Chapter Text
Wei Ying was many things. He was very clever, liked to invent or tinker with stuff that would never benefit anyone, but was undeniably fun. He was talented in drawing, so much so that some of his designs had been sold as tattoo art. He even won a couple of competitions whenever he committed himself. Though more often than not, he’d get bored halfway through. And despite what his friends said about him being loose in the brain, he knew they considered him a real friend, kind and thoughtful. People had even complimented his appearance, quite a lot.
But more than anything, he was stressed.
He was so stressed. Just like any engineering major in their last year would be. Except he was sure it was even worse for him.
He’d had a fallout with the Jiangs last semester—something about helping Wen Ning and his sister after they ran away. The truth was, he’d only helped them financially. He knew he couldn’t sit still knowing their situation with their uncle, and at that time, taking some money out of the account for his education and slowly putting it back seemed pretty normal compared to running away from a corrupted politician family. But if he knew the account was being monitored, maybe he could’ve tried a different approach.
It wasn’t like he was disowned, exactly, but he had been kicked out on his ass with a parting speech from his stepmother about how “he could manage everything so well on his own.” His brother was salty about “doing everything without asking,” and his sister… well, she was sad but still kept in contact.
After getting thrown out, he somehow landed a shared dorm that was abandoned by the previous tenant—apparently because the “roommate had a stick up his ass.” At the time, Wei Ying hadn’t cared. A roof was a roof, even if it came with furniture and emotional icicles. Beggars—especially those kicked out mid-semester—couldn’t be choosers.
But the guy who had warned him about the roommate wasn’t exactly lying. It wasn’t that his roommate was bad. The dorm was designed with separate rooms but shared common spaces, like the kitchen- which wouldn’t be an issue, except that his roommate was extremely particular about cleanliness and order, insisting on strict rules for how shared spaces should be kept.
The guy meal-prepped all his food on Sundays, cleaned everything meticulously, and left. Meanwhile, Wei Ying survived on various chemical-level spicy noodles. So their difference in eating habits did not really affect anything.
But in the other shared areas… well, Wei Ying had to admit he was pretty messy. Organized to him, maybe, but not to the roommate. It led to several stern talks about how “a clean space leads to a clean mind” or something like that. Wei Ying mostly tuned those out.
The most obvious issue was their sleeping schedules. A few times, Wei Ying had been eating a very late dinner in the middle of studying when his roommate came back from a morning run. He could handle judgmental stares and the occasional mumbled “shameless,” as long as the guy wasn’t loud.
He never brought anyone over, except once—someone who looked exactly like him but without the metaphorical stick. Wei Ying assumed it was his brother, who looked at him like he’d already seen his entire life and was plotting something, yet just gave a kind smile and left.
Wei Ying, on the other hand, did bring Nie Huaisang a couple of times over to show some designs or just to hang out, which earned him weird stares and a small acknowledgment nod from his roommate.
But the real problem? The one making everything worse?
His roommate was ethereally beautiful.
Lan Wangji—something about being a biology major (he had told Wei Ying, but Wei Ying’s memory was… highly selective)—was the same age as him, and quite possibly the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen in his mortal life. He didn’t know if the guy tried to look like that, but Wei Ying was pretty sure he had a five-step skincare routine. He always smelled like sandalwood and something else Wei Ying couldn’t quite place.
Wei Ying knew pretty people existed. Nearly everyone in his life was attractive. That didn’t mean he knew how to deal with them. Flirting as a joke came naturally, but when the target was a tall, pretty, and painfully silent man, his options got limited real fast. And yet… he couldn’t stop himself. He kept annoying him, kept pushing into his already small personal space—admittedly a suicidal move, because the way Lan Wangji would scowl and turn away only made Wei Ying more into it.
Even though annoying his freakishly handsome roommate made it easier, it was getting to him. Transferring mid-semester had been a mistake—Wei Ying knew that now. He’d thought switching programs would mean a fresh start, maybe fewer passive-aggressive stares from professors who already had opinions about him. Instead, it meant a pile of make-up work, teachers who were not interested in cutting him any slack, and assignment deadlines stacked like books.
The stress, the constant juggling, the pretending he was still fine—it all piled up like the empty energy drink cans next to his bed. He’d stopped sleeping properly, not because he didn’t want to, but because his brain just wouldn’t shut up. His to-do list haunted him in the spaces between blinking and breathing.
He’d open an assignment and just… stare at it. The words blurred together, the formulas stopped making sense, and all he could think about was how badly he was falling behind. His drawing tablet had been untouched for weeks, and even the thought of designing something—something fun—made his stomach twist with guilt. He hadn’t talked to his sister in days, kept ghosting texts from Huaisang, and the noodles were starting to taste like cardboard. He knew he was burning out, but he also couldn’t stop. Couldn’t pause. Couldn’t afford to. So he just kept going.
Maybe waking up with a headache so bad he couldn’t get out of bed should have been a big hint, but it finally caught up to him. He got up at some point, dreading to look at the system and the hour. The screen went dark. The submission portal was closed.
Wei Ying stared at it for a full minute, then leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose.
The panic didn’t come like a storm; it came like a leak in the ceiling. Quiet, persistent, cold. It slipped into his chest and sat there, heavy. Like it was eating away the last remaining whatever there was. His hands trembled slightly as he pushed them through his hair, gripping at the roots.
Fantastic, he thought bitterly. There it is. The inevitable downward spiral of Wei Wuxian. Maybe he should have listened to his brother about trying to do it all.
He did hear the door open. He just didn’t acknowledge it. Just listened to the soft sound of shoes being placed neatly by the entrance, a bottle clinking in the fridge, the quiet brush of footsteps.
Then, Lan Wangji’s voice—low, careful.
“Wei Ying?”
Silence.
Lan Wangji appeared at the edge of his peripheral vision, dressed in a gray hoodie, his hair damp from the run. He stopped short when he saw him.
Wei Ying didn’t look up. He was trying to make himself aware of how he looked, in small shorts that had some suspicious hot sauce-looking stain on them and a size-too-big red T-shirt that had some ambiguous band he listened to printed. He tried to make sense of the situation as well, but he was breathing too fast. One hand still tangled in his hair, the other clenched on his lap. His eyes were glassy, shoulders were stiff as if he was physically holding something in.
The silence stretched.
Then, so gently it startled him:
“Did something happen?”
Wei Ying didn’t answer right away. His fingers dug into the edge of his chair like he could physically hold himself together. Then he huffed out a laugh—sharp, humorless.
“Oh, nothing. Just missed a deadline that’s worth, you know, like, half my final grade. No big deal.”
Lan Wangji furrowed his eyebrows and slowly took a glance at the computer. Then back to whatever state he was in.
Wei Ying turned, grinning too widely. “Maybe I’ll just go walk myself into the river. Or set up a punch card at the counselor’s office. Eighth breakdown is free, right?”
Lan Wangji didn’t react, not visibly. But his eyes didn’t move away.
“You should not say things like that.”
It was quiet, but there was a weight to the words that cut through the air.
Wei Ying’s smile cracked. “What, you’re gonna discipline me for bad mental health jokes now?”
“You are not fine,” Lan Wangji said, still steady. “You need to—”
“I know I’m not fine,” Wei Ying snapped, suddenly standing. He needed to move, he needed to get out somehow. “I’m aware. I’ve been very aware for a while now, thanks. You think I don’t know that? God, you just—come in here, all perfect and untouchable, like you’ve got everything figured out. But I don’t need you to give me life advice like I’m some broken project you can fix with your stupid routine and your perfectly centered desk lamp.”
Wei Ying’s breath hitched in the sudden quiet. The words still echoed off the walls, too loud in the tiny shared space. He didn’t look up at first. Couldn’t. He slowly let himself down back to his bed next to his chair, trying to make sense of the shapes on his carpet suddenly. Anything besides looking.
When he did, Lan Wangji was just standing there—frozen in place, eyes unreadable, but his face… softer. Or maybe just exposed. Like something had cracked. It was the first time he’d looked like that. Like something hurt.
Wei Ying felt sick.
“Lan Zhan, I—” he started, but Lan Wangji had already turned.
He walked past him, footsteps measured and deliberate, looking back just a glance, and went into the kitchen. A few quiet clinks followed: the sound of a cabinet, the lid of the electric kettle, water pouring. It wasn’t angry or rushed—just calm, practiced. Still too calm.
Wei Ying sat back down, slowly, his heart thudding dully in his chest. He didn’t need to do that. Not to his picture-perfect roommate.
Great job, Wei Wuxian, he thought. You’ve officially alienated the one person in this place who hasn’t kicked you out yet. Round of applause.
He put his face in his hands. He wanted to scream. It wasn’t that he said something so hurtful, but they had been doing fine. A comfortable, sometimes annoying, and mostly a weird tension that wasn’t unwelcome—that he didn’t want to think to add on his worries right now.
All he could register was his breaths and sounds from the kitchen: the whistle of the kettle, a cup set gently on the counter.
Then, footsteps returned. A soft clink beside him. He peeked up—a mug of tea. Still steaming.
Lan Wangji didn’t say anything. It felt like he was trying to burn his eyes into Wei Ying’s soul somehow. He couldn’t help the shudder that went through his spine. He just watched him place the cup on the desk and turning.
As he moved past, he stopped—only for a second—and said, low but certain:
“Take care of yourself.”
Then he gave a small, stern nod of his head and walked out again. The door clicked shut behind him.
It haunted Wei Ying in a way that felt lonely.
Wei Ying stared at the tea. And for the first time that day, he felt like crying for something other than a deadline.