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“Professor Lan- I mean… Han-gu-”
Jingyi snorted beside him and whispered a little bit far too loudly, “Hanguangjun.”
Zizhen swallowed hard, his throat suddenly felt dry. “Hanguangjun.”
Lan Wangji paused at the whiteboard and turned around to look at Zizhen over the rim of his glasses. His gaze was steady, precise, and devastating.
“Yes, Zizhen?”
The classroom’s fluorescent lights should have been unflattering. But somehow, they only made Professor Lan look sharper, cleaner and unreal. His long black hair was tied low with an understated ribbon with a few fine strands falling just enough to soften the severe line of his jaw. The thin silver frames of his glasses traced the elegant shape of his eyes, giving him the quiet authority of someone carved out of calm itself. Nothing like learning the History of Art from someone who looks like he came straight out of Gu Kaizhi’s painting.
“The… the vase,” Zizhen began “You spoke of its emptiness as its virtue. That it’s beautiful because of what it could hold, not what it does.” He took a shaky breath, gathering the threads of his thought, the very thought that had compelled him to raise his hand. “But isn’t that… lonely?”
Lan Wangji did not frown. He rarely expressed anything at all. But his head tilted a fraction of a degree as a sign of deep consideration. He removed his glasses before folding them slowly and placing them on the lectern. His eyes, now unobstructed, were even more intense.
“The text does not speak of loneliness,” he stated, his voice like polished jade. “It speaks of potential.”
“I know, Professor,” Zizhen pressed, emboldened by the direct attention. “But potential is a future hope. The present reality is… emptiness. And isn’t waiting for a future fulfilment a form of solitude?”
For a long moment, Lan Wangji was silent. The entire class waited, suspended in that silence.
“An insightful distinction,” Lan Wangji finally said and Zizhen felt the praise like a physical warmth.
Zizhen turned to his friends as he was unable to contain his excitement. Jingyi gave an exaggerated “Ooo,” and Sizhui smiled softly, lifting a discreet thumbs-up in quiet support.
They say you always think you work hard, until you meet someone who works harder. When Ouyang Zizhen arrived at Gusu University, he felt that every effort he’d poured into getting accepted into the best university in the country suddenly meant nothing. No matter how many sleepless nights he’d endured, it all seemed flimsy compared to the standards in here.
Take Lan Jingyi for example. They were both on the university basketball team and spent the same hours on the court, yet Jingyi still turned in every assignment effortlessly and somehow always with an A+. Meanwhile, Zizhen was running on caffeine and sheer determination just to keep up.
And then there was his other roommate Lan Sizhui. Between attending book club meetings and participating in academic discussions that sounded like they belonged at conferences, Sizhui also submitted everything on time without a hint of struggle.
“We’re just born geniuses, dude,” Jingyi said cheerfully when Zizhen finally asked how they did it.
Sizhui only smiled, eyes warm and gentle. “I’m fortunate. Both my dads are artists. So, most of what we learn in class is already familiar to me.”
Ah, of course. Nothing like being raised by a gay couple with immaculate artistic taste to set the bar impossibly high.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Zizhen,” Sizhui added gently, smiling down at him from the top bunk.
Zizhen let out a long sigh. “Maybe I’ll finally do better after I manage to get an office hour with Professor Lan Wangji. Though I’m pretty sure I’m, like, number two-thousand-three-hundred in line right behind the entire fan club of thirsty girls. Seriously, does anyone actually think they have a chance with Hanguangjun?”
Jingyi who’d been tossing a basketball between his hands burst into laughter. Sizhui, meanwhile, only gave a sheepish little smile before immediately burying his face back in his copy of Ways of Seeing by John Berger.
“What?” Zizhen blinked at them.
Silence.
He looked between his two roommates with a confused expression. Great, another insider Lan joke he doesn’t understand.
“Dude, you coming with us?” Zizhen typed into their group chat.
“I can’t. My dads want me home this weekend, and we’re going to an orchestra tonight. Enjoy Mao Buyi!” Sizhui replied almost instantly.
Zizhen paused mid–tooth brushing, one eyebrow shooting up at the word orchestra.
Of course.
Some people spent their Friday night watching the free welcome concert the university offered to freshmen… and some people attended a private classical Chinese orchestra with their impeccably tasteful parents.
“Fancy, rich, old-money Lan”, Zizhen thought as he rinsed his mouth.
Normal people hate Mondays. Most students would too, if not for the fact that they had class with Hanguangjun every Monday morning. Nothing cured a weekend hangover quite like being lectured by someone who looked as if he’d descended briefly from the heavens to discuss contemporary art.
Lan Wangji always wore a blazer on Mondays, and it had become a quiet campus ritual: the collective anticipation of discovering what colour he’d chosen today. This day, he happened to wear white with light blue lines tracing his right sleeve. It was subtle yet impossibly elegant.
There was something breathtaking about how untouched he looked by the chaos of the world outside; calm and pristine as if Monday had no power over him.
Zizhen had washed his hair, ironed his clothes and worn his best shirt in a desperate attempt to show some respect by matching even a fraction of Professor Lan’s effort.
But how could anyone possibly come close to that?
Zizhen sighed dreamily, he was halfway through opening his laptop when the classroom door banged open.
“Lan Zhan!”
The name, a personal, intimate one that none of them would ever dare utter shattered the hall’s sanctity like a firecracker tossed into a library. It was not a call, but a declaration.
Every student went still. A few gasped. One girl dropped her pen with a clatter.
Framed in the doorway was a man who looked like chaos personified; a living antithesis to every rule of the Gusu Lan Art Department.
The man was a splash of vibrant ink on their monochrome world, clad in a perfectly tailored black leather jacket that screamed of Parisian runways and effortless rebellion. His long, dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail. Tied not with a simple band, but with a long, scarlet silk ribbon that cascaded like a waterfall of defiance. His face was alight with a brilliant and mischievous energy. He is all sharp grins and sparkling eyes. A warm, captivating beauty that stood in stark, breathtaking contrast to Lan Wangji’s own ethereal, icy perfection.
Zizhen’s mouth fell open.
Someone did come close to Lan Wangji. Not by imitation nor by matching his elegance; but by standing in dazzling contrast to it.
“Laogong, you forgot the lunch you packed this morning,” the man announced cheerfully, holding up two paper bags like trophies. “So, I thought I’d drop it off on my way to the gallery. You know, properly embarrassing you and our son.”
Laogong?
Husband?
Wait…. Hanguangjun is married??
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji replied in the same intimate tone. One so gentle it didn’t belong in a lecture hall. Professor Lan was never flustered. He never stumbled, never blinked out of rhythm, never betrayed anything.
But if there was ever a sign of his feelings, it was there now: the faint blush blooming at the tips of his ears.
Zizhen feels like... they are intruding on something.
The man, Wei Ying, strode confidently toward the front of the room, completely unfazed by the collective shock radiating from the students. He placed one of the paper bags neatly on Lan Wangji’s desk as if barging into a university lecture was the most natural thing in the world.
“Have a good day!” he chirped, then rose onto his toes and pressed a quick kiss to Lan Wangji’s cheek.
Zizhen’s eyes flew wide. He half-expected Lan Wangji to pull back, to scold him, to salvage his pristine image before his students. But instead, Lan Wangji’s lashes fluttered shut the moment Wei Wuxian’s lips touched his skin. He inclined his head ever so slightly, accepting the affection with quiet grace.
“Mn,” he replied softly, courteous and warm in a way none of the students had ever heard.
Ouyang Zizhen’s hand flew to his mouth, stifling a gasp that was equal parts shock and revelation.
Oh my God.
Hanguangjun had feelings? He engaged in public displays of affection? The man carved from winter moonlight and ancient rules… was in love?
Zizhen didn’t even know where to begin. He wasn’t done unravelling the scene he’d just witnessed when the man cheerfully veered toward their row.
His steps were a light, confident tap against the polished floor before stopping next to Zizhen. Then his arm held up a second, identical paper bag. “This one is yours. Have a good day too, little bunny!” he chirped before depositing it neatly on Lan Sizhui’s desk with a fond ruffle of his hair.
Sizhui accepted it with a soft, shy smile, though his ears flushed a brilliant scarlet under the weight of dozens of staring eyes. “Thanks, Dad,” he murmured, the word quiet but clear in the stunned silence.
Dad?
The single syllable detonated in Zizhen’s brain.
Sizhui’s gay fathers were…
Wait.
Hanguangjun was Sizhui’s Dad?
The final piece of the puzzle slammed into place with the force of a physical blow. Zizhen felt his entire worldview shatter and re-form in the span of a heartbeat. He turned, shell-shocked, toward the nearest source of Lan wisdom, Jingyi, who had both hands clamped over his mouth and his entire body trembling with the effort of containing his laughter.
Finally, Jingyi took a deep breath to sober himself, leaned conspiratorially close to Zizhen and whispered in a stage-whisper that carried to at least half the lecture hall:
“You pay that much attention to the cut of Hanguangjun’s suit every Monday… but you somehow missed the platinum wedding ring on his left hand?”
Zizhen’s eyes widened in dawning, absolute horror. His gaze snapped back to the front of the room, where Lan Wangji was now calmly waving his hand to his husband. And there, on his ring finger, catching the light with a subtle, unwavering gleam, was a band of polished platinum. It had been there all along, a silent testament to a truth far more astonishing than any art history lesson.
Wei Ying now turned his attention to the rest of the class and gave them a big wave, completely unbothered by the chaos he’d left in his wake.
“Bye, kids! Have a good class!”