Chapter Text
The first time Yibo got dizzy and lightheaded filming CQL he tried to pretend it was no big deal.
It wasn’t. A little burnout is normal with his schedule. He hops planes like daily commuter trains, has memorized all the airport codes and needs two PA’s to tell him where to go and when. It’s nuts. Frenetic and crazy and mostly just what he needs—24/7 adrenaline for a whirlwind who can’t sit still right up to the moment he can't stand up. Yibo has also learned to fall asleep in a hire car in under thirty seconds-- eyeshades, earphones and black baseball cap.
It helps. Most of the time. But you can only burn the candle at both ends until the wick gives out and that morning it actually did.
Xiao Zhan hears about it from the makeup artist who’s trying to fix his mascara. He’s forgotten, again; rubbed his itchy eyes and smeared black into a look more befitting a Ghost General than a rogue Cultivator. “Lao-Wang almost fainted,” she announces, wiping gingerly at the steaks with a moistened pad and Xiao Zhan’s heart stutters to a stop.
“What?! Is he ok?”
“Keep still, Lao-Xiao,” she tsks, standing on tip-toe to reach up high enough and he does his best to freeze. “That boy works too hard. Hengdian and Beijing and Guizhou. Ridiculous,” she murmurs in the perfect imitation of offended Lan Wangji all the crew has taken up. “The medic says he will be fine. Director Chen went with them just in case.”
Went. To hospital. Just the thought of it makes Xiao Zhan’s stomach clench. Back then, when they first tramped Guizhou’s purple-grey mountains from dusk til dawn, he didn’t know what myocarditis was. Didn’t know serious character bleed. Or kadian. Or waaay too much about Lego and motorcycle parts.
And he didn’t know that he loved Wang Yibo, though everyone else could see.
Twelve months post that day the two of them lie tangled in each others limbs; warm and languid under blankets that chase Beijing’s spring damp away. A rare two days together finds them content to simply be after the first fire of want dies down. They’ve just watched Yibo's latest interview. Saw him stare blankly at a flabbergasted interviewer, insisting wide-eyed and serious that he never went to hospital during filming, and at first Xiao Zhan chuckles fondly.
“Bo-di how can anyone think you are Lan Wangji? Your brain is all Wei Wuxian and your memory is crap.”
A cute nose nestled against his chest huffs once as a blush the colour of a conch settles on ear tips. Yibo hates this. hates getting anything wrong at all, especially in interviews, and though most fans will take it for proof positive of how hard he pushes himself--how dedicated he truly is-- his boyfriend looks down at dark circles under wan eyes and wonders if he needs to take it for something else.
A warning sign. Because when you love someone you worry about their heart and in his case it’s also literal.
“I can’t believe you forgot,” Xiao Zhan grumbles teasingly but not quite, because Yibo does this---memory dumps the bad, the tedious, or embarrassing as a defense against the constant churn. ‘Leave the past in the past’ he says, and he lives it; face forward always to the sun, focusing on the next big thing. Xiao Zhan admires it. Wishes that he could emulate it. But when the habit gets like this--blanking about health--he can’t help but worry that one day Yibo will ignore too many ‘incidents’.
He must have not kept that grey note out of his voice because Yibo’s head pops up, eyes serious and searching below furrowed brows. “Ge?” Yibo sets the phone down on the bedside table, reaches over to lace his fingers in Xiao Zhan’s own. He gives them a little squeeze. “Are you worrying about Guizhou?”
“I.. ah…”
“Don’t,” Yibo says firmly. “I was an idiot. Flew four hours in the middle of the night and didn't eat for two whole days. I don’t do that anymore, remember?”
“I know, I know. You’ve learned. I’ve learned. ‘Fuel the engine or it stops’.” They both mouth the metaphor together. Neither of them were too terribly good at self care during CQL’s insane—and insanely wonderful—months of filming. Now, careers catapulted to the stratosphere and busier than they ever hoped to be, they have to work at it constantly.
The granola bars and shrimp chips Xiao Zhan finds stashed in his jacket pockets only make him love his sweet, kind didi even more.
He decides to let the subject drop. Settling back against the headboard, he reaches to his own side table and picks up his favourite Li Cixan sci-fi while Yibo goes back to his feed. One finger is tracing lazy racetracks on Xiao Zhan’s bare hip-- it’s distracting, pleasantly so, but that isn’t what has him fidgeting. Reading the same sentence three times in a row.
The hardcover’s pages aren’t turning and Yibo knows what that means.
“Zhan-ge?” he prompts but there is no nod or answer. The sad puppy face that comes when Yibo worries he’s let you down arrives and Xiao Zhan instantly feels guilty---they are trying to be more open about their feelings because how else can they survive an industry where their every word and expression is under a magnifying glass?
He takes a steadying breath and tries again. “You said ‘never’. ‘Never went to hospital filming CQL’. Did you.. did you forget…?”
Xiao Zhan finds he can’t get “Phoenix Mountain” past his lips. The second incident. The secret one. The one that still wakes him up out of a cold sweat with palpitations of his own.
Yibo twists to look at him as the moment hovers in the air, thin and brittle like taffy before it breaks. Something fond and precious flickers in his gaze before he stretches that elegant neck, captures Xiao Zhan’s lips, exasperated and fierce at once. “No. No, Ge. I didn’t. How could I ever forget our first kiss?”
It is a scorching hot summer afternoon on CQL’s sprawling ‘Phoenix Mountain’ set. Hangzhou’s stately pines have their feet in dry, grey soil for the muggy season is building early; setting off a dusky scent, hot and sharp and enveloping like a wall. There is not a puff of wind; the little black fans are simply moving hot air about. Every few minutes the makeup artists stop and mop at the actors, doing their best deal with sweat that threatens to run like rivulets down mountainsides.
It’s unpleasant, and tiring, and only the first location shooting week.
“What’s the fun of night hunting if no one is hurt?” asks Cao Yuchen as Jin Zixuan, crouching in dry grass, solemnly poking at orange goo with golden Suihua. “This place is dangerous. There is mucus left by the Stature Measuring State.”
'State' not 'Snake'. Xuan Lu breaks into a run of giggles and Yuchen instantly realizes what he's said. “Fuck!” he blurts with enough frustrated feeling that the cast and assembled crew break into chuckles of their own. It is rather incongruous to hear such a heartfelt swear coming from that pretty painted mouth but then the director calls for quiet. Yuchen crouches back down and remembers to throw his long hair back, prods the orange patch, and…
muffs it up again.
“Sorry! Sorry! It’s so damn hot I think my tongue is stuck.” He stands and shakes out his sleeves, annoyed with himself and they all sympathize, they really do. Xuan Lu looks over to Xiao Zhan and Wang Yibo waiting in the wings and mouths an apology. They’ve been on set now for over an hour. Zheng Weiwen has been playing with the angles, the delicate almost open glances between the two; how much Yanli looks distressed and how stiff Zixuan should be.
It takes time but with the sun beating down every minute counts.
The two leads have retreated out of camera shot into a little shady alcove, doing their best to stay still and quiet for the costumes are punishing. Neither of them has the energy for a slap fight; there’s not much ribbing or goofing off; Xiao Zhan feels like a panting dog, mouth open and breathing hard. His black hanfu’s getting soaked inside and he can only imagine how Yibo feels in heavy headpiece and the many layers of Lan modesty.
He takes a swig of cool green tea and shakes his head. “Aren’t you thankful you aren’t chopping down the trees in this?”
Yibo looks a little blank and sighs out a punch of air. He’s spent the morning doing wirework with no break and now stands sweltering in a humid soup that makes the inevitable bruises throb.
Xiao Zhan feels bad for his friend but not so bad that he’ll pass up a golden opportunity on a plate. “Ahh, I see Lao-Wang did not get that reference. Has still not read the book." He nudges Yibo’s ribs with Chengqing. "You, Lan Wangji, were supposed to be ‘lumberjacking’ before this scene to get your frustrations out after stealth kissing Wei Wuxian.”
“Too long,” Yibo mumbles, a bright flush of embarrassment settling on his cheeks; voice soft and deep as ever but a little hoarse with the heat.
Xiao Zhan can’t help but grin. “Do you honestly even read? You left school so early it is a wonder you can use your phone.”
“Fuck you.”
“And you.” Xiao Zhan lets his tone be a little daring for Yibo’s is low, almost sultry, without hard edges and an emphasis on ‘fuck’—not flirting exactly but Xiao Zhan’s not quite sure he’s not. Their bantering has been this way for days—coy, less teasing, more real somehow---and he’s startled by how big and raw it makes his heart feel. Yes—let me fuck you. Or you fuck me—fast and hard, or any which way at all. He can’t help it—imagining them together—the slide of wet, warm skin, kisses that go on for days, maddening and magic. The need is getting stronger, so much that he finds he has to be near to Yibo at all times: on the bus, the set, the cafeteria. He feels unmoored otherwise.
For months he’s watched his friend dance through the scenes, mesmerized by his graceful determination, his drive and intensity, but now it’s different. The first table read seems years ago, as if they’ve been doing this forever and somewhere between the goofy fights and insults, the over the top fawning praise, Yibo has come to mean, well.... everything.
He sneaks a sideways glance. Yibo is perfect. Gorgeous yes, but also amazingly fearless, a consummate professional and Xiao Zhan, who worries about how well he is doing in his first lead, how he can be better and improve himself, is a little in awe of the way Yibo’s slender frame packs in reserve and sweet politeness and so much talent. That absolutely gremlin grin. A daring instinct for fashion. The guts to speak his mind.
All of it, all of it is attractive and alluring, sets an almost alive awareness rippling along his skin, but he cannot fathom for the life of him how to do anything about it. Xiao Zhan might be the senior but Wang Yibo is more experienced at life. Carries himself with an intimidating confidence as if he’s always walking under blue sky on dew studded grass; pure in a way, and so head to toe purely sexy that he must have had a dozen lovers by now. Xiao Zhan has been-well-tentative. He’s dated just a few discreet men, always from outside the industry, and though he thinks their flirting has become real, he isn’t certain he'll actually be welcomed.
Rejection is not a risk he’ll take.
To do something with his now trembling hands, Xiao Zhan waves the little fan, lets it mess up his bangs, too hot to really care if the stylist will need to tease them back. Yibo isn’t bothering with his, he’s forgotten it by their makeup chairs again. Xiao Zhan is about to offer to bring it out when a loud groan goes up round set.
This time Yanli has blown it.
Oh god. It’s 5pm. The perfect light and absolute peak of the heat and humidity, sun pounding down and air sizzling in waves. Xuan Lu bends forward, gasping and shaking her head at how ridiculous this is, and Yuchen is laughing uncontrollably, hand across his mouth.
From the giddiness and bright red cheeks, both of them need a break. “Shijie, do that again and you are buying us all a beer!” Xiao Zhan calls out and she laughs and waves, gratefully accepts a cold towel from crew. Under the pines' modest shade Xiao Zhan can't help but fantasize. A frosty glass with ice crystals stuck on it. Or better yet a crisp, clear, snow-fed stream with a half a dozen bottles laid in. Beer isn’t so great for puffy eyes the next day but right now he couldn’t care.
“Hey Yibo, you, me, all the beer in Hengdian.” He’s rather proud of his private, suggestive undertone, but Yibo doesn’t answer; makes the strangled noise he does when trying not to laugh, and Xiao Zhan tries to decide if it’s for his own lightweight reputation with alcohol or poor Yanli’s sudden gaffes.
But then a sudden weight across his shoulder tugs at his wig and red ribbon. “Hey, Lao-Wang not funny. They will want to us get going soon.” Xiao Zhan shrugs his friend off--gently--and that’s when time slows and widens out.
Usually he hears the giggle, feels the nudge that means Yibo is hiding his face in his back; embarrassed by laughing so hard that he cannot stop- eartips pink and set alight. This time there is nothing. No gentle shake. No warm breath on his back. Only the familiar rattle of Bichen clattering to the earth, and then, a second sound.
A thud. Sickening and solid and absolutely not natural.
Awareness blooms like gunshot.
Wang Yibo will never admit when he’s dizzy or hurting, banged up by stunts or strung out on fumes of tiredness--not if it means delaying the schedule. He never wants to be a nuisance; feels bad enough about the times they rearrange when his half billion other jobs interfere, and Xiao Zhan knows that feeling. Your work ethic matters in this business. But he also knows CQL's production team cast not just the perfect face but a perfect-imperfect heart. They shared Yibo’s six months barred from dancing one night, late, in his hotel room, half drunk on baiju and a building sense of closeness. There will be time later to scold himself, to admit he should’ve noticed, but right then he needs to act.
Xiao Zhan drops to his knees and lifts up slim shoulders with a head rolling back. Yibo’s eyes are closed, his features pale as porcelain. The sight makes Xiao Zhan forget to inhale for himself; heart slamming against his ribs as he sinks below dead weight. When did he get so thin? When did he last eat? Yibo’s large hands with their expressive fingers have fallen to the pine-scented ground and lie there. Still. Utterly, completely still.
“No,” a voice is saying, “no, no, no--” and it’s his own voice but it doesn’t sound right, broken and terrified and high. He puts two fingers below that cut glass jaw and finds a pulse, fast and thready, but unmistakably there, the precious heart beating as Xiao Zhan holds him, wracking his brain for symptoms of heart attack. That’s a risk with sudden faints. And myocarditis. He’d weibo’d it after Yibo left; remembers it’s the third leading cause of sudden death in young adults.
A chill like icewater is suddenly showering down his veins. It can’t be it. It can’t. But it’s the second time Yibo has collapsed. Did he tell the staff about his condition? Do they know what to do? Does he know what to do?! ‘I haven’t even had a chance’, Xiao Zhan thinks and then shakes his head because this is not helping!
Get yourself to-fucking-gether. “Help!” he yells in his best deep-sourced voice. He holds Yibo’s head against his chest, hugs the pale blue hanfu against black silk as they sit on dried, brown ground. Wei Wuxian is cradling his soulmate for once instead of the other way around, although the crew has yet to notice. He hears them rearranging for another take, Xuan Lu and Cao Yuchen ordered to their marks, and the shaded, hidden spot they chose suddenly feels like a mistake.
“Help!“ This time it’s deep and urgent. An AD looks back, spots them together in the dirt and Xiao Zhan can see the hesitation. What are those two idiots up to now? He yells louder, waving wildly as he can with precious cargo and one free arm. Finally (finally!) the wall of backs react, turn and part like water, startled faces processing the sight.
Hu Xiaoting bolts forward first, propelled by a mother’s instinct. She’s positively sprinting--a million layers of embroidered silk bedammed-- and Yuchen’s right behind.
When they drop beside it feels a little less like the world will fall apart. “What happened?” Xiaoting asks, setting a hand against Yibo’s brow, picking up one limp hand.
“I don’t know, he just fainted!”
“Did he hit his head?” Yuchen’s eyes are wide, but he’s calmly going about a systematic check: listening to Yibo’s breathing, picking up his other hand to feel for a pulse, frowning in concentration as if timing beats in his head.
“I didn’t see? Maybe?”
Yuchen reacts at once; lifts up each of Yibo’s eyelids in turn and checks each ear, before gingerly feeling through the back of his wig. “There’s no obvious head wound. His pupils are dilated evenly, no cranial bleeding that I can see. Lift up his feet, Xiaoting, put them in your lap.”
She does as ordered with alacrity and Xiao Zhan looks at his friend in an entirely new light. “Yuchen, you know what to do?!”
“I was a lifeguard in high school,” the younger man admits a little sheepishly, as if it isn’t something to crow about. “It could be heatstroke or something else. Possibly concussion. Did he complain of any headache beforehand?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“No.”
Yuchen's eyes grow dark. “I thought it was a joke.”
“Of course you did, so did we.” Xiaoting’s voice is kind but Yuchen’s face looks stricken as he pulls up Yibo’s guqin-swallowing sleeves, removes the belt and raises the heavy hems for some cool. Like all of them Yibo has shorts on beneath but his skin isn’t actually hot.
“Isn’t that good?”
Yuchen shakes his head.
Please, Yibo. Please.
Someone calls for the set medics and someone calls an ambulance. In the century it takes for them to come, Yibo’s eyelids flicker briefly as if wandering in dream. With his friend in the circle of his arms it feels oddly as if they are alone again, and Xiao Zhan keeps holding, looking down, arms growing tired, thinking of all the time he’s spent the other way, him in Yibo’s lap. They’re all exhausted. The schedule has been punishing and he pleads “Bo-di,” again not caring that he’s heard.
Sunshine burns the top of his head, his face. Someone arranges a shade overtop but the air is still heavy, swirled by the small army of fans turned their way. His licks his dry lips nervously. Yibo’s bitten ones are pale under the makeup and he wants to kiss them, to pepper his mask-like face until Yibo wakes up again, but that isn’t what he needs.
When help arrives he listens to Yuchen rattle off with ease a whole other competent-sounding vocabulary but Xiao Zhan keeps where he is, arms wrapped around Yibo. He tightens them a bit, brain buzzing with worry that finally makes words blurt out.
“He had myocarditis."
“When?” the bright-eyed young paramedic asks. The pair on set are a rotating crew, they haven’t everyone’s history memorized, except for truly life-threatening things like Fanxing’s peanut allergy.
“As a child.”
“Viral or unassigned?”
He shakes his head because he doesn’t know. Yibo’s white faced PA pushes past taller backs, swipes at her phone. “Do you need to know?”
“It could help.”
She must be texting his parents. “Viral,” she says after a long minute and that must be good because the paramedic nods and finishes sticking white circles below the pristine cloth of blue. They are talking about airways, and O2, shock and heat stroke. The heart monitor spits out something not too terrible because no AED comes out.
“Xiao-laoshi, we need you to move away.” Xiao Zhan doesn’t move. There’s a roaring in his ears and lead weight in his chest. Someone, Xuan Lu he thinks, takes his sleeve, pulls him up and to one side but gratefully sets him in arms reach. He shakes the pins and needles out of his arm watching the limp figure be lifted onto a stretcher. Those endless sable lashes are faintly fluttering once again, it’s a good sign. It must be… it must….
He finds himself walking swiftly, small palm around Yibo’s larger one as the team moves him out. The production coordinator is at his shoulder, talking a mile a minute into her earpiece and furiously rearranging cells in an elaborate program. “Lao-Wang cancelled for tomorrow and today. We can do solos with Wei Wuxian this afterno…”
“No.” Xiao Zhan’s heart rattles his insides, shakes hesitation loose. He looks down at the join of their laced fingers. He has not let go, will not now, does not give a fuck about what any of them think. “I need to go with him.”
Director Chen appears. He shares a long look that feels as if it crosses ten feet and acres of sympathy. “Go.”
He does. One PA is running after him with Yibo’s phone and street clothes, another with his, gesturing for him to stop. “But, sir!”
Fuck the costume. The stretcher isn’t stopping and he’s not going to be left behind. Xiao Zhan takes the phones but keeps right on moving, stops only when they get to the lane lined by set trucks. A white ambulance with flashing lights sits waiting with open doors and stomach churning reality finally hits.
He hasn’t thought this through. They won’t let him in. He’s not Yibo’s family. He’s not Yibo’s anything.
As he stands and breathes, opening his mouth to plead, a dark car screeches to a stop. Yubin takes a hand off the steering wheel to open the passenger side door. “Come on Yiling Laozu. I am your transportation talisman. We’ll follow right behind.”
Xiao Zhan stares in shock. Chengqing is in his waistband and Yubin has black veins snaking up face. In the jumble of shooting sequence they were also readying to do a Dafan mountain scene. “How?”
“Haikuan texted me.”
Bless his impossibly organized friends. “Step on it,” Xiao Zhan orders and they do.