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Wei Ying is quiet.
He floats through their apartment like a ghost, leaves no trace that he lives there: no boots knocked over by the entryway, no spices left out on the counter. The decorative pillows in the living room stay plump and pristine, exactly where Lan Zhan left them.
It’s unsettling.
Lan Zhan finds himself making an extra serving of dinner out of habit, even though there’s no Wei Ying flitting around the island, pulling at his apron strings and teasing him for his lack of flavor. He wraps it in foil to keep warm, sets out the chili oil on the counter just in case.
When he knocks on Wei Ying’s door, it does not open. Lan Zhan knows he’s in there. “Wei Ying,” he says through the door and resists the urge to force it open; it is not his place. “I made dinner. There is extra if you’d like some.”
There is no answer.
*
The next day when he returns from work, Lan Zhan finds the dishes from last night drying on the rack and Wei Ying curled up on the couch. His knees are pulled up to his chest, laptop balanced precariously between them.
“Lan Zhan,” he chirps. It is good to hear his voice. “Thanks for dinner last night. Sorry about the-” he waves his hand vaguely, as if that explains everything.
“Were you feeling unwell?” Lan Zhan asks.
Wei Ying shrugs, going back to his typing. “Ah, don’t worry about me, you know how it is.”
Lan Zhan does not, in fact, know how it is. But it’s not his place to ask. He turns to the kitchen and begins setting out ingredients for hot dry noodles. This, at least, he can do.
*
Two weeks later, it happens again.
Wei Ying comes home while Lan Zhan is sweeping the living room floor and stops in the doorway when he sees him. There is a bruise blooming on his cheek.
“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, already setting the broom to lean against the couch.
Wei Ying shies away, skirting around the island to avoid him.
“Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’ll just-” he motions behind himself, vaguely pointing in the direction of his room, and then he’s gone.
Lan Zhan makes an extra serving of dinner again.
Wei Ying doesn’t eat it.
*
It happens again, and again. Wei Ying comes back to himself each time, Lan Zhan tells himself. If it takes longer each time, if the silences in the apartment sit heavier, it’s not his business. Lan Zhan will not become his father; he is not Wei Ying’s keeper.
Still, he thinks as he wraps fried tofu in beeswax cloth and tucks the extra (always extra) in the fridge for safekeeping, Wei Ying is his - his what? Friend? Roommate? Neither word matches the depth of his feelings. Wei Ying is his person. Perhaps he is allowed to worry.
Lan Zhan brews ginger tea, sets out two cups out of habit.
Medicine tea, Wei Ying always teases him for it. But he still drinks it when Lan Zhan sets a cup in front of him. Lan Zhan sips his own quietly, listens to the muted thrum of the city outside. A whole metropolis of people all going about their days, unaware that something is wrong with Wei Ying. None of them have noticed; none of them care.
It sometimes feels as though no one cares about Wei Ying, least of all Wei Ying.
Lan Zhan will be the only one, if he must.
Down the hall, a door creaks, soft counterpoint to the screech of trains and buses outside. Lan Zhan waits, so still, at the kitchen island, tea steaming before him. It is not unlike tempting rabbits, he thinks, waiting for Wei Ying to come to him. One wrong move and he’ll spook, disappear into the dark hole of his own heart.
So Lan Zhan waits.
Wei Ying’s footsteps are whisper soft as he approaches the kitchen island. He stares at the steaming cups of tea like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask for one. As if he ever has to ask, when it comes to Lan Zhan.
“I brewed too much,” Lan Zhan says. It is easier to couch it in this kind of language: There is extra, I made too much, it will go to waste.
Wei Ying hates waste more than he hates taking up space; he reaches for a mug.
For a while, they sit in silence, sipping their tea. Lan Zhan is used to silence, was born to it, but here it just feels wrong. He hates when Wei Ying is anything but vibrantly himself.
“You have been quiet recently.”
Wei Ying slips on his grin like a mask and flutters his eyelashes. “Are you worried about me, er-gege?”
“Yes.”
Wei Ying sets his mug down. For a moment, Lan Zhan fears he’s pushed too hard.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Wei Ying says with a wave of his hand. There is a ring of bruises around his wrist.
“Someone has been hurting you,” Lan Zhan says, then immediately bites his tongue. He is supposed to be patient. He is supposed to let Wei Ying come to him when he is ready. Wei Ying always has a way of throwing Lan Zhan’s plans off.
Wei Ying snaps his hand back, hides it in his lap, a rabbit tensed to leap away. “Oh, that’s - uh - it’s not what you’re thinking.”
Lan Zhan tilts his head, forces himself to consider it, to not scare Wei Ying away. “Then what is it?”
“I, ah-” Wei Ying’s face has gone red. “I just, sometimes, I like…” he trails off, like maybe if he’s quiet enough, Lan Zhan will forget his question. Lan Zhan is patient. Lan Zhan can wait as long as it takes.
Wei Ying fidgets under his gaze, bites his lip, looks away.
Still Lan Zhan waits.
“Ugh, you’re really gonna make me say it?” Wei Ying whines.
Lan Zhan waits.
“Well don’t blame me when you get embarrassed then, okay, I tried to warn you. You Lans, I bet you’ve never even—”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says.
Wei Ying slumps forward to hide his face against the island countertop. “Smmhmm mm lhhk hehbeh tuhduh,” he says to the granite. It is the most Wei Ying’s said on the issue and also completely unhelpful.
Lan Zhan risks a hand on the back of Wei Ying’s neck. There’s a little triangle of bare nape where his hair has parted to fall on either side of his shoulders; it is warm under Lan Zhan’s palm.
“Could you repeat that, please?”
Wei Ying tilts his head to glare up at him from the countertop. As a result, he leans even further into Lan Zhan’s touch.
“I said,” he huffs, all pout and bravado, “sometimes I like to be tied up!”
Huh.
Lan Zhan blinks as he quickly reorganizes his understanding of the world, and Wei Ying charges blithely on.
“Sometimes I like it when people are rough with me and hold me down and- and-” Wei Ying almost stalls out there, but Lan Zhan squeezes against the back of his neck, an encouragement. “-and tell me what to do.”
Lan Zhan’s brain is roaring, a subway car screeching against its rails as he races to reorder the past few weeks into something that makes sense.
“You have been engaging in power exchange play,” he says, testing out the thought.
Wei Ying snorts. “Oh course you’d have some boring word for it.”
Lan Zhan hums, not taking the bait, as the pegs slot into place. Wei Ying’s quiet days. The bruises on his body he would not talk about. The way he would make himself small, then pretend everything was normal the day after.
Wei Ying likes to be - tied up. Treated roughly. Told what to do.
“You are submissive,” Lan Zhan says, piecing it together. “You enjoy bondage and-” he pauses to consider the concealer Wei Ying keeps in their shared bathroom, the bruise across his cheek that magically disappeared. “Impact play?”
The way Wei Ying flushes and ducks his head is as good as an answer.
“And your-” he stutters on the next word, “Your dom. Are they providing adequate aftercare?”
Wei Ying peers up at him. Lan Zhan’s hand is still on his neck. “What?”
Lan Zhan’s throat feels unbearably dry, suddenly. “After your scenes.” Scenes. Multiple. This has been going on for weeks and Lan Zhan didn’t know. “Are they - do they-” Take care of you the way they should. Tell you how good you are. Cherish you. “-provide adequate care?”
Wei Ying shakes off his hand then and sits up, waving his fingers vaguely. It’s the same hand with the - oh, Lan Zhan thinks at the sudden realization - with the handcuff marks. “Ah, I don’t need any of that.”
Lan Zhan’s brain, which has been running a hundred miles a minute, slams to a stop. “What?” His uncle would chide him for such a useless remark; Lan Zhan could not care less.
Wei Ying is still waving it off. “I’m fine, really, I don’t need someone to coddle me. I’m not a child.”
Lan Zhan thinks, with sudden clarity, of all of Wei Ying’s silences and he aches.
And then he’s angry.
“Who is it?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“Who has been treating you this way?”
“Lan Zhan, I told you, I like it. It’s not like I’m being abused.”
“But you-” he starts, then stops, swallows down the rage that threatens to eat him whole. Somewhere out there is a dom who is flouting their responsibility to provide aftercare. It’s irresponsible, and worse, dangerous. Who knows how many others they’ve left like this, quiet and empty. That is why he is angry, Lan Zhan tells himself. Because this person is a danger to the community as a whole, not just Wei Ying. (He’s certainly not angry at himself, not furious that it took so long to realize, that he could have been helping Wei Ying the whole time if only he’d-)
But Wei Ying is staring at him with wide eyes. Lan Zhan’s anger is not helpful here.
He stills the clamor in his heart and sips at his tea. The ginger is strong; he feels its warmth spread all the way down his chest and clear away the panic into something manageable, something actionable. “Next time,” he says, “Come to me. After.”
Wei Ying’s mouth drops open. “I - Lan Zhan - no, I don’t want to bother you like that.”
“Wei Ying is never a bother.” Lan Zhan will remind him as many times as it takes.
“I told you, I don’t need-”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says - a quiet command. “Next time, come to me.”
He holds Wei Ying’s gaze until finally, finally, he nods. “Okay,” he agrees, soft and small. “Okay. I’ll come to you.”
*
Lan Zhan likes to be prepared. The next day, he stops at the market after his last office hours and picks up supplies. A heating pad, latiao, the red gatorade flavor that Lan Zhan hates and Wei Ying adores. There is a fully stocked first aid kit in their bathroom; he buys a second one anyways.
When he gets home, he puts each item away, makes sure everything is tidy but easily accessible. He rights the soft throw blanket on the couch, lights a candle. Waits.
When Wei Ying comes home, he is talking on the phone with someone. Likely his brother, given the volume of the conversation and the crass insult he hurls before he hangs up. (Their relationship is - and likely always will be - mystifying to Lan Zhan.) Wei Ying slips his phone into his pocket and kicks his boots off in the vague direction of the shoe rack. “I hope you’re hungry, I got takeout!” he shouts as he hip checks the front door closed, then turns around and sees Lan Zhan. “Oh! You’re right there.” He laughs a little, then holds up the brown paper bag with a flourish.
A knot Lan Zhan did not realize had tied itself up in his stomach releases, and he breathes out. Wei Ying is home. Wei Ying is okay.
“Were you waiting up for me?” Wei Ying asks as he sets plastic containers out on the coffee table.
“Mn,” Lan Zhan says because it seems better than I am always.
Wei Ying stretches out along the floor and fiddles with the remote to cast some variety show onto the television. Lan Zhan portions out dry fried beans and oil noodles on a plate for him, then puts chopsticks in his hands before he can even look for them.
“You don’t have to take care of me all the time, you know,” Wei Ying says over a mouthful of noodles - it’s the tone Lan Zhan has learned is carefully casual.
I’d like to feels too much to admit. “I know,” he says instead, and pretends not to notice when Wei Ying spends their meal watching him instead of the television.
*
It is not that Lan Zhan forgets their arrangement so much as he has to forcibly put it out of his mind so he doesn’t go mad with it. The thought of Wei Ying hurting, the thought of Wei Ying being too scared to share this part of himself, the thought of Wei Ying on his knees for another person, trussed up and trusting and -
So he puts it out of his mind. He very intentionally does not think about what he’s asked of Wei Ying, when Wei Ying might come to call on him. Days pass, and it gets easier. Wei Ying doesn’t go out at all the next weekend; they spend it together on the couch, Lan Zhan working on his dissertation and Wei Ying on his latest coding project, tea and a basket of mantou split between them.
It is so easy being with Wei Ying like this. Lan Zhan will not be so selfish as to want more. He falls back into routine. He rises early, starts the coffee maker for Wei Ying before he leaves. He comes home, cooks dinner - always an extra portion. He tells Wei Ying he has never adjusted to cooking for one since Lan Xichen moved out; it is not a lie, it’s just that he hasn’t bothered to try. At some point, Wei Ying will arrive home, always late, and fill the apartment with chatter about his day, or the latest bug he’s been tasked with fixing, or a cute baby he saw on the train home. Lan Zhan will listen as he grades paper, or does his evening yoga, or applies his nightly skincare. Sometimes Wei Ying will swoop in to steal his lotion or tease him for his expensive eye cream. (“It’s just moisturizer in a bottle half the size for twice the price,” Wei Ying tells him. Lan Zhan looks at the dark circles under Wei Ying’s eyes and privately thinks he is in no position to be criticizing Lan Zhan’s skincare.)
Days pass like this, and it is nice.
This night is no different. Lan Zhan is at his desk, the latest batch of student compositions spread before him. He does not see Wei Ying so much as sense him, his body always waiting, attuned to his presence.
When Lan Zhan looks up, Wei Ying is standing silent in the doorway, fingers playing with the hair tie around his wrist.
“You told me,” Wei Ying begins, voice uncertain. “You said…”
Lan Zhan waits, careful to keep his body language open and attentive.
“You said I should come to you next time.”
Understanding dawns. Lan Zhan stands, work forgotten. “Thank you,” he says, and it is that of all things that makes Wei Ying blush. “I am glad you have.”
Wei Ying is holding himself very small and very still, like he might disappear if Lan Zhan moves too quickly. “May I touch you?” he asks.
Wei Ying waves a hand. There are fresh marks around his wrist. “Ah, Lan Zhan, you don’t have to.”
“May I?” he repeats. If Wei Ying doesn’t want him to, if touch is too much right now, he won’t. He suspects, however, that it is something else driving his reticence.
Wei Ying folds, a house of cards that’s been supporting itself for too long under unlikely circumstances. “Okay.”
Lan Zhan wraps a careful hand around his wrist and draws him close. Like this, Wei Ying fits so perfectly in the crook of his neck. He holds him there, light and easy. “You did well.”
Wei Ying shivers in his arms. “Lan Zhan,” he protests, “you don’t like to touch people.”
“I do not mind it when it is Wei Ying.” He raises his other hand to pet gently at the baby hairs that have come loose from Wei Ying’s ponytail. If it’s more tender than he usually is, no one needs to know but him.
It is quiet between them, Lan Zhan holding Wei Ying, Wei Ying letting himself be held. This touch is new and terrifying, a responsibility Lan Zhan is grateful to be trusted with. But the longer he stands there, Wei Ying safe in his arms, the more right it feels.
This touch is new, but it’s not so different from how they spend a normal week, perhaps. Sunday on the couch, Wei Ying shoving his cold feet in Lan Zhan’s lap while he scrolls through Weibo; cooking together, the same closeness of Wei Ying’s chin hooked over Lan Zhan’s shoulder while he teases him for his fear of spice; Wei Ying grabbing his wrist to drag him over the the latest installation at the museum, the touch of his palm sparking life into Lan Zhan’s body; Wei Ying’s head warm on his shoulder when he falls asleep on the train. A hundred small touches that all add up to Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei Ying.
Lan Zhan holds him until the tension eases from both their bodies.
He’s lulled by his own comfort and the soft weight of Wei Ying against his chest. He rests a hand at the dip of Wei Ying’s spine, and Wei Ying jolts away with a hiss. “Sorry,” he says a second later, as if he’s the one who has hurt Lan Zhan.
Lan Zhan frowns and moves his hand up Wei Ying’s back, watching the way he bites his lip and grimaces but keeps carefully still.
“Let me see?” he asks. If circumstances were different, he might fix Wei Ying with a stare and say show me in a voice that was kind yet absolute. But circumstances are not different; Wei Ying is not his to command. So instead it’s like this, Lan Zhan gentle and slow as he peels away Wei Ying’s layers.
Wei Ying’s body is wrapped in rope marks, soft indents that weave around his ribs and down his back in an intricate harness. The spot Lan Zhan touched is red, rubbed raw like Wei Ying had struggled against his restraints.
In the silence, Wei Ying huffs a laugh. “I guess you can tell I wasn’t very good, huh?”
“Wei Ying is always good,” he says, like he knows anything at all about this part of Wei Ying. Still, he thinks Wei Ying needs to hear it. Lan Zhan bites his lip. “You enjoyed it, though?” he asks. He has to make sure.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, you know I never do anything I don’t want to do.”
Lan Zhan hums. Wei Ying will never do something he does not want to do, but he is incredibly good at tricking himself into wanting the things he thinks he ought to do. “Does it hurt when I am not touching it?” he asks instead.
Wei Ying shrugs, then stops and sucks in a sharp breath. “Sorry, just - sore.”
Lan Zhan takes him by the elbow and guides him out of his room.
“Lan Zhan?” he asks, “If you want me to go you can just ask.” There’s laughter in his tone, but Lan Zhan knows him too well, catches the unspoken anxiety under it.
Lan Zhan brings him to the bathroom and sits him on the closed lid of the toilet, careful not to jostle his back. He leaves one hand on Wei Ying’s knees, a warm tether, while he leans over the tub to begin drawing water for a bath.
“Is that - for me?” Wei Ying asks.
“Mn.”
“Lan Zhan, I can just shower.”
“You could,” Lan Zhan agrees, dipping a finger under the faucet to test the temperature.
There are epsom salts under the sink, bubble mix Wei Ying bought for when he babysits A-Yuan, a vial of Lan Zhan’s own sandalwood oil. Wei Ying watches quietly as Lan Zhan pours each ingredient in, swirls the water to mix it well. It’s a slow process made slower with only one hand, but that is alright. Lan Zhan has the patience for it.
Steam fills the room, carrying the smell of sandalwood with it. Perched on the toilet, Wei Ying looks like he’s fighting sleep. That is alright, too.
Lan Zhan works off each of his socks - mismatched, of course - and rolls them up to go in the laundry hamper later. He had already removed Wei Ying’s shirt earlier. All that’s left are his pants and underwear. Wei Ying has precious little modesty most of the time, but this is not most of the time. Lan Zhan does not want to take liberties he has not earned.
“Would you like to undress yourself?” he asks.
There is a long moment of silence, Wei Ying blinking his eyes open, before he nods. Lan Zhan turns to give him privacy even as his ears strain to catch the sound of a button being undone, jeans being pulled down. He hears the sound of clothing hitting the ground. The water in the tub sloshes and then there’s a sharp hiss.
Lan Zhan turns before he can think about it, catching Wei Ying in his arms. “Too hot?”
Wei Ying shakes his head. “Surprised.”
He has one foot in the tub and one set firmly on the tile floor. He is very naked.
Lan Zhan keeps his gaze very intently on the little mole beneath Wei Ying’s lower lip as he helps him into the tub. He thinks this is a safe place to look. He is wrong. Wei Ying’s mole turns into Wei Ying’s mouth, turns into Wei Ying’s lips, redder than usual, a little chapped, with a dark mark where they’ve been bitten through.
Lan Zhan feels his ears heat, even as Wei Ying slips beneath the safe cover of the bubbles. He is about to leave when a hand tugs at his leg.
Wei Ying is peering at him from a mountain of bubbles. His voice comes slow, like honey. “Where are you...?”
“You should drink something,” Lan Zhan says. The water is hot; Wei Ying should not soak too long if he has not hydrated properly. “I am going to get you a drink from the kitchen.”
Wei Ying stares at his fingers where they are clenched in the fabric of Lan Zhan’s pants and slowly uncurls them.
Lan Zhan hesitates. “Wei Ying, will you be okay?”
Wei Ying sinks under the bubbles to avoid having to answer, which is not very comforting. Lan Zhan crouches down to meet him at his eye level where he peeks above the water. “I will be quick. Please wait for me.”
Wei Ying nods, sending little ripples through the bath.
It is barely twenty feet from bathtub to kitchen, but it feels like a marathon. It is worth it for the smile Wei Ying gives him when he returns, bottle of garish red gatorade in hand. Lan Zhan’s stomach swoops at the sight.
For a while, they sit together in silence, Wei Ying sipping at the gatorade and Lan Zhan quiet by his side. Wei Ying’s face is flushed from the steam of the bath, bubbles clinging to his shoulders and the sides of his neck. Lan Zhan has to avert his eyes so he doesn’t do something foolish like lean in to kiss them away.
By the time Wei Ying has finished the bottle, the bath water has cooled and his fingers have gone pruny. Lan Zhan is prepared to coax him out with promises of warm blankets and litiao, but in the end, he goes easily, letting Lan Zhan wrap him in a towel and drain the tub.
“Lan Zhan takes such good care of me,” he says in an unusually quiet voice, fingers toying with the soft edge of the towel. Satisfaction curls up Lan Zhan’s spine at the words.
“Wei Ying deserves it.” Lan Zhan knows his ears are red; he’d blame it on the heat of the steam if anyone asked. Wei Ying doesn’t tease him for it though, just watches his hands as he opens the cabinet to pull out the arnica gel.
Lan Zhan wants to take him back to his room, lie him down on his bed, watch him fall asleep there.
He guides Wei Ying to the living room instead. The living room is neutral. The living room is safe. The living room has not borne witness to the nights he’s come with his face buried in the pillow and Wei Ying’s name on his lips.
Except - Lan Zhan can’t look anywhere in the living without remembering a hundred odd times Wei Ying has nuzzled up close to him, or shoved his toes under Lan Zhan’s thigh to keep warm, or leaned over to steal food straight off his plate.
Perhaps it is foolish to think anywhere could be safe when it comes to his feelings for Wei Ying.
Wei Ying sits on the couch with the towel bunched around his waist and a blanket spread across his lap. Lan Zhan had not had pajamas for him, and when he’d thought to search for some, Wei Ying’s fingers had caught on his sleeve, that odd look back in his eyes. So he’s naked on the couch they share most weekends. That’s fine. Lan Zhan is fine. He uncaps the arnica gel and thinks about how fine it is.
“‘s quiet,” Wei Ying says, face half slumped into the cushion.
Usually Wei Ying is the one to fill their silences; Lan Zhan feels suddenly and hopelessly inadequate. “I can play music,” he offers, pulling up his phone to find a playlist Wei Ying will like.
Wei Ying reaches a hand back and pats at him dismissively. “Sing.”
Lan Zhan’s breath catches in his throat, but he nods. Wei Ying asks for so little, even less when it matters, and this is something Lan Zhan can do. He begins to hum, a soft song he’s been holding inside for years but never dared to name.
The bath has left Wei Ying's skin soft and supple, still pink from the warmth of the water. The rope marks that are left will fade in their own time. Lan Zhan hums as he works, smoothing arnica gel over each winding path with as light a touch as he can manage. He frowns when his calluses catch on a raised bruise, but Wei Ying is quiet, no hiss or wince to show it hurts.
When Lan Zhan is done and his song has ended, the room is quiet, just the thudding of his heart and Wei Ying’s even breathing.
“Wei Ying?”
He’s asleep.
Lan Zhan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Wei Ying’s face is lax in sleep, the tension he’d been carrying earlier today - earlier this week, this month, since he came back from Yiling - melted away. He looks soft. He looks safe.
Lan Zhan loves him.
He gathers him in his arms with all the care he can muster, hopes it is as much care as Wei Ying deserves. The walk to Wei Ying’s bedroom is too short; Lan Zhan wishes he could hold him longer. But this is good too, laying him down and drawing up the covers, petting the hair out of his face one last time. If this is all Lan Zhan ever gets, it will be enough.
When he stands to go, Wei Ying’s eyes are staring up at him. He sucks in a breath at the intensity of his gaze, feels like he’s the one who’s been laid bare. He tries not to look too much like a lovestruck fool when speaks. “Good night, Wei Ying. Sleep well.”
Wei Ying’s hand catches him around the wrist. He seems as shocked as Lan Zhan by the gesture. He huffs out a quiet laugh a moment later, tries to turn it into a joke. “Aha, was I good for you, Lan Zhan?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Wei Ying says, the tiniest sound. He pulls his hand back and cradles it to his chest, like if he hides it away Lan Zhan will forget the way it reached for him.
“Wei Ying. You are always good,” Lan Zhan says. He’ll repeat it as many times as Wei Ying needs to hear it.
Wei Ying hides his face in his pillow, and that’s - Lan Zhan needs to see him, needs to feel him, needs to know that he’s okay. That this was okay. Lan Zhan slowly draws his hand back out, twines their fingers together until he feels the reassuring thrum of Wei Ying’s pulse against his own.
“Was I good for Wei Ying?” he asks.
Wei Ying’s head snaps to stare at him. Lan Zhan squeezes his hand.
“You were good,” Wei Ying says. His voice is unbearably small, like that night in the kitchen. “I’m fine, you can go now.”
Wei Ying deserves more than fine. Some day Lan Zhan will convince him of it. “Is that what you want?”
Wei Ying sucks in a quiet breath, his fingers going tight around Lan Zhan’s. Lan Zhan holds his gaze as he brings their clasped palms up press a kiss against Wei Ying’s knuckles. “You are allowed to want things, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying stares at their joined hands, eyes wet, lip bitten against all the things he never asks for. “Will you stay?”
“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. He’ll stay forever, if Wei Ying will let him. Perhaps tonight is a start.