Work Text:
The front door opened with a quiet click — the kind that should have signalled peace. After all, Lan Zhan’s days at work were usually a study in balance — orderly, quiet, predictable. But today?
Oh no. Today was anything but predictable.
Lan Zhan stood in the doorway, aura heavy enough to silence even the ceiling fan. His jaw was drawn tight, eyes calm but cold—very cold—the kind of calm that meant someone was about to face the silent wrath of the Chief Justice of Logic. His shoes clicked neatly against the floor, each step measured and calm… dangerously calm.
All day— all day— his phone had been blowing up with one caller ID: Wei Ying 💥 (Do Not Ignore).
Six times.
Each one, progressively more melodramatic than the last. Each filled with sighs, sniffles, cheap frustration and that particular tone Wei Ying reserved only for him — a tone halfway between tragedy and self-righteousness.
The first: “Lan Zhan, your son refuses to listen. I called him three times to ask about lunch!”
The second: “Lan Zhan, your son is testing my limits. He just rolled his eyes at me, you hear?! Rolled his eyes! I’m going to disown him, Lan Zhan! You better come home and handle this!”
The third: “Lan Zhan, I might not survive this household anymore.”
The fourth: only silence… followed by a deep sigh and a very quiet, “You’ve ruined me.”
The fifth: “Just know that if I faint out of heartbreak, it’ll be your fault for not teaching your son manners!”
The sixth: a hang-up.
Lan Zhan had considered — for a brief, fleeting moment — tossing his phone into the nearest river. His serene office had turned into a battlefield of sighs. And now, here he was — at his own home, ready to face whatever apocalyptic scene awaited him.
And there it was — the domestic apocalypse.
The living room met him with a sight that would’ve been comical if it weren’t so familiar — Wei Ying and A-Yuan sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, both looking equally miserable, two tragic actors from a third-rate soap opera, as though they were performing a silent play titled “Who’s the Bigger Victim?”
Wei Ying was sitting on the couch like a man who had just been betrayed by fate itself. No tears, of course — his face was dry as paper — but his expression was the very picture of tragedy incarnate. His eyes were red — not from crying, but from too much dramatic effort. His handkerchief was pressed dramatically to his cheek as if comforting invisible sorrow. He sniffled loudly anyway, for dramatic effect, the sound like a badly played flute.
On the other end sat A-Yuan — a smaller, younger mirror image of despair. (Cue: And to add to the absurdity, A-Yuan had his head wrapped in bandages, like a war victim who had barely survived the Battle of Baba’s Nagging. It wasn’t real, of course—just comic exaggeration—for the readers’ visual comedic effect). He looked as though life had been deeply unfair to him, as though he’d just endured the hardships of ten lifetimes.
Neither spoke. Both sniffled at intervals, a synchronised performance of silent suffering.
Lan Zhan closed the door softly behind him. Every day I walk into a new act of the same play, he thought dryly.
He placed his keys down on the console, glanced at the two, and his voice came out quiet — dangerously quiet, “Wei Ying. A-Yuan. Would either of you like to explain… why have I received six calls today — each one from you, Wei Ying — complaining about your own son?”
A faint hiccup escaped from the couch. Wei Ying dabbed the corner of his perfectly dry eyes— the epitome of dry crocodile tears. “Why are you asking me that, Lan Zhan? Ask your great son. I’m just the enemy in this house. I do my best, and what do I get? Betrayal.” He pressed a hand to his chest, eyes heavenward. He sniffled again for good measure, pressing the handkerchief against his perfectly dry eyes.
A-Yuan sniffed loudly, not to be outdone, his lower lip trembling with tragic restraint. “A-Die, I didn’t even do anything. I didn’t even breathe wrong today.”
Wei Ying gave a long, exhausted sigh, the kind that could wring sympathy from a saint. “Ah, of course. Of course you didn’t. You never do anything, right? It’s always me. Always me.” He leaned back, one hand to his forehead, as if awaiting divine deliverance. “Someday, I’ll leave this house, you know. I’ll go wherever my eyes take me — maybe far away, maybe nowhere at all. At least the wind won’t argue with me. No one listens to me anymore. You’ll all finally get what you want.”
A-Yuan’s sniff turned into a small hiccup. His eyes darted guiltily toward Lan Zhan. “Baba says I’m cruel. But I didn’t mean to be. I didn’t even—”
“See?” Wei Ying interrupted faintly, his voice soft but wounded. “He has excuses. Even I’m impressed.”
Lan Zhan exhaled slowly, one hand pressed against his temple. He’d only been home five minutes. Five minutes. And already, peace had become a myth.
He looked at them both — one father, one son — both sniffling softly in their tragic symphony. Their hiccups overlapped. Their sighs followed the same rhythm. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t utterly ridiculous.
Finally, he stepped closer, standing before the pair of sulking tragedians. “Explain,” he said simply.
Before A-Yuan could open his mouth, Wei Ying interrupted, “I am saying.”
Lan Zhan sighed inwardly. Here it came.
Wei Ying began his testimony like a tragic ballad; his tone was soft, wounded, the very image of a saint wronged by fate itself.
~*~
Flashback (according to Baba’s version)—
It had been a calm, mundane afternoon. The sun was mellow, slanting through the curtains, but inside the room, drama brewed. Baba had gone to A-Yuan’s room, his voice hurried and pleading: “A-Yuan! Please go quickly to the grocery shop nearby and bring the spices, no? It’s getting late, I have to start cooking, please go, dear.”
According to Wei Ying’s version of events, he had spoken like a mother from an old TV drama — selfless, devoted and pure. His tone had been one of pure love and mild desperation — the sound of a parent trying to keep dinner on schedule and peace in the house.
But A-Yuan… ah, A-Yuan, in Baba’s story, was no longer the sweet child of yesteryear. He was, apparently, a full-blown teenage tyrant with the soul of a villain-in-the-making. He looked up from his phone with the kind of expression only teenagers could master — pure insolence.
“Why? Why should I go? Can’t you go? Am I your servant that whenever you say to go or do things, I will do them? God has given you legs, right? Go and buy yourself!”
(In Baba’s mental movie, lightning struck at that very line.)
Wei Ying’s hand dramatically went to his chest. “My legs hurt a bit, dear… going up and down the stairs so many times. Please go, my good boy…”
And then—the betrayal.
The rebellion didn’t stop there. A-Yuan, in his supposed audacity, had barked: “No! If you stay like a king at home, not working properly, your legs will rust only! Because of you, my life is also in hell! Nothing good is happening!”
Baba’s recollection had been as theatrical as ever. “Fine,” he’d said, tears glimmering on his cheeks but never falling, “you don’t have to go. I’ll go.” And A-Yuan, pompous and thankless, had shot a final barb: “Yes, thank you — go and leave me alone!”
Baba’s eyes had welled with (crocodile) tears, the kind that say, Look at my suffering, world.
~*~
Back in the present, Lan Zhan’s gaze was silent, unwavering, deadpan and utterly unimpressed. His inner monologue, however, was not. Wei Ying dramatising? Check. A-Yuan being a villain? Highly unlikely. Proceed with caution. Wei Ying’s stories always sound like modern tragedies until you remember who’s telling them. Meaning there is 90% water in the milk. Yes, highly proceed with caution.
A-Yuan’s hiccupping sobs were pitiful, almost tragic. “No, A-Die,” he sniffled miserably, “that didn’t happen at all!”
Wei Ying whipped his head toward him, eyes flashing. “Shut up, liar.” For a second, the tone was almost threatening, teeth showing between the words. The look in his eyes said Try me, child. The instant the sound left his mouth, he tightened his jaw and slid back into the posture he favoured for maximum sympathy: a bowed head, eyes shining but dry.
A-Yuan’s sniffling turned quieter, his chin wobbling. “I’m telling the truth, A-Die. I am.”
Wei Ying’s crocodile tears resumed their gentle glitter.
~*~
Flashback (according to A-Yuan’s story)—
It had been the same afternoon, same sunlight, same room. Baba had indeed entered, but this time the scene was slightly different: “A-Yuan! Please go quickly to the grocery shop nearby and bring the spices, no? It’s getting late, I have to start cooking, please go, dear!”
A-Yuan, already hunched over his notebook, looked up briefly. “Baba, please wait a moment, let me copy this down and then I’ll go.”
Reasonable. Calm. Civilised. But it seemed that was where peace had ended. Because reason and Wei Ying had never met.
Wei Ying — being Wei Ying — had apparently taken that as a personal declaration of war. What followed was not theatrical escalation but sarcasm from Wei Ying: “Oh, now my prince will copy this and my pained legs will stand here until then, huh? I am your servant, right?”
A-Yuan had been exasperated. “Why are you starting this again now, Baba? I said I will go…”
“Oh! Starting what again?!” Wei Ying barked, hands on hips, apron fluttering like a war flag. “The backtalk! The attitude! I just asked one thing—”
And that was when the mumble happened. That single, fateful mumble. A-Yuan, half under his breath, mumbled, “Every day the same thing…”
Wei Ying froze. His head turned slowly, dramatically, the movement of a horror movie villain. “WHAT did you mumble? You’re badmouthing me? BADMOUTHING ME, YOU SATAN?! You dare?!”
Before A-Yuan could react, the hand of doom had swooped down — Baba tugging at his hair, making him yelp and stumble backwards. “I’ll teach you to badmouth your elders, you son of a devil!”
“Baba! Stop! I didn’t—”
But a slipper had sailed through the air like a guided missile. A-Yuan ducked just in time, heart racing, as Baba’s dramatic tirade continued: accusations of insolence, disrespect, and how dare he sully the honour of the house. Not the lofty tirade about ruined lives and rusting legs. Not the melodramatic valedictory.
The afternoon, calm in reality, had erupted into miniature chaos, the kind only a Wei Ying could manufacture with one simple grocery errand.
~*~
Back to the present, A-Yuan hiccupped again, miserable, voice soft, almost a whisper: “This… this is what happened, A-Die.”
Wei Ying leaned back, nodding solemnly, crocodile tears glinting. “Yeah. You’ll say this now, right?” he said, then his voice was almost threatening as he gritted his teeth at A-Yuan. “Where did you learn to lie like this, hm?”
And then — back to the puddle of dry crocodile tears, dramatic as ever. “You only tell me, Lan Zhan—do I cause so much unhappiness in life? Tell me. Am I the problem here?”
Lan Zhan’s eyes flickered, deadpan, scanning both father and son. He measured the two versions the way one measures the weather — no need to panic, just note the storm and move accordingly. No, no, you don’t, the neighbours do. I know who is telling the truth. I know. And it’s not who’s crying harder. Finally, he said in a low, utterly deadpan tone, “Technically, you called him ‘son of a devil.’ So—if we follow your logic—technically you called me a devil, then, right?”
That made Wei Ying freeze mid-sob. His lips trembled like he’d been accused of murder. Then came the inevitable dry, teary hiccup. “Oh! So now I’m the bad guy! Wonderful! Both father and son against me. Fine! Maybe I’ll just go live in the mountains and feed squirrels. They at least won’t talk back!”
The room settled in a heavy, silent chaos — everyone aware, no one intervening yet.
~*~
Lan Zhan stood there, hands folded neatly behind his back, every muscle in his jaw locked. He was already halfway to losing patience, and Wei Ying—being Wei Ying—wasn’t done with his theatrics yet.
Wei Ying dabbed his eyes again, still no sign of actual tears, just sheer commitment to the performance. His voice cracked at random intervals—on purpose. “Lan Zhan, you know…” hiccup “…your son didn’t even eat lunch today.”
Lan Zhan raised a single, precise eyebrow. “Didn’t eat?” he asked flatly, his voice calm but sharp.
~*~
Flashback (according to Baba’s Story)—
The dining table had been the scene of what Baba remembered as utter rebellion. A-Yuan, the rebel teen, sat at the dining table, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand like a crown prince supervising peasants, the perfect blend of teenage disdain and supreme indifference.
Wei Ying, noble domestic martyr of the century, placed a steaming plate of rice, curry, and veggies in front of him. He smiled slightly lovingly, in the way martyrs do before being betrayed by those they love.
“Here you go, dear… Lunch,” he said, voice trembling as though delivering a life-or-death message. (Drama, drama, full drama)
A-Yuan barely looked up from his phone, displeasure forming on his face. “Do I look like a cow or goat to you?” he spat, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Veggies, rice, and curry again? Every single day?”
Wei Ying gasped, hand flying to his chest.
Then—horror of horrors—A-Yuan pushed the plate away.
“My legs hurt today, dear,” Wei Ying said weakly, eyes glistening with invisible tears. “That’s why I couldn’t cook much. Please eat this for today, my good boy.”
A-Yuan scoffed. “No! You eat your own food! I’ll order mine. Get away from my sight!”
Wei Ying’s imaginary world fell apart then and there.
And then — in the drama-filled imagination of Wei Ying — the plate had been hurled to the floor, bouncing and cracking against the tiles, the sound echoing like a gunshot, and A-Yuan had stomped away toward his room, leaving only chaos in his wake. Wei Ying, of course, imagined the entire household frozen in silent horror at such blatant disobedience.
~*~
Back to the present, Wei Ying hiccupped dramatically, lips trembling, still pretending to be crushed. “And then… your son… he threw the plate on the floor… and stomped to his room!”
Lan Zhan’s eyebrow lifted even higher as he looked toward A-Yuan.
A-Yuan, miserable and sniffling, hiccupping with all the dignity he could muster, shook his head. “No… A-Die… that didn’t happen…”
~*~
Flashback (according to A-Yuan’s Story)—
It had been a completely normal afternoon. Nothing dramatic, nothing tragic. A-Yuan came from his room, holding his phone, eyes bright with excitement. “Baba! Look, I found something on the internet—”
Before he could even finish, Wei Ying walked in, plate in hand, setting it on the table with all the grace of a storm. “I don’t want to see anything,” Baba declared grandly, “Bless me by eating the lunch first.”
A-Yuan looked down at the same curry, rice and veggies they had been eating for three days straight. His shoulders slumped. “This again?” he groaned.
Wei Ying gave him the look—the classic Asian parent look that could turn a soul to stone. “So? With my pained legs, I will cook meat for you, huh? Am I a Michelin chef now?”
A-Yuan, whining like any cornered teen, tried reasoning. “Baba, why don’t I just order takeout for us? You’ve been feeding us the same thing for days now…”
Wei Ying froze dramatically mid-step. “Ohhh,” he said, voice low, sarcastic, and dangerous. “My royal highness wants to eat takeout, huh? You think our money grows on trees? Does your A-Die have a money plant in the yard? Or maybe your ancestors’ money used to grow on trees?!”
A-Yuan gawked. “Baba, that’s not—”
“You will eat!” Wei Ying declared, pointing dramatically at the plate. “You will eat, your ancestors will eat with you! EAT! EAT! OPEN YOUR MOUTH! EAT!”
And with that, Wei Ying began force-feeding him with all the efficiency of a battle-hardened general. A-Yuan, caught in horror, muffled, “Baba, stop! Stop, I’m eating! I’m eating!” while half a spoonful of curry was shoved into his mouth mid-scream. His thoughts raced: Why is my life like this? I just wanted a normal meal… Why must every simple thing turn into an epic battle?
~*~
Back to the present, A-Yuan looked at Lan Zhan pitifully, hiccupping softly. “This is what happened, A-Die…”
Wei Ying gasped in scandalised betrayal, clutching his tissue again. “Oh, so now I’m the villain again?! Fine, fine, I’ll just stop cooking entirely! We’ll live on water and air from now on. I’ll sit by the window and photosynthesise!”
Lan Zhan closed his eyes, sighed deeply through his nose, and muttered so quietly that only the heavens could hear, Every day, the same play, the same actors, the same madness.
He opened his eyes and said simply, “Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying blinked innocently. “Mn?”
Lan Zhan’s tone was dangerously calm. “You called him ‘son of a devil’ earlier. Now you are saying he threw food. Is there… any evidence?”
For a full beat, Wei Ying froze. You could almost hear the gears of his brain jamming. The silence stretched long enough for A-Yuan to sniffle once, twice, looking between his parents as if waiting for the next episode to begin.
Then — as expected — Wei Ying exploded.
“Evidence?!” Wei Ying gasped, clutching his heart as though he’d been stabbed. “You’re asking me for evidence now? You— you doubt me?!” His voice cracked beautifully, somewhere between a drama queen’s wail and a dying poet’s last monologue.
Lan Zhan blinked once, unfazed. “You are making serious accusations. It is only fair to confirm them.”
That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.
“Fair?! Oh, so now I’m the unfair one!” Wei Ying cried, throwing his arms wide as if appealing to the heavens for justice. “Lan Zhan, I have sacrificed my youth, my peace, my time — my sanity! — raising your son while you sit in your office with your fancy laptop and peaceful silence! And now you want evidence?! You think I have time to record my suffering while I’m being emotionally attacked by my own child?!”
Lan Zhan pinched the bridge of his nose, patience wearing thinner than rice paper. “Wei Ying—”
“No, no, don’t ‘Wei Ying’ me now!” Wei Ying interrupted, voice shaking with righteous fury and pure melodrama. “I am always the villain, right?! Always dramatic, always wrong! Fine, I accept it. I’m the devil of this house! The tormentor! The tyrant! The— the— unpaid housekeeper of hell!”
A-Yuan, sniffling, deadpanned in a whisper, “Baba, you literally called me son of a devil…”
Wei Ying snapped toward him with the speed of lightning. “You stay out of this buffoon!”
Lan Zhan’s eyebrow twitched again — the harbinger of his internal system crash.
“Enough,” he said finally, his tone as cold and precise as a scalpel. But Wei Ying, once the tears (real or fake) started, could not be stopped.
“I cook, I clean, I work, and what do I get? Suspicion!” he wailed. “Do you know, Lan Zhan, how much mental trauma I’ve endured from you two?!” He pointed at both of them dramatically, though his tearless eyes glistened under the room light just enough to pretend sincerity.
A-Yuan muttered under his breath, “I think it’s mutual trauma, actually…”
Lan Zhan glanced skyward, as though seeking divine patience. He looked like he wanted to resign from fatherhood and domestic life altogether. He finally spoke, tone flat but commanding. “Both of you. Sit. Now.”
Both Wei Ying and A-Yuan sniffled miserably and obeyed — one dramatically flopping onto the couch, the other cautiously lowering himself like a prisoner awaiting sentencing.
Lan Zhan stood before them like the calm centre of the storm, silent for a few seconds before murmuring in exasperation, “Sometimes… I think I live with two children.”
Wei Ying gasped again, clutching his chest. “Two?! How dare you call me a child?!”
Lan Zhan inhaled sharply, counted to five in his head, and muttered under his breath, “Heaven give me strength.”
~*~
Lan Zhan, after quietly observing the chaotic performance of the day, finally lifted a hand, his calm authority slicing through the lingering tension. The room fell into a tentative hush, the weight of his gaze holding everyone in place. His eyes softened, though his patience was clearly being tested by fate. This is not a family; this is a circus. And I am the ringmaster.
He finally spoke, his voice cool and deliberate. “Wei Ying… A-Yuan…”
Both heads turned toward him instantly. Wei Ying hiccupped louder—as if adding an emotional soundtrack—and A-Yuan stopped mid-sniffle.
Lan Zhan exhaled slowly, eyes trained on Wei Ying first. “Wei Ying, your story… is creative.”
Wei Ying blinked innocently, one hand over his chest. “Creative? Lan Zhan, you make it sound like I made it up! You think I want to suffer like this? My own son rebelling, my body failing, my soul crushed—”
Lan Zhan interrupted, tone as flat as a calm sea. “Your soul is fine.”
Wei Ying gasped dramatically. “How do you know? Have you seen it recently?!”
Lan Zhan’s eyebrow twitched. He ignored the bait—experience had taught him better. “You may… perhaps… have exaggerated a few details.”
Wei Ying, utterly scandalised, leaned forward as if Lan Zhan had accused him of a federal crime. “Exaggerated?! Lan Zhan, I don’t exaggerate. I merely narrate with passion. People these days can’t handle honesty served with emotional seasoning.”
Lan Zhan stared, impassive. Internally: He is unbelievable.
Meanwhile, A-Yuan sniffled, lower lip trembling. “A-Die, I really didn’t do all that Baba said. I just said I’d go after finishing my work and then he—”
Wei Ying whirled toward him, offended. “Oh, now I’m being painted as the villain, huh? Next, you’ll say I threw the slipper at you out of rage and not discipline! I’m a parent! Discipline is love, A-Yuan!”
A-Yuan groaned. “That’s not how that works, Baba!”
Lan Zhan rubbed his temple slowly. One of them should come with a warning label. Maybe both.
Finally, he sighed and spoke, each word steady and decisive—his rare ‘verdict voice.’ “Enough. Both of you.”
He looked at A-Yuan. “A-Yuan… you were cooperative, yes, but perhaps… You could have gone earlier. Your Baba’s temper… is best avoided, not tested.” Then, eyes turning to Wei Ying, calm but sharp: “And you—drama or not, passion or not—must stop weaponising slippers and emotional monologues. You are not a soap opera lead.”
Wei Ying gasped, hand clutching his chest. “Excuse me?! I am not dramatic, Lan Zhan! I simply express myself with… conviction. You wouldn’t understand—your face has one expression since 1998!”
A-Yuan muffled a laugh. Lan Zhan deadpanned. “1998 was a good year.”
A heavy pause. Wei Ying’s pout faltered; A-Yuan sniffled less. The tension melted into ridiculous silence.
Lan Zhan sighed. He should have joined a monastery when he had the chance. He clasped his hands behind his back, tone final. “Verdict stands. Both of you will apologise. Now.”
Wei Ying’s chest puffed up instinctively, indignation flaring like a tiny firecracker. Apologise first? Obviously, it’s his fault! he thought, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Excuse me?” he said aloud, as if the world had personally wronged him. “Obviously, it’s his fault to begin with! A-Yuan, you start. You’re the reason this entire circus of tears and melodrama began!”
A-Yuan, still hiccupping lightly from the dry crying, glared up at him, indignation and lingering embarrassment coiling in his chest. “No! Baba, you should apologise first! You threw the slipper, yanked my hair, and—” He hiccupped again, muffling the last part.
Wei Ying slapped a hand to his chest. “How dare you raise your voice at a wounded man!”
Lan Zhan pinched the bridge of his nose. Again.
A-Yuan huffed, puffed up with offended dignity. “A-Die, I think Baba should apologise first! He was the one who force-fed me curry like I was some toddler!”
“Excuse me!” Wei Ying barked. “It’s called nurturing my offspring! Ever heard of motherly love?!”
“You’re not even the mother!”
“I’m everything in this house!” Wei Ying snapped, looking ready to compose an opera aria about his suffering.
Lan Zhan sighed, suppressing a twitch that threatened to betray his faint exasperation. Yes, of course, chaos incarnate. He had anticipated something like this. If he didn’t act quickly, it would spiral into another verbal tug-of-war with all the theatrics intact. “Both of you will apologise together, at the same time,” he commanded, each word calm but unyielding, leaving no room for negotiation.
Both froze, awkwardly staring at one another. Their synchronised apologies seemed like an alien concept. A-Yuan’s hiccups slowed, but his sniffling continued—a comical reminder that he was still partly in full melodrama mode. Wei Ying, meanwhile, straightened his back, trying to maintain an air of dignity, the faint sheen of dried crocodile tears catching the light, giving him an almost theatrical glow.
Wei Ying sighed dramatically, eyes rolling toward the heavens as if asking them to witness his suffering. “Fine,” he muttered, gritting his teeth, “we apologise… together.” His voice was stern, but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed that he found this arrangement faintly amusing.
A-Yuan nodded, cheeks still flushed from humiliation and residual sniffles. They looked at each other awkwardly, murmuring the words, “I’m sorry,” in perfect unison. The sound was strange, slightly comedic, slightly tender—a fragile bridge in the aftermath of chaos.
Lan Zhan’s stern expression softened almost imperceptibly. He motioned gently. “Now… hug each other.”
The silence that followed could have been cut with a knife.
Wei Ying blinked. “Lan Zhan… surely, you jest.”
Lan Zhan didn’t blink.
A-Yuan whispered, “A-Die’s serious, Baba…”
Wei Ying sighed deeply, as if preparing for a public execution. “Fine. Come here, brat.”
They leaned in and hugged — awkwardly, stiffly, like two actors who hadn’t rehearsed this scene enough. But slowly, the tension melted. A-Yuan’s arms tightened a little more around Wei Ying’s waist, and Wei Ying’s expression softened despite himself. He looked down at his son and sighed through his nose. A-Yuan whispered softly, voice almost lost amidst the lingering echoes of the day: “Love you, Baba.”
Wei Ying muttered back, still gruff but tender, “Yeah, yeah… love you too, brat.”
Baba bent slightly, pressing a gentle kiss atop A-Yuan’s head. The boy flushed a delicate pink, caught somewhere between embarrassment and warmth, and for a fleeting moment, the chaotic energy of the afternoon softened into something intimate and human. Lan Zhan’s lips curved into a subtle, satisfied smile. The storm of the evening was finally cooling. Finally, some peace. Slowly, they let each other go.
Lan Zhan cleared his throat, guiding the family toward the next practical step. “Let’s order takeout for today,” he said, his calmness a steady anchor.
Wei Ying’s head snapped up immediately. “Ohhh, so now you don’t want my cooking, huh? After all that effort?!” His voice dripped with sarcasm and over-the-top drama.
Lan Zhan gave him that look — the one that could silence a barking dog or, in this case, an overacting spouse.
Wei Ying froze mid-gesture, blinking rapidly, realising he might have overplayed it. “Alright… okay… fine,” he said, drawing out each syllable with a careful recalibration of tone, “we’ll eat takeout for today, but!” He wagged a finger theatrically at Lan Zhan. “You will eat today’s leftovers tomorrow! I am not letting that food go to waste.”
Lan Zhan’s eyes softened; he merely nodded, accepting this minor concession with quiet dignity. “Agreed.”
A-Yuan immediately brightened, all the gloom forgotten. “Yay! Takeout!”
Wei Ying rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Spoiled brat. No wonder you act like a prince.”
A-Yuan bounced slightly, eyes sparkling, as he considered the feast to come, unaware that Wei Ying was already mentally crafting the next over-the-top critique of the delivery menu. (*Sigh*)
Lan Zhan simply reached out, brushing his fingers lightly across Wei Ying’s shoulder — a quiet, wordless thank-you for holding the family together in his own chaotic, dramatic, love-soaked way.
And in that moment — between the scent of leftover curry and the sound of A-Yuan’s excited footsteps rushing to grab the phone to order takeout — the house finally felt peaceful again.