that they would now see him for what he is - even if they had called him good, that he is anything but - some ugly emotion that thrums within his veins, the poison that had made itself a home within him for so long.
he lives, despite all that. wei wuxian, too. he is alive, and in the half darkness he cannot look up at his brother and see with clarity what he might be thinking or feeling. ]
Wei Wuxian, [ he calls, and the hand that had lain atop his hand moves, rising up to catch itself against his elbow. it is not quite - a plea, he has his pride, still, but it is as near a thing. ]
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Hi, [ he breathes, overflowing with warmth and a shred of something raw; he has been crying again, in private, curled around his own body clutching at himself because he cannot warm up. his meridians are unbalanced, his core is a muted thing and he cannot self-regulate. since he cannot, it means he turns to the two of them and the warmth of their bodies, their live bodies, their beating hearts. ] You're so good, Jiang Cheng.
[ he praises him gently, even as his fingertips find jiang cheng's hair and brush it behind his ear.
even as he holds lan wangji's waist to his own and turns his head to kiss the pink rim of his ear: ] You too, Lan Zhan.
[ he praises them, because he stumbles over his own emotions even now. ]
I want to be with you, both of you. Tonight. You understand, right?
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lan wangji shuts his eyes, listens to the thrum of their emotions. and without thought of it, he leans into each touch that wei wuxian bestows upon him. he urges down the wash of his anxieties and wants, but they bruise within the ribs. they batter, for all that he adores wei wuxian. for all that he adores jiang cheng.
for all that he wishes to say— ]
Yes, [ he breathes, after a moment. yes, he echoes beneath the skin. and yet, the word smudges at its edge. it lingers too in that imbalance, his perceptions of what could be and what now is. unable to amend its shape, lan wangji had found it too something strange and something difficult. he had found it as he had within the fields, his lashes damp against the curve of wei wuxian’s pale throat. yes.
and still, for all the praises that have been laid upon his head, it is only these that matter most to him. it is only these, that pull for the tenderness that lan wangji keeps. it is only his jiang cheng and his wei ying. it is only these as he wills the words up to his lips. and they come, soft and slow, from his own heart. ] Wei Ying is too.
[ good, he confesses. so good. good, as they are good. as wei wuxian too has done as they have done, as wei wuxian has given to them both so much— his fingers tighten within wei wuxian’s own, guide them sure and upward. he presses kisses to firmer rise of knuckles, curves the hand that rests beside the dark of jiang cheng’s hair, strokes slow and even against the drying curls that bend beneath the persistence of his fingertips.
you too. ]
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just.......... cw for wwx's horrible mouth and so much dirty talk
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