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It’s a testament to how badly finals week is fucking Wei Ying up that he doesn’t even blink when the fire alarm goes off.
It takes a second for him to notice the shrieking at all, too focused on this one goddamn graph on the first page of his results that doesn’t make any sense. For a whole minute, or what feels like it, the wailing isn’t even intelligible to him, no different the constant pounding like an ice pick driven into his forehead ever since he realized this report is due Friday rather than Monday. He stares at the clock and watches the numbers as they tick over into two-oh-three in the morning. It’s technically Friday now, he guesses. The thought changes nothing about how he feels: One more drop in an overflowing bucket of shit.
He’s had a headache all day, the low droning of dread and confusion and panic that finals week always induces, and blinks at the graph on the screen, the linear regression distorting before his eyes. If he squints hard enough, it starts to look like Madam Yu’s email evil purple signature—
—we do not expect you home over the winter break… please do not impose… Mme Yu ZiYuan, COO, Jiang Corporation Canada—
—but, of course, it’s not. In a fit of desperation, Wei Ying changes the colour of the line of best fit to lime green. The R-squared value stays stubbornly under 0.3 and the coefficients still definitely aren’t making sense, but at least he’s not thinking about the fact that he’s going to be spending the next three weeks in this shitbox of a dorm room, rather than seeing his sister again for the first time in two years. He’s not thinking about it, he has finals to worry about and a splitting headache—shit, what’s all that noise?
The sprinklers in his room go off, so he has no choice but to acknowledge that the persistent blaring is not, in fact, all in his head this time, and his night, has, in fact, just gotten that much worse.
The water is freezing and shocks him into action. He shoves everything that might be susceptible to water damage under his bed: textbooks, chargers, loose-leaf (so much goddamn loose-leaf paper)—too late to deal with the wet duvet, he’ll have to leave it—and shuts his laptop before water can sink between the keys. He hears shrieking—other students, no doubt also distressed by the sudden wake up call. It only adds to the painful, endless screaming of the alarm—which, unsurprisingly, hasn’t become any less bearable for being external rather than of his own invention.
The light is flashing under Wei Ying’s door and he stares at it. He can’t help but think this is exactly the wrong time for this to happen. To be fair, there are few things in final week that wouldn’t be better off happening any other week—but this, on the one (not just one) night he’s pulling an all-nighter to finish this stupid report worth forty percent of his grade— Couldn’t it have waited just a little longer?
Of course not, Wei Ying is never that lucky.
The worst part is, there’s no way it’s a real fire. The fire alarms in this building are awful—most of them are actually too old to be in use, their filters so clogged and disgusting that they go off whenever the toaster in the common area is so much as plugged in. Mianmian swears she set it off boiling water in her kettle once, and Wei Ying believes her. Usually, it’s enough to wave a dishtowel at it viciously until the air is clear so none of the ones in the rest of the building are set off. Clearly, whoever set it off this time didn’t know that trick.
The sprinkler showers him gently with icy rain. He stares at his closed laptop—surely, the insurance that the school made him buy will cover any damages. He’s paying enough for it, isn’t he? Besides, if there actually is a fire in the dorms—which there’s virtually no way is true, see: the kettle incident—he’s sure the school won’t make him finish the final projects if all of his work is destroyed. Right?
He shoves his laptop in his backpack, grabs his phone (almost dead, of course), shoves his feet into the flipflops he uses to shower lying by the door and lunges back across his desk to grab his key. He nearly faceplants the second he steps out of his door. His legs are tingling still a little asleep, so it takes him another long second to recognize what he tripped over: There’s a three-pack of cup noodles (spicy chicken) and a can of coffee sitting outside of his door. Wei Ying blinks at them, kicks them into his room, and shuts the door. A problem for a later him.
He doesn’t lock it—not only is there absolutely nothing of value in his room to steal since the textbooks have already lost their retail value by the end of the semester—but he honestly doesn’t care. Finals week has taken all the will to live that he occasionally scrounges up and divested him of it, like an old coat when spring hits, only with ten times the prejudice and twice the malice. He probably should have taken the coffee with him.
The hallways are filled with students streaming out towards the staircases on the north side of the building. The muddied green-yellow walls, with a faded strip of red wallpaper that is surely meant to break up the painful colouring of the building, are cast eerily in the flashing white and red lights from the alarms. Out here, the sound is louder, and the sprinklers more aggressive. Adding to the noise is a cacophony of student voices in at least four different languages. It’s loud—so loud, that Wei Ying can’t even hear himself think. Not that he really wants to.
A confused bunch of students are still waiting in front of the notoriously slow elevator. Wei Ying would usually stop and explain but he is pushed passed before the thought even fully forms. He focuses on his feet instead of the faces swimming past and tries to take deliberate steps. It’s honestly more difficult than it should be: there isn’t any adrenaline left in his system after the shock of the due-date discovery this morning. He can’t remember the last time he left his room, much less the last time he slept for more than a couple of hours. Wei Ying finds himself almost grateful for the panicked crowd. He barely even has to watch the stairs; he feels like he’s crowd surfing, buoyed along by the rest of the international students.
Breaking out into the courtyard in front of the building is a shock to his system. Fresh air—crisp, clean and fucking cold—pierces his thin T-shirt. Why had he decided to grab his laptop rather than something more useful, like a coat? He’s an idiot—and one of the only ones, it looks like. Most have grabbed more than their shower flip-flops, at least, and plenty are wearing full on winter coats, despite the fact that it’s only early December. Some of them have mittens and tuques. There are a couple huddled closely together, a pair of girls wearing sleep shirts but huddled under a blanket that a friend has lent them. Wei Ying holds his bag, the one with his passport and his laptop, to his chest and hopes desperately that it’ll be over soon, and they’ll be allowed back inside. At least there’s no snow, he thinks, but he’s not confident that the shimmer on the grass isn’t frost. His toes are freezing, and he can feel goosebumps on his arms, legs and some places he didn’t even know could get goosebumps.
Someone with a megaphone stands on one of the picnic tables. It screeches when she turns it on, which is enough to get most of the crowd’s attention. “Calm down,” she yells through the megaphone, voice distorted by the box. “Please, everyone. This will be resolved, and you will be able to return to your rooms in a matter of minutes. Please remain calm, and stay out of the way of the firemen.”
They’re piling into the building now, decked out in full gear but utterly unconcerned. Someone repeats the megaphone message in French, which Wei Ying doesn’t understand, so he tunes, out, rubbing his hands against his frozen arms. He curls his toes under his feet, as though it’ll keep them any warmer.
He loses track of time, staring up at the sky. It’s cloudy, but between breaks in the clouds he can see some stars. He doesn’t want to, but without his projects in front of him, he has time to wonder if his sister is looking at them, too, whether he should call her, whether she knows he’s not coming back this winter. With a new baby, it’s possible she’s still awake—Jin Ling, she told him the last time she called, three weeks ago, still hasn’t slept through the night. There are tears in Wei Ying’s eyes. He doesn’t let them fall, forces himself to believe they’ve frozen on his lashes rather than wonder at the point of it all. Apathy stretches its jaws and welcomes him home with a yawn.
The firemen leave the building a matter of minutes later. They go up to the woman who had been talking—the head RA, maybe? Wei Ying is sure he’s seen her before, maybe at one of the welcome events—they speak quickly, but over the hubbub he can’t make out the words. She’s frowning, though, so it clearly can’t be good news. He pats her on the shoulder, and leaves with his crew, piling into the red truck, and driving away, lights no longer flashing. He it leave and tries not to think about how cold his feet are.
The head RA looks like she could really use a good sigh. She doesn’t, though, and climbs back on the table. “Everyone from floors one three and four can return inside,” she announces with another ear-shattering screech of the microphone. There’s a general cheer that muffles whatever the French translation of that is. “Floor two, stay here, we’ll be taking attendance.”
Wei Ying has never hated his second-floor room more than in that minute. He’s always liked it because it would allegedly be easy to leave through the window—not that he would ever, no sir, not him—and also because his neighbours mostly aren’t total shit. The bathrooms on the floor both always have at least two working showers and a working toilet, and they aren’t stuck with the worst of the water pressure like the fourth floor, and don’t have that one perpetually hotboxed room like the third does.
The woman climbs down from the table as the entire second floor, some twenty-odd students, clusters around her. The front door of the oldest and shittiest dorms on campus slams shut behind the last of the others.
Wei Ying only recognizes about half of them, which goes to show how little interaction he’s had with anyone this semester. He recognizes some of the first years—the cute kid from somewhere North (on a better day Wei Ying might remember), Mo XuanYu. Su She is there, looking unusually pleased, which is not a good sign. He’s staring at someone across the tightly clustered circle—Wei Ying follows his gaze and spots Lan Zhan. He’s wearing a thick, definitely vegan parka and a beanie with matching gloves. It’s completely unfair how attractive he is, even as tired as he must be, with his famously rigid sleeping schedule.
Lan Zhan meets his gaze, nods at him. Wei Ying shivers—with cold, thank you very much!—and tries to grin back.
The RA sighs loudly. Wei Ying turns back to try to pay attention, even as he can feel his teeth starting to chatter.
“The guys from the fire station say that one of the alarms on your floor was pulled,” she tells them gravely, crossing her arms. “This is a serious matter—not only for the disruption of your fellow students but for the cost associated with damages and the fire brigade.” She looks them each in the eyes as she says this. Wei Ying is pretty sure she’s the head RA. Maybe he saw her at one of those meet-ups, the ones that were organized for new international students at the beginning of the semester? He wasn’t new, of course, not this year, but he likes to go, meet the new kids, help them out where he can. It’s fallen by the wayside a bit in the last week—weeks, really—but he at least knows most of their names. Tries to give them an older sibling vibe, be there for them like he wished someone had bothered to do for him. That sort of thing.
He’s not even really paying attention to what she’s saying to them, now, but she doesn’t look happy. He gets distracted by the windows of the building slowly going dark, one by one. There’s a light on in his room—second floor, towards the middle but not quite. That was a little silly of him—probably a fire hazard or something. He almost wants to laugh, but he’s sure the sound would freeze on its way up his throat.
“—anyone?” The head RA is asking, “please volunteer any information you have now, it will make our jobs much easier.”
“—Ying,” someone says, "him." Wei Ying blinks back to the present. Su She is glaring at him, which is completely normal, but the fact that everyone else is also looking at him is kind of weird. He opens his mouth and speaks—Wei Ying doesn’t listen to a word the guy says, on principle, but apparently he’s being addressed directly this time. “He’s always causing disruptions. Everyone knows he’s not even serious about school.”
Wei Ying shakes his head, trying to catch up. “Wait,” he says, “wait, what? You think it was me?”
“You’ve played tricks like this before,” Su She crosses his arms somewhat smugly, “this is probably another one of your stupid pranks.”
“Pranks? It was an April Fool’s day event last year.” True, he had probably targeted the guy a little—but he had deserved it, and he hadn’t brought it up with the administration at the time, so Wei Ying figured he was off the hook. Apparently not. He doesn’t know what Su She has against him, but, “I wouldn’t pull a fire alarm during finals, what the fuck?”
Wei Ying looks at the RA, who is tilting her head at him, like—well? What do you have to say about it?
And what exactly is Wei Ying supposed to say? He doesn’t have—what, an alibi? He’s been holed up in his room all day. Besides that one trip to the kitchen—if that even was today?—and briefly texting Wen Ning to complain while strategically not mentioning that he was probably not going home and therefore definitely didn’t need an invite to the Wen winter party thing that Wen Qing would be holding with their grandparents, he hasn’t spoken to anyone. And—well, it’s true that he can’t usually care about school, but that’s always been the depression, not active antagonism against getting a degree. He’s here now—fourth year, too—he’s trying to care about his classes, he needs the degree, he wants to do well. Most of the time.
But he knows that’s not enough, right now. Su She looks viciously satisfied with himself. What an asshole.
“I’ve been working on a paper all day,” he tells the RA, slightly bewildered. “I left my room, like, once to go to the bathroom.” He looks back at Su She, “why would I pull the fire alarm?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Su She says, “but make all sorts of tasteless jokes, don’t you? This is clearly just another of those.”
Wei Ying is a little horrified to see some of his fellow students nodding. Okay, he thinks, okay. He’s dealt with things like this before—only he hasn’t, because there’s a several thousand dollar fine hanging in the balance right now, not to mention the paper he still hasn’t finished and the degree that he suddenly might not get. He’s not sure he could afford it in a good year and it definitely hasn’t been one of those.
“That’s stupid,” is all he can say, feeling a little numb, which might just be the cold. “All my shit is ruined too, you know.”
“You remembered your laptop bag, though,” a student he doesn’t even recognize says, looking from Su She to him and back again. “None of us have ours. Maybe you knew ahead of time.”
“What the fuck,” Wei Ying says incredulously. “I’m not even wearing shoes. Are you serious?”
The RA doesn’t look impressed with him. “Do you have anyone who can confirm that you didn’t?” He stares at her. Of course he doesn’t. She has to know that. He realizes with a sick feeling that she probably does, actually, but that she’d rather have a solution to the problem presented to her in the way of someone without an excuse than deal with the person in charge and telling them that she doesn’t know who pulled a fire alarm in the international student dorms during finals week at two in the fucking morning.
Wei Ying is used to being a scapegoat, or he thought he was. It’s still brutal. He feels scraped a little raw.
“I mean,” he says, thinking quickly, “I can show you the timestamp on my report, to show that I was working on it?”
She shakes her head. “I think you should just come with me and talk to the head of security.”
Her expression is kind, but the set of her eyes is remorseless. Wei Ying knows the face—he grew up in foster care, he knows exactly the face people give you when they’re not even going to try to believe you, when they want you gone.
He’s so fucking cold. His arms are fucking freezing.
In a weird way, he feels like he’s eight years old again, huddling in the doorway of the convenience store and asking for spare change. Asking anyone to believe that he’s exactly as poor as he’s claiming to be, that he’s so, so cold. That there aren’t enough places for skinny fucked-up kids like him in the system, that the family he’s with doesn’t always remember to feed him and he’s on his fourth case worker. That he doesn’t have winter boots and there’s snow on the ground. He feels like he’s looking up at the heavy-set white man who owns the shop as he locks up, at three in the morning. That the man is shaking his head at him, sympathetic but not willing to give any of the change that rattles loosely in his coat pockets. Wei Ying isn’t worth that much.
It’s a testament, to how fucked up Wei Ying is by finals week, or maybe just by depression, that he doesn’t even try to defend himself any further. Fine, maybe he deserves this. Maybe he should have dropped out as soon as the Jiang’s stopped paying his tuition. Maybe he should have just—left. Fucked off and started working at some convenience store where he wouldn’t have to rely on handouts and pity and, he doesn’t even know, some sort of compassion from the people around him. It’s clearly too much to ask.
He looks down at his hands, and wrings his fingers together. His nails are turning blue.
“It was not Wei Ying,” a clear voice says before he can make a stupid decision like admitting to something he didn’t do just to get somewhere warm. Someone puts a jacket over his shoulders. It’s warm—it even smells nice, which is kind incredible, because no one’s winter jacket ever smells nice. Wei Ying knows the voice, but it still takes him a long second to figure out what’s going on.
“I checked on Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan to the RA. “I can corroborate that he has remained in his room this evening.”
Wei Ying blinks. He didn’t know that someone—Lan Zhan, apparently—checked in on him. He thinks of the granola bars he’d found on his way to the bathroom, he thinks of the sticky note that had fallen off them. He thinks of last finals week, the year before, and of the health bars and high-calorie protein drink that someone left by his door. Thinks of the cups of noodles, the canned coffee.
“Lan Zhan!” he says. He’s not sure what he means by it, except to say his name.
Lan Zhan doesn’t lie, it’s one of those things about him that no one can quite believe is true—until you’ve had a conversation with him and realize that he does, in fact, talk like an professional email sent to your boss. Not to mention that he’s the kind of straight edge that means not only does he not drink but that he actually goes to bed around nine and manages to wake up at five to meditate every morning. It’s terrifying, in the way that only people who are functionally capable of aspiring to will ever hope to achieve.
Wei Ying is unreasonably fond of him. They did exactly one project together, the year before, in a class here individual work was discouraged, and it ended with not exactly a rapport and certainly not friendship, but a mutual understanding and no shortage of blatant ogling on Wei Ying’s part. The project had gotten them an A, and they’ve talked infrequently since.
Wei Ying knew he lived on the second floor, and he’s even once seen Lan Zhan’s room. It’s pristine, just like Lan Zhan always is. Iron-pressed, dry-cleaned, the whole shebang.
That’s why it’s so unbelievable that he’s standing here, a long line of warmth at Wei Ying’s back, and his hands on Wei Ying’s shoulders, and lying to the head RA.
“Are you sure?” she’s asking, eyebrows a little raised.
Yeah, Wei Ying tries to communicate telepathically at Lan Zhan, this is a stupid ploy. There are much better things for you to lie about than helping Wei Ying not get fucked over by the administration.
“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. “We passed each other in the bathroom this morning, and I brought him food this evening.” His voice is calm, sure. The RA is staring at him—in a way that Wei Ying is sure he’s worn far more than his fair share of times—with no small amount of appreciation. She still looks skeptical, though.
Wei Ying looks quickly up at Lan Zhan and then looks down at his hands, pretending this isn’t news to him. He hadn’t noticed Lan Zhan this morning—or, he’d tried very hard not to, because noticing Lan Zhan would mean he would be distracted for another couple of hours and he really couldn’t afford that during finals week. It’s still—surprising? Shocking? Warming him from the inside?—that Lan Zhan is telling people that he’s the one who brought him cup noodles.
“That’s ridiculous,” Su She buts in, “why would you check in on him?” He tells the RA, “they’re not even friends.”
The students who aren’t dead on their feet yet are watching the confrontation like a tennis match. Wei Ying is doing is absolute best to stay straight-faced when the whole situation has suddenly become that much more comprehensible—and that much more ridiculous.
Wei Ying has always known that Su She was jealous of Lan Zhan. It’s obvious to anyone who has ever stood in the same room as the two of them: Everything Su She does is a cheap replication of something that comes effortlessly to Lan Zhan—musical talent (Su She’s lacking, Lan Zhan’s beyond compare), CGPA (Su She’s average, Lan Zhan’s stellar), a particular brand of disregard to others (Su She’s haughtiness, Lan Zhan’s effortlessly cool). He’s even wearing a thinner, cheaper version of the parka that’s currently wrapped around Wei Ying’s shoulders. Wei Ying kind of wants to laugh, even though it’s definitely not the right response right now. He bites his lip.
“Wei Ying?” the RA is asking. His name sounds flat. “Can you confirm this?”
“Uh,” Wei Ying says, suddenly on the spot, “I mean, I’ve been pretty focused today—on my report?— I—” he makes the executive decision to go along with the lie. “He gave me soup,” he says, “Though I honestly thought that happened yesterday.” Lan Zhan’s hands tighten on his shoulders and Wei Ying glances up at him. “Lan Zhan’s really great,” he can’t help but add, “I’d trust him.”
“It’s true,” one of the kids—well, first years, the new ones on campus—pipes up. It’s Lan JingYi, wrapped in a thick parka with a scarf wrapped so thoroughly around his face that his features are almost indistinguishable under all the wool. “Lan Zhan is good like that. And I said hi to him, in front of Wei Ying’s door a couple of hours ago.” He shrugs.
The RA rolls her eyes. Her shoulders drop. Wei Ying is viciously glad that some combination of the back-and-forth and Lan Zhan’s untouchable reputation as the best person in existence have convinced her to give up on finding someone to blame this evening.
Wei Ying sure the rules on their floor—maybe in the whole building—are going to get a lot stricter now, which is going to suck, big time. Still, he’s grateful. He won’t throw away what they’ve offered him, even if they’re being a little stupid.
“Fine,” the RA says. “But this is a final warning for all of you,” she looks each of them in the eyes, especially long in Wei Ying’s, “if this happens again, there won’t just be fines on the table. We’ll have each of you draw up a schedule of how your time was spent this evening and review the footage form the security cameras. If you decide to turn yourself in before tomorrow at six, you will face a lighter penalty,” she says firmly, “I hope you consider that.”
Wei Ying is pretty sure her gaze lingers on him longer than anyone else, but he honestly doesn’t care. He can feel his fingers again, and almost feel his toes. It’s incredible. That, and having Lan Zhan’s weight at his back. He’s suddenly never felt so warm.
Man, if growing up an orphan didn’t make him touch-starved, surviving the past semesters have absolutely done it. He presses into the comfort of Lan Zhan’s weight and doesn’t think too hard about the action.
The RA sighs and tells them to go back inside. Su She hangs back to talk to her, clearly arguing something, but Wei Ying doesn’t even care. They can slander his name, they can put a fine against his account—whatever. He knows better. And Lan Zhan lied for him: spun some tale about seeing him and checking in on him frequently.
Lan Zhan doesn’t let him go, the whole time they’re walking towards the building. His hands stay around him, warm and large. They wait in the stairwell for others to climb the stairs before starting to ascend.
“You should have worn a jacket, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan tells him, in that smooth voice he has.
Wei Ying tries to focus on the words. “Yeah,” he manages, “Well, next time.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t respond.
Wei Ying notices suddenly that Lan Zhan has goosebumps on his perfect arms. He shrugs out of the jacket—and, unfortunately, out of Lan Zhan’s grasp. “You’re cold, Lan Zhan!” he says, “I don’t need your jacket anymore.” He knows Lan Zhan is notorious for keeping and wanting his own space—that’s part of the reason he’s seen Lan Zhan’s dorm room exactly once, ever, despite their semester-long project. He had clearly creased the bed or something—enough hat Lan Zhan never asked him to come over again. Lan Zhan also doesn’t appreciate skin-to-skin contact. Or hugs. He froze solid the first and last time Wei Ying ever dared greet him with a hug and the frown—a full one, an actual full expression on Lan Zhan’s face—had discouraged him from trying ever again.
Lan Zhan’s lips purse in the equivalent of a frown. “You are wearing shorts and flipflops,” he tells Wei Ying. “I will be okay.” He puts the coat back over Wei Ying’s shoulders. This, fortunately for Wei Ying, brings him nestled closer to Lan Zhan’s side. He can’t find a reason to complain. If Lan Zhan is offering, well, Wei Ying is helpless to say no.
Lan Zhan walks him all the way to his door and stops there. He stares at Wei Ying, and Wei Ying stares back, for a second.
“Thanks,” he says. The last door down the hall shuts with a snap, leaving them alone in the ugly green-yellow hall. It’s warmer, here, at last, but Wei Ying keeps the jacket on for a little longer. “Good night, then.”
Wei Ying can’t read the flicker of emotion that crosses Lan Zhan’s face. He steps back. “Good night, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying doesn’t even remember his head hitting the pillow.
…
He wakes up uncomfortably damp, a few short hours later. His curtains are drawn open, which means the sun is shining directly into his eyes. He checks his phone. It’s just past seven. He has to finish the paper, and he really, really should email his sister, before someone else tells her first. He swings his legs off the bed and drags a hand over his face. All of that can wait, though, because he has something more important to do first.
Wei Ying bundles up the jacket and pulls on a clean hoodie before trudging down the hall. Lan Zhan answers on his first knock.
“Wei Ying,” he says, when Wei Ying is briefly struck silent by the fact that he looks this good, this early in the day. Clearly, everything last night was just a fever dream. He’s coming down with that evil cold that everyone gets at least once during finals season. That’s why he hallucinated Lan Zhan holding him and defending him in front of Su She.
“Lan Zhan,” he manages, “I came by to say—thanks.” He offers up the jacket. He had tried to fold it but it falls open as he sets it in Lan Zhan’s hands. Oops.
“There was no need,” Lan Zhan tells him. He looks a little uncomfortable. “Come in.”
He holds the door open. Wei Ying slips inside, tries not to let himself stare at the neatness of the room.
“Seriously,” Wei Ying tells Lan Zhan. “I know you don’t like people in your space. It, um, means a lot, what you said. I’m not sure they would have believed me.”
“They should have,” Lan Zhan says. The confusion and discomfort are replaced with something close to ferocity. “You are a dedicated student with high marks,” he says, meeting Wei Ying’s eyes with a kind of intensity that startles him. Wei Ying can feel his eyes widen. “This university is lucky to count you among its students and does itself discredit when it assumes you do not want to be here.”
Wei Ying is actually speechless, for a full thirty seconds. He’s not sure what he can say to that. It’s—Lan Zhan doesn’t say things like that. Lan Zhan tolerates him at best, and certainly doesn’t hold him to that kind of esteem. Lan Zhan, perfect and pristine Lan Zhan, doesn’t think this highly of him.
“That’s ridiculous,” he manages. “Lan Zhan don’t be silly, I’m just a student. The university doesn’t care—and shouldn’t, what the fuck.” There is some expression that he’s having trouble reading on Lan Zhan’s face. He corrects, “I’m grateful, of course I am, that you stood up for me. Thank you. I mean, I know you don’t lie. So, I appreciate that you covered for me.”
“It was not a lie,” Lan Zhan tells him. He looks at the floor by Wei Ying’s feet.
“What?”
“What I said, none of it was a lie.” He still isn’t looking at Wei Ying.
Wei Ying feels a little like he might implode and set off the fire alarm all over again, which would definitely lead to an expulsion. He feels a little breathless when he asks, “what do you mean?”
“I checked on you four times yesterday,” Lan Zhan admits to his interlaced hands or maybe to his white duvet. “I was—concerned. I had not seen you leave your room in several hours. I knocked.”
Wei Ying can’t—doesn’t understand. He remembers someone knocking yesterday, he remembers ignoring it, staring at his graphs and their stupid little logarithmic scales. He remembers getting the granola bars, the fancy kind, the day before last, before time was so hazy. He remembers tripping over the soup, his favourite flavour, remembers wondering how it got there. .
“That actually was you?” Wei Ying asks. The soup cups were even in his favourite flavour, he thinks with no small amount of awe, because Lan Zhan is exactly the right, upstanding sort of person to remember inconsequential details about people like that. “The soup? And the granola bars too? You don’t even—you just tolerate me. Why did you—?”
Lan Zhan is still looking down at his hands. “I do not hate you, Wei Ying, and I am sorry you got that impression.” His ears are red. Wei Ying can’t stop looking at him. “I’m—very fond of you, Wei Ying.”
Very—very fond? Does that mean—he’s— Wei Ying looks at his desk, with his carefully placed papers, the pencils in his pencil cup the neatly arranged pens. The sleek laptop, plugged in, and the recycling bin under his desk. The miniature gay pride flag, somehow completely at home among Lan Zhan’s highlighters.
Wei Ying has not yet had any coffee.
“Oh,” he manages.
Lan Zhan is at least looking at him now. His eyes are wide. Wei Ying can’t do anything but stare back at them, feeling a little lost. He thinks about cups of noodles in spicy chicken flavour even though he knows that Lan Zhan is vegetarian. He thinks about canned coffee and Lan Zhan’s aversion to caffeine. He thinks about Lan Zhan’s insistence on breakfast, and failing that, granola bars. Lan Zhan has nodded at him, every time they’ve passed each other on campus for the past six months.
“Would you like to—”
“Yes,” Wei Ying says.
“—go to dinner with me?” Lan Zhan blinks at him. “…Yes?”
He would say yes to anything Lan Zhan asked of him, and it’s both terrifying and exhilarating. Wei Ying can’t help himself. He grabs Lan Zhan’s hands, both of them, smooth, warm palms against his own.
“Yes,” he repeats. “I really, really want to grab dinner with you. Even if it’s just plain white rice, I promise I won’t even complain. Not once! And I’ll even remember my cafeteria card, so you don’t have to pay, or we can go halvsies.” Lan Zhan looks a bit overwhelmed, but the words are coming out of his mouth faster than Wei Ying can think them. “And I’ll wear my jacket, so I can lend it to you if you get cold, and—I also really, really, really want to kiss you right now,” he admits in a rush. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “Lan Zhan, can I kiss you?”
Lan Zhan blinks at him slowly. Wei Ying feels like he is vibrating out of his skin. Finally, Lan Zhan says, “yes. Please.”
And then they are kissing—a little clumsily at first, because boy was Wei Ying not expecting this, just desperately and frantically hoping for it, for literal years. Lan Zhan’s lips are soft. How is he so warm? They aren’t touching anywhere but their palms and their lips, but Wei Ying feels like he is on fire. He presses into the kiss a little more firmly and Lan Zhan’s mouth opens in a small gasp. Wei Ying smiles.
When they separate, a little short of breath, Wei Ying is still grinning. And Lan Zhan—stoic, perfect Lan Zhan—is smiling. Just barely, but he is. Wei Ying touches the pad of his finger softly to the corner of his mouth, and marvels.
“Wow,” he says, completely involuntarily. Lan Zhan’s smile doesn’t fade, but the horror that is final projects, the fire alarm debacle, even Madam Yu’s shitty email, all vanish momentarily. Wei Ying is still holding one of his hands. Lan Zhan presses the pads of his fingers into Wei Ying’s palm, a gentle pressure. Warm.
A door slams, someone screams, but that’s just finals week—and Wei Ying feels like he might even be able to endure it.