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Lan Zhan has spent many, many years as Lan Huan’s brother—all of his years on this earth. These years lend him particular insight into Lan Huan’s thoughts and feelings. 

When he hears the telltale thumps of neighbors experiencing a rough move-in, he knows exactly what expression will be on Lan Huan’s face before he ever turns to look at him. 

“Oh, dear,” his brother says, looking toward the floor, where a loud banging is followed by a yelp of pain. “ZhanZhan, perhaps we should lend a hand?” 

A nod. He won’t argue—it would be a losing battle, anyway. They aren’t busy. Lan Zhan was about to spend a restful hour with his guqin, but it’s Sunday. When they’d first moved out of their uncle’s home, Lan Huan had declared Sundays were solely recreational. They hadn’t carved out time for recreation before; it had taken him significant time to adjust his routine, but the results have been irreproachable up to this point. 

He rethinks that record on the stairs.

“—not even half as bad as that time I tweaked my back in the sex swing—” 

“It was not a sex swing!” 

“Any swing you can have sex in is a sex swing, A-Cheng, keep up.” 

Lan Zhan would prefer to leave these people to their suffering. Anyone who speaks at such a decibel about sex swings is not someone deserving of his assistance moving furniture, though he will admit to the unlikelihood of anyone else in the building understanding their fast-paced Mandarin.

Lan Huan’s lips twitch upwards. They will not be letting these two suffer, then. He braces himself.

Lan Zhan will simply have to move the heavy objects very, very fast. 

“Hello,” Lan Huan greets, matching their Mandarin and letting them know he and Lan Zhan fully understood their conversation without pointing out anything overtly embarrassing. He never has a clue how Lan Huan manages his blend of tact and teasing, but it’s always interesting to watch him work. 

The two men inside can’t be much older than Lan Zhan, if at all. Their heads whip around to stare at them in such an uncanny way that they must either be family or long-term romantic partners. No one else moves in sync that well. 

One, with short hair and sharp cheekbones, instantly turns a glare on the other. “Idiot. We’re not even done moving and you’re already getting noise complaints.” 

“Who dropped a dresser on my foot? A-Cheng, if only your biceps could match mine, my genetics were a divine gift—”

As he watches, the first man—’A-Cheng’—blatantly stomps on the second man’s foot. The same one, Lan Zhan observes, that he was just checking for injury. The one who spoke of sex swings makes a pathetic, wounded noise, not unlike that of an animal. 

It tugs a little on Lan Zhan, but only by the smallest of margins.

“I apologize if we bothered you,” ‘A-Cheng’ says, walking over to greet Lan Huan like he didn’t just re-injure his… boyfriend? Brother? Outlook remains unclear. He shakes Lan Huan’s hand. “I assume you’re one of the neighbors?” 

“Upstairs,” Lan Huan agrees. “We heard the thumping and thought you might need assistance?” 

“Oh.” ‘A-Cheng’ looks ready to grimace. “No, sorry to pull you down here like that, we’re fine—”

“We are not!” Foot apparently recovered, the long-haired, loud-mouthed one darts forward, slinging his arms around the shoulders of ‘A-Cheng’ from behind and grinning brightly. His bangs are sticking to his face a little from the exertion. 

He has the look of someone beautiful and very aware of it.

“A-Cheng just can’t be trusted not to drop furniture on me. Gege, won’t you take pity?” He bats long lashes up at Lan Huan, who seems amused. 

Lan Zhan is decidedly not. Gege? How shameless. 

Clearly not wanting to overstep, Lan Huan looks at ‘A-Cheng’, who seems conflicted. Say no, he begs via the sudden onset telepathy of the desperate, say no, say no. 

“If you’re sure.” Damn him. “We could use the help, I guess. I’m Jiang Cheng, that’s Wei Ying. Don’t listen to him.” 

“Don’t listen to him, didi’s just embarrassed he dropped my dresser! I keep telling him not to skip arm day, but no, he’s all focused on his quads this month.” 

Didi. Lan Huan seems to register the address at the same time Lan Zhan does, expression brightening. “Oh, are you brothers as well?”

“Unfortunately,” Jiang Cheng says. At the same time, Wei Ying chirps, “Most of the time!” 

Jiang Cheng elbows him. 

Lan Zhan did not realize siblings did so much rough housing outside of movies, nor does he understand how you can be siblings ‘most of the time’, but neither man offers to elaborate. Lan Huan doesn’t ask, merely introducing himself and introducing Lan Zhan as his younger brother, to which all he can do is nod.

The coordination, at least, goes quickly. Lan Zhan wants it to be done as fast as possible, offering very little commentary of his own. 

Somehow, he is stuck with Wei Ying as his partner, approaching what appears to be an antique writing desk. The glare he gives Lan Huan does not go unnoticed but does go unanswered.

He will have words with Lan Huan this evening. 

“Wow,” Wei Ying breathes when Lan Zhan picks up the desk. After a moment he seems to realize he was meant to help and scrambles forward, taking on some of the weight as they maneuver from the truck—Lan Zhan thinks it’s parked illegally, but this is Queens, so he pretends not to notice—to the stairs. “Wow, your biceps are worth, like, ten of A-Cheng’s. Minimum. Do you lift?” 

Lan Zhan doesn’t know how to answer that question. His go-to, a small shrug, is impossible due to the furniture they’re carrying. Horrifyingly, he realizes he might actually have to explain his workout routine in order to answer this question correctly and in a polite capacity, especially if there are follow-up questions. 

He is not speaking to Lan Huan at all tonight. Lan Huan is in the dog house.

“Sometimes.” He and Wei Ying take the corner with the creaky stair; he manages to avoid wincing, though he hates the sound and would normally avoid it at all costs. Of course Wei Ying’s foot would land on the loudest part. “Maintaining your body is important.” 

Wei Ying nearly drops the desk as he laughs, eyes curling into pleased crescents. “You sound like a commercial! Are you selling me something, Lan Zhan? Tell me what health plans you’re offering. Do I get a friends and family discount?” 

He has been made fun of for his stiff and formal countenance before and typically does not allow it to bother him, but something in Wei Ying’s exuberance has him stiffening further. He cannot imagine this person carrying any tension in him at all. Maybe he’s a miracle, and his shoulders are always loose, nothing knotted or sore. 

Lan Zhan finds him terribly unfair. 

Their other attempts at conversation go similarly. Wei Ying chatters on as they carry various heavy items up the seven flights of stairs, only pausing when he gets too out of breath at the top and needs a moment to regain his stamina. Even then, he breathes out words, staccato sentences Lan Zhan is surprised he can make sense of. Wei Ying speaks like he needs it to survive, like he would die without talking the same as he would die without air or water. Lan Zhan finds himself saying more words than he’s said in the past week combined in an attempt to keep up.

Most infuriatingly, he does want to keep up. Something about the dismissive way Wei Ying responds to his words makes him want to find more pleasing ones. Who is this person, that he should care what he thinks of him? Is this what people mean when they use the term ‘charismatic’? 

He wishes, briefly, that he’d been partnered with Jiang Cheng instead; he and Lan Huan seem to be having a much more amicable time of it. He’s certain Jiang Cheng has not once referred to Lan Huan as a stuffy old man. Then again, Lan Huan’s mannerisms resemble an old man far less than Lan Zhan’s, so it might be an apples to oranges scenario.

No matter how badly he wishes for it, Wei Ying never once lets up.

“I thought that’d take all night!” 

Wei Ying has set his foot on top of the last box to come up the stairs, bent over as though he’s just finished climbing a mountain. All of them are sweating lightly from the exertion, though Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng were sensible enough to move in November rather than in the summer heat. The chill offers a slight respite.

“I’m glad we could help.” Lan Huan has always been weirdly neighborly for New York. Lan Zhan only has one neighbor he interacts with—the goth from the third floor nods at him on her way out if he’s headed in—and that’s quite enough for him. That’s how New York works. 

His brother is an outlier who is very hard to say no to—a deadly combination.

Wei Ying has at last stopped making a nuisance of himself, if only because he disappeared into his new room, saying something about needing to tend to… something. Lan Zhan was listening, but Wei Ying was speaking absently and had left the room before he could finish. He does not want to admit to enough curiosity to ask what he was looking for. 

Instead, he watches silently as Lan Huan exchanges pleasantries with Jiang Cheng for the necessary amount of time before making their excuses. 

“Thanks,” Jiang Cheng says at the threshold, “Seriously. Wei Ying was right, we thought we’d be doing this all night.”

“Any time!”

Lan Zhan cannot even muster anger over how sincere Lan Huan is when he says it, though he would dearly like to. They make their way back down the stairs to their own apartment in silence. When they’re alone, for the first time in hours, Lan Zhan lets himself relax somewhat.

“Wei Ying seemed friendly,” Lan Huan says, testing the waters. His voice is hopeful.

Lan Zhan looks at him, then pointedly turns and walks directly into his room, shutting the door behind him. He takes ZhenZhen out of her cage for a while before bed, soothing himself with tiny, calming strokes of her soft fur. She trembles a little in his lap before settling in.

I agree, he thinks in her direction. It was a trying day.

Lan Zhan wishes he could forget the downstairs neighbors entirely after that, but his mind refuses to cooperate. He attends classes as he usually does, completes compositions, even sits for an midterm, but in the back of his mind he thinks more about the neighbors than he would care to admit.

Just the one neighbor, really.

Wei Ying is not the sort of person he typically gravitates toward. His friends are either sensible (Luo Qingyang), quiet (Wen Ning), or nonexistent. Wei Ying fits neither category, so he must not be a friend, despite what he’d jokingly called them as they hauled furniture together. 

Ridiculous of him. Lan Zhan cannot consider him a friend even if he wants to; they’ve only met once. 

He’s just—stuck, on the sight of Wei Ying disappearing into that bedroom. 

It’s embarrassingly easy to make the connection: somewhere below him, each night, Wei Ying falls asleep. Perhaps his dark hair sprawls in a tangled mess over the pillows, or perhaps he braids it. Maybe he sleeps with his mouth open. Maybe he doesn’t wear a shirt.

There are many things to contemplate about the man sleeping below, all of them coming to him unbidden, mostly in the moments between sleep and wakefulness. When he wakes at 4:59am to vaguely fading dreams and crackling laughter, he can no longer be surprised—only a bit disappointed.

Could his subconscious (and conscious) not fixate on someone more… suited to him? Less frustrating, perhaps? He sits up at the edge of his bed, scrubbing a hand over his face. When he can see again, he almost misses the flash of movement at the corner of his eye.

Lan Zhan pauses. 

He sits up straight and turns, catching movement outside. An animal? There’s no reflection from the eyes of a rat or raccoon, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen one on the fire escape.

Deciding to investigate, he grabs the jagged paperweight from his desk—in the unlikely event it is a burglar, he should have some sort of defense with him. Holding it with his dominant hand, Lan Zhan walks carefully toward the window, his eyes still adjusting to wakefulness and the darkness of the hour. 

A very pale, very human face sways into view. Lan Zhan jumps.

The sight is so incongruous he has to take a moment to internalize it. Wei Ying—his beautiful, confounding downstairs neighbor—is standing just outside his window. His vacant, angular face reflects almost no light. From what he can see, Wei Ying appears to be staring into Lan Zhan’s room, utterly unmoving. 

His hoodie is on inside out. There are no shoes on his feet.

Instantly irritated, Lan Zhan opens the window. What does he think he’s doing? Spying like this is a massive invasion of privacy, no matter what sort of recurring dreams Lan Zhan may or may not be having. He opens his mouth to scold him when he gets an actual look at his features.

His very empty features. Lan Zhan blinks.

“Wei Ying?” 

He doesn’t seem to hear it. Lan Zhan waits, but there’s no indication he notices anything going on around him. He just stands there, motionless, his hair lightly rustling in the breeze. 

“Wei Ying,” he tries again. Nothing. “Are you awake?” 

No awareness. Lan Zhan frowns as he puts the pieces together. He has very little personal experience with somnambulism—a cousin dealt with it as a child and he was mildly curious—but he understands how it works in theory. Wei Ying can perform basic tasks, sometimes even speak to people, but he will have no awareness of his actions, no conscious intent.

It’s 5 in the morning at the start of winter. Wei Ying is not wearing shoes.

“Come inside,” he murmurs. When Wei Ying does not respond, he reaches out, taking him by the shoulders and tugging him forward. It’s awkward, but Lan Zhan’s window opens wide enough for Wei Ying to shimmy through; once he feels the open window beneath his palms, he seems to respond on instinct, climbing through and tumbling into Lan Zhan’s room with the grace of a newborn fawn. 

Lan Zhan has no rulebook to follow, leaving him out of sorts. He shuts the window. Wei Ying’s feet must be freezing at this point; Lan Zhan immediately gathers the blanket from his bed, maneuvering Wei Ying into his desk chair and pooling the covers around his legs. 

Lan Huan probably thinks he’s left for his run already. He has an instinctive desire to keep this secret from him, if only because it means he gets a tiny portion of Wei Ying to himself. He was so exuberant that day. He’s probably the sort of person with many, many friends.

If asked later, he’ll mention—privacy concerns. It’s Wei Ying’s sleep disorder, after all. He did not consent to sharing it with Lan Zhan, let alone Lan Huan. This is really something that should be decided when he wakes. 

Still unsure, he checks that Wei Ying seems uninterested in shambling anywhere else. He doesn’t move, even when Lan Zhan goes out of sight. Good. He escapes to his bathroom, readying for the day as fast as he possibly can.

He’s only gone ten minutes, long enough to shower and dress, but he’s still extremely relieved to see Wei Ying has not moved in his absence. 

All he can do now is wait. Lan Zhan takes the opportunity to study Wei Ying a little.

He does not, it seems, sleep with a braid in. Instead, his hair cascades wildly over his shoulders and down his back, more wavy than ever and still slightly damp. He must have gone to bed late and taken a shower or bath just before. There are dark circles under his eyes. He apparently bites his nails.

Judging from these observations, it is possible Wei Ying runs on stress and non-stop chatter alone.

It’s only a few minutes more before he stirs, long lashes fluttering. Lan Zhan keeps the lights off so they don’t hurt his eyes. “Wei Ying?” 

“Hm?” He still seems half asleep for a moment; in the next, his eyes grow very, very wide. “Lan Zhan?” 

“Wei Ying. You—”

“What am I doing here?” His voice is low, clearly panicked but perhaps too afraid to speak loudly enough to call attention to himself, yet. “How did I get here?” 

“You climbed the fire escape.” Lan Zhan thinks he did, anyway. “You are… a somnambulist?” 

“I—what?” It takes him a moment to process the words, still blinking sleep from his eyes and orienting himself in the waking world. “Oh, I sleepwalked here?” His voice has gone high and crackling. Fumbling out of Lan Zhan’s blanket, he goes back to the window, shoving it open as wide as it will go and shoving one leg through.

Lan Zhan makes an aborted movement toward him, but it’s not his place to say anything or stop him in any way. Wei Ying cannot help where he sleepwalks. Still, he should—he should do something, right? Shouldn’t he?

“Sorry about that, won’t happen again, I’ll just get out of your hair!”

Before he can decide what action would be appropriate to take, Wei Ying has disappeared down the fire escape. He sticks his head out the window, but Wei Ying never once looks back, crawling back into his own window like he does this every day. 

Maybe, for people like Wei Ying, this is normal. Lan Zhan cannot decide if there are any other people like Wei Ying in the world.

One is more than enough to contend with.

A single event does not a pattern make.

Thus, there is no reason for Lan Zhan to feel an odd turn in his stomach when three nights pass with no sign of Wei Ying at his window. Surely he didn’t expect this to happen twice? It would be—strange, to want such a disruptive thing to happen again. 

He would not. He doesn’t. 

He researches how it works, just in case—how long he should take to wake up, whether or not Lan Zhan should attempt to wake him, what the causes are—but that’s an overabundance of caution speaking. He leaves the window open a crack and gets out the extra duvet because sleeping cold covered in many blankets is simply the most comfortable, optimal sleep experience. Obviously.

On the fourth morning after Wei Ying’s sleepwalking incident, he wakes tired. Lan Zhan is not typically the person who wants to press ‘snooze’ on his alarm; he wakes up before it goes off, most of the time. 

The fact that he is awake and feeling out of sorts puts him on immediate alert. 

He should probably be scared, but the emotion running through him is much the opposite. Slow, pooling warmth collects in the pit of his stomach. Lan Zhan hears the tell-tale sign of the window slowly rising, catching a little in its frame, and feels a hot pulse of something run through him. 

Wei Ying is wearing less, this time. Lan Zhan watches him tumble through the window in nothing but black sweatpants, trying not to feel overwhelmed. When it’s clear Wei Ying is about to fall, he jumps to catch him, barely making it in time to grasp him by the shoulders and haul him to his feet. 

Wei Ying blinks, but there’s no recognition in his eyes. He seems to have repeated the previous pattern entirely on instinct.

“There’s hair in the sink.” 

Lan Zhan stares at him. Luckily, he did enough reading to anticipate sleep-talking, or this would be a lot more terrifying than it is. 

He waits for Wei Ying to utter more nonsense words, wondering if he will stay awake as long as last time or if this episode will run shorter. The previous one had been nearing the maximum range before there was cause for hospital-related concern. 

Lan Zhan does not want to know what happens if he has to take Wei Ying to the hospital for this. For one, Lan Huan is the one with the car.

He tries to remember the advice from various forums he’d read. “Is there?” he asks, humoring Wei Ying as he decides where to put him. There’s the desk chair, but it’s so hard; cushions were not considered conducive to advancing his studies in his youth, and now he’s conditioned to respond only to unyielding furniture when it comes time to get work done. He sighs. 

Bed it is.

“There’s hair, in my mouth, it’s so long. What if it’s dogs?” 

Wei Ying says all of this as Lan Zhan maneuvers him into sitting on the bed. At the last word, his eyes widen, fear entering his countenance for the first time. Lan Zhan frowns. He knows it’s possible to be dreaming while sleepwalking, and even to have nightmares. Sometimes it helps to speak with the somnambulist, sometimes it doesn’t, but there are no better alternatives.

“No dogs,” he assures, wrapping the duvet around Wei Ying’s bare shoulders. “No hair. Everything is clean.” 

“Jiejie got married.” Wei Ying says it with the gravity of one informing you of a recent death in their family. “To a mop, ” he continues. “Who marries a mop?” 

“No one sensible.” Lan Zhan is only half listening, focused on digging through his top drawer for his warmest pair of socks. He normally would dislike someone touching his things, but Wei Ying is already in his bed, and it’s Wei Ying, so he finds he doesn’t mind. 

Compared to the bed, a sock donation is nothing. 

Kneeling by Wei Ying’s feet to tug them on is something of a surprise. He did not think he could be into this, but when Wei Ying sleepily wriggles toward him, just on the edge of waking, Lan Zhan has to force himself not to lean closer. Wei Ying, he reminds himself, has never consciously sought Lan Zhan’s company.

Neither has Lan Zhan sought his, though he suspects Wei Ying would not be held back by the same things he is.

Lan Zhan finishes putting the socks on him, not wanting his toes to freeze when he goes back outside. There’s a thin layer of frost coating the rusty fire escape—though they’re lucky the snow hasn’t started, it won’t be long before the first shower falls. Wei Ying must solve his sleepwalking before it does. 

“Lan—” a yawn interrupts his greeting, his entire face scrunching up, “—Zhan?” He goes through several slow blinks as his brain returns to functioning. When it does, he can almost catch Wei Ying’s face turning red, even in the absolute darkness of the room, pierced only by the thin sliver of moonlight through the window. 

“Mn.”

He takes in his surroundings with darting eyes, an uncomfortable laugh crawling from his throat. “Oh, again? Wow, that’s—wow.” He squints down at where Lan Zhan still kneels, mouth falling open in surprise. “Lan Zhan, did you give me your socks?” 

He did. He did not expect Wei Ying to ask him about it. If pressed, he’s not sure he had plans at all, beyond leaving the window open just in case. So Wei Ying would not be stuck in the cold. If. 

“It is cold,” he reminds him. It’s New York in November, of course it’s cold. It’s freezing, almost literally.

There’s panic in Wei Ying’s gaze, setting Lan Zhan on edge as well. Is he that frightening? He thought, just a moment ago, that he was doing better than last time. 

He has never had to be comforting. There’s no one on whom he would be able to practice.

“Lan Zhan. You can’t. Don’t you have survival skills? ” His voice is still hoarse with sleep, distracting him so much he doesn’t have time to answer before Wei Ying moves on. “This is New York! Shouldn’t you be pushing me out the window and telling me to stay the fuck out of your business?” 

He has a fair point. Lan Zhan was only just lamenting Lan Huan’s uniquely neighborly instincts, but—Lan Zhan does not want to help Wei Ying out of politeness or moral obligation. 

Faced with only grim options, he elects to ignore the accusation altogether. 

“You should sleep in shirts.” 

“That’s what you’re worried about?” 

“It is cold,” he says again. Wei Ying’s laugh has a hysterical edge to it.

“I’m dreaming,” he says, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Definitely not awake. I’m not awake enough for this, nope.” 

This would be a strange dream. Then again, strangeness is the penchant of dreams. It’s the first time Lan Zhan has felt secure in following Wei Ying’s logic. He wants to ask more, but Wei Ying seems to have hit his limit on whatever it is they’re doing, scrambling to his feet and doing his best not to touch Lan Zhan at all.

“Sorry, again, I don’t know how I manage to keep breaking in here —”

“Wei Ying.” 

He has one socked foot out the window when he freezes, not looking back. Lan Zhan’s tongue is dry. 

“You did not break in.” Wei Ying’s head whips back around, staring at him in surprise. “I left it open.” 

It is, perhaps, the most mortifying thing he’s ever admitted to doing. Wei Ying seems not quite sure what to make of it. 

“Oh.” His mouth twists before morphing into a smile, small and unsure. “You’re a lot nicer than you look, aren’t you?” 

Lan Zhan has no response to that. Wei Ying leaves before he could think of one, anyway, but when he gets back from a long run, Lan Huan has set a pair of freshly washed socks on the coffee table. 

“Wei Ying stopped by,” he says, absolutely beaming. Lan Zhan’s mood instantly shifts. He would very much like the floor to open up and drop him into Wei Ying’s living room, where he could find the man and personally strangle him. “I didn’t know you’d seen him again.” 

“I haven’t.” Lan Zhan grits his teeth through the obvious lie, but he can’t take it back now. It doesn’t really count as dishonesty since Lan Huan could not possibly believe something so stupid.

“Let me guess—you have installed a rudimentary rope and pulley system in order to… exchange socks?” 

He’s getting Lan Huan socks for Christmas. Ankle socks, a big pack of them, slightly too small for his feet. They’ve never even celebrated Christmas, but Lan Zhan will stuff them under his pillow while he’s at work. He’s the worst. 

A lesser man would cave against such gentle prodding. Lan Huan is expert at getting people to tell him things. Only Meng Yao has ever managed to keep secrets from him, and they’ve been friends for long enough that Lan Huan doesn’t mind. 

Would that Lan Zhan, who has known him his entire life, be permitted such indulgences. 

“We’re—friends.” This is actual dishonesty, but he can try new things in life. He can expand his horizons. He can definitely lie to his brother about his—his rendezvous with their downstairs neighbor. It’s for the greater good. 

Wei Ying has not given him permission to share his medical information, after all. That excuse grows thinner each time he climbs through the window, but it will hold for now. It is sometimes acceptable to lie if the alternative is betraying a previously-given trust.

In any case, those two words were clearly all Lan Huan wanted to hear. He can tell by the way Brother’s eyes crinkle further at the corners, smile going from delighted to satisfied. “Good,” he says, like Lan Zhan has just received high marks on an assignment.

Two packs of ankle socks. Maybe one with cartoon characters on them.

It happens three more times the following week. Wei Ying appears to have taken his advice; not only has he begun wearing shirts to sleep (soft, threadbare ones with holes in them, but Lan Zhan is not facing any surprise nipples, so he reminds himself that’s a good thing and not a disappointment ), he’s also invested in a pair of house slippers. They have outdoor soles on them, presumably so he won’t instantly slip and die on the fire escape. 

Both of them appear to have given up on hoping Wei Ying will not sleepwalk into his bedroom. Unlike stages of grief, he is unsure what comes after the ‘acceptance’ stage of somnambulism. Online forums have failed him in this regard. 

Wei Ying doesn’t usually speak, far more prone to blinking owlishly at him for ranges of 2 to 10 minutes, sitting stiffly on Lan Zhan’s bed. Once, he tells Lan Zhan a story about a lonely bug who screams and screams until silenced. He wonders if Wei Ying enjoys the sound of cicadas, in his waking hours, or if they annoy him and that’s why they’ve stuck this strongly in his mind. 

It’s less awkward than it should be. Lan Zhan can admit to that. If this were any other person, doing any other thing, it would stress him to an unbelievable degree. But. 

Wei Ying is Wei Ying. Lan Zhan has not stopped thinking of him since the day they met. Every time Wei Ying stays a little longer to speak with him, getting a little more comfortable in his presence, he finds himself more distracted—often unable to think of anything else.

Lan Huan would call this a crush. Lan Zhan feels the desperate urge to crush something every time he thinks the word, even in the privacy of his mind. 

He tries, once, to visit Wei Ying during the day. After the fifth time Wei Ying sleepwalks into his room and the fourth time he sleepwalks into his bed, Lan Zhan reasons he cannot delay the inevitable. It feels good, to help Wei Ying when he’s in need, to be the person his subconscious has decided to seek out, but that doesn’t make it right. He should definitely be seeking treatment. He’s tried to ask, but Wei Ying coming out of sleep is too vulnerable; there are some questions Lan Zhan can’t bring himself to ask, staring down at his muzzy expression and glassy eyes. 

So. Daytime is best. Lan Zhan spends ten minutes outside the door preparing himself for feelings. 

He raps five polite times on the door. The sounds of movement filter out from behind it; half a minute later, Jiang Cheng pulls it open.

Ah.

“What do you want?” Jiang Cheng is looking at him with intense suspicion. He wonders if Wei Ying has told him. Is that why he’s staring this way? Does he see the yearning Wei Ying is oblivious to? 

He doesn’t say anything else, so Lan Zhan presses on. “Is Wei Ying home?” 

Jiang Cheng crosses his arms. “Out. With friends. What do you want with him?” He grimaces, though at what exactly, Lan Zhan can’t say. “I mean. I can pass him a message or whatever.” 

The offer seems extremely taxing. Lan Zhan really would like to know what, if anything, Wei Ying has told him. 

There is no subtle way to convey are you seeing a doctor for your somnambulism? via brotherly messenger. Lan Zhan will not attempt it. Briefly, he contemplates walking over to the window and simply crawling out of it. Falling seven stories would at least prevent him from having to speak to Wei Ying or Lan Huan ever again. Probably. 

“No, thank you.” When in doubt, default to politeness. 

Jiang Cheng scowls. “I’m not lying for you.” 

Lan Zhan is mildly surprised. “I didn’t ask.” 

“I’m telling him you came over, and you were cryptic and weird about it.” 

He can’t find a way to dispute that. “Alright.” 

Agreement generally tends to please others, but Jiang Cheng does not respond as traditional humans do—if anything, he looks downright exasperated, studying Lan Zhan’s face in utmost annoyance. 

“Fuck, he was right. What are you, a cyborg?” 

Lan Zhan stiffens further. He no longer cares for politeness. Wei Ying—called him a cyborg. Wei Ying thinks he is robotic, and stiff, and cold, and mechanical. 

“Tell him or not. It matters little to me.” 

He turns on his heel and leaves before Jiang Cheng can give him any other devastating truths. He doesn’t think he could handle any more than the ones he’s now carrying. 

If Jiang Cheng did end up telling Wei Ying about his visit, he never hears of it. He does not hear from Wei Ying at all during waking hours, which he supposes is emblematic of their relationship. 

What had he been daydreaming of, exactly? That someone forced to come to him out of some strange subconscious desire—possibly an imprint on the person who lived above them in their last apartment or something—did it because he liked Lan Zhan? Because something in him—beneath the skin, close to the heart—felt the same yearning at the center of its being that Lan Zhan does, seeing Wei Ying’s messy hair shoving through his window? 

It was foolish of him. Wei Ying is suffering from an illness. He cannot entertain any further delusions about what may or may not be happening in his sleeping mind. 

Two days after his failed attempt, Wei Ying crawls in through the window again. Lan Zhan just… waits. 

Normally he’d be bundling Wei Ying up at this point, ensuring he’s alright, that he’s remembered his slippers. The snow is out in full force now, nearly sticking his window closed, but Wei Ying’s strength while asleep is something of a feat—he gets through nearly as easily as when Lan Zhan helps.

It’s difficult, pretending to be asleep. He’s lucky his witness is in his least observant state. 

Wei Ying sways by the window a few moments before walking in the direction of the bed. This makes sense, as it follows the pattern Lan Zhan has set for these encounters.

He waits, watching, not even daring to shift. He sleeps generally on the far side of the bed, toward the door and away from the window. There is space for Wei Ying to sit. Will he go through their routine on his own? Perhaps he has no need for Lan Zhan at all.

A hand shoots out, pawing at the duvet. He peels it back, seeming not to notice there is a second one underneath, and crawls beneath it.

Lan Zhan holds his breath.

He settles in, face turned toward Lan Zhan, eyes sliding shut. He has no awareness that Lan Zhan is awake as well, even though he’s staring right at him, even though he often feels he can’t quite peel his eyes away. 

“I’ll just stay,” he says, eyes still shut. “The raccoons won’t come in, Lan Zhan, they have swing class. Don't be rude.” 

He really shouldn’t reply. He called me by name. He promised himself he wouldn’t react, and it’s not like Wei Ying ever remembers his babbling when he wakes. He said Lan Zhan, as though he were dreaming of me. 

“Okay,” he whispers, unable to help himself. “Goodnight, Wei Ying.” 

Wei Ying pats Lan Zhan on the nose with his entire hand and assures him, in a voice that is startlingly awake and absolutely unaware, “I’ll protect you.” 

The clock on his desk reads 2:09am. Lan Zhan tries to stay up long enough for Wei Ying to wake, but it’s so warm, and Wei Ying smells good, and his hand is still somewhat resting on Lan Zhan’s face. It’s almost like one of his dreams. 

Or maybe real life and dreams have come so close to each other that he can no longer tell the difference.

At some point in the next month, it starts to feel like taking advantage. 

He slides through December with the weight of guilt pressing heavy on his chest. He should have herded Wei Ying to the doctor by now, or at the very least gotten an assurance he’s trying to work on his sleepwalking. Lan Zhan definitely should have told Lan Huan, at least. What use is this, letting him walk around with a probably untreated and definitely dangerous sleep disorder? It’s irresponsible of him. Reckless.

There are at least two nights a week that Lan Zhan wakes with Wei Ying in his bed.

They don’t really talk about it. On days where he has class, he forces himself to gently tug Wei Ying into consciousness—far earlier than he would prefer, judging by the grumbling and whining he gets. Lan Huan is usually at work by that time, or he’d have no clue what to say to him. 

No, Ge, I have not started dating, Wei Ying is whining in my bed for entirely platonic and neighborly reasons. No, I do not have any feelings I wish to discuss. 

That would not go well. 

On days where he does not have class, Wei Ying may wake when he pleases. His classes are all scheduled at night, something which would send Lan Zhan to an early grave but seems to work for Wei Ying’s abhorrent sleeping schedule. On those days, he sends him off with a snack of some kind and spends hours composing songs that have nothing to do with Wei Ying whatsoever. 

“You actually play this?” Wei Ying asks on one such day, sprawled in his pajamas despite it being well past noon and gesturing to the corner where his guqin rests. “Between that and your hair, you’re right out of one of those dramas the peacock loves so much. Are you sure you’re from this century?” 

Lan Zhan nods. It is not the first, second, or even fourteenth time Wei Ying has referred to him as old or out of touch. He has learned to live with it, even if it curdles his stomach a little. 

“Can I see?” 

He starts. Not many would notice, it’s only the quick turn of his head, but Wei Ying laughs anyway. He’s started picking up on too many of Lan Zhan’s tells. 

Lan Zhan distracts himself by staring at the guqin, then back at Wei Ying. “Mn.” 

“Really?” Wei Ying beams, flipping over and crawling along the floor in Lan Zhan’s direction, which he has no thoughts about and will not remember for weeks after this. “Right now? You’ll play something now?” 

“Yes.” 

Wei Ying claps his hands. “Cool! Hey, maybe if you play me a lullaby I’ll figure out how to sleep properly.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, but Lan Zhan feels his stomach drop. He shouldn’t. It’s selfish of him, considering his sleepwalking is an actual disorder that likely affects Wei Ying’s daily life, energy, and mood. He shouldn’t—he can’t—

Lan Zhan retrieves his guqin. 

“How did you even learn something like this? It’s not exactly common here, unless I’m running in the wrong circles.” 

Wei Ying is correct. Many distant aunties had been unhappy with his choice, bemoaning his choice when violin or piano are much more respectable in America, mourning the waste of ‘such elegant hands’ and all. It never mattered much to Lan Zhan; he’s happiest with the guqin in part because it was his mother’s instrument. It helps, too, that it is not traditionally played with others, and it is unpopular enough that he is rarely expected to play in front of audiences. 

Instead, the enjoyment of the guqin is always for him and his close family. Friends, sometimes, have heard him play.

And now Wei Ying, who fits into no category he can fathom. 

“I come from a steady line of historical musicologists,” he explains, taking the guqin out of its case and running through the preparation to play. 

He almost leaves it there; he does when most people ask. Perhaps it’s his desperation to know more about Wei Ying that makes him bold enough to share about himself. “The guqin was my mother’s favorite instrument. I learned first from her.” 

“Wow. I’m trying to picture it, but I don’t think I can imagine anything so cute! Did you look the same, when you were young?”

“Mn.” He thinks so, anyway. His cheeks were rounder, mouth a little fuller on his face, but for the most part he’s stayed the same. The thought seems to entrance Wei Ying, who is generally more interested in him than most people he’s met. He expects Wei Ying to grow bored with him eventually, but so far his curiosity has been inexhaustible. Once he asked how Lan Zhan preferred his oatmeal, just because he kind of had a craving and had a sudden need to know what Lan Zhan would want, too. 

“I played the flute through high school,” he admits, sitting on the floor across from Lan Zhan, pulling his knee up to his chest so he can rest his cheek against it. Wei Ying watches him with a focus he finds difficult to understand. “I wasn’t ever any good, though; I never practiced.” 

Wei Ying drops these “facts” as though they’re nothing, but Lan Zhan often wonders if they can possibly be true. He does not lack devotion to things he enjoys now, for instance, and he cannot imagine Wei Ying did so as a high schooler. He never seems inclined to explain or open up about it, so Lan Zhan leaves it alone, but he wonders. 

Jiang Cheng would be an obvious source, but seeing as he has no interest in ever speaking to Jiang Cheng again, he’ll have to suffer through. 

“Music encourages complex thought.” A direct echo of his upbringing, but an apt one. “I am sure you played well.”

“Lan Zhan! You’ve never seen me try. How would you know?” 

I can’t imagine anything Wei Ying is bad at, he thinks, bemoaning his general existence. So far he has seen him do last-minute math homework on a napkin with apparently perfect results, ace an exam he forgot entirely by reading the textbook on the subway heading to school, tie his ponytail using only a shoelace without looking ridiculous, and watched a video of him riding a unicycle someone had left on the street with a sign that said ‘free’. He was apparently very disappointed Jiang Cheng vetoed keeping it and bringing it home with them.

Lan Zhan had almost asked if he would text him that video, but he doesn’t have Wei Ying’s phone number. It seems a breach of… whatever confidence they hold between them, to ask for more, to be greedy when he already had so much of Wei Ying in his life. 

Evidence aside, his face is too thin to say you’re capable of anything aloud, so he shrugs. 

Wei Ying swoons anyway. 

“Such faith,” he teases, “for the street kid who keeps stealing your duvet.” 

“I have two.” Lan Zhan smooths his hands once more over the guqin strings to settle his nerves. 

“That you do.” Wei Ying sounds fond, for all that he enjoys making fun of Lan Zhan’s over-planned lifestyle. “You have a solution for everything, don’t you?” 

Not this, he wants to tell him. There are no maps or rules for this. 

In lieu of answers, he begins to play. 

As he’d hoped, this tactic is useful in getting Wei Ying to be quiet. The nerves are something he’d also anticipated, but he overcomes them with a little bit of a push; he knows this is something he excels at. Something in him wants to show Wei Ying just how much. 

He plays a classical tune at first, something to warm up his hands. As it draws to a close, Wei Ying opens his mouth to comment, but Lan Zhan doesn’t quite let the music rest. Echoes of the former song still reverberate as he switches gears, moving from something old to something new, something his. 

It’s the song he began to compose after the first night Wei Ying shared his bed. The sound he could never figure out how to say, when Wei Ying would slip out the window and later, when he would talk about anything Lan Zhan wanted, hair sprawled out across his pillows in an ink-dark fan. I’m an open book, he said, though Lan Zhan knows that was only part of the puzzle. Gege takes such good care of me, the least I can do is repay you with some answers! 

That part, he still isn’t fond of. He’s not looking for any sort of transactional relationship with Wei Ying. 

He still asks, though. He hoards those facts and tucks them away in the back of his mind, almost as though he worries someone could get at them, if they tried hard enough. Wei Ying and his darkened eyes and his nonsensical sleep-talking are his to cherish. 

Wei Ying mentions a lot of friends in his stories, but Lan Zhan knows none of them wake with Wei Ying in their bed as often as he does. To ask for anything more would be ridiculous—luxurious in ways he can’t imagine. 

On the other hand, it’s a song for what he can imagine. For a version of Lan Zhan who sees Wei Ying just because Wei Ying chose him— chose to come and see him, to take his hand and link their fingers together and kiss him in that little sliver of moon just after he wakes and before he falls asleep again.

When it ends, neither of them speak for a while. The entirety of the apartment is silent. 

“Lan Zhan,” he chokes out. Wei Ying has never said his name with such emotion. He feels strung up by it, held tightly; will he drop, or will he be caught? “Lan Zhan, that—”

An alarm blares through the room, loud and intrusive. This is Wei Ying’s ‘get to class’ alarm, one that Lan Zhan himself forced him to set after he nearly missed class two weeks in a row. 

He’s never hated his own dedication more than watching Wei Ying’s open expression shutter tightly once more.

“Raincheck?” he asks, as though he isn’t here more than once a week anyway.

Lan Zhan would hand him his entire checkbook if he didn’t think Wei Ying would make himself late just to laugh at the fact that Lan Zhan has a physical checkbook at all.

Such equilibrium cannot last forever. There’s only so many times Wei Ying can sneak in and out of his window before the timing’s off, or Lan Huan takes a day off out of schedule, or some other coincidence occurs. 

Wei Ying does not want to get up. This is very normal, but Lan Zhan has a group meeting—his absolute least favorite—and cannot dedicate the normal amount of time to waking him. In an act of desperation, he writes Wei Ying a note: 

Wei Ying—

There are takis on the desk for you. Please do not forget to stop by the bodega before you go to class. 

If necessary, set an alarm. 

He wants to add more, but what could he say? I miss you? I think about you in class so much it drives me to distraction? If I take care of you well enough, will you come to see me during the day, when I am home and where people can see? Will you tell Jiang Cheng where you’re going and where to find you? 

None of those. The takis will suffice.

He worries about it—of course he does, it’s an interruption of his routine—but it’s a distant sort of worry, the kind that simmers in the back of your mind when you have a thousand other things on your plate. By the time he gets home, he’s largely managed to stuff it into a back corner of his mind. 

He is in no frame of mind to understand the knowing look Lan Huan gives him.

“So,” he begins once dinner is on the table, “I had to return home this morning. I forgot my planner.” 

Lan Zhan freezes. 

“You do not need to tell me when you are having guests over, but Wei Ying’s face was a bit thin.” Lan Huan’s features show a frisson of anxiety. “Please apologize to him on my behalf if I’ve made him feel uncomfortable.” The anxiety quickly morphs into a fond smile. “It is my first time meeting someone you… care for, in this way. If I overstepped, I’m sorry.” 

When Lan Zhan remains frozen and still, Lan Huan leans forward, reaching across the table. “ZhanZhan?” 

“What.” He swallows around how thick his tongue feels all of the sudden, trying again. “What did you discuss?” 

“Nothing, really.” Lan Huan hovers between concern and teasing, clearly not sure where Lan Zhan’s head is, which is a rare occurrence for both of them. “He said you’d been helping him with trouble sleeping, which was kind, but unnecessary.” 

Lan Zhan feels his ears heat. Lan Huan has assumed Wei Ying is lying. To cover a romantic relationship between them, for his modesty, and for his brother’s comfort.

The idea of crawling out the window returns to him full force. 

“I have,” he admits, unable to lie to his brother about something this big. He hopes Wei Ying will understand. “I mean, we haven’t—Wei Ying is a somnambulist.” 

Lan Huan’s eyes widen. “Oh?” 

“He climbs the fire escape in his sleep.” Lan Zhan throws his brother a panicked look. “It felt wrong, to leave him in the cold, when I—saw him.” 

There is a moment of silence between them. Lan Zhan uses it to try and collect himself, but it doesn’t work very well. 

“How long has he been… sleepwalking?” 

“Since the first week.” 

Lan Huan’s eyes soften around the edges. “Oh, ZhanZhan.” 

“There is no need for—that.” Sympathy. Pity. Whatever it is, it’s unnecessary. Lan Zhan is happy to help Wei Ying and ensure he does not freeze to death outside over something he has not been able to control or regulate. 

His brother is far too perceptive. “Has he spoken to a specialist?” 

Lan Zhan shrugs. Lan Huan frowns. 

“Has he seen anyone at all?” 

“We don’t discuss it.” 

Lan Huan does not need to vocalize his thoughts on this matter—the twitch of his brows makes his opinion clear. Lan Zhan is well aware of what he should be doing, foolishness pooling in his chest. He’s never been this out of sorts about something. Usually, finding the right path forward is easy, or at the very least clear. 

Nothing about this is clear. The moment Wei Ying crawls into his bed, Lan Zhan forgets all sense and reason. 

Something about his countenance must communicate this to Lan Huan, who stands and comes around the table, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It may be a good idea,” he says, so gently. “Discourse and communication are often freeing.” 

Lan Zhan would rather swallow his tongue, but he nods. There is truth to those words, whether or not he chooses to employ them—whether or not he can be selfless enough to suggest giving any part of Wei Ying up.

Wei Ying’s sleepwalking starts to decline as he settles into the new apartment. The feeling in Lan Zhan’s heart is not disappointment, it’s hope, obviously, that his—friend? Crush? Infatuation?—is on the mend. If he repeats this to himself three times a day, he may begin to believe it, no matter what looks Lan Huan gives him as he mopes around the house. He misses Wei Ying, of course, but it’s good for him to get back to his life. 

He’s reached the point of starting to consider strategies for moving on, all of which seem hopeless, when there is a knock on their door.

Lan Huan is the one who greets the brothers, both of them in house slippers. Wei Ying is wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—Lan Zhan’s least favorite of his expressions—while Jiang Cheng frowns. Each man holds a tupperware with a snap-on lid. 

Wei Ying speaks first. “Hey, so, I wanted to come over—”

“He didn’t, I dragged him down here.”

“—and apologize, because I’ve realized it probably isn’t the best idea—”

“ Realized, sure, all on your own.”

“—to take advantage of someone’s hospitality for weeks—”

“Not like that’s your modus operandi or anything.”

“—and not really explain anything or offer any thank yous, so, I’d really like to do that,” Wei Ying finishes, elbowing Jiang Cheng hard enough to make him wheeze. “Can we come in?” 

“Of course.” Lan Huan lets them in. Lan Zhan continues standing awkwardly at his bedroom door, silently tying and untying the end of his braid because it was the last act he’d been doing before he heard someone knocking. Brain catching up to his body, he fastens it in a hurry, shutting the door to his room and stepping out into the living room.

It doesn’t matter, for the moment, that Wei Ying is only here for some misguided attempt at apologizing. He’s here, in Lan Zhan’s home, smiling just a little bit softer when he spots him in the hall. He’s here and he’s brought Jiang Cheng, which means Jiang Cheng knows he’s here.

An unseen weight Lan Zhan’s been carrying lifts from his shoulders.

“What are these?” Lan Huan asks, polite as he takes the tupperware first from Jiang Cheng and then from Wei Ying. 

“Pumpkin pancakes!” Wei Ying is positively chirpy as he stacks his tupperware on top of Jiang Cheng’s. “A-Cheng made them, as a thank you for taking care of me while I was being—ah, stubborn. He’s gotten very into baking lately. They’re really good! You can’t taste the rage at all.” 

Jiang Cheng’s jaw is clenched so tightly Lan Zhan wonders after the health of his teeth. Then he remembers Jiang Cheng called him a cyborg, and really, any concerns are carried away on the breeze. 

“That’s very kind, if unnecessary,” Lan Huan offers. Lan Zhan can tell he’s genuinely pleased by how small his eyes are when he smiles. “I know ZhanZhan was happy to assist.” 

Wei Ying looks over at him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Lan Zhan still isn’t great at processing Wei Ying’s attention, but he has a feeling he’s meant to say something, now. Or perhaps earlier? Now is the best he can do. 

He clears his throat. 

“There was no need.” Lan Zhan clasps his hands behind his back, unsure of where to place them. “No advantage was taken.” 

Jiang Cheng’s only reaction is to look at the ceiling. Lan Zhan cannot tell what sort of emotion that expresses, but he’s ignoring it, because Wei Ying is laughing. Gently, with a slight edge, but laughing. 

Wei Ying is in his apartment, laughing and stepping closer in front of both their families.

“It’s from me, too,” Jiang Cheng manages through gritted teeth. “Better you than some creep off the street.” 

If he knew how much Lan Zhan longs for this problem to go unsolved, he might not be so generous. Even this much generosity seems to take a monumental amount of effort. He wouldn’t bother with acknowledgment, but Wei Ying is looking between them and absolutely radiating joy, so he nods in agreement. “That is better.” 

It’s the best Jiang Cheng is going to get. He doesn’t seem surprised, turning to Wei Ying with exhaustion in the line of his shoulders. “Well? Staying or coming?” 

There is an option including staying? Lan Zhan looks sharply at Wei Ying, whose gaze is shuttered as he looks between the two of them. 

Ultimately, he heads for the door. Lan Zhan tries not to let his disappointment show.

“Not this time,” he says with a jaunty little wave, “I’m pretty sure I bother Lan Zhan enough as it is. Thanks again!” 

The more he says it, the more Lan Zhan begins to hate the sound of ‘thanks’ in Wei Ying’s voice. Lan Huan, who doesn’t know enough about Wei Ying to know how small he sounds today, sees them to the door before turning expectantly to Lan Zhan. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, the answer to an unspoken question . He doesn’t really know what question, but the answer seems to match what Lan Huan anticipated. 

His gaze is kind—it certainly understands a lot more than Lan Zhan does. “Communication?” 

“Mn.” If he can figure out how to do it. Lan Huan pops open one of the tupperware, removing a well-rounded pancake and taking a careful bite. Sugar still stains his fingers, but his eyes scrunch up, so they must be good.

“I believe in you,” Lan Huan assures him, sincerely, because he is a walking greeting card. Truly, how he grew up in New York and turned out like this is a mystery Lan Zhan has failed to solve since he was thirteen. 

It isn’t long before the next ‘episode’, as Wei Ying has taken to calling them. Lan Zhan barely wakes when he comes through the window, turning to face him and falling directly back asleep. It’s the first time since they met that Wei Ying appears to have woken ahead of him; Lan Zhan almost misses the pink post-it on the pillowcase next to him. 

Text me! Accompanying the cheery, near-unintelligible scrawl is a phone number. His ears heat. 

Somewhere between pumpkin pancakes and misplaced thank yous, they’ve become texting friends? 

Lan Zhan isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He immediately grabs his phone from the dresser, knowing he should be getting ready, or should at least be getting dressed. There’s no urgency to this note; Wei Ying has probably fallen back asleep.

He leans back into the pillow and texts him anyway.

Good morning. This is Lan Zhan. 

He debates whether anything more would be too forward, but ultimately decides he can be exactly as forward as he was the last time he left Wei Ying a note. Their written correspondence has progressed that far.

Please remember to obtain a protein or carb before class. 

There. Normal, stuffy Lan Zhan, a walking to-do list. It will have to suffice. 

He expects Wei Ying will text him a few times before falling off, considering Lan Zhan has never been an avid texter, but he would be wrong. Wei Ying doesn’t seem to mind that Lan Zhan can’t always find a way to respond. He sends pictures, thoughts, descriptions of his day, funny things he saw, even the occasional video. At first it’s an overwhelming barrage of information, but by the end of the week, Lan Zhan would cradle his phone in his hand like it’s an actual treasure if that wouldn’t be further evidence against him for Lan Huan. 

Over text, he can compose himself, better able to respond to the questions Wei Ying fields. There are a lot of them, which stumps him; Lan Zhan has never found himself particularly fascinating, not in the way Wei Ying seems to, responding to even the most inane of answers with exclamatory delight. 

He tries to rope Lan Zhan into participating more, but it never feels like pressure, only interest and curiosity fueling further inquiries. He says things like, did u do anything fun this week??? Huaisang made me take them to the skate park w/ me so they could watch me fall on my ass in front of hot skate punks :( they said it’s their fave pastime what sort of friend is that!!!! or jiejie made soup!!!! not as good as pork ribs but i know u dont eat those so this 1 is just for u. dont let me forget to bring u some, take it w/ u to class in a thermos so every1 will smell it and b jealous and then he brings it over, like this is something they do.

Maybe it is. Lan Zhan has never had a friend with such easy access to his home before. He resigns himself to the proximity making Wei Ying more proactive and strives, in small ways, to meet his energy. 

It feels foolish when he’s climbing down the fire escape, but it’s worth it to catch a glimpse of Wei Ying sprawled among his blankets, stretching across his bed with no awareness of the world around him. Opening his window feels illicit, charged with electricity; when he’s done, he sends Wei Ying a text: 

Your tupperware are on your desk. I have adjusted the black pearl cupcake recipe you wanted to try; it is impolite to return dishware empty. Please give all feedback in excruciating detail.

He’s nearly late to class for the first time in his life, but it’s worth it for the effusive spam of complimentary emojis and exacting commentary he gets when Wei Ying wakes. 

It's not that the sleepwalking gets worse again—it doesn't—but Lan Zhan finds himself far less mopey now that Wei Ying texts him. Would he prefer a version of the world where Wei Ying shares his bed at least two times a week and texts him all day? Of course, but such is life; we cannot always have everything we desire. 

When it does happen again, he finds himself unable to resist curling a hand around Wei Ying’s body. He’s never done this before. As many times as Wei Ying has let himself into Lan Zhan’s bed, he’s always been too afraid to touch him, keeping the second duvet between them for security.

Wei Ying’s hair is fine and soft against the back of his hand. When Lan Zhan touches his back, he finds out Wei Ying is shivering. 

It only takes him a few minutes to wake up, eyes fluttering shut and then opening again, this time with awareness. In the darkness, Lan Zhan can only really tell Wei Ying is watching him by the sensation of his gaze, his body’s primal awareness of being observed.

“Lan Zhan?” he breathes, almost silent. 

“I am here.” 

Wei Ying shudders this time, full bodied, shifting so he’s just a little bit closer. His hands curl to rest under his cheek, like a sleeping child in a Victorian portrait. He stares. 

“Aren’t you ever gonna ask?” 

Lan Zhan does not play stupid. His hand is still between Wei Ying’s shoulder blades; when he doesn’t move away from the touch, he allows himself to stroke soothing motions with his thumb, marveling at the way Wei Ying relaxes under it. 

“I thought you would tell me if you were ready to.” It’s not quite true, in the sense that he’s never let himself think through his reasoning, but it’s a good enough reason. Better than I wanted you to keep coming or I didn’t want to scare you away, both of which are terrifying to say aloud and probably would make him uncomfortable. 

Wei Ying gives a mirthless little laugh. “Yeah, no, I’ll take all my secrets to the grave that way, you gotta ask.” 

“Hm.” Not quite an agreement or a disagreement. He probably should have tried, as Lan Huan suggested, but now they rest on the precipice of Wei Ying offering a piece of himself, something infinitely precious to Lan Zhan.

“Supposedly, it’s related to stress. Once I manage my stress levels, I’ll manage the sleepwalking, too. You know it’s always the same dream?” 

Lan Zhan had guessed, based on the familiar pattern Wei Ying follows, but he wasn’t sure enough in his knowledge of the disorder to be certain. 

“Or memory, maybe, sort of. When the Jiangs first took me in, I didn’t trust it. I didn’t trust anything, and I was scared A-Cheng’s dogs would come back, or he would hate me forever, so the first chance I got I just—ran. There was a while where I used to climb trees and sleep in Central Park; it was summer, and I was small enough that no one really noticed, so I found a tree and posted up to sleep. I thought it was better to know what was coming, right? To be scared of things I could anticipate.

“Jiejie followed me, of course. She’s always been a light sleeper, and she didn’t want me to get in trouble, so she came to help me herself. I know how this goes in real life. Jiejie followed me, saw me climb into the tree, waited to see what I would do, and then came and helped me down. She promised she could take on anything that scared me, no matter what, and I just believed her, she’s that good. But—”

Here, Wei Ying’s breath hitches. He buries his face in the pillow for a moment. Lan Zhan finds his hand traveling up to the back of Wei Ying’s neck and squeezing, once, wringing a small yet positive sound from Wei Ying’s throat. 

He turns, flopping onto his back and leaving Lan Zhan’s arm sprawled across his chest. Before he can reorient, Wei Ying captures his arm with both of his, curling his own back toward his chest and keeping it trapped. It’s awkward, but he doesn’t move, not sure what Wei Ying needs. 

“In my dreams, I keep climbing up the tree—I think that’s what the fire escape is, which is how I keep getting to your window. The first few times I just stayed up there, alone, and no one ever came.” 

Lan Zhan holds his breath.

“But now, I climb all the way to the top, and there’s a window. I don’t remember a lot about my parents’ house before they died; I don’t remember much of anything about them, really. But for some reason I remember my room. Glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and all.” Wei Ying’s laughter is a little wet, like he’s got tears stuck behind his eyes but can’t expel them. “It sort of looks like that, but with some of my stuff from my current room, and, uh—” here his voice gets higher, thinner, faster, “—and it’s your bed, and I crawl into it and I know that there’s nothing else that gets through. Once I’m past that window and in this bed, I’m okay.” 

Wei Ying turns to look at him, bangs pushed back and awkward, eyes wide. He’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, and he feels safe in Lan Zhan’s bed—he wants to kiss Wei Ying so badly he’s surprised it isn’t written in block letters all over his face.

“I could get into all the reasons my therapist told me that’s what I was dreaming about, but it’s way past your bedtime.” Wei Ying takes a deep breath; Lan Zhan can feel his chest rise and fall with it. “So?” 

He isn’t sure what the question is. After a moment, Wei Ying’s mouth twists into an approximation of a smile. “You aren’t weirded out?” 

Ah. This was obviously a big deal for him, more so than Lan Zhan understood. He had considered it… alienating, somehow? It’s difficult to read when Lan Zhan can make no sense of why he would be off-put by such a thing, but he curls his arm around Wei Ying with purpose, pulling him toward the center of the bed.

“No,” he answers easily. “I am glad.” 

Wei Ying makes a cut off noise of frustration. “Glad! What am I gonna do with you?” The whisper is furious, but it’s warm, too. Wei Ying is smiling in full.

It makes Lan Zhan brave enough to answer.

“Whatever you want,” he breathes, tightening his grip. “After we sleep.” 

Wei Ying’s expression goes from surprise to one of pure offense. Lan Zhan closes his eyes, pressing his cold nose to Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“Lan Zhan!” It’s a furious hiss. “You can’t just say that, who are you? What? Are you sleeping? ”

“Mm.” 

Wei Ying continues to try and get his attention, but in the end he relaxes, drifting off in the semi-circle of Lan Zhan’s arm. Anything, he thinks again as he slides into a doze, if you want it in the harsh light of day, anything at all. 

Wei Ying is different, after that. He blushes faster and with more alacrity, always wanting to facetime but whining when he does—apparently it’s ‘cruel and unusual’ for Lan Zhan to look good through the ‘shitty iphone camera’ while Wei Ying looks ‘rakishly sexy but also two days post natural disaster’. He never knows how to respond. Should he agree that Wei Ying is sexy, or disagree that he looks disastrous? Does he want to look disastrous? Does he care what Lan Zhan thinks?

In addition to talking more often, he physically sees more of Wei Ying than he used to. On days where neither of them have class—days he used to spend in quiet reflection—Wei Ying stops by just to see him, crawling through the window entirely awake and bright-eyed. 

He’s everywhere, and Lan Zhan loves it, but it also doesn’t feel like enough.

It’s during one of their phone calls that he works up the courage to ask. Wei Ying complains that phone calls are for grandparents and most hated cousins, but Lan Zhan can’t get anything else done if they facetime, so it’s a compromise. He has a paper due on Tuesday—if it’s done by tonight he’ll be free of work for the weekend, which leaves more time when Wei Ying does not have class.

Free and clear of the last of his edits, he lets himself unwind, sitting cross-legged on the bed and making notes for a new composition in his journal. Wei Ying is meant to be doing homework, too, but as he launches into a summary of the lives of stick bugs, Lan Zhan can guess he’s distracted himself on Wikipedia again.

It’s nice. Peaceful. They’ve been doing this for weeks and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it and he just—wants. 

“Wei Ying.” 

“Huh?” Lan Zhan so rarely interrupts; Wei Ying’s voice is tinged with surprise. He swallows hard. Here goes. 

“I had.” He struggles to push the words out. “An idea.” 

“About what?” 

“Your—sleeping.” It’s not as bad as it had been, certainly, but just last week Wei Ying had curled around his back like an apostrophe, mumbling about an invasion of peacocks. “If that’s okay.” 

“Yeah! I’m all ears. Literally, I’ve turned to 5,000 ears, please rescue me from this curse with your thoughts.” 

Lan Zhan fights a smile, knowing Wei Ying would hear it in his tone. “I thought…” Ah, this is even harder than he thought it would be. He takes a deep breath. “I thought it would help if you started the night here. If this is where your subconscious thinks you are safe, then perhaps you would be less willing to leave it.”

There’s a long pause. Lan Zhan feels butterflies all throughout his stomach.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes, surprised and something he can’t pin, “are you asking me to literally sleep with you? Properly?” 

“Mn.” 

There’s a sharp, aborted breath into the receiver, a gasp of air. Lan Zhan’s heart stops in his chest, then speeds to ridiculous levels. 

“How dare you.” 

Before he can say anything else, the tell-tale beeping of his phone indicates that Wei Ying has hung up. He looks down at it in pure betrayal. How did things get so bad? 

Lan Zhan gets to his feet, resolved to drowning in the bathtub, when he hears a thump outside his window. 

Wei Ying slides it open just as he turns around, fumbling his way through head first rather than sticking his legs through before like he usually does. He manages, but it’s a tumble; Lan Zhan is too surprised and too nervous to move forward and catch him. He gets fully to his feet, breathing hard, and strides quickly across the room, until they’re so close their toes are nearly touching. 

“I have been waiting,” Wei Ying pants, “months of waiting, and that’s your line?” 

Lan Zhan literally cannot move. His entire being is frozen and on edge, panicked beyond belief. Wei Ying makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

“Oh my god, you have no clue, of course I’ll sleep with you.” 

What?

He opens his mouth to ask when Wei Ying presses forward, cupping his face with his hands and kissing him. Fully awake, with all his faculties, Wei Ying is kissing him. Lan Zhan’s brain short-circuits, but that doesn’t stop him kissing back, his hands falling to Wei Ying’s waist and pressing him close. They don’t stop kissing until he’s so dizzy from lack of oxygen he can map stars behind his eyelids.

“Literally every day if you want,” Wei Ying offers, gasping, “maybe more than once. Lan Zhan, do you ever nap?” 

He shakes his head; Wei Ying laughs. He’s so close Lan Zhan could count his eyelashes. His eyes are sparkling. 

“I’ll have to show you the merits. I’m an excellent teacher, and I already know you’re the perfect student. Be good and listen, okay? We’re gonna nap all the time, it’ll be great, all the tension will leave your shoulders...” 

Lan Zhan nods along as he continues to ramble, marveling at their closeness, at how much satisfaction it can bring. 

Wei Ying can show him anything he wants. Right now, like this, with Wei Ying in his arms, he can’t think of a single thing he wouldn’t offer him. 

six months later 

“Do you think they’re getting along down there?” 

It’s a few minutes past his self-imposed curfew. Wei Ying is lazing across Lan Zhan’s body like a cat in the sun. He considers reminding Wei Ying of their rule—brothers don’t exist in our bed—before entertaining his stress questions as best he can. 

“I have never seen Ge fail to get along with anyone.” He keeps his tone patient. “Would you like to call again?”

“God, no, A-Cheng would break my legs.” 

Lan Zhan will never understand their relationship. Jiang Yanli has never once threatened Wei Ying, yet somehow, the three of them fit together as an impregnable family unit.

A mystery for the ages. (Lan Zhan vastly prefers Jiang Yanli, though Jiang Cheng has been upgraded to mostly tolerable.) 

Wei Ying curls his body even further over Lan Zhan’s, until most of him isn’t even touching their bed. Their bed! The thought sends a bolt of electricity through him, sharp and sweet. He plays absently with Wei Ying’s hair.

He is rewarded with a hum, the sound vibrating along Lan Zhan’s neck. “That’s nice. Are you warm?” 

“Mn.”

Wei Ying sighs with obvious contentment, but it only lasts a second. “Too warm?” 

“No.” Lan Zhan smiles, lips at Wei Ying’s temple, fondness threatening to overwhelm him. “You?” 

He scoffs. “Never. It’s your job to keep me warm, you know.”

“Mn.”

“I can’t be held responsible for my cold toes,” he continues, pressing said toes against Lan Zhan’s leg, “or drooling. Lan Zhan! You’ll let me drool on you, right?” 

“Wei Ying.” 

“Sweetheart?”

“We have slept in the same bed every night for months.” 

Wei Ying splutters, burying his face in Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “You can’t say that!” he says, muffled. “Before marriage! What would the aunties overseas say?” 

Lan Zhan doesn’t care what anyone says. Today is officially the first night in their apartment, even if all that changed is Wei Ying and Lan Huan switching dwellings. The entire future stretches out before them in glowing technicolor. 

“What matters to me,” he murmurs into Wei Ying’s hair, “is what my boyfriend says.” 

Wei Ying makes a grumpy mrr sound into his chest, but it doesn’t take him long to relent, reaching out and blindly groping along Lan Zhan’s body until he finds his hand and links their fingers together. He tilts his head to one side, cheek rubbing against Lan Zhan’s shirt.

“Your boyfriend is over the moon.” 

“Mm.” Lan Zhan can’t stop smiling; his cheeks hurt. “Then I am satisfied as well.”