Chapter Text
He spends the first forty minutes in silence.
Dr. Chau sits patiently, an untroubled mirror. She doesn't seem to be waiting; Lan Zhan can't sense any ripple of impatience or expectation in her qi. She is just still, and calm, and quiet.
Five minutes before his allotted time is up, he says, "I am very fortunate."
"I am glad to hear that," says Dr. Chau, when it is clear that no more is forthcoming.
Four and a half minutes later, he rises and inclines his head politely to Dr. Chau, then takes his leave. The angle of his bow is a shade too shallow to be textbook, though it is well within the bounds of what might be expected from the average twenty-year-old.
Lan Zhan is, of course, not an average twenty-year-old.
In his next session, he only waits thirty minutes before saying, "Of the many gifts I have received from my family, I am the most grateful that they have allowed me to delay my entrance to university until it would be age-appropriate."
Dr. Chau does not even nod, simply looks at him with relaxed eyes and a pleasant, neutral expression. There is a blue-glazed ceramic container with seven spiraling bamboo stalks on the small table next to her.
"It has been beneficial for my development to experience socialization with peers of my own age," Lan Zhan adds.
"Is that the reason they did it?" she asks, and Lan Zhan's eyes snap up, too unaccountably startled at the question to hide his reaction in time. He takes refuge in silence, smoothing out his features until they are as impassive as lacquer. That is how he thought of it as a child: all the bumps and rough edges filled in and polished to a slick shine. Visible but untouchable.
In Lan Zhan's third session, he enters the office, settles himself on the plain grey floor cushion, and says, "As far as I am aware, my brother Lan Xichen petitioned for my educational timeline not to be advanced on the grounds that the benefits of being able to network effectively with my peers outweighed the potential disadvantages of a decelerated educational schedule."
He senses a small warmth humming out from her—surprise, maybe? These things are never quite precise, even for cultivators of Lan Zhan's calibre. It is nonthreatening, though, so he simply sits as Dr. Chau considers her reply.
"In your opinion," she says, "Was that your brother's primary motivation?"
"Yes," he says.
The office is tastefully, sparsely decorated, with soft lighting that is doubtless intended to be soothing. Lan Zhan is not sure whether he feels soothed; the evidence is inconclusive.
"My brother Lan Xichen worries about me," he says. He meant to say "cares," but either way it's true, so he does not correct himself.
"Is he right to do so?" Dr. Chau asks.
Lan Zhan turns this over in his head. Gives it careful thought. There are only two answers, both weighted with implication and consequence, and he does not want to give one that he will need to retract.
“Yes,” he says, at last.
***
The fall semester of Lan Zhan’s senior year starts six months later. He is chair of the Student Cultivation Chapter and the Music Society, president of the student union, and preparing to write an honours thesis; he is expecting to be very busy.
He is not expecting Wei Ying.
“How has Wei Ying complicated your expectations?” asks Dr. Chau. She has begun keeping tea for him in a tin on her desk. Brewing and pouring the tea gives him something to do while he thinks about how to respond to her.
The heat and fragrance rising from the small cup is grounding. It’s jasmine tea, nothing terribly fancy, but it makes him feel clear-headed and settled in his skin.
“He is...disruptive,” he decides.
“In what ways?” Dr. Chau asks, and Lan Zhan discovers that he is capable of spending the next thirty-eight minutes discussing the many subtle and not-so-subtle ways Wei Ying has crashed through his life like cymbals falling down a flight of stairs.
Subsequently, he discovers that he is capable of talking largely uninterrupted about Wei Ying for at least twenty minutes per week for a full semester.
In Lan Zhan’s final semester at university, he knows he does not share any classes with Wei Ying, and is expecting Wei Ying to bound off to the next shiny thing that catches his eye.
“Is that how you see yourself? As...a shiny thing?” asks Dr. Chau.
Lan Zhan chooses his words as carefully and honestly as he can, as he always does. “I know that I have inherent value as a person and an individual. I also know that Wei Ying’s apparent enthusiasm is rarely a reliable guide for his personal attachment to things, or people. My sense of self-worth is therefore unrelated to my assessment of Wei Ying’s attention span.”
When Wei Ying saunters into the Music Society’s first meeting of the semester, twenty minutes late, Lan Zhan has absolutely no idea what to say. The seconds stretch out agonizingly—Lan Zhan had been right in the middle of a post-icebreaker introductory speech, and can’t remember how he’d intended to finish his sentence. Wei Ying just grins and rocks back a little on his heels.
“Lan Zhan ah!” he calls. “Fancy running into you! Come here often?” He accompanies this last with an exaggerated wink, and everyone in the room laughs harder than that deserves, likely relieved at a chance to break the sudden unexpected tension.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, then stops, at a loss. Wei Ying has never mentioned playing or even listening to music in the many hours he’s spent chattering nonstop at Lan Zhan throughout the previous semester. Lan Zhan would have remembered that. But, he suddenly realizes, they do occasionally get students confused by the overly ambiguous name of the Music Society. It’s possible—likely, even—that this is the case. Either way, it is helpful information to provide.
“You should know that the Music Society is primarily focused on learning about and performing with traditional instruments.”
That sounds harsher than he intended, so he adds, “You are of course welcome regardless. As any student would be.”
Wei Ying clutches at his chest dramatically and pretends to stagger. Lan Zhan is briefly concerned that he might actually fall down. “Aiyoh, Lan Zhan . So little faith in your Wei Ying! Must I prove myself even now, beneath the withering beauty of your golden gaze?”
He reaches into the satchel slung over his shoulder and pulls out a dizi, which he has apparently been carrying loose in his bag , puffs a quick breath through it to clean out heaven-knows-what dust or debris has made its way into the instrument without a protective case, and starts to play.
***
Other people have sought Lan Zhan’s attention before, in various ways and for various reasons. He is a very good student, from a wealthy family, and conventionally attractive. Fortunately, most people’s interest wanes when it becomes clear that Lan Zhan is not the sort to do favors or divulge advantageous information.
Lan Xichen, blessed with these same gifts of privilege and talent, has learned to leverage them into an impressive network of influence and a very promising career at the Gusu consulate. He is, of course, as scrupulously ethical as Lan Zhan; however, he is charming and friendly enough that he never makes people feel condescended to or frozen out if they fail to live up to Lan standards. It’s a delicate line to walk.
Lan Zhan is eternally grateful that Xichen is so skilled at dealing with people, because it means Lan Zhan doesn’t have to be. At some point, Xichen will take over leadership of the Cloud Recesses cultivation centre, and Lan Zhan can be his second-in-command, just out of the spotlight, never having to give speeches or listen to the Chief Marketing Officer talk about key metrics. Uncle Qiren has always made it abundantly clear that their respective futures with Cloud Recesses are an established fact, and raised them accordingly.
Sometimes Xichen refers to Cloud Recesses as “the family business,” mostly because he knows it annoys Lan Zhan.
“Why does it annoy you?” asks Dr. Chau.
It takes a while for Lan Zhan to reply. Lan Zhan tries very hard to be grateful, always, for the many opportunities that come from being the second heir of Cloud Recesses, but he does not always manage it.
“It seems disingenuous,” he decides. “It downplays the power our family holds, and I am uncomfortable with the idea that Lan Xichen might be dismissive of that responsibility, even as a joke.”
“Have you tried telling your brother how you feel?”
“No.” Lan Zhan stares at the teacup in his hands, at the dark leaves settling at the bottom of the cup. “I do not have any real concerns about Xichen’s ability to lead Cloud Recesses with honor and empathy. I am merely reacting to echoes of the irresponsible and cavalier attitudes I have sometimes seen in other powerful cultivation families. It is unfair to project that onto Xichen, when it’s my own fault for drawing unjustified comparisons.”
“It would be okay,” Dr. Chau says, “if you were to ask Lan Xichen to adjust his behavior in a small, non-harmful way simply for your comfort, regardless of whether or not there is fault to be assigned.”
“Mn,” says Lan Zhan noncommittally.
***
Lan Zhan is not sure when Wei Ying became his best friend.
What he does know is that the first time Wei Ying called him for bail, something in his heart twisted open and has never fully closed. It’s possible—likely, even—that Lan Zhan was simply the person with the most disposable income that Wei Ying knew outside of his own family, but Lan Zhan had never been someone who was called, before.
He had almost let the unfamiliar number go to voicemail, and will always be glad that he did not. Wei Ying’s voice on the other side had been full of such transparently false cheer that Lan Zhan’s pulse had already begun racing before Wei Ying had finished a sentence.
“Ah, Lan Zhan...I’m really really sorry about this, but, uh, do you think you could...bail me out, maybe? I’ll pay you back, I promise! Just, right now, my family’s—um. I can’t ask the Jiangs for more money right now.”
Getting the full story from Wei Ying had been like pulling teeth, but Lan Zhan was not above driving the long way back from South Gusu Station to Wei Ying’s apartment. It was a story he would become very familiar with over the next few months: a protest or raid, law enforcement spoiling for a fight, Wei Ying’s compulsive need to throw himself into the line of fire.
Lan Zhan had never previously considered becoming more involved in social movements than the regular philanthropic activities of the Lan family, but hearing Wei Ying speak so passionately about his various causes stirs a kind of restless discomfort in him.
When a photo visibly featuring Lan Zhan at a march is published in the Gusu Star, Lan Qiren shouts at him for a solid hour and confines him to the grounds of Cloud Recesses for two weeks as though he were not twenty-one years old. It’s worth it, though; Lan Zhan uses the photo as his lockscreen, which Wei Ying finds hilariously petty. Lan Zhan doesn’t bother to explain that in the photo, Wei Ying is clearly visible next to him, laughing and radiant with his sign held high, arm looped through Lan Zhan’s as though they belong together.
***
Lan Zhan mentions therapy to Wei Ying when they are in the library studying for the last undergraduate finals they will ever take. At least, Lan Zhan is; Wei Ying has opted to sit next to Lan Zhan, illustrating Lan Zhan’s notes with little cartoons in the margins, crowding shamelessly into his space. At this point, Lan Zhan is used to it. He is grateful to have a friend who will nudge at the grey area between the boundaries he maintains because of his own comfort and the boundaries he maintains because he does not know how to break them.
Lan Zhan glances at the clock on the wall and gently tugs his notebook away from Wei Ying’s biro. Wei Ying lets out a heartfelt cry of loss, and a wild-eyed student at the next table shushes them aggressively to no effect.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says. “I must depart now. I have a therapy appointment.”
“Hah!” says Wei Ying. “I mean. Oh. Really? Are you—ah, sorry, sorry, never mind me! Just prying into your life again, Lan-er-gege.”
“You are not prying. I do not mind talking about it,” says Lan Zhan mildly. He really doesn’t, despite not having had occasion to do so yet. Lan Xichen is very careful about not asking, even though he honestly doesn’t need to be and it’s verging on becoming annoying, and Lan Zhan is not sufficiently close to anyone else to share this type of information about his personal life. “I was diagnosed with moderate anxiety last year. I find it helpful to have regular talk therapy sessions to manage everyday stress, so that it does not build up over time.”
“Oh,” says Wei Ying. “Okay. Um. Have fun! Is that weird to say? Have...a non-stressful time?”
A small tension that Lan Zhan did not know he had been holding is released. “Thank you, Wei Ying. I will see you later.”
***
After graduation, Wei Ying disappears, at least as far as Lan Zhan is concerned. And he is quite concerned.
“It’s normal to worry about friends who fall out of touch,” Dr. Chau tells him. “This is a very natural reaction. Have you tried reaching out to him?”
Lan Zhan stares down into his teacup for a long moment. “I am not sure that he wishes to be reached out to. In all the time I have known him, he has never been hesitant to initiate contact when he wants company.”
“Lan Zhan, you’re a very observant person. But you’re not omniscient. You won’t know whether Wei Ying wants to hear from you or not until he tells you.”
It is a moot point, anyway. Nobody seems to know where Wei Ying has gone or how to reach him—his phone number seems to have been disconnected—and it takes Lan Zhan a very long time to track down any of Wei Ying’s family.
Jiang Cheng is a man who feels everything too much, and does not know how to manage it. This is extremely obvious within two seconds of meeting him. Even if Lan Zhan were less sensitive to his spiking, tumultuous energy, the unhappy creases on Jiang Cheng’s face are as easy to read as ink on a page.
Jiang Cheng both loves and hates his brother in unmanageable ferocity. The two forces have created an endless push-pull maelstrom of wild, destructive grief in him. He shouts a lot, with a hoarse friction to his voice that says he’s been shouting too much lately, and Lan Zhan delicately tries to draw out as much information as he can before Jiang Cheng slams the door in his face.
It’s not a lot. He goes home and looks up the obituary for Jiang Yanli.
“I don’t cry often,” he tells Dr. Chau. “And I didn’t ever meet Jiang Yanli when she was—alive. So it does not make sense that I was so emotionally affected.”
Dr. Chau starts to speak, then stops uncertainly, visibly backtracking for perhaps the first time he can recall since he began seeing her. She begins again, slowly.
“Lan Zhan...it would be alright if you were to be emotionally affected on behalf of someone you really care about. I know Wei Ying is important to you, and it is understandable that you might have that reaction. But Lan Zhan, have you considered that this may be an indication that your attachment to Wei Ying is having negative effects on your overall well-being?”
Lan Zhan breathes in. Holds for a count of seven. Exhales. “I will not abandon Wei Ying.”
“I’m not saying you should. Lan Zhan, I’d never say that. But there are other people in the world who can also become important to you. Wei Ying is not your only chance for a close friendship.”
“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. “I am aware.”
The following day, he calls to cancel his future appointments.