Chapter Text
Wei Ying jerks awake the same way she always does, floundering suddenly from a sound sleep to a state of bleary suspicion that could, in bad lighting, be mistaken for human consciousness.
“Fucking—stop watching me fucking sleep,” she says, the words only slightly muffled by the pillow that’s somehow on top of her head. “I told you, I don’t want a surprise party!” She shoves the pillow to the floor, realizing as she does so that it’s one of Huaisang’s stupidly over-decorated throw pillows, which is weird.
“And I told you, your preferences are weird and dumb but I will respect them anyway.” Across the room, Huaisang rolls their eyes. “Surprise parties are fun, you weirdo.”
“Eurgh, hard pass,” Wei Ying says. “Also, uh.” She blinks, looking around the room. “Why am I in your living room?” It explains the throw pillow, at least, but it opens up a whole host of other questions.
Huaisang tips their head to the side, humming thoughtfully. “Not really sure, honestly.” They raise a single immaculate eyebrow. “You came over after your lab, yelled about ethics and accessibility in video game design for about twenty minutes, told me my makeup was on point, and then passed the fuck out.”
“Huh.” Wei Ying blinks. “I mean, your makeup is amazing, obviously, but the rest of it…” She spreads her hands. “‘I have no memory of this place,’ sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Huaisang says. “Although actually, I wanted to ask you about something you mentioned—” There’s a knock at the door, and they startle. “Oh!”
“Expecting company?” Wei Ying waggles her eyebrows, faux-lascivious. Huaisang snorts.
“It’s a girl from my Music Theory class,” they say, pushing to their feet. “There’s a couple of books on non-Western musical notation that the library doesn’t have, but da-ge said I could let her borrow them.” The knock repeats, quiet but insistent, and Huaisang hurries over to the door, just beyond Wei Ying’s field of vision. “Coming, coming,” they call, and there’s the sound of the locks flipping, the door opening. “Lan Zhan, hi! Sorry, I meant to grab the books before you got here, I don’t know where the time went, give me just a minute.”
“It’s fine.” Lan Zhan, whoever she is, has a beautiful voice, rich and velvety; Wei Ying cranes her neck, but can only make out the very edge of Huaisang’s arm. “I am happy to wait.”
“Well, wait inside, at least,” Huaisang says, and then she’s darting through the living room and through her bedroom door. “I’ll only be a moment,” she calls over her shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, and steps into the living room. She glances around the room, taking it in with a measured, evaluative gaze until she notices Wei Ying. “Oh.”
Abruptly, Wei Ying becomes aware of several things.
Thing One: Lan Zhan is perhaps the most beautiful person Wei Ying has ever seen in real life. She’s got flawless skin, perfectly proportioned features, a mouth that would make a hundred Instagram influencers weep with jealousy. Her long, dark hair is caught up in an effortless twist, pinned in place by a single hairstick in a way that Wei Ying knows from bitter experience is an absolute nightmare to achieve. Her clothes are elegant, classic without being dated, modest but not dowdy: a simple blouse, a pair of perfectly-fitted jeans. She’s tall and strong and really, honestly, just brain-meltingly hot.
Thing Two: Wei Ying is pretzled awkwardly into the corner of Huaisang’s couch, still groggy from her nap. Her hair is hanging in her face in a way that’s less ‘sexily tousled’ and more ‘literal human disaster’. There’s drool at the corner of her mouth, and she’s got an imprint of Huaisang’s stupid sequined cushion on her cheek. She’s wearing a tank top that says COMPOST THE RICH, but it’s gotten twisted around her as she slept, and now she’s basically one deep breath away from turning ‘tasteful sideboob’ into just...boob.
Thing Three: Lan Zhan is absolutely, totally, 100% staring at her.
“Uh, hi?” Wei Ying offers, trying to free her arm from the blanket twisted around it without actually flashing Lan Zhan. “I’m Wei Ying,” she says, waving awkwardly. “I know Huaisang from—” She frowns. “Huaisang, did we meet in kindergarten or at Chinese school?”
“Neither,” Huaisang says, emerging from their bedroom with an armful of extremely dull-looking books. Seriously, how do the publishers make even the bindings look boring? “We met on the playground when you and Jiang Cheng got in a fight and knocked over my sculptures.”
“Oh, right.” Wei Ying doesn’t actually remember the specific incident in question, but Nie Huasang did make a lot of weird little twig-and-leaf sculptures in the park when they were all little, and Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng definitely knocked a bunch of them over. “Sorry about that,” she says, just to cover her bases.
“It’s fine,” Huaisang says, waving their hand that could mean you’re forgiven and could mean revenge will come when you least expect it. They place the books on the coffee table with a muted thunk, turning to Lan Zhan. “There’s actually a few of them,” they say. “You can take them all, but they’re heavy as fuck, so—”
“Mm.” Lan Zhan nods. “I will examine them. May I sit?” There’s an awkward pause where Wei Ying watches Huaisang, like, totally fucking blank Lan Zhan, which is weird—what, suddenly they have a problem with people sitting on their couch?—before she catches Lan Zhan’s eye and realizes that Lan Zhan was talking to her.
“Oh,” Wei Ying says, “oh, yeah, sure.” She drags her feet out of the way, tugging the blanket after them to clear a space for Lan Zhan. “All yours.”
“Thank you.” Lan Zhan even moves beautifully, stepping around the couch and perching on the cushion with a dancer’s economy of motion. She lifts the first book off of the pile and runs a hand over its cover, opening it gently over her knees and paging through it in thoughtful absorption.
Which is a good thing, it turns out, because next to the books—like, literally right next to them, fuck, fuck—is Wei Ying’s bra, splayed across Huaisang’s where she must have flung it before her impromptu nap. And of course it’s not a sports bra or one of Wei Ying’s boring black bras, either of which would have been embarrassing but basically fine. It’s lace, fire-engine red, the color and pattern stark against the dark wood of the table. Wei Ying only wears it when she’s in desperate need of a confidence boost or a laundry run, because it’s uncomfortable as fuck.
True, it makes Wei Ying’s tits look amazing, but that’s cold comfort when a) she’s not wearing it right now, on account of how, b) it’s on Huaisang’s coffee table, just waiting to be noticed by the most gorgeous human alive.
“Urgkh.” Wei Ying fake-coughs, staring at Huaisang and willing them to pick up her psychic please save me from the disastrous choices I made half an hour ago -vibes. If Nie Mingjue is going to keep accusing them of sharing a single brain cell, the least the universe can do is grant them psychic powers to match.
Cosmic justice seems to be in short supply, though. Wei Ying fake-coughs hard enough that she chokes and starts coughing for real, hacking and wheezing into her elbow, but Huaisang stays absorbed in their phone, chuckling quietly at whatever they’re reading there.
So Huaisang’s no help, but that’s fine. Wei Ying’s got this under control. She pulls her legs farther up the couch and—after a quick, frantic check to make sure she’s at least wearing pants—swings her feet to the ground and stands up.
“Ahaha, look at the time,” she says, even though she honestly has no idea what time it is. Afternoon, maybe? “I should really get out of your hair, leave you two to your—uh—” She gestures vaguely at the books. “You know.”
“You do not have to leave.” Lan Zhan sets the book back on the table and looks up, perfect forehead creased into an equally perfect frown. “I am sorry to intrude.”
“Hah, no, not at all.” Lan Zhan’s staring up at her, so Wei Ying shuffles slightly to the left, crouching awkwardly and fumbling around to try and grab the bra off of the table. “You’re not intruding,” Wei Ying says, “you’re—what’s the opposite of intruding? Extruding? No, that’s not right,” and fuck, fuck, where is this bra?
Abruptly, Wei Ying’s fingertips snag on a familiar piece of lace; she straightens from her half-crouch with a victorious shout—
—and topples forward to land firmly in Lan Zhan’s lap.
In addition to being preternaturally beautiful, Lan Zhan has superhuman reflexes: her hands come up to catch Wei Ying just in time to keep their skulls from cracking together. Which is—good, probably, but on the other hand it means that Lan Zhan has one hand on Wei Ying’s thigh, the other wrapped around Wei Ying’s ribcage. Her bare ribcage, even, her battered tank top rucked up under Lan Zhan’s palm. Lan Zhan’s fingers are pressed into the soft flesh of Wei Ying’s side, and her hands are big enough that her thumb nearly brushes the lower curve of Wei Ying’s breast.
“Wei Ying.” Like this, Wei Ying can feel that voice throughout her whole body, low and rumbly and unbearably good. “Are you okay?”
“Your hands are gigantic,” Wei Ying says, because she’s a fucking idiot. “I mean, uh—” She swallows, blinks, tears herself free of Lan Zhan’s grasp to wobble to her feet. The bra, still clutched in her fist, drags over Lan Zhan’s shoulder as Wei Ying stands, a rasping slither of lace over the smooth material of Lan Zhan’s shirt.
“Sorry,” Wei Ying says. “Or, uh—thanks? And sorry. And—” She opens her mouth, shuts it again, shakes her head. “Never mind,” she says. “I’m just gonna, yeah.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, but Wei Ying is already halfway to the door. She shoves her feet into her sneakers—unlaced, whatever, she’ll fix them in the hall, or maybe never—and bolts out the door.
And that’s how Wei Ying meets Lan Zhan for the first time.