Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Winter in Chicago is technically miserable. The steel and glass skyline curves along the lakeshore like the silver edge of a knife, and the water that makes the city glitter like a jewel in summer makes it almost too sharp to look at in winter. Snow and salt and mush line the streets, people are indistinguishable in heavy coats, hats, and scarves. Even the screech of the elevated train carries further in the dry air.

Wei Ying loves it.

He shouldn’t. He was born to the bright sun and humidity of Florida, but he moved to Chicago ten years ago and never looked back. Summer is boring—especially in Miami, where it lasts forever—and even though everyone else raves about it, he has always been a bit of a contrarian. There is something about winter air that burns his lungs and nips his fingers that feels like home. He loves fat snowflakes that fall in clumps and get stuck to his eyelashes. He loves cabled sweaters and wool hats and an excuse to drink hot chocolate by the fireplace.

Not that Wei Ying needs an excuse. He drinks hot chocolate all year long because it’s hot chocolate. It’s miraculous, when you think about it, how many things had to happen for modern man to have hot chocolate. It had to be fermented, then dried, then roasted, then liquified, then sweetened. Humanity was just so determined to consume chocolate. Wei Ying admires that kind of dedication.

“Only you would consider ordinary hot chocolate a modern marvel,” grouses Jiang Cheng, handing him the cup through the ticket booth window.

Wei Ying doesn’t even have to look to know it’s perfect. Jiang Cheng always gets him dark chocolate, extra hot, with whipped cream and, after Thanksgiving, a shot of peppermint. He is the best best-friend-not-quite-brother Wei Ying has ever had.

“Now, coffee...that’s a true miracle. The marriage of perfectly ground beans, the right temperature of water, the ideal brew time…” Jiang Cheng lifts his fingers to his lips and pretends to kiss them, closing his eyes in blissful coffee thoughts.

Wei Ying makes a gagging face and Jiang Cheng catches him. He sticks out his tongue and Wei Ying laughs.

“You can have your bitter bean juice, and I’ll just continue being happy drinking something that tastes good.”

Wei Ying sets down his cup and sells a group of teenagers Chicago Transit Authority day-passes for the L train, twenty-four exciting hours of riding the train, any line, only five dollars. He wonders what they’re planning to do, and spends a few seconds considering the options—movies, clubs, restaurants, shopping, theatre—but then he remembers. It’s Christmas Eve. No matter what they’re doing, it’s the same thing everyone is doing today: celebrating the holiday with the people they love.

Everyone except him. His family is gone and his best friend is leaving, heading home to Miami to see his family. This is just a statement of fact, he tells himself. It’s the same thing that happens every year, and he’s used to it. Even if he doesn’t have anyone to share Christmas with specifically, he’s working overtime holiday hours for big money, and—he checks his watch—it’s almost 8 am. He’ll get to see Him in a few minutes. The little things in life are worth celebrating.

As if summoned by a hornier realm of Wei Ying’s thoughts, He appears, dark hair visible first over the lip of the stairs, and then—the rest of Him.

“Not this again,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, but Wei Ying just shushes him, and because he is a good friend, Jiang Cheng obligingly steps to the side to give Wei Ying the full view of The Love of His Life.

He is always perfection, from the smooth skin, high cheekbones and thick eyelashes to the graceful smile that always seems to be hovering over his mouth. His hair isn’t quite black, more like rich, loamy earth, and it’s a bit long right now. A piece of it falls forward over his eyes, and he shakes it back with little huff. It looks silky soft, and Wei Ying dreams of tucking it behind his ear. As usual, The Most Wonderful Man In The World looks Wei Ying in the eyes and nods when he swipes his card through the turnstile, and as usual Wei Ying melts into a spring puddle.

The man walks away, violin case tucked under one arm, to wait for the next train, and Wei Ying catches a glimpse of a grey pinstripe suit under the heavy camel coat. He always wears suits. Beautiful, perfectly fitted suits. Suits that look like they were made by the nimble fingers of magical tailors. Wei Ying has no trouble believing that fairies come out of the trees at night to make this man’s suits. It’s a tragedy that they’re all covered up in winter.

It isn’t just that he’s the most handsome man Wei Ying has ever seen, possibly the most handsome man that exists. It’s that he’s friendly. It’s that he’s a musician. It’s that he’s kind, and always waits to board and exit the train last, careful to step around slower people. Wei Ying has watched in rapt fascination as his Future Husband extended an arm to a pregnant woman struggling on the platform stairs and lifted her heavy stroller with the other; when he bowed regally to a hunched grandmother and offered her his seat; and every time he’s winked at wide-eyed children. And he eats takeout from The Lake View, which Wei Ying happens to know is a very seedy bar that makes the most fabulous burgers in the city. Wei Ying can’t imagine anyone better.

“Are we done ogling the nice man now?” Jiang Cheng asks, one eyebrow raised, and Wei Ying sighs dramatically.

“I’m going to marry him someday.”

Jiang Cheng snorts unhelpfully. “That guy is way, way out of your league. Do you even know his name?”

Wei Ying does not. He knows his initials, LX, or possibly XL, depending on how much of a traditionalist he is, because several of his shirts have monogrammed cuffs. He is not going to admit that to Jiang Cheng.

“Names have nothing to do with true love,” he informs Jiang Cheng, who shakes his head but laughs anyway.

“Fine, fine. I’m sure you’ll be very happy with Mr. No Name who doesn’t know you exist.” Jiang Cheng gives him the patented All-Knowing Best Friend Look, the one with the narrowed eyes and slight frown. “A-Xian, come home with me for Christmas? You shouldn’t be alone.”

Wei Ying has answered this question half a dozen times already, and he forgives Jiang Cheng for continuing to use that horrible nickname, because he knows Jiang Cheng is genuinely worried about him. “Nah, I’m good. You know I hate Christmas without snow.”

Not exactly a lie, but he mostly hates how disappointed Jiang Cheng’s parents always are with him, for a different reason every time he visits. His dad is still disappointed that he broke up with Jiang Cheng a decade ago. When he sold his first book a year later, Jiang Cheng’s mom was disappointed that he wasn’t a failure after breaking up with Jiang Cheng. Then, when his second book was a flop and he didn’t sell anything else meaningful in the years since, it was disappointing that he was a failure, and Jiang Cheng was still friends with him. Wei Ying really doesn’t want to spend the holiday trying to guess what new disappointment he needs to smooth over.

He wouldn’t mind seeing Yanli, Jiang Cheng’s sister, who was always Wei Ying’s biggest champion, but he knows she’ll be busy with her herd of children, and anyway, Wei Ying secretly thinks her husband is The Most Boring Human Alive. The thought of spending any part of Christmas discussing the fastest route from Miami to Ft. Lauderdale with Zixuan doesn’t really strike him as an incentive to travel.

Jiang Cheng frowns like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t. He knows the reasons as well as Wei Ying does. “Okay, well, I’m leaving this afternoon. Hopefully before those clouds dump snow. If you change your mind, I’ll buy your ticket.”

Right, because teaching middle school is such a lucrative career, Jiang Cheng can totally afford a last-minute holiday flight. Wei Ying resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Sure, sure, A-Cheng, I’ll let you know. Have fun! Tell Yanli I love her and kiss all the kids. Kiss Zixuan too if you want.”

He waves cheerfully as Jiang Cheng flips him off and jumps on the train right before the doors close. Wei Ying’s smile doesn’t exactly drop from his face, but he has to have a very firm talk with an errant stab of loneliness. He is not lonely. He is fine. Working over the holidays is fine. Dinner with his cat will be fine too. Maybe he’ll even write for a while.

Wei Ying’s shift is disappointingly over before His Intended comes back through the station, so he walks two blocks in the indecisive snow flurries to pick up a jalapeño burger with grilled onions and a decadent fried egg from their mutually favorite restaurant for Christmas Eve dinner. One benefit of living alone is that no one will complain about chili and onion breath.

Somewhere between the Sedgwick and Clinton stations, the weather makes up its mind and starts to snow in earnest. By the time Wei Ying steps onto his home platform, he has no choice but to stop and stare in awe at the blanket already on the ground, and the thick white sheet of snow coming down from the sky. He is, of course, promptly run into by irritated commuters who have no appreciation for the beauty of winter, but he doesn’t care. The snow is just for him.

Chenqing is waiting impatiently by the door, one paw raised in feline supplication.

“You aren’t starving,” Wei Ying informs her, and the cat disagrees mournfully, taking a spin through Wei Ying’s legs as he tries to set his bag down before checking the state of Chenqing’s bowl. Evidently, food that doesn’t fully cover the bottom is grounds for begging, and Wei Ying is a sucker for it every time.

He pours out a little more kibble and the big black cat falls on it, smacking her lips noisily the way she’s done since she was a wobbly, carrot-tailed kitten, found in a box by the trash bin on Thanksgiving Day three years ago. Wei Ying didn’t really like cats, but no one else would take her that first day, and within twenty-four hours, it was a moot point. The kitten slept curled up next to his neck and Wei Ying was hopelessly in love.

Wei Ying believes it is the mark of a truly great sandwich that it can be eaten an hour after purchase and still taste as heavenly as the first five minutes. He sets a Buddy Holly LP on his record player, changes into flannel pajamas, plugs in the Christmas tree, and pets Chenqing absently while he eats, savoring the numbing chili and gooey egg.

Come what may, do you ever long for true love from me?

The music, the peacefully purring cat, and the even-thicker fall of snow outside his window aren’t a bad way to spend Christmas Eve. Wei Ying makes another cup of hot chocolate, this one with a candy cane to stir, and it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t turn on his computer or write a single word on a piece of paper.

Love like yours will surely come my way.

It could definitely be worse, he thinks. He’s sure it probably has been.

Chapter Text

Working on Christmas Day is weird.

Wei Ying has to make his own hot chocolate, for one thing. Not only is Jiang Cheng gone, nothing is open except the drug store, and he does have some standards.

For another, everyone seems particularly crabby today. He smiles and waves at the other girl working today in a booth on the other side of the tracks, and she gives him a blank look like she’s never seen him before. That’s fair. They’ve only worked together for two years.

People come through the station in fits and spurts, mostly flustered families heading to the airport or to catch the Amtrak trains, but there are also the usual crowds at the usual times. Tired nurses. Tired hotel staff. Tired cashiers. He can’t even tell if they’re going to work or going home, and it’s usually pretty obvious. Everyone looks blankly uninterested in the world around them and practically no one says “Merry Christmas” back to him, no matter how winsome Wei Ying thinks his smiles are. He makes up stories for a few of the most interesting-looking people—a man with a dog sticking out of his shirt, a woman with two hats, a kid wearing a rainbow Halloween costume—but even that doesn’t cheer him appreciably.

By noon, the slow stream of people has practically disappeared, and he’s ready to go home.

“Merry Christmas,” he says to a crowd of teenage boys, two of whom he pretends he doesn’t see jump the turnstile. Only one yells anything back.

“Happy Holidays, motherfucker!”

He should have expected that. He slumps back in his chair, head in his hands. Fine. No more Merry Christmas.

“Merry Christmas,” says a low, measured voice from the other side of the glass, and Wei Ying looks up into the dark chocolate eyes of the Man of His Dreams.

The man tips his head with a smile that pulls the bow of his mouth wide, showing perfect teeth, and Wei Ying can’t quite formulate the words he should say back before he’s gone again, the tails of his long coat rippling in the winter wind.

Life is funny, Wei Ying thinks later. If he hadn’t been so flabbergasted, he wouldn’t have taken so long to notice that the man left his gloves on the counter, and maybe it never would have happened. If he hadn’t run out of his ticket booth, grabbed the butter-soft leather gloves and chased the man waving them, maybe he wouldn’t have seen it.

But he was, and he does.

Life is funny.

“Sir!” he yells, running down the icy wooden planks. “Mister...um...L? Mr. X? Your gloves!”

He doesn’t get there before the teenagers do.

Maybe they thought Wei Ying was finally busting them for jumping the turnstile. Maybe they’re just assholes. Whatever the case, they scatter like cockroaches, running toward Wei Ying, running past The Perfect Man with the violin case under his arm, crashing into him as he looks up in surprise, knocking into the case and sending it hurtling down to the tracks.

The man grabs for the violin with a look of panic as the last of the boys thunders past him, hitting his shoulder. He’s already off balance, Wei Ying thinks, as the man teeters on the edge of the platform, arms flailing wildly. Wei Ying is one step away, maybe two, when gravity wins, and the Beautiful Man with the Beautiful Face plunges over the edge and onto the tracks. He lands awkwardly, leg bent underneath him, his head clunks against something—hopefully not the rail—and he doesn’t move.

“Oh man, oh man, oh man, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Wei Ying chants and paces, hoping the sound of his voice will save the day, wake the fallen prince, and everything will be fine, just fine.

It doesn’t work.

He looks around and feels beads of cold sweat trickle down his neck. Of course there’s no one else to help. Of course it isn’t going to be easy. Wei Ying climbs down to the tracks, gingerly avoiding the hot rail, and pats the man’s face. Some unhelpful and distant part of his mind notes how supple his skin is, as soft as it looks. Whatever moisturizer he uses is worth every penny. No one escapes chapped skin in Chicago winters.

“Hey, hey, I need you to wake up because, um, you’re in a bad place right now? I mean, literally, not metaphorically, I really don’t know what your life is like. It seems really good.”

Shut up shut up shut up, Wei Ying yells at himself. How is rambling at an unconscious man going to help?

The man doesn’t wake up, so naturally, things get worse. The 12:08 train is right on time making alarmingly close train noises.

Wei Ying looks around again, hoping some kind of assistance has materialized, but he’s still the unluckiest man in the world. He spies the violin case and some hopscotching rabbit part of his brain that wants to avoid the problem of the human on the tracks tells him to grab it and set it on the platform ledge. Sure, that’ll help, he yells at himself. You rescued a violin. Good job, Wei Ying.

The train whistles frantically, echoing the sound of Wei Ying’s increasingly panicked brain. He tries lifting Mr. LX, but it turns out that a six-foot something unconscious man who evidently works out is quite a bit harder to pick up than he expected. He tries dragging him, and that doesn’t work either, not quickly, not at all quickly. The train is close enough now that Wei Ying can see the conductor’s terrified face. Finally, Wei Ying gives up trying to move the man in a dignified way and lays on top of him, wraps his arms and legs around the man’s body and rolls.

Sometimes when there’s no one else in the station, Wei Ying likes to stand as close to the edge of the platform as possible, ignoring the yellow painted line, and close his eyes as the express train roars past. It feels like living and it feels like dying, and he loves the way the wind and sound flow through him like a wave breaking on the shore.

It is less appealing to feel the physical nearness of a train when you are pressed between it and a solid wall, risking your life to protect the body of a man who may or may not be dead already.

The sound of squealing brakes is the most beautiful music Wei Ying has ever heard.

No, he decides, when the brakes stop and he’s still alive, the silence afterward is. He gets a Christmas miracle after all, he thinks, laughing wildly at the sheer joy of not being dead. Even better, he can feel the heartbeat of the gorgeous man slumped in his arms. He kisses the man’s forehead jubilantly.

“We’re not dead,” he whispers, and although His Beloved doesn’t answer, Wei Ying is pretty sure he’s grateful too.

He lays there and listens to the voices of people crying and calling for help.

He lays there and listens to the sound of sirens approaching.

He lays there and listens to the rescue teams discuss how to reach him.

He lays there and listens to his own voice answer their questions.

Despite their explanations, he has a moment of panic when the train moves away slowly so the paramedics can get to them, and he clutches the soft wool of the man’s coat until the first EMT reaches him. She’s young and pretty, even though her hair is pulled back severely and she looks very serious.

“What’s your name, honey? You’re safe, you can let go now,” she tells him, her huge doe eyes full of compassion and kindness.

“Wei Ying,” he mumbles, and she pats his hand as though it’s exactly what she expected, and isn’t he clever for knowing.

Just like that, the strength drains from his body, and the claws of his fingers relax so swiftly, it’s like they’ve been turned into liangpi. Or one of those fancy molded dessert things with chunks of fruit held together in the loosest definition of a solid. Great, now he’s rambling at himself.

Wei Ying lets the pretty paramedic, whose name tag says Q. Wen, check him with gentle, brisk hands as he watches the others check Handsome Husband’s vitals, splint his leg, brace his head, and load him onto a stretcher.

“You seem fine, barely even scratched. Do you feel okay?” she asks, and he nods absently. He’s starting to feel a little shaky, so maybe he needs a glass of water.

One of the man’s hands slips out from under the blanket, and Wei Ying admires the long, perfectly proportioned fingers. He imagines what they would look like playing the violin, adjusting his cuffs, unbuttoning his shirt...

“I was going to marry him,” Wei Ying whispers, and the paramedic’s head snaps up.

“Oh, okay, Wei Ying? Honey? Let’s get you in the ambulance too.”

Wei Ying refocuses his waning attention on the woman. Does he need to go to the hospital? He must, if she thinks he needs to ride in the ambulance.

“Sure, that’s fine,” he agrees, hoping he can afford it.

She hustles him to the back doors and helps him in before following him, swinging up agilely and dropping into a seat next to him.

“He’s going to be okay,” she says, looking at Wei Ying with concern.

He thinks he’s relieved; it’s growing tricky to identify emotions in the wiggly jelly of his mind. But she doesn’t seem like the sort to offer platitudes. “Good, that’s good. He’s nice.”

She gives him a strange look, the look people give you when they aren’t entirely certain if you’re joking or not. He smiles brightly until she looks a little less worried for his sanity.

When they get to the hospital, Paramedic Wen leads him to a waiting room that’s set apart from the others and pats his hand. “I’ll tell my brother to bring you his things,” she says before darting away and stopping one of the red-clad nurses.

Things? What things? Her brother’s things? Why?

No, it’s too hard to puzzle out her words, and the hard plastic chair is surprisingly comfortable. He’s never been so comfortable, really. He stretches out and decides to close his eyes for just a minute, maybe five minutes. He’s halfway through remembering that he left the station unattended when the sinking grey sleepiness overtakes him.

“Mr. Wei? Hey, Mr. Wei? The rest of your family is here?”

Wei Ying opens his eyes and finds himself staring into the wide eyes of a boy...oh wait, no, a nurse. A nurse with eyes full of the sweet innocence of youth who makes every statement sound like a question. Wei Ying tries to sit up and realizes there’s a box on his lap.

“The man you came here with? My sister told me to give you his things?”

“Uh...thanks I guess,” Wei Ying says, peering into the box. He tells himself not to touch anything. He tells himself it is an invasion of privacy as his fingers pick up the slim leather wallet. He tells himself that only a pathetic loser would pry as he thumbs open the flap and looks at the driver’s license.

Lan Xichen.

It’s a nice name. He mutters it under his breath while he pokes the wallet's contents. He finds an ancient library card that says Lan Huan and a Chicago Art Institute membership card that has the man’s Chinese name on it—蓝曦臣. Wei Ying sucks in a breath. Good grief, his name isn’t nice, it’s gorgeous, as beautiful as the rest of him. Figures.

He looks through the rest of the things in the box: a forest green scarf, the leather gloves, a watch that might say Rolex, keys, a pack of gum, a cheap plastic pen that says “Kennedy Arts Academy” on it, a felt toy mouse, which he pockets for absolutely no good reason, and of course, the violin case. He shouldn’t open that either, but he’s already a creepy voyeur, may as well satisfy all his curiosity at once, right?

He regrets it immediately.

Wei Ying doesn’t play the violin, but even he can recognize that this is a Very Serious Instrument that he should definitely not be touching. Its dark red wood almost glows, and there’s something about it that is distinctly old, the uneven carving on the scroll, maybe, or the wear marks on the body. His fingers shake as he very carefully closes the case and notices it has an intricately etched silver metal nameplate near the handle: Lady Liebing. Normal instruments don’t have names, do they? He understands a little better now why the man—Lan Xichen, Ruler of the Morning Sun—risked his life for it.

He should find the nurse and hand him back this box of things that don’t belong to him, but the nurse is still standing in front of him, waiting patiently.

“Your family is here? Come on?” he says—asks—and walks away before Wei Ying can say I don’t have a family.

“Wait, these aren’t my things,” Wei Ying calls after him. He tries to catch up, but there’s a hole in the bottom of the box, and the keys, gum, and pen fall out of the bottom. Cursing, Wei Ying shoves everything into his coat pockets so they don't fall again and chases after the inexplicably speedy nurse, who weaves between people before disappearing into a room. Wei Ying stumbles through the door just in time for the nurse to point at him.

“His fiancé has his things.”

Wei Ying skids to a stop and stares at—everyone. Two tall men, a small woman, two teenage boys. All equally beautiful. Products of clean living, his mind inserts. They are very clearly Lan Xichen’s family.

One of the men, the slightly taller one in the fisherman’s sweater and rumpled khakis, and the woman, who looks like a small brown sparrow, if small brown sparrows wore peasant dresses and knee-length cabled sweaters, appear to be married, their hands clenched tightly together in worry. Those must be the parents. The two older men look like mirror images of each other, although the one lounging in a chair is wearing a respectable navy suit, so...brothers? He can’t quite figure out the teenagers, who are wearing whatever it is that teenagers wear these days, an odd mishmash of hockey sweaters, flannels, and ripped jeans, and look much younger than Lan Xichen lying pale and fragile in the bed.

“Fiancé?”

“Fiancé?”

“Fiancé?”

Oh he is in so much trouble. So much trouble. How do these things happen to him? This is just like the time he walked into the wrong office, got mistaken for the Biology TA, and spent a semester grading labs he didn’t understand because it paid so well. At least that gave him story fodder. This is just a farce.

“No, I’m just…”

He breaks off as the tiny woman lunges at him, wrapping her arms around him, squeezing him and the box tightly.

“He’s getting married and he didn’t even tell us? To such a beautiful boy? Laogong, how could this have happened?”

“Holy shit, er-jiu is getting married?”

“Don’t swear in front of your laolao.”

“Sorry uncle. But holy shit!”

“Goddammit Jingyi, what did I just say?”

“Thank you Qiren, I’m not certain you’re helping anymore.”

“He looks like he’s going to faint.”

“Sweetheart, what’s your name?”

“Sizhui, get him a chair.”

“Laopo, maybe let him breathe and he’ll tell you?”

“Uncle Qiren, you’re sitting in the only chair.”

“Well, he can sit on the bed.”

The bird woman finally lets go of Wei Ying and peers up at him, dark eyes brimming with tears. “Tell us about our boy, please. We’ve missed so much.”

Wei Ying doesn’t know what to say. He should tell them he isn’t who they think. He should tell them he doesn’t know anything about Lan Xichen, not even his name until a few minutes ago. But when he looks around, he sees the same anticipation on all of their faces, the same heartbreaking hope, and he wonders what happened to this family that seems so close-knit, that all live in the same city, and yet don’t know anything about their son, nephew, cousin’s life. It must be quite a story.

“He saved him, you know?” the nurse breaks in, and everyone whips around to stare at him.

He takes a very smart step backward, two steps when he sees that Wei Ying is considering throwing the entire box, violin and all, at him. But he’s brave and doesn’t back down.

“He did. The paramedics said he rolled your son off the tracks before the train got there and protected him with his own body.”

“You saved his life?” the woman squeaks, and the tears spill over, the narrow rivulets on her cheeks reminding Wei Ying of the veins in a leaf. Her husband rests his hands on her shoulders and looks like he might cry too.

“Thank you, thank you,” the man says. “You don’t know what he means to us. Or maybe you do. It’s just...we love him, and he’s been so distant lately. We’re so happy to meet you.”

Wei Ying does not handle tears well, in that he is a sympathetic crier, and now that this sweet woman is crying, and this nice man is going to cry, he can feel the hot itch of tears in the corner of his eyes.

“Uh...I...forgot something in the waiting room,” Wei Ying laughs, high and nervous, and shoves the box at one of the teenagers. “Can we talk for a minute?” he hisses at the nurse, and steers him out the door.

“Why, why, why are you doing this to me?” he begs when they’re a few feet down the corridor, and the nurse looks at him, puzzled.

“They’re your family, aren’t they?”

Wei Ying closes his eyes and prays to every god he can think of for patience. “Why do you think I’m his fiancé?”

“My sister told me.”

Wei Ying sifts through hours of memories before getting to the one that matters.

“Paramedic Wen?”

“Yup, Wen Qing. I’m Wen Ning.”

“Hey, I’m Wei Ying, nice to meet you,” Wei Ying offers, instinctive politeness taking over the helm for a second before remembering the crisis at hand. “But why does your sister think I’m engaged to Lan Xichen?”

“Uh, because you told her?”

He did not. He had not. He would have remembered something like...oh no, NO. He quits. He quits today, he quits Christmas, he quits this whole year. He sinks down to the floor and puts his head between his knees. He does not want to tell these good people that there’s been a horrible mistake. Maybe he can just...sneak out, crawl under his bed, and stay there until Easter.

“Well?”

An imperious voice interrupts his pity party and his head snaps up, hitting the wall. It’s the other older man, the presumed uncle.

“Well?” Wei Ying repeats foolishly, rubbing his head, and the man raises his eyebrows.

“Do you have a name?”

Wei Ying takes a deep breath. It can’t hurt to tell the man his name. “Wei Ying.”

“Wei Ying, I am Xichen’s uncle, Lan Qiren. Will you come back and allow us to thank you for saving Xichen’s life?”

He doesn’t say it in a way that sounds like there’s another option. He doesn’t look like a man who even understands options. Where the other man—the father—is soft and has kind, if a bit inattentive eyes, this man has a jaw of steel and a piercing gaze Wei Ying thinks sees right through him. He looks like he works out, and he looks like he would cheerfully punt Wei Ying out a window if he doesn’t like what he sees. Wei Ying accepts Wen Ning’s outstretched hand, climbs to his feet, and follows Mr. Lan The Younger back into the maelstrom.

Thankfully, everyone has stopped crying, and Mr. Lan makes introductions. The father is Lan Youheng—Dr. Lan, not Mr. Lan—and the mother is Yang Rizhao. Wei Ying nearly flees when they insist he call them popo and gonggong. He only agrees when Ms. Yang looks like she’s going to cry again, and he just can’t withstand any more tears today. The boys are Jingyi and Sizhui, children of...an absent sister? Wei Ying doesn’t catch that part. There’s also an absent younger brother, Xian or Zhan or something—no, Dr. Lan Wangji, they clarify, as though that helps—and umpteen cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandparents who couldn’t come into the city today, more family than Wei Ying thinks anyone in the world can keep track of. Mr. Lan looks very much like he’s enjoying the increasing look of alarm on Wei Ying’s face.

“So what do you do, Wei Ying? How did you meet our Xichen?” Dr. Lan—Wei Ying just can’t call this man he doesn’t know “gonggong”—asks.

Fuck, the inevitable question he hates. Does he say, “I used to write books, but I forgot how,” or, “I sit in a train booth and watch other people living their lives”? He decides to just answer the second question and hope they forget the first one.

“Ah, we met at the train station.” Not even a lie. He’s very proud of himself. Maybe he’ll escape this yet.

“Er-jiu knows how to ride the train?” Jingyi hisses to Sizhui, and the younger boy shrugs, eyebrows raised. “I thought he had a car.”

“Well, he probably decided he lived close enough to the hospital to get rid of it. So bad for the environment, and a sports car is such a waste of money in the city,” Dr. Lan points out.

“Yeah, but it was cool. And it’s not like he couldn’t afford it,” Jingyi snorts.

“Hospital?” The question slips out before Wei Ying can stop it. But what kind of doctor takes a violin to work? Especially that violin.

Po...Mrs. Yang—no, he will not immerse himself in the self-delusion of calling her popo—looks at Wei Ying in horror, a tiny squeak escaping her. “Oh no, isn’t he still at the hospital? Surely he would have told us if he’d left? Did he tell you laogong? Qiren?”

Her breathing is coming in short, tight gasps now, and she seems on the verge of a panic attack. Wei Ying kicks himself viciously.

“Oh hospital! I thought you just meant...no, of course. Hospital! He was...uh...riding the train because...uh...to...to go to a baseball game,” he babbles, and thankfully, no one seems shocked that a man with twenty bespoke suits would go to a baseball game.

“Remember when he took us to that Blackhawks game?” Sizhui asks, and they all laugh. “I didn’t even know er-jiu could curse.”

“Yes, I wonder where he learned that,” Dr. Lan says flatly, shooting Mr. Lan A Significant Look, which Mr. Lan ignores.

“And so creatively, too.” Jingyi sounds admiring. “When was that, three years ago?”

“No,” Mrs. Yang says with a little smile, “it was five years ago. Before we lost Haohan.”

The room grows quiet, and Mrs. Yang puts an arm around each boy’s waist, hugging them and leaning her head on Jingyi’s chest. Wei Ying doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out who Haohan is, and he feels like an intruder. This isn’t his family. This isn’t his grief. He has no right to be here.

“I should go…” he says, backing into the hall, and this time, no one stops him.

Well, not right away. Dr. Lan catches Wei Ying waiting for the elevator.

“Wei Ying, you should know, if you don’t already, but he doesn’t like to talk about it, so…”

Dr. Lan sounds a little uncertain, but he forges ahead anyway, plowing the path in front of him clear of debris. He has more in common with the steely Mr. Lan than Wei Ying would have first guessed.

“We haven’t seen Xichen in...a while. Our daughter, Haohan, the boys’ mother, died three years ago. Cancer, you know.” Dr. Lan shrugs as though cancer is a rainy day or an inconvenient traffic jam, but he inhales with a hitch, and Wei Ying knows the words are a practiced feint.

“He just...disappeared without a word. Stopped coming to family dinners, stopped being available for visits, vacations, that sort of thing. At first, we wanted to give him space but now...” the older man frowns and looks off into the distance. “It’s habit now, a bad habit.” He sets a hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder. “Maybe you’re our chance to break it.”

Wei Ying isn’t certain he understands how you can misplace an entire family member, especially one who seems so loved, but grief is a living collection of moving pieces, and it doesn’t always make sense. Dr. Lan certainly looks optimistic, so full of brimming hope for the future. Wei Ying caves. He caves hard, like a redwood falling in the forest, a crashing, irrevocable collapse, and he meekly follows Dr. Lan back into the hospital room again.

But in the two minutes they’ve been gone, everything has changed. There are nurses and orderlies bustling and adjusting things, changing machines, hooking up new ones, and with the brisk efficiency of an army on the move, they roll Lan Xichen out of the room and away.

“His leg is broken in a couple of places,” the surgical nurse explains. “He’ll need surgery to set it properly.”

Popo—fine, Wei Ying caves to that, too; she feels like a popo—sinks into the empty chair with a deflating puff of air, and Dr. Lan rushes to her side.

“It’s routine surgery. Dr. Nie is the best, don’t worry.” Actually, the nurse sounds quite worried, frankly, but Wei Ying thinks it’s for popo, who’s pale and wringing her hands.

“Hey, popo, hey,” Wei Ying says, touching her gently on the shoulder. “Um, Xichen talks about you all the time. I’m sure he wouldn’t want you to worry.”

“He does?” she asks tremulously, looking up at Wei Ying with giant saucers of eyes.

Wei Ying is familiar with the heartbreak of loss, but he hadn’t realized that having a loved one restored could be equally painful, like shaking a sleeping limb awake and having to live with the prickling needles for a while. He nods, smiling brightly. In for a white lie, in for a whopper. It’s for a good cause, he tells himself.

“Sure, when he...uh...plays the violin.”

It’s the right thing to say. She sighs happily, her expression turning dreamy. “He’s such a wonderful musician, one of the best in the family. He could have been a professional, but of course he went to medical school.”

“Took a left turn though, didn’t he,” Mr. Lan mutters.

“Shuzi, you know we’re past that now. ZhanZhan has done a great job with the practice, and Xichen is such a good pediatrician. How can I begrudge my son for helping children?”

Mr. Lan says something that sounds like “I can begrudge his billing rate,” but Wei Ying is too busy being confused by this whole conversation to be certain.

“So what do you do,” Jingyi asks, and Wei Ying resists the urge to throw a heart rate monitor at him. “No offense, but you seem...pretty normal.”

Wei Ying isn’t sure how to take that, but he’s so tired and he realizes he hasn’t eaten since...oh, he hasn’t eaten all day. Whatever. If he tells them, they can get the judging over with and he can get back to his cat and Monday’s leftover pad see ewe.

“I work for the CTA.”

“Oh, that explains how you met Xichen. Management?” Dr. Lan asks.

“Nah, he looks like an ad man,” Jingyi guesses.

“Maybe he’s a conductor,” Sizhui offers.

Before they can be even more wrong and make him feel even worse, because of course precious, beautiful, talented, Doctor Lan Xichen would only be with someone equally spectacular, Wei Ying bursts out, “I work in the station booth. That’s how we met. That’s why I was there to save him. I work in the booth.”

It feels good to say something true. Lying really isn’t his forte, which is weird, considering he’s a writer. Was a writer. It seems like something he should be better at, but he hates the sticky feeling of lies on his tongue, the way they hunch in his chest, and he can never remember what he’s said, so he always gets caught.

“Ha!” Jingyi crows. “I told you he was normal! How long do you think surgery will take? I’m hungry.”

“Me too.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“I’m sure it’ll take hours. We have time to eat, Rizhao. You look faint.”

“I don’t want to leave my boy.”

“Laopo, he’ll be fine. We’ll give them the restaurant’s phone number and they’ll call if anything happens.”

“What’s open on Christmas?”

“Denny’s?”

“Gross.”

“Blueberry pancakes?”

“Okay, never mind, I take that back. Denny’s it is!”

Wei Ying is caught in the Lan tornado again, and he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand any of this. They...they don’t care? Even yangfu cares, although he’s kind about it, and pretends he doesn’t. But it’s obvious in the way he asks “still with the CTA?” every time Wei Ying visits Miami. Even Jiang Cheng cares, although he says it’s because Wei Ying could do better. Should do better.

“Wei Ying, you’re coming too, right?”

Wei Ying focuses on Sizhui’s face, round and earnest, and he doesn’t recognize this new flavor of anxiety that roils his stomach and jangles his nerves.

“Oh, no, I need to...uh…” He jams his hands in the pocket of his pea coat and touches something unexpected—the felt mouse. It feels like a lifeline. “I need to feed my cat! Right, my cat. Her name is Chenqing. She’s very bossy. If I don’t feed her on time, she’ll poop in my shoe, and I have to work tomorrow. I’m going to need it.”

Sizhui laughs. “The same shoe every time?”

Now that he has an escape route, Wei Ying can be magnanimous. He widens his eyes and dramatically slaps his hands together for emphasis. “Every. Time. She’s such an asshole.”

Belatedly, he remembers the prohibition on swearing in front of popo, but Sizhui cracks up, and even Dr. Lan looks like he’s smiling.

Nurse Wen pops into the room, and Wei Ying shoots him a don’t you say a word until I leave look, which Wen Ning must interpret as an update them quickly because I have to leave look, because he swiftly stammers, “Everything is going great, but Dr. Lan won’t be back until visiting hours are over, so you can come back tomorrow, we’ll let you know if anything changes? Okay?”

The Lan family follows Wei Ying into the elevator, and despite the fact that he is trying to get away from them, he likes listening to them chatter: descriptions of the Christmas dinner they left, plans to see a movie tomorrow, something about Boxing Day—Wei Ying thought that was only a Canadian thing—putting off work, which is some kind of traditional or holistic medical practice, until next week. And of course, their plans for a bright new future with their beloved Xichen restored to them.

Outside, the snow is still falling, or falling again, and the air is as flat and still as an empty sheet of paper. Wei Ying intends to scurry away, but Dr. Lan doesn’t let him, hugging Wei Ying in the cold, dry night, and he can’t resist hugging him back. These people. These ridiculous people, he thinks fondly. He’s never going to see them again, so he hugs popo too, and is amused that her head only hits the middle of his chest. He knows better than to hug teenage boys, so he slaps them five and punches them on the shoulders. Manly. Very manly. Mr. Lan raises an eyebrow and holds out a hand.

“Merry Christmas, Wei Ying,” he says when Wei Ying takes his hand, and he sounds like he means it. The smallest hint of a smile lines his eyes, and Wei Ying has to turn away before they see the tears he can’t hold back anymore.

Chapter Text

Staring through the grey snow falling from a grey sky to the grey trees on the other side of the window, Lan Zhan wonders, not for the first time, if retiring at the age of thirty-four is a reasonable idea. He’s heard Corfu is lovely this time of year. The thought of seeing only miles of the glittering Ionian Sea, and not a single snowflake ever again, is very appealing. He sighs longingly. He misses the color blue.

The elderly patient sitting in front of him misinterprets the sigh and makes a sad whimper in the back of her throat.

“Dr. Lan, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. I dragged you out on Christmas, and it’s probably nothing. I...I should…” she falters and her face starts to crumple.

He tilts his mouth, softening his expression as he has learned to do with patients. “Mrs. Wilson,” he says gently, “There is no need for apology. I told you to come in. Chest pains and shortness of breath are nothing to take lightly.”

She relaxes, a sweet, sunny smile transforming her wizened face. Lan Zhan happens to know she’s seventy-three, but she looks both older and younger, her eyes as bright and sparkling as a girl’s, set in a round, pleasantly wrinkled face with nearly-translucent skin. She’s one of his favorites, but even if she wasn’t, he would have come to work to see her today anyway.

It’s not that he doesn’t love his family, but they’re particularly exhausting around holidays. Especially the last few years. For one thing, they always multiply, Lans from all over the continent congregating for Christmas dinner. It puts his mother into bustling mode, and his father and uncle spend their time being either boisterous or bickering. As for the boys—well, Lan Zhan loves them, but they’re a mystery. He’s fairly sure he and Xichen never punched each other as much as Jingyi and Sizhui do.

The thought of his brother brings the tightness back to his jaw, and he pushes it aside, looking carefully at his patient and the guilty hunch of her shoulders.

“Mrs. Wilson, is your family in town for the holiday?” he asks, as kindly as possible.

She shakes her head. “My son lives in Arizona, you know, and he couldn’t afford to visit this year. I don’t…” she hesitates and gives him a little smile, not the sunshine of before. “What about you, Dr. Lan? Are you having Christmas dinner with your family tonight?”

He lets her change the subject, and while he examines her, he describes the Annual Lan Family Christmas Celebration, a hodgepodge of eastern and western traditions. For the boys, his mother claims, but he suspects it’s because his father has a well-documented love of eating pumpkin pie and watching White Christmas.

This year, there are cousins visiting from Canada. Lan Zhan admits to Mrs. Wilson that he can’t tell them apart and doesn’t see them often enough to bother. They elected to stay in a hotel, which was such a scandal, as every other member of his family thought they should be the ones to offer hospitality. Personally, he thinks it’s very smart of the Manitoba Lans. This way, no one can be offended, and they have the option of room service. He is not typically a self-indulgent man, but he is fond of room service.

As he listens to her breathing, he tells Mrs. Wilson about the aunts from Michigan who always show up late and blame the icy roads, no matter what the temperature is, so they don’t have to help. And they only ever bring rice. Usually dry. By the time he finishes, she’s laughing.

He smiles back at her. He doesn’t like talking, and his throat hurts a little now, but it’s part of the treatment for Mrs. Wilson’s particular ailment.

“Mrs. Wilson, you seem fine. Your heart is strong and your lungs are clear. I’m going to draw blood, and we’ll get some tests done to be certain, but you can go home. Listen to your calming music, call your son, and get a full night of sleep.”

She nods, and he doesn’t say what they both know: that she’s prone to panic attacks, especially around the holidays, especially when she misses her son, and this isn't the first time he’s seen her on Christmas. She has medication. She knows the exercises. He can’t blame her for wanting human contact too.

Mrs. Wilson leaves more cheerfully than she arrived, and Lan Zhan considers going home instead of back to his parents’ house. He would be so much happier reading a book by his own fireplace. But he can’t do that to them, not when they already lost Haohan. Not when they already lost Xichen.

Reluctantly, he gets in his car and heads toward his parents’ neighborhood. But now that his glowering expression won’t alarm Mrs. Wilson, Lan Zhan lets himself wonder what his brother is doing today. What does he ever do on Christmas anymore? Eat takeout? Watch movies? Play the Lady Liebing while looking morosely into the middle distance? Lan Zhan supposes it’s possible that he’s spending the holiday with his boyfriend’s family, although from what Xichen said about them the last time he had brunch with Lan Zhan, it seems unlikely.

Lan Zhan should consider himself fortunate. At least Xichen still meets up with him every few months, even if he never talks about himself, or work, or friends. He just asks about the family and makes Lan Zhan talk, which he knows is a practically unforgivable crime. Even if there were no other mountains between them, Xichen’s persistent, serene silence makes Lan Zhan want to throw spoons at him, just to see if his brother still has facial expressions.

Still, he considers calling Xichen as he does every Christmas, every birthday, every holiday. It’s what you do at the end of the year, he thinks. You make amends, you tie up loose ends, and you try one more time to get your brother to be a part of your family again. He thinks it’s what his sister would have done. She would never have let Xichen wander vaguely away.

Then again, Lan Zhan decides, why should he always be the one who reaches out? Maybe if he doesn’t, Xichen will actually make an effort this year. He doubts it, but it can’t hurt to try. It would at least be something different.

A warning bell starts clanging in his head when he’s still three houses away, tightening his muscles and flipping his stomach around in circles. He doesn’t quite understand what’s worrying him until he pulls into the driveway. There are cars, but the Christmas lights are off. All of them. And in the Chicago suburbs, Christmas lights are practically a competitive sport. There isn’t a single light on in the house either, not even the porch light. It is the only black spot on the block, like a dark hand has come down from the sky and lifted the house away. Lan Zhan feels a trickle of cold sweat bead on his neck. He doesn’t even turn the car off, just runs toward the house.

There’s a piece of paper tacked to the door, a white splotch on crimson paint, and he almost falls into the snow with relief. Whatever did happen, it wasn’t a kidnapping or other crime; they had time to leave a message.

His mother’s handwriting, bigger and far more bold than she herself is, scrawls across what looks like half of a slightly damp Christmas card she must have grabbed in a hurry.

Z,
X in accident
Mercy North
Took boys
Check oven
M

For one flying, shaking, flood of panic, Lan Zhan runs back to his car, but then he thinks. In this snow, even on Christmas, it could take an hour or more to get into the city. It might not be a serious accident, and if he leaves now, he might miss them, both at the hospital and here. Lan Zhan turns off the car and goes inside. He does check the oven first, as ordered, and turns it off before sighing sadly over the drying Peking duck, left sitting in a serving dish on the counter. He loves duck.

He calls the emergency room first, and they connect him to pre-op for another thrilling firework of panic. But the nurse who describes his brother’s condition says Xichen is only going into surgery to have his broken leg set, and it should be a routine in-and-out. Lan Zhan doesn’t like the sound of the coma, though, and asks to speak with the attending.

The attending turns out to be the orthopedic surgeon, and he has the kind of deep, sonorous, reassuring voice patients must love. Even Lan Zhan finds himself nodding along with the doctor’s explanation.

“Your brother is in good hands, Dr. Lan. And your family is all here, even the fiancé. We’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t point out that the man basically complimented himself. Surgeons are just like that. Especially orthopedics.

Wait. Wait.

“What fiancé?” he asks into the buzzing tone of a dead line.

What fiancé?

But he’s not going to call back to ask such an inane question. It's probably just a mistake.

He should go to the hospital. Everyone is probably wondering why he hasn’t shown up yet.

Or…

The part of him that’s still mad at Xichen for abandoning them, even though they all lost Haohan, the part of him that’s hurt his brother decided not to join the family practice, even though they promised each other, the part of him that knows everything always works out for perfect, golden Xichen, decides it would be a terrible shame to waste crispy duck skin and lotus leaf bing.

Lan Zhan eats Christmas dinner by himself in the living room, the quiet of the big house looming around him, and it’s a novelty he expects to enjoy.

He doesn’t.

There’s something missing, Lan Zhan thinks. Not the sound of his family, but...something else. Even at home in the quiet he’s used to, a silence that’s always been comforting, there’s started to be this prickling sense that something is wrong, that he is somehow incomplete. It’s never bothered him before, being alone, but lately, he’s been acutely aware that by his age, his sister had been married and widowed, left with two children, and diagnosed with cancer. There are no guarantees that you’ll get enough time to do everything you want, and so far, Lan Zhan isn’t even sure what he wants.

He calls the hospital back after he’s done eating to learn that Xichen is in surgery now, and since there’s nothing else he can do, he washes his plate and sits down at the piano in the library. He expects his family will be home soon. His mother won’t want to leave, but his uncle is sensible.

Usually, someone asks him to play something, but with no requests, Lan Zhan starts with “Unsquare Dance,” just to warm up his hands. He plays through its rollicking, ridiculous 7/4 tempo twice, but it doesn’t feel right. He tries “Blue Rondo à la Turk,” and the pounding rhythm almost fits the darker parts of his mood, but “Blue Rondo” isn’t as good without a second person to pick out the melody. Without realizing it, his fingers shift to “Stardust,” and it clicks, settling over him like a second skin, the smooth flicks and lilting finger rolls even persuading him to sing along.

High up in the sky the little stars climb, always reminding me that we're apart.

It’s a love song, but it reminds him of the past when his family was whole, of his sister, who is lost to dreams, and his brother, who wandered down a lane and left. They’ve all drifted apart these three years—his father toward work, the boys toward school, his mother toward her friends and clubs—and Lan Zhan doesn’t know if it’s the inevitability of life or if there’s a solution out there somewhere, fluttering just beyond his reach, that would make them a real family again. He doesn’t cry, not on Christmas, but he lets the notes flow like tears, another pent-up year falling away.

The melody haunts my reverie, and I am once again with you.

Still humming the tune, Lan Zhan cleans up the kitchen, putting away as much food as possible, before he goes to his little house just up the road.

And now my consolation is in the stardust of a song.

It’s still snowing and shows no sign of stopping.

Chapter Text

The snow keeps falling all the way home, carpeting Wei Ying’s path from the train station to his door. It makes the world seem clean and new, spic and span, as though the universe was giving him a fresh start on a whole new year, just a few days early.

Chenqing had, thoughtfully, not pooped in any of his shoes, but she did somehow find a mouse to kill somewhere and left it to congeal in the middle of the floor.

“Thanks, sweetie,” he tells her, scrubbing mouse blood off his rug. “You’re right, I am a terrible hunter. It’s so good of you to support us.”

She regally accepts his reward of more food, and he fishes out the little toy mouse from his pocket, blankly watching her bat it around the room before he remembers to check his messages.

Seventeen. He has seventeen messages on his answering machine. It turns out to be thirteen messages from Jiang Cheng in varying degrees of irritation, one from Yanli, and three hangups, probably also Jiang Cheng.

A-Xian, my flight is delayed and I’m bored.

A-Xian, my flight is delayed again, and I somehow feel like this snow is your fault.

A-Xian, did you know you can get drunk in an airport?

[Incoherent rambling in drunk]

[More incoherent rambling in drunk]

A-Xian, my flight is canceled. Fuck.

A-Ying, Merry Christmas! Mama and Baba send their love! A-Ying, you didn’t have to send gifts, but A-Ling says thank you for Star Fox 64. I have no idea what that means, but he seems thrilled. The twins are reading the books you sent right now and A-Hua looks adorable in the Bears shirt, although Zixuan is less thrilled. We’re so sorry you couldn’t come for Christmas this year, but we’ll look forward to seeing you at Easter. Don’t say no, or I’ll have Zixuan come and get you in the minivan. A-Ying, I love you, and I hope you’re happy today. Let’s talk soon, okay? Bye!

A-Xian, just kidding, they’re going to rebook my flight. It’s a Christmas miracle! So long snow!

A-Xian, okay, apparently they can’t rebook my flight, but I can fly standby, so I guess I’m spending the night in the airport.

A-Xian, fuck fuck fuck fuck. It’s been almost twenty-four fucking hours and there are no flights with empty seats, and I fucking give up.

A-Xian, my luggage managed to go to Florida without me. So fucking rude. Whatever, I don’t even care. I have more underwear.

A-Xian, where are you? I stopped by your apartment on my way home but you weren’t there. I hope you got laid, because that’s the only reason I will forgive you for not being home on Christmas.

A-Xian, where the fuck are you?

Wei Ying, I watched the fucking news. If you don’t fucking call me, I’m calling the fucking police.

Shit. Wei Ying checks his watch and the answering machine’s time code. That last message was only half an hour ago. He rushes to punch in Jiang Cheng’s number, noticing idly that his hand is shaking and that he’s ravenously hungry. But this comes first. Jiang Cheng will absolutely call the police, because he can not imagine a world in which people do not immediately call him back.

Also, once, ten years ago, Wei Ying moved to Chicago without telling him, and Jiang Cheng hasn’t let him forget it.

He hadn’t really thought Jiang Cheng would be that upset. After all, they’d broken up months before, although Wei Ying can’t really remember exactly why. Maybe they’d decided things weren’t working and ended them mutually. Or maybe they’d had a fight, another fight, and they were both tired of it. Or maybe Jiang Cheng had decided Wei Ying wasn’t worth the trouble. Whatever the case, it had seemed that their lives were moving in different directions, like continental drift, crashing together and drifting apart. No one’s fault. Just the way of the world.

So when Wei Ying had called to say he had moved to Chicago, he’d called Yanli first. But of course, Jiang Cheng had been there, and she’d barely answered the phone before he’d snatched it from her and demanded to know where Wei Ying was.

The first words out of his mouth had been, “Come home.”

Wei Ying had said no.

He’d had good reasons. Chicago was a better publishing city than Miami and not as intimidating as New York. He loved the parks. He loved the skyline. He loved that it was empty of his old obligations and expectations.

Three months later, Jiang Cheng showed up at Wei Ying’s door because apparently, three months was the time it took a normal person to find a job, pack up their life, and get an apartment in a new city.

Three months had also been long enough for Wei Ying to realize how lonely he was, and how much better his life was with his brother in it.

“Wei Ying?”

Jiang Cheng answers the phone breathless and panicked, and Wei Ying feels terrible, even though it’s not his fault Jiang Cheng was worried about him.

“Hey, A-Cheng, I got some messages from you? Sorry about the flight.”

There’s a cavernous silence on the other end of the phone before Jiang Cheng explodes. He’s too angry to form complete sentences, and actually, it’s sort of endearing.

“Wei Ying, what...fucking...you ass...you...I will kill you.” He takes a breath, and it seems to align all his words into one straight, furious line. “I have been worried sick! No one knew where you were, your apartment was empty, and then the news said there was an accident on your line. A man fell on the tracks, and I couldn’t find you!”

Oh. Oh, he really does feel terrible now.

“Ah. I’m okay. Funny story, it was...uh...my future husband who fell onto the tracks. I saved his life, so he actually has to marry me now,” Wei Ying tries to joke, even though he’s pretty sure Jiang Cheng is crying.

“I’m coming over.”

“No, A-Cheng, don’t. I’m fine, but I had a long, crappy day and I’m hungry. Plus…” he sniffs himself, “I stink. I just want a shower and some dinner before I sleep for a week. Well, I’m working tomorrow, but I plan to sleep for a very reasonable amount of time before then.”

Another long silence ensues, and Wei Ying is honestly not sure if Jiang Cheng has decided to ignore him and is already on his way or if he’s only thinking.

“Fine, but I’m coming by the station in the morning.”

“You always do. Bring hot chocolate.”

Jiang Cheng laughs, a choking, huffing laugh that clears away the tears, and Wei Ying is suddenly so grateful for him, so glad that there’s someone in this world who would notice and be sad if it had been him on the tracks.

“Wei Ying, what happened?”

So Wei Ying tells him everything, from the gloves to the douchebag kids to the cute paramedic to the possibly priceless violin to the mistaken identity to the unbelievable mayhem of the Lan family. It sounds like the start of an improbable romcom.

“Just to be clear, they think you’re engaged to their son?” Jiang Cheng asks when he finishes, and Wei Ying grunts acknowledgement. “And you didn’t tell them you’re not.”

“Not actually in so many words,” Wei Ying hedges.

“In any words?”

Wei Ying doesn’t like where this is going. “No, I guess not.”

“A-Xian, you are a colossal idiot,” Jiang Cheng informs him bluntly, but he sounds tired rather than annoyed. “Don’t you think they’re going to notice when you vanish?”

Actually, no, Wei Ying doesn’t expect that they will. They didn’t ask for his address or phone number or which station he worked at, after all.

“Why would they? Their son will wake up, he’ll tell them he’s never heard of me, and it’ll just be one of those strange things they laugh over in a few years.”

Wei Ying can practically hear Jiang Cheng shaking his head.

“Contrary to your popular belief, people don’t actually like it when you disappear from their lives, A-Xian.”

Wei Ying winces, but he’s too tired to dive into that rabbit hole. Instead, he asks, “Are you ever going to stop calling me that?”

It’s an old argument, and he doesn’t expect to gain ground on it, but he hopes it’ll distract Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying’s first stories were published under a penname, Wei Wuxian, because his real name meant “baby” and he didn’t think an actual author would be named “baby.” He couldn’t very well change it when he got a legitimate book deal, and when they were dating, Jiang Cheng had thought the diminutive was cute. Sadly, the nickname hadn’t ended when the relationship did. Now Jiang Cheng only uses Wei Ying when he’s irritated or worried or serious. So...a lot. But luckily, not right now.

“No, probably not.” He laughs, distracted as Wei Ying had hoped. “Are you sure you don’t want company? I don’t mind.”

Not distracted enough.

“Nah, I’m good. Get some sleep, okay?”

Wei Ying feels a little empty after Jiang Cheng hangs up, and he immediately regrets telling him not to come over. He’s not so exhausted, though, that he doesn’t recognize what a bad idea it would be to be around anyone, particularly his ex, in the mood he’s in—brittle and fragile, aching to not ache. That isn’t who they are anymore, not for years and years.

It’s funny, Wei Ying thinks, as he turns on a Billie Holiday record, how much he and Jiang Cheng have changed since they were six years old and meeting for the first time, and yet they’re back in the same place they started. A brother who is a constant companion. Love rooted deeper than romance. A friendship he wouldn’t trade for anything.

He puts Billie Holiday on the record player and sets about making food. The pad see ewe is three days old now, and a little sketchy, but he fries it into a noodle pancake with green onions and chili oil, and it seems edible. There’s nothing better than takeout and jazz on Christmas, he thinks, biting into the hot meat.

The way you hold your knife, the way you sip your tea, Billie sings, and Wei Ying smiles. He can almost see her voice rounding up his stress and leading it away, leaving him empty and calm.

He idly wonders what the Lans are doing tonight. Did they reheat their Christmas dinner? Are they watching a movie or listening to music, or are they also drained of adrenaline and ready to sleep on the floor? He wonders briefly what it would actually be like to belong so thoroughly to other people, not just a husband or wife, but to their family, to their friends, probably even their neighbors. They probably have summer cookouts and host block parties. There are probably screaming children running in circles, blowing bubbles and playing with scruffy dogs.

The way your smile just beams, the way you sing off key.

He had thought Lan Xichen was perfect before he knew him. Now he’s something else—less perfect, maybe, but somehow more desirable, because now he’s real and complex. He’s someone who goes to the library and art museum. He’s a doctor—a pediatrician—which figures. Or, Wei Ying frowns to himself, he used to be a doctor. Wei Ying can’t reconcile the idea of a man who rides the train with a violin nearly every day at 8 am and 4:30 pm with the idea of “doctor.” But then, what does he do? And why did he ditch his family after his sister died? Surely it wasn’t their fault.

The way you changed my life, no no, they can’t take that away from me.

“What difference does it make?” he asks Chenqing, and she meows at him, a long drawn-out mrowwww that sounds sympathetic, before butting his chin with her head. “You’re right, I’m never going to see them again, so there’s no point thinking about it, is there?”

He pets Chenqing’s back and sees a scrape on his hand. Such an innocuous injury, barely more than his usual clumsy scratches, but it reminds Wei Ying that he could have died. He regrets telling Jiang Cheng to stay home all over again.

No, what he really wants is to call Yanli, but it’s well after her bedtime, and he doesn’t want to wake anyone up. He leaves himself a sticky note so he’ll do it in the morning.

His shower is hot enough to scald, and he likes seeing his skin red and battered. Tomorrow won’t be Christmas anymore, he thinks, laying in bed and petting Chenqing, who still curls up by his head to sleep, and everything will go back to normal.

Normal.

Is that what he’s looking for? Normal? The word holds less comfort than it used to. It used to be a relief to have a routine he could count on. When did “normal” become the same day over and over? When did “normal” become a job he could do in his sleep? He’d taken it so he could write during the downtime, and he doesn’t even do that anymore. Wei Ying usually chooses not to be plagued by his failings, a good party trick when he can manage it, but tonight, on Christmas, he has to fight to find even the smallest semblance of restless, fitful sleep.

Merry Christmas, Wei Ying, he thinks before he falls asleep. And happy fucking holidays.

Chapter Text

Wei Ying doesn’t intend to go back to the hospital. He intends to sleep like the dead. But after tossing and turning and hearing the sound of the screeching train brakes over and over in his head, he is eventually completely awake an hour and a half early, betrayed by his internal alarm clock.

What will it hurt, he thinks, to see how Lan Xichen is doing? After all, no one called him after surgery, so it’s only reasonable to wonder if the man whose life he saved continues to be alive. It’s what anyone would do.

He realizes just how early it is when he gets to the hospital, and whatever visiting hours are probably don’t encompass 6 am. He hates 6 am anyway, and this is just one more reason to resent it.

“Mr. Wei?”

He turns to see Wen Ning jogging toward him, bundled in a coat that makes him look as wide as he is tall and wearing a truly hideous knitted hat the color of old toothpaste. Wei Ying can’t stop staring at it. Where did anyone find yarn that repulsive shade of mint?

“My sister made it,” Wen Ning says, noticing the laser focus of Wei Ying’s gaze as they walk into the quiet hospital together.

Wei Ying can’t help his grimace, and a broad smile surfaces on Wen Ning’s face. “Yeah, that’s the only reason I wear it. No one really wants to look like a blob of old toothpaste.”

“Oh my god, yes, that’s exactly what it looks like,” Wei Ying laughs, relieved at having someone to sympathize with the tribulation of having a sister you would do anything for.

In high school, Yanli had taken up sewing and she’d made him a bright purple bag with, of all things, a lotus embroidered on the front of it—to carry his music, she’d said. It hadn’t been quite big enough to fit his band folder, or even sheets of music, but he’d loved it anyway and carried everything else in it despite being called “Flower Boy” for a year and a half. It still hangs on the back of his door, retired from active duty, the pale blue lotus faded to white.

Wen Ning grins. “Are you here to see your fiancé?” he asks, and Wei Ying sighs loudly.

“Please stop calling him that. He’s not my fiancé. It’s a mistake. Your sister was wrong.”

Wen Ning’s forehead furrows. “That doesn’t sound like her. Didn’t you say you were going to marry him?”

“Yes, but that’s just something people say!”

“Is it?”

Wei Ying doesn’t know anymore. Maybe not. “Look, I was just talking to myself, and she overheard.”

Wen Ning nods like this is a profound statement. “You should tell yourself not to say things like that out loud where my sister can hear them.”

It’s really hard to argue with that, given the consequences.

“I’ll make a note of it,” Wei Ying agrees. “Is it too early to visit him? I just want to see how he is after surgery.”

“Wellll…” Wen Ning hesitates. “You’re not really family anymore…”

Wei Ying stops walking and stares at him, dumbstruck, and then realizes Wen Ning is laughing. “Wen Ning, you barely even know me, and you’re already making fun of me? This is an outrage!”

Wen Ning laughs harder, but he finally manages to wheeze, “He’s in the same room. Of course you can go see him.”

It’s funny that Wen Ning isn’t doing the question thing anymore, and Wei Ying wonders if it means they’re friends now. If they’re friends, he can ask a favor.

“Look, since we’re friends now, can you...maybe...not tell anyone about this? It’s kind of embarrassing. I’m trying to figure out a way out of it without hurting anyone’s feelings.”

Wen Ning bobs his head enthusiastically, and Wei Ying grins at him, slaps him on the back, and heads to room 101.

Which is, of course, full of Lans.

He should have known. They looked like the early rising sort.

“Wei Ying!” popo exclaims, the first to see him, and the rest turn, their faces lighting in identically pleased smiles, and Wei Ying does not want to consider how that makes him feel.

“Oh we’re so glad you’re here,” she says, hurrying to him, her footsteps lighter and daintier than they had been yesterday. “Dr. Nie said the surgery went perfectly, and our boy will be just fine.”

“They expect him to wake up from the coma any minute now, too. It doesn’t seem to be serious, just his body healing,” adds Dr. Lan, clapping Wei Ying on the shoulder.

“We wanted to tell you yesterday, but you left before anyone thought to get your phone number,” popo explains.

Popo hasn’t let go of his hand, and she pulls him further into the room. She has a surprisingly strong grip. Wei Ying doesn’t try to get away. He doesn’t even want to.

“We were unpardonably distracted,” Dr. Lan agrees.

“Too hungry to think,” interjects Jingyi.

“You’re always hungry. Does that mean you’re never thinking?” Sizhui asks innocently, and Jingyi punches him in the arm.

The ache Wei Ying does not want to think about intensifies. They hadn’t immediately forgotten about him. Why hadn’t they immediately forgotten about him?

“They’re going to get distracted again, so I’ll be the responsible one,” Mr. Lan interrupts.

Wei Ying may or may not have heard Dr. Lan snort, but when he looks, the man’s face is perfectly still.

“Anyway,” Mr. Lan continues, glaring at his brother. “We didn’t get to have Christmas dinner yesterday, and everyone was too tired to eat when we got home—yes, fine, everyone except Jingyi.”

Jingyi looks pleased with this unnecessary addendum, and Mr. Lan looks like he is planning to lock him in a cupboard at the first opportunity.

“Wei Ying, sweetheart, what we are trying to ask is, will you join us for a Boxing Day Christmas dinner tonight?” popo asks, looking up at him beseechingly.

The Lans all smile at him in unison. He is suddenly reminded of a nature show he once watched about chameleons about how their eyes move independently until they both lock onto their prey.

“Oh, no, I can’t...I have…” Wei Ying can not think of a single thing he has, or a solitary reason to say no, but he should. He should say no. Say no, Wei Ying.

“You have to! We can show you baby pictures of Uncle Xichen!” Jingyi grins wickedly. “He looked like a raisin. Jiujiu says it’s nature’s way of balancing the score sheets.”

Despite himself, Wei Ying laughs. Poor jiujiu, he thinks. Xichen’s brother must have been a pretty baby who turned into an ugly adult. He sounds funny, though.

“I know it sounds like a polite invitation, but it’s actually a mandatory summons,” Mr. Lan says solemnly, and Wei Yin looks at him, puzzled. “I’ll pick you up at your station when your shift is done—around 4 pm, I presume—take you to feed your cat, and then drive you to dinner.”

Fuck, they thought of everything.

“I know it’s the fashion dear, but you’re too thin. Xichen is a terrible cook, and you’ve clearly been suffering,” popo says, patting Wei Ying’s arm.

“It’s true, he never feeds me,” Wei Ying says without thinking, and once the words are out, they’re out. He’s agreed to go to their house for dinner, to keep lying to them about who he is, who their son is, and the worst part is, he’s starting to not feel bad about it.

“He burned a peanut butter and jelly sandwich once,” Sizhui murmurs, and Jingyi moans in desolate empathy.

Wei Ying feels honor-bound to support his unconscious pretend fiancé. “He has good taste in takeout, though,” and they all nod agreement, laughing at the joke, laughing at shared memories, making him a part of their family saga.

So this is what it’s like, Wei Ying thinks. He could get used to this. He’s afraid he already has. He doesn’t run away, but only on the barest technicality.

Jiang Cheng is waiting with hot chocolate when Wei Ying gets to his ticket booth, and Wei Ying’s face must say I need a hug, because Jiang Cheng doesn’t hesitate to fold Wei Ying against him, tucking his chin over his shoulder and squeezing until he decides Wei Ying has been sufficiently cheered. Jiang Cheng gives the best hugs.

When Jiang Cheng lets go, he frowns at Wei Ying, searching his face. “You are okay, right?”

Wei Ying’s laugh doesn’t sound entirely okay to his own ears, but it must be good enough, because Jiang Cheng relaxes.

“Don’t scare me like that again. You are absolutely not allowed to die without telling me first.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Wei Ying tells him, patting his cheek before taking a sip of his hot chocolate.

“You are,” Jiang Cheng retorts with a grin. “I’m going shopping today. Need anything? Socks? Underwear?”

“Fuck, A-Cheng, you are as bad as your sister! I don’t need to be taken care of! Get out of here!” Wei Ying yells, but he’s laughing, and so is Jiang Cheng as he disappears down the stairs.

Wei Ying spends the day in anxious anticipation, not sure if they really meant it. Why would they? What could they possibly see in him? He looks at himself. He’s wearing jeans, a grey henley, and a sweater under his CTA vest. It’s a nice sweater, his favorite kind of cream-cabled softness, but it’s not cashmere or merino. He pokes it. It might not be any kind of natural fiber. He has no idea. How is he even supposed to tell? He vaguely remembers learning that you could burn fibers to see if they’re natural, but it doesn’t seem like a great idea to start a fire in his booth. Or to burn his sweater.

Maybe they didn’t really understand when he said he worked at a train station. Maybe they didn’t hear which station he was at. Maybe this morning was just an sleep-deprived hallucination. Maybe…

But no. At 4 pm sharp, the moment the second hand ticks into place, Mr. Lan Qiren is standing in front of Wei Ying’s booth, an look of expectant impatience on his face as though Wei Ying is already late.

Wei Ying doubts the wisdom of letting Mr. Lan drive him to his apartment in Little Italy. Now they’re going to know where he lives, and he won’t have the option of being the strange and anonymous man who wandered through their lives one magical Christmas day. But once he climbs into the silver Cadillac, he has the feeling he’s done making decisions for the day. Wei Ying mentally shrugs. He’s always been good at adapting to change, and moreover, if they do turn out to be crazy serial killers and he has to move, he can always stay with Jiang Cheng.

Chenqing is ecstatic to get dinner an hour early, and she dances around his ankles in death-defying figure eights, nearly getting kicked across the room twice as he scrambles to feed her, check his messages and change his shirt. He settles on a black button-down and striped sweater that say “adult” without saying “please like me.” Finally, he calls Jiang Cheng to let him know where he’ll be so no one panics and calls the police.

A-Cheng, don’t freak out, I know it’s a bad idea, but I’m going out to the west suburbs to have dinner with the Lans, you know, the family of my future husband. Shit, I need to stop saying that. Anyway, they’re nice people and I’m pretty sure they’re not going to chop me up into pieces and throw me in the river, ha ha, but if you don’t hear from me in two days, check on my cat, okay?

Wei Ying is dreading this car ride. He steels himself for the barrage of questions he doesn’t want to answer and questions he can’t answer. Mr. Lan is too dignified to be nosy, but he looks like the kind of man who prefers a world in which he knows everything, and Wei Ying is the kind of man who resists being known.

But to his surprise, Mr Lan eyes him and pointedly turns up the volume on the car stereo, blasting...is that...Gilbert & Sullivan? Wei Ying laughs when he recognizes I'm very good at integral and differential calculus, I know the scientific names of beings animalculous. With a smirk at Mr. Lan, who is showing an unexpectedly whimsical side, Wei Ying sings along.

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

“You’re familiar with the Pirates of Penzance?” Mr. Lan asks, and Wei Ying shrugs.

“I went through a phase when I was obsessed with learning all the lyrics so…uh...so I could sing them loudly in geometry.” He grins. “My professor was a bit of a stick, you know?”

He can’t decide if Mr. Lan’s face twitches in a smile or in sympathy for the stick, but he doesn’t ask any more questions. Wei Ying stares out the window for a while, singing along softly and reading billboards, until he realizes that he has an opportunity here.

“Uh...Xichen doesn’t talk about his family much. What...what is everyone like?”

Mr. Lan shoots him a Perceptive Uncle look, and Wei Ying shoots him a Charming Young Man smile that he hopes will cancel each other out.

“You’ve met them. You’ll get to know them better soon enough,” he answers without going into detail, and Wei Ying understands that the door has been closed. But not quite firmly enough.

“Yes, but are you Cubs fans or White Sox fans?”

“What kind of idiotic question is that?” Mr. Lan snaps. “No self-respecting Lan would be a White Sox fan.”

Wei Ying laughs. “That’s a relief! Lyric Opera or Symphony Orchestra?”

Mr. Lan narrows his eyes. “Symphony Center is a National Historic Landmark. The Civic Opera Building is art deco.”

He somehow makes “art deco” sound like a swear word, and Wei Ying wishes he could tell someone, could laugh uproariously with someone at the idea that in Lan Qiren’s eyes, art deco is apparently an upstart architectural style. He wonders if Xichen would think that was funny. He can’t remember if he’s ever seen Xichen laugh, although what is there to laugh about on an L platform?

“Art Institute or Field Museum?” Wei Ying asks, and this time, he’s sure he sees a smile, an infinitesimally minute curve.

“The Adler Planetarium,” Mr. Lan says instead. “Always choose the stars if you can, Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying is taken aback. He keeps letting this man surprise him, and before he can recover or ask any more questions, Mr. Lan has turned up the volume again, this time for “Poor Wandering One.”

Take heart of grace, thy steps retrace, poor wandering one.

Well. Wei Ying is nonplussed. That’s a bit on the nose.

They turn through a gate into a quiet neighborhood, and it’s the first sign Wei Ying gets that he is in way, way over his head. It’s not a lift arm or even a metal gate, which are at least familiar. There are lots of gated communities in Miami. No, this is a stone arch with a guard booth that stands at the top of a boulevard lined with massive oaks. A uniformed man waves as they drive down the lane. The houses are the serious brick and columnar sort, with long driveways, professional landscaping, and the occasional peek of a backyard tennis court.

Wei Ying sinks deeper into the Cadillac’s plush seat and wonders how far away the nearest CTA station is.

“Going to meet your fate in a highly nervous state, eh?” Mr. Lan asks, and Wei Ying stares at him.

“Mr. Lan, are we only going to communicate in Pirates of Penzance lyrics? I can do that, I just need to know if I should slap my chest and sing tarantara or...am I going to glory and the grave? It’s a pretty significant distinction, don’t you think?”

Mr. Lan makes a noise Wei Ying can’t identify and pulls into a driveway, turns off the car, and leans forward, resting his head on the steering wheel.

Laughing. He’s laughing. This is the third person to laugh at him today, and Wei Ying is getting a complex.

“Son, call me Uncle Qiren. You know, I think you might actually fit in.”

Uncle Qiren gets out and heads toward the opening door, and Wei Ying sits, stuck to the seat, possibly stuck forever.

Son.

Two sets of hands slam on the window, ungluing Wei Ying from his frozen position, and he grins at Jingyi and Sizhui.

“Wei Ying, come on, you can’t sit in the car all day.”

“Technically, he could. It’s comfortable.”

“It’s freezing, Sizhui. He would freeze to death. Do you want our new uncle to freeze to death?”

“Well, no, but it’s not the worst way to die.”

“Um, can we not talk about my imminent death? Not until after dinner at least,” Wei Ying jokes weakly, letting them herd him toward the door and into the house.

It’s not the most majestic house on the block, but it’s doing a fairly good job of being imposing anyway. Wei Ying takes in the two-story marble entry, the sparkling chandelier, the curving fireplace, the glimpse of floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves in a room off to the side before he decides that he’s not taking anything else in. It can all stay where it is and he will just look at his shoes.

“Laolao made us wait for you for dinner, and we’re starving,” Jingyi complains, and Sizhui shoves him.

“Wei Ying is going to think you do nothing but eat,” he hisses, and Jingyi frowns.

“I don’t know why that matters, but just so we’re clear, I do more than eat. I also play hockey, the oboe, and occasionally, I absolutely slaughter Sizhui at ping-pong.”

“Yeah, your skill at flailing wildly is definitely something you should brag about,” Sizhui mutters. “If only you were as good at hockey as you occasionally are at ping-pong.”

“Ping-pong?” Wei Ying perks up. “Is there ping-pong?”

Both boys look at him with wide-eyed excitement and then forcibly drag him through the delicious-smelling kitchen—he waves at popo and Dr. Lan—down a staircase into the basement where there is, indeed, ping-pong.

A fierce battle ensues, and Wei Ying manages to beat both Jingyi and Sizhui, but it makes him acutely aware that he is thirty-three, not getting any younger, and Jingyi-levels of hungry when Dr. Lan calls them up for dinner.

They sit at a table with a bright red table cloth, covered in a variety of steaming white ceramic dishes in neat rows, and Wei Ying reminds himself not to cry. It’s not like he’s never eaten dinner with other people before. Growing up, yangmu liked at least one sit-down dinner with her household every week. But it has been a very long time since he ate dinner with people who were so excited to have him be a part of their family.

They pass him dish after dish and tell him about the food: wontons, stewed goat, eggplant in garlic sauce, mashed potatoes, crispy duck in something...he loses track, but everything smells fantastic, and he hasn’t eaten so well in years. Actual years.

“We had planned to invite the visiting family over as well, but laopo thought it might be overwhelming for you,” Dr. Lan tells him.

“Visiting family?” Wei Ying asks faintly.

“Oh yes, my...let me think...first cousins from Winnipeg came in earlier this week, but they had tickets for some show this evening and decided to eat out first. You’ll get to meet them later.”

He will?

“Don’t forget the Detroit Lans,” Uncle Qiren adds, and Dr. Lan snaps his fingers.

“Of course. Those are our...second cousins? But they are staying with the Hinsdale Lans tonight. You won’t get to meet them later if you’re lucky.”

“Laogong, don’t be rude,” popo admonishes, but there’s a glint in her eyes that looks a lot like laughter.

“And jiujiu isn’t here either,” Sizhui points out.

“Poor ZhanZhan,” popo sniffs sadly. “He was looking forward to meeting you, Wei Ying, but he’s doing house calls. He loves family dinners.”

Right, the tragically ugly ZhanZhan, the possibly fictional brother. A sound suspiciously like a snort comes from the other side of the table, but Wei Ying doesn’t turn fast enough to see if it’s Uncle Qiren or Jingyi.

“House calls?” Wei Ying asks.

“Oh yes,” Dr. Lan says, and pride suffuses his face with glowing warmth, as tangible as the fireplace cracking in the next room. “Lans have done housecalls for three generations. It’s one of the key factors that makes Lan Holistic Medicine different from any other doctor’s office.”

Wei Ying has to admit, it does sound pretty cool. He wonders why Xichen didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps. Then he remembers what Uncle Qiren had said about billing rates and he has a moment of horrified realization. Is...Lan Xichen...shallow?

“He said he‘d come by after he was done, so I got his favorite,” popo tells Wei Ying, laying her small hand on his arm. “He loves crispy-skin duck.”

“Do you make duck for Christmas every year?” Wei Ying asks.

She laughs like a jade bell, clear and bright, and it tugs him a little further into danger.

“No, dear. I buy it every year. Sometimes it’s better to trust a professional.”

She winks at him, and he grins, charmed by her, charmed by dinner, charmed by this whole, improbable family. A loud voice that sounds a lot like Jiang Cheng tells him they don’t belong to him and it isn’t fair to lie to them, but Wei Ying can’t bear the thought of disappointing them, especially not on Christmas. He decides it won’t hurt anything to pretend a little longer.

“Do you work for Lan Holistic Medicine too?” he asks popo, and she shakes her head.

“Oh no, I retired years ago,” she tells him, and he mentally updates her name in his internal rolodex to Dr. Yang.

“Not from the practice,” Uncle Qiren interjects. “Rizhao was a partner at Coastal Venture.” He glances meaningfully around the room.

“Wei Ying does not want to hear about my boring old job,” popo admonishes, and there’s a serious note in her voice, so Wei Ying doesn’t ask any more questions. He updates the rolodex again to Breadwinner Yang.

Wei Ying helps clear the table, but popo waves away his offer to do the dishes. Sandra, she says, will be by tomorrow, and she knows where everything goes.

They have a Sandra. Who knows where everything goes.

“Presents? Presents?” Jingyi interrupts the mental stabbing Wei Ying is giving himself.

“Yes, yes, time for presents,” Dr. Lan says from another room, a room with vaulted ceilings and a fourteen-foot Christmas tree.

And then there’s music all around him, Christmas music played by a brilliant orchestra—“Sleigh Ride,” one of his favorites—and people are pulling Wei Ying into the room, handing him things. Abruptly, the intrinsic meaning of boxes wrapped in colorful paper crashes into Wei Ying like a Morrison-Knudsen 3200-series L train car.

“No! Oh, no, you can’t give me presents! I don’t have presents for you.” Wei Ying hunts frantically through his clothes as though maybe his past self hid five perfectly-selected gifts in a pocket dimension.

Uncle Qiren clears his throat. “Of course we can. Wei Ying, you have already given us a priceless gift. Now, sit down. Open your gifts.”

There’s something about the way Uncle Qiren says things that Wei Ying both obeys and hates to obey. He does sit, but on the couch between Jingyi and Sizhui instead of in the chair Lan Qiren points to. And he does open his gifts but...well, he can’t openly rebel over presents, but he resents it. Silently, though, so no one feels bad.

The first box has a deep red scarf in it, his favorite color, and it’s as soft as a baby bunny. He presses his hand into it and watches it spring back slowly.

“The L stations get cold, don’t they? Do you like the color?” Dr. Lan asks, and he looks relieved when Wei Ying nods, bereft of words.

Gonggong, Wei Ying decides, obstinately reprimanding himself. He is going to call this man who guessed his favorite color gonggong because he can.

“I like my sons to be warm. No need to compromise the immune system with a cold core,” gonggong adds, and Wei Ying does not cry, but it is a very near thing.

The second box is a candle, a really big candle, the length of Wei Ying’s forearm, in a glass cylinder. He sniffs it cautiously—scents are so personal, and he can be a little picky—but it’s wonderful, sandalwood and jasmine, with the hint of something dark and smoky underneath.

“The jasmine is Xichen’s favorite,” Uncle Qiren says, and Wei Ying has to nod like he knew that already. He has to admit, the smell does fit what he knows of the man—rich and complicated.

Finally, he opens the last box, which holds a bag shaped like a small, old-fashioned doctor’s bag, but it clinks like it’s full of glasses. It is full of glasses, he discovers, dark green glass jars. He pulls one out and reads the carefully printed label, “Green Zebra?”

The second jar he looks at says “King of the North.” He holds it up to the light and thinks there might be dirt in it?

He doesn’t understand and looks at popo, whose eyes are glistening, and warning bells, huge St. Paul’s Cathedral bells, start ringing in his head.

“We didn’t get to have an engagement party for you, but it’s tradition for Lans to give the new couple a garden to grow,” gonggong explains. “They’re seeds. They all come from family gardens.”

“Green Zebras are tomatoes,” Jingyi adds, and everyone looks at him in surprise. “What, I pay attention sometimes.”

“There are eight jars for luck, of course,” popo says. “Only peppers, tomatoes, and cucumbers. They’re the easiest. I wasn’t sure if you liked plants, but you can always have more varieties if you do. We have plenty. It’s...it’s been so long since....”

She breaks off, biting her lip, and Wei Ying looks away quickly, but he accidentally looks at gonggong, which is no better, and then Uncle Qiren, whose face looks almost soft. Tears prick at his eyes. No. No. No.

“You’ll get to see laolao’s garden this summer. It’s amazing. She wins awards,” Sizhui whispers to him, and they’re the last words Wei Ying can process before he combusts.

When he was seventeen, Wei Ying had jumped off the roof of a house because Jiang Cheng said “what kind of idiot would jump off a roof?” He’d landed awkwardly, and when he’d tried to laugh off the cascading pain and stand, a great, rushing wave had crashed over him, dissolving him from the feet up. He’d had just enough time to think that’s weird before he’d fainted.

This hurts worse. A lot worse. This is the worst thing he’s ever done, and a descending mist is already clouding his eyes.

He shoots to his feet, clutching the precious bag to his chest. “Ah, boy, it’s hot in here. Can I...uh…”

Before they can say another kind, generous, heartrending word, he’s escaping, back the way he came, and out the front door before he remembers that someone drove him here in a car and he can’t run away down the street. Also, he isn’t wearing shoes.

Fuck.

He sits on the cold porch, then stands and paces, then sits again, burying his face in the open top of the bag.

“Not a plant guy?”

Uncle Qiren hands Wei Ying a glass of something that looks like alcohol and smells like salvation. Wei Ying downs it in a single gulp. The biting tang of whiskey—good whiskey—crawls over his skin, and he grimaces, eyes scrunching into the welcome pain.

Without judgement, or at least, without verbal judgement, Uncle Qiren hands him a second glass. This one Wei Ying sips more slowly.

“Xichen used to love helping Rizhao in the garden. I used to watch him trail after her, collecting tomatoes in baskets, checking the chilis, pulling weeds, and smiling the whole time. He was the most cheerful kid. Does he still keep plants?”

“I don’t know,” Wei Ying mumbles, still thinking about the jars, the matching jars with their hand-written labels holding tiny sparks of life he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t....

“You don’t?”

Wei Ying’s self-preservation instinct kicks him in the shins, and he yelps, “I mean, I don’t know if he likes gardening. We haven’t...uh...known each other very long.”

Uncle Qiren sits next to Wei Ying and grunts. “Not like Xichen to make quick decisions. That other guy...the one before you...he was around for years.”

This is the first Wei Ying has even heard of another guy before him, and he wonders if the other guy before him is actually the current guy right now that doesn’t know where his boyfriend has disappeared to and is worried sick. For the first time, it occurs to him that Jiang Cheng might have been right about that too, and it’s unsettling.

“Ah, sorry, I don’t know…” Wei Ying tries to start, but Uncle Qiren shakes his head.

“It’s not like Xichen to make good decisions, either. You’d think he would, for the amount of time it takes him to make them, but he doesn’t often think about the ramifications of what he’s doing. He just dithers and then leaps.”

Uncle Qiren’s pep talk is not exactly doing wonders for Wei Ying’s flight reflex or his self-esteem. The man stands, though, as though he’s made a profound and meaningful point, and Wei Ying opens his mouth to ask if Uncle Qiren can drive him back to the city or the nearest train station.

“Jingyi was right. You’re normal, and maybe the best decision Xichen has ever made. Don’t let Youheng and Rizhao terrify you. It’s just happiness. They haven’t had a lot of it lately.”

The man stands and picks up the empty glass.

“Come back inside before you die of hypothermia. There’s more whiskey where that came from,” he says, nodding at the glass Wei Ying is still clutching.

Wei Ying sits for another minute, thinking, debating, pondering, before he decides.

They gave him a garden. They want him to be part of their family. Maybe...maybe when they find out, they’ll like him enough that it won’t matter, and he’ll get to keep them anyway.

Maybe.

He goes back inside, accepts a whiskey refill, and he tells himself it’s okay to be part of a family—this family—today.

They show him pictures, and Xichen was a funny-looking baby, with huge cheeks and a too-big nose. And the missing jiujiu was a cute baby, with a round apple face and a serious mouth.

They ask him about his family, and he doesn’t think it matters if he tells them that his parents, Chinese immigrants with no close family in the United States, died in a car accident when he was six. He was raised by the only person who would take him in, his father’s distant, distant cousin in Miami.

“I was born here, so they couldn’t exactly throw me out of the country, but immigration didn’t care where I ended up as long as it wasn’t with them,” Wei Ying jokes, and popo and gonggong exchange a startled look.

“No, it’s fine. The Jiangs are great, and they have kids my age. I was lucky.”

Wei Ying realizes it must be hard for these people to understand that he really does mean it. He was only in one foster home for a few months before the Jiangs were located, but it was enough to make an impression on six-year-old Wei Ying. He knows how fortunate he was, even if it’s not the same idea of fortunate the Lans have.

“Man, that’s so cool. I wish we had real beaches here,” Jingyi says, and it amuses Wei Ying that Access to Beaches was the part of the story he caught.

Swimming in the ocean is one of the things he misses most about Florida, floating in the salt, feeling so small in the midst of all that water. As soon as Yanli could drive, the three of them spent almost all their spare time at the beach. But he likes the lake too. There are a lot fewer things to potentially kill him in the lake, and he appreciates its magnanimity.

“Yeah, but you guys skate, right? I love ice skating. Do you play hockey at school or in a league or what?”

Both boys light up. Hockey, it seems, is a Most Favored Subject, and they tell him all about their season, their record, their positions, even their gear. Wei Ying has no idea what any of it means—he’s only been ice skating once or twice—but they’re so excited to tell him, he can’t help but be interested, especially when Uncle Lan silently gives him a glass of wine and a sympathetic eyebrow raise.

Wei Ying discovers that the Lans have very good taste in alcohol and absolutely zero ability to consume it, which is basically a fourth Christmas present for him. Plus, they’re fun when they’re tipsy, and they let him finish all the drinks.

After one glass of wine, popo is flushed and giggling, and gonggong lets himself be talked into a cutthroat game of ping-pong against Jingyi, who is an extremely ungracious winner. But then Jingyi loses to Sizhui and promptly refuses to give up his paddle until Sizhui tackles him and throws it to Wei Ying with an unrepentant look of triumph.

“Your turn!”

It’s the best Christmas Wei Ying can remember.

Unlike his brother, Uncle Qiren becomes more stately when he’s drunk, and by the time Wei Ying realizes he should go home, Uncle Qiren is approaching lethal levels of dignity. Gonggong refuses to give him back his keys.

“Didi, you take the guest room. Wei Ying, I’m sorry, is the couch okay? It’s just...the boys have the other rooms.”

The couch is fine, and Wei Ying falls onto it laughing as Uncle Qiren is dragged away, incensed at being called didi. Or at least, what passes for incensed from a pompous sixty-five-year-old man dressed like an accountant on Christmas.

It takes a while, but the house quiets, and all that’s left is the Christmas music gonggong forgot to turn off. Frank Sinatra croons, Have yourself a merry little Christmas, and Wei Ying stares into the twinkling lights of the tree, certain this has all been a fever dream. He takes out the red scarf and wraps it around his neck, petting the soft cashmere. It feels real. The candle smells real. If it is a dream, his subconscious has gone above and beyond with the details. He sinks back into the safe darkness of sleep.

From now on our troubles will be miles away

On the far side of his sleepy mind, he hears the click of a key in a lock, the sound of a door opening, and a soft exhale.

Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us, once more.

“Jiujiu!”

“You’re still awake?”

“Uh...I just came down...for...okay, I came down to grab a cookie. Don’t tell anyone?”

“Don’t tell Jingyi, you mean?”

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

Ah, the missing brother does exist after all, Wei Ying thinks, listening to the quiet laughter. His voice sounds nice—deep and resonant, almost comforting. It must make up for the tragic face, Wei Ying thinks, and has to stifle a laugh.

“Whose coat is this?”

Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow.

“Wei Ying’s! Jiujiu, you haven’t met Wei Ying yet!”

“Who?”

“Oh boy, you missed a lot.”

The voices disappear, and the rest of Wei Ying’s will to stay awake goes with them.

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

Chapter Text

Jiang Cheng considers some of his regrets. He regrets the time he forgot about a banana under his bed for two months. He regrets the time he yelled “FUCK YOU” at the top of his voice at Wei Ying in front of the principal and got three weeks of detention. He regrets the time he ate spoiled buffalo dip and threw up in his sister’s car (and on his sister).

But in this very moment, he regrets nothing so much as letting himself be talked into meeting his coworkers—coworkers—at a club. And then getting stood up by three out of four of them because actually, middle-aged middle-school teachers aren’t really the clubbing sort. He should have known better, but he didn’t get to go home for Christmas, Wei Ying was off doing...something...and he didn’t want to sit around and stare miserably at the ceiling.

Jiang Cheng decides that he is too old for this club or, honestly, any club. It’s noisy, the drinks are ridiculously expensive, he had to wear this stupid tight shirt to even get in, and he profoundly wishes he’d brought a book.

Fuck it. Yao is on his own. He doesn’t even like that guy.

Jiang Cheng winds his way through the crowd on the second floor, hoping to find the stairs somewhere. It shouldn’t be that hard to find stairs.

It is.

He keeps getting turned by the crowd and finding himself at the same balcony railing overlooking the dance floor. He wonders what the odds of surviving jumping off the balcony would be, when he spots a chair, a magical chair someone has abandoned in the corner, and it beckons to him like the lighthouse in a rocky harbor. Before anyone can steal his chair, he barrels through a group of mini-skirted women to claim it.

He sighs gratefully, sinking down onto the hard lucite. Even lucite is better than nothing. Fuck, when did he get so boring? Wei Ying would laugh at him and tell him to go ice his back, drink his Sanka, and stop whining.

“This is bullshit,” he says out loud.

“You should have brought a book,” a voice says.

Oh.

There’s a woman sitting next to him.

Jiang Cheng hadn’t even noticed the other chair.

But it’s definitely a woman, with waist-length black hair and the most perfect red mouth he’s ever seen.

She’s reading Persuasion. In a club. On a Saturday night.

“Can I borrow yours?” he asks with an inviting grin. He has been told his smile is irresistible, but she seems perfectly capable of resisting. She doesn’t even look at him.

“No.”

“Ah, you pierce my soul,” he says, and the woman’s chin snaps up.

Thank you jiejie, Jiang Cheng thinks. His sister had forced him to read any author he made fun of. And by “forced,” he means she would hand him a book and look beseechingly at him until he agreed.

“Are you good company?” the woman asks, and he’s stumped for a second before he remembers.

“Oh, no, I’m the best. Very clever. Well-informed. Sometimes I’m even conversational.”

Jiang Cheng really hopes she doesn’t quote any more Jane Austen at him. He’s really only good for one or two more lines, and they’re from Pride and Prejudice. She closes her book and stands.

“You can buy me a drink,” she informs him, and walks away.

He jogs to catch up, slamming into people without even apologizing. She’s wearing a backless shirt, and he keeps his eyes glued to the pale triangle of skin.

To his surprise, she leaves the club, cocooning herself in a long wool shawl he hadn’t even noticed she was carrying. She tips her head like she’s shaking water out of her ears, and turns to see if he’s still following.

“So...not a drink?” Jiang Cheng asks, a little confused.

“Not there,” she snorts. “The drinks are overpriced and probably filthy. How often do you think they clean? I could feel my feet sticking to the floor.”

He trails after her for a block and down a flight of stairs to a red door with a sign that says The Red Head. Inside is a cozy, dark piano bar, and Jiang Cheng is immediately enchanted. How has he lived in this city for almost a decade and never even heard of this place?

“What can I get you?” he asks, and she raises her eyebrows.

“Guess right and I’ll let you buy me two drinks.”

Jiang Cheng goes to the bar and stares at the wall of alcohol before he cheats.

He finds her sitting in a red-leather booth listening to “I Surrender, Dear,” and he hands her a Manhattan.

She blinks in surprise. “How did you…”

Jiang Cheng grins, flush with victory. “Yuanfen.”

She laughs, and it seems accidental because she looks away, sharpening her expression back into solemnity.

“No such thing,” she says. “And I don’t like liars.”

“Alright,” he admits without offense. “I asked the bartender. But only because I didn’t want to risk getting you something you wouldn’t like.”

She seems to consider his logic before smiling at him in earnest, her lips parting and the corners of her eyes crinkling, and just like that, Jiang Cheng falls.

At least he knows this about himself, he thinks. He always falls in love like he’s tripped on a crack in the sidewalk he didn’t see, although it’s scant comfort when the room fades and all that’s left are her red lips, dark brown eyes, and the graceful curve of her neck that disappears tantalizingly into her wrap.

“I don’t even know your name,” he says.

“No,” she agrees. “You don’t. I don’t know yours either.”

“Ji…” he starts to say, but she puts a hand over his mouth, and he shuts up.

She smells like ginger, and he wants to kiss her hand. Pull yourself together, he scolds himself. The woman hasn’t even finished her first drink. He hasn’t even touched his. So he just nods, and she folds her hands back in her lap.

They listen to the music for a while, clap after a rousing version of “Ornithology.” It almost feels like being at home for the holidays after all, listening to music with his dad, the only time they ever really connected. And even then...there was always Wei Ying.

It wasn’t Wei Ying’s fault. He just understood jazz in a way Jiang Cheng never did, and it was the only thing that ever mattered to his dad. Jiang Cheng loved it, listened to it, even played it. But it never flowed through him the way it did with Wei Ying. Wei Ying had tried to explain it once, something about releasing his hold on reality and surrendering to the notes, and Jiang Cheng had nodded like it made sense.

But then Wei Ying had more or less given it up, throwing himself into writing, and it had given Jiang Cheng a chance to be the one his dad took to nightclubs, to see friends’ trios and quartets. Even at the time, he’d felt a little guilty, but Wei Ying didn’t seem to miss it at all. Now, he feels a lot guilty, understanding that Wei Ying had given it up for him. He shakes his head. Unnecessary. Always unnecessary.

The woman rests her hand on his arm. Nothing else, just rests it, but it focuses all his attention on the few inches of contact, every nerve waiting. He wonders if it feels the same way to her.

“You can call me Shenmi,” she says.

Ah. Codenames. Well, it’s a step forward at least. “Alright. You can call me Shizai.”

She purses her lips and thinks about it. “You better be,” she finally decides.

Despite her secrecy about her name, she’s open about everything else. Or at least, Jiang Cheng assumes she is. He supposes she might be lying about being a paramedic, about having a huge extended family but a small immediate family, about being a tea snob, but he doesn’t think so. He can’t stop watching her face while she’s talking, the dancing eye shifts when she’s thinking, the way her lips form around words. She doesn’t smile easily, but it makes every quick curve of her mouth seem like a precious gift.

“Do you live nearby?” he asks, and Shenmi shakes her head.

“North. In Andersonville with my brother. You?”

Jiang Cheng grins. “South. With no one. Not even a cat.”

She looks at him, blinking the longest eyelashes he’s ever seen.

“I don’t think I want the second drink,” she says evenly. “Not here.”

He doesn’t understand. It had seemed like they were having a good time, and he likes this bar. Oh, but she said “not here.” So maybe…

“Somewhere else?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow optimistically.

“Yes. Your place.”

Jiang Cheng’s brain short circuits with a puff of smoke and a whine, processing the words at the speed of an abacus.

He would like to pretend that this happens to him all the time, that gorgeous people ask to go back to his apartment all the time. But it has been a slow year. A very slow year. He honestly can’t remember what to do next. He frantically tries to remember the last time he vacuumed.

“Oh. Okay.”

She’s fighting to hide a grin, and it occurs to him that he could stand up and escort her to the door.

He tries it.

It’s a success.

It gets a little easier after that. They find a taxi. They get in the taxi. They buckle their seatbelts. One step at a time.

Normally, Jiang Cheng prefers to use public transportation whenever possible, but in this case, speed seems like the better part of valor or whatever. He’s terrible at idioms at the best of times.

In the car, he ventures to brush his fingers over hers, and she turns her hand, palm up, letting him trace a line up the faintly bluish veins he can just barely see under her skin. He is not going to kiss her in the back of a yellow cab. He is not.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to. She leans toward him and kisses the skin behind his ear, a brush of lips more erotic than he expected. He sucks in a breath, and she shifts, kissing his neck at the junction of his collarbone and sternum.

“Shenmi, if you do that, I can’t promise I won’t ravish you in the back of a cab,” he murmurs teasingly.

“Shizai,” she retorts with a smirk, “The only reason I’m not demanding it is that I think we’re here.”

In fact, the taxi seems to have been stopped for a few minutes, the cabbie grinning at them in the rearview mirror. Jiang Cheng hurriedly pays him and steps out into the snow, offering his hand to Shenmi.

She accepts. She’s still coming with him. It’s a Christmas...no, wait...a Boxing Day miracle.

Thankfully, Jiang Cheng lives lightly, unlike Wei Ying, so his apartment always looks neat, even if he hasn’t cleaned in a while—which he hasn’t.

Again, once they’re inside, once she’s looking around, he’s not sure what to do next. He knows what he’d normally do with a casual hookup, but this doesn’t feel casual. It doesn’t feel like something he wants to risk ruining with haste.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, and she shakes her head, flipping through his shelves of LPs and books.

He reaches past her, resting one hand lightly on that perfect strip of skin on her back, and pulls an album off the shelf.

She frowns as the muted trumpet starts playing.

“I don’t know this song,” she says, and moves as if to look at the cover, but he pulls it away with a teasing grin.

“It’s Louis Armstrong. Will you dance with me?”

Shenmi listens to the music for a few more seconds before she nods.

Jiang Cheng takes her hand and wraps an arm around her waist. She is so many contradictions, secretive and open, standoffish and yielding. Even physically, she’s small and slim, barely reaching his shoulder, but he can feel the hard muscles under her clothes. He thinks he could spend a lifetime happily not knowing everything about her.

When the lyrics start, she laughs, a sparkling sound that tightens his hand around her.

When we are dancing and you're dangerously near me, I get ideas, I get ideas.

“You are very smooth, Shizai,” she tells him, and Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

“I’m really not. As evidenced by the fact that I just said that out loud, didn’t I,” he says ruefully.

And when you touch me and there's fire in every finger, I get ideas, yes, I get ideas.

“I’m not dissuaded yet,” she assures him, and reaches up on her toes to kiss him.

It’s only a light press of lips against his, but it shakes him to his core—the warmth of her mouth, the way her nose touches his cheek, the space she takes up in his arms. And then it’s more than a light press, her arms winding around his neck, her tongue flicking against his, and he’s so gone, so lost in the sound of blood pounding in his ears that he doesn’t even hear the song end.

And after we have kissed goodnight and still you linger babe, I kinda think you get ideas too.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. Pulling off her shirt and stopping, stunned by the curves of her body and the sudden comprehension of his unbelievable fortune. The confidence when she pushes him back onto the bed and straddles his hips. The curious way she touches him, explores the ridges of his ribs, kisses a path down his chest, tasting everything, missing nothing. And then the blinding ecstasy of joining, and forgetting everything else but the rhythm of being together.

The sky is already starting to lighten by the time they’re both exhausted, although to be fair, Jiang Cheng is perfectly willing to push his limits if necessary. Shenmi curls up against Jiang Cheng’s chest, and he strokes the long curtain of her hair over her naked back.

“I never do this,” she informs him, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Never do what? Lay around in the nude on a Sunday morning? You should really try it.”

“Never go home with strange men,” she says with a little laugh.

Jiang Cheng protests. “I’m not strange. I’m a perfectly ordinary teacher.”

She whacks his stomach. “You know what I mean. I’m just saying...this was fun. More fun than the night started.”

“Oh, well, thanks for that,” he grumbles. “I slightly outrank reading in the corner of the noisiest spot in Chicago.” But he kisses her forehead and, when she turns her face up to his, kisses the inviting tilt of her lips.

“Only slightly,” she agrees with a grin that wrinkles her nose and etches beautiful lines into the porcelain around her eyes.

Later, for lack of any other scapegoat, Jiang Cheng blames the purplish shade of the sky for the words that come out of his mouth, because they’re obviously the most idiotic words he could have ever said to a girl who hasn’t even told him her name.

“I think I’m going to fall in love with you.”

She freezes, because of course she does, and Jiang Cheng curses himself in two languages for being such a fool.

“Sorry, fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. I mean...not out loud,” he stammers. Oh good, nothing like making it worse.

“Shizai, you’re sweet, and this was fantastic, but I’m not looking for anything serious,” she says, and his heart crashes into pieces somewhere on the floor, scattering like shards of a broken glass.

“Right, of course,” he says, unable to think of anything else, and it’s not a surprise when she pulls away and starts to look for her clothes.

“I have to work later today, or I’d stay longer,” Shenmi says, pulling on her shirt.

Jiang Cheng assumes it’s a lie, but it’s nice of her to say. He looks at the goosebumps already roughening her arm, and frowns. “Hey, let me give you something warmer. I can’t let you leave in club clothes.”

He digs around and finds a clean University of Miami sweatshirt and hands it to her. She hesitates for a second but eventually takes it, comfort winning out over pride. She looks adorable in it, and he resists the urge to touch her, because he’s very afraid that if he starts, he won’t want to stop.

Jiang Cheng calls a taxi for her and they stare at each other while they wait for it to find the apartment. He has to say something. He has to say something that will keep her from just disappearing from his life like...like people do.

“Look...I know I jumped the gun, so I’m sure you won’t believe me, but I can do casual. And I would like to see you again,” Jiang Cheng says, hoping, hoping, hoping. “Is there any chance you’ll tell me your actual name? Or phone number?”

Instead of answering, she steps closer and touches his cheek. “Kiss me and I’ll think about it.”

He wants the kiss to last and last, but of course, it can’t. She doesn’t want it to. When the taxi’s horn honks outside, she moves away immediately.

“If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” she tells him before she walks out of the door, and he just can’t let it go at that.

“Jiang Cheng. My name is Jiang Cheng,” he calls after her before the door closes, and he hears her footsteps pause before they go down the stairs.

Jiang Cheng sags onto the arm of the couch and looks around, hoping she left her purse or a glass slipper or some other way of finding her, but of course, there’s nothing. Well, not nothing. He knows she lives in Andersonville. He knows she’s a paramedic. He knows she likes piano bars. And she knows where he lives. Maybe…

No, he dismisses that brief delusion. She’s never going to chase him. That isn’t how these things work.

Before Jiang Cheng goes back to bed, he checks his messages. Only one message, and it’s from his sister.

A-Cheng, we made mama’s favorite soup today and I thought of you and Wei Ying. I miss you both so much. Call me tomorrow. A-Ling has some very pressing questions about dinosaur farts, and neither Zixuan nor I is equipped to answer them. Love you!

Jiang Cheng can’t help laughing as he staggers back to his room. He isn’t too worried that he hasn’t heard from Wei Ying. He used to go crazy every time Wei Ying would do something insane like sneak into a harbor yacht party or disappear for three days to go camping or move to Chicago overnight or get engaged to an abusive alcoholic, or whatever. They would fight about it all the time, but it always somehow worked out, and Jiang Cheng is fairly sure it will this time, too.

All the same, he thinks as he collapses into bed, suddenly drained, if he doesn’t hear from him by 9 am, then he’ll worry.

Chapter Text

There’s nothing quite like the panic of waking up in an unfamiliar place with teeth that feel covered in squirrel fur, a tiny bit of a hangover, and a seventeen-year-old staring at you.

Wei Ying yelps and falls off the couch, and the little monster laughs.

“You snore,” Jingyi informs him.

“Yeah, well at least I’m not an asshole,” Wei Ying retorts, bouncing to his feet.

“You know my nephew well enough to call him names?”

Shit, fuck, shit, dammit, Wei Ying curses internally—he hopes—tripping backward and sitting down hard on the coffee table. Good quality, he thinks. Very sturdy.

A tall man with the nice voice Wei Ying half remembers raises an eyebrow. The mysterious jiujiu is backlit in the doorway holding a mug, and Wei Ying instinctively pines for a hot drink.

“Technically, I didn’t call him an asshole, although I would be well within my rights,” Wei Ying glares at Jingyi, “since he is.”

Jingyi is laughing so hard he can’t breathe, and he wheezes his way into a chair.

“And he’s not much of a ping-pong player, either.” Wei Ying has always believed in swift, vicious retribution, and he smirks when Jingyi lets out an outraged snort.

The man shifts, the light coalescing into his features. He doesn’t smile, but something about his face makes Wei Ying feel like he’s smiling, and with that thought, Wei Ying finally processes his face. He doesn’t have words for how cruelly he’s been duped.

“You’re the ugly brother?” he says out loud because he is an idiot with no internal monologue in the morning.

Now both of the man’s eyebrows are raised. “Am I?”

Wei Ying stares at him, completely at a loss for words, not a situation he finds himself in very often, so he decides to feint and parry. He smiles politely.

“I’m Wei Ying. You must be Lan Zhan?”

Smoothly deflected, he congratulates himself.

“Ah. The...fiancé.”

He says it in a way that sounds both skeptical and patronizing, and Wei Ying bristles, stabbing wildly in Lan Zhan’s direction.

“Yes, the fiancé. That’s why I spent Christmas with your wonderful family. Popo missed you terribly, but we saved you some crispy duck.”

The man—Lan Zhan—winces, and Wei Ying feels bad. Too much retaliation. He regroups and changes direction.

“They said you were doing house calls? I didn’t know doctors did house calls.”

“They don’t. We do.”

Okay, so he is either a man of very, very few words, or he really, really hates Wei Ying. Wei Ying is certain he is charming and likable, so it must be the former. He grins sunnily at Lan Zhan and is offended when the man takes the slightest step backward.

“Ah. Wei Ying.” Uncle Qiren appeared in the door behind Lan Zhan, patting his nephew on the back. “You’re awake. Did you two meet already? Zhan-er, this is Wei Ying, Xichen’s fiancé. Wei Ying, this is Xichen’s brother, Lan Zhan, Dr. Lan Wangji. If you’re ready, I’ll take you back to the city now.”

How odd to both be identified by their relationships to Xichen, Wei Ying thinks. He can’t decide if that annoys him or not, but Lan Zhan’s eyes narrow slightly, and Wei Ying is certain it annoys him.

“Are you sure?” he asks Wei Ying as he trails along after Uncle Qiren.

Wei Ying tilts his head. He notices that Lan Zhan is only an inch or so taller than him. It’s a good height. He’s not sure for what, but something. “Am I sure of what?”

Lan Zhan seems to be considering his answer. “Are you sure you’re Xichen’s fiancé? You don’t seem like his type.”

Wei Ying is more than a little insulted. No one else has questioned his looks, even if Wei Ying can’t help but agree that, as his best friend so eloquently put it, Xichen is way out of his league in every other respect.

“Oh? You don’t think so? Whose type am I, then?”

Instead of answering, Lan Zhan exhales irritably and turns away. The edges of his ears and the back of his neck look pink, and Wei Ying is gratified. Good. He should be embarrassed. He may not be the ugly Lan, but he certainly is the rude one.

“He just tends to like pretty boys.”

From the other side of the room, Wei Ying hears a choking sound that he assumes is Jingyi having a seizure. He ignores him.

“I’ve never heard him complain,” Wei Ying says sweetly, gathering his new bag of seeds and his gigantic candle. “Jingyi, your uncle is such a nice man. I’m sorry we didn’t get acquainted earlier.”

“It’s not...you just…” Lan Zhan is stammering now, and Wei Ying gets the feeling he doesn’t stammer often. “You seem normal.”

“That’s what I said!” Jingyi yells from his chair, apparently recovered.

“Thank you, that makes everything so much better,” Wei Ying says, brandishing the candle like a club before the door shuts behind him. “I’m going to go back to my normal life now and reflect on the tragedy of not being pretty.”

He loves getting the last word.

“Why is he Dr. Lan Wangji?” Wei Ying asks when he is safely in the Cadillac and not anywhere The Mean Lan can hear him. He is only fuming a little bit.

Uncle Qiren raises an eyebrow, a very annoying family trait, Wei Ying thinks. “I would have thought Xichen would have explained this.”

“I know he’s Lan Huan, but he only ever goes by Xichen,” Wei Ying shrugs, silently thanking his nosiness. “I never asked.”

“It is a family tradition. When a Lan graduates from college, they are given a professional name. We value our privacy,” Uncle Qiren explains archly.

It sort of makes sense, and it’s also sort of weird.

“So you all call Xichen by his ‘professional’ name and Lan Zhan by his...amateur name?” he asks.

Uncle Qiren laughs, not really a natural sound. “Something like that,” he says, which isn’t exactly an answer, but it's apparently the best Wei Ying is going to get.

Wei Ying has Uncle Qiren drop him off at the station and he works his shift in yesterday’s clothes that still smell of dinner and fireplace and jasmine, but he feels bad for poor Chenqing, who probably really is starving by now. On his break, he calls Jiang Cheng.

“Hey, good news, I’m alive.”

“Hooray.” Jiang Cheng sounds groggy, which is unexpected for him at 10 am.

“Don’t sound so thrilled. Listen, can you go check on Chenqing? I slept out in the suburbs last night and I just came straight to work this morning.”

“What the fuck were you doing in the suburbs?”

“Dude, I left you a message. That’s where the Lans live. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Fine, whatever, I’m going back to bed.”

“Okay, but check on my cat!” Wei Ying yells, and he thinks Jiang Cheng mumbles agreement before he hangs up.

With the click of the phone, Wei Ying remembers. The cat! He forgot about the fucking cat!

It takes him a little while to find the address he only half remembers from Lan Xichen’s driver’s license, but between a phone book, two maps of the city, and a rail map, he figures out where Lan Xichen lives, only a few blocks from the station. He regrets leaving the little felt mouse at home, but Lan Xichen’s keys are still in his coat pocket, along with the pen and gum. Wei Ying congratulates his past self for being so helpful this time.

Wei Ying expects something tall and modern, but Lan Xichen lives in a third floor flat of an old, converted townhouse. It’s an appealing blend of masculine and cozy, painted in dark greys and blues with leather chairs, tall bookshelves, and what looks like an original brick fireplace.

Uncle Qiren hadn’t been wrong about the plants. Xichen has several spider plants hanging from the ceiling, a giant banana plant in the corner, orchids blooming in the window, and a bunch of potted, purplish leafy things on bookshelves that Wei Ying is in no way qualified to identify.

“Kitty kitty?” he asks the seemingly empty room and then tries a different tone of voice, a high-pitched entreaty that never fails. “Here keeyekeeyekeeyekeeye?”

“He doesn’t have a cat.”

“What the fuck!” Wei Ying shrieks in a quite sensible but extremely uncool way, nearly leaping onto the kitchen counter.

Lan Zhan is standing in a doorway again, sneaking up on him again, looking obnoxiously not ugly again. A svelte, green-eyed tortoiseshell cat takes this opportunity to jump onto Wei Ying’s shoulder from the top of the fridge like they’re old friends, and he forgives her for nearly making him pee himself, because it is such brilliant comedic timing.

“Of course he does,” Wei Ying says, petting the cat’s ears and secretly enjoying the look of consternation on Lan Zhan’s face. “See? A cat.”

Wei Ying is lucky twice, finding cat food in the first cupboard he looks in, and he refills the grateful cat’s food and water bowls. She sits down to eat, chewing each bite delicately before the next. Nothing like his yowling gremlin.

“So, what are you doing here? If it’s not to feed the cat?” Wei Ying asks.

Lan Zhan is still frowning at said cat and answers absently. “I came to check on the apartment, pick up the mail, and turn on the water so the pipes don’t freeze. Do you live here?”

Good grief, talking with this man is like a ping-pong match, full of unexpected bounces.

“No. But I have keys.” Wei Ying jingles them and Lan Zhan finally looks at him.

It doesn’t last long. With a huff and what looks like the start of an exasperated eye roll, Lan Zhan heads toward the door. For some reason, it irks Wei Ying to be so easily dismissed. He slides between Lan Zhan and escape, leaning his back against the front door and grinning when Lan Zhan frowns.

“Leaving already, Lan Zhan?”

“Why do you have keys?”

He really is the most intolerably rude man, Wei Ying thinks, and he can’t help goading him.

“Is it so hard to believe your brother likes me enough to give me keys?” Wei Ying means to sound light and curious, but it comes out hurt and petulant.

Lan Zhan stares at Wei Ying for a heartbeat long enough to be nerve wracking. “Did you water the plants?”

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

“Do you want me to water the plants?” Wei Ying wonders how long he can answer Lan Zhan’s questions with more questions.

“Do you know how?”

Damn, Lan Zhan was good at this game he probably didn’t know they were playing.

“Will you tell me?”

“Would it make any difference?”

“Why don’t you try it and see?”

Lan Zhan frowns. “Do you answer every question with a question?”

Wei Ying bursts out laughing. “I was hoping it would take you longer to figure it out. I was so ready.”

Something softens in Lan Zhan’s face, and it feels like victory, warm and triumphant.

“I...I should…” Lan Zhan starts to say and then, miracle of miracles, the corner of his mouth tilts up. “I should get to know my brother’s fiancé. There’s a restaurant down the road a few blocks. The Lake View? Are you busy?”

“First of all, it is a misnomer to call The Lake View a restaurant. It is a dive bar. One might even say a seedy dive bar. Second of all, I am never too busy for a drink and a burger.”

It’s snowing again when they get outside and Wei Ying stops to admire the sky, holding out his arm to catch flakes on his dark sleeve. They’re slow and thoughtful this time, not the frenzied murmuration of starlings, more like the whisper of owl wings. He peers at them and counts their sides. Always six. A constant of the universe he appreciates.

When Wei Ying looks up, Lan Zhan has a strange look on his face.

“You don’t like snow?” Wei Ying asks.

“It has never appealed to me before,” Lan Zhan answers, and Wei Ying grins.

“Don’t you ever just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?” he asks, walking again, shuffling his feet through the building drifts and kicking tiny flurries into the air.

“Yes.”

“Damn, I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

There’s a short pause. “Yes.”

Wei Ying laughs and keeps laughing. It’s surprisingly easy to be happy in the snow and cold.

The Lake View is packed, and they squeeze into a booth in the back. Lan Zhan looks incredibly out of place in the well-fitted khaki pants and blue oxford shirt that had been hiding under his winter coat. Most of The Lake View’s patrons only have a passing familiarity with fabric that isn’t ripped denim or plaid. Even Wei Ying is a bit over-dressed in jeans and grey sweater.

Wei Ying orders a beer, a Scottish ale called Robert the Bruce, by a brewery he’s never heard of, but it’s a great name, and the tap head is pretty. After frowning at the taps—Wei Ying has never seen anyone so gorgeous frown so much in his life—Lan Zhan orders the same thing.

“Wait!” Wei Ying tells the harried waitress. “Lan Zhan, have you never ordered a beer before? Don’t start with a Scottish ale. Try the...um...try a bottle of Spotted Cow. It’s an ale but it won’t kick you in the teeth.”

Saturdays are always busy nights, and the bar starts to fill up, patrons picking a wild array of music from the genuine jukebox in the corner, everything from “Smells Like Teen Spirit” to “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” which a woman in a long leather duster sings along loudly with. Lan Zhan watches through narrowed eyes, and Wei Ying suspects he does not approve of the impromptu concert.

“Well? What do you want to know?” Wei Ying asks, sipping the thick, dark ale the girl brings.

“About what?” Lan Zhan is holding up his beer bottle and peering at the contents suspiciously.

“What do you want to know about me?” Wei Ying repeats. He’s prepared to fudge the truth, but Lan Zhan gets that blank, inscrutable look on his face again and doesn’t answer.

He sips the beer and makes the face of everyone who doesn’t drink when they first realize what beer tastes like. But he takes a second sip, and Wei Ying can’t help smiling at his stubborn persistence. Wei Ying’s beer is fantastic, and he silently notes the brewery for the future. And when they bring him his burger, a classic cheeseburger with grilled onions and French fries, it’s fabulous too.

“I didn’t know my brother was engaged,” Lan Zhan says after three quarters of a burger and half the French fries worth of silence. “I didn’t even know he had a cat. We used to be close, but now...I didn’t know my brother had a cat.”

He’s staring at his beer, twisting the bottle in his hand, and Wei Ying can’t help but notice how long his fingers are. Long and thin and strong at the knuckles. Piano hands, he thinks. It’s always pianists who have those hands.

“People...people process grief differently, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “My parents died when I was six. I don’t really remember it, but the Jiangs, the family that raised me, said I didn’t talk for two years. And I do sort of remember being...I don’t know...empty? Like I just existed, but I wasn’t really there.”

He grins to lighten the story, because Lan Zhan’s face has taken on the pinched look everyone gets when Wei Ying tells them he’s an orphan. “I’m making up for it now.”

“Selective mutism is common in children,” Lan Zhan murmurs like it’s a diagnosis. “Selective disappearing is less common in adult brothers.”

Wei Ying winces.

“Yeah, well, that happens sometimes too. I moved to Chicago after my boyfriend and I broke up and my...sort of sister got married. It was just...I don’t know, so much change, I guess I figured, I might as well change everything? Didn’t you do anything crazy...” Wei Ying slams on the brakes, for once realizing how insensitive he was about to be. “Haven’t you ever done anything crazy?”

Lan Zhan takes a little time to carefully deliberate the question as though the idea of "crazy" has never occurred to him. Wei Ying notices his cheeks are a little flushed, his face a little more relaxed. His hair is shorter than Lan Xichen’s, but not much, and it’s equally prone to flopping in his face. When he answers, his voice is slower and deeper. Wei Ying wonders if he’s drunk after half a bottle of beer.

“I wanted to travel after Haohan died, but someone had to take over her part of the family practice when she stopped working, and Xichen...did not,” he says, answering the question Wei Ying didn’t ask.

Wei Ying squeezes Lan Zhan’s arm sympathetically, and Lan Zhan doesn’t shrug him off. “Where did you want to go?”

Lan Zhan smiles. Both sides of his mouth curve, tiny lines crinkle around his eyes and his lips part. He looks lost in thought, which is good, because Wei Ying is momentarily stupefied and has to consciously close his mouth from where it is currently hanging open.

“The Ionian islands. Maybe the Azores. Somewhere warm with water in liquid form instead of solid.”

Wei Ying chuckles. “You like beaches?”

“Oh no, I hate sand. I just like to see the ocean blue and smell salt in the air. What’s the cat’s name?”

Wei Ying is distracted by the faraway look in Lan Zhan’s eyes, which have an extremely appealing curve in the corners, and misses the left turn, saying the first thing he thinks of.

“Chenqing?”

As soon as the word is out, Wei Ying realizes he obviously meant Lan Xichen’s cat. Fuck, he has no idea what the cat’s name could even be. Probably something poetic or musical or musically poetic.

“Oh wait, Xichen’s cat? Ah...she has one of those fancy names, you know the kind...but it doesn’t really fit her so I just call her Jade, Jadey, JayJay, Darth Jader...whatever.”

Okay, that might be a bit more than a fudge, but he’s relieved at how quick and effortless the lie sounds. Lan Zhan doesn’t even look suspicious, just nods ponderously.

“Who is Chenqing?”

Wei Ying grins. Familiar ground where he can tell the absolute truth. “Chenqing is my cat. Cat people always find cat people.”

Lan Zhan frowns again. Wei Ying is starting to understand his face. They don’t seem to be unhappy frowns, more like thinking frowns. He is evidently just a man who thinks a lot, and even though Wei Ying still has the urge to poke his nose when his mouth tips down like that, he’s surprisingly easy to talk to. Even easier when he’s a little tipsy.

He asks Wei Ying about college, and college is a safe topic too, no lies necessary, so Wei Ying expounds. He has an MFA from the University of Miami, which he completed at the tender age of twenty-three. Lan Zhan doesn’t seem to understand why that matters, so Wei Ying explains that while it may not be the premiere creative writing school, it had the distinct advantages of being good, nearby, and cheap, relatively speaking. The faster he could finish, the sooner he could stop paying for it.

In theory.

In actuality, he used his book advance to pay down his loans, and the balance, he assumes, will take him the rest of his life to repay, one minimum payment at a time.

“What did you do after that?”

Wei Ying laughs. “The same thing everyone in my class did. I wrote a one good book, one lousy book, and now I work in a job that criminally underpays my genius.”

He’s rewarded with slightly more than a half smile, maybe a two-thirds of a smile. It’s worth letting Lan Zhan ask two more questions—”what was your first book like, Wei Ying,” and “Wei Ying, what are the Jiangs like?”

The first book, he tells Lan Zhan, was a profound and dazzling exploration of man’s hubris in chasing the anonymity of the stars when the world is full of unknown and far more personal horrors, or at least, that’s what the Miami Herald review said.

“I just really wanted to write about spaceships,” he tells Lan Zhan, and Lan Zhan’s single breath of laughter makes Wei Ying notice how warm the crush of people in The Lake View has gotten.

The Jiangs...that’s trickier. Wei Ying tries to be careful. The Jiangs were kind to him. They supported his education and hobbies, even if they were disappointed when he chose to major in creative writing instead of engineering. Yanli, their oldest daughter, cheered relentlessly for everything Wei Ying ever did, and Jiang Cheng was his best friend from the day they met, through a three or four-year relationship neither of his parents quite approved of, and on and on until now. But Wei Ying never really belonged to them, and even though it’s okay and he understands, he’s afraid Lan Zhan will see more of that old hurt than Wei Ying wants him to.

“They were good to me, you know? Families are complicated, but I wouldn’t have survived without them. The Jiangs were pretty cool with me choosing a fine art instead of science, and I wouldn’t have made it through college without Yanli reading my stories and loving them. Or A-Cheng reading them and complaining.” That’s all true enough, and he gets a thoughtful frown from Lan Zhan.

But Wei Ying decides he doesn’t want to answer the third question Lan Zhan asks—”what are you writing now?”—so he changes the subject abruptly. It’s only fair.

“Lan Zhan, what do you do when you aren’t seeing patients on Christmas or making house calls or watering your brother’s plants? Do you have a cat? Or a dog? Plants? Are you a hockey fan too? Or baseball? Do you climb trees? Do you go to the planetarium? Can you sing all the lyrics to ‘Oh Better Far to Live and Die’? I don’t know much about you either.”

To his surprise, Lan Zhan laughs, a soft huff with a light smile that doesn’t dissipate.

“No, no, yes, yes, no, not anymore, sometimes, sadly yes,” he says, and Wei Ying scrambles to remember all his questions.

“Lan Zhan…” he whispers, letting his eyes get round and voice echo with shock. “Will you...will you be true to the song you sing? And live and die a pirate king?”

Without rushing, Lan Zhan stands, brushes off his shirt one sleeve at a time, and puts on his coat. He wraps the long blue scarf, which looks a lot like Wei Ying’s new red scarf, around his neck, and answers without even the barest hint of a smile—

“It is, it is, a glorious thing to be a pirate king.”

—before he turns and walks away, heading out of the bar and leaving Wei Ying gaping, laughing, scrambling to throw on his layers and follow.

Lan Zhan isn’t drunk enough to actually sing with Wei Ying, though, which is a pity. Wei Ying suspects he has a nice singing voice too.

The city is never quiet, which is one of the things Wei Ying loves about it, but in the dark, in the snow, it seems like one homogenous white noise, a low and comforting hum. They walk for a little while, and Wei Ying’s feet instinctively turn for home, even though home is, by his guess, four miles away, across the river, under two freeways and through at least six neighborhoods. But it’s not like he has anything else to do, and Lan Zhan doesn’t seem to mind walking, so Wei Ying keeps going.

“When was the last time you climbed a tree, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan tilts his head far enough to look up into the sky, as though he’s gazing into the branches of an enormous tree.

“When I was ten. I did not want to go to piano lessons. My sister climbed up to join me, and we sat until I changed my mind.” Lan Zhan’s eyes close, and he weaves a little.

Wei Ying reaches out a hand to steady Lan Zhan’s elbow, catching him before he tilts off the curb. It seems sensible to hold on for the rest of the block, just in case.

“When is your birthday?”

Lan Zhan’s soft voice still manages to startle Wei Ying, and he immediately drops his hand like he’s been stung. He hadn’t even realized he was still holding Lan Zhan’s coat sleeve.

“My birthday?” Wei Ying repeats, puzzled by the question. He is going to get whiplash trying to follow Lan Zhan’s conversational shifts, but he looks so earnest, turning toward Wei Ying with a half smile and nod, that Wei Ying tells the truth.

“Oh, um...it’s tomorrow, actually. But I’m only turning thirty-four. It’s not a milestone birthday or anything. There’s no parade for thirty-four. I took the day off, so I’ll probably buy myself a cake and hang out with Jiang Cheng. The usual.”

A very clear and easily readable expression of horror leaps to Lan Zhan’s face.

“You should get gifts on your birthday.”

“But your family already gave me Christmas gifts,” Wei Ying argues, holding up the scarf. “It’s silly to get presents three days after Christmas too.”

Growing up, he’d always gotten gifts on Christmas, but the Jiangs weren’t rich, and he never expected anything for his birthday. When they got older, Yanli always made him dinner and Jiang Cheng was always free, always willing to share a six-pack or watch a movie, and that was enough.

“Wei Ying, you should get gifts on your birthday.” Drunk Lan Zhan seems very implacable on this point, and Wei Ying makes it a point never to argue with inebriated people.

“Okay, fine, I’ll buy myself a rubber chicken and a pogo stick. Good enough?”

“Is that what you want?” Lan Zhan asks, a puzzled wrinkle in his forehead.

“Uh...sure?”

Lan Zhan sets off purposefully. They might be nearly the same height, but Lan Zhan’s legs are longer or he’s in better shape, or both, because Wei Ying has to jog to catch up.

“Lan Zhan? Where are we going?” he asks. “You know, it’s after ten? Nothing is open.”

But he’s wrong. Lan Zhan disappears into a haze of fluorescent light, a staple of Chicago nights: a 24-hour CVS.

It’s empty, of course, except for the grungy cashier. He looks at them hopefully, as though they are his last chance for something interesting to happen during his shift. But then he takes in Lan Zhan’s Respectable Haircut and Adult Clothes, and dismisses them with a bored sigh. Wei Ying thinks this is patently unfair. He likes to believe his long-ish hair and fingerless gloves make him look rakish and unpredictable, younger than his years, but apparently, to an eighteen-year-old, he is a Boring Grown Up by association.

Lan Zhan is already in an aisle with toys, one arm folded behind his back, glaring at the selection. “There are no pogo sticks,” he announces.

Wei Ying sags onto an empty shelf that protests under his weight. “Lan Zhan, I was kidding. I don’t want a pogo stick. What would I do with a pogo stick?”

“I’m sorry. Will this do?”

Lan Zhan hands him a book, and Wei Ying takes it. It’s a coloring book with a black cover, orange and yellow stars, a purple alien, and the easy-to-read title—easy enough for a four-year-old, or easy enough for Wei Ying’s suddenly tear-clouded eyes—“SPACE” written in big, fat, capital letters behind a cartoon spaceship.

“Ah, yeah, that’s great. I love coloring books.” He rubs his face with his hands briskly and harshly, like he’s trying to warm up, before he grins up at Lan Zhan. “Are there crayons? I don’t think I have crayons.”

Lan Zhan hunts through the shelves and finds a box of sixty-four crayons, crayons Wei Ying’s eight-year-old self would have coveted. He presents them to Wei Ying proudly, and Wei Ying takes them with a lopsided grin.

“Lan Zhan, this is a totally excellent birthday gift. All I need now is a rubber chicken, and I’ll be set. Thirty-four will be perfect,” he says.

But sadly, although they both look, there are no rubber chickens anywhere, and he has to reassure Lan Zhan that it’s perfect anyway. Which it is.

When they get the cashier to pay, he looks at them as though it isn’t normal for two grown men to buy crayons and a coloring book about space.

“It’s because you didn’t have any rubber chickens,” Wei Ying tries to explain, and the kid rolls his eyes.

“They’re in with the holiday gifts.”

It seems too miraculous to believe, a true Christmas blessing, and Wei Ying finds the last one hanging from a hook behind some weird little egg-shaped digital toys. It makes the most marvelous sound, a wheezing squawk, and Wei Ying demonstrates the Mesmerizing Music of the Rubber Chicken several times for Lan Zhan as they walk down the snowy sidewalk, still headed toward the southwest side of the city and home. Well...his home. He feels a little bad for Lan Zhan, whose car is probably still on the other side of the river.

Wei Ying is explaining the cultural significance of “The Far Side” (“It’s uniquely intelligent and silly, Lan Zhan. You just don’t understand how important that is! And to put it all into a one-panel cartoon is just...it’s breathtakingly brave! No one else has ever made anything like it.”) when they turn onto his block.

“Well...this is my building.” Wei Ying gestures to a five-story brick apartment building shaped like a U around a central sidewalk. In the summer, the caretaker plants a fascinating and chaotic blend of pansies, violas, and begonias in the beds that line the walk, and there are two glorious old magnolia trees in the front. He had really moved here for the magnolias, which he hadn’t even realized would grow this far north of the Mason-Dixon line. There’s just nothing like the scent of magnolias in summer.

“It looks nice,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying studies him to see if he’s joking or not. He doesn’t seem to be.

“It is. It’s a great apartment. Close to the Blue Line, and it smells like heaven in the morning around here.”

Wei Ying considers inviting Lan Zhan in to warm up or show him how to get to the Racine station, but there’s a light on his apartment, which means there’s a chance Jiang Cheng is there. He’s not quite ready to cross the streams of his real life and his imaginary life. He knows what Jiang Cheng will say, he knows he’ll have to face it eventually, but...not right now.

They stand in the snow without words a little longer, longer than is necessary, that half smile ghosting across Lan Zhan’s face, mixed with something else more serious. Wei Ying tilts his head thoughtfully, trying to read the entirety of the expression like a textual deconstruction, like if he looks long enough, he’ll just know what Lan Zhan is thinking. He wonders if he’s thinking about Lan Xichen. It hasn’t escaped his notice that, despite his originally-stated intent, Lan Zhan hasn’t even mentioned his brother’s name since the question about the cat. And even though it’s stupid stupid stupid to borrow trouble, he’s too curious to resist.

“Lan Zhan, don’t you want to know about your brother? What he’s been doing for the last three years? How we met? What our first date was like? Anything?”

Lan Zhan stares at him, a crease carving its way between his eyebrows, and Wei Ying sighs, assuming he isn’t going to answer.

“No,” he says finally, even though it looks like the word has been forced painfully out of him.

He blinks slowly, slowly enough that snowflakes have time to settle on his eyelashes, slowly enough that Wei Ying has time to look at the plush pink of Lan Zhan’s mouth and think, he's the right height for kissing.

Oh no. No.

Wei Ying slaps a proverbial hand over his cursed internal monologue and threatens it viciously as he backs away. This is why he runs, Wei Ying tells himself. Because he’s poison, and he can’t be trusted not to ruin good things.

He tries to smile, waves his rubber chicken, and mercifully gets the door open before he can do anything stupid. Anything more stupid than feeling a knee-buckling lurch of desire to kiss his pretend fiancé’s real brother, that is.

Jiang Cheng is there, asleep in a chair, listening to “My Favorite Things,” the Sarah Vaughan version with subtle amber layers that always sounds like cigars and whiskey straights. Unexpected for a song about schnitzel. It replants Wei Ying back into his own life, his real life, and he ruffles Jiang Cheng’s hair before he picks up Chenqing. She scratches his arm trying to get in the perfect feline-petting position, but as soon as she’s happily settled, she purrs like a diesel engine.

Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.

“Hey,” Jiang Cheng says, looking up at him with a sleepy smile, and then does a double take. “You look happy. Where have you been?”

Wei Ying is not exactly known to be secretive. He has been told that his face is, among other things, bright and open, handsome and compelling, a sunflower turned to the sun, but it is galling that Jiang Cheng can read his every expression so accurately.

“Just out. Why are you here? You haven’t been here all day, have you?”

Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes.

Jiang Cheng looks surprisingly evasive. “No. I was just...out looking for something and stopped to check on you. You weren’t home but your tyrant said she was starving, so I fed her. Out with who?”

“You know, I do have other friends.”

Jiang Cheng snorts. “You have a pretend fiancé. A man with a healthy social life does not have a pretend fiancé.”

Wei Ying drops Chenqing onto his lap, and Jiang Cheng grunts as she stomps around in a circle, making his lap appropriately cat-shaped before she will deign to sit. He ignores her as he always does, and she looks up at him adoringly, butting her head against his stomach until he begrudgingly scratches the space between her ears.

“Well, as it turns out, my pretend fiancé has a cat too, so I went to check on her after work. Poor thing has been alone for three days.”

“And that took seven hours?”

Jiang Cheng is a dog with a bone and it is very annoying.

Brown paper packages tied up with strings. These are a few of my favorite things.

“I...uh...ran into Lan Xichen’s brother. At his apartment. He was...watering plants.” Belatedly, Wei Ying remembers that they didn’t actually water any plants.

“And that took seven hours?”

“Fuck, Jiang Cheng, why does it matter? We ate dinner and then he walked home with me. And...he got me a rubber chicken.”

Wei Ying pulls the rubber chicken out of his coat pocket and shakes it. It makes what Chenqing determines is an extremely aggressive honk, and she launches herself off of Jiang Cheng’s lap, skittering away into the next room. Jiang Cheng takes the opportunity to get up, and he gently, but firmly, shakes Wei Ying, who only barely manages not to honk aggressively.

“It matters because I know that face. I know that look. He walked you home? He got you presents? You like him. Wei Ying...what are you doing? This isn’t a game.”

After the first person who broke his heart (Jennifer, a blonde with an underbite who dumped him because he didn’t have a car), and the second person (Ari, a boy with huge dark eyes and tattoo around his bicep, even though they were only fifteen), Jiang Cheng had told Wei Ying he gave away his love too easily, that he would always get hurt if he jumped without thinking. And every other time—well, not every time; he wasn’t very nice about Lina Wang—things didn’t work out with someone, Jiang Cheng said the same thing, gave him the same “I know what’s best for you, and it’s more than this” talk. Jiang Cheng always means it with love, but right now, he sounds so worried, so resigned to the inevitability of this ending in nuclear catastrophe, that Wei Ying is offended.

I simply remember my favorite things and then I don't feel so bad.

“I don’t like him any more than I like the rest of them. They’re nice, and they’re just grateful their son is alive. Once he wakes up, they’ll be so happy, they’ll forget all about me.” A pang of sorrow slices into him, and he raises his voice to cover the near-physical recoil. “None of this will matter, and I really don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Jiang Cheng looks sad, his mouth tightening and his eyebrows drawing together. “A-Xian....” he starts, but frowns, and doesn’t finish.

Despite his sudden frustration, Wei Ying sighs. He doesn’t want to argue with Jiang Cheng. The album hits the end of the song and the needle bumps, signifying the end of the record.

“Are you staying tonight?” he asks, altering his tone, letting the ire slither away.

Jiang Cheng purses his lips, thinking, but eventually shakes his head. “No. I’ll see you tomorrow? Brunch for your birthday? Somewhere with pancakes?”

Wei Ying grins, cheered by the idea of breakfast that doesn’t come out of a wrapper. “Of course pancakes. Chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream because the only good thing about turning thirty-four is pancakes whenever you want them.”

Jiang Cheng hugs him, the all-encompassing blanket of loyalty and protection, and as always, it patches over whatever rift might have formed, or tried to form, between them. Wei Ying lets the day go and tries not to think about Lan Zhan at all.

Chapter Text

No one with the insatiable void of space masquerading as a three-year-old cat ever truly gets to sleep in, but Chenqing allows Wei Ying to delay her breakfast by two hours on his birthday, waiting until nearly 7:30 am to stomp across his groin.

“Thank you, my love,” he tells her when she bumps his chin. “You’ve saved me the indecision of whether or not I should pass on my genetics.”

Wei Ying feeds her before he turns on Herbie Mann at the Village Gate. Not everyone appreciates jazz flute, but Wei Ying does. It either cries like a broken heart, tugging him apart, or it rollicks like a Pied Piper he would follow anywhere, and it’s that dichotomy that makes it so marvelous. He listens to the B side first, a wild, bouncing version of “It Ain’t Necessarily So” that makes it easier to brush his teeth, wash his face, and figure out something to do with his thick, uncooperative hair.

Thirty-four, he thinks, staring at his face in the mirror, familiar in some ways, but increasingly foreign. There are lines around his eyes he doesn’t remember, a crease in his forehead that’s deepened every year. And underneath it is a growing sense that he’s missing something he wants, made worse because he doesn’t even know what it is.

He jumps when the phone rings. Who the hell calls at 8 am on a Sunday? Unless…

“Jiang Cheng?” he says, picking up the phone, scared something has happened to him, or his parents, or worst of all, Yanli.

But it isn’t Jiang Cheng.

“Wei Ying, it’s finally you!”

He has no idea who the light and breathy female voice is, but he was raised to be polite to people who pronounce his name correctly. “Hello, yes, it is.”

“Sweetheart, this is popo. I’m sure you weren’t expecting me—the other two Wei Yings I called first certainly weren’t—but I wanted to catch you before you left. ZhanZhan told us it was your birthday today.”

Wei Ying has no idea how ZhanZhan managed that in the last few hours. Or why he’d bothered.

“We insist that you join us for dinner so we can celebrate!”

“Oh, popo, you don’t have to do that. I told Lan Zhan, birthdays aren’t that big of a deal.”

“Nonsense dear, Qiren is already in town. He’ll come get you, but he won’t be free until around five. Is it okay if he gets you from your apartment? That way you can feed the cat. We’re looking forward to seeing you again...yes, okay, I’ll tell him. Wei Ying, Jingyi says he demands a rematch now that you’re older. I don’t know what difference that makes. We promise not to give you presents this time. ZhanZhan says he already...”

And with that, she hangs up the phone in the middle of a sentence. Wei Ying stares at the phone for a little while to see if anything else inexplicable will come out of it, but the president doesn’t call, nor does Random House.

“I guess I’m going back to the suburbs tonight,” he tells Chenqing, and he tells himself he’s not disappointed that Lan Zhan won’t be the one to collect him. “Poor kitty, your life has been turned upside down by these crazy people, hasn’t it? You’ll be so bored when it’s all over, won’t you?”

The record player bumps, and Wei Ying runs to flip it over. Damn, he’s already running late. “Comin’ Home Baby,” is good for picking out clothes quickly and dancing around with the cat briefly, but he turns off the music before it gets to “Summertime.” No time for tears on his birthday.

Jiang Cheng is already at Yema, one of the few places in Chicago that makes Cuban breakfast the way Miami does, when Wei Ying slides into the booth as though being sneaky will make him less late. Jiang Cheng doesn’t comment, but he doesn’t comment in a way that feels like a comment, so Wei Ying feels compelled to defend himself.

“I’m within the fifteen-minute window.”

“Mmhmm,” Jiang Cheng grunts, sipping the café con leche Wei Ying is miffed he ordered only for himself.

“So it’s not really late,” Wei Ying points out.

“Yup,” Jiang Cheng agrees.

“I have a good reason,” Wei Ying insists.

“Okay, cool,” Jiang Cheng nods and sips his café.

Wei Ying slumps back, perplexed by a world in which Jiang Cheng is reasonable about things like time. A girl sets a mug in front of him.

“Your brother, who was on time, generously ordered café con leche for you, since you weren’t,” she says with a mischievous grin before scurrying away.

Wei Ying throws a fork at Jiang Cheng, who ducks and laughs.

“What, you thought I wasn’t going to give you shit just because it’s your birthday? Pft. It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

Something warm settles inside Wei Ying. At least this piece of his life is constant. Birthdays, Jiang Cheng, splitting pancakes and a tortilla Española. Whatever this sudden discontent is doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need something to change. He doesn’t need anything to change.

“Hey, will you come with me to the hospital?” Wei Ying asks after their food is served, biting into a salty piece of chorizo with a happy sigh.

For a second, Jiang Cheng looks alarmed and then rolls his eyes. “To see your pretend fiancé? No thanks.”

“If you had a pretend fiancé, I would go see them with you. Because I’m a supportive best friend who doesn’t judge.”

He gets another, even more dramatic eye roll from Jiang Cheng, this one accompanied by an unnecessarily loud exhale. “Fine. But I vigorously protest and want it noted.”

“So noted. But...uh...before you stop protesting, I should also probably mention that the Lans invited me out to dinner for my birthday. I couldn’t really say no. I mean...popo hung up before I had a chance. I tried.”

Jiang Cheng stops eating, which means this is now the most serious level of conversation possible. He stares at Wei Ying with an interesting progression of worry, exasperation, concern, and disappointment, but he doesn’t actually say anything, just frowns and picks at the edges of the crispy potatoes.

“Okay, this is worse,” Wei Ying complains, setting down his fork. “Just say it. ‘Wei Ying, you’re a jerk, you’re being unfair to these nice people, you’re leading them on when you know you’re just going to disappear from their lives. But that won’t work this time because not only is this the worst thing you’ve ever done, they know where you live and there will actually be consequences.’”

Wei Ying tries to laugh, but his eyes fill with tears and he looks away, studying the pattern of the wood paneling debating whether it’s real or not. Fuck, what is it with turning thirty-four? He is not going to cry on his birthday.

He shouldn’t be surprised to feel Jiang Cheng’s arms around him, but the abrupt awareness of not being alone is an ice bath that shocks his nerves down to his toes.

“You idiot,” Jiang Cheng says, squeezing him, and Wei Ying lets himself be comforted, sagging against Jiang Cheng. Still not crying though. He is still not going to cry.

“Do you really think I care about them? I don’t even know them. I just hate seeing you do this...this...whatever this is, where you put yourself into fragile things that have no choice but to break, and then you sacrifice everything to try and make them work. And when they don’t, it’s always you who gets hurt.”

Jiang Cheng doesn’t say “us” or “writing” or “Lina Wang,” but he doesn’t have to, although to be fair, writing is an ongoing death, a leaky faucet occasionally dribbling out something worthwhile, but usually as dry as a bone.

“A-Cheng, I would like to be drunk. Can I be drunk at 10 am?”

Jiang Cheng laughs and lets Wei Ying go. “Only because it’s your birthday. Otherwise it would be inappropriate for a man of your advanced years.”

“You’re just jealous because wisdom comes with age, and you are dumb for five more days,” Wei Ying informs him primly, ignoring Jiang Cheng’s wheezing laughter.

They drink a pitcher of mimosas—very manly drinks, they decide, because oranges are manly fruits—and while it doesn’t get Wei Ying drunk, it’s enough to sand away the sharpest crags of undefinable sadness. By then, it’s almost time for lunch, and the sun is shining, so they wander down the street and buy slices of pizza from Paiano’s. Pizza needs beer, and they split another pitcher, this one good ol’ Pabst.

Now Wei Ying feels drunk—light-footed and giddy—but not so drunk that he’s planning to step into traffic. It’s just the perfect amount of warm and woozy to walk through Chicago, try on shoes, buy an entirely spur-of-the-moment Lego spaceship, and make fun of the truly astounding number of dogs in knitted sweaters being walked by women in fur coats.

When they stumble laughing into the hospital lobby, it’s a little after three, and it’s turned into a fairly decent birthday. Maybe a seven out ten on the birthday scale, which strikes him as inordinately funny, because it is his tenth birthday in Chicago. Fuck, what has he been doing with his life?

The post-op nurse informs them that Lan Xichen has been moved to long-term recovery, and Wei Ying is bummed that he won’t get to see Wen Ning anymore. He makes a mental note—a mental note he’ll probably forget—to get his phone number on the way out.

But to his delight, Wen Ning is also in recovery.

“Wei Ying! Hey! This is weird, right? I put in for a transfer ages ago. Yesterday was my first day here. I saw...” Wen Ning glances at Jiang Cheng, glances back at Wei Ying and very carefully enunciates, “your fiancé was on my floor now.”

“Fuck, not this guy too,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, but Wen Ning has snapped to attention like a hunting dog on a bird.

“Jiejie! Jiejie!” he calls, and Wei Ying grins, turning.

The cute paramedic is walking toward them, a broad smile on her face that falters the minute she sees Wei Ying, replaced by a look of...panic? Disgust? What? What has he done now?

“Jiejie, you remember Wei Ying, right? The guy you rescued from the train tracks? He’s here to see his fiancé.”

Well, at least Wen Ning has been true to his word, Wei Ying thinks. They’re definitely going to have to be friends.

Oh shit, Jiang Cheng. He forgot to tell Jiang Cheng to play along. Wei Ying thinks he’s going to have to tackle Jiang Cheng to keep him from arguing, but he’s stock still and there’s a very strange look on his face. Like a volcano about to implode, an act contrary to all normal volcano behavior.

“Uh, Wen-jie, I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name, but this is my best friend, my more or less brother, Jiang Cheng. A-Cheng, this is Wen Ning and his sister. She was kind enough to save me from near death, so you should be very, very nice to her.”

To Wei Ying’s utter shock, Jiang Cheng bursts into laughter, gasping, snorting laughter, and Paramedic Wen looks furious, eyes narrowed and hands on her waist. Wei Ying can’t blame her. He’d be pissed if Jiang Cheng was laughing at him like that too. He elbows Jiang Cheng hard in the ribs and he finally stops braying like a donkey.

“I can’t argue with that,” Jiang Cheng gasps. “I will be very, very nice. What did you say your name was again?”

“Wen Qing,” she says through clenched teeth. “Nice to see you, Wei Ying. A-Ning, I’m leaving.”

Despite his protests of “you just got here,” Wen Qing stalks away, and Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

“Sorry, I...I must be drunker than I thought. I’m...uh...going to find a bathroom. Nice to meet you Wen Ning.”

Nonplussed, Wei Ying stares after them until Wen Ning touches his shoulder.

“I assume you really are here to see Dr. Lan?” he asks, and Wei Ying nods.

He stares at Lan Xichen’s perfect face for longer than is probably healthy before sitting down in a chair next to the bed. He can’t remember why he wanted to come here.

No.

He does.

He just doesn’t want to do it.

“Hey, Lan Xichen? Or...do you mind if I call you Xichen? I don’t know if you can hear me, but...it’s my birthday, and I wanted to start thirty-four right so I need to tell you...I’m sorry. About your family. It’s just...I really like them, you know? You should know. They’re your family. I don’t know what went wrong between you, but they love you so much. It would be really great if you could wake up with a newfound zest for life and figure out a way to fix things. I don’t really have a family, not a real one, and I would give anything to be a part of yours. So...since that’s unlikely, you should. Be a part of your family.”

Wei Ying feels stupid. This is stupid. He’s talking to a body, basically. But this may be the only time he’s brave enough to apologize.

“Anyway, thank you for letting me borrow them for a while. They’re great. All of them. Even your uncle. Maybe even the Detroit Lans, although I didn’t get to meet them. But they’re yours. So...wake up, Xichen. Go home,” he whispers fiercely, hoping it will somehow permeate like osmosis. “Go home.”

“Wei Ying. This is unexpectedly convenient,” a now-familiar voice says from behind him, and Wei Ying nearly falls off his chair.

“Uncle Qiren, uh, hi,” he stammers, frantically replaying his words in his head and wondering how much of his confession Uncle Qiren heard. “What...what are you doing here?”

In answer, Uncle Qiren holds up a book,The Little Prince, which seems apropos. “I read to him sometimes,” he answers. “Research shows that it might help coma patients recover more quickly, and it certainly can’t hurt.”

When he was little, Wei Ying had loved the fantastical nonsense and adventure of the story, and when he’d been in college, he’d studied the themes of materialism and exploration. But now, it makes him feel even more like he’s lost something, that now he’s a Serious Adult, who will never understand the magic of creation and imagination again. Fuck, he thinks, he’s such a drag today. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t such a great plan.

“Do you mind waiting? You can sit and listen, if you like. Then we can feed your cat and go. I already went to Xichen’s apartment to care for his plants, since Zhan-er said you didn’t. And,” Lan Qiren adds with a dismissive and somewhat askance sniff, “his cat.”

Again, his life is being railroaded by a Lan. Annoyingly, it is all very reasonable, and he can’t very well leave until Jiang Cheng gets back anyway.

Which reminds him.

“Thanks, but...my friend is here somewhere and wandered off to look for a bathroom. I think I’ll go look for him first. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Uncle Qiren nods regally, allowing Wei Ying to escape.

But Wen Ning says Jiang Cheng is gone.

“What do you mean, gone?”

Wen Ning looks puzzled. “The usual definition? Gone? He left with jiejie. I didn’t know they knew each other.”

“They don’t,” Wei Ying says absently, trying to figure out why Jiang Cheng would have left without telling him and where he would go. “They must have just left at the same time.”

Eventually he gives up. It doesn’t really matter. Jiang Cheng is a responsible adult, relatively speaking, and perfectly capable of taking care of himself—also relatively speaking. He leaves a message with Wen Ning in case Jiang Cheng comes back, he calls Jiang Cheng’s apartment and leaves a message, and then he goes back to Lan Xichen’s room to listen to Uncle Qiren’s melodic, deep voice read one of his all-time favorite stories. Within minutes he is deeply, soundly asleep, dreaming of roses and foxes and flying through space.

“Wei Ying?”

A sharp voice jerks him out of the black stupor. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the sleepy cobwebs from his eyes so he can focus. Uncle Qiren’s eye are narrowed, and his expression looks almost concerned, but Lan Xichen is still laying quietly in the bed, a little pale, but otherwise as gleaming and angelic as any fairy tale prince, so Wei Ying assumes he’s imagining things.

“Is the story done?” he asks, stretching.

Someone has put a blanket on him, and he wonders if it was Wen Ning or Uncle Qiren. Either way, it makes him smile.

“Yes, it has been done for some time. Wei Ying, are you…” Uncle Qiren sighs deeply, and his face clears. “Never mind. Are you ready ? It’s nearly 5 pm.”

Ready? Oh right, he remembers. He has a date with a family.

“Sure! I’m ready.”

Wei Ying jumps up, folds the blanket, and heads for the door until he realizes Uncle Qiren is looking at him oddly.

“You aren’t going to say goodbye?” he asks with a disapproving eyebrow raise.

Fuck, fuck, Wei Ying is an idiot. Constantly.

“Ah, yeah, it just seemed...weird...with someone else in the room,” he says lamely, but Uncle Qiren shows no sign of moving until Wei Ying tells his fiancé goodbye properly.

Wei Ying has no idea what Lans might think is proper, but he leans over Lan Xichen’s still form and brushes a kiss over his forehead. That’s twice now, he thinks, that he’s kissed this man while he’s unconscious. It’s more action than he’s gotten all year, and hysterical laughter threatens to ruin the sweet domestic scene he is so carefully setting.

“Wake up soon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and squeezes Lan Xichen’s hand.

It’s a nice hand, with graceful long fingers Wei Ying can easily imagine curved around a bow or examining a sick child. Wouldn’t it be neat if he woke up right now, Wei Ying thinks. A perfect fairy tale. But of course, it would be awful. As awful as any princess woken by the kiss of a man she doesn’t know and is then, somehow, obligated to marry. Fairy tales suck, and Xichen doesn’t wake up.

The drive to the west suburbs is mostly quiet. Uncle Qiren seems to be lost in thought, or maybe he’s just really riveted by the extra long version of “Rhapsody in Blue” he turns on. Good to know Gershwin made the “Lan Qiren Approved” cut, even if art deco didn’t.

“So you saw Zhan-er yesterday, I take it?” Uncle Qiren asks, turning into the subdivision.

“Yeah, I did,” Wei Ying answers cautiously. It feels like a loaded question, and he isn’t sure why.

“Mm. He’s a good boy. Very different from Xichen in a lot of ways, but they’ve always been close. Zhan-er is the only one Xichen still keeps in regular contact with, you know. I’m surprised you hadn’t met before.”

Oh, okay good, Wei Ying is relieved that his instincts are still sharp. It was not just a loaded question, it was a double-barreled shotgun question.

“I never wanted to pry,” he says, aiming for noble dignity. He thinks it’s probably even true. If Lan “Chancellor of the Morning Sun” Xichen had ever noticed him, Wei Ying would have let him keep any secret he wanted.

“Mm,” Uncle Qiren grunts noncommittally and Wei Ying suspects he’s not done with this conversation yet.

But he’s saved by the Terrible Twosome and a barrage of snowballs hitting the windows of the Cadillac. Uncle Qiren shakes a threatening finger at them, so they don’t throw any snowballs at him, but Wei Ying gets no such forbearance and has to run to the house, scooping up snow and futilely flinging it over his shoulder.

“I hate you both!” he yells as snow trickles down his back, and he contorts to try and escape the biting cold. “No presents for you! Ever!”

He hears laughter and some words, but he completely, utterly, egregiously loses the ability to form thoughts or insults as he skids into the foyer and comes face to face with Lan Zhan.

Apparently, yesterday had not been a fluke. Or if it was, today was an equal amount of fluke. Lan Zhan is still excessively good looking and Wei Ying still thinks he looks excessively kissable. It’s just an objective fact. He has objectively attractive eyes, an objectively attractive nose, and objectively attractive lips that are, currently, pursed in disapproval.

“I didn’t start it, they did,” Wei Ying points out. “Therefore, I am allowed to hate them. Look! They got snow down my back!”

He tries to show Lan Zhan, but Lan Zhan just sighs.

“Can I take your coat?”

The words sound polite, but his tone is so bland, Wei Ying is immediately annoyed. There is a perfectly good coat rack two feet from him, but Lan Zhan is apparently intending to take his coat...somewhere else? Off to another room like an unwanted guest. Oh. Wei Ying gets it. Like a guest.

“Don’t bother. I’ll just hang it here with everyone else’s.” He purposefully hangs it over Lan Zhan’s grey coat with a raised eyebrow of challenge.

Jiang Cheng would have rolled his eyes. Lan Zhan just stares at Wei Ying and walks away.

Wei Ying is more than a little confused. He didn’t expect that they would be best friends after one day, but...he thought Lan Zhan had at least liked him. He had bought him a coloring book, for fuck’s sake.

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, wait!” Wei Ying runs after him, catching up just as he’s about to go into a room with a full-size grand piano Wei Ying hadn’t noticed before and will definitely take a minute to notice a little more thoroughly once he’s figured out why Lan Zhan suddenly hates him.

“Lan Zhan, I’m sorry,” he says, giving Lan Zhan his most apologetic, truthful smile. “Can we start over today? Hi, I’m Wei Ying, nice to meet you. Thank you for offering to take my coat.”

He holds out a hand to Lan Zhan, who looks at it as though he’s not quite sure if Wei Ying is holding a joy buzzer, or possibly a poisonous snake, but slowly, reluctantly, he accepts, shaking Wei Ying’s hand. Being raised well must be a constant burden.

“Wei Ying, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Lan Zhan.”

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan is suddenly, electrifyingly aware that it is a terrible, terrible idea to be shaking hands with Wei Ying, and he drops his hand as though it has burned a hole into him.

Which, more or less speaking, it has.

Two days ago, he had not been looking forward to meeting this supposed fiancé mama and baba had invited for Boxing Day Christmas dinner, and he’d been glad the man was asleep when he’d finally snuck into his parents house to see if there was pumpkin pie left. But he hadn’t had any such luck when he’d come by for morning tea. He’d heard the man insult Jingyi, and then the man had called him ugly, which seemed unnecessarily rude. He’d assumed his brother’s disastrous taste in men was holding firm.

And then it had only gotten worse.

Because after that first less-than-stellar impression, the man—fine, Wei Ying; Lan Zhan can be an adult and call his brother’s fiancé Wei Ying—had smiled at him, and Lan Zhan had nearly buckled under the weight of a falling anvil. It was spectacular, radiating on the face of a man flushed from just waking up, with hair mussed from sleeping on the couch, and with eyes that twinkled with constant mirth. Lan Zhan had taken an involuntary step backward as though getting a little further away would be at all helpful.

But it wasn’t.

Wei Ying was funny, and he moved like he was animated by joy and curiosity. Lan Zhan had never felt this particular riptide yanking at his feet, and he didn’t know how to hold his balance against its constant onslaught. Whose type am I, Wei Ying had asked, and it had taken all of Lan Zhan’s considerable willpower and love for his brother not to growl possessively and snap mine.

“He’s not that bad, jiujiu,” Jingyi had said when Lan Zhan was still staring at the door Wei Ying had exited through minutes before. “You’ll like him. We all do.”

Lan Zhan can’t remember what he’d said, if he’d said anything. He had just finished his tea, done the day's house calls in record time, and driven into the city.

He didn’t even particularly like Chicago, for all that he’d spent nearly his entire life near it. The only time he’d really left was to go to medical school, because all the Lan doctors went to Johns Hopkins. He’d always thought that was why his uncle had decided to get an MBA instead. The University of Pennsylvania wasn’t far from Baltimore, but far enough to be a clearly-flying flag of rebellion. Plus, it had a better hockey team.

Lan Zhan had no excuse to get in his car, no reason to drive east, toward the lake, toward this newly forming center of gravity, so he made one up. He would go see Xichen and then he would water Xichen’s plants. That was all. He was certainly not considering riding the L all afternoon to find Wei Ying’s stop.

He hadn’t had to ride the train, though, had he? No, no, fate had conspired—with him? Against him? He hadn’t been sure then, and he isn’t sure now, but either way, he’d run into Wei Ying in his brother’s flat, because of course Wei Ying had keys. Of course his brother’s fiancé had keys to his flat and knew his cat and knew the restaurants in the neighborhood, Lan Zhan had reminded himself over and over like a ward against evil. His brother’s fiancé. His brother’s fiancé.

Why had any words come out of his mouth, particularly words like “I should get to know my brother’s fiancé” and “Are you busy”? They were reckless, dangerous words, and Lan Zhan had never been reckless. He was, in fact, the sensible one. Haohan had been the smart one, Xichen the lucky one, and Lan Zhan the sensible one. He was the one who thought through the details and considered the consequences. He was not the one who flirted with unavailable men or bought them presents or looked at their face in the falling snow and wanted to kiss them so badly his feet had felt rooted to the ground, encased in a twisting column of ice and fire.

He had only mentioned it was Wei Ying’s birthday because he had thought mama would want to know. He hadn’t actually expected her to fly into a fluttering panic, randomly calling every “Y. Wei” in the phone book until it had occurred to Lan Zhan that his uncle would know where Wei Ying lived, and they could narrow it down.

When, he wondered, had it become something “they” were doing? Probably when he agreed to make the shuiguo dangao because his mother was making dinner.

A tiny part of him, the slowly-diminishing logical part, had actually thought it must have been a fluke, that shattering bolt of lightning that seemed to follow in the wake of Wei Ying’s smiles.

Again, it wasn’t.

And then he had been stupid enough to put his hand into Wei Ying’s hand, feel the curve of his fingers, the pattern of lines across his palm, and it had burned like rivers of fire flowing through veins, through arteries, and into every capillary of his body.

Wei Ying grins at him, apparently pleased that Lan Zhan has forgiven him for whatever sin he seems to think he’s committed.

“That’s better. So! Do you play ping pong too?” he asks. “I can’t decide if I think you’re the undisputed Lan ping-pong champion or that you’ve never ever played out of sheer stubbornness. You seem capable of either.”

The corner of Lan Zhan’s mouth tugs itself upward without his permission.

“Would you like to find out what I’m capable of?” he replies softly, kicking himself for the possibly inappropriate words and the undeniably inappropriate tone. He hasn’t even remotely been a celibate monk his whole life, but he’s also never been so incapable of controlling his base reactions. He feels like he’s a spectator watching himself slowly lose his mind because of a pretty face and a single interesting day, powerless to stop the inexorable slide into madness.

But Wei Ying just laughs and slaps Lan Zhan on the back. “Oh I hope you are actual competition. Jingyi just falls apart like a wet tissue.”

“Wei-ge, you have such a sharp eye,” Sizhui says, as he and Jingyi stomp snow off their boots. “That’s just the kind of keen observation we need more of around here.”

“Hey, Sizhui,” Jingyi says pleasantly before he flips Sizhui two casual middle fingers.

Sizhui and Wei Ying both double over laughing, and Lan Zhan can’t help his grin. It’s almost unbelievable to see his nephews so carefree. It’s only been three years since his sister died, only five years since her diagnosis, and while their normal baseline is fairly happy, the boys have drifted between bleak sorrow and blank neutrality more often than not. This easy cheer feels like a Christmas miracle.

Lan Zhan looks at Wei Ying. No, he realizes, it’s not magic. It’s his doing. Wei Ying’s influence. It’s because he doesn’t look at them and see only their grief. It’s because he doesn’t expect them to be sad, and so they don’t have to be. They can set down their loss and just be boys again.

Then again, maybe it is magic, Lan Zhan decides, listening to their echoing laughter as they drag Wei Ying off to the ping-pong table. It seems to be a thing Wei Ying is capable of. He doesn’t intend to join them, but Wei Ying grins at him.

“Come on, Lan Zhan.”

He doesn’t have a choice, does he?

Lan Zhan is, in fact, very competitive about ping-pong, which is entirely Haohan’s fault. She was the sweetest, kindest, gentlest of sisters, except when it came to ping-pong, and then she was ruthless and a terrible winner, always dancing around the room singing victory songs when she won, which was often. A lot like Jingyi, actually, Lan Zhan thinks, watching him play. He wishes he could spend hours and days listening to his nephews trash talking and laughing, but before he knows it, he’s lined up across the table from Wei Ying. Wei Ying shoots him a challenging smirk, and Lan Zhan’s stomach does enthusiastic somersaults.

“Are you all downstairs? It’s time for dinner!” his mother’s voice calls from the top of the stairs, a tragedy and a relief.

The boys clatter up without even a second glance back, but Wei Ying tips his head with an unfairly adorable pout. “I guess I’ll have to find out later, huh.”

Lan Zhan has no idea what gets into him, what crazy imp possesses him, but his fingers are wrapped around Wei Ying’s wrist before he can stop himself, tightly enough to feel the fluttering pulse beneath the soft skin.

“Maybe you will,” he says, a half-smile curving his lips before he releases Wei Ying.

There’s a part of him—he’s man enough to admit which part—that is deliciously, wickedly gratified by Wei Ying’s slightly widened eyes, and the way his expression shifts to something intricately dark and winding.

“Jiujiu, Wei Ying, food! Laolao won’t let us eat without you!”

Lan Zhan forces himself to move, to put one foot on the stairs, then another, and eventually, he is walking away from trouble even though he can hear trouble following behind him.

His mother hadn’t asked what Wei Ying liked to eat, but he seems elated by her usual blend of America and China—chang shou mian, jiaozi, and baked macaroni and cheese—taking some of everything but, Lan Zhan notices, eating more of the jiaozi, her specialty, than anything else.

How does he know, Lan Zhan wonders, watching Wei Ying bite into a fried dumpling and roll his eyes with bliss. He has the unwelcome thought that maybe Xichen told him. And then he can’t think about anything else. Xichen holding Wei Ying’s hand. Xichen telling him about their family’s likes and dislikes. Xichen laughing at Wei Ying’s sunny smile, gazing into his eyes, unbuttoning the second white button of his black…

“Zhan-er.”

A piercing voice breaks through the sneaky hate spiral, and his head snaps up, away from his hands which are shredding a napkin into tiny, tiny pieces.

“Shushu?”

His uncle is looking at him with a half-raised eyebrow and narrowed eyes, and Lan Zhan collects himself. He is being a moody teenager.

“I said, we went to see your brother today. He looks good. Dr. Nie says he’s recovering well and they expect him to wake up soon. Have you had a chance to see him?”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan acknowledges noncommittally.

When they had been boys, seven and nine, they had gotten chicken pox at the same time, and Lan Zhan had been miserable for two weeks, but Xichen only had a few spots and hardly any fever. Instead of going to play with his friends as soon as he was better, though, he’d played checkers with Lan Zhan, brought him water, sneaked him extra pudding, and read him stories until he slept. Lan Zhan remembers very few things from when he was seven, but he remembers that.

Lan Zhan doesn’t want to admit that he had stood in the doorway of the hospital room and looked at his brother, his strong, brilliant, charmed brother and been unable to take a single step toward the bed his body was lying in. He had talked to Dr. Nie instead, owner of the sonorous phone voice, who assured him Xichen was healing as expected.

“Oh that’s good, sweetheart,” his mother says, so gently, he suspects maybe she knows anyway. “Do you want to go get the cake now?”

“Cake?” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan catches the tail end of a puzzled frown on his face.

“Yes, of course there’s cake!” Lan Zhan’s mother chirps. She’s also happier than Lan Zhan can remember seeing her, and he wonders if it’s just the thrill of something, anything to celebrate or if it’s uniquely Wei Ying-oriented. He suspects the latter. “It’s your birthday. Chinese bakery-style fruit cake!”

Wei Ying laughs. “I should have known you’d make cake. You are very honestly the best popo I have ever had.”

Mama giggles. Lan Zhan can’t believe his mother actually giggles. “A-Ying, I didn’t make the cake. It’s so much work! ZhanZhan made it. “

Lan Zhan needs very badly to escape the look of pleasure and surprise that crosses Wei Ying’s face. Every expression he makes seems calculated to stab Lan Zhan directly in the gut, and although he knows that it’s possible to survive a knife wound to the stomach, he isn’t sure he can handle these repeated assaults.

“Yes, I’ll get the cake,” he agrees, as the kitchen provides him with a convenient escape.

Lan Zhan stands over the sink and stares out of the window instead of getting the cake, until his uncle touches his shoulder lightly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, and Lan Zhan fervently hopes that his uncle thinks it’s only concern for Xichen.

“No.”

“Oh thank god,” his uncle sighs in relief, and that, at least, makes Lan Zhan laugh, even if it’s a little bitter. “Well, then, get the cake or Jingyi will start chewing on the plates.”

It’s just the usual shuiguo dangao—chiffon cake with whipped cream frosting and fruit. Lan Zhan couldn’t even find great fruit, because it’s the middle of winter, but Wei Ying acts like no one has ever made him a birthday cake before. His face lights up, glowing in the candlelight, and it takes a great deal of effort for Lan Zhan not to drop the cake in his lap and run away. He does not run away, he reminds himself. He is not the one who runs away.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, grabbing Lan Zhan’s wrist, the touch searing his skin. “Thanks, man. No one has made me shuiguo dangao since I was...I don’t even remember. This is great. Like, so great.”

They’re only thoughtful, polite words, and they shouldn’t make him feel anything, but Lan Zhan imagines himself leaning over and running his fingers across the line of Wei Ying’s chin, tilting it up, and kissing him.

He twists his hand inward to break Wei Ying’s hold on him, coughing so he can subtly cover the movement with a hand over his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

When the cake is done and all the plates have been cleared, Wei Ying looks awkward and nervous again.

“Uh, thank you all for making my birthday so...different,” Wei Ying tells them. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” mama says, hugging him. “You’re family.”

Lan Zhan thinks Wei Ying is going to cry. He looks away and blinks hard, his mouth twisting into a forced smile.

“I’m really not, but thank you. Thank you so much,” he says, hugging her back, but his voice breaks off on the last word.

“Music?” Lan Zhan asks, unable to think of any other way to help, but it works, distracting everyone.

“Should I get my oboe?”

“Which one of you is on piano?”

“Does anyone want to hear oboe and piano duets?”

“I’ll play. Shushu can have New Year’s Eve.”

“Shut your face, Sizhui! You don’t know.”

“Zhan-er you are a cruel nephew. You know I hate ‘Auld Lang Syne.’”

“Qiren, you have to be faster to outsmart Wangji.”

“Laolao, I’ll get your violin.”

“Boys, you should both get your instruments. How often do we all get to play anymore?”

“Wait, so you guys play music after every meal? Or just...birthdays? Or...what?” Wei Ying interrupts.

“Dude, all the time,” Jingyi tells him. “Well, at least, we used to do it all the time, when mama…” He stops abruptly, turning his face away, and Lan Zhan’s heart constricts—he wants to say something to deflect, but Sizhui beats him to it with a quick glance at his brother.

“It’s cool, Wei Ying, you don’t have to join in. Not everyone was raised in a miniature orchestra.”

“I play,” Wei Ying says, but it looks like an accident, because he snaps his mouth shut and scrunches up his face in an embarrassed grimace.

“Do you? What do you play?” baba asks curiously.

Wei Ying just laughs, bright and loud. A little nervous, Lan Zhan thinks.

“Oh, I don’t have an instrument anymore. I lost it the last time I moved. I just...I used to play the flute. And..um...the saxophone. Mostly soprano. A very brief flirtation with the bassoon, but that was more to annoy my...my foster brother.”

The whole family is silent. A silence, Lan Zhan knows, that usually comes before a torrential downpour of noise, but to his surprise, only mama speaks up.

“We don’t have a saxophone, but we have a flute. Would you like to join us?”

It was nice of his mother to ask Wei Ying, but Lan Zhan knows that tone. It means “ZhanZhan, go get the flute.” Sizhui also seems to have heard the command, because he thunders up the stairs, so Lan Zhan sits at the piano and runs his fingers up and down the keys in a series of scales, the arpeggios stretching his fingers. He is not showing off. He is not. But he still smiles when Wei Ying sits next to him.

“Holy shit, Lan Zhan. You are good.”

The side of Wei Ying’s thigh brushes Lan Zhan’s. He congratulates himself when his fingers do not falter, flipping through the first few bars of half a dozen songs before settling on Mozart's Sonata No. 11, Alla Turca. Wei Ying hums along next to him, surprising Lan Zhan. He switches to Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, and Wei Ying ba-dum-ba-bummms on every thumping left-hand chord along with him. The corner of Lan Zhan’s mouth starts to turn up. He shifts tone to see if he can trip up this inexplicable man, sliding into Clair de Lune, his favorite, and Wei Ying shakes his head, lightly touching the top of Lan Zhan’s leg, drawing the fascinated attention of every other part of his body.

“Not that, I’ll cry. Don’t embarrass me on my birthday, eh?” He’s still smiling, but there’s something serious around his eyes that Lan Zhan wants to know more about. He doesn’t have time to ask before Sizhui is handing Wei Ying the flute case, though.

“Oh, well, I guess I’ll be embarrassed on my birthday anyway,” he says with a laugh, but he assembles the flute swiftly with sure fingers, and Lan Zhan suspects he’s being modest.

Mama lifts her violin and Lan Zhan wonders if she’ll choose something easy for everyone to join in, but no, she picks a wildcard, Schumann’s Romance, Op. 94, No. 2, and Jingyi groans. It’s a pretty duet, but it’s just that: a duet, a duet with a yearning violin and a light, delicate piano. It’s a song for missing a beloved son and daughter, but, he’s glad to hear, she’s playing it without overwhelming sorrow.

“You’re dragging, Zhan-er,” shushu calls from the comfort of the couch, and Lan Zhan grimaces. He is not dragging. His uncle is always ahead.

“I’m not trading. You still get New Year’s Eve,” he retorts, and shushu grunts.

“Ungrateful nephew.”

“Boring,” Jingyi declares, and interrupts with the opening notes of the Cantina Band song.

Wei Ying laughs. “I know this one!” he crows and joins in.

Mama sighs, but she knows it too and she falls in with baba, who sways cheerfully with his viola, bounding through the silly, swooning song.

It never goes back to a serious music night. Jingyi picks “When I’m Sixty-Four” next because no one is fast enough to gainsay him, Sizhui beats him on the next round with The Pink Panther theme song, which is really meant for saxophone, but he makes a good showing on the clarinet. And then, somehow, right after the last, crashing note, Wei Ying turns it into “Somewhere Over The Rainbow,” with an eight-note transition that is so smoothly done, Lan Zhan’s eyebrows raise in curiosity, but Wei Ying just shrugs and keeps playing.

To everyone’s shock—baba actually stops playing to stare—shushu sings. He’s really the only singer in the family, and he can rarely be convinced.

Someday I’ll wish upon a star and wake up where the clouds are far behind me.

Lan Zhan watches Wei Ying, eyes closed, lips pursed, and he aches with want. He wants Wei Ying to look at him and smile. He wants to hand Wei Ying his coat and kiss his ear and go home with him to their bed. He can’t do this. His brother is going to wake up—he has to wake up—and then he’s going to spend the rest of his life with Wei Ying, and Lan Zhan is going to hate him. In less than forty-eight hours, all those years he didn’t know what he wanted have unreasonably focused very clearly on one thing, one person, one future, and he’s too late. Maybe he really will move to the Ionian islands.

Birds fly over the rainbow. Why, then, why can't I?

There’s a quiet lull after the last notes, and Lan Zhan thinks maybe they’re done for the night, but Wei Ying asks, “One more?”

One more, everyone agrees. He grins and with a wink at Lan Zhan, plays the first few notes of a song practically every pianist born after 1973 knows. Lan Zhan shakes his head, but he joins in. Wei Ying raises his eyebrows at shushu in an obvious challenge, and although shushu glares at him, he sings.

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in. There's an old man sittin' next to me, makin' love to his tonic and gin.

Lan Zhan would never in a million years have bet that his uncle knew the lyrics to “Piano Man,” but here they are on a Sunday evening in December, listening to his rich baritone sing la, la, la, di, dee, da, la, la, di, dee, da, da, dum. Instead of playing, Jingyi, and Sizhui, and baba sing boisterously with him.

Sing us a song, you're the piano man, sing us a song tonight. Well we’re all in the mood for a melody, and you’ve got us feelin’ alright.

There was, apparently, no end to the miracles Wei Ying could perform. Within days of knowing him, Wei Ying has made them a family again, the family Lan Zhan remembers. And when Xichen wakes up, Lan Zhan thinks, he’ll be part of it again, too.

Mama commands Lan Zhan to drive Wei Ying back to the city, and Lan Zhan is both thrilled and apprehensive. He is genuinely struggling to keep his hands from touching Wei Ying’s face right now, and he suspects another half hour alone in his company is only going to make the situation worse. But shushu and baba have something work-related to discuss, and mama never likes leaving the boys, so he’s the only one.

“I promise, I’ll be very quiet,” Wei Ying says, misreading his trepidation.

“I doubt it,” Lan Zhan mutters, and then kicks himself for being rude again. It doesn’t seem to bother Wei Ying, though.

“You’re right, I won’t be,” he agrees with a cheerful smirk that sticks firmly in Lan Zhan’s mind, waiting to be replayed.

He is quiet, though, for most of the ride, and Lan Zhan debates whether he should try saying something. But it seems like every time he does, he’s mean or rude, because it’s the only way he can think of to stop himself from saying hideously inappropriate things like “are you sure you want to marry my brother” or “wouldn’t you rather marry me instead.” He’s known the man for two days. It is ridiculous.

Wei Ying fiddles with the radio for a bit, skipping past Christmas songs still playing, pop stations, rock stations until he finds something he likes, sitting back with a satisfied sigh. Lan Zhan is genuinely speechless. It’s the worst possible song he could have picked.

Oh but you’re charming, with your smile so warm,

Lan Zhan has always loved Ella Fitzgerald, and this is one of his all-time favorite songs by any singer, but at the moment, he has never resented anyone or anything more.

There is nothing for me but to love you,

He tries not to listen to the lyrics and fails, and Wei Ying is not helping by singing along softly. He glances at Lan Zhan and smiles, and Lan Zhan considers pulling the car over and either making him get out or...something else.

And that laugh that wrinkles your nose touches my foolish heart.

“I like your family,” Wei Ying says out of the blue.

‘Cause I love you, just the way you look tonight.

Finally, Lan Zhan has an excuse to turn down the volume, although the song is over and the damage is already done.

“I mean...I really like them.” Wei Ying sounds sad, and Lan Zhan wonders why.

“They like you too.” He aims for reassuring, but Wei Ying frowns.

“I know. It’s weird.”

“Is it? Do you expect people not to like you?” Lan Zhan thinks that seems fairly unlikely, and Wei Ying shakes his head.

“No, never mind. It’s just...the family I grew up with...it wasn’t like this.” His pensive mood lifts with a sudden, swift grin. “For one thing, we never played so much classical music. My...yangfu is a jazz man. Upright bass. He still plays in clubs and stuff, and we only ever listened to jazz in the house. God, I was probably fifteen before I’d even heard of Billy Joel, much less Queen or AC/DC or anything like that. A-Cheng still regards music that includes the word ‘rock’ with deep suspicion.”

“A-Cheng?”

Wei Ying looks out the window and chews on the edge of his lip. “Jiang Cheng. My foster brother. My...uh...ex. My best friend. When I moved to Chicago, he...moved here too.”

Lan Zhan breathes steadily, trying not to dislike a man he doesn’t know for the sin of having been loved by Wei Ying.

“Anyway, I just keep thinking...if this whole thing hadn’t happened to La...to Xichen, I never would have known you all, and I feel really guilty for thinking I’m lucky.”

Lan Zhan can’t reply to that. He’s currently being crushed under sixteen different kinds of guilt.

He follows Wei Ying’s directions, pulling up in front of the apartment building he vaguely remembers from the day before and stops the car.

“We are all lucky,” he says, trying not to say all the words tripping over themselves to get out of his mouth. “Xichen will always be part of our family, no matter what, and now you are too.”

Wei Ying flashes him a bright smile, and he looks like he’s going to get out of the car, which makes sense, since this is his apartment, and yet it feels like the most devastating thing Lan Zhan can imagine. He searches wildly for an excuse to keep Wei Ying here, nearby a few more minutes. He remembers the question Wei Ying didn’t answer before, and asks it again.

“Are you writing about spaceships still?”

Wei Ying laughs, a buoyant chuckle that tap dances over every single one of Lan Zhan’s nerve endings.

“No, not spaceships. Not anything, really.”

“No?” Lan Zhan doesn’t mean to pry, He just can’t stop asking questions. He can’t stop wanting to know everything about Wei Ying.

Wei Ying shrugs. “Not for years. I guess the urge comes and goes but...the output is disappointing. It’s not just that my life is kind of ordinary. I don’t think I feel...I don’t think I feel anything deeply enough to write about it.”

He looks surprised by his own words and tips his head.

“I don’t talk about it much. It’s like a missing limb, but...one only I know is missing. I mean, other people know I don’t publish anymore, but they don’t know why I don’t write. It’s different. Anyone can choose not to publish. I can’t write. I try every day, and I can’t write.”

He doesn’t sound sad, he sounds desolate, a once-wild forest cleared of trees, and Lan Zhan wants to take his hand, wants to hold him and comfort him and tell him the words will come, and even if they don’t, it doesn’t matter, he’s still extraordinary without them.

“To the right person, you’re already enough, with or without,” he says, idiotically, and then adds, so he doesn’t sound as much like a besotted teenager. “To your fiancé.”

Before he can react, Wei Ying leans over and kisses Lan Zhan’s cheek, his breath a burst of summer warmth.

“Thank you, Lan Zhan. And thank you for the ride,” he says, climbing out of the car and waving as he disappears into the building.

Lan Zhan hopes Wei Ying doesn’t look out the window or come back outside, because the world inside the car has ended, and it is many, many minutes before he can drive again.

Chapter Text

Wei Ying dreams of a faraway place with swords and magic. He dreams of starships that fly with the moon on their wings. He dreams of a tall, lean, frowning man, whose cheek feels like home. A faint noise interrupts, and he tries to hang on to the dream. He can almost see the words on the page, like a paperback novel in his hand. But sleep is too vast and fragile to hold, and the phone ringing jars him into waking.

“Yeah?” he answers bleary. What time is it? His alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.

“A-Ying, I’m sorry I woke you. I missed talking to you yesterday and I thought I’d catch you before work. Happy birthday!,” his sister’s voice says through the line, a 5:30 am miracle.

“Yanli!”

Wei Ying is suddenly wide awake and weak, plunking onto the couch like a sack of onions. Fuck, he’d meant to call Yanli back...three days ago? Four? He is an awful brother.

“Hey, how are you? Isn’t it really early for a Monday?”

She laughs. “Dear boy, I have four children. I was lucky to sleep in until six. The kids are all having breakfast, so I had a little time before we head off to do exciting family things! How are you?”

Despite the way it’s felt the last few days, Wei Ying isn’t really a crier, not like Jiang Cheng. But there’s this feeling he gets when he talks to Yanli sometimes, like the warm embrace of home, that always makes it harder not to cry, that pats his back and tells him it’s okay if he wants to cry.

When he was eleven, he and Jiang Cheng hadn’t meant to steal their neighbor’s coop full of chickens. They’d just seen the hens looking so sad and lonely and thought they could use a walk. Apparently “walking chickens that don’t belong to you” was considered “stealing chickens” in Florida.

Heated words were said. Authorities were threatened. Wei Ying had been terrified that this was the end of life as he knew it. The Jiangs didn’t have to keep him, and now he was certain they wouldn’t.

No one believed it was an innocent mistake except Yanli. She was only three years older than they were, but she had stood between her brothers and the arguing adults and kindly, politely, but very firmly, told the neighbor that A-Ying and A-Cheng were good boys. They’d been misunderstood, all the chickens had been safely returned, and everyone was going to go back to their houses.

And everyone had. Even yangfu and yangmu.

It wasn’t until Yanli had turned to Wei Ying and A-Cheng, one hand on her hip and a twitching smile on her lips and asked, “What am I going to do with you two?” that Wei Ying had started to cry, flinging himself into her arms and weeping at the injustice of caged chickens and not being trusted.

He wants to do that now. He is thirty-four, and he wants to sob on his sister’s shoulder, have her pet his hair and tell him he’ll be okay. Even if it’s a lie.

“A-Li, I’m wretched and miserable without you and the kids,” he answers, truthful but teasing. “You should come see me.”

“And Zixuan?” she teases back.

“Ugh, fine, he can come too,” Wei Ying laughs. Crisis averted. Zixuan is the anti-emotion.

“We’re coming this summer, love. It’s not so far away,” she reminds him, but it feels very far away and he wants to wheedle her into visiting now.

There is also something about talking to his sister that turns him into a big baby.

Wei Ying curls up under a blanket on the couch and they talk a little while longer. Well, Yanli talks mostly—about the kids, about yangfu and yangmu. Even the details about Zixuan’s promotion to CFO and plans for expanding the backyard landscaping are part of this best birthday present he could have asked for.

“A-Ying, everyone is done with breakfast, and you should be getting ready for work. I love you, and I’ll talk to you again soon, okay? Kids, say bye to da-jiu!”

Wei Ying smiles at the screaming cacophony on the other end of the line before it goes silent, and he absolutely does not cry. He doesn’t have time to cry, he has to do what Yanli told him and get ready for work.

It’s already a better day than he was expecting.

But then, of course, work brings him back to reality. It’s not bad. It’s just work. He tries to write down the bits of his dream he can remember. Again, it’s not bad. It just feels like work. He remembers when it used to be effortless. The ideas and words flowed through him like they existed in whole in another realm and he was only a conduit for stories.

Wei Ying rests his chin in his hands and watches the people stream past him, silently counting down to the end of his shift, since there’s nothing better to do. One old woman in a rainbow knitted hat. Three teenagers without coats. Six babies being carried by men, twelve babies being carried by women.

He jumps when hands bang on his window. He fucking hates it when people do that.

“Ying-ge! Ying-ge! Ying-ge!”

Startled to hear his name, Wei Ying’s head jerks up and a surprised smile launches itself across his lips.

“What!? What are you guys doing here?” he yells back through the glass.

“We’re here to take you skating! We always go skating after Christmas, but it’s been such a weird year, we haven’t gotten to go yet,” Sizhui explains, his cheeks flushed with cold and excitement.

Wei Ying stares at them blankly. “But I don’t skate.”

“You said you did. You said you loved it. God, old people are so forgetful,” Jingyi complains, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I love it as an activity that exists in theory for other people. That doesn’t mean I engage in it.” Wei Ying doesn’t mention that the only reason he’d ever attempted to ice skate was that Lina Wang had begged, and he had been promised sex. It was the only incentive he could think of to strap knives to his feet and then try to balance on them.

“You have to! Everyone came, even Uncle and jiujiu!”

Oh, Wei Ying realizes that there is, perhaps, another incentive.

“Fine! Fine, you gremlins. But only because I want to see the Uncle Qiren On Ice Holiday Extravaganza,” he laughs, waving to his on-time replacement and following them down the stairs out to the street.

Not because of the murder of fluttering crows beating in his chest at the thought of seeing Lan Zhan.

“Oh man, you’re going to be so surprised. Uncle Qiren could have played pro hockey,” Jingyi calls over his shoulder as Wei Ying jogs to catch up with the unnecessarily speedy walk of teenage boys.

“Yeah, waigong says he was an awesome enforcer too, but there weren’t a lot of Chinese professional hockey players back then, so he got an MBA instead,” Sizhui adds when he sees Wei Ying’s stunned face.

Actually, upon reflection, Wei Ying thinks it explains a lot about Uncle Qiren.

“Wei Ying, we are so glad you were free!” popo says, hugging him quickly, but tightly enough that his ribs compress and he can’t breathe. What is it, he wonders, about being squished by affection that he likes so much?

“Popo, I am always free for you,” he teases, and she laughs, turning her face up to him, a brilliant star, and he has to shove the guilt aside. Even if he’s lying about why they know him, they still like him. That part isn’t a lie. They like him.

He doesn’t see Lan Zhan right away, surrounded by a herd of tall Lans. And then he does, and he’s breathless all over again.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says intelligently, and the corner of Lan Zhan’s mouth turns up.

“Wei Ying.”

The aforementioned Wei Ying’s knees shake. Actually shake. Is he fifteen, that the sound of his name in someone else’s mouth can cause a seismic response in his body?

“Wei Ying, the boys tell me you haven’t skated much?” gonggong asks, and it jolts Wei Ying, alerting him to the fissure he is about to fall in.

“Nah, ice rinks were for the rich kids,” he says thoughtlessly, and backpedals immediately, seeing the wince from gonggong. “I mean, I grew up in Miami. We didn’t have free ice for skating. Although I did roller skate a lot. That’s about the same, right?”

Evidently it is not, and Wei Ying listens to four out of six Lans explain to him how, exactly, ice skating differs from roller skating. At one point, he meets Lan Zhan’s sympathetic expression over the top of Sizhui’s animated description of blocking, and he lets his eyes widen with an undisguised plea for help. Lan Zhan’s mouth twitches and he shakes his head, so minutely, so mean. Wei Ying flicks his eyebrows together in pretend outrage and Lan Zhan’s hint of a smile cracks. He looks away and bites his lip, and Wei Ying desperately wants to slip his hand into Lan Zhan’s, kiss the corner of his mouth, and laugh with him. He is becoming every kind of romance novel trope.

When they get to the rink, Wei Ying has to admit, he’s pretty impressed. Sandwiched between two towering buildings, the rink is surrounded by Christmas lights, decorated trees, and whirling, loud, joyful people. It looks like a scene from a movie, and he stops for a minute, trying to take it all in, trying to think of how he would write it.

“What are you thinking about?” Lan Zhan asks, voice pitched low, seeming to mean his words only for Wei Ying.

“I don’t know,” Wei Ying admits. “How light is tangible and intangible, how we are all seeing the same rink, the same skaters, but seeing them totally differently. How this will all look different tomorrow. How everything changes without warning.”

He looks up at Lan Zhan, who looks confused, and shrugs. “Nothing, I guess. Nothing that matters.”

Lan Zhan’s jaw clenches and he huffs out a breath that sounds almost pained. Wei Ying pats his shoulder, a friendly don’t worry about it pat, and Lan Zhan recoils like he’s been punched.

Well, Wei Ying sighs, not everything changes. Lan Zhan is still unpredictable about being touched.

Jingyi and Sizhui have a lot of opinions about The Selection of Skates, and Wei Ying has no opinions. He lets them poke his feet and finally settle on the right size, helping him jam his feet into the skates and lace them. His feet finally know how Victorian women in corsets felt, and he silently apologizes. They’re good feet. They don’t deserve this torture.

Standing is fine.

Walking is not fine.

“No, this won’t work,” he says, annoyed when everyone laughs at him. “No, it won’t,” he insists.

“Come on, laodie, we’ll carry you,” Jingyi says, adding insult to injury.

Wei Ying assumes he’s joking. He is not. He and Sizhui line up, one on either side of him, and hoist Wei Ying by his armpits, shuffling with him to the ice. The only thing worse would have been if gonggong and Uncle Qiren had done it, and as it is, they’re both trying very hard not to laugh at his indignity.

Despite their skepticism, roller skating does make a difference in that Wei Ying does not immediately fall on his face. He gets about twenty feet before he gets overconfident and has to be caught by Jingyi and Sizhui again. They are terrible boys, dragging him halfway around the rink with confident strides, and he tells them so.

“You are terrible boys!” he yells through the cold wind on his face.

They laugh but finally slow down, depositing him gently back on the boards, and he clutches the rail gratefully as they skate away, turning to skate backward, sideways, fast, like they don’t realize it’s miraculous to push your legs down into something solid and have it propel you forward.

Wei Ying watches for a while. Strangers spin by with bright scarves and hats, flapping coats, wild grins. Popo and gonggong hold hands and skate slowly, talking, smiling every time Jingyi and Sizhui lap them. Uncle Qiren is amazing, as fast and nimble as the boys, playing some sort of game with them where they crouch on the ice and Uncle Qiren races in a circle to push one of them on the back, sending the victim hurtling forward unsteadily, laughing and flailing their arms to keep their balance. Wei Ying thinks he will never understand why people want to do this, but he loves being a part of it.

“I’ve got you,” Lan Zhan says out of nowhere, sliding a hand around Wei Ying’s waist and grabbing his forearm with the other.

He pulls Wei Ying away from the wall unrelentingly, despite the way Wei Ying instinctively tenses at losing his grip on the safety of the wooden rail. But it’s only a second before Wei Ying realizes that Lan Zhan really does have him, and he actually feels steadier now than when he was by himself.

Lan Zhan skates slowly, forcing Wei Ying into his rhythm of hip drop, push, extend, left and right, left and right, until it almost feels natural, and he can stop thinking about it. Once he is no longer afraid he’s going to smash his face on the ice and knock out all his teeth, he has time to consider the way it feels to be inside Lan Zhan’s embrace, to have his arm being held so securely, to be moving in unison. And once he has time to consider it, he has time to realize how much he likes it. So much, he can’t actually think of words for it beyond wow, that’s nice.

“Is that better?” Lan Zhan asks, and Wei Ying nods, afraid if he looks anywhere but straight ahead, he’ll veer wildly out of control, and if he opens his mouth, anything he says will also veer wildly out of control.

With an agile pivot, Lan Zhan lets go and spins, turning to face Wei Ying, skating backward in front of him.

“No! No! Not better, Lan Zhan, not better! Why? Why?” Wei Ying stammers, bobbling wildly until he realizes that Lan Zhan still has an iron grip on his forearms, bracing him and helping him regain the push and slide.

Lan Zhan quirks up the corner of his mouth. “So I could watch you,” he says.

Now Wei Ying has an entirely different problem, namely that part of his anatomy has reacted very definitively to the way Lan Zhan said that and, moreover, is continuing to react to the way he is looking at Wei Ying. Baffled? Interested? Oh, Wei Ying realizes as Lan Zhan’s expression shifts. Maybe...interested?

Wei Ying’s feet conspire against him, catching on each other and catapulting him forward. He crashes into Lan Zhan and throws them both onto the ground. Lan Zhan does something with his leg, kicks it out and twists, catching Wei Ying around the waist and sending them skidding across the ice instead of hitting it directly.

“Sorry, fuck, are you okay?” he asks Lan Zhan, whose eyes are closed and does not look okay. Wei Ying is not having any luck preventing Lans from head injuries this week.

Lan Zhan lifts his head and looks at Wei Ying, opening his eyes slowly, like sleepily waking from a dream, and Wei Ying is suddenly aware that he is lying mostly on top of Lan Zhan, and Lan Zhan is showing no sign of letting go of him. It is almost imperceptible, like everything Lan Zhan does, but Wei Ying is certain Lan Zhan tightens his grip.

“Yes,” he answers, drawing out the word like a caress.

Wei Ying’s face flushes, a heat he can feel flooding his neck and face and ears. He is increasingly not okay, and he is fairly sure Lan Zhan is going to notice any second. But...he doesn’t want to move. It seems perfectly reasonable to lay here, and he thinks it would be equally reasonable to duck his head into the hollow of Lan Zhan’s throat and laugh at how ridiculous they must look.

“Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan says his name, but it sounds more like a question, and Wei Ying wants to say yes, definitely yes, passionately yes to whatever he asks, even if it’s here in public, here in front of the rest of Lan Xichen’s family. He nearly doesn’t care.

Before he can let his baser nature talk him out of it, he rolls off Lan Zhan onto his back, onto the cold ice. “Lan Zhan, I’m sad to report that I am not an ice skating prodigy. I had high hopes.”

“Disappointing,” Lan Zhan agrees, standing far more gracefully than ice skates should allow.

Wei Ying laughs, accepting Lan Zhan’s outstretched hand and the help getting up. They limp back into port and change back into non-lethal footwear. Wei Ying is elated to find a coffee stand selling hot chocolate, and he buys one before they find a bench.

Wei Ying is quiet for a few minutes, sipping his drink. It’s easy to sit quietly with Lan Zhan, and he doesn’t feel like he has to do anything but watch the skating people and listen to the ice rink music. After a while, he chuckles to himself. Lan Zhan turns and raises an eyebrow, and Wei Ying shakes his head.

Silence takes over. Sayin' all we need to say.

“It’s nothing. Just...someone here is a really really big Kenny G fan. I think they’re playing the entire greatest hits oeuvre.”

There's magic here with you and I.

Lan Zhan tilts his head to listen. “You disapprove?”

Let's find some kind of a deeper conversation.

“Nah. He’s not really jazz, but he’s made a lot of people appreciate saxophone music as something other than a marching band thing. Sort of makes me miss it.”

Oh baby, we can have it all by the time this night is over.

“Why did you change to flute?” Lan Zhan asks, leaning back and focusing on Wei Ying. It’s a little unnerving. No one ever listens that carefully to him, which is usually how he prefers it.

“Ah, well, Jiang Cheng played too, and…” Wei Ying shrugs, but Lan Zhan frowns.

“What difference does that make?”

Wei Ying sighs. It’s all water under the dock now, but when they were kids, yangfu had seen Wei Ying’s musical gift and encouraged it, and Jiang Cheng had hated it. It wasn’t really his fault. Yangfu never seemed impressed by anything Jiang Cheng did, just reminding him to practice harder when Wei Ying made first chair or soloist or was invited to exclusive summer camps.

Eventually, it just wasn’t worth it. Wei Ying didn’t want to play jazz professionally, didn’t want a life that revolved only around music, and he could see that lightbulb burning over yangfu’s head, brighter every day. There had been one fight—one fight when he and Jiang Cheng were fifteen—that changed everything. Wei Ying doesn’t even remember how it started. Maybe yangfu had said he was gifted, maybe his eyes had been shining with pride, maybe Wei Ying had accepted it for once, accepted that maybe he wasn’t an outsider after all.

What he does remember is that Jiang Cheng had said the magic words, you’re ruining my life, and Wei Ying had been done. He’d told his saxophone teacher he was quitting the next day. He’d held firm when yangfu looked disappointed, when his music teachers had begged him to reconsider, even when Jiang Cheng had tearfully apologized. Wei Ying didn’t care. He liked flute just fine, but he was never going to be exceptional. It was better that way. Much more peaceful.

“It was just weird having two of us play the same instrument, and he wanted it more than I did,” Wei Ying says, which is also true. “I didn’t want to play professionally, so it was easier to switch before I got dragged into it.”

“You were that good?”

Wei Ying laughs. “Lan Zhan, I’m insulted. Is it so hard to believe? The word ‘prodigy’ was occasionally bandied about.”

He grins so Lan Zhan knows he’s teasing, but Lan Zhan just nods.

“I do believe you. You are a remarkable flautist.”

Oh, great, Wei Ying is blushing again, and he scrambles to change the subject to anything that won’t make him think about kissing Lan Zhan senseless.

“So did you play hockey when you were a kid too?”

Lan Zhan frowns. “I did, but it did not suit me.”

“No? I would have thought you’d be good at anything you put your mind to,” Wei Ying says before realizing how lovesick he sounds, but Lan Zhan just shrugs.

“I was good at it, but hockey has a high propensity for injury, particularly head injury. I am fond of my brain.” His mouth tilts up. “And my teeth.”

“That’s very sensible of you, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says solemnly, thinking that he, too, is fond of Lan Zhan’s teeth and brain. Among other things.

Fuck, back to senseless kissing thoughts.

“Yes, I am always the sensible one,” Lan Zhan says, and he sounds angry about it. “Never the lucky one.”

Ah. Wei Ying realizes this odd mood shift must be about Lan Xichen. That’s fair, he thinks. If it was his brother, he’d be a constant wreck. Impulsively, he reaches out to touch the back of Lan Zhan’s hand, and Lan Zhan turns it, grasping Wei Ying’s fingers.

Wei Ying squeezes his hand. “He’s going to be okay.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. Lan Zhan makes a noncommittal sound, a hmph of yes, I know, or a hmph of I don’t want to talk about it, but he doesn’t release Wei Ying’s hand, and there doesn’t seem to be any polite way to retrieve it. Plus—he doesn’t want to. Wei Ying knows he’s only fooling himself, but he likes sitting here, holding someone’s hand, and watching the spinning world together. He can imagine it’s real for a little longer.

It’s not until the rest of the Lans rejoin them, climbing off of the ice one after another, wind-chapped and happy, that Lan Zhan lets go.

“Boys, boys, let’s take a picture,” popo says, pulling a small camera out of her bag. “We don’t have one with Wei Ying!”

“Oh no, no, I can’t,” Wei Ying argues, and Jingyi snorts.

“Just give in. She won’t give up,” he advises, and Sizhui nods solemn agreement, both of them laughing when popo jokingly swats at them.

Popo grabs a passing woman and presses her into service, and since Wei Ying can’t escape, he does what he’s told and gives in. Everyone seems to know the Lan Clan Family Portrait Drill, and they assemble without being directed, putting Wei Ying into the middle of their circle. Uncle Qiren stands stiffly on one side, mirrored by gonggong on the other. The boys pull popo between them, Jingyi draping an arm over her shoulder, and Sizhui resting his head on hers. She laughs and pretends to squirm away from their relentless affection.

Wei Ying thinks again how thoroughly they all belong to each other. And now, he supposes, he belongs to them too. They’re taking his picture, using tangible light to fix him into their lives. He likes his apartment and his city, but he’s always loved the feeling that he could just walk away with nothing but the cat on his back. It doesn’t feel quite like that anymore, and maybe he’s only liked that feeling because he’s never really felt this one.

They all scrunch together when the woman gestures to them. Wei Ying is surprised when Lan Zhan sets his arm over Wei Ying’s shoulders, but it doesn’t feel strange at all. Not even when he leans in toward Lan Zhan’s warmth. Not even when he turns his face to smile up at Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan smiles back, not just a flicker of his mouth, but an actual smile, and it’s just the two of them.

Just the two of them.

It’s not, though, is it?

“Wei Ying, will you join us for dinner?” gonggong asks, interrupting Wei Ying’s imagination. “We’re getting pizza.”

He wants to say yes. He wants to say yes so badly.

“Gotta feed my lord and master, Chenqing,” he says instead and vigorously hates himself. “Seriously, this was a blast. I’m never ice skating again, you know, but thanks for including me.”

He should tell them the truth now. He wants to tell them so badly.

Say the words, Wei Ying.

“Of course, son. You’re welcome anytime,” gonggong says. “We know you must be worried about Xichen. Anything you need, please tell us. You’re part of our family now.”

Wei Ying had gone bungee jumping once in college, and there was a moment at the top of the jump with his arms spread, looking at the ground below, when it wasn’t clear if he was going to fall or fly.

This is one of those moments.

“You feel like my family too,” he says, and even though it’s a mistake, even though it’s the wrong thing to say and the wrong thing to do, he means every word.

Chapter Text

Sometime well after midnight, after Wei Ying’s second glass of water, third self-flagellation, and fourth attempt at sleep, he finally manages to drift off, only to be woken by Jiang Cheng climbing into bed with him.

“Why…?” he grumbles, half in, half out of sleep.

“Because I’m a fuck up,” Jiang Cheng mumbles, stealing a pillow.

“Yeah, what’s new?”

“Fuck you, and I’m drunk.”

Wei Ying doesn’t have the energy to argue that Jiang Cheng lives less than a mile away. He doesn’t really mind, anyway. The sound of Jiang Cheng breathing, and the existence of a dip in the bed next to him, make it easier for Wei Ying to sleep without replaying all his mistakes and failures.

Surprisingly, it’s not Chenqing’s stabby cat feet that wake him, it’s Mama Cass’s effortless croon and, more unusually, the smell of food. Wei Ying staggers into the kitchen to investigate this mystery. Well, the room that is the kitchen, dining room, living room, music room, and office—a very handy all-in-one. But it rarely smells like cooking. What’s the point of cooking in a city with 24-hour takeout?

While I’m alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me.

“Where did you find food in my house?” Wei Ying asks, peeking over Jiang Cheng’s shoulder at the contents of the frying pan. It even looks like edible food.

“I buy it and leave it here in case I get hungry,” Jiang Cheng retorts, “because you would eat cardboard if it was delivered by a seventeen-year-old on a bike.”

“It’s hard to find a decent job when you’re seventeen. I don’t blame them for the cardboard food.”

Sweet dreams ‘til sunbeams find you.

Wei Ying is proud that, even though Jiang Cheng doesn’t turn around, he can still sense his eye roll. It must have been a really good one. Probably a significant duration, with fluttering eyelashes.

Wei Ying wonders what could possibly have happened to Jiang Cheng that necessitated The Mamas & The Papas on a Tuesday morning. They’re usually more of a Monday Monday thing. He chuckles to himself and decides not to share his dreadful joke with his brother. He doesn’t seem in the mood.

Sweet dreams that leave all worries far behind you.

“So, what did you fuck up this time?” he asks, perching on a chair.

He expects Jiang Cheng to snort in irritation or snap something snarky, but he just sighs.

“I don’t know. I met...someone...but...maybe I rushed it.”

But in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.

Wei Ying sits forward, intrigued. “Have I really been that distracted? I missed an entire Jiang Cheng relationship?”

But again, Jiang Cheng defies expectation and shakes his head without a single rejoinder. Wei Ying raises his eyebrows. It must be serious. Jiang Cheng doesn’t answer until he sets down two plates of food.

“Yeah, well, I met her that other day when you were off galavanting in the suburbs and we…um...hit it off.”

He blushes, and now Wei Ying is really fascinated. Jiang Cheng blows through relationships like gusts of Chicago wind, and he’s rarely embarrassed about the details.

“Anyway, she stayed over and we’ve hung out a couple of times, but...I...I don’t know, A-Xian, I really like her, and I told her. Apparently, that was a mistake. She’s like you.”

“Hey, ouch,” Wei Ying complains.

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. She likes her independence and she’s sort of...I don’t know...set in her life. But...she keeps answering the phone when I call, so...maybe there’s a chance? I’m trying to be patient.”

“And last night?”

“I wasn’t patient.”

Ah. Well, that would explain the drunk. Wei Ying eats his eggs. Amazing. Things like eggs can be cooked in his kitchen. “Well, it’s not like I have any good advice. We’re going to be alone together forever. Good thing you can cook.”

Jiang Cheng laughs, but it’s hollow and mirthless. Wei Ying sympathizes. A few days ago, he wouldn’t have minded the idea. Sometimes he even entertains the thought of maybe trying a relationship again, although luckily, every time he thinks about it, he remembers why it doesn’t work—the way their fights always turn mean, the way sex always bring out their worst jealousies, the way they always know best how to hurt each other.

“Maybe give her some space today?” Wei Ying suggests before Jiang Cheng leaves, guessing by the crease between Jiang Cheng’s eyebrows and the way he was distracted all through breakfast, that he was concocting some kind of scheme to see this girl.

Jiang Cheng huffs at him. “What do you know?

Wei Ying punches him on the shoulder as per the Supportive Best Friend Compact and follows him down the hall to the stairs. “Hey, I was engaged once, remember?”

“First of all, do not invoke Lina Wang in any discussion ever, particularly any discussion that involves you giving me advice about women.” Jiang Cheng growls, slamming through the last door to get outside. “Second...fine, you’re probably right. May as well do lesson plans, I guess. Children don’t teach themselves.”

“Pft, whatever. You’re a great teacher.” Wei Ying always is quick to argue when Jiang Cheng is self-deprecating—he’s never entirely sure if Jiang Cheng is joking. “I bet you already have twelve interactive science experiments and six possible field trips planned for next semester.”

Jiang Cheng’s cheeks pink with embarrassment, and Wei Ying tips his head back and laughs. At least one thing in his life is predictable and easy.

“A-Cheng, thanks for being here. You know I love you, right?’ he asks, and Jiang Cheng gives him a suspicious look.

“Yeah, but it’s rude to mention it.” he retorts with a crooked grin before folding Wei Ying into a hug. Wei Ying sinks in as always, resting his head on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. Like a magical spell, it briskly sweeps away the anxiety of the last few days. He’s had breakfast and hugs: Wei Ying thinks he just might make it through one day without a dramatic upheaval.

“Hey, there’s a guy staring at us,” Jiang Cheng says, looking past Wei Ying.

He knows even before he turns around, and his stomach plummets into his feet, into the ground, falling falling forever.

Lan Zhan is standing on the sidewalk in his grey coat and blue scarf, eyes narrowed just enough that Wei Ying knows he’s being judgmental. He’s holding something under one arm, a long box of some kind.

“Ah. That’s...um...Lan Xichen’s brother,” he whispers, and Jiang Cheng stares at him in disbelief.

“The one who got you a rubber chicken?”

Wei Ying blushes like a thirteen-year-old on the cusp of his sexual awakening. It’s mortifying. Is he going to need to hold a notebook in front of his crotch like a teenager too?

“Yeah, that one.”

“Fuck, A-Xian, you are a goddamn liar. Don’t like him any more than the rest of them? What the hell are you thinking?” Jiang Cheng hisses.

Wei Ying has no idea. He is completely free of ideas and thoughts, and he can’t look away from Lan Zhan.

“You are so fucked. I’m not staying to watch this absolute train wreck you are about to be in. Call me when it’s over.” And just to be an extra asshole, Jiang Cheng pecks Wei Ying’s cheek before he leaves, waving cheerfully to Lan Zhan as he passes him.

Lan Zhan turns around and starts to walk away, and Wei Ying runs down the sidewalk, even though he is suddenly aware that it’s way too cold to be outside in a henley and slippers. At least his flannel pants are sort of warm.

“Lan Zhan, hey, wait,” he says, skidding to a stop in front of Lan Zhan. He puts up a hand to stop him from leaving, and Lan Zhan pulls back to avoid him, once again a no-touch zone. Wei Ying wishes he understood the Lan Zhan Rulebook better. “What...what are you doing here at...what time is it?”

“Nine.” And then like it’s a necessary clarification, “am.”

“Ah. Yes, thank you. What are you doing here at 9 am?”

Lan Zhan glares at him. “Who was that?”

Wei Ying laughs, a little too hysterical, probably from the cold, and he tries to dial it back. “Jiang Cheng. My best friend, remember? He made breakfast.”

Given Lan Zhan’s expression, Wei Ying doesn't think it'll help to mention that he’d stayed over first.

“And you hug your best friend like that?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. He gives the best hugs.” The words slip out before Wei Ying can properly vet them, and he kicks himself when Lan Zhan’s frown turns into an outright scowl.

“The leaning is inappropriate.”

“The...the what?” Considering Jiang Cheng had also kissed his cheek when he left, Wei Ying is puzzled by the accusation of leaning.

“You leaned in,” Lan Zhan snaps.

“Yes, that’s how hugs work. Two people lean toward each other...and....uh...hug,” Wei Ying tries to explain, but honestly, how is he supposed to explain hugging? Wei Ying knows Lan Zhan has seen him hug other people. This seems like an odd time to be hostile about it.

“You’re engaged.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to pass up hugs. Hugs are fantastic. Especially when you’re freezing.”

Like an idiot, and because he is an masochist, an incurably idiotic masochist, he wraps his arms around Lan Zhan and squeezes. “See? Fantastic.”

The cold must have addled his brain. It’s the only reason he can think for compounding his mistake by looking up, because hey, if he’s going to torture himself, he may as well go for broke. He stares into Lan Zhan’s eyes, light brown with even lighter flecks of gold and amber around the iris, and Lan Zhan blinks slowly, as if taken aback by Wei Ying’s brazen overtures of hugging and eye contact. His jaw clenches and Wei Ying jumps back.

“Lan Zhan, come inside. It’s too cold out here. You can yell at me about leaning hugs or whatever inside.”

“Fine.”

Wei Ying wants to laugh. He sounds so mad about agreeing, snapping the word like a twig, but his feet move forward anyway, which is good enough for Wei Ying. He trots back to the apartment building, holding the door open until Lan Zhan catches up.

Lan Zhan looks around Wei Ying’s apartment like he’s never seen one before, and Wei Ying is glad it’s relatively clean. He can’t imagine what Lan Zhan’s standard of living space must be.

“Don’t you have a cat?” Lan Zhan asks, like he expects Wei Ying has made up an entire animal.

“She’s...uh...capricious. Sometimes she avoids people she doesn’t know. She’s probably pouting because Jiang Cheng left, and she adores him. She’ll come out eventually.”

Wei Ying has no idea if that’s true but some people are very sensitive about not being liked by cats. The truth is, no one understands cat preferences, especially his cat’s preferences. Chenqing loves Jiang Cheng despite the fact that the feeling isn’t mutual. Or possibly because she knows perfectly well that he is Not A Cat Person. Who knows.

“What do you have?” Wei Ying asks, pointing at the case under Lan Zhan’s arm, trying to distract him from assessing the apartment and looking for the cat.

“Oh,” Lan Zhan says, looking down. “My mother sent it. It’s a birthday gift.”

Wei Ying grimaces. “She said she wouldn’t give me any presents.”

“That was Sunday,” Lan Zhan says, absolutely serious. “She probably meant it on Sunday.”

Wei Ying laughs and takes the case, opening it to find the flute he’d played on his birthday. It fills him with...he doesn't know what. A complicated blend of feelings too dazzling to look directly at.

“It was my aunt’s, but she switched to viola and no one else plays. So...happy birthday again.”

He still sounds peeved. Wei Ying doesn’t know why Lan Zhan’s annoyance is so appealing, but he wants to hug him again. He is quite sure that another hug would be ill-advised, though, so he just grins, full of giddy light. Somehow, Lan Zhan still finds something to frown at, his eyebrows drawing together in a deep crease. Wei Ying has to convince his fingers not to try smoothing it out.

“Thank you, and thank your mother when you see her. Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, hesitantly touching Lan Zhan’s elbow. “Don’t be mad about the hugging, okay? Jiang Cheng is my best friend, nothing else.”

Lan Zhan is quiet for a minute, but he looks thoughtful, and Wei Ying is learning to let him think. Finally, he nods. Even if it looks a little reluctant, it’s nice to be trusted. And on the heels of that thought, Wei Ying immediately remembers, you don’t deserve to be trusted because you’re a liar.

Nope, none of that. He is well aware that this is the perfect opportunity to tell the truth, and he can’t for the life of him do it. He does not want to see disillusionment on Lan Zhan’s face right now.

Change the subject, Wei Ying.

“Music?” he asks, and Lan Zhan looks mystified by the concept of music without a grand piano in sight, so Wei Ying turns on a Dave Brubeck record, setting down the needle randomly.

“Oh, Brubeck,” Lan Zhan says absently, back to scanning Wei Ying’s apartment. “He’s good live.”

Wei Ying goggles at him. “Good? Good? Lan Zhan, he’s...he’s legendary. He’s a jazz god! You’ve seen him live?”

Lan Zhan finally looks at him instead of looking everywhere else, and Wei Ying feels like Lan Zhan bends toward him without actually moving. “Yes. A few years ago with shushu. You haven’t?”

“Of course I have. I just didn’t think you were the jazz concert sort. You’re just full of hidden depths, huh.”

Lan Zhan almost smiles with one corner of his mouth. “I am,” he says, and something about the way he says it makes Wei Ying shiver.

Okay, onto another, safer topic. Wei Ying is determined to find something that won’t immediately turn his spine to jelly. He spies the box of crayons on the coffee table and makes a monumental conversational leap.

“Would you like to color?”

Lan Zhan’s face splits in a wide, startled grin, and Wei Ying is transfixed by the way it changes his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, making him look young and carefree and oh, no, Jiang Cheng was right. He is so fucked. Maybe Lan Zhan will just say no. What kind of grown man colors at 9 am? Surely he has work.

“Yes.”

Fuck. Well, now that he’s said yes, Wei Ying can’t very well throw him out with an “Excuse me sir, you have to leave because every time you smile I want to throw myself on you.” The coloring book is right there on the table, and Lan Zhan is already shrugging off his coat. He’s wearing jeans and a lightweight sweater in a marled blue that looks like the sky in summer. Wei Ying’s mouth goes dry and he tries to think calming thoughts about the hum of traffic and the whoosh of the subway trains. It’s only marginally helpful.

Lan Zhan sits cross-legged in front of the coloring book and looks up expectantly at Wei Ying. With a sigh, Wei Ying sits down next to him and picks his favorite crayon, cerulean, because as much as he loves Chicago, there’s nothing like the color of the ocean in Miami. Lan Zhan inspects all the crayons carefully, reading some of the names, dismissing some with a tiny nose wrinkle that is quickly becoming Wei Ying’s favorite expression. Wei Ying thinks he’ll settle on some shade of blue, since he’s never seen Lan Zhan wear anything that wasn’t blue, but instead, he pulls out brick red, the red of Wei Ying’s scarf, and begins to color the spot on a cartoon planet.

Wei Ying smiles to himself. Coloring probably doesn’t translate to practicing medicine, but if it does, he thinks Lan Zhan must be a wonderful doctor. He’s so careful with every stroke, shading in the curves first, staying scrupulously within the lines. He picks another crayon, a brownish grey, and starts to layer color onto the rest of the planet.

“Are you going to color or not?” Lan Zhan asks without even looking up.

Wei Ying laughs and starts to fill in an astronaut’s suit with the blue. He thinks maybe the astronaut is a little air sick from all that travel, so he picks a bright yellow for his face. He colors the spaceship green because it’s round, obviously a home-grown organic Green Zebra spaceship. The sky above the planet would look good in purple, almost like the first blush of dawn, and he’s trying for a gradient when Lan Zhan looks over at his side of the book.

“Why is the sky violet?” he asks, and nods thoughtfully as Wei Ying explains.

Instead of being skeptical or dismissive, he hmphs in surprised approval. “I like it. It is unorthodox, but you have clearly considered the totality of the scenario.”

Wei Ying falls over laughing. “Lan Zhan, I have considered nothing, only what feels right, but your faith in me is heartwarming.”

A tiny smile nudges the corners of Lan Zhan’s mouth. “I still like it,” he insists stubbornly, and Wei Ying wonders what it would be like to always have someone so steadfastly supporting him.

Chenqing takes the opportunity to make an appearance, sauntering into the room as though she hadn’t, most likely, been hiding under the bed until now. She jumps on the coffee table and sits in the middle of the coloring book, staring unblinkingly at Lan Zhan.

He stares back.

Chenqing’s tail flicks curiously, and Lan Zhan tips his head a fractional degree.

Wei Ying is absolutely fascinated by how long Lan Zhan can stare down a cat. He wishes he had thought to time this battle of wills. Or maybe they’re having a silent conversation about their mutual dislike of this plague of snow. Neither of them seems inclined to explain.

Finally, Chenqing blinks slowly and bows her head, not in submission, but more like a queen allowing obeisance, and Lan Zhan scratches the space on the back of her neck, under her red collar. When he stops, she neatly bounds over his shoulder to the couch and curls up behind him

“That was...the strangest...Lan Zhan, do you like cats?”

He shrugs. “I understand cats. They want their space respected. They want to choose their social interaction.”

“And sometimes they want to commit a little murder,” Wei Ying adds. “It’s relatable.”

Lan Zhan smiles at him, as luminous as a minor deity, and Wei Ying sucks in his breath involuntarily. He really hopes Lan Zhan didn’t notice.

“That as well,” he agrees, seeming not to have noticed, and begins coloring the rings of his planet silver and copper.

Wei Ying’s favorite song on the album comes on, and he sings along with Tony Bennett while he colors the surface of the planet macaroni-and-cheese orange.

“Wei Ying, do you have an agent?”

That old black magic has me in its spell, that old black magic that you weave so well.

Wei Ying drops his crayon. “A what?”

There’s something about the way Lan Zhan is looking at him, the way he always looks at him, that baffles Wei Ying. It’s as if he expects Wei Ying will say something noteworthy and he needs his whole attention focused on him. Wei Ying doesn’t think he’s ever said anything noteworthy to Lan Zhan, and yet he continues to look at him like that, like he can’t miss a single word.

The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine.

“A literary agent. If you did choose to publish, would you have somewhere to start?”

Wei Ying is silent for what feels like years, chewing his lip, but Lan Zhan doesn’t look away, doesn’t give him the excuse to ignore the question. He just waits for him to answer, and for once, Wei Ying finds that he wants to. It seems safe to tell Lan Zhan about his agent who was his friend, who was his biggest champion, who he has purposefully avoided for six years, starting the day he woke up and knew with definitive clarity that he was never going to produce anything worthwhile again.

Like a leaf that’s caught in the tide.

“I did,” he finally says. “Luo Qingyang. I haven’t talked to her in a long time. But...she was really great. So supportive. I just kept disappointing her, you know?”

“Did she say that? Or did it just feel that way?”

Aflame with such a burning desire, that only your kiss can put out the fire.

Wei Ying waves dismissively. “It was pretty obvious. It’s not like I could ask, ‘MianMian are you disappointed in me yet? What if I tell you I have a new manuscript and don’t for the third time? How about the fourth time? What If I just stop answering your calls?’”

Wei Ying clenches his teeth to keep from saying anything else depressing, but Lan Zhan’s face softens.

“Maybe you could write her a letter. Sometimes it’s easier,” he says with a sideways curl of a smile, and goes back to coloring as though he hadn’t just asked a devastating question and presented a reasonable, manageable solution Wei Ying had never considered.

‘Cause you're the lover I have waited for. You're the mate that fate had me created for.

Not helping, Tony, he thinks and forces his shaking fingers to go back to coloring, but it feels like a door has been nudged opened between them, and he has questions, so many curious questions tingling on the tip of his tongue, many of them full of improper words he would like to say from an improper position, like seated Lan Zhan’s lap. He picks one he can ask so the others stay locked in his head.

In a spin, loving the spin I’m in, under that old black magic called love.

“Lan Zhan, can I ask you…” Wei Ying starts, but then stops. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. It seems so intrusive, but Lan Zhan hmms with interest, so Wei Ying dives into the deep end. “What happened? With your family? He...Xichen...doesn’t talk about it. But Uncle Qiren said you’re the only person he really keeps in touch with. How come?”

Good job, Wei Ying, he chides himself, very articulate. But Lan Zhan puts down his crayon and looks at him seriously, considering the answer, and Wei Ying feels guilty. He has no right to ask personal questions and no right to their answers.

“I don’t know. Our sister died and he pulled away almost immediately. As you say, he doesn’t talk about it. I believe he stays in touch with me because I am the person least likely to ask him questions he doesn’t want to answer.”

“Why don’t you ask? Don’t you want to know?”

Lan Zhan shrugs and goes back to coloring. “Don’t you? Why haven’t you asked him?”

Wei Ying is aghast. It seems so against Lan Zhan’s nature not to care. He’s not loud about it, but Wei Ying sees how carefully he watches his family, the way he relaxes around Jingyi and Sizhui. Uncle Qiren said Lan Zhan and Lan Xichen were close. It’s incomprehensible that this doesn’t matter.

“He’s not my brother, and he didn’t retreat from my family. It doesn’t matter to you?

The music stops, and the silence hurts Wei Ying’s ears.

“He made a choice.”

Lan Zhan’s voice sounds chipped from stone, but there’s a sadness in it, hiding just beneath the surface, and Wei Ying realizes that he’s wrong, entirely wrong. It’s not that it doesn’t matter, it’s that it matters so much, Lan Zhan won’t allow himself to feel it.

Wei Ying can’t bear this emptiness. Without thinking, he takes Lan Zhan’s hand, the one holding the crayon, and squeezes it tightly, but it’s not enough to erase the tight, bruised look on Lan Zhan’s face. Wei Ying’s fingers want to touch Lan Zhan’s cheek, as they always seem to, and this time he lets them, lightly brushing the soft skin, so warm against his hand. The tips of his fingers graze Lan Zhan’s ear and he meets Wei Ying’s eyes.

“I would never let someone I loved go without asking why,” Wei Ying says quietly.

He’s not sure if he imagines Lan Zhan pressing his head into his hand, but he is quite certain he is going to kiss Lan Zhan. He leans down and touches his forehead to Lan Zhan’s, and he’s not too close to see Lan Zhan’s eyes close and his lips part.

Oh fuck, does he want to be kissed? Somehow, that possibility hadn’t occurred to Wei Ying. Well, yes, obviously, it had—he doesn’t kiss people who aren’t willing to be kissed—but only in the abstract sense, not in the “hitch in his breathing” sense, and it’s an overwhelmingly painful realization, frighteningly so. He feels like driftwood caught in a current, helpless to do anything but move forward, move closer to the radiating heat of Lan Zhan’s mouth. He is going to kiss him, and he is going to tell him he’s not engaged to his brother and hope that Lan Zhan will let him apologize for the rest of his life.

“Lan Zhan, I need to tell you something important,” he murmurs.

The phone rings like a cannon exploding next to his ear, and Wei Ying flies backward from the impact, jumping to his feet and grabbing for the rude, unforgivable intruder.

“What?” he snaps, deciding that he will, in fact, kill Jiang Cheng for interrupting.

“Wei Ying?”

The young voice on the other end of the line sounds startled, and Wei Ying pulls back some of his ire.

“Sorry, yeah, hi, who’s this?”

“Hey, it’s Jingyi. Lan Jingyi? Good news! Er-jiu is awake! Uncle Qiren told me to call and let you know. You can come to the hospital if you want. Have you seen jiujiu? Laolao said she sent him to deliver something to you this morning.”

At first, the quick words tumbling together in excitement are impossible to comprehend. The names mean nothing, the sentences mean nothing. Until they do, and the blood drains from his face, flowing out of his body and turning him into an empty husk.

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, Lan Zhan is here. I’ll tell him.”

He looks down at Lan Zhan, still flushed, mouth still open, still unspeakably beautiful sitting on the floor of Wei Ying’s apartment, and it feels like a bank vault door closes with a definitive thump.

Chapter Text

Relief is not the word for it.

Qiren does not actually think he has a word for the paralyzing, bone-deep exhaustion he had felt when Xichen blinked open his eyes. He had sat in the nearest chair, the strength draining from him too quickly for anything else.

He is still sitting when Wei Ying and Zhan-er arrive. They’re all sitting, in fact: Jingyi and Sizhui on the spare bed, Rizhao next to Xichen, holding his hand, and Youheng in a chair, looking at his oldest son like he’s a miracle.

Qiren understands. It had been something like a miracle. Or maybe a scene from a movie.

They had come to visit this morning, all of them together except for Zhan-er, who Rizhao had dispatched on a delivery errand. Qiren suspected she knew, as he did, how hard it was for Zhan-er to visit Xichen in the hospital. It was hard for all of them, of course, after Haohan, but Zhan-er had always been such a sensitive boy, so full of feelings he bottled up. Even talking about Xichen brought such an empty, haunted look to Zhan-er’s face. It was a familiar expression, unfortunately, and Qiren avoided it as much as possible.

“Laogong, when will he wake up?” Rizhao had sighed plaintively, squeezing Xichen’s hand, and Youheng had shaken his head.

“I don’t know, laopo. Comas are so unpredictable. The doctors say his vitals are strong. He’s recovering. All we can do is wait.”

The boys had been restless, so Qiren sent them to investigate the gift shop with instructions to find the darkest chocolate possible, always Xichen’s weakness. He figured that would keep them distracted for ten, twelve minutes at least.

The moment they had left, Rizhao had coughed, choked once, and dissolved in tears, turning from even Youheng’s attempts at comfort.

Xichen, he thought fiercely, stop running away this instant. You’re worrying your mother. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to categorize a coma as a conflict avoidance strategy, but if there was anyone in the world who would use unconsciousness to sidle away from facing problems head on, it would be his nephew.

And then.

There it was.

The soft inhale.

The sound of breath entering lungs more intentionally than before.

Qiren wasn’t a doctor, but he had listened to Xichen’s breathing for days now. He had known before the machines did, before the flutter of opening eyes, before Rizhao had gasped and sobbed, before Youheng had summoned the flood of nurses and doctors.

Xichen was awake.

Qiren tried to stay out of the way, and when Jingyi and Sizhui came back, he kept them out of the way too, sending them to call Wei Ying and let him know his fiancé was awake.

Except...

Qiren glances at Wei Ying, hovering as close to the door as possible, and he can’t decide. There is no reason not to believe Wei Ying. He seems like a nice kid, and he fits into their family so well, it’s easy to overlook the little things that niggle, the vague suspicion that something isn’t right. Wei Ying never seems to want to be near Xichen. There are strange things he doesn’t know about them—about Xichen—that he should. And most notable, he is far more likable than Xichen’s usual preferences.

Qiren likes columns that balance to zero and facts that fit together neatly. He does not like it when things niggle.

As soon as the last nurse finishes the umpteenth blood draw, Rizhao leans forward and hugs Xichen fiercely around the neck, ignoring his grunt of protest.

“Mama, I’m fine. They said I’m fine,” he says gently, patting her cheek when she sits back up.

His usually mellifluous voice sounds hoarse, probably from disuse, but otherwise, he does seem like himself. Which is to say, calm, collected, and distant. Who wakes up from a coma with the serenity of a Buddhist monk, Qiren wonders.

“Er-jiu, do you remember what happened?” Sizhui asks, and Xichen’s face shifts thoughtfully.

“Not really?” he muses, and then his eyes widen in alarm. “Liebing? Is the Lady Liebing...I remember she was knocked out of my arms.”

“Wei Ying rescued her and the paramedics brought her to the hospital. We’ll bring her back tomorrow,” Youheng assures him, and Xichen’s eyes close in relief.

Trust Xichen to be more worried about a violin than himself, Qiren thinks, although considering it cost a small fortune, maybe it’s actually a pragmatic reaction.

“That’s all I remember...I reached for her and then...nothing.” Xichen frowns.

“And then Ying-ge saved you!” Jingyi interjects, bouncing with excitement.

Xichen’s frown deepens. “Ying-ge?”

“Yes, Wei Ying was so brave! He jumped down and rolled you off the tracks,” Rizhao tells him, her eyes shining enthusiastically. “Oh sweetheart, we’re so happy for you, so happy for you both. He’s the most wonderful man. We just love him, and we can’t wait until he’s part of the family.”

Xichen looks confused, and when Qiren looks at Wei Ying, his face is flickering wildly between panic and sorrow as he inches toward the door, ready to run. Something drops inside of Qiren, and it reminds him of the way dead leaves fall in autumn with leisurely dignity, signifying the end of something beautiful. He realizes that he had hoped. He had wanted to believe Wei Ying, but somewhere deep inside him, this doesn’t come as a surprise.

“Mama...what?” Xichen sounds lost, and he glances around the room, cataloguing the familiar and unfamiliar, trying to place everyone in their appropriate category.

“Sorry Dr. Lan, one more blood draw,” a nurse says, coming into the room, and Xichen sighs, dutifully holding out his arm.

“Xichen, when those kids pushed you onto the tracks, Wei Ying saved your life,” Youheng says, and Qiren wants to roll his eyes at the unhelpful repetition, but he knows what’s coming next and he’s sorry, so sorry.

“But who is Wei Ying?” Xichen asks.

Every head in the room, except for Xichen’s and Qiren’s, swivels to look at Wei Ying.

“You don’t remember Wei Ying?” Youheng asks, flummoxed.

“Uh...let me explain,” Wei Ying says weakly, but before he can, the nurse interrupts.

“Could be short-term amnesia. Head traumas are like that sometimes. It’s pretty common. We’ll have the neurologist come down and take a look.”

It seems like a plausible explanation, but Qiren knows what he saw.

“A-Huan, Wei Ying is your fiancé,” Rizhao says gently, and Xichen visibly startles, the color draining from his skin.

“My...my what?”

“Wow, you forgot, like, a whole person.”

“Shut up, Jingyi. You’re so insensitive. Too bad he didn’t forget you,” Sizhui pokes Jingyi in the ribs, and Jingyi puts Sizhui in a friendly headlock, which turns into the same wrestling match it always does.

“It’s fine. I...I should just go,” Wei Ying murmurs.

But of course, Rizhao won’t let him. She scurries over and drags him closer to the bed. Xichen looks up and tips his head thoughtfully, studying Wei Ying’s miserable face. Qiren thinks it would be understandable if a casual observer thought he was just disappointed that his intended spouse didn’t remember him.

“A-Huan, this is Wei Ying. You don’t remember him at all?”

Xichen shakes his head and looks frustrated. An actual expression he doesn’t, or can’t, hide. Qiren cheers internally.

“Maybe?” Xichen says. “He...sorry, you...you look a little familiar, I think. But not...I...I don't remember you.”

Wei Ying smiles at him, and it looks forced to Qiren. Kind, but forced.

“Really, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it, just...just focus on healing, okay?”

“Do you have a cat?”

Zhan-er’s quiet words still somehow manage to cut through the room like a knife, and he sounds both angry and hopeful, an odd combination. Qiren isn’t exactly sure how this is a relevant question, since they are both aware that Xichen has a cat, but Wei Ying jumps like he’s been poked in the stomach.

“Shuoyue? Yes! I remember that! I have a cat.” Xichen sounds relieved by this proof he hasn’t lost his memory after all.

“You have a cat? Since when?” Sizhui inquires, intrigued.

“Uh, more importantly, why would you name your cat ‘moon’?” Jingyi sits forward and swipes Xichen’s Jello from the rolling table by his bed.

Xichen blushes, and Qiren wonders what story he’s going to tell and what the real story is, but to his surprise, Xichen blurts out, “I got her the last time I broke up with A-Yao. Because he’s allergic. She was a new start, so...new moon.”

He seems to withdraw a little after this unusually candid explanation. They had all met A-Yao, who was the most on-again-off-again of Xichen’s terrible relationships, and although Qiren didn’t dislike him, not exactly, he wasn’t a particularly trustworthy man. For one thing, he was a lawyer who had become a hedge fund manager. There was just too much moral flexibility inherent in the nature of his career path. And he was, by all accounts, very good at it, which had made Xichen comfortably wealthy, but had just made Qiren more mistrustful. He wonders what the most recent last straw was. Something significant enough that Xichen acquired a cat of protection, and he wants to laugh. How utterly ridiculous.

“I don’t really call her that though,” he adds. “Just...Jade, most of the time. Jadette sometimes.”

Zhan-er’s reaction to this seemingly innocuous detail is shocking. His nostrils flare and he stalks out of the door without another word, knocking into a potted plant and vase of flowers sitting on a nearby table. They tip over and spill across the floor in a swath of water and leaves and dirt, leaving everyone gaping. Even Qiren is nonplussed. It’s entirely like Zhan-er to react with such visible emotion, much less anger, much less anger with his brother.

“It’s a great name,” Wei Ying says, and he looks sincere, smoothing over the tension of Zhan-er’s abrupt departure. “I love the new moon. After all the brilliance of the full moon, it seems so peaceful to start over. But you’re right, she does have those green eyes.”

He grins, and Xichen smiles back, still puzzled, but apparently willing to suspend disbelief for a fellow cat admirer. And, Qiren thinks uncharitably, his nephew has always been easily swayed by a pretty face.

“I know this is weird, so...I’m going to go ahead and go, okay?” Wei Ying asks, still just talking to Xichen, so sweetly and thoughtfully, Qiren has a moment of doubt—maybe he did misinterpret earlier. “If it’s okay with you, I can come back tomorrow and we can talk about it?”

Xichen nods. “Thank you, I’d like that. I...I feel like I need...I don’t know, but if there’s more missing, I need to know what it is.”

Wei Ying squeezes his hand. “Okay. I’ll come back after work,” he soothes. “Don’t worry about Lan Zhan. He’s had a rough week. He was worried about you.”

He hugs Rizhao and Youheng, holding on a beat longer than Qiren expects, but Rizhao’s small hands are firm around his waist, and Wei Ying waits for her to pull away first. He says something to her Qiren doesn’t catch the entirety of, although he recognizes the word “flute,” and she beams up at him, giving him one last hug.

Instead of doing whatever handshake or high five is currently en vogue, he hugs the boys, squeezing them tightly until they grumble.

“I do not hug,” Qiren tells him, when it’s clearly his turn. “But you may wish me three cheers.”

Wei Ying grins. “And one cheer more, for the well-bred Captain of the Pinafore.”

Qiren does want to hug him now, this boy who should be part of their family, but he knows better than to get attached when it’s obvious that Wei Ying is saying goodbye. Not just goodbye, but Good Bye. He wonders if he’ll find a way to say goodbye to Lan Zhan too, and something about that niggles in Qiren’s mind too; he can’t determine if it would be for the best or the worst.

Before he can decide or attempt to sway Wei Ying one way or the other, he slips out the door and disappears.

They stay for a while longer, but Xichen looks tired, and his eyes close halfway through the story of Wei Ying’s birthday dinner musicale. Rizhao looks agonized, but she brushes a hand across his forehead.

“We’ll go ahead and go so you can sleep, sweetheart,” she says, and Xichen murmurs something incomprehensible.

They gather up their things, and Qiren follows them out to the elevator before he remembers that he has to go back for his hat hanging behind the door. The hat he very purposefully left hanging behind the door.

“Don’t wait for me. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells Youheng, who just nods vaguely, distracted by Rizhao towing him into the elevator.

As Qiren suspected, Xichen is not asleep. He is eating the pudding cup Jingyi didn’t notice. He doesn’t even look guilty, just smiles wanly at Qiren.

“Chocolate,” he says, brandishing the cup helpfully. “I remember I like chocolate.”

Qiren sinks into the chair next to the bed and considers his nephew carefully. He has always loved this boy, from the moment he first held him. He was a quiet baby, contemplative from the beginning, and so gentle. He would sit in the garden for hours, watching the progress of ants, or bring delicate butterflies cupped between two small hands to show Qiren.

He watched Xichen grow from that sweet child into a man who seems confident and untouched by worry, but, Qiren thinks, keeps his true face hidden away. Now, the past few years, it is not only his emotions, but his entire self he hides away. Time to stop running.

“Xichen, I love you,” he begins, and Xichen snaps to attention, startled by this unprecedented verbalized affection. “But you are a shagua.”

“Thanks shushu. You do remember that I nearly died, right?”

“Nevertheless, it needs to be said, and now is the right time.”

“Is it?” Xichen sounds exasperated.

“Yes.” Qiren is certain of it. “You are a shagua, but you do not have to be.”

He scoots his chair closer, and Xichen looks alarmed.

“Xichen, you have always had a charmed life. You’re handsome, brilliant, talented. You have an enviable career, a family who loves you, and somehow, you’ve become a shagua.”

Xichen smiles calmly, but with the smallest hint of unease. Good. Qiren wants to shake him out of that preternatural tranquility. Once, Zhan-er had muttered that he often considered throwing spoons at Xichen, and Qiren understands why.

“Everything you want has always come easily to you, and you simply ignore anything you don’t want to deal with.”

Xichen flushes. “Uncle, I’m really not sure where this is going. Can we discuss my shortcomings later?”

“Let me tell you about Wei Ying,” Qiren says firmly, ignoring Xichen’s feeble attempt at deflection. “Whether you remember it or not, he is…”

Qiren hates using hyperbole, but in this instance, the situation calls for something more than mere fact.

“He is amazing. He saved your life. He plays the flute. He likes the Cubs.”

At that, Xichen laughs, just a little, but it’s definitely a laugh.

“He remembered to water your plants and feed your cat, even though none of us even knew you had a cat. He has brought such joy to your nephews, your father, your mother. Even Zhan-er likes him. In just a few days, he’s changed their lives, and now it’s time for you to change yours.”

Xichen’s expression turns mulish, lips pursed and eyes narrowed, and Qiren hurries to finish, to tell the lie he’s been building up to.

“There is a reason you chose to marry him, whether you remember it or not. I think you want to stop running and come home. Take some time to get to know Wei Ying again, and I believe you will see what we’ve all seen. There is something special about him, and you’d be a shagua to let him go.”

Sometimes a lie is necessary, Qiren thinks to himself, seeing the stubborn clench in Xichen’s jaw soften and turn thoughtful. Sometimes it’s the only way to make a family whole.

“Alright, shushu, I’ll try,” Xichen agrees, and Qiren stands up.

“That’s all I ask. You’re a smart boy. You’ll figure it out.”

Qiren retrieves his hat from behind the door, and he hears someone else enter the room.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Lan, I hear you’re alive after all. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” a man asks in a cheerful, resonant voice that Qiren vaguely remembers. The orthopedic surgeon, he thinks. Dr. Nie.

“Please, call me Xichen.”

Qiren sees the look on Xichen’s face before he sees the doctor, but he knows that look. It is the stunned look of a man who has been knocked sideways by a sudden, earth-shattering realization. Qiren glances at the doctor and groans inwardly. He’d forgotten—or failed to notice—how singularly appealing the man is. He’s the kind of handsome that appears in men’s health magazines, full of exuberant life and vigor, to talk about their daily workout regime and plant-based diet. Goddammit, Xichen had the devil’s own luck.

“Oh, Mr. Lan, nice to see you again. Just here to check on Dr. Lan’s leg,” the ortho grins, revealing a wide smile with boyish dimples.

So he’s observant and respectful too. They’ve only met once, and yet the doctor has remembered which Lan brother he is. Qiren narrows his eyes at Xichen, who is still looking at Dr. Nie with a sort of dazed regard, so Qiren clears his throat to draw his attention again.

“Xichen, I’ll be back tomorrow. Think about what we talked about. I suspect your fiancé will try to tell you it doesn’t matter and that he’ll leave if it’s what you want. Consider making an effort to earn something worthwhile this time,” he tells Xichen with a little more rebuke in his tone than usual.

Xichen hears it and dips his head. “I will, shushu. Thank you.”

With another glance at Dr. Nie, who is peering at Xichen’s immobilized leg and making thoughtful humming noises, Qiren leaves. There’s nothing else he can do. He’s already meddled more than is proper. But the sound of Rizhao’s joyous laughter, Jingyi and Sizhui’s smiles, his brother’s quiet relief—well, that’s worth any amount of fudging the truth and pushing reluctant pieces into place, isn’t it?

Chapter Text

Wei Ying is a little surprised to find himself at work on Wednesday. Not in the sense that he is surprised to go to work—he always works on New Year’s Eve—but surprised when he notices it’s more than halfway through the day, and he can’t really remember any of the steps he’d gone through to get to work. At least he’s dressed in relatively winter-appropriate clothes, although he can’t remember where he put his hat.

The rest of Tuesday is a blur in his memory. He thought maybe he’d gone home after the hospital, seen the crayons and coloring book still open on his coffee table, and crawled immediately into bed. He’s sure he fed the cat; there was no way he was ever going to be allowed to shirk his duty to his mistress. He doesn’t think he ate, though.

Yeah, upon further consideration of the knot in his stomach, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. He grabs some pretzels from a vending machine on his break. They help. But not enough.

Wei Ying doesn’t know what to do. He had tried to find Lan Zhan, still determined to tell him the truth, if nothing else, but the man had seemed to disappear into thin air. He hadn’t wanted to just call, setting aside the fact that he had no idea where Lan Zhan even lived. It had really seemed like the kind of conversation he needed to have in person. But every minute he doesn’t tell him seems like another nail in the “can’t tell him” coffin.

How can he tell Lan Zhan that everything about him is a lie? But...how can he not? He’s either a liar or a cheater, and either way, it seems like there’s no chance Lan Zhan will forgive him. Either way, there’s no chance any of them will forgive him.

Wei Ying keeps replaying the moment before he didn’t kiss Lan Zhan, how the world quieted around him, the unimaginable softness of his skin. It had felt perfect and inevitable, like fumbling with a key and a lock and having them finally slide together. He had thought, for just one second, that everything was going to be alright.

He is such an idiot.

And now he gets to leave work, sneak into the hospital without running into anyone he knows—specifically, any Lans he knows—and return all of Lan Xichen’s things to him, the things he’s been carrying around in his pockets since Christmas. It hasn’t even been a week, he realizes. A week, and his life is completely different. A week for his heart to be broken, and he did it to himself. What a surprise.

At least he can tell Lan Xichen that everything was a mistake and he’ll be leaving now. Lan Xichen hasn’t known him long enough to hate him for it. Lan Xichen can tell the rest of his family. A tiny part of him recognizes that it might be mean to use a man who just woke up from a coma as the bearer of bad news but, he reasons to himself, no one will be mad at a man who just woke up from a coma. And then everyone will have an excuse to fuss over Lan Xichen, the victim of a terrible tragedy compounded. It’s a win-win, really.

Wei Ying’s luck seems to have taken a turn for the helpful, and there’s almost no one on the third floor when he gets there. Even more serendipitous, Lan Xichen’s room is empty of everyone except Lan Xichen, and he’s asleep. Okay, well, Wei Ying can work with that, ignoring the Jiang Cheng voice that tells him he’s being a huge wimp. There’s soft music coming from a radio on the table next to Lan Xichen’s bed. It covers Wei Yin’s movements as he quietly sets the pack of gum on the table and, in a stroke of genius, sets the keys on top of the gum so they don’t make any noise. He applauds himself for his quick thinking. He sets the pen down last, regretting that he forgot about the felt mouse. Poor Jade.

Whatever lucky star he’d been operating under expires at that moment. The pen makes a slow-motion roll off the table, and Wei Ying grabs for it, banging into the table, missing the pen, and knocking the keys, gum, and TV remote off the table, all of which go clattering in opposite directions across the floor.

Lan Xichen opens his eyes. Honestly, a hibernating bear would have woken up at the cacophony. Wei Ying winces.

“Hey. Sorry. I was just leaving,” he whispers, hoping Lan Xichen will chalk it up to a weird dream and go back to sleep, but of course he doesn’t, just blinks dark, long-lashed eyes at him blearily and sits up slowly.

Wei Ying scrambles to gather up all of Lan Xichen’s things and replace them on the table, but to his surprise, Lan Xichen catches his wrist before he can escape.

“Stay? Please, I want to thank you, and my family is coming later. I’m sure they’ll want to see you too.”

That’s the last thing Wei Ying wants, but reluctantly, he nods. Worse, Lan Xichen pats the bed with a tentative smile. Wei Ying can’t very well deny a man who just woke up from a coma, so he sits.

“My mother told me how you saved my life. Actually, everyone has told me. Even the nurses. I don’t quite know how to thank you,” Lan Xichen says with a self-deprecating smile that makes his handsome face even more charming. “Especially since I feel like I should be apologizing for not remembering you.”

“It’s nothing...I mean, anyone would have done it,” Wei Ying says with a shrug.

Lan Xichen takes Wei Ying’s hand and wraps long, graceful fingers around it, looking at the way they fit together. Wei Ying thinks that five days ago, this would have been the pinnacle of his life. He might even have fainted. Now, it’s just confusing.

“But anyone didn’t. You did. Thank you. It was heroic, and I owe you everything.”

“Oh, no, don’t say that.” Wei Ying tries to wiggle away from Lan Xichen’s earnest gratitude. “I’ve never been heroic in my life.”

“Me neither,” Lan Xichen laughs, but the self-deprecation sounds caustic, too much like Jiang Cheng, and Wei Ying disagrees instinctively.

“Of course you have. You chose to be a doctor. You smile at children on the subway. You help people walk down the icy stairs. You play music for others.”

Lan Xichen frowns. Even his frowns are beautiful, making his face interesting instead of melancholy. “Those things...they’re not heroic, Wei Ying.”

“Sure they are. They are to the people whose days you make better. They make the totality of the world a nicer place, Lan Xichen.”

Lan Xichen laughs, a musical chime, completely unlike his brother’s soft huff of breath. “I’ll try to remember that. It’s kind of you to say.” He leans forward slightly. “Oh, I have to thank you for saving the Lady Liebing too. No one else seems to understand why it matters but...she’s like family to me.”

Wei Ying laughs. “I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly at the time, but I’m glad I did too. She’s marvelous. It would’ve been a crime to let her die on the tracks.”

Why, he wonders, is it easier to accept thanks for saving a violin than a person? He decides not to examine that thought too closely. He doesn’t think he likes the implications.

Say, it's only a paper moon sailing over a cardboard sea, croons out from the radio, and Wei Ying smiles. Such a great song, he thinks, and the mellow voice makes him forget that he’s here to confess.

“Your family thinks you’re still a doctor, you know?” he says, and then kicks himself as the smile fades from Lan Xichen’s lips. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

Yes, it's only a canvas sky hanging over a muslin tree,

“I suppose if it’s anyone’s business, it’s yours,” Lan Xichen says, and Wei Ying is momentarily stumped.

And then he remembers. He’s Lan Xichen’s fiancé. Fuck. But it wouldn't be make-believe if you believed in me, Natalie Cole adds.

“No, I’m not who…” he starts but Lan Xichen interrupts.

“I don’t know why I haven’t told you before, but I used to be a pediatrician. Oh, maybe you do already know that,” he says, accurately reading Wei Ying’s expression. “Well, anyway, after my sister died, I just...you know...I was a doctor. It should have made a difference. I should have been able to save her. But I was the wrong kind. We were all the wrong kind. There wasn’t anything...”

Lan Xichen’s voice breaks. He looks angry and confused and sad, and Wei Ying squeezes his hand, which he only now realizes he’s still holding. Lan Xichen smiles again, even though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn’t help other people when I had failed so miserably at helping Haohan.” He looks pained, as though the misery is acute, not years in the past.

“You know that’s not how cancer works, right?” Wei Ying says gently. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Lan Xichen shrugs. “I know. But it’s one thing to know and another thing to know. So anyway, that’s why I started teaching music. I didn’t need the money, and it was nice to do something that did not have life and death implications.”

Ah. Kennedy Arts Academy and the regular train schedule make sense now.

“But why not just tell your family? They love music. I mean...they really love it.” Wei Ying grins. “Did you know your uncle knows all the words to ‘Piano Man’?”

Lan Xichen laughs again, a wide smile brightening his face, so it seems safe for Wei Ying to add, “And they love you. So much.”

The smile turns wry. “I think that makes it worse. I can’t disappoint them when they’re so proud of who they think I am. Who I was. It was easier...no, not easier, exactly. It was just that I couldn’t bear seeing the combination of love and pity. And then...I didn’t tell them for so long, I couldn’t.”

Yeah, Wei Ying is intimately familiar with that, and it sort of sucks to hear it from someone else, because it’s so obviously foolish. He is being rudely confronted with many of his own faults, which should annoy him—well, actually, it does annoy him, but it sort of makes him like Lan Xichen more. He’s not as perfect as he’s always seemed.

“Plus, music is just a hobby, Wei Ying. No one in our family is a musician.” Lan Xichen tilts his head in an appraising, searching glance. “I don’t usually like talking about this.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I know. I shouldn’t have asked,” Wei Ying is quick to apologize, but Lan Xichen shakes his head.

“It’s fine. For some reason, I don’t mind. I suppose it’s natural that I feel comfortable with you. Or maybe...we’ve talked about this before?”

To Wei Ying’s horror Lan Xichen laces his fingers through Wei Ying’s. Oh, yeah, that’s not complicating things at all, he thinks, but he doesn’t want to pull away when Lan Xichen is obviously being open and vulnerable. And a shameful part of him likes this fulfillment of his fantasies, despite knowing it’s based on a great big baloney sandwich.

“Maybe...if you wanted to start somewhere, you could talk to your brother?” Wei Ying says hesitantly, reluctant to bring Lan Zhan into the conversation. He is going to blush, he just knows it. “Sometimes keeping secrets hurts more than sharing them.”

He would know, as he’s currently keeping more of them than he can count.

“Oh, no, telling ZhanZhan is the worst option,” Lan Xichen says with a snort. “Believe me, I’ve tried. But he’s so certain of who he is and what he wants. He always has been. If he wants something, nothing can stop him. And he always makes the right decision, Wei Ying, always. I envy that about him, but it makes it hard to...hard to admit being wrong.”

Wei Ying doesn’t know how to convince Lan Xichen that his secrecy has hurt Lan Zhan. He can’t fix this schism in one conversation. He’s not even sure he should try. The Jiang Cheng voice in his head tells him that this isn’t his business and he should just let it go, but...he never does what Jiang Cheng tells him to do. Why start now?

“Yeah, I get that. I’m the family fuck up. But...he lost Haohan and you.”

Lan Xichen looks down at his hand, flexing the fingers like he’s counting them or playing air violin, and Wei Ying sighs. Maybe he should consider listening to the Jiang Cheng in his head. This isn’t his business.

“Look, I’ve really only known your family for a few days. But...grief affects everyone differently. They’ll understand.” Wei Ying grins mischievously, trying to lighten the mood. “Plus, if you were ever going to tell them, now would be a good time. They can’t possibly be mad at you. You almost died! Use your advantages, Lan Xichen.”

Lan Xichen’s laugh is marvelous, so full and sparkling. “Fair point, Wei Ying, fair point. You know, you can just call me Xichen. Unless...do you always call me Lan Xichen?”

Wei Ying isn’t sure how to answer that, since he’s never called Lan Xichen anything before today. “Um...I’ll call you whatever you want.”

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. Lan Xichen’s lips curve in a decidedly provocative smile. “I’m inclined to think you can call me whatever you want.”

Wei Ying chokes and nearly dies. It’s fortunate in one way, because he has to pull his hand away from Lan Xichen’s to cover his mouth, and unfortunate in another, because Lan Xichen pats his back helpfully, rubbing soothing circles until Wei Ying stops hacking.

“Xichen, I have to tell you something” he starts, still coughing. “I’m not really…”

“Dr. Lan, how are you today?”

The deep voice makes Lan Xichen’s head snap up like a puppet on a string, and as soon as Wei Ying looks, he understands. Completely. From his chiseled jaw to his kind eyes, the big doctor striding into the room is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. He practically radiates “look upon me and weep.”

“Oh, wow.” Wei Ying apparently says this out loud, because the doctor looks at him curiously.

“I don’t think we’ve met?” he asks, holding out a hand. “I’m Dr. Nie.”

It takes Wei Ying an embarrassingly long time to process how introductions work and formulate an answer.

“Wei Ying.”

By the way the doctor smiles, Wei Ying can tell his articulate response has made a lasting impression.

“Ah. Nice to meet you, Wei Ying. You a friend?” he asks, briskly pulling back the blanket to examine Lan Xichen’s leg.

Wei Ying really doesn’t want to lie, and Lan Xichen isn’t offering any sort of assistance, staring at Dr. Nie like he might disappear if not intentionally observed at all times.

“He’s Dr. Lan’s fiancé,” pipes a voice from the door, and Wei Ying wants to crawl under the bed at the disbelief on Dr. Nie’s face. But only after he slowly murders Wen Ning.

“Wen Ning,” he pleads, “we talked about this.”

But Wen Ning looks entirely unapologetic. Wei Ying can’t decide if he genuinely thinks he’s helping or purposefully misunderstanding.

“No problem, Mr. Wei.”

Okay, well, now he’s stuck again. He can’t just blurt out sorry, I know everyone thinks we’re engaged but they’re wrong, and your nurse is lying to you. So he does what he does best, cursing himself for his cowardice as he stands up.

“I should go. I have to go feed my cat. Tell your family I’m sorry I missed them.”

Bless Chenqing, getting Wei Ying out of awkward situations since 1994. He owes her extra kibble today.

Lan Xichen pulls his attention away from staring at Dr. Nie with a baffled expression. “Wei Ying, thank you for visiting. I...it really did help. Will you come back?”

Wei Ying can’t very well say no. No would require explanations. Yes is easier, so he just nods.

Lan Xichen smiles up at him in obvious supplication, and Wei Ying already knows he’s going to regret his answer to whatever Lan Xichen is going to ask next.

“Will you do me a favor? I hate to think of Shuoyue alone, and I guess...she probably knows you? Will you check on her?”

He fucking knew it. He can’t say no to this either.

“Sure, I’m happy to,” he says, trying not to sound like he’s being buried behind a brick wall.

Lan Xichen holds the keys out to him and flushes, exactly like a bashful lover making a declaration of affection, a little smile lilting over his lips. “Do you have a key already? If not…will you take mine?

Wei Ying reaches out numbly to take the key, distracted by the dusting of pink on the tops of Lan Xichen’s cheeks, and Lan Xichen sets it in his hand, holding on longer than necessary. Great, now it’s Wei Ying’s turn to blush, worse when Lan Xichen smiles, slow and sultry. He should not be allowed to do that, Wei Ying thinks wildly, backing away. It’s monumentally unfair.

“Yeah, thanks, she’s a good kitty. Very funny. I’ll..uh...tell you about it someday maybe? Besides, I owe her a mouse,” Wei Ying rambles, begging himself to shut up as Lan Xichen’s face gets more and more bemused. “Okay, I’m going to go. Good to see you.”

His mouth only stops blathering when he’s on the other side of the door. He can almost remember a time when he used to be a witty conversationalist.

“Mr. Wei!”

Wen Ning jogs to catch up with him before he gets to the elevator. Wen Ning always seems so glad to see him, which mystifies Wei Wuxian, especially because at the moment, he is seriously contemplating throwing him out of a window.

“Hey, Wen Ning, just call me Wei Ying, okay? Wen Ning, remember, we discussed not telling anyone else I was Lan Xichen’s fiancé?”

Wen Ning just gives him that sweet, innocent smile that Wei Ying is starting to suspect disguises a powerful and ancient evil, and nods. “Right, but Dr. Nie already knew you were Dr. Lan’s fiancé. He just hadn’t met you. And obviously, Dr. Lan knows. It would have been weird to say you weren’t.”

Wei Ying can’t keep track of all the lies anymore, or who knows what things and who doesn’t. He wants to take out an ad in the Tribune. The opposite of an engagement notice. An I’m-definitely-not-engaged-to-anyone notice. A please-stop-saying-I’m-engaged notice.

“Hey, I just finished my shift. You wanna get a drink?” Wen Ning asks.

He seems so hopeful, even Wei Ying’s mild irritation vanishes. He has no idea why Wen Ning wants to be friends with him, but he’s grateful for it right now. He wants to drink, and he doesn’t want to drink alone.

“Sure, let’s go.”

They head down the elevator, through the lobby and out the first set of sliding doors when Wen Ning grabs Wei Ying and lurches sideways, spinning and dragging Wei Ying with him, but unfortunately, not in time.

Not in time to prevent Wei Ying from seeing Jiang Cheng standing on the sidewalk.

Not in time to prevent Wei Ying from seeing Jiang Cheng standing on the sidewalk with his arms wrapped around a girl, kissing her as though it’s his last breath and dying wish.

“What...the fuck?” he demands, struggling to get free of Wen Ning’s shockingly inflexible hold. Wei Ying makes a New Year’s resolution to lift weights next year.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Wen Ning mutters, hanging on for dear life. “You weren’t supposed to know that. Pretend you didn’t see it?”

“I most certainly will not! This is awesome! He told me he was seeing someone but…”

All the pieces click together, tiny little magnets snapping them into place in Wei Ying’s mind,

“It’s your sister? Your sister?” Wei Ying finally escapes Wen Ning’s vise grip and peers out of one of the sidelight windows. “Holy shit, it is your sister! But...how?”

Wen Ning shrugs. “I don’t know, she’s being super weird about it—more so than usual—so I’m trying to pretend I don’t know. But...it’s tough. They’re not...subtle.”

Wei Ying laughs, sliding down the wall. “Oh man, this is just...I am going to give him so much shit about this. Wen Ning, you just don’t understand. So much shit.”

Wen Ning looks like he does understand the imperative of sibling torment, but he makes an appeal for his sister anyway. “Maybe wait until they figure it out? I...I think jiejie really likes him but that kind of makes her hate him more, you know?”

That’s the dumbest thing Wei Ying has ever heard, but with a sigh, he agrees. “Fine. But only because I like you.”

Wen Ning looks pleased and gestures for Wei Ying to follow him. “There’s a side exit. Come on. I think I really need that beer now.”

Wei Ying agrees. Today has been, like every other day since Christmas, a helluva rollercoaster. He hasn’t seen Jiang Cheng so...wrapped up in anyone else in a long time, and he’s surprisingly happy to see it. A year ago or even six months ago—maybe even a week ago—he thinks he probably would have been jealous, or at least envious. But he can’t help smiling. Paramedic Wen looks just as into Jiang Cheng as he is into her. Maybe it’ll actually work out this time. It’s a hopeful thought for a new year.

“It’s New Year’s Eve, A-Ning. Let’s go party out the end of another year, eh?” he says cheerfully, or at least, what he thinks sounds cheerful. Wen Ning looks at him like he has a head injury.

“Um…” Wen Ning says, opening his mouth like he’s going to ask something invasive like “are you okay?”

Wei Ying slaps a hand over Wen Ning’s mouth. “Nope. We are not discussing it. We are not discussing anything. We are going to pick up…” He pauses. He has no idea. “Guys? Girls? Neither? Both?”

Wen Ning blushes at “both,” and Wei Ying grins. “Both it is! We’re going to go flirt with strangers, dance, and drink, and I refuse to take no for an answer.”

Wei Ying is proud of himself for this quality idea. He is doing something nice for someone else tonight because his new friend deserves happiness, Wei Ying tells himself, and certainly, definitely, absolutely not to distract himself from his own looming disaster. That is a problem for 1998.

Chapter Text

Usually, one of the good things about working for the Chicago Transit Authority is the downtime.

When the station is empty, Wei Ying occasionally makes an effort to write, although not as often anymore. Mostly he likes reading, watching the people who pass by his gates, making surreptitious faces at suspicious children, or even listening to loud music and dancing around the tiny booth. Sometimes he gets caught, and it’s always interesting to see if the train riders laugh and dance along with him or look askance at the notion of a public service worker having fun.

Today, however, his downtime is largely fixated on ignoring his hangover and debating what it means that he hasn’t seen or heard from Lan Zhan in two days. Does he regret nearly kissing Wei Ying? Had that even happened? Wei Ying isn’t sure anymore. He knows he’d wanted to kiss Lan Zhan, still wants to kiss Lan Zhan, can’t really think about anything other than kissing Lan Zhan, but maybe it didn’t come across that way.

Or maybe he’s just been busy. He’s a doctor, for fuck’s sake. He’s probably just busy.

Or he thinks Wei Ying is a dirty would-be cheater and hates him. He had stormed out of the hospital, after all.

And so on and so forth.

He could just find out. Popo had left a message last night inviting him to the Lan house to celebrate the new year. All he has to do is call and someone will come pick him up. And, she had added, he could bring his friend Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying is surprised that Lan Zhan had told his parents his best friend’s name and amused that popo apparently intends to adopt him into her family too. He sort of understands where Lan Zhan gets his stubbornness from.

He really wants to go.

He thinks it’s a really terrible idea.

He wants to see Lan Zhan.

He can’t bear to see Lan Zhan.

He has to get used to the idea of letting them go.

He doesn’t want to.

There is also the further problem of Lan Xichen, who seems to have inexplicably decided to make Wei Ying’s life difficult by not being shallow, not being boring, and not being subtle. Wei Ying is certain he didn’t imagine the flirting, and he can’t understand what Lan Xichen might have meant by it.

Anxious brooding really doesn’t make the time fly, and after the longest nine hours of his life, Wei Ying runs over to Lan Xichen’s apartment to feed Jade. She is inordinately happy to see him, twirling her tail around his legs and rearing up to meet his hand when he bends down to pet her. He feeds her and cleans out her litter box, and she acts like it is The Most Amazing Human Behavior she has ever seen. She’s a great little cat, he thinks. They barely know each other and already, she has decided she owns him.

Wei Ying finds even more plants in the bedroom and bathroom, and he waters most of them. He’s really not sure about the orchids, so he reminds himself to ask Lan Xichen about them later. He does not poke through the closets or cabinets, although he is sorely tempted, and appeases himself with just looking at the contents of the refrigerator. They are as tragic as the contents of Wei Ying’s refrigerator, and he decides it’s probably for the best that he’s not actually engaged to Lan Xichen. Bad habits multiply.

On the walk to the hospital, Wei Ying thinks about Lan Zhan’s tilting eyes and the way Lan Xichen blushes. He’s distracted all the way to Lan Xichen’s room, bumping into not one, but two glass doors, grinning and waving at the desk attendants like it was all a funny show for them.

“Wei Ying! You came back!” Lan Xichen seems genuinely elated to see him and adds with a crooked smile. “You just missed my parents.”

“Ah, I’m sorry about that,” Wei Ying says, and he means it. He misses them like the heat of a dying star, but he focuses on the relief of only having to confess to one Lan at a time. “You look like you’re feeling better?”

What Wei Ying means is Lan Xichen has gotten better looking. He wouldn’t have thought that was possible, but it looks like there’s more color in his cheeks, and he seems more confident, like he’s showered and shaved, all shiny and new. It’s unnerving.

“It’s a holiday. I did not want to disappoint the nurses,” Lan Xichen says with a wide smile, and Wei Ying smiles back. It is utterly impossible to ignore Lan Xichen’s smiles.

“Mission accomplished. Now’s the time to angle for that second cup of chocolate pudding, La...uh...Xichen.”

Xichen looks pleased that Wei Ying used his name. “Are you going to visit for a while? It may come as a surprise, but being in the hospital is boring. I can sometimes convince the orderlies to play cards, but not often.”

“Alright, I’ll bite. What do you want to play?” Wei Ying asks with a chuckle, sitting in a chair this time. Safer, he hopes, than sitting on the bed.

Xichen beams at him, and Wei Ying rethinks his safety assumptions. “Golf?”

Wei Ying laughs. “Fine, deal out Golf and I’ll play for a while. At least until I have to go home and feed my cat. Oh! I stopped by your apartment and fed Jade. I watered a few of your plants, too, but honestly, I’m terrified of orchids, so...you may need to have your uncle take care of those.”

Xichen nods thoughtfully, dealing out the cards. “I will. Thank you. How is my girl?”

“Good. Bored, I think. How long have you had her?” Belatedly, he realizes that it’s a stupid question. He should already know this, but Xichen doesn’t seem to notice.

“Only about six months, but it feels like always. She was a good trade,” he says, laughing lightly, a short burst of air that shapes his face into something vaguely like Lan Zhan.

The reminder of the brother Wei Ying wants hits him hard in the chest, not unlike a cat landing on him in the middle of the night. He likes Xichen. He does. He’s gorgeous and funny and easy to talk to. And he’s not Lan Zhan. He’s just not Lan Zhan.

“Oh?” he replies, distracted by his epiphany. After two days without seeing them, he’s afraid he’s already forgetting the exact shape of Lan Zhan’s eyes, and he is struck by the pressing need for a refresher.

Xichen gives him a sidelong look. “Surely you know why I got her.”

Wei Ying bites his lip and shifts his attention back to the present instead of where it wants to be, which is visualizing Lan Zhan’s parted lips. He swaps out a nine for a three. Not a great start, but he has to start somewhere.

“I would never pry,” he says, and Xichen’s expression lightens.

“You are not prying, I am volunteering. You never met A-Yao?”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “I gather...your family didn’t approve?”

Xichen draws a card and flips one of his blind cards, a ten, and replaces it with a joker. Good grief, he really is the luckiest human Wei Ying has ever met. He reminds himself never to bet actual money against Xichen.

“They did not. I understand why. A-Yao is...well, the company he works for had some issues with the federal government. A-Yao wasn’t really involved. It was a scandal, though.” Xichen looks wistful, and Wei Ying wonders why they broke up when it’s clear Xichen is still pining, if only a little.

Wei Ying gets luckier on his next draw, pulling an ace he trades for a blind card, but of course, the blind card was an ace too, and Xichen takes it off the discard pile.

“Was that all?”

Xichen frowns, flipping over a seven. “No, it wasn’t just because of them. It was the accumulation of so many small things, so many things I tried to forgive and overlook. Lies he didn’t need to tell. Secrets he didn’t need to keep. Manipulations he didn’t need to make. He hated it when I changed jobs, but he worked for clients that...pained me, and he would not refuse them, even though he could, even when I asked. He was...is...married. It is an open relationship but...I…”

He shrugs, the motion a flinch, hard to watch. “The good parts were so good. How do you weigh the pieces of a person, when the totality of them makes you happy?”

Wei Ying touches his hand sympathetically. “I was engaged once. She was funny and brilliant and could talk my ear off. But she was an alcoholic, and kind of...kind of mean when she was drinking. I always thought...just one more day, one more rehab, one more apology, and it would all be okay. It never was, though, and it took me years to figure it out that she didn’t really want to change. I just wanted to believe she did.”

“I’m sorry…” Xichen gives him a strange look, a tight, piercing smile. “I am sorry that happened to you. I am sorry if we’ve discussed this and I don’t remember it.”

Wei Ying shrugs. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter anymore. I only meant...I understand what it’s like to hope for something else.”

A surprising number of expressions flicker over Xichen’s handsome face, some recognizable, some mysterious, but they’re gone in a flash, replaced by the usual, smiling, friendly Xichen. “I’m out. Flip your cards, Wei Ying, and count up your score.”

I guess that conversation is over, Wei Ying thinks, surprised it lasted as long as it did, but in his experience, it’s easier to speak the unspeakable things to someone you don’t know well enough to hurt. He’d rather tell a stranger on the bus about Lina Wang than ever see the look on Jiang Cheng’s face when he saw Wei Ying’s tears and bruises again. He can’t even imagine what Lan Zhan’s reaction would be, and then he chides himself. You have no idea if he cares enough about you for it to matter. He probably doesn’t. It’s definitely easier to believe he doesn’t.

Unsurprisingly, Lan Xichen wins that round of Golf and the next two.

They’re friends now, Wei Ying decides, as he deals the cards. But not too good of friends. This is the perfect time to start telling the Lan family who he is. Maybe it won’t even be that bad. Xichen isn’t in love with him, and he won’t care if Wei Ying isn’t actually his fiancé.

“Xichen, I need to tell you something,” he says, without looking up. It’s easier if he doesn’t look censure right in the face.

Xichen sounds apologetic. “Wei Ying, I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked you a single question about yourself. Tell me anything you like. Pretend I don’t know anything.”

Wei Ying laughs, but a silky voice from behind him interrupts.

“Er-ge, my god, you look terrible.”

Xichen freezes, encased in stone, and Wei Ying turns to look at what must be a monstrous basilisk.

The man who’s spoken doesn’t look like he poses a threat to anything other than a Cobb salad—he’s slim and shorter than Wei Ying, with a remarkably pretty face. He’s wearing an impeccable grey suit, holding a crisp trench coat over his arm, and even Wei Ying can tell that every single thing about him quietly insinuates I have money and the taste to utilize it properly.

But Xichen grabs Wei Ying’s hand, a tight claw of fingers, and shoots him a pleading look. It’s that, more than anything, that tells Wei Ying who this is. Speak of the devil and the devil appears, huh.

“I had to hear you’d nearly died from James. James,” the man says, concern on his face, and Wei Ying thinks it seems authentic. “Xichen, my love, you should have called me.”

There’s the slightest hint of rebuke in his voice, and Xichen’s jaw tightens.

“A-Yao, you’re too kind, but you needn’t have bothered,” Xichen demurs, his eyes still wide and stunned.

A-Yao, whose full name Wei Ying still doesn’t know, avoids Wei Ying to sit on the other side of the bed, unfortunately the broken-leg side, and Xichen grimaces. Now A-Yao looks distressed, and he rests one beautifully manicured hand on Xichen’s forehead, smoothing back his hair. “Should I get someone? Are you in pain?”

Xichen gently pushes A-Yao’s hand away. “I am fine. I am being taken care of by an exceptional staff and my family.”

A frown puckers A-Yao’s forehead. “The family you haven’t spoken to in three years? I don’t see any of them here. Let me take care of you. Er-ge,” his voice lowers to a distinctly seductive tone, and Wei Ying is fascinated by how belligerently his presence is being ignored, “I miss you.”

“No.”

The one word is quiet and shaky, but Xichen says it with feeling. Even though he’s only been invested in this drama for a few minutes, Wei Ying wants to clap.

“I can’t. Not anymore.”

Evidently “no” isn’t a word A-Yao hears very often, because he seems uncertain how to react. His puzzled expression shifts to compassion.

“Er-ge, you aren’t thinking clearly. Are you on painkillers? They can alter your decision making. I can speak with your doctor. Please, just let me help.” He lifts Xichen’s pale hand to his mouth and kisses the knuckles reverently. “We can figure out the...the job issues together. Whatever you need. I just want you back.”

Wei Ying is impressed. A-Yao is a very persuasive man, and Xichen looks shattered.

“A-Yao.” Xichen sounds like his grasp on verbalizing words is shaky, and Wei Ying wonders if he’ll cave. Instead, he pulls his hand away slowly.

“The answer is still no. I am not changing my job. I am keeping my cat. I...I am keeping my family, too. And....” the last words come out in a burst of nervous energy, “there’s someone else. I’m engaged to someone else.”

Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck, Wei Ying mentally curses, not particularly creatively, but he thinks he makes up for the lack of variety with heartfelt vehemence. The elegant A-Yao doesn’t look like a brawler, but he does sort of look like the kind of man who has a knife in his sleeve. Or very big, very scary friends. And he does not look like the kind of man who takes rejection pleasantly.

Wei Ying is not wrong.

A-Yao pulls back, the love and adoration disappearing behind an implacable mask.

“Who?” he asks flatly, and Xichen shakes his head.

“No one you know. It only matters because I am moving on. A-Yao, thank you for checking on me. Please don’t trouble yourself again.”

One last look of genuine hurt flickers across A-Yao’s face before it shutters tightly. “As you wish, er-ge. If you need anything, you know how to reach me.”

And with that, he is gone in a cloud of dignified offense and Burberry cologne. He never even asked who Wei Ying was.

Xichen is quiet after he leaves, staring straight ahead for long minutes. Wei Ying wonders if he should stay or go. At the very least, Golf seems to be done.

“Lan Xichen, this has been a year of bravery for you,” Wei Ying ventures, and Xichen chokes out a laugh, but it only sounds surprised, not forced. “Seriously, I’m proud of you.”

Xichen’s smile returns, tilting up at the corner. “Thank you Wei Ying. My uncle was right about you.”

But before Wei Ying can open an investigation into that intriguing comment, Wen Ning steps through the door, followed by Dr. Nie. If anything, the good doctor is more riveting today, wearing dark green scrubs that make his honeyed skin luminescent. Wei Ying and Xichen exchange a glance of mutual appreciation.

“Dinner time, Dr. Lan! Hope you like chicken.”

Xichen laughs. “Hello, Nurse Wen. Do I have a choice?”

Wen Ning sets the dinner tray down and uncovers it with a flourish. “Nope!”

Even Wei Ying, who has practically zero standards when it comes to food, cringes.

“Are you sure that’s chicken?” Xichen asks dubiously, and Dr. Nie laughs, a throaty chuckle that makes both Xichen’s and Wei Ying’s eyebrows raise.

“Now, now, Dr. Lan, our hospital cafeteria has won awards. I eat there all the time. You’re just spoiled.”

Xichen huffs with charming affront. “Dr. Nie, I almost died. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to eat something that wasn’t made of rubber. A burger? Thai? Anything edible?”

Wei Ying wants to laugh. He had told Xichen to use his advantages, and Dr. Nie does seem to be weakening.

“If you’re still making progress, your fiancé can bring you ‘edible’ food tomorrow. Deal?”

Xichen shoots Dr. Nie that wide, curving smile that makes everything seem a little more brilliant, the same effect as taking off sunglasses on a bright day, and Dr. Nie pulls back like he just bounced off a brick wall.

“I’m holding you to that. Wei Ying? Pad kee mao?”

“Sure. From Mai Thai?” Wei Ying asks, and Xichen grins.

“Yes, perfect! Thank you.”

It occurs to Wei Ying that he’s just agreed to come back to the hospital tomorrow, digging himself deeper into this relationship that isn’t real. He groans inwardly, but there still doesn’t seem like a good way to say sorry I lied right now, so he just slinks out the door, putting tell the truth on his to-do list for tomorrow.

He waves at the night nurse and the desk attendant in the lobby and tries not to run into anything else. At least, not while they’re looking.

And then he stops.

How is it, he wonders, that he can recognize Lan Zhan from the back through two sets of sliding doors in the dark? And yet, he is absolutely certain that the man in front of the hospital is Lan Zhan. He considers sneaking out Wen Ning’s side door but then decides not to be a coward this year. If Xichen can be brave, he can be brave too.

Wei Ying steps through the doors and realizes that he’s made a mistake. Lan Zhan is talking to someone, and from the hunch of his shoulders and the arch of his back, Wei Ying thinks he’s angry. Dangerously angry. Something about that sends a little tingle into Wei Ying’s fingertips.

“Do not come here again,” Lan Zhan says, ice crystals falling from his words.

“Are you so certain you speak for your brother?”

Ah, Wei Ying knows that voice now too, and Lan Zhan shifts enough for Wei Ying to confirm that it’s A-Yao he’s talking to.

“Yes. If he had not asked you to leave, you would not be outside. Ergo, you are no longer welcome in his life.”

“I only want what’s best for him. I love him, whether you believe that or not.”

Wei Ying does, actually. Love, he thinks, is not the issue.

“You have a strange way of showing it, Jin Guangyao,” Lan Zhan snaps. “Regardless, you are not what’s best for him. You know you aren’t. And he’s...he’s with someone else.”

A-Yao makes a surprised hmph, and turns away. “Yes, he mentioned that. We will see.”

“Don’t. You’ve hurt him enough times with your lies and manipulation. He deserves someone good and honest, and he’s found that, someone who cares about every part of him, not just the advantageous ones. If you truly love him, leave him alone and let him be happy.”

Wei Ying wants to cry. Is that how Lan Zhan sees him? As good? Honest? He doesn’t want to hear any more. He can’t listen to Lan Zhan talk about him, about what a great person he is. He’s just as much of a liar as Jin Guangyao. He’s taken advantage of the Lan family far more grievously.

This is the moment, Wei Ying thinks, the moment when you start doing what’s best for them, even as cold fissures fracture under his skin at the thought. A tear slides down his cheek and he swipes it away, looking frantically for an escape route that won’t draw the attention of either man.

“That’s quite a speech, ZhanZhan. Thank you for delivering it. I’ll be going now. Perhaps we’ll see each other again soon.”

Jin Guangyao saunters away, whistling to himself, and Lan Zhan spins toward the hospital doors, his face full of helpless fury. He takes three steps before he sees Wei Ying and skids to a stop, his anger replaced with something Wei Ying can’t specifically define but which his traitorous libido would like to get better acquainted with.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell is tolling, and on the seventh chime, it starts to snow.

Chapter Text

How is it, Lan Zhan wonders, that he can be so gutted each and every time he sees Wei Ying? There should be nothing romantic about standing in front of a hospital on New Year’s Day, but he would swear, he hears the swell of an orchestra join the soundtrack of falling snow and the thrill of being near the love of his life.

It is such a relief to finally admit that there’s a space carved out inside of him now that only fits the shape of Wei Ying. Lan Zhan's mind memorizes the beloved features of Wei Ying’s face—the lush mouth turned slightly down, the high cheekbones in sharp relief, the almond eyes a little pinched in the corners right now, the too-long hair Lan Zhan longs to tuck behind his ear. They stare at each other for twelve heartbeats before Wei Ying turns away.

“I was just leaving,” he mutters tonelessly.

Lan Zhan steps in front of him, not to block his path, exactly, but he hasn’t seen or talked to Wei Ying in two days. It’s been excruciating. He’s stared at the phone so many times, afraid to pick it up, afraid of the questions he wants to ask. He’s driven halfway to the city—sometimes three-quarters of the way—before turning back. And now Wei Ying is standing in front of him. He can’t let him go. He won’t.

“Wei Ying...” He has no right to beg him to stay, and he hopes he won’t have to. Because he’s pretty sure he will. On his knees in the slush if necessary.

“I haven’t seen you in a while. Not since you left the hospital the other day. How’ve ya been?” Wei Ying cocks his head, somehow managing to look both flippant and determined, a confusing combination.

“I...I’m sorry. I thought you would…”

Lan Zhan isn’t sure what he thought. That Wei Ying would need space to breathe and think? That he would use that time to consider choosing—not Xichen? There had been a moment, sitting on the floor of Wei Ying’s apartment, where he had felt all the pieces of his life settling into place, when he had looked into Wei Ying’s eyes and found everything he needed, everything he wanted. Lan Zhan had thought Wei Ying was going to kiss him, and that had felt right too, even though the quickly vanishing logical part of him was furiously chastising the rest of him for wanting his brother’s fiancé, for being willing to take him if he could.

Even on the wordless car ride to the hospital, he had thought there might be a chance this situation could be resolved satisfactorily. Wei Ying had looked oddly miserable, and in the elevator, it had occurred to Lan Zhan that maybe it was just a big mistake. When Xichen didn’t recognize Wei Ying right away, the surging hope that it had all been a lie had made Lan Zhan lightheaded, giddy with the possibility. Maybe they weren’t actually engaged.

But the cat.

The cat had known Wei Ying and he’d known the cat, and because of a cat, Lan Zhan had to leave the room before he broke something expensive.

Wei Ying’s mouth tips in a sad smile, and Lan Zhan realizes he’s been standing quietly for a foolishly long time.

“I should probably go. It was good to see you. Thank you for...for defending Xichen. He’s trying to be...different. You were right. He told...uh…Jin Guangyao to leave, and it wasn’t easy for him.”

Lan Zhan has never liked Jin Guangyao, not since the first time the man oiled his way into Xichen’s heart, and not through the first, third, or sixth breakups. He hopes this one will stick, but it pains him to hear Wei Ying confirm anything personal about Xichen’s life, to know that Xichen has been honest and vulnerable with Wei Ying, a virtual stranger, when he didn’t even tell his family he’d broken up with Jin Guangyao yet again. Did he think they’d judge him?

And then it hits him, over and over, a repeated punching bag to the face: Wei Ying knows about Jin Guangyao because he is engaged to Xichen.

Somewhere in the recesses of Lan Zhan’s mind, he hadn’t believed it until this moment. He couldn’t believe it. It didn’t fit. He didn’t want it to fit. He could even have explained away the cat as just a lucky guess. But not this. This is the moment, Lan Zhan, he tells himself, thinking of his mother squeezing Wei Ying’s waist. This is the moment you do the right thing.

Wei Ying is still looking at him, still standing there looking perfectly...perfect in the hateful snow, and desperate words fly from Lan Zhan’s mouth. Not the right thing at all.

“Are you sure?”

Wei Ying laughs. “Am I sure Xichen told Jin Guangyao to leave? Yeah, pretty sure. I was there.”

“No. Are you…” Lan Zhan debates himself. Is he really going to ask this? He is skirting a very fine line between seeking the truth and begging Wei Ying to run away with him. He tries an alternative set of syllables. Maybe moving them around in a different order will clarify the question without forcing Lan Zhan to betray his brother. “Wei Ying, what do you want?”

Why can’t he just inject the words and feelings directly into Wei Ying’s brain? He’s bad at this, so bad at this, and given the way Wei Ying’s forehead wrinkles, he hasn’t made anything more clear. But it’s the closest Lan Zhan can get to saying what he really wants.

“Lan Zhan, you ask the most confusing questions.” Wei Ying frowns and looks away. “How am I supposed to answer that?”

It feels like he’s circling something he wants to say, or maybe Lan Zhan is just hoping he is. “You can always try the truth.”

It comes out rude and thoughtless, and Lan Zhan curses himself as Wei Ying’s expression shifts, constricting in an unfamiliar way.

“Like you? Lan Zhan, are you trying to live your truth? What do you want? To see the world outside Chicago? To reach for something beyond your grasp? To feel anything more than every grey day?”

Yes, that’s exactly what he wants, all of that and Wei Ying. All of that with Wei Ying, and the reminder stings more than the cold on his face. Lan Zhan blocks the words instinctively, regretting how cruelly he lashes out even as he speaks.

“Aren’t you avoiding feeling anything too? Isn’t that why you stopped writing...not because you couldn't feel more, but so you didn’t have to?”

Wei Ying doesn’t respond, just looks at Lan Zhan, and Lan Zhan can’t tell what he’s thinking. Wei Ying, who usually has the most gloriously open face, is closed as tightly as a fist.

“You’re probably right. You see everything so clearly. I guess we’re both too afraid of falling to reach.”

“I am doing what is right.” It sounds didactic and pretentious in his own ears, but Wei Ying nods thoughtfully.

“Yeah, Xichen said that about you. You always make the right decisions. That can’t be easy. Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s easy to be right all the time.” Wei Ying laughs like the frigid wind. “I wouldn’t know.”

Every time Wei Ying says his brother’s name cuts like a razor across Lan Zhan’s skin.

“Do you think it’s easy? To choose to do the right thing? Xichen has never had to make a difficult decision in his life. It’s always been easy for him.” Lan Zhan knows this is a bitter old wound, and it’s not Wei Ying’s fault, but he can’t stop the ugly words.

Wei Ying sighs. “You’re so good, Lan Zhan. You are. Maybe you don’t make it easy for him to admit when he’s done something wrong.”

“When has he ever tried?” Lan Zhan doesn’t shout the words, but they reverberate in the air anyway, arrows waiting to land, and Wei Ying acts like he’s been slapped, his eyes pricking red and wet.

“Maybe he does try. Maybe he tries every day. Maybe he would rather hold the words inside than disappoint you. Maybe he doesn’t know how to say that he was wrong and made a mistake. Maybe he’s afraid you won’t forgive him.”

This conversation and his head feel like they are splintering, diverging in opposite directions, and Lan Zhan thinks that’s appropriate. It should hurt to be torn apart.

“Sounds like you like him. I was not certain before,” Lan Zhan snaps, the muscle in his jaw so tight it aches.

A deep crease etches its way between Wei Ying’s eyes, and he looks down, biting his lip.

“Lan Zhan…”

There is a pleading in Wei Ying’s voice that guts Lan Zhan, makes him want to shelter Wei Ying and fight the monsters that plague him.

“Give me a reason, any reason at all, why I shouldn’t like your brother,” Wei Ying asks, kicking the falling snow with booted feet, his voice empty and careful.

Lan Zhan only intends to brush Wei Ying’s hair out of his face so he can see him more clearly, so he can read his expression, but before he knows it, both of his hands are deep in Wei Ying’s hair, tipping his head back. Wei Ying’s eyes are wide, pupils blown black, full of want, full of surrender that Lan Zhan plans to accept, possibly against the brick wall of the hospital. He thrills at the way Wei Ying stops breathing and then shudders out an exhale that pumps life into Lan Zhan’s lungs.

“Wei Ying, Wei Ying,” he hears his own voice murmur in a tone he doesn’t recognize, and Wei Ying whimpers, a wounded sound in the back of his throat that finally shakes through Lan Zhan’s haze.

Slowly, like pulling off a bandage, he releases Wei Ying and drops his hands.

“I can’t.” The words taste poisonous and wrong in Lan Zhan’s mouth, but he has to say them. He has to do the right thing. “I can’t give you a reason.”

He could, of course. The burning need in him recognizes Wei Ying’s trembling desire and wants it badly, but Xichen is his brother, and Wei Ying made a commitment to him. Pretending it means nothing doesn’t make it mean nothing. Lan Zhan will not be the kind of man who takes what he wants without regard for others.

Wei Ying blinks like he’s been far away, fast asleep, and a tremulous smile slants his mouth for less time than the flutter of a butterfly’s wing. “Okay. That’s okay. I didn’t expect you to.”

He gulps and turns away, calling over his shoulder without looking back. “See you later, Lan Zhan.”

There’s nothing Lan Zhan can say. He will see him later. And he’ll have to live with that. Somehow.

With a vicious snarl, Lan Zhan kicks a chunk of ice and sends it skittering down the sidewalk where it shatters against a bollard. It doesn’t really help, but it doesn’t hurt, either. That might be as good as it gets from here on out.

He considers leaving, but he’d told Xichen he’d visit. Who is he if he doesn’t do what he’s said he’ll do?

Unfortunately, Xichen’s room is only on the third floor, and even taking the stairs, three is not nearly enough floors to quell Lan Zhan’s seething resentment. He stands in the doorway, simmering with self-inflicted vitriol, and glares at Xichen, who doesn’t even notice him because he is too busy noticing the ortho.

Lan Zhan can’t exactly blame him. There’s something rough-hewn about Dr. Nie that makes Lan Zhan think of splitting logs and building fires, less like a surgeon than a pine forest condensed into scrubs, and Lan Zhan appreciates the aesthetic effect. He’d met the man days ago, while Xichen was still unconscious. Dr. Nie had given him a slow, curious appraisal, and under any other circumstances—circumstances in which Dr. Nie wasn’t his brother’s doctor—Lan Zhan wouldn't have hesitated to reciprocate. At this precise moment, a spiteful, petty part of him wishes he had taken the implied offer.

Dr. Nie is examining Xichen’s leg, unwrapping the soft bandage that lets the surgical incision heal.

“Neatly done,” Xichen says admiringly, peering at the healing wound. “Do you think the scar will be invisible? Or just barely roguish?”

Dr. Nie laughs heartily. “I believe it’ll be enough of a scar to show off at parties, Dr. Lan.”

“I have told you to call me Xichen. It’s embarrassing to call you Mingjue if you won’t return the favor. I will retaliate if you don’t comply,” Xichen says with a teasing laugh, and Dr. Nie raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know how to break it to you, Dr. Lan, but you’re not exactly up for retaliation right now.” Dr. Nie says with a crooked grin.

“Are you so sure of that, Sir Nie? Or perhaps...Master Nie?” Xichen cocks one eyebrow and Lan Zhan is caught between anger, horror, and laughter at Dr. Nie’s choking shock.

Anger wins.

“Xichen.”

Lan Zhan has a lot of practice making the tone of his voice count, and he pours every ounce of censure into it now, gratified when Xichen immediately flushes and looks at him.

“ZhanZhan!” he exclaims, covering quickly. “I’m glad you’re here!”

Xichen is also good at making his tone count, and his genuine excitement thaws some of Lan Zhan’s ire. He shouldn’t be mad at Xichen. None of this is his fault, and it occurs to Lan Zhan that he hasn’t been back to see his brother since he’d stormed out two days ago. He is not winning the Brother of the Year award after all.

“Mm.” Lan Zhan can’t think of anything else to say. He adds an acknowledging, “Dr. Nie,” because it’s at least two more words.

Dr. Nie glances between them swiftly and doesn’t raise his eyebrows, while still giving Lan Zhan the impression that mentally, his eyebrows have achieved orbit.

“Dr. Lan? Do you have a professional opinion to add?” Dr. Nie asks cautiously, obviously trying to decipher their reactions as he’s speaking.

“No,” Lan Zhan answers. “Your work is exemplary.”

Even he can tell that he’s being unnecessarily brusque, and the compliment, which he does mean, sounds like an insult.

“It is a pity about Xichen’s career as a dancer, though,” he adds in a more even tone, channeling his Patient With Patients voice.

Xichen gasps out a surprised laugh, and this time, Dr. Nie does raise his eyebrows.

“Ah, well, I’m sorry my meager skill couldn’t preserve your gift,” he tells Xichen, without cracking a smile. “Will your fans be disappointed?”

“Oh yes, all of them,” Xichen agrees, shooting Lan Zhan a relieved grin that warms him.

They’re still a team, Lan Zhan thinks. They were always a pair, as much twins as non-twins could be, and Lan Zhan had always secretly loved it. There was nothing more thrilling than to have adults compare him to his clever brother, his gifted brother, his accomplished brother.

“You’re just like Xichen,” they would say, and he would try not to smile, to just accept it as an incontestable truth. Xichen always seemed to like it too, always including Lan Zhan at school and with friends—always waiting for his little brother to catch up.

Even after Haohan, even after three years of barely speaking, even with Wei Ying between them, it’s so easy to love Xichen. It would be so easy to forgive him for walking away, too, and the words are on his lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Lan,” Dr. Nie says, finishing the skillful rewrap of Xichen’s leg. “Let your fiancé know he’s cleared to bring Thai for dinner. Nothing too spicy, though, okay?”

And just like that, Lan Zhan’s anger is back. Unfair, pointless, impotent—but anger just the same.

“Dr. Nie, you are a prince among men,” Xichen says earnestly, and Dr. Nie grins at him, flashing deep dimples Lan Zhan hadn’t noticed before.

The smile lasts a little too long, and Xichen looks a little too flustered, in Lan Zhan’s opinion. He clears his throat, and Dr. Nie inhales like he’s just remembered he should be breathing before turning away.

“It’s true, I am. Good of you to notice,” he says as he walks away, and Xichen’s laugh is a little too giddy.

“You are an ass,” Lan Zhan tells him, when he assumes Dr. Nie is out of earshot, although he doesn’t really care one way or the other. “Stop flirting with him. You’re engaged, and he is your doctor.”

“ZhanZhan, I was just being pleasant. He is a very pleasant man. I do not know why you’re being unpleasant about it.”

Lan Zhan considers breaking Xichen’s other leg if he says “pleasant” one more time.

“Besides, Wei Ying doesn’t seem like the unreasonably jealous sort. He’s…he’s not...” Xichen pauses, and a light smile dances across his face. “I like him. Which is for the best, I suppose. I wish I could remember more about him.”

Definitely the other leg.

“More? What do you remember?” Lan Zhan grinds between furious teeth.

Xichen thinks about it. “His smile, I think. His...hands. Vaguely...maybe...lips pressed to my forehead? But nothing about who he is. Shushu said you liked him. Will you tell me about him?”

Lan Zhan is speechless. Not just that he doesn’t know how to respond, but that there are no words in his head, only a roaring, pounding, blood-curdling scream.

“ZhanZhan? Are you okay? Sit down, you look...Lan. Zhan. Sit.”

Xichen’s sharp, commanding tone finally breaks through, and Lan Zhan sits instinctively, slumping into the nearest chair. He can’t react this way every time Xichen talks about Wei Ying. He has to get used to it. Slowly, he breathes in, counting to five, breathing out five, breathing in four, breathing out four.

“So I take it you don’t like him?” Xichen asks, sounding a little disappointed.

Does Xichen really care what he thinks, Lan Zhan wonders. He used to, but that was a long time ago.

“I do like him,” Lan Zhan says, and realizes how funny, how unbearably funny it is that this is the first person he’s admitting that to. “I saw Jin Guangyao downstairs,” he adds, hoping that will explain away his reaction.

It does. Xichen frowns in a cloud of regret. “That is unfortunate. I hope you know...I didn’t invite him. It’s over. And Wei Ying was here when...he visited. Nothing happened.”

And now his brother is reassuring him that he isn’t cheating on his fiancé, although Lan Zhan would personally appreciate nothing more. Lan Zhan wonders when he wandered into this farce of a romcom. But Xichen is trying, just like Wei Ying said, and Lan Zhan bends a little.

“Wei Ying is a writer. He wrote a novel about space because he likes spaceships,” he says. “He loves jazz. He plays the flute, the saxophone, and, apparently, the bassoon. He coaxed shushu to sing. Twice.”

It’s both agony and a relief to share the things he loves about Wei Ying, and Xichen still looks interested, so Lan Zhan keeps going.

“He’s funny. Jingyi and Sizhui can’t stop talking about him. Mama adores him. He makes people feel comfortable.” He doesn’t add that Wei Ying’s smile blooms like the sun in the morning or that his laugh is like a perfect cup of fully oxidized mi lan xiang dan cong oolong, familiar and new at the same time, wickedly tempting, yet grounded in profound goodness.

“He is easy to talk to. I don’t entirely understand it. He just…” Xichen shrugs and looks helplessly at Lan Zhan.

“He gets under your skin,” Lan Zhan finishes softly, “Like he’s always been there. Like he’s always belonged.”

“Something like that,” Xichen agrees, pensive and distant. He purses his lips. “ZhanZhan, I need to tell you…I’m sorry.”

For a brief, terrifying moment, Lan Zhan thinks he means he’s sorry for having Wei Ying, that he knows what’s in Lan Zhan’s heart.

“I didn’t realize how much responsibility I left you with, and I am sorry,” Xichen continues, and Lan Zhan is honestly not sure if this is better or worse. “I..hope...I hope it’s not too late to apologize.”

“Is it ever?” Lan Zhan asks, despite himself, and Xichen’s mouth flicks sideways in embarrassment.

“No. You’re right. I was so...enamored with my own grief, I could not see anything else. And by the time I could, I did not know how to say it. But...someone…” He smiles and shakes his head. “Wei Ying said that maybe you’d understand. He was kind enough not to say it in so many words, but I know I hurt you all. I can’t stop thinking that...I almost died without saying I was sorry.”

Xichen reaches out hesitantly, like he wants to squeeze Lan Zhan’s hand, but he settles for patting him on the arm.

“Will you forgive me?”

He finally stops talking and tilts his head, waiting for a response, looking at Lan Zhan so hopefully and fearfully, Lan Zhan has to breathe for a count of four, in and out.

No, the words aren’t quite ready.

A count of three, in and out.

Almost, he can almost open his mouth without crying.

A count of two, in and out.

Wei Ying did this. Wei Ying said something that made Xichen...different. Magic again.

“Yes. We’re brothers. I will always forgive you.”

A tear slides down Xichen’s cheek, and then he does squeeze Lan Zhan’s hand. Lan Zhan doesn’t know if this is all it takes, if a split second, a near-death experience, is enough to alter all their lives, but it feels like the aftershock of a cataclysm, all the pieces bouncing around, some of them falling neatly, beautifully into place, some of them becoming something new, and some broken forever.

Can he trade his own future happiness for Xichen? For his family?

The belligerent voice in his head argues that he’s traded enough, but he silences it. He can’t risk pushing Xichen away again. They can never get Haohan back, but Xichen is here, alive, and trying. Lan Zhan can try too.

They talk for a while longer, thankfully not about Wei Ying, but also thankfully, nothing like the stiff and formal conversation of the last three years. Lan Zhan mostly tells Xichen about Jingyi and Sizhui, but also the more mundane things. Mama’s ever-expanding garden. Baba’s plans to add hydrotherapy to the practice. The last show shushu dragged him to—ironically, a production of Chicago that shushu hated, raging for hours about anachronistic costumes and poor sound mixing.

And Xichen talks too, haltingly, about auditioning for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and being abysmally embarrassed after so many years away from competitive performance. Lan Zhan can’t help but smile at that. Most people would be thrilled to even audition. Not that he’d expected it to materialize into a career as a professional violinist, Xichen says with a wry smile, but it had reminded him how he loved to play. He’d started playing with smaller groups, and more recently, the CSO Civic Orchestra. Lan Zhan doesn’t miss the way he glows when he talks about music, in a way he’s never seemed to feel about medicine.

“Dr. Lan...uh...Dr. Lan? I’m sorry, it’s after nine.”

The night nurse who peeks in the room looks apologetic, but Lan Zhan knows she’s right. The adrenaline of reconciliation will fade eventually, and Xichen is still only a few days out of a coma. He stands to go, but Xichen catches his hand.

“I am not so oblivious, ZhanZhan. I know...I know how much Wei Ying has done for me, for our whole family. I don’t...I don’t love him. Or at least, I don’t remember loving him, but...I think he’s a better man than I deserve. I want to try. For everyone.”

This time, the pain is only the dull, numb ache of hypothermia, spreading from his fingers and toes into his core. Lan Zhan nods and forces a smile, albeit a brief one, before he escapes. It’s not as cold outside as he remembered, and he wonders if that’s because he’s never going to be warm again.

There’s a man talking to a woman outside the hospital, and Lan Zhan slows, recognizing the familiar face before he can recall the name.

Jiang Cheng. The best friend. The ex. The hugger.

The woman’s arms are crossed, her foot tapping in anger, and Jiang Cheng looks penitent. More than penitent, Lan Zhan realizes. There are tears on his cheeks, but the girl shakes her head and walks away, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. Lan Zhan knows how he feels.

Suddenly, he needs to see Wei Ying.

He shouldn’t, but he is halfway across town before he is willing to consider the reasons this is a bad idea. He thinks of seven.

Wei Ying isn’t home.

He won’t be able to remember where Wei Ying lives.

Wei Ying won’t want to see him.

He won’t be able to think of anything to say.

Wei Ying has company.

He promised his mother he’d stop by on his way home.

Wei Ying is already asleep.

He dismisses all of them and does not think about the one reason he can’t see Wei Ying.

And yet, when he pulls up to Wei Ying’s apartment building, he doesn’t get out of the car. The radio starts playing a song that sounds like encouragement, like permission.

I'm living in a kind of daydream, I'm happy as a queen.

Lan Zhan turns the car off.

The mere idea of you, the longing here for you,

He knows what will happen if he opens the car door. He knows Wei Ying will let him in. He knows he won’t be able to stop himself this time. He doesn’t want to. Whatever the cost is, he’s ready to pay it.

I see your face in every flower, your eyes in stars above.

As though Lan Zhan’s wishful thinking has summoned him, Wei Ying appears on the stoop, huddled in a big sweatshirt, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. Lan Zhan isn’t sure if he’s real or a mirage. He could get out and go to Wei Ying now.

You’ll never know how slow the moments go ‘til I’m near to you.

He takes the keys out of the ignition.

Even from here, Wei Ying is irresistible, the cold reddening his cheeks and lips, and the incandescent street lights cast a burnished filter over his skin. He looks toward the road and for one heart-stopping instant, Lan Zhan thinks Wei Ying sees him, sitting in his car, yearning.

Wei Ying’s lips tip in a sad smile, and he holds out his arms. Lan Zhan watches as Jiang Cheng stumbles up the stairs and sags into them, shoulders shaking with sobs.

Strangely, seeing them doesn’t rouse the same possessive jealousy it had the first time. Instead, Lan Zhan sees the loyalty, the easy affection, the lifelong friendship, and he slides deeper into the complicated, agonizing morass of love. It would be simpler if it was just lust, but he is so proud of Wei Ying for this kindness and care. He wants to do for Wei Ying what he seems to do for everyone else. He wonders if Xichen will cherish him. Will Xichen know what a treasure he is?

Lan Zhan thinks of his brother’s words—I know how much Wei Ying has done for me. I want to try.

He watches them go back inside, Wei Ying’s arm wrapped around Jiang Cheng, and slowly, Lan Zhan puts the key in the ignition, turns on the car, and goes home.

He doesn't cry.

He never cries.

He is too empty to cry.

It's just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love.

Chapter Text

Wei Ying is very proud of himself on Friday. He has showered, brushed his teeth, put on weather-appropriate clothes, noted and appreciated the crisp turquoise sky, and he has only had two tearful breakdowns in the bathroom.

Well, three, if you count the one at home before work, which he does not.

Four, if you count the one he is having right now, which is technically during lunch and not even in a bathroom.

“If I’d known you were going to get this emotional about dandan mian, I wouldn’t have picked this restaurant for my birthday lunch,” Jiang Cheng says, his almost-teasing belied by the worried crimp in his forehead. “A-Xian, do you want to be alone? I mean, I’m not going to leave you alone like this, so the answer better be no, but…”

Down in a hole, and I don't know if I can be saved.

“No, I’m fine. Just...hang on…” Wei Ying says and wipes his eyes. It’s ridiculous. He’s acting like someone died. He clears his throat and breathes out.

I have been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth.

I will speak no more of my feelings beneath.

He’s fine. He’s just fine. He’s sitting in the world’s smallest Chinese restaurant with his best friend, eating spicy noodles and wontons, listening to the least helpful Alice in Chains song in the world, and he’s fine. He is not going to ruin Jiang Cheng’s birthday. Well, that ship may have already sailed. But he’s not going to keep ruining it. Maybe Jiang Cheng will believe that the noodles—which are so good, Wei Ying suspects witchcraft is involved—are just too spicy.

I'd like to fly, but my wings have been so denied.

“You’re clearly not fine, and don’t even try to pretend it’s the chili. What the hell happened yesterday? And why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Jiang Cheng asks, snagging a wonton and biting into it.

“Well, you were kind of sobbing, so it didn’t seem like the right time,” Wei Ying says blithely, seizing the distraction with both hands. “Although you seem okay now?”

Jiang Cheng grimaces. He very predictably shifts into talking about his own love life. Wei Ying loves him deeply for that.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I...I talked to her today, and I guess it was a misunderstanding.”

All Wei Ying had gotten out of Jiang Cheng yesterday was that his heart was broken. He’d sniffled that the girl he’d been seeing—he still wouldn’t use her name—had made plans for New Year’s Eve that didn’t include him, and he was fairly sure that meant she was done with him. They’d spent all of New Year’s Day fighting—and inexplicably having sex—about it.

Wei Ying hadn’t done much other than settle Jiang Cheng on the couch, turn on music, hand him a cup of tea, and cover him with a blanket. It was a struggle to even do that much. His brain felt like it was floating in molasses, and for once, he couldn’t remember how to be comforting. So he’d just sat on the couch and let Jiang Cheng cry on his lap, doing his best not to think about the feel of Lan Zhan’s hands in his hair.

“She has a big family, and they’re really tight. I guess she thought I was pressuring her to meet them, and I didn’t realize that’s who she had plans with.” Jiang Cheng shrugs, shoving noodles into his mouth, not as embarrassed by the overreaction as Wei Ying suspects he should be.

Conversely, Wei Ying hadn’t shed a tear all night. He hadn’t cried when he’d walked away from Lan Zhan or on the subway or on the walk home. He’d fed Chenqing the same way he always did, although she’d glared at him from the top of the cabinets for being late, and he’d had to make it up to her by sharing tiny pieces of his chicken. He hadn’t even cried in sympathy with Jiang Cheng’s waterfall. He wanted to pretend it was because he had accepted that Lan Zhan didn’t want him.

He knew he was a big fat liar.

It hadn’t been until this morning, when he’d listened to the myriad messages that had piled up since Wednesday, that the tears had started.

A-Ying! I hope you’re out partying! I love you, little brother! If you see Jiang Cheng, tell him to call his sister! Happy New Year’s Eve!

A-Ying, we missed you, but ZhanZhan said you weren’t feeling well. Just wanted to say Happy New Year! Feel better, sweetheart.

Ying-ge! You should've come over today! You missed an epic duel! Uncle Qiren beat jiujiu! It took half an hour! No one ever beats jiujiu! Dude, come over later this week. We can play hockey.

Wei Ying, Rizhao and Youheng were disappointed that you didn’t join us this evening, but Xichen said you stopped by to see him, which is an understandable alternative. Happy New Year.

Wei Ying, I hope you don’t mind, mama gave me your phone number. Dr. Nie said you can bring dinner as long as it isn’t too spicy. It would be nice to see you again, if you’re free. Happy New Year.

And the worst one.

Wei Ying. Happy New Year.

The reality of how much he was going to miss them, all of them, was a sudden and devastating cataclysm, and it occurred to him how much worse it was going to be when he actually told them the truth. Wei Ying calculated the alternatives: maybe he just wouldn’t tell them anything. Or he could move again.

He is, honestly, considering it.

“So? You guys are cool now?” he asks, still distracting himself with Jiang Cheng’s natural disaster.

Jiang Cheng shoots him a guilty look. “Not exactly. She doesn’t like jealousy, and she doesn’t believe that I wasn’t jealous.”

Wei Ying is also skeptical. Jiang Cheng loves like a dragon: wholly, fiercely, but also with tightly clenched fists. It’s exhilarating and exhausting, and Wei Ying isn’t surprised that Wen Qing is struggling with being the hoard.

“Shut up, I can see you thinking. I was not being jealous. It just feels like she’s jerking me around sometimes. Like...she’s amazing, and the sex is amazing, but afterward, she seems so pissed about it. Seriously, I don’t even need it. I’d be fine if I could just get her to....I don’t know, sit still and talk to me without it.”

He shrugs, eating another wonton, and Wei Ying stares at him. That was a shockingly aware self-evaluation for Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying has often thought that Jiang Cheng mostly enjoyed “sex” for the pleasure of “after sex.” Like swimming in the ocean is just an excuse to lay around on the beach.

“Have you told her that?” he asks, and Jiang Cheng snorts.

“Yeah, but it turned into sex, so I’m not sure it really sank in.” Jiang Cheng’s mouth flattens out the way it does when he’s thinking, but then he grins, so Wei Ying has a pretty good idea what he’s thinking about. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“So, what are you going to do now?” Wei Ying asks, genuinely curious. Jiang Cheng does seem to have reached hitherto unknown levels of calm, and Wei Ying suspects it has to do with whatever the current Woo Wen Qing Stratagem is.

“Man, whatever she wants. I clearly don’t have any fucking idea what that is, so I’m waiting for her to tell me.” Jiang Cheng points his chopsticks at Wei Ying with a glare. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re using my issues to avoid yours. What the hell happened yesterday?”

Damn, Wei Ying really was hoping exactly that. He isn't sure how to say it. I got dumped by my not-boyfriend because he incorrectly thinks I’m engaged to his brother? I have to break up with my pretend fiancé and his wonderful family? And then move to the fucking Hebrides because otherwise I’m afraid they’ll find me?

“Okay, fine, you were right about the Lans. They don’t belong to me and I’m not being fair to them.”

Wei Ying glares at the tiny speaker in the ceiling when “Fell on Black Days” starts. Whatsoever I've feared has come to life. Why is the radio attacking him today? It seems uncalled for, and he very intentionally shuts out Chris Cornell—not an easy task.

Jiang Cheng looks puzzled. “I didn’t say that.”

“In my head you did,” Wei Ying admits. “And you were right. I just...I can’t keep lying forever.”

“You just figured that out?” Jiang Cheng asks dryly. “I’m always right, even the made-up voice of me in your head, which...is weird, but I’m flattered, thanks. So...you told them?”

“No. I didn’t get a chance. The first time I tried, Lan Xichen’s hot doctor interrupted—don’t ask, he’s one of those force of nature guys—and the second time his oddly scary ex-boyfriend popped by unannounced. And then I ran into Lan Zhan and…” Wei Ying’s voice breaks, and he finishes lamely, the understated story of the year, “I couldn’t tell him either, so...I’m just going to move to Alaska.”

Shit. He refuses to have tearful breakdown number five. He wants to come back to this restaurant someday, and the cook is already looking at him like he’s unhinged.

“A-Xian...are you in love with him?”

Jiang Cheng sounds surprisingly gentle, like he already knows the answer. Of course he does. It’s perfectly obvious. Wei Ying is forced to look his feelings in the face, and the face looks exactly like Lan Zhan. He looks away.

“I...is it irrational to say yes?” he asks, hedging, and Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.

“I may not be the best judge of this, but yeah, pretty irrational. But...if you are, you are. You always know how you feel, even if you’re shit at doing anything about it.”

Wei Ying bangs his head on the table with a groan. “Fuck, I am. I’ve barely even touched him? Why am I ridiculously in love with his rude questions and his quiet kindness and his piano hands and his beautiful, blinding smile? What am I going to do?”

“Does he like you?”

Jiang Cheng asks the reasonable question in a reasonable tone and Wei Ying hates him for it. He had thought so. Maybe. But then…

“I practically threw myself at him last night and he just said he couldn’t. And he’s not the ‘play hard to get’ sort. If he means something, he means it. If he does like me, it’s not enough.”

And saying the words, Wei YIng knows they must be true. If Lan Zhan wanted him, really wanted him, he’d have said so when he had the chance. But he didn’t.

Jiang Cheng studies Wei Ying’s face carefully. “Maybe. But you haven’t told him the truth. Maybe you should attempt the impossible: communicate clearly before you give up. Maybe he won’t forgive you, in which case, he’s a fucking asshole and not worth it. If he does, maybe all of this was just yuanfen.”

“Jiang Cheng, I can not live in a world where you are the wise one,” Wei Ying moans, hiding his face in his hands.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Jiang Cheng agrees affably, eating the last wonton like a traitor. “I don’t expect it to last.”

They walk back to the station after lunch, and it’s still a depressingly beautiful day.

“Are you seeing...uh...your girl today?” Wei Ying asks, trying not to sound hopeful. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hang out with Jiang Cheng on his birthday—he owes his brother that much—but all the lies and heartache are exhausting, and they’re starting to catch up to him. He wants to sleep for a week, preferably curled in Lan Zhan’s arms...Shut up, Wei Ying. What is wrong with you?

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I know we always do stuff on my birthday but...I kind of wanted to take her out. Like, on a normal date. We haven’t really done anything normal since we met.”

“Dude, of course. You should. We can hang out tomorrow night or whenever.”

Jiang Cheng looks relieved, and Wei Ying laughs at him. “What, you thought I was going to throw a jealous fit? A-Cheng, one of us should figure out how to be happy. I had odds on me, but I’m cool with it being you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jiang Cheng tells him, giving him a quick hug before he goes.

Wei Ying thinks about Jiang Cheng’s novel idea about communication for the rest of his shift, and he thinks about it when he heads to Mai Thai for Xichen’s pad kee mau, and he thinks about it when he drinks the first two Singha beers while he’s waiting for his order.

After the third one has smoothed the edges of his nerves like a whetstone, grinding down the sharper bits into something manageable, he decides he can do this. He counts his strengths: he is smart, he is funny, he is cute, he is brave. He tells the truth as much as possible. He wants to reach for the stars, if he can.

Wen Ning waves when Wei Ying arrives on the third floor, and Wei Ying is glad to see his familiar face, just in case he has to make a run for it. Xichen doesn’t seem capable of physical violence, but...you never know. The Lans are all very fit.

Xichen is, as usual, delighted to see him, and Wei Ying wonders if it’s him specifically, or just anyone to break up the monotony of being bed-bound.

“Wei Ying, you remembered! I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Or in this case, if it’s the anticipation of food. The Singha and the commitment to bravery make him buoyant, and Wei Ying can’t help teasing.

“Remembered? Oh no, I was supposed to bring you Thai! This is just chicken from the cafeteria downstairs.” His mouth quirks up at Xichen’s crestfallen expression. “Xichen, I’m teasing. I got your message.”

He sets the takeout on the table and presents it with a flourish. “Pad kee mau, as asked, not too spicy, as ordered.”

Xichen’s smile splits his face, as beautiful as always but not debilitating today. Wei Ying thinks maybe he’s getting used to it, and he grins back, pulling out his own food—pad woon sen. If he’s going to have a last meal, it may as well be something he likes. He drops into the chair next to Xichen’s bed and kicks his feet up on the lower railing, balancing his food on his knees.

“Wei Ying...” Xichen says, a strange expression on his face. “I...it’s a new year…”

Wei Ying bites into his noodles, which aren’t hot, but still heavenly, just heavenly, especially with that little bit of buzz he still has left. “You are very observant, Lan Xichen. Your education was worth every penny. ”

Xichen smiles, but he still looks odd, somehow balancing both a smile and a deep forehead crease on his face. “I need to tell you...something.”

“What a coincidence, Xichen. I need to tell you something too. After you eat. I walked three whole blocks for that food.” Wei Ying says, poking the mattress with his foot, and then remembers the broken leg. “Oh, fuck, sorry. Did that hurt?”

“Ying-ge, you’re not supposed to swear in front of us.”

“Yeah, it’s fucking impolite.”

Wei Ying spins around in his chair, which is horribly awkward, especially given his recent detour into tipsy territory, and he nearly spills his food. Not again, not again! He can’t be foiled again. He has to tell Xichen the truth. Why didn’t he just say it as soon as he walked in the room? He got overconfident, that’s why. Fuck. Fuck.

“Hey! What are you guys doing here?” he asks foolishly, as though Sizhui and Jingyi don’t have the right to visit their uncle.

“Er-jiu invited us. Waigong and laolao are on their way up, Uncle...oh, Uncle Qiren is here too,” Jingyi shoulder-bumps his uncle, who, surprisingly, doesn’t object. “Dunno about jiujiu. Probably here. He’s never late.”

Wei Ying wants to die immediately. He considers the ways he could accomplish that, and it seems like it should help that he’s in a hospital, but a cursory glance around the room reveals no weapons, no poisons, no freight trains, no cliffs to jump off of. He’s just going to have to really focus on spontaneous combustion. His golden opportunity to tell the truth in a reasonable, clean, pain-free manner is disappearing with every Lan that steps in the room. Lan Zhan is the last one to arrive, and he hovers in the doorway as though he can’t cross the threshold, but no one seems to notice or mind except Wei Ying.

Popo and gonggong—no, he reminds himself, Ms. Yang and Dr. Lan—hug Wei Ying when he stands, and Uncle Qiren nods regally at him. Lan Zhan smiles politely at him, and it hurts more than if he’d glowered hostilely.

“Alright Xichen, you gathered the masses. What is this big announcement?” Uncle Qiren asks.

Xichen takes a deep, bracing breath and smiles hesitantly. “Wei Ying...I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for you. You saved my life and then you…you convinced me that I needed to be honest. That I could be honest.”

His smile is glowing and optimistic, and Wei Ying senses that freight train headed his way after all.

“Mama, baba, I’m not practicing medicine anymore.” Xichen breathes out and blinks so slowly, Wei Ying isn’t sure he’s actually going to open his eyes again. “I started teaching violin and orchestra at Kennedy Arts Academy three years ago. I love it,” he adds, with a laugh that sounds equal parts nervous and exhilarated. “I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment.”

The room is silent.

The room is silent long enough that Xichen’s ebullient smile fades, and he shoots a worried look at Wei Ying. Wei Ying really didn’t intend to be complicit in this particular bravery, but he smiles encouragingly at Xichen anyway. Maybe it’s for the best. Who will even notice that he’s not really engaged to Xichen after that bombshell?

“A-Huan, how could you ever think we would be disappointed?” Ms. Yang finally says, her voice cracking, too heavy with emotion to stay steady.

Wei Ying realizes that her initial silence hadn’t been disapproval but the length of time it took to choke back tears enough to talk. She rushes to hug Xichen, and he sighs, relaxing into his mother’s love. As though it was a whistle blowing, everyone else plows forward in a Lan tsunami, piling on affection and reassurance until Xichen protests, “Ow, leg.”

Wei Ying really wants to leave, because every time he’s part of one of their Big Family Moments, it tightens another cord around his heart, and he’s not sure he’s going to survive cutting free the ties that already bind him to them. But Lan Zhan is still standing in the door, and Wei Ying can’t even look at him, much less scoot past him. So he just stands, feeling increasingly foolish holding a box of food. He sets down the pad woon sen, but that’s actually worse, because now he’s not sure what to do with his hands. He settles for swinging them like a toddler because “too immature to marry anyone you’re related to” might be a helpful impression to convey.

“Wei Ying? Wei Ying?”

He finally notices Xichen is saying his name and reaching out a hand. He tries to shake it in a congratulatory way, but Xichen turns his hand and pulls him closer, through the Lan cloud until he bumps into the edge of the bed and sits with a clumsy thump.

“There’s one more thing,” Xichen says, that odd look on his face again.

What is it, Wei Ying wonders. Determination and...something else. Apprehension? Resignation? He can’t put his finger on it, but it makes him nervous.

“Wei Ying, I’m sorry I don’t remember much of anything about...whatever we had before, but in the last three days, you have been so kind and patient with me. You have listened to me complain, held my hand to make me brave, fed my cat, and charmed every single member of my family. I want to remember, but I don’t think I need to.”

Xichen lifts Wei Ying’s hand to kiss his knuckles, and Wei Ying can’t even stop him because he is actually paralyzed. He keeps thinking that he’s hit the bottom, that nothing worse could possibly happen, and the universe keeps proving him wrong.

“Whatever I saw in you before, I’m starting to see it again. Mama said she gave you a garden bag, and it seems appropriate to start a new year with new life. Wei Ying, I know we already decided this once, but I want to remember it this time. Will you marry me? Will you be my family and spend the rest of our lives making new memories together?”

This would be the happiest moment of Wei Ying’s life if he believed in fairy tales, and if fairy tales involved the antiseptic smell of hospital rooms, a handsome prince proposing marriage, and the expectant hush of a family-in-waiting. He opens his mouth, closes it, looks at Xichen’s gorgeous, expectant face, and looks at the doorway. He wants Lan Zhan to shake his head, to frown, to smile—anything.

But he isn’t there.

Instead, all Wei Ying can see is Ms. Yang’s shining joy, Dr. Lan’s hearty grin, Jingyi and Sizhui’s awed silences, even Uncle Qiren’s pleased-as-punch expression. A selfish, panicking voice whispers, there’s another way this doesn’t all have to be a lie, and the realization burns a trail of lightning through his body, tempting and gut-wrenching at the same time.

He still isn’t there.

“Okay,” Wei Ying whispers. This is the only answer that won’t hurt them, the only way to keep them—all of them, even the ones that don’t really want him. “Okay.”

Xichen’s mouth tips into a relieved smile that spreads, wide and sweet. It’s impossible not to smile back at Xichen. It’s not even a lie. To his surprise, Xichen grips his elbow and tugs him forward, kissing him gently on the lips. It’s not the overwhelming flame of touching Lan Zhan, but it’s far from repulsive, and Wei Ying leans into the feeling of being wanted, of being accepted, of being chosen.

It doesn’t matter that it’s not really what he wants, he tells himself as popo and gonggong engulf him in a hug and Sizhui and Jingyi whack him on the back. Part of what he wants feels like more than he’s ever had before.

Wei Ying finally looks away from the empty doorway to face the future.

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan only makes it two feet before his knees buckle, and he slides down the wall. He wonders if there’s any visible sign of the way it feels to have your heart shrivel in your chest. Heartbreak he could have endured. This...this is heart death.

He didn’t hear Wei Ying’s answer, but he knows what it will be. He will say yes. He already has once.

“Dr. Lan? Are you...do you need anything?”

The nurse, the one Wei Yi...the one he sees here all the time is crouched in front of him, his boyish face creased in concern. “Can I help you?”

“I need to leave,” Lan Zhan croaks hoarsely. He can’t be here. He’s not sure he can be anywhere, but somewhere else at least won’t be here. He can’t let them see him like this.

The nurse looks like he’s going to argue, and Lan Zhan grabs his wrist tightly.

“I need. To leave,” he repeats, and finally, after a longer internal debate than Lan Zhan feels should have been necessary, the nurse nods.

“Okay, Let me help you. Where are you parked?”

The man hoists him up and slings Lan Zhan’s arm over his shoulder, staggering with him out of the hospital to the parking garage. The polite core of Lan Zhan’s brain recognizes that the nurse is wearing thin scrubs and no coat, and he tries to be grateful.

“Thank you...” he gets out before his brain shuts down entirely. It shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t feel like this. He should be happy for Xichen. He should have known this was going to happen. What else was he expecting?

“Dr. Lan, are you sure...Dr. Lan, you shouldn’t drive like this,” the nurse says, refusing to let go of Lan Zhan’s arm, and he steels himself, willing his arms to do the right motions, his legs to do the right movements, his hand to put the key in the ignition. Anything to get away.

“Thank you. I’ll be fine,” he says firmly, and closes the door before the nurse drags him bodily from the car.

He drives and doesn’t think about the way Wei Ying looks in the snow.

He eventually gets home and doesn’t think about the sound of Wei Ying’s laughter.

The magnolia tree in his yard looms in front of him and dark branches rustle at him. He stares up into its grey branches and tries to remember what it looks like in summer, with all the glorious white blooms, and he can’t. He can’t recall summer at all.

He goes into the house, locks the door, and doesn’t think about his family's happiness.

Somewhere, he seems to have acquired a bottle of whiskey, and he looks at himself holding it without comprehension. He may as well drink it.

He drinks and doesn’t think about the hopeful smile on Xichen’s face.

He finds himself sitting in front of the fireplace, which has a fire in it he doesn’t remember starting, holding the half-empty bottle of whiskey. There’s music he can’t identify playing in the background, something that bounces, something that swoons, something that aches across his chest.

You are the breathless hush of evening

He takes another swig from the bottle and doesn’t think about the long years of his life alone, longing for a man he’ll see at every summer cookout, every family holiday, on special days and ordinary days.

The dearest things I know are what you are.

Oh, he does know this song, and he stumbles to the piano to play the rest of it with Ella.

Why didn’t he just tell Wei Ying all the reasons? Because your smile is a beacon of light in my soul. Because I see the kindness and love in your heart. Because you do such good for other people? Because your laughter is made of stars and magic. Or even just one of them? Because I love you more than the ocean loves the shore. His fingers trip on the keys, but he persists.

And someday I'll know that moment divine when all the things you are

Are mine.

He lays his head on the keys. This thing, this piano that has always brought him joy, even when it expressed his grief, feels somehow insufficient now, missing the warmth of a person next to him, a thigh touching his, a shoulder brushing against him.

He is driving, and he doesn’t remember how, or even getting in the car. The song on the radio isn’t one he knows, but the yearning lyrics pry him open anyway.

I hope someday you’ll have a beautiful life.

The lights of the cars coming toward him are blinding, and he considers, for a moment, how moths feel, whether they fear the inevitable or welcome it.

I know you'll be a star in somebody else's sky.

His vision blurs, and he’s not sure if it’s the fog of exhaustion, sorrow, or the whiskey in the cupholder. He fights to focus, and the music sobs through him, jerking the wheel erratically in his hands as he exits the freeway.

But why, why, why can't it be, oh can't it be mine?

He walks through the hospital, even though it’s almost midnight, and no one stops him. He’s Dr. Lan, he thinks. Just a doctor in a hospital, not a man holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a shattered heart in the other.

He stops at the room he’s looking for and looks at the man asleep in the bed. They lost someone they loved once, he remembers. That was the last time he was this drunk, but that time, his brother had been with him, drink for drink, mourning together.

“I never wanted…” he starts, and he sways, leaning against the doorframe. “You were always the lucky one, and I was proud to stand next to you. I never wanted anything you had.”

He wonders if he says Xichen's name, he’ll wake up. Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe they can clear this up.

There are flowers on the bedside table, and as his eyes adjust to the dark, he realizes there are other flowers in vases and pots around the room. A painful fist grips his stomach as he reads the first card.

Congratulations Wei Ying and Dr. Lan!

And the second.

You two crazy kids! Have a long and happy life!

He doesn’t torture himself with the third or the fifth. They’ll be the same. Good news travels fast.

So.

That’s it.

What comes next, Lan Zhan wonders. What is he supposed to do next?

Xichen looks younger asleep, and different, as though all the things he keeps hidden can now be read on the surface of his face.

“I never wanted anything you ever had until now. I want the chance to make him happy. I want to see him every night and every morning. I want to be the one he loves until we die.”

Xichen doesn’t wake up, doesn’t even shift in his sleep.

“I need you to give this everything, Xichen. I need you to make him deliriously happy because he deserves it, and...I won’t forgive you if you don’t.”

Lan Zhan lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks, the bloom of warmth not as acerbic as it had been. It feels like he thinks it’s supposed to, numbing him down to his toes.

“Do you hear me, Xichen?” he asks again, waving the bottle at his brother.

“Dr. Lan?”

He knows that voice. He turns heavy eyes toward the speaker and recognizes the shape.

“Dr. Nie. I am visiting my brother.”

“Hmm, I see that. He seems to be sleeping through it, though, so maybe we can wait until he wakes up, okay?”

The man’s voice makes everything sound so reasonable, and Lan Zhan lets himself be led away to an empty room.

“Lan Zhan,” he tells Dr. Nie, slumping into a chair. “I’m Lan Zhan.”

It’s a waiting room, he thinks, patting the arm of his chair. What is he waiting for? He already missed his train.

“Mingjue.” The man exchanges a name for a name, and he helps Lan Zhan sit up more vertically in the chair. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Lan Zhan says instinctively. “I am drinking about it.”

The doctor’s laugh is a chest-lifting snort, and Lan Zhan appreciates what an impressive chest it is.

“What is your workout regime?” he asks, and this time, the laugh is a full-belly chortle.

“Rock climbing,” he says with a grin, and Lan Zhan isn’t sure if he should believe that. It doesn’t sound like something people do on purpose.

“They’re getting married,” he informs Dr...Mingjue. “Did you know?”

A shadow flickers across Mingjue’s face. “I heard. I left flowers.”

Lan Zhan knows that expression. He feels its imprint on his face like a slap.

“Ah. You too. Wanna drink?” he slurs, holding out the bottle.

“Profoundly, yes, but I still have half an hour of shift left,” Mingjue declines politely.

“You have only known him for days.” Lan Zhan points out, counting his fingers. “Six...seven days. How? How can someone impact your life in seven days? Why can't you stop thinking about him? And how are you supposed to live the rest of your life, knowing he is there but not here, with you?”

Mingjue frowns and looks thoughtful. He starts to say something and Lan Zhan cuts him off.

“Do not say there will be someone else, because there will not. There has never been, and there will never be, and you know it.”

“No,” Mingjue agrees softly. “There won’t.”

He holds out his hand and Lan Zhan gives him the bottle. Mingjue gulps down a shot and wipes his mouth.

“Here’s what I think, Lan Zhan. There won’t be anything else...anyone else...who makes you feel like this. But there is still a life to lead and other ways to be happy. It isn’t the same. But it’s out there. You...you and I both just have to go look for it.”

Mingjue stands and gives the bottle back to Lan Zhan.

“Or we can pine forever. I honestly can’t tell you which way I’m leaning right now.” He hands Lan Zhan a piece of paper. A business card. “Look...if you want to talk about it more when you’re not drunk, or when I am more drunk...call. Don’t drive anymore tonight, though, okay?”

Lan Zhan nods. He can’t remember where he parked his car anyway. He tips his head back to rest against the back of the surprisingly comfortable plastic chair and thinks about the blessed relief of darkness.

“Zhan-er?”

“Shushu,” he says to the man taking the empty bottle away from him. He blinks the black sleep out of his eyes, and it settles in the pit of his stomach. “Shushu...he’s getting married.”

His uncle’s tired face crumples with empathy, and it is the last falling wall between Lan Zhan and tears. He slides to the ground, and the sobs that have been building in him all night break free. He weeps for himself, for the what ifs and the almosts, for a profound and devastating loss he’d never even known was possible.

Shushu sits on the ground with him and folds Lan Zhan into a hug. “Oh my boy, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

He didn’t know his uncle could be comforting, but he holds Lan Zhan in strong arms until he cries himself out, and then he keeps hugging him just a little longer.

Chapter Text

Jiang Cheng rolls over and bumps into a warm body. A soft, warm body. A soft, warm body that smells like ginger and vanilla. He grins, burying his nose in the back of Wen Qing’s neck and wraps an arm around her waist to pull her closer. She grumbles a little, but he’s learned that this particular grumble is permission, as evidenced by the way she shifts back and wiggles enticingly against his groin.

“Qing-er, you’re a wicked woman,” he murmurs, kissing her shoulder. “What am I going to do with you?”

She turns and kisses him, a sleepy, languid press of lips. It seems like a minor miracle that she’s still here to be kissed, and even her morning breath is a comfort he doesn’t want to question. After the night they’d met, he genuinely didn’t think he would ever see her again, but for once in his life, the stars aligned. Even she had to admit, meeting in the hospital had seemed a lot like fate. Nothing in his life had ever felt as victorious as the moment she said her real name.

Well, except for yesterday, when she’d agreed to go on a real date for his birthday—albeit one where they’d split the check—and then stayed all night. All night. He grins foolishly and kisses her nose.

“Talk less. Do something else with your mouth,” she retorts, which he thinks is massively unfair, considering he’s only said two things, but his strict new policy of doing whatever she wants is, frankly, working out spectacularly.

“So demanding,” he informs her as he scoots down, running his hands over the smooth skin of her stomach and kissing the inside of her thigh.

In response, she puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes. He laughs because he can feel her laughter too, and as corny as he knows it is, making her happy makes him feel like an absolute king.

“A-Cheng, are you here?”

Fuck, shit, fuck, he is going to kill his brother and then take back his key. And then possibly kill his brother again.

“Jiang Cheng, is that Wei Ying?” Wen Qing whispers as he climbs out of the bed and scrambles to put on clothes.

“Yeah, he has a key. Fuck, Qing-er, I’m sorry. I’ll get rid of him. You don’t have to come out.”

She looks at him for a second, mouth pursed thoughtfully.

“Okay,” she says, but she sounds a little disappointed, and Jiang Cheng isn’t sure if that’s progress or not. He keeps wanting to integrate her into his life, but every time he takes a step forward, she takes one back. He doesn’t want to push it.

“A-Xian, what are you doing here at eight in the morning on a Saturday?” Jiang Cheng demands, stomping into the living room, ready to turn Wei Ying around and shove him out of the door. He nearly falls over in shock. “Shit. What happened?”

Wei Ying looks...wrong. Brittle and jagged. Annoyingly, he also looks beautiful. It is patently unfair that on Wei Ying, unwashed hair, dark eye circles, and oily skin just make him more gorgeous. Jiang Cheng would look like a madman. With a sinking feeling, he remembers this expression. Wei Ying looked like this after Lina Wang too.

“Lan Zhan?” he guesses and Wei Ying shakes his head.

“No. I’m...uh...getting married. I guess.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. Not this again. “Fuck, A-Xian, you had me worried. You’re not really engaged, remember?”

“I am,” Wei Ying says, his voice both empty and bright, like the recording of bird song rather than the actuality of it. “Xichen...uh, he...proposed yesterday. For real. In front of his whole family.”

Jiang Cheng stares at him, and it takes a second to pull his mouth closed and straighten out the canyon in his forehead. “And you accepted? Wei Ying, what the fuck? What is wrong with you?”

Wei Ying closes his eyes and bites his lips. “I love them.”

Jiang Cheng runs his hands through his hair. He wants to pull it out. He wants to shake his brother. He wants to scream. Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath. He’s worked on this in therapy. He can be calm and reasonable.

“You have done a lot of stupid things, but this is, without a doubt, the worst.”

Well, not entirely calm and reasonable.

“Fuck you, A-Cheng.” For once, Wei Ying sounds like he means it. “You don’t understand. They want me to be part of their family. When has anyone ever wanted me to be part of their family?”

It’s a low blow, and Jiang Cheng ignores it, doesn’t say the obvious I do, or the more devastating, Yanli does, but Wei Ying hunches his shoulders like he hears the words anyway. Jiang Cheng takes an even deeper breath, giving himself time to think. He should let it go. This never works. He can never argue Wei Ying into anything. But...he knows himself. He’s going to bang his head against the wall trying anyway.

“They don’t even know you. You haven’t given them a chance,” Jiang Cheng tries to pull the frustration out of his voice without much success. “You are choosing not to tell the truth. What will help, Wei Ying? Should I tell them for you? Is that what you need?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Wei Ying pokes Jiang Cheng in the chest. “Relationships have started for worse reasons, and no one ever has to know that it was pretend before. It’s not pretend now. He said the words and I said the words and now we’re...uh...en...engaged.”

“Oh, yeah? You can’t even say it to me without stuttering. What about Lan Zhan? Is he okay with this? Did you even bother to tell him the truth?”

Jiang Cheng isn’t sure why he’s angry. He doesn't really care about Lan Zhan. Maybe because this is all such a familiar story, although it’s strange, being on this side of it instead of being the one Wei Ying is unnecessarily trying to shelter.

“He walked away. He walked away. He didn’t even try to stop me.” A tear slips down Wei Ying’s cheek.

Jiang Cheng refuses to be swayed. “I never ever thought I’d say this, but you’re being a coward.”

Wei Ying’s laugh is as sharp as a sword. “I’m always a coward. I ran away from you, I ran away from writing. Fuck, I ran away from Miami.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth drops open, genuinely stunned. Their whole childhood, Wei Ying fought every bully that ever teased Jiang Cheng, stood by him when he told his parents he wanted to be a teacher—not a lawyer or musician like them—even took time off last year to protest teacher layoffs with him. Jiang Cheng had always thought of him as a pillar of strength and determination. The only things he’d ever run away from had been people, and the only times he’d ever run away from people had been because of some mistaken idea that he had to so they’d be happy. Like writing. It was his agent he’d quit, not writing, because he thought she was wasting too much time on him, or some dumb thing like that.

How, Jiang Cheng wonders, can Wei Ying be so good at knowing people and so bad at understanding them?

“Is that how you see it? A-Xian, you never run away unless you think you’re protecting someone else. But no one asked you to do that. You didn’t have to protect me, you didn’t have to protect Qingyang, and you don’t have to protect Lan Zhan.”

“Maybe I’m protecting myself.” Wei Ying’s voice is small and tight.

“Maybe you should trust that people who love you will still love you at your worst,” Jiang Cheng snaps.

“A-Cheng, I just want to be happy, okay? I don’t want to have to show them my worst. I want birthday cakes and Green Zebra tomatoes and skating in the park with a family that loves me. That chose me. Can’t I just start from here? Xichen is a good guy. I like him. Can’t that be enough?”

“Is it enough?” Jiang Cheng doesn’t think it is, and judging by the hollow look on Wei Ying’s face, he doesn’t think so either. But he squares his shoulders and inhales.

“Yes.”

Jiang Cheng shakes his head. “I don’t believe you. But it’s your choice. I’m with you to the end, you know. No matter what lamebrained thing you do.”

Wei Ying swipes away tears with his sleeve and Jiang Cheng sighs.

“Come here,” he says, holding out his arms, waiting for Wei Ying to step into them before he hugs him. He feels fragile, worn thin around the edges, and Jiang Cheng hangs on so he doesn’t fade away.

“So, when is the big day?” Jiang Cheng asks, padding into the kitchen to make breakfast, because if this is what they’re doing, then this is what they’re doing, and it’s easier to face anything after breakfast.

Wei Ying’s laughter is pinched and rasping. Not really laughter, now that Jiang Cheng thinks about it, although that’s the sound he associates with his brother. This sounds more like metal grating on metal. Discordant. Wrong.

“February 14,” he says, flushing and ducking his head when Jiang Cheng barks a laugh. “I know, but it’s kind of cute. Anyway, he wanted to wait until he was walking again. I think he might be a little vain.”

Jiang Cheng snorts, digging in the fridge for eggs and onions. “If I looked like that, I’d be a lot vain.”

“There was quite a discussion about whether or not six weeks was long enough,” Wei Ying says, sitting at a bar stool with a laugh that sounds more like himself. “You haven’t lived until you’ve listened to a room full of doctors argue about healing times. It was a little like Zixuan and travel times.”

“Fuck, is he like Zixuan?” This is a new and unforeseen reason for concern. It was bad enough when A-Li married The Peacock.

“No, god no.”

Jiang Cheng waits and tries not to scream, then tell me what he is like.

“So? What is he like?”

Wei Ying whips around at the new voice so hard, he slips off his chair and nearly falls on the ground. Jiang Cheng doesn’t do anything so dramatic. He can’t. He’s turned into a bloodless statue of his former self.

Wen Qing strolls into the kitchen wearing Jiang Cheng’s University of Miami sweatshirt and jeans. She sits next to Wei Ying like she’s comfortable here in this apartment, like she belongs in this life, and Jiang Cheng knows without a doubt that he wants her to stay forever. Well, he knew that the day he met her, but this time it sounds like cymbals crashing and sirens blaring, and he can’t think for all the cacophony in his head.

And then he remembers he hasn’t told Wei Ying who he’s been dating, and his heart stops again.

“Hey Wen-jie, uh...nice to see you?” Wei Ying says hesitantly, climbing back onto his chair.

Wei Ying isn’t surprised, Jiang Cheng realizes. He already knows. How the fuck does he already know?

“You too. Even if it is a bit of a surprise at 8 am,” she says tartly.

Wen Qing must have told him, and Jiang Cheng is hurt that she would share it with anyone, with Wei Ying, without warning him.

“Ah, yeah, I’m sorry.” Wei Ying sounds contrite, and Wen Qing shrugs.

But no, Jiang Cheng catches himself, fixated on this conundrum. She’s the one who didn’t want to tell anyone. She’s the one who wanted to “keep it private” a little longer. So how the fuck did Wei Ying find out?

“Well, if you’re here, you may as well catch me up. Since I was under the impression you already were engaged. A-Cheng?” she says, startling Jiang Cheng back into the here and now. “Can I get my eggs made with a little butter?”

“Sure,” he agrees automatically and dumps coffee beans in the grinder before he goes back to cooking because his brother and his maybe-girlfriend being friends is not something he can process without the assistance of breakfast and coffee.

To Jiang Cheng’s surprise, Wei Ying tells her everything, from the initial misunderstanding to meeting the family, to feeling more and more trapped by every day he didn’t tell them the truth. He even talks about Lan Zhan a little, although he leaves out the part where he told Jiang Cheng he was in love with his pretend fiancé’s brother. Jiang Cheng suspects she’s going to figure it out, though. Even he can hear the difference in Wei Ying’s voice when he talks about Lan Zhan.

He pauses when Jiang Cheng puts plates of food in front of them.

“Thank you, A-Cheng,” Wen Qing says, smiling up at him.

He wants to kiss her so badly, murmur you’re welcome into her ear, but he can’t decide if that would be too much. Probably. But he wants to anyway. And dammit, Wei Ying’s smug face looks like he is thoroughly enjoying Jiang Cheng's quandary. With a hmph, Jiang Cheng sits down with his own food and refuses to look at either one of them.

“So now you’ve agreed to marry the guy you aren’t in love with, who is the brother of the guy you are in love with,” Wen Qing summarizes, and Jiang Cheng can't help grinning at Wei Ying’s consternation. Serves him right. “I don’t know you very well, but that sounds monumentally foolish.”

“What the fuck, Jiang Cheng?” Wei Ying demands, and Jiang Cheng holds up his hands.

“I didn’t tell her, your dumb glowing face did,” he retorts.

Wei Ying sinks back, defeated. “I’ll get over it. He doesn’t like me that way, so I’ll get over it.”

“Okay, but you aren’t thinking about the logistics of this,” Wen Qing points her fork at Wei Ying. “You want to be around these people. You said they’re a close family. You aren’t going to get to pick and choose without explaining why you don’t want to be around Lan Zhan. You’re going to see him all the time.”

Wei Ying stops eating and stares at his plate. “It doesn’t matter. I can get over him even if I have to see him every day.”

Jiang Cheng hopes he’s the only one who hears the unspoken words, I’ve done it before. He hasn’t told Wen Qing that Wei Ying is his ex, too, and he’s really not in the mood for Another Startling Revelation. Maybe tomorrow.

Wen Qing sighs heavily.

“Wei Ying, do you think there’s a chance you misunderstood? Maybe he does really like you, but he’s trying to do the right thing. You said he’s a good person. Some people…” she pauses, pursing her lips. “Not everyone is comfortable talking about their feelings.”

He actually looks like he’s considering her words, and she drives the point home. “Are you sure you won’t be cruelly hurting him too?”

Wei Ying’s eyes fill with tears and he sniffs. “As sure as I can be without throwing myself on the ground and begging.”

As is always the case with Wei Ying’s tears and women—men, too, now that Jiang Cheng thinks about it—Wen Qing softens. “In my experience, people find things out. You’re going to slip up one of these days. Who knows, maybe he only has one testicle, and you won’t be able to hide your shock when you see it. Even if you lose the Lans now, won’t it be worse later?”

Jiang Cheng can’t believe this is working. Wei Ying has never once in all their years as brothers, friends, lovers, or ex-lovers, believed him about anything. But impossible words come out of Wei Ying’s mouth.

“I don’t know, Wen-jie. I’ll think about it.”

And wonder of wonders, he actually sounds like he means it.

Before he leaves, Wei Ying shuffles at the door like he wants to say something else. “Hey, I’m sorry for interrupting your morning. But thanks for the advice. And breakfast.”

He flashes one of his brightest smiles, a don’t look too closely smile, but he still doesn’t leave. It finally occurs to Jiang Cheng—he blames his constant awareness of Wen Qing In The Room—that Wei Ying is waiting for reassurance. After all these years, after everything, Jiang Cheng doesn’t understand why Wei Ying can’t just believe he’s loved, but as always, Jiang Cheng will keep on trying to prove it until he does.

“A-Xian, you’re always welcome here,” he says, hugging Wei Ying until he relaxes with a sigh. “Maybe knock next time though?”

Wei Ying smiles, this time a real smile, and it’s like a visible cloud dissipates from the room.

“Go home and sleep,” Jiang Cheng orders. “You look like shit,” and Wei Ying laughs, flipping him off as he leaves.

The second he’s gone, Jiang Cheng turns back to Wen Qing with lascivious intent, reaching out to slide his hands around her waist. “Bed? Please? You are killing me in my own sweatshirt.”

Her eyes narrow and she steps back a step. “Did you tell him about us?”

“No. I haven’t told anyone.”

“Then why wasn’t he shocked to see me?

“Qing-er, I have no idea. Maybe your brother told him.”

As soon as he says it, Jiang Cheng both knows it’s true and that it was a bad suggestion. Wen Qing is ferociously protective of her brother, and no hint of criticism is allowed.

“Does it matter?” he rushes to say. “I don’t care if he knows, and apparently, neither do you. So...can we forget about it and go back to bed?”

She huffs irritably but takes his outstretched hand and doesn’t resist when he pulls her into his arms. He feels like a brainless, horny teenager, but her work-callused fingers on his cheek is a lightning storm on his skin.

“A-Cheng, why did the two of you break up?” she asks.

Jiang Cheng thinks there must be people who are lucky, who have ordinary, lucky lives and don’t fall in love with women who can see right through them. He should have known she’d figure it out.

“Because it wasn’t meant to be.” He says it flippantly, but it’s true.

The reason he almost never bothers to tell people he’s dating that his best friend is also his ex is because when he has, they pretty much always assume “ex” is a crumbling technicality. He and Wei Ying had tried being in love twice, and it ended the same way both times. Not badly. With relief. It really wasn’t meant to be.

Even so, Jiang Cheng would be lying if he said there weren’t plenty of lonely moments when some wistful part of him thought about trying again, especially the first few years he lived in Chicago. It always seemed like a good idea in theory—he loved Wei Ying, they had fun, they had history. But there were always reasons it didn’t work. Mostly the fights, the tears, and the constant heartbreak.

Then one day he woke up, and it only felt like nostalgia.

Then one day he woke up, and he didn’t miss it at all.

What they were meant to be was brothers.

Wen Qing doesn’t look satisfied. “You love him though. How can you love someone that much and still let it end?”

Jiang Cheng sighs, tugging Wen Qing one step closer.

“Of course I love him. He’s my brother. He’s my best friend.” He shrugs. Maybe it is better to get this all out in the open now. “I didn’t ‘let it end.’ It ended. I’m not pining.”

Jiang Cheng takes a breath. He’s pretty sure this is a stupid thing to say, but he’s never been one to shy away from saying stupid things.

“I want you. I look at you here in my home, and I want you to stay. I want to make breakfast for you and hear about your day—minus any gory details—and rub your feet and sleep with you next to me.”

“As you say, things end.” She flips his words at him pointedly.

“Sometimes,” Jiang Cheng acknowledges. “Not always. Sometimes you meet someone, and you know they're the best thing that has ever happened to you. Sometimes you meet someone and fall in love. Sometimes you know it’s forever.”

She tips her head, startled. He doesn’t know why. He’s been telling her since they met. Maybe it’s finally sinking in.

“You...what?”

Jiang Cheng grins and wraps his arms around her waist. To his intense satisfaction, she ducks her face into the curve of his shoulder, snuggling against him. He kisses her cheek.

“Stop arguing and let me love you, Qing-er. I don’t know about the future, but I want to spend it with you. I’ll keep trying as long as you let me.”

She softens, melting into his embrace, kissing him back, and she even lets him lead her into the bedroom to finish worshipping her properly.

They lay around in bed until, disappointingly, Wen Qing has to leave for work. On the plus side, she lets Jiang Cheng go with her to the hospital. He’ll take whatever extra few minutes he can get, especially today when it feels like things have shifted between them, from a subtle distance to a more yielding embrace. They sit close together on the train, and when he rests his arm over her shoulders, she leans into him and sighs.

He kisses her outside the hospital and only stares at her back for a few seconds before he walks away whistling. Maybe, just maybe, this is all going to work out.

And then an idea hits him.

It’s such a terrible idea.

But once he’s had it, he can’t stop having it.

Slowly, Jiang Cheng’s feet turn back toward the hospital. Maybe they won’t tell him which room Dr. Lan is in and he can let this stupid idea go.

But the desk attendant is only too happy to inform him that Dr. Lan is in room 302, such a sweet man, so kind to play for the staff every day, and so handsome. She sighs dreamily and Jiang Cheng hurries away before she extols any more of the man’s virtues.

It’s pretty easy to figure out which room belongs to the exceptional Dr. Lan. There’s a crowd around the door—doctors, nurses, patients, and what looks like the entire janitorial staff—and the sound of violin music coming from inside.

Jiang Cheng recognizes Flight of the Bumblebee, and he also recognizes the skill of the musician. He wonders if Wei Ying has ever heard Lan Xichen play. He suspects not, or Wei Ying would probably be actually in love with him.

His idea fizzles. He’s not going to be able to push through the audience to meet Lan Xichen, but maybe they’ll clear out in a minute. He can sit and listen for a minute.

Jiang Cheng spies a row of chairs and then immediately registers the man slumped in one of them. The other Dr. Lan.

Technically, they haven’t met, and Jiang Cheng has only seen the guy for a few minutes in passing, but it’s pretty obvious that, whatever Wei Ying thinks, this Dr. Lan is heartbroken. He looks terrible. Worse than Wei Ying, to be honest, and Jiang Cheng wonders what on earth he’s doing out of his house, much less in public.

“Hey,” Jiang Cheng says, sitting down.

Dr. Lan looks at him with bleary eyes that Jiang Cheng judges to be at least half a 90 proof bottle’s worth of hungover.

“You probably don’t remember me,” he starts, but Dr. Lan turns away again, closing his eyes and dismissing Jiang Cheng.

“The brother,” he mutters.

“I’ve been called worse,” Jiang Cheng retorts cheerfully, a little too loudly, given the wince. “Look...I came to give The Talk to that Dr. Lan,” he nods to the still crowded room, “but I think maybe I’ll just deliver it here.”

Jiang Cheng knows he is walking a very fine line, but Wei Ying is a perpetual disaster with relationships, and it seems as though Dr. Lan isn’t much better.

“My brother likes you. Uh...all of you. A lot. And I think you like him too. Maybe you know him well enough to know this by now, but he has a tendency to put everything into people he cares about and do anything he thinks will make them happy.”

Dr. Lan’s head swings like a pendulum to look at Jiang Cheng, heavy and uncertain, and Jiang Cheng thinks he might still be drunk.

“Yes, I know,” he says, and Jiang Cheng has a moment of envy for the deep, velvet-lined voice.

“Yeah, you think you do. But I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

“Neither do I,” Dr. Lan says, a little snippier than Jiang Cheng thinks is necessary. “No one in my family would cause Wei Ying harm.”

Jiang Cheng really wants to scream too late, he’s already hurting himself for you, but barring the actual truth, maybe there’s a way he can get the point across. “Okay, you know he plays the flute, right? Do you know why?”

Dr. Lan nods. “Because you both played the same instrument, and he did not want to interfere with your progress as a musician.”

Jiang Cheng is surprised that Wei Ying told him even that much of the truth.

“Yeah, that’s the story he tells. That’s not exactly it. When we were fifteen…” Jiang Cheng sighs. He hates admitting this part. “I thought my dad loved him more than me, because the only thing my dad loves is music. And Wei Ying is so good. Honestly, brilliant. He went to all these fancy music camps and was asked to compete all the time. I could see how my dad looked when he played, like Wei Ying was the future of jazz.”

Jiang Cheng checks to see if Dr. Lan is still following along. He’s not sure, but at least the man is looking at him, so Jiang Cheng keeps plowing forward, hoping this story is enough and he won’t have to resort to any of the other myriad examples of Wei Ying Making Sacrifices.

“So I was an asshole, and we fought about it. Wei Ying decided the only way to solve the problem was to quit instead of talking to me about it. He never asked me, and he wouldn’t change his mind, even when I begged. Because he thought giving up something he loved was the only way he could fix things and make everyone happy.”

Maybe telling the hungover Lan wasn’t the best plan. He doesn’t look like he’s comprehending the moral of the story. Or comprehending The English Language.

“I wish I could tell you everything about Wei Ying,” Jiang Cheng emphasizes. “He’s so great, but he’s complicated, too, and he doesn’t operate on conventional logic.”

Dr. Lan makes a pained face, a nearly tearful expression, and whatever doubts Jiang Cheng had harbored about the man’s feelings are entirely erased. He knows that look all too well. Still, Jiang Cheng is conflicted. He debates his options again. He could just tell him. He should just tell him. But he remembers what Wei Ying said. If he does like me, it’s not enough. It feels like there’s something else going on here, something he doesn’t understand.

He thinks about the shattered lines of Wei Ying’s face, and he looks carefully at the rumpled man next to him. Maybe meant to be needs a little help when the two people involved are both stubborn idiots. Someone has to set about fixing this mess so Jiang Cheng doesn’t have to pick up the pieces in six months.

Jiang Cheng softens his voice. Wei Ying asked him not to say anything, and in the end, that’s where his loyalty lies. But he can try to be as clear as possible without betraying his word. “He has this magic, you know? It makes the world seem brighter and more thrilling, but sometimes he’s too noble for his own good. He takes less because he doesn’t think he deserves more. Think about it, okay?”

Truthfully, introspection seems a bit outside Dr. Lan’s capabilities at the moment, but Jiang Cheng hopes some part of what he said has penetrated, and maybe later, he’ll understand.

The music seems to have stopped and the crowd is dissipating from the other Dr. Lan’s room. Jiang Cheng debates introducing himself after all, but decides against it. He’s not sure there’s any point. If Wei Ying does go through with this nonsense, Jiang Cheng will have plenty of time to meet him. But he thinks it’s much more likely that it’ll all blow up sooner rather than later.

Great. He can’t wait.

Chapter Text

Sunday

Dear Mama and Baba,
Yanli says I used to write to you when I was little. It seems a little strange to do it now, since I’m an adult, theoretically, but I don’t know who else to talk to. Usually Jiang Cheng, but—and I know this is stupid—he’ll want to argue with me. And I just need to get words out without interruption. I don’t expect my dead parents will interrupt me.

Here’s the easy part. I’m getting married.

His name is Xichen. Lan Xichen. 蓝曦臣. Yeah. Crazy pretty, right? I guess there’s a tradition in their family that when they graduate from college, they get a fancy adult name. Sort of like old-fashioned courtesy names. His birth name is Huan. His brother and sister have...had...have…

Okay, I’m getting muddled. Let’s try something different.

We’re having a party on Friday to celebrate...something. It’s not really an engagement party. More like a “Meet Wei Ying” party. Or a “Welcome Back” party. Not for me, for Xichen. He hasn’t been around his family much lately.

I’m getting ahead of myself again. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

Anyway, the party was popo’s idea. She called yesterday, full of plans and ideas. I got the feeling that it’s been a long time since she had anything to celebrate. It’s easy to get swept along with popo’s plans and ideas, and she sounded so excited, I couldn’t say no. And anyway, why would I? I love parties. And I’m happy to celebrate. I am.

I wish you could meet her and gonggong. And Uncle Qiren. And Sizhui and Jingyi. And Lan Zhan. Plus all the other Lans across the country—there’s a lot of them. I’ve never been part of a big family. I’ve barely been part of a family.

So here’s the first big secret. I think I’m marrying him for them.

No, I know I am.

It's no hardship. Xichen is great. And gorgeous. Jiang Cheng asked me what he’s like, and I forgot to answer him, so I’ll tell you instead.

He's a music teacher, but he used to be a pediatrician. He plays the violin, although I’ve never heard him.

(Don’t ask about that yet.)

He has a nice cat and a green thumb. I can’t even keep a fern alive and he has an apartment full of orchids and calathea—I just learned that word—and a bunch of other things I can’t remember the names of.

Wait. Is that what he’s like or what he is?

Let’s try one more time.

He’s kind. I’ve always thought he was kind. He’s charming. Not even purposefully, he’s just genuinely interested in people, and it shows. He’s lucky, the kind of lucky that’s a little eerie. I’ve still never won a card game against him. Not even meaningless ones like high card draw. He’s a flirt. He’s learning to be brave. I’m really proud of him for that, actually. It’s something I haven’t managed yet.

There’s really nothing wrong with him. It’s kind of a problem. I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve them.

Xichen’s leg is broken at the moment so there won’t be any dancing at the party. Popo thought I’d be heartbroken, and I had to thoroughly reassure her that I dance about as well as I ice skate. Which is to say, not at all. I think she is a little disappointed though, so there will probably be dancing anyway.

I don’t remember if you liked to dance, mama, but I’d dance with you if you wanted.

Love you still. Miss you still.
Wei Ying

Monday

Dear Mama and Baba,
I think this is getting easier. If nothing else, it’s better than staring out of the window at work.

The Lans want to have a mini-concert at the party, and now that I’ve heard Xichen play, I think we should be selling tickets. I used to play the flute, and I think I’m still an okay musician, but he’s actually, basically a professional violinist.

I stopped by the hospital to see him yesterday, and he was playing this rending, soaring, achingly beautiful song for his orthopedic surgeon. I can’t even describe it. I’ve never heard a violin cry and yearn like that, and it felt like my heart was breaking. I don’t know if it was written to be a love song, but it sounded like the distilled essence of love. I just stood in the doorway and watched, mouth open. I swear, Dr. Nie, the surgeon, and I had the same stupid look on our faces until I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to be shocked at how good Xichen is.

Wen Qing is right. I’m going to mess this up.

Here’s another secret: I’d never heard Xichen play before because I’d never even spoken to him until a week ago. There was a misunderstanding—a lot of misunderstandings; they don’t really matter—so his family thought we were engaged before, and I couldn’t tell them the truth.

Jiang Cheng would yell at me for that lie, and he would be right. I could have. I didn’t.

I did try. Several times. I opened my mouth and words started to come out, but every time, it seemed like I got interrupted. But I also didn’t try that hard enough because I didn’t want to. Once I met them, once I knew them, I wanted to be part of their family.

And they want me too. That much is true. It might not have been real before, but before doesn’t matter. It’s real now.

Anyway. When I told Xichen he should play at the party, he said he was planning on it. I guess everyone is. Popo has already wrangled a grand piano from somewhere and is having it delivered to the hospital. I had no idea that was a thing you could do. It is, I guess, a thing popo can do. Sometimes she seems like such a gentle sparrow, and sometimes she is an intimidating raven. I adore her. That, at least, is easy to admit.

I don’t remember anymore if you were like that too, mama. In my memory, you’re all kindness and love, but even those memories are fading. Were you fierce and protective? Were you gentle? Were you ever uncertain about your future?

Never mind, you don’t have to answer.

A piano means either Uncle Qiren or Lan Zhan is part of whatever they’re planning.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

Yes I do. I just don’t want to talk about it yet.

Baba, I remember you playing the piano. It’s one of the few memories that’s crystal clear in my Swiss cheese memory. Mama sat next to you on the bench and I sat on her lap. You played Clair de Lune because it was mama’s favorite. Just when she was on the verge of tears, because Clair de Lune always made her cry, you hit those chords at the beginning of “Great Balls of Fire,” and we were all laughing by the time you got to the glissando. I laughed at love 'cause I thought it was funny. That’s ironic, isn’t it.

I think I’ll ask Uncle Qiren to play “Great Balls of Fire'' at the party. In your memory, so he won’t be able to say no. It’ll drive him crazy. Win win.

Love you still. Miss you still.
Wei Ying

Tuesday

Dear Qingyang,
I tried to think of a clever way to apologize, but there isn’t one, so I will, for once, be plain and clear.

I’m sorry. I am so sorry.

It’s possible that you didn’t care or even notice when I stopped returning your phone calls. It’s certainly what I’ve been telling myself for the last six years.

But even if you forgot my name within a week, it was still the wrong thing to do for the wrong reasons. I thought I was all wrung out of valuable words, and I didn’t want to keep dragging you along while I pretended I could still write. It’s no excuse. I could have told you then, and I didn’t. It’s taken seven years, but I’m trying to be brave and honest.

As it turns out, I might not be entirely finished with writing. I’m enclosing the first two chapters of something I’m working on. I don’t know if it’s any good. I don’t know if you’ll like it. I don’t know if you’ll throw the paper immediately away.

Even if you hate it, even if you don’t want to have anything to do with the story, I’d still like to talk to you again. You can even yell at me if you want. And after you do, I’ll tell you the truth. You were a great agent. You were a great friend. Thank you for every moment you believed in me, and I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate you enough.

Yours sincerely,
Wei Ying

Wednesday

Dear Mama and Baba,
I drank six kinds of tea today. I was told they were all different, but I’ll be honest, they all tasted the same to me.

Well, not the same. I can tell that white tea and black tea taste different. I’m not a cretin. But they all taste like variations on a theme: some version of twig.

You might think that means I don’t like it, but I do. There’s no good explanation for it. I don’t care about the history of tea. I don’t care which side of the bush the leaves grew on. It doesn’t help me clear my mind or seek truth. But I still love the ceremony of hot water mixed with leaves poured gracefully into a cup. I love that there are rules to it and technique, a complex science of tea, but in the end, my enjoyment of it is arbitrary. It may not be as sweet as hot chocolate, but it is deeply rooted in my soul, and I love it anyway. No matter how much it frowns.

Never mind about that.

The Elder Lans took me out for tea today, to a tea shop that wasn’t too concerned with proper etiquette, which is good, because I’m terrible at proper etiquette. I do try, mama, but it’s so hard to sit still sometimes. Especially when Uncle Qiren keeps glaring at me. I swear, he used to like me, but lately, he’s just been giving me piercing looks like he suspects I stole two silver spoons from the good flatware.

They wanted my guest list. For the wedding. Guest list. Why does “guest list” make it sound more like something that’s actually going to happen? Why does “something that’s actually going to happen” sound terrifying? I don’t know if I have anything resembling a guest list. I haven’t even invited anyone to this party.

Fine, I suppose that’s not true. I invited Jiang Cheng and his girlfriend. And his girlfriend’s brother, who was my friend first. I also made the mistake of telling Yanli about it. She was thrilled and insisted she was going to come. I know she can afford it, but she’s got the kids, and...I don’t know. The thought of Yanli—she’ll know, mama. She’ll know everything I’m not saying. She’ll be disappointed in me, but she’ll support me anyway, and I won’t be able to take it.

I told her to wait for the wedding. It’ll all be fine by then.

Love you, miss you.
Wei Ying

Thursday

Dear Mama and Baba,
It’s no good. This won’t work. The trouble is, it’s too easy for me to deceive you, which means I’m deceiving myself.

Here’s the third secret: I’m getting married to someone and I’m in love with someone. It’s not the same person.

I don’t know why it can’t be. What makes one person different from another? But they are different, as different as Miami and Chicago, as sand and snow, as tea and coffee, and I’m only in love with one of them.

I had lunch with Xichen’s brother today. Lan Zhan. We got spicy noodles at DanDan, and he hated them. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, frowned with every bite, barely said a word, and I’ve never wanted anyone or anything more in my life. I want to make him smile. I want to hear him laugh that barely-there huff of air. I want to write him stories and listen to him play the piano. I want to travel to some blue-ocean beach and silently watch the waves with him.

Maybe you can see the problem.

He thinks I’m engaged to his brother. Because I am.

And even if I wasn’t...I don’t know.

There was a moment when I thought...maybe…

But it seems not.

He was perfectly civil during lunch. Friendly, even. We talked about work—he’s a doctor, like his father is and his brother and sister were. We talked about hockey—I will get to join the Lan Hockey Fan Club next week when Jingyi and Sizhui’s season starts. I told him that I had written to my agent—my former agent—and he said he was proud of me.

And all I could hear was the beating of my heart, beating for him. I am every cliche I’ve ever mocked.

I don’t know if I can do this. I want to belong to their family so badly, but the agony of sitting across from Lan Zhan in public was almost too much to bear; worse than I even expected, because it doesn’t seem to matter to him at all. Whatever spark I thought was there between us...I must have been wrong.

Wen Qing was right. Again.

(I hope Jiang Cheng doesn’t screw that up. I really like her.)

What am I left with, mama? What would you do? Would you do something terrible for a small piece of happiness? Would you swallow one misery in order to avoid another? Should I reach for the stars or be content with the bird in hand?

If I marry Xichen, I am only hurting myself.

If I tell them, I will lose them all and still be hurting myself.

Mama, baba, please don’t be too disappointed in me.

Your son,
Wei Ying

Thursday

Dear Lan Zhan,
I’ll never have the courage to tell you this to your face.

I love you.

That’s all.

No, it’s not all. It’s everything. It’s the sparkling crust of ice on snow. It’s the resolution of an F minor to a C major chord. It’s the smell of magnolias in spring and burning leaves in fall. It’s the distant haze of the Milky Way shining through the darkest nights.

This is the most selfish thing I have ever done, and I can’t regret it. Even if you don’t want me, I want you, enough to spend my life looking at you from the side. If that’s all I can have, it’s enough.

I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’m apologizing for loving you or for not loving Xichen, but either way, I’m sorry.

Yours always,
Wei Ying

Chapter Text

Lan Zhan

Lan Zhan bought a plane ticket on Thursday and started packing his clothes on Friday morning before the party no one is calling an engagement party, but which is very clearly an engagement party.

He had considered getting on a plane his second day of being drunk. His uncle had offered to help, offered to tell people, and Lan Zhan had panicked. Tell them what? That he was running away? That he was contemplating kidnapping his brother’s fiancé? No. Wei Ying was marrying his brother. Lan Zhan was just going to have to get used to it.

And then his mother had called, exhilarated to share the news, and even drunk, he was still the sensible one. He couldn’t embarrass Wei Ying or Xichen with a meltdown. So he listened to his mother’s plans for a party—a party to welcome Wei Ying into their family—and tried to interject appropriately thoughtful hmms and agreeable yeses. Lan Zhan was pretty sure the whole conversation was punishment for some past life transgression.

At the best of times, there is nothing in the world Lan Zhan enjoys less than parties, and he’s never felt guilty for skipping them before. But he is fairly certain his absence will be noted at this one. And some irrational, masochistic corner of his mind wants to go, because he’ll get to see Wei Ying. And then, of course, there is the piano.

It is not ideal by any means, but nothing is anymore.

It wasn’t until after he had lunch with Wei Ying that he knew he was going to have to leave the country.

He didn’t know why he had agreed to lunch in the first place. Probably the masochist again. But Wei Ying had sounded so effortlessly normal when he’d called.

“We should be friends, Lan Zhan,” he’d said.

Lan Zhan couldn’t very well throw a temper tantrum, kick his feet, and say no, could he?

So they’d gotten noodles at the tiniest restaurant Lan Zhan had ever seen—more like a closet someone had set up a stovetop in—and talked about ordinary things. Acupuncture and its efficacy on anxiety. Sizhui’s switch from right forward to left forward and what a difference it was making in his attack speed. How to water orchids.

Lan Zhan had never considered himself a poetic man, although he’d always appreciated a fine turn of verse. But he’d regretted not knowing the words for the particular ache of speaking comfortably about the mundane parts of his life and having them seem like utter magic in the mouth of someone he loves.

Still, he had thought he was doing very well being a mature adult until Wei Ying had looked up at him through his eyelashes and tentatively said, “I took your advice, Lan Zhan. I wrote a letter to my agent. I even...I even sent her a couple of new chapters. Nothing good, just...a start, maybe.”

His tremulous smile had cracked something inside Lan Zhan, an irreversible splintering, and he realized he was not going to be able to stay in this country, much less this restaurant, with Wei Ying for very long. Wei Ying had seemed so uncertain and fearful—of what, Lan Zhan had wondered. Being ridiculed? Being wrong? How was he supposed to sit in his chair and not gather Wei Ying into his arms, kiss the tip of his nose, tell him he was so proud of him for taking the first terrifying step, and no matter what happened next, he had already succeeded?

“Mm,” was all he’d said, cursing himself violently for not being able to think of anything soothing, supportive, or inspirational. “I’m proud of you.”

At least Wei Ying’s flicker of a smile had looked relieved and genuine, but since when were Wei Ying’s smiles only flickers?

“Lan Zhan, uh...Xichen says popo ordered a piano? For the...um...party. I didn’t know pianos could be ordered like takeout. Your mother is truly a wonder.” Wei Ying had laughed, a clear and honest bell, the way he always sounded when he talked about Lan Zhan’s family. “Anyway, does...does that mean you’re playing?”

“Do you want me to?” Lan Zhan had asked, because deep down, he was a fool.

Wei Ying had frowned. “What would you play?”

“What do you think I should play?” Lan Zhan had heard the questions coming out of his mouth, the teasing game of questions, and had been powerless to stop them, especially when Wei Ying had tilted his head, the dawn of a brilliant smile dancing around his lips.

“What songs do you know?” he’d retorted, the smile widening when Lan Zhan had paused, momentarily stumped.

“Do you have a favorite song?” he’d finally rallied.

“Will you play Clair de Lune?”

Wei Ying had blinked rapidly, his eyes turning suddenly to dark liquid pools, and just like that, the game had been over.

“I can,” Lan Zhan had said softly. “Would you like that?”

Wei Ying had looked nervous, and it was something of a relief that he didn’t realize Lan Zhan would give him anything he wanted, anything he asked for.

“Yeah, I would. It’s...it’s one of the only things I can remember about my parents. My mom loved Clair de Lune. I just...I’d like to feel like they’re here with me.” He’d laughed and swiped away tears. “She loved Jerry Lee Lewis, too, and I’ve already convinced Uncle Qiren to play ‘Great Balls of Fire.’ But yeah. Thank you, Lan Zhan. It means a lot.”

Lan Zhan had bought the ticket to Vancouver after lunch. He’d been there once and felt its grey skies and inky seas would fit his mood perfectly. His father had been surprised he was taking time off, and so suddenly, but shushu had said he’d reschedule all of Lan Zhan’s patients, and baba hadn’t argued. Shushu had shot him a questioning look, a do you want to talk about it look, and Lan Zhan had just shaken his head.

There was nothing to say.

Lan Zhan stands in front of his mirror and wonders what he should wear. Is this the kind of party that requires a suit? It is in a hospital meeting room—he still has no idea how his mother managed that trick—so it would seem unlikely. But a selfish, petty part of him wants to at least look as good as Xichen.

He settles for a navy blue suit, the closest thing he has to a festive color. His brother had talked him into buying it last year on one of their rare bonding and catch-up visits, and it was so unusual to see Xichen enthusiastic about anything, Lan Zhan had given in, even though it had cost him more than a month’s mortgage. But in a last-minute rebellion, he pairs it with a bright white collarless shirt. No tie.

Lan Zhan briefly wonders if Wei Ying is picking out Xichen’s clothes and then decides not to think about that anymore.

Wei Ying

Wei Ying is having the strangest day.

He is going to a party, which should be fun but is terrifying.

He is joining a family he loves, which should make him happy, but all he can feel is nauseated.

He is getting what he wants, a life-changing gift, but it’s not what he wants at all.

He pushes Xichen down the hall in a wheelchair and half-listens to him talk about his friends who will be at this party—their not-exactly-an-engagement-party party—tonight. He wonders if Jiang Cheng is going to show up or not. At last check, he was still undecided, but Wei Ying suspects he’ll give in, if nothing else, out of morbid curiosity.

“Wei Ying?” Xichen touches his hand, and Wei Ying startles.

“Sorry, I was just trying to figure out if I was obligated to throw my brother in the lake if he doesn’t show up,” he jokes.

Xichen grins. He looks fantastic, as always, in a royal blue suit so soft, Wei Ying had to check twice to see if it really was wool, crisp white button-down, and a jaunty bow tie. His hair is too long, but it comes across as charming instead of bedraggled. Wei Ying touches his own clothes self-consciously. He really only has the one suit, in basic black, but at least it’s relatively clean and neat. And he did get a haircut, so he doesn’t feel like a complete disaster.

“Yes, indeed. You have no choice.” Xichen cranes his head to look Wei Ying in the eyes. “We can skip the party if you want. I know it’s mostly people my family knows. It can’t seem like much fun for you.”

Wei Ying pats his shoulder. He is eventually going to have to get used to casually touching Xichen but it seems so awkward right now. “Nice try, Lan Xichen. Your father warned me you’d try to get out of this.”

Xichen sighs dramatically. “You can’t blame me. People are going to ask me questions. Difficult questions. All night. I would rather break my other leg.”

Actually, Wei Ying does feel bad for him. He’s already seen it from some of the visitors, visitors from his old life who didn’t know he wasn’t a doctor anymore, and visitors from his new life who didn’t know he’d ever been one. And there were a few people who bridged the gap, who only seemed to care about whether or not Xichen was going to reconcile with A-Yao.

“If bravery was easy, everyone would do it,” Wei Ying says hypocritcally as they reach the entrance to the conference room.

Wei Ying stops and stares. He can’t believe this is the same room he’d been shown two days ago. There are decorated cocktail tables, a giant piano, a buffet, a bar, and people—so many people. He can’t imagine how much work it took to create a party like this in five days.

“Do you like it?” popo asks, coming up behind him. “We didn’t want it to seem like a hospital room.”

Wei Ying couldn’t care less about the decor, and cold sweat is already trickling down his neck, but he hugs popo’s shoulders anyway. “It looks fantastic. Thank you so much for all of this.”

“Wei Ying, you are always so surprised when people do nice things for you,” she says with a little laugh, far more perceptive than Wei Ying would prefer. “It is my pleasure. Our pleasure,” she adds, nodding to gonggong, who takes the wheelchair from Wei Ying’s unresisting fingers.

They lead him further into the room and introduce him to people he immediately forgets. This cousin. That aunt. This doctor. That old family friend. He gets to answer questions he hates too, mostly “so, Wei Ying, what do you do,” and Xichen gives him a sympathetic smile.

It’s inexplicable and shouldn’t be possible, but Wei Ying knows the minute Lan Zhan walks in. He catches the flash of blue out of the corner of his eye and every atom in his body perks up, angling toward the pull of Lan Zhan’s gravity.

He looks stunning, not just in the clothes he’s wearing or because he’s so gorgeous, but because he is stunning. He just is, and the knowledge that he’s always going to melt at the sight of Lan Zhan is part of the foundation of Wei Ying’s life now.

Lan Zhan glances at Wei Ying and gives him a minute nod. Wei Ying smiles back, also small, just enough to acknowledge he’s seen Lan Zhan without betraying his inner romance novel heroine who wants to fling herself into his arms and swoon.

Wei Ying watches Sizhui and Jingyi run up to Lan Zhan and the genuine way his face relaxes when he sees them. They tell him some animated story, and he smiles, a wry slant of his mouth, and the boys point to Wei Ying. Wei Ying watches the smile fade, replaced by something else, a blandly inoffensive mask that puzzles Wei Ying. Bland is the last thing he associates with Lan Zhan’s face.

And then they are both swept away: Wei Ying by more introductions, Lan Zhan by a group of tall, handsome people who must be another branch of Lans. Wei Ying manages to sneak away from his torture, though, by promising to bring Xichen a drink.

“Something tall and strong,” he murmurs. “Very strong,” and Wei Ying almost laughs.

Wei Ying downs an entire beer before he gets back with Xichen’s drink, and it kills enough time that the party has moved on to something other than general milling about. Uncle Qiren is sitting down at the piano, popo is standing with her violin, gonggong is lifting a viola to his chin, and suddenly, there is music.

It takes a second for Wei Ying to recognize the song, and he is torn between laughter and tears when he does. The piano is so gentle, and the viola layers an intricate harmony under the violin’s yearning melody. It’s not hard to believe these three people have been playing music together for decades. No one sings, but they don’t have to. Wei Ying knows the words. Everyone knows the words.

Wise men say, only fools rush in.

But I can't help falling in love with you.

Wei Ying tries to resist looking for Lan Zhan but his eyes have a mind of their own. Lan Zhan is on the other side of the room, near the bar, not looking at Wei Ying, which is a relief, because it means Wei Ying can look at him, the perfect angle of his eyes, the curve of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw. And then, for just a moment, something anguished passes over Lan Zhan’s face, a wave of emotion that rocks Wei Ying back.

Is it…

Is it possible?

But the expression is gone before Wei Ying can be certain of what he saw, and he doesn’t see it again.

Take my hand.

Take my whole life too.

For I can't help falling in love with you.

The gears in his brain are spinning slowly, addled by a second beer, and time seems to be skipping around while he tries to categorize Lan Zhan’s expression.

He only notices Xichen trying to get his attention when he wraps a hand around the back of Wei Ying’s thigh and squeezes. Wei Ying has to consciously not jump away like a startled cat. Evidently Xichen has less difficulty with casual touching than Wei Ying does.

“Wei Ying, come with me?” Xichen asks, and some logical part of Wei Ying’s brain that is paying attention to things other than Lan Zhan thinks it’s nice of Xichen to ask that way, instead of the more sensible and blunt “push me.”

At the front of the room, Wei Ying becomes aware that everyone is watching them. Not watching Wei Ying and Xichen, but WeiYingandXichen. It sets off a sudden chain reaction of anxious geysers under his skin, and Wei Ying jangles, head to toe, vibrating with a powerful need to leave that actually hurts his legs.

Xichen hands Wei Ying the Lady Liebing’s case, as though they are partners, and it feels like a trust too far. He wants to hand it back and run, but he can’t. Can he? No. No, he can’t.

Xichen’s calm voice interrupts his whirling panic. “ZhanZhan told me you like jazz, so I’m trying something different. Be kind, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

He grins at Wei Ying before he tucks the violin under his chin. It only takes five notes, cleverly picked on the strings, for Wei Ying to recognize the song—“Autumn Leaves,” one of his favorites—and Wei Ying can breathe again, a normal breath.

It’s a sweet gesture, but it’s not a romantic song, not even remotely, and it reminds Wei Ying that he’s lying to Xichen about his feelings, too. Xichen isn’t in love with him. He never has been. What are you doing, Wei Ying castigates himself. He’s ruining Xichen’s life too, even if Xichen doesn’t know it.

He finds his family’s faces in the crowd. His. Family. He says the words in his head fiercely, like a meditative mantra. Sizhui’s sweet, mischievous face. Jingyi’s wry grin. Popo’s ebullient smile. Gonggong’s pride. Uncle Qiren’s...well, Uncle Qiren still looks angry with him, and actually, that helps the most. A world in which Lan Qiren is annoyed seems somehow sane.

People are clapping, so...the song must be over? Oh. The song is over, and Wei Ying hasn’t reacted, and Xichen looks puzzled.

“Xichen, I don’t know what to say. I loved it,” Wei Ying hurries to fill in the silence, shaken by the missing time; “Autumn Leaves” is not a short song. “Thank you. It’s one of my favorites.”

He leans down to kiss Xichen’s cheek because it’s expected, and Xichen turns his head to catch Wei Ying on the side of the mouth. Even this, stealing kisses, Xichen is ridiculously good. How does he practice that, Wei Ying wonders wildly, pulling back with a pasted-on grin.

“I think you’ll have to thank me more thoroughly later,” Xichen murmurs, and Wei Ying is back in full-panic mode.

There’s more music, more singing, more anxiety. Some Lans whose names Wei Ying can’t remember play a beautiful cello duet. Jingyi plays “When I’m Sixty-Four,” accompanied by Sizhui, who evidently also plays the piano.

And then Lan Zhan is walking to the piano. He sets music on the rest, which is odd, because he already knows this song. Wei Ying knows he does.

Lan Zhan glances at Wei Ying.

“Will you turn the pages?” he asks, and Wei Ying nods mutely.

Yes.

He will sit at the bench next to Lan Zhan and turn pages.

It sounds like heaven.

Lan Zhan

Lan Zhan inhales long and deep when Wei Ying sits next to him and exhales more slowly.

This whole evening has been torture, and this, so far, is the best part and the worst part.

Sitting next to Wei Ying is always the best part of any day. Even with inches separating them this time, Lan Zhan is acutely aware of the curve of Wei Ying’s back, the shape of his knee under his black suit, the inexorable pull of everything he is.

Lan Zhan realizes he actually wants to do this. He wants to play this song that means so much to Wei Ying. It had felt like a precious gift that Wei Ying had asked, and Lan Zhan wants to give him this much, at least, since he can’t give him the world.

It’s only barely the worst part, sitting next to Wei Ying and not squeezing his hand, not kissing his cheek for luck. Just a little worse than when he’d walked in and seen Xichen with Wei Ying, laughing at something he’d said, smiling at each other, being together. He’d nearly walked back out, but Wei Ying had looked up and seen him. Lan Zhan had considered smiling, just to see if Wei Ying would smile back, but he’d been rescued from his own imprudence by his nephews, who were nervous and excited about playing in front of a crowd.

He’d tried to stay away from both the bar and Wei Ying and Xichen for the rest of the evening. Xichen had caught his eye once with a searching look and perplexed frown, and Lan Zhan had abruptly remembered that this brother could always read his expressions, no matter how subtle. He did a better job of schooling his face after that.

Until his parents had played “Can’t Help Falling In Love.”

Who had he become, Lan Zhan wondered, that he was going to cry in public over an Elvis song? It was a nearly intolerable humiliation. But of course, his mother would be able to peel back every emotion Lan Zhan had been trying to hide, even if she didn’t realize it. For one moment, he’d let himself feel it—the sweetness of longing, the wretched anguish of losing—before replacing the serene mask he was getting used to wearing.

Lan Zhan had hit the bar when Xichen started playing “Autumn Leaves.” Not that it was a romantic song, per se, but had been a wildly romantic gesture for someone who had never played jazz before. And, Lan Zhan had thought uncharitably, it was a little annoying that his brother could adapt the song for violin in only a few days.

“Sweetheart,” his mother had said, taking the martini from him before he had even tasted it, “You’re up after the boys. I’ll keep your drink safe until after you’re done.”

She’d grinned up at him, a mischievous smile he remembered but hadn’t seen in so long. This was the reason he was doing this, he had reminded himself. His mother’s smiles. His father’s contentment. His nephews’ laughter.

“You are just going to drink it when I walk away,” he’d said with pretend disapproval.

Mama had laughed and lifted the glass. “You may be right,” she’d acknowledged, taking a sip, and Lan Zhan had given her a smile, just a little one, but at least it was one he meant.

It had been a mad idea, asking Wei Ying to turn pages. He’d only brought the music because he didn’t trust himself not to stumble if he saw Wei Ying’s face. But his mother's teasing had buoyed him, and he had decided it couldn’t hurt.

No, he decides, it actually can.

A lot.

But he doesn’t care.

Clair de Lune always feels like the notes are being dropped from his fingers onto the keys. It’s a gentle walk in the beginning, just a trickle of sound shifting to a contemplative weight in the middle, resolving into the peaceful flow of water spilling over rocks by the end. It sweeps him along, washing through him, cleansing his heart. It’s impossible to play with too much feeling, and he pours every heartbeat, every aching desire into the scant six minutes of music, drawing out the slow arpeggios at the end as long as he can.

And then he looks at Wei Ying.

Tears are sliding down Wei Ying’s cheeks, and Lan Zhan can’t help it. He smiles, not tentative or hesitant, but with a decision he won’t regret. He loves Wei Ying, and for once, he doesn’t hold back, doesn’t cover the feelings with a shield of stone. He knows it shows. He wants it to show. Is this the worst possible time to make a declaration of love? Yes. Is he going to do it anyway? Also yes. Absolutely yes. If Wei Ying doesn’t want him, that’s fine. But he can’t live without saying it out loud.

“Wei Ying, I…” Lan Zhan starts to say.

Wei Ying looks at him for a second, confusion reshaping his face before his attention is pulled away by something at the back of the room. He staggers to his feet and stumbles backward, his expression shifting in a complicated dance of emotions Lan Zhan doesn’t recognize. Wei Ying opens his mouth to say something, but to Lan Zhan’s shock, he turns deathly white and sways, blinking rapidly.

Lan Zhan turns, afraid he’ll see Xichen’s hurt or his parents censure, but it’s none of those things. He doesn’t immediately know what has so viscerally cracked Wei Ying open. In the doorway, though, he recognizes Wei Ying’s brother, the one who had told him that confounded story about the saxophone. Lan Zhan wishes he could remember more about the conversation. It’s vexed him for days, the feeling that he missed something crucial because he was drunk and hungover.

There’s a woman next to Jiang Cheng, a beautiful, impeccably-dressed woman, who is looking at Wei Ying with such open and honest love that Lan Zhan is bombarded by spikes of savage jealousy. Jiang Cheng nods at Wei Ying, wry exasperation shaping his mouth, and Lan Zhan looks back to see Wei Ying’s reaction settle on something surprising: resolve.

“Hi, jiejie,” Wei Ying mouths silently.

Oh.

Lan Zhan’s jealousy slinks guiltily away.

“I wanted this to be real,” Wei Ying says out loud, his voice carrying to the back of the room, talking to his sister. “I wanted it so much, but it’s not. I’m sorry.”

At first, all Lan Zhan can hear is Wei Ying’s broken resignation, and he can’t focus on the words.

They permeate slowly.

What’s not real?

“Ms. Yang, Dr. Lan,” Wei Ying says, searching the audience for them, and Lan Zhan doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why Wei Ying is speaking to his parents so formally. He finds their faces, finds his uncle, and they don’t understand either.

Except...maybe...his uncle looks...surprised but not surprised. More like he’s braced, expecting the crosscheck.

“I...I am in love with your son. Wildly, madly, completely in love with him.”

Lan Zhan doubles over with icy pain, the grasping fingers of agony reaching into his chest, his legs, his ears. He hadn’t thought he’d ever have to hear Wei Ying say it. He’s never said anything like it before. He scrabbles away from the piano, ungraceful and awkward, but he’s just lucky he’s not crawling. He’s never wanted to be able to disappear so much in his life.

But his mother doesn’t look pleased with the announcement. She looks like she did when Haohan had told them she was no longer going to fight the cancer, the dawning realization of life-altering words sinking in.

“But not...Xichen. Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying goes on. “I’m sorry, Xichen. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for...Xichen, I really did save you on Christmas, but we weren’t engaged. I’d never even met you before, just watched you ride the train every day and made up stories about who you were and who I wished you could be. It was all a misunderstanding, and I wanted to tell you, but...”

The words are coming out in a steady flood now, but Lan Zhan is still stuck at the beginning.

Not Xichen.

Lan Zhan.

“But I got to know you. All of you. You invited me into your life and made me feel like I belonged there. And...I fell in love with you. All of you.”

Wei Ying hiccups a sob and swipes a hand across his face.

“I have the best brother and sister in the world, but you were...something different, something wonderful I didn’t know I was missing. I just...I wanted to keep pretending because there was no way you would love me if you knew the truth.”

Lan Zhan sags against the curve of the piano, gripping the edge of the rail so hard, he’s afraid he’s going to break it, but it is the only thing keeping him off the floor. It’s too much to take in all at once. He’s already had to shift his world view twice in the last two weeks; he can’t do it again so quickly.

“I don’t expect anything from you. Not forgiveness, not after everything I’ve done.” Wei Ying tries to laugh, but it twists away from him in a bitter, choking sound. “I keep thinking ‘this is the worst thing I’ve ever done’ until I do something worse, but I just couldn’t lie one more minute. I’m sorry. I’ll always be so sorry. Thank you for letting me be a part of your lives for a little while. It’s meant the world to me.”

And then Wei Ying leaves, impeded by no one. He hurries through the stunned crowd, even brushes past his brother and sister, who turn and follow him, although Jiang Cheng looks back at Lan Zhan with an irritated frown first.

Lan Zhan is desperate to follow him too, but his legs won’t move, and by the time they do, the room is in an uproar.

The crowd is noisy, whispering, glancing around, eyes wide, but Lan Zhan doesn’t care about them. He looks at the people who matter and tries to decide.

The sensible part of Lan Zhan knows he should be angry at Wei Ying for lying, for hurting them all so publicly, but all he can feel is the release of every day’s guilty weight, elation so great he is nearly lightheaded. He hasn’t betrayed his brother. He won’t have to spend the rest of his life in abject misery.

Xichen doesn’t look upset. Actually, he looks relieved, patting his mother’s cheek soothingly, and Lan Zhan realizes that he’s seeing something new from his brother, a different emotional response, one he isn’t smoothing over with bland composure. It might be an annoying one—a perverse part of Lan Zhan is offended that his brother is glad he doesn’t have to marry Wei Ying—but it’s real. Even in leaving, Wei Ying is still working miracles.

Baba and Jingyi look more flummoxed than upset. Sizhui is the only one whose face reflects what Lan Zhan thinks is heartbreak. His eyes glisten with tears and his breath hitches. He’s lost so much, Lan Zhan thinks. He shouldn’t have to lose Wei Ying too. None of them should. Not when Lan Zhan can fix this. Not when he wants to fix this.

Lan Zhan finally meets his uncle’s eyes, and finds the permission he’s been looking for. Shushu jerks his head toward the door once and sets his hand on Sizhui’s shoulder, pulling him into a hug. He might as well have said the words. Go. I’ll take care of them.

Lan Zhan runs.

He doesn’t know where he’s running, but his mind calculates likelihoods. Front first, then ask the desk attendant, then check the parking garage. If that doesn’t work, Wei Ying’s apartment. He is going to find him. He has to.

But when he gets to the front of the hospital, skidding on slick shoes in icy snow, he’s too late. Far down the street, he watches Wei Ying close the door of a car driven by his sister, and somehow Lan Zhan knows that wherever they’re going, he’s not going to be able to find them today.

Adding insult to injury, it starts to rain, fat, icy drops, as though even the sky is crying because Wei Ying is gone.

Chapter Text

Friday ended.

Saturday didn’t happen.

Or rather, it did, presumably, but Wei Ying doesn’t remember it.

Sunday wasn’t much better.

By Monday morning, Wei Ying can finally think about the missing days, but he’s not sure what to think.

In some ways, this Monday is like every other day he’s ever had. The sun rises. Chenqing demands breakfast and an after-breakfast snuggle. Wei Ying goes back to work. The city bustles. The sky is blue.

It’s trite, but life goes on. Well, for everyone else, at least. It’s just not going on for Wei Ying. Not the same way.

Wei Ying watches the people stream by his ticket booth, more or less at their normal rate after the holidays. An array of food service uniforms. People in scrubs. Parents and children. Teenagers in inappropriate winter shoes.

He sells day passes and card refills. He answers questions about how to get to the zoo and Chinatown and the airport. And he pretends the last two weeks were someone else’s dream.

They do sort of feel like a dream now, hazy in his memory, consisting mostly of snippets like headlines clipped from the newspaper. Truthfully, he hasn’t had a single clear thought since the moment Lan Zhan lifted his hands from the piano and looked at him. There was something forming in his expression Wei Ying wanted to know more about, wanted to spend time clarifying, maybe a lifetime, but then he’d seen Yanli, and everything he’d been trying to hold together had shattered.

She’d come to his party. His sister had flown from Miami to Chicago even though he’d told her she didn’t have to, just to come to this farce of a party. And deep down, he’d known it was exactly what he’d hoped she'd do. She was the kick in the teeth he needed.

Jiang Cheng had given him A Look, and Wei Ying knew it meant he’d told Yanli everything. Yanli had given him A Look, and Wei Ying knew it meant she loved him no matter what. He couldn’t lie again. Not to them.

His brother had been right. Wei Ying had a family who loved him even at his worst, and it gave him the strength to finally, finally say what he needed to say, even if he’d still run away when he was done.

They’d caught up with him at the door, and Yanli had calmly ordered Jiang Cheng to wait with Wei Ying while she got the rental car. Wei Ying didn’t resist Jiang Cheng’s arm around his waist, holding him up. He’d already started to dissipate into the brisk cold.

“Wei Ying?”

He’d only sort of recognized the voice, but he’d definitely recognized Jiang Cheng’s sharp intake of breath, the way everyone reacted to the comprehension of Dr. Nie’s existence.

“Hey,” he’d said weakly, and Dr. Nie had shifted from friendly surprise to concern.

“Aren’t you...aren’t you supposed to be at your party?” he’d asked, and Wei Ying had shaken his head.

“I was. I guess...I may as well tell you first. It was all a big mistake. Xichen...Dr. Lan and I aren’t really engaged.”

A child could have recognized the hopeful joy that had flashed over Dr. Nie’s face before he’d tried to look sympathetic. Dimples make it hard to disguise happiness, Wei Ying had thought.

“Oh. Yeah, it’s okay. It was totally my fault. He’s a great guy, and I fucked up by being in love with the wrong brother. Good luck with him.”

A car horn had honked, and Jiang Cheng had tugged Wei Ying toward the door.

“Wei Ying,” Dr. Nie’s voice had stopped him. “He loves you. I think he’ll forgive you.”

Wei Ying had laughed. The only good thing about all of this is that Xichen doesn’t love him. At least one person will be glad Wei Ying had been lying. It actually seems like maybe Xichen is going to come out ahead in the bargain. He really is the luckiest man.

“No he doesn’t, and no he won’t,” he’d said, not bothering to figure out what Dr. Nie’s furrowed brow meant.

They’d gone to a hotel, the nicest hotel Wei Ying had ever seen, and Yanli had tucked him into a bed, the nicest bed Wei Ying had ever slept in.

“Tell Zixuan I forgive him for being rich, okay?” Wei Ying had mumbled into a cloud disguised as a pillow.

Yanli had laughed and combed Wei Ying’s hair back with her fingers. “I will,” she’d promised, and it had been the last coherent thing Wei Ying remembered for an entire day.

At some point they’d made him eat—first thin soup until he stopped throwing up, then a thicker stew. Jiang Cheng had brought him clean, normal clothes and made him change.

On Sunday, Wen Ning and Wen Qing had stopped by, checking his pulse and temperature. Wen Ning had been kind enough to treat him like a fragile invalid, but Wen Qing had proclaimed him well and pulled the blankets off the bed. He’d objected, and she’d been entirely unsympathetic.

“You’re allowed a day to mope, but it’s Sunday now, and you’re worrying your brother and sister,” she’d informed him unceremoniously. “I know it hurts, but it’s time to face what you did.”

He’d been mad at first. “I already told the truth and wrecked everything. Just leave me alone.”

“Telling the truth is only half the equation.” Wen Qing’s tone shifted, and he’d recognized her Mollifying A Hysterical Patient voice. “The other half is living with the consequences. They might not be as bad as you think, and even if they are, they’re your consequences. Own them.”

Wei Ying had sat up and looked at Yanli and Jiang Cheng and realized Wen Qing was annoyingly right, as always. They did look worried, and it wasn’t fair to punish them too.

“Can we go swimming?” he’d asked, and Yanli had grinned.

“Pay up,” she’d told Jiang Cheng, and grudgingly, Jiang Cheng had handed her a crumpled dollar. “I told him the first thing you’d want to do was swim,” she’d explained. “He said it would be to eat.”

“The one time you aren’t thinking with your stomach,” Jiang Cheng had grumbled petulantly, and for the first time in two days, Wei Ying had laughed.

No one had asked Wei Ying to talk, so he’d just floated and listened to the distorted sounds of Yanli and Jiang Cheng’s stories and laughter until he’d felt like enough of his sadness had been sucked out of his skin. Emotional osmosis, he’d thought, and it had seemed like a brilliant epiphany.

After dinner, they’d all curled up on the giant bed together one last time before Yanli’s early Monday-morning flight. Yanli had petted Wei Ying’s hair, and it had been every bit as comforting as he’d hoped it would be.

“A-Ying, I wish I could stay,” she’d said, and he’d felt guilty. All they’d done was take care of him, and he hadn’t even explained himself. True, they hadn't asked, and he appreciated their forbearance, but he knew he wasn’t being fair again. “I hate to leave you like this.”

“He’ll survive,” Jiang Cheng groused, but he’d rubbed Wei Ying’s back, and Wei Ying closed his eyes so he didn’t have to think about this ending too.

“I’m sorry you came here for nothing,” he’d mumbled, and Yanli had clicked her tongue at him, a universal sound of fond exasperation.

“I came for you. You’re enough, Wei Ying.” she’d said, and he’d cried, great gushing rivers of tears, but they hadn’t felt like something breaking. They’d felt like something mending.

He’d told them everything, not just about Lan Zhan, but how lost he’d felt the last few years, how much he’d wanted to have a family of his own, how dark the lonely future had seemed.

“It’s like that sometimes,” Yanli said, gentle as always. “It helps to talk about it, you know.”

Jiang Cheng hadn’t been so subtle. “A-Xian, you need to talk to a professional. It’s the 90s. There’s no shame in therapy.”

It hadn’t been funny, not really, but Wei Ying had laughed anyway, laughed through tears and embarrassment and relief. By the time he fell asleep, he’d been wrung out of every possible emotion. But the emptiness was like a water jug, waiting to be refilled, and he felt a little more in control of how he filled it.

In the morning, he’d hugged Yanli outside her taxi, and he hadn’t wanted to ever let go. “You are the most wonderful sister in the world. You know I love you, right?”

She’d nodded. “I love you too, A-Ying. Be kind to yourself and if you get the chance, don’t make the same mistake twice, okay?”

Wei Ying has been thinking about her words all morning. He doesn’t think he is going to get the chance, to be honest. In the fraction of a second before he’d seen Yanli, there had been something different on Lan Zhan’s face, something he’d been fixated on for two days now. In the moment, it had looked like love. But that was before. Before the truth. He can’t expect anything now.

A paper cup appears in the ticket booth window, and Wei Ying smiles. This is normal too, Jiang Cheng and hot chocolate, even if it’s two hours later than usual.

“You’re late. How am I supposed to get through my day if you don’t bring hot chocolate until 9 am?”

“Shit, you’re picky for someone getting free hot chocolate,” Jiang Cheng gripes, and Wen Qing rolls her eyes.

“Are you two always like this? I may need to rethink the nature of our relationship,” she tells Jiang Cheng, and he grins, kissing her forehead.

“Yeah, he’s always late,” Wei Ying lies shamelessly, focusing on the warmth of seeing Jiang Cheng so happy. “And he swears so much, Wen-jie. It’s unconscionable. What if you have children? The horror!”

Jiang Cheng claps his hands over Wen Qing’s ears, and she tries not to smile.

“I will actually break your legs,” he growls at Wei Ying. “See if I ever bring you hot chocolate again.”

Wei Ying laughs, and it doesn’t hurt. Maybe he can choose whether or not he’s going to be miserable. Not right away. He’s definitely going to be miserable for a few more days. Maybe a few more weeks. But after that, maybe he’ll try not being miserable. Another stunning epiphany. He should start writing them down.

Which doesn’t mean he won’t be in love with Lan Zhan forever. He will be. He’s just accepting it as a fact of life. He loves winter. He loves the snow. He loves the way the sparkle of the lake fades into the sky on bright days. And he loves Lan Zhan, with his frowns and his smiles and the way he sees Wei Ying, not only the way he is, but the person he could be. The person he wants to be.

Jiang Cheng and Wen Qing wave and head down the platform, hand in hand, and Wei Ying goes back to staring at the train tracks and the houses across the road, listening to the cadence of Monday morning people. The day goes back to grey, and he wonders if it was always like this, monotones punctuated by small spots of color, or if this is what normal will mean for the future.

A hand slaps the ticket booth window. He fucking hates it when people do that, and his head jerks up to yell at whoever the asshole is.

The hand is holding a piece of paper.

Wei Ying glances at it.

It’s a photograph, a glossy 8x10 photograph.

He looks more closely.

The picture is of a group of people, a family in warm hats and coats in front of an ice rink, flushed with happiness, and the two men in the center are looking at each other, smiling like it’s only them, like there’s no one else in the world. It’s obvious, so obvious, that they’re in love.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks from the other side of the glass, moving so Wei Ying can see him.

Wei Ying realizes that he’s been staring at the picture for ages, years maybe, memorizing the way Lan Zhan’s eyes tilt, the way his nose crinkles, the way he bends his body and attention toward Wei Ying. How had Wei Ying not noticed it before? It’s the only thing he can see now, and his heart is singing The Hallelujah Chorus.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying finally replies, asking the only question he cares about.

Lan Zhan’s lips curl into a smile, a smile that steals Wei Ying’s ability to summon intelligent thought.

“I need to tell you something important.”

The words are paralyzing, not so much for the syllables themselves, but the way Lan Zhan says them. With yearning. With desire. With love. Wei Ying can’t move. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s done nothing to earn it, and he can’t quite believe it’s happening in reality.

Lan Zhan’s mouth slants in amusement.

“Wei Ying, will you come out here so I can do it properly?”

Of course. That makes sense. Lan Zhan is always proper, and Wei Ying wouldn’t deprive him of the opportunity to do things properly.

And yet, he can only put one slow foot in front of the other, still fearing that it’s a hallucination or a joke or revenge.

Until he’s on the other side of the door, looking into the faces of all six Lans, including Xichen in a wheelchair, and Wei Ying’s smug brother, who is apparently in on whatever this is. Wei Ying is afraid to make any guesses, but at least he trusts that Jiang Cheng wouldn’t be complicit in revenge.

Lan Zhan holds out his hand, and Wei Ying stares at it for several seconds before it occurs to him to take it. The touch scorches him, the pattern of joints and lines searing into his skin. It’s the spark of life and the solace of home all at the same time.

“I have been remiss in saying this before,” Lan Zhan begins, reeling Wei Ying a foot closer to him, “but I love you. Wildly, madly, completely.”

Wei Ying laughs, a sobbing, gasping laugh he tries to cover, but Lan Zhan is smiling at him, and Wei Ying stops breathing entirely, because Lan Zhan is holding his hand and sliding his fingers through Wei Ying’s hair to the back of his neck. All he can do is stand and burn in every place Lan Zhan is touching him.

“It seems only sensible that I should tell you, because I can’t live another day without you,” Lan Zhan informs him solemnly.

“That is very sensible of you,” Wei Ying agrees, trying not to disintegrate into tiny pieces of overjoyed confetti. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says with a curve of his lips that is definitely a grin. “I have always liked everything about you. Will you let me show you how much? Will you marry me? Will you let me cherish you every day for the rest of our lives?”

There are probably better answers Wei Ying could give, apologies he should make, things he will definitely say later. But right now, now that he is pretty sure he’s finally allowed to kiss Lan Zhan, it is the only thing he can do.

It takes time to set his shaky hands on Lan Zhan’s face, against the softness of his cheek, and Wei Ying hesitates, just to make sure, to be absolutely certain Lan Zhan means it, before he leans forward and brushes his lips against Lan Zhan’s.

Time stops. Gravity stops. Wei Ying’s heart stops. He’s certain he’s not being overly dramatic at all.

“Oh,” he breathes, because no words could ever do this justice, and he is usually very good at words.

But kissing Lan Zhan defies description. It’s more than just the taste of him or the feel of Lan Zhan holding him tightly. It’s knowing that they’re finally where they both belong.

Lan Zhan waits patiently for a heartbeat before he wraps his arms around Wei Ying and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss with a hungry rumble. A distant part of Wei Ying’s mind notes that, in fact, Lan Zhan is the right height, exactly the right height for Wei Ying to to tilt his head and nibble his soft lower lip, exactly the right height for him to lean against forever.

“It turns out that I am the lucky one after all,” Lan Zhan murmurs against Wei Ying’s mouth, nuzzling him with his nose.

Wei Ying wants to say something in response, something clever or meaningful, but Lan Zhan has found a way to rest his hand against the bare skin of Wei Ying’s back, and most of Wei Ying’s attention is devoted to wondering where Lan Zhan’s fingers will travel next. Wei Ying shivers, wishing he could capture the thrill of this moment for later, but he suspects it won’t be the last time Lan Zhan turns his knees to jelly or robs him of speech.

“Wei Ying, I thought my life was fine before you came into it, and now nothing is fine without you. Will you marry me?” Lan Zhan asks again, still smiling. Wei Ying had no idea he was capable of so many smiles. He almost wants to see him frown, just to be sure this is Lan Zhan, his Lan Zhan.

“I...are you sure?”

Wei Ying wants to kick himself for arguing against his interests, but it seems necessary. He has to be certain. He’s made so many mistakes, he can’t make any more.

“Quite sure,” Lan Zhan says. “I can kiss you again if it will help convince you.”

Wei Ying likes the sound of that plan and lets himself be distracted while Lan Zhan makes some very persuasive arguments, but...with Herculean effort, he pulls away. He still has consequences to face. Better now than later.

“Lan Zhan, I just...I know I lied to everyone. I don’t want to come between you and your family. If...if they’re not okay with this…” Wei Ying trails off with a frown.

“Wei Ying, for fuck’s sake, just say yes. We’re fucking freezing.”

“If he gets to say it’s fucking freezing, I should get to say it’s fucking freezing.”

“I don’t think that’s how it fucking works.”

“Neither of you is allowed to say fuck.”

“But Uncle, you just said it!”

“Your uncle is a grown up. Technically.”

“Thank you, Youheng, I will treasure this moment.”

“Ah yes, I had forgotten about this.”

“Changing your mind about seclusion, er-jiu?”

“My apartment is very quiet. And warm.”

“Xichen, do not even think about disappearing again.”

“Baba, I am teasing. But it is fucking freezing.”

“ZhanZhan, A-Ying, ignore them. Take your time.”

Wei Ying dissolves into laughter, burying his face in the hollow of Lan Zhan’s neck. He loves them so much more than he ever dreamed possible, full to bursting, and it seems beyond belief that they’re here. For him.

Popo—Wei Ying almost cries when he realizes he still gets to call her popo—slips an arm around Wei Ying’s waist, ducking under his arm. Lan Zhan adjusts, letting his mother into their circle, and she leans her head on his chest to peer up at Wei Ying.

“Sweetheart, we forgive you. I just wish you hadn’t kept this all a secret for so long. It wasn’t necessary. We would have been grateful anyway because you saved A-Huan’s life, and we would have loved you anyway because you’re you. You’ve made all our lives infinitely better.” She squeezes Wei Ying, and he sighs. “We want you to be part of our family.”

Wei Ying reluctantly lets go of Lan Zhan to hug popo. “You’re the very best popo I ever had,” he tells her, grinning when she laughs. “I never want another one.”

“I will keep asking,” Lan Zhan interrupts. “Wei Ying, will you please agree to marry me as quickly as the State of Illinois will allow? I am not above begging. Or kidnapping.”

“I should be the one begging you,” Wei Ying argues, and Lan Zhan frowns, a stubborn set to his jaw that eases something in Wei Ying’s chest. There it is. The frown that makes his heart beat. “Yes, yes, every day yes. Every time you smile yes and every time you frown yes. Every time you wrinkle your nose yes. Every love song that’s ever been sung yes.”

Wei Ying can think of several more yeses, but Lan Zhan kisses him again, and he forgets them all.

“How quickly will the State of Illinois let us get married?” Wei Ying whispers when Lan Zhan lets go of him, and Lan Zhan’s face darkens irritably.

“Twenty-four hours.”

Wei Ying wants to laugh. Lan Zhan sounds so angry, but Wei Ying thinks it sounds like hardly anything, considering he’s waited his whole life for Lan Zhan.

“Hmm,” he teases. “What will we do for the next twenty-four hours?”

Something shifts on Lan Zhan’s face, from radiant smile to feral and demanding, and Wei Ying is speechless again. Whatever Lan Zhan is thinking about doing with him, doing to him, Wei Ying is a thousand percent on board, willing to walk away from work and his newfound family without a backward glance.

“A-Ying, Jiang Cheng says you like brunch. Shall we celebrate?” popo asks, and Wei Ying laughs at the look of consternation on Lan Zhan’s face at having been stymied by his mother and brunch.

“I can’t just leave the station,” Wei Ying says, moving away from Lan Zhan so he won’t be tempted to do something embarrassing and wicked in front of all these people he loves.

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “Give me some credit. Lucy’s filling in for you.”

Wei Ying turns to see Lucy, the girl he’s worked with for two years who has never spoken a word to him, wave at him from his booth.

“How...how…” he stammers, and Jiang Cheng shrugs.

“I tried asking her. It was a crazy idea, but it worked.”

“A-Cheng, have I told you how much I love you?” Wei Ying asks, hugging his brother.

“Yes, and it’s still embarrassing,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, but he hugs Wei Ying back. “Congratulations,” he whispers in Wei Ying’s ear. “Love you too.”

He faces Xichen next, and Xichen’s mouth quirks up in a smile. “So close, Wei Ying. Too close. You’re a very reckless man, and I have been told you play ping pong the same way. I look forward to utterly destroying you when I can walk again.”

Wei Ying kisses the top of Lan Xichen’s head. He owes Xichen his fealty for life, so he says very sweetly, “I will let you win for a very long time, dabaizi,” grinning when Xichen laughs.

Wei Ying does not do anything so humiliating as cry when he hugs Jingyi and Sizhui, although he almost does when Sizhui sniffles. He even manages to hug gonggong in a grown-up and manly way. But he utterly fails when he gets to Uncle Qiren.

Uncle Qiren regards Wei Ying’s extended hand before pulling him into a hug. “Welcome to the family, my boy,” he says softly, and Wei Ying’s eyes fill with tears that refuse to stay put.

“You did that on purpose,” he hisses to Uncle Qiren, whose smug smile confirms it.

In a daze, a joyful, weepy daze, Wei Ying lets Lan Zhan lead him out of the station and onto the street. The sunlight seems more dazzling than it did, the sky a truer shade of blue. He is going to be the most intolerably sappy romantic for the rest of his life.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, the words almost too soft for even him to hear, but Lan Zhan turns, always so focused on him, and Wei Ying is once again aggrieved that he hadn’t realized it sooner. But it doesn’t matter. He knows it now. “Lan Zhan, will you do something crazy with me?”

“I will do anything with you,” Lan Zhan immediately agrees, although he sounds a little worried, and Wei Ying laughs.

“Will you run away with me? Somewhere warm with water in liquid form instead of solid? Somewhere that smells like salt and the sea? Sand optional?”

Lan Zhan stops walking and kisses Wei Ying fiercely. There’s some magic in his kisses, Wei Ying thinks, that makes everything else vanish—the cold, the noise of the city, the sounds of people calling their names. It’s just the two of them, only Wei Ying and Lan Zhan. He doesn’t need anything else.

But he gets it anyway, he realizes. He gets everything he’s ever wanted and everything he never knew he wanted. It really is a Christmas miracle. A birthday miracle. A New Year’s miracle. An every-single-day miracle.

Wei Ying slips his hand in Lan Zhan’s and it fits perfectly. He kisses the side of Lan Zhan’s mouth and together, they follow their family down the street and into the rest of their lives.

Chapter Text

It is, of course, exactly like Xichen to commandeer Valentine’s Day, and if Lan Zhan wasn’t planning to spend the rest of his life being grateful to his brother for falling off a train platform, he might have given him a stern look. Stern looks are all he can muster these days.

The sky outside the bedroom window is still dark, but with a hint of purple that suggests the sun is considering getting up, and Lan Zhan considers getting up too. After all, it’s nearly seven in the morning—late for him. By this time most mornings, he has already done yoga, showered, and drunk his morning tea. But Wei Ying is not a morning person, despite his job, and Lan Zhan hates to disturb his peaceful sleep on days he doesn’t have to work.

For someone who’d always disliked the complications of change, Lan Zhan had found himself perfectly willing to relocate to the city with Wei Ying. It was not, perhaps, reasonable to upend his entire life so quickly. It was not, perhaps, sensible to reshape himself to fit around Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan hadn't cared.

When he'd really thought about the practicality of marrying a man he’d only known for sixteen days, which he rarely did, it honestly didn’t feel that rushed. Mostly, Lan Zhan had felt like he was a decade, fifteen, twenty years behind, and he was determined to make up every minute of lost time.

Lan Zhan would have moved in that first perfect day they spent curled up in Wei Ying’s bed, learning each other, exploring the magic of bodies previously hidden under winter layers. Or the second day after they had gone to the courthouse alone to sign their papers and say the words that would give legal weight to all the love and joy Lan Zhan had never expected to share with anyone. Or the few days after that, when they had holed up in Wei Ying’s apartment. Wei Ying was decidedly more gorgeous unclothed than clothed, and Lan Zhan dedicated himself to the pursuit of keeping his husband that way as much as possible, much to Wei Ying’s amusement.

But when he brought Wei Ying to his home in the suburbs, only intending to pick up the things he’d need until he could make the move permanent, Wei Ying had stood on the sidewalk staring at the little Craftsman house under the bare branches of the magnolia tree, and had flatly refused to let Lan Zhan sell it. He wanted to see it in spring, he’d said. He wanted to learn how to garden, he’d said. The city was only a train ride away, he’d said, but their family was here.

Lan Zhan kisses Wei Ying’s forehead, and Wei Ying presses in, eyes still closed, his smile reaching out gradually like the first rays of dawn.

“Are you awake?” Lan Zhan asks, trying to keep his voice low and even, running a hand down Wei Ying’s arm, over the smooth skin he is determined to learn every inch of.

Lan Zhan has discovered several interesting new things about himself these first few weeks, primarily that he is incapable of having intelligent thoughts when Wei Ying touches him. Luckily, Wei Ying has, thus far, been enthusiastically willing to let Lan Zhan have unintelligent thoughts whenever he wants. As a consequence, Lan Zhan has made a very thorough study of Wei Ying’s hands, the curves of his legs, the faint crow’s lines around his eyes, lines he can almost hear the laughter behind. Lan Zhan could spend a lifetime discovering new things about Wei Ying, and he intends to.

Wei Ying stretches sleepily, one hand flexing on Lan Zhan’s chest, and predictably, Lan Zhan utterly loses his train of thought. The hand makes a curious trip to Lan Zhan’s stomach, lightly tracing the line of downy hair lower, and Lan Zhan growls menacingly.

“I don’t care if you are asleep,” he threatens, cupping Wei Ying’s chin and turning his face up so he can kiss Wei Ying’s mouth. “I will ravish you anyway.”

Wei Ying laughs, dipping his hand below the waistband of Lan Zhan’s shorts. “Lan Zhan, how can you say such cruel things so early in the morning, when I am too weak to resist you? Honestly, I never met anyone so mean.”

He presses his thumb into the sensitive, ticklish joint of Lan Zhan’s hip, and Lan Zhan hisses out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“I am not as cruel as you, husband,” Lan Zhan says, proud that his voice only trembles a little when Wei Ying hooks a leg around his knee and rubs against him. “You deserve to be punished.”

But Lan Zhan doesn’t move, doesn’t give in to the increasingly urgent desire to flip Wei Ying on his back. Instead, he lays still, as still as possible, and lets Wei Ying continue his tantalizing journey.

The reward for his patience is entirely worth it. Wei Ying shifts, straddling Lan Zhan and kissing his throat, tracing a scorching path down Lan Zhan’s neck. He murmurs mostly indecipherable words, and Lan Zhan loves the mystery of knowing and not knowing what he’s saying. Tell me more, he thinks. Tell me everything, he thinks. But when he opens his mouth to say something, to ask for something, all that comes out is a moan that trails off weakly, subsumed by a blood-pounding need.

Wei Ying nuzzles his cheek against Lan Zhan’s chest and licks the taut circle of one nipple, biting it gently as his hands occupy themselves with driving Lan Zhan wild. Lan Zhan pushes up into his palm, bucking against the fingers that scatter sparks through him, building a fire that waits to ignite.

Sometimes Wei Ying wants to be taken hard and rough, wants marks and bruises on his skin as though the fleeting pain is a kind of reassurance that this is real, that they’re real. His willingness to relinquish control is a fragile offering that Lan Zhan is so careful of, but Lan Zhan can’t deny that he likes being ruthless, as eager to claim Wei Ying as Wei Ying is to surrender. It’s yet another fascinating change in his understanding of himself.

But some days it’s like this—Wei Ying taking charge, Lan Zhan giving in—and Lan Zhan relishes every second of this, too. There is a never-ending joy in making Wei Ying happy, a bottomless well of pleasure in every moment he can give Wei Ying what he wants, whatever he needs.

Wei Ying is methodical and unhurried today, the desire on his face as bright as a beacon in the early morning light, and Lan Zhan is overwhelmed almost immediately, unable to endure the slow torture of love for very long. It occurs to him again, as it does every day, how lucky he is, how unbelievably lucky, as Wei Ying moves on top of him, rocking in a rhythm they both already know by heart.

This will always be extraordinary, Lan Zhan vows, listening to Wei Ying’s moans, the sweet sound of his release. He clutches Wei Ying tightly, the muscle of his back bunching under Lan Zhan’s hands, his breath gasping in Lan Zhan’s ear, and Lan Zhan lets himself go too, falling back into an endless void of rapturous light with Wei Ying.

Wei Ying collapses against Lan Zhan’s chest, his bare skin hot to the touch, even in February, and Lan Zhan kisses the top of his head, smiling at Wei Ying’s contented sigh.

It would be the perfect way to start the morning, basking in domestic tranquility, if not for the loud banging on their bedroom door.

They try to ignore the summons for a few minutes, but Wei Ying breaks first, laughing and falling to the side.

“I’m genuinely afraid she’s going to break down the door if I don’t feed her,” he says, throwing on baggy sweatpants and a loose henley.

Lan Zhan doesn’t doubt it. Chenqing fully believes that she is mistress of the house, and neither of them has the heart to tell her she isn’t. Also, neither of them is brave enough.

Besides, Lan Zhan likes having a cat. She’s caught two mice he didn’t know he had, warms his lap at night, and listens to him play the piano. Much like his uncle, she has firm opinions about his arpeggios, although she is more polite about them.

While Wei Ying fusses over Chenqing, dancing around the kitchen with her after she finishes eating, Lan Zhan makes tea and hot chocolate. He turns on a Sarah Vaughan record and her golden voice warms the room as thoroughly as the fire he lights in the hearth. By the time Lan Zhan settles onto the couch, Wei Ying’s attention is already gone, sucked into the story he’s writing, but he accepts the mug with a quick, grateful smile.

Lan Zhan has a book to read, but he watches Wei Ying write for a while instead. His face is creased in concentration, and he doesn’t even notice when Lan Zhan pulls his feet onto his lap, rubbing the toes and arches. Eventually, slowly, Wei Ying’s lips tilt up, and he sighs happily, content, the sound perfectly echoing Lan Zhan’s feelings.

You’d be so nice to come home to.

It’s the most ordinary life Lan Zhan could have imagined, a plain and simple morning routine they’ve rarely deviated from since the day they got married, and it’s perfect. It’s not just that the nagging sense of incompleteness that had plagued him for years is gone, swept away in a wave of jazz records, cable-knit sweaters, and easy laughter. It’s that Wei Ying fits seamlessly into his life, fills every corner of Lan’s Zhan’s heart like the coda at the end of a song—unexpected but necessary for the proper resolution of the melody.

Under stars chilled by the winter, under an August moon shining above.

Saturdays are Lan Zhan’s favorites, a day off for both of them. Wei Ying still works for the CTA, but he’s started taking fewer shifts so he can write more. He jokes that apparently, all he needed was a patron, his very own Lorenzo de’Medici, to start writing again. But Lan Zhan suspects it’s half true, and even if it’s not, it can’t hurt to have a comfortable, safe foundation. It can’t hurt to be loved.

You'd be so nice, you'd be paradise, to come home to and love.

“Lan Zhan, when do we need to leave this afternoon?” Wei Ying asks unexpectedly.

“Hm, around four?” Lan Zhan suggests. Truthfully, they could wait longer—dinner won’t be until after six—but on family dinner nights, they like to go over to his parents’ house as early as possible. It’s recently occurred to Lan Zhan that even though he’s had the same family his whole life, he never realized how lucky he was, how lucky he had always been, until he saw them through Wei Ying’s adoration. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I need to make snowballs before we go,” Wei Ying answers without looking up to see Lan Zhan’s confusion.

This, too, is a daily occurrence. Lan Zhan is getting used to being perpetually flummoxed by the things Wei Ying says and does. Sometimes the explanation is perfectly mundane, just approached from a different direction, and sometimes the explanation is “because I lit the toaster oven on fire.”

Lan Zhan debates whether or not he should ask the obvious question, but curiosity wins.

“Is there a reason you need snowballs?” he asks tentatively, and Wei Ying hums in agreement.

“Yes, I need to ambush your nephews.”

Wei Ying looks up with a grin, full of sparkling mischief, and Lan Zhan laughs, involuntary snorting laughter. He never laughed like this before Wei Ying. Magic again, he thinks.

After the hot drinks are done, they spend the rest of the morning finishing laundry and packing. Well, Wei Ying finishes packing. Lan Zhan has been done for days, but that doesn’t seem to be how Wei Ying approaches deadlines like “time of departure.”

“I see you disapprove of my plan,” Wei Ying says, throwing a pair of socks at Lan Zhan.

“Do you have a plan?” Lan Zhan asks, watching Wei Ying stuff another notebook into the suitcase. As far as he can tell, Wei Ying has packed a swimsuit, three pairs of underwear, two shirts, and six notebooks for their honeymoon to the Ionian islands. “I am not sure three pairs of underwear for two weeks can be considered a plan.”

“I am planning not to wear clothes, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying retorts with a smirk.

Lan Zhan checks the clock. There is still plenty of time before dinner. Swiftly, he grabs Wei Ying around the waist and tosses him onto the bed, his heart full of Wei Ying’s delighted laughter as he proceeds to meticulously field test Wei Ying’s plan.

Afterward, he learns that Wei Ying hadn’t been joking about the snowballs.

“Did you know,” Lan Zhan remarks as they fill a cooler with ammunition, “that I am a thirty-five-year-old doctor, and until you moved in, I was a well-respected member of the community who never once threw snowballs at teenagers?”

“Oh Lan Zhan, I think the word you’re looking for is ‘boring,’” Wei Ying retorts, and Lan Zhan is compelled to squander a snowball on the back of his husband’s head.

He has to admit, though, that the snowball-gathering time was not wasted. Wei Ying pelts Jingyi and Sizhui mercilessly from the safety of the car, chasing them with the cooler when they shriek and try to escape to the house. Lan Zhan supports Wei Ying’s efforts by cutting them off at the stairs. It’s the silliest thing Lan Zhan has ever seen or been a part of. He wasn’t this ridiculous when he was a child. He couldn't be happier.

Wei Ying is still chasing the boys around the yard when his brother arrives, and without skipping a beat they join forces against the new intruder, scooping up armfuls of snow and chucking them at the car. Jiang Cheng reacts with outrage, immediately marshalling Wen Ning to join his side of the fight, but Wen Qing just glares at the attackers, daring them to hit her. Lan Zhan bets they won’t.

“ZhanZhan, just look what you’ve done to this family,” his mother’s voice says from behind him, and Lan Zhan smiles at her.

“I know,” he acknowledges, and she laughs, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him tightly, not letting go until the last car pulls into the driveway a few minutes later.

Lan Zhan exhales a breath of relief when the Land Rover pulls up. He knows he should trust Xichen, but he’s still not always certain his brother will show up to family events, even to his own engagement party.

It hadn’t been much of a surprise when Xichen had shyly told them he was dating Dr. Nie. It had been slightly more surprising when he’d announced they were engaged after so few weeks together. However, it had been a jaw-dropping shock that Xichen had asked to have a family dinner and music night to celebrate. Lan Zhan still can’t believe it even as he watches Mingjue help Xichen out of the car.

Everyone greets Mingjue as though he is already part of the family, which is to say, they bombard him with snowballs. The big man shamelessly hides behind Xichen—still in a cast, still on crutches—until they reach the safety of the porch, then he scoops snow off the stairs and throws it back at the mob, moving far more swiftly than any of them expected.

Yes, Lan Zhan thinks. He’s going to fit in just fine.

Twelve people around the dinner table make a lot of noise—competing stories, laughter, objections, questions, answers. The overall clamour is more than Lan Zhan can usually enjoy, so he watches people’s mouths while they talk, which makes it a little easier to focus on individual voices.

Baba and shushu spend most of their time talking to Wen Qing and Jiang Cheng, but Lan Zhan’s mother hones in on Wen Ning as the person most in need of conversation. Carefully, with easy questions and delighted laughter, she pulls him out of his quiet bubble, like coaxing a shy bird to eat from her hand.

Jingyi and Sizhui predictably try to recruit Mingjue into the Lan Family Hockey Club without much immediate success. He says he’s more of an outdoors guy: he climbs fourteeners. No one has any idea what that means until he explains that it’s mountains taller than fourteen thousand feet, a revelation that is met with stunned silence. Lan Zhan suspects he’s not the only one who has difficulty imagining his brother voluntarily climbing mountains. He catches his Xichen’s eye and raises an eyebrow, and Xichen gives him a helpless shrug and smile. Mingjue catches the exchange and grins.

“You don’t have to climb mountains for me,” he tells Xichen, lifting Xichen’s fingers to his lips in front of everyone, and Xichen blushes to the tips of his ears. Lan Zhan would laugh, but he’s fairly sure he looks exactly the same way when Wei Ying smiles at him.

Wei Ying tells a story about accidentally stealing chickens as a child that somehow turns into a story about not-so-accidentally sneaking out of his cabin at music camp. Both involve dragging Jiang Cheng along with him, and therefore both are punctuated with aggrieved interjections from Jiang Cheng, but they’re obviously teasing and familiar, like stories the brothers have told together for years. It occurs to Lan Zhan in a concrete way, maybe a bit like falling off a train platform, that Jiang Cheng is his brother now, too. Yanli is his sister now, too. Lan Zhan starts mentally planning a trip to Florida while Wei Ying imitates Jiang Cheng with big animated gestures that make everyone laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, arms crossed over his chest. “Laugh now, but if you’d gotten me kicked out of Interlochen in my first week, I would have thrown you in Lake Michigan without a single qualm.”

“Interlochen Arts Camp?” Xichen asks, and Lan Zhan’s wandering attention is suddenly on full alert. “What year were you there?”

“Mr. Prodigy went twice, '79 and '80.” Jiang Cheng grouses, but with an eye-rolling grin. “I only got to go once, just '80.”

Lan Zhan meets Xichen’s wide eyes and they have a silent discussion about the peculiarities of fate and coincidence.

“I was there that year, too,” Xichen says slowly. “ZhanZhan and I both were, although you wouldn’t have noticed us if you were there for woodwind camps.”

“Jazz and improv,” Wei Ying corrects, distracted, thinking. And then he yelps, “Holy shit—sorry popo—Xichen, you played with the CSO, didn’t you? I went to that concert! Well, I sat outside and watched through the windows, but I remember you!”

Wei Ying grins, nose crinkling, eyes sparkling, and Lan Zhan can’t resist touching him, setting a hand on the small of his back like a secret.

Xichen nods. “We played. Lan Zhan was my accompanist. It was a bit of a novelty at the time, musical siblings.”

With a gasp, Wei Ying slams his hand down on the table. 

“Fu...oh, I remember both of you! Damn, Jiang Cheng, you must remember them, too. The gorgeous Chinese boys who didn’t talk to anyone and spent all their time practicing duets? Man, I bet everyone from that year remembers you.” Wei Ying sits back and shakes his head. “Unbelievable. It’s unbelievable.”

He stills for a moment, and Lan Zhan wonders what he’s thinking about, if he’s thinking the same thing Lan Zhan is. If only they’d noticed, if only they’d known, they could have had years of friendship, maybe even years of love.

But there’s no way to be sure, is there? There’s no way to know for certain that a different path would have led them to this same future, and Lan Zhan wouldn’t trade this life for anything. As though he can hear Lan Zhan’s thoughts, Wei Ying leans toward him, bumping his shoulder, shooting him a quick, sideways glance that makes Lan Zhan smile. The past doesn’t matter. They’re here now.

Dinner isn’t quite finished when Lan Zhan’s mother stands.

“It’s not necessarily traditional for parents to give their adult children gifts on Valentine’s Day,” she says, ironically in Lan Zhan’s opinion, because his mother rarely misses an opportunity to give gifts, “but nevertheless, your father and I have something for you. For both of you.”

Lan Zhan’s father disappears into the next room, but mama keeps talking.

“A-Huan, ZhanZhan, my darlings, I don’t know if you remember, but you both loved to help me in the garden. You were my little shadows, even though neither of you were very good at weeding,” she says, smiling fondly at them. “A-Huan, you mostly liked to show me bugs, and ZhanZhan, you only liked picking vegetables. I sometimes found you eating carrots that still had dirt on them.”

Lan Zhan decides to let his mother tease him, because it’s better than what’s coming. If he’s laughing, maybe he won’t embarrass himself by crying in front of eleven people.

“I know we tried this before, but this time, I think we’ll get it right,” mama says as baba returns with two identical leather bags. “Mingjue, it’s tradition in our family to give a garden to newly-engaged couples, a new life to grow into. We couldn’t be happier to welcome you to our family. A-Huan, we mostly gave you plants that could grow in pots, but we also included some of Haohan’s favorite peonies. You can plant them at your apartment building or here, whatever you’d like to do, sweetheart.”

Xichen takes the bag baba offers him with a muted, “Thank you mama, baba.”

His face looks pinched and tight, and Lan Zhan realizes Xichen is holding back tears. Mingjue realizes it too, and rubs a hand over Xichen’s neck, touching his forehead to Xichen’s temple.

Before she even starts talking again, Wei Ying takes Lan Zhan’s hand under the table, lacing their fingers together. He rubs his thumb over Lan Zhan’s pinky and Lan Zhan misses the first few words his mother says.

“A-Ying, since you have space now, we added more seeds this time, including carrots. And peonies. But your garden can be anything you want it to be,” she stresses, looking between Lan Zhan and Wei Ying. “Whatever you want to grow—corn, beans, radishes—we’ll help you with. If you don’t want to grow anything, you don’t have to.”

Lan Zhan gets the feeling his mother is talking about something other than heirloom tomatoes now, even more so when Wei Ying tightens his fingers. Lan Zhan can tell he’s trying not to laugh, but he doesn’t know why.

“Popo, if we decide we want radishes, I promise, you’ll be the first to know,” Wei Ying says, his smile bright and amused, and Lan Zhan suddenly understands. He shakes his head. Mama is shameless.

Lan Zhan lets his uncle take the piano for music night. He joins the growing audience: Mingjue, Wen Qing, and Wen Ning. Wei Ying somehow manages to rope Jiang Cheng into playing. He’s not as good as Wei Ying at picking up unfamiliar songs, but he’s much better than Lan Zhan expected. The odd group of musicians—viola, saxophone, flute, clarinet, oboe, two violins, and a piano—somehow finds enough songs they all know, although shushu refuses to play anything written after 1976.

It doesn’t escape Lan Zhan’s notice that many of the songs are love songs, from “A Wink and a Smile” to “When I Fall In Love,” until Jingyi groans theatrically and picks “Sweet Home Chicago.” Then, of course, baba feels emboldened to choose “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” another song that’s technically within the Lan Qiren Approved Dates range, but not even remotely Lan Qiren Approved.

In a couple of years they have built a home sweet home,

With a couple of kids running in the yard

Lan Zhan can almost see his uncle regretting his choice to come to dinner. It’s not one of Lan Zhan’s favorite Beatles songs either, but he’s starting to like it, much as he’s starting to like the chaos of their growing family.

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da

Life goes on, bra.

La-la, how the life goes on.

But as soon as it’s over, shushu retaliates swiftly and viciously, singing a heartbreaking rendition of “Someone to Watch Over Me” that silences everyone.

“Oh, you fight dirty,” Wei Ying whispers when the last note falls.

For a moment, Lan Zhan thinks the night is over. Even Mingjue is wiping away a tear. Carefully, Wei Ying sets down the flute, sits next to shushu, and hits the first notes of what Lan Zhan knows without a doubt is the last song his uncle will ever let Wei Ying play on the piano, much less sing.

You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain.

Wei Ying raises his eyebrows at shushu, who refuses to look at him, so he plays the next progression, singing even louder.

Too much love drives a man insane.

Still, Uncle Qiren doesn’t crack, even when Sizhui reaches around Wei Ying to correct the chords.

You broke my will,

But what a thrill.

Goodness gracious, great balls of fire.

Wei Ying pauses one more time, and with a huff of air that might almost have been a growl, shushu rolls the glissando off his fingers, sliding across the piano bench and pushing Wei Ying laughing to the ground. Shushu doesn’t sing, but everyone else does, off-key and raucous, half of them laughing too hard to make out any sensible words. It’s the perfect way to end a perfect day.

This time, Lan Zhan doesn’t have to ache with want. This time, he can hand Wei Ying his coat and kiss his ear. This time they’re going home together.

Lan Zhan has definite ideas about how he wants the night to end, and he pulls Wei Ying into a bruising kiss, heat rising immediately to the top of his head like steam. But before he can drag Wei Ying somewhere softer and more horizontal, Wei Ying slips out of his arms.

“Tea before bed, Lan Zhan? You know you'll miss it, and,” Wei Ying winks at him, "I'm not letting you get out of bed later."

He’s right. They always have tea before bed, a lifelong habit, one he usually enjoys, but tonight, Lan Zhan resents it. Still, he only grumbles as little as he follows Wei Ying into the kitchen. Lan Zhan has always considered himself a patient man, so he waits patiently while Wei Ying measures out leaves and heats the water, only interrupting once or twice to patiently kiss Wei Ying, to patiently brush back his hair, to patiently caress the long curve of his neck until Wei Ying laughingly shoos him away.

With a sigh that may not be patient after all, Lan Zhan picks up Chenqing and they sit at the piano. He plays a simple melody—A, D, F#, D, A; A, C#, E, C#, A—until he gets to the words of the song. Lan Zhan doesn’t sing in public for good reason, but he doesn’t mind if it’s just for Wei Ying.

Wise men say only fools rush in.

But I can’t help falling in love with you.

Wei Ying sits next to him, tea abandoned on the table, and leans his head on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

“I almost ran out when your parents played this at the party,” he murmurs, and the corner of Lan Zhan’s mouth tips up. He knows exactly what Wei Ying means.

Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling, so it goes.

Some things are meant to be.

“Do you know when I fell in love with you?” Wei Ying asks, kissing Lan Zhan’s cheek.

Lan Zhan stops playing to think. He doesn’t, actually, and shakes his head.

“It was the first time you frowned at me, when I asked you whose type I was,” he says, grinning when Lan Zhan looks startled. “I didn’t know it until you sang the pirate king song in a bar, though, because I’m an idiot and didn’t recognize what being struck by lightning felt like for fourteen whole hours.”

“Mine,” Lan Zhan says, pulling Wei Ying onto his lap. “You’re my type.”

“I am,” Wei Ying agrees, drawing a line with his finger down Lan Zhan’s nose and touching his lips. “Yours. You can take my hand and my whole life too.”

Lan Zhan knows Wei Ying is teasing, but he intends to accept anyway. It’s not enough just to want Wei Ying. Even the bright flame at his heart that burns for Wei Ying isn’t enough to build forever on. Lan Zhan may not be an expert, but he suspects that love, real love that lasts, will take a lifetime of work; sometimes easy, sometimes hard, but always worth the effort.

He kisses Wei Ying until he’s breathless, until they’re both breathless. He thinks about their future that holds endless possibilities, and he thinks about family—how it expands, how it changes—and the endless gardens they could grow.

We’ll travel the world, we’ll plant peonies, we’ll reach for the stars, Lan Zhan thinks while he unbuttons Wei Ying’s shirt, while Wei Ying kisses his neck, while Lan Zhan falls in love again, as he always does. Maybe their garden will even include radishes one day. Lan Zhan doesn’t hate the idea of...radishes.

Whatever they do, it will be together, because together is where they belong.

It was meant to be.