[restoration exercise - no talking]

“Bye, jiejie! Bye, A-Ling, bye bye!” Wei Ying waves cheerfully for the camera as Jin Ling burbles away happily. His entire head fills Wei Ying’s phone screen and his chubby little hand waves around until jiejie captures it in hers and uses it to wave, telling Jin Ling to say bye bye to dajiu, okay, bye bye, dajiu. He doesn’t quite manage it, the sounds blurry and babyish in his mouth, but he’s getting better, close enough that Wei Ying’s throat closes up. “Okay, okay. Gotta go, jiejie. You know how it is.”

“A-Ying, you work too hard,” she replies, only moderately scolding. She lost this particular battle years ago, just about the same time he’d gotten kicked out of the house and scraped together enough money to put an entire continent between him and Auntie Yu. It’s not work that pulls him away tonight, but letting her think so is an easy and quick way to put an end to a call that’s starting to carve out too much space behind his heart. He doesn’t feel too guilty about the mild deception of it these days, especially since jiejie has her own busy life to manage. That doesn’t entirely stop her from trying. Nothing ever does. “Have you thought about—”

Have you thought about coming home. It’s always the same question. As always, he gives the same answer. “I’m happy, jiejie. I’m doing exactly what I want to do. I’ll come back soon for a visit, promise.”

I’ll be back soon has carried him through two years of these weekly conversations with her, scant though they are. Will this be the night it no longer works?

No. The answer is always no. Jiejie lets him get away with everything. “Okay, A-Ying.” Jiejie’s smile is soft, considering. “I’ll talk to you next week, huh? Same time?”

“Same—” Oh, but he’ll be out back home next week for a shoot, only a day or two. He laughs lightly, scrubs his hand over the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the thick hair around the nape of his neck. In the background, there’s a shout, probably the peacock, something about breakfast. “I’ll message you, okay? I have to check my schedule.” And calculate the time zone differences, he thinks. I don’t know where the fuck I am half the time.

“Coming, coming!” jiejie calls out, not hearing him as she bounces Jin Ling on her lap. “Think about coming back, huh? Just for a visit? We can pay for your—”

“No! No, it’s fine! I’ll work it out, okay? I’d like to visit, too. It’s just…” If Jiang Cheng were on the call with her, he’d push for an answer, but she waits patiently for one that won’t come. Already, her attention has drifted; he cannot in good conscience keep it on him. “I can pay my own way these days, jie. I’ll visit soon, okay?”

They both know it for the lie it is, but jiejie’s always been gracious and kind. She lets it stand.

The call ends and the screen goes black. All he can see is his own reflection staring back at him from it.

Sighing, he falls back onto his mattress. The blank white ceiling offers no comfort. The air is stale and close and the humidity from the too-warm day clings to everything in the room, stifling. Though he could open his window, it would only let more of the stagnant, grimy air in along with the usual shouts and honking cars that fill the night with noise, but not the noise he grew up with, not the noise he’s used to and wants to hear again. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s kept this apartment for two years now; he’ll never get used to it.

Despite this, he relaxes. At least tonight he’ll sleep well.

After all, hanguangjun has released a new video and Wei Ying’s ached to watch it all day.

His discovery of hanguangjun’s videos is just one of those strange accidents of fate, a quirk of the YouTube algorithms, a case of leaving random videos to play for too long while he dozed—or tried to—desperate for any relief from the sounds of unfamiliar cities filling his ears as he fought jetlag in London, Milan, Sydney, Los Angeles. In his case, he’d spent a lot of time listening to the most random shit imaginable: ten hour loops of the U.S.S. Enterprise, coffee shop chatter, endless fucking rain, weird white noise hums and bleeps.

ASMR isn’t really his thing. The whispers and weird scratching noises of the mics raised his hackles, irritating and distracting, like sharp nails dragging themselves down the chalkboard of his mind, though he can kind of see why other people like it.

hanguangjun isn’t like that. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Wei Ying wouldn’t care about hanguangjun at all if he were like that. It’s still ASMR, he’s given to understand and he embraces it as such. There are a few other artists he likes, but none as much as hanguangjun.

He holds off on opening the link just long enough to shower, wash and moisturize his face, and change into one of the soft, old t-shirts he wears to bed. Normally, he would also have gone through the fifty-step skincare routine his dermatologist swears by, but hanguangjun only posts one video every two weeks like clockwork. One night of doing the bare minimum to ensure his face isn’t dry in the morning every fourteen days isn’t such a terrible thing.

To make up for it, he drinks a glass of lukewarm water and hopes whoever does his makeup tomorrow won’t notice and scold him. Maybe a good night’s sleep will turn him to the on-set darling for the day. Stranger things have happened.

After checking his schedule for tomorrow, he makes sure the correct alarm is set and tosses his phone onto the wireless charging pad. Drawing in a ritualistic breath, he settles on his side. Snaking his hand beneath the pillow on the other side of the bed, he pulls out his laptop and navigates to hanguangjun’s page. The video’s racked up a few thousand views already and Wei Ying feels irrationally jealous that so many people have already seen it. Every so often, his schedule is such that he can watch one of hanguangjun’s videos immediately. When he’s in Europe especially, he’s usually heading to bed at the right time to watch it right when it’s posted. Barring a few overnight trips, he’s back in New York for the foreseeable future and has had to resign himself to losing that particular pleasure.

He sighs, shifts until he’s on his stomach, arms wrapped around his pillows and laptop open in the space where another body might go instead. The title is watercolor, blue - no talking, which is the sort of comfortably concise description Wei Ying’s come to enjoy about hanguangjun’s videos. It’s unobtrusive, the sweetness of the titles, not in your face like a lot of the ones he’s seen. He wonders what sort of person would come up with titles like this and thinks he’d like to meet them.

Finally, he jams in his earbuds and clicks play. The video opens as all of hanguangjun’s videos do, its own comfort. A desk fills most of the frame, but a large, open window serves as the backdrop, pleasantly out of focus and heavy with greenery. He’s been watching long enough to know that yellows and reds will fill that window in autumn and white will dust it in winter. A sheet of toothy, textured paper is taped to the desk, but a bright, crystal glass occupies much of the screen, half-filled with clear water. A brush and small square of white linen, perfectly arranged, complete the mise en scène.

He can’t imagine living like this, so neat and orderly, so calm and cool, but he wants it. Compared to the rushed bustle of his life, almost violent in its intensity, never home for more than a few weeks at a stretch, never really home at all because he never settles down enough to feel at home. He spends most of his downtime in New York these days, sure, since it’s easier to pick up jobs here, and spends the rest of his time on flights back and forth to other places. That doesn’t make it a home.

It used to be exciting, challenging, worth the cost.

Maybe he’s just getting old. The thought of fucking off to the countryside is not one that should be so appealing, not when he has the entire world at his fingertips, but yearning opens in his chest like a crevasse, cold and sharp-edged and deep whenever he considers it.

Before he can gather too much wool on the topic, slim, elegant fingers are picking up the brush. They turn it by its handle and run the soft looking bristles over their palm. The sound of it is negligible and rather soothing, unpretentious, as though they’re simply testing the give and not just doing it for the viewers’ edification.

Wei Ying knows it is still for the viewer’s edification, but it’s nice to pretend otherwise, like he’s just hanging out while hanguangjun works. As one does with strangers posting on the internet.

Wei Ying might have a thing for artists. Maybe. It’s possibly half the reason his career followed this trajectory: getting to work with creative people is exciting.

hanguangjun takes hold of the glass by the rim and lightly drag it to the center of the screen. They seem to have done everything they can to ensure the glass is lit beautifully because once it’s front and center, there’s really nothing else to look at. A bit of sunlight catches on the glass, making the scene seem all the more idyllic, like nature itself wants to contribute. If Wei Ying strains to hear, he thinks he can catch the sound of rustling leaves in the background, possibly birdsong. He doesn’t think it’s faked.

hanguangjun dips the brush into the water. Its wooden body tinks gently against the glass, not too much. Into the frame, they bring a pan of sparkling watercolors and sweep the brush through a pale silvery blue cake of pigment that almost seems to dance as it picks up the light. So that explains the name of the video maybe?

To the page, they apply a drop of it, manipulating the bead of glittering water until it is shaped a bit like a petal. At first, Wei Ying doesn’t understand what this video is really about. Most of the ones where hanguangjun is painting tend to focus on the paper. But then they dip the brush again into the water, swirling it gently, and Wei Ying realizes this is the point: the sparkling paint plumes downward and twists, ribbonlike, in a gentle, pretty way, lightly coloring the water as hanguangjun applies more and more paint to the paper.

They work diligently, choosing only darker and darker shades of blue until an image of gentians—their favorite flower, maybe, or one that is important to them, since it’s a subject they often visit—has been picked out on the paper, not yet complete, but close enough to it that Wei Ying recognizes what it will be. All the while, there are delicate, gentle tapping sounds, the swish of fingers over paper, the crisp click of wood against glass.

That’s very nearly the last thing he remembers as his eyelids grow heavy, his body pliant, mind soothed, these noises, the look of the painting.

As expected, he falls asleep before the end of the video and wakes in the morning to an open laptop that’s put itself into standby mode overnight. His headphones have wound up halfway across the bed. He winds the cord up and puts them away before they get lost in the shuffle of his life and wind up living in the comforter, never to be found again.

It is, of course, the best sleep he’s had since the last video hanguangjun posted.

Over the years, he’s fought tooth and nail against his own internal clock for the ability to habitually wake up early enough that he gets time to himself before he has to share himself with the world. It’s not something he ever expected to want for himself, getting up at the sound of a sharp alarm just to spend some time alone in the morning. It used to be that he’d roll out of bed as late as possible, wanting to be around anyone who’d willingly spend time with him, filling as much of his day as he could with work and parties and brunches and meetings, so many ands, until there was nothing else left and he was able to throw himself into his bed, worn out from his waking hours.

Now, he’d rather prepare some tea—green, the most caffeine he can allow himself without getting yelled at—and sit at the island in his kitchen while he rewatches yesterday’s video, wishing he could figure out how to comment without sounding like a creep. Not that that’s stopped anyone else in the comment section, but he tries to be a better person than the usual crowd that haunts YouTube.

The video is still comforting in the bright, yellow light of morning.

Ready to share his appreciation, he scrolls down to the comment section, surprised by how many there are today compared to the usual and how many of them seem heartbroken, saying things like hgj don’t go or 😭😭😭 or similar.

Heart climbing his throat, he reads the description more thoroughly and finally notes the single line at the bottom that he’d missed before: I will be taking a short hiatus from this channel. Thank you for your support. - hanguangjun

Oh. That’s too bad.

He types, thank you, hanguangjun, into the comment box, staring at his words while failing to come up with anything better to say. Even more than usual, this doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t sound like him at all, expresses none of what he wants to say. Your videos have always meant a lot to me, he adds and feels like that’s not it either, but as he goes to delete it, his phone rings with Mo Xuanyu’s aggressively cheerful ringtone. Sighing, he hits the comment button and lets it go. It’s a nice comment, he supposes. Not good enough for hanguangjun, but since he doesn’t even really know them, it’s not like he can better tailor it to them. What Wei Ying can give and what hanguangjun deserves are so very far apart.

Scooping up his phone, he cradles it against his ear, says, “Yeah, hi.” Mind still on his laptop, he navigates to hanguangjun’s ko-fi and tosses ten of them hanguangjun’s way, not bothering with a comment there, too. “Don’t you have better things to do than harass me this early?”

He closes the laptop as Mo Xuanyu snipes at him about the traffic and tells him to get his ass in gear.

He wishes he could have been yilinglaozu a little while longer, showering hanguangjun with praise for their work in their comment section instead.

Unfortunately, he’s always gotta come back to the real world eventually.

It’s seven before he’s freed from a photo shoot in the garment district—so very innovative, that—and he’s exhausted, starving, and has possibly entirely undone all of hanguangjun’s good work because he’s pretty sure he’s never been this exhausted. His face still feels tight from the makeup remover and all he wants to do is faceplant until tomorrow, when he has to do this all over again.

As he trudges down West 35th, face hidden behind giant, fuck-off sunglasses, he contemplates this sad state of affairs, pushing back the hood of his rattiest sweater just far enough to shove a pair of earbuds into his ears as he bites back a yawn. The sky has already begun to take on the evening glow that will carry it until nine or ten o’clock and evening traffic is clogging the intersection at Ninth. The bright headlights of seemingly every car on the road set off a headache behind his eyes. He might need better fuck-off sunglasses.

Between one moment and the next, he’s yanked off balance, stumbling into a warm, solid wall. Flailing, disoriented, he can’t even manage a shout, voice locked away in surprise.

“Hey, fuck you!” a guy calls as he whirls past on a bike, riding on the sidewalk like an asshole.

Wei Ying shakes his head, pulls himself upright, realizes only belatedly that the warm, solid wall is another person, a man—a beautiful man, his mind and heart point out inconveniently—and he’s staring venomously at the cyclist already too far down the block to bother caring about. You wouldn’t be able to tell from his build that he’s so solid, but Wei Ying’s hand is conveniently pressed against his sternum. Beneath his palm, there is some solid muscle. When the man’s attention turns to Wei Ying, his expression softens. Wei Ying’s not sure what it softens into, but it’s better than the icy glare he’d thrown at the other guy.

Wei Ying would hate to be him right now. His ass is probably freezing.

“Are you alright?” the man asks. His voice is deep and gentle.

Wei Ying scrambles up and back, dusts himself down, fights and fails to win against the flush climbing his neck. The man really is disarmingly attractive. “I’m good!” He tries to imagine what would have happened if he’d been knocked down by the bike. Even a few scrapes on his face would’ve been a huge hassle, not to mention worse injuries. “My savior!”

The man turns his head. His hair is pulled into a long, sleek ponytail, leaving his ears entirely exposed. Looks like Wei Ying isn’t the only one affected. That’s really sweet of him considering Wei Ying looks like a shady hooligan. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t!” Wei Ying chirps this rather embarrassingly, rather than behaving like a normal human about the whole thing, but how often does it happen that Wei Ying just runs into the hottest man on the planet? You would think, given his profession, that it would happen all the time, but you’d be very wrong. There’s never been another person in his line of work who has appealed to him on this deep and visceral of a level before. Frankly, it’s a crime that he’s not the model here.

Wei Ying has to do something with this opportunity.

To be honest, he’s not used to asking people out, but this is New York City: he’ll never see this guy again if he makes a fool of himself. And it’s not like he doesn’t made a fool of himself on the regular in his daily and professional life already.

“I owe you my life,” Wei Ying presses. And possibly my livelihood. “The least I can do is buy you a drink?”

The man’s visible ear reddens further. “I don’t drink.”

“Nothing at all? Coffee? Tea? Water?” He smiles gamely and hopes it doesn’t look too calculated. Hazards of the day-and-night job. Every expression he makes has been commodified to hell and back, makes him feel faker than he is. “Hell, I’d even model for you if you were up for it! Do you need a model for something? I can do that.”

What the fuck? What kind of question is that? He very nearly slaps his hand over his mouth.

Slowly, the man turns his head, eyes Wei Ying up and down as a shiver works up his spine. No wonder everyone he works with is so fucking weird. If they feel like this all the time about people, it’s a wonder they get anything done. How distracting. How exciting. “I drink tea.”

“Great! I love tea! Would you want to meet up sometime? I know a great place in Chelsea…” He winces. God. How ridiculous does that sound? He might as well call himself a dipshit while he’s at it.

“That would be welcome. I’m only in the city once a month, but if that’s not a problem, I would be amenable.”

A month. That’s a long time to go without seeing such a handsome face, but if he’s not lying, it’ll be worth it and the chances of anyone catching his eye in the meantime is slim. “You’re sure smarter than the rest of us stuck here,” Wei Ying says, flicking through his shared calendar with Mo Xuanyu. “Which day?”

He rattles off the Thursday exactly thirty days from now and watches Wei Ying closely as he does so, gaze heavy as Wei Ying focuses on his phone. It is blissfully, miraculously empty. He blocks the entire day and puts his phone on airplane mode before Mo Xuanyu can shout at him via text message.

“Great! Would you want to meet up then?”

The man pauses long enough that Wei Ying’s nerves almost get the better of him. Has he been too forward? Probably. It’s not like he hasn’t had his fair share of pushy people asking him out. It’s never pleasant. “Sorry,” he says, mouth getting the better of him. “That was a lot. It won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t want to! And it doesn’t even have to be…”

He’s not sure how to end that sentence since the words a date won’t escape his throat.

“What does it not have to be?”

“Uh… haha!” He scrubs his hand through his hair, pushing the hoodie down accidentally. He fights the urge to pull it back up and can only hope he doesn’t see anyone he knows. “I, ah, kinda hoped it could be a date? Maybe?” What the fuck, Wei Ying, you’re the least smooth person on the planet. “But I’d like to repay my debt regardless!”

Once again, the man looks him over. “I would prefer the date,” he says. “Shall we exchange contact information?”

Wei Ying’s heart turns a somersault in his chest. He thinks he manages to hide the excited tremor in his hands as they exchange numbers, but he’s not entirely sure.

“Lan Zhan, huh?” he asks.

He suspects Lan Zhan would have reacted if he already knew who he was, but he still waits for his own name to click, to burden him with all the many preconceived notions people have about who he is.

But all he does is say, “Wei Ying,” in a warm way that makes almost literal butterflies float around in his stomach.

“You’re a model?” Lan Zhan asks in the same tone he might ask the time of day.

“Ahahah, yeah! Not the most well-known person on the planet, but I get by. Why?” He bats his eyelashes. “Do you need one?”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, coughing lightly into his hand. “Not as such.”

Don’t push, don’t push, don’t push. “Oh? Are you sure?” Wei Ying pushes himself onto his toes. Like this, he’s a little bit taller than Lan Zhan. It’s kind of nice. “I’d be happy to help.” Everyone in New York can use a model for something. Probably. Maybe. He doesn’t really know what real people do in New York; he just lives here.

“Wei Ying—”

“Yes?”

“I’m an artist,” he says, giving to Wei Ying the equivalent of the oldest line in the book, and yet it sounds sincere coming out of his mouth. “I… can’t deny that I would like to paint you.”

Oh. That… yeah. That would be… nice? Fuck yeah, it’d be nice! That would be—he would like that if he’s being entirely honest. He’d like it so much. An excuse to spend a good length of time with Lan Zhan? While he does art things? While he looks at Wei Ying all intense like that? Ideal.

Seriously, he might be a little bit in love already.

“Well,” Wei Ying says, keeping it chill, very definitely remaining calm and collected about the whole thing. “Let’s see how it goes when we have tea and proceed from there?” Wow. How reasonable he sounds, so much different than the way his insides are threatening to pop out of his mouth in the form of excited, embarrassing words.

Good job, Wei Ying!

Strangely enough, Wei Ying doesn’t fear being unable to sleep without new hanguangjun content. His old playlists work perfectly well enough.

No, the worst part is all the time he spends wondering what hanguangjun is doing, whether they’re okay; he hopes they are. He hopes they’re filling their hiatus with things they love to do, that it’s a joyful break and not one brought about by misery.

He hopes, in short, that they’re happy. Maybe that’s a weird thing to hope for a pair of hands and a large window and a desk, but… it’s what Wei Ying wants.

Tea goes well. Really well. Exceptionally well. It goes so perfectly that Wei Ying almost asks if he can follow him home and find out what Lan Zhan really means when he says he wants to paint Wei Ying.

Unfortunately, Lan Zhan’s too gentlemanly to bring it up, but by the time he has to let Lan Zhan go, he says, “What about next time?”

“I would like there to be one,” Lan Zhan says as they step onto the sidewalk. He is limned in the afternoon sunlight as it reflects off the windows of the four and five-story brownstones that line the street.

“Why don’t you show me your studio then? Next time?”

Lan Zhan frowns. They’ve spent a grand total of two hours together, but Wei Ying’s already figured out that Lan Zhan’s only so quiet because he considers his words carefully and frowning is a part of his thinking process.

The reward for his patience is an answer.

He finds out Lan Zhan lives in Saugerties, which might just be the coolest thing anyone in New York City has ever said to him, even cooler than the first time he was told he could get paid for standing around in pretty clothes. He has no idea what Saugerties is like, but it’s a few hours from here, which sounds like an amazing place to be since it’s so far from here. What if he’d told Wei Ying he lived in the Village or Williamsburg or something? “Please, Lan Zhan, give me an excuse to get out of the city.”

His ears go red, another quirk that Wei Ying’s missed. It’s just as cute now as it was a very long, very deprived month ago. They’ve texted a few times in the interim, but it’s not enough. “If you wish,” Lan Zhan answers.

They make arrangements for three weeks from now, which is three weeks further away from when Wei Ying wants to see Lan Zhan next, but it’ll have to do.

Before they part, Wei Ying heading uptown, Lan Zhan walking toward the subway entrance, Wei Ying dares to kiss Lan Zhan’s cheek, smiling brightly. “I had a good time, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan pulls him into a more thorough kiss. Wei Ying likes that a lot. When he’s done making Wei Ying’s knees weak, Lan Zhan says, the words spoken lightly against his mouth, “As did I.”

Armed with a hired car, GPS, and exhortations from Mo Xuanyu to be careful for the love of God, I don’t want you to become a statistic, he makes the two-ish hour drive to Saugerties, just him, the road, and a playlist he’s worked on for the last week between shoots because he’s been too excited about driving and needed to discharge the energy somehow. He keeps his phone on silent the whole time and falls into the flow of highway driving that he never gets to indulge in these days, too busy traveling within the city instead, not even allowed to drive himself most of the time because he’s stuck working in the back of the hired town cars that shuttle him from job to job. The drive is gorgeous. The silence—save the music playing low in the background—is fantastic. Even traveling the winding highway between thick stands of trees is nice and relaxing, though he can’t stop his fingers from nervously tapping the wheel. He’s getting to see Lan Zhan. And he has a studio. Where he does art. Because he’s an artist. That’s really very sexy of him.

He realizes, about halfway through, that he hasn’t taken even a day trip for himself in years. Every place he’s visited has been for work.

Huh.

“Thanks, Lan Zhan,” he says because it’s been a little too quiet for too long and he’s never been one to not chatter away, even if it is only to himself. “This’ll be nice.”

Saugerties is quaint in the way a lot of these smaller towns in New York are quaint, as though they’re meant to make up for the hellish bustle of New York City itself and as it turns out, Lan Zhan doesn’t even live in the heart of it, is instead a few miles outside of the town itself, down a sleepy, quiet driveway on a sleepy, quiet lane.

He sends a text before he gets out of his car, though he’s sure the sound of the tires picking up gravel has already sent out an alert to everyone in this teeny, tiny neighborhood. He feels weirdly exposed as he approaches the walkway, carefully constructed of interlocking slices of white brick, very elegant. Not exposed in the way he’s often exposed, primed to be recognized by some fashion hound or other, just… normal people exposed.

It’s nice in a way. A little weird. But he likes it, likes the strange not quite anonymity of it.

Before he’s even made it to the front door, Lan Zhan’s there, giving him that raking, considering gaze again. Wei Ying lifts his hand in greeting. A wide smile stretches across his mouth of its own volition, straining the muscles in his cheeks.

Lan Zhan really is hot. Like scorching hot. It’s a good thing he’s not a model or nobody would want to look at Wei Ying’s face ever again. He could pull off the haughty and cold look that people love and have the world begging for a mere glance from him in their direction.

“Lan Zhan, hi!” he calls, jogging up the last few feet of the walkway. “Your place is beautiful! No wonder you stay away from the city so much.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agreed, amused, as he gestures Wei Ying inside, a perfect gentleman in every respect. “There are downsides, of course, but for the most part I do prefer the quiet. Would you like some tea?”

“Sure, yeah! Sounds great!”

The inside of Lan Zhan’s house is just as soothing and calm as the outside of it. Though the palette is limited to a few colors, white, blue, splashes of silver, there are many pieces of art on the walls and small decorative sculptures that fill the tables that dot the foyer, living room, and hallway. Flowers cover many of the surfaces as well.

“Oh,” he says, spotting a large bowl filled with gentians as Lan Zhan leads him to the kitchen. They’re a rich shade of blue. No wonder hanguangjun likes them so much. They’re pretty.

Lan Zhan stops, turns, brows furrowing as he notices Wei Ying looking at them. “Hm?”

He realizes belatedly that it might be strange for Wei Ying to react so strongly to a few flowers. “Gentians, right?”

Lan Zhan’s expression softens impossibly. “Yes. Do you like them?”

Wei Ying nods. “They’re my favorite!” Ever since hanguangjun started painting them for their channel anyway. Before that, he didn’t have a favorite flower.

“Likewise,” Lan Zhan says. He comes over and plucks up the largest and prettiest of the blooms and hands it over to Wei Ying. The stem is long enough that Wei Ying can place it behind his ear, which he does. Lan Zhan’s lip lifts in a smile so microscopic, he can barely measure it, but it’s still heartwarming, still leaves Wei Ying feeling giddy in a way other people have never made him feel before. Wei Ying can’t help but push and picks another up and tucks it behind Lan Zhan’s ear, too.

Lan Zhan is methodical as he brews the tea, places snacks on a plate that he passes to Wei Ying.

It strikes him then how odd this is, how quietly intimate. This is their second date—kind of, sort of, Wei Ying’s not sure if it counts, maybe it’s half a date—and already Wei Ying feels comfortable. “Mo Xuanyu’s gonna kill me,” he says, picking up one of the thin, crisp little cookies from the plate. It snaps delicately between his teeth, lightly flavored with honey maybe. Who knows? It tastes nice anyway and goes well with the tea Lan Zhan pushes into his hand three minutes later. “But c’est la vie as people who don’t speak French well would say.”

Lan Zhan takes a delicate sip from his own cup, perfectly composed, as though his every motion must be exact in its loveliness. “Will he really?”

“No,” Wei Ying admits. “He’ll probably just say congratulations and then punt me to the gym for an extra workout or two. It’s fine. These are good.”

“And do you speak French?”

Wei Ying snorts. “Only rudely and with a terrible Hanover accent or so I’ve been told.”

“You speak German, too?”

Wei Ying laughs, adjusts the flower a bit. “Not in the slightest.” He tips his head to the side a bit. “Well. I can shout very enthusiastically about the beer I want to order at restaurants. Does that count?”

“It’s more than I can say in German.”

“Ah, well.” Wei Ying finishes his tea, snags another cookie. “At least my Mandarin hasn’t rusted, not for lack of trying. Do you know how often I get to go back? Almost never. More work in Europe. Or here. Or out in LA.” He shudders at the thought of LA. At least New York is better than that.

“I haven’t been home in some time either,” Lan Zhan replies. His voice sounds even more beautifully warm and melodic in Mandarin, accent lovely.

Wei Ying doesn’t bother to return to English. What’s the point? “Where are you from?”

“Suzhou.”

“Wuhan,” Wei Ying answers, delighted. “Suzhou is pretty. I went there once for a job a while back.”

They continue chatting back and forth for a bit, learning the small, intimate details of one another’s life. Wei Ying forgets entirely about the fact that he’s actually here for a reason. He finds out that Lan Zhan went to Pratt and stuck it out because he stumbled into a career here and he doesn’t want to disappoint his uncle further when he already took a stand by leaving in the first place.

“Don’t go,” he tells Wei Ying his uncle said to him, “if you intend to come back.” He has softened since then, Lan Zhan insists, but it’s different going back now.

“I was fostered as a kid,” Wei Ying finds himself saying, mortified. “My aunt wasn’t always happy with me being there. So I… left. I guess. Got picked up by an agency and here I am.” Admittedly, here at this very moment is the best place he can imagine being. “It’s not all bad though. Who can complain about going to the coolest cities and seeing the most exciting things?”

“It seems like hard work,” Lan Zhan says. He skates over the awkward hitches in Wei Ying’s voice so kindly that Wei Ying forgets to be embarrassed to have exposed himself until after the fact. “So much travel is hard on the body, too, I think. It’s difficult to stay in touch with the people you care about. I can see why your path would be a burden.”

Oh, fuck. There’s a very real lump in his throat. Ninety-nine percent of people in the world would roast the living shit out of him for complaining about having a glamorous job and for good reason: he has no right to complain. He’s never had reason to complain. All this time, he’s been so lucky. He could’ve gotten stuck in the system, been left entirely without a family. He can’t imagine his life without jiejie and Jiang Cheng and little A-Ling even though they’re half a world away and many time zones apart from him. Would he have done things differently if he’d known how it would turn out and how it would feel about the result? How quickly the excitement of independence and travel soured once he began paying the toll for it?

Maybe. Probably. But where he’s landed is pretty okay, too.

“Alright, so,” Wei Ying says, getting this whole interlude back on track. No more lumps in his throat or stinging eyes. He is here for a purpose. And he’d like to get to it with no more vulnerable underbellies shown. “Where and how do you want me? You said you wanted to paint me. Let’s do that.”

He hadn’t asked Lan Zhan for too many specifics, preferring to be surprised by whatever he came up with beyond teasingly noting he wasn’t a nude model, and all Lan Zhan had told him in reply was that he could wear whatever he liked, but that he’d like Wei Ying to wear a high ponytail.

That might have resulted in Wei Ying agonizing over his options, fewer than one would expect for a model because he’s fussy under the best circumstances. What happened when he was deciding what to wear today will remain forever between him and his closet. At least his hair is his signature really, so long it trails all the way down his back, and Wei Ying knows exactly what to do with it despite the simple request.

“I thought we might sit in the backyard,” Lan Zhan says, stiff. “My studio is quite cramped.”

God. There are weeks where Wei Ying feels like he’s forgotten what grass looks like and Lan Zhan’s just living out here with a whole yard.

It’s beautiful, too. Wild tangles of various local flowers—at least he thinks they’re local, he used to know a guy who was big into gardening—spill across various raised beds and trellises, it’s tidy in its way. Tidy, but not manicured. Cozy and peaceful. “Wow, Lan Zhan. Did you do this yourself?”

“Yes,” he replies. “There’s a bench under the oak tree over there. Would you like to sit there? I’ll be right back.”

“If that’s what you want.” Wei Ying says, loping over. The tree in question is huge, leaves spreading high and wide. The bench is somewhat cramped, but comfortable as he throws himself on the long, plush cushion that lines it. The color of bleached driftwood, it has remained perfectly clean despite being outside. Lan Zhan is correct: he returns shortly and carries a heavy looking sketchbook and a small, thin box. “How should I sit?”

“However you wish,” Lan Zhan answers, crossing the yard at a more sedate pace. “Whatever’s comfortable.”

“You don’t use models often, do you?” He shifts around a few times, imagining a photographer barking orders at him.

“Not like this,” Lan Zhan admits. He’s probably got a whole host of figure drawing classes in his past to draw on though. That’s what artists do, right? Look at people’s bodies and draw them?

Wei Ying kicks his legs over the end of the bench, glad there are no arm rests so he can sprawl. “Do you have anything in mind?”

“No.”

Wei Ying turns his head. Lan Zhan has seated himself on the grass, sketchbook in his lap. “Ah, Lan Zhan. It sounds like you wanted an excuse to hang out with me!” His heart pounds furiously in his chest even as the thought flies out of his mouth in the form of stupid, brazen words. Surely someone as fastidious as Lan Zhan wouldn’t do anything without reason. Why should he need an excuse?

“I do want to spend time with you,” he answers, prying open the box. From his place a few feet away, he can’t see its contents very well until he plucks out a red pencil. “I would also like to paint you. Is that alright?”

Wei Ying’s stomach squirms as he wriggles again. “Sure, yeah.” A little shy, he abandons all pretense of trying to give this the full model treatment. This feels different than all that anyway. He stretches in the way he might have done if he was just spending time with friends. If he had friends. Which… he wouldn’t call his associates friends. Mo Xuanyu is, maybe, a friend. He makes sure his head is tilted so he can watch Lan Zhan and occasionally catch his eye. “Will you wind up doing anything with it?”

“Perhaps,” Lan Zhan says. “As long as you don’t mind. But I enjoy drawing and painting people as an end in and of itself. It needn’t turn into anything more.”

“Really?”

“Mn.” He begins sketching in earnest. “Is that so strange?”

He imagines Lan Zhan painting his portrait, having it hang in a gallery. Does Lan Zhan show anywhere? Perhaps Wei Ying has seen his work.

Though Wei Ying’s fingers twitch with the desire to snoop, he refrains. There will be plenty of time to scope it out later. For now, he should just let himself be here. That’s his problem, he thinks. He’s always off somewhere else. Tapping his fingers against his abdomen, he stares up at the reddish leaves, lets himself feel the light, soothing breeze against his skin, occasionally sneaks more peeks at Lan Zhan when he’s busy looking at the paper.

He feels just like he did the first time he stood in front of a camera again for the first time. It’s terrifying and invigorating all at once. Nervous, he begins blathering on about anything at all and when he thinks he’s spoken for too long, he looks over to check on Lan Zhan and only finds a soft, distant smile there.

“Hey, Lan Zhan?” he asks. “Is it lonely for you out here?”

“Hmm?” He lifts his head. The smile falls from his mouth. “I apologize. Is it what?”

Wei Ying’s mouth dries. What a question to ask a person he barely knows. “Never mind. It was a…”

“No, please. Tell me.”

The intensity of Lan Zhan’s gaze crumbles his resolve to not be completely embarrassing. Apparently embarrassing is where he’s going to live now. It’s fine. He’s totally fine with it. “Is it lonely out here?”

Lan Zhan makes a few more marks on the sheet of paper, confident. “Sometimes.”

Wei Ying’s heart clenches. Someone as wonderful as Lan Zhan shouldn’t be lonely. “Ah, Lan Zhan. That’s too bad.”

“It was my choice,” Lan Zhan says simply. “It’s not lonely now.”

Something painful and good unfurls in his chest, like the thorny stems from which pretty flowers bloom, beautiful but sharp. He holds it carefully in his mind and longs to take the sketchbook’s place in Lan Zhan’s lap, to kiss Lan Zhan until neither of them are lonely anymore.

But Wei Ying thinks he might do anything for Lan Zhan, including refraining from doing so until he’s declared himself done. It doesn’t take very long. Only then does he approach. Lan Zhan shows him the page of studies he’s done. As Wei Ying looks at them, he’s never felt more beautiful or desirable, not even when he’s made up to be just that. All the while, Lan Zhan watches him as he studies them. His attention prickles along the curves and planes of Wei Ying’s body in the fitted t-shirt and skinny jeans he’s chosen. Wei Ying never wants him to stop looking.

He returns the sketchbook to Lan Zhan and takes Lan Zhan’s hand as Lan Zhan pulls him down onto the soft, wild-grown grasses of the yard.

He is rather unfortunately called away for the next few weeks—so many weeks in a row, even though it’s not yet the hellish months in the fall and spring when he’s booked constantly for all manner of bullshit events: walking runway shows, photoshoots, brand galas, the fucking works. It’s like the world is against him. Even texting Lan Zhan on a semi-regular schedule, let alone doing anything as normal as trying to go on another date, is impossible.

It sucks. Honestly. Half the time he’s afraid to message him while he’s got the chance just in case he’s remembered his time zones wrong and ends up being disruptive and half the time he’s agonizing over not being able to reply right away because its the middle of the night and he’s asleep. What if it’s important? What if Lan Zhan gets fed up with being ignored? How long before he wonders if Wei Ying is just straight up lying to him?

He’s not, but he’s seen it happen before among the models he works with, dramas growing between lovers the longer they’re together. People think all sorts of things about the sort of individuals who choose to model and the lives they lead. Some of it is right; some of it is wrong. But few make it through unscathed.

He’s considered a time or two asking one of the other models how they handle it, but he doesn’t—he doesn’t really want them to intrude in his life with Lan Zhan, small though it is so far, limited by time and distance and the are we, aren’t we of their early familiarity with one another.

Maybe he can somehow set up a specific time every few days to talk to Lan Zhan? Like with jiejie? That might be something? It’s not very romantic, but it’s better than Lan Zhan thinking he’s not trying or doesn’t care.

As he’s sewn into the dress he’s been asked to wear for this photo shoot, he can’t bite his lip for fear of messing up the makeup and he can’t sigh or else he might pop a stitch in the fabric. He can’t fidget or talk for the same reasons, and it’s just him and the inside of his head and every stupid worry he’s ever had about drifting too far away from the people he cares about.

Why doesn’t he just go home? He doesn’t need to rely on Auntie Yu any longer. From what Lan Zhan’s said, his uncle would like to see him. There’s nothing stopping them except themselves and the lives they’ve pieced together in the absence of their families.

It’s terrifying, dizzying to even consider—that’s why. He immediately shuts down that line of thought and recommits himself to the job of standing on a stage, shod in high heeled boots that pinch his toes as he simpers at the impersonal glint of the camera before him.

After he’s done, sweaty and too hot and feeling a little like he’s been trapped in a tiny room for too long with only a single fan to push around hot air in the stagnant, faux grimy warehouse he’s been shoved into for this shoot, he thinks: fuck it. It’s 3PM back in Saugerties and maybe that’s an appropriate time to try talking to Lan Zhan. He doesn’t really know at this point, run down by jet lag and lack of sleep and time spent standing in boots on hard cement floors.

He waits until he’s back at his hotel, ducking in through the back like a criminal. There’s some celebrity or other staying here right now as well and there are paparazzi sneaking around. He thinks he’s gotten past them without rousing any attention, face hidden by his ever-present hoodie and sunglasses, but he’ll find out soon enough if the disguise is sufficient. Otherwise his name is suddenly going to exist in some tabloid connection with a movie star he’s never met. He might get contacted by their management to lean into that connection, a mutually beneficial arrangement to launch them both to higher and higher profiles.

Sighing, he reaches his floor and trudges to his room. He showers and sloughs the worst of his day from his body, coming out of it feeling a little more right-sized for his skin, no longer too tight and hemmed in and small. Though still drained from work and sleepy thanks to the heat, he throws himself at the bed and fumbles his phone. 4PM in Saugerties. Still a reasonable time to call.

Nervous, he dials Lan Zhan’s number, aware he’ll be paying for it with international charges. It doesn’t matter to him. Lan Zhan doesn’t seem like the sort who’d enjoy staying on the phone for very long anyway.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says as soon as he picks up, like he’s been waiting for the excuse to say his name again and couldn’t wait any longer. “It’s late for you, isn’t it? How’s Istanbul?”

It warms Wei Ying’s heart that Lan Zhan manages to keep such a good grasp of Wei Ying’s schedule, that such a detail matters. “Good,” Wei Ying says, though it’s only fine as far as he’s concerned, too hot even now. It’s pitch black as he steps onto the balcony overlooking the clean, cobbled street below. The glow from several high-end stores—a few Wei Ying’s even modeled for—are visible in the dark. A handful of couples laugh as they drag one another down the street in search of more raucous environs. “Hang on. I’ll show you.”

He puts Lan Zhan on speaker and takes a quick picture, studying it to make sure it looks nice enough to send.

“There.”

“It’s lovely,” Lan Zhan says dutifully.

“You don’t sound thrilled with it.”

“Mm. I would have liked to see you in the picture.”

Warm all over again, Wei Ying laughs. “Ah, Lan Zhan. I look like garbage right now. My hair’s a mess from the shower and I look like a zombie without makeup on. You’re not missing much. I should’ve gone up to the roof. You can see the Sea of Marmara from up there.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Lan Zhan insists, ever the gentleman. “Why are you not out enjoying yourself? Or resting?”

“I’m talking to you. How much more enjoyment do I need? Anyway, this is restful to me. Your voice is soothing. You should work for one of those meditation apps or something. Tell people when to breathe or read calming stories to them or something.” He fusses again with his phone, manages to get a decent shot of himself despite the wet hair and general air of the living dead about him. “You’d be a hit.”

Lan Zhan snorts and for one blissful moment, Wei Ying feels like he’s back in Saugerties and Lan Zhan’s right next to him, pressed against him maybe. “I already have a vocation.”

He sends this one as well, waits a moment for Lan Zhan to notice, doesn’t expect the hum of pleasure he receives in response, but finds gratifying all the same.

“Beautiful,” Lan Zhan replies, not at all dutiful this time, “but you ought to rest.”

“Only if you talk me to sleep, gege,” he says, teasing, as he slumps against the balcony. A model getting off on someone praising his appearance? He really shouldn’t be such a stereotype. But Lan Zhan’s so earnest and plainspoken. It sounds true when he says it and not just true, but like he’s talking about Wei Ying himself and not just what he’s seeing in the image. Pathetic, Wei Ying thinks. It’s pathetic just how eager Wei Ying is for that.

“If you wish,” Lan Zhan says.

“Ah, Lan Zhan!” He scrambles upright. “I was just joking. That’s not—”

“Please, if it’s something you want, I would like to.”

“But you don’t like talking much,” Wei Ying points out. His heart stumbles around his chest, overwhelmed, shot through with affection. Lan Zhan is so good. They’ve barely—they’re barely anything yet and he’s already so good to Wei Ying and Wei Ying? Wei Ying wants to be good to him, too. He doesn’t want to make Lan Zhan talk to him when he surely has things to do.

“I enjoy talking to you,” Lan Zhan says simply, unaware of the tenor of Wei Ying’s thoughts. “I could also read to you if you would prefer.”

“Tell me about your day, Lan Zhan. Maybe when I’m back I’ll make you read to me.” In person, he hopes, with his head in Lan Zhan’s lap. Or the reverse! Lan Zhan could use Wei Ying’s lap and Wei Ying could rifle his fingers through Lan Zhan’s hair. It’s always looked soft to the touch, sleek, shorter than Wei Ying’s and perpetually pulled back into a bun or ponytail. He’d run his thumb over the fuzzy, razored edges of his undercut. That, that would be ideal.

“I will remember,” Lan Zhan promises, before doing exactly as Wei Ying asks, relaying everything about his day in quaint detail. In general, he doesn’t speak much, but he’s willing to do so now just because Wei Ying asked. Wei Ying readies for bed—poorly, knowing his stylist is going to yell at him tomorrow for not drying his hair properly—and Lan Zhan is still talking. Wei Ying puts the phone on speaker and lays his head on the pillow and listens.

That’s the kind of man Lan Zhan is.

And now, even from half a world away and seven hours into the future, he feels like he’s home.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, sleepy. “Lan Zhan, you should do those ASMR videos on YouTube. You’d kill at it.” Yawning, he rubs his face against his pillow: another strike against him. “You’d be—” He yawns again and hums. “You’d be so good.”

“Wei Ying?”

“Mh.” He tries to stay awake. Really, he does.

“Wei…”

But he doesn’t do a very good job at it.

Wei Ying awakens in the morning to a text message from Lan Zhan wishing him a good night and a long crease in his face from the pillowcase. Even though the makeup artist tuts at him as he works, it’s well worth it. The memory of Lan Zhan’s voice carries him through the rest of his week in Istanbul.

Wei Ying has barely made it back to his apartment when his phone dings. Groaning, he drags himself to his bedroom, backpack tossed at the couch as he passes it, landing instead on the floor with a resounding thud. He is unwilling to deal with it right now. His luggage loses its battle in the hallway outside the bathroom. The fact that he doesn’t faceplant on the bed immediately is a win, but only because he feels so grimy and disgusting that he can’t stand it.

A whole extra day getting back to New York City because of delays in Turkey and then delays from the weather stateside—freak thunderstorm, planes backed up by an hour—and then delays getting the fuck out of JFK because everyone wants out of JFK. So many delays and he hasn’t showered in at least twenty-seven hours, has barely slept, and now someone wants something from him and he’s—

Tired. Tired of the bustle. Tired of passports and visas and lines at the airport and waiting for arrivals and departures and, and, and. And.

So many ands. He just wants to stay put for five minutes without a ding interrupting his trip to the goddamned bathroom. That’s the only thing he’s interested in and he can’t even get that much.

Scoffing, he checks his phone since he’s just as likely as not to forget if he doesn’t and that’ll bug him the entire time he’s trying to shower.

But when he flicks on the screen, he’s surprised—pleasantly so.

Lan Zhan.

I hope your flight back went well.

Suddenly, his flight doesn’t feel like it was so awful. In fact, it’s fine now if only because he doesn’t want to worry Lan Zhan with the truth.

He needs to reset his sleeping schedule yet again—another month or so before he has to travel again, a veritable feast of time during which he might try to finagle a bit of Lan Zhan’s attention—and falling asleep now, while still grimy and in the middle of the day, would be a terrible idea for a variety of reasons. So maybe once he’s done showering, maybe…

Maybe he’ll video call Lan Zhan instead of sending a text. He’s got his laptop now and doesn’t have to worry about shitty hotel wifi. On the plus side, he’d have to make himself presentable, which would kill more time and keep him awake.

He shoots off a text just to make sure that’ll be okay. Made it home in one piece. You free in about an hour and a half?

I can be. Welcome back.

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. There are so few people who would be so earnest with him and he treasures all of them. He’ll do better somehow. What he shares with Lan Zhan is important to him; he’d like it to grow and flourish. That can’t happen if he’s haphazard about it, if he keeps going about his life like his job will stop being an obstacle all on his own.

He showers quickly, spends an entire glacial age drying his hair and plaiting it back the way his jiejie taught him. Despite the sun and heat in Istanbul this time of year, he’s pretty pasty, having spent most of his time doing night and indoor shoots. Though there’s still time for him to put on a full face of makeup if he wanted to, he settles for concealer and powder only. He doesn’t want to make it obvious that he’s trying to cover the layers of his exhaustion.

He seals it with a smile and a kiss in the mirror for good luck and declares himself done with five minutes to spare. A miracle by his almost non-existent standards.

Despite his nerves, he’s ready for the call when it comes, punctual, just like Lan Zhan always is. There’s no one more reliable than him. Curled in his favorite chair, he huddles up to the laptop. “Lan Zhan, hi!” Even just seeing his face improves his mood. “I didn’t catch you right in the middle of something, did I?”

There’s a splash of paint on his cheek, very small, and if Wei Ying were there, he’d have removed it with his thumb maybe. He would like to think he’d be that daring.

“No,” Lan Zhan says. “Nothing important.”

“I dunno, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying replies, unable to hold back a smile. His thumb brushes his own cheek. “Looks like you might have been working.”

Lan Zhan’s fingers trail down his own cheek in a mirror of Wei Ying’s touch. They smear the paint, much to Wei Ying’s endless amusement. As he grimaces, Wei Ying laughs lightly, and then Wei Ying’s not laughing anymore when Lan Zhan pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket like a real and proper gentleman. He scrubs his cheek until it’s pink and clean. “Gone?”

Wei Ying’s throat dries. “Yeah. You’re good.”

“My apologies.”

“Lan Zhan, you’re fine. It was cute. You’re so cute. What were you working on?”

“Nothing in particular,” Lan Zhan says. “I have been having difficulty painting of late. I thought I might work plein air.”

He imagines taking Lan Zhan with him on one of these trips of his, wonders if it’s something he might manage to swing. He’d pay for Lan Zhan’s ticket, of course, and his rooms are always large enough that it would hardly trouble him to have Lan Zhan along. He could paint as much as he wanted to, anything he could think of, anywhere he wanted to. They could visit museums together and eat together and…

And they hardly know one another. The fact that Lan Zhan’s willing to talk to him like this is more than he should expect. Since he doesn’t like New York City, there’s no reason to think he’d want to travel to other large, bustling cities. “Perhaps you need some inspiration,” he teases, “or a break.”

“Perhaps,” Lan Zhan says, agreeable. “Are you willing to provide?”

“Anything for Lan er-gege. Mo Xuanyu is too fussy about me working the day after I come back from a trip. I could be free tomorrow if you are.” That way, he’d have the night to think about exactly how he can distract Lan Zhan from his problems. Wei Ying’s spent enough time around artists to know being uninspired sucks. Wei Ying doesn’t have any commensurate experience, but he suspects it’s not so very different from having to participate in a lackluster shoot.

“I am free.”

“Great! I’ll come out to see you. Be prepared for something fun.” He doesn’t know what that will be, not yet, but that doesn’t matter; he’ll figure it out.

“I could come to—”

Wei Ying waves him off. “Please. It’ll be nicer in Saugerties. I’d like to come back. There is no fun to be had in New York City. I already checked. All the reports say it will be muggy and tourist-infested. Give me an excuse to go somewhere not muggy and tourist-infested, ah?”

“Nowhere is entirely free of tourists and the weather will be humid.” Lan Zhan ducks his head and looks off-camera. “It isn’t an interesting place, but you are always welcome.”

“It is interesting because that’s where you are, Lan Zhan, and I don’t care if it’s humid there. The tourists? Eh. Your house and yard is really nice. It’ll be good to see trees, you know? And inhale oxygen that’s not half-exhaust.”

“Very well. Your point is made.” His ears are growing so red it’s easily visible even through the poor lighting of the video call on Lan Zhan’s end.

Wei Ying yawns into his elbow. Though he tries to keep it casual, he of course doesn’t succeed. Lan Zhan’s too attentive. “You’re tired.”

“Yeah, what’s new?” Wei Ying grins. “It’s fine. I need to stay awake anyway or else my sleep schedule will be even more messed up. My favorite sleep aid went on hiatus and I’ve been bereft ever since. Ah, what will I do? Behave like a responsible adult apparently. You have to keep me awake, Lan Zhan!”

“Bereft?”

“Yes! The videos were so soothing. The ones I already have are enough, of course. I’m not greedy!” It’s strange to talk about hanguangjun, even if only in the abstract. Ever since they went on hiatus, he’s tried not to think about it, and he’s never told anyone about his fascination with the channel. Anyone he cared to tell would be distressed to learn he requires anything to sleep, that his sleep is troubled at all. “I worry a bit. I guess. They’ve always been really regular with their posts before. But I suppose everyone goes through trying times.”

“What sort of videos?” Lan Zhan asks. There’s a strange quality in his voice, curious, but like he’s trying to hold his curiosity back.

“Oh, um…” God, this is already embarrassing. He can’t expose his, uh, whatever he feels about hanguangjun’s videos. Not to Lan Zhan, whom he likes and would like to have continue liking him in return. To try to talk about it feels a little illicit even though it’s entirely innocent. Well, mostly. So maybe he lies a little bit, just a small one. Though hanguangjun is his favorite and the only person he’s regularly followed, there are a few other creators he sometimes checks out. “Just, like, walking videos? Like, walk with me through Nice at night or whatever. I don’t know. It’s all white noise stuff, yeah?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. That strange note in his tone hasn’t budged and Wei Ying feels a fresh wave of guilt, but he doesn’t know how to explain hanguangjun, especially not to another artist. Lan Zhan will think he’s got a fetish or something. And it’s not like that at all, not really. hanguangjun has nice hands maybe, but that’s about it. “I hope they will resume posting soon for your sake. Perhaps they are merely uninspired, too.”

“Maybe.” Wei Ying taps his nails along the underside of his laptop. “Anyway, Lan Zhan. How are you doing?”

As far as segues go, it’s not Wei Ying’s finest, but it does turn the conversation in other directions. Before he knows it, he’s been talking with Lan Zhan for hours and it’s close enough to the time he usually goes to bed in New York that he doesn’t feel bad about ducking out.

But talking about hanguangjun just makes him want to watch hanguangjun and so, once he’s in bed, he pulls up hanguangjun’s channel, clicks over to their ko-fi. There, a few others have expressed their hopes that hanguangjun will return soon. Wei Ying drops a few ko-fi, thinks about Lan Zhan and his lack of inspiration, and adds on a message: whatever you’re doing, i hope it’s bringing you happiness.

Though he queues up a playlist, he’s asleep within five minutes of the first video.

After a nice little argument with Mo Xuanyu over arranging a car for him yet again—are you just going to start driving everywhere, Wei Ying, should we get you a car instead of continually hiring or borrowing one—Wei Ying’s on his way to Saugerties with a backseat full of supplies and a plan. It’s a stupid plan and Lan Zhan will probably balk at it, but he doesn’t care. It’ll be fun and sort of artsy and it’ll make a giant, glorious mess, which should be different enough from Lan Zhan’s usual routine that it’ll shake something loose.

Or he’ll banish Wei Ying from his sight, thus putting an end to this weird, lovely little interlude in Wei Ying’s life. The odds, as he calculates them, are about even.

The weather is kind as he drives, a little on the cool side despite the season, but good enough for what Wei Ying wants to do. Even traffic seems to be on his side, both out of the city and into Saugerties: it’s clear, a relatively quick drive that finds him right where he wants to be in two hours rather than the two and a half he’d been expecting.

Lan Zhan is ready to greet him anyway, just like last time, eyes wide as he takes in the preponderance of bags in his arms.

“Let’s play, Lan Zhan,” is all he says in response to Lan Zhan’s unasked question.

Within twenty minutes they’re ready, dressed down in white t-shirts and basketball shorts courtesy of Wei Ying and a short-term endorsement with Nike that left him with way, way too many clothes he’ll never wear. He’s told Lan Zhan to put on shoes and socks he doesn’t care about, but of course, they’re beautiful, too, pristinely white.

“You sure you want to wear those?”

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Lan Zhan says as he pins up one of the sheets Wei Ying’s brought to the brick that makes up the back wall of Lan Zhan’s house. The yard is every bit as impressive today as it was the last time Wei Ying was here. “They’re the pair I care about the least.”

“Making a mess is what we’re doing!” He studies Lan Zhan again. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Lan Zhan answers, dry. “It’s fine.”

“Okay, so we’re going to throw water balloons filled with paint at the wall.”

Lan Zhan’s eyebrows twitch, but he nods. “It will be alright if my shoes are stained.”

“Okay, then,” Wei Ying says. “Let me just get these filled up and we can do our thing.”

Lan Zhan shows him to the hose—neatly coiled away by the garage, of course—and between them, they get all the balloons filled with the liquid watercolor paint, dropping each brightly colored balloon into a laundry basket Lan Zhan has retrieved for the purpose. By the time they’re done, Wei Ying worries he didn’t bring enough sheets to use them all.

He may have gone overboard with the bags of balloons.

Ah, well. They’ll figure out what to do soon enough or Wei Ying will take them back to the city with him and, uh, definitely not leave them for some kids to wreak havoc with.

Before long, they’re standing on a small patch of mosaics that serve as Lan Zhan’s back seating area. Lan Zhan is staring at the sheet with some trepidation, gaze shifting between the fabric and the water balloons. The sheet waves lightly in the breeze, enticing, daring them to flinch first.

“Well, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, crouching. He hefts one of the balloons in his hand. It wobbles slightly, water sloshing inside. Under the sunlight, it gleams bright blue. He holds it up. “Handsomest man in the backyard gets the first balloon.”

“Wei Ying.” His fingers brush warm over Wei Ying’s water-cooled palm as he takes the balloon. “Then it should not be me.”

Wei Ying’s grown unused to blushing over compliments about his appearance, but he does so now. Grabbing a red balloon, he rises. If they start bickering about this, they’ll never do what they set out to do. They’re both too stubborn when they think they’re right. “Go together then? Count of three?”

Sweet, naïve Lan Zhan nods and counts down in earnest, releasing his balloon as promised. It splatters against the sheet, satisfying, and bursts in a spray of watered down blue paint. Before Lan Zhan can complain, Wei Ying lobs his at the wall, hitting a spot just a few inches lower than Lan Zhan. The paint spreads and mixed with the blue in places, turning a half-hearted shade of purple.

“You cheated,” Lan Zhan says, put out only a little bit by Wei Ying’s grand betrayal.

Laughing, Wei Ying hands over another balloon, yellow this time. “Sucks to be the best looking, eh?”

Though Lan Zhan frowns lightly, he takes the balloon and throws it. He’s got quite an arm on him for how noodly they are. Don’t get Wei Ying wrong, he likes the delicate elegance of Lan Zhan’s appearance, but he also likes that there’s some power hidden beneath the slightness of his shoulders.

Before Wei Ying can get too distracted, he grabs another balloon. They keep throwing them until the sheet is saturated, running with color. Sweat gathers in Wei Ying’s hairline and under his arms. He’s pleasantly warm and loose all over from the exertion. His arm aches pleasantly by the time they’re done.

Lan Zhan, of course, looks perfect. Even the flyaways from his messy bun seem composed compared to Wei Ying.

He smooths a few of them back, uses the excuse to skim his fingertips over the shell of Lan Zhan’s ear, warm to the touch. His fingers leave behind a few light stains, oval-shaped to match the press of his hand. Lan Zhan leans into it, much to Wei Ying’s delight, but when he leans in to steal a kiss, Lan Zhan—

Wei Ying screeches as cold water splashes over his chest and neck. At first he’s not sure what’s happened until Lan Zhan—the absolute menace—actually laughs at him. It’s not a full-blown laugh, more a huff of amusement, but to Wei Ying, it’s—

“Lan Zhan!” he shouts. “The cruelty! The injustice!”

—it’s on.

Scooping as many balloons into his arms as he can wrangle, he tries to back away without tripping over his feet. He succeeds, but it gives Lan Zhan time to lob another at his poor, bedraggled chest.

He nails Lan Zhan twice to make up for it, green and red mixing to form a heinously ugly riot of colors over his chest and one shoulder. As Wei Ying cackles, Lan Zhan gets him in the leg. The water drips, disgusting, into his already soggy sock.

By the time they run out of balloons, Wei Ying’s also out of breath, so he’s glad for the forced cessation of hostilities. The thinned out watercolor paint sticks to his skin a bit, but not much worse than plain water would have. His true struggle, he shortly finds, is looking at a wet and equally out of breath Lan Zhan, bent over, hands on his knees as colored water drips down the curve of his cheek and the devastatingly lovely stretch of his neck.

When he looks up at Wei Ying, he’s smirking a little.

“Lan Zhan, you’re a mess,” Wei Ying says, teasing. “You made me a mess. How could you?”

“Mn,” he replies, as though pleased. “My apologies.”

“How am I supposed to go home like this? I’ll never be dry again. I’ll wrinkle up and float away like a little prune.”

“Prunes don’t float,” Lan Zhan points out helpfully. “Come. I’ll get a few towels. Then you can take a shower. And you can borrow clothes.”

Lan Zhan really is too sweet for words. “How are you not already spoken for, Lan Zhan?” he asks, trailing after Lan Zhan to the little mud room where his washer and dryer wait. He stands just outside of it, dripping as Lan Zhan steps inside and goes to grab a few towels that are folded neatly on a rack above the dryer. He’s so… Wei Ying doesn’t know people like Lan Zhan. They’re all like him, scattered and unconscientious. They’re fun. Wei Ying is fun, too, but people like them don’t bring a towel over and scrub at your hair for you and wipe the water from your face with fond gentleness.

“Why should I be?” Lan Zhan asks.

“You’re so—” But what word could encapsulate Lan Zhan? “You’re really good.”

“Hm.” He drapes the towel around Wei Ying’s neck. “Let me get you some dry clothes.”

“I brought some! They’re just—” Still in the car. “Lan Zhan!”

“It’s fine.” And then he goes back to that cubby and digs out a t-shirt and thin pajama bottoms. Thank fuck the shorts are thick enough that his boxer-briefs aren’t wet, too, because he’s not about to turn down a sanctioned opportunity to wear Lan Zhan’s clothes. “I’ll show you to the bathroom.”

They’re both at least dry enough that they’re not actively dripping on the floors and so Wei Ying doesn’t feel too bad about trailing after Lan Zhan, especially since he offers up guest slippers in the process.

Lan Zhan’s house is every bit as immaculate as it was the first time Wei Ying came over and Wei Ying is every bit as nervous about messing it up today as he was then. More so since the whole point of the balloons was to make a mess.

Just. He maybe didn’t think about this part? Possibly? Lan Zhan would have.

As Wei Ying showers, he thinks about Lan Zhan puttering around his house, wet and maybe miserable, unable to sit anywhere without risking stains because Wei Ying’s taken over his shower. He’s quick about it, at least, doesn’t poke and prod at Lan Zhan’s stuff like he would want to under normal circumstances. He can be that good to Lan Zhan in return.

He steps out, wrings out his hair with the towel and quickly plaits it, pulling on Lan Zhan’s clothes. The shirt’s a little small in the shoulders and the pajamas skim his ankles in a way that leaves him feeling exposed, but they’re soft and comfortable and smell faintly of Lan Zhan, clean and sweet.

He rinses and swipes out the bathtub with the towel, places it in the empty hamper behind the door.

“Lan Zhan!” he calls, opening the door and shoving his feet into the guest slippers. Steam billows out after him and the chill from the rest of the house makes him shiver. “Lan Zhan, I’m done. Where are—?”

“Have some tea,” Lan Zhan says, holding out a mug for him as he materializes in the hallway.

He takes the mug from Lan Zhan, shamelessly touching Lan Zhan’s hand as he does. The tea is fragrant as he brings the mug to his mouth and it tastes even better. Whether it’s because Lan Zhan made it or because Lan Zhan’s just always so detail oriented is hard to say. Regardless, it’s good. “Lan Zhan, how are you real?”

“It’s just tea.”

Lan Zhan has removed the t-shirt and shorts, putting on a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater in dark gray instead. His hair is still a little wet, trailing over the towel he has around his shoulders, but his face and hair is no longer covered in paint. Did he rinse off under the hose while he waited? “If you say so.” He fiddles with the handle of the mug, feels the walls of the hallway close in around him. Lan Zhan is so near, within easy touching range and Wei Ying wants so much with him. “Did you have a good time? I know it’s a mess, but…”

“I did,” Lan Zhan says. When Wei Ying reaches for him, he captures Wei Ying’s wrist. “Thank you.”

Wei Ying flushes. Is he forever going to flush in Lan Zhan’s presence? Just go endlessly red in the face whenever Lan Zhan is kind to him—which is all the time because Lan Zhan’s always kind? He’s gentle. He’s really too sweet for the likes of Wei Ying.

Surely Lan Zhan can feel Wei Ying’s pulse jumping under his thumb; he can probably see the pink of his cheeks, too, and the way Wei Ying can’t quite meet his gaze for fear of looking too smitten or—or whatever it is he’s feeling. Too much, that’s for sure. Too much for a few face-to-face meetings and some video calls and a slew of asynchronous texts.

“Wei Ying, I…” Lan Zhan wets his lower lip, tongue so very pink as it darts out, teasing. “Will you stay the night?”

Oh. And there’s an even bigger flare of butterflies, a whole net’s worth trying to escape within his stomach.

“I know you’re busy and the drive back is tedious at the best of times, but—”

“I’d love to stay!” Keenly aware that he’s hindered by a mug of hot liquid, he’s careful as he steps into the circle of Lan Zhan’s arm. “Lan Zhan, of course I’ll stay.” A whole night with Lan Zhan? It doesn’t even matter that the drive back into the city tomorrow will probably suck. Even if it was the worst thing that ever happened to Wei Ying, he’d be happy to make the sacrifice. “Maybe you’ll even let me model for you again, hmm?”

Lan Zhan’s answering expression, so warm and welcoming, is more than enough to make it worthwhile.

While Wei Ying’s driving back to the city, stuck in a hellish bout of Monday traffic, Mo Xuanyu leaves him a voicemail telling him that he’s being asked to go to London for a month for various brand events and shoots with some of the British magazines that are especially fond of him. Mo Xuanyu, Mo Xuanyu announces with tinny fanfare, had been able to consolidate their requests so he wouldn’t have to return in week-long stints. Just one round of travel, one time spent getting used to the time zone change. Isn’t he the best manager Wei Ying could hope to have?

A whole month away again. Already. It feels like every step he takes with Lan Zhan requires two steps back.

He agrees, stipulating that any days that are freed up will be left free, but it still… it still feels like he’s mortgaging his present for a future he’s not even sure he wants anymore.

What’s the point of all this travel, this apartment, life amongst creatives who seem only to exist to suck the life out of everyone around them and themselves, too, when the only thing that’s made him feel happy in years is hidden in the sticks in a lonely, sprawling brick house with a wild yard and a quiet, gentle man who makes him feel more important than any billboard ever could?

He goes. He hates it just as he’d known he would.

When Wei Ying makes it back to his apartment—Mo Xuanyu actually sublet an apartment for him in Knightsbridge, with decent wifi even, incredible—he’s disappointed, but not surprised, by the ding of his phone. It seems like it hasn’t stopped filling with notifications since he got here. It’s like playing a game of roulette with himself, because ninety percent of them are work related, but sometimes, sometimes they are from Lan Zhan and that makes all the annoyances worth it.

He looks at his phone, already preparing for the inevitable complaint, request, or gushing flattery that awaits him.

But no.

It’s a YouTube notification.

[new video uploaded!]

His heart pounds in his throat. It’s been several months since hanguangjun has posted, but there’s no one else it could be. He’s only subscribed to one channel. Somewhere along the way, he’d gotten used to no updates from them. Somewhere along the way, he’d discovered he no longer needed them quite as much.

As he grabs his laptop, he worries he won’t feel the same as he used to. He owes hanguangjun so much. It would be a betrayal for him not to appreciate it, but he feels—

He’s felt transformed. Spending time with Lan Zhan, talking to Lan Zhan, he’s different. New. He’s sat for Lan Zhan, such a different, more vulnerable and exhilarating form of modeling than he’s ever experienced before. He’s asked Lan Zhan to talk him to sleep, even more vulnerable. It’s good. Important. It’s helped. Lan Zhan has helped.

But hanguangjun was there first. He needs at the very least to see how they’re doing.

He readies for bed, curls into the unfamiliar sheets and hugs the pillows that are not his.

He reads the title, simply: quinacridone red - no talking. Though his fingers itch to press play, he refrains, going first to the description, which is slightly longer than hanguangjun’s normal, which focuses entirely on the content of the video. There’s still a thorough description, but there’s also a personal message tagged at the end of it, unusual.

I wish to thank each of you for your patience while I was on hiatus and I apologize for the extent of it. I did not expect it to last quite this long. I hope you find what you need, as I have.

A lump forms in Wei Ying’s throat, almost as though hanguangjun is speaking directly to him. It’s such a short handful of sentences, but affection for Lan Zhan and hanguangjun both fill him to the brim and even more, until he’s overflowing with it. He realizes he has found what he’s needed and he’s so, so glad that hanguangjun has, too. It’s the middle of the afternoon back home and Wei Ying is overcome with the need to say something. He thinks hanguangjun would approve.

He taps the option that lets him send a voice message. “Lan Zhan, I like you so much,” he says, feeling silly, but willing to be silly anyway. “I hope your painting goes well today! I hope the weather is nice! Have a good day!”

After he’s sent it, he doesn’t even regret it, even though it’s trite and ridiculous, a little childish. But he does like Lan Zhan and he wants him to know it’s true especially when there’s an ocean between them. Perhaps it’s especially true then.

Once he’s done that, he sighs, content, ready to watch hanguangjun’s latest soothing masterpiece.

And it is. They haven’t done anything like this before that Wei Ying has seen. Normally, they paint, but they’ve never… made paint before? Is that what they’re doing? He wants to ask Lan Zhan as he watches red powder being poured onto a white surface on the desk they normally use. The red is unusual, too. hanguangjun normally favors blues and purples, shimmering silvers, cooler, calming colors.

Not that this isn’t soothing. Just different. Each motion is soothing anyway, as they pour some viscous substance into the pile of powder and then as they take a mallet-thing—he’s not sure what it is, wants to ask Lan Zhan if he knows what it is—to the pile to… move it around? In a circle?

It’s strange, but interesting, engrossing enough that Wei Ying startled when his phone rings.

He picks it up absently, eyes still glued on the motion of hanguangjun’s hand. “You wouldn’t even begin to guess what I’m watching right now,” he says.

“What are you watching?” And oh, it’s Lan Zhan. Shit. He’d thought it was probably Mo Xuanyu. But Lan Zhan sounds so charmed—and why the fuck would he be charmed by Wei Ying?—that he wants to answer, wants to lean into this thing of his that he likes so much, wants to share it with Lan Zhan, too.

He’s already sort of told Lan Zhan about hanguangjun. Why should he not admit to the entirety of it?

“Ah, this video of someone making paint? People make paint? It’s really cool!” God, he must sound stupid. Of course people can make paint. People can make a ton of stuff. “I like it,” he says, enthusiasm a little dampened.

“That sounds interesting,” Lan Zhan says, kind, kinder than Wei Ying really deserves.

But he keeps blabbering anyway.

“I don’t know. It’s really relaxing. I found this account a while back? It’s all just… them painting things? Mostly watercolors.”

“This is the one that went on hiatus?” There’s a cautious note in his voice.

Wei Ying winces. “Yeah,” he says. “I know I said it was a different one, but… this is the one I really meant. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell you. It’s not embarrassing or anything.” Except for how it is, a little bit, that he can pin so much of his well being on it. “But yeah. Their videos have meant a lot to me.”

“I understand,” Lan Zhan says and he sounds very much like he does. “It’s personal.”

“Yeah. And you’re great. I don’t want you to think you’re not. I watch these art videos and you’re an artist? I don’t want you to think I’m… it’s just… it’s a little weird, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s that weird, but I’m apparently the target audience.”

“I think it would be hypocritical if I did find it strange,” Lan Zhan says carefully, “considering I’m probably the one you’re talking about.”

Wei Ying pushes himself upright, nearly dumping his laptop in his haste. “Lan Zhan?”

“hanguangjun posted a video about making paint today, quinacridone red.” He pauses, drawing in a breath that’s audible even over the shitty speaker in his phone. “hanguangjun is me.”

For the span of a long moment, everything makes perfect sense in Wei Ying’s world. Of course Lan Zhan is hanguangjun. Who else could it be? They’re both perfect in their respective ways. Who else could it be? Now that he thinks about it, he even recognizes the oak tree, often blurry, that’s visible in the background of most of hanguangjun’s videos. He’s sat beneath it. Those hands. They’re Lan Zhan’s hands.

“That’s… wow,” Wei Ying says. It’s incredible is what it is. What are the odds? He laughs, more than a bit awkward. Of all the things he could have expected to happen, this is the last on the list. Lan Zhan is hanguangjun. How could he have been so oblivious?

Wei Ying has relied on Lan Zhan all this time and didn’t even know it. Lan Zhan has been generous for even longer than Wei Ying ever knew Lan Zhan existed.

For a few blissful seconds, he’s happy to discover it. Truly happy. He likes them both so much. Lan Zhan really is so good. And he doesn’t just help Wei Ying. He helps so many people. That’s incredible. “Lan Zhan, thank you for telling me,” he says. “I’m sure that was difficult for you.” Other video creators don’t have nearly as much of a problem sharing who they are on social media. Clearly Lan Zhan had kept it a secret for a reason. “I…”

His voice cracks; he can’t speak through the bubble threatening to burst in his chest.

“Wei Ying?” There’s an edge in Lan Zhan’s voice that Wei Ying doesn’t like, but Wei Ying doesn’t have the words to assuage him.

Lan Zhan is hanguangjun.

And suddenly, he realizes just how silly he’s been this whole time. He’s endlessly required Lan Zhan’s help even just to get to sleep. What more would he take from Lan Zhan if he had the opportunity? And how much of it would Lan Zhan give?

Too much. He can already tell how generous and doting Lan Zhan could and would be, and how Wei Ying would take endless advantage of it. Hasn’t he already with all the phone calls requesting he talk him to sleep? Hasn’t he already by barging into Lan Zhan’s life? Even commenting on Lan Zhan’s videos because the thrill of knowing hanguangjun—Lan Zhan, it’s Lan Zhan—has probably read Wei Ying’s words is an imposition of sorts.

That’s what Wei Ying is: an imposition.

He swallows around the bitterness of the realization. The bubble within him deflates all on its own.

“Lan Zhan, I think I’m going to go now,” Wei Ying says, so cowardly. He knows it’s cowardly, knows Lan Zhan deserves better. “I’m, you know, I’m pretty tired and I’m sure you have better things to do and—” And he’s been stupid, so stupid. “And yeah. I hope the rest of your day is good. Thank you for calling. That was nice of you.” Oh, good. He’s just talking nonsense now. “Bye, Lan Zhan!”

“Wei—”

He ends the call before he can let himself be pulled back in by Lan Zhan’s generosity.

Sighing, he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. Fuck. He’s fucked up. He is actively fucking up now. And he can’t stop himself because he can’t help but think of what else he’ll take from Lan Zhan if he’s allowed to. Will he keep prodding him to help Wei Ying sleep? Will he show up almost unannounced at Lan Zhan’s home to stain everything with paint and then stay the night? Doesn’t Lan Zhan deserve better than a boyfriend who would already worry about this sort of shit? The kind who’s forced by work to be out of the country so much of the time?

He’s been a leech and he can see himself wanting more and more until there’s nothing left between them except Wei Ying’s monstrous neediness.

It’s already difficult enough to bound himself by his once weekly conversations with jiejie. He’s not sure he could manage the same restraint with Lan Zhan, not when they’re both otherwise alone in places they don’t particularly want to be for jobs they do care about.

Or… well. Lan Zhan’s clearly doing his life’s work. It’s Wei Ying who’s not so sure of the same. He enjoys it. It’s been fun, but in truth, he derived more pleasure out of sitting for Lan Zhan than he’s ever experienced in front of a camera for fucking Burberry or whatever.

His phone dings with a message. He flips his phone over and looks at it. Guilt wells within him at seeing the message from Lan Zhan.

I hope I haven’t upset you.

He has to assuage Lan Zhan somehow. It’s the only thing he can think to do and nowhere near enough.

you haven’t I promise. Because that seems too abrupt, he adds before sending: do they make you happy

He waits and waits for Lan Zhan’s reply, hating that he’s put this distance between them. It’s better to have distance between them. That way Lan Zhan won’t have to put up with his whole deal. But it still hurts; it sucks.

They are fulfilling when my work stymies me. I like doing them. I have not been motivated.

Three dots continue to pulse at the bottom of the screen.

I have not been motivated by much lately. Not for the channel or my work.

More dots. The longer it takes, the more Wei Ying’s throat swells with sticky, ugly emotion. It’s not fair that Lan Zhan can do this to him. It’s not fair that he’s doing this to Lan Zhan, making things awkward like this.

Our time together has motivated me.

Prickling heat builds between his eyes, easily blinked away, but humiliating all the same. His hands shake as he types.

i’m glad

lan zhan let’s talk when I get back okay?

Okay.

Wei Ying hates leaving things like this, but he can’t… he fears he won’t be able to hold back if he doesn’t stop communicating now. Who knows how much worse he’ll make it if he doesn’t stop himself now.

When he wakes up in the morning, he knows futility when he sees it staring back at him from an unfamiliar ceiling, when he feels it beneath his body sinking in an unfamiliar bed.

Giving up Lan Zhan is impossible.

Continuing as he has been is impossible.

“Yuyuuuuuuuuuu, Mo Xuanyuuuu, tiniest little brother of my heart,” Wei Ying croons as soon as they’ve both been dropped off at the end of the day. He’s tired and more than a little cranky, overheated and feeling all sorts of grimy from yet another warehouse shoot. And worse: he’s actually gathered up his balls and told Mo Xuanyu he wants to have a meeting about his future schedule.

It’s the right time to talk, but he’s nervous about the conversation anyway. It’s never fun to talk about the future or, like, disappointing the people he cares about. Which is hilarious because it feels like that’s all he does. He should be used to it.

“You’re being annoying,” Mo Xuanyu says. His thumbs are flying over his phone screen and he hasn’t yet removed his AirPods from his ears because he’s kind of an asshole. “What are you springing on me now?”

He lets himself into the apartment and waves Mo Xuanyu in. “I want to cut back,” he says, because getting it out while Mo Xuanyu is distracted is the best way to broach any career-changing topic. “I’m tired. I’m bored. There are other things I want to do.” Mostly, they involve Lan Zhan, but maybe other things, maybe putting all that enthusiasm he used to have about art to good work. He’s built a name for himself, enough of one anyway, to be comfortable and recognized. He’d like to pay it forward somewhere, step back from the parts he hates.

He hasn’t really thought it through, but this is what he’s good at: figuring things out when his back is to a wall. It’s how he started down this road and even if there have been some downsides, he can’t say he fully regrets it.

Mo Xuanyu looks at him like he’s grown a second head for a handful of seconds and then he nods, decisive. “Good,” he says. “It’s about time.”

Wei Ying’s barely had a chance to make it to the kitchen to get tea prepared for the both of them. “Huh?”

“I can tell when you’re unhappy about something,” Mo Xuanyu says, following him into the kitchen. “I see your face when we have to go to JFK and I see it when we come back. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t—”

Mo Xuanyu pushes him aside so he can make the tea instead. He’s always been fussy about such things. “Look, it’s fine. I’d like to spend more time in New York, too.”

Ugh. “I wouldn’t go that far…”

Mo Xuanyu ignores the jibe. “I can get a lot more done from there. If you’re ready to back down, so am I. I’ve had a few interesting offers, too, you know.”

“Ah?”

Mo Xuanyu smiles, hands over a mug with a tea bag stuck in it because he thinks Wei Ying is a heathen who doesn’t care about proper tea preparation. “Listen, I didn’t want to say anything because, uh, I owe you? You took a chance on some nobody way back instead of finding a more established manager. I wouldn’t even have these chances if you didn’t. But if you’re telling yourself you’d be letting me or anyone else down if you backed off, don’t, okay?”

“Uh.”

“Drink your tea, Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying drinks mechanically, mind racing. He’d expected… he’s not sure what he’d expected. It’s not like he’d thought Mo Xuanyu would say no. He can’t, even if he wants to. Or, well, he can, but it’s entirely Wei Ying’s decision what he does or doesn’t do. “You really want to go back?”

“Not all of us hate the city as much as you do.”

“Ha ha. I just mean…”

“Wei Ying, I’m tired, too. It’s a lot. And you’ve always run as fast as anyone I’ve ever met. And hell, I’ve met me, so… that’s a lot of running. Trust me when I say I’m happy for you if you want to chill the fuck out for five minutes. I’m right there with you.”

“Okay.” Okay, so this was maybe easier than he expected it to be. That’s cool. That’s good. He can get behind that. “Okay, so…”

“So I would suggest you fulfill your current obligations and begin phasing out the ones that won’t kill you on contract terminations. You’ve got a few with no-fault dissolution clauses in them. We can chuck those easily enough. If we get you down to just the multi-year agreements, it should be better. We’ll spin it like you’re even more valuable for how unavailable you are, so it shouldn’t make anyone all that unhappy. People like exclusivity.”

Ha. As though he’s ever had an easy time making people happy. That’s funny. But Mo Xuanyu sounds so certain. Wei Ying wants to believe it.

“Look,” Mo Xuanyu says, finally finished with his own tea. “What’s your real concern here? If you want the penthouse and the glamour and endless traveling, then you might be fucked if you try to leave, but if that’s not what you want… it’s not like you’ve been all that ridiculous with your earnings. You could just… go off and live a normal life. Congratulations and all that. Have fun. Yadda yadda.”

A normal life. That sounds… so improbable now. “How would I even afford New York City?”

“Get thirty roommates like everyone else? Move? It’s your decision, Wei Ying. You have more options than you think.”

“I’ll… yeah.” Wei Ying’s mind tries to grapple with these words, fails. But he does know he’s tired of this endless schedule. “I’d like to wind down. Let’s… let’s do that.”

And then I can figure out exactly who I can be if I don’t have to deal with… this.

“Alright, good,” Mo Xuanyu says, somehow coming across as more grown up than Wei Ying’s ever been. “So let’s make it happen.”

Within two weeks, he’s home, his schedule scrubbed of as many obligations as Mo Xuanyu could get rid of for him without incurring massive penalties. It’s still filled for the next few months, but there’s an end in sight. The tension in his chest eases up.

Lan Zhan hasn’t called or texted, though hanguangjun has posted videos, back to their—his—regular schedule. Each one includes a personal note at the end, encouraging and sweet that could apply to anyone, but that Wei Ying knows is meant for him.

He calls jiejie for their regularly weekly conversations. For the first time in years, he’s able to let it run long and jiejie, perhaps by a stroke of good luck, is able to remain with him.

“A-Ying, there’s something different about you,” she says, smiling sweetly as she hands Jin Ling off to his father. From the background, he calls in his little voice, “Bye bye, dajiu!”

“Bye bye, A-Ling!” Wei Ying calls after him, throat thick with emotion. Jiejie’s eyes shine, too. “Jiejie. I miss you all.”

“You should come home for a visit then,” she replies. The way she says it this time, he thinks maybe is a little bit different, a little more welcoming. Not that she isn’t always so, but… it feels more real maybe. “You look a little less tired than you normally are,” she adds. “Are you taking better care of yourself?”

It doesn’t feel like it, but he thinks… “I’m cutting back on my schedule. Maybe that’s why.”

Her eyes crinkle as she nods. “Good. I’m glad. You were looking too tired. Come home for a bit. We’ve got a guest room all ready for you whenever you want it. I’ve been waiting for you to be ready for it.”

There are a million reasons he can and should say no. He can’t give any of them. “Okay, jiejie. I’ll make arrangements.”

She smiles at him as brightly as he’s seen since before he left. “Good. That’s good, A-Ying.”

“Is there… if I brought someone with me… would it be a problem?”

“A friend?”

Wei Ying shakes his head. “Not a friend, no.”

“The bed’s big enough for two. There’s plenty of room for anyone you’d like to bring.”

hanguangjun posts another video and Wei Ying flinches when he hears the ping. Though he fights with himself over whether to watch it or not, he finally manages to avoid doing so. He’s been sleeping better. He doesn’t need it.

He just has to prove that to himself.

He does send Lan Zhan a single text because he thinks what Lan Zhan’s going through is probably lonely, too, from his side of it. He doesn’t want Lan Zhan to think he’s entirely… that he’s ghosting Lan Zhan. That’s not what it’s about. He just needs some time. And maybe being with Lan Zhan isn’t the right decision, but even though they were only ever really… what? Lovers? Nothing quite as strong as that. Casually dating? Maybe, except that didn’t last long either. They haven’t known one another long enough to be friends. But it feels like it’s the best decision he could make, just: he needs to be sure of himself first.

congrats on releasing another video hgj don’t work too hard

Maybe Wei Ying’s just a coward who doesn’t want to sever the connection.

I will not.

Are you well?

Ah, Lan Zhan. He’s so good. Wei Ying can practically see the selfless concern dripping from Lan Zhan’s words. Even through a screen, it’s obvious.

i’m okay lan zhan

Here’s where he should open up in some way, maybe try to pry open the door Wei Ying’s closed between them.

i’m sorry i’ve been
how I’ve been

There is no need to apologize.
Is there any chance I can see you while you’re in New York? I would be happy to travel to you if necessary.

Wei Ying draws in a deep breath. It’s a fair question. And he wants to see Lan Zhan. He just…

Ugh. Being an adult sucks sometimes. He hits the call button, heart lodged in his mouth. He tries to swallow his fear down and fails.

Lan Zhan picks up reluctantly—or so it seems. There’s a longer delay than there should be.

“Wei Ying,” he says.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes out. God, he’s missed saying Lan Zhan’s name out loud. “Lan Zhan, I know I’m…” A flake, or worse. Who just does what he does and gets away with it? Lan Zhan’s been so kind. He deserves so much. “Lan Zhan, I feel like I rely on you too much,” he blurts. “And finding out you’re hanguangjun…”

He pauses, bites his lip. “It’s weird, isn’t it? That I like you this much so quickly? I bother you all the time! We barely know each other. I need you to sleep. I needed you even before I knew it was you. That’s not right or fair. You shouldn’t have to deal with my garbage. We should have fun together.”

“I like it.”

“Lan Zhan!”

“I do,” he insists, more emphatic than Wei Ying’s ever heard before. “It feels like I matter to you.”

“But—”

“No.” There’s a sigh, perhaps as he gathers himself. “That is how I feel. I would like you to rely on me. You’ve brought nothing but joy into my life. We have fun. Is what I feel not also fast? Is it not ‘weird?’”

Frankly, it’s sweet as fuck, but if Wei Ying concedes to this, then he has to concede to the fact that he’s been behaving ridiculously for no good reason. “Lan Zhan?”

“If it’s too much for you, that’s one thing, but if you feel like you’re overstepping, then please consider that I do not see it that way.”

Wei Ying has to tighten his hold on his phone to keep it from slipping out of his hand. “What if—”

“Wei Ying, I have not liked anyone as immediately as I’ve liked you. The best parts of my day sometimes are the afternoons you ask me to talk to you until you fall asleep. Nothing you’ve wanted from me has been too much. I don’t anticipate that changing.”

Oh. That’s…

“Lan Zhan…”

“Please. I’m telling myself I haven’t done anything wrong, but if there’s anything I can do to convince you—”

“You haven’t.” Wei Ying chokes on an unhappy laugh. “Lan Zhan, you’ve already…” Ah, why didn’t he just talk to him from the start? “I’m planning on cutting back on my work, stay here more often. I still have some contracts to clear up, but… but I’ll be around more. Maybe I can spend more time out there? We can figure out what’s weird together?”

Can it be that easy?

“I would like that.”

Neither of them say anything for a long while. Maybe Lan Zhan is as afraid of ruining the moment as Wei Ying is.

Then: “Wei Ying, would you… when you do come, would you mind sitting for me again?”

Wei Ying thinks he hears what Lan Zhan isn’t saying: I need you, too.

Wei Ying is just finishing up a video conference when Lan Zhan leans in the doorway, looking fond and soft as he waits for Wei Ying. Wei Ying catches his eye and mouths one minute before saying his goodbyes and closing the lid on his laptop.

“How did it go?” Lan Zhan asks, polite as always. His fingertips are still coated in paint from the work he must have just finished, another video, one that Wei Ying will, as always, be excited to see.

Now that he and Lan Zhan share a home with one another, he rarely has to watch them with anything other than appreciation for his boyfriend. It’s only on those rare occasions when he has to go back into the city for a few days or across the country or fly to another that he ever has issues and on those nights, he does watch them, knowing Lan Zhan will be pleased that they can help in his absence.

“I’ve been given the go ahead,” he says, still not quite believing it: a small arts foundation for underserved children in Saugerties and other smaller towns outside of New York City.

That means he’ll get to spend even more time here, help in ways that he never imagined himself capable of before. He can still model when he wants to—Mo Xuanyu had been right to some degree; there is cachet from being unavailable—and he gets this.

Wei Ying springs to his feet, puts himself into Lan Zhan’s arms, the only place he really wants to be. “Lan Zhan, I was thinking…”

“Mm?”

“I’ve been talking to jiejie about going back home for a visit. Just to see.”

“That would be nice. You should.”

“Would you… want to come with me?” He looks up into Lan Zhan’s eyes, knows that he’s stayed away for reasons that are his own. But he’d like… he’d like to go home with Lan Zhan, maybe see where he’s from if he’s amenable. Figure out if they’d like one day to move back. He thinks it might be nice.

Wei Ying smiles against Lan Zhan’s neck, squeezes him tight, hopes Lan Zhan knows that.

Lan Zhan remains motionless for a moment before releasing a tiny sigh. “I would,” he says eventually. “I would like that.”

If he were to be honest, it doesn’t matter where they are. To Wei Ying, as long as they’re together, they’re home. What Lan Zhan wants is what Wei Ying wants. They’ve built a place for themselves here, but the choice isn’t either/or.

For the first time in his life, it’s both/and.