Chapter Text
On the 12th of December Song Lan returns from the store with two heavy bags of groceries digging into his hands and finds rabbit shaped cutouts hung all over their windows.
He toes off his shoes, balancing the bags. One of them contains eggs he doesn't want to crack and the other milk which should not, in theory, be able to spill but Song Lan doesn't believe it.
Behind the closed door of their bedroom, Xingchen is humming an upbeat tune. Neither of them has a habit of celebrating Christmas, but Xingchen is big on holidays and gets into the hype easily, even considers the Christmas songs 'lovely'. Song Lan, who has worked in stores during the holidays before, strongly disagrees.
“I think you’ve gotten the holiday wrong, love,” he points out, looking at the kitchen window from the hallway. Aside from the dangling rabbits, there's a miniature of one of them made out of what looks to be dried grass. He's well aware his correction is unnecessary. This is far from an honest mistake on Xingchen's part, it's just a thing he does. He likes to act oblivious about certain things that are expected to be common knowledge. He finds it funny. Song Lan finds his pleased smile infectious.
He walks into the bedroom just in time to see Xingchen put up the last one of the decorations up the only remaining window. The rabbits are white, with bright yellow bows around their necks and big teeth in front. They remind Song Lan of that damned cat Xue Yang had given him for his car, wild grins and all.
“Have I?” Xingchen asks innocently. Playing along.
“Are you joining the war on Christmas?” Song Lan asks him.
“I don't know what you mean,” Xingchen tells him. He keeps the act up for five seconds longer before he cracks up.
They bake gingerbread cookies that night, and Xingchen talks him into decorating them immediately despite Song Lan’s insistence that they should wait until they've cooled off. The colors don't serve them well, one too dry and other too runny. It doesn't help that they dough is still warm and causing the colors to melt. Xingchen pretends he can't hear him for that one.
All in all it’s– good, it’s good. It’s very similar to their last December they spent alone like this; thin remains of dough that couldn’t be used up sticking to the counter, flour all over the kitchen floor and Xingchen’s cheeks and underneath their fingernails, a dim smell of burning from the portion that they briefly forgot about in favor of making out against the kitchen table.
So yes, it is good, time spent with Xingchen has never been bad. Only, it’s been so long since it’s been like this, this particular dynamic in this space, just the two of them. It’s quieter. It’s too spacious, which is a ridiculous thought to have. Song Lan recalls clearly the first time Xue Yang stayed the night and how he’d complained— silently, to himself— about his home being occupied by someone not his and how stifling it’d felt to have someone take up so much space while being so loud. It’s bizarre to have everything back to normal the way he thought he wanted it, and for it to feel unsteady.
He’s sure Xingchen feels it, too, even if they avoid talking about it like a plague and he hasn’t heard him say Xue Yang’s name in days. He misses the sound of it.
There are parts of Xue Yang he doesn’t miss though, not even now. For example his tendencies to get in trouble and follow it up by dragging his sorry carcass back to their front door, bloody and bruised. Smiling up at Song Lan as if he’s won something, and not gotten beat to shit.
Which is how Song Lan finds him, the night he decides to come back; a possibly unconscious Xue Yang shaped figure slumped against the door to their apartment. The hallway is dark, entrance encased in shadow but Song Lan could recognize the smell of his blood anywhere.
He does a double take, just in case his stupid, hopeful brain is making him see things and he’s just stumbled upon a lost drunk instead.
“Xue Yang,” he whispers, heart in his throat. It comes out weird. He crouches down to shake him by the shoulder, momentarily too overcome by everything going through his brain to remember that Xue Yang is hurt, most definitely.
The lump flinches, a weak groan comes from it and echoing throughout the hallway. Xue Yang angles his face up to look at him. He looks– not well. Pretty horrible. Song Lan can’t quite distinguish blood on his face from dirt, or sweat from rain that’s been falling the entire day. He tries to blame it on the bad lighting.
“Fucking finally,” Xue Yang croaks from the floor. Something in Song Lan's chest tightens at the miserable sound of his voice. “It's freezing out here.”
“I’d punch you but I see someone’s done the job for me already,” Song Lan says. The words tumble out of his mouth in a rush as an unreasonable part of him is afraid that if he stops talking Xue Yang will disappear from his hands, again.
Xue Yang laughs, or tries to before he grimaces in pain and that’s enough of a wake up call for Song Lan to reach down to where he’s crumpled by the door. He pulls him up on his shaky feet and Xue Yang doesn’t help much, letting Song Lan support all his weight as he unlocks the door. It’s hard to tell if it’s because of his inability or simply lack of will to do so.
The full bodied wash of relief doesn’t hit him until he has Xue Yang in the bathroom, sitting on top of the toilet as he washes the mess from his face as much as he can with a wet towel. He had let the water start filling the bath and then standing around, hovering over Xue Yang without doing anything proved to be impossible. Instead he hovers over Xue Yang but at least there’s a sense that he’s helping.
It hits him out of nowhere as he’s wiping dried blood underneath Xue Yang’s left eye and catches him looking up; a thick swarm of emotions that narrows bit by bit to relief. Last time they were in a position similar to this, he had been tasked with shaking awake a passed out Xue Yang on their couch after a night drinking. Xue Yang rarely sleeps at all, but when he does he’s incredibly difficult to get up and grumpy as hell. He remembers him then, hair mussed up and covering parts of his face just like now. He had a similar look in his eyes then as he stared up at him through his eyelashes, a bit hazy and uncertain. Except he hadn’t been covered in blood back then, there were no bruises on his face or– anywhere on his body, really, he hadn’t come up to them littered with cuts for nearly two months which was a novelty on its own, and Song Lan remembers being distantly and quietly proud of him for it.
“What is it?” Xue Yang mumbles. If Song Lan was a different person he’d start crying, or punch him in the face. He’s not though, and the most he can do is press his lips together tightly and continue dabbing at Xue Yang’s face. Most of what would go away with a towel only he’s already taken care of but he’s certain that if he moves his hands from Xue Yang’s body he’ll crumple at his feet.
Eventually the words come to him. A little bit of them. “Three months.”
Xue Yang sighs, as if Song Lan is the one being unreasonable or overreacting. He shushes him, suddenly angry. Not properly, but enough to be aware of it.
“Shut up. You don’t get to talk now. Save your bitching and excuses for when Xingchen is back.”
To his credit, Xue Yang does shut up. He’s not meeting Song Lan’s eyes. Staring at some point on the wall behind him instead, eyes still a little bit hazy.
Song Lan doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to say in this situation. He wishes Xingchen was here. “No word from you, for three months. And then you show up at our doorstep half dead.”
“Fully dead,” Xue Yang says and laughs. Song Lan fails to see the joke. “Few years too late on that one.”
“Fuck,” Song Lan swears, quietly, staring somewhere above Xue Yang’s head.
“What?”
He's overcome with the need to drag Xue Yang to his chest and hold him, and maybe yell at him again, and then hold him some more. He settles for kissing the top of his head. The way that causes Xue Yang to melt against him doesn't help. He lets him rest there a bit for both their sakes.
Eventually the smell of blood gets in Song Lan’s nose and he’s reminded that right, they have shit to take care of. Because Xue Yang had to go off and do exactly what Song Lan was fearing he’d do, and got himself in trouble he couldn’t handle.
“I handled it just fine,” he mutters somewhere against Song Lan’s bicep when he hears him complain. “Should have seen the other guys. I could run a marathon like this.”
It makes Song Lan snort against his will. It’s not funny, and Xue Yang is ruining his whole bathroom.
Deep breaths, in and out. Sense of normality and all. Slowly but surely, Song Lan gets his shit together enough to untangle himself from him and tug at the edge of his ruined shirt. “Off with that.”
“Why, baby, you should have just said so.”
“Not now. Get in the bathtub.”
Xue Yang starts getting out of his blood drenched clothes and Song Lan turns to stare at a wall to give him some semblance of privacy. Not that Xue Yang has ever needed it before; he’s walked through their apartment mostly naked more times than Song Lan could count.
When he’s done Xue Yang chucks a sock at him and misses. It ends up in the sink, somehow, and Song Lan sighs, as if he wasn’t already planning to wash every inch of the bathroom. He pulls Xue Yang up from the toilet. It’s not much of a struggle, he goes limp in his hands in a second.
He might have seen Xue Yang walk around naked but it’s the first time he’s close enough to actually look at him. The tattoos take up most of his attention, covering the expanse of his back and the scars there that he feels underneath his fingers as he washes him. There’s an ugly gash on his right hip that’s new. He’s glad for once for their ability to heal faster because he doesn’t know how to deal with that in any way, and he sincerely doubts Xue Yang would ever step foot into a hospital.
Xue Yang picks at his nails until Song Lan gets to his hair and has him throw his head back to rinse it. He ruins a brush while carefully getting the dried blood out of it, but he decides it’s worth it for the way Xue Yang goes soft under his hands. His face situation is less bad now that he’s washed all blood from it and Song Lan can’t help staring. The idea his brain has formed where Xue Yang will be gone if Song Lan so much as looks away is horribly stupid and embarrassing, but he lets himself have it for the moment. Maybe just until Xingchen gets back home and things start feeling real again.
He has to drag Xue Yang from the bath once they’re done. Wherever Xue Yang was before he got the shit beat out of him, he clearly hadn’t been eating because he can barely walk and the dark circles under his eyes are the size of plates. Song Lan dries him off in the living room, taking his time with the long hair and the numerous tiny knots he couldn’t quite get with the brush.
“I could have not picked you up, you know,” he says, despite knowing it would be impossible. “I could have left you out there after the shit you pulled on us.”
Xue Yang snorts. Or tries to, at least. It's rather unimpressive. “Had to try, no? And look, I was lucky.”
Once Song Lan is satisfied with Xue Yang’s state as much as possible, considering– he goes back to the bathroom and washes his hands until the overwhelming smell of blood is mostly gone. He throws his and Xue Yang’s clothes in the bathtub to deal with later, and doesn’t even stop to think of how their bathroom looks like a crime scene and how Xingchen might react to it. They’re well past that.
When he returns to the living room with a change of clothes for Xue Yang, he finds him scooted up to the side of the couch. The far left corner that Xingchen dubbed his spot way back when he first started coming over. He catches Song Lan looking and grins weakly. “Not kicking me out yet?”
Song Lan considers doing so just for that comment. It makes his brain hurt. The dissonance between his relief upon seeing him, and Xue Yang’s insistence that either of them would want to get rid of him after everything is maddening. He can’t make sense of it, it’s driving him up the wall. “Come here.”
Xue Yang looks at him as he sits next to him, questioning. After months of him being away, Song Lan has forgotten how difficult he can be; it’s familiar and good. He’s sure he’ll be pissed about it a week later once they settle, but for now he relishes in some typical Xue Yang behavior. Like refusing help whenever it’s being offered to him.
Keeping up the stubbornness, Xue Yang doesn’t move, so Song Lan drags him up in his lap instead.
“Fucker,” Xue Yang squirms halfheartedly. “What do you want, kisses, now? Give me like, a minute. Fucking hell.”
“Shut up.” It’s nice hearing his voice again. Song Lan scoops his hair to the side, watches Xue Yang follow his hands with his eyes, and sees the exact moment he connects the dots in his brain.
Xue Yang’s nails dig into his arms as Song Lan bares his neck to him. It’s not nearly enough but it would do for now, until he gets his hands on more blood for them both.
Xue Yang bites down, hard. It hurts like a bitch at first and Song Lan flinches and then that hurts as well. He doesn't remember the first time he was bit, not the person or the feeling, but he doubts he will ever forget this. Not the teeth in his body or the dry lips on his broken skin, or the small muffled noises Xue Yang makes as he sucks at his neck.
He cups the back of Xue Yang’s head and pulls him closer, deeper—
There’s a distinct click of the door opening, but Song Lan is just dizzy enough that it takes him a second to process what that means, before Xingchen is standing over them, coat and a scarf on and cheeks still red from the cold wind.
Xue Yang didn’t hear anything or anyone come in it seems, as he doesn’t move an inch from gnawing at Song Lan's neck. Xingchen stares. Song Lan stares right back, with a bit more fear in his eyes.
“Um,” Xingchen says. “Welcome back?”
That gets to Xue Yang. His eyes fly open and he wrenches himself away from Song Lan’s neck.
“Xingchen,” he says, breathy, like he’s run a marathon. There’s blood covering a good part of his chin, and his lips are cherry red.
Xingchen looks about as Song Lan feels; bewildered, out of his element and unsure what to say or do. Aside from the surprise of Xue Yang’s unexpected presence, he doesn’t seem horrified by what he’s walked in on them doing, specifically, or shocked by it. It’s probably much less of a reveal for him than they expected.
Beneath the clear relief on his face, Song Lan thinks he’s amused. There’s no trace of anger that Song Lan thinks they’re both due. He still hurries to say, “I’m sorry.”
“What are you— Oh, yes,” he rolls his eyes. There’s fondness in it, and a bit of annoyance. “That’s the least of our problems right now. I’ve known since forever.”
Song Lan had suspected it for a while, and had been mostly sure, by the time he demanded of Xue Yang that they talk to Xingchen– it’s still a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. He breathes out, as Xingchen closes the distance to them and reaches for them both.
The next hour or so is a blur. Xingchen demands an explanation from Xue Yang which goes as well as expected. Song Lan spends most of it sitting in silence feeling lightheaded and utterly exhausted, unwilling to even try and form words. He hasn’t been this tired since he died.
He tunes in just in time to hear Xingchen’s frustrations about them going behind his back and not saying a word about the whole vampire thing.
“So you just assumed the worst and ran with it?” he asks, eyebrow raised in his direction. It’s definitely accusatory, even if he doesn’t sound angry. Song Lan assumes that if he’d known for a while, he had the time to fume in silence before they got here. He thinks back on the cake and the gifts that in retrospect are a lot more meanspirited, the fucking rice—
Xue Yang must have the same realization as he does. His expression changes from confusion to shock to anger in a matter of seconds, until he’s looking up at Xingchen with a sort of wonder, almost awe. “Were you fucking with me on purpose?”
Xingchen pats his cheek in a manner both affectionate and condescending. “You mean motherfucker. You’re lucky I haven’t killed you for it.”
A threat has never sounded so empty coming from Xue Yang’s mouth. He always looks less dangerous at Xingchen’s side, like his presence has him shedding all that prickly skin. Xingchen seems to agree, leaning over to kiss his forehead. “I’m shaking.”
Xue Yang hisses at him, some fresh, hot blood splattering on Xingchen’s clean clothes. Song Lan flicks him on the side of his head, gently.
“Thanks,” Xingchen says, suppressing a laugh. They’re all feeling a little bit hysterical at the moment. “It’s fine. I need a shower either way.”
Song Lan nods, understanding, until he remembers.
“No you should— Don’t go in the bathroom.”
***
Song Lan’s expensive fucking coffee machine broke, and Xue Yang is once again sentenced to drinking shitty to go coffee from the bakery he passes by regularly and it’s put him in a mood. What’s the point of fancy kitchen appliances if they break every other month? How is he supposed to live on this trash now that they’ve gotten him used to the good stuff?
He lets his grievances known, loudly, over text, and Song Lan leaves him on read. Xue Yang threatens that he’ll change his mind on the whole moving-in-with-them thing if he’s not getting quality coffee out of it, as that’s the only reason he said yes to the idea anyway. And the proximity to the people he’s sleeping with. And the kisses. And maybe there’s something to Xingchen holding his hand as they sit on the couch and watch whatever horrid comedy he’s put on that night. And—
“You’re done for,” Meng Yao had told him with an amused glint in his eyes months ago, though it seems it’s been years. Not aging does that to your time perception, he guesses. “I genuinely didn’t think it could ever happen to you.”
Xue Yang doesn’t quite remember what he’d said that earned him that reaction, but he remembers being mad about it. He remembers feeling out the fabric of a sleek black suit jacket and deciding no, absolutely not. “Nothing happened to me. Piss off.”
“Did you hear yourself just a second ago? He’s got you wrapped around his finger.”
Xue Yang also couldn’t remember why he’d asked Meng Yao to come with him. He threw a pack of socks at him and watched him dodge it perfectly, with practice of dodging various objects Xue Yang had thrown at him over the years. He needed to come up with new tricks.
“Don’t be a crybaby,” Meng Yao told him, picking up the socks and putting them back on the store shelf. Polite, respectful, and a mean ass to his only friend. “I have every right to drag you for this as the person who had to listen to your countless drunken nihilistic speeches about how love isn’t real and how you should be allowed to do whatever the hell you want because life has no meaning– do you see where I’m going with this?”
“No. I was right. I am right.”
Meng Yao looked at him, with pity, looking very punchable. “Then why are we in a mall right now, trying to find a presentable outfit for you so you can be your boyfriend’s plus one on a wedding?”
Xue Yang wasn’t going to be Xingchen’s plus one, because he was bringing Song Lan, too, so he guessed he was more like a plus two, but Meng Yao didn’t need to know that. If he ever had to specify to Meng Yao that actually, he was dating two people, he would also have to kill him afterwards.
“Because I’m trying to lull him into a false sense of security to kill him and make myself a dress out of his perfectly smooth skin. What’s unclear about this?”
“It’s been like, what, nearly a year of this?” he asked. Xue Yang didn’t see why the time of it mattered. It wasn’t any of Meng Yao’s fucking business.
“I’m playing a long game. Masterpieces take time.”
He can never let Meng Yao know where he’s moving. Maybe he’ll fake his own death for the small reward of being able to live in peace.
His boyfriends— which is what they are, and make sure to point out regularly, as if he could forget, god forbid— had been dancing around the moving in question for months before Xingchen sat him down like he was in trouble and did his whole speech. It had taken him way too long to get to the point and there was a flurry of thoughts going through Xue Yang’s head as he tried to rationalize to himself what the fuck he could have done to deserve this. Song Lan was conveniently out for the duration of that conversation. Xue Yang couldn’t blame him– it made him want to hide under the bed as well.
It got a bit easier once Xingchen actually got to the point. Xue Yang felt the tension leave him because okay, at least he wasn’t getting broken up with, so that was one horrid thought loose in his brain less.
“Of course, it’s okay if this is moving too quickly for you,” he said, overly gentle as ever. At first Xue Yang had despised the way Xinghcen liked to treat him as if he was made of glass, as if he was something precious in his hands and he was terrified of shattering him— he’d come around to it. Sort of. It had it’s charms. “We just thought we’d lay out the offer for you.”
“It’s fine by me,” he said. Too quickly. Stumbling over his words like an idiot before Xingchen could possibly take it back. Xingchen had shot him a knowing smirk and Xue Yang was glad he had little to no blood in his body because he would be blushing embarrassingly otherwise. Xingchen had been good at making him squirm from the start, since the night they met. It might have been one of the initial reasons why he was so drawn to him, but he didn’t want to think about that. He’d had more than enough self realizations in the past year.
“It’s practical,” he told Xingchen, to explain himself. Xingchen nodded, smiling.
The thing is, Xue Yang really did not plan to stick around. Not the first night he met Xingchen, no matter how beautiful and inviting his grin was, and especially not once he met Song Lan, who messed up his plans instantly. Back then it was meant to be a hit and run kind of thing, and once he got cornered and interrogated on his intentions he had been ready to get lost. But they were just too much fun. Riling up Song Lan should be a competitive sport, as should counting how many morbid jokes that make him frown in disapproval make Xingchen laugh. They’re a weird duo. Also, both exceptionally good at kissing. So that was why.
He never tells them any of this but he has a feeling they know all about it, including his initial plans. Possibly have known most of the time. Masochists, both of them.
A car stops by the sidewalk and honks, loud enough to drown out his music. Xue Yang snatches his earphones out and turns, ready to scream at a guy, and finds Song Lan looking at him from the driver’s seat.
He still screams at him. “Get off my ass!”
Song Lan gives him the middle finger, then gestures for him to get in. It’s pretty early to be out, but the sun goes down blissfully early during winter and Xue Yang had to get out of his soon to be empty apartment immediately before he started gnawing at the walls— point being Xingchen is still at work and he gets to sit in front of Song Lan’s car. It’s a rare privilege. Xingchen usually gets the passenger seat, no questions asked. Which is why he gets in without complaint and doesn’t exercise his plan of leaving Song Lan hanging in the middle of the street and walking to their place on his own.
As he shuts the door and starts fucking with Song Lan’s stereo he thinks, fuck, it’s going to be his place soon. Fuck.
“You good?” Song Lan asks. He isn’t even looking at him. Really, fuck them both for being so perceptive.
It’s stupid to be having a crisis here, after they’ve planned everything and all his shit is in boxes and he’s already been sleeping at their place most nights but– maybe the extent of it is never really going to properly make sense to him. But he does think about it now.
He’s been in this damn car so many times. He doesn’t live that far away but Xingchen is that type of person who likes to make sure his people get places safely and he likes to be a hundred percent sure they got there safely, so all his arguments for going home alone during the late hours of the night would fall flat and he’d end up in the back seat as Song Lan drove all three of them to his building, and waited for him to get in before they drove away. He’s spent more time in this car than any other, including one he owned for a record of three months before he totaled it and never invested in a car again.
Now, Xingchen has this thing about ownership, and sharing. He insists that what is his is Song Lan’s and vice versa and to an extent that includes Xue Yang, or at least it will. He’s not clear on if it’s about living together or just fucking. He doesn’t want to ask because it feels stupid.
So he doesn’t ask Song Lan if that means this car is his, too, at least not yet. Because he knows the answer will be No, and you can’t drive it, don’t even ask me, and Song Lan wouldn’t understand that it’s not really about driving and crashing or not crashing a car. Jury’s still out on whether Xue Yang himself understands what’s it really about, aside from knowing that the thought of owning something with Xingchen and Song Lan fucks him up, and the thought of being owned by them makes him feel— fucked up, also. Solid. He’s never been someone’s before.
He takes these thoughts and puts them aside for safekeeping, to repeat slowly during late hours when Xingchen is asleep and Song Lan is napping because he likes to go to bed with Xingchen even if he won’t stay there for long.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he mumbles, quietly as to make it hard to hear over the loud drums of the song, and refuses to think how fucked up it is that for once he might actually mean it.