Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan’s phone vibrates, in the specific way that means Wei Ying has posted something to Twitter. This is not an unheard-of phenomenon--Wei Ying is verbose in every part of his life, in exactly the way that Lan Zhan isn’t. Sometimes he decides to go on multi-tweet rambles about potatoes or rabbits or a particular inane plot thread in one of the C-dramas he’s currently watching on Viki. Usually Lan Zhan puts his phone on do-not-disturb when Wei Ying is in a tweeting mood like that, so he can go back and read the full thread later. It’s always entertaining, and Lan Zhan likes to hoard every piece of Wei Ying he can get, tucking them away neatly inside of him like books on a shelf.

Today there’s just the one vibration, which means that Wei Ying has likely posted some of his photography, or an ink drawing, or possibly a new piece of music. Lan Zhan is alone in his apartment with no pressing matters, so he checks the notification, exactly the way he doesn’t when he’s in public, or at work. He knows that the way he wants to react to Wei Ying on social media is… clingy. Possessive. Not usually the way people react to their best friend. He looks at every piece of art Wei Ying posts, studies it as best he can on the inferior phone screen, and then when at least fifteen minutes have gone by, he likes it.

(Lan Zhan, upon realizing that sometimes his likes show up in other people’s feeds, has developed a particular strategy so he doesn’t give too much of himself away: For every single tweet he likes from Wei Ying, he likes at least four other tweets from the photography and music accounts that he follows. This, he is certain, is a normal ratio.

(He follows the photography and music accounts both because he enjoys their artistic work, and because it would definitely give too much of himself away if someone clicked to his Twitter profile and saw him following one person: @wheee_yeeeaaah. His follow list is carefully curated in the same way that his likes are. He follows several of Wei Ying’s friends and family members, because they follow him and he understands that this is the etiquette; he follows the aforementioned musicians and artists, who only ever post about their work and never their personal lives; he follows one Japanese account that is just pictures of the owner’s rabbits. He has precisely thirty five accounts that he follows. This, he is certain, is an acceptable number.

(Lan Zhan is aware that other people don’t put this much thought into making sure their social media presence seems normal. He accepts this, and sticks to his strategies.

(Lan Zhan never, ever posts anything himself.)

The Twitter notification has a small preview image. Wei Ying has posted a self-portrait, Lan Zhan guesses. His photography is excellent but freelance photo work is challenging to get, so Wei Ying frequently photographs himself, his sister, Nie Huaisang’s latest fashion designs, and shots from nature. The latter three are easy for Lan Zhan to appreciate artistically. He knows perfectly well that his fondness for Wei Ying means he likes every self-portrait far more than is appropriate. He’ll have to let this tweet wait for an hour before he likes it--this is also one of his strategies. It’s familiar. It’s normal.

Lan Zhan clicks on the notification to open the original tweet.

This is the last time anything is normal for him ever again.

The picture is of Wei Ying, that much is clear. It’s of a lot more of Wei Ying than Lan Zhan is used to seeing. He supposes that, technically, Wei Ying is dressed. It’s a bare technicality, since one of Wei Ying’s hands has rucked up his black tank top practically to his collarbone, showing a long expanse of abdomen and one nipple. Sweat beads on his sternum, catching the light like jewels. His other hand is--Lan Zhan feels his eyes widen, as though unable to look away from a train wreck--on his hip, one thumb tugging down the waistband of a pair of red briefs. Wei Ying is biting his lower lip and looking directly into the camera, sultry, his eyes dark and inviting. His erection is obvious, outlined against the red of the briefs and framed carefully with the hand on his hip. Lan Zhan’s brain goes wildly, screamingly blank.

(A quiet, still-coherent voice in the back of Lan Zhan’s head appreciates the clear attention to detail in the photo, the professional-level lighting, the composition. The pose is relaxed but deliberate, sexual without being obscene. Lan Zhan has, in his ill-spent time on a few dating apps, seen enough amatuer dick photography to be able to critique it from an artistic standpoint. It would be an honor to receive this dick pic.

The rest of Lan Zhan cannot stop staring at Wei Ying’s dick.)

There are actual words that accompany the picture, and after an interminable amount of time, Lan Zhan actually drags his eyes away from the trail of hair between Wei Ying’s bellybutton and briefs and manages to read them.

Felt hot today, so I decided to take a little break to cool off! 🔥😅💦

Enjoy the rest of the set (and so much more!) at my OnlyFans! onlyfans.com/yilingpatriarch

Lan Zhan, as if in a trance, clicks the link. It brings up a profile photo that is unmistakably Wei Ying, turning to look at the camera over his bare shoulder, hand in his hair to show off the undercut. The banner image is a horizontal shot of him stretched out on a hardwood floor, obviously nude, the fall of his thigh and his bent knee keeping the image just barely safe for work, if one had an extremely permissive workplace. It’s lit from behind, sunlight dampened and diffused by gauzy white curtains, the light floating over Wei Ying’s skin like a caress.

Lan Zhan recognizes the location as Wei Ying’s studio apartment. He’d chosen it for the windows and for the cheap rent, cheerfully accepting that the wiring had only ever been half-updated and how he can’t use a blowdryer and a microwave at the same time without tripping a fuse. Lan Zhan has been in that apartment, where apparently Wei Ying sometimes rolls around on the floors completely naked, and takes pictures of himself, and posts them to the internet.

(Distantly, Lan Zhan knows his ears are hot, that he’s blushing as furiously as he knows how, that his slacks are uncomfortably tight across his crotch. He finds himself unable to do anything about that, in the same way he is unable to look away from his phone.)

His thumb, without his permission, scrolls down. Under the buttons advertising subscription deals, there are posts, the images hidden under the paywall. Here, too, there are words, and without the distraction of Wei Ying’s erection, Lan Zhan finds himself able to read them.

Felt playful today so I spent some time playing with my new toys!

I look so hot in lace, don’t you think?

This one was a real challenge to shoot but I think it came out really well! See how much fun I had for yourself…

Lan Zhan is aware, in an academic way, about the existence of OnlyFans. When he thinks about it, which is rarely, he appreciates it as a way for erotic content creators to have control over their own work and get paid for it. He’s never looked at it. He’s certainly never considered subscribing to it--Lan Zhan finds it uncomfortable to look at live-action porn. Part of that is probably his own repressed upbringing, but part of it is literal discomfort; that is, he thinks the acts look physically uncomfortable and has a hard time seeing past that to what is supposed to be arousing. He’s attracted to people very rarely, and that makes it worse. On the rare occasions he actively seeks out something he’ll find stimulating, he prefers written or illustrated erotica. The layer of distance makes it seem safer, more theoretical, and he doesn’t have to worry about anyone’s leg cramping up.

(All of this is the truth, and also a lie. He doesn’t want to look at pictures of naked people because they are not of the person he wants to be looking at. Except. Well. Here’s Wei Ying, naked on the internet, and he can’t stop looking. It’s the answer to some of his deepest wishes and also the worst thing to ever happen.)

Lan Zhan scrolls back to the top, where there’s a bio.

The Yiling Patriarch
@yilingpatriarch
Shameless bitch in the streets, shameless switch in the sheets. No I will not stop using Bisexual Lighting(tm).

This is information Lan Zhan knew very vaguely, because Wei Ying will talk about anything and Lan Zhan will happily listen. Now he knows it viscerally. He will never un-know it. Wei Ying (or, at least, this erotic persona) is a switch, and apparently shameless about it. He makes porn and puts it on the internet. For (Lan Zhan checks) ten dollars a month, he could see that porn.

Abruptly that knowledge is too much, looking at these blank paywall-locked posts is too much. Lan Zhan clicks back to the original tweet to find it gone, an error message in its place. When he navigates to Wei Ying’s Twitter profile, the tweet is nowhere to be seen. Gripped by a horrible suspicion, Lan Zhan types @yilingpatriarch into the Twitter search bar, and taps on the first result.

It’s Wei Ying. Different profile and banner photos to the ones on OnlyFans, but Lan Zhan has spent enough time staring at his best friend to recognize him under arthouse style makeup in a fishnet shirt. There’s a pinned tweet with subscription information, and underneath it, the tweet that started all this. Lan Zhan opens it again, stares at Wei Ying’s cock in his red briefs for longer than he intends, and in a fugue state, unbuttons his slacks.

There are more pictures on Twitter, not locked behind a paywall, and with that train-crash state of mind, Lan Zhan scrolls through them. Wei Ying in the shower, water beading on his skin, cropped to show just the top of his ass. (Lan Zhan unzips his pants and shoves them down.) Wei Ying in lace lingerie, stockings, and heels, kneeling on the hardwood floor of his apartment, hands in his hair and his spine arched. (Lan Zhan shoves his underwear down one handed, freeing his cock to slap against his stomach and leave a trail of precome.) Wei Ying in an oversized crop-top t-shirt and a runner’s athletic shorts, obviously hard under the synthetic fabric. (Lan Zhan wraps his hand around himself and strokes.) The next image is an animated gif, shot from above as Wei Ying wraps his mouth around a dildo and sucks, his cheeks hollowing. Lan Zhan watches, breathing hard, and then Wei Ying’s eyes flick up to the camera as though they’re making eye contact through Lan Zhan’s phone, and somehow around the silicone dick in his mouth he smiles--

Lan Zhan comes all over his stomach, harder than he has in a while. His heart races, his breath stuttering in and out of his lungs. He glances at his phone again and Wei Ying’s unacceptably sweet eyes look up at him from the gif.

Lan Zhan throws his phone across the room, shame blooming in his stomach. This is not the first time he’s gotten himself off while thinking about his best (only?) friend, but what he does in the dark and in secret is his business. This? The sun is still up outside and he just jerked off on his couch to Wei Ying’s porn that he shouldn’t know about. He’s crossed a line he never expected to find, a tripwire springing up out of the sand to send him flailing into the dirt. Disgusting. Shameful. Absolutely inappropriate. He grabs a handful of tissues off the coffee table and cleans himself up, shoves himself back into his underwear and does up his pants.

Then he gets his laptop, opens an incognito window, and goes back to onlyfans.com/yilingpatriarch. Lan Zhan clicks on subscribe and makes an account.

It asks for his credit card information.

He provides it.

Ten dollars a month is the least he owes Wei Ying.

---

Lan Zhan lives a very regimented life. He likes rules and routine. He finds them comforting. People are frequently confusing, in a way he’s struggled to understand his whole life. If he has a script for an interaction, he knows what he needs to do. It makes things easier. He has rules for ordering takeout (call the restaurant directly, do not go through a delivery service, tip at least 30%), rules for grocery shopping (the self-check out lane is preferred, but if necessary he will answer the cashier’s questions politely and briefly), rules for work (he writes his emails the way he wants to, and then goes back to insert expected personal questions and pleases and thank-yous before he sends them), rules for every part of his life that he can create them for.

Wei Ying does not, as far as Lan Zhan has been able to tell, have rules, or care about them.

At their college freshmen orientation, Lan Zhan had stood in a corner avoiding eye contact, only attending because he’d made a promise to his brother Lan Huan to “Please try and make some friends.” There were no rules for making friends, and his searches on the internet had not sufficiently prepared him for interacting with this many people, nor had his private-school upbringing where most people took one look at his blank, cold face and left him alone. Everything was awkward, and he had one hand tucked into the small of his back and the other at his side white-knuckled around the informational pamphlet that failed, utterly, to describe exactly how an “ice breaker” was supposed to work. He had been in the middle of calculating exactly how much longer he would have to stay in order for the spirit of his promise to his brother to be fulfilled when Wei Ying walked up to him, shoved a soda at his chest, and said, “These fucking things are so awkward, aren’t they? I’m Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan still doesn’t know why he did it, or why, when Lan Zhan glared at him in sudden startlement and blurted, “I don’t drink soda,” in a voice about three tones too harsh, Wei Ying didn’t take that as a cue to leave. Wei Ying had, instead, grinned at him like the sun cutting through the clouds in spring, took the soda back, and returned a minute later with a sparkling water. Bewildered, Lan Zhan found himself accepting the sparkling water and the company. At the end of the orientation, during which Wei Ying had chatted companionably and unstoppably and Lan Zhan occasionally said, “Mn,” Wei Ying smiled at him and said, “I’m really glad I met you today!” and something cracked inside Lan Zhan, something barren that he had, up until then, succeeded in ignoring. And then: Wei Ying, prying his nimble little fingers into the hidden, lonely parts of Lan Zhan without even trying.

He’d known immediately that he was going to need a whole lot more rules. Specifically, rules about Wei Ying. If Wei Ying knew how many rules Lan Zhan had about him he’d laugh himself sick, and then see how many of them he could break at the same time. He would find Lan Zhan’s rules a personal challenge, which is why he can never, ever know.

Wei Ying breaks a lot of Lan Zhan’s rules even without trying, but they’re rules for Lan Zhan, not for Wei Ying, so that’s fine. Rules like:

No touching. (Except that Wei Ying is a tactile person, constantly slinging an arm around his shoulders or leaning into him on the couch while Lan Zhan loses at Mario Kart or sprawling across the ground to throw his calves across Lan Zhan’s lap. Lan Zhan accepts these touches with what Wei Ying thinks is infinite patience and is actually infinite greed, hoarding each one inside him as though to sustain him through the winter.)

No staring. (This one is easier in some ways because Lan Zhan finds most eye contact uncomfortable, and Wei Ying has never made him feel weird about it when Lan Zhan looks past him, or at his shoulder, or at his left earlobe instead of looking at him face-on. All of these are obfuscations, though, because Lan Zhan is perfectly capable of staring at Wei Ying in his peripheral vision, and does. He tells himself it doesn’t count and pretends that’s not a lie.)

Don’t give too much away. (Except that Lan Zhan wants to give everything to Wei Ying, if he thought Wei Ying would take it. Wei Ying is stubbornly self-reliant to a fault, which Lan Zhan is pretty sure is due to Wei Ying’s own traumatic childhood, not that Wei Ying would ever admit such a thing. He wants to pay for Wei Ying’s meals and buy him the nice things he can’t afford and take care of him, if Wei Ying refuses to take care of himself. That would break the rule, though, so he restrains himself to treating Wei Ying to lunch more frequently than perhaps is proper.)

Don’t want too much. (This one Lan Zhan breaks every day of his life. He wants.)

Be happy with what you have. (He is. Lan Zhan makes himself be happy with what he has. It would be selfish to want more [see the previous rule], and perhaps more importantly, Lan Zhan has no idea how to go about seeking more, even if he thought Wei Ying was interested. Wei Ying, who flirts like breathing and breathes like flirting and smiles at everyone and has never once indicated to Lan Zhan that he likes him as more than a friend. No. It’s enough to have Wei Ying in his life. Lan Zhan is sure that the moment he tries to reach for more, he’ll shatter what he has, and it will cut him to pieces as it falls to glittering shards across the floor.)

Don’t fall in love. (This is a joke, and not the funny kind. By the time Lan Zhan came up with this rule, he was already inexorably ensnared in Wei Ying’s smile. He keeps it on the list anyway, as a reminder of what he can’t have.)

In the five years since they graduated college, Lan Zhan has managed with his current set of rules. His literature degree led to a job as a copyeditor, which he finds satisfying. He makes order out of chaos according to a specific set of guidelines, and it leaves him with enough emotional energy at the end of the day to play music and work on classical Chinese poem translations. He lives alone in a minimalist apartment he keeps scrupulously clean. He goes to bed at nine and wakes up at five, goes for a run in the empty early morning when the streets are still quiet, eats the same thing for breakfast every day, wears three soft colors, and knows what his life has in store. Even the beautiful chaos of Wei Ying has its place, in text conversations and careful likes on Twitter and Lan Zhan stopping by the cafe where Wei Ying works on Tuesdays to drop off a handmade lunch, always with the same excuse of “The recipe made too much,” and Wei Ying always smiles and takes it and says “I bet it’ll taste great with hot sauce,” and their standing lunch on every other Sunday that somehow always turns into hours spent at Lan Zhan’s place or Wei Ying’s place or a museum or a park. It’s good. It’s familiar.

And then: Wei Ying’s OnlyFans account, burning a hole in Lan Zhan’s laptop and requiring the desperate, immediate invention of a thousand more rules. Lan Zhan thinks, in the cold shower he deserves, that he should have had a rule for this eventuality, but who could have expected it? Clearly not Lan Zhan, who now has to add a line to his budget for “subscription to the porn that my best friend (who I may also be hopelessly in love with) makes.” What, exactly, is he supposed to do with this knowledge that he cannot un-know?

First: research. Physically if not emotionally cleaner, Lan Zhan opens a new incognito window and googles, “I found my best friend’s OnlyFans, what should I do?” After sifting through several scenarios that he’s fairly certain are just pornographic fantasizing (unhelpful), and a few more results that claim to be how-to guides for setting up an OnlyFans (no), he finds a result from a professional sex worker with a blog that says, in no uncertain terms, to “chill the fuck out and for god’s sake don’t tell anyone.” Lan Zhan isn’t sure if he can manage the first part, but he wasn’t planning to do the second part anyway so it’s nice to have that instinct validated.

His next Google search is “How to not be creepy on OnlyFans.” Some of the advice is obvious (Lan Zhan has never sent a solicited dick pic in his life, the idea of sending an unsolicited one makes his bones want to eject themselves physically out of his flesh), some of it echoes things he’s heard Luo Qingyang and Wen Qing complain regarding Instagram (don’t like every picture anyone has ever posted from the beginning of time in a wild spree), and some of it is both new and useful, like “Don’t make demanding comments on posts unless you’re willing to pay for custom content.” He reads everything, ignoring the heat he can feel in his ears, and then he closes both the window and the laptop and makes dinner. Tomorrow is Tuesday, which means he’ll see Wei Ying at the cafe, and he has a stir-fry recipe he thinks Wei Ying will like, and he’s going to find a way to get through their usual Tuesday interaction without thinking about Wei Ying’s hard dick in his red briefs, or he will die trying.

Lan Zhan presses his forehead to the cool metal of his fridge, alone in his apartment where no one can see him, and he thinks very hard about swearing. Thinking about swearing isn’t quite enough, so he shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and whispers, “Fuck.”

That doesn’t help, either.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan stands around the corner from the cafe where Wei Ying works with a carefully packed container of leftover stir-fry and an internal emotional crisis. This is fine, he tells himself. This will be fine. He’s seeing his friend, like every Tuesday, and as long as he doesn’t--

(Wei Ying’s mouth, wrapped around a dildo, lips glistening wet.)

--let his baser urges control him, he can get through this interaction like a normal person and then go back to work to drag some white man’s pontificating self-absorbed “literary” fiction into a semblance of readable order. There’s no reason for him to be frozen on the sidewalk, staring into the middle distance, hand white-knuckled on the bag with the tupperware.

For a wild, terrified moment, Lan Zhan considers turning around and fleeing back to his office and simply never seeing Wei Ying ever again. That would have its benefits, in that he wouldn’t have to look Wei Ying in or near the face and while trying not to think about--

(The shiny mesh of athletic shorts stretched tight, one hand at the crease of his thigh, thumb and forefingers creating a frame.)

--things that have no place in their friendship. It would have one fairly significant drawback, in that he’d never see Wei Ying again. Lan Zhan frowns a tiny amount. Unacceptable. Also, he always comes to the cafe at exactly 10:45am, when it’s no longer crowded from the morning rush and not yet busy for the lunch rush, and Wei Ying can take his fifteen minute break to sit with him. It’s currently 10:44am, and if he’s late or doesn’t go, Wei Ying will worry and probably text him. Unless he’s willing to change his name and move to a different country, he will have to interact with Wei Ying again. Better to get it over with now.

Decision made, Lan Zhan gives himself a small nod and walks around the corner. The bell on the door tinkles as he walks in, the familiar fresh coffee and cinnamon smell of the place calming in its normality. Wei Ying looks up from behind the counter. “Lan Zhan!” he says, delighted, as though this doesn’t happen every Tuesday. His smile breaks like the dawn, and for a brief instant they make actual eye contact and Lan Zhan is physically transported back to watching that obscene gif last night and almost trips over his own feet in sudden vicious embarrassment.

“Wei Ying,” he says, valiantly, dragging his eyes to their usual spot about six inches past Wei Ying’s left ear and trying not to let anything show on his face. “Are you able to take your break?”

“I think I can make time,” Wei Ying drawls, the corner of his mouth curling up as he goes through the motions of their Tuesday. “Grab a table, I’ll be right over.”

Lan Zhan sits by the window in the usual place and sets the bag with the tupperware on what will be Wei Ying’s side. Wei Ying, for his part, slides a tray into place in front of Lan Zhan as he flops into his chair, managing as always to not spill a drop of the matcha latte or knock the herbed focaccia cucumber tea sandwich out of place. (The tea sandwich is an appropriate size for a snack, so it doesn’t interfere with the lunch Lan Zhan will eat later at precisely 12:30pm. The caffeine in the tea will have worked its way out of his system well before bed. Rules. Routine. Structure.) Today the latte has a rabbit on the foam. Lan Zhan smiles at it, a little bit.

“So,” Wei Ying says from across the table, somehow managing to sprawl in a chair absolutely not made for sprawling, “what’s new with you?” He grins again, and even in his peripheral vision it knocks the breath from Lan Zhan’s body. He makes a non-committal sound and takes a sip of the latte. There is only one thing new in Lan Zhan’s life and he is studiously not thinking about it.

“It’s a Thai recipe,” he says instead, tipping his head toward the tupperware. “The noodles came in oversized portions. There was extra.” Lan Zhan sets the cup down and lifts one of the miniature sandwiches, taking a tiny, measured bite.

“Mmm, sure,” Wei Ying says, as ever allowing this blatant lie to pass without real challenge. “And I’m sure the incredibly organized Lan Zhan was simply unable to find noodles that came in smaller packaging.” He opens the lid and eyes the red-tinted contents.

“I added additional chili oil to yours,” Lan Zhan admits.

Wei Ying grins wider, leaning back in his chair and knocking their feet together under the table. “Lan Zhaaaaaan,” he says. “I’m not a starving artist anymore, you know.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan takes another sip of his latte. He knows Wei Ying is doing well, and has been for a couple of years now. He also remembers the six months after Wei Ying explosively quit his corporate graphic design job in protest over a racist ad his bosses refused to change, when the Jiang family cut him off financially and Wei Ying surfed various couches and worked four part-time jobs and finally scraped together enough for the deposit on his current studio apartment. He remembers Wei Ying tired and wan and hollow-cheeked and scraped thin and still smiling. Lan Zhan remembers wishing desperately to be able to help, for Wei Ying to accept his help in a real way instead of stubbornly dragging himself out of homelessness by his fingernails. Lan Zhan would have given Wei Ying his second bedroom or the deposit money or literally anything he’d asked for, if Wei Ying had just asked.

Wei Ying, of course, hadn’t asked, and the only thing Lan Zhan figured out that worked was “accidentally” making too much food and asking Wei Ying to do him a favor by taking the extra so it didn’t go to waste. It’s been nearly three years of Tuesday Tupperware (as Wei Ying calls it) and Lan Zhan knows it’s no longer necessary, but now it’s part of his structure.

(And if it feeds the part of him that wants to take care of Wei Ying, that’s his business.)

“You’re gonna spoil me,” Wei Ying complains, sealing the lid back on the container and pushing it aside.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says again, instead of telling Wei Ying exactly how much he wants to spoil him, a want that would require advanced levels of math to quantify. He studies Wei Ying in his peripheral vision, hair pulled back into a ponytail underneath a tied scarf, his black button-up rolled up to the elbows, forearms lean and defined from all the time he spends making coffee and playing the flute and drawing. His eyes are soft and his mouth is quirked and he’s as stunningly beautiful as ever. Wei Ying doesn’t look like someone who makes porn and posts it on the internet. Prior to last night Lan Zhan would have thought that career path would be obvious, somehow, which upon reflection is possibly the most ridiculous idea he’s ever had in his life. If people look at him and assume he has no human emotion, when in fact he has so many human emotions he has to keep them in check so they don’t explode out across the floor, it’s comical for him to think he’d be able to tell someone’s personal boundaries for their online behavior by sight alone. Prior to yesterday he would never have thought--

(Sweat beading on Wei Ying’s bare skin, the droplets picked out in the light, they’d taste of salt but what else?)

“You are even quieter than usual, my dude,” Wei Ying says, leaning his elbows on the table, brow creased in concern. “And you’re kinda flushed. Are you okay? Do you have a fever?” He reaches for Lan Zhan’s face, probably to check his temperature, and Lan Zhan jerks backward in his chair, retreating from Wei Ying’s touch in a way he hasn’t since college.

“I am well,” he says robotically, trying to ignore the injured pout on Wei Ying’s face. “I have… Things on my mind.” Your dick, a traitorous part of him whispers quietly. I have your dick on my mind. “The current book I am editing is horrible,” he adds, which isn’t a lie, although it is a lure.

“Oh my god, yes,” Wei Ying says, taking the bait immediately. He perches his chin on his fists, his whole body vibrating with light like a kitten about to pounce. “Lay this shit on me, I love book drama. Wait, no, let me guess why it’s trash.” He bites his plush lower lip thoughtfully, and Lan Zhan doesn’t drop his cucumber sandwich somehow. “Is the author a white man?”

Lan Zhan nods.

“Okay, a few ways we could go with this.” Wei Ying rubs his nose, narrowing his eyes at Lan Zhan. “Is this genre?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head.

Wei Ying taps his chin and squints into the middle distance. “Okay, then it’s one of two books: ‘Alas, That I Have a Life of Such Privilege and am Still a Sad Weenie,’ or ‘The Adventures of My Middle-Aged Dick and the Many College Girls We Creep on Together, because I, the Author, Think This is Profound.’” He cocks his head and sends another spine-tingling grin at Lan Zhan. “Which is it?”

Lan Zhan ducks his head to hide his smile in his latte. “The latter,” he says, aiming for a professional tone, and Wei Ying whoops in triumph.

“Yes! I knew it! Fucking white dude authors, man.” Wei Ying sighs dramatically. “I read fanfiction on the internet that’s a million times better than some white dude’s thesaurus-assisted letters to Penthouse and yet who gets the book deals?”

“Copyright law--” Lan Zhan starts, and Wei Ying waves him off.

“I know, I know, legally BuckyStan4Lyfe can’t publish her two hundred thousand word Steve/Bucky slow-burn Regency AU, I’m just saying it’s not fair.” Lan Zhan only has a vague understanding of what that sentence means, but he nods anyway. “Your agency should give you better books to copyedit,” Wei Ying continues, in the air of one making a grand pronouncement. “It’s kinda gross that they keep giving you these White Dude Dick Books. You especially shouldn’t have to spend your work thinking about some white dude’s gross creepy dick.”

Lan Zhan would love it if Wei Ying could stop talking about dicks right now, as the conversation has taken an extremely dangerous direction. He finishes his sandwich and, desperate for a course correction, offers, “My previous assignment was a Pride and Prejudice retelling for a modern audience. It was well-written and enjoyable and there were very few typos.”

“That’s more like it,” Wei Ying says, stealing Lan Zhan’s latte and taking a sip. “Now if we can just get you some books to edit by Chinese authors we’ll be in business.”

“We?” Lan Zhan raises one eyebrow a hair. “Is Wei Ying planning to start a publishing firm in his copious free time.”

“I could if I wanted to,” Wei Ying mutters stubbornly. “You’d be surprised what I can do if I put my mind to it.”

Yes, Lan Zhan was certainly surprised last night to discover Wei Ying’s small porn empire. Shameless bitch in the streets, shameless switch in the sheets, runs though his head on hot, horrible feet, and Lan Zhan wishes he could put his face directly into a sink full of ice water. Avoiding eye contact even more aggressively than usual, he retrieves his stolen latte and finishes it, setting the cup down with a clink. Do not blush, he tells his face, with mixed results.

“We have ten minutes left of your break,” Lan Zhan says, not letting his desperation show in his voice as he checks the time. “Who was your favorite customer this morning?”

Wei Ying lights up again at the chance to get in some good complaining. “Oh god,” he says with a theatrical groan, “we had the worst corporate order, I’m telling you, just god-awful.” Lan Zhan listens fondly to a gripping tale of customer entitlement and coffee shop scrambling that ended with “A two dollar tip, Lan Zhan! Two fucking dollars!” He makes mildly affronted noises at the right times, busses his dishes when he’s done, and pays for the latte and sandwich. It’s all familiar and routine and he’s just starting to think maybe he’ll be able to go back to actually being normal around Wei Ying when Wei Ying stretches his arms up above his head, arching his back and pulling the fabric of his shirt tight across his chest, the fabric gaping a little at his waist and displaying a flash of golden-tan skin, and Lan Zhan almost walks into the doorframe on his way out.

---

Lan Zhan makes it two more exceedingly excruciating days before he opens an incognito window in his internet browser and goes back to OnlyFans. He stares at the login for a little while and then opens another tab and finds the sex worker blog from his previous furious googling. If he is going to do this, he tells himself repeatedly, he’s going to do it correctly.

The blog is informative, the posts well-written and funny, with links to other articles by sex workers on a wide range of topics. Lan Zhan finds himself bookmarking several links to read later, because while he’s definitely interested in learning more about “provider-led sex work decriminializtion legislation that everyone can support,” it’s not relevant to his current line of research. There are several etiquette guides labeled as being for potential clients, and he reads all of them and takes careful mental notes. The idea of hiring a stranger for an actual in-person encounter makes him want to crawl under his bed and curl up in hot embarrassed shame, but the stated guidelines are useful regardless. He finds a few “Great Client Shout-Outs!” apparently a bi-weekly recurring post, and reads those, too.

Thus armed, he logs back into OnlyFans and sets up his profile, in accordance with his new rules:

First, a profile picture, because default profile images are a red flag. (Lan Zhan is familiar with this from Twitter.) Apparently on OnlyFans, a default profile image indicates a potential burner account by someone who will likely attempt to get free masturbatory material by pestering the creators with a lot of leading questions. While Lan Zhan will absolutely not be doing that, he also doesn’t want to seem like the kind of person who might. After some thought and some digging through his photos folder, he chooses a picture he took on one of his morning runs of a frost-limmed tree branch, bathed in sunrise light and sparkling in the cold winter air. It’s aesthetically pleasing, and also he’s never shown it to anyone, so it can’t give him away.

He doesn’t have to worry about his display name, because (perhaps with Pride and Prejudice still hanging around in his head), he’d chosen ArdentAdmirer89 while signing up. That seems appropriate, and much, much better than 69lickmyballs420, called out as a bad customer and an actual account name by the sex worker blog.

(Lan Zhan closes his eyes and, for one moment, shoves his knuckles into the corners at the bridge of his nose. How did this happen? His life used to be under control. His life was under control last week.)

He fills in the rest of the public information with mechanical precision, eliding the truth when necessary. The result is a generic but believable entity recognizable as a human and not a bot, and definitely not recognizable as Lan Zhan. He reads it over to check, nods once in a blank satisfaction, and clicks on the home button, ignoring with great effort the warring shame/arousal coiling in his guts. Theoretically this, like Twitter, would show him posts from everyone he follows. Lan Zhan is, of course, only following Wei Ying--the Yiling Patriarch, rather--and gets immediately slapped in the eyeballs with the red briefs again.

Lan Zhan shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again. Looking at porn is a normal thing that normal people do all the time. This is simply a new experience. It’s natural that he would be nervous. He acknowledges that it’s a violation of Wei Ying’s privacy, though he’s unsure exactly how much of a violation it actually is, since the Yiling Patriarch Twitter account is set to public and Wei Ying is clearly not attempting to conceal his face. Besides, it might not even be porn, really. Perhaps it’s a series of what Lan Zhan understands to be called “thirst traps.”

He progresses a few images through the set of photos, mouth dry, eyes glued to the screen, as Wei Ying arches his back and runs his hands over his body, and then between one click and the next the briefs are down around Wei Ying’s thighs and his cock is out, hard and flushed and one hand around the base--

Lan Zhan slams the laptop closed harder than he ever has before in his life and stares at the wall while he tries to catch his breath. He revises his previous assessment of the kind of work Wei Ying might be doing. This? This is definitely porn. When his heart slows from “panicked” down to just “frantic,” he slowly opens the laptop again. Wei Ying’s erection is no less arousing the second time, though it’s at least not a surprise. Lan Zhan stares at the picture, the dark, neatly trimmed pubic hair, the vein on the underside, the darker skin at the tip. There’s sweat beading on Wei Ying’s abs in this picture, and he wonders, not for the first time, what Wei Ying would taste like, wonders what it would be like to lick his cock from base to tip before he takes it into his mouth and feels the weight of it on his tongue. He clicks through the set--Wei Ying’s hand stroking his dick; Wei Ying naked with the tank top shoved up behind his neck, black bands of fabric around his shoulders; Wei Ying biting his lip and looking at the camera, angled down to show his hand on his dick between his spread legs; Wei Ying leaning back on one elbow, boneless and glistening with sweat, come splattered across his stomach, smiling at the viewer in an exhausted kind of satisfaction.

Lan Zhan closes the image gallery, and then the window, and then the laptop. He plugs it in to charge, walks calmly to his bedroom, undresses, and gets into the ensuite shower once the water is a comfortable temperature.

Then he wraps a hand around himself and jerks off in approximately thirty seconds.

Later, when he’s in his pajamas and no longer so dick-led, he opens his laptop again and goes through the increasingly familiar ritual of the incognito window and the login. Lan Zhan intends a more academic approach this time. He has questions, questions like, “How long has Wei Ying been doing porn?” “What kind of porn does Wei Ying produce?” “What exactly is ‘Bisexual Lighting(tm)’?” While he recognizes they’re immaterial in the grand scheme of things, he’s still curious about the answers.

Instead of immediately going into a horny fugue state and staring at pictures of his best friend’s dick, he spends a little bit more time exploring the Yiling Patriarch’s page. Lan Zhan discovers in short order that OnlyFans is a terribly designed platform. It seems optimized for a mobile display, with image “thumbnails” that take up the full width of the screen (leading to extremely questionable preview crops), but after a little bit more research he discovers that there isn’t even a mobile app. That inspires a full minute of staring into the middle distance as he tries to figure out who this was even designed for. The answer to that question fails to magically reveal itself, and Lan Zhan blinks and returns to his original purpose.

OnlyFans loads too slowly for him to scroll back to the beginning of Wei Ying’s posts, but it helpfully informs him that, total, the Yiling Patriarch has posted 291 times. Lan Zhan finds that vaguely impressive, though he has no idea what the average is or how Wei Ying compares to other site members. It takes some playing around with the sorting options and then slowly waiting for the site to load, but eventually he finds a post dated a year and a few months prior to the current date. He’s wasted enough time digging for this, so that’s as close as an answer as he’ll get: Wei Ying has been making porn for at least a year and a quarter. Based on the date stamps, he posts on average three times a week, two posts that are clearly some quickly-snapped cell phone selfies, and one post with full production value. There are videos. Lan Zhan shies away from those--the mere idea of seeing Wei Ying in full HD motion makes his palms sweat. Also, this is research, not recreation. He’s already masturbated once today. Twice would be unconscionable.

He plays around with sorting and scrolling for a few more minutes, and gets answers to his other questions: Wei Ying makes a lot of kinds of porn, ranging from things Lan Zhan thinks as standard--nude pictures, photo sets like the one with the red briefs, videos that almost certainly contain more graphic acts that Lan Zhan is trying furiously to ignore right now--to things that he could only describe as “art porn.” There’s one series of pictures that are half live photo, half illustration. It looks like Wei Ying painted digitally on top of the images, creating a set somewhere between a Mapplethorpe and that 80s music video Wei Ying kept playing in college so he could loudly flute along with the falsetto sections. Another set is a blurred sort of hypercolor, photos that Wei Ying must have taken with a long exposure, capturing him in movement, the lighting overexposed and neon. He’s clearly naked, but that’s not the focus of the images other than it being a performance of the body. Lan Zhan clicks through the set, studying each shot. There’s one of Wei Ying from behind, the muscles of his back and ass and legs picked out in planes of cyan light, moving from one pose to another with the endpoints defined and a blurry swirl like animation frames in between. It’s stunningly beautiful and Lan Zhan wants it on his wall, not even in a prurient way. It’s the kind of photo he could picture in a studio gallery without even stretching his imagination. Wei Ying is good at this.

Lan Zhan also learns what Bisexual Lighting(tm) is, after seeing multiple photosets with the same style: a red or pink light to one side, a blue or cyan light to the other, the saturation high enough to paint Wei Ying’s skin in contrasting color. It’s a good look, and Lan Zhan doesn’t understand why anyone would potentially complain about it. He could happily look at Wei Ying’s beautiful face and body lit in blue and red for the rest of his life, if he had the opportunity.

After another ten minutes or so poking through the Yiling Patriarch’s back catalog of posts, Lan Zhan realizes that the worried sort of tension that he’s been carrying since he first clicked that original Twitter preview has melted away. It takes him a moment to unpack that, picking at the tangled knot under his ribs until it comes to him: All of Wei Ying’s work is solo, clearly shot in his own apartment, clearly self-photographed. Wei Ying has been single as long as Lan Zhan has known him, which has always been a quiet kind of comfort, and Lan Zhan realizes he was terrified of discovering incontrovertible proof that Wei Ying has sex with other people. It’s none of his business if Wei Ying does, he knows this, and intellectually he wants his best friend to be happy, and wants Wei Ying to find someone he loves as much as Lan Zhan loves him. He just also knows that the day that happens, he’ll probably die, or freeze into the ice sculpture people like to compare him to until everything inside him is as cold and lonely as it was before Wei Ying came into his life. Lan Zhan knows that day is coming--who couldn’t love Wei Ying?--and he knows there’s no preparing for it, so he takes as much of Wei Ying he can get in the present. It’s incredibly selfish, but Lan Zhan is already jealous, to some extent, of everyone online who gets to have this side of Wei Ying. If someone got to have all of Wei Ying, the way Lan Zhan wants so badly, he’s not sure if he could handle seeing evidence of that.

Curiosity satisfied for the moment, Lan Zhan resets all the sorting filters, leaving the post with the red briefs at the top of the feed again. He’s about to close the window, cursor hovering, when he hesitates. The blog said that feedback was important, and he wants to encourage Wei Ying’s success in all things. Wei Ying already has his ten dollars for the month, but that seems wildly insufficient. Lan Zhan takes a deep breath, clicks the heart under the red briefs post, and opens the comment section. He scrolls through what other people have posted to get a feel for common practices and summarily rejects all of the options presented as a template. There are so many emojis. Lan Zhan has never seen so many eggplant emojis and sweat emojis in one place in his life. No. He won’t be following that lead--he can’t type emojis with his laptop keyboard, anyway. His fingers hover over the keys for a moment and then he types his comment with calm precision.

I enjoyed this. Thank you for sharing it.

Lan Zhan re-reads it. It seems inadequate, and also far too formal. What if Wei Ying recognizes his writing style? He’s always making fun of the way Lan Zhan texts. No. That won’t do. Steeling himself for the crime against copyediting he’s about to commit, Lan Zhan amends his comment.

i enjoyed this. thank you for sharing it.

Better. Not quite there.

i enjoyed this! ty for sharing it

Almost.

i enjoyed this!!! ty for sharing it

Nearly there. Lan Zhan thinks for a moment. How would Wei Ying finish this?

i enjoyed this!!! ty for sharing it <3

Perfect.

Lan Zhan posts the comment, shuts the window and the laptop, and plays his guqin until his heart rate goes back to normal. If he pretends furiously enough, then he can almost believe this is a normal evening in his normal routine. His fingers pluck out a soothing melody on the strings, and he lets himself drift into a half-meditative state, thinking about nothing at all--

(Wei Ying’s spent dick in his hand, come wet on his stomach, looking directly at Lan Zhan through the lens of the camera.)

Lan Zhan’s hands stutter, the music faltering with an off-key chord. He grits his teeth. Normal, he reminds himself. We are being normal.

His brain responds by flashing Wei Ying, nude and picked out in surrealist hypercolor, because his brain is apparently a traitor. His dick perks up a little, back to half-hard against his thigh, because his dick is also a traitor. Lan Zhan sighs and buries his face in his hands, breathes there for a long time, and then goes to take another shower.

Cold, this time.

Chapter Text

By the time the weekend rolls around, Lan Zhan has managed to scrape his mental state back into a semblance of normal, which is to say, he hasn’t looked at OnlyFans again and his brain only flashes him naked pictures of Wei Ying in the moments between other thoughts, instead of rudely interrupting his thoughts with the aforementioned pictures. The obvious solution is to simply never be between thoughts. Lan Zhan accomplishes this by filling his time with work, or reading, or more research on sex work and sex worker’s rights. (The latter might be related to thinking about Wei Ying, but it’s also fascinating and leads to a lot of further reading about the flaws of capitalism as a whole. Lan Zhan finds several organizations that champion the cause and makes substantial donations.) It’s mostly effective, until he takes a shower or lays down to sleep or does anything that allows his brain a moment’s rest, and then it’s right back to Wei Ying’s mouth and chest and dick. A week ago, if asked, Lan Zhan wouldn’t have thought he could possibly want Wei Ying more. It’s surprising and infuriating to be wrong.

Sunday is Lan Zhan’s bi-weekly lunch with Wei Ying. After a morning of nervous, jittering arousal sitting in his stomach, Lan Zhan crosses a self-imposed line and jerks off before he leaves his house. He doesn’t want to constantly associate his solo sex life with his actual real life time spent with Wei Ying, but that ship has not only sailed but is halfway through circumnavigating the globe at this point. He washes up, after, splashes cold water on his face, and looks at his reflection in the mirror. We are going to be normal, he tells himself firmly. We are going to follow the rules. His glare is stern enough to make even himself feel cowed, and he nods sharply. Normal. First step: getting dressed.

He chooses dove gray slacks, a white button-up, and a cashmere cardigan in a pale blue ombre, grateful, as always, that all his clothes match and that the only decisions he needs to make are in deference to the weather. It is Lan Zhan’s turn to choose their destination, and he found an arboretum attached to the local community college that is free to the public. He thinks Wei Ying will like taking photos there. There’s already a picnic lunch ready to go in the fridge, so he just has to transfer it to the insulated tote bag, and then put that tote in the larger, also pre-packed bag with the blanket and the napkins and assorted picnic paraphernalia. So far this is par for the course when Lan Zhan plans their lunches. He gives himself an encouraging internal pep talk before he leaves. This will be a normal lunch where he will act like a normal friend, not some kind of flesh marionette strung up with repressed lust.

Lan Zhan nods to himself again, loads the tote into the back seat of his car, and drives the ten minutes or so to Wei Ying’s apartment building. His studio is on the third floor, so Lan Zhan parks in front of the run-down but delicious Polish bakery that takes up the ground level and gets out his phone.

To: Wei Ying
Good morning.
There was less traffic than anticipated. I am downstairs.
Do not rush.

From: Wei Ying
LAN ZHAN
my sweet prince is so timely
alas that i am but a fair maiden trapped in this tower
jk be down in a sec just gotta grab my camera

Lan Zhan lets his eyes rest on “my sweet prince,” for a moment, his face soft and his heart aching, and then puts his phone away. “Down in a sec” from Wei Ying can mean anywhere from thirty seconds to fifteen minutes, depending on how many small emergencies he has to address on his way out the door. Does he have enough time to stop into the bakery and purchase a few of the kolach that Wei Ying likes best? The answer to that question comes immediately as the door to the apartment lobby bursts open, and then: Wei Ying.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says as he piles into the passenger seat, all ripped black jeans and one of his DIY painted t-shirts on under a leather jacket. “Picking me up from the door? You are truly the best of us.” His presence fills the car like hot coals, like an oven opened to release the smell of baking bread. Lan Zhan feels suddenly warm and easy, as Wei Ying unlocks the cold places inside him without trying.

“It is too far for your bike,” Lan Zhan replies, ears hot. “I picked the location, so it was my responsibility to arrange transportation.” He waits for Wei Ying to buckle himself in and then pulls away from the curb, his eyes on the road. Driving is normal. Driving is a safe activity. He literally cannot stare at Wei Ying and also drive, and Lan Zhan respects the responsibility that comes with maneuvering two thousand pounds of a deadly weapon through the world. Perhaps, from now on, he should only interact with Wei Ying while driving.

“You’re still the best,” Wei Ying says stubbornly, one foot up on the dashboard, fingertips drumming out a beat on the door rest. “Where are we going today?” He turns in his seat and Lan Zhan mostly imagines him batting his eyelashes, only getting a glimpse in his peripheral vision. “I’ve been dying to know all week and then you show up at my apartment and sweep me away to a mystery location and you still won’t tell me where we’re going. Have I earned the answer yet, Lan Zhan?”

“It is a surprise,” Lan Zhan says, keeping his face blank with minor effort. This, too, is normal, Wei Ying teasing and Lan Zhan refusing to take the bait. It started sincerely, with Wei Ying trying to break through Lan Zhan’s shell, and Lan Zhan too bewildered with the attention and too socially awkward to understand how he was supposed to react. Now it’s just a game, Lan Zhan as the straight man to Wei Ying’s funny man. It is, as he understands it, a classic comedy technique, not that he understands comedy except in the vaguest terms.

“Lan Zhaaaaaan,” Wei Ying whines, batting lightly at his shoulder. “We’re on our way! You can tell me now!”

“We have not yet arrived at our destination,” Lan Zhan insists, making the turn onto the boulevard. “If I tell you before we arrive, it will ruin the surprise.”

“You’re the worst, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says dramatically, flinging himself back into his seat and folding his arms. “I’ll just sit here and die of curiosity, and then I’ll be dead and you’ll be so sad and at my funeral you’ll drop to your knees and raise your fists to the sky and scream, ‘If only I’d told him where we were going! He might still be here today!’”

“I would not scream,” Lan Zhan says, ignoring the rest of that scenario.

“You would, in an anguished whisper, lament your horrible stinginess in refusing to answer my single very reasonable question,” Wei Ying continues as though he hadn’t spoken. “You would fling yourself across my casket in the most dignified manner possible, and your tears would drip down onto my cold dead but still stunningly handsome face, and you’d say, ‘I’m so sorry Wei Ying, if you come back I promise I’ll never refuse to tell you where we’re going ever again,’ and then my eyes would open and you’d be so hopeful but it turns out I’m a zombie now--”

“Virus zombie or magic zombie?” Lan Zhan asks, and is ignored.

“--and then everyone starts screaming and running and Jiang Cheng grabs you by the wrist and says ‘Come with me if you want to live!’ and he pulls you outside to his motorcycle--”

“That is from Terminator Two,” Lan Zhan says, making another turn. “You are mixing your genres.”

“--and then jiejie’s there on a horse and she gets you across a river and the zombies are like, ‘raaaaaaagh,’ and she holds up her sword and goes, ‘If you want him, come and claim him!’ and it’s super badass--”

“That is Lord of the Rings.” (Nie Huaisang, in college, once hosted a marathon viewing of the extended edition of the trilogy. Wei Ying, after talking a lot of shit about how he was going to stay up all night to watch, fell asleep with his head in Lan Zhan’s lap somewhere around Lothlorien. It’s one of Lan Zhan’s fondest memories.)

“--but then all the zombies combine to become one big super-zombie, so you and Jiang Cheng have to pilot a big robot together, which obviously you both hate but you’re both super good at it and it’s the only way to save humanity--”

“Are you describing the entire contents of your DVD collection?”

“--but it turns out even the giant robot gets overwhelmed, and then the zombies melt the polar ice caps and the world floods and you’re all alone on a boat forever, all because you didn’t tell me where we were going.” Wei Ying finishes with a flourish and runs a hand through his hair, exposing the shaved side of his scalp in a flash of skin. “And that was not my DVD collection. No one owns DVDs anymore, Grandpa Lan Zhan! I pirate my movies like a good socialist and I would never waste the storage space on Waterworld.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. He lets the car sit in silence for another twenty seconds or so, and adds, “I am still not telling you.”

“I take it back,” Wei Ying says with a pout. “You are not the best of us, you are the worst of us.”

“I accept my new change in status,” Lan Zhan says, deadpan, and Wei Ying’s laugh fills up the car, squeezing the air out of his lungs like a hug.

“Whatever,” Wei Ying says, fingers tapping out a beat on his knee. “It’ll be somewhere very nice. Lan Zhan has great taste, in spite of his inexplicable decision to hang out with yours truly. Unless…” Lan Zhan sees him squint suspiciously in his peripheral vision. “Unless this has all been a long con to get me to trust you, and now you’re taking me to the woods for murder reasons.”

“I am not taking you to the woods for murder reasons,” Lan Zhan says, in the same deadpan.

“Now, not that I don’t trust you, Lan Zhan, but that’s exactly what a murderer would say.” Wei Ying shifts again, finding a new way to recline in a car seat not designed for it. “You said to bring my camera,” he starts, changing the topic with dizzying speed. “Are you actually going to let me shoot you today?”

Lan Zhan’s ears go hot, and he makes the turn onto the last street before the college with care and caution. This, too, is familiar, Wei Ying insisting that Lan Zhan would make a beautiful model, and Lan Zhan desperate to avoid having his cold awkwardness captured in full-color megapixels for all eternity. “No,” he says, as he always does. “There will be other things for Wei Ying to photograph.”

“I doubt any of them are as pretty as Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, in the same offhand casual tone he would say, “The weather’s nice today,” or, “There are ducks on that lake.” Lan Zhan’s ears get hotter, and he tells his pounding heart to calm down. It means nothing that Wei Ying says these things. Wei Ying says them about everyone and everything. Lan Zhan isn’t special. He makes the turn into the parking lot and takes a spot right in front of the entrance to the arboretum, a sun-dappled courtyard overflowing with flowers. Lan Zhan can see paths leading off the courtyard into carefully crafted plantings, faux-wilderness here and demonstration orchards there. According to the website it has a peony garden, but with the trees tinting the golden and red of autumn, they’ve missed the season for those considerably.

Lan Zhan realizes, with a jolt, that he now has no excuse for not looking at Wei Ying. He’s done driving. They’re parked. If he keeps staring straight ahead it will rapidly become obvious that he’s trying not to look at Wei Ying, and then Wei Ying will probably ask questions about why, and that will surely be worse than just looking at him. It is somehow the easiest and the hardest thing in the world to angle himself toward Wei Ying, like a shade-loving flower chasing the sun in spite of the risk of burn. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying asks, looking between him and the courtyard, “are we here? Will you tell me now?” His eyes are bright and brimming with mingled curiosity and delight, and every time they land on Lan Zhan he feels it physically.

“We are here,” Lan Zhan says, normally, like a normal person. “It is an arboretum.”

“You said specifically you weren’t taking me to the woods,” Wei Ying reminds him, eyes wide with feigned worry.

“I said I was not taking you to the woods for murder reasons,” Lan Zhan says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “I was taking you to the woods for photography reasons.”

Wei Ying opens his mouth to say something, pauses, closes his mouth, and cocks his head. “That,” he says thoughtfully, “is a fair point.” He bites his lower lip, pulling the freckle underneath into greater visibility, and Lan Zhan thinks about putting his mouth on that freckle, thinks about leaning across the center console and dragging Wei Ying’s lower lip in between his teeth. His hands tingle with Wei Ying’s imagined heat, if he had one hand on Wei Ying’s face and the other on the nape of his neck, fingers brushing the prickly velvet of the stubble on his undercut. He wonders if Wei Ying would keep talking, even while being kissed. He thinks he probably would.

Lan Zhan whips his head back front, cramming the fantasy into a box, and then putting that box in another box, and putting that box in a safe, and then locking the safe and throwing the key off a bridge. “I packed a lunch,” he says, evenly. “Do you want to eat first or explore first?”

“Explore,” Wei Ying decides, eyes on the arboretum. “We should find the most scenic spot to eat, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Lan Zhan agrees, decidedly not saying that Wei Ying’s presence would make any location the most scenic. He retrieves the tote from the back seat as Wei Ying readies his camera, and they set off.

The arboretum is better than expected, considering that the college website described it as being student-led and with a miniscule budget. Clearly they made up for the lack of funding with hard work and attention to detail, with obviously newer plantings and carefully designed flower gardens interspersed between existing trees native to the area. “I didn’t even know this was here,” Wei Ying says, crouching next to a pond, camera trained on a lilypad.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, one hand at his low back, their picnic tote tucked into the elbow of the other. Wei Ying’s shirt has ridden up and his jeans have slipped down, exposing an inch-wide strip of skin above his waistband. Lan Zhan wants to lick it. He wants to push Wei Ying forward onto his hands and knees and curl himself over him, pressing them together until there’s no room for air or thought between them.

“How’d you find this place, anyway?” Wei Ying asks, standing up, and Lan Zhan rips his eyes away from Wei Ying’s ass and turns to stroll sedately along the path labeled as leading to the conifer garden. Normal, he reminds himself, face carefully blank. Maybe he should sneak off and shove his face into the carefully designed, natural looking brook that bubbles into the pond. Maybe the water is cold enough to shock him out of this horrible wanting.

“There was a blog post about hidden neighborhood gems,” Lan Zhan says calmly. “I bookmarked several options for future Sundays, as well.”

“You are too good to me,” Wei Ying complains, stopping to take some pictures of a trailing pine tree. This section is clearly at least partially modeled on Chinese garden philosophies, the pine gnarled, tucked between boulders overgrown with moss. Lan Zhan thinks he might come back to this arboretum on his own to read a book. It’s peaceful.

“Wei Ying deserves nice experiences,” Lan Zhan insists as they progress along the artificial stream. Wei Ying snorts.

“Yeah, sure, but Lan Zhan deserves nice experiences, too, and all my Sunday plans are ‘Let’s go eat at this new place I found that’s cheap as hell and then go back to your place and play video games.’” Wei Ying climbs on top of a rock that he probably shouldn’t climb on and keeps shooting the entire time he’s talking. “You’re so thoughtful. You put all my plans to shame.”

“We merely have different approaches.” Lan Zhan’s skin crawls the way it always does when Wei Ying self-deprecates. He takes a moment to wish Wei Ying could see himself the way Lan Zhan sees him, and then Wei Ying lays down on his stomach on the boulder, legs splayed out behind him as he takes a picture of some particularly interesting moss, and Lan Zhan amends that wish to wishing that Wei Ying could see himself the way Lan Zhan sees him but without the constant, choking layer of sex appeal. Lan Zhan looks away, at a tree, probably, and in an attempt to distract himself, adds, “I enjoy your plans.”

“Even that time I took you to blacklight mini golf and then laughed at you because your all-white outfit made you glow like the world’s most polite ghost?”

“It was an experience I would not have had otherwise.” Lan Zhan waits a beat, keeping the smile off his face, and adds, “Also, I believe I recall winning by a large margin.”

“Don’t remind me,” Wei Ying says, sliding down off the rock and brushing off his jeans.

“What was it you called that windmill? A hell-demon from hell sent specifically from hell to torture you?”

“That windmill had it out for me.” Wei Ying wanders ahead of Lan Zhan, where there’s a bridge across the stream built out of more boulders. The cattails are plump along the edges, the breeze rustling them occasionally.

“I did not find the windmill a challenge,” Lan Zhan says, unable to keep his eyes off Wei Ying like this, when he’s facing away and it’s safe to look. “Perhaps you offended it when you referred to it as--”

“Don’t you dare!”

“A ‘motherfucking fucking shit cockblock of an asshole dickweed,’” Lan Zhan quotes dispassionately, and Wei Ying whirls around, red in the face, to point a finger at him.

“No!” Wei Ying scolds. “We have had this conversation, Lan Zhan! You are not allowed to swear! You can’t sully your perfect angel mouth with common vulgarities like us peasants.”

Lan Zhan carefully does not say that he would love to sully his mouth with more than vulgarities, if Wei Ying were interested. He looks at Wei Ying’s pointing finger, six inches away from his nose, consumed with the desire to bite it. He resists that, instead raising his eyes to Wei Ying’s, making actual eye contact for the first time that day. Wei Ying’s eyes go wider, his cheeks a little redder, and his mouth drops open slightly.

“Motherfucker,” Lan Zhan says, carefully enunciating each syllable.

Wei Ying squeaks, flounders for words for a second, and jabs Lan Zhan in the chest. “Lan Zhan!” he practically shouts, his voice about an octave higher than usual, “You can’t just--I am a weak and fragile man, I can’t handle words like that coming out of a face like yours!”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Lan Zhan says with flat sincerity, and steps around the now-frozen Wei Ying to continue over the bridge. There’s a spluttering sound behind him, then laughter, and a few steps later Wei Ying catches up and knocks their shoulders together.

“No one believes me when I tell them you’re funny,” he says, linking his arm though Lan Zhan’s elbow. “You need to make jokes in front of other people, you’re like that dancing frog.” Lan Zhan says nothing, consumed with the feel of Wei Ying’s hand on the crook of his elbow, the heat of him at his side. He breathes steadily and keeps his eyes forward and resists the urge to drop the tote bag and whip toward Wei Ying and back him up against a tree trunk. It would take three steps, he can calculate the moves down to the millimeter, three steps before he could have his body on Wei Ying’s and fit their mouths together. He clenches his fist in the small of his back until his knuckles creak. No. Normal.

“Oh, this looks good,” Wei Ying says, snapping Lan Zhan back to reality. He blinks and looks at the “this” in question, which is a clear grassy space between a trailing Japanese maple tree and a messy planting of fall-blooming flowers. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, turning halfway toward him and tugging him off the path, “let’s eat here, this is picturesque as fuck.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and then tragically Wei Ying lets go of his arm to kneel in a flowerbed and shove his camera at a bee. Lan Zhan allows himself one fond smile at Wei Ying’s back and then silently unpacks the picnic. By the time Wei Ying has exhausted his bee photography, Lan Zhan is done, various containers arranged artfully on the blanket. He sits cross-legged, spine straight, and keeps his eyes on the flowers as Wei Ying sprawls across the blanket with his usual casual beauty, all elegant limbs and dark colors.

“This looks great, Lan Zhan,” he says, curling himself up onto his knees. “I’m about to be the asshole who takes pictures of my food before I eat it, sorry.”

“No need for apologies,” Lan Zhan says automatically, taking the lids away so Wei Ying has unobstructed views of the dumplings and sliced fruit and small sandwiches. Some minutes later, when the food has been sufficiently documented, Wei Ying puts on his lens cap and Lan Zhan hands him a can from the insulated tote.

“Thank you,” Wei Ying says, muffled, around the entire small sandwich he’s shoved in his mouth, and then double-takes at the can and swallows. “Lan Zhan,” he says, his voice soft and amazed. “Lan Zhan, did you buy me canned wine?”

Lan Zhan inclines his head and eats a dumpling. “The review I read said it was perfect for picnics.” He doesn’t mention the other three cans still in his fridge, waiting for Wei Ying to come over and express even the slightest desire for a drink.

“Of course you read a review,” Wei Ying says fondly, and opens the can with a pop. He takes one quick sip, followed immediately by a longer pull, his throat working as he swallows. Lan Zhan stares at his pulse point and thinks about biting it. He thinks about destroying his carefully-packaged food by crawling across the blanket to Wei Ying, thinks about climbing on top of him and pinning him to the ground. He thinks about kissing Wei Ying until he arches up against him, whining, thinks about undoing his jeans and finding out whether Wei Ying is wearing those red fucking briefs, thinks about getting his hand on Wei Ying’s perfect cock and making him come all over his stomach. It’s practically the right position, Wei Ying up on one elbow with his head thrown back--

“This is actually really good,” Wei Ying says, and Lan Zhan yanks his eyes away, ears flaming, and digs in the tote for his bottled iced tea. Perhaps he could open it and dump it over his head and then he would stop being like this.

“Mn?” Lan Zhan says, looking anywhere but at Wei Ying.

“Yeah, it’s nice!” Wei Ying smiles at him and pops a lychee into his perfect beautiful mouth, a drip of juice escaping from the corner to hang sweetly on his skin, and Lan Zhan is pretty sure he’s going to die at this picnic. He will die and then haunt this arboretum as a horny ghost for the rest of time, and he has no one to blame but himself.

Miraculously and unexpectedly, Lan Zhan does not die. Wei Ying drains his can of wine and they finish most of the food and Lan Zhan insists that Wei Ying take the leftovers when they go, and then they explore for another hour. Wei Ying takes pictures of everything, close ups and landscapes and, in a very exciting development, of a pair of wild rabbits they somehow managed not to startle. Wei Ying insists on showing Lan Zhan all his favorite shots, so Lan Zhan leans over Wei Ying’s shoulder to look at the camera previews, close enough to feel his heat and smell the artificial vanilla of his shampoo and the deeper, smokier hint of his skin. Lan Zhan makes approving noises at various pictures and remembers nothing that he sees.

Eventually, they’ve documented all that the arboretum has to offer, and Lan Zhan drives Wei Ying home and watches him bound back into his building like the world’s most likeable crow. His phone goes off several times on the way back to his apartment, and he doesn’t check it until he’s unpacked from the picnic and put everything away.

From: Wei Ying
today was great ty ty
I pulled some shots off the camera for you
they’re still raw but i got some good stuff!! we should go back there!!!
💖💖💖

There are several photos attached, as promised. Lan Zhan flips through them. A close-up of moss on rock, a thousand textures of green and gray; the maple they ate underneath, leaves red-green-gold against the endless blue of the sky; a lilypad on water from so close it’s nearly abstract, just shape and color; a pollen-dusted bumblebee, each hair in focus against a riot of floral colors in the background; the rabbits, one poised to run, the other relaxed. They’re beautiful and sweet and achingly tender, and Lan Zhan loves Wei Ying so much it hurts.

To: Wei Ying
I am glad you enjoyed it. These are excellent--will you put any of them in your online shop?
I will take you back to the arboretum anytime.

From: Wei Ying
lan zhan you are too sweet 😭🤩
i might but i gotta cull the whole set first and see what works
dunno if the world is clamoring for photo prints of random bunnies 😂

To: Wei Ying
Perhaps they should be.

From: Wei Ying
you tell ‘em buddy

Lan Zhan puts his phone away and goes through his evening routine. Dinner is a tofu vegetable soup that will keep well for lunches during the week, a recipe he makes at least once a month. He eats and then plays an indie game on his Nintendo Switch, one with music based gameplay and dreamy graphics, both because he enjoys it and because if he doesn’t, Wei Ying will figure out that the only reason Lan Zhan bought the Switch in the first place was because Wei Ying complained about not being able to afford one. Level completed, he saves the game and turns it off, does his dishes, and puts away the leftover soup. Opening the fridge brings him face-to-can with the remaining wine he bought for Wei Ying, and involuntarily he thinks about the long line of Wei Ying’s throat, about grabbing him by the chin and licking that drop of lychee juice off his skin, about tasting the wine on Wei Ying’s tongue. He thinks about Wei Ying’s mouth, his lips, that fucking freckle, his tongue half-stuck out as he tries to compose the perfect photo. He thinks about putting his thumb on that freckle and then sliding it between his lips, thinks about Wei Ying sucking on it.

Lan Zhan puts the soup containers on the fridge shelf mechanically, shuts the door, and grabs his laptop on his way to his bedroom. He shuts the bedroom door, too, and barely resists locking it, as though there’s any chance of being caught. His skin between his shoulder blades prickles, a weight like someone’s watching him, and he undresses and puts his clothes in the laundry with an uncomfortable knowledge of his own nudity. Ever the traitor, his dick is half-hard just with the anticipation of what he’s about to do. Lan Zhan gets into bed and puts his legs under the covers, like that’s going to help, and opens an incognito window, again.

This time he has a purpose, and he scrolls down the Yiling Patriarch’s OnlyFans page until he finds what he’s looking for. He clicks through the preview images, just to make sure, takes a breath that is not nearly as steadying as it’s supposed to be, and hits play on the video.

The post accompanying this video described it as, “POV of me doing a great job sucking your cock! 🍆💦💦💦👍” and. Well. It is as described. The camera must be mounted on a wall, one that a dildo is suction-cupped to as well, and Wei Ying, in a mesh bodysuit, grins up at the viewer. He’s wearing red lipstick. Lan Zhan can’t believe that, in the gif that has haunted his dreams and his waking hours, he didn’t notice the red lipstick.

“Hey there,” Wei Ying says to the camera, over a relaxing electronic track that Lan Zhan can recognise as some of Wei Ying’s original work. “You look happy to see me.” He bats his eyes and leans in to mouth along the dildo, then swirls his tongue around the tip. “You’re gonna be a lot happier in a second,” he promises the camera, and then he takes the dildo into his mouth.

Without looking away from the screen, Lan Zhan reaches into the drawer on his bedside table and takes out his lube. As Wei Ying works the dildo deeper into his mouth, Lan Zhan wraps a lubed hand around his dick and strokes himself in time with the movements on the video, shallow at first and then base to tip and back as Wei Ying’s head bobs.

“Oooh,” Wei Ying says, pulling off and looking at the camera again, “fuck, you feel so good.” He dives back in and sucks, hollowing his cheeks, and there’s the moment the gif is pulled from, the eye contact and the smile, and it is filthier and hotter than Lan Zhan could have imagined, the wet sounds of Wei Ying’s mouth and the music in the background and being able to see Wei Ying’s body in the rest of the shot. Wei Ying palms his dick through the bodysuit and moans, muffled, against the silicone, and Lan Zhan involuntarily fucks up into his hand with a shiver.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, again, tonguing along the dido, mouth swollen, chin wet, his hand still stroking himself. “God, I love sucking you off. Do you like it?” He wraps his free hand around the base and stretches his mouth around the silicone again, down and up, one slow slide, and then he pulls off with an utterly obscene pop. “Am I doing a good job?” he asks the camera, grinding his hips into his hand, eyes rolling half shut, a shudder rippling through him.

He is. Of this Lan Zhan is certain. He strokes himself, hot and aching against his palm, abs tense and face red. This is the closest he will ever come to having what he wants, to having Wei Ying’s mouth on his cock, to having Wei Ying, and he knows it’s probably a bad idea to be doing this but he can’t stop. Wei Ying goes back to sucking the dildo, taking it deep enough that Lan Zhan has questions about his gag reflex. He imagines holding Wei Ying by the ponytail, fingers speared into his hair against his scalp. He imagines fucking Wei Ying’s mouth while Wei Ying moans and whimpers and makes all the captivating noises he’s making right now in the video.

“I’m close,” Wei Ying says, face flushed, eyes all pupil. “Are you close? Are you gonna come with me?” Oh, almost certainly. Lan Zhan pants, open-mouthed, eyes on the screen where Wei Ying is moving like it’s actually possible for him to make a dildo come. Maybe he can. If anyone could do it, it’s Wei Ying, lipstick smeared and messy with spit and the hottest thing Lan Zhan has ever seen. He tightens his grip, tensing up low in his guts, heat licking up his spine, and then Wei Ying moans around the dildo, loud and broken, and Lan Zhan comes like a plucked string, like a chord reverberating in the air, the sound floating long and unbroken and trailing off to eventual silence. On the screen Wei Ying shakes and gasps and makes sounds that Lan Zhan will never unhear, and finally he pulls off, a string of spit stretching between his lips and the silicone before it breaks.

“Was that good for you?” he asks, leaning back to display a mess of white leaking through the black mesh of the bodysuit. “It was good for me.” Wei Ying smiles at the camera, with his blissed-out eyes and his fuck-drunk face and his red, wrecked mouth, and he winks. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

The video fades to black, and Lan Zhan stares at the dark screen for a long, long time before he can bring himself to move. There are wet wipes and tissues in the bedside drawer, and he cleans himself up mechanically, the movements as precise as a robot on an automated factory line. When he’s clean and the trash is in the trash where it belongs (where Lan Zhan probably belongs) he closes out of the video, scrolls up, and sends the Yiling Patriarch a fifty dollar tip.

Lan Zhan isn’t sure if there’s a dollar amount that will make him feel less guilty, but not sending money would be undoubtedly worse. He will adjust his budget as much as he needs to, and it will be worth it, because it’s for Wei Ying. 

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan makes it to Wednesday and therefore through another Tuesday Tupperware without engaging Wei Ying in mouth-to-mouth combat or fleeing the country, which two weeks ago would not seem like the accomplishment it is today. He finishes editing the White Dude Dick Book, as Wei Ying calls it, and sends it off with relief. His next assignment is a book about gardening that combines instruction and history. It’s a much more pleasant piece to work on, and he makes some mental notes as he goes in case he ever has access to an outdoor planting space.

Wei Ying occasionally texts him more photos from the arboretum as he finishes the post-processing. Lan Zhan looks at each and every one, cradling the memory in his hands like a butterfly, as though if he moves too quickly he’ll crush it. He texts back compliments about the color and composition and wonders if he can convince Wei Ying to share the full-resolution images, so he can have prints made.

Thursday is his monthly dinner with Lan Huan, so he makes their favorite recipe from their uncle and makes sure he has the jasmine tea his brother likes, and they eat in companionable silence. Lan Zhan tries not to look like the kind of person who has a subscription to his best friend’s porn and probably fails, since he is exactly the kind of person who has a subscription to his best friend’s porn. Fortunately Lan Huan seems not to notice this. Perhaps Lan Huan has never before met a person who has a subscription to their best friend’s porn, and so cannot identify the signs.

“How is work?” Lan Huan asks, when dinner is done and they’ve retired to the couch, a pot of tea steaming gently on the coffee table.

“Satisfying,” Lan Zhan says after a moment’s thought. “I am currently editing a gardening book. I find it soothing.” He pauses, takes a sip of tea, and adds, “And you?”

“Challenging,” Lan Huan says with an easy smile, always so much more comfortable in his emotions than Lan Zhan. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Lan Zhan makes a noise his brother understands to be encouraging, and Lan Huan tells him about his most recent adventures at the non-profit children’s orchestra he runs. If Lan Zhan has learned one thing about non-profits from listening to his brother, it’s that they always need more supplies or more volunteers or more donations, and that whatever supplies or volunteers or donations people feel inspired to give are exactly the wrong kind. He makes a mental note to ask the owners of the music shop where he gets replacement strings for his guqin if they have any suggestions for where to purchase secondhand instruments that won’t go out of tune immediately or need extensive repairs, since apparently the orchestra is all full up of “grandpa’s violin, it needs a little work but I’m sure you can use it!”

“But enough about that,” Lan Huan says, and pours them both another cup of tea. “How is Wei Ying?” He gives Lan Zhan an expectant look that is, as always, too perceptive, and Lan Zhan looks at his tea instead of at his brother.

“He is well,” he says evenly. “He said he liked the dumpling recipe you gave me. Thank you for sharing it.”

“Mm.” Lan Huan takes a sip, eyes sparkling in Lan Zhan’s peripheral vision. “What did you do Sunday?”

Lan Zhan’s ears flush, body running hot and cold at the memory of everything he did on Sunday. “We went to an arboretum,” he replies in the same even voice. “Would you like to see some of his photos?”

Lan Huan accepts the deflection and murmurs polite compliments as Lan Zhan pulls out his phone and swipes through some of them. (It’s with a bit of smug triumph that Lan Zhan notes many of Lan Huan’s comments are the same as his. Wei Ying’s photography is good.) He thinks, for a moment, he’s avoided the inevitable, but then he puts his phone away and Lan Huan says, “A-Zhan,” in that tone of voice that he always uses, and Lan Zhan’s ears heat again.

“Brother,” he says, quiet, voice tight. “Please.”

“A-Zhan,” Lan Huan says, softer this time, and sets a hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “I won’t belabor my point, but my advice has not changed.”

“I know,” Lan Zhan says, with the barest edge of misery. “Nothing else has changed, either.” He wishes fervently that his brother, so perceptive in the rest of his life, would understand that Wei Ying is not interested in Lan Zhan like that, and never has been. This repeated conversational cycle does nothing but dredge up parts of Lan Zhan best left buried.

“All right,” Lan Huan says, in tones of gentle disbelief, squeezing Lan Zhan’s shoulder, and turns back to his tea. “Would you like to play something?”

Lan Zhan nods, relaxing slightly now that he knows his brother isn’t going to push the issue, and gets out his guqin. They spend some time improvising together, and then translating Western classical music and a few pop songs onto strings and flute. (“The students keep saying, ‘Alexa, play Despacitio,’” Lan Huan confesses, “so I need to learn how to play it as a surprise.” Lan Zhan thinks Wei Ying probably already knows how to play Despacito, for situations just such as this.) At eight o’clock precisely Lan Huan gives Lan Zhan his monthly hug and leaves, and Lan Zhan presses his forehead against the door once he’s alone. He allows himself one full minute of wallowing in self-pity, and then cleans up the dishes and gets ready for bed.

At nine-fifteen he’s still awake, staring at the dark ceiling, hands folded on his chest. He’s not even thinking about anything in particular, his brain is just thinking, running through images and ideas almost too quickly for him to process. With a sigh, Lan Zhan turns on his bedside lamp and sits up. Better to give up on sleep for the moment and come back to it later. He pads barefoot out to the living room, gets a glass of water, and curls up on his couch with his phone. Absently he opens up the texts from Wei Ying and swipes through the photos from the arboretum, letting his eyes rest on each one, trying to decide how he would compose them on his wall if he had prints. On impulse, he switches back to the text app.

To: Wei Ying
Are you awake?

From: Wei Ying
yes, obviously! why are you?? isn’t it bedtime for all the little lans?

To: Wei Ying
Do you know how to play Despacito?

From: Wei Ying
omg lan zhan wtf
how do you know about despacito?
have you been kidnapped???
is this your cry for help? do I need to burst into your house and fight the people holding you hostage???

To: Wei Ying
I have not been kidnapped.

From: Wei Ying
that’s exactly what a kidnapper would make you say

To: Wei Ying
Lan Huan’s students ask him to play it. I was curious if you already knew it.

Lan Zhan’s phone vibrates with an incoming call, and it is both a surprise and inevitable that it’s from Wei Ying. He answers it, and before he can say anything Wei Ying blurts, “I called you on the phone like I’m a boomer, Lan Zhan, that’s what you’ve done to me.”

“That was not necessary,” Lan Zhan tries, and Wei Ying cuts him off with, “Of course it was necessary, you’re awake past your bedtime and asking me about memes. This is clearly an emergency.”

Lan Zhan allows himself to smile in a way he never does in public and tips his head back into the couch. “Mn.”

“I couldn’t possibly leave my Lan Zhan alone and desperately curious at this time of night, practically midnight by Lan standards. Obviously I had to swing into action.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, this time skeptical. “You have yet to answer my question.”

“So demanding, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, offended. “I’m gonna answer the fuck out of it! In just a second.” There’s some muffled clicking, and then the strange echo of a room heard on speakerphone, and a thump and a hissed, “Fuck!”

“Hold on to your socks,” Wei Ying says, tinny and further away from the microphone this time. Lan Zhan considers pointing out that he’s not currently wearing socks, when the first notes of Wei Ying’s dizi come through the phone, strangely watery from the speakerphone distortion. He plays the entirety of Despacito without hesitation or fumbling, just because Lan Zhan asked him randomly at past nine on a Wednesday night, and Lan Zhan really isn’t sure how to handle the emotions this brings up.

“So you do know it, then,” he says, after a moment. His voice is blessedly calm.

“I know all the meme songs, for situations just such as this,” Wei Ying says, clearly holding his phone again. “I wish I could take my dizi to work, it would be so funny to be able to troll the teens when they come in after school.” Silence but for the hiss of the connection for a moment. “Are you okay? You’re up late, for you.” Wei Ying’s voice is so soft it makes Lan Zhan ache behind his ribs.

“I’m fine,” Lan Zhan says, and then, in a moment of honesty, “Brain wouldn’t stop.”

Wei Ying laughs, low and understanding and without any real comedy. “That’s a whole-ass mood right there. Fuck brains, am I right?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, shutting his eyes.

“You need me to play you a lullaby, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, his voice teasing. “Want me to lull you to sleep with the dulcet tones of the Numa Numa song?”

“No.” Lan Zhan smiles as he says it, but his voice is firm.

“Some Rick Astley? Never Gonna Give You Up?”

“That is not necessary.”

“The hamster dance?”

“Even I know that is ancient, Wei Ying.”

“Ah, more modern music your style? I know just the thing.” There’s a fumbling sound from Wei Ying’s end of the line, and then, recognizable even through the speakerphone and the dizi interpretation, he plays the opening of Toxic by Britney Spears. Lan Zhan listens in fond silence, the complicated feelings in his chest unspooling out into his arms and legs and guts.

He smiles into the darkness of his living room when the line goes quiet again and says, “I do not think that song counts as a lullaby.”

“You sound sleepier already,” Wei Ying insists. “That means it worked.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. Wei Ying isn’t wrong. His brain has stopped racing in circles, and he thinks that even if he doesn’t get to sleep, he’ll at least be able to lie awake in a restful way. “I should go back to bed,” he admits.

“I should probably stop playing flute covers of pop songs after dark,” Wei Ying admits in response. “Fortunately most of my neighbors already have their hearing aids out by now.”

“Do not get kicked out of your apartment on my behalf.” Lan Zhan sets his free hand over his heart, unacceptably sentimental, wishing he was setting it on Wei Ying, wishing he could feel the steady beat of it under his palm. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Wei Ying says, with a smile Lan Zhan can hear. “Goodnight, Lan Zhan.”

“Goodnight, Wei Ying.” The line goes dead, and Lan Zhan curls into his couch for another moment, cradling his phone in his hands like it means something. He sighs, pours out his water, and is in the middle of climbing back under the covers when his phone buzzes with another text.

From: Wei Ying
hey hey lan zhan
i don't know if this will help you or not but i played around with making some meditation tracks last week
this one loops so you can play it forever if you want
sleep well!!! 💖💖💖

Lan Zhan clicks the link to download the track in question. It’s slow, mellow, somehow both space-age and timeless. There’s a distant, melancholy flute melody that sounds hopeful and wistful at the same time. Lan Zhan listens to it all the way through once, then sets his music player app to repeat, happy to have a piece, any piece, of Wei Ying to keep him company. He falls asleep before he can really decide whether that’s a healthy reaction or not.

---

On Friday, still deeply mired in editing the gardening book, Lan Zhan’s phone screen lights up and breaks his concentration.

From: Wei Ying
lan zhan lan zhan
are you doing anything monday night??

To: Wei Ying
I will be doing several things: Making dinner, doing laundry, etc.

From: Wei Ying
LAN ZHAAAAAAN
those don’t count! i assume you’ll also be like, breathing and existing and shit, i’m asking about PLANS
anyway
nie huisang’s having a fashion show at their brother’s restaurant and i’m shooting it for $50 and some clothes and my body weight in spicy bbq pork!!!
everyone’s gonna be there so you can see jiejie
they roped jiang cheng into modeling and we’re gonna see how red his face gets when we make fun of him for it
this is gonna be him

Here Wei Ying sends a gif of a white actress subtitled, “You just think murder and walk!” It is a fairly accurate depiction of how Jiang Cheng moves through the world.

From: Wei Ying
you should come 🥺🥺🥺
i know you secretly like fashion (don’t worry i haven’t told anyone, your secret’s safe with me 🤐) and huaisang’s doing some really cool stuff!!
also nie mingjue has a bunch of vegan bbq on the menu now so there’s food you can eat
it’s supposed to end at like 8:30 so you won’t be up too past your bedtime
you down???

Lan Zhan should say no to this. It will throw off his routine, and he’s not scheduled to see Wei Ying again until the following Tuesday, and he’ll have to adjust for all the things he ought to have done on Monday, which will have a ripple effect on the whole week. It will be loud, and there will be too many people, and they’re going to want to talk to him, and it will be exhausting. Lan Zhan is going to say no. It would be sensible to say no.

To: Wei Ying
I will attend. Please send me details.

From: Wei Ying
omg yaaaaaaaaay!!! 🎉🎉🎉

The next text is a link to the event description on Nie Huaisang’s website, and Lan Zhan adds it to his calendar.

He then proceeds to be nervous about it for the entire weekend, like a normal person would who reacts normally to the proposition of spending time with friends at an event relevant to their interests. The entirety of Sunday afternoon ends up devoted to picking an outfit, Lan Zhan’s bedroom ending up as close to a mess as it ever gets as he tries on and discards options. When he’s finally made his choice, he opens up his laptop and looks at the menu for The Unclean Realm, Nie Mingjue’s fusion barbeque restaurant. Lan Zhan has never eaten there before, and he always looks up menus before trying new restaurants. It’s both a coping mechanism and a practical technique--knowing the menu in advance means he knows what to expect, making it easier to apply his rules. It also means he knows if there’s anything on the menu he can eat. On more than one occasion in college he ended up at restaurants with menus that seemed specifically designed to exclude him, leaving him quietly miserable and sipping on an iced tea. (Wei Ying would always notice and then engage in negotiations with the server for something appropriate, so Lan Zhan never went hungry, but he’s since made it a point to never be in that situation again.)

Fortunately for future Lan Zhan, Wei Ying was correct and The Unclean Realm has far more vegetarian and vegan options than he would expect from someone specializing primarily in smoked meats. He wonders if it’s Lan Huan’s influence--he and Nie Mingjue have been dating for close to a year now, and while Lan Huan has a more adventurous palate than Lan Zhan, he still doesn’t consume much in the way of meat. Lan Zhan takes a moment to imagine the gruff and imposing Nie Mingjue experimenting with vegan recipes and then waiting for Lan Huan’s feedback with an expectant scowl. The idea is unexpectedly soft and fond, and it distracts him from his own nerves for a bit.

Monday is an exercise in pressing on through adversity. Somehow Lan Zhan manages to get through the workday, even though he expects to vibrate into a new plane of existence out of sheer suppressed nervous energy. Copyediting is practically muscle memory at this point, and he’s pretty sure that’s the only reason he gets anything done at all. The day takes approximately one million years and is also over in a heartbeat, which defies every law of physics that Lan Zhan knows. He doesn’t recall the drive home, and finds himself standing in front of his closet with no memory of even entering his house. He really doesn’t know why he said yes to something that has, so far, only provided anxiety, except that Wei Ying asks for so little, and he asked for this. Lan Zhan shuts his eyes, takes a deep, meditative breath, and exhales slowly. Normal. He can get dressed like a normal person who attends events outside of his own house on a regular basis. Other people do this all the time. He nods, opens his eyes, and takes tonight’s prepared outfit out of the closet where it’s been neatly hanging since yesterday afternoon.

Wei Wuxian was correct: Lan Zhan does have a secret love of fashion, one he indulges by watching couture fashion shows, window-shopping online, and occasionally purchasing a wildly impractical garment that then goes into his closet to languish, untouched, until he spends an evening trying on all his wildly impractical garments and admiring them in the mirror before he puts them all back away. He doesn’t know why he bothers--he never attends the kind of events that call for impractical garments. It’s a waste of money. It’s a waste of closet space. It doesn’t fit into the rest of his regimented life, at all, and yet… There’s something about the play of fabric on skin, of drape and texture and color, of the way garments move through the air and hide or reveal the body that he finds beautiful, and Lan Zhan has always appreciated beauty.

After a lot of anguish yesterday, he’d settled on a white tunic with flowing, sheer sleeves, slit open from shoulder to wrist. The collar and cuffs are both embroidered with white-on-white patterns, the body of it in the same sheer fabric as the sleeves, but close-fitting to skim the planes of his ribs and waist. He wears it over a white tank undershirt, for modesty, and a pair of white slim-fitting stretch jeans that are as far from the platonic idea of jeans as it’s possible for them to be. The boots are another indulgence, white leather ankle boots with low heels and far too many silver buckles. He puts on a silver necklace, one with little clear crystals glimmering among the chains, and the matching earrings in the piercings almost no one knows he has. His hair comes out of his usual low bun into a braid, tied with a white ribbon, and he opens the makeup kit that contains yet another one of his secret indulgences and lines the corners of his eyes in silver and, in a wild fit of freedom, puts on a glittering sheer diamond lipgloss. He stares at himself in the mirror, ethereal and fae and looking the queerest he thinks he’s ever looked in his entire life. Lan Zhan has no idea where the desire has come from to look like this, to step so outside the bounds of an image he has so carefully crafted not to attract attention, but it has him by the throat now and if he backs down he’ll be late, so.

Lan Zhan puts on a light jacket, tucks his wallet, phone, and lipgloss into his pockets, and goes to see a fucking fashion show on a fucking Monday night that will be full of other fucking people while he’s dressed as a fucking gay Vogue photoshoot and he has no explanation for any of this. He doesn’t know what’s happened to his life. He arrives fifteen minutes prior to when the doors are scheduled to open and tries not to have a nervous breakdown in his car as he stares, white-knuckled, at the entrance to The Unclean Realm. This is fine. This will be fine. People go to these events all the time and they survive.

Five minutes before the doors are supposed to open, Lan Zhan manages to get out of the car and walk into the restaurant. There’s a poster advertising the show (he’s pretty sure it’s Wei Ying’s design work) but before he can even read it the hostess takes one look at him and says, “It’s in the event space! Straight back and to the left, you can’t miss it.” He gives her a grateful nod and, upon turning the corner, finds a cluster of people dressed very differently from the rest of the patrons of the restaurant, all bright colors and avant-garde hair. A few are vaguely familiar, people he’s probably seen with Nie Huaisang before, and then a woman in a red vintage reproduction jumpsuit turns around and double-takes at him.

“Damn, Lan Zhan,” Wen Qing says, giving him a full once-over with keen eyes that miss nothing. “You decided to go all out, huh?”

Behind her, MianMian turns around as well and does the same double-take. “Wow,” she says, openly delighted. “Wei Ying is gonna pass out when he sees you.”

“I’m familiar with Nie Huaisang’s work,” Lan Zhan says, keeping his knee-jerk defensive reaction out of his voice. “I wished to show respect to their efforts by dressing appropriately.” He ignores the comment about Wei Ying because he has no idea what MianMian means and he’s trying very hard not to think about Wei Ying right now. A little bit of the tension in his shoulders releases, though, because while he doesn’t spend a lot of time with these two, he does consider them friendly and they won’t try to make small talk with him all night. “I didn’t realize you’d be attending,” he says after a silence that ends up just on the edge of awkward, and then curses himself immediately, because--

“Like I’d miss a chance to see my boyfriend pretend he hates being the center of attention,” Wen Qing says, amused and long-suffering. “He refuses to tell me what he’s actually modeling. He claims Nie Huaisang made him sign an NDA.”

“I’m here for moral support,” MianMian says, adjusting the strap on her gold romper. “Also because Wei Ying invited as many of us to come be privy to Jiang Cheng’s humiliation as possible.”

“And because the female models are cute and MianMian wants to ogle them,” Wen Qing says, deadpan. MianMian hits her with her purse.

“I will be looking respectfully,” she insists. “And maybe chatting one up afterward, respectfully, if she seems nice and not straight.”

“I do not believe any of Nie Huaisang’s associates are straight,” Lan Zhan says, which is absolutely true, though he would normally not announce it out loud like that. Fortunately at that moment the doors open, and they proceed inside once they've gone through the standard “It’s Wen Qing. Oh, it’s not under Wen? Try Qing? Yes, that’s me, Qing Wen,” ridiculousness that comes with online ticketing platforms. The event space is much warmer than the outside hallway, probably from the stage lights, and Lan Zhan takes off his jacket and folds it neatly over one arm. His bare arms prickle under the open sleeves, not used to being exposed to the air like this, and he follows MianMian and Wen Qing further inside for lack of any other plans.

He’s still trying to get the lay of the land when a blessedly familiar “Lan Zhan!” rings through the room, and he turns to find Wei Ying bounding up to him, camera in hand. He grins, face bright with joy even in the atmospheric dimness, and then Wei Ying does the same double-take that Wen Qing did, head bobbing up and down, mouth falling open. Someone must have failed to properly tape down a cord, because Wei Ying trips spectacularly. Lan Zhan darts in to catch him before he can go fully ass over teakettle, or have to make the decision between saving the camera or saving himself. (Lan Zhan knows in his bones that Wei Ying would choose the camera.) There’s a lot of momentum, and they end up practically face-to-chest, Wei Ying tucked in against him and half turned to the side, Lan Zhan’s arms around him in what is absolutely not an embrace. Time stops, briefly, for Lan Zhan, acutely and painfully aware of Wei Ying’s heat through the sheer fabric of his top, the weight of him against his chest, his artificial vanilla shampoo and the salt of his skin. It would be extremely easy to slide his hand up into Wei Ying’s hair, to turn his head up and lean down and taste him. His heart pounds with how much he wants it, his mouth dry, his hands shaking infinitesimally. He wants, he wants, he wants.

“Wow, Lan Zhan has such great reflexes!” Wei Ying says, higher-pitched than usual, and he takes his weight back into his own feet and stands up. Lan Zhan lets him go as if burned and steps back to a normal distance. “And fashion sense!” Wei Ying adds, giving him another once-over. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist showing off, but damn.” He laughs, low and easy. “You’re making me look bad, and I was styled by the designer!”

Lan Zhan drops his eyes from Wei Ying’s face to his body without thinking, and then attempts to atomize into a fine mist, because Wei Ying is wearing a sheer skintight black lace shirt that glistens wetly, tight leather-look pants with cutout panels of the same sheer lace, and (Lan Zhan is going to die on the spot) a holographic metallic red bondage harness. It frames his pecs beautifully, straps hugging him around the ribs down to his waist, assembled with o-rings that Lan Zhan would be able to easily slip two fingers into for grip. Horror creeps up the back of his neck as he realizes he’s seen Wei Ying wear similar harnesses before, in photos and videos he’s scrolled past on OnlyFans. The harness is doing things to him. He can see Wei Ying’s nipples through the fabric of the shirt and he wants to bite them. His whole body goes hot, and he hopes that the dim lighting of the room will hide his flush.

“Is it common for the photographer to model as well?” he asks, his mouth dry, bringing his gaze away from Wei Ying’s practically naked fully clothed chest with an effort. This, too, is somehow a mistake, because it means he finally notices that Wei Ying has dyed a red streak into his hair, that he’s wearing black lipstick and red eyeshadow applied with a precision that makes Lan Zhan ache to destroy it. He wants to grab Wei Ying by the hair and smear that makeup across his face with his thumb, so hard Wei Ying’s mouth will go swollen and red without even being kissed.

“Not usually,” Wei Ying is saying, and Lan Zhan snaps back to reality violently. “Huaisang insisted because of ‘the aesthetic, my dear’ and I mean… I look great, right?” He winks, and Lan Zhan chokes on air, and then chokes on air again when Wei Ying grabs him by the wrist, two fingers on the fabric of the embroidered cuff and two fingers hot against his bare skin. “Anyway, enough about how amazing we look! We snuck jiejie in early because she shouldn’t stand around for too long, and I saved you a seat next to her!”

No longer in control of his faculties, Lan Zhan allows himself to be towed along to his apparent new home next to Wei Ying’s sister. Wei Ying deposits him in the padded folding chair with an, “Okay I gotta go get some crowd shots of people mingling be back later bye!” and leaves them both sitting in a bemused silence, Lan Zhan’s wrist still afire with Wei Ying’s remembered heat. Jiang Yanli laughs softly, and Lan Zhan takes a moment to collect himself and turn his brain away from the well-worn track of Wei Ying Wei Ying Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan likes Jiang Yanli, as much as he likes anyone who isn’t Wei Ying. She’s kind and supportive and he once watched her tear her husband’s horrible cousin to verbal shreds with incredible poise and perfect politeness when the man decided that Jiang Cheng’s college graduation was the right time to belittle Wei Ying for quitting corporate life. Lan Zhan thinks he might follow Jiang Yanli into hell, if it came down to it, but there’s no possible reason she’d lead him there.

“Lan Zhan,” Jiang Yanli says, taking his hand and squeezing it warmly. “It’s lovely to see you. Are you well?”

Lan Zhan inclines his head in the affirmative. “And you?” he asks, and then, a beat later, “Not that you need to discuss your health if you do not wish to.” He has been around Jiang Yanli enough to know that people never stop asking about her fibromyalgia, and he thinks it must be tiresome.

Jiang Yanli smiles and pats his hand once before releasing it. “Oh, I don’t mind a question or two between friends. I’ve been much better recently--we figured out a couple of foods that were triggering my flares.” She sighs, eyes going a little wistful. “One of them is pork, which is a shame.”

“Oh,” Lan Zhan says, understanding immediately. “The soup.”

Jiang Yanli nods. “I’m experimenting with other meats to see if I can replicate the flavor, but for now if I make it I have to decide if it’s worth the flare to eat it.” She looks around, then leans in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell A-Ying, but I eat it more often than I don’t. It’s very good soup.”

“Wei Ying speaks very highly of it,” Lan Zhan offers, and Jiang Yanli laughs at him and seems, in that moment, so much like Wei Ying it’s startling. Wei Ying is normally the only person who laughs at Lan Zhan, as though he’s actually funny, and it makes his heart cramp up.

“Hey!” the actual Wei Ying says, making Lan Zhan jump internally. He’s hovering in front of them, camera hanging around his neck and a small plate in each hand. “I raided the buffet for you so you don’t have to brave the crowds!” He hands a plate to his sister and leans in to air-kiss her forehead. “No pork for my jiejie!” he says, warmly, and then hands the second plate to Lan Zhan and, good god, he leans in to air-kiss his forehead, too. “All vegan for my Lan Zhan!” he says, just as warmly, and then disappears back into the milling crowd. Lan Zhan feels like his world has just been knocked six inches out of alignment. He dares a glance to the side, and Jiang Yanli is smiling at him in the same way that Lan Huan smiles at him, far too knowing. Lan Zhan turns away to investigate the contents of his plate, which is the most polite way to escape.

The food is good. Lan Zhan doesn’t have a lot of experience with vegan barbecue, but Nie Mingjue has done things with vegetables and mushrooms and tofu that are delicious, and Wei Ying was thoughtful enough to pick things that are smokey rather than spicy. The food also, blessedly, fills time, and Lan Zhan doesn’t have to speak to anyone again until the actual fashion show starts. Wen Qing and MianMian join them as the lights go down, and Lan Zhan relaxes again once he’s safe in the darkness, no longer feeling the false weight of phantom eyes.

The music starts, and within a stanza Lan Zhan realizes it's Wei Ying’s, hard bass pounding out a beat that demands aggressive movements, the dizi sampled and re-sampled and moving over the top, in and out of the synths like it's telling a story. It’s completely unlike anything Lan Zhan usually listens to, and he wants to own it immediately, wants to let it beat against his chest so he can feel it vibrate in his lungs, and figure out what Wei Ying was trying to say. Then the first model comes out, and Lan Zhan, blessedly, stops thinking.

In college Nie Huaisang liked bold color and unconventional fabric choices, and in the time since in which they’ve developed their personal brand, they’ve only pushed that harder. The first collection runs the gamut from traditional menswear silhouettes in loud floral and abstract patterns to couture gowns that wouldn’t look out of place in an early Alexander McQueen runway to clubwear Lan Zhan could picture in a music video. It shouldn’t work, not as a unified collection, but Nie Huaisang chose a through-line that Lan Zhan appreciates aesthetically even as it inspires a bone-deep panic: Every look is paired with one of the bondage harnesses. A model of indeterminate gender wears a teal gown that flows behind them in an ombre to a deep blue, paired with a collared harness with epaulets made of an iridescent vinyl that flashes the same colors. Another model wears an elaborate harness that goes from her thighs to her shoulders, with nothing underneath but lace shorts and matching pasties. Another model wears a purple floral suit with no shirt and a deep plum harness underneath, this one matte so that it seems to eat the light. Yanli’s sudden clapping reminds Lan Zhan to look at the model’s face, not just the clothes, and he realizes it’s Jiang Cheng, scowling into the middle distance and stomping so hard to the beat Lan Zhan thinks the stage might break. Truly, he’s a natural at this.

The music shifts, and when it does the color choices do, and the next section is all monochrome iridescence, blacks that shimmer like an oil slick and whites that somehow contain every color. It’s starkly beautiful, much simpler than the previous designs but with the kind of clean lines that tell you the creator made every choice for a reason. A model steps out from backstage in an all-white ensemble and Lan Zhan’s breath catches, because oh no.

He wants this one.

The knee-length jacket is beautifully fitted, skimming over the model’s body like water. It’s white silk, probably, the fabric catching all the colors of the lights and flinging them back as it flows in the air, dotted with tiny crystals that glitter like the moon on snow. The high-waisted pants match, wide-legged and swishing with each step the model takes. Underneath, the now-characteristic lack of a shirt, and a harness. It’s simple, a band across the ribs, a vertical strap up to the collar, and two straps on the side to create a triangular shape. The design would be plain, almost boring, except that it’s made out of a white vinyl that looks like the inside of an abalone shell. It is wildly impractical, nothing he could ever wear in public, and Lan Zhan absolutely wants this outfit with a fury that shocks him. He imagines wearing the harness over his current clothes, the straps snug around him like a hug, and his ears flush.

The rest of the fashion show passes in a haze, the white harness ringing in his mind like the afterimages of too bright a light. Jiang Cheng models two more suits, one in a charcoal gray velvet and, in the last section of the show, a metallic geometric jacquard. Lan Zhan remembers to clap, mostly because Jiang Yanli claps at the right times and that cues him to join in. Finally all the models come out for a final round, and then Nie Huaisang comes out for a bow in their own neon orange harness over a pink-orange ombre jumpsuit with a matching fan, and there’s more clapping and cheering and someone brings them some flowers and then the house lights come back up and Lan Zhan sits, frozen, on his folding chair while all around him people stand and chat.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, sliding into the chair next to him with a bright grin. “What did you think?”

Lan Zhan swallows, and carefully doesn’t look at Wei Ying in his sheer lace shirt and his red harness and his perfect black lipstick. “Nie Huaisang has worked hard. They must be very proud.” He pauses, swallows again. “That was your music.”

“Oh? Yeah.” Wei Ying shrugs and knocks their shoulders together. He’s so warm against Lan Zhan’s shoulder, left bare by the open sleeves, only a layer of lace between them. “It wasn’t hard, music for these things is all a hundred twenty beats per minute, I just had to throw some bass in and then mess around.”

“It was very good,” Lan Zhan insists, most of his attention on the inches of contact at his shoulder. He feels it through his whole body. “I would like to have a copy, if it’s available.”

“Lan Zhaaaan,” Wei Ying says, half-turning away but not moving his shoulder. “It’s basic loud electronica, don’t flatter me.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, in a tone that makes Wei Ying actually face him, and he makes direct eye contact. “I enjoyed the music,” he says, each word heavy on his tongue. “It was very good. I would like to listen to it again.”

Wei Ying opens his mouth, closes it again, and flushes under Lan Zhan’s gaze, and Lan Zhan doesn’t break it like he normally would. He lets it hang, lets himself really look at Wei Ying, lets Wei Ying really look back at him. He wants Wei Ying to see his sincerity, wants Wei Ying to stop acting like all his skills are stolen or mediocre. He wants to loop his two middle fingers into the o-ring on Wei Ying’s sternum and drag him close and kiss him until he forgets to hate himself.

“I’ll, uh,” Wei Ying starts, clearing his throat. “I’ll throw it on my Soundcloud.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan says, firmly. He doesn’t drop the eye contact. Something about being here, in the event space of a restaurant he didn’t know existed, in an outfit he would normally never wear in public, something about the unreality of this situation makes him brave in ways he normally isn’t. Lan Zhan feels perfectly comfortable looking at Wei Ying like this for a hundred more years. Wei Ying squirms under his gaze, uncharacteristically silent, and then his eyes skitter away and he grins over Lan Zhan’s shoulder in pure mischief.

“There’s the man of the hour!” he says, shooting to his feet, and Lan Zhan stares at the empty chair and suddenly notices the arousal thrumming through his veins. He breathes deeply, thinks about nothing, and collects himself before he turns around. Jiang Cheng has come out from backstage, back in the purple floral suit and the harness. Wen Qing has one hand looped into one of the straps with a possessive air, while MianMian takes pictures on her cell phone and Jiang Yanli looks on fondly. Jiang Cheng’s face has never been more red. Lan Zhan thinks he might witness the first actual case of spontaneous human combustion, especially when Wei Ying skids in to throw his arms around his brother’s shoulders and crow about knowing “A real live model, Jiang Cheng! With your titties out and everything!”

“Wei Ying!” Jiang Cheng splutters, and Wei Ying laughs, and Lan Zhan sidles up on the much-quieter side conversation where Jiang Yanli and Nie Huaisang are chatting.

“I didn’t even know this was here!” Jiang Yanli is saying as he approaches, and Nie Huaisang flutters their fan and smiles behind it.

“It’s for wedding receptions and private parties, mostly,” they tell her, “and da-ge books live music on Friday nights. Mondays are always slow, so he let me use it when he heard I was looking for a venue.”

“It was beautiful,” Jiang Yanli says, squeezing their shoulder. “You must be very proud! Those dresses were so lovely. I didn’t know you’d become so prolific.”

Nie Huaisang flutters their fan again and adjusts the enormous bouquet tucked into their other elbow. “My secret,” they say, in a whisper, “is that I actually work very hard, but only on things I care about.” They both laugh, and then Nie Huaisang catches sight of Lan Zhan and gives him a slow once-over, eyebrows climbing their face. “Lan Zhan!” They grin at him, admiring and skeptical at the same time. “You’re the bravest person in the world, wearing all-white to a barbecue restaurant.”

“It seemed appropriate for the event,” Lan Zhan says, again with that flare of defensiveness. “I enjoyed the designs,” he practically blurts, as Nie Huaisang looks like they want to say something else about Lan Zhan’s outfit and he already feels immensely awkward. “The monochrome section was very compelling.” And then, because he can’t stop thinking about the white harness, “Do you have a ready-to-wear collection, or do you only do custom?”

Nie Huaisang raises one eyebrow, closes their fan, and taps it against their lower lip. Their gaze is appraising, and Lan Zhan stays stock-still, refusing to give anything away. “My cards are at the door,” they say eventually. “Email me and we can talk.”

Lan Zhan nods and turns away before Nie Huaisang can figure anything else out, and manages to be just in time to catch Wei Ying again as Jiang Cheng shoves him off with a hissed, “Why you little!” Wei Ying is, if anything, even warmer now as he collides with Lan Zhan’s chest, and Lan Zhan’s brain finds a new depth of panic at that knowledge.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, whipping around behind him and hovering behind his shoulder. “Protect me!”

“He’s my brother and I’m allowed to fucking kill him if I want!” Jiang Cheng insists, glaring past Lan Zhan. After a moment he remembers himself, actually looks at him, and nods, “Lan Zhan.”

“Jiang Cheng,” Lan Zhan says evenly, driven to absolute distraction by the knowledge that Wei Ying is six inches away from his back wearing a sheer shirt and a bondage harness. Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying’s brother. Focus. “I saw the article about the Yang wedding. You must be proud.”

(Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng have had a somewhat tempestuous relationship over the years. In college they were united by a shared desire to keep Wei Ying out of trouble, which made them allies if not friends. After the Jiangs disowned Wei Ying, Jiang Cheng did nothing, said nothing while his brother worked himself to the bone, comfortable in the bosom of his family while Wei Ying worked and clawed and went hungry for both food and affection. Lan Zhan hated Jiang Cheng for it, like he’s never hated anyone before or since. Then, exactly a year after graduating with a business degree and taking a high-paying job with a friend of Madam Yu’s, Jiang Cheng quit spectacularly to go into business as a wedding planner. Wei Ying explained that he’d played along with his parents long enough to get out of college debt-free and save up enough to pursue his actual dream, and that the estrangement had been an act. There had been one painfully awkward conversation where Jiang Cheng looked past Lan Zhan’s head and gritted out, “Thank you for taking care of Wei Ying while I couldn’t,” and Lan Zhan had said, “There is no need to speak of this again,” and they promptly hadn’t. They’ve reached a neutral sort of truce now. Lan Zhan still doesn’t understand a relationship between brothers that involves so much yelling, but he accepts that he doesn’t need to.)

Jiang Cheng nods, face softening just a touch at the compliment. “I think those kids have what it takes to make it and their love is real,” he says of two clients that are almost certainly older than him. “Now,” he adds, squaring his shoulders, “let me murder my brother.”

“All I said was that Madam Yu would be proud of him,” Wei Ying says innocently. “And maybe threatened to send her some pictures of his nipples.”

“You!” Jiang Cheng says, lunging around Lan Zhan, and in one smooth movement Lan Zhan maneuvers himself between them again, valiantly ignoring the word “nipples” in Wei Ying’s mouth. The fact that they are Jiang Cheng’s nipples makes that easier, at least.

“I cannot permit you to murder your brother in front of me,” Lan Zhan says, flatly. “This outfit is dry-clean only.”

Silence rings through the group for a moment, and then Wei Ying laughs, and then MianMian and Wen Qing start laughing, disbelief on their faces, and then Jiang Cheng’s scowl gets even scowlier, which Lan Zhan thinks means he’s having an emotion and doesn’t like it. “I don’t fucking believe it!” he says, throwing up his hands. “I thought he was lying! But no! You make jokes!”

“I told you he was funny!” Wei Ying says, tucking his chin over Lan Zhan’s shoulder. It takes all of Lan Zhan’s rapidly waning control not to turn around, grab Wei Ying by the back of the neck, and smear that fucking lipstick all over both their faces. The knowledge that Wei Ying talks to his brother about Lan Zhan, tells him that Lan Zhan is funny, like Lan Zhan is a person and not a robot, makes him flare up in some strange possessive burn. If he stays here one more minute he’s going to drag Wei Ying by the harness behind one of the black stage drapes and get his diamond lipgloss all over Wei Ying’s beautiful fucking cock.

“It is late,” he says abruptly, burning from the inside. “I should go.” Lan Zhan nods to everyone with a precise goodbye, extricates himself from Wei Ying, and heads for the door. He pauses long enough to grab one of Nie Huaisang’s business cards and makes it out to the clear air outside, cool on overheated skin, a temperature shock that brings him back to his senses. Once in his car he drops his forehead to his steering wheel and breathes.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he knows before he even digs it out who it will be.

From: Wei Ying
you okay? did jc get to you? you know he doesn’t mean it

Lan Zhan sighs, leans his head against the headrest, and tries to figure out something that isn’t a lie.

To: Wei Ying
I am fine, thank you. There were more people than I’m used to, and I have work tomorrow.
I enjoyed the fashion show. Thank you for inviting me.

From: Wei Ying
okay but if you ever need me to fight jiang cheng for you let me know! i’ll do it!!! it’ll be in smash bros but i’ll still do it!!
text me if you need another lullaby
my flute is ready

To: Wei Ying
If I find myself in need of a dizi cover of Gangnam Style, I will contact you.

From: Wei Ying
you do that!

Lan Zhan gets home and leans his back against the door once it’s shut, breathing slow and deep and unable to calm the sparks fizzing through his blood. It’s late, for him. He’ll already be up past his bedtime even if he starts his evening routine immediately, but he can tell he won’t be able to sleep. He walks into the bedroom and flips on a couple of lights, low and golden in the dark of his apartment, and very deliberately turns to look at himself in the mirror.

Lan Zhan looks at the sleeves of his tunic, how they bare his arms, how they flow through the air when he moves. He looks at the jeans, how they hug his muscles, emphasize the length of his legs. He looks at his face, the shine of the makeup making his cold, remote expression seem deliberate instead of a defense mechanism, like a choice instead of being the only face he knows how to make. He runs his hands slowly over his chest, throat to sternum and over his ribs, thinking about the white harness, thinking about feeling the cold metal and flexible vinyl against his skin. He thinks about Wei Ying touching him, fingertips skimming over warm skin and cool metal and slick plastic.

He goes out to the living room and gets his laptop. Incognito window. OnlyFans. The shaking in his fingers doesn’t impede him at all, the ritual already muscle-memory. The wait for the page to load is interminable, and the scrolling to find what he wants is just as interminable, and in spite of that, when it finds it, it feels like it’s too soon. Lan Zhan sets the laptop neatly on his dresser and clicks play.

In the video, Wei Ying wears a black harness that Lan Zhan can now recognize as Nie Huaisang’s work, his black leather jacket, black cutoff denim shorts, and black boots. Wei Ying has cleared what seems to be the entirety of his studio apartment down to the bare wood floors, a glittering drape behind him that throws the red and blue lights into an array of reflected stars, a whole galaxy on the wall. Wei Ying grins at the camera, runs one hand through his unbound hair, and winks.

And then Wei Ying starts to dance.

The music (Wei Ying’s music) has a bassline Lan Zhan can only describe as throbbing, and Wei Ying hits every beat, his motions unrefined but full of the same joy that he always carries through the world. It is sensual and sexual and beautifully vital, so alive. Lan Zhan has been half-hard since he first laid eyes on Wei Ying at the fashion show, and by the time Wei Ying takes off his leather jacket with a flourish, he’s all the way there. Eyes on the video, where Wei Ying is now crawling across the floor (from a different camera angle, Lan Zhan has counted three, and the analytical part of his mind wonders how Wei Ying set it up), Lan Zhan unbuttons his jeans and gets them and his underwear down just far enough to free his dick, tucking the bottom of the tunic under the hem of his undershirt to get it out of the way. He wraps a hand around himself and strokes, roughly, as Wei Ying runs his hands down his body to the fly of his denim shorts, undoes the button, and then flips his hair and smiles at the camera. His hands, clever hands, artist’s hands, trail back up over his skin to the harness, and he tucks two fingers into the o-ring at his collarbone and pulls himself back to his feet in a fluid motion.

It takes another full excruciatingly sexy minute of writhing and swaying and touching before Wei Ying finally unzips his shorts and shimmies them off, leaving him in a pair of black stretch lace underwear that only serve to accent his hard dick and do absolutely nothing to conceal it. Lan Zhan watches him kneel in front of the camera, the one with the closer shot, running his hands into his hair, legs spread and his body obscenely on display. Lan Zhan thinks about mouthing at his dick through the lace, thinks about getting his tongue on hints of the smooth skin under the fabric, thinks about wrapping one hand around the harness to pin Wei Ying in place while he gets the other one into the lace briefs and around his cock. Would Wei Ying be scalding hot against his palm, like Lan Zhan is now? Would he want it slow and gentle, or would he want it as hard and rough as Lan Zhan’s hand is moving now? Would his heart race and his lungs ache and his guts shiver and clench, like Lan Zhan’s are? Would he burn, like Lan Zhan burns?

In the wider shot, Wei Ying tips over onto his back and lifts his hips into the air, palming himself through the lace. He shivers, whole bodied, and turns his face to smile languidly into the camera, and winks.

Lan Zhan comes into his cupped hand, shivering, burning up in the cool air of his bedroom, fully clothed and standing up and acutely aware of every nerve under his skin. The video fades to black, the afterimages burned onto his retinas, and Lan Zhan stands there frozen for so long that his laptop screen goes dark. That, finally, shakes him out of it, and he washes his hands and changes for bed and takes his laptop back out to his desk to charge.

Before he goes to sleep, Lan Zhan breaks what would have been another rule for himself, had he been able to predict it in advance: He emails Nie Huaisang about the white harness, fingers trembling as he composes the message on his phone. It’s too soon. It’s a bad idea. It gives far too much away, but Lan Zhan wants too much to be able to stop now, which is why he tries not to want.

Tries.

And fails.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan sleeps poorly that night and wakes fuzzy-headed and fatigued. He goes for his run and eats breakfast and dresses for work on autopilot, brain empty. It’s only when he makes it to the office and attempts to put his non-existent lunch in the fridge that he realizes today is Tuesday, which means he’s going to see Wei Ying at 10:45am, and he doesn’t have food for him. He went to a fashion show last night instead of making dinner, and today is Tuesday Tupperware and Lan Zhan is empty-handed. The guilt cuts him like a knife, and he curses himself all the way back to his desk. He could have planned for this if he hadn’t let anxiety destroy his weekend. He could have made a curry on Sunday, something that would get better in the fridge, and brought it for Wei Ying today. He could have ordered something from The Unclean Realm for takeout last night, if he hadn’t been so inappropriately horny and distracted. He’s a terrible friend in more ways than one.

The morning goes by in a haze of book edits done by rote, and the cafe bell rings above the door, coffee and cinnamon in the air, and as Wei Ying looks up behind the counter and starts to smile, Lan Zhan blurts, “I’m sorry.”

Wei Ying blinks. “...kay?” he says, slowly, and gives Lan Zhan a once over, a concerned crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Dude, you look kinda terrible. Go sit down and I’ll be there in a minute and you can tell me what’s going on.”

Lan Zhan does as he’s told, shoulders tight. They get tighter when Wei Ying slides the usual tray in front of him, the sandwich and the matcha latte. It has a maple leaf in the foam today, and Lan Zhan has the sudden urge to throw it across the room.

“Right,” Wei Ying says, studying him from across the table, “so why do you look like you’re about to tell me you hit my grandma with a car?” He raises a finger to forestall any objection, and adds, “All my grandmas are dead of natural causes, so no actual grandmas were harmed in the making of this question.”

Lan Zhan clenches his hands into fists in his lap, hard enough that his knuckles go white. “It is Tuesday,” he says, his eyes on the latte.

“With you so far,” Wei Ying says evenly.

Lan Zhan grits his teeth. “I didn’t think--” he starts, pauses, tries again. “Last night, with the fashion show.” Why is this so difficult? Words never come easily to Lan Zhan, and right now it feels like he’s prying each one loose like a rock from tar. Lan Zhan shuts his eyes. “I forgot to cook,” he says, miserably. “I didn’t bring you anything. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says with half a laugh. “Is that it? Don’t worry, I get a sandwich every shift I work. It’s fine.” Lan Zhan manages to pry his eyes back open, and Wei Ying smiles at him, chin perched on his hands. “So you forgot one time in three years! It’s not a big deal.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, tightly, because it is a big deal and he can’t articulate why. It’s just… He’s done this for three years, done it specifically to show Wei Ying that one person in the world will always be there, that he can rely on one person for support, and now he’s fucked it up and ruined it with his pining and longing and wanting, and Wei Ying will never actually tell him if he’s disappointed, he’ll just shove it down like he does with all his other negative emotions and plaster a smile over the top. His stomach cramps with the idea that he’ll end up in the same place as Wei Ying’s adoptive parents and the foster families that came before and the way Wei Ying simply assumes every person he meets will eventually cast him aside. “I should have planned better,” he says, hands shaking under the table where Wei Ying can’t see them. “I should have--I should have--” The room blurs, and when he can focus again Wei Ying’s expression has changed to one of worry and growing horror.

“Oh, god,” Wei Ying says, getting out of his chair and tucking a hand under Lan Zhan’s armpit. “Okay, dude, don’t cry in public, you hate having emotions where people can see them, it’ll be fine, come with me.” Lan Zhan allows himself to be pulled to his feet and steered elsewhere, his pulse pounding in his temples, his chest tight. “Hey, I’m just gonna inventory the decaf,” he hears Wei Ying say to someone, and then he’s in a smaller space that smells strongly of coffee beans.

“Sit here,” Wei Ying says, depositing him on something that definitely isn’t a chair, and then Lan Zhan’s alone in this coffee closet and struggling to breathe, and then Wei Ying is back, sitting down next to him, and talking. The words come from far away, as though underwater, and when Lan Zhan manages to focus enough to parse them, Wei Ying is saying, “Okay, buddy, lean forward for me, elbows on your knees. This is gonna be a little chilly but it’ll help, all right? Keep breathing,” a constant stream of comforting semi-nonsense. Lan Zhan lets Wei Ying arrange him as he wants, hunched forward, his normal posture nowhere to be seen. Wei Ying sets something cold on the back of his neck and drops one hand to his back to rub soothing circles over the soft fabric of his cardigan. It is here that Lan Zhan realizes, rather belatedly, that he’s having a panic attack. That makes it easier--he has rules for this. Lan Zhan counts his breaths and focuses on the cold on the nape of his neck and the hand on his back and waits for it to end. Wei Ying keeps talking, and he shuts his eyes and drifts on the words while understanding none of them.

Some interminable amount of time later, Lan Zhan opens his eyes again, flexes his fingers against his slacks, and takes a full breath all the way into his stomach. Wei Ying’s hand stills between his shoulder blades. “Better?” he asks, and Lan Zhan nods at the ground. “Great,” Wei Ying says. “Do you want me to stop touching you?” Never, Lan Zhan wants to say, but that’s too much to admit. Wei Ying is offering comfort to a friend who just had a rather embarrassing breakdown in public, nothing more. Still… Lan Zhan shakes his head, and Wei Ying’s hand flexes against his back once. “Great. You want to sit up?”

Lan Zhan nods, and grabs the whatever-it-is at the nape of his neck before he straightens. It turns out to be a cheap icepack, the kind with blue gel inside, wrapped in a paper towel. “Yeah,” Wei Ying says, following his gaze, “I raided the first aid kit. It helps, right? Here.” Wei Ying presses a handful of tissues into his free hand. “You got a little weepy there for a minute.”

Embarrassment flushes through Lan Zhan’s whole body, but there’s no judgement in Wei Ying’s voice. He wipes his face and blows his nose and finally takes in his surroundings. It must be one of the back rooms at the cafe, because the walls are stacked with cardboard boxes of coffee beans and coffee filters and paper cups. They are, in fact, sitting on a cardboard box labeled “Arabica.” That detail sticks in Lan Zhan’s mind for absolutely no reason at all.

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan manages, his voice rough, and he stuffs the used tissues into his pocket to dispose of later. “My apologies. I was… I was not expecting that.”

“Neither was I,” Wei Ying says cheerfully, his hand stroking along Lan Zhan’s spine, petting him like a cat. “Fortunately you were in the company of this cafe’s premiere expert on panic attacks.” He tries to catch Lan Zhan’s eye and mostly fails, though Lan Zhan feels the weight of his gaze. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says softly. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Fuck brains, am I right?”

“Mn.”

Wei Ying pats his back again, and then stands and sticks his head out the door of the storage closet. “Hey, Amilia?” he calls. “Could you grab me an ice water? Thanks.” A moment later he’s back, pressing the cup into Lan Zhan’s much calmer hands. He waits patiently for Lan Zhan to take a sip before he speaks again.

“So. You get those often?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head, realizes that he needs to offer more explanation than that, and clarifies, “Not since high school.” He stares at the cup of water in his hands, blinks, and frowns. “Your manager? I’m not an employee. Should I be here?”

Wei Ying waves one hand, the other back to petting Lan Zhan’s spine again. “It’s fine. I told her I was ‘inventorying the decaf,’ which is the code for ‘I need to hide someone in the back.’ Normally it’s like, a teenage girl who has some creep harassing her. Sometimes it’s my PTSD getting triggered and I need a minute.” Lan Zhan watches Wei Ying shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Childhood trauma can be a real bitch.” He lets silence fall while his hand strokes from Lan Zhan’s nape almost down to his waistband. “Can you tell me what that was about, or are you really that upset that you didn’t bring me anything?”

Lan Zhan takes another sip of his water and tries to gather his thoughts, scattered to the winds like dandelion seeds. “I slept poorly,” he admits after a moment. That’s not all of it, though, so he adds, “It wasn’t not about the cooking. I was. Concerned. That Wei Ying would be disappointed.”

Wei Ying runs his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully and nods. “Let me guess, your brain fixated on that and then spiraled into disaster mode and then all it took was a gentle breeze to shove you over the edge.”

Lan Zhan nods, curling in on himself in embarrassment again. Wei Ying notices immediately and grabs him by the shoulder, turning them toward each other. “Hey, no,” he says firmly, face serious. “None of that. I once cried over a baked potato. If we could control our brains through sheer force of will no one would need therapy or antidepressants.”

Lan Zhan blinks. “A baked potato,” he says, as though that was the important part.

“I was looking forward to it for lunch and then the baked potato counter ran out right in front of me,” Wei Ying says with absolutely zero hesitation. “They had one job . It was a rough day already and that was the final straw.”

“Mn.”

“Anyway,” Wei Ying says, hand on Lan Zhan’s back, up and down in slow movements that make him want to melt and purr and curl into Wei Ying’s lap and tuck his face into the crook of his neck, “I’m not disappointed. I’m the one that invited you out last night and threw off your schedule, so it’s clearly my fault you didn’t have time to cook.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan protests, because this, too, is something Wei Ying always does, blaming himself for everything bad that happens to him.

Wei Ying must hear what Lan Zhan means in the tone of his voice, because he says, “Okay, fine. It’s your fault and you forgetting to bring me leftovers once in three fucking years makes you the worst friend ever, completely wiping out all the other hundreds of times you brought me awesome homemade food and planned fun stuff for us to do on Sundays and let me play Zelda at your house for hours and that one time in college you held my hair back for half an hour while I violently puked up that horrible cocktail Nie Huaisang invented. I will never forgive you this grievous insult.” He fumbles on a shelf, turns back to Lan Zhan, and slaps him lightly across the face with a vinyl food service glove. “I challenge you to a duel for my honor. Swords at dawn.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says in a very different tone of voice, the corner of his mouth curling up a little. It does sound extremely ridiculous when put that way, and his diaphragm relaxes, the tightness under his ribs fading.

“So now that we've established that,” Wei Ying says, dropping his hand and leaning their shoulders together, “how can I convince you this isn’t a big deal? Do you need me to video call you while I eat my free sandwich for lunch today? Because that’s a little weird but I’ll do it.” He holds up three fingers next to his head, face mock serious. “I won’t even make fun of you, I swear.”

“That will not be necessary,” Lan Zhan says, ears flushing. He feels sheepish about the whole situation, and warm with Wei Ying’s kindness, and very aware of the privacy of this weird coffee closet, and how close Wei Ying is sitting, and how very much in love he is. Maybe, in another life, another Wei Ying brought another Lan Zhan back to this storage room and tipped that Lan Zhan’s head up with fingertips under his chin and kissed him gently, reassured him with mouth and hands that he was forgiven, that there was nothing to forgive in the first place. Lan Zhan aches for that, like a stitch in his side from running. His lips tingle with imagined contact, a ghost from that other life come to haunt him.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, and leans his weight into Lan Zhan for a minute. “I should get back to work if you’re good. Are you good?”

Lan Zhan nods. He’s still a little embarrassed, regardless of Wei Ying’s reassurances, but now that he’s on the other side of the panic attack he’s just a bit wrung out. It was cathartic: clearly he needed to release some tension, and now the tension is released, and he hopes to avoid having another panic attack for at least another decade.

“Great,” Wei Ying says, squeezing his shoulder. Lan Zhan stands on shaky legs, but under his own power. They’ve almost reached the door, Wei Ying’s hand nearly on the handle, when Lan Zhan grabs him by the wrist, suddenly possessed.

“Wei Ying,” he says, the words out before he can overthink them. “Come over for dinner tonight.” Wei Ying turns to him and blinks, his mouth dropping open, and Lan Zhan keeps talking. “If you’re not busy. I have the ingredients. For what I was going to make.” His ears burn and he forces himself to stop there, before he gives too much away.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, face soft. “You know you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Lan Zhan says, and he means it. His hand is still on Wei Ying’s wrist, skin to skin, and he keeps it very still, doesn’t stroke his thumb over the delicate place above the veins the way he wants to. He wants to tell Wei Ying the truth, or at least a truth, so many secrets itching behind his teeth that he has to bite back, and he’s tired of it. “I like cooking for other people,” he says, instead of, I like cooking for you. “It makes me try new recipes,” he says, instead of, I pick out recipes for you. It’s very still and quiet in the coffee closet for a moment, and he plays his last card. “The recipe is written for four servings.”

Wei Ying laughs, eyes bright and dancing, all the air in the room suddenly gone. “And I need to help you out and eat some so it doesn’t go to waste, eh, Lan Zhan?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, with a very serious nod. “You would be doing me a favor.”

Wei Ying laughs again and opens the door. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse? Text me what time and I’ll be there.”

Lan Zhan nods again, realizes his hand is still on Wei Ying’s wrist, and drops it abruptly. They’re back to the public areas of the cafe now, fortunately still mostly empty of people. Wei Ying’s manager glances over from behind the counter and asks him a concerned kind of question with her eyebrows. Lan Zhan nods back a thank you and she nods more firmly and jerks her chin at the end of the counter, where his latte and sandwich are packed up to go.

“Amilia’s the best,” Wei Ying announces, following Lan Zhan’s gaze. “Also my break is waaaay over. See you later, Lan Zhan!” He claps him on the shoulder and darts off behind the counter. Lan Zhan picks up his order and goes back to work, ears absolutely burning with a tangle of emotions.

They don’t do dinner, not really, not outside of group settings. Lunch is one thing--lunch is a meal for friends. Lunch is casual. Lunch doesn’t have connotations, not even lunches that run so late they may end up involving dinner, too. Dinner is different. Dinner, Lan Zhan thinks to himself as he adds semicolons and removes ellipses and capitalizes letters here and there, is too close to a date. He and Wei Ying are not dating, so they don’t do dinners. Except now, apparently, they’re going to. Tonight. Because Lan Zhan asked.

Lan Zhan gets through the rest of the workday without the clawing anxiety of the morning, as though after the panic attack his body simply doesn’t have the energy to work itself up again. He texts Wei Ying to come by at six o’clock and gets a string of food emojis in response, which make him smile a little. No, they will not be having sushi, ice cream, burritos, and pizza for dinner, but at least Wei Ying seems excited and not weirded out. He puts a pot of water on to boil and starts slicing vegetables while he overthinks everything, as usual. Should he set the table? No, absolutely not. That definitely goes too far in the date direction. They’ll eat on the couch, or possibly sitting on the floor on either side of the coffee table. That’s more casual. Lan Zhan adds pasta to the pot and wonders if he should put on music. If so, what kind? What says, “I have invited you here to eat so I can express my deep affection for you, but in a way that is only outwardly platonic and won’t give away my devotion?” He assembles the salad while he thinks which, unfortunately, being a salad, does not have an answer for him.

The doorbell rings at 5:55pm, and Lan Zhan almost leaps out of his skin. He answers it, honestly wondering if it’s a delivery he forgot about, and gapes for a moment at Wei Ying, beautiful in black, another one of his hand-painted t-shirts on under a denim jacket, his hair loose and the red streak shining. “Are you early? ” Lan Zhan demands before he can restrain himself, and Wei Ying laughs, the sound hooking itself into the soft places inside him and tugging.

“I’m on time for Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, crowding into the doorway when Lan Zhan is too startled to move back. Wei Ying still smells a little like the cafe, coffee clinging to his hair, and Lan Zhan bodily restrains himself from leaning in to smell it as Wei Ying bends halfway over to take off his shoes. “Here,” Wei Ying says, shoving something into Lan Zhan’s hands, and he investigates the glass bottle to find it’s some kind of sparkling cranberry hibiscus beverage. “I figured you’re supposed to bring a bottle of wine, right,” Wei Ying explains, padding past Lan Zhan in his socks like he owns the place, “but you don’t drink wine and while I can kill a whole bottle on my own, I recognize I probably shouldn’t if I’m going to bike home later.” Lan Zhan follows him to the kitchen helplessly, where Wei Ying finds an unoccupied section of countertop and jumps up to sit on it, legs dangling idly. “Slap me if I’m in the way,” he says cheerfully, lips curving up into a dazzling smile, and Lan Zhan wants to step in between his knees and kiss him absolutely senseless.

“You will not be in the way,” Lan Zhan says, robotic, as he sets the bottle down and fetches two wine glasses from the cupboard. He doesn’t drink, it’s true, but he likes to feel fancy sometimes and uses them for sparkling water. After a moment’s consideration, he opens the fridge, retrieves one of the canned wines waiting there, and sets it next to Wei Ying’s thigh, so close he could skim the fabric of his jeans with his fingertips if he chose, which he doesn’t.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says, his face delighted as he cradles the can in his hands. “You have more of it. This is amazing. I’m gonna get trashed on wine spritzers like a teenage girl at a sleepover.”

“Please do not get trashed,” Lan Zhan says automatically as he drains the pasta. He adds butter to the pot and waits patiently for it to brown, while behind him, Wei Ying pops open the wine and the juice.

“I don’t know if I could get trashed on wine spritzers at this point,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully as he mixes one. “Maybe if it was all I drank and I chugged like, a gallon, but I think all the sugar would make me puke before I actually got drunk.” He pours unadulterated sparkling juice in the second glass and holds it out. Their fingers brush when Lan Zhan takes it, and he turns back to the pot abruptly. “I’ll stop talking about puking while you’re making dinner,” Wei Ying says, and he slides off the counter, landing lightly, and sidles up on Lan Zhan to peer over his shoulder at the pot. “Whatcha making?”

“Linguine with miso and browned butter,” Lan Zhan answers, swirling the pan, overheated from standing over the stove and also from Wei Ying’s proximity. He wishes for a world where Wei Ying would press against his back, wrap his arms around his waist, and kiss him under the ear. He wishes for a world where he cooks for Wei Ying every night, and kisses him in their shared kitchen, and curls up with him in their shared bed. He wishes for it so furiously that it is clear evidence of the futility of wishing. “It came highly recommended by a cooking blog I follow,” he adds, trying to drag his mind away from useless, foolish wishes.

“Lan Zhan, so dutiful in researching everything he does,” Wei Ying says, stepping blessedly, horribly further away to lean against the counter on the other side of the stove, wine spritzer in his elegant hand. “Host a cooking show for me, Lan Zhan! Tell me how it all works.”

Lan Zhan flushes, the weight of Wei Ying’s attention pressing on him as though he’d stepped outside into the heavy humid heat of a monsoon season. He does as asked, though, explaining the steps of the recipe with mechanical precision as he browns the butter, sweats the shallot, mixes in the reserved pasta water and the miso paste. Wei Ying listens intently and occasionally asks technical questions and somehow they end up on the floor next to the coffee table with full plates before Lan Zhan is entirely sure what happened. Wei Ying brings the can of wine and the bottle of sparkling juice over and even uses coasters for them, and Lan Zhan loves him so much he thinks it might roll off of him like heat waves, visible on the air.

“This smells so fucking good, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, grinning easy and bright as he leans back against Lan Zhan’s couch. “Thanks for your completely unnecessary invitation that I nevertheless appreciate!”

“No need for thanks,” Lan Zhan says to his plate, focused on winding a few strings of pasta neatly around his fork. He’s so used to eating in silence that he surprises himself when, “Would you like to put on some music?” falls out of his mouth.

“Sure!” Wei Ying says, pulling his mildly battered phone out of his pocket and poking at it to hook it up to Lan Zhan’s bluetooth speakers. “Any requests?”

“Anything you’ve made recently,” Lan Zhan says before he can stop himself, and resists the urge to check to make sure he’s drinking plain sparkling juice and not Wei Ying’s wine spritzer. He keeps saying things that are a little too honest, and that way lies danger.

“Uuuugh, fine,” Wei Ying whines, scrolling through his phone. He sets it down and the beat comes through the speakers, not as mellow as the meditation track he shared, but not frantic like the fashion show music. It’s relaxing without being sleepy, and up-tempo without being energizing. Lan Zhan tilts his head, questioning, and Wei Ying says, “There are a million Spotify playlists of ‘chill lo-fi beats to relax and study to’ and they’re all like, the same seven samples and I wanted to see if I could make some, so I challenged myself and knocked out a whole album’s worth in two days. It wasn’t hard.” Lan Zhan isn’t sure what face he makes at that, but Wei Ying just laughs and waves dismissively. “I swear, I’m not self-deprecating this time, Lan Zhan. If a book used the same, like, fifty words for the whole thing, how long would it take you to edit it?”

“Not long,” Lan Zhan admits, though it would depend on the book and whether the author was trying to be clever about the word limitation.

“It’s like that, probably,” Wei Ying says, shoving linguine in his mouth. “Not that I really know how copyediting works, but with music mixing you can build something pretty quickly once you have the pieces, and also if you don’t care about making it ‘good.’” He catches Lan Zhan’s look and points his fork at him. “Don’t give me that face! Stuff doesn’t have to be good to be fun! Some of my favorite stuff is garbage!” His face shifts, ever-changing, into the flirty kind of look that means he’s probably about to destroy Lan Zhan’s composure. “I have it on good authority that some of your favorite stuff is garbage, too. Namely, me!” There it is, the shameless grin and the tilt of his head and his eyes through his lashes. He has a piece of parsley stuck to his cheek. Lan Zhan wants to lick it off.

“Wei Ying is not garbage,” Lan Zhan says stubbornly and takes a neat bite of his salad.

“But I am your favorite,” Wei Ying insists, taking a much larger bite of his own salad.

“Mn.” Lan Zhan was raised not to lie, so he tries not to. Wei Ying’s smile gets even bigger.

“I’m Lan Zhan’s favorite!” he announces to the room, then looks around for something to have a fake conversation with. “Did you hear that?” he says to Lan Zhan’s potted philodendron. “Lan Zhan said ‘Mn,’ and everything, that means I’m totally his favorite.”

Lan Zhan’s ears flush. Wei Ying is, indeed, totally his favorite, and this conversation cannot continue in its current direction. He asks a question he’s wondered about for some time. “How does it work?” Wei Ying blinks at him, the parsley still distractingly adhered to his cheek, and Lan Zhan clarifies, “Music mixing.”

“Oh!” Wei Ying drains his glass, mixes himself another spritzer, and frowns, rubbing his nose with one finger. “You download or create loops--those are small sections of music, a couple chords or a beat or whatever--and then put them together in ways that sound cool, and then throw filters on top until it’s done.” This explanation is as clear as an aquarium filled with cement, and Wei Ying’s face scrunches up as he clearly realizes that he’s made no sense. “Ugh, I dunno Lan Zhan, I can’t explain this for shit. I just do it.” He takes a sip, thinking hard, and then his face brightens as he lunges halfway across the table to grab Lan Zhan’s wrist, vibrating in that excited kitten way he gets sometimes. “Hey! Sunday lunch! Why don’t you come over and bring your guqin and I can sample it and show you how it works? I’ll even cook!”

Lan Zhan’s entire world narrows to Wei Ying’s warm hand on his wrist and the expectant, hopeful shine in his eyes. He must hesitate for too long, lost in the moment, because Wei Ying squeezes his grip and adds, “And I promise I’ll cook something you’ll like! I’m no Lan Zhan but I can do things with instant noodles that people other than me have called ‘adequate.’” His grin goes a little lopsided, not quite reaching his eyes, and he continues, “Or we can just order takeout if you don’t want to risk my cooking--”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, breaking back into his own body with a jolt. “I would like that. To come over. For you to cook.”

The smile comes back, splitting Wei Ying’s face almost in two. Lan Zhan will be seeing afterimages of that smile behind his eyelids for the next week. “Great!” he says, squeezing Lan Zhan’s wrist again. “I promise you won’t regret it!” He lets go and sits back down on his side of the table, the parsley still stuck to his cheek in a little shine of butter and miso, and Lan Zhan’s control snaps. 

Lan Zhan pushes up onto his knees, leans across the table, and very deliberately takes Wei Ying’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. Wei Ying’s eyes go very wide and very startled. “What--” he starts to say, and falls silent when Lan Zhan stares at him, his mouth slack and his cheeks flushed. For a wild, frenzied moment, Lan Zhan is going to use his thumb, going to swipe the parsley off Wei Ying’s soft skin and bring it to his mouth. He’s going to watch Wei Ying’s face as he sucks the herb off his own thumb to see how he reacts, whether his eyes will go dark with want the way Lan Zhan’s will.

Instead of doing that, he picks up his napkin and dabs it at Wei Ying’s cheek. He holds up the white fabric, the little green leaf standing out in obvious explanation, and sits back down. Lan Zhan’s fingertips burn with the remembered feeling of his skin, the hint of stubble under the surface. With a deep level of horror-shame, he realizes he’s well on his way to a completely inappropriate erection, and he takes a slow sip from his glass and looks determinedly past Wei Ying’s head at a boring section of wall before he embarasses himself further.

“Wow,” Wei Ying says unevenly, and laughs a little wildly. “Only the best table manners for Lan Zhan, huh?” He drinks half his wine spritzer in one go, and Lan Zhan flushes, acutely aware that he’s made Wei Ying uncomfortable and just as aware that if he tries to apologize, it will only bring more attention to the issue.

“Mn,” he says, again, and manages to get the rest of the way through dinner without another humiliating lapse. Wei Ying insists on helping with the dishes, so they stand side-by-side in the kitchen, Lan Zhan setting wet plates directly into Wei Ying’s toweled hands, and listens to this week’s assortment of cafe stories. (“No, seriously, Lan Zhan, she asked for ten shots of espresso! I was waiting for her to teleport to another dimension on the first sip! And she looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘Next time I’m getting twelve.’ I think she was a literal alien!”) Lan Zhan isn’t sure what should happen now that the food is done, his mental map of this evening absolutely shattered. Will Wei Ying just leave? They don’t have precedent for this. Lan Zhan doesn’t have rules for this. He destroyed a rule when he invited Wei Ying over for dinner in the first place.

Wei Ying, oblivious to this inner struggle, hangs up his dish towel, vaults the kitchen counter for absolutely no reason, and flings himself gracelessly onto Lan Zhan’s couch. “Lan Zhaaaaaan,” he says, his head hanging upside down off the armrest, hair shining unbound like the feathers of a red-winged blackbird. “Come lose to me at Mario Kart.”

“Wei Ying seems assured of victory,” Lan Zhan says, putting the last of the dishes away as a stalling tactic. Wei Ying on his couch, body open and pliant, calling his name in invitation… He needs to take a moment before he gives in to the request, because all he can think about is climbing in between Wei Ying’s spread legs, bracing his hands on Wei Ying’s hips, leaning in to put his mouth on all that skin between his collarbone and jaw, so accessible with his head tipped back. He wants Wei Ying’s hands on his back under his shirt, fingernails digging into his skin as Lan Zhan bites a mark into his neck. He wants Wei Ying’s legs around his waist as he fucks him into the couch so slow and sweet that Wei Ying will beg him in a beautiful broken voice for more, and Lan Zhan will lean in and kiss him on the temple and whisper, “If you’re good,” while Wei Ying squirms.

“Lan Zhan has yet to beat me in Mario Kart,” Wei Ying says in a voice that, while beautiful, is not at all broken, and Lan Zhan drags himself away from his fantasies in a way that is becoming all too familiar. “And I know you don’t practice when I’m not here, so Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying makes what he would be horrified to have referred to as puppy dog eyes, beseeching even while upside down. “Come lose at Mario Kart.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and sits on the opposite end of the couch. Wei Ying cheers and grabs for the remote, as comfortable here as Lan Zhan is, possibly even more comfortable here than Lan Zhan is. Lan Zhan proceeds to spectacularly lose two full tournaments and, as usual, doesn’t care at all. Winning isn’t the point of playing Mario Kart. Wei Ying’s constant stream of shit-talking, the way he shoots to his feet with every victory, the way he leans into Lan Zhan and shoves at his controller attempted sabotage and, in one attempt at leveling the playing field, completes a race with his legs on the back of the couch and his head upside-down on the cushions… That is the point of playing Mario Kart, which is why Lan Zhan doesn’t bother playing if it’s not with Wei Ying. After Rose Gold Peach receives her second trophy, Wei Ying checks the time and winces.

“Oh, Lan Zhan! It’s after eight.” He grabs their empty wine glasses and runs them to the kitchen. “You slept like shit last night. I’ll get out of your hair so you can get to bed early and then hopefully tomorrow won’t be such garbage for you.”

“Today was not garbage,” Lan Zhan insists. Wei Ying gives him a look, and Lan Zhan amends his statement to, “Today was not entirely garbage.”

“I am glad to have salvaged your day from the trash heap of history,” Wei Ying says solemnly as he pads to the door. “All that dumpster diving I did in college must have paid off.”

Lan Zhan trails him to the entryway (like a good host) in complete silence (like a bad host). There are so many words he wants to say and they’re all tangled up in his throat like fish bones and they’re all things he can’t say out loud. “Stay the night,” lurks behind his teeth. “Stay forever,” curls up in his ribs. “I want to kiss you,” hangs heavy in the back of his throat. “I’m hopelessly in love with you,” pounds through him with every beat of his heart, fluttering in his arteries. Surely Wei Ying will see it if he looks at him. Surely it’s visible on his skin like a tattoo.

“Thank you for coming,” he manages, the words tight.

“Thanks for having me!” Wei Ying says, grinning. His face goes a little soft, his nose scrunching up in embarrassment, and he brings up his hand to rub it. “It was, ah. It was nice to get to eat something when it was made. Not that the leftovers aren’t great, too! But.” He drops his hands and shrugs his shoulders, his smile a little lopsided. “It was good,” Wei Ying says, in a strangely helpless tone of voice. Lan Zhan hasn’t had a chance to figure out how to respond when Wei Ying drags him into a hug, arms tight around his upper arms and back. Lan Zhan’s face ends up in Wei Ying’s hair, artificial vanilla and coffee, and he inhales deeply before he can control himself.

“I’ll text you about Sunday, okay?” Wei Ying says into his shoulder, and Lan Zhan nods silently because it’s the only bodily control he has. “Great!” Wei Ying says, and releases Lan Zhan before he can do anything bad, like kiss Wei Ying senseless, but also before he can do anything good, like hug Wei Ying back. “Goodnight!” Wei Ying says as he opens the door, and Lan Zhan just manages to respond with, “Goodnight,” before the door is shut and he’s alone again in his quiet, clean, minimalist, empty apartment.

Lan Zhan cleans the two wine glasses, recycles the bottle and the can, and sits on the couch with his laptop before he can stop himself. He’s not even sure what he wants, doesn’t really have an intention as he opens the incognito window, it’s just he’s so greedy now and if he can’t keep the actual Wei Ying in his apartment this seems… Well, it seems like a pale imitation that will probably make him miserable, but the part of his brain that’s capable of caring about that seems to be on vacation.

He almost scrolls down--he just looked at the Yiling Patriarch’s feed last night, and wasn’t expecting a new post, but Wei Ying must have put something up today. The caption reads, If I gotta get up early to get to work at least we can all enjoy this morning lighting, am i right?? 🌟🌟🍑🌟🌟  The preview image isn’t incredibly explanatory, though there’s clearly a lot of skin. Lan Zhan opens the photo set and something in him clenches and breaks.

It’s ridiculous. The pictures aren’t anything particularly noteworthy, not polished or creative like some of Wei Ying’s other work. It’s five selfies, obviously selfies, Wei Ying’s arm partially in view as he holds the phone out. Logically Lan Zhan shouldn’t be reacting like this, except… Wei Ying is sleepy and rumpled in the pictures, his hair messy, hints of eyeliner smudged along his lashline. He’s naked in bed, in one shot with the blankets pushed down far enough to show a hint of pubic hair but no more, in another with them pooling under his ass as he takes a selfie over his shoulder. It’s so tender and personal and lovely, Wei Ying golden and shining in the early autumn light from the window, and without meaning to, Lan Zhan reaches out a fingertip to trail over the curve of Wei Ying’s jaw on his computer screen.

Unfairly, cruelly, Lan Zhan’s mind shows him a world where he’s in these pictures, too, a world where his face is pressed into Wei Ying’s neck, an arm around his waist, a leg tossed between Wei Ying’s. He imagines getting to wake up with Wei Ying in his arms, in his bed, in his life. He imagines opening his eyes to see Wei Ying curled up with his face smushed into the pillows, imagines smiling fondly and tucking a stray hair behind Wei Ying’s ear, imagines tracing his fingers along his cheekbone and pressing his lips to Wei Ying’s forehead. He imagines Wei Ying’s clothes strewn across his bedroom, stark black and red against the sea of neutrals. He imagines making breakfast and Wei Ying padding out into the kitchen, barefoot and yawning, imagines trading him a cup of coffee for a kiss.

Something warm hits the back of his hand, and Lan Zhan realizes that it’s a tear, and that he’s crying. With a vicious movement, he closes out of the internet browser, shuts his laptop, and wipes his face. Fuck. God. No. He puts his laptop away and gets ready for bed, telling himself over and over that he just had a difficult day, that he’s still overtired, that he’s feeling aftereffects from the panic attack this morning. He tells himself, over and over, that this has nothing to do with his feelings for Wei Ying, it’s just stress and not a symptom of anything more. He tells himself that he can get a handle on this. He tells himself he won’t look at OnlyFans again.

You know.

Like a liar.

Chapter Text

On Sunday Lan Zhan goes for his run, does an hour of yoga, eats his usual breakfast, and then, in a dramatic break from routine, packs up his guqin in its rarely-used carrying case. This may be the first time the guqin has left the apartment since he moved in, and Lan Zhan suppresses an absolutely ridiculous urge to reassure the inanimate object that today will be a pleasant adventure. He showers and lingers over his choices while he gets dressed, not entirely sure why. There’s an itch in the middle of his shoulder blades, in the back of his mind, whispering that he should do something different. It’s bewildering and unfamiliar, and he steadfastly ignores it while he picks out slate blue slacks, a white button-up shirt, and a dove gray cardigan. He shuts his closet door, looks at himself in the full-length mirror and…

There’s no getting around it. Lan Zhan looks boring. He stares at himself for a long moment, reminding himself that’s the purpose of his clothes. He likes looking boring. Looking boring is safe. It keeps people from noticing him, and that’s what he wants, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

Unbidden, his mind replays Monday night, people’s reactions to his clothing choices, Wei Ying’s eyes on him, his compliments. It felt… It felt good, being looked at like that, though it’s taken a week of distance for him to be able to actually understand what he was feeling. Lan Zhan looks at himself in the mirror again and opens his closet door decisively.

He keeps the slacks, because they’re practical, but he swaps out the button-up for a different one with a softer, layered collar and little pearl buttons. There’s a shawl tucked away in a drawer, finely knitted in intricate lace, a blend of silk and wool from an heirloom sheep breed, dyed in soft silver-greys and gentle pale blues. Lan Zhan bought it directly from the creator at what most people would probably think is an exorbitant cost and what he still thinks was likely undervalued. He drapes it over his shoulders and fixes it in place with a mother-of-pearl pin he bought specifically with the shawl in mind and has never worn. Lan Zhan puts in earrings, silver hoops with freshwater pearls threaded on them, puts his hair into a bun held in place with a silver double-pronged stick, keeps his hands very controlled as he applies eyeliner and a little bit of an iridescent highlighter at the top of his cheekbones. He looks at himself in the mirror again, looks for a long while, turns to catch the light on the gleam of the shawl, the subtle flash of his jewelry. It’s good, he decides. He likes how he looks.

(Lan Zhan violently squashes down the part of him that wonders if Wei Ying will like it, too.)

The drive to Wei Ying’s apartment takes very little time, and Lan Zhan finds a legal parking space about a block away. He takes a moment to be grateful that the ever-expanding array of paid two-hour parking hasn’t made it to this neighborhood yet--he has no idea how long Wei Wuxian’s plans will take, and he doesn’t like the idea of an artificially imposed deadline cutting today short. He’s ten minutes early, unsurprisingly, and he pulls up a book in the e-reader app on his phone while he waits.

At precisely noon, Lan Zhan takes the stairs up to Wei Ying’s apartment, walking the three flights easily, unaccountably nervous. He’s been to Wei Ying’s apartment before, plenty of times, but this is the first time he’s been since he found the Yiling Patriarch OnlyFans account, and now the apartment is charged with that knowledge. The stairwell smells, as ever, of sweet dough and fresh bread from the bakery downstairs, and at least that is familiar and soothing. He knocks on Wei Ying’s door three times and resists the urge to check his guqin in its carrying case. The guqin is fine. This is fine.

From inside the apartment, Lan Zhan hears a distinct and panicked “Fuck! ” followed by multiple thumps. He frowns. This is not Wei Ying’s usual reaction to a knock at his door. “Wei Ying?” he calls, quietly, not wanting to disturb the neighbors. The apartment goes silent, and then another muffled “Fuck!” and, slightly louder, “I’m fine, just a second.” Lan Zhan doesn’t have quite enough time to get worried before the door cracks open and Wei Ying’s face appears, his body angled to block as much of the room as possible.

“Heeeeeeey, Lan Zhan,” he says, his smile wide and a little cracked. “You’re here. Right on time. Great! Okay.” Wei Ying blinks a couple of times. He’s wearing makeup, a dark plum lipstick, burgundy and plum blended on his eyelids in an interesting cut-crease look. “This is gonna sound weird but it’s very important that you shut your eyes and trust me for a hot second, okay?”

Lan Zhan blinks, mind racing with possibilities, but there’s only one answer he’d ever give, so. “All right,” he says, and shuts his eyes.

“Great!” Wei Ying says again, sounding a little forced. “Great, so we’re just gonna--” and Lan Zhan hears the door swing open, and then Wei Ying’s hands are on his shoulders, tugging him into the apartment. “Keep walking, there’s nothing to trip on,” Wei Ying says, as the door clicks shut. Lan Zhan does as told, Wei Ying steering him now, and the sound quality changes, a light coming on he can see behind his eyelids, and another door closes.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now,” Wei Ying says, and Lan Zhan blinks as the room resolves itself into Wei Ying’s bathroom. He turns around and Wei Ying is leaning against the door, wearing sweatpants and an unzipped hoodie that he’s hugging closed across his chest, completely at odds with his carefully applied cosmetics and artfully styled hair. There is nothing in the bathroom indicating that bringing Lan Zhan here was a planned endeavor. There are, in fact, a couple of damp towels in the corner and an open makeup organizer on the tiny vanity. Lan Zhan is on the verge of asking a question, though he’s not sure what it’s going to be, when Wei Ying says, “Okay, okay. Um. So. This isn’t how I planned this conversation to go, but it seems like I gotta, so.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna tell you something, and I need you to promise to be really cool about it.”

Lan Zhan’s heart starts pounding at approximately the speed of sound, sweat prickling at the nape of his neck and his mouth going dry all at once. He has no idea what Wei Ying is about to say, and a hundred thousand possibilities sprint through his mind, all of which make him nervous. “All right,” he says again, because he can summon no other words. That seems insufficient, so he struggles for a moment, swallows so dryly his throat actually clicks, and adds, “I promise I will be really cool.”

“Great,” Wei Ying says, his mouth curled up in a rictus grin. “Great.” He looks like he wants to do something with his hands, and he half-drops them before he remembers himself and grabs the hoodie again, keeping it closed with the fabric clenched in his fists. “So, uh. Do you know about, um.” He stops, swallows again, and can’t meet Lan Zhan’s eyes.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, softly. He hasn’t seen Wei Ying this unnerved since that time in college an aggressive dog was loose on campus and he had a full-blown panic attack in Lan Zhan’s lap in the library. He still can’t imagine what Wei Ying is about to say, but it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing he could say that would make Lan Zhan leave, unless it was specifically, “Lan Zhan, please leave,” and even then he might not. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says again, trying to sound reassuring. “I promised to be really cool.” Standing seems suddenly intensely awkward, so Lan Zhan looks around and, for lack of other options, closes the toilet lid and sits down on it.

“You did,” Wei Ying acknowledges, and, for lack of any other options now that the toilet is claimed, perches on the corner of the tub. He sighs, hugely, slumping a little, and in one breath spits out, “Do you know what OnlyFans is?”

Lan Zhan freezes into perfect stillness. He’s a statue. He is carved of jade, or ice, or marble. He thinks his heart has fully stopped beating. Oh god. Oh no. Does Wei Ying know? No, no, he can’t know, he’s not asking like he expected Lan Zhan to actually know. With a monumental effort, Lan Zhan clears his throat and says, “I am… familiar. Yes.”

Wei Ying blinks at him and nods. “Great. Great. Then I can skip that part of the explanation. Uh. You know what people… usually use it for, right?”

Lan Zhan stares intently at a cracked tile six inches to the left of Wei Ying’s face and nods, ears hot.

“Cool,” Wei Ying says, a flush crawling across his face all the way from temples to chin. “Great. So I. Um. Also. Use it.” He blinks, eyes going wide, and blurts, “Not for looking at porn! Well, shit, that’s a lie, I have subscriptions--” Lan Zhan has not blinked in at least a minute. He may never blink again. He’s not sure if he’s physically capable of breathing. “--but what I mean is that I use it as--uh--I’m a--I mean--” Wei Ying groans, long and loud, covers his face with both hands, and announces in a high-pitched voice, “I make porn! For OnlyFans! And people give me money for it!”

Lan Zhan takes a breath, and blinks, and both of those things are good things he should try to do more often. He does his best to look like Wei Ying’s confession is news to him and nods thoughtfully. “I see,” he says, his voice as even as he can make it, definitely not adding, “I have seen a lot of you on OnlyFans, actually, as in, your entire dick.” One of the sex worker blog posts had advice for this, and he frantically reviews everything he’s ever read. “Thank you for telling me,” Lan Zhan says, and then, “I support your life choices.”

Wei Ying peeks through his fingers at Lan Zhan. The hoodie, no longer clutched tight around his body, gaps open at the neckline to reveal a hint of something strappy. “That’s it?” he asks, muffled into his hands.

Lan Zhan nods, definitely not staring at whatever the strappy thing is, definitely not having to order his dick to stand down its current work toward an erection. This is absolutely not the time, not when Wei Ying still looks suspicious and worried. “It is legal and doesn’t harm anyone,” Lan Zhan says, which is true. “I don’t judge you for it,” he says, which is also true--he’s too busy masturbating to the porn Wei Ying makes to bother being judgemental, and Lan Zhan tries not to be a hypocrite. “I won’t tell anyone,” he adds, which is absolutely positively the truest thing he’s said all day.

Wei Ying studies his face for a long minute, and Lan Zhan keeps it still and sincere and absolutely not with any expression that could communicate, “I jerked off while I watched you fellate a dildo and came harder than I ever had previously in my life.” He must accomplish this goal, because Wei Ying drops his hands and his shoulders and sighs like his soul is leaving his body. The hoodie gaps further, and there are definitely straps on underneath it. A lot of them.

“Thank you,” Wei Ying says, with feeling. “Fuck. I should have known you wouldn’t care. Okay, great.” He sits up straighter and pulls the hoodie closed again, which is a blessing and a tragedy. “So I was shooting today--just, uh, pinups, nothing like, messy--” Wei Ying giggles, in a tone Lan Zhan has never heard before, which is almost a distraction from Wei Ying saying “messy” in conjunction with admitting to shooting porn “--and I didn’t even mean to be shooting today, I meant to shoot yesterday, but A-Qing called in sick at the cafe and I covered her shift, and then I figured I could be done before you came over but jiejie called to chat because I wasn’t able to call her yesterday like usual, and then my lights had an absolute shitfit and my camera was out of battery and I couldn’t find the spare and it was in the trunk with all my heels because I guess I put it away in there the last time I did a shoot? Because that made sense to past me? And at that point I knew I was running late but I had everything set up and my face on and I figured if I rushed I could still get through it before you came over but surprise!” He tosses his hands in the air and wiggles his fingers. “I didn’t!”

Lan Zhan nods. This does not sound out of character for Wei Ying--when something goes wrong, it tends to go wrong in a ripple effect. “I see,” he says, yet again. His skin crawls with what he’s about to offer, because he’d be leaving with the express knowledge of what Wei Ying is about to do, but… “Would you. Would you like me to leave and return later?” Wei Ying frowns at him, clearly not understanding, so Lan Zhan forces himself to add, “So you can finish. Your shoot.”

Understanding dawns and Wei Ying smiles with a fondness that thumps against Lan Zhan’s chest like a wave. “Oh, no,” he says. “I’m done shooting, it’s just…” He leans forward and opens the bathroom door, waving to the studio beyond. “It’s a huge fucking mess,” he says unnecessarily. “I meant to have it cleaned up.”

The studio is clearly set up for photography, black glittering drapes pinned up to cover the windows, an ottoman with another black drape centered in front, and a small lighting kit, reflective umbrellas and tripods taking up most of the floor space. That area, the part that would presumably be in-shot, is neat and tidy.

The rest of the studio is not. Every other piece of furniture Wei Ying owns has been shoved to the side, or stacked on top of another piece of furniture. There are at least five high heels in view, from at least three different sets of shoes. At some point Wei Ying’s laundry hamper tipped over, spilling black and red garments across the floor. Wei Ying scrunches up his face and rubs the side of his nose. “I swear it was going to be clean. I was gonna have tea ready. It was gonna be nice.”

“It is nice,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying gives him a look of such patent disbelief he almost laughs. “It is...” Lan Zhan pauses to order his thoughts. “It is nice to know more about you. It is nice that you trust me with this.” Even though you shouldn’t, a guilty part of him screams, and he smashes it down with the ease of long practice.

“God, yeah,” Wei Ying says, fiddling with the hem of the hoodie. “It’s gonna be great not to have to lie by omission anymore. ‘What did you do this weekend, Wei Ying?’ ‘Well, I took naked pictures of myself to put on the internet, Lan Zhan, but I sure can’t fucking tell you that so I’ll just say I did nothing and hope you don’t keep asking!’” He sighs again, slumps over too far, and almost falls in the bathtub. “It’s so tiring.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, understanding that exhaustion in his bones, though from the other side. All the skin on his body prickles hot and cold with knowing Wei Ying was shooting porn before he came over, with knowing that Wei Ying is wearing something strappy under that hoodie that he was shooting porn in, that at some point in the future those pictures are probably going to be on OnlyFans and he’ll get to see them. “Is it,” he asks, hesitantly, shifting on the toilet seat. “Is it a secret?”

Wei Ying looks at him, gnaws on the inside of his cheek for a bit, and announces, “Okay, we’re not hanging out in my shitty bathroom all day. Come on.” He stands, offers Lan Zhan a completely unnecessary hand up from the toilet, and leads him out to the main living space. His thumb brushes the back of Lan Zhan’s hand as he drifts to a stop, and then he shrugs and tugs Lan Zhan over to the ottoman and gets him to sit down. “I’m going to pick up, because we had fucking plans for the day before I derailed them, and while I clean you can ask me any questions you want because I’m sure you have a ton and they won’t be like, gross.” Wei Ying grins down at Lan Zhan, the hoodie slipping open again, straps visible all the way down Wei Ying’s torso. Lan Zhan nods mechanically and averts his gaze. Some of what he would like to know is probably gross, but he’s simply not going to ask the gross questions. He thinks he knows enough to be able to tell a gross question from a not gross question.

“Is it a secret?” he asks as Wei Ying digs through his dresser and ducks back into the bathroom.

“Sorta,” Wei Ying calls through the cracked open bathroom door, the sounds of shifting clothing incredibly distracting. Lan Zhan takes the guqin case from his shoulder and sets it across his lap, for reasons that have nothing to do with his traitorous genitals. “I’m not like, ashamed of it, but also it’s not anyone else’s business?” He exits the bathroom, now dressed in black jeans and a red long-sleeved undershirt. It looks good with the plum lipstick and the eyeshadow, and Lan Zhan stares at him hungrily in his peripheral vision. “I don’t want my family to know, but not because I think jiejie or Jiang Cheng would disown me for it, right? It’s like, if I was in a relationship with someone I wouldn’t want either of them to have details about my sex life, you know? It’s personal.”

Lan Zhan nods, trying very hard not to think about having a sex life or a relationship with Wei Ying. “It would be too much.”

“Exactly!” Wei Ying says, packing heels away into the trunk where they apparently live. “And if jiejie knew she’d want to be all supportive and if I have to experience my sister telling me she’s proud of my porn I will shrivel up into dust and blow away on the wind.”

Lan Zhan’s mouth quirks up at that idea. Jiang Yanli would, indeed, want to show her support for her brother in all things. Lan Zhan tries to imagine having a similar conversation with Lan Huan and feels all of his intestines leave his stomach to die in a corner. Ah. Yes. Understandable. He hesitates over his next question, sorting through options. “How long?” he settles on, eventually.

Wei Ying frowns and shuts the shoe trunk. “Mmm, about a year and a half? Little more than that?”

“Why?” That one slips out before Lan Zhan can stop it, and it’s not what he really meant, either. “How did you start?” he says, trying to amend it into something less open-ended, something less judgmental.

“Why? Money,” Wei Ying says with a bright grin, shoving his clothes back into their hamper. “Which is why anyone gets into porn, otherwise it’s just called ‘having sex.’ How is a longer story.” He sighs, rests his crossed arms on his hamper, and tilts his head at Lan Zhan. “Are you familiar with the concept of ‘horny on main’?”

Lan Zhan stares into the middle distance and re-evaluates every life choice that has brought him here. “Yes,” he says, dryly. “I do, in fact, use Twitter.”

“Point taken.” Wei Ying sets the laundry hamper aside and, after evaluating his options, sits on the trunk that apparently contains high heels. (Lan Zhan, previously, has used that trunk as a place to put beverages when he needed his hands free, blissfully unaware of the contents.) “Okay, so I know people think I’m shameless, but I honestly try not to be horny on main, so I have a second Twitter account so I can make bad sex jokes off main, right, because as we have discussed, jiejie is far too supportive.” He runs his hands into his hair, winces as they get stuck in the braids, and starts pulling hairpins out absently. “I was still working at the bar and at the cafe at this point and the double shifts were starting to get to me since I’m not fucking nineteen anymore, and I’d had a super shit day and there was some asshole who started some shit when he was on his fourth drink and I had to kick him out, which is such a pain in the ass, and I got home and was eating leftover chow mein right out of the fridge and I just wanted an ego boost, right? So I posted a thirst trap on the other account, like you do.”

Lan Zhan has, never in his life, even considered doing this, but he nods regardless.

“And some dude who I have never met in my life DMs me and asks for nudes! Normally I just block but I was feeling salty as fuck so I sent him my Venmo and told him to give me a hundred dollars.” Wei Ying pauses here for dramatic effect and points a bobby pin at Lan Zhan. “And then! He did! ”

Lan Zhan’s jaw drops open involuntarily, just slightly, but Wei Ying catches it and cackles. “Exactly! That’s what I was like! A hundred fucking dollars, Lan Zhan! I was down to just needing the two jobs by then but a hundred dollars is still groceries for two weeks if I shop at the cheap place, and I couldn’t just not send nudes after he actually paid, right? I keep my word.”

Lan Zhan nods and, in the deepest corner of his mind, plots the death of this nude-purchasing man, whoever he is. Wei Ying shrugs and says, “So I sent him some, and he sent some compliments, and I thought about it for the next week and was like, damn, is there money in this? I mean, I was already doing some figure modeling for the art schools around here, that’s an easy way to get sixty bucks if you’re good at holding still--”

Lan Zhan snorts before he can stop himself, and freezes, horrified at his reaction. Wei Ying laughs so hard he has to dab at his eyes with the cuff of his shirt, carefully not smearing his eyeliner. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, “but I took figure drawing classes, so I know what’s annoying from the other side of the easel. I can, actually, hold a single pose for thirty full minutes if I know I’m being paid for it.” He taps his temple. “This never stops, but this?” He waves at his body. “This can, if I concentrate.”

That’s fair. Lan Zhan tilts his head in acknowledgement. “So. OnlyFans?” If he doesn’t steer Wei Ying back to the original topic, he’ll never get an answer.

“Right!” Wei Ying sits up again, alert. “I did some research, and I know some of Nie Huaisang’s models do burlesque ‘cause I shoot their shows sometimes, and a couple of them also do club stripping, and they do OnlyFans, so I got some advice and decided to give it a shot. It’s, um.” He rubs his nose again, hiding his face behind his hand, and laughs. “It’s gone pretty well, I guess.

Lan Zhan nods slowly, thinking over the timeline. “You’re not working at the bar anymore,” he says, which is an observation and a question.

“Nope!” Wei Ying agrees, and he seems to be tired of sitting, because he gets up and takes his camera off the tripod. “After a couple months on OnlyFans I was making enough to quit that job, and I fucking did. I swear it took a full three weeks to stop smelling phantom spilled PBR everywhere I went.” He sets the camera aside, breaks down the tripod, and stows it in a tub that looks like it rolls away under his bed. Wei Ying glances up at Lan Zhan and freezes, eyes traveling over him slowly, and Lan Zhan realizes he’s currently glowing under the “Bisexual Lighting(tm)” still set up on either side of the ottoman. “Wow,” Wei Ying says, quiet and a little awed. “Damn, man, you look really good like this. The shawl is really--” he kisses his fingers and tosses them out into the air. Lan Zhan flushes and looks elsewhere, toward Wei Ying’s kitchenette.

“Feel free to tell me to fuck off,” Wei Ying continues, hesitantly, “but, I mean, since the lights are all set up and everything… Could I shoot you? Maybe?” Lan Zhan turns toward him, startled, and they make burning eye contact for a second. “Not porn!” Wei Ying clarifies in nearly a falsetto. “Just portraits! Like, normal pictures, I swear!”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, a little strangled, and Wei Ying thankfully, impressively goes silent. The question burns inside Lan Zhan’s brain, prickles up and down his spine, weighs on his shoulders. He wants very much to say no, still uncomfortable with the very idea of it, but he also dressed outside his comfort zone to just to come here. He’s outside his comfort zone by talking frankly with his best friend about said friend’s porn career. Wei Ying has opened himself up, cracking apart his ribs and offering an intense vulnerability in his cupped hands. Surely Lan Zhan can return that? Surely Lan Zhan should return that, since he can’t return Wei Ying’s full honesty? He swallows and inclines his head, eyes on the floor somewhere near Wei Ying’s thigh. “What should I do?” he asks, voice low.

“Oh, wow, really?” Wei Ying says, breathless. “Awesome! Don’t do anything. Um, you can take the guqin out and play it if it will make you feel more comfortable to have something to do with your hands.” He stands and finds his camera after a moment of wild searching, in spite of the fact that he put it down less than three minutes prior. “We’ll just keep talking,” he says reassuringly as he turns it on and messes with the settings. “What else you wanna know?”

Lan Zhan’s face burns as he carefully gets out his guqin, settles himself cross-legged on the ottoman, and picks out a chord progression. He wants to know a lot of things he resolutely will not ask. Wei Ying’s hair is only half taken down, and Lan Zhan wants to carefully unpick the rest of the style and brush it smooth and then grab it in his fist. No. Focus. “Do you like doing it?” he asks, which is the worry that’s lurked at the back of his mind since he first found the Yiling Patriarch page. There’s enough guilt just from looking, but if Wei Ying hated it or was making it under duress…

“I like it fine,” Wei Ying says, the camera clicking as he takes a couple of pictures, checks them, and makes some adjustments. “Unlike working retail, I can just block assholes if they try to waste my time or get all racist at me. I can do it on my own schedule, I have creative control and the money’s good.” He pauses, mischief spreading across his face in the form of a toothy smile. “Not gonna lie, having people tell me I’m hot on the internet on a regular basis is a nice perk.”

Lan Zhan nods, ears burning, and plays the beginning of a classical Chinese piece while he tries not to let his awkwardness show. “I have heard people find it empowering,” he says carefully, not saying where he heard this, which was the sex worker blog he now reads regularly. Mistress Marissa has mixed feelings about the idea, feelings which apparently Wei Ying shares because he snorts derisively.

“Oh, yeah,” he says sarcastically, though with a tone that makes it clear it’s not directed at Lan Zhan. “Everyone gives a fuck about whether a woman finds it empowering to ride a dick for two hundred dollars, and not whether she finds it empowering to have someone scream at her about a two dollar burger for minimum wage.” Lan Zhan plucks out a startled, off-key chord, and Wei Ying slaps a hand over his mouth. “Fuck,” he says, muffled, “I did not mean to say it like that to you, I am so sorry.”

Lan Zhan wants to die so he will never ever have to try and act normal ever again. He will never unhear Wei Ying talking about riding a dick. It has bypassed his short term memory and embedded itself deeply into all his neurons. It will haunt him for the rest of his natural life, and possibly into the next one. He forces his hands to move again and plays the next section of the piece and tries to breathe. “I take your point.”

“I am still sorry,” Wei Ying says, and goes back to shooting. After a moment he adds, “Okay, this is gonna get political and personal, but also the personal is political, so like. Tell me if it makes you uncomfortable and I’ll talk about bunnies or whatever.” He pauses, eyes on Lan Zhan’s face, and waits for his nod. Wei Ying nods back and bites his lower lip, but in a way precisely calculated not to smear his lipstick. It’s immensely distracting. “I don’t find it empowering, but I also, miraculously, managed not to grow up super fucked up about sex and sexuality.” He keeps shooting as he talks, changing angles, always moving, and the little clicks of the camera shutter combined with his voice are relaxing, familiar. Lan Zhan knows this sound, even if he’s not usually the subject. “Madam Yu was really not great in a lot of ways, but she’d seen enough cousins get into trouble out of ignorance and was super determined that wouldn’t happen in her house, so there were human sexuality books just like, everywhere. I went into first grade knowing in great detail how babies were made, and then I got in trouble for telling the other kids that their parents were lying about storks or cabbage patches or whatever. There was no mystery about like, anything.”

Wei Ying pauses to make an adjustment to one of the lights. Lan Zhan watches him while he’s distracted, glowing red like the burning in Lan Zhan’s chest. “I also lucked out compared to a bunch of bi people, because it turns out one of Madam Yu’s favorite aunts is bisexual, and like, actually uses the fucking word out loud to describe herself, so I knew that was a thing I could be, and then also at some family reunion when I was like, twelve, some distant cousin in maybe her twenties tried trash-talking that bi aunt. You know, your basic ‘she should pick a side, so shameless, so greedy, blah blah.’ She didn’t realize Madam Yu could hear her, and Madam Yu fucking backhanded her so hard I swear to god her feet left the floor, and then she stepped on her face and told her to keep her bigoted opinions to herself if she wanted to keep all her fingers.” Wei Ying pauses and smiles into the middle distance. “It was the coolest fucking thing I’d ever seen in my life.” The smile goes sideways, and his eyes glass over a little. “And also Madam Yu was emotionally abusive and disowned me for trying to do the right thing, so… Mixed feelings there.”

Lan Zhan thinks he should say something, but nothing comes to mind, and there’s this guqin in his lap getting in the way of whatever he might try to do, but before he can actually move Wei Ying shakes himself and goes back to shooting. “So like, I didn’t come to sex work to try and discover something about myself, or unlearn negative attitudes or something. It’s just a job. I didn’t find it empowering when I was working the graveyard shift at that gas station! It fucking sucked! But I needed the money! That’s capitalism!” He throws his hands in the air, one clutching the camera, and gives Lan Zhan a ridiculous “What can you do?” face. “I like that I’m getting to hone all my creative skills on this--seriously, my photography has come so far. I mix all my own music for the videos so I don’t have to worry about copyright claims. I shoot seriously for one or two days a week and create enough content that I have a buffer of several weeks in case I get sick or super busy and can’t keep up. But the main thing is that the money is good. I have fucking savings now, Lan Zhan! I have a budget!”

Lan Zhan stares at him for a long moment, knowing the disbelief is written across his face. “You made a budget,” he says, too distracted by this knowledge to care as Wei Ying snaps pictures of him.

“Well,” Wei Ying says, trying to run his hand through his hair again and getting hung up on a braid, “it’s more accurate to say Wen Qing found out what I was doing and asked me what my plan was via-a-vis self-employment taxes, and then when I stared at her like a deer in the headlights she rolled her eyes so hard they almost fell out and forced me to make a budget. But hey! I have one! And I follow it!”

Ah, yes. That makes much more sense. Lan Zhan frowns at the guqin, fingers light on the strings. “Wen Qing knows?”

“And Nie Huaisang. They make some of my outfits in trade for me shooting their stuff. And you know, now. I think that’s it.” Wei Ying laughs. “If anyone else knows they haven’t told me!”

Lan Zhan prays that the floor will open up and drop him three stories down into the oven of the bakery. “Do you think you want to do it long-term?” he asks, keeping the desperation out of his voice with an effort of will. Please, please, move the conversation along. 

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says, thoughtful. “I don’t see a reason to stop.” He takes a couple more pictures and then fiddles with one of the lights. “I’m still trying to build up my live photography portfolio. I know Jiang Cheng will put me on his wedding vendor recommendation list once I ask, but weddings are so fraught that I want to be sure I can actually do it, you know?” Wei Ying, satisfied with the light, turns back to Lan Zhan, the camera a strange sort of barrier between them, making this conversation feel safe. “If I got too busy with legit photography I guess I’d probably stop, or if some of my other work really took off, but that’s not happening soon.”

“It is still legitimate photography,” Lan Zhan insists, then glues his lips together. Fuck. Too much.

“I appreciate your faith in me,” Wei Ying says with a quiet smile. “It’s not exactly high art, Lan Zhan. I’m not out here changing the world.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and before he can overthink it, he puts the guqin aside, grabs Wei Ying by the wrist, and pulls him down to sit on the ottoman. Wei Ying’s eyes are wide and surprised, picked out by the eyeliner and shadow. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says again. He hasn’t let go of his wrist, soft fabric and soft skin under his fingers. “What you do is important.” Wei Ying opens his mouth to say something, a deflection, and Lan Zhan tightens his grip. “Representation is important,” Lan Zhan insists. “Western society would like to pretend that bisexual men do not exist, and that Asian men do not possess sexuality. When people see your work--” When I see your work, he doesn’t say “--they have a chance to see themselves.” He makes eye contact, real eye contact, lets his sincerity bleed into his words and face. “It is important. For people to see themselves.”

Wei Ying looks as shocked as he might if Lan Zhan had slapped him outright. “...kay,” he says, after a long time, and then laughs weakly. “Who knew Lan Zhan was so up to date on representation issues?”

“I do a lot of reading,” Lan Zhan says, truthfully. “For work,” he adds, which is less truthful. His hand is still on Wei Ying’s wrist, and he releases it and turns away before his mouth can betray him further. “It is common for people to think only high art is worth discussing, but all of what we consume informs our beliefs. Representation matters on the small scale as well as the large.”

“Damn,” Wei Ying says, that weak laughter in his voice again. “You make it sound so smart. Here I thought I was just getting paid for being hot.”

Lan Zhan bows his head and picks up the guqin. “It can be both,” he says magnanimously, and out of the corner of his eye watches Wei Ying throw his head back and laugh for real, the sound ringing off the walls and pouring itself behind his ribs.

“I accept your compliments, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, lounging back on his hands. “I’m out here making extremely vital social justice porn and in the process getting horny strangers to buy me presents off my Amazon wishlist.” He glances up through his lashes and chews the inside of his cheek again. “Can I take your hair down?” he asks abruptly, fingers fidgeting on the black drape.

Lan Zhan’s entire body perked up at hearing about a wishlist, and it takes a moment for him to react to the question. “My hair?” he asks, uncertainly, and risks a glance at Wei Ying.

“For the pictures,” Wei Ying says, gesturing next to his own neck and jaw to demonstrate. “I think it would look nice.”

Lan Zhan blinks, examines Wei Ying’s face carefully, and finally, he nods. Wei Ying’s answering smile is slow and sweet, tinged with a hint of wonder, and he sits up and reaches for the silver stick in Lan Zhan’s hair. He pauses, eyes intent on Lan Zhan, fingers hovering, until he gets another nod, and then he pulls the stick free and Lan’s hair unspools itself to spill warm across his shoulders. Wei Ying sets the stick aside carefully and lifts reverent fingers to card through Lan Zhan’s hair, arranging it as he pleases, concentration and care written into every inch of his features. No one touches Lan Zhan’s hair but his hairdresser, and then only for trims, and his entire scalp prickles and shivers down his spine. This is why cats purr, he realizes suddenly, and he resists the urge to press his head into Wei Ying’s hands, to lean forward and fit their mouths together, to let out the urgent little sound suddenly building in his throat. Wei Ying finishes his work just when Lan Zhan’s self-control is frayed to the breaking point, pulling back and squinting at him thoughtfully.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice softer and deeper than usual. “Yeah, that’ll look great.” He stands and the camera comes back up, and suddenly the distance of the lens, the transition back to artist and subject, is the only thing that makes this scenario safe. Lan Zhan plays something on his guqin and a few bars in realizes it’s Despacito, then bodily wrenches the melody in a different direction.

“People buy you things?” he asks, when he can speak normally again.

“Oh yeah,” Wei Ying says, eyes dancing. “It’s fucking great because I don’t have to mention it on my taxes. It’s how I got these lights, and most of my heels, and a bunch of se--” he drags his mouth to a halt, cheeks reddening as he visibly turns the wheel of his words “--other things I use for shoots.” He tracks down a small remote and changes the colors of the lights to a purple and a cold whitish blue. “I even got some dude with more money than sense to buy me a synthesizer, which is only barely porn-adjacent. I sent him a custom video of me mixing music in my underwear as a thank-you.”

“Custom?” Lan Zhan says weakly, hands moving on the guqin strings out of some kind of desperate nervous energy.

“Yep,” Wei Ying says, the click of the camera between his words. “They’re where you get the big money. I’m talking twenties of dollars.” He grins. “And before you tell me I’m undervaluing myself, that’s a joke. I have specific rates and they start higher than twenty dollars.”

“Good.” This is the weirdest experience of Lan Zhan’s life. He’s not sure if he even exists at this point. Perhaps he never left his apartment, because he fell and hit his head and is now in a coma, hallucinating wildly. He wants to ask another hundred questions, and also never wants to think about Wei Ying making custom videos ever again, and also he very much wants Wei Ying to make custom videos for him, specifically.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, looking at the viewscreen on the camera, “I got some good stuff. These are gonna be great, Lan Zhan.” He looks up and smiles, almost shyly, a look so unfamiliar that Lan Zhan almost stares at it. “Thanks for letting me torture you, but I did promise to show you how music mixing works, and also to cook, so uh, let me shove my room back into some semblance of order.”

“I will assist,” Lan Zhan says automatically, setting the guqin aside and twisting his hair back into its bun. Between the two of them they get the lighting rig broken down and the apartment back in some semblance of order fairly quickly. Lan Zhan is impressed by the transformation when he sees the before and after. In all of Wei Ying’s photos and videos it looks like he shoots in a spacious professional location, instead of a twenty by fifteen foot room with piled furniture just out of frame. The ottoman apparently contains all the drapes Wei Ying uses for backdrops, the roll-away bins store the lighting equipment, and an additional curtain hanging from the ceiling screens off his bed and desk.

“Right,” Wei Ying says, hands on his hips, surveying his domain in satisfaction. “Lunch, first, and then sweet jams.” Lan Zhan trails him over to the kitchenette and then stands awkwardly, not sure what he should be doing. There isn’t enough counter for him to sit on, if he takes Wei Ying’s behavior from Tuesday night as a guideline, and he didn’t bring anything with him but his guqin. Wei Ying glances up at him as he digs in his half-size fridge and smiles fondly. “There’s tea and a teapot in the cabinet on the left, if you want to get that going?” Lan Zhan ducks his head, relieved to have a task, and busies himself filling the electric kettle and preparing the pot. Wei Ying dances around him, pulling a knife out of a drawer and a cutting board out of a cabinet. They work in easy silence (well, silence except for Wei Ying humming snatches of pop songs) and Lan Zhan retires to the ottoman with a cup of tea while vegetables sizzle in a pan.

“I can tell you still have questions,” Wei Ying says, over the crinkle of an instant noodle wrapper.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, a little startled. “You said I could ask while you were cleaning.”

The answering eye roll is almost as impressive as one of Jiang Cheng’s. “That wasn’t a binding rule! God, you’re such a fucking nerd.” He adds instant noodles to a pot and grins. “You have at least until we’re done eating. After that you’ll like… turn into a bird or I’ll become a sphinx and eat you or whatever.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, smiling into his cup. “You’ve spoken of the benefits,” he says, slowly, simultaneously not wanting to pry while very much wanting to pry, wanting to know everything about this aspect of Wei Ying’s life. “What are the drawbacks?”

“Well, my dreams of running for office will be forever dashed,” Wei Ying says dramatically. “I’ll never be president now.” They make eye contact for a brief moment and Wei Ying winks, so Lan Zhan knows it’s truly a joke. “Honestly for me it’s not that much different from just existing on the internet in general. Sometimes I get racists trying to start shit, and sometimes I get biphobic people trying to start shit.” He shrugs and stirs the noodles. “I just report them and block them. They can’t even message me unless they have a subscription, so I already have their money when they decide to harass me. It’s not so bad. I have it way easier than most women, and way, way easier than most trans sex workers. Like, men don’t get fired from their day jobs for making porn the way women do.”

Lan Zhan frowns. “Is that a concern for you?”

Wei Ying shakes his head, draining the noodles in a cloud of steam. “Nah, Amilia’s great. She does burlesque and I make the posters for her troupe so she doesn’t care at all. If I worked with kids there’s a possibility someone might try to get me fired on account of the gay shit I make but that’s not really gonna be an issue like, ever.” The noodles go into the pan, and the resulting sizzling sound is loud enough to preclude further conversation until Wei Ying dumps the stir fry into two bowls and carries them over to the trunk that serves as his coffee table. Lan Zhan accepts his bowl and chopsticks with a nod of thanks.

“What has been most surprising about it?” he asks after a few bites. Wei Ying hadn’t lied, the stir fry is more than adequate, and he was kind enough to add chili oil to his own bowl after the fact. Lan Zhan is in Wei Ying’s home, eating food that Wei Ying cooked, and it makes him warm in a way that has nothing to do with the topic of their conversation. (He is also, literally, hot under the collar due to the topic of conversation. Lan Zhan is capable of experiencing multiple emotions at once, but he doesn’t have to like doing it.)

“The community,” Wei Ying says around half a mouthful of noodles. He swallows and gestures with his chopsticks as he continues, “Sex work Twitter is honestly amazing. There are so many rad people out there doing this work and advocating for legal change and supporting each other financially and emotionally. We’re all like, passing the same twenty dollars around when someone needs it.” He scowls momentarily, nose scrunching up. “Sex workers do more for this country than billionaires ever have. Fuck, if I had enough money I’d be on GoFundMe all the time spreading the wealth.”

Lan Zhan makes a note to get on GoFundMe later and make some donations. “That sounds very affirming.”

“It definitely can be. There’s shitty politics, too, of course, because a lot of people have internalized whorephobia they refuse to unpack.” He rolls his eyes again, and it’s even more expressive than usual framed against the makeup. “The sugar babies want to say they’re not actually sex workers because they’re just selling companionship, the strippers want to say they’re better than full-service providers because they don’t actually fuck their customers, the indoor workers want to think they’re better than the outdoor workers, and the outdoor workers aren’t on Twitter because they’re trying to fucking survive. Like society gives a fuck about the distinctions! Who fucking cares! We’re all dirty sluts in the eyes of the patriarchy, we might as well be dirty sluts who have solidarity!”

If Wei Ying says the words “dirty sluts” one more time Lan Zhan will have an aneurysm. He wants Wei Ying to call him a dirty slut. He hadn’t known this about himself until right now, and it is yet another thing he will never un-know. Lan Zhan doesn’t squirm, because that’s undignified, but it’s a close call. “Mn,” he says, because that’s a nice, neutral sound, and isn’t, “Call me a dirty slut right now.” He takes another bite while he thinks hard about a question he can actually ask, and settles on, “Do people treat you respectfully? Overall?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says easily, around another mouthful of noodles. “For a given value of respect, contextually.” Lan Zhan remembers all the eggplant emojis and says nothing. “I have some really sweet regulars, actually,” Wei Ying continues, playing with his chopsticks. “There’s one woman who buys a custom video each month that’s literally just me eating a sandwich. I don’t know why, I don’t even think it’s a kink thing, she just sends me fifty dollars and tells me what sandwich it should be and I take a ten minute video and send it back without any editing and we’re both happy.” He bites his lip again, in that careful way to spare his lipstick, even though the stir fry has completely destroyed it. “It’s nice to be able to do that for people? Folks ask me to make custom videos for stuff they’re clearly too embarrassed to ask about with anyone else, and I can make them happy, and maybe let them know they’re allowed to want things.”

“Like what?” Lan Zhan asks before he can stop himself, and wishes he could tape his fucking mouth shut.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, waving one hand. “Weird but harmless stuff. I have boundaries, there are things I won’t do, but like… I think it’s sad that some dude thinks asking his partner to pop balloons is too much. If I had a boyfriend who was into popping balloons, I would totally pop balloons for him. I don’t have to care about balloons to do it!” He catches Lan Zhan’s bewildered look and clarifies, “I literally mean popping balloons. It’s not a euphemism. It’s a whole thing.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, because it’s safe, and he eats the rest of his stir fry in silence. Would he be into popping balloons? He thinks about it, chewing, and decides that he’s not. Thank god he’s leaving here today without another new obsession.

“Thank you for cooking,” he says, when his bowl is empty. “It was more than adequate.” Lan Zhan manages to catch Wei Ying’s eye and adds, gravely, “Some might even call it good.”

Wei Ying laughs breathlessly, throwing his head back, and Lan Zhan wants to lean in and kiss his neck until he’s breathless for another reason. “Would Lan Zhan be among those to call my cooking good?” he teases.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says bluntly, and takes the empty bowl from Wei Ying’s suddenly unresisting hands. “I assume,” he says, half a question, “that you need to set things up for us to create ‘sweet jams.’” At Wei Ying’s nod, he stands. “I will clean while you do that.” Wei Ying opens his mouth to argue, and Lan Zhan stops him with, “This is non-negotiable.”

“Lan Zhaaaaaaaan,” Wei Ying whines, slumping over the trunk. “You are too good to me.”

“Set up the equipment,” Lan Zhan says, before he can do something foolish, like tell Wei Ying exactly how good he would like to be to him. He washes the dishes with a furious intensity, breathing through his meditation techniques and carefully filing away all this new information about Wei Ying and Wei Ying’s porn to revisit later. Because no matter what he tries to tell himself, he’s definitely going to revisit it later, in private.

When the dishes are draining on a towel (because why would Wei Ying own a dish rack?) Lan Zhan turns back to find the trunk covered in a variety of items. He recognizes Wei Ying’s laptop, his dizi, his own guqin, and a microphone. There’s a keyboard, as well, though not full-sized. The other things are less familiar. He thinks they might be synthesizers. Wei Ying looks up at him and grins, mouth now wiped clean of the plum lipstick, which means that if Lan Zhan went over and kissed him he’d know exactly how Wei Ying’s lips taste and feel when bare under his own.

Lan Zhan crosses very precisely to the opposite side of the trunk and kneels on the floor cushion. He frowns at the mess of cords and things with buttons and instruments on the table. “What do I do?” he asks, hesitantly.

“I’ll get something started,” Wei Ying says, tapping here and there on some of the things with buttons, then intently squinting at his laptop. “You can see how it builds, and then you can jump in on the guqin. I swear it’ll make more sense once we’re doing it.”

Lan Zhan nods, tries very hard not to think about that last sentence in another context, and waits. Wei Ying makes a couple more adjustments, takes a deep breath, and looks up at Lan Zhan. “Get ready to get your mind freaked,” he says with a grin, and then--

Then Wei Ying proceeds to create absolute magic with an ease Lan Zhan will think about for weeks. There’s no other way to describe it. He hits something on his computer, and then his hands on the keyboard tap out a beat, which repeats without his prompting. He listens for a moment and then, with another tap and another elegant movement of fingers on keys, adds a secondary beat in a different tone. It goes on like that, a repeating chord in synths that sound like trumpets, the bright sound of a sampled timpani, the deep drag of a bow over cello strings, all of it falling over itself like water on rocks to build something that’s almost, but not quite, a song.

“Here,” Wei Ying says, holding out the microphone in one hand, his dizi in the other. “Just point this at my face.” He grins, hefting the flute in his hands, and adds, “Normally I have to wedge it into my shoulder, so this is already way easier.” Lan Zhan does as asked, Wei Ying nodding along to the music, and then he taps a button on one of the synths and improvises a short little melody, playful and dancing. He taps the button again and the dizi repeats as part of whatever Wei Ying is building, and when it comes around the second time he taps the synth button again and plays the same piece but an octave higher, in harmony with himself. It’s beautiful. It sounds almost complete, but there’s still something missing. Lan Zhan can feel the emptiness where a call and response should live, and it itches at him.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, taking the microphone back and pointing it at Lan Zhan’s guqin. “You can feel it, right? You’re picking up what I’m putting down?” Lan Zhan nods and rests his hands on the strings. “Great.” Wei Ying’s other hand hovers over the button that Lan Zhan is pretty sure controls the recording. “When I hit this, play me something. Doesn’t matter what--if it doesn’t fit we’ll just delete it and try again.” Lan Zhan nods again, letting his eyes half-close, drifting along with the beat and the synths and the repeating melody of the dizi. Wei Ying hits the button, and Lan Zhan doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t worry.

He just plays.

Lan Zhan’s fingers dance along the strings, plucking out something completely unlike his normal work. It’s not pop and it’s not classical, it’s something else. It’s the answer to the question floating in the melody of Wei Ying’s dizi, and he honestly doesn’t know if he’d be able to repeat it later. When he halts his hands, Wei Ying taps the button again, and a moment later his notes repeat at him.

“Oh,” he says, wondering, because it fits, it fits so well it sounds like it was carefully composed with the attention of an expert, instead of improvised in answer to a wordless question. It’s perfect, or nearly so, and Lan Zhan’s brow furrows. “It needs…” he says, trailing off, hands on the guqin and his eyes on Wei Ying. When the correct timing comes around he nods, and Wei Ying hits the button, and Lan Zhan plays what he thinks will finish the piece. Wei Ying taps the button and Lan Zhan nearly fidgets with impatience as he waits for the repeat, and then it comes, and it’s beautiful, like the last stroke of a brush on an ink painting that changes the entire picture.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, eyes wide and bright and fixed on Lan Zhan. “You’re a natural. Fuck, this sounds so cool! Goddamn! Okay, okay.” He does a few more things and then jerks his head at Lan Zhan. “Come over here so you can watch.” Lan Zhan stands on legs that feel like jelly and crosses to the ottoman to perch above and behind Wei Ying. “Now that we have all the pieces we can actually turn it into the structure of a song,” he explains, pointing at different things on the screen that make only a very vague amount of sense.

Wei Ying keeps talking, and Lan Zhan listens more to the play of his voice than to his actual words, watching Wei Ying’s hands on his keyboard and mouse as he moves things, adds a few notes on the synth here and there, adjusts the beat in a couple of places. He watches Wei Ying’s face in his peripheral vision, animated and so, so bright as he shares the things he loves. He looks at the nape of Wei Ying’s neck, the shadowed place on his collarbone where the neckline of his shirt meets his skin. He thinks about resting his hand there, letting his thumb drag just along the edge before he dips it under by half an inch. He thinks about gently pulling Wei Ying’s head to the side and trailing kisses along his neck from the base all the way up to where it meets his ear. He thinks about Wei Ying’s voice breaking as he tries to keep explaining, until Lan Zhan finally bites the edge of his jaw and Wei Ying abandons the music to climb on top of the ottoman and into Lan Zhan’s lap.

“Right, so I might refine this later,” Wei Ying says, half-turning to face Lan Zhan, who snaps his eyes back to the computer screen and keeps his face carefully blank, “but it has all the ingredients of an actual song now!” He hits the spacebar to start the playback and Lan Zhan sets aside his horrible, distracting fantasies and actually listens. It is, as advertised, an actual song. All the pieces he and Wei Ying built together are there, the dizi and the guqin in conversation, but now there’s an arc, the familiar structure of verse-chorus-bridge-chorus apparent even without lyrics. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and they built it, together. It’s the best thing Lan Zhan has ever heard in his life, and it took less than (he checks the time on Wei Ying’s laptop) half an hour. The song plays through to the end, and Wei Ying smiles up at him, hopeful and shy and a little proud. “Well?” he says, almost vibrating.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, because that’s easy to say and he needs to get his words in order. This calls for some kind of acknowledgement beyond just words, so he sets one of his hands on Wei Ying’s shoulder with great ceremony. “That was…” he pauses, searching his usual vocabulary and coming up short. Lan Zhan decides to borrow from Wei Ying’s usual vocabulary, and says, very seriously, “Extremely fucking cool.”

Wei Ying cackles, hands over his mouth. “Oh my god, you swore,” he says, eyes dancing, still picked out by that distractingly beautiful eyeshadow. “I made music so good I made you swear. Oh my god, Lan Zhan, did I freak your mind?”

Lan Zhan nods, face flat and solemn. “My mind has been thoroughly freaked.” He waits for the second round of Wei Ying’s musical laughter to die down and asks, hesitantly, “Can we do that again?”

“Fuck yes, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, dropping his hand on top of Lan Zhan’s where it’s still on his shoulder and squeezing. “Literally anytime! Go on, assume your position.” He flaps at the other side of the trunk and with some reluctance, Lan Zhan resumes his previous seat. The heat of Wei Ying’s body still echoes in his palm, out to all his fingers, and he runs his fingertips over his skin to try and soak up that feeling.

They improvise a few more songs before Wei Ying calls their “jam session” to an end, apologetically explaining that he has to do some post-processing on the images from his shoot before his work week starts again. Lan Zhan accepts this without showing any of his disappointment outwardly. He and Wei Ying do not live together. It is reasonable for Wei Ying to want his apartment to himself. He is allowed to have a life separate from Lan Zhan, no matter how much Lan Zhan might wish it otherwise. Lan Zhan tells himself this and other true things all the way home, and is no closer to actually believing it when he gets there.

His phone vibrates as he’s changing into clothes more appropriate for cooking in, and he waits until he’s carefully put away the lace shawl before he checks it.

From: Wei Ying
LAN ZHAAAAAN
i can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me for this long
you are GORGEOUS
can i use these in my portfolio?? please please please 🥺🥺🥺 they’re so good i wanna brag about them to everyone!!!!

There are two pictures attached. Lan Zhan opens the first one and has to sit down on the end of his bed as he looks at it.

It’s him.

Only it’s not, because the man in the photo doesn’t look awkward or cold or so shy he can barely bring himself to speak in public. The man in the photo looks beautiful, refined, elegant. His hair is up, head bowed slightly, his hands on the strings of his guqin like he’s about to play a masterpiece. The red-blue lights pick him out in planes of color, reflecting off the silver of his jewelry, making him glow against the dark background like he’s lit from within.. He looks like a painting, like he should be hanging in a museum with art created by true masters. Entranced, Lan Zhan swipes to the next photo. This, too, is him except it isn’t. This was taken after Wei Ying took down his hair, and it frames his face like a spill of black ink. The lighting is different, icy pale blue and purple, and the Lan Zhan in the picture is looking at the camera through his lashes, somewhere between bashful and commanding. The lights hit him so brightly the white of his shirt actually fuzzes out the other details, throwing the whole thing into a kind of soft-focus. The highlighter on his cheekbones glimmers, the silk of the shawl almost rippling with movement. He looks inhuman in the best of ways, untouchable and stunning. Lan Zhan has never, in his life, looked at himself and seen this. He wonders what that would be like. He wonders, for a wild moment, if this is how Wei Ying sees him all the time, and then discards that thought as a ridiculous flight of fancy. Wei Ying is simply very good at what he does, and he should know it.

To: Wei Ying
You may use these in your portfolio. They show your incredible skill as a photographer.

From: Wei Ying
omg thank yoooooooouuuu you're too sweet
and the music was great too
we should do it again sometime, we almost have enough for an album
we can start a band

To: Wei Ying
I am not starting a band with you.

From: Wei Ying
TOO LATE YOU KINDA ALREADY DID
YOU’RE IN MY BAND NOW
LAN ZHAN’S SWEET JAMS
still working on the name

To: Wei Ying
That seems wise, since that is objectively a terrible name.

From: Wei Ying
you’re the worst
💖💖💖

Lan Zhan smiles at his phone and then swipes through the portraits again, wanting to memorize every detail. It’s a gift that Wei Ying has given him, to be able to see himself like this, and that thought leads to another, and Lan Zhan ends up in the living room, laptop open, on the Yiling Patriarch’s OnlyFans page. This time he notices the Amazon link under the bio, and he clicks it with his mouth dry. His face heats as he scrolls through, because well, he was expecting to see sex toys on it, but expecting it and seeing them are absolutely different things. It’s not just sex toys, there’s lingerie and music equipment and more photography equipment as well, but every time he scrolls down and sees the unmistakably phallic shape of another fucking dildo, it’s like a slap in the face. After a few intensely embarrassing minutes (and one Google search where he makes sure he’ll be able to make this purchase anonymously), he picks a deep red glittery dildo, a strappy black teddy, and a very impractical wrestling singlet. Lan Zhan pays without bothering to look at the price and slaps his laptop shut.

Fifteen minutes later he comes back and, in a fugue state, orders a second dildo.

For himself.

Chapter Text

The Amazon box arrives a few days later and when Lan Zhan gets home from work to find it, he genuinely doesn’t remember what he ordered for a long moment. He picks it up and the contents shift, surprisingly heavy when they strike the side of the cardboard, and it comes back to him in a hot, humiliating flush. Lan Zhan fumbles his door open and practically slams it shut behind him, as though his apartment neighbors could tell at a glance that he’s purchased a dildo and had it delivered to his home. He sets the box on the little table in the entryway specifically for such things and steadfastly ignores it as he changes out of his work clothes and makes dinner. Its presence burns in the back of his mind the entire time, and after he’s eaten his bowl of tofu fried rice and braised bok choy, he squares his shoulders and goes to face the inevitable.

The box inside the box (the one that contains the dildo, that he ordered, for himself) is surprisingly discreet on the outside, the brand and some euphemistic copy printed in red on the velvety black cardstock. Lan Zhan finds this a little surprising, because how would you know what you were purchasing, if you bought this in a store? He gets his answer a moment later, when he flips open what turns out to be a cover over a plastic window and gets a good eyeful of his new dildo, nestled into more black cardboard. Lan Zhan slaps the cover closed and breathes slowly for a little while. This is ridiculous. It is an inanimate sex toy. Millions of people purchase and use them every day. Owning a sex toy might, in fact, make him more normal, statistically.

Lan Zhan steels himself and opens the cover again, glaring at the dildo like he’s starring in one of the kung-fu movies Wei Ying makes him watch and the silicone phallus is his nemesis. The dildo, being a regular dildo, does not react. Feeling pathetically like he’s somehow won, Lan Zhan sets to dismantling the packaging to get a better look at his purchase. It’s embarrassingly realistic, other than the color, molded veins and sculpted balls at the base, above what proves to be a suction cup. It feels surprisingly like the real thing as well, a bit squishy on the outside around a stiffer core. Not having really looked very closely at the specifications, Lan Zhan is relieved to find it’s a reasonable size. He has Seen Some Things in his time on the internet, in spite of trying to avoid seeing said Things, and he doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d accidentally purchased something comically huge. As it is he tries, academically, to imagine inserting it inside himself and has a whole-body panic-clench, one hand squeezing around the shaft until his knuckles pale. He skitters away from that idea, relaxes with an effort, and turns the dildo around to catch the light. It is pretty, the red saturated and rich, the embedded glitter sparkling as he moves it. Lan Zhan isn’t exactly sure what he’s going to do with it now that he has it, but at least it’s aesthetically pleasing. For lack of any other ideas, he takes it into his bedroom, sets it on his bedside table, and then recycles the packaging.

Determined to have a normal evening, Lan Zhan plays his Switch for a little while, having downloaded a new game about a lonely girl exploring a beautiful watercolor world. The graphics are stunning and the soundtrack is entrancing, and it’s almost enough to allow him to ignore the existence of the dildo. At seven thirty precisely he saves the game and turns off the Switch, so as to avoid too much screen time before bed, and gets out his guqin. Playing the guqin just makes him think about the Sunday at Wei Ying’s, though, and Wei Ying’s delighted face as they improvised music together, and Wei Ying’s mouth picked out in deep plum, and Wei Ying in some kind of strappy thing he still hasn’t seen, and buying Wei Ying a dildo that matches the one in his bedroom, and just Wei Ying. He fumbles the same chord three times in a row before he puts the guqin away, because it doesn’t deserve that treatment.

Lan Zhan stands in his bedroom doorway and stares at the dildo on the bedside table. It doesn’t react in any way, seeming pleased to simply exist in the world without ever being utilized for any purpose other than decoration. This is a ridiculous and illogical way to feel, since it is, this cannot be overemphasized, inanimate, but Lan Zhan thinks it’s mocking him. He crosses the room, snatches it off the table in a decisive movement, and takes it into the bathroom.

His usual shower is less relaxing than usual, what with the dildo sitting on the little shelf that holds his shampoo and conditioner, red and glittering and extremely present. He ignores it steadfastly as he washes, because no artificial dick is going to make him rush through anything. Lan Zhan is a functioning adult, he will not go to pieces about something he purchased for himself, regardless of the typical suggested use of such an item. When the last of the suds are rinsed from his skin he turns to regard it, allowing it to have his full attention for a little while. He picks it up, turns it in his hand as he stands under the spray, and tries to figure out what his purpose is, here, exactly. Lan Zhan then remembers a piece of advice he’d read somewhere and spends a minute thoroughly washing the dildo with soap and rinsing it clean. It’s an unnerving experience--the dildo really does feel realistic, especially when warmed by the water. He’s read about the uncanny valley, and this seems similar, this piece of anatomy that every part of him says should be attached to a human. Lan Zhan narrows his eyes and supposes that this would be attached to a red glittery human, which is a mental image so striking he lets himself be distracted by it for longer than he’d like to admit. He shakes himself, refocusing on the task at hand, and by “task,” he means dildo, and by “at hand,” he means literally in his hand.

Lan Zhan puts the dildo in his mouth.

Lan Zhan learns what it’s like to have a dildo in his mouth, and it’s a neutral to negative sensation. There’s a bit of a stretch in his jaw, and he feels vaguely like he wants to swallow and can’t easily. Spit pools under his tongue, and as long as he’s thinking about his tongue, he continues the experiment by swirling it around the head of the dildo. This, too, is neutral. There is a dildo. It is in his mouth. His libido is unimpressed.

Lan Zhan takes the dildo out of his mouth and tips his head back under the shower head, thinking. Wei Ying certainly seemed to enjoy having his mouth on a dildo in that video that still haunts Lan Zhan’s dreams and waking hours. Lan Zhan is aware, of course, that porn is a performance, but he also watched Wei Ying come on camera, and that would be difficult for him to fake. Maybe he should try to get aroused before he sucks on the dildo? Would that help?

Lan Zhan sets the dildo aside, closes his eyes, and thinks about Wei Ying, about Wei Ying’s mouth smiling around silicone, about the open expanse of his abs splattered in come, about his hard dick in red briefs or lace or in nothing at all. He palms himself lightly, hardening. His body is always ready to react to Wei Ying, and it takes very little time for Lan Zhan to be stroking his erection. Cock in hand, he reaches out unseeing for the dildo again, finds it by feel, and puts it back in his mouth.

This is definitely better, the thrum of heat in his blood making the silicone less intrusive. With his eyes shut he’s able to focus on the sensation, rather than the bizarre visual, and he lets his mouth soften, moving in gentle explorations. He keeps his other hand active, thumbing under the head of his dick, sliding down to cup his balls occasionally. Lan Zhan imagines this is Wei Ying in his mouth, Wei Ying’s cock on his tongue, and his eyes fly open as a full-body shudder rolls through him, spiking in his guts, a little dribble of precome washed away by the water. Oh. That seems to be the trick. Lan Zhan shuts his eyes and thinks about Wei Ying again, standing over him, one hand resting on the back of his head as Lan Zhan sucks him off--

Wait, standing? How tall is Wei Ying? Is he standing on the dining room table? Is he sitting on the top of the fridge? How on earth do the logistics of this work, if Lan Zhan is at his full height and somehow giving Wei Ying a blowjob? The already delicate fantasy shatters, leaving Lan Zhan with a dildo in his mouth and a hand on his frustrated dick. He removes the dildo and glares at it as if it’s to blame, his jaw aching slightly and his erection aching more. All right, so what does this need to make it work?

Lan Zhan thinks about the video of Wei Ying again, his main (almost only) visual reference for oral sex, and considers. Wei Ying was on his knees. Maybe if Lan Zhan is on his knees, his brain will get on board with this and shut up? If he doesn’t figure it out within the next ten minutes he’ll run out of hot water, so Lan Zhan finds a place he can kneel on the tiled shower floor where he won’t either drown or freeze and holds the dildo out speculatively, estimating Wei Ying’s height. The suction cup is surprisingly effective. Lan Zhan stares at the dildo now politely pointing at him from the wall of his shower and has a moment of absolute, perfect clarity about how completely fucking ridiculous he looks right now. He allows that realization to pass over and through him, washed down the drain with the water from the shower. When it’s gone and he’s left only with a small lingering sense of embarrassment and a still-complaining erection, he shuts his eyes, thinks about Wei Ying, and leans in to find the dildo with his mouth.

This is immediately easier, the white noise of the shower shutting out other sounds, the silicone body-warm already, Lan Zhan’s knees starting a pleasant kind of discomfort. He settles one hand around the base of the dildo, pretending it’s on Wei Ying’s skin, and his other hand goes back to his dick, flagging a little bit but it perks back up when he opens his lips around Wei Ying’s imaginary cock and slides his tongue under the head. That’s where he’s most sensitive, so he assumes Wei Ying will be, too. He imagines Wei Ying shuddering, hands tightening in his hair but otherwise not moving, letting Lan Zhan explore. He sucks, hollowing his cheeks, and imagines Wei Ying jerking and accidentally thrusting into his mouth. He imagines Wei Ying making little gasps and moans and sighs, imagines Wei Ying talking, mouth running even as Lan Zhan takes him as deep as he can. (This turns out not to be terribly deep--Lan Zhan discovers his gag reflex and backs off immediately. This is initial research, he doesn’t need to push himself.) The Wei Ying in his mind strokes his hair and says, “Look at you, sucking my cock like you were built for it.” The Wei Ying in his mind shudders and writhes and begs, “God, Lan Zhan, yes, please, I’m gonna fucking come, make me come.” The Wei Ying in his mind braces himself against the shower wall with shaking legs and holds on to Lan Zhan’s hair with both hands, so he has to pull against it to take Wei Ying’s cock deeper into his mouth, and says, “Fuck, baby, you’re so good, I love you so much.”

Lan Zhan comes pretending to have Wei Ying’s cock in his mouth, with Wei Ying’s fantasy words in his mind, making a truly embarrassing amount of noise against the silicone on his tongue as he jerks and shakes and works himself through it until his dick goes oversensitive and he has to stop. He rocks back onto his heels, letting the water pour over him, grounding him in the soothing physical sensation of it. His jaw aches, and the muscles of his throat hurt all the way down to his collarbone from the suction. His knees are sore and might bruise a little. His heart hurts the worst, from the wish for words that will never come, but he’s used to ignoring that and does so now. All that aside, he feels euphoric, floaty, and more sexually satisfied than ever before in his life.

Lan Zhan opens his eyes and regards the red glittering silicone with a mixture of gratitude and resentment. He doesn’t feel like unpacking the reasoning behind either of those emotions just now, so he peels it off the wall with a hilarious popping sound, washes it again, and sets it on the bathroom counter to dry. That night he sleeps like the dead, deep and dreamless and wrung out.

The next morning, gripped by an urge he finds himself helpless to resist, he gets dressed for work and puts in a pair of simple silver hoop earrings, silver teardrops hanging on them that swing when he moves. He’s done one thing this week already that he’d never imagined doing and it turned out well (as in, he had a truly spectacular orgasm) and that makes him feel brave. Lan Zhan wants to be daring. Lan Zhan wants to be the person he saw in Wei Ying’s pictures.

He proceeds to freak out for half the day, sure someone at work or on the street will notice his earrings and… do something. Something that would be bad. He’s not sure what, exactly, because his anxiety has never actually figured out the specific shape of his fear. It’s always been vague and nebulous. Someone will see him, realize that he is not normal, and it will lead to a terrifying scenario. This possibility, this expectation, hovers over him until lunch, when Qin Su--one of the receptionists--walks into the staff kitchen, smiles at him, and says, “Oh! I didn’t know you had your ears pierced! Is that new?”

Lan Zhan breathes slowly and calmly. This is fine. Eyes on Qin Su’s shoulder, he manages, “No.” A pause. “I don’t wear earrings often.”

“Oh, you should!” Qin Su says as she gets her lunch out of the fridge. “They look great! Earrings are my favorite kind of jewelry because they’re small and easy to store.” She gets the kettle going and gives him a sheepish look. “My collection is getting out of hand.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, still poised to run or fight or something, but Qin Su just hums to herself as she prepares her teapot, pours the water, and assembles her lunch on a tray.

“Have a good lunch, Lan Zhan!” she says cheerfully as she heads back out, presumably to eat at her desk or possibly on the couch by the window with a nice view of the nearby park. Lan Zhan watches her go out of the corner of his eyes and relaxes muscle-by-muscle, shoulders dropping.

No one else says anything about his earrings.

Lan Zhan wears a different pair the next day.

The dildo goes in his nightstand, next to his lube and wet wipes, and he stops fixating on it until Saturday, when he checks OnlyFans. He’s hoping for the shots of Wei Ying in the strappy thing he got glimpses of on Sunday, because he cannot stop thinking about it, but no luck yet. The top picture is of a box from Amazon, captioned, “OMG look I got PRESENTS!!! 🎁🎉 Had so much fun with these, thank you secret admirer!! 😘” Lan Zhan clicks on the preview and then the next picture slaps him in the face with realization, because he’s the secret admirer. The picture in question is of the dildo, still in the box, the black teddy, and the wrestling singlet all laid out on the hardwood floor in a pleasing but intentionally messy composition. There are selfies of Wei Ying in both outfits, posing in front of his mirror, camera in hand as he snaps shots of the straps contrasting against his skin, the sheer fabric of the teddy concealing nothing, the provided sheer thong clearly not intended to try and contain his half-hard dick. The singlet technically covers more skin but in practice is just as obscene, the tight spandex leaving nothing to the imagination. He clicks forward, expecting another photo, and instead a video loads, the thumbnail of (Lan Zhan swallows, mouth dry) Wei Ying smiling with the red glittery dildo presented to the camera.

Lan Zhan takes a long moment to emotionally prepare himself before he succumbs to the inevitable and presses play.

“Hiiii!” Wei Ying coos at the camera, grinning widely. He’s only wearing eyeliner, no other makeup, and he’s apparently naked, though he’s only framed from the waist-up. “This is my favorite kind of video, the kind where I get to thank people for being so sweet and sending me presents!” The video cuts to Wei Ying in the black teddy, moving through a variety of poses, and then the wrestling singlet in the same way. Wei Ying continues, “Both of these have been on my wishlist for a while and they’re even better in person than I thought they’d be! Aren’t they hot? Don’t I look hot as fuck?” The video cuts back to him sitting. Lan Zhan thinks he recognizes the wall behind Wei Ying’s bed as Wei Ying says, “But my favorite present is this!” He presents the dildo to the camera, turning it to and fro in the light. The video cuts, suddenly, to the dildo on a black drape in intensely dramatic lighting with an angelic chorus in the background. Lan Zhan almost chokes as a laugh claws its way out of his throat, the absurdity startling and delightful. Back with Wei Ying, he cradles the dildo to his face and rubs his cheek on it. “It’s so pretty!” he says, petting it. “I love it! It’s my new favorite!”

Lan Zhan’s cheeks heat, as though Wei Ying is actually thanking him specifically instead of, from his perspective, a random anonymous person on the internet. Wei Ying’s smile goes sultry, his eyelids dropped to half-mast, and he adds, “I thought the best way to thank my secret admirer was showing them exactly how much I like my new toy. I hope you enjoy this, whoever you are!” The video fades to black and then back in on a wider shot of Wei Ying’s bed. Lan Zhan is now hot through his cheeks and his entire body, because Wei Ying is definitely naked, his dick hard and resting on his thigh as he sits propped up at an angle on a pile of pillows. The dildo sits on the bed next to his hip, Lan Zhan’s eyes locked on the video as Wei Ying drips lube on his fingers and reaches down between his legs. The video cuts to a closer shot and Lan Zhan cannot stop looking as Wei Ying slides wet fingers around the rim of his asshole, teasing. Wei Ying moans, a shivering sound that hangs on the air like a held note, and Lan Zhan shuts the laptop, stands up, and moves to his bedroom.

Moving with a methodical purpose, Lan Zhan pulls back the covers, sets his laptop down, and makes a pile of pillows. He fetches a towel from the bathroom and lays it down, then undresses and climbs onto the bed. Shutting his eyes, he takes a deep breath, centers himself, and re-opens the laptop. With a click he backs the video up to the first shot of Wei Ying on the pillows and tries to match his pose and posture. The matching dildo he sets near his hip, and he grabs his bottle of lube.

This much, Lan Zhan has done before, experimenting with fingers. He’s found it enjoyable but troublesome, too many questions of timing and cleanliness and time expenditure for it to be a thing he indulges in regularly. It has been a thing he’s enjoyed enough that he found it worthwhile to purchase a box of nitrile gloves, and he fetches one out of the bedside drawer and puts it on. Thus prepared, he opens his bottle of lube and presses play on the video again. This time, as Wei Ying spread lube on himself, Lan Zhan does the same, mirroring his actions like this is an instructional video. He shivers at the first touch of his gloved fingers, that sensation already heightened from usual, with Wei Ying on the screen and Wei Ying’s voice in his ears, a little tinny from the laptop speakers.

“Now I know you all know how well I can take it,” Wei Ying says, grinning at the camera, face flushed as his hand works between his legs, “but you all also know how much I like this part, so I think we can all wait a little while, right?” The camera cuts back to the close-up, extremely explicit shot, where he sinks his first finger inside with a hiss of pleasure. Lan Zhan does the same with a little less ease, needing to pause and focus on his breathing and force himself to relax. Then he’s inside, and he waits there until his body adjusts, eyes hungry on Wei Ying’s hand as he fucks himself on screen. When Lan Zhan relaxes with a sigh, he matches Wei Ying’s pace, clenching and releasing gently around his gloved finger. He’s hot all across his chest, his dick burning up against his thigh. They’ve barely gotten started and Lan Zhan is really starting to see why some people never shut up about wanting to get fucked.

Wei Ying moves up to two fingers with a weak, “Fuck,” biting his lower lip and tossing his head back. Lan Zhan follows after, two easier than one now that his body remembers what to do, and he curls his fingers up. His prostate reveals itself with a jolt he feels down to his toes and a drip of precome, but he’s barely paying attention to himself. His focus is on the video, where Wei Ying squirms his hips down onto his fingers, his cock bobbing with the movement. Lan Zhan dreams about fucking Wei Ying with his fingers while he sucks his dick, dreams about making him come that way, writhing and moaning with Lan Zhan’s name on his lips.

Lan Zhan’s clenching on his fingers and panting by the time he follows Wei Ying up to three fingers, his hips jerking involuntarily. The inside of Wei Ying’s thighs are wet with lube and every time he breathes he flexes his abs. Lan Zhan would be perfectly happy to come like this, and he almost does, free hand moving reflexively to palm his erection. He’s leaking enough at this point that he’s practically made his own lube, it would be so easy to jerk himself off, but then on screen Wei Ying pulls his fingers out and wipes them off.

“Foreplay is great and all,” he says cheerfully, spreading lube on the glittering red dildo, “but I know what I’m about, son.” Wei Ying shifts, drawing up one leg a little more, and Lan Zhan is so captivated by watching the dildo slide into his body that he completely forgets he intended to follow along. He taps the spacebar with his clean hand (well, the cleaner one) and breathes evenly as he pulls his gloved fingers out of himself. It leaves him feeling oddly empty as he carefully removes the glove cuff-first and tosses it in the trash. That feeling is doomed to be temporary. Lan Zhan picks up the dildo, which still looks as intimidating as ever, and meditatively coats it with more lube. He wipes his hands, shifts his hips a little, and positions the head of the silicone where it needs to be.

Then he spends about thirty seconds in a mild state of panic. It’s wider than three fingers, but not by a lot. It is, however, a lot longer than his fingers, and it also just seems different somehow. This seems like a line in the sand. It seems like if he does this, he’ll be forever changed, and people will know. Lan Zhan lets that anxiety flow through him, acknowledges its existence, and then lets it go. If this were Wei Ying, he knows, if Wei Ying asked to fuck him, either with a toy or with his fingers or with his own beautiful dick, Lan Zhan would say yes. Lan Zhan would say yes to anything Wei Ying offered him. Lan Zhan shuts his eyes, imagines Wei Ying watching him, imagines Wei Ying saying, “Yes, sweetheart, I wanna watch you fuck yourself, can you fuck yourself for me?”

Lan Zhan relaxes, takes one more breath, and eases the dildo in. It takes a minute, too much pressure and nothing happening for what seems like far too long, and then between one breath and the next he relaxes and it slips past the outer ring of muscle all at once, punching the air out of him. He bites his lower lip and slowly, gingerly works it the rest of the way in, which takes approximately one million years. Lan Zhan has to pause and breathe and consciously relax his muscles, telling his body firmly that this is something he wants to do, not an invasion, not something he needs to fight. It burns, a little, and he’s so full when it finally presses against him and he can’t push it in any further. Panting, he blinks his eyes hazily back open, unable to get enough air into his lungs. His thighs are trembling, he notes absently, and with more determination than he’d normally need, he reaches out with a lightly shaking hand and hits the spacebar again.

On the screen, Wei Ying has also just taken the dildo all the way to the base, and he’s panting with eyes half shut and his lower lip bitten to swollen redness. “God,” he says, “yeah, fuck.” His hand moves, short slow little motions, the dildo barely shifting, and when Lan Zhan does the same he involuntarily clenches with a whole-body twitch, his dick leaking another puddle of precome onto his thigh where there’s already a mess.

Oh. Oh.

Lan Zhan had vaguely assumed, if he ever actually had sex with another person (with Wei Ying, part of him whispers), that he would probably only top. His world re-orients itself in a rush, and by the time Wei Ying speeds up, fucking himself in earnest, Lan Zhan wholly identifies as a switch. Lan Zhan would like, at some point in his life, to get very thoroughly fucked. His wrist is starting to cramp up a little, the strain and the angle making itself known, and he steadfastly ignores it as he pumps the dildo in and out, his heart beating in his chest and throat and cock and where he’s stretched around the silicone.

“Oh god,” Wei Ying says on screen, the camera back to the wider view, the one that shows his face. This is Lan Zhan’s preferred shot--it’s hot to watch the closer framing of the actual dildo fucking Wei Ying open, but it’s also disembodied and a little strange. Lan Zhan likes watching Wei Ying’s face, his brow furrowing, his mouth half open and his eyes focused inward. Wei Ying is loud, moaning and gasping and swearing, body and hand working together as he drives the dildo into his ass with fast, harsh movements. “Oh, god,” he says again, voice gone ragged, “oh fuck, I’m gonna--”

Lan Zhan watches, hardly breathing, as Wei Ying goes tight and trembling, body locked up in a beautiful arch, hand still working between his legs. Wei Ying’s cock pulses and then he comes, untouched, with a long keening sound that centers itself at the base of Lan Zhan’s dick. Automatically, as if directed to do so, Lan Zhan wraps his free hand around his slick erection and jerks himself off, rocking his hips down to meet the slide of the dildo as he does. It takes maybe three rough strokes of his tight fist before he comes, clenching around silicone, fucking himself through it and panting in ragged, audible gasps. The world goes fuzzy and vague around the edges, and when Lan Zhan swims back to awareness it’s to find a spatter of come cooling all the way up on his sternum and the sight of Wei Ying bonelessly draped over his bed, chest heaving, one arm thrown over his eyes. Lan Zhan feels the same, strings cut, no energy left to do anything but breathe, occasionally clench through an aftershock, and watch the screen with half-open eyes.

“Uuuuuunf,” Wei Ying says, dragging his hand away from his face to blink at the camera, flushed and pleased and utterly debauched. “My review is two comes way, way up.” He grins, utterly shameless about the horrible pun, and draws his fingers through the mess on his stomach and thigh. “Thanks so much for the presents, secret admirer! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did.” Lan Zhan did, in fact, enjoy it as much as Wei Ying seemed to, and he watches with a fond, fucked-out affection as Wei Ying flops over onto his back and apparently goes to sleep as the video fades out. It’s tempting to do the same; Lan Zhan never naps, but if he did, this would be the time for it. There are, unfortunately, other tasks to address.

Lan Zhan gingerly removes the dildo, which is certainly an experience, wraps it in a tissue, and flexes the feeling back into his wrist. He wipes the worst of the mess off his skin and staggers into the shower. The water washes away the rest of the stickiness and sweat while Lan Zhan thoroughly unpacks the experience. He’s sore, both muscularly and, well, internally. Sitting is going to be interesting for a little while. Emotionally he’s great, better than usual. The lingering shame and guilt about watching Wei Ying’s porn is still there, of course, but he’s getting better at compartmentalizing that than maybe he should, so he pushes that to the side and focuses, instead, on how pleasantly wrung out he feels, the lingering endorphins from the orgasm bubbling through his veins. Is this how being drunk feels? Lan Zhan has only been drunk once, and he doesn’t remember the experience. If this is how being drunk feels he understands, now, why people seek it out.

Once he and the dildo are clean and his bedroom has been restored to its normal order, Lan Zhan settles down with his laptop and sends another fifty dollar tip to the Yiling Patriarch. After a tremendous amount of copyediting, he comments on the video as well:

wow this was hot!! ty for the video. the outfits look great, too!!!

He shuts the laptop before he “fixes” that comment back into his preferred style of writing, but feels vaguely dirty about it for the rest of the day.

On Sunday morning Lan Zhan goes through his usual routine and then, in what is becoming strangely common, breaks it dramatically. Today, it’s by going to Nie Huaisang’s studio. They’ve been in communication about the harness and other potential commissions, and Nie Huaisang needs to take measurements. Lan Zhan dresses in a thigh-length soft sweater tunic knitted in a pale gray and a pair of white leggings with a white scrolling print flocked on them. Nie Huaisang mentioned needing very accurate body measurements and therefore Lan Zhan possibly needing to disrobe, and while that does make him want to die a little inside, he squares his shoulders and dresses appropriately for the activity at hand. He throws in a pair of earrings, the silver dangling ones with chains and crystals, but skips any makeup--the sweater comes off over his head, and he doesn’t want to deal with smudging.

“Lan Zhan!” Nie Huaisang says when they let him into the live-work space that serves as their storefront, workshop, and home simultaneously. “You look great! I love this sweater, is it cashmere?” Their hand hovers, clearly wanting to touch but cognizant of Lan Zhan’s general aversion to the idea. With a deep breath, Lan Zhan offers his arm. Nie Huaisang will have their hands all over him in a few minutes anyway, to take measurements, so what’s a little fabric fondling between acquaintances?

“Merino, primarily,” Lan Zhan says as Nie Huaisang gently tugs the sleeve away from his arm and runs it between their thumb and fingers. “Some rayon, as well.”

“Ah,” Nie Huaisang says, nodding. “For strength, and also the shine.” In a surprising turn of events, they’re not dressed particularly outrageously today, having instead donned a set of practical gray coveralls and a brightly patterned scarf to hold back their hair. Lan Zhan had somehow imagined them doing all their sewing work while wearing the same garments they design. Now that he’s given that a single moment’s thought, it’s clearly ridiculous.

“So you can take home the harness today,” Nie Huaisang says, dropping his sleeve and waving Lan Zhan over to a table with some papers and folded fabric on it. “Those are adjustable, so I don’t need measurements. I know you were interested in the rest of the ensemble, and liked a few other things? I made some sketches of potential designs for you, if you can tell me what you think.”

Lan Zhan nods, trying not to look too distracted at the mention of the harness, and listens intently while Nie Huaisang explains their ideas, handing him fabric swatches and scraps of trims, occasionally pulling up inspiration photos on their laptop when they want to go into a little more detail. Unfortunately, Lan Zhan loves everything, and has to aggressively scale back the actual order to something more reasonable. If he doesn’t wear his impractical clothing collection outside of the house (a quiet voice in the back of his head points out that he’s wearing them right now, and hasn’t died, and maybe he could wear them more frequently and it would be fine) then he should focus on things he can wear inside his house, things that fill an actual niche in his wardrobe. After some discussion, and some fresh sketches from Nie Huaisang, they settle on four ensembles; the jacket and pants from the fashion show, a white faux-leather motorcycle jacket with embroidery on the back, and two sets of decadent loungewear. One is a crop-top, culotte style pants, and a flowing robe in a light silk-rayon blend for summer, the other a tunic-length nightgown, matching leggings, and another, cozier robe in a rich French terry fleece more appropriate for winter. Both are white, and Lan Zhan settles on robin egg blue embroidered accents and lace on the summer set, and deep cobalt accents on the winter set.

Lan Zhan allows himself to be led behind a privacy screen, which he appreciates academically even though there’s no one in the space but himself and Nie Huaisang. He takes off the sweater and stands there in his undershirt and leggings as Nie Huaisang efficiently wraps him in a tape measure in more ways and places than he previously thought were possible. It would be embarrassing--and indeed, Lan Zhan can feel himself trying to be embarrassed--but Nie Huaisang is so businesslike about the whole process that the emotion never really goes anywhere. For the first time in his life Lan Zhan doesn’t mind someone looking at him and not seeing him as a person--right now, Nie Huaisang is looking at him like a problem to be solved, and that makes the whole experience much more bearable.

“Okay,” Nie Huaisang says, scribbling measurements in a notebook. “I think that’s everything I need. Once I have a muslin of the suit and the jacket I’ll need you to come back for the fitting, but the loungewear is all stretch material…” Lan Zhan puts his sweater back on and trails them back over toward the table, not sure if he’s expected to provide any further input, when a dressform across the room catches his eye. Unbidden, his feet change their course, and he floats toward the dressform with his heart in his throat, unable to tear his eyes away.

It’s another harness, but completely different from the one he’s purchasing today. This one is all lace appliques and smooth satin elastic in a rich black, not industrial at all but delicate and decorative. It’s the best kind of lingerie, the kind that leaves the wearer looking somehow even more naked, and also infinitely more stunning. Lan Zhan raises a hand toward it, wanting to feel the texture of the lace, and pauses it in midair, because it’s probably frowned upon to just grab other people’s commissions.

“That’s a new design I’m working on,” Nie Huaisang says from Lan Zhan’s elbow, and it’s only out of a tremendous, instinctive level of self control that he doesn’t physically jump. Right. Nie Huaisang is here, since this is their workshop, and their work. “Each one is going to be a little different, since the shapes depend on what appliques I can source. It’s a fun challenge, especially the asymmetrical pieces.” They point out the curve of the lace tracking around what would, on a human, be a rib cage. “I’m using bra hardware to make them adjustable, so I can offer them at a lower price than my custom work. The burlesque performers in town are some of my best repeat customers but at fifty dollars an act they can’t always afford my higher-end work, you know?”

“Can you make it in white?” Lan Zhan rasps out, hand still hovering over the shimmering black lace. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Nie Huaisang blink slowly at him, like a cat considering whether or not to make friends.

“Come on,” they say, tugging very lightly on the sleeve of his sweater. “I’ll show you some applique options and you can pick out your favorite.”

Lan Zhan leaves Nie Huaisang’s studio that day with an iridescent vinyl harness burning a hole in his bag, a much lighter wallet, and an order for five ensembles fluttering through his mind on butterfly wings. He thinks about lace on skin, about plush elastic and embroidered flowers, and he smiles.

Chapter Text

Over the course of the next week, Lan Zhan runs a careful experiment. On Monday he wears his usual button-up and cardigan, along with earrings and a silver necklace with a crystal pendant that hangs nicely under the collar, landing in about the same place that the knot on a tie would. No one reacts to it, other than Qin Su, who has apparently decided they are now jewelry buddies and asks where he purchased it. He emails her the creator’s website and receives a genuine thank you and some delighted gushing about one of the pieces available for sale in response. Lan Zhan mentally takes Qin Su out of the “co-worker, neutral” category in his head and moves her into the “co-worker, positive” category.

On Tuesday he wears a button-up, his favorite ombre cardigan, earrings, and a set of collar pins joined with chains, the pins in the shape of clouds and little celestial charms dangling from the delicate silver links. Qin Su compliments it, and at the cafe for Tuesday Tupperware Wei Ying actually leans over the table to get a closer look, one finger lightly lifting the chain so he can examine the star charms. Lan Zhan sits very still and lets him look and tries not to vibrate out of his skin.

“I really like this,” Wei Ying says, sliding his finger back and forth along the chain, the movement tugging very, very lightly at Lan Zhan’s collar. “It almost makes me wish I ever actually buttoned the top button on my shirts.” He grins, brightly, winks, and adds, “Almost.” Dropping the chain, he leans back in his chair and gestures expansively at today’s black button-up. “I think the unbuttoned look is more my style, though. You’re allowed to get away with not ironing your shirts if you never fully button them up.”

“That is not a rule of fashion,” Lan Zhan says, taking a sip of his matcha latte (today it has a fern on the foam, which Wei Ying explained was an attempt at a philodendron that went wrong) and hoping the flush on his ears can be explained by the heat of the beverage.

“It is now,” Wei Ying says, stubbornly. “I’m gonna find the book with the fashion rules and I’ll write in the margins.” Lan Zhan can’t stop the tiny, tiny wince he has at hearing that, and Wei Ying’s smile sharpens. “I’ll write it in the margins in pen,” he threatens. “And then! I’ll dog-ear the pages!”

“It is a good thing no such book exists,” Lan Zhan says evenly, “because if you were to abuse it in such a way I would have to report you.” He lets a beat go by, watches the anticipation build on Wei Ying’s face, and adds crisply, “To the fashion police.”

Wei Ying groans and laughs at the same time. “Oh my god, Lan Zhan! I love when you make jokes but that was awful. Horrendous. Just the worst. A crime against humor.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, taking a bite of his sandwich. “Perhaps you’ll have to report me to the comedy police.”

“No!” Wei Ying says, pointing at him accusingly. “Stop. Unacceptable. It took me a million years to convince people you’re funny, if you make one of these horrible jokes in front of them it will destroy all my hard work.”

Lan Zhan looks him in the eyes for a long moment, blinks slowly, and says, “That sounds like a you problem.”

“You are the woooooorst,” Wei Ying crows in agonized delight. Lan Zhan takes another sip of his latte to cover his smile and carries Wei Ying’s laughter behind his heart for the rest of the day.

On Wednesday Lan Zhan wears earrings but skips any other jewelry, instead choosing one of his more ornate button-up shirts to wear under his pullover sweater. It has embroidery on the cuffs and the collar with subtle, white-on-white sequins embedded in the pattern. No one mentions it, not even Qin Su, and Lan Zhan finds himself re-thinking a lot of his previous assumptions and fears. It’s possible, he muses to himself as he rinses conditioner out of his hair, that people don’t actually care about him enough to notice his clothing. It’s possible that if they do notice, they don’t care about it enough to say anything or do anything or react in any of the nebulous ways his brain has always fixated on. Lan Zhan certainly doesn’t care what other people are wearing, unless they are either Wei Ying or wearing a garment proclaiming themselves to be some kind of bigot, and he only cares about the latter insofar as it makes them easier to avoid. Perhaps, it hits him with a jolt, perhaps other people feel similarly. Perhaps, in this, he’s actually more normal than he thought. This is such a shock, such a radical re-alignment of his worldview, that after he gets out of the shower he has to lie down on his bed and stare at the ceiling as his hair drips onto a towel.

To: Wei Ying
Wei Ying. May I ask you a question?

From: Wei Ying
my dude you know you just did and i can never let that slide without saying so
hit me up with question 2

To: Wei Ying
In composing this I have found it is two questions and one clarification. I will assume, given your previous statement, that this is acceptable.
1. How frequently do you think about other people? Specifically, those you see on the street or in passing?
2. How frequently do you worry about what they are thinking about you?

From: Wei Ying
how dare you ask me three questions total!!!! that is too many questions!

Here Wei Ying sends an animated gif of a lemon in formalwear screaming the word “unacceptable.” It arrives at the same time that Lan Zhan texts back:

To: Wei Ying
My humblest apologies. I have nothing but respect for your busy evening of laying around.

From: Wei Ying
ok i see it is deep questions with lan zhan time tonight 🤔🤔🤔
unfortunately for you i am the least deep person alive
i am a sheet pan half full of water
HEY i will have you know i had very specific plans for how i was gonna lay around
i was gonna stare into space and think about how cool it would be if i was a shapeshifter
SUPER IMPORTANT THOUGHTS 🤯
but to answer your questions
basically 
never and never

Lan Zhan stares at the ceiling for a little while longer. This is something he had always suspected about Wei Ying, something he envied about Wei Ying, but somehow seeing it written out in actual words makes it real. It is the antithesis of how Lan Zhan exists in the world. It is bewildering.

To: Wei Ying
Possibly final question: How?

From: Wei Ying
damn man
you need me to play despacito for you again?
shit’s gettin real in casa lan zhan tonight
uuuuugh this is gonna sound sad af but i swear i’m not really sad about it anymore
so don’t get sad about it okay??? you are officially not allowed to get sad

To: Wei Ying
I will attempt to maintain my emotional equilibrium.

From: Wei Ying
god you fucking nerd
you’re my favorite fucking person, goddamn
anyway
i learned pretty young that sometimes people just don’t give a fuck about you 🤷‍♂️
nothing like being completely ignored in multiple foster homes to really grind that lesson in early
which is super fucked up!!! before you jump in and try and interrupt me by saying so!!!

Lan Zhan, who was, indeed, composing a text along those lines, presses and holds the delete button.

From: Wei Ying
it meant though that to a certain extent i learned i couldn’t please people so it was better to do whatever i wanted because at least then i was happy
happy-ish
for a given value of happy
it’s very freeing to not care
i mean, am i gonna try and crush myself into a teeny tiny box just in case some fuckface i will never speak to has a problem with me??

From inside that teeny, tiny box, Lan Zhan takes a deep, surprised breath, and feels himself hit the sides of it.

From: Wei Ying
where’s the fun in that i ask you
NOWHERE
THE FUN IS NOWHERE, LAN ZHAN
i;d rather people hate me for who i am than like me for who i am’t
hey why isn’t am’t a valid contraction
it seems perfectly cromulent to me
do you hate am’t?? is it causing you physical pain to look at it???

To: Wei Ying
Yes.

From: Wei Ying
TOO BAD
it’s mine now
i’m gonna write it in the margins of the chicago style guide or whatever one you follow
IN PEN
oh the other thing that helped is sliding scale therapy that i deffo don’t go to often enough
that porn money’s good for something 💲💲💲
several things
a lot of things, actually
wish i could put therapy appointments on my amazon wishlist, that would be dope

Lan Zhan stares at the ceiling again and lets that sink in. Wei Ying goes to therapy. Wei Ying does not find it notable to speak about this. Perhaps Wei Ying thinks going to therapy is normal? It takes him a moment, but Lan Zhan slowly realizes that while both he and Wei Ying are orphans, Wei Ying was likely not raised in a household where the primary technique for handling emotions was repressing them. Wei Ying was likely not raised in a household where mental health was discussed precisely never. Wei Ying was definitely not raised with a thousand rules intended to mold him into a neutral, inoffensive, obedient adult. Lan Zhan loves his uncle, and knows that Lan Qiren did his best, but that love suddenly cracks around the edges with a surge of frustration that is shocking in its intensity.

To: Wei Ying
I have another question.

From: Wei Ying
fire away, i’m in a bubble bath and got nothin but time

To: Wei Ying
Have you found therapy to be useful and a positive influence on your life?

From: Wei Ying
fucking shit yes, my man
i dunno how much you remember from college vis-a-vis my panic attacks
but they were bad
nightmares, too
i drank too much, which is what we call self-medicating
also, shocker, DOES NOT HELP WITH PANIC ATTACKS OR NIGHTMARES
SO LIKE GREAT JOB PAST ME 🤦‍♂️
but i have Techniques(tm) now
as you may recall from the day we inventoried the decaf together
you also may note that i dont get shitfaced drunk so much anymore
only on tuesdays and bank holidays
(that is a joke)
still working on my horrendous abandonment issues but if i didn’t have one flaw it would be unfair to the rest of the world
can you imagine if i was this handsome and talented and hot and awesome and didn’t also struggle with personal feelings of self-worth???
god had to nerf me somehow

To: Wei Ying
You called yourself handsome and hot in the same sentence.

From: Wei Ying
AND I MEANT IT!!!

Lan Zhan smiles at the phone in a way he only can here, in the quiet of his apartment, with Wei Ying on the other side.

To: Wei Ying
Thank you for answering more of my questions than were originally planned.

From: Wei Ying
anytime buddy

The indication comes on that Wei Ying is typing, and stays on for quite some time, which makes it a little bit surprising when the following text is simply:

From: Wei Ying
are you okay?

To: Wei Ying
Yes.

From: Wei Ying
well that’s convincing as fuck
nothing to see here

Lan Zhan sets his phone on his chest, shuts his eyes, and thinks about how he wants to respond. Typing seems insufficient somehow. It’s not enough. He just saw Wei Ying at the cafe yesterday and he wants to see him right now, wants to drive over to his apartment and shake him by the shoulders and demand that Wei Ying tell him how not to care, how to be free, how to be brave like Wei Ying is. That fantasy is impossible. It’s too much. Unreasonable.

Lan Zhan picks up his phone. Wei Ying answers on the first ring and says, “Oh, and you’re calling me on the actual phone, which is a great way to convince me that you’re fine and not possessed by an alien.”

“I am not possessed by an alien,” Lan Zhan says, tension melting out of his shoulders into the bed just from the sound of Wei Ying’s voice.

“That’s exactly what an alien would say if it was possessing your body,” Wei Ying points out. Lan Zhan hears water slosh in the background and realizes Wei Ying was apparently not lying about being in the bath. He imagines Wei Ying’s skin pink from the heat, face damp with sweat. Is he the kind of person to snack in the tub? Probably. Lan Zhan wishes he knew, wishes he got to see Wei Ying like this for real, instead of on the internet. Water sloshes again, as Wei Ying patiently waits for Lan Zhan to find his words, like he always does when he can tell it’s important.

“I have been… trying things,” Lan Zhan says eventually.

“What, like drugs?” Wei Ying asks cheerfully, and laughs at Lan Zhan’s quiet snort.

“Not drugs. Fashion. Other things,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying goes quiet again. “I have spent a lot of time allowing fear to hold me back.” Lan Zhan shuts his eyes, because this seems too personal to say otherwise. With his eyes shut, he can pretend he’s just speaking to the room instead of to a person. “I am… tired. Of that fear. But it is hard to stop feeling it.”

“Aw, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his voice vaguely echoing from the tiled walls on the other end of the line. “You don’t stop feeling it. You just do it anyway.”

Lan Zhan blinks his eyes open and frowns, very slightly. That can’t possibly be true. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple,” Wei Ying insists. “It’s just also terrifying. It can be both. Just like I can be both handsome and hot. I contain multitudes.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, which is neither agreement or disagreement. The line goes quiet again, a little bit of static from the connection hissing like distant traffic, or wind through leaves.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, gently, “now, I’m the last person on earth who would try to pry into your business--” Lan Zhan snorts. Wei Ying keeps talking, but with a smile in his voice “--but if shit’s impacting your ability to like, exist, that’s enough of a reason to talk to someone about it.”

“I am talking to you,” Lan Zhan says, which is true.

“Yes,” Wei Ying says magnanimously, “and with my experience of going to literally dozens of therapy sessions, I’m basically an expert. I’ll be starting my own practice any day now, because I don’t have enough side hustles.” He goes quiet for a bit and finally adds, “My therapist is always telling me there’s no minimum amount of trauma required before you start, so just because other people have it worse doesn’t mean you can’t also use a hand.”

“And do you believe that?” Lan Zhan asks, because it sounds astoundingly fake.

Wei Ying barks a laugh. “I sure fucking don’t!” he says, sounding like he has a free hand over his face. “But she also says that the fact that I don’t believe it is one of the reasons I need therapy, so she’s kinda got me there.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, because clearly she does. “I should go to bed,” he says, which is true, and also because if he doesn’t get off the phone soon he’ll do something foolish, like ask Wei Ying to come over and hold him, curled up under the blankets, until he isn’t afraid of anything anymore.

“Yeah, I’m getting pruney and should probably get out of the tub,” Wei Ying says. “But before you go, I have a super important question for you.” He pauses long enough for Lan Zhan to make an affirmative sound and, in a very serious voice, continues, “If you were a shapeshifter, would you pick getting to have wings, or getting to have rad retractable claws you could use to climb with?”

“Wings,” Lan Zhan says without hesitating.

Wei Ying laughs, and Lan Zhan wants to wrap himself in the sound like it’s a blanket. “Of course you’d choose wings,” Wei Ying says, “you and your perfect face and your all white outfits. You’d look like a fucking angel, or a swan, or an angel swan. A swangel.”

“Would you choose something else?” Lan Zhan asks as a deflection, his apparently-perfect-face flushed.

“Oh, no, I would totally fucking pick wings,” Wei Ying agrees immediately. “That’d be rad as fuck.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. “Goodnight, Wei Ying.”

“Goodnight, Lan Zhan.” The line goes dead, and Lan Zhan sets his phone on his chest and stares at the ceiling and thinks for a long, long time.

---

Lan Zhan resolves to continue his fashion experiments, because he is nothing if not diligent. He needs to collect enough data to form a conclusion, after all. Each day that passes without the world crashing down on him unpicks a piece of a knot that’s lived in his chest as long as he can remember. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when the knot is unraveled, but for the first time in his life, he feels like it’s a possibility.

On Thursday evening Lan Huan comes over for their monthly dinner, like usual. Lan Zhan makes bao and Lan Huan brings custard buns from the dim sum bakery in his neighborhood. After, when they’ve retired to the couch with tea, Lan Zhan looks at his cup and, heart in his throat, says, “I’m thinking about finding a therapist.”

The words hang in the air as though painted in ink, hovering and blatant and far too honest, until Lan Huan smiles and says, “That’s wonderful, A-Zhan. I think you’ll find it very helpful.” It’s like a wash of water, the horrible messy truth dissipating out until all that’s left is clear and clean. Lan Zhan breathes again and takes a sip of tea and doesn’t choke when Lan Huan continues, “I can ask mine if he has any recommendations, if you like?”

“You go to therapy?” Lan Zhan asks, looking up from his cup. Lan Huan nods, steam rising gently from the tea in his hand, looking comfortable and easy and so many things Lan Zhan isn’t. “Why?” Lan Zhan asks, before he can really stop himself.

“Because it helps,” Lan Huan says easily. “Because sometimes the skills we learn to protect ourselves do more harm than good. Because sometimes it’s useful to talk about things with a neutral outsider, because it’s hard to see them from the inside.” That all makes total sense while simultaneously sounding like a complete fabrication. Lan Zhan makes a non-committal sound because he needs to spend some time ruminating before he can decide whether or not his brother is telling the objective truth or just his own personal truth. Lan Huan, being the best older brother in existence, pats Lan Zhan on the shoulder and changes the conversation to work stories. That night, before Lan Zhan goes to bed, he sends a text.

To: Lan Huan
I would welcome any recommendations your therapist has to offer.

The reply comes moments later.

From: Lan Huan
I will ask at my next appointment! 🥰

On Friday, Lan Zhan participates in the generally accepted semi-holiday of “Casual Friday” for the first time in his life. He wears pale gray jeans, a slim-fitting t-shirt printed in a blue-on-white traditional Chinese cloud pattern, a white button up (partially unbuttoned!), earrings, and the crystal pendant again. He receives compliments from Qin Su and from one of his fellow copyeditors and otherwise has a perfectly normal day, the experience of which leaves him lightheaded and giddy with relief. This half-drunk delight is the only explanation he has for why he snaps a picture of himself in the full length mirror in the work bathroom and proceeds to text it to Wei Ying with:

To: Wei Ying
I am trying some things.
(Not drugs.)

His phone blows up with vibrations on the walk back to his desk. He waits for them to stop before he actually checks it.

From: Wei Ying
lan ZHAAAAAN
omg wow
you’re a MODEL
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
wtf is this bathroom lighting where you work it;s amazing
the bathroom lighting here makes me look like a jaundiced gremlin
this is unfair, i take selfies all the time, i should have the good work lighting
you’re gonna let me shoot you again right????
you can’t just send me pictures of you looking like a street fashion god and not let me shoot you again
that’s banned by the geneva conventions or whatever
i will report you to the fashion police if you don’t model for me

To: Wei Ying
I will tell them to come back with a warrant.

From: Wei Ying
NO
how dare you be this funny and look this good
it’s rude af
how am i supposed to handle it???
i can’t handle it lan zhan 😭😭😭

To: Wei Ying
That sounds like a you problem.

From: Wei Ying
☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️

Lan Zhan puts his phone away, tries to control the flush on his face, and goes back to editing.

That night, after dinner, Lan Zhan takes down his hair and takes off his shirts and then hesitates, still in the gray jeans. There’s no compelling reason not to do the thing he’s thinking about doing, but he’s still a little nervous as he pulls the iridescent harness out of the drawer where he’s carefully packed it away. It’s cold against his skin as he buckles it on, goosebumps rolling out over his chest and back. The buckles take him a moment, possibly because he refuses to look at himself in the mirror yet, but he perseveres and gets everything adjusted and comfortable and only then turns to his reflection.

It looks good. He looks good. The glimmering colors move when he moves, a rainbow against the low gleam of his skin, contrasting with the dark inky spill of his hair. It frames his pecs really, really well, making him look more defined than normal and also somehow softer. Lan Zhan shuts his eyes and lets one hand drift across his chest, fingertips dragging from flesh to vinyl to metal and back, raising a fresh wave of goosebumps in their wake. What feels like a full minute later, Lan Zhan remembers he needs to breathe. When he does, his ribs shift against the harness, the vinyl moving with him at the same time that it constrains his movement, like a hug, or a dance. He shivers and opens his eyes again, his gaze dark and pupils dilated in the mirror. His erection strains against the fabric of his jeans, but he ignores that for now, lets the thrum of heat fade to the background as an enjoyable distraction.

Drunk on power, or narcissism, or something, Lan Zhan proceeds to take a variety of what he understands to be called “thirst traps.” It takes some practice, as unaccustomed as he is to selfies, but he thinks about Wei Ying’s framing and poses and tries his best to emulate them. He shoots from above, his jaw and half-open mouth in the frame, his free hand on his thigh next to his dick. He shoots over his shoulder in the mirror, getting his denim-clad ass and bare back in the shot along with his upper body and part of his face. He kneels on the ground with spread legs and an arched back and takes a picture in the mirror, the trail of hair under his bellybutton leading the eye down to his undone fly and the pale blue briefs underneath. Lan Zhan looks through all of them, deletes the ones he doesn’t like, and then meticulously creates a new folder on his phone, nests that folder into another folder, and moves the good shots there so they won’t appear in his camera roll.

The photo set of the strappy thing is finally on OnlyFans, and Lan Zhan sits on his bed with his laptop, enjoying the pressure of his jeans against his cock and the harness against his ribs as he clicks through the pictures hungrily. True to Wei Ying’s word, they’re pinups with no actual below-the-waist nudity, which does nothing to calm Lan Zhan’s libido. The strappy thing proves to be an elastic harness in a deep plum that matches Wei Ying’s lipstick, with matching high-waisted underwear and a completely impractical sort of garter belt style hip and thigh harness. It has burgundy accents, and Lan Zhan distantly and artistically appreciates how well Wei Ying emulated those colors in his makeup while the rest of his brain focuses solely on the swell of his ass in the plum stretch satin, or his dark nipples framed by the elastic straps. Lan Zhan looks through the whole set twice, leaves an encouraging comment, and proceeds to strip out of his jeans and underwear so he can fuck himself senseless with the dildo, bent over with his forearm braced against the headboard and the harness tight against his skin. He comes so hard it’s a surprise that he still has bones left in his body, he’s so wrung out. Afterward he curls up on his side, panting and occasionally jolting around the dildo, until he manages to summon the energy to crawl out of bed and clean up.

Lan Zhan must still be sex-drunk the next morning, because it’s the only explanation for why he opens OnlyFans, clicks on the messaging icon on the Yiling Patriarch’s page, and sends:

From: ArdentAdmirer89
hi! i love your work <3
what are your rates for custom videos?

Without waiting for a reply, Lan Zhan shuts the laptop and nervously deep-cleans his bathroom. When he comes back later, the smell of lemon cleanser still clinging to his hair, he has a response.

From: The Yiling Patriarch
Oh thank you! It’s always nice to hear from a fan!!! 💗
Custom videos start at $50 and go up from there depending on content.
Tell me a little more about what you’re looking for and I can give you a price!! 😘

Lan Zhan takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and orders his thoughts. He spends five minutes writing out what he’s been thinking about, and then a further ten minutes copyediting it into the house style of ArdentAdmirer89. After it’s appropriately edited he hits enter to send it and then shuts the laptop again, forcing himself to make a cup of tea while he outwaits the two minute window in which he could undo sending the message. He cleans the kitchen, as long as he’s at it, vacuums the rugs, and dusts everything before he lets himself look at his laptop again. Wei Ying (or the Yiling Patriarch, rather) lets him know the video as described would be $75, and also asks a series of thoughtful production questions that Lan Zhan had never even considered, like about his lighting preferences and whether he’d like a custom background track mixed for it. Lan Zhan answers everything in a blur, slaps his laptop shut, and goes for a completely off-schedule afternoon run before he disintegrates into a cloud of anxiety and dust from the lingering adrenaline.

On Sunday Lan Zhan drives to Wei Ying’s apartment, and this time he ducks into the bakery and buys some of the kolach that Wei Ying likes before he sends the “I’m outside” text. He’s kept an eye on the forecast all week and it’s still threatening to rain and he may be the kind of monster who anonymously purchases custom made pornography from his best friend, but he’s not the kind of monster who would make said friend bike in the rain, at least. Lan Zhan lingers outside his car, telling himself it’s just because he wants to stretch his legs, and not because he wants Wei Ying to see his whole outfit at once. He’s discovered his usual collection of basic slacks aren’t actually boring if he styles them correctly, and today he went with an ice blue pair, a darker blue button-up, and a pale gray cardigan knitted in a geometric lace pattern that he bought for work and promptly never wore. The hoops with the teardrops are back in his ears, and while he decided to skip a necklace, he did put on eyeliner and highlighter and styled his hair in a braid. Lan Zhan likes how he looks today, and is also intensely nervous because it’s going to be a lot of time spent in public and his brain hasn’t learned to shut up yet.

Wei Ying bursts onto the street in deep red jeans, a black t-shirt that says SHAMELESS in big red letters, and his faux-leather jacket over the top. Most of his hair is back in a ponytail, the undercut freshly shaved, but the chunk with the red streak is loose to fall messily into his eyes. “Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, grinning, and then he double-takes and his stride stutters for a moment. His smile gets even bigger, impossibly, and he drifts to a stop on the sidewalk an arm’s length away. “I see you’re still trying things that aren’t drugs.” Wei Ying brushes his hand over his hair, the red streak lifting and falling with the movement, and then strokes his chin thoughtfully. “As a certified hottie, I approve. This is a good look. If anyone has a problem with it, tell them to take it up with the certified hottie council.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, ears warm. He holds out the bag with the pastries in it and says, unnecessarily, as Wei Ying looks inside, “I bought pastries.”

“See,” Wei Ying says, already with a mouth full of sweet bread and fruit, “this is why you’re my favorite person.” Lan Zhan flushes harder and tips his head toward the car, and Wei Ying cheerfully piles in on the passenger side while Lan Zhan focuses on driving so he doesn’t do something ridiculous, like try to learn how the kolach tastes on Wei Ying’s lips.

“So why the Museum of Contemporary Art?” Wei Ying asks around a second pastry, as Lan Zhan makes a careful turn. “Aren’t you usually more of a traditional art kind of guy?” His eyes are bright and interested on Lan Zhan, picked out with smudged eyeliner, and Lan Zhan very stoically does not look at him directly.

“As we have discussed,” Lan Zhan says, “I am trying things.”

“Not drugs,” Wei Ying interjects.

“Not drugs,” Lan Zhan confirms, his mouth curling up slightly. “The current exhibit sounded interesting. All the pieces are interactive in different ways. It seemed like something you would like, and a good photographic subject.”

“Lan Zhaaaaaaan,” Wei Ying wails, covering his face with his hands. “You can’t keep doing this! Every Sunday you plan is so thoughtful! You’re gonna spoil me.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying leans over to slap him on the shoulder.

“I’m serious, next Sunday pick something you like,” Wei Ying insists. “I’ll come with you to the Museum of Old Dusty Poems or whatever and I’ll listen to you tell me about all the nuances between the different kinds of calligraphy and I’ll even be interested, I swear.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Lan Zhan says, instead of, “I plan these things for you because I love you,” instead of, “It brings me joy to see you smile,” instead of, “When you came into my life you changed me for the better, and this is the least I can do to repay you.” “Wei Ying could also take me to the Museum of Dusty Old Poems when it’s his turn to plan,” Lan Zhan points out reasonably, and Wei Ying scrunches up his nose.

“Yeah, yeah, I could, but I’d have to remember to do it.” He smiles sheepishly, half-hidden behind the fall of his hair. “Let’s be real. We both know that’s not happening.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, in a tone so long-suffering it makes Wei Ying laugh.

The museum exhibit is everything Lan Zhan could have wished for, by which he means Wei Ying loves it openly and tells him so constantly. Wei Ying takes pictures and experiments with the art pieces to find the way they react, face wide open and full of such wonder and delight it almost hurts to look at. There’s a piece that uses a camera to track the motion of the viewer and then dozens of servo motors translate that movement by rotating discs bisected with painted lines, so that when Wei Ying moves, an impressionistic silhouette mirrors his motion back from the wall. Another piece plays sounds based on speed and proximity, and Wei Ying drags Lan Zhan into a furious, ten-minute dance quest to get it to play something vaguely like Hot Cross Buns. Another piece uses a theater in a darkened room, constantly shifting botanical fractals projected onto a white screen, with a placard directing them to download an app in order to control the growth of simulated plants. They both do, experimenting with the app and also their own movement, creating something like a floating jungle, vines and flowers exploding into life on the screen before fading back into the original designs. Through it all Lan Zhan can’t stop watching Wei Ying, his unrestrained joy the most beautiful thing in the museum. He loves Wei Ying so fucking much. It blooms inside him, curling and coiling through his veins, sometimes exploding into a thing so vibrant and colorful that it demands all his attention before it flows away into the always-there, always-alive background of his heartbeat.

“Hey, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, turning to face him, green and blue and shadow in the projected light of the screen, eyes wide and luminous in the faint light. “Wanna go see what the next exhibit is?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, and means, “I love you.”

Wei Ying smiles into the darkness and grabs him by the wrist to tug him toward the exit, and Lan Zhan is, as ever, helpless to do anything but follow.

Chapter Text

After work on Monday Lan Zhan stops by Nie Huaisang’s studio for a fitting. The muslins for the white suit and the jacket are done, and he spends a mildly awkward half an hour standing around in his underwear and what feels like the no-name store brand of what actual clothes are like while Nie Huaisang flutters around and carefully adds pins wherever they decide is appropriate. Lan Zhan walks when directed and carefully moves his arms and manages not to stab himself on any of the pins, so he considers the whole endeavor a success.

“Do you have a preference on order of completion?” Nie Huaisang asks once Lan Zhan is dressed in his own clothes again. “And do you want to pick them up as they’re finished, or all at once?” They happily go back to making notes about whatever they need to make notes about vis-a-vis the fitting, allowing Lan Zhan to turn that question over.

“The motorcycle jacket first,” he decides. The weather is getting cooler now that it's fully October, and it will be a practical addition to his wardrobe, as comical as it is to refer to a white faux leather jacket with botanical embroidery as a practical garment. “Then the terry loungewear set. The summer loungewear set and the suit last. I can pick them up and pay as you complete them.” The studio isn’t very far out of his way, and Lan Zhan is much more greedy and impatient for these garments than he will ever actually admit.

“Great,” Nie Huaisang says, making a few more notes. “What about the lace harness?”

“I have no preference on timing,” Lan Zhan says, mouth dry, instead of, “I would like it immediately, can you have it ready tomorrow? ” 

“Mmm,” Nie Huaisang says, and it sounds like they heard what he meant instead of what he said. Lan Zhan flushes and looks intently at the blue chalk lines on the cream muslin on the table, trying to figure out if he should say anything else, when Nie Huaisang adds, “Client confidentiality is paramount to me, you know. I have photos of my creations taken for my portfolio but I never mention the purchaser unless given explicit permission.” Their tone is cheerful and offhand, but Lan Zhan can hear the subtext: “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and means, “Thank you.” Nie Huaisang gives him a knowing smile, and he thinks they understood.

On Tuesday Lan Zhan wears makeup to work for the first time, just mascara and a little bit of silver eyeliner. No one mentions it but Wei Ying at Tuesday Tupperware, after he’s done excitedly investigating this week’s offering of saag paneer and rice. They end up having a fifteen minute conversation about makeup, where Wei Ying thoroughly roasts Lan Zhan for only buying Fenty.

“Let me guess, Lan Zhan,” he says, fingers linked behind his head, elbows wide, eyes glittering, “you own exactly seven products, all of which were carefully chosen to coordinate, and you keep an eye on all the new releases in case there’s something else that comes out that matches.”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, with a slow sip of his latte. He sets it back down with a delicate and precise clink of ceramic and admits, “I own eight products.”

Wei Ying laughs, delighted. “Okay, but I still win by Price is Right rules.” He leans in, elbows on the table. “Can I try it sometime? The highlighter, at least? It looks great but it’s still out of my budget, everything in my makeup kit is NYX or ELF.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, inclining his head in the affirmative. It shouldn’t be exciting, the idea of Wei Ying touching his makeup, but the knowledge that it would be shared between them, that something used on his skin would be used on Wei Ying’s skin thrums through him. He has a vision of dabbing diamond lipgloss onto Wei Ying’s half-open mouth and then kissing it into a glittering mess, a vision which he carefully pushes aside to revisit later. “Perhaps you could add some to your wishlist,” he suggests, tone even.

Wei Ying’s eyes go wide. “Holy fuck,” he breathes, “you’re a genius, Lan Zhan! I never even considered that! What would I do without you?”

“Eat fewer vegetables,” Lan Zhan says immediately, and smiles behind his latte when Wei Ying laughs again.

On Wednesday Lan Zhan receives an email from Lan Huan that reads:

A-Zhan,

I hope this finds you well! Did you and Wei Ying have a nice time on Sunday? Are there more pictures? I would love to see them if there are--Nie Mingjue is looking for more art for the walls of the restaurant, and I think some of Wei Ying’s more abstract nature photos would be lovely.

I spoke to my therapist and he was kind enough to forward me a list of potential options for you, which I’ve included below. I believe they’re all currently accepting new patients. If you have any questions about how to choose one, let me know! I’ve gone through the rigamarole before so I can help you narrow down the list.

Best wishes for a pleasant week!

Love,
Lan Huan

As promised, there is a list of therapists and their websites. Lan Zhan emails his brother back a thank-you and a brief description of the museum, and then sends another email to Wei Ying with Lan Huan cced:

Wei Ying,

My brother would like to see more of your nature photography, and potentially purchase some prints. I have included him here so you two can discuss this in more detail.

Yours,
Lan Zhan

He proceeds to studiously ignore the list of therapists for the rest of the day, and for the following day as well. On Friday after work and dinner, he opens his laptop, squares his shoulders, and googles, “How do I choose a therapist?” Lan Zhan reads five guides on the subject, internalizes the shared advice from all five, and dismisses anything that doesn’t apply to his situation. Thus armed, he opens the email from Lan Huan and starts methodically investigating each option. All of them claim to be LGBTQ+ friendly, which is a relief, though upon reflection, not a surprise if Lan Huan felt comfortable suggesting them. He eliminates anyone who seems too “woo,” as Wei Ying would put it, and then eliminates anyone who seems too Christian, because no thank you. That leaves him with four, and he spends an hour carefully composing an initial inquiry email that is approximately six sentences long. After spending a further fifteen minutes dithering about the use of a semi-colon, Lan Zhan snaps at himself, sends the email as it stands to all four therapists, and steams the nervousness out of his body in a hot shower.

Afterward, Lan Zhan lays on his bed with his hair dripping onto a towel, and, in what is apparently becoming a tradition, picks up his phone.

To: Wei Ying
I have emailed several therapists.

The reply is nearly instantaneous.

From: Wei Ying
HELL YEAH MY DUDE
🎉🎉🎊🎆🎉🎊🎆🎆👍

Wei Ying proceeds to send a barrage of animated gifs, all celebratory in nature. When he has seemingly exhausted the options the gif search has to offer, he switches back to actual words.

From: Wei Ying
seriously good job
that shit’s terrifying
when you have your first appointment i’ll take you out to dinner
a real dinner at a place with cloth napkins
i will wear pants that don’t have artistically ripped holes in them
i will PAY FOR REAL DINNER LAN ZHAN
THIS IS YOUR ONE CHANCE

To: Wei Ying
Mark your words.

From: Wei Ying
I AM MARKING THEM

Wei Ying texts him a screenshot of his notes app, which has a single thing on the to-do list: Take Lan Zhan to dinner after he does therapy, date TBD.

From: Wei Ying
your move, friendo

Lan Zhan smiles, tracing a finger over the screenshot fondly.

To: Wei Ying
I will keep you informed of updates.

From: Wei Ying
SEE THAT YOU DO

Lan Zhan sets his phone aside and goes through the rest of his evening routine, the familiar actions soothing and meditative and allowing him to unspool a little more of the remaining nervous tension in his muscles. When he climbs into bed and plugs his phone in to charge, he finds there’s another text notification.

From: Wei Ying
hey so my therapist tells me that i constantly use humor as a way to deflect from real emotions
which seems fake but i made a joke to her about it and she gave me a LOOK 😒
so like
maybe she has a point
ANYWAY
i just wanted to say i’m really proud of you

Lan Zhan’s eyes blur for some reason he’s not going to admit, and he has to blink furiously a few times before he can focus on the screen again.

To: Wei Ying
Thank you. Goodnight, Wei Ying.

From: Wei Ying
night night, lan zhan!!!

Lan Zhan sets his phone down, turns off the light, and feels the box he lives in crack around the edges.

---

Lan Zhan forces himself to check OnlyFans every other day (preferably once every three days if he doesn’t slip up on his self-control), so it’s not until Saturday afternoon that he logs in again to find two new posts and, more importantly, a notification next to the messenger icon indicating the Yiling Patriarch has sent him something. He clicks on it, pulse racing, and reads:

From: The Yiling Patriarch
Hi there! Thanks so much for commissioning this! 💗 It was really fun to shoot.
My custom shoot schedule always has room, so don’t be shy about messaging again in the future if you want the sequel! 😆😉
I hope it’s everything you wanted!!!

There’s a video as well, automatically watermarked with the Yiling Patriarch’s OnlyFans address. In the thumbnail, Wei Ying smiles at the camera, bright and fresh and a little impish. Lan Zhan feels, abruptly, like he’s been kicked in the chest, like his heart has hiccuped. Yes, he asked for this, and paid money for it, and has been expecting it, but none of that seems to have prepared him for actually having it. He sets his laptop aside and methodically makes a cup of tea, the really nice oolong he saves for special occasions, each step precise and measured and meditative. When it’s ready he inhales the steam, sips slowly from the cup, forces himself to pay attention to the aroma and flavor and physical experience. Only when the cup is empty and his mind as calm as he can make it does he pick up his laptop and take it into the bedroom.

Cross-legged on top of the covers, Lan Zhan breathes slowly, opens his laptop, and with his heart brushing its wings against the inside of his ribcage, presses play. Wei Ying’s face greets him, not quite in focus as he fiddles with the camera, and then he pushes back to sit up against the wall next to his bed. He’s in sweats and a tank top, his hair loose, his face bare of makeup and warm and beautiful.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, and Lan Zhan knew it was coming because ArdentAdmirer89 asked for it but the words still hit him in the gut and force the air out of his lungs. “How’s your business trip so far? I hope it’s not too miserable.” (Lan Zhan has never, in his life, been on a business trip, but it seemed like the most plausible framing device for this request.) “You know I hate to think of you all alone in that hotel room eating shitty room service. I hope you at least ordered yourself a dessert. I hope you ordered two desserts.”

Wei Ying draws a knee up and drapes his forearms on top of it, then perches his chin on his forearms. “I wish I could be there with you, babe,” he says, eyes still on the camera. “Do you miss me? I miss you.” Lan Zhan lets out a ragged breath and inhales, sharp and painful. Oh, this wasn’t a good idea and he knew that going in but also knows he’s not going to stop.

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says, smiling slowly, tipping his head so he’s looking at the camera through his lashes. “What I always really miss when you go away is what you do to me. Last time you were gone I thought that maybe I should do something about that.” He winks at the camera and sits back upright, hands playing with the hem of his tank top. “So I recorded this and left it on your laptop for you as a treat. Hope you like it, sweetheart.” He grins again. “Hope you didn’t accidentally open it in the middle of a meeting! But if you did that’s your fault, I labeled it NotInPublic.mp4 and I thought that was pretty clear, but it’s out of my hands now.” A pout, and a mischievous look. “Alas, that you are also out of my hands, but we make do.”

Wei Ying strips out of the tank top slowly, eyes on the camera, and runs his hands slowly down his torso. “Are you taking off your shirt for me, sweetheart?” he asks, thumbing one of his nipples. “Are you undoing your buttons? Are you still in your work clothes or did you already change into pajamas?” He pinches his nipple and shivers. Lan Zhan watches, rapt, only looking away when he has to drag his undershirt over his head to bare his torso. “Touch yourself, baby,” Wei Ying urges, palming his pecs, sliding one hand down to cup himself through his sweats. “Pretend I’m the one touching you.” Lan Zhan does as asked, hands on his skin. He wants to shut his eyes so he can actually pretend Wei Ying is in the room with him, but he also doesn’t watch to stop watching the video. Eyelids heavy, teeth in his lower lip, he strokes over his nipples and chest and lightly over his cock, pants and underwear dampening the touch so it’s only a tease.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, sliding one hand up into his hair, grinding his hips against his other palm, “you like it when I touch you. Are you already hard? I hope you’re hard. I’m hard just thinking about you.” The hand on his sweats slides up to play with the trail of hair under his bellybutton, and then slips under his waistband. There’s movement under the fabric, and Wei Ying moans, and Lan Zhan undoes his fly and shucks out of his pants. “Are you taking off your pants, babe?” Wei Ying asks as Lan Zhan, way ahead of him, shoves down his underwear. “I wish I could see you. I think you’re getting the better end of this deal.” On screen, Wei Ying wiggles out of his sweats, and his dick is hard and flushed and leaking from the tip. He palms himself again, head rolling back against the wall, his neck on display and begging for a mouth on it. Lan Zhan wraps a hand around his cock and strokes it and pretends, furiously, that this is real.

“Are you touching yourself?” Wei Ying asks, hips jerking up into his fist. “Are you touching yourself and thinking of me?” Yes, yes, the answer is always yes. Wei Ying blinks his eyes open, grins lazily at the camera, and drops his dick, letting it rest against the crease of his thigh as he leans offscreen. “I know we could both just jerk off dry,” he says cheerfully, as he brings a bottle of lube into frame, “but I thought it’d be nicer this way, so I snuck some travel packets of lube into your luggage.” Wei Ying drums his fingers on the bottle and bites his lower lip. “I’ll wait here for a minute while you go find them, but I’m warning you, I don’t know how long I can hold out.” He proceeds to hum the Jeopardy theme while Lan Zhan leans over and scrabbles in his nightstand for lube, and god, he loves Wei Ying so much it hurts.

“I hope you have your lube by now, sweetie,” Wei Ying says as he squirts some into his palm, Lan Zhan shakily following after, “because I’m not stopping again.” He fists his erection and strokes, slowly, base to tip. “Fuck,” he says, biting his lower lip. “Ah, yeah, that’s so good, is it good for you?” It is. It’s actually a little too good, and Lan Zhan has to hold himself back from fucking his fist and coming immediately. He breathes slowly and touches himself just as slowly, the lube warm against his skin and smooth and as wet as what he imagines the inside of Wei Ying’s mouth would be like.

“I wish you were touching me,” Wei Ying says, his hips jerking up into his hand. “I wish you weren’t so far away. Fuck, I wish I was there with you. I’d make it so good for you, baby, you know how much I like to make it good for you.” He moans, shifting on his bed, lube dripping onto his thighs, one hand jerking himself off, the other roaming his body from chest to thighs to occasionally dropping down to play over his balls. “Aw, fuck, sweetheart, just thinking about you is getting me close. Are you close? Are you gonna make yourself come for me?”

Lan Zhan can’t get enough air into his lungs, every endearment squeezing him around the ribcage, and it hurts and he wants more. His hand speeds up, obscene wet sounds ringing in his ears from the room and from the speakers on his laptop, his other hand sliding up behind his neck to fist in his hair. “Yes,” he says, barely more than an exhale, jerking and twitching up into his slick fist, his thighs shaking and his abs tight and unstoppable, sparkling heat building up behind his bellybutton.

“Oh, god,” Wei Ying says on the screen, his face screwing up, his whole body trembling. “Oh, sweetie--ah--shit--I’m gonna come, I want you to watch me come, I wish you were here--fuck--” His voice cuts off into a gasp that’s very nearly a word, his eyes slipping shut, and Lan Zhan watches greedily as his cock twitches visibly in his grip, pulsing white over his hand and skin while Wei Ying whines and judders. Lan Zhan tightens his grip on the upstroke and tugs his own hair and stars shoot off in his skull, the heat in his guts exploding into an inferno that rages across his nerves like a wildfire and leaves him just as destroyed. He and the video of Wei Ying pant together, catching their collective breath, and Lan Zhan lets himself believe, just for a little while, that this whole endeavor wasn’t a dangerous fantasy.

“Wow,” Wei Ying says, blinking his eyes back open and smiling fuzzily at the camera. “That was great for me. I hope it was great for you.” Heedless of the mess, he flops forward onto his stomach, jostling the video as he props his head up on his forearms and smiles, only his face in frame now. “When you get home,” he says, his voice a small, private thing, “then I’ll show you how much I missed you in person.” Wei Ying kisses his fingertips and mimes touching them to the lens, a shadow on the video, there and gone. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep well.” The shot shifts as he fumbles with the camera, and the video ends, and Lan Zhan is left in his bedroom with his laptop and the yawning depth of the lies he’s told himself.

Lan Zhan cleans his hands and skin with tissues and wet wipes. He pulls his laptop closer and sends:

From: ArdentAdmirer89
wow this was amazing!! exactly what i asked for, ty! <3

He includes another fifty dollar tip, because the video was precisely made to Lan Zhan’s specifications, and he feels that fact deserves further acknowledgement. He gets out of bed, puts his laptop away, folds his clothes neatly, and gets in the shower.

Then, and only then, Lan Zhan leans his forehead against the tiled wall. He lets himself feel all the feelings he’s been setting aside, the want and the guilt and the pain and how horribly, wonderfully right it felt to hear those endearments on Wei Ying’s tongue, to see his mouth shape itself around the words. He brings up every word of the video, replays them in his head until he’s cut himself to bleeding on the beautiful glittering shards. He lets himself feel how really, truly, irrevocably fucked he is.

Alone, under the shower spray, Lan Zhan cries, and knows it will change nothing.

---

Lan Zhan gets through the next Tuesday Tupperware the only way he knows how: through aggressive, precise, unhealthy compartmentalization. He listens to Wei Ying’s cafe stories and nods and makes sounds at the right times and keeps his emotions under lock and key in the kind of prison that, in the real world, he thinks should be abolished. This is his only option and he knows it: to keep Wei Ying in his life, he cannot openly feel the way he does. He cannot ask Wei Ying for more. He can’t have him. This is why he has rules. This is why he had rules, before he went and started breaking them left and right. He drinks his latte and eats his sandwich and goes back to work feeling emptier than when he started, and he accepts this as justice.

Two of the therapists email him back. They both ask him what he wants out of therapy, and he stares at the question until his eyes blur and shuts his laptop without responding. What does he want out of therapy? Can they remove this wanting that aches behind his heart? Would he ask them to, if it were possible? That answer, at least, is immediate: No. He would not. As much as it hurts to love Wei Ying (and it does, it does), when Lan Zhan thinks of a life without him, that hurts more. He remembers with a cold clear precision what it was like: strict and quiet and boring and lonely enough to choke him without Lan Zhan even realizing it. Lan Zhan knows what it is to be alive, now, and he wouldn’t give that up for anything.

On Thursday his phone buzzes at work, and Lan Zhan cracks out of his statuesque stillness, the vibration far too loud in his quiet office. There’s only one person who ever texts him during work hours, and he checks the notification with a sense of impending dread that it probably doesn’t deserve. He knows, the anxious part of his brain whispers. He knows what you’re doing and he hates you for it. Lan Zhan ignores that voice pointedly and opens his text app.

From: Wei Ying
uh 
so 
your brother says nie mingjue wants to buy some of my photos?? for the restaurant???
and that there’s a budget
of 
A THOUSAND
FUCKING
DOLLARS
and he wants me to bring over my laptop and show him my portfolio?????
so he can pick out his favorites???
AND ALSO
nie mingjue wants to hire me to take new pictures of the food???
because they’re updating the website????????
and there’s an even bigger budget for that???????????
plus free food for a year?????????????????
LAN ZHAN???????????????
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Lan Zhan smiles, a deep surge of pride welling up from somewhere he worried was buried, washing away the insistent fear in its wake.

To: Wei Ying
I am pleased to hear that. Your photography is very good, and you deserve this.

Lan Zhan hesitates, at war with himself about whether it would be too much, and finally adds:

To: Wei Ying
I am very proud of you.

From: Wei Ying
LAN ZHAAAAAAAAAAN
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
i can’t handle this
thank you thank you
you set this up
you’re my art dealer now
do you need a cut??? what percentage????

To: Wei Ying
I do not need a cut.

From: Wei Ying
too bad
you’re getting one
as soon as i figure out what it’s gonna be

Lan Zhan hesitates, again, running his fingertip along the edge of his phone case. He knows what he wants to ask, and it’s not even anything he hasn’t asked for previously, but his self-control feels so fragile right now that he worries he’ll blurt out something more. Very carefully, he composes a text, re-reads it twice, and sends it.

To: Wei Ying
If you insist on providing me with a thank-you gift (which, I cannot overemphasize, is unnecessary), I would also like some prints of your photography.
Specifically, these:

Lan Zhan texts back his three favorite shots from the arboretum, the ones he pulls up the most frequently: the close-up of the moss, the maple against the sky, and the lilypad in the pond. He intends to have them framed as a triptych and hung on the wall of his bedroom, a splash of color and life and Wei Ying in his space, one that he’s allowed.

From: Wei Ying
you got it buddy
i’ll email you when i put in the print order for the restaurant????????!!!!!! and you can pick what size
holy fuck dude
i can’t fuckin believe this
they wanna put those little signs on the pictures???
like in a museum??
like i’m an artist!????!

To: Wei Ying
You are an artist.
You said so on Tuesday when you put a pumpkin in my latte foam.
Repeatedly.
At volume.

From: Wei Ying
okay YES FINE
i know i’m good
but me knowing and other people knowing is different
see: that ongoing struggle with my self-worth
holy fuckshit goddamn heck
WOW what a feeling
i bet i could punch the fCUKING SUN
RIGHT OUTTA THE SKY
I’M GONNA BENCH PRESS A DUMP TRUCK
💪💪💪💪
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
no words only yells
gonna go home and scream into a pillow

To: Wei Ying
That seems like a wise course of action.

Lan Zhan sets his phone down and turns back to the current manuscript that needs his attention, a semi-autobiographical magical realism novel about an Indigenous artist that he keeps getting sucked into reading instead of editing. He gets another paragraph through it when his phone buzzes again.

From: Wei Ying
FUCK sorry
you mentioned pumpkins and i just remembered the real reason i texted
i got that email right when i picked up my phone and got my mind freaked
brain empty, heart full
ANYWAY
i know we usually do sunday
but are you free on saturday this week???
jiejie’s all about making new family experiences together now that
you know
i got disowned or whatever
and jiang cheng doesn’t have a saturday wedding for once
so she wants to go to a pumpkin patch together
celebrate fall and stuff
🍂🍁🍎🍠🥧🌰☕
UGH why isn’t there a pumpkin emoji?? this is a personal attack on me specifically
wen qing and wen ning and 🦚🙄 are all coming
there’s gonna be apple fritters, lan zhan
APPLE
FRITTERS
can you make it???
it’s cool if no, i have stuff we can do on sunday
no pressure

Lan Zhan hesitates, again. He enjoys Jiang Yanli’s company, but she always sees too much, and he’s afraid she’ll take one look at him and see the truth written under his skin. He also cannot help but notice that the non-Jiang family members in attendance are either married to or dating one of the Jiangs, or in the case of Wen Ning, related to one of the people dating a Jiang. Lan Zhan does not fit into any of those boxes. He thinks about spending time with that group of people, about what they might be able to read on his face and body when he’s with Wei Ying. He thinks about having his secrets laid bare. He thinks about having to make small talk with them about inconsequential things while he keeps everything real crushed down inside him. He also thinks about Wei Ying, in a leather jacket and a scarf, camera in his hand, surrounded by fall colors and laughing in the crisp air.

Lan Zhan sends the only answer he was ever going to give.

To: Wei Ying
I will attend. Please send me the details.

Chapter Text

On Friday Lan Zhan stops by Nie Huaisang’s studio and walks out with a new jacket (practical, if eye-catching) and a new lace harness (extremely impractical, also eye-catching). He takes both directly home and spends about half an hour deciding what to wear for the Fallstravaganza (as Wei Ying insists on calling it) outing the next day. Obviously he’s going to wear the jacket--that’s not even in question. He ends up pairing it with the white jeans and his pale gray sweater tunic, along with a pair of gray mid-calf leather boots that he usually only wears in extremely rainy weather. It makes him look like the leader of the world’s most fastidious motorcycle gang. Lan Zhan wonders if Wei Ying will think so. He wonders if Wei Ying has access to a motorcycle, and would want him to model on it.

He packs the lace harness away carefully and changes into comfortable clothes while he makes dinner. After he eats he works on his translation project, which has been neglected recently. Lan Zhan isn’t entirely sure what he wants to do with the translated poems once he’s done. Wei Ying would probably insist he look into having them published, and he supposes that he does have some connections through work that he could leverage if he wanted. Right now they’re just an enjoyable hobby, and he doesn’t feel the need to monetize all his hobbies just because capitalism says productivity and profit is king.

Unsurprisingly, he somehow migrates his way over to the internet, and an incognito window, and OnlyFans. One of the most recent sets is Wei Ying in black jeans and a ratty sweater, curled up in the natural light from his window with a cup of something steaming. He clicks through the set as the Wei Ying on the screen strips out of the sweater, cool diffused light glowing across his skin like chiaroscuro, and has just reached the image where Wei Ying’s jeans are around his thighs, the shadow of his erection visible in a pair of burgundy boxer briefs, when his phone rings.

Lan Zhan jolts, slams his laptop shut, and grabs his phone in a rush. It’s from Lan Huan, who never calls after (Lan Zhan checks the time) eight o’clock at night. Worry rushes into him like a flood, and with shaking hands he swipes to answer and says, “Yes?”

“Lan Zhan,” Nie Mingjue says, gruff as ever. “I need your help.”

The bottom drops out of Lan Zhan’s stomach, freefalling toward the center of the earth. He stands up and paces into his kitchen, because sitting down suddenly seems unbearable. “Is everything all right?” he asks, voice as steady as he can make it. “Did something happen to Lan Huan?”

“What?” Nie Mingjue says, and then there’s a muffled conversation Lan Zhan can’t hear, and then his voice comes back on the line. “Your brother says I probably made you worry. Sorry. Lan Huan is fine, he’s just up to his elbows in flour and couldn’t use his phone.”

In the background, Lan Zhan hears Lan Huan call, “I’m fine! I’m just messy!” Lan Zhan leans over, free hand on the counter, and exhales deeply. Thank god. Okay.

“What do you need?” he asks, heart still racing, hands still a little shaky from the shock.

“Ah,” Nie Mingjue says, and while Lan Zhan doesn’t spend a lot of time with his brother’s partner, he thinks he sounds a little sheepish. “Lan Huan decided to make your uncle’s pineapple buns--”

In the background, Lan Huan insists, “He’s never had pineapple buns, Lan Zhan! I had to!”

“--and he got as far as mixing up the dough and then I accidentally knocked the recipe into the sink and dissolved it before he could make the topping.” Nie Mingjue sighs, clearly annoyed with himself. “Lan Huan says you have a copy?”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says automatically, and rifles through a cupboard for the little cookbook where he’s painstakingly written down every recipe his uncle shared. After a moment of flipping through the pages, he finds the entry for pineapple buns. “Are you ready?”

“Armed and waiting,” Nie Mingjue says, with the tell-tale click of a ball-point pen. Lan Zhan reads the ingredients and instructions clearly, Nie Mingjue reading them back as he goes, and when they’ve reached the end he hears the pen click again. “Thank you,” Nie Mingjue says. “Sorry to have worried you.”

“It’s no problem,” Lan Zhan says, mildly embarrassed about his reaction even though he knows it’s not entirely unreasonable. Lan Huan never calls past eight. Of course Lan Zhan thought something was wrong.

“What?” Nie Mingjue says, slightly muffled, and then, “Okay.” His voice comes through the speaker again, clear and obviously directed at Lan Zhan. “Your brother wants to speak to you.”

Lan Zhan nods, even though no one can see him, and waits patiently as muffled movement sounds come through the speaker. “Lan Zhan!” his brother says cheerfully. “Sorry to trouble you so late, but you understand that pineapple buns are important.”

“Mn,” says Lan Zhan, thinking about whether Wei Ying would enjoy homemade pineapple buns, and what excuse he could come up with for making them.

“Nie Mingjue is holding the phone up next to my head, so I won’t keep you,” Lan Huan continues, “I just wanted to say Jiang Yanli told me about your outing tomorrow, and that I hope you have a nice time.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, feeling cornered. Jiang Yanli and Lan Huan are in communication? Regularly? He is happy for them, because they seem like a good match and he likes to know that his brother has friends, but also this is horrible. What do they talk about? Do they talk about him? “Thank you,” he adds, because that is the polite reaction.

“I’m sure Wei Ying will get some great photos!” Lan Huan continues, a smile in his voice. “We can’t wait to see his full portfolio next week, right, my dear?”

Nie Mingjue makes an affirmative grunt and says, indistinctly, “He’s very talented.”

“I’ll let you go now, I know it’s bedtime,” Lan Huan says. “Have a good night, A-Zhan!”

“You as well, brother,” Lan Zhan says, fond and embarrassed and pleased all at once. He doesn’t say the next part frequently, but he’s trying, and when the phone rang he thought, for a horrible moment, that Lan Huan was in trouble, so he takes a breath and adds, “I love you.” 

“I love you, too!” Lan Huan says, easy as breathing. After another brief fumbling sound the line goes dead, and Lan Zhan sets down his phone, rubs his hands over his face, and sighs. The momentary panic about his brother’s safety has faded, leaving him exhausted, and he puts the cookbook away and collapses into bed a full fifteen minutes before his usual bedtime.

---

Lan Zhan waits outside Wei Ying’s apartment, earlier than usual since they’re meeting his family at the pumpkin patch at eleven. This is significantly outside the time range of their usual lunch, and includes other people, and Lan Zhan is wearing his new jacket along with a full shimmering eyeshadow look and highlighter and his diamond lip gloss, all of which to say: he’s nervous. As this is a common state of being, he keeps himself outwardly calm with minor effort. 

“Morning!” Wei Ying calls, bounding down the front steps of his building. As envisioned, he’s wearing black jeans, his leather jacket, and a cozy red and black scarf wound around his neck. When he catches sight of Lan Zhan he pushes his red mirrored sunglasses up on his head, gives him a slow once-over, and grins. “Fuck, man,” he says, and twirls his finger. “Give me a spin, I need to get the whole effect.”

Ears hot, Lan Zhan obliges. Wei Ying lets out a low whistle, presumably when the embroidery on the back of the jacket comes into view. “This is a Good Look(tm),” he says, pronouncing the “tm” out loud. “You look like the leader of the world’s cleanest motorcycle gang.”

Lan Zhan looks past Wei Ying at the bakery behind him, ears even hotter. “I thought similarly,” he admits, and Wei Ying laughs hugely and pats him on the shoulder as he heads past him to get in the car.

“Well if we both thought it, clearly you have to start a motorcycle gang now,” he says, letting Lan Zhan settle into his seat and pull out of the parking spot before he speaks again. “Are you gonna let me shoot you today?” Wei Ying bats his eyelashes in Lan Zhan’s peripheral vision. “As we have previously discussed, it’s banned by the Geneva Conventions if you dress like this and don’t model for me.”

“It is not banned by the Geneva Conventions,” Lan Zhan says evenly as he turns onto the road that will lead them out of the city. “I looked them up.” He waits a moment as he changes lanes and adds, “But yes.”

“Oh my god, really?” Wei Ying says, sitting bolt upright so quickly his seatbelt yanks him back down. “Oh, damn, dude, you’re gonna look so good, hell yeah.” Lan Zhan suppresses a smile and tips his head at the stereo, which Wei Ying takes as the intended suggestion, hooking his phone up to the aux cord and scrolling through his music collection. “Requests?” he asks.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. “Do you have any ‘chill lo-fi beats to relax and drive to?’”

Wei Ying grins and taps his phone, the chill lo-fi beats humming through the car. “You got it, my man.” He reclines, leaning against the door of the car, and the drive falls into the easy kind of conversation where Wei Ying carries almost all of it and Lan Zhan listens happily. The weather is spectacular, one of those autumn days where the sky is endlessly blue and the air is crisp and the leaves seem to be locked in a deathmatch to display the most spectacular colors. It’s no time at all before Lan Zhan carefully pulls into the gravel parking lot and snags one of the rapidly dwindling spots.

“Dang,” Wei Ying says as they climb out of the car, eyebrows raised even behind his sunglasses. “Everyone and their dad is here, huh?” Lan Zhan sighs inwardly, because he’s right. It’s a beautiful day, the farm is exceedingly picturesque, and it's October, so the whole city apparently decided to visit. He had been so focused on being ready to handle Wei Ying’s family and friends that he hadn’t actually considered the presence of strangers. The same old anxiety starts to creep up the back of his neck, under the collar of his jacket, insisting that he’s made a mistake, that people will see him, that he’s standing out, that it’s too much.

“Jiejie says they’re at the picnic tables!” Wei Ying says, grabbing him by the wrist, and Lan Zhan finds himself being towed along at a jog between strollers and small children and teenage girls in witch costumes taking selfies, and by the time Wei Ying has released his grip to sweep Jiang Yanli off her feet into an overdramatic hug, Lan Zhan finds he seems to have outrun some of his worries.

“Jin Zixuan,” he says politely, nodding to Jiang Yanli’s husband, aka The Peacock; aka That Fucking Guy; aka How Dare He; aka Soup Asshole. (All of these appellations come from Wei Ying, obviously.) Lan Zhan doesn’t consider Jin Zixuan a friend, exactly, but they went to the same private schools growing up and somewhere around eighth grade Lan Zhan realized that Jin Zixuan was actually just as socially awkward as he was and simply better at hiding it. From then on they regarded each other as safe, and spent more than one social event standing silently together in order to avoid having to talk to anyone else. He understands that there was some friction early in Jin Zixuan’s relationship with Jiang Yanli, but that’s not his business, and the man clearly adores his wife, not that that means anything in the face of Wei Ying’s eternal and undying resentment.

“Lan Zhan,” Jin Zixuan says with his own polite nod. His eyes flick over Lan Zhan once and he clearly takes a moment to digest what he sees, and just as clearly decides not to comment. “Glad you could make it.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and is saved from responding when, released from Wei Ying’s embrace, Jiang Yanli glides over to take his hand between both of hers.

“Lan Zhan!” she says warmly, squeezing his fingers once and then releasing. “Thank you so much for coming!” Her eyes track down to his jacket and widen. “Oh, this is lovely! Is it one of Nie Huaisang’s?”

“Jiang Yanli,” Lan Zhan says, his voice as warm as it ever is with someone not Wei Ying or Lan Huan. “Thank you for extending the invitation. It is.” He struggles for a moment and admits, “I am… Pleased. With how it came out.”

“You haven’t even seen the best part!” Wei Ying says, slinging an arm around Lan Zhan’s shoulders and bodily walking him in a circle. “Look at the back! It’s fucking awesome, right?” Jiang Yanli oohs and aahs and claps over the embroidery, and Lan Zhan flushes so hard he contemplates running away into the trees the way Jin Zixuan once did and Wei Ying will never let him live down. He is saved by this course of action by the arrival of the rest of their party, Jiang Cheng, Wen Qing, and Wen Ning. (It’s with some relief that Lan Zhan notes he’s not the only one potentially overdressed for a farm outing--Jiang Cheng is reliably in purple, dark dress slacks with a razor-sharp crease and a cabled sweater that looks straight out of a Pendleton photoshoot, while Wen Qing chose another red jumpsuit with long sleeves and wide legs, paired with a flowing pashmina scarf. He feels much less out of place as the leader of the world’s cleanest motorcycle gang.) There are a lot of loud greetings and hugs and general chaos, and Lan Zhan avoids it all by standing off to one side and examining the sign near the distant barn advertising hayrides and a photo booth. At some point Wen Ning joins him in standing quietly and awkwardly, and Lan Zhan feels a kinship.

“I like your jacket, Lan Zhan,” Wen Ning offers, hands folded in front of him and his shoulders pulled in. He’s always so quiet and polite and gentle, which completely belies the fact that he is immensely strong. Lan Zhan once saw him bench press Wei Ying without a struggle and remains quietly impressed. (This was, of course, at Wei Ying’s insistence, and Wen Ning had blushed furiously the whole time while Wei Ying had cackled at the top of his lungs, and Lan Zhan still finds himself thinking about it at odd moments and smiling to himself.)

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says. “How are your students?” Lan Zhan knows that, perhaps, the technical word for the children Wen Ning works with in occupational therapy is “patient,” not “student,” but Wen Ning speaks about them with the love and affection of a dedicated teacher. As expected, he lights up, chin lifted and eyes bright and animated.

“They’re doing so well,” he says. “I’m actually hoping to bring them here as a group trip, if I can arrange all the permission slips and carseats and everything else. Play therapy in a controlled setting is great but I always want to get them out in nature if I can.” Wen Ning looks around, as though to check for eavesdroppers, and leans in to whisper sheepishly, “I heard there’s a petting zoo here, too, so I have an ulterior motive.”

“Mn?” Lan Zhan says, interested in spite of himself. He likes petting zoos, especially if they have rabbits. He makes a mental note to find the petting zoo with Wei Ying at some point today.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying calls, bounding over with his unflappable enthusiasm. “Come on, Yanli wants to go look at pumpkins before all the good ones disappear.”

“You mean you want to look at pumpkins before ‘all these sneaky brats snatch the primo specimens,’” Jiang Cheng says with an eyeroll. “You can admit that it’s you, it’s not like Lan Zhan is surprised by your shamelessness at this point.”

“I am only thinking of my dearest jiejie,” Wei Ying says, wounded, clasping one hand to his heart and swooning back against Lan Zhan’s chest. “Are you saying she doesn’t deserve the best, most perfect pumpkins, Jiang Cheng?” He tilts his head, gazing beseechingly up at Lan Zhan through his eyelashes. “You agree with me, right? You agree that we should find the best pumpkins for my jiejie?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, acutely aware of Wei Ying’s weight against him, warm even through sweaters and jackets, and also acutely aware of the eyes of Wei Ying’s family, all of them watching and seeing and knowing. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion nearer the pumpkins, then.”

Wei Ying nods, very seriously. “Lan Zhan is a genius,” he says solemnly, and pushes upright. “To the pumpkins!” Lan Zhan trails helplessly along in his wake, caught up in the undertow, and ends up walking side-by-side with Wen Qing as they pick their way carefully through the tangle of vines in the field.

“Nice jacket,” she says, over Wei Ying in the background yelling instructions at Jiang Cheng to “Pose with that pumpkin like you mean it!”

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, examining a gourd near his feet and wondering if Wei Ying would consider it good enough for Jiang Yanli. “I have been. Trying things,” he adds, after a moment, because one of the things he has been trying is having actual conversations with people who aren’t Wei Ying, and while Wen Qing is definitely sharp-eyed and judgmental, she’s also quite kind. He thinks it’s part of what makes her a good doctor.

“Hmm,” Wen Qing says, and he feels those aforementioned sharp eyes scan him from head to toe and then linger on his face. “Well, it seems to be agreeing with you.” She pats him on the shoulder once, briefly. “As absolutely not your doctor, I suggest you keep it up.”

Lan Zhan looks determinedly at a pumpkin and tries to figure out if she requires a response, when Wei Ying calls, “Lan Zhan! Come show my dingus brother how it’s done!”

“Oh, he’s a better model than me?” Jiang Cheng sputters. “Which one of us has actual experience?”

“I sat for Wei Ying recently,” Lan Zhan says, keeping his tone steady. “I believe that makes us even.”

“What?” Jiang Cheng spits. “When? How?”

“Can we see the pictures?” Jiang Yanli cuts in, before Jiang Cheng can get himself any more worked up. “They must look wonderful! A-Ying is so talented!”

“I’m only as good as my subjects,” Wei Ying says, and dodges a swipe from Jiang Cheng with practiced ease. “Come on, get over here everyone, we’re doing some fall-ass shit. We’re doing a catalog shoot with pumpkins. We’re doing capital-F Fashion. Get ready to pose!”

It is a testament to Wei Ying’s force of personality that he manages to get the entire group on board with this plan, and Lan Zhan finds himself being choreographed into different positions and groupings and given stern directions to “Just stare off into the distance like a white man is explaining translation nuances to you, yes, perfect!” At one point Wei Ying pulls a tiny tripod out of his back pocket, sets up the camera on a timer, and starts lunging into frame because “There’s never any pictures of me, you know? Photographer’s curse.” Eventually Jiang Cheng gets annoyed at being directed to “Really feel the pumpkin, you know?” and huffs off, which breaks the spell, and everyone wanders away in different directions to explore the farm.

In addition to the petting zoo, which Lan Zhan zeroes in on silently from across the field, the farm also boasts an orchard, multiple varieties of both apples and fresh-pressed apple cider, and several flower gardens that he suspects supply the local farmer’s market. They’re mostly spent at this point, but there are some fall-blooming chrysanthemums still making a valiant showing. Wen Ning has attached himself to Wei Ying’s side, and they’re chatting about Wen Ning’s students and his plans to potentially bring them to the farm while Lan Zhan tries to figure out how to steer the three of them closer to the animals without giving himself away.

“Oh my god there’s a petting zoo!” Wei Ying announces, stock-still and vibrating at the same time. Ah. Excellent. Lan Zhan doesn’t need to do anything after all. “Hell yeah, let’s go pet some goats!” Wei Ying cries, grabbing Wen Ning’s wrist in one hand and Lan Zhan’s in the other and towing them at speed toward the pen. Wen Ning manages to catch Lan Zhan’s eye and they share a quiet, embarrassed look, both caught up in hurricane Wei Ying.

There are, indeed, goats in the petting zoo. There’s also a donkey that attempts to eat Wei Ying’s scarf, several remarkably friendly chickens, a few mildly confused ducks, a trio of sheep, and, safe in their own little enclosure, what Lan Zhan was hoping for: rabbits. He makes sure to pet all the other animals and share his handful of grain, so as to avoid favoritism, before ensconcing himself in a corner with a fat white lop on his lap and the purest feeling of contentment he’s known in recent memory. The rabbit is soft and warm and apparently happy to be held and gently petted. Lan Zhan never wants to move again. He’s going to live here, in this pen, with this rabbit on his lap for the rest of his life. The click of a shutter intrudes into his quiet little fantasy, and he glances up to find Wei Ying’s camera trained on him and Wei Ying smiling sheepishly behind it.

“You’re just so cute,” he says, his smile soft and fond and making strange things happen in Lan Zhan’s heart. He looks back down at the rabbit, because that’s safer than looking at Wei Ying. No one ever calls him cute. He’s fairly certain no one has ever called him cute in his whole life, and then: Wei Ying. Wei Ying crouches down slowly and, when neither the rabbit nor Lan Zhan react, reaches out to gently brush his fingertips over the soft floppy ears. As Lan Zhan is still petting the rabbit when he does this, their fingertips slide over each other, and it sends a tingling jolt all the way up Lan Zhan’s arm and down his spine.

“You never had pets, did you, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, scratching the rabbit’s spine. Lan Zhan shakes his head, wary of somehow breaking this spell twining between them, leaving the chaos of the outside world behind. “We should get you a bunny,” Wei Ying says, his fingers tangling with Lan Zhan’s and stilling, the heartbeat and the warm soft fur of the rabbit under their joined hands. “You could put it on a leash and take it on walks and be so horrifically cute together grown adults would die from it.” His eyes are on Lan Zhan’s face, kind and open and full of something Lan Zhan doesn’t really recognize but that makes his heart pound. He will purchase this exact rabbit from the farm today if it means Wei Ying will keep looking at him like that.

“Wei Ying,” Wen Ning says, leaning over the fence of the rabbit enclosure and breaking the moment in spite of the gentleness of his voice. “Oh, um. Sorry.” He looks from their joined hands to the white rabbit and smiles a little. “Jie texted and said they’re all meeting up by the food stall? It’s about lunchtime.”

“Is it?” Wei Ying checks his phone and grimaces. “Wow, yeah, it is.” Tucking it away into his pocket, he stands easily and stretches, black waffle-weave undershirt riding up in a quick flash of skin. “Come on, Lan Zhan!” he says, offering his hand. “Apple fritters wait for no man.” With more reluctance than he shows, Lan Zhan carefully removes the lop from his lap and accepts Wei Ying’s hand. It’s completely unnecessary--he was sitting on a small hay bale, he’s perfectly capable of standing up by himself, but Wei Ying offered, and Lan Zhan wants to. Unexpectedly, Wei Ying does not drop his hand, not until they round the edge of the barn and find the others standing in line at an outbuilding that smells like frying oil and sugar. Wei Ying only releases his hand in order to launch himself into the middle of the group and demand an unreasonable amount of apple fritters. Lan Zhan runs his thumb over his fingertips and breathes and tells himself not to read too much into this.

Lunch is a variety of fried items, though the food stall does offer a salad with apples and greens all grown on-site, which Lan Zhan orders with relief. They end up camped out around a table near the photo booth, too many of them all elbow-to-elbow and trying not to drip powdered sugar or grease on anything. He eats half of an apple fritter while Wei Ying eats two and a half, and it’s delicious if exceedingly sweet.

“Gotta say I’m not impressed with the photo booth.” Wei Ying points his corn dog at the generic backdrop, table of cheap props, and automated machine. “It’s really harshing the rustic mellow of this place.”

“It’s one of those Jin monstrosities,” Jiang Cheng says after a glance, his mouth a tight line. “People want them for weddings, now, because they’ll let you post straight to fucking Instagram, and I can’t get anyone to book an actual photographer for the job even though you get better photos and your money is going directly to a small business instead of in the pocket of another corporate dumpster fire.” He takes a sip of apple cider and, belatedly, adds, “No offense, Jin Zixuan.”

“Some offense,” Wei Ying whispers under his breath, and then jolts when someone (Lan Zhan suspects Wen Qing) kicks him under the table. For his part, Jin Zixuan shrugs and takes another bite of his fritter.

“None taken,” he says easily. “They lose money on those things, you know that? The whole goal is to ‘disrupt event photography.’ I’m pretty sure they want to drive actual photographers out of business and create a monopoly.” Jin Zixuan rolls his eyes emphatically. (He left Jin Corp. prior to marrying Jiang Yanli, Lan Zhan knows through Wei Ying, and now uses his significant personal fortune to invest in small businesses and offer tax coaching and management classes. Lan Zhan thinks it’s honorable. Wei Ying thinks he’s fruitlessly trying to make up for his past sins.)

“Oh, great,” Jiang Cheng adds, glaring at the photobooth. “And it’s staffed by the shittiest Jin of all, excepting possibly your dad. Great. You know I request they send someone other than Jin Zixun when I book these?” He pauses, again, and adds, “No offense about your dad.”

(Wei Ying does not say anything out loud, but he clearly thinks, “Some offense,"  so hard Lan Zhan swears he could hear it.)

“Good call asking for someone else,” Jin Zixuan says easily. “And, again, none taken.” He starts gathering up the empty paper plates from the table and separating out the recyclables, which seems to be the cue for everyone to awkwardly climb out of their too-squished proximity. They disperse back out into the farm at large--apparently Jiang Yanli wants to go to the petting zoo, now, so Wen Ning graciously offers to show her, which means Wen Qing and Jiang Cheng end up following after. Lan Zhan finds himself in the orchards with Wei Ying, along with a number of parents doing their best to corral their children into reasonable apple-picking behavior and occasionally failing. They wander until they find a quietly empty section, the trees of a variety that must have ripened earlier in the season. Now it’s just fall colors under the blue sky and the sweet, sharp aroma of the occasional rotting apple, fallen and abandoned to return to the earth.

“Perfect,” Wei Ying says, turning in a slow circle. “Great. Ideal. Scenic as fuck.” He takes the lens cap off his camera and points it at Lan Zhan. “Pose for me, you perfect beautiful model.”

Lan Zhan blinks at him. “How,” he says slowly, “do I. Do that.”

Wei Ying laughs, delighted, and has to bend over to brace himself on his bent knee. Lan Zhan just watches him, mildly embarrassed, but he likes it when Wei Ying laughs and he doesn’t much care what he’s laughing at. “Okay, sorry. It’s just--” Wei Ying stands back up and wipes his eyes “--your face, dude.” Lan Zhan watches him collect himself, settle the camera into his hands again, and take a deep breath. “You were doing fine earlier,” he says. “Why don’t we just walk for a little while and I’ll shoot and we’ll see what happens?”

Lan Zhan nods, and they do that, Wei Ying talking about the newest C-drama he’s watching--“There’s sumo wrestling in a brothel, Lan Zhan! And they take it seriously as wrestling!”--and Lan Zhan trying to relax into something like a normal gait. Wei Ying convinces him to stand next to a tree, and then lean against it, and look in various directions. He runs halfway down the orchard row and takes shots from the distance, and presses in next to Lan Zhan’s body to take what he claims are going to be “Hella artsy close-ups, Lan Zhan, you’ll see!” The tiny tripod comes out again, and Wei Ying runs back and forth between the camera and Lan Zhan, making tiny adjustments before he turns on the timer and skids into place, enough momentum to occasionally jolt their bodies together before he snaps into whatever pose he’s decided on. At some point it stops being awkward and starts being fun, when Lan Zhan forgets that the point of this is pictures (of him, that people will see, and think about) and starts thinking about the point of this being spending time with Wei Ying, doing something Wei Ying loves.

Lan Zhan is steadfastly refusing to climb a tree, even in the face of Wei Ying’s most pathetic begging face and his insistence that Lan Zhan needs to do this for art, when a twig cracks and announces the arrival of an uninvited guest, just prior to that guest saying, “Thought that was you, Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan freezes, one hand still gently resting on the trunk of an apple tree where he was trying to “look casual,” as Jin Zixun steps out from the next row. He’s all dressed in cream cashmere and tan twill, in what should be a classically elegant fall look but in practice is sized just incorrectly enough to make him look like he’s playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. Wei Ying glances back over his shoulder at Jin Zixun and gives Lan Zhan a confused look, mouthing, “What? ” Lan Zhan shrugs infinitesimally. If it was anyone but Wei Ying, they wouldn’t notice, but Wei Ying does, and they share a moment of bewilderment.

“It is, indeed, me,” Wei Ying says, still facing Lan Zhan. He takes a few more pictures, body language casual, making no move to either turn toward Jin Zixun or speak again, and Lan Zhan watches with mild interest and mild concern as Jin Zixun gets visibly angry about this. He thinks there might be an actual vein throbbing on Jin Zixun’s forehead, which seems unhealthy.

“I heard you’re going to be shooting for The Unclean Realm,” Jin Zixun says, swaggering a step or two further toward them. (It’s not a very good swagger. Lan Zhan may not be particularly friendly with Jiang Cheng, but he’s seen Jiang Cheng swagger with actual power behind it. Jiang Cheng’s swagger would beat Jin Zixun’s swagger in a fight without breaking a sweat.) He smiles, and it’s as slimy and cracked and unpleasant as accidentally stepping on a snail. “I wanted to congratulate you,” he says, sounding as not-congratulatory as it’s possible to be. “That’s a pretty big job to land for someone like you.”

Lan Zhan bristles at the barb in Jin Zixun’s voice, but Wei Ying just shrugs, his eyes still on Lan Zhan. “Thanks!” he says cheerfully. “It turns out that if you work hard, believe in yourself, and are actually a decent photographer, you can achieve your dreams!” Wei Ying looks off somewhere behind Lan Zhan and, with a tip of his head and significant eye contact, tells him to start walking. Lan Zhan does, Wei Ying trailing after him and saying, “So I think there was a duck pond? Maybe we can get pictures over by that.”

“It’d be a shame,” Jin Zixun says, his voice cutting through the air as unpleasantly as a flung rock, “if they found out about your other photography, wouldn’t it?”

Lan Zhan freezes halfway through a step, hands clenching into fists hard enough to make his knuckles crack at the insinuation. Is Jin Zixun--does he really--how dare he? He turns halfway around, far enough to make eye contact with Wei Ying, who glances at him and shakes his head slightly. “I think they know I shoot burlesque,” he says, voice bright, smile still intact but not quite reaching his eyes. “I have a whole section on my portfolio website and all.” Wei Ying keeps walking, and Lan Zhan hangs back and slips between Wei Ying and Jin Zixun with a protective instinct he can’t suppress.

“Did you know, Lan Zhan,” Jin Zixun says, the words crawling up Lan Zhan’s spine like a cold finger, “that your little boyfriend gives it away on the internet?” Fury rolls over Lan Zhan’s skin like an oncoming storm, barometric pressure squeezing him tight and making his heart pound. As much as he desperately wants Wei Ying to be his boyfriend, hearing the word said in that tone makes him feel physically ill. Is this really happening? Ahead of him Wei Ying stops walking, his shoulders still loose but Lan Zhan can tell it’s affected and not real relaxation.

“That’s kind of the point of a portfolio website,” Wei Ying says, turning around finally and leaning against the trunk of a tree. He puts the lens cap on his camera, allowing it to hang from the strap around his neck, and tucks his thumbs into his pockets, casual and easy and it would fool anyone but Lan Zhan, who can see the anger underneath. “You put things on your portfolio website for free so people can see your work. Come on, man. You know this.”

“Oh, so he doesn’t know,” Jin Zixun says, swaggering a couple steps closer. He looks smug, satisfied, like he has Wei Ying right where he wants him. Lan Zhan prickles with suppressed anger, dearly wanting to wipe Jin Zixun’s face clean of that sick arrogant expression. “You should be careful, Lan Zhan. You don’t want to end up associated with the kind of side work this one gets up to.”

Lan Zhan is angrier than he possibly has ever been before in his life, and he takes a moment to carefully string words together behind his eyes before he speaks. “I do not care,” he says, each word clipped and precise, “about your opinion.”

Jin Zixun reels back slightly, his face snapping to surprise before the sneer comes back. “I’m just trying to look out for you,” he says. “I thought you might want a warning about the kind of trash you’re hanging out with.”

Wei Ying tips his head and pushes up his sunglasses to give Jin Zixun a questioning look. “Man,” he says plaintively, “why are you so obsessed with me? Did I accidentally hit your grandma with a car? Did I get the last cookie at the bake sale right before you could buy it? Did I pants you at the school talent show when you were six? What is your deal? ” It is, Lan Zhan thinks, a fair question. He vaguely remembers Jin Zixun being in some of Wei Ying’s photography classes back in college, but no singular event that would explain the man’s current behavior.

The vein in Jin Zixun’s forehead becomes even more prominent. “I just think uppity little shits like you should know their place,” he hisses, “and respect their betters.”

Wei Ying nods seriously. “I will take that under advisement.” He smiles, sharp as a blade. “I will start respecting my betters as soon as I find myself in the presence of one.”

“You watch your mouth,” Jin Zixun snaps, taking another step closer that fails utterly to intimidate. “You should stick to your trashy nudes on the internet instead of taking legitimate jobs from respectable people.”

“You are not qualified to comment on Wei Ying’s nudes,” Lan Zhan says flatly. His voice is remarkably calm, considering he has both hands clasped behind his back so no one can see them literally shaking with fury. At any moment he’s going to tear himself apart at the seams and he genuinely doesn’t know what will happen then.

“If you’ve seen my nudes you know perfectly well they’re not trashy,” Wei Ying says, still smiling. “I’m a very good photographer.” A beat, and the smile sharpens. “Always nice to meet a fan, anyway. Thanks for your ten dollars a month.” His pose is still casual, but there’s tension coiled under his skin and in the line of his shoulders. Lan Zhan wants to bodily haul him out of this situation. Lan Zhan wants to go back in time and leave the farm before Jin Zixun could show up to ruin things. Lan Zhan wants to fix this, somehow, and he can’t, and he hates it.

Jin Zixun’s face goes red, and the smug sneer drops and turns into something dangerous and cruel. “You won’t be smiling when I tell your family what you’ve been doing,” he spits. “Is that brother of yours going to be proud when he sees you waving your dick around? Is your precious sister going to look at you the same way when she sees what a--”

Whatever slur Jin Zixun was about to use never sees the light of day, because, to everyone’s surprise, Lan Zhan punches him in the face with years of childhood self-defense classes and his full body weight behind the blow. The man goes down like a sack of bricks, and Lan Zhan stands above his prone, groaning form and pants audibly, shaking from head to toe with adrenaline.

“I said,” Lan Zhan says, his voice very quiet and very deadly, “you are not qualified to comment on Wei Ying’s nudes.”

“Wow,” Wei Ying says, his voice unsteady. “Damn, Lan Zhan.” He steps forward and grabs Lan Zhan’s wrist, tugging his hand down from where he’s followed through with the punch. “Oh, shit, dude, your hand.” His fingertips skim over Lan Zhan’s battered knuckles, which Lan Zhan notes, distantly, hurt. “Come on, we should get ice on this.”

As Lan Zhan allows himself to be led away, Jin Zixun pushes up to one elbow and says, “I tried to leave you out of this, Lan Zhan, but when I’m done with Wei Ying, I’m coming for you next!” The threatening effect is slightly marred by his slurred speech--his cheek and lip are already bruising, which Lan Zhan notes with a surprising amount of satisfaction when he turns on his heel to glare down at Jin Zixun.

“You can try,” Lan Zhan says, the words carved from stone and thunking onto the ground with a great weight. He’s not sure what his face is doing, but Jin Zixun goes pale again and looks away. Lan Zhan glares at him for a moment longer, just to really let it sink in, and then gives in to Wei Ying’s gentle grip on his wrist.

“Seriously,” Wei Ying says as they hurry out of the orchard, “what is with that guy?” He laughs, a bit of an edge to the sound. “I genuinely don’t even think about him ever and he’s just, like, lying in wait to be shitty? What a sad life.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, as the anger fades and his higher faculties return to him. “Wei Ying, are you all right?” Wei Ying’s sunglasses are down again, his jaw a tight line, and his hand on Lan Zhan’s wrist is stiff, thumb digging into his pulse point.

“I’m fine,” Wei Ying clearly lies, steering them toward a picnic table where red and purple splashes announce the location of the others. “Not how I was hoping today would go.” They dodge a few small children running at top speed, and Wei Ying doesn’t speak again until they reach the table, and then it’s to announce, “We need to ice Lan Zhan’s hand. Wen Qing, can you take a look?”

Wen Qing frowns and accepts Lan Zhan’s wrist when Wei Ying hands it over, her fingers gently prodding at the bruising. “Doesn’t look like anything’s broken,” she says, working through the range of motion on all of Lan Zhan’s fingers. “You should ice it off and on this afternoon and take some ibuprofen to cut down on the swelling. Wen Ning?” Wen Ning looks from his sister to the plastic cup of iced tea in his hands, blinks at it, and immediately hands it over. Wen Qing proceeds to pull some gauze out of her purse, wraps Lan Zhan’s knuckles, and then wraps ice cubes in place on top of the gauze.

“Is everything okay?” Jiang Yanli asks, her kind face creased with concern. “What happened?”

Lan Zhan had not planned an explanation. Lan Zhan is, for once in his life, incapable of attempting to plan for events before they happen. He is, therefore, extremely startled when Wei Ying says, “He decked Jin Zixun!” almost like Wei Ying is bragging.

“What?” asks Jiang Yanli.

“Why?” asks Jiang Cheng.

“Good,” says Jin Zixuan. Everyone turns to look at him in silence, and he glances between their faces and shrugs. “He’s an asshole. I assume he deserved it.”

“He did,” Lan Zhan says quietly. Every eye at the table turns to him, and he keeps his gaze trained on where Wen Qing is fixing the last of the impromptu icepack in place.

“What happened?” Jiang Yanli asks again.

“Yeah, why did fucking Lan Zhan deck someone?” Jiang Cheng asks. He sounds confused, which means he sounds angry, and Lan Zhan does not have the energy for this. He hears Wei Ying inhale deeply and let out a long, slow sigh, and he looks up at his face just in time to see it harden into determination.

“Right,” Wei Ying says, pasting on an artist’s impression of a smile that Lan Zhan immediately hates. “This is not how I wanted to have this conversation, but so it goes. I’m going to tell you all a thing, and then you will have thirty seconds to think about it in silence, and I will be timing it. When those thirty seconds are up I will take questions for exactly two minutes and I will be timing that as well. Does anyone other than Jiang Cheng have a problem with this?”

“Why do I get called out?” Jiang Cheng mutters, and Wen Qing puts her hand on his shoulder and says, “This is why, hon.” Everyone else straightens up, eyes on Wei Ying, faces displaying varying levels of confusion or concern. Now that his hand is free, Lan Zhan moves behind Wei Ying, not quite shoulder to shoulder, wanting desperately to shield him from the world and unable to do anything other than stand there and hope Wei Ying feels it as support.

“Great!” Wei Ying says with false brightness, getting out his phone and bringing up the timer app. He takes another deep breath, pushes his sunglasses up on his head, and looks at the middle of the table. “I make porn and sell it on OnlyFans, and I’m fucking good at it. It’s my main secondary income stream at this point. You should probably delete any emails you get from Jin Zixun in the next week, possibly through to eternity just to make sure, because for some reason he tracked me down in the orchard so he could threaten to out me to my friends and family. That’s why Lan Zhan punched him.” Wei Ying shuts his mouth and frowns, seemingly running through a checklist in his head. “That’s all I had to say. Your thirty seconds of silent contemplation starts now, looking specifically at you, little brother.” Jiang Cheng makes a truly impressive face as Wei Ying taps his phone and spends the most interminable half-minute of Lan Zhan’s life absently shifting his weight and drumming his fingertips against his thigh. When the timer goes off it’s a relief and a curse, Lan Zhan almost jumping at the shrill beep. Wei Ying holds up one finger, telling everyone to wait, and sets a new timer.

“Two minutes starts now,” he says, his voice light and absolutely a lie. “I will be calling on you one by one, hands up.” Everyone’s hand at the table goes up, with varying levels of speed and urgency, and Wei Ying points at Jiang Yanli. “Hit me with it, jiejie.”

“Do you like doing it?” Jiang Yanli says immediately. “Are you safe?” Her voice is kind and worried and absolutely free of judgement, and Lan Zhan feels tension roll out of Wei Ying’s body even from two feet away.

“I do,” he says. “I’m safe.” Wei Ying clearly struggles for a moment about whether to clarify, and finally adds, “It’s all solo stuff, jiejie, you don’t have to worry about that.” Jiang Yanli nods firmly, smiles, and settles back on the picnic bench.

Wei Ying points at Jin Zixuan, just behind Jiang Yanli, who asks, “Is it okay with you if I pretend this conversation never happened and I never learned this?”

Wei Ying laughs, a startled little bark of sound. “That,” he says, sounding slightly amazed, “would be the coolest thing you have ever done in your life. You’d really be doing me a solid, man, thanks.” Jin Zixuan nods and stares off into the middle distance, clearly already working on forgetting the exchange, and Wei Ying points at Wen Ning, who looks surprised to be called on even though he had his hand in the air.

“Um,” he says, blinking hesitantly. “Would you like a hug?” Wei Ying gapes at him for a moment, and Wen Ning clarifies, “That sounds like it was really stressful, with Jin Zixun.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, still a little staggered. “Yeah, actually.” He taps his phone and, to the rest of the table, says, “Questions paused on account of hug.” Wen Ning comes around the picnic table and wraps his arms around Wei Ying without hesitation or nervousness, the hug tight and firm and Wei Ying practically melts into it, dropping his head onto Wen Ning’s shoulder. Lan Zhan hates himself in this moment, hates himself for not understanding what Wei Ying needed, hates himself for not being able to offer comfort like this. He should have hugged Wei Ying. He should have been able to offer that reassurance instead of standing here like a frozen, useless robot. He couldn’t, and he didn’t, so he just stands there and watches and does absolutely nothing beneficial for anyone.

“Are you okay?” Wen Ning says quietly into Wei Ying’s hair as they extricate themselves, and Wei Ying squeezes his shoulder and nods, whispering, “Thanks, man.” As Wen Ning returns to his seat, Wei Ying restarts the timer on his phone and points at Wen Qing. (Next to her, Jiang Cheng’s hand has been fully in the air the whole time, and he’s turning an alarming shade of red.)

“How’s the budget going?” Wen Qing asks without preamble, reminding Lan Zhan that she already knew about Wei Ying’s OnlyFans. She looks almost bored with the whole conversation, though he thinks he can detect some concern around the edges of her eyes as she looks at Wei Ying.

“Forty percent from every payout goes straight into a high-yield online savings account,” Wei Ying tells her, shoulders back, chin up. “Half of that is earmarked for taxes, the other half for my own personal use. I’ll have enough for a new laptop in a couple of months.” Wen Qing nods proudly, an echo of the pride in Lan Zhan’s heart. He has just enough time to think that maybe this is going well when Jiang Cheng explodes into speech like the whistle on a tea kettle at a full boil.

“Really?” he asks the table, and Lan Zhan hears Wei Ying quietly sigh, “Yep, there it is,” as Jiang Cheng continues, “My brother--he just--we’re all okay with this?”

Wen Ning shrugs. “My students come from all kinds of family backgrounds,” he says reasonably. “I try not to judge.”

“What A-Ying does on his own time is his own business,” Jiang Yanli says firmly. “He doesn’t owe us an accounting of every moment of his life.”

“I did a nude calendar with my rowing team in college,” Jin Zixuan offers in a pleasant voice. For the second time in five minutes, everyone turns to stare at him in confusion. “It was for charity,” he clarifies. “I held an oar--” and he gestures vaguely in a way that is clearly intended as descriptive and ends up being, in the process, suggestive. His face twists in mild embarrassment. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.” (Later, Lan Zhan will be able to identify this as the moment when Wei Ying, entirely against his will, started liking his brother in law.)

“I send nudes,” Wen Qing says with zero shame and blunt honesty. “I’m hot and I want my boyfriend to tell me so, right, Jiang Cheng?” Lan Zhan watches as Jiang Cheng splutters wildly and turns a shade of purple that’s even more alarming than the previous shades of red. (Wen Ning stares into the distance, blushing furiously while doing his level best to ignore his sister talking about nudes.)

“That’s not the same and you know it!” Jiang Cheng hisses at Wen Qing, who gives him an incredibly unimpressed look. His brow furrows as he clearly realizes something. “Wait. You asked about his budget. You knew?”

Wen Qing shrugs, unflappable in the face of Jiang Cheng’s frenzy, which probably explains a lot about how their relationship works. “We used to be roommates,” she says. “There’s not a lot I don’t know about him, including how shit he is with money.”

“Not anymore!” Wei Ying cuts in proudly, and she gives him a fond smile. Jiang Cheng, rebuffed by his girlfriend, looks around for another potential ally and lands on, oh no, Lan Zhan.

“You’ve been quiet,” Jiang Cheng says. “Are you really gonna stand there and say you’re fine with this?” Lan Zhan straightens and looks past Jiang Cheng’s face, off into the distance where a small child is attempting to carry a pumpkin of approximately the same size as their tiny body. Cold water drips down his fingertips to fall to the ground, and he focuses on the ice on his knuckles and turns it into ice in his voice.

“There is nothing Wei Ying could do to lose my friendship or my respect,” he says tightly. “Perhaps Jiang Cheng should consider why he does not feel the same way.”

Jiang Cheng reels back as though slapped, and Lan Zhan feels a fierce, sick satisfaction that he will probably regret later. Before either of them can say anything else, Wei Ying jumps in with, “Lan Zhan already knew and he asked all his questions. If you have actual questions for me, Jiang Cheng, you should ask them.”

“I can’t believe you told him before you told us!” Jiang Cheng spits, standing up, hands fisted at his sides. “We’re your family!”

“Well,” Wei Ying says, his eyes glittering and his jaw tight, “when Lan Zhan found out he explicitly told me he respected my life choices and didn’t yell even a little, so if you’re trying to make me regret not telling you first you’re not doing a great job.”

“You--!” Jiang Cheng says, eyes flashing as he takes a step forward, and Lan Zhan steps between them with a smooth movement before he can think about it.

“Wei Ying,” he says, eyes still past Jiang Cheng, shoulders back. “If there is nothing else you wished to do here, we should leave.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, quietly, from behind him. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” He steps up closer to Lan Zhan, close enough that Lan Zhan can sense his body heat, and says to the table, “Sorry I ruined the pumpkins, everybody!”

“Oh, A-Ying!” Jiang Yanli says, pushing to her feet and rushing over to enfold her little brother in a hug. “You didn’t ruin anything. I’m sorry you were forced to tell us like this.” Wei Ying squeezes his eyes shut, hunching down to hide his face in the crook of her neck, and Jiang Yanli strokes her hand over her hair and rises about fifteen notches in Lan Zhan’s personal estimation. “I love you, A-Ying,” she whispers, quiet enough that Lan Zhan barely hears it. “I only want you to be happy. Nothing’s ever going to come between us, okay?”

“Okay,” Wei Ying says roughly, a hint of tears in his voice, though his eyes are dry when he straightens again. “Thanks, jiejie. I love you, too.” He smiles at her, a real smile even if it’s watery around the edges, then drops his arms and steps back. “Talk to you later,” he tells the table with a little wave, and Lan Zhan keeps an eye on Jiang Cheng the whole time as the man goes more and more apoplectic.

“Oh, you just get to fucking steal him now?” he bursts out, and Lan Zhan makes eye contact with Wen Qing, who somehow understands him without needing words. She stands up and takes Jiang Cheng by the arm.

“You need to fucking cool it, hon,” she says firmly, tugging him back toward the table, but Jiang Cheng, unsurprisingly, is not done. He lunges back toward Lan Zhan, frustrated and angry and possibly a little bit hurt, if Lan Zhan is interpreting his scowl correctly.

“I can’t believe you’re just gonna drop this on us and then leave!” he yells at Wei Ying’s back, and Lan Zhan has absolutely had enough of this shit. He steps up to Jiang Cheng, toe-to-toe, and looks him dead in the eyes.

“Outing a sex worker is an act of violence. It is traumatic,” he says, every word formed from clear glacial ice. “Your reaction is compounding that trauma. If you would like to learn exactly how you are currently failing Wei Ying as an ally and as a brother, I suggest you fucking Google it.” Jiang Cheng rocks backward, mouth falling open, and Lan Zhan turns on his heel, catches Wei Ying’s wrist, and strides away without looking back.

Somewhere on the swift walk back to the car, Lan Zhan’s grip shifts so he’s no longer holding on to Wei Ying’s wrist, but instead they’re clasped palm-to-palm. He does his best not to crush Wei Ying’s fingers, but he holds on tight, tighter than he usually would, because he wants Wei Ying to know he’s here and real and he’s not sure how to do that with words. His other hand is wet with melted ice and soggy gauze, and he drops Wei Ying’s hand only long enough to yank off the icepack and throw it into a trash can as they pass. Then they’re hand-in-hand again, and then they’re at the car, and Lan Zhan has to let go and he hates it.

They drive in silence for about fifteen minutes, Lan Zhan attuned to Wei Ying’s every movement, ready to respond (if he could figure out how to respond), when Wei Ying finally bursts out with, “God! Fuck that guy!”

“Don’t,” Lan Zhan says before he can stop himself, and Wei Ying swings around to look at him and then laughs, a real laugh, warm and surprised and unfortunately too short.

“Good point, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, sitting back in his seat. “Don’t fuck that guy. He doesn’t deserve fucking.” He rubs his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just really don’t get it. I know my memory is bad, but seriously: What did I ever do to him?”

Lan Zhan’s jaw goes tight, and he releases it with an effort. “Some people are just cruel,” he says, childhood memories echoing through his mind, there and gone again. “Wei Ying did nothing wrong,” he adds, softly, trying to make it as sincere as he can.

“Thanks, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, just as softly, and on some wild impulse Lan Zhan takes his right hand off the wheel and offers it to Wei Ying, palm-up and amazed at his own daring. Wei Ying takes it with no hesitation, and they make the rest of the drive into the city like that, until Lan Zhan needs both hands for steering and indicating.

Without consciously deciding to do so, Lan Zhan parks at his apartment and bustles Wei Ying up the elevator and through the door. Wei Ying goes along with this without comment, which is unnerving, and once his jacket is hung up and his boots are off he curls up on the end of Lan Zhan’s couch, pressed into the back and the armrest and so very, very small. Wei Ying is shaking, Lan Zhan realizes abruptly, and he pulls his favorite soft blanket out of the storage chest where it lives and tucks it around Wei Ying with gentle hands.

“Do you need an icepack?” he asks, and then gestures at the back of his neck when Wei Ying frowns a question at him.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, shaking his head. “No, it’s not a panic attack. I just…” He whistles, lowly, and manages a chuckle. “I was coasting on rage for the whole drive back but then the adrenaline comedown hit me. I’m just gonna sit here and shake for a bit, don’t worry about me.” Wei Ying smiles, a ghost of his usual grin. Lan Zhan looks at him, the pallor of his skin and the stress in his eyes and the shivering that hasn’t stopped, and he makes an abrupt, startling choice: he sits down next to Wei Ying on the couch and opens his arms in silent offering.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, barely a breath. Slowly, like Lan Zhan might run away if he moves too quickly, Wei Ying leans forward until he can tuck his shoulder under Lan Zhan’s armpit and press his forehead into Lan Zhan’s neck. Just as slowly, just as gently, Lan Zhan lets his arms drop, wrapping one around Wei Wing’s back, pulling him in a little closer and encircling him, protective and steadfast and reliable. They breathe like that for a while, Wei Ying trembling against him, occasionally twitching with abrupt little jerks, while Lan Zhan strokes his back and inhales the artificial vanilla smell of his hair and marvels in how perfectly right it feels.

“I do,” he whispers, and at Wei Ying’s questioning hmm, explains, “worry. About you.”

“Of course you do,” Wei Ying mumbles, his breath huffing against Lan Zhan’s neck just above where his sweater collar ends. “You’re a good person and you spoil me.” He sighs and squirms a little closer, halfway into Lan Zhan’s lap at this point. “Sorry I’m so much trouble.”

“Wei Ying deserves to be spoiled,” Lan Zhan says, the words launching themselves off his tongue without his permission. This seems to just be a day filled with surprises, so after a short inner struggle he adds, “It is never troubling to spend time with you.”

Wei Ying sighs, going completely boneless in Lan Zhan’s arms. “I can’t handle you, Lan Zhan,” he says, fond and tired and a little sad. “Thanks. For this. For everything today. It was good to have you there.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, instead of, “I love you and I will be there for you every day of your life if you will let me.” He’s honestly in significant danger of blurting that out, and for that reason is about ten percent grateful and only ninety percent annoyed when Wei Ying’s phone announces, “It’s Britney, bitch!” and proceeds to play Gimmie More.

“Ugh,” Wei Ying says, digging it out of his pocket. “That’s Jiang Cheng.” He sighs, eyes on the phone. “I should probably answer this.”

Because Lan Zhan isn’t done shocking himself today, he holds out his hand for the phone. Wei Ying looks at him, gnawing on his lower lip, and must see something he understands, because he hands it over. Lan Zhan stands up, lets his fingertips drift over Wei Ying’s soft, warm hair, and once he’s alone in his bedroom, he swipes to answer.

“Are you calling to apologize?” he says without preamble, voice cold.

“What, he has you answering the fucking phone for him, too?” Jiang Cheng says on the other end of the line. He sounds mad, as usual, but Lan Zhan thinks that behind the anger there’s a certain tightness that says weariness, and a level of worry that allows him to relax his guard by a fraction.

“Wei Ying had a difficult day,” Lan Zhan says, in the same flat, cold voice, because relaxing his guard doesn’t mean letting it down entirely. “I wished to ascertain that you were not going to make it worse.” Again, he doesn’t say, but he thinks they both can hear it.

“What my brother and I talk about is none of your fucking business,” Jiang Cheng snaps, and then Lan Zhan hears him take an audible, slow breath, hold it, and exhale. “But I am. Calling. To apologize.” Each word is bitten out through clenched teeth. If Lan Zhan cared more about Jiang Cheng, he would worry about his dental health, but he doesn’t, therefore he doesn’t.

“Mn,” he says, making no move to take the phone to Wei Ying. Lan Zhan knows he’s being petty, but he doesn’t want to let Jiang Cheng speak to his brother while he’s still so obviously wound up. Those two do not do a good job of calming each other down at the best of times, so Lan Zhan will stand silently in his bedroom until he judges Jiang Cheng an acceptable conversational partner, and if that means waiting until the heat death of the universe, so be it.

Jiang Cheng sighs. “Look,” he says, a little bit of the anger gone from his voice, “I reacted badly. I’ll own that.” He pauses, perhaps waiting for an acknowledgement from Lan Zhan that will never come. “Jin Zixun emailed,” he admits, and Lan Zhan’s entire body flashes hot and cold, his hand clenching on the phone. “I didn’t look at the pictures, but the shit he wrote, Lan Zhan. It was vile. I’m not repeating it, because no one needs to hear that, but fuck.” Jiang Cheng pauses again, and when he speaks next, it sounds like the words are being forced out of him by a car parked on his chest. “Thank you. For punching Jin Zixun. And. For taking care. Of Wei Ying.”

“I will always take care of Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, the words so true they might as well be carved into the side of a mountain..

“Yeah,” Jiang Cheng says, and Lan Zhan can hear the eye roll. “You’ve made that very clear. Are you gonna let me speak to my brother now?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and walks back out into the living room at a measured pace while Jiang Cheng seethes in his ear. He holds out the phone to Wei Ying with a nod and then busies himself in the kitchen doing absolutely nothing useful in a failed attempt to avoid eavesdropping.

“Yeah?” Wei Ying says. He listens for a bit, face going soft, and says, “Thanks. No. We’re good.” More muffled speech from the other end of the line. “Okay. I’ll tell him.” Wei Ying glances up at Lan Zhan, smiling, and Lan Zhan’s heart skips a beat for absolutely no reason at all. “Yeah. he does.” Whatever Jiang Cheng says next makes Wei Ying grimace, his face scrunching up. “Don’t you fucking start,” he mutters into the phone. “I’ve had a hard day, Jiang Cheng. I’m emotionally delicate. No, you shut up! Don’t push me, I will snitch on you to Wen Qing.” Wei Ying pauses again, listening, his mouth turning up into a gentle smile. “Thanks, baby brother. I appreciate it.” A pause, then, “Love you. Yeah, you, too.” He hangs up and tips his head back into the couch, tugging the blanket up around his shoulders.

“Good?” Lan Zhan asks. He thinks it was good, because Wei Ying isn’t crying or yelling or shaking anymore, but he wants to hear it out loud so the worried part of his brain shuts up.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, rolling his head to the side and peering up at Lan Zhan through his lashes. “It was a real apology. I think everyone yelled at him pretty hard and I mean…” He extricates one hand from the blanket and waves it vaguely. “He’s always had a short fuse, you know? He tends to react badly and then feel bad about it later.”

“Perhaps he should try not to react so badly in the first place,” Lan Zhan says with a little more acid than he intended to allow into his voice. Wei Ying laughs, and the sound pulls Lan Zhan out of the kitchen to stand behind the couch. Slowly, cautiously, he lets his hand settle on Wei Ying’s head and, when Wei Ying pushes into the touch, cards his fingers gently through the strands.

“Buddy,” Wei Ying says, grinning lazily, “you are not the first person to point that out about Jiang Cheng and you will not be the last.” He sighs, letting his eyes slip closed. “Anyway. We’re cool. Jiejie’s doing what she does best and making soup about it, so we’re invited over on Thursday for that. Apparently she and the Peacock are going full diplomatic incident about this and they’re gonna very politely wreck Jin Zixun’s shop.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan says. He pets Wei Ying’s head for a little while more, and Wei Ying seems happy to let him. His fingers tingle and his heart is warm and he wishes it hadn’t taken such a shit day for Wei Ying to get them to this. “Wei Ying,” he says, low. “What do you need now?”

“Hnnnnnn,” Wei Ying says, blinking his eyes back open and looking up at Lan Zhan upside down. “Okay, full honesty? Feel free to kick me out if it’s too much?”

“It will not be too much,” Lan Zhan insists stubbornly, because it’s true and because it reliably makes Wei Ying smile, and it does now.

“Uuuugh, Lan Zhan, fine,” Wei Ying complains as Lan Zhan continues to stroke his hair. “I wanna eat my body weight in dim sum and then watch Great British Bake Off all afternoon and yell at Paul Hollywood while you make quiet judgmental sounds, and then I wanna ‘accidentally’ fall asleep on your couch and then for you to decide it would be rude to wake me up so you just leave me here with a blanket and let me drool on your throw pillows.” He says it all like it’s a joke, like the idea is hilarious, but there’s something needy and serious hidden in his eyes. Lan Zhan is blown away, again, at the idea that he would ever find Wei Ying too much, when everything he asks for is so easily given.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says with a nod. “One correction: Wei Ying will not sleep on the couch. I have a guest room.”

“Fiiiiiine,” Wei Ying says, eyes closing again. “Twist my arm, why don’t you.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says again, fond and warm. “I will pick up dim sum,” he says, withdrawing his hand, and Wei Ying snaps back awake and grabs his wrist.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, and his face screws up with embarrassment, flushed and vulnerable. “I know you’re morally opposed to the gig economy, but can we get something delivered?” He bites his lower lip and can’t quite make eye contact. “I just… I’m not up to going out again, and I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Lan Zhan’s heart swells up, pressing against his ribcage, a hundred thousand words pushing up his windpipe, desperate to escape. “I will never leave you alone again,” and “I will keep you safe and feed you anything you ever want,” and “I love you so much I think I’m drowning in it and I don’t want it to stop.” He pushes them all down with an effort and says, instead, “Of course.”

Wei Ying releases his wrist and smiles again, sleepy and wrapped up in Lan Zhan’s favorite blanket and looking so perfectly at home in Lan Zhan’s house that it’s staggering. “Thanks, Lan Zhan. You’re the best.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, because that’s easier than actual words, and he forces himself to take a step away, before he climbs over the back of the couch and takes Wei Ying into his arms and kisses him until he forgets the farm ever happened. “Dim Sum Time is nearby and has an on-staff delivery driver,” he offers. “I will make tea while you decide on your order?”

“Perfect.” Wei Ying leans forward to snag Lan Zhan’s laptop off the coffee table. “Do you have ginseng?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says affirmatively, and sets about getting the kettle and the tea ready. He’s about to ask if Wei Ying would prefer to drink from a coffee mug when Wei Ying makes a sound like he’s been punched. Lan Zhan looks up and Wei Ying’s face is drained white, his eyes locked on the laptop screen, and he clears his throat once, twice, and then his head turns slowly toward Lan Zhan like something out of a horror movie.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, his voice scraped raw, at least an octave higher than usual. “You’re ArdentAdmirer89?”

With two words, Wei Ying destroys Lan Zhan’s entire world, and he freezes, malfunctioning, as his brain fully shuts down. His laptop, he realizes with a slow swelling of horror, his heart stuttering in his chest: He shut it in his panic about Lan Huan but he never closed the browser. He never--he never--and now--

Wei Ying watches him, and sees the answer, and he laughs, high and wild and with absolutely no humor. “Hey, Lan Zhan,” he says, in a voice that doesn’t sound like him at all. “Quick question: What the fuck?”

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan always knew that he would ruin this. He knew that he wanted too much, wanted things he shouldn’t, wanted in ways he shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be a surprise, now, that he's destroyed the best thing in his life. All he can do is stare, horrified, at Wei Ying, as though he’s watching an elaborate, multi-tiered wedding cake tumble inexorably through the air to splatter on pavement.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, shoving the computer aside and scrambling to his feet, tangled in the blanket and frantic, “why would you--of all people--it’s been months.” He runs his hands through his hair, over his face, the awful pallor fading and turning into a flush. “He--you sent me so much money, Lan Zhan! Is this some kind of fucked-up charity thing? Because I don’t fucking need that!”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan manages, though the error codes flashing in every part of his brain.

“I was doing fine!” Wei Ying says, backing around the couch, hands moving like he doesn’t know what they’re doing from minute to minute. “I didn’t need fucking--fucking pity money, from you of all people!”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says again, forcing it out through the thorns that have erupted in his throat and chest and guts, every word that Wei Ying says making them a little bit sharper, a little bit more jagged. “It was not charity.”

“What was it then?” Wei Ying asks, pacing back and forth between Lan Zhan’s desk and the back of the couch, shoulders hunched in like a caged animal. “You don’t even like porn! Why the fuck did you--you!--subscribe to my OnlyFans?”

Lan Zhan realizes with a jolt that he no longer feels as though he’s free-falling, as though he’s tumbled from the edge of a very high place, limbs flailing, panicked, unable to stop his descent. He is, instead, at rock bottom, the breath punched out of him and every single part of his body in broken bloody agony. That, perhaps, is why he opens his mouth and allows the actual, unvarnished truth out.

“I wanted to.” His voice is dry and sandy and barely more than a rasp, but it’s enough to shock Wei Ying into a silent stillness. Behind Lan Zhan, the electric kettle comes to a boil, the sound of bubbling water startlingly loud in the noiseless apartment, and shuts itself off with a click. Wei Ying stares at him with wide, unblinking eyes, and Lan Zhan holds himself rigid, his hands trembling and his heart racing and his knees weak.

After approximately a hundred thousand years, Wei Ying swallows, wets his lips, and says, “What?”

Lan Zhan takes a breath, and then another, lightheaded. He owes Wei Ying so much, and he’s been hiding for so long, and he wants to be honest, at least, at the end of all things. “I found it,” he starts, still in that rasp, “by accident. There was a tweet.”

“Fuck!” Wei Ying says, in recognition.

Lan Zhan nods and claws a few more words out of the destruction in his chest. “I shouldn’t have. Kept looking. But.” He squeezes his eyes shut, because he doesn’t want to see Wei Ying’s face when he says it again. “I wanted to.”

“What the fuck, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, weakly. Lan Zhan makes himself open his eyes and look at what he’s done, how Wei Ying looks bewildered and lost and confused and betrayed. Wei Ying opens his mouth, shuts it again, and finally says, “Why?”

Lan Zhan swallows, feeling broken glass all the way down his esophagus, and tries to find the words. (Even now, even in this, Wei Ying waits for him to figure his shit out, and Lan Zhan loves him and it hurts so much.) “It seemed. Like.” Lan Zhan pauses again, lines up a few more thoughts, and forces them out. “A safe way. To want you.” It’s out, it’s in the air, hanging between them in flashing neon letters, and for all it felt like Lan Zhan dug it out of himself with his fingernails he feels lighter, to not carry that weight. “I’m sorry,” he says, which is true. “I never--I know you’re not. Interested. In me.”

“I’m not interested in you?” Wei Ying repeats, in a pitch that would frighten dogs. He runs his hands through his hair again, leaves them hovering above his head, staring at Lan Zhan as though he’s started speaking in slang. “What the fuck, Lan Zhan?”

“I was never--I would never--” Lan Zhan starts again, an ice dam melting inside his chest, releasing an endless reservoir now that it's started. “It wasn’t a lie. Our friendship. You are--were--my best friend, Wei Ying. I wasn’t--I wasn’t going to ask. For more than that. It--you--were enough.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says weakly, leaning forward with his hands on the couch. “I can’t believe this, holy shit, fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Lan Zhan says, still rigid in his kitchen. The only parts of him that can move are his mouth and his heart, flinging itself against his ribs in a frantic, desperate pulse. “I know I shouldn’t have.”

“When you came over,” Wei Ying says, hands clenched on the upholstery of Lan Zhan’s sofa, “you knew. You already knew. You asked me all those good questions and you already knew.” His voice cracks, and he looks up at Lan Zhan, pleading. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know how.” Lan Zhan clenches his fists, scraping himself raw with his words. “I read that I shouldn’t bring it up.” That’s most of it, but not everything. “I was afraid. Of losing this. You.” It’s so absurd to say it in the face of the rest of his transgressions that he makes a sound that’s almost a laugh.

“And you thought looking at my dick in secret was better?” Wei Ying asks, high and strange.

Lan Zhan shuts his eyes and doesn’t fight the flinch. “I am not. Proud. Of my past choices.” He drags in a deep breath, burning his lungs like smoke, and looks at Wei Ying when he says, “But. I made them.” Another horrible, burning breath, and he says, “I sent money because I read. That it was. The appropriate way to express appreciation.” The world is blurry around the edges, unreal. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Wei Ying blinks at him for several wildly startled seconds, hair mussed and face flushed and mouth slack. “Are you telling me,” he says, his voice wavering, “that you liked my porn so much you sent me money about it?”

Lan Zhan nods, jerkily, feeling rusted all through his joints. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, because he is, and he should say so.

Wei Ying keeps one hand on the back of the couch as he shakily walks around to the front, and then collapses in a pile. He looks at the floor, then at the ceiling, and then at Lan Zhan, running one hand over his face. “You wanted to look at my porn,” he says half a question, and Lan Zhan nods again. “You wanted to look at my porn,” Wei Ying says, and then, “You wanted to look at my porn,” and then, “You wanted to look at my porn.” Wei Ying sounds lost, like he’s re-evaluating everything he’s ever thought was true, and god Lan Zhan wishes he could help but he’s the one who ruined it, so he stays in his kitchen and looks at Wei Ying and knows this will probably be the last time he gets to.

“So,” Wei Ying says, eyes on Lan Zhan like he’s afraid of missing something, “when you said you want me.” He swallows. His hands are still shaking. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Lan Zhan sways with a brief surge of nausea, the prospect of actually saying his wants out loud sinking blades deep into his guts. Wei Ying asked, though, and he deserves the truth, and it’s all Lan Zhan can offer him at this point. “I am attracted to you,” he says, barely above a whisper, and has to swallow before he can speak again. “Physically. And emotionally.” He swallows again. “I’m sorry. I know. You don’t--”

“And the custom video?” Wei Ying cuts in, eyes shining, cheeks red, his pulse very nearly visible in his throat even from across the room. “What the fuck was that?”

Lan Zhan can’t keep looking at Wei Ying and he can’t look away. He’s trapped inside the ice everyone compares him to, everyone but Wei Ying, and now he’s losing the only person who ever treated him like a human. “A mistake,” he says, every stolen endearment slipping out of his memories to shred his veins from the inside.

“You--” Wei Ying starts, and his voice breaks. He pushes to his feet and paces back around the couch, eyes on Lan Zhan the whole time. “You had me call you sweetheart. You asked specifically for a boyfriend experience.” (He had. Lan Zhan had had to google it to figure out the terminology.)

“I’m sorry,” Lan Zhan says. It’s a miracle he can still speak, his voice dry and dying. “I crossed a line--I shouldn’t have--”

“Why?” Wei Ying’s voice is strong now, and it cuts through the rest of Lan Zhan’s apologies like a sword through cobwebs. “Why was that the video you wanted?” His eyes are hard, hungry, and Lan Zhan feels them like a physical weight.

“I--” he says, choked, and Wei Ying takes half a step toward him and insists, “Why, Lan Zhan?”

“I wanted,” Lan Zhan starts, heavy with misery, “to pretend. For a little while.”

“Pretend what?” Wei Ying asks, unblinking, another step closer to the kitchen now. He’s not cruel, he’s never cruel, but Lan Zhan is cracking open his ribs and pulling out his deepest secrets with bloody hands and it’s cruel, so cruel for Wei Ying to ask him like this.

“I wanted to pretend that it was real,” Lan Zhan whispers, swaying a little on his feet. “I’m sorry. I know it was wrong.”

Wei Ying ignores the apology like he didn’t hear it, eyes still on Lan Zhan’s face, hot like a sunburn. “Pretend what, Lan Zhan?”

Oh god. Oh god, it hurts to pull the words up, it hurts to say them. Lan Zhan thinks Wei Ying could take an actual knife to his flesh and it wouldn’t hurt this much. “I wanted to pretend,” he says, each syllable shaking with the heavy weight of his confession, “that you loved me back.”

Wei Ying sits down on the floor with a thump that rattles the shelves, disappearing behind the couch abruptly. Lan Zhan almost takes a step forward, to go to him, to help, but Wei Ying scrambles back to his feet before Lan Zhan can regain muscular control of his body. “You what?” he says in a near falsetto. His face can’t decide if it wants to be pale or flushed, and has gone all blotchy in confusion.

“I am so sorry.” Lan Zhan feels tears tracking down his face and ignores them. “It was a bad idea. I should not have. Asked that of you.”

“You didn’t--” Wei Ying starts, still and vibrating at the same time. “You didn’t ask me to say it. You told me not to say it.”

Lan Zhan nods. He had been specific about that. It was perhaps the only good decision he’s made in the last two months.

“Why didn’t you ask me to say it, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying’s eyes are wide and unblinking and very very bright, and Lan Zhan feels like his skin has been pulled away to leave him flayed and naked under that gaze.

“I didn’t want to hear it,” Lan Zhan says, very quiet, breath hitching, “if I knew it was a lie.”

Wei Ying stares at him in silence, chest heaving. He paces in a circle, hands running up his arms and over his hair. He braces both hands on the back of the couch and leans forward, hunching over them. Through it all Lan Zhan watches, sure that at any minute Wei Ying will decide he’s had enough and walk out of his apartment and out of his life. He doesn’t want his last memories of Wei Ying to be like this. He doesn’t want to have last memories of Wei Ying at all.

“How long,” Wei Ying asks the couch. Lan Zhan doesn’t understand the question, and after an awkward pause, Wei Ying looks up at him and clarifies. “How long have you felt this way about me?”

This answer, at least, comes easily. “Forever,” Lan Zhan says, the ache of it reverberating through the hollow places in his chest. Wei Ying stares at him, frozen, and Lan Zhan keeps talking, words finally pouring out of him in a way they never do. “This wasn’t a lie,” he insists, again, because that much is true and he prays Wei Ying can believe it. “I wasn’t--I didn’t--don’t-- resent you for not feeling the same way. I wasn’t trying to--to trick you into caring about me, or--” he quails, but forces himself to say it “--into sleeping with me. I was--am--happy. To be your friend.” One more breath, in and out through the hurting, and then, sadly: “I just wanted you in my life.” Another teardrop on his skin, hot and painful. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says, quietly. He climbs over the back of the couch and collapses onto the cushions, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “Fuck. Fuck. I need a minute.” Lan Zhan has always, will always give Wei Ying whatever he asks for, so he holds onto his misery tightly with white knuckles and he waits.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says some amount of time later, peeking up at Lan Zhan, half his face still hidden behind his fingers. “I’m not running at full capacity right now, so I just want to make sure I have all this straight.” Lan Zhan nods, tightly, and Wei Ying nods, seemingly to himself. “You, Lan Zhan, are in love with me, and you are also attracted to me physically, to the point that when you accidentally found my porn you couldn’t stop yourself from looking at it, because, I can’t emphasize this enough, you want my hot bod. Is that correct?” Lan Zhan nods, again, his face burning and his body freezing. Wei Ying nods back and continues, “And you think I’m not interested in you, which is why you have never said anything about this in the decade we have been friends, and also why you never told me that you found my porn, which was so hot you proceeded to make a truly staggering array of bad decisions.”

“I’m sorry,” Lan Zhan says, the whole thing even more awful when put out loud into the world like that.

“You’ve said.” Wei Ying takes a deep breath, runs his hands over his hair again, and crosses his arms so he can grab his biceps. “I’m about to ask a question that is going to seem really ridiculous in light of everything else I just said.” He waits for Lan Zhan’s nod, because he’s always, always so kind, and fixes his eyes on Lan Zhan’s face before he speaks again. “So. You’re… You’re not acearo?”

Lan Zhan’s face does something he doesn’t recognize, contorting itself into an expression he doesn’t think he’s ever made before. He stares at Wei Ying long enough that he goes lightheaded and then remembers he needs to breathe, so he does that. “No,” he says, eventually, looking at the subject of every one of his numerous sexual and romantic fantasies. “I am not. Asexual. Or aromantic.”

“Because it would be fine if you were,” Wei Ying insists. “I’d understand.”

This conversation has shifted like a mudslide under his feet, leaving Lan Zhan scrambling for balance. “I know you would understand,” he says, feeling his way through the sentence, “but I am not. Either of those.” Lan Zhan does think, based on some of his reading, that he might be somewhere on the ace or demi spectrum (is there a sexuality that means “one person, very intensely, and no one else”?), but that nuance doesn’t seem relevant right now.

“You’re not,” Wei Ying repeats, blinking at him. Lan Zhan shakes his head, for lack of any other response. Wei Ying stares at him a little while longer and then, as though someone flipped a switch, dissolves into horrible, hysterical laughter, face in his hands and his whole body shaking with it. Lan Zhan watches helplessly, the sound grinding against his skin like sandpaper. He thinks he’s never going to leave his kitchen again. Wei Ying will leave and Lan Zhan will stand in this single spot, rooted to the linoleum, until he turns to stone and spends the rest of eternity as a statue.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says, when he can speak again, his voice trembling. “Oh my god. Wow. Okay.” He scrubs off his face, rubs up and down his arms absently, and pushes to his feet. When he turns to face Lan Zhan it’s with an expression that’s new, determined and worried and with an edge of something else Lan Zhan can’t figure out.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, and his voice is steady now. “Lan Zhan, I have been throwing myself at you for the last ten years.”

What? Lan Zhan’s ears ring, high and echoing. There is simply no possible way he just heard what he thought he heard. His brain has probably decided to take pity on him and dissociate his consciousness into a full hallucination. Just to be clear, he asks, “What?”

“The flirting, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, like it should be obvious. “The constant, incessant flirting? Every single time I am in your presence and also via text and email and carrier pigeon and every other way we talk?”

“You flirt with everyone,” Lan Zhan says, an immediate response, well-trained because it says it to himself every single day.

“Yeah!” Wei Ying agrees. “I’m friendly! But I don’t fucking--fucking friend date other people twice a month for literally years!” He gestures at his phone on the coffee table. “There’s a google calendar reminder, Lan Zhan! You’re in my google calendar! Recurring!”

Lan Zhan’s google calendar is color-coded and accurate up to the minute. He shakes his head and tries, “It makes sense to schedule--”

“Why do you think I never date?” Wei Ying interrupts, swaying a step closer. “I’m not subtle , Lan Zhan. All our friends make fun of me for it. My fucking therapist makes fun of me for it.”

“She should not do that,” Lan Zhan interjects automatically, frowning. Wei Ying waves this off.

“I sorta pay her to roast me, but dude. Not the point.” Wei Ying runs his hands into his hair and holds on there, elbows wide. “I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew. I thought my fucking dead ancestors knew.”

“Knew what?” Lan Zhan has never been more confused in his entire life, torn in a thousand different directions by hooks embedded under his skin.

“That I have been hopelessly gone on you since college!” Wei Ying says, taking another step toward him, hands waving. “That I embarrass myself with it! All the time! That I can barely keep my hands off you even though I know you don’t like to be touched!”

Lan Zhan blinks, furiously, trying to steer his brain in the direction of comprehension when he feels like the wheel has come away in his hands. “I like it when Wei Ying touches me,” he says, more honesty rolling off his tongue while his conscious mind is distracted.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying squeaks, face going red. “Fuck! Why couldn’t you have said that ten years ago?”

The gears are slowly turning, the operating system finally booting back up, and Lan Zhan shakes himself like a dog casting off water. “You never said,” he manages, as his brain starts slowly re-evaluating a decade of memories.

“Because!” Wei Ying says, shrilly, taking another step closer to the kitchen, “As we have established! I thought you were fundamentally uninterested! In relationships in general! And me in particular!” He looks absolutely wild, nearly feral with the intensity of his emotions. Lan Zhan finds it extremely attractive and shoves that impulse down and buries it.

“I am not. Uninterested,” Lan Zhan rasps out, his body vibrating with an emotion he doesn’t dare call hope.

“Well I know that now!” Wei Ying says, clawing at his face. “Ten fucking years, Lan Zhan! You never so much as admitted to finding another human attractive even in an aesthetic sense! You dated precisely never! You look away from the screen during sex scenes in movies! What was I supposed to think?”

“You--” Lan Zhan says, breathing hard, great gulps of air like he’s been drowning and has only now broken the surface. “You--”

“I think about you when I shoot porn,” Wei Ying blurts, two steps closer now. “Is that fucked up? I think it’s fucked up, but I tried not thinking about you and the videos were worse.” He laughs, wild, red all the way down to his collarbones. “You’ve been living rent-free in the horny part of my brain for so long I don’t know how not to think about you anymore.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, a flare of heat jolting up his spine, but Wei Ying’s not done talking.

“I ask to take photos of you all the time because I want something of you to carry with me when you’re not around,” he says, hoarse. “Is that creepy? Fuck, I was so excited when you let me shoot you that day at my apartment, I keep pulling up the pictures just to look at them, and it’s not because I’m a great photographer but it’s because they’re pictures of you.” Wei Ying is in the kitchen now, one hand braced on the counter, Lan Zhan trapped in the back of the U shaped cabinet layout. They’re both trembling, eyes locked on each other. Lan Zhan doesn’t know if he’ll ever blink again, he’s so terrified of ending whatever this is.

“Wei Ying,” he says desperately, “Wei Ying, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Wei Ying starts, inching closer, hand tracing along the countertop like he needs it to stay upright, “that I love you. That I’m in love with you. That I want you. That I was going to keep it to myself for the rest of my life because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship by asking you for something you couldn’t give.” He’s close enough to touch, now, and he freezes there, eyes on Lan Zhan’s face, glittering with moisture.

“You didn’t want to ruin it?” Lan Zhan shakes his head, feeling another tear escape, and takes a shuddering breath. “Wei Ying--I’m sorry--”

“Shh,” Wei Ying says softly, lifting one hand to unsteadily thumb away the droplet. He leaves his hand on Lan Zhan’s face, cradling his cheekbone and jaw, and Lan Zhan sways into it without meaning to. “I’m not gonna sugar-coat it,” Wei Ying tells him seriously, “You did a super fucked up thing, and we are going to have a longer conversation about that later, but Lan Zhan.” His voice cracks, and his other hand fists in the sweater at Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “Lan Zhan, I love you so much. I don’t want to lose you over this.”

Lan Zhan’s heart hurts again, but this time it’s an ache like stretching a sore muscle, something accustomed to being small and starved suddenly filled with blood and vitality and life. “Wei Ying,” he says, raising one hand to cover the one on his face, the other coming up of its own accord to rest against the black waffle-weave of Wei Ying’s shirt, just over his heart. He thought this would be hard to say, but instead it’s the easiest thing in the world: “Wei Ying, I love you. I have loved you for so long that I don’t know how to not love you.”

“You don’t have to,” Wei Ying says immediately, his heart pounding out its strength against Lan Zhan’s palm. “You don’t have to know how not to.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, eyes blurring as he blinks away another tear. He knows what he wants to do, and he’s also been doing a lot of reading about consent, and he knows he’s thoroughly fucked up on that point in a lot of ways prior to the present moment and he’s determined not to fuck it up again, so he says, “I want to kiss you now.”

“You fucking better,” Wei Ying snaps, and Lan Zhan leans in and tips his head down the couple inches necessary to fit their mouths together. He doesn’t know what he’s doing so he doesn’t get ambitious, just brushes his lips lightly across Wei Ying’s, smooth and dry and so, so warm. When he pulls back his mouth is tingling and he has goosebumps all the way down his spine and when Wei Ying blinks his eyes open and looks up at him, pupils dilated, mouth slack, something in his gut kindles and leaves him dizzy.

“That was my first kiss,” he says, dazed, because apparently his brain-to-mouth filter has been fully removed and sent back to tech support for repair. Wei Ying blinks up at him blankly, so maybe he’s not the only one having a hard time on the whole thinking front right now.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says after a minute, brushing his thumb over Lan Zhan’s cheekbone. “Was it good?” Lan Zhan nods, and Wei Ying shifts a little closer, brushing against his chest. “Wanna do it again?” he asks, and when Lan Zhan nods, Wei Ying reels him in with the hand in his sweater and kisses him. Wei Ying seems to have a better idea of technique, and he moves his mouth in subtle little ways, tilting his head until they fit together in a position that makes Lan Zhan shiver. His hand on Wei Ying’s chest slides up to cup behind his neck, thumb on the delicate skin at the base of his jaw just below Wei Ying’s ear, fingers brushing the velvet of his undercut. Wei Ying drops the hand on Lan Zhan’s face, which is a tragedy, but it’s so he can wrap both arms around Lan Zhan’s neck, arching into his body in a long press of heat. Lan Zhan makes a sound, maybe a gasp, maybe something like Wei Ying’s name, and when his lips part Wei Ying takes shameless advantage, his tongue darting into Lan Zhan’s mouth, wet and hot and teasing. Lan Zhan loses himself in it, learning from Wei Ying, chasing him in a slow give-and-take of lips and tongues and shared breaths. His arms drape down to wrap around Wei Ying’s waist, hauling him closer, crushing their bodies together so he can feel Wei Ying shaking, knows Wei Ying can feel him shivering too.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says when they break apart for air. His mouth is swollen and red and Lan Zhan gives in to a long-held temptation and nips his lower lip, teeth dragging across the freckle that haunts him every minute of every day. “Oh, god,” Wei Ying practically moans, slurred against Lan Zhan’s mouth, and then they’re kissing again, hard and furious and unstoppable as a landslide. Wei Ying staggers backward, dragging Lan Zhan with him, and thumps up against the edge of the counter. That’s good--Lan Zhan likes having him pinned there, likes being able to lean his body weight against Wei Ying, and he lets his hands roam Wei Ying’s back as they explore each other’s mouths.

“Oh god,” Wei Ying pants again, pushing at Lan Zhan’s shoulders a little, and Lan Zhan moves back, worry crackling through him, because did he take too much? “Okay, okay, just let me--” Wei Ying says, bracing his hands on the counter and then--oh--jumping up to sit on it. “Come here, sweetheart,” he says, pulling Lan Zhan in by the sweater to stand between his spread legs, and Lan Zhan’s brain whites out at the endearment. He must make a noise, because Wei Ying freezes, eyes on his face, and then his kiss-red lips curl up in a wicked smile.

“Do you like that, baby?” he says, and Lan Zhan stares at him helplessly as his whole body twitches. Wei Ying smiles even wider, presses their foreheads together, and loops his arms loosely over Lan Zhan’s shoulders. “So that part of the video was for you, huh? You like pet names.” Lan Zhan nods, ears burning up, at an absolute loss for words. Wei Ying kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw on a slow path over to his ear, and then he nips Lan Zhan’s earlobe and whispers, “Gege.”

Lan Zhan grabs Wei Ying’s head with both hands and kisses him, breathless and wanting and maybe with more teeth than he intended. Wei Ying doesn’t seem to mind, since he moans into Lan Zhan’s mouth, hands scrabbling at his back. Lan Zhan forces himself away from Wei Ying’s mouth, as much as he loves it, because there are other parts of Wei Ying that need his attention, like his jawline, and the soft spot under his ear, and the line of the tendon down to his neck. Lan Zhan presses his mouth against all those places, wet, leaving shining imprints in his wake, and Wei Ying arches and shudders underneath him, tangling his fingertips into the braid at the base of Lan Zhan’s neck.

“Fuck,” he says, “fuck, Lan Zhan, that’s so good, baby, why haven’t we been doing this the whole time?” Lan Zhan doesn’t know, and frankly thinks it's rude to ask the question, so he bites Wei Ying’s neck. Wei Ying goes very still, a high, shivering sound skittering out of his throat, and Lan Zhan pulls back so he can see his face.

“Too much?” he asks, because he doesn’t want to let himself get carried away and do something Wei Ying will regret. Wei Ying stares at him with eyes that are all pupil, face absolutely radiating disbelief, and drags Lan Zhan back in by the hair so he can bite his jaw.

“Not too much,” Wei Ying says, kissing the spot he just bit. “If it’s too much I’ll tell you, I swear.” He kisses Lan Zhan again, one hand in his hair, the other with fingertips digging into Lan Zhan’s back through the sweater. “And you?” he asks when they break apart again. “Will you tell me if you need to stop?”

Lan Zhan nods, and then shuts his eyes for a moment to try and find his self-control, because if he’s looking at Wei Ying’s beautiful, trusting, flushed face, he can’t actually think. “I’ll try,” he says, continuing with the radical honesty that is miraculously working out for him so far. “I’m not sure--” Lan Zhan pauses and pulls back a little bit, maybe eight inches between their chests, hands braced on the counter as he tries to phrase it properly. When he opens his eyes again, Wei Ying is watching him with a serious expression, all his attention on Lan Zhan, ready to hear whatever he has to say. “I don’t know how I’ll react,” Lan Zhan explains. “I--I shut down, sometimes. In new. Situations.” He’s blushing furiously, reduced to calling whatever this is a “situation” for lack of a better word. “I don’t think I’ll know if something is too much until it happens.”

Wei Ying nods, cupping Lan Zhan’s cheek again. “Okay, sweetheart,” he says, making gentle eye contact. “That’s okay. Thank you for telling me. We’ll just check in a lot, all right?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, affirmatively. Wei Ying smiles at him, slow and sweet, and when he kisses Lan Zhan this time it’s like they have all the time in the world, like two minutes previously they weren’t trying to eat each other whole. Lan Zhan gathers Wei Ying into his arms, spreading his hands across Wei Ying’s back as wide as they’ll go, trying to touch as much of him at once as he possibly can. Wei Ying’s hand scratches at the base of his skull, hampered a little by Lan Zhan’s braid but the sensation still rolling down his spine in a wave of goosebumps and warmth. He gets his mouth on Wei Ying’s neck again, tasting with his tongue this time, salt and something a little sweet and he realizes with delight that Wei Ying is delicious. Lan Zhan buries his nose in the crook of Wei Ying’s neck and inhales deeply, takes Wei Ying as far into his lungs as he can, wanting to consume him, wanting to turn part of Wei Ying into himself so he’ll never be alone again.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s a joy to say the words now, to have them fall out of his mouth like the words of a spell. “I love you, Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan kisses his way back up to Wei Ying’s mouth, so he can speak against Wei Ying’s lips and let him swallow the words. “I don’t deserve. This. You. But I love you.”

“You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” Wei Ying says, and kisses him before he can argue. As a distraction technique it’s effective, especially when he drags Lan Zhan’s lower lip in between his teeth and bites it. To Lan Zhan’s absolute surprise, he responds by growling, and Wei Ying barely manages to mumble, “Fuck that’s hot,” before Lan Zhan pins him in place with both hands in his hair and his tongue in Wei Ying’s mouth. Wei Ying retaliates by wrapping his legs around Lan Zhan’s hips and yanking him close, which is when Lan Zhan realizes that a. He is currently hard; b. Wei Ying is also currently hard; and c. They are now sort of grinding against each other in a way that makes sparks shoot up his spine. Wei Ying makes a high pitched noise and throws his head back, giving Lan Zhan all kinds of access to his neck, and Lan Zhan takes absolutely shameless advantage by biting his way down it.

“Bed?” Wei Ying asks breathlessly, rocking his hips into Lan Zhan’s erection with little shivering jolts. “Bed? Bed. Bed. Please, bed.” He keeps kissing Lan Zhan between each word, his forehead, his ear, whatever he can reach, so it takes Lan Zhan a moment to parse what he’s actually saying.  When it sinks in Lan Zhan decides it will be best to save time, and he gets his hands under Wei Ying’s thighs and simply carries him out of the kitchen and down the hall.

“Fucking heck,” Wei Ying says, wrapping his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck like a koala. “Wow, baby, this is hot as fuck, you are going to regret letting me ever know you could do this.” He’s still kissing Lan Zhan’s jaw and the side of his face and the hallway to Lan Zhan’s bedroom has never seemed more interminably long.

“I will not,” Lan Zhan says stubbornly, pushing the door open with his foot so he can stride the four steps to the bed and deposit Wei Ying on it. Wei Ying, for his part, does not let go, so Lan Zhan ends up pressing him into the mattress with his body weight and kissing him while he whimpers and squirms.

“Oh my god, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says when Lan Zhan returns to his neck-based assault, “You’re a fast learner, also, why is this sweater so fucking long?” He’s tugging at the hem, which, being tunic-length, is now trapped between their bodies. The fact that Wei Ying refuses to unwind his legs from around Lan Zhan’s waist is not helping his technique.

“It hits me at a flattering place and makes my legs look longer,” Lan Zhan says, seriously, pulling back to look at Wei Ying’s face. The joke lands, and Wei Ying smiles at him helplessly and then dissolves into giggles.

“God you fucking dork,” he says, cupping Lan Zhan’s face tenderly between his palms. “I’m trying to get you naked and you’re telling me fashion rules?”

“Wei Ying asked,” Lan Zhan points out, which makes Wei Ying start laughing again, and this time he goes boneless on the bed and giggles until he tears up. Lan Zhan knows Wei Ying’s laughs at this point, and he waits for him to calm himself like usual, except this time while he waits he drops kisses on Wei Ying’s collarbones and it’s a fucking miracle.

“Oh, geez,” Wei Ying says when he can speak again. “Damn, today has just been a whole rollercoaster of emotions, hasn’t it? Just like, every single fucking feeling! Sometimes at once!” He laughs lightly and tips his face up for another kiss, but Lan Zhan pulls back, thinking that through.

“Wei Ying,” he says, brow furrowing in concern. “You have had… A day.” That isn’t a particularly useful phrasing, but it’s what Lan Zhan could manage, so he presses on. “If this is too fast--I don’t want to take advantage.”

Wei Ying’s face goes on a journey from worried to pouting to fond and sweet. “Oh, honey,” he says, working his hands into Lan Zhan’s braid again. “That is so thoughtful of you and I love you and I am so into this.” He grinds his dick up against Lan Zhan’s, shivering at the contact, hot even though both their jeans. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, not letting himself get distracted, though it’s a struggle. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Wei Ying says, his eyes dark and his mouth wrecked from kissing and a flush across both cheeks. “Here, baby, I’ll prove it: I, Wei Ying (also known as the Yiling Patriarch), being of sound mind and body--” he lets go of Lan Zhan’s hair to wriggle his hands between them and start working off his own shirt “--do hereby give Lan Zhan (the love of my life), explicit permission to rail me into next week--” his voice is muffled here as he gets the shirt off over his head, which means he misses the thing Lan Zhan’s face does at that statement “--assuming that this isn’t moving too quickly for Lan Zhan, because if it is--” he throws the shirt across the room and grins, naked from the waist up, blushing all the way down to his sternum “--then we will of course, stop, and Lan Zhan will kindly have to allow me five minutes alone in his bathroom to jerk off--”

“You will not need to jerk off,” Lan Zhan rasps, low, and tries to get his mouth on Wei Ying’s chest. He has eyes specifically for the left nipple, first, and then he’ll move on to the right nipple, and then every other inch of skin, but Wei Ying stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder before he can even start enacting this plan.

“Gege,” he pouts, “you have me at such a disadvantage. You’ve seen my dick on the internet dozens of times, at least, and I must make do with the occasional glimpse of your forearms.” Wei Ying tugs at Lan Zhan’s sweater insistently. “Please take pity on your poor boyfriend and get naked with me.”

“Am I your boyfriend?” Lan Zhan asks, reeling with the question even as he starts fumbling for the hem of the tunic. His heart is light and his dick is hard and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You better be,” Wei Ying says, reluctantly releasing Lan Zhan from his leg hug to help him yank the sweater off. “Fuck,” he says, his face falling when his hands encounter another layer of cotton. “Why the fuck do you have to be wearing an undershirt, Lan Zhan?”

“It cuts down on hand-wash laundry,” Lan Zhan says honestly.

“God I love you,” Wei Ying says, “you massive fucking nerd.” He drags the undershirt over Lan Zhan’s head gracelessly, and Lan Zhan gets stuck in it for a minute, but they persevere and Wei Ying immediately puts his hands on Lan Zhan’s chest.

“Wow, sweetheart, you are yoked,” he says, eyes wide, spreading his fingers across Lan Zhan’s pecs. “You’ve been hiding this from the whole world.” Wei Ying rolls his thumb around one of Lan Zhan’s nipples, the other hand siding around to his lower back. “I’m honored. And horny. I’m hornered.”

“That is not a word,” Lan Zhan says, but his heart isn’t in it because he has two handfuls of Wei Ying, gripping him just above the waistband of his jeans, his skin soft and hot to the touch. This time, when he leans in, he achieves his goal of getting his mouth on Wei Ying’s left nipple, and Wei Ying swears and arches his back up into the touch.

“Fuck, yes,” he whimpers, “maybe try sucking a little--” Lan Zhan does, and Wei Ying makes a very loud noise that embeds itself deeply into Lan Zhan’s hindbrain, for future fantasies. “Yep,” he says, weakly. “That was good. Sucking. Good.”

Lan Zhan kisses his way over to Wei Ying’s other nipple and repeats the experiment, to the same results, except this time Wei Ying’s hand tightens in his hair and tugs at his braid. That pours across Lan Zhan’s skin and all the way down into his cock, and he makes a surprised sound into Wei Ying’s chest and lifts his head.

“Too much?” Wei Ying asks, eyes blown wide.

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “Good,” he says, indistinctly. “Hair is good.”

“Noted,” Wei Ying says, and does it again. Lan Zhan tips his head back into the sensation and fucks into Wei Ying’s spread legs, hard. They both choke out sounds at that and make urgent eye contact.

“Pants?” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan agrees, “Pants.” Disentangling is a hardship, but the promised reward makes it worthwhile. Wei Ying undoes his jeans and shoves them down over his hips while Lan Zhan yanks them down his legs, ripping off his socks at the same time. Then his brain shorts out, because Wei Ying is wearing the fucking red briefs, his erection outlined against the fabric, a darker spot where he’s leaked already. Lan Zhan freezes and he stares and every part of him focuses down to the underwear that he’s imprinted on like an incredibly horny duckling.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, and Lan Zhan drags his eyes from Wei Ying’s dick to his face, breathing hard. Wei Ying takes a good look at him and grins, propped up on his elbows, his hair falling into his eyes. “Is this doing it for you?” he asks, letting one knee fall wide and rolling his hips.

“They were,” Lan Zhan says, setting his hands very, very lightly on Wei Ying’s hips, “in the tweet.” He swallows, fingertips indenting skin. “I. Enjoy them.”

“I will wear them all of the time,” Wei Ying promises immediately, “except when you want me naked.” He sits up, forcing Lan Zhan back, and starts working on Lan Zhan’s fly. “God these white jeans,” Wei Ying says, thumbs brushing over Lan Zhan’s hip bones. “When I saw you wear them at the fashion show all I could think about was deepthroating you hard enough to get my black lipstick all over your fly.”

Lan Zhan rips his jeans off with absolutely no care for the craftsmanship. “That can be arranged,” he growls. “Later.” Wei Ying laughs, his face absolutely alive, and he scoots backward to the middle of the bed as Lan Zhan pursues at a crawl. Lan Zhan catches him with a hand on his knee, and then one on his hip, and then with a hand on his shoulder, and then with his mouth. Wei Ying wraps all his limbs around Lan Zhan and pulls him down, skin-to-skin, and it’s the best thing Lan Zhan has ever felt in his life. He didn’t know how starved he was for this kind of touch, on so much of his body, warm and tender and vulnerable, until right now. He’s never going to be able to give it up.

“Wei Ying,” he says, rocking their hips together again, his mouth pressed under Wei Ying’s jaw. “I haven’t done this.”

“I kinda figured,” Wei Ying says, pulling the hair tie out of Lan Zhan’s braid and carding it out into waves. Lan Zhan tips his head to give him better access and wonders how much time you can ask your boyfriend to spend brushing your hair before it gets weird. An hour?

“What about you?” he asks, remembering the second half of his thought rather belatedly. Wei Ying has one hand on his lower back, fingernails digging in as they grind their dicks against each other, so he forgives himself the lapse.

“Okay so,” Wei Ying says, tugging Lan Zhan up by the hair so they’re eye-to-eye, “first of all, virginity is a fake concept made up by primarily white men in order to control the sexuality of women, so jot that down.”

Lan Zhan nods and files that information away, as asked.

“And second,” Wei Ying says, going even redder but keeping steady eye contact, “I have an extremely active sex life, so even if virginity was real, I wouldn’t think it made sense to call myself one, even though all the sex I have is with myself.”

He’s running at about half speed, so it takes Lan Zhan a second to process that. It clicks a moment later, and he nods, amazed. “I see.” He pauses. “So, then.”

Wei Ying nods. “I know a lot,” he says, the smile crawling back across his face. “And gege has seen what I like, I’m guessing,” he teases, and Lan Zhan blushes and hides his head in Wei Ying’s neck. “It’s not rocket surgery, sweetheart,” Wei Ying reassures him, stroking his hair. “We’re doing great so far.”

Lan Zhan sure hopes so. He’s having the time of his life, at least. “Wei Ying,” he says, lifting his head again. He pauses, because he’s never said this next thing out loud before, and he needs a moment to practice it before it comes out of his mouth. “I want to give you a blowjob. Would you like that?”

Wei Ying grabs a pillow, smashes his face into it, and lets out a muffled squeal. “Yes,” he says, as soon as his red face is free of the cotton. “Yes, I would like that. Holy fuck, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan nods and starts determinedly kissing his way down Wei Ying’s body, learning as much as he can as he goes with his mouth and hands. The nipples are great, he already knows that, and if he licks Wei Ying’s sternum he’ll be rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. The ribs are ticklish, Wei Ying squirming and flailing lightly at his shoulders, but by the time he’s nosing at the trail of hair under Wei Ying’s bellybutton Wei Ying has gone very, very still. Lan Zhan looks up at Wei Ying, whose eyes are wide and his mouth slack, and waits for a nod before he tugs down the red briefs to free his cock.

Fuck, it’s a beautiful fucking dick. Lan Zhan has seen it a lot, in pictures and video, but it’s even better in person, when every breath is full of Wei Ying’s scent and his hands are on Wei Ying’s skin and he’s about to put his mouth on that beautiful dick and find out how it tastes. He leans in to nuzzle it, just a light brush of his lips along the shaft, and Wei Ying whines and bucks up a little. Lan Zhan pins him down, weight heavy on his hips, and licks experimentally from the base to the tip, as wet as he can make his mouth.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying moans, one hand half covering his mouth, the other brushing Lan Zhan’s hair out of his face. “Oh, god, baby, don’t take this the wrong way but I think I might die if you don’t suck me.”

Lan Zhan thinks this is probably an exaggeration, but he also doesn’t want Wei Ying to die, so he gets one hand around the base of Wei Ying’s erection and positions it in a way that seems workable. He’s about to put his mouth on it when he remembers that communication goes both ways, so he looks up at Wei Ying (who already looks absolutely destroyed) and says, “I want you to come in my mouth.”

Wei Ying bites his own forearm, which only goes so far vis-a-vis muffling the gutteral sound that he makes. “Shit,” he says wildly, “you just said it out there in front of god and everyone. At this point it would take a miracle for me not to come in your mouth, gege.”

Lan Zhan nods. “Good,” he says, and without further preamble he sucks Wei Ying down. It is both like and unlike trying this on a dildo--the shape and size are fairly similar, so he knows where his limits are as far as his gag reflex goes, and his jaw is ready to accommodate the stretch. It is unlike a dildo in literally every other way, being immeasurably better. Wei Ying tastes like salt and precome, and his skin is velvety smooth and burning hot against Lan Zhan’s tongue. All the sounds that Lan Zhan imagined Wei Ying would make are better in person, feeling him shift underneath him is better, and then Wei Ying gets both hands in his hair and it goes from “better” to “trying not to come against the mattress.”

“Oh my god, this is so fucking hot,” Wei Ying says, breathlessly. “Fuck, sweetheart, you don’t know how good you look.” Lan Zhan sucks, experimentally, and Wei Ying moans and accidentally tries to thrust up into his mouth. Lan Zhan gets his free arm across Wei Ying’s hips and pins him down, because he’s working, here, and there are already a lot of variables. “I’ve thought about this so much,” Wei Ying tells him, struggling lightly against the pin but not enough to actually go anywhere. “I can’t believe this is actually happening, god, you feel so good gege.” Lan Zhan swirls his tongue under the head of Wei Ying’s dick and his words cut off into a high moan. “Have you thought about this, baby?” Wei Ying asks, and when Lan Zhan looks up his body, it’s to meet Wei Ying’s wide, wild gaze. “Have you thought about sucking me off?”

Lan Zhan makes an affirmative “Mn,” around Wei Ying’s erection and bobs his head to take him as deep as he can. He’s going to need more practice if he wants to get the whole thing in his mouth, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to have the chance to actually get that practice in, which is so amazing he still can’t quite believe it. Lan Zhan keeps up a steady suction, the muscles in his throat already complaining a little, and sets a rhythm with the movements of his head.

“Yeah, baby,” Wei Ying pants, hands jerking at his hair in what seem to be involuntary reactions. “Oh god, yeah, suck my cock, I wanna come in your mouth.” He gets his legs over Lan Zhan’s shoulders and tries to use that leverage to match Lan Zhan’s pace, but Lan Zhan is bigger and heavier and the forearm pin is effective, so Wei Ying mostly just ends up driving his heels into Lan Zhan’s back and urging him on. “Oh god,” Wei Ying says again, his usual creative vocabulary apparently abandoning him, his hands tightening in Lan Zhan’s hair. “Oh god--gege--Lan Zhan--sweetheart--I’m gonna come--don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m gonna come.”

Lan Zhan does not stop, and Wei Ying stiffens under him, makes a wavering, high-pitched noise, and then his dick pulses in Lan Zhan’s mouth as he comes. He tastes salty and bitter, and the less said about the texture, the better, but Lan Zhan is so far gone with arousal that every single part of this is the hottest experience of his life. He sucks and swallows and Wei Ying gasps, “Oh god, yes, fuck--” and then, “Ow, shit,” and then, “Don’t stop baby, fucking ow--” He hisses in a way that is not pleasure and Lan Zhan pulls off, alarmed.

“Wei Ying,” he says, vaguely aware that his lips are wet with spit and other fluids, and Wei Ying winces, still panting.

“Don’t move, sweetheart, you’re great,” he says, drawing one leg up so he can drive his thumbs into the arch of his foot. (His other leg is still around Lan Zhan’s shoulder, so this turns into some kind of sexy wrestling headlock.) “I just--I came so hard my foot cramped up,” Wei Ying explains, with a blush and a sheepish smile, stretching the foot in question. “Good job there, by the way, A+ blowjob, would do again.”

Lan Zhan hides his face in the crease of Wei Ying’s thigh, overcome with the compliment, and Wei Ying drops his foot and spreads his legs. “Come up here, baby,” he croons, his hands tugging at Lan Zhan’s hair again. “You must be so hard by now, I wanna see you.” Lan Zhan lifts his head, extricating his arms from whenever they ended up, and notices he’s left streaks of highlighter and eyeshadow on the inside of Wei Ying’s thighs. That is so incredibly sexy that words can’t describe it, and he bites one of the sparkling smears, making Wei Ying twitch and swear. Lan Zhan crawls up Wei Ying’s body to straddle his hips, and Wei Ying gets his underwear down far enough to pull out his cock and even that gentle touch is almost enough to send Lan Zhan off. While he was concentrating on Wei Ying his own arousal faded into the background, but now he’s hard and hungry and he wants to come so bad he can taste it.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying breathes, his eyes between Lan Zhan’s legs. “Holy fuck, you’re lucky I’ve had practice because damn, baby. This is a fucking gift from the universe to me, personally.” That’s all very flattering, and Lan Zhan loves to hear it, but he aches and he’s literally trembling with how turned on he is.

“Wei Ying,” he says, his voice rough and about an octave lower than usual. “Please.”

“Sorry,” Wei Ying says with an impish smile. “You’re just so gorgeous, it’s distracting.” He wraps his hand around Lan Zhan’s dick as he talks, smears what is a nearly embarrassing amount of precome around on his palm, and strokes him with a firm grip and a medium tempo. Lan Zhan hisses out a groan between his teeth, gets his knees under him so he can fuck into Wei Ying’s fist, and gets his hands into Wei Ying’s hair so he can kiss the everloving fuck out of him.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, against his mouth, kissing his jaw, biting at his neck. “Oh you feel so good in my hand, I can’t wait to suck you off, I can’t wait to fuck you, you’re gonna be so good at all of it, look at how fucking hot you are.” Lan Zhan bites Wei Ying’s shoulder, another groan crawling out of his throat, hips snapping unsteadily, a winding, coiling sensation building deep in his abdomen. “You’re gonna come for me, right?” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan nods, because he doesn’t have words anymore. “That’s it, baby,” Wei Ying tells him, one hand on his ass in encouragement, the other hand speeding up on his cock. “Come on me, I want it on my skin, make me your mess, I wanna smell like you.” It’s too much, it’s just enough, and Lan Zhan hiccups out some kind of moan, drives forward twice more, and comes all over Wei Ying’s hand and stomach.

“Oh god,” Wei Ying says, still stroking him through it, “oh god, this is so hot, fuck, how are you still coming?” Lan Zhan doesn’t have an answer for that, though the answer is probably just, “Wei Ying.” He also does not have the capacity for rational thought or words or anything other than shivering and making sounds he wasn’t aware he was capable of. When he’s finally done shaking through the longest orgasm of his fucking life, he manages to drop his weight to the side and curl up half on top of Wei Ying, instead of just collapsing straight onto him like a man blanket.

They pant there together for a little while, heart rates calming, both with their underwear ridiculously bunched around their thighs and absolute messes for slightly different reasons. Lan Zhan smooshes his face into Wei Ying’s neck, so every time he inhales he smells Wei Ying, and Wei Ying manages to throw his legs over Lan Zhan’s, so they’re more thoroughly entangled.

“Whoo, boy,” Wei Ying says dreamily, combing the fingers of his clean hand through Lan Zhan’s hair. “That was a long time coming.”

“I was certainly not expecting it,” Lan Zhan admits, and when Wei Ying laughs under him and he feels it through his whole body he thinks he might float away out of sheer bliss. He drags himself back to reality with an effort, because if there’s one thing his brain is good at, it’s remembering things that make him anxious. “You said we were going to talk,” he says, half a question. Lan Zhan is not particularly looking forward to “a longer conversation” about the way in which he thoroughly fucked up his entire life, but not talking about things turned out to be, in fact, very bad. Perhaps, he thinks, talking about things is actually good? It’s an idea he’s willing to consider.

“We are, gege,” Wei Ying says, kissing the top of his head, “but later.” He squirms a little closer and yawns. “This is my first time getting cuddled through the afterglow, and I need at least fifteen minutes of cuddle, minimum, before my brain will be up for actual talking again.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. “Noted.” Wei Ying laughs again, and kisses his head again, and he hasn’t stopped playing with Lan Zhan’s hair yet. All of these things are great, and Lan Zhan has at least fifteen minutes before he needs to resume worrying, so he wraps his arm over Wei Ying’s chest (avoiding the mess) and shuts his eyes and, for once, lets himself enjoy something.

Chapter Text

It is perhaps sometime after fifteen minutes have gone by when Wei Ying twitches bodily and makes a surprised grunt. “Nope,” he says, as Lan Zhan raises his head to investigate, “not gonna fall asleep, I’ll go too hard and wake up at one in the morning and not know if I still exist.” He stretches a little, still in Lan Zhan’s embrace, and grimaces. “Also, no regrets, but this--” he gestures at Lan Zhan’s come still wet on his stomach “--is all cold and gross now.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, aware of his own stickiness, and he rolls over and grabs the box of tissues off the bedside table. With Wei Ying distracted by those, he takes a risk and snatches the wet wipes out of the drawer as well, going quickly enough that he doesn’t reveal the dildo. They can (and likely will) address that later. He doesn’t want to raise fresh questions while his flaccid dick is just hanging out in the open air.

“Oh, you are truly a prince among men,” Wei Ying says when offered the wet wipes, and they manage to get cleaned up and their underwear back on like normal people and Lan Zhan throws the soiled tissues in the trash and then they sit there on the bed staring at each other in silence. Lan Zhan doesn’t know what to do now. This is a wholly new experience, and there’s only one thing he knows to expect and it’s not a thing he wants to do but he knows it’s something he needs to do.

“You said we were going to talk,” he says, not a question this time, and Wei Ying looks him in the face solemnly for a bit. He seems like he’s thinking, so Lan Zhan waits and tries not to get anxious. There are probably too many sex endorphins in his system to really let him work himself up, but he’s had a lot of practice being anxious and he’s very good at it. Abruptly Wei Ying cups Lan Zhan’s face in his hands and kisses him, and Lan Zhan’s anxiety disperses in confusion, especially when Wei Ying wriggles closer and ends up in his lap.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, his thumbs brushing Lan Zhan’s cheekbones, their foreheads pressed together, “here’s how this is going to go: We’re gonna get dressed, and I’m going to shamelessly steal your pajamas, and then we’re gonna go actually order that dim sum, and you’re gonna make tea, and we’re gonna sit on your couch and drink tea and have the talk we need to have, and then the dim sum will get here and we can reward ourselves for being emotionally healthy adults by eating way too much of it. Does that sound good?”

Lan Zhan nods, and Wei Ying kisses him again. “Also,” he says, “before your brain can go off in a bad direction: I am not going to break up with you in the course of that conversation.” Wei Ying smiles at him, eyes still a little blissed out from the sex, and adds, “I’m not planning on breaking up with you at all.”

Tension that Lan Zhan hadn’t realized he was holding releases from his shoulders, and he can tell Wei Ying felt it because Wei Ying’s smile gets a little wider. Lan Zhan tips forward to kiss him again, marveling that he gets to, that he has his hands on the warm skin at Wei Ying’s lower back, that he hadn’t ruined everything after all. “Thank you,” he says, eyes half closed. “I am not planning on breaking up with you either.”

Wei Ying laughs, his eyes and nose scrunching up. “Good.” His eyes rove over Lan Zhan’s face, one thumb resting lightly at the corner of his eye, and says, “We really fucked up your makeup. Is it weird that I think that’s super hot?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head and drops his hand to Wei Ying’s thigh, brushing his thumb over one of the streaks of highlighter still shimmering there. “It was very appealing to leave my makeup on you,” he says honestly. “It makes me feel possessive.”

Wei Ying groans. “God you are so hot, this is ridiculous.” He kisses Lan Zhan one more time and, tragically, crawls out of his lap. “Okay, I’m gonna go use your bathroom because if any of my sex worker friends find out I didn’t pee after sex they will roast me into my next life, and also if I stay on your lap we’re definitely going to have sex again and we’ll never get dim sum and I will starve to death.”

“I will not allow Wei Ying to starve,” Lan Zhan says solemnly, and Wei Ying laughs his way into the en-suite bathroom. Lan Zhan climbs off the bed, changes into fresh underwear (the previous pair damp and rumpled at this point), and opens his pajama drawer, shrugging into a cozy white flannel set with a subtle geometric pattern and pulling out a second set for Wei Ying. Wei Ying tends to run cold, so he also finds his favorite battered cardigan sweater, oversized in a cream machine washable wool, and adds that to the pile along with another pair of clean briefs in a charcoal gray. He gathers up their discarded clothing and makes a note to be sure to put Wei Ying’s in the washer before it gets too late, so he’ll have something clean to wear home tomorrow. Is Wei Ying still planning to spend the night? Lan Zhan hopes so.

“Fuck, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, opening the door to the bathroom once all the sounds of running water have ended. “You’ve been holding out on me! You have a fucking porn shower in here! And a stand-alone bathtub! Is this how the other half lives?” He sways across the room and loops his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck, looking up at him pleadingly. “Can I come use that bathtub sometimes? It’s the size of god, please let me soak in that thing instead of getting all scrunched up in my tiny tub.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says, because of course.

“And you know we’re gonna fuck in that shower eventually, yeah?” Wei Ying bites his lower lip, smiling, and Lan Zhan isn’t sure if they’re ever going to get to that conversation if Wei Ying keeps flirting like this.

“Mn,” he manages, instead of dragging Wei Ying directly into the shower. “The bathroom was a large factor in why I chose this apartment.” Lan Zhan leans closer, nuzzles Wei Ying’s ear, and (to his own surprise), murmurs, “I will fuck Wei Ying in every inch of this apartment if he so wishes.”

Wei Ying staggers against Lan Zhan, as though he tripped while standing still. “Hecking god,” he says at a squeak, pulling back to look at Lan Zhan with wide eyes and red cheeks. “Did that sex release a demon? Have we broken the seal? Is this what you’re secretly like all the time?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says simply, and with excruciating self control, he steps back, letting his hands cup under Wei Ying’s elbows in case he goes weak-kneed again. “Pajamas. Tea. Dim sum.”

“Right,” Wei Ying, shaking himself. “Right.” He picks up the pajamas and stares at them for a moment, surprise shading into delight. “Lan Zhan,” he says, his voice wavering with barely restrained laughter, “you have bunny-themed pajamas?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, suppressing a smile. “Lan Huan bought them for me as a joke.” The pants are a gray fleece with a repeating print of frolicking rabbits in white, the matching t-shirt with gray long sleeves, a white body, and a gray rabbit curled up in a loaf. Lan Zhan wears them rarely, because he prefers flannel, but he’s fond of them.

“God you’re painfully adorable,” Wei Ying says. He shucks out of his underwear and stands naked in Lan Zhan’s bedroom with absolutely no shame as he wiggles into Lan Zhan’s underwear. That’s such a vision that Lan Zhan’s brain shuts down for a moment, and he comes back to himself to find Wei Ying shrugging into the shirt and hopping a bit as he gets the pants on. “We need to get you an actual rabbit, babe,” he’s saying, “it’s a tragedy that you live with all this rabbit-based longing in your life.” Lan Zhan has been living with longing for so long it’s bewildering to think about not living with it, but now he seems to have Wei Ying. Maybe he should get a rabbit? What would he long for, if he had Wei Ying and a rabbit?

“I will be right out,” he tells Wei Ying, and then kisses him lightly on the corner of his mouth before ducking into the bathroom himself. He uses the toilet and washes his hands and smiles a little at his destroyed makeup in the mirror. The lip gloss was a lost cause as soon as he ate lunch, and between the crying and the amount of face-to-skin contact that just occurred, he’s a mess of smears and sparkles. Lan Zhan gives his face a quick scrub with a makeup wipe and resolves to tackle the rest of it later.

“Did you still want ginseng?” he asks as he pads out to the kitchen, Wei Ying having ensconced himself back on the couch with the blanket and the laptop. Lan Zhan’s heart skitters in his chest, a sense-memory of earlier climbing back up his throat, but Wei Ying has already closed the incognito window and is investigating the offerings at Dim Sum Time.

“Yes, please,” Wei Ying says, and then, to himself, “Oh hell yeah, I am gonna eat five egg tarts.” Lan Zhan refills the kettle with fresh water and gets the tea going again, everything still in place from earlier like the world’s most horrible still life. By the time it’s come to a boil Wei Ying has come over with the laptop and a list of requests, and by the time the tea is done steeping Lan Zhan has added his own choices and called in their order. They end up back on the couch, steaming mugs clasped in their hands. Lan Zhan sits up straight, cross-legged, while Wei Ying leans back against the armrest and a throw pillow, his calves thrown over Lan Zhan’s lap, both of them covered by the blanket. Lan Zhan knows they’re about to have a conversation about all the ways in which he absolutely fucked up his whole life, but he’s wanted this for so long, this comfortable domesticity, that he’s too overcome with the joy welling up in his chest to get immediately worried.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, inhaling the steam from his cup but not drinking any while he waits for it to be not-scalding, “I’m not trying to like, rub your bad choices in your face or whatever, but: You know you fucked up, right?”

“I am. Very aware.” Lan Zhan looks at Wei Ying’s shoulder, covered up in Lan Zhan’s favorite cardigan, and focuses on remembering that Wei Ying is here, in his home. That Wei Ying chose him. That Wei Ying has promised not to break up with him. He shifts and gets one hand on Wei Ying’s bare ankle, under the blanket, needing the touch to ground him while they talk through this.

Wei Ying nods and rubs his toes gently along Lan Zhan’s side. “Do you know why what you did was fucked up?”

Lan Zhan inhales deep and exhales slow before he responds, smelling ginseng and a little bit of salt from Wei Ying’s skin. “It was dishonest,” he says. “It was a violation of your privacy. I was engaging with you in a way for which I did not have consent.” He pauses and considers. “I believe it could also be termed creepy.”

“All of that is correct,” Wei Ying says, and Lan Zhan doesn’t flinch but it’s a near thing. Wei Ying attempts to take a sip of his tea, grimaces, and blows on it instead. “Where you got extremely lucky,” he continues, “is that I was doing at least some of the same things to you, which could also be called creepy. Oh, and of course you got lucky that I’m ridiculously in love with you and apparently we are both absolute ding-dongs about each other.” He rubs his nose and shifts a little. “Honestly, my therapist is probably going to have some homework for me about my boundaries and why I’m not madder about this, but like, fuck. We were both gonna die pining, how can I not be at least a little grateful?”

Lan Zhan nods, because yes. He runs his thumb back and forth on Wei Ying’s ankle and sighs quietly. “I do not regret that we are here,” he says, “but I regret how it came to be.”

“Right, I really have to know.” Wei Ying fixes him with an expectant, piercing look, which is somewhat hilarious coming from someone who looks like an advertisement for coziness. “What the fuck were you thinking? How did this happen?”

Lan Zhan has asked himself the same question more times than he can count and he still doesn’t have a satisfactory answer. He decides to start at the beginning. “The tweet.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying groans, covering his face with one hand. “I swear it was up for less than ten seconds before I realized I’d posted it to the wrong account.”

“The timing was improbable,” Lan Zhan says. He pauses, struggles with himself, and decides that since Wei Ying has already heard the worst parts of himself and is still here, he can admit another secret. “I have an alert set up for when you tweet. I like to see what you post. I don’t always check it immediately.”

“And that day you did,” Wei Ying says, and laughs. “Of course it had to be that tweet.”

“I thought it was a self-portrait,” Lan Zhan protests, and when Wei Ying waggles his eyebrows, amends it to, “I thought it was a traditional self-portrait.”

“Fair.” Wei Ying takes a sip, both hands around the mug, and waits for him to continue.

“It was not a traditional self-portrait.” Lan Zhan looks at his mug of tea. “I was. Surprised. And curious. So I clicked the link.” He feels his ears heat, remembered and current shame crawling over his skin like ants. “When I realized what it was and went back, the tweet was gone.” A pause. A breath. “I should have left it there, but I was. Curious. Still. So I searched and found your other Twitter account.” Lan Zhan risks a peek up at Wei Ying, who is still watching him with interest and without judgement. “I found it. Appealing.”

“You jerked off to my Twitter, didn’t you?” Wei Ying asks, casually, and the flush spreads from Lan Zhan’s ears down to his face.

“Mn,” he says. “After--afterwards. After that. I felt guilty. And I subscribed.”

Wei Ying pulls his lower lip between his teeth and rolls it back and forth for a second. “I can see why that might have made sense in the moment,” he allows, “but that’s worse. You do see how that’s worse, right?”

Lan Zhan nods and takes a sip of tea. “It escalated from there.”

A laugh from Wei Ying, as he nudges his toes against Lan Zhan’s side again. “I’ll say it did, buddy.”

“I did try to do things correctly,” Lan Zhan says, lifting his eyes to Wei Ying’s face. “I did. Research. On how to behave.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says, eyes brimming with amusement. “Oh my god, Lan Zhan, baby, you giant fucking nerd. Of course you did. C’mere.” He leans forward, grabbing Lan Zhan’s collar in one hand, and manages to navigate them into a kiss without spilling their tea. Lan Zhan leans into it, guilty for what he’s done, enjoying what he has, and they settle back into their respective positions. “I’m assuming that the research is why you commented and shit, instead of lurking like a respectable creep,” Wei Ying says, still smiling.

Lan Zhan will never stop blushing. This is what his face does now. “Mn. The resources I read made it clear that encouragement was appreciated.”

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully. “I’m assuming that’s why also all the money.”

Lan Zhan ducks his head. “That.” He rallies through the embarrassment, and admits, “And also guilt.” Another slow breath, and a sip of tea. “I felt it was owed after. My behavior.”

Wei Ying takes a minute to translate that, and the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Lan Zhan,” he says, slowly, “if I go back and look at all of ArdentAdmirer89’s tips, will I be looking at your masturbation timestamps?”

Lan Zhan looks away, at the blank television, red all the way down to his throat. “Not. All of them,” he says, voice as flat as he can make it. “But many.”

Wei Ying laughs, a quick bright thing. “Okay,” he says, shifting the ankle that’s in Lan Zhan’s grip to get him to start petting it again instead of sitting there frozen, “I’m with you so far.” He pauses to take a sip, and Lan Zhan knows what’s coming even before Wei Ying says, “The video.”

Lan Zhan flinches, and Wei Ying rubs his toes against him again, gentle and reassuring. “It was a mistake,” Lan Zhan says, repeating himself from earlier, when he thought he’d lost all possible chance of having what he has now, Wei Ying curled up with him on the couch, intimate and comfortable and so domestic he wants to cry a little bit. “I didn’t know you did custom videos until that day, at your apartment.” He swallows, then takes another sip of tea. “I thought about it,” he confesses in a whisper. “I thought about it many times.”

“Temptation just got to be too much?” Wei Ying asks, far too kindly, and Lan Zhan shuts his eyes for a moment.

“Mn,” he says. “And you said you didn’t do things you were uncomfortable with. I justified it to myself.” He opens his eyes and refocuses on Wei Ying. “I should not have. I am sorry.”

Wei Ying nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Did you like it?”

Lan Zhan inhales more sharply than he means to, the video coming back to him bodily, how good it felt to hear Wei Ying say the things he said and how horrible it felt to know it was stolen. “It was exactly what I asked for,” he says, which isn’t a yes. He strokes Wei Ying’s ankle for a moment. “I only watched it once,” he says, barely a whisper. “It hurt too much to watch it again.” Wei Ying presses his toes into Lan Zhan’s side again, and they breathe quietly for a moment, sipping tea and sitting with that.

“God,” Wei Ying says, shaking his head. “This is the kind of thing you see in an Ask Reddit post or an advice column where you read someone’s whole ridiculous situation and you go, ‘What was your endgame?’ Lan Zhan.” He leans forward and sets one hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “What the fuck were you thinking? What was your endgame, honey?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “I did not have one.” He pauses, and when he speaks next, his voice comes out wry. “It is perhaps generous to describe anything I did as ‘thinking.’”

“You saw my porn and it killed all your smarts,” Wei Ying says, his voice rich and amused. “The famed Lan Zhan, valedictorian of our class, master copyeditor, total genius. One look at me with my shirt off and he lost it all. Dick hard, head empty.”

“That is a fairly accurate way to put it,” Lan Zhan admits, and Wei Ying laughs out loud, laying back against his pillow. When he’s done laughing he takes his legs off Lan Zhan’s legs, but it’s so he can squirm around and press in against his side. Lan Zhan manages to get an arm around him, and Wei Ying curls into him, half on his lap, head on his shoulder.

“You were just gonna take it to your grave. God. Ridiculous.” Wei Ying huffs another laugh and sips his tea. “I can’t even be that mad at you about it because I was gonna take my own secret to my own grave. Honestly, Lan Zhan, thank fuck you left that window open. You know it was only gonna get worse the longer it went on.”

Lan Zhan nods. “I like to think…” he starts, and assembles a sentence out of building blocks in his head. “I like to think that, if we had. Gotten. To this.” He gestures with his mug between the two of them. “That I would have said something. Before.” He tips his head to catch Wei Ying’s gaze, letting his face do whatever it wants. “I was truly not trying to manipulate you.”

“I believe you,” Wei Ying says. “You are many things, Lan Zhan, but you’re not devious.” He lifts his mug, discovers it’s empty, and frowns into the bottom. Lan Zhan immediately offers his, and Wei Ying accepts it with greedy hands. “Okay,” he says, “with the knowledge that I honestly don’t want to change a thing because now I get to cuddle you like this and kiss you whenever I want, do you want to know what I would have theoretically preferred you’d done?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan has put a lot of thought into this, but he hasn’t come to an actual answer.

“Ideal reaction would probably have been you saw that tweet and you texted me to be like, ‘Oh, hey, you posted a thing on your main account that I think you didn’t mean to,’ and then I text back like, ‘Oh, fuck, it’s already deleted, thanks for being a bro, bee-tee-dubs I do OnlyFans,’ and then you’re like, ‘I support your life choices,’ and the next time we got together we could have that conversation we had at my apartment only while we were both on the same page.” Wei Ying nudges his forehead into Lan Zhan’s cheek. “It’s not that you found out, it’s that you found out and you didn’t tell me and you subscribed.”

Lan Zhan nods. In hindsight, the correct choices seem obvious. At the time they seemed impossible. “I do support your life choices,” he says, because he does. “My questions--my questions that day were genuine.” He turns his head and kisses Wei Ying’s temple. “Your answers were interesting and I liked hearing them.”

“Well I’m smart and talk good and gosh darn it, people like me,” Wei Ying deadpans. He runs one finger absently along the rim of his mug. “Your questions were really good. Thoughtful and respectful and shit. At the time I was just like, ‘Wow, Lan Zhan is really the best!’ but you’d been reading stuff, hadn’t you? About sex work?”

Lan Zhan nods. “There is a blog. Mistress Marissa?”

Wei Ying grins up at him, bright and incandescent. “Oh my god, Mistress Marissa! I follow her on sex work Twitter, she’s the best. Of course you found her.” He nudges Lan Zhan’s ribs with his elbow. “I still think you’re the best, by the way, but now I think you’re the best because you decided to learn more about this, not because you were just magically super insightful.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t think he’s the best, at all, with what he’s done, but he has the sense not to argue. “I have learned a lot,” he says instead.

“Yeah, I heard what you said to Jiang Cheng,” Wei Ying says, his voice doing something weird, sad and happy and proud all at once. “And then earlier, with Jin Zixun. That’s all I could think about, at first, when I opened your laptop, was that you’d been so kind and defended me so well and helped so much, and was that all a ruse?” He squirms a little closer and, kindly, adds, “I didn’t really think it was a ruse, you’re not a ruse kind of guy, but it was quite an afternoon, you feel me?”

Lan Zhan relaxes, still feeling a bit ill about the whole thing, and runs his hand up and down Wei Ying’s arm. “I said those things because they were true, and I believe them.” He kisses the top of Wei Ying’s head, inhales the artificial vanilla of his shampoo. “I will always defend Wei Ying,” he whispers into his hair.

“It was so incredibly hot when you punched Jin Zixun,” Wei Ying whispers back, like it’s a secret. “I almost swooned right into your arms, I swear.”

“You may swoon into my arms whenever you wish,” Lan Zhan says magnanimously, and Wei Ying chuckles, downs the rest of Lan Zhan’s tea, and sets the mug aside.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, getting up on his knees so he can face Lan Zhan properly, grabbing his hands and running his thumbs over Lan Zhan’s knuckles, “we probably have about five minutes before the dim sum gets here, so let’s wrap this up. They say the best apology is changed behavior, so, Lan Zhan. Baby. Sweetheart.” Wei Ying makes his face very serious as he looks Lan Zhan in the eyes. “Are you going to find my porn on accident and subscribe to it without telling me and commission a custom video that breaks your heart again?”

“I will not,” Lan Zhan promises solemnly, and means it.

“Great,” Wei Ying says. “Do you have anything else you need to confess?” It’s a joke. Lan Zhan can tell it’s a joke, but it’s also the opportunity he needs to admit this last bit, so:

“I was the one who bought you that red dildo,” he says, before he can overthink it. “And the lingerie.” Wei Ying blinks at him, gobsmacked, and Lan Zhan forces himself to add, “I bought a matching dildo. For myself.”

Wei Ying stares at him, wide-eyed, a little bit of a flush appearing on his cheeks. “Did you, uh,” he asks, wetting his lips, “did you like the video I made with it?”

Lan Zhan feels his face heating again but maintains eye contact. “I did,” he admits. “I found it. Instructive.”

Wei Ying nods. “And the dildo?” he asks, breathy. “Did you like that, too?”

Lan Zhan doesn’t know what his face does, exactly, as he gives Wei Ying a Look, but it’s enough to bring the blush into full bloom. “I did,” he says, his voice low. He leans in a little closer and adds, “I thought about you when I used it.”

Wei Ying makes a little squeak at that, goes even redder, and flings himself into Lan Zhan’s arms to hide his face in the crook of his neck. “Lan Zhaaaaan,” he wails, “you’re too fucking hot, I can’t handle this. I know I should probably feel betrayed or something but instead now I’m just thinking about you fucking yourself and I’m all horny again.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and kisses Wei Ying’s neck. “Poor you.”

“All this on top of how you already sucked my brains out through my dick!” Lan Zhan bites where he just kissed, and Wei Ying shivers against him. “It’s not fair. I’m a weak and feeble man, you can’t expect me to stay strong in the face of such unprecedented hotness.”

“I do not expect you to,” Lan Zhan says, and he pushes Wei Ying over backwards and pins him to the couch. Wei Ying’s eyes are wide and bright and heated. He squirms against Lan Zhan’s hold, but not nearly enough to go anywhere.

“Oh, is that how it is, gege?” he asks breathlessly, adorable in Lan Zhan’s bunny pajamas and half-tangled in a blanket. “Is this what you’re into?”

This does seem like the kind of thing to sort out sooner, rather than later, and Lan Zhan is tired of hiding and half truths, so he says, “I fantasize about dominating you sexually.”

Wei Ying freezes except for the pulse in his throat, stiff for a moment, and then all at once he melts into the cushions, tipping his head back, eyes going dark as his pupils dilate. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, okay, fuck. Great.”

Lan Zhan leans down and bites Wei Ying’s throat, gently, because that’s apparently becoming his thing, and adds, “I am interested in exploring submission, as well.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says, weakly. “Fuck, sweetheart, do we have time for a quickie before the food gets here?”

No sooner has he asked then the doorbell rings, and they both groan audibly. “We will discuss this more later,” Lan Zhan promises, dropping a kiss on Wei Ying’s forehead before disentangling himself and heading for the entryway. He buzzes in the delivery person and retrieves plates and chopsticks and napkins while awaiting the knock at the door. His tip is, as always, a twenty dollar bill, and he sets the mountain of takeout containers on the coffee table and lets Wei Ying attack them while he grabs drinks from the fridge. By the time he settles back on the couch Wei Ying has a plate piled high with pork dumplings and chicken feet and sesame balls with absolutely no regard for whether or not they’re sweet or savory. Lan Zhan sets a can of wine down on Wei Ying’s side of the table and smiles at his look of disbelief.

“I love you,” Wei Ying says, picking up the can of wine and rolling it around in his hand. He manages to kiss Lan Zhan lightly, his mouth already a little bit greasy with dim sum, and smiles at him like a warm blanket on a cold day. “I wanted to tell you that at the arboretum, when you gave me one of these and shamelessly abetted me in breaking the no open containers law. I really fucking love you, Lan Zhan.” They kiss again, but it can’t go much of anywhere since Wei Ying has a plate in one hand and a can of wine in the other and Lan Zhan really would like to have sex again but he can’t imagine abandoning the dim sum to get cold. He promised not to let Wei Ying starve, after all.

“I bought it for you,” he says, carding Wei Ying’s hair out of his eyes, red and black trailing against his fingers like the bristles of the finest calligraphy brushes, “because I love you.” Wei Ying’s eyes go very wide and very soft and Lan Zhan kisses him lightly one more time and says, “Eat.”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you,” Wei Ying grumbles, trying not to smile, and settles back down. Lan Zhan carefully arranges the blanket to cover both of them and grabs the remote.

“I believe you requested Great British Bake Off?” he says, pulling up Netflix, and Wei Ying lights up.

“Hell yeah,” he says. “Mel and Sue are my adopted aunts, I like seeing what they’re up to.”

“Do they know they are your adopted aunts?” Lan Zhan asks, as the theme music plays over shots of exquisitely crafted baked goods.

“Not yet,” Wei Ying says, around a mouthful of pork dumpling, “but someday I’ll meet them and tell them and it’ll be an amazing family reunion.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and starts picking through the takeout boxes for the vegetarian options he ordered. They eat steadily through tortes (“I know this is me, talking, and it might shock you, Lan Zhan, but I think boozy sauces don’t actually make cakes any better. Just give me the booze and the cake separately! It’s better that way!”) and creme caramel. By the time the meringues roll around Lan Zhan is pleasantly stuffed, having definitely broken one of Lan Qiren’s rules about overeating, and Wei Ying has slowed down so that he’s still nursing his third egg tart. Lan Zhan thinks he hasn’t quite managed to eat his entire body weight in dim sum, as he claimed he would, but he has packed away an impressive amount. Lan Zhan thinks, again, of Wei Ying’s childhood, of a small boy, ignored and hungry with yet another foster family that failed him, and he shifts around until he can pull Wei Ying into his arms, back to chest, and hold him there while they watch a massive chocolate meringue monstrosity utterly fail to impress Paul and Mary. By the time the ending theme plays, Wei Ying has abandoned even trying to keep eating and has curled entirely into Lan Zhan’s embrace like an overlarge cat.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says into his hair, reluctant to change anything about the present moment but aware there are some logistics to consider. “Do you still want to stay the night?”

“I’m in your pajamas, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, managing to roll around so that they’re face-to-face without ever breaking physical contact. “I’m wearing your underwear. You’d have to physically throw me out with your freaky strong arms if you want me to leave at this point.”

“I do not want you to leave,” Lan Zhan says immediately, kissing Wei Ying’s forehead because it is right there and because he can. “I will put your clothes in the laundry for tomorrow.”

Wei Ying props his head up on his hands and investigates Lan Zhan’s face closely. “You’re determined to spoil me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, simply, and takes advantage of Wei Ying’s shocked silence to roll him into the back of the couch and climb to his feet. He ignores Wei Ying’s complaining (“You’re so warm, Lan Zhan, I’m going to freeze here without you, how can you abandon me like this!”) as he gets the laundry going, and then as he puts the dim sum away. He brews two more cups of tea and brings them over as Wei Ying hits play on the remote again, and almost before he’s fully seated on the couch Wei Ying has clambered back into his lap. They get situated as Paul and Mary explain that it’s pie week, Lan Zhan reclining into the arm of the couch, Wei Ying curled up on his chest, his head tucked under Lan Zhan’s chin. Lan Zhan pets Wei Ying’s back, trails his fingertips up and down the prickly velvety warmth of Wei Ying’s undercut, and as one of the contestants explains her vegetarian Wellington abruptly finds himself crying.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, feeling the shake in his breathing. He lifts his head and his face drops. “Oh, no, sweetie,” he says, reaching up to cradle Lan Zhan’s face and thumb away the tears. “What’s wrong? I think her chickpea filling sounds great, Paul Hollywood is just an asshole.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head, but not enough to dislodge Wei Ying’s hands. “Not sad,” he whispers, and drags Wei Ying closer so he can hug him properly, pressing his face into Wei Ying’s neck. “Happy.” He breathes there, Wei Ying stroking his hair, tangled together under his favorite blanket on his couch with his favorite person, the pleasant sounds of British baking on the television, and says, “I wanted this for so long.” Lan Zhan shudders, once, with a shaky inhale, and says, “I didn’t think I’d get it.”

“Oh, honey,” Wei Ying breathes, and his voice cracks in the middle of it. “Me, too.” He sounds weepy, and they clutch each other close and shiver through it and definitely cry into each other’s shoulders for a little while. They emerge about when the Wellingtons are coming out of the ovens, and Wei Ying beams at Lan Zhan through his tears and sniffles. “God, I’m a mess right now.”

“My mess,” Lan Zhan says immediately, wiping the tears off Wei Ying’s face with his sleeve. Wei Ying’s smile gets even wider, and he returns the favor, gently dabbing the wetness off Lan Zhan’s cheeks.

“Yeah,” he says, awed. “Your mess. All yours.” Lan Zhan kisses him, and it’s messy and tastes like salt and dim sum and ginseng tea, but now they’re both too emotional and post-meal sleepy to get horny again so when the kiss is over they curl up in their original positions and go back to actually watching the TV show they have on. Wei Ying is reliably opinionated-- “Fuck you, Paul Hollywood, ‘I think something’s missing!’ Food doesn’t need to have meat in it to be good, you anti-vegetarian shithead!” --and Lan Zhan likes listening to him and likes watching the bakers at work.

“If I had to do hand-raised pie crusts around a weird wooden thing,” Wei Ying says during the technical, “I would simply be good at it.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. “Wei Ying can achieve anything he puts his mind to.”

Then, later: “Oh my god. What the fuck are they making?” Wei Ying sounds horrified, which says something since this is coming from a person Lan Zhan once saw make a s’more with Pop-Tarts instead of graham crackers.

“These are not traditional flavors,” Lan Zhan agrees.

“Did Paul Hollywood just say American pies are too sweet?” Wei Ying says, enraged. “He fucking--treacle tart, you hypocrite! You court jester!”

“Is that ganache?” Lan Zhan asks, genuinely concerned. “Is that ganache and peanut butter and pumpkin?”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, tugging on his sleeve, “Lan Zhan, I need you to buy me a plane ticket to London. I need to challenge Paul Hollywood to a duel.”

“I will support you in all your life choices,” Lan Zhan says, regarding the television with deep suspicion. At least the winner is an actual, acceptable American-style pie, though Wei Ying continues to mutter darkly about Paul Hollywood’s baking and life choices and lineage. By the time they make it to the end of pudding week not even the dramatic fallout of a contestant injuring himself on a food processor can keep Wei Ying’s attention, and he’s drowsing on Lan Zhan’s chest without paying attention to the strudels at all. Lan Zhan shuts off the TV before it can progress to the next episode and stays there, the late sunset light tinting his apartment rose and gold, Wei Ying heavy and warm on his chest, and he almost starts crying again.

“Wei Ying,” he says, low, stroking his soft hair. “Sweetheart, we should go to bed.”

Wei Ying makes a mmmph noise into his shirt and lifts his head, blinking muzzily at Lan Zhan. “Did you just call me sweetheart?” he asks, sleep-rumpled and adorable.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, stroking his hair again, because he can. “Did you like it?”

Wei Ying smiles at him, sweet and a little shy. “Yeah,” he says, and manages to climb off the couch. “I’m only getting up,” he tells Lan Zhan seriously, offering a hand to help pull him upright, “because you said we were moving to the bed, and that will probably be more comfortable long-term. I hope you appreciate my sacrifice.”

“Wei Ying is noble,” Lan Zhan agrees, and on impulse, sweeps Wei Ying up into his arms and carries him into the bedroom, Wei Ying’s giggles trailing behind them as he goes. Lan Zhan finds one of his extra toothbrushes for Wei Ying, and they both trade off using his cleanser and moisturizer. Lan Zhan throws Wei Ying’s clothes into the dryer while Wei Ying uses the bathroom and makes a note to tumble them again in the morning to get the wrinkles out.

“What side do you sleep on?” Wei Ying asks, once almost all the lights are off and they’re both clean and minty and facing the bed.

“I alternate every three months so the mattress wears evenly,” Lan Zhan says, which is the truth, and also because he thinks it will make Wei Ying laugh. It does, and he smiles and adds, “Currently I use the right.”

“Left side it is,” Wei Ying says, stripping out of Lan Zhan’s cardigan and pajamas and crawling under the covers just in Lan Zhan’s gray briefs. He pulls the covers up to his chin and gives Lan Zhan a pleading look. “I’m sure you usually wear a full three-piece suit to bed, which is adorable, and if that’s what you want to do I’m fine with it, but also what if you took off those pajamas and we got to cuddle skin-to-skin all night?” His face is clean and freshly moisturized, his bangs still a little damp, and it’s the most beautiful thing Lan Zhan has ever seen in his life. “That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and strips out of his pajamas. He leaves them where they are, right on the fucking floor, and climbs into bed in his underwear. “It would.” Lan Zhan turns off the light, leaving them in the velvet darkness and gentle quiet of his bedroom, and pulls Wei Ying into his arms where he belongs.

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says into his neck, already sounding half asleep. “Love you, baby. G’night.”

“Love you too,” Lan Zhan says, heart so full he thinks he might die of it. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

He does.

They do.

It’s perfect.

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan wakes up at five the next morning with a deep sense of satisfaction and also with a deep sense of confusion. It takes him a moment to sort out what’s happening, in the dim early silence of his bedroom, because it’s very, very new. Then Wei Ying shifts in his sleep, smooshing his face a little more thoroughly into Lan Zhan’s neck in a waft of artificial vanilla and Wei Ying, and Lan Zhan immediately identifies where the satisfaction has come from. He spends a long, long moment just being, focusing on the physical instead of the mental, the press of Wei Ying’s warm body against his side, the softness of his skin, the feeling of his heartbeat, the even sound of his breathing. Lan Zhan lingers, overflowing with love, and then carefully attempts to extricate himself. This is a challenge, as Wei Ying has octopused all over him in the night, but fortunately he’s also a heavy sleeper. Lan Zhan manages to escape by replacing himself with a pillow that Wei Ying unconsciously curls himself around, and he moves through his morning routine more quietly than usual, which is saying something. When he’s safely in the living room, he sends a text:

To: Wei Ying
I do not believe you will wake up before I get back, but in case you do: I went for my run.
I will return soon.
I love you.

With Wei Ying thus warned, Lan Zhan tucks his keys and phone into the pockets on his jogging belt and heads out into the early fall morning. It’s barely dawn, the edges of the sky lightening as his legs eat up the pavement, his breath fogging in the streetlights. Normally he would do six miles on a Sunday, in a loop that takes him through a nearby park, but Lan Zhan doesn’t want to risk Wei Ying waking up alone so today he cuts it down to three. The air is crisp and cold and cuts into his lungs with a joy that’s almost painful, clean and fresh this early, before the cars are out. Lan Zhan lets his body move how it wants, muscle memory carrying him through, the beating of his sneakers against the sidewalk and his own breathing the only relevant sounds.

He’s back at his apartment a little over twenty minutes later, walking up the stairs as part of his cool-down. Lan Zhan leaves his shoes at the door and sneaks a look into his bedroom before he does anything else, where Wei Ying is still sprawled across his mattress and dead to the world. The sight is so perfect that he stops and drinks it in for longer than he means to, and finally shakes himself out of it and heads back to the kitchen. He gets the rice cooker filled and set for congee and does his usual yoga, which he also cuts short. There are more important things to attend to than routines. (Lan Qiren would probably have a heart attack if he heard Lan Zhan ever say that out loud, but Lan Qiren isn’t here and therefore can’t enforce any rules, can he?) Lan Zhan rinses off quickly in the hall bathroom, changes into fresh underwear, and climbs back into bed with Wei Ying, his boyfriend. Wei Ying mumbles at him when Lan Zhan removes the pillow and insinuates himself in its place, but he goes quiet again as soon as he has something to cuddle. This time it’s Lan Zhan’s torso, and Lan Zhan manages to get Wei Ying’s head pillowed at the junction of his shoulder, his arm around Wei Ying’s back, and then?

Then Lan Zhan pulls the blankets back up and goes back to sleep. It’s the most decadent thing he’s ever done, probably. He’s out before he can think through any other possibilities, lulled back down by Wei Ying’s warmth and the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

When Lan Zhan wakes up this next time, the sun is fully up, golden light peeking around the edges of his blinds to filter through his curtains. They’ve shifted, Wei Ying sprawled out on his back, Lan Zhan curled up half on top of him, his face in Wei Ying’s neck. A quick check of his clock reveals it to be after seven. This is positively lazy for Lan Zhan. The last time he was in bed until seven in the morning was when he had the flu. Wei Ying is clearly a bad influence, he reflects, amused, and tightens the arm he has around Wei Ying’s waist to pull him a little closer.

“Mmph,” Wei Ying says, curling toward him and away from the windows. Lan Zhan shamelessly takes advantage of his now more accessible face by kissing him on the cheek. “Mrrmmm?” Wei Ying says, in a different intonation, turning his head a little further, so Lan Zhan kisses him on the corner of his mouth this time. “Mmhmm,” Wei Ying says, sounding satisfied, and turns his head so Lan Zhan can kiss him on the lips. Wei Ying kisses him back, his mouth responsive even as the rest of him tries to catch up, and he flops an arm around Lan Zhan’s neck.

“Mmrrning?” he mumbles into Lan Zhan’s mouth, which is very nearly a word, and Lan Zhan is proud of him for it.

“It is seven,” Lan Zhan tells him, as Wei Ying climbs bodily on top of him and collapses there.

“Ssstooearly,” Wei Ying says to his neck, shifting a little bit to get comfortable.

“Mn.” Lan Zhan re-arranges the blankets around them, re-tucking Wei Ying in. “There will be congee waiting when you are ready for it.”

“Mmmn,” Wei Ying says, and then apparently goes back to sleep entirely, his body limp and draped across Lan Zhan’s like the world’s most inefficient blanket. Lan Zhan gently wraps his arms around Wei Ying and kisses the top of his head and tries not to cry at how perfect everything is, even though Wei Ying somehow has managed to drive the crest of one hip bone directly into Lan Zhan’s side. That’s perfect, too, and Lan Zhan watches his room lighten with the sun and breathes.

When Wei Ying actually wakes up, it’s with a full-body twitch and a grunt. It’s now a positively luxurious seven-thirty, and Wei Ying lifts his head to squint blearily at Lan Zhan, still draped fully on top of him. “Hey,” he says, after a moment, his mouth curling up, his eyes soft and still unfocused.

“Good morning,” Lan Zhan says, running one hand over Wei Ying’s back, shoulders to tailbone and back, the heady drag of skin on skin unspooling something in his chest.

“I’ll say it is,” Wei Ying says, a little slurred, and he fits their mouths together, slow and sleepy and warm. Lan Zhan cards his fingers through Wei Ying’s hair, scritches at his undercut, lets his other hand travel as much of Wei Ying’s back as it wants. Wei Ying crawls up his body a little bit, getting a little more leverage, and pins Lan Zhan’s head in place with his hands in his hair as he deepens the kiss with lazy, wet swipes of his tongue. It builds gently, almost, until Lan Zhan drops his hand to Wei Ying’s ass, urging him closer with fingertips pressed against the firm muscle, and Wei Ying drags his thigh against Lan Zhan’s erection. Lan Zhan gasps into Wei Ying’s mouth and grinds up at him before he can stop himself, skin prickling and gut tightening at the sensation.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, breathing a little heavily, his face still creased from his pillow. “Oh. Okay.” He kisses Lan Zhan on the corner of the mouth and says, “Hold that thought,” before climbing clumsily out of bed and staggering into the bathroom. Lan Zhan has no trouble holding onto that thought at all, his mind racing with possibilities, all of them horny. It seems like he’s about to have his first morning sex, and every single part of him is on board with this idea.

“Bladders are the ultimate betrayal,” Wei Ying announces as he comes back into the room, and he crawls directly over the foot of the bed, yanks back the covers, and straddles Lan Zhan with absolutely no shame whatsoever. He rolls his ass against Lan Zhan’s hard, still-very-into-this dick, drags the blankets back up to pool around his waist, and settles his hands possessively on Lan Zhan’s pecs. “Now,” he says, rolling his thumbs around Lan Zhan’s nipples, “where were we?”

“Kissing,” Lan Zhan says, brain shorting out. “We were kissing.” He hadn’t thought of his nipples as being particularly sensitive before, but Wei Ying is playing him like an instrument, each touch finding a new note, plucking out a new chord, and he can’t resist dropping his hands to Wei Ying’s hips and rutting up against him, each slow drag of friction building heat even through their underwear.

“Mmm, yeah,” Wei Ying says, eyes on Lan Zhan, half-lidded. “We were.” He abandons Lan Zhan’s nipples, unfortunately, but it’s so he can get his hands back into Lan Zhan’s hair, which is very fortunate indeed, especially when he tugs at it to tip Lan Zhan’s head back and starts mouthing at his neck, teeth and lips and the wet sweep of his tongue. Lan Zhan arches to give him more room to work and slips a hand between them to palm Wei Ying through the jersey fabric. He’s not quite hard, but it doesn’t take long for him to perk up under Lan Zhan’s touch.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying moans, shivering, as his hips work simultaneously into Lan Zhan’s hand and against his erection. “Lan Zhan, baby. Sweetheart.” He sits up enough to make eye contact, cupping Lan Zhan’s cheek in one hand, tracing his lower lip with his thumb. “I really wanna ride your dick. Can I ride your dick?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says immediately, arching and driving up against Wei Ying in a buck that almost unseats him. “Yes, Wei Ying.” He kisses Wei Ying’s thumb, and then turns his face so he can kiss his palm, hands shaking with how much he wants that, wants to be inside Wei Ying and feel him all around every part of him. Lan Zhan pulls Wei Ying down and kisses him, furiously, plastered together from hips to shoulders, and then he rolls them over sharply so he can pin Wei Ying to the mattress and kiss him some more.

“Oh god,” Wei Ying whimpers as Lan Zhan works his way down his neck, biting and kissing every inch of it. “Oh fuck, gege, do you have lube?”

Without answering, without even lifting his head, Lan Zhan reaches to his bedside table and yanks the drawer open, revealing his lube, gloves, dildo, and a neatly folded towel he’s taken to storing alongside the rest. “Oh,” Wei Ying says, sounding impressed. (Lan Zhan isn’t looking at his face, because he’s curling his tongue around one of Wei Ying’s nipples, now.) “You’re prepared as fuck, aren’t you? I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“I don’t have condoms,” Lan Zhan says into Wei Ying’s sternum, realizing it out loud. He lifts his head and looks up at Wei Ying, at his flushed face and dark eyes and kiss-bruised mouth. “I can get condoms?” he offers. There’s a convenience store down the street that must have them, not that he’s ever looked.

“I got tested three months ago,” Wei Ying says, curling his fingers into Lan Zhan’s hair. Lan Zhan frowns a question at him, and Wei Ying clarifies, “I just think it’s good to be in the habit. I meant it when I said I’d never done this with another person.”

“You are my first,” Lan Zhan affirms. “The doctor advised a full screening at my last checkup, for data collection purposes.” He turns his head and kisses the inside of Wei Ying’s wrist. “There was nothing to report.”

Wei Ying nods and drags his fingernails against Lan Zhan’s scalp, slow and soothing. “Then I’m okay with bare if you are,” he says, seriously. “If you’re more comfortable with condoms, I’ll wait--”

Lan Zhan surges back up Wei Ying’s body, kissing him before he can finish the sentence. “I am comfortable,” he says, nipping at Wei Ying’s lower lip, “with bare.”

“Good,” Wei Ying says into his mouth, wrapping his legs around Lan Zhan’s hips and rolling their dicks together. “Good. Fucking great. I was going to wait but I really didn’t want to.” He gets his hands into Lan Zhan’s briefs and grabs his ass, fingernails digging in a little bit at the same time that he bites Lan Zhan’s earlobe. “Fingerfuck me, gege,” he breathes. “Stretch me out. Get me ready for you.”

Lan Zhan sits up and yanks Wei Ying’s underwear off so fast he thinks he hears the stitches pop. He thinks he might have growled, too, but he can’t hear it over his heart pounding in his ears. Wei Ying cackles, reaching down to palm his dick where it curves hard up against his stomach. “My Lan Zhan,” he purrs, “in such a hurry. What an animal. ”

Lan Zhan grabs the towel and unfolds it with a snap of his wrist. “Up,” he bites out, and when Wei Ying obediently lifts his hips he slides it into place and straightens it with quick, precise movements. He’s still shaking, he realizes, and Lan Zhan braces his hands on either side of Wei Ying’s hips, takes a deep breath, and finds his self control. They don’t have to rush. They have all the time in the world, and he can make use of that time. Wei Ying watches him, quiet and not teasing, and when Lan Zhan’s shoulders drop again, he tips up his head to request a kiss. That’s a request Lan Zhan is happy to grant, and he leans down, settling on his knees between Wei Ying’s spread legs, and kisses him with great care and thoroughness. When Wei Ying starts making little urgent sounds and tugging at his hair, he pulls back and makes eye contact. Lan Zhan is still trying this thing where he doesn’t control his facial expression, and apparently it’s going well for him because Wei Ying looks at his face and his mouth drops open, wet and temping. Lan Zhan doesn’t remove his eyes from Wei Ying as he retrieves a glove, puts it on, and gets out the lube, every movement a promise.

Wei Ying physically shivers when Lan Zhan uncaps the lube. Lan Zhan spreads it around on his gloved fingers and takes a moment to let it warm up. “Tell me if--” he starts, and Wei Ying nods urgently and wraps a leg around him, heel pressing into his low back, lifting his hips.

“I will,” he says, trying to tug Lan Zhan closer with his calf. “I will, I will, I’m good at this, baby, please just touch me.” Lan Zhan is probably constitutionally incapable of not giving Wei Ying what he asks for, and he finds himself incapable now, so he shuffles to the side a bit to give his hand room to work, reaches down between Wei Ying’s spread legs, and proceeds to get lube absolutely everywhere. This is trickier on another person, and it takes him a moment before he locates his goal and re-orients his movements. It’s worth it, though, when he circles his fingers slowly around Wei Ying’s rim and watches it jolt through his body, Wei Ying’s leg twitching around his hip. “Oh god,” Wei Ying says, squirming into the touch, greedily trying for more. “Yeah, just like that.” Emboldened by this early success, Lan Zhan adjusts his hand and presses one finger in, slowly, trying to let Wei Ying’s body adjust. Wei Ying has other ideas, because he moans, braces against the headboard, and pushes his body down to meet Lan Zhan’s hand in a sharp thrust that has Lan Zhan knuckle-deep before he can react.

“Wei Ying,” he says, a little startled, and Wei Ying smiles up at him, mischief dancing in his eyes, and says, “I told you I was good at this.” He rocks his hips, shifting Lan Zhan’s finger inside him, and when he shudders Lan Zhan can feel it from the inside and he’s never been so hard in his life. “Fuck me,” Wei Ying begs, keeping up the movement, flushed down to his chest, his cock dark and leaking against his stomach. “I want you in me, I’ve wanted you in me for ten years, Lan Zhan, don’t keep me waiting.”

Lan Zhan clenches his teeth to stifle a groan and thrusts his finger into Wei Ying, whose body is tight and warm and he’d be more unsure about the logistics of actually fitting his dick into it if he hadn’t seen that same body easily accommodate a dildo he’s intimately acquainted with. “Two?” he asks, and Wei Ying is nodding and pleading, “Yes, gege,” before he can even finish, which is impressive since it’s a single-syllable word. He does as asked, sliding out and then back in with his first two fingers together, and Wei Ying was not overestimating his readiness. It takes barely any pressure to get past the ring of muscle, and once he’s back in Wei Ying’s tight clutch he curls his fingers up experimentally, trying to figure out this new position, and on another person.

“Fuck!” Wei Ying yelps, clenching around him, his dick jumping with a rush of precome, and yes, there’s what Lan Zhan was looking for. He makes sure to hit it on every thrust, dragging his fingers along it, and for good measure he wraps his other hand around Wei Ying’s erection and strokes it to the same tempo. He didn’t really get much of a chance to touch it with his hands, last night, and he savors it now, the heat of it, the outer softness almost delicate in contrast to how fucking hard Wei Ying is, the flare at the tip. Lan Zhan thinks about having it inside him, thinks about Wei Ying fingering him open in preparation for fucking him, and has to drag his brain away from that fantasy before he comes untouched in his briefs.

“Three,” Wei Ying says, trembling, caught between both of Lan Zhan’s hands the way he is, trying to grind his hips up and down at the same time. “I’m ready, baby, fill me up.” Lan Zhan nods, distracted by how incredibly attractive Wei Ying is like this, flushed all down his chest and hot against his hands. It takes him a moment to figure out the positioning he needs, especially since Wei Ying keeps whining and wriggling against him begging for more, please, already. Lan Zhan eventually has to release his dick and pin him down with one hand on his hip so he can work his fingers back inside, which just makes Wei Ying louder and more insistent on being fucked properly. Lan Zhan takes some very, very mild revenge for that; as soon as he has all three fingers where they need to be, he shoves them in all at once, which startles a kind of hiccuping moan out of Wei Ying’s mouth and cuts off his actual words, briefly.

Never silent for long, Wei Ying says, “Oh, god, oh fuck,” bracing his hips and meeting the movements of Lan Zhan’s hand. “Dreamed about this,” he pants, arching his back, pressing his head into the pillows. “Pretended it was you, when I did this to myself.” Lan Zhan curls his fingers up aggressively, getting another yelp and another visible jerk of Wei Ying’s dick.

“Is it good?” he asks, his voice a low rasp. “Is it as good as you imagined?”

“Better,” Wei Ying says, thrashing his head, “oh god, it’s good, you’re so hot, I’m ready I’m ready.” He flails lightly at Lan Zhan’s shoulders, removing the leg that’s been holding him in place, babbling, “I’m ready, roll over sweetheart, gonna make you feel so good.” Lan Zhan goes a little lightheaded at the sudden realization that he’s about to fuck Wei Ying, and he carefully pulls his fingers out (Wei Ying whines, of course, as though he hadn’t know it would happen) and removes the glove with shaky hands. Wei Ying sits up, scrabbling at the waistband of his underwear, and they manage to get Lan Zhan properly naked and on his back with speed and without grace. Wei Ying straddles him with a determined look, and Lan Zhan sits halfway up and shoves some pillows behind his shoulders, because he’s also been dreaming about this for years and damned if he’s going to miss seeing a thing.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, apparently to himself, searching for the lube frantically. Lan Zhan locates it where it’s ended up next to his left hip and hands it over. “Okay, okay, okay,” Wei Ying says again, uncapping it and squirting some into his palm. “Everyone still on board for this?” he asks, looking at Lan Zhan’s face even as he wraps his lubed hand around his dick and coats it with even strokes. “I can tell this guy is.”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says urgently, thrusting up into Wei Ying’s fist, his hands on Wei Ying’s thighs. “Please.” That doesn’t seem like quite enough, and he likes it when Wei Ying talks dirty, so he tries out the concept himself with, “I very much want to be inside you.” It’s a hit, Wei Ying’s breath hitching and his free hand coming up to grip the base of his cock.

“Fuck,” he says, eyes wide. “Oh fuck, you learned how to talk dirty but formal, that is unfairly hot.” Wei Ying drops his hand and braces it on one of Lan Zhan’s bent knees, lifting his hips and lining himself up. He waits for Lan Zhan’s nod, poised on the brink of something very new for both of them, and Lan Zhan knows in the atoms of his body that if he said no, Wei Ying would immediately drop him and come up with something else for them to do, and he’s so in love he thinks he might fly apart.

Lan Zhan nods.

Wei Ying nods back and drops his hips, making adjustments here and there to the angle. Lan Zhan presses against him and thinks, for a wild moment, that there’s simply no way he’s going to fit, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to press into, and then Wei Ying determinedly bites his lip and does a thing with his hips and drops down a little lower and all of a sudden Lan Zhan is inside him.

“Oh,” Lan Zhan says, the breath punched out of him. Wei Ying clenches once around the head of his cock, nods breathlessly, and drops down a little lower. “Oh god,” Lan Zhan says eloquently, his hands trembling against Wei Ying’s thighs, bodily resisting the urge to grab him and yank him the rest of the way down and fuck him until he screams.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, wiping his lube-y hand off on the towel and hitching himself a little further down. “Yeah, exactly.” He exhales, once, shaky, and then relaxes his hips and sits all the way down in one final smooth movement, forcing a groan out of both of them. “Fucking hell,” he says, breathing in short shallow little gasps that Lan Zhan can actually feel from the inside. Wei Ying is red from his eyebrows down to his nipples, sweat beading on his temples and the dip of his sternum, his mouth half open and his eyes half shut. He looks like a wrecked, wrung-out mess, and Lan Zhan has never found him so beautiful.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, because he’s never said it out loud before and he thinks Wei Ying ought to get to hear it. He’s not expecting Wei Ying’s reaction, which is to squeak in surprise and somehow go even redder. Lan Zhan slides his hands up to Wei Ying’s hips, flexing his fingertips against the muscle there, and considers that. “Stunning,” he adds, deliberately, making direct eye contact. “Gorgeous.” Wei Ying squeaks again and hides his face in his hands, and Lan Zhan is delighted. Wei Ying makes porn. Wei Ying has strangers on the internet tell him he’s attractive on a daily basis. How is he shy about this? Lan Zhan sits up, carefully, which shifts his cock inside of Wei Ying and makes them both shiver, and he pulls Wei Ying’s hands away from his face and grips his chin. “Kind,” he tells him, forcing eye contact. “Funny.” Lan Zhan kisses the corner of Wei Ying’s mouth and adds, “Beloved.”

“Oh god,” Wei Ying whines, trying to hide his face in Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “Oh god, I fucking knew I’d have a praise kink.” He pushes gently at Lan Zhan’s chest, trying to get him to lay back down, still talking. “I can’t take this right now, sweetie, I can’t handle it, stop talking and let me fuck you before I die.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, who has absolutely no intention of halting his compliments, but he settles back against the pillows obediently. All his rational thoughts immediately abandon him, though, because Wei Ying braces his hands against his chest and he moves, rolling his hips, hot and wet and tight all around Lan Zhan. They both moan, and Wei Ying wastes absolutely no time in setting a rhythm.

“Fuck,” he says, sliding up and down on Lan Zhan’s cock, clenching around him erratically. “Oh, shit, baby, you’re never allowed to break up with me. You’ve ruined me for any other dick, you feel so good.”

“I will not break up with you,” Lan Zhan says, that response apparently hardwired into his body so it can completely bypass any need for his brain to be involved, which is good, because his brain is screaming hot and wet and fuck and Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying. He can’t stop looking at Wei Ying’s scrunched up, sweating face, at the tense muscles in his torso, his dick bobbing as he rides Lan Zhan, down where they’re joined. Lan Zhan loves this, he wants it, he wants more, he wants everything. He digs his fingers into Wei Ying’s hips and pushes up on the next downward movement, and Wei Ying claws at his pecs and moans.

“Yes,” he says, thighs shaking, moving faster now. “Yes, gege, fuck me.” Lan Zhan has been waiting ten fucking years hear those words, and he wants to hear them every day for the rest of his life. They work together in a slide of bodies and sweat and lube and heat, and Wei Ying keeps getting louder, keeps leaking precome onto Lan Zhan’s abs, and when he’s barely breathing and shaking through his whole body, he tries to grab his dick.

“No,” Lan Zhan growls, snatching Wei Ying’s wrists and pinning both of his hands back on his pecs, where they were previously. “Like this.” He drives up, hard, and Wei Ying would wail except he clearly doesn’t have the oxygen for it.

“Lan Zhan,” he begs, weakly, tugging at his grip but with no actual intent of escape. “Baby, please, I’m so close.”

“I know,” Lan Zhan says, the rational part of his brain really quite surprised at this turn of events. “Come like this,” he orders, switching both of Wei Ying’s wrists to one hand, setting the other back on Wei Ying’s hip to guide his movements. “I know you can,” he says, encouragingly. “Come for me like this.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying moans, hips stuttering. He shifts the angle a little bit and convulses. “Oh god, sweetheart, you’re fucking me so good.” His whole body clenches around Lan Zhan now, so wet he’s actually dripping a slippery fucking mess onto Lan Zhan’s skin. Lan Zhan recognises the look on his face from watching his videos, the glazed-over eyes, the agonized mouth. He drops Wei Ying’s wrists and gets both hands on his hips, grabs him tight, and fucks him so hard their skin slaps together audibly. “Oh god,” Wei Ying whines, tense, every muscle standing out. “Oh god, oh god, Lan Zhan--” His voice breaks off into a high-pitched whine and then he comes beautifully, gasping and keening, his hands clutching desperately at Lan Zhan’s chest as he ejaculates all over his abs. Lan Zhan fucks him through it, feels the orgasm from inside Wei Ying’s body, the trembling and the clenching and the heat of it, and he never wants to feel anything else again for the rest of his life. Wei Ying starts to collapse on him, going boneless, but Lan Zhan isn’t done yet. He grabs him at the hip and shoulder, sits up, and keeps going to flip Wei Ying onto his back. He flops against the mattress like a dropped puppet and Lan Zhan settles between his spread legs, still hot and hard and aching but not ready to be finished.

“Yeah, baby,” Wei Ying slurs, patting at his cheek. “Use me. Fuck me up.” Lan Zhan twitches, his cock definitely on board with that idea, and he takes a moment to collect himself before he starts to thrust. He goes slow, achingly so, a long, long drag back and then a long, long push in, gentle and inexorable as a tide. Wei Ying’s breath hitches. He must be at least a little bit oversensitive, but he’s not complaining. Frankly, Wei Ying seems far too fucked out to complain, panting for breath, his face tipped to the side, eyes shut and his mouth kiss-bruised and loose. That’s fine. They have time. Lan Zhan kisses Wei Ying’s neck, bites lightly at his shoulder, and concentrates on the slow, careful slide in and out of his body.

“Wei Ying,” he says, when his boyfriend has blinked his eyes back open once or twice and is rocking up into his thrusts with little quiet gasps. “Darling,” he tries out, and Wei Ying goes bashful, which is definitely a success. Lan Zhan interlaces their fingers and pins Wei Ying’s hands next to his head, kisses him on the corner of the mouth, and asks, “Is this good?”

“Yes,” Wei Ying says, sounding drunk. He rolls his hips up into Lan Zhan’s next slide in, shivering. “It’s good.” He manages to make eye contact, though Lan Zhan isn’t sure how well he can actually focus. “What are you doing, though? Don’t you wanna come, sweetie?”

“I do,” Lan Zhan confirms, not pausing his movements but also not speeding up. He does want to come, very much, wants to claim Wei Ying in an animalistic way, as though people would be able to smell it and know to stay away, but… “I want to do this until you can get hard again,” he says, nipping at Wei Ying’s jaw, unable to make eye contact and say something so dirty out loud. “And then I want to make you come again. And then I want to come.”

Wei Ying shivers under him, arching his back, offering up his neck to Lan Zhan’s teeth. “Hell,” he says, admiringly, “you’re kinky as fuck, aren’t you?” Lan Zhan hmms noncommittally. He thinks he definitely couldn’t be described as what he understands to be called “vanilla,” but he’s not sure if “as fuck” accurately describes his kink level, either. Regardless, there’s this nice expanse of throat right in front of him, so he bites it. “Yeah,” Wei Ying says, shuddering and going limp. “Bite me. Mark me up, Lan Zhan, I want everyone to know I’m yours.” That causes Lan Zhan’s control to snap, just for a moment, and he fucks into Wei Ying hard for a couple of thrusts, punching broken little “Ah! Ah!” sounds out of him as he sinks his teeth into the base of his neck. “Yes, god,” Wei Ying practically sobs, which is mildly alarming, so Lan Zhan pulls back to check on him.

“Are you crying?” he asks, more alarmed now, and tries to stop moving. Wei Ying is having none of that, however, and wraps his legs around Lan Zhan’s hips, rocking up into him heedless of the tears dripping down his temples.

“‘S fine,” he says. “You’ve seen my overstimulation videos. My face just does this. Don’t stop baby, I love it.”

Lan Zhan’s brain shorts out. His body, which is all too on board for continuing, does so, and the drag of Wei Ying all around him, even hotter now, keeps him from creating words for a little while longer. “I have not. Seen. Those,” he rasps out eventually, Wei Ying squirming and whining under him, dick thickening and rejoining the party.

“Oh?” Wei Ying blinks up at him, breathing ragged and audible. “Well, you’re in for a treat later.” He squeezes Lan Zhan’s hands, still entwined in his and pinning them to the bed. “Come on, gege,” he says, squeezing around Lan Zhan’s cock and wiggling a little, “fuck me like you hate me.”

Lan Zhan bites him on the neck again, where the bruise from earlier is already blooming. “I will not,” he says, releasing Wei Ying’s hands, hooking an elbow around one of his knees, and using it for leverage as he snaps their hips together. He kisses Wei Ying’s neck, his jaw, his ear, and growls, “I will fuck you like I love you.”

“Oh, god,” Wei Ying wails, turning his face into the mattress. “Oh fuck, Lan Zhan.” He gets one newly freed hand down between them and jerks his dick back to full hardness with a few strokes, body jolting every time Lan Zhan slides home. Lan Zhan doesn’t stop him this time, stays bent half over Wei Ying, and rails him into next week as previously requested.

“Come again,” he says in Wei Ying’s ear, as he trembles and moans and cries and thrashes his head into the sheets. “I want to feel you come again.” Wei Ying nods, helpless, his hand sliding frantically on his cock, and Lan Zhan lets his self control go and drives into him relentlessly, his own delayed orgasm starting to unspool in his guts and demand attention.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying gasps, face sweaty, back to that twisted up agonized ecstasy, and then his cock jerks and he comes over his hand, dripping onto his stomach, twitching and clenching around Lan Zhan’s achingly hard dick.

“Good boy,” Lan Zhan tells him, and Wei Ying lets out an actual sob, still twitching, and goes completely boneless on the bed.

“Come in me,” he manages, chest heaving, looking up at Lan Zhan through tear-wet eyelashes. “Come in me, baby, make me yours.”

“Fuck,” Lan Zhan says, intensely, and then he does, pulsing deep into Wei Ying, shuddering and moaning and whiting out as all the tension in him snaps and his orgasm hits with the force of a punch to the face. His hips stutter, his heart races, and he twitches and shakes through it, Wei Ying’s eyes on his face, Wei Ying all around him, in his life and in his bed and in his heart. This time he does collapse right on top of him, messes be damned, and they shiver together as the sweat dries on their skin and their heart rates come back to something approximating normal.

“Wow,” Wei Ying says into Lan Zhan’s hair, some time later. “Wow, we are really good at sex.” He sounds impressed and a little surprised and still extremely pleasure-drunk, and it’s so unexpected that Lan Zhan dissolves into a fit of silent laughter, which sets Wei Ying off laughing, the tension of which sends Lan Zhan sliding out of his body in sort of a wet rush, which is also funny, and they curl up together, sticky and gross and extremely fucked-out, until they finally come back to their senses.

“I love you,” Lan Zhan says, thumbing some of the remaining tears off Wei Ying’s face. “Good? Not too much?”

“Perfect,” Wei Ying says, his pupils still dilated. “Gonna feel it for a week. Loved it. Love you.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and then he moves and something drips down his abs and it’s wet and cold and he makes a face. “Shower?” he asks.

“Shower,” Wei Ying agrees, and holds his arms out expectantly. “Can’t walk. My boyfriend fucked me too hard. He needs to take responsibility for his actions.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. He takes a moment to locate all his limbs and regain control over them, and then he rises to his knees, sweeps Wei Ying into a bridal carry, and carts him into the bathroom with a facial expression that is probably smug. Lan Zhan doesn’t usually feel smug, so he’s not entirely sure. He hasn’t been controlling his face all morning and he’s never felt more free.

They make out in Lan Zhan’s shower, not with the intent for it to turn into anything else, but mostly for the novelty. It is very nice, and Lan Zhan definitely agrees with the Wei Ying of last night that at some point they’re going to fuck in this shower, but right now he’s too hungry to think of much besides breakfast. Wei Ying insists on washing his hair, which feels somehow more intimate than the sex they just had, and it’s also so relaxing Lan Zhan almost falls over, to Wei Ying’s delight. He returns the favor, though Wei Ying has much less hair to wash, and smelling his usual sandalwood and ginger shampoo on his boyfriend sends such a wave of possessive affection surging through Lan Zhan that he can hardly breathe. It feels strangely daring to towel off and walk back into his bedroom stark naked, especially with another person around, but it’s also strangely freeing. Lan Zhan thinks about walking out to the kitchen naked, thinks about Wei Ying walking around his kitchen naked, and flushes.

“Would you like your clothes?” he asks, pulling open his underwear drawer for yet another fresh pair, and Wei Ying stretches, naked and shameless, and drapes himself across Lan Zhan’s back.

“Hell no,” he says, cheek pressed between Lan Zhan’s shoulder blades. “It’s a Sunday morning and I just got fucked to within an inch of my life by my supremely hot boyfriend, I’m not putting on real pants until at least noon.” Lan Zhan, who gets fully dressed by eight in the morning at the very latest unless he’s ill, thinks about this and decides it’s fair. He tosses another pair of briefs over his shoulder at Wei Ying, managing to land them on his head (Wei Ying splutters in shock), and locates yesterday’s pajamas, still in a pile on the floor. Wei Ying puts the bunny pajamas back on, inspiring yet another rush of possessive affection, and Lan Zhan can’t help grabbing him by the wrist and reeling him in for a kiss, which turns into another, which turns into a slow, standing make-out session in the middle of Lan Zhan’s bedroom. It probably would go on for a while except that Wei Ying’s stomach growls hilariously loudly, and he pulls back with a pout.

“You said there was congee,” he says, doe-eyed, his arms draped around Lan Zhan’s neck. “You’re the reason I’m so hungry, you know. Take me to the congee, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says, and throws Wei Ying over his shoulder to carry him, squealing, out to the kitchen. He plops him gently down on the counter, kisses him one more time, and sets about actually getting breakfast together. The congee is done and has kept warm (a thousand blessings eternal on the inventor of fuzzy logic rice cookers) so he gets the kettle going and grabs the pour-over coffee brewer, a filter, and a mug out of the cupboard. There’s a bag of grounds in the freezer, the roast that Wei Ying likes best from the cafe, and he preps everything quickly so that by the time the kettle is done he’s already pulling out various congee toppings from the fridge, salted eggs and chopped scallions and some homemade quick pickles he preps once a month. Wei Ying watches all this in uncharacteristic silence, and when Lan Zhan hands him the mug with his coffee he cradles it in both hands and stares into it like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, softly. “Lan Zhan, you don’t drink coffee.”

“No,” Lan Zhan agrees, popping the lid on the rice cooker and dishing up two bowls of congee.

“Your brother doesn’t drink coffee, either,” Wei Ying says, still soft, his voice a little slow, like he’s thinking something through.

“No,” Lan Zhan agrees again, setting one bowl next to Wei Ying’s thigh and then rummaging through his cupboard.

“Why do you have coffee?” Wei Ying asks, looking up, finally, and Lan Zhan sets two little bottles of chili sauce and a shaker of spicy seaweed seasoning next to the bowl of congee.

“I have it for Wei Ying,” he says simply. Wei Ying stares at him, jaw slack, throat working like he wants to say something, and Lan Zhan just looks back. It’s the truth. Lan Zhan is trying this new thing where he says the truth out loud more often. It’s been working out for him for probably sixteen hours or so, and when it makes Wei Ying look at him like this, in disbelief and warm affection, it’s very appealing to keep doing it.

“I’ve never asked you for coffee,” Wei Ying says, eventually, his voice weak. Lan Zhan shrugs, the barest movement of one shoulder.

“I had it anyway,” he says. He moves a little closer and pushes the mug more firmly into Wei Ying’s chest, until he’s cradling it like something precious that needs to be held close and safe. Lan Zhan leans in and presses a light kiss to the corner of Wei Ying’s still-surprised mouth. “I want you to have nice things,” Lan Zhan says softly against his skin. “You deserve nice things.” Wei Ying’s breath hitches a little, and Lan Zhan kisses him again gently and pulls back to look at his face.

“God,” Wei Ying says, looking a little teary but not on the verge of an actual breakdown, “you just say shit like that out in front of god and everyone, huh?” He smiles, a real smile, and takes a sip of his coffee.

“It’s the truth,” Lan Zhan says, returning to his neglected bowl of congee and the various toppings. Wei Ying hops down off the counter and crowds in next to him, demanding two eggs and adding both chili sauces and the seaweed, because apparently his mouth is made of cast iron. Eventually they make it to the couch with bowls and mugs, and while Lan Zhan usually insists on eating at his dining room table he can admit he’s starting to see the appeal of couch eating. Wei Ying pulls up the pudding episode of Great British Bake-Off he mostly slept through the night before and only half watches, leaning back against Lan Zhan’s side as he inhales his congee.

“I realize,” he says, sometime around when the technical starts, “that I didn’t say this last night, and I probably should.” Wei Ying tips his head back into Lan Zhan’s shoulder and peers up at him through his eyelashes, upside down. “I’m not gonna stop doing porn now that we’re together.”

Lan Zhan blinks. “I would never have asked you to,” he says, blankly. “I thought I had been quite clear that I enjoy your porn immensely.”

Wei Ying laughs, his eyes and nose scrunching shut. “Yeah, I got that idea,” he teases gently, relaxing into Lan Zhan again. “I felt like I should say it out loud, though. It’s, ah, it’s pretty common for people to start dating sex workers knowing perfectly fucking well that they’re sex workers and then get all weird and shitty about it.” His fingers trace absently over one of the rabbits on his fleece pants, and Lan Zhan feels his shoulders tense.

“I will endeavor to make sure that my weird shittiness has all happened prior to now, and will not occur in the future,” he says solemnly, shifting so he can pull Wei Ying’s back in against his chest. Lan Zhan kisses his hair, smells sandalwood and Wei Ying, and adds, “It is your job, and you enjoy it. I love you and I would never try to get in the way of that.”

“Love you, too,” Wei Ying says, tipping his face so they can kiss awkwardly. It is truly a nightmarish angle, so he quickly gives it up and goes back to his coffee. Lan Zhan sips his tea and absently watches someone’s meringue become a disaster.

“Wei Ying,” he says, hesitantly. “Would you prefer I unsubscribe?” Lan Zhan isn’t sure what would be the correct choice, here, since he subscribed in the first place under false pretenses.

“I thought you just said you liked my porn immensely?” Wei Ying says, wiggling around so they can make eye contact. “Don’t you want to go watch my overstimulation videos? You seemed like you wanted to earlier.”

“I do,” Lan Zhan says, momentarily distracted, his ears hot. He pauses and tries to build a sentence that says what he means it to. “I was not sure if it would still be considered appropriate.”

“Lan Zhan. Sweetheart. Baby,” Wei Ying says, with gravitas. “I absolutely want you to look at my porn and tell me when you find it super hot and then have sex with me about it. I just don’t need your money.” He waves with the hand not holding the coffee. “I’ll send you a code for a free year, so you’ll have to find something else to spend that ten dollars a month on.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, knowing that he full well intends to spend that ten dollars a month on Wei Ying and just will have to find a different way to do so. They go back to watching the technical, vaguely. Lan Zhan isn’t sure if Wei Ying is catching any more of it this time around than last night, but he’s willing to watch it a third time if necessary.

“God,” Wei Ying says, shaking himself. “I keep remembering other things I meant to say or ask about, so forgive me constantly going, ‘And another thing!’” He bumps his forehead into Lan Zhan’s neck. “It’s your fault, anyway, for being so good at sex.”

“My apologies,” Lan Zhan deadpans. Wei Ying huffs a laugh, the movement vibrating through both of them.

“I’m asking this because I love you and with no judgement and I’m not trying to make it an ultimatum of dating me,” he says, gently and sincerely, “but how’s that therapist search going? ‘Cause baby.” Wei Ying pats his knee. “Sweetheart. Honey.” He doesn’t actually finish that with any kind of descriptive statement, which Lan Zhan understands, because words fail him, too.

“I need to email back,” he admits. He watches Paul Hollywood say something about someone’s meringue, not seeing it at all, and strokes his thumb against the fabric of Wei Ying’s pajama shirt. “They asked what I wanted out of therapy and I didn’t know how to answer.” Lan Zhan takes a sip of his tea, considering, and adds, “I think my answer would be different now from last week.”

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully. “Feel free to tell me no, but do you want help?” He twists around so he can look up at Lan Zhan properly, chewing his lower lip shyly. “Wen Qing got me to take an online quiz back when I was crashing on her couch and still pretending everything was fine and it was, ah, enlightening.”

Lan Zhan thinks about that, and Wei Ying lets him while, on-screen, the strudel food processor injury drama occurs again. “Oh, yikes,” Wei Ying mutters, “poor dude,” before he kisses Lan Zhan on the cheek and levers himself off the couch to make them both refills. By the time he gets back, two mugs steaming, Lan Zhan has come to his decision.

“What quiz?” he asks, and Wei Ying lights up.

“I’ll grab your computer,” he says, putting down his mug (on a coaster, Lan Zhan loves him) and heading to Lan Zhan’s desk. “I’ll ask you the questions and you can tell me your answers and then you can see how you feel about what it says?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, finding that idea much more appealing than just doing it himself, where he can more easily lie. Wei Ying drops back onto the couch, facing him this time, his feet in Lan Zhan’s lap. Mel and Sue are joking with someone about strudel fillings when he clears his throat.

“Okay,” Wel Ying says, settling in. “On a scale of one to ten, where one is ‘not anxious at all,’ and ten is ‘extremely anxious,’ how anxious do you get in the following situations?” Lan Zhan listens and tries very hard not to edit himself or think too hard about his answers. It’s a fairly long quiz, and the contestant who injured himself has to leave the tent (“Oh, that’s a shame, I liked him,” Wei Ying says in between queries), and then when the first strudel comes out of the oven, Wei Ying says, “And we’re done!” He clicks a couple of times and wiggles around to sit next to Lan Zhan again, pushing the laptop into his hands.

Lan Zhan’s heart jolts when he looks at the results, scrolling down to scan some of the extended notes. “Oh,” he says, quietly, taking in the results saying his symptoms are consistent with severe social anxiety, potential agoraphobia, a possibility of mild obsessive-compulsive disorder. The descriptions make sense as he reads them, like he’s been seeing his reflection distorted in a funhouse mirror and is only now looking at it clearly.

“Now none of this is a diagnosis, obviously,” Wei Ying is saying, as Lan Zhan scrolls down and reads a section about autism spectrum disorder and how it can overlap with many other mental health diagnoses. “But for me it was like, fuck, it’s actually not normal to have panic attacks or dissociate as much as I was doing, and once I actually read that in real words, it was easier to decide to do something about it.” He kisses Lan Zhan’s shoulder and leans his head on it. “Is this helpful?”

Lan Zhan nods. “It is,” he says, out loud. “Thank you.” He taps his fingertips on the keyboard absently. “Would it be appropriate for me to simply paste the results of this into an email and use that as my explanation?”

“Yeah, sure,” Wei Ying says easily. “They’re therapists, they’re used to people needing help and cheats to get shit done. They’ll probably be fine with any response as long as you’re not a total asshole.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and then, before he can overthink it, he navigates to his email, pastes in the quiz results, and adds a quick note about having difficulty coming up with an answer himself and a sincere hope that his response is helpful. He replies to both emails, shuts his laptop decisively, and sets it aside with shaking hands. Lan Zhan feels like he just ran a mile, and also like he just shrugged a weight off his shoulders, exhausted and free and so light he could float away. Wei Ying watches him with a fond look and climbs into his lap, arms around his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, pressing their foreheads together. “You did a good job, and I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you for helping,” Lan Zhan says. They kiss lightly, for reassurance and just because they can, and Wei Ying turns around and reclines back against Lan Zhan’s chest, grabbing his coffee as Paul and Mary deliberate over strudels. Lan Zhan wraps an arm around him and relocates his tea, as well, and they watch quietly as no one gets eliminated this week. (“Good, that’s only fair,” Wei Ying tells the television, “but I’m still dueling you about those pies, Paul. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”) Lan Zhan turns it off when the episode is done, because he’s pretty sure neither of them have the attention span for another one, and continues doing absolutely nothing productive with his day so far and loving it.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says and reaches out with his toes to grab his phone from the table in what is honestly an impressive feat of dexterity. “Can I tell the groupchat that we’re like, an item now?” He peeks up at Lan Zhan and grins. “I was thinking about screaming it from the rooftops or hiring a skywriter but I think this will be a little more efficient.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says, who was considering a more old-fashioned approach, like putting an announcement in the newspaper, or simply following Wei Ying everywhere he goes with one hand on his low back in an obvious claim.

“Great,” Wei Ying says, and then he holds out the phone at arm’s length. “Smile!” Lan Zhan doesn’t, really, not in time for the first picture, but Wei Ying takes several more, and it gives him a chance to settle, to curl his arm around Wei Ying and tip their heads together. Wei Ying swipes through the options and shows him the phone screen. “Do I have your approval?” he asks. “I’m pretty sure I got your good side.”

Lan Zhan’s heart pounds when he looks at the selfie, not from any kind of anxiety, but from how perfect it looks. Wei Ying is grinning into the camera, a love bite barely visible under his collar, sprawled against Lan Zhan’s chest with his coffee mug lifted in a salute. Lan Zhan isn’t smiling, exactly, but his face is soft and fond, his head tilted toward Wei Ying’s face the same way a flower chases the sun, one arm possessive around his chest. They both look sleep-rumpled and comfortable and so very, very much in love. Lan Zhan wants a print of this photo so he can pin it to the fridge and look at it every day.

“Mn,” he says. “Good.” Lan Zhan finishes his tea while Wei Ying composes his text, and shortly thereafter Wei Ying’s phone blows up with notifications.

“Oh, gosh,” Wei Ying says, trying to keep up with the responses even as Lan Zhan watches them scroll past in a flood. “Okay, we’re just gonna--” and he puts his phone on do-not-disturb and tosses it to the end of the couch. “We’ll let that run its course and come back to it later,” he says, and snuggles back into Lan Zhan’s embrace. This, of course, is when Lan Zhan’s phone rings, and he grabs for it off the table.

“It is my brother,” he says, mildly confused. He looks at Wei Ying. “Is Lan Huan part of your group text?”

“Nope,” Wei Ying replies, looking just as confused. He nudges Lan Zhan and rolls out of his lap. “You should answer, though, it’s probably important.”

Lan Zhan nods and swipes, standing up from the couch and heading back into his bedroom. “Lan Huan?” he asks into the mild static, and his brother’s voice answers, “Good morning!” cheerful and bright as the sunrise.

“Good morning,” Lan Zhan says, still puzzled, though from the tone of Lan Huan’s voice nothing is wrong. “How did the pineapple buns turn out?”

“Excellent! Thank you so much for helping with the recipe,” Lan Huan says. “Nie Mingjue enjoyed them very much, didn’t you, my dear?”

In the background, Nie Mingjue says, “They were delicious. We had them for breakfast this morning.” Lan Zhan has never in his life thought of his brother’s partner and the word “cute” in the same sentence, and he re-evaluates that, because that? Was cute.

“We’re actually calling about Wei Ying,” Lan Huan says, in a more serious voice, and Lan Zhan’s heart starts pounding. “Jiang Yanli texted us last night and let us know what happened at the farm, because she thought Jin Zixun might try to contact us first. First of all, I’m very sorry to hear that your outing was ruined, because it sounded lovely otherwise. Second of all, we wanted Wei Ying to know that we don’t care, and Nie Mingjue still wants to see his portfolio as scheduled this week.”

“Like I’d let some Jin fuckface stop me from doing exactly what I wanted to do,” Nie Mingjue mutters, loud enough for the phone to pick it up clearly. “Like I haven’t seen A-Sang’s work. Like I haven’t seen a fucking dick before.”

“Yes, yes, dear,” Lan Huan says soothingly. To Lan Zhan, he continues, “We didn’t want to call Wei Ying directly, because Jiang Yanli said he seemed pretty upset, and we didn’t want to make that worse by reaching out before he was ready. She said you left together. Would you be able to reassure him for us, if you think it would help?”

Lan Zhan goes lightheaded with relief, both for Wei Ying’s continued professional opportunity and for his brother’s easy acceptance of Wei Ying’s second job. “I will tell him,” he says, and then he claws up his courage and adds, “He is here,” and then, “He stayed the night,” and then, “We are dating,” and then, “Wei Ying is my boyfriend now,” each sentence lined up like arrows in a bow and then fired off into the ether.

“Oh, A-Zhan!” his brother says, the joy in his voice clearly bleeding through the connection. “That’s wonderful! I’m so happy to hear it! How did it happen?” To Nie Mingjue he clarifies, “They’re dating now!”

“Fucking finally,” Nie Mingjue growls, which Lan Zhan thinks is a little unfair, because it’s not like he was the one waiting ten years. He drags his brain back on track and tries to figure out an answer for his brother that isn’t a lie and also isn’t, “Well, he found out that I secretly look at his porn and then we cried and said we love each other and then we had sex.”

“I brought him here when we left the farm,” he says, truthfully, “and we ended up talking,” also true, and simply skips what triggered the talk and also the specifics of what they talked about, “and now we are dating,” he finishes, because he doesn’t want to share any of the other details. None of it is a lie, and he takes a moment to be proud of that.

“I’m so happy for you, A-Zhan,” Lan Huan says, “and I’m so proud of you. Jiang Yanli said you were very supportive of Wei Ying, and she appreciated it very much.”

“Good job punching that little Jin shit,” Nie Mingjue adds.

“We won’t keep you from your boyfriend,” Lan Huan says, in a voice that tells Lan Zhan he will be referring to Wei Ying as “your boyfriend” in every conversation until the end of time. “Tell him hi from us.”

“We’ll see him Wednesday!” Nie Mingjue insists.

“Have a good day, A-Zhan.” Lan Huan’s smile is audible, somehow. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Lan Zhan says, and they end the call there. He wanders back out into the living room, where Wei Ying is washing the dishes from breakfast. There’s a tupperware container out with the leftover congee cooling before it goes in the fridge, and Lan Zhan pauses in the hallway to watch, drinking in how perfect it is to have Wei Ying in his kitchen, comfortable in the space, like he belongs there. Wei Ying puts a clean bowl in the drying rack and twists to smile over his shoulder at Lan Zhan.

“How’s Lan Huan?” he asks, and Lan Zhan pads into the kitchen, pressing against his back and wrapping his arms around Wei Ying’s waist and reveling in every second of it.

“He is good.” Lan Zhan kisses the side of Wei Ying’s neck. “Your sister reached out to him about Jin Zixun. He and Nie Mingjue wanted me to assure you they don’t care about your side gigs and still want to see your work.” The brief tension that lifted Wei Ying’s shoulders at the mention of Jin Zixun melts away again, and he sways back into Lan Zhan’s chest as he rinses a mug.

“That’s cool of them,” he says. “Shit, I hadn’t even really thought he might do that.”

Lan Zhan nods. He hadn’t considered it, either. “Nie Mingjue called him ‘some Jin fuckface,’ and ‘a little Jin shit,’” he offers. “I believe that, even if Jiang Yanli had not warned them, any attempt he made to sabotage you would have been ineffective.”

Wei Ying snortlaughs. “Well, I mean, when you put it like that,” he says, rinsing the last utensil and shutting off the water. He relaxes against Lan Zhan, letting him support his weight, and they sway together for a minute. “Mmm,” Wei Ying sighs, a little ruefully. “I should probably get out of your hair. I need to get groceries so I don’t end up eating the bad noodles from the variety pack for breakfast tomorrow, and I’m sure you have a million things you usually do on a Sunday.”

Lan Zhan does, in fact, have a lot of things he usually does on Sunday to prepare for the week, and at the moment, not a single one of them seems as important as keeping Wei Ying in his arms for one more minute. He thinks about going to bed alone tonight, thinks about having to wait until Monday night or Tuesday at the cafe or who knows when to see Wei Ying again, thinks about waking up tomorrow morning to an empty bed. He thinks about Wei Ying’s black leather jacket hanging in the entryway next to his white one, thinks about Wei Ying as a bright, saturated spot of contrast in his bland, neutral life. For a minute he takes all those thoughts and starts to cram them down, make them smaller, make himself not want them.

And then.

And then he thinks, No. Fuck that.  

Lan Zhan thinks about what he wants, really thinks about it, really lets himself feel it and he finally, finally stretches, reaches out with his limbs, takes up the space he’s always denied himself. In one mental movement Lan Zhan shatters the walls of the box he’s been living in his whole life and takes a breath of fresh, free air for the first time, and he takes a chance he’d never have dared to take a month, a week, a day ago.

“Wei Ying,” he says, voice full of something he’s never heard in it before. “Move in with me.”

Wei Ying freezes. “What?” They’re still back to front, which won’t do at all, so Lan Zhan gently turns Wei Ying around and cups his face. Wei Ying stares up at him in wild-eyed disbelief, and Lan Zhan will never let him go if he can help it.

“Move in with me,” he repeats, the words forced out of his chest by the warm glow building in his heart. “Move in with me today.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, weakly. He seems speechless, while Lan Zhan has more to say, has so much to say it’s a challenge to get it all out.

“I’ll drive you to your apartment,” he starts, thumbs brushing Wei Ying’s beautiful cheekbones. “We can pack everything you need for the week and move a little bit more each night. You can sublet. I can handle the rent here until your lease is up, if we need to. We’ll turn the second bedroom into a studio for you.” Lan Zhan kisses the corner of Wei Ying’s surprised mouth. “Move in with me,” he whispers against the soft skin there. “Move in with me, Wei Ying.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his voice louder but a little shaky. He’s clutching at Lan Zhan’s waist, a fine tremor in his hands. Lan Zhan pulls back to look at him and he’s staring, shell-shocked and pale. “You can’t just--I’m a mess. You don’t want me all over your space.”

“I do,” Lan Zhan insists, kissing his forehead this time.

“Seriously, I’m loud and chaotic and I’m too much for most people. Ask anyone I lived with before.” Wei Ying says this like it will make any difference to Lan Zhan, like it means anything at all.

“I am not most people.” Lan Zhan kisses his eyebrow. “I love your chaos. You are not too much for me.” The words just keep coming, and Lan Zhan says, “I always want more of you than I let myself have.” Another kiss, to the tip of his nose. “Move in with me.”

“I can’t--” Wei Ying argues, and Lan Zhan honestly isn’t sure who he’s arguing with. “This is your place, Lan Zhan! I can’t take over your second bedroom with my porn!”

“You can,” Lan Zhan says. “I want you to.” He kisses Wei Ying’s other eyebrow and confesses, “The second bedroom is for you. It has always been for you.”

“What?” Wei Ying says, trying to pull back and look at Lan Zhan’s face. Lan Zhan lets him, keeps not controlling what his face is doing, lets it show what he’s feeling.

“I rented a two bedroom,” Lan Zhan says, quiet and sincere, “in case you ever needed it.” He strokes one hand over Wei Ying’s hair, the other still cupping his jaw. “It’s always been yours, Wei Ying. Everything I have; everything I am; I have always been yours.” He drinks in Wei Ying’s face, eyes wet with tears again, his sweet mouth, his beautiful, beautiful expressions. “I love you, Wei Ying,” he says simply. “Move in with me.”

Wei Ying’s mouth works, but no words come out as a single tear escapes the corner of his eye to trickle down his cheek. Lan Zhan kisses it away, and Wei Ying takes a deep, shaky breath. “You don’t--” he says, and Lan Zhan knows this is going to be the last protest, whatever it is. “You don’t think this is a little too fast?”

“Ten years,” Lan Zhan tells him, almost laughing. Wei Ying does laugh, then, more tears slipping out as he does, and Lan Zhan knows he’s won.

“You’re sure?” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan gives in and sweeps him off his feet, perching him on the edge of the counter.

“I’m sure,” he says, pressing their foreheads together, his hands on Wei Ying’s hips. “I will prove it: I, Lan Zhan, being of sound mind and body--” Wei Ying starts laughing immediately, helpless, his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck “--do hereby give Wei Ying, the love of my life, explicit permission to move in with me--”

“Okay!” Wei Ying says, dropping wet, inelegant kisses all over Lan Zhan’s face. “Okay, okay, I get it!” He grins, wide and shining, his eyes wet and dancing with the joy Lan Zhan feels surging in his heart. “Yes, Lan Zhan,” he says, almost shy again, “sweetheart. Baby. I’ll move in with you.”

Lan Zhan kisses him, breathless and so deliriously happy he thinks he might burn up with it. “Good,” he says against Wei Ying’s mouth. “Now?”

“Now,” Wei Ying agrees.

“Good,” Lan Zhan says, and kisses him again.

Chapter Text

The next few days are, to put it mildly, utter chaos, and Lan Zhan absolutely loves it. On Sunday, after they eventually manage to get outside clothes on, he digs out his three-piece matched set of rolling luggage and a couple of laundry baskets to take to Wei Ying’s apartment. Wei Ying, for his part, positively vibrates with nervous energy on the ride over and then pours all that energy into frantic packing. That first trip is just for the essentials: Wei Ying’s computer, dizi, and his music equipment all get wrapped up in clothes for padding and packed away in the suitcases; he shoves all his toiletries into a laundry basket; and when there proves to still be enough room in the car, he and Lan Zhan wrestle a couple of the under-bed storage containers down the three flights of stairs and bring those, too. 

“It’s a good thing,” Wei Ying says, pushing his sweaty bangs out of his face and leaning against the car, “that I’ve learned through repeated traumatic separation to be ready to lose everything I own at any given time and only keep the essentials around.” Lan Zhan gives him a look of mingled disapproval and horror, and Wei Ying laughs. “Kidding,” he says, “kinda.”

“You will not lose anything ever again,” Lan Zhan says stubbornly, getting into the driver’s seat. They could probably get more into the car, but everything else is too large to easily fit and Lan Zhan is impatient to have Wei Ying unpacked, to have Wei Ying’s things in his space. He wants to look around his apartment and see the unmistakable signs of Wei Ying’s presence, as indelible as an ink stain.

“I think you underestimate my capacity for losing things,” Wei Ying says, buckling himself in and then settling one hand on Lan Zhan’s thigh, casual and affectionate. “Appreciate the thought, though.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, deciding simply to find everything Wei Ying loses, and carefully pulls out of the parking space.

They manage to go back for another load, cramming the trunk full of shoes and a few of Wei Ying’s other storage tubs into the car. Lan Zhan insists on bringing the framed prints Wei Ying has on his wall, wrapping them in towels and carefully stacking them in the freshly-emptied suitcase, over Wei Ying’s halfhearted protests.

“I got those frames from Amazon!” he says, filling another suitcase with his everyday shoes. “They’re the cheapest ones! They come in a six pack! And those are nerd prints, Lan Zhan! Your apartment is too classy for them.”

“It is your apartment as well, now,” Lan Zhan says, carefully wrapping a dye-stained towel around a print of what can only be described as a space cat. “The things you like have a place there.”

“Oh my god, you’re impossible,” Wei Ying complains, but he’s smiling.

“I am,” Lan Zhan agrees calmly and zips the suitcase shut.

Two trips, and therefore something like twelve trips up and down the three flights of stairs, and therefore about thirty-six stories worth of climbing later, Wei Ying collapses face-down on Lan Zhan’s--on their bed and declares himself done for the day. “First I ride your dick and then all those stairs, Lan Zhan,” he says into the blanket, surrounded on all sides by piles of his clothing and at least one synthesizer they didn’t notice. “My quads are dead. Dead. They have nothing left. I’m just gonna lay here for the rest of the day.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says happily, opening the side of the closet that has been empty since he moved in and starting to hang up Wei Ying’s clothes. He gets through most of the button-ups before Wei Ying actually notices and rolls over.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, sounding a little dazed and a little suspicious, “have you been saving half your closet for me, too?”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, clipping another pair of black jeans to a hanger. “I just resist the urge to fill all the space available to me.” He tosses a glance over his shoulder. “It’s wasteful.”

“I bet you only buy the groceries you need and carefully plan out all your meals so you actually get through a whole bag of spinach before it goes slimy,” Wei Ying accuses, his face twisted into a mock-glower.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says innocently. “Do others find that difficult?”

“God, you’re the worst and I love you.” Wei Ying levers himself off the bed and grabs a red plaid flannel as he goes. Lan Zhan hands him a hangar and suppresses a smile.

Lan Zhan’s garment frugality has not applied to his dresser, which is full of neatly folded undershirts and pajamas and underwear and socks. He does, however, still have its matching mate waiting empty in the guest room that is a guest room in name only. (Lan Huan stayed in it once or twice, and Lan Qiren on his rare visits, but mostly it’s been waiting patiently for Wei Ying.) They wrestle the dresser into its new home in their(!) shared bedroom and Lan Zhan very generously doesn’t watch as Wei Ying shoves clothes into it willy-nilly without bothering to refold them. Instead he unpacks the art and hangs it in the living room and hallway, so Wei Ying doesn’t have a chance to object again until Lan Zhan hangs the space cat and a botanical print in their(!!) bedroom, and by then it’s too late.

They do manage, barely, to make a grocery run, where Lan Zhan buys things without any actual plan in mind and Wei Ying throws in packages of instant noodles and chili paste and spicy snacks. Dinner ends up being takeout from the noodle shop down the block, which Wei Ying insists on ordering and picking up. That suits Lan Zhan fine, since it gives him a chance to track down Wei Ying’s dizi and carefully set it on the shelf next to his guqin, where it’s always belonged. He finds the mugs he smuggled over from Wei Ying’s kitchen (the ones he remembers were gifts from Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng, which is obvious since one says “Brother” surrounded by a floral heart and the other says “FUCK THIS” in large block letters) and adds them to the cupboard. By the time Wei Ying makes it back Lan Zhan has folded the throw blanket stolen from Wei Ying’s bed neatly on the back of the couch, the deep blues, plums, and reds of it drawing the eye and saying “Wei Ying lives here.”

The doorbell rings, and Lan Zhan buzzes up a sheepish Wei Ying. “I forgot I didn’t have a key yet,” he says, rubbing his nose with his free hand, a bag of takeout in the other. “But this morning I wasn’t living here, so--” He cuts off as he steps into the living room, staring at the couch, and his art on the walls, and his dizi on the shelf. “Wow,” he says, voice thready. “You move fast, don’t you?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, taking the bag and dropping a kiss on Wei Ying’s cheek in exchange. “Welcome home.” He savors the words, savors getting to say them, savors the cute flush that blooms in Wei Ying’s cheeks and the little sway in his knees. Lan Zhan smiles and decamps to the kitchen, pulling out bowls and chopsticks. They eat on the couch again, pressed against each other, and afterward Lan Zhan loses multiple rounds of Mario Kart, and after that they go to bed.

“I don’t usually go to sleep this early,” Wei Ying warns him as he wiggles over to wrap himself around Lan Zhan, all warm skin and unbound hair loose across the pillow. “Don’t get used to me matching your bedtime. This is extenuating circumstances from the lingering stair exhaustion.”

“And the sex,” Lan Zhan reminds him, shutting off the light.

“And the sex,” Wei Ying agrees, smashing his face into Lan Zhan’s neck with a contented sigh.

Monday morning they realize that, while Lan Zhan can give Wei Ying a ride to work, Wei Ying’s shift ends two hours before Lan Zhan’s does, which means Wei Ying will be on his own for the way back. They end up making a frantic, early-morning stop at Wei Ying’s former apartment for his bike, which they cram into the back seat of the car only by the grace of a loving god. Lan Zhan unloads it with him outside the cafe and kisses him goodbye, and as soon as he’s at his desk he looks up where to purchase a bike rack. He purchases it on his drive home and they figure out how to install it after dinner, Wei Ying adamantly refusing to look at the directions and Lan Zhan allowing him to fail repeatedly on his way to success. They celebrate their win in the shower, where Wei Ying proceeds to suck Lan Zhan’s self-control, composure, and capacity for rational thought out through his dick. When he recovers he pins Wei Ying to the wall, cheek against the tile, and jerks him off with aggressive strokes while Wei Ying whines and swears and finally comes with a moan that echoes around the bathroom almost in harmony with itself. Lan Zhan kisses the back of his neck and whispers compliments in his ear as he comes down from it, and they have to rush through the rest of the shower (you know, the part with the showering) before the hot water runs out. They climb into bed at another ridiculously early hour for Wei Ying, by his own estimation. Lan Zhan privately wonders if Wei Ying has overstated his night owl tendencies in the years since college--he’s developed a variety of other healthier behaviors in the intervening time, and he works the morning shift at the cafe, even if he complains about it the whole time. He doesn’t mention this out loud, though, just spoons up against Wei Ying’s back, inhales artificial vanilla and salt, and goes to sleep.

On Tuesday morning Lan Zhan goes through his usual morning routine, with the new adjustments for Wei Ying’s presence in their(!!!) apartment. At 11:44am he finds himself outside the door to the cafe with a tupperware in hand.

A tupperware that contains the leftovers from dinner last night.

The dinner that Wei Ying ate with him, in their apartment, after Lan Zhan cooked it for him. Because they live together now.

Well.

There’s nothing to do now but carry on, so Lan Zhan pushes through the door, coffee and cinnamon swirling around him like a hug, and Wei Ying looks up at him from behind the counter, a tray with a matcha latte and a tea sandwich on it.

“I brought--” Lan Zhan starts, sheepishly, hefting the tupperware.

“I made--” Wei Ying says at the same time, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and gesturing at the tray with the other. They make eye contact for a long, awkward moment, and Lan Zhan cracks a tiny smile and Wei Ying laughs, loud and from the belly.

“God,” he says, picking up the tray and heading to their usual table, “we’re ridiculous, aren’t we?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, sitting down and handing Wei Ying the tupperware. “It would seem so.”

From across the cafe, Wei Ying’s manager mutters, “I could have told you that,” just barely audible. Wei Ying’s face scrunches up, part annoyed, part embarrassed, part fond.

“Nobody asked you, Amilia!” he calls. “I am having a private conversation with my boyfriend on my break! You’re not invited!”

“I,” Amilia says, wiping a table and clearly inviting herself into the conversation, “have been watching you two dance around each other for three years. I was invited whether I wanted to be or not.” To Lan Zhan, she says, “Congratulations. He’s your problem now.”

“Rude!” Wei Ying huffs as Amilia sweeps into the back, cutting off any chance for him to get the last word. “I can’t believe my manager is so cruel to me. You’ll have to protect me from her. It’s your job now that you’re my boyfriend.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says, sipping his latte, which today has a heart on it. “She does have a point, though,” he admits, and Wei Ying buries his face in his hands and wails, “God, I know, she was so smug when I told her, it’s the wooooorst.” Lan Zhan leans across the table and pats him on the head soothingly, and thinks that dealing with the smugness of others is a small price to pay for being able to do so.

That night they make another trip to Wei Ying’s former apartment, now that he has declared his quads sufficiently recovered. Lan Zhan makes the executive decision to clear anything perishable out of the fridge, because otherwise that way disaster lies. Wei Ying crams the suitcases full of more clothes--Lan Zhan is pretty sure these are his porn clothes, not his regular clothes, though admittedly he catches sight of one fishnet shirt that could go either way. The storage ottoman just barely fits into the back seat of the car when they move the front seats up as far as they can go, and the drive back to their shared apartment is uncomfortably cramped. The ottoman and an increasing pile of unorganized items go into the second bedroom, where the door can be firmly closed on the mess. Wei Ying calls it at the single trip and spends the rest of the evening frantically organizing his photography portfolio in anticipation of meeting with Nie Mingjue the next day, even though his photography portfolio is already perfectly well organized. Lan Zhan arranges a pickup truck rental for Saturday--Wei Ying’s bed is bound for donation, along with his guest bed, and they need to bring over Wei Ying’s desk. He thinks they can probably manage all the furniture in one day. The benefit of a studio apartment, truly, is that it limited the amount of stuff Wei Ying could accumulate.

Lan Zhan checks his email after he’s arranged the rental and finds that one of the therapists (the woman, who he’d preferred based on her website) has responded to his wild copy-paste of online quiz results. Her email is straightforward but kind, laying out some of her therapeutic practices as well as the challenges he might expect to face as part of the process. She lists a few available initial appointment dates at the end of the email, noting that she had some recent cancellations so her schedule is more flexible than usual. He reads it thoroughly twice, checks his calendar, and emails back his top three choices of date with hands that only shake a little bit. Lan Zhan wants to tell Wei Ying about it immediately, but it also won’t seem real until there’s an actual appointment on his calendar. It’s okay to let it wait, he decides, and he lets himself instead focus on what to cook with the somewhat random assortment of groceries they have on hand.

“Oh, uh,” Wei Ying says, after dinner, when he’s forced himself to put his laptop away. “I had a storage question.” Lan Zhan puts the leftover soup into the fridge and follows him into the second bedroom, curious. Maybe Wei Ying has a furniture request--they’ll definitely need to get a few things to set up the space properly.

“So,” Wei Ying says, shoving a few high heels off an opaque rolling tub, the kind that goes under a bed, “no pressure about this, at all, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to keep these in here, or if you want me to keep them in the bedroom.” He pops the lid and rubs his nose, cheeks pinking. “For. Um. Accessibility.”

Lan Zhan has to take a few steadying breaths before he can respond, which he thinks is reasonable, because the tub is full of sex toys. There are enough dildos that he can’t count them immediately, some of them in sizes his eyes skitter away from. There’s a leather flogger, and not one of the cheap ones he’s seen carried around at Halloween by people pretending to be edgier than they actually are. There’s a full set of restraints with quick-release clasps, and a leather collar with matching wrist and ankle cuffs in a rich-two-toned pattern with cutouts. There are plugs, some of which are paired with little remotes so he’s pretty sure they must vibrate. There is at least one actual wand-style vibrator, and a few other things he doesn’t immediately recognize. “Wei Ying,” he says, a question and an exclamation.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, his face even redder now. “People are… generous. And I’ve been doing this for a while.” He starts to put the lid back on the tub, still talking with a nervous edge to his voice, “I don’t even use all of them all the time, some were just one-and-done for a custom video. I’m not like, expecting you to be into everything, I can just keep them in here--”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, grabbing his wrist and halting his attempt to close the lid. “Our room.” His voice comes out low and rough. “Keep them in our room.”

Wei Ying’s face goes red for a very different reason, and he slowly wets his lower lip. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice breathy, the nervousness gone.

“Our room,” Lan Zhan says firmly. “Now.”

It’s too late in the evening to make use of most of the toys, and frankly, they’re both still pretty worn out from all the fucking stairs at Wei Ying’s former apartment, but Lan Zhan barely gets his pants off before Wei Ying shoves the wand between his legs and swallows down his dick and very shortly thereafter Lan Zhan comes with his undershirt rucked up to his nipples and his hands fisted in the comforter so tight his knuckles crack. Lan Zhan doesn’t even have the energy to reciprocate beyond murmuring encouragement and petting Wei Ying’s thighs and hips as he straddles Lan Zhan and jerks off all over his abs. Lan Zhan is pretty sure the vibrator is used, as well, because he doesn’t think the buzzing is all inside his own head, but he’s half asleep and can’t really say for certain.

“We need to finish moving my stuff,” Wei Ying says, curled up half on top of Lan Zhan and sounding just as sleepy, “so we can fuck every night instead of carrying shit down a million stairs.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says in agreement. He’s never agreed with anything so much in his entire life. He’s going to find a stone wall and carve his agreement on it where it will live for all time.

Wednesday Wei Ying is a mess of nervous energy, and he checks that he still has his laptop with him at least fifteen times on the drive to work, which averages out to be one check every 1.33 minutes, though Lan Zhan admits he may miss one or two of the checks. (He has his laptop safely tucked in his messenger bag, along with a notebook, a pencil, two erasable pens, a packed lunch, and a neatly folded clean shirt so he doesn’t have to go to the meeting smelling like coffee. Lan Zhan knows, because Lan Zhan helped him pack the bag.) “I should have brought a tie,” Wei Ying blurts as Lan Zhan kisses him goodbye outside the cafe. “Lan Zhan, why didn’t you make me bring a tie?”

“Because you don’t need one,” Lan Zhan says soothingly. “Nie Mingjue hates ties. Lan Huan says he calls them nooses for snobs.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, “Great. Thank you for not letting me bring a tie.”

“You’re going to do great,” Lan Zhan tells him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Wei Ying says, and kisses him again in a way that is far too desperate for seven-forty-five in the morning in a parked car on a public street. “Are you sure I shouldn’t have brought a tie?” he asks, and Lan Zhan very gently shoves him out of the car.

Less than an hour into the workday Lan Zhan’s phone screen lights up.

From: Wei Ying
i don’t know why all these people think i care about their coffee orders
don’t they know i have an extremely important meeting later???
about

And here Wei Ying sends a gif from a cartoon of some kind, where a man in a black turtleneck raises his hands to the sky and screams “ART.”

From: Wei Ying
pretty fucked up that i can’t just lay on a bed and hyperventilate until 4
😢😭😤

Lan Zhan frowns slightly and rubs his fingertip around the edge of his phone case. (There’s a little nick where it fell off the counter once, and he likes to skim his fingernail along it when he thinks.) He’s not sure if Wei Ying needs anything or just wants to complain, and he doesn’t want to misread the situation and offer advice if it’s not needed. A moment later he blinks and realizes there’s an easy solution to that conundrum, and he types out a response.

To: Wei Ying
What kind of support can I offer today?

From: Wei Ying
oh
oh geez
i uh
i don’t know why i wasn’t expecting you to like, offer
that seems silly of me in hindsight
since like, you’re my boyfriend now or whatever

Lan Zhan smiles fondly at his phone. It’s ridiculous, how happy it makes him to read the words.

From: Wei Ying
maybe just like
check in with me?
remind me to breathe?
literally and figuratively
oh fuck morning mtg rush gotta put down my phone love you

To: Wei Ying
I love you, too.
For when you next look at your phone: Take a deep breath. Relax your shoulders. Drink some water.

Lan Zhan puts a one-hour timer on his phone and presses play. When it vibrates, he sends Wei Ying another reminder to breathe and stretch, and resets the timer. When it goes off the next time he utilizes the gif search, finds one of an affectionate rabbit, and sends that.

From: Wei Ying
oh my god you sent me a gif
this is amazing
i’m honored
what a momentous occasion
im gonna get a cake to celebrate

To: Wei Ying
We will find an appropriate way to celebrate after your successful meeting tonight.
Which will obviously be successful, because you are a talented photographer who does excellent work.

From: Wei Ying
laaaaaaan zhaaaaaan
😭😭😭😭😭😭
i can’t with you

To: Wei Ying
You can and you will.

He sets the timer for another hour and goes back to copyediting an extremely boring book about a World War Two battle no one would care about if it didn’t prominently feature plucky white men. Lan Zhan has questions about the historical accuracy, but it’s at least written well enough that he’s mostly pulling out the occasional colon where a semicolon should be instead of redoing the punctuation in entire sections. When he checks his phone again, it’s to find something a little different from Wei Ying’s earlier nervous emoji spams:

From: Wei Ying
so when you say celebrate tonight…
do you mean celebrate
or do you mean
“““celebrate”””

To: Wei Ying
Stretch your shoulders and roll the tension out of your neck.

From: Wei Ying
and then what??

Apparently unable to find an emoji that suited him, Wei Ying sends an animated gif of the rabbit from Bambi (he thinks) batting its eyelashes. Lan Zhan taps his fingertips and considers.

To: Wei Ying
Text me when you are done with your meeting.

From: Wei Ying
well i was gonna regardless
but why????

To: Wei Ying
If I tell you it would ruin the surprise.

From: Wei Ying
laaaaaaan zhaaaaaaaaan
you’re the wooooooooooorst
i’m your boyfriend now
how can you still be so mean to me

To: Wei Ying
Practice.

From: Wei Ying
oh my god
😂💀😂💀
can’t believe i’ve been murdered by my own boyfriend like this
rude

Lan Zhan smiles and sets the timer again. Over the rest of the day he sends a few more encouraging messages, two animated gifs purported to be timed for meditative breathing, and another animated gif of a rabbit. (The animated gif section of his texting app was previously a mystery, but now he’s unlocking its secrets and is pleased by the number of rabbit gifs he’s found.) He’s wrapping up the main part of his workday and catching up on emails when his phone buzzes.

From: Wei Ying
okay okay i’m done!!!!
it went great!!!!!
they like my work and they even had good taste with the pictures they picked out!!
which never happens!!!
not to like, diss your brother, but everyone always loves the pictures i think are trash
it’s some kind of curse or something
anyway
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉
i need to write them a real invoice but A THOUSAND DOLLARS LAN ZHAN
they like my pictures a THOUSAND DOLLARS WORTH
that’s so many dollars!!!!!!
like a thousand of them!!!!!
💵💵💵💵💵

To: Wei Ying
I am glad to hear it went well, though I am not surprised, because you are an excellent photographer.

From: Wei Ying
yeah yeah i’m great whatever
why did you want me to text you?????
tell me tell me tell me
if you don’t tell me it’s entrapment

To: Wei Ying
I thought you would enjoy having something to look forward to.
So.
Enjoy.

Lan Zhan takes a deep breath, his heart racing, heat rising under his collar. He glances around to make sure he’s alone, listens hard for anyone about to walk past his office door. When he’s sure he won’t get caught, he taps to add an attachment, navigates to the folder within the folder where he hid what are (so far) his only thirst traps, and chooses the one where he’s kneeling in front of the mirror, jeans undone, erection obvious in the triangle of blue jersey between the V of his fly. He sends it before he can overthink it and then slaps his phone face down on his desk, ears flushed, breathing heavy. When it vibrates with Wei Ying’s inevitable response he almost jumps out of his skin.

From: Wei Ying
HOLY FCUK SHIT HELL LAN ZHAN
WHAT THE FUCK
OH MY GOD
🔥🔥🔥🔥👀👀👀👀👀💦💦💦💦💦
i am in PUBLIC
i have to ride my bike home!!!!!
DO YOUKNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO RIDE A BIKE WITH A BONER LAN ZHAN
hjdslekl;hjksaski
you fucking secret sex monster
you’re gonna kill me
i’m gonna die

To: Wei Ying
Is that a complaint?

From: Wei Ying
NO
LEAVE WORK EARLY
LEAVE WORK RIGHT NOW
I’M ALREADY ON MY WAY HOME
MEET ME THERE AND FUCK ME

To: Wei Ying
We need to make another trip to your apartment tonight to sort the things that we’re going to donate.

From: Wei Ying
FUCK MY APARTMENT LAN ZHAN
you have to take responsibility for this boner
i will be WAITING

Lan Zhan smiles at his phone and puts it away. Is this why people sext? Does this count as sexting? He can see the appeal, now. He does not, in fact, leave early, and manages to get through the next half hour with the kind of professionalism that comes from long practice. The drive home is excruciating. Lan Zhan can feel the urge to speed, to drive recklessly, to not bring the car to a full stop before turning right, and he pushes that all down with fraying self control. Wei Ying’s bike is locked up next to his parking spot, but when he opens the door to their apartment he’s nowhere to be found. Lan Zhan hangs up his jacket and frowns, slightly.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, stepping out of the hallway to lean against the wall. He’s stolen Lan Zhan’s bathrobe, and it hangs open basically to his navel. If Wei Ying is wearing anything at all under it, Lan Zhan will purchase a hat solely for the purpose of eating it. Wei Ying raises one hand to lazily run his fingers through his hair, spine curving as he cocks his hip, eyes hot on Lan Zhan. “You didn’t leave early,” he complains, running his fingertips along the open collar of the robe, skimming his skin. “Are you into orgasm delay and denial, too? Is that what this is?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, as Wei Ying sways closer and hooks a finger into Lan Zhan’s collar. “We don’t have time.” It’s true. They haven’t fucked, as in, really fucked, since Sunday, because the week has been full of other tasks and they’ve been too tired and, frankly, it takes effort that they haven’t been able to spare. He follows Wei Ying anyway as he walks backward down the hall, pulling Lan Zhan along like a balloon on a string.

“You didn’t have time,” Wei Ying corrects, releasing his hold on Lan Zhan’s collar and unbuttoning his cardigan. “Fortunately for both of us, I did.” He lets the cardigan fall open and makes quick work of the button up underneath, tugging it free of his waistband and rucking up Lan Zhan’s undershirt. Wei Ying presses close, one of his hands slipping under the shirt at Lan Zhan’s back to press against his skin, the other cupping his dick through his slacks, already hard. “Don’t you want to fuck me, gege?” he breathes into Lan Zhan’s ear, nipping at his earlobe, carefully avoiding Lan Zhan’s earring. “It feels like you want to fuck me.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and if it’s a protest, it’s a token one, since his hands are on the sash of his bathrobe, pulling open the loosely-tied knot with hardly any effort at all. Wei Ying grinds his erection into Lan Zhan’s thigh, biting at his neck.

“You barely have to do anything, sweetie,” he says, undoing Lan Zhan’s slacks, pushing them and his underwear down so he can stroke along Lan Zhan’s length. “I already did the prep work, see?” Wei Ying steps back and drops the robe, then turns around and crawls onto the bed, where he’s helpfully laid out the towel, the lube, and the wet wipes. The movement reveals that Lan Zhan does need to go purchase and eat a hat, because Wei Ying is, in fact, wearing something under the robe. That is, he’s wearing a plug, and if Lan Zhan can judge by the size of the base, it’s one of his larger ones. Lan Zhan reaches out a hand, transfixed, and rests it on the swell of Wei Ying’s ass.

“You just walk around with this in?” he asks, his voice a rasp, and sets one thumb on the plug. He pushes on it experimentally and Wei Ying moans and drops to his elbows, his cheek on the mattress, twisting so he can look up at Lan Zhan over his shoulder.

“Just for you,” he says, rocking back into the pressure of Lan Zhan’s thumb. “Oh, fuck, baby, come on, I’ve been edging myself with this for like half an hour.” Wei Ying scrabbles for the lube and shoves it in Lan Zhan’s general direction, then knocks his hand out of the way to remove the plug. “I want your cock, I’m all ready for you, please fuck me, right fucking now.” He drops the plug on the towel and arches his back, fingertips digging into one cheek as he spreads himself open invitingly. “Please.”

Lan Zhan lubes up without waiting for it to get warm, lines himself up with care, and pushes into Wei Ying before he can even think about not doing it. He doesn’t stop until he’s all the way inside, flush against the delicious curves of Wei Ying’s ass. There’s an awkward moment where he fumbles his wet hand off on the towel, which is important because as soon as it’s no longer slippery he grabs Wei Ying around the hips, digs his fingers in, and holds him still for a wicked thrust. “Fuck,” Wei Ying says, trying to rock back into him and getting nowhere, “Yes, gege, god I’ve been thinking about your cock since Sunday, I want you in me all the fucking time.”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, not bothering to try and hold back, pounding into Wei Ying’s hot, slick body at a pace that punches the air out of both of them. “Want that, too.” He feels absurd, fully clothed with his dick out, Wei Ying stark naked and gasping underneath him. He also feels filthy dirty, possessive, in charge. He imagines other scenarios like this, with himself in neat, professional clothes and Wei Ying naked, or wearing scraps of flimsy lingerie. He imagines himself chopping vegetables for dinner, Wei Ying naked on his knees pinned between Lan Zhan’s hips and the counter, Lan Zhan’s cock down his throat. He imagines himself in his office, working steadily on an irrelevant book, Wei Ying in the black mesh bodysuit, head between his legs as he sucks him off. He imagines himself on the couch, typing on his laptop while Wei Ying waits patiently at his feet, until he sets the computer aside to pull Wei Ying into his lap and onto his dick, then imagines sitting back and making Wei Ying fuck himself to completion while Lan Zhan watches and does nothing.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan blurts, urgently, his thighs shaking, abs tight, hit with the sudden realization that things are going to be over very, very quickly. “Sweetheart, I’m close.”

“Yeah, fuck, me too,” Wei Ying says, and he shifts around, forehead on one elbow. The other hand must go to his dick, because he clenches around Lan Zhan’s next thrust and whines. “Yes, baby, god,” he says, as their skin slaps together. “Don’t hold back, fuck me--ah--just like that, wanna come on your dick, wanna feel you in the back of my throat.” Lan Zhan can hear the slick sound of his hand working, and he bends over and bites the back of Wei Ying’s neck where it meets his shoulder, hard. Wei Ying freezes, body trembling, and comes with a long, low moan, shaking apart around Lan Zhan’s dick. A few more haphazard thrusts later and Lan Zhan follows him down, pulsing as deep within Wei Ying as he can, sweaty and overheated and still in his fucking work clothes. Wei Ying tries to collapse, but Lan Zhan’s hands remain on his hips, holding them up with bruising force, so he doesn’t get very far. Lan Zhan kisses the back of his neck and his shoulders and his spine, turning his face to rest his cheek against Wei Ying’s skin.

“So when do I get to see you in that harness?” Wei Ying asks into the mattress, his voice slurred. He pries open one eye and peers up at Lan Zhan. “In person, not in a photo, before you get pedantic.”

“When we are done moving you in,” Lan Zhan says, when he can speak again. Wei Ying makes an annoyed sound at that, clearly disappointed. “We are still making a trip to your apartment tonight,” he adds, and Wei Ying whines, loud and offended.

“So mean, gege!” he says, shivering as Lan Zhan pulls out and sets about cleaning himself up. “And after I worked at actual work and then had a very successful meeting about other work and put in all this work for you so you could fuck me.” Wei Ying flops over onto his back and pouts up at Lan Zhan. “You said we were going to celebrate.”

“And we will,” Lan Zhan says, tucking himself back into his underwear and doing up his fly. “After we finish with your apartment tonight we will get take-out sushi from your favorite place.” He sets his hands fondly on Wei Ying’s thighs and braces there as he leans closer, careful not to drag his shirt hem through anything sticky. Lan Zhan nuzzles Wei Ying’s collarbone and very methodically rehearses what he’s about to say before he kisses under Wei Ying’s ear and adds, “And then after dinner I will suck your cock so slowly and gently you will beg me to let you finish, and every time you beg I will make you wait a little longer.”

Wei Ying goes red and speechless, blinking up at Lan Zhan in shock. “Uh,” he says, high-pitched, and swallows. “Yeah. Great. Let me just figure out how my legs work and we can go to my apartment and then when we’re done there we’ll… Do that.”

“Congratulations on your successful art sale,” Lan Zhan says, and kisses him.

(Wei Ying tears through his former apartment in record time, throwing things into the donation pile with a speed that is slightly alarming. Lan Zhan watches him and stacks things neatly and notes, for future reference, that he seems to really be quite motivated, and this precludes further investigation.)

(Then he takes Wei Ying home and blows him for so long that Wei Ying cries when he finally, finally comes, his hands tight in Lan Zhan’s hair and every part of his body shaking with want. It’s beautiful, and Lan Zhan swallows around a sore jaw and positively glows with accomplishment.)

(Eventually they remember they were going to order sushi. Eventually.)

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan, still occasionally distracted by thoughts of the night before, snaps back to reality at work when his phone buzzes. He wonders what Wei Ying is texting him about? Hoping that perhaps the customer with the pet sugar glider has come back to the cafe (Wei Ying sent him pictures last time), he grabs his phone and checks the notification.

From: Unknown
Good morning, Lan Zhan! How are you? This is Jiang Yanli! 😊
We’re looking forward to seeing the two of you at dinner tonight. I just wanted to check on your dietary restrictions. A-Ying says you don’t eat meat, but meat broth and fish are both okay?

Oh. Yes. Lan Zhan remembers, now, on Saturday after the farm but before the truth came out (aka exploded in his face) that Wei Ying mentioned they were invited to dinner on Thursday. He’d forgotten in the ensuing rush of emotions and confessions and sex and packing and moving. A familiar anxiety sprouts in his guts, tendrils trying to curl up into his chest like weeds. Being around Wei Ying’s family makes him nervous, because they look at him and see too much, they’ll know--

Lan Zhan takes a deep breath and spreads the mulch of reality over the growing anxiety, because: He and Wei Ying are dating. They are living together. It no longer matters if Jiang Yanli looks at him and sees the love written all over his skin, because it’s not a secret. He takes a moment to program her into his phone and then responds.

To: Jiang Yanli
Good morning, Jiang Yanli. I am well. Wei Ying is correct. Additionally, I cannot tolerate heavily spiced food, but do not feel obligated to go out of your way. I am sure I will be fine.

Lan Zhan is not at all sure if he will be fine, with Wei Ying’s well-known love of spicy food and his also well-known love of his sister’s cooking, but Lan Zhan is the interloper here. There will certainly be rice, if nothing else, and Lan Zhan can manage until he gets home if need be.

From: Jiang Yanli
Don’t be silly, Lan Zhan! You’re part of the family now. It’s no trouble to feed family something to their taste. What kind of sister would I be if I let you go hungry?
We’ll see you tonight! 🥰🤗🍲

Lan Zhan re-reads the words “family” and “sister” until his eyes blur. He sets his phone aside and searches, “what is an affordable but quality wine to bring to dinner?” The top three options all seem acceptable, so he notes them in the app on his phone and purchases one on his way home.

“What should I wear?” he asks Wei Ying, toeing off his shoes and setting the wine on the counter, next to another bottle he doesn’t look closely at.

“Oh, you got the butt wine!” Wei Ying says instead of answering, picking up the bottle and turning it over in his hand admiringly. “Good choice! Also it makes Jiang Cheng mad when we refer to it as butt wine, so that’s always a bonus.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, a little more insistently (even though he is interested in knowing new ways to mildly annoy Jiang Cheng), and Wei Ying sets down the wine and turns to face him. “What should I wear? Are dinners with your family formal?”

“God, no,” Wei Ying says with a laugh. “Nothing I attend is formal if I can help it. I’m wearing this.” He gestures to himself, black stretch jeans and an oversized, drapey sweater in black and a heathered deep purple over a red thermal shirt. “Jiejie only ever wears what are basically fancy pajamas, so don’t let her fool you, and Jiang Cheng thinks he has a moral imperative to dress up because he’s the youngest.” Lan Zhan is still a little nervous, which must show, and Wei Ying pulls him in to squeeze him tight around the ribs. “It’s gonna go great,” he says against Lan Zhan’s neck. “Jiejie already loves you. What you’re wearing is fine. If you want to change that’s fine, too.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and catches Wei Ying’s mouth with his, wondering if the novelty will ever wear off, if he’ll ever get used to coming home and finding Wei Ying. He doesn’t think so.

Lan Zhan does change into a white cabled sweater with a deep cowl neck that frames his crystal pendant. It’s warm and comfortable and he wants both of those feelings (and if he wants to match Wei Ying a little bit that’s his own business). He grabs the wine on the way out and then actually looks at the second bottle, which is the sparkling cranberry hibiscus beverage Wei Ying brought over for that one Tuesday dinner. Wei Ying catches him looking and rubs his nose to hide his smile. “Ah, yeah,” he says, “you seemed to like it and I thought you might want something fancy to drink. Is that okay? Maybe it’s a little silly--”

Wei Ying stops talking, because Lan Zhan is kissing him very, very thoroughly. His words cut off into a little moan, and then a whimper, and Lan Zhan sets down the bottle on the counter so he can use both hands, one in Wei Ying’s hair and one heavy on his hip as he pins him against the wall. “Not silly,” he says, low, when Wei Ying is boneless against him. “Thoughtful.” Wei Ying goes red, and Lan Zhan kisses his jaw and says, “Kind.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, trying for a protest and failing.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and then, “Beautiful.” A kiss under his ear. “Noble.” A kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Mine.”

“God,” Wei Ying whines, pushing at him clumsily, “you gotta stop, I cannot go to family dinner with a boner, Lan Zhan.” Lan Zhan does stand back, because he’s not actually going to make them late for dinner on account of sex, but he keeps his hands on Wei Ying’s shoulders for support until he gets his knees back under him.

“We will resume this discussion later,” Lan Zhan says crisply, picking up the wine and the sparkling juice. “Thank you for purchasing this.”

“I’m gonna buy you a whole fucking crate of it,” Wei Ying mutters as he shrugs into his coat. Lan Zhan smiles to himself and locks the door behind them.

Jiang Yanli’s house is notable for being an actual single-family home and not an apartment, but it’s not nearly as ostentatious as Lan Zhan would have guessed a Jin would own. He supposes Jin Zixuan hardly counts as a Jin these days, but there is still a little bit of gilding on the wrought-iron fence that Wei Ying makes it a point to scoff at. (His heart doesn’t seem to be in it, and Lan Zhan kindly doesn’t mention how he maybe actually likes his brother-in-law now.) Lan Zhan steels himself for an immediate influx of yelling when Wei Ying rings the doorbell, and is pleasantly surprised when the door opens to reveal Jiang Yanli, gentle instrumental music, and a wave of warm air that smells delicious.

“A-Ying!” Jiang Yanli says as her brother sweeps her up into a hug. “How are you? How is everything?”

“Great and great, jiejie!” Wei Ying says, setting her back down. She sets her hand on his hair and they stare at each other for a moment, an entire silent conversation happening that Lan Zhan isn’t privy to. Wei Ying breaks eye contact first, ducking his head and blushing, and Jiang Yanli pets his hair and smiles at him so kindly Lan Zhan feels a little dazed just from being in the proximity.

“Lan Zhan!” she says, turning to him with the same kind expression. “It’s wonderful to see you!” She tips her head, a polite question in her gaze. “Would you be comfortable with a hug?” Lan Zhan pauses to consider that, and Jiang Yanli waits with the same patience as her brother as he sorts it out. (Behind her, halfway into the living room, Wei Ying nods furiously and mimes a hug, mouthing what is probably, "She’s good at it!”) Lan Zhan makes his decision and inclines his head, willing to try the experiment. Jiang Yanli steps close and carefully wraps her arms around his ribs, the pressure gentle like a napping cat.

“I’m so glad for you and Wei Ying,” she whispers into his shoulder. “I can see how happy you’ve made him.” Jiang Yanli pulls away and gives him such a smile that if Lan Zhan didn’t know better, he’d think she and Wei Ying were family by blood as well as choice.

“He deserves it,” he says, which is the truth, and Jiang Yanli smiles wider.

“Yes,” she says, squeezing his upper arms. “And so do you.”

Lan Zhan’s ears heat, and his previous respect for Jiang Yanli flares into a Wei Ying-like devotion. He fumbles for words and finally says, “We brought wine,” shoving the bottle into her hands. “And this,” he adds, handing her the sparkling juice. “For me.”

“Oh, the butt wine!” Jiang Yanli says, obviously pleased. “Jiang Cheng is going to go so red.” She shifts both bottles to the crook of her arm and gently pulls Lan Zhan after her into the living room, passing him off to Wei Ying as she heads into the kitchen. The table is set but empty of food until Jin Zixuan walks in with a tureen of rice in his hands and a tea towel over one shoulder.

“It’ll be done soon,” he says, settling the tureen onto a trivet. “The others are in the backyard, if you want to say hello in a place where Jiang Cheng’s voice doesn’t bounce off every hard surface.”

“That,” Wei Ying says, looking like the words taste vile on his tongue, “is probably a good idea.” He pauses, wrinkles his nose, and adds, “Thanks.” Jin Zixuan blinks at him, mildly surprised by the politeness, and gives them a nod before he heads back into the kitchen.

The backyard contains Jiang Cheng, Wen Qing, Wen Ning, and--in a bit of a surprise--Nie Huaisang and MianMian. Wei Ying keeps hold of Lan Zhan’s hand until he physically has to drop it in order to hug people, and then goes right back to holding it. Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes at them so hard Lan Zhan almost finds it worrying, but everyone else looks on fondly. Wen Qing gives Wei Ying a pointed, knowing look, and he hides his face in Lan Zhan’s sweater with a groan. “How can she be so mean without even saying anything?” he asks plaintively into the wool, and Lan Zhan pats his head in lieu of a better answer.

They don’t get much beyond initial greetings and a quick tour of Jiang Yanli’s flower garden before Jin Zixuan pokes his head out the door and calls them back inside. Lan Zhan doesn’t have to talk to anyone while they array themselves at the table, which is great, and there’s a further few minutes while drinks are poured where all he has to do is nod or shake his head. There are more people here than he was expecting and he breathes slowly and reminds himself that he’s no longer hiding the deepest parts of his heart. Wei Ying’s hand settles on his thigh under the table and squeezes gently, and when Lan Zhan turns to look at him it’s to find gentle reassurance. Wei Ying leans over and kisses him lightly, once, which is very sweet and not even Jiang Cheng’s immediate cry of, “Gross, god, keep it to yourselves!” can ruin it.

“Ignore him,” Wei Ying says, handing Lan Zhan’s glass to Jin Zixuan so he can fill it with sparkling juice. “A-Cheng is a prude.”

“I am not a prude,” Jiang Cheng huffs, and Wen Qing rolls her eyes so expressively Lan Zhan immediately adjusts his mental eyeroll leaderboard for the evening.

“You are,” Wei Ying insists, “and jiejie is about to prove it.”

“Who would like some of the butt wine?” Jiang Yanli asks at that moment, hefting the bottle. Multiple people hold out their glasses (Lan Zhan notes that Wen Ning is also drinking sparkling juice, which makes him feel less out of place) and Jiang Cheng sputters and goes red.

“See?” Wei Ying says, sticking out his tongue at his younger brother. “Prude.”

“I just don’t see why we have to call it butt wine.” Jiang Cheng looks around for backup and finds none. He sighs, resigned, and holds out his glass.

Dinner is Jiang Yanli’s famous pork rib and lotus root soup, along with a few other of her specialties. Lan Zhan notes with relief that there’s a bowl full of stir fried vegetables that isn’t studded with flakes of chili and some kind of noodle dish that also looks promising. Jiang Yanli wastes no time in starting to fill bowls, and Wei Ying looks into his and blinks.

“Jeijie?” he asks, glancing up at her. “Did you put tofu in the soup this time?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, smiling as she fills Lan Zhan’s bowl. “It’s for Lan Zhan, since he can’t have the pork ribs. I thought it would be nice.” Lan Zhan drops his gaze to the bowl as it’s placed in front of him, firm tofu floating alongside the pork and lotus and plump rehydrated fruit, and he finds himself immediately willing to punch someone in defense of both Jiang Yanli and this soup, should the need arise.

“Thank you,” he says to his bowl, a little overwhelmed. “That was very kind of you.”

“Of course!” Jiang Yanli says in her gentle, musical voice, and then MianMian makes another joke about butt wine and Jiang Cheng starts yelling and the focus slides away from Lan Zhan so he can breathe. They eat, the conversation flowing around him like water around a rock, mostly not needing his input. Wei Ying makes sure to include him occasionally, picking the tofu out of his bowl and settling it into Lan Zhan’s while he chats, and Lan Zhan makes approving sounds and gives short answers when it’s appropriate and moves the pork ribs from his bowl to Wei Ying’s. Everything is delicious, and he makes a note to text Jiang Yanli to ask for some of her recipes.

“So,” Jiang Yanli says with an air of mystery, when everyone is on their second bowl of soup and the wine glasses are half-empty, “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today.”

“For soup?” Wei Ying says, around a mouthful of it.

“Yes,” MianMian says, deadpan. “Soup.”

“And strategy,” Nie Huaisang adds, snapping their fan open dramatically. (Lan Zhan didn’t even see the fan before now, and wonders where they were hiding it.)

“We want to discuss the Jin Zixun problem,” Jiang Yanli says, and her smile goes sharp. “And how we’re going to handle it.” Next to Lan Zhan, Wei Ying goes tight at the mention of Jin Zixun’s name. Lan Zhan slips his arm around Wei Ying’s waist without thinking about it and pulls him close. Wei Ying relaxes against his side, just a little bit, and takes another spoonful of soup.

“Great,” he says, his voice a little bit strained, swaying into Lan Zhan. “I appreciate that.” Wei Ying takes a deep breath and forces out, “Can we not call him by name? It’s.” He swallows. “I don’t like hearing it.”

“Of course,” Jiang Yanli says immediately, her face softening. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that aspect.”

“Would you prefer ‘Second-Worst Jin,” or ‘Shittiest Cousin?’” Jin Zixuan asks pleasantly, refilling Wei Ying’s wine glass.

Wei Ying blinks and his face cracks into a small, unwilling smile. “Both?” he says, taking slightly too large a swig. “Both are good.”

Jin Zixuan nods. “Noted.”

Jiang Yanli nods, as well, and chases a piece of tofu around in her bowl. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says to Wei Ying, “but we looped in Nie Huaisang and MianMian, too. I know it’s bad form to--” she pauses, like she’s making sure whatever she’s about to say is correctly phrased “--out you, but with Shittiest Cousin doing that anyway…”

MianMian looks at Wei Ying, eyes soft. “I got Jiang Yanli’s text shortly before I got Second-Worst Jin’s email. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to tell me yourself.” She cracks her knuckles, the sound shockingly loud and genuinely intimidating. “I’m always halfway looking for an excuse to take down that petty rat bastard, so it is on now.”

Wei Ying nods. “Thanks,” he says, and then lifts his glass to Nie Huaisang. “And I know you already know and you know that I know you know so like, who cares. Good to have you on my side, pervert.”

“I’m always here to support a fellow pervert, fellow pervert,” Nie Huaisang answers, with a salute of their own wine glass. “Shittiest Cousin’s been trying to get into live event photography,” they say, making a face. “Not that anyone would want to hire him, all his portfolio pictures look like they were taken with a potato.” They open and shut their fan smoothly, thumb spreading out the staves in a practiced motion. “I’m spreading the word to all the producers I know, which is honestly for their sake as much as for revenge. Da ge is doing the same thing for his restaurateur friends. Seriously, not even like, a yukon gold potato. Like, the last bruised potato left in the grocery store kind of potato.”

“I took them off my list of wedding vendors,” Jiang Cheng announces through his teeth. “Any Jin-owned business. I don’t care if people ask, I’m not helping those fuckers get any richer.”

Wen Qing pats his arm with a fond smile. “As a doctor I’m limited in how I can help with this,” she says. “There are like. Oaths. Mostly I’m here for moral support.” She cocks her head and her eyes go hard. “And I’m willing to testify, should the need arise, that I examined Lan Zhan’s hand on Saturday after he hit it against a tree trunk, and I see no evidence that anything else happened, medically speaking.”

“I was there,” Wen Ning says, his face radiating sincerity. “It was a real shame how Ji--Second-Worst Jin tripped and fell into that tree, Lan Zhan, and you scraped your hand trying to catch him. The farm shouldn’t have left that rake laying around, someone could have been seriously hurt.” Lan Zhan stares at Wen Ning’s earnest face for a long moment and detects no falsehood. It’s impressive.

“We don’t think it’s likely that he’ll actually press charges,” Jin Zixuan says, offering the wine bottle to the table at large and refilling glasses. “He’s too arrogant to admit he lost. That said, we thought it would be a good idea to have a backup plan just in case.”

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, incredibly touched. He had never even considered the possibility that he would need an alibi for anything in his life, ever, and now that one has been created for him he’s not entirely sure how to handle it.

“Going after him professionally takes a little more planning,” MianMian says after she finishes her bite of noodles. “Jin Zixuan and I both still have contacts inside Jin Corp that we’re leveraging.” She smiles like a blade. “The admins love me and they hate him. Every single email he sends is going to the bottom of their to-do list, indefinitely.”

“I’m trying to make sure he gets shuffled to contracts he will inevitably screw up,” Jin Zixuan says, sipping his wine and looking as smug as a cat in a sunbeam. “If I was still with the company I could do more, but.” He shrugs.

“If you were still with the company we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Wei Ying says, a little saltily. He’s not wrong, and Jin Zixuan tips his head in acknowledgement.

“Madame Jin loves me,” Jiang Yanli says, between neat bites of vegetables. “I’m her only daughter-in-law, and she wants to stay on my good side in case of grandchildren.” Jiang Yanli smiles beatifically, but there’s steel behind the facade. “I told her the truth.”

“The what now?” Wei Ying says, sitting up with an alarmed look.

“I told her that Shittiest Cousin sent me unsolicited graphic pornography,” Jiang Yanli says innocently, her eyes wide and shocked. “And that I was very concerned about how it would reflect on Jin Corp, since he implied he was going to send it to more people, and did she know he was engaging in such inappropriate behavior that would surely cause the family to lose face if anyone found out.” She shakes her head sadly. “Such a disappointment.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying cackles. Nie Huaisang hides a grin behind their fan, and MianMian laughs. Lan Zhan takes a moment to be awed at the strategy.

“She was very displeased to hear it,” Jiang Yanli says, taking a neat bite of lotus root. “Jin Guangshan doesn’t let her do much actual running of the company these days, but she’s still technically CFO, and she’s going to be watching Shittiest Cousin like a hawk.”

“Legally speaking, if he’s doing this off-the-clock, HR doesn’t have a reason to go after him,” MianMian says, clearly annoyed. “But I don’t think he’s smart enough to make sure all his tracks are covered, and he’s definitely the kind of fucker who would look at porn at work.” She swirls her wine glass and smiles into the middle distance. “So I got my friend who still works in the IT department to promise to make up an excuse to look at his computer and see what the browsing history says.”

“I would love to know his username,” Wei Ying says, stabbing his chopsticks into a pork rib with more force than strictly necessary. “I want to block his shitty ass. Who pays for a subscription just to be garbage?”

Lan Zhan strokes his hip, where his hand is resting. “He doesn’t deserve your nudes,” he says, soothingly, and Wei Ying laughs.

“See!” he says to the table, ignoring Jiang Cheng’s scowl. “Lan Zhan gets it!”

Across the table, Nie Huaisang flutters their fan, then closes it and taps it against their lower lip. “I can probably get you his username,” they say thoughtfully.

“How?” Jiang Cheng asks with an edge of suspicion, before Wei Ying can swallow his mouthful of pork rib and ask the same question.

“Oh,” Nie Huaisang says, snapping the fan back open and ducking coyly behind it, “don’t ask me, I’m sure I don’t know.” They peek out over the top, take in everyone’s raised eyebrows, and clarify, “I know a guy. You seriously shouldn’t ask me anything else. It’ll be better if you don’t have any details.”

A pause, while the table takes that in. “Great,” Wei Ying says, “we’ll all just move on from that cheerfully ominous statement.” He takes a sip of wine and a deep breath. “Thank you. All. I really…” Wei Ying sighs and blows his bangs out of his eyes, red and black fluttering on the air. “I wasn’t expecting this,” he finishes, and Lan Zhan squeezes him a little closer.

“You’re family,” Jiang Cheng says, glaring into his empty soup bowl. “No fucking Jin is gonna fuck up our family.” He glances at Jin Zixuan. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Jin Zixuan says easily, starting to stack up empty dishes. “I do try not to fuck it up, generally speaking.” Lan Zhan feels Wei Ying physically hold himself back from making a sarcastic comment and pats him in acknowledgement of the effort.

“He tried to hurt you, A-Ying,” Jiang Yanli says, her face hard, steel in her voice in a way that suddenly reminds Lan Zhan that her mother is Madam Yu. “I won’t simply stand by and watch someone try to hurt my little brother.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, his voice shaky. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Besides,” MianMian says cheerfully, drawing the attention of the table and giving Wei Ying a chance to wipe his face on Lan Zhan’s sweater (Lan Zhan takes note of her timing and decides to buy her a bottle of wine in thanks, later), “it’s just porn.” She finishes her wine and sets it down primly. “Let whoever hasn’t looked at a butt on the internet cast the first stone, or however that saying goes.”

“I think it’s don’t look at porn in glass houses,” Wen Qing says, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“Wait,” Wen Ning says, the sparkle in his eyes giving lie to his earnest, concerned expression, “I thought it was that teaching a man to look at porn isn’t the same as teaching a man to make porn?”

“Porn made by men is inferior to porn made in heaven?” Nie Huaisang offers.

“Hey! My porn is great!” Wei Ying protests, flicking a grain of rice at them. “It’s at least as good as porn made in heaven!” Better, Lan Zhan thinks, and carefully does not say aloud.

“Can we please,” Jiang Cheng grits out, teeth clenched, eyebrows ferociously diagonal, “stop talking about my brother’s porn.”

“It’s time for dessert,” Jiang Yanli says, clearly taking pity on the about-to-explode Jiang Cheng. “It’s just gelato, so we can move to the living room.”

“Wait!” Wei Ying says, before anyone can actually get up. He rubs his nose, scowling a little, and blurts, “Okay, I just need to know who I’m going to have to avoid eye contact with until the end of time: Did any of you actually look at what Shittiest Cousin sent?” The table goes silent, a tense pause pressing down on their skin, and then Nie Huaisang and Wen Qing slowly raise their hands. “Oh, god,” Wei Ying wails softly. “I expected it from Nie Huaisang, but Wen Qing, whyyyyyy?”

“I’m a doctor,” she says crisply. “I see dicks all the time, in much worse circumstances. It was clinical.” Her face softens slightly. “We took screenshots,” Wen Qing explains. “I blurred your face, but we needed them for evidence.”

“They’re in my receipts folder,” Nie Huaisang says proudly. Even Lan Zhan has heard of their receipts folder--it apparently has subcategories and a searchable database. No doubt the screenshots are accompanied by a long list of every mistake Jin Zixun has ever made, and any terrible photos of him ever posted to social media. “Also you know I already subscribe,” they add with a flutter of their fan. “I figured that made me the most appropriate option.” A pause, a pout, and a tap of the fan against their chin. “Such a shame that he didn’t pick any pictures of you wearing my designs, A-Ying. I’m a little insulted.”

“Oh my god!” Jiang Cheng says, pushing back from the table abruptly. “I had! One! Request!” He stalks away into the living room, a storm cloud rolling out behind him.

“I like to see my work in its natural environment!” Nie Huaisang calls after him, completely straight-faced. They turn to Wen Qing and lean in to ask, quietly, “How do you resist teasing him when he’s so easy? ”

“Oh,” she says with a smug smile. “I really don’t.” Wen Qing stands elegantly and trails into the living room after her boyfriend, Nie Huaisang’s delighted laughter chasing her in. Lan Zhan considers his options and starts helping Jin Zixuan stack dishes. He’s avoided social interactions at enough parties to know the best way to do so is by doing chores instead. He likes all these people, but there are a lot of them, and the conversation has been heavy and he wants a moment to breathe.

“There’s this song,” Jin Zixuan says, as they carry bowls and plates into the kitchen, “‘Hanging Out with Cats at Parties’?” He sets dishes into the sink with a clink of ceramic. “Sometimes I think about getting a cat.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. He’s not familiar with the song, but he is familiar with the idea. Once at a family gathering his uncle insisted he attend he’d ended up in the backyard with the host’s chickens. Spending an hour watching them scratch around and flutter at each other was one of the best party going experiences he’d ever had.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says, carrying in the leftover soup and abandoning it on the nearest surface. “Please squeeze all my feelings out of me so I can replace them with gelato.” He practically flings himself into Lan Zhan’s waiting arms and peeks over his shoulder at Jin Zixuan. “You saw nothing.”

“Was someone talking?” Jin Zixuan pulls adorable little gelato containers out of the freezer and lines them up on a decorative tray. “I don’t know who could be talking, I’m alone in my kitchen. Perhaps I’m being haunted.”

Wei Ying huffs a reluctant laugh into Lan Zhan’s sweater and presses into him, trembling just a little. Lan Zhan holds him tight, so tight he can feel Wei Ying having to work in order to get air into his lungs. The tension bleeds out of him slowly at first, and then finally all in a rush he melts and slumps until Lan Zhan is the only thing holding him up.

“Okay,” he says quietly into Lan Zhan’s cowl-neck collar. “I’m good now. Thanks.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, kissing his temple and absolutely not relaxing his hold at all. “Not good. Not yet.”

“Hm?” Wei Ying lifts his head, frowning a question, just like Lan Zhan hoped he would. As soon as his mouth comes into range, Lan Zhan kisses him, gently, reassuringly, trying to pour as much love and support into it that he possibly can. “Mm!” Wei Ying hums against his lips, swaying even closer, somehow. His hands fist in the back of Lan Zhan’s sweater and he’s not shaking anymore. Good.

“The ghosts that are haunting my kitchen had better not have sex in it,” Jin Zixuan says, sidling past them to the door. “If they do I’m going to eat all the gelato out of spite.”

“God,” Wei Ying says, pulling away from Lan Zhan to laugh. “When did he get funny? It’s not just me, right? He’s actually funny now?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, kissing the corner of Wei Ying’s smiling mouth. “Perhaps it is because you are no longer antagonizing him.”

“No.” Wei Ying steps back but takes Lan Zhan’s hand in his, pulling him out of the kitchen. “That doesn’t sound right at all.” He flashes a grin full of spite and mischief and Lan Zhan follows him into the living room with a bubbling kind of joy in his chest. Most of the sitting surfaces have already been claimed, leaving one oversized armchair and some cushions on the floor. Lan Zhan knows exactly what’s going to happen, and is completely unsurprised when Wei Ying pushes him into the chair and then crams in, half on his lap, half sprawling over the arm.

“God, we get it,” Jiang Cheng says, rolling his eyes. (It’s not good enough to unseat Wen Qing’s earlier eye roll, and the effect is hampered by the bowl of gelato in his hand. Lan Zhan gives it five out of ten.) “You’re dating now, congratulations.”

“Yes, we are,” Wei Ying says stubbornly, wiggling a little more firmly into Lan Zhan’s lap. “If you didn’t want to watch us cuddle, you should have left us more room to sit.”

“You would have sat on his lap anyway,” Nie Huaisang says. They look like they want to do something with their fan, but they need both hands for the gelato so they sort of flourish their spoon instead.

“And?” Wei Ying says, raising one eyebrow. “He’s my boyfriend. I’m allowed.”

“Are you sure you want to put up with this?” Jiang Cheng asks Lan Zhan, gesturing at Wei Ying’s whole everything. “There’s still time to change your mind, you know.”

A little flare of anger rises up inside Lan Zhan, aghast at the very idea of abandoning Wei Ying after it took so long to get them here. “I am not ‘putting up’ with anything,” he bites out, curling an arm around Wei Ying instinctively. “I will not change my mind. I love Wei Ying.” This declaration is emphatic enough to shock the whole room into stillness, and Wei Ying buries his head in Lan Zhan’s hair to avoid everyone’s eyes.

“He’s just like this,” Wei Ying tries to complain. “It’s so romantic. If anyone is the victim here it’s me.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, tugging him a little closer with a pointed glare at Jiang Cheng, who holds up his hands in defeat.

“It was a joke!” he tries, and Wen Qing pats his cheek with her spoon.

“It wasn’t a good one,” she tells him. “Read the room, sweetie.”

“Speaking of romantic,” Jiang Yanli says, over the sound of Jiang Cheng muttering to himself, “how did you two end up sorting things out?” She smiles, scooping gelato into little crystal bowls and handing them to Jin Zixuan to distribute. “I asked when A-Ying texted us with the news on Sunday but I think it got lost in all the screaming.”

Lan Zhan accepts his bowl (a scoop of coconut and a scoop of raspberry. How does Jiang Yanli know his favorite flavors?) and realizes that at some point, he and Wei Ying are going to need to figure out what story they’re going to tell people. Wei Ying shoves a heaping spoonful of gelato into his mouth (one scoop of coffee, two scoops of chocolate, and one scoop of caramel, and he will eat all of it too fast and then complain about being cold) and smiles.

“Well,” he says, with the air of one about to recite an epic poem, “it turns out when you see your incredibly hot best friend slash crush of ten years straight up deck a dude in defense of your honor, it makes you really fucking feel some things, and then when your incredibly hot best friend slash crush of ten years takes you back to his apartment and bundles you up in a blanket and makes you tea, you think, ‘Huh, maybe this is more than what just a best friend does?’ and then you’re like, ‘Nah, no way, he’s just being a bro,’ because of your horrible struggles with self-worth, and then when your incredibly hot best friend slash crush of ten years gives you an actual hug and tells you he worries about you, you end up actually like, talking, for real, and then it was a rough day for both of you so you end up crying and telling him you love him and it turns out he loves you back and you both have just been absolute fucking dipshits for literally a decade.” Lan Zhan takes a bite of his gelato and considers that, as explanations go, none of that was a lie. Wei Ying grins at Lan Zhan and waves with his spoon. “Talking about things is good!” he finishes. “Who could have guessed?” 

“Literally any one of us,” Wen Qing says dryly, to furious nods from around the room.

“I am pretty sure there are people in space who could have told you,” Jiang Cheng says.

“Oh, please,” Wei Ying snaps, eyes dancing with humor. “I am not taking critique from anyone in this room who showed up on the first date with three dozen red roses and an antique comb, or from people who have created situations so emotionally awkward they literally ran away from them into the fucking woods, or from people who don’t date, or from happily married people, or from people who only date women and therefore don’t know what it’s like to pine after dudes.”

Silence, as mental math occurs. “That leaves me and Wen Qing,” Nie Huaisang says, their face sharpening with interest. “Are you sure that’s better?”

“Technically me, too,” Wen Ning says, and then flushes when everyone turns to him. “I’ve been seeing a nice boy for the last month,” he admits, and then drops his spoon and covers his face with both hands when the questions start. “I’m not telling you anything else!” he wails quietly. “I don’t want to jinx it!”

“What else have you been up to for the last week?” MianMian says, taking pity on the red-faced Wen Ning and turning her attention back to Wei Ying and Lan Zhan. “You dropped that selfie in the group chat and then went radio silent.”

“Wei Ying made a large photography sale to Nie Mingjue for The Unclean Realm,” Lan Zhan says proudly, as Wei Ying has too much gelato in his mouth to answer immediately. Jiang Yanli gasps with delight, and even Jiang Cheng looks grudgingly impressed.

“Could have told us,” Jiang Cheng mutters, and Wei Ying swallows his gelato and says, “Give me a break, I’ve been busy!"

Jiang Cheng looks like his gelato contains a live frog. “Gross!” he says, making a truly impressive face at Wei Ying. “We don’t need to hear about your sex life!”

“Excuse me,” Wei Ying shoots back, sitting up a little straighter, “you’re the one who just made this horny. We’ve literally been incredibly busy. My quads are never going to stop yelling at me.”

“Why?” MianMian asks, spoon poised over her gelato bowl. “Are you sure that’s not a sex thing?”

“It kinda sounds like a sex thing,” Nie Huaisang points out in a reasonable tone of voice.

“It’s not not a sex thing,” Wei Ying says, under his breath, and Lan Zhan decides to take control over this situation by announcing, “Wei Ying has moved in with me.” The ensuing shocked silence is strangely satisfying, and he adds, “Moving takes a lot of time and energy.” The silence lasts approximately another ten seconds, when everyone starts talking at once.

“You what?!” Jiang Cheng yells.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Jiang Yanli says, at the same time.

“Sounds about right,” is Wen Qing’s contribution, sharing a knowing look with Wen Ning, whose smile is so large it looks like it should hurt.

“Oh my god,” MianMian says, grabbing Nie Huaisang’s arm with her spoon hand. “You were right! They’re UHaul lesbians!”

“Told you,” they say in response, making grabby hands at her. “Pay up.” MianMian digs around for her purse and hands over a twenty dollar bill, which Nie Huaisang tucks into their pocket gleefully. “Come on, the rest of you,” they say, reaching an expectant hand toward the middle of the room. “I won the bet, now it’s time to pay the piper. I take cash, Venmo, CashApp, and I even have my Square reader with me if you want to pay with credit.”

“God fucking dammit,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, getting out his phone. “You couldn’t wait a fucking month? I thought a month was pushing it.”

“Wait just a moment,” Jiang Yanli says, in that friendly voice that also somehow cuts through the rest of the conversation like a knife. “A-Ying, when did you move in?”

“Ah,” Wei Ying starts, hiding behind his half-empty bowl of gelato. “Ah, we might have started on Sunday?”

Jiang Yanli turns to beam at a crestfallen Nie Huaisang and holds out her hand. “I believe,” she says smugly, “that means I am the winner.”

“That is even fucking worse,” Jiang Cheng says, freezing with his phone in his hand. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Wen Qing agrees, shifting around on the couch to throw her legs over Jiang Cheng’s lap. “They are.” She tips her head toward Wei Ying and stage whispers, “I think it’s very sweet, though. Congratulations, you dorks.”

“If you get fucking married next week I’m breaking your fucking legs,” Jiang Cheng grouses. It’s clearly a joke, but the reality behind his words splashes over Lan Zhan like a bucket of water, soaking him to his skin. He could--they could--they could get married. Wei Ying freezes in his arms with a sharp intake of breath, and Lan Zhan can feel his heart speed up. Very, very slowly they turn to look at each other, and Lan Zhan sees his own thought process reflected back from Wei Ying’s eyes. They could do it. They could get married. Wei Ying stares at him, cheeks pinking, and very vaguely, Lan Zhan feels the attention of the rest of the room.

“Oh,” Nie Huaisang says, the fan back out now that they’re done with the gelato. “Oh, A-Cheng, you played yourself.”

“They weren’t even thinking it before,” MianMian says, helping herself to another scoop of caramel. “Look at them. You’re the one that put it in their sweet little heads.”

“You have only yourself to blame, babe,” Wen Qing says, patting a dangerously red Jiang Cheng on the cheek.

“I think it’s romantic,” Wen Ning says, propping his chin on one hand.

“No!” Jiang Cheng barks. “Absolutely not! I forbid you from getting married next week!” He looks furious, like only Wen Qing’s legs across his lap are keeping him from leaping across the room and strangling his brother. Lan Zhan narrows his eyes and wraps an arm more protectively around Wei Ying, careful not to spill the dregs of his coconut gelato. (Jin Zixuan appears at his elbow to take the empty bowl, and Lan Zhan nods his thanks without taking his eyes off Jiang Cheng.)

“Oh fuck off!” Wei Ying responds, not intimidated in the least. “You can’t forbid me from jack shit, didi!” He shoves another spoonful of mostly-melted gelato into his mouth and sneers.

“Lan Zhan,” Jiang Cheng says, changing tactics. “Lan Zhan, since I can only assume you are the sensible one in this relationship, I am ordering you to not marry my brother next week.”

Lan Zhan blinks at him, once, slowly. “Whether I marry Wei Ying or not is none of your concern,” he says in a voice dripping with icy venom. He certainly wasn’t planning on marrying Wei Ying next week, but he wasn’t planning on having him move in this week, either, and that’s going well. Maybe he will marry Wei Ying. Jiang Cheng certainly gets no say in it.

“It certainly fucking is!” Jiang Cheng bellows, as Wen Qing moves herself more thoroughly into his lap to weigh him down. “I don’t have room in my schedule for at least a year!”

Wei Ying shares a blank look with Lan Zhan, and then they both turn back to his brother. “What?” Wei Ying asks, a drippy spoonful of gelato halfway to his mouth.

“You think I’m just going to hand you off to some white Tiffany of a wedding planner who’ll google ‘tea ceremony’ and then show up with a bamboo whisk and a kimono?” Jiang Cheng says, aghast. “No fucking chance. The first availability I have for a weekend wedding, because we’ll need Friday through Sunday--” he scrolls through his phone furiously “--is next December. Not this December, next December.” He shoves his phone back into his pocket, folds his arms, and tries to burn them both to death with laser eyes. “I forbid you from getting married before next December. If you do I’ll throw you both into the ocean.”

“You don’t have to plan it,” Wei Ying says, weakly, which was definitely the wrong response.

“Oh, what now?” Jiang Cheng seethes. “You’re too good to have me plan your wedding? Is that it? You think someone else can provide you with the understated elegance and the balls-to-the-wall party you deserve? Fine! Try someone else! But know this!” He leans in and stabs a finger at Wei Ying. “It won’t be the best! And you! Deserve! The best!”

Wei Ying stares at his brother, speechless. Lan Zhan thinks he feels similarly, though he’s never been on the receiving end of Jiang Cheng’s strange brand of affection like this before. It feels like being struck by a car while the car yells, “I LOVE YOU.” Lan Zhan feels attacked and also strangely warm inside. Is this how Wei Ying always feels when he speaks to Jiang Cheng?

“Uh,” Wei Ying manages, swallowing. His eyes are very bright and a little wet. “Noted.” He blinks hard a few times and swallows again. “Thanks, didi.”

“Good job, hon,” Wen Qing says, patting a slightly calmer Jiang Cheng on the head. “You almost talked about your actual feelings, there. Progress.”

“How’s the move going?” Wen Ning asks, leaning in from his perch on an ottoman and speaking over Jiang Cheng’s spluttering. “Do you need help?”

“Nah, we’re almost done,” Wei Ying says, glancing at Lan Zhan (the unspoken handler of the logistics) for backup.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says with a nod. “We should finish on Saturday. I have arranged a truck.”

Jiang Cheng’s eyes narrow, going swiftly back from a six to an eight on his “about to explode” scale. “You’re moving furniture? The two of you? Alone?” When Lan Zhan nods, his eyebrows go even angrier. “Like hell you are! I’ve been to Wei Ying’s apartment! You’ll break your fucking necks if it’s just you.” He pulls out his phone and stabs at it. “I don’t need to be at the venue for Saturday’s wedding until 3pm. Huaisang! Text your brother. Wen Ning! I’ll drive you. Jin Zixuan! You’re paying for lunch.”

“What?” Wei Ying tries, to no avail.

“We’ll need to clean his apartment too, so we can have two teams,” Jiang Cheng is saying, swiping furiously in what is presumably a notes app. “If we meet at Wei Ying’s old place at ten am and get everything out then Alpha Team can make the trip over to Lan Zhan’s while Beta Team stays behind and scrubs. How disgusting is your place?”

“Not disgusting at all!” Wei Ying splutters. “I’m not in college anymore!”

“Wen Qing, you work in a hospital, I’m deputizing you to be in charge of Beta Team,” Jiang Cheng continues, as though Wei Ying hadn’t spoken. “We’re getting that safety deposit back or we’ll die trying. Expect an email from me tomorrow morning outlining your duties, everyone. Any questions?”

“Yes!” Wei Ying almost shouts. “What are you doing?! I literally just said we were fine!”

“You’d say you were fine if you were bleeding out,” Jiang Cheng snaps, “and you have.”

“That was one time, and I was thirteen and in shock,” Wei Ying protests. “Lan Zhan, back me up here, we’re fine to do this by ourselves, aren’t we?”

“I believe we could handle it,” Lan Zhan says, still trying to recover from Tropical Storm Jiang Cheng and his whirlwind of planning.

“You’re as bad as him!” Jiang Cheng says, throwing his hands in the air and barely avoiding flinging his phone directly into the ceiling. “Maybe you could, but you don’t have to! You’re family now, fuckface! Shut up and accept that!”

“What A-Cheng is trying to say,” Jiang Yanli says, giving her little brother a quelling look, “is that we want to help you, and it will go easier with more people.”

“Look at this this way,” MianMian says, with an absolutely wicked curve to her mouth. “Let us help you move, and then you’ll have extra energy for ‘keeping busy.’” She makes air quotes as she says it, waggling her eyebrows, just in case they didn’t get the innuendo.

“Oh my god,” Jiang Cheng whines, covering his face. “Can we not. I thought I suffered through enough of this earlier.”

“You are going to eventually need to accept that your siblings are grown adults who sometimes do adult things with other adults,” Wen Qing tells him. She turns her face to Wei Ying and adds, “You’re making good choices, right?”

“In more ways than one!” Wei Ying replies, managing to shoot her the finger guns with a spoon in one hand and a bowl in the other.

“No!” Jiang Cheng says, struggling against Wen Qing’s weight on his lap. “If anyone else in this room says anything about my brother’s sex life I will break all of your legs and then hurl myself into the ocean.” He glares around the room, and everyone slowly looks away, or back to their gelato, until his gaze lands on Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan isn’t going to say anything. He isn’t. He could not possibly bring himself to say anything about his sex life out loud, in front of people. There’s no way he has the face for that.

He is however, petty enough to run his hand up Wei Ying’s back and hook one finger in the collar of his shirt, and he’s petty enough to tug that collar down just enough to fully expose the bruise he bit into Wei Ying’s neck last night, and he’s petty enough to do that all while making direct eye contact with Jiang Cheng. It takes Jiang Cheng a moment to realize what he’s seeing, but when he does he goes purple in a way that Lan Zhan finds immensely satisfying.

“Why you--” he starts, while Wen Qing absolutely dies laughing and refuses to move from his lap. MianMian cackles so hard she falls over halfway onto Nie Huaisang.

“You have to admit,” Nie Huaisang says, smothering giggles behind their fan, “he didn’t actually say anything. He’s got you there.”

Wei Ying slaps his hand over Lan Zhan’s and whips around to goggle at him, wide-eyed and blushing. “Lan Zhan,” he squeaks, and that seems to be all he had to say because he hides his red face in Lan Zhan’s hair, laughing silently against his neck.

“I give up,” Jiang Cheng says, fuming. “You two deserve each other. Congratufuckinglations.”

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, voice pleasant and even. “We’re really very much in love. We will see you on Saturday.”

“We’re looking forward to it,” Jiang Yanli says, ignoring the chaos in the rest of her living room, and Lan Zhan smiles at her and knows she means it.

Later, after they made their goodbyes, after they drove home, after they showered and brushed their teeth and climbed into bed slightly past Lan Zhan’s usual bedtime, Wei Ying sighs into the heavy velvet darkness of their bedroom. They’re both very nearly asleep, Wei Ying’s body draped bonelessly over Lan Zhan’s, but there’s something about the sigh that makes Lan Zhan drag himself back from the edge of unconsciousness.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying breathes, almost too quietly to be heard. Lan Zhan strokes his back and tips his head down, as though he could see Wei Ying through the blackness of the night.

“Mn?” he says, when Wei Ying is silent for a moment longer. Wei Ying sighs again and turns his face into Lan Zhan’s neck.

“Dammit,” he murmurs, muffled. “I thought you were asleep and I’d be able to say this without you hearing and not have to face the consequences of my actions.” Lan Zhan turns to kiss the top of his head and strokes his back and says nothing, waiting for Wei Ying to finish. “I just,” he says after another breath, hesitant, so quiet in the warm embrace of the night, “I just wanted you to know.” Wei Ying shifts around, like he wants to be looking at Lan Zhan even when he can’t see him, and says, “If you--if you asked. I’d say yes.”

It takes Lan Zhan a moment to put the pieces together, brain fuzzy from sleep and from the exhaustion of so much social interaction, but when it clicks it’s like clockwork, like a perfectly plucked chord reverberating in harmony. It hums from his heart all the way out to his fingertips and toes, lighting up his body in a wave. He kisses Wei Ying’s head again and pulls him closer.

“Wei Ying,” he whispers back, “Wei Ying, I want to ask.” He does, he does, and Lan Zhan knows to his bones that he will, but…

“Just not yet,” Wei Ying says, kissing his neck. “Right? Not quite yet.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan runs his hand up Wei Ying’s arm to his shoulder, shoulder to neck, neck to jaw, and then with that guidepost finds his mouth in the darkness. They kiss slowly, no intent for it to be anything but what it is, a gentle slide of lips and tongues and shared understanding. “I am rather fond of my legs in their current, unbroken state, as well,” he whispers against Wei Ying’s skin, pressing another kiss there, and Wei Ying lets out a sleepy sigh of laughter.

“Me, too,” he says, curling back up, clearly already drifting. “That’s how you know he loves you, though. Leg-breaking is for family.”

“Your family is strange,” Lan Zhan whispers. The only response he gets is Wei Ying’s measured breathing, so Lan Zhan smiles fondly into the darkness and follows him down.

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan checks his personal email during his midmorning break and discovers that a) Jiang Cheng was not kidding about organizing the final move on Saturday, and has sent a detailed email with an attached spreadsheet assigning roles, including a schedule for the day broken down into fifteen minute increments, and b) the therapist has responded to his latest email confirming an appointment. It’s an hour before he usually leaves work, but Lan Zhan is rarely ill and has accumulated a large amount of both sick leave and vacation time, so it shouldn’t be an issue. He adds the appointment to his calendar, using a new color he has not previously assigned to any of his other recurring appointments, and sends a text.

To: Wei Ying
My first therapy appointment is scheduled for next Thursday at 4:15pm.

The reply is nigh-instantaneous.

From: Wei Ying
OMG YAAAAAY!!!!!!!
CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!
🎉🎉🎊🎊🎉🎉🎉🎉🎊🎊🎊🎊🍾🍾🍾🍾🎆🎆🎇🎆🎇🎇🎇
LOOK AT MY HOT BOYFRIEND MAKING HEALTHY CHOICES AND SHIT
I’M SO PROUD OF YOU BABY
💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

At this point, as expected, Wei Ying switches to sending animated gifs, and Lan Zhan sets his phone aside to return to his editing. When it stops buzzing every three seconds, he picks it back up and scrolls through the avalanche of people dancing, cats under various congratulatory banners, and images of sparkling, animated text. At the bottom there are actual words again.

From: Wei Ying
okay i updated my to-do list and you’re in my calendar for next friday
i’m taking you OUT
(to eat at a fancy restaurant as previously agreed, not like, “out”)
(i am not going to murder you, to be clear)
(please don’t think i’m gonna murder you, i love you way too much to murder you)

To: Wei Ying
I do not think you are going to murder me.
Although telling me you aren’t going to murder me is exactly what a murderer would say.

From: Wei Ying
LAN ZHAN
that was MY JOKE
YOU STOLE MY JOKE AND THEN USED IT AGAINST ME
😂🤣😂🤣😂🤣
i love you so much baby i’m so proud

To: Wei Ying
I love you, too.

Typing the words makes him smile, and Lan Zhan carries that good mood through the rest of the day and the drive home. They don’t make a trip to Wei Ying’s former apartment that night, because as Wei Ying puts it, “They know about the porn but they don’t need to see my porn stuff, Lan Zhan,” so instead they spend an hour or so cramming things into the closet in the second bedroom. When the floor is clear and the bed is stripped and ready to be donated Wei Ying stands back and eyeballs the space thoughtfully.

“I think we should go ahead and bring over my dresser, too,” he says, taking a couple of shoes back out of the closet and using them to block out the size of it on the floor. “I can use the storage, and I painted that myself. I’d like to hold onto it.”

“The things you like have a place here,” Lan Zhan says firmly, stepping up behind Wei Ying and hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Is there anything we should purchase while we have the truck tomorrow?”

“Honestly?” Wei Ying tips his head back into Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “My desk is shit. It’s from Ikea and I found it for free on the street. We should just trash it and I’ll be a dirtbag and do my editing at the coffee table for a little while.” He turns his head and kisses Lan Zhan’s neck. “No need to rush getting a new one, tomorrow’s going to be buck wild as it is.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, biting Wei Ying’s pulse point just because he can. “It is a robust schedule.”

“That’s Jiang Cheng for you,” Wei Ying agrees, grabbing Lan Zhan’s hand and pulling him back into the main living space. “He’s honestly terrifying when you see him in action.”

“I can believe it,” Lan Zhan says, and he kisses Wei Ying before he starts on dinner. Wei Ying grabs his laptop and perches on the counter with it, absolutely in the way, but it means Lan Zhan can pause and kiss him whenever he wants, so it’s worth it.

“Did you still want those arboretum photos?” he asks, glancing up. “I know it’s been a hundred million years emotionally since you asked. I’m putting in the print order tonight so I can add them on.”

“I do,” Lan Zhan says immediately. He pauses in chopping the ginger and glances sideways at Wei Ying, thinking about other photos. “Wei Ying,” he says, slowly, and then, “Darling,” which reliably gets a blush, “are you ordering from a print shop that is…” He struggles for words for a moment, and finally goes with, “Open-minded?”

Wei Ying looks up at him and blinks once, slow like a cat. “Yes,” he says, tipping his head. “They do a lot of fine art printing.” A smile plays around the corner of his mouth. “Why?”

Lan Zhan refocuses on the ginger, minces it neatly, and moves on to the scallions. “You did a shoot in neon that focused on the movement between poses,” he says, sliding the scallion ends into the compost bucket. “It was quite beautiful.” He dares a glance up at Wei Ying as he finishes, “I have wanted a print for some time.”

Wei Ying smiles at him, face lit from the inside like there’s a lantern behind his eyes. “I like that one, too,” he says, like it’s a secret. “I’m really proud of how it came out, there was so much setup and editing.” He runs his hands along the edge of his laptop screen and looks like he’s considering something. “If you get a print of me, I get a print of you. That seems fair, right?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees, adding the vegetables to the pan. It sizzles loudly, and he tosses them a few times. “Which one?”

“Oh, the one where you look like a literal fucking magical angel,” Wei Ying says immediately, turning his laptop around to display the shot of Lan Zhan at his guqin, glowing in ice blue and purple lights. Lan Zhan nods his approval and tosses the pan. “Oh,” Wei Ying says in a completely different tone of voice, soft and surprised. “Oh, I guess I never looked at these.”

“Hm?” Lan Zhan asks, and Wei Ying slides off the counter and brings his laptop over.

“The shots from the farm,” he says, setting it down and angling it so Lan Zhan can see the screen and cook at the same time. “I just ripped them from the camera to free up the memory and I didn’t really feel like reliving that day immediately.” Lan Zhan frowns and pets down his spine. Wei Ying presses into the touch like a cat and smiles. “Not that it was all bad, in the least.” He kisses Lan Zhan long enough that the vegetables get a little more color than intended, but that will just add flavor so who cares? “Anyway,” Wei Ying says, paging through some of the previews, “some of these came out really well.”

Lan Zhan adds the coconut milk to the pan and stirs before he looks, so nothing else burns, which was a good decision because as soon as he lays eyes on Wei Ying’s laptop he’s transfixed. The group photos from the farm are excellent in and of themselves, like something out of a Vogue editorial, but the pictures Wei Ying took in the orchard… Lan Zhan looks relaxed, poised, like he models for a living, the incongruity of his outfit a highlight instead of bizarre. The shots where Wei Ying joined him? Those are perfect, a dove and a raven standing out in bright contrast against the fall colors behind them. There’s one framed with Lan Zhan under an apple tree, a few out-of-focus leaves in the foreground, and Wei Ying standing in front of him, faces tipped together. Wei Ying looks expectant and devilish, Lan Zhan fond and patient. They’re not touching, but they look, Lan Zhan realizes, like a couple. It’s their love captured in a self-timed photo, and Lan Zhan marvels that it took them ten fucking years to figure it out.

“Get a print of that one, too,” he says, stirring the curry. “If that’s okay?” Wei Ying had a truly shitty time shortly after that picture was taken, so if he doesn’t want the reminder on their wall, Lan Zhan would understand.

“Hell yeah it’s okay,” Wei Ying says, leaning into Lan Zhan’s side and wrapping his arms around his waist. “I’m telling everyone this was our first official date as a couple.”

“That is not true,” Lan Zhan says, kissing his head. “We have not yet had our first date as a couple.”

“It’s close enough,” Wei Ying declares. “Like two hours after this it was official, so from the perspective of the universe and the scale of galactic time and whatnot, we were already boyfriends when we took this picture.” He pokes Lan Zhan in the ribs. “No take-backsies.”

“I have no wish for take-backsies,” Lan Zhan says solemnly. “Please add this photo to your order.”

“You got it,” Wei Ying says, releasing Lan Zhan so he can go back to his laptop. “Now then,” he says, leaning forward onto his elbows and arching his back completely unnecessarily, “which nudes of me do you want, gege?”

“All of them,” Lan Zhan answers honestly, and Wei Ying stops posing to cackle. “There’s a shot of you from the back in particular,” he adds, and by the time the curry is done they’ve found the correct image and submitted their print order. Later, in bed, after they’ve exchanged blowjobs in the shower (Lan Zhan is so happy that Past Lan Zhan decided to rent an apartment with such a luxurious shower), Wei Ying reads his phone and pets Lan Zhan’s hair absently.

“You know, sweetheart,” he says, scritching behind Lan Zhan’s ear, “you should really let me take naked pictures of you.” Wei Ying bats his eyelashes down at where Lan Zhan is half curled onto his lap. “It’s only fair that I should get to have lots of nudes of you, too, when you have so many of me.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, sleepy and content. He thinks about that for a moment, and finds it’s not nearly so terrifying a prospect as it would have been a month prior. He nuzzles his face into Wei Ying’s thigh and says, “All right.”

Wei Ying’s hand stills in his hair. “What, really?” he asks, high-pitched. Lan Zhan pushes his head a little more firmly into Wei Ying’s hand until he goes back to his petting.

“Yes,” he says, eyes drifting shut. “Trust Wei Ying. Love you.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, and laughs softly, carding his fingers through Lan Zhan’s hair from the roots out to the tips. “You won’t regret this, baby. I’m gonna make you look so hot.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, almost asleep now. “You will.” The last thing he remembers that night is Wei Ying’s laughter.

---

Lan Zhan goes for his usual run on Saturday morning, and does his full hour of yoga, and then climbs back into bed for a twenty minute snuggle with a mumbling, sleepy Wei Ying, because today is the day that Hurricane Jiang Cheng makes landfall and he wants all the serenity he can grab before dealing with that. At a little before eight he manages to lure Wei Ying out of bed with coffee and they make it over to Wei Ying’s former apartment at around nine-thirty with the rental truck. At nine-forty-five precisely there’s a knock at the door, and Wei Ying opens it to find Jiang Cheng dressed in designer dark-wash jeans and a pristine henley. He has a tablet tucked under one arm and an honest-to-god headset, like he’s running security for the fucking president or something.

“Okay,” he says, striding into the room with the confidence of a general, “jiejie, MianMian, and Jin Zixuan are waiting downstairs. We have fifteen minutes before the rest of the crew gets here, let’s see what we’re working with.”

“I have pastries?” Wen Ning says, trailing in after him with a paper bag from the bakery downstairs and a tote full of cleaning supplies.

“I have coffee,” Wen Qing says, hefting two to-go cartons onto the counter. “And thus my work here is done,” she deadpans, brushing off her hands and heading for the door.

“Your official duties don’t start until noon,” Jiang Cheng says, checking his tablet, which Lan Zhan suspects has an editable version of the day’s schedule on it so Jiang Cheng can check off objectives as they’re completed. “That’s assuming we can clear the apartment by then.”

“Two whole hours?” Wei Ying deadpans, waving at the echoing studio that already feels crowded with five people in it. “God, I don’t know if we can manage that. Three whole pieces of furniture to move?” He whistles through his teeth and shakes his head. “Could take all day.”

“What’s left to pack?” Jiang Cheng asks Lan Zhan, ignoring his brother, which is probably for the best.

“Some of the kitchen,” Lan Zhan answers, where he’s been packing plates in bubble wrap while the others snark at each other. He says it just a little bit sarcastically, since he’s actually been doing the work while Jiang Cheng barks at people, but no one seems to notice.

“That’s it?” Jiang Cheng asks, clearly surprised. He looks around again, this time actually taking in the bare walls and floors, the bags labeled “donate,” and the bags labeled “trash.” “Huh,” he says thoughtfully. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

“College was literally years ago, didi!” Wei Ying says, a pastry in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “I don’t know why you think I’m still the drunk fuckup slob I was then.” He slurps noisily and says, “Some of us have gone to actual therapy.”

“And we’re proud of you for you,” Wen Qing says, tapping her paper coffee cup against his.

“Now I’m just a slob,” Wei Ying says proudly, “and I only get drunk on special occasions.”

Jiang Cheng is saved from having to respond to this by Nie Huaisang poking their head in the door, dressed in one of their practical jumpsuits and a colorful scarf. “A-Cheng?” they ask, breathing a little hard, “Da ge wants to know where he should park the truck, and he made me run up all three fights of stairs instead of letting me text you. Oh, shit, pastries!” They beeline for the food, and Jiang Cheng pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he says, pulling out two compact walkie-talkies, shoving one at Lan Zhan and one at Nie Huaisang, “I’m going downstairs to direct traffic. Let’s try and get this done with a minimum of shenanigans.”

“But not no shenanigans,” Nie Huaisang says, around a mouthful of kolach.

“I planned in time for shenanigans,” Jiang Cheng says on his way out the door, “because I know you fuckers.”

“I feel like I should be more insulted by that,” Wei Ying says, pulling glasses out of the cupboard and handing them to Lan Zhan, “but he’s probably right.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says affirmatively, and smiles when Wei Ying elbows him in revenge.

The move is actually less chaotic than Lan Zhan was expecting, and he has to admit that Jiang Cheng is very good at what he does. He even brought traffic cones to mark off parking spaces and mover’s straps for the furniture that isn’t easy to grip. They get the apartment emptied well before schedule, and Wei Ying’s dresser in the rental truck and all the donations into Nie Mingjue’s. There’s a hilarious five minutes where Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan try to figure out how to safely tie everything down before MianMian snaps and takes over.

“Out of the way, heteros,” she announces, climbing into the back and proceeding to secure everything with neat, professional knots. Lan Zhan watches, impressed, and remembers that she left Jin Corp to work on an urban farm and probably loads trucks on a weekly basis.

“That’s a girl that really drives a Subaru,” Wei Ying says in admiration, right before Jiang Cheng chases everyone back to their assigned tasks.

“So where are we taking these?” Lan Huan asks Lan Zhan, as they double-check that everything that needs to be in the donation truck is in the donation truck. His brother smiles at him and adds, “Also, congratulations on combining households.” The smile sharpens just a bit. “It was nice to hear about it from Nie Huaisang.”

Lan Zhan’s ears heat. “We have been busy,” he says, which isn’t really a good explanation for why he failed to tell his brother. They have, in fact, been busy, but he also wanted to keep Wei Ying to himself, wanted to cradle him in his arms and protect him from the world. He wanted to pull Wei Ying into his home and heart as quickly as possible so no one could even have a chance to stop them. That is perhaps an overreaction, but when has Lan Zhan ever been sensible about Wei Ying? “We’ll have you over for dinner soon,” he promises. “You and Nie Mingjue.”

Lan Huan’s smile goes back to it’s usual kind warmth. “We’d like that,” he says, in the tone of voice that says they really, really would. “We’ll give you some time to get settled first, though. No rush.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and forwards the email with the donation information to his brother. There’s a local organization that helps outfit homes for immigrants and asylum seekers, and everything still usable from Wei Ying’s apartment and Lan Zhan’s guest bed is going to them. Nie Mingjue lifts a hand in farewell as the truck pulls away from the curb, and Lan Zhan follows Wei Ying back upstairs to do a last sweep of the apartment before Beta Team starts cleaning.

“I’ve loved this place,” Wei Ying says, halfway up the second flight of stairs. “Cheap rent, nice aesthetic, smells like bread all the time, but I tell you what.” They round the landing and start on the third flight. “I am not gonna miss all these fucking stairs.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. He runs for fun and finds it enjoyable, but even his legs are reaching their limit. “I will minimize the amount of stairs in your life from now on.”

“You’re gonna spoil me,” Wei Ying says, but now he says it like he says “I love you,” and Lan Zhan smiles.

“Yes,” he says, and means “I love you, too,” and they manage one brief kiss before the walkie-talkie in Lan Zhan’s pocket crackles to life.

“Can I send up the cleaners yet or no?” Jiang Cheng asks, sounding enraged even through the static. “A-Li is flaring, I want her on a comfortable couch as soon as possible instead of stuck in her fucking car down here.”

“You didn’t have to fucking drag her here,” Wei Ying mutters even as he starts opening cupboards to check for straggler items. Lan Zhan investigates the bathroom as he fishes out the walkie-talkie.

“I believe we are ready,” he says, after he figures out what button to press. “If we have missed anything, it is probably garbage.” He pokes his head back out of the bathroom to a thumbs-up from Wei Ying (it’s not as though the kitchen was very large) and adds, “Confirmed, we are ready for cleaners.”

“Jiejie can come over to our place with us!” Wei Ying yells at the walkie-talkie from across the room. “We have soft blankets and tea!”

“Tell Wei Ying walkie-talkies don’t work like that,” Jiang Cheng says. “He sounds like a dying cat from this end. I’m going to send jiejie over with you and you can get her a blanket and some tea.”

“I just fucking said!” Wei Ying fumes, flipping the walkie-talkie off with both hands.

“We will be down shortly,” Lan Zhan says, and puts it back in his pocket. He and Wei Ying stand in the middle of the empty, echoing apartment for a moment and Wei Ying takes his hand.

“Remember when you drove me around to all those apartment viewings and I walked into this one and grabbed your arm and yelled about the windows?” Wei Ying says, with a smile. “Good times.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, squeezing his hand. He has one regret about that time, and he lets himself admit it: “I should have offered, then.” Wei Ying turns to look at him, and he clarifies, “The second bedroom. To let you move in with me.”

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully, swinging their joined hands. “Maybe, but I was, uh, pretty fucking deep in denial at that point.” He laughs, eyes bright. “Can you fucking imagine the sexual tension? We would have been able to eat it with a spoon like awkward emotional pudding.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, frowning. He thinks about that, thinks about having Wei Ying but not being able to keep him, and shudders very, very slightly. “Probably for the best, then, that I didn’t.”

“I would have had to masturbate so quietly,” Wei Ying says, exactly as Jiang Cheng walks into the room.

“Fucking hell!” he snaps, pointing his tablet at them. “Have some respect for other people’s ears! Stop being horny and take jiejie to your place already, you perverts!”

“I will not stop being horny,” Wei Ying says stubbornly, “but we’re going, geez, I was just saying goodbye to the place that’s been my home for years! God forbid!” To the apartment at large, he says, “Goodbye, apartment! I will miss your natural light but I will not miss only being able to plug in one appliance at a time!” He throws himself at Jiang Cheng for a hug, and then dodges the answering tablet swipe to grab Lan Zhan’s hand. Wei Ying pulls him out the door with a cackle.

“I’m doing this for you, shithead!” Jiang Cheng shouts after them, but they’re already at the first landing so it doesn’t have much of an impact. They leave Beta Team behind (Nie Huaisang, Jin Zixuan, and Wen Qing as the lead) and MianMian follows the rental truck with Wen Ning and Jiang Yanli in her Subaru. They really only have to bring up the dresser and a couple of boxes, and since Wen Ning and Lan Zhan are, in Wei Ying’s words, “Hella yoked,” they manage everything in one trip.

“Oh, thank you,” Jiang Yanli says as she settles onto the couch, Wei Ying tucking his throw blanket around her with worried hands while Lan Zhan brews tea. “It’s really not a bad flare, since I didn’t have any of the actual pork ribs. If I’d known we were going to be helping you move I would have planned differently.”

“Aw, jiejie,” Wei Ying says, his face falling, and Jiang Yanli strokes his hair.

“None of that,” she says sweetly. “I made my own choices. I wouldn’t give this up for anything.” She looks around the living room, eyes catching on Wei Ying’s brightly-colored art next to Lan Zhan’s muted prints of ink paintings, his dizi next to the guqin, and she runs her hands over the vibrant throw blanket. “It looks beautiful in here, you two,” she says, accepting a steaming mug from Lan Zhan. “I can’t wait to see what else you make of it.”

“Is there anything we can help with as far as unpacking goes?” Wen Ning asks, hovering in the corner next to Lan Zhan’s philodendron. He looks like he wants to apologize for taking up the two square feet of space he’s trying to cram his body into. MianMian, for her part, is walking around like she’s at a furniture gallery, not actually touching anything but clearly wanting to.

“No,” Wei Ying says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” MianMian says, shamelessly snooping in the hall bathroom. “Many hands make light work or whatever. Damn, Lan Zhan, is that a rainfall showerhead? In the hall bathroom?”

“It is,” Lan Zhan confirms, unpacking the few of Wei Ying’s dishes that had sentimental value.

“No one is helping me unpack but Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying insists, “because the stuff that I have to unpack is for Second Work, and none of you need to know how that sausage is made.”

“Gross,” MianMian says, “but fair.” She sits down at the dining room table with her phone. “Nie Huaisang says Jiang Cheng just made them scrub out the bathtub for the second time, so I guess things are going pretty well over there.”

“We do still need to donate the guest bed,” Lan Zhan reminds Wei Ying, who makes a face.

“Right, okay,” he says, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s finish this last chore and then we can all gorge ourselves on Jin Zixuan’s dime and play Mario Kart.”

“Hell yeah,” MianMian says, immediately snapping to attention. “Isabelle is gonna fuck you all up.”

By the time they wrestle the mattress, box spring, and bedframe down in the service elevator, make the final trip to the donation center, and return the rental truck, Beta Team has finished cleaning Wei Ying’s former apartment. There’s a chaotic fifteen minutes or so when various groups of people keep showing up at their(!!!!) combined place, and then further chaos as the takeout that Jiang Yanli organized arrives and gets distributed around the room. It is finally, blessedly quiet except for the sound of chewing, and Lan Zhan eats his sesame noodles and takes it all in. This is the highest number of people that have ever been in his living space at once, and it’s strange. Strange, but also good, he thinks. Jiang Yanli is still curled up on the couch, Jin Zixuan perched on the arm next to her with MianMian and Nie Huaisang squished in on the other end. Wen Qing, Wen Ning, and Jiang Cheng are at the dining room table, which only has two chairs (Lan Zhan has never needed more) so Wen Qing is in Jiang Cheng’s lap. Wei Ying is crosslegged on the kitchen counter, Lan Zhan leaning against it next to him, and for that he feels crowded and a little anxious, he’s also happy.

“Thank you,” he says, and tries not to wince when everyone’s eyes flick to him. “For,” and he gestures with his chopsticks, instead of elaborating. A deep breath, in and out, because it’s important that he say this even if it’s hard. “This is. New. For me.” Lan Zhan sweeps his eyes across the room and lowers them to his takeout carton again. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Jiang Yanli says, smiling. “Welcome to the family.”

“It gets easier,” Jin Zixuan says reassuringly, and gets promptly nailed in the face by a balled-up napkin from Wei Ying, who cackles.

“I didn’t think I’d actually hit you!” he says, red-faced. “I’d say I was sorry but that was hilarious!”

Jin Zixuan smiles patiently and as soon as Wei Ying goes back to his mapo tofu he throws the napkin right back at him, bouncing it off his forehead and into Nie Huaisang’s lap. Wei Ying squawks, and Jiang Cheng starts crumpling a napkin, eyebrows at an angle that communicates intent, and before anything can devolve into outright war MianMian flings a leg up into the air and says, “Save it for the track, boys!”

“That’s right!” Wei Ying says, preening. “Rose Gold Peach is gonna leave you all in her rose gold dust!”

“We’ll fucking see about that,” Jiang Cheng says, around a mouthful of chicken. Lan Zhan makes eye contact with Wen Ning, the only other quiet person in the room, and they have an entire silent conversation as Wei Ying gets the Switch booted up and Nie Huaisang and MianMian move the coffee table out of the way. This is perhaps the first time since college that Lan Zhan has been in the same presence as this many people playing a competitive video game. There is a lot of yelling. Over the course of the first tournament Lan Zhan drifts around behind everyone else to sit at his desk, where no one can see him and try to get him to join. When the second tournament starts Wei Ying drags him in, and by a small miracle he doesn’t come in last place, although he refuses to sit in the fray and plays while standing behind the couch, where at least all the yelling is directed away from his ears. Jiang Yanli wins that tournament without even seeming to try, and when Nie Huaisang demands her secrets she just smiles and says nothing.

“Jiejie’s a genius,” Wei Ying says, solemnly, as though he hadn’t thrown a pillow at Jiang Cheng not two minutes before for using a blue shell and knocking him out of first place. “It’s only natural she’d be great at Mario Kart, too.”

“Another round?” MianMian asks, holding up her controller. Lan Zhan sighs internally. He really does appreciate the help provided today, but he would also like all of these people to get the fuck out of his house and leave him alone to cuddle with his boyfriend.

“Can’t,” Jiang Cheng says, unfolding himself from the rug. “I still have a wedding to run, and those fucking florists had better have their shit together.” That seems to be a cue for everyone else to stand up and find their shoes, and Lan Zhan has never been more grateful to Jiang Cheng in his entire life . There’s a series of goodbyes (Lan Zhan gets another hug from Jiang Yanli, and it’s wonderful) and MianMian and Nie Huaisang are polite enough to gather up everyone’s dishes before they go, and then finally everyone is gone and the apartment is quiet again and Lan Zhan wants to lie face-down on the floor in relief.

“Oh, wow,” Wei Ying says, after one look at his face. “You’re about to turn into a pumpkin, aren’t you?” Lan Zhan blinks at him, without even the energy for an “Mn,” and Wei Ying smothers a laugh and pulls him over to the couch. “You stay here and stare into the middle distance for at least fifteen minutes in silence, okay?” he says, tucking the throw blanket around Lan Zhan and kissing his forehead. “I’ll be in the second bedroom when you boot back up.” Lan Zhan nods, vaguely, and a few minutes later accepts a cup of ginseng tea without really understanding where it came from, and he spends a blissful half an hour or so slowly sipping tea and regaining his capacity for rational thought. When the mug is empty and his brain is no longer playing white noise, Lan Zhan unfolds himself from the couch and sets out in search of his boyfriend.

Wei Ying is, as promised (now that Lan Zhan can process language again and understand what he had said) in the second bedroom, putting lingerie and various mesh items into the dresser with much more care than he took with his actual everyday clothes. He looks up when Lan Zhan comes in and smiles, soft and warm and without any attention paid to the truly obscene number of straps he’s currently holding. “Hey,” he says, tipping his head up for Lan Zhan’s incoming kiss without missing a beat. “Better?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and kisses him again. “How can I help?”

Wei Ying gnaws distractingly on his lower lip and searches for the matching stocking to the one in his hand. “Could you take measurements, actually?” He jerks his chin at the closet. “I think I want to get one of those built-in systems so I’m not just stacking tubs on tubs on tubs.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says, and goes to find the tape measure.

They finish up with what they can in the late afternoon, the second bedroom still strangely empty but at least no longer looking like a hurricane hit it. Wei Ying makes a list of all the things he’ll need as they go. “I think it’ll be nice to get some wall shelves to go above whatever desk I get,” he says, hands on his hips as he surveys the space. “I can put all my synths up there and then keep that whole mess hidden behind closed doors.”

Lan Zhan frowns slightly, because Wei Ying keeps doing this, keeps trying to make himself smaller. “You do not need to hide your mess,” he says, taking Wei Ying’s hand. “I like your mess.” He kisses Wei Ying’s temple and says, into his hair, “I want you here. I want all of you.”

Wei Ying sways into him. “That’s really sweet of you, and I love it, and I love you, and I also promise I will leave my shit lying all over and you won’t be able to stop me.” He kisses Lan Zhan’s jaw, smiling against his skin, and adds, “But I also know myself and it’s going to be good to put my expensive electronics somewhere that I can’t easily spill a whole fucking mug of coffee all over them.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, re-adjusting his view of things. “I see.”

Wei Ying nods. “I have to protect me from myself sometimes,” he says, voice serious. “I’m my own worst enemy, except for dogs.”

Lan Zhan pulls him into a hug and strokes his back, the warm muscles, the barely-there knobs of his spine. “I will protect you from dogs and also yourself,” he says, just as seriously, and when Wei Ying laughs against him he smiles.

Part of Lan Zhan wants to immediately go purchase the things Wei Ying needs to finish setting up his studio, because he wants Wei Ying to be settled and happy so he’ll never, ever consider leaving. The rest of Lan Zhan has used up all his outside energy for the week and even the thought of stepping into the hallway makes him want to cry. That part wins, and they eat leftovers for dinner and watch an episode of The Great British Bake-Off and even though Lan Zhan never naps he finds himself half-drowsing on Wei Ying’s shoulder halfway through the showstopper.

“Ugh,” Wei Ying says, stretching his legs out under the throw blanket, “I am so sore. I’m gonna be sore for like a million years, Lan Zhan. How are you not sore?”

Lan Zhan considers this. “I am also sore,” he admits. “I just don’t complain about it.”

“Rude,” Wei Ying tells him. “Roasted by my boyfriend. You’re allowed to complain about things, you know.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, considering that, too. Lan Qiren discouraged complaining, but he also discouraged a lot of things that Lan Zhan has since discovered are great, actually. After a bit more thought, he decides to give it a try: “Ow. My legs.”

Wei Ying laughs until he falls over, curling into Lan Zhan’s lap and wiping his eyes. “Okay,” he says, breathing hard, “Good first try. B-plus, we’ll keep working on it.” He reaches up and pats Lan Zhan’s cheek affectionately. “I’m gonna go soak in that giant sexy bathtub of yours,” he says. “Did the epsom salts make it into the cupboard?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, and then, “Ours.” Wei Ying squints at him, and Lan Zhan pets his stomach and clarifies, “Our bathtub. Not mine. Ours.”

Wei Ying smiles, slow like honeyed sunlight spilling over the horizon. “In that case,” he says, his fingertips trailing along Lan Zhan’s jaw and down his throat, “you should come join me in it.” A blink, slow and affectionate like a cat. “Since it’s ours and all.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and stands up with Wei Ying in his arms, who squeals in surprise and catches him around the neck.

“This is a thing for you now, isn’t it?” he asks as Lan Zhan carries him into the bedroom. “We’re doing lifestyle kink and I just have to live with the knowledge that at any moment you might pick me up and carry me around.”

“Maybe,” Lan Zhan admits, setting him gently down on the bed. He looks down at Wei Ying, his boyfriend, red and black hair slipping free of his ponytail, eyes and smile both so bright, and he loves him so much it aches. He leans down and kisses him, slow but insistent, until Wei Ying tangles his fingers into Lan Zhan’s hair and sighs against his mouth.

“What was that for?” Wei Ying asks, hazily, when Lan Zhan pulls back and leans their foreheads together.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Lan Zhan tells him. Wei Ying groans and blushes, turning his head away, which only gives Lan Zhan access to the side of his face and neck, which he kisses, since it’s right there.

“Can’t handle you,” Wei Ying complains, “too romantic.” He pushes Lan Zhan away, but reluctantly. “Let me at least be in the bathtub before you start trying to make me melt into a puddle, sweetheart.” Lan Zhan decides that’s fair, and he lets Wei Ying up.

Lan Zhan doesn’t usually take baths, having been raised to find them vaguely wasteful of both natural resources and time. He re-evaluates that idea (as he’s been doing so much in the last few months) as a naked Wei Ying steps into steaming water that smells herbal and slowly sinks down until his shoulders are submerged. Wei Ying sighs, the sound coming all the way from his bone marrow, and blinks up at Lan Zhan. “Come on,” he says, holding out one wet hand, already pinking from the heat. “It’s only our bathtub if you’re in here with me.”

Lan Zhan hangs his robe on the back of the door and gingerly tests the temperature. Wei Ying likes to be boiled alive, while Lan Zhan prefers a slightly less scalding level of heat. The bathwater is just on the edge of too much, but Lan Zhan is willing to endure if it means pressing close to Wei Ying for the next half hour or so. How long do baths take?

“C’mere,” Wei Ying says, pulling him the rest of the way down and tugging until Lan Zhan lays back against his chest. Lan Zhan tips his forehead into Wei Ying’s neck, already sweating a little bit, and lets himself be held. It’s… Nice. It’s really nice, the water buoying him up while Wei Ying’s arms keep him from floating away. He feels… Lan Zhan has to really stop and pick apart this emotion, because it’s not one he’s really felt before, not in this context, and he’s never been that good at new emotions. He breathes, and he floats, and he smells eucalyptus and Wei Ying, heat easing under his skin and soothing sore muscles, and he feels safe. It’s such a startling realization that it brings tears to his eyes, briefly, and he squeezes his eyelids shut to keep them from falling. Baths, he decides firmly, are good.

“So I’m all moved in now,” Wei Ying says, grabbing the glass of ice water he insisted on bringing in and sipping from it. He offers it to Lan Zhan, and the touch of cold water against his lips and down his throat in contrast to the heat all around him is beautiful. It also cuts down on the feeling that he’s about to get heatstroke or something, which is a benefit.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, setting the glass aside and curling back up against Wei Ying. Wei Ying is, indeed, moved in, and Lan Zhan is very happy about it.

“So since I’m all moved in,” Wei Ying says, his hands slowly roaming Lan Zhan’s skin under the water, “do I get to see you in that harness tonight?” His fingertips graze Lan Zhan’s nipples lightly, and despite the heat of the water, he shivers.

“Not tonight,” he says after some thought. Wei Ying groans in disappointment, and Lan Zhan adds, “Tomorrow.”

“Why are you making me wait, gege?” Wei Ying whines in his ear. “I’ve been so patient and good and didn’t fuck around today even a little, don’t I deserve a reward?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, but also: “Do you have the energy to see me in it tonight?”

On cue, Wei Ying yawns enormously, the inhale displacing enough of the water that a little bit drains down the overflow valve. “Ugh,” he says, when he’s done and can speak again, “Fine.” He sounds like he’s pouting, which is fair. From his perspective, Lan Zhan is being unreasonable. It’s just. Well. Lan Zhan runs his hands up and down Wei Ying’s calves on either side of him and arranges a sentence like he’s using old-school movable type.

“I have,” he says, carefully, “a scenario in mind.” Behind him, underneath him, around him, Wei Ying perks up, the attention prickling down his spine.

“Yeah?” Wei Ying says, deliberately casual, as though he’s not vibrating against Lan Zhan’s skin, like his hands haven’t frozen on Lan Zhan’s pec and lower ribs. It’s adorable, and it makes Lan Zhan feel slightly more relaxed about actually speaking his wants out loud. He’s had some great successes with that, recently (see: Wei Ying, in his apartment, hands on skin) but it’s still a struggle, and this is especially out of his comfort zone.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, dripping water as he finds the glass and takes another icy sip. He shuts his eyes, drifts a little bit, and puts words together behind his eyelids. Nine seconds inhaling, fifteen seconds exhaling, his boyfriend pressed close, the water around him like a hug. “I would like,” he says, hesitantly, knowing he’s far more nervous about this than he needs to be, “for you to.” He swallows. “Top. Me.”

Wei Ying sucks in a startled little inhale, his hands clenching on Lan Zhan in one quick spasm. “Okay,” he says, and kisses the side of Lan Zhan’s neck, heedless of the sweat. “I would like that. I would love that, actually.” He pets Lan Zhan a little bit, hands soothing, mouth still working at his neck and ear, and asks, “Is that all?” like he knows it isn’t, like he can feel the tension of more words trapped between Lan Zhan’s heart and mouth, halfway up his throat.

“No,” Lan Zhan confirms, and takes one of those deep, meditative breaths again. “I want--” he starts, god, he already said something like this at least once, that first day, why is it so hard to ask for “--I want to be. Submissive.” He swallows, heart fluttering like a moth against a light fixture, feeling just as doomed. “I want to submit. To you.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, a stuttering exhale against Lan Zhan’s ear. “Yeah. Okay. Good. Great.” He’s at least half-hard against Lan Zhan’s lower back, now, and Lan Zhan is in a similar state. Neither of them seems to be in any kind of hurry to address that situation, so it’s fine. Lan Zhan hears Wei Ying’s throat working, and then the glass of water swims into his vision so he accepts it and drinks as well. After it clinks back down outside the tub, Wei Ying kisses his neck with cold lips and asks, “So. How do you want that to look, exactly?”

Lan Zhan frowns. “Sexy?” he says, not entirely sure of the question, and Wei Ying hugs him tight when he laughs.

“Oh,” he says, “it will definitely look sexy, you don’t have to worry about that.” Wei Ying settles one of his hands on Lan Zhan’s hip, a possessive weight under the water. “I mean, how do you want me to dom you? What’s on the table? What don’t you want?”

Oh. Oh. Lan Zhan frowns a little more. He’s really not sure. Some of the things he wants are improbable, and others are things he finds attractive only in theory and would dislike in the real world. He tries to sort through fantasies and scenarios, struggling to hold onto anything as they disappear into his mind like slippery little fish, darting away from his hands. “I’m.” He tips his head into Wei Ying’s neck and sighs. “I don’t know. I can’t--” and he gestures vaguely with a dripping hand as his words fuck off into the center of the earth like they sometimes do, only accessible through hard work and specialized equipment. After another very long silence, he manages to excavate, “I would like to to not think. For a little while.”

“Well, that’s a whole-ass mood,” Wei Ying says in a tone of voice that says just how intimately acquainted he is with the desire for his brain to shut up. “It’s fine that you’re not really sure,” Wei Ying tells him, petting his hip a little. “It’s just. We should negotiate it in advance so we know what we’re doing and it doesn’t take a turn into Nopetown.” Lan Zhan makes a noise of agreement, because he can see the point. “If I ask you questions, do you think you can answer them?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says immediately, both as a joke and because it’s true. He’s always responded better to specific, direct inquiries, especially if they’re yes or no. Nebulous questions, unclear scenarios, and anything requiring on-the-spot creativity are common features in his nightmares, in fact. Thankfully Wei Ying has always understood this, and does now, and Lan Zhan loves him.

“Great,” Wei Ying says, shifting and resettling with little wet splashes against the walls of the tub. “No wrong answers, here, okay? I want to be able to make it good for you, so I need you to tell me how to actually feel about things.” He waits for Lan Zhan’s nod before he starts with, “Would you like to be restrained?”

“Hm.” Lan Zhan thinks about that. “Not this time.” No, that’s not quite it, either. “With your hands, yes, some.”

Wei Ying finds his wrists under the water and grips them, firmly, pressing them to the sides of the tub. “Like this?” he says in Lan Zhan’s ear, and Lan Zhan takes a slow breath, testing the strength of Wei Ying’s hands, twisting his shoulders a little and feeling the stretch of his muscles against the pin.

“Yes,” he says, vaguely aware that he is now fully hard. Wei Ying squeezes, once, and then lets him go, returning to slowly petting various parts of his body. It shivers through him, heightening his arousal but not enough to require anything else yet.

“Do you want me to hurt you?” Wei Ying’s voice is extremely calm, which Lan Zhan finds a little unfair, though it’s also very hot so he can’t be that angry about it.

“No.” It’s a question, just a little, and Lan Zhan tries to sort himself out. “No hitting,” he settles on. “Want you… Want you to pull my hair. Bite me. I want--” and here he can’t quite find the words again, so he finds Wei Ying’s hands and guides them, one on his hip, the other on his thigh. They’re smaller than his, so he can spread out his fingers over Wei Ying’s and then press them in against his skin, hard, fingertips digging into the muscle underneath.

“Great,” Wei Ying says, and when Lan Zhan takes his hands away, Wei Ying’s stay, squeezing him until his muscles loosen up from the pressure. “You’re doing great,” Wei Ying tells him, hands moving to the opposite hip and thigh, repeating the push, the pressure, the jolt of satisfying pain. Lan Zhan’s really floaty now, part of him outside the bath, hovering in the air, distant and dim. “Do you want praise? Dirty talk? Do you want me to degrade you? Should I treat you like you’re precious or like I hate you?”

“Don’t hate me,” Lan Zhan says before he can stop himself, the words slipping out like the floaty part of himself that he can’t hold onto anymore. He tenses, coming back to his senses a little, because no, almost literally anything else--

“Okay, baby, I won’t, I love you, I love you so much,” Wei Ying says, squeezing him tight around the ribs with both arms. “I won’t even pretend, not a little.” He’s kissing Lan Zhan’s neck and ear and the side of his head, manages to turn him enough to catch his mouth. Wei Ying tastes like salt from their sweat and like heat and like love, and he kisses Lan Zhan until Lan Zhan goes back to feeling floaty and far away and nice. “So that’s a hard no on degrading talk,” he says, as he settles Lan Zhan sort of on his side, curled against his chest. “Did you want praise, then?”

“Maybe?” Lan Zhan says. That doesn’t seem right either. He likes it when Wei Ying tells him nice things about himself, but he doesn’t like it as much as Wei Ying seems to like it. “Tell me,” he says, allowing himself to figure out the words as he goes, “what you’re going to do. Tell me what I should do. Tell me when I do it right.”

Wei Ying makes a thoughtful sound, stroking Lan Zhan’s back. “So if I said that right now you should jerk yourself off while we talk, but slowly, and not come until I say so?”

Lan Zhan shudders, the water rippling with it, and he wraps his hand around his cock, groaning into Wei Ying’s neck. Wei Ying’s free hand comes down to lightly rest on his, just feeling the movement, and he says, “Yes, exactly like that, sweetheart, perfect.” Lan Zhan makes another sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and oh. Maybe that’s how he wants to be praised.

“If at any time you need to stop,” Wei Ying says, lips brushing his temple, “say red, okay? Yellow is if you need a minute. Green is keep going.” He tips Lan Zhan’s jaw up for another light kiss and asks, “Green?”

“Green,” Lan Zhan says into his mouth, fucking into his fist with an agonizing slowness, the water heightening the drag of skin on skin, brushing against his whole body with a sensual heat. He wants to come and also wants to stay like this forever, floating and safe and warm, Wei Ying in control. This is… Lan Zhan realizes, rather belatedly, that this is already submission. They’re doing the thing, and he fell into it so easily he didn’t even notice. That bears more investigation later, when his brain is no longer outside of his body.

“Can I use toys on you?” Wei Ying’s voice is as even as ever, but Lan Zhan can hear his heartbeat, where his ear is pressed to Wei Ying’s chest, and he’s not unaffected.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, wanting to speed up his hand and resisting the urge, because he has to do as he was asked.

“Can I tease you for ages?” Wei Ying’s fingers dig into his hip again, the feeling jolting through Lan Zhan’s dick, and he nods and barely manages, “Yes.”

“And when you say you want me to top,” Wei Ying says, working one hand into Lan Zhan’s wet hair and making a fist, tipping his head back, “you mean you want me to fuck you, right?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, trembling and sweating and hot all over, still fucking his fist with those horribly slow movements.

“You want me inside you?” Wei Ying continues, his voice finally breathy.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, wishing desperately that Wei Ying would kiss him instead of making him talk, wishing desperately for Wei Ying to never stop.

“You want to come on my cock?” Wei Ying pulls his hair a little harder, and Lan Zhan moans audibly.

“Yes,” he whispers, mouth dry, voice rough. “Want that, want to feel you in me, Wei Ying, want you all the time--” Wei Ying does kiss him, finally, fucking Lan Zhan’s mouth with his tongue. “Please,” Lan Zhan says, “please, Wei Ying, please,” whenever he can, whenever Wei Ying will let him take a breath.

“You’re doing great,” Wei Ying tells him between kisses, “You’re being so good for me, baby, it’s so hot.”

“Please,” Lan Zhan says against his mouth, ragged.

Wei Ying kisses him again, kisses him until he goes lightheaded, and then he cradles Lan Zhan’s jaw, his other hand still fisted in his hair, and says, “You can come now.”

Lan Zhan does. He comes like a lightning strike, like a bell ringing, all high-pitched noise in his ears and shocking silence. For a moment he worries something is actually wrong, because he can’t seem to hear anything, but he shakes and gasps against Wei Ying’s mouth and slowly realizes that Wei Ying is still talking, saying, “Yes, baby,” and, “So beautiful,” and, “So good, so good for me.” Around the same time that he regains the ability to hear he also regains control over his limbs, and he parses that the hard ridge against the side of his thigh is Wei Ying’s cock, at this point even warmer than the bathwater. That won’t do, neglecting his boyfriend like that, and Lan Zhan shifts around on his knees in a slosh and frowns down between Wei Ying’s legs into the water.

“I want--” he starts, trying to get his brain to work again, because there’s a solution here that probably doesn’t involve drowning. Wei Ying’s apparently running on more cylinders than he is, because he cups Lan Zhan’s face between his hands to force eye contact.

“We’re gonna get out of this tub,” he says, face flushed and sweating from the heat, eyes dark and wide with arousal, “and we’re gonna get in the shower, and I’m going to rinse off so I don’t taste like epsom salts, and then you’re gonna get on your knees and I’m gonna fuck your mouth and come down your throat. Is that what you want, baby?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, relieved that one of them is capable of planning. He thinks maybe he should say more, so he adds, “Green.”

“Great,” Wei Ying says, struggling up to his knees and reaching past Lan Zhan to drain the tub. “Green here, too, green all the way down, let’s do this.”

They drip all over the bathroom on the way to the shower, and Wei Ying definitely still tastes at least a little bit like eucalyptus and epsom salts, but Lan Zhan finds he does not give a single fuck about that as he kneels between Wei Ying and the tiled wall, Wei Ying’s hands tight in his hair and his cock in his mouth. He’s getting better at this, has a little more control over his gag reflex, so he relaxes into it and sucks and lets Wei Ying fuck him as hard as he wants until Wei Ying shudders and convulses and his dick jerks on Lan Zhan’s tongue as he comes. Everything in Lan Zhan’s brain is fuzzy and pleasant, the white noise of the shower raining down around him, dampening the outside world and the anxieties that constantly lurk in the back of his head. He swallows obediently and then happily holds Wei Ying’s softening cock where it is, in his mouth, as Wei Ying leans against the shower wall and pants for breath.

“That was so good,” Wei Ying tells him, and Lan Zhan hums around his dick, so pleased he feels like he’s glowing with it.

“Okay, so,” Wei Ying says, later, when they’re clean and in bed and curled together in a tangle of limbs and skin. “Like that, but with fucking?” He hands Lan Zhan the glass of water and pets his hair as he drinks. Lan Zhan thinks this might be the aftercare he’s read about. He likes it.

“Like that,” Lan Zhan confirms, handing the water glass back and pressing his face into Wei Ying’s chest, “but with fucking.” A moment, while he considers. “And less water.”

Wei Ying laughs, soft and fond under Lan Zhan’s ear. “You got it, sweetheart.” Lan Zhan smiles, blissed out, sex-drunk, and sleepy. He curls closer, and Wei Ying keeps petting his hair, and they’re gonna do this again tomorrow with fucking. Amazing. His life is perfect. Nothing could make this better.

“I love you,” Wei Ying says, and apparently Lan Zhan was wrong, and there was one thing that could make this better, and it just happened.

“Love you, too,” he says, to complete the cycle, and then he promptly falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan wakes up still floaty and loose from the night before, pressed into Wei Ying’s chest as Wei Ying curls protectively around him. He takes a sleepy moment to marvel at having had a whole week of this, and that if everything goes well, he’ll get to have it for the foreseeable future. Maybe for the rest of his life? He still shies away from thinking about that, part of him afraid that wanting a thing will mean losing the thing. That’s probably something to bring up in therapy, he thinks, and he carefully climbs out of bed despite Wei Ying’s unconscious clinging.

More comfortable with Wei Ying’s presence in his life and their(!!!!!) apartment, Lan Zhan goes for his full run. It’s dark when he leaves and barely dawn when he returns, this late into autumn. Wei Ying’s birthday is coming up soon, he realizes as he crunches through fallen red-gold leaves. Should they have a party? Wei Ying would probably like a party, even if the idea of having all his--their, Lan Zhan stops and corrects himself, their friends over is a bit much. He survived yesterday, he supposes, and a party would have a designated start and end time. That seems like it would be less stressful. Wei Ying enjoys spending time with friends, and Lan Zhan wants Wei Ying to be happy. He resolves to bring up the possibility of a party, later, and starts the stairs back up.

Lan Zhan is partway through his yoga when, unexpectedly, Wei Ying comes stumbling out of their bedroom, dressed in Lan Zhan’s rabbit pajamas and yawning. He makes a sound that might be, “Morning,” and blearily proceeds to get his coffeemaker going.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks, from downward dog.

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says, clattering through the cupboards. “No, absolutely keep stretching like that, don’t stop on my account.” Lan Zhan’s ears flush a little, and he proceeds through the flow until he finds himself in a twist and can look back over his shoulder into the kitchen, where Wei Ying has pulled out a mixing bowl and the flour.

“Wei Ying?” he asks again, in a different tone, and Wei Ying measures something into the bowl and gives him an unfocused smile.

“I’m making pancakes,” Wei Ying says, and then, to himself, “Oh thank god.” He pours himself a cup of coffee and knocks back more of it than seems sensible given the likely temperature.

“Pancakes?” Lan Zhan asks, flowing back through poses until he ends up in the twist on the other side.

“Mmmhmmm,” Wei Ying says, getting a skillet out. “It’s a special occasion.” He drinks more of his coffee and grins, bright and a little shy. “I think normally you’re supposed to make someone breakfast after you fuck them for the first time, but we’re planning on a more involved scenario so we should really carbo load.”

“Carbo load,” Lan Zhan repeats tonelessly, sinking into a deep lunge that he can feel stretching all the way into his psoas.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, turning on the light above the stove. “Like marathon runners.”

“Is this going to be a marathon?” Lan Zhan asks, outwardly calm while anticipation and arousal fizz through his veins like fireflies.

“If we do it right,” Wei Ying says, and yawns again. “You keep doing that and I’ll keep staring at your ass and by the time you’re done there’ll be pancakes because I’m the best boyfriend alive.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, ears very red and back in downward dog. “You are.”

“Noooo,” Wei Ying mock-wails, over the sound of a whisk against ceramic. “You’re not allowed to be so romantic until after I’ve had my coffee, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan smiles as he moves into another twist and glances back at Wei Ying again. “Drink faster,” he suggests dryly, and Wei Ying goes satisfyingly red. Lan Zhan shoots him a smirk and goes back to his yoga, trying to focus on the movements and not on whether or not Wei Ying is going to destroy the kitchen. He doesn’t smell anything burning, anyway, so it’s probably fine.

Wei Ying is a dab hand at pancakes, as it turns out. “They’re cheap,” he explains as he fishes plain yogurt and jam out of the fridge, plates and a cup of tea for Lan Zhan already waiting on the table. “You can make them in a rice cooker if you’re desperate enough, but I usually at least had an electric skillet. It’s a nice change from congee when you’re hungry and trying to make the grocery money stretch.”

Lan Zhan frowns at his back, not enjoying the reminder of Wei Ying’s lean years. He doesn’t say anything, though, because this morning isn’t about re-litigating Wei Ying’s past struggles, it’s about enjoying a nice breakfast made by his boyfriend, and then that same boyfriend holding him down and hopefully screwing his brains out. Lan Zhan shakes himself and re-focuses, because he is hungry, and he can’t let himself get too distracted by the idea of what comes later.

(Him. He’ll be what comes later.)

(He’s making puns now. Wei Ying is truly the worst influence. Lan Zhan loves him.)

“Pancaaaaakes,” Wei Ying sings, carrying the styrofoam thing he’d insisted had to come with him from his former apartment over to the table and setting it between them. Lan Zhan doesn’t see pancakes, only potential toppings, so he takes the lid off suspiciously to a burst of steam and ah. There are the pancakes.

“Tortilla warmer,” Wei Ying says, helping himself to two pancakes off the top. “Keeps them hot without drying them out and costs like a dollar at the Mexican grocery.” He plops an obscene amount of blackberry jam on his plate and grins at Lan Zhan. “Worth every penny. When you’re poor you gotta find joy in the little things, like hot pancakes.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, instead of telling Wei Ying that he will never be poor again, and he takes a pancake. They’re delicious, and he tells Wei Ying so, because it’s true and because he wants to make him blush. It is, Lan Zhan thinks, the most sexually charged breakfast of his life, because he can’t stop thinking about what they’re going to do afterward, and he simultaneously wants to rush through eating and savor the tingling anticipation. He does have physical limits, though, and when he can no longer eat pancakes he sets down his fork and tries to breathe calmly. Maybe Wei Ying will just grab him by the collar of his running shirt and drag him into the bedroom. That would be fine. That would be great.

“How do you want this to go?” Wei Ying asks, cupping his coffee mug in both hands instead of manhandling Lan Zhan into bed, which is also acceptable, Lan Zhan supposes. It’s very thoughtful.

“I should probably shower,” Lan Zhan admits. There’s enough sweat left from the run and the yoga that it would be polite to wash it off, reluctant as he is to delay.

“And I should probably digest a little,” Wei Ying says. He sips his coffee. “I assume you’ll want to get changed? Without me there?”

Lan Zhan nods. There are really more logistics to this than he was expecting.

“What do you want me to wear?” Wei Ying cracks a smile over the rim of the cup. “I’m assuming you have opinions about that.”

He does. Lan Zhan has very many opinions about what Wei Ying should wear, and they range from “full impeccably tailored three-piece suit” to “nothing.” Swallowing, he clenches his hands in his lap and says, “Do you. The harness. From the fashion show.” He glances up, through his lashes. “Do you have that one?”

Wei Ying’s smile goes sultry, his eyes darkening. “I do,” he says, low. “Red briefs?”

Lan Zhan nods, blushing furiously and staring at Wei Ying’s left shoulder. In his peripheral vision, Wei Ying bites his lips and relaxes them, setting down his mug. “Sweetheart,” he says, still in that low voice, “do you want me to tell you what you should do to get ready?”

Lan Zhan nods again, relaxing a little bit. That’s easier, having a script is easier, and he knows if he doesn’t like some part of it, he can tell Wei Ying and Wei Ying will change it.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, standing up and walking slowly around the table. He comes to a stop behind Lan Zhan and grabs his ponytail, using it to tip his face back until Lan Zhan’s looking at him upside down, the top of his head pressed to Wei Ying’s stomach. Wei Ying sets his other hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder, thumb and fingertips gentle on the skin of his neck. “I think,” he starts, stroking his thumb back and forth soothingly, “you should go take your shower and do whatever else you want that will make you feel relaxed and comfortable. You should get dressed in whatever you want me to see you in. You should pull back the blankets and put on some music that you like.” He runs a knuckle up and down the tendon in Lan Zhan’s neck, barely skimming the skin, his eyes still soft and dark. “When you’re ready for me to come in, send me a text and then kneel in the middle of the bed. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, eyes drifting shut as he leans back into Wei Ying, trying to tip his head for better neck exposure but failing due to the hand in his ponytail. He stays there for a breath or two, enjoying being held, and then manages to remember he wanted to ask for something else.

“Wei Ying,” he says, blinking his eyes back open. Wei Ying raises an eyebrow, waiting for the question, and Lan Zhan flexes his fingertips against his thighs and says, “Your camera. Bring it in with you.”

Wei Ying’s eyes flare, and his smile goes wicked. “Yeah?” he asks, letting his hand settle back on Lan Zhan’s shoulder, the other one tightening in his hair. Lan Zhan makes an affirmative sound and shivers, the pressure on his scalp wired directly into the pleasure centers of his brain, apparently. “Great,” Wei Ying says, and then abruptly steps to the side, keeping Lan Zhan’s head pinned in place so he can kiss him in a harsh rush, invading his mouth and biting at his lower lip. Lan Zhan groans into it from the back of his throat and does his best to kiss back, trapped as he is, until Wei Ying pulls away with a gasp.

“All right, sweetheart,” he says, petting Lan Zhan’s hair as he lets go and steps away. “Go get ready for me.” It takes a moment for Lan Zhan to process the words, since mostly he’s wondering if maybe Wei Ying could just throw him down on the table, but when they click he manages to regain control of his limbs and walk, dazedly, to the bedroom.

Lan Zhan takes his time in the shower, because Wei Ying said to do whatever he would find relaxing. He does his usual morning skincare routine, and then carefully stills the shaking in his hands as he puts on eyeshadow and highlighter, picking out his lashline with a soft, smokey liner. His hand hovers over the diamond lipgloss, hesitating, and then he thinks about Wei Ying kissing it off his face until they both glitter like ice and he snatches it up and applies it with his usual precision. Lan Zhan leans his hands on the counter and looks at himself in the mirror, face gleaming, hair blow-dried to fall loose and soft across his shoulders. A shiver ripples over his skin as he thinks about Wei Ying taking pictures of him like this, heat and nervousness jolting through his guts, and he drifts out to the bedroom still in a haze.

Lan Zhan puts on a pair of briefs, first, because it feels very silly to do the rest of what he’s been asked to do while stark naked. Wei Ying’s album of chill lo-fi beats has been on his phone for weeks, so he turns that on and sets it to repeat, letting it soothe his heart rate. He pulls back the sheets and smooths them with precise movements, grounding himself with the feeling of his hands against the sleek cotton fabric. Finally he gets the harness out of the drawer where it lives, a shining little secret, and he buckles it on with shaking hands. Nerves and excitement and anticipation and arousal all war for supremacy inside him, the previous blissful, fuzzed-out sensation gone, now that Lan Zhan no longer has Wei Ying’s hand in his hair and his voice in his ears. Soon, he tells himself, picking up his phone. Lan Zhan takes a deep breath and opens the text app.

To: Wei Ying
Ready.

The phone goes away in a drawer on do-not-disturb. Lan Zhan wants no interruptions. Lan Zhan wants Wei Ying, wants that floaty feeling again. Lan Zhan also very much wants to be fucked. He kneels in the middle of the bed, hands resting on his thighs, eyes down demurely, and he takes another long, slow, deep breath, and he waits.

Wei Ying’s quiet footsteps reach his ears, the bedroom door swinging open a moment later. Lan Zhan keeps his eyes down, trying to keep his breathing even, the harness shifting with the movement of his ribs. Wei Ying comes to stand at the foot of the bed and Lan Zhan’s skin prickles with the awareness of his gaze. There’s only the sound of the music for a moment, wrapping itself around them, and then the click of the camera. Lan Zhan inhales sharply, shoulders tensing slightly in surprise, and the mattress indents under Wei Ying’s knee.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, one hand cupping Lan Zhan’s chin, tipping his head up. “Look at you.” Wei Ying’s eyes are picked out with eyeliner, his hair loose and combed to one side in a waterfall of inky black and crimson red. He’s wearing the holographic red harness from the fashion show--this time against bare skin instead of lace--the red briefs, and he’s put on a black button-up shirt over the top, tied in the front under his ribs and the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. It’s a shockingly good look, open in the front to expose a delicious v of chest, gaping when he moves in teasing glimpses of more skin. If Lan Zhan hadn’t already been ridiculously hard just from the anticipation, he would be now after getting to see the Wei Ying of some of his wildest fantasies.

“So gorgeous,” Wei Ying tells him, thumb brushing barely below Lan Zhan’s bottom lip, camera in his other hand. “You put this on for me?” Lan Zhan nods, careful not to dislodge Wei Ying’s hand, ribs expanding with another deep breath as the harness lightly bites into his skin. Every part of his awareness has narrowed down to the harness and Wei Ying’s fingers on his face, skin tingling with how much he wants more. Lan Zhan takes another one of those breaths, already a little floaty, and waits for instructions.

Wei Ying leans closer, close enough that his breath whispers against Lan Zhan’s lips, almost close enough to kiss. “You put this on just for me, didn’t you?” Lan Zhan nods, again, a helpless little shiver rolling through him. Wei Ying’s smile sharpens, and his hand traces very, very lightly down Lan Zhan’s neck, over his collarbones, then along the edges of where the harness meets skin. “I’m the only one who gets to see you like this, aren’t I?” Lan Zhan nods again, mouth falling slightly open, swaying involuntarily into Wei Ying’s touch to try for more, more contact, more skin. Wei Ying moves with him, keeping it at the very lightest tease, and Lan Zhan digs his fingers into his thighs to stay still. There’s an o-ring under his sternum, where the upright strap of the harness meets the horizontal one that goes under his ribs, and Wei Ying circles a finger inside it, Lan Zhan’s heart pounding just above, and Lan Zhan whines. He hadn’t even known he was capable of whining like that, but his pulse throbs in his ears and his chest and his cock and he wants Wei Ying to touch him properly and he wants this delicate tease forever.

“Mm,” Wei Ying says, finger stilling in the o-ring, a suggestion and a promise. He pulls away, settling back on his knees, and lifts the camera. The click of the shutter makes Lan Zhan shiver again, blinking hazily at his distorted reflection in the lens. Wei Ying lowers the camera and smiles at him, slow and pleased. “I’m gonna take photos while you pose for me,” he says, in a voice that is much more low and controlled and authoritative than usual. “I’m gonna look at them later and remember how hot you were right now and I’m gonna jerk off while I look at them.” Lan Zhan inhales sharply, that promise going right to the core of him, making his dick jerk and leak in his briefs. “That’s what I want you to think about while I’m shooting,” Wei Ying continues, sliding back off the bed and walking around to the side, camera clicking in counterpoint to the music. “Think about me thinking about you.” He pauses, barely out of Lan Zhan’s eyeline, and says, “Turn and look at me over your shoulder.”

Lan Zhan does, and the shutter clicks, and Wei Ying tells him how to pose, and Lan Zhan poses. He drifts into a muzzy sort of dream-state, where the only things that exist are the sounds of the shutter and Wei Ying’s instructions and the heady rush that washes over him every time Wei Ying tells him he’s doing well. Wei Ying touches him, sometimes, a barely-there brush of his hands as he gets Lan Zhan to move an arm, arch his back, point his toe, always accompanied by the lightest caress as he draws away, skating along Lan Zhan’s skin and raising goosebumps in its wake. It makes Lan Zhan’s cock pulse every time, makes his mouth water and his flesh tingle, makes him wildly desperate for more. When Wei Ying carefully arranges him against the headboard, legs spread, Lan Zhan’s own hand on his hip to frame his erection, Lan Zhan actually moans out loud, trying to chase Wei Ying’s touch in a relentless shift of his hips, aching for more, aching to be held down and pinned and kissed and absolutely, relentlessly fucked.

“Wei Ying,” he whispers, dizzy. He doesn’t think he could say other words if he tried, his whole being full to the brim with Wei Ying, with wanting and with love.

“Oh?” Wei Ying asks, a little mischief in his voice. “What is it, sweetheart?” The camera clicks, and Lan Zhan squirms again, feeling pinned-down and exposed. “Are you feeling done with the photoshoot?” Wei Ying crawls closer, between Lan Zhan’s spread legs, and cups his chin again. “Are you ready for more?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan breathes, trembling with the effort of keeping still, that strange, wonderful floaty feeling back, like he’s hovering over himself and also deep inside himself. “Wei Ying,” he pleads, the fingers on his face burning like a brand. Wei Ying makes a thoughtful sound and then his thumb comes up to press against Lan Zhan’s lower lip, hard. He scrapes it sideways with bruising force, smearing Lan Zhan’s lip gloss into what must be an absolutely glorious mess, and then shoves his thumb into Lan Zhan’s mouth. Lan Zhan moans, first at the pressure and then at the invasion, and he sucks before Wei Ying can tell him to do so.

“You want me inside you that bad, huh?” Wei Ying says, watching Lan Zhan fellate his thumb with dark eyes. He pulls it back out while Lan Zhan chases it mournfully, but it’s so he can push his first two fingers between Lan Zhan’s spit-slick lips, which is even better. “So desperate for me,” Wei Ying says, over the obscene wet sounds Lan Zhan is making. He sets the camera aside onto one of the bed-side tables with a little clink, and before Lan Zhan can really blink that hand is knotted into the hair at the base of his neck, tipping his head back, and Wei Ying has fully straddled him. Wei Ying grinds down hard against Lan Zhan’s dick, almost painfully, and Lan Zhan makes a desperate hitching sound around the fingers in his mouth. He fists his hands into the sheets at his sides and arches up, chasing Wei Ying’s body, chasing the friction, making more muffled noises. He’s going to come from this, he realizes, another fifteen seconds or so and he’ll come in his underwear with Wei Ying’s fingers in his mouth. He should probably warn Wei Ying, but he’s too far gone for that, too far gone to do anything but pant and moan and shake.

“You’re gonna come, aren’t you?” Wei Ying asks from next to his ear, and when Lan Zhan nods vaguely he bites his jaw. “Good,” he growls, hips rolling through a punishing rhythm. “Come. Let me hear you.” Wei Ying bites the crook of his neck, teeth digging into skin and muscle, and Lan Zhan snaps his hips up twice more and shatters. His self control and sense of embarrassment must have left his body to float somewhere up above him with whatever part of his consciousness is there, because he makes a truly shocking variety of noises, gasping around Wei Ying’s fingers, spit wet on his chin and come wet in the crook of his thigh. “Good boy,” Wei Ying says, carding his fingers through his hair, letting Lan Zhan mouth weakly at his fingers as he comes down from it. “That was so pretty, thank you for letting me see it, you did so well.” He takes his hand out of Lan Zhan’s mouth, which is a little bit sad, but it’s so he can get both hands into his hair and scritch at his scalp, then drag them down his neck and over his shoulders and collarbones and chest. Lan Zhan catches his breath and lets himself be petted, Wei Ying’s hands tracing from skin to harness and back again, the touch trying to rekindle a fire that’s too burnt out to light at the moment.

“We,” he tries, when he can feel his tongue again. “We didn’t. Was I too fast?” They had plans. Lan Zhan was going to bottom. He was looking forward to that immensely, and now he’s soft under Wei Ying’s thigh and very spent and a little worried that he’s ruined the whole day.

“Oh, sweetie,” Wei Ying says fondly, cupping his face with both hands and kissing him lightly, forehead, bridge of the nose, eyebrow. “You weren’t too fast. That was perfect. I loved it and I love you.” He kisses him, then, lips much more gentle than his thumb had been. “I’m still gonna fuck you,” Wei Ying says, diamond lipgloss sparkling in a smear across his mouth. “I’m gonna finger you open so slow and gentle, baby, you’re gonna love it, and then when you’re finally ready for me I’m gonna fuck you until all you can say is my name.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, trying for another kiss, that ember in his guts glowing again as though Wei Ying’s words were a breath blown on kindling. Wei Ying dodges him, laughing.

“Yes,” he says, “like that.” Lan Zhan makes a plaintive sound and Wei Ying takes pity on him, kisses him slow and sweet and with enough tongue that the claim is unmistakable. Lan Zhan shivers into it and gives himself over, blinking hazily up at the ceiling when Wei Ying finally pulls away. “Beautiful,” Wei Ying says, climbing off of him, and tugs at Lan Zhan’s ruined underwear. “Let’s get these off you.”

It takes some work, because Lan Zhan’s limbs don’t seem to be working, particularly, but eventually he’s kneeling in the middle of the bed again, this time on a towel, naked but for the harness. Wei Ying presses in against his back, hands brushing from his thighs up to his shoulders and back, firm strokes that help settle him back into his body. Wei Ying kisses along his shoulders, nipping at him occasionally like a kitten, and when Lan Zhan leans back against him he hooks two fingers into the o-ring at his chest and pulls him forward sharply, pinning him face-down against the mattress with a hand at the nape of his neck. Wei Ying follows him down, body weight coming to rest on his back, hard cock pressed to the curve of his ass. Lan Zhan exhales, shaky, and lets his eyes slip shut.

“Good,” Wei Ying breathes against his ear. “Just like that, sweetheart.” He finds Lan Zhan’s hands and sets them next to his head, squeezing his wrists. “Can you keep your hands here for me?” he asks, and Lan Zhan nods into the towel. “Color?” he asks, thumbs still digging into the tendons at Lan Zhan’s wrists, and it’s so good it takes him a second to remember what colors are.

“Green,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying releases his wrists and pats his hands soothingly.

“Good job,” Wei Ying says, kissing his ear. “Thank you for answering me.” He sits up, taking his warmth away from Lan Zhan’s back, which is a tragedy, but then his hands come down, stroking along Lan Zhan’s spine, over his shoulder blades, that transition from skin to vinyl and back to skin again still as compelling as ever. His hands slow to a stop on Lan Zhan’s shoulders and he sighs. “Oh, Lan Zhan, sweetheart,” he says, tracing his thumbs in little circles, “all that yoga this morning and an orgasm and you’re still carrying so much tension.” His thumbs dig in, cruelly, unerring on a muscle knot that lives persistently behind Lan Zhan’s right shoulder from computer use. The pain is sharp and deep and whites through Lan Zhan’s consciousness, and when he comes back to himself he’s hissing. Wei Ying relaxes the pressure, back to the petting, like he’s trying to clean the tension from Lan Zhan’s skin with his palms, which is nice and also completely fucking unacceptable.

“Again,” Lan Zhan rasps into the towel, and, “Green.”

Wei Ying’s hands still on his shoulders, flexing once. “I see,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Should have known you’d want it hard, gege.” Lan Zhan shivers at the endearment, hovering three feet above the bed, and then Wei Ying’s thumbs dig in on a knot below his left shoulder blade and he slams back into his body and out of his brain and tries to breathe.

Wei Ying is relentless, working over Lan Zhan’s back and arms, driving an elbow into his glutes, rolling him onto his sides to work out the tight places in his hips from running that yoga never manages to reach. It is absolutely agonizing. Lan Zhan finds himself on the verge of tears more than once but it’s also so good, so intense that he has absolutely no desire for it to ever stop. He can’t think, can’t worry, can’t do anything but try to survive it, and then every time he tenses up under a particularly vicious assault Wei Ying gentles his hands and pets as much of his body as he can reach and whispers soothing things in his ear.

“Oh, honey,” he says, Lan Zhan sprawled out on his back, one of Wei Ying’s thumbs driving into a knot under his armpit, where Lan Zhan hadn’t even known he could get a knot. “You poor thing.” He holds the pressure while Lan Zhan squirms and gasps and finally they both feel it release. Lan Zhan whimpers, eyelashes wet, and Wei Ying cups his face, those punishing hands soft and kind now. “You spend so much time being strong and taking care of people,” he whispers, stroking Lan Zhan’s hair, giving him a chance to catch his breath. “Who’s been taking care of you?”

The question slips between Lan Zhan’s ribs and into his heart like a perfectly aimed blade, sinking in so quickly that there’s a brief moment where it doesn’t hurt before it twists sideways into agony. He doesn’t--there hasn’t--Lan Zhan doesn’t operate like that. Even when he was a child--his mother tried, when she was available; his father too distant and grief-stricken; his uncle doing his best and failing, which is something Lan Zhan understands more and more these days. Lan Huan certainly would, if Lan Zhan ever asked, but Lan Zhan doesn’t. He’s seen the other burdens than Lan Huan carries, from their shared upbringing, and his brother was as much a parent to him when they were young as their actual parents, and Lan Zhan--Lan Zhan doesn’t want to add to that burden, so he simply doesn’t. He’s trained himself to be ruthlessly self sufficient, to not need caretaking, to not need the support of anyone else. As long as he doesn’t need anyone else, they can’t hurt him, they won’t see him. It’s safe.

And then: Wei Ying, shattering those walls with a single, precisely placed push. Lan Zhan’s ribs crack open, like they did on that day the truth came out, only this time, instead of breaking them apart with his hands to offer Wei Ying horrible, blood-streaked honesty, Wei Ying has peeled them back with gentle touches and gentler questions to reach the trembling, beating core of him. It’s like there’s a rabbit in his chest, Lan Zhan thinks through the haze, a delicate, fearful thing always poised to run, and Wei Ying has tempted it into his hands to cradle it, soft and warm and safe.

“Oh,” Lan Zhan says, squeezing his eyes shut. He finally moves his hands, reaching for Wei Ying, unseeing, finding him by sense memory and pulling him close. “Wei Ying,” he says, asks, and Wei Ying kisses him, weighs him down with his whole body and kisses him until nothing else exists but Wei Ying’s hands in his hair and his tongue in Lan Zhan’s mouth. There’s a light tremor all the way through Lan Zhan’s body, and he’s hard again against Wei Ying’s stomach, and he wants--he wants--he wants--

“I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby,” Wei Ying says, petting the side of his neck, kissing his jaw and ear and temple. “Gonna make you feel so good.” He climbs off of Lan Zhan, inspiring a whine, and keeps hold of Lan Zhan’s hand with one of his as he digs in the drawer. Lan Zhan needs that, needs the physical contact. He thinks if Wei Ying lets go he might blow away on the breeze, never to be seen again. Lan Zhan keeps dragging his eyes open and letting them fall shut, over and over, caught between wanting to watch Wei Ying at all times and wanting to let this happen without his conscious involvement, wanting to dissolve into a puddle of pure sensation.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, back next to him on the bed again, thigh pressed to thigh, “just stay relaxed. I have you.” Lan Zhan nods, eyes drifting closed again, and lets Wei Ying arrange him on his back, knees bent and legs spread. Wei Ying drags his hands over Lan Zhan’s skin every time he touches him, moving his ankles and then stroking up to Lan Zhan’s knees, petting from his shoulders down to his ribs, all carefully avoiding his dick and the place between his legs where Lan Zhan wants him most. He lifts Lan Zhan’s arms, kissing each wrist, and sets them gently next to Lan Zhan’s head, elbows splayed out. “Can you keep these for me, honey?” he asks, pinning Lan Zhan’s wrists in place with a firm pressure that isn’t quite painful. Lan Zhan nods and opens his eyes, and Wei Ying smiles down at him, face flushed and eyes full of heat and tenderness, his mouth kiss-red and smeared with Lan Zhan’s lipgloss.

“I love you,” Lan Zhan says, the first real sentence he’s managed in a while. Wei Ying smiles even wider.

“I love you, too,” he says, leaning in and nuzzling Lan Zhan’s cheek. “My love. My Lan Zhan.” He squeezes Lan Zhan’s wrists one more time. “Keep these here,” he reminds him, releases his hold, and kneels between Lan Zhan’s legs. He makes sure to put on the nitrile glove within Lan Zhan’s field of view and the anticipation roars back to life, a nervous fire in his guts and along every inch of his skin. This is happening, Wei Ying is going to be inside him, he’s going to get fucked and then he’ll have been fucked and he’ll know how it feels for Wei Ying to fuck him.

“Keep breathing,” Wei Ying says, and waits for Lan Zhan to obediently inhale and exhale, the harness still there, still binding him into his body. “Relax,” Wei Ying adds, and slips a lubed hand between Lan Zhan’s legs. Lan Zhan has to stop himself from jerking his hips up off the bed, somehow startled even though he was expecting the touch. Wei Ying finds his hole quickly and presses against it, a smooth, slow circle that has Lan Zhan making urgent little noises with every breath. “Look at you,” Wei Ying croons, petting Lan Zhan’s dick once, gently, the first time he’s actually touched it since they started. “Look how much you want me.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, clenching his hands next to his head, trying to squirm down into his touch without actually moving. It’s the only thing he seems to be able to say, and Wei Ying hears what he’s actually asking for and pushes a finger inside him without further delay. Lan Zhan thought it would take more work than that--he always has to spend a little while warming himself up, breathing and forcing his muscles to relax, but Wei Ying already has him so loose and wandering from the first orgasm and the relentless attack on every tense place in his body that it’s easy, so easy to just lay there and take it. He rocks his hips into the touch, just a little, just enough so that it’s not Wei Ying doing all the work, and he whines wordlessly, a forge in his belly burning red-gold.

“Oh, you’re so ready for me,” Wei Ying says admiringly, working two fingers into him without pausing. That takes slightly more effort than one, but not much, and the slick slide of Wei Ying’s gloved hand, the stretch, the fullness all make him ache, both from the burn of the actual penetration and from how much he wants more. Wei Ying finds his prostate on the next stroke and Lan Zhan’s hips do jerk up, then, a moan punching out of his throat and his cock jumping. “Still,” Wei Ying reminds him, planting one hand on Lan Zhan’s hip and doing it again. Lan Zhan whines, hands clenching and unclenching next to his head, his whole body trembling with the effort of obeying. He thinks he might shake apart, might teleport right off the bed, might pass the fuck out. This is Wei Ying, inside him, fingering him open, and he’s dreamed about it for years and no part of him was actually ready for it to happen.

“I’m gonna go up to three now,” Wei Ying tells him, petting his hip. “You’re doing great, baby, you’re taking my fingers so well.” Lan Zhan whines again, bites his lower lip until it hurts, breathes and shuts his eyes so his focus narrows down to Wei Ying and the stretch of his fingers and the fullness that he craves so badly. “You’re so hot,” Wei Ying says, keeping him pinned down with the hand on his hip and fucking him with the other, slow but firm, dragging against his prostate with every stroke. “God, you feel so good even through this glove. I can’t wait to fuck you. I’ve wanted you on my cock for years.”

“Then do it,” Lan Zhan says on a moan, which he wasn’t actually expecting to say. Wei Ying apparently wasn’t expecting it either, because he lets out a bark of laughter.

“Are you giving me attitude, sweetie?” he says, delighted, not increasing the pace of his fingers at all, the slide even easier as Lan Zhan relaxes around it. “I didn’t know you had it in you.” On the next stroke he curls his fingers up, a relentless pressure, and Lan Zhan hitches out a breath and feels himself leak hot and wet onto his abs.

“Wei Ying,” he begs, clenching around Wei Ying’s fingers, rocking his hips as much as he can, legs jerking occasionally as he tries not to move. “Wei Ying, please.”

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully, sliding the hand on Lan Zhan’s hip up to tweak his nipple. “Sound like you want to be fucked.”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, twitching again, clenching around Wei Ying’s fingers, full and empty at the same time. “Want that.”

Wei Ying pets his cock lightly again, and Lan Zhan almost pulls a muscle in keeping himself from chasing the pressure. “You’re going to have to wait a little longer for my dick,” he says, shifting around on the bed and laughing when Lan Zhan whines in complaint. “Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s gonna be worth it.” Wei Ying strokes the side of his face, fingers still working in Lan Zhan’s ass. “Can you open your eyes for me, honey?”

Lan Zhan manages that, barely, and Wei Ying pats his cheek in congratulations. “Good job,” he says. His hand leaves Lan Zhan’s skin, and when it returns holding the red glittery dildo Lan Zhan nearly comes on the spot. His face must do something (he has no idea what any part of his body is doing right now, other than where Wei Ying is touching him) because Wei Ying’s smile is absolutely filthy wicked. “I’m gonna fuck you with this,” he says, “only it’s all cold right now, and I want it to be warm for you.” That smile goes even sharper, his eyes hungry. “Open your mouth.”

Lan Zhan does, immediately, and Wei Ying fucks his mouth with the dildo with no warmup, going straight to the same relentless tempo as his fingers. It’s good, it’s so good, Lan Zhan only wishes it were Wei Ying’s actual dick he was sucking, so his mouth could be flooded with the taste of his precome, so he could listen to the sounds Wei Ying makes when Lan Zhan gives him head. He shuts his eyes, so it’s a little easier to pretend, and lets himself make all the urgent little noises he wants.

“You’re so good at that,” Wei Ying says, working the dildo a little deeper, tone admiring. “You’re so good at sucking dick. I love fucking your mouth, baby, you feel so good when I do it.” Lan Zhan moans and, in what he thinks is an impressive feat of muscular control, lifts his head to take the silicone deeper, controlling his gag reflex long enough to swallow around it before he drops back to the mattress weakly. “You love doing it, don’t you?” Wei Ying asks, pulling the dildo out and trailing the wet, warm head of it down over Lan Zhan’s chin.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, voice rough. “I practiced,” he admits, the truth slipping out of him to join the floaty, far-away part. “I practiced for you.”

Wei Ying shoves the dildo back into his mouth, curling his fingers up against Lan Zhan’s prostate at the same time, forcing a kind of muffled wail out of him. “You practiced sucking cock for me?” he asks, as Lan Zhan does just that. “Did you practice fucking yourself for me, too?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, as Wei Ying frees his mouth again. “Thought about you. Pretended.” Wei Ying presses against his prostate once more, almost viciously, before removing his fingers, and Lan Zhan hates it, hates the empty feeling. He whines, involuntarily, making all kinds of noises he never imagined making before. Lan Zhan hears the slick sounds of lube and shivers, head-to-toe, clenching on nothing and biting his lips.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, petting the inside of his thigh. Lan Zhan feels the blunt, warm head of the dildo against his asshole and exhales in the same moment that Wei Ying pushes it inside. The stretch is good, familiar, he knows it now. He feels full to the brim, like it’s shifting his lungs aside, making him struggle for air in the best ways. A little punched-out sigh escapes him, his body relaxing around the silicone, ready to take whatever Wei Ying has to give.

“This is so hot,” Wei Ying says, easing the dildo out and back in, a slow tease that sparks all up and down Lan Zhan’s spine. “I could come just watching you take this, watching you all stretched out and hard and begging for me.” Lan Zhan skin is hot and shivering and he’s very far away from himself and very centered around where he’s being fucked and he doesn’t know what he wants, exactly, but he manages to lift his hips a little bit into the next stroke. Wei Ying understands, and shifts immediately from the gentle tease to a relentless, firm fucking, jolting Lan Zhan with every thrust. Lan Zhan can feel it in the back of his throat, it seems like, pulsing along with the fluttering of his heartbeat.

“Wei Ying,” he begs, working his hands into his hair just so he has something to actually hold on to. “Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.” It’s like a mantra, like a spell, wrapping itself around him, filling him up inside, everything he ever wanted, Wei Ying. “Wei Ying, please.”

The dildo does not pause in its movements even for a moment. “Please what?” Wei Ying asks, petting his chest, teasing his nipples, and fucking him out of his mind. Lan Zhan turns his head to bite one of his biceps around a moan. “Please what, Lan Zhan?”

“Fuck me,” Lan Zhan rasps into his arm, clenching his inner muscles, leaking onto his abs.

“I am fucking you,” Wei Ying points out in an entirely too reasonable voice. He speeds up the dildo a little, just to illustrate his point, and Lan Zhan whines. “Did you want something else?”

Lan Zhan swallows, tongue slow and heavy in his mouth, all his words half-hidden in the haze of arousal. He rocks his hips up into the dildo a couple of times, barely able to move, dick painfully hard, and finally manages, “Your cock.” He whimpers as Wei Ying changes the angle a little bit, thrashing his head on the mattress. “Please, Wei Ying. I want your cock in me.”

Wei Ying’s weight shifts on the bed as he crashes their mouths together, kissing Lan Zhan breathless as he fucks him senseless. “Yeah,” he says, his breath hot on Lan Zhan’s lips, “Yeah, baby, I’m gonna fuck you so good. You’re gonna come with my dick in you and you’re gonna love it.” He bites Lan Zhan’s lower lip, hard, then his jaw, then his neck, and Lan Zhan judders underneath him, waves of trembling he can’t stop.

“Please,” Lan Zhan begs, self-control as broken as his voice. “Oh god, Wei Ying, please.” Wei Ying kisses him silent again, stealing his words and his breath, and then sits up and abruptly pulls out the dildo (too abruptly, Lan Zhan practically sobs with it). Lan Zhan blinks his eyes back open to find Wei Ying stripping out of the button-up, eyes wild, face and chest almost as red as his harness.

“Hands and knees,” he says, voice stern but shaking. “Face the foot of the bed.” He climbs out from between Lan Zhan’s legs, presumably to remove the red briefs and do whatever else he needs to do before he finally fucks Lan Zhan. Regaining control of his limbs is a real challenge, but Lan Zhan manages, feeling as clumsy as a newborn fawn. His arms shake, elbows weak as he braces himself as asked, his hair falling in a curtain around his face as he drops his head and pants for breath. It’s happening, it’s happening, a voice in the back of his head screams, and he hears the wet sounds of lube again and then Wei Ying’s warm hand on the curve of his ass.

“So beautiful,” he says, petting Lan Zhan’s lower back, the dip of his spine, his hip. He shifts closer, the mattress moving under Lan Zhan’s knees, and god he’s ready, he’s so ready, he wants this so much. “Are you ready for me, sweetheart?” Wei Ying asks, petting his back again. “You ready for my cock?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says urgently, trying not to fly apart. “Please, Wei Ying.” He tries to push back, as though that would accomplish anything, and achieves nothing but Wei Ying’s hand snapping up to grab the harness and hold him in place.

“Impatient,” Wei Ying teases, shifting closer still, his knees nestling on the inside of Lan Zhan’s. “Or very patient. I’ve been making you wait so long.” The hot, hard head of his dick presses against Lan Zhan’s entrance, still slick and open and terribly empty, and Lan Zhan freezes, shivering from head to toe, mouth dry as he tries to remember how to breathe.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, hardly able to keep himself up on his arms. “Yes, Wei Ying, fuck me.”

Wei Ying slides in on his next breath, firm and determined, and doesn’t stop until he’s all the way inside, flush against Lan Zhan’s thighs and ass. They both groan, almost in harmony, and now Lan Zhan can feel that Wei Ying is shaking too, tremors in his hand gripping the harness and the other on his hip. His dick burns inside Lan Zhan, stretching him out and filling him up and stoking the forge in his belly to white-hot. There’s sweat on his temples and on his chest, beading along the lines of the harness, and he can’t get enough air, and he’s acutely aware of every place Wei Ying is touching him, where Wei Ying is inside him, and if pressed could tell you literally nothing else about the world around them or his own body or which way is up. Lan Zhan whimpers, a little, tries to move and Wei Ying tightens the hand on the harness and holds him in place, pinned and impaled. Lan Zhan loves it.

“God,” Wei Ying says, choked, drawing his hips back in a slow slide and then back in, experimental, testing the waters. “You feel better than I could have imagined, sweetheart.” He thrusts a few times, getting a feel for it, and then halts his hips and uses the harness to move Lan Zhan instead, fucking him back on his cock with sharp movements. “Look at you,” he moans, fingers digging into Lan Zhan’s hip, speaking over the little “Ah! Ah!” sounds Lan Zhan can’t stop making each time he slaps back into Wei Ying’s skin, “you take my cock so well, baby. You take my dick like you were made for it.”

“I was,” Lan Zhan chokes out, clenching around the thrusts, unable to do anything else like think or breathe or reach for his own neglected, leaking dick. “Made for you.”

“For me,” Wei Ying agrees, the hand on Lan Zhan’s hip sliding up his back, fingernails dragging against his skin until it fists in his hair. “You’re mine.” He speeds up, dragging Lan Zhan onto his cock again and again, hard and deep. Lan Zhan’s dick keeps twitching--he must have soaked the towel underneath them by this point and he doesn’t care, can’t focus on anything but Wei Ying.

“Yours,” he says, “only yours, forever.” Wei Ying makes a punched-out sound and fucks into him onto the next stroke as he pulls Lan Zhan back, and the sound Lan Zhan makes is nothing short of feral. He’s mindless, desperate, his orgasm a howling thing trying to escape. Wei Ying pulls his hair, dragging his head up and back and changing the angle of his thrusts at the same time.

“Look at yourself,” he rasps, the heavy weight of him dragging along Lan Zhan’s insides. “Open your eyes, sweetheart.” Lan Zhan obeys, blinking as the blurry view resolves itself. Wei Ying has them facing the full-length mirrors on the closet doors, so Lan Zhan looks into his own reflection, barely able to parse that the flushed, sweating, wantonly moaning person he sees there is actually himself. “Look how pretty you are like this,” Wei Ying says, leaning down over Lan Zhan’s back to growl into his ear, fucking him with harsh, unstoppable thrusts that shake both their bodies. “I want you to watch yourself as I make you mine.”

Lan Zhan sobs, then, once, overcome with too many feelings to be able to separate them out, overwhelmed with pleasure and the good pain in his scalp and the tenderness of his love for Wei Ying and Wei Ying’s hot, gorgeous cock fucking his brains right out of his head. There’s no Lan Zhan now, there’s only what Wei Ying has made him into, this beautiful being of pure light and energy and raw, burning sex. Watching it happen to him in the mirror is agonizing and he can’t look away.

Wei Ying bites his shoulder, another perfect sting of pain. “You can come anytime you want to,” he pants in Lan Zhan’s ear. “And then I’m gonna come in you and fill you up so everyone knows you belong to me.” Lan Zhan sobs again, and he must actually be crying because Wei Ying kisses his shoulder and makes eye contact in the mirror. “Green?” he asks, not stopping his movements at all, which is a blessing because Lan Zhan is trembling and tight and clenching around him on every thrust and if Wei Ying stops he really will start crying.

“Green,” Lan Zhan says, having to claw the word out of his chest, and then his arms give out and he drops to his elbows. The angle change is punishing, it’s perfect, Wei Ying sliding home with every stroke, but it’s not--he can’t--he’s never been able to--

“Wei Ying,” he begs, voice broken, trying to hold back the tears swelling behind his eyelids in the same way that he’s trying to hold back the crest of his orgasm. Wei Ying drops the hand in his hair, keeps him pinned face-down to the bed with the harness, and reaches around to grab Lan Zhan’s dripping wet dick. Lan Zhan sobs again as he fists it, biting the sheets, about to find the resonance frequency where his physical being will tear itself apart, trying to fight it at the same time that he craves it.

“I have you, baby,” Wei Ying tells him, his voice gentle even as his dick and hand are driving Lan Zhan toward something terrifying in its impending violence. He leans down and kisses Lan Zhan’s shoulders, the back of his neck. The speed increases, Wei Ying groaning into Lan Zhan’s skin, his hand tight on Lan Zhan’s dick, and Lan Zhan’s on the razor’s edge of losing his entire conscious being. He hovers there for a panicked eternal moment before Wei Ying kisses him again and says, “You’re safe, gege. You can let go.”

Lan Zhan does. He sobs into the mattress and comes around Wei Ying’s cock and it goes on for so long he thinks he stops breathing. He thinks his soul entirely leaves his body to hover by the ceiling with the rest of him, leaving behind the animalistic part of him that only cares about the pleasure and shakes with Wei Ying’s every thrust and every movement of his hand. “Fuck,” Wei Ying says, the word ripped out of him, and then he follows Lan Zhan down, fucking them both through their orgasms with harsh, gasping breaths. Lan Zhan can feel it, he vaguely realizes, he can feel Wei Ying coming inside him, the jerk of his cock and the pooling of liquid as he ejaculates. It makes him feel hot, filthy, used and claimed. He loves it, he’s exhausted, wrung out and left to dry, jolting with the aftershocks and still crying. Every muscle in his body finally gives up and he collapses, Wei Ying carefully following him down, spread out across his back like a weighted blanket with his cock still inside Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan drifts for a while, in a warm place, fuzzy and blissful and held down and still softly crying. He can’t seem to stop crying, but he also isn’t capable of trying very hard to stop crying, so he doesn’t. From very, very far away, he knows Wei Ying is talking to him, stroking his hair and kissing his neck and shoulder and saying, “That was so good, sweetheart, you were so good for me, I love you so much.” That’s nice, but it matters to another, different Lan Zhan, one with the capacity for language, one who is still in his body. That’s not the current Lan Zhan. That Lan Zhan doesn’t exist right now, so it doesn’t matter. The current Lan Zhan appreciates the thought and is simultaneously incapable of thinking at all.

Wei Ying pulls out, eventually, which reels Lan Zhan back into his body enough to make a complaining noise through his tears. Wei Ying laughs, fond and a little unsteady, and pets his ass. “I know, baby,” he says, “I’m not happy about it either, but I need to take care of you.” He leans down and kisses Lan Zhan’s ear, scritching at his scalp. “I’m not as strong as my hot boyfriend,” he says, “so I need you to be good and help me out one more time. Can you do that?”

Lan Zhan makes a complaining sound again and another little hitching sob, but he does want to be good, so between the two of them they manage to get him flipped around on the bed, head on the pillows. Wei Ying cleans them both up with tissues and wet wipes (the wet wipes are cold and it’s horrible) and then pulls the blankets up around Lan Zhan to tuck him in.

“I need to go get some things,” he says, gently dabbing the tears off of Lan Zhan’s cheeks, even though they are immediately replaced with new tears. “I’ll only be gone for a minute, okay?” Lan Zhan’s breath hitches, and he manages to get a hand on Wei Ying’s arm and curl his fingers around it, since he can’t find his words to protest. “Oh, sweetie,” Wei Ying says, kissing his forehead. “I promise, I have to do this and I’ll be right back. What if I turn the music down and talk the whole time so you know where I am?”

Lan Zhan sniffles a little, pathetically, and nods. Wei Ying kisses his forehead, his nose, and his lips. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he says, adjusts the volume on the speaker, and leaves. “Okay!” he announces loudly from the hallway, “I’m just running to the kitchen to grab some stuff I prepped earlier, because I am a good boyfriend who takes aftercare seriously, and now I’m taking a thing out of the oven and adding it to the rest of the tray, and now I have everything I needed and I’m coming back to the bedroom and walking a little slow just because I don’t want to spill anything, and here I am!” He climbs back onto the bed, the aforementioned tray in his hands, and knee-walks back to Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan reaches for him, fresh tears tracking down his face, and Wei Ying carefully settles the tray out of reach and pulls Lan Zhan into his arms.

“Were we green?” he asks, a little hesitantly, combing out Lan Zhan’s hair. Lan Zhan nods into his stomach. He doesn’t have words yet, but he can at least reassure Wei Ying that it was good. Wei Ying pets his head, trails his fingers over Lan Zhan’s cheekbones, and relaxes a little. “Was it just a lot?” he guesses, and Lan Zhan nods again. He can’t stop crying, which he would be embarrassed about but that part of him is still up near the ceiling. “Okay,” Wei Ying says, still petting him. “I’m gonna keep taking care of you, okay?” His fingers scritch at Lan Zhan’s scalp again. “I have you, baby. You’re safe.”

Lan Zhan sobs audibly again at that, the sound cracking out of him, and Wei Ying’s hands still. “Oh,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Oh, sweetheart. Okay. I see.” He shifts around, getting Lan Zhan sitting up a little more, tucks pillows behind him to keep him upright, and he kisses his mouth with the gentlest pressure. “Do you want me to keep telling you how you can be good?” he asks, his voice as soft as his lips, and Lan Zhan nods helplessly through the tears. “Okay,” Wei Ying says, petting along his collarbones and chest. “I need you to let me take this harness off, first.” Lan Zhan flinches away--the harness is good, a pressure around his ribs, like a hug, or a claim. Wei Ying kisses him again and says, “I know, I know, baby, but it’s rubbed you raw in a couple places. Can you be good and let me take it off?”

He really doesn’t want to, but Lan Zhan nods. Wei Ying gets it unbuckled with quick, gentle movements, and when it’s gone Lan Zhan can feel the abraded places, under his arms and around his shoulders. Wei Ying rubs aloe into all the red spots, cool and soothing from the fridge. Lan Zhan shivers, suddenly cold, and Wei Ying pulls a heavy, warm, weighted item off the tray and drapes it around his shoulders. Vaguely, Lan Zhan recognizes it as a rice-filled heating pad, one that moved in with Wei Ying. It’s designed to be worn over the shoulders, covering his back and wrapping over to the front like a heavy, hot, lavender-scented hug, and he collapses back into the pillows like the heating pad is pulling him to the center of the earth.

“That’s nice, right?” Wei Ying says, dabbing more tears off his face. “I thought you’d like it.” He climbs under the covers, getting one arm behind Lan Zhan’s shoulders, shifting them so Lan Zhan is leaning halfway against his chest. He pulls the tray closer and picks something off it, pressing it to Lan Zhan’s lips. “Eat,” he commands, and Lan Zhan accepts what turns out to be a grape. This process repeats with a little piece of day-old pastry, and then Wei Ying brings a steaming cup of oolong tea to his mouth and coaxes him to take a sip. “Good boy,” Wei Ying praises him, setting the cup down and wiping Lan Zhan’s cheeks with his thumb. “You’re so beautiful, baby, you were perfect.” Lan Zhan shivers, somehow still a little cold, and Wei Ying pulls the blankets up a little higher and gets him another sip of tea.

They get through half the cup and a number of grapes that Lan Zhan isn’t capable of counting before his eyes stop leaking. Lan Zhan has recovered some control over his limbs at this point, as well, which he immediately puts to use by climbing more thoroughly into Wei Ying’s lap. Wei Ying kisses his forehead and strokes his back and feeds him another bite of kolach. “Hey, there, Lan Zhan,” he says, his eyes soft. “Are you back with me?”

Lan Zhan considers that, which is probably an answer in and of itself, that he can consider things again. He nods, and gets one of his hands up to rest his knuckles against Wei Ying’s cheek, warm against his skin. Wei Ying turns to kiss his knuckles and then settles back the way he was, gaze on Lan Zhan’s face, both of them curled together. “Do you have words for me yet?” he asks, gently.

Lan Zhan thinks about that. “Yes?” he tries, and since that worked, “Yes.” Wei Ying smiles at him and leans in to kiss him.

“You went pretty deep,” he says, pulling back and getting the tea again. “Was it…” Wei Ying trails off, letting Lan Zhan sip, and then sets the tea down. “Was it what you wanted?” he asks, a little bit of uncertainty in his voice. That’s simply unacceptable, so Lan Zhan leans in and kisses him, a little harder, a little more urgent.

“Yes,” he says, firmly. It takes some effort, but he finds other words, reeling them in out of the floaty place and into his mouth. “Perfect.” He kisses Wei Ying again. “Beautiful.” Another kiss, and he attempts to assemble a sentence. “I. I have never. Felt. Like that.” Lan Zhan’s voice trembles, another tear escaping his eye to roll down his cheek. “It was. It was wonderful, Wei Ying.” Another kiss, mouth half-open this time. “Thank you.” Lan Zhan cradles Wei Ying’s cheek, strokes his thumb along the corner of his mouth. “I love you.”

Wei Ying exhales, a tear slipping down his cheek to match Lan Zhan. “Good,” he says, and kisses Lan Zhan back with a light slide of tongue. “I love you, too.” He pulls Lan Zhan into his chest, stroking his hair. Lan Zhan likes this, likes being held, likes being petted like something cherished and beloved. He hears Wei Ying’s heartbeat under his ear, a little elevated, a little nervous, and after thinking about that for a while, he gets his hand in gear and pets Wei Ying in return, ribs down to his hip. Wei Ying sighs into the touch and kisses the top of Lan Zhan’s head. “Do you think you can talk to me about the crying?” he asks, his voice as delicate as it’s ever been. “You don’t have to, but if you want to, I want to listen.”

Lan Zhan presses his face into Wei Ying’s chest and thinks about that, too. His head is less fuzzy now, but he’s still blissed out and loose-limbed and drunk around the edges. It’s like he’s thinking about something that happened to someone else, which makes it easier to unpick it in retrospect. “I have never felt like that,” he says again, the words flowing a little more easily this time. “It was good. It was very good. I just…” And he gestures at his face vaguely, the well of his language running dry.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, and relaxes entirely into the pillows with a sigh of relief. “I just wanted to be sure.” He keeps petting Lan Zhan the whole time, only pausing to fetch another grape that Lan Zhan obediently eats. “It was, ah…” He kisses Lan Zhan’s head and presses his cheek to it. “It was my first time, too. I wanted it to be good for you.”

“It was,” Lan Zhan says, and with a truly heroic effort, he fumbles for the tray, finds a grape, and feeds it to Wei Ying. “I want to do it again,” he says, as Wei Ying chews and swallows. “Both parts.” Lan Zhan’s arm complains about having been asked to do something, and he lets it drop and goes back to breathing and floating and being petted. “Not right away,” he adds, belatedly, eyes slipping shut.

Wei Ying laughs, bright and joyful. “Thank god,” he says, settling down into the pillows, tangling his hand in Lan Zhan’s hair. “You gotta give me at least an hour, and maybe some more pancakes first.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says into Wei Ying’s skin. “Noted.” They drift for a little while, before Wei Ying takes another breath, lifting Lan Zhan’s head as his ribs expand.

“You are,” he says, barely above a whisper, his hand scritching at the nape of Lan Zhan’s neck. Lan Zhan manages a questioning noise, and Wei Ying says, “Safe. With me.” He kisses Lan Zhan’s head and adds, into his hair, “I’m gonna take care of you from now on, okay?”

Lan Zhan squeezes his eyes shut against more tears and lets out a slow, shaky breath. “Okay,” he whispers back, and Wei Ying pets him, and they stay like that, curled up and warm and safe together, and when Lan Zhan starts crying again, Wei Ying whispers comfort into his hair and lets him.

Chapter Text

It has been a good week. Lan Zhan has spent every evening with Wei Ying, with no endless trips up endless flights of stairs. Monday he floated through the world, still so wrecked from the sex the day before that he almost forgot to be anxious. On Tuesday he took detailed measurements in the second bedroom while Wei Ying browsed the Ikea website, figuring out what he wanted to buy and the room layout in preparation for a weekend shopping trip. Wednesday he stopped by Nie Huaisang’s studio on the way home to pick up the winter pajamas and the white suit, which now wait patiently in his closet for an appropriate occasion. He and Wei Ying have cuddled on the couch and eaten breakfast together and had sex every single night. It’s been amazing. His life is amazing.

Lan Zhan tries very hard to find and hold onto some of that bliss as he sits, spine ramrod-straight, on the couch in a pleasantly decorated office across from an older woman in an armchair. It’s her. Lan Yi. His therapist. With whom he is having his first therapy appointment, because he is here for therapy. In a therapist’s office. With a therapist.

(She’s apparently a very distant relation, something like a third cousin once removed. Not anywhere close enough to violate her professional ethics, she reassured him via email. They’ve never met before today. He wonders whether having met her before today would make this better or worse.)

Lan Zhan stares about six inches past her head at a snake plant and tries to breathe normally. It’s not going terribly well, and he desperately wishes he had a script for this interaction, because he has no idea what’s supposed to happen now that they’ve introduced themselves. They’re going to talk? About things? And him? And feelings? This all seems like an absolutely terrible idea.

“I thought we could start by talking about the results of this quiz you sent me,” Lan Yi says. She has a kind voice that also doesn’t brook any nonsense. It helps, grounds him a little. Lan Zhan nods, and she continues, “It looks like you experience a lot of anxiety. Do you find that to be the case?”

Lan Zhan nods, again, and swallows. “I,” he starts, unsteady. “My boyfriend suggested a journal. To document it.”

Lan Yi’s eyes sharpen. “Oh?” she says, interested. “How did that work out for you?”

“I average six point five out of ten when I am out of the house,” Lan Zhan says. He struggles through another breath, deep in, slow out, with less success than usual.

“Is one no anxiety?” she asks, and Lan Zhan nods. “What is ten?”

“Nonverbal,” Lan Zhan says. A continued effort toward actual honesty compels him to add, “An eleven is a panic attack.”

Lan Yi nods and gives him a once-over. “What is your current level?” she asks, her voice gentle.

Lan Zhan swallows again and admits, “Eight.”

She tips her head thoughtfully. “I’d like to get it lower than that,” she says. “Are you able to tell me what’s making you anxious currently?”

Another uneven breath. Thinking about anxiety only ever makes it worse for Lan Zhan, and his heart rate speeds up as he tries to find an answer. It takes him a moment to start assembling the words, during which Lan Yi waits patiently, and finally he manages, “New situation. New person. No script. I don’t know the rules. I’m afraid--” god, how he hates admitting it out loud, it sounds so ridiculous and yet it consumes him “--I’m afraid of getting something wrong.” His voice cracks, but he powers on. “I’m afraid of finding out what’s wrong with me. I know I’m not. Normal. But. Hiding is. Easier.” Lan Zhan fists his hands at his sides and adds, “Nine. Now.” A pause. “Sorry.”

“All right,” Lan Yi says, her voice soothing. “Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry that my question made you more anxious. Please take a few deep breaths before we continue. Would you like me to count them for you?” Lan Zhan nods, and she does, slowly counting off ten seconds for the inhale and fifteen seconds for the exhale. He breathes along, eyes pinched shut, and tries to pretend he’s at home with Wei Ying, where these conversations are difficult but not nearly so terrifying.

“Is that better?” she asks, when he blinks his eyes back open. Lan Zhan nods.

“Eight and a half,” he says, taking another slow breath on his own.

“Good,” she says. “Now, can you think of three things we can do physically to make you more comfortable?” Lan Yi catches his gaze and smiles, a little twinkle in her eye. “No request too silly,” she promises. “I have a wide array of stuffed animals for both adults and children to cuddle.”

Lan Zhan thinks that over. He doesn’t have any experience with cuddling stuffed animals, so he dismisses that idea for the moment but makes a note to circle back around on it later. His mind, having apparently decided that considering a stuffed animal was the only thing it needed to do, rudely shuts down and leaves him without any other suggestions whatsoever. “I can’t--” he says, after an awkward pause, “I just--” He waves at his temple, the anxious feeling crawling back up his ribs to lodge in his throat, how fucking useless can one person be, unable to answer a simple question.

“You mentioned a boyfriend,” Lan Yi says, her voice cutting firmly into his mental spiral and pushing it off course. 

Lan Zhan nods. “Wei Ying,” he says, voice rough. “His name is Wei Ying.”

“Does Wei Ying help you, if you’re feeling this way?”

Lan Zhan nods again, the mental image of Wei Ying curling up next to him helping ease the tightness in his ribs.

Lan Yi nods thoughtfully. “What are three things he would do for you, if he were here?”

That’s easier, thinking about Wei Ying is easier. Lan Zhan immediately discards the first three things that come to mind, because he’s definitely not asking his therapist to kiss him, pet his hair, or spoon him on the couch. He’s new to this but he’s pretty sure that would be inappropriate, and having a stranger touch him is still a nightmare scenario. His mind moves, wistfully, onto non-kissing things, and he takes a breath that goes all the way into his diaphragm without catching on anything.

“I would like,” he says, slowly, eyes on Lan Yi in his peripheral vision, so he can judge whether this is too much to ask, “to put on some music. A blanket.” He swallows, nervously. “Some tea. If that’s all right.”

Lan Yi smiles at him, creasing her eyes, clearly proud. “That sounds perfect,” she says. “Thank you for asking for what you need. Jasmine? Oolong? Ginseng?”

“Ginseng,” Lan Zhan says, and when they settle back down in their respective places a few minutes later--Wei Ying’s meditation tracks playing from his phone, a mug in his hands, and a blanket on his lap--Lan Zhan has gone all the way down to a six.

“It sounds like your boyfriend is a very sensible young man,” Lan Yi says, a cup of oolong steaming on the little table next to her chair. “Does he attend therapy, as well?”

Lan Zhan nods, inhaling the aroma from his mug. “He is my best friend,” he says, because he loves talking about Wei Ying. “I love him very much.” Now that he’s calmer, his heart no longer rabbiting in his chest, his brain no longer fizzing on the edge of panic, he remembers something he wanted to bring up on that topic. “Wei Ying is a sex worker,” he says, bluntly. “He makes porn. I support him in this. If that will be a problem for you, I would prefer to know now.”

Lan Yi barks a laugh. “Young man,” she says, smiling over the edge of her cup, “do you know how many people I have had to counsel because their partner looked at porn? It will be lovely to not have that as a concern.” She takes a sip and tips her head, considering. “Now admittedly there were usually other underlying issues, but I can tell you that I support you being supportive of this. As long as it’s not a problem for you we don’t need to discuss it.”

“It is not a problem,” Lan Zhan reiterates. He takes a sip and adds, “I believe I have enough of those on my own.”

Lan Yi smiles at him. “They say knowing is half the battle.” Setting her cup aside, she pulls over a small laptop and taps at the keyboard. “Do you think you’re ready to discuss these results, now?” she asks. “If not, we can talk about whatever you want to talk about. It’s your time.”

Lan Zhan inhales deeply, exhales slowly, and reminds himself that when he’s done, he’ll get to go home and see Wei Ying, and he wants to be able to tell him he tried his best. “We can discuss them.” Another sip of tea, another breath, and he adds, “I do. Better. With direct questions.”

Lan Yi nods. “I can work with that,” she says. “If your anxiety gets back up to an eight, I want you to tell me so we can address that. Can you do that?”

Lan Zhan nods, squaring his shoulders.

“Great,” Lan Yi smiles at him over her glasses. “Let’s get started, then.”

---

Lan Zhan shuts the front door and leans back against it for a moment, letting the safety of home sink into his skin. He’s exhausted and emotionally wrung out and still holding on to some lingering anxiety from the therapy appointment. There’s accomplishment there, too, waiting under the other emotions for him to have time to feel it. He thinks he might have time in an hour or so. Right now he’s too tired.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying pokes his head around the corner into the entryway and gives him a once-over. He’s in the oversized purple and black sweater he likes, and Lan Zhan drinks in the sight of him. Wei Ying smiles fondly and pads over in his socks to pull Lan Zhan into a tight hug. “You did it!” he says, quiet (in deference to having his face almost directly next to Lan Zhan’s ear) but cheerful.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, tucking his face into Wei Ying’s shoulder and inhaling. There’s some lingering coffee smell along with the vanilla shampoo smell, and it makes Wei Ying out to be some kind of baked good. It’s nice.

“You’re like sixty percent pumpkin right now, aren’t you?” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan makes an affirmative noise. “Okay.” Wei Ying kisses him, once, softly, and leans their foreheads together. “Why don’t you go change into something comfy and lay down on the bed for ten minutes before you come back out? I have a surprise for you.” He pulls away to make eye contact and adds, seriously, “It is not a surprise that makes noise or involves other people.”

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, just as seriously, and Wei Ying smiles so big his nose scrunches up and gives him another kiss.

“Go get changed, sweetie,” he says fondly, steering Lan Zhan toward the hallway. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Lan Zhan takes his hair down and brushes it out for a little while, meditative. He changes into the new pajama set from Nie Huaisang and admires it in the mirror, running his hands over the soft knit fabric, brushing the inside of the robe on his cheek to feel the plush terry interior. He sets a timer for ten minutes and puts on some of Wei Ying’s meditation music and does, indeed, lay on the bed with his eyes shut until the timer goes off. Refreshed and much more emotionally settled, he heads back out to the living room with vague plans for another hug from Wei Ying, and maybe more kissing.

What he finds is Wei Ying’s chill lo-fi beats on the stereo, the table set for two, and a salad already waiting next to a vase containing what was clearly the largest bouquet of flowers the grocery store had to offer. There’s also a cake (strawberry, the kind from his favorite Chinese bakery) that says “Congrats on the therapy!” Wei Ying is in the kitchen, doing something at the stove while humming to himself, which is good because it gives Lan Zhan a chance to find his emotional equilibrium again. He blinks away tears, swallows around the tidal surge of love inside his chest, and says, “Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying turns to look over his shoulder and flashes such a smile at Lan Zhan it feels like the final rays of light at sunset, warm on his face. “Great timing!” he says, tossing the pan. “I just finished this. Sit down and I’ll be right over.”

Lan Zhan does not sit down. Lan Zhan slips into the kitchen, peeks over Wei Ying’s shoulder to make sure he turns off the stove, and then when nothing is going to burn he pulls Wei Ying, staggering, around into a kiss. Wei Ying makes a surprised noise against his mouth and then presses close, one arm slipping into Lan Zhan’s robe to press against his low back, the other wrapped around his neck, a pair of tongs still in his hand. Lan Zhan kisses him patiently, thoroughly, with his full attention and his full awareness, one hand speared into his hair, the other curled possessively on his hip, fingers spread out across the top of his ass. Wei Ying is wearing terry women’s yoga pants under the sweater, warm and soft under Lan Zhan’s touch, and he allows himself to be walked back against the counter and pinned there and gently devoured.

They come up for air eventually, because Lan Zhan is hungry and Wei Ying was good enough to make dinner, and Wei Ying blinks at him a few times before he manages to ask, “What was that for?”

“For you,” Lan Zhan says, ducking in to kiss him again, nipping at his lower lip. “You are kind.” He kisses him. “Thoughtful.” Another kiss. “Supportive.” This kiss is a little longer, a little deeper, and when he pulls away Wei Ying is red and dazed. “I love you very much.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, eyes focusing somewhere very past Lan Zhan’s head. Lan Zhan realizes, in this moment, that they haven’t really officially had Wei Ying sub in the bedroom, not the way Lan Zhan has. Looking at his dizzy, dreamy expression, Lan Zhan resolves to attend to that as soon as possible. Not tonight, though. Unfortunately, Lan Zhan doesn’t have that kind of energy.

“Thank you for making dinner,” Lan Zhan says, which manages to call Wei Ying back from wherever he’s gone. It’s truly adorable, the way he shakes himself like a cat waking up from a nap.

“Right!” Wei Ying says. “Dinner.” He pushes at Lan Zhan with his non-tongs hand. “Go on, sit down, you had a big day.” Lan Zhan sits, and Wei Ying follows him over with the pot, and they dish up salad and browned-butter miso linguine (Lan Zhan has to stop and have a little emotion about that) and Wei Ying pours him a glass of sparkling cranberry hibiscus juice (another emotion happens there) and mixes himself a wine spritzer. “Cheers!” he says, and they clink their glasses and Lan Zhan falls a little more in love.

Wei Ying talks about his day at the cafe, and the walk he took around the neighborhood after he got home, and the cat he met on his walk who stopped him to demand petting. (“I told her she’s an invasive species and she shouldn’t be allowed outside,” Wei Ying says, as Lan Zhan swipes through a significant collection of photos on Wei Ying’s phone of a fluffy calico, “but she didn’t listen to me because she’s a cat.”) They finish eating dinner and get the dishes taken care of and then retire to the couch.

“Do you want me to cut actual slices?” Wei Ying asks, carrying the cake over, “or do you want me to get two forks and we can just go ham on this motherfucker?”

Lan Zhan considers that. His instincts, and Lan Qiren’s teachings, would have him ask for neat slices on plates, and to only have one slice. His instincts and Lan Qiren’s teachings would also have never allowed him to have Wei Ying in his life offering him this cake that says “Congrats on the therapy,” both of them in soft clothes and about to curl up together under a single blanket. “Let us go ham,” he says, very seriously, and Wei Ying laughs his way to the kitchen and back with the forks.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Wei Ying asks, balancing the tray on their shared knees and scraping an impolite amount of the whipped icing onto his fork. Lan Zhan nabs a strawberry, chews, and swallows before he answers.

“I believe it went well,” he says, loading up his fork with a more reasonable amount of cake than Wei Ying. “The journal was useful. Thank you for suggesting it.”

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says around a mouthful of icing and sponge and strawberries. “‘M glad.” He swallows and is much more intelligible when he continues, “How bad did you get?”

Lan Zhan flushes, which he knows is a ridiculous reaction, because there should be no shame in having a brain that works a little differently from other brains. He still doesn’t quite believe it, yet, but maybe he’ll get there eventually. “Nine,” he admits. Another bite of cake, and then, “She asked what you would do to help, if you were there. I. I asked for a blanket and some tea and put on music.”

“Right,” Wei Ying says, feeding Lan Zhan a strawberry, “because you weren’t gonna ask her to spoon you.”

Lan Zhan flushes harder, feeling incredibly seen. He nods, takes a deep breath, and presses on. “It was. It was easier, after that.” Another breath, another bite of cake, and he forces the words out, saying them aloud for the first time, making them real. “She’d like to evaluate me for autism.” Oh god. There they are. There it is. The potential for a shape to his strangeness, an answer, a question, something that would curve itself around him and fit to his skin.

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says again, thoughtful. He strokes his chin and pretends to adjust non-existent glasses. “And how does that make you feel?”

Lan Zhan recognizes the therapy joke and it makes his shoulders drop a little, that this is something Wei Ying can poke fun at. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. He eats some more cake and thinks about it. “It would be.” The words take a moment to line themselves up before he says, “It would be a relief, perhaps, to know it’s not. My fault. But.”

“But it’s also a lot to take in,” Wei Ying agrees, loading up his fork with another ridiculous pile of icing. “I was like, insulted when my therapist told me I had PTSD. Like, what am I, a wuss? People get that shit from really bad stuff, and maybe my childhood wasn’t the best but I was fine, wasn’t I? It wasn’t that bad. If I had PTSD from my parents dying and a series of terrible foster homes and that one time I ran away before the Jiangs took me in and the dog attack and Madam Yu constantly acting like I was the worst thing to ever happen to her, that was just pathetic, right? I must have been some kind of weakling.” Lan Zhan gives him a Look, and Wei Ying feeds him some of the icing mound. “Right, see, when I say that all out loud now, it’s obvious. At the time it wasn’t. I had some shit to work through.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, chasing the icing with another strawberry. “I am beginning to think I, perhaps, have my own shit.”

“Welcome to the club, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, leaning in to kiss him gently, both of them tasting like cake. “It’s a pretty shitty club, but we’re in it together, right?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and feeds Wei Ying a strawberry. “Together.” It’s the only place he wants to be.

---

Wei Ying refuses to tell Lan Zhan where they’re going for dinner on Friday night, insisting that it’s going to be a surprise, and now that the shoe is on the other foot Lan Zhan feels very slightly bad about all the times he put Wei Ying in the position of the surprise-ee. Only very slightly, though, because while there’s some nervousness, it’s mostly anticipation. He trusts Wei Ying. The surprise will be a good one, whatever it is. He does manage to pressure Wei Ying into telling him the time (six, so they’ll be back home with plenty of time for Lan Zhan to unwind after being in public) and the dress code (“Fancy as fuck, Lan Zhan, don’t let me down.”). Lan Zhan thinks about that while he finishes the workday and drives home, considering what his fanciest outfits are. His phone vibrates, and after he’s parked, he checks it.

From: Wei Ying
hey babe i’m getting ready but i want it to be a surprise
therefore i’m hiding in my studio
jsyk i have not been kidnapped
which is exactly what a kidnapper would make me say, before you beat me to it and steal my own joke again!!!!

Lan Zhan presses and holds delete on his phone, only slightly cursing Wei Ying’s nimble texting fingers.

To: Wei Ying
I will change in our bedroom, then.
Will you text me when you are ready, so I know it is safe to open the door?

From: Wei Ying
absofucklinglutely i will
can’t wait to see how hot you’ll look
💖💖💖💖

Lan Zhan smiles at his phone and gets out of the car. True to his word, Wei Ying is not immediately present in their(!!!!!!) apartment, the door to his studio shut. Lan Zhan heads into the bedroom and breathes into the quiet. He gives himself a moment to decompress from his workday, strips out of his work clothes, and puts on the terry robe. “Fancy as fuck.” He can work with that.

He does his makeup first, full face glittering like an ice queen. (He takes a moment to resent that “ice queen” is a thing in a way that “ice king” isn’t, and usually used in an insulting way. Yet another example of the casual misogyny of Western culture.) He leaves half his hair down to flow across his shoulders, twisting the top up into a bun and securing it with his silver double-pronged hair stick. It’s a good look, he decides. Classical. He hesitates in front of his closet, hand hovering over a white stretch button-up with a Mandarin collar. Should he? Lan Zhan looks at himself in the closet door, taking in his carved, snow-shining face, thinks about what Wei Ying’s reaction will be, later, and decides that he should.

Lan Zhan puts on the lace harness for the first time, adjusting the straps until it lies smoothly across his skin. It’s very different from the vinyl one, delicate and soft, a decoration rather than a restraint. Nie Huaisang, in a fit of overachievement that Lan Zhan should probably thank them for even if it will make him die of embarrassment, included a pair of white briefs trimmed with matching lace, the sides cut open and held together with more of the satin elastic. They fit perfectly, by which Lan Zhan means they make his ass and his dick look spectacular. He looks at himself in the mirror again, turning to watch the lace curve around his ribcage almost down to his hip, and thinks he should order five more of these. Maybe six. Maybe he should order some for Wei Ying, as well. He thinks about Wei Ying’s golden skin bisected by strips of black elastic and wreathed in embroidered black floral designs, like a tattoo, and has to stop thinking about that immediately if he wants to be able to actually fit into his trousers.

He’s wearing the white suit from the fashion show, because of course he is. The Mandarin-collared shirt is slim-fitting enough to work with the high-waisted trousers and a thick enough fabric not to give away the harness underneath, embroidered across the chest with silver clouds. The embroidery is decorative enough that he skips a necklace, but he does switch out his silver hoops for a pair of classically-styled earrings in silver and beads of white jade, intricate filigree that dangles almost to his shoulders. The suit has no pockets (“It’s justice for women,” Nie Huaisang had said, deadpan. “Also it messes up the lines.”) so Lan Zhan has to dig in the back of a drawer for the silver clutch purse he impulse-purchased at a night market in a rare fit of public self-confidence. He looks at himself in the full-length mirrors, turns and walks to let the fabric flow, the long coat fluttering, the pant legs swishing and pooling around his legs. He looks… He looks like a fucking model, Lan Zhan realizes. He looks like he could have been on the runway at Nie Huaisang’s fashion show, or sitting against a black drape in a studio for Wei Ying’s camera. Has this been inside him the whole time? Has he always been capable of this?

Lan Zhan’s phone buzzes in his clutch before he can come up with an answer.

From: Wei Ying
ready! 
ngl i look pretty fuckin good babe
i may be a gremlin but i clean up nice

Wei Ying is not a gremlin, but Lan Zhan isn’t going to argue with him about that over text. He takes one more look in the mirror, straightening the lay of the jacket around his shoulders, and opens the bedroom door.

Lan Zhan is a habitually quiet walker, even in the heeled white leather boots he chose for tonight, so he makes it to the place where the hall meets the living room without Wei Ying noticing him. He pauses there just to look, and also to compose himself, because Wei Ying was not lying when he said he looked “pretty fuckin good.” He’s in a slim-fitting black suit that Lan Zhan didn’t even know he owned, leaning against the back of the couch and fiddling with his phone. He has on a wine-red button-up under the jacket and instead of a tie went with a ridiculously large sparkling bib necklace in black-on-black gems. No lipstick (probably sensible, since they’re going to dinner--Lan Zhan made the same choice) but he’s done some things with black and red eyeliner that make his beautiful eyes look even larger. His hair is mostly back in a sleek braid, with the red/black section of his bangs loose to hang appealingly down to his chin. Lan Zhan loves him. He’s perfect. He wants to drag him into the bedroom and rip his clothes off at the seams and fuck him until he can’t stand up. Lan Zhan takes a deep, steadying breath, because: Dinner first. Dessert after.

(And by dessert, he means Wei Ying.)

Deliberately, Lan Zhan takes a step that actually makes noise, and Wei Ying looks up from his phone, face expectant. His jaw drops, eyes going wide, red at the tops of his cheekbones, and his phone clatters out of his slack hand and onto the floor. Lan Zhan’s ears heat, and he momentarily considers suggesting that they skip dinner entirely, so he can make Wei Ying look at him like that for the rest of the night.

“Oh, wow,” Wei Ying says, some time later, his hand still hanging in the air in front of him where it used to be gripping his phone. “Wow. Damn. Hi.”

Lan Zhan feels smug. It’s still a new feeling, and he takes a moment to identify it and enjoy it. “Hello,” he says. He takes another step into the living room, the fabric flowing around him, and Wei Ying’s eyes give him a slow once-over, up and down and back to his face. Lan Zhan stops an arm’s-length away from Wei Ying and lets his eyes drag over the suit, the makeup, the sleek fit of everything. When his gaze comes back to Wei Ying’s face it’s red all the way across his nose and he looks a little dazed. Lan Zhan wants to eat him, and he thinks it shows.

“You look stunning,” he says, reaching out to trace his fingertips down the line of Wei Ying’s lapel, the touch feather-light. Wei Ying shivers, like he’s waking up from a trance, and sways into the touch a little.

“You, too,” he says fervently, eyes roaming Lan Zhan with a proprietary, hungry gaze. “You look like--like a sexy ice queen. Fuck. Heck. I have the hottest date of all time. Press F to show respect to all the other dates. RIP them.” He presses his hand into Lan Zhan’s sternum and pets down his chest to his waistband. “When I saw this at the fashion show I thought of you, but spirits wept, Lan Zhan. Holy fuck.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and gives Wei Ying a look that he hopes says, “I’m going to destroy you in the bedroom later.” He must get close, because Wei Ying drags his teeth over his lower lip, eyes going dark, and takes a shaky breath. “How long will it take us to get to the restaurant?” he asks, because he does want to get dinner with Wei Ying, and if they keep going like this they’ll never make it out the door.

“About twenty minutes,” Wei Ying says, blinking furiously, like he needs to work to get his eyes to actually focus. “So we should--” he looks at his hand, where his phone used to be, and then retrieves it from the floor “--probably get going.” He tucks the phone into his pocket and offers Lan Zhan his elbow and a stunning smile. “Ready?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, settling his hand into the crook of Wei Ying’s arm and allowing himself to be steered out of their apartment. It’s a bit silly--he’s a good four inches taller than Wei Ying in the heeled boots, and broader through the shoulders, so it’s not exactly the traditional configuration for who should be leading. He really doesn’t care, though. He loves Wei Ying, and in this, he doesn’t actually worry about what other people think. That realization hits him like running straight into a brick wall, and he takes a surprised little breath and prods at it. While his usual persistent fear/concern/anxiety about Other People And Their Thoughts is still there, he really, really doesn’t care whether people look at the two of them and see a mismatched couple, as long as they’re seeing a couple. Lan Zhan breathes with that as he carefully climbs into the car, navigating his billowing pant legs over the seat, and gets on the road. It doesn’t change. It remains true. What a shocking, unexpected freedom.

Wei Ying navigates them to the restaurant, still refusing to give Lan Zhan any details, and then makes him drive through a series of parking lots so Lan Zhan pulls the car into a spot without actually seeing any signage. “I know I’m being ridiculous,” he says as he gives Lan Zhan a completely unnecessary hand out of the car, “but I never surprise you and I’m really excited about this one.” He’s practically glowing, and Lan Zhan sets his hand back into the crook of Wei Ying’s arm, ready to follow him anywhere.

The restaurant is one that Lan Zhan has heard of and wanted to try; Au Nuage d’Or, French-Vietnamese fusion by a Vietnamese lesbian chef, and specializing in pescatarian food to boot. He’s never gone because it’s prohibitively expensive (Lan Zhan could never justify spending the money just on himself), and he pauses outside the door for half a step, breathing, “Wei Ying.” This is--he can’t believe--

“You mentioned it once!” Wei Ying says, vibrating next to him. “I was so glad they had a reservation available, apparently it’s really hard to get one but I called just at the right time.” He tugs Lan Zhan along, through the doors into the elegant foyer, and the woman behind the counter actually correctly calls him Mr. Wei instead of Mr. Ying as she escorts them to their booth. It’s out of the way, screened off from most of the restaurant by traditional brightly-colored woven fabrics. It makes their table feel private and cuts the noise of the rest of the diners. Lan Zhan feels his anxiety level drop a solid two points as soon as they’re seated. That notches back up when he opens the menu to discover that nothing has a listed price.

“Wei Ying,” he says again, glancing up across the table. Wei Ying smiles at him and pours lemongrass-lime water into his glass from the waiting carafe.

“Don’t worry about it, Lan Zhan,” he says, filling his own glass. “Tonight’s special.” He sets the carafe down and reaches across the table to rest his now-cold fingers on the back of Lan Zhan’s hand. “I said this was your one chance for me to treat you to fancy dinner at a place with cloth napkins, and I figured I should go all-out.” Lan Zhan turns his hand over and catches Wei Ying’s for a squeeze.

“Thank you,” he says, returning to the menu. He’s still a little bit concerned about the cost, but Wei Ying did recently make a large photography sale, and if he wants to spend the money on Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan supposes he’s allowed. Is this what it’s like to have someone try to spoil you? Interesting. Something to think about in more detail later.

Dinner is perfection, exquisitely-plated small dishes that let them sample their way across half the menu. There are fried prawns served on a baguette with hoisin and hollandaise, dotted with tiny rings of red chili that Wei Ying dutifully moves from Lan Zhan’s portion to his own. They split a vegan pâté made of nuts and sesame served on lettuce cups instead of bread, and a salad with field greens, fresh pickled lotus roots, jicama, and a bergamot-tamarind dressing. Lan Zhan tries a tiny bite of Wei Ying’s chili pepper lemongrass tofu topped with a lemon-butter sauce, and it’s delicious before his mouth starts burning. Wei Ying tries some of Lan Zhan’s vegetarian crepe, filled with mung beans and mushrooms and topped with beurre blanc and he almost orders a second one for himself. Lan Zhan has a banana-ginger crème brûlée for dessert and Wei Ying has a chocolate coconut bread pudding, which means they each have both desserts because they switch plates halfway through.

The server brings Wei Ying the check and Wei Ying puts down a card and Lan Zhan sips determinedly at the last of his citrusy mocktail and does not allow himself to try to peek at the total. Wei Ying has a budget. Wei Ying has savings. Wei Ying is allowed to buy things for Lan Zhan. The idea makes his skin itchy, until Wei Ying smiles at him across the white-linened table and raises his glass of wine so they can clink together. Lan Zhan looks at the man he loves and lets the guilt fade away. If Wei Ying wants to treat Lan Zhan well, then Lan Zhan is also allowed to be treated well. He’s allowed to enjoy that. He’s allowed to want that. It’s not a crime, to let himself be loved like this. Lan Zhan is still working on believing that, but thinking the words is a good place to start.

“Wei Ying,” he says, catching Wei Ying’s hand across the table, still littered with their dessert plates and the occasional crumb. “Thank you.”

Wei Ying’s smile is soft around the edges. It’s like pulling apart a sweet roll, steam rising on the air. “Of course, sweetie,” he says. “I promised you a nice dinner.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head, because that’s not exactly what he meant. “Not just for this,” he says, tipping his head toward the rest of the dining area. “For everything. For ten years.” He squeezes Wei Ying’s hand, trying to put his feelings into the touch since he can’t find the words. “I love you very much.”

Wei Ying’s eyes go a little watery, and he swallows. “Are you about to propose?” he asks, “Because Jiang Cheng will kill us.” It’s halfway to a joke, except for how his smile shakes around the edges.

“I am not about to propose,” Lan Zhan says, a little sadly. Wei Ying’s face twitches with something Lan Zhan can’t quite suss out (disappointment, maybe?), and he admits, “But only because I haven’t had time to purchase a ring.”

Wei Ying laughs, the watery look disappearing as his face scrunches up. “Oh, good,” he says, half-wheezing. “Our leg bones are safe for the moment.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. The server returns then, and Wei Ying gets his card back and they make their way out into the cool autumn night. Lan Zhan wraps one arm around Wei Ying’s waist, affection and claim both. When they separate to get in the car he drags his hand very deliberately across Wei Ying’s lower back and catches his eyes. Heat crackles between them, very nearly visible in the air. Wei Ying’s cheeks go red and he wets his lips.

“Yeah?” he says, breathy.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan replies, a flat promise.

The drive home is excruciating. They don’t touch but Lan Zhan is hyper-aware of Wei Ying’s presence, of his every shift and movement. Whenever he glances over at a stoplight Wei Ying’s eyes are on him, wide and unblinking. They don’t touch in the elevator, either, but Lan Zhan crowds Wei Ying into the corner of it, boxing him in close enough to share body heat. They still don’t touch, not while Lan Zhan unlocks the door and gestures Wei Ying inside, hand ghosting over the small of his back, hovering just above the fabric of his jacket. They don’t touch until the door clicks shut behind them, and then Wei Ying pushes Lan Zhan against it, hands on his waist, mouth frantic. He has to push up onto his toes in order to kiss Lan Zhan, he’s so much taller in the heels.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says against his mouth, practically humping his thigh already, “You’re so fucking hot in this. I can’t handle it, I wanted my hands on you all night.” He gets said hands under the jacket and runs them around to Lan Zhan’s lower back, fingers digging in through fabric. “I just wanna drag you into the bedroom, gege, fuck. ”

That would be nice, but it’s not what Lan Zhan wants, not what Lan Zhan has been thinking about since yesterday, since forever. He slides his hands from Wei Ying’s shoulders down to his wrists, grips, and pushes forward. Wei Ying staggers back and with three quick steps and a quarter turn Lan Zhan has him pinned against the wall, hands next to his head. Wei Ying has to tip his head back to make eye contact, which puts the long, vulnerable line of his throat on display. Lan Zhan is going to bite bruises into it until he cries.

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” he says, low, almost a growl. Lan Zhan squeezes Wei Ying’s wrists in his hands, watches his pulse rabbit in his throat. “You’re not in charge tonight,” he continues, drinking in Wei Ying’s face, his blush, his already-dazed eyes. Lan Zhan leans in closer, so when he speaks next, Wei Ying can feel his breath. “I am.”

Wei Ying stares up at him, surprise and disbelief fading into something else, something anticipatory and hot. “Oh,” he breathes. “Okay. Yes. You’re in charge, gege.” He leans forward, trying for a kiss, and Lan Zhan avoids his mouth and squeezes his wrists again. Wei Ying shudders from his core out to his fingertips and sags back against the wall. Lan Zhan shifts his grip, switching both of Wei Ying’s wrists to one hand, having to fight the suit jacket in the process. He unbuttons it as part of this endeavor and Wei Ying shudders again, trying and failing to sway outward from the wall.

“What do you want?” Lan Zhan asks, catching Wei Ying’s chin between his thumb and forefinger so his boyfriend can’t look away. On some level he feels like this is immediately betraying his claim of being in charge, but (as Wei Ying has pointed out) it’s important to know these things in advance. He makes sure to keep his voice low and flat and rough, at least, and since Wei Ying’s eyes go even more glazed, he thinks it’s working.

“Oh, ah,” Wei Ying starts, voice thready and a little high-pitched, “Oh my god, Lan Zhan.” He bites his lower lip, struggles against the pin just to test it, and whines in his throat. “Fuck--be mean to me.”

Lan Zhan narrows his eyes. “Mean,” he repeats, voice flat, and Wei Ying whines again.

“Yes, just like that, holy shit.” He tries for another kiss and Lan Zhan holds his face where it is, thumb digging in firmly. Wei Ying sucks down a breath and babbles, “I love it when you’re bitchy to people, and I’m using bitch in a feminist reclaimation kind of way for the record, and you’re such a bitch sometimes and it’s so fucking hot.” Lan Zhan considers that while Wei Ying’s mouth keeps going. “I think about that punch all the time, you’re so sexy when you hate people, you know how you used to glare at me in the library?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan does remember. Mostly he was afraid that Wei Ying would get himself kicked out, but also he was terrified of his own infatuation and didn’t know any other way to deal with it. Wei Ying always reacted by being even more annoying, and Lan Zhan is getting an idea now about why. Wei Ying takes advantage of his distraction by trying to press forward, arching his back, aiming for body contact. Lan Zhan drops his chin and shoves him against the wall with a heavy hand on his sternum, keeps him there with body weight. Wei Ying literally whimpers. “What else?” Lan Zhan keeps his voice flat, almost bored. (He is not bored. He is the furthest thing from bored right now.)

“Oh fuck,” Wei Ying says weakly, his heart thumping into Lan Zhan’s palm. “Give me orders. Make me do whatever you want.” He bites his lower lip, clearly trying to keep more words back, and Lan Zhan pushes on his chest to force them out. What emerges first is a keening sound, and then, “You can rough me up. Punish me. When I disobey.”

Lan Zhan cocks his head and lets his voice go colder. “When.” It’s not a question. Wei Ying nods, his eyes wide, almost all pupil. Lan Zhan leans closer. “You don’t want to be a good boy for me?” he rasps in Wei Ying’s ear, keeping him pinned upright when his knees go out.

Wei Ying swallows, audibly, as Lan Zhan pulls back to look him in the face. “I want you to make me earn it,” he says, choked, squirming in Lan Zhan’s hold and not getting anywhere. “Hit me, bite me, pull my hair. Make me work for it, gege.”

Lan Zhan narrows his eyes, considering, and drops Wei Ying’s hands to grab his braid in a whipcrack of movement. He pulls it, hard, tipping Wei Ying’s head back, his neck a long, bare curve. If he lets go, Wei Ying will overbalance and fall backward, Lan Zhan his only support, fist tight against his scalp. Wei Ying winces, moans, and goes wonderfully blank around the eyes. Still, though. “Green?” Lan Zhan asks, not quite as flat.

“Oh god,” Wei Ying whines, blinking hard at nothing. “So green.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan says, and drags him to the bedroom literally by the hair. There’s a plush rug at the foot of the bed with a pad underneath, soft and warm for bare feet in the morning, and Lan Zhan throws Wei Ying down on it. He lands in a sprawl of limbs, black and red stark against the neutral gray of the rug, and stares up at Lan Zhan in mixed shock and delight.

“Get undressed,” Lan Zhan tells him tonelessly. “Underwear stays on.” With that Lan Zhan ignores him, striding to the nightstand to set down his phone, and then to his dresser to unpack the rest of his clutch purse. When he turns around again Wei Ying is yanking off one sock, down to his underwear, clothes scattered around him on the floor. Apparently he had the same idea as Lan Zhan when getting ready, because he’s wearing a pair of briefs with a red stretch satin front cut to cup him absolutely obscenely and a full sheer mesh back. Lan Zhan’s ears heat immediately at the sight, his cock throbbing, but he manages to keep his reaction off his face as he walks deliberately back to the bed and sits down on the foot of it, spine straight. Wei Ying throws the sock away and faces him, barefoot on the rug. He’s already hard. Too bad Lan Zhan isn’t going to do anything about that for a while yet. Lan Zhan looks at Wei Ying, face bored, and glances significantly to the clothes strewn about the room. “Clean up this mess,” he orders.

Wei Ying inhales and shivers. “Yes,” he says, and then his face scrunches up. “Yes, sir?” he asks. Lan Zhan shakes his head infinitesimally. “Yes, master?” Wei Ying tries, which gets another head shake and a tiny grimace. “Yes, my lord?” That’s even worse than master, and it shows on Lan Zhan’s face. “Lan-er-gege?” That’s just an endearment. Lan Zhan shakes his head again and wishes that maybe they’d worked this part out previously. “I’m not doing daddy shit,” Wei Ying says, like it tastes awful in his mouth. Lan Zhan gives him a horrified look because no, absolutely not . Wei Ying nods in relieved agreement and thinks for a minute. “Yes, dianxia?” he offers, and that washes over Lan Zhan and raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Hm. Yes. They’ve both already called him an ice queen, anyway. Dianxia fits, and he likes the way Wei Ying’s mouth shapes itself around the tones. Lan Zhan nods, and Wei Ying smiles. “Yes, dianxia,” he says, breathless, and then scrambles to gather up his clothes.

“Do it correctly,” Lan Zhan admonishes before Wei Ying can shove his entire suit into the laundry hamper. Wei Ying freezes, and Lan Zhan adds, “My things should be treated well.” Wei Ying shivers again and opens the closet. He re-hangs his suit with shaking hands, puts his socks and dress shirt in the laundry where they belong, and sets the bib necklace carefully on his dresser. When he’s done he pads back to stand in front of Lan Zhan, shoulders back, chin up, eyes a warm pressure on Lan Zhan’s face. Lan Zhan considers him for a moment.

“Kneel.” Lan Zhan puts ice into his voice, and Wei Ying sways visibly before he drops to his knees on the carpet. Lan Zhan lets him wait there in silence until he starts to squirm and then shoves the tip of his leather boot into his bare chest, just at the sternum. “Take off my boots,” he orders, and Wei Ying smiles at him, dizzy.

“Yes, dianxia,” he says, voice wispy, and slides the flowing leg of Lan Zhan’s trousers up to his knee for better buckle access. Wei Ying caresses his bare calf on the way back down with reverent fingers, and Lan Zhan immediately uses the foot on his chest to shove him over backwards. Wei Ying sprawls on the floor again and scrambles up to his elbows, chest heaving, eyes on Lan Zhan in question and delight.

“I didn’t give you permission to touch me,” Lan Zhan says. He holds out his boot again and snaps his fingers. “I’m waiting.”

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying says, the excitement in his voice shivering in every syllable. He pushes back up to his knees and this time he’s careful only to touch the fabric and the boots, easing each one off and setting them aside neatly. He waits with one hand cupping Lan Zhan’s heel and the other hovering above the cuff of his sock, eyes on Lan Zhan’s face in question. When he receives a nod, he peels those off, too, never quite touching skin, and settles back on his heels. Lan Zhan considers him for a moment, planning out the next few beats of this venture.

“Shut your eyes.” Wei Ying does, reluctantly, and Lan Zhan stands. “If you peek I will be displeased,” he adds, walking slowly around Wei Ying, almost close enough that his billowing pant legs brush his skin. Wei Ying twitches and keeps his eyes squinched shut. Good. Lan Zhan strips efficiently, down to the lace, and puts on his embroidered robe. “Arms out,” he tells Wei Ying, and drapes the suit and his dress shirt across them when he complies. Wei Ying jerks a little bit, clearly wanting to peek, but holds himself back. That’s good, because Lan Zhan didn’t really have a punishment in mind if he disobeyed. Lan Zhan sits back down, adjusts the robe to make sure he’s fully covered, and says, “Open.” Wei Ying blinks, takes in the robe, and his face falls just a little. “Put my things away,” Lan Zhan orders. Wei Ying’s eyes go from the robe to the suit in his arms, widen comically, go back up to the robe with a hungry edge, and he smiles.

“Do I get a reward if I do it right?” he asks, breathless, and Lan Zhan examines his nails. (Maybe he could get some nail polish, actually. That would look good with this.)

“Perhaps,” he says evenly. “I haven’t decided if that’s enough to earn a reward.” Lan Zhan’s eyes flick back up to Wei Ying’s and he snaps his fingers again. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying says, immediately scrambling to his feet. Lan Zhan watches as he hangs the white suit with more care than he took with his own clothes, boots lined up in the closet in perfect parallel. Without prompting his boyfriend returns to the kneeling position. Lan Zhan looks him over, gaze unflinching, lingering on the satin briefs and the dark wet spot he can already see developing. Lan Zhan’s own erection pulses with his heartbeat, pleased to be freed from the confinement of slim-fitting silk but very, very ready for more. He tells it to calm down. It doesn’t.

“You did that very well,” he tells Wei Ying. “Good boy.” Wei Ying flushes harder but manages to keep his eyes on Lan Zhan’s face. His hands flex against his thighs, and god Lan Zhan loves him like this, desperate and willing and mostly obedient and clearly so turned on he can barely think. “You may have a reward.” Wei Ying perks up bodily, vibrating while staying perfectly still, as though his atoms are extra excited. “What would you like?” Lan Zhan asks, curious as to what Wei Ying will go for, how far he’ll push his luck.

Wei Ying takes a deep breath and wets his lips, drawing Lan Zhan’s eyes immediately. “I--” he starts, swallows when his voice wavers, and tries again, “I would like to see you. May I see you, dianxia?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, letting approval bleed into his voice. “So polite.” Wei Ying sways closer, remembers himself, and settles back over his heels. Good. Without further preamble Lan Zhan unties his sash, stands, and drops the robe to let it pool around his ankles.

Wei Ying audibly gasps, face running through emotions faster than Lan Zhan can process them. “Oh my god,” he says, squeaky. “Fuck. Oh my god.” His eyes keep jumping from place to place on Lan Zhan’s body, the curve of the lace around his ribs, his nipples framed by the elastic, always, always back to his dick, hard and extremely visible in the white strappy briefs. “Lan Zhan,” he groans, “dianxia. Fuck, you look so good.” He bites his lower lip and presses the heel of his hand to the base of his dick, clearly desperate to relieve some of the pressure.

Lan Zhan kicks him to the ground again.

It’s barely a kick, really, more of a push with his foot, but it’s quick and startling and all the air in Wei Ying’s lungs comes out in a gasp when he hits the carpet. Lan Zhan takes a step forward and settles his foot on Wei Ying’s sternum, just enough weight so he really feels it. “I didn’t give you permission to touch yourself,” he says, cold and deadly as a winter storm. The quiver that goes through Wei Ying’s body travels up Lan Zhan’s leg and right into his cock. Lan Zhan genuinely hadn’t been sure how he would react to being a disciplinarian in this scenario and it is extremely fucking hot.

“I’m sorry,” Wei Ying says, chest heaving against the pressure of Lan Zhan’s foot, heart pounding. “I couldn’t help it--you’re so pretty, I didn’t mean to.” He presses his hands flat to the carpet on either side of him, hips occasionally twitching up. “Let me make it up to you, dianxia. Please.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan glares down at him. Wei Ying’s dick twitches, his breath stuttering. Lan Zhan resolves not to misuse any of his newfound knowledge about Wei Ying and Wei Ying’s kinks, but he also makes a note to see what happens if he glares outside of a sexy context. “How do you propose to make it up to me?”

“Let me suck your dick,” Wei Ying says immediately.

Lan Zhan glares harder and pushes a little more weight into his foot. “Boring.”

“It won’t be,” Wei Ying promises, squirming and trying to hold himself still at the same time. “I promise, dianxia, I’ll make it so good for you.”

“Will you be good?” Lan Zhan asks, skeptically. “Will you do as I say and not touch yourself?”

“Yes,” Wei Ying says urgently. “I’ll be so good, dianxia, let me suck you. You won’t regret it.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, thoughtfully, a little dismissive. Wei Ying looks to be about thirty seconds from a literal explosion of pent-up horniness, and every time Lan Zhan thinks about his mouth his dick throbs with a deep, nearly painful hit of interest. “Fine.” He makes the face he would make if Wei Ying were a middle-aged white author writing about cheating on his wife with a woman twenty years younger. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“Thank you, dianxia,” Wei Ying gasps, scrambling back to his knees as soon as Lan Zhan releases him from the pin. “I won’t, it’ll be so good, thank you.” He reaches for Lan Zhan’s hips and Lan Zhan steps back, avoiding his touch.

“Mouth only,” Lan Zhan snaps. “Hands at your sides. If you try to take more than I give you you will be punished.” Wei Ying’s eyes light up at that, like Lan Zhan expected they would. “Do you understand?” Wei Ying nods. Wei Ying is absolutely going to disobey him at the first opportunity. “Good,” Lan Zhan says, and he pulls his dick out of the briefs. His dick is delighted with this, leaking onto his hand, desperate for any kind of stimulation. Lan Zhan crowds back into Wei Ying’s space and doesn’t have to say anything at all as an eager mouth wraps around his cock. Lan Zhan sets a hand on the top of Wei Ying’s head, not actually grabbing his hair yet, and does his level best not to fuck into his mouth the way he wants to. He has at least a little bit of a plan here, so he keeps his thrusts slow and gentle, never giving him more than a couple of inches. Wei Ying whines in the back of his throat but is, for the moment, obedient, hot wet tongue swirling around the head of Lan Zhan’s cock as he sucks. It’s good, so good, coiling up low in Lan Zhan’s belly, pleasure licking up his spine. Lan Zhan lets out a small sigh of enjoyment, his hand relaxing on top of Wei Ying’s head the tiniest amount, which Wei Ying immediately takes as his cue to grab Lan Zhan’s hips and push forward until Lan Zhan’s dick hits the back of his throat. He gets in one swallow, moaning through his nose, before Lan Zhan grabs him by the hair and yanks him off.

“Dianxia,” Wei Ying croaks, eyes wide, lips swollen. He gives Lan Zhan a smile, his mouth shaping around the beginning of an apology, hands still warm on Lan Zhan’s hips.

Lan Zhan drops his hair and slaps him across the face.

It’s not hard--Lan Zhan’s hand barely stings. It is, however, well-aimed and very loud. Wei Ying crumples to the floor probably more in shock than anything else, but Lan Zhan still experiences a jolt of absolute, utter horror at what he’s done. Fuck, they should have discussed this more in advance, Wei Ying said “hit me” but what if this wasn’t what he meant--

“Green,” Wei Ying gasps, back up to his knees in a wild scramble. “Green, oh my god, fuck, you can do that again if I’m bad--” Lan Zhan grabs him by the hair and he goes quiet, eyes half shut, head tipped back and pliant. It gives Lan Zhan a moment to calm himself down from the spike of terror, his heart rate slowing back to “excited and anticipatory” from the hummingbird-fast “oh god what have I done?”

“I told you,” he says, frigid, when he trusts himself to speak again, “that if you took more than I gave you, you would be punished.” He tightens his hand, pulling Wei Ying’s whole back into an arch. “Do I need to tie you up to keep you from disobeying me again?”

“Yes,” Wei Ying gasps. “I’m sorry I was bad, dianxia. I couldn’t help it. You should tie me up.” He shuts his eyes and leans even harder into Lan Zhan’s grip, so full of trust that Lan Zhan won’t let him fall. “I deserve it.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and drops him. Wei Ying flops to the floor in a sprawl of limbs, landing half on his side, and Lan Zhan takes the opportunity to put his dick back away. (He cannot get over a general feeling of silliness when it’s just out in the open air and no one is touching it.) “Get out the toybox,” he orders, and waits with a bored expression as Wei Ying crawls to the bed and hauls it out. He opens the lid and kneels next to it, eyes on Lan Zhan, doing that excited, frozen little vibration thing again. Hm. Speaking of. Lan Zhan examines the contents of the tub until he finds the one he wants, and he raises his eyes back to Wei Ying. “The purple vibrating plug. I want the remote.” He holds out his hand impatiently as Wei Ying searches the box (it’s perfectly well organized, Wei Ying just isn’t operating at full capacity right now) and hands it to him with reverent fingers. Lan Zhan looks at the remote and then back to Wei Ying and his expectant, hopeful, very slightly wary expression. “Wear the plug.”

Wei Ying’s eyes go so wide he can see the white all around the dark iris, which itself is nearly all the black of his pupils. “Yes, dianxia,” he breathes, “thank you, dianxia.” He picks up the plug with shaking hands and cradles it, glancing to the nightstand.

“You may get the lube,” Lan Zhan says, before he can ask. “Remove your underwear.” Lan Zhan sits on the foot of the bed and watches with narrowed eyes as Wei Ying strips before stumbling around to the nightstand. He starts to bend over right there and Lan Zhan snaps his fingers. “Insert it in front of me.” He lets his eyes go cold, his mouth dismissive. “I need to make sure you do it correctly.”

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying says, very nearly a moan, and he kneels on the carpet, facing away from Lan Zhan. There’s a fumbling moment with the lube and the plug before he leans forward to brace himself on one elbow, legs spread and fully on display for Lan Zhan as he reaches one hand around behind him to ease the plug in. It’s not his largest but it’s fairly hefty (it needs to be, to have room for the motor) with several rounded ridges. Wei Ying does moan, out loud, working it in past the first ridge slowly, letting himself stretch around it. Lan Zhan watches with a blank face and a dry mouth and a painfully interested cock as Wei Ying takes a deep, shaky breath and slips the plug the rest of the way in, the base coming to nestle against his skin. Lan Zhan examines the remote, finds the power button, and clicks the plug on to the first setting.

“Oh god,” Wei Ying whimpers, visibly clenching, a muffled buzzing just barely audible. “Oh, thank you, dianxia.” He shivers hard, all the way down his spine, and Lan Zhan takes advantage of his distraction to pull the collar and cuffs he wants to use out of the tub. The black leather is butter-smooth in his hands, the decorative cutouts revealing delightful patterns against the red material underneath. He runs his fingers over them once, enjoying the texture, and walks up behind Wei Ying. A fist in his hair, again, pulling him upright, and Wei Ying moans again. From his vantage point Lan Zhan can see all the way down his front to his hard, flushed cock, precome leaking onto his thigh to shine wet against his skin. It’s beautiful and delicious and Lan Zhan never wants it to stop.

“Stay.” Lan Zhan releases Wei Ying’s hair and waits a moment to make sure he’s actually capable of holding his own weight. When he’s stable, Lan Zhan drapes the collar around his neck and buckles it in place, slipping a finger underneath it to check the fit. Wei Ying sighs, shoulders slumping, going slightly boneless, and in the closet mirror Lan Zhan sees his face go blank and blissful. Good to know. “Wrist,” Lan Zhan snaps, tapping one shoulder, and Wei Ying obediently offers up his arm. Both cuffs go on smoothly, each one leaving Wei Ying more spaced-out and relaxed, and by the time Lan Zhan clips them together behind his back Wei Ying seems practically asleep. It’s adorable, and Lan Zhan takes a moment to stand behind him, Wei Ying’s head leaning back against his thigh, one hand gently petting his hair. Wei Ying makes a pleased sound, almost a purr, and Lan Zhan smiles.

Then he turns the plug up to its highest setting.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying groans, eyes flying open. He squirms, panting for breath, mouth open, so Lan Zhan takes advantage of that by stepping around to face Wei Ying and pulling out his cock so he can feed it to him again. “Oh, god,” Wei Ying probably says, muffled, and then he sucks dick like his life depends on it. Lan Zhan keeps firm hold of his braid, tight enough that Wei Ying has to blink away tears, and fucks his mouth ruthlessly. Wei Ying scrambles to keep up, moaning and gasping through his nose. They’ve learned that Wei Ying can deepthroat Lan Zhan, which is an accomplishment, but Lan Zhan doesn’t give him that chance today, not really. He waits until Wei Ying is shaking, yanking at the cuffs behind him, and then turns the plug off and pulls away until Wei Ying is back to just mouthing at the head of his cock, straining against the iron grip in his hair to try and get more. Wei Ying whines, and Lan Zhan tugs him off and shakes him lightly.

“You take what I give you,” he reminds him. Wei Ying’s dick visibly twitches and leaks again, his chest heaving for breath, face flushed and eyes dizzy. “Do you want my cock back in your mouth?”

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying breathes. “Please, dianxia, I love it so much.”

“Be good,” Lan Zhan reminds him, and thrusts back inside. He keeps it light and slow, barely allowing Wei Ying to get suction going before he pulls back out, making him chase it with his tongue in order to keep any contact. This is to tease Wei Ying as much as it is to make it last for Lan Zhan. If he did what his baser urges were demanding he’d let Wei Ying swallow him down and come in probably fifteen seconds and the night would be over. Instead he holds Wei Ying by the hair, listening to him whine and complain as he barely manages to tongue the slit of Lan Zhan’s cock, and he turns the plug back on to a slow rising-and-falling setting. Wei Ying shudders, blinking hazily up at Lan Zhan, mouth red, eyes dark, lips stretched around Lan Zhan’s cock, resting heavy on his tongue. There’s a red mark on his cheek from where Lan Zhan slapped him, and Lan Zhan cradles it gently, strokes his thumb along Wei Ying’s mouth.

“Beautiful,” he says, thrusting in barely an inch deeper. Wei Ying whines and shuts his eyes and Lan Zhan taps his thumb against his cheek. “Eyes open.” Wei Ying whines again but obeys, embarrassment and heat on every inch of his face. “Good boy,” Lan Zhan says, low. “You suck my dick so well.” Wei Ying makes a noise that sounds like it came from his bones and immediately tries to deepthroat him. Lan Zhan lets it happen just until Wei Ying nestles against his pelvis and then yanks him back off for another slap, to the other side of his face this time. Wei Ying hits the ground with a moan and Lan Zhan leaves him there.

“I told you,” he says, every inch of him carved from ice.

“I know,” Wei Ying gasps, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry, dianxia, I just love your cock so much.” Lan Zhan stalks around behind him and doesn’t kick him, exactly, but he sets one foot on his hip and shoves him over to lay face down. Wei Ying, predictably, tries to grind against the carpet, so Lan Zhan pins his hips down with a foot on his lower back right above his ass and holds him there. That leads to a second idea, so he leans down and levels a sharp, loud smack to said ass. Wei Ying yelps and tries to squirm and gets nowhere, trapped and completely at Lan Zhan’s mercy. Lan Zhan could jerk off in about two strokes right now, his dick is on fire, every single sound Wei Ying makes is burning itself into his memories.

“Since you can’t be trusted,” he hisses, unclipping the cuffs from each other, “perhaps we should remove that temptation.” Lan Zhan stands and rolls Wei Ying roughly over onto his back and glares down at him like he’s a stain in the carpet. Wei Ying looks like he, also could jerk off in about two strokes right now, and he ripples under Lan Zhan’s gaze like he’s shimmering through water. “Prepare the bed,” Lan Zhan bites out. Wei Ying blinks up at him, clearly struggling to process language, and Lan Zhan snaps his fingers and points. “Prepare. The. Bed.”

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying gasps, struggling to his feet. He takes a couple staggering steps and runs into the mattress entirely, but that means he can use it for balance. Lan Zhan strips out of the white briefs and tosses them aside, then amuses himself by changing the settings on the plug and seeing what sounds Wei Ying makes when he does. Mostly it’s whimpering. Once he gets a shaky inhale, and by the time the sheets are turned down and the towel is in place, Wei Ying is trembling head to toe, knees visibly shaking. Lan Zhan picks up the lube from where it ended up on the floor and walks slowly toward him, close enough to touch, and doesn’t. Lan Zhan crawls onto the bed, arching his back like he’s seen Wei Ying do in photos and videos (Wei Ying’s breath catches, good) and then arranges himself against the pillows, legs spread, dick curving up toward his stomach to nearly brush the lace.

“Get me ready for you,” he orders, setting the lube on the nightstand. Wei Ying stares at him blankly. Lan Zhan turns off the vibe and raises one eyebrow. “Are you making me wait?”

“No, dianxia,” Wei Ying says, like it’s been punched out of him. “Sorry, dianxia.” He finds a glove, practically knocking the whole box out of the drawer, and fumbles it on as he knee-walks onto the bed. He tries to put his thumb in the pinky at first and has to peel the whole thing off and put it back on properly. Finally, he and the lube and the glove are all where they need to be, and he looks up at Lan Zhan, face blown open, awed, vulnerable, as he presses a finger in.

Lan Zhan relaxes around it, keeping his face as blank as possible. In a moment of inspiration, he reaches over to the nightstand for his phone. “Keep going,” he tells Wei Ying, voice flat, and then unlocks the screen and completely ignores Wei Ying. Wei Ying’s hand freezes, then twitches, and then he returns to his duties with an audible, broken exhale. Lan Zhan scrolls around through his home screens without seeing anything, pretending to be able to pay attention to anything other than the stretch of Wei Ying’s fingers and the coiling heat in his abdomen and the throbbing pulse in his dick. Wei Ying gets up to three fingers, rocking them gently and reverently into Lan Zhan’s body, before he tries his luck again and attempts to put his mouth on Lan Zhan’s cock. Lan Zhan slaps him before he gets there, his head knocking into Lan Zhan’s thigh, and Wei Ying sucks down a shivering, hitching breath and blinks at him with glazed eyes. “Be good,” Lan Zhan says, “or I won’t let you come tonight.”

Wei Ying’s breath leaks out as a moan. “Yes, dianxia,” he says, still fucking Lan Zhan open on his fingers. “Is this enough, dianxia? Do you need more?”

Lan Zhan pets his head, strokes over the cheek he just slapped to feel the heat. “You did very well getting me ready,” he says. “Good boy. Now get on your back.”

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying groans, pulling his fingers out. He disposes of the glove and scrambles into place when Lan Zhan gets out of the way, sprawling on his back. Lan Zhan still hasn’t touched his dick, and it’s dark and angry and practically casting off heat waves. Fuck, it’s going to feel so good in Lan Zhan’s ass, and he takes a careful moment to breathe through that thought before he loses himself in it. He clips both of Wei Ying’s cuffs to the o-ring on the collar, leaving him squirming and powerless on the bed.

“Beautiful,” he leans over to breathe in Wei Ying’s ear, and before Wei Ying has time to respond Lan Zhan bites a vicious bruise into his neck just below the jaw. Wei Ying actually sobs, the sound tearing itself out of him, jagged and hot and going straight to Lan Zhan’s dick.

“Oh god, dianxia,” he begs, “oh please, I’ll be good, I promise.”

“I don’t know if I believe you,” Lan Zhan says, biting his ear. Wei Ying’s hips jerk up off the bed, every muscle twitching, the metal of the cuffs clinking together. “I’ll just have to punish you if you’re bad.”

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying says, slurring his words now. “Punish me if you want, I deserve it, please, please, god please.” Lan Zhan cuts him off with a kiss, bruising and harsh and the first one since they started this game. Wei Ying sobs into his mouth and opens up for his tongue, tasting a little bit like their desserts and a lot like Lan Zhan’s precome. When Lan Zhan rips himself away Wei Ying’s eyes are leaking occasional tears, his breath shuddering in and out of his chest like he’s drowning. Lan Zhan is going to make him beg for fucking mercy by the time they’re through.

“Don’t move,” Lan Zhan says as he straddles him. “If you move I will punish you.” He lubes up Wei Ying’s dick quickly, impressed with his boyfriend when he manages to actually stay still, and positions it in place. He did something like this once with the dildo, so he has at least a little idea of the angle he needs as he lowers his hips slowly. There’s the pressure, the heat of Wei Ying’s cockhead against his opening, the stretch and the moment it feels like nothing will happen, and then all of a sudden Wei Ying is inside him and Lan Zhan can drop the rest of the way down and impale himself on his boyfriend’s delicious, hard, burning hot cock. He breathes there, letting himself adjust, while underneath him Wei Ying makes high pitched sounds in the back of this throat, shaking with the effort of keeping himself in place. “You don’t get to come until I tell you,” Lan Zhan informs him with a voice that is mostly steady. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Wei Ying says, voice shaking to match his body. “I understand, dianxia, I’ll be good.” Lan Zhan clenches and Wei Ying’s voice breaks. “Oh god,” he says, higher pitched now, “You feel so good, dianxia, you’re perfect, thank you, I don’t deserve this.”

“I’ll decide what you deserve.” Lan Zhan’s voice is cold and bored and it makes Wei Ying’s eyes glaze over again. He takes a moment to find the remote for the plug and turns it back on, somewhere in the middle of the intensity range. “Don’t move,” he reminds Wei Ying, and starts rocking his hips as his boyfriend chokes out a sob that might also be a swear.

Lan Zhan takes his time with this, ignoring his own desperately building pleasure in favor of driving Wei Ying entirely incoherent. He rides Wei Ying’s gorgeous cock until Wei Ying is full-body clenching under him and then stops to look at his phone again while Wei Ying sobs for breath. He switches through the different vibration settings, turning it off entirely for a few minutes and then slamming it back up to the highest intensity. Wei Ying practically yowls at that, forgets himself, and fucks up into Lan Zhan for a few wild strokes. Lan Zhan pinches Wei Ying’s nipple in retaliation, sitting fully down on him and pinning him to the mattress while he whimpers and cries. “Oh god,” Wei Ying says through the tears, ragged, “oh please, dianxia, I’m sorry, I’m trying to be good, I am.”

“Shh,” Lan Zhan says, tenderly, and he thumbs away the tear tracks from Wei Ying’s cheeks. “Color?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Green,” Wei Ying says, a long whine on an exhale.

“Good boy,” Lan Zhan tells him, patting his cheek gently, and then goes back to fucking himself on Wei Ying’s cock so hard he swears he can feel it in the back of his throat. He changes the angle a little as an experiment and gets himself right in the prostate on the next stroke, forcing a rough moan out of his lungs. That one thrust flares through his veins like an inferno, ripping past his self-control, and Lan Zhan does it again and again, finally giving in to the urge to just fuck himself absolutely, entirely senseless.

“Do you want to feel me come?” he demands, working his hips in demanding, vicious circles, keeping Wei Ying’s cock in him right where he wants it, leaking frankly obscene amounts of precome onto Wei Ying’s abs in a shiny, slippery mess.

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying sobs, breath hitching. “Please, god, come on me, dianxia, fuck me up, use me, I belong to you.” He’s not going to be able to hold out for much longer, Lan Zhan can tell--he’s so tense it must hurt, and his dick is so hot it’s noticeable even compared to Lan Zhan’s own fire.

“You do,” Lan Zhan agrees, his voice shaking, and he finally fists his aching cock and uses some of that precome to jerk himself off. “You’re mine,” he bites out, slick sounds from his hand on his cock and Wei Ying’s dick in his ass as he drives himself to completion. “You’re my good boy,” he says, thighs shaking, one hand braced on the bed for balance. “You’re so good, Wei Ying, so beautiful, you deserve this my love--” Lan Zhan hits himself just right, twists his hand around the head of his dick just so, and comes so hard the first spurt of it gets onto one of Wei Ying’s wrist cuffs. He fucks himself through it for a couple strokes, shuddering and moaning, before he remembers there was something else he needed to say.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice rasping. “Come in me, Wei Ying, good boy. You earned it.”

“Yes, dianxia,” Wei Ying chokes out, “oh god--” and his dick pulses inside of Lan Zhan, liquid heat pooling as far inside of him as it’s possible to get. Lan Zhan keeps his muscular control together long enough to fuck them both through their orgasms, drawing it out into a shaking, shuddering, sticky, oversensitive mess of sensation, before his thighs finally give out and he sits all the way down to shake and breathe and let Wei Ying go soft inside of him. Wei Ying keeps crying a little bit, not hard, his abs occasionally shivering on the inhale, and Lan Zhan turns off the plug after a moment’s thought. Wei Ying sighs in something like relief, and Lan Zhan pets his hair softly, occasionally murmuring more gentle praise and endearments.

Lan Zhan has a renewed respect for how thorough Wei Ying was with aftercare the previous Sunday when he finally gets his complaining legs in gear and peels himself off the bed. All he wants to do is curl up and go to sleep, but Wei Ying has gone fully floaty and blank behind the eyes and needs to be coaxed back gently. Lan Zhan cleans himself up, first, then releases Wei Ying from his restraints, eases the plug out, and cleans him off as well. He peels out of the lace and belatedly takes his hair down and his earrings out. (Lan Zhan hadn’t even noticed he was wearing them.) He puts on the French terry pajama set, manages to wrangle a limp Wei Ying into the bunny pajamas he’s appropriated, and wraps him in a bathrobe before bodily carrying him out to the kitchen.

Wei Ying dozes limply on Lan Zhan’s shoulder as he props him on the edge of the counter and gets a cup of cocoa into the microwave one-handed. While that heats up he gets the leftover strawberry cake out of the fridge and a fork out of the drawer and manages through a simply heroic act of determination to get those to the coffee table with Wei Ying still in his arms. The microwave dings, so Lan Zhan carries Wei Ying back into the kitchen again, and then back to the living room again, and finally he settles down on the couch with a barely-conscious Wei Ying sprawled across his lap and curled into his chest. Lan Zhan gets the blanket around them both and kisses Wei Ying’s forehead.

“Wei Ying, my love,” he says, voice as warm now as it had been cold during their scene, “Wei Ying, my good boy. Can you eat something for me, please?”

Wei Ying manages a “Mmph,” which is at least as coherent as he normally is in the morning, and allows Lan Zhan to feed him a modest forkful of cake. “Mmm,” he says, with more meaning behind it, and obediently eats the next one, and sips at the cocoa, and occasionally tries to hide his face in Lan Zhan’s neck when Lan Zhan praises him for it. Lan Zhan thinks, privately, that he probably comes back to reality when the cocoa is about half gone and simply pretends to be out of it and floaty until the mug is empty. He’s not going to begrudge him that, though, because Lan Zhan would happily spend every evening with Wei Ying curled into his arms, safe from the world, feeding him with food and affection both. Wei Ying drinks the last sip of cocoa under his own power and then tips his bleary, makeup-smeared face up to Lan Zhan, smiling and still slightly unfocused and looking extremely well fucked.

“Hey,” he says, dreamily, and kisses Lan Zhan lightly. “That was.” Wei Ying blinks at him, gives him another smile, and finishes, “extremely fucking hot. God.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, fully in agreement. He sets the mug aside and rests gentle fingers on Wei Ying’s face, turning it from side to side so he can check for any bruising. There aren’t even marks, which Lan Zhan is grateful for. He likes to see his bites, dark on Wei Ying’s skin, but on his face… “It wasn’t too much? The hitting?”

“No,” Wei Ying says. He can’t seem to stop smiling. “It was great. You could probably go a little harder next time.” He narrows his eyes, clearly trying to think about something. “More spanking. Liked that.” Wei Ying’s eyes open in realization, but every move he makes is slightly slower than usual, like he’s running at three-quarters speed, and Lan Zhan is having a hard time not laughing at him. “We should try out the flogger,” he announces, very proud of himself for remembering it, and they both shiver a little.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, the tips of his ears hot. “I would prefer to. Practice. First. With that one.”

Wei Ying nods very seriously. “Good idea. Very smart.” He kisses Lan Zhan, like it’s a reward for wanting to plan in advance. “No rush,” he says against Lan Zhan’s mouth. “We have the rest of our lives.” Another kiss, and then, “Some rush, though.” He manages to give Lan Zhan a look that’s a slightly fuzzy echo of his usual sexy face. “I wanna get completely wrecked again by you in the near future.”

“The sentiment is mutual,” Lan Zhan assures him. “More cake?”

Wei Ying beams at him. “You’re the best boyfriend. Yes, cake.”

Lan Zhan feeds him another bite. “Bath after this?”

“You’re gonna spoil me,” Wei Ying says, but he’s not complaining.

“I am,” Lan Zhan agrees, and feeds him more cake.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning they go to Ikea before the warehouse is open, order a full breakfast with coffee and tea for approximately ten whole dollars, and perch in the corner of the restaurant with windows looking out over the parking lot (boring) with a view of the distant hills (less boring). They have agreed that, given Lan Zhan’s capacity for the Outside, this will count as their Second Sunday date for the week, leaving them the whole actual Sunday to assemble furniture and recover.

“So,” Wei Ying says, sipping his coffee from a classic blue Färgrik mug, “I have a budget for what I actually need for the studio, and then I have a second, smaller budget for whatever bullshit I decide to impulse-purchase.” He grins at Lan Zhan over his ridiculously inexpensive plate of eggs, potatoes, and bacon. “How much of your money do you have set aside for spoiling me today, sweetie?”

Lan Zhan takes a bite of his yogurt and fruit bowl and considers. “Up to five hundred dollars,” he says easily, timing it just as Wei Ying takes a sip, and Wei Ying’s eyes bug out and he barely manages to swallow before he coughs.

“Fuck,” he wheezes into a napkin, “Lan Zhan, baby, I was joking.”

“I wasn’t,” Lan Zhan replies, and hides his smile behind his tea while Wei Ying blushes and sputters.

It’s still early enough when the warehouse opens that Lan Zhan stays at a comfortable six on his anxiety scale, occasionally dropping down to a four when Wei Ying takes his hand to pull him off the path and into one of the example apartments to sit on a couch and, “Imagine what it would be like if you could decorate without having to take any existing outlets or windows or heaters into account!” They cram onto an armchair (Stocksund, $399) in a living room decorated in deep blues and birch wood. Lan Zhan looks at a floor lamp with a woven rattan shade (Knixhult, $54.99, he notes) and thinks about whether it would look nice in their(!!!!!!!) apartment.

“I used to come here when I was poor,” Wei Ying says. He climbs out of the chair and tugs Lan Zhan into the next room, all dark woods and jewel-toned botanical prints on the furniture. Wei Ying looks perfectly at home in this one, his burgundy sweater pulling the same colors as the flowers on the couch, and Lan Zhan instantly starts reconsidering their home decor scheme.

“Mn?” he asks encouragingly as Wei Ying tests out the couch.

“Yeah. Fucking loved it. Love Ikea.” Wei Ying wiggles around, getting comfortable, and then opens his arms to invite Lan Zhan down. “For bus fare and five dollars I could get enough food to actually fill me up and then a warm place to hang out for most of the day. I couldn’t afford to turn on the heat for, like, that whole first year, so if I had a free day I’d come down here and, you know.” He tips his head away, avoiding Lan Zhan’s eyes, and admits, “I’d dream about something better.”

Lan Zhan lifts their joined hands and presses his lips to Wei Ying’s knuckles. “Is this what you dreamed about?” he asks softly, and Wei Ying gives a watery little laugh.

“Oh, god no,” he says, scooching a little closer into Lan Zhan’s side. “That was way too big a dream for back then. I was dreaming about eating something other than instant noodles and cabbage and congee and maybe, someday, buying an actual chair new from the store instead of scavenging most of my furniture off the street near the college on move-out day.” Wei Ying grins, stronger this time. “Having my hot boyfriend here with me to cuddle on a--” he pauses to check the tag “--an Uppland sofa? That was a dream for the Wei Ying of a year later, who could turn on the heat and sometimes have a little beef in his stir fry, as a treat.”

Lan Zhan kisses him, heedless of the public setting. “I will buy Wei Ying a chair if he so desires.” Another kiss. “And all the beef for all of his stir-fries.”

Wei Ying buries his head in Lan Zhan’s neck. “Noooo,” he whines. “My favorite person in my favorite Swedish furniture warehouse? I can’t handle this, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, kissing his temple. “My apologies.” He settles back against the couch and looks around the example living room again as other shoppers mill past their quiet pocket of artificial domesticity. “Wei Ying?” he asks. “Darling?” Wei Ying lifts his head and makes an interested noise, and Lan Zhan waves his hand at the room at large. “Is this…” he starts, and then frowns as he searches for the right words. “Your ‘hashtag’ aesthetic?”

Wei Ying cackles, startling a mother with her teen daughter in the fake apartment next door, and he pats Lan Zhan on the thigh. “Please never use slang on the reg,” he says, delighted. “I love being surprised whenever you do. Ahem. Anyway.” He sits up and looks around, eyes appraising. “It is nice. I like the use of color. You know me, I love saturated, goth-ass palettes. The little mirrored trays are a nice touch. For some reason when I was little I thought mirrored trays were the height of fanciness and I have no idea why.”

Lan Zhan nods and resolves to purchase some mirrored trays. “Would you like,” he offers, hesitantly, “if our apartment were more like this?”

Wei Ying chews thoughtfully on his lower lip, glancing between Lan Zhan and the deep teal walls. “I love all your furniture,” he says after a moment. “You have a really lovely sense for design and layout.” He takes a deep breath, clearly forcing out what he says next. “I wouldn’t mind more color?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, thinking about the saturated tones of Wei Ying’s throw blanket. He likes how it looks against his preferred cool neutral tones, and they both clearly like blue.

“It would be nice if we could do something on the walls,” Wei Ying says wistfully, climbing off the couch and towing Lan Zhan along with him. “I know we’re renting so we kinda can’t, but I am so goddamn sick of blank apartment walls, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan thinks about that while Wei Ying pokes through a farmhouse-style dining room. “Removable wallpaper?” he suggests, and Wei Ying brightens like the chandelier above the table. (Kristaller, $39.99, looks difficult to dust.)

“Oh damn,” Wei Ying says, “I hadn’t even thought of that. Hell yeah, let’s look at some online later, okay?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and gently pulls Wei Ying into the next section. “Desk first,” he reminds him gently, before his brain can run too far off on the wallpaper tangent. He thinks for a bit. “Possibly an armchair as well.”

“Right.” Wei Ying squares his shoulders, determined. “Get the studio into a workable space so I can wave my ass around on the internet and earn the money for the removable wallpaper.”

Lan Zhan kisses him on the cheek. “Industrious,” he murmurs in Wei Ying’s ear, and Wei Ying swats at him, red-faced and hissing, “Not in public!” Lan Zhan relents and follows his boyfriend into the couch section.

They learn, as they go, where their decorating tastes converge and where they differ. Wei Ying is comfortable with brighter colors, and more of them together, which doesn’t come as a surprise. Lan Zhan can handle cooler jewel tones easily, but the warmer, brighter end of the spectrum makes him uncomfortable. He gets about five steps into the children’s section of the showrooms before the riot of shape and color and texture results in an immediate and splitting headache. Wei Ying takes one look at his face and pulls him through the shortcut into the dining section, while the words “sensory processing disorder” bounce around inside his aching skull, left over from his therapy appointment on Thursday. They take a second in a fake outdoor patio decorated like a bistro so Lan Zhan can breathe as the headache recedes before pressing on.

“We should probably get more dining chairs,” Wei Ying says, when Lan Zhan is verbal again. “If we have your brother or jiejie over for dinner and don’t want to sit on each other’s laps.” Lan Zhan is happy to have Wei Ying on his lap at all times but it’s also a good point, so he finds the style he already has at home and takes a dutiful photo of the warehouse information tag.

Lan Zhan insists on getting a cart when they leave the showrooms and make it to the actual warehouse, over Wei Ying’s insistence that he’ll do fine with the giant blue tote bag, because Lan Zhan has been carefully watching Wei Ying’s face over the course of their visit and he now has Plans. Whenever Wei Ying’s face does The Thing it does when he really wants something and visibly decides not to buy it, Lan Zhan puts it in the cart. This is apparently fine when it’s a plastic tray with brightly colored birds on it, but by the time Lan Zhan settles the deep blue and burgundy botanical print duvet set next to the weird little burgundy table lamp he’d admired, Wei Ying tries to argue with him.

“You can’t just--the bed is fine like it is,” he insists, pulling the duvet set out and returning it to the shelf. “You don’t need to buy this just because I smiled at it.”

“I want to buy it,” Lan Zhan insists, putting the duvet set back in the cart and rolling away before Wei Ying can grab it again.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying protests, trailing after him. He sounds genuinely upset, so Lan Zhan turns to face him and tries to find the words.

“I know,” he says, hesitantly, “that you would be happy. Together. As things are.” Lan Zhan takes a breath and one of Wei Ying’s hands, squeezing it between both of his. “But I want our home to be ours. I made my choices to be. To be safe.” It’s true. Lan Zhan learned when he was first furnishing his own living space that if he chose only neutrals, then everything would match and he wouldn’t have to worry about making the wrong decision. It helps that he likes neutrals, and clean lines, but those aren’t the only aesthetics he enjoys and now he has the motivation to make different choices. “I don’t want to hide anymore,” he finishes, flushing across his cheekbones, feeling absolutely ridiculous to be having this conversation in an Ikea, of all places.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, going pink himself. He blinks at Lan Zhan a couple of times, his mouth working. “So. You really like that print?”

“Mn.”

“You’re not like… Married to the white linens look?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. Wei Ying grins at him, slow, like golden honey dripping from a spoon. “Great,” he says. “Then can we please get some towels in actual colors, so I stop having to worry about staining yours when my hair dye bleeds?”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says, and then he kisses Wei Ying in the middle of the bedlinen section.

They make it home with a full car, only having spent about three hundred and fifty dollars of Lan Zhan’s “Spoiling Wei Ying” budget, which he thinks is reasonable since it included two dining chairs and frames for the photo prints they ordered. The studio is the priority, and Lan Zhan discovers that Wei Ying’s dislike of reading instructions does not apply to Ikea furniture. “I put together a chair once and it was like a piece of modern sculpture, Lan Zhan,” he says wearily. “Never again.” The desk does not turn into a piece of modern sculpture, and the floating wall shelves go up with a minimum of trouble, once they work out all the problems by hanging the first one. Wei Ying’s synthesizers and other musical equipment finally has a home that isn’t laying on the floor against one wall, and when the last one is in place they take a moment to admire their hard work.

“Did you want to do the rest?” Lan Zhan asks, gesturing at the curtain rods for Wei Ying’s fabric drapes and the boxes that contain a soon to be built-in closet organization system. Wei Ying looks at the pile and sags a little.

“No,” he decides, kicking a piece of cardboard out of the way. “Actually I should really shoot something new. I have a backlog but I need to start producing again and I’ve been, aha, busy.” He gives Lan Zhan a smouldering look under his lashes.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, pretending not to understand the innuendo. “The last two weeks have indeed been a disruption to our regular routines.”

“Lan Zhaaaan,” Wei Ying complains, draping himself across Lan Zhan’s chest. “So cruel of you to mock me when the reason I haven’t been making sexy videos for the internet is because you’ve been having so much sex with me I haven’t had time.” He pouts, peeking up through his eyelashes. “You should make it up to me.”

Lan Zhan pets his hair, teasing the little tendrils that have slipped loose from his ponytail. “Am I making it up to you by having sex with you again?” he asks, scritching at the nape of Wei Ying’s neck. “I am very willing but I don’t see how that would help.”

Wei Ying laughs and nuzzles further into Lan Zhan’s neck, tipping his head for more scritching access. “Yeah, I don’t really know where I was going with that,” he admits. “Unless…” He pulls back and bites his lower lip thoughtfully. “Unless you’d be willing to shoot?”

Lan Zhan blinks. “Me?” It’s an unnecessary question, mostly there to give him a moment to think about the idea. “I am not unwilling,” he decides, “but I am also not a photographer, my love.”

“Mmm,” Wei Ying acknowledges in nearly a purr, since Lan Zhan has not stopped petting his undercut, “but I’ve seen the nature pictures you grab on your phone sometimes. You have a decent eye for composition and my fancy camera is basically point-and-shoot when the lighting’s nice.” He kisses Lan Zhan’s collarbone. “The secret for amateur photographers is just taking an absolute fuck-shit-stack of pictures. If you take 200 you’re basically guaranteed to have at least ten come out well.”

Taking two hundred sexy pictures of Wei Ying is hardly an imposition. “Then yes,” Lan Zhan says, digging his thumb and middle finger into the tight place where Wei Ying’s skull meets his neck, where he’s learned the tension tends to live. Wei Ying shuts his eyes and sways into it, tipping his head back into Lan Zhan’s grip. “Do you want to shoot in here?”

“Hmmm?” Wei Ying asks, blinking himself back into the room. “Oh. Nah, it’s not really set up yet.” He tips his head from side to side, working out the remaining tightness in his neck. “I was thinking the bathtub. It’s new and novel and also I’m very sexy when I’m all hot and wet, don’t you agree, gege?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, dropping one hand to Wei Ying’s ass and shamelessly dragging him against Lan Zhan’s thigh so he can roll their hips together. “I do.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying laughs, grinding against his half-hard dick. “You fucking perma-horny sex fiend. Slow your roll, we can fuck after we make the porn.”

Lan Zhan thinks that if they do it right, they can fuck while they make the porn, but then he remembers that would mean being on camera himself and he shuts that train of thought down right there. “Mn,” he says, getting in another good, slow drag of his hips against Wei Ying, hand firm against the muscle of his ass, watching his boyfriend’s eyes go glassy and heated. “After, then,” he finishes, stepping away and then catching Wei Ying when he sways.

“Right.” Wei Ying shakes his head, trying to focus. “You need to go do something elsewhere, babe, while I set up.” He pouts. “You’re very distracting and I’m too weak and feeble a man to be able to resist your sexy wiles.”

“Your struggle is noble,” Lan Zhan says very seriously, and kisses Wei Ying’s smiling mouth before peeling himself away to take care of their other Ikea purchases. He gets the new duvet set and the towels in the washer, clips tags off the throw pillows for the couch in the jewel-toned floral prints they both agreed on, and assembles both dining room chairs with the ease that comes from previous experience with these exact chairs. He doesn’t know what Wei Ying actually wanted the brightly colored bird tray for, so he sets it on the coffee table and puts the silver cutout tealight candleholders on it that Wei Ying also wanted. When he finally stands back and looks at the finished picture his breath catches because he loves it. Lan Zhan hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted color and brightness in his space until it was there, how much he’d wanted the promise of family meals that having four chairs at the table offers. He’s fervently, wildly grateful, again, that he gets to have this now, and he ends up hugging a pillow out of an excess of emotion and a lack of a Wei Ying to hug.

“Hey, babe,” Wei Ying calls, padding out of their bedroom in a robe as Lan Zhan shifts the linens to the dryer, “I’m ready in here for you.” He grins, red bangs tipping into his eyeliner-smudged eyes. “In more ways than one.” Lan Zhan doesn’t laugh, but he lets his mouth curl up as he follows Wei Ying in. His lighting kit washes their bathroom in pale, icy blue and a warm pink, not as intense as his usual Bisexual Lighting(tm) but definitely in the same family. The bath is full and coated with a fluffy carpet of bubbles, and Wei Ying has cleared anything extraneous off to the sides so the shoot location is clean and uncluttered.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, handing Lan Zhan his camera, “I have it set up for autofocus, so if you hold down the button for a second before you shoot you should be golden. If you press this button instead you can get video. I want to get a mix of still shots and video for this, so just tell me which you’re shooting so I know whether I’m posing or moving. Feel free to get artsy with the framing.”

Lan Zhan nods, hefting the camera and feeling out the weight and where his hands need to be. “Artsy how?”

“Oh, like…” Wei Ying takes the camera back and points it at Lan Zhan. “Lean against the bathroom counter all sexy for me?” Lan Zhan does, feeling a little silly for doing this in a long-sleeved slim-fit t-shirt under a draping, open-front cardigan vest. Wei Ying snaps a series of photos and then turns the camera around to show Lan Zhan the results: shots that frame his pecs, shots at a rakish diagonal that go from the chin down to the waistband of his jeans, a shot with his lips and mouth in perfect focus while his collarbone and the rest of his body are artistically blurred. Lan Zhan nods in understanding and takes the camera back, feeling a little more prepared.

“Now, babe…” Wei Ying starts, dragging his lower lip between his teeth the way he knows Lan Zhan loves. His hand rests lightly on Lan Zhan’s wrist, warm on his skin. “I’m going to be very, very sexy,” he says, his other hand teasing across Lan Zhan’s waistband before he ghosts one finger over the fly of his jeans. “You might want to slip into something a little more comfortable.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, ears practically steaming, and he hands Wei Ying back the camera and heads out into the bedroom to his pleased laughter. He strips down to his underwear and throws on his terry bathrobe, feeling like the stereotypical creepy porn producer for a moment, right up until he looks through the bathroom door to find Wei Ying watching with an unmistakably fond expression. Lan Zhan relaxes and takes his earrings out. This is just spending time with his beautiful hot boyfriend, doing something his beautiful hot boyfriend likes to do. The fact that it’s for future financial gain on the internet changes nothing about that.

“Ready?” Wei Ying asks when they’re both back in the bathroom, camera in Lan Zhan’s hands, Wei Ying’s favorite “sexy electronica” playlist echoing off the tile.

“Ready,” Lan Zhan confirms. He snaps a couple of test shots to get a feel for it and nods firmly.

“Great,” Wei Ying says, coy. He plays his fingers along the neckline of his robe (that used to be Lan Zhan’s robe, that Wei Ying stole) and tips his head thoughtfully. “Let’s start with a slow video pan of the tub, and then a pan of me from the feet up as I take off the robe?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and re-figures out which button on the camera is the video.

It’s a little nerve-wracking, being the photographer for an actual photographer, but once Lan Zhan gets over his initial worry and gets a feel for shooting it’s just hot. It helps enormously that Wei Ying is the sexiest being in existence and Lan Zhan is getting a (temporarily) private showing of that, his boyfriend sinking slowly into the bathwater, gorgeous ass on display as he faces away from the camera, a sly wink at the lens over his shoulder. Wei Ying pouts and poses and smiles and runs a puffy loofah over his skin, suds dripping down the dips of his abs to pool in his bellybutton, and Lan Zhan has to focus on his actual job here and not on his very interested erection. This focus is tested when Wei Ying perches on the edge of the tub to bring his own dick to the party, and Lan Zhan unintentionally takes about fifty close-ups of Wei Ying’s hand working over his cock before he remembers there are other parts of Wei Ying to shoot.

“Are you,” he asks, rough, taking video now as Wei Ying writhes theatrically, “are you going to. Finish. On camera?”

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully, shivering as he adds a twist on the next stroke, right over the head. “No, it doesn’t look as good with water.” He looks right at Lan Zhan and tips his head back, displaying the fairly spectacular bruise on his neck from the night before. “I wanna come with you in here with me.”

Lan Zhan takes another panning shot, from Wei Ying’s wet dick up his gleaming abs to his lickable chest to that flushed, teasing face. Wei Ying air kisses the camera and Lan Zhan ends the video there. “When?” he asks, trying to sound like he has a professional interest in the length of this photoshoot. Wei Ying gives him a smoldering look, so it’s an absolute failure on the professionalism front, but a success on all other fronts.

“Let me see,” Wei Ying says, dropping his dick and sliding back into the tub, face suddenly serious again. Lan Zhan gives him a towel to dry his hands and the camera, kneeling next to the tub to peek over his shoulder at the camera roll as Wei Ying flicks through it. Lan Zhan thinks he got some acceptable shots, in his amateur opinion, and Wei Ying seems to agree as he pauses over a couple to zoom in and check them in detail. “Let’s get a few more slow pans of me in the water, and some more shots from behind,” he decides, handing the camera back and leaning over to give Lan Zhan a kiss at the same time. “Thank you for your patience, gege.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, chasing Wei Ying for another kiss. “It seems fair after I made you wait so long last night.”

Wei Ying goes nicely blurry around the eyes, his smile dreamy. “Yeah,” he breathes. “That was great.” Lan Zhan takes a picture of him while he’s still all blissed out in memory, and Wei Ying snaps back to awareness. “Gege,” he says, mock-stern.

“That one was for me,” Lan Zhan says with zero apology. He stands back up. “Slow pans?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying confirms, arranging himself in the tub so his nipples are just barely visible above the bubbles, knees peeking out in a tease of wet skin. “Shoot from feet to face,” he directs, and Lan Zhan gets back to work. It’s another ten extremely sexy minutes of photography before Wei Ying declares the shoot wrapped, and he bounces in the tub, water sloshing gently around him, as Lan Zhan carefully sets the camera aside and puts the lens cap on.

“Should I…” he starts, gesturing at the lighting kit, and Wei Ying shakes his head, reaching for him with grabby hands.

“No, the lighting makes it sexier, get naked and get in here, sweetheart.” Wei Ying drapes his forearms over the edge of the tub and pillows his cheek on them, gaze doleful and sad. “I haven’t gotten to see your dick since last night, Lan Zhan, and you’ve been taking pictures of mine for the last half hour! How is that fair?”

“Wei Ying’s dedication to justice is admirable,” Lan Zhan says, very seriously, and he strips out of his robe and underwear to slosh gracelessly into the bathtub. What follows is not elegant or well-planned or particularly adventurous as he and Wei Ying make out messily in the hot water, hands exploring, one of them usually holding on to the edge of the tub so no one gets accidentally dunked. Wei Ying is sort of grinding against the hard plane of Lan Zhan’s thigh when Lan Zhan finally settles himself against the wall of the tub, pulling Wei Ying into his lap and wrapping a hand around both their cocks.

“Oh, yeah,” Wei Ying says, biting Lan Zhan’s jaw and working a hand behind his lower back under the water to push them closer together. “Yes, baby, Lan Zhan, fuck, I love you so much.”

“You’re beautiful,” Lan Zhan tells him, hand and hips working together against the drag of the water. “Stunning. Sexy.” Wei Ying tries to hide but has nowhere to go, so Lan Zhan kisses the rim of his ear and keeps whispering endearments and compliments as his abs tense and his thighs shake and his boyfriend makes little whimpering protests. “Love you, too,” he says, urgently, when they’re both panting and the water is ripping with their movements. “Love you so much Wei Ying, love you forever.”

“Forever,” Wei Ying moans, and he comes on his next breath, shaking apart in Lan Zhan’s arms. Lan Zhan bites his neck and falls over the edge with him, his orgasm long and slow and almost gentle in the way it washes over him, warm and relaxed as the bath they’re sharing.

“Damn,” Wei Ying says some time later, when he’s wiggled around in Lan Zhan’s arms to soak back-to-chest, head lolling onto his shoulder, “it’s so much more fun to make porn with you than it is to just think about you when I make porn alone.”

This isn’t the first time Wei Ying has mentioned thinking about Lan Zhan when he makes porn, but it’s the first time that wasn’t in the middle of a conversation where they were both ripping their hearts out of their chests. He perks up mentally. (Not physically. He’s too comfortable for that.) “Mn?” he says in what he hopes is an encouraging tone.

“Oh, yeah,” Wei Ying says, apparently understanding his not-quite-a-question. “You’re the invisible star of all my work.” He plays with some of the bubbles absently, scooping them up on his fingers and then letting them float away into the water. “I’ve been fantasizing about you and feeling guilty about it since college.” A kiss to the underside of Lan Zhan’s jaw softens the idea of the guilt, and Wei Ying continues, “God, I really tried not thinking about you when I jerked off but my brain and my dick were both absolute traitors about it.”

“I know the feeling,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying laughs.

“Yeah, so like, I started making porn and it was like, ‘I really, really can not be making porn about how horny I am for my best friend, Lan Zhan would be so grossed out if he knew, he’s not even into this,’ and I’d try to think about A Generic Hot Person Regardless Of Gender and it would always fucking turn into thinking about you. I thought it was so fucked up, I felt so bad that I was involving you in my porn career without your knowledge or consent, even if it was just in my own head, you know?” He sounds so plaintive and sad as he says it that Lan Zhan can’t help it--he laughs silently into Wei Ying’s hair. “Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, scandalized. “I’m confessing my deepest secrets, here!”

“Thank you for trusting me with your deepest secrets,” Lan Zhan says, sincerely, when he can speak again. He kisses Wei Ying’s temple. “I am not grossed out.”

“Well I know that now,” Wei Ying huffs, relaxing back into the circle of Lan Zhan’s arms. “Anyway,” he says, waving one hand. “It’s all about you. My porn. All of it. Except the videos I make for balloon popping guy, and sandwich lady, because I don’t need to be sexy for those.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, making a note to ask later to see one of the balloon popping videos, just because he’s curious. That thought leads to another, and then another, and he sits up a little straighter. “So,” he starts, a question thrumming through his veins, “the custom video. For ArdentAdmirer89?”

Wei Ying wiggles around to straddle him, face to face, his wet, sudsy hands on Lan Zhan’s shoulders. “ArdentAdmirer89 asked for a boyfriend experience,” he says softly, “so I thought to myself, ‘What would I do if this was for Lan Zhan?’”

“Oh,” Lan Zhan says, a broken little place inside of him stitching itself back together so suddenly it aches. He pulls Wei Ying to him, buries his face in his hair, and breathes salt and vanilla and the citrusy scent of the bubble bath.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, kissing his ear. “So if you ever watch it again. It wasn’t, you know. A lie.” Lan Zhan takes a shaky breath and Wei Ying pets his hair until he doesn’t feel so fragile anymore, and he relaxes his arms so Wei Ying can lay down on top of him, cheek pillowed where his shoulder meets his chest. They soak there for a little while, Wei Ying’s phone still playing sexy electronica. “Hey, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, voice vibrating against skin, “it’s our two-week date-iversary tonight.” He pushes back upright, hands on Lan Zhan’s chest, eyes bright. “After we shower you wanna order from Dim Sum Time and watch Great British Bake-Off and then make out on the couch for a while? To celebrate?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says immediately, and then glances at the bathroom and the lighting kit still set up. “Mn. Yes, with a short break for cleaning up after the shower.”

“Deal,” Wei Ying says, and clambers, dripping, out of the tub.

It is an excellent way to celebrate, marred only by Lan Zhan’s embarrassment when he comes in his pajamas by rubbing off against Wei Ying’s thigh as they make out. The embarrassment is short-lived, because Wei Ying whimpers, “Oh god that’s so hot,” makes a high-pitched noise against Lan Zhan’s throat, and then comes in his pajamas against Lan Zhan’s thigh, so. They climb into bed after their second shower, the deep blue botanical print duvet set beautiful and colorful against the clean white of Lan Zhan’s sheets, and he thinks he’s never felt more right than here, with Wei Ying in his arms.

---

The next two weeks are a breath taken, a stretch of a sore muscle, a warm blanket on a cold day. They feel out the new routine of their lives, free of huge chores that take them outside the house or other large drains on their time. Wei Ying’s studio goes from a half-finished mess to a working space, his backdrops hung along the walls in a U-shape so he can shoot with even more freedom than before. The photos they ordered arrive, and Lan Zhan slots them into the Ikea frames to bring more color into their shared bedroom. Lan Huan and Nie Mingjue come over on the usual Thursday for dinner, the inaugural run of their new dining room chairs, and it’s so easy and comfortable Lan Zhan wonders why he never invited his brother’s partner over before.

Wei Ying, when not completely exhausted by moving stress or unpacking stress, reverts back to his usual semi-nocturnal schedule and makes up the difference with a nap when he gets home from the cafe in the afternoon, which was apparently his previous routine. “It’s pretty common for creative types?” he says, his laptop in tablet mode as he sketches on it in bed, Lan Zhan’s face pressed into his hip. “I’ll try not to keep you up, but I feel like I do my best drawing at night.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, fumbling the sleep mask he bought for just this reason down over his eyes. “Just nice to have you here.” Wei Ying takes a break from sketching to pet his hair for a bit, and Lan Zhan smiles and snuggles a little closer.

They have a belated birthday party for Wei Ying, which also acts as a housewarming party. The whole friend group comes, bringing spring rolls and bao and a crockpot full of soup (Jiang Yanli, of course), and every time Lan Zhan gets overwhelmed he goes into the second bedroom, which has a sign on the door that Wei Ying painted declaring it the “Chill Room: No exceptions, only for chilling!” There are floor cushions and Wei Ying’s meditation music and he set up his lighting kit for relaxing mood lighting, and it’s all, indeed, very chill. At one point Lan Zhan and Jin Zixuan find themselves in there together, and Jin Zixuan lifts his glass of wine in salute and says, “No cat yet.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, with a salute of his sparkling water. “I will keep you informed on that front.”

Later, Lan Zhan wanders out with a vague plan to find a cream puff, or maybe a custard bun, to find Jiang Cheng grumbling, “So I mean, if you’re not too busy with your new boyfriend or whatever to help out your family, I need someone to run photobooths at a few weddings now that I’ve banned all Jins and Jin-adjacent companies.” He glowers at Wei Ying, who has a glass of wine in one hand, a coconut bun in the other and a stunned, delighted look on his face. “Do you think you could point a camera at some fucking drunks with props for four hours, or is that below your pay grade?”

“No,” Wei Ying says, “I mean, yes. I mean--” and he shoves his glass at a waiting Lan Zhan and tackles his brother into a hug. “I’ll totally run your photobooths for drunks, didi!” he says into his brother’s hair, definitely a little bit tipsy. “I’ll do so good, you’ll be proud of me. It’ll be art.”

“Get off!” Jiang Cheng splutters, not struggling hard enough to actually make Wei Ying go anywhere. “Send me your rates and I’ll get you on my vendor list or whatever, fuckface.”

“I love you, too,” Wei Ying says, and Jiang Cheng goes hilariously red, but he also brings his arms up to hug Wei Ying back. Lan Zhan considers that, overall, a success.

They work out a chore rotation, and then Wei Ying draws a pretty version of it and sticks it to the fridge. Lan Zhan figures out, through a series of pointed questions when he notices Wei Ying looking extra tired, that his boyfriend does better with more animal protein in his diet, and changes their meal planning accordingly. Wei Ying steals a couple of Lan Zhan’s plain blue t-shirts and returns them a couple days later with painted clouds and waterfalls on them, and then insists it was no big deal when Lan Zhan tries to thank him. They make it a point to have sex in every single room in the apartment, at Wei Ying’s insistence, “So nowhere feels left out.” Lan Zhan thinks that, perhaps, the kitchen wouldn’t mind being left out of this, but he’s also not complaining about bending Wei Ying over the counter, either. (They put down a towel first and sanitize after, because they’re not barbarians.)

Lan Zhan goes to two more therapy appointments, both he and Lan Yi agreeing that weekly sessions are a good idea to start with. They’re not fun, and it’s difficult work unpicking all the ways he’s knotted himself up inside, but Lan Yi makes sure to have the blanket and a cup of ginseng waiting for him and she always respects his boundaries. The utter terror of that first session never returns, now that he knows what to expect, and Lan Zhan returns home afterward to Wei Ying ready with a hug and dinner. It feels, Lan Zhan thinks, like exercise: it hurts and leaves him wrung out and sore, but it also feels like he’s done something good for himself. He starts to catch himself when his thoughts go in an unhelpful direction and pull them out of the spiral before it starts, at least occasionally, and it feels like an absolute fucking miracle every single time.

Lan Zhan gets back from his Sunday morning run, ears and nose red from the cold, and gets halfway through his yoga before Wei Ying stumbles out of the bedroom. “Pancakes?” Lan Zhan asks, as Wei Ying gets his coffee going. (Lan Zhan has started setting it up the night before, so all Wei Ying needs to do is hit a button. Once Wei Ying has had his coffee, he is always appropriately grateful.)

“Mmmhmmm,” Wei Ying yawns, the mixing bowl clinking down onto the counter. “It’s Second Sunday,” he says, slightly more coherently. “‘S my turn to plan.” He grins blearily at Lan Zhan when the yoga lets them actually look at each other. “It’s a surprise.”

“Mn?” Lan Zhan says with interest.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, “’s gonna be good.”

Later, after the pancakes have been eaten and declared delicious and the kitchen cleaned, after Wei Ying has directed Lan Zhan to wear something casual, after Lan Zhan has pinned Wei Ying to the bed and kissed him a very thorough good morning, after all that, they finally get in the car. As when they went to the restaurant, Wei Ying gives Lan Zhan directions without ever letting him see his phone screen, or giving any indication of what the day has in store. Lan Zhan turns when he’s told to and lets the anticipation tingle on his skin. Every surprise Wei Ying has set up has been perfect, and he has no doubt that today will be perfect, too.

They end up in the parking lot of a strip mall, Lan Zhan driving slowly past a Mongolian barbecue restaurant and a shop that only sells bird feeders, when Wei Ying says, “Okay, park here.” Lan Zhan does, then turns to look at Wei Ying, who’s practically dancing in his seat. Wei Ying points, and Lan Zhan looks through the windshield properly. “Fuzzy Friends Small Animal Rescue,” says the overly-cutesy logo on the large front window, the words curled around a silhouette of a hamster, a guinea pig, and--and a rabbit. Lan Zhan takes a startled, happy breath.

“Wei Ying?” he asks, turning back to his boyfriend, and Wei Ying beams at him.

“Okay, so, no pressure,” he starts, words tumbling out of him in his excitement, “I checked and they’re totally open to people coming in and just meeting some of the animals and talking to the employees about what’s involved in actual adoption, but if you do decide you want to bring someone home there’s a PetSmart right over there--” he points out the window of the car “--so we can get all the supplies we need, and I also did a bunch of research so I have a shopping list on my phone for it, and I have some articles and how-to guides for rabbit care and feeding I can forward you, so like, if you decide you’re actually ready, I’m super ready, babe, but if you want to wait that’s fine--”

Lan Zhan cuts him off via mouth-on-mouth contact, having unbuckled himself to crawl halfway across the center console. Wei Ying makes a surprised noise and then melts into it, letting Lan Zhan push him back against the seat and devour him. It’s probably too intense for ten in the morning in a strip mall outside a small animal rescue center, and Lan Zhan only manages to pull himself away when he realizes they might be setting a bad example as hopefully future rabbit parents.

“Thank you,” he says, intensely, “Wei Ying--darling--my love-- thank you,” and then they’re kissing again, one of his hands on Wei Ying’s undercut, the other curled into the fabric of his sweater. Wei Ying murmurs something in the back of his throat and unbuckles his seatbelt to get more leverage--it tangles in Lan Zhan’s hand, and he lets go of the sweater to toss the seatbelt aside and pull Wei Ying closer.

“I’m great at surprises,” Wei Ying says with a laugh when they come up for air. “Who knew?”

Lan Zhan beams at him, his face making expressions he wasn’t aware it could make. “Can we just walk in?”

“Yep! Adoption hours start at ten, so we’re good.” Wei Ying smiles and pats Lan Zhan on one flushed cheek. “Let’s go meet some bunnies, gege.”

They’re the only potential adopters in the rescue, which means the employees are absolutely ready to fawn over them in a way that makes Wei Ying light up and Lan Zhan uncomfortable. He lets Wei Ying do most of the talking, and in short order the three women find themselves absolutely charmed, the one in charge of rabbits leading them happily to what is labeled as the “Bun Fun Run.”

“So they all have their own enclosures,” she explains as they squirt sanitizer on their hands, the sharp smell of alcohol in the air mixing with the grassy smell of hay. “There are placards with information about each rabbit on the fences. You’re welcome to enter any enclosure with a green placard. Don’t pick them up or chase them, but if a rabbit comes to you, feel free to pet. We just ask that you sanitize your hands between enclosures. Any questions?”

“Do you have a favorite?” Wei Ying asks immediately. The woman (Cyndy, her nametag says) laughs.

“They’re all my favorite,” she says. “I mean--” she waves at the room, and the fuzzy, adorable little creatures therein. “They’re all good rabbits, Brent,” she says, and Wei Ying laughs like he gets the joke even though neither of them are named Brent. “I’ll be over here if you have any other questions,” she tells them, sitting down on a folding chair and pulling out a somewhat nibbled-upon paperback book.

“Thank you!” Wei Ying says with an excited little wave, and allows Lan Zhan (who has been waiting very patiently while Wei Ying flirts) to drag him further into the room. They meet an absolutely enormous gray rabbit named Gandalf who sniffs their hands and allows a few very dignified pats before bounding off. There are a pair of brown rabbits named This and That, which is painfully adorable, but they seem much more interested in playing with each other than investigating the two humans in their midst. (“It’s fair,” Wei Ying says, as This very enthusiastically grooms That’s head. “I can respect their boundaries.”) In Lan Zhan’s heart of hearts he wants to adopt every single rabbit at the rescue, but he’s practical enough to know that it’s more important to find the animal that’s the best fit. They eliminate any rabbits that are too old, too young, have existing health problems (Lan Zhan is willing to handle that for potential future rabbits but thinks he should start off a little more slowly for his first ever pet), or wouldn’t adapt well to an apartment with no immediate outdoor space. They’re giving some serious discussion to sitting down with Gandalf again when movement toward the back of the Bun Fun Run catches Lan Zhan’s eye.

“Mm?” Wei Ying asks as he follows his eyeline, and they wander to an enclosure they hadn’t noticed before, tucked away in a corner. A small black lop rabbit bounds up to meet the edge of the little wire fence, little nose wiggling at them. It hops away as they carefully step inside and sit down, and then immediately comes back over to sniff their knees. “Well, goodness, you’re friendly, aren’t you?” Wei Ying coos. Lan Zhan offers the black rabbit one of his hands, which it sniffs, very seriously, and then it climbs directly into his lap and curls up.

“Oh,” he says, and cautiously strokes the rabbit’s soft head. The rabbit pushes said head directly into his touch and he shares a delighted look with Wei Ying, who leans out of the enclosure to look at the sign outside.

“She’s a two year old Holland Lop,” he reads. “Her name is Pepper, and she’s part of a bonded pair with Salt.” He and Lan Zhan share another look, and then peer around the enclosure. There’s the barest glimpse of white fur in the little rabbit house, and Lan Zhan’s heart melts. “She must be shy,” Wei Ying says, and he slowly shifts to lay down on his stomach, eyes on the doorway.

“Ma’am?” Lan Zhan calls quietly to Cyndy, over by the door. (He squashes down the part of him that hesitates to disturb her reading, reminding himself that she works here, and told him specifically to ask if they had questions.) Cyndy tucks her book back into her apron pocket and crosses to crouch outside the enclosure. “Can you tell us any more about these two?”

“Salt and Pepper,” she says warmly, smiling at where Pepper is currently shedding all over Lan Zhan’s gray jeans. “They came from a hoarding situation and were already inseparable when we got them here. We’ve had some interest in Pepper, because she’s such a gregarious little girl, but we won’t adopt her out without Salt, and Salt…” She gestures at the white fur quivering in the bunny house. “She’s just not as interested in people yet. We think if she has some time in a quiet household she’ll come around, but everyone who’s come in recently has children or only wanted a single rabbit.”

“Hmm,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully, chin propped up on his folded hands. “What do you think, Salt?” he asks the room at large. “Do you think you want to come hide at our house?”

A little white nose peeks out around the edge of the plastic doorway, followed by a furry white head with dark, wary eyes. The three humans hold their breath as Salt takes one hesitant hop out into the enclosure to regard them with still eyes and a furiously working nose. Pepper scooches to the edge of Lan Zhan’s lap to hang her head over his calves, flipping her ears at the other rabbit. Salt takes another gentle hop closer, then another, and slooooowly stretches out to sniff Wei Ying’s elbow. (Wei Ying’s eyes are wide as saucers and he’s clearly trying not to breathe, for fear of scaring her off.) After an infinitely long, frozen moment, the only movement that of Salt’s little nose and whiskers, she takes a few more hops, climbs directly onto Wei Ying’s back, and settles down as a little loaf between his shoulder blades.

“Oh my goooood,” Cyndy whisper-squeals, hands over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’ve never seen her react to anyone like that before.”

“In this moment I have known true happiness,” Wei Ying breathes, quivering with restrained excitement. He makes eye contact with Lan Zhan, Pepper nudging her little black head back under Lan Zhan’s hand, and they share a quick nod.

“What paperwork do we need to fill out?” Lan Zhan asks, turning to Cyndy.

“Stay here,” she says, grinning ear-to-ear. “I’ll get the clipboard.”

The paperwork takes a little while, and then they have to very gently shoo Salt away from her new bed on Wei Ying’s back so he and Wei Ying can run across the parking lot to buy everything they need for two rabbits, and then they’re back to pick up said rabbits in their little cardboard carrier, thanking the shelter employees profusely as they’re waved off. Then there’s the drive home, and then the process of setting up the new habitat (litterbox and little burrows to hide in and the feeding station and the fence and the fleece blanket suggested as the base). Lan Zan pulls bok choy and cilantro and mint out of the fridge, setting it out on a little plate while Wei Ying stuffs the food dispenser with hay. Finally, finally everything is ready, and they release their new charges to explore their new home. Pepper immediately sets out to sniff everything, while Salt hides inside the carrier to peek out occasionally.

“Do you want to keep their current names?” Wei Ying asks, as Pepper walks across his lap without stopping. “They’re cute but they’re also kinda basic, don’t you think?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. He’s read that it’s very common to rename a pet after bringing it home from the shelter, and he likes the idea of the name being a claim, a mark of belonging, even if the rabbits probably don’t care. “Do you have any opinions?”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, watching with bated breath as the rabbit currently known as Salt pokes her little head out of the carrier and then retreats again. “I’m easy, I think all animal names are great.” The rabbit currently known as Pepper, on her next circuit of the enclosure, shoves her head under his hand and Wei Ying pets her while he continues, “We could name this little one Soy Sauce, we could name her Frank, we could name her Tater Tot, we could name her The Terminator, and any one of those names would be hilarious. I’m fine with whatever.”

Hm. That is not as helpful as Lan Zhan had hoped. He’s never named an animal before, and the old worry about getting something wrong surfaces. Lan Zhan lets himself feel the emotion, acknowledges it, and then moves on, the way he’s been practicing in therapy. Fine with whatever? Maybe Lan Zhan can work with that.

“Suibian?” he offers, holding out a little bit of cilantro. Maybe-Pepper-Maybe-Suibian hops over to nibble at it.

“Suibian,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully, testing it out. “I like it. What about you?” He strokes a finger over her soft black little ears. “Do you like Suibian?” Suibian eats the rest of the cilantro and jumps into Lan Zhan’s lap to curl up in a ball.

“Suibian,” Lan Zhan says, firmly, resting one hand lightly on her warm body. “What about her?” He tips his head at Soon-To-Not-Be-Salt, who has very quietly left the carrier to investigate the fresh vegetables.

“Well, we should be sure it fits,” Wei Ying says, miming stroking a long beard as he thinks. “She’s a pristine, pretty, beautiful little angel, way too high above us mere mortals to care about such mundane things as getting petted.” They watch in silence as she crunches down a piece of bok choy, and Wei Ying throws out, “Bichen?”

“Bichen,” Lan Zhan says, weighing the tones in his mouth. The little white rabbit finishes her snack and, after what seems to be careful consideration, hops over to sit next to, but not on, Wei Ying. Wei Ying very, very gently runs a fingertip across her head, and she shakes her floppy ears and settles down into a loaf. “Bichen,” Lan Zhan says, decisively. “It’s perfect.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, “it is.” His eyes aren’t on the rabbits, they’re on Lan Zhan, and Lan Zhan looks back at him, Suibian curled up in his lap, and he feels his whole life slot into place with a click that leaves him breathless.

“I love you,” he says helplessly, because he doesn’t have words for the rest of it.

“I love you, too,” Wei Ying says, tears sparkling along his lashline, and maybe he doesn’t have words for it either. He scooches carefully closer until they’re pressed together from knees to shoulders, and they sit there with their new family, content and happy and home.

Chapter Text

This is what it’s like to build a life together.

🍂 🥧 November 🥧🍂

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan looks up at Wei Ying in the kitchen, cutting butter into flour. (He’s decided to take up pie baking, now that he has access to a real oven, apparently just to spite Paul Hollywood.) Suibian is curled up in Lan Zhan’s lap, so he can’t really move, because he’s not a monster. “Mn?”

“Do you want to do anything for Thanksgiving?” Wei Ying glances up, flour in his hair and on his nose because can do nothing cleanly, and Lan Zhan loves him for it. “Wen Qing and I used to do a misfit Thanksgiving and have everyone come over who had nowhere else to go and bring whatever food they wanted. It was always a weird combination of stuff but it was fun.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says thoughtfully, petting Suibian. “Doesn’t your family celebrate?”

Wei Ying wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, but they still go over to the Jiangs, and I… don’t.” He stabs the pastry cutter into the bowl with a little too much vehemence and gets more flour on the counter.

“I know,” Lan Zhan says, as Bichen comes to sit on his feet, ensuring that he really, really can’t move. “I mean, would you like to have Misfit Thanksgiving on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, so we can invite your siblings?”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, a grin crawling across his floury face. “Yeah. Hell yeah, I absolutely would.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan says, setting aside his book and picking up his phone. “I will extend the invitation.” He’s been added to the group chat, and he leaves the notifications off on that particular bundle of chaos. He composes the details into a text, making sure to tell people to bring their own chairs (he and Wei Ying still only have the four) and hits send. After a moment’s thought, he lifts his phone up until he can get Suibian and Bichen into frame, takes a picture, and texts it directly to Jin Zixuan with the caption, “For you to hang out with at the next party.”

From: Jin Zixuan
You are the truest friend I have.
(Don’t tell MianMian I said that.)
Hopefully we can return the favor soon.

And Jin Zixuan attaches a screenshot from the local animal shelter of an enormous orange tabby named Sir Marmalade.

To: Jin Zixuan
My best wishes for your cat success.

Lan Zhan checks the group chat, where MianMian and Nie Huaisang are already enthusiastic yeses. “I believe we have the beginnings of a Misfit Thanksgiving,” he tells Wei Ying, now shaping his pie crust into a disc so he can chill it in the fridge before he rolls it out.

“Fuck yeah,” Wei Ying says. “My pumpkin pies are gonna be so good, and they will not have fucking ganache on them, fuck you Paul Hollywood.”

“You tell him,” Lan Zhan says, picking up his book again.

---

Wei Ying hisses in mixed pain and pleasure, which is to be expected, since Lan Zhan has four fingers in his ass and the thumb of his other hand digging directly into the bruise he just bit into Wei Ying’s neck. He writhes against the restraints and pants, “Fuck,” and then, “Ow,” and then, “Fucking ow, yellow, Lan Zhan.”

Alarmed, Lan Zhan removes both hands immediately (and carefully) from their current activities and pulls the glove off cuff-first. “What--” he starts to ask, and Wei Ying winces and says, “Legs, legs, get them out--” Lan Zhan scrambles to unclip the cuffs on Wei Ying’s ankles from the ones on his wrists and hovers while his boyfriend stretches out on the bed.

“Not you, you were great, super hot,” Wei Ying says, circling his toes. “Left ankle, broke it when I was a kid and it still acts up sometimes because it’s a little shit.” He glares down at the ankle in question. Lan Zhan scoots down the bed and lifts it in his hands, gently prodding around the bone and tendon for any tension points before he pulls it through a series of stretches. Wei Ying sighs in bliss and lets his leg go limp.

“How was it broken?” Lan Zhan asks, a little bit hesitant.

Wei Ying blinks at him, perhaps confused about the tone of his voice, and then laughs. “Oh, no, this one isn’t tragic--oh, push your thumb in right there, yes fuck--it’s triumphant.” Wei Ying pushes up to his elbows and brags, “I broke it jumping off a swing set when I was nine to prove to Jiang Cheng I could get further than he could.”

“How is that triumphant?” Lan Zhan finds another place to dig his thumb in and Wei Ying sighs hazily before he remembers himself and announces, “Because I fucking won! Obviously!” His eyes gleam as bright as his smile, and Lan Zhan shakes his head fondly.

“Better now?” he asks, petting Wei Ying's calf and getting a nod. “Do you want to continue?”

“Absolutely I do.” Wei Ying lays back down and pulls his legs up thoughtfully. “I liked being all trapped and on display for you like that. I think we just need to keep the pressure off my ankles.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan considers the issue. “What if we put the cuffs just above your knees and then add straps up to the headboard?” He grabs Wei Ying’s hands and sets them down at his hips, tapping the clasps. “Another strap here under your hips, so your hands are trapped but not underneath your body.”

“That sounds perfect.” Wei Ying tips his head up for a kiss and Lan Zhan indulges him. “You’re so smart, dianxia,” Wei Ying breathes, kissing his chin and his jaw. “So kind to me while you fuck me up.”

“My Wei Ying deserves the best,” Lan Zhan says, and while Wei Ying squeals and covers his face he climbs off the bed in search of the nylon straps.

🥟 🎄 December 🎄 🥟

“Okay,” Wei Ying says as they wander the Target in search of wherever they moved his favored brand of boxer briefs to this time, “I know it’s all just a sign of white supremacy and a specifically Christian flavored kind of cultural hegemony and a privileging of Eurocentric traditions, but.”

“But,” Lan Zhan says, getting an idea of where this is going, since they’re passing a massive display of wrapping paper featuring Santas and winter scenes.

“But I want a tree and I wanna put lights on it and decorate it with you and put presents under it for you and our rabbit daughters.” Wei Ying turns pleading eyes on Lan Zhan, as though he needs to actually beg for anything outside specific bedroom scenarios. “We can make it part of Dongzhi. We can culturally appropriate it, Lan Zhan! We’re allowed to remix traditions however we want!”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. Lan Qiren refused to acknowledge most American holidays, insisting that his nephews immerse themselves in Chinese culture instead. Lan Zhan has never had a tree. He’s honestly never considered having a tree before.

They get a tree.

They actually go to a tree farm and cut it themselves, which is only a mild comedy of errors. It’s about three feet tall, and they set it up next to the television on their media console so the rabbits can’t reach it. Wei Ying buys a bunch of cheap plain white and red plastic ornaments from the dollar store and paints them with Chinese motifs and traditional landscapes and animals from the zodiac. Lan Zhan carefully covers a few with quotes from his favorite poems, adapting his calligraphy to the rounded surface. It’s nice, when it’s done, all lit up with white lights, and Wei Ying hands him the final ornament, on which Suibian and Bichen have been picked out in perfect little brush strokes, and then it’s beautiful.

“Now it just needs presents under it,” Wei Ying says. He thinks about that for a second and turns to Lan Zhan. “Don’t spend more than fifty dollars on my present.”

Lan Zhan, who was giving heavy consideration to buying Wei Ying a new laptop, puts a pin in that idea for later. “I may go up to seventy-five dollars if I find the perfect thing,” he says, because he’s been continuing to work on radical honesty as part of his therapy homework.

“I accept that dollar amount,” Wei Ying says, and without further preamble straddles Lan Zhan’s lap and pins him against the back of the couch.

---

Lan Zhan receives an email from his therapist and reads it on his morning work break, heart fluttering. It’s not unexpected, at this point. He knew it was coming--they’ve done a series of assessments and Lan Yi has been in contact with his brother and his uncle to ask questions about his childhood development as part of the process. He wasn’t sure how it would feel seeing it written out in official terms in an official email, and he lets himself sit with his emotions, the way he’s been practicing. It fits, he decides. It’s the answer to a question he hadn’t known he’d been asking, and now that he has the answer it changes nothing except that he can stop asking it: Lan Zhan has autism. He is autistic. He is on the autism spectrum.

He forwards the email to Wei Ying, because he sees no reason to keep anything in it a secret. It will probably come as even less of a surprise to Wei Ying, actually. Apparently it was much more obvious from the outside than it was as the person living it, which Lan Zhan thinks is a little bit unfair. With a sigh, he pushes that thought away, takes a sip of his tea, and returns to the novel he’s copyediting.

When Lan Zhan gets home from work, Wei Ying is there with a hug, a bouquet of grocery store flowers, and a mango mousse cake from their favorite bakery that says “Congrats on the autism!” Lan Zhan kisses him absolutely silly.

---

“What can I say, didi,” Wei Ying says smugly to Jiang Cheng, a bowl of Jiang Yanli’s Dongzhi dumplings held carefully out of reach of the enormous orange tabby that has sprawled across both his and Lan Zhan’s combined laps. “Egg Tart has excellent taste and has rejected you. Go work on yourself before you ask for his affection.”

Jiang Cheng glowers. Lan Zhan takes a bite of his tangyuan, sets his bowl aside, and lets his hand rest on Formerly-Sir-Marmalade-Now-Egg-Tart’s head, rubbing his fingers behind the cat’s ears. Immediately the motorboat loud purr comes out to play again, rumbling through the cat so that he feels it in his hands and legs and probably Wen Ning on the next couch cushion over can feel it.

“Whatever,” Jiang Cheng huffs, turning back to his dumplings and really failing at trying not to look jealous. “Who cares about a cat’s opinion, anyway?”

“You do,” Wen Qing says. “Clearly.” She pats him on the head with her chopstick hand. “Try holding still and being quiet,” she suggests. “Let the cat come to you.”

“This cat will not be coming to anyone,” Lan Zhan points out as Egg Tart stretches out to get even more comfortable, apparently fast asleep. To Wei Ying he adds, “I believe we are trapped.”

“Oh no,” Wei Ying deadpans. “What a shame. We’ll have to live at jiejie’s now, under this cat, forever.” He pouts across the room at Jiang Yanli, who’s watching the entire interaction with a smile. “You won’t let us starve, will you?”

“Of course not, A-Ying!” Jiang Yanli says. “I’ll bring you soup for as long as Egg Tart keeps you here.”

“I’ll feed the rabbits for you,” Jin Zixuan offers, his face carefully serious. “It’s my fault you’re trapped.”

“Well, there we have it,” Wei Ying announces. “We’re prepared to start our new life under the cat. Tell Suibian and Bichen that we love them.” No sooner has the last word left his mouth when Egg Tart rolls over, dropping to the floor with a heavy thud. The cat stretches, yawns, and then walks directly at the chair with Jiang Cheng in it. Jiang Cheng freezes, holding his breath, the others watching avidly as Egg Tart sniffs his pant legs, rubs against them, and then leaps heavily up into his lap. They stare at each other for a long, assessing moment, and Jiang Cheng starts to relax--

Egg Tart lunges, bites one of the tangyuan in his bowl, and takes off for the kitchen at top speed, leaving splatters of broth and a red-faced Jiang Cheng behind. Wei Ying laughs until he cries.

---

They open presents the next morning, cold and frosty outside while it’s warm and cozy inside. Lan Zhan gets Wei Ying a new set of watercolors and some brushes he’s been eyeing. Wei Ying gets Lan Zhan a set of cotton flannel bunny-print pajamas. They both get treats and toys for the rabbits. (The rabbits are more interested in the wrapping paper.) It’s perfect.

🌨️ ❄️ January ❄️ 🌨️

Lan Zhan presses his mouth into a tight line, because if he gives any indication at all that he finds this amusing, Wei Ying will never, ever cease doing it.

“Wei Ying,” he says, his voice flat. “While I remain willing to explore sexy roleplay with you, I must insist that you stop.”

“Stop vat?” Wei Ying says, in the absolutely horrendous accent he’s been doing for the last five minutes in his role as “The bad guy who has caught the spy and now is running an interrogation with sexy results.” He has taken to his character with a truly unfortunate level of enthusiasm.

“You know what.”

Wei Ying pouts, hands on his hips. “Is zhis not doingk it for you?” he asks, in something that might be German by way of Russia if both were drunk. “I thought you vere into zee sexy spy zhing.”

“I am,” Lan Zhan allows. Wei Ying is wearing tight black shorts, boots that go over the knee, a black harness and his black leather jacket. It definitely has a “dominatrix in a James Bond movie” vibe, and it’s very good, especially when he gestures with the riding crop. Lan Zhan is in a chair, hands cuffed behind him, wearing a rumpled gray suit. It’s a juicy scenario, plenty of possibilities to work with. It’s just… There’s no way around it. “The accent is ruining this.”

Wei Ying tries to look offended, but the corner of his mouth keeps quirking up and giving the game away. “It’s traditional,” he insists. “The people who catch the spy always have an Eastern European accent!”

“An accent,” Lan Zhan points out. “You are doing all of them.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying points the riding crop at him. “Are you maligning my impeccable dialect work?”

“Yes.” Lan Zhan keeps his face blank. Wei Ying’s eyes sparkle in challenge. Oh no.

“Ahoy, thar, me hearty! What say ye to crossing swords?” Wei Ying pretends to swashbuckle with the riding crop. It’s even less sexy than the previous accent.

“No.”

“Oi, govna! Need someone to clean out ya chimney?” That might be Cockney if you squinted at it from a distance.

“Absolutely not.”

“Shucks, that’s the purdiest darn lawman I ever did see.” Wei Ying tips an imaginary hat. “Sure is a shame I’m the most wanted outlaw in the West and he’s gonna want to investigate my sidearm.”

“I’m leaving.” Lan Zhan’s hands are cuffed together but he’s not actually attached to the chair in any way, so he calmly stands up and walks out of the room.

“Ehhh!” Wei Ying yells after him, going for Brooklyn and ending up in the middle of the ocean, probably, “I’m fuckin’ heah!”

Lan Zhan doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing.

---

Wei Ying comes through the door, kicks off his shoes, and proceeds to strip directly out of his dress shirt and pants, leaving them in a trail across the living room floor as he heads for the couch. Lan Zhan automatically lifts up the blanket, and Wei Ying crawls on top of him in his undershirt, underwear, and socks. He settles with his head on Lan Zhan’s chest and lets out the world’s biggest sigh. Lan Zhan tucks the blanket back around them both and strokes his hair.

“How was the wedding?” he asks, picking up his bowl of mango sticky rice again. Wei Ying bites the air a couple times and Lan Zhan obediently feeds him some.

“Fine. Good. Just long, oh my god.” Wei Ying eats another bite and pillows his cheek on Lan Zhan’s pec. “Jiang Cheng did a great job, it ran like clockwork, I just didn’t realize how much I actually hate big parties until I started working them. So many people, and they’re all having so many emotions, and one of the bridesmaids really kept coming on to me and like, I get it, I clean up nice, but god.” Lan Zhan feeds him some mango and thinks about maybe going with Wei Ying to the weddings he works so he can lurk nearby and glare at people.

“There is beek prik khing in the fridge for you,” he says, instead of, “Let me come to weddings and protect you.”

“You’re the best,” Wei Ying says, and pushes upright to give Lan Zhan a mango-flavored kiss before he climbs off the couch, wraps the blanket around his waist, and goes to seek out his half of the night’s Thai order. “Oh, the bride’s brother tried to propose to his girlfriend,” he says as he dumps red chili noodles into a bowl.

“Mn?”

“Yeah.” Wei Ying fills a glass from the box of wine in the fridge and makes his way back to the couch with bowl and glass and the blanket as sort of a toga. “One of the servers overheard him gossiping about it after dinner and tipped off Jiang Cheng. He tried to do it during the toasts.” Wei Ying settles back onto the couch and generously shares the blanket after outright stealing it previously. “Jiang Cheng cut his fucking mic as soon as he stopped talking about the couple and then got a bartender to drop a pitcher of water on the other side of the room so he could hustle him offstage before anyone noticed anything. It was like fucking Looney Tunes, I swear a giant hook came out of nowhere and just whipped the guy away.”

“Jiang Cheng is effective,” Lan Zhan says. He can imagine the entire strategy playing out with perfect precision.

“He is genuinely fucking terrifying,” Wei Ying says around a mouthful of Thai food. He washes it down with a sip of wine and nudges his shoulder into Lan Zhan’s. “Anyway, that’s five hundred bucks in the bag for me. I was thinking we could actually look at removable wallpaper tomorrow? Maybe take some measurements and put in an order?”

Lan Zhan nods enthusiastically, too polite to actually speak around his mouthful of rice. Wei Ying laughs and kisses him on the cheek, leaving behind a little burning smear of chili paste.

---

Hanging the removable wallpaper is an adventure, but they get through it without breaking up and the wallpaper ends up on the walls, so it counts as a success. Any remaining frustration with the process gets worked out in bed.

Twice.

🍜 🏮  February 🏮 🍜

“It’s going to be fine,” Lan Zhan tells Wei Ying, pulling him into the kind of tight hug that usually works to squeeze out all of Wei Ying’s anxiety and nervous energy.

“You say that,” Wei Ying replies, burying his face in Lan Zhan’s neck, “but your uncle already likes you. He still hates me for spring break, Lan Zhan.”

“It’s been eight years since spring break, my love,” Lan Zhan says, petting Wei Ying’s hair. He’s not wrong--their sophomore year of college, Lan Zhan realised Wei Ying wasn’t going home to the Jiangs’ for spring break, and invited him back to stay with Lan Qiren. Wei Ying had truly tried to be on his best behavior for a full week and a half, and then finally snapped under the pressure, got spectacularly drunk, and convinced Lan Zhan to have a drink as well. Lan Zhan doesn’t remember the rest of the night, but he woke up facedown in the kitchen to his uncle’s shocked silence and Wei Ying was summarily banned from his uncle’s house and presence. When Lan Zhan told him Wei Ying had moved in, Lan Qiren reacted with a full thirty seconds of stony quiet and then asked about work.

“Your uncle is a championship hater, though,” Wei Ying insists. Lan Zhan squeezes him until he makes a squeaky sound and then pulls back to cup his face.

“It is New Year’s dinner at Lan Huan’s,” he says. “Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang will be there. If my uncle is terrible to you we will leave. If he is pleasant then we will have him over later this week.” He kisses Wei Ying’s forehead. “You are not the same person you were then. If Lan Qiren cannot see that, it is his loss.”

Wei Ying takes a deep breath, his exhale fogging in the crisp winter air. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Right. I can do this.”

Dinner is, perhaps, stilted, but not a disaster. Wei Ying manages to draw Lan Qiren into conversation about traditional ink painting techniques for a little while, even if Lan Qiren’s responses are on the reluctant side. Lan Huan and Nie Mingjue set up two hotpots, one for meat and one to stay vegan, and Nie Huaisang gets a noodle of truly comedic length in their bowl of longevity noodles. Lan Qiren has never been one for staying up to greet the new year, so Lan Zhan and Wei Ying make their goodbyes after dinner and climb into bed around ten.

“That went pretty well,” Wei Ying says. Lan Zhan hmms in agreement and kisses his neck.

When Lan Qiren comes over a few days later it is much more awkward, with no buffer of other people. Wei Ying talks when he’s nervous, and Lan Zhan still hasn’t quite learned how to exist in between his boyfriend’s loquaciousness and his uncle’s silence. When they finish eating dinner there’s a tense, painful pause that goes on for far too long, and finally Lan Zhan breaks it with, “Would you like to meet the rabbits?”

Lan Qiren gives Suibian and Bichen the same mildly disapproving glare he gives everything else, but he gamely settles himself on the floor of the second bedroom with some dried pineapple. “This is your art studio?” he asks Wei Ying, which may be the first question he’s actually directly asked him, and Wei Ying lights up.

“Yes,” he says, “painting and photography and music. Lan Zhan and I have actually done some stuff together, if you’d like to hear it?”

Lan Qiren nods stiffly, and Wei Ying plays the music they’d improvised months previous, as well as the rest of the songs they’d put together to create a full album. He pulls out his sketchbook, too, and sits at a polite distance from Lan Qiren to flip through it and talk about some of his work. Lan Qiren listens and nods and apparently forgets about the rabbits until Suibian climbs into his lap to nip at the pineapple.

“Oh, yeah,” Wei Ying laughs. “She’s fearless. She likes having her head petted.”

Lan Qiren, with an expression of deepest suspicion, gives Suibian the dried pineapple and cautiously strokes her head. She shoves her head more firmly into his hand and Lan Zhan watches in something like awe as his uncle’s face goes on an absolute journey of emotions, all of which are soft. “What is her name?” he asks, eyes on the little black ball of fur in his lap.

“Suibian,” Lan Zhan says. “Her girlfriend is Bichen.”

Lan Qiren gives him a Look. “Girlfriend?” he asks dryly.

“Well,” Wei Ying says, “they’re not from the same litter and they lick each other’s faces constantly, so girlfriend seemed more appropriate than sister.”

Lan Qiren has no answer for this, it seems, because he just makes a harrumphing sound and goes back to petting Suibian.

Lan Zhan drives him back over to Lan Huan’s house, since his brother still actually has a guest room. When he parks, Lan Qiren unbuckles himself but doesn’t get out of the car immediately. “Lan Zhan,” he says, turning to face him. “You are happy.”

It’s not really a question, but Lan Zhan answers it anyway. “I am.” He pauses, wanting to put at least some of it into words. “I was missing something. I didn’t know what it was, and then: Wei Ying.”

Lan Qiren nods solemnly and reaches across the center console to rest his hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “I do not understand,” he says, “but I am glad for you.”

Lan Zhan has too many emotions, and some of them leak out of his eyes in the form of a tear. “Thank you, uncle.”

Lan Qiren swipes the tear off his cheek with a fingertip and pats Lan Zhan’s shoulder again, brusque. “Send me pictures of the rabbits,” he orders, and then gets out of the car.

---

“You’ve made excellent progress,” Lan Yi says, toward the end of their session. Lan Zhan’s emotional support cup of ginseng tea is nearly empty, which means they have about five minutes left. “How have your anxiety levels been for the last three weeks?”

Lan Zhan pulls out his phone and the diary app he’s been using to track his mood. With a couple of taps he pulls up a report and blinks, a little surprised. “I have averaged a four when I am out of the house,” he says. “The highest spike was a six.” Lan Yi raises her eyebrows in question, and Lan Zhan checks the day’s entry. Ah. “Our usual grocery store was closed due to a burst pipe and we had to go to one across town, and everything was in a slightly different place and I found it stressful.”

Lan Yi nods. “In my experience, that’s stressful for neurotypical people as well.” She folds her hands in her lap and gives him a thoughtful look. “How would you feel about doing down to every other week?” she asks. “I think we’ve done enough work that you’re in a place where it becomes a question of maintaining your progress, rather than treating an acute situation. Now, this is only a suggestion, and I am happy with whatever you want to do. The choice is yours.”

Lan Zhan thinks about that. It has seemed that, in their visits for the past month, he’s been saying many of the same things and sharing many of the same experiences. Sometimes it almost feels redundant, like another thing to check off his to-do list.

“Every other week sounds good,” he says. “If I feel myself backsliding into negative thought patterns, I will inform you and we can re-evaluate then.”

“That sounds perfect,” Lan Yi says with a smile. She glances at the clock. “Did you have anything else you wanted to discuss with the rest of your time?”

Lan Zhan finishes his tea and sets the mug aside. “Would you like to see some pictures of the rabbits?” Lan Yi grins and nods, like he knew she would, and he pulls up the photos app.

Therapy, he decided some months previously, is good, actually.

---

“Uuuunfh,” Wei Ying says, flopping over onto his back. “God, you’re so good at that.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, keeping their hands entwined. They’re both still warm enough post-sex that they’ve kicked the covers back, but he’ll probably clean them up in the next five minutes so they won’t get the sheets disgusting when they inevitably get cold again.

“Oh, dang,” Wei Ying says, craning his neck to squint down his torso. “Those are already coming in. That’s so fucking hot.” The “those” in question are bruises in the shape of Lan Zhan’s fingertips, from where he grabbed Wei Ying’s hips while giving him tonight’s railing for the ages. Lan Zhan traces over one lightly and Wei Ying slaps his hand away, huffing, “Ticklish!” Once free from Lan Zhan’s reign of tickle-terror, Wei Ying fumbles on his nightstand for his phone, turns it to selfie mode, and starts documenting the aftermath.

“Don’t forget the bite mark,” Lan Zhan says helpfully, sliding his hand down to Wei Ying’s inner thigh to press against the bruise there in the shape of his teeth.

“I wasn’t gonna!” Wei Ying protests, rolling his hips to the side so he can get an ass cheek in frame. “If you have opinions about the proper way to photograph your work, gege, then you can do the shooting.”

Lan Zhan takes the phone, returns the camera to normal, and takes a picture of Wei Ying’s startled face. “You said,” Lan Zhan says innocently, and Wei Ying’s face transforms into a smirk.

“Fine, sweetheart,” he says, stretching out languidly against the pillows. “It’s up to you to show the internet how bad you wrecked me.”

Lan Zhan takes pictures with the same dedication and focus he uses for everything else in bed, experimenting with angles and framing. He likes how they’re turning out, but they’re missing something, and he can’t quite… On the next shot, Lan Zhan settles his hand over one of the sets of bruises, making it clear where they came from, and takes the picture like that. Perfect.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, face doing something complicated. “Are you--these are for my OnlyFans, babe. Are you sure?”

Lan Zhan takes another picture, on the other side this time. “Mn,” he says, letting his fingertips indent Wei Ying’s skin. “It’s good.” He takes a picture, being sure to capture the shadows where Wei Ying is soft under the pressure of his hand. “Means you’re mine.” He nudges Wei Ying over to lie on his stomach and takes a moment to work out the logistics of what he wants to do next. Lan Zhan switches the camera over to video and focuses on Wei Ying’s ass as he gives it a good loud smack with his free hand.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, squirming under him. Lan Zhan does it again, hard enough that this time he leaves a nice red handprint, and he makes sure to get a good close-up of that before he turns the camera off. “You better be ready to go again,” Wei Ying says, awkwardly struggling onto his side, dick on its way back to excited. “You don’t get to spank me like that and not fuck me.”

“I am always ready to fuck you,” Lan Zhan says, very honestly, and he tosses Wei Ying’s phone aside and drags his hips onto his lap.

---

Lan Zhan looks through the photos on OnlyFans the next day, lingering over the shots with his hands in frame, remembering the feeling of Wei Ying’s skin, his heat, how good he smells.

“Wei Ying,” he says, in the doorway of the second bedroom. Wei Ying pulls a headphone off one ear and looks up, and then his mouth quirks up knowingly. “Your porn is very hot,” Lan Zhan says seriously. “I would like to have sex with you about it.”

“Your wish is my command, gege,” Wei Ying says, taking off his headphones and pushing back from his desk. Lan Zhan climbs into his lap and they proceed to thoroughly stress-test Wei Ying’s office chair. It comes through with flying colors.

So do they.

---

“Damn,” Wei Ying says, “people really like our album.”

Lan Zhan sets down the scarf he’s knitting to look over his shoulder at his laptop and the impressive number of downloads their guqin and dizi electronica duet album boasts. It’s. It’s quite a lot. Lan Zhan is pretty sure Wei Ying priced it at five dollars, and he does some quick mental math--

“This next payout gets me that new laptop,” Wei Ying realizes out loud. “Fuck. Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, kissing him on the cheek. “Wei Ying is talented.”

“Noooo,” Wei Ying whines, like he always does when Lan Zhan compliments him. He hides his face in Lan Zhan’s neck for a minute, and then pops back up, mischief on every inch of his face. “Hey, gege,” he says. “How many downloads before you admit we’re in a band together?”

“It is not a band,” Lan Zhan says, picking up his scarf again. “You are a solo music producer and I am an occasional collaborator.”

“Then how many downloads before you agree to collaborate with me live on stage if I can book us a venue?”

Lan Zhan gives him a flat look. Wei Ying sparkles back at him, the picture of innocence. “Two hundred million.”

“Mark your words, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, digging out his phone and messing with it. He turns it around and shows Lan Zhan the new to-do list, and the note that says, “At 200 million downloads, book venue for music show.”

“Keep me informed of our progress,” Lan Zhan deadpans, and goes back to his knitting.

☁️ ☔ March ☔ ☁️

Wei Ying walks into the living room with his laptop in his hands (the new one, with the larger screen and more memory and just an all-around improvement) and a stunned look on his face. “Babe?” he asks, a little wobbly. “Babe, can you look at this math? ‘Cause if I have this right, I--I think I can quit my job at the cafe?” He doesn’t actually move after he says that, just sort of sways blankly in the space behind the couch near the rabbit enclosure, in front of the wall they covered with removable wallpaper in the deep blue print with the silver peonies. Lan Zhan very gently moves Suibian out of his lap, takes Wei Ying by the arm, and guides him around the couch to sit down.

“I put it all in,” Wei Ying says, still looking a million miles away. “The new OnlyFans subscriptions and the photo booths for Jiang Cheng and the food photography for that magazine and. It can’t be right. Can it?”

Lan Zhan looks through the spreadsheets, the one with Wei Ying’s cafe income in it and the new, projected one without it. All the numbers look correct, from what Wei Ying shares of his finances, and indeed, the spreadsheet without the cafe income still allows him to meet all of his expenses and his savings goals. “If you have further questions, we can find an accountant,” Lan Zhan says, setting the laptop aside and taking Wei Ying’s shaking hand, “but it looks correct to me.”

Wei Ying takes a deep breath, exhales shakily. “Okay, but,” he starts, eyes coming back into focus, pleading, “but what if the wedding thing starts to fall through, or I stop getting magazine work, or everyone on the internet decides they hate my dick, Lan Zhan? What happens if I go completely freelance and then it all blows up in my face? What if--” he sucks in a harsh breath, his voice breaking “--what if I fuck it all up again and I don’t have the cafe to fall back on?”

“Then you will have me, ” Lan Zhan says, dropping Wei Ying’s hand to cup his face and keep their eyes locked on each other. “Wei Ying,” he says, as sincerely as he possibly can, “you will not fuck this up. You are smart and resilient and talented and if all of your money disappeared tomorrow I would still love you and want you in my life.” He wipes away the tears from Wei Ying’s beautiful, hopeful eyes. “Do you want to do this?” he asks, voice soft. “Do you want to go fully freelance?”

Wei Ying breathes through a sob, squeezing his eyes shut and crawling closer. “I do,” he admits, blinking his eyes back open, red-rimmed and teary. “I really do, Lan Zhan, but I’m scared.”

Lan Zhan kisses him once, lightly. “You once told me, ‘You don’t stop feeling scared. You just do it anyway.’”

Wei Ying lets out a watery laugh, halfway to another sob. “God,” he says, “that makes me sound so fucking wise and shit.” He climbs the rest of the way into Lan Zhan’s lap and octopuses around him, wiping his face off on Lan Zhan’s shirt. “You’re sure?” he asks, muffled. “You’ll still love me if I’m poor?”

“I already loved you when you were poor,” Lan Zhan points out and gets a real laugh in exchange. “You can do this, my love,” he says, stroking Wei Ying’s back. “I believe in you.”

Wei Ying shivers, all the way down his spine, and he pulls away, dragging his sleeve over his face. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let’s find an accountant, and if a professional says it looks good, I’ll put in my two weeks.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, smiling. “I will endeavor to find something else to do on Tuesdays at ten forty-five am.” He kisses Wei Ying’s smiling, trembling mouth. “It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

---

Lan Zhan tugs against the restraints that have his arms bound wrists-to-elbows behind his back. It makes the stretch in his shoulders twinge to match the stretch of Wei Ying inside him, hot and hard and perfect. Lan Zhan sinks down until he imagines he can feel his boyfriend’s dick all the way into his ribcage, like Wei Ying is fucking his heart. Metaphorically. (Lan Zhan isn’t terribly coherent at the moment.)

“God you’re so gorgeous like this,” Wei Ying says, running his hands over Lan Zhan’s thighs as Lan Zhan slowly rides him on the couch. The blindfold means Lan Zhan can’t see him, doesn’t know what to expect, heightening every other sense. The drag of Wei Ying’s palms over his skin shudders all the way into his cock. “Look at these legs. I bet you have so much endurance from all that running, don’t you, sweetheart? I bet if I told you to, you could ride my dick for hours.”

Lan Zhan sighs, squirming a little on his next downstroke. “Is that what Wei Ying wishes?” he asks, hazy. They’ve already been at it for a while, and he’s floating in the nice kind of simmery heat where he could easily come if provided a little more stimuli or he could keep going until his quads give out. Either sounds good. Lan Zhan doesn’t have to make the choices, here. That’s the whole point.

“Mmmm,” Wei Ying says, kissing his chest between the straps of the royal blue elastic harness that goes from Lan Zhan’s neck all the way down to his thighs, providing no service other than aesthetics. “Maybe it is. I haven’t decided yet.” Lan Zhan hears him flick on the lipstick vibe again and a moment later he runs it lightly up Lan Zhan’s cock, base to tip in a buzzing trail of pleasure, and then goes back to teasing Lan Zhan’s nipples with it. Lan Zhan lets out a little shivering moan and arches into the touch, Wei Ying’s free hand on his low back to keep him balanced.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, breathy, “yes, Wei Ying. Whatever you want.”

Wei Ying turns off the vibrator again and grabs Lan Zhan’s ass in both hands, encouraging him to speed up a little. “You’re what I want,” he says, thumbs digging into the crease of Lan Zhan’s thighs. “You, like this, so fucking hot and sexy and all mine.”

“All yours,” Lan Zhan agrees immediately, and he leans down, unseeing, to clumsily fit their mouths together.

---

“Uuugh,” Wei Ying complains blearily, half-falling into a downward dog on the yoga mat next to Lan Zhan’s. “How d’you do this so early?”

“Practice,” Lan Zhan says, lifting one leg forward into a lunge, Wei Ying following along with less precision. “Wei Ying does not need to join me in the morning. We could do this in the afternoon.”

“I know.” Wei Ying stretches into the first warrior pose with a yawn. “I reluctantly accept that now that I don’t have a day job, I need to stick to a regular schedule so I don’t go feral.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, not unkindly. “Are you going to work at Nie Huaisang’s again today?” They’ve learned that Wei Ying’s extrovert tendencies mean that, in addition to needing to stick to an actual schedule, he needs to work around other people or he ends up climbing the walls, and then, when Lan Zhan gets home, climbing Lan Zhan. That’s not really the problem, the problem is that Wei Ying talks during the process in such a wild, pent-up frenzy that neither of them actually enjoy the conversation, hence the new adventures in co-working.

“Mmmhmm.” Wei Ying stifles another yawn in the second warrior pose of the sequence. “Drop me off with my bike on your way to work?”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says. “Can you stop by the pet store on your way home? We need more alfalfa.”

“Text me a list or I’ll forget,” Wei Ying says, and they go back to downward dog.

🌷 🌸 April 🌸 🌷

“Wei Ying.”

No one has said Wei Ying’s name with that much venom in months, and Lan Zhan is viscerally transported to an autumn day and an apple orchard. Wei Ying freezes with a bottle of hot sauce in his hand, two other bottles already in the cart as he debated which new variety to try. He glances up at Lan Zhan and they have a silent conversation inside of about three seconds. Lan Zhan does a thing with his eyes where he asks if Wei Ying wants him to throw down, and Wei Ying does a mouth thing that means no, and an eyebrow thing that means he’ll handle it. Lan Zhan gives him a miniscule nod. Wei Ying smiles, plasters a look of polite bafflement on his face, and turns around to look at Jin Fucking Zixun.

“Hi!” Wei Ying says, putting the hot sauce in the cart. He sounds confused but friendly, and Lan Zhan is very curious as to the direction he’s going to take.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Jin Zixun says, through a sneer. He’s wearing a cashmere sweater and dress slacks, both designer, both still with the fit issues that mean he looks small and pathetic instead of intimidating and put-together. Lan Zhan finds it mildly painful to witness.

“I am, generally!” Wei Ying says cheerfully, and then he squints at Jin Zixun for a moment, giving him a thorough once-over. “God, this is embarrassing,” he starts, his voice sounding sincere and genuine, “but have we met? I assume we’ve met, since you know my name, but ugh.” He waves a hand at his temple. “Like a sieve for names and faces. Were you at the McKenzie-Sullivan wedding I was shooting last week?”

Jin Zixun goes red. Lan Zhan takes the opportunity to examine him more closely, and the cashmere of his sweater is pilled, the crease in his dress pants rumpled and too-soft. There are bags under his eyes that he hasn’t quite managed to cover with concealer, and Lan Zhan thinks his hair hasn’t been cut recently. He looks stressed and tired and like he can’t afford a dry-cleaner anymore. Lan Zhan keeps his face carefully blank and makes a note to check in with Jiang Yanli when they leave about Operation: Destroy This Entire Man and how things have been going behind the scenes.

“How fucking dare you,” Jin Zixun hisses, and Wei Ying holds his hands up in apology.

“Sorry, dude!” he says, with a very convincing wince. “It sucks for me, too! Was it not a wedding? I used to work at a cafe before I went freelance. Were you a regular?” He thinks hard and then snaps his fingers. “Vanilla soy latte, two pumps of syrup?”

“You little--” Jin Zixun seethes, fists clenched at his sides, face fully on his way to purple now. “After what you--you have the gall--”

Lan Zhan decides to intervene before Jin Zixun can either pass out or punch anyone, both of which would be unpleasant for the poor employees of this H-Mart to deal with. “Wei Ying,” he says, stepping up and resting a hand possessively on his boyfriend’s lower back. “My love. The rabbits still need to be fed.”

“Right, right,” Wei Ying says, leaning up to kiss Lan Zhan on the cheek. “I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t attached.” He turns back to the thoroughly enraged Jin Zixun and gives him a little wave. “So sorry about--” and he gestures vaguely. “Hope you have a nice afternoon!” He turns their cart around and wheels it away, humming a Carly Rae Jepsen song under his breath. Lan Zhan lets him go, eyes still on Jin Zixun. The man’s attention eventually shifts from a murderous glare at Wei Ying’s back over to Lan Zhan’s face, and he goes suddenly pale at what he finds.

“Wei Ying forgets,” Lan Zhan says, a quiet threat in every word. “I do not.” He looms forward by a scant few inches and Jin Zixun takes a startled step backward. Another few seconds of an icy stare and silence, just to let it really sink in, and Lan Zhan turns on his heel to catch up with Wei Ying.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says as soon as they’re around the corner, “oh my god, did you see his face?” He cackles in a whisper. “I thought he was about to have an aneurysm. He was so fucking mad.”

“It was very effective,” Lan Zhan says. He glances over, checking Wei Ying for signs of hidden stress or residual emotional upset and relieved to find none. “I believe I made it clear that he is not to bother you again,” he says, reassuring, just in case.

“Were you scary?” Wei Ying asks, as they turn into the noodles-and-dehydrated-ingredients aisle.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says in an affirmative tone. Wei Ying looks sidelong through his lashes and drags his lower lip between his teeth.

“You wanna show me how scary, later?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says again, deeper, darker. He leans in, nose nuzzling Wei Ying’s hair, and whispers, “I may have threatened him.”

Wei Ying stumbles, catches himself on the cart, and yanks out his phone to scroll through their grocery list. “Great, great, great, babe, super hot, good to know. You have five minutes to help me get the rest of what we need before I fuck you on top of a pallet of sushi rice.”

“We cannot traumatize the employees,” Lan Zhan points out. He drops his hand to Wei Ying’s lower back again. “You must at least contain yourself until we are in the car.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying squeaks. “You are the worst.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. “And you love it.”

“Fuck, of course I love it, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying shoves the phone at him. “Now help me find the rice noodles you wanted because I am too horny to read labels and it’s your fault.”

When they get home Lan Zhan has to tie Wei Ying to the bed in order to have the freedom to put the cold items away, so all-in-all it’s one of their better grocery runs.

---

“Demoted,” Jin Zixuan confirms, via speakerphone. “No longer allowed to represent the company at official events.”

“Madam Jin tells me he had to downsize to a smaller apartment,” Jiang Yanli says, sounding terribly concerned. “Such a shame that he wasn’t more responsible with his savings to prepare for a rainy day! Not like our A-Ying.”

Wei Ying laughs. “Thanks, jiejie! You don’t have to pretend like I didn’t learn that the hard way, you know.”

“Well, you still learned it,” Jiang Yanli insists, slightly tinny over the phone connection. “Shittiest Cousin still hasn’t.”

“We may all be seriously overestimating his ability to actually retain information and learn from his mistakes,” Jin Zixuan says. “It’s a deficiency that runs in my family.”

“We are all grateful that gene was recessive in you,” Wei Ying says, which is possibly the nicest thing he’s ever said about his brother-in-law even though he manages to phrase it like an insult.

“How is your cookbook coming, Jiang Yanli?” Lan Zhan asks, to head off further Jin Zixuan roasting at the pass.

“It’s going well, thank you for asking! I think by next weekend I should have a few more recipes perfected for A-Ying to photograph.” Her smile comes through even over the phone. “I’ll text you to set something up when I’m ready, okay, A-Ying?”

“Say the word and I will be there, camera in hand,” Wei Ying promises. He turns his phone off speaker and wanders into his studio to continue chatting with his sister, and Lan Zhan gets the kettle going for tea. By the time he’s settled on the ground next to the rabbit enclosure with two steaming mugs, Wei Ying has rejoined him.

“How do you feel?” Lan Zhan asks, handing over the FUCK THIS mug. Wei Ying accepts it, leans their shoulders together, and watches Bichen as she hops her way over to shed all over his black jeans.

“Satisfied,” Wei Ying says. “I mean, Huaisang already got me his usernames, so I blocked him everywhere and spread the word on sex work Twitter to warn everyone else about him. He’s gonna be stuck with the shitty porn now.” He takes a sip of his tea, trailing the fingers of his other hand over Bichen’s soft head. “Honestly, though?” He tips his head to make eye contact with Lan Zhan and shrugs. “It’s like--he tried it and he failed and he’s apparently obsessed with me to the point of trying to start shit in a grocery store, and I’d genuinely forgotten he existed until he showed up. I don’t fucking think about him at all, and that’s the best possible revenge I could have.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, tracing his fingertip along the edge of his mug. “So if I see him again, I shouldn’t intimidate him on your behalf?”

“Now I didn’t say that!” Wei Ying says hastily. “I mean we probably shouldn’t make him like a Pavlovian part of our sex lives, but I came three times, Lan Zhan.”

“I know,” Lan Zhan says smugly.

Wei Ying throws a rabbit toy at him.

Chapter Text

“You’re sure?” Wei Ying asks, for about the fifteenth time.

“I’m sure,” Lan Zhan says, yet again. He tips his head out of the way as Wei Ying leans over his shoulder to adjust the camera hooked into Lan Zhan’s white iridescent harness. Lan Zhan can’t see the screen without craning his neck horribly, and Wei Ying’s the director, here, so it’s up to him to find the framing he likes.

“Because it’s fine if you change your mind,” Wei Ying says, again, making a few minute changes. “I can just shoot something else today.” He climbs off the ottoman and goes to fiddle with a light, flipping through a few color options.

“I know,” Lan Zhan says. “I will not change my mind.” They have had this conversation multiple times over the last week, and Lan Zhan will have it as many times as is necessary for Wei Ying to believe it.

“As long as you stay there your face will be out of frame,” Wei Ying assures him, turning the light back to its original blue and then passing the remote from hand to hand. “You’re like… A stunt torso. A sexy prop. A beautiful addition to my work from the nipples down.”

“I know,” Lan Zhan says, again. He catches Wei Ying by the arm as he walks over to adjust one of the other cameras, Lan Zhan has seen himt  adjust three times already. “My love,” he says, softly, squeezing Wei Ying’s forearm, just above the leather cuff he’s already wearing for efficiency’s sake, “I know what I’m doing. I want to do this with you. I trust you.”

Wei Ying takes a deep breath and blows it out through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I know. It’s just.” He gestures at his temple. “New.”

Lan Zhan politely doesn’t point out that his various limbs and, (on one occasion) half of a butt cheek have been featured in Wei Ying’s OnlyFans selfies for the last two months. He does not point out the growing collection of pornographic photos Wei Ying has taken of Lan Zhan since they started dating, though he knows there are a lot. (He looks through them, sometimes, and then saves them to the thirst traps folder on his phone to send to Wei Ying on appropriate occasions.) He does not point out how frequently Wei Ying talks about them making porn together, or the times Lan Zhan has taken cell phone videos of them fucking specifically for Wei Ying’s personal enjoyment. (It’s also for Lan Zhan’s personal enjoyment. His boyfriend is hot and Lan Zhan has come to understand his own hotness and it’s hot to watch video of them fucking, even if sometimes he fumbles the camera out of his sex-loosened grip and drops it directly onto Wei Ying’s ass or abs or--once--his face.) Instead of pointing out any of that, he tugs until Wei Ying straddles his lap and kisses him gently, on the cheek, so as not to mess up his black lipstick. (Messing up the lipstick is for later.)

“This is nothing we haven’t done before,” Lan Zhan reminds him. “There are simply additional cameras.” And more of a script than they usually stick to, and specific marks to hit in terms of timing and location, so they don’t mess up the framing of the shots, and it’s with the specific intention of Lan Zhan’s dick going on the internet later, where it has not yet gone. Other than that it’s nothing they haven’t done before. Lan Zhan is really impressively calm about the whole thing.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says again, wrapping his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and dropping his head to his shoulder. “But if you change your mind, or feel weird, or have any hesitations--even after it’s posted--promise you’ll tell me?”

“I promise,” Lan Zhan says, easily, and pets down Wei Ying’s bare spine, hand trailing over skin and the metal and vinyl of the black harness he’s wearing. “Wei Ying is also allowed to change his mind,” Lan Zhan points out.

“I knoooooow,” Wei Ying whines. “Ugh, my brain will just not shut up about it.” He slumps against Lan Zhan, arms tightening, and then climbs back to his feet with a determined expression. “Okay,” he says, jaw set. “Let’s make the damn porn.”

In spite of the drama of this pronouncement, there are a few other things that need to happen first--lube to find, a plug to insert, a remote for Lan Zhan to hold, a few last-minute adjustments to various things as Wei Ying finishes the setup. “Your ankles and knees will be okay?” Lan Zhan asks as Wei Ying turns around to give him access to the cuffs.

“Yep.” Wei Ying waggles a foot, balancing on one leg in his heeled thigh-high black pleather boots. “These are for strippers, so they have great arch and ankle support, and I have the dance kneepads on under here.” He settles back on both feet as Lan Zhan clips the cuffs to the o-rings on the opposite sides of the harness, and then carefully sinks to his knees, crawling around to face Lan Zhan again. “Cameras are already rolling,” he says, unnecessarily, but Lan Zhan knows he processes out loud and doesn’t fault him for it. “You ready?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan reaches out and strokes a hand over Wei Ying’s hair, letting his fingers trail along his jaw. “You?”

Wei Ying nods, and then frowns. “I am ready, except for how I let you strap me into this before I could clap to give myself a sync point.” He slumps back and pouts up at Lan Zhan. “Please clap once, very loudly, dianxia, as a favor for your poor foolish boyfriend.”

Lan Zhan smiles fondly at him, schools his face back into something more serious and dom-appropriate (even though his face won’t be on camera, he wants to stay in character) and does as asked. They both hold their positions in silence for about ten seconds (“For the fade-in, Lan Zhan. Learned that one the hard way.”) before Wei Ying lifts his head and smiles up at him, heated and anticipatory.

“I got dressed just like you said, sir,” Wei Ying says, his voice low, a little more enunciated than usual. “Do you like it? Did I do good?” (They’ve decided, on extensive negotiation, on “sir” for this. Dianxia, they both agreed, was for them.)

Lan Zhan looks him over, which is unnecessary for answering the question but very appealing in its own right, as Wei Ying is wearing the boots, the harness, and a pair of lace briefs. It’s a great look, and Lan Zhan doesn’t have to do any method acting for his dick to be into the proceedings. “You look beautiful, pet,” he says. “Are you wearing everything I asked for?”

Wei Ying squirms a little, the muscles of his thighs clenching and relaxing. “I am, sir.” He presses his lips together and smiles again. “Would you like to check?”

Lan Zhan deliberately lifts the remote and switches the plug on. Wei Ying jumps, shivering, and lets out a breathy, “Ah!” He squirms again, settles back over his heels, and tips his head to expose the bare, glorious line of his neck. “Thank you, sir,” he says, rocking his hips a little bit. “Mmm, it feels so good, thank you.”

“Is that how you show gratitude?” Lan Zhan asks, setting the remote aside. “Pathetic.” His voice is cold and bored, and even knowing how much they’ve planned this out doesn’t stop him from smirking in satisfaction when Wei Ying immediately pouts, eyes lighting up with challenge.

“How should I thank you, sir?” Wei Ying asks, letting his gaze drift over Lan Zhan from his face down to the bulge in his white stretch jeans. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

Lan Zhan examines his nails, which this time are actually painted a metallic silver. “Figure it out,” he says, just as bored. “I’ll let you know when you get it right.”

“Yes, sir,” Wei Ying says, eyes gleaming. “Do you want to see me? Is that what you want?” He spreads his knees, rolling his hips forward to display his cock, barely concealed under black lace. “Do you want to see the plug I’m wearing for you?” Wei Ying moves with a fluid grace that is breathtaking, even on his knees, in ridiculous heels, and with his arms strapped behind his back. He turns around and shifts, pressing his chest and cheek into the ground, arching his back, the bejeweled base of the plug fully visible through the sheer fabric. “I love having it in me,” he says, clenching around it. “I love knowing you wanted it in me, sir, oh god, it’s so good.”

“This is all very nice, pet,” Lan Zhan says, in warning, “but none of it sounds like gratitude.”

“Sorry, sir,” Wei Ying says, rising back up to his knees and turning to face Lan Zhan again. He crawls closer, dragging his legs along the floor in elegant sweeps. “Do you not want words?” he asks, coming to stop just beyond Lan Zhan’s knees. He smiles up, eyes plaintive and playful. “Should I show you how grateful I am? Is that what you want?”

Lan Zhan says nothing but he spreads his legs, creating a space for Wei Ying, and his boyfriend wastes no time in crawling in to settle between them. “Thank you, sir,” he says, tipping his head back to meet Lan Zhan’s gaze, arching his back in the process so the camera catches the line of his collarbones. “You’re so good to me, I’m so glad I’m your pet.”

“You talk too much,” Lan Zhan says, and without further preamble he grabs Wei Ying’s ponytail and drags his face against his torso. Wei Ying moans into his skin, muffled, and kisses along Lan Zhan’s ribs and abs, leaving smears of black lipstick behind. Lan Zhan releases him and lets him work, lips and wet tongue teasing at the trail of hair under his bellybutton until he hits the waistband of Lan Zhan’s white jeans. Before he can quite get his lips on the fabric, Lan Zhan grabs his hair again and tips his head back. “Did you want something?”

“I wanted to thank you,” Wei Ying says, struggling just a little bit against the punishing grip on his hair, mostly for the visual of it. “Can I thank you, sir?”

Lan Zhan cradles his face in his free hand, thumb swiping over Wei Ying’s cheekbone. “How did you plan to thank me?” he asks, as though anyone involved in this situation and the future viewer can’t tell exactly where this is going, with Wei Ying kneeling between Lan Zhan’s legs.

“With my mouth,” Wei Ying says, panting a little, the mouth in question falling open to display a hint of a pink tongue behind the black lipstick. “I was going to use my mouth on you, sir. Is that what you wanted?”

Lan Zhan presses his thumb under Wei Ying’s lower lip, not smearing the lipstick, but pushing it into more of a pout. “That’s better, pet,” he says. “Do you remember how I like it?”

“Yes, sir,” Wei Ying says, tipping further back into the pull on his hair, eyes half-shut. “I’ll be good, I’ll make it good for you. Please, sir, let me thank you.”

Lan Zhan pats him on the cheek, the movement condescending. “Just because you asked nicely, pet.” The grip on Wei Ying’s ponytail loosens and his boyfriend sways a little bit before finding his balance, then watches with an avid glow as Lan Zhan slowly undoes his fly and pushes his white jeans and briefs down far enough to get out his dick. “This is what you wanted, right?” he asks, stroking himself, hot and hard against his palm. (Wei Ying was very, very specific about how he should display himself for this part. “Babe, I cannot stress enough how your dick was absolutely made for porn,” he’d said, his cheek pressed to it as he’d mouthed at the base. “Frankly we should be sent to horny jail for not putting it on camera sooner, except for how if the horny cops showed up I’d tell them to come back with a warrant.”)

“Yes, sir,” Wei Ying says, practically drooling, eyes locked between Lan Zhan’s legs. “Please, sir, I have so much to thank you for.” He drags his gaze back up to Lan Zhan’s face, biting his lower lip in one of those pouts calculated not to mess up his lipstick. “May I thank you, sir?”

“Go ahead,” Lan Zhan says, dropping his hands. “Do it well,” he reminds Wei Ying before he can actually lean in and fit mouth to cock, and Wei Ying shivers.

“I will, sir,” he says, eyes flicking back up. He keeps his gaze like that, steady on Lan Zhan’s face, as he drags his open mouth along Lan Zhan’s from the base to the tip, leaving smears of lipstick in his wake. He laps at the underside of the head and at the slit, tonguing up precome, before he pulls it carefully into his mouth with a twist of his head and a greedy movement of his lips. Lan Zhan does nothing to help, watching Wei Ying accomplish his goal with hands-free determination. He’s basically done, here--Lan Zhan just gets to receive what will be a very good blowjob, occasionally pulling Wei Ying’s hair or offering some feedback, and he settles in to enjoy the view.

Wei Ying starts slow, lazy bobs of his head as he warms up that Lan Zhan knows are carefully calculated to keep as much of his dick on display as possible. It’s always so hot and wet inside Wei Ying’s mouth, his tongue skilled and clever, and Lan Zhan is, as ever, torn between wanting it to last forever and wanting to fuck into that heat until he comes down Wei Ying’s throat. He stays still, because he knows what his role is in this scenario, and it doesn’t yet involve facefucking. Wei Ying drops down lower, hollowing his cheeks, and Lan Zhan pets his hair. “You’re doing so well, pet,” he says, voice low. Wei Ying shivers and moans around his dick, and Lan Zhan knows it’s at least a little played up for the video but also that this is just how Wei Ying reacts to praise. “You’ve earned a little reward.” Lan Zhan lifts up the remote and bumps the vibe up a setting, and Wei Ying moans, louder this time, through his nose.

“Thank you,” he says, a little slurred as he pulls off, lipstick and spit smeared across his face. “Oh, thank you, sir, it feels so good.”

Lan Zhan grabs his hair and shakes him a little bit. “Did I ask you to thank me with words?” Wei Ying shakes his head no, breath catching in the back of his throat, and when Lan Zhan pushes his dick back into his mouth Wei Ying practically dives onto it, fighting the pull in his hair. Neither of them stop until Wei Ying swallows around him. “That’s good,” Lan Zhan says, petting his hair now, a heavy weight on Wei Ying’s head, reminder and not restraint. “How does it feel?” he asks, letting his other hand drift down to cup Wei Ying’s jaw, fingers resting lightly against his throat. “Do you like having my fat cock in your mouth?”

Wei Ying pulls off to gasp, “I love it, I love it,” the head of Lan Zhan’s dick still resting against his lower lip, and then sucks it back down. Lan Zhan can’t help hitching his hips up a little, rocking into Wei Ying’s waiting mouth. It’s messy and wet, spit running down his dick to drip into his briefs and jeans, and Wei Ying uses that wetness to ease the way as he relaxes his throat and works Lan Zhan deeper and deeper until his black lipstick smears across white fabric. When Wei Ying pulls back to breathe Lan Zhan can’t stop staring at the stains, stark like the most erotic abstract ink painting in existence.

“Good boy,” he says, tangling one hand in Wei Ying’s hair, fumbling for the remote with the other. “Take it,” he orders, pushing Wei Ying onto his waiting, aching cock. “Swallow it down for me, pet.” Another bump in the power level of the plug, and Wei Ying chokes a moan around Lan Zhan’s dick, one that cuts off along with his air supply as he deepthroats him again. Lan Zhan’s shaking, thighs tense, balls tight, energy building up under his bellybutton. Now it’s time for the facefucking, and he holds on with both hands, Wei Ying going limp, willing to simply be used. He keeps moaning, little desperate, hitching sounds through his nose as Lan Zhan pulls him down to meet the movements of his hips, still sucking and trying to use his tongue whenever he can, glazed around the eyes. Lan Zhan’s breathing hard, his dick twitching with every stroke, and Wei Ying looks up and makes direct eye contact as he takes him into the back of his throat to swallow one more time.

Lan Zhan comes, almost violently, and barely has the presence of mind to keep to the script and pull out of Wei Ying’s throat so they get it on camera. (Wei Ying had been insistent on this point.) Wei Ying opens his mouth, breathing in ragged moans, and he keeps his tongue moving under the head of Lan Zhan’s dick to draw it out as Lan Zhan ejaculates absolutely everywhere. There’s come on his lips and chin and cheek, dripping down to land on his chest in a glorious mess. Wei Ying smiles up at Lan Zhan around the still-hard dick in his mouth, sucks it back in by a few inches, and swallows theatrically. Lan Zhan shudders, a little oversensitive, but not enough to stop him from lightly thrusting a few more times while he catches his breath.

“Good boy,” he says, when he has the air to speak again. Lan Zhan tugs Wei Ying off him, gently, and tucks his dick back away into his somewhat ruined underwear. Wei Ying watches him do it, chest heaving, and then looks back up at his face, his eyes gleaming with praise and want.

“Was it good?” he asks, breathlessly, squirming over his heels. “Was it a good enough thank you?” His face is still a disaster, lips swollen, lipstick smeared. Lan Zhan did that, he realizes in a surge of something base and primal. Lan Zhan did that to Wei Ying, and people are going to watch it happen and know he did it. He snaps, grabs Wei Ying by the harness, and drags him upright to kiss him as filthy and hard as he possibly can. Wei Ying moans into his mouth, his toes still pressed to the floor but otherwise hanging from Lan Zhan’s grip, and in the next moment Lan Zhan yanks him into his lap in a wild straddle.

“Oh god,” Wei Ying pants, trying to catch his balance and his breath, “oh, fuck, sir, did I earn a reward?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan hisses, and he gets his hands behind Wei Ying’s knees and, in a feat of his strength and Wei Ying’s flexibility, lifts Wei Ying fully off his lap so he can wrap his legs around Lan Zhan’s waist. “Hold on,” Lan Zhan warns him, and then tips him backward until Wei Ying’s head hangs toward the ground, his spine the arch above a moon gate, helpless and suspended, ankles locked together behind Lan Zhan’s back to keep from falling.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, upside down. He squirms against his restraints and then, as Lan Zhan roughly gets his dick out from the lace, says, “Fuck,” again, rougher. Lan Zhan leans over, scrubs his palm over Wei Ying’s cheek and chin, and then wraps it around his cock, smearing Wei Ying’s spit and precome and Lan Zhan’s actual come along him in a slippery mess. “Oh god,” he whimpers, abs twitching, “thank you, sir.”

“You were good,” Lan Zhan says, hand tight, already moving quickly. “You deserve a reward.” He sets his other hand on the crease of Wei Ying’s thigh, working his thumb between his legs until he finds the base of the plug by feel. He settles there, pushing it to match the tempo of his hand, rocking the plug into Wei Ying’s ass in a mockery of fucking. Wei Ying jerks, his dick twitching against Lan Zhan’s palm.

“Oh,” he says, squirming again, helpless, absolutely unable to do anything but to hang there and take it. “Oh, sir, fuck.” Wei Ying whines wordlessly, head tipped back, the knot of his throat bobbing as he swallows.

“Are you going to be good?” Lan Zhan asks, his voice a low rumble. He tightens his hand on the upstroke and Wei Ying whines again.

“Yes,” he says, trying desperately to rock his hips into Lan Zhan’s hands, abs clenching as he does. “I’ll be good, sir, just tell me what I should do.”

Lan Zhan smirks, driving the plug into Wei Ying hard, twisting his hand sharply. “Come,” he orders.

Wei Ying chokes on his next inhale, makes a broken, stuttering sound, and he does, dick pulsing in Lan Zhan’s hand as he comes over the arched bow of his body, all the way down his abs and chest. His ankles slip apart, and Lan Zhan has to abandon his motions with the plug to snatch the harness before Wei Ying can fall and crack his head against the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice, hanging fully from Lan Zhan’s grip as he shudders and pants. Lan Zhan keeps his hand moving, slower and gentler, letting Wei Ying come down from the orgasm by degrees. When he finally whines and attempts to twitch away, Lan Zhan releases his cock, gives it one more affectionate pat, and sets about getting Wei Ying into a less precarious situation.

“Clean,” Lan Zhan orders, once Wei Ying is settled back on his knees between Lan Zhan’s spread legs, the plug turned off. He presents his hand, now sticky with their combined mess, and Wei Ying smiles hazily up at him, blinking slowly once, twice, before obediently sticking out his tongue and setting to work. Wei Ying licks his palm, sucks off each finger, curls his wet, pink tongue into the spaces between them, and hums happily the whole time. When he’s done Lan Zhan guides his head to settle on one thigh, cheek pillowed against his white jeans, and pets his hair and undercut and jawline.

“Was I good?” Wei Ying asks, half-asleep. “Was it what you wanted, sir?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, his voice warm. “The best.” He skates his fingernails over Wei Ying’s scalp and cradles the back of his skull, warm against his palm. “You were a very good boy, pet. Thank you.”

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says, eyes slipping closed. He breathes there for a bit, and Lan Zhan keeps petting him. He ends up with just enough time to wonder if Wei Ying is actually asleep when his boyfriend shakes himself, blinks a few times, and sits back over his heels, mostly alert. “Well,” he says, businesslike, “I think that’s going to cut up extremely hot.” Wei Ying pushes up to kiss Lan Zhan, who belatedly realizes that his own face is still a mess from the earlier kiss, and elects to ignore that in favor of more kissing. “Love you, babe,” Wei Ying says against his mouth, and then squirms around to present his restraints. Lan Zhan unclips his wrists and then rubs Wei Ying’s shoulders while he stretches his arms with a groan.

“Wow, this is so much easier with a second person,” Wei Ying says, not for the first time. He tips onto one hip to peel out of his boots, puts his dick away into his lace briefs, and climbs somewhat unsteadily to his feet to stop the recording on the camera on Lan Zhan’s harness. Sans boots he’s now padding around the room in slim-fit dancer kneepads and hilariously unsexy tall athletic socks as he turns off the other cameras, and Lan Zhan loves him so much it’s like a living thing inside his chest.

“Do you need anything?” he asks, finding some actual tissues and wiping off his hands and face before carefully removing his harness. He has some snacks ready to go in the fridge for aftercare, but Wei Ying seems remarkably coherent, even if his voice sounds like sandpaper.

“Hm?” Wei Ying asks, shutting off the lights. He turns around and reads Lan Zhan’s expression like a book, smiling through his wrecked makeup. “Oh, not really.” He turns off another camera and slips back into Lan Zhan’s embrace, smearing come all over him in the process. (Neither of them care.) “I didn’t really go deep today,” he explains, carding his fingers through Lan Zhan’s unbound hair. “I am, as it turns out, excellent at acting.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan kisses his temple and runs his hands over Wei Ying’s warm, naked back. “Then do you not want to get into a bath with me where I feed you a charcuterie board?”

“Whoa now,” Wei Ying says immediately, “I sure fucking never said that.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says again, smugly. “I thought so.” He runs one hand down Wei Ying’s back, over the curve of his ass, to settle his fingertips against the plug. “Do you want to take this out, first?”

Wei Ying bites his lip against the smirk that spreads slowly across his face. “Well, I mean,” he says, hands sliding from Lan Zhan’s shoulders down his chest so he can trace both thumbs in circles around Lan Zhan’s nipples, “it’s waterproof, gege.”

Lan Zhan leans in and bites Wei Ying’s ear. “Good,” he growls, and then hauls Wei Ying off the ground and into his arms to carry him, squealing, to their bathroom.

---

Over the next week Lan Zhan declines, repeatedly, to review any of the videos before Wei Ying finishes and posts the completed thing. About this he is genuinely not worried--he trusts that Wei Ying will make sure to edit out anything that would confirm Lan Zhan’s identity, and that it will be extremely hot porn. Anything else is immaterial. Lan Zhan knows nothing about video editing, why would his opinion be helpful? He tells Wei Ying so, among other reassurances, every time Wei Ying asks, and when Wei Ying keeps asking he kisses him. As a distraction technique it proves effective, though Lan Zhan does worry that he’s accidentally training Wei Ying via positive reinforcement.

It’s Saturday morning when Lan Zhan checks OnlyFans again, Wei Ying in his studio catching up on admin as has become their routine. As a supportive boyfriend with a free subscription, Lan Zhan makes sure to click through, like, and comment on each new photoset, even though he’s seen most of the pictures already (and in a couple of cases, took them). When he’s done with that extremely pleasant chore, he scrolls back up to the top post, captioned “POV of me sucking off my hot dom’s hot cock! 🤪🍆💦💦💦” Lan Zhan’s ears heat, ridiculously--he was there for this, he knows he was the dom, and Wei Ying makes his opinion about Lan Zhan’s cock extremely clear, frequently, and at length. It’s different to read it on the internet, though, and Lan Zhan allows himself to feel that difference as he tracks down his earbuds and settles in to watch.

The video fades in on one of the wider shots, the one from the side, Wei Ying waiting obediently on his knees, Lan Zhan a faceless torso in white jeans, picked out against the black drapes in planes of colored light. The shot is beautiful, the lighting stunning, and there’s a swell of Wei Ying’s electronica in the background in a pulsing hint of what’s to come. Lan Zhan watches avidly as the whole thing plays out, only momentarily distracted by how his voice sounds on the recording. (It’s higher-pitched and very strange to listen to. His voice is much deeper in his own head, but Wei Ying sounds right, so Lan Zhan forcibly refocuses on the actual video and pretends it’s not really supposed to be him on camera, which makes it easier.) He was there for it, and it was hot in person, and it’s equally and differently hot to watch on a screen, with editing and music and camera angles that aren’t what he could see with his actual human eyes. The Lan Zhan on screen gets his dick out of his pants in the POV shot and the Lan Zhan watching takes a moment to be impressed with his own anatomy. He knows, intimately, what his dick looks like, but the angle of the camera and the contrast against Wei Ying on his knees and the lighting really makes him see it with new eyes. It looks especially good when Wei Ying takes it into his mouth, and he understands Wei Ying’s directorial choices now that he sees the result. It’s a good video, all of it, and Lan Zhan watches it twice through, occasionally pausing it to admire an especially nice camera angle, like the one from directly in front of Lan Zhan when he has Wei Ying tipped over backward, ponytail trailing on the floor. Wei Ying’s face is twisted up in an exquisite moment of agony, upside-down and flushed and smeared with lipstick. Lan Zhan hadn’t been able to see it in the moment, and he’s grateful to Wei Ying’s overachievements in video editing and his dedication to a multi-camera setup. The POV shot fades out at the end with Wei Ying’s head resting on Lan Zhan’s thigh, eyes shut, and Lan Zhan is overcome, again, with a fierce ache of gratitude, that this is his life now, and he’s not stealing these moments through a miserable lie.

Lan Zhan’s hands hover over the keyboard as he considers several options. With a decisive nod, he types:

i enjoyed this!!! ty for sharing it <3

And then he sends a hundred dollar tip, puts his laptop away, and gets out his latest knitting project while he waits for the inevitable reaction.

Two rows of colorwork on the yoke of the sweater later, an indignant shout of “Lan Zhan!” comes from the second bedroom. Smothering a smile, Lan Zhan gets the sweater back into the project bag and set aside just as Wei Ying skids into the living room on socked feet. “How dare you!” he accuses, trying for stern and fighting a grin. “I told you I don’t need your money!”

“The video was very good,” Lan Zhan says, innocent. “I thought it was appropriate to show my appreciation by financially compensating you for your hard work.”

“You smug fucker,” Wei Ying says, climbing over the back of the couch to crawl onto Lan Zhan’s waiting lap. “I have to pay taxes on that now you know.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, sliding his hands under Wei Ying’s t-shirt to splay across his lower back. “How much do I need to send you to compensate you for the taxes?”

“More money is not the solution here,” Wei Ying says, taking Lan Zhan’s hair out of his bun and working his fingers into it. “You’ll have to make it up to me some other way.”

Lan Zhan kisses him, intent and focused. “I will,” he says against Wei Ying’s mouth, and then drops kisses along his jaw.

“Ah,” Wei Ying says, tipping his head to offer better access, “I’m pretty upset, sweetheart. You might have to make it up to me two or three times.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan bites just below Wei Ying’s ear. “Whatever my love wishes.” Wei Ying apparently wishes for more kissing, since he uses Lan Zhan’s hair to drag him back and fit their mouths together again.

Lan Zhan kisses his boyfriend and he thinks about how lucky he is to get to do this every day. He thinks about the real estate searches he checks once a week, looking for a condo or small house with outside space for the rabbits and more room for friends. He thinks about the velvet box with the platinum ring waiting in the back of his sock drawer, and their reservation at Au Nuage d’Or next week for their six-month anniversary, and the speech he has written in the notes app on his phone that he practices in the bathroom mirror while Wei Ying is still asleep in the morning. He thinks about the word fiance. He thinks about the word husband. He thinks about the words “for the rest of my life,” and he feels like he glows with it.

“Gege,” Wei Ying says, mouth on Lan Zhan’s throat. “Lan Zhan, sweetheart, gege. Take me to bed.”

Lan Zhan does. He carries Wei Ying to the bedroom and tumbles him down onto their duvet, and all he thinks about, all he ever thinks about, all he is ever going to think about, is Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.