Work Text:
Today is the day.
Today is the fucking day.
Today is the day—
“Will you shut up,” Jiang Cheng hisses, reaching for the thin ballpoint pen resting next to his laptop and chucking it at Wei Ying’s face. Wei Ying frowns, because rude, but also because what the hell, that hurts.
“No,” he says, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m trying to tell you something, and you are ignoring me. What a horrible little brother you are.”
“I wish Dad had never adopted you,” says Jiang Cheng.
Wei Ying shrugs. “Anyways, listen to me. This is important.”
“No.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Wei Ying nods matter-of-factly. “So, Lan Zhan, right? I’m gonna sit next to him today in class. Strike up a conversation. You know, the works.”
Jiang Cheng stares at him for exactly five seconds, then directs his attention back to his screen.
Wei Ying pouts. “Jiang Cheng, pay attention to me! I’m telling you, I’m gonna do it today. He’s going to look at my beautiful sexy face with his beautiful gorgeous face and go, ‘Oh my gosh, Wei Ying? Is that you? It’s been so long! I missed you so much! How’ve you—’”
“If that happens,” Jiang Cheng interjects, “please kill me. Please do it.” A pause. “Actually, just do it right now. I’m literally begging you.”
“No,” says Wei Ying. “Who else is going to listen to my brilliant spiels?”
“Wen Qing,” says Jiang Cheng immediately.
“Haha,” says Wei Ying. “That’s funny.”
“Wen Ning, then.”
“Oh,” says Wei Ying. “Hm. Perhaps.”
“And for the fucking record,” says Jiang Cheng. “The chance that Lan Zhan is going to go along with your shit is less than fucking zero. All you did back in high school was annoy him. Don’t you remember? No, wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to—”
“Of course I remember,” says Wei Ying. “Which is precisely why he’ll go ‘Oh my gosh, Wei Ying? Is that—’”
Jiang Cheng throws another pen at him.
—
So. Okay. Backtrack.
Wei Ying and Lan Zhan went to the same high school. With Jiang Cheng. And Nie Huaisang, but Wei Ying really has no fucking clue what Nie Huaisang is up to these days. The last he’d heard he’d been getting stoned at that one girl’s party when his big bad brother walked in and caught him dancing to Britney Spears on a ping-pong table. Major respect, of course, but damn.
Anyways. Wei Ying and Lan Zhan.
In high school, they had been in the same chemistry class. Were lab partners twice, even. Maybe thrice. When you’re blowing up chemicals in the corner of a classroom, leaning over each other to steal observation notes and data (though that one might have just been Wei Ying,) you’re bound to get close, right?
Well.
If Wei Ying is being perfectly honest, he considered Lan Zhan as a friend. When he’d pass him in the hallways, he’d always hold his arm up and frantically wave. “Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan! Hey! What’s up!” he’d yell, a beaming smile gracing his features. Like a newborn puppy, Jiang Cheng would say. Like a clingy ass lapdog.
And Lan Zhan would ignore him. Every single time. Without fail.
There was also the—sweaty palms when Lan Zhan looked at him for a second longer than a glance, brightly rouged cheeks when Lan Zhan’s arm would accidentally brush against his, the fucking chest aches when Lan Zhan would give him one of his signature hums of… was it approval? Disapproval? Wei Ying never could really tell.
But, anyways. Friends! Yeah!
So naturally when Wei Ying had been strolling through his university campus, and he’d seen Lan fucking Zhan across the courtyard, he got a little excited.
“Lan Zhan goes to this school,” he told Jiang Cheng. “I saw him this morning. Did you know he goes to our school? Holy fuck. Lan Zhan goes to our school, Jiang Cheng—”
“Oh, fuck no,” said Jiang Cheng, and he’d promptly picked up his books and walked away.
Next was Wen Qing.
“Who,” she said as she leaned over her fingers with a bottle of thick red nail polish.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying repeated.
“That literally does not answer my question.”
“Oh, come on,” said Wei Ying. “I’ve told you about Lan Zhan. Remember the guy who I used to be friends with back in high school?”
“No,” said Wen Qing. She snapped her bottle shut and set it aside. “But maybe I’ll remember if you pay for drinks tonight.”
“What? No.”
“Then sorry.”
Next:
“Wen Ning, my darling Wen Ning,” said Wei Ying. “Remember Lan Zhan? The guy I told you about from my high school? He goes here now!”
“Oh,” said Wen Ning. “That’s so nice, Ying-ge! Did you say hi?”
“Uh.”
And, okay, maybe Wei Ying had forgotten about that one little detail. You know, the whole Actually Talking To Lan Zhan thing. But hey, he had been excited, so who could really blame him.
But anyways, that was last week. Now, however—
Now Lan Zhan sits three rows ahead of him in his Monday morning lecture. Which, for the record, had been dumped on him last minute because Wei Ying had completely forgotten to select his preferred modules ahead of time. Jiang Cheng had laughed at him for a solid twenty minutes, but then ended up finding out he was going to be in the class too. So, ha. In your face, motherfucker.
Lan Zhan, however.
Oh, Lan Zhan.
The first time Wei Ying had seen him, it had been from a bit of a distance, so there was really no way to realize one very crucial development.
Lan Zhan was—well, he’s hot. Hotter, he means. And he was already really fucking hot in high school, so this is quite unfair.
“If,” said Jiang Cheng the moment Wei Ying started talking about it three days ago, “you even think about waxing poetic about fucking Lan Zhan—”
“But, Jiang Cheng—”
“—I am going to disown you.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Don’t fucking care. I’ll call Mom. She’s always awake nowadays, planning A-Jie’s wedding. Don’t give me a fucking reason, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying sighed. Very loudly. Just to see if it would piss Jiang Cheng off more.
(It did, but that’s not important—)
“There he is,” Wei Ying whispers as they step into the lecture hall. Just as always, Lan Zhan is sitting in the middle row, dead center, taking out his perfectly plain MacBook Pro. No stickers, no cute keyboard cover, just boring old space grey.
“Yes,” says Jiang Cheng from next to him, “I have eyes.”
“Debatable.”
Jiang Cheng ignores him.
“Okay,” says Wei Ying. “You go to our normal spot. I go and sit next to him.”
“Twenty bucks on him running away.”
“... Ten.”
“Fifteen.”
“Eleven and I’ll drive you to class tomorrow.”
“You literally can’t even drive.”
Wei Ying pats Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “It’s the thought that counts. Now go.”
“Whatever.”
Wei Ying follows him, sauntering slowly up the thin blocky steps to the right of the middle row. He only tries to trip Jiang Cheng, who’s in front of him, once. So his brother really ought to be grateful. Wei Ying eyes Lan Zhan carefully as he approaches, and at the very last possible second, he gasps dramatically.
“Lan Zhan?!”
Hm. Maybe too dramatic.
Lan Zhan’s fingers pause over where they’re typing away on his computer—the boring one, yes—and he turns his head ever so slightly.
Wei Ying laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound too awkward. He hears Jiang Cheng snickering somewhere next to him and lunges his elbow into his side.
“Ow, what the fuck—”
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says again, quieter this time but still loud enough to drown out whatever Jiang Cheng was going to say next. He presses his lips together and trudges forward, slinking into the row of cushionless seats and skipping over to the empty one to Lan Zhan’s right. “Is it really you?” he asks, feigning innocence. Ha. This is going great so far. “Oh, it is you! Lan Zhan, I didn’t know you went to school here!”
Lan Zhan is looking at him, and from this close, Wei Ying thinks he can make out a faint bloom of pink surprise painting the tips of his ears. He grins to himself at the revelation. Lovely.
“Remember me?” he asks, leaning forward. “I know it’s been, like, fuck. Four months? Five months? I can’t math.” Or English, apparently.
“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, and oh. Well.
His voice—so familiar, so deep and smooth and oh, oh. Lovely lovely lovely. Lan Zhan should talk in class more, Wei Ying thinks. Or actually, Lan Zhan should just talk more in general. Directing all of the words that fall through those pretty lips of his right to Wei Ying is also an equally viable option.
“Yeah!” says Wei Ying, then grins sunnily sweet. “So you do remember me!” Take that, Jiang Cheng, because even if nothing comes out of this, at least he’s now eleven dollars and one free car ride richer. “How’ve you been? Where have you been? How was your summer? Damn, if I knew you were accepted here I’d have hit you up! Lan Zhan, you should have told me!”
“Uneventful,” says Lan Zhan, which—okay, fair. This is fine. Wei Ying can totally work with this.
Hey, if anything, he’s just glad Lan Zhan is even answering him in the first place.
“Really,” he says, leaning closer. Lan Zhan falls still, the lines of his shoulders going rigid. “Tell me more.”
A cough comes from behind him. It sounds suspiciously like Jiang Cheng, but Wei Ying will think about that later. Right now: there is a pretty boy in front of him that needs to be talked up. God, Wei Ying can already see it play out in front of him. Lan Zhan will realize he’s actually been deeply infatuated with Wei Ying since their time together as almost-friends in high school, will profess his undying love for him, and the two will walk off into the sunset, hand in hand, riding together on the back of a fucking donkey.
“I don’t know you,” Jiang Cheng tells him later, after class is over and Lan Zhan has walked off in the opposite direction of the lecture hall. “I literally have no fucking clue who you are. Why are you standing next to me? Hello? Haven’t you ever heard of stranger danger?”
“Shut up,” says Wei Ying. Then, “Hm. I think that went pretty well.”
“He literally said three words to you during that entire conversation.”
“Yeah!” says Wei Ying. “That’s three more than he usually says to me!”
Jiang Cheng shakes his head. “Fucking ridiculous,” he mutters. “I don’t get paid enough for this. You were so fucking awkward.”
“No I wasn’t,” says Wei Ying.
Well, was he? He doesn’t think so, at least. He’s always been able to keep conversation flowing, even with an unwilling second party. And Lan Zhan—Wei Ying doesn’t think he was unwilling. Not really, anyways.
Right?
Wei Ying had taken to describing his summer with immaculate detail, talking about everything he and his siblings got up to. Lan Zhan had listened, only reprimanded him twice when the lecturer arrived and began the lesson, and generally seemed pretty okay with Wei Ying’s entire… being. So.
“I got his number,” says Wei Ying next, and to exemplify the exceptional nature of this feat, he holds his phone up. Pristine black screen, tattered case with a pattern of bright orange carrots. Jiang Cheng stares at him, eyes narrow on his face.
“You didn’t already have his number?”
“What?” Wei Ying asks. “Of course not. Why would I?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Jiang Cheng, “maybe the whole we’ve been lab partners before and we used to see each other in the hallways sometimes and—”
“Keyword,” says Wei Ying, “sometimes. We were friends. Kind of. But.”
“Friends have each other’s numbers.”
“I said kind of, okay?”
Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes so hard Wei Ying loses sight of his pupils. Absolutely terrifying.
“Anyways,” says Wei Ying. He holds out his hand, palm flat and facing skyward. “Eleven dollars, pretty please.”
Jiang Cheng has a few choice words for him as he grumbles and pulls out the cash. Two fives and a one. Fucking delectable.
—
“So,” says Wei Ying the following week, sliding into the seat next to Lan Zhan. “After class. You. Me. Kung Fu Tea.” He grins. “Heh. That rhymed.”
Lan Zhan looks up from where he’s currently opening his digital notebook. It sparks a memory in Wei Ying.
“Oh, right,” he says. He leans over and runs his index finger down the side of Lan Zhan’s computer. It’s smooth, cold to the touch. He tries not to make his shiver too noticeable. “Do you see this?” He points down at Lan Zhan’s keyboard and frowns. “Exactly. You don’t. Because there’s nothing there.”
Lan Zhan pauses. He furrows his eyebrows, which—that’s adorable. Holy fuck. Okay.
Moving on.
“Look,” says Wei Ying. He reaches into his bag, pulls out his laptop—shiny smacking gold—and sets it down onto the table next to Lan Zhan’s. The difference is already clear as a cloudless day—the cover of Wei Ying’s computer is littered to the brim with stickers. Balloons, inspirational quotes, a cute Shooky, fucking NASA. You name it, he’s got it.
Jiang Cheng thinks it’s stupid. Says something about how too many stickers is a telltale sign for an overly obnoxious person. But that’s no matter, because Wei Ying already knows he’s obnoxious. Just the worst, really. So whatever Jiang Cheng tells him really has no effect. Slam fucking dunk.
Anyways: Lan Zhan.
“See?” says Wei Ying, proudly displaying his array of stickers. “My computer has character.”
“I do not understand,” says Lan Zhan.
“I’m just saying,” says Wei Ying. “Your laptop could do with some character.”
“Hm,” says Lan Zhan.
And so the lesson goes. Wei Ying spends the hour with the end of his pen clacking around his mouth, head leaning against his fist and elbow digging into the surface of the table. Jiang Cheng sends him death glares from behind him every time Wei Ying turns to glance over his shoulder, and of course Wei Ying retaliates by sticking his tongue out and pulling a face.
And after—“Kung Fu Tea,” says Wei Ying again.
“I am unfamiliar,” says Lan Zhan as he closes the lid of his laptop and slips it into his bag. “Is it a type of kwoon?”
“A—no. No it’s not,” says Wei Ying. “It’s boba.”
A pause. Then, “Ah.”
So they get boba.
“The sugar will rot your teeth,” Lan Zhan says at Wei Ying’s horrified expression after he orders his drink. “There is an advertisement that I am familiar with. Someone put teeth in a glass of soda, and within a few days—”
“Stop,” says Wei Ying. He holds up his hand, palm flat and facing Lan Zhan’s face. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Lan Zhan does not finish that sentence. Instead he raises his cup of tea to his lips and takes a long sip.
Wei Ying very pointedly looks away.
And that’s. That’s how it goes. Wei Ying’s Incredible Plan On How To Rekindle An Almost-Friendship Except Maybe This Time Without The ‘Almost’.
“We should study together,” he says later as they throw away their cups and dust off the seats of their trousers. “Like, I dunno about you, but studying with someone else is way more fun than studying by yourself.” He blinks rapidly, innocent as ever. “Don’t you agree, Lan Zhan?”
“Your brother goes to this school,” says Lan Zhan.
“Fuck my brother,” says Wei Ying. He cringes. “Wait. Maybe don’t do that.”
“Wei Ying.”
“Sorry.” With this, he smiles cheekily, blazing like burnt sunlight. “Anyways, Jiang Cheng’s a dick. The absolute worst person to study with.” He then considers that statement. “Actually, no. That title probably should go to Wen Qing.”
“Wen Qing,” says Lan Zhan.
“Correct. Like, at least Jiang Cheng will talk to me. Insult me. Whatever.” A nebulous gesticulation. “But like, Wen Qing? Never. She puts in her earbuds and cranks up the volume like there’s no tomorrow. If she even hears a peep out of anyone she’ll bring out the fangs.”
“The fangs,” Lan Zhan echoes.
“She bit my arm once.”
Lan Zhan turns to look at him, wide-eyed.
Wei Ying shrugs. “Hence, the fangs.”
“Mm.”
The sugar-high is yet to disperse. It simmers in his stomach, waiting to strike.
“So,” he says. ”Studying?”
“Yes,” says Lan Zhan.
“Fantastic,” says Wei Ying, and then he reaches down to grab Lan Zhan’s wrist and pull him across campus.
—
In high school, Wei Ying and Lan Zhan hadn’t studied together once. They ran in completely different circles, though, so that was to be expected. Wei Ying with Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang. Lan Zhan with...what was her name, Luo Qingyang? Mianmian?
Lan Zhan and Mianmian were best friends. Did everything together, basically. Everyone in their grade thought the two were dating, but apparently—
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying had said one day as he tossed over a pair of thick goggles to his lab partner, “you like Mianmian, don’t you?”
Lan Zhan had—and Wei Ying still remembers this, clear as fucking day—frozen. His fingers had stilled around the frames of the goggles, and his lips had parted in...surprise? Confusion? Resignation?
“Everyone thinks you two are, like, a couple. Or something,” Wei Ying had said, ignoring that stupid crawly feeling in his chest. “Someone even said they saw you holding hands with her a week ago and—”
“Wei Ying,” said Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying shut up immediately. “Uh. Yes?”
“Go put on your apron.”
And then Lan Zhan had turned around and walked over to their lab bench.
Wei Ying absolutely did not spend two weeks overthinking that conversation.
Anyways.
Wei Ying has no idea what Lan Zhan’s study habits are, but he can only assume they’re exceptionally perfect just like the rest of him. Wei Ying’s noticed small tidbits about Lan Zhan during class, like how he has a specifically labeled notebook for every single subject, color-coded notes, handwriting that looks like it could be a computer font. The whole shebang.
Lan Zhan shows up at Wei Ying’s front door looking just as put together as he always does. Perfect hair, perfect face, perfect everything. Wei Ying, in contrast, looks like he just got out of bed. Which, for the record, is the truth, so. Grey sweatpants and loose t-shirt it is.
“Hello,” Lan Zhan greets as Wei Ying holds the door open wider for him to sidestep in.
“Hey, Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying. He gestures to the kitchen with his left hand. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? I think we have juice. There might not be any pineapple left but there’s definitely orange. I think I stocked up on watermelon juice last week, but it’s in these tiny ass, super ugly cartons. There’s also milk. Strawberry and chocolate because the regular kind is boring. Oh, also, sorry the apartment’s a mess. It’s all Jiang Cheng’s fault.”
“I am good,” says Lan Zhan.
“Oh,” says Wei Ying, “there’s also, like, water.”
Lan Zhan shakes his head. “It’s alright.”
“I’m getting you water,” says Wei Ying, nodding, and as he does that he sees Lan Zhan take a seat on the couch out of the corner of his eye. “Jiang Cheng’s in class for the next three hours, so it’s just you and me.”
“Mm,” says Lan Zhan as he pulls out his laptop. Wei Ying hums quietly to himself as he pours them two glasses of water and skips over to the living room. He passes one over to Lan Zhan, who takes it with a grateful nod, and settles down next to him. A safe distance away. Like, there’s at least three feet of space between their respective knees.
Perfect. Now Wei Ying can breathe.
Breathing, as it turns out, is very difficult when you’re alone in an apartment with your hot kind-of-friend.
Because Lan Zhan is—insanely pretty, actually. He’s the kind of pretty you dream of when you read fantasy novels, the kind of pretty that’s subtle, golden. And of course Wei Ying already knew this, but it’s been incredibly In His Face as of late. Which is annoying as fuck, to be honest. Screw his stupidly soft heart.
He gets nothing done.
His laptop is open on his thighs, and his fingers are most definitely typing something, but Wei Ying has absolutely no idea what it is. When he does let his vision focus back to his screen, he sees a long chain of Lana Zhan lan zhana ZLNahz LAnhan Zlanh Lan Zaanaaaaannnnnnnn—
Fuck.
Control A. Delete.
Moving on.
“So,” he says two hours later, “that was productive.”
“Mm,” says Lan Zhan, like the absolute bitch he is. Of course he had managed to get stuff done. Homework. Studying. Whatever. Wei Ying wants to cry. He has an exam next week. This is so unfair. Fucking hell. He hates pretty boys.
“I’ll.” He stops. Swallows. “See you in class?”
“In class,” Lan Zhan echoes. “Yes.”
Great.
—
This is stupid.
It’s just Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, the stickler for rules. Lan Zhan, the one who used to always chide him for his illegible handwriting in his lab notebook (to which Wei Ying always said, “But what’s the point? It’s not like she’s gonna collect them. This is for my own personal self!”)
Then their AP Chemistry teacher had surprise collected their notebooks for half of their lab grade, and Wei Ying had suffered. Drastically. Fuck you, Mrs. Jones.
But anyways. Lan Zhan. God, Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan Lan Zhan Lan Zhan Lan Zhan Lan Zhan.
Now. There are three possible people he can take his sorrows to.
One: Wen Qing. She’ll probably ignore him.
Two: Wen Ning. But he’ll do that thing where he listens intently to Wei Ying’s entire spiel and then goes to the kitchen and offers him some ice cream.
Three: Jiang Cheng, and no. Just no.
So. Wen Qing it is.
—
“I have a terrible problem.”
Campus library: floor one. They’re allowed to talk down here. They’re also allowed to eat, but as soon as the librarian hears even the faint crinkle of a bag of chips, she’ll stare you down till you awkwardly surrender and put your snack away.
So instead, Wei Ying arrives with coffee.
“Iced black,” he says as he sets the plastic cup down. “Sweetened only with almond milk.”
Wen Qing peers at it suspiciously. “That doesn’t look like less ice.”
Shit. Um.
“You need new glasses anyways,” he says, waving his hand out in front of him.
He slips into the chair across from her, scattering out his textbooks and opening one to a random page. Wen Qing ignores him completely, her long crimson-painted nails tapping against the sides of her coffee as she drinks. The noise is infuriating. Wei Ying pays no attention to it.
“So, as I was saying—”
“I don’t care,” says Wen Qing. She clicks her pen to life and continues on with her work.
“As I was saying,” Wei Ying starts again, because he knows Wen Qing does secretly care, “I have a terrible problem. Remember Lan Zhan?”
“The guy you had a crush on in high school.”
“I didn’t have a crush on him.”
“Yes you did.”
“I did not,” says Wei Ying. “However.”
Wen Qing finally looks up at him, her expression deadpan. “You still have a crush on him.”
“Not still,” says Wei Ying. “It’s a recent development.”
“And the sky is green.”
“What?” What does that have to do with anything? “No it’s not.”
Wen Qing stares at him for a long moment, then looks back down to her tattered orange notebook. “My point.”
“Anyways.” Wei Ying pauses, considers his next words. “Lan Zhan. He’s great.”
“I don’t care.”
“He’s so nice. And sweet. Really sweet.”
“I don’t care.”
“He’s like the best person I’ve ever met.”
“You hang out with Jiang Cheng. The bar is low.”
“He’s—” Wei Ying stops. “Oh my god, you did not just say that.”
Wen Qing takes an extra long sip of her coffee in response.
“I can’t believe you just said that. I’m telling Jiang Cheng.”
“Please do,” she says, and then she sighs. It’s one of those signature sighs of hers—like she’s about to explain exactly why she is so done with Wei Ying’s bullshit. Wei Ying doesn’t doubt it at all.
Then:
“Why don’t you just,” she says, and Wei Ying already knows where this is going, “tell him that you like him?”
And.
Well.
Hm.
Sometimes in life you simply need to puff out your chest and go for it. Other times, not so much. Other times, you need to keep it in. Hold it close. Away from prying eyes and hands. Safe and sound.
And when. If. If you release that. That secret. It isn’t—yours. Not anymore. Suddenly it becomes everyone else’s problem, someone else’s problem, like it was never just something between you and yourself. A drop of dew, freshly pickled morning, sliding off and crashing down below. Exploding. It’s too much. Too overwhelming. It doesn’t feel safe.
But.
Rejection isn’t easy. Rejection is never easy, giving or receiving. It’s like a bubble. A comfy, tight little bubble that floats around to its heart’s content. It’s completely free, completely void of heartbreak and hurt. That’s what friendship is.
Friendship—it’s great. It’s so, so great. Wei Ying is good at making friends. He’s okay at keeping them, but then again, hasn’t everyone slid within the crooks of a friendship-breakup at some point in their lives? One moment you’re okay, and the next you’re not. It’s frightening, but it’s reality.
But then—the chest tugs, the shivering hands, the warmth. Oh, the warmth. Fire pooling in the depths of one’s chest, heat entering in crashing waves. It’s like a feeling of prickling anxiety, but...different. In a way. It’s weird. Emotions are weird.
The bubble—it pops. The second someone says that they feel more, that the platonic feelings are starting to develop, to grow—the bubble pops. Disappears. Like it was never there to begin with.
And so.
“But what if,” says Wei Ying, “he leaves?”
“He’s Lan Zhan,” says Wen Qing immediately. “He’d never leave.”
And—well, isn’t that just something.
—
But because he’s Wei Ying, (see: An Absolute Disaster,) he treads the waters like they’re lava. Which is to say—he runs. Leaps, almost. Right to the convenience store two blocks away from campus. Right into the stationary aisle. Right to where the stickers are, colorful and sparkling and bright from where they boast themselves on the very top shelf.
He finds the ones he’s looking for, takes four extra packs, just to be sure.
He flicks his phone out and opens his messages with Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying [4:12]
you don't have class right now
do you?
Lan Zhan [4:13]
I do not.
Wei Ying [4:13]
oh
great!!!!!!!!!!!!!
come help me w my hw? ;__;
i’ll pay w my endless love ♡
Lan Zhan [4:14]
I will be there soon.
Pah. Like Wei Ying needs help with his homework.
He finds himself smiling. He’s sure Lan Zhan knows it, too.
—
It goes like this:
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, nudging a warm cup of green tea across the dining table. It slides over to Lan Zhan, who’s sitting across from him, and lands right by the silver edge of his laptop.
Lan Zhan looks up, eyes soft. “Mm?”
“Go to my room for five minutes.”
Surprise. Then, confusion.
“Wei Ying?”
Now see, Wei Ying could come up with an excuse to make him leave. But, well, he doesn’t have enough of a brain for that. So.
“Just go,” he says, then reaches over the table and wraps his hands around Lan Zhan’s fingers. Squeezing, he says, “You can set a timer on your phone if you want. Five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” Lan Zhan echoes.
“Yes,” nods Wei Ying.
So Lan Zhan pushes his chair back and moves to stand up. Wei Ying watches his back as he retreats, disappearing into his bedroom and closing the door behind him.
Five minutes.
Yes. He can do this.
He pulls the stickers out, the ones he bought just an hour ago, and rips the packaging open in one clean sweep. They’re a collection of different Chinese characters, small hearts and stars scattered around them. Wei Ying smiles and reaches for four: one from the top of the page, one from the middle, and two from the bottom.
Four characters.
One sentence.
Then he takes two heart stickers, plasters them on the side.
♡ 我喜欢你 ♡
I like you.
It’s simple enough—right?
Right.
He hears the door open from somewhere behind him.
“Five minutes,” comes Lan Zhan’s voice, “are up.”
A lot of things happen after that.
One: a stop in time. Lan Zhan walks out, eyes trailed on the floor, on his toes above plush carpet. His shirt, tucked in to perfection, sticking to his figure like ice on skin. His expression, soft and unsure. Lips parted. Hair swept by his temples. Arms hanging by his sides, hands falling past his waist.
Two: a long pause. Wei Ying’s gaze flicks over to Lan Zhan’s face, watches his eyes widen ever so slightly. They’re trained on something just past Wei Ying’s shoulder, angled in a way that suggests he’s looking downward. On the table. On something flat and open and now—colorful. Sparkling. Obnoxiously displaying itself for full view. The stickers, the characters.
Three: hesitation. Wei Ying wonders, briefly, if Lan Zhan can even read Chinese. Perhaps he shouldn’t have assumed? But. It’s Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, who clings to every word that falls out of his uncle’s lips with picture-perfect obedience. Wei Ying isn’t too familiar with the Lan customs, but surely Lan Qiren had some, some—
Four: “Wei Ying?”
Five: “Ah, Lan Zhan.” Peppering uncertainty. The rise and fall of that thorny, dwindling feeling in his chest. The bubble. The bubble. It’s floating around, treading closer and closer to the needle suspended a ways away.
“Wei Ying.”
“I told you,” says Wei Ying quickly. He can feel the erratic beat of his heart thudding in his chest, a low pound that resonated beneath his throat. “Your laptop—it’s, uh. Boring.” Then he gestures back to Lan Zhan’s computer, runs his fingers over the stickers.
“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan again. He sounds—weird. He sounds like nothing Wei Ying has ever heard before. Slightly breathless, the syllables of Wei Ying’s name coming out in an almost-forced kind of manner. It’s terrible, actually. He sounds so shocked that Wei Ying doesn’t know what to make of it.
His shoulders slump down. His heart cages. “Lan Zhan,” he says. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, and this time when Wei Ying looks back up to him, he finds that he’s several feet closer. And he’s moving. Rapidly. Like a blurry streak smudging Wei Ying’s eyesight.
Then Lan Zhan is reaching out, and Wei Ying sees the pale skin of his wrists. Fingers wrap around his cheekbones, digging into the sides of his face. He’s being pulled up, hoisted up, whatever. He yelps, a quiet gasp, and then his voice is muffled. His mouth is being covered, pressed down against, and Wei Ying tastes searing warmth. Time stops suddenly. Wei Ying’s toes curl, his stomach twists like a pretzel, and his knees melt beneath him.
Oh, he thinks, and perhaps that thought is messy enough to articulate the next time they pull away and—
“Oh,” he gasps, and then Lan Zhan is diving deep again. He’s holding him up, letting his hands roam down, pressing Wei Ying against the table and pushing till his back arches behind him. “Lan Zhan, wait—Lan Zhan—”
They should talk about this. Right?
But then Lan Zhan is kissing him again, whispering his name against his mouth, and just—okay.
Whatever. Fuck talking about it. Sounds like a problem for later.
—
The next day, Wei Ying walks into the lecture hall to see Lan Zhan sticking sticker after sticker onto his laptop lid.
“Lan Zhan?” he asks, eyes widening as he slips into his seat next to him. “What’re you doing?”
“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan. “Take your laptop out.”
“What? Why?” Wei Ying asks as he does just that. Lan Zhan doesn’t answer, instead looking patient as ever as he waits. Wei Ying furrows his eyebrows as he slides his computer onto the table in front of them.
“Thank you,” says Lan Zhan, and then he reaches for the pack of stickers next to his own computer and begins to peel one off.
Wei Ying watches, eyes wide, as he sticks four of them in the top corner. They’re Chinese characters—not the glittery pack that Wei Ying had bought yesterday, but rather simple multicolored ones. Red, black, white, and blue. When Lan Zhan is finished, he backs away and places his hands in his lap.
Wei Ying looks down to his laptop, and his heart blooms.
我也喜欢你
I like you too.
—
(
“So,” says Wei Ying as he curls into Lan Zhan’s lap, the fronts of his thighs pressing against his chest, “when did you start liking me?”
The answer comes immediately. “Senior year.”
What.
“What?”
“Mm,” says Lan Zhan as he strokes his fingers through Wei Ying’s hair. “The Gravimetric Determination of the Formula of a Hydrate lab.”
“Hold on,” says Wei Ying.
“You wore your apron backwards,” says Lan Zhan. “It was… cute.”
Oh. God.
“Holy fuck,” says Wei Ying. “But that was—that was first semester of senior year.” He looks up, eyes finding Lan Zhan’s. They’re light like specks of the sun. “Lan Zhan. That was the first lab we worked together on.”
“Yes,” says Lan Zhan. “And you?”
But Wei Ying’s mind is still replaying The Gravimetric Determination of the— “Me?”
“Mm. When did you start?”
“Oh,” says Wei Ying. Well that’s easy. “Senior year, too,” he says. “But. Um. I guess I didn’t realize it till. You know. This whole thing.” This whole thing meaning college, meaning classes, meaning pretty laptop stickers and boba and glasses of iced water and kisses on Wei Ying’s dining table. He groans. “God. We could have had this ages ago.”
“We could have,” Lan Zhan agrees. “But this is good too.”
And Wei Ying is so weak. He is so fucking weak.
“Right,” he says, “yeah. This is perfect.”
)