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It’s taken him the better part of two hours, but Wei Ying thinks he might finally have had a breakthrough with the detail on these petals. In the end, it came down to the lightest possible tint of pink and the thinnest brush in his kit; now he has something that he thinks looks, if not photorealistic, at least workable. His challenge now is to get the rest of the flowers done in the next forty-five minutes before the studio closes and he has to begin again tomorrow.
Abruptly, the lights go out.
“Woah, hey!” He tries his hardest not to jump, but he’s pretty sure his hand twitched, and without being able to see what he’s doing it’s breaking him out in a cold sweat. The only thing more terrifying than being plunged into darkness is having it happen with a loaded paintbrush approximately half a millimetre from the canvas you’ve worked so hard on and cannot afford to screw up now.
There’s a small, surprised noise, and the lights flicker back on. Wei Ying uncramps his hand from the canvas - mercifully unspoiled - and leans past the easel to see Lan Zhan, from the music wing, standing in the doorway with his hand on the switch.
“You scared me,” Wei Ying says. “Thank fuck for my absolute lack of reflexes - you know, I could have been a surgeon with hands this steady.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t directly address any of this. “What are you doing here?”
“Working?” Wei Ying gestures to the canvas. “Gotta get this done before closing time or else I’ll have to haul my gremlin ass in here super early tomorrow, and let me tell you, I am a nocturnal creature so that will not be pretty.”
“There is a storm warning,” Lan Zhan says. “You should not still be here.”
“Oh, is that what that was?” Wei Ying vaguely recalls his phone making some sort of chirpy noise at him a while ago, but that was at about the point he had his eureka moment with the stamens so everything else sort of seemed irrelevant. “If there’s a storm then what are you still doing here?”
Lan Zhan barely blinks. “Securing the building and locking up.” He lifts the hand not on the light switch, keys jingling softly from one finger.
“Ah. Right.” Wei Ying sighs, then gives up and drops his brush into the cup of water on the desk. It’s only as he picks up the other cup to take a sip that he realises he’s got them round the wrong way - his paintbrush is now sitting in soda and the cup in his hand is swimming with the rinsings of twenty different paints.
“We need to leave,” Lan Zhan says, as Wei Ying thousand-yard-stares into the cup. “The rain has already begun.”
“Yep. On it.” Wei Ying pushes his chair back and dumps both cups out in the sink, rinses the paintbrush, and leaves the lot on his desk. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he turns to Lan Zhan and says, “Alright, let’s go.”
“Do not forget your jacket.”
“Don’t have one.” Wei Ying waves Lan Zhan out of the doorway so he can switch off the lights and pull the door shut behind him. The foyer is noticeably colder than the studio, evidence that the heaters have been off for half an hour at least. Everyone else must really have cleared out as soon as the storm warning came in.
Lan Zhan makes an understanding noise. “You drove?”
“Drove,” Wei Ying snorts, “what are you talking about? I’m gay, I can’t drive.”
He’s angling for a laugh, or at least a reluctantly amused glare, but instead Lan Zhan just looks concerned. “You plan to walk home in a T-shirt? Do you live close?”
Wei Ying shrugs. “Eh, like four or five blocks? Six, maybe?”
Lan Zhan takes a measured breath in through his nose, lets it out the same way, then turns away and opens the front door. “Come on.”
Once they’re outside, once Lan Zhan has set the alarm and locked the door and tested the handle, Wei Ying drags the other strap of his bag over his shoulder and gives Lan Zhan a little salute.
“Thanks for not locking me in,” he says. “Get home safe.”
Lan Zhan just gives him a look like he thinks the paint fumes have killed too many brain cells. Wei Ying tries a smile, but it gets him no response so he just turns to leave, shoulders hunched around his ears in preparation for the cold sting of rain.
It doesn’t come.
Wei Ying has a moment of confusion where he looks at the rain falling on the ground in front of him, and then at the completely dry shoulder of his shirt, and then upwards to see a pale blue umbrella dotted with tiny carrots and bunnies hovering above his head.
Oh, cute, he thinks, and then, There is no way this umbrella belongs to Lan Zhan.
Apparently, though, it does. Lan Zhan is standing behind him, umbrella carefully positioned between them, looking expectantly at Wei Ying as if waiting for him to do something.
“You will need to lead the way,” he says, when all Wei Ying has done for a moment is stare at him. “I do not know where you live.”
“You’re-?” Wei Ying glances up at the umbrella again.
“If you walk home in this rain you will get sick. I believe it is important for you to be healthy in order to complete your painting?”
“I- I mean, yeah-” Wei Ying feels this is slightly beside the point. “Don’t you have to get home as well?”
“I live reasonably close. It will be no trouble to walk you home first.”
Wei Ying has heard this tone of voice from Lan Zhan before. It’s the one he uses on kids who are in mild amounts of trouble, or on parents who want to use the concert room for their office parties and expect their annual donation means they won’t have to pay the rental fee. It’s the voice that means This matter is decided and no further discussion will be entertained.
“Right,” Wei Ying murmurs. “Uh. This way.”
By the time they reach the end of the block he’s intensely grateful for Lan Zhan and his bunny umbrella. The rain is already approaching torrential, and every time his hand swings out from under the umbrella it comes back soaked.
“So what have you been working on today?” he asks, voice raised over the smack of the rain. “You were in the music wing all day, right? I saw you when I came in this morning.”
“Piano Sonata No. 29 in B-flat major,” Lan Zhan says.
“Oh, cool.” Wei Ying nods. “I don’t know what that is.”
“It is one of Beethoven’s late sonatas.”
“Ooh, right!” Wei Ying glances at him. “You play piano?”
“Among other things.”
“Wow. Damn.” For a moment they walk in silence; the rain is starting to drive sideways, and Wei Ying’s jeans are cold and clinging around his shins. Once they’re across the next intersection, he says, “I always wanted to play the piano. My sister plays a bit, but I never ended up learning.”
“Mn.” Lan Zhan adjusts the umbrella above their heads to try and block a little more of the rain. “It is a useful skill to have.”
“How long have you been playing?”
“I began taking lessons when I was three.”
“Oh, shit.” Wei Ying can’t help giving him an incredulous look. “You must be fucking amazing by now.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t meet his gaze, just glances out towards the road. “I am proficient enough to teach. There are still pieces I find challenging.”
“Right, right.” Wei Ying nods. “I get that. I’ve been painting since I was in middle school and it still took me three hours today to figure out how to paint a flower.”
“I have seen your work,” Lan Zhan says. “It is exquisite.”
Wei Ying trips over his own foot.
“I- my- hey, Lan Zhan, you can’t just say stuff like that!”
Lan Zhan is still looking at the road, but in the gathering darkness under the umbrella Wei Ying thinks his ears look a little pink.
“It is the truth.”
“Stop, you’re just flattering me.”
“I do not believe in flattery.”
“Well, be careful with your praises, then.” Wei Ying leans close enough to nudge Lan Zhan with his shoulder. “You gotta warn me before you drop words like exquisite on me, it makes me feel like a fraud.”
“Mn.” Lan Zhan’s ears are definitely pink now, his eyes determinedly fixed on the rain hammering into the road. The gutters are beginning to overflow now; the street ahead looks more like a canal.
“Hey,” Wei Ying says, turning to look more directly at Lan Zhan, “thanks for walking me home.”
“It is no trouble.”
“Still.” His arm is getting wet now that the rain is coming in at such an angle. He draws closer to Lan Zhan under the umbrella. “It’s only another block and a half. It’s not too far out of your way, is it?”
There’s a fraction of a pause.
“I like to walk,” Lan Zhan says.
Another pause, this one longer.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, “where do you live?”
Lan Zhan tilts the umbrella more to Wei Ying’s side, a shield against rain that is now almost horizontal. “By the convenience store,” he says.
“Which convenience store?”
“… The one opposite the elementary school.”
Wei Ying very nearly stops walking.
“Lan Zhan!” It’s only the threat of being instantly drenched that keeps him stumbling along beneath the umbrella. “That’s all the way back there!”
“It is only a five minute walk from the Arts Centre.”
“Yeah, in the other direction!” Wei Ying claps a hand to his face and immediately regrets it as every inch of his skin protests the cold water. “It’s gonna take you an extra half hour to get home from here.”
“I do not mind.”
Lan Zhan’s tone is mild, but brooks no refusal; Wei Ying grumbles into silence.
They walk the last block with the roar of wind and drumming rain for company. In the absence of anything to say, Wei Ying thinks: about Lan Zhan, first in and last out of the Arts Centre more often than not; Lan Zhan, who when he’s not practising is teaching or guiding or supporting with no concern for whether the one seeking his help is one of his students, or even a student at all; Lan Zhan, who is always the first port of call for any concerns by students, parents, or other artists, in spite of the fact that he doesn’t actually run the place.
Lan Zhan, who didn’t think twice about going an hour out of his way to walk Wei Ying home even though he’d had plenty of time to get out before the storm rolled in.
“Which is your house?” Lan Zhan asks, when there’s enough of a lull in the wind that he can speak without raising his voice.
Wei Ying lifts a hand to indicate the house three from the end of the block, the one with the white paint peeling off the gate and a front yard more rambling garden than lawn.
“I promise we’re normal,” he says. “I just haven’t gotten around to fixing stuff, and my sister’s veggie patch keeps expanding.”
“Vegetables are a more productive use of space than grass,” Lan Zhan says, and it’s the most emphatic he’s sounded the whole walk.
“Yeah. Yeah! I don’t remember the last time we bought vegetables.” Wei Ying’s heart grows a little inside his chest. “She grows pretty much everything. I even managed to get some lotus seeds started in the pond out back for her!”
Lan Zhan makes an approving noise, and Wei Ying feels it warm through his skin, and then they’re standing in front of the gate.
He pauses with his hand on the rusty latch.
“She makes soup,” he says.
“Hm?”
“My sister. She makes… she makes this really good vegetable soup. All home grown. I bet she’s got a pot of it on the stove right now.”
Lan Zhan nods. He’s very close, underneath the umbrella, but it’s not until Wei Ying looks up and meets his eyes that he feels crowded.
“You should come in and have some,” he says, before he can lose his nerve. “Keep warm for a bit before you go home.”
Lan Zhan hesitates for a moment. “I do not wish to impose.”
“It’s not an imposition,” Wei Ying insists. “Come on, you walked me almost half an hour home in the pouring rain. My sister will never let me hear the end of it if I allow you to walk another half hour back again without coming in to say hi first.”
The next gust of wind blows the rain up into Lan Zhan’s face with a sting that makes them both wince, and perhaps that’s what makes him nod and take a step sideways to keep Wei Ying as sheltered as possible under the umbrella as he squeaks the gate open and picks a path through the scattered rows of cabbages and carrots up to the front door.
“Jiejie?” He holds the door for Lan Zhan, then wrestles it shut against the wind. “I’m home!”
There’s a scuffle of socks on wood, and Yanli appears in the archway. “A-Ying! I was starting to get worried.”
“I lost track of the time.” It’s not strictly true, but it’s the easiest way of putting it. He was aware of the time - what he lost track of was everything else, everything outside of the clock and the canvas and the neck-and-neck race between them. “Lan Zhan walked me home so I didn’t get drenched.”
“That’s so kind of you,” Yanli beams at Lan Zhan. “Would you like to come have some soup? There’s plenty in the pot.”
“Actually,” Lan Zhan says, “I think I had better go directly home. I do not wish to make a mess of your lovely floors.”
Wei Ying glances down and realises Lan Zhan’s pants - crisp, pressed, gorgeously high-waisted - are sodden from the knees down, the eggshell cream linen turned soggy brown and leaving a steady puddle where he stands.
“Oh my goodness!” Yanli cries, “You can’t walk home like that, you’ll get sick!” She waves them in, stepping sideways in the archway to make room. “A-Ying will lend you a pair of pants, and we’ll put those to dry in front of the fire.”
Lan Zhan hesitates, but acquiesces with a nod and bends to take his shoes off. His socks are dripping when he peels them off, and after a moment of visible agonising he drapes them over the backs of his shoes.
“C’mon,” Wei Ying says as he straightens up, “I’ll show you my room.”
Even as he says it he feels like a kid, but it’s too late to say anything else instead so he just leads Lan Zhan in past Yanli and down the hall to his bedroom.
“My brother can probably drop you home after dinner as well. Save you having to walk all the way back in the rain.”
“It-” Lan Zhan seems to struggle for a moment as Wei Ying pushes the door shut behind them, “It is really not necessary for you to go to these lengths. I did not walk you home in anticipation of reward.”
“I know.” Wei Ying wiggles the second drawer of his dresser open and pulls out his least ratty pair of sweatpants, which he throws onto the bed between them. “Those should fit you - we’re about the same size, right? Do you need a dry shirt as well?”
“No, thank you.” Lan Zhan pats a hand against the pristine white sleeve of his blouse. “Should I change in the bathroom?”
“Pfft.” Wei Ying grabs another pair of sweatpants and, after a moment of consideration, a dry T-shirt from the next drawer down. “I won’t look if you don’t.”
There’s a small noise behind him that might sound flustered from anyone else’s throat.
After a beat, Lan Zhan says, “I shall turn my back.”
By the time Wei Ying has kicked his damp jeans into the laundry basket and pulled on clean, comfy clothes, the rustling noises on the other side of the bed have finished. “Decent?” he asks, dunking his paint-splotched shirt into the hamper.
“Mn.”
“Then let’s go have soup!”
Wei Ying turns around just in time to catch Lan Zhan figuring out what to do with his hands. He clasps them in front of his hips, his wet pants folded awkwardly in his grasp. It's odd, seeing him in anything that’s less than perfectly tailored; the floaty bow at the neck of his blouse is a pointed contrast to Wei Ying’s grey sweats. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, exactly - more like he’s adjusting to the concept of casual wear as a whole.
“Sexy,” Wei Ying says without thinking about it, and only realises that perhaps they don’t know each other well enough for him to tease like that when Lan Zhan flushes a deep red all the way up to his eyes.
There’s a second where Lan Zhan opens his mouth but says nothing. It occurs to Wei Ying that inviting someone into your house, dragging them into your room, making them change their clothes, and then commenting on their appearance might make them a little uncomfortable.
“Um. Sorry.” He makes a vague gesture at the door. “Soup?”
“Mn.”
When they reach the kitchen they find Yanli dishing up soup and, in a surprise twist, Nie Huaisang sitting at the counter.
“Oh hey, Huaisang.” Wei Ying gives him a friendly cuff on the shoulder. “How’s it going?”
“Wei Ying!” Huaisang lifts that arm and slings it around Wei Ying’s neck to drag him into a clumsy hug. “Where have you been? We were getting worried.”
“Got sidetracked at the Centre. You know Lan Zhan, right?”
It’s a rhetorical question - the music and drama wings run parallel, and there’s no way Lan Zhan and Huaisang haven’t had to negotiate the shared performance space, but Wei Ying has somehow never been in the same room as both of them together before this moment.
“Hi, Lan Zhan,” Huaisang says, with a little wave, “did you get sidetracked at the Centre too?”
“I had to make sure the building was clear before I locked up,” Lan Zhan replies, and his voice is so unwaveringly smooth as to confirm that yes, Huaisang was going for an innuendo there, and yes, Lan Zhan saw it, and yes, he is accustomed enough to dodging Huaisang’s compulsive gossiping that he can sidestep without even blinking.
Wei Ying might be in awe of him, just a little bit.
“Is Jiang Cheng in his room?” he asks Huaisang.
“He’s not even home yet.” Huaisang taps at his phone where it sits on the counter. “He messaged me when he was leaving work, but I think the rain is making the commute a lot longer.”
“Oh yeah, no kidding.” Wei Ying slides onto the chair next to Huaisang and pats the last remaining seat until Lan Zhan gathers his long limbs neatly into it and accepts the bowl of soup Yanli holds out to him.
“Give those to me, honey,” Yanli nods towards Lan Zhan’s wet pants, folded in his lap. “I’ll hang them up in front of the fire.”
Lan Zhan passes them to her with a murmur of thanks, and there’s an interlude of silence as she heads into the living room, leaving the three of them sitting at the kitchen counter.
“So,” Huaisang says after a couple of minutes, “what have you been working on this week? Are you done with that moonlight scene?”
Wei Ying snorts. “Hardly. I finally figured out what to do with the petals, though! And then Lan Zhan came and kicked me out of the studio, so I’ll have to figure it out all over again tomorrow.”
He can practically feel Lan Zhan frowning beside him without even looking.
“My apologies. Your safety was more important than the painting.”
Huaisang laughs through a mouthful of soup. “I’m glad someone’s looking out for Wei Ying’s wellbeing, cause he sure doesn’t give a shit.”
“I just got absorbed in the painting!” Wei Ying cries. “It’s not like you’ve never pulled an all-nighter over a script.”
“That’s called Crunch Time Focus, my friend. What you have is Any Time Hyperfocus.”
Wei Ying wrinkles his nose, but Huaisang’s laugh is good-natured as he slurps up another mouthful of soup.
The bowls are all empty twice over by the time the door bangs open in a screech of wind.
“Jesus Christ it’s fucking wet out there!”
Yanli leaps to her feet. “A-Cheng! You’re home!” She hurries through to the entryway, and there’s a moment of sisterly fussing and brotherly grumping before she returns with Jiang Cheng behind her.
“Jiang Cheng!” Huaisang cries, jumping up to vacate his seat. “I was starting to think you’d drowned!”
“I wish I had, rather than make that drive,” Jiang Cheng glowers. “Hi, Wei Ying. Hi-” he glances at Lan Zhan, “Wei Ying’s friend.”
“This is Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “Lan Zhan, this is my brother Jiang Cheng.”
Lan Zhan gives a polite nod. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Mhm.” Jiang Cheng is clearly too hangry for niceties - there’s an audible clank as he sets his bowl down on the counter, and he doesn’t speak again until the third spoonful is halfway to his mouth. “You another one of Wei Ying’s paint nerds?”
“He’s the music guy I told you about!” Huaisang interjects.
“Ah.” Jiang Cheng pauses for another mouthful. “Great. The trifecta of fine arts under one roof.”
Wei Ying sneaks a glance at Lan Zhan, who looks thoroughly unperturbed by either the idea that Huaisang has talked to Jiang Cheng about him or the clear distaste Jiang Cheng has for anything less objective than calculus. Then again, Lan Zhan is impassive at the best of times. He could be seething, and Wei Ying would be hard pressed to spot it.
Yanli’s soup, as always, works magic; by the time Jiang Cheng’s spoon scrapes the bottom, his version of good humour has returned.
“Music, huh?” he says, casting a glance at Lan Zhan from under his eyebrows. “What do you play, violin? Flute?”
“Piano,” Wei Ying offers.
“Mn,” Lan Zhan nods. “I have studied the violin in the past, though recently I have been focusing more on the cello. Woodwind instruments are unfortunately not one of my areas of expertise.”
Jiang Cheng makes a noise that might be acknowledgement or might be derision. After a moment, “You play piano, though?”
“I do.”
“Since he was three,” Wei Ying adds.
Jiang Cheng makes that ambiguous noise again, and runs his spoon carefully around the edge of his bowl to collect the last traces of soup.
The silence lasts a few seconds beyond comfortable. Wei Ying is about to change the subject when Jiang Cheng clears his throat and says,
“Jiejie has an old piano in the living room.”
Yanli, on the other side of the kitchen counter and busy loading the dishwasher, gives a small squeak of embarrassment.
“That piano hasn’t been tuned in years, A-Cheng.”
Jiang Cheng shrugs. “I’m just saying.”
“I don’t even remember the last time I played it!”
“Christmas, two years ago,” Jiang Cheng says, like it’s the most basic fact of his universe. Maybe it is. “I’m just saying. There’s a piano, sitting there, not getting played.”
“Lan Zhan should play something,” says Huaisang, who has never been subtle and isn’t starting now.
Jiang Cheng gives another too-disinterested shrug. “If you want.”
And Wei Ying is as curious to hear Lan Zhan play as anyone, but he’s also very conscious that this is already far beyond what Lan Zhan signed up for. He volunteered to walk Wei Ying home, not to be dragged inside so he could make awkward conversation with Jiang Cheng and be forced to perform for their entertainment.
“Lan Zhan just spent all day at the piano,” he says. “Let him have a break! He doesn’t need to play for us-”
“No, I’ll play.”
It’s quiet, decisive. Lan Zhan pushes his chair carefully back from the counter.
“You really don’t have to,” Yanli insists. “It’s got to be horrifically out of tune.”
“You have been incredibly kind to me this evening,” Lan Zhan says, indicating with one hand the empty bowl Yanli has just taken from in front of Jiang Cheng. “Allow me to impose just a little longer and acquaint myself with your piano.”
Yanli seems to wrestle with herself for a moment before giving an embarrassed little smile. “Well, if you insist.” She steps out of the kitchen and indicates the living room door opposite. “It’s just through here.”
Jiang Cheng is probably right: the piano hasn’t been touched in several years, nor tuned in several more. When Lan Zhan opens the lid and runs a gentle hand across the keys, though, it doesn’t look quite so decrepit.
“It’s a hand-me-down,” Yanli explains, as Lan Zhan’s thumb lingers on a deep chip at the edge of one key.
“It is an antique,” Lan Zhan corrects her softly. Then he sets his hands to the keys and begins to play.
It’s a simple piece, nothing flashy or elaborate, but there’s an understated sort of warmth in the way each note lingers. Under Lan Zhan’s hands, the discordance of the old piano is almost charming; he strokes a hand across the ivory and draws beauty from disrepair.
You could make someone fall in love with you like that, Wei Ying thinks.
The final note whispers into silence, and Lan Zhan’s hands drift off the keys to rest softly in his lap. For a moment he sits, and then gives a tiny nod. It’s as if he’s thanking the piano for its part in his performance.
“That was beautiful,” Yanli says. “I can’t believe it, you actually managed to make my old piano sound good.”
“It’s not so out of tune,” Lan Zhan murmurs, returning one thoughtful hand to the chipped key. “That’s easily fixed.”
“Watching you makes me wish I’d learned a little more. You play so wonderfully.”
Lan Zhan makes a thoughtful noise. “Perhaps the Arts Centre may be useful for you.” When Yanli does not immediately respond, he continues, “I am not the only piano teacher; you are welcome to select whichever instructor best fits your learning style.”
Yanli baulks. “Oh goodness, please don’t think I’m fishing for lessons! I’m probably too old to learn, anyway. And besides,” she gives an embarrassed little laugh, “my mom always used to complain how expensive my lessons were-”
“You are Wei Ying’s sister,” Lan Zhan says. “There will be no associated cost.”
“Wh-” Wei Ying blinks. “What? Why not?”
When Lan Zhan turns to look at him, it’s with the same have-you-inhaled-too-many-solvents look as when he heard Wei Ying was planning to walk home in the rain in a T-shirt.
“Wei Ying,” he says. “Have you read your staff benefits document at all?”
“Uh.” Wei Ying scratches an ear. “No? Should I have?”
Lan Zhan’s sigh is small but pointed. “Please accompany Wei Ying to the Arts Centre on any day that suits you,” he says to Yanli, “and I will arrange for your lessons.”
Yanli seems to wrestle with this for a minute. She’s not used to asking anything for herself, and even less to accepting favours, but Lan Zhan has his no-nonsense voice on and she’s struggling to demur.
From the hallway comes the deep chime of the grandfather clock.
“Is it that time already?” Yanli gasps, visibly grateful for the diversion.
“Oh shit,” Wei Ying says. “Lan Zhan, we’ve kept you so late.” He twists in his seat to look at Jiang Cheng. “Is there any chance you could drop Lan Zhan home? He lives just-”
“Are you kidding?” Jiang Cheng’s eyes look like they might pop. “It is torrential out there! The bridge is completely flooded, I had to go all the way round the other side of the hill to get home. So unless you’ve got a boat I don’t know about, no I am not dropping anybody home.”
Wei Ying grimaces. He was banking on the use of Jiang Cheng’s car - he can’t make Lan Zhan walk all the way home in this downpour, and failing that the only other alternative would be-
“You might have to stay here tonight, Lan Zhan.” Yanli makes an apologetic face. “I hope that’s okay - I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
Lan Zhan inclines his head. “Only if it would not inconvenience you. I do not wish to take undue advantage of your hospitality.”
Wow, Wei Ying thinks, and here I thought Yanli couldn’t be matched in politeness.
Thank goodness there are such blunt people in the world as Jiang Cheng.
“Doesn’t matter if it’s an inconvenience, you’ll drown out there and I’m not taking that reckless endangerment charge.” To the room at large, he says, “He’ll have to stay, but where’s he going to sleep?”
That’s an excellent question.
In the next second, Wei Ying considers a number of possibilities.
Number one is the couch - but Huaisang always takes the couch. The fact that he invariably creeps into Jiang Cheng’s room as soon as all the lights are out is another matter, but Wei Ying can’t call him on that while everyone’s still pretending nobody has noticed. So the couch is out.
Likewise, he can’t offer Lan Zhan his room and volunteer to share with Jiang Cheng the way they used to as kids on family holidays. That would be a massive cockblock, and he doesn’t trust Jiang Cheng not to murder him in his sleep for it.
He doesn’t want to make Lan Zhan feel uncomfortable by suggesting they share a bed, but nor does he think Lan Zhan will accept sole use of it unless Wei Ying is comfortably accommodated.
Then, inspiration.
“Lan Zhan can have my bed,” he says. “I’ll sleep on the rug!”
“The rug,” Lan Zhan frowns.
“Yeah!” Wei Ying nods in the general direction of his room. “You were standing on it while you got changed. Didn’t you notice how soft it is? Let me tell you, I have had so many good naps on that rug.”
This appears to mollify Lan Zhan; his eyes narrow for a moment, but then he gives a single nod and turns back to the rest of the room.
-
As it turns out, an afternoon cat nap and a good night’s sleep are two very different things. In the middle of the day, with the curtains flung wide and every inch sun-softened, the sheepskin rug is like sleeping on a cloud. Curled up against the dark with the spare blanket pulled up over his head to muffle the hammering of the rain and the draft creeping in under the door, on the other hand, is a far less pleasant experience.
With the breath of a groan, Wei Ying rolls onto his back. His hip hurts, and he’s pretty sure his left arm is going to fall asleep before he does. Craning his neck, he peers at the bed. In setting up his spot on the rug he took just a single pillow from the mountain, leaving the rest for Lan Zhan, but it seems he needn’t have bothered; in the momentary illumination of lightning, Lan Zhan appears to have selected the thinnest, firmest pillow for himself and left the rest neatly stacked on the near side of the bed.
Wei Ying sits up. Lan Zhan sleeps so still, so carefully arranged on his back with his hands folded on his chest that Wei Ying might think he was laid out for a funeral if he hadn’t watched Lan Zhan assemble himself like that not half an hour ago. He’s so deeply asleep that when the next growl of thunder shakes the window hard enough to make Wei Ying jump, the only response from the bed is another slow, deep breath.
Lucky bastard, Wei Ying thinks, and wonders if he’s too old to go hide from the storm in his sister’s bed.
At the very least, he decides, he can snag a couple extra pillows. If Lan Zhan isn’t taking advantage of the entire nest at his disposal, then Wei Ying might as well use it to pad the rug.
As he stands, though, the room lights up again, and his split-second shadow shifts as it falls across the bed. Hand halfway to the softest pillow, Wei Ying glances at Lan Zhan and finds him staring back.
“Ah.” He grimaces, offers an apologetic grin. “Don’t mind me, I’m just-” he nods to the little cocoon behind him. “The rug’s not quite as comfy as I remember.”
Lan Zhan blinks once, twice, then unfolds one hand from his chest and lifts the covers next to him.
They look at each other. Wei Ying waits for Lan Zhan to say or do something else, but he just holds the covers, and after a long moment of staring Wei Ying’s brain catches up.
“Ah-” he straightens up. “Lan Zhan, that’s- it’s okay, I’ll just-”
Before he can grab a pillow, Lan Zhan interrupts.
“It is not necessary for either of us to endure discomfort. There is plenty of room.”
“No really, I just need a couple extra pillows-”
“Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying cringes. It feels so inappropriate to climb into bed beside Lan Zhan, who never asked to be here in the first place, but Lan Zhan has that face on again and Wei Ying feels so awkward just standing there. Then the thunder rocks through the walls again, and he jumps so hard that it’s almost instinct to scramble in under the covers.
“Thanks,” he whispers, “sorry.”
Lan Zhan lets the covers fall around him. “There is no need for either.”
“Mm. Still.” Wei Ying tucks them in under his chin. “I know this isn’t exactly how you meant your night to go.”
“I had no particular plans for the evening,” Lan Zhan says, which Wei Ying feels is pedantically missing the point.
“Yeah, but-” he twitches the covers closer around his ears, “I feel like doing nothing would have been better, right?”
Lan Zhan turns to look at him again. “I spent the evening in pleasant company, partook of a lovely meal, shared my music, and acquired a new student. I do not see what of this should be a misfortune to me.”
“Hmm.” Wei Ying purses his lips; after a moment, a smile creeps through. “My sister’s pretty awesome, huh?”
“She is a kind, generous person and an excellent cook.”
It’s the most effusive he’s heard Lan Zhan be about anything, ever.
Finally, someone else who appreciates Yanli like she deserves.
Lan Zhan has just risen another notch in his estimations.
“Thanks for offering to teach her,” he says. “I know she’s being all reluctant to take you up on it, but she’ll be so happy to be playing again once she lets herself accept the favour.”
“It is not a favour,” Lan Zhan says. “It is a service offered to Centre staff members and their immediate family in recognition of the time and effort you put into the community beyond the classes you are paid to teach. This was outlined in your onboarding documents.”
Wei Ying pulls a sceptical face. “Was it one of the super official looking ones I had to sign and initial on every page?”
“No, it was-”
“Then I absolutely did not read it.”
Lan Zhan’s sigh is long and pointed. “Wei Ying.”
“I dunno what to tell you, Lan Zhan.” He shrugs, the pillow shifting under his cheek. “Why would I spend my time reading if I don’t have to? There are so many canvases to be painted, and only so many hours in the day.”
“Hm.” Lan Zhan is silent for the entire space between lightning and thunder. Just as Wei Ying thinks the conversation is over - that Lan Zhan might already have fallen asleep - the mattress shifts, and Lan Zhan rolls fully onto his side to face him.
“On balance, it stands to reason that painting is a better use of your time.”
That’s a very ambiguous sort of statement, and Wei Ying doesn’t quite trust it not to be backhanded. “What do you mean?”
There’s another quiet moment as Lan Zhan chooses his words.
“I mean,” he says, “that if all your paintings are of a similar calibre to the ones I have seen thus far… then any hours spent working on them would be a valuable use of time.”
Wei Ying is suddenly, intensely, glad of the dark. “Lan Zhan!” he whispers, “You can’t say things like that!”
“I have often paused a moment in the foyer to look at the landscape you have exhibited there.”
“Stop! Lan Zhan, you’re so shameless. It’s just a picture. You can look out the window and see the same thing out there, but bigger and three-dimensional.”
“It takes extraordinary skill to do what you do.”
Wei Ying turns his face towards the pillow with a groan; he’s certain Lan Zhan must be able to feel the heat radiating off his cheeks.
“Well, what about you?” he counters. “You can look at dots on a page and turn them into beautiful music. Like that song you played earlier - what was that, the… concerto 29? The Beethoven?”
“No,” Lan Zhan says. “I could not pretend to compose with anything close to the degree of insight that Beethoven possessed.”
It takes a second for that to fully click into place in Wei Ying’s head.
“Wait-” he pushes himself up on an elbow, straining his eyes to try and get a look at Lan Zhan’s face. “You wrote that?”
Lan Zhan does not immediately respond, and Wei Ying wonders if he really meant to admit the piece was his own composition.
After a moment:
“When you close your eyes, do you see paintings in your head?”
Wei Ying hesitates. He still can’t make out the details of Lan Zhan’s expression with the darkness so thick between them.
“Sort of,” he says finally. “I see things and like… I can picture the way I would paint certain bits of it in my mind.”
“When the world goes quiet, I hear music,” Lan Zhan says. “I cannot ascribe it to any piece I have heard, nor am I aware of any conscious process of composition on my own part. But it is vivid, and it is endless.”
“Woah,” Wei Ying breathes. “So you just have your own personal soundtrack for your life? That’s so cool.”
“I…” Lan Zhan breaks off, and a split-second shock of lightning reveals a frown creased into his forehead, one lip between his teeth. “When you see an image in your mind’s eye, and you manage to recreate it on the canvas, other people look at it and they can see what it is. If you paint a tree, then it will be evidently a tree.” He pauses again, and after a moment gives a sigh - not the pointed, frustrated kind Wei Ying usually hears in his direction, but something softer, almost sad. “I hear music and am challenged to capture it faithfully on tape or paper. But even if I manage to recreate it with perfect accuracy-” through the darkness, the shape of a shrug, “there is no way to guarantee that others who listen to it will hear what I hear.”
Wei Ying sits with that for a moment.
“If you paint a tree,” Lan Zhan says, “people will see a tree. If you paint a portrait of your sister, they will see your sister. If I write a love song - if I look at a person and hear a symphony so powerful that I am compelled to commit it to memory, if only to be able to play it to myself when I am lonely - then people will listen to it and hear a tune. A pretty tune, perhaps, or a moving tune - maybe even one that brings them to the brink of tears. But they will not listen to it and hear my heart move in my chest, and nor will they hear who it is that moves it.”
Outside, the wind shakes the trees and throws thunder at the windowpane; in Wei Ying’s little bedroom, the silent air is a gentle presence between them.
“Then tell them,” Wei Ying says. “Tell them who it’s for.”
Lan Zhan gives a little huff through his nose, small and self-deprecating. “That is the one thing I cannot do.”
“Why not? Songs have titles, right? Call it Song For whoever, I swear that’s a thing in classical music.”
“I cannot,” Lan Zhan repeats, voice strained. “I do not possess the same capacity for… for openness, that you possess. I am in awe of the sheer depths of your soul that you bare in your paintings. I am not capable of making myself that vulnerable.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met, and you admire me? I-”
“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan sits up, a towering shadow in the dark. “There is no-one more deserving of my admiration than you. You are so utterly unprecedented, so powerful a force of light and inspiration, how could anyone not admire you?”
There’s a moment where they just stare at each other’s silhouettes, no words between them, just the rapidly thickening air and a creeping sense through Wei Ying’s chest that they might be teetering on the edge of something.
The next time lightning illuminates Lan Zhan’s face, it reveals an expression Wei Ying doesn’t think he’s ever seen on him. He was expecting fervence, frustration, even irritation. Instead, Lan Zhan looks scared.
“Lan Zhan…”
“I have said too much.” Lan Zhan abruptly falls back to the pillow, carefully gathered in again in that funeral pose. “I apologise.”
“No, Lan Zhan-” Wei Ying leans towards him, clawing through the darkness for an ounce of sight, anything to tell him what’s happening on Lan Zhan’s face. “That’s okay, I’m just- I’m just surprised, Lan Zhan, I didn’t expect you to pay that much attention to my paintings.”
For a moment, there is only breath from the pillow next to him.
“Symphonies,” Lan Zhan whispers. “I hear symphonies, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying opens his mouth, but he can’t find any words to pull forth.
“And every morning,” Lan Zhan continues, “I pause in the foyer to let them play a little louder for just a moment before the world fills with all its noise.”
Wei Ying’s throat goes dry, filled with his own heartbeat and the sudden, visceral shift of the world.
“… The landscape?”
Lan Zhan’s silence is an answer in and of itself.
“I…” Wei Ying finds himself floundering.
“I apologise,” Lan Zhan says. “This was not the most ideal moment for such an admission.”
“No, I-”
“I can sleep elsewhere-”
“Lan Zhan-”
“I do not wish to make you uncomfortable-”
Wei Ying reaches through the dark for his voice. His hand meets Lan Zhan’s chin, stuttering him into silence, and there is a breath’s pause during which Wei Ying becomes aware of three things: first, that the wind outside has calmed; second, that Lan Zhan’s skin is as smooth to the touch as to the eye; and third, that his own heart is beating faster than he can ever recall for anything less than pure panic.
“Lan Zhan,” he breathes. “Are you… was that song…”
“One small movement of an endless symphony.”
It is minute and entirely involuntary, the way Wei Ying’s fingers tighten on Lan Zhan’s chin. There’s a small intake of breath beneath him, and then Lan Zhan’s hand is covering his, cautious fingers curling into his palm. Wei Ying wonders if Lan Zhan can feel the shockwaves of his pulse, if his hands are vibrating as violently as his heart.
“Lan Zhan.”
“Mn.”
“I… do you really like my art that much?”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and it sounds pained.
“You write songs for my paintings?”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan groans, “they’re not just for your paintings.”
“Oh,” Wei Ying says. Then, “Me?”
“You.”
“Oh.”
Lan Zhan’s fingers move just slightly against his palm, and Wei Ying realises they’re still holding hands. Well - Lan Zhan is holding Wei Ying’s hand. Wei Ying is holding Lan Zhan’s chin, thumb bobbing a little every time he speaks.
“Lan Zhan,” he murmurs.
His thumb gravitates up over Lan Zhan’s jaw, around the swell of his chin, until it rests just below his lip. He can feel Lan Zhan’s breath, slow and shallow as if he’s afraid Wei Ying will vanish at the slightest disturbance.
“Wei Ying.”
“Yeah?”
He lets his thumb drift a fraction higher, lets it brush over Lan Zhan’s lip. He hears the tiny noise Lan Zhan makes, soft at the back of his throat. He removes his hand from Lan Zhan’s face, feels the way Lan Zhan’s grip tightens around his palm, and allows himself to fall.
One elbow braced beside Lan Zhan’s head, Wei Ying stops about three inches from where he thinks Lan Zhan’s nose is.
“Is this right?” he says, “Is this what you mean?”
Lan Zhan makes a small, strangled sound.
“Lan Zhan, tell me what’s going on in your head.”
For a moment, Lan Zhan’s only response is a shaky breath. Then, slowly, cautiously, his hand rises to touch Wei Ying’s cheek.
“Symphonies,” he whispers, and kisses him.
Wei Ying understands now why the wind stopped; the whole storm has moved inside his body, all the static in the air taking up residence under his skin. He slides one hand over Lan Zhan’s cheek and into his hair, the other turning in his grip to lace their fingers together and hold himself down. From outside, the distant rumble of retreating thunder. From within, an answering tremor through Wei Ying’s chest.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan mumbles, voice caught somewhere between his bottom lip and Wei Ying’s tongue. “Wei- mm-”
With an effort, Wei Ying pulls his mouth back enough for breath. “Yeah.”
This close, he can just see the shape of Lan Zhan’s eyes, the dim movement of each blink. It’s still too dark to make out any details of expression. Wei Ying would give anything to see Lan Zhan’s face right now.
“Man,” he says, “where’s the lightning when you need it?”
Lan Zhan twists beneath him and disentangles one hand to reach towards the bedside table. A moment later his phone lights up, casting shadows long and blue across the bed until Lan Zhan picks it up and sets it next to them.
“Is this acceptable?”
He can’t be sure whether it’s just the phone’s glow or whether something has changed since last he looked, but in the cool light Lan Zhan is ethereal. With his hair pooled around his shoulders, eyes wide, lips parted, he is a stark contrast to the cautious, buttoned-up man Wei Ying last saw with the desk lamp on.
“That’s much better,” he murmurs, and lifts a hand to brush across Lan Zhan’s cheek. The way Lan Zhan’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into that touch is all the incentive Wei Ying needs to duck his head and kiss him again.
It’s nice, so nice, and so unexpected - Wei Ying would never have predicted in a million years that he’d be lying here, half on top of Lan Zhan, trading giddy kisses by phone light as the worst storm in years rolls overhead. He could happily do this all night, if only Lan Zhan will keep holding him with that warm hand on the back of his neck.
Eventually, though, Wei Ying reaches for a kiss and finds a yawn instead.
“Sleepy?” he grins, taking his kiss to Lan Zhan’s cheek instead.
“Mn. My apologies.” Lan Zhan yawns again. “I am normally asleep by nine.”
“Nine? Oh Lan Zhan, you must be exhausted. How have you not passed out on me already?”
A thumb across his lip, a yawn into his shoulder. “Kissing,” Lan Zhan mumbles, “so nice.”
Wei Ying laughs, turns Lan Zhan’s face with a hand on his cheek, and kisses him one more time before flopping down next to him.
“I’ll kiss you more in the morning, if you want.”
“I want.”
Wei Ying laughs again and throws an arm over Lan Zhan’s waist. Outside, the apple trees shake in a renewed gust of wind as the eye of the storm takes its reprieve elsewhere.
From the hallway comes a soft click and then the unmistakable squeak of Jiang Cheng’s bedroom door.
“There goes Huaisang,” Wei Ying murmurs.
“Ah.”
“They think they’re sneaky.”
“Huaisang is a formidable actor,” Lan Zhan reasons.
“Yeah, but Jiang Cheng can't even play charades.”
There’s a puff of air against his head, and Wei Ying is just about to lift his head and ask incredulously if Lan Zhan just laughed - and then it turns into another yawn.
“Sleep time,” Wei Ying says, and finds himself yawning too. “Man, I’m gonna have to get up so early if I want to get my flowers done before lunch.”
Lan Zhan gives a sympathetic hum and a small squeeze to Wei Ying’s wrist where it’s draped across him.
“If we were at my house,” he mumbles, “my brother would make us espresso in the morning.”
Wei Ying sighs. “That sounds so nice.”
“Mmm.” Lan Zhan yawns again, a last gasp against sleep. “You’ll have to stay at my place next time.”
The next breath is slow and deep. Wei Ying closes his eyes and snuggles down into Lan Zhan’s arms, sharing his grin with the velvet dark and the thunder’s lullaby.