Chapter Text
The moment Lan Zhan opens the door, Wei Ying is talking. Even through the sequence of events that follows – being led into the living room, waiting for Lan Zhan to return with a nest of towels for the couch, settling in with the bundle of squirming, mewling kitten inside – Wei Ying barely pauses for breath once.
It seems, from Lan Zhan’s limited experience, like the default state for Wei Ying. To the extent that now, four weeks into Intro to Psychology, Lan Zhan’s older brother now recognizes Wei Ying’s name. Ah, Lan Huan will laugh, every time Wei Ying comes up in a story about their small-group section, the loud one, yes? Lan Zhan does not tell many stories about section. Certainly not that many about Wei Ying. He’s not sure how he feels that this is the name his brother remembers.
But sitting on Lan Zhan’s couch, gently wafting the blowdryer’s lowest setting at the orange tabby in his lap, his usual frenetic monologue has slowed. It’s a half-whispered laugh, like water lapping at a shore. “You like that?” he says. “You’re making so many biscuits. You’re a champion at biscuits. The biscuit king.”
The kitten kneads deeper into the hoodie Wei Ying has him wrapped in. He’s mostly dry now, eyes closed and ears relaxed. Wei Ying, on the other hand, is down to a soaking wet t-shirt. His hair is dripping, half-fallen and plastered to his neck. He’s shivering. The central air on Lan Zhan’s floor is still faulty, wired to his next-door neighbor’s controls – and Mr. Zhao has a heavy hand. Lan Zhan briefly, vividly imagines knocking on his door.
“You’re cold,” Lan Zhan says.
“What?” Wei Ying blinks, smiles. His teeth are chattering a little. “Oh, Lan Zhan, I’m fine. It’s still basically summer.”
“Be that as it may,” Lan Zhan says, more insistently. (Wei Ying is visibly freezing. What’s the point in denying it?) “You will catch cold. You should put on dry clothes.”
Lan Zhan can see the gears turning in Wei Ying’s head. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Oh,” he says. “You mean—I should borrow some?”
Lan Zhan feels the unfamiliar urge to squirm. “We are the same size.”
Wei Ying lights up like a lantern. A flicker, then a glow. “Then can you look after my liege while I change? He needs to dry a little more.”
“‘My liege’ is—” Lan Zhan says.
“The cat,” Wei Ying chirps. “His Majesty the Biscuit King.”
Lan Zhan has no way to counter that except to settle on the other end of the couch. He accepts the blowdryer in one hand and the bundle of hoodie and kitten in a careful arm: His Majesty the Biscuit King blinks sleepily up at him.
“Keep drying him,” Wei Ying says, “he likes it.”
The request is barely half-processed before Lan Zhan flips the switch to the gentlest setting again. His Majesty sighs and settles. Lan Zhan has never been drunk, but he imagines this is what it must feel like: everything completely incongruous, yet somehow working together.
“Why did you come here,” Lan Zhan says. He only realizes how clipped it sounds when Wei Ying freezes. “Your dorm isn’t much further away,” he amends, softer.
“No pets allowed in the dorms.” Wei Ying grimaces. “And the RA has a third ear. Sorry, Lan Zhan. I didn’t mean to barge in.”
“You didn’t barge,” Lan Zhan says. Even he’s surprised at how much it’s true. Wei Ying had been patiently huddled by complex doors, dripping in the breezeway. When Lan Zhan flicked on the front buzzer camera, Wei Ying had been half-turned away, ready to try something else. “What will you do?”
“Haven’t quite thought of that yet.” Wei Ying clambers to his feet, gathering the wet towels behind him. “But I have a ten-minute walk back! I’ll have a plan by then.”
“You’ll be written up if residence staff catch you,” Lan Zhan says.
“I’ve been written up for much stupider reasons.” Wei Ying smiles sunnily. “The hard part will be convincing Jiang Cheng. I’ll figure out the rest.” He starts down the hall, then hesitates. “Oh, and—is there anything of yours I shouldn’t take? I don’t want to get kitten hair on anything nice.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t speak often. But he doesn’t often scramble for words, either. Here, down the barrel of Wei Ying’s smile, holding the animal he’s willing to be written up for – he’s scrambling.
“Take anything you like,” is what he says.
Wei Ying laughs. “You might regret that,” he says, and then disappears into Lan Zhan’s bedroom.
Lan Zhan stares into his lap a while longer, at the nest of Wei Ying’s hoodie. His Majesty rolls onto his back, baring his white tummy, and watches, waiting for the inevitable.
Lan Zhan lifts his phone with his free hand, loads the e-mail with the scan of his lease. And he scrolls to the section on pets.