The Ties that Bind - athena_crikey - 陈情令 (2024)

Chapter 1: Lan Zhan's Recommendation

Chapter Text

Wei Ying doesn’t believe in beginnings. In his experience the streams and eddies that connect events and people, meetings and departures, twist back through endless loops and lines.

Endings, though. He’s seen a lot of those. One in water when he was just a boy, too small to remember more than the glint of light on the dark surface, screams drowned away. One when he was a young man, fire flickering beguilingly, licking away at oily smoke and the skeleton of a family home. One, just last month, that stank of gasoline and burnt metal, that sounded like whimpers in the dark.

He’s not supposed to be thinking about that, though. Not here, another supposed beginning, standing in the brightly lit mall with its florid Christmas decorations up, while beside him Jiang Cheng sweats and grunts out what are charitably not quite curses.

“Jiang Cheng,” he says, while passers-by give them long looks. “You know I would never judge you in this life or the next, but I hope you know that Ling-er is judging you so, so much.”

“Fudge right off, Wei Ying,” snaps Jiang Cheng, busy trying to retie the baby wrap. “I wanted to bring the backpack. I told you – all you do is buckle him in. This thing is some sort of fu – fudging foreign curse, brought to life.”

“All the mums in the Mums & Babes course recommended it,” says Wei Ying. “Didn’t you watch the Youtube video? It’s easy. Children can do it. Ling-er could do it, I bet.”

Ling-er is, in fact, beginning to look decidedly unimpressed with the length of time he’s being held to Jiang Cheng’s thin chest and put through apparently endless attempts at tying a knot. But he also could just be gassy. It’s hard to know with a three-month-old.

Jiang Cheng’s movements are getting sharper and sharper, his patience burnt almost down to ashes. Wei Ying, who became attuned to its burn rate at a young age, grabs Ling-er from his fuming uncle and lifts him. “We’ll just carry him; it’s fine. He weighs less than a sack of rice. You can figure out the wrap with a flour bag or something, whatever. I’m sure by the time he’s five you’ll have gotten the hang of it.”

“You’re not in charge here,” snaps Jiang Cheng, ripping the long trailing wrap off himself and balling it up. “Give him back, Wei Ying.” He reaches for the baby and Wei Ying freezes for just a moment before swallowing and letting Jiang Cheng take him. In his arms, the baby’s face begins to pucker. “f*ck – fudge – look what you did.”

“I’m not going to break him,” says Wei Ying, his voice quieter. Jiang Cheng, looking down at the baby, frowns.

“We agreed – you’re here to carry bags. If you want something more – if you want something more, then tough. Babies come with a lot of cra – stuff, and someone’s gotta carry it.”

“You can swear, Jiang Cheng. He’s three months old, he’s not going to internalize it.”

“I’m not fudging up this child,” hisses Jiang Cheng, holding Ling-er to his chest like someone might try to come and pry him away. The baby gives the little hiccoughing moan that they’ve come to recognize as the prelude to a full wail. “Either shape up, or ship the hell out.”

Wei Ying stares at him – at both of them – for a minute. Jiang Cheng’s face is scrunched so tight it looks almost like his baby nephew’s, so quick to melt down. And without a hope in hell of getting full custody, without help. So: “Heck,” he says.

Jiang Cheng stares at him. “What?”

“Ship the heck out,” he says. “Which, no thanks. I’ve been to sea; I’d rather stay somewhere with fair trade coffee and a local IKEA.”

“Glad to know your priorities,” says Jiang Cheng.

“And you, obviously, didi. And Ling-er.” He bends and picks up the soft-sided baby bag as Ling-er changes gears up into a full-bore wail. “C’mon, he liked looking at the baubles in Zara’s window.”

They go stand in front of Zara until Jiang Cheng gets snippy about fast fashion and female materialism, so they go and stand in front of Eddie Bauer where Wei Ying snickers at the straights and their bizarre pretense of masculinity in holding hands while mountain climbing. After this, Ling-er begins to get tired of crying and make the noises that signal impending diaper distress so they go to the bathroom where (of course) there is no baby change table in the Men’s room and two families in front of them in line for the family bathroom.

“What a lovely couple,” says an older woman giving grandma vibes as she comes out of the family bathroom with her small charge, beaming at them.

“Thanks, they’re my life,” replies Wei Ying, beaming back.

“Drop dead,” says Jiang Cheng, and drives his elbow into Wei Ying’s ribs, hard.

***

It wouldn’t be so bad, if it weren’t for the fact that everything else in his life also happens to be sh*t at this precise moment.

Well, no. It would always be bad. It would always be absolutely tragic, and most nights Wei Ying misses the baijiu he poured down the sink when he has to curl up in bed stone cold sober and try not to cry, which is so pathetic he can’t stand to think about it until it inevitably happens.

But it would probably be survivable, except for the fact that it literally isn’t because he doesn’t have a job and he’s about to not have an apartment, either. Jin Zixuan’s weasel of a cousin got him fired on a technicality just because Wei Ying once happened to point out the utter incompetence of his entire exploratory project during an office meeting; after the accident, looking for a new job tumbled right off the list of his priorities.

So he has no job and consequently no ability to keep up with his food, rent, and the very real price of appearing to be a clean, competent young man absolutely able to provide part-time care to a baby nephew.

“I’m honestly not trying to make this sound dire or anything, Lan Zhan, but I bet I could do cam work. Like, OnlyFans? People can make a killing with the right SEO these days, and I’m great at dirty talk.”

It’s Lan Zhan, of course, that he tells this to. Partially because no one else has consistently happened to be around when Wei Ying needed to vent, and partially because he’s the only person Wei Ying knows who can reliably join him at any venue and not drink. And right now, that’s a quality he really needs.

At the moment, Lan Zhan is delicately mopping up a spill from his green tea. They’re in a small café near Wei Ying’s apartment, a hole in the wall that serves fresh local baked goods and does $2 Americanos if you bring your own cup. Now, late in the afternoon, it’s quiet; the single barista is wiping down counters and tables preparing to close. “I’m sure you could find something more aligned with your skillset if you look,” he says, his lips thin and his eyes flat, the way he gets when he’s trying not to show how scandalized he is. It’s very easy to scandalize Lan Zhan; Wei Ying can do it with a smile. Normally he appreciates that; right now, the judgement isn’t helping.

“Lan Zhan, performative sex is absolutely one of my skills,” he says, and yep, there’s the scandalized slant of his lashes again. Okay, it is a little amusing. “Look – we’ll put a pin in that for the moment. The reality is, none of the big firms will hire me with Jin Guangshan pissing on my reputation, and a small firm probably can’t offer me the rate or the hours I would need. Jiang Cheng can only cut his own hours back for so long; sooner or later, he’s gonna have to admit he needs help with Ling-er.”

“Do you believe he will be successful in obtaining custody?”

Wei Ying shrugs with what he hopes looks like careless ease. “His case is based on the fact that Jin Guangshan is gross and also a serial adulterer. But none of the evidence is new, and there’s no competition when it comes to money. They have the frankly disgusting wealth, stability, and time to look after Ling-er. Jiang Cheng can afford it, but he’s in a dangerous profession working long hours.”

“But has not fathered and abandoned a series of children,” points out Lan Zhan. Wei Ying smiles wanly. “Besides. He has you.”

Wei Ying picks up the lemon from the rim of his iced tea and bites it; tartness bursts on his tongue and he winces; still, it erases the metallic taste of guilt. “Two uncles who live across town from each other and were arrested for fighting in public aren’t exactly prime parent material. And… Jiang Cheng has been pretty clear that I’m involved only on sufferance. If he could do it without me, he would.”

“It is still so soon, Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan. “He will change his thinking with time.”

Wei Ying performs the shrug again. “Maybe. Jiang Cheng can hold a grudge longer than the half-life of nuclear fallout. But that’s not the point. The point is – money. Who needs it? Me. I was already behind on rent after Ling-er’s first-month party and now my landlord’s getting antsy. And before you say it – I’m not taking a handout. I appreciate it, Lan Zhan, but it doesn’t solve anything. I don’t need money for money’s sake, I need a steady income. And I mean, ideally, a rent-controlled apartment, but actually just anything without too much black mould would be f*cking fabulous at this point.”

Lan Zhan looks at him, long and slow. Lan Zhan has a quality of stillness to him which is strange, because he can move snake-fast when he wants to. But he radiates more calm competency than a room full of high-paid lawyers. “I might be able to help,” he says. And, when Wei Ying opens his mouth, continues: “Not with a donation. An interview, perhaps. With a mid-sized cultivation company. They specialise in confrontation and suppression – it is dangerous work, but I think you don’t mind that.”

Wei Ying smiles. “You know I don’t. And what Jiang Cheng doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Mn. I will make some calls. No promises, but you would be a good fit.”

“Anything would be amazing. Honestly. If they hire me, I’d crawl over broken glass for them – you can tell them that, Lan Zhan.”

“I will not,” says Lan Zhan primly. He sips his tea, but his gaze lingers on Wei Ying.

When they first met, in the afterschool cultivation seminars Jiang Cheng’s parents had made them attend in high school, Lan Zhan’s gaze had been snapping. Full of fury, and recrimination. He had been so quick to judge, and it had been fun, riling him up. At some point even Wei Ying wasn’t fully aware of, that judgement had changed to assessment, then appreciation. They’ve worked plenty of jobs together, although never for the same firm. At some point – another beginning Wei Ying can’t pinpoint – they became friends.

He was the one who took Wei Ying home, after the accident. After Jiang Cheng took Ling-er home, and left him alone at the hospital. He hadn’t wanted to go. He has a vague alcohol-soaked memory of fighting to go to the morgue. So he could lie down on a metal gurney and stay there, too. Where he belonged.

He’s ashamed of it, now. Ashamed that Lan Zhan had been there to see it. Lan Zhan has never mentioned it, which in a way makes it worse. Wei Ying would have, if their positions had been reversed. He wouldn’t have let it go.

“Wei Ying…” says Lan Zhan.

“Hm?”

“Are you alright?”

Wei Ying blinks. Lan Zhan is, if he’s honest, a strange friend. He is utterly undemonstrative, never gives presents or compliments, rarely checks in without a reason. But he’s the most reliable person Wei Ying knows, the kind of person who would wait for hours if you asked him to be there, who would come when you asked, without question. And who, just that once, came without asking at all when he needed him the most.

“I’m okay,” he says, carefully. “Thanks for asking.”

“If you need more… more help, or a loan, I can –”

“Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying, smiling. He puts his empty cup down and pushes it forwards with the tips of his fingers, sliding it across the textured wood table. “Thank you. I don’t, but thanks.” He stands, stretching his arms over his head until he feels the muscles pull tight. “Aiya, I can’t believe it’s only four. I feel like an old man. Truly, children are terrifying. Jiang Cheng’s going to look like he’s fifty in a year.”

Lan Zhan stands more slowly, picking up his coat off the back of his chair. “Can I give you a ride home?”

Wei Ying shakes his head, keeping his smile carefully plastered on. “I’m good; I’ll take the 4 or the 6.”

Lan Zhan looks outside; it’s grey, cloud cover heavy. Pedestrians walking by are huddled in their coats, wrapped up with heavy scarves and hats.

“Lan Zhan, embrace the proletariat lifestyle. Not everyone likes driving around in Lexuses.”

“I drive a Leaf,” replies Lan Zhan, a fact they both know.

Wei Ying scoops up his phone and wriggles his fingers. “I’ll see you later, okay? Thanks for listening to my drivel.”

“Not drivel,” says Lan Zhan. “Wei Ying… take care.”

Wei Ying grins, nods, and pushes the heavy door out to step into the damp, frigid afternoon.

***

The first time he tried to get into a car after the accident, he forgot how to breathe.

It was an Uber, which made the whole thing intensely more embarrassing. Wei Ying had literally bailed out of the back seat, forcing the poor driver to stop in traffic so he could tumble out to choke and shake on the sidewalk, dutifully ignored by NYC’s stony-faced pedestrians. The driver had hung around for a couple of minutes, but Wei Ying had shaken him off and he went, taking the fare with him.

It’s… the compactness of the back seat, the flash of light through angled windows, the smell of carpet and upholstery and exhaust… it’s become intertangled, somehow, with something dark. Something terrifying, nameless, that lurks, waiting in the back of his mind. It sounds like metal rending; it stinks like blood. He wakes up to it sometimes, caught in its maws.

On the bright side – Wei Ying not only has to squint but deploy a telescope to see the bright side of anything these days – he doesn’t have a car, so it’s not like he’s the loser here. On the less bright side is the rest of his entire f*cking life.

Anyway, the point is, he takes the 4 back to East Harlem and his tiny, wretched, soon-to-be repossessed apartment, heats up some cold rice out of the fridge, and sits at his table eating it in lonely silence like the sad sap he’s somehow become. And he waits for Lan Zhan’s text, like the sole lifeline that it is.

***

The Nies are cultivation freaks, and like so much freakdom that’s been inherited through family lines over centuries, have parleyed it into a highly respected empire. They’re one of the biggest firms in New York by status and reputation, although not size. Because it’s hard as hell to swing a job with them.

Wei Ying’s friends with Nie Huaisang, but apart from the remnants of his pride he’d always figured it would be pointless to try to weasel himself a slot in the Nie roster via Nie Huaisang’s influence; Huaisang and Nie Mingjue are half-brothers and while Nie Mingjue has dedicated his whole elephant-sized heart to cultivation Nie Huaisang bailed on family tradition and pride to go to art school for design. He has nothing to do with the sword-side of the family now, and when he talks about his older brother over mimosas it’s in a ‘pity the uninitiated and their foolish ways’ voice.

So when Lan Zhan texts him a time and place and that place is Nie HQ, Wei Ying freaks out just a little.

“Lan Zhan you cannot be serious. I mean, I know that you are because you literally know no other way of being, but come on! Nie Cultivation? That’s like getting an interview with, I don’t know, God. Except God only gets to decide if you’re on the admittance list for Heaven whereas Nie Mingjue can hire you. Into Nie Cultivation. You’re crazy. You’re stone-cold serious and therefore crazy to believe they would hire me.”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan is on the phone doing zero emoting as is his wont, but even over the airwaves Wei Ying can hear the man’s undying patience. That’s what the Lans inherit and worship, polishing like so many votive tablets over the centuries. Inability to emote, and patience where patience is sure as hell not due. “You are an excellent cultivator. Your proficiency surpasses the vast majority of those working in city, including in Nie Mingjue’s firm.”

“You know I lap up flattery like whipped cream on a mocha, but this isn’t about my proficiency. It’s about my reputation. Which is currently subterranean in the industry.” Wei Ying throws the cap off a Pepsi bottle at a roach creeping in from under his fridge; it’s about as effective as throwing a cotton ball. The lengths he’ll go to to keep this place definitely match only its market worth, not its experiential one.

“Your reputation is largely tarnished by the Jins, and Nie Mingjue is currently not on speaking terms with most of their faction. Besides which, he is on speaking terms with my brother – and by extension, myself.” There’s something just slightly hesitant in Lan Zhan’s tone, a lack of certainty the uber-talented, uber-confident Lan Zhan rarely exhibits.

“Is speaking terms a euphemism here, Lan Zhan?” He’s met by silence, and slowly smirks. He’s met Lan Huan; like his brother the man could retire from the cultivation business at any time and step out onto the cover of GQ. Nie Mingjue, on the other hand, is built like an F150 and can probably dead lift twice his own weight. A match made in heaven, or at least the pages of a harlequin romance. “It is. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Lips are sealed. And I appreciate it. Really, I do. Just… let’s not get our hopes up.”

“If this does not work out, we will find another way. Wei Ying, there is a path forward. There always is.”

For just a split second, Wei Ying smells gasoline and blood. Not always. “Sure,” he says, with false cheerfulness. “Never give up, go above and beyond, surpass the limits, all that nice clean boy scout stuff. That’s what I am, now, right? Nice and clean, bright-eyed and squeaky-eared and so, so deserving of another chance.”

“Wei Ying…”

“Lan Zhan. It’s fine. I – you’re right, it’ll be fine.”

***

The Jin Tech interview had been a standard business-type interview, three panelists asking rote questions and Wei Ying doing his best to exude charm and charisma without slipping into big-mouth asshole, a clear and present danger for him. He’s consequently expecting more of the same when he shows up at Nie Cultivation in his unaffiliated blacks, sword in its case on his shoulder for looks and to proof it hasn’t been repo’d.

He's expecting to be met by some middle-man, an underling who will take him to the boardroom where he’ll be drilled about his training and experience and possibly his overwhelming lack of tact and diplomacy.

Instead, Nie Mingjue is there in all his muscled glory, wearing Nie grey and with his enormous blade on his back in a case that could have held an RPG. “So,” he says, looking Wei Ying up and down with an inscrutable face, his hair long on the top tied into a pony down his back and crisply faded on the sides. He looks like the kind of character you’d meet on the mean streets of Mortal Kombat. “You’re Lan Zhan’s recommendation.”

“That’s right. Thanks for considering me,” says Wei Ying, keeping his tone respectful.

“I hear you need a job.”

“That’s true.”

“Because you took a torch to your last one at Jin Tech.”

“That’s… more or less true. I took a torch to Jin Zixun; Daddy got mad.”

Nie Mingjue raises an eyebrow. “Tell me why I should consider bringing you into my fold, then. I’m a far sterner ‘Daddy’ than any Jin magnate.”

If it had been anyone else, Wei Ying would have made a joke. But Nie Mingjue manages to make what would otherwise have been a hilarious statement simple unadorned fact. “Because you hire based on competency, not nepotism. Which means a weasel like Jin Zixun would never survive here. I work best with competent people, sir. Failing that, I work fine with those who put in the effort and care about their results. The only people I can’t get along with are incompetent blowhards.”

“You’re very frank,” rumbles Nie Mingjue.

“I guess so. I don’t believe in lying, or obfuscating, or pretending something is what it isn’t.”

“Then we’ll get along,” says Nie Mingjue. “Come with me.” He turns and heads for the front door, the one Wei Ying just came in through.

“We aren’t going up?” asks Wei Ying, swivelling to follow him.

“I’m not interested in how well you can work Adobe or load paper into the printer. What matters is your skill on the job. So let’s see what you’ve got, Lan Zhan’s recommendation.”

“If I impress you, will you call me Wei Ying?”

“No promises,” says Nie Mingjue, and grins.

Chapter 2: The New Apartment

Chapter Text

“Oh my God Lan Zhan, you have no idea what new hell you’ve catapulted me into. I should’ve gone with OnlyFans. That would have been way less effort. I can do smouldering f*ck-me eyes and jerk off all day long.”

The tips of Lan Zhan’s ears go a delicate, sunset pink. It’s very charming, the way Lan Zhan demurs at any talk of sex like a Victorian maiden, and yet once punched Wen Chao in the face for suggesting that Wei Ying was barebacking with the intent of spreading STIs and then gave him a lecture on hom*ophobia and the propaganda of disease spread. The Lans and the Wens are die-hard age-old arch-nemeses, so that might have played into it. Wei Ying likes to pretend it didn’t, though.

“Perhaps preferable to continue on in the stream you’ve trained your whole life for,” suggests Lan Zhan, lifting a green onion pancake between his chopsticks like a nerd. Wei Ying’s hands are all greasy from eating his like the finger food it is. They’re in a small Chinese restaurant near his apartment having lunch. Or rather, Lan Zhan is having lunch, Wei Ying is having side dishes until his first cheque comes through under the pretense of losing some weight to maintain his twink status. Lan Zhan looked both skeptical and unamused at that.

“You’re such a fuddy-duddy,” Wei Ying tells him, but kindly. “An eccentric, gentlemanly fuddy-duddy. But you got me a job – on probation – and if you ask me to tattoo the words I bow to Lan Zhan on my forehead, I will.”

“Please don’t,” says Lan Zhan, slightly pained. Wei Ying laughs, and flags down a waitress to refresh the hot water for their tea. She walks by with a pair of ice-cold beers in their bottles, condensation trickling moistly down the side, and Wei Ying catches himself swallowing and staring. “I would much rather you contemplate a meaningful tattoo,” says Lan Zhan, a little too loudly, and Wei Ying’s attention snaps back like an elastic band.

“Oh?” he says, forcing a smile as he quashes the thirst in his veins singing its siren song. “I – like what? Hm? What would you get tattooed?”

“Something I would like to look at every day,” says Lan Zhan, without elaborating.

“You’re so practical. Speaking of practical – Jiang Cheng wants me to buy a suit. For the custody hearing. Like what, is the Macy’s special I wore to high school grad not good enough for him? Ling-er won’t care, that child has the fashion sense of a bargain basem*nt Christmas tree – he wears whatever you put on him. And, let me tell you, he is not at all discerning in what he chooses to throw up on. He horked up on the Hugo Boss pants I got the thrift store for $5.”

“Truly a tragedy,” intones Lan Zhan. Wei Ying snorts, and nearly chokes on his tea.

“Mean,” he says. “Anyway, if he wants me in a suit, options are limited. I’ve only got the one.”

This is a lie – he has two suits. The sharply cut charcoal suit with the red silk lining he attended high school grad in, nearly a decade ago now, and a much more sombre affair entirely in black. He last wore it a month ago to Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan’s funeral, and wasn’t far from burning it by the time he crawled home and red-eyed and desert-dry from dehydration. The tears had started up again the moment he got more water into him; as far as he knows the suit’s pockets are still stuffed with disgusting Kleenex.

“Difficult to imagine your high school suit would still fit.”

Wei Ying gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “Lan Zhan! Are you saying I’ve put on weight? This is true betrayal. You were the one who looked so disapproving at the idea of dropping a couple pounds.”

Lan Zhan looks to the side rather than at Wei Ying, his gaze focused for distance. “You’re broader. In the shoulders,” he says, as if addressing no one in particular.

Wei Ying blinks, then grins, hand falling to the table. “And you noticed that, did you?”

“It’s not unusual. Men usually –”

“We’re not talking about usual men, we’re talking about me. And you, noticing me.”

“You would prefer me not to notice?” asks Lan Zhan, glancing up at him, chin low. In another man it would look coy, playful. In Lan Zhan it’s a rare sign of uncertainty, and fear – of giving offense.

“Lan Zhan, I love that you notice me. You know that – I ask your opinion on every outfit I’ve ever shown up in. And – remember that time I got that truly hideous haircut, and you were the only one who said anything?”

Lan Zhan uses his chopsticks to break up his pancake, lifting a small piece primly. “I did not say anything.”

“Okay, no, but you looked like you were going to track down the barber and give him a lashing.”

Lan Zhan glances at his chopsticks. “It was highly unprofessional,” he mutters.

“I know – and you’re still offended on my behalf. Anyway – thanks. For your attention. You know you and Nie Huaisang are the only ones I can trust to give it to me straight. Not that I strive for straightness, in general.”

Lan Zhan meets his eyes now. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. And you finding me a job is definitely not nothing, and I will treat you as soon as I get my first cheque in two weeks, assuming I last that long.”

“You will be fine,” says Lan Zhan. “Your skill is unmistakable, and Nie Mingjue has a keen eye.”

Wei Ying rips off a piece of pancake, and stuffs it in his mouth. “Fanks,” he says. Lan Zhan sighs, and tucks his piece neatly into his own mouth.

***

“The first thing people think when they see the two of us is –”

“Impossibly handsome?” breaks in Wei Ying, unclipping Jin Ling from his car seat in the back of Jiang Cheng’s sporty Mazda RX-7. He met the car at Jiang Cheng’s building, having walked from the bus stop in the near-freezing windchill. Even leaning inside it is making him a little dizzy, blackness gathering at the edges of his vision, hearing thickening with a sound like distant waves. He tries to concentrate on Jiang Cheng’s cutting tone and the cold air like a hand around his throat.

“Gay,” says Jiang Cheng. “And it’s because you refuse to do your job and look like a respectable uncle.”

Wei Ying looks down at himself. He’s wearing skin-tight black jeans with rips in the thighs, a red wrap shirt, an ancient black velvet blazer with the sleeves rolled, and a black matte fang earring. “I mean, why hide it when you’ve got it?” he asks, and wriggles his ass as he undoes the final clip. “Besides, you’ve got respectable pegged for the both of us.”

Jiang Cheng, standing beside him in a blue puff parka and jeans which have been less designed than simply produced, is the epitome of the types of stores he shops at – Eddie Bauer, L.L. Bean and The North Face – ruggedly focused on practicality, and just barely trendy enough to be admitted into human society.

“You’re a disgrace and I hope you know it,” says Jiang Cheng, and shoves in past him to pick up Jin Ling and head for the apartment. Wei Ying closes the car doors and follows.

Until the court date Jiang Cheng and the Jins are sharing custody, trading off each week. Wei Ying hasn’t been to the Jin house, a free-standing mansion in Astoria, but Jiang Cheng tells him that each time he goes there are more toys, more clothes, more everything for the baby. Jiang Cheng’s two-bedroom apartment, bought with his share of the proceeds of the Jiang estate, is roomy and bright and far nicer than anywhere Wei Ying will ever live but it’s still not much space for a baby that’s going to be a toddler before either of them is ready for it.

“Does it really matter if he’s a son or a nephew, so long as he’s loved?” asks Wei Ying, as they toil up the three flights of stairs.

“His relationship to me needs no defining. Yours is another story,” puffs Jiang Cheng ahead of him. “Which is why we’re going to sort it out. Right now.”

“Sounds fun,” mutters Wei Ying.

They make it to the apartment; Wei Ying takes the baby and makes the pufferfish face at him until Jiang Cheng wrestles the door open. They put Jin Ling down in his crib; he’s still warm and tired from the car ride, and starts to yawn and give big heavy blinks. They creep out and shut the door, Jiang Cheng activating the monitor and bringing it out with them into the small living area. Jiang Cheng sits on the sofa, Wei Ying on one of the barstools by the kitchen’s small island.

“So,” says Wei Ying, pushing his sleeves back. Jiang Cheng keeps his apartment warm for the baby, the ambient temperature far warmer than Wei Ying maintains his own at.

“So. The court is going to want to know about our relationship, and what exactly you intend to contribute to raising Jin Ling. I’m talking about money, time, resources.”

Wei Ying rolls his eyes and leans back against the island. It’s quartz-topped, like the rest of the kitchen counters, white marble and lovely. Wei Ying doesn’t cook, but a kitchen like this could make him consider it. Probably just as well he’ll never have one. “Gawd, didi, you should’ve gone to law school after all, you could have been billing for hundreds.”

“Could you just be serious for once?” snaps Jiang Cheng, shoving a hand back through his hair. Wei Ying sucks in a breath, and settles himself.

“Fine. Fine. I’ve got a new gig going, if it pans out I’ll be able to contribute to Ling-er’s daycare fees, or his bills, or whatever. $500 a month, to start with.”

“$500 a month? Who the hell is hiring you, Bill Gates?”

“Nie Mingjue.”

Jiang Cheng’s mouth drops open. “I – what? You got a job with Nie Cultivation? How? Who did you blackmail?”

“Rude,” says Wei Ying, giving a moue of false irritation. Losing your temper with Jiang Cheng never works out – he’s an expert at it, and he always gets there first. “Lan Zhan got me an interview, and Nie Mingjue liked the look of me, okay? It’s not so crazy.” He tries to say it like he believes it.

“Sure. Whatever. $500 a month. And time?”

“I work 8.5 hour shifts, five days a week, plus on call one week a month. The rest, Ling-er can have.”

Jiang Cheng raises a cynical eyebrow. “Uh huh. And your social life?”

“Is currently lost to the tundra. I don’t foresee it making a return anytime soon.” Almost all his after-work activities had revolved around drinking in one way or another – going to bars, beers while watching whatever game happened to be on, boozy weekends with Nie Huaisang and some of the good Wens. Right now, all that’s firmly on ice. “So don’t worry, my schedule is clear. I can attend any number of mommy and me classes, or baby sing-alongs, or what the f*ck ever.”

Jiang Cheng shoots him a suppressive look. “Dude, he’s not even in the same room as us,” says Wei Ying, wilting in the bar stool.

“If you don’t put in the effort to control your mouth now, you’re not gonna be able to pull it off when it counts.”

“When it counts? What does that even mean – before he starts becoming a nuisance on the playground? Children should be nuisances.”

“Don’t say that in court. In fact, don’t say anything at all in court.”

Wei Ying gets up, goes to the cupboard and gets a glass which he fills with water. “Yeah, that’s gonna convince them that we’ve got our act together. Two best uncles co-parenting, gold stars for both of us.” He chugs the water; it’s tasteless, vapid, a nothing that feels like drinking air. Pointless, contentless.

“We are not co-parenting. I am parenting and you are offering free babysitting and labour. Where there’s a diaper to be changed or a bottle to be warmed up, there you’ll be.”

Wei Ying looks over the top of his water glass tiredly. “Jiang Cheng…”

“Don’t start your bitching. You want to be a part of this – that’s the role you get to play. Until you prove that you can be a responsible adult, I’m not trusting you with anything bigger than poop-n-scoop.”

“That’s dogs,” says Wei Ying, but without much heart. On the monitor, Jin Ling starts fussing. Jiang Cheng stands up, crossing over to the room before looking back at Wei Ying.

“You can come see him. He likes it when you make the stupid faces, God knows why.”

“It’s because I’m talented and charming, didi.”

Jiang Cheng snorts.

***

The first three days at Nie Cultivation go surprisingly well. The cultivators there are all highly competent, if a little on the militant side. Humour is not standard fare, and Wei Ying finds himself trying to temper his instinct to joke and jibe in favour of cool professionalism, which is draining.

Still, he actually starts to think that he’s going to make it. That he’s turned a corner, that fate has decided it’s had enough of ragdolling him like a cat playing with a mouse’s bloody corpse.

In retrospect, it was probably the optimism that did him in.

He gets the text midway through his fourth shift. It’s from his super, and it’s two sentences long: This is your eviction notice. You have until Friday to clear your apartment.

He’s only missed one rent payment, and alright yes he was planning on skipping another, but after that he was golden. He’ll have earned enough by Friday to cover one of them, and by next Friday to cover the second. He texts back with promises, pleas, cajolery.

His super sends him a picture of the formal notice, and cuts contact.

Before, what feels like a whole age ago now, he would have called Jiang Yanli. She was his rock, the one who was always there when he needed her. And that’s reason she’s not here, now.

Needless to say, options are fiercely limited. He doesn’t even have enough money to put his crap into storage until he can build up the funds to rent a new place. Doesn’t have the money for a hotel room or Air B&B either. Not in NYC. He’s going to have to couch surf, and as for his stuff…

“I don’t really love it that much,” he tells Lan Zhan after work, at an emergency meeting in a noodle shop near the Harlem river. Lan Zhan looks like the regal cultivator he is, wearing all whites and icy blues, his clothes somehow flowing without being overtly exotic. He has a truly lovely white winter down parka with a faux fur hood that Wei Ying would covet for himself except he can’t imagine ever looking as beautiful in it as Lan Zhan does. Wei Ying himself is wearing a black jumpsuit with a red belt; compared to Lan Zhan he looks like a car mechanic who kidnapped a runway model. “I’ll just sell it all on Marketplace or whatever, I guess, and then get some new stuff out of a Thrift store when I can afford an apartment. Wen Qing would probably let me stay on her couch, although it’s a loveseat these days and wow I’m already feeling my spine cramping. Maybe Nie Huaisang could hook me up with something, he has crazy connections – he’s been into 30 Rock on an official pass.”

“I have a spare bedroom,” says Lan Zhan, out of the f*cking blue.

Wei Ying chokes on his own spit. “Excuse me?”

Lan Zhan traces a finger around the smooth top of his tea cup, like one of those performative wine glass players. The porcelain whispers instead of singing. “You could move in. As my roommate. No need to sell your things, or couch-surf.”

“Lan Zhan. You can’t be serious. I’ve seen your place. It’s pristine. Spectacular. Extremely lovely. I am none of those things. I’m practically a trash fire, and my stuff doesn’t belong in the same zip code as yours.”

“I harbour no judgement of your things, Wei Ying. Nor of you. I would be glad to have you as a roommate. It would bring life to my home.”

“Yeah, when it grows in the dishes I forget to wash. Seriously – you can’t offer this.”

“I already have,” says Lan Zhan, placidly.

Wei Ying pushes his hair back. He feels like he’s getting the sweats, hands shaky. “I really – Lan Zhan, if I had another option – I really need this,” he says, wretchedly. “Not just for me. Jiang Cheng’ll lose the custody battle if it turns out that uncle #2 is homeless and possession-less. But once the court stuff is all handled, I swear I’ll move out. I won’t be in your hair for any longer than I have to. And if it doesn’t work, if I drive you up the wall with my bullsh*t – you just say the word, and I’ll be gone. Okay?”

“You won’t drive me up the wall. As for the future – we can determine that when it arrives.”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “You’re really too good, Lan Zhan. You know, you’re the one person I’ve got left who I know I can depend on – which, considering our roots, is completely crazy. But also… I’m scared I’m going to f*ck it up. Just like everything else.”

“You won’t. You couldn’t. A relationship has two people in it, Wei Ying. You aren’t alone.”

And f*ck does that make his eyes sting and his throat close up. Wei Ying tastes salt on his tongue, and hurriedly gulps down some too-hot tea. “Wow, sappy. So sappy. Lan Zhan – you’re not supposed to be the emotional one. That’s my job. Stay in your lane!”

“Apologies,” murmurs Lan Zhan. And then: “When shall we collect your things?”

***

Wei Ying wasn’t exaggerating about Lan Zhan’s apartment. If Jiang Cheng’s is lovely, Lan Zhan’s is absolutely gorgeous. White-washed brick walls, high ceilings, skylights, and a few support beams that have been hung with blue sheer silk to create an open, airy space. His kitchen is shades of grey from snow-shadow to turtledove, his two bedrooms are spacious and each contain a large bed with heavy wood frames. The bathroom could have been designed by Michaelangelo, or at least one of his better apprentices. The shower is rainfall style, with killer water pressure; the towels are white and fluffy. There space holds a scent of sandalwood and sage, soft and pleasant without being too on-the-nose.

Getting there… getting there is not one of his prouder moments.

Lan Zhan shows up outside his place on Thursday afternoon in a rented truck, as though Wei Ying has all manner of grand furniture and furnishings to be conveyed to a new home via the princely chariot of U-Haul. Wei Ying’s coming from a bachelor suite, and his sofa-bed is frankly an atrocity so he does what his super no doubt expected him to and simply abandons it. He brings his meagre cookware because there’s too little of it to trouble Lan Zhan, and a bookcase and an end table. The rest is clothes and books, haphazardly piled into boxes he got for free off Marketplace that have been through more moves than they were good for; the bottoms are almost paper-thin from being taped and untaped so often, the sides nearly solid with notes like Kitchen, Lindsay’s stuff, Dining, Books, Games, Bedroom ;).

The problem comes when it’s time to shut up the back of the truck and get in.

“So,” says Wei Ying, “this is super weird and inconvenient, but how about if I meet you at your place?”

Lan Zhan, about to round to the driver’s side door, pauses. “You… don’t want to come with me?”

“I would love to. But I – I can’t. Lan Zhan. I can’t – I – since the accident, I haven’t been able to get in a car. I tried once; it didn’t go well.” He puts a hand on the ice-cold side of the truck to stop himself from shaking. His skin is an ugly olive against the white painted metal, his nails blue with cold. “It’s, I dunno, the smell, or the sound, or – I just can’t.”

Lan Zhan is looking at him with soft eyes, which makes it immeasurably worse. He would rather have Jiang Cheng’s rage than Lan Zhan’s pity any day. “Please – it’s no big deal. I hardly ever drove before anyway.”

“I understand,” says Lan Zhan, slowly. “But if you would like to try – please know I’m here.”

Wei Ying looks at the passenger seat, high off the ground with its dirty grey chair and spotty mirror. His chest feels a little tight just thinking about it. “Yeah. Thanks. M-maybe, sometime, but not today. Okay?”

“Okay,” agrees Lan Zhan, because he’s a true bro. He gets in and drives off, and Wei Ying skedaddles to the subway station before his super catches him ditching his sofa.

***

His clothes find new breathing room in Lan Zhan’s wide closet, already equipped with hangers – who even has spare hangers? Everyone knows it’s a law of nature that they disappear into the void as soon as they’re laid bare. Lan Zhan’s spare room is large enough for the few pieces of furniture he salvaged, and Lan Zhan leaves him alone to unpack his books as though he needed some private time to call them by name or sort them by author, or something. Wei Ying just dumps them in the shelf willy-nilly and calls it a day. Agent of Chaos, that’s him.

When he’s done setting up the room he comes out to find that Lan Zhan has made dinner, vegetarian stir-fry with tofu. There’s even chili sauce for Wei Ying, a freshly-opened container of it. Wei Ying stares at it for a moment and feels his throat growing tight again, his face hot. It makes him feel so seen, seen in a way that he’s hardly used to, seen by someone who wants to make him happy and comfortable instead of kicking him in the teeth. He doesn’t know what to do with that, like being offered a gift that’s far too expensive, too much to ever have deserved or to repay.

“You’re too good, Lan Zhan,” he says, stiffly. “You know that, right? All I’ve ever done is clown around with you, make a nuisance of myself, show you a few tricks, maybe. I’ve done nothing to deserve your help and I – I’ve done nothing to deserve you.”

Lan Zhan puts down the steaming plates on the grey placemats with white magnolia flowers on them, and regards Wei Ying. “Friendship isn’t an equation,” he says, slowly. “It’s not about deserve, or owe. It’s about need, and ability. There is something you need, and I have the ability to give it. Why shouldn’t I? As your friend – I want you to be safe, and happy.”

Wei Ying looks up at him, biting his lip to keep from saying something cruel or petulant. Instead he just shakes his head, rendered wordless by Lan Zhan’s kindness.

“Sometimes, when all one has known for a long time is an absence of kindness, of care, it can be startling to find it,” Lan Zhan says, slowly. The words have a weight to them, a hint of something personal. “It can even be difficult, to receive it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not deserved.”

Lan Zhan’s from a long line of cultivators, a clan just as prominent as the Nie or the Jin. Unlike the Nie who developed their cultivation based on their freakish love of strength and steel, or the Jin who developed their business based on the accumulation of wealth, the Lans value virtue and stoicism above all. When they had first met, Wei Ying had considered Lan Zhan to be a perfect ice prince – and just ripe for melting. Now, he knows there’s a beating heart beneath that cool exterior, one with kindness and humour that shine through all the time if you know where to look. He wonders how long it took Lan Zhan himself to realise they were there.

Wei Ying swallows thickly, and pulls the chair out from the table. Slowly, he slides down into it. The food smells amazing, a thick black bean sauce, crisp veggies, fluffy rice. He looks up, and feels the awkwardness begin to fade. “Has someone been being nice to you, Lan Zhan? Treating you right?”

Lan Zhan looks back at him with his usual stately expression; Wei Ying can’t read through it.

“Let me guess: it’s private? Well, if you need me out of the way, you just say so. And don’t worry, my social life’s on ice right now, so I won’t be bringing anyone home to be a nuisance to you.”

“You aren’t a nuisance,” says Lan Zhan, padding back into the kitchen area to get the pot of tea. “And your guests are welcome here.”

Wei Ying smiles, a thin, raw smile. “Thanks,” he says, and he’s pretty sure Lan Zhan knows he’s not thanking him for the welcome of casual hookups. “Thanks, Lan Zhan.”

Chapter 3: Winds of Change

Chapter Text

“You know, if you keep scowling like that your face’s gonna stick that way. And spoilers: you aren’t too far off permanent disfigurement.”

Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng are sitting on the floor in Jiang Cheng’s apartment, supervising Jin Ling’s tummy time. The baby books say he has to get used to lying on his chest, but he’s too weak to turn over onto his back yet and has to be watched so he doesn’t face-plant into the carpet and suffocate. Being a parent, Wei Ying has learned, is effectively being on 24-hour suicide watch.

“Better to have my face than yours,” replies Jiang Cheng, absently. He pulls out his phone and checks it.

“What’s up? Hot date coming over? Chicks love a guy with a baby. Proven fact.”

“Shut up. No. It’s work. I told them I’ve got Jin Ling tonight, but there’s trouble with a yao out in Brooklyn and they wanted to call me out.

“I could take it,” suggests Wei Ying.

“Like he – ck, you’re not insured for it.”

Wei Ying shrugs. “Then you take it, and I’ll mind Jin Ling.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” says Jiang Cheng. He puts his phone down on the nearby coffee table, cleared away to give Jin Ling room to roam. Not that he can, as a matter of fact, actually move more than bob his head and wave his chubby fists. Say what you will about the kid, he’s a good eater. Wei Ying had been worried about that, when they first took him in. Been worried he’d refuse to take a bottle, would languish and shed pounds out of grief or just the strangeness of formula. But credit where credit’s due, he’d taken to the bottle like a champ. He’d been far more competent at drinking than either Jiang Cheng or Wei Ying had been at feeding him – Jiang Cheng has the dry-cleaning bills to prove it. “It’s fine,” he says. “No summons.”

They sit in silence for a few more minutes while Jin Ling gurgles and punches at a stuffed rabbit, a gift from Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying’s just about to suggest bath time when Jiang Cheng’s phone rings. He bites back a curse and picks it up, answering curtly with monosyllabic sounds. “Mmhm. Yeah. Huh. Yep.” He hangs up and puts the phone in his pocket. “They need me,” he says, not getting up.

“Okay. Well, go on then. I’ve got this.”

Jiang Cheng stares at him, hollow-eyed.

“Jiang Cheng, what’s the point in applying for custody on the basis that I’m your back-up babysitter if you don’t trust me to back-up babysit. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“You burn down the apartment block and self-immolate,” replies Jiang Cheng, sourly. Wei Ying fists his hands.

“That’s not funny.” His voice, for once, is hard. Jiang Cheng looks at him, on edge now from the strangeness of Wei Ying pushing back on him. But he doesn’t back down.

“It wasn’t meant to be. We both know you f*ck up everything you touch. If there was literally anyone else –”

Wei Ying thins his lips. “But there isn’t. Because I f*ck up everything I touch, and because you have a complete inability to bond with other members of the species. I’m trying to change – are you?”

Jiang Cheng’s cheeks go red, an ugly mottled colour as though he’d been punched on the bone. “Wei Ying –”

“Didi. I know you’re still mad as hell. So am I. But that won’t change anything. I f*cked up – but I didn’t kill them. And if neither of us can acknowledge that, we’re going to spend the next eighteen years utterly miserable with Jin Ling stuck between us like a tug-of-war rope.”

“‘Didn’t kill them?’ Does that really matter, when it’s your fault they’re dead? You can tell yourself whatever stories you want, I know what I think. So fine – you mind the baby. But if you make even the smallest mistake, Wei Ying, I’ll punish you myself.”

Wei Ying looks up at him as he stands, Jiang Cheng’s face tight with the pain and anger that are always lurking just beneath the surface. “Do you really think you could punish me any worse than I would?” he asks, quietly.

Jiang Cheng turns, without a word, and leaves.

“Well,” says Wei Ying, after a deep breath. “How about a bath, Ling-er?”

***

They do bathtime, Wei Ying splashing and playing with a trio of rubber duckies and doing Babe mouse-voices to Jin Ling’s delight. After that they have cuddles on the sofa, then bottle and book time. Jin Ling has a whole shelf of cardboard and cloth books which currently he’s much more interested in gumming on than in enjoying the literary delights of, but Wei Ying reads through several all the same, pointing out interest features such as the bird with the skirt and the dump truck with the band-aid.

It’s after Jin Ling’s mid-night bottle that Jiang Cheng gets back, shoulders drooping and eyes shadowed with tiredness. He sloughs off his sword and coat, and toes out of his heavy winter boots, shoving them in the rubber tray by the door.

“Oh,” he says, “you’re still alive.”

“Yup,” agrees Wei Ying. It’s a good thing he got back before the transit cut-off, otherwise the situation could’ve been dire. “Still ticking. Jin Ling’s asleep, he’s had his mid-night feed.”

Jiang Cheng’s expression softens, just slightly. “Good.”

“Right. Well, I’m off then – you can call if you need something.”

“Wei Ying – what you said earlier. About fault. Did Lan Zhan tell you that?”

Wei Ying frowns, utterly confused. “What? No – why would he have?”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “So it’s just coincidence that you move in with the man who’s been making eyes at you since high school and finally grow a spine?”

Wei Ying seems to hear the words echoing back, like a tape on re-wind. “Excuse you? Lan Zhan doesn’t have a crush on me. He’s so far out of my league he’s broken into the stratosphere. He’s just a good guy, okay? And he has his sh*t together, and occasionally some of that washes off on me, I guess.”

“You,” Jiang Cheng tells him, “are an astounding idiot and it’s embarrassing being related to you. Get the f*ck out of here and go home to your emotional lighthouse, or whatever.”

“Fudge you very much,” replies Wei Ying primly, and goes.

***

Wei Ying hasn’t lived with anyone else since his early post-high school years when Yu-furen made it clear he was no longer welcome at home and he split an apartment with Wen Qing and Wen Ning for two years. Wen Qing had been head-down studying pre-med and Wen Ning had been working night shifts as a janitor/porter at the local care home full of doddery white-haired popos who gifted him rose and verbena-scented hand lotion. They had both been too run down to bring much life to their tiny two-bedroom apartment; even then, Wei Ying had slept on a pull-out sofa.

Coming home to Lan Zhan is strange, because it doesn’t feel strange at all. Despite the cool tones and the pristine state of the apartment Lan Zhan’s home feels lived in, feels like him – a presence which is quiet but impossible to ignore. Its clean lines and clean floors are foreign to Wei Ying, who typically lives in a layer of shed clothes, reusable shopping bags and miscellaneous oddities. And yet the moment he steps in the door and finds the lights still on and Lan Zhan sitting on the couch listening to a qin soundtrack on his Bluetooth speaker system, it feels like coming back to something familiar.

Wei Ying toes off his shoes, hangs up his coat – too thin for the weather, and too big for him – and steps into the living space.

“Lan Zhan,” he says. “It’s past midnight, and here I find you listening to the liveliest jams of the Song Dynasty? Have you no shame? Think of your poor, poor neighbours. Think of your poor, poor sleep schedule! The last time I invited you to see a movie you made us go to the matinee and almost got puked on by a six year-old snorting Twizzlers.”

Lan Zhan, who is reading a coffee table book (something Wei Ying had hither-to believed to be an unheard of practice) filled with pristine photographs of Rocky Mountain wildlife, looks up with a little smile and tired eyes. “You did not come home on time,” he says, shutting the book.

“Oh my god, did you wait up for me? Were you concerned? You should have texted.”

Lan Zhan sets the book down on the table. His eyes are just lightly shadowed, as though brushed by a soft shade of foundation. “I didn’t want to intrude on your evening.”

“If you’re worried, you’re allowed to intrude. That’s like, a foundational rule of society.”

Lan Zhan wrinkles his nose just slightly. Wei Ying laughs; soft, breathy. “Lan Zhan, I never want you to be worrying about me. Trust me, receiving a text from you is a zero on my disrupt-o-meter.”

“Babysitting was alright?” Lan Zhan asks, stealthing right past the opportunity to make commitments not to inconvenience Wei Ying in the future.

“Surprisingly good. Jiang Cheng and I hardly approached physical violence at all. Kidding – kidding, Lan Zhan,” he says, when the other man’s eyes darken, lips tightening. “Actually, he left me in charge while he ran out to Brooklyn to do a job. First time since – first time he’s left me alone with Ling-er. Feels like a positive step. Although I hesitate to say that out loud, given my usual luck.”

“You’re a kind and caring uncle, and a responsible caregiver. Jiang Cheng would do better to trust you farther.”

“Yeah, well. We know why he won’t. I get it. I pushed him about it, a bit. I think that’s why he backed down, actually. That’s not the way things usually go, between us.”

Lan Zhan inclines his head, dark lashes slanted in a lovely thick line along the soft slope of his cheek. “Your instinct is to give way to him,” he says. It’s an easy diagnosis to make.

Wei Ying shrugs. “Less instinct than long habit. Yu-furen always made it clear Jiang Cheng came first – I mean, I get it, I wasn’t her son and she never wanted me in the family anyway. I always knew I’d have no traction if the two of us got into it. So I just… didn’t. Don’t. Get into it, with him. Not for real.”

Lan Zhan rises. He’s wearing something like a robe that’s devastatingly lovely and partially sheer in white over the softest blue high-collared shirt and white pants. He sweeps over like a crane, white and graceful, and stops beside Wei Ying. The white of his robe glows luminously beneath the halogen lights. “Would you like a snack? There is tea and cookies.”

Wei Ying can’t help but laugh, louder this time, disbelieving. “It’s past midnight and you’re talking about tea and cookies? I’m fine – Lan Zhan, you should go to bed. You look exhausted. I mean, you know, you actually look fatally attractive, 11/10, but beneath that, exhausted. Please. I’ll go to bed too, okay?”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Good night, Lan Zhan.”

“Good night, Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan turns and slips quietly through his home to the master bedroom; Wei Ying makes his way less gracefully to his own bedroom, listening for the soft thump of Lan Zhan’s door.

In all their years, Wei Ying’s only aware of two times that Lan Zhan’s stayed up late into the night. The first was to take him home from the hospital. The second is tonight. The rest of the time he turns in at nine, dead to the world within minutes. Staying up until midnight just to see Wei Ying home safe? Wei Ying isn’t sure what it means, but it makes something in his heart twist hot and salty, an aching knot.

***

Lan Zhan, entirely naturally, cultivates with his clan as a senior member of the Cloud Recesses Group. There was no question of Wei Ying interviewing with them; his relationship with their CEO Lan Qiren is, to put it charitably, septic. Hard to say why; Wei Ying was a model of inquisitiveness and investigative excellence while in the after-school classes taught by Lan Zhan’s uncle, and definitely didn’t tell the entire class he found the old man’s bottle of hair dye in the bathroom. He also definitely, definitely didn’t accidentally get Lan Zhan drunk and snuck him onto the porch, ringing the doorbell and running for his life while abandoning Lan Zhan to be found by whatever poor underling the Lans employed as a butler. Their family money doesn’t rival the Jin’s, but their social status was and is still far above the Jiang’s comfortable spot in the upper middle class.

So, Wei Ying isn’t expecting it at all when he shows up to his next job, under one of the more dilapidated docks of Coney Island, only to find Lan Zhan already there.

Most of the attractions are of course closed for the season; the sea is grey and choppy, the air full of salt spray and the pungent stench of kelp. The wind is bearing down from the east, biting and chill; Wei Ying has a hoodie on underneath his hip-length black coat, and a pair of knit gloves that the moths have been at. They’re fingerless, to give him finer control of his sword and talismans, and do f*ck-all to keep his hands warm.

Lan Zhan is wearing his lovely white parka, white tailored jeans, and sneakers without socks – he’s probably cold even using his core to warm himself, but with his ear-length hair fluttering in the breeze and his eyes narrow against the damp chill he looks like some kind of eastern sea spirit brought into the 21^st century. Instead of his sword over his back his guqin is there, wrapped in white cloth. Most cultivators are competent in musical cultivation, but few are experts. Both Lan Zhan and Lan Huan are among those few.

“Lan Zhan!” he shouts, to be heard above the roar of the surf, the hissing crash of the waves. There are gulls in the air overhead, pearl-white against the grey sky, their cries raucous. Flying rats, Yu-furen called them. Wei Ying’s always admired their take-no-sh*t approach to life.

Lan Zhan turns, hair whipping over his eyes for a moment until he reaches up to pull it back; his expression softens when he recognizes Wei Ying, sword in its case on his back. Against the grey sea and grey sky he shines in the storm light, and Wei Ying wonders very suddenly, mouth dry, why he’s never thought of Lan Zhan as potentially more than a friend. Oh, there are a hundred reasons ranging from fuddy-duddy to out of my league, but he’s never actually thought that thought. Always just assumed it.

“Hi,” he says, a little quieter, voice stuck in his throat.

“Ge asked me to come,” says Lan Zhan, his voice low as the ocean’s rumble, as he paces over to stand beside Wei Ying. His feet sink into the sand with a soft swish swish swish. “Nie Mingjue mentioned you might need a musical cultivator to handle this.”

“Such a kind employer you found for me,” says Wei Ying, smiling and tasting salt on his lips. “Were you briefed?”

“Only slightly.”

“Popular theory is a caoyao living in the dock boards. We have reports of them twisting and splitting, dropping tourists onto the sand – broken legs, broken arms from the fall. One hypothermia from a victim dumped in the sea. Since it retreats into the boards, the initial sweep couldn’t distinguish anything. Probably couldn’t have fought it, if they had.”

“I see,” says Lan Zhan, nodding. He looks up at the dock some five yards overhead, the wood rough-grained and dark. Down towards the sea the lower posts are encrusted with barnacles and mussels that cover the wood like spiky, sharp-edged armour. “I sense nothing currently.”

“Nope,” agrees Wei Ying, cheerfully. “Probably have to be closer. Caoyao stick close to their vegetation of choice, even if that’s rotten old dock planks.”

“Mn.” They walk up the slow slope of the beach towards the shuttered amusem*nt park, only a few windows open here or there offering hot dogs and hot chocolate, and indoor games. The Ferris wheel is still going, most of its cars empty. In the distance, the sound blown in and out by the wind, comes the faint piping of circus music. The place feels less eerie than sad, like a carnival after all the visitors have left and the down-trodden earth is littered with junk and wrappers.

“I don’t remember the last time we took care of a case together, Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep from shivering in the icy wind. It must be almost freezing; the frigid air seems to seep into the very fabric of his coat, an unwelcome embrace.

“The guyao in the Bronx,” says Lan Zhan, softly, without apparently pausing to think.

Wei Ying shudders theatrically. “God, I hated that one. You’re right – how could I forget? Nearly burst my eardrums. And it tricked you into thinking I had fallen down the stairs? Your face – classic.” He remembers now how white Lan Zhan had been as he pounded around the corner in the old house, his voice almost hoarse as he had called for Wei Ying – who had been standing right there, about to exorcise the sound demon. Lan Zhan had stalked out of the house as soon as the job had been done, straight-backed and distant as an embarrassed cat; Wei Ying hadn’t understood why.

So it’s just coincidence that you move in with the man who’s been making eyes at you since high school?

Wei Ying glances at Lan Zhan from beneath the fringe of his lashes. The Lan cultivator is upright as always, chin high, eyes bright as he gazes at the long length of the dock consideringly. He looks focused, attentive, thoughtful. No sign of being full-to-the-brim with an unspoken crush for Wei Ying. Probably just Jiang Cheng’s useless relationship radar. He looks like an actor on shoot for a gritty crime show; Wei Ying with his muddy boots, distressed jeans and cheap coat looks like the extra who’s here to play the corpse. As if Lan Zhan could possibly be interested in a corpse actor.

“Okay,” says Wei Ying, when they make it up to the beginning of the dock, where the first sun-bleached slats meet the sand. “I’ll go down there, and you wait to see if it makes a grab for me.”

“I am the one with the qin,” replies Lan Zhan, brow puckering.

“Yeah, I know. So I’ll be the bait, and you can be the back-up. Relax; if things get nasty I’ve got Suibian.” To emphasize this he unzips the bag his sword is in and leaves it open. He can’t carry the sword openly without risking spooking the caoyao – they’re surprisingly cagey and cunning, considering they haven’t got a brain.

Up on the dock – an old-fashioned boardwalk with wooden railings holding peeling stickers and wads of gum from long-gone vandals – the air feels crisper, sharper. Atlantic ice. Wei Ying slips his hands out of his pockets to be ready, and shivers as the cold air seeps into his sleeves, licking at his wrists. He walks slowly, looking out at the ocean instead of behind him at Lan Zhan. He treads further, further, the dock stretching out another twenty yards still, reaching for the sea. At the far end is a wide platform over the waves, the dock’s shape like a T. Wei Ying keeps an eye on what’s below him, slowing when he passes from sand to water. The caoyao is perfectly capable of splitting the dock boards open like an oyster, and letting him slip right through into the frigid water below.

He hears more than feels the caoyao stir, the long stretch of wooden boards creaking like knuckles being cracked. And then the long beam forming one of the side railings breaks away with a ragged crunch and twists towards Wei Ying like a tentacle, seeking to grab him. He dances back, chased further out, towards the ocean.

In the distance the guqin thrums, a long series of notes picked out whose low throb cuts right through the wind. The twisted wooden railing pauses, turning; Wei Ying looks around, searching for the heart of the caoyao. They bury themselves deep in wood or vegetation to hide, but they have to come to the surface to manipulate it. They feel warm to the touch, the heat of rotting matter, of fermentation, and like all yao let off a sense of wrongness, a stomach-wringing sickness.

Wei Ying steps back, back, trying to feel for the yao. Lan Zhan is playing deep, powerful notes – an exorcism. The dock is starting to shiver and shake, sand and grit raining down from the wooden rails and between the boards. Wei Ying keeps his stance wide, centre of gravity low, searching.

There. He spots the malignant twist in the wood to one side, about three meters closer to Lan Zhan, and dodges forward reaching for his blade.

And, with a crunching shudder, the boards beneath him open up, dropping him down towards the hammering waves.

“Wei Ying!”

Overhead the boards snap closed again, hiding the sky. Wei Ying falls, but he was ready for this; he already has a binding talisman ready, and uses it to tie himself to the underside of the dock, hanging from the blue gleaming thread like Spiderman, the soles of his shoes mere inches above the water. It’s a good four yards to land, and the tides and currents here can be wicked in the winter. He starts swinging himself, pumping his body back and forth as he hangs, his arms aching. Overhead Lan Zhan’s qin is singing in a loud, resonant voice while the wooden slats and rails break and tear. Wei Ying feels his talisman coming closer and closer to being unmoored by the rattling.

As the final note of the exorcism song plays, Wei Ying lets go of the thread and throws himself at the beach. He almost makes it, feet landing in water before he hits the sand hip-and-shoulder-first and rolls up, hard.

Wei Ying lies in the sand for a moment, smelling sea salt and kelp and tasting grit on his tongue. He turns over onto his hands and knees and spits, then coughs. He feels bruised and breathless, but all in one piece. His socks and shoes are cold and wet; he can feel sand sneaking into every opening of his clothes to rub against his skin.

“Wei Ying!”

There’s a pounding of feet, and then Lan Zhan is hopping over the rail at the far end of the dock and running down the slope full-bore, his qin under his arm and his eyes wide and panicked. Wei Ying lifts his head and smiles, wiping the sand and sea spray off his lips with the back of his hand. “Hey Lan Zhan. Nice work.”

“Are you alright?” Without seeming to pay any attention to Wei Ying’s comments, Lan Zhan jogs over to him and squats down, heedless of the wet sand and kelp now staining his pristine sneakers.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. You know me – I bounce back from anything.” He sits up and coughs again, ribs grinding together as he winces. “Just hit the ground with a bit of a bump.”

Lan Zhan frowns. “I thought you had fallen in the ocean,” he begins, glancing at the grey, sharp-edged waves topped with white surf. His face is stark, white against the shadows beneath the dark dock; his eyes are still a little too wide with worry – no, fear. It shows in every muscle of his face, the tightness, the wrinkles between his brows and at the corner of his lush mouth.

“Nah – I used one of my new charms. Spirit-binding – very useful!” He tosses it at Lan Zhan, tying their wrists together. Lan Zhan frowns, looking down, and tugs at it. Wei Ying’s arm follows; he tugs back and Lan Zhan moves towards him.

“A unique adaptation,” says Lan Zhan.

“I was just like Spiderman,” replies Wei Ying, with the pride of a four year-old. Some of the fear abates at that, Lan Zhan’s brow smoothing.

“Mn. Come; we should go. The yao has been exorcised. No need to stay.”

Wei Ying looks up beyond Lan Zhan and sees white flakes starting to fall. “Look,” he says, getting to his feet. “Snow!”

Chapter 4: Snowfall

Chapter Text

The snow falls all day, blanketing the city. Even down in the subway the air is chill, the tunnels barely registering the usual heat of the underground steam, the cloying warmth of the city’s innards.

I’m going to take photos of Ling-er in the snow tomorrow, Jiang Cheng texts him towards the end of the workday, a Friday. You can play photographer.

Everything in Jiang Cheng’s life – in both their lives, really – right now is about the court hearing. Jiang Cheng has been doing regular candid photoshoots with the baby to show just how loved he is, the breadth of experiences he’s being given by his uncle(s) even though he can’t yet eat solid foods. Ling-er at the zoo, held by Jiang Cheng looking at the penguins being fed. Ling-er at the 42^nd street library beside the lion statues. Ling-er bundled up in an adorable knit bobble hat and fleece jacket with Jiang Cheng on the Staten Island Ferry looking out at the Statue of Liberty.

Wei Ying appears in very few of these photos.

Cool, he texts back; he knows a command performance when he sees one. He’s staring at his computer screen blindly, report already complete on the caoyao. The picture of Lan Zhan squatting down in the sand beside him, face tight with worry, keeps flashing through his mind, etched into his retinas. Slowly, one letter a second, he types out, Can Lan Zhan come?

He watches the three dots fade in and out, before Jiang Cheng’s response is spit through the bowels of the internet, I’m not three-wheeling it up with you two.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. 1st, there are 4 of us. 2nd, I told you – nothing’s happening btwn me n Lan Zhan.

Whatever; who cares. Bring him if you want, but don’t get distracted.

Leaning back in his seat, Wei Ying replies with a row of winky faces, then: Don’t worry didi, you and Ling-er have my full attention.

Fabulous, texts Jiang Cheng; Wei Ying can hear the flat gruffness of it. He opens up his thread with Lan Zhan, tapping his thumbs on the bottom of the phone for a minute before typing:

U free tomorrow?

***

At home, Lan Zhan makes wonton soup, the broth rich, his wontons vegetarian while Wei Ying’s have pork and shrimp inside. The green cabbage has retained its crispness in the white base of the leaves, and there are carrots and snap peas too – a little unconventional, but Lan Zhan loves his veggies.

They sit at the dining room table – who even has one of those? – and watch the snow fall outside. The sky is a heavy grey blanket, while the ground is dusted with white gleaming dully beneath the streetlights. It’s been dark for hours; Wei Ying imagines the snow angels he walked by on his way to Lan Zhan’s apartment are already filling in, will be erased by a fresh layer by tomorrow.

In his old place the windows were single-pane and poorly fitting, and the wind used to cut in through every gap and seep out what little heat Wei Ying could afford. Lan Zhan’s place is sealed up tight and toasty warm; Wei Ying curls his socked feet on the thick rug and smiles a little uneasily at the sense of homeliness that pervades the bright space. A surfeit of comfort is still foreign to him, feels like one more thing that could be taken away.

The only thing that’s missing is a fireplace, so Wei Ying queues up a fireplace ASMR track on his phone and lets that play, the crackling and snapping of flames soothing. It makes him forget the coldness of the beach, the icy water soaking his shoes and the bottoms of his pants. He’d had to work with damp feet for hours, until the day ended and he’d been able to come home and change. Lan Zhan had suggested he take a warm shower, had already set out fresh fluffy towels like his own personal chatelaine. And that’s nice, but it also throws Wei Ying off kilter, like an elbow in the back upsetting his balance. Bad things happen when people are nice to him – the ingrained lesson from his childhood has unfolded like a prophecy to overshadow his adult life.

“You don’t have to worry about me, you know,” he tells Lan Zhan when they’re done eating and are cleaning up together in the kitchen. Lan Zhan is washing and rinsing, Wei Ying drying with a linen dish cloth patterned with willow leaves coloured blue and white like a qinghua vase.

Lan Zhan raises his eyebrows while he soaps up the bottom of a bowl, washing it with the cloth in an easy, repetitive motion. His large elegant hands are pink with the heat of the water, fingertips dipped in foam; it glistens like meringue batter. “Was I worrying?”

“Not, like, at this moment in time. In general, I meant. You worry about me. That’s why you let me move in here, that’s why you took the job down on Coney Island. That’s why you came running when I took a dive through the dock. But you know me – I always land on my feet. Eventually.”

“In fact, you appeared to have landed on your stomach,” replies Lan Zhan, the slightest trace of humour in his voice.

“Ha ha,” says Wei Ying. “But seriously. I just meant – you’ve been doing a lot for me lately, and I don’t want you to think I’m helpless or hapless, or whatever.”

Lan Zhan rinses off his bowl and hands it to him. “Would you prefer me not to come with you and Jiang Cheng to take pictures of the baby tomorrow?” he asks.

“What?” Wei Ying blinks. “No. No! I invited you ‘cause I thought it would be nice for you to see Ling-er. And yeah, okay, it wouldn’t do the kid any harm to have a bigger social circle than Jiang Cheng and his rampant insecurities.”

“I see,” says Lan Zhan, quietly. “And I agree – a social network is an important thing for a child.”

“Christ, now I seem like I’m milking you to support my struggling family.” Wei Ying dumps his half-dry bowl on the counter and turns to look at Lan Zhan. “I just meant – I don’t want to be a source of worry in your life, and make you stay up late and miss your beauty sleep, and whatever. It doesn’t benefit either of us.”

“Friends worry. That’s why they’re friends,” says Lan Zhan. “Even now, you’re worrying about me.”

“Am not,” says Wei Ying, instinctively. And then, biting his lip, “Holy sh*t, you’re right. f*ck. Okay – look – but what if –”

“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, placidly. “You are worrying too much about not worrying. Just accept that occasionally, I will be concerned for you. It’s not a bad thing. It’s not something you have to wish away, or fix.” He hands Wei Ying the final bowl and reaches down to unplug the sink; the water gurgles down the drain, leaving frothy suds in the bottom of the metal basin that slowly begin to dissolve with the fizzing sound of champagne. Wei Ying tastes bubbles on his tongue, orange juice and prosecco, and bites it.

“Wei Ying?” he asks, softly; Wei Ying realises he’s staring at the bubbles and jerks his head up. He’s so thirsty he feels itchy, feels a bone-aching need for fire on his throat and a buzz in his veins.

“I – can I have a drink – not –”

Lan Zhan pushes past him to the fridge and pulls it open, producing a can of orange Bubly and popping it open. Wei Ying grabs at it and gulps, savouring the feeling of metal against his lip, his teeth, the strong stinging fizz in his nose that alleviates the need for a full second before his body realises this isn’t a can of beer. “sh*t,” he says, fingers digging into the aluminum so that it bends beneath them. He leans against the counter and closes his eyes, tries to focus. It’s been a month since he went cold turkey, and all it takes is f*cking bubbles to ruin his control. His legs are trembling inside his slacks, his pits and back sweaty, like he’s just run a marathon when all he’s done is suck down a sparkling water.

“You’re doing very well,” says Lan Zhan, his voice quiet. “Abstaining is difficult. You should be proud.”

“I’m a f*cking mess,” replies Wei Ying. He leans his head back and rests the can against it, cool metal sweaty against his brow. “I’m a disaster, and the worst part about it is that I never even saw it coming. Everyone drinks with dinner, after dinner, at parties, watching movies – whatever. So normal, totally fine. I blazed right past normalcy into a desert of goddamn addiction and didn’t even notice. If I’d just listened – to you, to a-jie…”

“It can take time, to see what’s in front of you.”

“That’s a bad answer. That’s no kind of answer. Not with what it ended up taking.”

“What happened –”

“It was my fault, Lan Zhan. It wasn’t my hand on the wheel, but does that even matter? They were out there because of me. Because I was such a f*cking mess I couldn’t even call an uber. No, I called my jie with her 2 month-old son. God.” His knees start to give out and he slams back into the counter, leaning against it for support like a – hah – drunk. “She should have left me there. She should never’ve picked up the phone,” he says, voice quiet now, speaking to the can of carbonated water.

“Wei Ying. Jiang Yanli loved you – she came because she wanted to.”

“And look what happened,” says Wei Ying, dead-eyed now, lowering the can. He slams it onto the counter, soda erupting from the opening. “Let that be a lesson, Lan Zhan. That’s what you get for worrying about me.”

He shoves past him and out, out of this pristine, lovely warmth. Hits the hallway, then the stairs, running down all eight flights until his lungs burn, and out into the cold night air.

The sky is still blanketed by clouds; it catches the light pollution in a damp net and glows an eerie sulphur yellow, like a nuclear dawn. Snow is no longer falling and on the streets it’s already turned to gross brown sludge, not quite cold enough to freeze. In the light of the streetlights everything looks sepia-toned, unnatural, tainted. Wei Ying, without his coat or his phone, walks down the street, hands shoved in his pockets. He’s already freezing, the cold air making him cough.

What an absolutely pathetic mess. He’s so sad he wants to laugh, wants to laugh and then maybe to cry, and never to stop. Maybe everything will stop hurting if he can just cry it out enough, if he can weep out his soul along with salt and tears, if he can drain himself empty until he’s nothing but a desiccated shell.

He’s shivering now, hands chaffing his bare arms, wet snow slicking into the backs of his heel-crushed shoes. He marches back and forth outside Lan Zhan’s building like a man waiting for a bus that hasn’t shown up, his breath fogging in the darkness.

As grand gestures go, this one was stupid. He doesn’t have any money, a coat, a MetroCard. The only choice he has is to wait out here like a smoker sucking in some fresh air, then to go slinking back inside and pretend he didn’t blow up at the one person still willing to help him out.

Pathetic mess with a side of sh*tty friend.

“f*cking f*ck-balls!” he shouts, screams to the night and its putrid yellow glow. The night, unsurprisingly, doesn’t answer. He turns around and goes inside.

He takes the elevator up with an old lady who stares at him with both hands clenched high over her chest like he’s about to ravage her; she gets off at five and hrumphs, doubtless unimpressed with the clientele her building is attracting these days.

On eight he walks slowly down the hall and stops outside Lan Zhan’s door, staring at the peephole. He can’t really see the light clearly through it, but he imagines it. The warm embrace of it, the softness of the atmosphere, the pleasantness of Lan Zhan’s perfect home. A perfection he’s done nothing to deserve.

He raises his hand to knock, and Lan Zhan opens the door. He has a steaming mug in his hands. “Come in,” he says, looking calm. “I made tea.”

***

“I was six when my mother died,” Lan Zhan says, when Wei Ying has changed into flannel pyjama pants and a thick, fluffy hoodie and they’re sitting together on the sofa drinking the dregs of last year’s best tea.

Wei Ying swallows a mouthful of Dragon Well, feels it course down his throat, line the sides of his stomach in warmth. They haven’t talked much about their parents, beyond a mutual acknowledgement of shared orphanhood. Until Lan Zhan offered to let Wei Ying move in, their relationship had been much more light-hearted social activity and the occasional movie, not deep emotional dredging. Thus Wei Ying’s shock at Lan Zhan’s offer to let their toothbrushes share the same counterspace.

“For a long time, I was convinced that if I was good enough, she would come back. If I was patient, and attentive, and refused to give up, then she would come back. She and my father had a tempestuous relationship; she had visitation rights once a month. So after she died, once a month for two years I would go and wait outside our house for her to come and pick me up. It didn’t matter what my ge, what shufu said. It didn’t matter if it was raining, or snowing, or sweltering. I knew she would come back, if I was good enough.”

He speaks to the jade-green tea in his cup, head bowed as the steam rises to puff over his face and make his clear skin shine. Slowly, he turns his head to glance sideways across at Wei Ying. “In a way, I was testing myself. In a way, I was punishing myself. For having let her out of my sight; for having been a failure enough that she left me.”

“Lan Zhan, you know that’s ridiculous,” says Wei Ying, his throat thick.

“Mn. Now, I know. But for a long time, nothing and no one could convince me otherwise. Can you imagine how my brother must have felt, faced with my abject refusal to take care of myself, my belief that hurting myself was the answer?”

Wei Ying’s heart twists, a cold feeling like fingers squeezing inside his ribcage, making a fist of his organ. “It’s not the same,” he mutters, looking away.

“Isn’t it? Grief turns us inside out, puts the most vulnerable, the most buried, the most private parts of us on display. In some ways we hear and see and feel so keenly. And in others, we are left completely blind. What happened to Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan was truly tragic. But their deaths weren’t your fault. It may take you months, or years, to see that. But I hope in the interim, you can be kinder to yourself.”

Wei Ying smiles bitterly down at his cup. “If Lan Zhan, who is and has always been perfect, couldn’t do it, how could I?”

“You rate me too highly,” says Lan Zhan, reaching out to touch his knee, just briefly. And, when Wei Ying looks up, wide-eyed: “And you rate yourself too low. But if you insist on admiring me, can’t you listen to me too?”

Wei Ying opens his mouth and finds he has nothing at all to say to that. He closes it with a click, licks his lips, swallows. Until, finally: “Unfair. That’s unfair, Lan Zhan. You’re not allowed to play yourself like a card.”

“If I have to use a trump card to resonate with you, I will.”

Wei Ying blinks, then slowly smiles. “Are you calling yourself a trump card? Was that a joke? Lan Zhan. I’m the one who makes jokes around here. That’s my job. Don’t be trying to take the bread out of my mouth, in this economy.”

Lan Zhan’s smile is small, but it washes away some of the tightness in Wei Ying’s chest. “Fortunately, humour is not in short supply,” he says. He stands, placing his tea cup on the coffee table. “There are cookies,” he says.

“Oh, now you’re coming for my waistline? You just can’t mind your own business, can you?”

“Apparently not,” replies Lan Zhan, and goes to pull out the cookies.

***

Jiang Cheng, like the goober he is, already has his ideal photoshoot location sussed out, a small local park near his place which is sure to have plenty of snow and attractive scenery.

It’s not a particularly transit-convenient location, and Wei Ying tells Lan Zhan if he wants to drive he’s welcome to – or just back out all together. Lan Zhan, by way of explanation, simply holds up his MetroCard.

The bus is busier than usual; plenty of people don’t want to drive on snow-slick streets. Outside the window, the bus’s large tires mow down slush and sludge, spraying it up onto the sidewalk. Inside he and Lan Zhan stand together towards the back doors, holding onto the top railing and leaning back and forth with the bus’s movement. Lan Zhan, as always, is pristine and perfectly turned out in his white parka and a pair of designer fade-washed jeans with black snow boots that look like they could be right off the rack. Seeing him stuffed in between goth teens in over-large black hoodies and studded collars and middle-aged women laden with shopping bags wearing puffer coats and slush-splattered pants is like spotting a crane on a landfill heap. Wei Ying, bumping along beside him, can’t help but smile as he glances at Wei Ying sardonically when the man beneath them takes a phone call and begins a strident one-way conversation. It’s so normal, so every day, and for some reason all the more hilarious.

They haven’t talked any more about last night’s meltdown, and Wei Ying appreciates that because by far his preference when it comes to emotional conversations is to quash them flat and pretend they never happened. He recognizes this probably isn’t healthy, but it’s the tradition in which he was raised.

From the bus stop it’s a ten-minute walk to the park in freezing temperatures over ice-strewn sidewalks. Lan Zhan’s boots appear equipped for the challenge; Wei Ying’s knock-off Birkenstocks definitely are not. He slides twice into nearby objects – once a bus stop bench, once a tree – and the third time when he starts to skid into the street Lan Zhan grabs his elbow and holds him, a 6’2” anchor. He tucks Wei Ying’s arm in against his side as though they were a couple out for a sunset stroll instead of two lanky and definitely equally handsome men traversing a frozen hellscape to take photos of a baby who will have no memory of the event.

It’s… weirdly satisfying, to walk down the street arm-in-arm with Lan Zhan. He feels steady, sturdy. His PDAs with previous boyfriends have mostly consisted of grinding in clubs and making out wherever the possibility of most greatly inconveniencing Jiang Cheng has resided. In other words – performative, and sh*t-eating. Now, with Lan Zhan steadying his elbow with a careful touch, he feels something entirely different – softer, warmer. Deeper. He shuffles a little closer, and hides a smile.

When they arrive Wei Ying has to admit the park is in a small way a winter wonderland. There are kids everywhere having snowball fights and making snowmen. The swing set and slide are rimed with ice crystals, as are the tall bare maples in the park, their boughs sparkling in the cold morning light. The sun rose barely an hour ago but the light feels old, washed-out, worn.

Because he’s with Lan Zhan, Wei Ying is by definition on time. But because Jiang Cheng can’t lose at anything he’s there already with the baby slung against his chest in the buckle-up carrier, dressed in an adorable purple jacket with stars and moons on it, and a knitted hat shaped like a tufted-eared owl.

“Oh my god, you’re holding hands,” says Jiang Cheng, by way of greeting. Ling-er burbles happily, his face already slick with spit, his little button nose red.

Wei Ying pulls his elbow away from the cup of Lan Zhan’s palm, breaking the connection.

“The sidewalk was treacherous,” says Lan Zhan calmly, and just possibly he has some kind of brain-washing ability because stupid as it is, when he says it it sounds both plausible and obvious. If Wei Ying had said it, it would have sounded like a failed entry for Spot the Liar.

“Jiang Cheng, should you really be walking around with him? What if you trip?”

“Unlike some people, I’m careful,” replies Jiang Cheng.

Wei Ying sees Lan Zhan stiffen, and suddenly wonders how good an idea this was. Still, he leans in to brush some spit off Ling-er’s chubby cheek with the edge of his hand and beam down at the kid. “Hi Ling-er. You look as chubby as a nice little bao. Hahph!” He makes a biting noise and gives the baby a wet kiss on the cheek; Ling-er warbles with amusem*nt.

When he looks up Jiang Cheng looks long-suffering; Lan Zhan looks… vulnerable. His usual calm coolness is missing, replaced by something dark-eyed and wanting. A kind of yearning, Wei Ying thinks. He wonders suddenly if Lan Zhan wants children. He’s never said – as per their tradition of small-talk, they’ve never talked about it. Wei Ying’s not thought about it too much himself, it’s always been a conversation for later. He supposes for now he has Ling-er; that’s enough responsibility to be starting with.

But Lan Zhan is the epitome of responsibility – it stands to reason he could handle a kid or three. Maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe that’s what he sees, when he looks at Wei Ying and Ling-er – himself with a child of his own.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, straightening. “Wanna hold him?”

“We’re not here to play pass the baby,” replies Jiang Cheng, suppressively.

“We’re here to have fun, aren’t we? To enjoy the snow? Lan Zhan’ll enjoy the snow even more with Ling-er.”

“Thank you, no,” says Lan Zhan, straight-faced once more. “But I can take some photos. It’s a nice park.”

“It’s a great park, good choice Jiang Cheng,” agrees Wei Ying, before Jiang Cheng can take umbrage at having his choices praised by Lan Zhan, known scenery snob. “And Ling-er looks absolutely adorable. And look – matching coats,” he says to Lan Zhan, as though the man could have failed to notice that Jiang Cheng is wearing Jiang purple to match his nephew.

“Mn,” says Lan Zhan. His eyes slide to Wei Ying, wearing his usual black, and wow that feels like a note. He dredges up a smile and grabs Jiang Cheng’s arm – “C’mon, there are some awesome snowmen happening over here. Ling-er will appreciate them, he is a man of taste and substance.”

They take photos – Wei Ying takes some focused on Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng admiring a frozen fountain, playing with the knit ties of Jin Ling’s hat, lifting the baby to make him giggle. Lan Zhan takes some too, but Wei Ying doesn’t pay too much attention to him; Lan Zhan’s an actually decent photographer who has taken some courses, although right now he’s just using his smartphone and not the big expensive DSLR Wei Ying saw back at the apartment. He doesn’t need Wei Ying to tell him when to press the shutter.

Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying end up sitting on a snow-cleared bench together, Jiang Cheng holding Jin Ling while Wei Ying adjusts the fleece scarf under his coat, tucking his fingers inside against the baby’s rice-flour soft skin to ensure he’s not overheating. Jin Ling makes a shocked face at the press of Wei Ying’s cold fingers and he laughs, removing them to boop the baby on the nose.

“Court hearing’s coming up,” says Jiang Cheng, bouncing Jin Ling vaguely on his knee. “I’ve been working with the lawyer to prep, but her confidence isn’t overwhelming.”

“The Jins do everything with money; we do it with love,” replies Wei Ying. “The court has to recognize that. Jin Guangshan is a poster-asshat for child neglect and abandonment. Look at how weird his kids have turned out.”

“Hard to prove personality kinks make him an unfit guardian, when he can afford to buy Jin Ling anything he might need.”

“Can’t buy love. Everyone knows that, Jiang Cheng.”

Jiang Cheng, to Wei Ying’s surprise, looks up at Lan Zhan who is standing to the side, flipping through his phone. “What do you think?”

“I am unfamiliar with the weighting scales of family law. It seems likely that material wealth must be taken into account. But your family is above the median income line; I don’t know that beyond that it could matter much. Wei Ying is correct; you offer many things the Jins don’t.”

“Maybe, but we both come with shorter life expectancies. Working in cultivation is a definite negative.”

“The ability to protect your family is not a burden,” replies Lan Zhan.

“You say that because you don’t have any kids. Every time I go out, I have to wonder what would happen if I don’t come back.”

“I would take care of him, Jiang Cheng,” says Wei Ying, reaching out to let the baby grasp at his finger with the whole of his chubby fist. “I’d do whatever was needed.”

Jiang Cheng slants an unamused look at him. “I was looking for reassurance, not more worry,” he says.

“Wei Ying is both responsible and an excellent care giver,” rumbles Lan Zhan, his gaze sharp. “You do him a disservice.”

“Not your business,” replies Jiang Cheng, a little sharply. The air between them seems to chill.

“If a key facet of your case relies upon you and Wei Ying potentially co-parenting, it seems reasonable that you actually do so, rather than treat him as your servant.”

“Something you wanna say?” asks Jiang Cheng, jaw jutting out, mouth thin and mean.

“Okay, hey, let’s not get into it,” says Wei Ying, raising his hands. “We’re all still adjusting to this… whatever it is. Building a family takes time.”

“If you have a complaint, you can take it up with me, rather than knifing me in the back to the Lans,” says Jiang Cheng. He stares, dark-eyed, teeth clenched. “Well? What’s your problem, Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying is familiar with the entire spectrum of Jiang Cheng’s tempers, experience gathered over the course of a lifetime. When he gets up on his high horse, the only way to get him back down is by joking and cajolery. Trying to reason with him just drives him up higher. “Didi, you know every single one of my problems. The fact that you’re even asking me is a win, right? All I want is to see this stupidly adorable baby matched up with the best family he can have – which is us. Let’s keep our eyes on the prize.”

Jiang Cheng harrumphs and shifts Jin Ling on his lap. Lan Zhan is looking into the distance, towards traffic – probably considering jumping into it to escape this suffocating atmosphere.

“Fine,” mutters Jiang Cheng, looking down to wipe Jin Ling’s runny nose. “Whatever. I have to get him inside. I’m meeting with the lawyer on Monday; I’ll text you. Be ready to be there if she needs you to be.”

“Sure,” says Wei Ying, watching as Jiang Cheng buckles Jin Ling back in and gets to his feet. “Take care.”

Jiang Cheng gives the baby one more wipe and heads off in the direction of the nearby parking lot. Wei Ying gets slowly to his feet and looks around the park. There are kids running, shouting, screaming, dogs barking and the sound of snow crunching. It all suddenly seems loud, vibrant; it makes him realise just how much the rest of the world takes a back seat when he talks to Jiang Cheng.

“I’m sorry,” says Lan Zhan, quietly. “I shouldn’t have interfered.”

“It’s not your fault he has a hair trigger,” replies Wei Ying. “You just have to trust that I know how to handle him.”

Lan Zhan looks at him, his gaze heavy, searching.

“Really, Lan Zhan. I do. He’s my brother.”

“He is needlessly cruel to you, often. He neither acknowledges it, not feels badly about it.”

“I know. I know that. But he’ll get over it. He’s still grieving for a-jie. And, he’s still blaming me. He can hold a grudge beyond the expiry date of Jiffy peanut butter. But it will expire, eventually. And he’ll let me in again, then. Besides, I –”

“You do not deserve it,” says Lan Zhan, pointedly.

“Factually… maybe. Emotionally? Feels like I do.”

Lan Zhan’s mouth twitches into a frown. “You will not stop believing that until those around you stop reinforcing it.”

“I don’t know when I’ll stop believing it,” replies Wei Ying. “I don’t need Jiang Cheng’s reminder to feel guilty.” He sighs, and bounces onto his toes to hear the snow squeak beneath his boots. “C’mon. Let’s go home. My ass is frozen.”

Chapter 5: Brothers

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, Wei Ying’s presence is in fact requested by the family lawyer.

Jiang Cheng is perfectly aware that the Jins can assemble the 21^st century equivalent of the Dream Team to win this case for them, and consequently has paid out a large but not exorbitant amount to his own lawyer – he’ll never be able to match the buying power of the Jins, and it’s not worth trying when a key fact in his own case is that he has the income to offer Jin Ling an excellent life with all the advantages a kid should have. He won’t have those advantages if Jiang Cheng has to mortgage himself to the hilt to afford his lawyer’s Italian suits.

His lawyer is a smooth-faced, steely-eyed woman named Casey; she’s on this side of forty and a partner in a major firm, which Wei Ying interprets as hunger for the work – or the lifestyle. She wears pants suits and stilettos and has an apparently eidetic memory. The only thing on her large, steel-and-glass desk is the power cord for a slim MacBook.

Jiang Cheng still has Jin Ling with him; the baby is on a flannel blanket spread over the pristine merlot-coloured carpet, waving a toy penguin and gurgling happily. He’s a happy baby, something Wei Ying feels a fierce hunger to protect. Maybe that’s part of why he’s refrained from biting back at Jiang Cheng for his repeated attacks – although realistically it’s a long combination of both nature and nurture.

Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng are sitting with Casey at her small walnut meeting table, the colour of it a warm honey. Wei Ying has the afternoon off from Nie Cultivation, with a promise to make it up on a weekend. “I understand you recently changed addresses, Wei Ying,” she says, her hands spread atop her closed laptop. Her nails have a French manicure, newly applied.

“That’s right. I can get you my address, anything you need. It’s a nice part of town.”

“Did you purchase an apartment?”

Wei Ying starts to grin at that, but seeing Jiang Cheng’s glower bites back the joking reply. “Uh – no. I moved in with a friend; we’re roommates.” You’re still roommates even if you’re being put up out of pity, with no cash changing hands, right? Right.

“Is your name on the lease?”

“No, it’s a new arrangement.”

“What precipitated it?”

His grin grows thinner. “I – uh – got kicked out of my last place. I got a bit behind in rent, and my super was a total jerk. Really, I pity the next people. Their situation is doubtless worse than mine.”

“So you were recently out of work, and also lost your tenancy,” says Casey, her voice without intonation. “Those things don’t look good on your application.”

“I lost my tenancy because I was out of work. And now I have a job, and an apartment. QED.”

Jiang Cheng, unhelpfully, chooses this minute to put his oar in. “You have an apartment because an enormous sap took pity on you and is putting you up. How long will that last? If I were Lan Zhan I’d already have kicked you to the curb.”

“Good thing you’re not him, then, or I’d be in trouble,” says Wei Ying, fighting to keep his tone light.

“You never even asked me,” snarls Jiang Cheng, his tone suddenly snapping up into something fierce, dangerous as a breeze fanning a wildfire.

Wei Ying fists his hands over his thighs. He looks back, trying for calmness. “And if I had? We both know what the answer would have been.”

“We don’t because you fu – fudging never ask me.”

“Okay, please remember that you’re both supposed to be on the same side of this case. If the court gets one whiff of antagonism between you two, you can kiss your case goodbye.” Casey taps her nails on her laptop; the sound is like a gunshot in the suddenly silent room.

Jiang Cheng frowns, his eyes snapping. Wei Ying sinks back into his chair and wipes his hands down on his knees. His palms are sweaty, the backs of his hands pale. The lawyer is right; this isn’t the time or the place. But he’s starting to wonder how long they can keep this façade up. How long will the anger burn quietly underground until it next explodes, like the incident that had seen them both taken temporarily into custody for brawling in the street.

“We’ll be good,” promises Wei Ying, forcing a smile. “C’mon, Jiang Cheng. Tell the nice lawyer we’ll be good.”

“We’ll be good,” says Jiang Cheng, sounding like there’s a knife at his throat. Which, in a way, there is. “This idiot is now living with a prestigious and rich cultivation paragon. That has to be worth something.”

Casey nods slowly, and begins to help them craft their narrative.

***

Afterwards, Jin Ling falls asleep in the rucksack carrier while Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying are leaving the building under a firm admonishment to mend their fences.

They go to Starbucks, because there’s one nearby and it’s frigging freezing outside, not literally but the air is chill with that somehow worse bite that the sea air can hold, one that really sinks its teeth into you. Jiang Cheng orders some kind of fancy cappuccino with a shot of almond; Wei Ying orders a drip coffee.

“I’m willing if you are,” says Wei Ying, when they finally sit down with their white cups at a comically tiny table that wobbles when Wei Ying happens to brush it with his pants leg.

“Willing to what?”

“Fix things. Make this right. We can’t be at each other’s throats forever, didi.”

“All I hear is you trying to weasel out of the debts you owe,” says Jiang Cheng, drinking his cappuccino. It leaves a foam mustache which is so hilarious it’s the only thing that keeps Wei Ying from spiraling into hopelessness. He almost laughs; even in the privacy of his own head it has a hysterical edge.

“If I knew how to pay them, I would. What do you want, Jiang Cheng? If it’s me dedicating my life to this kid, I’ll do it. But if it’s me agreeing to be your punching bag for the rest of eternity – then who does that help? A-jie? Jin Zixuan? Jin Ling? I don’t know how to be more guilty – I don’t know how to make you happy.”

“Don’t make this about me. I’m not the problem here.”

Wei Ying takes a breath. He tries to channel Lan Zhan’s calm expectations. “You’re the one who’s cutting me out,” he says, his tone measured. “You’re the one who asks for my help, then slaps me down the minute I give it. Jiang Cheng, you’ve appointed yourself judge, jury and executioner, and my sentence seems to be living in this half-relationship where I’m the only one with expectations put on him.”

Jiang Cheng wipes a hand across his mouth and frowns, grabbing a napkin to wipe away the smear of foam. “Yes, you’re right. Poor you, Wei Ying. You’re really the one suffering the most here – the universe should have taken that into account.”

“Oh, let’s not break out the sarcasm, please. C’mon. If you want something from me, what is it? Set a goal and I’ll meet it, but if you keep moving the goal posts we’re going to fail and we’ll all lose out.” His eyes fall to little Jin Ling, chubby and rosy-cheeked in sleep, his plump little lips puckered adorably.

“You want to know how to earn my forgiveness? You can’t,” says Jiang Cheng, harshly. “What could you do to bring my sister back? Nothing.”

Wei Ying looks at him, his heart in his throat, thick and hot. It tastes of salt and coffee, the flavour of despair. “She was my sister too.”

“Not really – it’s not the same. It’s not, however much you always try to make it.”

The words hit him like a blow to the stomach, making his guts tighten. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do this. You don’t believe it. Don’t try to make me think you do.”

“Who knows what I believe,” says Jiang Cheng, sourly. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t.”

Wei Ying stands, the flimsy chair clattering to the floor behind him. Jin Ling wakes with a start, little face puckering uncertainly. “Then maybe you should figure that out, before we get any further down this road,” he says.

“Maybe you should,” shouts Jiang Cheng. In the carrier, Jin Ling is starting to wail, little coughing cries. But Wei Ying’s already walking out, hands fisted so tight his nails dig rivulets into his palms.

***

He walks back to Lan Zhan’s. It’s a twenty-block walk; it takes him almost two hours. It’s not that he wants to walk, that he consciously decides he needs the air or the exercise. He’s simply too mentally exhausted to plan a bus route, to find a subway station. The sun sets over Manhattan as he walks, the light growing grey, worn. By the time he arrives it’s dark outside, the day done.

Standing on the sidewalk looking up at Lan Zhan’s building, he feels numb. Dully impenetrable, inside and out. It’s been a long, long time since Jiang Cheng took up Yu-furen’s line about his connection to the family, his second-class status. He’d forgotten how easily that simple argument breaks him every time, cracks him like an egg and lets all the softness inside run out.

He can’t feel his face, his neck, his hands; even his feet are like blocks of ice. Inside, the heated air hits him in the face like a slap. He takes the elevator up to Lan Zhan’s floor and fishes around in his pocket for the key Lan Zhan had given him. It’s hard to find it, his fingers hardly able to register the feel of the metal shape. He finally fumbles it out and drops it with a curse; he feels about eighty as he bends to pick it up, forcing his stiff fingers to close around it.

When he stands again the door opens with a click; Lan Zhan is there looking cooly querulous. As soon as he sees Wei Ying his eyes widen, the thin line of his mouth softening. “Wei Ying. Your lips are blue.”

“Yeah, it’s cold outside,” he mumbles, slipping in to the warmth of Lan Zhan’s apartment. His jaw is unwieldly, teeth clenched over shivers. He bends down to pull off his boots; when he stands up his vision blurs, little lights flashing at the corners of his sight. He sways, just a teeny tiny bit, and Lan Zhan grabs him.

“Wei Ying!”

“’M fine. Fine.”

Lan Zhan puts the back of his hand to Wei Ying’s cheek, a strange gesture of familiarity, an intimacy Wei Ying’s never experienced. His skin is warm, soft, like newly-risen bread. Wei Ying smiles, just a little.

“You’re freezing. Come change into different clothes; I’ll make you something warm.”

It’s so much easier to just obey, so he does. He lets Lan Zhan herd him into his (borrowed) room and sit on his (borrowed) bed with its (borrowed) sheets and duvet while Lan Zhan pulls out a hoodie and pyjama pants, then prods Wei Ying to his feet and tells him to undress and actually stands there, his back turned, while Wei Ying does. The tips of his ears are red, and Wei Ying feels like he should remember what that means but he’s so empty, so cold and icy and hollow, like a flash-frozen soap bubble.

When he’s in the new clothes Lan Zhan bullies him out into the living room and sits him down on the sofa. He produces a soft faux-fur blanket from somewhere, white like snow-rabbit fur, and wraps it over Wei Ying before going into the kitchen to boil water. He returns a few minutes later with both a hot water bottle and a cup of tea; he tucks the water bottle in under the blanket, where Wei Ying is starting to regain some feeling.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, weakly, leaning against the couch and looking up at him. “Really? A hot water bottle? You’re such a fuddy-duddy…”

“Drink your tea,” says Lan Zhan, the pull of his voice keeping Wei Ying from drifting off to sleep. He lifts the cup and drinks, feels the hot fragrant liquid wash down his throat and into his stomach where it lines him in warmth. He takes another sip, and another. It’s only now that he can identify the tea as jasmine, the flavour subtle but delicious. Where Wei Ying is chili oil and pepper flakes, Lan Zhan is green tea and jasmine. Refined, but unforgettable.

“I’m sorry,” he says, when he can feel his hands and feet again and the exhaustion of the cold and the walk are starting to melt away. “Sorry. f*ck, I’m a wreck.”

“You are not,” says Lan Zhan, and he sounds like he means it.

“Your uncle always taught us not to lie,” says Wei Ying, looking at him with softness.

“Mn. You looked like a wreck when you came in. Now you’re much more yourself.”

“Lan Zhan, secretly a pedant,” smiles Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan sits down on the sofa beside him; Wei Ying pulls at the blanket to let Lan Zhan cover himself with it too, despite the fact that the apartment is probably 75. He concentrates on using his core to level out his body temperature.

“The meeting with the lawyer didn’t go well?” asks Lan Zhan, after a few minutes of silence. Wei Ying normally can’t stand silence, always has to have music, or white noise, or his own chattering to fill the space. But somehow with Lan Zhan there it’s different. With Lan Zhan there it’s almost like there’s a conversation happening in the quiet. The soft sound of his breaths, the movement of his wrist as he tucks his hair behind his ear, the flutter of his lashes as he slants a glance across at Wei Ying. The rhythms of Lan Zhan’s life keep him company, and somehow that’s enough in a way nothing else ever has been. Safe; soothing.

“You could say that,” says Wei Ying, staring down at his hands, his fingers wrapped around Lan Zhan’s tea mug. It’s western-style with a handle; there’s a traditional pattern of pale plum blossoms on it which is somehow serene without being feminine. “Jiang Cheng and I got into it. It just feels like everything I say makes him jump down my throat. I don’t know how to talk to him anymore. It’s like… it’s like suddenly going deaf. I’ve lost something I once knew how to do. I just can’t make it work anymore.”

“It isn’t you who has changed.” Lan Zhan’s voice is soft, low as the thrum of his qin. “It isn’t you who creates the antagonism.”

Wei Ying shrugs. “He made it very clear that he’s going to keep blaming me for a-jie’s death. He…” Wei Ying trails off, shaking his head.

“Wei Ying?”

“No, it’s just some of his usual BS.”

“What?” prods Lan Zhan, quiet but firm. Like a man pulling a thorn from an injured animal, drawing out the pain – and the problem.

Wei Ying sighs. “When things were at their worst – when I was a kid – Yu-furen used to remind me that I wasn’t really one of the family. Not their blood, not their real child. A-jie always stood up for me, and Jiang Cheng would protest later, when we were alone. But sometimes… when things get really bad, he brings it up. He reminds me that a-jie is his sister, not mine. So he’s the only one who’s got the rights to decide when I’ve paid enough penance.”

Lan Zhan’s lovely face hardens, the stony set he had greeted Wen Chao’s casual hom*ophobia with, the face he had worn in the park with Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying wonders how he ever considered Lan Zhan inexpressive – when you watch, his emotions stand out by a mile.

“That is exceptionally hurtful,” he says. “And also a slight on anyone who was adopted.”

“Oh, well. I was never formally adopted by the Jiangs. Yu-furen wouldn’t have that. My legal status was permanent foster child. So he’s not technically wrong.”

“He is wrong in every way that matters,” replies Lan Zhan. “And I would not blame you if you ceased to engage with him. You’ve already gone through so much, and continue to live with a large burden. Jiang Cheng is doing nothing to lessen that.”

“You know what he makes me think of?” asks Wei Ying, wriggling upwards in his seat. Lan Zhan raises an ink-dark brow. “You know in Spirited Away, the huge sludge monster? It’s filthy and putrid, spewing garbage and slime everywhere. And when they pull the cord to unplug all that mess, there’s one tiny little hook at the end. Just that one little thing, that let everything get so rotten and foul. Jiang Cheng is like that – over time he can turn a bee sting into a national crisis. But if you can sift past all the guff and the bluster and put some aloe vera on the sting, everything will go back to normal.”

Lan Zhan frowns. “You’re saying…”

“Jiang Cheng isn’t unreasonable. He comes off as unreasonable, because people don’t make the effort to understand the little thing that’s at the basis of all the anger. Right now, I’m swimming in sludge and muck, but I’ve got to find that little hook and pull it out. And then he’ll go back to being my didi, instead of a putrid garbage factory.”

Lan Zhan looks at him, conflicted. “It’s admirable, Wei Ying. But is it your task?”

“I guess so. Because whatever he says, I’m still his brother. And Jin Ling is still our nephew, and if we don’t fix this that kid’s going to grow up in Jin Guangshan’s house and I just cannot with that sh*t. You wouldn’t abandon your brother if he suddenly got into, like, excessive beauty regimes and started cutting you out in favour of going yachting in Majorca.”

Beside him, Lan Zhan smiles, and shakes his head. “I would not,” he agrees. “But the risk is low.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind a little yachting in Majorca,” says Wei Ying. “And I bet you wouldn’t too, with that complexion. Women would die for it.”

“They cannot have it,” replies Lan Zhan, and Wei Ying laughs aloud.

“I love it when you’re funny for me,” he says, and is surprised just how strongly his chest throbs with that sentiment, the warmth and the clutch in his heart. He does love it. Oh, wow. That’s something to explore – later. Much later. “Uh – how ‘bout I come help with dinner,” he suggests.

“No need; the stew will be done at 6:30. It is an instant pot recipe.”

“My hero,” says Wei Ying. And means it.

***

“I was thinking,” says Lan Zhan, after dinner when he’s reading a book about refurbishing historical instruments and Wei Ying is playing Hades on his phone. Wei Ying looks up; on screen Zagreus dies yet again.

“Yeah?”

“Please feel no obligation, but it occurred to me you might appreciate something positive to weigh against all the…” he trails off, clearly grasping for a polite euphemism.

“Flaming dog crap?” supplies Wei Ying. “Well, you’re not wrong. I’m listening.”

“Your recent car phobia must be making your life more difficult than it otherwise need be. I would never pressure you into addressing it, but given that I have an electric vehicle I wondered whether the stimulants might be different enough not to bother you.”

Wei Ying stills. He feels in the back of his skull the dark, seeping cold, the biting horror that sounds like whimpers and the crunching of glass; he pushes it back. “I – maybe?”

“It is just a thought,” says Lan Zhan, almost hurriedly. “Feel free to ignore it.”

“No – it’s a good one. You’re right; the engine noise, and the smell… that’s definitely part of it. So – maybe? But not tonight though.”

“Definitely not,” agrees Lan Zhan. “When you’re ready. Or not. The choice is yours.”

“Thanks,” says Wei Ying.

***

He turns in at the same time as Lan Zhan (9:00pm sharp) out of respect, but in the darkness of his room instead of going to sleep he doomscrolls, hoping to grow sleepy enough to just conk out. The hunger in his belly is back, the reminder that a month ago he would have been sitting on the sofa watching a show and having a beer or six. He feels itchy, uncomfortable in his bed, turning over and over, the sheets hot and stifling.

He misses the relaxation, the fluid feeling of being protected from the world, from the racing of his mind and the memories of Yu-furen, and from the endless mouthy comments of people like Wen Chao and Jin Zixun. And he hates it, because now he can see it for the crutch it is, but he still needs it, and what does that make him? He wants it so badly, wants to run down to the corner store and buy a bottle so much that he can already imagine the feeling of his booths on his feet, of the money slipping between his fingers and the cold glass beneath his palm.

But he doesn’t move, because those memories prompt others. The smell of gasoline, dripping. The wailing of a baby. The cold crunch of metal. Tiny, desperate whimpers full of shock and pain.

Wei Ying curls up and presses his eyes closed until, like they usually do, the tears come.

Chapter 6: Reckless and Overconfident

Chapter Text

As the week progresses, Wei Ying starts to seriously consider Lan Zhan’s offer of immersion therapy for his new(est) phobia.

Jin Enterprises was so large that they didn’t give two sh*ts how you got from point A to point B, so long as you hit your targets and closed your cases. Nie Cultivation is much smaller, with much more focus on strong collegial relationships and internal supports. Which means people are constantly offering him rides as he’s heading out into the field to deal with the yao of the hour. And Wei Ying is starting to run out of ways to politely turn them down without getting up on a chair to announce to the whole office that he turns into a blubbering mess when introduced into the passenger seat of a vehicle.

The other thing… the other thing is, he’s been starting to think about Lan Zhan. It will be the worst joke of his life if he gets together with a man because his brother clued him in, but the more time they spend together the more he realises how much Lan Zhan is probably the world’s most perfect boyfriend material. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, fashionable without being loud, considerate, loyal, and never loses his temper. Well, except for that time in grade 12 with the hardcore magazine Nie Huaisang had provided. Wei Ying wonders briefly what a replay of that incident would earn him, how Lan Zhan would react today to a splash page featuring two men f*cking. Lan Zhan is almost certainly gay, but he’s never come out to Wei Ying and he’s never been in any relationship Wei Ying was aware of, making him a cryptid in that regard. Lan Zhan is the kind of man who would take the edict not to kiss and tell as law. But Wei Ying’s caught a few glances that have bolstered his confidence level. And, when he emerged from the shower the other day in just a towel, his hair still damp and his skin pink and pretty from the steam, he had noted the way Lan Zhan’s ears heated to match. He had decided accidentally dropping the towel would be too thirst-trapping even for him, but he’s still regretting that decision at least a little in his many moments of contemplation.

All of which to say, when he gets home that night and finds Lan Zhan making mushroom and pork jiaozi with fried rice and smashed cucumber, he pulls up his Big Boy Pants. “I want to try,” he says. “The car. We could go somewhere. Not too far!”

Lan Zhan, holding a frying pan and slowly sloshing the rice and egg around, glances at him with dark eyes. “Are you sure?”

“So sure. You’re right – it would be great to have a win. And it’s probably fine. No engine noise, no fumes. What’s there even to be worried about?” Absolutely definitely not the bone-crushing fear of impending death.

“Mn,” replies Lan Zhan, a little uncertainly. But he nods once, before going to serve up the rice.

After dinner they go down to the street, where Lan Zhan’s Leaf sits in all its boxy glory, baby blue and looking like it was run through a car wash sometime in the last 24 hours.

“Do you want to drive?” asks Lan Zhan, in a neutral tone of voice that absolutely does not convey the terror he must feel at that notion.

“Let’s not go overboard,” says Wei Ying. “You drive. You obey speed limits and merge signs, you’re a model driver.”

“Both those things are basic requirements,” mutters Lan Zhan, but quietly. Wei Ying smiles.

“I bet you’ve never even got a ticket. I bet you have a flawless record.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t answer that, but the way his eyes drop gives him away. “Such a nerd,” says Wei Ying, fondly. “Let’s get in this steel chariot, already.”

Lan Zhan clicks the fob and the doors unlock. Wei Ying puts his hand on the metal handle, then in one go pulls it open hard and puts his hand over the door, looking into the pristine interior. For all he knows Lan Zhan is one of those men who owns a vacuum specifically for his car – he wouldn’t put it past him. If he doesn’t, he must be paying a fortune to local gas stations with their buck-a-suck.

This is fine. So good. He can do it. It’s a car. He’s been in cars his whole life, thousands of times. Millions, maybe. Who knows? It doesn’t matter – he can do this.

Slowly, he eases himself inside. The cushion is firm without being plasticky, the foot space ample despite his long legs. Inside is everything a car should have – dash, gear shift, e-brake, glove-box. Very normal, extremely familiar. He reaches out and grabs the handle, and draws the door shut.

On the driver’s side, Lan Zhan gets in. They sit there. Wei Ying breathes. The car smells of nothing but air – no new car smell, no fumes, no leather or upholstery. Just air.

“Okay?” murmurs Lan Zhan.

“So good,” says Wei Ying, a little thinly. His heart is racing, but with generalized anxiety rather than specific fear. He feels sweaty and shaky, and a little sick, but it’s cold as balls in the car and weirdly that helps him settle. “Let’s turn ‘er on.”

Lan Zhan does, the car beeping through its start cycle as the lights come on. There’s just a quiet whirr for engine noise – the installed safety fan. Wei Ying takes a breath, and another, then reaches up and grabs his belt, securing it. “I’m good. This is okay.”

“Do you want to try going around the block?” suggests Lan Zhan. He looks incredibly patient, projecting the same conscientious attentiveness as a preschool teacher.

He nods; his head feels heavy on the column of his neck, like a basketball riding a piece of PVC. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Lan Zhan puts the car in gear and they slide forward slowly, smoothly out of the parking spot, pulling into the crawl of evening traffic.

It’s so fine for all of ten yards. Then the car in front of the car in front of them decides at the last minute not to go through a stale yellow, the car directly in front slams on the brakes and blares his horn, and Lan Zhan in ripple-effect also slams on the brakes.

Chest slamming forward / limbs jerking / metal rending / lights / the smell of hot metal / glass, crunching / wailing: sirens, baby, voices / flashing blue, red, white / blood in his mouth, his nose, reeking, dripping…

Wei Ying feels suddenly furnace-hot, his body a lit firework. In his chest his breath is gone, stolen from him. He tries to suck it in but his lungs are empty, void, a vacuum. He gasps and gasps but nothing comes in, no air, no oxygen. He can’t breathe, he can’t, and there are horns honking and brakes squealing, and a man’s voice – low, urgent.

He reaches out and scrambles with the door, desperate, needing out. It won’t open, won’t open, won’t open. He pulls and kicks at it, shoes scuffing plastic, nails scrabbling frantically over flaps and switches. All he can hear is the sound of his heart beat racing, leaping, rabbiting in his ears over the cacophony of traffic noises. He’s suffocating, dying, his body in a blind panic as he sobs and gasps and chokes. The world is going black, light disappearing, his vision darkening – no no no –

And then there’s stillness, a cold dark quiet. A moment later the door is ripped open beneath his hands and he’s pulled out onto the sidewalk, yanked from the dead empty air of the car and hauled clean away. Someone bends over him, holds him as he coughs and sucks air into his lungs, weeping hot tears that trail down his throat like blood. He’s held, rocked, his back rubbed as slowly his body remembers how to breathe, how to distinguish oxygen, and the colour starts to return to his vision.

He's in the middle of an East Village sidewalk, on his knees, being held half off the frigid pavement by Lan Zhan who’s folded around him like an old tree sheltering a nurseling. He’s speaking in a low voice, a constant murmur, soft words – “You’re alright, Wei Ying, I’m here, you can breathe, you can, it’s alright –” a circuit of reassurances, a mandala of support. Wei Ying’s hands are locked around his arms, digging into his skin so tight it hurts him – must be hurting Lan Zhan, too. He forces himself to unclaw them, to relax.

“I’m sorry,” he hisses, coughs out alongside tears and phlegm. “God – I’m sorry – I’m sorry.”

“You’re alright,” repeats Lan Zhan, still holding him. “Wei Ying, it’s fine, you’re alright. Just concentrate on breathing – it’s fine.”

He draws in unsteady breaths until they become steady, his whole body tense and shaky and feeling like he’s rolled down a hill in an oil barrel. His hands and feet and knees feel bruised, battered. He’s trying to piece together what happened, how he got here, but his mind is stubbornly refusing to connect the gears to the cogs. His body feels too light, weirdly weightless, and fragile as spun sugar. He’s rapidly beginning to grow cold.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, because this is the one thing that he knows right now. Lan Zhan is here. He is safe, because Lan Zhan won’t leave him. He’s certain of that. “Lan Zhan.”

“Mn. Keep breathing. You’re doing fine, Wei Ying. Truly, you are getting better. Can you lift your head? Lift it if you can.”

Slowly, like an Olympic athlete performing a deadlift of 250lbs, Wei Ying lifts his head. His neck feels loose, floppy. His skin, suddenly exposed to the night air, chills.

Lan Zhan’s face is right beside his, his expression on the surface one of light concern belayed by the depth of emotion in his bright eyes – fear, alarm, pain. For a moment Wei Ying wonders if Lan Zhan’s been physically injured, if he broke a bone or gashed his skin. But then he manages a small smile, his face washed in relief as he sees Wei Ying answer his request. “Good. Very good – you’re doing fine. Can you hear me, Wei Ying?”

He nods. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, his mind foggy. His body is boneless, moving rapidly from over-tense to flopping in Lan Zhan’s strong grasp.

“Good. I want to get you back to the apartment. Do you think you can walk? It’s okay to say no.”

Wei Ying considers this. His legs feel like jelly; the idea of pulling them under him makes him think of walking on Twizzlers, on pudding feet. He shakes his head.

“Okay. Then can I carry you? Piggy-back?”

Wei Ying considers. The wide spread of Lan Zhan’s warm back against him, the solidity of his body, the pale stretch of his nape. He nods.

Lan Zhan shifts, moving from sheltering Wei Ying against his chest to holding him against his back. He pulls Wei Ying’s arms over his shoulders, then twists his back into the cave of Wei Ying’s chest and stomach and grabs him behind the thighs, lifting him easily. Wei Ying tightens his grip, holding himself close to Lan Zhan’s white coat. His hood has a fur lining and he buries his face in the softness of fake coyote.

“We’ll be home soon,” says Lan Zhan, and then they’re walking.

***

They are home soon – the walk passes in a veil of dimness that conveys no sense of time to Wei Ying, but very quickly Lan Zhan is unlocking his door and bringing them inside. He walks right over to the sofa and puts Wei Ying down there, lets him lie down and pulls his shoes and coat off. He comes back with a soft white blanket, pulling it over Wei Ying.

“Sleep, if you want to,” says Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying shakes his head, still wordless, mind still blank.

“Would you like something to drink? Eat?”

He shakes his head.

“Music?”

Wei Ying considers, then nods. Lan Zhan disappears again for a moment before reappearing with his guqin. He sets it down on the low table that’s clearly been made for it, and seats himself behind it. He reaches out and rests his fingers over the strings, before beginning to play.

The melody is one Wei Ying thinks maybe he’s heard before. It calls to him out of the darkness, the sweet tone of it, the tenderness in the plucked chords. It conveys something he can’t quite name, can’t quite touch, but which pushes the chill out his heart and body. He closes his eyes and listens, lets himself drift on a river woven from sound, from the deep echoing thrum of the qin.

It stretches on and on, into, eventually, sleep.

***

It’s dark when he wakes.

Wei Ying lies with his eyes open, staring into the darkness, unsure where he is. He remembers – horns, brakes squealing, lights flashing. The strain of a seatbelt, the sound of someone shouting. Rent metal, broken glass. Cold, metal gurneys.

He whips up, looking around, expecting to see the hospital, the cold beige walls and linoleum floors, the row of joyless plastic chairs.

Instead he sees walls that look blue in the dim light, a tall airy ceiling, the green LED light of the oven reading 7:02.

“Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying turns his head like an owl. Lan Zhan, sitting in the armchair kitty-corner to the sofa, reaches up and turns on a wicker floor lamp beside him. He’s dressed in soft whites, looks like a creature of ice and snow, his hair shining like river rocks and his eyes bright, watchful. His phone is in his hand, airpods in his ears. He takes them out, putting them on the coffee table. “You’re safe. You’re in my apartment. Do you remember?”

Wei Ying takes that one slow. “I remember your apartment,” he says, mildly. Hard to forget its lovely lines and pristine décor. “I… this isn’t the hospital.”

“No. We went out in the car.”

Right. He remembers the cold metal of the doorframe under his palm, the feel of the handle. The cheerful beep of the engine starting. And then… “f*ck. I freaked out, didn’t I?”

“You had a panic attack,” replies Lan Zhan, sounding troubled. “I blame myself – I should never have tried to push you into doing this. I have no psychological training. It was my mistake.”

“It absolutely wasn’t. You were just trying to help. I’m the one who’s totally unpredictable.”

“No – it was a predictable reaction. It was reckless and overconfident of me to expect that you could overcome your trauma with such a superficial approach.”

Wei Ying manages the silhouette of a smile. “Lan Zhan, c’mon. I’m nothing if not reckless and overconfident – exactly my kind of plan.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “If you had been hurt… I would not have been able to forgive myself.”

“I’m okay. Really. All I need is a good meal of hot ‘n sour soup and I’ll be right as rain. And like, one serving of jiaozi. Maybe two.”

Lan Zhan stands and treads carefully over to sit down on the sofa beside Wei Ying. The length of his strides, the elegance of his movements makes him seem so deliberate, so sure. It takes Wei Ying’s breath away – in a good way. “You don’t hear this enough, so I will say it. I’ll tell you until you hear it, until you believe it: You matter, Wei Ying. Your health, your happiness. They matter. Don’t think you have to hide your distress, or always wear a smile. I am not Jiang Cheng. I do not want you to be silent and unheard in your pain. Do you understand?”

The words steal the mask of easygoing complacency right off his face, wipe it away like a wet sponge over oils. He stares, wide-eyed, mouth hanging open just a little. The words hurt – a good hurt, like a bone being set, a flash of pain, and then rightness. “I –”

“You matter,” intones Lan Zhan again, seriously.

“You don’t have to –”

“You matter.”

“Lan Zhan –”

“Wei Ying. You matter.”

He swallows. His throat is thick, his face hot. When he speaks, his voice quakes. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to just be able to reach inside me and flip a switch and make me weep. You’re not the winsomely-handsome-but-emotionally-ransacked whisperer.”

Lan Zhan looks uncertain, concerned and pained.

Slowly, Wei Ying reaches out. Lan Zhan doesn’t move, so he pulls him into a careful, fragile embrace. Lan Zhan holds himself stiffly for a moment, then softens, wrapping his arms around Wei Ying. It feels a little bit like a performance both of them has seen on TV but never attempted at home, but it’s still nice.

“Thank you, Lan Zhan,” he says. “Really. I feel kind of like an idiot for never realising how clutch a friend you were, before. Makes me sad, to think I could have had this for a lot longer.”

“Now is never the wrong time to start,” says Lan Zhan, and then carefully pulls away. “If you like, I will make hot and sour soup for breakfast.”

“Lan Zhan,” faux-gasps Wei Ying. “You are the winsomely-handsome-but-emotionally-ransacked whisperer.”

Lan Zhan’s smile is minute, and just a little mysterious. Hot.

“Perhaps,” he says.

***

After a shower Wei Ying feels a little less like death warmed over. There is hot and sour soup, and there are jiaozi – admittedly warmed up from yesterday, but absolutely still enough to make this the most perfect breakfast Wei Ying has ever had. Definitely the most perfect one post-disastrous Manhattan sidewalk panic attack.

“Perhaps you should take the day off,” suggests Lan Zhan.

“Are you kidding? I just got this job. I would haul myself in there if I’d been on an IV the night before.”

Lan Zhan looks pained, but he doesn’t protest. He’s well-off and connected, but even he recognizes reality when it looks him in the face. Wei Ying’s in his probationary period in a job that hired him despite bad references and already gave him a half day off one week into employment. There’s no wiggle room here.

“At least let me accompany you to work, then.”

“What, like a mother on the first day of grade school? C’mon, Lan Zhan. I’m fine. This isn’t – I’ve dealt with this before, you know.”

“Does that make it easier?”

Wei Ying looks down at his plate.

“Wei Ying. I have the time. Let me help.”

“Because I matter?” he asks, with a sardonic quirk of his lips.

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan, seriously.

“Oh my god, you are the world’s largest fuddy-duddy. How did you get this way? Who made you, Lan Zhan?”

“My parents first met –” begins Lan Zhan, before Wei Ying wails stop and gets up, dropping his hands heavily on Lan Zhan’s shoulders. Lan Zhan is smiling though – yet another improbably Lan Zhan joke.

“You are out of control and must be stopped,” Wei Ying informs him, looking down into his face. His clean-cut, handsome, finely-boned face. Heat gathers in Wei Ying’s cheeks and he pulls away, wheeling around to grab some dishes willy-nilly off the table and cart them over to the sink. “I will do my penance for insulting one of such immaculate perfection by washing the dishes, and then we’ll go. Okay?”

“Mn,” agrees Lan Zhan.

***

The day passes without major incident. Wei Ying takes care of a yao in Flushing, and another one in Elmhurst, earning himself a bag of steaming bao for lunch from a kindly a-yi whose store he rid of a persistent pest.

That night he’s sitting on the sofa at Lan Zhan’s reading through his socials when he gets a pop-up notification from Nie Huaisang – new text. He scrolls over to it and sees, much-adorned by emojis, a querulous message:

You absolute monster, you didn’t tell me you were leveraging Lan Zhan to get Lan Huan involved in your business. Since when is the cultivation world’s least gossip-involved man dabbling in the pathetic world of red earth? What hedonistic hold do you have over him?

WTF writes back Wei Ying.

Why is Lan Zhan getting his brother to lean on Meng Yao writes Nie Huaisang.

??

You should have been defenestrated years ago, writes Nie Huaisang.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes, and replies as fast as he can type. I have no clue what ur talking abt. Who’s Meng Yao, & why is LH leaning on hm?

Cretin, replies Nie Huaisang, and before Wei Ying can rebut, adds additional context. Nie Huaisang is probably among the world’s top 10 fastest texters. LH considers MY a friend. MY considers LH a f*ckable treat. MY is also one of Jin Guangshan’s hell spawn. Do the math.

?? replies Wei Ying again.

Oh honey, it’s a good thing you’re pretty, replies Nie Huaisang, and drops out of the thread.

Wei Ying puts down his phone, looks across at Lan Zhan calmly doing the NYT crossword on his phone, and Wonders.

Chapter 7: The Hook

Chapter Text

The court date is set for next week.

Wei Ying learns this via text from Jiang Cheng, who also suggests that he should come over so they can talk on the weekend.

“On the one hand,” says Wei Ying to Lan Zhan, “yes. Talking. Absolutely. A key defining concept of the human species. On the other hand, I would kind of rather claw my own face off.”

“Feel no obligation to go,” says Lan Zhan, tuning his qin after a hairy mission up to Long Island. He has a set of slashes over his left forearm, which Wei Ying only found out when he accidentally bumped Lan Zhan and saw him wince. He made him unbandage the entire arm so he could see the gashes, and put on some of the Jiang clan’s quick-heal balm, before Wei Ying rebandaged it with smooth, even rolls of the gauze. “He’s done nothing to earn your presence.”

“Wow, harsh,” comments Wei Ying, but inclines his head when Lan Zhan looks up at him. “No, no. I know. But he’s right – it’s our last chance to iron this sh*t out before the court date, and we really need to do it. For Ling-er, if nothing else.”

Lan Zhan says nothing but looks mutinously displeased; Wei Ying smiles. “It’s nice having someone in my corner. Nice to have someone to come home to.”

“I’ll be here, whatever happens,” says Lan Zhan. “You can call me anytime, should you need to.”

“Thanks,” says Wei Ying.

***

Jin Ling is back with the Jins, so when Wei Ying shows up at Jiang Cheng’s apartment it’s just the two of them and a box of Bubly; if Jiang Cheng has liquor around it’s not in evidence, which is at least one positive.

Wei Ying comes in and, at the front door, looks at Jiang Cheng to determine whether it’s worth his taking his shoes off. Jiang Cheng’s mood seems calm, at least for the minute, his mouth slanting downwards but no real anger in the sharp lines of his face. Wei Ying kicks off his boots and shrugs out of his thin coat, hanging it up neatly on the doorknob like the gentleman he is.

He comes in and shimmies up onto a barstool at Jiang Cheng’s kitchen island/dining table, and grabs a can of sparkling water from the open box.

“Help yourself,” says Jiang Cheng dryly; he’s drinking coffee.

“I hope that’s decaf or you’re gonna be up all night. You know how you are with caffeine.”

“Hah hah,” says Jiang Cheng, and pulls a stool around to the far side of the island to sit with his back to the kitchen. He hops up onto it and rests his forearms on the marbled quartz, drawing over his cup and taking a sip. He glances across at Wei Ying over the mug’s rounded mouth. “How’s the abstinence going?”

“You know. Abstinent. I’m working my way through Lan Zhan’s selection of teas. He has a whole cupboard for it. Who even has that kind of space? Crazy.”

“Yeah. Lan Zhan,” drawls Jiang Cheng. The tone makes Wei Ying’s hackles rise.

“What about him? I don’t care what you say Jiang Cheng, he didn’t take me in because he’s secretly crushing on me. He’s just a good guy. Too good.”

“He sure has an eye for hard-luck cases,” agrees Jiang Cheng dryly. “And like you, he butts in where he’s not needed.”

Wei Ying frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He thinks of Nie Huaisang’s cryptic texts, and for a moment when Jiang Cheng pulls out his phone wonders whether there’s some kind of intricate web running between his friends and family that he’s unaware of. But Jiang Cheng doesn’t pull up a text log; he pulls up a photo and puts the phone on the island, spinning it around.

Displayed on the phone screen is a photo surrounded by white – snow on the ground, on trees, on playground structures. The middle of the photo is full of bright, vibrant colours. Jiang Cheng, Wei Ying and Jin Ling sitting together on a park bench. Jiang Cheng has Jin Ling on his lap; Wei Ying is leaning over with his fingers tucked in beneath the baby’s collar. Jin Ling is chortling happily; Wei Ying is smiling like a dope. Even Jiang Cheng looks surprised at his own good humour, a half-smile eking its way out.

It's a lovely photo of a happy – or almost happy – family. “What’s this?” asks Wei Ying, as though he can’t see what’s in front of him.

“Your roommate sent it to me. I think he’s trying to emotionally blackmail me into being nice to you.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know you very well.”

“Obviously,” says Jiang Cheng, and takes another sip of coffee. “Look. What I said before. That was maybe offside. I’m not going to apologize for holding you accountable, but that doesn’t mean I’m cutting you out.”

Wei Ying stares at him. Jiang Cheng’s looking at the island rather than him, as if eating his words causes him physical pain. Maybe it does; he probably has a tendency to ulcers, all the stress he causes himself. “Well, thanks,” says Wei Ying. “But if I’m honest, I never know where I am with you. Seems like we’re always one comment away from me getting kicked in the teeth. I want to make things right, but I can’t do it if I’m constantly on defense.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw works, and Wei Ying waits to see whether he’s crossed a line. Slowly, Jiang Cheng shrugs. “My temper is…”

“Volcanic?” suggests Wei Ying. Jiang Cheng looks up, eyes flashing, and Wei Ying backs off the smart-mouthing.

“I’m working on it, okay? It’s not good for the kid, I know that. A-jie always hated it when I blew up. She wouldn’t want him picking up the habit.”

“I think it’d be really good if you saw someone. I mean, I should see someone, I know, but my insurance doesn’t kick in until my job turns permanent.”

“Ma would’ve told us to work it out,” says Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying bites his tongue at that, and Jiang Cheng catches his clench. “What?”

“No comment,” says Wei Ying.

“She was hard on you, I know. But she grew up in a different time – Cultural Revolution, all that sh*t. You had to be a survivor. She wanted that for us.”

“She wanted it for you,” says Wei Ying. “I think she would’ve been happy if I’d gone under.”

“If she were alive now –”

“Let’s not go there,” says Wei Ying, evenly, who can’t quite supress a shudder at the thought. Yu-furen’s abuse had been verbal, for the most part. But Jiang Yanli had been her pride and joy – losing her daughter in an accident connected to Wei Ying would have had certainly appalling consequences – possibly fatal ones. It truly makes him glad she’s dead, which is just another lash to whip himself with.

“You were the one who couldn’t keep out of trouble. Still true.” Jiang Cheng’s tone is sour now, his nostrils flared, mouth tight. “f*ck, all you had to do was call someone else,” he says.

Wei Ying thunks his drink down on the counter. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t tell myself that every single night? Jiang Cheng – you want to tell me it’s my fault – fine. But don’t pretend I don’t know. Don’t pretend you’re God’s gift to lawful society, telling me I f*cked up.”

“Then don’t pretend you’re so high-and-mighty, shoveling my sh*t, following me around like a dog and then making eyes at Lan Zhan about how badly-treated you are. You want to earn my trust? f*cking trust me. All you ever had to do was trust me!”

Wei Ying stares. Jiang Cheng is breathing hard, his cheeks pink, his eyes thin and burning.

“What – I trust you. I’m going to court to get you custody of a f*cking infant, Jiang Cheng, of course I trust you.”

“Then why didn’t you call me? All you had to do was call me. But you never do. You called a-jie. In the hospital, when she was dead, you called f*cking Lan Zhan instead of your own brother. All you had to do was call me!”

Wei Ying’s heart is pounding, pulse throbbing in his temple. “I – what? What are you talking about? You know why I called her – I was piss drunk and I lost my MetroCard. I always called a-jie and she always picked up. And then they took me to the hospital, and I called you.”

“You didn’t,” grits out Jiang Cheng. “Why the hell do you think goddamn Lan Zhan was at the hospital? Because you f*cking called him. Not me.”

For a minute the world seems to tilt. Then, very slowly, it slides upright again. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’ Oh, I called my dumb high school rival from the hospital rather than my brother. Oh, I had to hear from f*cking Lan Zhan that a-jie and Jin Zixuan were dead and my nephew and brother were lucky to be alive. Oh, he’s just a friend and not someone you’ve secretly been obsessed with for half of your whole life. f*ck you, Wei Ying, wake up and pay attention.”

“I – Jiang Cheng.” He forces himself to breathe, to give himself that space of time to try to pull together thought – any thought. Being shocked speechless is a new experience, and he stumbles a little as he gears up into speech: “I’m sorry. I am. I wasn’t thinking – at all. I don’t even remember most of it. I-I probably just hit his number by accident, or because he’d called me recently or something. I wasn’t trying to cut you out. I wish I had called you. Don’t you think I do? I would give anything to have called you. Or for a-jie to have sent Jin Zixuan instead of deciding to try to help Jin Ling get over his colic. Or to have just fallen into an alley and slept in the goddamn trash. But I didn’t. I can’t undo it, any of it.”

Jiang Cheng stares at him, still breathing hard, a ball of misery and jealousy and pain.

“Didi. I meant it when I said you’re my brother. I’ll call you every day, if that’s what you want. I’ll pin your number to the top of my list. I’ll figure out how to use f*cking speed dial, so I can speed dial you. I’ll get down on my knees and apologise for not calling you from the hospital – because you’re right. I should have. Of course I should have.” He rises, and Jiang Cheng leans back and rolls his eyes.

The rage, the ugliness of his jealousy melt away. Drain away like puss and sludge, and leave a thin-shouldered, tired young man. “Don’t be an idiot,” he says. “My life is hard enough already without you being a f*cking drama queen.”

Wei Ying looks across at him. Tentatively, he says, “Don’t you mean a fudging drama queen?”

“f*ck you,” says Jiang Cheng, but the corners of his mouth twitch, just a little.

***

The tension between them doesn’t disappear, but it does dissipate. They move to the sofa, where Jiang Cheng shares his gallery of key adorable Ling-er photos featuring mostly Jiang Cheng but occasionally Wei Ying. Several of the latter appear to be from Lan Zhan; photos Wei Ying never saw taken on the snow day.

“I wasn’t kidding about seeing a counsellor,” says Wei Ying, when they break to refresh their drinks. Jiang Cheng pointedly fetches a seltzer for Wei Ying out of the fridge, suggesting it’s not just non-alcoholic options in there, although he comes out with a second seltzer for himself. “It’s on my own list, once I’ve got the insurance and the funds.”

Jiang Cheng stares down at the can in his hands, rolling it between his palms. “I’ve thought about it. I meant what I said – Ma would have disowned me for considering it. But this kid is my responsibility. I want to do right by a-jie. And that means I’ve got to get my head in the game.”

“I don’t know if there’s, like, couples counselling for families. But if there is… I’d go with you. If you wanted. Not for all of it, but maybe a bit?”

“Please never use the phrase couples counselling about me again,” says Jiang Cheng, but he looks at least minorly thoughtful.

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?” asks Wei Ying. Jiang Cheng looks at him, eyes narrow, then shrugs.

“I can’t be in a car. Ever since that night. I just – I forget how to breathe, it’s terrifying. I’m not telling you to try to make my deal seem rawer, but… I was trapped there, Jiang Cheng, while she was dying. I could hear it, and I couldn’t even get out to help. I can’t forget that, no matter how hard I try. And I just… I need you to believe me when I tell you how not okay I am about it.”

He looks down at his hands: long, thin-boned, clever fingers but without the strength to hold onto the ones he loved. “If I had been sitting in the front I would be dead and she’d be alive, and it would all be okay.”

The punch hits him in the arm, hard. He looks up; Jiang Cheng is tight-lipped and furious, his face flushed. “It wouldn’t be okay, you moron. Of course it wouldn’t be okay. Don’t sit here and tell yourself that sh*t. You’re an idiot, and you drive me crazy, but now that it’s the two of us I need you more than anything.” For a second Wei Ying thinks he might take another swing; instead he leans forward and draws Wei Ying into a fierce embrace, his hands fisted tight in Wei Ying’s sweater dragging it close around his chest. “I can’t do this without you.” His voice is shaking, his breath catching raggedly in his throat.

Wei Ying freezes for a moment, stunned stiff. Then he puffs out a sigh, and leans in. “I know, didi,” says Wei Ying, hugging him back. “I know.”

Jiang Cheng draws back finally, his face red, his eyes wet. “We’re uncles now,” he says scratchily. “Time to act like it.”

Wei Ying nods. “Deal.”

***

It’s late when he gets home. He texted Lan Zhan from the bus so he’s not expecting the lights to still be on when he unlocks the front door but they are, the apartment a soft glow of warmth in the winter’s night.

Lan Zhan isn’t in the living room; from beside the sofa Wei Ying can hear the shower running. It’s almost midnight, which can only mean that for a third time Lan Zhan’s up in the middle of the night because of him.

He’s had about as many carbonated beverages as he can handle so he puts the kettle on, focusing his mind on the routine of taking down the teacups, the tea, the spoon. Opening the metal kitty he smells the clean, pungent scent of green tea.

Wei Ying hears the shower shut off, just the quiet whirr of the fan remaining. He pours out two cups of tea on the off-chance Lan Zhan wants one. It would be rude not to offer.

The tea has finished steeping, the colour a warm green-gold, when Lan Zhan steps out of the shower. His hair is damp although not dripping, combed away from his face like a swimmer’s. His white t-shirt is nearly transparent, showing off the lines of his strong chest and washboard abs. His pants are loose yoga pants, hanging delightfully low on his hips. He looks incredibly attractive, the most sexually charged Wei Ying has ever seen him. The way his eyes widen when he spots Wei Ying suggests this is not intentional seduction. “You’re back.”

Wei Ying catches himself staring and swallows. “Yeah. Sorry to be so late. You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I had some reading to do,” says Lan Zhan, which is such bullsh*t, he goes to bed at nine no matter how much work is waiting to be done – he’ll just finish it when he rises the next morning at f*cking five a.m.

“Uh huh,” says Wei Ying, indicating he’s not buying it but is too polite to explicitly say so. Lan Zhan gives him a droll look and comes over to get his tea.

“How was Jiang Cheng?” he asks, clearly looking over Wei Ying to try to judge the level of savaging he received.

“Surprisingly good? Lots of feels though, holy crap. We hugged it out like bros. No, really,” he says, clarifying, when he sees Lan Zhan’s eyebrow rise sceptically. “You remember the hook? For the giant sludge monster? Well, I found it. Sludge monster has receded – for the moment at least.”

Lan Zhan goes to take a seat in the chair by the sofa, leaving the whole of the couch for Wei Ying’s long legs. Normally he would bounce right on up to it; it’s incredibly luxurious, having a sofa that hasn’t been through three former owners and possibly wrecking ball testing. Now though he sits carefully, watching his tea, his attitude cautious.

“You aren’t pleased?”

“I’m absolutely pleased. Best possible outcome. We might even make it to the hearing in one piece. It’s more… okay, look,” he says, resting his tea cup on his thighs and looking at Lan Zhan, who is already watching him with his full serene attention. “It turns out Jiang Cheng was hurt, and angry, and honestly probably jealous, because that night I called a-jie first. And then I called you. Instead of him.”

Lan Zhan nods slowly; the gesture shows more that he’s listening than he understands. It must be nice having a brother who wouldn’t disown you for not calling him in a crisis.

“And the thing is. I don’t remember that, at all. I mean – I vaguely remember calling a-jie. But not you. I thought I called Jiang Cheng. I just… I never even wondered why you were there at the hospital. But I guess I assumed he called you, when he decided to take off with Jin Ling and leave my ass there.”

Lan Zhan reaches out and puts down his cup on the coffee table, then shifts in the chair. Like this, his hair still damp and shiny, his clothes so informal, he looks just a little vulnerable, open in a way Wei Ying has rarely known him to be. “You did call me,” he says, cautiously. “I – it was clear something was very wrong. You said you were at the hospital and there had been a car accident. And then you hung up.”

Wei Ying winces.

“Mn. I went to the hospital and found you in the seating for the emergency room; you had already been patched up. A nurse was minding Jin Ling. You were… not well.”

“Drunk,” concludes Wei Ying.

“No. Well, yes, but – you were distraught. The nurse told me both Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli had been declared dead at the scene. I didn’t want to leave you, but the hospital wanted help with paperwork, and I had to call Jiang Cheng. When I returned, he was collecting Jin Ling. He refused to take you. You had vanished, so I went looking for you. I found you looking for the mortuary. You wanted to stay there,” he says, his voice very low. He swallows, the sound of it audible. “I had to drag you out; you wouldn’t leave. Once we got outside, you just gave up, and I was able to take you home.”

The words dig ditches in Wei Ying’s heart, deep, rough-edged, full of slurry and stones. He rubs at his chest, shoulders rounded. “Lan Zhan – I never even thanked you, not really. And I was an absolute steaming disaster. That must have been awful for you. Just, incredibly bad. f*ck – I’m sorry.”

Lan Zhan waves his hand distractedly. “It was an appalling situation; I was only upset that you were so hurt – not physically. And… I was very angry, that Jiang Cheng refused to help.”

“I remember talking to him, a little. I think I was really unclear. I just kept saying it was my fault they were dead. He probably believed it without thinking. Like, that I had been driving, or grabbed the wheel, or some sh*t.”

“You had just been in a major car crash – you needed care. Not abandonment.”

Wei Ying smiles, just thinly. “Probably, but you can see his perspective, can’t you?”

Lan Zhan looks mulish; Wei Ying laughs. “The one thing I don’t understand is why you picked up the phone at all. It was after midnight. You would have been sound asleep.”

Lan Zhan runs a hand up over his ear, tucking a tiny piece of dark hair back neatly. “I saw it was from you,” he says, slowly.

“Mmhmm? And? We’re friends, Lan Zhan, but not the kind of friends who call each other at two a.m. Or at least, we weren’t then.”

“I knew it must be important. Or that you were in danger.”

“So you picked up because you’re such a thrill-jockey?” asks Wei Ying, waggling his eyebrows. Lan Zhan lays his hands across his thighs. Strong hands, the kind that probably could protect the ones he cares about.

“I picked up because I was worried. About you.”

It’s so straight-forward, the way he says it. So sharp, like a picture in perfect focus. As though admitting he cares about Wei Ying is the easiest thing in the world.

But then again – he’s shown it again and again over the past weeks. With his words, with his actions. With everything he does. An overwhelming concern for someone who has never done that much to earn himself any kind of thought at all. The kind of concern that seems entirely too much for casual friendship. Lan Zhan is a great guy and Wei Ying has very little to say against him, but he’s never seen the Lan cultivator put himself out for anyone else the way he has for Wei Ying.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, suddenly, as the lightbulb goes on. “Do you like me?”

He regrets it the minute he says it, feels like a high school kid playing spin the bottle, is very aware of the way Lan Zhan’s eyes drop and his ears start to pinken. Such a tell, when you know to look for it.

Wei Ying gets up, depositing his tea on the chair, and comes over to kneel on the floor in front of Lan Zhan. He reaches out and catches his hands, holding them – strong, warm. “I would have to be blind to not see everything you’ve done for me. Over and over, putting me first, worrying about me, waiting for me. I think I just never internalized it, because I’ve never done anything to earn it. Such an eminent, talented, gorgeous cultivator looking at me? Probably because I’ve got broccoli in my teeth.”

Lan Zhan squeezes his hands, firmly. “Ridiculous,” he breathes. “Wei Ying – you are just as talented. You are clever and considerate and good, so good. To your nephew, to your brother, to the people you help every day.”

“You’re too much, Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying, softly, but he tugs him forward with both hands and leans up to wrap his arms around Lan Zhan’s broad shoulders. “Lan Zhan, do you like me?”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan, the word ghosting over his ear, through his hair. He sounds breathless, sounds like he’s falling to pieces. “Yes. I like you.”

Wei Ying closes his eyes and leans in, smelling Lan Zhan’s clean scent of sandalwood and sage, the musk of his skin. “I like you too,” he says, and feels his heart thrill with the words, each pounding beat a mark of emphasis, an echo of his admission.

Lan Zhan reaches down and, with a frankly monstrous amount of core strength, lifts Wei Ying up to sprawl untidily across his lap, held in the circle of his arms. Wei Ying laughs and kicks his legs, squirms just a little until Lan Zhan clasps him tight to hold him. Lan Zhan buries his face in the hollow between Wei Ying’s neck and shoulder; Wei Ying can feel him smiling there, the press of his lips like a brand leaving their mark behind.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes. “How long have you been waiting for this?”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Lan Zhan, voice muffled. Wei Ying laughs again and cards his hands through his hair, now drying silky-soft, like a chick’s new plumage.

“Oh my god, that means it’s been like months. Years. Lan Zhan, has it been years?”

He doesn’t hear the laugh but he feels it, the puff of Lan Zhan’s breath against his throat. It makes his heart ache, makes his skin burn with happiness and embarrassment, but mostly happiness.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, in that watermelon-red ear. “Can I kiss you?”

Lan Zhan looks up, his hair mussed now, his lips parted in surprise. His eyes are wide, startled, but with a sheen of definite interest. “If you’re sure –” he begins, and gets no further because Wei Ying leans forward and seals their mouths together. Lan Zhan makes a little noise of shock, a charming squeak, and then Wei Ying’s settling in over his lap and the angle changes and oh. Oh this is nice. Soft and warm and tender – both a question and answer. I like you. I like you. I like you.

When they break apart, Wei Ying smiles, his head spinning a little. “I didn’t want to make you wait any longer,” he says.

Lan Zhan leans down, and kisses him again.

Chapter 8: Court Date

Chapter Text

They stay up for another half hour kissing in the armchair, the rhythm of their ardour slow and sweet as molasses. It ends when Wei Ying’s decrepit back starts to make alarming pangs and he has to roll off and drag himself to his feet on the chair’s arm while Lan Zhan watches, half-alarmed. “God, I’m aging before my time,” he declares as he straightens, feeling several pops in his spine.

After which, in a move that feels a little anticlimactic, they go to bed in their separate rooms. Whatever this is between them, it’s too new to push hard, too special to risk wrecking with haste. They understand that without words, and Wei Ying who has never met a boundary he hasn’t attempted to surpass in a single leap, is careful not to prod at this one.

In bed, his whole body light and tingling with the memory of happiness, for the first time in a long time Wei Ying falls asleep right away.

The two days before the court date pass rapidly. It’s strange how little changes between Wei Ying and Lan Zhan, which makes him realise just how close they had grown without him ever noticing, so at ease in each other’s space. At night Lan Zhan cooks, then they do the dishes together, then lie draped close on the sofa talking in low voices or just exploring the angles and planes of each other’s body. Each holds back from taking it too far, from moving beyond open-mouthed kisses and soft caresses. Even now, his mind awash with the joy of this newfound passion, Wei Ying’s entire consciousness is overshadowed by the looming court session. One way or another, that has to be settled before he can move on with anything else – it’s a reality they both recognize.

Wei Ying does, in fact, buy a new (to him) suit for the occasion. It’s from one of the trendier thrift stores in Little Fuzhou, and might have been worn by some Rat Pack wannabe in the early 60s. It’s all slim-cut sharp lines, charcoal-dark with a herringbone pattern. It fits Wei Ying like a glove, roomy enough in his admittedly narrow shoulders and nipped in to show off his snatched waist. By some miracle both the cuffs and the hems are within the range of fashionably long, and neither need taking up. He pairs it with a square-end red tie and a plain white shirt which Lan Zhan, certified best boyfriend, irons for him.

When he steps out of the bedroom Lan Zhan glances up from the book he’s reading. Then, slowly, he lowers it, eyes still locked on Wei Ying. They’re dark, shining with something that makes Wei Ying’s stomach curl in anticipation. “Yeah?” he asks.

Lan Zhan just nods, his appreciation needing no words to convey.

They get to the courthouse early, because Lan Zhan was the one who planned the transit route. Jiang Cheng’s already there, in a light grey suit with a purple tie; Casey is there too, long hair wrapped up cleanly in a clip and wearing the kind of make-up that works hard to look minimalistic. Further down the hall the Jin contingent – Jin Guangshan, Jin-furen, and Jin Zixun – are all there, with their small but pricy team of lawyers. Their combined suiting would pay for a family all-inclusive trip to Europe.

The judge calls them in after about half an hour. Family court is a revolving door of terribleness, marriages dissolving, children being fought over, possessions cut up and divvied up. At least Jin Ling isn’t here today, is at home with a Jin nanny so as to miss the spectacle of his nearest and dearest squabbling over him like gulls over a sandwich.

The judge is an older woman in black robes, her hair looking like it was only recently freed from curlers, her face well-lined doubtless by her day-to-day life. The case is explained – the Jin contingent will take the stand first, then the Jiangs.

Surprising no one, Jin Guangshan is called as first witness for his family. Broad-shouldered and just a little portly, he is the epitome of a fashionable, successful businessman. He thanks the judge courteously for being called to the stand, and with the polite prompting from his lawyer proceeds to explain that his family is the only possible option to home Jin Ling.

“I absolutely appreciate Jiang Cheng’s sense of familial responsibility, but the reality is that it’s misplaced. He is a single man with no child-rearing experience, limited income, and a very dangerous job. As an orphan himself he has little family to call on for support, and the family he does have frankly constitutes an even larger danger to my grandson. Wei Ying is a known drunk, was fired from his last place of work, and caused the deaths of my son and daughter-in-law.”

Casey stands rapidly, snapping out an objection before Jin Guangshan can continue. “Objection – Wei Ying is not a person of interest in the car accident that claimed Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli’s lives; another driver has been arrested on that charge. He is a victim of that accident.”

“Sustained – the witnesses will refrain from making libelous accusations in this court.”

“Alright – let’s say then that Wei Ying’s drinking problem was what resulted in my children being out after midnight with their infant son. They had just picked him up from a bar when they were killed in a crash. Is that the kind of person this court would put in a position of responsibility?”

Wei Ying feels his stomach twisting, his skin covered in sweat, his shirt beginning to stick. The heating is on in the courtroom and it feels hot, too hot, the air thin. He’s breathing hard, almost panting, and tries to focus on slowing his breaths.

“Furthermore, both he and Jiang Cheng were arrested for publicly brawling in the street – I really don’t think I have to say anything more about these two young men and their absolute lack of reliability and fitness to be the guardians of a young child.”

Casey had warned them that it would be bad, of course. That the Jins would come at them with everything, gloves off. But every blow still lands fresh and brutal, the attacks without mercy. After Jin Guanshang comes his wife, focusing much more on what a happy and perfect household they have ready for a bright new baby. Then comes Jin Zixun, tossed into the mix to try to blacken Wei Ying’s name a little more as an out-of-work layabout with a temper and a taste for the bottle.

The good thing is that they clearly aren’t aware that Wei Ying lost his apartment, or that he’s been hired on with Nie Cultivation. Casey sends Jiang Cheng up first to do his dog-and-pony show about how he’s a dedicated and reliable uncle, has the income and the space to raise a child, is actively in talks to begin working with a counsellor (news to Wei Ying). And then it’s Wei Ying’s turn to take the stand.

Casey, wisely, doesn’t try to make him give a speech about his excellent fit for the role of a carer. Instead, she guides him to addressing the concerns raised by the Jin.

“A lot of people are talking about me today – and I know the court is here to form a judgement of me as a potential care giver. Jin Guangshan was right – in October, I had too many drinks and called my sister, Jiang Yanli, for a ride. I had no way of knowing that she would bring her newborn son with her to pick me up, or that we would be in a head-on collision with another driver. I regret my decision to call her every day – if I could go back and change it, I would. That day, October 17^th, was the last time I had an alcoholic drink. I’ve been sober for two months now; I work at it every day.

“Jin Zixun said I was a drunk and out of work. Neither of those things is true. After I lost my job at Jin Enterprise, which had nothing to do with drinking, I got a new job at Nie Cultivation; I’ve been working there for three weeks. My salary is higher than it was at Jin Enterprises, and my hours are more predictable. Nie Cultivation ranks higher than Jin Enterprises in terms of quality and satisfaction in New York City’s cultivation accreditation.

“Jin Guangshan has accused me of being ruled by my temper. I can only say that I’ve worked hard all my life to be a loving brother to my family, and to be there for friends and others when they have needed me. I can provide the court with testimonials from clients and friends to this effect.

“Lastly, I –”

Before he can finish the door to the courtroom is pushed open. Someone strides down the aisle; Wei Ying, facing that direction, can see it’s a young man in a cheap, rumpled blazer and white t-shirt. His hair is long, slick with oil. His face is pale; he has what look like burn scars under his eyes, pink and shiny. “I would like to address the court,” he says; his voice is thin and reedy, but certain.

The judge glares at him. “Order – you have not been called –”

“My name is Mo Xuanyu. I’m Jin Guangshan’s son – one of the ones he abandoned to foster care. I want to address the court.”

Wei Ying looks to his lawyer, who’s turned to stare at Mo Xuanyu. Jin Guangshan stands, beginning to shout that the boy needs to be ejected from the courtroom. Jin Zixun takes his queue and leaps up, making a ruckus, while the lawyers start to caucus. The judge brings her gavel down repeatedly, demanding order. And Mo Xuanyu, who is thin and lanky and looks like he crawled out from under a bridge, stands there waiting patiently.

In the end, they secure a brief recess, during which Casey questions Mo Xuanyu before agreeing to call him as a witness. His statement is interrupted by repeated objections from the Jins, most of which are overturned.

It’s not a complicated statement, but it’s given with the quiet force of one who’s waited a very long time to have the chance to speak.

Mo Xuanyu, the son of one of Jin Guangshan’s mistresses, was initially given into Jin Guangshan’s care after his birth when his mother fell ill. Jin Guangshan refused to provide for the boy or to acknowledge paternity, despite a test secured unknowingly by the boy’s mother. When she died, he shunted Mo Xuanyu into foster care where he was repeatedly abused, until he became an emancipated minor at the age of fifteen and dropped out of school, earning a living working multiple minimum-wage jobs. Jin Guangshan refused to provide any further support, or to meet with him at any time. During his time in foster care Mo Xuanyu wrote numerous letters begging for help, none of which were returned. Help never came.

“This is a man,” finishes Mo Xuanyu, “who should never, ever be given the care of any living creature, much less a baby. He will abandon them as soon as it suits them, and never look back.”

“This is monstrous,” rages Jin Guangshan, leaping to his feet. “Lies and slander. The boy is paid – an actor, a plant!”

“I have the paternity test,” says Mo Xuanyu, holding up an envelope. “The one thing my mother gave me, other than my life.”

“I will have order,” snarls the judge. The court room falls silent. “Ms. Freeburn, do you agree to have the document in question entered as evidence?”

Casey glances at Jiang Cheng. He nods. “We do.”

The judge waves at a bailiff, who takes the envelope and gives it to her. She opens it and reviews the comments. “The results have been notarized, and confirm that the sample given came from the father. There is no clear line of evidence linking that to Jin Guangshan.”

Jin Guangshan breaks into a wide smile.

“There is also,” she says, “a birth certificate. Jin Guangshan is listed on it as the father.”

“That document is falsified, forged!”

“Then will you undertake a paternity test?” asks the judge.

“Of course not. I have nothing to prove. It’s beholden on him to prove his relationship to me, not on me to disprove it. I’m a well-respected man, a pillar of the community.”

“With at least one other illegitimate son he abandoned,” puts in Mo Xuanyu; the judge glares at him, and he closes his mouth.

“Meng Yao chose to live with his mother; I provided for him,” snaps Jin Guangshan. “This boy has nothing that amounts to anything. I refuse to submit to a test.”

Casey stands. “I would like to put forward a motion that the court order a paternity test.”

“That’s ridiculous,” snaps Jin Guangshan. “Absolutely ridiculous, an infringement of my privacy, and –”

“I will clear this court if order is not reinstated,” says the judge, glaring down Jin Guangshan. “I accept the motion – Jin Guangshan, this court is ordering you to undergo a paternity test.”

“This is monstrous, illegal, I –”

“Court dismissed,” says the judge.

***

“You did this, didn’t you?” says Wei Ying to Lan Zhan, as they enter a nearby café with Jiang Cheng to celebrate something that feels at least victory-adjacent.

“I did not,” replies Lan Zhan, gaze lowered with something like modesty, or perhaps slyness.

“You did. You told Lan Huan to talk to Meng Yao. Nie Huaisang spilled the beans, but he didn’t know what it was about.”

Lan Zhan glances up briefly between the thick fringe of his lashes and oh, he is sly, and lovely in his slyness. Wei Ying wants, very suddenly, to slide onto his lap and kiss him senseless. “I only suggested that Meng Yao might be able to provide information that would help the case. Ge talked to him, and it turned out that while he wasn’t in a place to testify, he knew someone who could.”

“You should’ve turned him over to our lawyer,” points out Jiang Cheng, bullish with the fact that Lan Zhan was the one who broke the case wide open, not himself. They order drinks from a passing waitress; it’s a sit-down place, the seats wooden with green tie cushions and packets of sugar and sweetener at every table. Christmas carols are playing through the speakers overhead.

“I had no direct contact with him. Nor did Huan-ge. I can only imagine what the conversation between himself and Meng Yao looked like. He seems like a person who makes his choices based on his own will alone.”

“Still,” grumbles Jiang Cheng. Wei Ying rolls his eyes at him.

“Aw, didi, who cares. He showed up and turned the whole thing on its head. If it’s true, even Casey thinks we’ll get custody.”

“If,” says Jiang Cheng.

Wei Ying grins around his coffee cup. “Seeing the way Jin Guangshan reacted, do you really think it’s not? He was sweating bullets.”

“So were you,” replies Jiang Cheng. “You did alright,” he adds, sounding like it’s been ground out of him.

“Your testimony was honest and moving,” says Lan Zhan. Jiang Cheng slants a glance at him that says, clearly, unbelievable.

“Thanks,” says Wei Ying. He reaches out and clasps Lan Zhan’s hand. Jiang Cheng’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh no,” he says, a little tiredly.

“Oh yes,” replies Wei Ying.

Jiang Cheng sighs. “Finally got a clue, did you?”

“Finally did,” says Wei Ying, cheerfully. “And if it turns out that Lan Zhan came in clutch to pull our asses out of the fire in court, you don’t get to make fun of me for it.”

“No promises,” says Jiang Cheng.

***

Court sits again three days later; the atmosphere is notably different. The Jin contingent is quiet, sombre; Jin-furen is missing entirely. Their lawyers sit with their hands on the table in front of them, passive, quiet. Jin Ling is there in the lap of a nanny, a mild Chinese woman in a black dress with white cuffs and collar like a French maid.

The judge reads the results of the paternity test: Jin Guangshan is indeed Mo Xuanyu’s father, and instead of taking him in or making provisions for him once his mother died, sent him off into foster care and never acknowledged – or reported – his pleas for help.

The court session doesn’t last long after that. The judge hears a few brief testimonials, then sums up. She finishes her report concisely, raking her hard eyes over both families. “In light of this evidence, and the strong case made by the Jiang family regarding their ability to protect and care for Jin Ling, I award custody to Jiang Cheng. Provisions will be made for visitation by Jin Guangshan and his family, but Jin Ling will reside with Jiang Cheng. Court dismissed.”

Jin Guangshan says nothing as Jiang Cheng walks over, lifts Jin Ling out of the arms of his nanny, and cuddles the boy close. “We’re going home, Ling-er,” he says.

***

The celebration lasts all afternoon, even through two melt-downs by Ling-er who doesn’t understand all the jubilation or the rounds of family friends who come by to congratulate them – Wen Qing and Wen Ning, Nie Huaisang, Mianmian, and a host of others.

It’s a dry celebration; Wei Ying sucks down can after can of seltzer, provided by Lan Zhan who only admits shyly towards the end of the afternoon that he would like to hold the baby. Seeing him with chubby-cheeked Ling-er, looking down so seriously at the baby’s puckered lips and waving fists, makes something tug hard in the depths of Wei Ying’s chest. When Lan Zhan looks up at him, he knows he feels it too – knows that what Lan Zhan was appreciating at the park wasn’t the baby, it was Wei Ying and the baby.

They go home soon after that, hand in hand in the dark night. It’s two days before Christmas, but as Wei Ying tells Lan Zhan, he doesn’t need anything else this year. He already has everything he wants.

The heat between them has only grown over the past few days, flaring with each touch, lingering long into the night after they go to their separate beds. It’s been ages since Wei Ying slept with anyone, and his body is thirsty for Lan Zhan’s hands, his tongue, the press of him inside taking him to pieces. He can’t stop staring at Lan Zhan’s hands on the bus, mouth wet and stomach tight, imagination running wild. He wants to take those fingers into his mouth and suckle them, wants to feel them kneading his ass, wants the stretch and the drag of them in his wet hole. The longing is filthy, and when he glances up he sees from Lan Zhan and his shuttered look and pink ears that he’s not alone in it.

It feels like they might burn up from sheer silent wanting by the time the bus finally – finally – arrives at their stop, depositing them into the night with a small group of pre-Christmas revellers. Lan Zhan slips his fingers through Wei Ying’s and pulls him forcibly across the sidewalk, dragging him to his home like some prince bringing home a conquest.

They kiss in the elevator, hot and steamy, Wei Ying pinned to the shiny stainless steel wall and moaning p*rnographically just to make Lan Zhan twist his hands in his hair, the corner of his shirt. He parts his legs and presses forward against Lan Zhan’s thick thigh, craving more, already so hungry for his touch. “Behave,” says Lan Zhan, into his mouth, and pulls a little at his hair; Wei Ying whimpers.

It’s a flat-out miracle that they make it inside without being caught humping in the hall like teenagers. Lan Zhan’s only just got the door closed before Wei Ying is taking his hand, stripping off his thin leather gloves and raising his hand to lick at the sensitive inside of his wrist. Lan Zhan takes care of both their coats and suit jackets, their shoes disappearing seemingly into the ether as soon as they kick them off. Lan Zhan’s skin tastes of leather and salt; Wei Ying moans and kisses into his palm, wet and sultry. Lan Zhan groans like an honest-to-god animal and backs him into the wall, bracketing him in with his larger body and ducking his head to suck kisses into Wei Ying’s neck. His mouth is hot, moist, his teeth scraping past skin occasionally to make Wei Ying hiss. Arousal is already gathering low in his stomach, his prick throbbing in the tight press of his Rat Pack suit.

“What do you want?” asks Lan Zhan, voice husky, breath against the wet hickeys he’s licked into Wei Ying’s skin making Wei Ying’s toe’s curl. He sounds half-drunk; he sounds reverent.

“Want you in my mouth,” says Wei Ying. “You can pull my hair,” he adds, catching Lan Zhan’s eye as he slides to his knees. It means f*cking pull it and they both know it; Lan Zhan’s eyes go dark at the prospect. He wants it rough, wants Lan Zhan to take him apart, wants his dick at the back of his throat and his fingers scraping his scalp. Wants to taste him all the way down.

His mouth is already wet, almost dripping, as he unbuckles Lan Zhan’s belt. Black, a match for his sombre black suit – he looks like one of the Blues Brothers, if one of them had been Chinese and hot as hell. Lan Zhan’s already half-hard and getting harder; even this far along Wei Ying can tell he’ll be huge, thick as f*ck. He makes a little sound of anticipation and Lan Zhan’s hands drop to his throat even as he goes down, catching him beneath the chin to drag his tie loose. Wei Ying parts his lips, looks up at him and imagines how he must look, on his knees in his pristine suit, lips shining, eyes so hungry. Lan Zhan is breathing hard and he hasn’t even touched him.

He leans forward and slips a hand inside Lan Zhan’s briefs, palming him, feeling his body still and then shudder at the touch. He smiles, happy to have his full attention, and brings his co*ck out. Thick shaft, pink head, few veins. Beautiful. Wei Ying leans in and gives it a sloppy kiss before opening up and taking him in.

In a completely transparent, fair universe, Giving Head would be near the top of Wei Ying’s lists of Accomplishments as well as Favourite Things. He loves it, loves the weight of Lan Zhan in his mouth, filling him. Loves the urgency and the power and trust of it. Loves how messy he is, his lips smeared with spit around Lan Zhan as he smiles up. And then Lan Zhan reaches down and buries his fingers in Wei Ying’s short hair, holding him tight but not too tight, and oh that’s nice. It’s grounding, something solid and firm and so clear between them. An indelible connection. He starts sucking, moving his mouth up and down, feeling Lan Zhan’s head against his upper palate and then skidding down his throat. He spreads his hands on Lan Zhan’s thighs to focus himself, presses his legs apart a little so he can fit himself into this space between them more neatly. Lan Zhan sucks in a breath and lets him, opens himself to Wei Ying.

He's working hard now, sucking and licking, moving his tongue over the shaft and running it like a blade beneath the head, into the slit when he reaches the top of his bob. Lan Zhan’s holding but not quite pulling and it’s good but he wants more, wants Lan Zhan to need him, to lose control and take him. He looks up and parts his lips, letting Lan Zhan slip out and blowing hot air over his wet, heated flesh. “More,” he says, voice guttural, rough. “Harder.”

Lan Zhan lets go and reaches down to feed him his dick, push it in almost before Wei Ying is ready for it. And now he’s pulling, his hands tangled tightly in Wei Ying’s hair pushing him down onto his dick, f*cking him with it. Wei Ying groans and lets his face be mashed forward, feels his lips meet Lan Zhan’s base. f*ck it’s good, the feeling of his mouth like a sleeve, ravishing Lan Zhan while Lan Zhan takes him apart, forces him down and thrusts up and needs, needs what only Wei Ying can give him. Wei Ying’s hands clench over his thighs, his own prick aching, throbbing; there are tears in his eyes now and he can’t tell if it’s from the fierce pounding the back of his throat is taking or his own unfulfilled need – the stretch of both of them is so good, salty and raw and overwhelming.

“Wei Ying – I’m going to –”

Wei Ying blinks out of a trance of ecstasy and leans in, holding onto Lan Zhan tightly, bobbing hard. He hardly tastes the jet of come as Lan Zhan shoots off down his throat, thrusting in with a groan. He looks like he’s been shattered, head tilted back, fingers curled around the thick locks of Wei Ying’s hair.

Wei Ying sucks him through it then falls back to sit on his heels and warms his co*ck until Lan Zhan reaches down to push a gentle thumb in his mouth and open it, withdrawing his limp dick. His eyes are a little wet, his lashes low, dark. “You were very good,” he says; Wei Ying smiles sloppily, his lips protesting a little at the pull of it. “What do you want, Wei Ying?” he sounds so sincere, like he’s here to do nothing but pleasure Wei Ying.

“If I wait, can you go again?”

“Mn.”

“That. I want that. I want you.”

They’re still standing in the entryway; only now do they really realise it. With a laugh Wei Ying lets Lan Zhan pull him to his feet; he tugs his tie off all the way and starts undoing his shirt.

They go to the bedroom together, shedding clothing as they pass through the wide white space of Lan Zhan’s apartment. By the time he makes it to the bed Wei Ying is naked, his co*ck having lost a little of its exuberance but is still erect enough to draw Lan Zhan’s eager eye.

He lies down, legs spread erotically, slowly palming himself wantonly while Lan Zhan tries to get out lube and condoms while watching – it goes badly, but hilariously so, and Wei Ying laughs at that too which makes Lan Zhan smile. “Can’t look away, huh?” he breathes, in what he hopes is a sexy voice but probably isn’t.

“I’ve never been able to,” confesses Lan Zhan, coming onto the bed on his knees. He bends down and slips a hand beneath Wei Ying head to raise him into a kiss, a sweet one that makes Wei Ying’s legs turn to jelly. “I’ve never been able to look away from you.”

“Lan Zhan – unfair – think of all the compliments you didn’t let me give you. Lan Zhan is so thick, so well-endowed, his stamina so –” Wei Ying yelps as Lan Zhan grabs his arm and rolls him onto his side, settling himself in behind.

“Okay?” he murmurs, running a hand down Wei Ying’s flank, over the rise of his hip, down towards his inner thigh.

“Okay,” breathes Wei Ying. He leans his head back pointedly and Lan Zhan takes the hint, dropping to press more hot kisses into his throat, along the bolt of his chin, at the base of his ear. All the while Lan Zhan’s hand slides down, down, down towards his inner thigh, until his hand is between Wei Ying’s leg and he’s raising it to find his co*ck and take it in hand, stroking slow. Wei Ying draws in a breath and shudders, his hips widening, legs parting in a silent plea. Lan Zhan murmurs something wordless, an animal sound of comfort, and kisses him while he touches him, leaving glowing blossoms of bliss along his shoulders. Only once Wei Ying is relaxed, his muscles pleasure-softened, does Lan Zhan stop touching him.

Wei Ying makes a small sound of loss but then Lan Zhan’s hand is back, his fingers wet, cool. He slips them between Wei Ying’s cheeks and finds the pucker of his entrance unerringly, sliding one slow finger inside. Wei Ying sighs and slips his legs open wider, easing the pressure.

If Giving Head is high on his list of Favourite Things, Getting Fingered is equally up near the top. He basks in the feel of it, the slow stretch, this first intimacy that will – hopefully – not be the last. There’s always something special about it, about giving himself like this for the first time, and Lan Zhan takes to it like a fish to water. There’s care but no hesitancy, his touch deliberate, possessive, possessing. He works his fingers into Wei Ying like they belong there, stretching him, scissoring to press him open. It starts to get good, heavy, and Wei Ying opens his mouth to pant as Lan Zhan adds a third finger, more than half his fist inside Wei Ying. It’s an incredible image and he moans helplessly, making little whimpers as Lan Zhan strokes inside of him, searching for his prostate.

He finds it readily and his firm, confident touch makes Wei Ying’s hips buck into it, spearing himself into the touch. Sparks flare in his vision as his back arches, the whole of him trying to pull himself further onto Lan Zhan’s fingers. It’s never been so sharp before, so visceral, his body aching with need and want for this man. It’s because it’s Lan Zhan, he’s sure, because these are Lan Zhan’s beautiful fingers and Lan Zhan’s eager touch and – “Oh please,” he says, breaking into begging without any shame, “f*ck, you’re so good, please – I need you. Lan Zhan, please – I – ah, oh god.” Abruptly the need feels all-consuming, feels like something he’s been yearning for his whole life. A satisfaction he’s craved but never known. He keens and flushes, embarrassed.

“Hush,” murmurs Lan Zhan, but he withdraws his fingers, leaving Wei Ying limp and boneless on the bed, wanting so much more. There’s a crinkle of foil, and then Lan Zhan is rolling him onto his knees. He reaches down with one hand, drawing Wei Ying’s face up so he can kiss behind his ear, the smooth plane of his temple. “Okay?” he asks.

“f*ck – yes – do it – do it do it do – aah –”

His back arches slowly, body slowing as Lan Zhan presses in. f*ck he’s big, huge, the press of him not quite a burn but on the edge of discomfort. He goes slow, clearly knows himself, and Wei Ying suddenly can’t wait for the day that they have this rhythm down and he can just f*ck right in like he owns the place. Lan Zhan’s holding him just above his hips, hands resting on his waist and holy sh*t his fingers can entirely encircle Wei Ying’s waist, just hold him there sitting on his co*ck like a nice little f*ck toy. Wei Ying moans and moves, pressing back sharply to feel the heat of Lan Zhan’s body against him. Fully penetrated, Lan Zhan’s enormous dick buried inside him. “Fu-huck,” he whispers.

“Mn,” agrees Lan Zhan, tightly.

“What are you – ah, f*ck – waiting for? f*ck me alrea –”

Lan Zhan tightens his grip and moves, snapping his hips forward. A keening yelp is forced out of Wei Ying as Lan Zhan starts f*cking him, filling him so full, his pace quick and relentless. Lan Zhan, who blushes at the slightest crudity and has never once in Wei Ying’s hearing mentioned sex, turns out to f*ck like a goddamn stallion. Wei Ying can’t stop gasping, each stroke pounding over his prostate, making his body sing like a qin string. Lan Zhan seems to know exactly how to play him, how to wring every last drop of pleasure out of him and it’s good, so good that he can feel tears in his eyes again and knows why this time.

Just when he’s starting to think he’s getting used to this, he can hold on, he can take it like the champion twink he is and not tumble right over the edge into oblivion in two minutes straight, Lan Zhan slips one hand beneath his stomach and lifts him, lifts them both so that he’s f*cking up into him. Wei Ying sobs and begs – something dumb, incomprehensible – as Lan Zhan pounds him sky high.

“Please,” he’s muttering, maybe begging, “Please please please –” he doesn’t know what he’s asking for, he wants to come and he never wants this to stop and he is both so full and so empty. “Please –”

Lan Zhan stretches his stupidly long arm down and grabs his dick and oh – that’s what he needs, that’s it, that’s –

Wei Ying comes in three long pumps over Lan Zhan’s wrist, gasping and praying for more.

Lan Zhan gives two more thrusts and hugs him tight, holding him close as he finishes, his mouth pressed to the back of Wei Ying’s neck, teeth brushing the knob of his spine.

When he’s done he lies Wei Ying down and gets off him to do clean-up, returning with a warm damp cloth. Wei Ying half turns over, wet and exhausted and so sated, and looks up at Lan Zhan. “You are an animal, and I love it,” he says. “Come here.”

Lan Zhan bends down and kisses him.

EPILOGUE

Christmas is over.

Over the holidays, Jin Ling was showered with gifts, toys and blankets and clothes and books. Jiang Cheng lost his mind temporarily over housing all the riches, which realistically may have been the Jin’s intention. He ended up going to IKEA to get extra shelves, and he and Wei Ying spent an afternoon of not-quite-cursing trying to assemble them and secure them to the wall. It all feels a bit exhausting with Lunar New Year just around the corner.

After the chaos settles, they take Jin Ling to the mall to look at the New Year’s decorations. This time there are four of them, Lan Zhan helping Wei Ying carry the miscellaneous baby gear, somehow more comprehensive than a US Marine’s field pack.

“I’m telling you, Jiang Cheng. You should give the wrap a try. Babies love it. I’ve done an informal survey, and ten out of ten babies agree.” Wei Ying has his hands in the pocket of his coat as they walk along, pack slung over his shoulder. Lan Zhan is close beside him, not quite arm-in-arm but definitely projecting a possessiveness that makes his heart sing.

“What are you, a spokesperson for Big Wrap? He’s just fine in the carrier. Look – he likes the streamers in Cartier.” Jiang Cheng points, bouncing a little on his toes to make the baby smile.

“That just feels like you dropping the world’s least subtle hint. What, are you angling for a new watch for New Year’s? Don’t hold your breath, didi, you’re getting a bag of Dabaitu Naitang like every year.”

“Idiot,” says Jiang Cheng, but without heat.

They make another round of the mall, its interior pleasantly warm after the chill of outside, Christmas songs still playing on the overhead speakers. Jiang Cheng declares he has to take a piss, so they go through the procedure to unload Jin Ling from the carrier and leave him in Wei Ying’s arms sitting on a bench with Lan Zhan while Jiang Cheng goes to find a bathroom. Wei Ying dandles him, grinning and making the puffin face while Ling-er laughs. A moment later he’s spitting up, sticky spit pouring down his chin. Lan Zhan leans forward and grabs a cloth out of the bag, reaching in to clean him up.

“Thanks,” says Wei Ying. “You’re a mess, little guy. An absolute mess, and I love it. Never change.” He takes a little fist in his hand, shaking it.

Lan Zhan, carefully wiping the baby’s chubby chin, looks up at Wei Ying and smiles and oh. Oh, that’s something that feels wonderfully close to love.

“I – that’s a good look on you, Lan Zhan,” he says, voice pitched low for just the two of them. Lan Zhan’s eyes pointedly slip over him holding Jin Ling in his arms.

“I agree,” he says. His eyes are dark, gleaming. f*ck, he likes it too. This moment of shared parenthood, the two of them raising a baby of their very own. Wei Ying swallows. Lan Zhan smiles, and he knows he’s enjoying Wei Ying’s speechlessness, the power he has to make Wei Ying want – not just him, but them. A partnership, a loving family.

Beside them an older lady shuffles in to sit down, sighing, and they snap out of their little heated fantasy. She glances over at them, then smiles. “Aren’t you a lovely couple,” she says, looking at then and Ling-er. “And what a cute baby.”

“Thanks,” says Wei Ying, grinning. Behind her back he sees Jiang Cheng walking up. They get Jin Ling up and slide him back into the carrier.

“The one good thing about this sorry state,” says Jiang Cheng, looking between Wei Ying and Lan Zhan, “is that at least no one things I’m your boyfriend anymore.”

“So glad you’re finding a way to benefit from our relationship didi,” says Wei Ying. Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.

Behind his back, Lan Zhan slips a hand along Wei Ying’s waist and leaves it there, just a light touch at the small of his back. A reminder of his presence.

Wei Ying looks up at him, and smiles.

END