*seductively crawls out of hell* (
laozu) wrote in
meadowlarklogs2019-04-21 07:05 pm
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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.
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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
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]