Work Text:
Nie Mingjue doesn’t like flying.
It isn’t the height or the turbulence. He has dealt with worse, and sitting still for hours has never been what unsettles him. What he dislikes is the waiting - the suspension of being between places, where nothing is happening and yet everything is meant to be moving.
He prefers things that are certain. Landing is one of them.
By the time he steps out of the plane, his phone is already buzzing in his pocket. The messages and notifications stack over each other before he even unlocks the screen:
Da ge, when are you returning?
Nie-zong, will you be back for the conference in two week?
Hi Nie-zong, hope you landed safely. I look forward to our next collaboration.
He scrolls through them quickly, more out of habit than interest.
There is one name he looks for.
It isn’t there.
Nie Mingjue locks his phone and slips it back into his pocket like it makes no difference, like the absence doesn’t sit in his chest, small and sharp. Lan Xichen is busy. He has always been busy.
Still, he lingers a moment longer than necessary before heading toward the exit.
Nie Mingjue has been away for a year, taking the business abroad in stretches that always last too long. The year before, he’d barely returned from a two-year trip before preparing to leave again.
He’s not fond of these trips but they’re necessary. He could send someone else, but Nie Huaisang will cut corners; Jin Guangyao will get up to something; and Lan Xichen is too nice for negotiating with wolves.
A year is a long time and Lan Xichen prefers local cuisine anyway.
Nie Mingjue walks to the conveyor belt and his luggage is already doing the rounds, marked as “priority”. He picks up his bags and heads out. He has been vague about his return date, estimating it to be sometime next week whenever someone from the company asks, more so as a surprise spot check both for the company and for Nie Huaisang. If he gives them notice, they will have lesser time to clean up their act before he returns.
For now, the plan is to arrange for a cab to get him home and and then to the office. If he goes to the office first, someone might tell Nie Huaisang that he is back.
Nie Mingjue walks out of the airport, his bags in hand and walks to the pick up point. He wants to set his things down before arranging for a ride back.
There is already a car waiting for him.
He notices it only because it feels familiar in a way he does not immediately question. Same driver, same understated finish, parked slightly away from the main stream of arrivals, placed there with intention.
The driver approaches before Nie Mingjue can decide whether to ignore it.
“Nie-zong.”
Nie Mingjue pauses, hand still on the handle of his suitcase. “I don’t recall arranging for this car.”
“It was arranged for you,” the driver replies, already reaching for his luggage with efficiency. “Lan-zong asked me to be here.”
He answers like there is nothing unusual about Lan Xichen sending him to pick people up.
For a moment, Nie Mingjue considers asking more. When it was arranged. How Lan Xichen had been so certain. Why he would know something Nie Mingjue himself had not confirmed out loud.
He lets the thought pass.
Lan Xichen has always been observant, the sort of person who notices what is left unsaid and fills in gaps without needing to be prompted. It is part of what makes him dependable, and easy to work with. Easy to trust.
“Alright,” Nie Mingjue says, handing over his suitcase.
He accepts the explanation easily. He always does. He always does when it comes to Lan Xichen.
As expected, Nie Huaisang is home and is dragged to the office together with Nie Mingjue. The whole way there Nie Huaisang begs for forgiveness as Nie Mingjue speeds through the highway.
“Da-ge, how could you not tell me that you were coming back? Did you only tell Xichen-ge?”
“I didn’t tell him. You should have been working in the office on a Thursday!”
“I already said it’s because I wasn’t feeling well! I went out for drinks last night with some clients and returned late.” Nie Huaisang responds, exasperated.
“Did you go out with clients or were you out drinking with Wei Wuxian? You know what happens if you lie to me.” Nie Mingjue huffs. He knows his brother too well. Some things just don’t change.
Nie Huaisang goes silent, which is response enough for Nie Mingjue. Before he can continue reprimanding his brother, Nie Huaisang asks, “How did Xichen-ge know you were coming back if you didn’t tell him then?”
Who knows.
Lan Xichen is nice; everyone knows that. He goes out of his way for people when he can. It’s not like he does this only ever for Nie Mingjue, so Nie Mingjue tries his best not to think about it as he pulls into the office carpark. It seems Lan Xichen is out of office today as his car is not parked in the usual spot.
That’s fine, he’s not here to see Lan Xichen anyway. He’s here to drag his unruly brother back to the office and make sure things are still in one piece.
When they arrive upstairs, everyone greets him in surprise, not expecting his return today.
“No wonder Lan-zong booked out a restaurant tonight and told everyone not to be late.” Someone whispers but it does not go unnoticed by Nie Mingjue.
He wants to ask where Lan Xichen is but instead, he turns to Nie Huaisang and tells him, “You’re not going to dinner tonight, you need to make up the hours you were slacking off at home.”
Nie Huaisang continues to groan but Nie Mingjue ignores him.
By the time they reach the restaurant that evening, the city has already fallen into its usual rhythm. Office lights flicker on across glass facades; traffic threads steadily through the streets, indifferent to who has returned and who has not.
Inside, warmth wraps the room, voices overlapping without ever turning to noise – a place designed for comfort, or at least the illusion of it.
Nie Mingjue takes his seat without much thought.
Lan Xichen joins him soon after.
Nothing about it is unusual. If anything, it is expected. Lan Xichen is hosting, and proximity makes things easier - conversation, introductions, the small adjustments that keep everything moving without friction.
“Have you eaten?” Lan Xichen asks once the greetings ease.
“On the plane.”
Lan Xichen nods. “Then you should still eat something. The food here is better.”
He reaches for the teapot, pouring into Nie Mingjue’s cup with practiced ease. The tea is lighter than expected, its colour not as deep, the bitterness softened.
“I asked them to brew it twice,” Lan Xichen adds.
Nie Mingjue pauses, fingers resting against the rim of the cup.
Da Hong Pao.
He used to drink it stronger, years ago, before long hours and irregular meals made it sit poorly. Now he only drinks it if it has been brewed twice so he can still enjoy the taste; it had been a small adjustment then, mentioned once and left at that.
He takes a sip. It is exactly how he prefers it.
“Didn’t think you’d remember that,” Nie Mingjue says.
Lan Xichen glances at him briefly. “It suits you better this way.”
He says it like it’s nothing at all, then reaches for the teapot again and refills the cup with the same steady attention.
The conversation carries on around them, shifting easily between topics. Nie Mingjue speaks when necessary; the rest of the time, his attention drifts. He watches Lan Xichen’s habit of listening without interruption, the way his tone adjusts by fractions depending on who is speaking – never enough to be obvious, always enough to be effective. Subtle, consistent. Familiar.
“Lan-zong, do you have a moment?”
The request comes from further down the table, tentative but persistent enough to interrupt. Lan Xichen turns without hesitation. “Of course.”
The employee looks new, the kind of nervousness that shows in small, unguarded ways. “I wasn’t sure who to ask about the client meeting tomorrow,” they say. “The transport arrangements weren’t very clear, and I didn’t want to-”
“That’s alright,” Lan Xichen says, cutting in gently. “You’re on the morning schedule, correct?”
He nods.
“In that case, I’ll have a car arranged for you. You won’t need to worry about getting there.”
Relief slides across the employee’s face so quickly it almost makes Nie Mingjue’s teeth ache.
“Thank you, Lan-zong. I – ah, sorry, I should have-”
“There’s no need to apologise,” Lan Xichen says. “Just focus on the dinner.” His tone stays light, as if this kind of extra effort barely registers as effort at all.
Nie Mingjue lowers his gaze to his cup. None of it is unexpected. Lan Xichen has always handled things this way – quietly, efficiently, without drawing attention to it. People rely on him for that.
The car earlier fits into that pattern.
He tells himself there is no reason to separate it from everything else.
By the time dinner winds down, the room has softened, conversations thinning as people begin to leave. Nie Mingjue remains where he is for a moment longer, finishing his tea even though it has gone lukewarm.
Lan Xichen stays as well. “You must be tired from landing today and coming straight to a dinner. Do you need a ride?” he asks.
“No.”
“I drove, we can even go back to the office to get Huaisang.” Lan Xichen gives him a soft smile, I know what you did at the office, it seems to say. As usual, Lan Xichen just knows.
“I can manage.”
Lan Xichen gives a small nod and lets the refusal stand.
They leave together regardless. Outside, the air is cooler. The city has quieted somewhat, though not entirely; traffic continues at a distance, voices carrying faintly from further down the street.
Lan Xichen walks beside him. Not close – never close enough to be obvious – but near enough that Nie Mingjue can hear his breathing even over the city noise. The same measured distance that he keeps with everyone. Nie Mingjue reminds himself. Even though he’s starting to suspect that’s a lie.
When they reach the front of the building, the car is still there. The driver straightens at once. “Lan-zong.”
“You can head back,” Lan Xichen says.
The driver hesitates. “What about Nie-zong?”
“I won’t be needing the car,” Nie Mingjue replies.
The words come more quickly than necessary, sharper than intended; his grip on the briefcase tightens, and he does not correct himself.
Lan Xichen simply nods. “Then you may go.”
The driver leaves without further question, the car pulling away with the same unobtrusive presence it arrived with.
The absence it leaves behind is more noticeable than it should be.
“Rest well tonight,” Lan Xichen says.
“I will.”
“Good.”
They stand there a moment longer, though there is no clear reason for it.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Lan Xichen says, his voice softer now. It would be simple to take it at face value.
Nie Mingjue almost does.
Then the rest of it slots into place: the car at the airport, the tea prepared to his preference, the way Lan Xichen had turned without hesitation to reassure someone else with the same steadiness. None of it is his.
“I’m sure you are,” Nie Mingjue says. He hears the flatness in his own voice and leaves it as it is.
Lan Xichen pauses, just briefly.
Nie Mingjue looks away before he can think too much about it.
“I’ll see you at the office,” he adds, already turning.
This time, he does not wait.
By the next morning, the office has returned to its usual rhythm. Any disruption caused by his return has already smoothed itself out - meetings resume, schedules falling into place, decisions moving forward without hesitation. The structure feels familiar, requiring little adjustment, and Nie Mingjue moves through it with the ease of someone who has done this for years.
There is comfort in that. Work is straightforward in a way other things are not.
He does not see Lan Xichen immediately – not because their paths do not cross, but because they do so only in passing: a brief greeting outside a conference room, a nod across a corridor, conversations that start and fade before they can take hold.
Each time, Lan Xichen greets him as he does everyone else: tone even but attention measured with nothing lingering.
Nie Mingjue tells himself it’s always been this way.
It is later in the afternoon when they find themselves in the same room alone.
The meeting runs longer than intended, stretching past its allotted time until people begin to excuse themselves. One by one, they leave, the room emptying until only the two of them remain.
The door closes softly behind the last person. For a moment, the room feels quieter than it should.
Lan Xichen gathers his documents, aligning them neatly before setting them aside. “You’ve settled back in quickly,” he says.
“I didn’t leave for that long.”
Lan Xichen looks at him, something faint in his expression that does not quite resolve into a smile. “A year is still long.”
Nie Mingjue shrugs, the motion looser than he expects. “Not long enough for anything to change.”
Lan Xichen does not respond at once, as if weighing the words, then says evenly, “Some things don’t.”
Nie Mingjue nods, though he is not sure what he is agreeing to.
Lan Xichen steps a little closer, not inappropriately close but just enough where Nie Mingjue can get a whiff of the tea Lan Xichen has been drinking .
“I had your schedule adjusted,” he says. “I’ve moved a few meetings so you have some breathing space.”
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“You needed the time.”
“I could have handled it.”
“I know.”
The certainty lands quiet and unforced. Nie Mingjue exhales, the breath dragging longer than it should.
Lan Xichen has always done this - anticipating what needs to be done and acting on it without drawing attention. He does it for everyone. Nie Mingjue reminds himself.
“Thank you,” Nie Mingjue says.
Lan Xichen inclines his head in acknowledgment.
The conversation should end there but Lan Xichen does not leave. Instead, his gaze lingers a moment longer, taking in details that are not explicitly stated.
“You didn’t sleep much,” he says.
Nie Mingjue looks at him. “I rested enough.”
Lan Xichen does not argue. “You tend to sleep less after long flights.” His explanation is simple and reasonable. “You should get some rest earlier tonight.”
It does not quite sound like advice.
Nie Mingjue opens his mouth to dismiss it – then stops. His hand stills on the desk. That is not something Lan Xichen should know. Not unless he’s been counting.
“Since when do you track my sleep?” he asks. The question is light, but it doesn’t feel like one.
“I don’t,” Lan Xichen says, and the pause that follows is brief. “It’s just something I’ve noticed.”
Nie Mingjue studies him for a moment, then looks away. I’ve only been away on long flights a couple of times. There are explanations for this too. There are always explanations.
“Noted,” he says.
Lan Xichen nods, as if that settles it.
They leave the room together. The corridor outside has quieted, most people already gone for the day. The lighting is softer now, flattening the edges of the space. Lan Xichen walks beside him at the same measured distance as before, nothing in it stands out.
At the end of the hallway, someone calls, “Lan-zong.” Lan Xichen turns.
This time, Nie Mingjue keeps walking. It is easier that way.
Nothing to read into. Lan Xichen has always been like this – consistent enough to leave no room for interpretation. Nie Mingjue repeats it until it feels like certainty.
Close enough.
The days that follow should have been uncomplicated. Enough work waits for Nie Mingjue that his return becomes ordinary almost immediately. People stop hovering at the edges of his schedule. Questions become less careful, more direct. The office goes back to treating him like a constant rather than a variable.
It is efficient, and sensible enough to be taken for granted. It should make everything simpler.
It mostly does.
Lan Xichen remains, as he always has, difficult to place in the same category as everyone else. Not because he behaves differently, but because Nie Mingjue keeps noticing him anyway, in the spaces where noticing is unnecessary.
It is easier to pretend that is a habit left over from earlier years. A kind of mental muscle memory.
Nie Huaisang, predictably, makes it worse.
A message comes through midweek, a single line with a laughing emoji attached: Ge, are you still pretending you can’t tell when Xichen-ge cares about you?
Nie Mingjue doesn’t respond.
He turns his phone face down and goes back to work.
It happens near the end of the week, shortly before a meeting.
The room is already half-filled when Nie Mingjue arrives. A few people glance up, then return to their conversations, voices dipping only briefly as he takes his seat. A projector hums softly at the far end of the table. Someone flips through a printed deck, pages making a dry, rhythmic sound.
Lan Xichen is there, speaking to someone near the window.
He is calm in the way that makes people lower their voices without being asked - attentive without giving the impression of effort: he listens, responds, and steers the exchange forward with the ease of someone who has had years of practice making other people feel as if they are not wasting his time.
Nie Mingjue turns his attention to the folder in front of him. The glass of water by his hand is empty. He frowns and reaches for it anyway, as if confirming the lack might change it.
A moment later, a full glass appears beside his folder, placed carefully: close enough to be convenient, not so close that it crowds his hand.
Nie Mingjue looks up, expecting to see an assistant hovering uncertainly.
No one is there.
Lan Xichen has returned to his seat, and the conversation by the window has already shifted, as though nothing happened.
Nie Mingjue keeps his expression neutral. He tells himself the staff must have noticed he was out of water and one of them has replaced it; this is how these rooms work, small corrections made without ceremony.
It doesn’t quite sit right.
Before he can decide whether he is imagining the timing, a cup is set down near the glass.
Ceramic, not paper. The lid is off, the smell faint but unmistakable.
Lan Xichen speaks without turning his head. “Your coffee.”
Nie Mingjue looks at the cup.
It isn’t from the pantry. The office coffee has a particular burnt bitterness that clings to everything, even the air. This is different - cleaner, sharper, like it has travelled.
Lan Xichen adds, as if stating something obvious, “They changed their blend recently. This one is closer to what you used to order.”
The words land precise, harder to dismiss than it should be.
Nie Mingjue had mentioned that preference once, years ago, in a passing conversation that should not have mattered. The kind of detail spoken without thinking, like an aside made while staring at an overfull inbox or a calendar packed too tightly.
He reaches for the cup.
It is still warm, heat seeping into his palm in a way that feels faintly intimate despite how ordinary the object is.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
Lan Xichen’s gaze stays on the front of the room. “It was on the way.”
It wasn’t – the place he likes is in the next district; with traffic, definitely not on the way. Not unless Lan Xichen’s taking detours for no reason.
Nie Mingjue doesn’t say it.
The meeting begins before he can decide what he thinks about any of it.
Discussion moves forward as expected. Nie Mingjue follows along without difficulty, asks two questions that steer the room back to what matters, and corrects a projection that is too optimistic. People respond quickly. Notes are taken. Lan Xichen speaks when needed, his contributions concise, his attention steady. Nothing appears out of place. And yet the coffee remains by Nie Mingjue’s hand, cooling slowly, its surface dark and still.
He does not drink it at first, not out of stubbornness, exactly, more like caution. Drinking it means that he has to acknowledge that it is perfect; that the temperature and the taste were chosen with intent. If he leaves it untouched, he can continue pretending it was merely convenient.
Halfway through the meeting, his throat feels dry despite himself.
He takes a sip. It tastes exactly right, warmth spreading steady down his throat.
Face unreadable, he sets the cup down.
By the time the afternoon winds down, the office begins to empty.
People drift out in ones and twos, the soundscape changing from layered conversation to occasional footsteps and the distant click of elevators. Nie Mingjue remains at his desk longer than necessary, not because there is urgent work, but because leaving feels like admitting the day is finished.
He reviews a report he has already signed off on, then answers an email that does not require an immediate reply. At some point, he becomes aware of someone standing near the doorway.
Lan Xichen.
“Still here?” Lan Xichen asks.
“It’s done,” Nie Mingjue says, gesturing vaguely at the papers as if they justify his staying.
Lan Xichen steps closer, stopping at the edge of the desk in the same measured way he does in meetings, leaving enough space to avoid crowding. His gaze drops briefly to the coffee cup, then returns to Nie Mingjue’s face.
“You didn’t eat much today,” he says.
Nie Mingjue’s expression tightens before he can smooth it out. “I ate.”
Lan Xichen does not correct him immediately. He simply waits, calm enough that it feels like he is giving Nie Mingjue room to amend his own statement – or dig the hole deeper.
“You skipped lunch,” Lan Xichen adds, quietly.
Nie Mingjue lets out a breath. “There wasn’t time.”
“There is always time,” Lan Xichen says - not sharply, not as a scolding but more like a fact observed often enough to become certain.
Nie Mingjue’s fingers tap once against the edge of the desk, small and unconscious.
“How would you even know that?” he asks.
Lan Xichen’s expression remains even. “I noticed.” The phrase should be harmless. People notice things all the time.
It is only when it keeps appearing, at different hours and in different contexts, that it begins to feel like something else.
Nie Mingjue studies him for a moment, trying to find the line between professionalism and whatever this is.
Lan Xichen meets his gaze without flinching.
“You notice a lot,” Nie Mingjue says, keeping his voice level.
Lan Xichen weights it a moment, as if it’s worth real thought. “I try to.” No flourish, no attempt to soften it. Just acknowledgement, offered as if it is the most normal thing in the world.
Nie Mingjue looks away first. He does not know what to do with that, so he reaches for something concrete. “I’ll get something on the way home,” he says.
Lan Xichen nods, accepting it without pushing. “Don’t stay too late.” It lands somewhere between advice and request.
And then Lan Xichen leaves.
The office grows quieter.
Nie Mingjue remains seated, staring at the screen without reading the words on it. The coffee cup sits beside his hand, the last sip long since cooled. He picks it up anyway – habit over desire – and drinks despite the chill. The taste has flattened, bitterness sharpening but it’s still his coffee. Still what he prefers.
That should be a small thing.
It doesn’t feel small.
When he finally leaves, the elevator ride down is empty.
The lobby has thinned. The security guard at the desk nods at him with the slow familiarity of someone who has watched this building swallow people whole and return them late at night.
Outside, the street is cooler than earlier, the air carrying the faint scent of rain that has not yet arrived. His phone vibrates once in his pocket and he checks it without thinking.
A message from Lan Xichen.
Got home yet?
Nie Mingjue stares at the screen.
He types Yes, then deletes it. Tries Not yet, deletes that too. After a moment, he puts the phone away without replying, promising himself he will answer later when he can sound normal about it.
It’s nothing.
He has been telling himself that for days now.
Lan Xichen’s message stays unanswered longer than it should.
By the time Nie Mingjue reaches home, toes off his shoes, washes his hands and stands for a moment at the sink as if cold water might reboot him, the screen has dimmed and locked again. He tells himself it is late. He tells himself Lan Xichen will have forgotten by morning.
He unlocks the phone anyway.
The message is still there.
Got home yet?
It isn’t intrusive. It isn’t phrased in a way that demands anything. In any other context, it could have been sent to anyone - the kind of quiet check-in that passes as politeness.
Nie Mingjue stares at it longer than he likes.
Finally, he types: Just reached.
He hits send before he can reconsider, then places the phone face down on the table as though that will keep it from vibrating again.
It doesn’t. A reply comes almost immediately.
Good. Eat something.
Nie Mingjue exhales through his nose, the closest he gets to a laugh.
He sets the phone aside without answering, then opens the fridge and looks at the contents as if he expects something to have appeared during the day. Mostly empty: a bottle of water, condiments, a plastic container he doesn’t remember putting there.
Nie Huaisang does not eat leftovers so that could only mean one thing.
He closes the door.
Standing in the dim light of the kitchen, he realises that his day has been structured by someone else’s attention in ways he did not ask for. A glass of water appearing at the table. Coffee he did not order. A message that arrived after he left the office.
It should feel harmless. Instead, it leaves him slightly irritated - the way he becomes irritated when something doesn’t fit into the expected order of things.
He opens the fridge again, more out of stubbornness than appetite, and takes out the container.
Congee.
Plain, pale, the surface smooth and unbroken, a little packet of pickled vegetables taped to the lid. The label is from the same place he used to order from when his schedule was too tight to allow proper meals.
He stands there holding it, container’s chill seeping palm-deep. He shouldn’t be surprised. Not when the day’s been shaped by this same quiet attention.
He heats it in the microwave, eats half without tasting much of it, then forces himself to finish the rest simply because leaving it unfinished feels like acknowledging something he doesn’t want to name. When he throws the container away, he rinses it first as if cleanliness might count as refusal.
Afterwards, he sits on the edge of the sofa, scrolling through emails until the words blur. His phone remains face down on the table. He can almost feel it, even without looking.
He turns it over. No new messages.
Relief hits first – for reasons he won’t examine. Then disappointment chases it.
He goes to bed and sleeps poorly.
The next morning arrives with the dull insistence of routine.
The office is bright and cold in the way it always is, the air-conditioning set low enough that people keep their jackets on indoors. Nie Mingjue moves through the lobby at his usual pace, nodding once at the security guard and ignoring the glances that still follow him in quieter ways.
A few days ago, he would have assumed Lan Xichen was already in a meeting, or in his office, or somewhere in between. Today, he finds him near the coffee station, speaking quietly with an assistant.
Lan Xichen looks up when he sees him, his expression settling into the same calm attentiveness he offers to everyone else.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
His gaze lingers briefly, taking in the faint strain at the corners of Nie Mingjue’s eyes, the way his shoulders hold a trace of tension that sleep has not quite eased.
“You didn’t rest well,” Lan Xichen says.
“I slept.”
Lan Xichen nods and lets the answer stand. He finishes his exchange with the assistant, then steps aside.
“The place you prefer is about fifteen minutes from here,” he says. “I had it brought over this morning. It’s in your office.”
Nie Mingjue meets his eyes.
Lan Xichen does not elaborate or frame it as convenience – just states it, making it harder to dismiss.
The assistant slips away and for a moment, it is only the two of them, the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air.
Nie Mingjue exhales, something he finds himself doing more of since his return.
“This isn’t just once.”
Lan Xichen meets his gaze. “No.” He says with no hesitation.
Something in that answer settles where it shouldn’t, not because of what is said, but because of how little effort it takes to say it.
Nie Mingjue looks away first. “You don’t have to do that.”
Lan Xichen is quiet for a moment, considering the phrasing rather than the meaning.
“If it’s unwelcome, you can tell me.” His voice stays level – it does not press nor withdraw.
Nie Mingjue nods once. Anything more would require deciding what exactly this is. “I’ll manage.”
Lan Xichen inclines his head. “Did you eat?” he asks.
Nie Mingjue’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”
Lan Xichen studies him briefly, then lets it go.
“Good.”
He turns and walks off, disappearing into the corridor with the same unhurried steadiness as always.
Nie Mingjue lingers a moment, gaze fixed on the coffee machine like it’s intricate. He brews from the pantry anyway, a form of denial, leaving Lan Xichen’s untouched.
It tastes burnt.
Later that day, a client meeting runs over.
The room grows too warm with bodies and conversation. The air thickens, carrying the mixed scent of cologne and stale ventilation. Someone taps a pen against the table; someone else interrupts too often and doesn’t notice they are doing it. Nie Mingjue remains composed throughout, fielding questions cleanly, cutting digressions, doing what he always does while the pen-tapping grates behind his temples.
When the meeting finally ends, people linger as if reluctant to return to the rest of their schedules. Lan Xichen stays behind briefly, speaking to the client in a low voice near the door.
Nie Mingjue gathers his things and steps into the hallway. He expects the usual relief that comes with leaving a room like that. Instead, he registers someone approaching before he hears the footsteps.
Lan Xichen falls into step beside him without making it obvious.
“Are you free for dinner?” he asks. The question is casual enough to be explained away.
Nie Mingjue glances at him. “Why?” Lan Xichen’s gaze shifts, then returns, as though he has already decided how much to say.
“We haven’t had a proper meal since you came back.”
That is true. But it is also not an answer.
Nie Mingjue is aware, abruptly, that agreeing would mean choosing something. It would place them outside the usual boundaries of work. It would give Lan Xichen space to continue whatever this has become.
They’ve had meals in the past before – they’ve known each other for years after all. Nie Mingjue cannot remember a time where their relationship was ever complex, he never had to second guess Lan Xichen’s intentions like this.
He’s never said no to Lan Xichen but somehow, he feels like he should refuse.
He has refused smaller things all week.
And yet -
“Fine.”
Lan Xichen’s expression softens, so slightly it would be easy to miss. He does not smile. He simply nods. “I’ll send you the address.”
The restaurant sits just off the main road, tucked between buildings that do not draw attention to themselves. The sign is small, the lighting warm rather than bright. It looks like the kind of place people choose when they want to speak without being overheard.
Lan Xichen had to meet a client in a different district and had already left the office in the afternoon for the meeting.
Nie Mingjue arrives early. He tells himself it is habit, that he prefers not to be the last to arrive. Standing around doing nothing has never really suited him anyway. None of it explains why he checks his phone twice before going in.
Lan Xichen is already inside. This shouldn’t be surprising, but it still lands that way. He is seated toward the back, where the light is softer and the space feels slightly removed from the rest of the room. He stands when Nie Mingjue approaches.
“You found it.”
Nie Mingjue nods as he sits. “I’ve been here before.”
There is recognition in Lan Xichen’s expression but he does not comment.
A menu lies open on the table. Nie Mingjue does not reach for it. Lan Xichen has already chosen tea, something lighter, without the depth of the Da Hong Pao from earlier in the week. Lan Xichen pours for both of them, careful without making it look like care.
Nie Mingjue watches the thin stream of tea, then looks away before the thought can take hold.
They begin with work. It is the easiest ground to stand on. The meeting that ran over, timelines needing adjustment, decisions that can wait. Their voices stay hushed beneath the clink of distant cutlery, unremarkable as any other table.
When the waiter comes, Lan Xichen orders without hesitation.
Nie Mingjue does not ask why.
There are too many answers that lead to the same place.
After the waiter leaves, the room softens again; the murmur remains, but it no longer feels close. Nie Mingjue lifts his cup. The tea is mild, not weak, simply prepared in a way that does not demand anything. He tells himself it is ordinary even if it doesn’t feel that way.
Lan Xichen watches him for a moment, then looks away first.
“You didn’t have to ask me out,” Nie Mingjue says.
Lan Xichen meets his gaze. “I didn’t have to.” He doesn’t argue the premise which makes the next part harder.
“Then why did you?”
Lan Xichen rests his fingers lightly against the edge of his cup. He does not answer immediately; the pause feels deliberate.
“You’ve been back for days,” he says. “And we haven’t really spoken.”
Nie Mingjue’s pulse kicks. “We’ve spoken.”
“In meetings.” The correction gentles against him like a hand on his shoulder.
Nie Mingjue almost laughs, but the sound doesn’t come. He knows what Lan Xichen means. He has known for a while.
The food arrives before he can respond. Plates settle between them, steam rising with the scent of ginger and something warm and familiar. Lan Xichen thanks the waiter and begins eating, unhurried.
Nie Mingjue follows after a moment. The flavour is familiar and it takes him another mouthful to place it.
“This is from that place near the old office.”
Lan Xichen doesn’t look up. “You liked it.”
The words are simple. Nie Mingjue’s hand stills for half a beat, then continues. He has been letting these things pass all week.
This time, he doesn’t.
“You’re doing it again.”
Lan Xichen doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Doing what?”
Nie Mingjue’s jaw tightens. “The remembering. The arranging.” He stops there because anything more would sound like accusation.
Lan Xichen doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
Nie Mingjue exhales, sharper this time. “If you do this for everyone, fine. But you can’t do it this often and expect me not to notice.”
“I’m not expecting you not to notice.”
The answer is direct enough to catch Nie Mingjue off guard. He searches for deflection, for an easier version of this conversation, something that he can brush aside and let the two of them step back, but it doesn’t come.
Around them, the restaurant continues - cutlery, low voices, the occasional laugh from somewhere too far away to matter.
“So what is it, then?” The words scrape out rougher than intended.
Lan Xichen holds his gaze. “It’s care.”
The word sinks heavy. Nie Mingjue’s chopsticks hover mid-air. He sets them down too carefully.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” Lan Xichen’s voice stays level, but his fingers tighten, just slightly, around his cup. “It’s just not the one you want.”
“You do this for everyone. That’s the problem.”
Lan Xichen considers that. “I try to be kind,” he says. “But I don’t do this for everyone.” There is no emphasis in it nor any insistence. Somehow, that makes it worse.
Nie Mingjue feels the words settle slowly, like something deliberate rather than something said in passing. “So you knew I’d come tonight.”
Lan Xichen’s expression softens. “I hoped.”
That changes something.
Nie Mingjue looks down, then back up. “Why didn’t you just say something?”
“I didn’t want to put you in a position where you had to respond,” Lan Xichen says. “If you didn’t feel the same, it would become difficult.”
Nie Mingjue’s throat tightens. “And if I do?”
Lan Xichen stills. The pause stretches, chopsticks resting forgotten.
“Then,” he says quietly, “I should have trusted you enough to say it sooner.”
The answer is careful - it makes room instead of taking it.
Nie Mingjue looks at him and for that moment neither of them say anything more. They return to eating after that. Not because the conversation is finished, but because the act of continuing keeps the moment from tipping too far.
They fall to smaller things – day-to-day fragments Lan Xichen asks about his time abroad; Nie Mingjue answers raw, unpolished.
At some point, Lan Xichen smiles – not the polite one for everyone else.
Nie Mingjue catches it like catching his breath.
Lan Xichen mentions Lan Wangji in passing - something about a university project and a last-minute request from Wei Wuxian that sounds less like work and more like inevitability. Nie Mingjue makes a quiet sound that might be amusement.
Jin Guangyao is not named, but when Lan Xichen refers to a difficult investor, the meaning is clear enough.
Some things do not change.
When they leave, the night has cooled further. The street is quieter, the air carrying the faint suggestion of rain.
Lan Xichen walks beside him, the same measured pace, close enough to be company, not close enough to presume.
Then Nie Mingjue moves closer.
It’s subtle – nothing that would draw attention, nothing anyone else would notice. He only needs one person to notice.
Lan Xichen glances at him once and lets it happen.
That is all.
And, unexpectedly, it is enough.
The rain comes a few nights later. It isn’t heavy, just enough to leave the street slick and the air smelling clean, clinging to sleeves and collars before one would realise they were wet with rain.
Nie Mingjue finishes later than intended.
It isn’t work that keeps him. The last report is already done and the last email already sent. He stays anyway, sitting at his desk with the screen dimmed and his hands resting still, as if waiting for something that has not been scheduled.
When he finally leaves, the office is quieter than it should be for a building that never fully sleeps; the elevators take too long; the lobby lights are too bright and the security guard nods at him as if he has been watching the clock.
Outside, the rain falls steady.
Nie Mingjue pauses under the awning. He should call for a car to the parking garage, but something stops him – a hunch, maybe.
He steps out instead, letting the rain catch on his shoulders and darken the fabric in slow patches. It isn’t far to where he parked. He can manage.
He’s only taken a few steps when a car pulls up to the curb.
It doesn’t stop directly in front of him. It stops where he will see it without having to look for it, close enough to be offered, not close enough to be assumed.
Nie Mingjue recognises it before the headlights finish sweeping across the pavement.
The driver gets out. “Nie-zong.”
Nie Mingjue’s gaze drops to the open back door but he does not move.
This is the part where he would normally refuse. He has refused enough things lately that the habit is familiar.
The driver hesitates, then adds, more carefully, “Lan-zong asked me to check if you’d like a ride.”
Check. Not arranged this time. The word shifts everything.
Nie Mingjue glances past the driver.
Lan Xichen is inside the car, seated in the back, looking down at his phone, deliberately casual, as if he is not waiting for an answer that matters.
Nie Mingjue watches him for a moment.
Lan Xichen looks up, meeting his gaze without surprise. He doesn’t gesture nor does he speak. He just leaves the choice where it belongs.
Nie Mingjue exhales, slow, and walks to the car.
The rain taps against the door as he gets in. The driver closes it behind him, and the sound changes at once, muffled into a steady hush.
Lan Xichen’s coat is damp at the shoulders. His hair is slightly darker near the temple, as if he has been outside not long ago. He smells faintly of rain and tea.
“You didn’t have to come,” Nie Mingjue says.
Lan Xichen looks at him. “I wanted to.”
It is not said like a confession, more like a fact he has stopped pretending is negotiable.
Nie Mingjue nods once, because he finds he can accept that more easily than he expected.
The car eases forward into traffic.
For a while, neither of them speak. The city slides past the window in blurred lights and wet reflections. The wipers move steadily, clearing rain that immediately returns. The heater runs softly, warming the air without making it stuffy.
Nie Mingjue rests his arm against the door, then adjusts it again, dissatisfied without knowing why.
Lan Xichen’s hands are folded loosely in his lap. He isn’t holding anything. There is nothing in the way. No barrier.
Nie Mingjue studies his hands, mind flashing to the airport: The car that had been there before he even asked; The way he had stepped into it because it was easier than deciding what it meant.
He swallows.
“You arranged the car that day,” he says.
Lan Xichen doesn’t pretend not to understand. “Yes.”
Nie Mingjue keeps his gaze on the window. “But I didn’t tell you I was landing.”
“I knew.”
The answer comes quietly like it’s the most natural thing in the world for Lan Xichen to know about Nie Mingjue. It doesn’t come across smug but laced with just pure honesty.
Nie Mingjue turns his head slightly. “How?”
Lan Xichen’s gaze shifts to him. “I kept track.”
Simply stated, as though Lan Xichen has finally stopped making excuses for what he has been doing all along.
That should irritate him and it does a little, the reflex is still there after all. But underneath, it is something else, something that has been building since the tea, the coffee and the message the other night.
“You shouldn’t,” Nie Mingjue says.
Lan Xichen’s expression remains calm. “If you want me to stop, I will.”
It is the same careful offer as before with no pressure or retreat for him.
Nie Mingjue breathes out, looking away again.
He thinks about the difference between being managed and being chosen. He thinks about how he has spent the last week pretending he can’t tell which one this is.
“It’s different now,” he says.
Lan Xichen watches him. “Yes.”
The car keeps moving.
Nie Mingjue gives no address. The aimlessness feels strange at first, then deliberate – like a breath held on purpose.
After a few minutes, he says, “Just drive.”
Lan Xichen gives a small nod toward the front.
The route alters.
They move away from the main road into quieter streets, the city thinning into pockets of light and shadow. The rain is steadier here, less interrupted by sheltering buildings.
Nie Mingjue watches the water slide down the window.
He has been good at waiting, he realises. He is not, by nature, a patient man.But he has waited anyway, because waiting has been easier than admitting what he wants.
He turns his head.
Lan Xichen is already looking at him.
Nie Mingjue’s hand moves before he can overthink it, reaching across the space between them and settling against Lan Xichen’s sleeve. The fabric is damp, cool beneath his fingers. Lan Xichen stills, only slightly but doesn’t pull away.
Nie Mingjue shifts closer.
The movement is small, almost ordinary, the way one might adjust in a seat for comfort. But it is deliberate.
Lan Xichen’s breath catches, barely audible.
Nie Mingjue thinks about waiting. He’s good at it – he has spent a year abroad thinking about Lan Xichen’s voice, his careful hands, the way he always knows what Nie Mingjue needs before he asks.
He’s waited long enough.
The space between them is so small. Lan Xichen’s breath is warm, his gaze steady and unguarded in a way Nie Mingjue has never let himself notice before.
He closes the distance.
The kiss is brief – doesn’t need to be more than that. Lan Xichen’s lips are soft, his inhale sharp and surprised. For a second, neither of them moves. Then Lan Xichen’s hand comes up, not to take Nie Mingjue’s face, just to rest his fingers over Nie Mingjue’s wrist, light enough that it feels like a question.
When Nie Mingjue pulls back, it’s only far enough to breathe. Lan Xichen’s eyes are wide for half a second before they soften into something that looks dangerously close to relief.
Nie Mingjue swallows.
“Now you can stop asking,” he says quietly.
“I wasn’t asking,” he replies.
That almost makes Nie Mingjue laugh.
“Fine,” he says. “Now you can stop checking.”
Lan Xichen holds his gaze. “Only if you tell me yourself,” he says.
Nie Mingjue pauses and then nods once.
Outside, the rain continues, steady against the glass.
Inside, the distance between them stays where it is. Closer than before.
And for the first time since he landed, Nie Mingjue lets himself sit with it without trying to turn it into something else.