Chapter Text
It starts like this:
Boy meets boy at his first MotoGP World Championship in Malaysia. Boy finds other boy familiar but can't place him. Boy teasingly offers other boy an autograph. Other boy stares at him like he has two heads and leaves. Boy finds out that other boy is some big-shot CEO that owns the very bike he rides on. Boy chases him down after the qualifying rounds, in hopes of offering a glass of wine as an apology. Boy trips. Spills red, red wine all over other boy—all down his snow-white, cost-an-arm-and-a-kidney type suit.
The look other boy gives him is murderous.
“—and then he asks, ‘Can we still be friends?’”
Wei Wuxian shoves at Jiang Cheng, who’s still laughing, undeterred. They’re in Jiang Cheng’s hotel room, stretched out side by side on the bed. On screen, Jiang Yanli is smiling, color high on her cheeks, and bouncing Jin Ling on her thigh. Jin Ling is nearly three now, but he insists on climbing onto Jiang Yanli’s lap when she has Skype chats with them, his father’s trademark glare already evident on his chubby features.
“I’m sure all will be fine once you apologize to this Lan Zhan,” Jiang Yanli says, her voice gentle as a spring breeze. Jin Ling bobs his head in a nod, cheeks puffing. “Apo-llo-giz,” he agrees.
“You don’t even know what that means, brat,” Jiang Cheng snorts. Jin Ling’s cheeks grow rounder in indignation.
“The wine was supposed to be an apology,” Wei Wuxian says, nose scrunching.
Jiang Yanli laughs, a hand covering her mouth. “Then an apology for the apology."
“Why do you care so much about this guy?” Jiang Cheng has righted himself, slinging an arm around Wei Wuxian's shoulder. “He sponsors our equipment, sure, but you don't usually care what people think.”
“Yeah, I don't know. He's…” Wei Wuxian’s sentence trails off as he recalls the way those pale eyes bore into his, the way his own knees trembled under the intensity. He's what? Magnetic? Mysterious? Hilarious when ruffled? (The word beautiful fits, oh yes, but Jiang Cheng will never let him see the end of that.)
“Enough about me,” he says instead, flicking his wrist in the air. “Where’s Jin Zixuan? Not very fatherly of him to leave all the childcare to you.”
“It’s not his fault.” Jiang Yanli frowns, thankfully taking the bait. “He’s had a few late nights, dealing with some trouble in the company.”
“Trouble is good,” Wei Wuxian says, gleefully, before he withers under her gaze, fiercely golden and keen as a knife. No one can make the guilt rise in him better than his sister—sister by adoption, really, though neither Jiang Yanli nor Jiang Cheng appreciate the use of that word.
“He's right, A-Jie,” Jiang Cheng says, with a shrug. “Trouble for the Jin Motor Group equals victory for the Lan Corp Racing Team.”
“Not that we need the help,” Wei Wuxian snorts. “Jiang Cheng and I qualified for third row in the starting grid tomorrow, while Jin Zixun’s way, way, way in the back, all thanks to his own masterful performance in the practice rounds today.”
“Masterful.” Jiang Cheng's hand slaps Wei Wuxian’s in a high-five. “Nice.”
Jiang Yanli shakes her head, a smile touching her lips. It looks as if she might have something to say about Jin Zixun—probably remind them that they're family now—but her eyes dart up and off-screen instead, widening, before flicking back down. “Listen, I’d love to chat more, but—”
“It’s late for A-Ling,” Wei Wuxian finishes for her, and she flashes him a look of gratitude. “Go, go, we’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Not late,” Jin Ling pipes up from Jiang Yanli’s lap. His large eyes narrow at the screen, arms folding across his chest. “Not tired.”
“Listen to your mother,” Jiang Cheng tells him, his voice hard and razor sharp. So reminiscent of his own mother that Wei Wuxian almost laughs out loud.
Jin Ling tries to glare back at Jiang Cheng, tries so hard that he practically squints, but in a battle of wills, the one with more years in this life wins by default. Sure enough, Jin Ling’s bottom lip soon begins to tremble, his eyes well with tears, and then he’s whirling around, face burying into Jiang Yanli’s blouse.
“Not tired,” he wails—his final stand—fingers curling into the soft cotton.
“There, there.” Jiang Yanli rocks him gently in her arms. “You want to spend more time with your uncles, isn’t that why you’re upset?”
“Mn,” Jin Ling says after a hiccup.
Wei Wuxian snickers behind a hand as Jiang Cheng’s face crumbles. “Way to go, Jiang Cheng, bullying your own nephew.”
“Wei Wuxian—”
“We’ll be fine,” Jiang Yanli says, her laugh warm and fond, even through the screen. “We’ll talk to you after your big win at the race. Won’t we, A-Ling?”
Jin Ling sniffles, then nods.
After waving goodbye, Wei Wuxian turns to Jiang Cheng, hopeful.
“Think Lan Zhan will be there tomorrow?”
Eyes rolling, Jiang Cheng slaps a palm to his face and shoves him off the bed.
As it turns out, Lan Zhan is there for the race.
Lan Zhan—Lan Wangji—is one half of the Twin Jades of Lan, brothers who single-handedly revived their father’s dying business and nurtured it into a multimillion-dollar corporation. They're the darlings of China, with their business sense, impossible good looks, and monthly volunteer work at local non-profit organizations.
Like his brother, Lan Xichen, Lan Wangji’s face is fair as ivory, his hair dark and well-trimmed if not for the bangs that fall over long—impossibly long—eyelashes. But unlike his brother, there’s no softness to his expression, no curve to his pink lips, and something about that impassive gaze draws Wei Wuxian to him like a moth to the flame.
But his gaze is anything but impassive today.
Dressed in a light grey suit, he traverses the length of the dining room, gliding up to Wei Wuxian with molten eyes that sear straight down to Wei Wuxian’s core. Nie Huaisang, mid-monologue about some erotic poet he had discovered in the archives of his family library, takes a step back from them.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian greets cheerily, unfazed by the way Lan Wangji’s brow is twitching. “I was hoping to see you before the race!”
“You—” The word comes out strangled and rough, as though Lan Wangji has forgotten how to use his vocal chords in Wei Wuxian’s presence. He breathes, in and out, then raises a fist in the space between them. (For some reason, Nie Huaisang is the one who flinches.) “What is this?”
Wei Wuxian looks at his fist, then at the papers crushed under the long fingers. “Oh those?” He tilts his head, mouth tipping upward at the corners. “Those are my personal notes to you.”
“Why,” Lan Wangji says through gritted teeth.
“Because I wanted you to know how sorry I was for wrecking your suit last night.”
Lan Wangji stares at him. Then, slowly, he uncurls his fingers, tugs out a piece from the pile on his palm.
“Lan Zhan,” he reads, voice in a dry monotone. “I think you’d look pretty if you smiled.”
A second piece. “Lan Zhan. Let’s be friends.”
Another. “Lan Zhan.” He pauses, then shuddering as if he’s in mortal agony, “Hearts. Just, hearts.”
Nie Huaisang has his fan out, spread open and covering half of his face. Wei Wuxian knows the wily bastard is smiling behind that thing, eyes and ears as open as his fan for this shiny bit of gossip. But it’s mutual, this shared understanding between them. After all, Nie Huaisang—Vice-President of Nie Industrial Solutions and a business partner of Lan Corporation—did provide Wei Wuxian with Lan Wangji’s frequented spots in the VIP Village.
“So,” Wei Wuxian says, drawing his eyes wide. “Are we friends yet?”
There’s a long, drawn-out silence. Then, back ramrod straight, Lan Wangji whips around and stalks out of the dining room.
Nie Huaisang’s fan flutters. “He took your notes with him,” he says.
When Wei Wuxian heads down to the garage, Jiang Cheng is waiting for him, arms crossed and leaning against his motorcycle. Purple and white, his bike is almost as sleek as Wei Wuxian’s ride, a spot of sun on the circuit with its striking sheen of crimson red. The lettering of Lan Corporation shines an azure blue on the side of their bikes, glossy and elegant, while the bulky logo for Nie Industrial Solutions lies plastered near the headlights.
Jiang Cheng scowls at him. “Had your fun, annoying the man who has the power to take away our bikes and tires and all our equipment?”
Wei Wuxian gives a bright grin and two thumbs-up. “I’m all set."
At that, Jiang Cheng’s anger falters, and he elbows Wei Wuxian in the ribs. “Idiot,” he says, without much heat. “Now get out there and do a test run already.”
Wei Wuxian does. Laps the circuit, testing the brakes, the clutch, the maps on each turn. It’s a thrill, it's always a thrill—asphalt rushing up as he rounds a bend, knee scraping the rough surface. There’s a sense of courting death that's hard to find anywhere else, and he's glad that Jiang Cheng introduced him to the sport. (It’s also a distraction, if Wei Wuxian were honest. From skin as smooth as jade and pale eyes that shimmer with ire in the light of the dining hall.)
He takes a couple more laps than necessary, heart pounding and gut clenching, before he returns to the garage. Shares his thoughts with the crew so they can make adjustments for the race.
Jiang Cheng rolls up behind him on his bike, hand lifting to slide his visor open. “Is it just me,” he says, “Or is that Jin Zixun watching us like a hawk?”
Wei Wuxian peers past Jiang Cheng to the garage for the Jin Motor Group. At the entrance, a man stares back at him, the yellow of his racing suit stark and blinding in the sunlight. Wei Wuxian believes that Jin Zixun may have been handsome once, until his curled lip and knitted brows became a permanent fixture, twisting him into some hideous personification of arrogance and condescension.
“He’s watching us all right."
Jiang Cheng snorts. “Still sore about losing the Moto3 races. Fucking nutcase.”
Wei Wuxian agrees.
Especially when the race begins.
While Jiang Cheng chooses a high-powered start to pull away from the pack, Wei Wuxian goes steady and measured, saving his tires and fuel for the last spurt toward the end.
Enter Jin Zixun.
He rides up close on a curve—on several curves—and Wei Wuxian feels the hair on his nape stand on end inside his helmet. There’s something odd about his movements, something that fills Wei Wuxian with alarm. Jin Zixun should have shot past him by now, using the slipstream to propel himself forward. Instead, he sticks like a thorn to Wei Wuxian's side, pushes him to hug the curb on every turn. And it’s when Jin Zixun tips his bike toward Wei Wuxian on an S-curve that the pieces fall into place.
The madman is trying to knock him off the damn track.
As if sensing danger, the other racers give them a wide berth, and Jin Zixun chooses that moment to drop all pretense. Rams the side of his bike against Wei Wuxian’s, hard.
The commentators are yelling something, the crowd is screaming. Just barely three laps on his first MotoGP-class race, and Wei Wuxian already feels like he’s fighting for his life.
Not the kind of thrill he's looking for.
Teeth clenched, Wei Wuxian slams down on a colored engine map, feels the wheels of his bike drag against the tarmac just as Jin Zixun’s bike comes for his again. But it’s Jin Zixun’s fatal error, as Wei Wuxian’s bike slows and slips just inches behind, leaving Jin Zixun to swerve past him into the now-empty space. The momentum is so sudden, so unexpected, that it topples Jin Zixun off his bike, sending him and his machine into the gravel off the circuit.
Striking a different map, Wei Wuxian rips the throttle backward and tears down the track, tires screeching.
The crowd roars.
They don’t get first place, not even second or third. But the crew is ecstatic, and Jiang Cheng claps him repeatedly on the back, howling a stream of compliments and profanities in his ear. As Wei Wuxian makes his way out of the garage, lights flash and hands grab at his, pumping it up and down with vigor. He smiles and waves and basks in the attention, growing more pleased when women come up to offer their phone numbers.
Jin Zixun glowers at them from his garage, joined by a man Wei Wuxian doesn't recognize. But the cold fury in the man's stare, the way his nose turns upward when their eyes meet, tells Wei Wuxian that he's a bird of the same petty feather as Jin Zixun.
Jiang Cheng is saying something into a microphone, something about Jin Zixun deserving a harsher punishment ("Wasn’t intentional, my ass!”), when Wei Wuxian catches a glimpse of dark hair and a familiar shade of grey on the top of the bleachers.
“Lan Zhan,” he calls out. Darts through the throng of people and up the stairs to get to Lan Wangji, ignoring Jiang Cheng’s shout of his name.
Lan Wangji’s gaze is frosty. He doesn’t say a word when Wei Wuxian approaches, his eyes flicking, briefly, to the phone numbers scrawled in black ink across the back of Wei Wuxian's hand.
On the plus side, he’s not leaving, either.
“We didn’t win today,” Wei Wuxian says, feeling strangely buoyed by Lan Wangji’s decision to wait for him. “But we’ll hit a top spot in the next race.”
Lan Wangji makes a quiet noise of surprise, his expression turning considerably less glacial.
“You were fifth,” he says.
Jiang Cheng’s proud of him, the whole stadium is proud of him, but something about the way Lan Wangji says it—as though he thinks it’s an achievement worth celebrating—makes the heat rise to Wei Wuxian’s cheeks.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes dropping to the ground, hand scrubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I was.” He feels Lan Wangji’s gaze on him, and oh, that’s not helping him feel any less bashful. (He doesn’t even know why he’s feeling like this to begin with.)
“Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian’s head jerks up, eyes wide. He didn’t think Lan Wangji had caught his name, much less remembered it.
“Is that normal?”
Wei Wuxian blinks, slowly. “What is?”
“The…” Lan Wangji considers his next word. “…bumping.”
“Oh, that.” Wei Wuxian rubs his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “On accident, maybe. But to dog another racer on every lap, with the sole intention of running him off the track?” He clicks his tongue. “Definitely unusual.”
“Not illegal?”
“He should have been black flagged—taken out of the race,” Wei Wuxian adds when Lan Wangji’s brows needle together in confusion. “But it looks like he just lost points? I'll pull ahead next time, not let him corner me on the turns like he did today.”
“You’re not angry?” Lan Wangji says, quietly.
“Over Jin Zixun?” Wei Wuxian laughs. “I’ve got more important things to worry about. Like what my sister’s cooking for our return tonight.”
The corners of Lan Wangji’s mouth tip upward, just a little.
(He would be pretty if he smiled.
...Prettier, really.)
Vehemently, Wei Wuxian shakes the thought out of his head. “You don’t seem to know much about MotoGP."
Lan Wangji nods. “My brother is the one who usually attends.”
“Oh, well.” Wei Wuxian grins. “Lucky me.”
Something flickers in Lan Wangji’s eyes, vanishing as quickly as it appears. He opens his mouth, closes it, then after a pause, tries again. “I wasn’t aware that racing was this dangerous.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Wei Wuxian says lightly. “I’ve broken more bones than I can count.”
Lan Wangji looks at him then, gaze soft and worried, lashes dipped low, and Wei Wuxian’s heart trips in his chest. He wants to say he’s fine, that he’ll be fine. Wants to ask if this means that Lan Wangji has forgiven him, if they can finally be—
“Wei Wuxian!”
Jiang Cheng snags an arm around his neck, yanks him in to ruffle at his hair. “Didn’t you hear me calling for you back there? I had to do all your interviews on your behalf, you jerk!”
Laughing, Wei Wuxian pushes Jiang Cheng’s hands away, shoving him off. “You always tell me to stop hogging the limelight! Besides,” he twists around, “I was talking to Lan—”
He stops, smile falling.
Lan Wangji is gone.
Jiang Cheng arches an eyebrow. “Talking to who?”
Wei Wuxian exhales, the pit of his stomach curling in disappointment.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“Congratulations on fifth and sixth place!”
Jiang Yanli blows into a party horn, the tube uncurling and stretching with a loud blare. Jin Ling adds to the din, puffing into his horn with great enthusiasm. Even Jin Zixuan is sporting a party hat, the plastic triangle sitting lopsided on his head.
It’s nice to be home, Wei Wuxian thinks, watching as Jiang Cheng picks up Jin Ling and swings him about, squeals of laughter joining the blasts of the horn. For the longest time, he didn’t think he had a home—didn’t think he deserved one—until Jiang Fengmian found him searching for scraps in his trash cans and took him in. Now, he can’t imagine anything less than, surrounded by warmth and joy and the lingering scent of his sister’s lotus and pork rib soup.
He startles, the brush of a party hat against his hair pulling his mind to the present.
Jin Zixuan snaps the string around his chin, drops down in the seat next to him. “Never pegged you as a deep thinker,” he says, a slight smirk pulling at his lips.
Wei Wuxian adjusts the hat so it tilts a little. “Never pegged you as a thinker, period,” he counters, and Jin Zixuan huffs out a laugh.
The man’s a looker, Wei Wuxian will give him that. But there’s still some part of him, a large part of him, that’s soured and stayed that way since Jin Zixuan first called Jiang Yanli boring and uncultured. Jin Zixuan’s feelings have changed since then, of course, but the same can’t be said for Wei Wuxian’s.
“Your cousin’s off his pills, by the way,” he says pointedly, satisfied when he sees the grimace on Jin Zixuan’s face.
“We’ve all been on edge these days,” Jin Zixuan sighs. “I’ll have a word with him.”
“Just tell him to, you know, not kill me on the circuit.” Wei Wuxian brings his legs up on the seat, crossing them in a comfortable position. “So, what’s going on in that company of yours?”
For a moment, Jin Zixuan looks torn on whether to divulge his company's secrets. Then, head lowering, he caves, fingers kneading at his temples.
“Someone has been embezzling company funds. Billions, over a span of months.”
Wei Wuxian whistles, “Wow.” Someone tugs at Wei Wuxian’s pants, two quick pulls in succession. Without looking, Wei Wuxian twists around to heave Jin Ling onto his lap.
“It’s only just been discovered,” Jin Zixuan continues, while Jin Ling blows a horn in Wei Wuxian’s face, the paper tube prodding the tip of his nose. “And with our sales down thanks to our President’s latest scandal, a drained account is the last thing we need.”
“Right, uh huh." Wei Wuxian starts to dig his fingers into Jin Ling’s sides, grinning as his nephew giggles and squirms against him. “What’s the plan, then?”
“Unclear, which is part of the problem.” Jin Zixuan’s mouth tilts upward at the corners when Jin Ling reaches for him with a yelp of baba, help! He takes Jin Ling by the waist, shifts him off Wei Wuxian and onto his own lap. “But Guangyao thinks it’s best for Lan Corporation to buy over our company.”
Jin Guangyao, a new addition to the Jin side of their family. Rumor has it that his mother is a prostitute who slept with the President of the Jin Motor Group—Jin Zixuan’s own father, Jin Guangshan. Rumor also has it that Jin Guangyao used this information to make his way to the top of the company, reaching the pinnacle in less than two years. And the Jin Motor Group, as is their way, has neither confirmed nor denied the rumors.
But if Jin Guangyao is proposing a deal like that, there might be some substance to his promotions.
Wei Wuxian grins at Jin Zixuan. “Lan Zhan would take good care of you.”
Jin Zixuan’s brows lift. “I had no idea you were so close to the younger Twin Jade.”
“He just thinks he is.” Jiang Cheng swats at the back of Wei Wuxian’s head, toppling off the party hat. “Lan Wangji hates his guts.”
“Ah,” Jin Zixuan says, with a nod. “That, I believe.” Jin Ling is quick to imitate his father, his head bobbing with a big frown that might have been comical if Wei Wuxian hadn't just been insulted.
“Lan Zhan and I are best buds,” Wei Wuxian huffs.
“So the apology worked,” Jiang Yanli says, slipping her arms around Jin Zixuan.
"Sort of?" Wei Wuxian shrugs, as Jin Zixuan smiles up at Jiang Yanli as though she hung the moon and stars. "At least, he doesn't look at me like I killed his family anymore."
Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “You're insane. All those women, and all you can think about is Lan Wangji.”
But Lan Wangji waited for him on the bleachers, Wei Wuxian almost says. Looked at him as if he cared. Worried for Wei Wuxian’s safety, even.
(He took your notes with him.)
Shaking his head, Wei Wuxian leaps to his feet, grabs Jin Ling and swings him up into the air. “Spin, spin,” Jin Ling giggles, little arms and legs flailing about. He listens to his nephew, turning round and round to the sound of the delighted squeals above him. Ignores the knowing look Jiang Yanli shoots at him.
Maybe he is a little mad. But he’s going to keep at it, keep chipping at those walls, because Lan Wangji tugs at something inside him—something that feels like home.