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Chapter Text

They are in homeroom, the first time Nie Huaisang notices it. Wei Ying is slouched low in his chair, tapping out an intermittent rhythm with his pencil’s eraser as he waits for the teacher to finish calling roll. When he straightens in his chair, his uniform shirt drags on the plastic backrest and pulls down enough for Nie Huaisang to see it: a big, ugly, purpling bruise, green at the edges and all. 

Nie Huaisang’s first instinct is to look away, so he does, even though the bruise is already covered by Wei Ying’s shirt. Their homeroom teacher, Liu-laoshi, shuffles over to the computer as the daily announcements are read by members of the student council over the intercom. Nie Huaisang’s attention drifts back to Wei Ying, who is now draped over his desk, head pillowed on his forearms. He watches as Wei Ying tears a tiny strip of paper from his calculus homework and wads it up, flicking it at the student sitting next to him. Who just so happens to be Lan Zhan, the nephew of the headmaster, so clearly Wei Ying has a death wish. 

Nie Huaisang turns away with a sniff, flipping to a new page in his sketchbook. There’s chemistry homework in his bag that he could use the free time to do, but he’ll do it later at home, for sure. He pulls out a different color of pen and sketches out a pair of canaries in flight.

He can’t help but think about how Wei Ying’s collar had been folded higher than usual, leaving the sky-blue tie of their school’s uniform visible from the back. Like he was trying to hide it. Most of the boys in their class love to show off their “battle scars” from sports matches or whatever else. They’re eager to boast the story of their latest cut, scrape, or bruise, like it’s a competition. In fact, he’s sure he’s seen Wei Ying participate in a few of those boast-sessions. 

What he saw feels like a secret. He lets it stew in the back of his head as he focuses on his canaries until the bell rings.

*

“Come on, come on…” Wei Ying mutters under his breath as he digs through his bag. His long-sleeve athletic wear fails to materialize, no matter how he shakes the drawstring. He pushes his bangs out of his face—they really are getting too long, maybe he should convince Nie Huaisang to give him a new haircut, without the hair dye this time—and tries to ignore how his heartbeat thunders in his ears and his hands feel too clammy for the humid air of the locker room. 

It’ll be fine. I mean, I can just say I fell down the stairs or something lame, he thinks. He tugs on his jersey and mashes his feet into his sneakers, urgency settling in now that there’s nothing to be done about the problem. Everyone else is warming up for practice already; the locker room is completely empty. 

Or at least, that’s what Wei Ying thought, until he opens the stall door to stare Nie Huaisang right in the face. 

“Yingying!” Nie Huaisang cries happily. “There you are! I was looking everywhere for you.” 

“Huaisang?” Wei Ying says stupidly, clutching his schoolclothes to his chest. 

“It’s an emergency,” says Nie Huaisang, taking hold of Wei Ying’s wrists and dragging him to a bathroom mirror. He shrugs off his backpack as they go, and immediately buries his hands in its depths once he has positioned Wei Ying to his liking in front of the mirror. Nie Huaisang pulls out a small pouch, a demure nude in color. When he unzips it on the narrow lip of the sink, colorful bottles and brushes and palettes are revealed to the harsh fluorescent lights. 

“Is that makeup?” Wei Ying asks. 

“Mm-hmm. Da-ge got it for me,” Nie Huaisang replies. Wei Ying watches as he lines up a few select bottles along the sink, somewhat precarious. He really should get going, but curiosity gets the best of him.

“But…isn’t that for girls?” he asks. Slowly, he lowers his bag to the tiled floor. Coach Lee will be mad, and Lan Zhan definitely will hate Wei Ying for leaving him to run drills by himself, but…

Nie Huaisang sniffs. “It’s a form of art, Yingying,” he replies. “I’m doing it for my final project this year for Song-laoshi’s class. I’m meeting with my model to try out my drafted looks today, but I forgot to, umm, ask for his usual shade of foundation. We don’t have a lot of time to meet so I need to figure out how to color match beforehand, and you two have similar skin tones…” 

“How long will it take?” Wei Ying asks. “Coach is gonna kill me for being so late.” 

“Just five minutes!” Nie Huaisang rushes to say, holding a pink, conical sponge between his fingertips. “I promise. Pleaseeee, Yingying? You’ll be saving my grades, which is basically saving my life!” 

Wei Ying glances nervously around the bathroom; it’s empty. Probably, no one will come in, unless they’re sent to look for Wei Ying. And Wei Ying does know how strict Nie Mingjue can be about A-Sang’s grades. 

“Alright,” Wei Ying allows. “Is it hard to wash off?” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it somewhere nobody will notice,” Nie Huaisang says. “I just need to match the color of your skin.”

And then Nie Huaisang is standing behind him, instructing Wei Ying to hang his head forward so that he has easy access to his—neck. Where the bruise shows. Wei Ying’s breath hitches, and his shoulders tense, mind racing for excuses. But Nie Huaisang doesn’t say anything. 

Why isn’t he saying anything? There’s no way he doesn’t see it, the ugly purple-green-yellow of it on Wei Ying’s tan skin. The sound of his breathing is too loud in his ears. 

He isn’t able to suppress a flinch when Nie Huaisang pats on the first layer of makeup, right over the tender flesh. Still, Huaisang says nothing, though his touches become considerably more gentle from then on. 

Nie Huaisang, to his credit, does work fast. The seconds drag by, but it hasn’t been much more than five minutes when he steps away from Wei Ying, a smile on his face. 

“I think I got it now,” Nie Huaisang says, packing away his various bottles and sponges, and he’s already scurried halfway out of the bathroom when he tosses over his shoulder: “Thanks so much, Wei Ying! I’ll let you get to practice now!” 

Wei Ying blinks after him, disoriented. Then he twists anxiously in front of the mirror, straining to see his neck and ignoring the aching, only to find—the bruise is gone. Disappeared. It’s only when he looks very closely that he is able to discern the sheen of the product on his skin, covering the marks marring his neck. Wei Ying touches it ever so lightly. Did Nie Huaisang really…

A strange mix of shame, gratitude, relief, and dread churn in his stomach. He shakes his head slightly and hurries to the field. 

*

Wei Ying was wrong. Coach Lee isn’t mad at him, he’s very mad at him. He’s kept off the field for an additional fifteen minutes to be lectured about setting examples and poor discipline and if you do that again, we’ll find a new co-captain, Wei! 

Wei Ying is very practiced at understanding how to escape such situations relatively unscathed. He makes the appropriate face of regret and doesn’t offer excuses and promises to do better. Still, Lee ends up ordering him to stay a full hour after practice to run twice through all the drills he missed, plus extra conditioning. Wei Ying bites his lip, swallowing his protests. Yu-ayi won’t be pleased, but that’s hardly Coach Lee’s problem. 

It’s just his luck that it starts to rain only a few minutes after the rest of the team has finished practice. The turf quickly grows slick under his cleats, and mud smears across the ball’s black-and-white squares. He stops for a moment, panting, trying to peel his jersey from his skin. The rain begins to fall a little harder, until each drop hits his skin with enough force to feel as if it will bruise. 

Wei Ying pushes his wet bangs out of his face, licking the rainwater beading on his upper lip. He heaves himself into another lap of dribbling the ball between his feet, weaving between small orange cones that have begun to tip over and scatter in the accompanying wind. He stopped shivering a while ago. 

He glances up; that’s how he notices the figure standing at the edge of the field, watching him. 

Wei Ying stops, narrowly avoiding eating turf when his cleats slip and slide beneath him. He picks up the ball and tucks it under his arm, uncaring of the mud as he jogs over to the figure. 

“Lan Zhan?” he asks, squinting in the downpour. Lan Zhan’s umbrella trembles under the weight of the rain. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan answers. His voice is quiet, hard to hear over the storm. “What are you doing?”

“You heard Lee,” Wei Ying retorts, curling his hand in the sopping edge of his jersey. “I’m still not done with my hour.” 

“It is not safe. There is lightning,” Lan Zhan answers. Then, quieter: “You will get sick.” 

“Is my co-captain worried about me?” Wei Ying teases; he smiles, mouth wide and eyes crinkling, and tastes a whole lot of water for it. He drops the ball to the flooded grass, rolls it under his foot from toe to heel. “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan. I’ll be in tip-top shape for the match next week.” 

He makes to turn back to the field, but Lan Zhan snatches out a hand, yanking him by the wrist into the umbrella’s feeble sanctuary. 

“It is not safe,” Lan Zhan replies. His breath is hot, almost scalding across Wei Ying’s face, with how close they have to stand. He’s got a slight jut to his lip that implies he will be incredibly stubborn about this point. “Federal and school regulations require outside activities to cease when lightning is present. You can finish your punishment later.” 

Wei Ying sighs. He says, “Aii, always such a stickler for the rules,” but allows Lan Zhan to drag him away regardless. His hands are quite large, and warm. And strong. Wei Ying begins to shiver. 

Lan Zhan produces an electronic key to let them into the locker room, and steers Wei Ying to sit on a bench. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to hide the stark peaks of the goosebumps covering his skin in the frigid chill of the AC. 

“Do you have a change of clothes?” Lan Zhan asks. 

“Yeah. In my locker.” 

Lan Zhan nods, turning down the hallway. He doesn’t bother to ask for the code, because he knows Wei Ying leaves everything unlocked anyway. 

Lan Zhan pays attention to things like that. He doesn’t think—they’ve only known each other for two years, and have been friends for far less, but he doesn’t think anyone else pays attention to all of Wei Ying’s details like Lan Zhan does. Doesn’t think anyone else knows him like Lan Zhan does, save for maybe Jiang Yanli. 

Lan Zhan returns with Wei Ying’s bag in one hand and a hand towel in the other. Wei Ying expects him to hand the towel over so that he can dry his hair before changing; instead, Lan Zhan steps close and drapes the towel over Wei Ying’s head, and begins to dry his hair for him. 

Wei Ying sinks into the touch. Lan Zhan isn’t usually so forthcoming with such actions. Maybe today is a lucky day, after all. 

He doesn’t think much of it, when he tucks in his chin to give Lan Zhan better access to the back of his head. However, begins to think a lot about it, very quickly, when Lan Zhan’s hands stutter over the towel, and he quietly asks, “What is that?” 

Wei Ying’s hand flies up to touch the back of his neck. His fingers come away smeared with a tan liquid. 

“Nothing,” Wei Ying answers, too quickly. “It was dumb. I, uh, hit my back on my bed’s headrest.” 

Wei Ying peers through his bangs to watch Lan Zhan’s reaction. He purses his lips, and gently pats at Wei Ying’s nape before stepping away. 

“It is wrong to lie,” Lan Zhan says as he holds up Wei Ying’s change of clothes. 

“I’m not—” Wei Ying begins to protest, but the words catch in his throat when he meets Lan Zhan’s gaze. He looks away and takes the clothes. 

“You don’t need to worry about it,” he mumbles. There’s a snake twisting and coiling in his gut; it smears shame in its path. 

“Hm,” is all Lan Zhan replies with. Wei Ying takes the hint, and hurries to the bathroom. 

*

He half expects Lan Zhan to be gone when he steps out of the stall in warm, dry clothes, but he’s not. They walk together to the doors outside, and watch the storm, a single umbrella between them. 

“You are walking home?” Lan Zhan asks, but it doesn’t really sound like a question. More like disapproval. 

“Well, it’s not like I have a car or money for the bus,” Wei Ying says, trying to make it sound like a joke. “The Jiang’s place isn’t that far from here, anyway.” 

“Hm,” Lan Zhan says. “I will drive you.” 

Wei Ying takes in a deep breath, but he doesn’t bother to protest. Lan Zhan is on something of a warpath today. 

Their shoulders knock together as they walk under the umbrella to the parking lot. Lan Zhan takes care to steer them around the puddles, but their shoes get soaked regardless. When they reach Lan Zhan’s white Honda, Wei Ying cautiously places himself in the passenger seat, futilely trying to avoid soaking Lan Zhan’s car. 

The drive is relatively quiet. Wei Ying chatters about the time he’d been caught in a storm on the lake once, but falls into a quiet afterwards. Lan Zhan keeps his music on the lowest volume setting. Wei Ying leans his forehead against the cool glass, watching the suburbs pass by. 

They roll to a stop in front of the Jiang home. Despite himself, Wei Ying finds his hands go a little clammy with dread as he stares at the front door, and can’t quite make himself unbuckle his seatbelt. 

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan prompts gently. 

“Do you… could you.” Wei Ying can’t say it. He feels stupid. The only things to be afraid of here are the consequences to his own mistakes. 

“I will walk you,” Lan Zhan says decisively. He puts the car into park and walks around to Wei Ying’s side of the car, holding out the umbrella when he opens the door. 

“Such a gentleman,” Wei Ying teases. He relaxes, just enough to scramble out of the car, his bag clutched to his chest.

They walk up the path through the front yard, the carefully placed stones dark and wet under the rain. Lan Zhan stops with him a few feet from the front door; Wei Ying turns, swallowing. 

“Thank you,” he says. “For driving. And—for worrying about me.” 

There’s something unusually intense in Lan Zhan’s gaze. They’re still standing close, sheltered by the umbrella. Wei Ying laughs a little, slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

“Yeah. I’ll—see you tomorrow?” he says, taking a step back. He bites at his lip, and it feels like a dead, slippery fish against his tongue. Gross.  

Lan Zhan says, “Wei Ying.” And then there is a warm mouth crashing into his. Wei Ying makes some sort of—noise. A hand comes up to cradle his jaw and tilts his head just so, and he only barely registers the creaking from the umbrella when it falls to the ground, revealing them to the rain; out here, it’s only a gentle sprinkle, instead of the torrential downpour at the school. 

But Wei Ying doesn’t care or think about any of those things, because those are Lan Zhan’s lips moving against his, Lan Zhan’s body crowding close, Lan Zhan everywhere. At some point, Wei Ying had fisted his hands in the collar of Lan Zhan’s shirt. He holds on for dear life, overwhelmed and thinking nothing at all under the onslaught of sensations crashing over him. 

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss ends. Wei Ying stumbles a little without Lan Zhan to carry his weight, too dazed to focus his gaze on the way Lan Zhan backs away from him. 

”You,” Wei Ying manages to gasp out. His brain is as useful as shattered glass. “You…” 

“I apologize,” Lan Zhan says stiffly. Before Wei Ying can fathom a response, he nearly runs back to his car and folds himself inside. But he doesn’t drive away, no, because Lan Zhan is a gentleman who will wait until he knows Wei Ying has safely entered the house. 

(Privately, Wei Ying thinks he might be better off if he really was locked out in the rain.) 

His mouth tingles, so fiercely it burns. He—he doesn’t—what just…? 

He shakes his head, turning away from the street and the white Honda. He’ll… he’ll think about it later. 

Now, he must enter the lion’s den. 

Chapter Text

The storm continues all through the night, a kind of heavy downpour that hasn’t been seen by the area for years. Nie Huaisang even gets a flash flood alert on his phone, though a flash flood in Los Angeles usually just means a strong stream of water in the gutters. 

But the storm is also loud. Nie Huaisang is not the kind of person who can be lulled to sleep by the patterning rain. The thunder interrupts his sleep with terrible frequency. 

The point is, Nie Huaisang wakes up with a headache and a sour mood. He’s not particularly charitable to Da-ge’s nagging, and slams the door on his way out. 

When he arrives at Cloud Recesses Academy, students are hurrying across the courtyard to avoid the rain, rainjackets and umbrellas and backpacks held over their heads. But there’s one tall figure loitering out in the rain, tugging at the damp hood over their head. Nie Huaisang recognizes him immediately, because there aren’t any other kids at such an expensive private Chinese school with backpacks whose straps have to be safety-pinned to the bag to keep from falling apart. 

“A-Ying!” Nie Huaisang flutters over with his umbrella. Wei Ying startles, and his shock is possibly the only reason why Nie Huaisang catches a glimpse of the band-aid on the high curve of his cheekbone, and the fresh bruise just below it. And—well, Huaisang is probably drawing shapes in clouds, but it looks awfully shaped like the palm of a hand. 

“Nie Huaisang,” Wei Ying says, taking a step away from him, gaze distant from where it is averted toward the bushes at Nie Huaisang’s right. He takes another breath, probably to fuel his excuses, says, “I—“

“Hasn’t anyone told you the rain makes you sick?” Nie Huaisang blusters on, hooking his arm through Wei Ying’s. “Come on, Yingying.” 

Much like yesterday, Nie Huaisang steers Wei Ying into an empty bathroom once they’ve made it past the hoard of kids chatting in the lobby. Much like yesterday, he pulls out his makeup bag. Unlike yesterday, Nie Huaisang doesn’t bullshit any excuses about models he doesn’t have. Instead, he simply gets to work once Wei Ying gives him a quiet nod in assent. 

They don’t talk about it. The bruises. What they mean, or don’t mean. And perhaps it’s cowardly, and maybe Nie Huaisang really should tell Da-ge like he’d considered doing last night, but it’s clear that Wei Ying, for once, does not wish to talk. It’s clear by the way he darts his gaze around the bathroom like a spooked horse that there is a time and place for conversations and actions, and it’s not now. 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he rolls up his sleeve to avoid getting foundation on his uniform. 

Wei Ying doesn’t flinch this time, but the blank expression he carefully holds over his face is almost worse. Still, Nie Huaisang remains as gentle as he can. The bathroom is quiet, only the sounds out in the hallway slinking through the gaping silence. 

Nie Huaisang finishes his work, which is quite flawless if you ask him, thank you, and begins to pack up his supplies. Wei Ying is still uncharacteristically quiet, so he shoulders his bag and prepares to head to class. There’s a mutual understanding between them; they don’t need to talk about it. 

He’s stopped in his tracks, however, when Wei Ying breaks the silence with a whisper. “A-Sang.” 

“Hmm?” Nie Huaisang responds, looking back at Wei Ying. His face is an open pit of vulnerability, hands squeezing the tattered shoulder straps of his backpack so tightly that rainwater bubbles up and drips from his fingers. 

A deep breath. “Thank you.” Then a beat where Wei Ying hesitates to say more. Kindly, Nie Huaisang smiles. 

“No need to thank me,” he says graciously. “Buuuut… if you want to return the favor, help me with chemistry after school today.” 

Finally, the tension simmering in the bathroom’s underbelly breaks. Wei Ying swats at him, but Nie Huaisang is already dancing away with a shriek.

“You’re a snake,” Wei Ying declares. Nie Huaisang sticks out his tongue. Snickering, Wei Ying returns the expression. 

With a great sigh, Wei Ying wraps his arm around Nie Huaisang’s shoulders, pulling him in with enough force to make him stumble. Stupid jock. “Alright,” Wei Ying says magnanimously. “Practice is canceled because of the rain, anyway.” 

*

Wei Ying’s face hurts. 

The fact is almost as much of a bruise as the one on his cheek. But it’s the only fact he lets himself dwell on as he doodles in the margins of his Calculus worksheet. He lets Zhang-laoshi’s voice melt into the background like a trickling stream in the forest. He already knows how to do triple integrals; last summer, he’d gotten curious how people came up with volume formulas for things like a sphere in the first place, and ended up spending most of his afternoons parsing through a book on mathematical proofs he’d checked out at the library. Triple integrals were one of the things he had to teach himself through YouTube videos to understand some of the theory. 

He chews on his upper lip, shading in his rendition of Zhang-laoshi on a surfboard. The action pulls at the skin of his face, which prickles at the unfamiliar feeling of layers of makeup, and reminds him just how much the bruise hurts. 

Focusing on the shame of the pain, however, is better than focusing on the neatly-trimmed back of Lan Zhan’s head. They’ve both been too afraid to look each other in the eye; Wei Ying had considered tearing off a corner of his note sheet to flick at that carefully-maintained hair, but chickened out. What if Lan Zhan looked at him, and all Wei Ying could think about was—was—the Event. Which he is not thinking about. 

Because if he thinks about it, what Lan Zhan did, and what Wei Ying—if he thinks about it, he might think about how he liked it. Might have liked it. Might have done it back. 

Lan Zhan is not a girl, Wei Ying reminds his traitorous thoughts. He repeats the fact like a mantra. 

Lan Zhan is a boy, and Wei Ying—he can’t afford to…kiss…boys. No matter how nice it might be. Wei Ying is a foster kid. When you’re a foster kid, you learn fast how to make people like you enough to keep you around. Otherwise, you’re nothing but a drifting leaf in the wind, a temporary shadow in the world of wanted people. Wei Ying does lots of things that make people like you—he’s a star athlete, he gets good grades (but never better than Jiang Cheng), he smiles and laughs and cracks witty jokes. He’s popular at school; he knows how to make the other kids at Cloud Recesses like him enough that they overlook the painfully obvious way he’s not one of them. 

But kissing boys, that’s a one-way ticket to being unwanted. So, the Event, well—it doesn’t matter at all. It’s not worth even thinking about. 

He bites his lip again, harder. His face aches for the rest of the day, and he thinks about it all anyway. 

*

Nie Huaisang convinces Wei Ying to come to his house to study. The rain had weaned off its intensity during the school day, but on their drive home, the skies open back up like a knocked-over bucket. Nie Huaisang’s poor Kia is fighting for its life in the storm, windshield wipers whipping from side to side. 

Eventually, they make it safely to the Nie residence. Wei Ying only had to shout at him once. 

“Home sweet home,” Nie Huaisang sighs, kicking his shoes off and leaving them haphazardly scattered in the doorway, vaguely near their shoe rack. Wei Ying, in a much more cautious, polite manner, slides off his worn-in sneakers and places them next to the front door’s threshold. He’s always been too careful in Nie Huaisang’s house, wary of Da-ge’s wrath. As if Da-ge would get mad for no reason. 

He leads A-Ying into the living room, scanning the house for his aforementioned brother, already forming plans to keep Wei Ying over for dinner, as well. 

(Nie Huaisang, technically, does not know where the secret bruises come from. But it’s hardly a difficult guess.)

Nie Huaisang sets his backpack next to the couch, flipping through his folders for his homework. Wei Ying kneels at the coffee table. 

Once he finds the cursed chemistry homework, he sets it in front of Wei Ying. “I’m gonna get us some snacks,” Nie Huaisang tells him. Wei Ying nods, eyes sliding to the storm in the window. 

Wei Ying has been quiet, but not the same scared silence of that morning. More thoughtful. Though, whatever thoughts he’s having must be somewhat distressing, to judge by the tight purse to the corner of his mouth. 

Nie Huaisang makes his way down the hallway, into the large kitchen. He walks into the pantry and picks out his choice of junk food that Da-ge always complains about, and also snags a tray of sushi he found waiting in the fridge. Before returning to Wei Ying, he pops his head into Da-ge’s office. 

Nie Mingjue looks up from his monitor, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He begins to ask his usual, how was your day, blah blah, but Nie Huaisang cuts in.

“Can you text Jiang Fengmian to let him know Wei Ying is staying over for dinner?” he asks. 

“And when did I say he could do that?” Nie Mingjue asks gruffly, but he’s already reaching for his phone. Nie Huaisang smiles, turning back down the hallway. 

Nearly half an hour later, Wei Ying is on his sixth attempt to explain oxidation and reduction when Nie Huaisang flops backward with a groan. 

“I need a break,” he announces to the ceiling. From the bottom corner of his vision, Wei Ying frowns.

“We’re only on the second question,” he points out. Huaisang rolls his eyes. 

“You’re such a fucking nerd,” he grumbles. Wei Ying shoves his shoulder. 

Nie Huaisang sits up and picks at the snacks scattered across the table, casually sliding the plate of sushi in Wei Ying’s direction as he does so. He’s been keeping a running tally of how often Wei Ying skips lunch. 

“Whatever. It’s your assignment,” Wei Ying concedes. He draws one knee up to his chest, hooking one ankle around the other. He gives in to the temptation of the sushi, heaping an absurd amount of wasabi to go with it. Nie Huaisang makes a face. 

“Are you and Lan Zhan fighting?” he asks suddenly. “You two didn’t talk at all today.” Usually, he and Jiang Cheng have to fight over the scraps of Wei Ying’s attention that isn’t given to Lan Zhan. That wasn’t the case today. 

Wei Ying chokes; it sends a chunk of wasabi right into Huaisang’s eye. What ensues is a lot of gasping for air (Wei Ying), and shrieking and running for the kitchen sink (Nie Huaisang). 

When the chaos eventually settles, the question is forgotten. Nie Huaisang sinks into the couch and stares at the ceiling, bemoaning his now red, disgusting eye and wet hair. His chemistry homework sits, bereft, on the table. Boredom hits him like an itch demanding to be scratched. 

“We should do something,” Nie Huaisang says. Wei Ying leans back on his palms, his expression twisting mischievously. He holds up a hand. 

“If it involves going outside or drinking, I refuse to get wet and Da-ge installed new cameras for the wine cabinet.” 

Wei Ying deflates. Nie Huaisang raises his eyebrows. That’s what I thought. 

“Do you have your designs for Song-laoshi’s class?” Wei Ying asks suddenly, as if the question burns his tongue. His tone is casual, but in its soft underbelly is the edge of true curiosity. Nie Huaisang doesn’t hesitate to stand and lead him to the second floor. 

“What are you doing for your final?” Nie Huaisang asks as they trek up the stairs. 

“I’m making a comic book,” says Wei Ying. His eyes seem to shine in the softly lit stairwell. “It’s about two cultivators, like the kind in those xianxia C-dramas? And  the artstyle is inspired from Qing-dynasty ink paintings!” 

“Wow,” Nie Huaisang says, pushing the door to his bedroom open. “That’s even nerdier than I thought it was gonna be. But really creative, too.” 

“Thanks,” Wei Ying mumbles. He loiters in the hallway until Nie Huaisang yanks him in, dragging him over to his desk-turned-vanity and pulling out a cream folder. 

“Here,” Nie Huaisang proudly holds out three papers with outlines of a face printed on them. Wei Ying takes them, handling the paper with the utmost delicacy between his fingertips. 

“Wow,” he says. “These are…” 

There’s a kind of hunger, in his eyes, as he takes in the designs. Nie Huaisang doesn’t have to look carefully for it. Wei Ying traces the curve of vibrant red-orange-yellow feathers that craft a phoenix that curls around one imaginary face. He tilts one paper to see how the glitter shimmers under the light, framing a pattern stretching across the face that’s inspired by China porcelain. 

“The best, I know,” Nie Huaisang says airily. 

Almost reluctantly, Wei Ying sets the designs down. “I’ve never seen, uh, make-up like that,” he says. He smiles, a little lopsided. 

Nie Huaisang hums, and begins to think a great many things. 

*

Wei Ying returns to the Jiang house later than he intended, but the house is quiet when he eases his way through the back door, quietly closing the patterned umbrella Nie Huaisang had insisted he take. Everyone must have returned to their rooms after dinner, then. There’s a dim light coming from the kitchen; Wei Ying holds his breath and picks his way down the hallway, listening carefully for others’ footsteps. He wishes he could freeze his heart, or maybe just silence the sound of it beating. He wishes—sometimes—he could disappear. Sometimes, he is sick of being the center of attention. 

It’s not the sound of footsteps that makes him pause in the hallway, but something infinitely more alarming. Soft, hitching breaths seem to echo in the dead air of the house. 

Lungs burning, Wei Ying peers into the living room. 

“Jiang-shushu?” 

The man startles from where he had been hunched, defeated, in the leather reclining chair. His eyes are red-rimmed when he finds Wei Ying’s gaze in the dark. 

“A-Ying,” Jiang Fengmian says softly, but it catches in his throat. He coughs to clear it. “You’re home. How are the Nies?”

It takes Wei Ying a moment to kick his lungs back into motion. His breath stutters. 

“They’re—good. Shushu, is everything alright?”

Jiang Fengmian stands, smoothing down his button-up and tie; he’s still dressed for work. He looks around the room for a moment, and then sits back down, this time on the couch. He pats the cushion beside him. Cautiously, Wei Ying lowers himself onto it. 

“The team wants me to declare the company bankrupt,” Jiang Fengmian says, point-blank. “We’ve been in the red for a while, now.” 

Wei Ying blinks. His throat works around several words, but they don’t come out. Jiang Fengmian nods once. Decisive. 

“I don’t want you kids to worry about it,” he says, laying a hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder. “We can handle all this; these things always work out in the end, don’t they?” 

The question edges on a desperation that’s deeply uncomfortable to hear from one’s guardian. Wei Ying fails to find his words, for once. In the end, Jiang Fengmian answers the question for him. 

“They always do,” the man says. The living room is dark, and only the sharpest slivers of his face are visible from the feeble light seeping out of the kitchen. “Just focus on school for now. You should be getting to bed. You have school in the morning, don’t you?” 

Wei Ying doesn’t mention that tomorrow is Saturday. Instead, he just nods and stands. He makes it to the edge of the hallway before Jiang Fengmian calls out again. 

“And, A-Ying,” Jiang Fengmian says, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “I only ask—try not to provoke Ziyuan, will you? It’s a stressful time for us all. She… she’s given up so much, leaving behind her family in China for me. And now I can’t even provide her a better life here—all I have given her is…is more mouths to feed. It will be easier on us all if there aren’t any incidents moving forward.” 

Wei Ying swallows, throat clicking. The bruise on his cheek twinges; he wonders if Nie Huaisang’s cover-up has begun to smudge. 

“Yes, Shushu,” he whispers. 

*

He wakes to an alarm, despite it being the weekend—he needs to get his weekend chores done, on time, to avoid any incidents. For Shushu. 

He shambles down the stairs and lets his brain turn off as he sets to work. 

It’s sometime around noon, when he makes it back to his room to check his phone. There’s a text from Nie Huaisang. Yingying! it reads, I desperately need your opinion! Come over to my place to work on our final projects for Song-laoshi’s class? And I got a new package this morning ;)

Wei Ying presses his thumb to the edge of the screen, watching how the flesh goes white underneath his fingernail. His stomach chews angrily on itself; they forgot to tell Wei Ying that breakfast was ready while he was cleaning the bathrooms, but Jiang Yanli had managed to sneak him some grapes as a snack. Now, it’s nearly lunchtime. He could wait until then, but the thought of sitting at the table with Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan seems like—a lot to handle, at the moment. He chews his lip, chasing the fading ache of the bruise on his cheek. 

He shoves the phone in his pocket and turns to his desk to carefully pack his half-inked sheafs of paper into his backpack. Then he braves the path to the living room. 

“Shushu,” Wei Ying says when he finds the man nursing a beer as he watches a football match on the TV. “Is it alright if I go to Nie Huaisang’s to study together?” 

“Hm? Weren’t you there yesterday to do homework as well?” Jiang Fengmian asks. Wei Ying swallows down his breath, but all he does is chuckle. “Nie Huaisang finally turning over a new leaf, I see. A good thing too. Cloud Recesses hardly has cheap tuition!” 

Wei Ying laughs past the awkward wince his face tries to pull. 

“I’ll be back for dinner?” he says hopefully. 

“Of course, of course,” Jiang Fengmian says, waving his hand as his attention drifts back to the TV. But Wei Ying doesn’t leave, just yet. 

“Shushu,” he starts. “I…was thinking about the company, and—” 

“Wei Ying,” Jiang Fengmian interrupts, and there’s a real hard edge to his voice. Wei Ying’s voice dies in his throat. “I don’t want you kids to worry about it. Let the adults handle it.” 

Wei Ying pins his tongue between his molars. He doesn’t insist on his idea, as good as he thinks it might be. He nods, apologizes, and texts Nie Huaisang he’ll be there. 

Chapter Text

Nie Huaisang ushers Wei Ying into his home. Nie Mingjue raises his eyebrows at them as they pass by, but gives the same gruff greeting he always does when Nie Huaisang has people over. Wei Ying seems distracted as he lets Huaisang pull him into his bedroom. 

“Earth to A-Ying,” Nie Huaisang says, snapping his fingers so close to Wei Ying’s face his thumb brushes his nose. The boy blinks, shaking his head once as he sets his ratty backpack in the corner of the room. 

“Sorry,” he says, uncomfortably sincere. Then he grins. “What did I hear about a new package?”

Nie Huaisang grins, but shoves him away when Wei Ying theatrically leans in for details. 

“Later. I have business,” he says sternly. “It is imperative that I blow Song-laoshi’s socks off with my project so he can convince Da-ge to let me go to art school.” 

“Oh. Is that your plan?” 

“Yes. So you need to help me come up with the best designs for my project.” 

“But I don’t know anything about that stuff,” Wei Ying says. 

Nie Huaisang scoffs, clearing off his desk so he can lay out his design sketches. “It’s art, A-Ying,” he stresses. “And you have the best eye for that.” 

“Alright,” Wei Ying allows, still a little reluctant, but now his cheeks are glowing a little red at the casual praise. Nie Huaisang gives himself a little mental pat on the back. He is so good at this friend thing. 

“So, I know for sure I want to do this phoenix design, but everything else I’ve come up doesn’t really fit with that theme…” 

*

In the end, Nie Huaisang decides on a theme focusing on three iconic Chinese symbols: the phoenix, representing harmony and balance, the dragon, for power and good luck, and the lotus flower, exemplifying strength and resilience. Nie Huaisang had given Wei Ying a strange sort of searching look when he suggested that last one, and then sincerely thanked him. Wei Ying isn’t sure it deserved such a reaction. It’s just a flower. 

His favorite flower, but that’s beside the point. 

Once Nie Huaisang gets to working out the sketches for his designs, Wei Ying can settle down to work on inking the sketches for his comic. It’s a process that takes all of his concentration and patience; two things people don’t typically associate with Wei Ying, in general. But it’s his favorite part of the process, when he’s able to narrow his world down to the brush in his hand and the paper below, a little careful universe becoming solid under his guidance. 

Yu-ayi had scoffed when she found out he was taking another art class. Are we raising a street rat and a pansy, then? she had asked. Why aren’t you taking the business electives with A-Cheng, why aren’t you grateful? 

But—Wei Ying loves art. He loves to paint, to make silly sketches of his friends and the wildlife that wander onto the Academy’s campus, to pull something special out of a snapshot in his memory. He can do it all, anyway; he can learn how to help run the family business, he can excel in soccer, and he can take art classes with Nie Huaisang. They don’t have to take away from each other. 

Besides. Instead of urging him to take that business class, Jiang Fengmian had worn this faraway expression and said, your mother was an artist too. 

He’s broken out of his musings when Nie Huaisang lets out a horrified gasp. 

“What? What is it?” Wei Ying asks, turning around. 

Nie Huaisang is staring down at his phone screen, one hand over his mouth. 

“My model just said he can’t do the project,” Nie Huaisang says, beginning to look a bit pale. “What am I gonna do? We were supposed to test the initial designs this weekend!” 

“Oh. That’s not good,” Wei Ying remarks as Nie Huaisang works himself into a frenzy at all the ways this is going to ruin his life. Wei Ying stares at the half-finished designs on Nie Huaisang’s desk. They really are beautiful, and…and…

There’s this strange feeling in his gut. It’s his knee-jerk reaction to satiate it. 

“I can do it,” Wei Ying says, mouth moving before he can realize what he is saying. Nie Huaisang stops mid-sentence, turning wide eyes to him. 

“Really?” 

Well, there’s no backing out now. Wei Ying nods. 

“It’s art, right?” he says with a small smile. “But—if you don’t want me to—I mean, I’m probably not pretty enough for—”

“No!” Nie Huaisang blurts. He huffs out a breath, leaning back in his chair and plucking a hand-held fan from his desk organizer, flapping it at his neck for a moment. 

“You’re plenty pretty, A-Ying,” he says. 

Wei Ying ducks his head, twisting the ink brush in his hand. He accidentally smeared some ink on his pants, shit. “There’s no need to lie,” he mumbles to Huaisang, grumpy. 

“Pahh,” Nie Huaisang viciously hurls the fan at Wei Ying’s head. He is, unfortunately, not fast enough to dodge. 

“Fuck!” Wei Ying says when the plastic handle hits his temple, turning a wounded expression toward Nie Huaisang. 

“Stop fishing for compliments, everyone already knows you’re beautiful,” his friend grumbles. “But thank you. You’re saving my life! My future!” 

He blinks again, too flustered to reply. Wei Ying has never been called pretty before, or beautiful. Handsome, sure. He knows he is, thankfully, attractive—all those blown kisses and winks to the pretty girls in the hall aren’t for nothing!—but it’s different, to be called beautiful. Maybe he should be offended; the other guys on the soccer team probably would be, if they were called pretty. But it’s not a bad feeling that reaches up through his chest. 

“When do you want to…” Wei Ying swallows. Too eager, he tells himself. He doesn’t want to—he’s not that…

“Do you mind staying a few more hours today? We can do it then,” Nie Huaisang replies, not looking up from his selection of colored pencils. They’re a rainbow scattering across his desk, like an abstract flower bouquet. Wei Ying watches how they glow in the sunlight for a moment, nodding silently in answer to the question. 

He manages to ink several more panels of his comic before his phone buzzes. 

Where are you? 

Wei Ying bites his lip, teeth a little too sharp. It’s the first text Jiang Cheng has sent him in several days; he doesn’t even remember what they had been fighting about. Something stupid—something small, until the words exchanged made it something big. 

(You’re always spending all this time with Lan Zhan, never helping where you’re needed, Jiang Cheng had spat. This is exactly why Ma hates you, you’re disloyal trash. You owe our family everything. 

Do you hate me too, then? Wei Ying shot back. After all, you’re just like your mother.) 

It’s fine. He knows Jiang Cheng doesn’t mean a lot of the sharp things he says. Wei Ying had forgiven him after a day or two of space, and offered his apology, but Jiang Cheng needed more time to cling to the grudge. That was fine too. He knows how these things work; they’re brothers, after all. 

@ huaisang’s, Wei Ying texts back. It’s best to be honest, in the face of an olive branch, isn’t it? 

So you guys are hanging out without me now

He sighs. Maybe not. 

don’t worry didi 

we’re working on our art projects

you’d be bored 

unless you have a secret project i didn’t know about 

Jiang Cheng texts back a few minutes later, stfu.

“Is that Lan Zhan?” a voice above him asks. Wei Ying jerks, startled, and squints up at where Nie Huaisang is standing over him. 

“What? No,” Wei Ying says. A strange feeling flutters through his body, and it leaves him aching in its wake. Don’t think about it, he tells himself sternly. Don’t think about it. “It’s Jiang Cheng.” 

A look of relief fills Huaisang’s face. “Has he apologized yet?” 

“Well—no,” Wei Ying says, feeling himself get defensive when Nie Huaisang purses his lips. “But he doesn’t have to! I think we’re okay now.”

“Of course he has to apologize,” Nie Huaisang tells him. “That’s like, emotional literacy 101. Besides, what will I look like taking your side if you just forgive him immediately? Chengcheng will get so mad.” 

Wei Ying looks away, digging at the divot between the skin and nail on his thumb. “...I guess,” he mumbles. 

“Don’t give in, A-Ying,” Nie Huaisang orders. “Think of my reputation.” 

“But it’s a stupid fight anyway,” Wei Ying says, half-hearted. 

“He insulted your mom.” 

“Yeah, well, I insulted his mom too. A little. But don’t tell Yu-furen.” 

“That hardly counts, she’s a crazy bitch anyway. Your mom is dead.” 

Wei Ying swats at Nie Huaisang’s leg, choking down a scandalized gasp. “Shut up!” he hisses, the hair at the back of his neck standing on end. Sometimes he feels a little silly for it, but he swears Yu Ziyuan has a special ear that can hear any ill word spoken of her from any radius. “What happened to respecting your elders? Don’t you hang out with the Lan family enough to know these things?” 

Nie Huaisang sniffs. “I’ll start respecting my elders when Jiang Cheng starts respecting the dead,” he says haughtily. 

“Aiya, so petty,” Wei Ying murmurs, but he doesn’t push it. He feels a little nauseous at the memory of Jiang Cheng’s words. It would be unfilial of him to defend such actions, anyway. 

Their conversation is interrupted by a loud protest from Wei Ying’s stomach. Nie Huaisang snorts. 

“Ah, we never got snacks!” he realizes, looking around the room. “Time for a break.” 

Nie Huaisang walks out of the room, and Wei Ying follows. Who is he to deny free food, anyway? He hasn’t really been paying attention to it, but his stomach has been tying itself in prickly knots all day. 

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang whines as he enters the kitchen, opening and slamming closed the fridge. “What are we having for lunch?”

“We already had lunch, A-Sang,” comes Nie Mingjue’s indulgent voice from above Wei Ying’s left ear. He jumps, heart jackrabbiting in his chest. Fuck, that scared the shit out of him. Nie Mingjue smirks at him as Wei Ying scurries to Nie Huaisang’s side, face burning. For being so tall, and broad, and muscled, and mustached, the man can move very silently. 

“But Wei Ying hasn’t had lunch,” Nie Huaisang declares; Wei Ying whips his head to his friend, blinking rapidly. How did he—? “And I’m hungry again.” 

“You eat like a bird,” Nie Mingjue challenges, but he’s already stepping toward the pantry. He does not ask Wei Ying if Nie Huaisang is lying about his first statement, though; instead, he asks: “How are they feeding you at the Jiang’s, Wei Ying?” 

“Um,” Wei Ying says. For a moment, his ears ring with a tinny sound. “Fine. They’re very good to me. I just forgot to eat today.” 

Nie Mingjue hums, a deep rumbling sound from his chest. “Well, our chef is out getting ingredients for today’s dinner, and I’m shit at cooking, so how does instant ramen sound?” 

*

The sun is beginning to kiss the tips of the suburban rooftops by the time Nie Huaisang has Wei Ying sitting in front of a vanity, his untamable hair pinned away from his face. His fingers tingle, every nerve ending set alight as he squeezes his knees tightly, the bone pressing into the flesh of his palm. 

Nie Huaisang hums around him, carefully selecting from his wide range of products to lay out on the counter. The first design being attempted today, the emperor’s dragon, is propped up for reference. Wei Ying stares at it, the deep blues and reds of the intricate scales and the five bright-yellow claws curling across the paper face, like a caress. 

Huaisang has him wash his face, and narrates the process aloud as he begins with applying foundation and concealer. Wei Ying lets the words flow around him—quiet, for once. He’s scared to speak, to move, lest he break the fragile bubble of Nie Huaisang’s ensuite bathroom. 

Wei Ying’s face is turned into a blank page, any imperfections from the bags beneath his eyes or the faded bruise on his cheek smoothed away. Then, Nie Huaisang begins with the eye makeup. 

Wei Ying dutifully looks up, down, to the side, and closes his eyes when ordered. He has, possibly, never been so obedient in his life. His eyes are soon framed by a lovely blue—so deep it’s nearly black, like the depths of the ocean—and dusted with a sheen of silver glitter. The red pen Nie Huaisang uses below his lower lashes bites at his skin a little. 

When he’s told to open his eyes, Wei Ying’s heart skips a little at the sight of his reflection. Then Nie Huaisang moves on to coloring in his eyebrows, for some reason, and applies a brilliant red lip tint, making them appear full and plush. 

It’s a very intimate process, and a little awkward, to feel his friend’s breath on his face, to feel his sleeve brush the shell of his ear. The closeness adds to the secrecy of the moment. The bathroom feels like an isolated oasis, far from any civilization. 

Nie Huaisang steps back to examine his work with a critical eye. He touches up a few places before nodding to himself. 

“I’ll start painting. This’ll probably take a while, and I need to focus.” 

Wei Ying hums distractedly. He is captured by the sight in the mirror. 

He looks—pretty. 

His hands curl into each other in his lap. He shouldn’t like this. He’s not—he’s not a girl. He likes being a man, likes his body, all of it. He doesn’t even want to be a girl. But make-up is a woman’s thing, is it not? Men don’t…

Some men do, his brain tells him. But he can’t be gay, either! He’s not…not feminine, he’s co-captain of the soccer team, he likes to do all the stupid boy things everyone else does, he flirts with women all the time, and…and sure, he kissed Lan Zhan, but who wouldn’t? He’s so beautiful, it transcends gender. It doesn’t count. 

Suddenly, there’s a vicious pinch to the tender inside of his elbow. Wei Ying yelps. 

“Stop fucking biting your lip, it’s smearing my work,” Nie Huaisang hisses through gritted teeth. 

“Sorry,” Wei Ying says. He tugs on the hem of his shirt and smooths away some wrinkles in his pants. There’s a restless nervous energy starting to buzz at the back of his head, but he can’t do anything about it yet. 

What if someone sees? 

The thought, once it’s there, sits like a splinter beneath his fingernail. Someone could walk into the ensuite, and—what would they think? 

What would Wei Ying want them to think?

He goes blind to Nie Huaisang’s progress as he tries to understand the strange feeling writhing around in his chest like a seal in an ill-fitting tank. It keeps splashing around when it shouldn’t. Time slides away, but then Huaisang is setting down his brushes, delicately tilting Wei Ying’s face from side to side. 

“I think I nailed it first try,” he says, and then asks with a shy laugh, “What do you think?” 

Wei Ying’s face has been transformed into a canvas. It’s mesmerizing, watching the dragon’s scales shift and ripple when he blinks, when his painted lips part to draw in a breath. He looks beautiful. 

He turns to Nie Huaisang, and maybe he sees it all in Wei Ying’s eyes, because he grins and asks if he can take pictures in the golden hour lighting. 

Wei Ying is led out of the bathroom’s shelter, into the vulnerable space of Nie Huaisang’s bedroom. He is instructed to pose in front of the deep blue accent wall that’s illuminated by the sun’s spectacular death at the horizon. 

Nie Huaisang pulls out an expensive-looking camera and instructs him how to tilt his chin just so, how to let his eyelashes brush his cheeks, or how to purse his lips. The sunset’s light has nearly faded by the time Nie Huaisang is satisfied. 

“Wow,” Nie Huaisang says, staring down at the camera. 

“Let me see,” Wei Ying demands. 

The rich blue wall frames his face, bringing out the tan of his skin and the vibrancy of the painted colors. And over it all, a rectangular strip of golden light casts his face in a warm glow. 

“I am definitely going to art school,” Nie Huaisang says triumphantly. 

Wei Ying smiles, and something in his chest settles. Even if—even if guys don’t wear makeup, isn’t it a good thing, to help his friend? Isn’t it normal to like helping? 

After washing his face, forlornly watching the smears of color come away on Huaisang’s makeup wipes, Wei Ying glances at the time on his phone. Nerves skitter down his spine. 

“I should probably get home,” he says. He stoops to gather his belongings. 

“Right, yeah,” Nie Huaisang says. “I’ll see you at school?” 

Wei Ying looks up, and he nods. He hesitates for a moment at the doorway, swallowing down air into his lungs. 

“I’ll text you when we can do this again?” 

Nie Huaisang grins.