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Wei Ying claps his hands together. “Okay! SU president manifesto ideas. Let’s go, people!”

“Rent strike,” says Nie Mingjue, in between the one-handed pushups he’s doing in the corner of Wei Ying’s room.

“Excellent stuff,” says Wei Ying, writing RENT STRIKE on his whiteboard. “Love it. Keep it coming.”

“Ugh, da-ge, we talked about this,” Nie Huaisang says, wresting the marker from Wei Ying and crossing out RENT STRIKE. Instead he writes in perfect copperplate, Investigate the rent charged by the university on accommodation buildings.

“That’s so wishy-washy,” Wei Ying protests. “Investigate? I may as well say: I’m not going to do shit!”

“You’re going to be held to whatever you put on your manifesto,” Nie Huaisang reminds him, even though Wei Ying knows that. “You don’t want people on your back saying you failed to deliver on your promises, do you?”

“So don’t fail,” Nie Mingjue says, switching arms.

“How about work to lower rent on accommodation buildings,” offers Jiang Cheng. “That’s a compromise.”

Wei Ying sighs and exchanges an exasperated look with Nie Mingjue. “Fine, let’s go with that.”

The floodgates open soon after that, with ideas flowing smoothly from each of them: reduction of student workload, campaigning for all university workers to be paid the living wage with fair working conditions, pushing for divestment from the fossil fuel and arms trades.

“You should have something about the Women’s Campaign on there,” Jiang Cheng says, “or Wen Qing will kill you. Where is she, anyway?”

“On her GP placement,” Wei Ying says absently, as he finishes writing up the divestment point on the whiteboard. “She told me she wants to help but she was like, quote, ’I’m not putting my degree on hold so you can live out your The Thick Of It fantasies’.”

“How rude,” Nie Huaisang says. “Student politics is far more brutal and cutthroat than The Thick Of It. A-Cheng is right, though, we’ve got to have the liberation campaigns on there.”

“What do I say, though?” Wei Ying muses. “Just saying that I support them feels too weak.”

“Give them extra money,” suggests Nie Mingjue, now doing clap push-ups. His braids swing violently as he launches himself off the floor.

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang complains. “You’re supposed to be helping us out here with your encyclopaedic knowledge of every SU campaign from the last five years, not encouraging Wei Ying into dragging the SU into more debt!”

It’s true that everyone in the room has been involved in SU campaigning to some extent, whether it’s writing press releases after rallies, getting on the megaphone at a protest or organising an occupation of the Vice-Chancellor’s office (Nie Huaisang, Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue respectively): that’s what makes them such a good campaign team for Wei Ying’s presidential bid. After brainstorming and crowdsourcing ideas for a little while longer, they come up with liberation campaign specific points: free sanitary products for all students; working with the Women’s Campaign to tackle sexual harassment and misconduct; helping the BME Campaign to investigate the university’s colonial and imperial legacy; scrutinising the Prevent legislation; increasing funding to the Disabilities Resources Centre and the University Counselling Service.

“It’s looking good, Wei Ying,” Nie Huaisang says approvingly. “Now all we need to do is put these points into a fun poster design and we’ll be good to go!”

“No way am I designing the manifesto,” says Jiang Cheng immediately. “I fucking hate Canva.”

“A-Cheng, we’re not going to use Canva,” Nie Huaisang says. “That’s so basic! We need to stand out.” He types furiously into his phone for a few seconds, then looks up. “Oh, great, Mo Xuanyu says he can design the manifesto for you!”

“Who?”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “Wei Ying, seriously. For the next two weeks you’re going to have to stop pretending to forget every single person you’ve met other than your, like, three friends.”

“One: I have more than three friends, thanks, and two: I actually have a diagnosed memory problem, probably stemming from when you kicked me in the skull when we were five—”

“And I’d do it again!”

Wei Ying throws a marker with deadly accuracy at Jiang Cheng’s head. Jiang Cheng grabs the marker out of the air and is preparing to launch himself at Wei Ying when Nie Huaisang says, “Boys, please, we have a job to do.”

Jiang Cheng subsides, slumping into the desk chair, and then pushing himself into a spin, presumably to soothe his rage.

“So who is Mo Xuanyu?” Wei Ying asks again.

“Oh, this fresher who’s, like, obsessed with me,” Nie Huaisang says dismissively. “He’d do basically anything I asked him to.”

“God knows why,” Jiang Cheng mutters.

“Anyway,” Nie Huaisang says in a slightly raised voice, “he’s doing us a favour here, so let’s please try to remember his name and be nice and gracious to him, okay? His art is actually pretty good, I think he’ll make something cool.”

“Still don’t see what’s wrong with using Canva like everyone else,” Jiang Cheng grumbles.

“Exactly: like everyone else,” Nie Huaisang says. “Good God, am I the only one who’s actually trying to win this election?”

“Ugh,” Wei Ying groans. “Why am I doing this again? Sangsang, you should be the one running.”

“Because you’re committed to making the university a better place for marginalised students and you have the dedication and energy to pull it off,” says Nie Mingjue, with his customary directness.

Wei Ying blushes.

“Also, A-Sang needs to have something to scheme over or he’ll keel over and die,” Nie Mingjue adds.

“It’s true,” Nie Huaisang sighs. “And I hate the spotlight, so really being your campaign manager is the perfect role for me.”

“You’re the best,” Wei Ying says, sincerely. Then, before Jiang Cheng can complain, “You’re all the best. I really think we have a chance at winning this!”

The manifesto design does end up looking good, with its bold, eye-catching black, red, and white colour scheme. Mo Xuanyu also designs smaller versions to put on flyers, which he insists on dropping over to Wei Ying’s house on the day that the full list of SU presidential candidates will be announced.

At 5pm, Wei Ying immediately rushes to get his laptop so he can open the SU website, only for Nie Huaisang to drag him back and deposit him in a chair. He gives Wei Ying his own laptop and says firmly, “Nope. Get your social media tasks done first, then we can look at the competition.”

“Have you been going to the gym in secret or something?” Wei Ying grumbles; that grip had hurt. Under Nie Huaisang’s watchful eye, he releases his manifesto, creates a Vote Wei Ying For SU President! Facebook event, changes his profile picture using a special banner Mo Xuanyu had designed (and makes everyone in his campaign group do the same), and posts a few key endorsements.

“Online campaigning sucks,” Wei Ying says, failing to update his cover photo properly for the third time in a row. “I wish we lived in, like, the 80s so we didn’t have to deal with all this shit.”

Once all his campaigning material for the day has been released—they are working to a strict schedule that Nie Huaisang has plotted out across multiple spreadsheets—Wei Ying is permitted to look at the list of other candidates.

Before Nie Huaisang releases Wei Ying’s laptop from hostage, he says, “There’s three—I mean, four, but one of them… well, you’ll see.” When he hands the laptop over, it’s helpfully open to the SU website. “Don’t look like that, Wei Ying! It could be worse—”

“JIN ZIXUAN?” shrieks Wei Ying. “What the fuck, why didn’t Mianmian tell me? No wonder she was so cagey about being added to my campaign group!”

“Oh, he hasn’t got a chance in hell,” Nie Huaisang says dismissively. “One of his campaign points is literally, ‘Put a cafe in the SU building’, for God’s sake. I’m more worried about the others.”

“Xue Yang? Who the fuck is that?” Wei Ying says, trying to put aside his righteous fury at seeing Mianmian’s best friend on the list of candidates.

“No, not him, he’s a complete joke,” says Nie Huaisang. “Or insane. Look at his manifesto.”

Wei Ying opens up Xue Yang’s manifesto. It is a single white page with the following listed items:

1. Abolish the students’ union.

2. Burn down the SU building and install a M&M World there instead.

3. Nationalise the kebab van in Market Square.

4. Make the main university site less ugly.

5. Mathematics must be taught in Latin, except Euclidean geometry, which must be taught in Greek.

“For a joke candidate, this isn’t even funny,” Wei Ying says.

“I know,” Nie Huaisang says. “It’s actually offensive that I had to read that with my two human eyes.”

“Okay, well, let’s move on—oh, fuck, Wen Chao, why does that name ring a bell?”

“Conservative Association,” says Nie Huaisang. Wei Ying winces and opens up Wen Chao’s manifesto to see the words: DEVOLVE AND DEPOLITICISE. Among his policy points he has: Reduce pay for the students’ union officers and No more policies about national issues we cannot change, such as government foreign policy.

“Christ,” says Wei Ying. He reads aloud, “‘About me: I am a third-year historian specialising in the Ottoman Empire. Outside of studying, I enjoy archery, horseback-riding, and going clubbing.’”

“Awful, isn’t it?” Nie Huaisang says. “Unfortunately, I think he’s probably our toughest competition, if only because of his reach—he’s dating Wang Lingjiao, who’s big into theatre stuff, plus his bodyguard—cousin? I have no idea—is a rower, so he’s got a foot in the sports scene too.”

“I never thought I’d regret not making friends with people who do student drama,” says Wei Ying. At least with sports, he’s got Nie Mingjue, Jiang Cheng and Wen Ning to help him out. But theatre? He’s been avoiding all the theatre kids since that one time he attended an improvised musical about the Spanish Inquisition in fresher’s week, so he’s truly at a loss.

Next on the list is Su She. Wei Ying clicks on his manifesto. “Oh, okay, wow, big Lib Dem energy.”

“His manifesto is so funny!” Nie Huaisang says. “He’s so obviously lying, oh my God. Typical of a Lib Dem!”

Wei Ying scans the manifesto briefly: a list of buzzword phrases that Su She has appropriated from elsewhere, seeing as he actually hasn’t done any student organising ever, and then closes the laptop lid decisively. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay.”

“You’re panicking,” Nie Huaisang says. “Don’t panic. This isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. One joke candidate, one boring candidate, one awful candidate, and one Lib Dem. Not a decent political opinion in sight—you’ll get the lefty student vote for sure.”

“But what about Mianmian? If she’s backing Jin Zixuan, he might steal some of my left votes.”

“No way,” Nie Huaisang says. “There’s no way anyone will vote for Jin Zixuan over you. Come on! He’s so unbelievably stand-offish! How is he going to convince anyone to vote for him—let alone people who actually care about student politics? Also, his manifesto sucks.”

“It does suck. He sucks,” Wei Ying agrees. “I seriously can’t believe he and Mianmian are such good friends. And I can’t believe she didn’t tell me he was running.”

Nie Huaisang checks his watch. “Right, well, I’m giving you ten more minutes to wallow, and then we’re going to the open mic night to campaign. Okay? Wear something cute and bring a stack of flyers and stickers.”

Wei Ying spends six of his ten minutes agonising over what text to send Mianmian. Eventually he screenshots Jin Zixuan’s campaign page and sends it to her with ????

Mianmian replies instantly, Omg… I knew you were going to be mad about this! I’m really sorry. I couldn’t talk him out of it! He literally wouldn’t listen to me 🙄 But I promise I’m not going to be voting for him—I’m gonna have to support him emotionally but you’ve got my vote I swear. Forgive me!!!

Wei Ying sighs. He can’t stay angry at Mianmian—they’re far too good friends for that, so he just replies, glad i’ve got your vote, ofc you’re forgiven, good luck w being jzx’s emotional crutch lol see u on the flip side!!! and goes to get ready.

“Hey, you know what you should do?” Nie Huaisang says on Monday evening. They’re heading home after a long day of handing out flyers at various lecture sites, followed by dinner in one of the first-year halls of residence so they could spend time talking to the freshers.

“What?” Wei Ying says, distracted as he scrolls through his events for the next day. He already feels dead on his feet; Nie Huaisang’s campaigning schedule is gruelling, to say the least. Still, a lot of people have pitched in to help out—today Wen Ning and Wen Qing came to stand with them for the whole morning, despite how busy they both are, and tomorrow, a group of his first-year friends—Zizhen, Sizhui, Jin Ling, and Jingyi—have all promised to come on a tour of the science faculty buildings to campaign with him.

“You should make a Tinder account for campaigning,” Nie Huaisang says.

Wei Ying chokes out, “What?”

“Sounds like an absolutely terrible idea,” Jiang Cheng says flatly.

“No, it’s a great idea!” Nie Huaisang insists. “You just swipe right on everyone and then send them a message about how they should vote for you. You’re hot, Wei Ying! People will definitely match with you and then you can swoop in and hit them with the politics!”

“I don’t even have Tinder,” Wei Ying protests. He’d downloaded the app in first year but had quickly deleted it after a girl responded to his message of wanna get a drink with yeah sure, what time?

“That can easily be fixed,” Nie Huaisang says.

Well, if it’s for campaign purposes… Wei Ying thinks. And what he definitely doesn’t want to happen is Nie Huaisang making him an account behind his back or something awful like that, so he may as well save himself some grief and agree to it.

“Okay, fine, make me a profile then,” he says to Nie Huaisang, passing over his phone.

“You really work me to the bone,” Nie Huaisang complains, but within a few minutes Wei Ying has a brand-new Tinder profile.

He scrolls through it while Jiang Cheng unlocks their front door, and trips on the threshold when he notices—

“Sangsang, you’ve set it to show both men and women!”

“Yeah,” Nie Huaisang says, like he doesn’t see any problem with that. He hands Jiang Cheng his coat to hang up.

“Well, I’m straight,” says Wei Ying, toeing off his trainers and shoving his feet into a pair of Adidas sliders. He’s still looking at the profile of a guy called Eddie. “Isn’t it a bit, I don’t know, disingenuous of me to have it set to men? Like if I swipe right, they’re gonna think I’m gay or bi.”

“Wei Ying, the whole point is that this is disingenuous,” Nie Huaisang explains in that annoying tone of voice he sometimes puts on, as though he’s talking to a child. “You’re not using the app to date, you’re using it to campaign. Swipe right on everyone and send them the same message about voting for you as soon as you get a match. It’s not that deep.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying says reluctantly. He swipes right on Eddie. “This is so embarrassing. It better win me this election.”

In bed that night, Wei Ying continues his Tinder campaigning. He kind of sees why people are into this app—swiping is pretty addictive, as is looking through people’s photos. And even though he’s not actually using it to date, he still gets a little rush of serotonin whenever someone matches with him.

He’s got a little message in his Notes app that he copy-pastes over: hi 🥰 hope you’re having a good day! idk if you’ve seen but i’m running for su president. you can check out my manifesto here, i’d be really interested in hearing your thoughts on my campaign & on ideas you have to make the university a more just & liveable space. take care!

Most people ignore him, but the few that reply are actually pretty sweet about it, wishing him luck with the campaign and saying that they’ll check out his manifesto. Nie Huaisang had been right, as usual.

Wei Ying turns out his bedside lamp, and taps out a quick thank you!!! to the last girl who’d said good luck to him. Then he returns to the homescreen of the app and swipes right one last time. It’s A Match! You and Lan Zhan have liked each other, the app tells him cheerfully. Wei Ying means to copy-paste his campaign message into the message box, but the exhaustion of the long day pulls him down into sleep, phone dropping from his slack fingers onto the mattress.

The next morning, Wei Ying wakes up and unlocks his phone to see a new notification from Tinder. It’s a message from the last guy he’d matched with: Cute pictures. What are you up to?

hahaha thanks!!! not much, just woke up, u??? he sends, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

Wait, what? He’s not supposed to be replying seriously to people on this! Let alone a guy! Wei Ying scrolls up and remembers that he’d forgotten to send his little spiel about running for SU president.

“Idiot!” he says to himself. This is what he gets for looking at his phone two microseconds after he opens his eyes. He should have a rule: no scrolling on his phone before at least two cups of coffee.

He frantically looks for a delete message button, but as he does so, manages to accidentally scroll onto the guy—Lan Zhan’s profile.

And okay, so Lan Zhan is hot. Wei Ying might not be into guys, but he knows how to appreciate them—aesthetically, that is. You’d have to be blind not to notice how gorgeous Lan Zhan is: sharp brows, smooth skin, long dark hair artfully swept out of his eyes. Soft, sensuous mouth. There’s one photo in particular that Wei Ying looks at for a while. Lan Zhan is staring directly at the camera, leaning back in his chair, hands between his legs, silver ring catching the light. He looks a little disdainful, but focused, too, as though he’s challenging you: Interest me. It makes Wei Ying’s stomach twist with… with something.

Wei Ying gives himself a mental shake and returns to the messages to see that Lan Zhan has replied to him already.

Just got back from 🏃♂️

Also, my least favourite thing about the university is its connections to arms companies and extractive industries

Wei Ying frowns at the last message before he recalls that Nie Huaisang had put in his bio: tell me what your least favourite thing about the university is ✌️🤠 So far nobody has responded to it. Until now.

He probably should send Lan Zhan that prewritten message, so that they’re on the same page. Only… it would be sort of rude not to reply to Lan Zhan, now that he’s started up a conversation. A little chitchat can’t hurt. In fact, maybe it’ll make Lan Zhan more likely to vote for him, if Wei Ying at least responds to his question. Besides, he can hear Jiang Cheng in the shower, meaning that he’s got at least half an hour to kill while Jiang Cheng uses up all their hot water.

He types out, god yeah that’s a good one, did u see they just signed a new contract with BAE systems????

Yes, it’s horrific, Lan Zhan says, and they trade rants about other terrible financial investments made by the university for the next few minutes, until Wei Ying gets curious and asks, are u involved in the divestment campaign at all???

He doesn’t think he’s seen Lan Zhan at a meeting before—he feels like Lan Zhan would be difficult to miss.

Not really, Lan Zhan replies. It’s a little hard to figure out when their meetings are

Wei Ying bites his lip—he knows what Lan Zhan means. Sometimes organising groups can be exclusionary without meaning to. He understands why some meetings can’t be open to everyone, particularly ones discussing direct actions, but occasionally groups forget to put out information about open meetings or even bother to hold them at all.

yeah i get u, it’s difficult to know how to get involved sometimes!!! if ur interested tho i think there’s a meeting this week, weds eve in the SU lounge

Lan Zhan’s next message makes Wei Ying’s gut twist. Will I see you there?

And then, Or if you have time, we could meet for a drink tonight, to talk about it more. I’m interested in what you have to say

Wei Ying’s heart is beating very fast all of a sudden. It feels… a lot like Lan Zhan is asking him out. He’s pretty sure Lan Zhan is asking him out, and that is not what’s meant to be happening here. He should say no. And yet… he feels a strange reluctance to. He doesn’t want to reject Lan Zhan—who seems very nice and hot and actually invested in student politics. For a wild moment, he thinks that he could try and fit in a drink—but no, he really won’t have time.

ah wow!! that would be so nice but im super busy tonight :(((( he sends.

Then he adds, another time tho?? Just to be polite. Lan Zhan has probably never been rejected before; Wei Ying doesn’t want him to feel bad. And besides, he’ is interested in what Lan Zhan might have to say about divestment.

Wei Ying hears the shower shut off and the sounds of Jiang Cheng banging his way out of the bathroom soon follows as he slams the door on his way out.

“Shower’s free!” he shouts, unnecessarily.

“Yeah, no need for the heads up, A-Cheng, they probably heard you leave the bathroom all the way in Siberia,” Nie Huaisang yells from his room.

“My turn!” Wei Ying calls and dashes into the bathroom before Nie Huaisang can get there first.

By the time he checks his phone again, he’s tugging on a pair of black combat trousers and brushing his teeth at the same time. He’s got a million Facebook messages, but he ignores them all and opens up Tinder again. Just to see. Lan Zhan hasn’t responded to his question. Wei Ying doesn’t know if this is normal, on a dating app. Has Lan Zhan ghosted him already? Wei Ying is a little offended, to be honest. The pictures Nie Huaisang had put up on his profile are hot, and he had thought the conversation with Lan Zhan was going pretty well. And, worse, he didn’t even get the chance to drop in the fact that he was running for SU president! He racks his brain for a question to ask. He has to keep the conversation going, at the very least until he can actually mention the reason he’s on this app. Fingers hovering over the screen, he sees a sudden message come through.

Of course.

what are u up to today ?

Nothing very exciting. Study date with a friend, yoga class this afternoon

You?

Here’s the opening Wei Ying needs.

ahh well i’m actually running for SU president lollll

so campaigning like crazy for that!

Good luck

How has campaigning been so far?

early days but ppl have responded positively! here’s the link to my manifesto if you’d like to see

“Wei Ying!” Jiang Cheng shouts, banging on Wei Ying’s door for good measure. “Are you alive in there? Come downstairs, I made you a green smoothie!”

“Coming!” Wei Ying yells back. He sends one final message to Lan Zhan: lmk what your thoughts are ! i really want to hear ur perspective :)

It’s nothing that he hasn’t said to other people on the app, but he feels weirdly nervous as he sends it. It feels important, for some reason, that this Lan Zhan approves of Wei Ying’s policies, his politics. He thinks of Lan Zhan’s assessing gaze in his photos, shivers a little at the thought of being under his appraisal. Wei Ying doesn’t want to examine that feeling too closely, so he slips his phone into his back pocket and hurries out of his room to get his smoothie.

“Why the long face?” Wei Ying asks Nie Huaisang later that morning. They’re outside the main English faculty lecture theatre, waiting to catch students walking out from a lecture. Wei Ying checks his watch: ten minutes to go. After this, he’ll need to bike as fast as possible over to the science department buildings to campaign with the first-years.

“Ugh, so you know Su She?” Nie Huaisang says, scrolling on his phone.

“No, who’s that?”

“Wei Ying, you actually need to start remembering the names of the other candidates,” Nie Huaisang reprimands him. “He’s the Lib Dem.”

“Ahhh,” Wei Ying says. “What about him? I thought we wrote him off as hopeless.”

“Mm, me too, but I just found out that Meng Yao is running his campaign,” Nie Huaisang says.

Before Wei Ying can respond, a voice calls out, “Hiiiiii!” and Wei Ying and Nie Huaisang turn to see Meng Yao sidling up to them. Speak of the devil. Across the entryway, Su She is waiting at the other exit to the lecture theatre.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says. Meng Yao dimples a smile at him briefly before turning his attention to Nie Huaisang: it is very clear who he’s here for. Wei Ying relaxes, relieved that he won’t have to fight this battle, and prepares to enjoy the show.

“Hi, A-Yao!” Nie Huaisang says, tone dripping with a sweetness that Wei Ying knows is absolutely, one hundred percent, utterly fake. “So lovely to see you! How is your campaign doing?”

“Oh, you know! Hard to tell at such an early stage!” Meng Yao waves a hand. His smile is wide and sweet, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which remain watchful as a snake, fixed on Nie Huaisang. “How about your own?”

The two of them proceed to have a conversation, which manages to be entirely composed of pleasantries while also being the iciest exchange of words Wei Ying thinks he’s ever heard. He has to stop himself from swivelling his head back and forth like he’s at a tennis match.

Eventually Meng Yao says, casually, “Oh, how is Mingjue, by the way? I hope he’s well. I do miss him.”

The smile disappears off Nie Huaisang’s face for a split second. He recovers swiftly, but Meng Yao’s dimples get even deeper.

“I’ll make sure to pass on your well wishes,” says Nie Huaisang, smile fixed back in place.

Meng Yao says, “How kind of you! Well, the lecture’s almost over, so I should get back to my side of the corridor! We really must do this more often, it’s been so delightful to catch up with you, Sangsang.”

“Oh, likewise,” Nie Huaisang says in a tone that implies anything but. “We should definitely get coffee sometime.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Meng Yao says. His eyes slide sideways to Wei Ying. “Nice to see you too, Wei Ying. Good luck with the election.”

Good luck has never sounded more like a threat.

“Those dimples can’t be real,” whispers Wei Ying as Meng Yao walks off. “He must have grown them somehow. Maybe he sleeps with two pencils poked into his cheeks.”

“He’s up to something,” Nie Huaisang mutters, narrowing his eyes at Meng Yao’s retreating back. He taps his phone against the palm of his hand a few times. “He’s up to something and he wants me to know it.”

Wei Ying knows from experience that he absolutely cannot tell Nie Huaisang, Chill out, it’s only student politics—and in fact, Wei Ying has also started to take it all far too seriously as well. So instead, he says lightly as the students begin to file out of the lecture theatre, “Nobody’s a better schemer than you, Sangsang. Don’t worry about it, he’s only trying to psych us out! Let’s focus on talking to these English students.”

The next few days are a whirlwind. Wei Ying talks to more people than he’s ever spoken to in his life, runs to attend what feels like every single student-run event happening on campus, gives interviews to all the student papers, and continues posting incessantly on Facebook and Twitter. He only remembers to eat because Wen Qing and Jiang Cheng tag-team him, tossing takeout containers at him at regular intervals. Nie Huaisang hasn’t put his phone down in days. The run-in—Wei Ying can’t refer to it as anything otherwise—they’d had with Meng Yao has only increased his determination to win.

Wei Ying is surprised to find that he’s equally determined to win as well. When he’d agreed to run, it had sort of been on a whim. He’d never been particularly into student union politics before last year, when Song Lan had won President in a surprise victory. Before then, the SU had always been fairly apolitical, but having an actually left-wing SU president had made an incredible difference to what was possible for student organisations to achieve. Song Lan had told them all at the beginning of his term, I’m here to help with whatever you need—I literally get paid for this shit, and people had taken him up on it. It had given weight and heft to the left-wing student movement on campus—not to mention funds and resources.

Wei Ying had wanted to see that continue—at the very least, he thought, another left-wing candidate should be on the ballot—and nobody else had seemed willing to step up. So when Nie Huaisang had floated that he could run, Wei Ying had said, Why not? He hadn’t actually thought he’d have a chance. But now that he’s here, in it, he wants to win. Having conversations with fellow students, discussing his manifesto points, hearing their feedback, even by showing up to things he’d never be caught dead at, like the university rugby match or slam poetry evenings—has all reminded him how much he believes that change can be made at this university. And it feels like other people believe that, too.

On the night before the hustings, it starts to hit home that he’s seriously started thinking that he might win. He’s managed to escape Nie Huaisang’s clutches for an evening so he can hang out with the Wens, but he can’t stop thinking about the election, ending up lying on the floor of Wen Qing’s bedroom and rehearsing his speech for the fiftieth time.

“You really want to win this,” Wen Qing observes as Wei Ying throws down his notes for the fiftieth time. She’s writing up anatomy notes on post-its in her impeccably neat handwriting, lining them up on her wall and her mirror.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying admits, a little embarrassed. It feels exposing to claim it, to show how much he wants it, especially to Wen Qing, who he’s always been a little in awe of.

“Remember when we were in first year and hated the SU?” Wen Qing says.

“How the turn tables,” Wei Ying says automatically. Then he thinks about it, and opens his mouth to defend his decision to run for president, explain why even though he still thinks that the university should be torn down and higher education completely restructured, even despite that, it’s important to have an SU that actually lives up to its name of union, that makes student politics actually political in a meaningful sense again—

Before he can speak, Wen Qing says, “I know, I know. I’m only joking.” She swivels in her chair and fixes him with a look, the one that Wei Ying was initially intimidated by but has grown to love—the one that says I take you seriously. “I think you’re doing a good thing. You’ve run an insanely good campaign, Wei Ying, you should be proud.”

Wei Ying blushes. “Eh, it was all Huaisang,” he says, because he’s never learnt how to address a direct compliment in his life. “And you guys have been lifesavers too. Thanks for being here.”

“Always,” Wen Qing says. She levers herself out of her chair with a sigh and stretches out her back. “Hey, you want some ramen? A-Ning spent all day yesterday making an insane amount of broth. It’s really good. Oh, and your phone’s been going off like crazy for the last ten minutes.”

“Cheers,” Wei Ying says, catching the phone with one hand. “Ramen sounds great.”

While he’s waiting for Wen Qing to come back, Wei Ying looks at his notifications. He’s not sure what to do with the pleased feeling that shoots through him at seeing that Lan Zhan has sent him several messages.

Since they matched, he and Lan Zhan have talked fairly continuously—well, as continuously as possible while Wei Ying is being run off his feet. Somehow he always manages to spare five minutes to check for messages from Lan Zhan.

After Wei Ying had asked him for opinions on the manifesto, Lan Zhan had sent back several. Wei Ying had opened the messages and immediately thought, oh no—mostly because of the length, he’d thought that it must be a critique. But when he’d read them properly, he’d been surprised: Lan Zhan had criticised a couple of his points, but overall his comments had been positive, and the critiques hadn’t appeared to be in bad faith. So, they’d talked through Wei Ying’s manifesto, and SU politics more generally—Lan Zhan had admitted that he’d like to get involved in more than just the Divestment Campaign, so Wei Ying had sent him links to all the upcoming meetings that he knew of, and Lan Zhan had responded with 👍👍👍👍

At some point they’d moved onto talking about themselves: where they’d grown up and went to school, their families (Lan Zhan has a brother, too, but an older one. From the sounds of it, he’d get along pretty well with jiejie), Lan Zhan’s plans to do an MA in archive studies next year, the books they’d read recently. They’d discovered that they share a love of Star Trek, that they’d both been in orchestra and chess club at school (We should play sometime, Lan Zhan had texted), and that they have a mutual and longlasting devotion to the Thai food stall in the market. And from the small things, the conversation had expanded out into more meaningful topics—Wei Ying confessing that he feels anxious about the election, Lan Zhan admitting to worrying about his uncle, living alone back in Suzhou.

It feels heady, exciting, to receive so much attention from someone new, especially someone like Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan is a good conversationalist; attentive to what Wei Ying says, with a wickedly dry sense of humour, picking up Wei Ying’s jokes and volleying them back deftly.

Wei Ying has started wondering, idly, what it might be like to meet Lan Zhan. All of Lan Zhan’s photos on his Tinder profile are fairly serious, but in Wei Ying’s favourite one, the one where he’s reaching for something off-screen, with his hair pulled into a low bun, soft tendrils framing his face, the corner of his mouth is up-ticking slightly. Wei Ying hasn’t ever felt like this before; he doesn’t know how to handle this new, strange desire to see Lan Zhan smile for real, to be the one to make Lan Zhan smile. Maybe seeing Lan Zhan in person would help—but Lan Zhan hasn’t asked him to meet up, not since that first message.

Until now. The message he’s sent Wei Ying reads: Would you like to go on a date with me after your campaign is over?

Wei Ying stares at it for so long that the words start to blur on the screen. A date. With Lan Zhan. His heart is beating very fast. He thinks he might be sick.

“Ramen’s here!” Wen Qing says, balancing three bowls of ramen in her arms and kicking the door open. Wen Ning follows after her, holding a bottle of chili oil and a six-pack of beer.

“Hi, A-Ning,” Wei Ying says absently, still looking at Lan Zhan’s message. Wen Qing sets the ramen on the floor next to him and snatches the phone out from under his nose. “Hey! Hey, give it back!”

“No phones at the dinner table—dinner floor, whatever—you know the rules, Wei Ying.”

“I need it for campaigning,” Wei Ying protests. He fervently hopes that Wen Qing doesn’t look at the screen.

“It can wait twenty minutes while you eat,” Wen Qing says sternly. She puts the phone facedown on the floor. “Besides, A-Ning has something to tell you.”

“Oh?” Wei Ying says. He sits up, gathers the ramen bowl into his arms, and looks properly at Wen Ning, putting all thoughts of Lan Zhan out of his mind for now. Wen Ning deserves his full attention. “Sorry for being distracted, A-Ning. How are you? What’s up?”

Wen Ning says quietly, “It’s okay. Um, I wanted to tell you before the news comes out tomorrow, but do you remember last year, when I joined the university archery team?”

Wei Ying does remember. Wen Ning had been such a shy, uncertain fresher, barely able to reply to someone when they addressed him. He’d struggled to find his feet until he’d finally admitted to Wei Ying that he had always wanted to try archery, and Wei Ying had encouraged him to join the team. At first it had seemed like that had helped—Wen Ning was skilled at it, and he’d started to come out of his shell, making friends and settling into himself more. And then, at the end of first year, he’d quit, explaining to Wei Ying and Wen Qing that he wanted to focus on his studies.

“Well, um. I never told you this at the time, but, um. The reason that I quit the team at the end of the year… It was because the new team captain used homophobic slurs all the time, even after he found out that I was gay?”

Wei Ying pauses pouring the chilli oil into his ramen and exchanges a long look with Wen Qing. From the murderous glint in her eyes, he can tell that she hadn’t known about this until recently either. He takes a deep breath and suppresses the rage that has swelled up in him like a balloon.

“I’m so sorry, A-Ning,” Wei Ying says, holding Wen Ning’s gaze. “I’m really sorry that that happened, and you quit the team. And also that you were going through it alone.”

Wen Ning nods. “Thank you. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you—”

“No apologies,” Wen Qing says. Her mouth is a thin line. “I already told you that.”

“Okay, jiejie,” Wen Ning says softly. “Well. The reason I’m bringing it up now is that, um, well, the team captain was… it was Wen Chao.”

Wei Ying nearly upends the entire bottle into his ramen. “What?”

“Yeah,” Wen Ning says. He looks unhappily into his bowl, mouth downturned. “I didn’t, you know, I didn’t want to do anything about it at the time, like I said, but…seeing him running in the election, it brought back a lot of those memories and, uh, I just don’t think anyone who uses derogatory language like that should be in that kind of position of power. So I talked to someone from the student paper, and they’re going to run an article on it tomorrow.”

Wei Ying wrestles down the urge to storm out of the house and beat the living shit out of Wen Chao. His responsibility, right now, is to be here for Wen Ning. He says gently, “That must have been difficult. I’m really proud of you.”

Wen Ning shakes his head. “It was mostly Mianmian who encouraged me to do it—you know, she was on the women’s team, so she heard a lot of what went down. She was a huge help.”

“She helped, but it’s you that made the decision, and that’s really brave,” Wei Ying says, and is shocked to see Wen Ning’s eyes fill with tears. “Hey, oh my God, A-Ning. Come here. You too, Wen Qing.”

Wei Ying sets down his ramen and folds Wen Ning into one arm and Wen Qing in the other. Wen Qing is holding Wen Ning’s hand in both of hers tightly.

“That piece of shit,” she says into Wei Ying’s shoulder. Wei Ying reaches up a hand and strokes the hair off her forehead.

“Love you guys,” Wei Ying says. “So much. I really do.”

When he releases them, Wen Qing is wiping at her eyes as well. “You need to win, Wei Ying,” she says urgently. “He—he can’t.”

“I will,” Wei Ying promises. He’s already thinking of how he’s going to absolutely eviscerate Wen Chao at the hustings tomorrow. “Don’t worry.”

Wen Ning’s revelation about Wen Chao distracts Wei Ying sufficiently for the rest of the evening, so that he’s almost home before he remembers Lan Zhan’s last message. He fishes his phone out and looks at it again. It seems so innocuous, so banal compared with the flood of emotions that it’s unleashed in him.

A date. With Lan Zhan. With a man. Wei Ying has—he’s never thought of himself as anything other than straight, and yet… he’s been messaging Lan Zhan for days now. Messaging on a dating app, and it’s not like he hasn’t—he can admit there’s been something stirring in his chest that feels a lot like desire whenever he looks at the photos on Lan Zhan’s profile. Lan Zhan, who is, notably, not a woman.

Wei Ying has no idea how to even begin trying to think about the idea that maybe he’s not as straight as he thought after all. That, maybe, he could be into a man. Lan Zhan. Unpacking his sexuality feels absolutely terrifying, especially with everything else going on. Wei Ying tries to scale down. It doesn’t matter if he’s straight, if he’s—not. Does he want to go on the date?

It should be a more manageable question, but it overwhelms Wei Ying anyway. He barely processes unlocking the door when he gets home, the brief conversation he has with Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang in the kitchen, or climbing the stairs to his room.

He could go on the date, Wei Ying thinks, but would that be disingenuous? What if this is just some… some campaign-induced fever and he actually is straight? Would he be tricking Lan Zhan into dating a straight man? If he lets Lan Zhan go on a date with him, then isn’t that gaslighting, or something?

In his room, Wei Ying gets into bed and Googles what is gaslighting, and then figures that agreeing to a date with Lan Zhan probably doesn’t count. It probably is disingenuous, he thinks, not to tell Lan Zhan that he’s gone his whole life thinking he’s straight until now (well, being strictly accurate, four days ago, if he really thinks about the way he felt looking through Lan Zhan’s Tinder profile). On the other hand, telling Lan Zhan that… feels like a lot to put on someone who is probably on Tinder to find a fun sexy hook-up, not some weirdo like Wei Ying coming along with a ton of baggage. He doesn’t think that Lan Zhan would be mean, but a budding sexuality crisis is not exactly fun or casual.

So. He probably shouldn’t go on the date. That’s the conclusion he’s coming to. And yet… he wants to. He really wants to. He’s never imagined what dating a man would be like before, but it feels natural, somehow, to think about dating Lan Zhan. Sitting across from him in a dimly-lit bar, maybe, heads close together as they talked—but. But he doesn’t want to be a dick and accidentally lead Lan Zhan on. Maybe if he can have his crisis quickly, it’ll all be sorted out by the time he and Lan Zhan go on a date and then he can be a fun sexy hook-up after all. But that would require him to sit down and think through some feelings that he’s too busy to consider right now, not right in the middle of the campaign.

He goes back and forth continuously in the quiet of his room, agonising over what he should say. He almost texts jiejie for advice, but the situation feels too difficult to explain over message, and it’s definitely too late to call her.

Eventually, he makes a resolution: he’ll say yes to the date, to Lan Zhan—the campaign ends in two days, so that gives him time to think it through and maybe ask for someone’s advice. He can always cancel the date if he feels like it’s the wrong thing to do, even though it really doesn’t, but he can’t think about how right it does feel, because thinking about that means he has to think about why and—anyway. He’ll say yes. He can figure the rest out after. Sorted.

Pleased to finally have come to a decision, Wei Ying picks up his phone and types out, yeah that sounds good, pick a day/time and i’m urs, but when he presses send, the message doesn’t go through. Wei Ying frowns at his phone, turns off the Wifi so he’s using data, and tries again. Again, the message comes up as undelivered.

He closes the Tinder app and reopens it, to see a message:

Your Account Has Been Banned. Your Tinder profile has been banned for activity that violates our Terms of Use.

Oh fuck, thinks Wei Ying. It must be because he’s been using it to campaign, and someone has reported him, which fuck whoever did that, but his main concern is that if his account has been banned, he can’t reply to Lan Zhan. In a panic, he opens Facebook and searches Lan Zhan—nothing. Instagram comes up similarly blank.

Shit. What is he going to do? Lan Zhan will think Wei Ying has ghosted him! And Wei Ying doesn’t know how else to contact him to tell him the truth—that he wants to go on the date. It feels illogical, considering that Wei Ying literally just spent ages dithering over whether to even go. He shouldn’t care this much, but now that the decision has been taken out of his hands, it only reaffirms how badly he wanted it. Frustrated, he turns over in bed and buries his face in the pillow. Then he rolls over and checks Tinder again—the same message comes up. Your Account Has Been Banned.

Wei Ying sighs. He forces himself to turn off his phone and put it on his bedside table, but it takes a long time before he actually manages to sleep.

Wei Ying is awoken by Nie Huaisang shouting his name and banging on his bedroom door relentlessly. When he yanks the door open, Nie Huaisang looks elated.

“Look at this!” he basically screams into Wei Ying’s face, waving his phone, which is open to the homepage of the main student newspaper. Wei Ying grabs the phone—it’s the article exposing Wen Chao’s homophobia.

“Oh, you woke me up for this?” Wei Ying complains grumpily. “I already heard about it yesterday from—uh, from the source.”

“You what?” Nie Huaisang shrieks. “You knew and you didn’t tell me?”

“I only found out a few hours before you did,” Wei Ying defends himself, but he does feel contrite—he should have told Nie Huaisang. It’s the kind of thing Nie Huaisang should know, given that he’s basically directing Wei Ying’s campaign like he’s Eli Gold off The Good Wife. Wei Ying had just been too busy… having a sexuality crisis-not-crisis to think about the campaign.

“That’s no excuse,” Nie Huaisang scolds.

Get your head in the game, Wei Ying, he tells himself. To Nie Huaisang he says, “Sorry, I should have mentioned it—it slipped my mind. Can we talk strategy for the hustings? I’m gonna tear him to pieces.”

Nie Huaisang purses his lips. “Come downstairs and have breakfast—A-Cheng is making some horrible egg white omelette thing, I’m going to have Coco Pops—and we can discuss.”

Wei Ying follows Nie Huaisang to the kitchen with a renewed sense of determination. He has to win this campaign. Hustings is tonight: they’ll come up with a plan, and he’ll stick to it.

Wei Ying has never been good at sticking to a plan. Especially considering that the plan that Nie Huaisang proposes is bullshit, in his opinion—he thinks that Wei Ying shouldn’t even try to address Wen Chao’s homophobia, that the negative campaigning will ‘detract from’ Wei Ying’s own campaign. They’re still arguing about it on the way to the lecture theatre where the election hustings are being held.

“You’re not going to be in dialogue with him,” Nie Huaisang says for the third time. “All the collective questions are posed to each candidate individually, and he’s not going to bring it up, so if you do, then you’ll be the one causing problems. It’ll look bad, Wei Ying.”

“I can’t fucking stand the thought that nobody is going to call him out on this, at the hustings,” Wei Ying says hotly. “What are hustings even for?”

“There’ll be questions from the floor,” Nie Huaisang reminds him. “One of them is bound to be about the article. Listen, Wei Ying, Wen Chao doesn’t need you to make him look like an idiot—he does that all by himself.”

“I don’t want him to look like an idiot,” Wei Ying grumbles. He rethinks. “Well, I do, but I more want him to be held accountable for his homophobia.”

“So do I,” Nie Huaisang says. He’s tapping his phone in his hands again, his nervous tic.

“Well then, why won’t you let me reference it in my speech?” Wei Ying demands.

Nie Huaisang sighs. “I don’t want you to jeopardise your chances.”

“Fuck that,” Wei Ying bites out. “Isn’t standing up for what’s right the only reason I’m running in this election in the first place?”

“Yes, and you’ll be able to do so much more good if you actually get elected,” Nie Huaisang argues. He switches tack. “We don’t have time to change around your speech, so please, please stick to what we’ve rehearsed.”

They’ve arrived at the lecture theatre now, but Nie Huaisang holds out an arm to stop Wei Ying from going up the stairs, fixing Wei Ying with a stare until Wei Ying sighs and nods. “I’ll do the original speech,” he says.

“Thank you,” Nie Huaisang says, and lets him go up the stairs.

“Give me a minute to use the bathroom,” Wei Ying says, and leaves Nie Huaisang to go into the lecture hall alone.

In the bathroom mirror, Wei Ying looks at himself, narrows his eyes. Nie Huaisang is probably right. It won’t help to get into a shouting match with Wen Chao. He needs to win this election—for Wen Ning, for all the LGBT students on campus. Doing anything to damage his chances will only play into Wen Chao’s hands. So, even if he feels like a coward, he’ll stick to the original speech. Fuck politics, he thinks to himself.

As he comes out of the bathroom, someone pounces on him from behind. “Wei Ying!”

“Mianmian!” Wei Ying says, bad mood evaporating instantly. He turns around to hug her properly and whispers, “Thank you for helping A-Ning.”

Mianmian squeezes him around the middle, hard, probably bruising his spleen or something. “Of course,” she says fiercely. “What else would I do?”

“How’s your own campaign going?” Wei Ying asks, once she finally lets go. His torso feels slightly sore.

Mianmian slaps a hand over his mouth. “Shhshhshhshhshh, you take that back. It’s not my campaign. I’m here for emotional support and emotional support only. I take no responsibility for any other part of it.”

“Including the horrible colour scheme of his campaign materials?” Wei Ying teases. “Peach and Tiffany blue with gold accents, couldn’t you have gone for something a little less pretentious?”

“Ughhh,” Mianmian groans, covering her face with her hands. “He’s so embarrassing. I swear I had nothing to do with it!”

Nie Huaisang bangs out of the lecture theatre and comes rushing up to them. “Hey, Wei Ying, stop consorting with the enemy and get in there! We’ve got five minutes.”

“I’m not the enemy,” Mianmian says, affronted. “I told you who I’m voting for.” She punches Wei Ying in the arm and says, in a serious tone this time, “Hey. You’d better beat that bastard.”

Wei Ying nods, and follows Nie Huaisang into the room.

The first part of the hustings passes uneventfully—Wei Ying delivers his introductory speech outlining his campaign and reasons for running as planned and prepared, and gets a satisfied nod from Nie Huaisang. The other speeches are as expected, really—substanceless from Su She, borderline offensive from Wen Chao, boring from Jin Zixuan. Xue Yang has not shown up.

Then they move onto the pre-prepared questions, moderated by Song Lan. What role should activism play in the students’ union? What importance would you give to national issues that are brought to the SU council? What is the top policy change you would like to achieve as president? As Jin Zixuan stumbles over his words for the third time and fumbles with his notecards, Wei Ying scans the lecture hall, idly cataloguing faces he recognises: Zizhen, Mo Xuanyu, Jingyi, Wen Zhuliu, Lan Zhan—

Wait.

Wei Ying’s eyes snap back, unsure if he’s made a mistake, but yes, that’s definitely Lan Zhan. He’s sitting beside Mianmian in the back row, watching Jin Zixuan with a focused, intent expression. Wei Ying stares at him, mouth going dry. Everyone else in this hall is either a student journalist or here to support their friend. Hardly anyone actually shows up to hustings, especially when the student paper actually does a pretty good job of livetweeting it. But Lan Zhan… Well, Lan Zhan knows Wei Ying is running for SU president. Had he come to the hustings to…find Wei Ying? That thought makes a warmth spread through Wei Ying’s chest. At the very moment he’s thinking that, Lan Zhan glances over and meets his eyes. Wei Ying gazes back, captivated. Even from this far away, Lan Zhan is ethereally beautiful; there’s something magnetic about him.

“Wei Ying?” Song Lan prompts, and Wei Ying drags his eyes away from Lan Zhan.

“Um,” he says. “Could you repeat the question?”

“Sure,” Song Lan says. “How would you seek to lead the SU if disagreements break out amongst the other SU officers?”

Across the stage, Wen Chao leans back in his chair, arms folded, smirk playing about his lips. Wei Ying, fuming, answers the question and mentally kicks himself. Focus, Wei Ying.

Then it’s time for questions from the floor.

“This one is for Wen Chao,” Zizhen says. “Earlier today an article was released which detailed multiple incidents where you used homophobic language in your role as archery team captain. Could you please explain why you felt these terms were appropriate to use, even after you were asked to stop by LGBT members of your team?”

A murmur goes through the crowd. Here we fucking go, Wei Ying thinks.

Wen Chao stands up, ire written all over his face. “I refuse to answer this question,” he sneers. “This is a smear campaign by members of the current students’ union who are biased against the Conservative Association. I refuse to stand here and face baseless allegations regarding a subject matter, which does not necessarily affect the actual running of this election.”

Wei Ying doesn’t stop to think it through. He stands up too. “Sorry to interrupt, and excuse my language, but that’s absolute fucking bullshit. You’re being elected to a position of responsibility, a position where you will be representing students, including a huge number of LGBT students. It’s deplorable that you think that your homophobia ‘doesn’t affect the election’ and that you don’t see the need to apologise for making students feel unsafe and being a bigot. That’s unacceptable. You should be ashamed of yourself—you should step down from the election.”

He only realises he’s shaking with anger when he stops talking. Scattered applause—Zizhen, Jingyi, Jin Ling and Sizhui—echoes around the room, and then fades. Wei Ying draws a shaky breath and exhales.

Song Lan says, “Wei Ying,” and motions for Wei Ying to sit down. “I understand you feel strongly about this, but we have to abide by the rules of the hustings—please wait until you are asked a question to respond.”

Wei Ying sinks into his chair, still trembling slightly. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares into the crowd, trying to avoid making eye contact with Nie Huaisang. Meng Yao, for some reason, is smiling widely, dimples on full show. Then Wei Ying glances up at where Lan Zhan and Mianmian are sitting. Mianmian is giving Wei Ying a double thumbs up, and Wei Ying smiles briefly at her. Then he turns his gaze to Lan Zhan, who gives him a short, sharp nod. Wei Ying sits up a little straighter in his chair. He’s still absolutely fuming, but that approving nod is like a little cool current filtering through the hot waves of rage.

Zizhen does his best to press for Wen Chao to respond to the article, but Wen Chao evades him at every turn. After three questions, Song Lan, with obvious reluctance, informs them that they have to move on. Wei Ying lets out a frustrated exhale and glances out at the audience again—just in time to see Lan Zhan get up and leave the lecture hall. Wei Ying watches him go, wishing he could do the same—but unfortunately, he’s got a job to do. He needs to win this election. So he sets his chin determinedly and listens for the next question.

“I can’t believe Jingyi’s question made Su She cry!” Nie Huaisang says with undisguised glee later that evening, as they’re waiting in the club queue for the one and only gay student club night of the week. Wei Ying is laden with stickers and flyers because campaigning never stops. He’d been worried that Nie Huaisang would be angry with him after his outburst at the hustings, but when he’d attempted to apologise afterwards, all Nie Huaisang had said was, You’re not sorry, and you shouldn’t be. Let’s win this damn thing. Club campaigning tonight, yeah? So here they are.

“Su She had it coming,” Jiang Cheng says, rolling his eyes. “He should have known better than to claim he’d been doing environmental justice work throughout his time at university—as if the Divestment campaign would let him get away with that.”

“Jingyi completely eviscerated him,” Wei Ying says. “What an icon.”

“I respect him so much,” Nie Huaisang says.

They shuffle forward a few places in the queue. There isn’t an actual gay club in their tiny university town, so the gay club night is hosted at one of the shitty straight clubs—possibly the shittiest one.

“Every time I come here, I really can’t believe the gay night is hosted in a club that’s literally in a basement,” Nie Huaisang says as they flash their IDs at the bouncer and go down the stairs. “It’s like they’re purposefully trying to send us a message: stay underground, gays!”

Wei Ying snorts. He’s wearing a sleeveless vest with a rainbow neckline, high-waisted flares and a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses, which Mianmian teasingly calls his wannabe gay outfit. Wei Ying normally finds the joke funny, but since talking to Lan Zhan on Tinder, it now makes him feel weirdly confused—and guilty, too, about how he’d treated Lan Zhan.

After seeing Lan Zhan earlier, Wei Ying has been trying very hard not to think about him, but being at a, well, gay club night is making it very hard to avoid his own thoughts. He’s been to this night many times, because everyone in his friendship circle is gay, and had great and uncomplicated fun as the token straight friend—but he’s never been here and had… feelings to work out about the fact that he might like men. Or at least, like Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying’s running on less than three hours of sleep, so he lets Jiang Cheng buy them all Jagerbombs despite the fact that his blood is already probably ninety percent caffeine right now. Wei Ying drinks the whole disgusting thing, and a second one too, because he gets caught up talking to a group of girls by the bar, all of whom take campaign stickers from him and insist on buying him a drink. He’s feeling decidedly wired by the time he leverages himself off the bar and onto the dance floor, looking for Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng, who are nowhere to be seen.

Wei Ying isn’t fazed by their absence—he’s been to three club nights already this week, so he knows the drill, knows how to approach people in a chill way that doesn’t detract from their fun night and doesn’t make him look awkward and uncool. Earlier in the week, he’d watched Jin Zixuan attempting to campaign at one of the straight clubs and it had been a deeply painful experience.

He drinks another Jagerbomb because he spots Jingyi with a group of his Divestment Campaign friends and insists on getting them all a celebratory round for making Su She cry.

“What are your campaign plans for tomorrow?” Jingyi yells in his ear, over the sound of the third Ariana Grande remix that’s played in the last hour. “You should come for breakfast at my halls! All the freshers will be there! The hash browns are so fucking good!”

“Sure,” Wei Ying shouts back. “Text me the address? Hey, want to help me give out stickers tonight?”

He passes Jingyi a roll of stickers—and then someone grabs his wrist.

Wei Ying whirls around, indignant, but his annoyance evaporates upon seeing who it is.

Lan Zhan.

He’s tall, is the first thing that Wei Ying can think, once he gets over his surprise; he has to look up to meet Lan Zhan’s eyes. And the second thing Wei Ying thinks is that Lan Zhan is even more gorgeous up close, in a mesh black top over a white shirt with a ruffle at the neck. The dim neon lights of the dance floor play over his face, his long shining waves of hair. Wei Ying can’t seem to stop looking at his mouth.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, after they’ve been staring at each other for a while. Then he glances sideways at Jingyi, who’s still standing there, mouth slightly agape.

“Oh!” Jingyi says. “I’ll just—I gotta—um, bye, Wei Ying!” He backs away into the crowd, making Significant Eyebrow movements at Wei Ying as he goes.

Wei Ying opens his mouth and then closes it. Lan Zhan is still holding his wrist, not tightly, but firmly. His fingers wrap all the way around Wei Ying’s arm. It’s nice, Wei Ying thinks distantly. He’s scrambling for something to say when he realises that Lan Zhan is speaking.

Wei Ying gestures at his ear with his free hand and mimes confusion. “Can’t hear you!”

Lan Zhan pulls Wei Ying’s arm to draw him closer and speaks directly into his ear, “Let’s dance.”

Maybe it’s the three Jagerbombs, maybe it’s the heady smell of Lan Zhan’s cologne, but Wei Ying finds himself saying, “Yeah, okay,” and letting Lan Zhan lead him onto the dance floor.

The basement club is also the smallest club in town, and people are packed into every inch of space. Lan Zhan navigates through the crush of bodies right to the centre, beneath the bright pink lights, and Wei Ying follows.

It’s so crowded that when they start dancing Wei Ying really has no other choice other than to lean into Lan Zhan’s personal space, and he’s drunk enough not to feel embarrassed about it. He doesn’t recognise the song that’s playing—something Top 40 remixed with a synth track, but he doesn’t need to, just closes his eyes and rolls his hips to the beat, losing himself in the music.

Behind them, someone bumps into Wei Ying and he stumbles. Lan Zhan reaches out to steady Wei Ying, holding him by the waist and then—and then he doesn’t let go, sliding his hands down over Wei Ying’s hips, and guiding them so that they dance pressed together. Wei Ying follows Lan Zhan’s lead blindly, enjoying the feeling of having someone take control, direct him. Without thinking, he’s begun to grind against Lan Zhan, rocking their hips together. Being this close to Lan Zhan, touching him, feels—it feels good. Wei Ying wants more.

When the beat drops, Wei Ying tosses his head back and sees that Lan Zhan is looking down at him with half-lidded eyes. It sends a shiver all the way down Wei Ying’s spine.] It’s a look he recognises from Lan Zhan’s Tinder photos—one that challenges and invites at once, says, Come here, but make it worth my while. Lan Zhan leans in, ever so slightly, and—

And Wei Ying pulls back so fast he almost stumbles and falls into the dance circle behind them. He rights himself and draws a ragged breath.

Oh God. What is he doing? What is he doing?

“I—uh—I just—need some water,” he says and turns to escape through the crowd, leaving Lan Zhan behind.

As Wei Ying makes his way back to the bar, he runs into Nie Huaisang and Jiang Cheng.

“Hey, whoa,” Nie Huaisang says, reaching out to steady him. “You okay?”

“Fine!” Wei Ying says, backing away from Nie Huaisang’s hand. After dancing with Lan Zhan, all of his nerve endings feel like they’re on fire, like he might explode if touched. “Everything’s fine!”

Nie Huaisang opens his mouth to say something but Jiang Cheng interrupts, “I’m glad we found you. We’re going home, want to come?”

Wei Ying should go home. But he was meant to be campaigning tonight, and he’s hardly spoken to anyone because he’s been so preoccupied with Lan Zhan. Maybe if he gets some good conversations with people in, it’ll make him feel better. Less guilty.

“No,” he says, “I’m gonna stick around for a bit and try and do some more campaigning.”

“Are you sure?” Nie Huaisang asks. Jiang Cheng narrows his eyes but Wei Ying avoids his gaze and says as brightly as he can, “Yeah!”

Jiang Cheng says, “Fine, we’re gonna head. Text me when you’re leaving and when you get home, okay?”

Wei Ying nods and forces himself to keep smiling. Once his friends are gone, he sighs and bites down on his lower lip hard, determined to salvage the night somehow.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Wei Ying is back at the bar. The room is spinning a little. He actually had managed to talk to some new people and give away his remaining stickers, but then he’d run into Jingyi and his friends again, and they’d got more and more drinks and danced, and then he’d lost them in the crowd, which has led him back to the bar. He lets his gaze return to the dance floor, looking for—hoping to see—

Ugh. Pathetic. Wei Ying stumbles away from the bar, feeling a little unsteady on his feet. Air. He just needs some air. If he goes out to the smoking area, he can talk to the people outside.

The smoking area of the club is an alleyway between the bookshop and some weird shop that appears to only sell fancy whiskey and old maps. Wei Ying stumbles outside and immediately feels very drunk, now that he’s away from the disorienting lights and loud noises of the club. He blinks hard and then sits down heavily right on the floor of the alley, back resting against the rough brick of the wall. The floor is damp and slightly sticky underneath him. He puts his head on his knees and inhales, trying to steady himself.

“Wei Ying?” a voice says and Wei Ying looks up to meet Lan Zhan’s sharp gaze. His heart leaps, then sinks when he realises what he must look like right now.

He runs a hand through his hair and says, “Ah, Lan Zhan—sorry, let me—”

Lan Zhan puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him from getting up, then sits down right next to him on the floor. He’s wearing leather trousers and boots with little heels.

“Your clothes are way too nice to sit on the floor,” Wei Ying says.

“Mm,” Lan Zhan says. His arm is pressed against Wei Ying’s. The mesh of his top is slightly scratchy, but Wei Ying doesn’t mind. He likes the pressure, the solidity of Lan Zhan’s body against his. “I couldn’t find you again. Earlier.”

“Did you look?” Wei Ying asks, something sparking in his belly at the thought.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says and Wei Ying turns to look at him. Their faces are suddenly very close together, close enough for Wei Ying to count Lan Zhan’s eyelashes, if he felt like it. Lan Zhan’s skin looks poreless in the dim light of the street lamp. His mouth is parted, slightly.

Wei Ying suddenly remembers why he ran away earlier and buries his face in his knees again. Through the gap in his thighs he can see the black rough asphalt of the floor, strewn with old cigarette butts and chewing gum.

“Lan Zhan,” he says to his knees. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Lan Zhan says.

“I’m sorry for ghosting you on Tinder,” Wei Ying says. “I got banned because I was using it to campaign.” He takes a deep breath, and blurts out, “Also, I think I might be gay. Bi. Whatever.”

It feels strange to say it aloud; almost like a relief. The feeling isn’t solely in his head any more. It exists out there in the world.

“Might be?” Lan Zhan asks gently.

“Um, yeah, I realise that might come as a little bit of a surprise, given the…” Wei Ying trails off. Lan Zhan stays silent, giving him time. Wei Ying almost wishes he weren’t so patient. After a moment, he goes on, “…given the, um, matching with guys on Tinder and being at the gay night, but… Anyway. This is all kind of new to me and I don’t really know why I’m telling you all this because we barely know each other, but I also feel bad for leaving you hanging and also like… I really liked dancing with you and I did want to kiss you—” what the fuck, Wei Ying—“but like I said, this is all really new to me and I don’t want you to feel responsible for, like, how you’re sort of my gay awakening or whatever.”

Silence.

Then, “I don’t mind,” Lan Zhan says softly, so softly that Wei Ying isn’t sure if he heard right. He waits, but Lan Zhan doesn’t say anything else.

Wei Ying tries to turn his eyes to Lan Zhan without raising his head. All he can see is Lan Zhan’s trousers, his hand resting on one of his thighs. His shirt has ruffles at the wrists too.

Eventually Wei Ying lifts his head a little, just so he can see Lan Zhan’s face. Lan Zhan is watching him, eyebrows drawn together slightly.

“Um. Sorry for unloading on you,” Wei Ying says. “You can, uh, leave now. If you want.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Lan Zhan says. His eyebrows draw closer together. He lifts his hand from his thigh in a small, abortive motion, then lowers it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I… I think I want to go home,” Wei Ying says. He fumbles his phone out from his pocket. He keeps typing his passcode wrong. “Um. Fuck.”

“Where do you live?” Lan Zhan asks. Wei Ying tells him, and Lan Zhan gets to his feet. He extends a hand to Wei Ying.

Wei Ying looks at Lan Zhan’s outstretched hand, then at Lan Zhan’s face. He’s not really sure what’s going on here.

His confusion must show on his face because Lan Zhan says, “It’s not far to your house. I’ll walk you there.”

“No, no, I couldn’t… you shouldn’t… I’m honestly fine,” Wei Ying mumbles, a hot flood of shame suddenly cutting through his drunken haze. He ignores Lan Zhan’s hand and pushes himself off the floor. He sways on his feet and reaches out to steady himself against the wall, only Lan Zhan is there instead, holding his arm. “Fuck. Sorry, sorry.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t let go. He repeats, “You don’t need to apologise.”

Everything is spinning. The crowd of smokers outside the club blur into an amorphous mass. Wei Ying tries to focus on his surroundings, but everything seems to be moving too fast.

“Come on,” Lan Zhan says, and leads Wei Ying through the crowd, down the alleyway, out onto the main road. It’s colder here, away from the mass of people, and quieter too.

Even the gentle motion of walking makes Wei Ying feel suddenly, sharply nauseous. The world swims before his eyes, street lamps doubling up, tripling up into arcs of light across his field of vision.

“Oh no, oh shit,” Wei Ying says and bends over to vomit into the gutter. It’s messy and disgusting and he feels completely wretched, but for some reason Lan Zhan doesn’t let go of him. He keeps holding onto Wei Ying’s shoulders while he throws up, until there’s nothing left to vomit and he’s just retching.

“How do you feel?” Lan Zhan says, softly.

“Awful,” Wei Ying says. He crouches down to spit in the gutter and squats back on his heels. “Disgusting. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.” Lan Zhan’s hand comes to rest firmly between his shoulder blades. Like an anchor, weighting Wei Ying back into his body. “Can you stand up?”

“Mhm,” Wei Ying says, and this time he does take Lan Zhan’s hand, lets Lan Zhan haul him to his feet. He feels steadier now. The streetlights are no longer doubled up.

Lan Zhan walks him over to the off-licence across the street and says, “Wait outside here,” before disappearing into the phosphorescent white-lit shop. Wei Ying leans against a lamppost and stares at the advertisements in the shop window. He’s sober enough now to properly read the notices offering GCSE maths tutoring or dog-walking, and he starts feeling bad about causing a scene. He fervently hopes that no student journalists had been lurking around to witness any part of that episode.

When Lan Zhan emerges from the shop, he’s carrying two bottles of water and a packet of Mentos. He waits patiently while Wei Ying gulps from one of the bottles and then offers him a mint. Wei Ying slips it into his mouth and smiles at Lan Zhan.

“Thanks. Hey, let me know how much I owe—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Lan Zhan. He eats a mint, then tilts his head down the road. “Come on.”

“Oh, no, I’ll be fine from here,” Wei Ying says. “Seriously. I feel way better now. Completely fine. I’ve already taken up so much of your evening, you really shouldn’t feel obligated to—”

“I don’t feel obligated,” Lan Zhan says. “I’d like to. Walk you home, that is.”

His gaze is direct, but his dark eyes are warm, almost liquid. Wei Ying swallows and manages to say, “Okay.”

They walk in silence at first. Lan Zhan doesn’t steer Wei Ying the way he had before, but he walks close, brushing Wei Ying’s arm with his sleeve. Their hands are almost touching.

Throwing up, the night air and the water all help, enough to make Wei Ying aware of his own lessening drunkenness, how he feels more stable on his feet, more aware of sensation—the sharp minty taste in his mouth, the smell of lilac as they walk past someone’s blooming front garden.

There’s a shortcut through the park that Wei Ying normally takes to get home from town which shaves five minutes off the walk, but he doesn’t mention it to Lan Zhan when they reach the turning. He doesn’t want the walk to end; he quite likes being quiet for once, walking beside Lan Zhan in the night, sobering up slowly. He’s glad of Lan Zhan’s presence, steady and solid at his side. Far better than staggering home alone.

As they get to Wei Ying’s road, he says, “This is my street,” and Lan Zhan just nods and turns down the street with him. Lan Zhan is going to walk me to my door, Wei Ying realises, and feels a weird hot flush of pleasure.

Outside his house, Wei Ying slows to a stop. “Well, this is me.” He almost feels as though he’s about to be sick again, wants to run inside without saying anything, but that would be the coward’s way out. He takes a breath and says, quickly, so he doesn’t lose his nerve, “Lan Zhan, I’m so sorry for… everything tonight. You’ve been so kind. I promise I’m not this much of a mess, usually.”

He pauses; Lan Zhan continues looking down at him with that same soft expression from before. Say it, Wei Ying thinks.

“And, um, I’m sorry about, like, the minor sexuality crisis I dumped at your door.” Wei Ying doesn’t want to look at Lan Zhan as he says this, but he can’t quite look away, either. “I’ve just been feeling really mixed up recently and I guess—seeing you in person… Well, you’re so you—gorgeous and attentive and kind, and the idea that you might be interested in me kind of made all of my feelings come out. God, unintentional pun, I swear, I don’t even know if I am coming out—is this coming out? Is it weird to be twenty-one and not know if you’re coming out or not?”

“Not weird,” says Lan Zhan, who has fielded this onslaught pretty much impassively until now.

Wei Ying exhales. He hadn’t known how much he’d needed to hear that.

Lan Zhan goes on, “You have nothing to apologise for.”

Wei Ying itches to apologise again, but instead what comes out is, “I just… I feel so frustrated that this is turning me into such a mess.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says. “You aren’t a mess. It’s natural to feel… overwhelmed. Since we met, I have grown to admire you immensely.”

Wei Ying closes his eyes. He feels dizzy again, not from the alcohol this time. He whispers, “Really?”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan, decisively, and Wei Ying opens his eyes.

Lan Zhan is right in front of him. Had he been that close before? Wei Ying swallows. He can’t look away, caught like a deer in the headlights as Lan Zhan reaches out and traces along Wei Ying’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

All the breath has been stolen from Wei Ying’s lungs, suddenly. He can hear his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. His eyes flick down, unbidden, to Lan Zhan’s mouth.

Wei Ying wonders what it would feel like to kiss him.

And then, boldly, he thinks: I don’t have to wonder. He steps up on tiptoes and tilts his head up, and Lan Zhan leans down to meet him halfway, hand sliding along Wei Ying’s jaw, and they’re kissing. Softly at first, but Lan Zhan catches him around the waist with his other arm and pulls their bodies flush together, and then they’re kissing deeply, desperately. Wei Ying fists his hands in the back of Lan Zhan’s shirt, anchoring himself to Lan Zhan’s solid warmth. He feels hot all over, set on fire wherever they’re touching.

They break off for air, and Lan Zhan’s dark eyes look into Wei Ying’s intently, fiercely before leaning in to kiss him again. He bites gently at Wei Ying’s lower lip, and then lets him go.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says breathlessly. He puts a hand up to his mouth, tracing over his bottom lip with a finger. He just kissed Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan kissed him back. Lan Zhan kissed him again. “Um. Wow. Okay. I should… I should go. But, uh, I’ll see you around. Right?”

“Right,” Lan Zhan says. He leans in, and Wei Ying holds his breath, ready for a third kiss—but all he does is reach past Wei Ying to open the gate to the front path.

“Sleep well, Wei Ying,” he says. “Text me, if you’d like to.”

Their front porch light is broken, so it takes Wei Ying several tries to get his key in the lock, but once he manages to open the door, he turns back. Lan Zhan is still standing at the gate. Wei Ying wants to run down the path and kiss him, but all he does is lift a hand and say, “Bye,” before stumbling up the stairs to bed and blissful oblivion.

When Wei Ying’s alarm goes off the next morning, he turns it off immediately and throws his phone back on the ground. The alarm rings again two minutes later, then two minutes after that. Wei Ying lies there and suffers through it. His brain feels like it’s been put through a blender. There’s a pounding in his ears, like he’s still listening to music in the club. Oh God, the club. The club where he’d—where Lan Zhan—

“Wei Ying,” Jiang Cheng shouts, from outside his door. “Turn that fucking alarm off before I come in and do it for you!”

At least Jiang Cheng is a distraction from thinking about Lan Zhan, although his yelling only makes Wei Ying’s head pound even more.

“Wei Ying! You know how thin the walls are, you rat!”

Wei Ying manages to drag himself out of bed, turn off the alarm, and haul himself over to Jingyi’s hall of residence for breakfast. He perks up as soon as he arrives. Jingyi hadn’t lied—the hash browns are excellent, and the company is good too. All of Jingyi’s friends are currently involved in some kind of student campaign, which amazes Wei Ying—in his first year, the organising scene had been completely dead, but he’d been too busy trying to stay afloat, living independently and keeping up with his studies, to pay any of it much mind. These kids, though, had not only started up the Divestment Campaign but also the University College Union Strike Support Group in their very first term of university.

It fills Wei Ying with a real sense of pride that the work he and his friends have done has a legacy of some kind, that it’s inspiring people to get involved right from their first days at uni. Best of all, he can already see how they’re expanding the work that’s happened before them: student groups are getting more involved in community organising efforts, looking outwards from the insular university bubble.

Wei Ying leaves brunch with a renewed sense of purpose. He wants to win this election; he wants to help guide future organising efforts, help the kids flourish in their endeavours.

On his way home, he stops off at Tesco to pick up some household stuff, because he does feel bad about waking the whole house up with his alarm, and he’s been slacking in his chores this past week. More so than usual, anyway. He figures buying some washing up liquid balances out the fact that he hasn’t washed a mug for five days. In the checkout queue, Wei Ying catches a glimpse of someone tall with long dark hair and heeled boots and his heart skips several beats—but it’s not Lan Zhan. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

That almost-glimpse is enough to release the dam and the memories of last night that he’s been assiduously trying not to think about pour out: seeing Lan Zhan at the club, dancing with him, almost kissing him, talking to him in the smoking area, and then—actually kissing him by the garden gate. It makes his chest seize up to remember that kiss. How soft Lan Zhan’s mouth had been. How gentle his hands had been, threaded through Wei Ying’s hair. How good it had felt.

Text me, Lan Zhan had said. Wei Ying thinks maybe he should. He remembers Lan Zhan’s steadiness, how calmly he’d listened to Wei Ying last night. Talking to Lan Zhan might help sort out the confused feelings he has. Except… except, shit, he doesn’t have Lan Zhan’s number. He hadn’t thought to ask for it last night; he’d been so caught up in the kiss and what it had meant. Because it did mean something. And it’s difficult for Wei Ying to keep avoiding that thought. To keep ignoring the fact that his feelings for Lan Zhan have meant something to him from the very start.

When he gets home, he dumps the bags of groceries onto the kitchen table and then sinks down into a chair, pillowing his head on his arms.

Jiang Cheng stomps in and begins to rifle through the shopping bags loudly. “Ugh, Wei Ying, why did you get Tesco own brand washing up liquid? I always tell you that it’s nowhere near as economical as Fairy liquid even though it might seem to cost less, because the liquid is thinner, so we go through the bottle faster—”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Wei Ying mumbles to the table.

Jiang Cheng pauses in the middle of his tirade. He’s hovering beside Wei Ying’s chair; Wei Ying can’t see him but he can practically feel Jiang Cheng’s concern rolling off him. Jiang Cheng can’t do anything quietly. “Um. Are you okay?”

“How did you know you were gay?” Wei Ying asks. He turns his head so he can look up at Jiang Cheng. “Like, for certain?”

Jiang Cheng furrows his brow. “Are you…is that a serious question?”

Wei Ying sighs. It feels like pulling teeth, but he manages to say, “Yeah.”

“Right,” Jiang Cheng says. He works his jaw, then drags out a chair and sits down at the table.

There’s silence.

“Well, talk, then,” Jiang Cheng says eventually.

“You’re supposed to be the one talking!” Wei Ying says, raising his head. “I asked you a question!”

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” Jiang Cheng says. He pauses, and then says, “I just… never liked girls like that.” He goes red, which Wei Ying would normally tease him for. “And then, well, you know, I had that huge crush on Mingjue-ge when we were thirteen. God, this is so embarrassing. I hate you. You know all this already! I don’t get why you’re asking me—unless. Wei Ying. Are you asking, like, for yourself?”

“Ugh,” Wei Ying says. He collapses his head back into his arms. “Forget I asked.”

At least I tried, he thinks to himself.

“Oh, don’t shut down on me like that,” Jiang Cheng says, exasperated. “Okay. Stay right here. I’ll make you some tea.”

The chair scrapes backwards and Jiang Cheng leaves the kitchen. Seconds later, Wei Ying hears him, presumably on the phone, “Um, I think you need to come over ASAP—yeah, yeah, bring her. Just get here fast. I’ll explain when you get here. Okay, okay, see you soon.”

“I can hear you,” Wei Ying yells. “The walls are thin in this house.”

“I don’t feel mentally equipped to handle this conversation alone,” Jiang Cheng announces, returning to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on to boil. Without turning around, he adds, “Don’t even think about going anywhere.”

Wei Ying sighs and sinks back into his chair. He’s not enthused by the idea of having to talk this through with other people, but he supposes it’s his own fault for trying to have this conversation with Jiang Cheng, the only person who hates talking about his feelings more than Wei Ying does.

The doorbell rings right as Jiang Cheng is setting down the biggest mug they own in front of Wei Ying. Wei Ying gulps a mouthful; Jiang Cheng must be worried about him, because he’s actually put sugar in it without Wei Ying prompting him to.

“Alright, what’s the crisis?” Mianmian says, bouncing into the kitchen. She clears a space free of dirty dishes and hoists herself up onto the counter adeptly. She’s followed by Wen Qing, looking resplendent in a long red leather coat.

Jiang Cheng gets out two more mugs and a plate of custard creams.

“I knew it was you that stole those and hid them from me!” Wei Ying says. “Biscuit thief!”

“Sue me for trying to make sure you eat a balanced diet or whatever,” Jiang Cheng shoots back. He sets the plate down with a loud clatter.

“As entertaining as it is to watch you two bicker about biscuits,” Wen Qing says, shrugging out of her coat and sitting down opposite Wei Ying. “Why exactly are we here?”

Wei Ying takes a sip of tea. Why does it feel so much harder to say it to his friends than it did to say to Lan Zhan, a relative stranger?

“I think,” he says, “well, I’m not sure if—maybe, I think I might not be straight.”

There. Done. Spoken aloud, sober, in the daylight. He expects that Mianmian will make a joke, throw up her hands and say, Finally the penny’s dropped, or something, but the room stays quiet.

“Can someone, I don’t know, make a joke or something? Break the tension a little?” Wei Ying asks. “I feel very uncomfortable right now.”

“No jokes. We’re being good friends and taking you seriously, because it’s obvious this matters to you,” Wen Qing says gently. She drinks her tea. “What makes you feel unsure about it?”

“Because I just. I don’t know,” Wei Ying says. He spreads his hands, not knowing how to put it into words. “I’ve never… I mean, like, yeah, I’ve been able to appreciate men aesthetically before, but it’s not. It’s never been a thing.”

“So what changed?” Wen Qing says. “Does it have anything to do with the guy you were messaging on Tinder the other day?”

Wei Ying should have known she’d seen his messages with Lan Zhan. All his friends are so nosy. “That was a campaign thing,” he says defensively.

“That’s not a no,” Mianmian points out. “Who was he? Can I see?”

Wei Ying sighs and digs out his phone. He can’t get onto Tinder, but luckily he’d screenshot one of Lan Zhan’s photos, which he shows to Mianmian.

“Oh my God,” Mianmian says. “Lan Zhan? You’ve been texting Lan Zhan?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wei Ying feels panicked all of a sudden. “He doesn’t… have a boyfriend or anything, does he?”

“No, no,” Mianmian says reassuringly. “It’s just… I know him. He’s one of Zixuan’s closest friends. Well, his only proper friend apart from me, but—”

“What?” Wei Ying says blankly. “How come I’ve never met him before?”

“Because you hate hanging out with Zixuan,” Mianmian shoots back. “I can’t believe you didn’t realise—why did you think he was at the hustings with me yesterday?”

“I—” Wei Ying feels his face heat up.

“Ohhhh,” Wen Qing says. “You thought he was there for you!”

“I did not,” Wei Ying says. He wants to sink through the floor and die.

“Okay, tell us everything,” Mianmian commands. “From the beginning.”

Wei Ying sighs, but it actually feels way easier to talk about things that have happened rather than his feelings. He runs through the sequence of events quickly, starting with Nie Huaisang’s Tinder campaigning idea and ending up at the gay club.

“…and then he walked me home and we kissed—”

Jiang Cheng chokes on his tea. “You what.”

Wei Ying blushes. “Don’t make me say it again,” he mutters.

“Oh my God,” Jiang Cheng says. He looks pained. “I cannot fucking believe you. You’re having a fucking crisis over whether or not you like men when you literally kissed one last night? What the fuck, Wei Ying. What’s the heterosexual explanation for that?”

“Not helpful,” Wen Qing says to him.

“I know on the surface it seems like I’m being an idiot,” Wei Ying bursts out. He feels panicked, suddenly. “I’m not trying to be. I know everything I just told you sounds super fucking gay but. None of this feels obvious, you know? I’ve never really thought about my sexuality before… before Lan Zhan. I’ve always assumed that I’d get a girlfriend at some point and settle down, you know? So what if I’m just making it up? What if this isn’t real?”

“It doesn’t have to be obvious,” Mianmian says gently. “You don’t have to have it all figured out—whether you’re gay or bi or queer or whatever.”

“And you can still settle down with a man,” Jiang Cheng points out. “You’ll just have to be the wife instead.” Wei Ying throws a biscuit at him, but the joke does actually make him feel better.

“Also, the fact that you’re thinking about this for the first time now doesn’t make it any less real. Maybe those kinds of feelings have been there, dormant, all this time, you know?” Mianmian goes on. “But it took meeting Lan Zhan for you to actually face it as a possibility.”

“I know it’s overwhelming to think about,” Wen Qing says. “But you can trust the way you feel, Wei Ying.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, voice breaking slightly. To his horror, his eyes start filling with tears.

“Fuck’s sake,” Jiang Cheng says, sounding panicked. “Don’t cry.”

“Shut up,” Wei Ying chokes out. He wipes at his eyes roughly with the back of his wrist, but the tears keep coming. Wen Qing reaches across the table to hold his hand, and Mianmian scrambles down from the counter to kneel beside his chair, resting her head against his shoulder. “Thanks for being here.”

“Thank you for telling us,” Wen Qing says seriously.

“Yeah,” Mianmian says. “I’m proud of you, Wei Ying.” She headbutts him lightly and then goes on, teasingly, “So hey, you and Lan Zhan… could that be a thing?”

“I don’t know,” Wei Ying admits. He does want that, he realises suddenly, but… he’s not sure if Lan Zhan will too. “I don’t want to put all of…this—” he waves a hand, trying to encompass my weird sexuality crisis—“on Lan Zhan, to deal with. He deserves someone who’s not so messed up internally.”

“One: shut up, and two: shut up,” Mianmian says briskly. “Nobody has a perfect grasp on their sexuality or desire, it’s something we learn as we go. Sometimes we need other people to help us on our way. Right?” she says, looking around at Jiang Cheng and Wen Qing, who are both nodding. Jiang Cheng is blushing a little.

“You don’t have to have a perfect grasp on who you are before you let someone else see you,” Wen Qing says and for some reason that makes Wei Ying start crying again.

“When did you guys get so wise?” he asks.

Wen Qing says, “Hey, we’ve always been wise—you just never ask our advice,” and Wei Ying laughs wetly.

“So how about if I give Lan Zhan your number?” Mianmian persists.

“I want to get through this campaign first,” Wei Ying says, relieved to finally find an excuse that makes sense. “I’ve already wasted so much time obsessing over this—voting closes tomorrow, I need to get my act together. Huaisang’s probably tearing his hair out right now.”

As if on cue, Nie Huaisang appears in the doorway of the kitchen. “What’s this confab about? Wei Ying, we’ve got to head out soon. Capitalise on the drama of the hustings.”

Everybody looks at Wei Ying, who says, “We’re, um, talking about how I don’t actually think I’m straight.”

Mianmian does jazz hands. “Hell yeah.”

“Oh, thank God,” Nie Huaisang sighs. “Now my tally of straight friends is finally back down to zero.”

“Am I a mere statistic to you, Sangsang?” Wei Ying says with mock indignation.

“No, you’re my president-elect-to-be—and so we really do need to get to the History faculty before lectures finish today,” Nie Huaisang says. “Chop chop. But wait—can we put a pin in this conversation and return to it later? I want all the details, preferably while we’re getting shockingly drunk.”

Wei Ying laughs. He loves his friends. “Yeah, of course. Let’s go—A-Cheng, Wen Qing, wanna come with? Sorry, Mianmian, you’re banned on account of being a member of the enemy camp.”

Mianmian gives him the finger, but Wen Qing shrugs and says, “Sure, why not.” Jiang Cheng makes a huge song and dance about how exhausted he is of the campaign, but of course he comes along too. Wei Ying is grateful for their company, grateful for how they’ve helped him untangle the complicated knot of his feelings so that he feels more settled in himself. He’s still not sure what to do about Lan Zhan, but that's a problem that future Wei Ying can deal with. He's done enough soul-searching for today.

The next evening finds Wei Ying and his friends in the SU lounge, waiting for the results of the election. The atmosphere is heavy with tension, the anticipation of the SU results building up as they’ve sat through the announcements of all the other elections. Each corner of the room has been claimed by one of the presidential candidates (Xue Yang is once again a no-show). Having apparently decided that attending the other election results was beneath him, Jin Zixuan arrives late, accompanied by Mianmian and Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying tries not to look at their corner, but he can’t resist; he glances over. Lan Zhan is looking directly at him. He’s wearing high-waisted black trousers and a soft blouse, with slits running from cuff to shoulder, and he looks unbelievably good. Wei Ying’s throat feels dry.

Huaisang is rly freaking out :/ Jiang Cheng texts Wei Ying, pulling him out of his momentary distraction. He looks at Nie Huaisang, who’s rapidly tapping his phone in his hand and his foot on the floor.

He replies to Jiang Cheng, ask him how the voting system works, it’ll distract him

Jiang Cheng replies with an eye roll emoji, but he obligingly says, “Hey, Huaisang, can you explain the way the votes are counted again? I keep getting confused. So the person with the least votes in each round gets eliminated?”

Nie Huaisang says mechanically, “Basically, each voter has to rank the candidates in order of preference. And you need a certain number of votes to win, but if no candidate meets the initial quota, the loser is removed. Then whoever voted for them has their vote given to their second preference choice and the count is tallied up again. And then the whole thing gets repeated until someone finally has enough votes to win.”

“Right,” Jiang Cheng says. “Seems like there could be a simpler way of doing this.”

That gets Nie Huaisang started on a rant about the benefits of different electoral systems. Wei Ying gives Jiang Cheng a subtle thumbs up and returns to stealing glances at Lan Zhan from across the room, distracted from the buzz around them until there’s a sudden hush. The elections officer comes to stand in front of a Powerpoint with an empty bar chart on it, where the vote numbers will be revealed.

“Here to announce the election results for the role of Student Union president. There were six candidates in this election. The first round votes have Wei Ying in the lead, then Su She, Wen Chao, Jin Zixuan, Xue Yang and finally, re-open nominations, or RON.”

Wen Qing grabs Wei Ying’s arm forcefully. Oh my God! Wei Ying thinks. He wills his heart to slow down; he hasn’t won yet, but it’s a good sign. Nie Huaisang is staring fixedly at the Powerpoint. The bar-chart updates to show the votes; Wei Ying ahead of the others, but beneath the necessary quota.

“No candidate has exceeded the quota,” continues the elections officer, “so RON, the candidate with the least number of first-preference votes, is duly eliminated. The updated vote counts in the second round are...”

Wei Ying misses the exact numbers of the next round because his ears are ringing slightly, but the Powerpoint shows that he’s still ahead but not over the quota. Wen Qing is gripping his forearm so tightly he feels like it might bruise.

“Once again, no candidate has exceeded the quota, so the candidate with the least number of first-preference votes is duly eliminated.”

Next to go is Xue Yang, and then Jin Zixuan. Wei Ying can’t even spare a thought for either of them; he’s too focused on his slowly-growing bar on the bar chart. Three of them left now: him, Wen Chao and Su She. Su She will probably be next to go, Wei Ying thinks. Surely most of the people who voted for Su She would put Wei Ying second over Wen Chao? There’s a wild hope fluttering in his chest.

“I can’t believe he’s lasted this long,” Wen Ning whispers.

“The fourth candidate to be eliminated is… Wen Chao,” announces the elections officer.

“WHAT?” Wen Chao explodes from his corner.

Everyone waits while Wen Chao is forcibly removed from the room. Wei Ying can’t breathe.

“Those voters who gave Wen Chao their first preference have been duly reallocated to their second preference candidate—”

“Oh my God,” Nie Huaisang says. He sounds like he’s been hit over the head with a baseball bat. “Of course. Oh my God. Wei Ying, I’ve—”

“—meaning that the final vote counts are. Wei Ying, 2,881 and Su She, 3,020.”

“Second preferences,” Nie Huaisang says. “Fuck. Oh my God. That was his game all along.”

“Congratulations to the SU president-elect, Su She.”

And now Wei Ying feels like he’s been hit over the head with a baseball bat. His friends crowd around him: Wen Qing holding his hand, Nie Huaisang gripping his arm, Jiang Cheng with a hand on his shoulder, the first-years all hovering behind him, and Nie Mingjue and Wen Ning protectively shielding them all from the student journalists, already circling with their cameras. He can hear people speaking, offering condolences, but it’s as if he’s hearing them from underwater, or at a great distance. Unclear, indistinct.

“What a waste of time,” he says eventually. He probably should want to cry, but he just feels numb and weird.

“No,” Wen Qing says. She squeezes his hand. “No. Not a waste.”

“You came first in the first round, Wei Ying,” Wen Ning says. “That counts for something.”

“I’m so sorry, Wei Ying,” Nie Huaisang is repeating. “I should have realised—I’m so fucking stupid, I should have seen that that was his tactic, it’s my fault—”

“No,” Wei Ying tells him. “No, Sangsang, you were great, I couldn’t have done any of this without you—or any of you. I’m just so sorry—” his stupid voice is breaking— “that I let you all down.”

“Don’t you fucking dare say that,” Wen Qing says, sounding strangely choked up. Wei Ying can’t believe he’s making his friends cry.

“You ran one of the best campaigns I’ve ever seen,” Nie Mingjue says. “Seriously. You should be proud of yourself. Fuck that fucking snake.”

Wei Ying presses his lips together firmly and nods because he doesn’t want to be rude, but even acknowledging the compliment makes him feel like he’s going to have a breakdown. It’s only student politics, he tells himself. Stop being such a baby.

“What do you need right now?” Wen Ning asks. “We could go to the pub, or, or—”

“I think I want to be alone right now,” Wei Ying says. “Can I… I’m just gonna go home. I’m sorry, guys, thank you all for being so kind, I—”

“Yeah, of course,” Wen Qing says. “We get it. We’ll be here when you need.”

“We’ll walk you home,” Jiang Cheng says, but Wei Ying shakes his head.

“No, please don’t,” he says. “I just… I need some space right now.”

His group disperses. Wei Ying looks over at Su She’s corner, where celebrations are going on. He steels himself and walks over. His eyes are still strangely dry, thankfully.

“Hey,” he says to Su She, extending his hand and stretching his mouth into a smile. Over Su She’s shoulder, he can see Meng Yao, eyes fixed on him. “Congratulations.”

He wants to say more—dirty fucking tactic, maybe, or I hope it hurts that you only got elected because a bunch of conservatives would rather make me lose, you irrelevant piece of shit—but what’s the use? It’s not worth it. So he turns on his heel and goes home.

When he gets home, Wei Ying climbs into bed. He cries stormily, face pressed into the pillow for a long while until he feels wrung-out and exhausted. Then he gets up and opens his laptop.

What’s on your mind, Wei Ying? the Facebook status box asks him.

Wei Ying thinks for a moment, and then starts typing.

I would like to thank everyone who voted for me and supported me. I am proud of the campaign we ran—one that foregrounded the voices and experiences of students from the most marginalised backgrounds. It's impossible to resist structural injustice individually, but through the power of the collective, change is possible. Our campaign was never principally about getting me elected; it was about building movements that will last, laying the groundwork for future change, and uplifting the views of those who are marginalised and oppressed.

Of course I’m deeply disappointed by my loss, but I’m comforted by the knowledge that all of the manifesto points that I promised to work on will be taken on by brilliant and dedicated student organisers in the future. Support the work of the BME Campaign, the Women’s Campaign & the LGBT+ Campaign, as well as the Divestment, Free Education and Living Wage Campaigns—we will continue the hard but rewarding work of building a university that is better for everyone and agitating for material change. We will resist the tokenisation and co-option of our work for clout.

The student community that I saw during my campaign is what makes me believe that that will be possible: people across faculties and years, undergraduates and graduates who are invested in a different and more liveable learning environment, and willing to put in the work to see that happen. The campaign also showed me how lucky I am to have such a supportive community around me. Thank you especially to Nie Huaisang, Jiang Cheng, Wen Qing, Wen Ning, Luo Qingyang, Nie Mingjue, Ouyang Zizhen, Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi, and Jin Ling. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.

He hits Post. Then he rolls out of bed and calls Mianmian.

It’s late by the time Wei Ying finally leaves his house, and the only place open is the 24-hour Sainsbury’s Local, which has a very limited flower selection. Wei Ying still dithers over which bouquet to get; he ends up buying both carnations and chrysanthemums.

When Lan Zhan opens the door, Wei Ying holds up the bunches of flowers at him and says, “Hi, I’m sorry, I didn’t know which you’d prefer, so I got both.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, mouth parting in surprise. He appears lost for words.

Wei Ying realises abruptly that turning up on someone whom you barely know’s door in the middle of the night without warning is not actually normal behaviour. Well, it’s only eleven pm, but that’s definitely outside of usual visiting hours. Lan Zhan is wearing a satin blue robe, belted at the waist, and loose white trousers; he looks the picture of peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry,” he says. “Did I wake you up? I can go, sorry, I wasn’t thinking properly, I—”

He stops. I wanted to see you is the truth of it. After posting his Facebook status, he’d known exactly what he wanted to do, for the first time since the whole confusing flirtation with Lan Zhan had started. So he’d begged Lan Zhan’s address off Mianmian, and now here he is. But he hadn’t thought of what would happen once he actually got here. Stupid.

Lan Zhan is still gazing at him with that same wide-eyed surprise. He says, softly, “You—?”

Wei Ying’s lips are dry. He moistens them with his tongue and says, “I wanted to see you. And give you these.” He thrusts the bouquets at Lan Zhan. What the hell—he’s already been humiliated publicly this evening, so if Lan Zhan is planning to reject him, at least Wei Ying’s already down. He can take all his disappointment in one big dose. “I know it’s late, though, I shouldn’t have bothered you—”

Lan Zhan reaches out to take the flowers, one bunch in each arm. As he does so, his hand brushes Wei Ying’s. He smiles, and Wei Ying relaxes abruptly; nothing bad is going to happen if he’s managed to make Lan Zhan look happy like that.

“Come in,” Lan Zhan says. “Thank you for the flowers.”

Wei Ying takes off his shoes and puts them in the shoe-rack. Lan Zhan’s house is far neater than his, he notes absentmindedly.

“Let me put these in water,” Lan Zhan says. “The kitchen is through here.”

In the kitchen, Lan Zhan gets out a cream vase from a cupboard and starts snipping the ends off the flowers. Wei Ying hadn’t realised that people, like, actually do that. While Lan Zhan is busy, he looks around: the room is small but tidy, with a little sofa in the corner, and a table with a checkered tablecloth. There’s a dizzying number of appliances on the countertops.

“What’s this?” Wei Ying asks, tapping a strange contraption by the fridge.

“Pasta maker,” Lan Zhan says.

“Wow, you make your own pasta from scratch?” Wei Ying hardly knows how to cook pasta from a packet.

“Not me,” Lan Zhan says. He starts actually arranging the flowers in the vase, layering the carnations and chrysanthemums methodically. “Zixuan. He picks up hobbies every time he gets a new crush; last time the girl was Italian. So. Pasta.”

“Oh, you live with Jin Zixuan?” Wei Ying says. He tries to keep his voice neutral. “Is he, um, here?”

“He’s out being plied with alcohol by Mianmian,” Lan Zhan answers. He places the final chrysanthemum in the vase.

Wei Ying had nearly forgotten that Jin Zixuan had also run for president. “Is he really disappointed? Because he lost?”

Lan Zhan shrugs delicately. “A little. I don’t think he expected to win.” He looks at Wei Ying over the top of the flowers. “How are you?”

“Been better,” Wei Ying admits. “But I’ll be alright. At least it wasn’t Wen Chao who won. Su She will be useless, but he can probably be bullied into helping out student campaigns. That’s all I really care about, the legacy. You know, feeling sure that organising here will continue after we graduate.”

“I read your concession post,” Lan Zhan says. “It was very well-written. I am sorry that you didn’t win—it was clear how much you cared about the students you were hoping to represent, and how much you believed in a better university.”

“Thanks,” Wei Ying says. It feels inadequate, but if he thinks too hard about the campaign he might start crying again.

Lan Zhan sets the vase on the table and moves to sit down on the sofa. “Will you sit?” he asks.

Wei Ying nods, but doesn’t move. There’s something he needs to say. He takes a deep breath. “Listen, Lan Zhan, I wanted to say again that I’m sorry for unloading onto you at the club the other day. I was feeling… really messed up and confused, but it wasn’t fair of me to burden you with it. So. Sorry.”

“Wei Ying, you aren’t a burden,” Lan Zhan says, which unfurls a knot in Wei Ying’s chest that he hadn’t realised was still wound so tightly. “These things are hard to figure out. Thank you for trusting me with it.”

Wei Ying can’t believe it; how Lan Zhan has taken this burden Wei Ying’s put on him and is acting like it’s a gift instead.

“I—it’s a lot to put on you,” Wei Ying says.

“I told you that I didn’t mind,” Lan Zhan says. He pauses. “I still don’t.”

“That’s because you’re too kind.”

“Maybe,” Lan Zhan says. “But also… I enjoyed hearing that I provoked something in you. It… was flattering.”

The upwards quirk of his lips, the joke, relaxes Wei Ying further. He tsks at Lan Zhan. “What did you expect, putting those pictures on your Tinder profile? Hapless boys like me have no chance.”

Lan Zhan huffs a little laugh, and it’s so impossibly endearing that Wei Ying almost doesn’t hear what he says next. “You don’t seem hapless to me.”

They stare at each other for a few beats. Eventually Wei Ying says, “Lan Zhan. Can we—let’s—ah, let’s just pretend that all of that never happened and I’m Wei Ying, a random guy you matched with on Tinder, somehow turning up at your house.” He does a little wave. “Hi.”

Lan Zhan waves his fingers in response, and Wei Ying’s heart swells in his chest. “Hello, Wei Ying.”

“Um. What happens next?” Wei Ying asks. He shifts his weight from foot to foot; the kitchen floor is cold, even through his thin socks.

Lan Zhan leans back. His legs are parted slightly, hands resting on his thighs. He says in a low voice, “What does Wei Ying want to happen?”

Wei Ying bites at his lower lip and takes a step forward. Lan Zhan’s mouth curls up slightly, and Wei Ying moves even closer almost involuntarily, drawn in by Lan Zhan’s dark, molten gaze.

“Well,” Wei Ying says. He’s standing right in front of Lan Zhan now, gazing down at him on the sofa. “What does Lan Zhan think, now that he’s seen random-guy-Wei-Ying-off-Tinder in person?”

Lan Zhan reaches out, fits his hands over Wei Ying’s hips. “He thinks that you are very beautiful. Even more so than in the photos. Vibrant, and sharp, and lively.”

Wei Ying’s breath is coming fast and shallow. “Oh?” he says. He lets Lan Zhan pull him down onto the sofa slowly, knees bracketing Lan Zhan’s thighs, settling himself in Lan Zhan’s lap. A lock of Lan Zhan’s hair has come loose, hanging over his face; Wei Ying reaches out and tucks it back, letting his hand linger at the side of Lan Zhan’s face. The tips of their noses brush. “Does Lan Zhan want to do something about that?”

Lan Zhan kisses him.

At first, it’s gentler than the first time they’d kissed, slower. Wei Ying feels hyper-aware of everything that’s happening—the sharp corner of Lan Zhan’s jaw beneath his palm; Lan Zhan’s big hands stretching around Wei Ying’s waist, holding him steady; the taut muscles of Lan Zhan’s thighs; the clean musky smell of his cologne. How new it feels to be kissed by someone broader and taller and more muscular than he is. And then Lan Zhan nips at his lower lip and slides his tongue into Wei Ying’s mouth, and Wei Ying stops cataloguing how different it is to kissing girls and instead thinks about how good it feels to be kissing Lan Zhan. He clutches at Lan Zhan’s shoulders and sinks into his lap. Lan Zhan’s hands move down to cradle his ass, pull him closer, like they’re melting together.

They kiss for a long time; so long that Wei Ying feels dizzy and breathless when Lan Zhan finally breaks the kiss. He takes a shuddering gasp of air, but there’s no time to collect his wits from where they’ve been scattered across the room because Lan Zhan is kissing down his neck, open-mouthed, wet kisses that send Wei Ying straight back into a horny daze. He reaches out for Lan Zhan’s robe, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the silky, smooth fabric, and feels Lan Zhan smile against his skin before he sucks a mark there.

Wei Ying gasps, “Lan Zhan—” and Lan Zhan sucks harder, scraping his teeth lightly over the spot. One of his hands is under Wei Ying’s t-shirt now, fingers stroking lightly up his spine, and it feels so good that Wei Ying leans back suddenly and pulls his shirt off, desperate for more, for Lan Zhan to touch him everywhere.

When he’s shirtless, Lan Zhan pulls him close again, trailing kisses down Wei Ying’s chest. Wei Ying fists his hands in Lan Zhan’s hair and, daringly, rolls his hips. He’s hard, has been hard for a while, and the friction feels deliciously good, so he does it again, and again, until Lan Zhan makes a soft, breathy moan and surges up to kiss Wei Ying, insistent and hot.

Wei Ying slips his hands underneath Lan Zhan’s robe, pulling it open. Lan Zhan’s skin is smooth and warm, and Wei Ying can’t get enough, drifting his hands lower and lower, encouraged by the way Lan Zhan’s eyes flutter closed, how he gasps against Wei Ying’s mouth.

“Wait—Jin Zixuan,” Wei Ying remembers suddenly, realising that they’re literally in Lan Zhan’s shared kitchen. “He might come in—”

Lan Zhan makes a noise of frustration and Wei Ying laughs—he can’t help it, he feels so stupidly lucky that Lan Zhan wants this, wants him so badly. He brushes his nose against Lan Zhan’s and whispers, “Come on, let’s go to your room.”

In Lan Zhan’s bedroom, they tumble down into the soft white sheets and Lan Zhan takes off his robe fully before settling himself between Wei Ying’s legs and kissing him again. His weight on Wei Ying feels so right. Wei Ying loves it, loves being pinned down like this, the feeling that he can’t go anywhere. He didn’t know he’d like the sensation so much.

Wei Ying can feel Lan Zhan hard against his thigh, and as they kiss Lan Zhan makes little aborted movements with his hips, like he can’t help it. Wei Ying reaches down, attempting to pull Lan Zhan closer, let him grind against his body properly, but then Lan Zhan pulls back and rolls aside.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, panicked. Is he being too eager, too desperate? “Did I do something wrong?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head firmly. “No. Not at all. It’s me. I don’t want—” He breaks off, reaches out to stroke aside a lock of Wei Ying’s hair from his forehead. “I know you have been working through some feelings about sexuality and desire. I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. He’s so turned on that he’s tempted to just say, I’m great! and immediately dive back into it without a second thought, but the serious look in Lan Zhan’s eyes makes him actually stop and think about it, about whether this is what he wants. He sifts through his emotions, and finds that, other than being a little nervous, he does feel comfortable. He wants this.

“I’m good,” he says honestly, meeting Lan Zhan’s gaze. “This is…good. You’re good. You make me feel really good. And also so hot that I can’t even think of a different adjective to use right now.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan echoes, smiling. He leans off the edge of the bed for a second, and Wei Ying hears a drawer open, then close. It makes him shiver with anticipation, like he’s a blushing teenager about to have sex for the first time. Although he supposes this is his first time, of sorts.

He scrambles up onto his knees, attempting to get his jeans off, fumbling with the zipper in his haste. Suddenly Lan Zhan is behind him, big hands over Wei Ying’s, helping him slide off his jeans and then his boxers, pressing searing kisses against his shoulders, the nape of his neck. When Wei Ying is naked, Lan Zhan pulls him backwards into his lap, ass snug against the hard outline of Lan Zhan’s cock.

He holds Wei Ying with an arm across his chest and runs his knuckles lightly along Wei Ying’s aching cock, all the way up to the tip, smearing his thumb through the wetness there. Wei Ying moans at the teasing, and Lan Zhan kisses his neck, bites gently at his earlobe and finally wraps his hand around Wei Ying’s cock properly. The friction is almost unbearable—when Wei Ying is so worked up that he can’t take it any longer, he gasps out, “Lan Zhan—” and Lan Zhan removes his hand.

Wei Ying lets out a whining sound of complaint, but then Lan Zhan’s hand is back, wet with lube, and he begins jerking Wei Ying off properly. Wei Ying moans louder, writhing in Lan Zhan’s lap, but Lan Zhan holds him firm, the motion of his hand fast and smooth on Wei Ying’s cock, a relentless rhythm. Wei Ying digs his fingers into Lan Zhan’s arm, reaches back with one hand to grab at Lan Zhan’s hair. It feels like Lan Zhan is everywhere, surrounding him—but Wei Ying still wants more.

He turns his head and captures Lan Zhan’s mouth clumsily—the angle is awkward, but he doesn’t care. Lan Zhan kisses him, hand not faltering for a moment, carrying Wei Ying inexorably to the brink.

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes, pulling back, “I’m gonna—I—”

“I’ve got you,” Lan Zhan whispers as Wei Ying shakes against him, kissing Wei Ying’s neck. “Wei Ying, I’ve got you.”

Wei Ying comes, hard, all over his chest and stomach; Lan Zhan holds him through it, the dizzying waves of pleasure that sweep over him, set every muscle and nerve in his body on fire. When it’s over, Wei Ying sags back against Lan Zhan, tipping his head against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. Lan Zhan strokes him one more time and then lifts his hand to lick the come off it, which is so hot that it makes Wei Ying feel a little bit insane to watch.

“Wow,” he says when he can speak again. “How did you just, like, turn me inside out from a basic handjob? You’re insane.”

Lan Zhan says, “Thank you,” in the driest tone known to man, but when Wei Ying glances up at him, his mouth is curled into the tiniest of smug smiles. It’s devastatingly sexy. Wei Ying swallows and blurts out, “Um, can I blow you?”

Lan Zhan’s eyes go dark and he says, in a rough, low voice, “Please.” Wei Ying scrambles off his lap so fast it’s like he’s been electrocuted—he’d do anything Lan Zhan asked of him in that tone of voice.

Lying between Lan Zhan’s legs, looking at his cock, which is bigger than Wei Ying’s, a little curved, flushed red at the tip, Wei Ying experiences a brief moment of nervousness. Then Lan Zhan says, “Please,” again, and the sound of his voice grounds Wei Ying, clears away his anxiety. He lowers his head and goes down on Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying discovers that 1) he has no gag reflex, which is excellent news seeing as 2) he really, really likes sucking cock. Well, Lan Zhan’s cock specifically. He likes the way it feels in his mouth, filling him up, the tip bumping against the back of his throat. He likes sliding his tongue along the underside, tracing the vein all the way down, how that makes Lan Zhan hiss and clench his fists in the sheets.

And yeah, maybe he’s a little sloppy in his over-enthusiasm, and maybe he uses a little too much teeth, but Lan Zhan doesn’t seem to mind. Wei Ying watches in delight as Lan Zhan’s blush spreads from his ears over his face and then down his chest.

He bobs his head and tries to build a pace, a rhythm, using his hand too, teasing Lan Zhan’s balls a little. Lan Zhan’s breath starts coming in harsh, audible gasps, which make Wei Ying feel almost crazy with desire.

“Wei Ying—” Lan Zhan says, tugging lightly at his hair as a warning. Wei Ying hollows his cheeks, takes his cock down into his throat one last time—and then Lan Zhan is coming, spilling hot into Wei Ying’s mouth. Wei Ying does gag a little then, but only for a second, and he manages to swallow.

Then he crawls back up the bed and collapses beside Lan Zhan. For a while, they simply breathe together.

“So,” Wei Ying says eventually. “That was. Um. Great. Really great. Do you want to… do it again sometime?”

God. Way to be smooth, Wei Ying.

“Whenever you like,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying can’t help the relief that rushes through him. Lan Zhan adds, a little shyly, “We can go on a date too, if you would like.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says. He turns the idea over in his mind, finds that he likes it a lot. “Yes. Yeah. If you’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I like everything about you,” Lan Zhan says, just like that.

“Lan Zhan, that’s crazy,” Wei Ying says, over the thud of his own stupid heart skipping a beat. “You’re crazy. You don’t even know everything about me.”

“I like everything about you that I know,” Lan Zhan counters. “And I think I will like the things I don’t know yet, too.”

“God,” Wei Ying says. He hastens to add, “I mean, same. Me too.”

“Will you stay the night?” Lan Zhan asks. Wei Ying hesitates. Maybe he should say no—a lot has happened today. Maybe he should go home. But… he wants this. And Wei Ying thinks he’s getting better at figuring out what he wants.

“Okay,” he says.

Lan Zhan smiles, satisfied, and the sudden bright beauty of it—like the sun emerging after a rainstorm, like the soft glow of the first dawn light, a thousand stupid similes—warms Wei Ying from the inside out.

Wei Ying moves closer to Lan Zhan on the bed, and Lan Zhan opens up his arms, letting Wei Ying nestle between them. He presses his face into the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck and Lan Zhan’s arm comes up around his shoulders to hold him close. Wei Ying remembers Mianmian telling him, Sexuality and desire are things we learn as we go. Sometimes other people can help. He thinks about how safe and secure Lan Zhan has made him feel every time Wei Ying has opened up, how carefully he’s treated Wei Ying’s messy emotions. He trusts that Lan Zhan will be a safe person to continue to do this with—to figure out what desire means to Wei Ying. To both of them. Together.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into Lan Zhan’s skin.

Lan Zhan doesn’t reply, but he pulls Wei Ying even closer, tangling their legs together, a mess of limbs keeping Wei Ying secure, held tight. They’ll have to get up in a moment, to clean up, maybe even shower. But for now, Lan Zhan doesn’t let go.

And maybe it’s crazy, to feel this way after less than a week, but Wei Ying thinks—he thinks that he might have lost the election, but he’s found something else. Something he’ll want to hold onto. Something that will last.