Eastbound Contact
Wei Wuxian
missives | encounters
missives | encounters
( 'lo and behold, the largely untarnished half of an abalone shell netted with the day's fishing, which a craftier sailor has conceded to stab with a hot needle and bind on a string for Lan Wangji. Dropped off as a trinket, with a slip of paper blessed by Hanguang-Jun's calligraphy, Peach Blossom Lake may be a thousand qi deep. )
Edited 2022-06-11 02:10 (UTC)
( it's a very pretty shell, which is his first absent thought, considering the familiarity of the calligraphy, the reference, the play behind the original. it holds true, he thinks: to which of them the answer is both.
the shell hangs from his waistband, clacking against wood when he charms his way into the galley. charms his way into the bounty that he stares at in hand: the cleaned mug, his clean hands, clean nails, and the sharp scent of citrus flooding the room, stronger than the fish, the sweat, the despair that's equal parts to the sea's obsession drilled into every sailor's bones.
fingers deftly slide, then squeeze, coaxing the fast splash and flow, sudden spurts caught and collected, the pulp massaged, the mug filling.
when he tracks down his enterprising spouse, it's with a smile, the mug cradled and presented, the words: )
Soaring ninety thousand qi high.
Wei Wuxian, may I bother you for advice?
[It would be polite to wait for the reply before expanding, but she's stuck in the brig, it's past midnight, and she's bored and restless. So.]
By now you will have been made aware that the people who walked the plank atop the volcano in the House of Ravens did a little more than just ease the pressure of too many spirits collected under or inside the mirror shards. Truth be told, I was one of those - and you can call me reckless if you want - and I keep hearing spirits whenever I'm in a place where many people died. It's distracting
I mean, the brig is pretty quiet, which I suppose is a boon? I am glad to know these sailors haven't let anyone die down here so far, but I can't keep walking around seemingly talking to myself, probably. I promise I've not gone mad. But - I don't know, call it picking up signals from others, but would you have any idea of what I could do to make this less bad?
[It would be polite to wait for the reply before expanding, but she's stuck in the brig, it's past midnight, and she's bored and restless. So.]
By now you will have been made aware that the people who walked the plank atop the volcano in the House of Ravens did a little more than just ease the pressure of too many spirits collected under or inside the mirror shards. Truth be told, I was one of those - and you can call me reckless if you want - and I keep hearing spirits whenever I'm in a place where many people died. It's distracting
I mean, the brig is pretty quiet, which I suppose is a boon? I am glad to know these sailors haven't let anyone die down here so far, but I can't keep walking around seemingly talking to myself, probably. I promise I've not gone mad. But - I don't know, call it picking up signals from others, but would you have any idea of what I could do to make this less bad?
I'm under the impression most dead are on the decks, where the slaughtering happens, or caught by surprise elsewhere, or simply surrendered first unwilling to the seas.
Miss Hermione, I've been aware that the dead lingered with those of you who did such as happened at the volcano, though who had done so, I wasn't certain.
I can make you a talisman necklace to keep their voices down, so they're not as present for you. I've had to do something similar for a good friend before, and there's paper enough I can scrounge up here. Should even be able to get it to you in the brig, as needed, though I can't imagine the stench of the place is making any of you happy down there.
Miss Hermione, I've been aware that the dead lingered with those of you who did such as happened at the volcano, though who had done so, I wasn't certain.
I can make you a talisman necklace to keep their voices down, so they're not as present for you. I've had to do something similar for a good friend before, and there's paper enough I can scrounge up here. Should even be able to get it to you in the brig, as needed, though I can't imagine the stench of the place is making any of you happy down there.
Edited (when you type <font fae=courier>) 2022-06-24 01:03 (UTC)
During the Sunshot campaign, they seized Wen positions so: at midday, red-drenched generals receding to their rest in the way of southerners accustomed to wait out the heat hours.
Here, snarled parallel, with waves crashing and cresting in a mute heartbeat, a rolled susurrus: he steals Wei Ying under shield of diversion, when cooks call the hour of the midday meal, and fewer men linger aboard deck grounds than even during night's watch.
Seagulls scream down, mercy. None to give — not to Wei Ying, Wangji’s hand steeling a shackle on his bird’s boned wrist, not to the cabin door Lan Wangji hurls shut behind them, after fast-stepped invasion. Luck of the draw, that one of the — a brief study of the toiletries present, the lingering garments — women who occupy private chambers has already deserted her quarters to claim her meal.
She will come again, small feet spattering misfortune across deck boards that begrudge their presence. No time, never time. Breathe, and it’s salt of the sea that permeates air and sickens him, his lungs, he aches for it, how it festers him. Preserves him. In his haste, waste of thinned parchment, he casts a triad of silencing spells, where one might have sufficed him.
Privacy, modesty, discretion is the value. And Wei Ying, unstitching their affairs for every stranger’s ear. The world cannot hold Wei Ying still anymore. He is too returned to himself, a coaxed-back bundle of skin and sweat and motion. No flesh to him. Bones, constantly, between Lan Wangji’s greedy teeth.
What is it men say, when they receive a confession? Kindly refuse. Kindly accept. Remain silent, for a gentleman only brokers his marital arrangements through a matchmaker, and the negotiations are sorely lacking in effusive proclamations. What does he say now?
I did not anticipate, but then, I never anticipate you.. They have only heartbeats, before the cabin’s occupant surely returns.
On Wei Ying’s wrist, his grip spreads red. He opens himself like vivisection, with rasping and choked animal sounds and the wild white of his eyes, bearing into Wei Ying’s, calling the slick stalk of his madness to like-minded bloom:
"Yes." He hears. He understands. He loves. He acquiesces.
There was a time where his hand sought Lan Zhan's wrist, his shoulder, his ribbons, his sleeve, the tug and direction, dragging along to whatever he'd decided upon, dragged along in turn. Since returning to the world, it'd been Lan Zhan taking him along, a duckling pulled on after its mother, tossed into the rippling wake of a pond's disruption.
Lotus blossoms full and heavy and all just out of reach.
Now, he starts to laugh, when he's pulled along, his words spoken but unanswered from the start.
"Lan Zhan?"
The pounding of his heart, the ache of his lips.
"Where are we hurrying off to?"
The taste of blood a memory fresh on his tongue. His fingers spasm, and he steps fast and close, as Lan Zhan invades a room that was never theirs, when silence is layered and absolute, so that the slamming of the door is a treasure for their ears alone.
"Lan Zhan?"
Skipping and stuttering, the heart caged in his chest. Tiredness from earlier has faded, adrenaline a third wind he sails on ever forward, Lan Zhan looming despite being barely taller, no broader, still better fed.
Eyes catch eyes, a locked gaze before the word that falls between them with an anchor's weight, and he blinks, yes sinking inward, sinking kitten-claws into his heart, sends a flush up his neck, brushing at his cheeks.
"Oh," he says, and it's an exhalation, followed by a smile, the spreading of his fingers with his wrist still caught, the shift of his hips and feet to a ready, braced stance. Shoulders relaxing even as his pulse leaps again, rabbit fast, and he hears it in his ears, that heart of his. "That's good."
Pale words, spilling out as his mind processes and he smiles, dark eyes deepening as he holds Lan Zhan's gaze. The flick of his tongue across his lips, and what is next, because he hadn't thought of a next, not when he's married and bedded without bedding, confessing and answered in turn.
Yes.
"That's very good," he says, and the brook that babbles forth feels beyond his paltry control, a flooding of words for a man struck with no idea of what to say. "Sizhui is going to be happy, not that I'm not happy first, I'm very happy, this is a good wagon to be tied to. Not that we're a wagon! We're people, not horses, maybe something like donkeys, or rabbits, and that's good. I think that's good. Did I tell you yet like this that I—" tongue lathing lips, swallowing with a dry mouth, racing heart and racing pulse and tangled mind all happy, in a complex surging way of things, tied into anticipation with no end goal, and, may he be relieved soon through a cold splashing, where the sudden adrenaline, the violence of the slammed door, the silence wards, the marks of fingers pressed and clutching at his wrist thrums through him with equally chaotic desire.
He's ignoring that, irrelevant. Hopes, believes, trust my heart is steady, Lan Zhan might sleep the sleep of a man blessed with more to lose tonight, as he will.
Lotus blossoms full and heavy and all just out of reach.
Now, he starts to laugh, when he's pulled along, his words spoken but unanswered from the start.
"Lan Zhan?"
The pounding of his heart, the ache of his lips.
"Where are we hurrying off to?"
The taste of blood a memory fresh on his tongue. His fingers spasm, and he steps fast and close, as Lan Zhan invades a room that was never theirs, when silence is layered and absolute, so that the slamming of the door is a treasure for their ears alone.
"Lan Zhan?"
Skipping and stuttering, the heart caged in his chest. Tiredness from earlier has faded, adrenaline a third wind he sails on ever forward, Lan Zhan looming despite being barely taller, no broader, still better fed.
Eyes catch eyes, a locked gaze before the word that falls between them with an anchor's weight, and he blinks, yes sinking inward, sinking kitten-claws into his heart, sends a flush up his neck, brushing at his cheeks.
"Oh," he says, and it's an exhalation, followed by a smile, the spreading of his fingers with his wrist still caught, the shift of his hips and feet to a ready, braced stance. Shoulders relaxing even as his pulse leaps again, rabbit fast, and he hears it in his ears, that heart of his. "That's good."
Pale words, spilling out as his mind processes and he smiles, dark eyes deepening as he holds Lan Zhan's gaze. The flick of his tongue across his lips, and what is next, because he hadn't thought of a next, not when he's married and bedded without bedding, confessing and answered in turn.
Yes.
"That's very good," he says, and the brook that babbles forth feels beyond his paltry control, a flooding of words for a man struck with no idea of what to say. "Sizhui is going to be happy, not that I'm not happy first, I'm very happy, this is a good wagon to be tied to. Not that we're a wagon! We're people, not horses, maybe something like donkeys, or rabbits, and that's good. I think that's good. Did I tell you yet like this that I—" tongue lathing lips, swallowing with a dry mouth, racing heart and racing pulse and tangled mind all happy, in a complex surging way of things, tied into anticipation with no end goal, and, may he be relieved soon through a cold splashing, where the sudden adrenaline, the violence of the slammed door, the silence wards, the marks of fingers pressed and clutching at his wrist thrums through him with equally chaotic desire.
He's ignoring that, irrelevant. Hopes, believes, trust my heart is steady, Lan Zhan might sleep the sleep of a man blessed with more to lose tonight, as he will.
[ it's night. wei wuxian is sleeping, perhaps restfully, sorry to metagame but it is important to my vision for this scene and the man has to sleep sometime.
the heel of a sock-clad foot finds wei wuxian's shoulder, shoving him into wakefulness. ]
Wei Wuxian, [ a voice that manages to seethe and snap all at once calls out. there's a rustle of papers being shoved into wei wuxian's face, robbing him of sight. ]
We're in the middle of yet another forsaken place and Lan Wangji is wasting time and resources to courier this absurdity to me in the night—
the heel of a sock-clad foot finds wei wuxian's shoulder, shoving him into wakefulness. ]
Wei Wuxian, [ a voice that manages to seethe and snap all at once calls out. there's a rustle of papers being shoved into wei wuxian's face, robbing him of sight. ]
We're in the middle of yet another forsaken place and Lan Wangji is wasting time and resources to courier this absurdity to me in the night—
( he rarely sleeps, though tiredness drags him down enough that antsy and unwilling as he is to rest in this citadel that takes from him what he clawed his way into learning to survive, to come back alive, that killed him once and then settled into something calmer than the storm-raging sea of their youths, has gone silent.
bleary eyed, not panic stricken because he knows that voice even as he recognises something of the gentle violence. )
Jiang Cheng?
( is a half flailing as his hands come up to clutch at papers in his face, blinking away sleep, a thrum of worry reverberating in his chest: )
Wassat? Lan Zhan? Papers?
bleary eyed, not panic stricken because he knows that voice even as he recognises something of the gentle violence. )
Jiang Cheng?
( is a half flailing as his hands come up to clutch at papers in his face, blinking away sleep, a thrum of worry reverberating in his chest: )
Wassat? Lan Zhan? Papers?
( And then, Bones took his sickness, and the seed of that wrong was laid down by a sword-bruised hand. )
I have wrought wretchedness.
Wei Wuxian.
Lan Wangji has sent me several messages about your thirst, your marriage bed, you being in mourning, threatened to kill me, and now commands me to love you.
Is he fucking with me, or does he just not listen to himself when he talks?
Please tell me he's fucking with me.
Lan Wangji has sent me several messages about your thirst, your marriage bed, you being in mourning, threatened to kill me, and now commands me to love you.
Is he fucking with me, or does he just not listen to himself when he talks?
Please tell me he's fucking with me.
as i visit this inbox for unassociated benign purposes, this vile attack cannot stand, sir
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downswing
- 2022-11-20 23:32 (UTC) - Expand
( Excuse this unworthy soulmate, most notably absent since his return from hell — healthy, hale, but reduced, after encountering the vision of his mother, amid ruins. )
Apologies. I shall hold watch nights until the convoys flee fully, peace assured.
Senior Wei, have you been resting?
[ ... let's start with that one. ]
[ ... let's start with that one. ]
( there is a particular kind of chipper here that implies if sizhui starts sassing him, wei wuxian is Extremely Ready to sass back. )
The train sure sees to it, have you noticed? More effective than reading the precepts! Which weren't effective for sleeping anyway, just for distraction. Have you been sleeping easily, Sizhui? You're being forced to lay in later than the Lans generally do.
The train sure sees to it, have you noticed? More effective than reading the precepts! Which weren't effective for sleeping anyway, just for distraction. Have you been sleeping easily, Sizhui? You're being forced to lay in later than the Lans generally do.
( this is the day that Wei Wuxian learns... how to send portraits to his husband.
selfies might be a generation and world many times removed from him, but he's never needed inspiration from other times to end up inspired himself, which is why Lan Zhan will have a message of an image that comes to his pendant. it's Wei Wuxian, attempting to look aggrieved, peering through his lashes and covering his mouth and part of his nose. it's almost, but not quite, hiding the fact he's smiling, and that the creases at the corners of his eyes aren't from pain. )
But who's going to apply it?
selfies might be a generation and world many times removed from him, but he's never needed inspiration from other times to end up inspired himself, which is why Lan Zhan will have a message of an image that comes to his pendant. it's Wei Wuxian, attempting to look aggrieved, peering through his lashes and covering his mouth and part of his nose. it's almost, but not quite, hiding the fact he's smiling, and that the creases at the corners of his eyes aren't from pain. )
But who's going to apply it?
[ Lan Wangji had gotten him to thinking. Even more so after he'd been determined to make sure he was not controlled by another. Someone who wasn't his good friend. ]
Wei-gongzi, is there a way to disguise one's circumstance? It may not be of use but if there is a way to do so then I would like to try it.
[ The last thing he wants is to be controlled. Between what Wei Wuxian told him and what Lan Wangji has mentioned, he is not fond of something or someone trying to control him to force him to be their personal soldier. Does not want to hurt those that he cares about. ]
Wei-gongzi, is there a way to disguise one's circumstance? It may not be of use but if there is a way to do so then I would like to try it.
[ The last thing he wants is to be controlled. Between what Wei Wuxian told him and what Lan Wangji has mentioned, he is not fond of something or someone trying to control him to force him to be their personal soldier. Does not want to hurt those that he cares about. ]
Ah, Master Wei, you remember the Ghost King Calamity who is my husband that I told you about? The one who helped break the shackles back home? He is here now, and since you're heling find another way, I think he'd like to meet you.
I'm going to break both your legs for making me even think these words. However, the issue remains.
If you don't fuck Lan Wangji before I have to see another public debate about the fact that you're not fucking Lan Wangji, I am going to FUCK LAN WANGJI MYSELF OR SO HELP ME—
If you don't fuck Lan Wangji before I have to see another public debate about the fact that you're not fucking Lan Wangji, I am going to FUCK LAN WANGJI MYSELF OR SO HELP ME—
( Presented, during one of the early days of Unkharil, on a platter abandoned within the hermit's cell: millet fritters, sweet potato and millet soup and millet cake with stone fruit.
All readied for the midday hour, when fair Wei Ying presumes to, can it be, open his two eyes and rejoin the waking world.
Beside them:
— no [0] Lan Wangji
— one [1] note: )
Eat well.
( Problematically, they are not in a wasteland. Or anything barren enough that food left by the sleeping man will result in... kindness.
In fact, Wei Wuxian does not wake due to his own gentle climb back from the depths of slumber, no. He doesn't rise with the late morning sun, stretching into the zenith of the sun's climb, because of internal stirrings, of rest finally attained. No.
He stirs because there is something pecking at his blankets, and when his eyes slit open, it's to a bevy of birds having invaded the cave, tearing into the delights of millet brought by Lan Wangji in his eternal devotion to particular care, both out of love and out of a perverse need for the last word. The challenge of it, of winning in pointless arguements, one that Wei Wuxian has risen to over the last year, and momentarily forgotten as the note is, tossed to the side by careless beaks and curious, messy avians. )
What the — hey! Get out of here!
( He rises to wave his hands at the birds, finding a few look his way, a few flap around, and one, a beautiful bird of scarlet and blue and gold, lifts its massive beak and flies at him, crying an unfamiliar bird's challenge. Wei Wuxian flails backward, hitting the pallet hard as the long, hook-billed bird gives another shriek before turning on wing and resettling at the platter, shoving another bird out of the way to claim...
... Wei Wuxian isn't sure. He has no idea what is happening. He stares at the birds, half having decided to ignore him for the time being as he's back on the pallet and not attempting to make good on eating them (he should, he thinks, at least some of these birds look like they have decent meat to them, but his hand stays, and he thinks, no bloodshed here). He sends a call to the man who isn't here, visual on display, aimed at the odd flock of birds and what remains of a millet feast. )
Lan Zhan, what's going on?
( It is not noble, sophisticated, traditional: as gifts of gratitude go, this is base enough to insult in its sincerity. He sends it over, after, all the same — one parchment paper, documenting the song he wrote for Wei Ying so very long ago in its tired original, suited for the guqin but not incompatible with the flute. Full circle. Done. )
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