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Wen Ning splayed himself across Lan Zhan's legs, a comfortable weight in addition to the blanket. He leaned up to steal a kiss and his feet tapped out a nonsense rhythm against the arm of the couch that Lan Zhan wasn't leaning against.
Wordlessly, he pressed a small bottle into Lan Zhan's hand. Lan Zhan hummed and read the small writing on its side. He wasn't unfamiliar with nail polish, but it always took a moment to change tasks; reading was a perfect transition. Wen Ning understood.
Lan Zhan let out another hum when he was ready. "I like the color."
Wen Ning nodded and turned over onto his back. Lan Zhan flexed his legs, digging his knees for a moment into Wen Ning's spine—he couldn't handle that much contact, but both Wen Ning and Wei Ying loved it—and shook the polish with one hand.
Wen Ning's hands rested on his own stomach, fingers trembling even now. The tremor had started over a day ago, convenient given that they'd had nothing planned, but Lan Zhan hadn't seen it get this bad in months. He inserted his free hand between Wen Ning's, and Wen Ning smiled.
"Wei Ying picked it," he replied. "Before he got on the teal kick."
Lan Zhan huffed a laugh. Wei Ying had been incorporating various shades of teal into his wardrobe for several weeks now, with varying results.
The nail polish in question was a metallic, shimmering pink. Perhaps Lan Zhan himself could be convinced to wear it, though it was darker than his usual.
"I like it," he said.
Wen Ning nudged his hand—he'd used his wrist, so Lan Zhan knew it was a purposeful motion, and nudged back. So what if he'd repeated the compliment? Earlier, Wei Ying had lined Wen Ning's eyes, trialing a look he'd thought up only after finishing his own makeup. Lan Zhan, then, had been resting after making breakfast.
Lan Zhan risked the move and bent to press a kiss to Wen Ning's forehead. His vision swam briefly as he sat back up, and he busied himself with unscrewing the bottle to avoid facing Wen Ning's concern.
It hadn't taken Lan Zhan long to master panting nails. His brother sometimes struggled, he knew, unable to instinctively pick up the perfect amount of polish, but the truth was that Lan Zhan had taken to it with the same determination as every other matter involving hand-eye coordination and fine motor control. He messed up, still, but practice accounted for the consistency that his body could never promise.
Wen Ning lifted a hand obediently into Lan Zhan's hold. Lan Zhan took it, squeezed, lifted it and pressed a kiss to its back, ran a finger over his knuckles, the returned it to Wen Ning's chest.
One stroke, then another. Wen Ning's fingers trembled, less now that his hand was once again supported, and Lan Zhan painted without smudging.
Neither of them spoke. They were used to silence, words often stolen by pain or processing—it was harder now that Wen Ning couldn't sign as comfortably as he wanted, as he was used to doing, but Lan Zhan was nothing if not patient. If the idea of patience even applied. This was simply what life and routine entailed.
He finished one hand and moved on to the other. The polish was slightly opaque, just enough that he'd need to do another coat. It would be best to do a topcoat as well, after, but Wen Ning hadn't brought that bottle and Lan Zhan couldn't guarantee he'd be able to get it himself. He decided to play it by ear and picked up Wen Ning's right hand again.
Lan Zhan held his palm and rubbed his knuckles again before getting started, a simple, repetitive motion that would do little for the tremor but always got him a warm look.
He smeared the color a little bit. Nothing that couldn't be fixed. Nothing that couldn't be attributed to normal nail polish shenanigans. But Wen Ning grimaced and Lan Zhan kissed it off his face, and had to take a moment to regain his breath and get his own hands to stop shaking.
"I'd like to try green next time," Wen Ning said as they waited.
"It would look good," Lan Zhan agreed.
None of the three of them wore green often, Wei Ying favoring reds, blacks, and purples because he was dramatic; Wen Ning sticking with blacks and greys because he was the gentlest goth who'd ever gothed; and Lan Zhan comfortable in light, airy blues and whites, a constant miracle to the more messy of his boyfriends (who in this instance would go unnamed but in other instances would be identified as Wei Ying).
"It would look good," Lan Zhan repeated. He ran through his mental catalogue of their collected nail color options. There was a metallic one that would work, he thought. One that looked grey at first and shimmered at a second glance.
He moved on to Wen Ning's other hand. One stroke, another. Simple, methodical. If it were Wei Ying under his hands, there would be talking and laughter. Wen Ning remained silent, allowing Lan Zhan to focus. Occasionally, he made a sound and Lan Zhan answered with one of his own. His feet tapped out a rhythm on the arm of the couch still, excess energy with no alternate outlet.
Lan Zhan had realized just over a week ago that he'd picked up the habit. Not often, but sometimes. Just enough: when he was waiting in line and needed to relieve strain, when he was restless in his wheelchair, tapping out sounds and phrases on the footrest, when Wei Ying decided to cook and banned both him and Wen Ning from the kitchen, when he couldn't fall asleep and tried not to cry. It was useful. And it always reminded him of Wen Ning, which always made him smile.
"Topcoat?" he asked when he finished, closing the bottle without looking at it, instead studying the flecks of color in Wen Ning's eyes.
Wen Ning considered for a moment. "When it dries?"
Lan Zhan hummed. It wouldn't take long to dry—and it didn't, Wen Ning soon standing, Lan Zhan aching with his absence, cold and bereft—
"Dramatic," Wen Ning teased from across the room.
Lan Zhan pouted enough for him to laugh and turn away. In the moment of solitude, he rubbed at his wrist, which ached in a different way, abused and overused. The fine control of painting nails had only exacerbated the ache that had been building over the past two weeks, Lan Zhan no longer able to comfortably balance on his crutches and relying more and more on his walker, still stubborn about using the wheelchair indoors; his partners were silent at that, much to his relief.
Wen Ning returned unfooled, topcoat in hand. He dropped it gracelessly into Lan Zhan's lap and followed himself, resuming his previous position.
"I like that," Lan Zhan said to avoid the conversation, not because Wen Ning would press but because it would be fair to bring into the open. And he simply wasn't ready. "I like you," he said.
Wen Ning in his lap, warm, heavy, comfortable, safe. Wen Ning's hand in his, trusting, firm, trembling, perfect.
"I like you, too."
There was something about the way Wen Ning spoke that made Lan Zhan feel like everything would be alright. Not that it wasn't alright, already. But something more, something so certain he wanted to wrap it around himself like a cloak of stars or clouds or water.
He knew what it was.
"I like you, too," he repeated. He began covering the polish he had just applied, Wen Ning's left hand first, then his right. "I love you, too."