Chapter Text
Now—
Wei Ying catches himself in the window, reflection transparent through glass and percolating with old frames and yellowed photographs. Somehow, it’s here that his feet come to a stop, coffee cup clutched in one hand, a battered old notebook shoved under one arm. There’s nothing remarkable about the shop itself, save that Wei Ying has passed it almost every day in the last five years he’s walked to and from work.
Except, something about it causes him to slow. Why? Who knows? Certainly not Wei Ying. Still, he's come to a stop, so he turns to face it fully, scrutinizing himself. Noting the obvious changes that have differed between epochs of time.
Once, his face had been smoother, slopes of tan skin blessed by the sun and summers spent swimming in lakes inundated with lotuses, when there weren’t lines carved around his mouth and shadows that hung under his eyes. Once, he’d been luminous with the ignorance of youth and brimming with emotions that burst from him like fountains of light.
Perhaps, it’s not the store that’d stopped him. Instead, maybe it’d been the essence of it all. After all, nothing screams nostalgia like a store dedicated to vintage artifacts. Coffee-stained photographs hide behind thick, wooden frames. Without them, would their edges curl, little by little, disintegrating with the passage of time? Would it be so merciless as to consume the smiling faces of strangers immortalized by a promise and a flash of light?
It’s strange, he thinks. Happiness—sought by all, a fleeting notion that slips through the cracks of your fingers, like grasping at smoke. It’s there, a split second of it, right in the palm of your hand! But when you reluctantly unfurl your fingers, it’s gone. Inevitable. Inescapable. An unspoken rule of nature and karmic forces.
He’d been happy, once. Wei Ying had tasted happiness in the form of oolong tea and loquats, slightly sticky as he’d licked along the seam of a small smile along full lips, laughing to the exasperated sigh of his name. He’d seen happiness in amber eyes that reflected gold in the sunlight, hiding depths of emotions deeper than the deepest of oceans. He’d felt happiness thrum through his veins, rising up, up, up toward the moon until he’d fall off the edge, collapsing into the arms of a man he'd considered his soulmate.
Once, Wei Ying had loved freely.
Loved with a strength that twined deep into his bones, through the rivers that cut under his skin, between the sinews that wove the fibers of his being. Loved with an intensity that shook the very core, the very foundations of himself.
Years ago, he’d ambulated along a tightrope, arms outstretched, and tumbled headfirst into a love that had nearly ruined him.
--
It’s cold.
Not the comfortable type of cold that sits at the center of autumn, where zephyrs leave lingering kisses against cheeks and flirt with the tips of noses. Where all anyone needs is a light jacket and a thin scarf and a cup of coffee warming their hands. Not the kind where leaves shudder on their branches, turning to rust as sunlight fades earlier with each passing day.
No, this is a bitter sort of cold that sits at the vestiges of autumn. It gusts down the streets, howling like packs of wolves biting at boot heels and sneakers. Disturbs the few dead leaves that have soldiered through the season, colors corroding away and shriveling like wraiths until they plummet off their branches onto asphalt. This is the kind of cold that grows agonizing and vehement, the same acrid feeling that sweeps through broken promises.
Wei Ying shoves through the door, panting as he escapes the cold, lungs burning brightly with each breath he sucks in. Above, the bell shrieks, chiming wildly with each pass of the wind. He turns to yank it closed before it can burst open and shatter a window. Immediately, it goes quiet, save the last few rings of the bell and the sibilance of rustling paper.
His fingers are so cold he nearly drops his cup of coffee. The notebook, however, stays tucked in his bag, carefully placed like a museum artifact in a glass case, precious like preserved butterflies. A breath billows from his chest, hot despite the warm air that blows through the shop.
“It’s cold,” he bites out in lieu of a greeting. Even indoors, he’s reluctant to unwind the scarf from his neck or shrug off his coat. The soles of his shoes are wet from trudging through ice—not quite snow, not quite rain, a warning of the season to come. The mat under his feet already has two sets of footprints, heels dragged across the surface to rid the water and leaves that’d come from outside. “It’s so fucking cold. How does it get colder?”
By now, he’s sure his coffee has gone lukewarm; he’s sure that if he lifts the lid, no coils of steam will rise from the surface. Pity.
“That’s what happens when seasons change.” Wen Qing appears with a box cradled in her arms and a box cutter in hand. She barely stops, pausing only to give him a critical once over. “If you drip on the floors, you’re mopping it up.”
“And they say the chill is limited outdoors,” he mutters but obliges, wiping his feet on the mat, careful not to trail any water or mud into the bookstore. It hasn’t snowed. Not officially, at least, so he doesn’t need to worry about his hair trailing droplets of water in his wake. Luckily, she hasn’t heard his little quip—if she has, she chooses to ignore it.
Another set of footfalls comes from the back, and Wen Ning pops his head out, greeting him with a small, “Hello!” Today, he dons a cozy sweater, glasses perched atop his head as he pushes through the doors with an armful of books. “We have a new shipment of books today! I’ve saved you a copy in the back room.”
Wei Ying sighs and shoots him a greeting. Then, cocking his head, he asks, “Is the microwave still…”
“Still broken?” Wen Qing’s voice cuts through the shelves. “Yeah. No chance of heating up your food, if that’s what you’re hoping for today.”
“It’s for my coffee, actually,” Wei Ying volleys back. “I can just use the coffee machine to reheat it. Just pour the whole thing into the carafe and let it run.”
At that, there's a loud thump, and Wen Qing rounds the shelf, fists cocked on her hips as she levels him with a glare. "Don't," she warns.
Support doesn't come from Wen Ning, who turns away to busy himself with the small stack of books. All he's missing is the innocent whistling tune to complete the scene. The traitor.
"It's just coffee! It's not like I'm heating up soup—"
"That's what nearly broke it last time—"
"Nearly, being the key word. Besides, how is dumping coffee back into the carafe a bad idea? It's just going back where it came from."
Wen Qing holds out a hand, the other massaging her forehead. "Can’t you, I don't know, just make yourself a new cup?"
It’s somewhat of a compromise, but it feels like such a waste for him to dump a perfectly good cup, even if it’s not his fault or the shop’s fault for it going lukewarm. He vows that maybe he’ll just drink half in one go and fill it to the brim with something homemade. For presentation purposes, he hums thoughtfully, as if considering the idea, then slides into the back room.
It’s small, barely a storage space with books piled haphazardly and cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling like building blocks. Today, there’s a new box sitting in one of the three seats, one other taken up by Wen Qing and Wen Ning’s bags. Wen Ning’s backpack sags and slumps over the edges, paper poking from every open pocket, and Wen Qing’s purse sits on top, somehow prim and proper compared to her brother’s things.
Wei Ying sets his bag on the last free seat, then unwinds the scarf from his neck. It cascades like a waterfall, baby blue fabric faded and frayed at the edges. Two holes perforate one end, each no thicker than his pinky. There are countless seams where he’d painstakingly patched up past rips, and he sighs when he comprehends that he’ll need to patch up two more.
He handles it with care, letting it swim over his fingertips. Years ago, he would’ve brought it up to his face, breathing the soft scent of sandalwood, but those days are long gone, blown away like ash after a fire. All that lingers is the scent of winter, shrink-wrapped memories, and Wei Ying’s quiet sorrows.
There’s something bittersweet that sits at the back of his tongue, memories climbing from the dusty trove he’s buried deep into one of the chambers of his heart. It’s unsolicited, rising from the depths like vines reaching for the sun. Perhaps nostalgia is contagious, tendrils of it chalky and moth-eaten as it wisps off of the vintage store he’d passed the day before, wrapping around his frame, twining through his hair, his fingers, his scarf, and prompting his memories to dust themselves off and seep into his conscious.
Swallowing, he shoves them back down and slams the box, latching it shut before tossing the key. Outwardly, he exhales a sigh and pushes the scarf into his bag, in turn, pulling out the old notebook he keeps with him at all times. The cover is black, his name etched onto the soft cover, script worthy of being called calligraphy.
He can’t do this. Not today. He refuses to allow himself to be submerged in the depths of sentimentality. Wei Ying has days where he lets himself wallow, and today isn’t one of those days. So, he leaves the book on the table and moves to reheat his coffee, then distracts himself by getting to work by cutting open the box with the the new books—
And he’s being pranked, right?
Fate has decided that he will become its next victim. Staring down, he waits for cymbals to crash, for an audience to laugh in the distance, roaring over his incredulous state as he stares down at the blue cover, its edges decorated with gentians that frame a small cottage. Wei Ying would recognize that theme anywhere.
Apricity by Lan Wangji
He releases a soft, breathless sound, aching as it escapes the back of his throat. Gently, his fingers touch the cover, fingers tracing the letters. Apricity, the warmth of the sun in winter—it’s a feeling he knows well, a sensation that’s become a part of his every waking moment, every countless second. Oh, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.
Warmth—home, inviting, belonging. Despite its meaning, it’s as multifaceted as a cut gemstone. He’s known every iteration of it. Has felt its sunlight unfurl the flower between his ribcage. Reveled in its wooly blanket tucked around his shoulders. Fallen into arms that fit around his waist and breathed his name into his hair.
The effort it takes to tear his gaze away is monumental. There’s an itch in his fingers, one that whispers for him to flip it open and glance at the author’s profile. But Wei Ying has grown strong in the face of such temptation. He needs to if he wants to continue working at the bookstore without losing half of his sanity.
So he tucks it back into the box and carries it out, so preoccupied he doesn’t register that the coffee maker has finished heating his coffee.
“Where do you want these?” he calls out, hefting the box higher in his arms. As if working on autopilot, he begins to move toward the front, aiming for the shelf that displays all of their new arrivals. Just as he begins to set it down, Wen Ning ducks through a row of books and skids to a stop in front of him, panting with exertion. His cheeks are blotchy, as it usually is after spending his mornings lugging around new books.
“Jiejie said to put some there, but there’s a separate display for those books,” he explains, crouching to pull open the flaps. He takes five books in hand before pushing the rest back into Wei Ying’s arms. “Take those to the back. There’s a separate display for these.”
“What, suddenly we have special treatment for big name authors? I thought Wen Qing was against that,” he jokes, but Wen Ning levels him with a solemn look that doesn’t rival Wen Qing’s, but it’s the closest he’s ever come. It’s a look that speaks to stress. Whatever’s happening in the back must be big enough for his friend not to crack a small smile at Wei Ying’s terrible teasing.
Instead of needling him for more information, Wei Ying begins to shuffle toward the back. “Okay then,” he mutters under his breath. Romance books flash in his right periphery, their pinks and lavenders crying for lovelorn attention. To the left sits mystery, brooding colors of ink and navy stifling enough to entice adventurous souls. He expects to find a shelf cleaned out for Lan Zhan’s new book.
Instead, he finds Wen Qing cleaning out a small, three-tier bookshelf, all four sides cleared of the titles Wei Ying had organized the day before. The feather duster flicks across the dark wooden surfaces, pushing puffs of dust off the edges. The light fills with tiny dancing motes, twirling in midair before sinking onto the hardwood floors.
“I just cleaned that yesterday,” he complains. “What gives?”
Wen Qing doesn’t answer, simply gesturing at him to set down the box. He does so, arms sighing with relief when he finally plops it down. The books inside rattle, covers susurrating as they slide against one another, and Wen Qing shoots him a glare before returning to her work. And before he can ask for more information, Wen Qing stands in one fluid movement, and suddenly, Wei Ying’s arms are full of two posters.
“Go hang these in the display window,” she commands in that no-nonsense tone of hers that would have even the strongest of men hunching their shoulders and scurrying away. For someone of her short stature, she wields an uncanny amount of influence. “And make sure they aren’t crooked.”
Something about the situation churns unpleasantly in his stomach, as if he’s missing something critical. With a nervous laugh, he acquiesces, “Fine, fine. I’ll have Wen Ning help if you’re nervous about getting it straight.” He sets one of the posters down, letting it lean against a shelf, then begins to roll the other open. “Besides, what’s happening for you both to be like this—”
His voice trails off.
Lips sealing, jaw wired shut, he stares, body going arctic and numb with shock. He’s seeing things, right? Hallucinating—he has to be having the most vivid hallucination of all time. Time slows around him, viscous and sluggish as it passes around him. The air has gone thick with molasses, each inhale slithering down his lungs until he’s drowning, drowning, drowning.
He hasn’t seen that face in years, and even a picture of it is enough to knock the wind from his lungs. His heart plummets, violently hurled over a cliff, headed toward the jagged rocks that wait beneath the waves. Even now, those hairline fractures carefully pieced together have begun to split once more.
He knows that jawline, those cheekbones, the lashes that feather over pools of honeyed amber. He knows it all so viscerally, from the feelings of them against his fingertips to the sweet taste that’s forever imprinted in his memories. He knows.
He knows, he knows, he knows.
Yet, what can he do other than comb his gaze across the poster, barely skimming the words printed along the page. It’s a difficult feat—it’d been harder in person—but how can Wei Ying tune into anything else when his eyes drag back to that devastating profile. When his brain catches up, he finally registers the two words that nearly bowl him over, bludgeoning his knees, chest imploding.
Book signing.
A simple picture is enough to render him speechless. Gutted. Utterly incapable of anything more than a weak rasp and a choked breath. “He’s coming here,” he wheezes out, barely above silence. “He’s coming here.”
Dream or nightmare, Wei Ying can’t decide which is more accurate. Perhaps a little bit of both. A part of him cheers, elated at the reunion. The other, much larger part of him feels as if he's been flayed open from throat to naval, all of his organs out on display. All for the world to see and terrorize.
"—Ying!" There's a hand snapping in front of his face, Wen Qing's brows puckered as she gains his attention. He's known her long enough to read between the lines. Concern disguised as anger feathers from her disposition, and he finally flinches away.
His fingers fumble, and the poster snaps back into its rolled form, bouncing twice at his feet. Wei Ying scrambles for both, tripping over his feet in haste. "Haha, clumsy me!" His laugh pitches higher than normal, and Wen Qing's brows climb even higher.
The posters tremble in his grasp, and he realizes he's shaking. "Ah, well, I'm going to go. Uh. Put these up. They'll be straight. Yeah, they'll be perfect," he stammers. It's been ages since he's felt this uprooted from reality, completely unmoored, slightly unhinged. Adrift and floating further and further from shore.
Lan Zhan is doing a book signing. Here. At the bookstore Wei Ying works at. He's coming here, and Wei Ying doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the situation. Both would be warranted—he wouldn’t mind being called hysterical if he ends up doing both. It’d be an accurate description of the utterly frenzied state he’s whipped himself into.
Before Wen Qing can prod further, he scrambles back and flees, metaphorical tail swinging between his legs as he barely refrains from breaking into a run. He nearly collides with three displays to the front, utterly lost at sea. It’s as if he’s lost all sense of direction or composure.
Lan Zhan is coming. They’ll be in the same city, the same bookstore. They’ll be breathing the same dusty air. And Wei Ying…Wei Ying doesn’t know how he feels about that. In truth, he’s entertained the idea of running into him before—it’s not a foreign thought that’s taken root in his mind. Everyone imagines hypothetical situations. Except, that’s the thing, they’re supposed to stay hypothetical.
They’re not supposed to come to fruition. They’re not supposed to slip between the cracks of imagination and filter into reality. The notion is almost too much to handle. Thinking about it now, Wei Ying doesn’t know what will happen if they run into each other; he can barely comprehend the idea. All he knows is that the possibility incites something in him, something visceral that burns him from the inside out. An ember exposed to a breeze, glowing red and hot and too much for one to cradle bare-handed.
“Are you all right?”
Wei Ying skids to a stop at the front of the shop, shin throbbing in two places after hitting them against books and shelves and chairs. Wen Ning blinks at him, worry marring his expression as he takes in Wei Ying’s appearance. He wonders if he looks as harassed as he feels. The posters are crushed to his chest, clutched too tightly in the circle of Wei Ying’s arms.
“Fine! Do you have tape? We need tape,” he wheezes. Wen Ning shoots him another strange look but heads for the back, leaving Wei Ying to continue losing his mind as it branches into a million different possibilities.
In the end, with Wen Ning’s help, and only with Wen Ning’s help, the posters are plastered to the window, straight as a ruler, and Wei Ying does his best not to stare at the pictures, utterly morose and hopelessly lost.
--
“‘And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me?’” Wei Ying recites miserably. He stares at the lines, feeling like a lovelorn maiden himself, then flings the book off the bed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Ah, Mr. Poe, read the room.”
Nothing, not even skimming through his collection of poems, can drag his mind from Lan Zhan’s impending visit. An overcast hangs in his room, sullen and grey and utterly dour. There’s a small pile of books that sit at the foot of his bed, poets from all four corners of the world preserved through ink and paper and bound with glue and time. He’s gone through them enough that the words have seared into his brain.
And normally, on quiet evenings like this, his mind swirls with a chaos of words and rhythms and cadences, all begging to be strung up and displayed like fairy lights that decorate the bookstore for the upcoming holidays. So much so that Wei Ying scribbles through pages and pages of scratch paper, muttering under his breath, words and phrases shooting out in rapidfire succession. Usually, they burst from his lips, unbound, unfettered, heart bleeding onto the pages.
Tonight, his heart bleeds differently, sawed in half, memories pouring from the wound. It’s messy—spreading across his mind, edges rolling and rolling, and once it’s begun, it can’t stop. It’s been ages; anyone else would’ve moved on by now, but Wei Ying is a fool. An idiot who’d given his body, heart, and soul without having ever asked for it back after leaving the best and worst thing to have ever come into his life.
With a sigh, he pushes himself up, carding a hand through his hair and sits at the edge of the bed, the weight of his body and misery causing the mattress to dip. Feeling more than wretched, chest caving in on itself, he stares at the old, battered notebook sitting on his desk and the novel that sits next to it.
Wei Ying knows what will happen over the next few days: the book will find its place in his personal library, the second shelf from the top that sits at eye-level when Wei Ying stands in front of it, like the masochist he is, and join its family, all of them practically uniform in shape and size. All of their colors, gentle, as if plucked from a garden of wildflowers. Tasteful, minimalistic. Beautiful and loved.
Or well, that’s how Wei Ying thinks it’s going to go. Something about this book feels slightly different than the others, probably due to circumstance.
He stands. Moves to his desk. Ignores the scattered pens and balls of crumpled paper. Makes a heroic effort to ignore the envelope that’s been at his desk for the past month. Approaches the novel like it’s a feral animal, rabid and foaming at the mouth. Except, it doesn’t bite, doesn’t leap at him and latch on with canines digging into his arm, doesn’t massacre him in the middle of the room and leave a heinous mess.
The cover isn’t even facing up, the back of it supinated on the surface. Unlike other books, nothing graces the back cover, no words, no choir of reviews singing praises, no pictures—nothing. That’s how it’s always been with his other books. Apricity is no different, gentians curling over the spine to sway onto the back.
With a finger, he pushes it to the side and slides onto his chair, trying his best to ignore the swatch of blue that colors his periphery. It remains, no matter what he does. Wei Ying pulls out a scrap piece of paper, then digs through his drawers for a pen. Still, the book is there, ever present, ever existing, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.
What is home, what is yearning
but a bay window facing sea
and a man who waits
and waits and waits
and longs for the day
the sun rises overhead—
He scratches them out, crumpling the sheet into a fist before throwing it to the side. Yearning, homesickness—two themes prevalent in poetry, yet can it be called a coincidence that they’re the first things to pop into his head with the appearance of Apricity?
Scrubbing at his eyes, he blows out a tired breath, then peeks to the side to find the book still there. He doesn’t know what to expect. For it to burst into flames? To leap off the table and escape from the confines of Wei Ying’s room? To—what? Still, it simply sits in the corner, quiet, unassuming, patient, just like its author.
Gingerly, hesitatingly, Wei Ying picks it up, feels the weight of the book settle in his palms. It’s heavy. All of his books are heavy. He turns it, stares at the title. The author. Feels his chest crack wide open.
He doesn’t launch it toward the wall or toss it to the ground like his other books. Despite causing him an insurmountable torrent of unnameable emotion, it’s too precious to discard carelessly. Instead, he averts his gaze and slides it into his bag.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Kind of.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.
--
The days pass with juxtaposing strangeness. From dawn to dusk, time passes in languid streams, the hours like stepping stones poking from the surface of its river. Yet, by the end of the day, when Wei Ying slings his bag over his shoulder and waves to his friends, that’s it. A day has passed with the snap of a finger—instantaneous, sudden, abrupt. And when he blinks awake the next morning, the cycle restarts.
Wei Ying makes it a point not to gape at the posters when he heads into work, when he leaves to go home. In fact, he begins to use the back entrance to avoid having to deal with the strange, throbbing pain that sits behind his sternum and migrates up to his head. The horrible mix of apprehension and a constant state of panic begins to take a toll on his mental state, face growing haggard with nights of unfulfilling sleep and dreams doused with amber and gold.
Wen Ning and Wen Qing notice, of course. The latter scrutinizes him with knitted brows and pursed lips; more importantly, she doesn’t pry. Wen Ning, on the other hand, always seems to sit on the brink of asking about it.
“How…” Wen Ning trails off after Wei Ying finishes directing a customer toward the thriller section. Wei Ying pivots on his heel and lifts a corner of his mouth as he waits. His friend flails under whatever expression sits on his face and diverts to the question. Pitifully. “How was the coffee maker this morning?”
“It works.” Wei Ying shrugs. “Coffee’s slightly burnt, but that’s standard.”
“Ah.” Then, Wen Ning shuffles away, pushing the cart past him, eyes trained forward, cheek twitching with the unasked question. In a way, Wei Ying is thankful. He’s not entirely sure he’d be able to answer why he’s been so jittery since seeing his poster.
The bookshop grows warmer as the days grow colder, and Wei Ying does his job by rote. He organizes displays (enough to where Wen Qing berates him for changing everything thrice before switching back to their original places), inventories new books (he checks his list at least four times to make sure everything is correct; he can’t help it if his mind wanders while skimming through titles and authors), helps customers find books (he takes them to the specific shelf and drags a finger through multiple spines in a purposeful attempt at dragging out time; it comes off as helpful), takes over accounting (Wen Qing nearly evicts him from her office)—he throws himself into whatever task he can find.
It only marginally distracts him from the matter at hand, the issue being that he isn’t ready whatsoever. Life throws curveballs, and Wei Ying has always been able to dodge them with a smile or bat them away with a flick of his wrist. This—this is unprecedented, and even with days and weeks worth of notice, he finds himself wholly unprepared for the event.
He’s in the middle of bordering the front door with garland and fighting the bell when Wen Qing materializes next to his ladder, and he nearly trips from her sudden appearance.
“Off, now.” Wen Qing points down, and he follows. With no customers nearby, Wen Qing doesn’t bother pulling him into the back, choosing to interrogate him in the open. It feels slightly unfair to catch him off-guard like this, but he obliges anyway, massaging the back of his neck after an hour of adding more festive decorations to the shop.
Wen Qing crosses her arms, mouth set in a stern line, and her glare isn’t hostile, per se, but it isn’t kind either. The moment between them grows stifling as she practically beats him down with her aura. He wonders if she’s noticed that the microwave looks strange after he’d tinkered with it over his lunch break. Then—
“I’m going to ask once, and only once,” she starts. Wen Qing has never been the sentimental type with Wen Ning being the only person she displays that side of herself. On rare occasions, rarer than being struck with lightning, Wei Ying is privy to witnessing such a phenomenon. Today seems to be one of those days. There’s a stiff quality to the way Wen Qing holds herself. “Are you all right?”
Between the lines he hears her underlying message: don’t lie to me.
Except, his jaw bolts shut. Words have never failed him as badly as they do now. He’s spent all of his time trying to avoid the topic, only for it to bubble to the surface when Wen Qing posits the question. Is he all right?
Gut answer: no.
Real answer: complicated enough to form a thesis.
Verbal answer: “I guess?”
The fact that it comes out more like a question than a statement is his downfall. If there’s one thing about Wen Qing, it’s that she can read him as well as she can her younger brother and all of the books in her shop—the result of working with the same people for over five years.
“Wei Ying,” she starts, hesitant. There’s a furrow to her brow, a tick to her jaw as she regards him. Right now, he feels as transparent as glass, fog wiped away with every pass of Wen Qing’s gaze over his face. She looks like she wants to say something else, but whatever crosses his face, even a passing flit, is enough for her to sigh, shoulders deflating as she steps back. “I said I’d only ask once. And if you ‘guess’ that you’re all right, then I won’t pry.”
This time, it’s his turn to exhale. Upon first glance, he’d almost expected her to needle at him with terrifying precision, aiming straight for the bullseye with a strike to the center. But she only steps back and shakes her head, as if she’s disappointed. Whether it’s directed toward him or herself, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t really want to know, in fact.
Ignorance is bliss, and this applies to even the smallest of details. Turning on her heel, Wen Qing manages two steps before she pauses, whole body going still as a thought crosses her mind. Her cheek twitches, lips parting, but no sound comes out. He waits, itching to go back to something as mundane as wrestling the garland over the bell if it means he can not think.
In the end, she doesn’t say anything, and he watches her disappear between the shelves, the hem of her skirt sweeping past dust motes and rustling the bookmarks hanging in the rotating display. With her returning to work, he climbs the ladder and reaches for the garland.
--
“I thought you’d be more excited.” Wen Ning’s voice crackles through the speakers. It’s the day of the signing, and Wei Ying can’t haul himself from bed, limbs utterly paralyzed. He can’t do this, the thought of seeing Lan Zhan is too much to bear, a crushing weight that pins him to the mattress. His duvet, half of it kicked off of the bed, feels like it’s been made of lead. The small smear of sunlight that drags along the floor laughs at him, slowly expanding as it climbs over the small tower of books at the foot of his bed.
“—it sucks that you’re sick since Lan Wangji is your favorite author,” Wen Ning continues, unaware that the name sends a pang through Wei Ying’s body, a vibration that trembles down his spine and collects at his stomach. It churns in discomfort, and Wei Ying barely manages a disgruntled moan. Wen Ning trails off at the sound. Then, “It’s ok. I’ll get you a signed copy of Apricity! Unless you want me to ask him to sign something else? I’m sure we have his whole collection of novels here in the store.”
He lowers his tone, as if whispering, “I’m sure we have one copy each. I could get him to sign them all for you after he’s done with the main crowd.”
Wei Ying laughs, a burst of air into the mic. “Don’t worry about it. Can you put your sister on the phone? I need to tell her I’m not coming in.”
The note of determination fizzles through the tinny crackle as Wen Ning shifts the phone. “Give me one second. She’s in the back talking to his agent—I think they’re going to start with an interview before moving to a reading, then have the book signing. But! I think I can sneak in during the break and ask him to sign a book or two for you.” He pauses. “Really, I don’t mind asking him for a signature per copy. It’d be a whole collection.”
There’s a bit of a rush to his words now, and Wei Ying can imagine him scrambling through the aisles, fretting over such a large event. It’s rare that they get authors as big as Lan Wangji to visit a small, locally-owned bookstore. When he’d woken up with the intention of not going in, he’d felt slightly bad that the Wen siblings would have to deal with the event. But after thinking about it for a bit, he realized he’d probably end up exacerbating everything with his less than ideal reaction to seeing his face in person. If he can barely handle a poster, how is supposed to survive a day with the real thing?
“Are there a lot of people?” Wei Ying asks in a small voice. There’s bound to be. Why wouldn’t there be? What, with his command of words, eloquent and refined and honed to make people feel, why wouldn’t there be a crowd of people waiting to meet the famed author?
At first, there isn’t an answer, simply noises and a rush of voices. Then, “There’s a line that’s wrapped around the building.” Wen Qing sounds tired already, still resolute in making sure it’s a successful event, but nevertheless, tired. As if the thought of having to deal with the day has drained her of her energy. “Anyway, it sounds like you aren’t coming in?”
“Sick,” he answers. It’s not a lie. Not completely. Physically, he’s fine, if not slightly winded. Emotionally, though, he feels as if he’s been hit by two or three freight trains in succession. Maybe four. Either way, there’s no possible way he’ll show up for work and not hide in the back room, which Wen Qing would unavoidably drag him out of.
Wen Qing is silent to where he can’t make out her breathing. With Wen Ning, it’d been easy to hear him move around the bookstore, anxiously adjusting displays so that nothing sat out of place or shuffling toward the back room, where the chatter and music had died down to the low hum of the old fridge.
Is today the day when Wen Qing fires him? He wouldn’t blame her. After all, abandoning them on what seems to be their busiest day of the year is a shitty thing to do, and her reaction would be totally warranted. Silence reigns on, and Wei Ying’s eyes flutter shut for the inevitable, stomach plunging to the soles of his feet and digging itself ten feet into the earth’s crust.
“I’m—”
“Fine.” Wen Qing cuts him off before he can complete his apology. There’s the susurration of fabric; he can almost imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose.
“What?” Dumbfounded at her response, he pulls his phone away to check that he’s still on the same call as he’d started with Wen Ning. Sure enough, the screen lights up to a picture of his friend and that it’s still ongoing. Dragging it back to his ear, he repeats, “What?”
She puffs an exasperated sigh. Her name rings out from somewhere in the background, and her voice grows faint as she speaks. Unable to help himself, he listens closely, a part of him hoping to hear a familiar voice. However, all he gets is a murmured conversation between two women.
“I have to go in a bit—” The volume of Wen Qing’s voice startles him, causing him to wince, and this time, her breathing is harried as she moves around the store. “But, look—I’m not stupid. I know I’m not the most sentimental, but I can tell when something’s wrong. You’ve been weird for the past couple of days.” Ouch, straight to the point. “Lan Wangji’s agent hired some help, so we should be good for today. Anyway, feel better—A-Ning and I can handle the event.” She pauses. “They’re calling for me, so I have to go—”
“Ah, Wen Qing?” he tries. It’s silent on the other end, and he isn’t sure if she’s still on the call, but he speaks anyway. “Thanks.”
More silence.
He’s certain she’s hung up until the line crackles back to life, and Wen Qing sighs. “Of course.” Then, it goes dead, and he knows for certain that she’s hung up. With a long exhale, he drops his phone onto the mattress and rolls onto his back, throwing an arm over his face.
Stuck. That’s how he feels, absolutely nailed to the bed with nothing more than the weight of knowledge pinning him to the mattress. It’s almost surreal to know, for a fact, that Lan Zhan is the same town—or, that Lan Wangji is watching the same sun rise in the sky, high over the same skyline. He’ll walk down some of the same roads, pass by some of the same parks—perhaps, he’ll also pass by the same vintage store Wei Ying passes every day
Wei Ying doesn’t know if he has the right to call him Lan Zhan anymore. It’s been years: enough time has passed to fundamentally change a person. An epoch of time stretched long beyond any sort of recognition. Physically, change is unavoidable, a necessary metamorphosis in which life takes a person and shapes them like putty. Uses experiences loaded with emotions, from happiness, from pain, from love, from every particle, every cornerstone of passion to carve a person into who they are.
Self-conscious, he wonders how much he, himself, has changed. Obviously, he isn’t the same person he’d been after graduating university, and in truth, his own perception doesn’t matter. But he wonders if that change is visible to the one person who does matter— still matters, for some indiscernible reason.
At least, in this situation, it’s a one-way street. Wei Ying knows he’s here, but he won’t, not if Wei Ying doesn’t show his face. He’s more than content to become the first human-mattress hybrid the world has ever seen, perfectly happy to drown in a pile of pillows and blankets for the day. Turning to bury his face into his pillow, he inhales deeply, counting his blessings.
He can stay home knowing he gets to keep his job and go in tomorrow while preserving his sanity. Wen Qing hasn’t fired him, despite the levels of exasperation she’s shown over the years (he likes to think she’s fond of him). Wen Ning is going to—
Wen Ning is going to…
Hang on.
Wait, wait, wait.
Wei Ying shoots up so quickly that his vision spins twice, world tilting left and right, almost as if he’s been planted on a giant seesaw in the middle of a carnival fair. The force of his eruption throws everything into a disarray, and he lunges toward the last place he’d dropped his phone, absolutely rattled by the realization.
The familiar clatter of metal hitting wood is enough of an indication, and in his haste to grab his phone, his legs tangle in his blankets, and he flips into an ungraceful heap of limbs. For now, he can ignore the bruises that’ll be forming on his knees and shins over the next few days—there are more important things to focus on.
Except, when he calls Wen Ning’s number, it goes straight to voicemail. The clock reads that it's just hit opening time, and his friends are preoccupied with the event. With so many attendees, it’s unlikely either of them are going to pick up their phones.
Wei Ying is fucked.
--
“Come on, pick up, pick up!” Wei Ying rambles under his breath, weaving through the throng of people who have decided to brave the cold and do some last minute holiday shopping. It's as if the entire community has decided to come out and collectively dam the sidewalks in some form of sabotage.
He squeezes through a family of four, barely squawking an apology and missing the way the mother shoots him a glare. His heart sparrows in the cage of his ribs, beating in double time as he shoves his way through the crowd. Low-hanging bags collide with his knee and hips, and he skirts around a couple with a dog, giving it a wide berth as he rushes toward the bookstore.
His phone wails a busy tone: The person you’re trying to reach—
Wei Ying tries again. Never mind that this is his eleventh time trying to reach Wen Ning and the third time for Wen Qing. Never mind that he’s shot off a flurry of texts to Wen Ning, potentially landing him in his friend’s spam inbox. Never mind that everything about him looks like a frazzled mess as he barrels down the road, eyes slightly wide and hysterical.
“Wen Ning, please!” he begs, shooting another five texts with a barrage of exclamation points. Still, neither sibling has answered his pleas, and he nearly slips on a patch of ice as he flies past the vintage shop, the inside of it filled with people. His reflection flashes by his periphery, and he has a split second to comprehend that he looks absolutely harassed.
It’s never been this busy before, and he can’t tell whether to attribute it to the holidays or the season or whatever, really. Somehow, it’s almost as if the city has opened its floodgates to spite Wei Ying. Actually, it’s like the universe is trying to prevent him from getting there to save himself from the mortification of meeting Lan Wangji.
The dial tone ends in a monotonous pitch that drags on and on, and the person you’re trying—
“Fuck!” The outburst attracts nearby families; a mother shoots him a glare and claps her hands over her daughter’s ears. Surprisingly, it does a good job at getting people to avoid him, circling around as if he’s been infected with the plague, making it easier for him to move.
As he skids along the corner, he’s struck to see a line—an actual, honest-to-god line— wrapping around the bookstore. Red Sun Bookstore hangs on a wooden sign over the front door, painted in gold cursive, creaking with the next brush of wind. He wheezes at the sight of Apricity clutched between gloves and under thick coats, a jagged line of soft blue gentians growing along dark coats and brick buildings.
He doesn’t even feel bad about cutting the line, pushing to the front, panic propelling him forward. Disgruntled complaints follow his move, and someone shouts at him to go to the back. A hand stops him; it’s a guard, a security guard. Since when has Red Sun Bookstore needed security guards?!
“Line’s back there,” the man grunts, and Wei Ying straightens, rummaging through his bag for his nametag.
“No, no, look, I work here. I can prove it—” Except, of course, it’s not there, and with an exasperated groan, he remembers that in his rush, he’d forgotten it on his desk. Of all the days.
Once more, when he comes up empty, the security guard points toward the back, and Wei Ying shoots him a venomous glare before slinking toward the back of the line. Rather than comply and wait for inevitable doom, he slips into the alley and uses the back entrance. Luckily, he always has his keys, and he’s used to taking the back anyway.
The sounds of the city dissipate as he shuts the door behind him, replaced with faint murmuring and a low baritone that has Wei Ying’s stomach curling in on itself. The music has been turned off for the day, and the door has been shut, Wen Ning’s backpack carelessly tossed onto the table and Wen Qing’s purse dangling off one of the chairs. There are three other bags that Wei Ying doesn’t recognize, but he zeroes in on the light blue messenger bag, three enamel pins stuck to the opening flap.
He knows exactly what he’ll find even at a distance, and he steers clear, reorienting his attention to preventing Wen Ning from getting those books signed. Cautiously, he pushes open the door, glancing left and right to make sure he doesn’t bump into any familiar faces. When it’s clear that everyone is preoccupied with the signing, he goes off in search of him, only to meet him halfway down the mystery aisle heading toward the back room.
“Wen Ning!” he hisses, and his friend startles, nearly dropping the clipboard cradled in his arms. For a second, Wen Ning stares, expression twitching in confusion until a broad smile crosses his face. Dread curdles in the pit of Wei Ying’s belly, something hot and bubbling and not at all pleasant.
“Oh, good! You’re here! Did you rush? Do you feel better? I knew you wouldn’t pass up the chance to meet your favorite author.” In his excitement, Wen Ning completely overlooks the abject horror growing on Wei Ying’s face, festering as Wen Ning tugs on his arm and drags him toward the area that’s been cleaned out.
Digging his heels into the wood, Wei Ying finds that he's incapable of stopping Wen Ning as they weave through the maze of books. Gradually, the whispers grow louder, as does that baritone voice that Wei Ying has seared into his brain and burned into his heart—one he didn’t think he’d hear for the rest of his miserable life. It isn’t until there’s only one shelf separating them from the event that Wei Ying manages to yank Wen Ning into a stop.
“Wait, wait!” Wei Ying whisper-shrieks. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”
Wen Ning pivots to him, confusion fluttering through his features until understanding dawns on him. “Don’t worry, you look fine. Just fix your hair a little, and I think you put your coat on backwards.”
Glancing down, Wei Ying realizes that he’s right. His coat has been thrown on backwards, seams exposed, and he must’ve looked more like a madman than he’d initially thought in his hurry to arrive. Shrugging it off, he slings it over his arm and shifts forward, still whispering, “Did you already ask him?” His voice pitches high, slightly hysterical as he gesticulates toward the event.
“No, not yet, but now that you’re here, you can ask him yourself!” Wen Ning chirps, and when he turns, Wei Ying yanks him into a stop. He’d called over fifteen times, texted him a bunch more, but here and now, he doesn’t know what to say. How does he explain that he does not want to get the books signed by the man behind the single wooden barrier? Slabs of wood barely an inch thick? Wen Ning leans in. “We just finished the Q&A portion of his visit, so it sucks you couldn’t ask him anything. The event is a hit, so it’s a bit packed, but we can stand in the back. We just need to be a little quiet.”
And with that, before Wei Ying can stop him, Wen Ning grabs onto his arm and hauls him around the shelf, Wei Ying stumbling after him with alarm and terror, and he’s not ready, he’s not ready, he’s not ready—
There are at least twenty people in attendance, listening to that smooth, mellifluous baritone carve words from thin air, cadence quiet yet carrying across the open space. His gaze travels over the crowd, barely making out faces young and old, some smooth with youth, others polished with experience—all of their attention and awe concentrated toward the front.
And there, on a platform behind a podium, stands a lone figure, blurred by sunlight and reading aloud from Apricity. Soft and deep and luminous like the moon, each word carefully plucked from the nighttime sky and scattered along pages that speak of homesickness and yearning. All of it spun from starlight and limned in pearl.
Wei Ying can’t help that magnetic pull as his gaze draws to his features, combing down eyes filled with liquid sun and framed by long lashes, high cheekbones cut from glass, petal-pink lips plucked from the softest of flowers—a face so earth-shatteringly beautiful and gut-wrenchingly familiar that the fabric of Wei Ying’s reality begins to unravel.
Nothing prepares him for the way his chest cleaves in half, heart rupturing from a hail of emotions that sweeps him into a whirlwind of chaos. He feels undone, unbound, every particle separated and scattered, only to return and settle in the wrong places. As if his skin isn’t his own, as if he’s been taken apart and rearranged into a complicated snarl of memories, aches, fondness, and pain—so much fucking pain.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers, more to himself than to anyone else, blood leaching from his face. He barely notices Wen Ning turn to face him, brows knitted with confusion. All he can see is Lan Wangji, renowned author, Lan Zhan, Wei Ying’s history—both of them doubling in his vision. “I have to go.”
His whisper evaporates into the heat that rattles through the vents, doing nothing to help ward off the chill that’s seeping through small nooks and hidden cracks. His entire body feels as if it’s been submerged in ice water—unwillingly, as if he’s been rooted to the spot and forced to watch the frigid water rise to his knees, his naval, his neck, his ears, until all of him has been encased in ice.
“Wei Ying?” Wen Ning tries. While muffled, Wei Ying can make out his quiet lilt of concern. His friend is starting to realize that this isn't nerves or a bout of anxiety, dots connecting between the event and Wei Ying’s bout of strange behavior. Something is wrong.
“Fuck, fuck, I can’t do this,” he rasps, already jerking back. He needs to get out— now. At least get out of sight, hide himself from view because he can’t be seen. Not by him. Not now. Not ever. He’s imagined their reunion so many times, every scenario drenched in a sickeningly sweet amount of hope, all of them from a distance. Not this close. Never this close.
Feeling more and more like a cornered animal, one trapped in a cage, bars shrinking and walls closing in on him, merciless, relentless, Wei Ying begins to tremble. He jolts back with the intent to disappear. Instead, he fails to notice the small display set next to one of the aisles, and a mountain of books comes tumbling down in an avalanche of paper and cardboard.
If he’d hoped to escape without notice, then he’s already failed. Spectacularly. The crowd turns, patrons watching him with various degrees of curiosity; the worst of them glare daggers at him for his interruption. Wen Ning gapes at him for a split second before bending down to begin collecting the fallen books.
“I’m sorry, I’m—haha, clumsy…me…” Wei Ying’s words trail off, dipping into silence as he finally lifts his head, and oh, oh, oh. He’s forgotten what it’s like to have the full force of that gaze swathing him like a second skin, a sweater that’s been molded just for him. Imagines diving off the edge of a cliff and plummeting headfirst into the sky, rays of golden sun gliding against his skin like fingers carding through hair, caressing the bridge of his nose, laving into the hollow at the base of his neck, edging just between warm and hot. Too much, yet not enough.
The moment their eyes meet, Wei Ying is transported to brighter days, blooming springs and mornings between sheets. Careless whispers and lashes feathering against his cheeks. A heartbeat against his ears, lulling him to sleep with promises of forever and vows of eternity. Midnights in December, twilights in June, sun-filled afternoons in July, rainy evenings in March, starry expanses in February. All of it blurring past him, currents of memories that bowl him over like the whirling winds in April.
For a weightless second, everything slows like the drag of honey over tea, oozing over the edge of the pot and defying gravity in a single, seemingly unbreakable strand. Then, the plop of it as it breaks the surface, sending concentric rings burbling outward.
Lan Zhan’s eyes have gone wide, a plethora of emotions flashing across that cold, beautiful face. It’s like watching webs of frost melt off bare branches, leaving them vulnerable in the next spring. His grip on the podium tightens, knuckles growing white as he absorbs Wei Ying’s presence, and Wei Ying feels each breath get shorter, throat closing with every loaded second. He can’t breathe. Lan Zhan’s lips part, and while no sounds escape, he’s close enough for Wei Ying to read the way they form his name: Wei Ying.
“I have to go,” he chokes out, then whirls on his feet, ignoring Wen Ning’s cry of his name, confusion and concern all roiled into one. He stumbles through the aisles, pulse thundering in his ears, missing the chorus of gasps that trail behind him.
Someone is running after him, footfalls heavy as they collide with wood. Just as he throws open the door to the back room, someone grabs his wrist, yanking him back. “Not now, Wen Ning. I can’t be here—”
“Wei Ying.”
That isn’t Wen Ning. That isn’t the sweet tenor of his friend’s voice, nor is it Wen Ning’s soft palm wrapped around his wrist. This is someone else entirely. Wei Ying spins around to find himself faced with a wall of his past, memories branching through his veins, leaves snapping off to land in pools of something throbbing and aching.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan breathes, as if he can’t believe that he’s real, that he’s corporeal, that he’s flesh and blood and standing before him breathing and alive. Even if they’re just two syllables, two characters, they make Wei Ying flinch.
Of all the times he’s heard Lan Zhan say his name, lips shaping and molding into something soft, untangling knots and smoothing them the same way rivers sand away stones, it’s never sounded like this. Like nursing a tender wound, its edges still oozing blood and hurt and anguish. The impact of it is instantaneous: a meteorite crashing through Wei Ying’s bones, shattering them on impact, kicking up a catastrophe of emotions in its wake. Its settling debris does nothing to soften the following blows.
“Lan Zhan,” he rasps, and it sits on the tail end of an exhale. Lan Zhan’s expression twitches, and Wei Ying finds that he’s still able to read him easily. That small spasm at the bolt of his jaw, the quiver at the corner of his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes, tells that Wei Ying knows to mean devastation. It’s there for a second, then dissipates, but the ragged note to his breathing cues Wei Ying into the way he’s affected, just as undone as Wei Ying feels.
A glint catches his eye, and Wei Ying startles as he blinks up at the author, somewhat taken aback. "Do you—are those glasses?"
Lan Zhan continues to watch him as he nods, shoulders hunching as if self-conscious about Wei Ying’s discovery. The frames are thin, wiry and gold, and while they'd seem old on anyone else, they compliment Lan Zhan's features.
"I use them when I read," he answers but makes no move to pull them off. His close proximity stirs something deep in Wei Ying’s stomach, the familiar, comfortable smell of sandalwood swathing him like a blanket.
"Ah, that's good," Wei Ying babbles. "You used to squint at the computer screen all the time, and—"
And nothing, because Wei Ying clamps his mouth shut. He's waded far enough into restricted waters. Any further and he'll be torn from shore and caught in a riptide. Instead, he turns away, mouth pressing into a thin line as he faces the shelf of non-fiction books.
“Wei Ying, you’re here,” Lan Zhan says. “Why…?”
“I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” he blurts, embarrassed and heated. The reminder that he’d knocked over an entire display of Apricity sits at the forefront of his mind. Wei Ying can be shameless, yes, but he’s still prone to some forms of mortification. “I swear, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
Sheepishly, Wei Ying averts his eyes, overwhelmed by the full force of Lan Zhan’s gaze. He’s always been like that: face remaining impassive, as if all of his emotions have collected in the ambers of his eyes, their depths immeasurable. Wei Ying would know. He has first-hand experience.
Lan Zhan parts his lips. No sound escapes.
It's then, with silence as their omniscient third, that Wei Ying comes to a small realization. Puffing an awkward laugh, he tugs on his wrist, still encased in Lan Zhan's ironclad grasp. "You can let go now." Then tugs more insistently.
A small pucker forms between Lan Zhan's brows, a ripple of reluctance and displeasure feathering his disposition. Still, he doesn't let go, instead tightening his grip. Something in him tinges with fear, as if letting go of Wei Ying will cause him to disappear.
In a way, Wei Ying feels the same—a bittersweet taste at the back of his tongue. A small part of him is overjoyed; he's missed the nervous trill of being so close to Lan Zhan, pulse knocking on his throat with all the enthusiasm of a man returning home. Another part of him needs to go, has a fervent reaction to run, run, run.
"You should probably let go," Wei Ying tries again after neither of them moves. He doesn't want him to let go. It's been so long since he's felt those callused fingers against his skin. A part of him urges him to stop thinking of it as home; he'd revoked that right the evening he'd left.
Swallowing heavily, throat clicking with the movement, Wei Ying reaches up and touches the back of Lan Zhan's hand. Tentative, unsure. Something cold brushes against Wei Ying’s finger, and he glances down to find a silver ring sitting on his middle finger.
It's as if he's been doused with a storm of ice water and hail, meteorites that plunge through a charcoal overcast and wreak havoc, casualties rising with each second Wei Ying stares at the silver band. That’s all he needs to regain his strength and wrench his arm away, stepping back to put some distance between them because—
Because—
Because what?
What right does Wei Ying have to Lan Zhan’s love life when he had been the one to walk away? The thought sends ugly barbs lancing through his stomach, straight through the knot entangling his organs. He pretends not to see the look of hurt that flashes across his face, turning away to grip his wrist to his chest, massaging it gently as if the skin isn’t burning where Lan Zhan had touched him.
To fill the silence between them, Wei Ying laughs—he always laughs, but the one that leaves his mouth is distorted, verging on hysteria, like hairline fissures splitting through ice. It’s the furthest thing from natural, but he can’t help it. He takes a step back. Lan Zhan follows, hand still outstretched, reaching out to—to what?
The ring glints in the light, and Wei Ying averts his gaze, swallowing the stone lodged in his throat. “You should go. I’ve kept you long enough. After all, your fans are waiting.”
Lan Zhan’s next step is aborted, and slowly, he lowers his hand. The glare from the ring subsides, and Wei Ying continues to rub at the ridge of his wrist. A hint of frustration crosses Lan Zhan’s face. “Wei Ying—”
“Lan Wangji.” A voice cuts in, effectively splicing the moment in half. Wei Ying lifts his chin to find a woman standing at the end of the aisle, all heels and grace in her business suit as she makes her way toward them, brows knitted together. There’s a bluetooth headset hooked in her ear, and she touches it briefly before turning back to the pair. “I don’t know what’s happened, but you can’t just leave halfway through a reading. At least wait until the end?”
Then, as if sensing the atmosphere, rife with tension and unspoken words, she turns to Wei Ying. Without any preamble, she cocks her head at him. “What’s going on? Do I need to call security?” The second question is directed toward Lan Zhan, and Wei Ying shakes his head.
“Nothing! Nothing’s happening. We’re just…old friends,” he finishes lamely. The woman doesn’t believe him—that much is evident—but she also doesn’t seem to care much, if her harried disposition is anything to go by.
Instead of elaborating, she touches Lan Zhan’s arm, her diamond ring shimmering in the light, and gestures vaguely toward the event. The casual way she touches him, the way Lan Zhan doesn’t shrink back, the way Wei Ying’s stomach curdles like sour milk before plummeting off the edge. “We need to go back. Whatever it is, you guys can catch up later.”
A muscle jumps in Lan Zhan's jaw, and he parts his lips, but she begins to push him away. They both know there is no later, not if Wei Ying is able to get away.
“Wait—” Lan Zhan tries to protest, but Wei Ying has already turned on his heel. “Luo Qingyang—”
“Don’t ‘Luo Qingyang’ me! You have over twenty people waiting for you to finish…”
Their voices trail off as Wei Ying numbly makes his way back to the back door, slipping through before shutting it behind him, leaving barely a click. Then, his back hits the surface, all the strength leaving his body as he slides down into a boneless heap on the ground. All the fight drains from him, adrenaline fleeing the moment Lan Zhan had left his field of vision.
To say that’d been disastrous would be an understatement. To say that Wei Ying has gotten over Lan Zhan would be the understatement of the century, no matter how hard Wei Ying tries to tamp down the confusing implosion sucking away at each jagged inhale.
The one who’d once been the love of Wei Ying’s life, the iron core at the center of Wei Ying’s galaxy, stars bursting and flaring and pulling him in with all the irresistible intensity of the moon lulling the tides. The one he’d once considered his soulmate.
God, his ex.
How had he run into his ex of all people?
Seeing him is like taking a sledgehammer to a shoddily patched up dam, each moment with him smashing through branches and twigs until memories burst forth like jets of water. They come, they don’t stop, untamed forces chipping away at the edges of each breach. The worst of them fight through the barrier, and Wei Ying only has two hands. Within moments, he’s inundated with every kiss, every touch, every soft, murmured word tattooed onto his skin.
And what can a man do when left treading in the middle of the ocean, no lifeline, no boat, no shore in sight?
Drown, of course.