Archive of Our Own

Part 1: Tall, Floral and Scrumptious

“More flowers, Wei-xiong?” Nie Huaisang opens his fan with a graceful flick of his wrist, raising it to shield the lower half of his face while his brows raise to his hairline.

Wei Ying straightens out of his curled shrimp position, hissing through his teeth when his joints pop audibly. He wobbles slightly on his raised stool, his ass protesting from sitting so long, and flexes his fingers around his Apple Pencil.

“Huh? Oh.” His eyes instinctively dart over to the freshly delivered bouquet of vibrant red flowers, splattered with smaller white ones with little curled petals. He puckers his lips, huffing. “Yeah, I’m going to translate those later, but I can feel in my bones that it’s more ‘I loathe your existence, Wei Ying’ flowers from Tall, Floral and Scrumptious over there.”

Lazily fanning himself, Nie Huaisang’s gaze flutters over to the window, peering out at the outdoor shopping center to the lovely blue shop. The Cloud Recesses Flowers is written on a beautifully painted sign, whose calligraphy is so pristine it may as well be printed.

The windows are tall and glisten in the afternoon sunlight, letting bright beams stream into a lush greenhouse. Bundles of brightly colored flowers practically cover the windows, green vines hanging from the swinging potted plants. It’s like a cottage-core fairy threw up all over the place.

Wei Ying pointedly avoids glancing over his shoulder at his own shop—black, scuffed floors, crimson-colored walls with skulls, paintings, and shag carpets. He can hear the black beads clinking together; the scent of ink, incense, and charcoal floods his nose with every breath.

“Tall, Floral and Scrumptious, huh?” Nie Huaisang says in a deceptively passive voice, letting his finger trail over the leather-bound cover of Wei Ying’s tattoo portfolio he keeps on the front desk. “I thought you were calling him ‘Off-Limits Snack’?”

“Buffet, actually.” Wei Ying snaps closed the cover of his iPad, setting it aside and hopping off the stool with a loud groan. He sways slightly, legs like overcooked noodles, then straightens. “Don’t look at me like that! I’m not blind. I can admit the asshole is hot, but that doesn’t mean I wanna eat it.”

Nie Huaisang’s brows practically climb into his hair. “But you love spicy food and have the self-preservation skills of a suicidal squirrel,”

Rolling his eyes, Wei Ying saunters past Nie Huaisang, the chains on his pants jingling, and cuts off the glowing neon OPEN sign. “Semantics.” He pivots around, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head until his hair tumbles in front of his features. “What brings you to my humble shop? Another tat to piss off your brother?”

“Not this time, but you know I can never say no to fresh ink.” Nie Huaisang smacks his fan against his open palm, his passive smile shifting into something sharp. “As for the reason for my visit, do I really need one? You’re my best friend! The tit to my tat; the left foot to my right foot; the left testicle to my right testicle!”

Snorting, Wei Ying leans against the threshold of the shop, his sleeves rolled up and revealing his vibrant tattoos. His favorite, a Chinese calligraphic dragon with traces of red ink and Japanese spider lilies, circles around his wrist, up his arm, and travels up around his collarbones, glinting in the low light of the lobby.

“Even as my other testicle, you’d never step foot in here without either getting ink or wanting something.” Wei Ying squints his eyes. “So, spill the beans, or no tats.”

Coughing slightly, Nie Huaisang flips the fan back open and lazily fans himself. “You’re no fun, Wei-xiong.”

“Rude! I am all the fun.” Wei Ying waves his hand. “You will not distract me. What’s up? Tell me quickly, because I still want to diagnose the latest of my ‘Fuck You’ flowers.”

Nie Huaisang’s face scrunches as if he hears something mildly amusing but doesn’t want to admit it, and turns away to obscure his expression. “Right… because people totally give you flowers to say ‘I hate you’.”

“They do! It’s called ‘flower language’ and all florists speak it.” Wei Ying points a threatening finger at Nie Huaisang. “Stop distracting me with my ‘Fuck You’ flowers!”

Holding up his hands in surrender, Nie Huaisang flutters back across the lobby and plops onto the nearest cushion. “Fine, but we are going to talk about them later. You caught me, though—I am here for a reason, sent by your darling sister.”

This catches Wei Ying’s attention. He stalls in place, stomach swooping slightly with dread.

“Jiejie?”

“Yeah.” Nie Huaisang shakes his head with a sigh. “Your sister really is something, because not even I can escape her clutches! I am weak before her and her kindness. That should be studied somewhere, seriously.”

Wei Ying blinks, shifting his weight and letting the blunt of his painted-black nails dig into his arm. “My sister sent you?”

That’s… incredibly odd, actually. Normally, whenever she needs him for anything, she just calls or texts him! She never sends Nie Huaisang after him! Although it’s rare to consider the idea of Nie Huaisang even bothering to play fetch.

Ah, the magic of my jiejie.

Wearily, Wei Ying digs his phone out of the pocket of his skin-tight skinny jeans, now washed-out and soft from too many washes. The cracked screen of his phone blinks to life, but feebly, like the croak of an ailing old man.

“You’re doing so great, Sylvester. Hang in there, buddy. I’m going to get you a new case soon, and you’ll have five more months in you!”

Nie Huaisang stares at Sylvester the Phone like it’s radioactive and seconds from exploding. “I don’t think a new phone case will be enough to spare that thing even a week longer. Wei-xiong… is it… sparking?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, he’s a little spicy in his old age.” Wei Ying pats the top of Sylvester the Phone fondly and pretends not to notice little fragments of the cracked screen tumbling onto the floor. “Cover your mouth when you cough, bud.”

“Wei-xiong…”

Waving him off, Wei Ying shifts to his messages, letting Sylvester move as slowly as he needs, and the stone in his stomach grows a little heavier. No messages from his precious jiejie, and apparently, she sent his best friend after him?

What has he even done lately? He’s been unusually well-behaved, he thinks! He did his laundry at the laundromat two days ago, and didn’t leave it out until it was time to go back! Sure, he didn’t fold it, but it was put away!

That’s surely something, right? A sign of adulting?

What else? He stopped drinking too much soda, and stopped annoying the neighbors by blasting his music at three in the morning, or even playing his flute at “ungodly” hours according to some sources…

Even so, why send Nie Huaisang?

He’s even been on his best behavior that Madam Yu has left him alone!

Swallowing thickly, Wei Ying slowly tucks Sylvester back into his pant pocket and raises his head to peer at the completely relaxed Nie Huaisang, now draped over the black-velvet couch as if it were a chaise and he’s a model. “Why did my jiejie send you?”

“Because you can hang up on her, but you can’t hang up on me!” Nie Huaisang chirps happily, reminiscent of his prized canaries.

“I’d never hang up on my jiejie! That is slander to my name!”

“You hung up on her once.”

Wei Ying bristles, wincing. “That was one time, and—and I was fifteen, come on! It was about that stupid banquet charity auction thing!” He shudders visibly, blanching. “You know those things—I hate them, and someone like me definitely doesn’t belong there. It was warranted!”

“Right, of course.” Nie Huaisang cards his fingers through his long bangs, the golden rings on his fingers shimmering in the light. “So, about that banquet…”

“What about it?” Wei Ying grabs the broom tucked away in the corner of the lobby, half-stuffed into their supply closet, and grips the splintered handle. “I’ve been avoiding that banquet for the past—how old am I now? I passed Old and Withered and went into prehistoric by now, right?”

Nie Huaisang ticks a brow. “You’re twenty-six.”

“Right. Prehistoric.” Wei Ying slowly sweeps the front lobby, grimacing when the wood of the handle digs into his palms. “I really need a new broom…”

“No, you need to hold a funeral for your phone and get a new one.”

Gasping, Wei Ying cuts him a scandalized look. “Never! Sylvester is a loyal companion!”

With a shake of his head, Nie Huaisang waves his hand and plops back onto the couch. “Whatever. Anyway. Yes, I know. You’ve been avoiding the banquet since you were sixteen. I would know, since I am there every single year with the rest of the important families.”

Wei Ying wiggles his finger at Nie Huaisang. “And that, my friend, lies my loophole. I’m not from one of the important families.”

“You’re a Jiang from Lotus Pier Corporate.”

“I am a Wei from nowhere-ville.” Wei Ying rolls his eyes and returns to sweeping. “Enough about the stupid banquet and stop distracting me. What the hell are you here for? I have flowers to decode and spicy instant ramen calling my name!”

Slowly, Nie Huaisang pushes himself up and cranes his upper body around to stare at Wei Ying. “That is why I am here. The yearly charity banquet.”

Wei Ying jerks to a halt, hands tightening around the handle of the broom. “Huh? What about it?”

“Madam Yu told Jiang Wanyin, who told Jiang Yanli, who then told me that your presence is required this year,” Nie Huaisang says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Not even you can squirm your way out of it this year, apparently.”

“What?!” Wei Ying drops the broom, hands slick with sweat, and shakes his head. “No way. Absolutely not. Huaisang, look at me!” He throws out his arms, revealing the multitude of ink painted beautifully from his hands, wrists, and along his arms.

Nie Huaisang cocks his head. “Yes, I see you, Wei-xiong.”

“Clearly not enough!” Wei Ying then points at his ears—a helix piercing, a bar, and two along the earlobe while his right ear holds a cuff. “Or even this!” He lifts his shirt to reveal his ruby-red belly-button piercing.

“Still my favorite piece of yours,” Nie Huaisang compliments sweetly, nodding as his eyes trace the inked planes of Wei Ying’s sides and the shiny belly-button piercing. “But I don’t think you’re going to the banquet showing your, admittedly, delectable midriff.”

“Do you think Madam Yu would kick me out if I did?”

“Not this time, bestie.”

Groaning loudly, Wei Ying covers his face with his hands. “Huaisang, I avoid that thing like the plague for a reason.”

Sighing heavily, Nie Huaisang peels himself off the couch and strides over with all of his effortless grace to pat Wei Ying on the shoulders. “I know, and normally, I am all for it, but I think this time you’re kinda screwed for it.”

Peeking through the cracks of his fingers, Wei Ying levels Nie Huaisang with a wry look. “What’s the damage? You know, right? Jiejie told you why Madam Yu wants me there?”

Puckering his lips, Nie Huaisang hums noncommittally. “The usual suspects. She wants to set you up, I think. Jiang Wanyin is already engaged, and Jiang Yanli is married with her first child on the way.” Lowering his lashes, he sighs. “Basically, you’re the last one, and I think she wants you to ‘be useful’ by marrying for the good of the company.”

“Nie Huaisang, I’m an adopted brat they took in for their ‘image’,” Wei Ying deadpans.

“Yes, well… you know how they are.” Nie Huaisang pats Wei Ying’s back hard enough it thumps hollowly, breath wheezing. “Look, it won’t be that bad, honest. I’ll be there too, and we can just get you a date to satisfy them, and boom. Avoids marriage, and we walk away scot-free.”

Wei Ying shoves Nie Huaisang’s shoulder, groaning louder. “How? The banquet is in two weeks! I have no suit, no tie, and too many tattoos!” He pauses, tugging at one of his earrings. “Let’s also not forget the whole thing of I am really mcfuckingnugget gay!”

“There is still a chance, alright? Maybe if you get a date before the banquet, then Madam Yu will leave you alone. Your date doesn’t even have to be a woman, Wei-xiong,” Nie Huaisang says, straightening and brushing off his cashmere beige sweater. “Actually, about that date… I have a hunch that’s gonna be easier to solve than you think.”

Scrunching his nose, Wei Ying scowls and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, sure. Sangsang, let’s go over my recent dates, shall we?”

“You’ve been on dates?”

“EXACTLY!” Wei Ying throws his arms in the air, then tosses himself onto the couch as the broom clatters to the ground. “Face it, Sangsang, it’s hopeless. I haven’t been on an actual date in like… years.”

“You were twenty-one, and he was hot, but stupid.” Sighing, Nie Huaisang settles on the edge of the couch and gently pulls the red ribbon from Wei Ying’s hair, letting the shoulder-length inky hair tumble down and cover the freshly shaved undercut. He cards his fingers through the tresses. “It isn’t helpless, Ying-er. You’re gorgeous, funny, and kind.”

Wei Ying’s eyes burn as he lifts his face from the velvet cushions, his bottom lip wedging between his teeth with a growing frown. “I’m too much for people. Too loud, too hyperactive, too forgetful. I’m not a good lover.”

A sharp pain echoes through Wei Ying’s scalp when Nie Huaisang yanks scoldingly at him. He yelps, squirming, but cannot move when suddenly Nie Huaisang sits on top of him. “No, bad, Wei-xiong. We don’t shit-talk ourselves.”

“Since fucking when?!” Wei Ying thrashes and kicks, screeching. “Let me up! I’m too twinkie for this!”

Nie Huaisang lifts his chin and huffs, crossing his legs. “Say you’re sorry and I’ll free you.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Brushing his hair off his shoulder, Nie Huaisang hums, but eventually slides off and pivots on his heel to watch Wei Ying scramble to sit up. “Good. Leave that mindset behind—I bet your forever man is way closer than you think.”

Squinting at Nie Huaisang, Wei Ying rubs his back. “Why do you sound like a fucking fortune cookie?”

“No reason!” Adjusting the sleeves of his cashmere sweater, Nie Huaisang grabs his name-brand bag and swings it over his shoulder. “As for the suit and tie, don’t worry! I got that one covered. You just be your fabulous self.”

“You’re leaving?”

Nie Huaisang pauses by the door, humming. “Yes. I’ve got things to do, plots to scheme, and birds to whisper to you.” He smiles knowingly. “Have fun with your ‘let me fuck you’ flowers!”

Rolling his eyes, Wei Ying waves him off and turns back to finishing closing up the shop. The bell dings in tandem with Nie Huaisang’s laughter, the door clicking shut behind him.

Hooking up his speakers to his phone, Wei Ying shuffles through his play-list absently and lets the day’s tension loosen as the familiar music echoes through the otherwise quiet shop. He smiles, humming along with the lyrics.

He dances through the shop—wiping down counters, spraying tools, and cashing out his register.

It’s a tedious process, but it helps ease the last of the tension from his muscles. He ignores the way his fingers twitch to reach out to jiejie. He understands why she sent Nie Huaisang now, even though he wants nothing more than to call her and beg for a different outcome.

Shaking it off, Wei Ying put away the last of the cleaning supplies and sweeps his gaze over the lobby critically. It smells faintly of lemon and bleach. The door is open to let the last of the incense and smoke be replaced with the cleaner and fresh, wintry air.

Considering himself done, Wei Ying grabs his black satchel, ratty and worn-through like his jeans. It’s lathered in dozens of pins from various anime, bands, and K-pop groups, and the strap has been sewn back together four separate times in different places by his sister. Some duct-tape and patchwork sewing job (by yours truly) keeps the rest of it together.

“Keys? Check, okay. Good. No locking myself out again.” Wei Ying steps outside, headphones slung around his neck and keys clutched in his hands. “Sylvester? Check, good. Okay. Brain? Never had one! What am I—FLOWERS!”

He scurries back inside, snapping a quick photo of the fresh batch of “Fuck You” flowers, and pats Sylvester. “Good job, bud. Okay! Now we can go!”

He rushes back outside, checking one more time that he has his keys, and locks up the shop. With a proud skip in his step, he pivots around, going through his music to pick out a song for his ride home, when Sylvester rams head-first into a (delectable, lick-able, ultra-yummy) broad chest.

With a gasp, Wei Ying attempts to catch him when he slips, more glass splintering, but he just isn’t fast enough. Sylvester tumbles onto the sidewalk face-first, a sharp crack reverberating through the air. “Sylvester! No!”

Dropping to his knees, Wei Ying carefully picks up Sylvester off the sidewalk, grimacing when he sees the scattered glass across the concrete. He turns the phone over, swallowing thickly upon noticing too much of the screen is missing, and what screen is there doesn’t turn on.

“Oh, fuck… Sylvester! Don’t give up on me now, buddy! Sylvester! Talk to me!” he desperately presses the power button, but nothing happens. Not even a dying flicker. “No! You can’t die on me!”

“Are you… alright?”

“Alright?!” Wei Ying leaps to his feet, cradling his poor Sylvester—taken far too soon from this world—and raises his head to level a withering glare at… LAN ZHAN?! “You! How can you ask me that?! Look! He’s been brutally murdered! Pectoral Phone Slaughter!”

Lan Zhan’s pristine, perfect brows slowly knit, his amber-glass eyes shifting from Wei Ying’s features down to the corpse of Sylvester. His jade-like features undulate like soft ripples in a pond, plush lips pressing together as if attempting to solve the world’s most complicated riddle.

It’s probably the most expression this jade-flower statue has shown since they met two years ago.

“He…?”

“Sylvester the Phone! Pectoral Phone Slaughter!” Wei Ying repeats ardently, mind scrambling. He can’t really afford a new phone right now! He just can’t! Not when he has rent due and loan payments! “He’s dead! In the prime of his life!”

Lan Zhan, in his usual bitchy way, ticks a singular brow, and Wei Ying doesn’t need a translator to see the do not lie written all over his stupidly pretty face. “You named your phone Sylvester.”

“Well, yeah? I couldn’t name him Susan—that would be rude.” His shoulders slump, heaving a heavy sigh. “What are you even doing over on this side of the block? And so late? I thought it was your policy to close strictly at 5 p.m. for your ‘schedule’.”

“I closed promptly at 5 p.m. as I always do on Friday nights,” Lan Zhan replies gruffly. “It is impolite to change hours for customers, and I dislike eating after 7 p.m. It is unhealthy for your gut.”

What a fuddy-duddy, Wei Ying thinks to himself with a quiet snicker.

“Are you one of those people who waits to swim after eating?”

“Yes. It can cause gut issues and is unsafe.” Lan Zhan’s eyes shift back to Sylvester. “Does… Sylvester… not function properly?”

Wei Ying almost laughs at hearing the name “Sylvester” emit from Lan Zhan’s husky voice and his soft accent from his region—Gusu, if he had to throw a guess. It’s faint, but nothing like his Yiling and Yunmeng flashy accent.

“I already told you that Sylvester is no longer with us, Lan Zhan. He’s been murdered.” As if to prove a point, he holds up the corpse right underneath Lan Zhan’s nose, making him go faintly cross-eyed. “I demand flowers for his funeral. It’s the least you could do as his murderer.”

“I… I apologize. It was not… I did not intend to cause such distress.”

Shrugging, Wei Ying picks out his SIM card, dropping it haphazardly in his satchel, and fiddles with a loose strand of his hair. “I’ll figure it out! There is still that payphone on the corner street, right?”

Lan Zhan’s brow knits further, a deep wrinkle creasing his skin, and Wei Ying stamps down the immediate urge to rub his thumb to even out the skin.

Contain the gay, Wei Ying. Remember—Off-Limits Buffet.

“That payphone is unsanitary and was discontinued a year ago due to misuse.”

“Right. I think unsanitary is the least of my problems—ever been around a toddler?” With a wave of his hand, Wei Ying ignores the perpetually growing expression on Lan Zhan’s face. “You never answered why you wandered onto this side of the block, Lan Zhan. You don’t venture here this late at night, so what can I do you for?”

Shifting his weight, Lan Zhan flits his gaze over Wei Ying’s shoulder, but the sound of something crinkling drags Wei Ying’s attention away from his unfairly pretty face, down to his hand. A plastic bag dangles from his fingers.

It looks slightly out of place with Lan Zhan’s pressed gray slacks and white button-up shirt—all perfectly ironed and cuff-links snapped properly, like a true fuddy-duddy. His shoes, slim and white, don’t even have a speck of dirt him.

Seriously.

The guy owns a damned flower shop where his hands are knee-deep in soil every day, and yet there is never a single smear of it anywhere on his clothes or face. It’s unfair.

Wei Ying wears gloves and an apron and ends up with ink stains on his face, hands, and clothes. It’s just a part of his whole aesthetic now! He isn’t himself without ink-stains and coffee, but Lan Zhan? The only way you know he works at a fucking flower shop is the faint floral smell mixed with sandalwood and the tinge of fertilizer.

Honestly, Wei Ying is still convinced Lan Zhan isn’t human, but some kind of earth fairy. Maybe an ancient flower immortal. A wood elf? Something! He’ll figure it out one day and create a PowerPoint presentation for it.

“I… miscalculated.”

Jerking himself back to reality, Wei Ying blinks. “Wait, what? You? Miscalculated? Miscalculated what? Is that even possible for you?”

Lan Zhan shifts again, his gaze not meeting Wei Ying’s. “Mn.”

“Okkkayyyy, well… sorry about that?” Swallowing thickly, Wei Ying rocks back on his heels, gaze darting over to where his motorcycle watches critically with her chipped paint. Shut it, Gertrude. “Look, Lan Zhan, miscalculations are life’s pleasures! So, yeah, um, thanks for the declaration, but I should—I have spicy ramen waiting for me, so I gotta scat!”

At the mention of ramen, Lan Zhan’s hand tightens around his plastic bag, and his gaze darts back to Wei Ying’s face. “Eating too much of that is bad for your health.”

“So you’ve told me. Multiple times,” Wei Ying says with false cheer, ignoring the dread in his stomach. He does not feel like re-hashing his dietary misgivings again. He scoots around Lan Zhan, aiming Gertrude, his motorcycle. “Well, I’ll be seeing you! Goodnight,”

Before Wei Ying can fully make his escape, Lan Zhan abruptly holds up the plastic bag. “I miscalculated. The spice level.” He pauses, and Wei Ying’s ears ring, brain flagging at the side of the plastic bag being held out to him. “Wei Ying enjoys… spice.”

“Oh, um, well… yeah, but I…” he trails off, uncertain of where he was trying to go with that.

“Food is not to be wasted.” Lan Zhan holds out the plastic bag farther, and Wei Ying dumbly accepts it. He can feel the lingering warmth of the meal through the plastic bag, which he notes is biodegradable, because of course it is, and the food seems to be in a glass container. “So, Wei Ying should eat it, so it will not go to waste.”

Wei Ying is almost certain he heard the Windows Shut Down noise, because Lan Zhan—his archenemy—giving him food?

“What? I—!”

“Goodnight, Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan pivots on his heel, striding off without another word, and Wei Ying can only helplessly stare after him, slack-jawed until he disappears around the corner into whatever cottage-core home Lan Zhan has.

Befuddled, Wei Ying checks the container, mouth pressed together at the sight of various dishes all lathered in an obscene amount of chili oil and peppers. He wanders over to Gertrude, delicately settling Sylvester and his new food into her travel box.

“I really gotta stop inhaling the ink when I’m working.”

Part 2: What a fuddy-duddy.

Wei Ying is completely, entirely certain that early mornings are the work of Satan, and then himself, because what the hell had he been thinking when he scheduled a tattoo at 9 in the morning on a Saturday?

Clearly, he hadn’t been. His brain must have wandered off or turned into Lan Zhan—of all fucking people. He’s pretty sure that fuddy-duddy does that whole waking up at the butt-crack of dawn or something unhinged like that.

That whole woodland fairy thing is looking a lot more likely the more he thinks about it.

Since Sylvester’s untimely Pectoral Phone Slaughter, probably second degree since it seemed accidental, Wei Ying had forgotten that Sylvester had been in charge of his morning ritual. As in his twenty alarms, perfectly timed to ensure he woke up on time.

Sweat stuck his tattered cardigan to his body, his black undershirt now feeling like a disgusting second skin. He sprints down the street, his half-laced boots smacking against the asphalt of the sidewalk and his beloved satchel bouncing along his hip.

Now, Wei Ying is used to being unkempt. He’s been a mess since he was thirteen, so it’s nothing particularly new, but it’s the first time he’s feels like he might actually fall apart at the seams. He has no idea what pants he threw on with what sweater, and his hair is down and swishing across his shoulders. His eyes feel crusty, mouth tacky, and his teeth fuzzy.

If you were to open up a dictionary and look up the definition of roadkill, you might find an image of him there.

It makes his skin prickle and itch, as if Madam Yu’s disapproving purple gaze is cutting him open with that same familiar disapproving scowl.

Wei Ying shivers, rounding the corner with a skid of his boots, nearly collapsing with relief when he sees his familiar grungy black sign of Burial Mounds Tattoos swinging in the chilly wintry breeze. His relief is short-lived when he sees two figures awkwardly lingering by the front door.

“Fuck me with a toothbrush and call me minty fresh,” Wei Ying mutters under his breath, hurriedly checking the streets and crossing over to greet his (probable) clients, considering it is 9:21 a.m. “Good morning! I’m so sorry that I’m—Lan Zhan?”

Wrenching himself to a halt, Wei Ying blinks rapidly as his crusty eyes land on the tall man standing out in pure white slacks, a soft, pale blue pea-coat that looks like it cost more than Wei Ying’s entire studio apartment.

It’s definitely Lan Zhan—Wei Ying knows that stiff, corpse-like posture anywhere! Especially paired with those broad shoulders, enhanced with the beautiful coat and his mahogany hair pulled up into a perfectly styled bun.

At the blurted call of his name, Lan Zhan raises his golden brown eyes from the young woman to meet his bewildered gaze. “Wei Ying.”

“I—what are you doing here? It’s… your shop is past open, isn’t it?”

“It is the weekend.”

“Yeah, which—oh.” Wei Ying winces, rubbing the back of his sweaty neck. “You’re closed on weekends. Except for special orders.”

Lan Zhan tilts his head. “Mn.”

Wei Ying does not have enough coffee to deal with Lan Zhan’s succinct form of speaking to even bother translating the underlying connotation he is absolutely certain there is. Somewhere. He plasters on a bright smile he doesn’t quite feel and pivots away from him to face the young woman, who has been watching the exchange with a strange glint in her gaze.

“Are you Luo Qingyang?”

Startling, the woman straightens and smiles, adjusting her pink coat and nods. “Yes, that’s me! You must be Wei Ying?”

“Yes.” Wei Ying clears his throat, digging his keys from his pants pocket. “I am so sorry that I am running late this morning. My phone had a tragic accident last night, and well, it was the source of my alarms.”

“Oh, it’s fine!” Luo Qingyang laughs lightly, tucking a loose strand of her long chestnut hair behind her ear. “I completely understand, so don’t worry about it. I’m in no rush today. My husband is off and is watching our daughter.”

“Excellent!” Wei Ying jiggles the handle, swinging open the door to the shop and cuts on the lights. “Head on in and make yourself comfortable. I just need to set up a couple of things, and then we’ll be set to start!”

Nodding her head, Luo Qingyang graciously steps into the shop and wanders over to the couch, but not before her eyes drift over the space with open curiosity.

Wiping his hands on his pants—regular loose blue jeans with ripped knees, wow, he really is a mess today—Wei Ying turns to close the door, only to jolt when a shadow falls over him. He squeaks, head snapping up, and is immediately reminded that Lan Zhan is still here.

“Wei Ying.”

“That’s my name—don’t wear it out,” Wei Ying replies easily, but blinks when Lan Zhan doesn’t react. Right. Okay. Seriously, where is the coffee when he needs it? “What is it, Lan Zhan? I’m in a bit of a rush.”

Lan Zhan’s eyes flicker, briefly cutting over to Luo Qingyang, and then back to Wei Ying. “Forgive me. I do not intend to remain here long. I only wish to remedy a transgression.”

“Transgression?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan lifts a brown paper-bag, the top perfectly folded and held down with a cute sparkling flower sticker.

Startled, Wei Ying could only dumbly accept the bag, noting the odd weight of it—he had been so discombobulated he hadn’t even noticed Lan Zhan had been carrying a bag. “What? A bag? Lan Zhan, what is…?”

Bowing deeply at the waist, Lan Zhan steps away and pivots in the direction he normally heads on his way home from his shop.

“At this point, I might just need to inject coffee into my veins, or chew on some power-lines, because clearly, I slept my ass into a strange new reality.” With a shake of his head, he closes his shop door and wanders over to his desk where his computer sits. “I’ll be right with you, Luo Qingyang!”

“No rush!” Luo Qingyang smiles happily from the black velvet couch. “Is it alright if I look around? I’ve never been inside a real tattoo parlor before.”

“Knock yourself out! Just don’t touch the needles, obviously.”

Not that there should be any lying around, but still…

Nodding, Luo Qingyang removes her coat and folds it gently, laying it across the top of the couch, and wanders the lobby with her hands clasped behind her back to admire the artwork.

Settled that he has even a moment to breathe, Wei Ying carefully undoes the sticker on the bag and peeks inside, his stomach nearly bottoming out to his feet. A white single chrysanthemum sits on top of a brand-new phone—the latest upgrade of Sylvester, actually. Same brand, but fancy and new and more expensive than Wei Ying could afford right now.

The flower has a little folded letter—letter paper, in fact. The real thing you can only purchase at stationery stores. He carefully picks up the flower and the letter, bringing the flower to his nose to smell with a small smile. It’s gorgeous and big, with so many petals. It’s familiar, a more common flower than he is used to seeing from Lan Zhan, who sends him the “I hate you” flowers.

Wei Ying sets aside the flower and opens the letter, snorting at the pristine handwriting he knew would wait for him. Seriously. This man is the epitome of perfection. It should be illegal!

Pick a struggle, won’t you?

Wei Ying,

Please accept my humblest apologies for the grave error of the loss of your Sylvester. I was unaware of your tight bond to your device under your care, and I deeply regret my part in Sylvester’s death.

Please accept this chrysanthemum as a token of my well-wishes for the afterlife for Sylvester’s funeral.

I know that this new phone is not Sylvester, but I pray it will serve you well.

With good wishes,

Lan Zhan

The Cloud Recesses Flowers.

“What a fuddy-duddy,” Wei Ying says quietly, ignoring how oddly fond he sounds as he does. He isn’t fond. It’s just—it’s just amusing, okay? No one has ever just… played along with his weird antics like that. Just accepted them at face value and went with it.

He knows his whole thing with the names is slightly ridiculous. He knows. He’s had Madam Yu yell at him enough about it and his weird attachment to inanimate objects.

Jiejie is really nice about it, of course, and indulges him, but seeing this stupid, brief letter about the funeral of Sylvester cracked open something in his ribcage. Even being given a flower as an offering?

It’s something no one has ever done before.

Squeezing his eyes shut to ignore the prickle behind them, he hisses through his teeth and glares up at the ceiling. “Oh no. No, not today, Satan. Nope. We’re not having a chick-flick moment before ten on a Saturday. Absolutely not.”

He quickly folds up the letter as carefully as he can, tucking it safely into a zipper pocket of his satchel. He hangs it on the wall near his office chair and takes a moment to shake out his hands. They feel a little shaky, like the world tilted a little too much on the axis or he ingested three energy drinks in a span of three minutes.

“Okay. Yeah, this is—this is okay.” He nods to himself and returns to the new phone, wedging his lower lip between his teeth. He doesn’t want to accept this gift. He truly doesn’t.

Nothing comes without a price—that is the first rule you learn on the streets and in an orphanage. It’s something Wei Ying has learned well, etched deep into his very bones. He already owes his life to the Jiangs for taking him in and keeping him alive until adulthood. He doesn’t have a lot left to be giving out.

But he needs a phone.

Sylvester was his best friend, and he loved that dying old thing—it was the first one he had purchased for himself at seventeen. It was a visual representation of his own independence at the time. Obviously, it’s different now.

The problem is… he makes good money with the tattoo shop. He does. The problem is debt. Debts leftover from his parents (not their fault, of course), and then debts from the Jiangs. Debts from the bank and school.

Isn’t it always debts? Isn’t your life a giant debt to be owed?

Grimacing, Wei Ying hastily squashes that thought and takes a deep breath. It’s just the lack of caffeine and the surprise phone and gift. He shakes it off, tapping the top of the box of the new phone. He needs it. For work, for his siblings.

For babysitting.

Plus, it was partially Lan Zhan’s fault, right? For Sylvester’s death? He can accept this for now, and it will be completely fine. Maybe he can… just… do some stuff for Lan Zhan too! To repay the debt or something.

Yeah. Good plan.

Soothed, Wei Ying tucks the new phone away into his satchel to deal with later (after Sylvester has been properly sent off), and also puts the flower somewhere safe. He checks the bag, prepared to throw it out, but halts when he notices a cup. He pulls it out, sputtering when he realizes it’s coffee from that really nice place two streets down!

Grinders, or something?

It’s definitely something that Wei Ying’s inner twink cackled at, but their coffee blends are immaculate.

Staring owlishly at the iced coffee, Wei Ying giggles upon realizing it’s a sugary monstrosity of coffee—all caramels and foams and something he would never, ever drink. He knows people assume he does, based entirely on what they know of him, but the truth is—he only drinks black coffee.

For one thing, it’s cheaper.

For another thing, sugar is a hit or miss. Spice? Sure! But sugar consistently attempts to rearrange his guts, and he might be lactose intolerant; he will go to the grave saying otherwise and eating cheese until his toilet explodes.

And this thing is definitely more sugar and milk than coffee beans.

Wei Ying takes a sip and immediately winces, pulling it away. Yeah. Exactly as he thought. Too sugary. Too milky. If he drinks this, he might keel over and die before ever making it to the toilet. He takes another sip and shrugs.

Who needs perfectly arranged guts anyway?

He can’t let this kindness go to waste, after all.

Shaking it off, Wei Ying hurries about opening the store and going through all the paperwork—checking IDs, signing the wavier, and going through procedures. It’s his least favorite part of the job, but he’s got a routine for it now.

Once everything is completed, he gets to work showing Luo Qingyang the design he made from her requests, and they go over positions and a couple of minor changes like colors and layout. It’s a larger piece, but not too complicated, and one of his favorite styles—watercolor, but traditional Chinese style.

After leaving her back in the lobby, he set to work setting up the space, cleaning up, and prepping the ink and needles. He hums as he works, not allowing his mind to drift to the too-sweet coffee and the new phone in his back pocket.

The tattoo itself is a fun, easy project. Luo Qingyang is easy to talk to. Let him ramble or go silent as needed, and she takes it like a trooper with only one break, and it’s only to call her husband about her daughter’s feeding schedule.

Once she leaves with a wave, a hug, and an excited squeal (after his spiel about tattoo after-care), Wei Ying returns inside to clean up. He sweeps, wipes everything down, reorganizes his ink, and shuts off the lights in the back.

Plopping into his office chair at the front, he slowly goes through emails, schedules appointments, replies to designs, and writes a list of various projects he needs to design before the set appointment date. It’s a lot longer than he recalls.

The sound of the door jingles momentarily snaps him back into focus, but he doesn’t stop typing his response right away. “I’m sorry, weekends are booked by appointments only. Walk-in’s are only for the weekdays.”

Heels click, and the sound sends a small, uncomfortable shiver racing down his spine.

Instinctively, he glances up, nearly swallowing his tongue and leaping to his feet upon catching sight of dark black hair tinged deep purple, and dark purple eyes sparking like a bolt of lightning. He stumbles, knocking his chair back and hitting his elbow on the corner of his desk in his haste.

“Ma—Madam Yu!”

Clicking her tongue against her teeth, Madam Yu glares at him through her sharp makeup, her formal one-piece suit a discomfiting contrast to the grunge of his shop. Her nose wrinkles in distaste, lips curling over her clean white teeth like a silent snarl.

“You have been ignoring my phone calls.”

Wei Ying grimaces, shrinking back. “No, I—Sylvester, er, my phone, it broke, and I haven’t—I haven’t had time to replace it.”

“I do not care about your excuses,” Madam Yu retorts, voice like a sharpened whip. “It’s always excuses with you. Tell me, will you have more excuses for when you finally ruin Lotus Pier like you almost did?”

Fingers curling into his clammy palms, Wei Ying forcefully bites down on the soft skin of the inside of his cheek, gritting his teeth. He doesn’t look at her, lowering his head enough that his bangs obscure the image of her standing in front of him—she may be shorter and smaller, but he always feels like a useless, helpless street rat in front of her.

With a scoff, Madam Yu crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin, “Yanli assured me you’ve been told that your presence is expected at the upcoming Charity banquet.”

“Yes, Madam Yu.”

“I expect you to be on your best behavior. If there is even the slightest inkling that you’ll be pulling the same stunt as previously,..”

Ducking his head further, Wei Ying shakes his head. “No, Madam Yu. I’ll… I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Good. I expect you to remember your place and do as you’re told.”

“Yes, Madam Yu.”

With one last huff, Madam Yu wrinkles her nose and exits the shop with the clicks of her heels like miniature gunshots.

Only after she is completely gone from sight and the sound of her heels on asphalt has completely disappeared does Wei Ying allow himself to go boneless. He sinks into his office chair, exhaling in a loud whoosh, and shakes out his trembling hands.

“Fuck.”

He should have expected Madam Yu would make an appearance. She does not take being “ignored” lightly, especially by him.

After taking a moment to gather his wits, Wei Ying closes up the shop and grabs his bag, more than ready to scurry home and tuck himself away. Maybe spend more time diagnosing the “fuck you” flowers from Lan Zhan as he gives birth to a new phone!

Part 3: Language of Flowers

“Has anyone told you that you’re a complete idiot?”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Wei Ying puffs out his cheeks indignantly and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, actually. Many times. This isn’t exactly ‘breaking news’, jie.”

Wen Qing tucks a loose strand of her dark, silky hair behind her ear, rolling her eyes and briefly glancing towards the heavens as if silently praying for patience. “Sure, but this…” she waves her hand at his wall with a crinkled nose, “is a new level of idiocy.”

Puckering his lips, Wei Ying flits his gaze back to the wall of his studio apartment, taking a couple of steps back to fully take in his hard work. Dozens of pictures of various flowers given to him by Lan Zhan have been taped to the wall, now littered with hundreds of sticky notes, Post-its, and loose-leaf notebook paper depicting the flower type and the Flower Language Translation.

It’s work spread out over a course of months and plenty of bouquets, late-night flower searching, and even a couple of trips to the library for “flower language” books. He is nothing if not persistent in uncovering Lan Zhan’s tricky language!

Someone hand me Sherlock’s hat and call me a detective! I crack every floral case there is!

The whole thing covers most his wall, from floor to ceiling, and he can admit… it looks a little tacky with the multi-colored Post-it notes of varying sizes—it all depends on what he has on hand, after all!

“I can’t believe you’re still even on about this.” Wen Qing squints at his wall, yanking off one of his hundreds of sticky-notes with his half-asleep scrawl. “This isn’t even the right flower!”

Snatching his sticky-note back, Wei Ying carefully flattens it back out and smacks it back against the picture of the flower. “Yes, it is! It’s an orange lily, see? They look exactly the same.” He points to the flower on the wall, tapping it with his nail. “I spent forever trying to find it, but it’s definitely an orange lily, which means ‘hatred, pride, and contempt’.”

Wen Qing rubs her temples with her fingers. “A-Ying…”

“Just look at the flower, okay? It’s just like I’ve been telling you—Lan Zhan hates me, and he is sending me ‘fuck you’ flowers!” Wei Ying feels slightly out of breath after his mini tirade, his hand grasped around Wen Qing’s hand and staring pleadingly at her.

Wen Qing’s brow arches a perfect centimeter, but she doesn’t pull away. “Okay, let’s say for a single moment that you’re right. He’s sending you ‘fuck you’ flowers, and you’re out here…” her gaze flits to his Murder Flower Wall, eyes flashing. “You’re translating them?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Wei Ying slaps his hand over his wall, eagerly pointing at his evidence he painstakingly collected and translated. “It’s my job to uncover the depth of hatred he has for me by decoding the language because he is too polite to say ‘fuck you’ like a normal person! He’s a fuddy-duddy, Qing-jie.”

Pinching her brow, Wen Qing shakes her head and throws up her hands. “Whatever. Just—that isn’t an orange lily. It’s a tiger lily.”

Blinking owlishly, Wei Ying glances back at his board. “It doesn’t have stripes.”

“Oh, for the love of—!” Wen Qing waves her hand, marching away from his Flower Murder Board, and throws herself onto his couch. “Never mind. I’m not gonna get into that with you. Spare me from the useless gays.”

“Like lesbians are any better,” Wei Ying digs out a Post-it note and scribbles tiger lily with a few question marks before smacking it onto the wall. “Anyway, glad you got my email.”

Wen Qing tucks her legs underneath her, half folding one of his red blankets over her lap. “Yeah, well, the email sounded pretty dire considering it just said, in all caps, ‘help, apartment, arrive’ with no context. I thought you were getting murdered.”

Snorting, Wei Ying tosses his marker and stack of Post-it notes on the coffee table. He shuffles around to his own chair, flopping against it. “Not this time, Qing-jie. So sorry to disappoint.”

“There is always next time,” Wen Qing slides him a wry glance. “Care to explain what the fuck is happening?”

So, with little fanfare, Wei Ying breaks down his past couple of days and the passing of his poor phone, Sylvester, who is now buried outside the apartment complex with a headstone and the flower Lan Zhan left for him.

Rest in Pieces, Sylvester.

By the time he finishes his tale, Wen Qing is openly staring up at the ceiling as if silently hoping it will have answers to the universe. “You broke your phone with the guy you’re doing the weirdest gay mating call with and he bought you a new phone?”

“Weirdest what?”

Groaning, Wen Qing digs her palms into her eyes. “Never mind. Not important.” She drops her hands. “Where is the new phone?”

Quietly, Wei Ying pushes aside from of his sketchbooks on the coffee table and picks up the box. He passes it to her, watching wearily as her eyebrows nearly climb off her face when she takes in the brand.

“Shit. Okay. Scratch the mating call and replace it with a mating dance.” She lifts the box, tapping at the front of it with her ruby-red nail. “You’re telling me that the flower guy got this for you?”

“I know I shouldn’t have accepted it, but I… I need the phone, and my options are limited.” Wei Ying squirms slightly, picking at the sleeves of his cardigan draped over his hands. “Plus, you know, with A-Yuan, and…”

“A-Ying.” Wen Qing lifts her hand, cutting him off, and her sharp, phoenix-like eyes soften a fraction. “It’s okay. You did nothing wrong, and this is a nice phone. Accept it.”

“But I…”

“Accept it.” Wen Qing uses her nail to cut the tape, beginning to unwrap the whole thing. “Besides, I have the weirdest feeling this isn’t just about an apology.”

At this, Wei Ying perks up. “It’s another declaration of his hatred! I knew it. He wants to keep me guessing—ah, he’s so dastardly.”

Wen Qing makes a pained face. “I love you so much, but goddamn, I also wanna hit you sometimes.”

Jutting out his lower lip, Wei Ying huffs. “I’ll accept the love at least, but what did I do to deserve being smacked?”

“Be an idiot.” Wen Qing waves him off. “Hand me your old card for the phone.”

“Oh, right.”

Hopping up, Wei Ying scurries over to grab his card and pass it off to Wen Qing. She works quickly setting up his new phone, and he lets her. He trusts her more than he trusts himself to do it, so he grabs his iPad to get to work searching for the latest flowers from Lan Zhan to pass the time.

The main flower is big and yellow, so he starts with that and narrows it down to probably being a Yellow Carnation. He grins, jotting down the name, and then sets to work researching.

Yellow Carnations usually mean “scorn” or “dislike”, or sometimes even “cold feelings” despite the yellow color.

Huffing, he grabs some paper and draws a quick sketch and the meanings, then wanders over to add it to his Flower Murder Board with the freshly printed (and sketched) version of the flower.

“You’re really going to keep this up, huh?”

Pivoting to glance at Wen Qing over his shoulder, Wei Ying shrugs. “Sure, why not? It’s fun, and I learned a long time ago not everyone is going to like you, no matter what you do. Besides, maybe he’s like me and he doesn’t actually hate me, but it’s fun to have a rival. A way to just… goof off, I guess. He seems… rigid, but lonely.”

And I understand lonely.

Wen Qing hums quietly, setting aside his new phone as it updates. “Are you lonely, A-Ying?”

Turning his gaze away from her, Wei Ying stares at the Yellow Carnation, letting his finger trace over the petals slowly. He wonders if a flower can be lonely, even in a field of other fully bloomed flowers.

If a Yellow Carnation hates its own meaning the same way Wei Ying hates his.

“How can I be lonely when I have so many in my life that I love?”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s my answer, Qing-jie.” Wei Ying drops his hand and pivots around to grin at her. “So, what should I name my new phone? I’m thinking something classy—like Bartholomew Van Hitchcock.”

Wen Qing’s head thumps against the headrest. “I fucking hate you.”

Part 4: Radishes and Visitors

“Xian-gege!”

Wei Ying immediately drops the handle of his broom, barely registering the way it clatters against the ground. He whirls around, dropping to his knees and spreading his arms open with a wide, bright grin.

“Radish!”

A-Yuan’s little rabbit backpack bounces against his butt as he runs over, squealing happily, and collides into Wei Ying’s awaiting arms. The scent of his baby-lotion tangles with his favorite strawberry-kiwi shampoo, the soft strands tickling Wei Ying’s nose.

Something inside Wei Ying settles at the sensation of tiny arms wrapped tightly around his neck, chubby fingers clutching the soft material of his stretched collar of his favorite bomber jacket. The weight of the three-year-old clicks into place like a puzzle piece, and he smiles toothily against the wayward strands of his hair.

“Xian-gege! Xian-gege!” A-Yuan babbles, slightly breathless and too rushed, so it comes out slightly slurred. He pulls away from the hug just enough to peer up at Wei Ying’s face, “Came from school! Auntie pick me up!”

“Your aunt picked you up from school, huh?” Wei Ying gently takes off A-Yuan’s backpack straps, setting it on the nearby couch, and hoists him into his arms. “Did you travel far and wide just to surprise me at work?”

“Yeah!” A-Yuan reaches up to run his palm over the buzzed parts of Wei Ying’s undercut, giggling. “Bald.”

With a scandalized gasp, Wei Ying mimes taking a bite out of A-Yuan’s shoulder until he squeals and squirms. “I am not bald! This is slander to my luscious locks!”

“No! No eat! I’m not a radish!”

“But you’re my radish,” Wei Ying corrects with a haughty sniff, pressing a kiss to the tiny shoulder. He shifts his weight slightly. “But fine! I’ll spare you this time.”

The door jingles again, and Wen Qing steps into the parlor, still doused in her soft pink nurse scrubs and her long hair pulled into a ponytail. Her large purse half-hangs off her shoulder, exhaustion dotting soft bruises underneath her light makeup.

“Qing-jie, good afternoon.”

Wen Qing offers a small smile, tossing her purse onto the couch next to A-Yuan’s school bag. “Can you watch him for a second? I have to go to the bathroom and make a couple of calls related to my shift.”

“Yeah, of course. Go ahead.” Wei Ying waves his hand. “I also have some extra snacks in the back storage area.”

Relief shimmers behind her eyes. “Thanks. A-Yuan has some food in lunch-box—mind giving him a snack? Dinner won’t be until late when A-Ning gets off.”

Nodding, Wei Ying gently settles A-Yuan back on the ground, running his hand through his soft hair when the toddler promptly wraps himself tight around his leg. “Yeah, of course. Take your time, jie. I’m pretty much done here anyway, and then maybe we can walk home?”

“We’ll see—depends on A-Ning.” Wen Qing lightly pinches A-Yuan’s cheek, then gently flickers her nail against Wei Ying’s forehead. He groans and whines, earning another laugh from A-Yuan. She smiles, disappearing into the back with her phone pulled out.

Glancing down at A-Yuan, Wei Ying grins. “Wanna help me finish cleaning up? You’re such a great little helper.”

A-Yuan nods eagerly. “Okay! Then can I get a tattoo?”

Snorting, Wei Ying ruffles his hair. “How about a tattoo and a snack?”

“Yeah!”

Releasing Wei Ying’s leg, A-Yuan plops his butt onto the ground and carefully removes his shoes, little tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration.

Wei Ying’s heart squeezes with affection, picking up his broom and watching as A-Yuan toddles over to place his shoes by the door to be polite. He even stands there, hands on his hips like an ailing old man, to admire his work.

“Great job, Radish. Do you wanna help me sweep?”

“Yeah, I do!” With a determined nod, A-Yuan grabs the dustpan with his little hands and crouches on the ground, holding it in place.

Swallowing a giggle, Wei Ying gets to work sweeping. He listens attentively as A-Yuan tells him about his day at the nearby daycare—part of it babble and the other part random things about his friend he calls “A-Yi”. He talks about the pet rabbit of the classroom, named “Fluffbutt”, which nearly has Wei Ying howling with laughter.

Soon, the place is tidied to perfection, so A-Yuan helps him put away the cleaning supplies. He glances at the clock, noting that Wen Qing is still in the back on her calls.

“Alright—snack time! Grab your lunch-box.”

Obediently, A-Yuan grabs it off the couch and runs over, handing it to Wei Ying. He pulls out some unsweetened applesauce and a spoon, handing both over, and checking the rest of the contents.

“Oh, do you want your juice box?”

“No. I don’t like mango.” A-Yuan wrinkles his nose.

Wei Ying frowns down at the juice-box—it is mango-flavored, and one of the more expensive kinds with no added sugars or from concentrate. “Are you sure, Radish? I thought you liked these.”

Shaking his head, A-Yuan smacks his lips around his spoon. “No. Xian-gege likes them!”

Startled, Wei Ying nearly bursts the box when his grip tightens. “You… you pack these for me?”

“Mn! Missed Xian-gege, so I asked Auntie, and she said—she said I could come if I—if I am good at school and—and she gets off.” A-Yuan squints down at his applesauce, spooning more into his mouth. He’s now perched on the edge of the lobby desk, little legs kicking and revealing his cute bunny socks. “So, I was extra good! I got extra sticker! Now, I here!”

Shakily, Wei Ying sets down the box and leans over to press a kiss on A-Yuan’s chubby, pink cheek. “I love you, Radish.”

With sparkly eyes, A-Yuan grins and presses a sloppy, apple-saucy kiss to his own cheek. “I love Xian-gege too.”

Wei Ying chuckles, humming, and picks up the juice-box. “Then, is it okay if I drink this?”

“Drink! Drink!”

Nodding, Wei Ying sticks in the straw and happily drinks. He holds his hand against A-Yuan’s belly when he shifts slightly, reaching into the drawers to pull out his kid-friendly ink markers meant for skin.

“Alright, Radish—you definitely deserve a great tattoo! So, what can I do for you today?”

“Bunny! I want a bunny!”

“A bunny coming right up! Would a flower be okay too?”

“Mn! Pretty flower.”

With another smile, Wei Ying uncaps the first marker and gets to work. It doesn’t take too long to sketch out a cute bunny surrounded by a bunch of flowers—all taken from Lan Zhan’s bouquets—and then colors them in.

After fifteen minutes, he’s capping his last marker and letting A-Yuan lift his arm to look. “What do you think? You like your fresh ink?”

A-Yuan seriously takes his arm in with contemplative silence, then grins happily. “It’s perfect! I inked!”

“Good. Glad you like it. Down you go.” Wei Ying helps A-Yuan down, patting him on the rump until he giggles and scampers back into the lobby where his backpack rests.

Wei Ying watches him go with a smile, then hurriedly throws away the trash, wipes off the spoon, and zips up his lunchbox. He is just about to finish his own juice-box when the door jingles, signaling a walk-in.

“Hey, so sorry, but we’re actually about to fully close, but if you need to book—Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying jolts when he glances up, nearly dropping his juice-box when he takes in Lan Zhan’s tall stature and usual impassive expression.

Lan Zhan tilts his head. “Wei Ying.”

“I, er… I…”

Before Wei Ying can come up with something even slightly coherent, A-Yuan, who had been playing with his stuffed bunny, Mr. Nibbles, by his bag, abruptly latches onto Lan Zhan’s leg like the certified koala he is.

Stunned, Wei Ying blinks owlishly, mouth gaping, and words promptly dying on his tongue.

It appears to startle Lan Zhan as well, since he immediately stiffens and looks seconds away from jerking his leg away, but halts at the last second. He glances down, his amber-glass eyes widening a fraction upon taking in Cuteness Personified named A-Yuan.

“Ah, A-Yuan, you—!”

“Hi,” A-Yuan says primly, his little hands wrinkling Lan Zhan’s once perfectly ironed slacks.

“Hello.”

A-Yuan grins toothily, lifting his hand to showcase his arm. “I got inked.”

Lan Zhan’s brow furrows slightly, taking in the bunny with the flowers with the same concentration one would have taking an entrance exam into university, and fuck, that shouldn’t be so cute.

“You have a lovely tattoo.”

Giggling, A-Yuan smiles up at Lan Zhan and pats his leg. “You get inked too, and it will be pretty.”

Lan Zhan nods seriously. “Mn. Pretty as yours?”

Puckering his little lips, A-Yuan taps his chin in thought. “Well… maybe not as pretty as mine! But pretty.”

“Mn.”

Deciding to spare him the sight of Lan Zhan acting too adorable with A-Yuan (it was doing funny things to his heart—should it be beating this fast? He’ll have to ask Wen Qing later!) Wei Ying hurries from around the desk and scoops A-Yuan up.

The toddler squeals, but easily settles onto his hip and tiredly leans his head against Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“Ah… sorry about that! A-Yuan was a koala in a past life, I swear!”

Lan Zhan blinks slowly, his brows faintly knitting together, straightening his shoulders. “It is no trouble.” He pauses, gaze flickering from A-Yuan and back to Wei Ying. “Is he… I mean…”

Before Lan Zhan can finish his sentence, the back door swings open and closed, and Wen Qing rounds the corner. Her hair is down and swishing around her shoulders, a clip held between her teeth as she wrangles it back into a proper style.

“A-Ying, I gotta run back to the hospital for some procedure since the other nurse called out.” Wen Qing rolls her eyes openly, finishing off clipping her hair with a heavy sigh. “I’m going to leave A-Yuan with you, and—!”

She stops, mouth parting and eyes widening in surprise when she takes in another person in the room. “Oh. I apologize, I didn’t realize you had a customer? You said you were cleaning up!”

“Ah! Not a customer!” Wei Ying shakes his head adamantly. “This is, erm, Lan Zhan. From the Cloud Recesses Flower place.”

Wen Qing blinks, then a slow smirk crawls across her face. Her eyes snap back to Lan Zhan, phoenix-eyes sharpening like needles as she slowly takes him in. “Oh, I see. So, you’re the famous Lan Zhan.”

Shuffling his weight, Lan Zhan bows deeply at his waist. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Polite too.” Wen Qing smiles, amusement dancing in her gaze, and Wei Ying squirms, whining.

“Jiejie, please. Not right now!”

Rolling her eyes, Wen Qing reaches over to pinch his cheek. “You’re right—not right now. I need to head back to the hospital, so I expect you—both of you—to be on your best behavior.”

Groaning, Wei Ying nods, rubbing his offended cheek when she finally releases him. “We will, we will. Geez. Such a lack of faith.”

Huffing, Wen Qing doesn’t reply verbally. She ruffles his bangs, kisses A-Yuan’s cheek, and he blows her a kiss back, and she moves to gather her things. She pauses, her smirk growing wider, and Wei Ying frowns, following her line of gaze.

Lan Zhan has completely stiffened—he may as well resemble an actual jade statue from how painfully rigid he is, and his expression is downcast. His eyes look almost vacant, and he can’t quite look at anyone.

Huh?

Is something wrong? Did Wei Ying do something to offend him again? He can’t think of anything—wait, is he upset that a three-year-old is in a tattoo parlor? He is a stick-in-the-mud, so maybe he thinks he lets A-Yuan play with dangerous things or whatever!

As if he would ever let something happen to A-Yuan!

Except before he can correct anything, Wen Qing swings her bag over her shoulder and calls out, “Do me a favor, A-Ying, and call my wife that I’ll be late and you have A-Yuan, alright?”

Stunned, Wei Ying blinks at her dumbly. “Why are you… never mind, you’re weird, jiejie.”

Snorting, Wen Qing waves and leaves the shop.

By the time Wei Ying glances back at Lan Zhan, the strange expression on his face has vanished, and he seems a lot calmer.

What a fuddy-duddy.

A-Yuan, growing restless, squirms so Wei Ying sets him down. He watches somewhat helplessly as the toddler beelines immediately for Lan Zhan’s legs, latching on tightly and grinning up at him.

“A-Yuan, do me a favor and put your lunchbox back in your backpack for me.” Wei Ying holds it out, giving it a little shake, and with a pout, A-Yuan waddles over to obey the order. “Sorry about that—like I said, a koala in a past life!”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “It is no trouble.” He lowers his lashes, adjusting his weight slightly. “Is he… yours?”

Bemused, Wei Ying props his elbow onto the counter and rests his chin in his palm, grinning wickedly. “Yep! I birthed him myself, obviously.”

Inhaling sharply, Lan Zhan’s eyes widen and his gaze immediately shifts to Wei Ying’s hips, and Wei Ying swears he can see math equations flying around his head.

Bursting into laughter, Wei Ying shakes his head. “Oh my God. There is—Lan Zhan! You did not just—!”

“Wei Ying…”

Breathless and stomach hurting from laughing, Wei Ying straightens up, grinning toothily at Lan Zhan. “You’re fucking hilarious. Priceless, truly.” With a wave of his hand at Lan Zhan’s deadpanned glare, he continues, “Don’t get your slacks in a twist! No, he isn’t mine, but I’ve helped raise him since he was born. His parents died when he was just 3 months old, and is being raised by his aunt and uncle—my best friends. He’s kinda mine by proxy.”

“Oh.” Lan Zhan turns to watch A-Yuan set his freshly packed bag by his shoes near the door, his little brows furrowed in concentration and eyes sparkling like little gems. “You have helped raise him very well. He is a bright and happy child.”

Swallowing thickly, Wei Ying makes a punched-out little noise, lips twisting slightly, uncertain of what to say. “I… thank you, but I… I haven’t done all that much, but be a free babysitter, really, so…”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s amber-glass eyes blister, crackling like warmed-up honey, and it steals the rest of the protests straight from his mouth. “There is no fear in this child. He is not afraid, and he is not lonely. He is very bright. I see you in him.”

A lump forms in the back of Wei Ying’s throat, eyes prickling and threatening tears. It is no secret he adores A-Yuan like his own flesh and blood, and both of the Wen siblings have more than once proposed that Wei Ying take full custody of A-Yuan, only to be rebuffed by Wei Ying.

How could he take A-Yuan? He lives in a shabby studio apartment, and he owes too much money. He’s a mess and too loud, and he sometimes forgets to eat. Clearly, he is meant to be the awesome babysitter, not a father.

Yet he yearns for it anyway.

Clearing his throat, Wei Ying laughs—it’s a little too high and strained, and he prays Lan Zhan doesn’t notice. He pivots around and hastily grabs the pre-prepared drink and folded-up sketch. “Here. For you.”

Startled, Lan Zhan accepts the drink and sketch delicately—and wow. He has such long fingers, slim and graceful. Like a pianist. No, something more traditional would suit him. Guqin, maybe?

Yeah.

“A drink?” Lan Zhan asks in his low rumble.

Wei Ying nods, holding Bartholomew the phone up for Lan Zhan to see. “Consider it a small token of my thanks. I guess we’re co-parenting. Lan Zhan, please meet our son, Bartholomew Van Hitchcock.”

Setting down his sugary coffee, ice melted from sitting out all day, Lan Zhan bows deeply at Bartholomew. “It is an honor to meet you, Bartholomew Van Hitchcock, and welcome to the world. I hope I can co-parent well and give you a fulfilling life.”

There goes Wei Ying’s heart again—maybe he’s coming down with something? Maybe it’s the smell of flowers from Lan Zhan? Is he allergic to Lan Zhan’s flowers? Is he allergic to Lan Zhan?

No, that’s ridiculous. Who is allergic to people?

It must be that he’s tired.

Coughing into his hand, Wei Ying tucks Bartholomew back into his pocket and claps his hands. “Okay, well, since you’re here… watch A-Yuan for me while I finish cleaning up so we can go. I need to get him back soon.”

“Mn.”

Desperate to distract himself, Wei Ying plops back into his office chair to finish going through his emails. He half-heartedly listens as Lan Zhan takes his place near A-Yuan, his heart tumbling over itself in his chest.

“What’s your name?”

“I am Lan Zhan.”

“Zhan-ge?”

“Mn.”

“I’m A-Yuan! I’m this many.” A-Yuan proudly holds up three fingers, grinning. “Do you like bunnies too?”

Lan Zhan nods. “Mn. I quite enjoy rabbits as well. I own two rabbits.”

With a gasp, A-Yuan all by climbs into Lan Zhan’s lap, tiny hand fisting at Lan Zhan’s sweater. “You have bunnies? Can I see?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan shifts a little, carefully keeping his arm around A-Yuan’s waist to make sure he doesn’t slip off, and pulls out his phone. He taps at the screen, and then hands it to A-Yuan who grips it tightly. “The white one is Paper, and he is my older one. The smaller black one is Ink. They are a bonded pair.”

“Cause—cause bunnies are so-social.”

“Mn.”

Wei Ying listens as Lan Zhan quietly murmurs about all the facts known to man about rabbits, letting A-Yuan flip through his seemingly limitless amount of photos. A-Yuan listens with rapt attention, and even asks a couple of questions, which Lan Zhan easily replies to.

He finishes up quickly, gathering his satchel and checking his pockets for keys. He comes around the desk, not bothering to stifle a grin when he sees Lan Zhan holding A-Yuan as the toddler shows him his drawings from school.

“Alright, let’s pack up. We gotta go.”

Nodding, A-Yuan slides off and hurriedly rushes back to his backpack, returning his papers to the proper place.

“Do you need help, Radish?”

“No! I do it!”

Smiling, Wei Ying nods and turns to see Lan Zhan standing. “Thanks for watching him. You were great with him.”

“He is a good child.” Lan Zhan picks up his own bag, tucking away the sketch and holding his drink. “Thank you, Wei Ying.”

“Don’t mention it.” Wei Ying picks up A-Yuan, settling him on his hip, and checks that his shoes are on properly. “Ready to go?”

“Mn!”

“Lead the way, Lan Zhan!”

Once exiting the shop, Wei Ying goes through the process of locking up, adjusting A-Yuan, and then tucks his keys into his satchel. He pivots to face Lan Zhan with a small smile. “Well, goodnight. Um, you never mentioned why you were coming by, and I kinda just dumped you with babysitting—ah, sorry about that!”

“It was no trouble. It was quite a serendipitous meeting.” Lan Zhan gently pats A-Yuan’s head, amber-glass eyes warm as summer. “The reason is unimportant—it can wait.”

“Oh. Oh, sure.” Wei Ying smiles gratefully, his arm already straining. “Well, goodnight, then! Say ‘bye’, Radish.”

With a little wave, half hanging off Wei Ying’s shoulder, A-Yuan murmurs, “Bye, bye, Zhan-ge.”

“Goodnight, A-Yuan.”

Part 5: Splattered with Ink

It became a habit.

It was not supposed to become a habit.

Frankly, Wei Ying’s wallet protests extra heavily, because who knew sugary coffee cost damn near an arm and a leg? Not him, no sir, because he drinks his coffee black like his soul. Or lack of one.

Unclear, really.

It was never supposed to become a thing, okay?

But what else was he supposed to do when not only was Lan Zhan continuing to give him “Fuck You” flowers, but adding more sugary caffeinated monstrosities? New flowers now equal various too-sweet coffees, and listen. Wei Ying is a weak man, alright? He doesn’t like to be outdone by his own rival, so whatever weird display of aggression this is, he’ll play along.

No, he’ll do it better.

So, that is how he finds himself in Grinders every single morning, purchasing some poor excuse of an overly sweet coffee from a half-dead barista looking more amused by his antics than angry. He has no idea what Lan Zhan likes in coffee, but he seems to have a penchant for sweets (from all the drink choices he has given Wei Ying so far) so Wei Ying runs with that.

That sounds completely logical, right?

Anyway!

After purchasing the flavor of the day, Wei Ying takes it back to the tattoo shop, scribbles some sketch of whatever he feels like—sometimes something beautiful like a landscape or a flower. Other times, it’s something cartoon and half-hearted, like rabbits or deer. Sometimes, he draws random things like hands in various positions, or little A-Yuan smiling.

And everyday like clockwork, whenever Lan Zhan’s flower shop closes, he appears in the tattoo shop—coffee in hand, and sometimes with more “Fuck You” flowers that will absolutely go on his Flower Murder Wall.

“More coffee?”

Wei Ying ignores the overly chipper notes in Wen Qing’s voice, pointedly not glancing in her direction when she picks up the iced coffee and gives it a shake until the ice jingles. “I like coffee.”

“You like black coffee,” she corrects, the smugness in her tone deepening like the Mariana Trench. “Not whatever this is.”

“Something mocha with foam?” Wei Ying shrugs absently, setting a clean rag across his shoulders, returning his attention to gathering his cleaning products.

Humming, Wen Qing sets Lan Zhan’s coffee down and pulls at the folded sketchbook paper. Her expression undulates, delicately unfolding it and staring down at the mountainous landscape done completely in charcoal.

“Sketches? You’re giving him sketches now?”

There is a catch in her tone, a single note of incredulity, and he bristles faintly. He hastily tugs out his bottle of bleach, spraying down his tattoo chair and grabbing his rag to wipe it down. “Why are you saying it like that? It’s ‘fuck you’ sketches.”

“A-Ying.”

“I won’t be outdone in this rivalry!”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Wen Qing refolds the sketch and sets it down beside the coffee, jaw clamped and brows knit. “Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe he just, I don’t know, wants to get to know you? Is giving you flowers to just… give them to you? Maybe he likes you.”

The thought crossed his mind, briefly. Like a snowflake landing on an open palm—beautiful and unique, and melts within seconds. It didn’t take long for that thought to be squashed once he recalled how Lan Zhan and he first met, and the glares that followed before the “fuck you” flowers started.

“The flower language doesn’t lie,” he says quietly, continuing his scrubbing, but with a bit more vigor in the movements. “Lan Zhan is an extremely polite man. He isn’t the kind to outwardly express his displeasure, and he only purchased the new phone for me out of duty. It’s fine. He’s a good man, and maybe one day the coffees will turn into a friendship.”

“A-Ying…”

“It’s fine, Qing-jie. You didn’t like me at first either. It’s normal.”

At this, Wen Qing openly grimaces, inhaling sharply, and Wei Ying pretends not to notice. He chucks the rag into the laundry basket, beginning to pull out his sanitized wrap to place over the tray.

“I… that was different, and I…”

“You don’t need to explain to me, jie,” Wei Ying hastily interjects, shaking his head until his ponytail smacks him in the face. “It’s okay. I know. And it doesn’t matter now, right? We’re best friends.”

Wen Qing’s phoenix eyes glitter, a faint wet sheen in them, and she hums quietly. “Of course we are.”

“Then that’s all that matters.” Wei Ying peeks up through his bangs, offering a small smile that she mirrors. “You should get going, though. You got to pick up A-Yuan up from daycare, right?”

Checking her watch, Wen Qing sighs and nods. She wanders over to press a soft kiss to his cheek, and he pretends it doesn’t make his heart squeeze. She pats his shoulder, a little rough but caring, then pulls at his cheek until he laughs.

With a triumphant smile, she gathers her purse and waves over her shoulder, exiting the shop and stepping out into the half-frozen streets. The clouds have darkened in the late afternoon, the air crisp and sharp, threatening a deep freeze.

Concerned, Wei Ying checks his phone for any word from his customer—they are supposed to be a rather large back piece and, by the customer’s request, it had to be after school hours since they are a teacher.

It isn’t completely abnormal, and his weekends are booked out until spring with custom pieces.

It’s already two minutes past the time they were supposed to arrive, and the clouds are getting darker.

Weary, Wei Ying wanders over to his computer and checks the weather—they are under a winter storm warning, and he shivers unconsciously. Should he cancel? It’s a little late for that, and honestly, he could use the payment for this kind of piece.

The door jingles, and Wei Ying smiles.

“You made it!”

The man, Mo Xuanyu, smiles awkwardly and shifts his weight, breathing slightly labored and his hand tight around the strap of his backpack. “Hi, um… yes? I’m sorry that I’m late. The buses weren’t functioning well. The cold, I mean!”

Wei Ying waves it off, stretching out his back and spine with a small laugh. “Don’t worry about it. You’re fine! I’m just glad you made it okay. We will only be able to outline today because of the incoming winter storm—is that alright?”

“Oh, yeah.” Mo Xuanyu nods hastily, bobbing his head until his beanie practically slips off. “That’s—that’s okay, yeah.”

Clapping his hands together, Wei Ying points to the couch. “You can throw your stuff on that couch. Here. Come take a look at the design.”

Obediently, Mo Xuanyu slips off his beanie, thick winter coat, and backpack onto the couch, then nervously wanders over to peer at the raised part of the desk where Wei Ying had printed out the design in four different sizes.

“What do you think of the design?”

“Good—perfect.” Mo Xuanyu traces the tree with wide eyes, a small smile growing. “It’s better than I pictured.”

“Great!” Wei Ying goes through the official paperwork—ID check, signing the wavier, and the official rundown of tattoo care and process. Mo Xuanyu listens attentively, shifting his weight and expression vaguely serious.

After that, it doesn’t take long to start the actual tattoo. The entire time, Mo Xuanyu rambles about his students at the school, or about some new hobby he is trying since he felt he had none, and that made him boring.

It’s a rather fun session, and Wei Ying smiles and laughs too. The topic never goes too deep, and the entire time, he listens as the wind picks up outside and the sky darkens.

Eventually, he is forced to stop when he can hear the wind howling. He schedules Mo Xuanyu again in a couple of weeks, hurriedly sending him home right as the flurries of snow start coming down.

Anxiously, Wei Ying hurriedly rushes to the back and begins sanitizing the space. He moves as fast as he can, but still meets regulations. He’s so lost in the process that he doesn’t even register the door jingling to signal someone entered until he hears, “Wei Ying?”

Startled, Wei Ying nearly drops his bottle of bleach. He wrenches himself upright, rushing around the corner to peer out toward the lobby where Lan Zhan stands in his signature blue pea-coat, currently covered in snow, and expression grave.

“Lan Zhan?”

At the call of his name, Lan Zhan’s head snaps to Wei Ying, his amber-glass eyes widening a fraction. “Wei Ying.”

“What are you doing here?” Wei Ying asks in a rushed whoosh, flickering his gaze to the front windows where the snow is coming down in earnest. “Didn’t your shop close, like, two hours ago?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan steps closer, now centimeters from crossing the invisible line from the lobby to the back of the shop—a place he has never once attempted to cross before. “I had to stay to cover the flowers from the freeze.”

“Oh.”

Lan Zhan’s jaw clamps slightly, eyes sweeping over the visible parts of the back of the tattoo shop. “Wei Ying should not still be here.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Wei Ying waves him over. “If you’re going to be here, then yell at me while I clean, alright?”

“I should not go into the back—I am not a client nor an artist.” Yet Lan Zhan takes another small step forward, a slight shuffle, and it would be adorable if not for the sheer urgency rushing through Wei Ying’s veins like liquid nitrogen.

“As owner, I give you permission.” Wei Ying rolls his eyes minutely, pivoting on his heel to head back into the tattooing space. “Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy!”

After another heartbeat, Lan Zhan crosses over and trails behind Wei Ying into the space. His eyes dart over the room, taking in the vibrant art covering the walls, to the setup of a raised workbench perfectly organized with bottles of ink, plastic organizers filled with different needle types, and cleaning supplies.

“Just don’t touch anything,” Wei Ying warns, wiggling his finger in Lan Zhan’s direction. “Oh, the coffee is yours, though. You can touch that.”

“Mn.” Slowly, Lan Zhan reaches over to pick it up with the corresponding sketch, and Wei Ying dutifully pretends his face doesn’t burn as he sets back to work cleaning up.

“So, Lan Zhan—what brings you to my humble shop at such an hour?” he asks instead, picking up the used wrap with unused ink and tossing it into the nearby trash can. “Especially during an incoming storm?”

Lan Zhan tucks the folded sketch into the pocket of his peacoat. “Wei Ying’s lights were still on.”

Licking his lips, Wei Ying ignores the way his heart flips over itself. “Oh? So, like a noble gentleman, you decided to check on me?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan lowers his lashes. “Forgive my impertinence.”

The uneasy tension in Wei Ying’s shoulders loosen, and he smiles secretly as he sprays down his tray with bleach. He twirls the half-empty bottle around his finger with a hum.

“I’ll forgive you, Lan Zhan.” He tilts his head with an impish grin. “Well, since you’re here, care to help me clean up so we can both get out of here? Then I won’t be in your hair anymore, and you don’t have to worry about me missing regulations.”

After a contemplative moment, Lan Zhan nods and reaches for the rag.

Wei Ying blinks, instinctively pulling back the rag. “Wait, really?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan moves to grab the rag again, but Wei Ying takes a quick step back and hides the rag behind his back. “Wei Ying?”

“You’re going to help me clean?” Wei Ying gestures at Lan Zhan’s attire with raised brows.

“Mn.”

Wei Ying clutches tighter at the rag and bottle, scandalized. “But you can’t! That’s, like, gotta be against your rules or something. Your nice clothes and your coat—you could get ink on them.”

Slowly, Lan Zhan glances down at his soft coat and blue clothes as if just noticing them. “It is of no importance. I am capable of cleaning.”

“Ah, Lan Zhan…” Wei Ying scratches absently at his hot cheek. “I was just joking, you know? You shouldn’t take anything I say seriously.”

Pointedly, Lan Zhan shrugs off his peacoat, revealing his cream sweater hugging his broad shoulders and framing his handsome features. He folds the peacoat over his arm, briefly disappearing to the front and returning without his peacoat and with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Mouth gaping, Wei Ying attempts to hold the bottle and rag out of reach—there is something intrinsically wrong about witnessing Lan Zhan doing manual labor in a tattoo shop—but with a disturbing amount of ease, Lan Zhan reaches around him and plucks them both from his hands.

“Hey! That’s cheating!”

“Wei Ying,” he rumbles in that low, honeyed voice. Wei Ying’s toes curl in his boots, staring openly at Lan Zhan. “It is no trouble.”

“But, Lan Zhan—!”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan shakes his head, gesturing to the needle machine. “I will wipe everything down. You handle the rest.”

It’s no secret that Lan Zhan is an attractive man—a fucking blind man could probably realize that, thank you very much—but seeing him kneeling on the black-scuffed floor in his pristine slacks and expensive sweater with the muscles in his arms rippling, back muscles shifting with his movement, leaves Wei Ying’s mouth dry.

Off-Limits Buffet, he reminds himself, ripping his eyes away from Lan Zhan to return to the task at hand. He can’t just creepily stare at his shop neighbor like a freak who can’t keep it together.

Granted, I am a freak that can’t keep it together, but he doesn’t need to realize that more than he already does.

They work quickly and efficiently, no words exchanged, as if they have done this hundreds of times together and not just this one time on an absolute whim. It leaves Wei Ying slightly breathless, electricity running underneath his skin.

“Okay, go wait by the door. I just need to grab my bag and coat.”

Lan Zhan nods, slipping by Wei Ying and wow—he had forgotten how amazing Lan Zhan smells. Soft sweetness of flowers, tinged ever so faintly with fertilizer, and overlapped with sandalwood incense. It’s heavy and weighty on Wei Ying’s tongue.

Tongue-tied, all Wei Ying can manage is a nod, scampering over to the front desk where he keeps his satchel hanging. He hastily goes through his checklist, muttering it under his breath while yanking on his threadbare coat.

“Wei Ying.”

“Hold on, hold on! Keys—need the keys. Where did I put my keys?” He gropes himself, starting from his chest as if grasping breasts, then shifts to his hips and pats his ass. “No keys.”

“Wei Ying.”

“Keys!” Wei Ying snags the keys half-hidden under some sketch paper on his desk and holds them up triumphantly. “I got them!”

Lan Zhan stands in front of the front desk, expression grave and his coat still folded over his arm. “Wei Ying.”

“What are you doing still standing here without your coat on? Sheesh, you’re worse than A-Yuan and shoes!” With a small eye roll, Wei Ying comes around the desk, glancing up at Lan Zhan’s face wearily. “You aren’t going out without your coat, Lan Zhan.”

With a shake of his head, Lan Zhan gestures to the front of the shop. “Wei Ying, it is unsafe. The snow…”

Heart in his throat, Wei Ying’s gaze snaps over to the window and grimaces. Already the snow has piled high outside, half-blocking the door. His stomach plummets to his shoes. There is no way he can drive a motorcycle in that, and he doubts Lan Zhan can drive a car in it either—the visibility is too poor.

“Oh, shit.”

Lan Zhan nods once. “Mn.”

Groaning, Wei Ying plops the keys back onto his desk. “Well… looks like we’re snowed in.” He flinches, lowering his lashes. “I’m so sorry, Lan Zhan.”

“It is not your fault.”

It kind of is, Wei Ying thinks helplessly, but decides not to bother attempting to argue. He hangs his satchel back up, texting Wen Qing that he’s stuck at his shop—purposefully neglecting to mention his company—then tucks Bartholomew into his pocket.

Wei Ying taps his foot against the ground, twirling a loose strand of his hair around his finger. He keeps his gaze away from Lan Zhan, but offers a small smile.

“Well, you might as well make yourself comfortable. We should probably hang out in the second back room—no windows, and I got a heater in there I can plug in.” He points to the second door in the back. “I’ll get us some food and drinks, alright?”

“Mn.” Quietly, Lan Zhan heads into the second room, the bigger tattoo room, and it takes far too much effort for Wei Ying to drag his eyes away from Lan Zhan’s figure.

Damn, he even looks good walking away.

Slapping his cheeks twice to bring himself back to reality, Wei Ying takes a moment to just stand in his lobby, peering helplessly out at the white-covered streets. He curls his fingers into his palm, skin prickling and the tips of his fingers sympathetically throbbing at the memory of the beginnings of frostbite.

“Okay, yeah. Enough of that.” Wei Ying shakes out his hands, propelling himself to his storage closet where he keeps various items for emergencies. Blankets, nonperishables, various bagged snacks, and bottles of water.

The pit in Wei Ying’s belly loosens at the sight of it, exhaling in a loud whoosh. He pulls it down, grunting with effort, and hauls it in, setting it down on the floor and kicking the door shut behind him.

“Alright, we’ve got two Thermo blankets, and a bunch of nonperishable food and bottles of water. We’ll be okay.” Wei Ying glances up, brushing aside his bangs with a smile at seeing his mini heater already plugged in and on high. “Oh, great! You found it! Thanks.”

With a quiet hum, Lan Zhan’s brow furrows at the emergency box, mindlessly pulling out one blanket and settling it into his lap. “Wei Ying has an emergency box?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” To busy his hands, Wei Ying tugs the second blanket free, rubbing the fabric between two fingers, then hoists the blanket around his shoulders with a shiver. “It’s just an old habit of mine. I keep these things all over the place.”

“These things?” Lan Zhan repeats quietly. “Emergency boxes?”

“Yep.” Wei Ying shrugs, shifting deeper into the blanket. “My apartment has one, my tattoo shop, even Qing-jie’s apartment, and my sister’s too. I know it probably annoys them, but they are kind enough to just let me do it.”

Lan Zhan takes one of the bottles of water, holding it carefully in his hand. “Annoy them?”

Shrugging, Wei Ying keeps his eyes pointedly on the box, picking out a packet of peanuts and fiddling with the plastic wrapping. Lan Zhan’s curious eyes prickle at his side, and he resists the urge to squirm, clearing his throat.

“Ah, well, I guess you deserve some kind of lore drop,” Wei Ying says with a light laugh, and Lan Zhan opens his mouth, but he hurriedly plows on. “Now, now! Don’t worry your pretty head about it. I know this whole ‘emergency box’ thing is slightly obsessive, and we’re stuck in here all night anyway! Might as well drop my tragic back story, hm?”

“I did not mean to pry.”

Waving the packet of peanuts around wildly, Wei Ying puffs out his cheeks tiredly. “I know it’s weird. Keeping this kind of stuff. Hoarding food. I know what it looks like—don’t worry about it! Anyway, okay. Tragic back story lore drop.”

With an impish smile, he props his back against the wall and crosses his legs. “You see, Lan Zhan, I was not always this perfectly respectable, completely put-together man you see today!”

At the words, Lan Zhan’s brow ticks faintly, amber-glass eyes noticeably flitting over his rogue-like attire and vaguely unkempt appearance, drawing a laugh from Wei Ying.

“Oh, that’s just evil, Lan Zhan! Is that your silent way of saying I’m not perfectly respectable and put-together?”

“I did not say such a thing,” he states primly, uncapping his water and sipping at it.

Giggling, Wei Ying hums. “Of course not. You’re far too polite.” Lowering his lashes, the smile droops faintly. “You see, my parents died when I was five-years-old. I don’t really remember much. It happened at night. I won’t bore you with the details, but well, my parents were travelers, you see. Moved from place to place, living off people and the land. I was never hungry or anything, and we traveled all over the world!”

Wei Ying lets his head thump against the wall behind him, staring up at the dimly lit ceiling and rubbing the soft fabric of the blanket between his fingers. Distantly, he can recall the sound of his mother’s voice or the brush of his father’s calloused hand—but nothing more.

“One night, someone broke into our camp. My mother managed to get away from the attacker, bloody, but she grabbed me and hid me in a tree trunk, buried me in leaves. Told me to stay there.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Wei Ying exhales slowly through his mouth to push away the nausea curdling in his belly when he remembers the iron scent of blood and the sound of his mother’s frantic voice telling him to stay—to hide.

Unconsciously, his fingers reach up to trace the tattoo over his heart. His mother’s bloody fingerprint. It was found later at the crime scene and kept by the police. When he got older, it was the first tattoo he ever got on his body when the police gave him a copy of it.

Clearing his throat, he continues, “The thing is, I hid a little too well. I stayed there for three days and two nights. The police came and went, and because my parents were wanderers with no home, and my mother had given birth to me on the streets, I wasn’t in records.”

Lan Zhan inhales sharply, eyes widening. “They did not know you were there.”

Nodding, Wei Ying chuckles dryly. “Yeah. They didn’t know. They saw some of my toys and clothes, and I guess assumed I was kidnapped or something. Either way, I was left on the streets. I ran from most adults after that. Took food from people or dug in their trash cans. I lived like that for a while until I messed up. I got caught. Hurt my leg, couldn’t get away. Authorities took me in and shipped me off to a Chinese orphanage because I spoke Chinese. Apparently, my parents took us to South Korea, and I did not know.”

Licking his dry lips, Wei Ying fiddles with the bag of nuts until the wrapper crinkles loudly in the otherwise silent space. He can feel Lan Zhan watching him; those deep eyes mournful and yet, he doesn’t sense any pity.

It gives him the courage to continue.

“Ah, I’ll spare you the nitty-gritty details,” he murmurs vaguely, waving his hand in front of his face, “but I eventually was adopted. It wasn’t perfect, but I got two siblings out of it, and I never knew genuine hunger again. My siblings are the best, and they help me a lot. I got some therapy, and they let me do silly things like pack ‘emergency boxes’, which isn’t for actual emergencies as much as it’s sating the itch in me that feels I have to store things in case I am back on the streets or something.”

“Wei Ying is very smart,” Lan Zhan says after a heartbeat. “You did very well for yourself.”

Throat thickening, Wei Ying brushes it off with a small laugh. “It’s silly. You don’t have to flatter me, but… I am glad it’s come in handy now! So, A+ for adulting for me, hm?”

“Mn. A+ for Wei Ying.”

Giggling, Wei Ying smiles down at his bag of nuts and pops it open. “Well, that’s all you’ll get out of me for my tragic back story lore drop. See? Not only am I a pretty face, but I’m also a natural disaster! Lucky you.”

Lan Zhan’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Mn. Lucky me.”

Inhaling sharply, Wei Ying blinks, staring wide-eyed at Lan Zhan, then hurriedly looks away. “Ah, anyway… so, do you have any siblings?”

Sensing the need to change the subject, Lan Zhan politely averts his gaze and also grabs a bag of mixed nuts. “Mn. A brother. Older.”

“Oh?” Wei Ying leans forward, propping his chin on his palm. “So you’re a Lan-er-gege, then?”

A bloom of red forms on Lan Zhan’s earlobes, and Wei Ying nearly vibrates with delight. No way is Lan Zhan blushing right now! And with his ears. Is his face just that thick that only a blush will appear on his ears?

Fuck, that’s adorable.

“Mn.”

“Aw, Lan Zhan! You’re a didi. That’s so adorable!” Wei Ying scoots closer, nudging Lan Zhan’s knee with his foot. “What’s your brother like? Don’t keep me hanging! I want some juicy Lan Zhan lore!”

Lan Zhan shifts his weight, but doesn’t move away from Wei Ying. “My brother is older than me by four years. He is… not like me. He is… better. With people. Friendlier, and my family’s pride.”

“What do you mean? You’re plenty friendly!” Wei Ying nudges a bit more incessantly at Lan Zhan’s foot, leaning forward with a bright smile. “I get what you mean, though. About the family thing.”

“Mn. But I am close with my brother. We share a meal together twice a week. He purchases flowers from my shop once a week.” Lan Zhan smiles slightly, and Wei Ying’s pretty sure his entire heart stops beating, because no.

Who gave this man the right to be so fucking pretty?

“Your brother sounds pretty great! I’m glad you have him.”

“Me too.” Lan Zhan lifts his head, casually meeting Wei Ying’s gaze. “May I ask another personal question?”

“Of course!” Wei Ying throws back his head, dunking nuts into his mouth and chewing mindlessly. “We’re stuck in a tattoo parlor together, and I gave you my tragic backstory lore. Ask away.”

Lan Zhan chews some of the mixed nuts, lowering his lashes. “Why a tattoo shop?”

Swallowing, Wei Ying crumbles up the bag and tosses it into the trash behind him. “Hm? You mean, why did I decide to become a tattoo artist?”

“Mn.”

“You know, out of all the questions you could have asked, that isn’t one I had considered.” Wei Ying drops the blanket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the dozens of tattoos snaked around his hands, wrists, arms, and curling around shoulders. He smiles down at them, letting his chipped black nails trace the ink. “There are three reasons, actually.”

Lan Zhan’s brow knits, scooting closer to peer down at his tattooed hands and reaching as if to touch them, but stops himself at the last second.

“You can touch, Lan Zhan. I won’t break.”

With the permission granted, Lan Zhan reaches over and takes Wei Ying’s hand in his. A shiver races down Wei Ying’s spine, heart beginning to thunder within his ribcage at the soft warmth of Lan Zhan’s skin on his own—unblemished and elegant. His hands are long and big, immediately swallowing Wei Ying’s own, and something about that makes his toes curl in his boots.

“The first reason?”

“I… I like the way it feels.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Wei Ying laughs slightly. “Oh, well… sure? Depends on the placement and person, I guess, but that is what I like. I like the pain it brings. Like a bruise, but instead of an ugly marking, I get to choose what is left behind. I’m picking my pain, and the beauty I get out of it.”

With featherlight fingertips, Lan Zhan traces the outline of a lotus flower blooming along the back of Wei Ying’s hand. “And the second reason?”

A flicker of a blurry memory echoes in the back of Wei Ying’s mind, and he wedges his bottom lip between his teeth, “I… I like to remember things.” He drops his eyes to ink on his arm. “I don’t… I don’t remember my parents. Nothing substantial. Not their face or how they said my name. I forgot them, and… I didn’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget people I love. Things that are important to me.”

The elegant fingers tracing the lines along his wrist stall in place, and Lan Zhan’s eyes widen visibly. “The tattoos you get…?”

“Are all people I love, or memories I don’t want to forget. I can’t forget if they are embedded into me—a part of me.” Wei Ying taps the lotus flower. “This represents my sister, and the little growling tiger cub next to it is my brother.”

Gently, Lan Zhan traces up his arm, pointing to the dragon, and Wei Ying giggles. “My parents depicted as a guardian dragon, for good luck.”

Lan Zhan moves further up, quietly pointing to the small white rabbit lingering near his inner elbow. “Is this A-Yuan?”

“You guessed it!” Wei Ying lightly strokes the back of the little white rabbit, chuckling. “I let him pick it out and help me design it, then I tattooed it myself. Once he is slightly older, I want him to write out his name, and I’ll tattoo that too. Right underneath the rabbit.”

“It suits him and you.” Slowly, Lan Zhan leans back and removes his hand from Wei Ying’s wrist. “And the third reason?”

Tensing, Wei Ying hesitates and sighs heavily. “Scars.”

“Scars?” Lan Zhan repeats quietly.

“I tattoo over my scars. Turn my pain into something beautiful. I make the scars what I want people to see, and not something to be pitied.” Wei Ying pulls down the collar of his sweatshirt, revealing a sun tattoo along his collarbone. It’s bumpy and uneven, the ink splattered to look like suns’ flames. “I make them what I need them to be.”

Wonder briefly flutters over Lan Zhan’s features, widening his eyes and softening his otherwise normally impassive features.

Wei Ying finds himself unable to look away, mouth parted and staring openly because to look at Lan Zhan now feels like seeing a crack in the jade. Not just the icy beauty, distant as winter that he always seems to be, but something more. Something deeper.

Beautiful.

His amber-glass eyes trace every inch of Wei Ying’s inked skin, as if seeing more than just the ink. As if seeing all the memories, all the little things Wei Ying doesn’t want to forget. As if seeing Wei Ying.

Shivering, Wei Ying reaches out to touch Lan Zhan’s bare arm—untouched by scarring or ink—and wonders what memories would look like inked into the perfect jade skin. “If you could get a tattoo, what would it be?”

Shockingly, Lan Zhan doesn’t recoil at the thought, but tilts his head in consideration. “Gentian flowers.”

There is a shaky tone to his voice, and it’s one that Wei Ying knows well. It’s the tone of loss and grief, buried and thick, but ever present. It’s the voice of a memory.

Wei Ying’s hands itch, eyes drawn to the empty space—the blank canvas of skin—and swallows thickly. “I won’t—I won’t tattoo you. Not for real! Not permanent, but I can… I can draw it. Like I did with A-Yuan. It’ll last for a week.” He taps his nail against Lan Zhan’s forearm. “Do you want me to draw them?”

Lan Zhan hesitates, his hand flexing until the muscles undulate beneath Wei Ying’s nail. He nods once. “Please.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah. Let me—let me go get my markers, alright?”

Jumping to his feet, Wei Ying rushes to the front, yanking open the drawer blindly. He grabs the bag of his skin-safe tattoo markers, then sprints back. He hurriedly gestures for Lan Zhan to take the chair, tapping absently at Bartholomew’s screen to pull up a picture of a gentian flower.

It’s a simple flower, but the color of it alone makes it pop.

He gathers all the correct colors he’ll need, kicking the stool so it rolls over in front of where Lan Zhan sits, holding out his arms as if he is really about to have a needle injected into his skin.

Chuckling, Wei Ying settles on his favorite stool. “Nervous, gege?”

Lan Zhan gives him a deadpan glare, flexing his hand until the muscles of his forearms stretch taut and pretty underneath his jade-like skin. “I have never… it is against my family’s regulations to blemish the skin. I have… never gotten a tattoo before.” A pause, and then, “My uncle will be quite cross with me.”

“Your uncle, huh?” Wei Ying delicately takes Lan Zhan’s wrist in his hand, guiding it into the proper position. His hand quivers beneath his touch, fingers curling into a fist, and he smiles. “Relax. It’s just markers—I’d never dream of marking your beautiful skin with a needle. Unless, of course, you ask nicely, gege.”

Inhaling sharply, Lan Zhan cuts him a quick look. “Would you tattoo me if I asked?”

Wei Ying laughs, rubbing his fingers along the soft skin of his wrist rhythmically, and wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “Why, Lan Zhan, is that a hint of rebellion I smell? You want to tarnish such pure skin? Let me mark you?”

Something in Lan Zhan’s eyes darkens a fraction; his body still and rigid, and he nods stiffly. “If it is Wei Ying.”

Fingers tightening around Lan Zhan’s wrist, Wei Ying’s cheeks dust a light pink, floundering. He struggles to meet Lan Zhan’s blistering gaze, his blood thrumming and prickling underneath the attention. He forces a laugh. “I must be a terrible influence, Lan-er-gege.”

“Not terrible.”

Humming, Wei Ying says nothing. He uncaps his marker and gets to work on drawing the best fucking gentian flowers he has ever drawn. He lets the world fall away; the only thing that matters is his pen on Lan Zhan’s skin. He moves methodically, adding color and shading, the bouquet of gentian flowers blooming along Lan Zhan’s entire forearm.

When he finishes, he sits back and cracks his aching back from his shrimp position. “Done. What do you think, Lan-er-gege?”

Quietly, Lan Zhan lifts his arm and stares down at the bloom of gentians with wide eyes. He exhales shakily, fingers reaching up to touch one of the petals. “Beautiful.”

Wei Ying smiles warmly, holding up the blue marker with a little wiggle. “Whenever you want, I can add them back. You don’t need a needle if you want them.”

Dropping his arm, Lan Zhan looks over at him, amber-glass blistering. “Thank you, Wei Ying.”

Shaking his head, Wei Ying stands and puts away his markers. “You should be able to carry whatever memories you want. The flowers—they are beautiful. Do they… do they have a meaning?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan traces the petals once more, his eyes far away. “Generally, it means strength, endurance and victory, but in Chinese, it means… loving through sorrow. Lóngdǎn.”

“That’s… that’s beautiful,” Wei Ying murmurs quietly, heart squeezing in his chest. He clears his throat, tossing his bag of markers on the nearest table. “We should—we should try to get some sleep, yeah?”

“Mn.”

With a shy smile, Wei Ying cuts the lights and picks up his blanket. He mindlessly settles against the wall. He wraps the blanket around himself, peeking through the cracks of his eyelids as Lan Zhan mimics the action across from him.

“Goodnight, Lan Zhan.”

“Goodnight, Wei Ying.”

Part 6: Woodland Elf

“I fucked up.”

Wen Qing sighs heavily, already pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Oh, this should be good—and so early too. Pray tell, A-Ying, how did you fuck up this time?”

Groaning, Wei Ying grabs Wen Qing’s arm, ignoring her shout of protest, and yanks her into his apartment. She stumbles through the entryway, arms pinwheeling, and scarcely manages to catch herself on the wall before she becomes a little too intimate with the floor.

Probably a good thing, too, because he doesn’t bother sweeping or vacuuming here. He does that at the Burial Mounds, so why would bother doing it here?

“Wei Wuxian!”

“I don’t use that name anymore!” he says mindlessly, rolling his eyes faintly and slamming his front door shut behind him. “Remember? Courtesy name is a goner.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Wen Qing ticks a brow. “You better have a damn good reason for bringing me over here before 9 a.m. on my one day off, especially considering that stunt you pulled during the winter storm.”

Laughing wearily, Wei Ying waves his hand. “That was so last week!”

“It was four days ago.”

“Same thing.” Wei Ying grabs Wen Qing’s wrist, tugging her toward his couch. She groans loudly, digging the heels of her boots in, but ultimately allows herself to be manhandled onto the couch.

“A-Ying, I don’t have time for this. I have a shift at the hospital in an hour, and isn’t today, like, your big booking?”

Waving his hand wildly in front of his face, Wei Ying scrambles over to plop onto the nearby chair and pulls his knees up to his chest. “I have some time; it’s fine—it’s a regular customer, anyway. Jie, I fucked up.”

There must be something showing on his face or hidden in his tone, but the annoyance knitting Wen Qing’s brow fades minutely. Her phoenix eyes flit over his features, the tension loosening from her shoulder-blades.

“A-Ying, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

Pressing his lips together, Wei Ying squirms slightly in his seat, drumming his black nail polished chipped nails against his knee. He finds he can’t look at her, so he lets his eyes drift over to his Flower Murder Wall.

Quietly, she follows his gaze, eyes widening a fraction when she takes in the multiple recent additions, translations, and dozens of fresh sketches of flowers. Yet her gaze keeps latching onto a massive painting of gentian flowers he had painted directly onto the wall—dozens of gentians swaying in the breeze with a hand reaching to cup one of the petals.

A very familiar hand.

Above the mural of the gentian flowers, Wei Ying wrote in his nicest calligraphy, “To Love through Sorrow”.

The hand shouldn’t be recognizable. It should be just a random man’s hand, but Wei Ying knew the second he started painting it whose hand it belonged to. He knows because he had seen it. Had felt the calloused fingertips press against his inked skin.

And apparently, Wen Qing knows too. Her eyes blow wide, her mouth parting slightly, but she didn’t look away from the mural. “Oh, A-Ying…”

Groaning, Wei Ying covers his face with his hands and tugs at his hair. “I fucked up. I really fucked up. I wasn’t—I wasn’t supposed to like…”

Finally, Wen Qing pulls away from the mural to level him with a weary look. “You weren’t supposed to what?”

Finally, Wen Qing pulls away from the mural to level him with a weary look. “You weren’t supposed to what?”

Peeking through the cracks in his fingers, Wei Ying scowls at her. “Don’t make me say it, jie. Fuck, this is so—this is so messed up, okay?”

Wen Qing’s brow twitches. “Why do you think this is so messed up?”

“The Fuck You Flowers!” Wei Ying leaps to his feet, scrambling over to his Flower Murder Wall and smacking the papers loudly with his palm. “See? He gave me these flowers yesterday—do you know what they are?”

“I bet I know more than you, but please. Enlighten me.”

“Tansies! And do you know what tansies mean?” Wei Ying plows on breathlessly, pointing at the picture of the yellow blooms and waving his hand wildly. “It means ‘I declare war on you’! Don’t you see? Lan Zhan still hates me. I thought maybe if I told him my Tragic Origin Lore, maybe he’d… I don’t know…”

At this, Wen Qing straightens her spine, and her phoenix eyes flare to life. “Wait, back up. You did what now?”

Wincing, Wei Ying averts his gaze. “I—I, uh, during the winter storm. He saw… well, my box, and so… I told him. A little. Not all! Not all of it, just… some of it.”

Wen Qing stares at him owlishly, then whistles. “Shit, you’re in deeper than I thought. Not even know all that much about your past. I only know about your split with the Jiangs, but not how you ended up with them, aside from the fact that you were homeless once.”

Shifting his weight, Wei Ying turns away from her, “Jie….”

“Look, A-Ying, have you ever considered just… talking to him?” Wen Qing pushes herself up from the couch, rounding the coffee table to lean her head into Wei Ying’s line of vision. She gestures to his Flower Murder Board. “I mean, maybe flower language isn’t what you’re making it out to be.”

“It is!” Wei Ying points harder at his wall, frustration welling up inside him. “But he’s so confusing. He gives me things, but also hates me. He… he’s so good, jie. He’s so kind, and I want—I want to be his friend. Maybe… maybe I have to try harder.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Wen Qing glances over at the Flower Murder Wall, then drifts past it to the gentian flower mural. “God, okay. You know I love you, right?”

“You do?”

Wen Qing glares at him. “Don’t make me hit you.” She sniffs haughtily, “Anyway, perhaps you just need to maybe start gifting him more things? Spend more time with him? It’s clear you already love him—!”

“Do not say the ‘L’ word!” Wei Ying screeches, smacking her arm. “I… am… interested in him. That’s all. He’s—he’s just so great, okay?”

“I will let you smacking me pass because you’re an idiot in denial,” Wen Qing grumbles petulantly, but pinches his cheek until he whines. “You get this single time, and also because I have to go get A-Yuan ready for daycare, and you need to go to work.”

“But, jie—!”

“No. Have your crisis later.” Wen Qing releases him, tugging sweetly at his hair, and then wanders for the door. “A-Ying, just… talk to him, alright? Maybe get him gifts or something in return. Don’t be stupid.”

Rubbing his abused cheek, Wei Ying pouts at her, lower lip poked out and quivering. “But…”

“Goodbye, A-Ying.” With one last pointed look, she slips out of his apartment.

Heaving a sigh, Wei Ying flops onto his chair and stares up at his Flower Murder Board, resting his chin on his knees pulled up to his chest. He stares absently at the gentian flower mural, fingers twitching when he remembers the feel of soft skin beneath his fingertips.

“I just gotta get him to like me. That’s all. I can do that, right? Surely.” Wei Ying pinches his bottom lip between his fingers, tugging at the dried skin. “More coffee? Maybe I can… offer something. Ugh. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it later.”

Pulling himself up from the couch, he rushes through his morning routine. He showers, washes his face with his two-step skincare routine, brushes his teeth, and dresses. He goes for something warmer—some simple, thicker black pants and an oversized red hoodie. He laces up his boots, checks Bartholomew, and hurries down to Gertrude, his motorcycle.

He pats her handlebar as he loads up, greeting her cheerfully as he sets off for Burial Mounds Tattoos. He parks Gertrude, removing his helmet and fixing his hair. He briefly glances over at the Cloud Recesses Flowers, blinking in slight surprise to see the door open, even with the shop sign saying closed.

If he squints, he swears he can see a shadow moving about the shop, so it seems Lan Zhan is there. He glances at the time—he still has a little over an hour before his client shows up, so he grabs his satchel and heads directly for Grinders.

It looks like the gift-giving is starting early! Starting off with more coffee, something they’ve already been doing, seems safe, right? Not too obvious? Start small. Nothing too big.

With a quick nod, Wei Ying squashes down the butterflies in his stomach and hurries over to Grinders, ignoring the smirk the now-familiar barista sends his way as he orders the obscene coffee and pays. He passes over a generous tip, shaking his head, and all but skips out the door.

The chill of winter seeps into his hoodie, and he shivers, clutching the iced coffee tighter, fingertips long gone numb. The winter storm has left an unforgiving frigidness in the air that stings his lungs, but he likes it.

With a small smile, he exhales, watching as a plume of misty white forms in front of him as if he were a fire-breathing dragon.

A sound to his right drags his attention from the plumes of his own breath, his breath hitching in his chest. The small hairs on his arms and neck prickle, a full-body shiver racing down his spine. He wrenches to a stop, breath quickening as his head snaps to the side.

A whimper leaves his mouth unconsciously, his entire body going stiff at the sight of a large dog with thick black fur and huge paws. He takes a hasty step back, a tremor going through his hand when the dog lifts its head to stare at him, black nose wiggling.

Heart in his throat, Wei Ying flicks his eyes briefly around, mouth working but no sound coming out. There has to be someone else around, right? The dog doesn’t have a leash—no collar, and definitely no owner around.

Fuck.

Another whimper leaves his mouth, numbness spreading throughout his limbs, and his hands slick with a cold sweat. His mouth feels too dry as he takes another shaky step back, heart thundering and the sounds of traffic drowned out.

The dog takes a step toward him, and without even thinking about it, he throws the iced coffee straight at the dog’s head. The thing yelps, jerking backwards when the plastic cup pops open, spilling the icy drink everywhere.

Immediately, the dog barks, and Wei Ying’s trembling legs instantly break out into a sprint. He screams, scrambling and slipping on some ice, but he catches himself. He runs blindly, legs burning and lungs spasming. He can barely hear the dog barking and following him over his thundering heartbeat.

Every inch of him bristles with terror, stomach cramping and churning, desperately sprinting past Gertrude and locking onto an open door of a flower shop. The dog nips at the hem of his hoodie, and he screams louder, nearly tripping. He can hear his mouth saying something, but the words don’t register.

The open door sings like a beacon, and he all but throws himself inside. He doesn’t even register the explosion of green and vibrant colors. He scrambles through the narrow aisles, venturing further in, eyes latching onto a familiar figure kneeling beside a vast array of flower pots.

“Lan Zhan!”

Lan Zhan’s head snaps up, shifting to stand in a single graceful move. His long hair, usually pulled into an intricate braid interwoven with a traditional silk ribbon, is currently down, swishing around his shoulders and highlighting his features.

His sharp brows dip low, then his eyes widen. “Wei Ying?”

With another scream, Wei Ying launches himself at Lan Zhan, The larger man catches him easily, his hands grabbing onto his waist to steady him, but Wei Ying clutches tighter, fingers digging into the materials of his shirt and attempting to clamber further up and out of the dog’s range.

Gasping, Lan Zhan flounders, stumbling backwards at the sudden weight of Wei Ying. “Wei Ying!”

The dog barks, and Wei Ying squeezes his eyes shut, a dry sob wrenching from his mouth, and oh. His face is damp and freezing, the taste of vague salt on his lips, and he realizes distantly he’s sobbing loudly. So loud, in fact, that his throat aches.

The scent of sandalwood, soil, and something sweetly floral tickles his stuffy nose,

He can hear the low rumble of Lan Zhan’s voice, but the words sound too far away. Muffled and floaty, as if he’s been dunked underwater. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped desperately around Lan Zhan’s neck, fighting to catch his breath and sucking in sharp puffs of sandalwood-scented air.

The weight of Lan Zhan’s hand cupping his waist grounds him a little, the warmth of his body helping chase away the uneasy cold. He buries his nose deeper into Lan Zhan’s shoulder, shielding his face and trying to center himself.

The arm around his waist tightens, and Wei Ying sighs, sagging slightly into the embrace and letting more of his weight go. The buzzing in the back of his head lessens, letting him more distinctly hear a door shutting and the fact that he is basically being half-carried around by those muscular arms.

After another minute, he’s being perched on a stool with his back resting against a wall. He blinks sluggishly, his hands fisting tighter in the soft cashmere, unwilling to let go. “No, no, no. No! The—the dog, please. Don’t—don’t go, please!”

“Wei Ying.” A large hand cups his cheek, calloused fingers blazing hot compared to the icy chill of his half-frozen tears. He blinks to clear his spotted vision, still tunneled and blurry.

That voice is familiar. It’s soothing and rumbly, like the earth itself. He shivers, teeth clicking together audibly.

Wei Ying blinks, tightening his hand around the soft cashmere and focuses on Lan Zhan’s face. The hand on his cheek brushes away his tears, a small frown on Lan Zhan’s pretty face. “Lan… Lan Zhan?”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s thick, black lashes brush over his cheekbones, the hand shifting slightly to cup his jaw with that same little frown.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying gasps out. “Dog—there was a dog, please. I don’t—it was big, and it—I didn’t…”

At this, Lan Zhan straightens slightly, but he remains close. “Wei Ying, the dog is no longer here. You are safe. The door is closed.”

It takes a moment for the words to register.

Wei Ying’s head snaps over to the door, still sucking in sharp breaths of air into his dry, cottony mouth, and blinks when he notices Lan Zhan is right—the door is shut tight and locked.

After a quick glance around, he realizes there is no sign of the dog either.

Some of the last bit of lingering tension leaves Wei Ying in a flurry. He sags forward, exhaling loudly, and his forehead bumps against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan wraps his arm around Wei Ying’s waist, his large hand pressed firmly against his side and bunching up the material of his sweater.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Wei Ying just let his forehead press into Lan Zhan’s shoulder, breathing in and breathing out as steadily as he could while his hands tremble in his lap. The scent of sandalwood and soil tickle the back of his nose, and Lan Zhan remains still.

After a few minutes, Wei Ying slowly lifts his head and tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He forces a laugh, his hand still shaky, and he doesn’t quite trust his legs to hold him up properly. “Ah… Lan Zhan, I am… I’m so sorry, I…”

Lan Zhan shakes his head stiffly, taking a slow step back and taking his delectable warmth and scent with him. His amber-glass eyes don’t waver, and Wei Ying can feel them prickle along his features. “Is Wei Ying alright?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally.” Wei Ying paints on a brittle smile, already acutely aware he probably looks anything but fine. There are still traces of sweat beading on his brow and sticking his hoodie to his body. He probably looks as pale as a corpse. “I, uh, thank you, by the way. And I’m sorry for using you like a tree too, I guess.”

“It is no trouble.” Lan Zhan’s brow furrows deeply. “Wei Ying.”

Grimacing, Wei Ying lowers his lashes and stares down at his hands in his lap. “You know, Lan Zhan, no one else gets such unique lore drops, but somehow you always manage to squeeze them out of me!”

“Wei Ying…”

Lifting his head, Wei Ying clasps his shaky hands together and grins toothily. “You remember my whole ‘I was homeless once’ story?”

Lan Zhan eyes him wearily. “Mn.”

“Right, well…” Wei Ying laughs nervously, scratching his cheek awkwardly. “Did you know there are a lot of stray dogs on the street too? So many, and I wasn’t the only one hungry and cold. They were too, and well…”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Wei Ying lifts his leg onto the counter he is perched on and pulls up his pant leg, revealing an array of various bite marks, clearly from dogs. Some tattoos cover them, but some of the scarring is too thick to transform.

Inhaling sharply, Lan Zhan takes a startled step forward, his hands flexing at his sides.

Shrugging, Wei Ying drops his pant leg and lets it hang back off the side. “So, you see, Lan Zhan! You rescued me like a knight in shining cashmere! Dogs and I are not, shall we say, compatible, and you just rescued me from a giant, snarling, drooling beast. Very valiantly.”

At his words, Lan Zhan’s frown deepens. “It was not large—it was a Chihuahua.”

Wei Ying blinks slowly. “A giant, snarling, drooling beast—that’s what I said.” A flash of an iced coffee appears in his mind’s eye, and he groans, smacking his forehead. “Your coffee!”

“Pardon?”

Wei Ying giggles—it’s a little loose and unrestrained, but there is something about the overly polite way Lan Zhan said it that just felt so genuine compared to the usual sarcasm he is accustomed to with that word. “Lan Zhan, you’re so funny.”

“I do not believe that is an apt descriptor,” Lan Zhan replies quietly.

“Well,” Wei Ying drawls languidly, “everyone else has shitty humor, so…” he waves his hand swiftly. “Anyway! Your iced coffee! I, well, I was going to one-up you again, and I got you an iced coffee!” he pauses, offering a lopsided grin. “However, I may have thrown it at the monster.”

Lan Zhan’s eyelids shutter. “You had purchased me a coffee… to ‘one-up’ me?”

“Of course!” Wei Ying nods sagely, grinning. “I was doing so well too, but ah, well… you saved me twice! First with your coffee and second with your tallness!”

“I…”

With a shake of his head, Wei Ying slides down from the counter. He inhales sharply when his knees nearly buckle when he puts all of his weight down, grappling at the edge of the counter and waits until the wave of dizziness passes.

Lan Zhan reaches for him, large hands mere centimeters from touching his wrist and waist, but hovers uncertainly in the air.

It takes everything inside Wei Ying to resist leaning into the touch, to feel the warmth and size against his skin. He hastily clears his throat and looks away, turning all of his attention to his surroundings.

Despite knowing Lan Zhan for as long as he has, he has never actually stepped foot into the flower shop before. The walls are soft whites and blues, but the majority of the walls are covered with blooming potted plants hanging from the ceiling in mosaic-like pots. Thick vines drape down, nearly brushing the floor.

Dozens of shelves and raised platforms carry an abundance of flowers, succulents, and even some typical herbs, vegetables, and fruits. The floor is pristine with only faint traces of green and dirt, and the whole place washed in a bright golden light from the specialized UV lights. The air is warm and moist, and the counter is in the back, along with a glass door leading to what appears to be a separate greenhouse.

Just behind the register is a workbench table laden with tools, ribbons, paper, and Wei Ying blinks when he realizes that is where Lan Zhan makes the bouquets—the Fuck You Flowers flower bench!

In the flesh!

The entire shop is in full bloom, as if winter cannot touch here, and there is nothing but an explosion of spring. Even the air smells vaguely sweet and floral, deep and rich as the earth itself. It loosens the last of the anxiety clinging to his ribcage like a tattoo he didn’t want.

Eyes widening, Wei Ying steps away from the counter to peer around the shop with wonder. “Wow, you really are like a woodland elf!”

Lan Zhan glances at him. “A… woodland elf?”

“Yeah!” Wei Ying spins in place, taking in the whole place with genuine wonder. “Or maybe a flower fairy? Unclear, really.” He pauses when a flash of blue catches the corner of his eye. He perks up, craning his head around to see a pot of gentians in full bloom. “Gentians! Lan Zhan, you have your favorite here!”

Rushing over to the table where they are perched, Wei Ying reaches out to brush his tattooed fingers along the curled lip of the flower petal. The flower tilts into his hand, and his smile broadens. “They are even more beautiful in person. I hope I did them justice.”

“Mn. Wei Ying did.” Lan Zhan touches his forearm where the drawing remains hidden under his sweater.

Lifting his head, Wei Ying’s cheeks flush. “Ah, I’m glad.” He drags his hand away from the flower. “They really are beautiful, Lan Zhan. I can see why they are your favorite!”

“They were my mother’s favorites.”

Startled by the soft admission, Wei Ying’s eyes blow wide. “Your mother’s?”

Lan Zhan doesn’t quite meet his gaze. His amber-glass eyes remain on the gentians, tracing their petals and vibrant stems, and Wei Ying presses his lips together upon noticing the slight twist to Lan Zhan’s features.

An ever-silent ache, but one Wei Ying is fervently familiar with.

“What was your mother like?”

Licking his lips, Lan Zhan pulls his eyes away from the gentians to meet Wei Ying’s eyes. “My mother was kind. She was bright and loud—she reminds me of you.”

Despite himself, Wei Ying chuckles. “Lan Zhan, are you saying that I am loud in that ever-polite way of yours?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan steps closer, and Wei Ying inhales sharply, all words dying on his tongue. He goes completely still, heart thundering in his chest as Lan Zhan leans in close—so close that his enticing scent is back and the warmth of his skin is like a brand—and plucks a gentian.

Cheeks red and body yearning to lean forward and infiltrate Lan Zhan’s space, Wei Ying swallows thickly and watches mutely as Lan Zhan expertly snaps off the leaves and sharpened edges of the gentian stem. “Lan Zhan?”

“I do not think it is bad to be loud,” Lan Zhan says after an elongated moment, reaching over to tuck the gentian flower behind Wei Ying’s ear carefully. “My mother owned this flower shop. Practically built it from the ground up, and my father’s family never approved, but she did it anyway. She raised my brother and me within these walls, surrounded by these flowers.”

Slowly, Lan Zhan pulls his hands away, leaving the gentian flower woven between Wei Ying’s hair like an explosion of blue amongst the red and black. “This flower shop was practically home to me.”

Carefully, Wei Ying reaches up to touch the flower in his hair. “What happened to your mother, Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan’s eyes flutter shut, and he craned his head away from Wei Ying, peering sightlessly at a tray of white lilies. “The pressure from my father’s family became too much, and she was lost to us.”

Oh.

Heart in his throat, Wei Ying takes a small step forward and takes Lan Zhan’s hand, intertwining their fingers together. It looks so out of place—his tattooed, ink-stained hand tucked and dwarfed by Lan Zhan’s elegant, calloused fingers with unblemished skin.

Startled, Lan Zhan’s head snaps back around, his amber-glass with a wet sheen, but no tears fall.

“She sounds amazing, Lan Zhan. A wonderful woman, and I know she’d be so proud to see how you care for her flower shop.” Wei Ying lets his own eyes flit over the space, his smile softening. “It’s beautiful in here.”

Lan Zhan stares down at their conjoined hands, fingers giving a tentative squeeze, but he doesn’t pull away. “Thank you, but my family does not approve. They do not wish me to waste my life as a flower shop owner.”

The smile slips off Wei Ying’s face, jaw clamping shut when he hears the distant echo of Madam Yu’s sharp voice. He tightens his hand around Lan Zhan’s. “It isn’t a waste. This will never be waste! This place—it’s more than just a flower shop, Lan Zhan!”

“Wei Ying…”

Shaking his head, Wei Ying tugs earnestly at the cashmere sweater. “Flowers bring joy to people. They are a splash of color in a world that can feel colorless! That isn’t a waste. Lan Zhan!” He tugs a bit more earnestly. “Don’t let them tell you what to do. Don’t let them stamp out this passion. When I look around in here, I see nothing but love and care.”

It takes a moment, but Lan Zhan nods once with a small smile. “Mn. I will not stop, then.”

Exhaling loudly, Wei Ying nods and releases Lan Zhan’s arm. “Good. Stick it to the patriarchy, or whatever the fuck.” He coughs into his hand, turning his head away to see an empty wall along the back. “Oh, you don’t have plants there.”

Lan Zhan follows his line of his sight. “Mn. I wanted to find artwork, but I found nothing to match what I wished.”

A shiver races down Wei Ying’s spine, and he slowly glances over. “I… I could. I don’t know if you’d like this or not, but I could—I could maybe paint a mural for you? On that wall? Anything you want! I… I wouldn’t mind, and consider it payment for rescuing me from the gigantic monster.”

“You would paint a mural for my shop?”

Wei Ying perks up, nodding. “Of course! Anything you like.”

“Any artwork of Wei Ying’s, I would like.”

“Then,” Wei Ying drawls out, smiling, “I’ll get some paint tomorrow, and maybe I can come over on our next day off and paint a mural? What do you think?”

“Mn. I would like that.”

Yeah. Wei Ying is really fucking screwed.

Part 7: Dandelions

“Wei-xiong…”

Wei Ying dances out of the way of an elderly woman, bowing briskly when she cuts him a scathing, disgusted glare over her shoulder—he doesn’t miss the way her gaze lingers on his inked skin and pierced ears. He pretends not to notice, pivoting on his heel to scurry further into the art store.

He tucks Bartholomew between his shoulder and cheek, letting the cold screen soothe the lingering pink in his cheeks from the wind chill—he can imagine what he must look like. “Why are you using that tone?”

“Did you already forget that the charity banquet is in, like, T-minus 3 days?”

Wei Ying grimaces openly, tugging at the loose strand of hair hanging near his face. “It can’t already be the banquet. That’s too soon! I am nowhere near ready, and I promised Lan Zhan I’d do the mural for his shop.”

“Yeah, about that… did you neglect to mention when you started regularly hanging out with your ‘Off-Limits Buffet’?”

Ducking further down another aisle, Wei Ying scurries to the back where his favorite canned acrylic paint lurks—he always uses it for murals. It’s the cleanest and smoothest, plus blends perfectly. His wallet will sob, but it makes his heart so happy.

“We aren’t… regularly hanging out. It isn’t like that.” Wei Ying kneels in front of the cans, hastily reading over the colors and grabbing a couple to heave into the cart. He adds primer, whites, blues, some yellows to offset, a few shades of green, red, and even some orange—he’s feeling quite bold.

“Not hanging out my ass,” Nie Huaisang grumbles petulantly. “Look, I demand all the answers, and I will get them—in 3 days before the banquet. I am showing up at your apartment at precisely 3 p.m. Don’t even think about attempting to lock me out. I have a key, and don’t think of running either. I have Jiang Yanli on speed-dial now, and my da-ge is driving us.”

Grunting, Wei Ying heaves the last can into the cart, staring down at the cans with slight despair. Oh, this is definitely going to hurt his wallet, but it must be done. “But—!”

“No. I don’t wanna hear it—Madam Yu terrifies me too much, so I am getting you there come hell or high water.” In the distance, Wei Ying can hear Nie Mingjue, Nie Huaisang’s older, larger, and vastly buffer brother, shout something. “Ah, I gotta go, but don’t forget, or I will hunt you down. Enjoy your date!”

“It isn’t a—!”

The line clicks, and Wei Ying pulls Bartholomew away to stare at it incredulously.

“That motherfucker.”

With a shake of his head, Wei Ying tucks Bartholomew into his back pocket and grabs a few packets of brushes to toss into the cart. He rushes off to pay, hurriedly heaving his new paint cans into Gertrude’s basket carefully.

After everything is set, Wei Ying straddles Gertrude, intent on heading directly for the Cloud Recesses Flowers.

Riding on Gertrude always tastes a bit like rebellion—the feeling of the wind yanking at his clothes, and the sound of her engine drowning out the world. It’s a feeling he always quietly craves, as if there is nothing between him and the road. This odd taste of freedom. Like he’s flying and nothing in the world can touch him.

After pulling up and parking in front of the Cloud Recesses, Wei Ying swallows down the faintest tremor of nervousness that thrums through him. He unclips his helmet, setting it aside, and pats Gertrude’s handlebars as her engine quiets.

The Cloud Recesses Flowers glows in the soft morning sunlight, allowing the golden light to stream through the tall windows and caress the explosion of greenery on the inside.

A faint smile tugs at the corner of Wei Ying’s lips when he sees a slight shadow in the back, lingering near the greenhouse.

Getting off Gertrude, Wei Ying hangs his helmet off his handlebars and anxiously checks his clothing—he squirms slightly when he is reminded he dressed in his favorite painting outfit. His cheeks burns, fiddling with the loose acid-wash overalls splattered with so much paint you can barely tell the original color.

“Well, too late to change that now, I guess.” Shrugging, he grabs two cans of paint and hauls them inside. “Lan Zhan! I’m here!”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan rounds the corner, and ah, yeah. Of course. He’s dressed immaculately, as always. His hair is pulled into a low bun, soft tendrils framing his face, and he’s dressed in a long-sleeved, high-collared linen shirt with matching pants.

Wei Ying yanks his eyes away, his mouth suddenly suspiciously dry. “Ah, good morning.”

“Good morning.” In his elegant, graceful way, Lan Zhan strides over and leans down to gently take the two paint cans. “Allow me.”

The faintest wisp of sandalwood and flowers tickles Wei Ying’s nose, and he dumbly loosens his fingers around the handles of the paint cans. “Oh, um, sure. Thanks—I, uh, I have more on Gertrude.”

“Gertrude is your motorcycle?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. She’s my pretty lady!” Wei Ying clasps his hands anxiously behind his back, rocking on his heels. “I’ll be back! Just place those anywhere!”

Wei Ying doesn’t wait for a reply. He scampers back outside, hauling two more cans out of Gertrude’s basket, and slowing his pace to head back inside where Lan Zhan is already waiting, hands outstretched to help. “Oh, you don’t…”

“It is no trouble.” Lan Zhan takes the cans, then slips back inside with the paint cans in tow.

Wei Ying stares after him—eyes tracing the planes of Lan Zhan’s broad shoulders, the muscle definition visible even through his linen shirt, and swallows thickly when he continues down. He smacks himself slightly. “Ah—no, no. Bad. Off-Limits Buffet. You can look at the menu, but you can’t order. No ordering. You’re fucking vegan now. No meat.”

With another shake of his head, Wei Ying scurries back to Gertrude. “Don’t look at me like that, Gertrude. I wasn’t ogling.”

Gertrude doesn’t reply, but somehow, it kinda feels like she’s judging him, anyway.

Motorcycle children are so rude these days…

Hauling two more cans, he moves to go back and pass the fresh paint cans along. It quickly turns into a rhythm, and soon all the paint cans are inside with the brushes tucked into Wei Ying’s massive and numerous pockets.

Setting his hands on his hips, he glances at the back wall, pleased to see all the furniture has already been moved aside and some protective liner on the floor. He smiles quietly, even noticing a stepladder folded off to the side.

“Okay, is there anything in particular you want for the mural? Or don’t want!”

Lan Zhan clicks the door of the shop closed, latching the lock into place. At the sound of his voice, his head lifts and those blistering amber-glass eyes clash against Wei Ying’s. “I have no penchant for anything in particular.”

“Who the fuck uses big, fancy words like ‘penchant’?” Wei Ying asks with a small laugh, his lips curling into a teasing grin. “Lan Zhan, did you read the dictionary for fun as a child? Be honest.”

Lan Zhan’s earlobes turn bright red. “Not for fun.”

Brows raising to his hairline, Wei Ying’s smile broadens. “But you did read it.”

“Three times. And competed in a Spelling Bee.” Lan Zhan shifts his weight, amber-glass eyes flitting off to the side. “It is a family tradition.”

Grinning, Wei Ying leans into Lan Zhan’s space. “Did you win?”

The red on Lan Zhan’s earlobes gets more distinct, and Wei Ying’s stomach flutters, heart stumbling over itself. Cute. Why is Lan Zhan so fucking adorable?

“Mn. First place.”

Chuckling, Wei Ying leans back and away from Lan Zhan, afraid he’ll do something completely idiotic like grab the front of his perfectly ironed linen shirt and yank him into a kiss. He can feel the itch within his fingers to touch, and he reminds himself to slow down—they have to be friends first! At the very least!

Remember the ‘fuck you’ flowers, Wei Ying. Keep it together.

Coughing into his hand, Wei Ying scratches at his warm cheek. “Of course you did. You’re Lan Zhan. As if you could get anything except first.”

“I would not place in art.”

“Nonsense!” Wei Ying wanders over to his collection of paint cans, running his fingers around the lid and peering up at the wall with a tilt of his head. “You know, Lan Zhan, I might have an idea for the mural.”

Lan Zhan’s gaze burns like a brand, and Wei Ying shivers under the intensity, but finds he doesn’t mind the weight of it. The way it seems to peer past his skin and into him, as if seeing every imperfection and wanting to understand it anyway.

“I put my trust in Wei Ying.”

Picking up one of the brushes, Wei Ying pointed it at Lan Zhan. “I want you to remember these bold words, Lan Zhan!”

“Mn.”

“Good! Now, do you have speakers?” Wei Ying glances around the shop, squinting. He doesn’t notice any, but Lan Zhan disappears into the greenhouse and returns holding a portable speaker. “Perfect! Hook that baby up! We’re going to make this fun.”

After a few minutes of fiddling, Wei Ying’s favorite playlist drifts through the speakers. He wiggles in time with the pop song of some singer he doesn’t know, grabbing the can of primer and setting it in front of the wall. He waves at Lan Zhan.

“Roll up those sleeves and kick off those shoes—you’re going to help me.”

Hesitating, Lan Zhan’s brow knits, glancing as if he is uncertain if he even has the right, but eventually rolls up his sleeves and slides off his shoes to place them beside Wei Ying’s close to the door.

Cautiously, he wanders over to join Wei Ying in front of the wall.

“Don’t look so nervous, Lan Zhan. You can’t mess this part up—I promise. It’s just primer.” Wei Ying hands him a roller brush, winking. “Okay, nice and slow, but long strokes. Like this. We wanna cover the entire wall. Two coats, preferably.”

Wei Ying shows Lan Zhan the proper steps, cheering him on when Lan Zhan mimics the action.

“Yeah! Just like that. See? A natural at everything. Spelling Bees, flowers, and now wall painting. What’s next for the amazing Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan’s lips quirk faintly. “Undecided.”

Chuckling, Wei Ying turns back to focus on his own task. Adding primer to the wall is one of the easier tasks, but it’s slightly time-consuming. He takes a bit to even out the tones, but they move quickly while the music plays through the speaker.

Throughout the process, neither of them says much, and for once, Wei Ying doesn’t feel the insistent need to fill the silence with his voice. He speaks when he wants to, but not pushed to add something. It’s a slightly strange feeling, but one he relishes.

He sings loudly along with the music, dancing around Lan Zhan to fill in empty spots and wiggle his butt playfully with the beat until Lan Zhan reacts.

It allows the morning to pass at a languid pace, lazy and quiet, but the quiet moments Wei Ying silently stores deep within the empty cavity of his chest.

Once both coats of primer are added to the wall, Wei Ying throws the two roller brushes into a bucket of water and plops onto the floor. “Ugh, my arms are already sore!” He slouches against the wall, beaming up at Lan Zhan. “Come and sit! We have to wait for the primer to dry before I can start on anything else.”

Quietly, Lan Zhan settles at his side, his back straight and sitting with perfect posture.

Amused, Wei Ying props his chin up on his hand, tilting his head to the side. “Lan Zhan.”

“Mn?” Lan Zhan turns his head, meeting his gaze, and Wei Ying’s stomach flutters again.

“What is the wildest thing you’ve ever done?”

“Wild?” Lan Zhan tilts his head to the ceiling, lips faintly pursed in thought, but then shakes his head. “My life has always been regimented. Even as the second son, I was expected to follow my family’s ideals and traditions.” He lowers his eyelashes. “Perhaps the worst I have done is sneak into my brother’s room when I was quite small, because I knew he would read me bedtime stories when I could not sleep after my mother passed away.”

Shifting, Wei Ying scoots closer to Lan Zhan, his heart heavy. “You used to sneak into your brother’s room?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan’s lips quirk. “I would wait until my uncle fell asleep, then I would sneak over. I did not learn until I was much older that my uncle was aware but allowed it. I was not… stealthy as a child.”

The image of a chubby-cheeked, golden-eyed toddler Lan Zhan brings a small laugh from Wei Ying, enraptured by how adorable he must have been bumbling over to his brother’s room when he thought his uncle didn’t know.

“You must have been so proud of yourself back then.”

“Mn. I thought I was quite clever,” Lan Zhan admits, the redness in his earlobes returning. “I am quite embarrassed to admit that I am not that clever.”

The little smile on Wei Ying’s lips softens, bemused and tickled at the notion, so he hastily pulls his eyes away to glance back at their perfectly primed wall. He hums. “It looks mostly dry now, so we should start the setup for the background.”

Lan Zhan follows his gaze. “Did you have an idea for the mural itself?”

“Yep, and you know what, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying leans over to nudge his shoulder playfully against Lan Zhan. “I think you’re gonna love it.”

“Mn.”

Giggling, Wei Ying leaps back to his feet, his cheeks warmer than they have any right being, and he scampers away to hopefully hide the blush darkening his face. He gathers a bunch of the cans, setting them up on the table and pulling out many paint bins to pour some into.

They work together creating the perfect shades and setting them aside to use, and Wei Ying sets to work showing Lan Zhan where he wants the first shade of blue to go.

“There. Just like that!” Wei Ying pats Lan Zhan’s broad shoulder, palm tingling where he can feel the warmth of his skin. “Don’t look so concerned—I promise you won’t mess it up.”

“I am… unqualified.”

Wei Ying beams, crinkling his nose. “That’s the beauty of art, Lan Zhan! There is no need to be qualified in this. We, my dear flower boy, are having fun.”

The faint, worried frown on Lan Zhan’s features lessens, smoothing out the deep wrinkle between his severe brows.

At Wei Ying’s side, his hand twitches, eager to reach out and smooth the rest of it away, so he rapidly coughs into his hand grabs his own roller. He restarts the music, humming along with the tunes and sets to work setting up the area where his actual mural starts.

He brings out a sketch pencil, already starting his outline carefully, and letting himself drift away with the music.

I think that you are the one for me

‘Cause it gets so hard to breathe

Wei Ying’s breath hitches, hand stalling across the wall on the outline of one of the petals. Instinctively, his eyes dart over to Lan Zhan, who had somehow crouched while remaining elegant as he carefully spread a bit more blue to even out his side.

As if sensing Wei Ying’s gaze, Lan Zhan pauses and looks over, those amber-glass eyes blistering and warm like a crackling fire during a cold winter night.

When you’re looking at me,

I’ve never felt so alive and free

A shiver races down Wei Ying’s spine, goosebumps breaking out across his arms and his lips curling into a smile of their own accord when he notices the smear of light blue paint on Lan Zhan’s cheek—and more caking his hands in shades of whites and blues.

And I’ve heard of a love that

Comes once in a lifetime

And I’m pretty sure that

You are that love of mine

“Wei Ying?”

Shaking himself out of it, heart thundering wildly in his ribcage, Wei Ying laughs. “Oh, Lan Zhan! You’ve got a little something. Here!” He reaches over with his red-paint stained fingers and smears it directly over Lan Zhan’s nose, the vibrant red almost clown-like over his pristine skin.

Lan Zhan startles, stiffening like a wooden board and almost going cross-eyed to see what Wei Ying had added.

Bursting into laughter, Wei Ying loses his balance and falls onto his side, clutching his stomach and laughing heartily. “Your face! Lan Zhan, your face!” he wheezes out breathlessly, his stomach cramping from the force of his laughter.

Lan Zhan touches his nose, watching as some of the red paint now adorns the tips of his calloused fingers. He blinks, then slowly lifts his head. “You painted on me.”

Eyes misty with tears from the force of his laughter, Wei Ying lifts his head, squealing when he suddenly notices Lan Zhan dump his hand into blue paint and reach over.

‘Cause I’m in a field of dandelions

Wishing on every one

That you’d be mine, mine

“Wait! Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying scrambles to get up and move away, but not before Lan Zhan snags the belt loops of Wei Ying’s overalls and drags him back, cleanly reaching over to smear the blue paint across his cheek.

The paint is cold against the warmth of his cheek, and he can smell the deep patchouli. He whines, attempting to turn his head away, but Lan Zhan hasn’t relented. He smears a bit more before he finally pulls away with his lips curled upward.

Chest heaving, mouth gaping, Wei Ying stares at him. “You—you painted me back!”

“Mn.”

Pushing himself upright, Wei Ying points a paint-smeared hand at Lan Zhan. “Don’t say ‘mn’ all smug-like! Lan Zhan! I thought you were the epitome of a gentleman!”

Bowing his head, Lan Zhan settles back in front of his side of the mural. “It appears I have transgressed again.”

Wishing on dandelions all of the time

Praying to God that

One day you’ll be mine

Squinting his eyes, Wei Ying glances at the tray of red paint nearby, and he subtly shifts over and dips his hand into the wet paint. “You really shouldn’t have started this war, Lan Zhan.”

At this, Lan Zhan slides his gaze over with a ticked brow. “War?”

“Yeah. War.”

Without wasting a single second, Wei Ying lunges forward with his hand outstretched. Lan Zhan can’t move out of the way in time before the hand is rubbing the vibrant red paint all over his cheeks, brow, and throat.

Lan Zhan inhales sharply, taking his own hand to sling fresh paint at Wei Ying. The cold liquid immediately speckles across his face and hair, splattering against his chest and overalls in lovely shades of blue.

“Oh, it’s so on.”

With a squeal of laughter, Wei Ying dumps both of his hands into the red paint, flinging globs of it onto Lan Zhan and staining his beautiful linen clothes in splashes of red.

In retaliation, Lan Zhan mimics the actions with white and blue paint. It smears across the floor, their clothes, and drips from their hair, and colors their arms.

Breathless from laughing, Wei Ying eventually slumps onto the cool plastic of the protective ground covering and holds up his arm. “Okay. Okay, you win. I give up. I have been thwarted and defeated. I am no match for such nobility.”

Lowering his hands, Lan Zhan glances down at his clothes and the mess of paint. “I do not think either of us lived through such a travesty. I fear… the paint is the true victor.”

Lifting his paint-covered hands, Wei Ying giggles. “Maybe you have a point. The paint wins.” He rubs his hands on his overalls, unperturbed, and returns to where he was working on the outline of the mural. “Ah, I should finish the outline!”

Nodding, Lan Zhan takes a rag from nearby and wipes at his own hands, hastily getting back to work on finishing up his own side of the mural with that intense focus.

Wishing on dandelions all of the time

Praying to God that

One day you’ll be mine

With a secret smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, Wei Ying forces his eyes away just as the song switches. The thundering of his heartbeat doesn’t quite lessen, but something inside of him settles—content and warm with the scent of flowers and paint tangled into the air.

A quiet, startled sound draws Wei Ying out of his stupor, and he lowers his pencil to worriedly glance over at Lan Zhan.

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan’s brow furrows, head ducking slightly as his shoulders curl inward. “Wei Ying, forgive me. I have ruined the mural.”

“Ruined?” Startled, Wei Ying sets aside the pencil and brush, carefully crawling over to peek over Lan Zhan’s shoulder. He blinks in vague amusement at seeing an imprint of Lan Zhan’s hand in a swirl of blue and white along the green. “You didn’t ruin it! Look!”

Hastily, Wei Ying hurries back to his paint, grabbing the brush and painting his entire palm and fingers red. He crawls back to Lan Zhan’s side, casting him a bright, reassuring grin. At the startled look Lan Zhan sends back, Wei Ying winks and places his vibrant red handprint half over Lan Zhan’s, so they overlap.

The mix of the bright red paint combined with the soft whites and blues draws another smile from Wei Ying, his head turning to the side to see Lan Zhan staring openly at their overlapping hand-prints with his lips faintly parted.

“There.” Wei Ying nudges Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “Now it’s perfect! It shows that we did it together, right?” He lets his eyes drift back to their hand-prints, tilting his head. “You know, I think this might be my favorite part of the mural now.”

Lan Zhan’s lips quirk, and he hums. “Mine too.”

Cheeks dusting pink, Wei Ying scoots back over to his side. The paint on his skin has already started to dry and harden, tightening his flesh until it becomes itchy, and he picks at it absently. His lips continue to curl up, bemused and fond, and his heart thunders whenever he catches the faintest whiff of paint-stained flowers and sandalwood.

Soon, they set back to work, but at a more languid pace. Wei Ying continues his outline, gently providing tips or showing Lan Zhan how to fill out the wall space with more background colors before returning to his own space.

They chat about nothing, and they chat about everything. Sometimes, they say nothing at all, and just let the music fill the air as the hours dwindle further.

Wei Ying gets so lost in it he doesn’t immediately realize heavy clouds have dotted the sun out until the heavy sound of rain cuts through the music. He startles slightly at the shadows now casting over his brilliant colors,

Tilting his head, lowering his paintbrush, Wei Ying glances around Lan Zhan, who has finished all he can do and is now cleaning up the many cans of paint left around. “Lan Zhan! It’s raining.”

At the sound of his name, Lan Zhan looks up, gaze flitting over to the window where the evening has been washed with soft grays and darkened skies. “Mn.”

Vibrating in place, Wei Ying glances back at the mural with a critical eye. “I have about fifteen minutes more of work, and then we’re done.” He grins toothily. “And we’re going to do something wild.”

Lan Zhan ticks a brow. “Does flinging paint at one another not count as wild?”

“Nope!” Cackling, Wei Ying hurriedly dips his brush back into the white paint. “Trust me—this is vastly wilder, and you’re going to love it! Just finish cleaning for now.”

“Mn.” With a slight shake of his head, Lan Zhan returns to his task, but Wei Ying doesn’t miss the way he moves slightly faster.

Sure enough, in about fifteen minutes, he finishes the final touches on the mural. He leaps to his feet, chucking his paint palette into the sink in the back and taking a couple of steps back to stare at the full picture—a mountainside lavish with a field of fully bloomed gentian flowers, speckled with a couple of Japanese Red Spider Lilies.

In the distance on the mountainside is the faded figure of a woman, holding the hands of two little boys on either side of her.

“Lan Zhan,”

Lan Zhan steps up beside Wei Ying, staring at the mural with wide eyes and parted lips as he takes in the field of flowers, following the trail up to where the woman and two children stand, shadowed but present. His breath catches.

“You…”

Wei Ying rubs the back of his neck. “I never met your mother, nor knew what she looked like, but I felt her through this shop that you care for every single day. It felt right that she has a place here to help you watch over it too, right?”

Pressing his lips together, Lan Zhan nods stiffly, but Wei Ying isn’t offended—he can see the way his hands tremble at his sides, and the slight crinkle of his eyes as he continues to stare at the still wet mural. “Japanese spider lily?”

“Oh, um…” Wei Ying giggles, fiddling with his sleeve that covers his own tattoo of a spider lily. “Aside from being literally the only flower I ever knew the meaning of before meeting you, it’s also my favorite, but that isn’t—I chose it because of what it means.”

“Death, finality, and the afterlife.”

“Yes!” Wei Ying offers a lopsided grin. “But despite that heavy meaning, they also symbolize changing seasons. A new beginning.”

“It is your favorite flower?”

Humming, Wei Ying flattens his palm over his right forearm where his own flower sits and smiles to himself. “It’s my new beginning. A new changing season, and the separation of my life from before.” He ignores the sting in his eye as he lifts his head with a laugh. “Ah… both of us have such heavy flowers as our favorites!”

“Mn.”

Shaking his head, Wei Ying grabs Lan Zhan’s wrist and tugs. “Come on! The paint has to dry, so now it’s time to live a little.”

Startled, Lan Zhan allows himself to be dragged to the front of their shop, their painted hands flaking off colors of blue, white, and red. “Wei Ying?”

“Trust me!” Wei Ying throws open the door to the flower shop, releasing Lan Zhan’s hand to pivot around with a wink. “Lan Zhan, sometimes, you just gotta dance in the rain!”

With wide eyes, Lan Zhan takes a step forward as if to bring Wei Ying back inside, but Wei Ying dances out of reach and steps out into the freezing rain. The droplets immediately leech any fraction of warmth, hitting his skin like miniature shocks of ice, and flatten his hair.

Shivering, Wei Ying throws open his arms and tilts back his head, letting the rain wash over his face and stick his clothes to his skin. The heavy scent of petrichor mingles perfectly with the sharpness of the wintry air.

A smile curls the corner of his lips, breathless.

Peeling open his eyes, Wei Ying looks over to Lan Zhan, realizing that the other man is staring with wide eyes, unmoving. He holds out his slick hand; the paint smearing and dripping off his palm.

“Come on, Lan Zhan. You already let me ink you—what’s a little rain?”

“It… it is winter. It is cold, Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying laughs. “Yes, I know. It isn’t as good as a summer rain. Come on! Experience running in freezing as fuck rain, Lan Zhan. We threw paint at one another. You got inked. You’re a total rebel!”

The expression on Lan Zhan’s face can only be described as dubious, eyes flitting from the sky and back to Wei Ying’s hand, so Wei Ying wiggles his fingers enticingly.

Squaring his shoulders, Lan Zhan steps out into the rain and takes Wei Ying’s hand.

Wei Ying shivers at the warmth of Lan Zhan’s hand, their paint now smearing together and creating a new color. Heart in his throat, Wei Ying teasingly tugs him further out from underneath the awning and fully into the pouring rain.

Lan Zhan winces, his hair darkening as it’s soaked through with rainwater, but comes to a stop in front of Wei Ying. “I am out in the rain. I do not feel wild.”

“Not yet,” Wei Ying corrects with a huff. “You’re missing the part that makes this wild.”

“And that is?”

“We’re supposed to run in the rain.”

Before Lan Zhan can formulate a reply, Wei Ying wrenches away from Lan Zhan and sprints down the center of the road. His boots splash and slap against the soaked asphalt, his hair tie loosening and letting his hair stick to the back of his neck.

The rain stings as it pelts his skin, blurring his vision and weighing down his overalls, but the taste of petrichor on the back of his throat urges him on. His lungs burn through the unforgivably cold, breath fogging like a fierce dragon, and his fingertips as red as his nose.

The sound of heavy footsteps touch his ears through the thundering rain, and he blinks, turning his head over to see Lan Zhan running with him.

Giggling, Wei Ying grins. “Look at you! Wild and free, Lan Zhan!”

Cutting him a look, they both sprint through the streets, twisting around various buildings, until finally they end up on the edge of a park.

Breathless, Wei Ying shivers and leans over, legs trembling and lungs burning, but his body vibrating. When he glances up, he sees Lan Zhan has tilted back his head and is letting the rain caress his handsome features.

Lan Zhan truly is beautiful, Wei Ying thinks helplessly, straightening. And kind.

“So? Are you feeling absolutely wild?”

Peeling open his eyes, Lan Zhan tilts his head in Wei Ying’s direction with a half-smile. “I feel very wet.”

Snorting out a laugh, Wei Ying steps closer and leans against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. He can feel Lan Zhan shift so that more of his weight is held up, the warmth of his body becoming almost as familiar as the scent of flowers and sandalwood incense.

Lifting his head, Wei Ying freezes in place when he realizes just how close he is to Lan Zhan—so close that their noses almost brushed against one another. Plumes of misty white from their breaths blur together, and Wei Ying swallows thickly when his eyes immediately dart to Lan Zhan’s lips.

The urge to lean closer tickles the back of Wei Ying’s mind, breath hitching and body shifting, but he stops at the last second, eyes widening. The image of Madam Yu assaults his mind, her painted nails digging into his skull.

The banquet.

The stupid banquet. The set up. She expects him to marry, and she probably already has someone set for him.

Wedging his lower lip between his teeth, Wei Ying clears his throat and steps back. “I, um, I should probably go. I… thank you, Lan Zhan. For today. I’ll… I’ll see you around?”

Lan Zhan hesitates, but takes a step back and nods. “Mn. Be well, Wei Ying.”

“Ah, yeah. You… you too!”

Without looking back, Wei Ying jogs back towards Gertrude, and he pretends it’s just the freezing rain on his face.

Part 8: Changing Seasons, New Beginnings

“Fear not! Your resident stylish Fairy Godmother is here to take you to the ball!”

Wei Ying jolts from his slouched, burrito position on the couch, head snapping over to see Nie Huaisang shouldering his way into the studio apartment with his arms laden with various bags.

Pushing himself upright, blanket pooling around his waist, Wei Ying stares owlishly as Nie Huaisang kicks the door shut with his polished dress shoes. “What the hell are you doing?”

Nie Huaisang drops the bags with an ungainly clatter, and Wei Ying winces, silently sending off a muted apology to his downstairs neighbor who is absolutely going to yell at him again for the noise.

“What the hell am I doing?” Nie Huaisang repeats, setting his hands on his cocked hips. “More like, what the hell are you doing? Have you even showered?” His nose wrinkles. “You smell like moldy cheese and a lost cause. Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

Pressing his lips together, Wei Ying resolutely avoids glancing at his Flower Murder Wall, acutely aware of what awaits there, but it’s in vain. Nie Huaisang’s calculating, perceptive gaze sweeps to the wall and widens immediately.

“Oh. Oh, yeah, that would definitely piss in your Cheerios.” Nie Huaisang slowly looks back at Wei Ying, who immediately ducks his head until his chin brushes his chest. He clicks his tongue. “You painted him. On your wall.”

“Shut up. I didn’t paint anything.”

Nie Huaisang snorts dubiously. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.” Nie Huaisang strides over, snatching the blanket off Wei Ying and wrenching him to his feet. “God, you really smell half rotten. Have you just been lying here stewing for, like, two days?”

“Two and a half.”

Groaning, Nie Huaisang pushes Wei Ying towards the bathroom. “Into the shower immediately. I want two scrubs minimum, and so help me, shampoo that hair or I will come in there and make you.”

Stumbling, Wei Ying barely catches himself against the threshold of his bathroom and cuts a glare over his shoulder. “Hey! You never told me what the hell you’re doing here!”

“Yes, I did.” Nie Huaisang huffs, returning to his many bags now decorating Wei Ying’s floor. “You’re just an idiot.”

“Hey!”

“I am the Fairy Godmother to your Cinderella, and my brother is outside serving as the fucking pumpkin, so get your ass in that shower.” Nie Huaisang cocks a brow, pointing towards the shower. “The banquet, Ying-er.”

Fuck.

With a hissed groan, Wei Ying hit his head against the wooden door frame until it thumps. “Shit. I… has the time passed by that quickly? It can’t possibly be the banquet already. I thought I had more time.”

Features softening, Nie Huaisang sighs quietly and pats his shoulder. “I know, and I’m sorry, but we really don’t have time for this right now. Madam Yu and your sister will have my head, okay? Shower and tell me after.”

Wei Ying nods stiffly, slipping into the bathroom and turning on the water. He moves robotically, not allowing himself to glance in the bathroom mirror for even a second. He showers methodically, obeying Nie Huaisang’s commands.

He scrubs himself down, shampoos and conditions, and shaves quickly. The heat of the water pounding against his back, which helps clear his fuzzy head, and the steam eases the tightness in his chest.

By the time he steps out, his fingertips have wrinkled, and the water has cooled significantly. He wraps the towel tightly around his waist, half-heartedly towel-drying his hair, then brushing his teeth.

Exiting the bathroom, he is immediately thrusted a pile of clothes into his arms and pushed toward his bedroom.

“Here, put all this on! Do not forget the cuff-links, alright?” Nie Huaisang orders, opening a couple of Wei Ying’s dresser drawers and throwing on a fresh pair of underwear and an undershirt. “There. Dress quickly—I still gotta do your hair and some makeup.”

“Makeup?” Wei Ying stumbles, nearly dropping the pile of clothes, but Nie Huaisang doesn’t deign him with a reply. “Wait, what?!”

“Dress. Now.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Wei Ying gives up on attempting to pry answers from Nie Huaisang. He dresses quickly, tugging on perfectly iron black slacks—nicer than anything he’s worn since he lived with the Jiangs. Next, a button-up black shirt with a high collar that nearly covers his Adam’s apple.

It takes him a moment to realize this decision was on purpose to help cover most of his tattoos.

Well-played, Sangsang. Well-played.

The sleeves are long, covering most of his tattoos except for the ones on his hands—which are neigh impossible to fully cover—and then moves on to the blazer. It’s sharp, form-fitting, and black, but with red highlights and undertones. It’s subtle and sleek, a lot more his style, so it’s clear Nie Huaisang designed it for him.

After stuffing his feet into his socks and some dress shoes, Wei Ying shuffles back out into the living room where he is immediately manhandled into a chair with Nie Huaisang’s hands slick with mousse carding through his tresses.

“So? Spill. What happened with you and Tall, Floral, and Scrumptious?”

Jutting out his lower lip, Wei Ying lets his eyes slide shut as Nie Huaisang works. “What makes you think something happened?”

“You were rotting into the couch, for one. For two, your wall.” He tugs lightly at the strands. “You painted him standing out in the rain on your wall. Explain.”

So, Wei Ying tells Nie Huaisang everything. He doesn’t leave anything out, and the entire time Nie Huaisang is silent, finishing styling his hair and then applying light makeup to his features—some foundation to hide blemishes, then some shadow on his eyelids for color. He helps pick out some earrings while removing other piercings for the night.

“There. Done.” Nie Huaisang lightly squeezes Wei Ying’s shoulder, his gaze somber. “Ying-er, I’m sorry about what happened, and trust me, I wanna eat a whole tub of ice cream with you and watch bad movies, but…”

Nodding, Wei Ying brushes it off and stands. “No, I know. It’s fine. Banquet and Madam Yu first.”

“Yes. Exactly, you get it.” Nie Huaisang hands Wei Ying Bartholomew, his keys, and some chapstick, making sure they are all tucked away into his pocket before all but shoving him out the door.

Mindlessly, Wei Ying lets Nie Huaisang lead him out of the apartment building and into a glistening, spacious SUV. He climbs into the back at Nie Huaisang’s behest, plopping into his seat. He glances up to see Nie Mingjue—Nie Huaisang’s older brother—setting down his phone and pivoting around to face the back.

“Good evening, A-Ying,”

“Da-ge!” Wei Ying smiles, seatbelt clicking into place. Nie Mingjue looks nothing like his younger brother—he’s all defined muscle and large stature, like a bear in human form, but handsome despite his severe features and sharp brows. “You clean up nice!”

Raising his brows, Nie Mingjue glances down at his suit and tie, lips quirking. “I feel like a dressed-up monkey.”

Snorting, Wei Ying nods. “Yeah, I’m about the same. We can both hunker down by the alcohol or food table.”

“I would, but my fiancé is meeting me there.” Nie Mingjue shakes his head with a huff. “Unlike me, he is vastly more social and has a stick up his ass about ‘social etiquette’.”

Gasping, Wei Ying lurches forward and hooks his chin over Nie Mingjue’s seat. “Da-ge, you’re engaged?! Since when!?” He whirls around to level Nie Huaisang with a fierce glare, just as he buckles in. “You! You never told me that your da-ge got engaged!”

“It was recent!” Nie Huaisang defends valiantly, holding up his hands in surrender. “Like, literally, it was last night! They’re making the announcement at the banquet.”

“It’s true, A-Ying.” Nie Mingjue throws a bright smile over his shoulder, softening his otherwise severe features. “You’ll meet him tonight, and you’re one of the first to know.”

“Oh. Okay, then.” Wei Ying reaches over and pats Nie Mingjue’s shoulder. “Congrats, da-ge. I am so excited to meet him.”

Nodding, Nie Mingjue pulls out and away from the studio apartment, humming along with the radio absently while Nie Huaisang texts on his phone—to whom, Wei Ying does not know. It isn’t him, so he distracts himself by staring out the window at the dark streets.

It takes too little time to arrive at the venue—a massive, sleek building adorned in lights and with an intricate garden cared for year-round. The venue itself is a mix between a concert hall and a ballroom, and owned by the famous Lans.

If Wei Ying is completely honest, he doesn’t remember too much about the Lans from Gusu. They moved here around the time he was fifteen and removed from the spotlight with the Jiangs after the last banquet he had attended ten years ago. He knows they are one of the oldest families, and very, very rich, but act like monks—if the rumors are true.

Supposedly, all of their wealth comes from generational wealth from their music. They are musicians and hand-make all of their instruments, making them nearly a monopoly of the best musicians ever.

From what Jiang Cheng told him, which granted isn’t a lot since they rarely speak anymore, the Lans are the epitome of “regal” and “harsh”, so Wei Ying has always been silently grateful he hasn’t met a single one of them.

Apparently, that is about to change tonight. The Lans are making their appearance.

Nie Mingjue pulls the car up to the curb, gracefully sliding his behemoth body out and handing the keys to the valet. “A-Sang, hurry up. I promised A-Chen we’d greet him upon arrival.”

“Coming!” Nie Huaisang briefly takes Wei Ying’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze. “I gotta deal with this real quick, but I’ll meet up with you at the alcohol bar, okay? Go greet the Wicked Witch of the Jiangs, love on your sister, dodge Jiang Cheng, and then we’ll get drunk and laugh at people together, okay?”

Nodding, Wei Ying slides out of the car and squeezes Nie Huaisang’s hand back. “Yeah, okay. Sounds good.”

With one last smile, Nie Huaisang scampers up to his brother’s side, and they both walk in through the big, shining glass doors.

Wei Ying sighs, muttering a thanks to the valet, who replies with a quiet, “Good luck in there.”

Nodding his gratitude, Wei Ying puffs out his chest and wanders into the building, whistling under his breath about polished marble flooring, the bright crystal chandeliers, and the big stone columns lining the entire hall.

Already dozens of people are wandering the floor and others lingering near the dozens of circular tables covered with lacy covering and a candle.

Wei Ying bows to a couple of people, not missing the way the older men and women do a double-take at his hands, noses wrinkling with disgust and turning away from him. He accepts it easily, more than happy to waddle out of sight. His eyes skim over the various people, exhaling in relief at finally catching sight of Jiang purple.

He weaves his way through the crowd; the tension loosening from his shoulders when he catches his sister, Jiang Yanli, dressed in a golden maternity gown layered with Jiang purple accents. She looks stunning, even when her husband, Jin Zixuan, keeps his arm around her waist to steady her.

“Jiejie!”

At his call, Jiang Yanli looks away from Jiang Cheng, who scoffs and scowls in annoyance at the interruption, and grins when her soft olive eyes latch onto Wei Ying. “A-Xian!”

Jiang Yanli pulls away from Jin Zixuan, placing a hand underneath the heavy curve of her belly and rushes over to pull Wei Ying into a tight hug. He eagerly returns it, careful of the baby, and smiles when her familiar scent of lotus and jasmine tickles his nose.

“Jiejie, you’re so gorgeous!” he praises, pulling away to lightly spin her. She laughs, swaying slightly as her gown swishes around her ankles. “You’re glowing.”

“You’re too kind,” she replies, steadying herself and smoothing her dress over her belly. “I feel positively like a whale.”

Gasping, Wei Ying shakes his head. “No way! My jiejie could never.” He smiles down at her belly, slightly amazed. “You’ve grown so much though! I saw you only two months ago.”

“I am thirty-seven weeks. He could come at any time.” Jiang Yanli takes his hand, placing it carefully on the side of her belly. He inhales sharply at the slight bump there. “That is his little butt, constantly poking out.”

“Ah, so he takes after the father, then.”

“Wei Wuxian.” Jin Zixuan appears at his wife’s side, raising his brows slightly as he bows at the waist.

Grimacing at the use of his former courtesy name, a tradition upheld only by old families like the Jiangs, Wei Ying plasters on a tight smile and returns the bow. “Jin Zixuan.”

“It’s good to see you,” Jin Zixuan says carefully after a heartbeat of quiet. “It’s been a while.”

“It has.” Flitting his gaze over Jin Zixuan’s shoulder, Wei Ying lowers his lashes when he catches sight of Madam Yu glaring at him, while Jiang Fengmian sips absentmindedly at his wine. “How bad is tonight, jiejie?”

Quietly, Jin Zixuan steps over to block Madam Yu’s gaze from Wei Ying, and he feels a brief rush of gratitude. Jiang Yanli smiles at her husband in thanks.

“It isn’t the best, A-Xian,” she admits in a low murmur. “Mother has set you up with a potential deal with one of the Lans. She’s hoping to strike a deal through you. It’s a lower Lan girl.”

Coughing into her palm, Jiang Yanli tilts her head slightly and signals with her finger to another corner.

Following her gaze, Wei Ying swallows thickly at the sight of a group of eight all gathered near the orchestra. They are all tall and handsome, adorned in shimmering blue and white suits, so they appear to stand out like beacons in the low-lighting of the ballroom.

“The shorter girl, with the flower in her hair,” Jin Zixuan mutters when he notices Wei Ying’s gaze drift over each of them.

Stiffly, Wei Ying’s gaze snaps to one of the three women Lan. Her silk, light blue gown sits on her slight frame, making her seem almost fairy-like, and her long black hair is pulled into a stunning braid updo that forms a crown around her head.

She stands just as stiffly as all the other Lan, her expression entirely impassive, and her eyes a brown so dark they appear almost black. Like a block of ice, but with a big white flower in her hair.

“Lan Lisha,” Jiang Yanli adds quietly.

“Wei Wuxian.”

At Madam Yu’s sharp call of his former courtesy name, Wei Ying flinches minutely. He bows to his sister and Jin Zixuan, murmuring a soft thanks, and approaches Madam Yu with a deep bow at the waist.

“Madam Yu. Uncle.”

“A-Xian.” Jiang Fengmian claps Wei Ying on the back, his smile placid and vacant as he recalls from his youth. “I’m so glad that you could make it. You cleaned up nicely.”

Straightening, Wei Ying smiles faintly, but his eyes never leave Madam Yu as her sharp eyes rake over his attire with a scoff.

“I suppose that will have to do.” She lightly shoves her husband out of the way and narrows her gaze onto him. “I have a lot riding on this deal with the Lans—Lan Qiren didn’t even want to discuss it because he recalls your name, but we got lucky. Do not fuck this up.”

“Yes, Madam Yu.” Wei Ying slides his gaze over to Jiang Cheng, who scrunches his nose, and murmurs something to his fiancée—a woman from one of the main families, but Wei Ying can’t remember which or her name. They have spoken only once.

Jiang Cheng returns his gray eyes back to Wei Ying, tilting his hand and using it to signal later out of Madam Yu’s line of sight. Subtly, Wei Ying signs back that he understands.

“Come. Lan Qiren and Lan Lisha await.” Madam Yu pivots on her heel, striding over to the Lans with her long hair swishing in tandem with her purple gown.

With a quick glance over at his sister, Jiang Yanli covers her mouth with her hand, olive eyes sad, while Jin Zixuan briefly nods his head. Damn, when did the peacock actually become tolerable?

“Lan Qiren.” Madam Yu slows to a stop, her smile carved like the slash of a bolt of lightning.

Wei Ying keeps his head low and his tattooed hands clasped behind his back, watching an older man turn around. He’s handsome, aged like fine wine, with salt and pepper hair, a longer goatee meticulously maintained, and dressed like all the other Lans.

At his side is someone who nearly makes Wei Ying do a double take—it’s a man with long mahogany hair, styled traditionally, and a face so similar to Lan Zhan that Wei Ying nearly gasps out his name.

Except it isn’t Lan Zhan.

No, this doppelgänger may share eerily similar features and stature, but that’s where the resemblance stops. His face is open, with a soft smile and little crinkles in the corners of his chestnut-brown eyes. He’s tall and elegant like Lan Zhan, but his stance is slightly looser, and his gaze is perceptive and warm.

It’s downright creepy how similar the two appear, and it only gets weirder when he notices Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang hovering at Not Lan Zhan’s side.

“Yu Ziyuan,” the older Lan, Lan Qiren, greets. He lifts his chin, hands clasped behind his back respectfully. “It is a pleasure to see you again. This must be Wei Wuxian?”

“Yes.” Madam Yu sets her clawed hand on his shoulder, painted nails digging into the blazer, and he hastily takes the hint and bows deeply.

“I’m Wei Yi—Wuxian.” He grimaces slightly at his mistake, stepping out of the bow and lifting his head to meet Lan Qiren’s gaze evenly. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”

Nodding, Lan Qiren grunts slightly. “The pleasure is mine. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

It isn’t hard to miss the underlying contempt, but Wei Ying easily ignores it, keeping his smile plastered onto his face. “All horrible things, I’m certain.”

Lan Qiren’s brow twitches faintly, while Madam Yu’s lips press together into a thin, straight line.

Not Lan Zhan, however, chuckles and steps around Lan Qiren to bow. “Wei Wuxian, good evening. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you—your sister and A-Sang have spoken many great praises about you. I am Lan Xichen, heir to the Lan.”

“You must be da-ge’s fiancé, then!” Wei Ying perks up, returning the bow with a bit more enthusiasm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too!”

Lan Xichen’s smile broadens, his soft brown eyes warm and dancing with slight mirth. It vaguely gives Wei Ying the strangest idea that Lan Xichen knows something he doesn’t—like he is part of an inside joke that Wei Ying isn’t privy to.

Humming, Lan Qiren steps between them. “Yes, well… Wei Wuxian, I would like you to meet one of the descendants of the Lan, and your current betrothal. Lan Lisha.”

Lan Lisha steps around Lan Qiren, heels clicking, and Wei Ying politely holds out his hand for her—the movement ingrained and painstakingly trained into him the moment he was taken in by the Jiangs.

Upon noticing the ink curling around his fingers, Lan Lisha hesitates for a fraction of a second, but it seems her manners win out since she accepts his hand and bows. “Wei Wuxian.”

“Lan Lisha.”

Mouth dry, Wei Ying forcibly swallows down the tendril of panic tightening his throat and churning his stomach. Her skin touching his feels like thousands of ants, but he doesn’t dare disrespect her when he can feel Madam Yu’s sharp stare needling into the side of his head.

“May I have the honor of your company on the dance floor?”

“You may.”

Avoiding Madam Yu’s eyes, Wei Ying keeps a careful hold of Lan Lisha’s hand and leads her away from the group. He carefully cranes his head over his shoulder, catching Nie Huaisang’s gaze and frowning slightly at the faint smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

Confused, he attempts to mouth something to Nie Huaisang, but it goes ignored in favor of whispering something urgently to Lan Xichen.

The buzzing in the back of Wei Ying’s mind heightens, and he helplessly returns to watching where he is going before he’s caught and scolded.

Lan Lisha moves as if walking on water, her short stature barely reaching Wei Ying’s chest, and her hand soft—too soft. His nose burns at her perfume, stifling a shudder as they take their positions in the center of the dance floor just as the music switches to a proper waltz.

It’s a dance he spent a good majority of his youth perfecting, and one his body’s muscles remember. As soon as the first note hits, he’s already moving with the steps, his hand resting on her slim waist while she touches his shoulder.

“You dance like a gentleman,” Lan Lisha comments somewhat breathlessly as she spins out, her blue gown swishing around her ankles.

Wei Ying cracks a wry smile. “I just don’t look like one, right?”

Lowering her lashes, a faint bloom of pink dusts her cheeks. “Forgive me. I did not intend to sound rude.”

“It isn’t rude. Just a fact.” Wei Ying glides across the dance floor, listening to the beat of the waltz easily. “I am very aware of how I look; it doesn’t bother me. If anything, I am sorry to you.”

Fingers tightening around his shoulders, Lan Lisha follows his lead, her dark eyes wide and painted with lovely makeup. “Sorry? Whatever for?”

“A beautiful woman like yourself deserves a husband who can love you properly.” Carefully, he adjusted his hand on his waist to follow the steps, wincing slightly when he falters in the sequence. “Unfortunately, I am not that man.”

Kindly, Lan Lisha momentarily takes the lead, pulling them back into the proper steps before releasing it. “You do not wish to marry?”

“I do,” Wei Ying whispers quietly, twirling her once more, and she steps back in perfectly, her brow furrowed. “I’d like to get married, but not because someone is telling me to. I’m not… I’m not actually a Jiang.”

Lan Lisha nods once. “You are the adopted son, I am told.”

Humming, Wei Ying averts his gaze. “Yes, so you’re not properly marrying into the Jiangs if you were to marry me.”

With a breathless laugh, she lets him lower her into a dip, and comes back up with a sharp breath. “Are you kindly trying to persuade me from pursuing this engagement, Wei Wuxian? Trying to rescue me from a doomed life?”

“Depends,” he says. “Is it working?”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Lan Lisha replies softly, shifting into another spin. “I will not force you into a marriage you do not want.”

The music ends, and Wei Ying catches her breath as Lan Lisha sways slightly, using his arm to balance herself. She raises her head, the odd impassivity previously melting away. “If it means anything to you, I would not have minded marrying you—you are kind, and your touch is gentle. There is not much more I could ask for, even if it isn’t romance.”

Wei Ying gives her hand a small squeeze. “You are too lovely of a lady to think such things.”

Chuckling, Lan Lisha’s eyes her eyes flick over Wei Ying’s shoulder. Her eyes widen a fraction before she smiles. “It seems, however, I am not the right Lan.”

Confused, Wei Wuxian’s brow furrows. “Huh?”

Giggling, Lan Lisha gently tugs her hand from Wei Ying and takes a step back. She smooths her hands over her dress, her smile faintly smug. “Lan Wangji.”

“Lan Lisha.”

Stiffening, Wei Ying’s breath hitches in the back of his throat at the sound of Lan Zhan’s familiar rumbling voice. The sounds of the room fall away, his heart stumbling over itself, because he knows that voice.

With one last small smile and a whisper of good luck, Lan Lisha wanders back over to where the Lans are waiting with Madam Yu, who looks seconds from blowing a gasket.

“Wei Ying.”

With a shiver, Wei Ying slowly turns around to see Lan Zhan—Lan fucking Zhan—standing behind him, cradling a bouquet of Japanese spider lilies and gentians. He’s dressed just like all the other Lans.

Lan.

Inhaling sharply, Wei Ying nearly facepalmed himself. How did he miss this? How did he not realize that Lan Zhan is one of the Lans?

“Lan… Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan takes another step, amber-glass eyes glinting, and his hand tight around the bouquet. “Wei Ying.”

“You—you’re a Lan?”

Predictably, Lan Zhan’s nose scrunches minutely, brow furrowing in slight confusion. “Yes. I did not realize that this was news.”

Shaking his head, Wei Ying scurries closer instinctively, eyes darting to the flowers and back to Lan Zhan’s face. “No, I mean, I know that you’re Lan Zhan, but I didn’t—holy shit, Lan Xichen is your older brother!”

His head snaps over to where Lan Xichen stands beside Nie Mingjue, speaking quietly with a warm smile on his handsome features. Just in front of the engaged couple, is Nie huaisang holding a glass of red wine.

With a smirk, Nie Huaisang holds up his glass of wine, miming a toast, and looks like the very picture of a cat who caught the mouse.

That motherfucker set this up!

“Mn.”

Stomach bottoming out, Wei Ying grimaces slightly when he notices Lan Qiren and Madam Yu arguing through clenched teeth and hissed venom. “And…. Lan Qiren is your uncle.”

Lan Zhan nods once. “Mn.”

Wei Ying is almost 90% certain the world has tilted on its axis. He stumbles slightly, barely managing to catch himself and waving off the growing, concerned frown. “I’m good. Totally fine, just, you know, having my life flash before my eyes. No biggie!”

“Wei Ying.”

A shiver races down Wei Ying’s spine at the tender way Lan Zhan says his name, toes curling within his pinching dress shoes. He swallows thickly, yet finds himself drawn to those warm golden eyes. “Lan Zhan.”

“Are you… alright?”

“Yep! Totally good.” Wei Ying drops his eyes to the bouquet, his heart in his throat. “You knew I was Wei Wuxian? From the Jiangs?”

“No.” Lan Zhan shifts his weight, lowering his eyes. “Not until Nie Huaisang informed me via my brother.”

It suddenly feels like all the pieces are clicking together, and Wei Ying shivers, teeth clicking. He stares at the flowers, his heart thundering and palms slick with sweat. “When did he tell you?”

“After the rain.” Lan Zhan lowers his lashes, his voice turning husky and muted. “I rarely attend the banquet. I have not since I was eighteen. I attended because… because I was informed you would be here.”

“I… I am. Here.” Wei Ying licks his lips, shifting close enough he can smell Lan Zhan’s distinct scent of sandalwood, flowers, and fertilizer. “You came for me.”

“Mn.”

Wei Ying reaches out to brush his fingers against the petals of the Japanese spider lilies. “You… brought me flowers that mean changing seasons and love through sorrow?”

Humming quietly, Lan Zhan nods. “I did.”

Something hot burns underneath Wei Ying’s skin, blistering like an electrical current. Something unfurls in his chest, tentative and soft. It tastes a little bit like hope.

“Why?”

“I… will always go where Wei Ying goes.”

Heart in his throat, Wei Ying exhales loudly and sways in place, thoughts racing and palms sweating. The flowers. His Flower Murder Wall. With trembling fingers, he reaches over to pluck one of the spider lilies up, rubbing the soft petals between his fingers.

“Ah, Lan Zhan… you’ve been giving me flowers for a long time.”

“Mn.”

With a grin, Wei Ying takes the bouquet from Lan Zhan, setting it aside on one of the nearby tables. Lan Zhan watches quietly, his eyes wide, but Wei Ying doesn’t give him a chance. He takes Lan Zhan’s wrist and tugs him onto the dance floor.

“Wei Ying!”

Smiling, Wei Ying gestures to the orchestra, and then turns to face Lan Zhan. He takes both of his hands, placing them on his waist until the man stiffens with surprise. A slow song plays, and Wei Ying wraps his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck.

“This whole time… you’ve been quietly confessing to me, haven’t you?”

Lan Zhan tightens his grip on Wei Ying’s waist, settling into their slow dance. He moves perfectly; the warmth of his hand searing through Wei Ying’s blazer. “Mn.”

With a breath, Wei Ying laughs lightly. “Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan! Does this mean I’m right? And you love me?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan spins them. “Love Wei Ying.”

“And all the flowers were you confessing?”

“Confessing and wishing.”

Wei Ying’s grin broadens. “You were using flower language!”

“Mn.”

“Is there a flower that says please fucking kiss me right now?”

Gasping, Wei Ying arches into the kiss, eyes sliding shut and body thrumming to life. The kiss feels unrestrained and wild—the honey-gold of Lan Zhan’s eyes blazing and his body pressing closer.

He smiles into the kiss, hearing the nearby crowd cheering, Madam Yu screeching, and Nie Huaisang wolf-whistling.

None of that matters.

None of it, except his Lan Zhan.