Chapter Text
Lan Zhan stands there.
The rusted green gate entrance squeals and wanes in the gentle spring breeze, ushering the smell of chipping paint and honeyed pollen to wash around him. He noticed it came up to around chest height: with a little gap carved between the end of the wall and the door of the gate, allowing someone to be able to bend down and squeeze through. Lan Zhan furrows his brows in confusion. Surely this wasn’t the right place.
The kit bag jostles heavily on his back as he sighs, huffing away the strands of hair that fall into his face despite the time he took this morning to meticulously braid his hair; the white hair ribbon doing little to assuage the relentless breath of spring. His eyes scan the area, flitting between his phone and the wild forestry ahead of him, the path that seems he’s supposed to take winds into the distance, between blurs of shades of green. The directions Lan Xichen had texted him seemed simple enough, yet the absolute dread Lan Zhan had felt as he’d packed up his car and punched in the directions had made the entire journey that much more unbearable.
Sighing quietly, he pushes himself forward, with the reluctance weighing his body down, creaking the gate open as it shudders in protest, and carefully shuts it behind him as he steps into the forest path. Turning to look back behind him, he finds himself bewildered at the stark contrast between the pavement and rows of ordered brick housing that seemed to blend jarringly into greenery; cars speeding down the road disappearing into a blur of sound as he steps further into the hedgeland: the urban town fading away into the comforting whistle of a stream a little ahead of him, and the whispers of leaves brushing against each other.
Adjusting his kit bag firmly onto his shoulder, Lan Zhan follows the path, taking a left turn that follows slowly uphill, frowning slightly as sunlight pours in freely through gaps in the canopy of branches, making him squint against the flowing source of light. His tall height accounts for the frequent brushing of stinging nettle and branches that scrapes against the long sleeves of his white sports top, brewing irritation that begins at the base of his throat and works it’s way itchy across his forehead as he haphazardly shoved the foragery away with his hands.
In the distance, he spots the familiar shimmer of gold and red, and blue, and black and Lan Zhan’s eyes sharpen: written in a free sort of scramble, all loopy and bold, ‘Archery club this way!’ with an obnoxious arrow sprawled over the familiar woven paper of an archery target sheet. Lan Zhan feels his chest twist with a familiar bout of anxiety, mixed with the unmistakable swell of bitten down anger. Swallowing, he steels his face into his usual blank slate and saunters up the last remaining cobbles of path that leads to a large steel corrugated gate that he firmly pushes open.
Sunlight rushes overwhelmingly all at once over him, blinding him in a cacophony of brilliance as he flounders; hands coming up to shield his eyes as he steps further past the gate. As his eyes adjust, his ears flicker with the tinkling sound of….laughter? The light settles and Lan Zhan has found himself in a large open field of greenery: the sun bathes his neck and face in a warm embrace, and Lan Zhan notices his shoulder instantly feel less tense.
As he gazes over the field, Lan Zhan is met with a familiar sight: rows and rows of archery targets, set at varying distances litter the open land, the gold centres positively gleaming like honey, and in the near distance he notices a group of people standing at the shooting line. Lan Zhan closes his eyes, and for a moment, he allows himself to bask in the familiar background noise of arrows whistling through the air; the recognisable thump of arrows hitting the foam of the target face, piercing the target paper, and when Lan Zhan opens his eyes again for reasons he can’t quite comprehend, he feels less like he’s walking into a noose.
Trying his best to ignore the wandering vines of anxiety that threaten to paw at the length of Lan Zhan’s legs, he saunters forward: a shining vision of white in his sports attire as he walks towards the group of people. Lan Zhan notes the varying ages: a group of teenagers stand together, just off the shooting line, chatting as their bow stabilisers dig into the ground as they lean against them, and he can’t help but cringe internally at the sight; he always did detest that habit. He notices an older group of young adults, he guesses would be around his age, still at the shooting line, firing off their last shots before the whistle is blown and the whole field erupts into an explosion of chatter and movement. Lan Zhan lastly notes the loud bustle of children, all crowded noisily around a particular center; as if the entire field rotates in a spinning galaxy around this one singularity and Lan Zhan focuses his eyes to see.
Lan Zhan notices the light first, not literal, but no less real for it. Long black hair is tied carelessly with a red ribbon, strands escaping as he laughs, bright and unrestrained. The sound hits Lan Zhan before the sight does.
His breath hitches. When the man turns, smiling wide and unguarded, something tightens in Lan Zhan’s chest. His hand clenches at his side.
Oh.
“No! A-Yuan, you need to put the bow down back in the stand before we can collect the arrows! You silly radish,” The man chuckles, and Lan Zhan watches as the man wrangles the little plastic bow out of a little boy’s hand - he surely can’t be older than five, and places it down gently into the bow stand. “Now go join A-Jing, come on, all of you, you need to collect all the arrows! Every single one!” The man instructs, laughing, and Lan Zhan can’t help but feel as if the other man is a supermassive black hole, and he is just in orbit; just like everyone else on this big green field.
Lan Zhan freezes as the man turns to face him, stepping closer in a sort of gait that Lan Zhan can’t describe in any other way than a sauntering cat. Lan Zhan feels his ears heat up but he firmly, and angrily, shuts that down and clamps a heavy lid on top of it. Somehow, he cannot help but feel somewhat like prey, walking straight into a predator’s trap.
“You sure like white, don’t you?” The man says, now standing right in front of Lan Zhan, looking him up and down with an easy smile on his face. Lan Zhan blanks for a second, the confusion evident on his face as he scrambles around in his brain for an answer. Anything? He thinks, to himself. Why can he not say anything? He can’t help but feel like he’s being exposed to pure, unadulterated sunlight: like he’s stepped off the international space station and turned his visor straight towards a hot, swirling ball of gas.
After balking, Lan Zhan is able to put together that the other man is, in fact, talking about his outfit.
Ah.
He ascertains that the other man is of similar height to him, perhaps a couple centimeters shorter. The question throws Lan Zhan off kilter, and he can’t help but just stare at the man.
The other man’s smile slips wider, eyes slimming in mirth as he waves his hands in front of Lan Zhan’s face.
“Huh…not much of a talker are you,” The man says, snorting.
Lan Zhan whips himself into reality, frowning.
“My name is-”
“Lan Wangji, I mean really, who doesn’t know that,” The man interrupts lightly, smirking, eyeing him up and down. “Or should I call you Hangguang-jun,” The man smirks, and Lan Zhan’s brain pauses for a second because his mouth twists into a scowl; eyebrows pinched in the middle.
“I do not prefer to be called by that name. You may call me Lan Wangji.”
Preferred was an understatement. Lan Zhan is aware of the ugly twist that pinches at his heart, the cold sweat that builds at the back of his neck, and he cannot help but clasp both his hands behind his back - a nervous habit.
The other man blinks, eyes shining with an emotion Lan Zhan cannot quite place before his smirk melts into something easier. He holds a hand out, the other smoothing his wild mane down.
“My name is Wei Ying,” He says, and Lan Zhan stares at it for a moment, trying to decide whether or not he should accept this greeting. As he momentarily debates this in his head, Lan Zhan has decided that he is many things, but he is not impolite. Reluctantly, he grips the man’s hand in return, his scowl dimming back down to a grimace.
Wei Ying.
Why did that name seem familiar? Like Lan Zhan is sure he had heard it somewhere before.
He doesn’t get much time to turn it over in his head as Wei Ying speaks up again.
“You don’t understand how excited the kids are that you’re here, I mean really,” Wei Ying says, smiling brightly over his shoulder as he ushers Lan Zhan further down the field. “When everyone heard the famous Lan Wangji was coming to spend some time with us, well…you can imagine the excitement!” Lan Zhan nods slightly, an uncomfortable twang stings in his gut as he notices the many gazes that sear through his back.
The thing is, he is used to that. For the most part. Lan Zhan has always been good at tuning other people out: other people are, as his uncle Lan Qiren would always say, superfluous to his success.
Warily, Lan Zhan somehow feels that tuning Wei Ying out was going to prove to be hard.
“Wen Qing, the manager of this club, you’ll meet her in a bit, informed me about the sorts of things you’ll be doing. Here, let me help you with that-” Wei Ying reaches behind Lan Zhan and tugs his kit off his back; Lan Zhan stalls for a second before he frowns and takes it back.
“I assure you, I can carry my kit,” He says, probably with more force than he intended.
Wei Ying falters slightly, smile dropping a fraction before returning at full force. “Sure! I just think it might be easier if you put it down while I introduce you to the kids,” Lan Zhan hesitates before he nods, setting his kit down, cringing slightly as the green grass smears light stains over the bottom of his pristine grey bag.
“You’ll mostly be on a coaching basis with the children,” Wei Ying explains as he leads Lan Zhan through the field. As they walk, he notices the swell of people starting to form, walking back down from the targets and back to the shooting line.
“This group of kids are all very young, so they’re mostly just coming into the basics of what archery is, like how to handle the kit etcetera,” He continues. “The teenagers we’ll get to later,” Wei Ying comes to a stop by a group of mini plastic bow stands, almost comical looking in comparison to his height, and holds one hand on his hip, as the other cups his mouth.
“A-Yuan! No running with arrows! How many times!” Wei Ying yells, and Lan Zhan cannot help the wince at the sheer volume. He watches as a large group of kids, he estimates a number between nine and ten, none older than seven years old, huddle around both him and Wei Ying. Lan Zhan gulps as he looks down, several pairs of large, boba eyes and agape mouths staring up back at him. He shifts uneasily.
“This is Lan-gege! Everyone say hello!” Wei Ying coos, kneeling down to grasp a kid’s hand, waving it softly and laughing. The chorus of shy little ‘hellos’ makes Lan Zhan’s ears heat up, he isn’t exactly sure why.
Lan Zhan nods.
“Mn.” Is the best that he can offer right now.
Unfortunately, Lan Zhan cannot remember the last time he interacted with such young children, and being the younger sibling himself, he isn’t quite sure how he should handle this. Furtively, he imagines his older brother’s amused huff at his predicament.
Wei Ying laughs. “As you can see, Lan-gege doesn’t talk much but he is an amazing archer!” Wei Ying continues, emphasising his words, with comically large expressions so the kids understand him. “He’s won the Olympics!” Lan Zhan's mouth twists as the kids start up excitedly, tugging at his trousers and chattering all over themselves.
“Lan-gege can you teach me how to shoot the middle?”
“Lan-gege, are you the bestest archer in the world?”
“Lan-gege can you shoot for us?”
Lan Zhan feels the influx of questions as an immediate overload, nodding and muttering gently as he looks down at the kids, flustered as he remains unsure of exactly how to respond. He straightens up to his full height and looks at Wei Ying helplessly, who stands to the side, looking extremely amused. He’s leaning against a chair, eyes warm but assessing, and Lan Zhan feels that he is being carefully calculated, Wei Ying’s smile mirthful but sharp.
Lan Zhan’s stomach turns in a funny sort of way.
“Okay children that’s enough,” Wei Ying soothes, pushing himself up, patting the children on their heads lightly with his clipboard. “You can ask Lan-gege all your questions later, he’ll be back soon to help you guys with shooting,” Wei Ying promises, before he signals Lan Zhan to follow him with a cock of his head.
“So? What do you think?” Wei Ying asks him as they fall into a walk, side by side.
“They seem very…energetic,” Lan Zhan places his words carefully after some thought. Wei Ying guffaws beside him.
“Fucking tell me about it, they’re a handful,” He laughs, readjusting his hair. Lan Zhan feels oddly memserised as he watches the strands of obsidian catch in the sunlight.
“You’ll be fine though, I can tell they’re going to love you,” Lan Zhan isn't sure that he agrees.
The pair of them stop behind the middle of the shooting line, Lan Zhan staring absently off into the distance of the targets, but he can feel Wei Ying’s gaze burning into his side. Clenching his jaw lightly, Lan Zhan finds the willpower to ignore him.
He knows he wants to ask.
Lan Zhan doesn’t want to answer.
Wei Ying seems to take the hint, Lan Zhan internally thanks him for it and focuses his attention back to the field of targets, assessing the distances.
He finds a couple targets held at seventy meters, with the majority at a fifty or below, which makes his lips twist. He turns to Wei Ying.
“Why do you only have two at seventy? Are the kids drilling technique at shorter distances?” He asks, confusion evident in his tone. During his time training with his uncle and the national team, Lan Qiren had all but thrown Lan Zhan into the deep end: shorter distance training was often scorned at, only existing to serve Lan Zhan in his younger years, forcing him to build himself quickly to be ready for word class standards by the time he was thirteen. Whether this was normal or not, he did not know, nor did he very much care. Lan Zhan knew that by cause and effect, evidently his uncle’s methods were tried and tested true.
Wei Ying laughs, loud and unfiltered and it stops Lan Zhan’s internal thought train like he’d smashed his foot down hard on the proverbial brakes.
“Drilling technique? Lan Wangji you’re so funny,” Wei Ying cackles, and Lan Zhan stiffs up inside as Wei Ying places a hand carelessly onto his shoulder for support. “Half of these kids couldn’t hit seventy properly even if they tried,” Wei Ying giggles, wiping a tear from his eye. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but that’s going to take a little time and practice,” He finishes, smiling fondly as he looks over the group.
“Inadequate.” Lan Zhan finds himself blurting before he can stop himself, but it's true.
Wei Ying regards him silently for a second. “These kids aren’t aiming for national standards, Lan Wangji,” He says softly, with a cadence that makes Lan Zhan fidget. He steadfastly ignores him and stares straight ahead.
“You should be training them rigorously nonetheless. They cannot hope to make progress if they aren’t being pushed to try harder.” He summises, feeling more of his hair whip out from his braid and tickle the back of his neck.
“You know this is a local archery club.” Wei Ying says, and it has a little bite. “A little, yes inconsequential, one. But, we do this for fun,” Wei Ying adds, emphasising fun in a way that makes Lan Zhan’s hair stand up on the back of his neck. He gulps, looking back at Wei Ying to find his gaze has sharpened again, more akin to a fox. Lan Zhan hums. Wei Ying regards him for a moment longer, before his shoulders slump ever so slightly and he smiles.
Lan Zhan hums. He is not exactly sure what to say.
Wei Ying pauses, a small smile growing on his face.
“Why don’t you get your bow out? I’m sure the kids would love to see you shoot,” Wei Ying finally says after the silent pause; Lan Zhan wouldn’t quite call it tense but he wouldn’t call it comfortable.
That’s probably the first time he’s found silence uncomfortable, Lan Zhan muses to himself.
“I mean,” Wei Ying adds, softer, “I would love to see you shoot too."
Lan Zhan shifts, almost imperceptibly.
Then he nods.