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Chapter Text

The first time Song Lan found a petal in his mouth, Xue Yang had kissed Xiao Xingchen for a whole five minutes, before throwing a dismissive ‘later, big guy’ in Song Lan’s direction on his way out. The slam of the front door had coincided precisely with Song Lan crushing a soft, wet cherry blossom between his fingertips.

As usual, Xingchen hadn’t noticed anything amiss. He’d been too busy picking up the sweet wrappers Xue Yang had left scattered on the kitchen countertop, smiling as if littering was cute instead of irritating. And Xue Yang was extremely irritating.

They’d met him only six months earlier, at a cultivation conference hosted by Jin Industries. Xingchen’s nephew had been presenting his latest research and since harnessing resentful energy was still a somewhat controversial practise, Xingchen had felt that it was important to attend in the name of familial support.

Not that Wei Wuxian had needed them. The stern presence of his husband Lan Wangji, one of the two leaders of the renowned Lan Institute, had kept the audience’s misgivings to a quiet grumble. Quiet except for one obnoxious cultivator, who hadn’t exactly complained -

“Yiling laozu, you’re a fucking genius!”

- but had still earned himself a stony glare from Lan Wangji.

“Xue Chengmei, was there something you wanted to share?” Jin Guangyao had glided smoothly onto the stage.

Song Lan would later find out that as well as being the event organiser, Jin Guangyao was also Xue Yang’s boss and occasional friend, which explained why his placid, corporate smile hadn’t deterred Xue Yang in the slightest. Instead, he’d only leapt onstage to present his own equally scandalous experiments with resentful energy. And even though Song Lan couldn’t say he approved of either Wei Wuxian’s or Xue Yang’s methods, he had to admit that they were both extraordinary innovators, whether the cultivation world liked it or not.

And they did not. The audience was far less respectful of Xue Yang’s work than of Wei Wuxian’s and despite the fact he was wearing a Jin Industries lanyard, they weren’t afraid to make their feelings against demonic cultivation known. Both Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan had watched, wincing in the audience, as before their eyes, Xue Yang had become caught up in what could only be described as a thinly-veiled slanging match with Nie Mingjue, the hot-headed chairman of Nie Laboratories.

Just when Song Lan had begun to worry that they were moments from the cultivation conference descending into an old-fashioned sword fight, Wei Wuxian had jumped in. Moving quickly, he’d yanked Xue Yang off-stage with a promise to share his notes if he agreed to be escorted to the bar next door and babysat by his uncle until the crowd had lost their ire.

“Drink as much as you like,” Wei Wuxian had said brightly as he shoved Xue Yang towards Xiao Xingchen, “Lan Zhan will take care of the bill. Enjoy!”

And so, Song Lan, as Xingchen’s ever-supportive boyfriend had had no choice but to follow, half-hoping that the stranger would take off the moment Wei Wuxian’s back was turned. Only he didn’t. Instead, Xue Yang had eyed them both up and down with blatant curiosity before turning to the bartender.

“We’ll have the most expensive wine on your menu,” Xue Yang grinned, “And all the sweets you have too.”

The cork was popped open before Song Lan could interject and then, to his eternal astonishment, Xue Yang revealed himself to be unexpectedly good company. His sharp tongue soon had Xingchen in fits of giggles and even though Song Lan didn’t understand all his jokes, he couldn’t deny that Xue Yang was as clever and charismatic as he was obnoxious. It also didn’t hurt that he was pretty.

It wasn’t a surprise therefore, when after three hours of flirting, two heated kisses - one with each of them - and a very potent bottle of Emperor’s Smile later, Xue Yang had leant across the table and declared -

“You two can take me home now!”

- and then he’d never left, and six months later, Song Lan could only stare in silent horror at the crushed cherry blossom in the palm of his hand. Proof that Xue Yang - irritating, obnoxious, surprising Xue Yang - had fallen in love with Xiao Xingchen but not with him.

“Cough into this,” Wen Qing said, pressing a stethoscope against Song Lan’s chest with one hand while passing him a plastic specimen pot with the other.

Song Lan quickly unscrewed the lid and took a deep breath before forcing out a gentle cough. Nothing happened.

“Think of him and try again,” said Wen Qing, barely suppressing an eye roll.

Song Lan stared down at the empty pot. It was probably best not to feign ignorance and ask who Wen Qing thought he should be thinking of. The doctor had already done him a favour by fitting him into her rammed patient list at short notice. He didn’t want to insult her intelligence by pretending that he didn’t already know exactly what was wrong with him.

Instead, he closed his eyes and pictured Xue Yang. The way he waved a lazy hand in Song Lan’s direction while his eyes had still been fixed on Xiao Xingchen’s smile, how he always left without kissing Song Lan goodbye and how his own lungs felt like they’d run out of air as soon as Xue Yang had gone.

A petal fluttered out of Song Lan’s mouth. He hadn’t even needed to cough.

“Hanahaki disease,” Wen Qing hummed, “When did it start?”

“This morning,” Song Lan said, gazing at the cherry blossom glumly. Bright pink and perfectly formed, it was hard to believe it’d grown out of the ugly feelings still swelling inside his chest.

“At least you rang me straight away,” she sighed, “That’s more than most people do.”

He waited, staring up at her silently. He had a feeling that whatever else she was going to say, it wouldn’t be good.

“This usually only afflicts teenagers, when passions run high,” Wen Qing said at last, “The Hanahaki seed grows out of unrequited love and fills the lungs with flowers. Thankfully, young love tends to be short lived so I wouldn’t normally need to do anything to treat it. The seed dies on its own when the person’s affections move on.”

“But?” Song Lan pressed, already dreading the worst.

Wen Qing looked grim, “Adults tend to be more… fixed in their choices.”

Song Lan couldn’t help but snort. If loving Xue Yang had been a choice, he wouldn’t have made it.

“What now?” he asked at last.

“The seed will take root and the infection will spread,” Wen Qing said, matter-of-factly, “Now you’re coughing up petals, soon it’ll be whole flowers and eventually you’ll suffocate and die.”

There was a long silence before Song Lan croaked, “How long do I have?”

“It depends. Some people wait and if they’re lucky, their love is returned and the Hanahaki seed dies on its own,” she said, “You could try confessing?”

Song Lan winced. He could already picture how Xue Yang’s eyes would widen with glee and the shape his mouth would make as it curled into a smirk. The ensuing taunts would be merciless and unbearably embarrassing.

“Or I could operate,” Wen Qing continued, “I can remove the seed and you’ll be cured immediately.”

“Let’s do that,” Song Lan said quickly, relieved.

But Wen Qing only shook her head, “There’s one thing you need to consider first. I won’t just be removing the seed, I’ll be taking out all your romantic attachment to Xue Yang. You’ll be left feeling nothing.”

The next few hours passed in a blur. Song Lan had left Wen Qing’s clinic with a promise to call as soon as he was ready to proceed with surgery and, knowing that Xiao Xingchen and Xue Yang would still be at work, he’d hurried back to their flat instead of his office. At least he would have the rest of the day alone to think the situation over before committing to a date for the operation. Only he didn’t.

Instead of an empty flat, Song Lan found Xue Yang waiting for him with a particularly mischievous expression on his face. Not only had he set fire to his lab that morning, causing Jin Guangyao to send him home with strict instructions to stay away for the rest of the week, Xue Yang had also rung Baixue Templars and informed the law firm that Song Lan would be taking the week off too.

“You’re going to help me test my new talismans, Zichen,” Xue Yang sing-songed, “We’re going to have so much fun.”

In any other instance, the audacity alone would’ve been enraging. Xue Yang would never dream of interfering with Xiao Xingchen’s teaching career but for whatever reason, Song Lan’s job was fair game. This time, however, Song Lan wasn’t annoyed. Instead he was pleased.

Perhaps a few days together with Xue Yang was exactly what he needed. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to have his feelings literally sliced out of him. Perhaps Xue Yang might begin to love him back… if only he wasn’t so intent on torturing him instead.

“Why would you ever need to remove someone’s sight?” Song Lan growled, after stubbing his toe on something he couldn’t see for the third time.

Xue Yang only cackled, “So I can rob a bank, of course, Zichen.”

At that, Song Lan found himself shoved backwards, his arms flailing in mid-air before he landed on something soft with a thump. Perplexed, he groped blindly around him. It felt like one of their leather armchairs, only he could’ve sworn they’d been standing in the kitchen.

“What exactly are you testing?” Song Lan said, blinking stupidly. He could feel a pair of hands tugging at his belt buckle but he still couldn’t see anything and he doubted Xue Yang would lift the talisman’s powers anytime soon.

“Zichen, Zichen, you’re so suspicious,” Xue Yang said, “It’s perfectly innocent, I swear.”

Song Lan bit back a disbelieving laugh. He didn’t need his sight to know that Xue Yang was lying. The sharp elbows spreading his thighs apart and the sudden sting of nails digging into his hips gave him away.

“Apparently, people who lose their sight find their remaining senses are heightened,” Xue Yang said. He’d moved on to pulling down Song Lan’s zipper.

“I’m not sure that’s true for temporary blindness,” Song Lan managed to choke out before breaking off into a moan.

On second thoughts, maybe it was true, because suddenly the only thing Song Lan could focus on was the feeling of pointy teeth grazing at his half-hard cock. Carefully, he reached out into the darkness, his hands managing to grasp weakly at Xue Yang’s hair before they were smacked away.

“Naughty, naughty,” Xue Yang said, “No looking, no touching and definitely no moving.”

There was a sharp whistle through the air before a strange, tightening sensation appeared around each of Song Lan’s wrists, pulling at them until they were clamped together. It felt like some sort of rope.

“What do you think?” asked Xue Yang, “It’s called ‘Binding’. Wei Wuxian invented it and I’ve made a few tweaks.”

“Tweaks,” echoed Song Lan, nervously.

Instead of elaborating, Xue Yang tapped sharply on Song Lan’s bound wrists. There was a sudden crackle -

“Cold!” yelped Song Lan.

- and then the sound of bright laughter and a hot, wet tongue lapping at his wrists. Song Lan sank back into the chair with a defeated groan. What had he been thinking? How could he have the Hanahaki seed removed when loving Xue Yang felt so good?

Chapter Text

By the time Xue Yang had finished ‘testing his new talismans’, Song Lan had made his decision: Wen Qing would have to pry the Hanahaki seed out of his almost-dead body before he gave it up. ‘Almost-dead’ because he wasn’t going to let the disease actually kill him. It was bad enough that he was literally lovesick over Xue Yang of all people, it would be outright mortifying if his friends and family had to hear about it at his funeral. And of course, Xiao Xingchen would be upset if he died.

But for the time being, Song Lan reasoned, he could wait. Coughing up the occasional cherry blossom was unpleasant but it was far from unbearable, so why rush to have the seed removed? Especially when surgery came at such a high price. Xue Yang might be the last person he’d expected to fall in love with, but it had happened and even if Song Lan’s feelings were unrequited, they still meant something.

They meant that Xue Yang was currently a sweaty, naked heap in his lap and Song Lan didn’t want to shove him off or flee for the shower. Yet.

“Get up,” Song Lan nudged blindly at a tuft of hair with his nose. Xue Yang had been dozing on his shoulder for long enough.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he only seemed to grow heavier in Song Lan’s lap.

“You’re blind and tied up, Zichen. No-one’s going anywhere,” Xue Yang growled, his arms tightening pointedly around Song Lan’s neck.

Song Lan huffed, amused despite himself. There were only two people in the world he could bear touching him like this. The first was Xiao Xingchen and he was thoughtful enough not to collapse directly on top of him after sex. Xue Yang was the second and he was nowhere near as considerate. The fact that Song Lan had never minded should’ve been a warning. Still, even love had its limits and he was reaching his.

“You’re sticky,” he said, his mouth twisting into a grimace.

“And you’re welcome,” Xue Yang ground down pointedly on Song Lan’s spent cock. He didn’t need his eyesight to know that Xue Yang was smirking.

“There’s cum on my stomach,” he grunted.

“I know,” Xue Yang crowed with delight, “I put it there.”

“I want to clean up,” Song Lan said, wearily.

Suddenly, the icy ropes around his wrists disappeared and a blast of qi hit him between the eyes, leaving him blinking stupidly up at Xue Yang’s toothy smile. He’d expected more of a fight or at least an attempt at bribery but it seemed that sex had left Xue Yang in an unusually amenable mood.

It had also left him in a mess. His long black hair had fallen out of its high ponytail, there was a light sheen of sweat on his face and to Song Lan’s horror, there was cum starting to dry between them, gluing their bare skin together.

“Up,” Song Lan said and before Xue Yang could argue, he hooked his hands under his thighs and rose swiftly to his feet.

There was an indignant squawk as all four of Xue Yang’s limbs clamped around him, and then two sharp canines sank into the meat of Song Lan’s shoulder.

“No biting,” Song Lan said through gritted teeth, “Or I’ll drop you.”

This time, Xue Yang wasn’t so quick to comply.

“Put me down, Zichen,” he snarled, before biting down even harder, “Or I’ll scratch your eyeballs out.”

But Song Lan only kept walking. Xue Yang might not love him back, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t force him into a bathtub. Even if he had to carry him there himself.

The rest of the week was surprisingly pleasant, all things considered. Song Lan had half-expected to be numb and useless with worry but to his relief, he found himself too busy to spend much time dwelling on the killer plant growing in his lungs. It turned out that Xue Yang hadn’t been joking about having several new talismans to test out and while Song Lan wasn’t sure how or why demonic cultivation required their clothes disappearing every time, he couldn’t deny that he was having fun.

In fact, he could almost convince himself that Xue Yang actually wanted to spend time with him. He just had to ignore the fact that Xingchen never had to suffer through the indignities of being Xue Yang’s lab rat, naked or otherwise. Instead, Xingchen only floated in after work each day, looking pristine in his white teaching robes and laughing with delight at whatever unfortunate position Xue Yang had bound Song Lan into.

And with each passing day, whenever his thoughts did drift back to the Hanahaki seed growing in his lungs, Song Lan only grew more and more certain that delaying the surgery was the right decision. He’d barely coughed since leaving Wen Qing’s clinic and the few times he had, only a single pink petal had emerged from his lips. It was a good sign, he decided. The Hanahaki disease was stable, he wasn’t going to suffocate anytime soon and best of all, with his feelings still intact, he could appreciate that for once, he had Xue Yang’s full attention. Even if it meant he’d spent most of the week blind, mute and immobile in the name of ‘research’.

By the time Xue Yang had finished with his experiments, Song Lan hadn’t coughed in five whole days. If it weren’t for Wen Qing’s persistent phone calls, he would’ve thought he’d dreamt the whole thing up.

“There you are!” Wen Qing snapped when he finally picked up, “It’s not like a doctor might have something important to tell their patient!”

Song Lan winced. Sarcasm meant that Wen Qing was angry and she had every right to be. He’d been avoiding her calls for days.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’ve been busy.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the photos Xue Yang’s been posting,” she said dryly, “Next you’re going to say you were tied up.”

Song Lan didn’t usually blush and he wasn’t about to start now, “Xue Yang needed my help.”

“I’m sure he did,” Wen Qing snorted, “But I’m calling to talk about you, not your demonic boyfriend. I’ve been doing some reading and the research says you could probably wait up to two months before you have surgery, but I think we should do it sooner. How’s next week for you?”

“There’s research?” Song Lan blinked. He should’ve known Wen Qing would be thorough.

“I’ve got access to the Gusu libraries,” she explained, “Wei Wuxian owes me a favour.”

That either meant she’d saved his life at some point or that she was blackmailing him. She and Xue Yang were a lot alike at times and experience had taught Song Lan that it was better not to ask too many questions. Inevitably, he never liked the answers. Instead, it was best to focus on the most salient points.

“You said I could wait two months?” Song Lan said.

“Most people who don’t have surgery die within three,” Wen Qing said, “So two is the maximum really. Your lungs will be full of whole flowers by then and it’s not exactly comfortable. You’re lucky you’ve only got cherry blossoms. I’ve seen pictures of a man who coughed up roses. Including the thorns.”

Song Lan winced, “Was there any lasting damage?”

“He died,” Wen Qing said flatly, “He was the guqin player at a wedding. The disease took root as soon as he set eyes on the bride. By the time the couple finished the tea ceremony, he’d already suffocated to death. Quickest Hanahaki victim on record.”

“That’s awful,” Song Lan said, horrified, and then a thought struck him, “If he was the quickest, who was the slowest?”

There was a long pause before Wen Qing answered.

“I did find a report about a woman called Yi Xuan who lived with the disease for five years,” she said at last, “She was a teacher at a cultivation school so she meditated with her students every morning.”

“And that helps?” Song Lan could feel his pulse starting to quicken. He’d kept up his daily meditation practice after leaving school. Most people didn’t and Xue Yang often mocked him for being so diligent but he’d always liked the way it calmed his mind.

“It did help,” Wen Qing said, “But Yi Xuan’s unrequited love was also her best friend and they took steps to slow the progress of the disease.”

“How?” Song Lan frowned. That sounded like something Wen Qing should have told him earlier, if only he’d answered her calls.

“The Hanahaki seed thrives on resentful energy,” she explained, “So they removed any opportunities for resentment to build.“

Song Lan hummed, thinking it through, “So the friend couldn’t date anyone else?”

That didn’t exactly help him. He was already in a relationship with Xue Yang. They even lived together, if you counted never leaving as ‘moving in’. Xue Yang just wasn’t in love with him.

“She did date,” Wen Qing said, “But she kept it a secret from Yi Xuan.”

“They just didn’t talk about it?” Song Lan said, doubtfully. That didn’t sound like a particularly scientific approach.

“And Yi Xuan didn’t think about it either,” Wen Qing clarified, “She was an expert at clearing her mind, even before she got sick, and it worked for the best part of five years.”

“That is impressive,” Song Lan conceded, “What changed?”

“The friend fell pregnant. I suppose she couldn’t hide her marriage or her husband after that,” Wen Qing said, “Yi Xuan deteriorated quickly and the doctors operated a week later.”

“So she recovered,” he said, relieved, “Are they still close?”

“Not at all,” Wen Qing said, “No seed meant no feelings, no affection, nothing. The friendship died almost immediately. But Yi Xuan didn’t, which is the main thing.”

Wen Qing probably thought she was being reassuring but suddenly, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. The thought of losing whatever one-sided relationship he had with Xue Yang felt more far suffocating than the occasional cherry blossoms he’d been coughing up.

“I’ll call you back,” Song Lan managed to choke out before hanging up.

Song Lan didn’t call Wen Qing back. Instead, he meditated for the rest of the afternoon, concentrating on the steady rhythm of his breathing and ignoring how tight his chest felt. He would’ve kept going into the evening if Xue Yang hadn’t burst through the front door with Xiao Xingchen behind him. They’d been to the farmers' market and judging by the pile of fresh produce they were carrying, Xue Yang had worked his dubious charm on the potato farmer again.

“Zichen,” Xingchen said, smiling brightly, “Xue Yang’s making us dinner tonight.”

Song Lan nodded, getting up from his cushion on the floor and following them both to the kitchen. Xue Yang often cooked and he was good at it.

“Would you like some help?” Song Lan said.

“With your knife skills?” Xue Yang scoffed, “Absolutely not. Get out of my kitchen.”

For some reason, Xingchen seemed to find that amusing and he floated off to the living room with a giggle. Song Lan only scowled, his feet planted firmly on the tiled floor. Technically, it was his and Xingchen’s name on the lease and Xue Yang didn’t pay rent, let alone bills, so he would stand wherever he wanted, whether Xue Yang wanted him there or not.

“I can help you dice the vegetables,” Song Lan insisted.

“I’ll dice you in a minute,” Xue Yang pointed a knife at him, “I said out.”

Song Lan eyed the sharp blade in annoyance, before turning to follow Xingchen a minute later. Xue Yang wouldn’t actually stab him but if he was going to make threats, he didn’t deserve his help. Not that he even wanted it.

Despite himself, Song Lan found himself glancing back through the doorway at Xue Yang. He was chopping up a melon with frightening efficiency.

“He doesn’t even like bitter melon,” Song Lan grumbled to himself, irritation now bubbling through him. He’d fallen in love with a literal menace, he didn’t know how it had happened and now, he was being thrown out of his own kitchen. Only the sight of Xingchen stopped his rising anger in its tracks.

Curled up on the living room sofa, buried under a massive, white blanket was Xingchen with a book in his hand.

“Come join me, Zichen,” Xingchen lifted up the blanket with a soft smile, “How was your day?”

“Quiet,” Song Lan murmured, as he sank down onto the sofa gratefully. Technically, he wasn’t lying. A phone call with Wen Qing was hardly eventful, even if it had shaken him.

“We missed you at the market,” Xingchen hummed, pressing a quick kiss to Song Lan’s cheek, “Xue Yang bet the potato farmer she couldn’t-”

Xingchen rambled on cheerfully, explaining how Xue Yang had won a sack of free vegetables from her. Apparently it didn’t count as swindling if the other party was foolish enough to agree to the bet without knowing the exact terms beforehand and so, Xue Yang had -

“Xue Yang-” Xingchen spluttered, with a sudden giggle, “Xue Yang said-”

As Xingchen burst out into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, Song Lan felt his annoyance at Xue Yang taking over their kitchen melting away. In all their years together, he hadn’t seen Xingchen laugh as much as he had in the six months since they’d met Xue Yang. It was a joy to see, it made them both happier and it was exactly why he couldn’t tell Xingchen about the Hanahaki disease. The thing between the three of them was still new, still growing, and if Xingchen knew that Song Lan had made himself sick over Xue Yang, it would only end badly.

Knowing Xingchen, he’d insist on helping, no matter how much Song Lan asked him not to. At best, he’d join Wen Qing in lobbying him to get surgery before he was ready. At worst, he’d tell Xue Yang and then Song Lan would spend the rest of his living days being mocked and embarrassed in his own home. And somewhere in the unhappy middle would be Xingchen, guilt-ridden and blaming himself for the fact that Xue Yang loved him and not Song Lan.

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Song Lan let his head fall onto Xingchen’s shoulder and his eyes slide shut, letting Xingchen’s gentle giggles wash over him.

“What did the potato farmer do next?” he prompted, when Xingchen had finally calmed down enough to speak.

As Xingchen resumed his story, Song Lan’s thoughts drifted back to the phone call with Wen Qing. Hearing about the case studies she’d found had frightened him but they also offered hope. If someone could live for five years with the Hanahaki seed, why couldn’t he?

He would meditate daily, avoid any resentful thoughts and spend as little time as possible dwelling on who was or wasn’t in love with him. There was no need to tell either Xingchen or Xue Yang and if he was lucky, his unrequited feelings might even fade away on their own. If he’d fallen in love with Xue Yang, he could surely fall out of it. He simply had to wait.

Chapter Text

Xingchen was still only halfway through recounting Xue Yang’s misadventures at the farmers’ market when Song Lan’s laptop started pinging loudly from the corner of the living room. It could only be Wen Qing.

“I need to go over some papers,” Song Lan said, lifting himself up from the sofa stiffly, “It’s urgent.”

“Working on a Sunday?” Xingchen blinked at him owlishly before his gaze turned warm and soft, “It must be important. You’re so dedicated, Zichen, it’s really commendable.”

Song Lan only nodded weakly as he clutched the laptop to his chest. Xingchen’s praise was so earnest, without the slightest trace of suspicion and instead of making Song Lan feel guilty, all he felt was relief. Xingchen didn’t deserve such barefaced lies but he also didn’t need to know the truth. Not yet, anyway.

Settling down at his desk in the corner of their bedroom, Song Lan started clicking through his inbox. It was no wonder Xingchen had so readily believed he had a work emergency; why else would someone email him twenty times in a single hour?

Nervously, he scanned through each one. Wen Qing had been thorough. In her first email, she’d cautioned Song Lan against delaying and had sent him a screenshot of her calendar with possible surgery slots marked with thick red circles. In her second email, she’d outlined the progression he could expect if he didn’t have surgery; from coughing up a single cherry blossom to heaving up two, then three, four and five at a time until a whole flower emerged. It was at this point, Wen Qing had highlighted, that people usually choked to death and if they didn’t, the flowers would only keep increasing in number until they did.

Disturbed, Song Lan clicked quickly through the rest of the attachments. They were just as alarming; carefully selected case studies from Japan, peer-reviewed papers from South Korea and even a photograph of a carefully preserved Han dynasty scroll, thought to be the earliest record of Hanahaki disease occurring in China.

He paused over the last picture, intrigued despite himself. While the scans of somewhat dry medical texts had been accompanied by gruesome post-mortem images of green shoots bursting out of grey lungs, the scroll featured a delicately wrought painting of a reclining figure, their torso circled by vines and Chinese lantern flowers. It could almost be considered beautiful, if only the poem inked out beside it wasn’t so morbid. Poisonous seeds, deathly flowers, fatal fruit -

“Planning to kill someone?” a low voice hummed in Song Lan’s ear, “Can I help?”

Song Lan slammed his laptop down with a start, “Mind your own business.”

But this only made Xue Yang tilt his head at him curiously, “Death is my business. And there are far more interesting ways to kill someone than just using poison. You don’t always have to be so boring.”

“It’s for work,” mumbled Song Lan, ignoring the sudden tightness in his chest as he deflected, “I didn’t know you could read caoshu.”

“Demonic cultivator, remember?” Xue Yang grinned, “Whoever wrote the Burial Mound texts was a genius.”

“Dissident,” Song Lan corrected, “And he was exiled by the sects for it.”

Xue Yang only scoffed, “And who were they to decide what’s right and wrong?”

Song Lan inhaled sharply, relieved. This was a familiar point of contention between them and ideal for distracting Xue Yang from what he’d been looking at and why. He could deal with the rest of Wen Qing’s emails in the morning.

“Xue Yang, I thought you were going to tell Zichen dinner was ready, not leave me to eat alone,” Xingchen was standing in the doorway, interrupting their argument with a bright smile.

“It’s not my fault, Song Lan’s the one being a self-righteous dinosaur,” Xue Yang pouted up at Xingchen, “I know, let’s have dinner without him.”

In the blink of an eye, Xue Yang wrapped an arm around Xiao Xingchen’s waist and they were gone. When Song Lan finally caught up - inhaling shallowly against the suddenly worsening tightness in his chest - Xue Yang was already dishing up. Steamed fish, garlic bok choy and bitter melon with ground pork.

“Bitter and cold, just like you,” Xue Yang sing-songed before scooping a generous portion into Song Lan’s rice bowl with a smirk.

Song Lan didn’t bother replying. The bitter melon was indeed a cooling vegetable with many documented cleansing properties and Xue Yang was an excellent cook. Enduring the same insults every week was a small price to pay for -

Suddenly Song Lan buckled forward, both hands clasped tightly over his mouth as his lungs heaved painfully in his chest. So much for not dwelling on Xue Yang not loving him back.

“You should drink some warm water,” Xingchen was already pouring out a glass as Song Lan buried his face into his hands. The last thing he wanted to do was cough out a cherry blossom at the dinner table.

“I could hit you if you like,” Xue Yang sounded cheerful above him, “That’s good for choking.”

“He’s not choking,” Xingchen chided gently, “Zichen, you’re not choking, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Song Lan croaked out, lifting his head just enough to shoot Xue Yang a glare from the tabletop, “Don’t hit me when I’m dying.”

Xue Yang let out a whoop of surprised laughter, “Was that a joke? I didn’t know you had a sense of humour.”

Gritting his teeth together, Song Lan squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to concentrate on the rhythm of his breathing. However much it hurt to hear, Xue Yang’s words were ideal. If Song Lan was boring and self-righteous with no sense of humour, then Xue Yang was inconsiderate and ill-mannered with a dubious sense of morals. Falling out of love was inevitable; the Hanahaki disease would soon fade away.

Going back to work the next day - and getting away from Xue Yang and his bizarre experiments - was a welcome relief. A week away from the office was far too long as far as Song Lan was concerned. The paperwork had piled up in his absence and he would enjoy sorting through it. Even if Xue Yang thought it was a waste of time.

“I didn’t have a hukou registration and I survived,” Xue Yang had said scornfully, the first time he’d dropped in unannounced at Baixue Templars during one of Song Lan’s lunch breaks.

“I didn’t either,” Song Lan had replied, “Until someone helped me.”

He’d nodded towards the large painting hanging on the wall of his office. It was a portrait of Baixue’s founder, a man whom had paid for Song Lan’s education and paved the way for him to go to law school. Song Lan owed him everything and yet, Xue Yang was scowling at the portrait as if he was some kind of wuxia villain.

“Good for you, catching breadcrumbs from the elite,” Xue Yang had sneered, “The rest of us had to make our own way.”

Song Lan hadn’t known what to say to that. Those breadcrumbs had changed the course of his life for the better so how was that a bad thing? And in any case, he didn’t believe that anyone should have to make their own way, even if Xue Yang had somehow managed it. Without any formal qualifications, he’d more than earned his research position at Jin Industries and in the months that had passed since they’d first met, Song Lan had come to realise that Xue Yang was almost as gifted as Wei Wuxian was at demonic cultivation, if not more.

Not that he’d ever tell Xue Yang that. Not when Xue Yang showed such open disdain for his career choices.

“And who are these muppets?” Xue Yang had said, tapping his prosthetic finger dismissively on one of the photographs that made up the gallery wall on one side of Song Lan’s office.

“Clients,” Song Lan had replied stiffly. He wasn’t keen on the display either; he thought it was boastful and mortifyingly sentimental, but the partners at Baixue had insisted that it was good for staff morale to be reminded of their successes. And, Song Lan thought, casting his eyes over the pictures of the smiling families, he did think he was doing good work.

Over the years, he had helped hundreds of rural migrants who were new to the city navigate its complex hukou registration system and find a way to enrol their children into the very few affordable schools like the one Xingchen taught at. In fact, it was how they’d met; brought together by their shared idealism that everyone should have the same opportunities, no matter where they came from or who they were related to. He didn’t understand why Xue Yang would find it so objectionable.

“Lunch?” Song Lan had said abruptly, suddenly wanting to get Xue Yang out of Baixue’s offices entirely, if only so he’d stop glaring at the photographs. Thankfully, the promise of food was all it took. Either that or Song Lan striding out of the room and leaving Xue Yang behind had pissed him off enough to follow.

“I want ice cream,” Xue Yang had said, elbowing Song Lan sharply in the ribs as soon as he’d caught up with him, “And a cronut. And you’re buying.”

And so, Song Lan had found himself postponing his afternoon meetings and flying through sword traffic for two hours, just so Xue Yang could eat a Western dessert he’d seen on Douyin. Xue Yang had explained that it was a cross between an American doughnut and a French croissant, but to Song Lan had simply been an overly sweet and distinctly disappointing type of youtiao. Still, it’d been worth it to have Xue Yang slump into him as the sugar crash took hold.

“You could’ve sorted my hukou and Xingchen could’ve been my teacher,” Xue Yang had mumbled into his neck under the wind, “At his fancy school.”

Xingchen’s school was the very opposite of fancy and the fact that they were all more or less the same age meant that Xue Yang’s mutterings made little sense but before Song Lan could tell him that, Xue Yang had turned his hungry gaze back to his cronut, his body angled away from Song Lan, signalling that the conversation was over. Sugar was clearly more important than anything else, as it often was with Xue Yang and -

Song Lan dropped his pile of papers back onto the desk with a huff. Even when he wasn’t here, Xue Yang crept around in Song Lan’s thoughts, irritating and persistent. Xue Yang who had stolen his last clean black shirt that morning, Xue Yang who had left a half-eaten plate of banana pancakes on the kitchen table for him to tidy up, Xue Yang whom Song Lan was already in love with, despite his many, many undesirable qualities.

And in that moment, Song Lan realised his plan was doomed to fail. Some twisted part of his heart already liked the chaos Xue Yang had brought into their lives; falling out of love with him would never happen, no matter how much he wished for it. He would have to find another way.

Chapter Text

Song Lan’s opportunity came a few days later, when he lost count of how many tricep curls he’d done for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

“Xiao Xingchen, look at me!” Xue Yang’s shouts echoed across the gym floor. “Xiao Xingchen, over here!”

Song Lan gritted his teeth and swallowed painfully, his lips pressed tightly shut. It was impossible to keep count when he had to keep fighting back the urge to cough. Not that Xue Yang would have noticed if he had; he hadn’t looked at Song Lan once since they’d arrived at the gym.

“Xiao Xingchen, are you watching?” Xue Yang was now waving frantically in Xiao Xingchen’s direction, but the sound of Song Lan’s weights clattering to the floor buried any reply Xiao Xingchen might have had.

“Teach me,” Song Lan choked out, before taking a deep breath as Xue Yang’s gaze finally snapped onto him.

“But you hate cultistenics,” Xue Yang said slowly, “Almost as much as you hate people who don’t tidy up after themselves.”

Song Lan forced himself not to twitch. He would put the weights away later. For now, he kept his gaze fixed on Xue Yang, who was floating three metres above ground on his sword. As he watched, Xue Yang swung himself upside down into a one armed hand hop while the blade rotated in mid-air. It was, Song Lan reflected, a truly absurd form of exercise and he would never try it himself except for that fact that -

“I’ve changed my mind.” Song Lan strode across the gym floor to the large blue cushioned mat that Xue Yang was now flying circles over. If Xue Yang wouldn’t come to him, he would go to Xue Yang… but by the time Song Lan reached the mat, Xue Yang had hopped off his sword and was standing upright on the ground in an oddly familiar stance, one hand clasping the opposite wrist behind his back.

“Cultivation and calisthenics are two distinct ways of improving the mind and body. They should remain distinct,” Xue Yang droned as Xiao Xingchen burst into giggles from the far corner.

“Xue Yang, don't joke,” Xiao Xingchen spluttered through his laughter, bending over the Gazelle machine as it glided to a halt, “I can’t exercise when you make me laugh.”

“I’ve got more.” Xue Yang turned his back to Song Lan to face Xiao Xingchen directly. “The way of the sword and the way of the Dao are-”

“Are you going to teach me or what?” Song Lan interrupted curtly. He had a feeling he was being mocked and that was the last thing he needed when his chest still felt so tight. “I’m ready.”

It took less than fifteen minutes for Song Lan to regret his decision. While Xue Yang twisted from floating planche push-up to inverted hang and back again with gleeful ease, Song Lan only tumbled off the sword in a mess of flailing limbs, no matter how hard he tried. Not only was he going to be in agony for the rest of the week, it was also abundantly clear that taking an interest in cultistenics wouldn’t win him Xue Yang’s love or even his respect.

“Xiao Xingchen, did you see Song Lan’s handstand? It was terrible,” Xue Yang cackled brightly, his mouth wide open with delighted laughter, “I bet you could do it better.”

It took all of Song Lan’s strength to lift himself off the mat. While Xiao Xingchen was a crane standing in a flock of chickens, Song Lan was nothing more than a headless fly and it was obvious which one was Xue Yang’s type.

“Again,” he grunted, gesturing for Xue Yang to place the sword back into position on the floor in front of him. This time, when he leaned down to place his gloved hands on top of the blade, Xue Yang moved to stand behind him.

“What are you doing?” Song Lan asked, instinctively suspicious.

It didn’t help that Xue Yang ignored the question, “Once more. And keep your elbows bent.”

Steeling himself, Song Lan lowered his head and tipped himself warily into a handstand once again. This time, he was careful not to let his arms lock straight and to his relief, Xue Yang’s hands only hovered harmlessly by Song Lan’s hips.

“There you go,” Xue Yang said, “Now breathe into your core and push your qi up to your toes.”

Song Lan frowned in concentration then let out a huff of surprise as the sword lifted upwards, floating higher and higher.

“That’s it,” Xue Yang cheered, “Keep your eyes on the blade and start to rotate. Imagine your pelvis turn-”

Song Lan landed on the mat with a loud thump, the sword clattering noisily onto the ground behind him.

“Wow, you were half a zhang high!” Xue Yang whistled, “That must’ve hurt.”

Song Lan glared up at Xue Yang. The only thing that hurt was his ego - and perhaps his lungs and heart - since Xue Yang had already turned back to Xiao Xingchen.

“Xiao Xingchen, did you see how far Song Lan fell?” Xue Yang crowed, “He actually bounced!”

There was more than one way to make a person fall in love with you, Song Lan reasoned to himself the next morning, as he prodded ruefully at the bruises on his arms. Cultistenics might be a lost cause, but Xue Yang had plenty of other passions. Taking a sharp breath, Song Lan poured a generous helping of condensed milk into Xue Yang’s coffee and as he handed it over, he asked, “What are you working on this week?”

“Killing things, un-killing things, the usual,” Xue Yang replied, looking cheerful at the thought of his day ahead.

Song Lan forced himself not to grimace and instead of responding, he sipped carefully at his own mug of black coffee. Xue Yang’s demonic specialism involved animal testing, the most controversial area in an already controversial field of study. It was a method of research that was at odds with Song Lan’s more traditional upbringing. His orphanage, mindful perhaps of the fact that their charges had no living parents, had placed a heavy emphasis on the beauty of reincarnation and how honourable it was for one’s soul to move onto the next life.

Cynically, Song Lan had wondered if this was simply a way of ensuring the entire country didn’t resurrect their loved ones as fierce corpses as soon as they died. After all, the technique had been perfected centuries ago by the demonic cultivator who’d penned the infamous Burial Mound texts. Since then, there’d been no further advancements in the field until two years ago, when Wei Wuxian had started testing on animals and of course, Xue Yang had been awestruck. So awestruck that he’d immediately slaughtered a rabbit and brought it back as a laboratory pet. It was obscene.

It was also how Song Lan might be able to encourage Xue Yang to see him in a new light.

“I’ve been thinking about your work,” Song Lan started, “The project with the crows.”

Xue Yang’s wary expression was off-putting but Song Lan ploughed on. Xue Yang loved his fierce crows and if Song Lan showed an interest, perhaps he would love Song Lan too.

“Have you heard Zhuangzi’s story of the butterfly?” Song Lan said.

“Hasn’t everyone?” Xue Yang’s arms were now folded in front of him, his mug abandoned on the countertop.

“Zhuangzi wrote about a man sleeping,” Song Lan continued, “He dreams he’s a butterfly and then he wakes up. Upon waking, he wonders if he’s actually a butterfly who’s dreaming he’s a man dreaming he’s a butterfly. It’s about the limits of human perspective.”

Xue Yang rolled his eyes, “I don’t care what the crow thinks.”

“I kno-” Song Lan said but Xue Yang wasn't finished.

“Maybe it doesn’t want to be a fierce crow.” Xue Yang’s voice had taken on the same cold drone he’d used to imitate Song Lan at the gym. “Maybe it doesn’t want to push cultivation science forward. Maybe it wants to hold back demonic progress.”

Song Lan froze, confusion turning him mute. It was difficult to remember his point under the onslaught of Xue Yang’s sarcasm.

“So?” Xue Yang said, tapping his foot impatiently.

“So,” Song Lan said, forcing his tongue to move, even though he wasn’t quite sure where the conversation had gone, “When the man is dreaming, he’s certain he’s the butterfly. It’s a truth, but when he awakes, he knows another truth. He is a man. How can we know which perspective is the right one-”

A gentle cough from the doorway cut him off.

“Zichen, doesn’t Zhuangzi also encourage us to view life and death as a seamless continuity?” Xiao Xingchen said, smiling sweetly from behind them, “And we should remember that Xue Yang holds a Level 5 license for demonic cultivation. If the authorities have approved his work then who are we to decide they’re wrong?”

The look on Xue Yang’s face was enough to steal all the remaining air from Song Lan’s lungs. He was gazing at Xiao Xingchen as if he was made out of literal stars and quite frankly, it was a little upsetting. Song Lan had been about to say the very same thing.

“Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’m heading out,” Xiao Xingchen said, kissing them both softly on the cheek in turn, “Don’t forget it’s Parents’ Evening tonight so I’ll be back late.”

“I’ll fly with you," Xue Yang said, “I want a deep-fried custard bao from that shop by your school.”

And before Song Lan could choke out his goodbyes, Xue Yang had waltzed out after Xiao Xingchen, leaving him to cough up a single cherry blossom alone.

The rest of Song Lan’s morning disappeared under a fog of nothingness. No matter how important his paperwork was - and how much he normally enjoyed sorting through it - it was impossible to concentrate on anything other the cherry blossoms in his mouth. The only thing he could count as a success was the fact that the disease hadn’t progressed. Coughing up one petal at a time was frightening enough.

Beyond that, he wasn’t sure what else he could be thankful for. Wen Qing’s emails were so alarming that he flinched every time his laptop pinged, Xue Yang was immune to his attempts to find common ground and Xiao Xingchen, faultlessly wonderful though he was, kept inadvertently getting in the way. It was no wonder Song Lan’s head was starting to ache with a rhythmic tapping beat that was -

“Xue Yang,” he cursed, leaping to his feet. The noise wasn’t in his head; it was coming from the windowsill, where a black crow perched, rapping its beak loudly against the glass. It was large with glossy black feathers, almost certainly riddled with some kind of disease and staring at Song Lan through the glass with cold beady eyes. He would have driven it away at first sight, had it not been for the two iron nails embedded in the back of its skull.

“Do not touch anything,” Song Lan said, as he heaved the window open, “And don’t make a mess of any kind or you’ll regret it.”

He had no idea if the crow could understand Chinese but at this point, Song Lan was past caring; he’d take any kind of attention from Xue Yang, even if the sight of the bird circling his desk made his chest constrict unpleasantly. He’d been sincere when he’d tried to take an interest in Xue Yang’s work that morning but Xue Yang had assumed the worst before he’d had a chance to speak and instead of inspiring love and affection, all Song Lan’s efforts had gotten him was an undead bird.

An undead bird that Xue Yang must’ve resurrected from his crow collection. The crow collection that was currently being housed in the Jin Industries' storerooms because there wasn’t enough space at home. Suddenly, Song Lan was back on his feet, shooing the squawking bird out of his office before hurrying out after it. He knew exactly how he could get Xue Yang to fall in love with him.

“You threw out my jars.” Xue Yang said, staring at Song Lan with an unreadable expression on his face, “What have you got against jars?”

They were standing on the balcony, in the corner where Xue Yang’s glassware collection had languished until today.

“I tidied up,” Song Lan explained, “There’s more room for your experiments.”

He had been hard at work all afternoon and now, with Xiao Xingchen working late at the school, he finally had Xue Yang to himself. He could show him what he’d done and with luck, begin the process of softening his own image in Xue Yang’s eyes.

“But what have you got against jars?” Xue Yang repeated, his gaze still blank. Either he wasn’t impressed by the new shelves Song Lan had put up or he hadn’t noticed them yet.

“They were filthy,” Song Lan said. He’d have thought it was self-explanatory, “They’ve been there for months.”

To his surprise, Xue Yang suddenly let out a wild giggle, “I had tongues in those jars. And eyeballs. Do you know how hard it is to get fresh eyeballs?”

“They weren’t fresh,” Song Lan corrected, starting to feel irritated. The eyeballs had been rotting in the summer heat for months and he’d done Xue Yang a favour. The balcony was as pristine as it had been before Xue Yang had ever moved in.

“And I didn’t throw out the jars,” Song Lan added.

Finally, Xue Yang brightened, “Then where are they?”

Song Lan stepped past him to open a cupboard door. As well as putting up new shelves, he’d bought a storage unit and inside, neatly lined up by size and shape were Xue Yang’s jars. All were spotless and gleaming. All were empty.

“Fuck you, Song Lan.” Xue Yang was laughing outright now, only he didn’t sound happy. “You fucking clean freak.”

“I’m not-,” Song Lan started to say before he stopped himself. Getting into an argument wouldn’t help. “I cleaned it for you.”

“And who asked you to do that?” Xue Yang had stepped so close to him that he was now the only thing in Song Lan’s field of vision.

“No-one,” Song Lan said sharply, the sudden proximity making him uneasy, “I was trying to-”

“This is because of the crow, isn’t it?” Xue Yang cut him off with a laugh, so close that flecks of spittle landed on Song Lan’s face. “I know what you’re thinking. Xue Yang’s horrible experiments. Xue Yang’s filthy animals. Xue Yang’s disgusting-”

“They are disgusting,” Song Lan snapped, turning away from Xue Yang as he swiped at the saliva on his cheeks, “It’s all disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” Xue Yang parroted, twisting round until he was toe-to-toe with Song Lan once more, “Disgusting?”

“Step back,” Song Lan growled, lifting a clenched fist up to his mouth. His lungs were starting to burn in the face of Xue Yang’s hostility and so was his rage. The shelves might not be as appealing as Xiao Xingchen’s sweets but they were just as thoughtful. He didn’t deserve Xue Yang hurling insults and spoiling for a fight.

“Move,” Song Lan insisted, nudging at Xue Yang’s chest with his forearm when he didn’t budge. He was rapidly losing patience with Xue Yang and what’s more, he needed to get away from him before he coughed up something he couldn’t take back, “I said move.”

“Why should I?” Xue Yang taunted, leaning even closer, “Too good for me, are you? Think you’re all that beca-”

“Get away from me,” Song Lan finally snapped, both hands flying out to shove Xue Yang backwards, “From now on, I won’t bother, you ungrateful shit.”

This time, it was Song Lan’s turn to leave Xue Yang behind.

It was a long hour before Song Lan’s anger cooled to a low simmer, by which time he had walked so far that he no longer recognised the buildings around him. The sun had begun to set and with the fading light, a burgeoning sense of regret bloomed in his clogged lungs. Sometimes, if they were all home at the same time, they’d sit on the balcony and watch the sunset together. Or at least, Xiao Xingchen would admire how prettily the city’s pollution had turned the sky into a wash of purple and pinks while Xue Yang puffed merrily on a watermelon vape. Song Lan would simply watch them both.

If he hadn’t stormed off, he and Xue Yang might be sat on the balcony now. Or maybe not. Maybe Xue Yang would still be raging about his jars being cleaned or the fact that Song Lan had literally shoved him aside and told him get away from him, as if that wasn’t the very opposite of what Song Lan wanted - needed - right now. And what if, for the very first time in his life, Xue Yang actually listened? He'd wanted Xue Yang to fall in love with him, not leave him.

With dread now rising in his stomach, Song Lan spun round sharply. He needed to get home before it was too late. Xue Yang wouldn’t break up with Xiao Xingchen but he didn’t necessarily have to date both of them.

Song Lan sped up, wishing he’d had the foresight to grab his sword on his way out. He could picture it already. Xue Yang wasn’t considerate enough to move out, so the only thing that would change was sex. But that didn’t make sense either. Xue Yang didn’t need to be in a relationship to sleep with someone. Look at how they’ve gotten together -

Song Lan came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the pavement. How had they gotten together? Had they ever actually talked about it? Could Xue Yang dump him if they weren’t actually dating in the first place?

What if their flat was merely a no-cost stopping point on Xue Yang’s journey to wherever he’d move onto next? Someone who twisted the rules as often as Xue Yang did was sure to grow bored of regular bedtimes, weekend trips to the farmers’ market and the tedium of their domestic routine and in any case, it was almost inevitable that Xue Yang would one day follow in Wei Wuxian’s footsteps and move to Yiling; he was probably already plotting how he’d get his hands on Wei Wuxian's yin iron resurrection circle.

Song Lan’s chest was now so tight that he could only take in the shallowest of breaths but he didn’t slow down. Instead, he accelerated until he was jogging at a brisk pace along the straight road back. He needed to get home before Xue Yang left. He needed to apologise or do something, anything before-

He burst through their front door and came to an abrupt stop. There, in front of him stood Xue Yang, slicing up vegetables at the kitchen counter with unnecessary fervour. It was familiar sight and one so yearned for that in that very same moment, Song Lan inhaled the deepest, clearest lungful of air he’d taken all week.

"Fuck you too, Zichen,” Xue Yang said, his eyes flickering over him before he scowled back down at the chopping board. There was no heat in it so Song Lan didn’t reply. Instead, he sank down onto a stool with relief, curling his tongue around the two wet cherry blossoms hidden in his mouth. Xue Yang might not love him, Xue Yang might not even be dating him, but at least he was still here, taking his anger out on a bitter melon, instead of Song Lan’s heart.

Chapter Text

In one of Wen Qing’s many emails to Song Lan, she’d reiterated that the vast majority of the world’s cherry trees grew blossom flowers with five petals each and so, it was safe to assume that the Hanahaki plant taking root in Song Lan’s lungs would do the same. She’d followed this with strict instructions for him to call her as soon as he started coughing up more than one petal at a time.

And he would, Song Lan promised himself, but there was no point bothering Wen Qing so late on a weeknight when the disease was still objectively in the early stages of growth. After all, progressing from one petal to two was not a reason to panic. A whole blossom flower could be considered a medical emergency but two measly pink dots crumpled in his palm of his hand? A mere warning.

A warning that Song Lan needed to drastically distance himself from Xue Yang if he didn’t want the disease to get any worse. The less time they spent together, the fewer opportunities there would be for Xue Yang to inadvertently do or say anything that could further fuel Song Lan’s feelings of resentment. And while avoidance wasn’t a solution, it would buy Song Lan a little more time before he had to go under Wen Qing’s knife.

It was, Song Lan decided, the obvious solution and to his surprise, an easy one. For the rest of the week, Xue Yang was hardly ever home and when he was, he stumbled straight to the shower and then into bed, stopping only to steal a greedy kiss from Xiao Xingchen before he settled down to sleep, his back pointedly turned to Song Lan.

Song Lan would’ve been hurt or concerned that something was wrong if he hadn’t been so relieved; with Xue Yang’s absence came clearer lungs and a less frequent need to meditate. Besides, with Yi City’s annual Demonic Expo coming up in the next few weeks, it made sense that Xue Yang was throwing himself into his fierce animal experiments. It was either that or Xue Yang was plotting revenge for what Song Lan had done to his collection of rotting eyeballs -

“Why is there a fierce crow on my chair?” Song Lan asked Xue Yang, hoping he sounded curious instead of accusatory. It was the first time they’d spoken since the night of their fight.

“It’s mine,” Xue Yang jerked his chin towards the balcony where a bird’s nest and a collection of small bones lay scattered across the tiled floor, “And now it’s yours. Don’t you like it?”

There was a long pause before Song Lan nodded. That was more or less what he’d intended when he’d cleaned the balcony in the first place; that Xue Yang would be feel like this was his home too. But still, there were limits -

“Fine,” Song Lan said, “But not on my chair, it’s not hygienic-”

“Alright, I get it,” Xue Yang huffed. With a flick of his wrist, the fierce crow took flight and started circling Song Lan’s head, “Be careful what you wish for, Zichen.”

Song Lan wasn’t sure what Xue Yang had meant that morning but from that day on, the fierce crow became Song Lan’s constant companion. It followed him to work each morning, its wings flapping frantically to keep up with Song Lan as he flew along the Sword Circular. It followed him into the shower, cawing as he undressed and even louder when he soaped himself up. Worst of all, it followed him to bed, perching on a stand Xue Yang had placed in the corner with its beady eyes fixed on him all night.

It was, quite frankly, completely disturbing and Song Lan was well-aware that he should be more upset about it - that he should be putting a stop to it - and yet, he said nothing. The truth was, he couldn’t help but feel a little pleased. Having his own undead house pet felt like having Xue Yang’s attention without the repercussions of having Xue Yang’s actual presence. What’s more, the two week reprieve while Xue Yang was stuck at work had done wonders for his illness, even if Wen Qing didn’t agree.

“You should’ve called the moment you started coughing up two blossoms at a time,” Wen Qing said, her fingers pinching harder than necessary on Song Lan’s wrist, “You’re lucky my patient list is full and your core is balanced. If they weren’t, you’d already be on the way to my operating theatre.”

Song Lan grimaced. He knew that Wen Qing had a duty of care and that by failing to keep her updated, he was being a difficult patient.

“I meant to tell you but it only happened once,” Song Lan said awkwardly.

“And you were meant to call me when it did," Wen Qing’s reply was sharp. She’d never been the sort to accept any nonsense and it was clear she wasn’t starting now, “My instructions were clear.”

“I apologise,” Song Lan said stiffly, forcing himself to keep his eyes on her and away from the clinic window. The fierce crow was outside tapping its beak furiously on the glass and he was sure the noise was loud enough to be heard by the patients in Wen Qing’s waiting room. The stress of it all - the awareness of the disturbance the crow was causing and of his own unhelpful behaviour - was making him tense when he only wanted to be sincere, “I was going to call when it happened again but then it stopped. I thought it was getting better.”

To his dismay, Wen Qing only laughed in the same mean way that Xue Yang did when he knew something Song Lan didn’t.

“Let’s see what happens at the Demonic Expo,” she said, “Wei Wuxian’s the keynote speaker.”

Song Lan blinked, “And?”

“And Xue Yang worships the very graves he plunders?” Wen Qing raised an eyebrow.

“Graves? You mean Wei Wuxian is experimenting on human corpses?” Song Lan gaped, “But what about the Preservation of Spiritual Order Act?”

“People have been donating their bodies to medical science and the cultivation arts for centuries and Wei Wuxian’s argument is that his experiments qualify as both, so the Act doesn’t apply,” Wen Qing explained, “The Chief Cultivator has agreed that as long as the donated body has had an official burial, Wei Wuxian can extract the corpse for up to two weeks.”

“And then it’s returned to the earth?” Song Lan struggled to think it through. What if the soul had moved on to its next life? Or what if it hadn’t and Wei Wuxian’s interference disturbed the reincarnation cycle? Was this what Xue Yang wanted to work on next?

“You’ll find out more at the Demonic Expo,” Wen Qing said, clearly amused, “Xue Yang’s presentation is right after Wei Wuxian’s keynote.”

“Presentation?” Song Lan parroted, “Isn’t he going as a delegate?”

To his surprise, Wen Qing looked genuinely angry for the first time since this whole ordeal had begun.

“Your boyfriend - the one you’re morbidly in love with - is about to present the most important demonic research of his life and you aren’t even paying attention,” she hissed, gesturing at the bird now cawing loudly at her windowsill, “Do you know how hard it is to do the work that he does when the cultivation world is against you?”

Song Lan could only gape stupidly as Wen Qing barrelled on. According to her, Xue Yang and Wei Wuxian were the only demonic cultivators in China who weren't self-funding. And yes, she was well-aware that their research projects were paid for by the Jin and the Lan respectively and that came with its own bundle of issues, but at least they had access to proper equipment as well as the veneer of respectability that came with private investment.

“-while I’m transferring golden cores in my own time with no financial support or public backing and I’m the one labelled a threat to society,” Wen Qing snapped, “I’m not even using resentful energy!”

“You’re transferring what?” Song Lan echoed, horrified, but Wen Qing sighed and pushed him towards the door.

“I’ll see you at the Expo next month and if you start coughing up any more cherry blossoms before that, call me immediately,” she said sternly, “If you die from this, I’ll make sure Xue Yang is first in line to bring you back as a fierce corpse. I’ll even fund the experiment myself.”

As the week of the Demonic Expo approached, Xue Yang started to spend more time at home. His experiments were running smoothly on their own, he explained over dinner, with obvious pride.

“Work hard, play hard,” Xue Yang gloated, “Not that Zichen would know anything about having fun, would you? You’re as dull as a wooden chicken.”

Instead of answering, Song Lan looked down at his plate and silently shovelled a spoonful of rice into his mouth to push down the two wet blossoms he could feel in his throat. He was still trying to minimise the time he spent with Xue Yang but more often not, he couldn’t and the conversation would inevitably begin with an insult and end with Song Lan locking himself in the bathroom to hack up cherry blossoms into the sink.

Unfortunately, with Xue Yang now increasingly unavoidable, Song Lan’s coughing fits had become so frequent that even Xiao Xingchen, usually endearingly oblivious, had realised that something was wrong.

“Zichen,” Xiao Xingchen said later that evening, looking worried, “Should you see a doctor?”

“It’s seasonal hay fever,” Song Lan tried to school his expression into something that was both reassuring and honest, “I saw Wen Qing last week.”

A half-truth was better than an outright lie and to his relief, Xiao Xingchen accepted his explanation with an understanding nod and the very next day, a new air purifier appeared on their living room tea table.

“This is the latest model from my foster mother’s Celestial Mountain collection,” Xiao Xingchen said proudly, “It can purify a hundred square metres in under ten minutes and all the profits from this year’s sales will go towards a new school building at the orphanage.”

“Sanctimonious do-gooders,” Xue Yang snorted before poking the tip of a knife into the cleansing circuit, “But I gotta admit, Baoshan Sanren knows what she’s doing. This is the smoothest circulation of captured qi I’ve ever seen.”

“Donated,” Xiao Xingchen beamed, “From the disciples who stay on the mountain after graduation.”

“Same difference,” Xue Yang waved the knife dismissively in the air before pointing it at Song Lan with an accusing stare, “The real question is what kind of bullshit diagnosis is hayfever? It’s not even pollen season.”

It was just Song Lan’s luck that Xue Yang would choose today of all days to take an interest in his health.

“Allergies in general,” Song Lan said, hoping that his voice wasn’t wavering, “If it’s pollen then it’s hayfever but it could be dust or pollution. Pending further testing.”

“Most people sneeze when they have allergies,” Xue Yang’s gaze was locked on Song Lan and it was making his heart rate accelerate but not in a good way.

“Coughing asthma,” Song Lan said brusquely with a certainty he didn’t feel, “Triggered by the hayfever. Or the allergies. Wen Qing’s got a few theories.”

Xue Yang looked disbelieving but returned half an hour later with his nose glued to his phone, “Coughing asthma is a real thing,”

“I wasn’t lying,” Song Lan lied.

“I didn’t think you were,” Xue Yang said, already cackling to himself, “But stupid? Definitely.”

Song Lan was saved from replying by a sudden coughing fit so prolonged that Xue Yang looked a little guilty, which in turn made Song Lan feel a lot better.

In the days that followed, avoiding Xue Yang became almost impossible and Song Lan could feel himself become increasingly anxious as a result of it. He would’ve sworn that he hardly saw Xue Yang before the Hanahaki disease had taken root but now, Xue Yang was everywhere he looked. Even in his dreams.

There, Xue Yang was sweet and soft, gazing up at Song Lan with the same guileless warmth that he directed at Xiao Xingchen when he thought no-one was looking. It was an expression that made Song Lan wish he could stay sleeping forever since in real life, Xue Yang was far from sweet or soft. Instead, he was a literal pain in the neck.

“No,” Song Lan growled, his voice rough with sleep as he woke to two pointy canines sinking into his throat. It was pitch-black and even the fierce crow appeared to imitating sleep which meant that there were still several hours left until dawn, “Go away. It’s too early.”

Instead, Xue Yang bit down harder until Song Lan was wide-awake and shoving uselessly at the squirming heap on top of him.

“I‘m not candy,” Song Lan tried again, tugging uselessly at Xue Yang’s high ponytail, “Not so hard.”

Xue Yang only snickered, biting harder and wriggling until Song Lan was suddenly acutely aware of his growing erection pressing up against Xue Yang’s hip.

“What was that?” Xue Yang sounded smug, “Feels plenty hard to me.”

Song Lan scowled. Of course Xue Yang would treat Song Lan like some sort of toy to hump and chew on whenever he wanted some attention, instead of letting him sleep as soundly as Xiao Xingchen was beside them. Huffing, Song Lan rolled them both over until Xue Yang was trapped beneath him, their bodies pressed tightly together so that Xue Yang could feel exactly how hard he was. If he wanted to fuck around, he could literally get fucked-

When Song Lan woke up again later that morning - when the sun had actually risen -  Xue Yang had already left for the first day of the Demonic Expo and Xiao Xingchen was beaming with anticipation.

“I’m so glad we can support Xue Yang at these conferences,” Xingchen said as he handed Song Lan a cup of black coffee, “I know it means a lot to him that we’re always there.’

“We’ve only been to one and that wasn’t to support him,” Song Lan corrected him gently, “Xue Yang just happened to be there.”

But Xiao Xingchen only smiled beatifically, “And now we’ll go to our second. I’m looking forward to hearing about his new research. He’s so passionate about it.”

“The fierce crow?” Song Lan asked, glancing outside to the balcony where the fierce crow was eating the breakfast Xue Yang had left it on the balcony. It had been following him for weeks now and aside from its laser focus on everything he did, he couldn’t see what was so remarkable about it.

“Yes, the crows are-” Xiao Xingchen suddenly giggled, “Xue Yang said-”

“Forget it,” Song Lan interrupted, for once unamused by Xiao Xingchen’s ability to delight in everything Xue Yang did. His disturbed sleep - pleasurable though it had been in the moment - had left him feeling grumpy, as did a growing worry that Xue Yang was only interested in him for sex. Not that he could think about that while the cherry blossoms were already fluttering frantically in his lungs. Downing his coffee in one punishing gulp, Song Lan shot to his feet, “Let’s go. Xue Yang can tell me himself.”

Song Lan had only been at the Demonic Expo for an hour but he could feel himself reaching the limits of his tolerance. While Xiao Xingchen eagerly caught up with his nephew and Wen Qing exchanged pleasantries with the other delegates, Song Lan sat stiffly in the third row of the auditorium, avoiding conversation with anyone who tried to introduced themselves. As far as he was concerned, the entire conference was anxiety-inducing and he did not approve.

Firstly, Wei Wuxian’s keynote speech had been scandalous. The demonic cultivator had called on his audience to consider the potential utility of fierce corpses, as if dead bodies should be put to work instead of laid to rest. Secondly, there were schoolchildren in the room who clearly found Wei Wuxian’s ideas inspiring instead of terrifying. One teenaged boy had even asked for his autograph and was now clutching a notebook which had ‘Mo Xuanyu will achieve the impossible!’ scrawled across its front in glittery red ink. Thirdly and most significantly, Xue Yang’s presentation was imminent and Song Lan was feeling increasingly uneasy about it.

“Xue Yang’s presentation is titled ‘The Utilisation of Fierce Crows for Observation, Communication and Espionage’,” Wen Qing read aloud from the printed agenda in her delegate pack. She was sitting on Song Lan’s right hand side, with Xiao Xingchen squeezed between them.

“Exactly the sort of research Jin Guangshan would fund,” Song Lan grunted, “The major cultivation sectors are always capitalising from war when they should be advancing peace.”

“But Zichen, the subtitle is rather unusual,” Xiao Xingchen pointed out, “What do you think Xue Yang means by ‘How To Care For Your Human’?”

“Human trials,” Song Lan explained warily, hoping Xiao Xingchen wouldn’t be too upset. He’d always thought the best of Xue Yang but this was almost certainly a step too far, “Xue Yang’s planning to follow Wei Wuxian’s example and resurrect the dead-”

“No he isn’t,” Wen Qing interrupted, “Where did you get that idea from?”

“You-,” Song Lan started to say but he was interrupted by the audience’s rapturous applause as Xue Yang bounded onstage, closely followed by his collection of fierce crows. Song Lan’s crow - not that it was his fierce crow as such, but he was used to it now - cawed loudly from where it sat on the chair to his left. Song Lan had allowed it as the only alternative would have been been to let it perch on his own armrest and that would’ve been intolerable.

“Demonic devotees and resentful reprobates,” Xue Yang began, with a huge grin on his face, “I present to you the very latest in fierce animal testing, brought to you with the help of my human test subject Song Zichen.”

And Song Lan could only sit, frozen in disbelief, as he watched the last few weeks of his life flash up on the large screen behind Xue Yang. His life condensed into a series of data points for all to see.

“First, tracking. As you can see from this map, the fierce crow is able to closely tail the test subject from a range of distances and at multiple speeds during a range of weather conditions. The crow maintains a minimum distance of half a li and a maximum of two li for over an hour even though the test subject is flying through dense sword traffic comprising of over five thousand commuters,” Xue Yang tapped on the screen and more thick black lines appeared, overlapping the first set, “This test was repeated forty seven times and the fierce crow was successful in following the test subject from his home to his workplace and back one hundred percent of the time.”

The crowd murmured with interest, as if looking at the map of Song Lan’s daily commute wasn’t an invasion of his privacy.

“The fierce crow has done well to keep up with you,” Xiao Xingchen whispered into Song Lan’s ear, “I know how fast you can fly. It’s very impressive how good Xue Yang’s control is.”

“His crow was stalking me-” Song Lan’s hiss was cut off by Xue Yang bounding across the stage.

“Next, surveillance!” Xue Yang reached out to one of the crows beside with him and poked it in the eye with the end of his fake pinky. It didn’t flinch, “As you can see, the fierce crow’s left eyeball has been replaced with a camera capable of live-streaming in 8K resolution. The signal can transmit over ten thousand li which means you can monitor your human or in this case, my test subject, anywhere they are in Yi City, all in real-time.”

Xue Yang tapped the screen again and the map was replaced by a live feed of -

Song Lan leapt to his feet and the onscreen version of himself followed a split second later. The angle was strange, as if the camera was low down to his left and the crowd laughed as Song Lan’s own face came into vision. The fierce crow on the chair beside him had tilted its head to meet Song Lan’s horrified stare. The same fierce crow which had a camera in its eyeball and which had been following him around, live-streaming him to Xue Yang for weeks. It watched him sleep, it watched him eat, he’d even let it watch him shower -

“Xue Yang,” he choked out, embarrassment robbing him of words that the crowd’s enthusiastic clapping would’ve drowned out even if he’d found them.

“Third, redirection,” Xue Yang continued blithely, “Look at this!”

At a wave of Xue Yang’s gloved hand, a video started to play on the screen. It showed Song Lan leaving the Baixue Templars office and walking along the road towards the fruit stall on the corner. Then, the camera swivelled to reveal a scruffy-looking boy hovering next to the stall before it turned back to focus on Song Lan and then back to the boy. Suddenly, the camera lurched as the fierce crow took flight to swoop in erratic circles around Song Lan’s head. By the time the fierce crow settled down on a nearby lamppost and the camera had steadied, the child was halfway down the road with a stolen mangosteen in each hand.

Song Lan - the one in the auditorium - sank back down into his seat in disbelief. He remembered that day clearly and if he’d noticed the boy shoplifting, he’d have intervened. Instead, he’d wondered what had frightened the crow to make it fly like that, he’d scolded the stall owner for using filthy language where passing children could hear - the man had in fact been cursing at the boy, Song Lan now realised - and then he’d bought a kilo of mangosteens himself, knowing that Xue Yang would like them. He’d been thinking of Xue Yang, wanting to please him, while Xue Yang had only been using him.

“The next iteration of my fierce crows will have more sophisticated distraction techniques,” Xue Yang was back onstage, smiling wide enough to display his canines, “But right now, I’m focussing on object retrieval and delivery. A fierce crow can carry items weighing up to a kilo in their beaks. Think of the possibilities!”

Theft was the only possibility in Song Lan’s eyes. Instead of merely aiding a shoplifter, a fierce crow could steal anything it liked on its own. Xue Yang was sure to have list of targets lined up and if he didn’t, the lawyers at Jin Industries would find some loophole to exploit and -

And that wasn’t even the part of Xue Yang’s presentation he cared about, Song Lan realised as his rage spluttered out as quickly as it had began. Suddenly, the only thing he could think about - the only thing he could really feel - was the rapidly escalating pain in his chest. He could've coped if Xue Yang had been spying on him for his own twisted entertainment - he might even have been flattered - but this was so much worse; Xue Yang had turned him into a non-consenting lab rat in a demonic science experiment for hundreds of people to gawp at. The same hundreds who were all applauding Xue Yang now.

“Thank you, demonic friends and fiends! And don’t forget my human test subject, Song Zichen,” Xue Yang’s gleeful voice rang out over the enthusiastic applause filling the auditorium, “Zichen, stand up.”

Song Lan’s legs felt stiff and heavy but he forced himself to obey. Xue Yang had been using his body for data for weeks; there was no point fighting him on this now. He rose to his feet and nodded grimly at the crowd as they glanced his way before their attention turned backed to the stage where Xue Yang’s crows had all taken flight.

When Song Lan lifted a hand up his mouth, all eyes were on Xue Yang’s fierce crows who were flying a victory lap around him. Their movements were beautiful and so was Xue Yang and as Song Lan watched, the agonising throbbing in his chest morphed into a gaping, unbearable ache. All this time, he’d thought the fierce crow had been an undead connection between he and Xue Yang alone. Perhaps a peace offering after that awful fight they’d had? But he’d been wrong and all his desperate attempts to slow down the Hanahaki disease had been just as misguided.

A gentle exhale was all it took for three cherry blossoms to flutter out into his cupped palm, where they sat - bright pink and taunting - for only a split-second before Song Lan’s hand curled up into a tight, decisive fist. It was time for Wen Qing to remove the Hanahaki seed; it was time for her to take away the pain.

Chapter Text

For as long as Song Lan had known her, Wen Qing had always been an exemplary doctor who cared deeply about the health and wellbeing of her patients. It was why Song Lan had been certain she’d be quick to help him and why he didn’t understand why she wasn’t.

“I’m ready,” Song Lan insisted for the third time in as many minutes. He’d been waiting outside her clinic since well before the practice’s advertised opening hour and was more than a little impatient.

“Good for you,” Wen Qing said, staring at him flatly before she turned to jab ruthlessly at her coffee machine until it responded with a series of deep rumbles and high-pitched beeps, “But I’m the medical professional and I’ll decide when the time is right.”

“The time is right now,” Song Lan knew he sounded exasperated but he couldn’t help it. Both his inbox and his voicemail were full with messages from Wen Qing herself urging him to book a date for surgery, “I’m ready.”

“And I don’t think you’ve exhausted all your options,” Wen Qing picked up her mug of freshly brewed coffee and took a long gulp before turning to face Song Lan properly. It was clear from her impatient expression that she was not a morning person, “Have you thought any more about confessing?”

Song Lan shook his head, “You were there yesterday. You saw for yourself-”

He cut himself off, rubbing idly at his chest. He couldn’t think about yesterday’s events without his lungs cramping sharply.

“I saw everything,” Wen Qing said, barely sparing him a glance before she handed him an empty specimen pot, “Xue Yang’s work is impressive. He’s dedicated.”

“I know that,” Song Lan said carefully. He could admit that his lingering objections to demonic cultivation were to the way Xue Yang had used him in his experiments, rather than to the work itself, “I’m not asking him to change.”

Wen Qing continued as if he hadn’t said anything, “Xue Yang’s work revolves around you. He’s focused on everything you do.”

Song Lan nodded, “He’s thorough. The Scientific Cultivator are going to do an article after his research has been peer-reviewed. It’s important that the science is sound.”

“The science,” Wen Qing echoed flatly. She took another long gulp from her mug.

“He’s breaking boundaries,” Song Lan said, trying to sound confident. He was merely repeating what the journalist had gushed after Xue Yang’s presentation the day before, “He’s enhancing society’s understanding of resentful energy and taking the field into fascinating new directions.”

Wen Qing didn’t look particularly impressed by his newfound support for demonic cultivation but then, she knew far more about the subject than Song Lan did. Her late uncle Wen Ruohan had rather infamously been the leader of the Sunshot Clan, a group of unsavoury cultivators who had used resentful energy to torture innocent people for power and monetary gain. It was the kind of criminal behaviour that the Cultivation Council - comprised of representatives from the Lan Institute, Jin Industries and Nie Laboratories as well as the smaller cultivation centres - had worked hard to eradicate through strict licensing and regulation.

It was this climate of caution and suspicion - Song Lan realised with a jolt - that Wen Qing had been talking about the last time he’d come to her clinic. Xue Yang was doing genuine academic research under significant restrictions and while Song Lan didn’t like being his lab rat, it was important to support his work, no matter how much heartache it caused.

“Xue Yang’s a scientist,” Song Lan repeated firmly, pausing only to cough up a fresh set of three fluttering cherry blossoms into the specimen pot, “He takes his research seriously.”

Wen Qing took the pot from him and labeled it carefully with Song Lan’s courtesy name and the date before she said, “Demonic cultivation hasn’t always been considered a science. Some still say it’s an art. So much of it is tied to emotion and intent. One cultivator’s fierce foe is another’s fierce friend.”

Song Lan frowned, confused by her words, “Is that one of Xue Yang’s jokes?”

Wen Qing moved to the specimen fridge, continuing as if Song Lan hadn’t said anything, “If demonic cultivation were an art, that would make you Xue Yang’s muse. What do you think?”

Song Lan sighed, “I think this conversation is going nowhere. When can you operate?”

The fridge door shut with a loud thud as Wen Qing turned to face him once more, “I won’t. Not without Xue Yang’s consent. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

And before Song Lan could stop her, Wen Qing had opened the clinic door and ushered in her first patient of the day, leaving Song Lan no choice but to nod stiffly at them both and take his leave.

It was, Song Lan fumed, a bit rich of Wen Qing to preach about Xue Yang and consent when no-one seemed to think about asking him how he felt. It was his Hanahaki seed that he wanted removed from his body, it was his body that Xue Yang’s fierce crow followed to work every day and it was his work that was being disturbed by Xue Yang yet again.

“It’s Thursday,” Song Lan said, “I have paperwork to file.”

“That’s what interns are for,” Xue Yang said, jerking his chin at the four juniors queued up at Song Lan’s desk. “They’re keen to prove themselves, ain’t that right?”

Song Lan eyed them doubtfully. Ouyang Zizhen, Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi were all enthusiastic enough but Jin Ling didn’t strike him as someone who knew the value of hard work. Song Lan was fairly certain the boy had secured his internship by way of one of his powerful uncle’s connections instead of earning it through the competitive application process that the others would have gone through.

“A misplaced file could cause weeks of delays,” Song Lan said, shaking his head. There was a reason he did the filing himself, even if Xue Yang was right; it was typically a task left to the office juniors.

“The crow can supervise,” Xue Yang said, waving a hand towards the window sill where the bird was perched, “Make any mistakes and it’ll peck your eyes out, understood?”

Xue Yang made a sharp, two-fingered jabbing motion at the juniors but to Song Lan’s surprise, the inappropriate workplace threat didn’t upset them. Instead, they burst into excited chatter as they leaned in to get a closer look at the fierce crow. Jin Ling even reached out a hand towards its black feathers -

“Don’t!” Song Lan yelped before he could stop himself, “Don’t touch it. It’s… it’s…”

He stumbled to a halt. ‘It’s mine’ was a pathetic thing to say out loud, as well as being fundamentally untrue, but it was how he felt and of course, Xue Yang would never let an opportunity to tease pass him by -

“It’s his emotional support crow. He’s very possessive,” Xue Yang said. His expression was mocking but to Song Lan’s relief, the juniors all took a hasty step backwards.

“It’s a working animal,” Song Lan bristled. He did not need emotional support from a dead bird, “It’s not a pet.”

Xue Yang only laughed and tugged sharply on his arm, “Whatever, big guy, let’s go. We have a date.”

It was not a date. What it was - if Song Lan allowed himself to think about it properly, which of course he couldn’t without risking a coughing fit - was yet another breach of his dignity, privacy and personal autonomy. Not that anyone else saw it that way.

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to take off that shirt?” said Nie Huaisang, sweeping a critical gaze over Song Lan’s clothes. As editor-in-chief of Cultivator Illustrated, China’s bestselling monthly magazine, Nie Huaisang was known for his particular brand of artistic vision. Unfortunately for Song Lan, that vision now included him.

“Is that really necessary?” Song Lan said, crossing his arms over his chest in case either Nie Huaisang or Xue Yang got any ideas about ripping it off him. It was one of five identical black shirts that he rotated through during the work week and it would be inconvenient to damage one now.

“Our readers want to see you in your natural state,” Nie Huaisang said, tapping Song Lan’s bicep with a folded fan, “It’s about celebrating the peak of cultivating society. Strong, passionate, beautiful.”

Song Lan stifled a snort. Pornographic would be a more accurate description but somehow, Nie Huaisang’s front covers managed to skate a fine line between suggestive artistry and outright obscenity.

“Song Lan’s too humble to show off his six-pack,” Xue Yang said, winking at Nie Huaisang, “But I have something he can wear.”

And that was how Song Lan found himself, dressed in gym shorts and a tight-fitting singlet while a photographer adjusted the lights around him. At least - Song Lan thought to himself - Xue Yang had bought him an outfit that was in his usual black and not too revealing. The shorts were loose and although they rode a little higher on Song Lan’s thighs than he’d have chosen for himself, the clothes were still respectable enough to wear in public -

“This edition will break sales records,” Nie Huaisang crowed, “And we’ll do an exclusive digital gallery for new subscribers.”

As Nie Huaisang turned away to shoot ideas at the photographer - something about adding more oil spray to Song Lan’s arms and a harder key light for sharper shadows - Song Lan turned his attention towards Xue Yang. He had changed into a cultistenics outfit that was cut in a traditional style and usually worn for performance rather than exercise. It was black with dark green panels, leather trim and a very faint leopard print pattern that was a little garish for Song Lan’s tastes but suited Xue Yang perfectly. He’d photograph well, unlike Song Lan-

“You should do the front cover by yourself,” Song Lan blurted out. Xue Yang hadn’t explained why Song Lan was here in the first place, but the more he thought about it, the less it made sense, “It’s your research and- ”

A stinging blow to the back of his head cut him off. Song Lan turned to see Nie Huaisang snapping a fan shut with a huff.

“Save that for the Scientific Cultivator,” Nie Huaisang sniffed, “There’s a reason the Cultivator Illustrated is the most influential magazine in the country and it’s because we don’t print stuffy science reports. We give the people what they really want to see. The demonic cultivator and his distant snow and cold frost. Ah, that’s an idea, you could be caught in a snow storm-”

Nie Huaisang suddenly sprinted off, shouting something about needing to find a snow machine and leaving Song Lan taking short, rattling breaths as his chest twinged sharply. He wasn’t Xue Yang’s anything and speaking of Xue Yang -

Song Lan looked round, suddenly uneasy. Xue Yang had been unusually quiet and that was never a good sign.

“Xue Yang?” Song Lan strode over to where Xue Yang sat texting while the photographer adjusted a set of lights around him, “Are you sure you want me here?”

Xue Yang didn’t look up from his phone, “Stop making such a fuss, Zichen. You’re doing this.”

Song Lan nodded - as if Xue Yang had asked him, instead of commanded him - and sat down next to him to wait until Nie Huaisang returned. There was no point disagreeing with Xue Yang and he supposed that there was no harm in staying when he was already here. Plus, wasn’t it nice to spend time with Xue Yang, even if he was ignoring him in favour of whomever he was texting?

The silence also gave Song Lan a moment to reflect on what Wen Qing had told him two days earlier; that she’d only operate if Xue Yang agreed to it first. It was an irritating and unreasonable stipulation but it was also one that Song Lan could afford to ignore. Wen Qing would back down as soon the Hanahaki disease risked becoming fatal and there was no reason Song Lan couldn’t speed things along. It would hurt but at least it would finally be over and then Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen could-

“Xiao Xingchen’s here!” Xue Yang leapt to his feet.

Song Lan looked around, confused. The only other people in the room were Nie Huaisang wafting fake snow across the studio floor and the photographer taping a blue gel to the front of a light panel.

‘Hurry up,” Xue Yang said into his phone. Presumably Xiao Xingchen was whom he’d been texting all along, “Zichen’s having a meltdown.”

“I’m not,” Song Lan said stiffly. The hot lights were making him clammy and his chest was so clogged with cherry blossoms that his breaths were coming out in shallow gasps but he wasn’t having a meltdown, he was having an epiphany, “Don’t tell me what I’m feeing. I’m not your puppet.”

To his relief, Xue Yang responded with the same laughing dismissal he always did, “Is that what you think? We’ll see about that.”

And then Xue Yang was gone, racing off to find Xiao Xingchen and leaving Song Lan behind to cough deliberately into a tissue. Xue Yang didn’t see him as a person, Xue Yang only saw him as a puppet, Xue Yang didn’t love him -

Song Lan carefully folded up the tissue paper, hiding the fresh set of cherry blossoms with a perverse sense of accomplishment. Xue Yang was unpredictable but his disregard for Song Lan wasn’t and Song Lan would use it to his advantage. The worse the Hanahaki disease got, the sooner this heartache would be over.

“You look so strong, Zichen,” Xiao Xingchen exclaimed, his voice bright with admiration.

He was standing next to Nie Huaisang and the two of them were peering at the monitor connected to the photographer’s camera. Song Lan and Xue Yang had been posing for over half an hour and if it weren’t for Xiao Xingchen’s obvious delight, Song Lan would have already left. There was something vaguely embarrassing about gazing into Xue Yang’s eyes while a stranger took photographs of them and Nie Huaisang’s directions only made him feel more self-conscious.

“Let’s try one more position,” Nie Huaisang said, “Something more dynamic.”

Song Lan didn’t know what ‘dynamic’ meant or how he was meant to achieve it but it was sure to involve them standing far too close than was appropriate for public viewing -

“Xue Yang, can you do a side plank on your sword?” Nie Huaisang gestured overhead, “While flying above Song Lan? And Song Lan, can you reach up as if you’re lifting the sword?”

It only got weirder from there.

“Xue Yang, how about a handstand on the ground?” Nie Huaisang said, “And Song Lan, could you cross your arms and look at Xue Yang? Perfect.”

Song Lan turned to Xue Yang and tried not to scowl. Even though they were doing the front cover together, Xue Yan still only had eyes for Xiao Xingchen.

“Xiao Xingchen, how do I look?” Xue Yang said. He barely missed breaking Song Lan’s nose with his foot as he flipped himself over.

“You’re so graceful,” Xiao Xingchen cooed.

“I know,” Xue Yang preened before flipping back onto his feet, “And I’m a great teacher too. Show ‘em, big guy.”

“What?” Song Lan said, alarmed. Surely Xue Yang didn’t mean what he thought he meant? “That was one time.”

“Ignore him,” Xue Yang said to Nie Huaisang before placing his sword on the ground in front of Song Lan, “Remember what I told you. Keep your elbows bent, breathe into your core and push your qi upwards to your toes.”

Song Lan gaped at him for a second then nodded stiffly. There was no point refusing. The time for that had long passed and in any case, it was more fodder for the monologue running through his head; Xue Yang sees me as a puppet not a person, Xue Yang doesn’t love me, Xue Yang will never love me.

Slowly, Song Lan placed his palms flat on Xue Yang’s sword and turned himself upside-down into a handstand. A gentle push of his qi upwards lifted the sword into the air and to his surprise, the move was easier than he remembered. Perhaps because he was only a couple of cyun off the ground this time, instead of half a zhang.

Somewhere above him to his right, he heard Xiao Xingchen burst into excited applause, “Well done, Zichen!”

“See?” Xue Yang gloated, “I taught him that.”

That was true - Song Lan supposed - and it wasn’t too hard, although he didn’t think it was something he could do for long. He was already starting to wobble and -

- just as Song Lan was about to tumble to the ground, there was a sharp whooshing sound and a familiar icy cold sensation around his waist, followed by a tight circle around his ankle. He swayed and then stilled. Somehow, he was still in mid-air.

“Binding,” he heard Nie Huaisang gasp, “Did Wei Wuxian teach you that?”

“Something like that,” Xue Yang said. Although Song Lan couldn’t see his face, he could hear the smirk in his voice, “I made a few adjustments so the rope’s ice cold.”

“For your distant snow and cold frost,” Nie Huaisang sighed dramatically, “That’s so romantic. Quick, take a picture!”

There was some frantic clicking and a dazzling flash of bright lights for a few brief seconds until Xue Yang suddenly declared, “That’s enough fun and games. Song Lan, get down before you fall down. I won’t catch you this time.”

Song Lan hurried to obey. He knew a threat when he heard one and he was already in enough pain.

Once they’d changed back into their usual clothes, Nie Huaisang insisted on treating them to lunch. It was only once Song Lan had sat down that he realised that it was a working lunch -

“It’ll be a six-page special,” Nie Huaisang outlined briskly, “We’ll include some of your research, Xue Yang. I know I said we don’t do dry science but this is hardly dry, is it? Those shower pics-”

“Wait,” Song Lan interrupted, “What shower pics?”

“From the crow cam, of course,” Nie Huaisang said, “I might have to save some for my personal collection.”

Nie Huaisang’s exaggerated wink was interrupted by a waitress dropping four large bowls of wanton mee on their table. By the time she’d left, he’d already moved on.

“You three remind me of my brother and his boyfriends,” Nie Huaisang said, eyeing them mischievously.

“Fuck no,” Xue Yang scoffed as he leant forward to dig into his noodle bowl. Song Lan was inclined to agree with him but not for the same reasons, “Those righteous pricks hate demonic cultivation.”

“Not that,” Nie Huaisang said, “I meant they’re so in love, it’s disgusting.”

Song Lan stared down at his noodles sullenly. If only Nie Huaisang knew that that was exactly why their relationship had nothing in common with his brother’s. Any affection that Xue Yang had went towards Xiao Xingchen while Song Lan trailed behind him like a pitiful, lovesick pet. And even then, Xue Yang showed more care towards his fierce crows that he ever had towards him-

And that was exactly the kind of thinking that would help speed up his illness. Ignoring Nie Huaisang and Xue Yang as they fell into a heated debate on whether sabre cultivation was more or less ‘badass’ than demonic cultivation, Song Lan turned his attention towards feeding the Hanahaki blossoms swelling in his lungs.

It wasn’t difficult. He only had to remind himself of the facts; Xue Yang’s feelings for him were paper thin next to the enduring strength of the Venerated Triad who had survived Jin Guangshan’s attempts to sabotage them, their own relationship was so one-sided and meaningless that no-one deemed them worthy of a grand nickname and Song Lan would never have what Nie Mingjue had -

This time, when the cherry blossoms fluttered up into Song Lan’s mouth, he swallowed down on them with careful bites of his noodles. When he finally looked up again, feeling tentatively smug about his own success, Xiao Xingchen was still trying to make sense of what Nie Huaisang had said.

“Haven’t your brother and his boyfriends broken up at least three times?” Xiao Xingchen interrupted the sabre-versus-demonic debate gently. His forehead was creased into a concerned frown, “Once over that data leak at Nie Laboratories, then there was that corporate espionage scandal at Jin Industries and what was the third time?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Nie Huaisang said cheerfully, waving his chopsticks in the air in a dismissive wriggle, “What I do know is that Da-ge and San-ge break up every time the seasons change. It’s their love language.”

“That sounds so unhealthy,” Xiao Xingchen said mournfully, “I could ask Wen Qing to recommend a relationship therapist?”

“That’s what Er-ge is for,” Nie Huaisang said, digging into his noodles cheerfully, “And it works.”

“So toxic and yet so appealing,” Xue Yang mused, “If I had a death wish, being bench-pressed by your brother wouldn’t be a bad way to go. At least A-Yao would be quick about ending me.”

Song Lan watched, perplexed, as Xiao Xingchen burst into a fit of giggles while Nie Huaisang sniffed in disdain. None of what Xue Yang joked about ever made sense to him but clearly, he was the only one.

“Da-ge would never sleep with y-” Nie Huaisang started before he abruptly changed the subject, “What was I saying? Ah, I don’t know, let’s get on with the interview. Song Lan, tell me, why did you volunteer to be such a big part of Xue Yang’s first major demonic study?”

The rest of lunch continued in the same vein. Nie Huaisang asked questions that were impossible to answer, Xue Yang interjected with something that Song Lan didn’t completely understand and therefore couldn’t dispute, while Xiao Xingchen praised Xue Yang for his cleverness and dedication. There was, once again, very little reason for Song Lan to be there at all so instead of joining in, he concentrated on accelerating his sickness. It helped that Xue Yang was right next to him, brazenly telling Nie Huaisang everything without any care for Song Lan's feelings.

Firstly, Xue Yang explained that Song Lan hadn’t been his first choice of study participant-

“I would’ve asked Xiao Xingchen but he’s a teacher and all those kids would’ve been a nightmare. Song Lan was the only option.”

- and secondly, that Xue Yang found him dull and predictable -

“It’s not a fair test if you can’t repeat the conditions and no-one's better for that than Song Lan. He flies the exact same route at the exact same time every day. Boring!”

- and thirdly, what Xue Yang really thought of him -

“Song Lan’s so stiff, he’s practically a fierce corpse himself.”

It was this last comment that sent Song Lan hunching over the table, clamping both hands over his mouth as he coughed into them. The pain was suddenly so intensely, agonisingly painful that it felt as if his lungs themselves were trying to exit his body.

Xiao Xingchen was the first to react, “Is it your hayfever, Zichen? I’ll get you a glass of water. Does anyone else want one while I’m up?”

Xue Yang shook his head as Nie Huaisang gracefully rose his feet.

“I should get back to the office anyway,” Nie Huaisang said, “Song Lan, I’ve heard steam inhalations are good for opening up the airways. Xue Yang, I’ll be in touch next week for a few more anecdotes to round out the article. First date, first kiss, that sort of thing.”

“Sure. And I could loan you a fierce crow if you like?” Xue Yang jumped to his feet and slung an arm over Nie Huaisang’s shoulder, “There’s gotta be someone you need to keep an eye on. How about A-Yao? He’s always up to something shady.”

As the pair walked to the door to say their goodbyes, Song Lan stared at the table top. He’d stopped coughing but he could still feel the knot in his chest, tight and ready to explode. The anticipation only made it easier to concentrate; Xue Yang only loves Xiao Xingchen, Xue Yang doesn’t love me; Xue Yang could never love me.

And with a loud, chesty cough, four cherry blossoms came hurtling out of Song Lan’s mouth followed the deepest, clearest intake of air he’d taken in weeks. Almost ecstatic with triumph and relief, he watched as the four blossoms twirled in the air in a slow spiral before -

A glass shattered and a pool of water spread over the table. The blossoms, bright pink and almost glowing, landed in the water and sank, instantly sodden through.

Above him, Xiao Xingchen was pale and shaking. When he spoke, his voice was trembling, “Zichen? How? Who?”

Song Lan could only stare up at him in fright. He’d forgotten all about Xiao Xingchen. He’d wanted to protect him and now -

When Song Lan opened his mouth, he blurted out the first thing he could think of, “Get away from me. Leave me alone.”

Chapter Text

Song Lan knew his words had been too harsh as soon as he’d said them and yet, he didn’t take them back. Instead, he repeated them, knowing that in that moment, the only thing he wanted in the world more than Xue Yang loving him back was for Xiao Xingchen to leave him alone.

“Get away from me,” Song Lan said, surprised by how steady he sounded, “Now.”

Turning away sharply, without giving Xiao Xingchen a chance to respond, Song Lan fixed his gaze on the table where the cherry blossoms were floating in the pool of spilled water. They were at once deeply revealing and utterly incriminating and there was no doubt that Xiao Xingchen had already realised what they meant; Song Lan was sick, the Hanahaki disease was considerably advanced and he had been lying about it for weeks if not months.

With shaking hands, Song Lan reached for a box of napkins and started to mop up the sodden petals, the water and the shards of glass. It was easier to tidy up the mess in front of him than it was to look Xiao Xingchen in the eye. Song Lan barely had a grip on his own feelings - the burning shame, the embarrassment, the gut-wrenching pain of being in love with someone who didn’t love him back - there was no way he could face Xiao Xingchen’s heartbreak too.

It was long after he’d cleaned up the mess, wiping the surface down twice and then spritzing it with an antibacterial spray for good measure, that Song Lan finally dared to lift his eyes from the table. When he did, Xiao Xingchen had already gone.

“Did Xiao Xingchen say anything?” Song Lan said anxiously to Xue Yang who was sitting on a bar stool by the counter slurping on a bowl of sweet red bean soup. He looked cheerful but not in the way Song Lan thought Xue Yang would look if Xiao Xingchen had just told him the most hilarious news of his life.

“He had to go back to work,” Xue Yang said around a mouthful of sticky tang yuan, “How are those lungs? You looked like someone stole all the air out of them.”

“It’s nothing,” Song Lan said, trying to sound composed over a swell of relief, “Just tired.”

Xue Yang nodded, “I’ll give you a lift back to Baixue. We can find out what kind of mess the juniors have made of your filing cabinets. Do you think they’ve sorted those papers by radical or stroke number? Or worse, maybe they’ve embraced the English alphabet-”

Xue Yang broke off into a loud cackle as Song Lan strode swiftly to the door.

“Hurry up,” Song Lan said curtly. Xue Yang would think he’d succeeded in provoking him but he didn’t care. Now that Xue Yang had suggested it, it was all he wanted; to be alone in his office - away from anything to do with the Hanahaki disease for a few precious hours.

Song Lan had been wrong. Being on his own had been a terrible idea. Instead of an afternoon’s peace, the solitude had given Song Lan time to brood on what had happened and his initial feelings of panic had given way to simmering anger. Logically, he knew that it wasn’t Xiao Xingchen’s fault that Song Lan had coughed up the cherry blossoms in front of him but that didn’t mean Song Lan wasn’t furious.

First of all, he was mad at himself for getting so caught up in his own thoughts that he’d lost track of Xiao Xingchen’s movements but secondly - and this was what kept running through his head, even as he tried to distract himself with double-checking the juniors’ filing - he knew that whatever happened now, the situation was only going to get worse. Xiao Xingchen - sweet, trusting Xiao Xingchen - would want to help.

“He loves you too, I’m sure of it,” Xiao Xingchen said as soon as Song Lan got home that evening. They were standing in the living room, watching Xue Yang fuss over the fierce crow on the balcony.

Song Lan said nothing. This is exactly what he’d been dreading coming home to. Xiao Xingchen had a tendency to be somewhat oblivious at the best of times and yet - maddeningly - this wasn’t one of those times and now he was staring at Song Lan as if he might shatter.

“I didn’t say it was Xue Yang,” Song Lan said at last. It was, he knew, a ludicrous attempt at deflection.

“Of course it’s Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen said softly, so gently it almost hurt to hear it, “Who else could it be?”

Song Lan scrambled to think of someone - anyone - suitable. The only other person he’d spent much time with recently was Wen Qing and even Xiao Xingchen wasn’t that gullible.

“Wen Qing’s brother is a fine cultivator,” Song Lan said at last, “Wen Ning assists at the clinic sometimes and he’s got a fine bedside manner.”

To his surprise, Xiao Xingchen let out a startled giggle, “You just described him as ‘fine’ twice in the same breath, Zichen.”

Song Lan felt himself flush and then embarrassment morphed into anxiety as Xiao Xingchen’s laughter somehow summoned Xue Yang.

“What’s so funny?” Xue Yang demanded, “Song Lan doesn’t have a sense of humour so it can’t be him making you laugh like that.”

To Song Lan’s horror, Xiao Xingchen lit up with all the eagerness of someone with a bright idea.

“I know how to fix this,” Xiao Xingchen said, tugging on Song Lan’s sleeve so that he was forced to step closer towards Xue Yang.

“Fix what?” Xue Yang said, glancing between them before turning back to the fierce crow that had followed him indoors.

“I have a question for you,” Xiao Xingchen said before Song Lan could stop him, “And you have to answer truthfully.”

“And what do I get out of this?” Xue Yang’s smile was languid and teasing before his gaze suddenly sharpened, “Is that a brown sugar KitKat?”

“All the way from Japan,” Xiao Xingchen cooed, “I’ve been saving it for you.”

“Gimme,” Xue Yang made grabby hands at Xiao Xingchen with such childish enthusiasm that Song Lan snorted, “Don’t judge me, big guy. Just because one of us has good taste!”

Song Lan rolled his eyes but didn’t reply. His taste was the reason he was in this mess in the first place. If he hadn’t kissed Xue Yang back that first time they’ve met -

“Xue Yang, you love me, don’t you?” Xiao Xingchen blurted out and suddenly, Song Lan’s pulse was racing.

“Sure I do,” Xue Yang said agreeably as he tore open the KitKat wrapper. Neither of them had noticed that Song Lan had stopped breathing.

“And you love Song Lan, don’t you?” Xiao Xingchen continued.

“Love his big dick, you mean?” Xue Yang somehow managed to leer around a mouthful of chocolate.

“Yes, of course, but what about-” Xiao Xingchen was interrupted by Song Lan’s sudden strangled cough.

“Damn, Zichen,” Xue Yang whistled as Song Lan tried his best not to hack up any petals this time, “Tell Wen Qing to up your allergy medication before you croak.”

“I’m fine-” Song Lan choked out before he cut himself off with a grimace. He had to stop using that word, “I saw Wen Qing a few days ag-”

The gasp Xiao Xingchen made was so painfully dramatic that Song Lan couldn't help but wince.

“Of course you did,” Xiao Xingchen was looking at him now with an expression of dazed revelation, “Wen Qing’s your doctor.”

Xue Yang threw Xiao Xingchen a confused look and then glanced at Song Lan who shrugged back, as if he too had no idea what Xiao Xingchen meant.

“I meant,” Xiao Xingchen looked flustered, “We should talk to Wen Qing about Zichen’s health issues. Perhaps there are changes we could make at home.”

“Xiao Xingchen-” Song Lan snapped. Having been on edge all afternoon, his anger was quick to rise, “I said leave it.”

“But Zichen,” Xiao Xingchen started but something in Song Lan’s expression must’ve changed his mind because when he continued, he only said limply, “If that’s what you want.”

It was what Song Lan wanted, although his victory felt hollow.

“I’m taking a shower,” he said stiffly. He needed to put some distance between them before Xiao Xingchen changed his mind.

“Of course,” Xiao Xingchen’s mouth drooped into a miserable curve, “Xue Yang, do you want some help with dinner tonight?”

Song Lan turned to leave as Xue Yang nodded and shoved the last of his KitKat into his mouth.

“Sure, you can make the soup,” Xue Yang said to Xiao Xingchen as Song Lan marched off. It was only when he reached the doorway, almost out of earshot, that he heard Xue Yang muse, “Hey, Xiao Xingchen, what did you wanna ask me earlier?”

Groaning, Song Lan let the door slam shut behind him.

When Song Lang woke up the next morning, Xiao Xingchen had already gone out, presumably to help at his school’s breakfast club as he usually did on Fridays. It meant that Song Lan was able to have his morning coffee without anyone making sorrowful eyes at him as he ate. It also meant that Song Lan didn’t need to make up with Xiao Xingchen right away; it would’ve been hard to apologise when he wasn’t sorry.

But he would have to apologise eventually, Song Lan thought to himself guiltily. He’d only been at work for a few hours but the portrait of Baixue’s founder staring down from its place on the wall had already had an effect on him. The man had been honourable and upright in every aspect of his life and Song Lan knew what he’d say if he was here now. He’d begin by reminding Song Lan that one of the three Taoist treasures was compassion, then he’d advise him to meditate on whether his words and actions had embodied such treasure and finally, he’d ask Song Lan how his wrongs could be put right.

He would apologise to Xiao Xingchen, Song Lan decided, as soon as Wen Qing had operated on him. If not for the harsh words and his short temper, then at least for the lying and deceit. For the moment, however, Xiao Xingchen would have to wait as Song Lan simply had more urgent things to think about. He needed to exacerbate the illness as quickly as possible, which meant hearing more painful truths from Xue Yang such as -

- “Drop everything and follow me,” Xue Yang barrelled through the door of Song Lan’s office and then left as quickly as he’d appeared. By the time Song Lan had pulled his sword out, brushing off the juniors’ concerned shouts as he ran past them, Xue Yang was a shrinking blur in the sky.

“Xue Yang, slow down,” Song Lan bellowed as he hurried to step onto his sword and take flight.

“No chance,” Xue Yang shouted, barely audible over the growing distance, “It’s an emergency, you dumbass.”

Song Lan swore under his breath and accelerated frantically in a bid to catch up. There was only one reason Xue Yang would’ve come to him and not Xiao Xingchen; Xiao Xingchen was the emergency.

As Song Lan sped after Xue Yang, swooping in and out of sword traffic and earning angry shouts from cultivators as he overtook them at dangerously close range, his thoughts cycled through the possibilities. Was Xiao Xingchen hurt? They were flying in the wrong direction for his school or for the city hospital. And why would Xue Yang waste time fetching Song Lan instead of flying directly to Xiao Xingchen? What if Xiao Xingchen was seriously injured and the last thing Song Lan had ever said to him had been to leave him alone? The thought was unbearable and yet, why else would Xue Yang be rushing to -

- the fanciest tea house in Yi City.

“Xue Yang,” Song Lan dismounted his sword with a thunderous shout, “Where’s Xiao Xingchen?”

It turned out that Xiao Xingchen had left Yi City for the weekend -

“A-Qing called,” Xue Yang said, as he tucked his sword away and strode towards the hotel doors. Song Lan hurried to keep pace, “She sold an NFT to some knucklehead last month and now he wants his money back but she’s already spent it. Xiao Xingchen’s gone to try broker a repayment plan before the guy puts another brick through her window.”

Song Lan was horrified for all of ten seconds before he realised that there was no way any of it was true. The story was certainly believable but the timing was absurd. Xiao Xingchen wouldn’t have left Yi City when he knew Song Lan was dying; he would either have sent A-Qing the money himself or asked her to come home. And of course, none of it explained what they were doing at a tea house or what the emergency was.

“You must be Qin Su,” Xue Yang said to the woman at the front desk, “Did A-Yao call about my booking?”

Qin Su nodded, “Xue Yang, I presume? My brother said you have a sweet tooth. You’re in for a treat.”

The look of delight on Xue Yang’s face was even more confusing.

“You said it was an emergency,” Song Lan hissed to Xue Yang as they followed Qin Su down a series of long, elaborately wallpapered corridors until they reached a semi-private dining area. The smell of fresh baking and caramelising sugar filled the air, “What’s so urgent about tea?”

“It is an emergency. A-Yao said I had twenty minutes to get here before he gave the table to someone else,” Xue Yang said.

Overhearing them, Qin Su smoothly joined in, “We have a five-year waiting list. Our pastry chef trained in France and is now one of the most sought-after in China.”

“And you managed to get a slot,” Song Lan looked at Xue Yang suspiciously. None of this made any sense, “In exchange for what?”

“In exchange for being the Jin Industries’ most charismatic demonic cultivator of all time, of course,” Xue Yang smirked, “I’m creating so much good press that even Jin Guangshan’s trying to take the credit.”

Qin Su sniffed, “Nothing could make that man look good again. But you’re right, my brother says you’ve given the company’s reputation quite a boost. Take a seat.”

They’d stopped at a table for two in a discreet corner of the dining room. Decorative lattice screens sectioned off one party from the next.

“A-Yao thought you’d want a more discreet dining experience,” Qin Su said. She’d obviously caught Song Lan frowning at the far side of the room where he thought he could see a politician dining with a woman half his age, “But there is a table I could put you on in the main room if you’d prefer to be seen-”

“Thank you,” Song Lan said hurriedly, “This is fine.”

He had never been a high society type and the thought of being ogled by other cultivators while he ate wasn’t appealing.

In any case, Xue Yang had already sat down and was perusing the cocktail menu with glee, “I’ll have a burnt honey delight and Song Lan will take the bitter peach.”

“I’ll let the waiter know,” Qin Su said, “The experience will begin after your drinks arrive. Enjoy.”

It was only when Qin Su had left that the world finally felt like it had slowed down enough for Song Lan to catch up.

“So Xiao Xingchen’s okay?” Song Lan asked, sitting down heavily. He needed to be sure.

Xue Yang hummed, “He seemed worried, I guess. I offered to fly over and threaten the kid myself but Xiao Xingchen insisted it had to be him that went. Something about quality time and positive connections. You know what a do-gooder he is.”

Song Lan nodded slowly. Did that mean Xiao Xingchen had finally listened and left him to deal with the Hanahaki disease on his own? Or had he spoken to Wen Qing even after Song Lan had told him to drop it? If he had, why would she advise Xiao Xingchen to leave the two of them alone together, instead of encouraging his meddling? She wanted Song Lan to confess and Xiao Xingchen felt the same way. And surely Xue Yang had realised that something was up. The story of A-Qing’s misadventure was too far-fetched -

“You gotta admire A-Qing for cashing in on the NFT hype,” Xue Yang said, pausing to sip on the cocktail that had just arrived, “Or the guy’s really gullible, but then you’ve gotta credit her for picking the right mark.”

Song Lan felt the tension seep out of his shoulders. Xiao Xingchen wasn’t a skilled liar but it seemed that he’d woven a tale that was both realistic enough and unremarkable enough that Xue Yang actually believed it.

“And the emergency was the table reservation?” Song Lan pressed again. He should be enraged to be dragged out of work again - and they needed to have a conversation about what defined an emergency, for the sake of Song Lan’s blood pressure - but at this point, nothing Xue Yang did surprised him anymore.

“The emergency would’ve been me missing out of the most exclusive desserts of the century,” Xue Yang said breezily, “You should be glad we got here in time. You don’t want to see me angry.”

It was at that point that the waiter returned holding an enormous afternoon tea stand, all five tiers laden with delicacies that Song Lan had never seen before.

“The savouries are all yours,” Xue Yang said licking his lips, “I’m here for the sweets.”

“What about Xiao Xingchen?” Song Lan blurted out.

Xue Yang gave him a funny look, “You know he has no palate. He’d eat a rotten potato if you’d let him. And I know you want to try that century egg and osmanthus jelly.”

Xue Yang pointed at a perfectly formed cube on the top tier of the stand. It did look like an interesting way to present two traditional ingredients.

As Song Lan bit carefully into the cube, he suddenly felt strangely serene. Xiao Xingchen had, for some unfathomable reason, decided to remove himself from the situation and while Song Lan doesn’t see how spending a weekend alone with Xue Yang would help, it certainly wouldn’t make things worse. At least now, he could concentrate on what he’d been trying to do yesterday; accelerate the Hanahaki disease until Wen Qing was forced to operate. This time, he just had to be careful that no-one - namely Xue Yang - noticed.

“Next is the black garlic and scallop tart,” Xue Yang said, “It’s got that umami flavour you like.”

“Everyone likes umami,” Song Lan said, blinking dimly at him. The cocktail Xue Yang had ordered for him was the perfect balance of fragrant peach juice and Angostura bitters and was very, very strong. Coupled with Xue Yang’s unwavering attention and the food coma he was slowly sliding into, Song Lan couldn’t remember what he was meant to be so unhappy about. Something about Xue Yang being inconsiderate except -

“You like umami too,” Song Lan said stupidly.

“Sure,” Xue Yang said, “But I told you, I’m here for the good stuff. Look at this.”

Song Lan peered at an intricate nest of golden strands, “What is it?”

“It’s the world’s sweetest honey,” Xue Yang gloated, “Isn’t it incredible?”

Song Lan looked at it doubtfully.

“Sounds sickly,” he said eventually and was met by Xue Yang’s pleased grin.

“Exactly,” Xue Yang said, “Two for me and none for you.”

But even as he said, he was pushing the second black garlic and scallop tart onto Song Lan’s plate. The rest of the meal continued in the same way, with Xue Yang eating all the sweets and passing all the savouries to Song Lan, while chattering away about A-Qing’s NFT misdemeanours.

“She’s lucky that Xiao Xingchen can bail her out if that guy doesn’t back off,” Xue Yang said, “In my day, you’d have to leave town.”

There was only five years between them but Xue Yang always made it sound like he was a generation older.

“Xiao Xingchen wants the best for her,” Song Lan said, “And so do I. Conning someone isn’t a moral or ethical way to earn a living.”

“Are NFTs really a con or is the world changing too fast for you to keep up?” Xue Yang snapped back, “Doesn’t it all sound like what people say about demonic cultivation?”

And then they were back to their usual debates, arguing from opposite points-of-view on everything from A-Qing’s dubious moneymaking schemes to whether peppers were a fruit or vegetable.

“Botanically-speaking, it’s a fruit,” Xue Yang said, “It’s seed-bearing.”

“But in the common lexicon, it’s considered a vegetable,” Song Lan said.

Xue Yang leaned back, crossing his arms as if ready for a fight, “You’re a cultivator. What do you know about the language of ordinary folk?”

Song Lan was about to point out that almost everyone learnt cultivation at school as part of the country’s standardised education system, when he remembered that Xue Yang had in fact missed out on a significant chunk of his primary education.

“Not much, I suppose,” Song Lan said, “But aren’t you always saying we don’t have to follow the rules set by the ancient sects? Doesn’t that also apply to scientific classifications? And I know you don’t like vegetables so peppers can’t be a fruit.”

Xue Yang looked strangely pleased at being called a picky eater, “Alright, I’ll allow it. It can be a vegetable.”

“Thank you,” Song Lan said dryly, then looked down at his plate. They’d finished eating and the afternoon had somehow flown by. For a short while, he’d forgotten all about the Hanahaki disease and between Xue Yang’s lively chatter, the excellent food and the ambiance of the tea house, it had almost felt like they were on a date. And now, he realised, with a sudden pang in his chest as the waiter dropped the bill next to Song Lan’s empty cocktail glass, the peaceful bubble they’d created was about to end -

“Cough up,” Xue Yang got to his feet, looking pleased with himself, “Your money, not your lungs, I mean.”

“Where’s your wallet?” Song Lan frowned, “I thought you said this was a favour from Jin Guangyao.”

“I left it at home and yea, he sorted the table but I didn’t say he’d comp it,” Xue Yang jabbed the bill where there was a line detailing a hefty deduction, “Be grateful he gave you the friends-and-family discount.”

“I’d hate to see what he charges his enemies,” Song Lan groused as he looked at the line Xue Yang was pointing at, “This is daylight robbery.”

To his surprise, Xue Yang let out a hoot of laughter, “Another joke? It’s like you’ve grown a sense of humour lately.”

“I’m not joking,” Song Lan said flatly but his irritation disappeared in the face of Xue Yang’s easy smile.

It was hard to be cross when the person he had unrequited feelings for looked so pleased with himself - sweets had always been the way to Xue Yang’s heart and Song Lan probably should’ve tried that weeks ago - and while fancy afternoon teas weren’t how Song Lan would usually spend his money, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it. If he’d been with anyone else, he’d even have said it was romantic -

Wincing, Song Lan squashed down on that thought and paid up without another word.

It was getting dark when they stepped outside the tea house. Too late to return to work and yet, Xue Yang didn’t want to go home either -

“It’s 6pm on a Friday night, don’t be such a bore,” Xue Yang said, stepping onto the back of Song Lan’s sword instead of unsheathing his own, “You’ll like this, come on.”

- and so Song Lan found himself flying across Yi City with Xue Yang wrapped around his back and shouting directions into his ear until they arrived at a warehouse filled with people holding bowls of popcorn and beers. There was a large projection screen set up by the far wall and several rows of bean bags in the middle of the open space.

“Is this an… underground cinema?” Song Lan gaped, “Is this legal?”

“Of course not,” Xue Yang laughed, “But don’t get your knickers in a twist. No-one here will rat you out. Not without putting themselves at risk. Look over there.”

Song Lan turned his gaze in the direction Xue Yang that was pointing in. In the far corner, Wei Wuxian and Nie Huaisang were swigging directly from a bottle of Emperor’s Smile and giggling over something on Nie Huaisang’s phone. Song Lan could only hope they weren’t looking at the pictures from the photo shoot.

“Does Xiao Xingchen know about this?” Song Lan said.

Xue Yang shrugged, “Wei Wuxian probably invited him at some point. I wouldn’t be surprised if Xiao Xingchen turned a blind eye to it.”

“Xiao Xingchen would never-” Song Lan began then cut himself off as Xue Yang’s expression hardened. He didn’t want to ruin the mood, not when they’d had such a nice afternoon and especially not when this would surely be their last weekend together. He wouldn’t care enough to want to spend time with Xue Yang after the operation.

“Xiao Xingchen would never what?” Xue Yang said icily.

“Miss out on spending time with Wei Wuxian,” Song Lan finished lamely, “What film are they showing anyway?

To his relief, Xue Yang seemed willing to let it go as he reached out to pull on Song Lan’s elbow until they were in the queue for refreshments.

“Not what film, but how many,” Xue Yang said, “It’s an all-night marathon. Five Taiwanese horrors back-to-back.”

Xue Yang’s enthusiasm only added to Song Lan’s disbelief. Horror films were heavily censored by the government. Water ghouls and yaoguai were rare occurrences nowadays and the prevailing attitude of the film board was that the less the public thought about them, the better it would be for morale. This also meant that the best horror films were produced overseas and rarely seen locally.

“Do they have supernatural content?” Song Lan struggled to keep his voice low.

Xue Yang nodded eagerly, “Ghosts, demons, giant water ghouls. Everything you’ve never wanted to meet!”

Song Lan knew he should leave. If he, a lawyer, was caught at an illegal event watching banned foreign films, he could get a formal reprimand or even lose his license... but Xue Yang was already ordering two large bowls of popcorn and Song Lan didn’t have the heart to protest. How many more days did he have left with Xue Yang? Xiao Xingchen had unknowingly given Song Lan a gift and he wanted to enjoy it. And would it really be so bad to watch a horror film or five with Xue Yang?

It was almost dawn when they left the warehouse and Song Lan was sure he’d be having nightmares for weeks. Xue Yang, however, was buzzing with frenetic energy as they walked the short distance towards their flat.

“Did you see the way that girl chopped that snake demon’s head off?” Xue Yang said, gesticulating wildly as if he too was fending off a murderous beast, “And the blood! What a badass.”

“I was distracted by the fainting,” Song Lan muttered grimly. He’d felt a bit queasy himself and still did, if he was being honest. He wasn’t sure if it was the sleep deprivation - when was the last time he’d stayed up all night? - or the way he could still picture how the snake demon’s innards had splattered over the girl’s face, “I didn’t know Yanli was in the room until she swooned.”

Xue Yang laughed giddily, “Right into Jin Zixuan’s arms. I thought Jiang Cheng was going to chop his head off too.”

Song Lan let out an amused huff and then froze -

“Now that’s a sunrise,” Xue Yang murmured appreciatively.

Song Lan nodded dumbly. While Xue Yang was staring at the orange orb peeping over the horizon, Song Lan’s eyes were fixed on Xue Yang. His hair was haloed in soft golden light and his skin had a warm, soft glow that made him look sweet -

And Xue Yang was sweet, Song Lan realised with a jolt. After all, hadn’t Xue Yang just organised a twelve hour date for them both? And maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking but Xue Yang had seemed to enjoy his company; he'd pushed their bean bags together and Song Lan's wrist still had the indents from where Xue Yang had dug his nails into him whenever the films got particularly gruesome. There was a chance, perhaps, that Xue Yang cared for him in his own strange way.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Xue Yang was still looking into the distance, where the sky was turning bright hues of pink, lavender and orange. His voice was quiet, far gentler than Song Lan had ever heard him say anything before and in that moment, Song Lan finally understood what Wen Qing had been trying to say.

“Yea,” Song Lan croaked, “Beautiful.”

He had to tell him. Not about the Hanahaki disease or how close he was to dying. That didn’t matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was that Xue Yang knew how he felt, even if he didn’t love him back, even if he laughed in his face. Wen Qing had been right all along; Xue Yang deserved to know before Song Lan went under the knife.

“Xue Yang,” Song Lan stopped and then forced himself to take in a deep breath, “Xue Yang.”

He paused once more. His tongue felt like lead but he had to push past his nerves. He had to say it, he had to try.

“Xue Yang,” Song Lan exhaled sharply and -

A single cherry blossom flower hung in the air between them. It was beautiful and perfectly formed, with five pink petals around a dark purple centre and it must’ve absorbed some residual qi from his body because it floated in the air until -

Xue Yang’s hand closed around the flower, crushing it in his fist. Song Lan gulped.

“Song Lan,” Xue Yang’s voice was icy with rage, “What the fuck is this?”

Chapter Text

“I’ll kill him,” Xue Yang snarled, pacing back and forth across the living room floor. He was twirling a pocket knife in his hand and the sight of it - both the dizzying movement and the anxiety the blade induced - was making Song Lan nauseous, “Just tell me who it is.”

“Mnm,” Song Lan grunted unhelpfully, forcing himself to look away. They’d been having the same non-conversation since sunrise, with Xue Yang making angry threats while Song Lan lay face-down on the sofa as a steady, relentless stream of flowers cascaded out of his mouth and onto the floor. He ought to call Wen Qing before he suffocated.

“Tell me who it is and I can slit his throat,” Xue Yang said, making a series of sharp, slashing motions in the air as he spoke, “I’ll cut his eyes out. And his tongue too.”

Song Lan would’ve laughed if he could - if only Xue Yang knew he was making threats against himself - but the flowers clogging up his throat wouldn’t let him. Instead, Song Lan shook his head and then let out a huff of relief as Xue Yang stomped away, disgust all over his face. If he could choose, Xue Yang would leave the flat entirely - leave him to wallow in peace - but knowing Xue Yang, Song Lan was doomed to spend the rest of the weekend being hounded and harassed until he caved in.

Which he wouldn’t, Song Lan swore to himself. The moment - the confusing warmth of the sunrise and the unfamiliar softness between them - had passed and it was clear from Xue Yang’s unfiltered and increasingly violent fantasies that confessing was out of the question. Not for a moment had Xue Yang considered that it might be him causing Song Lan all this pain and wasn’t that an answer in itself? Xue Yang didn’t love him back and Song Lan didn’t need to humiliate himself any further.

At least, Song Lan thought to himself, Xue Yang wasn’t laughing at him or at the pathetic sight he must make, curled up on the sofa with a mountain of pink flowers piling up beside him. It was as if his body had given up on any attempt at discretion or dignity now that his secret was out. Most of it, anyway -

“We need to call Xiao Xingchen,” Xue Yang had reappeared and was bent over the sofa, looming over Song Lan’s prone figure. His face was upside-down and far too close.

“Nuh uh,” Song Lan shook his head, reaching out quickly to nudge Xue Yang away. Somehow the sight of him - or perhaps the unwanted proximity - seemed to encourage more flowers to rush up and out of his lungs but to Song Lan’s dismay, instead of stepping back, Xue Yang flung himself down onto the floor next to Song Lan’s pile of shame.

Worse still, Xue Yang didn’t just sit beside it; he stuck his fingers into the heap, pawing through the flowers until he found one that he must’ve taken some inexplicable liking to. Song Lan watched, aghast, as Xue Yang held his chosen flower up to the light and then started stroking the edges of its delicate blossoms as if it wasn’t a deadly phenomenon fresh from the depths of Song Lan’s diseased lungs. It felt so oddly intimate that Song Lan had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop himself smacking the flower out of Xue Yang’s hands.

“It’s kinda pretty,” Xue Yang mused, “Not what I’d expect, to be honest. Thought you’d be more of a black camellia guy. Or something prickly and dry like a succulent.”

Song Lan groaned, still refusing to look. He’d read of cases where in the final stages of the disease, the Hanahaki flowers had started to fade and rot inside the sufferer’s body - crushed chrysanthemums, wilted water lilies and oleanders turned slimy as the despair set in - and yet, somehow, his cherry blossoms were still in perfect bloom without a speck of phlegm or blood to mar them. It was as if his love for Xue Yang was something pure and precious, instead of ill-advised and deadly.

“So you’re obviously dying,” Xue Yang said with false casualness, “But you still don’t want to call Xiao Xingchen.”

Song Lan nodded silently. The flowers tickled at his throat as they rose and as soon as he huffed one out, there was another right behind it. It was taking all of his concentration to focus on breathing in steadily through his nose and then exhaling sharply through his mouth. Talking was therefore out of the question and in any case, Xue Yang had enough words for the both of them.

“Why not?” Xue Yang asked, “Xiao Xingchen is the kind of old-fashioned cultivator who’s in love with love itself. He’s not gonna be upset that you’ve betrayed him like this. Why wouldn’t you tell him?”

Song Lan glared at Xue Yang. He hadn’t betrayed anyone - not Xiao Xingchen or Xue Yang - not that he could tell Xue Yang that. If he stopped his careful exhale of cherry blossom flowers, he was sure to choke and in any case, Xue Yang was too busy answering his own questions to wait for him.

“He already knows, doesn’t he?” Xue Yang’s rambling picked up speed as his excitement grew, “That’s why I don’t need to call him. He already knows and he’d gone to get help. I knew visiting A-Qing was an excuse! Who buys NFTs in 2025? Is he with Baoshan Sanren? She must have some kind of herbal mountain brew that will cure you.”

Xue Yang finally took a breath and stared at Song Lan but Song Lan could only shrug. The truth was that he didn’t know where Xiao Xingchen was and he had no idea whether he’d left Yi City to stay with A-Qing or if he’d gone home to find Baoshan Sanren. Xiao Xingchen could even, Song Lan supposed, be hiding out at Wen Qing’s place which was only fifteen minutes away by sword on a good fly day.

“He needs to hurry back,” Xue Yang muttered darkly, deflating at Song Lan’s unhelpful response, “You weren’t this bad when he left. I’m calling Wen Qing.”

Song Lan’s head snapped up with such speed that Xue Yang froze on instinct, his hand only halfway to his phone.

“Wen Qing knows,” Xue Yang said slowly, catching on far quicker than Song Lan would like, “Coughing asthma’s a real thing but it’s not your thing. And you know what else isn’t your thing? Lying and yet here I am. The last to know.”

The flower was no longer in Xue Yang’s hand - discarded now that his attention was back on Song Lan - and in its place was the pocket knife once again. The sight of Xue Yang - usually so full of restless energy and now completely still, staring at Song Lan with dark eyes - was distinctly unnerving.

“It’s understandable if you think about it,” Xue Yang said at last, sounding unexpectedly reasonable, “You didn’t tell me cos you knew I’d kill him.”

Song Lan nodded slowly. He didn’t want to argue with Xue Yang when he had a weapon in his hand and in any case, there was nothing he could say in his own defence even if speaking was an option. He’d wanted to confess that morning, but that would still have left Xue Yang as the last to know and did any of it even matter anyway? Xue Yang was already dialling Wen Qing’s number and soon, the seed would be removed and he’d stop caring about anything to do with Xue Yang. This would all be over -

“Xue Yang,” Wen Qing sounded pleased to hear from him despite the early hour, “I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Then you’ll know I want answers,” Xue Yang said, “Tell me, why the fuck haven’t you taken the seed out?”

There was a long pause before Wen Qing replied and when she did, her tone was frosty, “Song Lan hasn’t told you who it is.”

“He can’t talk,” Xue Yang groused, “I don’t know how he’s still breathing.”

“And what? He can’t write or sign or text?” Wen Qing huffed.

“You’re missing the point,” Xue Yang suddenly erupted with a shout, “He’s dying and you’re not doing anything about it. I thought you were meant to be the smart Wen-”

There was a beeping sound as Wen Qing hung up, followed by a thud as the phone hit the ground and then a terrible crunching noise as Xue Yang’s knife went through the screen and into the floorboard below. When Xue Yang swung back towards Song Lan, he looked like a man on the brink of qi deviation.

“Stop,” Song Lan tried to speak, but he only managed a choked rasp before he was rolling off the sofa and onto the floor on all fours, retching up cherry blossoms with an intensity he’d never felt before. Suddenly, there were only two things left in the world; the flowers below him and Xue Yang above him.

“Pathetic,” Xue Yang’s voice was sharp in his ear, “You didn’t tell me cos you didn’t want me to kill the man you love. You’d rather die like a dog than let me solve your little problem. I had no idea you were such a romantic, Zichen.”

It took all of Song Lan’s remaining strength to stay on his hands and knees instead of giving in to the urge to faceplant into the flowers in defeat. This was what he’d forgotten earlier that morning - when the warm glow of the sunrise had made Xue Yang himself seem soft - and now it was all rushing back; Xue Yang’s tendency to be unintentionally cruel, his habit of dismissing other people’s feelings, his outright mockery of do-gooders and bleeding hearts. And whose heart was bleeding more than Song Lan’s right now? Not literally but certainly figuratively -

Song Lan groaned and collapsed gracelessly onto his side. What was he waiting for? His breaths were desperate, shallow puffs between the overwhelming flow of flowers, Wen Qing was still refusing to help him and surely it was too late, even if she suddenly changed her mind. This had to be the end. He was going to choke to death at the feet of the man he loved who was too busy fantasising about murder to realise he was already killing the person in front of him. The least Xue Yang could do, Song Lan thought to himself bitterly as he reached out to tug on the hem on Xue Yang’s jeans, was sit next to him while he died -

But Xue Yang only kicked Song Lan’s outstretched hand away and then there was a flurry of pink in the air as his foot went through the largest pile of flowers. All of a sudden, there were cherry blossoms flying all around them, each flower breaking apart into separate petals as Xue Yang stomped and kicked until every one of them had been scattered, flattened or destroyed. When he was done - panting wildly, his chest heaving as if he’d single-handedly torn apart a water demon with his bare hands - Xue Yang seemed to wilt like the very flowers under his feet.

“You can’t die,” Xue Yang said, falling to his knees beside Song Lan, reaching out to crush the fresh flowers still falling from Song Lan’s mouth in his fists as quickly as they emerged. His cheeks were wet with tears, “Who’s gonna skive off work with me? Xingchen can’t skip class. He’s literally the teacher. And who’s gonna take me out? Xingchen’s idea of a date is helping old ladies cross the road.”

Song Lan stared at him, flummoxed. The only time they’d ever gone on anything like a date had been yesterday, unless Xue Yang was talking about the times he’d burst into Song Lan’s office, demanded a lift somewhere ridiculous for lunch and then conveniently forgot his wallet when it was time to pay. Xue Yang had done it for so many Fridays in a row that his secretary no longer scheduled meetings for the afternoons, as she never knew if or when he’d be back.

And of course, the strangest thing wasn’t what Xue Yang was saying, it was what he was doing. Xue Yang wasn’t just crying; he was outright sobbing as he tore apart the blossoms in his hands until they lay in tatters. None of it made sense. Why was he getting so upset? It wasn’t as if Xiao Xingchen was the one dying.

“People like you are the worst,” Xue Yang spat out furiously, somehow managing whole sentences despite his hiccups, “Dying to protect some other dumb fuck. You righteous ones always think your way is the best. It isn’t-”

With a scream, Xue Yang launched himself on top of Song Lan, his fists hammering at Song Lan’s side in blows too messy and erratic to hurt.

“I hate you,” Xue Yang’s words were muffled by Song Lan’s hair but he could feel every one of them vibrate through his skull, “I hate you so much, I’ll bring you back as a fierce corpse. You’ll never reincarnate and I’ll keep you forever. You’ll never be free, do you hear me?”

And it was in that moment that Song Lan realised what he’d been missing all along. Xue Yang - who took everything he wanted without a care for anyone else, who never let go of something he liked by choice, who was resolutely fanatical about anything that interested him - hated Song Lan so deeply that even death would not separate them and surely, what that meant was that Xue Yang actually -

When Song Lan opened his mouth, instead of flowers, words came tumbling out.

“Is that a promise?” Song Lan said. His throat felt dry and scratchy but his voice was clear enough.

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever met,” Xue Yang said. He’d stopped trying to hit him and had deflated into an exhausted heap on top of Song Lan, “The stupidest, dumbest fuck I’ve ever fucked.”

“You’re right,” Song Lan was smiling now, almost giddy with relief as he turned to gaze up at Xue Yang.

His face was a snotty, tear-streaked mess. He was an ugly crier, Song Lan realised. He was also the most beautiful person Song Lan had ever seen. It was a realisation that only made him smile harder.

“Don’t do that with your face, you look deranged,” Xue Yang said. The insult only made Song Lan laugh, “Stop! Is this some kind of death hysteria?”

“No,” Song Lan said, “I’m not dying anymore.”

Song Lan waited patiently as Xue Yang stared down at him, his brow creased in confusion for a long moment and then his eyes widened comically large as he realised that for the first time since sunrise, there were no flowers pouring out of Song Lan’s mouth and -

Xue Yang rolled off him and sat up, twisting round frantically to look at all four corners of the room. Every single cherry blossom had disappeared.

“What does that mean?” Xue Yang said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously, “You don’t love some loser anymore. Just like that?”

Song Lan shrugged, fighting back another smile, “It doesn’t matter now.”

Xue Yang was still frowning at him but he was quiet as Song Lan reached out to pull the knife out of Xue Yang’s ruined phone.

“I’m sorry you can’t kill anyone for me,” Song Lan said gently, dropping the knife into Xue Yang’s shaking hands.

“I still could,” Xue Yang argued weakly, but he didn’t seem that bothered anymore, “You owe me a new phone.”

“How about you take me out for dinner tonight instead?” Song Lan said, “Your treat.”

To his amusement, Xue Yang’s eyes narrowed sharply, “Let’s draw straws.”

A week later, Song Lan woke in the middle of the night to find Xue Yang’s cold fingers poking into the gaps between his ribs.

“What are you doing?” Song Lan grumbled, trying and failing to shove him away. The duvet was heavy on top of them and Xiao Xingchen was fast asleep on the far side of the bed. Xue Yang had the distinct advantage of knowing Song Lan wouldn’t want to wake him.

“I’ve figured it out,” Xue Yang’s teeth latched onto the meat of Song Lan’s ear, “I can’t believe it took me this long.”

“Figured what out?” Song Lan said blearily. It was definitely too early for this, whatever this was.

“Your stupid crush,” Xue Yang hissed urgently, “It was Wei Wuxian, isn’t it? He’s a motherfucking genius, totally unhinged and he’s probably killed thousands of people in a past life.”

Song Lan blinked up at him. It’s too dark to read Xue Yang’s expression but he sounded sincere.

“I can see the appeal but I didn’t think he’d be your type,” Xue Yang continued, “He’s kind of a brat and he never shuts up. And he’s a demonic cultivator! Trust me when I say this, that’s not a good thing-”

He broke off with a whine as Song Lan rolled them both over until Xue Yang was beneath him, trapped and wriggling in a way that suggested he was pleased by the new position.

“It wasn’t Wei Wuxian,” Song Lan said, shifting so Xue Yang wasn't entirely crushed by Song Lan's weight on top of him, “Go back to sleep.”

“Fine, don’t tell me who your dumb fuck was,” Xue Yang whispered fiercely, “But don’t do it again. You belong to Xiao Xingchen and Xiao Xingchen belongs to me.”

“Okay,” Song Lan mumbled agreeably. He was too tired to make sense of what Xue Yang was saying but it sounded nice enough, “Now sleep.”