dumbshow | highly new, slightly improved open post

[What had he done, beyond vomit? He barely remembers. It blurs in his mind, a chaotic swirl of photographic flashes. He'd cried, he remembers that. He'd shoved his hand over his mouth and bawled, shoulders shaking, trying not to hyperventilate-- or at least do so silently.

What else? He'd stayed up all night. He'd held Sandu tightly, curling around it like a child, wishing desperately it was someone, anyone.

He'll bring him to bed soon. But for now, he's busy braiding, his fingers rough, trying not to yank unnecessarily. His mouth tightens as he tries desperately to think of what to say, what other advice he can offer, but nothing comes to mind.]

Start with finishing the bath. I'll bring you something to eat soon.

[That's not quite the direct instruction Huaisang might have been hoping for, but it's all he has right now.]

[Hmm— it works, at least. Huaisang feels like his mind is clearing, like he can think instead of just hearing the sounds of battle repeating over and over, and that much right now is... dangerous! He doesn't want to think! He wants to focus on soap, and listen to Jiang Cheng talk, even if he's just going to tell him what basic things to do.]

Can I have something else to wear?

[He's so not putting his bloody robes back on, so spare him some clothes that will dwarf him, thanks. Little steps.

He dips his hands under the water, rinsing... Hmm. The water isn't bloody, he notes idly, because he didn't manage to kill anyone. Would he even be capable of bathing himself if he had? Another thing he doesn't want to think about, stomach lurching— He takes a shuddering breath and wipes the back of one wet hand across his face just before the first tears can come. Ah-]

Talk to me, Jiang-xiong. About anything.

A bird camped over us a few days ago.

[He ties off the ends of those braids and stands, going to find him some inner robes. They are, alas, tinted purple, because everything he owns is purple, but on the other hand, they're soft and large and smell like Jiang Cheng, so. Not that bad a trade-off.]

It had a white belly. Brown feathers, but all speckled. Like a bird's egg.

[A Japanese grouse.]

It wouldn't shut up. It wasn't giving away our position, we were too well hidden for that, but it was a headache. So I sent one of the disciples up.

[It goes on and on. It's honestly a fairly boring story, said only because birds and Huaisang are an automatic association, and he'd thought of one when he'd had to endure the other.

He looks away as Huaisang dresses, wrapping the too-big robe tight around his body (which in any other context would be fantastic, he notes distantly). When he's done, Jiang Cheng crosses over to the mat that serves as his bed, sitting there with his legs stretched out before him.

And much like Huaisang had silently opened his arms that one night months ago, so too is Jiang Cheng silent as he jerks his head: come here, next to him or against him, it really doesn't matter.

He'll keep talking if that's what it seems Huaisang wants. But he isn't so sure it is right now, as the tension slowly coils and something feels approaching a breaking point.]

[It's a terrible story about nothing at all, but Huaisang is glad for it with every bit of him that's capable of feeling anything right now. It's Jiang Cheng's voice, steady and constant and close, and maybe a little bit of amusement that he's talking about a bird... The details aren't important; the action is what counts, and one hand goes idly to his hair once Jiang Cheng is finished, to feel what he's done there. Oh, and any other time he might have a whole host of emotions about his hair done up in the Jiang style...

The robe is too big yet comfortable, and enough boundaries have been set aside thanks to the horrors of battle already that Huaisang doesn't hesitate before sitting close to him and leaning heavily against his chest. He almost apologizes for his damp hair, but that would be silly.

Mingjue would think him foolish; the thought comes unbidden and then so do the tears, properly, and Huaisang is more of a quiet, trembling kind of crier than Jiang Cheng's whole-body sobs, but there's no hiding that he, too, collapses instantly in the arms of someone safe. Talk about some more birds... or don't? It's anyone's guess what would help, Huaisang's included.]

[There it is. Jiang Cheng hates crying, whether in himself or seeing it in others (he never knows what to do), but he's relieved at this. It's awful, but it's better than that terrible fragility. A little stiffly, he runs his hand over his back, the motion as soft as he can manage.]

There's three new disciples this year. Hua, Bao, and Zhihao. They're pathetic, every one of them. But Zhihao has some potential in archery, if he could learn to focus instead of showing off all the time.

[It goes like that: Jiang Cheng talking on and on about the students whose training he oversees. Who's good at what and who needs improvement; which students he thinks might burn out versus those who have potential. And when he grows weary of that topic, he turns to the petty squabbles he has to deal with: little things, things that really, truly, genuinely do not matter, but that somehow only he can decide over. Annoyances, sure, and his voice really is laced with irritation-- but more importantly, they're normal things. Things that have little to do with the here and now, but instead belong in a world outside of this hell.

His hand keeps moving against Huaisang's back all the while, his fingers absently tracing over the line of his spine again and again. When those tears seem to slowly abate, Huaisang's breath growing less ragged, though, he quiets.]

[It isn't what one might call a good cry, it's just a necessity, his body emptying itself of whatever it has left to give. Huaisang is dimly grateful that he hasn't needed the bucket, even if the trade-off is apparently his throat burning and his years coming until he has no more left. He will live, which is something; he'll have to go home as soon as he can, to see if Mingjue is alright, but later, when he can move again.

It takes him a moment to stir when Jiang Cheng falls silent, wiping his face on his borrowed sleeve and look up at him. Don't mind how terrible he looks. He doesn't know what he wants to say; something about Jiang Cheng's disciples? The battle? Going back to Qinghe? Hmm—]

You still have my pin.

Of course I do. Did you think I'd lose it?

[It comes out more gruffly than he intends, his awkward prickliness rushing in as the immediate crisis passes. His hand slips up to grip Huaisang's upper arm, thumb stroking against him, as he stares down at him.]

You'd kill me if I didn't return it. Right? Or your brother would.

[. . .]

He'll be okay, Huaisang.

[Not Nie-xiong, not what he should call him, but intimacies can be allowed, right? Besides: they're a little past the point of propriety. They've both bawled on each other, it's fine.]

Edited 2020-04-01 19:40 (UTC)

[He's dressed improperly and everything; propriety is dead. Huaisang sighs and curls tighter against him again, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his lips for that hairpin and Jiang Cheng's stupid, stupid reaction. That's what he needed, yes...

The informality? Very sweet, very comforting - and of course, he assumes it will end the moment they leave this tent, so it's probably alright to indulge in it now.]

I said he wouldn't kill you...

[But before he can start crying again--] Come to Qinghe when you can. I don't know how much fighting is left.

It won't be much longer.

[There, at least, he's fairly certain. The Wens can't last much longer against Wei Wuxian's onslaught; how can they possibly, when every soldier they lose suddenly becomes a newfound enemy. It won't be long. Another battle, maybe two . . . if the war lasts another month, he'll be surprised.]

And after it all ends, I'll have to go back to Lotus Pier. I have to reclaim it.

[God. He hasn't even thought much about it, beyond a vague, nebulous idea, the shape of it too large to contemplate overly much. Fleeing to Qinghe sounds far more appealing, fleeing to Huaisang sounds ideal . . . he struggles with the two impulses for a moment, self-indulgence over responsibility, and then adds:]

But everyone will head to Qinghe first. To regroup and cement the victory.

[So I'll see you then. A promise as much as an assurance.]

Move--

[A firm urging, as he shifts to lie flat on the mat. The noises of outside have quieted down now that the sun has set, and honestly: he's exhausted. So at least they can have this conversation lying down, and never mind what else it might mean. Besides: he's laid in bed with Huaisang before, back in Gusu when they'd get drunk together and pass out.]

Are you really staying here for the rest of the war?

[Oh, down they go, and Huaisang is more than content to lie there with his head on Jiang Cheng's chest and not think about anything like implications. He's indulging; it's been a miserable battle at the tail end of a miserable war, and they've both more than earned it.

But is he staying... How much is the Nie force still needed, at this point? Huaisang isn't the strategist, but all the other news about the war points to Jiang Cheng being right: it won't be much longer. Surely the world would understand if under-qualified, incapable Huaisang retreated to his dying brother's bedside at this point.

Plus, he really doesn't want to see another battle.]

I don't know. I'll talk to Xichen... but I want to see my brother.

[Which, don't get him wrong— the anger is still there. If his brother dies the gloves come off, he'll figure it out, but dying in battle while Mingjue lies alone at home, the whole of the Unclean Realm his tomb— well, he's rethought the idea.]

Tomorrow. [Tomorrow, he'll throw himself on Xichen's mercy and see what happens.] Are you kicking me out?

[jokes]

Yes.

[Jokes . . . he presses a hand firm against the center of Huaisang's back, just in case. It's less he's worried about Huaisang not getting this very simple sarcasm and more that he's very intent on having him stay.]

If you do stay . . . the Nie clan and the Jiang clan have been allies for ages. No one will think it shameful if you stay near me during battle.

[Hmm, staying in this war to hide behind Jiang Cheng... as much as he wants to be around him, Huaisang can't say the fear of death isn't a contender here. Still, that's not really what this means--]

If I can't go home, it will be like today, again.

[So--it's a deal. Would be nice if the war ended tomorrow morning and they could all go to Qinghe, and Mingjue would wake up right on time, and things would be slightly closer to normal, though.]

If I do leave... [Hmm, look at his hairpin and think of him often? Remember that he's waiting? Or more simply, despite circumstances,] I'll miss you.

[Ah. He's suddenly quite grateful they aren't looking straight at each other. Instead, he stares furiously at the ceiling, ignoring the way his ears have gone a little red.]

You won't have time to miss me. I told you: the war won't last much longer.

[That's not what he wants to say. I'll miss you too, I only feel safe around you, you're the one steady point in my life, the one thing I don't have to worry about, hm, maybe not. Instead: he rubs his back again, hoping the motion at least conveys some of that. But it's not enough, he knows it isn't.]

I'll . . . miss you as well.

[GOD he sounds like a stiff LOSER but hey: a genuine human emotion.]

[Then the war will have to end as soon as possible so they can be together again? If he wanted to sound like a child, maybe... Huaisang reaches across Jiang Cheng's middle to his other arm, fingers wrapping loosely around, mm, his wrist. Holding his hand would be bold, but this is, you know. This is fine.]

Well, I'm not going anywhere until tomorrow... maybe.

[So it's... quality time.]

[Ah . . . his hand twitches, his next exhale a little unsteady. It's not the intimacy of taking his hand, no-- but the light touch of his fingertips against the inside of his wrist is almost worse, making his pulse spike.]

You're not, no.

[The hand against Huaisang's back presses down a little more firmly: an answer for that loose grip, maybe. It's daring, but not as daring as it might have once been.]

Hey. Reach over, I've got liquor.

[It's really, really shitty tasting liquor, but it's also potent.]

Get drunk with me. That helps.

You want to get drunk?

[Only a little disbelieving, if only because they were almost engaging in some healthy coping mechanisms here, but who is he to refuse cheap swill— He hums and picks his head up enough to look and see where he's reaching... come here, liquor.]

You always used to fall asleep after barely anything.

[Sad. Is this what he has to look forward to.]

That was once.

[It was certainly more than once. Should they sit up? Probably to drink, but he's also exhausted. He killed a lot of people today, his muscles are aching . . . life is hard.]

You babble endlessly. I fall asleep because you won't ever shut up about your newest fan . . .

[With an effort, he tips his head up, then hoists himself up on one elbow. His other hand is still wrapped loosely around Huaisang, and he's unwilling to release him. Hm.]

Come on, hurry up. It's hard enough I'm going to have to do this one-handed.

[Will he hold himself up awkwardly with no hands? Yes. Such is the power of a stupid crush.]

[That's very cute in a stupid way, Jiang Cheng, but Huaisang is going to sit up to drink. He does it sighing, hauling himself up to kneeling, like he's a prim little second son and not an emotional wreck who's going to get drunk on this old timey rail liquor.]

Poor Jiang-xiong, having to wait a minute.

[Still, if he's ready to collapse, Jiang Cheng who actually fought today must be even worse... Huaisang opens the bottle and casually pats his lap as he takes a drink (wow, it's cheap). Come rest here, they'll take turns.]

[Wait hey no?? He scowls, this is not what he wanted, but nevertheless, it's happening, and he's left empty and alone. Again: he suffers.]

You should be more grateful! I saved you today.

[Are they at the stage where they can joke about it? Let's find out! He sighs sharply, perhaps just a bit too theatrically, making sure everyone in the world knows what a hassle it is for him to just, hm, come over and lay his head in Huaisang's lap. This is fine. If he's flushing, it's because of the drink. Of which he hasn't had any yet, god--

But it's more comfortable than he'd have thought. His lap is soft, and the view is indulgent, because he's got every excuse to just stare up at Huaisang. One hand lifts, waving impatiently.]

Multiple times.

[Huaisang could just pour the rest of this liquor right onto Jiang Cheng's face from here and he would deserve it, but he'll resist the urge. He hands him the bottle instead, idly smoothing back his hair. They aren't as desperately close as they were a moment ago, but Jiang Cheng in his lap is... a nice thing.

Jiang Cheng is also a prick, but Huaisang has made peace with that years ago.]

And you yelled at me. [VERY rude!!] I'm grateful for everything besides that.

I'll yell at you as much as I want.

[But he turns his head just slightly, pushing into that touch, even as he puts the bottle to his lips. It is disgustingly sharp, bitter all the way down his throat, but the good thing is he won't need much more than a mouthful or two. His eyes squeeze shut, there's a hesitation, and then he swallows.]

Hm. Your hair looks better like this.

[Braided back in the style of his clan, he means. Huaisang is in his direct eyeline, it's hard not to think it.]

Of course you'd say so.

[Bias... Ah, but he can't keep his hair like this forever, can he? Imagine having to explain that to Xichen while begging to be excused from battle— impossible.]

Next time I'll have to do yours. I don't think it will suit you, though...

[Next time, like they're ordinary people with time to kill.]

You might as well do it now.

[Might as well, he's in the perfect position. Also, a little more morbidly: he may die before he gets back to Qinghe. It's something he's always known, of course, but something that seems to press a little more heavily on his mind now that he's made a promise to see someone after all this is done.

Another swig, just so his head is well and truly spinning, before he shifts impatiently. It just occurs to him that, hm, was that an insult? Rude??]

What do you mean, it wouldn't suit me?

[He's not going to do anyone's hair if they're going to get all fussy and tipsy at him, good god— Huaisang touches his cheek; stop getting impatient. The inevitably of Jiang Cheng passing out mid-sentence is growing closer with every sip of that terrible alcohol, he knows it.]

It would be my hair around your face. That doesn't sound right at all!

[Come on!! Huaisang's hairstyle is an art, specifically an art that is way too, hmm, too many parts simultaneously soft and ostentatious to suit Jiang Cheng's whole... essence. It wouldn't hit right.

He can play with his hair, however, tugging out the pretty pin and simple ties and running his fingers through it. What if he stays here at step one...]

What about the robe? How do I look in purple?

[He huffs, but turns out touching his face is a perfect way to get him to hush. He blinks lazily up at him, and then there's fingers in his hair, god, this is perfect. Too perfect? Maybe, but he's too drunk to grow insecure and paranoid about what might go wrong.]

Hmm. Better than you do in green. Seems like the Jiang clan suits you better.

[Hmm. He reaches up, his hand drifting more sluggishly than he means it to, til he can brush his fingers over the curve of Huaisang's cheek. It's an idle thing, an absent touch done simply because he's always a little preoccupied with the way Huaisang looks and he lacks the reasoning to remember why he never goes through with such a thing.]

I'm right. You know I'm right.

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