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Song Lan could see that Xingchen was trying. Really trying. But eventually, the pursed lips, the shuddering chest couldn’t contain his laughter anymore.
Xingchen snorted, “I’m sorry, Zichen, really, I am but…” Xingchen looked his friend up and down, now trying to cover his giggles with a fist, “I just… where did you even get all of this stuff? I only saw you bring one backpack.”
Song Lan tried to answer, but the scarf muffled the words completely. He reached to unwind it, but the layers he wore left his limbs stiff, awkward. Then, when he finally got his arms oriented the right way, all he could manage was to scrabble at the edges of the scarf with his mittens until finally Xingchen took mercy and pulled it loose for him, “And how did you even get all of this on?” Xingchen asked, incredulous.
Song Lan didn’t immediately answer. He had been momentarily distracted by the way Xingchen’s mouth did that thing, that lopsided smile that made Song Lan’s heart quicken, made him grateful that his reddening face could be credited to the clothing he was wrapped tight in, to the overheating. Not… anything else.
“Zichen?” Xingchen prompted again, tilting his head, wrapping the loosened ends of the scarf around his own arm for safekeeping.
“Where do you think?” Zichen said, voice gruff, but unable to keep anything but a smile on his face in front of this man.
Xingchen threw his head back and let out another burst of laughter before sighing, “My nephew. Of course.”
Song Lan nodded, chuckling himself at his own gullibility.
He had never been to Xingchen’s family home before, tucked away as it was in the mountains. But when Xingchen had heard that Song Lan’s family wouldn’t be home this year, and that he was otherwise planning to stay in the city, studying all winter break, Xingchen had invited him to the massive family get together Xingchen’s mothers threw each year. Song Lan had heard so many hilarious, even if now horrifying, stories about it. Even so, he had accepted the invitation immediately.
So this morning, he had asked Wei Wuxian for help. Wuxian, despite being Xingchen’s nephew, was far closer to their age than Xingchen’s sister was. And too late he had realized his mistake, already two coats deep and in enough layers of pants that he had lost count.
“He told me I needed to be careful of frostbite,” Song Lan shrugged, “And then next thing I knew, well...” He looked down to the snow pants, ski jacket, and heavy waterproof mittens Wei Wuxian had insisted on. And this was only what Xingchen could see, Song Lan able to feel the weight of the several layers underneath, the layers which made Song Lan’s usually well-fitting jacket strain at the zipper.
“Just like his mother,” Xingchen shook his head, broad grin on his face, “We’re just going for a walk, Zichen. I live in the mountains, sure, but not the Arctic.”
“I see the error of my ways now,” Song Lan replied wryly, “But could you… ah…” he wiggled his arms helplessly, silently hoping Wei Wuxian was proud of himself, to have brought him down to such a humiliating state.
Xingchen nodded, still obviously amused, but got to work, “You know,” he said, pulling off the three toques stuffed within each other, tossing them to floor, presumably to pull back apart later, “If you didn’t know what to wear you could’ve… always asked me?” Song Lan almost thought he heard a note of shyness to Xingchen’s tone, his averted gaze.
“I would’ve… I just,” Song Lan shrugged, ignoring the feeling of Xingchen’s warm breath on his cheek as the other man carefully unzipped the jacket, avoided thinking too hard about the accidental brush of their hands as Xingchen helped Song Lan pull the jacket off of Song Lan’s well-padded arms. Song Lan sighed, “Didn’t want to bother you?”
That wasn’t quite it. Song Lan had agonized over what to wear on this walk around Xingchen’s family home, fussed over having too many, then too few, options. He didn’t want to seem not under, or over, prepared. So he had finally caved and gone to Wuxian, knowing at least then, whatever happened wasn’t technically his fault.
“Oh, Zichen,” Xingchen shook his head, voice far more earnest than a light-hearted conversation like this necessarily required. It made Song Lan’s head buzz pleasantly, as Xingchen told him, “You can always come to me. It would never be a bother.”
“N-noted,” Song Lan internally flinched at the stutter. He was sure it would let Xingchen read just how much those words flustered him.
“There,” Xingchen said, ignoring the stutter even if had noticed, casting the last of the too-tight jackets aside, “That should be loose enough that you should, ah, be able to take the rest off yourself,” Xingchen was smiling, but he was also definitely averting his eyes.
“Hmm? Oh!” Song Lan flushed realizing, “I’ll, uh… yeah, I can do this bit.”
He debated internally a few long moments whether he should go all the way back up to the guest room to change, or if he should just remove the extra layers of shirts, of pants, right here in the foyer. There were layers below everything he wanted to remove, but the action felt… odd in front of Xingchen. He didn’t want to seem so modest as to trudge all the way upstairs, but the atmosphere had grown oddly tense as Song Lan paused, neither moving away nor moving to pull the excess clothing off. He ended up compromising by shuffling over to the edge of the room and ducking halfway behind a doorway. For the next few minutes, he pulled layer after layer off, neatly folding the excess garments and coming back out to Xingchen in just a simple pair of jeans, socks, and a cable knit sweater.
“There you are,” Xingchen said in what was almost a whisper. Song Lan nodded back, the mood suddenly much quieter. For some reason, it just felt natural to let Xingchen help him back into the jacket that the man was still holding. Song Lan caught his friend’s eye as he zipped up the front, gaze lingering maybe a moment or two longer than strictly necessary.
Then Xingchen pulled away, smile wavering just a little, blinking a little faster than usual, “Your boots?” he said, his voice even lower now.
Song Lan nodded silently and pulled them on, joining Xingchen at the front door as they pushed out into the winter air, cold air greeting them, feathery snowflakes drifting lazily downwards. The wind was thankfully much calmer this morning than when they had arrived the night before.
“This is my favourite weather,” Xingchen remarked, looking around him, at the snow-capped trees, as they trudged slowly through the half foot of snow already accumulated on the path it had been shoveled he night before.
“Mm,” Song Lan said, though he felt his eyes again drift not towards his surroundings but towards his companion, “It’s perfect.”
Xingchen nodded serenely, then glanced down at his arm.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Sorry, Zichen, I forgot I had it,” he turned and they caught one another’s eyes again. Xingchen continued, more quietly now, “Your scarf?” He slowly unraveled the knit garment from where it was still wrapped around his arm, somehow having been woven around Xingchen’s arm even more while Song Lan hadn’t been looking. Xingchen held it out taut, head tilted, looking for permission.
Song Lan nodded in answer and ducked his head, letting Xingchen reach over his head, drape the scarf over his neck. And Xingchen was close now. Very close. Song Lan realized it, and Xingchen seemed to as well. But despite their proximity, neither seemed to want to pull away. Xingchen’s hands still gripped the ends of the scarf in some vague attempt at plausible deniability, as though it only made sense to keep holding onto the ends of your friend’s scarf, long after gravity would do the work of keeping it on their shoulders.
Song Lan felt his cheeks light up with heat again, the scarf, shifting ever so slightly in Xingchen’s unsteady touch, registering as an extension of Xingchen’s fingers.
“Zichen?” Xingchen asked, under his breath.
“Mnm?” Zichen replied, gently, trying not to break whatever delicate bubble they were now caught in.
“I’m… I’m really glad you’re here.”
“I’m really glad you’re here too,” Song Lan whispered back without pause, every fibre of his body electric at the closeness of their breath, visible, merging, in the cold morning air. He almost shuddered at the almost, but not quite touch between them. He smirked, the tension getting to be just a bit too much, “But do you know what I’m even happier about?”
“What?” Xingchen furrowed his brow, confused.
Song Lan bent just a bit closer to Xingchen’s level, the gap between them shortening. He whispered in his best deadpan, “I’m really glad I’m not bundled up like a marshmallow anymore.”
Xingchen burst out into laughter again, the sound even more beautiful this close. Song Lan beamed.
“You,” Xingchen, hands still on Song Lan’s scarf, pulled. It was gentle, wouldn’t have moved Song Lan if he hadn’t let it. Now he and Song Lan were mere centimetres apart, eye to eye, “Are ridiculous,” Xingchen concluded.
And then, quickly, easily, any chill filtering through Song Lan’s system from the winter air was expelled as the rest of the space between them closed. Xingchen’s lips soft, gentle, were pressed to Song Lan’s forehead. There was only the briefest moment of surprise. Of shock. Song Lan’s eyes were wide. They darted up, and Song Lan would be able to count every freckle dotted across Xingchen’s cheek. He had to catch himself, stop himself from falling over completely, leaning a hand to Xingchen’s chest. Xingchen’s hand, was meanwhile struggling to find purchase in the slippery fabric of Song Lan’s winter coat as though to pull him even closer.
Song Lan melted into the touch completely and closed his eyes. His own hand moved instinctively from Xingchen’s chest to his back, and Xingchen’s lips broke away, flashing Song Lan a momentary smile, before letting Song Lan’s hand pull them closer, Xingchen wrapping his own arm around Song Lan.
The snow swirled around, lighting gently in their hair, on their lashes as they held each other close. And gradually, so gradually, yet so inevitably, they turned, were now looking eye to eye again, their noses all but touching. All that would be needed was a slight tilt and…
Their lips met, found each other as though it was always meant to be this way. The two of them, pressed close together in the wind, in the snow.
And Song Lan had never felt warmer.
