Chapter Text
Lan Wangji despairs of his fellow straight men, truly. Though the media he’d consumed growing up had assured him that men could be lecherous, grasping scoundrels when it came to women, the dissonance between those portrayals and the examples set by his friends and family had led him to assume exaggeration for narrative effect, or at least a degree of rarity among the general population. But after a full year at university, he’s been forced to conclude that actually, most straight men are terrible. Witness the administration’s dithering over instances of sexual assault, whether they be committed by students or faculty; witness the hostility of the police to victims courageous enough to report them in the first place. Witness the regular stream of appalling messages sent to Mianmian’s Tinder account, the first glimpse of which had made Wangji want to hurl the entire internet into space; witness her accounts of various terrible dates with men whose first digital overtures weren’t unsolicited dickpics followed by angry negging.
Witness, right this very moment, what appears to be half the school hockey team, encamped on his favourite bit of lawn and hooting at a nearby group of women.
Wangji grits his teeth. He wants very much to intervene, but also knows he isn’t the best at interpreting the subtleties of mixed group dynamics; the behaviour looks appalling to him, but ever since the mortifying incident in which he’d angrily spoken up for a girl he’d thought was being harassed only to learn that the not-actually-a-harasser was her beloved boyfriend – which had prompted Mianmian to deliver a gentle but nonetheless chastening lecture on the concept of white knighting – he no longer knows what to do in these moments.
“Hey, Lan Zhan!”
The familiar voice soothes his frustration like aloe on sunburn. Instantly, his whole body relaxes, flooding with the intoxicating new warmth he’s come to associate with Wei Ying, the first friend he’s ever made on his own initiative – or at least, without a bevy of supervising adults forcing them together as children, as happened with his three pre-existing friends. The initiative in this case was all Wei Ying’s; they’d somehow never met in first year, but have two classes in common this semester, and for the last nine weeks, he’s been forcibly inserting himself into Wangji’s life, so cheerful and clever and charming and utterly undeterred by what Mianmian calls his resting bitchface that Wangji has been helpless to resist.
Usefully for his present conundrum, Wei Ying is also both a member of the hockey team – specifically, one of the goalies – and adept at social nuance. He will know what to do.
“Wei Ying,” says Wangji, nodding his head towards the occupied lawn and the – ugh – hooting occurring thereon. “Should I be concerned about this?”
“What? Oh! No, it’s fine.” Wei Ying laughs, as bright and clear as a bell. Wangji has never felt as moved by someone’s laughter as he does Wei Ying’s, but he supposes that’s because he’s never really made anyone laugh before, unless they were laughing at him. Wei Ying waves a hand to indicate the group of girls. “They’re all SOAPs.”
Wangji blinks. “Soaps?”
“It stands for Significant Others and Partners,” Wei Ying explains, grinning. “They used to call them WAGs before I got here – Wives and Girlfriends, that is – but once they figured out I’d never be bringing a girl to games, they changed it.”
Wangji frowns; Wei Ying is prone to making self-deprecating jokes that run a little too close to how he actually feels about himself, and it’s always upsetting. “Any girl would be lucky to have you,” Wangji says staunchly, heart fluttering at the notion of Wei Ying thinking himself undesirable. “You’re a wonderful person.”
Wei Ying blinks, a strange flush rising up his cheeks. “Thank you, but that’s not – I mean. Ah.” He rubs at his neck, smiling awkwardly up at the sky. “It’s just – I’m gay?” He laughs. “Sorry, I’m a little surprised; I thought you already knew. I don’t exactly keep it on the DL.”
Wangji blinks, the realization dousing him like a pot of scalding water. Of course he’d seen the rainbow pin on Wei Ying’s bag; he’d just assumed it meant he was an ally, like Wangji himself – although now, as his thoughts scroll wildly back through certain conversations they’ve had since the start of term, he realises he’d missed some fairly obvious cues. Most notably, Wei Ying evidently hasn’t been complaining about the shitty behaviour of men on dating apps in the abstract or in reference to the experiences of a female friend, but from how they’ve been treating him.
Apparently, straight men aren’t alone in being terrible.
“Ah,” says Wangji, ears hot with embarrassment. “I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.”
Wei Ying’s lovely face does something it should never do, which is edge towards horrified misery. “This isn’t – I mean, this won’t be a problem, right?”
“No!” Wangji says – a little too loudly, desperate as he is to convey his sincerity. “Wei Ying, no. My brother is queer; so are two of my best friends. I didn’t mean to make you worried even for a second, I just – I feel foolish, not to have realized. As you say, you have not been subtle; I’ve just been dense.” He ducks his head, finding solace in the familiar sight of his favourite midnight blue suede chukkas. Taking a deep breath to steady his racing heart, he looks up again and says, “It’s been pointed out to me that my default assumptions tend to be heteronormative ones. I’m sorry to have erased you.”
“Oh my god, Lan Zhan, you haven’t erased me.” Wei Ying lets out a burst of laughter, spreads his arms with a hint of waggle in the wrists to signal that he’s about to come in for a hug, and then does so, wrapping his long arms around Wangji’s shoulders in a sinewy, pythonlike squeeze. Wangji has never been a hugger, but nobody’s hugs are as good as Wei Ying’s, and so he reciprocates, pressing his palms to the warmth of Wei Ying’s back.
“I value you very much,” Wangji mumbles, hiding his face in Wei Ying’s shoulder. His hair is worn up today, but the crisp, familiar scent of his milk and honey shampoo is still strong; combined with the salt-and-yeast scent of Wei Ying’s body, it’s like inhaling a bakery.
“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous, me too,” Wei Ying says, relieved and fond as he squeezes a little bit harder. He has to go on his tiptoes to do it, Wangji being the taller of them, but as this presses their bodies together, Wangji is hardly about to complain. He doesn’t know much about hockey, but he’s gone to a few of Wei Ying’s games and practices, and the flexible athleticism required of a goalie has left him fascinated with Wei Ying’s musculature, which is so very different to his own. Wangji runs, rock climbs and goes to the gym; his body is firm, and until he met Wei Ying, he’d assumed a similar firmness was a natural hallmark of fitness. But Wei Ying isn’t firm; he’s supple, soft and lithe but dense with strength in a way that makes Wangji’s fingers itch with the urge to investigate. As with many of his feelings for Wei Ying, this isn’t a curiosity he’s ever felt about Mianmian, Huaisang or Zixuan – but then, he reasons, none of his childhood friends are goalies and therefore lack Wei Ying’s specific physical novelty; and if any of them were goalies, the phenomenon would’ve long since ceased to be novel.
They break the hug, Wei Ying beaming once more. “OK, so this is actually a perfect lead-in to what I came over to say in the first place, which is: some friends and I are putting on a sort of drag-and-burlesque show this Friday to raise funds for the LGBTQ Alliance, and it’d be awesome if you could be there! I know you don’t drink, but we’re doing mocktails as well as the alcoholic kind, and it’s going to be a heap of fun, so! Please?”
Wei Ying’s smile is like the sun coming out; Wangji has no plans for Friday, but even if he’d been due to graduate early with full honors, that smile would’ve made him reschedule.
“Of course,” he says, heart speeding up again as Wei Ying whoops delightedly. “If you text me the details, I’ll pass them on to Huaisang and Mianmian, too.” He hesitates, considering. “And Zixuan, I suppose, though he’s less likely to come. Not because he’s homophobic,” he adds quickly, “he just… doesn’t like parties.”
“Oh, and you do?” Wei Ying teases.
There’s something about being known by Wei Ying that makes Wangji feel like sunflowers are blooming through his ribs. “For you, I’ll make an exception,” he says gravely, and earns himself another burst of laughter.
“That’s because you’re the best,” says Wei Ying, throwing an arm around Wangji’s shoulders. “C’mon, this calls for a celebration! To the food court!”
“It’s lunch time,” Wangji points out, a tiny smile twitching his lips as they start to walk. “Would you not have headed there anyway?”
“Ah, Lan Zhan, a celebration is what you make of it! With the right mindset, any meal can be an occasion!” And then he’s off, listing various special meals he’s had in the past week or so, where “special” can mean anything from “my sister sent me a care package of her homemade soup” to “I had a bad day and thought we were out of shrimp ramen but it turned out there was one packet left, so I put an egg on top.” Wangji listens attentively while making occasional noises to encourage Wei Ying to continue, a bright bubble of fondness swelling within his chest. It’s not that he doesn’t care about his three oldest friends, but none of them chose him, not really – they just went through so much enforced proximity as kids that they’re practically family now. (Nearly literally so, in Huaisang’s case, given the not unlikely possibility of their older brothers getting married one day.) But Wei Ying chose him – has continued to choose him, even when Wangji is stiff and awkward and misses the obvious – and that makes all the difference in the world.
*
Friday comes with a swiftness, and by the time Wangji arrives outside the bar where Wei Ying’s drag-and-burlesque show is going to be held, he’s vibrating with nerves. Huaisang and Mianmian have both said they’ll come, but later, as they’re carpooling and Mianmian doesn’t get off work for another half hour. Wangji fully understands, of course, but he isn’t in the habit of attending social events alone, especially not public ones. Knowing Wei Ying will be here helps, but doesn’t quite soothe his anxiety: Wei Ying has assured him that he’s performing on stage, but the rest of the time, he’s set to tend bar, which means he’ll have limited time for social hand-holding. And Wangji, for all he’s been looking forward to this event all week, is nervous; not just about being here by himself – at least for the first forty-odd minutes – but because he spent a solid two hours agonizing over what to wear without being able to ask Mianmian’s advice.
If he’d known in advance that he’d get so hung up about his wardrobe, he would’ve made a point of asking her to help him pick out an outfit before she had to go to work, like he does whenever he has a solo guqin performance or Uncle wants him to attend some fancy charity function. But for all his awkwardness at parties, Wangji doesn’t usually fuss about what to wear, for the simple reason that he’s never aiming to please or impress anyone other than himself, or possibly his uncle. And to a certain extent, that’s still true – it’s just that, on this particular occasion, he also wants to please and impress Wei Ying. Specifically, he wants to fit in: to look like he belongs at a drag-and-burlesque night without coming across like he’s trying too hard to look gay – or like a straight man’s idea of what gay men are – in some misguided attempt at solidarity. And yet he didn’t want to look straight, either, partly out of some nebulous sense that this might embarrass Wei Ying, but also out of some even more nebulous sense that it might embarrass himself. It’s not like he thinks he’ll be laughed at – that would be an uncharitable and possibly bigoted thought to have about the queer community, to assume they’d laugh at a straight man for dressing badly, and in any case he's never much cared what strangers think of his clothes – and yet, as he stood in front of his closet, none of his usual going-out clothes felt quite right.
In the end, with time running out and death a preferable option to asking Huaisang’s opinion, he’d gone with tight black jeans, a black belt with a silver rabbit-shaped buckle, and a brilliant blue silk vest, neatly fitted and patterned with black fractals, over a black dress shirt whose blue inner lining shows nicely when he rolls the sleeves to the elbows, as he’s done tonight. No tie, of course – that would’ve been too formal – but he’s wearing the same blue chukkas he’d had on the day Wei Ying invited him, and around his neck is a simple silver necklace, hung with the slim silver ring that used to be his mother’s. He doesn’t always wear it, but something about tonight feels special, and in any case, it matches the belt. His hair is just long enough on top that tying it back was an option, and so he’d pulled it into a little tail, showing off his newly-freshened undercut, the shorter front strands falling around his face in a way he hopes looks good, but which he isn’t used to. All the way to the bar, he’d kept trying to push them back behind his ears, but of course they wouldn’t reach, and so he’s only grown more nervous about it.
Now at his destination, Wangji takes a deep breath. You are an adult, he tells himself firmly, here to support a good cause and also your friend. You could be wearing a potato sack and that still wouldn’t be an excuse for showing up late.
“All right,” he murmurs under his breath, and pushes open the door.
Not having been to this bar before, he’s not in a position to judge to what extent the current décor – which is heavy on strings of rainbow lights and plush red couches, with what looks like a lot of extra chairs jammed in near a stage to the left of the bar – has been altered for tonight’s event, though he suspects it must’ve been; all he knows is that it looks both welcoming and appropriate to the theme. After taking a moment to get his bearings, he peers around in search of Wei Ying – he’d expected to find him near the bar, but the only person there is leaning against it, and they’re not –
Lan Wangji’s brain comes to a screeching halt.
Somehow, in all his anticipation of tonight’s event, he hadn’t fully processed the idea of Wei Ying in drag, primarily because, not having been to a drag-and-burlesque show before – or even just a show that was one thing or the other – he hadn’t really known what to expect. As such, he is spiritually unprepared for the sight of Wei Ying with long, wine-dark hair in low pigtails – a wig, he thinks distantly, he’s wearing a wig – whose tips reach nearly to his navel, left bare by the very short cut of his dark red velvet bustier top, and which is adorned (the navel, not the bustier) with a dangling gold-and-ruby charm. Probably it’s not a real ruby, but that is the least of Wangji’s concerns, as below the waist is a tight black miniskirt, short enough to reveal the long, toned, hairless stretch of Wei Ying’s thighs before coverage is recommenced by a pair of slightly-more-than-knee-high boots, dark red and heeled and buckled along their length like something you’d see at a ren faire (Wangji has never been to a ren faire, either). He drags his gaze back up with a wrench of will – the bustier sits flat to his chest, but a hint of decolletage has been powdered on with makeup – and sees Wei Ying’s throat is garlanded with a black velvet choker.
And then there’s his lips – oh god, his lips – done up in a bold, bright red, and then his cheeks, which are subtly rouged and contoured to make them look both fuller and sharper; and then his eyes, which are winged with black and shadowed with red-and-gold glitter, the full lashes thickened and emphasized with mascara, and it’s just – it’s so much. It’s so much, and Wangji only registers the moment Wei Ying spots him because it results in Wei Ying smiling, which causes Wangji’s soul to leave his body. He approaches on a dazed and dizzied autopilot, not sure anymore how his feet or hands or tongue or any other extremities are functioning, and manages a thick-mouthed, “Hello.”
“Lan Zhan, you made it! I’m so glad! Wow, you look amazing!” Wei Ying bats his lashes, spreads his arms and does a little twirl. “Do you like my outfit?”
“You look very nice,” says Wangji, whose higher vocabulary has been deemed a non-essential function by his panicking brain and thus taken offline, the better to keep him upright; even so, he’s achingly aware that nice is an understatement, nice does not even begin to encompass how Wei Ying looks right now, because the thing is –
The thing is, Wangji has never really been attracted to anyone. Or, well: he’s looked at certain women and thought they were beautiful, but not in a way that moved him to do anything about it, because he was raised to be respectful and knows how to control himself. When Xichen came out, he’d wondered briefly if he might be gay, too, given the apparent disconnect between his aesthetic appreciation of women and the way he was told a healthy teenage boy ought to feel about them, but he’d quickly dismissed the theory as unworkable; he could tell when men were handsome, but looking at them didn’t do anything more for him than looking at women did, and so he'd surmised – with no small degree of quiet pride – that he was, by virtue of his Lannish upbringing, simply superior to other straight boys his age, able to appreciate female beauty without going crazy over it. This belief has only intensified since the start of university: he’s been on a few dates with women, even going so far as to exchange a kiss or two, but he’d never felt a spark with any of them, and so he’d shrugged, mentally patted himself on the back for his gentlemanly preference of personality over looks, and devoted himself to his studies. He masturbates occasionally – a sort of perfunctory bodily chore – but has never had any real interest in pornography, as his fantasies all revolve around a nebulous sort of intimacy: sometimes tender, sometimes aggressive, but always intangible by virtue of lacking either a real, human partner or any past experience of same to pin them on.
Which means that Lan Wangji, at twenty-one years old, is utterly, mortifyingly unprepared to be getting hard in public at the sight of his friend in drag. It’s completely unprecedented. It doesn’t make sense, and yet his body is roaring with a need so profound that it almost feels tidal, as though he might actually wither and die if he can’t push Wei Ying’s pigtails aside and put his mouth at the join of his neck and shoulder.
“I’m glad you approve,” says Wei Ying, for whom time evidently hasn’t stopped, and who is mercifully oblivious to Wangji’s rapid devolution into the worst sort of caveman. “Hey, didn’t you say your friends were coming, too?”
“They’ll be here later,” Wangji manages. His tongue feels like an alien creature invading his mouth. “Work commitments.”
“Ah, the scourge that is capitalism.” Wei Ying nods sagely. “Truly, we all suffer in its clutches.”
I would like very much to suffer in your clutches, Wangji thinks, or for you to suffer in mine. Please. Right now. Against the bar, even. His brain-to-mouth filter is holding on by a tenuous thread; the moment it snaps, he’s done for. What is happening? his lone remaining braincell yells to the void where his sanity used to be. Hello? Hello? Does anyone read me?
All at once, Wei Ying makes a noise. “Ah, I’m on the wrong side of the bar!” he says, and proceeds to hurry across to the swing door and let himself back, which is a mercy only inasmuch as it puts a barrier between them. The fact that Wangji doesn’t simply float after the round, tantalizing swell of Wei Ying’s ass in the miniskirt like an old-timey cartoon character lofted along by the scent of pie is less a testament to the laws of physics than it is to a desperate, animal instinct for self-preservation, which instead sees him step in and lean on the bartop, the better to hide his erection.
“What can I get you?” Wei Ying asks.
You, naked, Wangji thinks. “A mocktail,” he says aloud. “You choose.” He could not name a single drink at this moment if you put a gun to his head.
The process that follows is utterly excruciating. Wangji knows what a competence kink is only because Mianmian has on many occasions professed to having one; he thought he’d understood it before now, but the sight of Wei Ying’s long, dexterous fingers flipping, sliding and shaking his drink the way Wangji thought bartenders only did in movies makes some long-dormant part of his hindbrain sit up and howl. He thinks again of the hooting hockey players on the lawn and experiences a sudden, mad desire to hoot at Wei Ying, just to see what happens. It feels impossible that he, Wangji, can be feeling so much and so strongly and Wei Ying, the unthinking cause of it all, not know about it, but Lans do not hoot! his struggling braincell screams, and so Wangji, by the skin of his tightly-clenched teeth, refrains from hooting; nonetheless, he has the very clear thought that he must be going insane.
“There!” Wei Ying says proudly, pushing the finished beverage towards Wangji. It is frothy, creamy and suggestively pale-coloured, with a small wedge of pineapple perched on the rim of the glass. “A virgin pina colada, Wei Ying style! No need to pay now, though; I’ll open you up a tab.” And then he winks.
Possibly Wangji blacks out at this, or else his braincell somehow manages to wrest control of his body away from his rogue desires, because the next thing he knows he’s drunk half a virgin pina colada and the music has gotten louder. As more people start to arrive at the bar, it occurs to him that, when Huaisang and Mianmian arrive, they will need somewhere to sit.
A table. He needs a table. He can do this.
“Thank you,” he says to Wei Ying, somehow. “I’m going to sit down now.”
“Okay!” says Wei Ying, already taking another customer’s order. “I’ll find you later! Remember, though, you have to be nice about my act – I thrive on praise!”
Wangji finds a table for three. He sits down, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on what remains of his virgin pina colada. He stares at it, morose and – for the first time in his life – unbearably horny. I am also a virgin, he thinks, as though a non-alcoholic beverage is in any way capable of reciprocating his sudden kinship with it, and tries not to think about other, considerably more naked contexts in which Wei Ying might be said to thrive on praise.
And then the MC takes the stage, and the show begins.
It would be easier, Wangji thinks distantly, if any of the other drag-and-burlesque performers had even a fraction of the effect on him that Wei Ying does, because then he might understand himself better: plenty of people get turned on by crossdressing, and though Wangji hadn’t considered he might be one of them, it would at least make sense. But though objectively, yes, these are all talented, attractive people – some in drag, some in kinky corsetry, some in a combination of both – none of them elicits so much as a dick-twitch. With Wei Ying no longer in his line of sight, he calms down enough after the first four acts to wonder if maybe, he’d just had some strange sort of seizure. Maybe he should see a neurologist. Maybe he’s not getting enough Vitamin B. Maybe –
“And now, darlings,” calls the MC, “let’s give it up for Wei Ying, our sensual gender-bending bartender! She can do both, baby!”
And that’s all the warning Wangji gets before Wei Ying strides onto the stage. The crowd cheers, and Wangji is instantly hard again, his sweaty palms gripping the table like it can save him from himself. Wei Ying beams, blows an exaggerated kiss to the crowd, and promptly begins to lip-synch along to Both by Todrick Hall, a song Wangji only knows because Huaisang likes to play it when he’s getting dressed up for clubbing.
I can be a bitch, I can be a diva, Todrick croons by way of Wei Ying, or possibly Wei Ying croons by way of Todrick. I can throw a pitch, I can play receiver. I can turn a bad boy into a believer. I can do both, I can do both.
Wei Ying is vogueing, painted lips moving in perfect sync to the lyrics as his hands and arms and hips and everything in combination atomise Wangji’s sanity. I can be your boy-toy, I can be your bride. He flips his pigtails over his shoulders. I can shut my mouth or I can open wide. He smirks in the beat between lyrics, a slender finger tapping his lips. Do you want the masculine or feminine side? I can do both, I can do both.
“Hey, Wangji-xiong! There you are!”
“No,” says Wangji, distracted but firm.
Huaisang audibly pouts. “No? What do you mean, no?”
“Wangji,” says a different voice – Mianmian’s, a part of him registers distantly, “are you all right?”
“I am not presently equipped to answer that question,” Wangji says, enraptured by the sight of Wei Ying twerking along to bounce that booty on your lap while I’m calling you Santa.
“Oh my god,” Huaisang whispers, in a gleefully scandalised tone that would ordinarily cause Wangji to experience deep personal foreboding. “Oh my god, it’s happening.”
“Motherfucker,” Mianmian grumbles. Wangji has a vague sense that they’ve both sat down beside him, but as turning his head to confirm it would involve looking away from Wei Ying, this theory remains unverified.
The performance continues, as does Wangji’s unfolding sexual crisis. When Wei Ying reaches the line about I could wear your handcuffs, I could wear your ring, illustrating these alternatives by flirtatiously proffering his joined wrists to the crowd, then extending a single hand in an exaggerated mime of proposal acceptance, Wangji goes briefly lightheaded. One of the only porn videos that ever really sparked desire in him involved a real-life couple engaged in D/s play, the man handcuffed and blindfolded while the woman edged him mercilessly. He’d spent the next few weeks eagerly reading up on kink, trying to pin down exactly what he’d found so stirring about it, and had eventually concluded that, as a feminist and non-objectifying straight man, he was attracted to the reversal of traditional power dynamics as well as the inherent trust between the participants, which explained why he felt no commensurate thrill at the prospect either of tying up a woman (too reminiscent of historically sexist dichotomies) or being tied up himself (as it was hard to form detailed fantasies around extending his trust to a non-existent girlfriend). Now, though, the mere concept of a sexily handcuffed Wei Ying hits him like an erotic lightning bolt.
Oh, Wangji thinks dizzily. Oh, so that’s what I wanted.
Wei Ying is sensual, sexual and utterly captivating, every lyric given new and intriguing significance when applied to Wei Ying specifically. When he sings got my permission to put me in the position you like while executing an insanely flexible backbend, Wangji feels like he’s having an aneurysm. The whole experience just gets more and more intense, and by the time Wei Ying comes to his triumphal finish, waacking through the final repeating coda, Wangji is just about having an out of body experience. It’s not until the crowd starts cheering that he realises, with a sickening flash of panic, that he’s going to have to talk to Wei Ying at some point soon – something he’s been doing cheerfully for weeks now, but which he absolutely cannot be allowed to attempt under the present circumstances, lest he do or say something unspeakable.
Wangji shoots to his feet, but before he can bolt for the nearest exit, two hands take hold of him – one on each arm – and tug him firmly downwards.
“No, nope, no you don’t!” says Huaisang cheerfully. “I’ve been waiting years for this moment, there will be no fleeing!”
More gently, Mianmian says, “We know a gay awakening when we see one, Wangji. Just try and breathe.”
Wangji makes an unintelligible noise and resumes his seat, staring blankly at his hands. He feels like he’s vibrating, overstimulated and oversensitised and so desperately horny that he can’t think straight, and yet the presence of his friends is a steadying one, anchoring him to the moment. All at once, he realises he’s shaking, and when, in response to Mianmian’s sympathetic expression, he finally goes to speak, he’s horrified to find himself on the brink of tears.
“I never –” he starts, and then has to stop, taking deep, shaking breaths to master himself before trying again. “I didn’t know,” he says. The words come out wet and wobbly. “I didn’t – I’ve never felt – I’ve never even wanted, but now –”
“That was your friend, right?” Huaisang says, practically bouncing in place. “Performing just now? The one you haven’t shut up about?”
Wangji manages a tremulous nod, too overwhelmed to muster the vicious glare that Huaisang’s enthusiasm for his misery so richly deserves.
Huaisang whistles appreciatively. “Ok, yeah, I get it. He is hot. But even so, I never figured drag would be your thing!”
“My thing?” Wangji chokes out.
“You know!” Huaisang gesticulates wildly. “The thing that finally made you snap out of your weird gay repression! Your thing!”
Wangji freezes. “My weird gay repression?” he asks, voice small.
“No,” says Mianmian firmly, reaching across the table to smack Huaisang upside the head. He yelps, rubbing indignantly at his ear, but doesn’t protest when she says, “You’re not weird, and I don’t think you’re repressed, either. This is something else.” She puts a hand on his, squeezing gently. “Honestly? Before this, I kind of thought you might be asexual, but –” and here her voice takes on a wry, teasing tone, “– something tells me that’s not accurate.”
“No,” Wangji manages. “What I want with Wei Ying is – very much sexual.” His ears burn at the admission, but he desperately needs to figure this out, and if Mianmian can’t help him, then no one can.
“But you’ve never really felt that for anyone before, right?” asks Mianmian. “So what makes Wei Ying different?”
Wangji thinks about Wei Ying – the ease and beauty with which he laughs; his wild, incisive intelligence; his wit and kindness; the passion he brings to everything he does; the sheer warmth of his presence – and feels his whole body heat up once more as he struggles to explain it. “He’s just… special. Good. I see him, and it’s like… it’s like he’s the most important thing in the world.”
“Oh, honey.” Mianmian gives his hand a sympathetic pat, all while glaring daggers at Huaisang, whose response to Wangji’s confession was a high-pitched squeaking noise. “OK, I’ve got a theory.”
Wangji gulps. “You do?”
“I think you’re demisexual,” Mianmian says. “Like, very demi. It means not feeling sexual attraction without a strong emotional attachment to someone, but you’ve never been one to bond easily, so it makes perfect sense that it’s never come up until now. There just wasn’t someone you liked before, so your body never got fully involved – but now you do, and it has.”
“The dick-bone’s connected to the heart-bone,” Huaisang sing-songs. “The heart-bone’s connected to the brain-bone. But the brain-bone’s lacking in people-skills – OW!” This last a yelp as Mianmian thumps him in the shoulder. “I was helping!”
“You were not,” she says calmly, all without looking away from Wangji. “Are you all right?”
Wangji takes several seconds to assess his emotional state, which is still fluctuating wildly between fraught and horny. “I’m… gay?” he says at last.
Huaisang makes a sound like a punctured balloon. Mianmian thwacks at him again, but this time he dodges, a look of incandescent glee on his face. She glares at him, then turns back to Wangji and says, “You might be. Or you could be bisexual. You don’t need to fix on a label right now, but –”
“I think I’m gay,” Wangji says, a little stunned.
“I knew it!” Huaisang crows. “I knew you were way too cool to be heterosexual!”
“I believe your exact words were, Wangji is too hot with too good a wardrobe to be wasted on the straights,” Mianmian deadpans. “But sure.”
“Stop ruining the moment with technicalities! This is a momentous occasion!”
Mianmian opens her mouth to reply, but is forestalled by someone calling out, “Hey, Lan Zhan! Did you like my performance?”
There stands Wei Ying, a vision in red and black, smiling saucily. He is Wangji’s desires made manifest – desires which flare back to life the second Wangji looks at him, as though all the frantic teenage horniness he missed out on during puberty has been dumped on him at once. It’s at this moment that Wangji’s fragile brain-to-mouth filter, already taxed far beyond its limits, snaps completely. Wei Ying is a revelation, and Wangji is a bad liar under the very best of circumstances, which these are not.
“Reports of my heterosexuality may have been exaggerated,” Wangji blurts, stumbling to his feet. “Wei Ying, I – can we talk?”
Wei Ying looks briefly poleaxed; then he nods and cocks a hesitant thumb towards a door at the back marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. “There’s a little space out back, if you –?”
“Perfect,” Wangji says, and lets the momentum of his madness carry them towards it.