Rating:

Teen

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

MDZS/CQL

Relationship:

Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian

Tags:

acts of service, college/university, mdzs kinkmeme, schmoop, sickfic

Stats:

Posted on:

2020-10-05

Words:

10,181

Lan Zhan’s life decidedly takes a turn for the worse on the first day of his Modern Philosophy class.

Well, perhaps that’s being a bit overdramatic. What else is he supposed to think after two years (and one day) of relative collegial solitude, not bothering to interact with the morons as long as they don’t interact with him (which they don’t)?

But today, twenty minutes into the lecture, a boy slides into the seat next to him, leans over, and whispers, “Hi! I’m Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t even spare him a glance. Out of the corner of his eye, he is very aware that Wei Ying is wearing a bright red hoodie, and seems to be grinning at him.

Wei Ying gives him a moment, and then asks, as if his introduction didn’t prompt it, “What’s your name?”

Lan Zhan says nothing.

This doesn’t deter Wei Ying, though. He says, “You don’t offer it freely, huh? Well I guess I’ll have to earn it. Or figure it out myself.”

Lan Zhan has his laptop in front of him. Their professor has been on a tangent for the past five minutes, so most students have been listening on with amusement, or dawdling on their phones. Lan Zhan only ever takes diligent notes during lectures, but right now he opens up a new document and types in it.

Do not talk during lecture. We are here to learn.

As he predicts, Wei Ying leans over with curiosity—he hadn’t even bothered following the unspoken rule of sitting a seat away from a stranger during a lecture, space provided. Lan Zhan does not look at him as Wei Ying very obviously looks over to read the screen.

“Ah—you wrote that just to get my attention? I’m embarrassed.” Wei Ying certainly doesn’t sound embarrassed. “Alright, I’ll shut up, since you asked so nicely. But wait for me at the end of the lecture, okay?”

As soon as the lecture is over, Lan Zhan hightails it out of there without a second glance.

*

Lan Zhan is content with how his days go, as solitary—and admittedly boring—as they can be. He has a one-bedroom apartment slightly off-campus and funded by his family, as he has no part time job; Uncle refuses to let him hold such a menial and low-wage position, as much as Lan Zhan wouldn’t mind. He wakes early and spends all day on campus, until his classes end and he can walk back home. He has classmates he has met up with for projects, but no real friends—although, even if Lan Zhan wanted to, he would have no idea how he would remedy that, anyway. His former classmates take up space in his phone’s contact list, and he’s sure that when he graduates he’ll get around to deleting them.

No one tries to talk to him outside of necessity, and he doesn’t try to talk to anyone outside of necessity. Which is why, the next day, at his first Modern Philosophy recitation, he doesn’t expect it when someone slides into the seat next to him and says, “Oh hey, we’re in the same recitation too!”

Lan Zhan turns to look, even though he doesn’t need to. Wei Ying’s voice is unerringly bright and unmistakable. He’s also wearing the exact same red hoodie as yesterday, which makes Lan Zhan greatly skeptical of his personal hygiene.

Wei Ying says, “I don’t suppose you remember me? I’m Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan highly doubts that anyone Wei Ying has ever introduced himself to has forgotten him.

“Will you tell me your name today?” Wei Ying asks.

Lan Zhan turns to face the front again.

“Ah, well, no matter.” Wei Ying crosses his arms behind his head and leans back in his seat. “I think I’ll find out today, anyway.”

Recitation begins then, and Lan Zhan realizes Wei Ying’s right. The TA calls all of their names for attendance, and when he does his best to pronounce Lan Zhan’s name, Lan Zhan replies, “Here.” Wei Ying’s eyes sparkle excitedly at him, which he pretends not to notice. He also pretends not to notice the weird feeling in his stomach when Wei Ying murmurs Lan Zhan, like he’s trying it out for himself.

During the rest of class, Lan Zhan is continually surprised at how avidly Wei Ying is participating. He’d thought that since Wei Ying arrived at their lecture so late yesterday, and whispered during it like he didn’t have a care in the world, perhaps the class meant nothing to him. But Wei Ying pays rapt attention, raises his hand more than once, and admittedly dominates the class discussion, but not in the know-it-all way Lan Zhan has seen some white male students do. What Wei Ying says is genuinely interesting (particularly when he starts a friendly debate with another student on the intrinsic nature of morality), and Lan Zhan tries very, very hard not to be interested in what he’s saying.

When the class is over, he can’t even bring himself to escape with the same speed as he had yesterday’s lecture. Wei Ying joins him out the door, although he really bounces more than walks.

“Well, that was an interesting class, wasn’t it?” Wei Ying laughs, and scratches the back of his head. “Although I definitely talked too much… but Jiang Cheng says that all the time, so I can’t let him know he’s right.”

Lan Zhan makes his way down the stairwell. Wei Ying follows him.

“But I bet Lan Zhan already thinks I talk too much too, huh?” Wei Ying sounds more teasing than anything. “Maybe Lan Zhan just doesn’t talk enough. I’ve barely heard you say anything! Won’t you grace my ears with your lovely voice?”

With an appropriate amount of irony, Lan Zhan says, “No.”

Wei Ying laughs. “You’re funny, Lan Zhan,” he says. “Hey, what major are you? Something interesting, I bet, to be taking Modern Philosophy. I don’t think it covers any of our gen eds…”

Lan Zhan doesn’t answer after the beat where he’s supposed to. Wei Ying barrels on. “Me, well, I’m a Politics, Philosophy, and Economics major. I was thinking about doing business because it’s more mainstream, but my brother got into the business school here too and he can’t have any competition. I find PPE more interesting, anyway.”

They’ve made their way outside the building; Lan Zhan hasn’t looked at Wei Ying once. Wei Ying is unbothered.

“Well, I have a music theory class now,” he says (which is confusing, because what does music theory have to do with PPE?) “How about you? Which way are you going?”

Lan Zhan disregards him, and then goes in the direction of the library. He’s already planned out his days; today he will eat his packed lunch in the library café, before doing some reading until his next class in an hour and a half. Wei Ying follows him, and for one tentative—horrible—moment, Lan Zhan thinks that Wei Ying is going to join him.

“Well, you technically answered my question,” Wei Ying says brightly. “The music school’s the other way though, so I’ll see you around! Or until, like, next lecture.”

He stops. Lan Zhan continues without him.

Halfway down the sidewalk, Wei Ying’s voice bellows, “BYE, LAN ZHAN!”

Lan Zhan’s ears burn, and he resolutely does not turn around, even as the passing students glance at him and whisper among themselves. He continues on with his day, his—whatever—with Wei Ying inconsequential.

But not necessarily out of his mind.

*

Throughout his life, Lan Zhan has been very aware that he is not interesting. In fact, he would not be surprised if former classmates and acquaintances consider him boring. His face is not easily schooled into many different expressions. He never speaks excessively. He has relatively normal interests, like classical music and volunteering at the local pet shelter. (His uncle doesn’t know about this because he refuses to let them pay him, so he’s not even lying by omission.)

So he really doesn’t understand it when Wei Ying sits next to him in their lecture on Thursday. Why on Saturday, when Lan Zhan is in the middle of Chinatown to pick up groceries, Wei Ying is surrounded by a group of his friends and still yells Lan Zhan’s name across the block.

Why on Tuesday, Wei Ying slips into the seat next to him in the lecture again.

Lan Zhan clenches his jaw, but says nothing. At least Wei Ying’s been on time or a couple of minutes early recently, unlike the first lecture where he missed nearly half of it.

Wei Ying beams at him. Lan Zhan doesn’t even look at him.

“How was your weekend, Lan Zhan? I saw you in Chinatown and said hi, did you hear me?”

Lan Zhan wants to remain resolutely silent, but cannot stop the, “Mn,” that makes its way out of his throat. He’s pretty sure that entire block heard Wei Ying.

“Oh! You said something.” Wei Ying sounds delighted. “Or I guess, made a sound. I think I’m making progress with becoming your friend, then.”

Lan Zhan feels like he’s on the receiving end of a very bad joke. “Why?” he can’t help himself from uttering.

Surprised at Lan Zhan saying an actual word, Wei Ying opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again—kind of like a fish. “Why what?” he says. “Why do I want to be your friend?”

Lan Zhan levels a stare at him.

Unfortunately, that’s when their professor calls their attention and begins the lecture. Lan Zhan is grateful—in honesty, he’s not sure if he actually wants to know Wei Ying’s answer to his question. He opens up his laptop and begins taking notes.

Wei Ying has never brought a laptop in, but he’s occasionally brought in notebooks, as he has done today. Or something he’s writing on, in any case; Lan Zhan thinks Wei Ying should take notes, since with the way he rambles so much, Lan Zhan would be surprised if anything was able to stick in his head for very long.

In fact, Wei Ying is so concentrated on what must be his notes that Lan Zhan is almost proud of him. Wei Ying looks up every so often that, even though Lan Zhan refuses to look directly at him, he’s sure that Wei Ying is transfixed on their professor.

Then he hears a rip, and Wei Ying is sliding a piece of paper over to him.

He was not working in a notebook—he was drawing in a sketchbook. Moreover, he’s drawn a ridiculously detailed sketch of Lan Zhan, poised over his laptop.

The lecture isn’t even over yet.

“Well?” Wei Ying whispers. Lan Zhan can hear the smile in his voice. “Do you like it?’

Lan Zhan may or may not deliberately shift his laptop so the piece of paper slips from his mini table and onto the floor.

Wei Ying picks it up. Lan Zhan glances out of the corner of his eye to see that Wei Ying is pouting. “Aw, well, I thought it was quite good! But maybe you know that drawings can’t compare to the beauty of the real thing.”

Lan Zhan’s ears turn hot.

“Well, it’s for you anyway,” Wei Ying whispers cheerfully. “I don’t care if you don’t want it, because I can always draw Lan Zhan again. But can you at least pretend to keep it until it’s out of my sight?”

His tone is light, but Lan Zhan knows that he won’t throw the sketch away; if Wei Ying hadn’t asked, he would’ve discreetly picked it up later to put in his bag. But now he politely slides it under his laptop.

Wei Ying beams. “Thank you!”

He doesn’t say anything afterward, so Lan Zhan turns his attention back to the lecture. Absently he wonders what he would capture if he could draw Wei Ying himself. His knobby knees under his basketball shorts. His tight graphic tees or red hoodies, a juxtaposition between showing too much and not enough. His bright smile, framed by his messy hair.

He realizes that he’s spent too much time not taking notes—that he completely spaced out, wrapped up in thoughts of Wei Ying. Internally cursing himself, he tunes back in to the professor, ignoring the happy presence of Wei Ying, of his heat next to Lan Zhan.

*

So for what could’ve been a momentary lapse of sanity—although one of his own or Wei Ying’s, Lan Zhan can’t tell—seems to be the beginning of at least a semester-long attempt at a friendship. Wei Ying always sits next to him in recitation. Wei Ying always finds him in the gigantic lecture hall, even if a couple of times their usual seats are taken and Lan Zhan watches Wei Ying loiter in the aisle for ten minutes looking for him until he does, eagerly making his way to the (always empty) seat next to him. Wei Ying always calls his name loudly when they run into each outside class, like at Kinokuniya or a sushi restaurant or (to Lan Zhan’s dismay, but also surprise) the university library.

Lan Zhan is pretty sure he is not visibly encouraging Wei Ying. In any manner. In fact, when Wei Ying had approached him in the library, Lan Zhan had muttered, “Piss off,” and heard a huff of laughter before Wei Ying had left. If Wei Ying were anyone else, they would’ve given up on talking to him by now.

But Wei Ying is not anyone else.

Wei Ying has also changed tactics. He seems to have decided that he and Lan Zhan have bypassed the simplistic small talk that usually comes with making new friends. Wei Ying, on his own, has begun oversharing.

Autumn has swept in and the sidewalks are packed with colorful new leaves in their new home. It’s too early in the morning for campus services to have cleaned them off the pathways yet, so Lan Zhan’s buried up to his ankles in the brown and red clutter as he gets dropped off by the campus shuttle.

He’s only started heading towards the English and Philosophy building when the sound of rustling leaves and light-footed running bumbles behind him.

“Lan Zhan! Hi,” Wei Ying greets, catching his breath. A black hoodie hangs off his shoulders, and (criminally) tight jeans clings to his thighs. The red ribbon tying his hair back breezes in his face. “I saw you get off the shuttle. You live off campus? I’m surprised you don’t have a car. Someone as refined as you taking public transportation…”

“It is more affordable,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying’s mouth quirks, like he’s surprised that Lan Zhan actually can speak full sentences.

“Well, that makes sense,” Wei Ying says. “Practical does sound like you.” He sighs. “I suppose Lan Zhan has his own place off-campus, then? Lucky. I don’t live in the dorms anymore either, but when I talked to my mom about wanting to live in an off-campus apartment, she said that she wouldn’t pay for it. So now I just live in on-campus apartments! Which is fine. It’s more affordable, so Dad persuaded her to help pay for it. Which I don’t think she was happy about.”

He looks at Lan Zhan, then. Lan Zhan’s face is carefully blank, although he is wondering what kind of parent you would have to be to not want your child to have a roof over their head.

Wei Ying chuckles to himself. “I wish I could tell what you were thinking. But if you were wondering, I’m adopted, so it’s kind of understandable—”

“No,” Lan Zhan interrupts.

Wei Ying looks at him with some surprise. “No?”

Lan Zhan flushes deeply. He’s not even—he’s not that ashamed for seeing Wei Ying’s value, after several weeks of being pestered by him. But it’s something else to vocalize it, to let Wei Ying know.

Wei Ying lets it go, at least. “Anyway, I’m not too worried about money. Right now, anyway. And when I get my degree, I know there’s a bunch of stuff I could do with PPE. Like, I could be really horrible and go for law. No offense, Lan Zhan,” he adds. “If you’re a law student.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. And then, decides to offer, “Public Services.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a Public Services major.”

Wei Ying positively lights up at this—at Lan Zhan talking about himself. “I wonder what you can do with that,” he says. “That sounds fun! We’ll both get flexible degrees and then try to do something useful.” He laughs.

They walk into the English and Philosophy building, Wei Ying switching tack and wondering out loud if he should eat in the dining hall for lunch. In class, the TA passes around a worksheet for them to do with a partner in class, and Wei Ying smiles at Lan Zhan before he even asks if he wants to be his partner.

Lan Zhan wouldn’t have been able to say no, anyway.

*

It is in the third week of October when Wei Ying doesn’t show up for class.

He’s certainly been late before, at this point, even if it’s only been once or twice since the first lecture. And usually it’s just a few minutes in, looking abashed as he slips into the seat next to Lan Zhan. But he always shows up.

He’s not in the lecture and Lan Zhan wonders. (He does not worry.) Then the next day, Wei Ying doesn’t appear in recitation, either. Lan Zhan tries to remember if something Wei Ying said slipped his mind, like being out of town for the week or having a prior engagement. It’s possible that Wei Ying could have simply not told him, but Lan Zhan doubts it. (And maybe doesn’t want to entertain the thought of Wei Ying not telling him.)

He’s headed to the library after recitation, deliberating over what to do. The faint but audible sound of someone protesting, “Jiang Cheng!” catches his ears. He turns in the direction of the voice, in the despairingly loud lobby of the library.

There are two boys hanging around the café. They look familiar, like Lan Zhan might’ve caught a glimpse of them hanging out with Wei Ying before. And Lan Zhan’s heard enough stories from Wei Ying to know that Jiang Cheng is his brother, so he must know what happened with Wei Ying. Stopping his usual journey to the quieter levels of the building, Lan Zhan makes his way over.

The boys seem to be disagreeing about something. “He’ll live,” says the one who looks like he came out of the womb scowling. “How is this going to help, anyway?”

“He sounded pretty bad over the phone,” says the other boy, who’s holding what seems to be an art portfolio bag. “But I do want Lunchables…”

“What are you, five?” the scowling boy snorts.

Lan Zhan approaches. He’s not sure which one is Jiang Cheng. “Excuse me, do you know Wei Ying by any chance?”

The two turn to him. The scowling one looks him up and down, then there’s a light of recognition in his eyes, even though Lan Zhan doesn’t think they’ve ever formally met.

“Who wants to know?” the Scowler asks.

The other whispers, “Isn’t this—”

“Shh!”

Bemused, Lan Zhan says, “My name is Lan Zhan. Wei Ying hasn’t shown up in class for a few days now. I was wondering if you could get some class notes to him.”

The two boys whisper to each other. Lan Zhan doesn’t have any idea what they need to be whispering about.

Then the scowling one says, “My brilliant brother got himself the flu, of all things.” So he must be Jiang Cheng. “But yeah, if you want to give him his homework, go for it. In fact, you can give him his ibuprofen too.” He shoves a bottle of pills he’s been holding into Lan Zhan’s hand.

Lan Zhan blinks. He’d mostly been hoping that they could get the notes to Wei Ying, along with the answer as to where he’s been. But to deliver them himself—?

“Where does he live?” he asks.

Jiang Cheng gives him Wei Ying’s address unfalteringly, although the boy with the art bag wavers all the while. After Lan Zhan has typed the address and building code into his phone, he thanks them before heading off.

As he leaves, he hears the boys arguing again.

“It’s not like I gave him the spare key!” says Jiang Cheng’s loud voice. “Plus, Wei Ying’s not gonna compl—”

Lan Zhan pushes the library doors open, the late autumn wind rushing in his ears. He grips the ibuprofen in his hand, wondering how bad Wei Ying’s flu must be for him to miss class two days in a row.

*

It’s pretty bad.

“Calm down, Jiang Cheng,” says Wei Ying’s sleepy voice, as he opens the door after Lan Zhan’s frantic knocks.

His eyes widen when he sees Lan Zhan. “You’re not Jiang Cheng.”

Wei Ying is cocooned in at least two large blankets, hanging loosely from his body in the doorway. His hair is mussed as if he’d just gotten out of bed, and there’s a bit of dry drool on his chin. His eyes are puffy with sleep despite his surprise, his voice scratchy, and he’s wearing an oversized black hoodie (a different one that Lan Zhan hasn’t seen before) and red fleece pajamas.

“You missed class two days in a row,” Lan Zhan says, stepping inside. Ordinarily he would’ve waited for Wei Ying to invite him in, but Wei Ying seems to still be processing the situation.

Belatedly, Wei Ying says, “I was sleeping.” He closes the door, coughs, and gets back into his bed. Lan Zhan sees that the on-campus apartments, or at least, Wei Ying’s, are set up as studio apartments, which makes it easier to see that Wei Ying has indeed spent the past two days in bed, judging by the pile of tissues on his nightstand and the wrinkles on his bedsheets.

Lan Zhan frowns. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Umm.” Wei Ying shuffles into bed. He coughs again and scratches his head. “I don’t know. I think I had a sandwich yesterday?”

Lan Zhan exhales through his nose. “Yesterday,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says. He’s rearranging his covers around him. “Or maybe the day before yesterday. I can’t remember.”

Decidedly not huffing, Lan Zhan goes to the side kitchen, which is despairingly sparse. All he finds in the fridge is expired milk and an egg carton with a single egg in it. The pantry holds one jar—albeit opened, and not yet expired—of laoganma.

“You have no food,” he says, going back into the main room.

The only reply is a soft snore. It had taken no time for Wei Ying to fall back asleep.

Pursing his lips, Lan Zhan looks at the ibuprofen in his hands. He should’ve made Wei Ying take this first, for at least his fever. He sets it down.

Lan Zhan cleans up the tissues on the nightstand, shoving them into a wastebasket before setting it by the door. Wei Ying’s door key is on the kitchen counter, so Lan Zhan places it in his pocket before going back to the nightstand. He takes out his printed lecture notes from his backpack and sets them down, taking note of the ancient laptop Wei Ying has on his desk, the charger so stubbornly plugged in that he doubts it functions as portable as it should.

Then, picking up the trash from earlier, he leaves.

*

By the time he returns, the sun has begun to rest: the apartment is awash in purple and orange, through Wei Ying’s curtainless windows. Lan Zhan has no idea how he’s still asleep, although he himself both wakes and rises while the sky is dark.

Wei Ying is not roused as Lan Zhan begins to put the groceries away; only when Lan Zhan has popped a water bottle open and is placing it on the nightstand does Wei Ying stir.

“Huh—Lan Zhan, you’re still here?” he mumbles. His voice is scratchier than before.

He shifts to sit up, but Lan Zhan gently pushes him back down. Wei Ying frowns and says, “What are you doing? Didn’t you bring this water for me to drink it?”

Lan Zhan hesitates, then nods.

Wei Ying sits up, then immediately spots the groceries sprawled all over the floor. “What—Lan Zhan!” he squawks. “Don’t tell me you spent all this money on me.”

Lan Zhan says nothing, but pushes the water bottle towards him.

Wei Ying drinks heartily for a brief moment. Then he goes back to gaping at the groceries.

“I’ll pay you back for whatever you bought, Lan Zhan, I swear.”

“No need,” Lan Zhan says.

“There’s some need,” Wei Ying insists.

“Wei Ying only needs to get better,” Lan Zhan murmurs.

Wei Ying doesn’t seem to have heard, as his eyes rake over each bag, getting bigger and bigger. “You bought so much too! How many trips did it take you to get all of it here?”

“One,” Lan Zhan answers.

“One?” Wei Ying’s gaze snaps to him, then rakes over his biceps. Lan Zhan pretends his cheeks aren’t warm. “With all of those groceries… hmm…”

“Drink more,” Lan Zhan says. “You can also take your medicine, but I bought Nyquil because I think it will be better for you.”

“Too thoughtful,” Wei Ying says from around the mouth of his water bottle. “Okay, I’ll take your Nyquil. I don’t even know what you’re supposed to take with the flu, anyway… didn’t you drop this off earlier?” He holds up the bottle of ibuprofen.

Lan Zhan resumes unpacking the groceries. He nods. “I ran into your brother in the library and he told me to give it to you.”

“Yeah, that was Huaisang’s idea,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully. “But I don’t think either of them know anything about the flu. I usually just tough my illnesses out.”

Wei Ying should not have to tough it out; he deserves to be treated well. Lan Zhan does not say this.

“Of course my brother made you do his dirty work too,” Wei Ying says with some amusement. “But hey, at least you know where I live now. And we can plan a lot of study d—studying. If you wanted to study with me.”

He laughs to himself at this. Lan Zhan comes to him with heated canned soup, which he usually does not condone.

“My home would be better for studying,” he says. “Eat.”

Wei Ying takes the bowl. “Are you actually agreeing to study with me?” He blows on the soup, and then takes a sip, not yet bothering with the spoon. “Ah, I love the taste of oversaturated preservatives.”

“I will cook the food I bought for you.”

“Ah! No, no, Lan Zhan, that’s not what I meant,” Wei Ying hastens to say, although whatever he’s inferring is not what Lan Zhan meant, either. “I really do love the quick and easy food. It’s all I can afford other than the shitty dining hall food, so I really enjoy this…”

“I will still cook the groceries I bought,” Lan Zhan says.

“You really don’t have to… how long are you planning on staying? I can—”

“You are too sick to cook,” Lan Zhan says pointedly. “I did not buy groceries for you to cook them.”

“But you have to go home,” Wei Ying says. “Don’t you have class tomorrow? You can’t stay here all night cooking for me.”

Lan Zhan feels warm under his collar. He hurries back to the kitchen.

He already missed his afternoon class going shopping for Wei Ying. Moreover, he had not planned on staying to cook all of the food he bought tonight; rather, he was going to stay and watch (and naturally, cook for) Wei Ying until he got better. He doesn’t think anyone else will, and he can still sleep and study in the meantime.

Half an hour later he comes out of the kitchen with a plate of tomato and egg scramble, and sliced boiled long squash. Wei Ying’s long since finished his soup and is on his phone, but he turns it off when Lan Zhan returns.

At the sight of the dishes in Lan Zhan’s hands, Wei Ying whines, “More food? I’m a sick boy, I can’t eat all of that.”

Lan Zhan sets the plates down on the nightstand, goes back into the kitchen, and comes out with two bowls of rice and chopsticks. Wei Ying’s mouth forms an O as he accepts the portion Lan Zhan gives him.

“I can’t believe Lan Zhan is sharing a meal with me,” he says happily despite his raspy voice. He picks up a slice of squash and puts it in his mouth. “But—mm—how tasteless! Can you get me the laoganma?”

“Not while Wei Ying is sick,” Lan Zhan says, pulling the chair from the desk and setting it by the bed. He sits in it. “Bad for your throat.”

Wei Ying pouts. “Fine. You’re lucky your food tastes good even when it’s tasteless.” He goes for the egg scramble. “Where did you learn to cook such good boring food?”

Lan Zhan ignores the boring part of the question; he would ignore it entirely, but since Wei Ying is bedridden, he figures he owes him something. “My brother and I are vegetarians,” he says. “He taught me how to cook.”

“Ah.” Wei Ying taps his mouth with his chopsticks. “And you don’t have an accent, so I guess you were raised here—but were you born here?”

Here means America, Lan Zhan knows—美国 (měiguó), his uncle would scoff in disgust. “Yes,” Lan Zhan says, recalling the stories of his parents escaping here, supposedly in love, until his mother his fallen ill, and then his father, shortly after. Until his uncle had come to this country reluctantly, knowing less English than both of his nephews, but stayed to raise them here at the wishes of his dead brother. As he’d gotten older, Lan Zhan is not sure if he believes that his parents were really in love, but never tries to think too much about it.

Wei Ying inclines his head, but does not probe more on the family front. (Lan Zhan does not think he would mind answering.) “Well, Lan Zhan’s brother is very talented then. He’s your older brother, right?” Lan Zhan nods. “Lan Zhan 弟弟(dìdi)…” Wei Ying giggles.

The back of Lan Zhan’s neck feels hot. “Eat your food,” he says, nudging the plate of squash toward Wei Ying. The egg scramble is almost gone, but the squash is suspiciously not even halfway done.

“Fine, fine,” Wei Ying says, and acquiesces.

When they’ve finished, Lan Zhan does the dishes. He washes the bowl from Wei Ying’s soup earlier as well. He grabs another water bottle for each of them, then pulls the chair he’d been sitting in back to Wei Ying’s desk. He reorganizes some of the clutter, piling stray receipts in a neat stack and placing them in a drawer. Aside from crumbs, he doesn’t throw anything away.

Wei Ying watches with interest. When Lan Zhan sits down and opens up his backpack, taking his laptop out, Wei Ying whines, “Hey, what are you doing? Aren’t you going to entertain me?”

“We have homework,” Lan Zhan says. “You said earlier that we can study together. I left you class notes on your nightstand.” He gestures.

“I didn’t mean now.” Wei Ying scrunches his nose. “But of course I should’ve realized… even when you’re taking care of me, you’re still so disciplined.”

As Lan Zhan begins his homework, he can feel Wei Ying’s eyes linger on him. After a moment, Wei Ying says, “Hey. What happened to cooking, then? Don’t tell me you plan on coming back here.”

Lan Zhan presses his teeth against his lip, almost imperceptibly.

Wei Ying makes a sound of delight. Before Lan Zhan can even think of saying anything, he crows, “You did! Were you planning on leaving at all, Lan Zhan?”

“You need to rest,” Lan Zhan replies. “But you also need to be taken care of.”

“No one’s ever taken care of me before,” Wei Ying says. “Hey, Lan Zhan, are you going to tuck me into bed, too?”

Lan Zhan eyes him. Then he’s out of his seat, at Wei Ying’s bedside, wrapping Wei Ying up like a burrito, bunching the blankets underneath his side. Wei Ying attempts to protest but Lan Zhan tucks him tight, under his chin and snug around his body. “I can barely move,” Wei Ying complains. “Lan Zhan, I was joking, I—how am I supposed to move now?”

Lan Zhan merely admires his handiwork before returning to his studies.

Wei Ying mutters, “So… tight… how am I supposed to even fall asleep?” but Lan Zhan pays him no mind. In a matter of time, Wei Ying’s mutterings have ceased, his breathing evened out, snoring lightly into his pillow.

*

Lan Zhan finishes his homework a little after ten o’clock, which is later than usual. He turns off his laptop and checks on Wei Ying, who has managed to stay asleep even when Lan Zhan had turned the overhead light on.

Lan Zhan nudges him awake. “Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying snuffles, tightening his eyelids before lazily opening them up. “Lan Zhan,” he says, voice strained. “Ah, you’re still here. I’m cold…”

“Take your Nyquil. Can you sit up?” Lan Zhan helps put Wei Ying in a sitting position on his bed, then opens the Nyquil and puts some in the packaged cup. Wei Ying manages to get the medicine in his mouth without spilling a drop, but scrunches his face.

“Blegh,” Wei Ying says. “I hate being sick, Lan Zhan… my throat is so sore… why do I talk so much?”

“Stop talking then,” Lan Zhan says.

He helps Wei Ying lie back down. “You don’t mean that,” Wei Ying says, in his half-asleep daze. “I know you’ll never admit it, Lan Zhan, but you like it when I talk…”

He’s asleep again in a matter of minutes. Lan Zhan helps himself to Wei Ying’s bathroom, changes into the sleep clothes he’d brought from his brief stop at his apartment, and then turns off the lights. After meditating enough so that he’s relaxed, he pulls out his blanket from his backpack, lays it on the ground, and goes to sleep.

*

He wakes up with a sore neck, but earlier than Wei Ying regardless. A stiff posture is not so much of a sacrifice. Lan Zhan does a modified version of his usual morning routine in Wei Ying’s apartment, switching out today’s clothes in his backpack for yesterday’s, which he’ll drop off later today while Wei Ying rests.

He’s making congee in the rice cooker when he hears a rustling from the main room. He waits until the congee is finished, then pours a bowl and brings it over to Wei Ying.

“Oh, that’s what I smelled,” Wei Ying mumbles. He’s sort of sitting up in bed, bleary-eyed and holding a tissue to his nose. “My sister makes congee for breakfast all the time… man, I miss her 油条 (yóutiáo)…”

“Wei Ying, eat,” says Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying bobs his head. “Yes, Lan Zhan,” he says, taking a slurp with his spoon. “哥哥 (gēge)… Zhan-哥(gē)…” He giggles to himself.

Lan Zhan’s cheeks flare, and he carefully does not observe his reaction to this. “How are you feeling?” he asks, instead.

“Mm.” Wei Ying seems to enjoy the congee, as plain as it is, but at Lan Zhan’s question he scowls a bit. “Still like shit. I think if I keep talking I’ll lose my voice.” It does sound rougher than yesterday, despite the Nyquil.

“Rest your throat,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying quirks an eyebrow at him. “Rest my throat, huh?” he says, but Lan Zhan does not falter, even if he belatedly recognizes his accidental innuendo. After a moment, Wei Ying gives up, muttering, “Unflappable,” eating the congee.

Lan Zhan joins him in breakfast, making Wei Ying take some ibuprofen halfway through. Afterwards, Lan Zhan does the dishes and tries not to think about how he enjoys doing this, caring for someone. Caring for Wei Ying.

When he returns, Wei Ying is lying back in bed, sleepy but not quite dozing off. “Are you going to your classes today, Lan Zhan?” he asks. “You really should, I’m sure your attendance is flawless, I wouldn’t want to ruin it…”

Even though Wei Ying is on the mark with that judgment, Lan Zhan says, “No, I will make lunch later. Did you drink your water?”

“I ate Lan Zhan’s congee,” is Wei Ying’s response.

Lan Zhan huffs and tries not to sound either put upon or fond. “Drink your water,” he says, thrusting it at Wei Ying.

“Fine, fine… if it makes you happy…” Wei Ying clumsily sits up again—or attempts to, but Lan Zhan helps right him up. He drinks a good amount of the water, and Lan Zhan definitely doesn’t watch the line of his neck as he swallows.

“There,” Wei Ying says. The bottle is half empty now. “Is Lan Zhan happy?”

“Yes.” Lan Zhan nods. “Go back to sleep.”

“Ugh, it’s like you don’t want me to have any fun,” Wei Ying complains, as if he is not laying himself down as he speaks. As if his eyes aren’t half open and he’s not tucking the blankets under his chin. “Lan Zhan, you’re the worst, making me go back to sleep, I can’t believe you…”

He drops off in the middle of his sentence.

It’s safe now that he’s asleep to feel fond, and affectionate, and any other squishy feeling. Lan Zhan doesn’t know if he wants to allow himself to, for his own sake.

*

He spends the rest of the morning cooking lunch. Wei Ying’s apartment is livable, but Lan Zhan wishes that the kitchen was bigger, the bedroom was separate, and that the refrigerator didn’t look like it was about to fall apart from overuse. The bathroom is also tiny and can barely fit one person; it’s a miracle that there’s a shower in there at all. Surely Wei Ying’s parents can afford to spend a little more money on him.

Not that that’s Lan Zhan’s concern.

He hears Wei Ying cough a bit in his sleep, toss and turn over but not wake up. Lan Zhan is done making a meal out of bean sprouts and stir fry okra (and more white rice) by eleven, so he studies again. He could cook more, but it’s Friday and he’ll have all weekend, if he needs to. Well, he knows he’ll end up cooking all the food he bought, because he’s pretty sure otherwise it’ll spoil, and he doesn’t want his money to go to waste. And if that means that Wei Ying will have enough food to simply warm up and eat for the next week, then, well. That’s good.

Wei Ying doesn’t wake up until closer to one in the afternoon, which is just as well because Lan Zhan would’ve woken him up at two otherwise. He hears it when Wei Ying’s breaths get louder for a moment, then softer.

Lan Zhan doesn’t look up from his book as Wei Ying makes a small, possibly cute noise as he rouses. He waits until Wei Ying actually sits up in bed, knuckling over his eyes, blinking in the golden light in the room.

“Every time I see Lan Zhan, he’s studying,” he says.

Lan Zhan hums and closes his book. “How was your nap?”

“I—oh, I did nap,” Wei Ying says. “It was fine, but I’m starving.”

Lan Zhan gets up and reheats the bean sprouts and okra. The rice has been kept warm in the rice cooker, so he scoops out two bowls. He’s been hungry too, but it’s more polite to eat with someone in their own house.

He brings all the food back to Wei Ying. Wei Ying whines, “Just vegetables again?” but reaches out for a bowl.

Lan Zhan pulls it away briefly. “It’s better for your stomach right now.”

“Ugh.” Wei Ying accepts the rice and chopsticks. “I haven’t gotten sick since high school. I hate this. Sleeping in all day is so weird. I barely sleep at all—well, really, I just stay up to like, four am.”

“That does not surprise me,” Lan Zhan says drily.

Wei Ying squints at him. “Did you just make fun of me?”

Lan Zhan does not respond, and merely grabs a piece of okra.

After lunch, Lan Zhan does the dishes as usual. He re-enters the main room and stops.

Wei Ying is finally reading the notes that Lan Zhan had brought over. Lan Zhan tries not to let the shock show on his face as he sits back down at Wei Ying’s desk.

“Your notes are so comprehensive,” Wei Ying says. “I lucked out on getting you as my absence buddy, huh?”

“You chose to sit next to me,” Lan Zhan points out.

To his further astonishment, Wei Ying’s cheeks turn pink, and he buries himself in the notes even more. “I guess I did,” he says to the paper.

They don’t speak any further, Wei Ying studying and Lan Zhan taking a break to reread his favorite book of Chinese poetry that he’d packed with him. Midway through, Lan Zhan puts on a Spotify playlist of soft piano instrumentals, which Wei Ying hums his approval for.

It’s not for a couple of hours until Lan Zhan glances over and sees Wei Ying’s eyelids drooping. Closing his book, he tells Wei Ying, “Take another nap.”

“But I’ve already slept so much,” Wei Ying whines. “I want to appreciate Lan Zhan’s thorough notes.”

“Sleep, Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan manages to pry the notes from his hands. He switches it out for the water bottle.

“Where did that come from?” Wei Ying says. “Lan Zhan, you’re magical.” He lets Lan Zhan help him tip the water into his mouth.

As he drinks, Lan Zhan presses the back of his hand against Wei Ying’s forehead. Wei Ying is too warm enough for his fever to have dropped yet. Lan Zhan contemplates whether he should make tea for Wei Ying now, or when he returns from his trip to his apartment.

Wei Ying doesn’t stop mumbling to himself as Lan Zhan pulls his hand away. “Lan Zhan… magical… and pretty, so pretty.” He giggles. “Lan Zhan probably doesn’t like being called pretty, though. Handsome… 帅 (shuài)…”

“Stop talking.” Lan Zhan pretends the back of his neck isn’t warming at Wei Ying’s words. He forces Wei Ying to lie down. “You’re falling asleep.”

“Am not,” Wei Ying says, falling asleep. As Lan Zhan tucks him in once more, he says, “You’re just embarrassed… don’t want to hear me compliment you, but I’m telling the truth…”

He’s still talking to himself when Lan Zhan finishes. Soon enough his breathing slows and his noises peter out, until he’s lightly snoring. Lan Zhan presses his fingers against his mouth to prevent himself from smiling.

He looks at Wei Ying, before leaving.

*

The rest of the evening goes similarly to the day before. When Lan Zhan comes back, Wei Ying hasn’t yet awoken. Lan Zhan cooks dinner (pork neck soup with winter melon and vermicelli noodles) and wakes up Wei Ying around seven to eat. Wei Ying’s voice is still as scratchy as before, so he seems as grateful as ever for the soup, although Lan Zhan needs to remind him again to drink his water.

Wei Ying is more conscious, now, like he is when he first wakes. After they’ve finished dinner and Lan Zhan has cleaned the dishes, he expects Wei Ying to go on his phone or read his notes again. Instead, Wei Ying tiredly pats a spot on his bed and says, “Lan Zhan, come here. Can you just talk to me about anything? I know I can talk enough for the both of us, but I think my throat will actually fall out of my body if I keep talking.”

“Wei Ying doesn’t have to talk,” Lan Zhan says, but pulls the chair back over instead of getting into the bed.

Wei Ying pouts. “So mean.”

“I will talk if you don’t talk,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying clamps his mouth shut and grins. Eagerness shines in his eyes, along with something sly like he thinks he’s tricked Lan Zhan into talking for him. But Lan Zhan doesn’t have a choice; he would’ve, no matter how Wei Ying asked.

He begins telling Wei Ying about the innocuous things—what classes he’s taking this semester, what his routines are like. He talks about what classes he took last semester, too, and how his brother is getting a PhD in Psychology and how Lan Zhan genuinely looks forward to seeing him during breaks. Then Lan Zhan talks about how their uncle adopted them; how his only memory of his mother is playing a rattle drum with him; how he’s so used to living with his parents’ deaths that it startles him sometimes to think of himself as an orphan.

Then he looks down and… Wei Ying is asleep. Lan Zhan doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep. His own voice feels sore from overuse. He checks the time and realizes it’s nine-thirty, so no wonder Wei Ying fell asleep again.

He wakes him gently, with a hand on his shoulder. Wei Ying blinks at him, then his mouth spreads into a slow smile.

“You haven’t left yet,” he says, seemingly to himself.

“Mn.” Lan Zhan offers the water to him first.

Wei Ying lifts his head so he can drink without spilling all over himself, then lies back down as Lan Zhan gets the Nyquil ready.

“Can’t believe you’re still here,” Wei Ying says, and Lan Zhan wants to tell him to shut up because his voice hasn’t stopped being hoarse. “I knew it, you know… that you care about me… you wouldn’t do this for me if you didn’t care.”

Lan Zhan really wants him to shut up now. Ears pink, he ignores Wei Ying’s words and hands him the medicine. “Drink.”

Wei Ying does. “Thank you for taking care of me, Lan Zhan,” he says, meeting Lan Zhan’s eyes so earnestly that Lan Zhan has to look away.

Lan Zhan tries to think of a reply, of why he’s caring for Wei Ying so much. But it doesn’t matter, because Wei Ying has fallen asleep again.

*

Wei Ying’s fever breaks overnight. Lan Zhan is by no means a light sleeper, but he hears the tossing and turning in the middle of the night, the bedsheets shifting all over the place. Wei Ying makes small unhappy noises in his sleep, throwing the covers off and then pulling them back on again. Lan Zhan knows there’s nothing he can do except wait it out, and eventually Wei Ying calms down, rustling turning to only a bit of movement, no longer toying with his blankets.

In the morning, they wake up around the same time. Lan Zhan makes congee again, and when he brings the laoganma over, Wei Ying lights up. He looks significantly better, voice much clearer, although he still has a cough; Lan Zhan makes him take an ibuprofen after breakfast.

“What day is it?” Wei Ying asks, setting his water bottle down and looking for his phone.

Lan Zhan hands it to him from his desk. “Saturday.”

“Ah, then Lan Zhan’s not missing any classes.” Wei Ying sounds pleased. “But you don’t have to spend all day with me, you know. I feel way better today.”

Lan Zhan wonders if Wei Ying remembers what he said last night before he had fallen asleep. Still, he’s had time to think about it, so he says, “Wei Ying is not a burden.”

“Oh, you’re flattering me.” Wei Ying does look properly abashed at this though. “Well, if you’re staying, what are you gonna do today? Or rather, what am I going to do?”

“I will cook,” Lan Zhan says vaguely. He’ll let Wei Ying find out later that he means cook all the food he bought, not just lunch. “I believe you have homework that needs to be done.”

“Ouch.” Wei Ying clutches his chest and giggles. “You know, my birthday is coming up, you’ll have to be nice to me then.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan keeps a mental note to pay attention to when Wei Ying’s birthday is, instead of simply asking, like he could right now. “Do your homework.” He picks up the dishes and heads into the kitchen.

He hears Wei Ying stumble out of bed and thinks that Wei Ying might follow him to harass him. But instead there’s some creaking of drawers, opening and closing, the rustling of paper, pens, and pencil scrawling—like they’re being tested to see if they work. Lan Zhan decides not to worry about it and begins cooking. It’s simple enough, as most of the side dishes are stir fried or broiled, but he gets more elaborate with the trout he’d kept in the freezer, and the black bean noodles. He puts each dish in the Tupperware he’d bought as well, and places them in the fridge for Wei Ying later. He idly thinks about how nice it would be, when Wei Ying is better, to run into him somewhere eating one of Lan Zhan’s precooked meals for lunch.

He doesn’t let his mind wander much further than that.

He cooks until all the groceries have been used up in some dish or other, then packs up the rest in a bag and puts in the fridge to take home later. He heats up the soup from yesterday and brings it out.

He’s greeted with the sight of Wei Ying neck deep in homework.

Lan Zhan had expected him to be drawing again, or rereading his notes for fun, or anything else. But there’s textbooks and notebooks and stray pieces of paper sprawled all over the bed and Wei Ying’s lap, and his huge clunky (loud) laptop is propped open at the end, still charging. Wei Ying has a pen in his mouth and another tucked behind his ear, like he’d forgotten about one and grabbed another.

He’s also wearing glasses, which Lan Zhan does not take note of.

Lan Zhan clears his throat. “Lunch,” he says, holding out his bowls.

Wei Ying startles. “Oh! Right, lunch.” He looks at all his things, the pen moved from his mouth to his hand, and flounders.

Lan Zhan sets the food down on the kitchen counter and begins helping him clean up. Wei Ying says, “Lan Zhan you don’t—it’s fine, I’m barely sick now—” but then Lan Zhan levels a stare at him, which somehow makes Wei Ying cough, so Wei Ying meekly pulls his hands back as Lan Zhan clears his bed for him.

“Beds are not for studying,” Lan Zhan advises, closing the music textbook and setting it on his desk. “Unless you are still sick.”

“I mean I’m—well—Lan Zhan, you’re snarking at me!” Wei Ying looks torn between despair and glee, which is an interesting combination on his face. Lan Zhan does not meet his eyes and instead unwittingly looks at the notebook Wei Ying had been writing in. His handwriting is… illegible. Lan Zhan can barely read his name in the corner. When they partnered up in recitation, Lan Zhan was always the one filling out their worksheets, if they had one. Wei Ying had never protested, but now Lan Zhan wonders how Wei Ying gets credit for his handwritten homework at all.

He puts it away and brings the food over. Wei Ying eyes the bowls of soup, then him.

“You did not spend like three hours in my kitchen reheating soup,” he says.

“I did not,” Lan Zhan agrees.

“I swear to god, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, but doesn’t ask anything further.

After the meal, Wei Ying stretches. “God, I feel disgusting. I’m going to take a shower.” He smirks at Lan Zhan. “But I might need help with that, if you can lend a hand~”

Lan Zhan knows he’s joking, especially by the way Wei Ying can’t hold his smirk for long without bursting into laughter. Still he can’t stop the blush from creeping up his neck. “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he says, and busies himself with opening up his backpack so he can’t embarrass himself any further.

He listens until Wei Ying is in the shower, before letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He determinedly does not think of Wei Ying being naked in his shower. He pulls out his usual book of poetry and ignores the tug of want in his belly.

When Wei Ying gets out, Lan Zhan does not look up until an entirely accidental glance shows him that Wei Ying is clothed—in red cotton boxers and a black t-shirt. All of which is devastatingly revealing: Wei Ying’s skinny knees and collarbone and plush thighs. But he’s clothed nonetheless.

Lan Zhan pulls his book closer to his face, anyway.

Wei Ying yawns and stretches again, making a pleased noise as his neck and joints crack. “Ah, much better,” he says, climbing back into bed. “Still reading, Lan Zhan? Why don’t you give me a cuddle?”

“What?”

“Cuddle me! I’m tired and no longer contagious.” Wei Ying yawns again. “I think. And you look like you’d be a good cuddler, so it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“It’s more of a risk for me,” Lan Zhan’s mouth automatically replies, even though his brain is short-circuiting at cuddling.

“Yeah, yeah.” Wei Ying waves him off and moves over in his tiny bed, so there’s an obvious space that might be big enough to be Lan Zhan-shaped. “Look, there’s room for you here, and you can still read your book if you want. Cuddling me won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Two months ago—well, two weeks ago—Lan Zhan would’ve ignored him entirely. Now Lan Zhan is weak and is considering it and Wei Ying must see because he adds, “Please?” with an innocent little smile, making Lan Zhan’s resolve crumble completely.

Sighing, he makes his way into Wei Ying’s bed, as utterly inappropriate as it is. Wei Ying is grinning as Lan Zhan settles next to him and peers at his book. “What are you always reading, anyway? It must be good if you keep going back to it.”

“Poetry.” In bed, Wei Ying is warm, so Lan Zhan focuses only on the words—the Chinese characters in front of him, and nothing else. Then he realizes that, well, all his favorite poetry is love poetry, which has nothing to do with Wei Ying at all—

“In Chinese? Wow! I can barely read it. We just speak it at home.” Wei Ying touches the pages of Lan Zhan’s book with admiration. He leans so close against Lan Zhan that Lan Zhan has no idea what to focus on, Wei Ying’s face by his hands or their hips definitely pressed together or the sudden way Wei Ying snuggles against his side so he has a better view of the words he can’t even read.

“Can you read some to me? I bet your Chinese is good,” Wei Ying says, practically wrapping his arm around Lan Zhan’s.

Lan Zhan tries not to stutter as he does as requested. He clears his throat and reads out loud the poem he left off on.

He keeps going, looking for poems that he thinks Wei Ying might enjoy, or at least, might enjoy listening to. It’s several poems later when he realizes that Wei Ying’s grip has slackened and that his heartbeat pressed against Lan Zhan’s side has steadied. Lan Zhan looks down to see that Wei Ying has fallen asleep again.

An overwhelming amount of affection rises in his throat. He knows he could probably move out of Wei Ying’s bed now, but he doesn’t want to. A secret smile passes over his face as he watches Wei Ying, as he stays cuddled up next to him, and continues reading for himself.

*

Lan Zhan has long since finished his book when Wei Ying begins to awaken. As usual, his heartbeat gains momentum, his breathing goes loud then quiet, and he makes small noises like he’s protesting against his own body. Lan Zhan has not thought of what to say if Wei Ying asks anything, but he can claim to be trapped by his boredom and Wei Ying’s body, curled against him.

“Mm.” Wei Ying hums and buries his face into the side of Lan Zhan’s shirt. And… sniffs? “Lan Zhan,” he mumbles, mouth making faint shapes against Lan Zhan’s arm. “You’re always here.”

Lan Zhan makes a noncommittal sound as Wei Ying finally blinks his eyes open, tilting his head, gaze searching for Lan Zhan’s face.

“Like a dream,” Wei Ying murmurs. He runs his fingers over Lan Zhan’s mouth, and then his cheek. Lan Zhan can’t breathe. “Lan Zhan, will you kiss me?”

Lan Zhan has denied Wei Ying many things: attempts at conversation, his name at the beginning, and a pen. He does not know how, however, to deny a request like this.

He lifts Wei Ying’s chin up, closes his eyes, and kisses him.

Wei Ying tastes warm and not exactly pleasant from sleep, but there’s a heat trickling up Lan Zhan’s spine as he pours everything he’s been feeling into the kiss, into Wei Ying’s damp mouth. Wei Ying makes a small sound and kisses back, in a lazy sloppy way like he’s still waking up, so Lan Zhan flits his lips, kisses him again, keeping his hand on Wei Ying’s chin. It is hard to remember that there’s any world outside of this, outside of Wei Ying’s apartment in the low afternoon light, the side of Lan Zhan’s body numb from being pressed against Wei Ying’s for hours. His tongue traces the seam of Wei Ying’s lips. Wei Ying seems to be enjoying the kiss—

—until he suddenly pulls away and exclaims, “Oh shit!”

Lan Zhan recoils.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, as Lan Zhan immediately climbs out of Wei Ying’s bed. He has pins and needles all up in the lower half of his body, but it’s more tolerable than the thought that he might’ve done something wrong. He’s clearly overstepped.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says again. “Fuck, Lan Zhan, I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t be,” Lan Zhan mutters. “You were barely conscious.”

“What does that have to do with—no.” Wei Ying is wide awake now, and shoves a hand through his unruly hair. “You just—you’ve done so much for me, I shouldn’t have asked you to do something you didn’t want to do—”

Lan Zhan frowns from where he’s standing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re friends, you can’t even deny it now,” and at this Wei Ying gives Lan Zhan a slightly self-deprecating smirk, “but of course I had to get greedy and ruin it as soon as possible—”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan interrupts, because he doesn’t want to read between the lines. There’s no way that— “Say what you mean.”

Huffing, Wei Ying says, “Isn’t it obvious by now? I like you, Lan Zhan, why else would I ask you to kiss me?”

Honestly, Lan Zhan would’ve chalked it up to just a Wei Ying-ism. “And why else would I have kissed you?” he says. “You said I would do anything you asked—is it not obvious, too?”

Wei Ying’s mouth does that open-close-open thing. Lan Zhan thinks he might be allowed to close it with his own mouth if he tried.

“Say what you mean, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says.

Lan Zhan feels the tips of his ears heat up. “I like you too,” he says quietly, coming closer so Wei Ying can hear it.

Wei Ying giggles. “One more time.”

“I like Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says. And while he’s at it, “And I will not deny that we are friends.”

Laughter bubbles out of Wei Ying, fully, until he’s rolling around with delight. In bed, he competes with the sun, caught in full beam, long black hair tangled, eyes shining bright when he grins at Lan Zhan again.

“Lan Zhan likes me!” he says, and giggles once more. “Lan Zhan is so sweet. Lan Zhan will do anything for me.”

Lan Zhan tests his theory about shutting up Wei Ying with kisses.

It works.