Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, you need to leave.”

The man does not move. The man is face-down on a sticky table in the corner back booth, and has not moved in possibly the last hour, which would explain why Wei Ying has missed him up until now. It’s past two in the morning and Wei Ying has accidentally let this guy stay well past last call and the last fucking thing Wei Ying wants to have to deal with right now is rousting a drunk. He wants to walk home and shower the stale PBR smell out of his hair and go the fuck to sleep, and yet here he remains, in the shittiest gay dive bar in the city, and roust a drunk he must.

“Hey,” he says again, leaning over to poke the guy in the shoulder. “We’re closed, man. You can’t stay here.”

The man continues to not move, which is when Wei Ying starts getting worried. It’s uncommon for people to ignore his poking. It’s a trained bartender skill, and he’s really good at poking people awake and then getting out of the way before they can punch him. He pokes the guy again, to no response, and moves to a shoulder shake. “Hey,” he says, louder, “hey, hey, hey, hey.” That gets a response, namely, the man going from horizontal to sitting bolt upright in a single movement, like an animation that skipped the between frames. Wei Ying startles a little at the sudden change, and then again because this drunk is gorgeous, wow.

“Who are you?” he asks, mostly to himself, taking it all in. Drunk Man is Asian, with fashionably long bangs hanging over cheekbones that could cut glass, and he’s wearing a rumpled but expensive looking pale blue suit over a white dress shirt that’s seen better days. There’s a silver necklace with a blue stone in place of a tie and he’s wearing an actual physical watch that probably costs more than Wei Ying’s rent. “How did you end up here?” he asks, because this man absolutely does not belong in Wei Ying’s awful dive bar, not even a little.

Drunk Man does not answer. He’s upright, which is a relief (Wei Ying does not want to have to call an ambulance or deal with alcohol poisoning tonight, he wants to go home) but he’s staring blearily into the middle distance and swaying slightly. He looks very drunk. Fucking White Mike and his overpouring and overserving and then skipping out to leave his co-workers with the consequences. Wei Ying spends a minute cursing White Mike for all his bartending sins, sighs, reluctantly accepts that this is going to take a minute, and goes to get a glass of water.

“Hey,” he says--the word of the evening--as he slides into the booth across from Drunk Man, “you should drink this.” He pushes the glass across the table, and Drunk Man finally reacts, looking at Wei Ying and then the water. He frowns, shakes his head, and pushes the water back at Wei Ying, who pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’ll thank me for it later,” he says, pushing the glass back over, like a reverse tug-of-war. Drunk Man pushes it back, handsome face going mullish and stubborn. Wei Ying slides it over again. “Drink.”

“No.” Oh! Language!

“So you can speak,” Wei Ying says. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Come on, just drink it.” He nudges the water a little closer and gives this beautiful drunk man his best doe eyes. “Drink it for me?”

Drunk Man shakes his head again, his mouth a tight line, his eyes unfocused. It’s almost funny, except Wei Ying is tired and cranky and in no mood to play, so it mostly just pisses him off.

“Why not?” Wei Ying snaps, exasperated. “Come on, man, I’ve been here since six, White Mike abandoned me at ten, I caught a couple fucking in the alley when I took out the trash and they looked at me like I was the rude one, I smell like stale beer and I want to go home. Drink your fucking water.”

Drunk Man blinks at him a few times, apparently processing that flood. “Water?” he asks, hesitantly, the mullish look fading into something confused and wary. “Just water?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, some of his irritation draining away. He’s tired, but his brain works quickly, and he puts two and two together. “Did you think I was trying to trick you into drinking more?” Drunk Man avoids his gaze but nods, and Wei Ying’s remaining irritation turns immediately into righteous anger. “Did someone do that to you earlier?” Another nod, and Wei Ying is going to murder White Mike for ditching him tonight. He tries to keep an eye on the bar to avoid situations just like this, but there’s only so much he can do when someone leaves him to deal with the Friday night rush all on his own.

“It’s just water,” he says, trying to be soothing. “I’m trying to save you from the hangover that is definitely coming for you tomorrow. Here, it’s fine.” He takes a sip, realizes he could also actually use some water, and takes a second, longer sip. “It’s okay, see?” Wei Ying offers the cup to Drunk Man, who stares at him for a full minute in silence before finally taking the cup.

Well, he tries. Drunk Man is so drunk he almost knocks it over, and Wei Ying catches it with years of well-honed bartender instinct. “Oh, buddy,” he says, shaking off his newly-wet hand, “you’re pretty far gone, huh? Can I help you? Is that okay?”

“Help?” Drunk Man asks, the wariness back in his bleary eyes.

“Help you drink this,” Wei Ying explains. “So you don’t spill.”

Drunk Man has to think about that a little more before he nods again, and Wei Ying slides around the booth slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a cat. Drunk Man watches him come, and then watches him carefully guide Drunk Man’s hand around the cup, and then he carefully helps Drunk Man lift it. Drunk Man eyes him suspiciously for the first sip, until it clicks for him that it’s actually just water, and then he drinks with more enthusiasm.

“How did you end up here?” Wei Ying murmurs, more to himself than to Drunk Man, trying and failing not to notice how big Drunk Man’s hands are or how his throat flexes when he swallows. Wei Ying’s not a creeper, he’s not creeping, especially not on someone who needs help to drink fucking water, but he’s but a humble bisexual with functioning eyes and Drunk Man is very, very hot.

“Better?” he asks, when the cup is empty. Drunk Man blinks at him, water trailing down his chin, and nods. “Good,” Wei Ying says, finding a clean-ish cocktail napkin and dabbing at the droplets. “Do you think you can make it home?”

Drunk Man does not respond. Drunk Man, instead of responding, leans forward into Wei Ying’s personal space and drops his head on Wei Ying’s shoulder. He’s very warm, and his hair smells surprisingly good given how the rest of this guy’s night must have gone, and Wei Ying freezes with his hands hovering around the guy’s shoulders. If this was all a ruse for Drunk Guy to get handsy, so fucking help him…

“Nice,” Drunk Man says, into the crook of his neck, and does nothing else. Wei Ying slowly relaxes, allows himself to pat Drunk Man between the shoulder blades, and sighs.

“Okay,” he says. “Glad you think so.”

Drunk Man does not respond. Wei Ying wonders if he went back to sleep, and then takes a further moment to wonder why this always happens to him, why he’s always the one helping a heartbroken twink sober up after a terrible night out or sitting on the curb with a sobbing teenager with a fake ID while they wait for her parents to come pick her up. If only he was as shitty a person as White Mike, he could be home asleep right now and this beautiful man would be passed out in a gutter and probably mugged. Wei Ying looks down at the drunk man on his shoulder, thinks about leaving him to fend for himself, and sighs. Nope. Not on his watch.

“Do you have a phone?” he asks, resolved to the situation now. Drunk Man makes an affirmative sound and digs around in a pocket before he hands over a shiny new smartphone in a sleek protective case. There aren’t even any chips or cracks in the screen! What luxury! “Can you unlock it for me?” Wei Ying asks, aware that he might be pushing it, and Drunk Man holds Wei Ying’s wrist very firmly with one hand while he swipes in a passcode with the other. He has a little frown between his eyebrows, clearly concentrating on the task, and it’s so cute Wei Ying almost busts out laughing. “Thank you,” he says, when Drunk Man has willingly handed an eight hundred dollar device filled with his personal information to a complete stranger, and opens the contacts.

The first thing he learns is that Drunk Man is a very organized person, because each contact is helpfully labeled with full names and how he knows them. The second thing he learns is that Drunk Man is either very lonely or very aloof, because there are about ten people in this phone and seven of them are labeled “co-worker.” Wei Ying looks at “Lan Qiren (uncle)” and “Lan Huan (brother)” and then down at Drunk Man.

“Is your family name Lan?” he asks. Drunk Man Lan nods into his shoulder. “Well, then, Lan-gege, should I call your brother or your uncle to come take you home?”

“Brother,” Drunk Lan-something says, and Wei Ying swipes to call and hopes that Lan Huan (brother) actually answers his fucking phone. The gods are with him on this terrible Friday night/Saturday morning, because after about five rings the call connects.

“A’Zhan?” says a man’s sleep-rough voice, confused and worried, presumably belonging to Lan Huan.

“Sort of,” Wei Ying says, looking down at “A’Zhan,” who is still curled into his side and apparently happy to stay there. “I’m really sorry to call this late, but I have your brother.”

The line is silent for a moment. “Pardon?” comes the voice on the other end, sounding much more awake and twice as worried. Wei Ying replays what he just said and slaps his face with his free hand.

“Sorry!” he says. “Not like--I didn’t kidnap him. This isn’t a ransom or anything, shit, no, I’m a bartender. My name is Wei Ying--hi!--and your brother is in my bar and we closed at two and he’s still here.”

“Lan Zhan’s in a bar?” Lan Huan (probably) asks, less worried now and more confused.

“Apparently?” Wei Ying says. “Handsome guy, nice cheekbones, wears blue and white?”

“That’s him,” Lan Huan confirms, and then, as though to someone else in the room, “A’Zhan’s in a bar, apparently.” His voice comes back to Wei Ying. “Is Lan Zhan all right?”

“He’s not injured,” Wei Ying says, “but he’s blitzed out of his mind drunk and currently using my shoulder as a pillow. Like, I don’t know if he can walk, you know? I asked him for his phone and he just gave it to me. He doesn’t even know me! What if I had nefarious purposes?”

“Do you have nefarious purposes?”

“No, but that’s exactly what a person with nefarious purposes would say,” Wei Ying points out. “Though if I had nefarious purposes I probably wouldn’t have called his brother, huh? Listen, he could barely manage to drink water. I don’t want to pour him into a cab like this, I don’t think it’s safe.”

“Ah,” Lan Huan says, maybe a little amused now. “This is… Unusual for Lan Zhan. He normally doesn’t drink.”

“Well, he made up for it tonight,” Wei Ying says. Lan Zhan, who normally doesn’t drink, has pulled up Wei Ying’s sleeve to expose his forearm and is gently tracing the lines of his lotus tattoos. It’s a little weird but mostly harmless, so Wei Ying allows it.

“He may have drank less than you are expecting,” Lan Huan says with a sigh. “Alcohol allergies run in our family, and I’m afraid he got the brunt of it. What bar?”

Wei Ying tells him, and Lan Huan goes silent for a bit, presumably mapping it out. Wei Ying hears another sigh and then, “I apologize, but I live across the city and it’s going to take me at least an hour to reach you. I hate to impose on your time, but would you be able to keep an eye on him until I get there?”

Wei Ying is never going to get to sleep. He’s had nightmares where he’s trapped in the bar and can’t leave until he pours one more round for everyone, and now they’ve come to life. “I can’t keep him in here,” he says, exhausted. “There’s a twenty-four hour diner down the block. I’ll see if I can get him down there and sober him up a little while we wait for you.”

“Thank you,” Lan Huan says, with such sincerity Wei Ying squirms a little. “May I have your number, so I can text you directly if I need to?”

Wei Ying gives it to him, and then offers the phone to Lan Zhan. “Hey,” he says, jostling his shoulder a little. “Your brother’s on the phone. Do you want to talk to him?”

Lan Zhan accepts the phone gracelessly and presses it to the ear that isn’t on Wei Ying’s shoulder. “Mn?” he says, then “Yes,” then “No,” then “Mn.” He listens for a bit, says one last “Mn,” and pushes the phone in Wei Ying’s direction.

“Hey?”

“Thank you again,” Lan Huan says, over the rustling of what’s probably clothing. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“See you when you get here,” Wei Ying tells him, and the line goes dead. Lan Zhan is still using his shoulder as a pillow, and Wei Ying somewhat reluctantly peels him away and gets him to lean back against the booth like a normal person. “I need to do a couple things and then we’re gonna go get something to eat, okay?” he says, tucking Lan Zhan’s phone safely into a suit pocket.

“Okay,” Lan Zhan says, and his gaze follows Wei Ying around the bar as he wipes a couple tables, locks the till, and puts the last cup in the dishwasher. It’s not creepy, weirdly--Wei Ying has had people stare at him before and he doesn’t like it, but with Lan Zhan it feels different. It’s like a cat that just wants to know what you’re doing but doesn’t want to interfere.

“Do you think you can walk?” he asks, holding out a hand to help Lan Zhan out of the booth if he needs it. Lan Zhan looks at his hand, and then up at his face again, and his face scrunches up a little.

“Wei Ying?” he asks.

“That’s me,” Wei Ying says. “I guess I introduced myself to your brother and not you, huh?” He gives Lan Zhan his best smile, not even forced, because Lan Zhan’s little scrunched up frown is really, really cute. “Wei Ying, bartender and aspiring tattoo artist. Nice to meet you.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says after a moment, like all his thoughts are on a slight time delay. “Lan Zhan.” He takes Wei Ying’s hand in a firm, warm hold and manages to lever himself upright, only to immediately take a step forward and trip over his own feet and directly into Wei Ying’s arms.

“Oh!” Wei Ying says, bracing himself and helping Lan Zhan get his feet back where they’re supposed to be. “Okay, wow, yeah, you can’t go home like this.” Between the two of them they get Lan Zhan’s arm over Wei Ying’s shoulders and Wei Ying’s around Lan Zhan’s waist. Getting to the door is a challenge. Getting through it is a further challenge, but they prevail, and Wei Ying gets it locked up. Fortunately it’s a straight shot down to the diner, because Lan Zhan’s a little taller and broader than Wei Ying is, and he corners like an eighteen wheeler. Wei Ying doesn’t want to know what it would be like to try and steer him through a crowd. Getting him through the door to the diner is hard enough.

“Hey, Angie!” he calls to the solid Black woman behind the counter who’s been running the night shift since before he started working at the bar. “How’s your night been?”

Angie looks him over and snorts. “Better than yours,” she says, running a hand over her gray-streaked dreads and patting the neat bun they’re in tonight. “Who’s the handsome one?”

“Angie!” Wei Ying whines, mock-offended as he maneuvers Lan Zhan into a red vinyl booth. “Are you saying I’m not handsome? I thought we had something together.”

“Oh, sugar, I’m not saying you’re not handsome,” Angie says, “I’m just saying you brought in a tall drink of water with you tonight.” She leans her elbows on the counter and bats her eyelashes, the crows-feet at the corners of her brown eyes crinkling up as she smiles. “What’s his story?”

“Very drunk. Abandoned. I’m on babysitting duty,” Wei Ying says, attempting to leave the booth so he can sit on the opposite side, like a normal person, which is apparently the cue for Lan Zhan to turn into an octopus and pull him back down. “Hey,” he says, trying and failing to gently extricate his arm and the hem of his shirt from Lan Zhan’s grasp. “It’s fine. I’m not leaving, I’m just gonna sit over there.”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, pouting. He tugs Wei Ying down again insistently. “Here.”

Wei Ying wants to laugh again, because Lan Zhan’s pout is blurry and unfocused and adorable. “Okay,” he says, “fine, fine, I’ll sit here.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, and as soon as Wei Ying settles he wiggles in and puts his head on Wei Ying’s shoulder. Wei Ying makes long-suffering eye contact with Angie, who laughs so hard she starts coughing.

“Oh, sugar,” she says, patting her chest when she’s calmed down, “you’ve got your work cut out for you. Two coffees?”

“Coffee?” Wei Ying asks Lan Zhan. He gets a head shake and an almost inaudible grumble. “Tea?” That gets a nod. “Coffee for me and tea for him, apparently,” Wei Ying says to Angie, and then to Lan Zhan, “You know diner tea is terrible, right?”

Lan Zhan says nothing, and Wei Ying sighs and manages to get them a menu without dislodging him. Angie drops off their drinks, and Wei Ying gets Lan Zhan’s Lipton steeping in the weird glass tea beaker that diners always use for some fucking reason.

“What looks good?” he asks, holding the menu under Lan Zhan’s nose. Lan Zhan pushes it away, back to being a stubborn little fuck, and turns his head so his face is hidden in Wei Ying’s shirt. “Hey,” Wei Ying says, “you gotta eat something. Come on, I’ll help you pick.” Lan Zhan says nothing, and Wei Ying raises his eyes to the ceiling to beg the sky for mercy. “Are you mad? Did I make you mad?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan grumbles, and then, “Not a baby.”

Wei Ying blinks down at him for a second, bewildered, and then it hits and he actually does laugh. Lan Zhan flinches and pushes off of him, turning to the window in a drunk huff. “Hey, no, no,” Wei Ying says, patting his back. “It was a joke when I told Angie I was babysitting. I know you’re not a baby, okay? Come on, pick out something to eat.”

Lan Zhan half turns to him, eyes narrowed. “Not a baby,” he repeats, with deep gravitas, and Wei Ying suppresses his laughter so hard he almost gets a cramp.

“Nope,” he agrees, solemnly. “No babies here, just a tall handsome man who should look at this menu with me.” He waves it again and after another moment of suspicious glaring Lan Zhan nods and leans in, too quickly, almost knocking their heads together. Victory!

Lan Zhan, after some significant consideration, orders sourdough blueberry pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs. Wei Ying gets the biscuits and gravy, because this diner does proper Southern sausage gravy and good biscuits, and then he also gets a raspberry cheesecake milkshake, because it really has been a long fucking night and he’s willing to take the lactose pills if it means he can self-soothe by drinking about four servings of ice cream. There’s almost no one else in the diner this late/early, just Jeremy-from-the-alley napping in one of the far back booths, because Angie keeps an eye on the neighborhood and doesn’t treat the houseless like criminals just because they don’t have anywhere to go. Now that he’s surmounted the obstacle of “ordering food from a menu” and the following obstacle of “drinking half a cup of shitty tea,” Lan Zhan has Wei Ying’s forearm on the table again, back to tracing the outlines of the tattoos. The slow, steady sweeps of his fingertips are soothing, and Wei Ying watches him do it with something like fondness.

“You like my tattoos?” he asks eventually, when Lan Zhan has traced them all the way from his wrist up to his elbow and down again. It’s an unnecessary question, probably, but Wei Ying has never been great with silence.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, finger stilling on one purple petal. “Pretty.”

“Thanks,” Wei Ying says, smiling down at him a little helplessly. “I like them, too. Do you have any tattoos?”

Lan Zhan nods, which is a bit of a surprise. Wei Ying was expecting the answer to be no, because Lan Zhan seems pretty buttoned up, but he also wears a necklace instead of a tie and has little silver hoops in his ears, so that’ll show him for making assumptions. Lan Zhan levers himself upright and--oh fuck--goes for his waistband, so presumably the tattoo is somewhere under that expensive blue suit, and not appropriate for display in a diner.

“No, no,” Wei Ying says, catching Lan Zhan’s wrists, “you don’t need to show me, that’s fine, I’m sure it’s very pretty.” Lan Zhan’s face creases up, maybe sad? Wei Ying gets the impression that when he’s sober he’s pretty stone-faced, because even drunk off his ass all his expressions are barely there. “What if you tell me about your tattoo instead?” he tries. “I’ll see if I can draw it and you can tell me if I get it right.”

It takes a minute for Lan Zhan to process that, but he nods and stops trying to undress, which was what Wei Ying was going for. Thank fucking hell that Wei Ying has experience babysitting A’Yuan, because Lan Zhan may not be a baby but he’s definitely allowing himself to be distracted like a four-year-old. “Great,” he says, digging his mini sketchbook and the brush-tip pen he always carries out of his back pocket. “Tell me about it?”

By the time their food arrives, Wei Ying has gathered that Lan Zhan’s tattoo involves stars, clouds, rabbits, the moon, and night. Wei Ying’s doodle of a rabbit curled up asleep as a little moon-loaf on a star blanket apparently isn’t anywhere close to correct, but Lan Zhan has stolen the sketchbook regardless and has both hands pressing it into the table, hunched over so he can scrutinize it up-close.

“Is it good?” Wei Ying asks, chin on his hand, elbow on the table. Lan Zhan nods, not looking up even as Angie puts down his pancakes, and Wei Ying shares a sidelong grin with her. “You can keep it, if you want,” he offers, patting at Lan Zhan’s shoulder until he sits back up, because there are pancakes now, come on.

“Really?” Lan Zhan asks, looking at Wei Ying in pure wonder. Wei Ying smothers a smile and nods.

“Sure,” he says, retrieving the sketchbook and carefully tearing out the page. “All yours, buddy,” he says, holding it out, “but you have to put it away so it doesn’t get messy while you eat, okay?”

Lan Zhan nods, very seriously, and tucks the drawing into his inner jacket pocket with a level of care and attention normally only seen by people trying to defuse bombs. “Thank you,” he says, too-sincere, his eye contact bleary but intense enough that Wei Ying blushes.

“Eat your pancakes,” Wei Ying says, flustered, and downs the rest of his coffee.

Lan Zhan, thank god, is not so far gone that he needs to be hand-fed. Wei Ying isn’t sure if he’d really survive the night if he had to “Here comes the airplane!” pancakes into the most attractive drunk he’s ever seen. Instead he’s free to douse his biscuits with a liberal amount of habanero hot sauce and lose himself in the dual glory of carbs and blended ice cream. Apparently Lan Zhan has the same idea, because when Wei Ying looks up from the remnants of his first biscuit it’s to find Lan Zhan enjoying Wei Ying’s raspberry cheesecake milkshake without a care in the world.

“Hey!” Wei Ying says, offended. That was his milkshake! Lan Zhan blinks at him a couple of times, apparently not seeing the issue, and then releases the straw from his mouth and turns the milkshake around until said straw is pointing at Wei Ying. “Is this a date?” Wei Ying asks, exasperated. “Are we sharing a milkshake down at the five and dime? Am I supposed to wear your letterman jacket?”

Lan Zhan does not respond, but he does nudge the milkshake closer. Wei Ying gives up, grabs the frosty glass, and promptly gives himself a brain freeze. Lan Zhan nods, like this was his goal all along, and pats Wei Ying’s forearm unsteadily. Wei Ying’s heart does a little pitter-patter thing, which he ignores in favor of returning his attention to his second biscuit. Ridiculous. Lan Zhan is so drunk he gave his phone to a stranger. This doesn’t mean anything.

Angie comes back to pick up their empty plates a bit later, asking Wei Ying with a practiced eyebrow motion if they want anything else while she refills their water glasses. He shakes his head, trying not to disturb Lan Zhan, who’s back to using Wei Ying’s shoulder as a pillow and petting his forearm. He’s not even tracing the tattoos anymore, he’s just running his fingers up and down it, occasionally skating them over the back of Wei Ying’s hand. It’s making it a little bit awkward for Wei Ying to keep sketching, but he’s nothing if not diligent.

“Is this your tattoo?” he asks, showing Lan Zhan the doodle of a rabbit slam-dunking the moon through a basketball hoop.

“No,” Lan Zhan says, like he has for the last three sketches, and expectantly holds out his hand for the page. Wei Ying hands it over, watches it disappear into Lan Zhan’s suit, and starts drawing again. He doesn’t bother trying to make it the tattoo this time, just lets his mind and his pen wander, outlining the shape of a sharp jaw and the fall of black bangs. “What do you think?” he asks when it’s done, adding an earring. “Is it a good likeness?”

Lan Zhan’s hand freezes on Wei Ying’s wrist, squeezing it in what seems like an unconscious movement. “Me?” he asks, and he sounds fucking awed by Wei Ying’s shitty little pen portrait.

“That’s what I was going for, yeah,” Wei Ying says, tugging the page out and carefully picking off the bits where it didn’t tear at the perforations. “It’s not great, so you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

Lan Zhan fucking snatches the page out of Wei Ying’s hand and cradles it to his chest protectively like Wei Ying might try to steal it. “No,” he says firmly, and puts it into his breast pocket while watching Wei Ying’s hands closely, in case of possible page-theft. When the page is safe and he seems satisfied that Wei Ying isn’t going to try and take it back, Lan Zhan taps on the sketchbook. “You?” he half asks, half orders, and Wei Ying takes a sleepy, biscuit-nap-longing-fueled moment to translate that.

“You want me to draw myself?” he asks.

Lan Zhan nods and taps the page again. “You,” he insists, and he’s so serious about it that Wei Ying gives in and draws a self-portrait. He’s done it enough that he hardly has to think about it--crosshatching for the undercut, dots for the piercings in his eyebrow and nose, the mole under his lip. It looks like him and also not at all like him, in the way stylized drawings always do, and just for fun he signs and dates it.

“Good?” he asks, letting Lan Zhan have an unobstructed view. Lan Zhan’s face goes slowly delighted, like a surprised sloth, and he fucking beams at Wei Ying’s three-minute effort, which is to say his face changes in maybe four very tiny ways that nevertheless give the impression of beaming.

“Yes,” he says, reaching out a reverent finger to rest it on the inked curve of the drawing’s lower lip. “Good.” He turns that beaming face on Wei Ying, studies him very carefully, and adds, “Pretty.”

Wei Ying blushes down to his collarbones. “Uh,” he squeaks, “Thanks?” He finds his water glass and chugs it, trying to find his composure in amongst the ice. “I’m glad you like it,” he manages, flustered and tired and really too full of biscuits and ice cream to be able to handle any part of this. “Did you want this one, too?”

Lan Zhan nods and holds his hands out like a noble warrior waiting to have a sword bestowed upon him or some shit like that. Wei Ying carefully tears out the self-portrait and hands it over, wondering how much weirder this night will get, and puts his card at the end of the table for Angie to run. Lan Zhan cuddles back up to his side, very devoted to the shoulder-pillow lifestyle, and wraps both his arms around Wei Ying’s, thumb sweeping in slow circles over the center of one of the purple lotuses. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Wei Ying shuts his eyes and lets himself drift a bit, because he trusts Angie to keep an eye out for them, and he’s tired.

This is how Lan Huan finds them, probably less than five minutes later, but also it might have been another hour, because Wei Ying dozed a little and ended up in that nonsense almost-dream floaty place. He drags himself out of it when the door opens and scrubs his face with his free hand, squinting at a tall man with nice cheekbones and a great chin as he approaches their booth.

“Wei Ying?” asks the man with the voice from the phone, eyes flicking back and forth as he takes in what has to be a pretty weird tableau.

“Tha’s me,” Wei Ying slurs through a yawn. He wonders for a brief, sleep-deprived moment if the Lan uncle is as hot as his nephews, because these genetics had to come from somewhere, and shakes himself more coherent. “Lan Huan?” he asks, just to confirm.

“Pleased to meet you in person,” Lan Huan says, extending a hand, and Wei Ying shakes it. Good handshake, firm without being a dick-measuring contest, and he drove an hour to come pick up his drunk brother. Wei Ying likes him already.

“I really am sorry I woke you up so late,” he says, taking in that Lan Huan is wearing a jacket over what are clearly pajamas. Just because Wei Ying is frequently awake at horrible hours doesn’t mean he thinks anyone else should be.

“I’m glad you did,” Lan Huan says, way too earnestly, because apparently sincerity is something that runs in their family along with pretty faces, Wei Ying guesses. “I’m also glad that Lan Zhan ended up with you and not someone else,” he adds, and his eyes track over to his brother. Lan Huan’s mouth does a thing like he’s trying not to laugh and he adds, eyes sparkling, “He seems… comfortable.”

Wei Ying looks down at Lan Zhan, who’s still happily hugging his arm, and smiles. “Yeah,” he says, “once he realized I wasn’t trying to get him drunker he turned into a cuddler.” He frowns as that rattles something loose in his foggy brain, looking back up at Lan Huan. “I don’t know how much he had or what his allergy is like, but he’s been really out of it the whole time. He thought I was trying to trick him into more drinking, and I think someone got him like this deliberately and dumped him at my bar? I got some water and tea and a full plate of diner pancakes into him, but you should probably make him drink at least another glass when you get him home. I don’t know--do you know if there’s anyone in his life who’d try to pull that shit deliberately? Was he on a date?”

Lan Huan listens patiently, eyebrows climbing his forehead, and at the last question he frowns. “He didn’t tell me about a date,” he says thoughtfully. “He’s dressed for work, so my guess is one of his co-workers decided to play a ‘prank.’” He rolls his eyes expressively, and Wei Ying can practically hear the air-quotes on “prank.”

“Ah,” Wei Ying says, “the kind of prank where they take advantage of someone’s disability? That kind of prank?”

“I suspect so,” Lan Huan sighs. “It’s not an uncommon reaction when people find out about the allergy. Sometimes they just can’t believe it until they see it for themselves.”

“Fuck those people,” Wei Ying blurts, fighting the instinct to curl more protectively around Lan Zhan, or maybe pull him into his lap entirely.

“Indeed,” Lan Huan agrees. They share a moment of mutual enmity, presumably imagining suitable punishments for whoever did this, and Lan Huan comes back to himself with a shake of his head. “At any rate, I’m glad he had you. I’ll get him out of your hair now.”

Wei Ying nods and ducks his head to peer at Lan Zhan, who may actually be asleep at this point. “Lan Zhan,” he says gently, shaking his arm a bit. “Hey, Lan Zhan, your brother’s here.”

Lan Zhan yawns, nose scrunching up like a kitten, and it’s so cute that Wei Ying is consumed with a nearly irresistible desire to lean down and bite it. Whoa there, nope nope nope, Wei Ying resists mightily, because Lan Zhan is drunk and can’t consent and also his brother is right there.

“Brother?” Lan Zhan asks Wei Ying’s neck, just to reinforce the presence of Lan Huan, who would definitely have words if Wei Ying tried to bite Lan Zhan’s nose, probably starting with, “Hey, what the fuck?” followed by, “Stop assaulting my brother!”

“Yep!” Wei Ying bounces his shoulder a little, successfully annoying Lan Zhan into sitting up so his head stops getting its own personal earthquake. “He’s gonna take you home, okay?”

Lan Zhan takes a moment to focus (mostly) on Wei Ying’s face, and then he slowly turns his head to regard his brother. His face goes warm with recognition, still almost in slow motion, and he reaches a hand out for Lan Huan and almost knocks over Wei Ying’s water glass. “Brother,” he says, half-falling into Wei Ying’s lap.

“A’Zhan,” Lan Huan says, catching Lan Zhan’s hand and helping Wei Ying haul him out of the booth. “I’m glad to see you. Come on, let’s take you home.”

“Home,” Lan Zhan agrees, and between Wei Ying and Lan Huan they get him upright and out to the car without incident.

“This is way easier with you, by the way,” Wei Ying tells Lan Huan as he opens the passenger-side door. “He’s like trying to steer the Titanic.”

“I’m glad you didn’t hit any icebergs,” Lan Huan replies smoothly. Wei Ying laughs into the brisk night air and plops Lan Zhan down on the seat as gently as he can. It’s all going really well, right up until Lan Zhan realizes Wei Ying isn’t also getting in the car, and then he transforms back into octopus form, both hands locked around Wei Ying’s wrist and refusing to let go.

“Home,” he says stubbornly, trying to pull Wei Ying down into the car. Wei Ying, for his part, has braced against the exterior, because even when drunk off his ass it turns out Lan Zhan is strong.

“You’re going home, buddy,” he says, a little helplessly, patting Lan Zhan’s hand with his free one. “Your brother’s taking you home.”

“Home,” Lan Zhan insists, pulling on Wei Ying’s arm, and Wei Ying looks to Lan Huan for a little fuckin' help, maybe?

“Wei Ying’s home is here,” Lan Huan says, crouching next to the open car door, hands on his brother’s knees in a bid to get his attention. “We can’t take him with us, A’Zhan, or he wouldn’t be able to go to his home.”

Lan Zhan has to take a full thirty seconds to process that, and then he looks up at Wei Ying with pleading eyes. “Tomorrow?” he asks, almost begs, and he looks like he might be about to fucking cry and wow, Wei Ying really wants to kiss him and he absolutely is not gonna.

“Sure,” he says, making a wild stab at the right answer. “You can come see me tomorrow, but right now you have to let your brother take you home. Okay?”

Lan Zhan takes another thirty seconds or so to give that the consideration it deserves. “Okay,” he says, and reluctantly releases Wei Ying’s arm, but apparently just so he can grab his hand and squeeze it, eyes searching Wei Ying’s face. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Wei Ying promises, pushing aside any expectation that it’ll ever fucking happen. He squeezes Lan Zhan’s hand reassuringly and lies, “I’ll look for you at the bar tomorrow, all right?”

Lan Zhan must find whatever he was searching for, because he nods unsteadily and drops Wei Ying’s hand. “Tomorrow,” he says, with extreme gravitas, and finally, finally allows Lan Huan to buckle him in and shut the door. Then, and only then, does Lan Huan cover his face and laugh silently into his hands. It sets Wei Ying off, too, and they lean against the car and wheeze together for a wild few minutes.

“I take it he’s not normally like this,” Wei Ying says, when he can breathe again.

“No,” Lan Huan says, wiping his eyes. “Lan Zhan tends to be… reserved. He’s taken a real shining to you.”

“Ah, well,” Wei Ying says, shrugging off the idea of this being anything special, “he’s very drunk.” He stands and stretches, back popping like a firecracker. “You get him home safe, okay? And listen.” He gives Lan Huan a very serious look. “I understand the older brother impulse, and I support it for the most part, but someone basically poisoned him tonight, so try not to roast him too much.”

“I promise I will roast him the appropriate amount,” Lan Huan says, eyes glittering as they walk around to the driver’s side of the car. “I really can’t thank you enough,” he says, grabbing Wei Ying’s hand and pressing something into it as they shake. “This was very kind of you. You get home safe as well, all right?” He’s in the car with the door shut before Wei Ying can fully react to the fact that there’s now a crisp hundred dollar bill in his hand, and the car pulls away from the curb before he can decide to do anything about said hundred dollar bill.

“Hey,” Wei Ying protests to the empty night. No one responds but a rat rustling in a dumpster, and he shakes his head and ducks into the diner to make sure he got his card back from Angie. His apartment is a fifteen minute walk, and his shower takes five minutes if he brushes his teeth at the same time, and Wei Ying collapses into his bed with wet hair at approximately four in the morning, tired and full of carbs and maybe just a little bit lonely.

What a weird night, he thinks, and immediately passes out.

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan checks the name of the bar and the address against what Lan Huan texted him for the fourth time. It matches, as it has the previous three times he checked. He has no memory of being in said bar, or even of getting to the neighborhood, but he also has no memory of most of the previous night, so bar isn’t exactly special that way. Waking up in Lan Huan’s guest room in the middle of the day with a splitting headache and a churning stomach was an unpleasant surprise, but from what he’s managed to gather it was the best of all possible outcomes. Now, some eight hours later, hangover gone and in fresh clothes, he’s back at the scene of his rescue. He checks his reflection in the window of the specialty pet store he’s been loitering in front of for the last fifteen minutes, adjusts the draped bow on the collar of his blue blouse, makes sure the embroidered pockets are lying smoothly on his gray skinny jeans, and runs a hand through his hair. Okay. Okay. Good. This is fine. He’s fine.

Lan Zhan is not fine.

Lan Zhan knows he’s overthinking this in multiple ways, and he knew that earlier, when he was sorting through his wardrobe trying to pick an outfit that said, “I may not have intended to end up in your gay dive bar last night but I am, at least, definitely gay, and I hope that you are, too, even though I remember nothing about you but my brother says you were very nice.” Knowing he’s overthinking things doesn’t mean he can stop overthinking them, and he really, really wants to look nice when he actually meets the source of four adorable bunny drawings, a portrait of Lan Zhan so deft and beautiful it takes his breath away to look at it, and a sketch that’s the only reference he has for what the mysterious Wei Ying actually looks like. He’s spent a simply embarrassing amount of time looking at the ink portrait, wondering what parts are accurate and what parts are exaggerated, and he resists the urge to pull out his phone and look at the photo of said portrait he took earlier that he told himself was for identification purposes and secretly is because he might be a little obsessed.

(“You seemed to like him,” Lan Huan said over his lunch and Lan Zhan’s breakfast of a greasy noodle stir fry that normally Lan Zhan would find disgusting but in his hungover state was the kind of meal he assumed was served in heaven. “You tried to bring him home with us.” Lan Zhan gave him a look of horrified embarrassment, and his awful, wonderful brother grinned and added, “You were using him as a pillow. It was very cute.” Humiliating.)

Lan Zhan glares at himself in the window and squares his shoulders. Wei Ying is expecting him. Lan Huan made it very clear that he’d promised to come back and see Wei Ying tomorrow (today, since the promise was made at somewhere around three that morning, but when Lan Zhan thinks too hard about that he starts to get a headache) so here Lan Zhan stands. It’s eight, early enough that there are a few families around, parents taking their children to dinner at the pizza place down the street and a couple folks out walking dogs. Lan Zhan assumes, based on the number of bars and brewpubs he can count, that it gets rowdier a little later on. He also assumes that Wei Ying is working. Eight seems like an appropriate time to go to a bar, right?

Lan Zhan rolls his eyes internally and forces himself to walk the fifteen yards to the door of the bar, and then forces himself to open said door and walk through it. It’s darker inside and somehow gives the impression of being smokey even though indoor smoking has been banned for years. It’s not as loud as he’d feared, which comes as a relief, and Lan Zhan relaxes a little and scans the space as he waits for his eyes to adjust. There’s a knot of leather-clad lesbians taking up two booths in the front windows, which explains the motorcycles he saw out front, and a couple of people playing pool in the back, and two otters making out in a corner booth with more enthusiasm than Lan Zhan thinks is appropriate for eight pm. He’s not usually one for bars, though, so maybe this is normal?

For lack of any other landmarks, he drifts toward the actual bar. There’s no one here who looks like the drawing, which is concerning. Is Wei Ying not working? Was Lan Huan misinformed?

“Whaddya want?”

Lan Zhan startles. The asker is a tall white man, a little taller than Lan Zhan, with the kind of face that says he’s been in fights in the past and is willing to get into another right now. It is definitely not Wei Ying, and Lan Zhan scrambles to reply--should he order a soda?--and is saved from having to do so when another man pops up from under the counter.

“God forbid you figure out how to fucking do it yourself,” he says to the tall man, “but we have Coke again, you’re fucking welcome.” The speaker’s features register to Lan Zhan in flashes; dark eyes, silver eyebrow piercing, undercut, a single long red fringe earring, eyeliner, a mole under his lower lip that’s burned into Lan Zhan’s neurons from staring at an ink dot and wondering if it was real. It was, apparently, and Lan Zhan’s heart kicks into high gear.

“Wei Ying?” he asks, because he has to be sure, and the gorgeous man with the beautiful mouth turns to him, double-takes, and beams at him in surprised delight.

“Lan Zhan?” he asks, eyes raking up and down Lan Zhan’s body, mostly curious but definitely checking him out at the same time. (Thank god Lan Zhan decided to go with the jeans that make his thighs look amazing. Good job, past Lan Zhan.) “Oh, wow, hi!” He turns to the white man, giving Lan Zhan a chance to catch his breath, and says, “I got this, we don’t need you.”

The white man leaves, probably. Lan Zhan isn’t paying attention, because he has eyes only for Wei Ying, who’s wearing a cut-up red oversized crop-top t-shirt over a tight black tank top. One arm has a full sleeve of lotus tattoos, vivid purples and pinks against a blue watery background, and the t-shirt has fallen down over that shoulder such that he can see the tattoo continue onto Wei Ying’s pec. Lan Zhan wants to lean in and lick the space between the neckline of the shirt and the strap of the tank top, and reins himself in aggressively. (He is going to kill his brother for not warning him that Wei Ying was this beautiful.)

“What brings you back in?” Wei Ying asks, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the bar, which makes the t-shirt gape forward and gives Lan Zhan an excellent view down the front of the tank top, which is unfortunately too tight to really give much away. “How are you feeling? Were you miserable this morning?”

Lan Zhan tears himself away from staring at the dip between Wei Ying’s collarbone (he’s wearing a black choker and two long necklaces with bird skulls on them, Lan Zhan doesn’t think he can be blamed for his reaction) and figures out how words work. “It was unpleasant but manageable,” he says, deciding to work backward through Wei Ying’s questions. “I’m feeling fine now, thank you. I…” He hesitates, because Wei Ying seems surprised, but presses on with, “I thought you were expecting me to come back.”

Wei Ying blinks at him, big dark eyes made even bigger by the smoky liner. “Oh, wow,” he says, his mouth curling up in a soft smile, “Your voice is really nice when you’re not monosyllabic.” Lan Zhan’s ears heat, and Wei Ying ducks his head, biting that plush lower lip in an immensely distracting movement. “Sorry, is that weird to say?”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, thinking about leaning against the bar, realizing how sticky it is, and deciding not to in one surge of brainpower. Wei Ying’s not acting like Lan Zhan imagined he would, so he forces himself to ask, “Were you not expecting me? Lan Huan said I promised to come back.”

Wei Ying buries his face in his hands and groans. “Okay,” he says, peeking out through his fingers, “Full disclosure: You were very, very drunk and I told you you could come see me tomorrow--today, I guess--so you’d let go of my arm and go home. I didn’t think you’d remember, so no, I wasn’t expecting you.

Oh. Lan Zhan’s guts squirm with embarrassment. “I see,” he says, levelly. “I will admit I didn’t remember, but my brother made it seem… important that I keep my promise.” Fuck, fuck, Wei Ying is working, what was he thinking? “I can leave,” he says, already pulling his usual reserve around him like armor. This was a bad idea.

“Hey, hey, no,” Wei Ying says, lunging across the counter and grabbing Lan Zhan’s wrist. His hand is warm, his fingers slightly callused. “I didn’t say you should leave,” he blurts, urgently. “It’s really nice to see you, actually, I just--I was surprised, is all.” He gives Lan Zhan a hesitant, disarming smile, squeezes his wrist, and withdraws his hand when it’s clear Lan Zhan isn’t going anywhere. “So you’re here, then,” he says, tipping his head, the wisps of hair that have escaped his high bun falling into his eyes, the red fringe earring draping along the long line of his neck. “What can I do for you?”

Lan Zhan swallows and tries not to stare too obviously at Wei Ying’s neck or mouth or bare shoulder. He has a lot of answers to that question, and very few of them are appropriate to say out loud. “I understand that you bought me dinner,” he says, frowns, and amends, “breakfast?”

“It was the last meal before we went to sleep,” Wei Ying says, “just call it dinner, it’s easier.”

Lan Zhan nods. That’s an acceptable definition. “I was hoping to return the favor,” he continues, his mouth dry. “As a thank you.”

Wei Ying smiles at him, dragging his lower lip between his teeth like that could stop the smile from spreading. “Lan Zhan,” he teases, eyes sparkling, “Are you asking me on a date?”

Is he? He wasn’t sure, before he got here--he was ready to simply thank Wei Ying profusely for his kindness and leave, if that seemed like the appropriate course of action--but then he saw Wei Ying in the flesh. Lan Zhan swallows, makes direct eye contact, and says steadily, “Would you like me to be asking you on a date?”

That lands exactly as Lan Zhan was hoping, which he can tell because Wei Ying’s mouth drops open and he goes pink high on his cheeks. “Uh,” he squeaks, clears his throat, wets his lips, and blinks a few times in silence. “I would definitely not say no to being asked on a date, if that was an option.”

Lan Zhan nods and risks putting his hand on a reasonably clean part of the bar counter so he can lean a little closer. “Then I am asking you on a date,” he says, low, and this time he does let his eyes drop to Wei Ying’s mouth. “What time do you get off work?”

Wei Ying stares at him for a second, takes a deep breath, and without taking his eyes off Lan Zhan, yells, “Mike! I’m leaving!”

“What the fuck?” Mike says, from the other end of the bar. “You’re here until two!”

“Yeah, like you were supposed to be last night?” Wei Ying snaps, wiping his hands on a damp rag and walking around the end of the bar. “You really wanna start this, Mike? Really? Because we can go if you want but you know you’re gonna lose.”

Whatever history they have is enough to make Mike go mostly silent, though there’s definitely some grumbling that Lan Zhan elects to ignore, because Wei Ying is right in front of him, a black hoodie tied around his hips, long legs in tight ripped black jeans that tuck into boots, and a shy, flirty smile. Mike has ceased to matter, and Lan Zhan follows Wei Ying back out into the sunset street with eyes for no one else in the world. Still, though, he has to ask: “You won’t get in trouble?”

“White Mike can fuck off,” Wei Ying says, tucking his hands into his pockets and leading Lan Zhan down the street at what can only be described as a meander. “He skips out on me for at least two out of every five shifts we’re assigned together, and he knows it, and I keep track and he knows that, too. He can deal.”

Ah. Fuck White Mike, indeed. “White Mike?”

“He’s named Mike and his only personality trait other than being a shitty co-worker is being white. Shitty Co-Worker Mike took too many words to say, you know?” Wei Ying’s half-turned toward Lan Zhan as they walk, inviting him into the conversation and into the joke. “You’ve met white guys like that before, right? Where they’re just really, really white?”

Lan Zhan works at an architecture firm. “Yes,” he says, succinctly. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

“Eh, I’m used to it,” Wei Ying says with a breezy shrug, his crop-top slipping further down his shoulder. “And I do have to admit White Mike has one single redeeming feature, which is that he’s mostly not racist, and he’s extremely willing to fight Nazis.”

“Oh.” Lan Zhan frowns. “Is that a common issue?”

“Common enough that it’s good to have a brawler around,” Wei Ying says, which is worrisome. He glances over at Lan Zhan and laughs when he sees his face. “No, man, it’s fine--well, I mean, it’s not fine, but like--we’re a gay bar in a neighborhood of mostly brown people, so sometimes people want to start shit, but if you stand strong and kick them out before they can get a toehold they don’t get anywhere, you know? Having a big white guy around is handy for that.” He laughs, eyes distant. “One time I saw him literally drop-kick a Proud Boy into a dumpster, it was amazing.”

“I can imagine that would be satisfying,” Lan Zhan says, imagining it and finding it quite satisfying.

“Of course, we only call White Mike out if the trans dyke biker gang hasn’t already gotten there,” Wei Ying adds casually, which is an even better mental image, “so I feel like maybe we could find a better white guy, but eh, I’m not in charge of the bar.” He knocks their shoulders together, a warm press through the thin silk of Lan Zhan’s blouse. “Enough about White Mike; he doesn’t get to come on our date with us. Are you in the mood for anything in particular? There’s actually a lot of good food here when it’s not two in the morning.”

Lan Zhan is in the mood for something in particular, alright, but it’s not dinner. “I prefer vegetarian and I can’t handle much spice,” he says. “If there’s somewhere you particularly like that fits those parameters, I’m open to a new experience.”

Wei Ying nods, clearly thinking. “I have just the place,” he says, speeding up a little. “Come on, I think you’ll like it.”

They end up in a Vietnamese restaurant that’s much larger on the inside than it looks from the outside, all sleek dark wood and massive pothos plants draped across every rafter. On Wei Ying’s recommendation Lan Zhan gets a non-alcoholic pineapple mojito, and when he takes his first sip he can’t help the pleased sound he makes.

“Yeah, it’s nice, right?” Wei Ying says, who went with some kind of hard cider. “I like places that have actual mocktails, it makes it easier, you know?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, in full, long-suffering agreement. “I find most sodas unpleasantly sweet. It would be nice to have options other than iced tea.”

Wei Ying nods, chin propped on his hand, eyes on Lan Zhan. “I hear you. I wish we had more options at the bar for designated drivers, but there’s only so much I can do with our basic shitty mixers.” He chews his lip for a second, clearly thinking, and says, “Hey, so, just to be clear: You don’t remember anything about last night? Complete blackout?”

Lan Zhan winces and nods. “I have… occasional flashes,” he says. “Confusion. Being in a car and not knowing how I got there. Generally feeling unwell.” He drops his eyes to Wei Ying’s tattooed arm, wanting to reach out and trace the lotuses with such a surge of deja vu it’s disorienting. “There might have been a milkshake?”

“There was definitely a milkshake,” Wei Ying confirms. “It was mine, and you stole it.”

Lan Zhan ducks his head, feeling his ears heat up. “Apologies,” he says. “Normally I would never steal your milkshake.”

“There were extenuating circumstances,” Wei Ying says, waving him off. “No worries. Anything else?”

“Not much.” Lan Zhan takes a deep breath, because this might be too much to admit to a near-stranger, but he feels it’s important that Wei Ying know. “I think I remember feeling… safe. With you. At least, there’s a large section where I remember feeling confused, and then a part where I wasn’t worried, and I think that must have been when you were there.”

“Oh, geez,” Wei Ying says, pulling up the front of his crop top so he can hide his face in it like a turtle. “Wow, all right, I’m glad you felt safe, but give me a minute to recover from that level of sincerity, good god.”

“Do compliments make you uncomfortable?” Lan Zhan asks, amused, the anxious vulnerability of making such an admission melting away into something softer at Wei Ying’s reaction. “Should I not tell you how glad I am that I ended up in your bar and had the opportunity to meet you?”

“Hreeeennnenennngnnggg,” Wei Ying says, which isn’t a word but contains the emotions of a whole paragraph. Lan Zhan takes mercy on him and sips at his mocktail instead of offering more compliments, feeling immensely smug. “Okay,” Wei Ying says, emerging from his shirt with his face nearly as crimson as the fabric, “I’m good now. Maybe.” He shakes his head and takes a long pull of his cider, which gives Lan Zhan a great view of his extremely biteable throat. “Speaking of ending up in my bar, do you know what happened?” Wei Ying’s eyebrows crease, his mouth a concerned line. “Maybe that’s not a fair question to ask you after a complete blackout, but your brother said you don’t drink, so I’m guessing you didn’t just decide to give your allergy the middle finger and go on a bender.”

“I don’t know how I got to your bar, specifically,” Lan Zhan says, tamping down his rising fury at the memory, “but I know who got me drunk.” He clenches his fist under the table. “Su She and Jin Zixun,” he spits, his voice the edge of a blade.

“Fuck those guys,” Wei Ying says immediately. “I have no idea who they are, but if you want me to murder them for you, just say the word.”

Lan Zhan takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax. He’s safe now, and he’s on a date with the world’s most beautiful bartender, and he doesn’t want his shitty co-workers to ruin it without even being present. “They are my co-workers,” he says. “I work in building code compliance at a green architecture firm. We were at a team-building after-work event.”

“Forgive me for saying this, Lan Zhan, but you don’t really seem like a team-building guy to me.” Wei Ying smiles, trying to soften what he must see as a criticism.

“I am not,” Lan Zhan says, who is in fact appreciating how well Wei Ying sees him. “It was suggested to me that it would be beneficial to attend, because I am not viewed as a ‘team player’ by some in the office.”

“Wait, you work in compliance?” Wei Ying cuts in. Lan Zhan nods, and Wei Ying strokes his chin and narrows his eyes sagely. “Let me guess: These two fuckers don’t keep to code, and they don’t appreciate you pointing out that they should be better at doing their jobs?”

“I see you’ve met them,” Lan Zhan deadpans, and Wei Ying’s answering laugh is bright, uninhibited, and the best thing Lan Zhan has heard in his life. He resolves immediately to make Wei Ying laugh at every possible opportunity. “The firm rented out what I believe is generally called a ‘barcade.’ It wasn’t terrible, at first.” Lan Zhan takes another sip of his mojito and admits, “I enjoyed many of the games.”

“I bet you’re a skee-ball wizard,” Wei Ying says. “I bet you killed it.”

“All skee-ball requires is hand-eye coordination and an ability to learn from your previous attempts,” Lan Zhan says primly. “It is not my fault that they possessed neither.” Wei Ying cackles, actually slapping the table this time, and Lan Zhan basks in it like a cat in a sunbeam. “I think that they were jealous, or wanted to take revenge, or are just the kind of people who feel uncomfortable if others aren’t drinking,” he continues, “because when I repeatedly refused their offers of a cocktail, Jin Zixun claimed to understand and brought what he said was an iced tea with the next round.”

Wei Ying’s eyes go huge. “Oh, fuck,” he breathes, “did it taste weirdly like an iced tea, only it burned on the way down, kinda funky?” Lan Zhan nods, and gets to experience what Wei Ying must look like when he’s planning a murder. It’s extremely attractive. “Fuck those guys,” he seethes, “I bet it was a Long Island iced tea, holy fuck, Lan Zhan, that’s like four kinds of hard alcohol. They could have killed you, what the fuck. Are you gonna go after them?” Lan Zhan opens his mouth to respond, and before he gets there Wei Ying waves a hand and says, “No, wait, no, no pressure, I know better than to tell a victim they need to take revenge or whatever, you don’t have to answer that.”

“I will be reporting it to HR on Monday,” Lan Zhan says. “I have an ally at work--my brother’s partner’s younger sibling works in the HR department, and they were present for part of it.” His fists are clenched again, and he breathes deep and lets the anger and humiliation flow away. “Nie Huaisang tells me Jin Zixun posted videos of me to his social media, and made it clear in doing so that he was the one responsible for my intoxication. My allergy is common knowledge at the office, so it should be a fairly clear-cut case. They’re going to help me assemble the documentation I need.”

“That’s good,” Wei Ying says fiercely. “I’m glad you have someone to help with that, I just--fuck. I’m so mad they did that to you.” He shakes his head, obviously seething, and fortunately that’s when their food arrives. Lan Zhan finds Wei Ying very attractive at a baseline state. A Wei Ying righteously angry on Lan Zhan’s behalf is proving problematic to the fit of Lan Zhan’s jeans. Lan Zhan’s green papaya and prawn salad is the distraction he needs to keep from leaning across the table and kissing the furious line of Wei Ying’s mouth, and it also proves to be delicious.

“So, what,” Wei Ying says, when their food is settled and several mouthfuls of his chili lemongrass beef have disappeared from his plate into his mouth, “they poisoned you and then dumped you at my bar? The barcade I know of is a good twenty minute drive from here.”

“Nie Huaisang tells me there was some kind of bar crawl,” Lan Zhan says. “They were trying to keep an eye on me, but at some point I disappeared. I understand I am… hard to control when I’m drunk.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, eyes sparkling in a way that makes Lan Zhan’s guts twist with both heat and embarrassment, “I got that impression last night, for sure.”

“At any rate,” Lan Zhan says, ears flushing, “I may have wandered in on my own, or Jin Zixun and Su She may have accompanied me in and then left when they realized it was a gay bar, without caring whether or not I followed.”

“Cishet men are cowards,” Wei Ying says, around a mouthful of beef.

“Agreed.” Lan Zhan takes another bite of his salad, which is really very good. “I hope,” he says, hesitantly, wanting to squirm and holding himself still with the uncomfortable ease of long practice, “I wasn’t too much trouble for you.”

“Oh, Lan Zhan, no,” Wei Ying says, reaching across the table to rest his hand on the back of Lan Zhan’s. “I’m sorry you don’t remember it, that has to be terrifying, but you were fine.” Wei Ying smiles, playful, eyes dancing. “You were a little cuddly, maybe, but it was more cute than anything else.”

Lan Zhan’s ears feel like they’re on fire now, but he really does want to know what he did, so he can try to file them into the missing spaces in his memory. “What did I do, exactly?” He swallows, dry, and chases it with a sip from his water glass. “Lan Huan had a very smug look this morning, and refused to explain why.” Wei Ying’s fingers are still resting on the back of his hand, and it’s taking all his self-control not to flip his hand over and hold on for dear life.

“It was really totally okay, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, reassuring. “The most inappropriate thing you did--and I’m telling you this so you can calibrate the rest of your expectations--is that when I asked if you had a tattoo, you tried to undress so you should show it to me.” Lan Zhan winces, and Wei Ying full on grabs his hand and squeezes. “It was fine!” he insists. “You just kinda fumbled for your belt, and I distracted you by trying to get you to describe your tattoo and then drawing pictures of what I thought it might look like.”

“Oh,” Lan Zhan says, the ink drawings on his dresser suddenly making sense. “I wondered why all the drawings had that theme.” He lets his thumb trace over Wei Ying’s knuckles, bones under skin, a strangely familiar feeling. “And I stole your milkshake?” he asks, just to confirm. Wei Ying nods, and Lan Zhan thinks he almost has the shape of it now. “What else?”

“You were only happy if you were using my shoulder as a pillow,” Wei Ying says, tipping his head toward his left arm in illustration. “And you were fascinated by my tattoos.” He bites his lower lip, bashful again, and smiles. “You, uh, you petted them a lot and told me they were pretty.”

“Oh?” Lan Zhan asks, something warm curling through his stomach at the look on Wei Ying’s face.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, eyes wide, cheeks pink. “Yeah, it was… nice.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan dislodges his hand from Wei Ying’s and skates his fingers up the inside of his wrist, over the curve of the bone to trace the edge of a lotus. “Pretty,” he breathes, low enough that Wei Ying has to lean in to hear it, and Wei Ying visibly shivers, his hand clenching and releasing on the table. Lan Zhan strokes all the way back down, over the back of Wei Ying’s hand and his trailing fingertips, and takes another steadying bite of his salad. “Your tattoos are very lovely,” he says, which is the truth.

“Thanks,” Wei Ying says, a little distantly, and then he shakes himself, eyes coming into focus. “I’m an apprentice tattoo artist, actually,” he says. “I didn’t do this one, obviously, but I’m hoping in a couple more months I’ll be able to quit the bar job and go full time with tattooing.”

“No more late nights?”

“No more working until two in the fucking morning, anyway,” Wei Ying says with a laugh. “I’ve always been a bit of a night owl but I would love to be off work by ten at the latest, you know?”

“I’m usually in bed by ten,” Lan Zhan admits.

“Luxury!” Wei Ying says, and then, pityingly, “Oh, wow, fuck, your sleep schedule got messed up bad last night, huh?”

“I believe my sleep schedule is the least of my worries,” Lan Zhan says dryly. “How does a tattoo apprenticeship work?

Wei Ying positively lights up, and his rambling explanation of tattoo apprenticeship carries them through the rest of dinner. Lan Zhan barely remembers finishing his salad or giving his card to the server, completely caught up in Wei Ying’s energy, the passion he exhibits when he speaks about something he clearly loves.

“So I have a fine art background, which gives me a bit of a leg up in terms of the design process,” he’s saying as they walk back out into the evening air, night having fully fallen while they were eating, “but that doesn’t mean I know the right pressure and angle for the actual tattooing, you know? That’s what most of my apprenticeship has been about, learning the actual process. Wen Ning has me doing practice tattoos in this creepy fake skin stuff right now, but he says I’ll get to move to actual people pretty soon.” Wei Ying laughs, rubbing his nose, and admits, “Or, more accurately, he’ll let me start tattooing my own legs. Gotta get the really shitty ones out of the way on myself before I make other people suffer through it, right?”

“I don’t believe any of your tattoos will be shitty,” Lan Zhan says loyally, based solely on the quality of the six ink drawings he has at home on his dresser waiting to be framed.

“Well, I definitely won’t be tattooing ‘dim sum king’ in kanji on any white girls who think it says ‘live laugh love,’” Wei Ying says, beaming. “Unless they specifically ask me for a tattoo that says ‘dim sum king’ as a joke, which would be pretty funny.” He bites his lower lip, trying to smother a grin. “Hey, Lan Zhan, do you think I should ink ‘dim sum king’ on my leg as a practice tattoo?” He’s leaning back against the wall of the restaurant, a red and black ink splash against the brick. Wei Ying is nearly as tall as Lan Zhan is but he’s shorter like this. Lan Zhan thinks he might be deliberately trying to make himself look small to flirt. It’s working.

“I think that depends,” Lan Zhan says, setting one hand deliberately on the wall next to Wei Ying’s head and caging him in a little, “on whether you’re trying to advertise your edibility.”

“Are you calling me a snack, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, his eyes dark, his mouth bitten-red from his distractingly sexy nervous habit of chewing his lower lip.

“I believe if you are the dim sum king,” Lan Zhan says, voice very level, “that makes you a full meal.”

Wei Ying stares at him, pulse visible in his throat where it’s framed by the black band of his choker. “Did you have anywhere you needed to be tonight?” he asks, his voice nearly as level as Lan Zhan’s. Lan Zhan shakes his head, and Wei Ying reaches out a hand to tug on the end of the bow at Lan Zhan’s collar. “In that case,” he purrs, “do you want to come back to my place and look at my sketchbooks?”

Lan Zhan captures Wei Ying’s teasing hand and interlaces their fingers. “Yes,” he says, decisively, and drinks in Wei Ying’s answering laugh.

They walk shoulder to shoulder for the fifteen minutes it takes them to get to Wei Ying’s apartment building, which turns into an impromptu tour of the neighborhood as Wei Ying points out the best restaurants, the tattoo parlor where he’s apprenticing, the place he saw a giant pigeon and a huge rat duking it out over a slice of trash pizza (“It was like vermin Thunderdome, Lan Zhan! I thought there was gonna be blood!”), and which thrift stores are the good thrift stores. Wei Ying lives in a third-floor walk-up, in the kind of old brick building that should really be retrofitted for seismic stability but is more frequently torn down and replaced with ten stories of glass-fronted luxury apartments that never have the R-values they claim to have. It’s charming and a little run-down, and Lan Zhan inspects the original crown molding in the hallway as Wei Ying ducks inside, “For a quick tidy, I wasn’t planning on having company.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, pulling the door open and waving Lan Zhan inside, already in his socks. “It’s not awful, but you’re legally not allowed to judge me for not having dusted this week.”

“I would never judge you for not dusting,” Lan Zhan says, unzipping and stepping out of his blue leather ankle boots. “I would only judge you for not cleaning your toilet.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Wei Ying says, doing a little nervous dance that he can’t seem to stop as Lan Zhan surveys the space. “I would also judge me for not cleaning the toilet. I promise I clean my toilet.”

“Thank you for the reassurance,” Lan Zhan says solemnly. When Wei Ying laughs some of his tension dissolves, too, and he stops fidgeting, which gives Lan Zhan a chance to take in the space. His apartment is a studio, one door open to show what is undoubtedly the bathroom next to an open doorway into the kitchen. Wei Ying doesn’t have a couch, apparently, but he has a desk covered in art supplies against one wall, a low coffee table with some squashy cushions in the middle of the floor, and a queen bed pushed flush against the far wall. It’s cluttered, the walls covered with art prints and band posters and paintings, and there are houseplants everywhere, congregated in front of the picture window that looks out onto the street. It’s beautiful and colorful and alive, and very, very Wei Ying.

“It’s not much,” Wei Ying says, when the silence apparently drags on too long for him to stand, “but it’s mine, you know?”

“It’s lovely,” Lan Zhan says, catching Wei Ying’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “It suits you, Wei Ying. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Wei Ying smiles at him, slow and warm like the breaking of the dawn. “Thanks,” he says, swallows, and blurts, “Did you want to see my sketchbooks?”

“I did,” Lan Zhan says, and allows himself to be led over to the cushions next to the low table. He settles there while Wei Ying retrieves a sketchbook from the desk and plops down next to him, opening it up to display an array of tattoo flash designs. Lan Zhan leans in, intrigued by the smooth color washes, and runs his fingers over the page. “Is this marker or watercolor?”

“Ah, good eye,” Wei Ying says, a line of heat pressed all up against his side. “It’s marker, but the set I use has a lot of blenders, so I can imitate watercolor pretty well. I have some inkwash stuff later on in the book, and then some actual watercolor too.” Lan Zhan hesitates, his hand on the edge of the page in question, and Wei Ying waves his permission. “Go wild, this is mostly stuff for work. There’s some titties in there eventually but they’re, like, art titties.”

“Museum-quality titties, I’m sure,” Lan Zhan says. Wei Ying laughs, and he gets to feel it where they’re curled together, and it might be the best thing he’s ever felt. “Have any of these made it onto people?” He turns the page to find an assortment of dragons, western and eastern style, followed by a page of lush flowers.

“A few,” Wei Ying says. “I’ve gotten to design for clients a few times, but Wen Ning has done the actual tattooing. Here, yeah, this one.” He taps a simple, playful ink drawing of what Lan Zhan can only describe as a sexy bedsheet ghost, the classic white ghost shape and “oooo” face above shapely legs in heels and fishnets. He hums a question, and Wei Ying explains, “So the woman getting it does roller derby, and this was a tribute piece to a friend who passed away suddenly. They had this running joke about sex ghosts, and the client wanted to remember the joke and remember her friend, and she also thought it was fucking hilarious to have a sexy little ghostie tattooed on her permanently.” He smiles down at the page, eyes soft, head tipping toward Lan Zhan’s. “I like that,” he says, quiet but full of feeling. “I like that I was able to be part of that woman remembering her friend, and she wanted to remember her via sexy ghost. I like that a tattoo can be something really heartfelt and meaningful and also be something silly and playful. That’s why I want to do this--I want to be able to do that for people, you know? I just--I think it’s really--”

Whatever it is will have to wait for another day, because Lan Zhan kisses Wei Ying before he can finish. Wei Ying makes a soft sound into it, pressing up into Lan Zhan’s mouth, and Lan Zhan abandons the sketchbook to cradle his jaw, letting his thumb skate over Wei Ying’s hot cheekbone. Wei Ying’s mouth is just as plush and kissable as it looks, and Lan Zhan sucks at his lower lip as he pulls away, opening his eyes so he can drink in Wei Ying’s hazy, dreamy flush.

“Thank god,” Wei Ying says, dragging his eyes open and tangling one hand in the bow at Lan Zhan’s collar. “What took you so long?”

“I really did want to see your sketchbook,” Lan Zhan says, truthfully, and Wei Ying makes an offended noise and climbs into his lap to kiss him again. Lan Zhan is very in favor of this development, and he grabs Wei Ying around his sexy little waist and opens his mouth for Wei Ying’s insistent tongue and happily swallows down every sound Wei Ying makes. The hoodie tied around his hips is getting in the way of Lan Zhan’s hands, so he drags it off and tosses it aside, getting his hands on Wei Ying’s bare lower back where the tank top rode up. He scratches there, like petting a cat, and Wei Ying shivers all down his spine and pulls away to gasp audibly.

“I wanted to kiss you last night in the diner,” he blurts, as Lan Zhan takes advantage of his newly freed mouth to press open, wet kisses along Wei Ying’s jaw. “I wouldn’t have, because I’m not a garbage person, but you’re so fucking hot and you were so cute, Lan Zhan.” Lan Zhan bites under his ear and Wei Ying shudders again, rolling his hips down into Lan Zhan’s lap.

“I didn’t think you could be as beautiful as your self-portrait,” Lan Zhan admits, nosing along the line of Wei Ying’s choker. “I was very pleased to be proven wrong.”

“Fuck,” Wei Ying whines, clutching at Lan Zhan’s hair while Lan Zhan licks his collarbone and then bites his shoulder, where that ridiculous sexy crop top has fallen down again. “I’m so glad you came back, god, I was thinking about you all day.” Lan Zhan hums agreement and bites his neck, below the choker. Wei Ying makes a needy high-pitched sound and rolls his hips again. They’re both half-hard in their tight jeans, there’s no hiding it, and Lan Zhan drops his hands down to the curve of Wei Ying’s ass and squeezes.

“Can I,” he starts, gets distracted when Wei Ying bites his ear, and heroically (because he wants to make sure they’re on the same page) finishes, “Can I take you to bed?”

“Oh, yeah,” Wei Ying says, already untying the bow at Lan Zhan’s neck, “absolutely, please, one hundred percent.” He gets the bow open and promptly licks Lan Zhan’s jugular from the base of his neck to under his ear, finishing with a scrape of teeth against Lan Zhan’s jaw. “There is an actual bed,” he says, reluctantly climbing off Lan Zhan’s lap and staggering unsteadily toward it, stripping off the crop top as he goes. “We should use it, probably.”

“Agreed,” Lan Zhan says, following him over and half-tackling Wei Ying onto it. Wei Ying has one knee on the mattress, braced on his arms, and Lan Zhan plasters himself to Wei Ying’s back and gets his hands under Wei Ying’s too-tight black tank top, sliding them up his ribcage to cup his pecs, where he finds a wonderful surprise. “These, too?” he asks, rolling his fingers around the nipple piercings, and Wei Ying moans out loud and grinds his ass back into Lan Zhan’s hard-on.

“Yeah,” he pants, “yeah, for situations just such as this.” He shoves upright, yanking the tank top off without in any way stopping Lan Zhan’s current activities, and throws both long necklaces and his fringe earring at his desk. The lotus sleeve does, indeed, travel onto his pec and shoulder blade. On his back the flowers transition into lush red chrysanthemums interspersed with skulls, the shading dramatic and beautiful as it pours down over his shoulder blade, and Lan Zhan can’t help licking over the place where the ink and bare skin meet.

“You’re gorgeous,” he rasps into Wei Ying’s ear, abandoning his nipples for the absolutely vital task of undoing Wei Ying’s black jeans and shoving them down. Wei Ying is wearing snug red briefs, and when Lan Zhan hooks his chin over Wei Ying's shoulder to look down the line of his body, it’s to find him hard and straining under the fabric. He cups his dick, just to feel the heat, and Wei Ying groans and shudders.

“Gorgeous,” he says, “yeah, look at you.” It’s slightly incoherent, which is to be expected since Lan Zhan’s rubbing his hand in slow circles over Wei Ying’s erection. “Can I blow you?” Wei Ying asks, turning his head into Lan Zhan’s neck and mouthing at it wildly. “I would really, really love to blow you, gege.”

Lan Zhan’s dick throbs almost painfully where it’s pressed to the curve of Wei Ying’s ass. “Yes,” he says, answering for both himself and his dick, and releases Wei Ying from his hold so they can both be wearing fewer clothes. Lan Zhan gets just enough of the buttons undone on his blouse so he can yank it off over his head and turns around from unbuttoning his jeans to find Wei Ying stripped down to his red underwear and staring at his back with a delighted smile.

“No,” Wei Ying says, throwing his last sock away and pushing at Lan Zhan’s shoulder, “let me see it for a minute?” Lan Zhan realizes what’s happening and turns away, giving Wei Ying a clear view of his back and, more specifically, his tattoo. Wei Ying’s hand comes up to trace it a moment later, and Lan Zhan tries to see it through his eyes: the pale disk of the moon high on his shoulder blade depicted as a curled-up rabbit; the watercolor blues of the night sky bright with stars; the wispy, nearly-glowing clouds that fade into his skin at the edges. It’s about the size of his two hands put together, not anywhere near a full back piece, and as Wei Ying’s fingers sketch out the edges of the tattoo Lan Zhan shivers.

“It’s beautiful,” Wei Ying says, reverently. “Your artist does wonderful work.”

“It’s for my mother,” Lan Zhan says, which is more than he usually says when people see his tattoo. Wei Ying hums, and a moment later he presses his lips to the rabbit moon and lingers there.

“Will you tell me about it sometime?” he asks, mouth brushing Lan Zhan’s skin when he speaks. Lan Zhan shivers again, the intimacy prickling all over his skin, all the way out to his fingertips.

“I will,” he says, and means it. “Later,” he adds, pointedly, and Wei Ying laughs against his back and drags Lan Zhan down to sit on the bed.

“Later,” he promises, crawling off onto the floor and kneeling between Lan Zhan’s spread thighs. “I think we both have different priorities right now.” He pets the hard line of Lan Zhan’s dick through his pants and adds, “This guy definitely does,” grinning up impishly with bright eyes and a red, kiss-swollen mouth. “I have condoms in the drawer,” Wei Ying says matter-of-factly as he sets about wiggling down Lan Zhan’s jeans.

“I brought my own,” Lan Zhan admits, fishing one out of his back pocket.

“Did you think I was that sure of a thing?” Wei Ying teases, getting his fingers under the waistband of Lan Zhan’s briefs. “I’ll have you know I don’t normally put out on the first date.”

“I had hoped,” Lan Zhan admits, “but it is more a question of practicality.” He sees the moment it sinks in, when Wei Ying gets his briefs out of the way and his cock out. “I have to make sure they fit,” he says, a little sheepishly, and then, as Wei Ying continues to stare, “Also, this is our second date.”

“Happy un-birthday to me,” Wei Ying breathes, running his knuckles up Lan Zhan’s dick from the base to the tip. “Yeah, okay, I get you.” He recovers from his sexy fugue state enough to accept the condom from Lan Zhan and roll it on, getting in a good grope as he goes. “Wait,” he says, stilling with one hand around the base of Lan Zhan’s dick, frowning up at him. “This isn’t our second date. Yesterday wasn’t a date, it was a rescue.”

“You bought me dinner,” Lan Zhan insists, hitching his hips up into Wei Ying’s grip. “It counts.”

“You don’t remember it, though,” Wei Ying says, choosing to argue instead of sucking Lan Zhan’s dick, which is a little rude of him, honestly.

“You remember,” Lan Zhan says, “which means for you this is the second date, and you can maintain your record of not putting out on the first date.”

Wei Ying clearly thinks that over, absently stroking Lan Zhan’s nitrile-clad dick while he does. “I can’t fault that logic,” he says eventually, “but Lan Zhan, does that mean you put out on the first date?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, and puts a hand pointedly on Wei Ying’s head as guidance, in case he forgot what was supposed to be happening, here. Wei Ying obediently goes where he’s steered and, once he stops giggling, licks a long, hot stripe up the shaft, dropping a kiss on the head.

“You can pull my hair a little,” he says, peeking up through his lashes at Lan Zhan, cheek pressed against his erection, an obscene, adorable picture, “and fuck my mouth if you want, but you’re not going down my throat today so keep it a little shallow, okay?” He wraps his lips around the head and gives one good, toe-curling suck before he pops off and adds, “I need more warmup for that and I don’t think either of us have the patience right now.” Helpful, horny monologue completed, he puts his mouth back on Lan Zhan’s dick and takes in him until he meets his hand.

Wei Ying is right: neither of them have the patience for anything elaborate. Lan Zhan works his hands into Wei Ying’s hair, pulling it out of the bun so he can grab it firmly, and rocks up to meet Wei Ying’s mouth on every downstroke. They don’t bother with teasing or trying to draw it out--Lan Zhan wants to come, and Wei Ying wants to make him come, so that’s what they try to make happen. It’s a very good blowjob, even through the condom and without any deep-throating. Wei Ying knows what he’s doing, and knows he knows what he’s doing, making hot, blown-out eye contact with Lan Zhan as he pumps his fist along what doesn’t fit in his mouth, saliva easing the way as he does truly indecent things with his tongue.

“You’re pretty like this,” Lan Zhan tells him, running one thumb along the stretched edge of his lips, petting under his eye. Wei Ying shivers and moans around him, dropping his free hand to grind against his crotch, and that’s a reaction that requires more investigation. “You feel good,” Lan Zhan says, abs tight, thighs starting to shake. “You feel so good around me, Wei Ying, so good.” Wei Ying makes another urgent noise, muffled around Lan Zhan’s cock, and drops down to press his lips to the ring of his fist and bob there furiously. It doesn’t take long after that for Lan Zhan to shake apart, spilling into the condom with stars bursting behind his eyes and his trembling hands tight in Wei Ying’s hair. Wei Ying sucks him through it until Lan Zhan finally stops twitching and then sits back on his heels, wiping his wet mouth with the back of his hand.

“That was great,” he says, breathless, eyes all pupil and his mouth red and wrecked. “Holy shit that was hot, Lan Zhan, goddamn.” He crawls back on the bed while Lan Zhan locates some tissues and disposes of the condom, and then finally takes his jeans off because why are his jeans still on?

“You were perfect,” Lan Zhan tells him, chasing Wei Ying down and pressing him into the mattress, mouthing at his shoulder and the edge of his tattoos and one of those pierced nipples, the silver barbells matching his eyebrow and the studs in his nose and ears. Wei Ying seems strangely un-tattooed for a tattoo artist, he notes absently. It’s mostly the one sleeve and the back piece, though now that he’s looking there’s also the linework for something with crystals and botanicals on his opposite thigh. Lan Zhan crawls down Wei Ying’s body so he can kiss over that tattoo, as well, inhaling the salty-sweet smell of his body and the deeper musk of his precome. “What do you want?” he asks, kissing the lines of Wei Ying’s ribs. “How can I make you feel good?”

“Will you finger me?” Wei Ying asks, carding his fingers through Lan Zhan’s hair. “You have really sexy hands, Lan Zhan, I want them in me.”

Lan Zhan sucks on Wei Ying’s other nipple before he answers, flicking the barbell with his tongue a few times to make Wei Ying whine and swear. “Lube?” he asks, climbing up to his knees, and Wei Ying flails out an arm and yanks open the drawer on his bedside table to reveal a pump-action bottle, a box of condoms, and several dildos. “Need to keep them at the ready?” Lan Zhan asks, amused, as he retrieves the lube and a condom.

“A man has needs,” Wei Ying says, wiggling out of his underwear and tossing it somewhere. He splays out on his back, legs spread, cock dark and curving up toward his stomach from a patch of neatly trimmed pubic hair. It looks like he shaves it into a triangle. Cute.

“Do you need me to start with one?” Lan Zhan asks, settling between Wei Ying’s legs and taking a moment to figure out logistics.

“Two is fine, just ease in slow to start,” Wei Ying says, a little distracted, nudging at Lan Zhan until he climbs off to the side and lays down. “Here, yeah, kinda pin me? And then don’t worry about my dick, I’m gonna need you to kiss me to keep me quiet.”

“What if I want to hear you?” Lan Zhan asks, wrapping his hand around the dick in question and giving it a few good pulls.

“Then I would be very flattered,” Wei Ying says very sincerely, “but that doesn’t mean my neighbors want to hear, too.” He kisses Lan Zhan, nips at his lower lip, and then they separate to get the condom rolled onto Lan Zhan’s two middle fingers and appropriately lubed. It’s a little awkward and a lot messy and the kind of silly teamwork Lan Zhan doesn’t think he’s ever engaged in during sex before. He likes it a lot, the way Wei Ying keeps smiling and giggling at him, the way they end up with lube in a lot more places than it needs to be, and especially the way Wei Ying shivers a moan into his mouth when Lan Zhan finally presses his lubed fingers against his rim and rolls them in a circle.

“Yeah,” he says, into Lan Zhan’s cheek, “Fuck, yes, oh that feels good.” Lan Zhan presses in, mostly as an experiment, and Wei Ying makes a throaty, urgent sound, wiggling against the pressure. “Good, good, perfect,” he pants, starting to jerk himself off with slow, smooth strokes (his dick being one of the many places that ended up lube-y), “now you really need to kiss me.”

Lan Zhan does, matching the sweeps of his tongue into Wei Ying’s mouth with the careful push of his fingers, easing them in and out by increments until he’s knuckle deep and Wei Ying is groaning into the kiss with every rock of his hips.

“Good?” Lan Zhan pulls away to ask, nipping at Wei Ying’s jaw. “Faster?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying gasps, “Faster, yeah, yeah, please.” Lan Zhan obliges, and swallows down the desperate sound Wei Ying makes, curling his fingers up on each thrust now. Wei Ying matches him stroke for stroke, writhing on his fingers and against his side, his hand making frantic wet sounds where it’s working on his dick. Lan Zhan fingerfucks him until he’s trembling, burning hot through the condom and clenching around his fingers, kissing him breathless the whole time.

“Close?” he asks against Wei Ying’s mouth, and Wei Ying nods helplessly, eyes squeezed shut. “Good.” Lan Zhan bites Wei Ying’s lower lip, dragging his teeth over the mole and orders, “Come for me.”

Wei Ying does, and he was not kidding about needing to be muffled because Wei Ying comes loudly, moaning incoherently into Lan Zhan’s mouth, ragged and wanton as he clenches around Lan Zhan’s fingers and comes all over his hand and stomach and partially on Lan Zhan’s forearm. It’s messy and unrehearsed and raw and vulnerable and very, very hot, and Lan Zhan would like to make Wei Ying come again as soon as possible if it means he gets to watch. As it is he fucks him through it until Wei Ying whines and pushes at his wrist, and then he leaves his fingers where they are while Wei Ying catches his breath, body occasionally jolting around him with an aftershock.

“Wow,” Wei Ying says, some time later. “Well, goddamn, that was just as hot as I hoped it would be.”

Lan Zhan preens a little, dropping little kisses on the silver studs in Wei Ying’s ear. “You thought about this?”

“Yeah, a little,” Wei Ying admits, blushing. “I mean, it was like, idle, but you’re extremely hot and I have an active imagination, Lan Zhan. You can’t blame me.”

“I don’t,” Lan Zhan says, thrusting his fingers a little bit, mostly because Wei Ying is squirming on them and seems like he’d like it. “I showed up with condoms with nothing more than a drawing to go on.”

“And we’re all happy you did,” Wei Ying says, sighing happily as Lan Zhan continues with his light fingering agenda. He’s just starting to wonder if maybe they’ll get to go another round when Wei Ying yawns, so hugely Lan Zhan can feel it from the inside. “Oh, dang,” Wei Ying says, blinking hard, “Okay, that’s the sign that I need to actually go to sleep, I’m still wiped from last night. This morning?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, kissing Wei Ying's shoulder and pulling his fingers out along with the condom. “Either way, it was not conducive to good rest.” He finds the tissues again, and carefully wraps up the condom before offering the box to Wei Ying. He aggressively tamps down any disappointment he might be feeling as he gets up to find his jeans--this was already more than he was expecting, he doesn’t need to get greedy just because Wei Ying is the most beautiful man he’s ever met and easy to talk to and he just had more fun in bed than maybe he’s ever had before.

“Hey.” Wei Ying catches his wrist and tugs at it, startling Lan Zhan out of the beginning of his mental spiral. Lan Zhan turns back and Wei Ying looks up at him, his beautiful eyes wide and a little nervous. “Do you--do you want to stay the night?” He smiles, and it’s stunning and doesn’t quite hide the hope underneath. “I can take you to the diner for breakfast tomorrow? I know you don’t remember it but you really liked the blueberry pancakes.”

Lan Zhan looks down at Wei Ying, all golden skin and bright tattoos against the red and purple of his duvet. His hair is messy and his eyeliner is smeared and there’s still some come on his stomach where he didn’t quite wipe all of it up, and he’s the most perfect thing Lan Zhan has ever seen, and he’s asking Lan Zhan to stay.

“Wei Ying,” he says, sitting back down and brushing that messy hair behind one pierced ear, “I would love to stay.”

Wei Ying’s smile goes wider, joy radiating off him like sunlight, and no, this is the most perfect thing Lan Zhan has ever seen. “Good,” he says, resting one hand on Lan Zhan’s thigh. He pets the skin there, a back-and-forth brush of his fingers, and Lan Zhan feels too many things too quickly. He leans down to kiss Wei Ying and hopes he feels it, too. He thinks he might, because Wei Ying kisses back just as urgently, and when they’ve brushed their teeth and climbed back into bed, Wei Ying curls into his arms like he belongs there.

“I’m really glad you ended up in my bar, Lan Zhan,” he says into the darkness, like he’s confessing a secret.

“I am, too,” Lan Zhan says to Wei Ying’s hair, and he means it.