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Uncle cannot miss the academy’s annual fundraiser, not so soon after being named headmaster, so Lan Zhan finishes his last class and goes alone to meet his brother at the train station.

It has been five months since Lan Huan was last home from university. Each time he comes back, Lan Zhan feels a twinge of worry that his brother will not be the same anymore, that he will have become a stranger in the time away.

Now, he sees Lan Huan spill out of the train with the other travelers before Lan Huan sees him. He takes the opportunity to watch the way his brother moves through the busy station. Lan Huan stands out in the milling crowd, a crane amongst pigeons. Lan Zhan thinks, as he always does in spaces filled with people, that surely there must be a pattern to the way they move. If only he looks hard enough he can find it. Lan Huan, who does not need patterns, cuts easily through the crowd, pausing to pass a dropped toy back to a small child, to apologize profusely to a tourist who bumped her backpack into his shoulder.  

Lan Zhan, tucked safely against the wall, recognizes a low ache in his chest that is not quite jealousy. Lan Huan is at ease in crowds of strangers, in too-loud restaurants, in clothing stores where the salespeople compliment his bone structure. Everywhere he goes, it seems. It does not bother Lan Zhan, exactly, that his brother is good at being in the world. It is only that Lan Zhan wonders, sometimes, if his own life is too small, too safe. He wonders what it might be like to share Lan Huan’s openness, his ability to befriend everyone he meets.

Lan Huan scans the station, looking for him, and Lan Zhan shakes his thoughts away, ashamed at himself. He lifts his hand, and Lan Huan hurries towards him, smiling. He stops just in front of Lan Zhan and hovers, as if he wants to hug Lan Zhan but does not know if it would be welcome.  Lan Zhan thinks that perhaps Lan Huan worries, too. If Lan Zhan has changed without him. If he is still the same didi he left in February.

Lan Zhan is not the same. He is so changed that he wonders how it is not immediately apparent to everyone around him, how his feelings do not spill, glowing, out of his skin. In his mind, Lan Zhan is a bioluminescent creature. Lit up from the inside by his secrets.

But no matter how changed he is, he doesn’t want there to be any stiffness between him and Lan Huan.

“Ge,” he says. “I missed you,” and Lan Huan’s face relaxes. He wraps his arms around Lan Zhan’s shoulders and hugs him. Lan Zhan has had a growth spurt, and he is almost as tall as his brother now. Lan Huan squeezes him once, tightly, and laughs when Lan Zhan shifts slightly, unused to being able to see over his brother’s shoulder.

“Ah, didi, you’ve grown,” Lan Huan says, and lets him go.

Lan Zhan nods politely and begins to study his brother’s appearance properly. Something has changed. Lan Huan is not wearing his hair in its usual tidy knot. Today it is loose around his shoulders, a little wavy. His clothing, too, is different–washed jeans instead of pressed trousers, cuffed above low white sneakers. His t-shirt is plain white cotton, but the cut is special. Soft and draping, with a shallow, wide neckline that reveals more of Lan Huan’s skin than uncle would consider appropriate.

The part of Lan Zhan that is not ruled by uncle’s guidelines thinks he looks nice. Summery and soft.

Seeing Lan Huan like this makes Lan Zhan think of the dove-blue blouse he begged uncle to buy him for his birthday, and then never wore. The blouse is hanging in his closet now, the tags still attached, but maybe he could simply…put it on, someday. Button up the tiny, faux mother-of-pearl buttons and tie the bow at his neck and go to school like that. Or maybe not school. Maybe just a bookstore. That would be good, too.

He blinks and realizes that Lan Huan has been talking to him.

“…the long way home,” he is saying, now, not quite looking at Lan Zhan. “And then we could have a chance to talk. How does that sound?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says automatically.

There is a bicycling path that traces the river running through the middle of the city. Their mother had brought them there when they were young, to walk or ride their bikes, and once, after an ill-conceived birthday gift from their father, to rollerblade. That time Lan Huan had sped off ahead, and Lan Zhan had stumbled after him, clumsy and unbalanced. His mother had told him to slow down, to be careful, but all he wanted was to move fast like his brother, to feel the wind blow his hair out behind him like a proud dark flag.

He’d only stopped after falling hard enough to split his lip and scrape his elbows raw. When Lan Huan saw the scabs that evening, his face had gone very still, and the next day he told Lan Zhan that there had been an accident and both pairs of rollerblades had been placed in a pile of old toys and donated.

Lan Zhan is sure that the bike path is the long way home his brother plans for them to take. He is glad—it is quieter there, shaded by maple and willow trees. It will be easier to talk with Lan Huan once they are away from the bustling center of the city. Easier to tell him what Lan Zhan has been thinking about telling him for months, now.

As they make their way out of the train station,  Lan Huan asks Lan Zhan about his classes, which are easy and dull, except for calculus, and his guqin practice, which is good, he has begun to write his own compositions, and his friends. I have a new one, he wants to say, but if he says that he won’t be able to stop himself from saying the rest of it, and he’s not ready, not yet, so instead he names all the people he tutors and pretends they are his friends to keep Lan Huan from worrying about him too much.

“You sound happy,” Lan Huan tells him, and heat rises in Lan Zhan’s ears.

Quickly, he asks Lan Huan about his roommate, Nie Mingjue, who Lan Zhan knows his brother admires greatly. Lan Huan is so eager to explain Nie Mingjue’s plans to become a physical therapist, and Nie Mingjue’s gym routine, and the way Nie Mingjue complained to the dining hall after watching Lan Huan eat salad for a week straight because there were no real vegan options, that he does not notice Lan Zhan’s red ears at all.

Lan Zhan asks his brother enough questions to keep him talking and listens politely. Mostly, he listens. Sometimes he lets Lan Huan’s voice fade into the noisy clamor of the street and loses himself in his own thoughts.

Uncle would say that it is disrespectful to give less than his full attention to his elder, to any conversation partner, but Lan Zhan cannot help his distraction.

This day has been marked on his calendar for weeks. This day, and tomorrow. Today is the day he will come out to Lan Huan, will tell his brother he is in love with a boy. Tomorrow is the day he will tell Wei Ying that he loves him. Lan Zhan is trying to find the right words to tell Lan Huan how he feels. He needs to say them out loud, just to make sure they’re good enough. He needs to practice now, with Lan Huan, so he can be perfect when he tells Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan isn’t worried about Lan Huan’s reaction. The worst that will happen is that Lan Huan will say, –oh. Oh! in the same voice he used when Lan Zhan, age eight, told him he wanted to learn to play the guqin and not the xiao.

And then perhaps he will say, Just boys, didi? so he will know which sort of oversized pride flag to order online and have overnight shipped to uncle’s house.

Lan Zhan has thought of this already, and decided that he will say, Just Wei Ying, ge, which is not strictly true (aesthetically: just boys, romantically: just Wei Ying, always and only, Wei Ying) but will benefit him in two ways: firstly, it will be pleasing to say Wei Ying’s name to someone who knows how Lan Zhan feels about him, and, secondly, it will hopefully confuse Lan Huan enough to prevent any pride-induced shopping sprees.

Lan Zhan has mapped out this conversation again and again. And yet—the words stick in his throat. It has always been like this for him. The things that matter most are hardest to say.

He considers, for the hundredth time, different beginnings. Perhaps he could work his way towards it sideways. Ge, he could say, do you remember Jiang Cheng and his brother? They are in my year.

Starting like that would never work, though, because Lan Huan will remember the Jiangs, and will ask pleasant questions about the health of each member of their family, about the new house they are having built, about Yu-furen’s many business ventures in the city. And Lan Zhan will have to answer them all. He won’t get a chance to say that the most important thing about the Jiangs isn’t a thing but a person, isn’t even a Jiang.

Maybe he should be direct about it. Lan Huan, he could say, I have always been different from most people. I have discovered—but no, that is too clinical.

Lan Huan will stop him as soon as he says most people. He will say something terribly sincere, like there are many ways to be a person, didi, or, your differences are what make you special, and Lan Zhan will have to spend the remainder of the walk home convincing his brother that he loves and accepts himself, and does not need to see a second therapist.

Lan Zhan sighs and looks around him, and realizes that they are going the wrong way. Beside him, Lan Huan is, somehow, still talking about his roommate.

“Huan-ge,” he says. “This road will not take us to the bike path.”

Lan Huan stops and turns to face him. His eyebrows are raised, ever so slightly, in the way that means he is confused. “Didi, I did not know you wanted to walk on the bike path. I thought we had planned to go through the shopping district. Forgive me if I misunderstood.”

Lan Huan’s voice is pleasant, concerned, diligently modulated, but Lan Zhan knows his brother. He is disappointed. Why is he disappointed? Lan Huan has never shown any particular attraction to the city’s shopping district, with its overpriced boutiques and bland malls.

“No,” he says, watching Lan Huan’s eyebrows and the tilt of his mouth carefully. “I was the one who misunderstood. I should not have assumed… “ he trails off, waiting for Lan Huan to explain himself.

“It was loud in the station,” his brother says reassuringly, “no wonder you didn’t hear me.” He ducks his head and continues. “I had only thought—when I was home for the New Year, I stopped in a soap and body care shop. I thought you might like to visit it. The sales assistant there was very…accommodating. His name was, hmmm—let me remember. Meng Yao. His nametag said Yaoyao. He recommended an especially soothing lotion for my hands in the winter.”

Lan Zhan is a little concerned. It is rare for his brother to speak like this, so nonsensically.

“We are going to this store to buy…lotion?” he asks slowly.

Lan Huan nods too fast. “Yes,” he says. “If you would like to. Lotion, soaps. Bath bombs.”

Lan Zhan’s skin itches at the mention of bath bombs, but Lan Huan seems very invested in taking him to this soap shop.

“It sounds pleasant, ge,” he says dutifully, and Lan Huan smiles and begins to walk again.

Lan Zhan follows him and resolves himself to waiting a little longer to tell his brother about Wei Ying.

As they near the main shopping district, the street becomes more crowded with tourists and shoppers. Clothing stores spill out onto the sidewalk, and chatting aunties sort through racks of brightly colored blouses and printed dresses.

Traffic is blocked here so that food stalls can line the walkway on either side, and the air smells like fried dumplings and grilled meat, like spices and scallions and sharp vinegar. A cluster of barefooted children are flying a whirring drone low over the street, and Lan Zhan watches as they direct it to trace a lopsided circle around a fountain.

The midafternoon sun beats down, hot and relentless. Lan Zhan and Lan Huan weave through patches of shade cast by the ginkgo and ash trees planted along the walkway, dipping into cool dimness for a moment and then emerging, squinting, into the insistent heat. The constant shifting of the light reminds Lan Zhan a little of standing on a rocking ship, dipping and lurching.

A prickling triangle of sweat beads at the top of his spine. His braid is a heavy weight along his neck. It sways as he walks, a few loose strands of hair sticking to his humid skin.

Lan Huan seems unbothered by the heat. He’s talking cheerfully, moving his hands in the air to illustrate his points.

He is still trying to convince Lan Zhan of the virtues of the soap store. Which is unnecessary. Lan Zhan doubts it has many virtues, but he is going anyhow. He does not need convincing.

“All the soaps smell very nice,” Lan Huan says. “And A—I mean, Meng Yao, the sales assistant, told me it’s all handmade.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. He refrains from pointing out that the soap uncle has been buying for them since they were small children is also handmade, by Wen Popo who lives in their neighborhood. Wen Popo’s soap is white and smooth and smells delicately of sandalwood. Lan Zhan has never used anything else. He does not want to.

“Also,” Lan Huan says, as if he is reciting an advertisement, “the store is environmentally conscious. It doesn’t use excessive packaging or do any animal testing on its products.”

Lan Zhan frowns. His brother is studying environmental law at university. He should be familiar with greenwashing, with the exaggerated claims corporations make—not because they are ethical, but because they want customers to feel good about buying more than they need. Lan Huan should know that any unnecessary consumption is harmful consumption, no matter how environmentally conscious a product pretends to be.

“Ge–“ he begins, but stops himself. He does not have time to probe his brother’s uninformed belief that a corporate entity is actually capable of caring about the environment. Lan Zhan is tired of talking about soap, of hearing about Meng Yao’s gracious shower jelly demonstrations.

Lan Zhan wants to talk about Wei Ying. He always wants to talk about Wei Ying. Even now, on this noisy and crowded street, he can feel it rising up inside of him, lighter than air. A truth bigger than the sky.

He could just do it. I fell in love with someone, he could say. With a boy. With Wei Ying.

That would quiet Lan Huan, surely.

✿ ✿ ✿

Before Wei Ying, Lan Zhan had always thought falling in love would be a careful, steady process. That it would be work. He had thought he would notice someone worthy and then he would force the petals of his tight-budded heart to unfurl, one by one, until he was open to them. Until he could admit his love.

But Lan Zhan never pried himself open for Wei Ying.

At first, he thought Wei Ying to be unimportant, to be (Lan Zhan, now, is stunned at the ignorance of his past self) nothing more than an annoyance.

In December, Wei Ying was just the inattentive boy sitting in the back row of Lan Zhan’s calculus classroom, cross legged in his creaky plastic chair, gazing out the window at the bare-branched plum trees for the entire period. 

And then, suddenly, he was Lan Zhan’s assigned calculus partner. Sitting right next to Lan Zhan, distracting him with his messy ponytail and his rumpled uniform shirt, with the chewed pencil tucked behind his ear.

Lan Zhan took one look at him, a small sip of a glance because it was all he could manage, and told him to do the odd problems. Wei Ying laughed and blinked his bright brown eyes too much and said, “Oh, cause I’m odd, right?” and then did all the problems in his head, like it was nothing. Like it was easy.

Lan Zhan was left to struggle through his own problem set and look at Wei Ying from the corner of his eye, to want things he didn’t know how to get, didn’t even know how to ask for.

✿

Lan Zhan learned that Wei Ying was clever at calculus—clever, in general. Sharp-witted and creative, slyly funny. He drew often in class, filling whole sheets of graph paper with sketches of rabbits perched atop their teacher’s head, of Mianmian dressed in knight’s armor, of a donkey balancing an apple on its nose.

Once, when they’d been partners for a month, he drew Lan Zhan with flowers in his braid, soft in smudged graphite.

Wei Ying left that one on Lan Zhan’s desk, gifting him the strange, gentler version of himself. And Lan Zhan kept it. Even now, it is safe at home, tucked between the pages of his mother’s gardening book on his bedside table.

Lan Zhan should have known right then, as soon as he decided to keep the drawing. But he didn’t.

✿

After the drawing, Lan Zhan thought they might be friends. School-friends, calculus-class friends. It did not change very much. Lan Zhan was still mystified by derivatives and integrals and infinite series. Wei Ying was still too loud, too easy to look at.

But at the end of January, when their teacher told them they could pick new partners, Lan Zhan pretended not to hear her and Wei Ying bit his lip and pouted, said that nobody else would put up with his antics, probably, so he might as well just stay with Lan Zhan.

In truth, Lan Zhan was often vexed by Wei Ying’s antics, but Wei Ying didn’t care. He went on bothering Lan Zhan, talking to him while he worked in class, catching him up on all the important ‘gossip’.

Lan Zhan discovered that Wei Ying’s gossip mostly revolved around which soup his sister was cooking for dinner that night, which pranks he had pulled on his brother recently, and which baby lesbians his friend Wen Qing had had to let down, very gently, that week.

Lan Zhan could hear something sweet in his voice when he talked about them, his a-jie and his didi and his Qing-jie. Whatever it was made Lan Zhan a little wistful, nostalgic for something he had never had himself.

Sometimes, nonsensically, he imagined Wei Ying at home, eating his sister’s soup, gossiping to her about Lan Zhan. My friend from school, he’d say, and that was it. That was as far as Lan Zhan could imagine, and it was enough. My friend Lan Zhan. Those words, in Wei Ying’s voice.

✿

When Wei Ying ran out of gossip, he liked to ask questions about Lan Zhan’s uncle. Once, in the middle of class, he asked “Is it true he never smiles?”

Lan Zhan answered that of course his uncle smiled, when there was reason. And Wei Ying replied, “Ah, but he should smile all the time, then.”

“Why?” Lan Zhan asked, and Wei Ying looked very proud of himself and said, “Because his nephew is such a good boy, of course.”

It was silly, and still. Lan Zhan felt his ears going hot. “Wei Ying,” he said.

Wei Ying cackled. “A good boy who forgot the negative in problem two, though. Aiy, Lan Zhan. At least you’re handsome.”

Then, Lan Zhan should have known. He should have felt his red ears and his tumbling heart and known, but he had not.

✿

Lan Zhan had not known what Wei Ying meant, how important he was, for a long time.

He did not realize, even on the day Wei Ying found him in the library, eating alone as he always did.

Lan Zhan saw Wei Ying notice him and felt a strange rush of shame, a flicker of fear that Wei Ying would ask Lan Zhan why he didn’t take his lunch in the cafeteria with the other students.

Lan Zhan would have to try to explain about the overlapping noises of chatter and eating and scraping chairs that hit him like a wave, about the sickening flickering of the fluorescent lights. He would have to explain, but it wouldn’t be enough. Wei Ying would look at him like he was strange, or broken, and then he would leave, and Lan Zhan would be alone again.

Wei Ying didn’t ask, though. He just smiled and folded himself down onto the worn strip of carpet between the bookshelves, tucking his body close enough to Lan Zhan’s that their shoulders brushed together.

“Wow, Lan Zhan,” he said, “you found a really good place here. You’ll let me share it, right?”

Lan Zhan only nodded, too grateful to talk.

(The warmth of Wei Ying’s shoulder through his shirt, through Lan Zhan’s. The warmth in his eyes when Lan Zhan showed him the book of poetry he was reading. I like Chen Chen, too, Wei Ying said, and began to recite, there in the silent library with the afternoon sun coming through and the air thick and golden, swirling with dust motes. ‘Dreaming of one day being as fearless as a mango,’ he said, and Lan Zhan thought he was already, as fearless as anything.)

(Lan Zhan should have known…)

✿

After that, Wei Ying was there more. In class and in the library. Passing Lan Zhan in the hallway, calling out to him from the other side of the school courtyard. Calling him Lan er-ge, gege.

He was there even when he wasn’t. The sound of his laugh ringing in Lan Zhan’s ears as he practiced his qin with Lan laoshi, the shape of his bitten-moon smile behind Lan Zhan’s eyes when he closed them for a long moment after another useless tutoring session with Su She.

Lan Zhan noticed Wei Ying, noticed him and could not stop. He noticed the way Wei Ying picked little flakes of black nail polish from his fingers and piled them one one corner of his desk. The way he borrowed Lan Zhan’s pencils without any intention of returning them. The way he pretended, when Lan Zhan told him that he should consider using a file folder, that he did not know what a file folder was.

Lan Zhan knew it was foolish, to allow himself to be so distracted by inconsequential details. But he could not stop. It was Wei Ying, distracting him, making him foolish, making him want.

All that—and still, Lan Zhan did not realize.

✿

He did not realize until the day he found Wei Ying sitting at the bottom of the stairs outside the school, so small and slumped that Lan Zhan would not have recognized him without the red ribbon in his dark hair.

Lan Zhan was frightened to see him like that, to see the dipped set of his shoulders, the pale curve of his neck and the knobs of his spine through his skin. The taut press of bone that meant he was too thin.

He seated himself by Wei Ying without saying anything, thinking of that honey-lit day in the library. The way Wei Ying had not asked Lan Zhan to explain himself.

“Ah, gege,” Wei Ying sighed, blinking owlishly at Lan Zhan, scrubbing at his bruised eyes with one hand. “Why are you here? Don’t sit. Don’t wait with me. It’s too cold and damp for anyone to be outside.”

“Why are you?” Lan Zhan asked, because he had realized that this was the sort of hypocrisy Wei Ying was good at, pretending he was not anyone. Lan Zhan would not allow him to pretend.

Wei Ying gave him a strange, tired look and spilled out a jumbled explanation.

“Don’t look so serious, Lan Zhan,” he said. “I’m just waiting for Cheng-di because he has swimming practice. It isn’t a big deal. It’ll only be another hour until practice ends and Yu-furen comes.”

Lan Zhan waited silently for more, and Wei Ying, with a flat little laugh, continued.

“It would be inconvenient for her to make an extra trip just because I quit the swim team. It was my choice, Lan Zhan. I got too good and it wasn’t fun anymore and Jiang Cheng likes it more, anyhow. And I wouldn’t have to wait at all if I weren’t so—if I could just walk back alone—ah, it’s fine. All fine here!”

Wei Ying had said, before, that he liked the water. Liked the pressure and silence when he dove down as deep as he could and stayed there, in the blue light at the bottom, holding his breath. Wei Ying had told Lan Zhan he was a good swimmer, the best on the team after Mianmian, and Lan Zhan had believed him. He had thought, vaguely, of going to one of the races and watching from the bleachers as Wei Ying cut through the water, all smooth bare skin and speed.

Wei Ying wouldn’t quit the swim team without reason. He wouldn’t wait here, chilled and lonely and afraid of going home, if he was fine. Wei Ying wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. Lan Zhan opened his mouth.

Wei Ying held up a hand as if to stop him from saying anything. “Be a good boy, Lan Zhan,” he said, duller than his usual teasing. “Go home before you catch a cold or get in trouble with your uncle.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said. He noticed that Wei Ying was shivering, a fine tremor that shook his narrow back. He wanted to wrap his own coat around him, but Wei Ying’s face was so blank, like he was wearing a mask.

“Come,” Lan Zhan said instead, taking Wei Ying’s wrist in his hand and standing.

“Come,” again, tugging Wei Ying up.

Wei Ying was limp at first, a dead weight swaying into Lan Zhan’s side. “Ha,” he said, “what?”

And Lan Zhan, feeling some deep-rooted, sure thing humming to life in his chest, said “Wei Ying. It is too cold for anyone to be sitting outside. Let me walk you home.”

Wei Ying’s mask broke then, and the look in his eyes was soft and open. Surprised, as if Lan Zhan had given him a gift he had not expected to receive.

They walked to the house Wei Ying lived in. Lan Zhan noticed that he never called it his home, always ‘Yu-furen’s house’ or ‘the Jiang home.’

It was another thing Wei Ying was good at, even in words: not taking up space he didn’t think was his. It made Lan Zhan want to turn them around and lead Wei Ying back to his house, to keep him in  the empty guest bedroom across the hallway from Lan Zhan’s own room. Lan Zhan would make a sign for the bedroom door: Wei Ying’s room, and a sign for the whole house: Wei Ying’s home, and in the garden he would raise flags to celebrate, to announce: Wei Ying lives here!  

“You’re frowning,” Wei Ying said, and Lan Zhan told him it was nothing, he was only thinking.

The sky was flat gray, and the city was dull and ghostly around them. They didn’t speak much. Wei Ying’s shoulders were still hunched up, as if he was cold, or nervous.

“Tell me what poems you have been reading, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said,  and Wei Ying startled a little and turned his head to peer at Lan Zhan, to check if he really meant it.

Lan Zhan did mean it, and Wei Ying must have understood, because he began to recite, softly, and then a little louder. His shoulders eased and the heavy sky seemed to lighten, and Lan Zhan realized that he knew the poem.

“Chen Chen again?” he asked, when Wei Ying had finished.

Wei Ying was not looking at Lan Zhan, but Lan Zhan was looking at him, and he saw his smile. The flash of his white teeth, the there-and-gone curve of his lips.

“Still,” Wei Ying said. “Since the library,” and Lan Zhan heard the sweet thing in his voice, the soft thing reserved for Wei Ying’s sister and brother and friends.

He wanted to ask what it meant, that Wei Ying’s voice sounded like that, but they turned a corner and Wei Ying went still.

There was a dog in the center of the sidewalk.

Lan Zhan recognized it as Madam Jin’s. He had seen it before, crawling through a gap in the Jins’ garden wall to run loose through the city.

The dog cocked its head. Its wrinkled jaw dripped a stream of saliva onto the pavement. Behind Lan Zhan, Wei Ying whimpered, and the dog let out a sharp yip in reply and bounded towards them.

Wei Ying turned to Lan Zhan, his face white with fear, and then he was grasping at Lan Zhan’s shirt, curling himself against Lan Zhan’s chest, mumbling, “Fuck, this is why, Lan Zhan, this is—“ Without thinking, Lan Zhan wrapped his arms around Wei Ying’s sharp shoulders and held him so tightly he could feel the shift and pull of Wei Ying’s trembling muscles.

The dog edged nearer to them, panting eagerly, and Lan Zhan kicked his foot towards it and hissed at it until it pinned its floppy ears to its head in shame.

“Go,” he called to it, but it was going already, scampering across the road, darting under a fence and into a well-kept garden.

Wei Ying’s face was still tucked into Lan Zhan’s neck. Lan Zhan felt the flutter of Wei Ying’s eyelashes, damp against his skin, and realized that Wei Ying had begun to cry, just a little, and also that he had closed his eyes, had given himself over to Lan Zhan’s protection completely. He had trusted Lan Zhan to take care of him, to keep him safe, and knowing it made Lan Zhan feel sharp and certain. He would take care of Wei Ying; he was sure, somehow, that he had been made for this: holding Wei Ying while he was scared and shaking, keeping him safe.

“It’s gone,” he told Wei Ying’s bowed head, and Wei Ying said nothing. Lan Zhan stroked his back, his shoulders. Slowly, the stiffness faded from his body.

The sidewalk was empty except for them.

Lan Zhan heard Wei Ying exhale shakily and felt the warm puff of Wei Ying’s breath against his collarbone. He did not ever want to let go of him. I know now, he thought, and it unfurled in him, as easy as taking a breath of air. I know now. I love you.

Lan Zhan’s thoughts were so loud in his mind. He listened to see if they would echo in the silent street, but of course they did not. Inside his skull, the words bloomed again and again, endless. I love you, I love you. Wei Ying, I love you.

At last Wei Ying twisted in his arms and lifted his pink face and said “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan…you are so…” and nothing else.

But there was nothing else he needed to say. Lan Zhan knew what Wei Ying was, what he meant. And he knew also that his own heart was not the guarded bud he had thought it to be.

All this time, it had been something else. A garden bed covered in snow. Roots and bulbs buried in the dark soil, tucked under the cold white quilt. Not dead, but waiting.

Wei Ying was what came after. The warmth of spring, the unstoppable burst of new green life.

Lan Zhan had never needed to work for him. Loving Wei Ying wasn’t work, wasn’t a duty.

It was just this: Wei Ying’s face near enough to kiss, his hands still clutching Lan Zhan’s shirt. And this: Lan Zhan’s love blooming like the first snowdrops of spring, arriving overnight.

✿ ✿ ✿

“Zhan-di…didi?”

Lan Zhan stumbles to a stop. His brother has stopped, too. He is standing in front of him, peering at him in concern. He waves a hand through the air in front of Lan Zhan’s face.

“You’re scaring me a little,” he says. “You were about to walk into the road.”

Lan Zhan assesses his surroundings. They have reached the far end of the shopping district. The stores around them now are mostly smaller, upscale boutiques. And one terrible soap store, apparently.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he murmurs, which is not strictly true. He was thinking. He was thinking about Wei Ying.

“Hmm,” Lan Huan says, in the way that means he believes Lan Zhan is not ready to talk about something yet. “Well, we’re here now.”

He makes a loose gesture towards the store at their right. Its windows are stacked high with brightly-colored lumps of soap, with piles of crumbling, glittery bath bombs.

Lan Zhan looks between the display and his brother’s face. Lan Huan’s cheeks are lightly flushed, as if he’s embarrassed or anxious. Lan Zhan does not understand why he would be either, and it makes him feel unsettled. He is not used to having to guess what his brother is feeling. Lan Huan has always been open, accessible, the one person Lan Zhan can trust to make sense.

“I’m so glad—“ Lan Huan says, and then pauses, shakes his head. Laughs at himself. “I’m glad you came with me, didi,” he finishes.

Lan Zhan is lost. His brother is acting strange, and he still does not know why they are here, at this specific, terrible soap store. He wants to ask Lan Huan what they are really doing, but he seems so oddly shy, and so honestly, truly glad, that Lan Zhan resolves to go along with whatever his brother has planned.

“It is no trouble, ge,” he says, and allows Lan Huan to open the door for him and shuttle him into the store.

The interior is hectic, crowded with shoppers frantically scurrying from one soap-piled display to the next, filling their baskets with unwrapped bars and wobbling jelly cleansers in clear containers. The air smells heavily of sugary tuberose and synthetic vanilla.

Lan Huan drifts over to a table of tropical-scented body butters, and Lan Zhan lingers near the entrance, feeling left-behind and slightly betrayed. His brother knows that Lan Zhan does not enjoy facing retail environments alone.

Lan Zhan takes a small breath through his mouth and edges towards a quieter corner of the room. He does not want to be here, but perhaps he can just tuck himself in against the wall and wait while Lan Huan finds and buys the perfect body butter and bath bomb set, and then they can go.

Before he can carry out his plan, a petite boy in a black apron appears in front of him.

“Welcome to Lotus Peace!” he says, waving a teetering stack of small plastic tubs at Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan notices that there are silver, bird-shaped clips holding the boy’s chin-length hair back from his face. He considers complimenting them, but he does not want to engage and risk prolonging this customer service interaction.

“Would you like to try a sample?” asks the boy, clearly desperate to engage.

He is already standing too close to Lan Zhan, and now he reaches out and grasps his arm. Before Lan Zhan can protest, the boy is rolling Lan Zhan’s sleeve up to his elbow, patting and pinching at Lan Zhan’s bare skin as if he is inspecting him for flaws.

“Ooh,” he says, holding Lan Zhan’s wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, “You have such nice arms. You could be, like, an arm model? Are you an arm model? Very pale skin, though. You must use so much sunscreen! Ours is the best. I’ll grab a sample in just a moment, but first—“

One handed, he scoops out a fingerful of oat-colored cream and begins to smooth it into Lan Zhan’s arm.

“This is our bestselling Dream Cream,” he chirps, as if smearing oily lotion onto innocent shoppers is a normal or acceptable sales tactic. “It smells so good, doesn’t it?”

It does not smell good. It smells cloyingly like cocoa and burnt sugar. Lan Zhan tugs his arm, but the boy doesn’t release him. His name, according to the tag on his apron, is ♡Huaisang♡.

“Please stop,” Lan Zhan says, but Huaisang continues blithely rubbing the cream into Lan Zhan’s skin.

“It takes a while to absorb!” he explains. “All that cocoa butter!”

“Stop,” Lan Zhan says, louder, trying again to pull his arm out of Huaisang’s grasp. Huaisang’s glittery little nails dig at  his wrist.

“Okay! Okay! You’re not a fan of the Dream Cream. No problem! Let me show you our Lemony Flutter Cuticle Butter,” he babbles, and opens another jar.

Lan Zhan’s skull is pounding from the too-sweet, chemical smells. He turns his head to try to catch Lan Huan’s eye, but Lan Huan is on the other side of the store, bent over a display of bee-shaped soaps that contain ‘Real Manuka Honey, Organic!’

Huaisang keeps dabbing sticky, citrusy paste onto Lan Zhan’s fingertips.

Lan Zhan lets his hand go limp. He is suddenly too overwhelmed to resist Huaisang’s ticklish, busy fingers.

The twinkling lights strung across the ceiling flicker and stutter, so slightly that most people would not notice. But Lan Zhan notices, and feels a swoop of nausea in his stomach. Huaisang’s cheerful voice fades out for a moment as a cold mist sprays over Lan Zhan’s face.

When his voice fades back in, it is echoey and distorted.

“…newest perfume! It has notes of vetiver, ylang-ylang, and pink peppercorns. Do you…oh. You don’t look so good. Arm-model gongzi? Hello?”

Lan Zhan tries to speak, but the words won’t come.

He is too exposed. This has happened to him before, this shutting down. But not in public. Not for a long time.

The last time it happened he was only a child and his mother was still alive, and when he froze in the busy park, overwhelmed by the sound and movement of the other children, she picked him up and carried him to a quiet bench and told him the names of the trees all around them until he could talk again, until he could repeat them back to her.

Now, Lan Zhan is flooded with shame and frustration. Heat rises in his ears, along the back of his neck. He is angry with himself, angry with whoever designed this awful store, angry with his brother for acting so unpredictably, for leaving Lan Zhan, for being at ease in this space that Lan Zhan cannot bear.

Today has been sandpaper against Lan Zhan’s skin, wearing him down until he’s exhausted, raw. The swirling crowd at the station, Lan Huan’s strangeness, the heat and clutter of the shopping district, the pressure in Lan Zhan’s chest, the need to tell his brother about himself, about Wei Ying—all of it has been too much. And now he is frozen in public, trying to breathe evenly.

Maybe it is better that he hasn’t been able to tell Lan Huan. Maybe it is a sign that he should not tell anyone how he feels, that it is better for Wei Ying not to know. After all, he has had months of sitting beside Wei Ying in class, and he still has not had the courage to tell him.

Wei Ying deserves more than someone like Lan Zhan, who isn’t brave, who can’t say what he means, who can’t even exist in a store without forgetting how to speak.

Huaisang releases Lan Zhan’s hand and he allows his arm to fall heavily to his side. His whole body is dead weight. His eyes are blurring. Where is Lan Huan?

“Nie Huaisang!” someone says, so fiercely that Lan Zhan almost does not recognize their voice.

But then he does. It is Wei Ying’s voice. Wei Ying is here.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, much softer, like he has saved all his gentleness for Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan forces himself to lift his chin to look at him. Wei Ying is wearing a black apron like Huaisang’s, but his is damp with water and streaked with powdery colors. He looks worried. There is a small crease between his brows.

“Lan Zhan,” he says again, and Lan Zhan should say something, should say hello, at least. Should probably give an explanation. But he still cannot speak.

Wei Ying scans Lan Zhan’s face, and the crease between his brows grows deeper. He turns back to Nie Huaisang.

“Sangsang,” he says, “Go tell Yao-ge his best customer is here before he finds out on his own and murders us both for not notifying him the moment he came in.”

“But—“ Huaisang starts, and Wei Ying gives him such a sharp look that Lan Zhan would feel sorry for him if he were not still dizzy with the scent of the perfume Huaisang sprayed over his face and hair.

“Now,” Wei Ying tells Huaisang, and gestures towards Lan Huan, who is wrist deep in heart-shaped bath bombs.

Huaisang scurries off towards Lan Zhan’s brother, and Wei Ying takes a step towards Lan Zhan.

“Hey,” he says, and then he must see the way that Lan Zhan has drawn into himself, because he says, “It’s a lot in here, huh? I know, Lan Zhan, I know it is. Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Lan Zhan is having trouble focusing. He stares at Wei Ying’s face, letting himself look as shamelessly as he has always wanted to. Wei Ying’s eyes are so dark and shiny, like watermelon seeds.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says at last. Somewhere else. Anywhere with Wei Ying.

Wei Ying nods and holds out his hand, palm up. It takes Lan Zhan a moment too long to understand.

“Ah, sorry, I mean—” Wei Ying says, and starts to lower his hand. Lan Zhan catches it just in time, wraps his lemon-sticky fingers around Wei Ying’s.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, “ha. Huaisang really got you, didn’t he?” But he doesn’t pull away from Lan Zhan’s grip.

He tows him through the store, darting around displays and behind the checkout counter and into some sort of storage room. Then they’re pushing through a pair of metal doors that lead outside, to a narrow alleyway between the Lotus Peace store and another brick-backed building.

They come to a stop in the middle of the alley and stand, facing each other, their hands still tangled between them.

It is quiet here. The city is just a few steps away, but from the alley it sounds muffled and distant. The sun is high enough that a sliver of warm light still falls between the tall buildings, illuminating the dull red bricks and the cracked pavement under their feet, overgrown with grasses and weeds.

Lan Zhan feels as if they are in another world entirely. A small, close planet with just enough room for Wei Ying and himself. It is a pleasant thing to imagine.

He takes a deep breath and coughs at once, choking on the scent of the perfume still caught in his throat. His skin crawls with Huaisang’s creams and ointments.

Wei Ying bites his lip. “It’s all the fragrance, right?” he asks. “Everything we sell smells so strong. My jiejie hates it when I come home from work and forget to shower right away. Her migraines are triggered by—uh, sorry, Lan Zhan. That’s not important. What do you need?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head. He just needs a little time in the hidden strip of space between the buildings, needs to stand here in the quiet alley with Wei Ying until the scent fades from his skin and he can pretend to be like other people again.

Wei Ying releases Lan Zhan’s hands and fiddles with the ties of his apron, and then he’s pulling it off and folding it loosely, passing it to Lan Zhan. “You can use it for your hands,” he says.

Lan Zhan accepts the cloth and scrubs the cuticle butter and the traces of cocoa-scented cream from his skin. He still feels too raw, wants to hide even from Wei Ying’s gentle, watermelon-seed eyes.

“You work here,” he says, when he can speak again. It is not a clever thing to say; of course Wei Ying works here. It is only that Lan Zhan is struggling to accept Wei Ying in this context: Wei Ying as a soap-store employee, his face a little flushed, his hair more wispy than ever, pinkish powder smudged along his jaw. Lan Zhan has been thinking of him all day, has been missing him since their calculus class this morning, and now he is here.

Lan Zhan does not know what to do with his body, with his hands. He rolls the stained apron into a tidy bundle, tucking the ties into the front pocket. “Will you need this?” Lan Zhan asks, holding it out to Wei Ying.

Wei Ying gestures for him to set it on the ground. “Not for the rest of my shift, Lan Zhan. I just finished two hours of bath bomb demos. If Yao-ge tells me to do any more I’ll throw him in the tub. I bet he’d fizz.”

With a dry laugh, Wei Ying extends his arms to show Lan Zhan the rings of color on them, stretching in layers of pink and blue and green all the way from his wrists to where his sleeves are bunched up at his elbows. Glitter is stuck to his skin like a thousand sparkling scales.

Lan Zhan can tell he’s a little proud of the stripes of color, the shimmer. He is so good, so lovely. Sparkling suits Wei Ying, Lan Zhan thinks, and opens his mouth to say it. But he can still smell the perfume hanging around his own body, a sickly sweet cloud of ylang-ylang and grassy vetiver. He coughs again.

Wei Ying winces. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “I’m a bad friend, I should have saved you from Huaisang’s demos. Sorry, sorry, I promise we can fix this. I read online that the best way to reset your, like, olfaction is to smell your own clean skin. So if you can smell your wrist or something…ha, it should help!”

Lan Zhan wonders what part of the internet lead Wei Ying to this cure. But it does not matter. He trusts Wei Ying. He brings his wrist dutifully to his nose and presses his face into his own skin, searching for the faint, spare scent of home, of Wen Popo’s white sandalwood soap.

All he can smell is cocoa butter and the itchy tingle of pink peppercorn.

Wei Ying must see it on his face because he frowns and steps closer, his hands outstretched like he wants to touch Lan Zhan.

“Don’t think too hard, gege,” he says, and then his hands are on Lan Zhan’s shoulders, his fingers pressing, light and cool, into the back of Lan Zhan’s neck. He pulls Lan Zhan down towards him, and Lan Zhan follows, bends so that their faces are just centimeters away. It reminds him of the day they walked to the Jiang’s house together, the day Lan Zhan held Wei Ying for the first time and realized he never wanted to let him go.

Wei Ying’s lips are red like summer berries. Lan Zhan could—if Wei Ying wanted, he could—

“Wow,” Wei Ying whispers, as if he’s surprised at something, at himself. He tilts his head to the side and brushes a few wavy strands of hair out of the way, leaving a bare stretch of skin from his jaw to his loose t-shirt collar.

“You can,” he says, “Right here, Lan Zhan. You can just—“ and, without finishing, he tugs Lan Zhan to him until Lan Zhan’s face is pressed in the shadowed curve of Wei Ying’s neck, his nose and his lips against Wei Ying’s thin, hot skin. Wei Ying’s hair brushes his cheek,  silk-soft and cool over Lan Zhan’s burning face.

It is a fragment, a fraction of a kiss. Lan Zhan allows himself to inhale the warm, clean smell of Wei Ying, allows himself to be at peace. Somehow, Wei Ying’s skin smells like home.

The last time they were like this, Wei Ying had been terrified and Lan Zhan had not thought about it when he wrapped his arms around him.

This time, he does not have any excuse. When he cups one hand over Wei Ying’s hip, feeling the edge of his bone and the heat of his body through his cotton t-shirt, it is entirely deliberate. When he splays his other hand high on Wei Ying’s back, between his shoulder blades, it is on purpose. The purpose is winding his fingers through the silky threads of Wei Ying’s hair, weaving his fingers into it.

Wei Ying’s forehead is resting against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. They are knotted together, tied up their strange embrace, frozen like a statue in the middle of the alleyway.

There are no sounds except for the faraway hum of the city, the rustling of their own breathing.

The sun slides under a cloud and the space grows dim. Wei Ying shivers a little, dramatic, and Lan Zhan holds him closer and thinks that he is not worthy of this, of keeping Wei Ying in the circle of his arms, of keeping Wei Ying at all. Of telling Wei Ying he loves him, as if Wei Ying is something Lan Zhan can just ask for and have.

He will let himself keep just this, he thinks. He will save it like the drawing Wei Ying made him. Fold up the memory of this alleyway, of their bodies close together, of the smell of Wei Ying’s skin and the feel of his hair, and tuck it into the pages of a book so it cannot be damaged.

“Is it…” Wei Ying says, muffled because of the way his face is tucked into Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “Lan Zhan, is it working?”

A hollow disappointment grows in Lan Zhan’s chest, but he forces himself to ignore it. Of course this moment must end. He bites his lip and begins to ease his fingers from Wei Ying’s hair. Yes, he will tell him. It worked, he will tell him. And then he will thank Wei Ying, and let him go.

Lan Zhan is about to speak when he hears the creak and thud of the metal doors swinging open and shut. A shuffle of footsteps, and his brother’s frightened voice. “A-Zhan? Are you okay?”

Their small, quiet world shatters. Lan Zhan and Wei Ying split apart, a clumsy untangling. Lan Zhan’s hand is still outstretched, holding the air where Wei Ying’s hip was just a moment ago. Wei Ying’s hair is messy and his cheeks are flushed warm, one of them imprinted with a crease from Lan Zhan’s shirt.

Lan Huan and another boy wearing a Lotus Peace apron are standing side by side in front of the double metal doors. Lan Huan’s face is pale and pinched with concern. He is twisting his hands together in front of his chest in the way that means he is overcome with guilt.

“Didi, I—” he says, “you just disappeared. I didn’t know…” he trails off, still wringing his hands.

The boy at his side, who is small but must be close to Lan Huan’s age, turns his gaze towards Lan Zhan and gives him a look that is somehow both politely concerned and deeply disapproving.

“It’s my fault!” Wei Ying says, at the same time Lan Zhan says, “I am all right, now, Huan-ge.”

The stranger flicks his glance between Wei Ying and Lan Zhan. He does not smile, but his round dark eyes spark with something Lan Zhan thinks is amusement. He looks up at Lan Huan and Lan Huan looks at him for a moment, dips his head in a tiny nod, and turns to face Lan Zhan and Wei Ying again. “Well,” he says, rueful, “I hadn’t meant for this to be so…messy.”

Wei Ying scuffs his toe against the pavement, frowning. “And Lan Zhan didn’t mean to disappear,” he says, determined. “I’m the one who dragged him outside.”  

Lan Huan sighs and shakes his head. “Please, tell me your name?” he asks Wei Ying, and Wei Ying says, “I’m Wei Ying, I’m Lan Zhan’s best friend.”

Lan Huan’s face brightens until he is practically glowing. “Lan Zhan’s best friend,” he repeats. Lan Zhan must be glowing, too. Best friend. He wants to cover his face to hide what he is feeling.

“Wei Ying,” his brother says, “I’m not mad at Lan Zhan, or at you. I was only worried, and now I’m only sorry. I have made many mistakes, today.”

His gaze flicks back to Lan Zhan. “Didi,” he says, suddenly formal, “I should not have asked you to come here. I should not have left you alone in the store. I was—nervous, but that is no excuse. I did not consider your wellbeing. I wanted to do this properly, and instead I confused and hurt you. Forgive me.”

Do what properly, Lan Zhan wants to ask, but he swallows the question and says, “I am not hurt. There is nothing to forgive.”

The strange boy let out a little exasperated huff, and stretches onto his tiptoes to whisper something in Lan Huan’s ear. Lan Huan blinks, and smiles, and says out loud “Yes, you’re right,” and then, to Lan Zhan, “Didi, I will explain. I asked you to come here because I wanted you to meet A-Yao.” He gives a brief, adoring glance to the boy beside him—to A-Yao, and continues.

“A-Yao is one of my—,” Lan Huan says, but cuts off when A-Yao digs a sharp elbow into his ribs. He swallows sharply before he goes on, “A-Yao is my—one, singular, ah, boyfriend. He is important to me, as you are, and I wanted to have the privilege of introducing you to each other.”

Lan Zhan thinks of the way his brother had looked at A-Yao, who must also be Meng Yao. The secret softness, the worshipful certainty in his eyes. Lan Zhan knows that feeling.

Swiftly, the many puzzling pieces of this day begin to click into place. Lan Huan has a boyfriend. Lan Huan is in love. This is why he was so distracted, so eager to take Lan Zhan to this soap store.

He thinks of a day last December, when Lan Huan had come home for a long weekend. Lan Zhan had just met Wei Ying, and he wanted to talk to his brother—not about Wei Ying, exactly, but about what Lan Zhan was feeling. Why he was so shaken. If anyone could help make sense of the swirling mess of vexation and longing inside Lan Zhan, he had thought, it would be his brother.

“What do you think it means,” he had said, as they washed and trimmed gai lan for dinner, “if you want to look at someone all the time?”

Lan Huan had set down his knife and tilted his head, thinking.

“Hypothetically?” he had said, after a moment. Lan Zhan had nodded, thinking hypotheticals were safe.

Lan Huan sighed. “Ah,” he said. “Hypothetically, you may want to look at someone because they are strong enough to carry a drunken classmate safely home on their back, but also, sometimes, when they call their didi they cry a little because they miss him so much. Or perhaps you want to look at someone because they are skilled at seeming serene and proper, but you have been allowed the privilege of knowing that they are devious when deviousness is—"

“Ge,” Lan Zhan had said, stopping him. He wondered what nonsense romance novels Lan Huan had been reading at university. All his hypotheticals were useless. None of them explained why Lan Zhan was drawn to Wei Ying. Why he felt the need to look at him like a hunger in his stomach.

Lan Huan had looked almost wistful, then, and Lan Zhan felt guilty for troubling him. It was so rare for Lan Huan to be unable to help Lan Zhan; of course it would be distressing for him to not know what advice to give. 

“Nevermind, ge,” he had said. “We should finish dinner.”

At the time, Lan Zhan had been convinced that his brother’s images of someone strong and sensitive, of someone serene but devious, were stolen from romance novels. It had not been a baseless assumption. Lan Zhan remembers Lan Huan’s teenage reading preferences—at home, in Lan Huan’s carefully preserved bedroom, his bookshelves are still filled with cheap paperbacks, the ones about brave emperors and noble warriors and muscled healers with kind eyes.  

Now, Lan Zhan sees that his brother must have been trying to tell him something, about his own feelings, his own heart. And Lan Zhan had been too consumed with Wei Ying to understand.

A-Yao is my boyfriend, Lan Huan had said. One, singular. But Lan Huan is a clumsy liar. If A-Yao is not singular, then that means—Lan Zhan glances at his brother, who is so proper and polite, always. So reserved, so careful to be what uncle wants him to be. But Lan Huan is also—A-Yao’s boyfriend. Someone else’s boyfriend. So much more than what Lan Zhan had assumed.

Lan Zhan studies Meng Yao, trying to make sense of him as Lan Huan’s boyfriend. Meng-Yao returns Lan Zhan’s gaze with an innocent smile. “It is a pleasure to meet Lan Huan’s didi,” he says.

“A-Huan speaks of you often," says Meng Yao, "and I have heard about you from Wei Ying, too. I should have realized that A-Huan’s A-Zhan was the same as Wei Ying’s ‘Lan Zhaaan, from calculus, who I’m in love with.’”

Lan Zhan’s pulse skips. Wei Ying wails something that sounds like “Yao-ge, no.”

Meng Yao raises a hand to his o-shaped mouth, widens his eyes, and lifts his eyebrows. “Oh!” he murmurs, delicately shocked, “Yingying didn’t tell me it was a secret!”

Devious, Lan Zhan would think, if his thoughts weren’t drowned out by his leaping heart.

Lan Huan looks from Meng Yao, to Lan Zhan, to Wei Ying. “A-Yao is coming home to meet shufu,” he says, as if bringing a boy home is a completely ordinary occurrence, and not something that is likely to shock their uncle into having an aneurysm. “I do hope,” he goes on, glowing once more, “that you will join us for dinner, too, Wei Ying.”

✿ ✿ ✿

Wei Ying is red-faced and withdrawn, stunned silent for once. Lan Zhan tries to meet his eyes, but Wei Ying looks away from him, looks down at his own scuffed shoes.

If they were alone, Lan Zhan might do something bold. He might take Wei Ying’s hand in his again. He might put his fingertips under Wei Ying’s sharp chin and draw Wei Ying’s face out of hiding, make him look at Lan Zhan’s eyes.

But there is no time for any boldness, because Lan Huan is already leading them out of the alley. Lan Zhan is worried that Wei Ying will give some excuse and disappear back into the store. But instead, he matches his pace to Lan Zhan’s, and, without speaking, they fall into step behind Lan Huan and Meng Yao.

They all pause on the street for a moment so that Meng Yao can tap away at his phone, his thumbs blurring as he sends off a series of messages.

“There,” he says when he is done. “I’ve left Huaisang in charge, and reminded him that if he makes a single mistake I’ll fire him. And also that his brother will return his parakeets to the bird sanctuary if he loses another job.”

“Mingjue-ge would never return the parakeets,” Lan Huan says gently, but Meng Yao just shrugs. “Maybe not,” he says, “but Huaisang doesn’t know that.”

Lan Huan would look exasperated if he did not look so fond, Lan Zhan thinks. “A-Yao,” he says, and trails off, his mouth twitching with a suppressed smile.

There is a long, quiet moment. Wei Ying pulls his loose hair back into its usual high ponytail, ties a lopsided bow with his red ribbon.

Lan Zhan bites his tongue. Did you mean it? he thinks, watching the way Wei Ying rocks back and forth on his toes, the way he is biting his lips, turning them impossibly redder. Lan Zhan, from calculus, who I’m in love with. Did you mean it?

Lan Huan checks his watch and looks up at the sky. It is edging towards evening, and the sun is a low, heavy disk, half-sunk behind a glittering bank of high rises in the distance.

“There is still enough time,” Lan Huan says. “We could walk home on the bike path, A-Zhan. If you would like it?”

Lan Zhan nods at once, and Meng Yao offers that it will be pleasantly cool by the water. Wei Ying makes no protest, so they make their way out of the city center.

Lan Zhan is surprised, as he always is, at the way a final row of office buildings gives way to the glittering river without warning. A strip of green park traces the water’s path, and arching, yellow-green willow trees trail their branches down to the ground. The air here smells fresh, cool and minerally from the silty river water.

It’s late enough that the bike path is starting to empty. A little girl on a yellow tricycle pedals past them, ringing her bell continuously. A young man walking with a white cane calls after her, “A-Qing, don’t go too far ahead!” and his partner, a serious-faced man dressed in dark colors, lets out a three-note whistle. At that, the girl grumbles and puts her toes down, dragging herself to a slow stop at the edge of the path. She perches on her bike, frowning and ringing her bell, until her parents reach her.

They pass the family, and Lan Zhan hears one of the men, half-teasing, half-scolding, tell the girl “A-die’s getting old, Qingqing. He can’t keep up with you when you go so fast!”

She says something in reply, but her voice is high and thin and it’s carried away by the wind before Lan Zhan can make out what it was.

Brother and Meng Yao are walking a few paces ahead of them. They’re not touching, but their dark heads are tilted together in a way that makes Lan Zhan think they must be talking to each other.

Wei Ying has been quiet since Meng Yao said—since Meng Yao revealed himself to be as devious as Lan Zhan’s brother’s romance-novel description of him. Lan Zhan is worried.

Now, Wei Ying looks over his shoulder for a moment, back to where the little girl is still arguing with her parents.

“Good to see there’s still some little troublemakers around here,” he says at last. “I used to come a lot when I was a kid. With a-jie and Cheng-di. Once we caught a turtle, ha! We wanted to take it home as a pet, but jiejie made us put it back in the water.”

Lan Zhan imagines a much smaller Wei Ying, mud smeared on his cheeks, holding a squirming turtle proudly in both hands.

“My mother brought Huan-ge and I here when we were small, too,” he says. He thinks for a moment, deciding what else he feels ready to reveal about his mother, and says, “She did not grow up in the city. I think she found peace here, by the trees and the water.”

“Ah,” Wei Ying says, and rubs at his nose with one fingertip. “It’s nice to be away from the city. The air feels softer here, doesn’t it, Lan Zhan?”

It does not make sense, exactly, but the air does feel soft, damp and a little humid, alive with spring breezes. The sun is glowing through gauzy evening clouds and the sky is streaked pink in places, is gilded in others.

A realization settles over Lan Zhan like mist, unobtrusive. For the first time in days, he feels peaceful. The pressure from before, the urgent, panicked need to tell his brother that he is gay, to tell Wei Ying that he loves him, is gone. All that matters is this, right now. Wei Ying at his side, his brother not too far ahead, the watercolor sky over them, the hope softly pulsing in Lan Zhan’s chest.

Lan Zhan imagines that the bicycle path goes on forever, that the four of them can keep walking like this until the world goes dark and the stars prick back into being.

“Look,” Wei Ying says, softly, and then again, louder: “Look!”

He points towards something on the other side of the river, and at first Lan Zhan does not see what it is.

Wei Ying grasps blindly for Lan Zhan’s wrist and finds it. He tugs at Lan Zhan and says, “There, right there,” and then Lan Zhan sees it. A gray heron, frozen on the opposite bank.

“How can he be here?” Wei Ying wonders, his eyes fixed on the bird, his fingers warm and sure on Lan Zhan’s wrist. “In the middle of the city?”

Lan Zhan understands Wei Ying’s suprirse. The bird is almost alien, so still and so proud that it seems out of place amidst the clutter of glass and concrete buildings, the rush and noise of human life.

And yet—Lan Zhan thinks of the quiet alleyway behind the Lotus Peace store, the garden at home where his mother once planted blue gentians, the plum trees outside their calculus classroom. The silent, empty sidewalk where he realized his love for Wei Ying. There is space in this city for quietness and stillness, for strange and beautiful and alien things.

The heron extends his wings and thrusts his legs out, pushing himself up and into the air. He beats once, twice, and then he is fully flying, his long neck snaked back towards his body, his feet trailing out behind him.

Wei Ying holds his free hand up in the air, waves once to the bird.

“It is a large city,” Lan Zhan says, watching the heron rise higher. “There is room for him, too.”

“Ah, gege, you’re so smart,” Wei Ying says. His grip on Lan Zhan’s wrist loosens, and maybe Lan Zhan reaches to catch his fingers, or maybe it is Wei Ying, or maybe it is both of them—grasping, suddenly clumsy as they press their palms together, as they figure out the tangle of their fingers.

Their eyes meet and Wei Ying’s look is one Lan Zhan has never seen before. Something bare and open in his eyes, like a secret he’s sharing with Lan Zhan at last. Did you mean it? Lan Zhan thinks again. Do you feel how I do? Is that the secret?

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, steady.

“What Meng Yao said—” Wei Ying starts, and Lan Zhan waits. He will wait until Wei Ying is ready. Whatever Wei Ying says, Lan Zhan will hear him.

“I wish he hadn’t,” Wei Ying says. “I know Lan Zhan is better than, ha, all that nonsense. I know someone like Lan Zhan wouldn’t want someone—” Wei Ying says, and the tone of his voice is awful, a small blade he’s digging into himself, and Lan Zhan changes his mind. He won’t wait. He won’t let Wei Ying pretend that he is not everything Lan Zhan wants.

“I would,” he says. “I do. Wei Ying, listen. Listen to me. You are the river for me. You are the place where I am at ease.” I loved you before I knew what love meant, he thinks, but there will be time for that later.

Wei Ying’s lips part. “Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, you really mean it, don’t you?”

Lan Zhan squeezes his hand and touches the corner of his eye, touches the place he will kiss, later, when there is time, when they are both more steady. He nods.

“Do you remember,” Wei Ying says, “that day with the dog, I was so scared! But you were there and I knew you wouldn’t let it hurt me. You’re the place where I’m safe, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan knows he has a still face. He has been told he looks like a statue, like a boy carved of jade. He looks at Wei Ying and imagines his own face splitting open, his quiet eyes and his quiet mouth shattering like a porcelain mask until Wei Ying can see how much Lan Zhan feels for him.

Wei Ying meets his gaze and then, without warning, braces his free hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder and surges up to kiss his jaw, just below his ear. As soon as he touches his lips to Lan Zhan’s skin, he’s pulling away, smiling, his eyes like squinted stars, his open face reflecting what Lan Zhan feels inside himself. The shape of his lips is cool and damp on Lan Zhan’s skin, teased by the air.

“Should catch up,” Wei Ying says at last, his voice small and soft, just for Lan Zhan. He tilts his chin towards Lan Huan and Meng Yao, who are far ahead of them now.

In the distance, Lan Huan’s figure blurs together with Meng Yao’s. Lan Zhan wonders if they are still talking, if they are still not touching. He grips Wei Ying’s hand tight, and even as they begin to walk again, they do not let go of each other.

Soon they are closer to the other pair. Wei Ying is growing fidgety. He taps his fingers against Lan Zhan’s knuckles and leans close to him to ask, half-joking, half-shy, “Ah, gege, do you think your uncle will like me?”

Lan Zhan thinks of his uncle at home, in their quiet kitchen, preparing for dinner. He will be slicing the vegetables into neat pieces, pouring oil and spices into little bowls so that when it is time to cook, everything will go smoothly.

“Shufu is like me,” he says. “You will surprise him.”

Wei Ying bites his lip.

“It will be good for him to be surprised,” Lan Zhan explains, and Wei Ying tips his head up to the sky and laughs.

Lan Huan must hear him—he looks back over his shoulder. Lan Zhan watches his face, watches as his brother sees the way he and Wei Ying are linked together. The clasp of their hands between them. The closeness of their bodies.

Hours ago, he had not known how to tell his brother about the tender, messy expanse of his heart.

Now, he is showing him, and he can see that his brother understands.

Lan Huan smiles at Lan Zhan, a white flash in the dim light.

And then he looks ahead again, and Lan Zhan can only imagine what his brother’s face looks like as Lan Huan reaches out at last to wrap his arm around Meng Yao’s waist, as Meng Yao stiffens and then relaxes.

As he curls into Lan Huan’s side like he belongs there, like they’re in love.