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October Catchall | Open
WHO: Xiao Xingchen and YOU!
WHEN: October, whenever chaos isn't trying to eat this crew
WHERE: Here and there
WHAT: Xingchen just trying to vibe, you know. Doing this and that. Trying to avoid Xue Yang. (He probably won't avoid Xue Yang.)
WARNINGS: Nothing in mind at the moment except probably his standard sads, but will update if necessary.
[ooc: I'll match format, follow your heart!]
1. garden variety
[After the poisoning at Macaluso's banquet, and then Xingchen's (admittedly) poor decision to call out Vannozza along with him, and then everything that has transpired with the witches and the dragon and -
Well. Xingchen really should keep his toes in line if he doesn't want to cause the rest of their group more undue trouble. So he plops himself down on a bench in the palace garden, unmasked and unadorned in Taravast's fashion. He doesn't plan on going very far, anyway, unless necessary.
But then, what use is a blind man really in a place like this?
So he sits there, trying to find some peace in the quietness of the garden, smelling the flowers and steadying himself like those plants. They can't move. They can only rely on the earth and trust that their caretakers will not uproot them needlessly. Maybe if Xingchen can find that same trust, he'll be able to...well. Carry on with everything that's happened to him in the past couple of months. But trust, he's learned, is hard-won. He's not a flower, either. He has legs. Legs that can carry him away from all this if they must. Legs that carried him down a mountain not even that long ago.
...Maybe his master was right. Maybe leaving the mountain really is a bad decision. How much hardship could he have saved everyone if he had just stayed?
Xingchen exhales harshly, knowing these thoughts will never solve anything, no matter how incessant they are. So he gets down on the ground, crosses his legs, and tries to meditate. Become one with the flowers, maybe. Though that has its own connotation, something that's been crossing his mind more often than it ever used to.
He needs to get a hold of himself. Hopefully one day it will work.]
2. happy little accidents?
[Xingchen retreats to the garden again, but this time he can be found with a large pile of papers beside him on the bench, along with a little bowl of black paint, and a paintbrush in hand. It's not quite what he's used to, not from when he could still write a few years ago, but it's what the servants were able to procure for him. Beggars can't be choosers and he's been close enough to a beggar to understand that entirely.
He hunches over this pile of papers, holding his sleeve back with one hand while the one holding the brush starts to hesitantly glide over the paper. Or, well, that's what he had hoped for. The paintbrush isn't meant for writing; the resistance against the paper isn't as giving as a writing brush would allow.
And, of course, he can't even see what his hand is producing.
In his mind, he can see it all clearly. He just wants to write his name, wants the muscle memory of his fingers and his wrist to produce something that should be simple enough, something that used to be simple enough.
晓星尘
From the get-go, however, it all feels wrong. Again, this brush isn't meant for his current task, for starters. But he pushes through and finishes. Or hopes he finishes. Have the strokes crossed over each other? Realistically speaking, they must have, but he just can't tell.
So he pulls that paper away and lets it float to the ground at his feet. And he tries again, much to the same feeling. It doesn't feel right, but he can't tell for sure, and already he can feel that frustration flow through him. His hand grips the brush tighter than necessary. He presses the brush harder than needs to be done against the paper. He can see his name so easily in his mind, he can imagine his hand gliding over the paper without mistake, but none of it translates!
He drops another sheet to the ground. He starts again.
He fails again.
He fails again.
He fails.
How many pieces of paper litter the ground, he doesn't know, but to anyone passing by who can read such characters, his strokes are at times disconnected and at other times bleed together into an illiterate blob. He tries again, his wrist flicking a by now familiar dance that he's sure results in nothing and he tosses that to the ground, too, before sitting up, the sullied brush dangling from his hand over the side of the bench.]
What did you expect, Xingchen? You really are a fool.
3. drink responsibly
[So maybe some nights Xingchen gets a little restless. Maybe some nights he takes to the streets and follows some of the louder crowds. Maybe some nights he ends up in a bar.
Xingchen knows he shouldn't, or at least he should keep himself in check, but when some of the other patrons keep enabling him, keep saying, "Just one more!" it's easy to get swept up in the moment. It's easy to let the chatter and the music and the warmth envelop him and reassure him that just one more - or two, or three... - isn't a problem.
Except, well, he's still just a single blind man in a part of the city with which he's not entirely familiar, and with a compromised sense of balance on top of it all. If only he had a friend to lend a shoulder to lean on for a minute or a kind hand to help lead him back home.
Maybe he won't get lucky at all and someone will ply him with just one more.]
4. wildcard
[Eyyyyy you know how it goes, hit me up, fam.]
WHEN: October, whenever chaos isn't trying to eat this crew
WHERE: Here and there
WHAT: Xingchen just trying to vibe, you know. Doing this and that. Trying to avoid Xue Yang. (He probably won't avoid Xue Yang.)
WARNINGS: Nothing in mind at the moment except probably his standard sads, but will update if necessary.
[ooc: I'll match format, follow your heart!]
1. garden variety
[After the poisoning at Macaluso's banquet, and then Xingchen's (admittedly) poor decision to call out Vannozza along with him, and then everything that has transpired with the witches and the dragon and -
Well. Xingchen really should keep his toes in line if he doesn't want to cause the rest of their group more undue trouble. So he plops himself down on a bench in the palace garden, unmasked and unadorned in Taravast's fashion. He doesn't plan on going very far, anyway, unless necessary.
But then, what use is a blind man really in a place like this?
So he sits there, trying to find some peace in the quietness of the garden, smelling the flowers and steadying himself like those plants. They can't move. They can only rely on the earth and trust that their caretakers will not uproot them needlessly. Maybe if Xingchen can find that same trust, he'll be able to...well. Carry on with everything that's happened to him in the past couple of months. But trust, he's learned, is hard-won. He's not a flower, either. He has legs. Legs that can carry him away from all this if they must. Legs that carried him down a mountain not even that long ago.
...Maybe his master was right. Maybe leaving the mountain really is a bad decision. How much hardship could he have saved everyone if he had just stayed?
Xingchen exhales harshly, knowing these thoughts will never solve anything, no matter how incessant they are. So he gets down on the ground, crosses his legs, and tries to meditate. Become one with the flowers, maybe. Though that has its own connotation, something that's been crossing his mind more often than it ever used to.
He needs to get a hold of himself. Hopefully one day it will work.]
2. happy little accidents?
[Xingchen retreats to the garden again, but this time he can be found with a large pile of papers beside him on the bench, along with a little bowl of black paint, and a paintbrush in hand. It's not quite what he's used to, not from when he could still write a few years ago, but it's what the servants were able to procure for him. Beggars can't be choosers and he's been close enough to a beggar to understand that entirely.
He hunches over this pile of papers, holding his sleeve back with one hand while the one holding the brush starts to hesitantly glide over the paper. Or, well, that's what he had hoped for. The paintbrush isn't meant for writing; the resistance against the paper isn't as giving as a writing brush would allow.
And, of course, he can't even see what his hand is producing.
In his mind, he can see it all clearly. He just wants to write his name, wants the muscle memory of his fingers and his wrist to produce something that should be simple enough, something that used to be simple enough.
晓星尘
From the get-go, however, it all feels wrong. Again, this brush isn't meant for his current task, for starters. But he pushes through and finishes. Or hopes he finishes. Have the strokes crossed over each other? Realistically speaking, they must have, but he just can't tell.
So he pulls that paper away and lets it float to the ground at his feet. And he tries again, much to the same feeling. It doesn't feel right, but he can't tell for sure, and already he can feel that frustration flow through him. His hand grips the brush tighter than necessary. He presses the brush harder than needs to be done against the paper. He can see his name so easily in his mind, he can imagine his hand gliding over the paper without mistake, but none of it translates!
He drops another sheet to the ground. He starts again.
He fails again.
He fails again.
He fails.
How many pieces of paper litter the ground, he doesn't know, but to anyone passing by who can read such characters, his strokes are at times disconnected and at other times bleed together into an illiterate blob. He tries again, his wrist flicking a by now familiar dance that he's sure results in nothing and he tosses that to the ground, too, before sitting up, the sullied brush dangling from his hand over the side of the bench.]
What did you expect, Xingchen? You really are a fool.
3. drink responsibly
[So maybe some nights Xingchen gets a little restless. Maybe some nights he takes to the streets and follows some of the louder crowds. Maybe some nights he ends up in a bar.
Xingchen knows he shouldn't, or at least he should keep himself in check, but when some of the other patrons keep enabling him, keep saying, "Just one more!" it's easy to get swept up in the moment. It's easy to let the chatter and the music and the warmth envelop him and reassure him that just one more - or two, or three... - isn't a problem.
Except, well, he's still just a single blind man in a part of the city with which he's not entirely familiar, and with a compromised sense of balance on top of it all. If only he had a friend to lend a shoulder to lean on for a minute or a kind hand to help lead him back home.
Maybe he won't get lucky at all and someone will ply him with just one more.]
4. wildcard
[Eyyyyy you know how it goes, hit me up, fam.]
no subject
no subject
[That tugs at him. Xingchen has always thought he takes pleasure in the little things. And he still does, though with the knowledge of what he's done over the last couple of years, that does make future appreciation feel cheaper, in a way. Will he ever be able to go back to his old self? Smelling flowers, listening to children laugh, hearing A-Qing's delight from a hot meal.
Xingchen sets off again, pondering these things. And then he wonders what delights Xie Lian in such a way. He has such a nice laugh; everything should strive to earn such a reaction.
...Oh! But he said something earlier, didn't he? Xingchen remembers, he really does. Stopping short, he already can't keep a little smile from his lips.]
Like -
[He chuckles, but gathers himself admirably.]
Like a full belly, right? Xingchen will cook for Xie-daozhang some time if he'd allow it.
no subject
I'd like that, daozhang. That would be lovely.
no subject
Good. I'm glad! You'll tell me if there's something that doesn't appeal to you, I'm sure. Don't want to disappoint.
[Cooking something a god doesn't like probably is reason enough for some kind of curse.
Xingchen walks again, heart a little lighter with this plan, though he has no idea when he'll be able to carry it out. It will be something to look forward to, though, and hopefully carry him through the darker moments in this city, of which Xingchen has found there are many.
It's still slow-going, what with his drunken state and almost zig-zagging trekking, but the palace is nearby. If there are no more distractions, Xingchen-made or otherwise, Xie Lian should be able to drop him off quickly enough.]
no subject
[Your newfound god eats floor food, Xiao Xingchen, you'll be fine.
They speak of mostly pleasant nonsense and also enjoy a few moments of companionable silence before Xie Lian finally manages to steer Xiao-daozhang back to his door.]
Have some water before your sleep and get some rest, daozhang.
no subject
It's with this pleasant thought bouncing around his head that Xingchen keeps walking and getting closer to their temporary home. It's a good enough distraction from his darker thoughts, at least until they reach his door. This is the end of his road tonight and he's just going to have to accept it, as he has every night for the past month or however long.
He nods, listening to Xie Lian's advice, knowing he needs to do this, but...once he opens the door, he'll be alone. He'll be alone when he's had such good company, company that really seems to care, company he feels comfortable talking to.
Loneliness has draped itself over Xingchen's shoulders the day he walked away from Song Lan, leaving him up on Baoshan Sanren's mountain, back on the home he could no longer call his. Even living in Yi City with two people he grew to care for almost as much as his friend, that loneliness still enshrouded him. And now, here, in a foreign land rife with dangers and shattering reveals, that loneliness seems to reach for his throat with choking hands.
He's selfish. He knows he's selfish. He wants what he can't have, what he probably shouldn't have. But Xie Lian is still here, still caring, and he isn't at all on the same level as an actual god, but he wants. Just for one night. Maybe he can only live in spans of time, in chunks of happiness, where nothing lasts forever.
His hands find Xie Lian's arm again, once more wrapping around the limb and holding him close.
He's still drunk. He's not completely sober, right? That doesn't make anything better.
There's a blurry mental image of Xie Lian's form. Is he a little shorter? Maybe.
He should say something. He should ask, first. But...that loneliness keeps squeezing.
It's not a smooth movement. Even if Xingchen were entirely sober, he'd probably still make some mistake. Leaning in, his nose bumps against what feels like Xie Lian's cheek, so he corrects himself, and his lips find the other man's, a crooked kiss, alcohol still strong on his breath.]
no subject
.... He did not expect that. He's not sure what to do with that. Especially because he doesn't want Xiao-daozhang to feel too bad about it and... well, first try, let's blame the alcohol.]
Daozhang, don't. You're drunk. This is not a good idea, your head is not clear.
no subject
His back finds his closed door and he leans heavily against it, raising a long sleeve to his mouth. Shame heats his skin, despite his insobriety.]
F...Forgive me.
[How stupid. How selfish.]
I shouldn't have, I - I didn't...
[What a place he's driven himself to. Stuck here between someone he will undoubtedly drive away or at least never be able to face again, and a room containing memories he wishes he could forget. He's too drunk for this. He's not drunk enough. But drinking got him here, didn't it?
Xingchen isn't sure what part of this night is going to end up being worse.
His free hand gropes blindly for the door handle, eventually finding it.]
I'm sorry. Forgive me. I should...I should go...
no subject
[Truly, he would not. He's a bit baffled as to how that came about, but he's not mad.]
It's nothing about you. It's just that, well... I'm married, and rather happily so. I'm sure you understand.
Please don't be too bothered. You were drunk, and in need of company. I understand.
no subject
He's disgusted with himself. Xie Lian can say he's not bothered, that he understands, but Xingchen can't simply shrug this off. How terrible. He lowers the hand from his face, instead wrapping that arm around his middle as if such an act can offer some comfort.
(It doesn't, not really.)]
...I understand.
[Wouldn't Xingchen be the same if he were in Xie Lian's position? Objectively, he understands that people suffer and make poor decisions sometimes. But, right now, he wants nothing more than to slip away, pretend none of this happened, that he doesn't exist.
His hand rests on the door handle, just needing to exert the proper amount of weight to let himself in. This has made him sober up too fast and too fully and he's almost dizzy with it.]
Xie-daozhang... Thank you. For walking this lowly one back home.
[The door opens under his weight and Xinghen already begins to slip into the darkness within.]
He will drink something. Please don't worry.
no subject
[He can hope he didn't make the night worse, but he is afraid he knows how someone like Xiao Xingchen functions, because it's probably how he would be if their situation had been reversed. he'll probably beat himself up for it.
So Xie Lian will just have to keep showing up and be friendly and not make a big deal out of it.]
no subject
[He'll try, at least, though maybe he shouldn't promise so easily. Ah, well. Too late. Xingchen is almost completely inside the room when he sways back out a little.]
Thank you, Daozhang. Goodnight.
[And then he's inside, leaning back against the door as it closes, and then he's sliding down to the floor, a long sigh rushing past his lips. What if he just stays here for the night? Right here on the floor, uncomfortable and cold, a silly punishment for a silly action. Maybe it would knock some sense into him, or at least make that embarrassment stick around so he doesn't do something so stupid again.
...Wait. He doesn't actually want to have to dwell on all this, though, right? Maybe after a couple of days, he'll have shaken the memory off and it will be just an embarrassing anecdote that hopefully neither he nor Xie Lian tell anyone. Then he can make him something to eat, like he promised innocently, and things can be...normal.
Is two days too long? Should he do it tomorrow?
No, he'll worry about it when he's slept this off. So Xingchen pushes himself to unsteady feet, finds the water the staff refills, then pours a little. He said he would drink something and then rest, so he'll at least keep half that promise. Once he's finished with the drink, he makes himself crawl into bed instead of lying on the floor. This isn't how he wanted his night to end, but at the same time, he's not exactly surprised. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.]