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Chapter Text

The first step outside is stunning. Wangji squints his eyes against the brightness even as he tilts his face into the warm sun. It has been days since he left the basement, and he won’t waste a second of his time in the light.

“Move it,” Wen Chao snarls, and shoves at Wangji’s shoulder.

Wangji climbs into the SUV’s backseat. Wen Chao slams the door behind him. The car rocks as Wen Chao takes his place in the front passenger seat beside Wen Zhuliu.

The car rolls along. Wangji watches the sun striking glass and metal, the people roaming the gray streets. Sometimes, music glides in through the open windows. He taps rhythms on his knees, hums below his breath, collects the scraps and weaves them together into one tangled song.

The car stops. Wangji pulls all the music inside and tucks it away for later.

In the parking lot, Wen Chao snaps his fingers, flings sharp words. He always buzzes and stings, always in a rush. Wangji follows Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu into a warehouse. They weave a path through cold machinery and stacked boxes. The building stinks of motor oil and rot, like all warehouses do—the same shadows creeping low and flickering wasp lights high overhead.

Wen Chao argues with a man who sits in a creaking chair. There is a small television on the desk. A tinny melody plays underneath a man’s smooth voice. Wangji tilts his head toward the television and ripples his fingers to the music. The words on the television collide with the argument in the office: I’ll get you the money next week our families deserve the best next week won’t cut it the best comes from Fletcher’s. Louder and louder, drowning out the music.

Wen Chao’s hand clamps on Wangji’s shoulder and spins him around. Wen Chao’s fingers go to the collar’s clasp. As the steel slides from Wangji’s throat, the music blares louder, faster, rising from a gentle tinkle to a clamor.

“Get him,” Wen Chao growls.

Wangji’s head snaps to the man cringing in the chair. His hands clench into claws. He leaps onto the desk. The man screams.

There is a little space that Wangji built in his mind—a room, dark but not scary. Not scary because it’s full of music. But there is a crack in the wall. A line of light. He always turns away from it. He doesn’t want to see what is out there.

He goes to that room now and plays his music loud. It almost drowns out the sounds of his fists hitting flesh, of the man’s gurgled pleas.

The secret room melts away when Wen Zhuliu snaps the collar back around his neck. The warehouse returns, shadowed and sour. Wen Chao is rifling through the desk drawers. Wen Zhuliu leads Wangji back to the office doorway. He leaves Wangji there and disappears into the darkness. The man’s foot twitches on the floor. The rest of him is hidden behind the desk.

Wangji looks away from the twitching foot and fixes his eyes on the floor. Blood drips from his hands onto the concrete, bright against the old stains. The music on the television has changed to eager voices calling out numbers, dinging bells and cheers.

The man groans. Wen Chao stomps his foot. The groan stops.

A voice on the television shouts, We have a winner! Wen Chao knocks the television off the desk. The cheers die in a crash of glass and sparks.

Wen Zhuliu comes back.

“Well?” Wen Chao asks.

Wen Zhuliu shakes his head.

Wen Chao snaps his teeth. “Let’s go.”

They return to the SUV. Wangji tugs his sweater cuffs over his torn knuckles. Wen Chao gets angry when the blood drips onto the seat.

There is no music at the next stop. The ache in Wangji’s hands is too fresh to ignore, anchoring him here while Wen Chao pokes his finger at a man’s chest. “If I take that collar off,” Wen Chao tells the man, “he’ll tear you apart. He won’t stop until I say so. He’ll beat you so bad your own mother won’t recognize you.”

The man’s eyes shift from Wen Chao to Wangji, lingering on the collar, then on his bloody hands. Wangji draws them deeper inside his sleeves.

“Yeah, I heard about him,” the man says. “Thought he’d be bigger.”

Wen Chao smirks and reaches for the collar. Wangji drags in a breath, readying himself to return to the secret room.

The man holds up his hands in surrender. “Hey, I don’t need a demonstration. I got your money right here.” The man pulls an envelope from his coat and tosses it to Wen Chao. Wen Chao takes out some bills and thumbs through them, nodding.

Wen Chao stuffs the envelope into his pocket and turns to leave. Wangji lets out his breath and hurries after him. He would thank the man if he could. Their visits rarely end with the collar still on.

On the sidewalk, Wen Chao turns to Wen Zhuliu. “Mr. Shen is on notice.” Wen Zhuliu nods and pulls the billy club from his pocket. It extends with a shick as Wen Zhuliu walks back into the store.

Glass shatters behind Wangji as he follows Wen Chao to the car. “You have to be firm with these people,” Wen Chao says. “That’s what my father always says. Otherwise, they’ll whine and drag their feet. They’ll ask for another week, another chance.” Wen Chao shakes his head as he ushers Wangji into the backseat. “They’ll try to make their weakness yours.”

Wangji doesn’t respond. He isn’t expected to. The door closes, shutting out the smashing sounds.

Wen Chao falls into the passenger seat with a sigh. His nose wrinkles. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”

Wangji is saved from having to answer by Wen Zhuliu sliding behind the wheel.

“Take him to the showers when we get back,” Wen Chao says. “He smells like dogshit.”

Wen Zhuliu nods and starts the car.

That is something to look forward to. Wen Zhuliu never shouts or shoves, impatient that Wangji is taking too long in the shower. He is as smooth as Wen Chao is jagged.

At the next stop, Wen Chao tells Wangji to stay in the car. “Jerry’s paid up,” Wen Chao says, smirking. “For now.”

Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu disappear inside a store to meet with “Jerry.” Wangji can’t read the store’s sign, but he recognizes the shapes on the posters in the window. A liquor store. They visit many of those.

Wangji turns his face to the light and waits.

A cascade of notes rushes to him on the breeze. He pushes his face through the open window, searching for their source. Down the street, there is another store. Its door is propped open, sunlight sparkling in the glass. The music pours from that doorway, crisp as the autumn air.

A truck growls by and smothers the music. Horns blare. A siren whines. Wangji’s fingers clench inside his sleeves. If he were only a little closer.

He turns back to the liquor store. Its windows are dark. The door is closed.

He opens the car door and steps out, keeping watch on the liquor store’s door. On the sidewalk, the music is louder, almost overwhelming. The notes race high and low, spinning impossibly fast. The sound is rich and bright, and his heart pounds along with it.

But it isn’t enough. He wants to see where the music comes from. He shuffles closer and darts furtive glances back over his shoulder, barely noticing the people who push past him

This store’s windows are bright. There are colorful posters taped to the glass, but Wangji’s eyes are drawn inside to the piano. A man sits behind it, his fingers flying as he makes that wonderful music. The man smiles, his body swaying as his hands blur over the keys. The man’s eyes are closed.

Wangji creeps closer.

The man’s eyes open and light on Wangji hovering in the doorway. His smile widens. “Come on in. I love an audience.”

Wangji shrinks back and looks toward the liquor store.

“This one’s called ‘Sunshine,’” the man says. “Are you a Chopin fan?”

Wangji turns back to him. The man keeps playing, his smile as white as the keys. The man’s eyes twinkle like the music. Wangji nods. He doesn’t know what a Chopin is, but agreement is usually the safest response.

The song ends. The man shakes his hands in the air. “Whew, that one is a workout. Worth it, though, don’t you think?”

Wangji nods again, and the man grins. Wangji got it right, then.

“So, is there something we can help you with today, or did you just stop by to enjoy the concert?”

Wangji’s fingers worry his sweater cuffs. He doesn’t know which answer the man wants.

“Wangji!”

Wangji whirls around at Wen Chao’s shout. Wen Chao is glaring at him from beside the SUV.

Wangji hurries back to him. He doesn’t want the smiling man to see.

Wen Chao shoves him toward the car. “What the fuck were you doing over there? I told you to wait in the car. Do you want to wear the leash again?”

Wangji shakes his head. He hates the leash. People stare. Sometimes they laugh.

Wen Chao puts him in the cargo space in back, crammed in beside cardboard boxes from the liquor store. Wen Chao thinks this is punishment, but Wangji prefers to ride back here. He can look out the wide back window, up at the blue sky. He can tune out Wen Chao’s voice and remember the smiling man’s song instead.

That night, Wangji dreams that he crouches in a closet, peeking through the cracked door to watch a woman play a piano. Not the rippling song the smiling man had played. This song is slower, softer.

He wakes in his cage. Weak light filters through the grate above him. It was a nice dream. His dreams usually aren’t that nice. He wishes he could go back to sleep and listen to the rest of the woman’s song.

Instead, he gives his rabbit a pet, then rolls off the sleeping bag to start his exercises. One hundred push-ups, then one hundred sit-ups. Then thirty pull-ups from the pipe crisscrossing his cage. Those are hard today. His side aches. There is a blurred memory of a bat thudding against his ribs, sometime after they left the smiling man and his piano.

Wangji ignores the pinching pain and finishes the pull-ups as fast as he can. When he’s finished, he sits on the sleeping bag and opens his book. The rabbit watches with its one plastic eye as he turns to the first page. As always, he studies each picture carefully, but today he doesn’t linger long. He is impatient to reach the piano.

He can’t read the words, but he remembers some of them. K is for kite, a bright triangle floating in the clouds. M is for monkey, crooked limbs in a tree branch. O is for ocean, a deeper blue than the sky above it.

Then finally, P for piano. He rubs his fingers against his pants before he trails them over the paper. Sometimes he forgets, so many of the pages bear the smudges from his negligence. But today, he remembers, and it makes him proud. It would be terrible to damage this page.

There is no one sitting at the piano bench in this picture. He imagines the smiling man there, playing that sparkling song. Some of the melody lingers in his memory, but now it is muted, like looking at the man through the store’s rippled windows.

“Chopin,” he says. His throat is dry, his voice raspy. It comes out wrong—too harsh and grumbling. When the smiling man said it, the word sounded like music. He clears his throat and tries again. “Chopin. Sunshine. Are you a Chopin fan? Chopin fan.”

Better, but not the same. His voice is lower than the smiling man’s. The smiling man’s voice had sounded like laughter.

The door at the top of the stairs bangs open. Wangji slides the book under his pillow and goes to the cage door.

Wen Chao’s feet clang on the stairs. He opens the cage door and clips the leash to Wangji’s collar. “You brought this on yourself.”

Wen Chao jerks on the leash, and Wangji follows him back upstairs.

Gao Pei fetches him the next morning. Wangji doesn’t like Gao Pei. He’s new and loud. He stares.

“Big fight tonight,” Gao Pei says as he unlocks the cage. “Boss says you gotta train. Waste of time if you ask me. Not that anyone would.”

Wangji says nothing. No one asks his opinion, either. Gao Pei leads him to the punching bag. Wangji takes off his sweater and wraps his hands. Gao Pei sprawls on the folding chair, lights a cigarette, and pokes at his phone.

The smoke stings Wangji’s eyes, mingling with the sweat that drips down as he strikes the punching bag. The phone chirps and bloops. “Fucking cherries,” Gao Pei mutters. He flicks the cigarette butt at Wangji’s leg. Wangji ignores the sparks and shifts to his left arm.

Deep below the arena, Wangji waits for his turn. His fight is always last. There are more fighters waiting in the room, but they keep their distance. Sometimes, he feels their eyes studying him, but he keeps his head down. Voices roar upstairs, muffled through the concrete. Some of the fighters mutter to each other about who might have won the match.

Wen Ruohan comes in, trailed by Meng Yao. The fighters fall silent. Wangji stands and fixes his eyes on Wen Ruohan’s chest.

“Are you ready for your match?” Wen Ruohan asks.

Wangji nods. There is no other acceptable answer.

“Good boy. We’ve got special guests tonight. They’re looking forward to seeing you in action.”

Wen Ruohan moves away to speak to the other fighters, but Meng Yao lingers. Wangji’s eyes flick up to him, then away. As always, Meng Yao seems to look through him, dismissing him. That is good. He doesn’t want Meng Yao’s attention. Meng Yao is frightening, especially when he smiles.

After Wen Ruohan and Meng Yao leave, Wen Xu takes Wangji down the hall to another room where a stocky man waits. “Mr. Yao,” Wen Xu says, “this is Wangji.” Mr. Yao must be one of the special guests.

Mr. Yao watches as Wen Xu fills a syringe and takes Wangji’s arm. “What’s that?” Mr. Yao asks.

“Just a mild stimulant,” Wen Xu says as he sticks the needle in Wangji’s arm. “Something to get the blood pumping. Right, Wangji?”

Wangji nods because he’s expected to. He breathes through the sudden thunder in his veins. He hates it. Everything is too sharp, too bright. Too there. Every noise becomes a scream.

“What else do you give him?” Mr. Yao asks.

“Not much anymore. Just a cocktail my father created. We used to have to keep him stoned or he’d gnaw his way out of his cage.” Wen Xu smirks at Wangji. “Now he’s a good little doggie. While the collar’s on, anyway.”

“Why? What’s so special about the collar?” Mr. Yao moves closer and studies the collar. Wangji lowers his eyes to the man’s chest. The pattern on Mr. Yao’s tie pulses and shimmers. Wangji closes his eyes, breathes in sweat and cologne and whiskey.

“Nothing,” Wen Xu says. “It isn’t the collar itself. It’s how my father trained him. When the collar’s on, Wangji is like you see here: nice and gentle. But when the collar comes off, he rips out your throat.”

Mr. Yao backs away. “Then how do you get the collar back on?”

Wen Xu laughs. “You don’t. If you’re smart, you don’t get within ten feet of him when the collar’s off. But even without the collar, Wangji knows who his masters are.”

“Amazing. Wen Ruohan’s a genius.”

“That he is. Now let’s go, it’s almost showtime.”

Wen Xu snaps his fingers. Wangji follows him up the stairs and into the arena, wincing at the roaring crowd, the harsh lights. Fresh blood is smeared on the concrete, but Wangji stares at it rather than the contorted faces howling above him.

Meng Yao’s voice rises above the crowd, shrill through the speakers, as he announces Wangji and his opponents.

The opponents launch over the railing and drop into the arena. Two men and a woman. Heavy chains swing in their hands. They bare their teeth and spread out to surround him. He wishes he could tell them that it won’t matter. Wen Xu calls the people sent to fight him “sacrifices.” They are not expected to win, only to last as long as they can.

Wen Xu reaches for the collar. His fingers are cold against Wangji’s clammy skin. “Tear them up.”

The collar slides off. The tremor starts in Wangji’s hands and rockets through his body. He dives for his secret room, huddling into a ball as bones crunch, flesh splits. It’s harder to hide, with the drugs. The music jitters and screeches as he plays it louder and louder, struggling to keep the door shut.

“Wake the fuck up!”

The secret room disappears. Wangji is in the parking lot behind the arena. The SUV’s cargo door stands open in front of him.

Wen Chao slaps his shoulder. “Don’t just stand there drooling. Get in the fucking car.”

Wangji crawls into the cargo space and hugs his knees to his chest. There is pain in bright spots along his skin. Tomorrow those spots will deepen to aches. His wrist hurts the most. He rotates it, testing the soreness. An image flashes past: one of those chains wrapped around his wrist, dragging him to the ground.

He pushes that away, wipes his bloody hands on his pants and checks that the collar is around his throat. He doesn’t have to think about any of the other things as long as the collar is there.

Wangji always gets a shower on fight nights. When he comes out of the shower, Gao Pei has taken Wen Chao’s place. Gao Pei doesn’t complain about how long Wangji showered tonight. He’s excited, babbling about the fight, shadow-boxing the air. Wangji tries not to listen. He doesn’t want to remember.

Gao Pei leads him to the cage and leans against the door as Wangji gets dressed. Wangji sits on his sleeping bag and waits for him to leave, but Gao Pei keeps talking.

While Gao Pei talks, Wen Zhuliu comes downstairs and opens the cage door. He gives Wangji two bags of ice and points at his left eye and his wrist. Wangji presses one of the bags against his eye. He hadn’t realized he was hurt there, but the pressure makes him flinch.

“Thank you.”

“Whoa, he talks?” Gao Pei peers at Wangji through the wire mesh. “I never heard him say nothing before.”

Wen Zhuliu ignores Gao Pei’s question. He locks the cage and turns away.

“Are you two buddies or something? You kiss his booboos?” Gao Pei snorts. “Waste of time. That guy doesn’t feel pain.”

Wen Zhuliu spins around and punches him. Gao Pei flies back against the cage.

“Does that hurt?” Wen Zhuliu asks.

Gao Pei covers his eye as he scrambles to his feet. “Yeah, that fucking hurts!”

“Next time, bring him ice.”

“Motherf—I didn’t know, okay? I’ll bring him fucking ice next time.”

Wen Zhuliu heads for the stairs. Gao Pei stumbles after him.

The lights sputter out. Wangji settles against the wall and lays the other bag over his wrist. His eye doesn’t hurt that much—not as much as Gao Pei’s must. Wen Zhuliu hits hard, even in training. But Wangji keeps the ice on his eye anyway. He’s been hit in the face many times, and he knows that his eye may swell shut if he doesn’t keep the ice there. If it swells, everything will feel tilted and unsteady. It will hurt to look at his book. Maybe his eye would even fall out, like his rabbit’s did years ago.

Wangji follows Wen Chao into another warehouse. Blank-faced people hide in the dark corners. Wangji’s heart pounds until he realizes that they are mannequins.

“Dummies,” Gao Pei snorts. “Hey, Wangji, maybe you can make some friends. They’re as dumb as you.”

The side of Gao Pei’s face is dark and bruised, and his eye is slitted shut. He should have used ice.

Xue Yang laughs. Wangji hunches his shoulders and puts more distance between them. Xue Yang never laughs because he’s happy. His laugh is like the sharp little rat teeth that sometimes snap at Wangji’s toes.

“Gao Pei, you should be proud,” Xue Yang says. “That was almost clever.”

Gao Pei smiles at first. Then his smile twists as he realizes that Xue Yang wasn’t complimenting him. “Fuck off, psycho,” he mutters.

Xue Yang turns his grin on Wangji and winks. “He’s brave while that collar’s on, isn’t he? Bet he’d piss himself if I took it off. Don’t you think so, Wangji?”

Wangji is smart enough to know that there’s no good answer for that.

“Shut up, both of you!” Wen Chao snaps. “Can’t believe I’m stuck with you assholes today.” He walks faster and yanks on the leash until Wangji has to trot to keep up.

Xue Yang only laughs. Wangji shivers as that laugh echoes through the warehouse. Of all Wen Ruohan’s men, Xue Yang frightens him the most—aside from Wen Ruohan himself. Xue Yang has never hit Wangji or spoken harshly to him. Once, Xue Yang even gave him a piece of candy when they were riding in the backseat of the SUV. Wangji doesn’t understand why Xue Yang shared his beloved candy, but he knows it wasn’t kindness. Wangji doesn’t understand what Xue Yang wants, and that’s what scares him the most. The other men are always talking about money, about business. They brag about other things, too—fights they won, women they fucked—but it’s always money underneath it all.

Not Xue Yang. Wangji thinks that Xue Yang works for Wen Ruohan because he likes hurting people.

They come to a door. Wen Chao unclips the leash and tells Wangji to wait here. “Stay hidden until I call for you,” Wen Chao says. “Then you come running. You understand?”

Wangji nods. They have done this many times. Sometimes, the call never comes, and Wangji just stands alone until the meeting is over. He hopes this is one of those times.

Wen Chao leads the others through the door. He shuts the door behind them but leaves it open a crack. Wangji watches through the crack as they approach a group of men waiting beyond the door. The men begin to talk. Just talking now. Not shouting.

One of the mannequins is only a few feet away. Wangji cuts his eyes toward it. Its face is smooth, empty-eyed. It reminds him a bit of Wen Zhuliu.

Wangji tries to ignore it and focus on the door. But he can still see the mannequin from the corner of his eye. It seems closer now. It can’t walk, he scolds himself. It’s not real. Just a dummy.

Wen Chao moves closer to one of the men and jabs his finger at the man’s chest. The man is familiar. Wangji concentrates on remembering where he’s seen the man before so that he doesn’t have to think about the mannequins. The man is stocky. His moustache wiggles as he replies to Wen Chao. His voice is also familiar. Wen Ruohan is a genius. The memory of his voice tangles with a shifting pattern, vivid whorls against a dark fabric.

Oh. Mr. Yao. No longer a special guest, apparently.

Wen Chao and Mr. Yao continue to argue, but Wen Chao doesn’t call for Wangji. Wangji almost wishes that he would so that he could get away from the mannequins lurking in the shadows.

A song begins to play from somewhere deep in the warehouse. Wangji’s head swivels toward the sound. The music echoes in the hollow building, small and thin. Not as lovely as the smiling man’s song, but it is a piano. If he were just a little closer, he could hear it better.

He takes a step towards the music, walking backwards so that he can keep his eyes trained on the crack of light. He takes another tiny step back. Then another.

Something brushes against his back. He leaps away, fearing the grip of cold mannequin hands on his arms. But it’s just a roll of dusty plastic.

There’s a laugh from the other side of the door. Not Xue Yang’s.

Wangji curls his fingers in his sweater cuffs and tries to slow his breathing. The music plays on from its mysterious source.

Before he can change his mind, he hurries through the maze of equipment that hulks under stained sheets, ignoring the mannequins’ empty eyes following him.

The music comes from a cell phone lying on a stack of boxes. Words run along the bottom of the phone’s screen, but he can’t read them. A little square picture shows a white man with a long white braid and a bright red coat. “Piano,” he whispers. “Chopin.” He stares down at the picture, entranced by the music. Then he remembers.

He whips around, listening for the voices under the piano. They are still low, tight but not shouting.

He turns back to the phone. He can’t take it. All of Wen Ruohan’s men have cell phones. They treat them like treasures, always tapping on the screens and showing them off to each other. This phone must belong to someone, and its owner would be angry if Wangji touched it. His hand reaches out for it anyway, eager to hold the source of the music, to study the picture.

A gunshot explodes behind him. Wangji drops the phone. It clatters on the concrete. The screen cracks. The music stops.

He backs away from the winking glass, heart lurching. More gunshots. Someone screams.

Wangji makes himself return to the door because it would be worse if he didn’t, if Wen Chao called for him and he was too far away to hear.

He peeks through the crack. Gao Pei lies sprawled across the concrete, staring back at him. Not blinking. His eyes are as blank as the mannequins’. Wen Chao is on the ground beside him, clutching his stomach. Blood seeps across his shirt.

“Fucking traitor,” Wen Chao hisses. Red drops fly from his mouth.

Xue Yang strolls closer, a gun in his hand. He laughs. The gun blasts. Wen Chao’s head cracks against the floor.

“Now go get the mutt,” Mr. Yao says.

Xue Yang turns to the door. His smile widens. “Come on in, Wangji.”

Wangji scuttles back and bounces off the plastic again. Xue Yang’s laughter creeps after him.

Wangji runs.

He bangs out of the warehouse and keeps running. He ignores the shouts behind him, the gunshot that whines past his head. He runs through trash-heaped alleys, his tattered shoes slapping against the asphalt. He runs until his lungs ache and sweat slicks his back. He runs until the docks are far behind him and the city grows taller above him and the sidewalks are crowded with people. He runs past people who shout bro and ge and where you going baby? He runs until the pain in his side won’t let him drag in another breath. Then he walks, hunched and clutching his ribs.

A door opens in front of him, and two people step out. Music unfurls from the open door. He looks up, hoping it’s the smiling man’s store, but this music is low, throbbing. The windows are dark except for a buzzing neon sign. The lights are twisted in the form of a beer glass. A bar. He has been to several bars.

He ducks into the alley beside the bar and slides down the wall, hugging his knees and dragging in breaths that grind in his chest. The music is just bumps and groans from here, but it’s good enough.

There is a spray of broken glass in front of him: green slivers in a pool of rancid beer. He stares at it, remembering the phone shattering. Remembering how Wen Chao’s head caved in when the bullet struck it.

His stomach lurches. He twists to the side and vomits. It hurts, but when he’s done, he feels a little better. Only now he’s sitting beside his own vomit.

He heaves himself up and steps carefully around the broken bottle, moving to the other end of the alley. There is a dumpster that reeks of beer and other foul things, but its shadow hides him from the people passing on either side of the alley. He hopes it hides him because he is too tired to run anymore.

A clang above his head jerks him out of sleep. Wangji covers his head and curls into a tighter ball, but no blow follows.

“Fucking junkies,” someone mutters. The dumpster rattles. Footsteps thud, moving away from him.

He peeks through his arms. The alley is empty. A door bangs open. For a moment, the music swells louder, accompanied by voices. Then the door closes.

The alley is dark. He slept all afternoon. They didn’t find him.

He creeps to the end of the alley and looks out. Headlights blind him, but he squints past the rushing cars to look at the buildings. Nothing is familiar. He’s never been outside alone. Even if he wanted to return to Wen Ruohan, he doesn’t know the way.

But where should he go? He has no money. Everything costs money. Nothing is free, Wen Chao likes to say, especially when he’s giving Wangji food or clothes. You gotta earn your keep.

Wangji’s stomach growls at the thought of food, and his throat aches with thirst. He doesn’t know how to get money. He could steal, maybe. He’s seen the men steal things before. When Xue Yang was younger, he stole things from all the stores they visited. Sometimes sneaking candy into his pockets, sometimes brazenly taking things while Wen Chao threatened the owner, laughing while the owner complained.

Stealing is wrong, though. That is why Xue Yang liked it so much. Wangji can wait a little longer. Maybe there are other options that he hasn’t discovered yet.

But he won’t discover those options hiding in this alley. He waits until the sidewalk is clear, then steps out. He starts walking, the night wind pricking through his ragged sweater. If nothing else, the exercise will keep him warm.

It is dark, but not late. People chatter around him, entering and leaving the shops and restaurants. A woman walking toward him tosses a plastic cup into a trashcan. When she’s gone, Wangji peeks into the trashcan. The plastic cup rests on top of the other garbage. A few inches of dark liquid remain at the bottom.

It isn’t stealing if he takes it from the trash. Wangji grabs the cup and sips from the straw as he keeps walking. It’s coffee. He knows that from the smell, but it’s sweet, almost like candy. He sucks the cup dry and takes off the lid to lick the last drops from the straw.

The coffee calms the ache in his throat but makes his hunger even worse. He studies the people he meets, watching until he sees a man sitting on the sidewalk outside a restaurant. The man is eating a slice of pizza.

The man notices Wangji watching him and lifts an eyebrow. Wangji ducks his head and keeps walking.

“Hey, man.”

Wangji turns back. The man reaches into the white box beside him and holds out another slice of pizza. “All yours, bro.”

Wangji edges closer. The man smiles. His teeth are large and yellow, his eyes brown and red.

Wangji takes the pizza. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” The man waves his hand, dismissing him.

Wangji keeps walking. The pizza is hot, scalding the roof of his mouth and dripping grease down his hand. He eats it anyway and licks the grease from his fingers.

He walks until he comes to a park that he recognizes. He’s never been inside, but he’s ridden past it several times. He remembers sunlight and laughter, the children swinging from the bars like the monkey in his book.

Now the playground is hidden in shadows. But he is tired, and it’s good enough. He walks through the gate and down the concrete path. The park is not empty. There’s a man sleeping on one of the benches, two more people talking softly at a picnic table. They don’t pay attention to him, so Wangji keeps going, leaving the path to swish across the grass.

A tall tree spreads its branches above him. The streetlights don’t breach the darkness below it. A good place to hide.

T is for tree, Wangji thinks as he curls up beside the trunk. For a moment, he misses his picture book and his bunny. But the grass smells sweet. It tickles his nose when he breathes in. It is something new, at least, even if it is cold.

He wakes to something shaking his shoulder. A wrinkled face looms over him, grinning with a mouth missing several teeth. “Hey, kid,” the man says. “You gotta get moving. Cops’ll grab you in if they find you here during the day.”

Wangji shrinks back, but the man is already walking away, singing in a high, cracked voice. Others follow the man through the gate. There were more people here than he realized. Hiding in the shadows like him, probably.

He blinks at the morning sunlight sparkling on the grass. There are no children playing, just the shambling people leaving the park. But there is a water fountain. He knows about water fountains. There is one in the arena, outside the bathrooms. He hurries toward it and gulps the cold water until his stomach cramps.

There is also a bathroom here. There is a lock on the door, but it has been busted open. Probably, that means he shouldn’t go in, but given the alternative, he steps inside. The light switch flicks under his finger, but the room stays dark. He can just make out the urinal in the light spilling in from the doorway. He uses it, telling himself that there are absolutely no mannequins hiding in the stalls behind him. There is no soap in the dispensers, but he scrubs at his hands with cold water until they sting. He briefly considers taking off his sweater to wash, but the water is so cold, and the room smells worse than the dumpster beside the bar.

You smell like dogshit, Wen Chao sneers.

Well, you’re dead, Wangji replies as he never would have if he weren’t speaking to Wen Chao from the safety of his mind. So you probably smell worse now.

It isn’t a good joke, more the sort that Xue Yang would like, but Wangji smirks a little anyway as he leaves the bathroom.

Wangji steps through the gate back onto the sidewalk. It is tempting to stay in the park, despite what the wrinkled man said, but Wangji knows about cops. Wen Ruohan’s men hate cops more than anything. They are always complaining about cops hassling them. Sometimes when they went on collections, they had to wait in the car until the cops were gone. Can’t do business with the pigs lurking around, Wen Chao said once.

Cops haul you off to jail, according to the men. Stick you in a cage. As someone who slept in a cage every night, this didn’t seem all that different to Wangji, but the men said that you had to stay in that cage for years, never going outside. One of the men who worked for Wen Ruohan went to jail. He’s been there since Wangji was a child. Even Xue Yang is scared of cops.

So Wangji starts walking again, but he pays attention to the buildings, trying to memorize the route so that he can find the park again tonight.

No one offers him pizza today, and by afternoon, his hunger is fierce, blocking out all other thought. He tries going into a McDonald’s—he knows about the golden arches—but they chase him out when he digs through the garbage.

Then, with the sun sinking behind the buildings, he comes to a street he recognizes. There is a church on the corner—a pointy roof and round columns, pictures in the windows.

He lowers himself onto the steps in front of the church. He knows about churches. He’s never been inside one, but he’s heard music coming from them sometimes. Piano music, like the smiling man’s. There is no music inside this church, though.

But the smiling man’s store is close to this church. He just can’t remember which direction. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine himself in the car, speeding down the streets, but he never paid much attention to directions.

He could ask someone. He watches people hurry by, talking into their cell phones or staring down at the screens. A woman carrying a bag of groceries walks by the church, moving slower than the other people. Her hair is white, and she winces like her feet hurt.

When Wangji approaches her, the woman’s eyes widen. She clutches the plastic bag and the purse on her shoulder and walks faster. Afraid.

Wangji tucks his hands in his sleeves and mumbles an apology. She doesn’t look back.

Down the street, a cop car pulls up to the curb. Would they put him in jail for scaring the woman? He doesn’t know, but he walks away in the other direction and hopes that it takes him to the smiling man.

When he finally finds the smiling man’s store, the windows are dark. That’s okay. Wangji knows about stores. It will open again in the morning. For now, it’s enough that he found it. He cups his hands to peer through the window. The piano is there, just a large shape in the shadows, but he smiles anyway. “Chopin,” he whispers to the glass. “Sunshine.”

There is an alley beside the store. He heads into the darkness to wait.

He has begun to doze when music begins above him. A voice joins in. The voice is familiar, laughing and bright. I love an audience.

Wangji stands up and cranes his head back. Light spills from a window above him. There is a fire escape leading up to the window. The ladder is retracted, but he leaps up, gripping the bars and swinging himself onto the platform. That makes his wrist hurt, but he ignores it. He steps lightly on the creaking iron and climbs up to the window. Crouching below, he peeks his head over the sill.

Inside, the smiling man is dancing around a kitchen, a towel slung over his shoulder. A pot on the stove billows steam when he lifts the lid to poke at the contents. “Dontcha feel like crying?” the smiling man sings, but he doesn’t sound sad. His hips dip and wiggle as he moves around the kitchen. His shoulders shimmy. His ponytail bounces and swings behind his head. The smiling man pauses and leans back, bellowing into the wooden spoon he holds up to his mouth. “Nothing could be sssad-der than a glass of wine, aloooone. Loneliness, loneliness, such a waste of time.”

The man doesn’t see Wangji watching him. He’s too busy prancing around the kitchen, the food forgotten on the stove. “You don’t ever have to walk alone, you see. C’mon, take my hand”—the man throws out a hand to an invisible partner—“And baby won’t ya walk with me.”

The man’s singing trails off into a mumble as he dances back to the stove. He dumps noodles into a bowl and throws in more things that Wangji can’t make out. Then he taps at his phone, and the song cuts off.

“Who’s hungry?” the man shouts. Hope trembles in Wangji’s chest before he realizes that the man can’t be talking to him.

Footsteps clatter across the floor as a little boy runs into the kitchen.

“Hey, no running in the house,” the man says.

“I wasn’t running,” the boy says, grinning up at the man as he hops into a chair.

The man snorts as he sets a bowl down in front of the boy. “Oh really? Must’ve been the monkey I heard, then.”

The boy nods, grinning wider, and starts eating. The man ruffles the boy’s hair and sits down beside him.

With the show over, there is nothing to distract Wangji from the warm smells of the man’s cooking. As he watches them eat, his stomach clenches, almost like being punched. He’s been punched in the stomach many times. But he’s also been hungry many times. When he was younger, and more disobedient, he was often punished by being sent to his cage hungry. He can endure it.

The food does smell good, though. Maybe the smiling man is as nice as the man who gave him pizza. But he cannot imagine climbing through the window and asking them to share their food. What if they got angry? Or worse, what if he scared them like he scared the old woman?

Best not to risk it. Not until he’s heard the smiling man play the piano again, at least.

Wangji sinks down so that they can’t see him if they look out the window, but he remains there, listening to their conversation.

After dinner, the man sings again as dishes clatter in the sink. His voice is lower, now—a distracted mumble.

The singing stops. The man’s feet slap against the linoleum as he walks to the window. Wangji holds his breath and clenches his eyes shut as if that will stop the man from seeing him. But the man doesn’t see him. The window slides down, and the lock clicks shut.

Even with the window closed, Wangji can still hear the murmur of the television in the next room and the occasional louder sound of their voices. He stays under the window after the lights go out and all is silent.

Although he meant to climb back down and sleep by the dumpster, Wangji wakes to the man’s voice calling from beyond the closed window.

The sun has risen. The city is awake below him, traffic honking and puffing black smoke into the air. Wangji pushes himself up, wincing. The fire escape is cold and hard, nothing like his bed of grass. He looks in the window. The man is back in the kitchen. The scent of brewing coffee reaches Wangji even through the glass. His mouth waters.

The man pours coffee into a thermos and calls to the boy again. The boy takes a box from the man’s hand, and then they’re gone.

Wangji starts making his way back down the fire escape. It’s more difficult this morning. His limbs are stiff and sore, and his left hand doesn’t want to close around the iron bars. His wrist is still dark with bruises.

By the time he reaches the alley, his head is spinning. Hunger does that—hollows him out until he feels like he could float away on the breeze.

He walks to the front of the store, but it’s still closed. The man and boy must have gone somewhere else.

He goes back to the alley to wait. Once he’s heard the man play again, he will search for food.

The smiling man returns carrying a white bag along with the thermos. As he passes by the alley, he fumbles in his pants pocket. The keys he was digging for fall to the ground. “Shit,” the man mutters. “Every time.”

The man bends over to pick them up. When he rises, he notices Wangji sitting against the wall. The man freezes, still bent over.

Wangji freezes, too. They stare at each other in silence.

Then the man cocks his head. “Hey, I know you. The Chopin fan, right?”

Wangji automatically mouths the words back to him: Chopin fan.

“What are you doing back here?”

The man steps closer. Wangji scuttles behind the dumpster.

The man’s footsteps stop. “Hey, it’s a free country. You can hang out here if you want.” The keys jingle, but the man doesn’t come closer. “Or you could come inside. I’m just opening up now.”

His footsteps move away. A bell tinkles, like the ones on shop doors.

Wangji waits, plucking at his sweater cuffs. The bell rings again. Another man’s voice calls good morning. The smiling man answers him.

Then nothing.

He said I could, Wangji tells himself. He said I could come inside.

Slowly, Wangji walks out of the alley. The shop’s door is propped open now. He goes to the big windows and peeks in.

The second man disappears down a hallway at the back of the store, but the smiling man leans against a counter. He takes a doughnut from the white bag, eats a bite, and sets it back down, brushing his hands together. He sips coffee from the thermos. As he sets it down, his eyes meet Wangji’s through the window.

Chapter Text

Wei Ying brushes sticky glaze off his hands before he reaches for his thermos. He always forgets the damn napkins.

When he sets down the thermos, he sees the Chopin fan lurking outside the shop. Well, lurking is a strong word, but loitering while staring intently doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. Except it seems like it’s the doughnut that’s got the guy’s attention today. As an experiment, Wei Ying lifts the doughnut to his mouth and nibbles off another bite. The guy’s eyes stay glued to it as Wei Ying drops it back on the paper.

Yep, definitely the doughnut. Wei Ying remembers that feeling all too well.

Wei Ying takes the other doughnut out of the bag—the one he’d bought for the afternoon slump caused by the first sugar bomb—and walks toward the door. When the guy notices him coming, he backs away, but he doesn’t go far. Wei Ying doesn’t want the poor guy to scamper off like he did the other day, so he changes course and sets the doughnut down on the windowsill. “For you,” he calls. Then he goes back to the counter.

They guy inches inside, his eyes darting from the doughnut to Wei Ying. Wei Ying goes back to his own doughnut and keeps his eyes averted from the guy’s slow passage to the windowsill.

When he reaches it, the guy snatches up the doughnut and scarfs it in four huge bites, barely pausing to chew.

Wei Ying finishes his own doughnut more sedately. If he were a better person, he might have given the guy the rest of his, but it’s pumpkin spice—the first batch of the season. He isn’t a fucking saint.

The guy crumples the waxed paper in his hands and stands perfectly still, staring at the piano. He’s wearing what might be the same ragged clothes he’d worn the other day, only they’re dirtier now. His face is covered in scraggly whiskers, and at some point in the recent past, someone slugged him in the eye. But the most noticeable thing is the collar. Wei Ying wore his share of collars back in the day, but this one doesn’t look like a fashion statement, even among the kinkier crowds. It’s steel. It looks heavy. Wei Ying can make out darker skin where it’s chafed the guy’s throat. Like he never takes it off.

“Just set that down anywhere,” Wei Ying says. He speaks softly, but the guy still flinches.

While the guy is setting the paper on the windowsill, Wen Ning comes back out front. When Wen Ning spots the guy, he plasters on his best customer service smile. “Good morning! How can we help you today?”

The guy’s eyes widen, and he takes a step toward the door. Wen Ning pauses, his smile faltering.

“A-Ning,” Wei Ying says, “would you go grab one of the juice boxes from the fridge?”

Wen Ning nods and turns around without a single question.

“Oh, and I think I left some cup noodles in the cabinet. Would you grab that for our friend here?”

“Uh, okay.”

Wei Ying and the guy wait in silence as Wen Ning putters around in the breakroom. The microwave whirs to life. The guy takes two shuffling steps toward the piano. His eyes rove over it like it’s a giant doughnut.

“Do you play?” Wei Ying asks.

The guy blinks at him and curls his fingers in his sweater cuffs. He looks like a kid standing in front of class, desperately trying to remember the answer to the teacher’s question.

Then Wen Ning comes back, and the guy’s stare shifts to the steaming cup in Wen Ning’s hand.

“Give that to me,” Wei Ying says. He sets the noodles on the counter and rips the straw off the juice box, popping it in with practiced ease. A-Yuan has been a juice box addict since he was two years old, so much so that Wei Ying keeps the fridge down here stocked as well as the one in the apartment.

“These are for you,” he tells the guy as he steps around the counter, moving slowly. The guy stands his ground, but he tenses, ready to bolt.

Wei Ying sets the food on the piano bench and goes back to the counter. The guy picks up the cup. He ignores the fork Wen Ning thoughtfully included and tips the cup back, gulping and slurping.

Grimacing, Wei Ying cuts his eyes at Wen Ning. Wen Ning gapes back at him. It’s like watching a toddler eat, if the toddler were a six-foot bearded man wearing a steel collar.

When he’s finished, the guy swipes his sleeve over his mouth and carefully deposits the empty cup beside the paper on the windowsill. The juice box is sucked dry in a few seconds. The deflated box joins the cup and ball of paper.

Watching this, Wei Ying wishes that they kept better food in the breakroom. Feeding this guy sugar and sodium followed by more sugar seems cruel. There isn’t much upstairs either, though. He was planning to duck out to go grocery shopping before this guy appeared.

“I brought a banana,” Wen Ning mutters, like he’s having similar thoughts.

“Great, thanks.”

This time, Wen Ning makes the approach himself. The guy watches him set the banana on the piano bench and doesn’t grab it until Wen Ning is back behind the counter.

Like a wild animal, Wei Ying thinks, wincing. It’s a dick thing to think, but the collar just makes it seem more accurate. What the fuck happened to this guy?

Once the banana peel is laid on the windowsill, the guy goes back to staring at the Steinway. Wei Ying would offer to play for him, but the guy is blocking the bench. Wei Ying doesn’t want to disturb whatever bond he’s forming with the piano.

So he does the next best thing.

The guy’s eyes shoot to him when the song begins. He stares, almost unblinking, as Wei Ying plays the dizi. So the guy likes Chopin and Guohua Chen. He’s got taste, that’s for sure. The guy is a fantastic audience, totally enraptured. Wei Ying smiles as he plays. It’s always more fun to play for an appreciative audience, and this guy seems as hungry for music as he is for food.

Wei Ying finishes the song and gives the dizi a spin—he’s a showman, after all. The guy doesn’t applaud. He lowers his eyes to the counter and tugs at his sweater cuffs.

Okay, what now? Wei Ying sets the dizi in its stand and leans on the counter. “I’m Wei Ying. This is Wen Ning.”

When Wen Ning waves, the guy flinches and takes a step back. Well, that sort of makes sense. Wen Ning may be a teddy bear, but he’s a big dude with neck tattoos, so people often mistake him for a thug. It’s a bit surprising to get that reaction from a guy wearing a collar, though.

“This is our place, Studio 36, because it’s on 36^th street,” Wei Ying continues. “Boring, I know. I wanted to call it The Dizzy Dizi, but I got shot down. We sell some stuff, but mostly we give lessons. I teach piano and the dizi. Wen Ning teaches guitar and drums. He’s our rock star.” He babbles on, and the guy listens wide-eyed and blank-faced.

“You could sit down if you want. Try out the piano.” Technically, the Steinway is for sale, but it’s been on the show floor since Wei Ying salvaged it from an old church. That was two years ago. At this point, it’s just there to bang on when he’s bored. It does attract customers sometimes, though. Like this guy. Who probably isn’t a customer, but the point stands.

It takes almost a full minute for the guy to sit down on the bench. One grimy finger presses a key. The sound makes the guy jump and clench his hands in his lap.

Wei Ying chews his lip, watching the guy mind-meld with the piano keys. It’s pretty obvious that the guy slept in the alley last night. From the look of him, it’s been a long time since he’s seen a real bed. But he seems harmless. Why not let him stare at the piano for a while?

The morning creeps on. Customers drift in for reeds and guitar strings. Bethany drops off her guitar for rehab. The guy barely glances at any of them.

After Bethany leaves, Wei Ying hands Wen Ning some cash and sends him to get lunch. “Something with vegetables,” he mutters. “And a lot of it.”

When Wen Ning returns with two plastic bags stuffed with takeout containers, the guy turns away from the piano for the first time.

Wei Ying closes the door and puts up the Out to Lunch sign. “We eat lunch in the breakroom,” he tells the guy. “You’re welcome to join us.”

The guy stands up slowly. Wei Ying gives him what he hopes is an encouraging smile and beckons for him to follow.

Wen Ning is already laying out paper plates and chopsticks when they reach the breakroom. The guy watches Wen Ning dish out food like he’s barely restraining himself from leaping onto the table. When his plate is ready, the guy foregoes the chopsticks and shoves rice into his mouth with his fingers. Yeah, should’ve seen that coming. There’s dirt caked under the guy’s ragged nails. Wei Ying has been a dad long enough to be horrified. The guy’s knuckles are torn up, too. It isn’t hard to guess how that happened. Considering the shiner he’s sporting, the guy probably didn’t win the fight.

They eat quietly aside from the guy’s hurried chewing noises. All of the food disappears, which Wei Ying didn’t even know was possible with Golden Palace takeout. When the guy’s plate is all but licked clean, Wei Ying and Wen Ning start packing up the trash.

“Thank you,” the guy mumbles, staring down at the table.

They both pause at the low croak.

“You’re very welcome,” Wei Ying says.

“There is a washroom just there, if you need it,” Wen Ning tells him, pointing down the hall at the little half-bath. Wei Ying kicks himself for not thinking of that, then wonders if the guy is toilet-trained. Then he hates himself for wondering.

The guy nods and goes into the washroom, shutting the door behind him.

They’re back in the showroom, door propped open again, when the guy comes back out. His hands are scrubbed pink, as is his face—the parts that aren’t covered by stubble, anyway. Even his hair is damp. He avoids their eyes and goes back to the piano bench.

Their real business mostly takes place in the afternoons when the students arrive. Thankfully, they don’t need the piano out front. Wei Ying gives piano lessons at the little Yamaha in back—less impressive than the Steinway, but it actually fits in the tiny studio space.

The students come and go, but the guy still sits on the piano bench like he’s hoping it will start playing by itself.

The smiling man, Wei Ying, tells Wangji that he’ll be back soon and walks out of the store. The other man, the Wen man, moves behind the counter and does something at the computer.

The man’s name startled Wangji at first. He might have run if he hadn’t been too scared to move. But Wen Ning doesn’t seem to know Wangji. And he doesn’t seem anything like Wen Ruohan’s men. Still, it would be smart to be watchful. Wen Ning could be like Meng Yao or Xue Yang. The ones who act nice are the worst of all.

But it’s hard to worry right now. Wangji’s stomach is full, almost unpleasantly so, and he is sleepy. Sitting on the piano bench, he seems to dream, though he’s fairly certain that he never falls asleep. But he sees the woman again, the one who plays the piano. She ducks her head to peek at him under the piano, her hair falling in dark ripples over her shoulder. She smiles at him. He smiles back and rolls a toy car across carpet.

He stares down at the black and white keys, confused but pleased at these strange dreams. The store smells cheerfully of lemon polish and coffee. The street noises drift in through the open door, but they are muted, distant. He feels like he’s entered another world, like he stepped through the pages of his picture book and into a world of kites and pianos. Maybe he did, and his old cage is now just a drawing in a book.

Wei Ying returns with the little boy. “A-Yuan, we have a visitor today.”

The boy smiles at Wangji. “Hello. I’m Wei Yuan. I’m six and a half.”

“I am Wangji.” He doesn’t say how old he is because he doesn’t know.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wangji.” Then the boy tugs at Wei Ying’s hand. “I’m thirsty, Baba.”

“Go ahead. Grab a water for Mr. Wangji while you’re back there, please.”

Wei Ying sets the boy’s backpack down on the counter and speaks softly to Wen Ning. Wei Yuan runs back into the room waving a water bottle. “Here’s your water, Mr. Wangji!”

Wangji thanks him as he accepts the water. Wei Ying doesn’t scold the boy for running in the store. Maybe running is only forbidden upstairs.

Wangji drinks the water, careful not to spill any on the piano.

When Wei Ying finishes his last lesson of the day, he finds A-Yuan sitting at the Steinway beside their visitor. Wangji is slowly plunking out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

“Baba, I taught him a song. Play it for him, Mr. Wangji.”

Wangji takes a deep breath and spreads his right hand over the keys. The song lumbers under his fingers, the rhythm staggered but every note correct.

“Great job, both of you.”

Wangji blinks up at him, dark eyes shining for a moment before they shutter. Wei Ying smacks a kiss on his son’s head. Best kid in the world, right here.

Wangji stays on the piano bench as they’re closing up. Wei Ying chews his lip, knowing what he’s going to do but horrified at himself. But what’s the alternative: kick the guy out and find him sleeping beside the dumpster in the morning? And that’s if the cops don’t take him in for vagrancy.

“Wangji?”

Wangji looks up.

Please don’t be a serial killer. “So, we’re closing up for the night, but A-Yuan and I live upstairs. Do you want to join us for dinner?”

Wangji blinks. His head bobs in what’s probably a yes.

“Great!”

Fuck.

As they’re climbing the stairs, Wei Ying remembers that there isn’t actually any food in the apartment. He leaves A-Yuan to show Wangji around—sure, leave your son with a potential serial killer, great parenting skills—and goes to root around in the refrigerator, hoping he’s forgotten something. But the fridge yields nothing but week-old takeout and a mystery plate covered in foil.

“Okay,” he announces, slamming the door, “we’re getting pizza.”

“Pizza!”

At least A-Yuan is excited. “Wangji, do you like pizza?”

Wangji nods.

Wei Ying is beginning to suspect that Wangji will answer any question he asks with a nod, but who doesn’t like pizza? A billion stoners and single dads can’t be wrong.

He doesn’t bother to ask about toppings. He foregoes their usual order and opts for one cheese and one veggie. A-Yuan won’t touch the veggie pizza, but at least the two adults can get some vitamins.

As they’re eating, Wei Ying congratulates himself on his totally intentional choice of a food that doesn’t require utensils. Aside from eating kind of fast, Wangji eats pizza just like everyone else does.

When the pizza is gone, they move to the living room. Wei Ying sits on the couch and watches his son play with dinosaurs on the rug. Their houseguest ducked his head when Wei Ying offered him a seat on the couch. Instead, he’s sitting on the other end of the rug, dividing his attention between the piano in the corner and the movie playing on TV. When A-Yuan lets out a particularly vicious RAWR, Wangji will turn to him, blink, then go back to watching the piano and the TV.

Wei Ying’s phone buzzes with a text from Jiang Cheng: What should I get his highness for his birthday?

Oh shit, that’s this weekend. “A-Yuan, what does your cousin want for his birthday?”

A-Yuan immediately rattles off a long list.

“Slow down, I’m texting Shushu. What kind of Legos?”

He types out the best contenders, leaving out the single book. He’ll buy that himself and get brownie points from Jie. They’re already giving Jin Ling a dizi, but the book can be from A-Yuan.

After that, he allows himself 30 minutes of blank staring at the TV and thinking about the guy sitting on his living room floor before he starts hustling A-Yuan into the bathtub.

He leans against the counter to supervise as A-Yuan zooms dinosaurs through the bubbles. Watching a T-Rex waterski is always entertaining, but tonight, all he can think about is Wangji, the very quiet, kinda smelly guy who Wei Ying just dragged home like a stray kitten. Now that he’s here, what is Wei Ying supposed to do with him? Put a little bell on his collar?

“Is Mr. Wangji staying here tonight?” A-Yuan asks, thankfully interrupting that train of thought.

“I don’t know. Would that be okay with you?”

A-Yuan shrugs. “Sure.” Then he changes the subject to Jin Ling’s birthday party on Saturday. He’s understandably excited. Jie and the peacock don’t just take the kids to a park or a pizza joint—they’re the pony and party games type. Jin Ling’s party will be the social event of the season for the elementary school crowd. Hell, it’ll be the social event of the season for Wei Ying. Last year, he and Jiang Cheng spent more time on the bouncy castle than any of the kids did.

After the kid is tucked into bed, Wei Ying goes back to the living room. Wangji hasn’t moved from his spot on the rug. Wei Ying turns off the TV and sits on the floor a few feet from Wangji. Wangji draws into a tighter knot and stares at Wei Ying’s knee.

“Would you like to sleep here tonight?”

Wangji’s eyes flicker up to his face, then settle on Wei Ying’s shoulder. He nods slowly.

“Okay. We don’t have a spare bed, but I’ll make up the couch for you. Do you want to take a shower first?”

That one is easy, apparently. Wangji nods, looking almost eager.

“I’ll go start it. The plumbing gets a bit cranky. Old building and all.” And their super is useless at fixing stuff. It’s him. He’s the super. At least he tries. “And I’ll find you something to sleep in.”

He grabs a pair of jogging pants and his baggiest t-shirt. There’s a faded Megadeth logo on the front. It might be Wen Ning’s actually. Well, maybe Wangji likes 80s metal. He is wearing a collar, after all. Anyway, it’s doubtful that any of Wei Ying’s shirts will fit him. The guy is skinny, but his shoulders are broad.

While the water is heating up, he finds a toothbrush in the drawer, still in its wrapper, from one of A-Yuan’s dentist visits. There’s a cartoon rocket ship on the handle, but a toothbrush is a toothbrush.

He goes back to the living room. “Shower’s ready. I left a toothbrush for you by the sink.”

While Wangji is in the bathroom, Wei Ying makes up the couch with A-Yuan’s old sheets. They’re covered in cowboys and cacti, and A-Yuan will only allow them on his bed in cases of emergency. Cowboys were last year’s obsession.

Several minutes pass. He’s beginning to worry that Wangji is just sitting on the bathroom floor watching water pour down the drain when the shower shuts off. After another ten minutes, Wangji comes out, wet-haired and wearing Wei Ying’s clothes. The collar is still around his neck. Surely he didn’t wear it in the shower. Wouldn’t it rust or something?

Wei Ying rises from the uncomfortable chair that no one ever sits in. It started out life in Yu Ziyuan’s house, then lived with Jie for a while before coming here to die. “The couch is ready. Do you need anything else?”

Wangji looks at the couch and wiggles his fingers. There are no sweater cuffs to play with now. There’s a ring of bruises around his wrist, worse even than his eye.

“Your wrist,” Wei Ying says, stepping toward him with his hand outstretched.

Wangji stumbles back.

Wei Ying stops moving and draws back his hand. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”

Wangji looks down at his hand and flexes his wrist. He winces.

“Okay, just a second.” Wei Ying goes to fetch the ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet. Wangji’s clothes are balled up in a sad little pile beside the tub. Wei Ying ignores them for the moment and shakes out two pills.

He stops in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, then takes it and the pills to Wangji. Wangji’s eyes widen when he sees the pills. He turns away, wrapping his arms around his belly.

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to take them. I’m throwing them in the trash right now.” He leaves the glass on the coffee table and tosses the pills in the trash. Well, Wangji definitely isn’t a junkie. Not that he’d actually thought so before. Wei Ying’s known a lot of junkies.

He goes back to Wangji, hands held out, fingers splayed to show that the pills are gone. “Look, no more pills.”

Wangji’s eyes dart to him, then away. He shivers, either from cold or fear. Hopefully the first thing. The hot water probably gave out before he finished showering.

“Okay. Well, the couch is all yours. I’ll be down the hall if you need anything.” Wei Ying clicks off the living room lamps but leaves the light on over the stove. Wangji might want the light if he needs the bathroom during the night. And Wei Ying doesn’t want to leave the guy alone in the dark.

“Good night, Wangji.”

Wangji is still standing in the living room when Wei Ying heads down the hall. He might stand there all night. Or curl up on the rug.

Or he might leave in the night with a pillowcase full of loot. Like what? Wei Ying snorts as he goes into the bathroom. The Walmart silverware and some plastic dinosaurs?

The bristles on the rocket ship toothbrush are damp. That’s good. Wangji apparently knows about dental hygiene.

After he’s brushed his own teeth, Wei Ying crosses to his bedroom. He strips to his boxers and throws on one of the old t-shirts he sleeps in. Then he climbs into bed and stares up at the ceiling.

What the fuck is he doing?

Feeding the guy some take-out—sure, why not? But inviting him to sleep down the hall from a six-year-old boy? He could be a fucking serial killer.

Do serial killers use rocket ship toothbrushes and play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”?

Yeah, probably. Who knows what those guys are into. Or he could be a child molester. Child molesters probably love cartoon toothbrushes.

Groaning, he reaches for his phone and searches for recent crimes in which the main suspect wore a steel collar. All he finds are fetish sites, unsurprisingly.

He should take Wangji to a shelter tomorrow. That would be the smart thing, wouldn’t it? The guy obviously needs a lot of help—help that Wei Ying is definitely not qualified to give. Sure, Wei Ying spent some time on the streets, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to help a guy who barely speaks and doesn’t know how forks work.

And what about the pills? What could have happened to him to make him panic over ibuprofen? And who beat the shit out of him? How many more bruises are hiding under his clothes?

Wei Ying puts the phone down and scrubs at his face. How does he get himself into shit like this?

After Wei Ying is gone, Wangji considers the couch. He is clean now, wearing Wei Ying’s clothes. Wei Ying said it was okay.

He perches on the cushion. It squeaks beneath him, and he almost jumps back up. But Wei Ying said he should sleep here. He eases down until his back is pressed against the couch.

The window is closed tonight. The sounds from the street below are dim. The light above the stove hums gently. The couch is soft. He smells nice. Fresh. His stomach is full, his mouth minty. A glass of water waits on the table if he wants it. There is a piano in the corner. That’s better than his picture book, even if he can’t touch it.

Eventually, his eyes droop, and he gives in, lying down and pulling the blanket over him. He falls asleep looking at the piano.

Wei Ying wakes from a weird dream about a dog running loose in the apartment and chewing up all their shoes. Moaning, he rolls over to check his phone: not quite six a.m. He turns off his alarm, stuffs his feet in the donkey slippers A-Yuan gave him for his birthday last year, and creeps down the hall.

Wangji is already awake. He’s sitting on the couch, the blanket folded beside him.

“Good morning.”

Wangji jerks and looks up. He’d been staring at the piano, of course. He whispers back something that might be good morning.

“Did you sleep okay?”

Wangji nods. His hands are folded in his lap. If it weren’t for the scruff and the collar, he’d look like a kid sitting in the principal’s office.

Wei Ying scratches his belly, fluffs the hair matted at the back of his head. “Well, we don’t really do breakfast here. And I think we’re out of milk. How about Pop Tarts?”

Wangji’s fingers twitch. He nods.

Wei Ying goes to the fridge and sniffs the milk. Woof. He dumps it in the sink. He’s gotta hit the store today. The Noodle Surprise he made the night before last ate up the last of the fresh stuff. And there’s only one juice box left.

At least there are still Pop Tarts. Of course, the toaster is broken. He’s been meaning to buy a new one, but who has the time? A-Yuan likes them better cold, anyway.

He takes a pack of blueberry Pop Tarts out of the box and rips it open as he walks back to the couch. It isn’t until he’s handing over the open package that he realizes he’s being kind of condescending. Wangji is an adult. He can open his own Pop Tarts.

He refills the empty water glass and sets it on the coffee table. Wangji looks up at him with crumbs stuck in his whiskers. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The guy is so weird: feral one second, super polite the next.

Wei Ying folds himself into the evil chair and watches Wangji finish his breakfast from the corner of his eye. When the Pop Tarts are gone, Wei Ying says, “I have to take A-Yuan to school this morning. Then I’ll come back to open the store.”

Wangji swipes his hand over his mouth and stares at the donkey ears wagging beside Wei Ying’s knee.

“I won’t be gone long. Do you want to come back down to the store with me today?”

Wangji nods without taking time to consider.

“Okay. I’m going to hop in the shower.”

When he comes out of the bathroom, A-Yuan is sitting beside Wangji on the couch, eating Pop Tarts and drinking the last juice box. They’re both entranced by cartoons on TV.

Wei Ying kisses his son’s hair. “Sorry, we’re out of milk. I’ll go to the store today.”

“It’s okay. I like Pop Tarts,” A-Yuan says, because he’s a great kid that Wei Ying doesn’t deserve. “Get juice boxes.”

“Will do. Any other requests?”

A-Yuan rattles off a list that Wei Ying dutifully records on the pad stuck to the refrigerator door. A-Yuan’s much better at remembering this stuff than he is. Wei Ying hadn’t even realized they were low on toilet paper.

After that, Wei Ying scrapes out the last of the peanut butter to make A-Yuan a pb&j on stale bread. Father of the year, that’s him. He adds a fruit cup to the dinosaur lunch box, which makes him feel a little better. And he puts some loose change from his dresser into a Ziploc bag so that A-Yuan can buy a drink from the machine.

As an afterthought, he rips open another fruit cup and takes it to Wangji. Wangji ignores the spoon and slurps the fruit straight from the cup. A-Yuan watches this with his mouth hanging open but doesn’t comment.

When Wei Ying returns from dropping off A-Yuan, Wangji is still on the couch watching cartoons. “I brought breakfast,” Wei Ying announces, brandishing the McDonald’s bag. Well, second breakfast in Wangji’s case, but the guy definitely needs feeding. “We can eat at the store. I’ll go find you something to wear.”

Wangji comes out of the bathroom wearing the hoodie and jeans Wei Ying gave him. The hoodie is Wei Ying’s second-favorite. It swallows him, but it fits Wangji pretty well. And the jeans are perfect because they’re about the same height. He’d look normal if it weren’t for the collar and the worn-out shoes. There’s nothing Wei Ying can do about the shoes, though. His feet are much bigger than Wangji’s. Unless Wangji wants to wear the donkey slippers.

After breakfast, Wangji goes back to the piano bench. Wei Ying doesn’t have any lessons this morning, so he leaves Wangji with Wen Ning and heads to the grocery store. In addition to the thousand things on A-Yuan’s list, he grabs stuff for Wangji. Like he’s planning on having him around for a while. He hesitates with his hand resting on a pack of fruit cups. For all he knows, Wangji will vanish as suddenly as he appeared. He could follow some street violinist home. Or wander back where he came from.

To the dumpster? Or maybe to the people who beat him, the people who treated him so badly that he can barely make eye contact?

Okay, but what if those people come looking for him? Maybe he should call the police.

That idea is dismissed quickly. Wei Ying throws the fruit cups on top of the pile and keeps rolling. The police wouldn’t help. He doubts that Wangji was hiding ID in those filthy pants, and cops get worked up about people who don’t have ID. And those knuckles . . . the police would know what those scabs meant.

What if he killed someone?

The shopping cart nearly crashes into a cereal display.

Which is why he should definitely call the police.

He rolls his eyes and navigates around the cereal display. Wangji didn’t kill anybody. Everybody gets in fights sometimes. Wei Ying’s been in a few himself, like the time he punched the peacock’s weasel cousin.

No, he’s not calling the police. There is someone he should call, though.

Once he’s wagged the groceries back home, sweating and panting up the stairs, he makes the call.

“Hey, you busy today?”

“Always,” Wen Qing sighs. “What do you need?”

“A favor. Could you swing by? I’ve got someone who needs patching up.”

“Did something happen to A-Ning?” She sounds wide awake now.

“No, he’s fine. So is A-Yuan. It’s a friend. I think his wrist might be broken.” Among other things.

“Then take him to the hospital.”

“I don’t think he has insurance.”

“Then go to the clinic on 42^nd.”

Wei Ying sighs and stares at the water stain on the kitchen ceiling. The one that looks like an elephant. He calls it Dumbo because what else would you call an elephant on the ceiling? “Please? It’s kind of a weird situation.”

“How weird?”

“I’m not sure. I just don’t think he’d do well in a clinic. He’s kind of . . . jumpy.”

“Wei Ying—”

“Please? It’ll only take a minute. He really needs help.”

She sighs, and he thinks he’s already won, but he needs to make sure. “Besides, A-Yuan misses his Qing-jie. And A-Ning’s been writing a new song. You’ve gotta hear it, it’s amazing.”

“Fine. I’ll come by after my shift.”

“Thanks! I really—” The phone beeps. She hung up on him.

Wei Ying introduces the woman as Wen Ning’s sister, Wen Qing. A doctor. Wangji’s heart stutters. He knows about doctors. And this one has Wen Ruohan’s family name.

“I asked her to come check out your wrist,” Wei Ying says. “But no medicine! I promise.”

The two of them stare down at Wangji. Wei Ying’s eyes are big and friendly. The doctor’s eyes are keen, sweeping over him like she’s trying to decide where to stick the needle.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Wei Ying says. “But she’s just here to help. To help you feel better.”

Wangji wants to tell him that he feels fine. Better than he can ever remember. Without the drugs he used to get every day, his mind works better. Yesterday, he learned the whole song Wei Yuan taught him. He hasn’t tried to play it yet today, but he thinks he could.

Wei Yuan pushes past Wei Ying and hops on the piano bench beside Wangji. “Mr. Wangji, don’t be scared. Qing-jie is nice.”

Wei Ying snorts and mutters something that Wangji doesn’t understand. The doctor rolls her eyes and crouches in front of Wangji. “It’s okay,” she says. “Lots of people hate doctors. But being hurt isn’t much fun, either, is it?”

Wangji shakes his head. That’s one of those questions where no means yes.

She smiles, and his heart slows down a little. It’s a nice smile, though not as nice as Wei Ying’s. “Will you let me look at your wrist?”

He nods, and she pushes herself up. “How about we go back to the breakroom? A-Yuan, will you be my assistant?”

Wei Yuan agrees, and he leads the way to the breakroom. Wei Yuan perches on the chair next to Wangji. The doctor sits across from him, and Wei Ying leans against the counter.

The doctor asks him to lay his arm on the table. He does, watching closely to make sure she doesn’t pull a syringe from her pocket. But she just pokes at his wrist and asks him if it hurts when she moves his hand around.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” the doctor says finally. “That eye must hurt, though. Are you having any headaches? Any trouble seeing out of it?”

He shakes his head. His head hurt a little when he was walking around the city, but it’s fine now.

“Okay. Does anything else hurt?”

He shakes his head again.

She nods and reaches into her bag. He tenses, ready to jump up, but the boy is leaning against him to look at his bruised wrist. Wangji can’t move without knocking him down.

She lays a brace on the table. He relaxes. He knows about those. Once, he broke his ankle and had to wear a brace for weeks.

“Your wrist will feel better if you wear this for a few weeks,” the doctor says. “And you should try not to use your hand until then.” She motions Wei Ying over and straps the brace around his wrist. “This is how it works. Try to keep it on unless you’re taking a shower.”

Then Wei Yuan tries on the brace. He giggles as he waves his arm around and the brace slips off his little hand.

“You can probably put it on yourself,” the doctor tells Wangji. “But I’m sure these two will help if you have trouble.”

She stands up and slings her bag over her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

She turns back and smiles. “No problem. Hope you feel better.”

Wei Ying follows Wen Qing to her car. “You’re sure it isn’t broken?”

She sighs as she throws her bag in the back. “I can’t be sure without an X-Ray, but no, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” He chews his lip, wondering how much X-Rays go for these days.

“Even if it’s broken, it’s healing well. He should be fine with the brace.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

She stares back toward the store for a moment, frowning. “He hasn’t told you where he came from?”

“No, why?”

“His hands are a mess. Scars on top of scars, not to mention broken bones that didn’t heal well.”

“He’s been in a few fights, I guess.”

“Not ‘a few fights.’ A lot of fights. I’m talking years of fighting.”

“Maybe he’s into MMA.”

“Wei Ying.”

He hates that tone—it’s the same one Jiang Cheng loves to use on him. It’s their Wei Ying, why must you be such a loser? tone. It’s a good thing that Jiang Cheng and Wen Qing didn’t work out—their kids would be traumatized.

“Look, obviously, he’s been through some shit,” Wei Ying says before she can start the lecture. “But he’s not some thug.”

“I didn’t say he was. But have you even asked him about it? Or did you just decide to adopt him because he likes music?”

He shrugs. “I’m an excellent judge of character.”

“That is wildly untrue.”

“Fine. What are you suggesting? That I should just kick him out? Let him go back to sleeping in the alley?”

“You could call your old friend. This seems like her kind of thing.”

“She’s retired.”

Wen Qing sighs. “Just be careful, okay? Not everyone can be saved.”

He stiffens, taking that like a blow to the stomach. “I’m well aware of that.”

She winces. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine. Thanks for coming by.” He gives her what’s probably a terrible smile. She sighs and gets in the car.

As she drives away, he heads down the sidewalk. After a couple of laps around the block, his hands stop trembling enough that he can go back inside.

Wei Ying cooks dinner that night. He doesn’t dance, but he sings a little, snatches of words that Wangji can barely hear over the television.

While Wei Ying is banging around in the kitchen, Wei Yuan climbs onto the couch beside Wangji. “Mr. Wangji, how did you hurt your arm?”

They both look down at the white brace. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t remember?”

Wangji shakes his head.

“What happened to your eye?”

“I don’t remember.”

Wei Yuan frowns and tilts his head. “I saw a movie once where a man got hit in the head, and then he couldn’t remember anything. Not even his own name. Is that what happened to you?”

“I don’t know.”

Wei Yuan nods like he expected that answer. He turns back to the television.

“Did that man ever remember?” Wangji asks.

“Yeah. It took a long time, though.”

Wangji watches the images flicker across the screen. He doesn’t want to remember the fights, but maybe there are other things—nicer things—that he’s forgotten. Like the woman who plays the piano.

Before Wangji can ask Wei Yuan how the man got his memories back, Wei Ying calls them to dinner.

Wei Ying scoops noodles onto Wangji’s plate. Wangji isn’t that hungry because Wei Ying has been giving him food all day, but the noodles smell good. He pinches some in his fingers and sucks them into his mouth.

Wei Yuan giggles. “Mr. Wangji, what are you doing?”

Wangji freezes with a wad of noodles wedged in his cheek.

“A-Yuan, let the man eat in peace. Ignore him, Wangji.”

Wangji chews the noodles as fast as he can. Wei Ying’s eyes are on his own plate, but Wei Yuan is staring at Wangji, still grinning.

“I bet he just doesn’t remember how to use a fork,” Wei Yuan says. “Watch, Mr. Wangji.” Wei Yuan sticks the fork in the noodles and twirls it around. The noodles wrap around the tines. Then he sticks the noodles in his mouth.

Wangji wipes his fingers on the paper towel by his plate and picks up the fork. He’s used forks before, but it was a long time ago. After he stabbed one of the men with one, he wasn’t allowed to use them anymore. If you’re going to act like a dog, Wen Ruohan said, then you can eat like one.

He tries to copy Wei Yuan’s twirl, but the noodles slide off the silver. He finally manages to catch a few and bends low over the plate to shove them in before they escape.

“That’s good!” Wei Yuan says. He demonstrates the process again, and Wangji gets a little better. It still takes a long time to eat all the noodles, though. He’s damp with sweat before his plate is empty.

After dinner, Wei Yuan goes back to the couch. Wei Ying starts some music on his phone, but he doesn’t sing along as he washes the dishes.

Wangji hovers in the kitchen, watching Wei Ying scrub the dishes. No one has asked him to do anything yet. They’ve given him food and clothes. They’ve let him shower and brought a doctor to help his wrist. But they don’t seem to want anything from him. If they don’t want anything from him, why would they let him stay?

“Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying turns and smiles at him. “Hey. You can go watch TV with A-Yuan if you want.”

“I can help.” He nods at the sink full of dishes.

“Oh. Um, sure. You have to keep that brace dry, though.” Wei Ying takes the towel from his shoulder and holds it out. “You can dry for me.”

It’s too hard to hold the wet plates with the brace, so Wangji takes it off. Wei Ying shows Wangji where the dishes go in the cabinets. Wangji sets them down gently, careful not to break them.

When they’re done, Wei Ying takes back the dishtowel to dry his hands. “Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you. For dinner.”

“You’re very welcome.” Wei Ying wrings the dishtowel between his hands and bites his lip. “You know, it’s fine if you don’t want to use a fork. You can eat however you want to.”

Wangji swallows his shame. Wei Ying is nice about it, but he’s seen how they look at him when he eats. They think it’s strange. “I don’t want to eat. Like a dog.”

“Oh. You—I’m sorry.”

Wangji doesn’t understand why Wei Ying is sorry. Or why he looks sad. Wangji must have said the wrong thing.

After they’ve finished breakfast the next day, Wei Ying takes a deep breath and asks, “Wangji, is there someone I could call for you? Like family or friends?”

Wangji stares down at his crinkled McMuffin wrapper and doesn’t answer.

“Is, um, is anybody looking for you? People who would hurt you?”

Wangji’s eyes flick up to him, dark and fearful.

The bell jingles, and they both jump. A few seconds later, Wen Ning comes into the breakroom carrying several plastic shopping bags.

“Sorry I’m late.” Wen Ning sets the bags on the counter. “I brought clothes for Wangji.”

Wei Ying abandons the interrogation to dig through the bags. The clothes are a mix of Wen Ning’s and his roommates’, both current and former. Over the years, Wen Ning’s apartment has hosted several roommates and couch-surfers, most of them members of his many bands, which are always forming and splitting. Wen Ning even brought a pair of shoes: barely-worn baby blue Converse.

“Ted left behind a lot of stuff when he moved out,” Wen Ning explains as Wangji tries on the shoes. “He said it’d be cheaper to buy new stuff than to ship it all to California.”

“Which one was Ted?” Wei Ying asks. “Mohawk guy?”

“No, that was Randy. Ted had the Squidward nose.”

“Oh right. Well, thanks for bringing this stuff.”

Wangji looks up from tying his shoes. “Thank you, Wen Ning.”

“No problem.” Wen Ning grins and wanders back down the hall. Wangji turns back to his shoes.

“Those are great, huh?” Wei Ying says. “Do they feel okay?”

Wangji nods. “Blue.”

“You like blue?”

Wangji nods again. “Ocean. Sky.”

Wei Ying watches Wangji admire his new shoes. Wangji never answered his question. Given the wrist brace and the black eye, it was probably a dumb question. But would the answer matter? If Wangji said yes, could Wei Ying just shove him out the door? Nice knowing you, enjoy the hand-me-down clothes?

Wangji looks up from his blue shoes, and something that is almost a smile twitches on his lips.

Wei Ying grins back helplessly and decides that the worries can wait awhile longer.

Wei Ying is busying himself cleaning out their customer database and steadfastly ignoring the rather morose rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” that Wangji is lurching through when the music suddenly stops mid-Twinkle.

Wei Ying peeks around the computer monitor. The neighbor’s white cat is rubbing her fluffy face on Wangji’s new shoes. Wangji stares down at her, frozen with his fingers still arched over the keys.

“That’s Portia,” Wei Ying explains. “She belongs to the bookstore next door.”

By this point, Portia, irritated at being ignored, has leapt onto the piano bench and is blinking up at Wangji. He blinks back at her.

“She’s friendly,” Wei Ying says as he grabs the treats they keep stashed under the counter. “You can pet her if you want.”

Wangji reaches out slowly, hovering his hand over Portia’s head. She gives him an imperious meow and bumps her head into his hand. He startles, then smooths his hand over her arched back.

When Wei Ying walks over with the treat, she abandons Wangji to gobble it up. “She’s a wandering lady,” Wei Ying tells Wangji. “The whole neighborhood spoils her.”

Once she’s eaten her treat, Portia hops on top of the piano and starts licking her paws. Wei Ying spies the note tucked in her collar and fishes it out. The note bears only one word.

“A-Ning, we’ve got a request,” Wei Ying calls. “Grab the acoustic.”

Wei Ying gives Portia’s head a scratch and turns to Wangji. “Do you mind if I borrow the piano?”

Wangji starts to rise, but Wei Ying drops down on the bench beside him. “No, you don’t have to get up. Just scoot over a bit.”

Wangji slides over until he’s nearly hanging off the bench. Wen Ning joins them as he straps the acoustic over his chest.

“What’re we playing?” Wen Ning asks.

“‘Landslide.’”

Wei Ying counts them off. When the music starts, Portia gives Wen Ning’s guitar a single unimpressed glance, then goes back to her bath.

“Took my love, I took it down.” Wei Ying doesn’t kid himself that he’s a great singer, but his voice is capable of doing Stevie justice—he hopes, anyway. Wangji seems to approve, if the way his eyes are riveted on Wei Ying serves as a compliment.

At the chorus, Wen Ning joins in. Really, he should be lead. He’s got a great Stevie rasp, but he won’t sing alone, even if Wei Ying is the only person in the shop.

The song ends, and Wei Ying turns to Wangji. “And now we get a reward. Do you want to come to the bookstore with me?”

Wangji still looks wide-eyed from the song, but he nods and stands when Wei Ying does. Wei Ying picks up the cat, who endures it with a single indignant merp.

Between the spoiled cat in Wei Ying’s arms and Wangji trying to fall back to walk behind him, they make a strange procession down the sidewalk. “See,” Wei Ying says, craning his neck to talk to Wangji trailing behind him. “We have a deal with Ms. Nelson: she sends the princess here with a song request. Then we bring the cat back, and she gives us treats.”

Ms. Nelson awaits them at the patio table in front of her bookstore. “Beautiful!” she calls, applauding as they approach.

Wei Ying drops Portia into one of the chairs to sketch a bow. “This is Wangji. He’s our newest student. Wangji, this is Ms. Nelson.”

“Nice to meet you, Wangji. Have a seat. Do you like chocolate chip cookies?”

Wangji gives her a jerky nod. They sit down, and Ms. Nelson serves them cookies and lemonade.

“What instrument are you learning, Wangji?”

“Piano,” Wei Ying answers for him—Wangji’s cheek is bulging with cookie—and fends off Portia’s attempt to steal his own cookie. She prances across the table and curls into the empty chair, pretending to ignore them and their boring cookies.

“That must be hard with an injured hand,” Ms. Nelson says. “But you have an excellent teacher.”

“Yeah, A-Yuan,” Wei Ying says, winking at Wangji. “I think the kid’s trying to take over the business.”

Ms. Nelson chuckles and slides Wangji another cookie.

After they eat, they go inside to find Jin Ling’s birthday present. While Wei Ying and Ms. Nelson head to the register, Wangji lingers behind in the children’s section.

Ms. Nelson sets the gift bag holding Jin Ling’s book on the counter. “He seems sweet,” she says pointedly.

They both turn to watch Wangji stare at a poster of anthropomorphic rabbits. Portia followed them inside, and she hops onto a low table to demand pets. Wangji strokes her head as he contemplates the bunnies.

“I know he looks a little rough,” Wei Ying says, “but he’s harmless.”

Ms. Nelson shrugs. “Portia is an excellent judge of character. If she says he’s okay, then I’m sure you’re right. Besides, all good artists are a little kooky. And who amongst us hasn’t worn a collar from time to time?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Wangji?”

Wangji turns away from the television. On the other end of the couch, Wei Ying smiles as he always seems to, like he’s delighted by everything Wangji does. That smile makes something warm and wonderful burst under Wangji’s skin.

“Do those itch?” Wei Ying ask.

Confused, Wangji stares back at him. Then he realizes that his fingers have been absently scratching his cheek where the hair bristles. He nods.

“I’ve got an extra razor if you want to shave.”

He does want to shave, but he’s never been allowed to shave himself. Wangji lowers his eyes to Wei Ying’s leg, curled on the couch cushion. He doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t know how to do yet another simple task.

“I could do it for you if you want,” Wei Ying offers. “At least until your wrist heals.”

Wangji nods, relieved. That will give him time to figure it out himself.

Wei Ying leads Wangji into the bathroom and tells him to sit on the toilet. Then Wei Ying drapes a towel over his shoulders.

“I’ve never shaved anybody else,” Wei Ying says. “Apologies in advance if I nick you.”

Wangji mumbles that it’s okay. He’s sure Wei Ying won’t cut him. Wei Ying’s hands are magical when he plays the piano and the dizi, but they’re quick and confident no matter what he’s doing.

He watches those amazing hands wet a washcloth. The washcloth dabs gently at his cheeks. Wei Ying’s legs nudge against his as Wei Ying bends to rub shaving cream on Wangji’s face.

The shaving cream is cold, but Wei Ying’s fingers are warm. Over the sharp scent of the shaving cream, Wangji can smell Wei Ying: spices from the dinner he cooked, lingering warmth of coffee, sweet herbal shampoo. The scent strengthens as Wangji’s breath quickens, his heart beating faster.

“Tilt your chin up a bit?” Wei Ying asks, almost a murmur. It still seems loud in the tiny bathroom.

Wangji tilts up his chin so that Wei Ying can smooth shaving cream under his chin. Wei Ying’s thumbs circle the soft spots under his chin, and Wangji starts to tremble. The touch is pleasant, almost frighteningly so, but Wei Ying’s hands are drifting close to the collar.

“Okay!” Wei Ying sings, bright and too loud. “We’re ready!” He stands up and goes to the sink to wash shaving cream from his hands.

Wangji tells his hands to stay still on his knees. Wei Ying just wants to shave him. There’s no reason to think he’ll take off the collar.

Wei Ying bends in front of him, his eyebrows furrowed. His hand braces on the sink as the razor hovers in front of Wangji’s face.

Wei Ying blows out a breath. “Okay, here we go.” The razor moves down Wangji’s cheek. Wei Ying rinses it in the sink, then comes back for another strip. That process repeats until Wangi’s cheek is clean.

The other side proves more difficult for Wei Ying. He chuckles at himself as he tries to reach across to shave Wangji with his right hand. “Let’s try the left,” he mumbles, as if to himself. Then louder: “Do you mind if I put my hand on your shoulder?”

Wangji shakes his head.

Wei Ying settles his right hand on Wangji’s shoulder. “Now, be really still. My left hand is pretty useless at anything that isn’t musical.”

Wei Ying’s hand is warm on his shoulder. His breath puffs across Wangji’s face as Wei Ying leans close to shave his right cheek. Wei Ying is frowning in concentration, being so careful not to cut him. There is a tiny mole under Wei Ying’s lip that Wangji has never noticed before. Wei Ying’s tongue pokes out and swipes at his lower lip, leaving the pink skin glistening.

“Almost done,” Wei Ying says. His voice is soft again, like he’s sharing a secret. His hand leaves Wangji’s shoulder, but the warmth remains.

Wei Ying switches the razor back to his right hand to shave Wangji’s upper lip. His left hand cups Wangji’s cheek to tilt up his face. He didn’t ask first this time, but Wangji doesn’t mind.

Wei Ying rinses the razor. His hand returns to Wangji’s cheek. “Okay, turn to the side a bit so I can get under your jaw.”

The hand slides down to Wangji’s neck. Wei Ying’s little finger brushes the collar.

Wangji jerks aside, nearly toppling off the toilet. Wei Ying stumbles back and almost falls into the bathtub.

“Shit, sorry! Oh shit, you’re bleeding.”

Wangji doesn’t care about the stinging cut on his jaw or the warm blood trickling from it. He would run from the bathroom, but he’d have to shove Wei Ying in the tub to get out.

“Was it the collar?” Wei Ying asks. His eyes are wide as he stares down at Wangji. “You don’t like for people to touch it?”

Wangji touches his fingertips to the clasp. It’s still shut. He overreacted. Shame twists in his gut. “Sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I won’t touch it again, I promise.”

Wangji moves his eyes to the orange stain around the tub’s drain, furious at himself.

“I cut you pretty bad. Is it okay if I . . .?”

Wangji nods, and Wei Ying holds the washcloth to his bleeding jaw. Wangji keeps his eyes on the faded sleeve of Wei Ying’s t-shirt.

“I think the bleeding’s stopped. Do you want me to finish?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay, let’s try this standing up.”

Wangji stares up at the ceiling while Wei Ying finishes shaving him. Wei Ying doesn’t touch him again except with the razor.

When it’s done, Wangji rubs off the last of the shaving cream with the towel Wei Ying laid over his shoulders.

“You’ll need a bandaid for that cut,” Wei Ying says. He digs one out of a box from the medicine cabinet. “All we’ve got is dinosaurs, of course.”

He turns to Wangji and freezes, eyes widening.

Did he drip blood on his shirt? Has he already ruined the nice clothes Wen Ning brought him?

But Wei Ying smiles. “Wow, look at you! So handsome!”

Wangji looks at the mirror. All he sees is his face: a little pink with a bright spot of red from the cut.

“Like, really handsome.”

Wangji turns back to Wei Ying. They’re still only a foot apart in the little bathroom. Wangji’s ears get hot. “Thank you,” he mumbles to Wei Ying’s shoulder.

Wei Ying laughs and starts shuffling backwards. “Okay, handsome, I’ll let you finish up. Here’s your T-Rex.” He lays the bandaid on the sink and chuckles again as he leaves the bathroom.

This is what happens when you don’t have sex for months, Wei Ying scolds himself as he lies in bed that night staring at the ceiling and refusing to do anything about his erection. When was that guy from the blues club? It was snowing, so January? February? So seven months, at least.

Wei Ying groans and flops onto his belly, ignoring how his dick wants to rut against the mattress. He doesn’t even remember that guy’s name. Maybe he never learned it. The guy had been a hot bartender at a club Wei Ying played with one of Wen Ning’s bands. With A-Yuan handed off to Jie for the weekend, Wei Ying was free to indulge himself with strange dick. He’s not proud, but even single dads and respectable small business owners need to relieve a little stress sometimes. Getting off with a bartender in the murky storage closet of a blues club isn’t pretty, but it gets the job done.

And when you go too long without sucking a stranger’s dick, you wind up lusting after the traumatized guy you’re trying to help. The really hot traumatized guy. Like, really hot.

Shaving off those whiskers had been like uncovering a priceless painting. Like shaving the Mona Lisa if she were a really hot guy with shoulders as wide as Wei Ying’s tiny bathroom. Of course, the Mona Lisa probably doesn’t have panic attacks when you touch her neck. Or maybe she does. Who knows what that woman’s been through?

Surrendering, Wei Ying lifts his hips to wrap a hand around his dick. No way is he sleeping tonight until he takes care of this. But he keeps his brain firmly locked on that nameless bartender. The guy’s face is a blur now, but he remembers a nice smile and a tattoo of thorny roses on his hand. Wei Ying focuses on the memory of those roses flexing around his dick and thinks of nothing else.

Chapter Text

Saturday is their busiest day at the shop, but Jin Ling is only going to turn five once, so Wei Ying crams as many students as he can into the morning to free his afternoon for his nephew’s birthday party.

Leaving Wangji here with Wen Ning makes him a little antsy. Wangji has warmed up to Wen Ning some since Wen Ning gave him the shoes, but he still seems kind of afraid of him. But then he seems kind of afraid of the world in general. Better Wangji stay here with Wen Ning than be subjected to a party full of hyper kids and nosy parents, not to mention Yu Ziyuan.

The one person Wangji isn’t afraid of is A-Yuan, who has apparently spent the morning teaching Wangji to play “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”

Wei Ying walks his last student to the door and lingers in the doorway to watch his son work. Wangji tenses when anyone else gets within two feet of him, but he doesn’t even flinch when A-Yuan moves Wangji’s hand over the piano keys. They’re adorable, but Wei Ying should really talk to A-Yuan about his song selections. Wei Ying caught himself singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” in the shower this morning. If A-Yuan picks “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” next, Wei Ying will have to pull a Van Gogh.

The spider is getting washed out of the drain for the second time when Jiang Cheng pulls up to the curb. “Hey, you ready?” Jiang Cheng calls from the car.

“Yeah, just a second.” Wei Ying waves a hand to signal for Jiang Cheng to stay in the car, then goes to grab the presents from behind the counter.

“C’mon, Monkey, our ride’s here. Grab your jacket.”

By the time Wei Ying has fastened A-Yuan into his coat, Jiang Cheng is standing in the doorway, frowning at Wangji. Wangji keeps practicing his new song, oblivious to his audience.

Wei Ying loves his brother, but the last thing Wangji needs is a Jiang Cheng interrogation. “Okay, let’s go! Party time.”

Wei Ying bustles them out to the car. They’re only on the road for a few minutes before Jiang Cheng says, “Who’s Sid Vicious?”

“Bassist for the Sex Pistols.”

“I didn’t know the Sex Pistols covered ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider.’”

“Most people don’t. You’d be surprised what those guys were into.”

Jiang Cheng sighs long and gustily. “Wei Ying, please tell me about the guy in your store wearing the big metal collar.”

“That’s Mr. Wangji,” A-Yuan blurts from the backseat. “He lives with us now.”

“What?” Jiang Cheng whips his head around to stare at Wei Ying. “He lives with you?”

Wei Ying mentally smacks himself in the forehead. He should have anticipated this.

“Wei Ying, are you dating that guy?”

“No, it isn’t like that. He just needed a place to crash for a bit.”

“I’m teaching him to play piano,” A-Yuan says. “And we taught him how to use a fork.”

Jiang Cheng scowls. “What did he use before?”

“His fingers. It was gross.”

“His fingers? What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing’s wrong with him,” Wei Ying says. “He just . . . needs help.”

Jiang Cheng shoots a furtive look in the rearview mirror and only mouths his next question: “Drugs?”

“Of course not.” Wei Ying furrows his eyebrows, trying to tell Jiang Cheng that they can discuss this later. Or never. Never would be good.

Jiang Cheng huffs and stops the interrogation, but he strangles the poor steering wheel. Jie will be hearing about this, for sure.

Jie and the peacock’s new place is an actual house, almost in the burbs. It’s like visiting another planet. A planet full of SUVs and screaming children.

The peacock answers the door. A-Yuan flings himself through the doorway to hug him. A-Yuan once told Wei Ying that Jin Zixuan was “awesome.” Wei Ying still isn’t over that betrayal.

The peacock ruffles A-Yuan’s hair and ushers them inside. “A-Li is in the kitchen, and the kids are in the backyard.”

The kitchen is their first stop. Jie looks up from the food she’s fussing over and beams at them. “You’re here!” She hurries around the island to hug A-Yuan. Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng get hugged at the same time because otherwise they’d argue about who she likes better.

“Sorry we’re late,” Jiang Cheng says. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

“You aren’t late. We’re just getting started.” She strokes a hand over A-Yuan’s hair. “A-Ling and the others are outside if you want to join them.”

A-Yuan runs to the backdoor with the peacock trailing behind him. The door opens to a cacophony of shrieking children, but even over the shrieks, it’s still easy to make out Jin Ling’s elated “YUAN-GEGE!”

Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng lurk in the kitchen, getting in Jie’s way until she shoos them out to join the rest of the party. They step into the chaos of tumbling children and pause on the patio steps.

Jiang Cheng sighs. “We’d better go say hi to Mom.”

Wei Ying sighs back at him, and they start making their way across the patio to the pool loungers where Yu Ziyuan and the peacock’s mom await them.

The pool is already wearing its winter blanket, but the two women still pose beside it like they’re at a resort. They’re coiffed and manicured, sipping what is undoubtedly wine from Solo cups, big sunglasses hiding their eyes. This is probably not their social event of the season, but the two ladies still came to flaunt nonetheless. Their targets are obviously their ex-husbands who are currently hovering behind the grill where the peacock is attempting to cook burgers and hot dogs.

Yu Ziyuan raises her cheek for Jiang Cheng’s kiss. “Hello, darling. I’m so glad you could get away from work today.” Translation: you’ve been too busy to check on your poor mother.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jiang Cheng says through gritted teeth.

Then Yu Ziyuan rises from the lounge chair and pulls Wei Ying close. Her red lips press against his cheek. “A-Ying, I was hoping to speak with you today. Let’s grab A-Yuan, too.”

Wei Ying only has time for one desperate help me directed at Jiang Cheng before she’s tugging him back in the house. A-Yuan comes at her call, grinning as he runs after them. A-Yuan likes her, too. There might be something wrong with that kid.

As he follows her, Wei Ying tries to remember what he could have done to piss her off lately. The only thing that occurs to him is his new houseguest. But surely she can’t know about Wangji already. Unless Yu Ziyuan planted cameras in his apartment. That isn’t entirely unbelievable, actually.

Yu Ziyuan leads them though the kitchen and into the living room where a gift bag stands on the coffee table. “This is for you, A-Yuan.”

“But it isn’t my birthday,” A-Yuan says.

“It is if I say it is,” she says, ruffling his hair as he digs in the bag.

The present A-Yuan draws from the tissue paper is a T-REX HEADLAMP, whatever the fuck that is.

Not that it matters. As soon as A-Yuan sees the dinosaur on the box, he’s practically vibrating with excitement. “Thank you, Nai-Nai!”

Yu Ziyuan smiles as A-Yuan throws his arms around her. “You’re welcome, darling.”

Wei Ying checks out the present A-Yuan is clutching to his chest. The picture on the box shows a kid with a T-Rex strapped to his forehead. Bright light shines from the dinosaur’s snarling mouth. And it roars. Of course it fucking does. A-Yuan is never going to take that thing off.

“Let me hang onto that for now,” Wei Ying tells his son. “You can play with it when we get home.”

A-Yuan hands over the box, hugs Yu Ziyuan again, then takes off to the backyard.

When the kid is gone, Wei Ying turns to Yu Ziyuan. “That was sweet, thanks.”

“I bought A-Ling one, too. The reviews say that they’re quite loud.”

He snorts. “I’ll make sure we bring it the next time we visit you.”

“And when will that be? You haven’t visited in months.”

He sighs. He walked right into that. “Sorry. It’s hard to get away.”

She sighs back at him, longer and more dramatic. “I know. You look tired.”

“It’s just been a crazy week.”

She hums and studies him closely, no doubt cataloging every wrinkle and split end. “Why don’t I take A-Yuan next Saturday? I hear there’s a new reptile exhibit at the zoo.”

“Uh, yeah. He’d love that.”

“Good. I’ll be by to pick him up at 9:00.”

She pats his cheek and struts back outside. He blows out a breath and drops onto the couch. Even now, talking to her is like walking a tightrope while juggling flaming torches.

But she’s trying. He can see that. He just isn’t sure if she’s trying because she loves her grandchildren that much or because she wants them to love her more than Jiang Fengmian.

Probably a bit of both, really. And does it really matter as long as she dotes on the kids? Let her spoil them until they’re old enough to disappoint her. A-Yuan could use a little spoiling. Wei Ying hasn’t taken him to the zoo in at least a year, and the poor kid is never going to get a birthday party with a bouncy house, much less his own swimming pool.

A-Yuan gets the place of honor at Jin Ling’s right side while the birthday boy opens his hoard of presents. The peacock snaps a million pictures of this process on a camera that costs more than Wei Ying’s rent.

“I think A-Ling was more excited about seeing A-Yuan than the party,” Jie says as they’re watching the wrapping paper fly. “He misses him so much.”

“Yeah, this is all A-Yuan’s been talking about for weeks.”

“Maybe A-Yuan could come stay with us for the weekend. We’d love to have him.”

“Sure. And A-Ling can come stay with us sometime. Then he can hang out with Jingyi, too.”

“And your new roommate,” Jiang Cheng mutters.

“A-Ying, you have a new roommate?”

“Uh . . .” Wei Ying glares at his brother, who pretends not to notice. “Not really. He’s just a friend who needed a place to stay for a while.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you. Who he is?”

“Just a guy. A student.”

Jie grins and turns to Jiang Cheng. “Is he cute?”

Jiang Cheng huffs. “He wears a dog collar.”

“It isn’t a dog collar. Asshole. And I’m not dating him. He’s just sleeping on the couch for a while. It’s no big deal.”

He can feel them exchanging a look over his head. Turning this into more than it is. Worrying about him. Thinking they know what’s really going on. He keeps his eyes on the kids and tries not to feel guilty because it’s even worse than they think.

Wei Ying is avoiding a roving pack of soccer moms when he runs into Jin Guangshan.

“Wei Ying, good to see you.”

Wei Ying groans internally and plasters a smile on his face. “Yeah, you too. Enjoying the party?”

“Of course, of course. How’s the store? Any trouble with the building?”

“Just the same old stuff.” The stuff I’ve told you about a million times. “And the store’s doing well.”

“That’s what I hear,” Jin Guangshan says, smiling and ignoring the first statement. “I’m proud of you, son. You’ve really turned it around.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“It’s wonderful to see you young people doing so well for yourselves. Now all you need is a nice girl to settle down with. A-Yuan needs a mother.”

Wei Ying bites his lip to keep himself from blurting out what he wants to say: And what the fuck would you know about raising kids? You were too busy screwing around to have time for your own family. But then it must be hard to find time for all those mistresses and their kids.

“Yeah, maybe someday.” And because he can’t help himself: “Or maybe a nice boy.”

Jin Guangshan harrumphs and takes another gulp of beer. “Have a safe trip back to the city.”

“Thanks.” Wei Ying salutes him with his fruit punch as Jin Guangshan wanders away.

The soccer moms have moved to the kitchen, so Wei Ying retreats to the relative safety of the spot beside Jiang Cheng.

“How’s your landlord doing?” Jiang Cheng asks with a smirk.

“Drunk and obnoxious, as usual.”

“Zixuan says he’s getting married again.”

“The poor woman. Is it one of his baby mommas?”

“Nope. His secretary.”

“God, that guy just loves living up to the stereotypes, doesn’t he?”

“Like he found a list of slimeball clichés and decided to make it his bible.”

Wei Ying snickers and holds up his cup for a toast. “Here’s to never ending up like that guy.”

Jiang Cheng taps his cup against Wei Ying’s. “I’ll drink fruit punch to that.”

A-Yuan falls asleep on the ride back, which gives Jiang Cheng an opportunity to pounce. “Look, I know you’re an adult who doesn’t need my advice, but do you really think it’s a good idea to bring a guy like that into your home?”

“A guy like what?” Wei Ying snaps, louder than he’d meant to. He’s already run the gauntlet with his parents and his landlord. He doesn’t need this shit from a guy who doesn’t even have kids.

They both sneak looks into the backseat, but A-Yuan’s out cold from too much sugar and bouncy house.

“Troubled,” Jiang Cheng says. “I’m just saying, isn’t your life difficult enough?”

“My life is fine. I think I can handle one guy sleeping on my couch for a few days.”

“Will it be just ‘a few days,’ though? I mean, if this guy doesn’t know how to use a fork, there’s no way he has a job.”

“You haven’t even talked to him, yet you assume you know all about him.”

“I know you. I know you’ll try to ‘help’ until it kills you.”

Wei Ying groans and scrubs at his face. “Just stop. It isn’t what you think. It isn’t like—”

“Like Lihua?” Jiang Cheng asks softly.

Wei Ying jerks like he’s been slapped. He checks the backseat again, but A-Yuan’s still asleep. Then he resists punching Jiang Cheng’s arm, but only because he’s driving. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. I just—”

“Stop,” Wei Ying mutters. “Just stop.”

Miracle of miracles, Jiang Cheng shuts up. Wei Ying turns his face to the window and watches the scenery flash by. He does not think about that. He’s been doing great not thinking about that for six years.

They pull up in front of the shop. Wei Ying lifts his sleepy boy into his arms and manages to carry A-Yuan, the containers of cupcakes Jie sent, and the T-REX HEADLAMP all at the same time.

“Do you need help getting in?” Jiang Cheng calls from the window.

“I got it,” Wei Ying says, and shuts the car door with a kick. “Thanks for the ride.”

Jiang Cheng sighs and rolls up the window without another word.

Their fights are a lot calmer now. In a few days, one of them will text the other about some random bullshit, and everything will be fine again. They’re getting old.

Thankfully, the shop door is still propped open. Wei Ying shuffles through to the sound of Wen Ning’s acoustic guitar playing “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” Wangji is sitting on the floor watching him play, his fingers tapping along on his knees.

Wei Ying dumps the cupcakes and the dinosaur on top of the Steinway and falls onto the bench with A-Yuan still dozing in his lap.

Wen Ning notices them and smiles, ending the song with a flourish. “How was the party?”

“Exhausting. Jie says hi. And she sent you guys some cupcakes.”

“Awesome.” Wen Ning sets the guitar down and comes over to investigate. He takes a cupcake to Wangji. “Jiang Yanli makes the best cupcakes,” he says as he hands it over.

“Sorry I’m so late getting back,” Wei Ying tells him. “I couldn’t pull the monkey off the bouncy house.”

“No problem,” Wen Ning mumbles around his mouthful of cupcake. “We’ve been jamming.”

“Oh yeah?” Wei Ying grins at Wangji, who peers back at him with dino-green icing on his upper lip. “Did you guys have fun?”

Surprisingly, it’s Wangji who answers. “Wen Ning is very good.”

“That he is. Well, I’ll take the kid upstairs, and then I’ll come back down and help you close up.”

“I’ve got it,” Wen Ning says.

“Are you sure? I abandoned you all afternoon. Don’t you have plans tonight? It’s Saturday.”

Wen Ning smiles. “Not until later. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, I really appreciate it.” Wei Ying groans as he stands up with the kid in his arms. He envies Wen Ning his youth and energy. He can work all day and still do exciting young person things all night, whereas Wei Ying usually falls asleep on the couch by 9:30. Tonight it’ll probably be more like 8:30.

Wangji grabs the cupcakes and the toy, and then they troop upstairs. Wei Ying deposits A-Yuan on his bed. Of course the moment he hits the mattress, the kid wakes up. “We’re home?”

“Yeah, Monkey, we’re home.”

“Oh.” A-Yuan yawns. “Can I play with my present?”

“Sure. Wangji put it in the living room.”

A-Yuan bounces off the bed and runs down the hall. By the time Wei Ying joins them in the living room, A-Yuan is perched beside Wangji on the couch, tearing open the box. Two triple A’s later, A-Yuan is sporting the T-REX HEADLAMP, with AWESOME ROAR SOUNDS!

Wei Ying collapses onto the couch and watches his son careen around the living room, shining the light on everything and roaring along with the T-Rex. Yu Ziyuan will pay for this. He doesn’t know how yet, but she will pay.

A woman comes to the store with another little boy. She and Wei Ying are polite to each other, but they don’t smile as they talk. Then she leaves with Wei Yuan and the other boy. Wei Ying sticks out his tongue at her back and mutters something Wangji doesn’t understand.

Lots of students come in for lessons this morning. Wei Ying says Saturdays are their busiest days. Wangji practices his three songs and thinks about the woman and the other little boy, the one Wei Ying said was his sister’s son.

By that afternoon, Wangji thinks he’s figured it out. While Wen Ning is in one of the studio rooms giving a lesson, Wangji goes to the counter. Wei Ying looks up from the computer and smiles. “Hey, do you need something?”

“Was that woman your mother?”

Wei Ying’s smile falls. His mouth opens in a pretty O. “Oh, you mean Yu Ziyuan? The one who picked A-Yuan up?”

Wangji nods.

“No. Well, not really. My mother died when I was about A-Yuan’s age. My father, too. Yu Ziyuan and her husband—well, ex-husband now—raised me after that. More or less.”

Wangji nods like he understands and stares down at the counter. He doesn’t know what to call a woman who is sort of a mother but not really.

“Where are your parents?” Wei Ying asks. His voice is soft, like he isn’t sure he wants Wangji to hear.

“Dead.” He doesn’t remember his parents, but when Wangji was younger, Wen Ruohan told him that he had taken Wangji in after they died.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Wangji doesn’t understand why Wei Ying would apologize. He’s afraid to ask why.

“A-Yuan’s mother died, too,” Wei Ying says. When Wangji peeks up at him, Wei Ying has gone back to staring at the computer screen. He isn’t smiling. “She died when he was a baby.”

It hadn’t occurred to Wangji that Wei Yuan must have a mother. He knows about mothers, but he’s never actually met one. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says what Wei Ying said: “I’m sorry.”

Wei Ying nods like this was the right answer. “He doesn’t remember her. Do you remember your parents?”

“No.”

Wei Ying sighs. “Maybe it’s better that way. I hope it is.”

He sounds so sad. Wangji curls his fingers, wishing he hadn’t asked.

But then Wei Ying brightens and hops off his stool. “I’ve got a few minutes before the next lesson. Do you want to play a song for me?”

Wangji nods. It makes him a little nervous to sit beside Wei Ying on the piano bench, but it’s nice, too. Wei Ying never gets angry when Wangji makes mistakes. He says that mistakes are part of learning.

On Sunday morning—his one day off—Wei Ying lolls in bed to a leisurely nine o’clock, then wanders into the living room where Wangji and A-Yuan are playing with the glider Yu Ziyuan bought him at the zoo yesterday. The glider is covered in lizards, not dinosaurs, but apparently that’s good enough.

“Morning. Did you guys eat yet?”

“We had cereal,” A-Yuan says.

“Good.” Wei Ying yawns and heads for the coffee maker. It’s wonderful having Wangji around because he’s a sweetheart, but it’s even more wonderful that A-Yuan has someone to entertain him in the mornings. Wei Ying would adopt ten more guys if it meant getting to sleep in on Sundays.

When the coffee’s ready, Wei Ying takes his mug and joins Wangji on the couch.

Before he’s taken the first sip, A-Yuan says, “Can we go to the park today?”

Wei Ying cradles his mug and considers saying no. The kid ran around in the fresh air all day yesterday, and Wei Ying would really like to stay on this couch. But Wangji’s been stuck in the store with him for almost two weeks now. They could both use the vitamin D, and it’s supposed to be a nice day. Wei Ying knows that because he’s an old man who checks the weather forecast.

“Yeah, we can do that. We’ve gotta hit the laundromat first, though. Unless you want to go to school naked this week.”

That doesn’t even get one giggle. Wei Ying’s obviously used that joke too many times.

“Okay,” A-Yuan agrees, and sends the glider toward Wangji. Wangji catches it and zooms it back to him. They fly it back and forth while Wei Ying gets to enjoy his coffee in relative peace. Really, Wangji is worth his weight in gold.

Wei Ying knew he’d let the laundry go too long, but he hadn’t anticipated how much more Wangji was adding to the load. When it’s all gathered up, Wei Ying’s backpack is full, plus two duffel bags. Wangji carries one of those, though, so it works out okay.

Of course, being Sunday, there’s only one washer free. Wei Ying crams it as full as he dares and joins Wangji and A-Yuan at one of the folding tables.

A-Yuan pulls his crayons and coloring book from his backpack and settles in to color. Usually, Wei Ying scrolls through his phone while they’re here, but that would leave Wangji with nothing to do but sit and wait.

“Hey, can we color, too?”

A-Yuan nods and pulls another coloring book from his bag. Wei Ying spreads open the book and slides it closer to Wangji. “Want to color with us?”

Wangji studies the coloring book like it’s an exam he knows he’s going to fail.

“So, what you do is, you pick a crayon from the box—any color you want.” Wei Ying grabs the closest crayon, Outrageous Orange. “And then you color in the pictures like A-Yuan is doing.”

Wangji nods, but his hands stay in his lap.

“But the point is to have fun,” Wei Ying continues. “You can use just one color or a bunch of them. You can use all the shades of blue if that’s what you want.”

“You have to color inside the lines,” A-Yuan adds.

“Well, you don’t have to. Like I said, the point is to have fun.” Wei Ying demonstrates by giving the Hulk an Outrageous Orange wig.

“Daaad,” A-Yuan groans. He only ever calls Wei Ying “Dad” when he’s annoyed with him.

“Lighten up, kid. Art doesn’t play by the rules.”

A-Yuan rolls his eyes. What are those fuddy-duddies at school teaching him?

A-Yuan passes Wangji a red crayon and points at the picture on Wangji’s page. “That’s Iron Man. His armor is red.”

Wei Ying decides not to argue that Iron Man can be any color Wangji wants. Maybe it’ll be easier for Wangji to follow simple directions. The creative interpretation lecture can wait until the next laundromat trip.

Wangji takes the crayon and begins to color in the armor, brow scrunched and fingers tight.

Wei Ying watches them for a moment, then grabs a purple crayon. He’s halfway through the Hulk’s chest when A-Yuan notices what he’s doing.

“Dad, the Hulk is green.”

“This isn’t the Hulk. This is the Angry Grape.”

A-Yuan finally drops his schoolmarm act and giggles. “You are so weird.”

Wei Ying sticks out his tongue. A-Yuan raspberries back at him. Wangji ignores both of them to color Tony Stark.

“Good job, Wangji-ge,” A-Yuan says.

Wangji stops coloring long enough to give A-Yuan something that’s almost a smile.

Wei Ying winks at his sweetheart of a son, then looks at Wangji’s page. “Wow, that is good.” There isn’t even a smidge of red over the lines. Wei Ying’s never done that well.

Wangji’s eyes slide over to the purple Hulk. “Wei Ying’s is good, too.”

“Thank you, Wangji. See? Wangji likes the Angry Grape.”

A-Yuan just shakes his head and goes back to his boring green dinosaurs.

When the clothes are done—still a little damp, but fuck it—Wei Ying shoves them all back in the bags. Wangji watches him heft the backpack looking troubled.

“Wei Ying.”

“Yeah?”

“I can carry it.”

“It’s okay. I carry it all the time. Just grab that one for me, please.”

Wangji hangs the other bag over his shoulder, but he still looks unhappy.

“Your job is to look after the Monkey,” Wei Ying says. “Make sure he doesn’t run off with the circus.”

A-Yuan grins up at Wangji. “I have to hold a grown-up’s hand when I cross the street.”

“Think you can do that for us?” Wei Ying adds.

Wangji nods solemnly.

At the first intersection, A-Yuan grabs Wangji’s hand and chatters to him about different kinds of dinosaurs. Wangji looks back at Wei Ying as if he’s seeking approval. Wei Ying grins and gives him a thumbs up. They’re so cute he wants to scream.

Wei Ying dumps the backpack on his bed and collapses face-first beside it. He’s never putting off the laundry that long again. His back is in agony.

He gives himself five minutes of wallowing, then pushes up to start unloading the bag. He sorts out A-Yuan’s and Wangji’s stuff. Wangji’s new clothes don’t really have a home yet. For now, they live on top of Wei Ying’s dresser.

When everything’s more or less put away, he takes A-Yuan his stack. “When you’re done putting those up, do you want to go ask Jingyi to join us?”

A-Yuan screeches something that’s probably agreement and takes off to his bedroom with his clean laundry.

Wei Ying goes back to his room and gets seven blissful minutes of mattress time before two balls of energy burst through the apartment door. He hears A-Yuan introducing Jingyi and Wangji.

Fuck. He should’ve warned Wangji.

He heaves himself up and finds Wangji cornered by two children. “Why are you wearing that on your neck?” Jingyi asks. That kid has the sneer of a street-corner thug.

Wei Ying rushes in and turns Jingyi toward the door with a hand on his head. “Okay, let’s go. Daylight’s wasting.”

He steers the kids to the door and then goes back to Wangji, who’s looking understandably shell-shocked. “You’re welcome to come with us, or you can hang out here. Up to you.”

“Come on, Wangji-ge!” A-Yuan calls.

“Up to you,” Wei Ying repeats.

“I will go.”

“Okay, it’ll be nice having another grown-up along.”

At the first crosswalk, Jingyi takes Wei Ying’s hand, and A-Yuan grabs Wangji’s. Neither of them pauses in their chatter.

When they reach the park, Jingyi tugs on Wei Ying’s sleeve. “Wei-gege, can we get hot dogs? Popo gave me money.”

“Sure, I’m starving. Wangji, do you like hot dogs?”

Predictably, Wangji nods.

They eat their hot dogs at the picnic table. Jingyi studies Wangji intensely as they eat. At least Wangji doesn’t need to use utensils to eat hot dogs, though he’s gotten a lot better at forks under A-Yuan’s patient tutelage. And he’s mostly stopped cramming in food like he’s trying to win a contest.

“Who are you?” Jingyi asks, hot dog forgotten in his hand.

“I told you,” A-Yuan drawls. “He’s staying with us.”

“But why?”

“Because we like having Wangji stay with us,” Wei Ying says in his best I’m a grown-up so I know everything voice. “Don’t we, A-Yuan?”

A-Yuan nods. “I’m teaching him to play piano.”

“Doesn’t he talk?”

Wei Ying grits his teeth. “He might if you gave him a chance. Eat your hot dog so you can go play.”

When the kids have run off to the playground, Wei Ying bumps Wangji with his elbow. “Don’t mind Jingyi. That kid has a big mouth.”

Wangji doesn’t respond. He’s staring after the kids, brow wrinkled.

“Are you still hungry? I can get you another hot dog.”

“Not hungry. Thank you.”

“Okay, how about some music?”

That gets Wangji’s attention. Wei Ying grins and roots for the dizi in his pack. He finds a nice spot on the grass and starts to play. Wangji sits on the ground in front of him to watch.

Wangji is still the best audience, all shining eyes and rapt attention, but a small crowd also gathers to listen to the free concert. Some of them even drop money in front of Wangji. Wei Ying grins and plays on. He should’ve brought a hat for tips.

When he’s entertained Wangji and the park for a while, he gives a final bow and settles down on the grass beside Wangji to watch the kids dangle from the monkey bars.

It really is a gorgeous day, a perfect autumn afternoon made of warm sun and crisp breeze. Wangji glides his palm over the blades of grass and tilts his face up to the sun. The light turns his long eyelashes to gold.

Wei Ying stays silent and tries not to stare. Let Wangji have his moment of peace in the sunshine.

After breakfast the next day, Wangji follows Wei Ying to the counter instead of heading to the piano. “Wei Ying.”

“What’s up?”

Wangji meets his eyes, unblinking. “What is my job?”

“Your job?”

Wangji nods.

“Um, do you want a job?”

Bigger nod.

Wei Ying chews his lip and considers this. Wangji probably wants to feel useful. That’s understandable. Wei Ying would hate feeling like a freeloader. Not that Wangji’s a freeloader, but he’d probably feel better if he had responsibilities. If he felt needed.

“I need to think about it,” Wei Ying says finally. “But for today, your job is to practice your songs. Would that be okay?”

Wangji nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.

Then Wei Ying realizes that Wangji would probably practice until his fingers cramped. “But you shouldn’t play too long. Maybe three times per song. Then you have to rest. If you play too much, you’ll wear out your fingers.”

Wei Ying listens from behind the counter as Wangji dutifully plays each of his three songs three times. He really is learning fast. It’s a shame that he can’t use his left hand yet so they can teach him more complicated songs.

After lunch, Wei Ying asks Wangji to clean up the table. Wen Ning raises his eyebrows at Wei Ying as Wangji clears away the empty wrappers. Wei Ying grins and winks. “Wangji’s one of us now. He’s going to help us out.”

“Oh. Thank you, Wangji.”

That afternoon, Wei Ying tells Wangji what a great job he did in the breakroom. Something like relief lightens Wangji’s face.

They get a delivery later. It’s just a couple of small boxes, but Wei Ying asks Wangji to take the empty boxes out to the dumpster. It doesn’t occur to him until Wangji comes back that Wangji might’ve slept beside that dumpster, but Wangji seems so proud that Wei Ying can’t hate himself too much.

Or maybe Wangji has just been bored. Sure, he loves playing the piano, but even that has to get old eventually. With that in mind, Wei Ying asks Wangji to come with him to pick up A-Yuan. Wangji nods like he’s eager to go. But when they set off down the sidewalk. Wangji trails behind him until Wei Ying nearly faceplants into a light pole trying to walk and talk over his shoulder.

“Would you mind walking beside me?” Wei Ying asks. After a few startled blinks, Wangji speeds up to walk at his side.

“Thanks, I was getting dizzy. So, I was thinking about what you said, about wanting a job. Is there something that you’d like to do?”

Wangji blinks at him like he doesn’t understand the question.

“Or is there something you’re good at?” Please don’t say hitting people.

“I . . . could carry things.”

“Okay, yeah, you seem pretty strong. You probably shouldn’t carry much until your wrist is better, though. Is there anything else?”

Wangji stares down at the sidewalk, frowning. “Clean?”

“That would be helpful! You’ve seen how bad I am at cleaning the apartment.”

“Wei Ying isn’t bad,” Wangji mumbles, almost too low for Wei Ying to hear.

Wei Ying snorts and bumps him with his elbow. “Well, I’m not as bad as I used to be. But if you want to help, I’m definitely not going to say no.”

“I will help. I will earn my keep.”

Wei Ying stumbles to a stop. He ignores the people who grumble and push past them. “Wangji, you don’t have to earn anything. You’re welcome to stay with us no matter what.”

Wangji fidgets with his cuff and avoids his eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re our friend. Because we like you.” Wei Ying dares a tiny shoulder rub. Wangji tenses but doesn’t run into traffic. “We all like having you around.”

“Friend,” Wangji repeats. Almost like a question.

“Yep, friends. Buddies, pals, amigos, pengyou.” He almost says partners-in-crime but thinks better of it. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”

Wangji nods and gives him that almost-smile. “Friends.”

“Thank goodness.” Wei Ying throws his hand over his chest. “It would’ve broken my heart if you didn’t want to be my friend. Now let’s go before the Monkey escapes to the jungle.”

Wei Ying asks Wangji to go with him to school every day now, both in the mornings and afternoons. He says he likes the company. Sometimes they stop in stores on the way home to “run errands.” Running errands is much nicer than collections. Sometimes errands are boring, but boring is better than bloody.

Wei Ying seems to know every song that plays in the stores, and he sings along to the music. It’s funny when Wei Ying screeches high or moans low to match the singers, but Wangji likes it even better when Wei Ying uses his real voice.

“Daaad,” A-Yuan groans when Wei Ying sings especially loud.

Wei Ying wraps his arms around the boy’s shoulders and bends low to sing in his ear: “Oooh, child, things are gonna get easier.”

A-Yuan giggles and wiggles until he’s free. He runs behind Wangji and grabs his leg. “Wangji-ge, make him stop.”

Wei Ying dances over to them, twirling a package of noodles. “Wangji-ge likes my singing. Don’t you, Wangji?”

“Wei Ying is good at singing.”

“Ha! See?”

A-Yuan groans again. “You don’t have to agree with him, Wangji-ge. He’s just being stupid.”

Wei Ying puts his hand on his hip and frowns down at the boy. “Hey, it’s fine if you don’t want to play, but don’t be mean about it.”

“Sorry. You aren’t stupid.”

“Thank you. And I’m fantastic at singing.”

“Sure, Dad. You’re the best.”

They continue on down the aisle. Wei Ying sways against Wangji for a moment. “That kid is so serious sometimes. He used to love my singing.”

“I like your singing,” Wangji says.

Wei Ying’s pout lifts into a grin. “That’s because you’re a fun guy. Not like Mr. Mopey up there. Mr. Mopey Monkey.”

“Daaaad.”

On one errand, they go to a store that sells clothes. Wei Ying calls it a thrift store and sings that he’s going to “pop some tags.” He says that Wangji needs a coat because it’s getting colder.

“How about this one?” Wei Ying holds up a coat with a furry hood.

“Blue,” Wangji agrees.

“Yeah, that’s your favorite, right?”

Wangji nods. He tries on the coat. Wei Ying pulls the hood up over his head and clutches the fur, pulling it close to Wangji’s cheeks.

“That should keep you warm. Take a look.”

Wei Ying leads him to a mirror and stands beside him as they look at their reflections. “What do you think?”

“Handsome,” Wangji says. He’s looking at Wei Ying’s bright smile.

“Yes, you are very handsome.” Wei Ying laughs and rubs Wangji’s back for a second. Wangji can barely feel Wei Ying’s warm hand through the thick coat, but it’s still nice.

When Wangji’s wrist heals enough that he can stop wearing the brace, Wei Ying says that they need to celebrate.

Their “night on the town” takes them to a diner down the street. Once they’re seated in a booth, the waitress hands them menus. Wei Ying and A-Yuan stare at the menus, so Wangji does that too. When they go to McDonald’s, Wangji just gets the same thing Wei Ying orders, but this seems more complicated.

“Wangji, do you know what you want to eat?” Wei Ying asks.

Wangji looks back at the menu as if the squiggles will suddenly make sense.

“A-Yuan and I usually get pancakes, even at night. Do you like pancakes?”

Wangji has never eaten pancakes, but he nods, relieved.

When the waitress returns, Wei Ying orders them all pancakes. The food arrives on steaming platters. The waitress also sets down a plastic jug and a little cage full of colorful packets.

Wangji watches Wei Ying and A-Yuan pour the contents of the jug over the pancakes, then squeeze out stuff from the packets. Wangji pours the stuff from the jug over his pancakes, but he avoids the packets. He isn’t sure which one of the colors he should pick: Wei Ying and A-Yuan used different ones.

Until tonight, Wangji has never given much thought to which foods are better than others. When he was with Wen Ruohan, he didn’t get to choose what he ate, and if he refused to eat something, he went without food. Now that he’s with Wei Ying, he tries to eat everything Wei Ying offers. The only thing he’s truly disliked is the chili sauce Wei Ying pours over everything. Wangji couldn’t hide his reaction to that, but Wei Ying had just apologized and stopped using the chili sauce on Wangji’s food.

But pancakes change everything.

Wangji carefully mimics how Wei Ying and A-Yuan drop their forks through the golden cakes—he is much better at forks now—and puts the dripping bite into his mouth.

Pancakes are sticky and sweet and soft. They are the best thing he’s ever eaten. He’s halfway through the pancakes when he notices Wei Ying watching him.

Wei Ying smiles. It’s the happy one that makes his eyes squint shut. “Do you like them?”

Wangji nods emphatically and swallows down the lump of pancake.

“Have you tried the bacon?”

Wangji reluctantly lays down his fork and picks up the bacon. It’s okay to use his fingers because that’s what Wei Ying and A-Yuan have been doing. The bacon is crunchy and salty. It isn’t as good as the pancakes, but he likes it.

“I like to dunk my bacon in the pancake syrup,” Wei Ying says, and he demonstrates with a strip of bacon.

Wangji does it, too. He nods his agreement. That is better.

“Can’t go wrong with sweet and salty,” Wei Ying says. He sips his coffee, but his eyes smile at Wangji over the cup.

It makes Wei Ying happy to find things that Wangji likes. Wangji has never known anyone like that. He’s never known anyone who smiles like Wei Ying, like he’s carrying the sun in his chest and letting it beam out for others to bask in.

“Pancakes are good,” Wangji tells Wei Ying, and feels his sticky lips curl in a smile.

Wei Ying walks his last student to the door, past the empty piano bench. Once he’s seen Marcus off, he goes to find Wangji. And finds him sitting at the breakroom table with A-Yuan. Wangji is coloring Thanos a pretty blue. A-Yuan has abandoned his dinosaur coloring book to draw his own picture.

When Wangji first arrived, his hair was short, almost buzzed, but now it has grown out a bit. It looks silky. Wei Ying wants to pet it. Instead, he passes by Wangji and ruffles his son’s hair. A-Yuan has nice silky hair, too. That helps a little. “Whatcha drawing?”

A-Yuan holds up his picture. Wei Ying’s son is kind and smart and musical, but the kid is no artist. Still, the three stick figures are pretty obvious. The one in the middle is short: the artist himself. The taller one on the left has a long ponytail. And the one on A-Yuan’s other side has a thick silver ring around his neck. They’re all holding hands.

“That’s us?”

A-Yuan nods. “Me, Baba, and Wangji-ge. At the park.”

“I see. Good job. Look, Wangji, you’re an artist’s model.”

Wei Ying hands the drawing to Wangji. Wangji stares down at it with something like awe. “Me?”

“Yep, all of us. Three handsome gentlemen.” Wei Ying pets his son’s hair and beams at both of them.

“I need to put our names on there,” A-Yuan says. He takes the drawing back from Wangji and carefully writes Wei Yuan and Baba in crayon over their heads. “How do you spell Wangji?”

Wei Ying spells it for him, but he watches Wangji watching A-Yuan write. At the diner the other night, he’d suspected that Wangji couldn’t read the menu. It made sense, after all. Someone who was never taught to use a fork probably didn’t get a traditional education, either. Somehow, that’s sadder than the fork.

When they go upstairs, Wei Ying puts the drawing on the refrigerator, rearranging the pictures already there to give the new one pride of place.

Wangji joins him in front of the refrigerator to look at the drawing. “That is my name?”

“Yeah.” Wei Ying points to the other words. “That’s Wei Yuan, and that’s Baba.”

Wangji lifts his hand slowly and trails his fingers over the letters of his name. “W is for whale.”

“It is. Do you know the other letters?”

Wangji shakes his head, brow pinched. “A?”

“Yeah. A for apple. N for nap. G for . . .”

“Guitar?”

“Yeah, good one! Then J for jokes, and I for ice cream. Is it cheating if I use two words?”

“I don’t think so.”

They stand there admiring their portrait a little longer. “Do you want to learn to write your name?”

Wangji blinks at him. “Is it hard?”

“Um, I don’t know. I guess it can be. You’re pretty smart, though.”

Wangji ducks his head like he doesn’t believe him.

Wei Ying allows himself one pat to Wangji’s back. “You already know some of the letters. That’ll make it easier. If you want to try. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Wangji lifts his chin and stares at the drawing. “I will try.”

Wei Ying delegates the first lesson to A-Yuan since A-Yuan’s the master. A-Yuan and Wangji sprawl on their stomachs on the living room rug to flip through one of A-Yuan’s old picture books while Wei Ying makes Wangji a practice workbook on A-Yuan’s drawing paper.

“P is for pig,” A-Yuan says.

“Piano,” Wangji blurts.

“Good, Wangji-ge! That’s the big P, and that’s the little one.”

“Why is there a big one and a little one?”

“The big ones go at the beginning of sentences. And at the beginning of words, sometimes. Like names.”

Wei Ying grins down at them. A-Yuan is such a good teacher. He’d be a great big brother, too. Not that that’s every going to happen.

“Q is for queen.”

“Queen?” Wangji asks.

“She’s a lady in charge of stuff. She’s married to the king.”

“And it’s the name of an awesome band,” Wei Ying adds. “Weee are the chaaampions!”

A-Yuan and Wangji turn to him with identical looks of confusion. Wei Ying sighs. Nobody gets him.

On their next trip to the bookstore, Wei Ying mentions Wangji’s reading lessons to Ms. Nelson.

“Why don’t I pitch in?” Ms. Nelson says. “I used to teach elementary school, you know. I quit when the standardized testing industry ruined education, but I miss it sometimes.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Wangji, would you like to come over tomorrow for reading lessons?”

Wangji looks up from the cat in his lap and nods. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Wonderful. I’ll make muffins.”

Wangji’s daily routine makes his life feel almost impossibly rich. In the mornings, he and Wei Ying walk A-Yuan to school. On the way home, they usually get breakfast to eat at the studio. It’s a studio, not a store. He knows that now.

After breakfast, Wangji either does his jobs in the studio or he goes to the bookstore for lessons. On those days, he gets what Wei Ying calls “second breakfast,” plus more food for Wei Ying and Wen Ning.

Ms. Nelson is nice, and he gets to pet Portia during his lessons. Like Wei Ying, Ms. Nelson never gets angry or frustrated at his mistakes. On the first day, she told him that the most important thing was that he must ask questions whenever he was confused. “It’s okay not to know something,” she told him. “Too many people pretend they know everything, but a truly wise person knows how to ask for help.”

Sometimes Ms. Nelson lets him help her carry boxes of books and put them on the shelves. There is a college student who works in the bookstore, but Ms. Nelson says that she’s “not dependable” and a “flake.” But Wangji is a “sweet young man” and “such a gentleman.”

After the lessons, Wangji goes back to the studio for lunch. He tidies up the breakroom after lunch, then practices his letters. Ms. Nelson says that practicing soon after a lesson will help him “absorb the material” better.

Then Wangji and Wei Ying go to school to pick up A-Yuan. They usually have to hurry back so that Wei Ying can get to his next lesson, but sometimes they stop to get snacks. Wangji’s belly has never been so full. Wei Ying’s jeans are too tight on him now.

When they return to the studio, Wangji and A-Yuan play the piano. Wei Ying is helping Wangji with his new songs, but Wangji and A-Yuan still like to play together.

Then Wangji helps close up the store, and they go upstairs for dinner. Wangji has started helping Wei Ying cook, and they wash the dishes together. Wangji is learning the songs Wei Ying plays as they work in the kitchen. He isn’t brave enough to sing and dance, but he likes to watch Wei Ying twirl around him.

The time between dinner and bedtime is Wangji’s favorite part of the day. Usually, Wangji and Wei Ying sit on the couch while A-Yuan plays in the floor. Wei Ying talks to the television, arguing with the people like they can hear them. When the show is funny, Wei Ying laughs so hard that he leans against Wangji. Sometimes he slaps a hand on Wangji’s knee or his shoulder.

If A-Yuan is too tired to play with his dinosaurs, he sits between them, leaning against Wei Ying and throwing his feet in Wangji’s lap. The first time he did that, Wei Ying said, “Wangji isn’t your footrest. Get your stinky feet out of his lap.”

“My feet aren’t stinky,” A-Yuan protested. “And he doesn’t mind, do you Wangji-ge?”

Wangji shook his head. “A-Yuan’s feet aren’t stinky.”

“See?” A-Yuan said, and stuck out his tongue at Wei Ying.

“Spoiled rotten, that’s what you are.” But Wei Ying grinned at Wangji over A-Yuan’s head, so Wangji knew he was just teasing.

One night, A-Yuan even cuddled up to Wangji and put his feet in Wei Ying’s lap. Wangji slowly put his arm around the boy like Wei Ying does. Wei Ying mumbled something about stinky monkey feet, but he seemed pleased, too.

Every night, Wangji goes to sleep on the soft couch amazed that he gets to do it all again the next day.

Today, Wangji doesn’t have lessons with Ms. Nelson, so he is practicing the song Wei Ying taught him, Prelude in C major. Learning the right-hand part was easy, so Wangji is practicing with his left. A few measures in, his fingers stumble, banging out a harsh note. Wangji sighs and starts again. At least no one is around to hear him mess up. Wei Ying is giving a lesson in one of the practice rooms, and Wen Ning left to run an errand.

He stumbles again. This time, frustration nips at him. Wei Ying says he should be patient, that soon his left hand will be as smart as the right. But being patient is hard. He glares down at his left wrist, so dumb and useless after all that time in the brace. He sends the offending hand to his lap and plays the right-hand part perfectly, his eyes closed to listen to the notes dance around him.

“You know any Elvis?”

Wangji’s fingers spasm on the keys. The question came from a man leaning against the doorframe. Pink skull showing through tufts of brown hair. Greasy smile. Jerry, the man from the liquor store next door. He came by last week to request a song. Wangji liked the music Wen Ning played for Jerry, but he didn’t like how Jerry stared at the collar. Jerry is staring at the collar now, too.

Wangji shakes his head. Wei Ying hasn’t taught him Elvis.

“Shame,” Jerry says. “Kids today don’t appreciate the classics. You know anything other than that Beethoven stuff?”

“It’s Bach.”

“Bach?” Jerry squawks the word like a chicken. “Well, excuuuuse me.”

Wangji drops his eyes to his lap. He hadn’t meant to be rude, even if he doesn’t like this man very much.

“So what’s that collar about?” Jerry asks. “I thought guys who wore those things liked that death metal shit, not fancy-pants Bock.”

Wangji keeps his head down and draws his shoulders in. “I don’t know,” he mumbles.

Jerry’s shoes tap closer to him. “You don’t know? You wear that thing every day. Don’t you—”

“What the hell, Jerry?” Wei Ying’s voice cuts through Jerry’s question, sharper than Wangji has ever heard it. Wei Ying stomps over to Jerry and jams his hands on his hips.

Jerry holds up his hands, grinning. “Hey, I was just—”

“Not cool,” Wei Ying snaps. “I don’t harass your customers, do I?”

“I wasn’t harassing nobody. I just asked the kid about his collar.”

“That’s his business.”

“Fair enough.” Jerry sketches a bow at Wangji. “My apologies, sir.” Even Wangji can tell that he doesn’t mean it.

Wei Ying is still glaring at him, but Jerry doesn’t seem to notice. “I just wandered over to listen to him play. Thought I might make a request.”

“Wen Ning isn’t here,” Wei Ying says. “And we’re busy.”

Jerry looks over Wei Ying’s shoulder at his student, Marcus, who waves from beside the counter. “Alright then. You fellas have a good afternoon.”

Jerry salutes them and then strolls off, whistling off-key. When he’s gone, Wei Ying rolls his eyes and comes over to Wangji. “Sorry about that. You okay?”

Wangji nods, relieved that Wei Ying doesn’t seem mad at him. “I didn’t mean to disrespect him.”

Wei Ying makes a pfft noise and flaps a hand at the door. “That guy’s a sleazeball. Tell him to go to hell if he bothers you again.”

Wangji nods, though he knows that he won’t. Next time, he’ll hide in the breakroom.

“Damn, Mr. Wei!” Marcus says, grinning as he slaps Wei Ying’s shoulder. “I thought you were gonna kick that guy’s ass.”

“It was tempting,” Wei Ying grumbles. “And don’t call me that. We’re practically the same age.”

“Okay, okay.” Marcus grins and backs away with his hands high. “Just don’t hurt me.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes and playfully shoves Marcus toward the door. “Go to class before I kick your ass.”

Marcus laughs as he stumbles toward the door. “Bye, Wangji. Bye, Bruce Lee!”

“Smartass,” Wei Ying huffs, but he’s smiling as he drops onto the bench beside Wangji and tinkles his fingers over the keys. “So, how’s the Bach coming?”

“My left hand isn’t good.”

“You’ll get there. How’s your wrist? Does it hurt to play?”

Wangji shakes his head. His wrist doesn’t hurt. It just feels weak and gritty, like it’s full of gravel.

“Good. Just remember not to push too hard.”

Wangji nods. Wei Ying always tells him not to work too hard. To relax. To have fun. It’s been hard to learn to have fun, but there is one thing he always loves. “Will you play something?”

“For you? Absolutely.” Wei Ying smiles and bumps their shoulders together. “What do you want to hear?”

Wangji blurts the answer without hesitation: “‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’”

Wei Ying chuckles and starts to play. “You like that one, huh? Do you want to learn it?”

Wangji nods, but he doesn’t really. Not yet. For now, he just wants to listen to Wei Ying sing about the magical land where all dreams come true. Here, he thinks, closing his eyes to listen better. It is here. He can’t imagine being happier anywhere than he is sitting beside Wei Ying.

Chapter Text

Wei Ying stands on the ladder hanging orange twinkle lights shaped like jack o’ lanterns over the studio’s door. Wangji hovers below him like he’s planning to catch him if he falls. He probably could. Wei Ying has seen Wangji carry boxes of Ms. Nelson’s heavy books like they weigh nothing. He tries not to think about that too much.

“There, done. How do they look?”

“Sparkly.”

That’s Wangji: succinct. Eloquently concise. A master of the understatement.

Wei Ying starts climbing down the ladder. Wangji holds up a hand, and Wei Ying takes it, stepping off the ladder like a Victorian lady exiting a carriage. “Thank you, kind sir.”

Wangji gives him a little lip curl and then turns back to the twinkle lights. With Wangji’s neck stretched to look up at the lights, Wei Ying gets a good luck at the new abrasions on his throat. Now that Wangji has gained some weight, the collar cuts into him more than ever.

For a while, Wei Ying had nearly forgotten the collar was there, but now it’s hard to ignore the obvious damage it’s doing to Wangji. Standing on the sidewalk isn’t a great place to bring up such a sensitive subject, though.

“Halloween is my favorite holiday,” Wei Ying says. “Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my birthday!”

“Your birthday?”

“Yep. Pretty awesome, right? When’s yours?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Yeah, he should’ve guessed that. “Do you know how old you are?”

Wangji shakes his head.

If Wei Ying ever found himself in the same room as whoever did this to Wangji, he would break every bone in the guy’s body.

Wei Ying digs through the plastic tote for more Halloween decorations to cover whatever expression is on his face right now. Sticking a few bats on the windows buys him some time to get his shit together.

“Well, you could share my birthday if you want. It’s obviously the best one, and we could celebrate together.”

“Okay,” Wangji mumbles, smiling his crooked little smile as Wei Ying dances a paper skeleton in front of his face.

That night, Wei Ying puts the kid to bed and then returns to the couch where Wangji is watching TV. Wei Ying sits down beside him and turns the volume down to a murmur. “Hey, can we talk about your collar?”

Wangji’s head jerks toward him. His mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.

“I know it’s important to you, but it’s getting pretty tight. Isn’t it hurting your neck?”

Wangji’s eyes fall to the cushion between them. He nods.

“I’d like to at least take it off so you can put medicine on your neck. I know you don’t like medicine, but those sores could get infected.”

Wangji’s breath is coming quicker, his chest heaving, but he’s holding his ground. Probably Wei Ying will never understand what horrors he’s facing just to stay here for this conversation. Probably he doesn’t want to know.

“Would that be okay? If you just took it off for a few minutes?”

“Can’t take it off.”

Wei Ying watches Wangji’s hands curl into fists on his lap and hates himself, but he keeps pressing. “Do you mean that it won’t come off? Like the clasp won’t open?”

Wangji shakes his head: a short, agitated jerk.

“So it can come off, but you don’t want to take it off?”

Wangji nods.

“Do you like wearing it?”

Wangji’s brow wrinkles. He shakes his head.

“Wangji, why do you want to keep it on?”

“Keeps me safe.”

“Safe from what?”

Wangji doesn’t answer.

“What would happen if you took it off?”

Wangji swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing under the collar. “Hurt people.”

“I don’t understand.”

Wangji’s eyes flick up to him, then back down to the cushion. He pounds a fist against his thigh. “I hurt people.”

Wei Ying turns away, watches the people laughing on television without seeing them. Years of fighting, Wen Qing had said. But maybe it’s even worse than that.

“Do you want to hurt people?”

“No,” Wangji grunts. His hands clench tight, bringing the scars on his knuckles into sharp relief.

“Did someone tell you to hurt people?”

Wangji nods.

“But only when the collar is off.”

Nod.

Let off the leash, Wei Ying thinks. Bizarre. Brutal. Inhuman. It doesn’t make sense, though. It’s just a piece of metal. How can that collar turn the sweetest man Wei Ying has ever known—and that includes Wen Ning—into someone who hurts people on command?

“Do you feel different when the collar’s off?”

Wangji tilts his head, fingers twitching. “I go away. In my head. So I can’t see.”

“Oh.” Oh, sweetheart. “Thank you for explaining. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

Wangji finally meets his eyes. Little tremors run through him, quivering his lips. “You didn’t.”

“I did, and I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that you had to . . . that you had to do what you did. It wasn’t your fault.”

Wangji’s eyes drop to his hands. He flexes his fingers like he’s remembering how he got those scars.

Wei Ying watches him for a moment, then goes to the kitchen to break out his best weapon for making the monsters go away: hot cocoa. The Swiss Miss is expired, but only by a few weeks. At least the milk is still good.

They sit on the couch, sipping cocoa and staring at the TV for a long time.

Wei Ying is in way over his head; he knows that now. Well, he always knew that, but things have been going so well regardless. Wangji seems so happy with his lessons and his little chores. And Wangji’s cheeks have filled out until Wei Ying can barely restrain himself from squishing them. But the collar thing definitely requires someone with a bigger brain than Wei Ying’s.

“I’ve gotta run a quick errand,” he tells Wangji.

Wangji looks up from the piano bench. “I can go with you.”

“No, it’s okay. Would you look after A-Yuan for me?”

Wangji nods solemnly. He takes his A-Yuan-watching duties very seriously.

“Thanks, I won’t be gone long.”

That’s probably a lie. It’d be more accurate to say that he isn’t going far.

Ms. Nelson is with a customer when Wei Ying steps inside the bookstore, so he hangs out in front of the Gothic Classics display and shifts from foot to foot, watching the door.

When the customer heads out with her new books, Ms. Nelson comes around the counter. “Your friend isn’t here yet. Do you want to wait for her in back?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay. Thanks for doing this.”

“No problem. Is something wrong? You look nervous.”

Wei Ying blows out a breath. “I’m okay. Life is just . . . weird sometimes, you know?”

“I do, dear. I do.”

He follows her to her office and drops onto the sofa with a sigh. Ms. Nelson comes back with tea and snickerdoodles and sets them on the desk.

“You’re an angel, thank you.”

He waits in the office that smells wonderfully of old books, getting cookie crumbs all over his sweater.

And then Baoshan arrives.

He hasn’t seen her in a year at least. Her hair is a little grayer, the wrinkles around her eyes a little deeper, but she still carries herself like a hero from a wuxia movie, like she’d be better suited to meditating on a mountaintop than sitting at a desk.

Baoshan smiles at him when Ms. Nelson ushers her into the office. Just seeing that kind smile on her stern face makes him feel better.

He leaps up, brushing off the crumbs, and pulls her into a hug. It still seems impossible how tiny she is now. He can still remember when she towered over him.

“Okay,” she says when he finally lets her sit down. “This is all delightfully clandestine, but I’m an old lady who doesn’t have much time left above ground, so can you please explain what’s going on?”

Wei Ying chuckles and pours her a cup of tea. “I apologize in advance: this is going to sound crazy, even for me.”

He talks. She listens. She never interrupts the long tale. Her face never changes expression.

When he falls silent, she takes a sip of tea, sets the cup on the tray, and turns back to him. “You haven’t asked him who put that collar on him?”

“He gets really nervous when I ask about it. I mean, I wouldn’t push him now if that collar wasn’t literally choking him.”

“You don’t want him to leave.”

It isn’t a question. Wei Ying leans back against the sofa cushion and avoids her all-too-knowing eyes. “No, I don’t want him to leave. So do you have any ideas about the collar?”

She shrugs. “I’m just a simple social worker. A retired social worker. I have no idea how someone would accomplish something so horrible. I’m sure you’re right that drugs were involved, but beyond that . . .” She shrugs again.

He crosses his arms and waits. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Getting the collar off is necessary, but his belief that it affects his behavior makes him something of an addict, doesn’t it? And the best way to treat addiction is . . .?”

“Redirection.” Wei Ying leans over his knees and watches his boots tap on the floor. “He’s already obsessed with music, especially pianos.”

“No, he needs a physical object,” Baoshan says. “A talisman. That’s what the collar is, I suspect. Give him something he can carry on him all the time. Or something he can wear.”

“Transfer the bad juju. Yeah, that makes sense, I guess. You think that could work?”

“I honestly have no idea. I never thought I’d say this at my age, but I have never heard of anything like your friend’s situation. I’d say he should get professional help—”

Wei Ying glares at her, and she raises her hands in surrender.

“—but given the complexities of the situation, that may not be an option.”

Wei Ying snorts. “No kidding. He’d end up in some institution. If he didn’t go to jail. I doubt the cops would be too convinced by a the collar made me do it defense. Or worst case, the people who did this to him could find him again.”

“Yes, I understand why you wanted the secret meeting now.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not secret. I just figured we shouldn’t talk about this stuff at Starbucks.”

“We could’ve met at your apartment.”

“There are no snickerdoodles in my apartment.” Also, he didn’t want to risk Wangji and A-Yuan coming upstairs and discovering them. Unlikely, but possible. “So, tell me how this talisman thing would work.”

Wei Ying waits until A-Yuan is asleep before he brings out the bracelet. It’s a cheap plastic bunny charm that he hung on a bright blue string. It’s silly, but Wangji told A-Yuan that he used to have a stuffed bunny. And maybe silly is better for this purpose. The whole point is that Wangji should be able to cast it aside when he’s ready. If he’s ever ready.

While Wangji takes a shower, Wei Ying waits on the couch, worrying the bunny charm between his fingers. Wangji comes out of the bathroom, then goes to fetch his nightly glass of water.

When Wangji is settled on his end of the couch, Wei Ying holds out the bracelet. “This is for you.”

Wangji stares at the bracelet, his eyes widening. The corner of his mouth lifts into the cutest smile Wei Ying has ever seen. “For me?”

“Yeah. It goes on your wrist.”

Wangji immediately sticks out his hand. After Wei Ying ties it on, Wangji twists his wrist around to make the bunny dance.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. This isn’t just a bracelet, though. It’s a reminder.”

“Reminder?”

“Yeah. That means that it will help you remember something.” Wei Ying draws in a deep breath. “It will remind you that you’re in control of yourself. That you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Wangji’s smile disappears, but he’s listening intently.

“Because you’re in control of yourself, you can take off that bracelet whenever you want. To take a shower. Or when it gets on your nerves. And when you’re ready, you can take off the collar. This bracelet will remind you that you don’t need the collar. That you make your own decisions.”

Wangji stares down at the bracelet and runs his fingertips over the bunny.

“It doesn’t have to be tonight. Or next week. Or even next year. You decide when you’re ready. Maybe you could start by just unfastening the collar. Just for a second. If you don’t like how you feel, then you can close it back up.”

“Okay,” Wangji whispers.

“Okay. When you’re ready.”

Wei Ying stands up. Wangji probably needs some space after that.

“Wei Ying.”

“Yeah?”

Wangji looks up at him, and there’s so much hope shining in those pretty eyes that Wei Ying’s knees wobble. “Will you do it?”

Wei Ying sits back down. “What do you want me to do, sweetheart?”

Wangji’s hand makes an aborted move to his neck, then clamps on his leg.

“You want me to unfasten the collar?”

Wangji nods.

“Okay.” Wei Ying scoots a little closer and rubs his clammy hands on his pants. “We’re just going to unfasten it. Then you tell me if you want to take it off or leave it on, okay?”

“Okay.”

Slowly, Wei Ying reaches for the clasp. Wangji’s breath catches when Wei Ying’s fingers brush the metal. “It’s okay,” Wei Ying murmurs. “Are you ready?”

He waits until Wangji gives him the okay, then pops the clasp. Wei Ying had expected the clasp to be hard to open, rusted shut or something, so the sudden snap makes them both flinch.

“Okay.” Wei Ying leans back and folds his hands in his lap. Wangji’s breath is ragged, the bunny jittering from his wrist as he plucks at the string.

“Should I fasten it?”

Wangji doesn’t answer. Wei Ying waits and watches Wangji struggle, fighting whatever monster was shoved inside him.

Then Wangji’s hand creeps up to his neck. His fingers curl around the collar. With a yank, he pulls it off and holds it in his lap. He raises his eyes to Wei Ying’s face. There is no monster there. Only triumph.

“How do you feel?”

“Okay. Good.”

“Good.” Wei Ying winces at the sight of Wangji’s neck. There’s still a collar there—a circle of calloused skin and open sores.

Wangji scowls at the collar and leans over to set it on the coffee table. The metal clangs ominously as it settles.

“Do you want to keep that or chunk it in the trash?”

“Keep it. In case.”

Wei Ying doesn’t ask in case of what. This has already surpassed his wildest expectations. That’s what he gets for doubting Baoshan.

“Okay, I’ll just stick it in here.” Wei Ying picks up the collar and goes to the bookcase. “It’ll be right here if you need it.”

Wangji nods, but his attention is back on his bracelet. Like now that the collar is off, it’s powerless.

Wei Ying sets the collar in one of the little bins where it clashes with the dried-up markers and plastic horses, then rejoins Wangji on the couch. “I’m so proud of you.”

Wangji’s head shoots up. “Why?”

“Because you were so brave.”

“Brave?”

“Do you know what that means?”

Wangji nods. “Tough.”

“Yeah, it can mean that. It also means that you’re willing to do something even if it’s scary. That you don’t let fear stop you.”

“Were you scared?”

“To take off your collar?”

Wangji nods.

“Nope. I knew you’d be fine.”

“Because of the bracelet.”

“No, because I trust you. Because you’re brave and good. I don’t need some plastic bunny to tell me that. But you can wear it as long as you want. Even if you don’t need it.”

“Present,” Wangji whispers.

“Huh?”

“It is a present. From Wei Ying.”

“Oh. Do you like your present?”

Wangji nods and gives him a tiny smile. Tiny but heartbreakingly beautiful.

“I’m glad. I like this.” He points at Wangji’s smile.

“Mouth?”

“Your smile. I like your smile.”

Wangji smiles until his cheeks bulge and his ears turn pink. “Handsome.”

Wei Ying laughs. “Yes, you’re very handsome. But I like to see you happy.”

“Happy,” Wangji agrees with a soft little sigh.

“I’m glad,” Wei Ying croaks, telling himself that crying right now would probably freak Wangji out, or at least be horribly embarrassing for both of them. He lets himself give Wangji’s knee a squeeze, then scoots back. “You were so amazing. We should celebrate!”

“Now?”

“No, I guess it’s kinda late for celebrations. Tomorrow night. We’ll have a celebratory dinner. Anything you want.”

“Pancakes?”

“Excellent choice. Bacon too?”

Shy little nod.

“Breakfast for dinner. You’re a genius. I’ll make you a giant stack of pancakes. How many do you think you can eat? Ten? Twenty?”

Wangji huffs something that’s almost a laugh and smiles so bright that Wei Ying worries his heart will explode from looking at it.

For his birthday, Wei Ying gets cards from Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan. And money. Lovely, lovely money. Jiang Fengmian sent a hundred dollars. Yu Ziyuan sent a record-breaking two hundred, yet another surprising benefit of their recent divorce. Their competition probably won’t last, but Wei Ying intends to make the most of it while it does.

On their way back from dropping off A-Yuan at school, he and Wangji stop at the bank to deposit the checks.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says as they leave the bank, “I am officially rolling in dough. Filthy rich. Bill Gates got nothing on me. Do you know what that means?”

Wangji shakes his head, smiling a little. The end of his cute little nose is red from the wind, but his eyes sparkle.

“It means you’re rich, too. We’re sharing a birthday, remember? So what do you want to get with your sweet birthday cash?”

“Pancakes?”

“That’s a good start. Let’s go get breakfast. But you need to think bigger, birthday boy.”

Wangji’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you want?”

“That’s easy. I want to take my boys to the movies.”

“The movies?”

“Yep. Free your schedule for Sunday afternoon, because we’re going to the movies. And we’re gonna get the biggest bucket of popcorn they sell. We’re going to live like kings!”

Wei Ying takes a seat between A-Yuan and Wangji and steadies the popcorn bucket between his thighs as he digs out the M&Ms he smuggled in. Even kings know that it’s ridiculous to pay movie prices for snacks, and he’s already made a hefty dent in his birthday money with the jumbo bucket of popcorn and drinks.

Wangji watches as Wei Ying mixes the candy into the popcorn. “Give it a minute,” Wei Ying tells him. “It’s better when the M&Ms melt a little.”

Wangji hums and hands him a napkin. He’s developing a fussy side now that he’s taken charge of cleaning stuff. And wow has he taken charge. Wangji even figured out how to get the hard-water stain out of the bathtub.

Ignoring the napkin, Wei Ying winks at Wangji and licks butter and melted M&M from his fingers. Wangji blinks, then turns to the big screen playing movie trivia.

“Gross, Dad,” A-Yuan grumbles. “We don’t want your spit all over the popcorn.”

“Hey, I used to change your nasty diapers. Don’t whine at me about a little spit.”

A-Yuan rolls his eyes and grabs a handful of popcorn.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Wei Ying huffs and shifts the bucket a little closer to Wangji. “Want to try?”

Wangji lifts out a little clump and chews, frowning. Then his eyes widen, and he nods.

“Good, right?”

Wangji swallows down the popcorn and reaches for more. “Sweet and salty.”

“Plus chocolate and butter. Heaven in a bucket.”

When the lights dim, Wangji tenses and looks around.

“It’s okay. They turn the lights down when the movie starts. It’s going to be kind of loud, at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

Wangji nods and settles back in his chair. He winces a bit when the previews start, but soon, he’s scarfing popcorn and staring at the screen in wide-eyed wonder.

Wei Ying spends almost as much time watching Wangji experience his first movie as he does watching it himself. Not that he was all that interested in The Spooky Society 3 in the first place. Maybe someday he’ll get to watch a movie that isn’t G-rated.

The sun has set when they get off the bus to start the walk back to the apartment. Although A-Yuan chattered for the entire bus ride, now he drags his feet like the movie’s cartoon zombies.

“Baba, carry me,” A-Yuan whines in his saddest little voice.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “I’m not your donkey.”

“Yes, you are. You’ve got big donkey ears.”

Wei Ying growls and lunges for him. A-Yuan squeals and runs behind Wangji, clutching his stalwart protector’s thigh and sticking out his tongue at Wei Ying. Knowing that he’s been defeated, Wei Ying halts the attack.

Wangji peeks over his shoulder at the little punk hiding behind him. “A-Yuan, I can carry you.”

“Don’t let the kid bully you,” Wei Ying says. “He can walk. After all the sugar he just ate, he could run back home.”

But it’s too late. A-Yuan is already tugging Wangji down to scramble on his back. Wangji stands up without even bothering to groan about the gorilla he’s carrying, and they set off down the sidewalk.

Wei Ying trots to catch up and listens as A-Yuan tells Wangji terrible dinosaur jokes:

“What do dinosaurs use to keep their teeth clean?”

“What?”

“Tricera-floss.”

Wei Ying groans, but they ignore him.

“What do you call a ninja dinosaur?”

“What?”

“A Youneversaurus. Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom?”

“Why?”

“Because the P is silent.”

“P is for pterodactyl,” Wangji says, almost smugly.

A-Yuan giggles and hugs Wangji’s neck. Wangji smiles his beautiful lopsided smile and grips the little legs wrapped around his waist.

Wangji even carries the kid upstairs, bounding up them like it’s nothing. It’d be a little emasculating if they weren’t so freaking cute.

Chapter Text

Without Wen Ruohan's drugs keeping his mind hazy, Wangji dreams more now, even when he wishes he didn’t. Many of his dreams are of the woman who plays piano, but those dreams aren’t always nice. Sometimes, he wakes up sweating and shivering, gasping into the couch cushions.

The worst of those dreams starts off soft and warm but ends with Wangji in a dark little room, hiding from the sharp light and the screams. Something bad happens to the woman on the other side of the door. He always wakes up before he discovers what happens. He’s glad. He doesn’t want to know what makes that woman scream so horribly.

But without the drugs, he also thinks more clearly. It’s easier to remember things, to understand things. Learning to read words and musical notes has helped him put the world into order, to give it substance and shape. Sounds have physical shapes and patterns that can be arranged and altered. Learning those patterns unlocks more possibilities, more connections. The music flows in his mind, so clear and bright now, sounds falling into ordered measures: beautiful ladders and loops, twirling ribbons, delicate glimmers.

As the fog lifts, he learns to find the music in his head in the piano keys. His fingers learn to stretch along with his mind. His hands aren’t fast enough, but Wei Ying says that speed will come with practice. Wangji can practice as much as he wants. He has all the time he wants to teach his scarred hands to unclench, to teach them to make beautiful music.

He is finding a song when Wei Ying joins him on the piano bench. “That’s lovely,” Wei Ying says. “Did you hear that somewhere?”

“In my head,” Wangji says, only a little embarrassed to admit it. Wei Ying would never mock him. He plays the section again, working to strike the keys in the rhythm he wants. There is more underneath, but he can only plunk out a small part of it.

“Amazing,” Wei Ying breathes.

Wei Ying always tells him how smart he is, how talented. Wei Ying listens to the music Wangji’s fumbling fingers play and says it’s beautiful. He looks at the ugly scars ringing Wangji’s neck and says Wangji is brave. Wangji doesn’t understand that, not really, but it makes something huge and glorious glow in his chest. It almost hurts, how good it feels, a feeling so immense that he doesn’t know what to do with it except try to release it through the piano keys.

But he can’t make his hands do what he wants. He can’t make them play the song in his head. They’re too clumsy. Two of his fingers are twisted from old breaks, and they ache sometimes.

“Do you mind if I try?” Wei Ying asks.

Wangji moves his hands into his lap. Wei Ying spreads his fingers over the keys and begins to play Wangji’s song. The melody unfurls under Wei Ying’s talented fingers.

Wei Ying cuts his eyes toward Wangji. “How am I doing?”

Wangji nods, overcome by hearing his song played so beautifully. “Good.”

“It’s a gorgeous song,” Wei Ying says.

“There is more.”

“Yeah? Will you show me?”

“I don’t know how to play it.”

“Could you hum it?”

Wangji tries. Too low at first, just a grumble, but his voice grows stronger as Wei Ying starts to copy the notes. Wei Ying is clever, and he plays it better than Wangji had imagined.

“Do you want to try?”

Wangji nods, but he only manages a few notes before his fingers blunder.

“Take it slow. Wait until you know which key you want.” Wei Ying hovers his hand over Wangji’s. “Do you mind if I help a little?”

“Okay.”

Wei Ying’s hand settles onto his and guides it over the keys. Wangji shivers at the soft tingle of Wei Ying’s fingers on his skin—little sparks that travel up his arms and down his back. He gets distracted by that feeling, by his hands borrowing Wei Ying’s strength, his grace.

Wei Ying doesn’t touch him often, even seems afraid to sometimes. Wangji wishes he knew how to say that it’s okay, that he likes Wei Ying’s warm hands on his shoulder, on his back, squeezing his knee. Sometimes, he thinks about those hands as he’s falling asleep, about what it would be like to touch Wei Ying. He wonders if Wei Ying would mind. Wangji thinks that he wouldn’t, that Wei Ying would smile and lean into the touch. Still, he is not brave enough to try.

“Sorry,” Wei Ying says, drawing his hands back to his lap. “I didn’t mean to paw at you.”

“You didn’t . . . paw.” Wangji keeps his hands on the keys, hoping Wei Ying will help him again.

“You’re learning so fast. You’ll be giving lessons yourself soon.”

Wangji only hums, not willing to argue. Wei Ying is just being nice.

Wei Ying laughs and sways against him for a warm, wonderful moment. “Okay, I’ll let you get back to composing.”

Wangji watches Wei Ying go back behind the counter, then returns to his song. Songs have names. Some of the names are strange, like op. 9 no. 2, but some of them are pretty, like Chopin’s Sunshine.

Wangji’s song is called Wei Ying. He doesn’t tell Wei Ying that, though. The song isn’t pretty enough yet to have earned that name.

Wangji is trying to add a new section to Wei Ying when two men come to the studio. One of them wears dark sunglasses and doesn’t take them off as he comes inside. Many of Wen Ruohan’s men liked to wear sunglasses like that to hide their eyes.

Wangji shuffles behind the counter as Wei Ying goes to greet the men. Wei Ying seems to know them, which means they’re probably okay, but the one wearing sunglasses carries a skinny white cane even though he doesn’t seem injured. In Wangji’s experience, people carry things like that as weapons.

Then Wei Ying goes to the man wearing dark glasses and curls a hand around his arm. Wangji’s fear sharpens to something else, something darker and hotter.

Wei Ying leads the two men to the counter. “Wangji, this is Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan, my old friends from college.” Wei Ying releases the man’s arm but lays a hand on his shoulder, which is just as bad. “Wangji’s our newest student. He’s been helping out in the store, too.”

“Nice to meet you, Wangji,” the man with the glasses says.

“Xingchen’s a musician, too,” Wei Ying says. His hand squeezes Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder. “He can do things with a violin that’ll make you cry.”

Xiao Xingchen chuckles. “I haven’t made anyone cry yet, as far as I know.” He reaches for the bag on his back. Wei Ying’s hand slides away, but that doesn’t help the twisting in Wangji’s gut.

Xiao Xingchen passes the bag to his friend, who removes a folder from it and hands Wei Ying a piece of paper. “The concert isn’t until next month, but we’re trying to get the word out early,” Xiao Xingchen says. “We were hoping you’d let us hang that in your window.”

Wei Ying smiles as he studies the paper. “Yeah, of course. One of my students is playing that night.”

Wei Ying abandons the two men to bring the paper to Wangji. “A concert,” Wei Ying explains as Wangji looks at the paper—a picture of a man in a dark suit waving a stick. The words on the paper are written in a curling, flowing script that is difficult to read. “We should go!”

Then Wei Ying turns back to the two men. “Wangji loves music more than anyone I’ve ever met. He just started learning to play the piano, but he’s already amazing.”

Wangji blushes down at the picture as Wei Ying and the men talk about the concert.

After the men leave, Wei Ying hangs the paper on the glass door so that people will see it when they come inside. “So what do you think?” he asks Wangji. “Do you want to go see the show?”

Wangji nods. Despite his immediate dislike for Xiao Xingchen, he would like to hear the music.

Wei Ying leans against the counter and plucks a guitar pick out of the display box, dancing it over his fingers. “Do you know why Xiao Xingchen was wearing those sunglasses?”

Wangji shakes his head and stares at the countertop. He isn’t interested in talking about that handsome musician.

“He’s blind,” Wei Ying says. “Since he was just a kid. That’s what the cane is for, too. It helps him get around.”

“Oh,” Wangji says. “Thank you for explaining.”

Wei Ying drops the pick back in the box and reaches over the counter to rub Wangji’s arm. “You’re going to love the concert. A-Yuan won’t want to go, so it’ll be just the two of us!”

“Okay,” Wangji agrees, smiling. Just the two of us.

“We can even grab dinner somewhere fancy. Or kind of fancy. Not Mickey-D’s, anyway. Fancy dinner and a show. We’ll get all dolled up like real adults.” Wei Ying gives him a grin that makes his heart shiver. “What do you say? You wanna hit the town with me?”

Wangji nods helplessly, caught in Wei Ying’s shining eyes, in the rabbit teeth pressing into his bottom lip.

Wei Ying twirls around and sings about dancing his life away as he floats through the studio. Wangji watches him, his lips tugged into a smile, his hands clenching empty in his sweater cuffs.

A-Yuan traces Wangji’s hand on a piece of paper. Wangji’s fingers transform into four wobbly feathers, his thumb a crooked neck. Then Wangji traces A-Yuan’s hand to make a stubbly little turkey.

“Thanksgiving’s pretty boring,” A-Yuan says as they color the turkey feathers. “But there’s no school. And we get to go to A-Ling’s house.”

“What do we do there?”

A-Yuan shrugs. “Eat. And the old people talk a lot. Me and A-Ling will probably play Sonic all day. He has an Xbox.”

Wei Ying seems nervous about Thanksgiving. Wangji has heard him talking on the phone with his brother and sister about it, grumbling and scowling.

That night, Wei Ying is quiet as they clean up the kitchen after dinner. He was quiet during dinner, too.

“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Wei Ying says.

Wangji sets the clean plate in the dish rack and turns to him.

Wei Ying dries the plate and sets it in the cabinet before he speaks again. “So, Thanksgiving is in a couple of days.” Then he doesn’t say anything else.

“A-Yuan told me about it.”

“Right. Yeah.” Wei Ying smiles at the turkey pictures on the refrigerator. Wangji wrote his own name above his turkey. Then the smile crumples. “Well, the thing is, Jie invited us to her house for dinner.”

Wangji nods. He hasn’t met Wei Ying’s sister, but Wei Ying says she’s really nice. And she makes delicious cupcakes.

“And the thing is—” Wei Ying scowls and wads up the dishtowel in his hands. “The thing is that my parents will be there. And the peacock’s parents.”

Wangji knows about the peacock, so he nods again.

“And this is the first Thanksgiving since they got divorced. Like, all of them are divorced. My parents and Zixuan’s parents. They got divorced the same week, like something out of a soap opera.” He throws the wadded dishtowel in the sink. Wangji picks up the dishtowel, shakes out the wrinkles, and hangs it neatly on the stove handle.

“I told Jie she’s crazy,” Wei Ying says. “I mean, it’s crazy having all of them in the same house. A-Ling’s birthday party was bad enough, but putting them all at the same table?” Wei Ying huffs and jams his fists on his hips. “It’s just asking for drama.”

Wangji knows about divorce from television. Divorced people argue a lot. “You don’t want to go?”

“I never want to go, but this year’s going to be worse than usual.” He turns sad eyes on Wangji and lays a hand on his arm. “And I don’t want you to have to deal with all that.”

“Oh.” Wangji stands very still so that Wei Ying won’t notice that he’s petting Wangji’s arm. “Do we have to go?”

“Well, you don’t, not if you don’t want to. But I want you to meet Jie and A-Ling. It’s just going to be tense, you know?”

Wangji nods even though he doesn’t really know. “I can stay here.”

Wei Ying sighs and moves closer to tug at Wangji’s hoodie strings. “If that’s what you want to do, it’s fine, but I don’t want to leave you here alone. It’s Thanksgiving. You’re supposed to be with family on Thanksgiving, not sitting in some crappy apartment all by yourself.”

“It’s okay. I don’t have a family.”

Wei Ying looks even sadder now. “Yes, you do! We’re your family! You belong with us!”

“Oh.” Wangji ducks his head so Wei Ying won’t see how that makes his cheeks burn.

Wei Ying gives his chest a pat and steps back. “It’s just one day,” he says, almost to himself. “Not even a whole day. More like an afternoon. It’ll be fine.”

Wangji sits in the backseat of Wei Ying’s brother’s car beside A-Yuan, who’s engrossed in a game on Wei Ying’s phone. In the front seats, Wei Ying and his brother talk in sharp, hissing voices. Sometimes, Wangji feels Jiang Cheng’s eyes studying him in the rearview mirror, so he keeps his face turned to the window. Wei Ying says Jiang Cheng can be rude, but he “means well.” “He’s nosy,” Wei Ying had said the day before. “If he starts asking you a bunch of questions, just ignore him.”

Now, Wangji flicks a glance at the front seat and sees severe eyes watching him again. He turns back to the window and pretends he didn’t notice.

It’s a long ride to the house. The tall buildings beside the road creep back and shrink until sometimes there are long strips of empty fields, yellow grass and skinny trees swaying in the distance. Wangji has never left the city before, and he can barely tear his eyes from the foreign landscape.

From what A-Yuan told him about the house, Wangji expected Jiang Yanli’s home to be something like Wen Ruohan’s building—all sharp edges and cold walls. But although Jiang Yanli’s house is large, it is warm and bright and smells of good food.

A man greets them at the door. Wei Ying introduces him as Jiang Yanli’s husband, Jin Zixuan. He looks as nervous as Wangji feels.

A little boy that Wangji recognizes from the studio that day runs over and pulls A-Yuan away. “That’s Jin Ling,” Wei Ying says. “You’ll get to meet him later when we drag them away from the Xbox.”

Then Wei Ying introduces Wangji to two men sitting on couches in front of an enormous television. They are Jiang Fengmian and Jin Zixuan’s father, Jin Guangshan. Jiang Fengmian rises to shake Wangji’s hand. The other man watches him from the couch with beetle eyes and a frown.

After the handshake, Wei Ying pulls him into the kitchen. There, one woman works at the stove while two others sit holding wine glasses.

The younger woman wipes her hands on her apron as she rushes around the counter. “This is Wangji?”

“Yep,” Wei Ying says, beaming at both of them. “Wangji, this is Jiang Yanli.”

Jiang Yanli takes one of his hands between hers and smiles up at him, almost as brightly as Wei Ying. “I’m so happy you could join us today, Wangji.”

Wangji mumbles his thanks to their joined hands and tries to ignore the other two women staring at him from the bar stools. Jiang Yanli introduces him to the other two women. The women smile thinly and don’t move from their seats.

While Jiang Yanli goes back to the stove, the two other women turn to Jiang Cheng and start asking him questions about work and girls. Wei Ying snorts low and whispers to Wangji, “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

Wei Ying leads him through the kitchen and points out the swimming pool in the backyard, covered by a blue blanket. Then they head upstairs to Jin Ling’s room where the two boys are playing a game on the television. Jin Ling’s room is big and covered in even more dinosaurs than A-Yuan’s. Wei Ying flops down on Jin Ling’s bed, so Wangji perches beside him.

“Hey, A-Ling,” Wei Ying calls. “You think you could look away from the TV for a second? I want you to meet Wangji.”

The boy hits a few more buttons on the gadget in his hand, then turns to them, frowning like he didn’t realize they were there. “Hi.” Then he goes back to the game.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “This is why we don’t have an Xbox.”

Jiang Cheng finds them later and drops onto the floor beside A-Yuan. “I can’t believe you abandoned me down there.”

Wei Ying shrugs. “It’s every man for himself, you know that. Besides, I’ve gotta look out for Wangji today.”

Jiang Cheng grunts in Wangji’s direction, then turns to the boys. “When did you get Sonic?”

“For my birthday,” Jin Ling says, eyes glued to the screen.

Jiang Cheng shuffles between the boys and snatches the gadget from Jin Ling’s hands. Jin Ling shrieks and tries to snatch it back, unsuccessfully. “Let me show you how the master works,” Jiang Cheng says, mashing buttons. The blue creature on screen leaps and smashes into a wall.

The boys laugh, and Jiang Cheng sneers. “It’s because you were pulling on my arm. You just wait.”

Wei Ying nudges Wangji with his elbow. When Wangji looks at him, Wei Ying pulls his face into a sneer exactly like Jiang Cheng’s, then dissolves into giggles.

Jiang Cheng is still struggling with the game controller when Jin Zixuan comes upstairs to tell them that dinner is ready. They go to the dining room, dominated by a large table covered in dishes. There is awkward shuffling as people try to find seats, but Wei Ying grabs Wangji’s arm and pulls him into the seat near the end of the table. When everyone is seated, Jin Zixuan is at the end near Wangji, and Jiang Yanli sits across from him, which seems to make Wei Ying happy. Wangji looks over at the “kids’ table” where A-Yuan and Jin Ling sit alone and wishes he could ask to join them.

Jin Zixuan makes a short speech. His father makes a longer one. Then everyone starts passing dishes around the table. Wangji doesn’t fear forks anymore, but this is different from his meals at the apartment or in the breakroom. He watches Wei Ying spread a cloth napkin in his lap and copies him. At home, they just use paper towels.

Finally, all the dishes return to the table, and everyone starts to eat. Jiang Yanli’s food is delicious, and Wangji focuses on eating without making a mess.

For a while, the only sounds are clinking silverware on plates and Jin Ling and A-Yuan chattering at the other table. Then Jiang Fengmian says, “So Wangji, what do you do?”

Wangji freezes with a forkful of green beans hovering in front of his mouth and looks down the table where Jiang Fengmian is smiling at him. Wei Ying sighs and puts down his fork. “He works at the store with us.”

“Oh, you’ve hired another employee,” Jin Guangshan says. “You must be doing well.”

“Yep,” Wei Ying says. “He’s been a lot of help.”

“Wei Ying says you love music,” Jiang Yanli says, smiling at Wangji. “That’s so nice. I used to play—A-Cheng, too—but A-Ying’s the only one of us who really had talent. I still miss it, sometimes. But maybe A-Ling will be better than I was.”

“He’s too busy playing video games to practice,” Jin Zixuan says, but he and Jiang Yanli smile at each other like they don’t mind.

“A-Yuan’s doing pretty well with piano,” Wei Ying says, “but I don’t think he’s really all that into it.”

“He’ll find his own passion,” Jiang Yanli says, and she and Wei Ying smile at each other.

Everyone goes back to eating for a moment, but then Jiang Fengmian asks Wangji where he’s from. Wangji blinks at him, confused. He looks to Wei Ying for help, but Wei Ying is hastily chewing the dumpling he just put in his mouth.

Everyone is staring at Wangji expectantly. “36^th Street,” Wangji says.

Jiang Fengmian looks confused, and Wangji worries that he got it wrong. Then Jiang Fengmian nods. “Ah, downtown. You live near A-Ying’s store. That must be convenient for you.”

Wangji nods. He does live near the store.

“And what about your parents?” Jiang Fengmian asks. “What do they do?”

“They died,” Wei Ying says. His voice is sharp and tight.

The room is very quiet for a moment, even at the kids’ table. Then Jiang Fengmian bows his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m glad you could join us today.”

Wangji mumbles his thanks to his plate. When no more questions come, he returns to eating.

After the dirty dishes have been carried to the kitchen, Wangji excuses himself to find the restroom. As he’s making his way back to the kitchen, Yu Ziyuan steps in front of him. Wei Ying warned him about her the most. He looks over her shoulder for Wei Ying, but Wei Ying is nowhere in sight.

“So,” Yu Ziyuan says, crossing her arms over her chest. “How long have you and Wei Ying been dating?”

“Dating?”

“Or whatever it is you kids call it these days.” Her long red nails flick on her sleeves. She reminds him of the woman in the movie. The one who wears a big fur coat and hates puppies.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “You’re the first date he’s brought to meet us since . . . well, in years, and you don’t know?”

She steps closer, and he backs away, sliding along the wall to avoid those claws.

A hand lands on his shoulder. He flinches, but it’s only Wei Ying.

“Hey, there you are.” Wei Ying smiles at Yu Ziyuan with all his teeth. “I need to borrow Wangji for a bit.”

Wei Ying whirls around and pulls Wangji’s arm. Wangji follows gratefully.

They escape into the kitchen where Jiang Yanli and her husband are still cleaning up. Wei Ying releases his arm and sags against the counter. “Sorry,” he says to Wangji. “I didn’t mean to leave you stranded. I got waylaid by Shushu.”

“Mom?” Jiang Yanli asks.

“Yeah. She had him cornered.”

“She asked me how long we had been dating,” Wangji says.

Jin Zixuan laughs softly, and Wei Ying groans. “I swear, that woman . . .”

“Is that bad?” Wangji asks.

Wei Ying only hides his face in his hands.

“No, it isn’t bad,” Jiang Yanli says. She smiles at Wangji, then turns to Wei Ying. “It isn’t a bad thing at all.”

Wei Ying makes a pained face and grabs Wangji’s arm again. “On that note, let’s go see what the kids are up to.”

A-Yuan falls asleep on the drive back. When they pull up in front of the studio, Wangji unbuckles A-Yuan’s seatbelt and gathers the boy in his arms. By the time Wei Ying reaches the sidewalk, Wangji is already waiting there with A-Yuan’s head tucked against his shoulder.

Wei Ying smiles and strokes a hand over A-Yuan’s hair. “You got him?”

Wangji nods.

Jiang Cheng watches them with his eyebrows pulled into sharp slashes. He seems to wear that expression often. Wei Ying waves at Jiang Cheng, and they head upstairs.

Wangji lowers A-Yuan onto the bed. Wei Ying pulls off his shoes and then tucks him under the covers still in his clothes. “He’d wake up if I tried to wrestle him into pjs,” Wei Ying mutters.

They go into the living room. “Well, I think I’ll let you have the couch,” Wei Ying says. “I’m wiped. I’m sure you are, too.”

Wangji nods, but Wei Ying lingers there, shifting from foot to foot.

“Hey, um, thanks for coming with me today. I know it couldn’t have been fun for you, but I’m glad you were there.”

Wangji says the only good thing he can think of: “Your sister is nice.”

Wei Ying snorts. “Yeah. Yeah, she is. Shame about the rest of them, huh?”

Wangji thinks Jiang Yanli’s husband is nice, too, but Wei Ying wouldn’t want to hear that.

“Okay. Well, good night.” Wei Ying reaches out to squeeze his arm. His hand stays there longer than usual. For a heart-pounding moment, Wangji thinks that Wei Ying is going to hug him like he hugged his sister. But Wei Ying only gives him a tired smile and heads to his bedroom.

The bookstore is quiet this morning, but that’s when Wangji likes it best. Rain shushes and bathes the windows, blocking out the traffic and turning the store into a snug little sanctuary. The lack of customers also means that Ms. Nelson can sit with him and Portia as he works on today’s lesson. Unfortunately, Wangji is having a difficult time concentrating on his assignment today.

But Ms. Nelson told him that he could always ask for help, so he takes a deep breath and asks, “What is dating?”

Ms. Nelson pushes her glasses into her cloud of gray hair—she does that when she needs a moment to think about something. “That depends. It can mean a few different things, but I’m guessing that you want to know about the romantic kind.”

Wangji stares down at the kite flying on the cover of his blue notebook—his birthday present from Wei Ying. He’d thought dating must be something like that. He knows a little about romance from television. On television, there are lots of people who fall in love with someone who doesn’t love them back, only it turns out that the other person did love them back all along. But they usually don’t figure that out until they’ve defeated a supervillain or a monster.

“What do you want to know about dating?”

He wants to know a lot of things, but he starts with, “How do you know if you’re dating someone?”

“Well, I think most people ask each other out on dates. ‘Do you want to go out for coffee?’ or ‘Do you want to grab dinner Friday night?’”

“It’s eating together?”

“No, it doesn’t have to be. Some people go to the movies or to the park. People even come here on dates sometimes. The point is for people to spend time together, to see if they like each other. If they like each other, then they go out on more dates.”

Maybe he is dating Wei Ying. They’ve done all of those things. But maybe it doesn’t count if A-Yuan is with them.

“And then there’s the kissing,” Ms. Nelson says.

Startled, Wangji looks up, but Ms. Nelson is gazing at the rain billowing against the window, her eyes unfocused.

“Yes,” Ms. Nelson says, though Wangji didn’t ask a question. Her fingers brush her lips, and she sighs. “Kissing is a big part of it.”

Wangji ducks his head, his ears burning. Yu Ziyuan thought he and Wei Ying have been kissing? It’s something he’s barely dared to imagine, though he has imagined it. It’s difficult not to imagine it whenever Wei Ying leans close, smiling and sparkling. It’s difficult not to imagine it now, even with Ms. Nelson beside him and Portia in his lap.

The bell on the door jingles as a customer darts inside the shop. Wangji flinches, startled and shamed out of his fantasy.

Ms. Nelson pats his hand. “Don’t worry, dear. Falling in love can be frightening, but when it’s right, it’s the sweetest thing in the world. There’s a reason I sell so many love stories.”

Wangji tries to go back to his reading lesson while Ms. Nelson helps the customer, but it’s even harder to concentrate now. He’s seen the books she was talking about—the ones with people kissing and clinging to each other on the covers. He’s never been brave enough to open any of those books, though. Is that what dating is? Is that what Yu Ziyuan thought he and Wei Ying did—kissing and . . . other things? Fucking, Wen Chao’s voice hisses in his mind. Wen Chao and the other men talked about that a lot. It had never seemed very nice when they described it.

But would it be nice with Wei Ying? He imagines Wei Ying’s hand on his chest, touching his waist like the people on the books. He imagines Wei Ying’s mouth on his, moving down to his thr—

Portia blurts out a shrill meow and jumps out of his lap. His knee had jerked, disrupting her nap.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and goes to the bathroom to splash cold water on his overheated face.

Chapter Text

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying jerks awake at the urgent call and squirms onto his back. Wangji stands over the bed. “Hey, what—”

“Someone is downstairs,” Wangji says. “In the studio.”

“What?” Wei Ying pushes hair out of his face and squints up at Wangji.

There is a crash below them—the muted tinkle of breaking glass.

“Oh shit.” Wei Ying fights free of the blankets and scrambles out of bed. “Oh shit. Okay. Is A-Yuan still asleep?”

“Yes.”

Wei Ying shoves his feet into his boots and grabs his phone. It could be Wen Ning. He might’ve come by to grab something and—

A loud bang interrupts that thought. Like something heavy falling over.

Fuck.

“Wei Ying—”

“Stay with A-Yuan. I’ll be right back.”

That’s a ridiculous thing to say, but it’s all he’s got when he’s been woken at—he checks his phone as he heads downstairs—at just past two in the morning, and somebody’s breaking shit in his studio. Wangji doesn’t follow him, so that’s something.

On the way downstairs, he almost calls the police, but there’s Wangji to consider. Wangji doesn’t need the cops nosing around. Maybe Wei Ying can scare off whoever is in the store. Or maybe it’s a deer. He saw a video once of a deer that crashed into a hair salon. Like the Kool-Aid man with antlers. Deer are into dramatic entrances. And blowouts, apparently.

When he reaches the sidewalk, he edges closer to the windows, clinging to the wall like something out of a bad spy movie. The glass door has been smashed to bits. The brick that smashed it lies in front of the now useless door. Not a deer, then.

Okay, he really needs to call the cops.

He’s backing away, intending to head into the stairwell and do just that, when a dark shape looms up on the other side of the window.

Wei Ying yelps and almost drops the phone. He whirls and tells his legs to run, but his legs are not reporting for duty. It’s like one of those nightmares where he’s running and running but not getting anywhere, the monster at his heels and safety just out of reach.

He just has to reach the stairway. He can lock the door behind him. That door is solid metal, no flimsy glass there.

Broken glass crunches behind him, louder than his own boots thudding against the pavement. It’s only a few yards from the studio to the stairway. How is it taking so long to get there?

Wei Ying is reaching for the door handle when something slams into his back. He hits the door face first, lips smushing against the cold metal. The phone flies out of his hand and clatters across the sidewalk.

Claws dig into his arms and spin him around, pressing him against the brick wall. He’s too dazed from kissing the door to fight as a hand closes around his throat.

“You live up there?” a rasping voice asks. When Wei Ying doesn’t answer, the hand squeezes his throat. “Hey, answer me. You live up there?”

The world stops spinning enough that he can look at his attacker. He might’ve laughed if he weren’t being throttled. This is no monster. It’s just a boy: a rat-faced kid with rotten teeth and breath like burning plastic.

“Hey, you speak American?” The boy shoves Wei Ying’s shoulder with the hand not wrapped around his throat.

If he weren’t being strangled, Wei Ying would roll his eyes. “Yeah,” he gurgles.

The boy’s beady rat eyes shift from side to side, but the street is empty. Even the liquor store is dark at this hour. “This your store?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

The hand releases Wei Ying’s throat and shoves at his shoulder again, like the boy is trying to shove him down the sidewalk. But the boy isn’t big enough to shove Wei Ying, and Wei Ying’s too busy coughing to help him out.

Then something sharp pokes against Wei Ying’s back. The little rat boy has a knife.

“Get moving.”

Wei Ying smothers his coughs into his elbow and starts walking.

He eases past the jagged glass in the door and leads the boy into the store. Moving on autopilot, he flips on the lights. He winces, expecting the knife to poke him again, but the boy doesn’t protest. Apparently, he’s a shitty burglar.

As the lights flicker on, Wei Ying takes in the damage. Glass shimmers on the floor. One of the display cases lies on its side, packages of slide oil and reeds poking out of the glass. That must have been the bang he heard from upstairs.

“Open the register,” the boy snarls.

For a moment, Wei Ying thinks he won’t be able to—that he left his keys upstairs. But no, they’re in his pocket. He doesn’t even remember picking them up.

He unlocks the register and is shoved aside as the boy lunges to grab the cash. The boy whirls on him and shakes the bills in Wei Ying’s face. “You’re fucking kidding me! Where’s the rest of it?”

Now that the source of his earlier terror has been revealed as a rat-faced kid, Wei Ying is getting annoyed. He had been sleeping in his warm bed, not bothering anyone, and this little shit decided to wreck his store and jab a knife in his back. And the kid busted his lip. He can taste copper on his tongue.

“I give piano lessons. How much cash did you expect to get?”

The boy’s lip curls, showing Wei Ying his pathetic little fangs. “Then gimme your wallet.”

Wei Ying gestures down at his sweatpants. “I don’t have my wallet. I just got out of bed.”

The kid raises the knife and makes a face that he probably thinks is terrifying. “We’ll go upstairs and get it, then.”

“No.”

The kid blinks at him, shuffling his feet. “What the fuck d’you say to me?”

“I said no. I’m not taking you upstairs. You can have anything you want from down here, but my kid’s up there.”

“Fuck your kid!”  The boy waves his little knife in Wei Ying’s face. Wei Ying draws back a bit and barely resists rolling his eyes. This is embarrassing for both of them, really.

“Besides,” Wei Ying says, trying to be reasonable, “I’ve only got, like, four bucks in my wallet. You aren’t missing much, believe me.”

“You got something.” The kid leans closer, probably hoping to look intimidating, but he barely comes up to Wei Ying’s chin. “I know you got something.”

“Well, do you like plastic dinosaurs?”

Something dark passes over the boy’s face, and Wei Ying kicks himself. Too far, smartass.

Wei Ying blocks the first wild swing. The knife catches on his jacket sleeve and hisses through the fabric. Huh, he doesn’t remember putting his jacket on, either. Good thing, though.

And then they’re tussling. It isn’t worthy of being called a fight. They’re slapping at each other like little kids—if one of the kids brought a knife to the playground fight.

Wei Ying manages a blow to the boy’s mouth that splits his lip. That makes Wei Ying feel a little better. But for such a little guy, the kid is strong. Or maybe he’s just desperate. And Wei Ying is so fixated on avoiding the knife that he takes several little blows to his stomach and shoulders. They aren’t much, individually, but even little rat fists start to add up.

He’s trying to get the kid in a headlock—his signature move when wrestling Jiang Cheng—when he hears his name.

Wei Ying and the boy both turn around. Wangji stands in the doorway.

“Wangji—” Wei Ying begins. He was going to tell Wangji to be careful of the broken glass, of all things, but the boy interrupts Wei Ying’s bizarre dad-moment by grabbing his hair and dragging him closer. The knife jitters in front of Wei Ying’s face.

“Get back!” the boy screams, even though Wangji hasn’t moved from the doorway. “I’ll cut his throat! I’ll fucking do it, man!”

Wangji’s panicked expression flattens into something cold and still—and much more effective than rat boy’s mean face. Wangji’s fingers curl into fists. He crouches, almost like he’s bending to tie his shoes. Except he isn’t wearing shoes.

Then Wangji leaps into the store.

The boy doesn’t cut Wei Ying’s throat. He doesn’t have time. One second, Wangji is in the doorway. The next, he’s vaulting over the counter and crashing into the boy.

The impact sends Wei Ying skidding across the floor. He bangs into the wall, then turns back to see Wangji lift the boy by the throat and smash him onto the counter. Wangji leaps on top of him. His fist strikes down three times, swift and brutal, like he’s hammering in a nail. There’s a crunch as the boy’s nose breaks. Blood spurts, flecking Wangji’s sleeves. Then both of Wangji’s big hands close around the boy’s throat. The boy gurgles and kicks his heels against the countertop as Wangji chokes him.

For just a moment, just a millisecond, Wei Ying thinks good. In that moment, a tiny dark part of Wei Ying thinks, see how you like it, asshole.

But even if the kid deserves a little strangling, Wangji doesn’t deserve to kill him. “Wangji, it’s okay. Let him go.”

At first, Wangji ignores him. Or maybe Wangji doesn’t hear him. I go away, Wangji told him. He goes away so that he doesn’t have to watch himself hurt anyone.

Wei Ying shuffles to where he can see Wangji’s face. The cold mask is still on. He almost looks serene as he chokes the life out of the kid.

A shiver worms its way up Wei Ying’s spine. This isn’t Wangji. Not his Wangji. This is some shadow creature conjured by the real monster. And Wei Ying will be damned if he’ll let that asshole, whoever he is, control Wangji like this.

“Wangji, you don’t have to do this.”

Wangji blinks once. His eyebrow twitches. But his hands don’t loosen around the boy’s neck. How long does it take to strangle someone?

“Wangji, please. Please let him go.”

Wangji’s eyes flick over to Wei Ying. “Wei Ying?”

“Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me.” Wei Ying takes a step closer and reaches out slowly. Wangji’s face swivels toward him and watches his hand’s slow progress. When Wei Ying’s hand rests on his shoulder, Wangji shudders.

“You can stop now, Wangji. You can let go.”

Wangji makes a harsh sound like he is the one being choked. He hurls himself off the boy and drops to the floor, huddling against the wall.

The boy writhes on the countertop, gasping and clawing at his throat, but Wei Ying isn’t interested in the strangled kid right now.

Wei Ying takes a step towards Wangji, but a thump behind him makes him turn back. The boy apparently rolled himself off the counter, and now he’s stumbling toward the door. He’ll live, apparently.

Wei Ying watches until the boy disappears down the sidewalk, then kneels down in front of Wangji. “Hey, it’s okay now. You’re okay.”

Wangji doesn’t meet his eyes. He hunches farther down and stammers something—a line of sibilants that Wei Ying finally realizes must be sorry.

“It’s okay,” Wei Ying says. “He’s going to be fine. We’re all fine. It’s over now.” He lays a hand on Wangji’s arm, but Wangji shudders and curls even tighter around his knees.

Wei Ying draws his hand back and sits on his heels. That gives him a view of Wangji’s feet. And the little puddle of blood forming under them.

“Oh shit. Oh sweetheart, your feet.” He wraps a hand around Wangji’s ankle and pulls a sliver of glass out of Wangji’s foot.

Wangji says nothing as Wei Ying inspects his feet for more glass. He turns his face to the wall and lets Wei Ying tug his feet into his lap, not even hissing when Wei Ying pulls out another splinter.

“We need to go upstairs,” Wei Ying says as he flicks the glass aside. They need the first-aid kit. And with the door smashed, it’s freezing in here. And Wangji isn’t even wearing a coat. But Wangji isn’t wearing shoes, either, and there’s glass all over the floor. And running upstairs for shoes would mean leaving Wangji down here alone.

“I’ll be back in just a second,” Wei Ying says. He squeezes Wangji’s ankle and lowers his feet to the floor.

Wei Ying grabs the broom from the closet and sweeps a clear path from the counter to the door. There are probably still bits of glass in the tile, but it’ll have to do for now.

As he’s propping the broom against the window, he spies his phone still lying on the sidewalk. He picks it up and shakes it to clear away the glass from the shattered screen. It’s dead.

Sighing, he shoves the phone in his coat pocket and goes back inside. He could still call the cops from the store’s landline, but what would be the point now? He’ll probably need to file a police report or something for the insurance, but that can wait.

He kneels in front of Wangji. “Hey, will you come upstairs with me?”

Wangji draws in tighter for a moment. Then he nods against the wall. Wei Ying stands back and waits as Wangji slowly pushes to his feet. He’s moving like an old man, so different from the acrobatics he’d done only a few minutes ago.

“Be careful where you step, okay? I swept up the glass, but glass is like glitter. You can never really get rid of all of it.”

Wangji doesn’t even wince as he pads across the floor, leaving bloody footprints on the tile.

When they get back upstairs, Wangji hovers in the doorway, hugging his belly.

“Come sit on the couch,” Wei Ying tells him, but Wangji ducks his head and doesn’t move.

“Blood,” Wangji mumbles to the floor.

Dear god, he’s worried about getting blood on the floor. “It’s okay, we’ll clean it up later. Come inside. Please?”

Wangji frowns, but finally, he minces to the couch, almost tiptoeing.

Wei Ying watches to make sure Wangji sits down, then turns to fetch the first-aid kit from the bathroom. And nearly runs into A-Yuan, who’s standing in the hall clutching his stuffed T-Rex.

“What’s going on?” A-Yuan asks.

Wei Ying stares down at his son, tempted to say the dad-thing: nothing, go back to bed. But Wei Ying’s son is no dummy. “There was an accident downstairs. Wangji hurt his feet. Will you go get him some paper towels?”

A-Yuan drops the T-Rex and pushes past Wei Ying to run to Wangji. “Wangji-ge, are you okay?”

Wangji shrinks away from A-Yuan and hides his face in the couch cushion. A-Yuan turns back to Wei Ying, his little face devastated.

Shit. Fucking rat-faced little thief.

But first thing’s first: Wangji’s injured feet. Worry about the other stuff later. If Wei Ying is good at anything, it’s compartmentalizing. “He’ll be okay. Just grab the paper towels. I’ll be right back.”

The first-aid kit is where it’s supposed to be: tucked in beside the Lysol and the extra toilet paper. But he can’t find the fucking tweezers. He knows he has tweezers—he used them to dig a splinter out of A-Yuan’s finger just this summer. But they aren’t in the medicine cabinet or the drawer.

Growling, he yanks out the drawer and dumps it into the bathtub. And there are the tweezers, lying amidst the hair ties, the ancient tube of diaper cream, and bizarrely, several plastic cowboys.

Leaving the rest of the crap in the bathtub, he grabs the tweezers and takes them and the first-aid kit back to the living room.

Only the couch is empty. There are bloody paper towels on the floor, but no Wangji and no A-Yuan.

“Baba.”

Wei Ying whirls around at A-Yuan’s timid little mouse whisper. A-Yuan stands outside Wei Ying’s bedroom, his eyes huge.

“Wangji-ge is in there.” A-Yuan points at Wei Ying’s bedroom.

Wei Ying trots into the bedroom, but he doesn’t see Wangji anywhere.

“In the closet,” A-Yuan whispers.

“What?” Wei Ying turns to the closet. The door is closed.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s okay. He’s just scared.”

“Scared of what?” A-Yuan is looking pretty scared right now, too.

“I need to take care of his feet,” Wei Ying says because he certainly isn’t going to tell A-Yuan about the rat boy. “Go wait in the living room, okay?”

“I can help.”

“I know you can.” Wei Ying strokes a hand over A-Yuan’s hair. “But you’ll help him later. Let me take care of him for now.”

A-Yuan gives the closet door one last mournful look before he takes off down the hall.

Wei Ying kneels in front of the closet and lays the first-aid kit and tweezers aside. “Wangji? I’m going to open the door, okay?”

There is no answer from the closet. Wei Ying slowly opens the door. Wangji huddles among the shoes and crumpled duffel bags, his back to the door.

Wei Ying shuffles over so that he isn’t blocking Wangji’s exit. “Wangji, it’s okay.”

A muffled sorry comes from the closet.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

Wangji mumbles something that Wei Ying can’t make out.

“Sweetheart, I can’t understand you.”

Wangji raises his head so that his arms aren’t mushing his lips. “Made a mess.”

“You didn’t. I mean, it wasn’t your fault. Besides, none of that matters. All that matters is that you’re okay.”

Wangji peeks at him from the shelter of his arms. “That man wanted to hurt you.”

“I’m fine, thanks to you. I’m worried about your feet, though. Will you come out so I can bandage them?”

Wangji doesn’t move at first, but finally, he unfolds and shuffles on his knees to kneel in front of Wei Ying. Wei Ying’s heart sinks as he sees the collar shining around Wangji’s neck.

“Oh sweetheart, you don’t need that collar.”

“Not safe.”

“You are. You’re safe now.”

Wangji shakes his head, arguing with Wei Ying for maybe the first time ever. “You are not safe. You and A-Yuan.”

“You mean safe from you?”

Wangji nods miserably.

“You would never hurt us, collar or no collar. I know that even if you don’t.”

“I hurt that man.”

“So did I.”

Wangji blinks at him. “You did?”

“Yep. And I’m not sorry, either. He hit me first.”

Wangji’s eyes drop to Wei Ying’s mouth. His hand rises slowly, his fingers stretching until they’re almost touching Wei Ying’s lips. “He hurt you.”

“Just a little. It was scary, though. Were you scared?”

Wangji nods, still staring at Wei Ying’s busted lip.

“I was scared that he would hurt us, but I wasn’t scared of you. I could never be scared of you.” Wei Ying takes Wangji’s hand and strokes his thumb over the knuckles, smearing the blood from the rat boy’s nose.

“Was it wrong to hurt him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. When we’re scared, it’s harder to know what’s right or wrong. We just have to do the best we can to protect ourselves.”

“I didn’t stop. When you told me to.” Wangji cringes as he says that, like he expects Wei Ying to scold him for disobeying. Wei Ying has to work to keep his bile down.

“That was your decision,” Wei Ying says finally. “I just didn’t want you to . . . to do something you might regret. I know you don’t like hurting people.”

“He was hurting you,” Wangji rumbles, rough and almost angry.

That little shiver returns to Wei Ying’s back, but it’s not fear this time. It’s . . . warmer. He shoves that into the box with all the other stuff he doesn’t have time to deal with right now. “Yeah. Thank you, by the way. For helping me. I really appreciate it.” Like he’s thanking Wangji for cleaning up the breakroom instead of rescuing him from a knife-wielding burglar. “You’re my hero.”

Wangji’s eyes flick up to him, and Wei Ying tries to smile. The hand Wei Ying isn’t holding flutters up to Wangji’s neck and hovers by the collar.

“Do you want to take that off?”

Wangji pulls his hand free of Wei Ying’s grip. He fumbles to open the collar, then almost rips it from his neck. The collar drops to the floor, and Wangji’s fingers go to the bunny charm.

Wei Ying picks up the collar and tosses it towards the door. He’d like to toss the thing in a volcano, but that’s Wangji’s decision.

“Are you ready for me to doctor your feet?”

Wangji gives the bunny another pet, then nods.

Tomorrow, Wei Ying will call Wen Qing—Wangji might need stitches—but he’s determined to get as much glass out of Wangji’s poor feet as he can tonight. Tiny bits of glass are hard to see, though. Since the flashlight on his phone isn’t an option, he tries, unsuccessfully, to hunt down their old flashlight. But then A-Yuan, little genius that he is, straps the T-REX HEADLAMP to his head and beams the light on Wangji’s feet. Wei Ying will never admit it to Yu Ziyuan, but that thing’s actually pretty useful.

By the time Wei Ying has finished wrapping gauze around Wangji’s feet, it’s nearly four a.m. It feels like years have passed since Wangji woke him up.

“No school tomorrow,” Wei Ying tells A-Yuan as he tosses gauze scraps in the garbage. “Your father decrees it.”

A-Yuan cheers, not looking the least bit tired. Wei Ying, on the other hand, could topple over and sleep on the floor.

No work tomorrow, either, but he doesn’t announce that just yet. He hasn’t explained the door situation to A-Yuan. That kind of thing will go over much better in the daylight.

Wangji stands up, wobbling on his mummified feet. Wei Ying might have gone a little overboard with the gauze. Wangji starts shuffling toward the hallway. To sleep on the couch. Or maybe he’ll sneak back into the closet after Wei Ying’s asleep.

Before he can second-guess himself, Wei Ying announces, “Second Fatherly Decree: everyone’s sleeping in my bed tonight.”

A-Yuan whoops and leaps onto Wei Ying’s bed. Wangji turns and stares at Wei Ying, as startled as a deer who’s just crashed into a hair salon.

Wei Ying leans close and whispers, “A-Yuan would feel safer with both of us with him, don’t you think?”

Wangji looks over his shoulder at the kid bouncing on the bed. He plucks on the bunny charm a few times. Then he nods.

Wei Ying smiles and rubs Wangji’s arm. “Okay, climb in. I’ll go get your water.”

When he returns to the bedroom, Wangji and A-Yuan are just two sets of eyes above the blankets. Wei Ying sets the glass of water on the table by Wangji and tugs off his boots.

Without his phone, he has to set an alarm on the ancient clock on his nightstand. In the morning, he’ll have to use the store’s phone to call A-Yuan’s school. And he’ll have to call Wen Ning about cancelling his lessons. None of their students should have to see the disaster downstairs. Who’d want to come back after that? And he’ll have to call the cops. And his insurance company. And oh fuck, he’ll have to tell Jin Guangshan.

But all that shit can wait. He’s had a rough night, and he deserves some mattress time.

Space is pretty tight with the three of them in bed. Wei Ying wraps an arm around his son and breathes in his hair. It’s been at least a year since A-Yuan wanted to sleep with him, and he kind of misses going to sleep every night sniffing baby hair.

When he’s done sniffing, he notices Wangji watching him over A-Yuan’s shoulder. “Got enough room?” Wei Ying murmurs.

Wangji nods.

“Okay. Good night.”

“Good night,” Wangji whispers. A-Yuan mumbles “night” into the pillow. He’s already half-asleep.

Wei Ying closes his eyes. Sleep now, problems later. Problems always look less terrifying after a decent nap. It’s a philosophy that’s gotten him through a lot of rough nights. This time, he barely finishes the thought before he’s crashing into sleep.

The glass guy says he can fix the door that afternoon. It’s almost too good to believe, but Wei Ying figures the universe owes him a little luck, especially after dealing with the cops in the morning. The cops seem to buy his story about fighting off the burglar—his split lip and bruised throat help him sell that tale—but they’re suspicious about why he waited to call it in.

“Phone got broken in the fight,” he tells them, waving his smashed phone as evidence.

“Don’t you have a landline down here?” one of the cops asks, raising an eyebrow at the very obvious phone sitting on the counter.

“Didn’t think about that,” Wei Ying says, making himself look sheepish. “I was pretty shaken up last night.”

The cop grunts and makes a note on his little pad. The other cop wanders around the counter to snoop around. There isn’t much to see because Wei Ying mopped up the blood before they arrived.

“Did the guy take anything?” the first cop asks. He looks around the store skeptically.

“Just the money from the register. About 30 bucks, I think. I’ll need to check the receipts. We don’t do many cash transactions.”

“Lucky,” the snoopy cop says. “You should think about an alarm system. And cameras.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Wei Ying agrees, barely resisting an eye roll. They sell guitar strings, not diamond rings.

“In this neighborhood, with a glass door, you’re lucky this is the first time you’ve been robbed.”

“Yep. Lucky.”

The installation guy is just as scornful of Wei Ying’s door. “A glass door is just asking to be broken,” the guy says. “You at least need some bars. Maybe a gate. In this neighborhood, I’d go for solid steel.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, trying for patience. “That’s what Jerry has next door. But he runs a liquor store. I figure, if someone wants to steal the piano, more power to them. It took five guys to get that thing in here. And I’d rather have the light, you know?”

The guy grunts like installing panes of glass isn’t his job.

Then Wen Qing arrives to check Wangji’s feet, and Wei Ying has to endure the security lecture from her, too. She fishes a few more tiny pieces of glass from Wangji’s feet but says that he doesn’t need stitches.

“Watch them for infection,” she warns as she’s packing up. “If he came by the clinic, I’d put him on antibiotics just to be safe. So if you see any redness or discharge—”

“Yeah, I’ll bring him in. I promise.”

Wangji’s doing better in the aftermath than Wei Ying feared, but he and A-Yuan have been bundled on the couch all day watching the Jurassic Park movies for the millionth time. It’s hard to tell if he’s coping or just zoning out.

Wei Ying makes pancakes and bacon for dinner. Wangji puts away two pancakes and four strips of bacon, so his appetite is okay, but he’s quiet. Quieter than usual.

They all pile back into Wei Ying’s bed that night, but the next night, A-Yuan wants his own bed. Kids recover faster than grown-ups sometimes.

“You should still sleep with me—I mean, in my bed,” Wei Ying tells Wangji after he’s tucked A-Yuan in. “The couch is too small for you, and there’s plenty of room in the bed. I should’ve offered a long time ago.”

Wangji blinks up at him. “You don’t mind?”

“No, of course not. Besides, it’s getting colder. You’ll freeze on the couch.”

You can keep me warm, a pervy, traitorous part of Wei Ying whispers. It’s perfectly innocent, he lectures his inner pervert as they get into bed. And he wasn’t lying about the couch being too small. Or the cold. The building’s heat is as unreliable as the plumbing. They’re both wearing sweatpants under the covers.

But it’s different without A-Yuan between them. It’s different to wake up to Wangji’s face only a few inches from his, to watch Wangji’s long lashes flutter in the morning light. It feels a lot less innocent when Wei Ying watches Wangji’s hand grip the pillow and flashes back to that big hand wrapping around rat boy’s neck and lifting him up like a beady-eyed rag doll. The shiver returns in force, and it’s not fear, but it’s bad. It’s bad because now Wei Ying gets it. That is a horny shiver. He’s having horny shivers because that shit was hot.

Wei Ying grunts at his dick for trying to agree with that assessment and flops over to stare at the wall instead of the sweet, gorgeous, ridiculously strong man in bed beside him. The sweet, gorgeous, ridiculously strong man who parkoured across the counter to save Wei Ying from the bad guy.

Bad, Wei Ying scolds his dick, which ignores him completely. That was not sexy! I could’ve died! Wangji tried to go live in the closet! I had to talk to Jin Guangshan! The last thing does the trick, and Wei Ying sighs in relief as the peacock’s greasy dad chases away the last prickles of horniness. At least that asshole is good is for something.

On the fourth night of bed-sharing, Wei Ying wakes to Wangji twitching and gasping through a nightmare. He hesitates, afraid of startling him. But he can’t just watch. Not when Wangji whimpers a desperate little no into the pillow.

“Wangji,” Wei Ying murmurs. “Sweetheart, you’re dreaming.”

Wangji moans, his long limbs curling into a ball, his shoulders nearly touching his ears.

“You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”

Wangji’s shoulders relax a little. He turns his face toward Wei Ying, blinking his eyes open. “Wei Ying?”

“Hey. You were having a bad dream.”

Wangji shivers and rubs his forehead against the pillow. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Everybody has bad dreams sometimes.”

Wangji pushes himself up. He gulps down the water he keeps on the nightstand and swipes the back of his hand over his forehead. He grimaces down at the sweat on his hand, then shoots a horrified look at the damp pillow. “I’ll go sleep on the couch.”

“Hey, no, wait a second.”

Wangji pauses, his feet on the floor.

“If you’d rather sleep on the couch, that’s fine. But I’d like for you to sleep here. If you want to.”

“I got the pillow wet. I woke you up.”

“It’s your pillow, do what you want with it. I drool on mine. And I’d rather be woken up than know you had a bad dream on the couch.”

Wangji sighs and stares down at his bandaged feet.

“I’m thirsty,” Wei Ying chirps. “Here, give me your glass, and I’ll fill it up for you.”

He hops up, and Wangji passes him the glass.

When Wei Ying comes back from the kitchen with two glasses of water, the bed is empty, and the bathroom door is closed. Wei Ying gets back in bed and leans against the headboard to sip his water.

Wangji comes back into the bedroom and lays a towel on his pillow before he climbs back in. He mumbles a thank you as he picks up his glass.

“Do I snore?” Wei Ying asks, knocking his foot against Wangji’s under the covers.

 Wangji shakes his head and sets down his glass. “Wei Ying doesn’t snore.”

“Do I kick you in my sleep? Do I hog the blankets? Do I fart a lot?”

“No.”

“Do I wake you up and pester you with a bunch of questions?”

The corner of Wangji’s mouth quirks. “Only once.”

Wei Ying chuckles and bumps Wangji’s arm with his elbow. “I talk in my sleep, though, don’t I?”

Wangji cuts him a furtive look under his eyelashes. “A little.”

“A lot. A-Yuan says I babble constantly.”

Wangji’s lips twitch. “Last night, you said ‘Don’t play cards with the wizard.’”

“Wizards cheat at poker. Never trust a guy in a big pointy hat.”

Wangji hums and slides down until his head is resting on the pillow. He folds his hands on his chest and peers up at Wei Ying. “I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Don’t be sorry. How else could we have had such a fascinating conversation?”

Wangji hums again and closes his eyes.

Wei Ying clicks off the light and curls up on his side to watch Wangji drift off. “You’re my favorite person to talk to, you know. No one else would listen to me babble about farts and wizard poker in the middle of the night.”

Wangji’s lips curl into a sleepy little smile. “You’re my favorite, too.”

“Such a sweetheart.”

Wangji’s smile grows until his cheeks bulge.

“Sweet dreams, Wangji.”

“Good night, Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying is forced to tell Jie about the whole burglary debacle because she’d hear it through the A-Yuan-to-A-Ling pipeline anyway. He doesn’t tell her all of it, of course, but she still leaps into Super Mom mode.

Not that Wei Ying minds his sister’s overprotective tendencies—not when they involve soup and red bean buns being delivered to his doorstep. But she also insists on taking A-Yuan for the weekend.

Actually, he doesn’t mind that, either. A-Yuan loves going to Jin Ling’s house, and Wei Ying and Wangji have actual weekend plans.

But it’s not like A-Yuan is traumatized or anything. When Jie arrives to pick him up with Jin Ling in tow, the first thing A-Yuan does is show off the new door. There isn’t much to see—it’s just a door—but Jin Ling listens in wide-eyed amazement to A-Yuan’s stirring tale of the broken glass adventure.

“See?” Wei Ying says to Jie, pointing at A-Yuan. “He’s fine.”

She cups his cheek and peers at the ugly scab on his lip and the bruises on his neck. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was no big deal. Really.”

She frowns, clearly suspicious. “You could come stay with us, too. And Wangji. We’d love to have you.”

“Thanks, but me and Wangji have plans tomorrow night.”

“A date?”

“Nooo. We’re going to a concert.”

“That’s not a date?”

He huffs and jams his hands on his hips. “One of my students is performing. And Xiao Xingchen. You remember him? He’s in grad school now.”

“I remember.” She grins and pats his cheek. “Well, have fun on your . . . night out.”

“Thank you. We will.”

For the “big night on the town,” Wen Ning brings Wangji a button-down shirt and a tie. The shirt is a pretty pale blue, but Wei Ying scoffs at the tie. “It’s a student recital, not the Oscars.”

That night, Wangji buttons Wen Ning’s blue shirt and tucks it into his jeans. Then he surveys his reflection in the mirror above Wei Ying’s dresser. As is often the case recently, he almost doesn’t recognize himself. The man he sees now has longer hair than the man who lived in the basement. He stands taller, his cheeks fuller, his body broader. Were it not for the scars ringing his neck, he might not believe this man is him.

“Looking sharp, sir,” Wei Ying calls as he comes into the bedroom. Wei Ying stands beside him and nudges him with his shoulder. “What do you think? Am I snazzy?”

Wangji studies Wei Ying’s reflection. His hair is down, falling sleek to his shoulders. Wei Ying’s shirt is red, and like Wangji’s, it fits him closely, smooth over his waist. “Snazzy,” Wangji agrees.

Wei Ying chuckles and leans against him. “You look like a million bucks. It’s almost a shame to throw that old coat over this hotness.”

“I like my coat.”

“I like your coat, too, but with those shoulders, you should be rocking London Fog.” Wei Ying smooths his hand over Wangji’s shoulder and down his arm.

Wangji’s skin skitters under the touch, and he has to swallow before he can ask. “London Fog?”

“Mmhmm. Fancy trenchcoat.” Wei Ying brushes a stray hair from Wangji’s shoulder. “You’d look good in anything, though.”

Then Wei Ying turns and heads out of the bedroom. “C’mon,” he calls over his shoulder. “We’ve gotta take two buses to get there.”

Before he follows Wei Ying, Wangji takes another look in the mirror, trying to figure out what is special about his shoulders.

The second bus lets them out right in front of the university. Wei Ying tells him the university is a school, but much bigger than A-Yuan’s. And the students are older. They’re grown-ups, like Wei Ying’s student, Marcus.

Wei Ying leads him down curving walkways to reach the “auditorium.” They pass buildings that look like churches, ornate and old. The path is lit with tall iron lanterns, and in their light, Wangji sees towering trees and hedges, wood and iron benches for people to rest. If there were monkey bars, it would look like the park.

Along the way, Wei Ying points out the buildings, explaining what they’re for. There are buildings for classes, buildings called dorms for students to live in, and even one large building just to hold books. This “library” is much larger than Ms. Nelson’s bookstore.

“Is this where you learned to play piano?” Wangji asks.

“Well, sort of. I started playing when I was a kid—about A-Yuan’s age—but I studied here when I was older. Until A-Yuan showed up.”

Wangji doesn’t understand the last part, but they’ve arrived at the auditorium, so he doesn’t have time to ask.

Inside the auditorium, a crowd chatters and heaves. Wangji shuffles closer to Wei Ying, and Wei Ying takes his hand. “Big crowd, huh?”

Wangji nods and tries not to squeeze Wei Ying’s hand too tightly.

A woman hands them each a paper book, and they go through another door. At the far end of the room, a huge piano looms above them, bright lights glistening on the sleek black wood.

Wangji forgets about the people churning around them. He even forgets that he’s holding Wei Ying’s hand. This piano is even larger than the Steinway, and more beautiful, though he feels guilty thinking it.

“Nice, right? Just wait until you hear it.” Wei Ying grins and tugs him toward the seats.

From his seat, the crowd is much less frightening. The auditorium is like the movie theater, but it smells like perfume instead of popcorn. And the people are dressed up. Many of the men wear ties, and the women wear sparkling jewelry.

Wei Ying flips through the paper book. “The orchestra is the big finish. You’ll love it.”

Wangji turns his attention to his own book. He recognizes some of the words: ode, sonata, and “Chopin!”

“Yep. I hope that kid doesn’t butcher him. Xingchen will blow your mind, though.”

Wangji hums his agreement, but he isn’t interested in hearing Wei Ying gush about that man anymore.

Like at the movies, the lights dim when the show begins. A man that Wei Ying whispers is a professor comes to the microphone and welcomes everyone. Then the first performers come on stage.

The first group is a string quartet, according to the professor. Although their instruments look a bit like Wen Ning’s guitar, the sounds that emerge from them are nothing like a guitar. Wei Ying has played music like this for him before on his phone, but now the notes soar around him, chasing each other high and low through the auditorium.

Too soon, the first group bows and heads off the stage.

“Did you like it?” Wei Ying whispers.

Wangji turns to him and tries to speak, but as Wei Ying said, his mind is blown.

Wei Ying grins and squeezes his knee. “I knew you would.”

“I do,” Wangji manages to gasp. As the next group comes out, he looks down at the paper, crumpled now from how he was twisting it. If each group of words represents a performance, then there will be many more. It’s almost too wonderful to believe.

Marcus, Wei Ying’s student, plays a piano solo that Wangji recognizes from Marcus’s many lessons. When it’s over, Wei Ying claps and yells “Way to go, Marcus!” so loudly that the people in front of them turn to stare. “I taught him everything he knows,” Wei Ying tells them.

The next pianist plays a song that Wangji recognizes, but it is only when he begins to tremble that he realizes it’s the song played by the woman in his dreams. The dream that ends with screams.

A hand covers his and squeezes. “Hey, are you okay?”

Wangji turns, and for a moment, he sees a little boy. A boy with a face like his. Gege, he thinks, the word a white-hot and bone-deep ache, and then a door slams shut in his mind and it’s just Wei Ying staring back at him with worry in his eyes.

“Wangji? What’s wrong?”

Wangji shakes his head. He turns back to the stage. The woman playing the piano has short red hair, nothing like the woman in his dreams.

Wei Ying’s hand stays on his, his thumb brushing back and forth. Wangji concentrates on that and tells himself that dreams aren’t real. They’re like mannequins or zombies from the movies. They can’t hurt him.

It is late when they get home. Wangji is tired, his stomach full from their big dinner, but his mind feels even fuller, bursting with music. Even the strange dream of the boy in the auditorium feels insignificant next to all that music. Although he doesn’t want to admit it, Xiao Xingchen’s violin was just as amazing as Wei Ying said it would be. He only wishes Wei Ying weren’t so impressed.

After his turn in the bathroom, he joins Wei Ying in the bed. Wei Ying turns onto his side as Wangji gets under the covers.

“I’m exhausted,” Wei Ying says, the words muffled by his yawn. “It was fun, though. Thanks for coming with me.”

“It was fun,” Wangji agrees. He shifts onto his side so that he can look at Wei Ying. He gets to do that every night now—fall asleep looking at Wei Ying.

Wei Ying smiles and brushes hair from Wangji’s forehead. It’s so long now that it falls into his eyes sometimes. He can’t wait for it to be long like Wei Ying’s. “Are you okay?” Wei Ying asks. “You seemed upset about something during the concert.”

“I’m okay.” With Wei Ying gazing at him under the warm blankets, it doesn’t seem as scary. “It was the song. I remembered it.”

“Which one?”

“Mozart. The woman with the red hair played it.”

“Oh. Was it a bad memory?”

Wangji wiggles until he can touch his bunny charm. It’s just a dream. Dreams can’t hurt him. “I dream about it sometimes.”

“You dream about the song?”

Wangji nods. “There’s a woman who plays it. Something bad happens to her.”

“That sounds scary.” Wei Ying lays his hand on Wangji’s shoulder and strokes over the blankets.

“It’s just a dream.”

“Dreams can be scary.” Wei Ying is quiet for a while, his hand shushing back and forth on Wangji’s shoulder. “Do you know who the woman is?”

Wangji shakes his head.

“Could she be your mother?”

Wangji drops the bunny and looks at Wei Ying.

Wei Ying bites his lip. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy.”

“You aren’t nosy.”

Wei Ying smiles and squeezes his shoulder before he draws his hand back. “Always a sweetheart. I’ll stop pestering you and let you get some sleep.”

Wei Ying rolls over to click off the lamp. The bedroom falls into darkness.

Wangji knows that his eyes will adjust to the darkness. He knows that Wei Ying is only a few inches away. But he wishes Wei Ying’s hand would come back to his shoulder.

“Do you think she’s my mother?” Although Wangji whispers the question, Wei Ying hears him. The bed shifts as Wei Ying wiggles closer. Their knees touch under the blankets.

“I don’t know,” Wei Ying answers, almost as softly. “I told you about my parents, right? That they died when I was little?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t remember much about them, but I dream about them sometimes. I think some of the stuff I dream about really happened. Like I’m remembering things in my dreams. Maybe it’s like that?”

Wangji hums, unsure if he wants that to be true. If the dream is a memory and not just a movie playing in his head, then the woman really got hurt.

He falls asleep while Wei Ying rubs his back. And wakes screaming.

Light shines into his hiding place, blinding him. He pushes away from it. He doesn’t want to see.

“Wangji! Wangji, it’s okay. You’re okay. It was a dream.”

Wei Ying’s voice. He is in Wei Ying’s bed. He is grown, not the little boy that the woman put in the closet.

In this dream, the woman said his name. She told him to hide. She told him not to come out. So he hid. And on the other side of the door, she screamed.

Wangji fights his way free of the blankets, but his legs fail him, and he crumples to the floor. He huddles against the bed and buries his face in his arms. “The light,” Wangji groans into his skin, tasting the salt of his sweat.

“You want me to turn it off?”

Wangji mumbles a yes, and the lamp clicks off, hiding him in the darkness again. He sighs his relief, but his heart still leaps and skitters. Just a dream, he tells himself, almost chanting it. But it had felt so real this time. He had felt the pinch of her hands as she shoved him in the closet. He had smelled her perfume. The door in his mind rattles, and he slams it shut. Just a dream.

Wei Ying calls softly from the other side of the bed. “I’m going to come a little closer, okay?”

Wangji grunts a word that even he doesn’t understand, but Wei Ying must because Wei Ying walks around the bed, moving slowly in the dark. “Okay, I think I’m right beside you. Sorry if I step on you.”

The air shifts as Wei Ying sinks down beside him. Wei Ying doesn’t touch him, but Wangji can feel the heat from his body, can hear the click of his throat when he swallows. “I’m right here,” Wei Ying says, “but I’ll leave you alone if you want me to.”

Wangji shakes his head viciously without lifting it from the cocoon of his arms.

“Okay. I’m here.”

Time passes, the only sound Wangji’s breath rasping against his knees.

And then Wei Ying starts to sing.

At first, it’s only a whisper. Almost unconsciously, Wangji shifts his head to the side to hear better. Wei Ying presses his knee against Wangji’s foot and sings a little louder.

The fear begins to shrink, swept away by images of rainbows and bluebirds, lemon drops and bright skies. His muscles unclench. The simple strains of hard floor and sweaty armpits make themselves known, almost comfortingly trivial. Dreams are just dreams, no matter how scary. He is with Wei Ying. He is safe.

He leans closer, pushing himself into Wei Ying’s warmth. Wei Ying, because he is smart and good and always knows the right thing to do, strokes Wangji’s hair as he sings the song again and again.

Chapter Text

Xue Yang’s knife presses against Wei Ying’s throat. “Hey Wangji, watch this.”

Wangji watches helplessly, the collar squeezing his throat, choking his scream, as Xue Yang draws the knife across Wei Ying’s throat like a bow across a violin’s strings. Blood streams down Wei Ying’s throat. His bright eyes dim. Xue Yang laughs as Wei Ying crumples to the ground.

Wangji wakes, his shout muffled by the pillow. He turns, searching for Wei Ying in the darkness. “Wei Ying?”

The lump beside him wiggles. “We don’t do antlers,” Wei Ying mumbles. “Too pointy.”

Just a dream. He is in bed with Wei Ying. Wei Ying is safe, dreaming his own dream.

Wangji eases out of bed and heads to the kitchen. Wei Ying always leaves the light on over the stove in case Wangji wants more water during the night. The golden light shines down on the water gurgling from the faucet and Xue Yang’s knife cuts Wei Ying’s throat. As Wangji drinks the water, Dumbo floats across the kitchen ceiling and blood soaks Wei Ying’s shirt. The cold water tastes faintly of copper and Xue Yang laughs as he twirls his bloody knife.

Just a dream. Wangji curls his fingers tight around the water glass, willing the images away.

Ms. Nelson says that sometimes our dreams show us what we’re afraid of the most, not because our brains want to scare us, but so that we can face our fears in the daylight.

If it had been Xue Yang instead of the thief in the studio that night, would Wangji have been able to stop him from hurting Wei Ying, or would he have frozen as he did in the dream?

If Wei Ying hadn’t stopped him, would Wangji have killed that man?

Yes, a voice growls from somewhere deep in the darkness of his mind. The glass trembles in Wangji’s hand, and he sets it down before it slips from his fingers.

He doesn’t remember all of it, but with perfect clarity, he sees the thief yank Wei Ying’s hair, sees the flicker of light on steel as the knife slashes only inches from Wei Ying’s bared throat. Even now, Wangji feels an echo of the terror, the rage that rose in him then, a brutal rhythm that thundered and crashed. He didn’t hurt that man because someone told him to. He wanted to hurt that man. Part of him still wants to hurt that man. Every time he looked at Wei Ying’s swollen lip and the bruises on his neck, Wangji regretted only that he did not go downstairs sooner.

Wei Ying watched Wangji hurt that man and said, You’re my hero. Wei Ying smiled with his battered lips and said I could never be scared of you. Wangji shivers and hugs his stomach. That joy is too raw. The light is too bright in his chest, sharp as splintered glass. I trust you, Wei Ying said when Wangji took off the collar. You’re brave and good.

He doesn’t feel brave and good. But he can get better. He can learn.

When Wangji goes back to the bedroom, Wei Ying is sitting up in bed, his face illuminated by his cell phone. “Hey, bad dream?”

“Yes, sorry for waking you.” Wangji gets back into bed. He has repeatedly tried to convince Wei Ying that he should sleep on the couch, but Wei Ying insists that he doesn’t mind being woken up. Or petting Wangji’s sweaty hair or singing until his voice cracks or spending all night on the floor because Wangji fell asleep with his head on Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you did. I was having a weird dream.” Wei Ying puts the phone on the nightstand and burrows back under the covers.

Wangji follows, turning on his side so that he can look at Wei Ying in the blue light of the phone’s screen.

After a few seconds, the phone goes to sleep. The room turns black, but Wei Ying’s knee is pressed against Wangji’s, a warm reminder in the dark.

“Was it the woman?” Wei Ying asks.

“No.”

Wei Ying doesn’t ask more questions. He just rubs Wangji’s shoulder.

“What were you dreaming about?” Wangji asks.

A snort comes from Wei Ying’s side of the bed. “We were hairdressers, but all our clients were animals. Wen Ning was giving a bear a mohawk. I was trying to talk a kangaroo out of a perm.”

Even in the dark, he can see the glint of Wei Ying’s teeth as he grins. Wangji smiles back. “You said antlers were too pointy.”

Wei Ying giggles and squeezes Wangji’s shoulder. “We were hairdressers! Antlers aren’t hair! Besides, the deer wanted to dye his antlers purple, but all we had was Outrageous Orange.”

Wei Ying’s hand moves to Wangji’s hair, stroking slowly. Wangji closes his eyes and sighs happily. Even the worst nightmare can’t compete with Wei Ying’s fingers carding through his hair.

“I had nightmares for a long time after A-Yuan’s mom died,” Wei Ying says, his voice hushed. “But I had a friend who helped me back then. Maybe she can help you, too.”

Wangji opens his eyes again. Wei Ying has only talked about A-Yuan’s mother once. A-Yuan says Wei Ying doesn’t like to talk about her, but A-Yuan has a picture of her in his room.

“How did she help you?”

“Mostly she just listened. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about bad stuff.”

“I talk to you.”

“And I’m glad you do, but she’s a professional, so she’s good at helping people.”

“A professional?”

“Yeah. Her job is helping people. Or it was. She’s retired now. But she’s the one who suggested getting you the bunny.”

Wangji rubs the bunny charm. He’s done that so many times that he knows the shape even in the dark.

“You don’t have to,” Wei Ying says. His hand moves from Wangji’s hair back to his shoulder. “I think you’d like her, though.”

Wangji hums and strokes his bunny’s ears.

“Think about it,” Wei Ying says. He squeezes Wangji’s shoulder, then moves his hand away. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

“Okay.”

They fall silent, but Wangji knows that Wei Ying isn’t asleep because the mattress shifts as Wei Ying wiggles. He moves around a lot when he can’t sleep, scratching his nose, curling his toes.

Wangji’s attention drifts back to A-Yuan’s mother, Lihua. In A-Yuan’s picture, she is beautiful, smiling in the sunlight. Every time he sees it, Wangji imagines Wei Ying beside her, holding her hand and smiling back at her. They must have loved each other very much. They must have been happy. She probably never screamed in her sleep and got sweat all over the bed.

“Do you miss her?” Wangji asks. The question comes out before he can stop it.

“Who?”

“A-Yuan’s mother.”

“Oh.”

Wei Ying is silent for so long that Wangji worries that he’s angry. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s okay. You just surprised me.”

Wei Ying turns onto his back. Wangji can just make out the sharp line of his nose, his eyes open and staring up at the ceiling.

Wei Ying blows out a breath. “No one’s ever asked me that before. I don’t even—I mean, yeah, it was bad.” He drums his fingers on his chest. “I always just think about A-Yuan losing his mom, you know?”

Wangji doesn’t really know, but he hums a yes. “Was she sick?”

“No. Well, kind of, I guess. She was an addict. Do you know what that means?”

Wen Ruohan used to talk about drug addicts. Junkies. Weak people who let drugs control them. But Wen Ruohan made his own drugs, like the ones he gave Wangji. Wangji never understood the difference. “I know,” Wangji says.

“She wasn’t when we met. Or, I guess she was, but not like . . . it wasn’t that obvious back then. We were just dumb kids who did a lot of dumb shit. It didn’t seem that serious. What seems serious when you’re nineteen?”

Wei Ying falls silent. He’s upset. His feet wiggle fast. His hands clutch the blanket.

“You don’t have to talk about it. If it makes you sad.”

Wei Ying sighs. “Yeah, it makes me sad, but not in the way you think. We were so bad together. Back then, we were both pretty shitty people, and there should be a law that shitty people shouldn’t get together, especially to raise a kid.”

It’s impossible to imagine Wei Ying as shitty, but Wangji doesn’t argue.

“She was a ballet dancer. Did A-Yuan tell you that?”

“He did.”

“That’s how we met. I made some extra cash playing for them when they practiced. She was amazing. When she danced, it was like . . .” He waves his hands through the air, then lets them fall back to his chest. “No one could look away.”

A-Yuan showed Wangji a ballet video—his mother wasn’t one of the dancers, but Wangji wanted to know what ballet was. It’s easy to imagine her twirling and leaping in front of Wei Ying’s piano. How wonderful they must have been, two beautiful, talented people creating something magical together.

“I wasn’t in love with her.”

Wangji startles out of his fantasy. Wei Ying’s voice was so grim and grinding that Wangji wants to turn on the lights to check that it is still Wei Ying in the bed beside him.

“God, I’m such an asshole, huh?” Wei Ying says. Now he sounds like himself again, just a little confused.

Wei Ying turns on the lamp and slurps water from the glass on the nightstand. Then he slumps against the headboard with a sigh. “Maybe I did love her, and I’m just terrible at loving people. She was great. Really smart. Wicked sense of humor. But she didn’t love me either. We were just dumb kids messing around because we went to the same school and both liked to party too much. Because I drank too much and she . . . did everything else. Nobody else could stand us, so we just—” He smacks his hands together in a gesture Wangji doesn’t understand.

“Wei Ying—”

“No, trust me, you wouldn’t have liked me much back then. I was a raging asshole. I was a hot-shit musician with a massive chip on my shoulder. Drunk most of the time. Rolling into class still drunk. You know, one time, I even puked on my desk in the middle of class.” He snorts laughter that doesn’t sound happy.

“And then Lihua disappeared.” There’s no laughter now.

Wei Ying curls over his bent knees, his hair hiding his face. “Not that I noticed at first. When I finally realized she wasn’t around anymore, I tried texting her, but she never answered. I went by her place once, but all her roommate said was that she took off. I figured she got kicked out of school. It wouldn’t have been a huge shock or anything.”

He takes a deep, rattling breath. “I didn’t know about the baby, not until after he was born. She tried to get clean. For the baby. So she went back to her parents. They were . . . well, they make Yu Ziyuan seem like Mary Poppins. And they were particularly pissed because they sent an honor student off to college and got back a pregnant addict. But she did it. She got clean. Until A-Yuan was born.”

Wei Ying reaches for his water again, but the glass is empty. Wangji grabs his glass and passes it over. “Thanks,” Wei Ying says, his voice creaky. He sips the water and clears his throat. “Sorry. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m unloading all this drama on you.”

“You said it’s good to talk about bad things.”

Wei Ying chuckles dryly. “I did, didn’t I?”

“I want to hear. If you want to tell me.”

Wei Ying sighs. “It doesn’t get any better from here.”

“That’s okay.”

“Okay. Might as well keep going now that I’ve started this shit.” Wei Ying sets the glass on his nightstand. “I found out about the baby about two months after he was born. Lihua’s mom was actually the one who reached out. She didn’t want to. The last thing her parents wanted was the trashy baby-daddy showing up, but a newborn and a heroin addict were too much for even them to handle.

“So there I was, on academic probation, fired from three jobs in three months, drinking beer for breakfast, and I find out I’m a dad. Well, probably a dad. Yu Ziyuan insisted on a paternity test. Which I aced, I guess. That’s the only test I passed that semester.”

Wei Ying scrubs his hands over his face and reaches for his phone. “Shit, it’s after three. We should go back to sleep.”

“I’m not that sleepy.” Wangji isn’t sure he wants to hear the rest, but Wei Ying said talking helps. If it will help Wei Ying, then Wangji will listen.

Wei Ying groans and sinks down into the covers. “Fine, but this is going to be the condensed version.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at his knees while he talks. “Long story short: me and Lihua—two idiots with one brain cell between us—told her parents to go fuck themselves and came back here. We borrowed money from Jie and Lihua’s aunt to get a rathole apartment, and we tried to play house. It did not go well.

“I dropped out of school. No great loss there since they were about to kick me out anyway. We both got shitty jobs that barely paid enough to cover rent. Neither of us knew how to take care of ourselves, much less a baby. We fought constantly. Mostly about money. Especially the money she was shooting up. Near the end, it wasn’t fights plural so much as one never-ending fight. We put Yu Ziyuan and Shushu to shame.

“And Lihua—” Wei Ying’s voice cracks. He coughs and doesn’t speak for a moment. “She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t drag herself out, not even for A-Yuan. She loved him. We both did. The first moment I saw him, I—”

When Wei Ying sniffles, Wangji scoots closer and presses his arm against Wei Ying’s. Wei Ying huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh and presses back.

“She disappeared when A-Yuan was eight months old. Two weeks later, her body was found in the river.”

“I’m sorry.” Wangji’s had the words lined up, understanding what was coming and knowing that was what he was supposed to say. But he’s also sorry that he asked, that he’s made Wei Ying so sad.

Wei Ying nods and wipes tears from his face. “The thing is: the cops didn’t know how she got there. If she fell—if she was so fucked up that she just fucking fell in. Or if someone . . . put her there. Or if she jumped.” He shudders. “But it doesn’t really matter how, does it? Whatever happened, it was my fault.”

“No.” Wangji doesn’t understand much of the story, but he’s sure of that.

Wei Ying turns to him and smiles. It’s twisted and blurred with tears. “Thanks, but you don’t know what it was like. See, part of me was glad she disappeared. I just thought—I figured she was holed up somewhere, blitzed out of her mind. And as hard as it was to raise A-Yuan alone, it was easier than doing it with her.”

“That doesn’t make it your fault.”

“It does!”

Wangji flinches back from the anger.

“Shit, sorry.” Wei Ying lays a hand on Wangji’s arm like Wangji is the one who needs comforting. “Didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just—I barely even looked for her. I didn’t do a fucking thing for the first three days! I mean, it wasn’t like she’d never taken off before, so it didn’t seem like a big deal at first. Then when she still didn’t come back, I finally started calling around.”

“You tried.”

“I didn’t go to the police for a week. When I told them how long she’d been missing, they looked at me like . . . like I was a monster. If they’d been able to prove murder, I probably would’ve taken the fall. That’s definitely what her parents wanted.”

“Wei Ying!”

“You can see why I don’t talk about this much, huh?”

“You didn’t hurt her.”

Wei Ying sighs and moves his hand back to his own knee. “Not like that. But there are lots of ways to hurt someone.”

Wangji folds his hands in his lap and runs his thumb over the scars on his knuckles. “I know.”

“Yeah, I guess you do.” Wei Ying leans over to press their shoulders together. “Well, that’s it, really. The whole sordid tale. Or at least as much as I’m going to tell tonight.”

“Thank you. For telling me.”

“You’re welcome. I’m going to go refill our water glasses.”

Wei Ying bumps out of the room. The bathroom door squeaks closed behind him. He doesn’t come out for a long time.

While Wei Ying is gone, Wangji settles down into bed. His eyes are tight and scratchy from the late hour, but his mind races too fast for sleep. He’s still staring up at the ceiling when Wei Ying sets the water down on Wangji’s nightstand.

“Thank you.”

“Thought you’d be asleep.”

“Not yet.”

“Figures. As bedtime stories go, that was pretty terrible.” Wei Ying gets in bed and turns off the lamp. He twists onto his side, facing away from Wangji.

Wangji turns toward him as he always does, even though tonight he only has a view of Wei Ying’s back.

Minutes pass. Neither of them sleeps. He knows how Wei Ying breathes when he sleeps, and it’s not this tight tempo.

Wangji reaches out, slowly, hardly believing that he dares, and strokes his hand over Wei Ying’s shoulder. Wei Ying tenses, his breath hissing. Wangji yanks his hand back. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you just startled me. But you can. If you want to.”

Wangji curls his fingers around his bunny charm. “Would it help you sleep?”

“Maybe. Couldn’t hurt.”

Wangji reaches out again. Wei Ying twitches under his hand, then relaxes. Wangji tries to do what Wei Ying does for him: long, smooth strokes. After a few of those, Wei Ying sighs, the tension sliding from his shoulders. “That’s nice.”

“More?”

“If you want to.”

Wangji wiggles a little closer. It’s probably bad, but when his hand smooths over Wei Ying’s hair and Wei Ying makes a soft, pleased sound, Wangji can’t help being a little happy that he’s the one who gets to make Wei Ying feel better.

Wei Ying jerks awake, tearing himself from the nightmare. The bedroom is still dark. Wangji’s arm is wrapped around him, his chest rising and falling against Wei Ying’s back. Under different circumstances, Wei Ying would let himself enjoy that, at least for a few minutes, but right now, he can’t even enjoy Wangji’s rare sleep-snuggles.

Wei Ying lifts Wangji’s arm and lays it on the bed. Wangji doesn’t wake up. Not surprising since Wei Ying kept him up so late.

He turns on the bathroom light and squinches his eyes shut against the light. When he opens them, Lihua is staring back at him from the bathroom mirror.

“Fuck!”

He stumbles back. His heel bangs against the tub, his feet sliding on the bathmat. For a sickening second, he flails in empty space, one wrong breath from crashing into the tub. Then one hand smacks against the tile, and he manages to steady himself.

When he dares another look in the mirror, it’s just him, of course. Just his own face, haggard from the sleepless night. His hair is stringy with sweat, his shirt plastered to his chest. No wonder he saw the figure from his nightmare.

For years, he’s had the same dream: Lihua crawling out of the river to return to them, her lovely face gray and sagging, mud knotting her hair. She stumbles through the door of their old apartment and drags squelching steps across the floor. She calls to him with a voice made of silt and stone. “A-Ying, I want my baby. Give me my baby.”

She holds out skinny arms—bones dripping decaying flesh—to take A-Yuan from him. He stands there, petrified, A-Yuan shrieking in his arms. Her fingers are claws, her breath is slime and rot.

Those claws reach for his son.

And Wei Ying wakes up.

Every time, the same fucking dream.

He scowls at his reflection as he shoves his sweaty hair back. Then he drenches his face and rubs icy hands over the back of his neck.

At least you wake up before she touches you, Baoshan said when he told her about the dreams.

Yeah, I’m real lucky, he’d scoffed. But part of him agreed with her. If he ever stayed asleep long enough to feel those claws on his skin—or if he had to watch as she took his son away, back to the dark water—he’d lose his fucking mind.

He hasn’t had the dream in more than a year, but it’s no big mystery why it came back tonight. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters as he stares at his reflection. “When you overshare, you really fucking puke it all up, don’t you?” Why the fuck had he told Wangji the whole fucking story? As if Wangji doesn’t have enough nightmares to deal with.

When he goes back to bed, Wangji rolls toward him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry I woke you up.”

Wangji hums, almost amused, and strokes his hair.

“I’m all sweaty,” Wei Ying protests.

Wangji’s hand keeps stroking. “It’s your pillow. You can sweat on it if you want.”

Wei Ying snorts laughter. “I see what you did there. You’re getting sassy, my friend.”

This time, the mn is smug. “Do you want me to stop?”

“You can keep going. If you want.”

Wangji keeps going, sometimes brushing a thumb across Wei Ying’s forehead or scritching his nails against his scalp. Innocent, Wei Ying tells himself as he sinks into the touch. No different than how Wangji pets Portia. They’re just two good friends who share a bed and sometimes give each other friendly little head rubs. And maybe once Wei Ying woke up with a friendly boner pressed against the back of his thigh—nothing little about that—but that’s just what bodies do. He’s definitely not going to read anything into it. And he’s definitely not going to do anything to hurt his good friend. His best friend. His lovely sweetheart of a roommate who for all Wei Ying knows, may not even know what sex is.

Chapter Text

When Wangji first started living with Wei Ying, Wei Ying told him he could use the shower whenever he wanted. Wangji didn’t even need to ask first. And he could stay under the water as long as he wanted—or as long as the hot water lasted. That’s good. These days, Wangji needs a lot of showers.

This morning, he makes the water cold, hoping it will shock his body out of its current state. He’d woken up pressed against Wei Ying’s back, his dick poking Wei Ying’s butt. Again. These days, he wakes up hard more often than not, but this is the second time he’s been too close to Wei Ying when it happened. Thankfully, Wei Ying hasn’t noticed. Or maybe he’s just too nice to mention it.

Wei Ying is always nice to him, even when Wangji doesn’t deserve it. But he shouldn’t think about Wei Ying now. That will just make things worse. Even the freezing water, so cold that it hurts, isn’t cooling the heat in his belly.

Dick, he thinks, staring down at the thing jutting between his legs. Cock. Boner. Prick, dong, knob, whang. He knows a lot of words for it. He imagines those words in Wen Chao’s sneering voice, imagines the men grabbing their crotches as they joke and laugh. Sometimes, remembering makes him wilt. It doesn’t work today, though. Today, his dick is being stubborn.

There’s no time. Wei Ying is already in the kitchen making coffee. He’ll want the bathroom soon. Wangji can’t do it. Not now.

He does it anyway.

He wraps his hand around his dick, hissing at the heat under his fingers. He strokes fast, gripping tight. Rushing. Praying that Wei Ying doesn’t knock on the door. He never has, but he could. He could come in. He could pull back the curtain and see.

His dick swells even more, sparks burning in his belly. For a second, he’d imagined not Wei Ying’s shock or embarrassment but Wei Ying watching. Smiling like he does when he watches Wangji play the piano.

That is ridiculous. Why would he watch? Wangji tries to push all the thoughts out of his head and just finish. But his favorite fantasy sneaks back in, the one where Wei Ying is in the shower with him while he does this. Wei Ying’s wet hair tangles around his bare shoulders. His eyes are bright, his teeth white as he grins. Wei Ying reaches down, puts his clever hand on Wangji’s, and guides Wangji’s hand over his dick. How am I doing? Wei Ying murmurs.

Wangji comes then, as he always does. The imaginary Wei Ying disappears, and it’s just Wangji under the spray.

Scowling, he washes the evidence from his hand and from the tile. Then he turns the knob to make the water a little warmer. He needs a little warmth to calm the shivers that always follow. But only a little. He doesn’t want to use up all the hot water before Wei Ying showers.

Imagining Wei Ying in the shower—head tipped back as water splashes his face and runs down his long throat—makes his dick react again. Wangji forces that picture away and flings back the curtain. Why is his dick like this now? When he lived in the basement, it got hard sometimes, but nothing like this. When it first started happening, it was kind of entertaining—something to do while he was alone in the cage. But the novelty wore off, and jacking off seemed like too much trouble. And too gross. He had to wipe his sticky hand on his clothes and then live with the dirty things until someone washed them. Or threw them away. Once, Wen Chao noticed what he’d done and threw away his sweater. He didn’t get another one for weeks. And Wen Chao had laughed, called him names he didn’t understand but knew were bad.

But back then, he’d never imagined anything while he was jacking off. It just felt nice. He’d never thought of someone else touching him. Or touching anyone else. But now he knows what it’s like to touch Wei Ying and for Wei Ying to touch him. Now it’s difficult not to imagine Wei Ying touching him everywhere.

Now he understands why Wen Ruohan’s men were always talking about dicks and the things they did with them. Their dicks must be like his, constantly demanding attention.

Is Wei Ying’s dick like that?

The thought makes him freeze, his hands clenching the towel against his chest. He’s thought about Wei Ying’s dick. He’s seen Wei Ying in just his boxers and shirt many times. He’s seen the bulge of it when Wei Ying wears his tightest jeans—he thinks about those jeans a lot. Lying in bed with Wei Ying, he can’t help thinking about a lot of things. But he’s never wondered if Wei Ying jerked off.

Does he do it in the shower like Wangji does? Wangji whirls around to look in the tub like Wei Ying might suddenly appear there, naked, his beautiful fingers curled around his dick.

No. Wangji clamps down on his thoughts and finishes drying off quickly, ignoring how his stupid dick perks up when he dries down there. He doesn’t know if jerking off is bad, not for sure. Wen Ruohan’s men talked about stuff like that a lot, and they mostly liked bad things, but that doesn’t mean everything they liked was bad. And if Wei Ying does it, then it can’t be bad.

But Wangji is pretty sure that fantasizing about Wei Ying doing that to him is bad. It feels dirty, somehow. Sneaky. Like stealing. Like he’s stolen something from Wei Ying that Wei Ying wouldn’t want him to have. Even someone as kind and generous as Wei Ying might not want to give him such a thing.

“So, what do you want for Christmas, little boy?” Wei Ying pokes his toes into Wangji’s thigh.

Wangji turns away from the TV, currently playing Scrooged, and blinks at him.

“Xbox!” A-Yuan shrieks from the floor.

Wei Ying sticks out his tongue. “Absolutely not. And I wasn’t talking to you. You gave me your list in October. I was asking Wangji.”

A-Yuan raspberries back at him, then jumps on the couch between them. Wei Ying has to pull his legs back before they get crushed. “Yeah, what do you want for Christmas, Wangji-ge?”

Wangji looks between them with his what is this strange language you speak? expression. That one comes out less and less these days, and it’s a lot less tense than it used to be. “I don’t understand.”

Wei Ying reaches around his son to squeeze Wangji’s shoulder—his affirmation that Wangji should admit when he doesn’t understand something. That was hard for him at first, except with A-Yuan.

“Everybody gets presents on Christmas,” A-Yuan says.

“Nope,” Wei Ying cuts in. “Only good little boys get presents.” Wei Ying grabs his son and tickles him. “Naughty little monkeys get coal in their stockings.”

A-Yuan giggles and flails as he tries to escape. “I’m good!”

“I don’t know. What do you think, Wangji?”

Wangji smiles as he catches a little fist before it smacks him in the nose. “A-Yuan is good.”

“See?” A-Yuan blurts, then cackles as Wei Ying snaps his teeth at his ear. “And we don’t even have stockings!”

Wei Ying growls and tickles harder. “Cuz your feet are so stinky. Santa Claus would puke if he had to sniff your nasty socks.”

A-Yuan shrieks laughter and squirms until he can attack Wei Ying’s ribs. Wei Ying yelps, and they wrestle until they roll off the couch. Then the tussling really begins. A-Yuan may be tiny, but he’s an expert in finding Wei Ying’s ticklish spots, and those tiny fingers are hard to block.

“Popo,” Wangji says, leaning over them.

Wei Ying shoves A-Yuan off his chest and blows hair out of his eyes. “Huh?”

Wangji nods toward the wall, where now that A-Yuan isn’t laughing in his face, Wei Ying can hear the pounding. That’s Popo’s way of saying they’re being too loud, and if they don’t cut out the monkey business, she’s coming over there. Jingyi’s grandmother has no tolerance for foolishness, which explains nothing about that kid, but some things are just a mystery.

“Oops.” Wei Ying drops his head toward his son and puts his finger over his lips. A-Yuan laughs harder but clamps a hand over his mouth to smother the giggles. The pounding stops, but the silence is ominous, like Popo is standing on the other side of the wall, just daring them to start up again.

“Popo thinks you’ve been naughty,” A-Yuan whispers, the words smushed by his hand. Wei Ying sticks out his tongue, and A-Yuan hiccups a laugh.

A-Yuan isn’t wrong, though. Popo is not a fan, unless Wei Ying is taking her grandson off her hands. Even then she glares, like she’d like to tell him to piss off, but even she can’t say no to free babysitting. He can’t really blame her. He’s the building’s super, so he’s the convenient target when stuff breaks and Jin Guangshan won’t pony up the money for repairs. Which is most of the time. Stingy asshole slumlord.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, still a little breathless, “No more tickle fight. Time for stinky monkey boys to get in the bathtub.”

A-Yuan rolls his eyes. “I am not stinky. You smell like donkey butt.” Then he jumps up and heads toward the bathroom like the good little boy he is.

“Yeah? Well, you smell like monkey farts,” Wei Ying calls after him, but A-Yuan doesn’t hear his wicked comeback because Wei Ying wasn’t brave enough to shout. Heartbroken and defeated, Wei Ying flops back against the floor and splays his arms wide.

Wangji leans over him again. “Do you need help?”

Wei Ying grins and stretches up his hands. “Yes, please.”

Wangji hauls him to his feet and holds him steady when the blood all rushes the wrong way. “Sorry about the ruckus,” Wei Ying says, blinking to keep Wangji in focus. “Did he kick you in the face?”

Wangji shakes his head. He cuts his eyes toward Popo’s wall, then back to Wei Ying, almost sly. He lays a finger over his lips. And smiles.

Wei Ying’s heart does a somersault and plops down in his stomach. He hides his face in his hands to get away from that sly little smile. Unfair. How is he supposed to deal with a Wangji who makes jokes? Even pantomime jokes?

“Bath time,” he mumbles into his hands. He keeps a hand over his eyes as he fumbles out a hand to pat Wangji’s arm, then staggers down the hall to the safety of his smelly child.

Due to the tickle fight, Wangji never got to finish the conversation about Christmas presents. But he doesn’t want to bring it up again because then Wei Ying might think he’s greedy. He doesn’t need another present. He already has a notebook and the bunny charm that he wears every day. He has shoes, and a coat, and pancakes whenever he wants them. He has a piano—two pianos if he counts the one in the apartment, but they can’t play that one unless they’re sure Popo isn’t home. And he has Wei Ying and A-Yuan, and Ms. Nelson and Wen Ning. How could he want anything when he has so much?

But maybe he’s supposed to get presents for Wei Ying and A-Yuan. Wei Ying said that Wangji gave him a birthday present by going to the movies with him, but now Wangji suspects that was just Wei Ying being nice. Wei Ying should have whatever he wants, and Wei Ying must want something other than dragging Wangji around wherever he goes.

The studio has been busy lately, too busy for Wangji to bother Wei Ying with questions. Wei Ying says that they’re busy around Christmas because there are a lot of concerts like the one they went to at the university, which means nervous students asking for extra lessons, and because people come to buy presents. Buying Wei Ying something music-related seemed like a good idea for a few minutes, but Wei Ying sells that stuff, so he doesn’t need Wangji to buy it for him.

Wei Ying is so busy that while they’re eating lunch, he asks Wangji if he’d mind picking up A-Yuan from school by himself. Wangji agrees, trying to hide how terrified he is. So many things could happen. He could get lost. Even though he’s walked back and forth to the school dozens of times, he could still get confused. He doesn’t get confused now like he used to, but he doesn’t usually go out by himself, not farther than the store on the corner where he goes to buy snacks. That was terrifying at first, especially talking to the clerks, but he got used to it.

But the school is much farther away. And he will have A-Yuan with him on the way back. A-Yuan is so small. So many things could happen to him. He could pull free from Wangji’s hand when they’re crossing the street and get hit by a car. Or someone could take him.

They would fail. The growl comes from somewhere deep in his mind, creeping from behind a secret door. The voice is scary, vicious and certain in a way Wangji never is. He shudders, but he agrees with the angry voice. No one will hurt A-Yuan. Wangji would rip himself apart before he let that happen.

So he goes. He triple-checks that the phone Wei Ying gave him is in his pocket and leaves earlier than he and Wei Ying usually do, just in case. He walks fast, sliding through the tangles of people on the sidewalk. Once, he thinks he’s made a wrong turn, and he freezes, ignoring the people who shove past him. But then he recognizes a big blue awning down the street: The Bluebird Café. They walk past it every day. Sometimes they go there to get lunch. Relieved, he keeps going, soon overtaking the people who’d cursed at him for blocking the sidewalk.

Finally, he reaches the school. He drops down on top of the fence out front, exhausted and trembling. He made it. And now A-Yuan will be with him, and A-Yuan will help him find the way home.

But he got here way too early. None of the parents are here yet. By the time they start to gather, he’s thought of something else to terrify him—what if the teacher won’t let A-Yuan come with him? Wei Ying called the school to tell them Wangji was picking A-Yuan up today, but what if they forgot to tell A-Yuan’s teacher? Or what if the teacher doesn’t remember him? Wei Ying introduced him to Ms. Perez once, but that was a long time ago. What if she thinks Wangji is here to steal A-Yuan?

Now that he’s thought of that, he’s sure the other parents are looking at him suspiciously. He keeps his eyes on the sidewalk and tries not to look shifty, but that probably makes him look even more suspicious. And then the worst thought occurs: what if one of the parents recognizes him from before? What if they know what he did, how he hurt people?

“Hey, Wangji,”

Wangji tenses, ready to run, but it’s just Mr. Howard. He comes every day to pick up his granddaughter, Emily. He and Wei Ying often chat while they’re waiting for school to be over.

“You by yourself today?” Mr. Howard asks. Wangji nods and scoots over to make room for Mr. Howard on the fence. Mr. Howard eases down with a grunt. “Thanks. My knee hates this cold weather.”

Wangji nods his understanding. The cold makes him ache sometimes, too. Mr. Howard talks about the cold weather, and Christmas, and all the things Emily wants from Santa. Grateful for the distraction, Wangji listens and nods or shakes his head. That seems enough for Mr. Howard.

The bell rings. Wangji jumps up, the fear rushing back. But Mr. Howard is grimacing as he tries to stand up, so Wangji offers him a hand, and by the time he and Mr. Howard reach the gate, A-Yuan is already running towards him. Ms. Perez waves at Wangji, then bends down to listen to the girl who’s tugging at her sweater.

And that’s it. Wangji hangs A-Yuan’s backpack over his shoulder, takes A-Yuan’s gloved hand in his, and they’re off.

“Was it scary walking by yourself?” A-Yuan says, peering up at him.

“Yes.” It had been so scary, but that seems silly now.

A-Yuan squeezes his hand. “I would’ve been scared, too. But you’re big, so it probably wasn’t so bad for you.”

Wangji nods and squeezes back. “Not so bad.”

Then A-Yuan starts talking about Christmas vacation that starts next week.

“What’s vacation?” Wangji asks.

“It’s when you don’t have to go to school. You didn’t have vacation when you were in school?”

“I didn’t go to school.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

A-Yuan nods. He must be used to that answer by now. Once, he told Wangji that it was okay that he didn’t know the answer to his question. There are a lot of things I don’t know, either, he’d said.

“School can be pretty boring, but that’s where you learn about things. You probably would’ve liked it since you love learning stuff. But you’ve got Baba to teach you now. And Ms. Nelson.”

“And you. A-Yuan is a good teacher.” Wangji smiles down at him, and A-Yuan grins back.

They walk along, hands swinging between them, but then Wangji remembers what A-Yuan said. “You don’t have to go to school next week?”

“Nope. Not until after Christmas.”

“You can come to the studio with us?”

“Yep. But I’m going to go stay at A-Ling’s house some. It gets pretty boring hanging around the store all day. And A-Ling has a new racing game. Do you think Baba will get me an Xbox for Christmas?”

Wangji blinks at the sudden change of topic. But if he knows anything, it’s that Wei Ying isn’t buying an Xbox. “I don’t think so.”

A-Yuan sighs and drags his feet over the concrete. “Yeah, me neither. I’m the only kid at school who doesn’t have one.”

“How much do they cost?” Wangji asks, thinking about the money in his pocket. Wei Ying gives him money every week. He says it’s Wangji’s “salary.” Wangji doesn’t spend much, so it keeps piling up in his nightstand drawer.

“A lot. Like a thousand dollars. Or maybe ten thousand. I’m not sure, but Baba says it costs more than the rent.”

“Oh.” That is definitely more money than Wangji has. It was a bad idea anyway. Wei Ying wouldn’t like it if Wangji bought A-Yuan an Xbox.

A-Yuan slumps along for a few more steps, but then he perks up. “What do you want for Christmas, Wangji-ge?”

“I don’t know. What do you want?”

That conversation lasts for the rest of the trip home, a trip that flies by with Wangji barely paying attention to where his feet land. Yet somehow, they arrive back at the studio, safe and sound. When Wei Ying comes out of his lesson and sees them at the piano, he smiles and squeezes Wangji’s shoulder. Wei Ying tells him what a big help he is and how Wei Ying couldn’t survive without him.

“It was no problem,” Wangji mutters, his ears burning. He can be brave every day if it makes Wei Ying this happy.

The next morning, Wangji asks for Ms. Nelson’s advice on Christmas shopping. Then, feeling strangely confident and very unlike himself, he walks three blocks to the store she recommended. Shopping is more fun that he’d expected, except that the store is pretty crowded. But once he’s picked out the presents, he still has to pay. He’s terrified that he won’t have enough money and the clerk will be mad at him, but he actually leaves with cash still in his pocket.

When he returns to the bookstore with bags dangling by his knees, Ms. Nelson tells him he did a great job and helps him wrap the presents. He walks into the studio bearing bright boxes with red bows, and Wei Ying stares at him, open-mouthed and barely blinking, while Wangji sets the presents behind the counter.

“What’s all this?” Wei Ying asks, peering down at the boxes.

“I went Christmas shopping.”

“Oh.” Wei Ying goes back to staring at him. His face wiggles around like it can’t decide on an expression, but finally, he grins. “Is one of those for me?”

Wangji nods.

Wei Ying’s grin turns sly. He sways closer. “What’d you get me?”

“You will find out on Christmas.” Then Wangji goes to the piano and practices, refusing to yield when Wei Ying follows and pleads for hints, even when Wei Ying tugs on his sleeve and flutters his eyelashes.

A-Yuan is spending the night at Jin Ling’s house, and Wei Ying says he’s feeling lazy, so they order dinner and eat on the couch watching Die Hard. The movie is a little scary, but Wei Ying pushes his toes under Wangji’s leg and does silly impressions of all the characters, so Wangji just watches Wei Ying during the fight scenes.

While the man on TV is sneaking around in the air vents and talking to himself, Wei Ying turns the channel to an orchestra playing Christmas music even though Wei Ying says he hates Christmas music. Then Wei Ying clicks off the lamp, and they sit in the light from the little Christmas tree shining from on top of the piano. “Pretty,” Wangji says, watching the lights shimmer in the shiny wrapping paper.

“Yeah. All is peaceful and bright.”

Wangji turns to him. Wei Ying is smiling softly, snuggled down on the couch. His eyes shine brighter than the twinkle lights. And Wangji wants. He isn’t even sure what he wants, but he wants it badly, so badly that his chest aches.

Wei Ying blinks back at him. His smile gets warmer. His toes wiggle against Wangji’s leg. Then Wei Ying sucks in a breath and rolls off the couch.

Wangji swallows and turns back to the TV. He shouldn’t stare like that. He must have made Wei Ying uncomfortable.

Groaning, Wei Ying stretches out his arms and arches his back. Wangji pretends to be interested in the TV but watches from the corner of his eye. Then Wei Ying holds out a hand. “Come on.”

Wangji takes his hand without hesitation. He’ll always go where Wei Ying asks.

After he’s pulled Wangji off the couch, Wei Ying lets go of his hand and shoves the coffee table aside. Then he draws Wangji into the space he made and turns to him. “Dance with me.”

Wangji stares at him, so shocked that he barely notices when Wei Ying grabs his other hand. “Dance?”

“Uh huh.” Wei Ying sways their hands back and forth to the music. “C’mon,” he whines, “it’s Christmas!”

“It’s December twenty-first.”

Wei Ying snorts and squeezes his hands. “Close enough. Please, Wangji? Dance with me?”

Wangji looks over at the TV as if that will help. Then he looks down at their hands.

Wei Ying’s thumb brushes over his skin. “It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Wei Ying starts to pull away, but Wangji grips tighter. “I will. I don’t know how.”

“There’s no right or wrong way to dance,” Wei Ying says as he steps closer. “You just do what feels good. To have fun.”

“Okay. How do I do that?”

Wei Ying laughs, but it’s not mean. Wei Ying’s laugh is never mean. “We’ll do the prom sway. That’s a good place to start.”

Neither of those words makes sense to Wangji, but he nods. Then Wei Ying moves Wangji’s hands to his waist and puts his own hands on Wangji’s shoulders, and Wangji has regrets. Big huge regrets. He should’ve asked more questions. Then he could’ve been better prepared.

“Breathe,” Wei Ying whispers.

Wangji hauls in a lungful of air, and that does help a little.

“Good.” There’s a laugh in Wei Ying’s voice, and he’s smiling so bright, their faces so close. “Now we’re just going to shift from foot to foot to the rhythm.” Wei Ying demonstrates by leaning a little to one side, then the other. That makes him slide under Wangji’s hands, the thick sweatshirt soft and warm under his fingers. “Just follow me.”

Wangji nods and tries, but he’s too stiff. None of his limbs will cooperate. His breath is too loud, too fast. He tries to breathe normally, but it’s like his nose has forgotten how. And he’s too conscious of his hands, trying not to clutch at Wei Ying, and of Wei Ying watching him from so close. Even closer than they are when they’re curled toward each other to talk in bed.

“Don’t think about it,” Wei Ying says, squeezing his shoulders. “Just listen to the music and let your body move the way it wants to.”

If he let his body move the way it wants to, he’d probably plow right into Wei Ying and embarrass them both. But he tries. He closes his eyes and listens to the music. There are no words, but he’s heard the song before. Ms. Nelson has been playing Christmas music in the bookstore for weeks. This one is about a man who is going home for Christmas. It’s a sad song, but in a good way, like the man knows that happiness is just around the corner, and he only needs to go a little farther to reach it.

Wangji thinks about the lyrics and lets Wei Ying guide him with soft hands, warm even through Wangji’s sweater.

“You’re doing great.” Wangji’s eyes pop open. Wei Ying smiles and brushes Wangji’s hair out of his eyes. “Is it fun?”

Wangji swallows. He has no idea what his feet are doing now. “It’s nice.” And it is. It’s nice to be so close to Wei Ying. It’s nice to sway to the music in the magic light of the little tree. But the ache in his chest is still there, squeezing his heart. It’s so silly to want when he has all this, but he does. He wants more, wants something that feels so close, just out of reach.

Wei Ying smiles wider and shifts a little closer. He closes his eyes and hums under his breath, his thumbs brushing Wangji’s collarbones. Wangji watches him, sure that his heart is pounding so hard that Wei Ying will feel it.

The song ends and another begins. Wei Ying scrunches his nose and steps back. Wangji’s hands fall from Wei Ying’s hips and dangle stupidly by his sides. “No one dances to ‘Jingle Bells,’” Wei Ying says.

Wangji nods and curls his fingers against his tingling palms.

“Thanks for the dance.” Wei Ying squeezes his shoulder, then leaves him to go to the bathroom.

When he’s gone, Wangji collapses onto the couch and pulls the pillow into his lap, clutching at it the way he hadn’t clutched at Wei Ying’s waist. No matter how much Wei Ying has given him, he always seems to want more. More warm touches. More bright smiles. It’s as if there is a giant empty space inside him that can never be filled, no matter how much joy and light Wei Ying pours into it.

They go back to Jiang Yanli’s house on Christmas Eve, but it’s better this time. Yu Ziyuan and Jin Zixuan’s mother went on a cruise, which Wei Ying says is when people pay too much money to get drunk on a boat. And Jin Zixuan’s father is playing golf in Florida. Without them, there’s room for the boys at the dining table, and with them chattering away, Christmas dinner is much louder and friendlier than Thanksgiving.

During dinner, Jiang Fengmian doesn’t ask Wangji questions. He seems happy just to laugh at the stories everyone tells, mostly about things Wei Ying did when he was little. The stories are funny, even the one where Jiang Cheng accidentally slammed Wei Ying’s finger in the car door and Yu Ziyuan started to drive off with his hand still trapped. Wei Ying pretends it isn’t funny, though. He holds up his finger and wails that the end of it is still flat.

Wangji imagines a little Wei Ying with a big purple finger like something out of a cartoon and can’t help his snort. Wei Ying whirls on him and pokes his shoulder. “You think that’s funny? You’re laughing at my poor pancake finger?”

“Sorry,” Wangji mumbles and hides his smile behind his hand. It’s hard to stop smiling when A-Yuan is cackling on his other side.

On Christmas morning, A-Yuan wakes them up by bouncing on the bed, and they have to open presents before breakfast. Wangji gets nervous when they open the ones he bought them, but A-Yuan loves his liopluerodon, and Wei Ying cuddles the red sweater and promises that he’ll wear it all the time.

Wangji gets fluffy white bunny slippers from A-Yuan and new boots from Wei Ying, who says that his Converse aren’t good enough for winter. A-Yuan also gives him a picture he drew of the three of them wearing Santa hats. This time, Wangji doesn’t wear a collar. Instead, A-Yuan drew a bright blue circle around his wrist. And Wei Ying gives him a framed photo of Wangji and A-Yuan playing piano, their faces turned toward each other, smiling. Wangji hadn’t even noticed Wei Ying taking the picture.

“You can put it on your nightstand,” Wei Ying says as Wangji stares down at the photo. Wangji nods, not trusting his voice. Wei Ying has taken pictures of Wangji before, but Wangji’s never had one to hold like this before. There’s never been one displayed in the apartment like the ones of Wei Ying’s family are. But Wangji is family now. He has this picture to prove it. And a nightstand to keep it on.

When the wrapping paper is cleaned up, they make pancakes, and A-Yuan sets the liopluerodon beside his plate as they eat. The rest of the day, they hang around in the living room watching the Grinch and Rudolph over the liopluerodon’s roar. As he’s falling asleep that night with Wei Ying’s knees pressed against his, Wangji decides that he likes Christmas even more than Halloween. But he’s not going to mention that to Wei Ying.

During Christmas break, Jin Ling and Jingyi both come to spend the night at the apartment. A-Yuan calls it a “slumber party,” but the boys don’t do much slumbering. There aren’t enough chairs at the kitchen table, so the boys eat pizza on the couch. Wangji doesn’t understand how they can eat and talk so much at the same time.

After pizza, they move back to the floor and gather around dozens of toys, all of them buzzing and growling. “It’s like a jungle in here,” Wei Ying grumbles as he and Wangji clean up the remains of the pizza party. “Once this is done, we’ll go hide in the bedroom.”

Wangji nods as he pinches the Ziploc bag shut on the leftover pizza. His head is starting to ache.

Before they can escape, Jin Ling runs into the kitchen holding a toy dog. It has glowing yellow eyes and knobby legs that wave in the air. It yips and wags its tail as Jin Ling thrusts the toy at Wei Ying.

Wei Ying leaps back from the dog wiggling in his face. “Holy crap, kid! Where did you get that monstrosity?”

“Nai-nai sent it to me for Christmas.”

“Of course she did,” Wei Ying mumbles. “Get that thing out of my face.”

But Jin Ling pushes it higher. “It’s just a toy. It can’t hurt you.”

“I don’t care.” Wei Ying swats at the dog with his dishtowel, but Jin Ling dodges the towel and attacks again.

“A-Ling, cut it out,” A-Yuan says. “You know Baba doesn’t like dogs.”

“It isn’t reeaal.”

“It’s a dumb baby toy anyway,” Jingyi says.

Jin Ling turns and scowls at him. “It’s for ages five and up.”

Jingyi scoffs. “Yeah, little babies.”

“Well, if it’s for babies, then why is he so scared of it?”

“He isn’t scared of it,” A-Yuan says. But Wangji thinks Wei Ying is scared. He’s just trying to hide it.

“Oh yeah?” Jin Ling jumps and nearly smacks Wei Ying in the chin with the toy.

Wei Ying makes a noise like gnah and skitters back until he’s hidden behind Wangji. His fingers twist in Wangji’s sweater. Jin Ling tries to follow, but Wangji holds out an arm to block him. “No.”

Jin Ling stumbles to a stop and pouts at him. “I’m just playing.”

“It’s wrong to scare people,” Wangji says.

“I thought he wasn’t scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Wei Ying protests, but his fingers tighten in Wangji’s sweater. “I just don’t like your creepy robot.”

“You should apologize to Wei-gege,” Jingyi tells Jin Ling. A-Yuan nods and crosses his arms.

Jin Ling rolls his eyes and flips a switch on the dog’s belly. The yapping stops. “Sorry.”

Wangji keeps his eyes on the boy until he follows Jingyi and A-Yuan back to the couch.

Wei Ying’s fingers loosen in his sweater, but he doesn’t let go. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Wangji stands very still so maybe Wei Ying won’t leave.

Wei Ying’s breath puffs across Wangji’s neck as he laughs. “That was a great Dad-voice, by the way. You’re really good with them.”

Wangji is almost too shocked to respond. Being called a dad and having Wei Ying breathing against his neck is a lot to handle at once. Finally, he manages to ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It was just a stupid toy.”

But Wangji knows how frightened Wei Ying is of dogs. When there are dogs at the park, they have to stay far away from them. One day, a little dog no bigger than Portia ran up to them, and Wei Ying leaped on the picnic table and didn’t come down until the dog’s owner took it away.

“I don’t like dogs, either.”

“Really?”

Wangji shakes his head carefully to avoid dislodging Wei Ying. He had to fight a dog once at the arena. He doesn’t remember the fight itself, just the moments before—the dog snarling, saliva dripping from its massive jaws. And he remembers after, the bites on his legs. There are still scars.

Wei Ying sighs and rubs his forehead on Wangji’s shoulder. “I just feel stupid. I got scared of a preschool toy.”

“Wei Ying isn’t stupid.”

Arms wrap around Wangji’s waist, squeezing him for one heart-stopping second. “My hero,” Wei Ying mutters. Then the hug is over, and Wei Ying goes back to cleaning up the kitchen. As Wangji gathers the empty pizza boxes and takes them out to the trash chute, he tries to figure out if Wei Ying was only joking. It hadn’t seemed like a joke, but it’s hard to tell sometimes.

It doesn’t matter, he decides as he listens to the trash rumble down the chute. All that matters is that he helped Wei Ying not be scared. It’s good that he could do that after all the times that Wei Ying has helped him. He just wishes that it wasn’t a joke, that he could be someone brave and smart and strong, like a hero should be.

In January, the boiler craps out as it always does just when they need it most. Knowing it’s useless, Wei Ying calls Jin Guangshan anyway, who whines about alimony and bitches about tenants behind on their rent and gives a million other excuses for why he can’t pay for a new boiler. And of course the repair guy can’t get there for days because with the cold snap, the whole city needs repair guys.

At least it’s the weekend so Wei Ying can send his son to stay with Jie. Again. Even if he spends the rest of his life doing favors for her, he’ll never break even. When he calls on Friday, she swears that she’s happy to babysit his kid and offers the guestroom for him and Wangji. It’s tempting—dear god is it cold—but he knows his sister, and she’d insist on driving him back here for work instead of letting him ride the train.

But that doesn’t mean Wangji has to stay here and shiver. Wei Ying ends the call and leans on the Steinway. “Jie invited you and A-Yuan to come stay with her while the heat’s broken. Is that okay with you?”

The gorgeous rendition of Gnossienne No. 1 that Wangji is playing ends abruptly. He blinks up at Wei Ying. “You aren’t going?”

“No, I need to stay here. But you can go.”

“I will stay here.”

“Are you sure? It’s gonna be like 25 degrees this weekend. It’ll be nice and toasty at Jie’s house. And you’d even have a room all to yourself.”

“I don’t need a room to myself.” Wangji turns back to the piano like he’s had his say and that’s final.

Wei Ying doesn’t argue. It’s not like he was looking forward to shivering in the bed by himself.

That night, Wei Ying cranks up the space heater as far as it will go and prays that it doesn’t explode. And very firmly tells himself that it’s statistically improbable that he’d survive one fire only to die in another one. The little panicked mice that live in his belly aren’t impressed by statistics, though.

Then he and Wangji pile on the couch under every blanket in the house and watch Moana so Wei Ying can pretend that he’s on a tropical island instead of living in this death trap.

By the time Moana and Maui get to the monster island, he’s almost miserable enough to ask Jiang Cheng if they can go stay with him. But Wangji’s still nervous around Jiang Cheng—it doesn’t help that Jiang Cheng stares at him like he thinks Wangji’s going to steal the silverware. Besides, Jiang Cheng would just spend all night lecturing him about how he needs to move. Just because he’s right doesn’t mean Wei Ying wants to listen to it.

The only part of him that’s warm is the toes he’s shoved under Wangji’s leg. He wiggles his toes, and Wangji turns to him. The blanket is pulled up under Wangji’s chin, and his knit cap is pulled low over his ears. Wangji smiles sweetly, like it’s totally fine that he’s freezing to death.

Fuck it. How hard can it be to fix a boiler?

Wei Ying braces himself for the cold and unwinds from the blanket cocoon. “I’m going to run downstairs and kick the boiler,” he tells Wangji as he tucks the blankets back around him. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have to do that. Stay here where it’s warm. Warm-er.”

But Wangji is already climbing off the couch and heading towards his new boots, lined up neatly by the front door.

Wei Ying is shivering too hard to argue. He grabs his little toolbox and the T-REX HEADLAMP from A-Yuan’s room, and they clop down the stairs.

The basement door is a big heavy thing that’s probably been here since the 19^th century. Maybe longer. Or maybe Jin Guangshan got it at an estate sale from someone who was into medieval dungeon décor. The door creaks and groans as Wei Ying heaves it open, but at least the lights flicker on when he hits the switch. But then they keep flickering, sputtering shadows down the long staircase.

While he’s walking downstairs, he realizes that Wangji isn’t behind him any longer. He turns back. Wangji hovers in the basement doorway, staring down the dark stairway. He hasn’t looked this spooked in a long time.

“It’s okay,” Wei Ying calls up to him. “You just stay up there. This won’t take long.”

Wangji’s eyes dart around the admittedly creepy staircase. He takes one tiny step, then another. Then he rushes down the stairs until he catches up with Wei Ying.

Wei Ying watches him suck in breaths like he just ran a marathon. “Basements are creepy, huh?”

Wangji jerks a nod and keeps his eyes locked on Wei Ying’s chin.

“Yeah. Let’s get this over with.” Wei Ying offers his hand, and Wangji grabs it, squeezing tightly as they make their way down the stairs.

Once they’re in the basement, Wangji sticks close, clinging to Wei Ying’s hand, but he looks around like he expects monsters to leap out at them. In the musty basement with shadows looming from every corner, Wei Ying’s mind decides to conjure images of what might have happened to Wangji to cause such fear. He’s tried not to think about Wangji’s past too much in the months Wangji has lived with them. Wangji seems eager to forget it, and speculating about it is just Wei Ying torturing himself over something he can’t fix.

Just like he can’t fix the fucking heat. Wei Ying pushes those horrible images away and leads Wangji over to the broken boiler. He has to release Wangji’s hand to strap on the T-Rex, but Wangji already seems a little calmer, like the basement isn’t as horrible as he’d feared. Not that he’d let fear stop him from following Wei Ying down here. Not that he’s ever let fear stop him.

“Okay?” Wei Ying asks. Wangji squints as the T-Rex light strikes his eyes, then nods.

Wei Ying gives his shoulder a pat. Then he turns to the boiler and shines the light over the dials and switches. There’s only one thing there that he really understands: the little gauge that is currently pointing at zero.

But that’s what the internet is for. He bites the fingers of his glove to yank it off his numb hand and stabs at his phone until he pulls up a video tutorial called “How to diagnose your boiler.”

Two hours later, he and Wangji stumble back into the apartment, covered in dust and creaking from cold. Wei Ying drops the toolbox on the kitchen table and heads to the radiator. It clanks and hisses when he twists the knob, but that is heat rising from the coils.

“Holy fucking shit!” He turns to Wangji and grins like a madman. “Holy shit, we fixed it!”

Wangji smiles back. “It’s working?”

“Hell yes, it’s working! Come feel.”

They huddle at the radiator and stare down at it in awe, like they’re seeing their newborn baby for the first time. “I can’t believe it,” Wei Ying says as he pulls off his gloves to feel the heat on his fingers. “How in the hell did that actually work?”

“Wei Ying is very smart.”

Wei Ying snorts and bumps their shoulders together. “Wei Ying is just very good at googling. But hey, we’ve got heat!”

Even with the heat back on, it’s still chilly when they climb in bed. But they’ve got lots of blankets, and he’s too flushed with success to mind the cold. Plus, Wangji lets him tangle their feet together. Wei Ying is wearing two pairs of thick socks, but his toes feel like chunks of ice.

“Will A-Yuan come back tomorrow?” Wangji asks. “Since the heat is fixed?”

Wei Ying yawns and snuggles into his pillow. “He’d have a fit if I made him come back early. But he’ll be back Sunday. Is that okay? You won’t get too bored hanging around here with just me?”

Wangji smiles and blinks at him, his eyelashes sweeping slowly like a contented cat. “I won’t get bored.”

“Good. Thanks for coming with me. I would’ve been scared in that creepy basement by myself.”

Wangji’s eyes widen. “You were scared?”

“No.” Wei Ying wiggles a hand out from below the covers to boop Wangji’s cold nose. “I wasn’t scared because Wangji was with me.”

Wangji gives him something that’s almost an eye roll, but his cheeks bulge with the smile he can’t contain. He closes his eyes and sighs. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

Wei Ying scritches his fingers through Wangji’s hair, and Wangji sighs again, the little blissful noise he makes when Wei Ying pets his head. It’s a gorgeous sound. Even if Wei Ying didn’t love petting that silky hair, he’d do it just to hear Wangji breathe out his happiness.

Chapter Text

Wangji runs the feather duster over the counter and picks up the little lopsided paper rabbit so that he can clean underneath it. He and A-Yuan made the paper rabbit for New Year, but the rabbit and the red lanterns are still up even though the holiday was weeks ago. Wei Ying said he wants to keep the lanterns hanging from the ceiling for a while longer: It took us forever to hang them up there. We need to reap the benefits of our hard work! Wei Ying also said that about the Halloween decorations and the Christmas decorations. Wangji agrees, though. He likes walking beneath the red lanterns. They make the studio look like a festival, like a village in a fairy tale.

When he’s finished dusting the surfaces, he grabs the furniture polish and heads to the Steinway. This is his favorite chore so he saves it for last. He loves smoothing the lemon polish over the Steinway’s black wood. The piano is old and scarred, but it gleams in the sunlight. Wei Ying says the Steinway never looked so pretty until Wangji started taking care of it.

He’s kneeling on the tile to polish one of the piano’s legs when the bell rings over the door. Even though they fixed the boiler, it’s too cold now to keep the door propped open all day. Wangji raises up and peeks over the bench. It’s Jerry again, the man from the liquor store next door.

“Hello,” Wangji says. He tries to copy the “customer service voice” that Wen Ning has been teaching him, but he doesn’t think he got the cheerful tone right. It doesn’t matter too much, though, since Jerry isn’t a real customer.

Jerry’s head darts around until he spots Wangji kneeling behind the piano bench. “What happened, you fall off the piano?”

“Cleaning,” Wangji says, raising the cloth and the can of polish. “Wei Ying and Wen Ning are giving lessons right now.”

Wangji had hoped that Jerry would leave when Wangji told him that no one was available to play Elvis for him, but Jerry shrugs and walks closer. Wangji clenches his fingers in the cloth and forces himself to stay where he is instead of fleeing to the breakroom. Jerry’s the kind of person who acts friendly but feels mean.

“That’s fine,” Jerry says. “I actually came by to talk to you.”

“Me?”

“Yep.” Jerry braces his hands on the Steinway to peer down at Wangji. There will be greasy fingerprints on the wood now. “See, I always thought you looked familiar, but I could never figure out why. It’s not like I know a lot of guys who wear collars, you know?”

Something cold drops into Wangji’s stomach. His hands want to go to his neck even though he knows the collar isn’t there. It hasn’t been there for months.

“But I finally figured it out,” Jerry says. “Last night, I went to the fights—”

The can of polish drops from Wangji’s hand and clatters on the tile. Wangji barely notices because he’s scrambling back, his feet tangling together.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” Jerry says.

Wangji finally pushes himself upright as Jerry rounds the piano. He’s between Wangji and the door that leads to Wei Ying. Wangji shuffles sideways, putting the piano between them, and starts edging toward the front door.

“Hey, relax, okay?” Jerry says. “I’m not here to give you a hard time. I just wanted to see if I was right. And I was. That was you. Wen Ruohan’s mad dog.”

Wangji shudders. He hasn’t heard that name in so long. He shakes his head in numb denial, but Jerry is smiling. It isn’t a nice smile. It’s a shark’s smile, the kind that means it’s about to bite.

“Yeah, I feel pretty stupid that I didn’t figure it out sooner. But who woulda thought a guy like you’d be polishing pianos? I’m used to seeing you rip people apart!”

Wangji shoots a frantic look at the door leading to the back. What if Wei Ying comes out and hears about what he did? He told Wei Ying that he used to hurt people, but he never told him how bad it was, how many people he hurt.

“Last night was the first time the arena’s been open in months. Rumor was that there was some kinda shake-up in Wen Ruohan’s, uh, organization.” Jerry shrugs. “I don’t know nothing about that. I just like to watch the fights sometimes, maybe make a little extra cash if my luck is running. Imagine my surprise when the star didn’t come out for the big finale.” He makes his hand into a gun and points it at Wangji. “It just wasn’t the same without you, kid.”

Wangji stares down at the floor, his heart jerking against his ribs. The can of polish rolled almost to the counter. He bends over and scoops it up, nearly drops it again because his hands are shaking. “I need to finish,” he mumbles, raising the can between them like a shield.

“Yeah, sure, sure. I was just curious, you know?”

Wangji heads toward the back, but Jerry follows, so he detours behind the counter.

“So how’d you end up here?” Jerry asks, propping himself on the counter. “Did ol’ Wen Ruohan just let you retire? Pat you on the back and give you a gold watch?”

Wangji’s eyes fly from the countertop to Jerry’s smirk. He knows. He knows Wangji isn’t supposed to be here.

“Yeah, didn’t think so.” Jerry snorts and picks up the paper rabbit, hopping it over the counter. “See, I also heard that one of Wen Ruohan’s sons got clipped by one of his own guys. Something like that happens, a smart guy might get the hell outta Dodge.”

Wangji hears the blast of the gun, the crack of Wen Chao’s head against the concrete. Xue Yang’s laughter shrieking after him. “It wasn’t—”

“Hey, I’m not asking,” Jerry says, raising his hands again like that will take back what he’s said. “None of my business. I can keep my mouth shut. Guys like Wen Ruohan tend to shoot the messenger, you know?”

Wangji does know. The little rabbit fell over when Jerry dropped it. Wangji’s hand sneaks out to set it upright without his mind deciding to do it.

“I won’t say nothing to your buddies here, either. First rule of fight club, right?” Jerry laughs like that is a joke. It sputters out when Wangji doesn’t join him. “Besides, I’m a fan. You were really something. One time, I saw you beat some guy’s head against the floor until—”

“I don’t do that anymore,” Wangji says, raising his head to meet Jerry’s eyes.

Jerry blinks and shuffles back a step. “Alright, I get it. But a guy with your talents shouldn’t waste ’em. Especially if your friends are in need. And I figure, since I’m promising to keep your little secret, that makes you and me friends. And as my friend, maybe you’d be up to busting some heads. Should I ever need some heads busted.”

Wangji drops his hands below the counter and clamps his fingers over the bunny bracelet. “I . . . I don’t—”

“Yeah, you don’t do that sorta thing anymore. I get it. I’m a pacifist myself. But you never know what tomorrow’s gonna bring, right?” Jerry winks and strolls out the door, the bell’s cheerful jingle echoing in Wangji’s ears.

When he can breathe enough to move, Wangji retrieves the dusting cloth from where he dropped it. He twists the cloth and stares down at the piano without seeing it. Will Jerry keep his promise? What if he doesn’t? What if he comes back and tells Wangji to hurt someone? If Wangji won’t do it, will Jerry tell Wen Ruohan where he is?

Wangji whirls toward the front door, half-expecting Wen Ruohan to walk through it. What would Wen Ruohan do if he found Wangji here? What would he do to Wei Ying? To A-Yuan? He imagines A-Yuan in the cage with the stuffed rabbit and the faded picture book. A-Yuan with a collar around his throat, needles stuck in his arm when he fights back, when he won’t stop crying.

The sob grinds out, gritty in his throat. He drops the dusting cloth on the piano and heads to the door. Jerry can’t tell Wen Ruohan where to find him if Wangji isn’t here.

The bell jingles over Wangji’s head, nearly drowning out Wei Ying’s voice: “Hey, are you going to the store?”

Wangji turns back, helpless not to. Wei Ying smiles at him as he walks his newest student to the door. Wangji shuffles back to let Zhuo Fei walk past him. She tells them goodbye and heads down the sidewalk, wrapping her scarf around her neck. Wei Ying shuts the door behind her and turns back to Wangji. “Are you okay? You look a little freaked.” Wei Ying’s hand pets his arm, his kind eyes moving over Wangji’s face like he can find what’s wrong.

“I need to go,” Wangji says.

“Okay. Go where?”

Wangji wants to tell him. He wants Wei Ying to say that it’s going to be okay, that he’s safe. But it won’t be okay. Not as long as Wangji is here. He’s been so stupid. How did he think that he could have this? He’s just putting them in danger.

“Goodbye,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

It isn’t enough, but there’s nothing he could say to Wei Ying that would be enough, not after everything Wei Ying’s given him.

He pulls away from Wei Ying’s warm hand on his arm and forces himself out of the door. The bitter wind rushes over him. He forgot his coat. It doesn’t matter. He puts his back to the liquor store and starts walking.

The bookstore’s door is closed, too. He looks inside as he walks past, hoping to see Ms. Nelson and Portia one more time, but there’s no sign of them, so he ducks his head and keeps going.

“Wangji, wait!”

Wangji hunches down and keeps going. It’s better if he just goes. If he just disappears.

But boots thud behind him, and Wei Ying grabs his arm. “Wangji, where are you going? You didn’t even put on your coat!”

Wei Ying didn’t put his coat on either. He’s wearing the red sweater Wangji gave him. Wei Ying wears it all the time. He says it’s his favorite. Will he still wear it after Wangji is gone?

“I have to go.”

“Okay, we’ll go wherever you want.” Wei Ying pushes in closer and rubs both hands over Wangji’s arms. “But can we go back and get our coats first? It’s freezing out here.”

“You should go back.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not, sweetheart?”

Wangji shakes his head and stares down at a crack in the sidewalk. Feet scuff around them. Wei Ying tugs at him until they’re tucked under an awning, out of the sidewalk traffic. There’s a sign in the window beside them. Cash Fast. The sign pulses and jitters along with his pounding heart.

“Wangji, what happened? Where do you need to go?”

Wangji shakes his head and shuffles away, but he bumps into a sandwich board sign.

“Hey, watch the sign.”

There’s a man standing in the doorway of the Cash Fast store. He’s wearing a hat like taxi drivers in movies and smoking a cigar. Wangji peers at his face, wreathed in smoke and striped in neon by the flickering sign. He tries to remember if this man ever went to the fights like Jerry. Suddenly, the whole world seems full of people who might recognize him, who might lead Wen Ruohan to Wei Ying.

Wei Ying ignores the smoking man. He squeezes Wangji’s hands. “Whatever is wrong, we can fix it, okay? Just come back with me for a little while so we can talk about it. Will you do that for me?”

The smoking man grunts and blows a cloud of cigar smoke toward them. “If you two are gonna make out, do it in front of your little music store. Nobody here wants to see that shit.”

Wei Ying’s head snaps toward the man. “Eat my ass.” He turns back to Wangji. “Please? Just for a little while?”

Wangji nods. Anything to get away from the man’s cigar. And it’s so cold. He can get his blue coat and his hat. He can leave tonight. After dark. It will be safer in the dark.

Wei Ying grips his hand until they are inside the apartment. He leaves Wangji on the couch and goes into the kitchen. Wangji wraps his arms around his waist and listens to the cabinet doors bang shut, to the microwave whir. Then Wei Ying comes back and hands him a mug of cocoa.

Wei Ying sits down beside him on the couch. “Okay. I don’t mean to be nosy, but I’m worried about you. Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

The cocoa is in Wangji’s bunny mug, the one Wei Ying found at the thrift store. There’s a tiny chip in the handle and some of the paint is flaked off the bunny’s sweater, but he loves it. He loves washing it and setting it in the cabinet next to A-Yuan’s Jurassic Park glass and Wei Ying’s favorite mug: a T-Rex playing piano. He doesn’t want to leave it behind. He doesn’t want to leave.

Wei Ying squeezes his knee. “I just want to help.”

The radiator clunks on. It’s a noise Wangji has heard hundreds of times, but he still flinches.

Wei Ying’s hand tightens on his knee, then slides away. “Did something happen? Did someone come in the store?”

Wangji stares into his cocoa, trying to figure out if he should warn Wei Ying. After Wangji is gone, Jerry will still be there. Jerry could still tell Wen Ruohan that Wangji lived there, and Wen Ruohan might not care that Wangji is gone. He might think that Wangji told Wei Ying things about him. Wen Ruohan hated people knowing about his business. The worst thing any of Wen Ruohan’s men could do was to snitch. If Wangji told, then he’d be a snitch. And Wei Ying would know too much. Wangji has seen what happens when people snitch. One of Wen Ruohan’s men snitched to the cops. Wen Ruohan put that man in the basement with Wangji. Wangji only remembers the first few seconds. And after. The basement smelled like blood for days.

He’d liked that man. More than most of the others, anyway. That man sang sometimes. When he sang, he snapped his fingers to the rhythm and grinned at Wangji. He can’t remember that man’s name now.

Is that what Wen Ruohan would do to punish Wangji for running away? Would he make Wangji kill Wei Ying himself?

The cocoa sloshes over Wangji’s hand, but he barely feels the burn. He sets the mug down on the coffee table and wipes his hand on his jeans.

“Did you burn your hand?” Wei Ying reaches for his hand, but Wangji tucks it between his knees. Wei Ying sighs and scrubs at his face. “I’m sorry for bugging you, but you’re scaring me, sweetheart.”

“Sorry. You aren’t bugging me.”

“Do you . . . Wangji, do you not want to live here anymore?”

Wangji’s throat clenches shut. Wei Ying sounded so small. He lets his eyes flicker up to Wei Ying’s face and has to look away from the hurt he sees there. “No,” he croaks. “I don’t want to leave, but—”

“But what? Wangji, please. Please talk to me.”

Wangji curls tighter around his belly. The apartment is warm, but he’s still shivering. “I have to go. They will find me.”

“Who?”

He shakes his head. “They’re dangerous.”

“Okay, but why would they find you here? Why now?”

“Jerry.” He grunts it out without meaning to. He realizes that he’s angry. He’s angry at Jerry, with his shark smile and his stupid Elvis songs. Why did Jerry have to recognize him? Why couldn’t he just stay in his own store and mind his own business?

“Jerry from the liquor store?”

“He recognized me. From before.”

“What? What did he say? What did that asshole do?”

Wei Ying sounds angry too. For some reason, that makes Wangji feel a little better. “He knows what I did. Before. He said he wouldn’t tell anyone where I was. But he said he might want me to, to hurt people. To bust heads.”

“That fucking slimeball!” Wei Ying yelps. He bounces off the couch, then settles back down, breathing hard.

“I wouldn’t,” Wangji says, pleading with Wei Ying to believe him. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Oh sweetheart, I know.” Wei Ying grabs his hands and squeezes. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“I used to.”

“But you never have to again. Not anymore.”

“But he could tell. He could tell them where to find me. And then—” He forces himself to meet Wei Ying’s eyes. He needs Wei Ying to understand. “They could hurt you. They could hurt A-Yuan. Or he could—they could take him.”

Wei Ying stares back at him, his eyes wide, his mouth open. “Oh. Oh, sweetheart. Is that—did that happen to you?”

A door creaks open, deep in his mind. A dark room. A line of light. Hands reaching into the darkness to pull him out.

He slams it shut, shakes his head to chase the shadows away. “No. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I just have to go. So you’ll be safe.”

“No.”

Wangji turns to him, shocked at the venom in Wei Ying’s voice, even stronger than when he’d told the smoking man to eat his ass. “Wei Ying—”

“No!” Wei Ying pushes off the couch and paces around the coffee table. “No, we are not letting fucking Jerry run you out of your home. I’m not letting him take you away from us.”

“Wei Ying, I can’t stay. He could tell.”

“Then we just have to make sure that he doesn’t.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.” Wei Ying makes two more loops around the coffee table and then stops, his eyes blazing down at Wangji. “Will you give me a chance to figure it out?”

Wangji nods, hope trying to rise in his chest. Wei Ying is so smart. Maybe he can find a way.

Wei Ying smiles, thin and distracted. Then he whirls towards the door. “I need to run downstairs for a second.” He pauses, staring back at Wangji. “Will you stay?”

Wangji nods.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

This time, Wei Ying’s smile is real. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

Wei Ying clatters down the stairs, telling himself that he can’t run straight to the liquor store and murder Jerry. Sure, it’d be easy. Sure, it’d feel great. But he imagines himself on trial for murder, trying to explain that the slimeball deserved it, Your Honor. Even in his imagination, the judge (played by Elvis in this scenario) throws him in jail instead of awarding him the medal he deserves.

When he gets to the studio, he tells Wen Ning that there’s an emergency and to please call his students to let them know that lessons are cancelled this afternoon. He’s talking so fast that Wen Ning probably only catches about sixty percent of it, but every second he’s away from Wangji is a second that Wangji might change his mind and take off again.

That done, he runs back upstairs and bursts through the door. Wangji looks up, startled, a cocoa mustache on his upper lip. Wei Ying sags against the door, gasping for breath and so relieved that his knees wobble. Or maybe that’s from the sprint up and down the stairs.

He drops onto the couch beside Wangji. “Okay, I have an idea.” That isn’t exactly true. He has about 15 percent of an idea. But what he’s got is better than just beating Jerry to death and dumping his corpse in the dumpster, fun though that would be. “But for my idea to work, I’m going to need to know more about these people. The ones Jerry could tattle to.”

Wangji’s shoulders hunch. He tugs at his bunny charm. “It isn’t safe.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask you to talk about them, but I need to know what we’re up against.”

“I know. Wei Ying isn’t nosy.”

It would almost sound like a joke if Wangji didn’t look ready to hide in the closet. “So will you tell me?”

Wangji nods. He takes a deep breath. “His name is Wen Ruohan.”

“Wen? Like Wen Ning?”

“I think so. He’s in charge, but there are a lot of people who work for him. They’re bad people. Dangerous.”

“Like criminals?”

Wangji nods, drawing into himself in a guilty little ball. Wei Ying rubs his shoulder. Wangji trembles under his hand, but Wei Ying has to keep pushing. “What do they do?”

Wangji tries to explain, but he clearly doesn’t understand much of it. He describes going on “collections” with one of Wen Ruohan’s sons. Like when Wei Ying collects rent from the tenants, only “Wei Ying doesn’t hurt people who can’t pay.”

While Wei Ying is still reeling from that, Wangji says, “I don’t know that much about them.” He ducks his head like he’s apologizing. “I stayed in the basement most of the time.”

“The basement?”

Wangji nods. “In the cage.”

Alarms sound in Wei Ying’s head, warning him that he might not be able to stand hearing more. Warning him that even his worst fears about what happened to Wangji might seem sweet compared to the reality.

“Jerry goes to the fights,” Wangji says, cutting through the sirens blaring in Wei Ying’s head.

“The fights?” He just keeps repeating Wangji’s words, too horrified to make sense of them himself.

“He said he bets on them sometimes. That’s how he knew me.”

“You were a fighter? Like a boxer?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t have those gloves.” He curls his hands into fists like he’s imagining them in boxing gloves. No, he wouldn’t have worn gloves. His hands might not be so scarred if he had. Not for the first time, Wei Ying wonders how many other scars Wangji has, how much pain he must live with.

Wangji keeps going, talking for almost half an hour. The narrative is disjointed—jagged pieces of a life he either doesn’t remember or doesn’t want to talk about. He describes being used as some kind of attack dog and tossed into an arena to fight entire groups of people, but he “went away” as much as he could, hiding away from all that horror. But he remembers the day that Wen Ruohan’s son died in front of him. “It was my job to protect him,” Wangji whispers, like those monsters deserve his grief or his guilt.

After that, Wangji slumps on the couch and falls silent. He shakes his head when Wei Ying asks if he wants to come along to pick up A-Yuan.

“You’ll be here when I get back, right?” Wei Ying asks as he hovers in the doorway.

Wangji nods, his eyelids drooping. He looks too exhausted to get off the couch, much less make a run for it.

The immediate problem is keeping Jerry’s mouth shut. Once Wei Ying has accomplished that, he can let himself process the horrors he’s heard this afternoon. As Wei Ying walks to school, he focuses on the problem, and the remaining 85 percent of his idea falls into place and becomes a plan. It’s a terrible plan, but if it fails, there’s still the dumpster. A solid Plan B.

When he reaches the school, he waves off Mr. Howard’s attempt to chat and calls Jiang Cheng. “Hey, can A-Yuan stay with you tonight?”

“Why, what happened?” That’s his brother, instantly suspicious. This time, his paranoia is warranted. Thankfully, Wei Ying is a very good liar.

“Wen Ning’s piano player has the flu, and he has a gig tonight, so I said I’d fill in.”

“Can’t your roommate babysit?”

“Wangji’s coming with us to help set up. It’s no big deal if you can’t. I just didn’t want to make Jie drive in on short notice. I can ask my neighbor if you’ve got big Friday night plans.”

“Nothing I can’t rearrange.” Which means No, I have no life outside of work. “I’ll swing by after work.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“You owe me a thousand.”

The phone goes dead. Jiang Cheng has never bothered with anything as courteous as goodbye. Wei Ying rolls his eyes and stuffs the phone in his pocket. Phase one complete. Now he has to lie to his son.

“Where’s Wangji-ge?” is the first thing out of A-Yuan’s mouth when he barrels through the gate.

“He isn’t feeling well today.” That part is true, anyway.

“He’s sick?”

“Not really. He’s just feeling icky. I’m going to go play with Wen Ning’s band tonight, but Jiang Cheng said you can stay with him. Is that okay?”

“What about Wangji-ge?”

“He’s coming with me.”

“I thought he was sick.”

Wei Ying grits his teeth. Sometimes, he wishes his son were a little more gullible. “He said he wants to go hear the music. You know how he is.”

A-Yuan nods solemnly, like a little Wangji. “Yeah, he really likes music.”

“That he does. So, are you okay with going to Shushu’s?”

“Sure.”

Of course he is. Jiang Cheng feeds him ice cream and lets him do whatever he wants. They’ll probably play Call of Duty all night.

Miraculously, A-Yuan doesn’t ask why they go upstairs instead of to the studio. He just hops on the couch and sticks his hand to Wangji’s forehead like he’s checking for fever. “Wangji-ge, if you’re sick, you can come to Shushu’s with me tonight.”

Wangji blinks his confusion over A-Yuan’s head. Wei Ying shakes his head and bends to smack a kiss on A-Yuan’s hair. “That’s sweet, Monkey, but he’ll be okay.”

He leaves them on the couch to go pack A-Yuan’s overnight stuff. When he comes back, A-Yuan is snuggled under Wangji’s arm, hopping a stegosaurus over Wangi’s leg. Wei Ying stands there watching Wangji stroke A-Yuan’s hair and wishes horrible death on Wen Ruohan and anyone else who ever hurt this man.

Not useful, he warns himself. He forces the anger down and goes to the bedroom to concentrate on finalizing his plan.

After he’s handed his son off to Jiang Cheng and helped Wen Ning close up, he goes back upstairs. He has a small heart attack when he finds the couch empty, but Wangji only moved to the piano bench.

“Popo’s not home,” Wangji says, then goes back to playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” His comfort song.

Wei Ying smooths a hand over his hair and kneels down beside the bench. “I’ve got an idea for how to deal with Jerry. We can do it tonight if you’re up for it.”

Wangji nods, calmer now. Trusting. That makes what Wei Ying is going to ask of him feel even worse.

Wei Ying explains the plan. Wangji nods along. Still calm. Still trusting. He even adds some suggestions. And then they wait. The Plan won’t work if the liquor store is busy, so they need to hold off until the after-work crowd clears out. Wangji turns on Animal Planet, but Wei Ying couldn’t say afterwards if they learned about leopards or gorillas. Mostly, he stares at the bin on the bookshelf and hopes he isn’t making a terrible mistake.

At eight o’clock, he can’t stand waiting any longer. “Are you ready?”

Wangji nods. He goes to the bookshelf and picks up the collar. And puts it on. When it clicks shut, he shivers and reaches for his bunny charm.

“We can do it without that,” Wei Ying says. “You don’t have to.”

Wangji drops the bunny and turns to him. “It’s fine. Just cold.” He even smiles a little.

“It’s only for a few minutes,” Wei Ying says, reassuring himself as much as Wangji.

On the way, they stop by the studio to pick up the crowbar. He has no idea how the crowbar got there or what they used it for, but it’s been propped up in the supply closet for months. Maybe Wen Ning brought it to open a crate? Do they even get shipments in crates?

Stop obsessing about the crowbar, he scolds himself. It’s here, so it’s part of The Plan.

He tries to carry the crowbar like carrying a crowbar down the sidewalk is a perfectly normal thing to do, but nobody pays attention to them on the short walk to the liquor store.

They pause on the sidewalk to peer inside, but the windows are covered in iron bars and faded posters. They’ll just have to risk it and hope that Jerry’s customers aren’t the observant types.

The bell on the door jingles as they file inside. Aisles full of shiny bottles stretch to the back of the store. No one is browsing there. Jerry isn’t behind the register. So far, so good. Wei Ying turns the lock and flips the sign to Closed.

Summoned by the bell, Jerry pops out of the store’s backroom. He stops in the doorway, his sleazy smile sinking as he recognizes them. His eyes drop to the crowbar in Wei Ying’s hand. He sighs and lets the door swing shut behind him. “Alright,” he says, walking toward them, “I see what’s happening, but look, I didn’t mean to scare the kid. Like I told him, I’m a fan. I wasn’t trying to start trouble.”

Wei Ying glances at Wangji. He doesn’t look scared. That cold mask is back. Wei Ying clamps down on his shiver and lifts an eyebrow at Jerry. “No, you just thought you’d send Wangji to ‘bust heads’ for you.”

Jerry shrugs. “I’ve seen him do a lot worse. But if he isn’t up for it, then no big whoop.”

“He isn’t.”

Jerry’s eyes slide to Wangji. “He speak for you?”

“He does.” Wangji’s voice is gravel and threat. The hair on Wei Ying’s arms prickles.

“I see.” Jerry crosses his arms. “I don’t get what a piano teacher needs with that kind of muscle, but it’s none of my business.”

“No, it isn’t your business.” Wei Ying takes a step closer, hoping he doesn’t look as panicked as he feels. “Best keep it that way.”

Jerry snorts. He clearly isn’t buying the schtick.

Drawing on every bad movie he’s ever seen, Wei Ying cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “You know my partner, right? Wen Ning?”

Jerry rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

“He’s Wen Ruohan’s nephew.”

Jerry’s smirk droops. “That so?”

“It is. Wangji was a present from Wen Ruohan.” Bile surges into his throat, but he swallows it down and lets it twist his face into a sneer. “Wen Ruohan’s a generous man. And a private one. I’m telling you this for your own good: don’t run your mouth about Wangji.”

“Or what?” Jerry snorts, but he’s tense now. Bluffing. “You’ll hit me with a clarinet?”

Wei Ying passes Wangji the crowbar. Wangji strides forward and swings. Bottles shatter, glass and cheap wine pattering to the floor.

“Whoa, hold on! You don’t gotta do that!”

“Wangji.”

At Wei Ying’s command, Wangji stops mid-swing and comes back to his side.

Wei Ying steps forward. His boots crunch in the glass. Jerry backs away, hands held high. “That was with the collar on,” Wei Ying says. “You don’t want to see what he does when I take it off.”

“He wasn’t wearing it earlier,” Jerry whines. His eyes jump between Wei Ying and Wangji looming behind him.

“There’s a lot you don’t understand,” Wei Ying says, making his voice as sinister and condescending as he can. “For one, do you really think your neighbors just give music lessons?” He laughs like a supervillain. “Jerry, I didn’t think you were this fucking stupid.”

Jerry’s jaw drops. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying agrees. “It’s called a cover, Jerry. You wouldn’t want to jeopardize Wen Ruohan’s operation, would you?”

“No! No, of course not. Please, I was just—”

Wei Ying cuts him off with a wave of his hand. Then he tucks his hands behind his back and strolls back to Wangji. It feels cheesy as fuck, but Jerry is all but hyperventilating behind him. “We’ve been neighbors a long time, Jerry. That’s why I wanted to keep this visit friendly.”

“I appreciate it,” Jerry stammers. “I never meant to stick my nose in.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. That’s why I’ve kept this between us. For now.”

“Thank you,” Jerry wheezes.

Wei Ying almost laughs, but then he sees how Wangji is staring at Jerry—like he’s trying to decide which bone to break first. The laugh withers in his throat. “Let’s go,” he says, hoping it sounds like an order instead of a plea.

Wangji files behind him, and they head towards the door. There’s a display of Jose Cuervo by the register. Heeding some dramatic instinct—or maybe just old habit—Wei Ying pauses and picks up a bottle. Wangji halts behind him like a well-trained dog. Wei Ying tilts the bottle, watching the tequila bubble like he has all the time in the world. He turns and shakes the bottle at Jerry. “You mind?”

“All yours! Consider it a thank you for all the concerts.”

Wei Ying smiles. “Thanks.” Then he sends the smile away. “Be seeing you.”

He sets off again with Wangji at his heels. On the sidewalk, the cold night air hits them, cutting through the reek of booze. Neither of them says anything as they climb the stairs back to the apartment.

When they’re back home, Wei Ying realizes he’s still gripping the tequila. The way his hands are shaking, it’s a miracle he didn’t drop it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, heading to the kitchen. What the fuck was he thinking? He cracks the cap and dumps the tequila into the sink before he completely loses it and pours it down his throat. And wouldn’t that be an excellent cap to the evening? He could get shitfaced and puke all over Wangji’s boots.

When the bottle is empty, he crams it into the trashcan, burying it under the coffee filters and juice boxes. It’s pointless, but hiding the evidence used to be so automatic that he can’t make himself stop.

“Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying stops burrowing in the trash and turns to Wangji.

“Where should I put this?” Wangji holds up the crowbar.

“Oh. Um, bedroom closet?”

Wangji nods and heads toward their bedroom. He comes back a few seconds later, unfastening the collar as he walks. He sets it back in its bin and comes back to Wei Ying. “Are you okay?”

Wei Ying shakes out a laugh. After all that, Wangji’s worried about him? “I’m okay. Are you?”

Wangji nods. “Do you think it worked?”

“Yeah, I guess. What do you think?”

“He was scared.”

“I hope he’s scared enough.”

Wangji hums, then wrinkles his nose at the tequila fog. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Good idea. Are you hungry?” Wei Ying’s mice are scampering around his belly, but it’s well past their usual dinnertime.

Wangji nods.

“Okay, I’ll make some sandwiches.”

Once Wangji is in the bathroom, Wei Ying slumps against the counter and thumps his head against the kitchen cabinet. He’d like a shower, too. He smells like tequila and anxiety sweat.

They eat turkey sandwiches in front of the TV. Wei Ying can’t manage much of his, so he hands it off to Wangji to finish. Then he stands under the shower until the water turns cold and stays under the cold water until his teeth chatter. Then he gives his chattering teeth a cursory brush, avoiding his reflection. It had seemed so clever when he came up with the plan this afternoon. But he hadn’t considered what it’d be like to see Wangji strap that collar on. He hadn’t understood what it would feel like to snap his fingers and make Wangji act like an animal.

He’s back on the couch, huddled under the blanket, when his phone buzzes on the coffee table. The sound startles him so badly that he nearly falls off the couch. It’s his son, texting from Jiang Cheng’s phone to tell him and Wangji goodnight. “A-Yuan says to tell you goodnight and he hopes you feel better.” Wei Ying turns the phone toward Wangji so he can see the string of bunny and heart emojis.

Wangji smiles. “Tell him goodnight.”

Wei Ying does, adding GO TO BED!! with three frowny faces. But it’s not even ten o’clock yet. It just feels like he’s been up for three days.

A-Yuan sends back a cheeky monkey, and then the phone goes silent. He tosses the phone back on the table and curls up under the blanket.

“Wei Ying, are you okay?”

Wei Ying wiggles around to look at Wangji. His sweet little face is so concerned. “Yeah, it’s just been a long day.”

Wangji hums and drops his eyes to the blanket on his lap.

“I’m sorry for making you do that,” Wei Ying blurts, wincing at the volume.

“It’s okay. It was just pretend. I knew we wouldn’t really hurt him.”

I didn’t. Part of Wei Ying wants to go back to the liquor store with the crowbar and keep swinging. “Still, I’m sorry that you had to pretend. You shouldn’t have to do things like that.”

“Neither should you,” Wangji says. His eyes shine up at Wei Ying. “Thank you for doing that. For me.”

He reaches over to squeeze Wangji’s arm. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Wangji smiles, ducking his head. “I’m glad I can stay,” he whispers, almost too low to hear.

“Me too. This is your home. We love you, you know?”

Wangji blinks at him, sweetly stunned. “Family.”

Wei Ying nods. “Family. Me, you, and A-Yuan. The most handsome family there ever was. And families take care of each other.”

Wangji’s eyes shutter. His smile falls. It’s obvious where his mind has gone. Wei Ying inches closer and grips his arm. “We take care of each other. You don’t ever have to leave to keep us safe. We keep each other safe. Okay?”

“Okay,” Wangji mumbles. He doesn’t sound convinced, but he leans in when Wei Ying pets his hair.

They go to bed soon after that. Wangji drops off quickly, but Wei Ying stares at the ceiling, his mind rumbling with everything he might have done wrong. He’ll definitely have to bring Wen Ning in on The Plan in case Jerry questions him about his “uncle.” Wen Ning will probably be an even less convincing gangster than Wei Ying, though. And what if Jerry keeps dropping by with song requests? Will they have to keep putting on a show for him? Or what if Jerry wasn’t as duped as he’d seemed? What if he runs his mouth the next time he goes to watch those barbaric fights?

The ceiling has no answers to these questions. Wei Ying eventually falls asleep in the middle of concocting a plan to just take Wangji and run, to take him somewhere far away where no one will ever hurt him again.

The first few days after what Wei Ying’s brain entitles The Crowbar Incident are tense, but when no goons show up to bust their heads, he starts to relax. Maybe he was a more convincing thug than he thought. Or maybe the coincidence of the Wen name was compelling despite his cheap theatrics. Or maybe cleaning up all that broken glass—a chore Jerry greatly deserved to suffer—gave Jerry time to reflect that threatening Wangji was pretty fucking stupid, given that Wangji used to be a professional head-buster.

Whatever the reason, their heads remain unbusted, and Wei Ying eventually stops jumping every time the bell jingles over the door. And he stops freaking out every time Wangji is out of his sight. The first couple of days, he was tempted to drag Wangji into the practice room when he was back there with students.

Wangji, strangely, seems fine. Like he’s confident that Wei Ying’s plan worked. Like it was no big deal to wear the collar again or to smash up Jerry’s store. Wei Ying tells himself that’s a good thing. Wangji is just really brave. He has to be after everything he’s been through.

Wei Ying learns more about those things in what has become nightly chats, curled face to face in bed, their voices low in the dark bedroom. Wangji tells him about the cage, how he was locked down there alone except for his bunny. He doesn’t seem to realize how horrible it was, and Wei Ying tries to stop the tears that leak out as Wangji tells him that the piano was his favorite page in the picture book that he had to hide so that it wouldn’t be taken away.

Wangji tells him about Wen Zhuliu who brought him ice for his bruises and sewed up the bad cuts. He tells Wei Ying about hearing music sometimes when he went on “collections.” “Not as nice as yours,” Wangji whispers urgently. “I had never heard music like yours before.”

“Such a sweetheart,” Wei Ying mumbles back. What if he hadn’t been playing that first day—the day he apparently lured Wangji to the store with Chopin? He imagines Wangji coming so close and then disappearing without them ever meeting. Just passing by without Wei Ying getting the chance to know him. It’s a cold thought, and it takes everything he has not to throw himself around Wangji and cling tight.

Eventually, Wei Ying realizes that Wangji is only telling him the nice things about his past—the things he remembers fondly. They’re just little scraps of light in what must be years of darkness. Years of fear and pain and loneliness. When he realizes that, he has to lock himself in the bathroom and run the water to cover his sobs.

But Wei Ying does the same thing when they start sharing histories. He’s already told Wangji his worst story, but there are plenty more that are too ugly to tell such a wonderful man. So he tells Wangji his silliest childhood stories and his cutest A-Yuan stories, stringing them together like twinkle lights to hide the shadows underneath. He tells him about when he and Wen Ning started running the studio, how they used to paper the streets with flyers but not how he lay awake at night worried that the business would fail and he’d be homeless again, but with a baby this time.

The bad things have a way of leaking out, though, especially when they’re whispering in the dark. The funny stories take a darker turn, and Wei Ying tells Wangji about the time after his parents died, how he kept running away from the foster homes because he didn’t understand that his parents were dead, how he kept trying to find them even after he made his way back to their building and saw the scorched rubble. He tells Wangji that he kept running even after Baoshan convinced the Jiangs to adopt him. He ran until Jie found him half-frozen in an alley and carried him all the way back home.

Then Wangji tells him about the arena and the bloodstains on his sleeping bag and the leash he had to wear when he disobeyed. He talks about hiding food in his cage because sometimes they punished him with starvation or just forgot to feed him. But the scraps drew rats that bit him and chewed out his rabbit’s eye.

They talk about being hungry and scared and alone. Wangji tells him about the drugs they used to control him, and Wei Ying talks about how he drank because he couldn’t stand to be in his own mind when his thoughts weren’t muffled by booze. They twine their fingers together and tangle their feet under the covers and talk until they fall asleep. When the nightmares come, he rubs Wangji’s back and sings him back to sleep. When Wei Ying is the one who wakes up screaming, all the bad memories stomping through his brain, Wangji pets his hair and hums his nameless song.

He’s never told anyone the things he tells Wangji. Not even Jie or Baoshan. But every morning, Wangji still smiles at him like Wei Ying didn’t keep him up half the night with his bitter whining. He still follows Wei Ying with his eyes, like Wei Ying will disappear if he isn’t looking. Every day, Wangji dives into his lessons and hums through his chores like he didn’t spend years in a hell that would have shattered most people. Every day, he gets brighter and stronger. Wei Ying watches him play a song or read a book or cart A-Yuan around on his shoulders and can’t believe how lucky he is to know him.

Chapter Text

Spring arrives with slushy streets and silver sunlight. The studio door stays propped open unless it’s raining, but even then, the air smells alive again, rich with copper rain. Now that it’s warmer, they can go to the park again. Wei Ying buys a frisbee, and Wangji buys a kite, and they spend every Sunday playing in the sunshine. Wangji even takes A-Yuan and Jingyi to the park by himself a few times when they’re out of school for spring break. It’s exhausting to keep up with both boys, but he’s proud of himself. On one of those trips, Jingyi starts calling him Er-gege. When he takes Jingyi home, Popo calls him a nice boy and pats his cheek.

Wangji still has nightmares too often, and there’s a new one about A-Yuan in his old cage that scared him so badly the first time that he had to go to A-Yuan’s room to make sure he was still there. After that, Wei Ying asks again if he will talk to his friend Baoshan, and Wangji agrees. If Wei Ying says that she’s nice, then she must be.

They meet Baoshan at Ms. Nelson’s bookstore. Ms. Nelson and Baoshan are sitting on the patio waiting for them. Portia is in Baoshan’s lap, but she hops over to Wangji as soon as he sits down.

“Sorry, my dear,” Ms. Nelson tells Baoshan, “but Wangji’s her favorite. When he leaves, she sits in the window and pines.”

“Well, we can’t fault a lady for knowing what she wants,” Baoshan says. Then she and Ms. Nelson look at each other in a way that Wangji doesn’t understand, but he drops his eyes to Portia’s fur, his ears burning.

“Hold up,” Wei Ying says, pointing between the two women. “What’s going on here?”

“Mind your business, boy,” Baoshan says. “Letitia and I are grown-ups.” Wei Ying sputters and Ms. Nelson laughs. Wangji decides that he will not ask what’s going on. He can mind his business.

That first day, they all just eat cookies and chat. The next time, Wangji goes alone and meets Baoshan on the patio. She tells him that she isn’t a therapist, but she’s happy to help if she can.

“Wei Ying asked if I could find out anything about your family, but we both want to check if you’re okay with that first.”

“But they’re dead.”

“Maybe so,” she agrees, “but I don’t think we can trust the man who told you that. And even if your parents are dead, you may have other living relatives.”

Wei Ying hasn’t said anything about relatives. Does Wei Ying want him to live with someone else? “If I have relatives, will I have to go live with them?”

“No, of course not. That would be your choice. Though I think Wei Ying would be devastated if you left him.”

She smiles like she’s joking, but Wangji is too relieved to smile. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Understood, but it’s important that we figure out who you are. You’ll need identification eventually, which means having a birth certificate and a social security number.”

“Why do I need them?”

“You need ID if you want to do things like open a bank account or get a bus pass. Or get married.”

“Married?” he whispers.

“Just an example.” She smiles and sips her tea. “Wei Ying said you might want to go to college someday. You’d need ID to do that.”

Wangji nods. They did talk about college one night. Wei Ying said he’d be great at school, but it would take a while for him to catch up. “Can you find out how old I am?”

“I hope so. It may take some time, though, so you’ll need to be patient.”

“Okay. Thank you.” He can be patient. There is so much that he needs to learn and so much he wants to experience. So many songs and books and games. He and A-Yuan are even learning math now. Getting ID doesn’t seem too important when he already has so much to do. But sometimes, when he’s lying beside Wei Ying, curling Wei Ying’s hair around his fingers, he thinks married and nearly bursts with the sunlight that swells in his chest.

They’re eating the wonton soup that Wangji and Wei Ying made, but A-Yuan is laughing too hard to finish his dinner. “It was so loud!” A-Yuan howls.

“It was the chair!” Wei Ying howls back.

“You—” A-Yuan blurts another laugh and bangs his spoon on the table, splattering soup. “You farted!”

“It was the chair! I’m telling you, that chair was haunted or something!” Wei Ying turns to Wangji, his eyes dancing. “Don’t listen to him, Wangji. He was like three years old.”

“It was last year!”

Wei Ying snorts and tries to pretend it was a cough. “Yeah, well, you’re just a kid. You just don’t understand these things.”

“You fart-ted!” A-Yuan insists. “In front of Ms. Perez!”

“Wangji, have you ever in your entire life heard me fart?”

Wangji stares into Wei Ying’s beseeching eyes, and with all the sincerity he can muster, lies: “Never.”

“Ha! See?”

A-Yuan rolls his eyes. “You farted on the couch last night.”

“Lies.”

“It stank for an hour.”

“You were just smelling your own monkey butt.”

A-Yuan groans and slumps down in his chair.

“Eat your Wonton Abbey before it gets cold.”

A-Yuan sticks out his tongue but picks up his spoon.

“So,” Wei Ying says, “what were we talking about before that wonderful trip down memory lane?”

“My birthday,” A-Yuan mumbles around a mouthful of wonton.

“Oh, right.” Wei Ying swirls his spoon through his soup and pouts. “I’m too young to have a seven-year-old kid.”

“You’re old enough to have a one hundred-year-old kid,” A-Yuan mutters.

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Wei Ying turns to Wangji. “You don’t think I’m old, do you, Er-gege?”

Wangji shakes his head and sips his soup. Wei Ying squeezes his arm and turns back to A-Yuan. “So what do you think? Party at the park again?”

“You don’t have to give me a party if you buy me—”

Wei Ying throws up his hand. “Don’t say it.”

“Daaad.”

“Don’t start. I told you those things are too expensive. And you’re too young anyway.”

“Kindergarteners have Xboxes!”

“Then their parents are idiots.”

“Okay.” A-Yuan sits back and crosses his arms. “How about a Switch?”

“What’s that?”

A-Yuan rolls his eyes. “And you think you aren’t old. Everybody knows what a Switch is.”

“I know what a switch is,” Wei Ying mumbles. “Doesn’t have anything to do with video games, though.”

“What’s a Switch?” Wangji asks.

Wei Ying points at him. “Ha!”

“Wangji-ge doesn’t count,” A-Yuan says. “He never got to play video games.”

Wei Ying rubs Wangji’s shoulder. “You aren’t missing much there.”

A-Yuan sighs and climbs off his chair. “He’ll never know because you won’t buy us an Xbox.”

Wei Ying watches A-Yuan carry his bowl to the sink and sighs. “Maybe I should buy him one,” he mumbles. “I don’t want him to be the weird kid at school whose parents keep him away from the cool stuff.”

“You can use my salary,” Wangji says.

Wei Ying smiles at him like he’s said something wonderful. “You’re such a sweetheart. That’s your money, though. Maybe that Switch thing is cheaper.”

A-Yuan carts the rest of the dishes to the sink and then crawls into Wangji’s lap. He gazes up at Wangji with the sad face that Wangji has learned means that he wants something. “Wangji-ge, I bet Baba would buy us an Xbox if you asked him.”

“You sneaky little—”

Wangji ignores Wei Ying’s sputtering and brushes A-Yuan’s hair back. “If you had an Xbox, you might want to play it all the time instead of reading with me.”

A-Yuan’s eyes get even more mournful. “I’d still read with you! And you could play Sonic with me.”

“Is it fun?”

“Yes! Everybody thinks it’s fun!”

Wangji hums and turns to Wei Ying.

“No!” Wei Ying yelps, shoving his hand in A-Yuan’s face. “No, the two of you are not ganging up on me with your anime eyes!”

A-Yuan sticks out his tongue. Wei Ying raspberries back at him. They both look at Wangji. He considers his options, then pokes the tip of his tongue between his lips.

“Oh no,” Wei Ying moans. He slaps his hands over his eyes. “Oh no, you can’t do that. It’s too cute.”

Wangji draws his tongue back in his mouth. A-Yuan scrambles off his lap and runs to grab Wei Ying’s phone. “Do it again, Wangji-ge!” He aims the phone at Wangji’s face.

“No!” Wei Ying whines. “You can’t take a picture of that! My phone would die! It’s old, it can’t handle that much cuteness!”

Wangji sticks out his tongue again and lets it pbbt as A-Yuan takes the picture. Despite his protests, Wei Ying grabs for the phone and grins down at the photo. “Oh no! Oh, my poor heart, that is adorable.”

“His heart can’t take it,” A-Yuan says, giggling, “because he’s so old.”

“That’s it.” Wei Ying drops the phone on the table and lunges out of his chair. “C’mere, Monkey Boy, I’m gonna fart on your face!”

A-Yuan squeals and runs into the living room with Wei Ying at his heels. Wangji smiles and picks up the phone to look at the new photo. It is pretty cute.

Jie and her family show up to the park twenty minutes early for A-Yuan’s birthday party. She obviously expected Wei Ying to be frazzled and desperate for help, but not only is he done setting up, but Wangji and A-Yuan have already wandered off to fly the kite.

Jin Ling and the peacock say a quick hello and head towards Wangji and A-Yuan. “Can I do anything to help?” Jie asks.

“Nope, all good.”

They both turn to survey the picnic table loaded with cupcakes and dinosaur-themed party supplies. He even remembered the napkins.

“Everything looks great!” Jie says, failing to hide her surprise.

“Yeah, Wangji was a lot of help. We’ve finally got a real grown-up in the house.” He nods toward where said grown-up is helping A-Yuan hold the kite steady.

When he turns back, Jie gives him her softest smile, the one that means she’s about to say something mortifying.

“Want some lemonade?” he blurts. “I remembered the sugar this year and everything.”

“Sure.” She sits on the bench, and he hands her a cup of lemonade. She sips it and hums to show her approval. He tries not to look too smug about his awesome party skills. He and Wangji even baked the cupcakes themselves. They’re a little lopsided, but it’s not like the kids will care.

“Wangji is so good with them,” Jie says, gesturing at the boys with her cup.

“Yeah, he’s amazing. Even Jingyi listens to him.”

Jie laughs. “That is amazing. Did Wangji have any siblings when he was growing up?”

In her own way—a much kinder, gentler way—Jie is a lot like Yu Ziyuan. Ever since Wangji moved in, Jie has been hitting Wei Ying with these mild little questions, trying to tease out information. Not that he blames her. Who wouldn’t be curious when their brother suddenly pops up with a mysterious new roommate? And he can’t blame Jie for worrying about him, not after what he’s put her through. But Wangji’s story isn’t Wei Ying’s to tell, not even to his sister.

“No, I don’t think so,” Wei Ying says evenly.

“And his parents died.” Jie sighs and cradles the cup in her lap. “I can’t imagine how horrible that would be, being alone in the world like that.”

“He isn’t alone,” Wei Ying blurts, then cringes because now he’s the one being mortifying.

“Of course not. I just meant—”

“I know.” He gulps his own lemonade to hide his flush.

She pats his knee and says something banal about the weather, and they talk about boring adult things until the other guests start to arrive.

“You invited Mom?” Jiang Cheng hisses as they watch Yu Ziyuan walk toward them, her heels clacking on the sidewalk. Only she would wear high heels to a child’s birthday party in the park.

“I had to,” Wei Ying hisses back. “She called last week and interrogated me about it for half an hour.”

“Is Ba coming, too?”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “Check in the mail.”

“Typical. How much?”

“A hundred bucks. I’m thinking about using it to—” He breaks off when he notices the present Yu Ziyuan is toting. A big rectangle. Oh no. No, she didn’t.

His suspicion increases when she sets the box down on the gift table carefully, like it’s fragile. He hurries over to her, staring down at the box. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“Didn’t what? And is that any way to greet me?”

He huffs. “Hi, thanks for coming. Tell me you didn’t buy my son an Xbox.” Even though A-Yuan is nowhere near them, he still whispers Xbox.

She sniffs and strolls over to inspect the food table. “That’s what he asked for.”

“So?” he says, stomping behind her. “You’d just buy the kid anything he asked for? What if he’d asked for a pony?”

She rolls her eyes as she starts filling her plate from the meat and cheese tray. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You and A-Cheng had one when you were growing up. The two of you begged me for it for a month.”

“That was a Playstation. And it was mostly Jiang Cheng who wanted it. And we were twelve! A-Yuan is only seven.”

“Jin Ling has one,” she says, and turns to him expectantly, waiting to see if he’ll insult Jie’s parenting skills.

“Yeah, well . . . now I’ll have to buy him games, and those things are expensive!”

“It comes with a game. And A-Cheng is giving him another one. Those should be enough for a while.”

Wei Ying whirls on his brother. “You knew about this?”

Jiang Cheng huffs and drops the carrot stick he was about to eat. “She called me to check that she was buying the right thing. I don’t see what the big deal is. All the kids play video games these days. Do you want him to be the weird kid at school?”

Wei Ying groans and flops down on the bench. The thing is, he was going to let A-Yuan use his birthday money to buy that Switch thing, and he was going to cover the rest. But now Yu Ziyuan gets to be the hero. It isn’t fair.

Jiang Cheng gives them a ride home from the park—the least he could do after that betrayal—and comes upstairs to set up the Xbox. A-Yuan bounces around Jiang Cheng as he unpacks the box, high on sugar and triumph.

Wei Ying pouts and ignores the happy noises from the couch as he and Wangji put away the leftover party stuff and clean up the mess they made baking cupcakes.

“Wei Ying?” Wangji asks. “Is something wrong?”

Wei Ying smiles and rubs Wangji’s arm. “I’m just tired. Did you have fun today playing with the kids?”

“It was fun. Are you mad about the Xbox?”

Wei Ying sighs and leans back against the counter. “No, not really. It’s just annoying that she did that without asking me.”

“A-Yuan seems really happy.”

Wei Ying snorts a laugh. “Yeah, no kidding. I thought the kid was going to have a stroke when he saw that thing.”

Jiang Cheng walks into the kitchen and pauses, his face scrunching into an angry little knot. “I’m done.”

“Great, thanks.”

Wangji ducks his head and heads down the hall to their bedroom. Wei Ying can’t blame him. That face is pretty scary.

Jiang Cheng scowls after him. When Wangji is gone, he says, “So, he isn’t sleeping on the couch anymore.”

Wei Ying winces. He’d kind of forgotten that wasn’t common knowledge. “Nope.”

Jiang Cheng huffs. “Shocker.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “It’s just more convenient. He’s too tall to sleep on the couch.”

“Convenient?” Jiang Cheng hisses. “So it was convenient to let some stranger move in with you, and now it’s convenient to sleep with him?”

Wei Ying crosses his arms and glares back at him. “Actually, yeah. He’s a fucking joy to have around. And I’m not sleeping with him, except in the very literal sense.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Jiang Cheng scrubs at his face. “You’re deranged.”

“So I’ve been told.” He slaps Jiang Cheng’s shoulder as he heads to the living room. “Thanks for your help.”

“I’m telling Jie!” Jiang Cheng yells after him.

“What are you, twelve?” Wei Ying shoots over his shoulder.

When the door slams a few seconds later, Wei Ying doesn’t bother to look away from the TV. It’s not as if he’s never seen a Jiang Cheng dramatic exit before.

Wangji frantically presses the button A-Yuan showed him on the controller, but his dinosaur still falls off the platform into the lava below.

“Wangji-ge!” A-Yuan giggles. “You have to jump!”

“I’m sorry.”

Video games are stressful. His poor little brontosaurus keeps dying. Thankfully, Wei Ying comes back to rescue him.

“My turn!” Wei Ying chirps as he plops down on the couch. He kicks his feet onto the coffee table where his donkey slippers join the bunnies and T-Rexes already perched there.

Gratefully, Wangji passes the controller over A-Yuan’s head. It’s much more fun to watch Wei Ying play anyway. Wei Ying isn’t much better than he is, but he pokes his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and wiggles around on the couch like that will help his character move on the screen.

Wei Ying and A-Yuan both groan as Wei Ying’s dinosaur meets the same fiery fate. “Daaad, you have to jump.”

“I jumped! This stupid game is broken.”

A-Yuan rolls his eyes. “Your brain is broken.”

“Rude!” Wei Ying smacks a donkey against A-Yuan’s T-Rex. “Wangji, do you hear how this child is insulting me?”

“Mn. That wasn’t nice.”

A-Yuan nudges a T-Rex slipper against Wangji’s bunny and gazes up at him with woeful eyes. “Sorry, Wangji-ge.”

“Oh sure, apologize to him,” Wei Ying mutters.

Wangji looks at A-Yuan until he sighs and turns to Wei Ying. “Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

When A-Yuan is absorbed in the game, Wei Ying stretches an arm behind him to squeeze Wangji’s shoulder. Wangji smiles back at him. And then they both go back to watching A-Yuan skip his character over the lava pits with ease.

Although the studio is technically closed for the day, the door is still propped open to let the beautiful weather in and the music out. The people passing by slow and peer through the windows. Some of them even stop to listen. As they should. Wen Ning’s newest band is good, but the lead singer, Lucy, sounds like the lovechild of Whitney Houston and Janis Joplin and looks like a goddess in tight jeans.

This goddess has graced Studio 36 with her presence today so that the band (as yet unnamed because they don’t appreciate Wei Ying’s witty suggestions) can practice for their first show next week.

Wei Ying sways along with the music on the piano bench he’s sharing with Wangji and A-Yuan, who is cheering on the band from Wangji’s lap. Ms. Nelson, lured over by Lucy’s siren song, sits in one of the breakroom chairs beside them.

When the song ends, the audience, both inside and out, gives them hearty applause. “What do you think?” Wei Ying asks Wangji.

“Very good. I like the song.”

Wei Ying grins and bumps Wangji with his shoulder. Wangji will probably be playing that song tomorrow. He has an amazing ear.

Lucy comes over to the piano to drink from the water bottle she left by the bench. “Aren’t you boys going to join us? Wen Ning keeps telling us how good you are.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.”

Lucy grins and cocks a hip. “Oh baby, nobody steals my thunder.” She winks and sashays back to her guitar. Yeah, that woman’s going to be a star.

“What do you say?” Wei Ying asks Wangji. “You wanna show these kids how it’s done?”

Wangji nods and kisses A-Yuan’s hair before he sets him down. “What are we playing?”

Wei Ying turns to Ms. Nelson. “Any suggestions?”

“Oh, I’d love to hear this young lady sing Janis.”

“It’s like you’re reading my mind.” Wei Ying calls to the band. “Do you guys know ‘Me and Bobby McGee’?”

Lucy scoffs and turns to Wen Ning. “Is he joking?”

Wen Ning just smiles and counts them off. Lucy’s as good as Wei Ying expected. When she starts crooning, actual chill bumps pop up on his arms.

Wangji doesn’t know the song, but by the time Wen Ning kicks in on the drum set, he’s ready to go. He only sits back when Wei Ying starts the piano solo, which he kills, thank you very much. Thunder: stolen.

They bang and wail out the big finish, the final cymbal crash nearly drowned by the whoops from the sidewalk. Wei Ying turns to their audience, not too proud to use this opportunity to promote the studio, but he cuts off his sales pitch when he sees one of his tenants standing in the doorway, her daughter perched on her hip. By the look on Nina’s face, she isn’t there to watch the show.

“Hey, Nina,” he calls as he slides off the bench. “Do you need something?”

“Hi, Mr. Wei. You guys are really good.”

“Thanks. Hi Monica.” Wei Ying boops the little girl’s nose, but she ignores him to coo at Wangji. Wei Ying can’t blame her: he’s been known to coo at Wangji, too.

“You wanna go say hi to Wangji?” Wei Ying asks her.

“Ah-ji!” Monica agrees, and does her best to wiggle out of her mother’s arms.

Nina sets her down and watches with her brow pinched as Monica waddles over to Wangji. Wangji scoops up the little girl and sets her on the piano bench where she immediately starts babbling to him. He nods along solemnly, like her toddler gibberish is very serious business.

“Don’t worry,” Wei Ying says, “she’s safe as houses. Wangji’s basically a Disney princess: beloved by children and woodland creatures.”

“Oh, I know,” Nina says. “It’s just, uh, I came by to see if you could give me my spare key? I seem to have locked myself out again.”

The poor kid. She’s kind of a disaster. As a slightly older, slightly improved disaster, he knows how much it sucks. “I wish I could, but I don’t think you ever gave it back to me after the last time.”

“Oh no.” Nina buries her face in her hands. “No, you’re right. I’ve been meaning to bring it back, but—”

“But raising a kid destroys brain cells. Trust me, I’ve been there.” Wei Ying pats her back, which is starting to heave. “Does anyone else have a spare for your place?”

She shakes her head and sniffles. “I don’t really have anybody like that around here.”

“Okay, well, I could call a locksmith? There’s bound to be someone who works after-hours.”

“I guess so. How much does that cost?”

He shrugs. “No idea. If I can find somebody, I’ll get an estimate.”

Turns out, there are emergency locksmiths, but with what they charge, Nina’s better off renting a suite at a four-star hotel for the night.

“Scumbags,” Wei Ying grumbles as he hangs up on the last guy. “They’re just taking advantage of forgetful people.” He sighs and leans his arms on the counter. “Is there anybody you could stay with for the night? Maybe tomorrow we could find somebody who isn’t a supervillain.”

Nina shakes her head. One tragic tear slides down her cheek.

While Wei Ying is trying to work out how he can cram a woman and her toddler into his apartment for the night—or learn how to pick locks really quickly—Wangji walks over with Monica on his hip.

“Are any of your windows unlocked?” Wangji asks Nina.

“Um, I’m not sure. Why?”

Wangji bounces the little girl, who giggles and twists his t-shirt in her chubby fingers. “I could climb in and open the door from inside.”

“Climb in?” Wei Ying asks. “How? Her place is on the fourth floor.”

“The fire escape.”

“That’s a good idea, but the ladder’s rusted. I don’t think we can get it down.”

“I don’t need the ladder,” Wangji says. Then to Nina, “Which window should I try?”

“The one by the fire escape is probably locked, but my bedroom window might be open.”

Wangji nods and hands Monica back to Nina. Then he heads outside.

“Wait, what?” Wei Ying skids around the counter and jogs after him. “Wangji, what are you doing? You can’t reach the bedroom window from the fire escape!”

“I can,” Wangji says, like that should be obvious.

Most of the concert crowd dissipated when the music stopped, but some of them are lingering for an encore. Wei Ying follows Wangji past their fans and into the alley, where Wangji stops to look up at the fire escape.

“Wangji, you don’t have to do this. We’ll figure something out.”

“It’s okay. I’ve done it before.”

“Really? When?”

Wangji’s eyes drop from the fire escape to the pavement. “I watched you once.”

“What? You mean, before you came to live with us?”

Wangji nods, his ears blushing. “I’m sorry. I just—you were singing, and I wanted to hear you better.”

“Well, I am a fantastic singer,” Wei Ying says, tossing his hair. Wangji smiles and looks a little less guilty. “But that’s just the second floor. There isn’t even a ledge or anything up there. How’re you going to get to her bedroom window?”

Wangji just smiles and leaps up to grip the platform, then pulls himself onto it. A Disney princess with ridiculous arm strength.

Wei Ying steps back to watch Wangji’s progress up the fire escape and almost bumps into Nina.

“Mr. Wei,” she says, staring up at Wangji, “is your boyfriend Spider-man?”

“Something like that,” Wei Ying agrees, too preoccupied to correct her on the boyfriend part.

By the time Wangji reaches the third floor, Wei Ying and Nina have been joined by A-Yuan and Ms. Nelson, the band members, and even a few of the passersby who must think this is part of the show.

“Dear lord,” Ms. Nelson gasps as Wangji parkours up to the last platform. “What is he doing?”

Plummeting to his death, most likely, Wei Ying thinks, and bites his lip so hard that he tastes blood.

“Is he going to fall?” A-Yuan asks.

“Of course not.” Wei Ying pulls his son close and pets his hair, trying to soothe both of them.

Wangji climbs over the railing and hops onto the window ledge. The very tiny, very old window ledge. “Wangji!” Wei Ying yells, “Come back down, okay? This is crazy!”

But Wangji just bends to try lifting the window. When it stays shut, he starts shuffling across the ledge.

“I can’t watch,” Ms. Nelson moans, but she keeps watching anyway. So does Wei Ying. He’s afraid to yell again in case he startles Wangji, but a scream is building in his chest. For fuck’s sake, why didn’t he stop this?

“He’s really good at that,” A-Yuan says. “He’s never that good at jumping in video games.” Which is true, but holy shit.

The third window is farther down than the second one, and Wangji only catches the top of it with one hand. He swings there for four heart-stopping seconds before his feet catch on the ledge. The crowd rewards that feat with a collective oooh!

“Holy mother of—” Wei Ying’s legs wobble, and he curls over A-Yuan before he passes out. When he can bring himself to look again, Wangji is already crawling through the window. Wangji waves down to them, then disappears inside what is presumably Nina’s bedroom.

“Now that was a show,” Lucy says. She pats Wei Ying on the shoulder. “Your boy is something else.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying wheezes. He sets off for the stairs with Nina behind him, pushing through the people still holding up cellphones to video Wangji’s heroics. Wei Ying’s legs feel like wet noodles, and he has to haul himself up the stairs by clinging to the banister.

“That was amazing!” Nina gushes behind them. Monica babbles her agreement. “Is Mr. Wangji an acrobat or something?”

“No,” Wei Ying gasps, less from the stairs than the residual panic. “He was just a big fan of the monkey bars when he was a kid.”

Wangji is waiting for them in the doorway when they reach Nina’s apartment. He smiles and jingles her keys. “They were on the dresser.”

“Oh my god, thank you!” Nina says, and she barrels into Wangji’s chest, nearly bonking Monica’s head on the doorframe.

Wangji’s eyes fly wide, but he pats her back and smiles down at Monica. “It was no problem.”

When Nina finally releases Wangji, Wei Ying stumbles to him and grips one of his ridiculously strong arms between his hands. “Never do that again.”

“Wei Ying?” Wangji blinks at him, baffled.

“You scared the crap out of me!”

“I’m sorry.” Wangji ducks his head, all that ridiculously sexy confidence gone.

Wei Ying lets go of his arm and cups his cheeks, pulling Wangji up to meet his eyes. “I’m not mad. I was just so scared that you’d fall. So please don’t ever do anything that dangerous again, okay?”

“I wasn’t going to fall,” Wangji mumbles. Or maybe it just comes out that way because Wei Ying is smushing his cheeks.

“Yeah, you were pretty awesome. You nearly gave me a heart attack, but it was awesome.”

Wangji’s cheeks swell under Wei Ying’s palms as he smiles. “It was fun.”

“Oh my god, you are a maniac.” He pinches Wangji’s cheeks, but Wangji just smiles even wider.

“Here,” Nina says, interrupting Wei Ying’s cheek fondling. She hands Wei Ying the spare key. “I promise, I will never lock myself out again.”

“I’m sure you won’t. Have a good night.” He grabs Wangji’s hand and tugs him down the hall before Wangji decides it would be faster to jump out the window.

All of the apartment windows are open to let in the warm breeze. This afternoon, they will go to the park, but for now, Wangji enjoys a moment of quiet alone in the bedroom. Since A-Yuan’s summer vacation started last week, there has been little quiet in his life. Not that he minds. It is wonderful to have A-Yuan with them, but Wangji cannot deny that he likes having a moment to himself.

And his current task, folding laundry, makes this moment even better. Folding the clean laundry is one of his favorite chores. He likes the fresh detergent smell, the soft fabric in his hands, and the relaxation of sorting and smoothing. This chore became even more pleasant after he learned new methods from the woman on Netflix. Not only did she teach him how to fold the clothes into smaller, more efficient shapes, but she also made the practice look contemplative, almost meditative.

The best part, however, is putting the clothes away in the drawers. He loves tucking things away in their homes and lining up the colors like a rainbow. His rainbow is rather heavy on blue, red, and black, but it’s still pretty.

His serenity is disrupted by giggles from the living room, followed by feet thumping down the hall. A moment later, Wei Ying bursts through the bedroom door, chased by A-Yuan.

“Wangji, help!” Wei Ying cries, and launches himself at Wangji. “Save me from the demon child!” Wangji drops the t-shirt he was folding as Wei Ying grabs his shoulders and latches himself to Wangji’s back.

“Tickle torture!” A-Yuan growls. His little fingers curl into claws as he prowls closer.

Giggling, Wei Ying drags Wangji backwards, keeping him between Wei Ying and A-Yuan. “Make him stop, Er-gege,” Wei Ying gasps through his laughter. Then Wei Ying’s arms wrap around Wangji’s waist.

Wangji looks down at the hands pressed against his belly. Then he looks at A-Yuan and raises his eyebrows. A-Yuan grins back.

Wangji grips Wei Ying’s arms, trapping him against Wangji’s back. “I’ve got him,” he tells A-Yuan. A-Yuan cackles and attacks Wei Ying’s vulnerable ribs.

“No! No, stop!” Wei Ying pants in his ear. As Wei Ying fights to escape, he jerks and shimmies against Wangji’s back, and Wangji should not be enjoying it as much as he is.

“Please!” Wei Ying gasps. “Gonna. Pee. Pants.”

Wangji releases his arms. Wei Ying slides to the floor, clutching his ribs and braying like a donkey. A-Yuan doubles over, his laugh like a smaller, higher-pitched donkey.

When his hysteria calms a bit, Wei Ying pushes himself up to lean against the bed. “Hey, A-Yuan.” He gurgles another laugh and swipes tears from his cheeks. “You think Er-gege is ticklish?”

Both of them turn to Wangji.

Before Wangji can escape, A-Yuan digs his fingers into Wangji’s sides. Wangji grunts at the strange sensation.

“Ooh, I think he is,” Wei Ying croons.

Wangji tries to evade the attack, but A-Yuan’s little fingers keep skittering across his sides. Growling, he lifts A-Yuan and traps him against his chest. A-Yuan shrieks laughter as Wangji pretends to bite his shoulder.

“It’s the Wangjisaur!” Wei Ying cheers from the floor. “No, Wangjisaurus REX!”

Wangji does his best impression of a T-Rex roar. A-Yuan laughs harder and beats at Wangji’s chest with his little fist. Then it’s only fair for Wangji to dip A-Yuan down so that Wei Ying can tickle him.

“Gege, stop!” A-Yuan pleads. Wangji relents and sets him down. A-Yuan totters, still gulping and giggling, and Wangji steadies him, smoothing his hair out of its wild tangle.

“Hey,” Wei Ying calls to A-Yuan, “aren’t you supposed to be putting up your laundry?”

A-Yuan sticks out his tongue. “You started it.” But he trots off across the hall.

Wangji holds out his hands to Wei Ying. Wei Ying grins up at him and lets Wangji pull him to his feet. Then Wangji has to steady him before he topples into Wangji’s chest.

“Oh wow,” Wei Ying says, swiping a hand over his face. “I laughed so hard I think I pulled something.”

“Are you okay?”

“No.” Wei Ying swats at his chest, still grinning. “How could you help him tickle me? I won’t forget this betrayal, sir.”

“Sorry,” Wangji says, smiling back at him.

“Yeah, real sincere.” Wei Ying pokes the corner of Wangji’s mouth and pouts. “It’s not fair. You always take A-Yuan’s side.”

“A-Yuan is little.”

Wei Ying snorts. “Little demon.”

“You told him to tickle me.”

Wei Ying chuckles and sways against him. “Okay, yeah, I guess I did.”

Wangji puts a hand on Wei Ying’s side when his sway threatens to become a stumble. Wei Ying steadies himself with his hands on Wangji’s shoulders. And then they stand there, staring at each other, like they’re dancing again. Wei Ying’s smile softens to something unbearably sweet, and it feels like tiny fingers are once again scurrying across Wangji’s belly. He takes a deep breath in, smelling the spring breeze, the clean laundry, and under that, the warm comfort of Wei Ying’s scent, a combination he doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe. He wants to bury his face against Wei Ying’s neck. He wants to slide his hands under Wei Ying’s shirt to feel the heat of his skin. He wants—

Wei Ying steps back and drops his eyes to Wangji’s chest. “Do you want help with the laundry?”

“No,” he croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “No, thank you.”

Wei Ying breathes a laugh. “Fine. I’ll leave you to your zen folding. Should’ve never let you watch Marie Kondo.” Wei Ying squeezes his arm as he walks out of the bedroom.

After that, it takes a lot of folding for Wangji to return to his serene state.

“Is Wangji-ge your boyfriend?”

The question comes as Wei Ying is supervising his son’s bath. Now a sophisticated seven year old, A-Yuan’s probably big enough to manage alone, but old habits die hard. Besides, if he didn’t bully the kid into finishing up, he’d dunk his dinosaurs all night.

The question isn’t a shock, exactly. A-Yuan’s definitely not the first person to ask if they’re dating. More like the tenth. And most of those people didn’t even know that Wei Ying and Wangji sleep togeth—sleep in the same bed. But somehow it hits different when it’s his own son who’s asking.

“No, we’re just friends. Why do you ask?”

A-Yuan shrugs. “Jingyi said he thought you were boyfriends. He said you make googly eyes at each other all the time.”

Wei Ying rolls his very normal eyes. “What have I told you about listening to Jingyi?”

“He’s got a big mouth and one brain cell,” A-Yuan recites immediately. “But why isn’t Wangji-ge your boyfriend? Don’t you like him?”

“Of course I like him. It just isn’t like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like . . . boyfriends,” Wei Ying says, like the mature adult that he is.

“But he likes you, doesn’t he?”

Wei Ying sighs and kneels beside the tub. “Maybe, but it’s complicated.”

“How?”

A long time ago, Wei Ying resolved that he wasn’t going to be one of those parents who says stuff like it’s complicated or you’ll understand when you’re older. But younger Wei Ying hadn’t appreciated how hard it is to explain life to a little boy.

Wei Ying grabs the shampoo and scrubs it into A-Yuan’s hair. “Well, you know that Wangji’s life was different than most people’s, right?” A-Yuan nods, his head bobbing between Wei Ying’s hands. “And he doesn’t know a lot of the stuff that most grown-ups know.”

“He doesn’t even know how old he is,” A-Yuan says mournfully. “Or even his whole name.”

“Exactly.” Wei Ying drags A-Yuan’s hair into sudsy little spikes. “You and me have been teaching him as much as we can, and he’s really smart, but because of how he grew up, he’s still behind. And boyfriend stuff . . . that’s pretty advanced.”

“He doesn’t know how to be a boyfriend?”

“No, I mean—it’s more like—” Wei Ying groans and demolishes the faux-hawk. “I told you it was complicated.”

“Do you not know how to be a boyfriend?”

Wei Ying snorts. “Maybe I don’t. It has been a long time.”

“Since Mom?”

Wei Ying nods, devastated by that soft little mom. “Yeah. And I wasn’t good at it back then, either.”

A-Yuan is quiet as Wei Ying shields his eyes and rinses his hair. “I think you’d be good at it, if you were Wangji-ge’s boyfriend. You like him a lot.”

“Thanks, Monkey. I do like him a lot. But because I like him a lot, I would rather just be his friend than push him into something he isn’t ready for. I’m afraid that Wangji might pretend to like me like that just to make me happy. Does that make sense?”

A-Yuan squints at him as Wei Ying wipes off his forehead. “I think so. But I don’t think he’d have to pretend. He likes you so much. He even likes your singing.”

“That’s because I’m a fantastic singer.” Wei Ying draws in a deep breath.

A-Yuan shakes his head, water flying from his wet hair. “Noooo, don’t!”

In his worst falsetto, Wei Ying sings, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle—”

“Daaaaad!”

“—the Monkey sleeps toniiiiight!”

Giggling, A-Yuan splashes water at him, but Wei Ying dodges the spray and screeches to the ceiling, “WEE HEE HEE HEE!”

“STOOOOPPPP!”

“DEE HEE HEE HEE HEE!”

The whole apartment shakes with Popo’s furious banging. Wei Ying drops his voice to a whisper and keeps singing: “Hush, my darling, don’t fear, my darling, the Popo sleeps toniiiight.”

A-Yuan laughs and raises his arms for Wei Ying to haul him out of the tub. Wei Ying gets the kid dried and brushed and pajamaed. As he’s tucking A-Yuan into bed, he asks, “How would you feel about Wangji being my boyfriend?”

A-Yuan blinks up at him, considering the question carefully. When he puts on that little solemn face, he looks so much like Wangji that it’s eerie. “Would anything be different?”

“Good question.” Now it’s Wei Ying’s turn to ponder. Of course, he isn’t going to tell his son the things that immediately pop into his perverted little brain. “Not really, I guess.”

“Good. I like how it is now.”

“Yeah, me too. So that’s a vote in favor?”

A-Yuan grins and nods.

“Okay. Night, Monkey.” He kisses his baby boy’s forehead and heads to the door.

“Can Wangji-ge come tuck me in, too?” A-Yuan calls from the bed.

“I’ll see if his schedule is open.” Wei Ying winks and goes to pass on the request.

Chapter Text

The afternoon is hot, and the lemon popsicle Wangji bought at the store is melting faster than he can eat it. The greater concern, however, is the one he bought for Wei Ying. By the time he and A-Yuan get back to the studio, it will probably be a cherry puddle in its wrapper.

“Wangji-ge, I need another napkin,” A-Yuan says, holding up his grape fingers as evidence. The area around his mouth is also stained purple, and there are purple drips on his t-shirt. Maybe popsicles hadn’t been such a good idea, after all.

Wangji roots around for napkins in the plastic shopping bag. He may have made a bad decision about the popsicles, but at least he remembered to grab a lot of napkins.

They reach the last intersection and stop to wait for the signal to change. Wangji tosses his popsicle stick into the garbage can and uses the last napkin to scrub his fingers. When he looks up, a familiar black SUV is pulling up to the curb in front of Jerry’s liquor store. Something colder than the popsicle slides down his spine.

It’s just a black SUV, Wangji tells himself. There must be thousands of them in the city. There’s no reason to think—

But as he and A-Yuan wait for the sign to change to WALK, two men get out of the SUV and step onto the sidewalk. Both men are wearing coats despite the heat. Wangji’s eyes automatically drop to the pockets. Men who wear coats in summer are usually trying to conceal their weapons.

Then a third man steps out of the passenger seat, and Wangji stops breathing. Wen Xu.

A voice is calling to him, but it sounds as if it’s coming from far away, from the other end of a long tunnel. The day had been bright, but now all he sees is darkness.

A hand squeezes his fingers. “Wangji-ge! Wangji-ge, c’mon, the sign says WALK!”

Wangji blinks rapidly as he drags himself out of his secret room. A-Yuan is tugging at his hand, trying to pull him onto the crosswalk.

“C’mon,” A-Yuan says, “we’ve gotta hurry.”

But Wangji stays put and searches the sidewalk for the three men. They’re gone now. Inside Jerry’s liquor store, most likely.

Although his legs don’t feel like they’re attached to his body, Wangji forces himself to walk across the street. As they pass the liquor store, glass shatters inside. Even through the closed door, Wangji hears Jerry shouting.

A-Yuan slows, peering at the liquor store’s dark windows. “What’s happening in Mr. Jerry’s store?”

Crowbar, Wangji thinks. Maybe a billy club. Jerry’s luck must have run out, which means that Wangji’s has, too. “Let’s go,” Wangji says, and walks faster.

A-Yuan has to trot to keep up. “Shouldn’t we go help him?”

Wangji closes his eyes and squeezes A-Yuan’s hand. “Later.” It is the first time he’s ever lied to A-Yuan.

When they reach the studio, Wangji kicks the block of wood free and closes the door behind them. A-Yuan watches him, frowning with his purple lips.

“Wangji-ge, what’s wrong?”

Wangji crouches down in front of him and tries to smile. “Nothing. I’m just sticky.” He wiggles his fingers in A-Yuan’s face, but A-Yuan doesn’t smile. “You should go wash up. You look like the Angry Grape.”

A-Yuan’s lips finally twitch, and he nods. Wangji kisses his forehead and stands back up. He watches as A-Yuan heads to the washroom, wanting to look as long as he can.

When A-Yuan is gone, Wangji turns back to look out of the window. The SUV is still there, which means that Jerry hasn’t paid yet. He probably can’t. And if Jerry can’t pay, then he’ll try to weasel out of trouble. They all do. When the pain starts, most people will do anything to make it stop. Wangji has heard men offer their cars, their businesses. One man even offered to give Wen Chao his daughter.

And what does Jerry have to bargain with? That isn’t hard to guess. Right now, he is probably telling Wen Xu what a loyal friend he is to Wen Ruohan, how he kept the secret of the cover operation right next door.

Jerry will say anything to buy himself more time. So time is what Wangji doesn’t have.

But he can’t go without seeing Wei Ying one more time. He walks past the room where Wen Ning is teaching a guitar lesson and then stands outside, looking through the narrow window. In the practice room, Wei Ying is sitting on a stool watching Zhuo Fei play the dizi. Wei Ying is mostly turned away from the door, so all Wangji can see is the edge of his smile.

Wangji wants to knock. He wants Wei Ying to smile at him one more time. But Wei Ying would know something was wrong. Wei Ying would try to stop him, and Wangji can’t let him. Not this time.

Time is passing so quickly. It flies faster than his heartbeat, crashing in his chest. Wangji tears himself away from the window and walks back down the hall. He sets the plastic bag holding Wei Ying’s popsicle on the counter, then fishes the apartment key Wei Ying gave him out of his pocket. He lays the key beside the bag. Then he remembers the phone in his other pocket and his friends’ names in the phone’s Contacts list. He leaves the phone beside the key.

He gives the Steinway one last pat and doesn’t let himself look back as he leaves the studio.

Once he’s outside, he heads to the alley between the studio and the liquor store and hides in the shadows to watch the sidewalk. Part of him always knew that this day would come. Even if Jerry never told, Wangji couldn’t hope to hide forever. But he won’t regret any of it as long as Wei Ying and A-Yuan are safe. He will make sure they are safe.

The bell on Jerry’s door jingles. A moment later, Wen Xu leads the two men down the sidewalk. They pass the SUV without getting in.

“Be ready,” Wen Xu says to the other men. “If he’s really in there, we have to take him down fast.”

Jerry told then.

Wangji stomps down on the fear that wants his hands to tremble. He pushes off the wall and heads for the man trailing behind the other two. He does not run for his secret room. He does not wrap himself in comforting music. This is his decision. This must be done, and he will not shrink away from it. He will face this as himself, not as the animal they made him.

The man only notices him coming at the last second. He turns, eyes widening, and Wangji grabs his coat’s lapels and hurls him into the alley.

Wangji doesn’t watch where he lands, but he hears a thud as the man collides with the dumpster.

By then, Wangji is already falling on the second man. This man fumbles in his coat, reaching for a weapon. Wangji takes out his knee. The man drops with a scream. The switchblade he was searching for clatters across the sidewalk.

Wangji slams a foot against the man’s face to stop his shrieking. Wei Ying and Wen Ning can’t hear it in their practice rooms, but Ms. Nelson or A-Yuan might.

The shrieks stop. Wangji turns to Wen Xu. And freezes. A gun is pointed at his chest. Wangji wasn’t fast enough. He isn’t surprised, but there had been a little hope left. Not anymore.

Wen Xu sneers at him from behind the gun. The gun shivers in his hand. “I guess Jerry was telling the truth.”

Wangji doesn’t respond. He waits to see if Wen Xu will shoot him.

“Gun!” someone shouts. “That guy’s got a gun!”

The drowsy summer afternoon erupts with shouts. People get excited when guns appear. They call the cops. Wen Xu knows that as well as Wangji does. Leaving bodies behind is sloppy. Bodies leave a trail for the cops to follow.

The man Wangji threw into the alley stumbles toward them holding his bleeding head.

“Grab him,” Wen Xu snarls.

The man comes toward Wangji and reaches out slowly to grip his arm. Wangji doesn’t resist. If he did, Wen Xu would shoot him, witnesses or not. And then Wen Xu might go to the studio.

Wen Xu keeps the gun pointed at Wangji as the man leads Wangji toward the SUV. Wen Xu kicks the man groaning on the sidewalk until he stands up and falls into the backseat beside Wangji.

Wen Xu takes the front passenger seat and turns so that the gun points at Wangji. The other man gets behind the wheel and pulls down the visor to grimace at his bleeding forehead in the mirror. “Son of a bitch!”

“Drive!” Wen Xu barks.

The man starts the car and pulls away from the curb. As they pass by the studio, Wangji takes one last look. A-Yuan stands in the doorway. His mouth opens in a silent shout when he sees Wangji in the car.

Wen Xu asks Wangji a question, but he ignores it to twist in his seat. Through the back window, he sees A-Yuan run onto the sidewalk, a juice box falling from his hand as he waves his arms in the air. Wangji watches until the SUV turns a corner and A-Yuan is gone.

The door to the practice room slams open, and A-Yuan runs through it. “The men took Wangji-ge!”

“What?” Wei Ying asks, already standing up. A-Yuan has known not to interrupt lessons since he was three. He wouldn’t run in shouting for anything less than the apocalypse. “What men?”

“The men in the black car! They took him! One of them had a gun!”

A bolt of fear hits Wei Ying so hard that he nearly drops back down on the stool. Then he’s moving, running out of the practice room. He sprints past the empty piano bench and bangs out of the front door.

There’s no black car on the street. Or, rather, there are a lot of black cars, but there’s no Wangji in any of them. And there’s no man with a gun.

He whirls back around to find A-Yuan, but A-Yuan is right behind him. “Where? Where did they go?”

A-Yuan points down the street.

Wei Ying runs in that direction, but when he passes the Cash Fast place, he makes himself stop. What the hell is he going to do, chase down every black car he sees? Not to mention, he just left his frightened child standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

But they took him! In his mind, he wails it like A-Yuan did, like a frightened little boy. A sob is trying to force its way out of his chest, but he can’t let it. Not yet, he tells himself. Don’t fall to pieces yet.

He runs back to the studio, to his son who is standing where Wei Ying left him, tears streaming down his cheeks, snot already bubbling from his nostrils. His mouth is purple, and the part of Wei Ying’s brain that isn’t screaming incoherently identifies that as grape popsicle.

Wei Ying kneels down in front of A-Yuan and tries to keep his voice calm. “Okay, tell me what happened.”

A-Yuan sniffles and gulps a huge breath. “We went to get popsicles. We were coming back, and I heard Mr. Jerry break something, but Wangji-ge said we’d help him later. And then he told me to wash my hands. And then he wasn’t here. I’m not supposed to go outside by himself, so I stood by the door to wait for him. But he got in a car with the men.”

The tears fall faster, and when Wei Ying rubs his son’s shoulders, they tremble under his hands.

“You’re doing great, Monkey. You said one of the men had a gun?”

A-Yuan nods, his face crumpling. “He, he was pointing it at Wangji-ge. Is he going to shoot him?”

Wei Ying swallows his scream and wipes tears from A-Yuan’s cheeks. “No. No, of course not.”

“Why did they take him?”

“I don’t know. You said Mr. Jerry broke something? Did you mean in his store?”

“Yeah. I heard it when we walked by. And there were people yelling in there.”

Wei Ying looks over his son’s head to the liquor store. There are people huddled in little groups on the sidewalk, looking over their shoulders and pointing around. Disaster crowd. Lookie-loos. Makes sense. If one of Wen Ruohan’s goons was waving a gun around, he’d definitely draw a crowd. Not a smart crowd, but then when is a crowd ever smart?

“Okay, Monkey, I’m going to go talk to Mr. Jerry. I need you to wait inside for me, okay?”

A-Yuan nods, but he clutches at Wei Ying’s hand. “Is Wangji-ge gonna come back?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, shooting for breezy and ending up shaky. “Of course he’ll come back. Now go inside. And go tell Wen Ning, okay?”

Wei Ying only lingers long enough to watch A-Yuan go back inside, then trots down the sidewalk. He skirts the group of aunties—they’ll just want to talk about how the neighborhood used to be such a nice place—and heads for the teenage boys. If he’s lucky, these boys will have snapped pictures.

“Hey guys,” Wei Ying calls as he approaches. “What happened? I heard somebody got shot.”

At first, the boys look him over in suspicious silence, but he must pass their test, because one of them says, “Nah, nobody got shot. One guy had a gun, though.”

Wei Ying widens his eyes and tries for lurid interest. “Oh yeah? Did he rob the liquor store or something?”

A boy in a faded Naruto t-shirt says, “No, he like, kidnapped this other guy.”

“No, stupid,” the first guy says, “you can’t kidnap a damn grown-up.”

Naruto shirt rolls his eyes. “Whatever, he fucking stole him, then. That better?”

As the two boys shove at each other, another kid sticks his phone in Wei Ying’s face. “Check it out. That guy they kidnapped went Jet Li on their asses!”

Wei Ying grabs the phone out of the kid’s hand. The kid didn’t just take pictures. The video shakes and spins like the kid was doing jumping jacks while he recorded, but it’s still clear enough for Wei Ying to watch as Wangji breaks a man’s knee and then stomps on his face. Then another man aims a gun at Wangji’s chest. Wei Ying clutches at his chest even though he knows Wangji didn’t get shot. Not yet anyway. Not here.

Wei Ying squeezes the phone as he watches a third man take Wangji to the SUV. The video doesn’t show Wangji’s face as he gets in the backseat, so Wei Ying can’t tell if he was hurt, if he was scared.

Of course he was scared. And Wei Ying was just sitting in the studio, oblivious to what was happening to him.

Wei Ying watches it again, ignoring the filmmaker’s excited commentary. This time, he focuses on the other men, but their faces are blurry. All he can tell is that they’re three big guys in sportscoats. The SUV’s license plate is just as blurry.

“Thanks,” Wei Ying tells the kid as he hands back the phone. “Did anybody else record it?”

The filmmaker shakes his head and turns back to his friends, who are now discussing the details of the gun with the confidence of children who’ve spent too much time playing Call of Duty.

Wei Ying leaves the boys and ignores the other groups to head to the liquor store. The sign is flipped to Closed, and the door won’t budge when Wei Ying pushes on it, but he pounds his fist against the door until Jerry opens up.

To Wei Ying’s vicious satisfaction, the face that peeks through the crack is bloody and scared. “The hell you want?” Jerry grumbles.

Wei Ying shoves the door. Jerry stumbles back to avoid getting smacked in his already busted nose. And Jerry keeps stumbling, his eyes bulging as Wei Ying stalks after him.

“What did you do?” Wei Ying hisses. He shoves at Jerry’s chest as he pursues him down the aisle, glass crunching under his feet. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I didn’t do nothing!” Jerry whines as he skitters backwards. “What’s your problem? Your ‘friends’ ain’t done enough damage already?”

“You told, didn’t you? You just couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut!”

“I knew it! I knew you was lying!” The flash of triumph on Jerry’s face disappears when Wei Ying shoves him again.

“They took Wangji! You ran your mouth, and they fucking took him!”

“Oh.” Jerry has the nerve to look upset about that. “Shit, I’m sorry, I—”

Wei Ying grabs his shirt and nearly hauls him off his feet. “Where? Where did they take him?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” Jerry doesn’t fight Wei Ying’s grip. He just sags pathetically, letting Wei Ying hold him up, his nose dribbling blood.

“You know something. Where would they go?”

“It’s not like Wen Ruohan invites me over for tea, you know? I got no idea where they’d be.”

Wei Ying drops Jerry’s shirt, and Jerry shuffles back to collapse against the counter. Wei Ying would love to pound on the scumbag until Jerry gives him some answers, but he actually believes him. Jerry’s just some lowlife who enjoys watching people beat each other, and given the beating he’s taken, he’s not exactly close with these goons. But there has to be something.

“The fights!” Wei Ying blurts. He advances again, and Jerry cringes back. “You go to those fights! Where are they?”

“Uh, down by the docks. They use some old factory.”

“Be more specific.”

Jerry swipes blood from his upper lip, scowls at it, then wipes it on his pants. “Trust me, kid, that’s no place for a piano teacher.”

Wei Ying steps closer until he’s looming over Jerry. “Tell me.”

Jerry sighs and raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, but it’s your funeral.”

When Wei Ying leaves the liquor store, an address scrawled on receipt paper in his pocket, the cops are questioning people on the sidewalk. Not the filmmaker and his friends, though. They probably slinked off when the patrol cars arrived.

Wei Ying pauses and watches the uniforms scribble in their little pads. It’s a longshot, and it may end up getting Wangji in trouble, but right now, the only thing Wei Ying is worried about is getting Wangji back alive.

Wei Ying gives himself a minute to figure out his approach and then sidles over to one of the cops. He listens as a woman scolds the cop for failing to keep the streets safe for the children, and then does himself and the cop a favor.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says, interrupting the woman’s tirade. “I saw what happened.”

The cop turns to him immediately and flips open his pad. “Sir, could you tell me what you saw?” The woman gives them the finger and stalks back to her friends.

“Yeah. It was this guy, Wangji. He lives in the neighborhood, I think. He comes in my store sometimes to listen to us play. Uh, that’s my store there. The music studio.” Wei Ying points towards the studio. Thankfully, A-Yuan isn’t standing in the door. “These three guys attacked him. One of them had a gun. They made him get in the car with them, a black SUV, and then they drove off.”

“Wangji,” the cop says, writing furiously. “That his first name or last name?”

“Not sure,” Wei Ying says, shrugging. “I don’t really know the guy. Just talked to him a few times.”

“Uh-huh. And the man with the gun, did you know him?”

“Never seen him before. I did hear one of the guys say a name. I think it was Wen Ruohan.”

“Spell that for me.”

Wei Ying does. Then he says, “Jerry might know those guys, though. They were in his store before the fight started. That’s his liquor store right there.” Wei Ying points again, barely suppressing his smirk. Let’s see that scumbag explain his busted nose and all the broken liquor bottles.

The cop asks a few more questions and then thanks Wei Ying for his help. Wei Ying gives the cop his best concerned citizen smile and heads back to the studio. The trembling starts as he reaches the door, and he pauses there, staring at his shadowed reflection in the glass. Could that work? Could the cops actually do something useful for once and bust down Wen Ruohan’s door? And if they do, what will happen to Wangji? Won’t they assume Wangji’s one of the criminals?

Not if they find him locked in a fucking cage, Wei Ying thinks, and barely resists punching the door.

There are several guards in the lobby of Wen Ruohan’s building. Wangji doesn’t recognize any of them. They stare as Wangji walks inside, his arm held tight by the man with the bloody forehead.

They take him down to the basement. The cage is still there, but the sleeping bag and his rabbit are gone.

“Get in,” Wen Xu snarls.

Wangji goes inside the cage, and the door shuts behind him. Wen Xu stares at the lock and pats his pockets. “Shit, I don’t have the key. Watch him,” he says to the other man. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

As Wen Xu stomps back upstairs, the man leans against the cage door as if that would stop Wangji from getting out. But even if Wangji got past this man, he’d still have to make it through the guards in the lobby, and they have guns.

And where would he go even if he got out? He can’t go back to the studio. Now Wen Xu knows that Wangji was living there, so that would be the first place they’d look. But if he doesn’t go back, then he won’t be there to protect Wei Ying and A-Yuan when the Wens come looking for him. Wen Xu wouldn’t believe that Wei Ying didn’t know where he was.

So Wangji has to stay. That is, if they don’t just kill him.

On the drive here, Wen Xu blamed Wangji for Wen Chao’s death. Wangji tried to tell him that it was Xue Yang and the other man, the one who came to the fights, but Wen Xu didn’t care. He said Wangji let his brother die.

Wangji hadn’t denied it. He wasn’t happy that Wen Chao got killed, but Wen Chao was a bad man. Wangji knew that even when he lived here before, but now that he’s learned what good people are like, he truly understands how bad Wen Ruohan’s people are.

If Wangji stays here, they will try to make him hurt people again. But he can’t hide in his secret room anymore and pretend that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Better to die than to do that.

The man guarding his cage has his back to Wangji. He’s dabbing at his head and hissing. He doesn’t notice when Wangji pries out a chunk of loose brick from the wall. Wangji hides his bunny bracelet in the little hole in the wall and places the brick back in the hole.

When that is done, Wangji sits on the floor and rubs his fingers over his empty wrist. This is the first time he’s taken the bracelet off since Wei Ying gave it to him. It’s okay, though. He doesn’t need it to remind him of who he is anymore. Better that it’s safe in the wall where it can’t be taken away from him. Or get bloody if he has to fight again. At least one piece will be safe—one little piece of home for him to hold onto.

Footsteps—many of them—come downstairs. Wangji stands and goes to the cage door. His guard steps away as the people approach the cage. Wen Xu is back. With him are Wen Ruohan, Meng Yao, and Wen Zhuliu.

Wen Ruohan walks to the cage and smiles. Wangji doesn’t look down like he used to. He is scared, but he is also angry. He did not deserve to be dragged from his home and stuck in his cage. He never deserved to live like this. No one does.

“So you’ve finally come home,” Wen Ruohan says. “My son tells me you’ve been living with a piano teacher. Seems you’ve made friends.” Wen Ruohan’s eyes slide to Meng Yao beside him, and Meng Yao smiles like Wen Ruohan made a joke.

“They let me sleep in the basement,” Wangji says, surprised at how easily the lie comes to him. “I cleaned the store.” It’s better if Wen Ruohan thinks Wangji was just an employee, if Wen Ruohan thinks Wei Ying treated Wangji like he did.

Wen Ruohan grunts and studies him through the mesh. “They must have fed you well.” Wen Ruohan turns to Wen Zhuliu. “He looks soft, doesn’t he?”

“He took the collar off,” Meng Yao says.

Wen Ruohan steps closer to the cage. “I noticed that. Have you forgotten all your training, then?”

Wangji knows that voice well. It seems calm, even friendly, but it is only an act. Wen Ruohan is angry. Wangji suppresses a shiver and straightens his shoulders. “I didn’t need the collar anymore.”

Wen Ruohan’s eyes narrow. “And who told you that?”

“No one. I didn’t want to hurt people anymore. I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

“But you didn’t stop those animals from killing my son!” Wen Ruohan isn’t bothering to hide his anger now. “Did you help them? Were you in on it?”

“No.” Wangji swallows and forces himself to stay put. He isn’t going to cower in the corner anymore. “Xue Yang shot Wen Chao. I couldn’t help him.”

“Xue Yang,” Wen Ruohan hisses. “So you just stood there and let him kill my son?”

“Wen Chao told me to wait outside. I was too far away to stop it.”

Wen Xu lunges forward and pounds the cage door. “Then why didn’t Xue Yang shoot you, too? How’d you get away?”

“He did shoot at me. I ran.”

“You ran to this piano teacher?” Meng Yao asks. He smiles gently, his voice sickly sweet.

“No. I just ran. I didn’t find the studio until later.”

“But you had been there before, hadn’t you?” Meng Yao says. “Or at least to the liquor store beside it.” He turns to Wen Xu. “What is the owner’s name?”

“Jerry,” Wen Xu says.

“Yes, Jerry. Was it this Jerry that you actually ran to? Had you made some sort of deal with him?”

“No,” Wangji says, trying not to show how his heart has sped up. If they think that he made a deal with Jerry, they might think Wei Ying is part of that deal. “I waited in the car when Wen Chao went to that liquor store.”

“I see.” Meng Yao’s dimples crease his cheeks. If he is smiling, then he thinks Wangji is lying.

“That’s true,” Wen Zhuliu says. “We never took Wangji in that store.”

Wangji peers at Wen Zhuliu through the mesh. Maybe Wen Zhuliu doesn’t remember that Wangji snuck out of the car to listen to Wei Ying’s music.

“But why did Jerry tell us that that music store was a front?” Wen Xu demands. “Why’d he think that?”

“That’s what I told him,” Wangji lies, hoping Jerry didn’t go into detail about his and Wei Ying’s threats. “Jerry knew who I was, and he threatened to tell the piano teacher. So I told him the piano teacher already knew.” Wangji stares into Wen Ruohan’s eyes. “Jerry kept asking me questions about you. I wanted him to stop.”

Wen Ruohan chuckles. “So you were protecting me. But today, you attacked my son. It seems like you weren’t eager to come home.”

Wangji lets his eyes fall like he’s ashamed. “They let me play the piano sometimes.”

Everyone laughs except Wen Zhuliu. “Betrayed for a piano,” Wen Ruohan says. He huffs another laugh and gestures at Wen Zhuliu. Wen Zhuliu nods and heads toward the stairs.

“I suppose that shouldn’t be surprising,” Wen Ruohan says. “You take after your mother.”

“My mother?” Wangji whispers. “She played the piano?”

Wen Ruohan only laughs again. Wangji closes his eyes, picturing the woman from his dreams, the one who plays Mozart so beautifully before she pushes him in the closet.

But Wen Ruohan doesn’t say anything else about Wangji’s mother. He asks Wangji more questions about how Wen Chao died. From those questions, Wangji understands that Xue Yang betrayed Wen Ruohan and made a deal with Mr. Yao—Wangji can’t remember his face, only his ugly tie—and that’s why he killed Wen Chao and Gao Pei.

While Wen Ruohan asks questions, Wen Zhuliu returns with a metal bucket. Smoke rises from the bucket. Even before Wangji sees the gloves on Wen Zhuliu’s hands, he knows what that bucket contains.

Wangji has seen people branded before. That is how Wen Ruohan punishes those who fail him. Anyone who fails him a second time doesn’t live to fail a third.

Wangji watches Wen Zhuliu set down the bucket and tells himself that it doesn’t matter. There will be pain—a lot of it—but he can endure pain. He had expected worse. And he doesn’t mind the scar—who will even see it? It is only that the smell is so terrible, like the time Wei Ying burned the bacon.

Wen Ruohan notices how Wangji’s eyes follow the bucket and laughs. “Bring him out here,” he says to the man Wangji threw in the alley.

But Wangji doesn’t need to be dragged out, screaming and begging. He opens the cage door himself and steps out.

Wen Ruohan laughs again. “Such a brave boy. Kneel.”

Wangji kneels in front of Wen Ruohan and strips off his t-shirt without waiting to be told. Wangji doesn’t want the shirt to be burned. It says Studio 36 in white letters above a piano and a guitar. The other studio shirts are red or black, but Wei Ying had this one made in blue just for Wangji.

He lays the t-shirt down and waits as Wen Zhuliu lifts the branding iron from the bucket. The basement is too dark to see the symbol on the end, but Wangji knows what it is: the blazing sun that represents Wen Ruohan’s organization. All of the men get that symbol tattooed on their arms.

He promises himself that he won’t scream, but when the iron presses against his skin—when he hears his flesh sizzle like bacon in a pan—he doesn’t care what he promised himself. He screams, and Wen Ruohan laughs.

The address Jerry gave him—not so much an address as a description—takes Wei Ying to what appears to be an abandoned factory. Standing in front of it in the dark, Wei Ying can’t make out the dilapidated sign clinging to the building’s side, so he has no idea what the factory was for when it was operational. Not that he gives a shit.

The building’s front door is locked, but Wei Ying creeps around until he finds a side door nobody bothered to lock. That door opens into a dark, cramped hallway. Flipping the light switch does nothing, but the flashlight on his phone illuminates the chipped tile as he walks down the hall. After a few twists and turns, the hall leads him up to a walkway surrounding a pit.

A metal rail extends around the room. Wei Ying wraps a hand around the rail as he shines his light down into the pit. Based on what Wangji told him, this is where the spectators watched the fights. Those fuckers stood right here and watched people tear each other apart, like Romans cheering on the fucking gladiators.

No gladiators tonight, though, and no Romans. And no Wangji. That’s almost a relief. He doesn’t want to think about Wangji being forced to fight in this hellhole again. And what was Wei Ying going to do if Wangji was here, fight his way through a bunch of goons and rescue him? But he’d needed to do something. He can’t just plop down in front of the TV and wait for the cops to save the day.

Wei Ying leaves the walkway and roams the factory like he’s a fucking detective who’s going to stumble upon some clue that will lead him to Wangji. He even goes down to the fighting pit and stands in the middle of it, his stomach roiling at the bloodstains on the concrete. Apparently, these fuckers don’t even bother to mop up afterwards.

Finally, he makes himself head for the exit. Being here is pointless. He can’t just camp out until Wen Ruohan decides to throw another fight night. He’s been so fucking stupid. The day Wangji told him about Jerry, Wei Ying should’ve taken him and run away as far as they could. But he was selfish. He had told himself that Wangji was safe, but deep down, he’d known it wasn’t true. He’d just wanted Wangji to stay. He’d wanted to hang on to the fairy tale: the three of them, living happily ever after in their little apartment. Back then, that hadn’t seemed too much to hope for.

But he should have known. Something that good never lasts.

Wangji sits in the cage holding the t-shirt in his lap. He’d tried to put it back on, but it hurt too much when it dragged against the brand. The basement smells like charred meat, and from time to time, Wangji lifts the shirt to his face and inhales the clean smells of detergent and home to chase away the stench. It doesn’t help much, though, since the smell comes from him.

The last of the day’s light sinks below the basement’s narrow window. Wangji had forgotten how dark the basement gets at night. He can barely see the t-shirt in his hands.

The fluorescent lights flicker on, and Wen Zhuliu comes downstairs alone. He stands outside the cage and stares down at Wangji, but Wangji has no idea what he’s thinking—his face is as blank as ever. “Bathroom,” Wen Zhuliu says, finally.

Wangji nods and goes to the door while Wen Zhuliu unlocks it. Wen Zhuliu waits outside while Wangji is in the bathroom. Wangji goes to the sink and bends over the faucet to gulp as much water as he can stand. Although he wants to shower, he doesn’t think he could bear the water hitting his chest. But his toothbrush and toothpaste are still on the sink, so he brushes his teeth and tries not to look at his chest in the cracked mirror.

When Wen Zhuliu takes him back to the cage, he hands Wangji ointment for his chest, a water bottle, and a pack of peanut butter crackers. “Thank you,” Wangji says as he tears open the crackers.

Wen Zhuliu locks the cage and sticks the key in his pocket. “Jerry is gone.”

Wangji swallows his mouthful of cracker. “Dead?”

Wen Zhuliu shakes his head. “Looks like he ran.”

“Oh. The piano teacher?”

“His store was closed.”

Wangji closes his eyes and sighs out his relief. They probably don’t know Wei Ying lives above the store. But they’ll find out eventually. Even if they don’t, they can just go back during the day when the studio is open. What will Wei Ying do when Wen Ruohan’s men show up?

“He doesn’t know anything,” Wangji mutters to his knees. “He’s a good person.”

Wen Zhuliu doesn’t say anything. After a moment, he goes back upstairs and leaves Wangji in the dark.

Wei Ying wakes up on the couch. There is no blissful moment in which he forgets that Wangji is gone. The dream he just clawed out of made sure of that. In the dream, he stood in the police station’s morgue, staring through the window at a corpse covered by a white sheet.

A man in a lab coat pulled down the sheet. “Is this your friend?”

The corpse on the table was Wangji. His face was gray, his lips blue. The steel collar was around his neck.

“No,” the Wei Ying in the dream said, “that’s not him. He doesn’t wear that anymore.”

The man picked up the tag hanging from Wangji’s collar. “It’s got your name on it. He must be yours.”

“No!” Wei Ying banged on the window. “No, that isn’t him! Take that thing off him!”

The man removed the collar. Underneath it was a line of red. Fresh blood gushed from Wangji’s neck, puddling on the cold table, dripping onto the floor.

“No, put it back!” Wei Ying screamed. “Put it back, you’re killing him!”

“He’s already dead,” the man said, scowling at Wei Ying like he was an idiot. He squelched across the red tile to the window and held up the collar. “This is yours now.”

That was when Wei Ying woke up, alone and sweating through his t-shirt. He must have fallen asleep on the couch. The clock on the piano reads 4:17 a.m.

Groaning, Wei Ying scrubs his hands over his face, trying to scrub away the images from the dream, but they won’t go. He can almost smell the morgue: antiseptic and death. He can still see Wangji’s face, as gray and cold as the collar around his neck.

Is he dead? Did they kill him and dump his body? Are they hurting him? Is he scared? Did they stick him back in that cage? Did they put another collar around his neck?

Wei Ying bites down on the heel of his hand to stifle his scream. Then he goes to the bookcase and yanks out the bin. The collar is still there. For some reason, he’s surprised, like he thought Wangji would have taken it with him. But it’s here, like Wangji’s key and his phone that Wen Ning found by the register downstairs. Which meant Wangji knew what was going to happen. He knew he’d be taken, and he didn’t want the Wens to find those things. He was trying to protect Wei Ying and A-Yuan. He’d gone out there alone and fought those assholes so they wouldn’t find him in the studio.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying whimpers. He clutches the collar to his chest as hot tears slide down his cheeks. “Oh fuck.” He’d picked up the collar because he wanted to toss it down the garbage chute, but he can’t. It’s an evil fucking thing, but it’s a piece of Wangji. He can’t just toss it out like garbage.

He swipes tears off his face and lays the collar back in the bin. That’s its home. Wangji likes for things to have a home, everything in its place. But this is his home, and he isn’t here.

Stop! Wei Ying hisses at himself. He wants to wail and huddle into a ball, but he won’t. Not yet. Not if there’s something he can do to get Wangji back.

He heads to the bathroom and takes a hot shower. There’s plenty of hot water at 4:30 in the morning. Then he makes coffee and goes back to the couch. The list he was making when he fell asleep got knocked to the floor, so he picks it back up and flips through the notebook as he drinks coffee.

The list contains names from the bad old days: a few people he used to call “friends,” some dealers, and a lot of addicts. Some of the names are crossed out. He called them last night and got a few answers and several this number is no longer in service messages. But those were the longshots, anyway. The people he really wants to find are the ones whose numbers he never had—Lihua’s people.

He flips past the names and reads through the notes he took last night. There were some uncomfortable phone conversations last night, especially since Wei Ying blew right past the awkward hey, haven’t heard from you in years small talk and went straight to asking about known criminals they might associate with. None of the people he called knew anything about Wen Ruohan, but he did get some more names and places to check out.

But today, he’s going to hit the streets. Back when he was still bothering to drag Lihua home, he went to several shitty bars and even shittier apartments searching for her and met a lot of shitty people. Until you gave up and let her die, his conscience hisses at him. He tells his conscience to fuck off. He has fresher guilt to torment him right now, thank you very much. Today, he is going to visit every rathole he knows and shake the rats until he learns something that can help him find Wangji.

As soon as the buses are running, Wei Ying sets off to the bus stop, vibrating from too much coffee and not enough sleep. He’s a disaster right now. He’s aware of that. Thankfully, Jie took A-Yuan home with her, and Wen Ning’s taking care of the store and contacting Wei Ying’s students to say their lessons are cancelled for the foreseeable future. Everyone has been so kind and understanding—We’ll take care of everything, Wei Ying. Just focus on finding Wangji. But they don’t know. None of them understands what’s happening. Well, Wen Ning knows a little. Wei Ying had to fill him in on some things after the Crowbar Incident. But no one else really knows what could happen to Wangji if Wei Ying doesn’t find him.

You could tell them, a voice says inside his head. That voice sounds a lot like Baoshan. But if he tells anyone, then they’ll just have to feel what he’s feeling, this gnawing terror. And they’ll want to know why Wei Ying let it happen. They’ll ask why Wei Ying didn’t take Wangji away when he had the chance. And what can he say then except to admit that he was wrong, that he allowed this to happen when he could have prevented it?

Wei Ying shakes his head and walks faster, like he can leave those thoughts behind. Focus, he tells himself. Focus on what you can do. You can feel shitty later.

As he waits at the bus stop with the early-morning crowd, he tells himself that at least he’s doing something this time. At least he’s trying. He just has to hope that it isn’t already too late.

When Wangji comes out of the bathroom the next day, Wen Ruohan and Wen Xu are waiting in front of the cage with Wen Zhuliu. Wen Xu is holding a syringe.

“Your friend at the liquor store seems to have left town,” Wen Ruohan says. “Unfortunate, but maybe this piano teacher will have answers for us.”

Wangji drags his eyes away from the syringe. “He doesn’t know anything,” Wangji says. “I never told him anything. I just swept the floors.”

Wen Ruohan nods at Wen Xu, and Wen Xu comes toward Wangji, raising the syringe. Wangji clenches his fists and backs away from the needle.

Wen Xu’s lip curls away from his teeth. “Stop running.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll do whatever you want.” That is a lie, but he can’t let them drug him again. If they drug him, he might forget, and the one thing he couldn’t stand is to forget Wei Ying and A-Yuan. They can leave him to rot in this cage as long as he can still remember. He’ll fight them if he has to. They’ll kill him, but that would be better than forgetting what he had.

“Grab him,” Wen Xu barks at Wen Zhuliu.

Wen Zhuliu starts towards Wangji, but Wangji holds up his hand as if that would stop Wen Zhuliu. “Don’t. You don’t need to drug me. I won’t try to run. I won’t fight.”

“You’re fighting right now,” Wen Xu says, pointing at Wangji with the syringe.

Wangji ignores him and turns to Wen Ruohan. “Please.”

Wen Ruohan studies him in silence for several heartbeats before he finally sighs. “We’ll forego the drugs for now. If he behaves himself.”

Wangji nods his thanks and follows Wen Zhuliu when he leads him back to the cage. The door locks, and Wen Ruohan watches him from the other side. “You’ve changed,” Wen Ruohan says.

Wangji drops his eyes to Wen Ruohan’s chin. “Not that much.”

Wen Ruohan grunts. “We’ll see.”

They leave him and go back upstairs. When they’re gone, Wangji sinks back to the floor and holds the t-shirt to his face. He closes his eyes, and he’s back in bed with Wei Ying, the sunlight shining in Wei Ying’s eyes as he strokes his fingers through Wangji’s hair. In the cage, Wangji hums the song he named after Wei Ying, and in bed, Wei Ying says, good morning, sweetheart. Wangji plays Wei Ying’s voice over and over in his head—his soft morning voice and his laughter and the thousand ways Wei Ying says Wangji’s name, each one more perfect than the last.

Please let them be safe, Wangji thinks as his fingers twist the blue shirt. He can endure anything as long as he knows Wei Ying and A-Yuan are safe.

The two days Wei Ying spends crisscrossing the city and tracking down leads give him a brutal recollection of his past and an unforgiving glimpse into what he might have become if A-Yuan hadn’t come into his life. In those two days and nights, Wei Ying walks through a twisted landscape populated by dead-eyed, shuffling people locked in cages they built themselves.

He had come so close to becoming one of those people. He’d never been interested in the hard stuff like Lihua had—just booze and a little weed now and then—but maybe one day that wouldn’t have been enough. One day, the monsters in his head might have driven him to stick a needle in his arm. Then he would have washed up on the shore like river trash.

But aside from haunting him with terrors from the past, his search doesn’t dig up anything. Late on the second night after Wangji was taken, Wei Ying has to admit that he doesn’t know where else to look. He’s exhausted his list of lowlifes and failed to find anything useful. The few people who actually talked to him didn’t know anything more than wild rumors. Wen Ruohan must cover his tracks well. Wei Ying never found anyone who goes to these underground fights or anyone who’s run into Wen Ruohan’s people. And Jerry apparently had a rare moment of intelligence and took off, so Wei Ying doesn’t even have the satisfaction of beating him to death with the crowbar.

The buses have stopped running for the night, so it’s almost three in the morning when Wei Ying gets back to his empty apartment. He’s exhausted, but he can’t even bear to look at the empty bed, much less climb in alone. After a shower to wash off the stench of drug dens, he goes to the couch and tries to sleep, telling himself that it’ll be better in the morning, that tomorrow, he’ll figure out what to do.

It isn’t convincing, but he still falls asleep, his face smashed into the cushion that smells like Wangji.

Wei Ying groans and slaps his hand out, trying to silence his chirping phone without opening his eyes. They feel like they’ve been glued shut. But all he manages to do is knock the phone to the floor.

He forces his eyes open, and he’s looking at the TV instead of his nightstand. Because he’s on the couch instead of his bed. Because Wangji is gone. And that isn’t his alarm ringing—it’s a call.

“Shit!” Wei Ying yelps as he struggles off the couch and grabs for the phone. It could be someone calling about Wangji. But when he finally manages to pick up the phone, Wen Ning’s photo shows on the screen.

Wei Ying sighs and accepts the call. “Hey.”

“Uh, hi,” Wen Ning says. “There’s a guy in the studio. I think you should talk to him.”

Wei Ying drops down on the couch and rubs the shin he banged against the coffee table while he was chasing the phone. “What guy?”

“He says his name is Wen Zhuliu.”

Wei Ying’s brain chugs, the name bouncing around his head until the Wen part finally registers. “Oh shit!” Wei Ying leaps off the couch and hits the coffee table with his other leg. “Does he know where Wangji is?”

“I think that’s what he wants to talk to you about.”

“Okay, I’ll be right down. Don’t let him leave!”

Wei Ying ends the call and hobbles around the couch, headed for the bedroom and pants. He has no idea what’s going on right now, but he definitely needs pants.

On the way downstairs, Wei Ying tells himself that he is going to be cool. He is going to be calm. This Wen Zhuliu guy could have a gun for all he knows, so he is going to handle this delicately and politely ask the guy where the fuck he’s taken Wangji.

But when Wei Ying walks into the studio and sees the big man standing in front of the counter, all of his plans fly away like a kite with a broken string.

“Where is he?” Wei Ying shrieks as he springs toward the guy who’s probably Wen Zhuliu. “What the fuck did you do to him?”

The guy shows no reaction at all to Wei Ying’s shrieking. He just stands there, face blank, as Wei Ying advances on him. His eyes shift down to the finger Wei Ying is pointing at his chest, then move back up to Wei Ying’s face. “Wangji is alive.”

Wei Ying’s legs melt beneath him, and he falls back against the counter. Thank you, he sends to the universe. Oh thank fuck.

“Wei Ying?” Wen Ning calls from what seems like miles away but is actually just the other side of the counter.

Wei Ying flaps a hand in his direction and pushes himself back up. “Good,” he says to what may actually be a robot in a black sportscoat. “Where is he?”

The big robot doesn’t answer that. He turns slightly to stare at the Steinway. “He works here?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, staring at the guy staring at the piano. Now that his brain is coming online, he remembers Wangji mentioning this guy. From the way Wangji talked about him, he’d been nice to Wangji—or at least nicer than any of the other goons had. “And we want him back.”

Wen Zhuliu turns back to him and just stands there looking at him with his hands folded, like Wei Ying is a mildly-interesting painting in a gallery.

“We want him back. This is his home.” Wei Ying’s voice breaks on the last word, but he chokes down the tears. “Please, just let him come home.”

Wen Zhuliu blinks once. Then he turns and walks toward the door.

For a few seconds, Wei Ying just gapes after him, too stunned to react. Finally, he breaks out of the trance and runs after him. “Hey!” he shouts. “Hey, asshole, tell me how to get him back!”

Wen Zhuliu ignores him. He gets into a black sports car and starts the engine. Wei Ying runs around the car and pounds on the window. “Hey, fuckhead, I want him back! Do you hear me? I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want!”

Wen Zhuliu doesn’t even seem to hear him. He pulls away from the curb, forcing Wei Ying to jump back to avoid the tires. Horns blare as Wei Ying nearly stumbles into traffic.

Wei Ying ignores the horns and the curses to fumble his phone from his pocket and snap a photo. “Thanks, asshole,” Wei Ying mutters as he runs back upstairs to call Baoshan.

Wen Ruohan has been true to his word so far. No one has tried to stick needles in Wangji’s arm again. None of the food he’s been given has been drugged either, though there hasn’t been much food. Aside from Wen Zhuliu, no one else has come to the basement to feed him or take him to the bathroom. No one has asked him questions. No one has come to tell him that they visited the studio to question Wei Ying.

That’s good, Wangji tells himself as he sits in the cage. If they had hurt Wei Ying, they would tell him. They would want him to know what they’d done. But not knowing is maddening. It’s so much harder to stay in the cage now, helpless to do anything for Wei Ying. It’s harder now that he knows the good things he’s missing.

On Wangji’s third day in the cage, Wen Zhuliu comes down. Wangji goes to the door expecting to be taken to the bathroom, but Wen Zhuliu doesn’t unlock the door. “The piano teacher doesn’t know anything.”

Wangji blinks at him, trying to figure out if that was a question. It didn’t seem to be. “Is he—did you hurt him?”

Wen Zhuliu shakes his head.

“Thank you.” Wangji shivers with relief as Wen Zhuliu unlocks the cage.

“Bathroom,” Wen Zhuliu says, and Wangji follows him through the basement, smiling at his back. Wei Ying must have been smart when they questioned him. That’s good. Wangji had feared that Wei Ying might do something reckless, but Wangji should have had more faith in him. Wei Ying wouldn’t do anything to put himself or A-Yuan in danger.

“I’m getting him out,” Wei Ying tells Baoshan. He waves his phone in her face. “I took a picture of that asshole’s license plate. His name is Wen Zhuliu. Just get somebody to run the plates, okay?”

Baoshan snatches the phone out of his hand. “Don’t be an idiot. What are you planning to do, bust in and take out a bunch of henchmen? With what, your dizi?”

Wei Ying scowls at her and slumps back against the couch. He’d been thinking more along the lines of sneaking in through a window and smuggling Wangji out. He owns a lot of black clothes, so it wouldn’t be hard to come up with a ninja outfit. “Just get me an address.”

“Kid, you’ve seen too many movies.”

Baoshan picks up the muffin that Wei Ying abandoned on the coffee table and shoves it back in his hands. She glares at him until he takes a bite. He chews, glowering at her, but the muffin is delicious. Ms. Nelson made them. She’d come up with Baoshan, but when she saw the photo of Wei Ying, Wangji, and A-Yuan wearing dinosaur party hats, she started sobbing and Baoshan sent her back to the bookstore.

Everybody keeps bringing him food. Wen Ning’s brought take-out twice already. Jie left the kids with the peacock to bring him soup and red bean buns. Jiang Cheng brought him a pizza. Even Popo came by with a Cool Whip container of egg drop soup. “Wangji is a nice boy,” she’d said as she handed it over. And then she’d stalked back to her apartment, leaving Wei Ying stunned in his doorway.

“But you can find them, right?” Wei Ying asks around a mouthful of muffin. “I found that arena, too—the place where they made him fight. Will that help?”

Baoshan finishes the top of her muffin and sets the decapitated stump back on the plate. “It might. I’ll pass it along to my contacts at the police department. But you need to stay away from these people.”

“I can’t just sit here. I need to—”

Baoshan squeezes his knee. “I know, but Wangji is strong. He’s survived hell already. He can do it again.”

“He shouldn’t have to!” Wei Ying throws down his muffin and goes to the window like he’s expecting to find Wangji there on the fire escape, just waiting for Wei Ying to let him in.

Baoshan follows him and leans against the window. “And neither should you. But life sucks.”

He gasps a horrible laugh against the glass and turns to her. “Your pep talks used to be better.”

She shrugs. “You don’t tell a scared little kid that life sucks. But you’re an adult now. Time to face the truth.”

“You should’ve told me that a long time ago. I would have known not to get my hopes up.”

“You were cynical enough. And I never said that you should stop hoping. If you stop hoping, you miss the few bright spots in all this darkness.”

“Or maybe I would’ve done the smart thing and taken Wangji away from here. I was so fucking stupid. I thought I could keep him safe. But I just didn’t want to believe—I just wanted to believe that everything was going to be okay.”

“So did he,” she says gently.

“I should’ve done something. I should’ve taken him to Alaska. Or Australia. Fucking Antarctica. Anything to get him away from those fuckers. I’m so fucking stupid!”

Baoshan sighs. “As much as I’ve always loved watching you tear yourself apart, I’m going to need you to focus.”

“On what?” He sounds like a sulky teenager. He hears it and doesn’t particularly care. She knew him when he was a sulky teenager, so she shouldn’t be surprised.

“On getting him back, dumbass.”

Wei Ying leans his forehead against the glass and closes his eyes. “I thought you said I couldn’t do anything.”

“I said you needed to stay away from them. I didn’t say there was nothing you could do.” She yanks him back to the couch and shoves him down. “Now, I need that picture and the address. We’ll try to get something rolling.”

For a while after Baoshan leaves, Wei Ying feels something almost like hope. If anybody can do something, it’s her. But as another night arrives with no word, the hope fades. He can’t stop obsessing about what’s happening to Wangji. The robot said Wangji was alive, but that didn’t that he’d stay alive. It didn’t mean that he was okay. Would Wei Ying ever find out if they killed him? Would the robot come back to tell him? Even if the police found his body, they wouldn’t know to tell Wei Ying. There’s nothing linking them.

If Wangji’s body were found like Lihua’s had been, the police wouldn’t know who to tell. Baoshan’s been trying to dig up information about Wangji’s past for months, but she hasn’t been able to find anything, not even a missing child report. Wangji’s fingerprints probably aren’t even on file anywhere. It’ll be like he never existed.

A knock on the door startles him out of that horrible spiral. He scrambles to open it and then stands in the doorway gaping at his visitor. He really needs sleep. He’s only managed a few hours over the past days, and the exhaustion is messing with his head. But he can’t seem to fall asleep without Wangji, and when he does manage it, the nightmares kick him right back out.

Apparently, he’s so tired that he’s hallucinating because Yu Ziyuan is standing outside his apartment. “Well,” she says, quirking an eyebrow when he just keeps staring at her. “Are you going to invite me in?”

Of course. Vampires can’t enter until they’ve been invited. Wei Ying steps back and sweeps his arm like a butler on Downton Abbey.

Yu Ziyuan ignores the sarcasm and clicks through the door in her shiny pumps. She stands beside the couch, surveying the living room. She looks so weird standing in the middle of his shabby living room, like a Neiman Marcus mannequin in a thrift store. Under normal circumstances, Wei Ying might wince at the mess on the coffee table, but right now, he can’t bring himself to care.

After she’s taken in the living room, Yu Ziyuan heads to the kitchen. Wei Ying follows, not knowing what else to do. She unpacks the bag she brought and stacks the contents on the counter.

When the bag is empty, she moves on to the refrigerator. He watches as she takes out a container, sniffs, and dumps the entire thing in the trash. While she’s occupied with his leftovers, Wei Ying investigates the stuff she brought. There are two kinds of tea, some fresh fruit, and two covered dishes. The round one on top contains potstickers. The rectangle below it holds what looks like a casserole.

“Did you cook?” Wei Ying asks. Even he couldn’t hallucinate anything that bizarre.

She pops the cap off the milk and sniffs. It must pass the test because she puts it back on the shelf. “Yes.”

“Since when do you cook?”

“Huiya and I are taking a cooking course. She made the casserole.”

“Oh.” Wei Ying hovers at the sink watching her check expiration dates. The peacock’s mom made him a casserole? The peacock’s mom eats casserole? “That was nice. Tell her I said thanks.”

She ignores him to chunk a half-full bottle of sweet chili sauce into the garbage. He opens his mouth to protest, but he doesn’t have the energy. “Are you going to scrub the floors next? They should be pretty clean. Wangji—”

His mouth snaps shut. He was going to say that Wangji mops the kitchen every week.

She turns to him and lifts an eyebrow. Her eyes sharpen as she looks him over. He shuffles under her gaze and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s allowed to look like shit right now.

“Go take a shower,” she says.

He scowls. Her eyebrow arches up to her perfect hairline. He rolls his eyes and heads to the bathroom.

When he comes out and puts on clothes that don’t smell like a dead donkey, she’s waiting on the couch with two cups of tea and a plate of potstickers. “Eat,” she orders, pointing at the plate on the coffee table.

He picks up the plate and stuffs a potsticker in his mouth. They’re delicious. God damn it. Juicy pork and a sting of spice. Like she knew what he liked best and made them just for him. “Tasty,” he mumbles, spewing crumbs on his clean t-shirt.

She purses her lips at the crumbs, then sips her tea without comment. He must really look pathetic if she’s letting him get away with that.

“I’ll take your laundry,” she says. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow. Is there anything you need? I’m going to run by the store on my way home.”

He swallows the lump of masticated potsticker and stares at her profile. Her eyebrow twitches, but she pretends not to notice him gaping at her.

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

She nods and takes another dainty sip of tea. She made their tea in the cups she gave him when he and A-Yuan first moved into the building. They were hers—real antiques. They belonged to her great-grandmother or something. But she has tons of shit like that, so he just assumed she wanted to get rid of them. She must have dug through the cabinets to find them. He never uses them because they’re so fancy. And fragile. There was always the lingering fear that he’d drop one or A-Yuan would knock one off the table, and she’d know somehow.

He stops staring at her and looks back to the kitchen. All the crusty mugs and wadded up paper towels are gone from the countertop. She must have taken out the trash because the lid is sitting neatly instead of gaping over the overflowing garbage.

She’s never done anything like this, not even when Lihua was dragged out of the river. He’d been such a wreck then—tearing himself apart with guilt, trying to keep his shit together for the baby who would not stop crying. During that blurry nightmare, Yu Ziyuan hadn’t come. It was Jie and Jiang Cheng who shoved him into the car and took him and baby A-Yuan to Jie’s apartment. It was Baoshan’s hand clamped on his arm as he stood in front of the window in the morgue—the cops said Lihua’s hands were too badly decomposed for fingerprint identification.

It was Baoshan who held him up when they pulled back the sheet and showed him a face that would haunt his nightmares for years. He told the cops that he wasn’t sure because how was he supposed to recognize his Lihua in that thing, that lump of muck that didn’t even look like a human face? So they showed him the tattoo on her ankle—a crane in flight. Lihua called that tattoo her secret weapon. She claimed that it made her soar like a bird. She’d lift onto her toes and twirl around impossibly fast, laughing like a dervish. Wei Ying looked at that crane on the dead thing’s ankle, then dropped to the floor and vomited up what smelled like dank river water.

Wei Ying had deserved that. The morgue was his punishment. He’d let her die, let her carve herself into pieces, so he had to be the one who looked at that gray flesh, at the little pieces carved out of her cheeks. He tried to tell himself she must have been tossed on the rocks, but he knew. He knew that the fish had nibbled on her face, that those pieces were now floating around in fish bellies. He hasn’t been able to so much as smell fish without gagging since that day.

So Yu Ziyuan didn’t bring him home with her back then. She didn’t hold his hand at the morgue or at the funeral. But it was Yu Ziyuan who took charge of settling with his landlord (a guy who makes Jin Guangshan look like a prince) and packing up what little he had that was worth keeping and putting it in storage. It was Yu Ziyuan and Baoshan who fought Lihua’s parents when they tried to get custody of his son, who handled changing his son’s name to Wei Yuan on the paperwork. He only knows all that because Jie told him it was all taken care of, that he didn’t have to worry about his baby being taken away too, that he just needed to focus on getting better, like he was sick instead of a shitty loser who let his son’s mother drown.

Has he ever thanked Yu Ziyuan for that? Has he ever even acknowledged that he knows what she did? Probably not. All he thought about back then was keeping himself from climbing into a bottle and drowning along with Lihua.

“What’s wrong with me?” It comes out as a whisper, a little boy’s plea.

Yu Ziyuan’s head whips toward him, her fingers tight in the dainty little cup’s handle. “What?”

“You have to tell me. No one else will.” Tears are leaking now, and she’ll hate that, but he needs her to hate him right now. He needs her to tell him the truth. Everyone else will pat his cheek and try to make him feel better. But he can trust her to be brutally honest. “There’s something wrong with me. I know it. Tell me what it is so I can fix it.”

“Wei Ying, what are you babbling about?” Her voice is a slap, and he flinches, but this is what he wants.

“Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Tell me what it is about me that makes everyone leave.”

Her face pinches like she’s smelling something nasty. She sets the tea cup on its pretty little saucer and turns to him with that pissy no-nonsense expression that tells him he’s about to learn in excruciating detail how terrible he is. He welcomes it just as much as he fears it.

“No one has left you. That is ridiculous.”

He shakes his head. There’s snot on his upper lip. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away. “Everyone leaves. It just keeps happening. Over and over. I keep—I keep losing them! Tell me how to make it stop.”

Her head bows. Her fingers clench in the skirt that is much too expensive to sit on his squeaky thrift store couch. She sighs and meets his eyes. “No one has left you. Your parents died in a fire. Lihua . . . Lihua destroyed herself. She was doing that long before you met her. And Wangji—” She looks around until she spots the box of tissues. She plucks a few out of the box and grabs his chin to dab at the snot on his face. Then she tosses the damp tissues on the coffee table. “He didn’t choose to leave, did he?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

She nods once, a brisk little jerk of her head. See? that nod seems to say. Now stop your foolishness.

“Does it matter?” he asks, more to the world than to her. “Does it matter if they chose to leave? Either way, I still lose them. I can’t hold on.” He slaps his hands together, his palms stinging and empty. “Maybe it’s because I don’t deserve to keep them.”

“Stop it.” She grabs his hands and digs her red nails into his wrists. “You cannot do this. You cannot let this destroy you. You have a son.”

He drags in a breath that sounds like a wail and focuses on the prick of her nails. “I know. I know that. I just—I can’t do it again. I can’t. Not without him. I need him. It hurts too much. I can’t fucking breathe!”

“I know.” She squeezes his wrist with one hand and slaps the other over his chest like she can force his lungs to work. “But you have to. You’re a parent. You don’t have a choice. You have to fight your way through this. For A-Yuan.”

He shakes his head, struggling against her grip and bawling like a baby, but she doesn’t let go. She holds him tighter, her voice as harsh as her tiny hands. “It took courage to let Wangji into your life,” she says. “To let yourself care about him. You shouldn’t regret that, no matter what happens.”

“But I didn’t—”

“Two weeks,” she says, cutting him off. “If Wangji doesn’t come back, then you have two weeks to grieve or to hate yourself, whatever you need to do. We’ll take care of A-Yuan until then. But then you’re going to pull yourself together. You’re going to go back to living your life because you have to. You have to be what he needs. We all love him, but he needs you.”

He crumples, falling against her, and she lets him cry all over her silk blouse. So solid and mean and as invulnerable as marble. “You have not lost us,” she says, her voice softer and almost amused. “Or have you forgotten about the family that took you in?”

He groans a laugh against her shoulder and shakes his head, smearing tears and snot on the silk. “Never.”

She makes a little noise like hmph and pets his hair. He doesn’t think she’s ever done that before. “You will survive this, A-Ying. You might not want to, but you will. You’re a lot stronger than you know.”

“I don’t want to be strong,” he whimpers.

“No one does, darling. We just have to do it anyway.”

Something is happening. For the past hour, Wangji has heard shouts from upstairs and the thump of running feet. In the parking lot outside the window, doors slam and tires screech. He’s heard snatches of conversation: anger and fear and orders to get ready. Wangji sits on the blanket Wen Zhuliu brought him and listens, trying to piece the scraps together.

What had Jerry said? There was some kind of shake-up in Wen Ruohan’s organization. Jerry had been referring to Wen Chao’s murder, but that wasn’t the end of the trouble. Whatever Xue Yang and Mr. Yao started by killing Wen Chao isn’t over. This place has changed, and it isn’t just all the new faces upstairs. From the chaos Wangji has observed, it seems likely that Wen Ruohan isn’t winning his war with Mr. Yao.

Even if that is true, it probably won’t help Wangji. But it’s something to occupy his mind, at least. It’s something to think about besides his growling stomach and how much he misses his family and his home. And he’s bored. It’s hard to believe that he lived in this cage for so many years with only the rabbit and one children’s book. Now he doesn’t even have the book.

But he does have a rabbit. Wangji takes the bunny bracelet from its hiding place and strokes the little charm. As he runs his thumb over the bunny’s ears, he closes his eyes and pretends he’s in the studio listening to Wei Ying play the piano. The bump of feet overhead becomes the bass drum of Wen Ning’s drum set, the blat of car horns the trumpet from Wen Ning’s blues band.

Wangji is so deep in his composition that at first, he doesn’t register the sound as boots thudding down the stairs. He just works the thuds into his song, speeding up the tempo to match the rapid percussion.

Then Wen Xu says, “Give me the key.”

Wangji’s head jerks up, and he scrambles to his feet. There’s no time to hide the bunny bracelet—Wen Xu and Wen Zhuliu are almost to the cage. Scolding himself for his recklessness, he crams the bracelet into his pocket.

Wen Xu unlocks the cage. “C’mon, we need you. The fuckers will be here any minute.”

“Who?” Wangji asks.

“What do you mean, who? Some assholes we need to kill. What do you care?”

Wangji steps backward. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

Wen Xu leans back and groans at the ceiling. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. All those years ripping guys apart, and suddenly you’ve got a goddamn conscience? Well, guess what? Yao’s guys aren’t gonna care if you’re a nice dog now. They’ll fucking kill you anyway. So are you gonna fight, or are you gonna roll over and die?”

Wangji swallows and stands his ground. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

Wen Xu’s jaw clenches. He takes a gun from his pocket and points it at Wangji. “Then you’re useless.”

Wangji closes his eyes. He wants to remember as much as he can before the light goes out. He calls on the memory of dancing with Wei Ying, the red and green lights sparkling in Wei Ying’s eyes, then A-Yuan unwrapping the liopluerodon on Christmas morning. A-Yuan sleeping on Wangji’s chest with his face tucked under Wangji’s chin. Wei Ying spinning across the kitchen floor, his ponytail flying. The smooth piano keys under his fingers. Chopin and Ye Xiaogang. Pancakes and Wei Ying licking syrup from his thumb. Hot chocolate and bunny slippers. Reading A-Yuan a bedtime story. Wei Ying stroking his hair. Ms. Nelson and Portia. Wen Ning playing guitar. Wei Ying singing. Wei Ying laughing. Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.

A crack—softer than he’d expected. Then a thud.

Wangji opens his eyes. Wen Zhuliu stands in the doorway of the cage. In front of him, Wen Xu lies crumpled on the floor. Wen Xu’s eyes are open, but they’re empty. Mannequin eyes. His head is twisted unnaturally. Wen Zhuliu must have snapped his neck just as he taught Wangji to years ago.

“Come,” Wen Zhuliu says. He leaves Wen Xu on the floor and starts for the stairs. Wangji stares after him, numb with shock, then carefully steps over the body and follows him.

In the lobby, men shout at each other and wave their guns, but they don’t pay attention to Wangji as he follows Wen Zhuliu to Wen Ruohan’s private elevator. When they’re inside, Wen Zhuliu presses the button for the top floor, and the car begins to rise.

As they ride up, Wangji watches Wen Zhuliu’s reflection in the door, trying to understand what’s happening. Wen Zhuliu has always been Wen Ruohan’s most loyal soldier. “Why did you kill him?”

The elevator hums around them. The car stops and the doors slide open. Wen Zhuliu says, “I made a deal.”

Wen Zhuliu steps out before Wangji can ask more questions. Wangji follows Wen Zhuliu into Wen Ruohan’s office. Wen Ruohan sits at his desk, but he is slumped over, his head resting against the wood. A knife sticks out of his back.

Meng Yao perches on the desk beside Wen Ruohan’s body. He smiles as they walk inside. “Is he dead?”

Wen Zhuliu nods.

“Fantastic.” Meng Yao slides off the desk and shoves Wen Ruohan’s body until it topples off the chair. Then Meng Yao settles into the chair and folds his hands on the desk. “Thank you, Zhuliu. Your assistance has been invaluable.”

“Is that Wangji?”

Wangji turns toward the voice. In the corner, Xue Yang leans against the wall, smiling. Wangji clenches his fists and tries not to cringe back as Xue Yang strolls toward him.

“Look at you!” Xue Yang says. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Seems like you’ve done well for yourself.”

Wangji stares at that dangerous grin, at the flecks of blood on Xue Yang’s cheeks. Xue Yang laughs at Wangji’s undoubtedly dumbstruck expression and takes Meng Yao’s former spot on the edge of the desk.

“Don’t worry, Wangji,” Meng Yao says. “I have no use for your particular talents. Wen Zhuliu says that you can keep your mouth shut, so as per our deal . . .” Meng Yao’s eyes slide to Wen Zhuliu. “You’re free to go.”

Wangji sucks in a breath. This has to be some kind of trick. As soon as he turns his back, Xue Yang will shoot him. “I can go?”

Meng Yao laughs and kicks his feet on the desk. “Unless you’d rather stay? Maybe we could find a place for you in our new organization.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” Wen Zhuliu says.

Meng Yao holds up his hands. “It was only an offer. By all means, take the puppy back to his piano teacher.”

Wen Zhuliu and Meng Yao stare at each other for a few tense moments. Then Wen Zhuliu turns and jerks a hand for Wangji to follow.

As they’re walking out the door, Xue Yang calls, “Take care, Wangji!” His laugh echoes through the hall as they walk to the elevator.

They don’t go back through the lobby. Wen Zhuliu leads Wangji out the back door into the parking lot, and they get in Wen Zhuliu’s car.

As Wen Zhuliu starts the car, Wangji asks, “Are you taking me to the studio?” It’s almost too good to be true.

Wen Zhuliu nods.

“Will they come after me?”

“No.”

There is no hesitation before Wen Zhuliu answers, and Wangji believes him. Wen Zhuliu doesn’t lie. But then, before today, Wangji would have said that Wen Zhuliu would never betray Wen Ruohan.

“Why are you helping me?”

Wen Zhuliu ignores the question as they pull out of the parking lot and into the street. But as the car accelerates, Wen Zhuliu says, “You are stronger than I was.”

Wangji stares at him, confused, but Wen Zhuliu doesn’t say anything else. Wangji twists to look back at Wen Ruohan’s building. Everything seems quiet now. Are the men Wen Xu expected actually on their way, or was that some trick devised by Meng Yao and Xue Yang?

Wangji decides he doesn’t care. He doesn’t understand why Wen Zhuliu is helping him, but he isn’t going to question it. He’s going home. That’s all that matters now.

Chapter Text

Baoshan’s cop buddies still haven’t found anything, and googling Wen Ruohan only got Wei Ying some scientist who writes articles with titles as long as his arm. Searching for underground fight ring led, unsurprisingly, to Fight Club aficionados. Apparently, fans of real fight clubs also follow Tyler Durden’s number one rule because Wei Ying can’t find a fucking thing about Wen Ruohan’s enterprise.

Those failures led Wei Ying to try that dark web thing, except he’s a fucking piano teacher who’s had the same laptop since freshman year of college. Turns out, you can’t just google how to get to the dark web. When he called Jiang Cheng for advice, Jiang Cheng shouted at him until Wei Ying threw the phone across the room. At least the phone didn’t break. He got the poor old thing fixed after the Ratboy Incident, but finding an actual competent Verizon employee to coax his phone back to life had been a once-in-a-lifetime miracle. No way would he get that lucky again.

That’s an idea, though. Maybe that genius young woman at Verizon knows how to get to the dark web.

Wei Ying is looking up the number for the phone place when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs. He pauses to listen, clinging to that last little shred of hope, but then he hears Popo and Jingyi bickering in their familiar rapid-fire style.

Just his neighbors coming home then. What was he expecting, that Wangji would just show up at the door? He shakes his head and picks up a pen to copy down the store’s phone number. What was that young genius’s name? Amy? April? Astrid? He tunes out the voices in the hallway and tries to picture the woman’s nametag. All he can remember is the nose ring and the purple hair. Those should be enough, though, right? How many purple-haired women could work in one Verizon store?

The doorknob rattles.

Wei Ying’s head shoots up. Shit, did he remember to lock the door? Probably not. He hasn’t exactly been operating at peak efficiency for the past five days. This morning, he dumped the coffee grounds directly into the mug instead of the filter basket. He’d been so tired and fucked up that he’d cried a little over that.

No, he did not lock the fucking door. It creaks open slowly, and he just sits there watching it like the idiots in horror movies who stand still and scream while the monster prowls toward them.

The door finishes its swing. Wangji steps inside and stands in the doorway, blinking at Wei Ying. Then he smiles, that achingly sweet smile that always turns Wei Ying to goo.

Wei Ying blinks several times, but Wangji is still there. Oh. He’s dreaming. In a second, Wangji’s gorgeous, perfect face will turn cold and blood will start gushing from his neck.

Wangji’s smile fades. He closes the door behind him. “Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying looks down at the phone in his hand. You can’t read in dreams, right? In dreams, the letters rearrange themselves into gibberish. He saw that in a movie or something. But the words on the phone screen look fine, aside from being a little blurry.

“Oh,” Wei Ying whispers. He drops the phone somewhere and lurches off the couch. On his way to Wangji, he gets tangled in the coffee table and probably puts new bruises on his shins, but he does not care even a little.

He doesn’t hug Wangji so much as collapse against his chest, but Wangji’s strong arms wrap around him and hold him up. Wei Ying shoves his face against Wangji’s neck and breathes in, filling his lungs with Wangji-scent. “Thank you,” he mumbles, his lips smushed against Wangji’s shirt. “Oh, thank you.”

Wei Ying is doing his best to burrow into Wangji’s chest, but Wangji just holds him tighter. “Wei Ying,” he sighs, the words puffing against Wei Ying’s ear.

“How?” Wei Ying asks. “How are you here?”

“Wen Zhuliu brought me back.”

Although it kills him to do it, Wei Ying loosens his grip to pull back a tiny bit. But that’s good, too, because now he can look at Wangji’s gorgeous little smile. “The robot brought you home?”

Wangji blinks. He has the most beautiful eyelashes in the world. “Robot?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Wei Ying strokes his fingers through Wangji’s silky hair, cups his adorable cheek. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. Is A-Yuan here?”

“No, he’s with Jie. I’ll have to call them, he’ll be so excited.”

Wangji smooths his thumb over Wei Ying’s cheek, wiping away a tear. “Wei Ying, are you okay?”

“I am now.” Wei Ying buries his face back in the curve of Wangji’s shoulder and holds on for dear life.

Wangji seems to be okay with that because he hangs on just as tightly. They stand in the living room, hugging and swaying until they nearly overbalance and crash into the wall. That was mostly on Wei Ying, whose balance hasn’t been great these days. He makes himself step back. “Do you want to sit down?”

Wangji smiles and nods. Wei Ying takes his hand and leads him to the couch. They sit down, and Wei Ying picks up his phone from the floor—unbroken, hallelujah—and sets it on top of his research stack. Then he grabs Wangji’s hands—he spent entire seconds not touching Wangji and they were all awful—and really looks at him. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on the day they took him, but Wei Ying doesn’t see any injuries, not even around his neck.

“Sweetheart, what happened?”

“It’s a long story. But it’s safe now. They said I could go.”

“Really? They just let you go?”

Wangji looks down at their hands and strokes his thumbs over Wei Ying’s skin. “Yes. But Meng Yao said I can’t talk about what happened. It’s part of the deal.”

“There’s a deal? Who’s Meng Yao?”

“He’s in charge now.”

“What happened to Wen Ruohan?”

“Dead.”

“Oh.” Wei Ying blinks at him, trying to process, but all his brain is capable of right now is shrieking WANGJI’S HOME! over and over.

“I didn’t kill him,” Wangji says, eyes wide. “Or his son. Wen Zhuliu did that. I think Meng Yao killed Wen Ruohan. Or maybe Xue Yang did.”

“Oh sweetheart, I know you didn’t. Not that I would’ve blamed you. I would’ve done it myself if I’d managed to find you.”

Wangji’s eyebrows twitch. “You were looking for me?”

“Of course I looked for you! I even went to that arena.”

“Wei Ying!” Wangji gasps, scandalized and almost scolding. “They would have killed you.”

“I really didn’t care. I just needed to find you.” He’s crying again. Or maybe he’s still crying. He’s cried so much lately that he pretty much stopped paying attention. He runs his hand down Wangji’s cheek to his shoulder. Wangji’s so warm and solid under his hand, but Wei Ying still feels like he’s dreaming. It’s too good to be true. Wei Ying isn’t the kind of person who gets happy endings. “I can’t believe you’re really back,” Wei Ying says. He moves his hand down to Wangji’s chest to feel his heart beating under his hand.

Wangji flinches.

Wei Ying pulls his hand back. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

“It’s okay. I got burned, but it’s getting better.”

“Burned?” Wei Ying shuffles closer. “Can I see?”

“It’s not so bad,” Wangji says, but he pulls down the neck of his shirt.

“Oh my god.” It isn’t just a burn. Wangji’s chest is fucking charred. “Wangji—”

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt much anymore.”

“Those assholes.” Wei Ying almost wishes they weren’t dead so he can find them and kill them, slowly and painfully. He stands up, tugging Wangji with him. “We need to put something on that, okay? And maybe call Wen Qing. I don’t think Neosporin will cut it.”

Wangji allows himself to be tugged in the bathroom and takes off his shirt while Wei Ying digs through the medicine cabinet. He paws through the crap looking for the little tube, knocking deodorant and floss into the sink. Why is the medicine cabinet always such a disaster? “I can’t find it. Maybe it’s in the drawer.”

Wei Ying turns back to Wangji and freezes, the blood in his veins freezing along with him. When he peeked under Wangji’s shirt, he could only see the top of the thing on his chest, so he hadn’t understood what it was. But now it’s obvious. Those sadistic bastards fucking branded him like something out of an old western. They probably branded him and then locked him back in that fucking cage, like an animal waiting for slaughter.

“Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying manages to drag his eyes from the sun burned over Wangji’s heart to his face. Wangji looks so concerned, like he doesn’t understand why Wei Ying is upset.

“I’m sorry.” The words blubber out because he’s crying again. He’s standing in the bathroom fucking weeping because it’s so unfair. Things like this shouldn’t happen to people like Wangji. “Sorry. I need to—let me find the stuff. It’s gotta be here somewhere.”

Wei Ying turns back to the medicine cabinet and stares into it like the Neosporin will suddenly fly off the shelf and into his hand. It will have to because his eyes are so blurry that he can’t even see the shit anymore.

Wangji reaches past him and grabs what’s probably the Neosporin. He lays the tube on the counter.

“Wei Ying.”

Hands cup Wei Ying’s face, turning him, and then warm lips press against his. Before he registers what’s happening, they move away.

“Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying feels the words puff against his mouth and realizes his eyes are closed, so he opens them. Wangji’s face swims into focus. He’s so close, his big palms still cradling Wei Ying’s face.

“You kissed me?”

Wangji’s eyes dart down to Wei Ying’s mouth, then back up. “Is that—is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying sighs. He rubs his tingling lips together and circles his fingers around Wangji’s wrists. The panic and sorrow feel distant now, like Wangji chased them away with one little kiss, like a prince in a fairy tale. “Yeah, it’s okay. Did you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Do you want to do it again?”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Wangji kisses him again. Another warm press, then another, then too many to track. Who counts kisses anyway? Wei Ying thinks as he slides his hands up Wangji’s arms.

Wangji gasps against Wei Ying’s mouth. Wei Ying parts his lips to catch it, to pull that delicious sound inside him, and Wangji follows him, his lips as soft as Wei Ying always thought they’d be. Wangji pushes closer and wraps his arms around Wei Ying’s back, but Wei Ying definitely got the better deal because he can stroke his hands over Wangji’s bare shoulders. God, he loves those shoulders.

While the kissing is happening, Wei Ying’s poor brain, which has been doing its best to move his body around in these trying times, clocks out and goes on vacation. Which is fine. Wangji is doing a fantastic job of keeping Wei Ying upright all by himself. One big hand holds him steady while the other drags over his back and twists in his shirt.

The one brain cell still on duty warns Wei Ying when he threatens to rub against the brand. Otherwise, Wei Ying does his best to fuse himself to Wangji’s chest and runs his fingers over those amazing shoulders and the broad span of Wangji’s back.

But there is salt on his tongue, and not enough air between kisses. Eventually, Wei Ying’s brain clocks back in and informs him that his nose is stuffy and he might be suffocating.

With heroic effort, Wei Ying ducks his head to evade another kiss. “Sorry,” he croaks. Somehow, he makes his hand leave Wangji’s shoulder to wipe his face. “I’m so gross right now. I’m getting snot all over you.”

Wangji hums and keeps one hand on Wei Ying’s back while he reaches for toilet paper with the other. He hands the toilet paper to Wei Ying and smiles while Wei Ying scrubs his face. “I haven’t brushed my teeth today,” Wangji says, his voice as rough as Wei Ying’s. “My breath smells like donkey butt.”

Wei Ying snorts into the wad of toilet paper. “I didn’t notice.”

They smile at each other, gorgeous (Wangji) and dopey (Wei Ying). Wei Ying isn’t too hard on himself, though. Wangji suddenly showed up after five days, and now he’s shirtless and kissing Wei Ying like someone who studies kissing for a living. A smart guy, that’s his Wangji. A quick learner. Dedicated to his craft.

But even though there is a lot to appreciate about Wangji’s very bare torso, it’s hard to ignore the reason they’re in the bathroom making out. “We forgot the Neosporin,” Wei Ying says.

“We did,” Wangji agrees. He looks down at his chest, then at the Neosporin. “I should shower first.”

“Right. That’s smart.” Wei Ying nods as he backs towards the door, telling himself that he should not offer to join Wangji in the shower. “I’ll let you get cleaned up and everything. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” Wangji says in the tone that means he could easily eat an entire pizza by himself.

“Okay, I’ll take care of that while you’re in here. Sound good?”

Wangji nods.

Wei Ying gives him what’s probably a manic grin and flees to the kitchen where he collapses against the counter. His whole body’s gone shivery, which is probably a little from shock and exhaustion, but mostly from those kisses. He just cannot stress enough how amazing those kisses were.

Food, he tells himself. Wangji needs food. Thankfully, the fridge is still loaded with sympathy deliveries because Wei Ying’s eaten about as much as he’s slept this week, not counting coffee.

When Wangji comes into the kitchen, wet-haired and fully-clothed, Wei Ying has an entire buffet waiting for him.

Wangji blinks down at the loaded dining table. “Did you cook all this?”

“Nope. Everybody brought food while you were gone.”

“Why?”

“No idea. It’s just a thing people do when something bad happens.” He sways closer and waggles his eyebrows. “You wanna be naughty and start with dessert?”

Wangji grins, lopsided and so cute that Wei Ying nearly dies. “Ms. Nelson?”

“Yep.” Wei Ying drops into his chair and reaches for a snickerdoodle. He hands it to Wangji and then grabs one for himself. “She’s been stress-baking,” he mumbles as he chews. “There’s a whole bakery in here.”

Wangji sits beside him and starts loading his plate. Wei Ying tangles their feet together, grinning so hard that his face hurts, and snags a potsticker with his chopsticks. “Here,” he says, offering it to Wangji. “You’ll never guess who made these.”

Wangji swallows the last of the snickerdoodle and leans forward so Wei Ying can pop the potsticker in his mouth. He chews, humming his approval. “Jiang Yanli?”

“Nope. Yu Ziyuan.”

Wangji’s eyebrows do something hilarious, and Wei Ying laughs. “I know, right? And she did our laundry.”

Wangji makes a little hmph sound as he bites into a red bean bun. He’s probably thinking that he’ll have to refold all the clothes because Yu Ziyuan doesn’t know how to do it correctly. God, Wei Ying missed him.

Wei Ying throws in the towel long before Wangji does, but Wei Ying stays at the dining table to cheer him on in between phone calls. So many phone calls. The first is to Jie and A-Yuan, of course. Wangji stops eating long enough to talk to A-Yuan, who shrieks so loudly that Wei Ying can hear him.

“I think he’s excited,” Wei Ying says to his sister when Wangji hands the phone back.

“You sound pretty excited, too,” Jie says, laughing.

“Are you kidding? I almost fainted.” He grins as he watches Wangji demolish Popo’s soup.

“Is it okay to bring A-Yuan home now? It’s fine if he needs to stay here.” A-Yuan shouts his disagreement in the background.

“Yeah, bring him home. I miss my little Monkey.” God, he hasn’t seen his kid in days. He’s barely even spoken to him.

“But is it . . . safe?” Jie asks.

“Yeah. Wangji says everything’s fine now.”

“Good. We’ll be there soon.”

By the time Wei Ying has notified everyone, Wangji has started cleaning up. Wei Ying would tell him not to worry about the dishes, but Wangji has a thing about dirty dishes lying around, so Wei Ying hops up to help him. They’ve honed the clean-up to an art, so working around each other to put the kitchen back in order is weirdly soothing, like everything is back the way it should be.

As Wei Ying hands Wangji the last Tupperware container to dry, he says, “Everyone missed you, you know. We’ve all been really worried.”

“I’m sorry.” Wangji keeps his eyes on the bowl like he’s ashamed for making everyone worry about him. “I didn’t want to leave.”

“I know.” Wei Ying grabs the towel from him and dries his hands before he rubs one over Wangji’s back. “I know you didn’t, sweetheart. I just meant that we’re glad you came home.”

Wangji nods, his eyes still hooded. “I didn’t think I would.”

Wei Ying stares at him, his enormous lunch threatening to come back up as he realizes what Wangji is saying. “You didn’t think you’d come back?”

Wangji shakes his head. “I hoped. But I thought they’d—”

Wei Ying curls around him before he can say the rest. He isn’t sure he could bear to hear that right now. “You’re home,” he mutters into Wangji’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming home.”

Wangji’s breath shudders out, and he turns, letting Wei Ying pull him into a hug. “I missed you,” he whispers into Wei Ying’s hair.

Wei Ying is shaking again, fresh tears ready to roll. Dear god, how is he even still capable of crying? There shouldn’t be any moisture left in his body. “Are you sure it’s safe now?” He pulls back to look into Wangji’s eyes, his hands tangling in Wangji’s hair. “Because if it’s not, then we’ll go. All three of us. We’ll leave town tonight. We’ll go someplace they’ll never find us.”

“It’s safe.” Wangji shivers and presses his forehead against Wei Ying’s. “It’s safe now.”

Wangji wouldn’t have come back if it wasn’t, Wei Ying realizes with a shudder. He would have stayed away to protect them.

“Thank you,” Wei Ying whispers, and kisses him. Wangji makes the sweetest surprised noise and kisses back. The first one is gentle, but only the first. Wangji’s mouth moves against his like he’s starving for more, his hands sliding along Wei Ying’s spine. Wei Ying licks Wangji’s lips, tasting sugar and salt, and Wangji rumbles a groan that Wei Ying feels against his chest.

Don’t push him, some rational little scrap of Wei Ying’s brain reminds him. Wangji may kiss like a renowned scholar, but he’s never done any of this stuff before. Not to mention the whole kidnapped-by-thugs thing.

Wei Ying slows them down, pulling away gently and stroking Wangji’s hair. Wangji blinks back at him, a little dazed. Dazed is a good look for him. He’s all tousled hair and shiny lips. “You’re really good at that,” Wei Ying says.

“At kissing?”

“Yep. Really good.”

Wangji ducks his head, smiling. His ears are bright red. “Wei Ying is good, too.”

“Thank you.” He scritches his fingernails through Wangji’s hair, and Wangji sighs, his eyes drifting closed.

“Sleepy?” Wei Ying asks softly.

Wangji nods. Then his brows furrow, and he turns away, covering his mouth to stifle a burp. He turns back sheepishly. “Full.”

Wei Ying laughs. “Yeah, no kidding. We just ate enough for like, twelve brontosauruses.”

“Couch?” Wangji suggests.

“You’re a genius.” Wei Ying grabs his hand, and they head to the living room.

Before they reach the couch, A-Yuan bursts through the door bellowing “WANGJI-GE!” Wangji pulls free from Wei Ying and bends to scoop A-Yuan into his arms. A-Yuan wraps his little monkey limbs around Wangji, and Wangji sways him back and forth as A-Yuan cries into his shoulder.

Which of course means that Wei Ying is crying again when Jie comes over to hug him. “Thank you,” he mumbles into her hair. “Sorry I pawned my kid off on you.”

“You didn’t pawn him, I stole him.” Jie pulls him into the bedroom, leaving Wei Ying’s boys still hugging and sniffling. “Is Wangji okay?” she asks when they’re behind closed doors.

“Yeah. I mean, they hurt him, but he’ll be okay.”

“Oh my god, is it bad? Did you call Wen Qing?”

“Not yet. It isn’t that bad.” It feels ridiculous to say that considering Wangji has a fucking brand on his chest, but he isn’t going to tell Jie that. “How’s A-Yuan?”

Jie sighs and cuts her eyes toward the door. “He’s been really upset. He thinks it was his fault.”

“Oh shit.” Wei Ying drops to the bed and scrubs at his face. “Why would he think that?”

“Probably because he’s your son.” Jie smiles ruefully and sits beside him, rubbing his back. “But you should talk to him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course I will. Thank you.”  

“He’ll be okay. It was just scary for him. I’m so sorry that all of you had to go through that.”

Wei Ying nods, sucking back more tears. His sinuses are never going to recover from this. Just like his poor kid, whose best friend got kidnapped and then his dad dumped him because he was too wrecked to take care of him.

When they go back to the living room, Wangji and A-Yuan have moved to the couch and are deep in discussion.

“Was it bad?” A-Yuan asks.

Wangji shakes his head. “Not too bad.”

“Were you scared?”

“Sometimes.”

“Will those men come back?”

“No.”

“Will you have to leave again?”

“No,” Wangji says, stroking A-Yuan’s hair. “Not ever.”

Wei Ying cuts in before they can make him cry again. He bends over the couch to smooch his son’s head. “Hey kid, do I not get a hug?”

A-Yuan stands on the couch cushion and throws his arms around Wei Ying. And now Wei Ying is crying again. “Missed you, baby boy,” Wei Ying murmurs into A-Yuan’s hair. “I’m sorry for making you stay gone so long.”

“S’okay,” A-Yuan mumbles back. “You had to look for Wangji-ge.”

“I did. And I promise I’ll take better care of the both of you from now on.” Wei Ying holds his son with one hand and reaches down to stroke Wangji’s hair with the other. He may never let either of them out of his sight again.

That afternoon, Wangji falls asleep on the couch with Wei Ying’s head on his shoulder and A-Yuan snuggled under his arm playing a video game. When he wakes up, both Wei Ying and A-Yuan are wrapped around him, sleeping soundly. Smiling, he kisses A-Yuan’s head, then Wei Ying’s. Wei Ying mumbles something that sounds like “snickerdoodle” and rubs his cheek against Wangji’s shoulder. Wangji closes his eyes again just to let their warmth soak into his bones, to relish his happiness.

But he really has to pee. He manages to wiggle out of their arms without waking them, but when he comes out of the bathroom, Wei Ying is in the kitchen.

“Have a good nap?” Wei Ying asks softly.

Wangji hums a yes and drifts closer. Wei Ying meets him halfway and kisses him. “Hungry?” Wei Ying murmurs against his jaw. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

“A little.” He presses his face to Wei Ying’s shoulder. Being home, being safe, is wonderful, but kissing . . . Kissing feels like opening a new book set in some magical world and discovering that he belongs there, that it was just waiting for him to find it. In this world, he finally knows how to show Wei Ying how he feels. He can take the shivery heat in his belly and transform it into something they share—soft brushes and hotter slides, gentle hands and grasping fingers. Each kiss brings something new and wonderful. He lifts his head to kiss Wei Ying again, because he wants to and because he can now. Wei Ying moans high-pitched and happy against his lips, and the sound resonates in Wangji’s belly.

“We probably have enough leftovers,” Wei Ying says between kisses. “Unless you want something else.”

“Leftovers are fine.”

Wei Ying gives him another kiss and steps back. “I’ll take care of dinner if you’ll wake up the Monkey.”

“Okay.” Wangji leans in for one more kiss before he goes. Wei Ying laughs as he kisses him, and Wangji’s heart bangs a joyful cadence.

A-Yuan is the only one who has much of an appetite at dinner, and he talks constantly while he eats, telling them stories about his stay at Jie’s house. While his son talks, Wei Ying nibbles on snickerdoodles and rubs Wangji’s foot with his toes, trying to keep his attention focused on A-Yuan’s tale rather than imagining what will happen after the kid goes to bed.

“Can I sleep with you and Wangji-ge tonight?” A-Yuan asks, and Wei Ying’s fantasies crumble like the cookie in his hand.

“Sure, Monkey.” Wei Ying cuts his eyes at Wangji, and Wangji looks back at him with the same fond resignation.

It’s probably for the best, anyway. Even after their nap, Wei Ying is struggling to keep his eyes open. And Wangji’s been through so much. And he shouldn’t rush Wangji into anything, even if all those kisses have Wei Ying vibrating in his chair.

While Wangji finishes up in the kitchen, Wei Ying herds his son into the bathtub. He would let the kid skip the bath tonight, but it’ll be a good opportunity for a father-son chat. Those seem to go better when bubbles are involved.

When the kid’s in the tub, Wei Ying kneels down and crosses his arms on the edge. “I am really sorry about sending you away. I did it because I was really upset, and I was running around looking for Wangji. I wanted you to be with someone who could take good care of you.”

“I know,” A-Yuan says, but his eyes stay on his dinosaurs. “Why did those men take Wangji-ge?”

“He used to live with them. They wanted him to come back.”

“But he didn’t want to go?”

“No way. He wants to live with us.” Wei Ying drops his chin to his arms and trails his fingers through the bubbles. “They made him go with them. But they’re sorry now. They said he could live with us from now on.”

“Oh.” A-Yuan swims his liopluerodon through the tub for a minute. “They weren’t nice to him, were they?”

“No, they weren’t.” Wei Ying taps a triceratops to send it bobbing through the bubbles. “You did great that day. I wouldn’t have known what happened if you hadn’t told me.”

A-Yuan looks up at him with Wangji’s soul-crushing eyes. “I shouldn’t have told Wangji-ge that we should help Mr. Jerry. He went over there, and those men got him.”

“No, baby.” Wei Ying strokes A-Yuan’s wet hair. “It was good that you wanted to help, and Wangji would’ve gone over there anyway. You did everything right.”

“Is Mr. Jerry okay?”

Who fucking cares? Wei Ying thinks, but he nods. “Yeah, but he moved away.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I guess he was scared of those men. You don’t have to be, though. They won’t ever come back here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. Wangji told them that we’re his family now, and they swore they’d leave him alone.”

A-Yuan leans toward him, eyes wide. “Did Wangji-ge beat them up?”

Wei Ying whispers, “Can you keep a secret?”

A-Yuan bobs his head.

“Yeah, he did. Don’t tell him you know, though. He doesn’t like to talk about fighting.”

A-Yuan zips his fingers over his lips. “Did you beat anybody up?”

Wei Ying shrugs and tries to look cool. A-Yuan giggles, so he must not have been very convincing.

“Okay, get back to scrubbing,” Wei Ying says. “If you’re sleeping with us tonight, you need to wash those stinky feet.”

A-Yuan rolls his eyes, but he drops the dinosaur to wash his feet. The kid looks a little happier now. Maybe the parenting websites would disapprove of Wei Ying telling his son that his parental figure beat up a bunch of gangsters, but the parenting websites don’t write articles about what to do when your son watches said parental figure get kidnapped at gunpoint. All Wei Ying knows is that when he was a kid, he was pretty comforted to know that he had a badass to protect him. His badass was a tiny social worker, but he’s sure that Baoshan kicked a few asses in her lifetime.

Wei Ying wakes up in his bed and blinks at the empty space where Wangji should be. Oh no. As he kicks free of the sheet twisted around his legs, he tells himself that yesterday couldn’t have been a dream. Wangji really came back. They kissed and ate way too much food and kissed and napped and kissed some more. That’s, like, eight hours of dreaming, at least. But his heart still pounds a frantic rhythm as he stumbles through the apartment, searching for Wangji.

Who is standing in front of the stove cooking something. A-Yuan is perched on the counter beside him.

“We’re making pancakes!” A-Yuan shouts.

Wangji turns to Wei Ying and smiles. “Good morning.”

Wei Ying moans something that doesn’t make sense even to himself and attaches himself to Wangji’s back.

Wangji sets down the spatula and covers Wei Ying’s hands with his. “Do you want pancakes?”

Wei Ying grunts a yes against Wangji’s shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

Which means he slept roughly 14 hours. He hasn’t slept this long since before A-Yuan was born. Wei Ying peers over Wangji’s shoulder at the T-Rex-shaped pancakes in the frying pan. “We had milk?”

“We went to the store,” A-Yuan chimes in, kicking his heels against the cabinet. “You were drooling.”

Wei Ying sticks out his tongue, then goes back to nuzzling Wangji’s shirt.

“Go back to bed if you’re still tired,” Wangji says.

“I’m good. Just slept too hard.” Wei Ying gives him one more squeeze and steps back to let him work. “I should go down to the studio today. Wen Ning’s been down there by himself for . . . wait, what day is it?”

“Wednesday,” A-Yuan says.

Wangji turns from his pancakes and smiles. “I’ll make coffee while you shower.”

“Such a sweetheart.” Wei Ying restrains himself to a peck on Wangji’s cheek since his son is watching, and his son will definitely mock him.

Then he flees to the bathroom, but not before he hears A-Yuan say in a voice too long-suffering for a seven year old, “I knew you were boyfriends.” Wangji can handle that one. A-Yuan never mocks him.

When they walk into the studio, Wen Ning runs around the counter and gives Wangji a bro-hug, which is not something Wei Ying ever expected to see, but Wangji seems happy about it. Once that reunion is over, Wangji tells Wei Ying that he and A-Yuan are going to see Ms. Nelson.

“Oh, do you want me to go with you?”

Wangji shakes his head. “We won’t be gone long.”

“Okay. She’ll be really happy to see you. But fair warning: she’s going to cry.”

Wangji smiles, and then he and A-Yuan leave, hand-in-hand. Wei Ying watches them go and tells himself that they’re just going next door. There’s no reason to panic or chase after them like some kind of lunatic.

“Is he okay?” Wen Ning asks.

“Yeah.” Wei Ying sighs and slumps over the counter. “It’d be great if your sister would swing by to check him out, though. Would you mind calling her? She isn’t mean to you.”

“She’ll come,” Wen Ning says. “She’s been worried about him, too.”

“Yeah, even your mean sister likes Wangji.”

Wen Ning snorts and pulls out his phone. “She likes you, too.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes and doesn’t go to the window to wait for Wangji, even though he really wants to.

As Wei Ying predicted, Ms. Nelson cries. As she cries, she pats Wangji’s hand and tells him that she’s so happy he’s back. “Your poor Wei Ying,” she says. “He’s been like a shadow of himself. He must be overjoyed to have you home.”

She also baked his favorite: lemon bars. Wangji eats his lemon bar while the purring cat kneads his thighs. “Portia may have missed you the most,” Ms. Nelson says. “She’s been sitting in the window for days, waiting for you.”

“Sorry, Portia,” he says as he strokes her fluffy cheek. She stretches up to lick his chin, so she either forgives him or he has powdered sugar on his face.

When they go back to the studio, Wei Ying skips over to meet them. “More treats?” he asks, looking at the container in Wangji’s hand.

“Lemon bars. Do you want one?”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “I’ve had enough sugar for one morning.” He takes the container out of Wangji’s hand and sends A-Yuan to put them in the breakroom.

While A-Yuan heads to the breakroom, Wei Ying takes Wangji’s hand and leads him into his practice room. Wei Ying shuts the door behind them and turns to grin at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says, smiling back and feeling wonderfully foolish. Their fingers are still tangled together, so it’s easy to pull Wei Ying toward him.

Wei Ying blushes as he sways into Wangji’s arms. “Sorry,” Wei Ying whispers, and brushes a kiss over Wangji’s lips. “I can’t seem to stop myself.”

Wangji doesn’t answer because he’s busy kissing Wei Ying. When he’d thought about kissing, it had seemed complicated, but it’s surprisingly easy. During those first kisses, he’d worried about where his hands were and what to do with his tongue—he still isn’t sure about that part—but with every kiss, it feels more natural, more wonderful. Or maybe it’s just that everything feels good when it’s Wei Ying.

This kiss is the second for today, but the first had only been a quick exchange while A-Yuan brushed his teeth. He doesn’t want this one to be quick. He tilts his head and sucks Wei Ying’s lower lip into his mouth. Wei Ying makes a sound like Portia’s purr and kneads his shoulders.

It’s warm and intimate, their breath passing between them, their arms wound around each other. Wangji sinks into the warmth, into Wei Ying’s light. Then Wei Ying moans, and his tongue flicks against Wangji’s lips.

That warmth and light explode as Wei Ying’s tongue teases his. Shuddering, Wangji lets him in, lets Wei Ying teach him, matching Wei Ying’s restless rhythm.

“Oh god,” Wei Ying gasps, and pulls him until they stumble across the room and Wangji is pinning him against the wall. And still they’re kissing. They’re sliding together, and Wangji is getting hard. He’s getting hard, and his dick is so close to Wei Ying’s thigh, and that’s . . . He wants that, and maybe Wei Ying wants that, too, but they’re in the practice room, and A-Yuan is outside. There’s a window—anyone could walk by and see.

“We should stop,” Wei Ying pants against Wangji’s ear, but he’s holding Wangji against him, and his fingers are tugging at Wangji’s hair.

“Okay,” Wangji gasps back, but he licks Wei Ying’s bottom lip.

Wei Ying jolts beneath him and makes a desperate noise, and Wangji forgets about the window and the little boy who might see them.

But Wei Ying puts his hands on Wangji’s shoulders and moves him back. “Sweetheart, we’ve gotta stop. I’m not letting your first time be against a wall.”

Wangji blinks at him, trying to make his frothing brain comprehend words again. “First time?”

Wei Ying blushes and hides his face in his hands. “We need to talk about all this, don’t we?”

Wangji just stares at him, too rattled to respond. Then the words settle in his brain, and he has to clench his fists to keep from reaching for Wei Ying. “Where should it be?” Wangji asks in a voice so raw he barely recognizes it as his.

Wei Ying peeks at him through his fingers. “Huh?”

“My first time. Where?” And when, he wants to ask. Can it be soon?

“Oh.” Wei Ying’s hands fall, and he stares back at Wangji like he also wants to fling himself back into the kiss. “Um, bed is the traditional place, I guess.”

“Okay. Bed.”

Wei Ying’s face turns red, even redder than his puffy lips. “Is that—do you want to—?”

A knock on the door makes them both flinch. Wei Ying groans and untucks his shirt, stretching it down over his hips. Hiding his erection, Wangji realizes with a shiver.

When Wei Ying cracks open the door, Wen Ning says, “Sorry, but there’s a woman here. She wants to sign her daughter up for dizi lessons. I’d ask her to come back later, but she already came by last week. She’s kind of . . . pushy.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Wei Ying says, too brightly. “Tell her I’ll be with her in a minute.”

After Wen Ning leaves, Wei Ying slumps against the door. “We should’ve played hooky today.”

Although he agrees, Wangji says, “It’s okay. You have a new customer.”

“Yeah, imagine that.” Wei Ying smiles, so soft and shy that Wangji’s heart shivers. “See you in a bit?”

Wangji smiles back and watches Wei Ying smooth down his tousled hair as he leaves the practice room. Then he falls onto the Yamaha’s bench and attempts to distract himself with music. But today, not even the most beautiful song can surmount the feeling of Wei Ying in his arms or the frisson of excitement Wangji feels every time he imagines what they might do later tonight.

Thankfully, A-Yuan says he wants to sleep in his own bed tonight since Wei Ying drooled on his head all last night. Wei Ying counters that when A-Yuan was a baby, he peed in Wei Ying’s face several times, so A-Yuan has no right to complain. They are still bickering about that when they go to the bathroom for A-Yuan’s bath. Wangji smiles as he watches them go and then waits in front of the TV for his turn tucking in A-Yuan.

When Wangji has kissed A-Yuan goodnight, he goes back to the living room, but Wei Ying isn’t there. Wangji finds him in the bedroom, getting ready for bed.

“Thought I’d turn in early tonight,” Wei Ying says, blushing and fidgeting and obviously lying.

Wangji swallows and nods. “Good. I’ll . . .” He gestures behind him. “. . . teeth.”

“Sure.” Wei Ying’s head bobs rapidly. “Dental hygiene is important.”

Wangji wanders to the bathroom in a daze. Once there, he probably brushes his teeth, but all he can think about is Wei Ying waiting for him in the bedroom. He only breaks out of the trance when he remembers that Wen Qing said he had to put the medicine she gave him on his chest again. That is unpleasant enough to distract him a little, but his legs start to quiver as he walks back to the bedroom.

Wei Ying is already under the covers, leaning back against the headboard. Wangji starts undressing, but even though he’s undressed many times with Wei Ying in the room, tonight feels different.

“Did you put the stuff on your chest?” Wei Ying asks as Wangji pulls off his shirt.

Wangji turns with the shirt in his hands so that Wei Ying can see the shine of the ointment on his chest. “Yes, and I took the antibiotic after dinner.” Wei Ying and Wen Qing are both concerned about the brand, but it doesn’t hurt that much. He just wishes it weren’t so ugly.

But Wei Ying doesn’t seem disgusted. His eyes are roving over Wangji’s body like he enjoys what he sees.

Feeling bold and a little bewildered, Wangji foregoes putting on another shirt and climbs into bed in only his boxer shorts.

“How is that feeling?” Wei Ying asks, nodding at the brand. “Are the pills bothering your stomach?”

“I’m fine. It just feels a little tight.” He really doesn’t want to talk about the brand right now. He gets under the covers even though it’s warm in the room. Then he can’t decide if he should lie down or sit up like Wei Ying is doing. Or maybe it’s time to start kissing? But Wei Ying is sitting with his hands folded in his lap, so probably not.

When Wangji finally settles on lying on his side, facing Wei Ying, Wei Ying says, “We should talk about the kissing. And stuff.”

“Okay.” Wangji thinks they’ve been doing great without discussion, but Wei Ying knows more about this stuff than he does. Boyfriend stuff, he thinks with blissful shiver.

“Okay,” Wei Ying agrees, but then he doesn’t say anything else. He’s just staring down at his hands.

Wangji starts to get nervous. “Am I not doing it right?”

Wei Ying turns to him, his eyes wide. “No, you’re doing great! Perfect, actually. A-pluses all around! Exceeds expectations! Gold star for kissing!”

Wangji’s ears burn, but he can’t help smiling. “Thank you. You too.”

Wei Ying blushes and looks away again, tugging at a loose thread on the blanket. “Thanks. But, uh, we should talk about the other stuff. Like how you’re feeling about that. And what you want to do.”

“Oh.” All the good feelings twist into apprehension. He has ideas, but saying them out loud seems so . . . well, like something Wen Chao would do. “I . . . feel good. About things?”

Wei Ying suddenly bursts into laughter, and he squeezes Wangji’s shoulder. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you. This is just so awkward, right?”

Wangji hums his agreement. “Do people usually talk about things before?” The people in Ms. Nelson’s books don’t. They just rip each other’s clothes off. That seems much less awkward for some reason.

“Um, I don’t know. Probably not. They should, but I think most people just . . . get on with it. But I want to make sure that you’re comfortable with . . . stuff.”

“I’m comfortable,” Wangji says, which isn’t really true—he’s too nervous to be comfortable—but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to try.

“Okay.” Wei Ying takes a deep breath and then wiggles down until they’re lying face to face. Wei Ying laces their fingers and tangles their feet, and it feels natural again—the two of them chatting as they always do before they sleep.

“So you need to promise me something,” Wei Ying says, his voice low and intimate as it always is when they talk like this. “I need you to promise me that if I do something that you don’t like, you’ll tell me to stop.”

As soon as Wei Ying asked for his promise, Wangji was ready to give it, but the last part gives him pause. What could Wei Ying possibly do that Wangji wouldn’t like?

“And I’ll do the same,” Wei Ying continues. “If there’s something I don’t like, I promise that I’ll tell you. That’s really important, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because we trust each other, don’t we?”

Wangji nods. Of course he trusts Wei Ying.

“Good. So when people . . . have sex”—they both blush at that—“they might like different stuff. And that’s fine! Everybody likes different things, and it’s totally fine to say no to things. Sometimes, someone might like something one day and then not like it the next day. And vice versa. That’s totally normal. So we have to be honest about how we’re feeling. Because the point is to make each other feel good and to have fun. So we have to be honest when something doesn’t feel right. Okay?”

That was a lot of words, and Wangji takes a moment to process them. Wei Ying waits patiently, his thumb stroking Wangji’s hand.

“Okay,” Wangji says finally, though he still can’t imagine not liking everything Wei Ying does.

“Okay.” Wei Ying smiles and squeezes his hand. “Do you promise me?”

“I promise.”

“I promise, too.”

And then they lie there, inches apart, doing nothing. Wangji waits, the fluttering in his belly getting more and more fluttery. “Is there something else we have to do first?” he finally asks.

“Uh, no?”

“So . . . kissing?”

Wei Ying snorts a laugh. It’s always just cute when he does that, never like he’s laughing at Wangji. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Good.” Wangji leans in, and Wei Ying leans to meet him, and finally they’re kissing again. It’s been hours since the practice room, and Wangji has missed it terribly.

It’s different, lying down, but good. Very good. The kisses almost burn with sharp mint, but Wangji forgets about that when Wei Ying’s hand slides over his waist and presses against the hollow of his back.

The awkwardness fades away with slick kisses and soft groans. Wei Ying rolls closer and slides his leg between Wangji’s. The hand on Wangji’s back presses their hips together. Wangji shudders as Wei Ying’s bare thigh rubs against his.

“Okay so far?” Wei Ying murmurs against his mouth.

Wangji grunts a yes and pulls him closer, wraps an arm tight around Wei Ying’s back and shows Wei Ying what he’s learned about tongues. The low note Wei Ying moans suggests he’s learned a lot.

Wei Ying’s shirt rucks up as they rock together, and Wangji pushes it up farther, stroking Wei Ying’s back. His fingers want to curl into claws, want to sink into Wei Ying’s skin, a thought too violent for the joy he feels.

“Want me to take it off?” Wei Ying asks.

Wangji grunts a yes and tugs futilely at Wei Ying’s shirt until Wei Ying chuckles and sits up. Wangji’s heart is broken until he realizes that Wei Ying abandoned him to take off his shirt.

The shirt falls beside the bed, and then Wei Ying curls over him, guiding Wangji onto his back. Wangji blinks up at him—smiling and so beautiful—and is too dazed to react as Wei Ying brushes kisses over his lips.

“Okay?”

Wangji nods. His hand raises on its own. His fingers drift across Wei Ying’s chest, the skin warm in the lamplight. Wei Ying is quiet, holding himself poised over Wangji as Wangji explores.

When his fingers brush Wei Ying’s nipple, Wei Ying gasps. “Okay?” Wangji asks.

“Mmhmm.” Wei Ying smiles down at him. “Such a sweetheart.”

Wangji tries to smile back, but Wei Ying’s hand strokes Wangji’s belly, his thumb brushing Wangji’s navel, and Wangji shivers instead.

“Gorgeous,” Wei Ying sighs, and bends down to kiss him. As his hand circles over Wangji’s belly, Wei Ying moves his mouth to Wangji’s jaw, brushing kisses all the way to his ear.

There is almost too much sensation, too much pleasure. Wei Ying’s mouth and hands create a harmony too overwhelming for Wangji to track a single piece. When Wei Ying’s mouth slips down to Wangji’s throat, Wangji shudders, scraped raw and mindless.

“Sorry.” Wei Ying moves back and studies him closely. “Should I stay away from your neck?”

“No. No, it’s good. It’s . . .” He waves a hand by his throat, trying to convey the shock of pleasure he’d felt.

“Sensitive?” Wei Ying asks, and Wangji nods. That is a good word for it. Too much sense, too much memory.

“Are you sure you liked it?”

“Yes. Please.” He isn’t actually sure, but he wants to feel it again—that piercing shock of warm lips where there was always cold metal.

Wei Ying hums, clearly not convinced, and bends to kiss his mouth. That is a little disappointing until the kisses deepen and quicken, shifting from legato to staccato, and Wei Ying lowers on top of him, their bodies joining the rhythm.

Their mouths move fast, but Wei Ying rocks against him slowly, cautiously. Wei Ying is so patient and kind, but Wangji doesn’t want his kindness right now. He wants Wei Ying to show him what he wants, to take what he wants.

Wangji grips Wei Ying’s waist and pulls him down until he feels Wei Ying hard against his hip. Wei Ying hisses and Wangji rocks up to meet him and then everything moves fast and hot. Wei Ying shifts, and their bodies align perfectly, and then it’s like when they play music together, when they seem to understand each other perfectly, anticipating the other’s moves and creating one beautiful song.

“Oh god, oh sweetheart,” Wei Ying gasps, rolling his hips down as Wangji rocks up to meet him. Wei Ying’s mouth moves down to his throat. Moaning, Wangji throws his head back to ask for more, and Wei Ying slicks his tongue over the scars. Wangji’s body recognizes what Wei Ying is saying even as his mind struggles to reconcile how good Wei Ying’s kisses feel on that rough skin. His hips jolt, nearly knocking Wei Ying off of him, but Wangji digs his fingers into Wei Ying’s hips to keep them locked together.

“Good?” Wei Ying gasps. Whatever Wangji grunts back must be convincing because Wei Ying croons and kisses across his throat. Wild now, and greedy for more, Wangji catches Wei Ying’s thumb between his teeth. As soon as his teeth sink into the flesh, he lets go, mumbling an apology, but Wei Ying only moans and bites his jaw. “It’s good, sweetheart. You feel so good.”

Wei Ying slides his thumb over Wangji’s mouth in invitation, and Wangji takes it, almost gnawing at it as Wei Ying nibbles at his earlobe.

“I want to touch you,” Wei Ying whispers. “Can I touch you?”

Wangji nods frantically, but Wei Ying pulls away. But then Wei Ying’s hand slides down Wangji’s belly, only stopping when it reaches the waist of his boxers. Wei Ying’s fingers flutter under the elastic.

“Okay?”

Wangji nods, his hips shifting restlessly in anticipation.

But he couldn’t have anticipated the heat of Wei Ying’s hand curling around his dick, stroking slowly, or the soft eyes staring down at him with something like wonder.

“How is it?” Wei Ying asks softly, like he can’t tell that Wangji is barely holding himself back, like he can’t see how Wangji is trembling.

“Wei Ying,” Wangji moans, which isn’t an answer, but Wei Ying takes pity on him and kisses him, kisses his jaw, sucks his earlobe. The boxers are shoved down, and Wei Ying’s hand moves faster, fingers gripping tighter, and Wei Ying’s mouth is back on Wangji’s throat, kissing and huffing warm breath until Wangji curls tight—a note held at the height—and releases, cascading down in rippling waves.

“Beautiful,” Wei Ying sighs. Wangji’s head is spinning in glorious, giddy circles, but Wei Ying tucks Wangji’s face against his shoulder and hums, rocking him until his shivers calm and his mind returns.

“You,” Wangji mumbles into Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“Hmm?” Wei Ying smooths back his sweaty hair and kisses his forehead.

Wangji raises his head and captures his mouth. “You too.”

“There’s no hurry,” Wei Ying argues, but Wangji is already rolling Wei Ying onto his back.

Wangji reaches for Wei Ying’s boxers. “Can I?”

Wei Ying blinks up at him, flushed and so beautiful. “Yeah, sweetheart. But only if you want to.”

That is a ridiculous thing for Wei Ying to say, but Wangji feels too good right now to worry about it. They kicked the blankets down at some point, which is good because Wangji gets to look as he pulls Wei Ying’s boxers off and tosses them to the floor. Wei Ying’s legs are long, his thighs smooth, his dick flushed and curving to his belly. The tip shines, and Wangji wants to put his mouth on it. He doesn’t, though. Someday soon, he hopes, and shivers at the thought of doing this again and again, maybe every night.

There is so much to look at, but Wei Ying makes an impatient noise and pulls Wangji down on top of him. Wangji’s boxers are tangled low on his hips. He could take them off, but he can’t bear to stop. When Wei Ying rocks up to meet him, his dick slips wet across Wangji’s hip. It’s tempting to keep sliding together, feeling that heat, but he wants to try to make Wei Ying feel as good as he does.

When Wangji’s fingers curl around Wei Ying’s dick, Wei Ying throws his head back, gasping, and thrusts up into Wangji’s grip. “Oh fuck,” Wei Ying whimpers. Wangji sucks at Wei Ying’s throat, bites his collarbones, his tongue hot with the taste of Wei Ying’s skin. His hand moves slick, tighter, answering Wei Ying’s thrusts, his panted pleas. Wangji watches Wei Ying’s mouth fall open, the cords in his neck stretched tight, as Wei Ying comes in his hand.

Dragged down by Wei Ying’s arms, Wangji settles on top of him and buries his face against Wei Ying’s neck. He feels too much—joy and pride and pleasure all fluttering in his chest. His skin feels raw everywhere he isn’t pressed against Wei Ying, but Wei Ying curls around him, wrapping him in warmth, his fingers rubbing over Wangji’s scalp and soothing away the tremors.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Wei Ying whispers against his temple.

They’re sweaty and sticky, and Wangji’s boxers are cutting into his thigh, but none of that seems important right now.

“Happy,” Wangji sighs, and Wei Ying hugs him tighter.

Chapter Text

September, again

Wei Ying wakes up when his pillow rumbles beneath his ear. He cracks open an eye. His cheek is pressed against Wangji’s chest, and Wangji’s fingers are stroking Wei Ying’s hair. All of that is good and right, but there’s a kid sitting on the edge of the bed. The kid whispers something, and Wangji answers him, which makes Wei Ying’s pillow vibrate again.

“What’re you two talking about?” Wei Ying grumbles. “And why is it happening in my bed?” What did he ever do to deserve living with two morning people?

A-Yuan sticks out his tongue.

“Good morning,” Wangji says, craning his neck to peer down at him. “The tooth fairy came last night.”

Wei Ying yawns and snuggles tighter around Wangji. “How much?”

“Five dollars!” A-Yuan answers, way too loud for whatever time it is. The sun’s up, so that’s something.

Wei Ying makes an impressed noise. “Let’s see those chompers again.” A-Yuan bares his teeth to show off the gap right at the front. So gross. “So what’re you gonna get with your new riches?”

“Animal Crossing!”

Like he even had to ask. “You’re gonna need to lose some more teeth for that.” Wei Ying sneaks his hand down under the covers to circle a fingertip over Wangji’s bellybutton. Wangji’s chest rises and falls faster under Wei Ying’s cheek. Heh.

“Wangji-ge said he’d help.”

Wei Ying sighs and shifts up to look at Wangji. “You’re such a softie.”

Wangji blinks back, unrepentant. “It has rabbits.”

Wei Ying works his hand under Wangji’s shirt and skims a fingernail over Wangji’s belly. Wangji’s lips part in a tiny gasp. “Fine. It’s your money, do what you want with it.”

“We will!” A-Yuan shouts. The mattress groans as A-Yuan bounces his monkey butt on it. The poor bed has worked hard for the past few months. It isn’t used to all this activity.

“A-Yuan,” Wangji says softly, and the bouncing stops. Jie says Wangji must be a wizard—he can even make Jin Ying behave with one quiet little Jin Ling. But the truth is that no one can bear to disappoint Wangji. It’d be like making an angel sad.

But having his belly stroked makes the angel very happy. The heartbeat under Wei Ying’s ear speeds up as Wei Ying scritches his nails under Wangji’s bellybutton. Wangji’s fingers tug at Wei Ying’s hair, and Wei Ying has to bite his lip to stop his giggle.

“Can we make pancakes?” A-Yuan asks.

Wangji shifts to look at the clock over Wei Ying’s head. “Not enough time.” Wangji kisses Wei Ying’s hair before he turns back to A-Yuan. “Cereal.”

“Okay.” A-Yuan bounces off the bed and runs out of the bedroom.

As soon as the kid is gone, Wangji surges up and rolls Wei Ying onto his back. Wei Ying gets kissed long and deep as Wangji bears him down into the mattress and grinds against him. They both have dead donkey breath, but Wangji never cares about that, nor should he when he’s got those amazing sex god moves. Plus, technically, Wei Ying did start it.

“Do we have time?” Wei Ying asks when his lips have a free moment.

Wangji groans and rolls against him. “No.”

Wei Ying groans, too. Donkey breath aside, Wangji smells so good, and he’s so warm. And really, really good at turning Wei Ying into jelly.

With a great sigh, Wangji rolls off him. Bereft and cold, Wei Ying wiggles onto his side to look at the hotness that is Wangji in the early morning sunlight: belly bared by the rucked up t-shirt, hair wild and dark against the pillow, squishy cheeks pouting because he’s horny.

“I adore you,” Wei Ying says, and pokes Wangji’s belly.

Wangji turns his head and smirks. His golden eyelashes dip in a slow, horny blink. “I would like to adore you tonight.”

Wangji’s smirk gets even sassier when Wei Ying blushes and snorts. “I’ll see if my schedule’s open.”

The smirk softens, and Wangji’s fingers brush over Wei Ying’s forehead. He sighs. “Shower?”

“You go first.”

Wangji nods and leans in for a kiss, sweet and stinky, before he gets up. When he’s gone, Wei Ying stretches and grins at the ceiling. “I would like to adore you tonight,” he mutters, grinning wider. What a dork.

Wei Ying is leaning against the kitchen counter working on his second cup of coffee when Wangji comes in. Wangji’s hair is pulled back in the stubby ponytail that Wangji is enormously proud of. As he should be, he’s freaking adorable. But it’s the silky tendrils framing Wangji’s cheeks that drive Wei Ying absolutely feral. And Wangji knows it.

Wangji leans beside him, and Wei Ying passes him the mug. Wangji likes coffee, but he says it makes him jittery, so he just shares a little of Wei Ying’s. Wei Ying could probably just buy him decaf, but where’s the fun in that?

Wangji takes a sip and sets the mug down behind them. He crowds Wei Ying against the counter, and his big hand, warm from the mug, cradles Wei Ying’s face as Wangji kisses him. “Go shower,” Wangji murmurs against his mouth. “I’ll make his lunch.” Then Wangji steps back, watching him and probably hiding another smirk.

Wei Ying doesn’t complain. Wangji’s smugness is well-earned. Wei Ying gives himself a mental slap and stumbles toward the bathroom in a haze of serotonin and lust.

After they walk A-Yuan to school, Wangji and Wei Ying stop for breakfast and eat on the Bluebird’s patio to enjoy the last of the summer sun. When they get to the studio, Baoshan is standing at the counter with Wen Ning.

“Hey,” Wei Ying calls to her. “Where’s your girrrlfriend?” Wei Ying says “girlfriend” the same way A-Yuan says “boyfriend” when he’s teasing Wei Ying for kissing Wangji. It always makes Wei Ying blush.

Baoshan does not blush. She probably doesn’t know how. “Letitia is working,” Baoshan says. “Much as I expected you to be.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “Right, because we’re so busy at 8:30 in the morning.”

Baoshan ignores that to turn to Wangji. “Good morning, Wangji.”

“Good morning. It’s good to see you.”

“So what’s up?” Wei Ying asks her. “Did you just drop by to criticize my work ethic?”

“Not just for that. Perhaps we should sit down.”

Wei Ying’s smirk drops. He looks at Wangji, then back to Baoshan. “You found something.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Let’s sit.”

When they’re all sitting in the breakroom, Baoshan takes some folders from her bag and sets them on the table. Wangji stares at the folders that might tell him about his past. Suddenly, he isn’t sure that he wants to know.

Wei Ying squeezes his hand. He’s smiling, but he looks nervous, too. “It’s up to you,” Wei Ying says.

Wangji nods and squeezes back. It doesn’t matter what is in those folders. There is nothing he can learn that will change who he is or how Wei Ying feels about him. “What did you find?” Wangji asks Baoshan.

Baoshan smiles at him and opens the first folder. “Finding this was tricky. I won’t go into the details, but I suspect that Wen Ruohan had connections who made sure his activities stayed under the radar. But since he’s dead now . . .” She takes some papers from the folder and hands them to Wangji.

The first page is a form with MISSING PERSON INITIAL REPORT at the top. Wangji skims the typed information in the boxes, but none of it means anything to him.

“Look at the next page,” Baoshan says.

Wangji hands the first paper to Wei Ying and lifts the next one. On this page is a black-and-white photo of a little boy. The caption underneath the photo reads Lan Zhan, age four.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, reading from the form.

Wangji flinches. Wind rushes through his mind, rattling the doors he keeps locked.

“Wangji?” Baoshan asks softly. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“I don’t know,” Wangji mumbles. He stares down at the little boy’s frown. The boy stares up at Wangji, and behind one of the deepest doors, a child screams.

Wei Ying leans against him to look at the photo. “Wangji, is that you?”

Wangji closes his eyes. His hands are trembling, rustling the paper. “I don’t know.”

“Sweetheart, it’s okay.” Wei Ying’s hand rubs his back. “We don’t have to do this right now.”

“I’m okay,” Wangji insists, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He stays in the dark. The dark is safe. His hand fumbles until his fingers close over the bunny charm on his wrist.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Wei Ying says. “Thanks for this, but—”

“Wangji,” Baoshan says, gentle but firm. “You are safe. You are in the breakroom. Wei Ying is beside you. You are safe.”

Wangji nods and does what she taught him. He focuses on Wei Ying’s hand on his back, the smell of lemon polish, the maple syrup and coffee lingering on his tongue. He is safe now. He doesn’t need to hide in the dark anymore. He opens his eyes and passes the photo to Wei Ying.

“Tell me,” he says to Baoshan.

“This boy disappeared the day his mother was murdered. Her name was Xie Qingyue. Her killer was never caught, and the boy was never found. It was assumed that the woman’s killer took him.”

Baoshan takes a photo from the folder and slides it over. Wangji doesn’t pick it up. He can’t. His fingers are clenched in his jeans. The photo shows a woman holding the same boy, maybe a little younger than he was in the first picture. She is the woman he dreams about.

His breath whines in his throat. He can’t look away from the photo. In his mind, the woman pinches his cheek and strokes his hair. She sits beside him at a black piano and smiles as his stubby fingers poke the keys. She grabs him up and runs. Stay in here, she whispers as she pushes him into the closet. You have to be quiet, baby.

“It’s her,” he whispers. He closes his eyes and focuses on Wei Ying’s hand rubbing his back.

“The woman from your dreams?” Wei Ying asks.

Wangji nods. It isn’t a surprise, but there had still been a little hope that she only died in his dreams.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says. “It’s okay.” Then louder, to Baoshan: “Is there any good news?”

“The little boy had a brother,” Baoshan says. “Lan Huan.”

There’s a rustle of paper. Then Wei Ying says, “Oh my god.”

Wangji looks. Wei Ying is holding another photo, but it isn’t a little boy. The man in the picture is smiling at the camera. It looks like one of those ads on the sides of buses.

“Wangji,” Wei Ying says, turning the photo towards him. “He looks just like you. Or like the real estate agent version of you.”

Wangji frowns at the photo. They are similar, he supposes. The nose. And the mouth. Maybe the chin.

“He’s a history professor, actually,” Baoshan says. “At your alma mater.”

“Huh, small world.” Wei Ying holds the photo up to Wangji’s face, his eyes bouncing from one to the other. “It’s uncanny.”

“I’ve already spoken with Dr. Lan,” Baoshan says. “He would very much like to meet you.”

“You told him about me?” Wangji asks.

“I only told him that I might have found his brother. It’s up to you if you want to meet him.”

Wangji takes the photo from Wei Ying. There is no spark of recognition as there had been when he’d looked at the woman’s picture, nor does the man’s name mean anything to him.

“Wait a second,” Wei Ying says. “If this guy’s so pumped to meet Wangji, why hasn’t he been looking for him?”

“He has been searching. For many years.”

Baoshan passes them more paper. This time, the pages look like print-outs from a website. There are words at the top of the first page—the boy’s name and some other things—but Wangji skims past that to the photos beneath. The same photo of the boy named Lan Zhan is there, as well as others of the boy with what must be his family. Wangji holds the paper close to his face to study a photo of two boys. The smaller one frowns. The larger one smiles. The taller one is holding a xiao.

A door creaks open, and this time, Wangji lets it swing wide. What emerges is a rippling dream in which the taller boy blows into the xiao. The sound is screechy. Wangji covers his ears, and the taller boy stops playing to laugh. Don’t worry, Didi. I’ll get better.

Gege.

Wangji’s eyes sting, but he holds the tears back. Don’t cry. You get the needle when you cry.

“Wangji,” Wei Ying says, but his voice comes from far away. “Oh god, sweetheart, it’s okay.”

Wangji drags in a breath and forces himself back to the present. “How long?” he asks Baoshan. “How long did they have me?”

“Almost twenty years,” she says. “You are 24 years old. Your birthday is January twenty-third.”

So long. It feels like a bad dream now, like something that he saw on TV. Most of the time. Maybe he can learn to shut all those years away, lock them up so tight that they can’t get out even in his dreams.

“Thank you,” he tells Baoshan. Then he turns to Wei Ying and grips his hand. “I’m twenty-four.”

Wei Ying smiles back with tears streaming down his face. “Yeah, you’re practically an old man.”

Wangji rolls his eyes. “You’re twenty-seven.”

Wei Ying nods, laughing. “Twenty-eight next month. I guess you’ve got your own birthday now, huh?”

“Wei Ying’s is better.”

Wei Ying laughs again and wipes tears from his cheeks. “Wangji, you’ve got a brother.”

“What should I tell Lan Huan?” Baoshan asks.

“Whatever you want to do, sweetheart,” Wei Ying says, squeezing his hand.

Wangji looks down at the picture of the two brothers—his brother. He lifts his chin. “I will meet him.”

Baoshan gives them Lan Huan’s phone number, but Wangji lets Wei Ying call him. Wangji would be too nervous. He’s only talked on the phone a few times, and that was with A-Yuan. Talking on the phone is too strange and awkward. He doesn’t want to spend his first conversation with his brother trying to figure out if it’s his turn to talk.

Wei Ying and Lan Huan agree to meet at the Bluebird Café. On Sunday after they spoke with Baoshan, Wangji and Wei Ying leave A-Yuan with Popo and head to the café.

“He’s going to love you,” Wei Ying says, squeezing his hand as they walk down the sidewalk. “He seemed really nice. Kind of a dork, but in a good way.”

Wangji nods. Wei Ying has told him all of that before. They’ve barely talked about anything except Lan Huan since they met with Baoshan. But now that it’s happening, it feels unreal. It’s impossible that he’s on his way to meet his brother. A professor. Lan Huan will probably be expecting to meet someone like him, someone smart. Wangji only learned to read last year. His job used to be hurting people. What can he and this man possibly have in common? Suddenly, the noises around him rise to a roar, burying him in chatter and honking horns.

“Music?” Wei Ying asks.

Wangji nods. Wei Ying always knows what to do. Wei Ying passes him an earbud, and they listen to Nina Simone as they walk to the café.

The man from the photo is sitting on the patio, his eyes scanning the people passing on the street. When he spots Wangji and Wei Ying, his jaw drops.

Wangji stops walking. The man stares back at him. He looks upset.

Wei Ying squeezes his hand. “Ready?”

He isn’t, but they can’t just walk away now, can they? So he nods, and they start moving again. As they approach the table, Lan Huan stands up and almost knocks over his chair.

“Wangji?” Lan Huan wheezes.

Wangji and Wei Ying talked about his new name, but Lan Zhan doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like his. Wangji may be the name Wen Ruohan gave him, but he isn’t ready to give it up. Not yet. Wei Ying said Lan Huan was really nice about it.

Wangji steps forward and offers Lan Huan his hand. “Hello. Thank you for coming.” He practiced it in the mirror, and it comes out okay—only a little grumbly.

Lan Huan looks down at his hand like he’s never been offered a handshake before. But finally, he shakes Wangji’s hand. “Hello.” When he looks up at Wangji’s face, his eyes are shining with tears. “It’s so—I’m so—” He laughs a little, still wringing Wangji’s hand. “You’re so tall!”

Wangji smiles back at him. Lan Huan is taller than him, but he understands. He must have been even smaller than A-Yuan the last time Lan Huan saw him. “This is Wei Ying,” Wangji says when Lan Huan releases his hand.

“Yes, of course,” Lan Huan says. “So good to meet you.” He and Wei Ying shake hands for a normal amount of time. “Please, have a seat.”

They sit, and then no one seems to know what to say, not even Wei Ying. Lan Huan looks at Wangji. Wangji looks at Wei Ying. Wei Ying holds his hand and gives him an encouraging smile.

Lan Huan laughs. He has a nice laugh. Now he doesn’t look so much like a real estate agent. “I don’t even know where to start!”

Wangji takes a deep breath and squeezes Wei Ying’s fingers. “The pancakes are good here.”

Lan Huan blinks at him, and Wangji cringes. Why is he talking about pancakes?

“Oh, good,” Lan Huan says. “I love pancakes. Do they have blueberry?”

“Yes. And chocolate chip. And cinnamon.”

Lan Huan smiles like he’s ecstatic to learn about the café’s pancake selection.

Thankfully, the waitress interrupts to take their orders. They all order pancakes.

When she’s gone, Lan Huan says, “Wei Ying tells me that you work at a music store?”

“Yes, Studio 36.”

“That’s wonderful! You’re a musician?”

Wangji hesitates to call himself a musician, but Wei Ying finally steps in: “Yeah, he’s been learning the piano. He’s amazing! I’ve never seen anyone learn so fast! He even composes.”

“Of course,” Lan Huan says. His eyes are shining again. “You loved listening to Mother play. Even when you were just a baby, you’d always stop crying when she played for you.”

“Mozart,” Wangji blurts, then looks down at the table when the other memories try to push in. “I only remember a little.”

“Yes, Wei Ying told me that you can’t remember much. That’s understandable. You were so young when—” Lan Huan clears his throat.

Wei Ying didn’t tell Lan Huan where Wangji was for all those years. He said Wangji should do that if he wanted to. He said Lan Huan would probably want to know, but maybe they should wait until he and Lan Huan got to know each other a little. That was a relief. Wei Ying always looks so sad when Wangji talks about that time, and Lan Huan already has tears on his cheeks.

“You played the xiao,” Wangji says.

Lan Huan’s eyes widen, and he smiles. “You remember that?”

“A little.”

Lan Huan laughs. “I wasn’t very good, was I? I stopped playing after—well, I’m afraid I never developed much skill. But it’s wonderful that you have! Mother always said that you’d be a great musician.”

“I’m sorry,” Wangji says. “That she died.” Maybe it’s wrong to say that since she was his mother too, but Lan Huan obviously remembers her much better. He must have mourned her all this time.

The waitress bustles over to deliver their drinks. Lan Huan picks up his tea cup, but it quivers in his hand, and he sets it back down without drinking any.

“I’m sorry, too.” Lan Huan says. “For all of it. We never stopped trying to find you. I want you to know that, for whatever it’s worth.”

Wangji sips his water for something to occupy him. Wei Ying squeezes his hand, and when Wangji looks over, Wei Ying raises his eyebrows. Wangji nods, relieved.

“Baoshan said your father died too,” Wei Ying says. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, thank you. About a year after mother. It was a car accident. You probably don’t remember him,” Lan Huan says to Wangji. “They divorced when you were three years old, and we didn’t see him much after that.”

Wangji shakes his head. No father has appeared from behind his locked doors. “Where did you live?”

“With our uncle, Lan Qiren. He took me back to Seattle with him after Father died.”

“Oh.” Wangji sips more water. He doesn’t remember his uncle, either.

“Shufu wanted to find you, but we were on the other side of the country, and the police said you—they said it was unlikely you survived.” Lan Huan manages a sip of tea, then clears his throat. “He even hired private investigators, but none of them ever found anything. I came back here for college because I thought maybe . . . I hoped that someday I’d find you.”

“Thank you,” Wangji says. It’s hard to imagine that someone has been searching for him all this time, someone he didn’t even remember. Would that have made all those years in the cage easier or harder to bear?

Lan Huan pulls the napkin from his lap and dabs at his eyes. “Shufu is eager to meet you. He’s still in Seattle, but I’m sure he’ll fly out whenever you want.”

“Okay.” Wangji turns to Wei Ying and smiles. He has an uncle, too. Wei Ying grins back at him and leans over to press their arms together.

When the pancakes arrive, Wei Ying tells Lan Huan that Wangji makes dinosaur-shaped pancakes for A-Yuan. Then Wei Ying shows Lan Huan pictures of their family on his phone. Lan Huan tells them about his partner, Nie Mingjue, and shows them pictures on his phone.

They stay on the patio long after the pancakes are gone, and when they finally leave, Wangji’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

Lan Huan brought them a big envelope full of paperwork, including Wangji’s birth certificate and social security card, which he said were kept in a bank. Even with those things, it’s been difficult to make Wangji “legit,” as Wei Ying says, because he was missing so long.

The envelope’s contents are spread across the kitchen table, and Wei Ying is pacing the kitchen as he talks to people on the phone. Although it’s great that they have those things, Wangji is more interested in the photos Lan Huan brought.

While Wei Ying talks to the “bureaucrats,” Wangji retreats to the bedroom to look at the photo album with Family Memories in gold on the cover. He flips the crinkly pages, looking at pictures of his mother when she was younger than he is now. Lan Huan said she went to college for piano like Wei Ying did. In some of the photos, she plays a grand piano on stage. A dim memory of watching her in an auditorium slips free, but it’s only a few seconds: just an itchy sweater and his gege beside him as she plays under the lights.

After that are pictures of Lan Huan as a baby, then a grinning toddler. Then Wangji appears, too, pouting with fat baby cheeks in his brother’s lap. In one picture, both boys wear what must be Halloween costumes, and Wangji smiles down at a tiny version of himself wearing bunny ears.

The last picture is of Lan Huan holding a trophy. In the background, Wangji can just make out the edge of a door.

He stares down at that door, ignoring the smiling boy with the golden trophy. His pulse thunders as the shadows recede and his mind fills in the rest of the room. There was a green couch against the wall, across from the piano. Mama put a striped rug under the piano to muffle the sound. Wangji ran his toy cars over the stripes while she played.

As the images burst, filling in the blank spots in his memory with color, the memories shove past his barriers. They moved to that apartment after Baba left. Wangji and Gege shared a bedroom. Gege kept his golden trophy on his nightstand.

But it’s the closet that looms largest in his mind. Before Gege got too big, he and Wangji played in the closet. The door had slats to peek from, so it never got too dark, and they pretended they were pirates sailing the ocean looking for treasure. Even when Gege couldn’t fit below the bottom shelf anymore, Wangji liked to play there, in that snug little sanctuary, with his bunny at his side.

Wangji forces his eyes away from the photo and turns the pages, but the rest are empty. Dozens of blank white pages that will never be filled.

He closes the photo album and sets it aside. His fingers stroke the bunny charm on his wrist, but in his mind, he sees the bunny he left in the cage. The bunny that played with him in the closet. More memories slither out before he can stop them. When Mama gave him that bunny, it was fluffy and white, with two bright eyes. He slept with it every night and dragged it around everywhere he went. But how did it get to Wen Ruohan’s basement?

His mind rattles a warning. Not that. Never that. He wants to turn away, wants to forget, wants to let his memory stay as blank as those pages in the photo album.

But he can’t keep it all locked away. He has to be brave like Wei Ying says he is. He has to remember for Lan Huan, who is so kind and gentle, who kept remembering what he lost even though it hurt him so much.

His legs shake as he stands up and shuffles to the bedroom closet. This door is solid, but he opens it anyway and stares down at the floorboards, seeing the brown carpet from his memories.

Wei Ying’s voice carries down the hall, but Wangji blocks out the words and crawls into the closet, pushing aside their boots and the bags they use to carry the laundry. He pulls the door shut until only a thin line of light remains.

And in his mind—down in the deepest, darkest pit—another door crashes open.

He and Mama are in the kitchen eating lunch. He doesn’t like the peas, so he pushes them around his plate. Mama tells him that he has to eat his vegetables if he wants to grow tall like Gege. But peas are squishy and taste like dirt. She laughs when he tells her that and pokes his cheek.

Someone pounds on the door, and Mama stops laughing. She picks him up and runs to the living room. “Stay in here,” she says as she puts him in the closet. “You have to be quiet, baby. Don’t come out, no matter what.”

She shuts the door, closing him in. Through the slats, he watches as she goes to the apartment door. It bangs open before she can open it, and two men come inside.

Lan Zhan left his bunny in the closet while they ate lunch. He picks it up and hugs it to his chest.

One of the men shouts, and Mama shouts back at him. Lan Zhan doesn’t understand much, but some of it sounds like the arguments Mama and Baba used to have. They argued about money a lot before Baba left. When they argued, Gege would take Lan Zhan to their bedroom and play the radio loud or sing to him until they stopped shouting.

While Mama and the man shout, the second man watches them. The shouting man has a big black mustache, but the quiet man’s face is smooth. As Lan Zhan stares at him, the quiet man’s head turns until he’s looking at the closet door. Wangji scrunches his eyes shut and hides his face behind the bunny so the man won’t see him. When he peeks again, the quiet man has gone back to watching the other two argue.

“I’ve already paid you what I owed!” Mama yells at the man with the mustache. “You’ve got no right—”

“You owe what I say you owe,” the man snarls. “You wanted a loan, now you have to pay the interest.”

“Lowlife piece of shit!” Mama yells. Lan Zhan forgets to be scared for a moment because she said a bad word. She jabs her finger at the man. “Who do you think you are, taking advantage of people like this? I ought to go to the cops!”

The man’s arm flies out. Mama’s head snaps to the side. She staggers back, and the man hits her again. She falls down, and the man puts his hands around her throat. Lan Zhan hides behind his bunny, but he can’t close his ears to Mama’s cries. Her cries get softer and softer until they stop. Even when the sounds stop, he doesn’t dare to look.

“I need to clean up,” the man who hit his Mama says. “Look around, see if she’s got anything worth taking.”

Heavy feet stamp across the room and fade down the hallway. Tears are soaking the bunny’s head when Lan Zhan finally looks out again. Mama is lying on the carpet like she fell asleep in the middle of the floor. Her face is bloody, but she doesn’t wipe it away. The quiet man stands beside her, looking around the room. Then he turns toward the closet.

Lan Zhan can’t look away as the quiet man walks closer, his body blocking out the light. As the door opens, Lan Zhan hugs the bunny tight.

The quiet man is younger than Lan Zhan thought, like the big boys that hang around outside the corner store. Lan Zhan and the quiet man stare at each other. There is something around the quiet man’s neck. It’s shiny, like one of Mama’s necklaces.

The other man’s footsteps pound down the hall, headed back to the living room. The quiet man’s eyes flick to the side, then back to Lan Zhan. He puts his finger over his lips. The closet door closes with a soft click.

“Find anything?” the older man asks as he comes back into the living room.

The quiet man shakes his head.

The older man grunts and looks around the living room. His eyes slide across the closet door, then jerk back, staring through the slats at Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan closes his eyes, but it’s too late. The door swings open. The older man laughs. “How did you miss this?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“What have I told you, Zhuliu? You have to be more observant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Look at me, boy.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t want to look, but he can’t help it. The older man kneels in front of him, smiling. It isn’t a nice smile. “What’s your name?” the older man asks. When Lan Zhan doesn’t answer, the man rips the bunny out of his arms.

“Give it back!” Lan Zhan tries to crawl past the man to reach his bunny that the man threw across the room. He tries to reach his mother, who is still lying on the floor.

The older man chuckles. “Feisty, huh? Just like your mother.” The man tries to pick him up, but Lan Zhan bites his hand. The man shouts and shoves him back into the closet.

The man stands up and backs away, shaking his bloody hand. “Grab him,” he tells the quiet man.

Lan Zhan presses himself against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. He screams and kicks, but the quiet man drags him out of the closet. He throws Lan Zhan over his shoulder and starts for the door.

“Tough little shit,” the older man says. “Maybe even tougher than you were.”

Mama’s eyes are open, but she doesn’t look at Lan Zhan as the quiet man takes him. Mama doesn’t get up even when he calls for her, over and over. The older man tells him to shut up, but he keeps screaming. The older man shoves a handkerchief in his mouth, and Lan Zhan chokes, but he still tries to scream. He screams and screams, but Mama doesn’t hear him.

Wangji shudders and squeezes the bunny charm in his fist. He remembers now. He didn’t stop screaming even after they put him in the cage. He screamed until Wen Ruohan jabbed a needle in his arm and the poison made him too tired to scream.

Wen Zhuliu brought him a bunny. It wasn’t his. His bunny had a blue bow on its neck. When Wen Ruohan saw it, he laughed and told Wen Zhuliu he was too sentimental. But he didn’t take the bunny away.

“Wangji?” Wei Ying’s voice calls as he walks toward the bedroom. “Hey, can you—?”

The footsteps stop outside the closet. Even though Wangji knows it’s Wei Ying, he can’t move. He can’t speak. If he opens his mouth, he’ll scream.

In a soft voice, Wei Ying says, “I’m going to open the door, okay? I just want to check on you.”

The door opens, blinding Wangji with light. Wei Ying crouches outside the closet, and Wangji can’t help drawing back, shrinking away from the light.

“Sweetheart, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Killed her.” The words jitter and crack. “He, he killed her.”

Wei Ying’s hands cover his mouth like he’s going to be sick. “You remember?”

Wangji tries to slow his gasps, but his lungs feel like they’re being crushed in his chest. “Killed her. Took me.”

“Oh god. Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

Wei Ying looks sad but not surprised. Of course not. Wangji is so stupid. How could he not have known? How could he have not remembered? Wen Ruohan killed his mother, strangled her right in front of him, and Wangji didn’t even remember.

The tears won’t stop. They yank free, burning hot down his face, and he can’t stop them. He has to stop them. Crying is not allowed. Weakness is not allowed.

“It’s okay,” Wei Ying says. “It’s okay to cry. You need to get it out, sweetheart.”

Wen Ruohan’s rules don’t matter anymore. Wangji knows that. But he can’t let it out. It’s too big. It’s tearing him apart, but he doesn’t know how to let it go, how to shove all that pain and grief and rage out of the cage he built for it.

When Wei Ying’s hand touches his knee, Wangji grabs his wrist and pulls him into the closet. Wei Ying wraps his arms around Wangji, rocking him and stroking his hair. “Just let it all out,” Wei Ying whispers. “You’re safe now. You can let it go.”

With Wei Ying holding him tight, Wangji finally lets go. He screams into Wei Ying’s shoulder, filling the closet with his wails. He cries until his stomach aches, until his chest is ripped open, until he doesn’t have the energy to cry anymore. When the tears stop, he slumps against Wei Ying’s chest, exhausted. But this weariness is clean, like the last of Wen Ruohan’s poison has finally washed away.

“I didn’t remember,” he croaks. “I hid it.” He shoved that memory down so deep, hiding from it for so long. Letting himself forget.

“You had to,” Wei Ying murmurs, stroking his hair. “It would have killed you to know then.”

Wangji shivers, remembering cold metal around his neck, cold metal caging him in until he thought he’d never be warm again. Wei Ying holds him tighter, his hands stroking warmth into Wangji’s skin.

“You did what you had to do to survive,” Wei Ying says. “You are so brave and so strong. I am so proud of you, sweetheart.”

Wangji twists his fingers in Wei Ying’s shirt and buries his face in Wei Ying’s neck and allows himself to believe that.

January

The birthday boy is looking cuter than usual in his bunny party hat, compete with bunny ears and whiskers. Everyone else just has the standard model, partly because Wei Ying wanted Wangji’s hat to be special, but mostly because making that bunny hat took two years off Wei Ying’s life. It’s worth it, though. Now he has approximately one million photos of Wangji in a bunny hat on his phone. His phone will probably explode from cuteness before the night is done, but he has no regrets.

They had to keep the guest list short because Wangji insisted on having his birthday party at home, and the little apartment can barely contain Wangji’s new relatives. That’s okay, though. They’re all still recovering from the Thanksgiving/Christmas whirlwind, and Wei Ying and Wangji agreed that they’re not emotionally-prepared to introduce the Lans to the Jiangs. Still, it would’ve been hilarious to see Lan Qiren and Yu Ziyuan make small talk while they’re both wearing dorky party hats. Maybe he’ll get another shot on A-Yuan’s birthday.

Honestly, the party hats were just a joke—a goofy ice breaker. Wei Ying hadn’t actually expected the guests to wear them. But the Lans and Mingjue donned their hats without even the mildest of complaints. Now here they are, a roomful of very tall men wearing dollar store party hats meant for children.

Lan Qiren is bearing up well under the circumstances. Sure, he looks stiff and uncomfortable, but that could be because he’s sitting in the evil chair. Lan Huan and A-Yuan are on the couch, and A-Yuan is teaching a bewildered but enthusiastic Lan Huan to play Animal Crossing. Wangji is watching them from the piano bench, smiling as his brother fails at video games.

When Wei Ying asked Jie and Ms. Nelson for hosting advice, they both suggested that a grazing situation would be the best tactic. It’s working well so far, except that Nie Mingjue is hogging the potstickers. Wei Ying is still pissed that his aren’t as good as Yu Ziyuan’s. She must have left something out of the recipe just to mess with him.

Wei Ying makes the rounds, asking if anyone needs a refill, kissing the birthday boy’s nose, then plops down at the kitchen table with Nie Mingjue and snags a potsticker before they all disappear beneath that mustache.

Mingjue dunks a potsticker in the sauce and eats the entire thing in one bite. Mingjue is Wei Ying’s kind of guy. Lan Huan is great, but he’s way above Wei Ying’s pay grade. He’s like gourmet granola, the kind of guy who’s never told a fart joke or played a video game (before today). Not an asshole or anything, just . . . grown up. Even in a silver party hat with a blue pom-pom bouncing on his head, Lan Huan looks like the kind of guy who gives good advice on investing and planting roses.

But Mingjue is a dude. A huge shoulder-slapping bear with the biggest big-brother energy Wei Ying has ever encountered. Even the hat can’t diminish his dudeness. As evidence, see the way Mingjue is scarfing down potstickers doused in the sauce that made poor Wangji’s ears look like fire hydrants. The sauce is Wei Ying’s own recipe. Take that, Yu Ziyuan.

“How’s the sauce?” Wei Ying mumbles around a mouthful of potsticker.

Mingjue nods vigorously and licks sauce off his thumb. “I’d love to have the recipe.”

“Sure thing. Not too spicy?”

“No, it’s delicious. I had to warn A-Huan off, though. He isn’t good with spice.”

“Must be genetic. Wangji can’t handle much, either.” Wei Ying beams because it’s still amazing that Wangji has relatives.

“Must be,” Mingjue agrees, smiling like he’s having similar thoughts.

Cheers erupt in the living room. Lan Huan must have finally caught a fish. Mingjue grunts a laugh. “Never thought I’d see him playing video games.”

“Better watch out. Those things are addictive.”

“Oh, I know. My little brother spends every weekend in front of the TV.” Mingjue chews another potsticker, looking thoughtful. “You and Wangji should meet him.”

“We’d love to.” Wei Ying tries to imagine a version of this guy who spends all his time playing video games, but all his mind comes up with is Jiang Cheng with a mustache.

So, Lan Huan and Nie Mingjue are great—possibly the perfect big brother combo—and Wangji adores them. However, Lan Qiren’s old-school vibe hasn’t meshed well so far. That’s understandable, really. It’s a weird situation. The guy had to deal with learning his long-lost nephew is alive. Plus, that nephew came with a family that includes a seven-year-old boy and Wei Ying, who’s never been popular with the more traditional types.

Lan Qiren is probably doing his best. He’s nice enough—and willing to wear a stupid party hat. And Wangji seems to get him. He and his uncle seem to enjoy spending time together in near silence.

But the guy needs loosening up. Thankfully, Wei Ying has learned the secret to charming the old folks. If Yu Ziyuan can soften up, then anyone can.

After Wangji blows out his birthday candles, Wei Ying sends A-Yuan over to the evil chair with a piece of cake.

“Here’s your cake, Mr. Qiren!” A-Yuan says as he thrusts the plate at Lan Qiren. Sure enough, that’s a smile on the old guy’s face. It’s tiny, and kind of tight, but it’s definitely a smile.

The next time Wei Ying looks over, A-Yuan is perched on the coffee table, swinging his feet and telling Lan Qiren dinosaur jokes. The pterodactyl one actually makes him huff a laugh.

As Wei Ying watches his secret weapon do its work, arms wrap around his waist.

“You’re smiling,” Wangji murmurs in his ear.

Wei Ying leans back against that broad chest. “I just love it when a plan comes together.” He tilts his head back and tsks. “You took your hat off.”

“So did you.”

“Fair enough. Should we tell these nerds the joke's over?”

Wangji huffs a laugh and presses a kiss on his cheek. “Later. Lan Huan asked to hear us play.”

“No problem. I’ve already cleared it with Popo. Special exception for the birthday boy.”

Wangji hums against his neck, then starts leading him toward the piano.

“You should play with A-Yuan next,” Wei Ying says as he grabs his dizi. If that doesn’t melt Lan Qiren’s frosty exterior, then nothing will.

“Okay.” Wangji starts to play, and as Wei Ying joins in, their audience gathers around. Wei Ying might’ve cried a little when Wangji finally told him this song’s name, but then he wisely pointed out that it wasn’t fair to just call it Wei Ying now that it’s a duet. Wangji wasn’t impressed by that logic, so Wei Ying it remains. That’s fine. Wei Ying has plenty of time to change his mind.

Wangji pulls the covers over A-Yuan, then sits down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want a story?”

A-Yuan stretches out his little arms. “No, I am exhausted.”

Wangji tries not to laugh. A-Yuan sounded just like a tiny Wei Ying.

“Did you have fun at your first birthday party?” A-Yuan asks.

“A lot of fun. Thank you for playing ‘Happy Birthday.’ You did a good job. Everyone said so.”

A-Yuan grins up at him. “Your brother is nice.”

“I think so, too.” Wangji kisses his forehead, then stands up.

“Happy birthday, Wangji-ge.”

Wangji smiles as he turns out the light. “Thank you. Good night.”

When Wangji goes to the bedroom, Wei Ying is waiting for him in bed. Wangji crawls onto the mattress and into the arms Wei Ying holds out for him. The party was wonderful, but he’s ready to be with just Wei Ying. Sometimes having fun is exhausting.

“That was fast,” Wei Ying says, stroking his hair.

“He was too tired for a story.”

Wei Ying snorts a laugh. “Yeah, he did put on quite a show tonight.”

“Mn.” Wangji presses his ear against Wei Ying’s chest and lets its steady rhythm soothe him.

“Did you have a good birthday?”

“Yes. Thank you for the party.”

“You are very welcome. But this is just the beginning. It was smart to start off slow for your first official party, but next year, we’ll really get wild.”

“Bouncy house?” Wangji suggests, only half-joking. The one at Jin Ling’s party had been pretty fun.

“You bet. And fireworks. Maybe a parade. What do you think?”

Wangji sighs. He knows Wei Ying is only joking. He hopes Wei Ying is only joking. “I liked this party.”

“Yeah, it was good, considering the lack of jack o’ lanterns. But you have to start thinking about next year. We have a lot of birthdays to make up for. We’ve gotta spice it up.”

Wangji shifts up until he’s lying on top of Wei Ying. “This morning was spicy.”

Wei Ying grins, slow and wicked. “That it was. A solid opening act.”

“Mn.” Wangji kisses him, slow and wicked. In what Wei Ying calls his “sultry voice,” Wangji says, “I know what I want next year.”

“Oh yeah?” Wei Ying’s voice is also very sultry. He wraps his legs around Wangji until they’re helplessly entwined.

Wangji smirks. “Pancake buffet.” Then he has to laugh at Wei Ying’s look of stunned disbelief.

“Okay, smartass, you’ll get a pancake buffet. We’ll fill the entire park with pancakes. I’ll make you a cake shaped like a stack of pancakes. Actually, that would be pretty cute. There was one on The Great British—”

Wangji kisses him before Wei Ying can dive too deep into pancake-themed party plans. Wangji would prefer not to wear a party hat shaped like a pancake.

When Wei Ying is moaning and writhing beneath him, Wangji nips his earlobe and whispers, “My birthday isn’t over yet.”

Wei Ying makes a strangled sound. “What do you want for the big finish?”

Although he meant to make a joke, Wangji forgets what it was as he stares down at the brightest smile he’s ever seen. Wei Ying has given him more than he ever imagined he could have, and Wei Ying keeps giving him more and more every day. He has shared his home, his heart—every piece of himself with Wangji. Wei Ying has given him so much and never held back, not even when it would have been safer to do so.

Wangji clears his throat and smiles. “I have everything I want.”

Wei Ying’s bright smile wobbles and becomes even more beautiful. “Yeah, sweetheart. Me too.”

They gaze at each other for a warm, blissful moment. Then Wei Ying smirks. “But you do want me to rock your world, right?”

Wangji huffs a laugh. “Yes. But I’m not wearing the bunny hat.”

Wei Ying cackles. “Come on, please? Just for a little bit?”

Wangji rolls his eyes and kisses Wei Ying until he stops giggling and kisses back.

The last celebration continues until well after midnight, but Wangji savors every touch and captures every warm sigh and bright giggle. Every day, he adds new pieces to the composition in his mind—a soaring symphony of music and laughter that he could never have dreamed of in his previous life.

There are still pieces missing from his memory. His new therapist says he must be patient and heal at his own pace. That’s okay—he doesn’t need those pieces to be whole. He wants to focus on now, and on all the bright years that lie ahead.

From now on, he wants to remember every moment.