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Wei Ying would like it known that this is not his fault.

Well, not entirely his fault. It’s probably a little bit his fault, like, no one aimed a gun at him and told him to do the thing that got him into his current situation. It’s just—the thing about being a fox spirit is that the operative word there is fox, which is not to say that he loses the ability to have people thoughts, because he doesn’t! He’s a very smart and attractive fox, thank you very much! He’s a fox that can do (some) math! Basic algebra, at least. He’s a fox that can solve for X, probably, depending on what formula you’re showing him and whether or not he feels like doing any fucking math that particular day, which he usually doesn’t, so maybe there’s a better explanation but whatever. Anyway. It’s not that he stops being able to think like a human, it’s just that being a fox is a lot easier, and sometimes when things are shit and you’re gonna have to dumpster dive behind the grocery store in order to have food for the next week and be able to make rent, it’s nice to let the fox brain take over and chill a little. Foxes don’t care about rent. Foxes don’t even know what rent is. Except for Wei Ying, as a fox, and presumably other fox spirits trying to claw their way through modern life on a job that pays barely over minimum wage. He knows what rent is, which is exactly why he decided to go on a run in the woods tonight in fox form, in order to stop thinking about rent and enjoy some good smells.

(Wei Ying actually really likes his barely over minimum wage job at the no-kill cat rescue and adoption center, and doesn’t resent them for not paying him more, because he’s seen the financials and he knows they’re held together with wishes and string, and that the string was repurposed from broken cat toys. It just means that when something shitty happens—like his bike needing a sudden repair, as an unfortunately non-hypothetical example—the giant dumpster out back of the Fred Meyer becomes his grocery store, and he never knows what he’s going to be surviving on for the next week. One time it was an entire sealed trash bag of assorted muffins and a whole flat of refrigerated fruit smoothies that were past their best-by date by a single day. That many carbs with no fresh vegetables or protein wreaked havoc on his digestive system, but hey! He didn’t have to worry about scurvy!)

(Jiang Cheng insists that Wei Ying’s willingness to dumpster dive is specifically because he’s a fox, and foxes are notorious trash-wreckers. Wei Ying tells Jiang Cheng that he’s just doing what he can to reduce food waste through direct action, and the real problem here is a capitalist system that would rather throw away usable food then distribute it to people in need for free. That usually starts an argument that lets Wei Ying escape without having to accept any of his brother’s charity. One of these days Jiang Cheng is going to catch on, but it hasn’t happened yet.)

Anyway, the whole “trying to make rent” thing combined with the “not sure what he’s going to be eating this week” meant that Wei Ying might have skipped dinner before he headed out on tonight’s jaunt, and that might have meant his fox brain was hungrier than usual, and that might have meant he was a little more relaxed about his dumpster diving than he would normally be in human form. In fox form he can basically eat whatever without getting sick, and if he finds a slice of pizza still in the box, and the box is easily accessible, then he’s gonna eat that fuckin’ pizza. He didn’t run across pizza tonight, though. Pizza probably wouldn’t have led to this.

Look. Peanut butter is one of the world’s perfect foods. Wei Ying is not above admitting a deep, childish love for both the cheapest, sugariest, most garbage peanut butter imaginable and the high-end, gotta mix the oil back in stuff, and has he mentioned he was hungry? So there was this jar, and it had so much peanut butter still in it, and when his fox nose scented it and didn’t catch any poison or spoilage, what was he supposed to do? Not avail himself of this gift? No. He shoved his delicate little snout right in there and got to licking, but, you know… Elegantly. Definitely not snarfing and making horrible little fox sounds and rolling around on the ground while he went ham on the jar. Sure, he had to work a little bit to get at the last of it, but anything good is worth working for, right? So finally, triumphant, no longer starving, and maybe a little thirsty now from eating half a cup of peanut butter in about two minutes, he’d tried to remove his head from the jar.

Operative word tried. Wei Ying pulled back and the jar came with him, and his fox brain flashed a lot of error messages like WARNING WARNING WARNING and OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK, and he’d pulled back again and the jar came with him again and Wei Ying proceeded to have a full on panic reaction, whining and yelping (which was very unpleasant to have reflected back on him from inside of a glass jar, not that that could stop him from doing it in the moment) and scrabbling at the opening where it was stuck around his neck. All the rational human thought in the world couldn’t override the bone-deep animal fear, and he doesn’t really know how long he flailed around for before the adrenaline drained away and he flopped over on his side, panting for breath and still whining sadly on each exhale.

Yeah. So. Wei Ying might be stuck? Which isn’t great, to be sure, but now that he’s no longer panicking he can actually use his people brain, the one that does math, and he’s a pretty smart people. This will be no problem! He’ll get his head out of this jar and trot home and climb in through the window that Wen Qing and Wen Ning leave open for him and in a week, when he’s not so embarrassed, this will be a hilarious story. Cool. Good plan. Wei Ying nods to himself, smacks his jaw against the side of the jar, and squares his little fox shoulders in determination. He braces his paws on either side of the jar opening, does his best to get a grip without opposable thumbs, and gets to wiggling. He just—he just needs to push—he’ll be fine if he can just—

Something like five minutes later, Wei Ying is no closer to having the jar off his head, the bottom of his jaw and the base of his ears both feel hot and bruised, and he’s become aware of how badly he scratched up his neck during his panic-scrabbling earlier. No matter what combination of limbs he brings into play he can’t budge the fucking jar, and even his people brain is starting to panic now. Fuck fuck fuck. Okay. He flops back down, wiggles his head back into the jar so there’s better airflow around his neck, and tries to figure out what to do next.

So. Clearly he’s not going to get this jar off his head like this. The jar is glass. Glass is notoriously breakable, so he could find a rock and try to smash the jar against it, but glass is also fucking dangerous, and his head is in here. If he breaks it he will, best case scenario, end up with a bunch of broken glass in his fur and he’ll have to deal with that when he shifts back human. Worst case scenario? He ends up with a broken glass collar and cuts his own throat and bleeds out in the woods and dies. No broken glass! None!

(Wei Ying whines to himself, piteously, not because he thinks it’s going to help but because this sucks, and the amount that it sucks has to come out his mouth.)

He thinks, briefly, about shifting into his human form. Would he just sort of… explode out of the jar? Or would he end up with his human-sized head stuck inside this fox-sized peanut butter jar? That is genuinely the most horrifying thought he’s ever had in his life. No fucking way. Shifting is right out! Not today Satan, not today!

Wei Ying rolls over, thinking, and stretches out his legs while he thinks. He needs hands. He needs someone else’s hands. If he can get to his place, or his brother’s, or his sister’s, then they can help him get his head out of this damn jar. Getting home is the best option—Wen Ning would help him without question. Wen Qing would help him without question and then yell at him afterward, which is fair and he’d probably deserve it. Jiang Yanli is the next best option, because she’d help him without question and probably feed him soup, but she’d also be gently worried about him running around in the woods and eating trash peanut butter, and he hates it when she worries. Jiang Cheng is the absolutely worst-case option here—he’d yell at Wei Ying for twenty minutes, get the jar off, and then yell at him for another twenty minutes, and then he’d snitch to Yanli-jie. Any of them are better than being stuck in a jar, though! Wei Ying’s been in here for half an hour, and he’s not a fan.

Armed with a plan, Wei Ying nods to himself, whacks his face against the inside of the fucking jar again, and climbs to his feet. Jiang Cheng lives closest, so he’ll head in that general direction and hope for the best. This is fine! He’ll have this jar off his head so fast it’ll hardly even be a good story.

An hour later, still lost in the greenway woods, Wei Ying is starting to think he might not be getting this jar off anytime soon. It turns out that he usually tracks his own scent to get back home, and he hadn’t even realized he was doing it because it was so instinctive. Inside this Fucking Jar (as he’s dubbed it) all he can smell is peanut butter, fox breath, and panic, none of which are useful to his current situation. Relying on visual landmarks eventually manages to get him to the edge of civilization, where there are street signs again! This is less helpful than he would have hoped, since it’s hard to read the signs through the Fucking Jar, and, as it turns out, human Wei Ying doesn’t pay attention to the names of streets at all. Landmarks only, baby! Landmarks he can’t fucking find as a fox!

Wei Ying whines to himself inside the glass, wastes a few more minutes scrabbling at it, and only manages to make his already-battered neck hurt worse. He’s not sure how long he’s been stuck, but he’s thirsty and tired and it’s full-ass dark, the streets nearly empty. The emptiness of the streets is a blessing, because it means no one sees him in his current, intensely embarrassing predicament. After feeling sorry for himself for a little while, he squints furiously at the nearest street sign, and then at a couple address numbers. If his apartment is at something like 13748 Western, then he should go toward the higher numbers, right? Wei Ying whines, again, when the highest number he can easily see is 5921. Ugh. Fuck. Time for a lot of walking, he guesses.

Later, Wei Ying doesn’t remember much of the experience. He walks until his feet hurt, his neck sore from holding up the weight of the glass jar, thirsty and hungry and miserable. Dogs bark at him a few times, which startles him into running, diving behind bushes or into alleys to escape, always ending with him even more lost. He can’t tell where he is, he doesn’t know how to get home, and when the sun rises it finds him hiding behind a dumpster, sprawled out and panting. His tongue is dry, he’s nauseated, and he’s so tired, god, he’s never been so fucking tired in his life.

He might pass out for a little while. The passage of time is unclear, but he eventually hears something like, “Oh, no! Mooooom! Mom, look!” and then, “No, sweetie, don’t touch it,” and maybe half of a conversation on a phone? It seems very far away, and not at all relevant to him, so he just drifts, thinking longingly of water and soup and living in a world where there isn’t a glass jar on his head. Wei Ying doesn’t realize what’s happening until he hears a very low, very familiar voice, and when he cracks an eye he sees (blurred, through the glass) a very familiar gray jumpsuit, and his heart kicks up into high gear in both excitement and shame because—

It’s Lan Zhan.

Oh, thank god. This is the worst thing to ever happen. Wei Ying is so fucking happy to see him.

⋄⋄⋄

Lan Zhan is, not to put too fine a point on it, the hottest wildlife rehabilitator Wei Ying has ever seen. Wei Ying hasn’t seen a lot of wildlife rehabilitators, but he’s pretty sure Lan Zhan would hold up against any comers. He’s also super good at his job, incredibly kind to every animal Wei Ying has seen him with, and—tragically—immune to Wei Ying’s flirting. Wei Ying forgives him for the last one, mostly because he has a massive, massive crush on Lan Zhan and therefore would forgive him if he picked Wei Ying up and threw him into a dumpster. (Uh, without Wei Ying asking. Wei Ying does, as previously mentioned, sometimes go into dumpsters of his own volition. It’s called grocery shopping.)

It starts like this:

Wei Ying climbs off his bike, squinting against the early-morning sun. It’s the time of year where it manages to be directly in his eyes on the way to work and also the way from work, which is really rude of it. He wheels his bike along with him, the one squeaky bearing reminding him that he’s gonna need to Do Something about it, and pauses, because there’s a cardboard box in front of the door to the Feline Fancy Cat Shelter, which is his destination. (The shelter, not the cardboard box.) He’s only been working here about a month and a half, but it’s not the first time he’s arrived to find an after-hours “rescue” waiting for him. (At least three were catnappings, from people who brought in perfectly healthy animals wearing collars with contact information. A single phone call solved those, and while Wei Ying is on Team Don’t Let Your Cats Wander Unsupervised—he’s seen the statistics, both about destroyed songbird populations and about average cat lifespans for indoor versus outdoor pets—he still has a lot of questions about the kind of person who steals someone’s obvious pet and dumps them at a shelter, starting with, “Hey, what the fuck?”)

“Don’t worry, buddy,” he tells the box, leaning his bike against the wall and popping a squat. “We’ll get you home.” Or, possibly, to a new home, or maybe adopted out to a brewery as a working cat, depending on how feral his new charge is. There are options!

Wei Ying opens the box cautiously—the cat inside doesn’t smell like a pet, so he’s guessing it’s probably pretty feral—and his caution is immediately rewarded when a very confused and angry possum hisses at him with all its teeth.

Wei Ying shuts the box.

This is not a cat.

Okay.

Wei Ying hasn’t had enough coffee yet to deal with a box full of possum. He stares into the middle distance for a little while, questions firing off inside his brain like a flock of birds taking flight. The cardboard box lurks, a time bomb lying in wait to hiss at him again. Did someone actually think this was a cat? Like, maybe if you’d only ever seen paintings of cats from those medieval manuscripts would you think a possum was a cat. Maybe someone had never seen a cat in person and had to make their best guess based on the hissing. Cats do hiss. He peeks into the box again, just to make sure, and yep! Still a possum!

For lack of any other ideas, Wei Ying opens the door, brings the angry, hissing possum box inside, and goes through the process of opening the shelter for the day. There’s a coffee pot in the break room, and when he’s chugged his second cup of the cheapest coffee the bulk store has to offer, he feels a little more ready to tackle the issue of someone bringing a possum to his cat shelter. 

(Wei Ying doesn’t actually own Feline Fancy, on account of being broke as hell, but. Well. He’s a fox, and he’s been here long enough that it smells like him, so now it’s part of his territory, so it’s his on an instinctive, animal level. Jiang Cheng sometimes clowns on him for being a canine relative and working at a cat shelter, but Wei Ying likes it. Cats and foxes have similar enough personalities that they can get along, and he’s allowed to ban dogs from the premises entirely. Wei Ying will always point out that foxes are what happen when an ecosystem needed a cat and only had a dog to work with, so he’s obviously the superior canid, thank you very much. His enhanced sense of smell gives him an edge when it comes to triaging animals that arrive in rough shape, and he’s great at arranging adoptions, because he can immediately tell if a cat is going to be compatible with a human after about five minutes observing everyone’s body language and scenting for any fear reactions. Also, the apartment he shares with Wen Qing and Wen Ning doesn’t allow pets, so he gets to spend all day with cats, and it doesn’t sting as much to go home to his barely-furnished room and curl up in an empty bed. It’s fine.)

Sipping his third cup of terrible coffee, Wei Ying glares thoughtfully at the cardboard box, and wonders if he should give the poor thing some water, or maybe some cat food. Something clicks as the caffeine kicks in, and he goes scrabbling through the employee manual. “What If It’s Not A Cat?” the header reads when he finds the page he’s looking for, and yes, that’s exactly what he needs to know. There’s contact information for several other shelters, depending on what kind of domestic animal shows up, but more importantly, there’s a phone number for a place called the Cloud Recesses Wildlife Rescue, and he’s so happy about that he forgets to do his usual millennial grousing about having to actually call someone on the phone instead of texting as he dials.

“Cloud Recesses Wildlife Rescue,” a deep-voiced person says, picking up after one ring, and Wei Ying is so glad whoever this is actually answers their phone.

“Hi,” he says, “I work at Feline Fancy? The cat shelter? And I found a possum in a box on my front step this morning and, listen, I know cats and possums both hiss but that’s no reason to bring a possum to my cat rescue, you know? Do you know what I should do with this possum?” He pauses, realizes that was a lot of information to impart in one breath, and adds, “I found your number in our employee manual. Is this a good time?”

“It’s fine,” the voice says, almost entirely without inflection. “Is the possum injured?”

“It doesn’t smell like it,” Wei Ying answers without thinking, realizes a moment later that that’s a weird thing for a normal person to say, and covers with, “There’s no, uh, fear-peeing or pooping that I could tell. It seemed pretty perky when it hissed at me.”

“They do that,” the voice tells him, a little wryly, maybe? Wei Ying’s having a hard time getting a read on him (probably a him) over the phone. “I can be there in half an hour. Do you have a safe place to keep it until then?”

“Is it okay if I leave it in the box?” Wei Ying asks. “I don’t want to put it in any of the cat spaces because germs.”

“The box is fine if it’s adequately ventilated. Cover it with a blanket and leave it somewhere quiet. No food or water.” There’s a pause, like the deep-voiced animal rescuer is taking some notes, and then the voice comes back with, “Feline Fancy on West King Street?”

“That’s us!”

“Mn. Half an hour.” This has a ring of finality to it, and Wei Ying isn’t surprised when the line goes dead. Half an hour with a displeased possum before he’s free? He can handle that.

Wei Ying tucks the box under the front desk—where no one else goes, because it’s a maze of cords and dust bunnies—and he finds a clean blanket from the general shelter blanket stash to drape over the top. It’s one of those sturdy produce boxes with holes to use as handles, so he figures that’s probably enough ventilation for this possum who’s having an even worse day than he is. Then he does what needs doing—there’s always a litterbox to scoop, or a water bowl to refill, or, in the case of the little calico spitfire in the smallest adoption room, an entire fucking bowl of kibble to sweep up because she likes to throw it all over the floor instead of eat it. “We’ve talked about this, Veronica,” he tells her as he puts more kibble in the bowl. “It’s for eating, not for playing.” Veronica, for her part, stares at him without blinking and then yawns pointedly, displaying all her teeth. “You’re a monster,” he informs her, though she doesn’t seem to care, and when he steps back out it’s to the sound of the front door opening.

“Sorry!” he calls, jogging back down the hall and skidding into place behind the desk, “I was feeding a bratty calico, how can I help yooouoooh.” He trails off, because the man waiting in the lobby is possibly the hottest man he’s ever seen, and is also wearing neat gray coveralls that say “Cloud Recesses Wildlife Rescue” in embroidery on the left breast pocket. Wei Ying takes a moment to clock the long ponytail, the broad shoulders, the appealingly large hands, the cheekbones, holy shit, and also to appreciate that this incredibly hot wildlife rescuer is also Asian. He’s not assuming anything about his background, because this area has a lot of different diaspora populations, but it’s always nice to not be dealing with another condescending white guy.

“Hi,” Wei Ying says, when he realizes he’s been staring a little too long. “I’m assuming you’re here for my possum.”

The very attractive animal rescuer makes an affirmative noise. Wei Ying’s bisexual little brain has a lot of opinions about that noise, and he shouts it down and remains professional as he says, “It’s back here,” and waves the Hot Animal Rescuer behind the desk. They crouch shoulder-to-shoulder as Wei Ying gently slides the blanket-covered box back out. Hot Animal Hero doesn’t seem particularly interested in talking as he pulls back the blanket and puts on a pair of sturdy leather gloves, and he smells incredible, so Wei Ying keeps babbling both because a) he can never fucking shut up and b) if he doesn’t keep himself occupied with words, he’s going to shove his face into this dude’s neck and huff him. (That doesn’t usually go over well with normal humans. People usually find it somewhere between “rude” and “sexual assault,” so Wei Ying has learned to wait until he at least knows people’s names before he sniffs them. Some of his past partners even found it cute, at least until they got fed up with Wei Ying’s whole chaotic everything and dumped him again. So it goes.)

“Does this happen a lot?” he asks. “I mean, you were in our employee manual, and you knew where we were, so I assume it’s happened at least three times. It feels like three times is about the number of times something needs to happen before it goes into an employee manual. What other animals have you picked up from here? What’s going to happen to the possum now?”

Hot Animal Hero blinks at him once, slow like a cat, and Wei Ying flushes a little. He knows he can’t shut up. He’s just like this. He’s about to apologize for babbling when the man says, “Once a month on average. Mostly raccoons and possums; a coyote once. I will check it for any injuries, give it food and water if it needs it, and release it into an appropriate habitat.” His voice is even deeper in person. Wei Ying wants to roll around in it. A second later the actual words kick in, and Wei Ying cringes, hoping he’ll never find a coyote on the front step. They’re not dogs, but they’re enough like dogs to be a big ol’ nope. He opens his mouth to ask something else, not knowing what, right as Hot Animal Hero opens the lid of the box and gets enthusiastically hissed at. “Ah, yes,” he says to the possum, in a much softer tone of voice, “You’re upset. That is understandable.” He reaches one gloved hand in and murmurs, “Don’t worry, Xiao-gua, I’ll take you somewhere safe.”

Wei Ying dies a little inside and doesn’t think he can be blamed for it. Anyone would feel the same way after hearing that voice coming out of that face calling an angry possum “Little Melon” in Chinese. The possum apparently agrees, because it stops hissing and goes docile, settling into a corner of the box and blinking up at Hot Animal Hero with sleepy eyes. “Good job,” Hot Animal Hero tells the possum. “You’re doing very well.”

Wei Ying is going to fucking marry this man. Tall, hot, smells good, good with animals? He’s gone. He’s done. The crush he develops is instant and all-consuming. Maybe, he hopes a little miserably, maybe it’ll turn out that Hot Animal Hero has something terribly wrong with his personality or hobbies. Maybe he’s one of those guys who makes liking football his whole identity. Maybe he secretly hates cats. Probably he’s straight, not that that’s ever stopped Wei Ying’s crushes before. He watches Hot Animal Hero’s big, competent hands as he closes up the box again and blurts, “Do you like cats?”

Hot Animal Hero regards him for a moment, perhaps taken aback? Wei Ying has just enough time to consider diving under the desk to hide his own shame before he says, “Yes.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, incredibly grateful not to be left hanging. “Cool! I mean, you probably don’t work with cats a lot, not, like, pets. You’re a wildlife person! You don’t run a cat shelter!”

“Mn,” the man says. “Sometimes.”

“What?” Wei Ying feels like he missed a step in this conversation somewhere. Maybe it’s just that this guy is still looking at him, and he has incredibly pretty eyes, to go along with his incredibly pretty everything else.

“I work with cats sometimes,” Hot Animal Hero clarifies. “Strays. Ferals. I catch them as part of my work and bring them here.” He pauses, cocks his head, and says, “Not recently.” It has the feel of a question to it.

“I’ve only been here like a month,” Wei Ying says, “so that’s why I haven’t seen you before, probably. No possums before today.” Wow, his mouth won’t stop! He hates it!

“Mn.” Hot Animal Hero nods. “May I take this blanket?” He gestures at the cartoon cat patterned fleece with one still-gloved hand.

“Oh!” Wei Ying says. “Yeah! Sure, we have a volunteer who brings them in. They go home with the cats, so why not send one off with your new hissing best friend.”

“Thank you,” says the man in his low, sexy voice, and Wei Ying feels more appreciated than possibly ever before in his entire life.

“No problem!” he says, as Hot Animal Hero carefully re-covers the box and they both stand back up. “Thank you! For taking this possum. I really had no idea what to do next.” He frowns. “Hey, what happens next?”

The man glances down at the box and back up at Wei Ying, and Wei Ying realizes with mild horror and intense embarrassment that he definitely already asked that question. Hot Animal Hero doesn’t point this out, and politely reiterates, “Health check. Food and water, if it needs it. I will find an appropriate habitat and release it when it’s ready.” The box shifts, the possum obviously moving around, and he tells it, “Don’t worry, Xiao-gua. It will be fine.”

Wei Ying opens his mouth to declare his eternal devotion to this absolute stranger and at the last moment manages to turn it into, “Seriously, thank you so much, you really saved both our asses. It was nice to meet you!” He offers his hand, realizes after he does that Hot Animal Hero is holding a box and also still wearing gloves, and raises said hand awkwardly to run through his own hair. Hot Animal Hero watches him do all this without his face changing expression in the slightest. Wei Ying honestly isn’t sure if that’s better or worse than if he’d actually reacted outwardly. At least if he made an annoyed face Wei Ying would know he was annoyed. (Wei Ying is used to people finding him annoying. It’s fine.)

“Lan Zhan,” Hot Animal Hero says, neatly cutting through the beginning of Wei Ying’s nervous spiral. Wei Ying makes a questioning noise that’s much higher and longer than he means it to be, and he clarifies, “My name is Lan Zhan.”

“Oh!” Wei Ying feels his face split into a grin, something warm bubbling up inside his chest like he’s been dipped in sparkling water. “Hi. Hi, Lan Zhan.” He says the name just to taste it, rolling it around on his tongue. “I’m Wei Ying.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, carefully, like Wei Ying’s name is something that deserves to be treated with consideration. “It was nice to meet you as well.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, a little dazed. “Cool. Come back anytime.”

Something softens at the corner of Lan Zhan’s mouth and the edges of his eyes. “I will return when I am needed,” he says, like a fucking superhero, and then with a final nod he’s gone, leaving Wei Ying alone in the lobby, staring into the middle distance and pondering the ethics about using someone’s professional animal rescue phone number to ask them out. It would be pretty unethical, he decides after about ten seconds of yearning, and then the phone rings, and he startles back to the real world and his actual job.

He thinks about Lan Zhan a lot. It’s… pretty pathetic, actually, to be this obsessed with someone he’d met for all of five minutes, but also in those five minutes Lan Zhan had pretty well ticked all the boxes for Wei Ying’s Type, so can a poor single twenty-something college washout really be blamed?

(Also, he’d smelled really, really good, and the fox part of Wei Ying’s brain makes a lot of its decisions based on smell, and all of Wei Ying’s brain basically wanted to roll around in Lan Zhan’s scent. It’s a whole thing. He ends up sniffing all the deodorants at the grocery store until he finds one that smells the closest and starts using it, just to get the fox brain to shut up a little. #HuliJingProblems, he’d call it on Twitter, if he’d ever been able to find other fox spirits on Twitter instead of furries. The furries are nice, at least, but unhelpful.)

A month later, Wei Ying gets to work fifteen minutes late because of a series of minor disasters and is honestly delighted to find an annoyed raccoon in a humane trap. “Lan Zhan!” he says, when the call connects. “It’s Wei Ying! I have a raccoon for you!”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says. “Is it healthy?”

“Just mad at me,” Wei Ying tells him cheerfully, and Lan Zhan makes a thinking sound.

“I am currently relocating a rabbit,” he says. “Will the raccoon be safe with you for the next hour?”

“It’ll be my new best friend,” Wei Ying promises.

“Good,” Lan Zhan says, his voice maybe a few degrees warmer through the slightly fuzzy connection. “I will be there as soon as I can.”

He’s there in forty-five minutes. He still smells amazing, this time with a grassy, kinda outdoorsy undertone. He calls the raccoon Xiao-gua and it calms down as soon as Lan Zhan is holding the humane trap and Wei Ying stops any pretense he had with himself about not having a crush so large it could be seen from space.

It goes on like that. Lan Zhan divests Wei Ying of another possum, this one in a large tupperware with holes punched in the lid. Pride month brings three separate raccoons, and more importantly, Lan Zhan wearing a very subtle rainbow enamel pin on his collar, to Wei Ying’s combined delight and despair. (Wei Ying is, naturally, wearing his black denim vest covered in bi pride enamel pins and patches. He flirts even harder than usual, but Lan Zhan, alas, does not react.) The next month Lan Zhan brings in a feral cat. The cat is curled up in his arms and purring furiously, which makes Wei Ying wonder what, exactly, “feral” means in this case.

“She was very frightened when I first caught her,” Lan Zhan explains, as he scritches behind the cat’s ears, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. “I’ve socialized her as much as I could.”

“Cool,” Wei Ying says, instead of launching himself across the counter and kissing him. “Well, it looks like you did a great job.”

“I tried,” Lan Zhan says, very seriously, and Wei Ying wonders if it’s possible for your bones to melt out of concentrated affection.

For all that he only gets to see Lan Zhan for maybe fifteen minutes at a time, Wei Ying manages to learn more about the hottest wildlife rescuer to ever exist. Lan Zhan doesn’t drink coffee, confessing he prefers green tea, and Wei Ying starts keeping a decent gunpowder green hidden in the break room and making a cup when he knows Lan Zhan is coming over. Lan Zhan has an older brother, a specialty wildlife vet who splits his time between the Cloud Recesses and a local refuge for native animals, the kind of place Wei Ying remembers going to as a school field trip. The weirdest animal he’s ever been called out for was an alligator that escaped from its owner and was camped out in a convenience store.

“It was cold that day,” Lan Zhan explains. “The alligator wedged itself behind one of the ice cream freezers, where it was warmer.” He sips the tea that Wei Ying brewed and lets out the smallest sigh. “I do not believe it is responsible to keep large non-native reptiles as pets.”

“Can you even pet an alligator?” Wei Ying asks, today’s cardboard-box-encapsulated, still-stunned seagull (a seagull, for fucks’ sake. That’s not even close to a cat!) on the counter between them. “Why have a pet if you can’t cuddle it?”

Lan Zhan stares into the middle distance, looking exhausted even at the memory. “Humans are strange,” he says, and Wei Ying can’t find anything to argue with there.

He learns that Lan Zhan is deeply, unfailingly kind, no matter what time of day Wei Ying calls him or what animal he’s picking up. He has a dry sense of humor, which comes out rarely, but when it does it’s so cutting that Wei Ying dissolves into giggles. He’s good with literally every animal. He just needs to be near a frightened critter for it to calm down, like fucking magic, and he calls every single one of them “Xiao-gua.” He doesn’t like touching—they haven’t even shaken hands, which is probably at least partially due to the fact that Lan Zhan is usually wearing thick leather gloves. “Disease,” he says the one time Wei Ying actually goes in for a handshake, stepping back smoothly but so politely Wei Ying only feels a little bit hurt over the rejection. It’s fair. Wei Ying knows how that goes. One of the other employees got ringworm from one of the cats and had a miserable few weeks slathering herself in antifungals.

(Wei Ying is like eighty percent sure he’s immune to most human and wildlife diseases, on account of being a little bit magic. He can’t remember ever being sick from something like a cold or the flu, but he doesn’t want to tempt fate on that.)

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Wen Qing asks, after Wei Ying has lain on their couch complaining about Lan Zhan’s hotness and air of mystery and big hands and general everything for approximately half an hour.

“We’re like, co-workers, Qing-jie,” Wei Ying says. “He’s immune to flirting. I don’t want to make it weird.”

“You just told me you want to steal one of the shirts he wears under his jumpsuit and put it in your bed so you can nest in his smell.” Wen Qing tosses the fried rice she’s making, which Wei Ying is going to get to join her in eating because this has been a good groceries month and he was actually able to buy real ingredients.

“And I’m telling you that and not him, because if I told him it would be weird,” Wei Ying insists. Wen Qing snorts and doesn’t bring it up again, which is good, because if she did Wei Ying would have to admit that the reason he doesn’t want to ask Lan Zhan out is because he’s terrified of the answer being no, and he’s happier existing in this weird limbo where there’s a possibility that he might eventually get more than in the potential future where it's certain that he won’t.

The next time he sees Lan Zhan,  Wei Ying is having a truly awful day, between being mildly hit by a car on his way to work and then dealing with a cat surrender that left him wanting to bite someone, preferably the former owner. He’s in the back, dealing with some of the necessary logistics of getting the fluffy white cat settled, when he hears the bell on the front counter ring.

“What?” he snaps, sticking his head out into the lobby space, and deflates a little when Lan Zhan blinks back at him, brows creased with concern and a large blanket-covered carrier in one hand.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, slowly, “is this a bad time?” He gestures at the carrier, and Wei Ying remembers, now, the calendar reminder announcing Lan Zhan’s scheduled drop-off of some new feral rescues. His morning was such garbage that he forgot Lan Zhan was coming. Wow, what a fucking day.

“It’s fine,” he says, even though he’s the only one here right now because, of course, his co-worker called out sick. He’ll just lock the front door and put up a “back in twenty minutes” sign while he handles the intake for Lan Zhan’s cats. It’s early enough that almost no one is trying to adopt anyway.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, in a tone of voice Wei Ying has only ever heard him use the day he came to pick up a wild rabbit that had been attacked by a dog. “You’re injured. What happened?” He reaches for Wei Ying’s arm, the one covered in scrapes and bruises, and halts with his fingers still outstretched but not quite touching.

“Oh, I got hit by a car,” Wei Ying says breezily, fury still pinching behind his eyes. Lan Zhan frowns even more intently, and Wei Ying brushes him off, opening the door to one of the back rooms and waving Lan Zhan through. “I’m fine, really. You should see the other guy.”

“The other guy?” Lan Zhan asks, setting down the carrier and turning the full attention of his worry on Wei Ying.

“I broke his window with my bike lock,” Wei Ying admits, shutting the door. “Who drives a gold Mercedes, anyway?”

“The kind of person who hits people with their car,” Lan Zhan says. His fingers twitch again. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” Wei Ying insists. It’s true. He heals fast, which he assumes is part of being a huli jing, and he lives with a physical therapist/acupuncturist (Wen Qing) and a massage therapist (Wen Ning), plus the Wen lineage means they both have healing magic. Handy when you can’t afford health insurance. “It looks worse than it is.”

Lan Zhan nods, but he doesn’t stop frowning. He opens his mouth a couple of times and closes it without speaking, which Wei Ying finds fascinating. He’s never seen Lan Zhan at a loss for words before. He doesn’t talk a lot, in their fifteen-minutes-max interactions, but when he does it’s measured and thoughtful. “You seem… upset,” he says finally, and he’s still looking at Wei Ying like Wei Ying is a helpless injured bunny, and it abruptly tips over into Too Much, and Wei Ying covers his face with his hands.

“Fuck,” he says, ragged. “Shit, sorry, it’s just been a really bad morning. I’m not usually like this, I swear.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, gently. “I know.” Wei Ying peeks out at him, and Lan Zhan looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. “Where is your break room?” he asks, which are words that have never come out of his mouth before, and Wei Ying is so confused that he just points. Does Lan Zhan want tea? Fuck, Wei Ying forgot to make him tea! “I will be back in a moment,” Lan Zhan tells him, pausing in the doorway, and he darts a glance over at Wei Ying. “Sit down?”

Wei Ying sits down on the floor, because he can’t be bothered to move to the uncomfortable chair in the corner, and he props his elbows on his knees and breathes slowly into the comforting darkness of his hands. Okay. Okay. He’ll just—he’ll just breathe here until he doesn’t feel like crying, and then he’ll do what he needs to do to accept Lan Zhan’s feral cats and get through the rest of the day and then go home, turn into a fox, and curl up on Wen Ning’s lap and get petted behind the ears. He just needs to keep it together until then.

Wei Ying hears Lan Zhan come back into the room, smells his skin and the grassy scent of the gunpowder green tea and then also chocolate? He looks up as Lan Zhan settles down cross-legged next to him, posture perfect like he’s about to meditate, and holds out a mug that says “PUSSY POWER.” It’s full of instant hot cocoa. Wei Ying makes a surprised questioning noise, and Lan Zhan avoids his eyes.

“I didn’t know how you took your coffee,” he says to the exam table. “But I remembered you saying you liked chocolate.” He pushes the mug a little closer, and, bewildered, Wei Ying accepts it.

“Thank you,” he says, still confused about what’s happening with his day but having been raised with enough manners that the gratitude is automatic. The mug is slightly too hot against his hands, burning in a good way, and he cradles it to his chest and watches as Lan Zhan sips at his own cup of green tea.

“You do not have to tell me,” Lan Zhan says softly, eyes still anywhere but on Wei Ying, “but if you want to, I will listen.”

Wei Ying tears up and clenches his jaw hard to try and keep them from falling. Lan Zhan! How dare he be so! Just! This is unacceptable. All Wei Ying wants to do is crawl into his lap and cry into the shoulder of that fucking pristine gray jumpsuit and be hugged to within an inch of his life, so he takes a careful sip of his hot chocolate instead of doing that. Lan Zhan offered to listen, not to be mauled, and Wei Ying is only going to take what he’s given.

“Owner surrender,” he says to the floor, and in his peripheral vision he sees Lan Zhan tense up. “Yeah,” he says, knowing Lan Zhan already understands where this is going. “Like, fucking—I know sometimes it doesn’t work out! People find out they’re allergic, or none of us knew the cat couldn’t deal with kids until they’re in an environment with kids. It’s better if the cat comes back, because we can find it a home that works, I don’t mind those, but.” He takes a harsh breath, smothering the animal urge to snarl.

“But this wasn’t one of those,” Lan Zhan says, low. Wei Ying shakes his head and tries to breathe normally.

“No,” he says after a moment. “It was—she—” Wei Ying swallows down his anger again, hones it carefully. “She didn’t adopt from us,” he says when he can speak again, voice clipped. “This fucking Prada bag carrying asshole walks into my shelter with the sweetest purebred Persian I’ve ever seen in my life, and she tells me they redecorated and the cat doesn’t match anymore, so obviously they can’t keep her.” His eyes burn, and his throat, and deep in his chest, and his hands clench on his mug. “She tells me this like she’s ordering a fucking latte, Lan Zhan, and she—” His voice cracks, humiliatingly. “This cat is so sweet.”

“Irresponsible,” Lan Zhan says, his voice clipped. The hand he has resting on his knee twitches maybe a millimeter in Wei Ying’s direction and stills. “The cat will be better off with you.”

“Obviously,” Wei Ying says, a lot of feelings happening in his chest at once. He takes another gulp of his cocoa, barely avoiding burning his tongue, and lets the warmth settle into his gut. It helps, to hear someone say it out loud, and Wei Ying knows that they’ll be able to find a new family who loves Princess and won’t treat her like a fashion accessory, but he’s still angry and upset and before he can stop himself he opens his mouth and blurts, “I was adopted.”

Lan Zhan goes statue-still, a tiny breath punched out of him. He’s about to say something well-meaning, so Wei Ying barrels on with, “And then I was disowned.” He stares into his mug, hands shaking, and forces out a bitter little laugh. “It’s not—I know—I take it too personally, I guess.”

Lan Zhan makes an offended sound, one Wei Ying has never heard from him before, and his gaze snaps to Wei Ying like it was pulled with magnets. “No.” It’s emphatic, a full sentence, and Wei Ying finds himself pinned under the attention. “Wei Ying,” he says, too sincerely, and Wei Ying absolutely can’t handle that right now.

“I mean,” he says, going for cheerful and feeling himself miss by a mile, “they had their reasons.” There was the car accident, and the way his sister winces now when she steps wrong and something pulls at the muscles she’s still working on rebuilding, and the deep depressive pit Wei Ying fell into afterward, and how he flunked out of college and wasted all their money and almost dragged his brother down with him as Jiang Cheng tried and failed to pull him out of the hole he’d dug for himself. He doesn’t say any of that. Lan Zhan didn’t sign up for Wei Ying’s traumatic backstory when he came in with cats today. He’s already done too much.

“No,” Lan Zhan says again, with the same emphasis, effectively shoving Wei Ying’s mental train onto a different track before it can derail. He looks, briefly, furious. It’s unfortunately hot. “There is no good reason to treat you like you are disposable.”

Wei Ying is still reeling from that, trying to find words to respond, when Lan Zhan pushes up to his knees and steals Wei Ying’s cocoa. “Hey!” Wei Ying squawks, grabbing for it, and Lan Zhan dodges him easily, setting both their cups up on the table. “What are you doing?” Wei Ying starts to push up onto his knees too, because he was enjoying that cocoa.

“Sit,” Lan Zhan orders him, pulling the cat carrier closer, and Wei Ying sits his ass right back down and chooses not to investigate why. Lan Zhan unlatches the gate and reaches inside, and when he turns back around he’s holding—

“Kittens!” Wei Ying whisper-squeals, hands covering his mouth. They’re eight-week-old basic mongrel American short and medium hairs, it looks like, just about ready to start meeting potential adopters. One is a fluffy orange ball, the other sleek and black. Lan Zhan deposits them in Wei Ying’s lap and goes back for two more, another black one (fluffy, this time) and a black and white shorthair. “Holy crap, is this a clown car situation?” Wei Ying asks, his lap already full of kittens as Lan Zhan goes back for another round. “How many did you bring me?”

“Just the six,” he says, depositing a fluffy tortoiseshell kitten with what will eventually become a big white beard and a kind of brownish tabby. “And their mother.” The mother ends up in Lan Zhan’s arms, a rangy orange and white girl with an extremely smug expression.

“How long have you been fostering them?” Wei Ying asks, letting the little fluffy black one bat at his hand. (It’s bad form for the long term—Wei Ying knows better than to train a cat that human hands are toys—but for the moment he figures it’s fine.)

“Four weeks,” Lan Zhan says, sitting down next to Wei Ying placidly while the mother climbs his jumpsuit to sprawl across his shoulders.

“And they were feral?” Wei Ying is wildly impressed. The bearded tabby has climbed his shirt in order to headbutt him in the face. This is the best thing that’s happened to him in probably a week. “How did you get them this socialized?”

Lan Zhan ducks his head, looking embarrassed, maybe? “I have techniques,” he says, vaguely.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, incredibly charmed. “Keep your secrets.” He has an armful of cats. He’d be happy to stay here all day, even though the bearded tabby is now biting his ponytail, her tiny tiny kitten claws prickling at his scalp through his undercut. It’s quiet for a bit, other than the sounds of the cats, and Wei Ying is just trying to come up with the words to thank Lan Zhan for this when the man in question speaks again.

“My brother and I were raised by our uncle.”

It takes a second for the meaning to set in, and Wei Ying inhales sharply and glances over at Lan Zhan, who is staring determinedly at the opposite wall. “You too?” he asks, and gets a tight nod. “Ow,” he says as one of the kittens tries to climb his bare arm, and as he deposits the furball back in his lap, adds, “How young?”

“Six, with my mother,” Lan Zhan says, rescuing Wei Ying from the orange kitten as it tries to climb his injured arm, again. “Ten, with my father, but he became… Absent the same time my mother became ill.”

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, with feeling, understanding the subtext there. He’s familiar with the kind of person who only wants to be around when it’s fun and leaves when it gets hard. Usually this is with regards to cats, but the same general idea applies. “I was three,” he says, herding the black and white kitten back to safety from where it’s about to fall off his thigh. “And then I had a few years in the system before I was adopted, and they put up with me for like fifteen years, so that’s a pretty good run!”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and then he puts his hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder. Holy fuck. Holy shit. All of Wei Ying’s awareness zeroes in on the warm weight of Lan Zhan’s hand through the slightly worn fabric of his t-shirt, the fact that Lan Zhan is voluntarily touching him. They’ve skipped right past handshake and gone straight to a shoulder squeeze. He goes soft and warm and happy through his whole body, like sinking into a bath. Wei Ying wants to die, and he wants to kiss him, and he wants to climb into his lap and push his face into Lan Zhan’s armpit and breathe there for like an hour. Lan Zhan starts speaking again, and Wei Ying has to bodily drag his brain away from Hand big, warm, nice and pay attention.

“You are not someone to be ‘put up with,’” Lan Zhan says, so firmly that all of Wei Ying’s arguments to the contrary wither away in his mouth. “You are thoughtful, and kind, and good with animals. You care very much, and it is a credit to you.” His hand squeezes, once, his eyes intent. “You are a good person.”

This is the most Wei Ying has ever heard Lan Zhan say in one go, and it’s also the worst thing that has ever happened in Wei Ying’s entire life. He buries his face in a kitten, who meows in confusion. You and me both, kitty, he thinks, trying to get his facial expression back under control. He can’t— Holy fuck, what a morning. Lan Zhan’s hand withdraws, leaving Wei Ying’s shoulder cold and bereft, but also leaving his brain more capable of function. Small blessings.

“Well,” he says, drawing humor around him like curtains, blocking the windows into his actual feelings, “I think today’s inaugural meeting of the Sad Orphans Who Work With Animals Support Club has gone well.” Wei Ying sits up and tucks the bewildered kitten to his chest, offering Lan Zhan a wide smile. “Great work all around.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan nods very earnestly, the cat on his shoulders headbutting him in the jaw. “Let me know when you next intend to meet.”

Wei Ying laughs, something melting in his chest, the anger of the morning finally fading away. “I’ll do that,” he promises, and hefts the kitten at Lan Zhan. “Let’s get these little friends all checked in.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says again, suddenly all business. “I brought their health records.”

So after that it’s… warmer. They’re still co-workers, kinda, and they see each other maybe once a month, but it’s with a certain shared feeling, now. When you almost cry in front of a dude and he covers you in kittens to make you feel better it changes things. Lan Zhan brings Wei Ying a horrible mocha abomination that probably contains a full cup of sugar one day in winter when he comes to pick up another possum. Wei Ying laughs and trades it to him for the boring gunpowder green tea he brewed in the back room, their fingertips carefully not touching. Wei Ying comes in to find a package of pastries from the French bakery the next block over and a very pregnant rabbit in a cardboard box and saves an almond croissant for Lan Zhan on instinct. Lan Zhan drops occasional dry jokes about some of what he gets called out for, exasperated by people who choose to live on the edge of the woods and then panic when they see a coyote, and when Wei Ying laughs his eyes go soft. Wei Ying doesn’t know if they’re friends, exactly, but they're friendly. It’s nice. Sure, he still wants to climb Lan Zhan like a tree, shift into a fox, and lay across his shoulders like a living fur stole, but he’s keeping a handle on that. Lan Zhan hasn’t expressed any interest in any further touching than that one shoulder squeeze, and Wei Ying doesn’t try for it. He’s a touchy person, generally, loves to curl up platonically on a lap whenever he has a chance (which is decently frequently—his roommates are practically his second batch of siblings, and he has it on good authority that his fur is very soft) but he also remembers the prickly time in college and after, when he couldn’t stand anyone else’s hands on him. He respects Lan Zhan’s boundaries and just… thinks about the warm, firm weight of his hand like seventy-five percent of the time and maybe jerks off about it more than he should. He’s handling it. It’s fine.

⋄⋄⋄

So all things considered, having Lan Zhan show up while Wei Ying is trapped in a peanut butter jar is the best thing to ever happen and also the most embarrassing situation of Wei Ying’s short-ish life, and he’s too excited about the idea of getting out of the Fucking Jar to worry about the embarrassment right now. He’s still exhausted and thirsty and maybe a little delirious, but Lan Zhan is here! Everything’s gonna be okay!

“Hello, Xiao-gua,” Lan Zhan says, muffled, as he slowly walks closer, and Wei Ying whines a little, both because he thinks he deserves the sympathy and also because being called Xiao-gua makes him go tingly all over. “You’ve gotten yourself into some trouble, haven’t you?” He drops to a crouch, setting down an animal carrier. He has a pole with a loop on the end in his other hand that Wei Ying recognizes vaguely as for catching animals without getting bitten, and none of that matters at all because the second Lan Zhan stops moving Wei Ying scrambles to his feet and launches himself into Lan Zhan’s arms. His tail wags without his permission and he slams his jar-covered head into Lan Zhan’s neck (sorry!) and does his best to climb into Lan Zhan’s jumpsuit. “Oh!” Lan Zhan says, as surprised as Wei Ying has ever heard him. “Happy to see me, Xiao-gua?” Wei Ying yips a yes, wiggling a little closer, and then Lan Zhan wraps one warm, strong arm around him and just—this wave of safety and security pours over him from his nose to the tip of his tail. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, and he blisses out so hard he almost falls asleep.

“All right,” Lan Zhan says, settling Wei Ying more securely into the crook of his arm, “are you going to be good?” Wei Ying snorts sleepily. Probably not! Lan Zhan continues, “Are you going to try and escape as soon as I get close to my truck?” Oh. No. Wei Ying can’t actually talk, and if he could he wouldn’t because Lan Zhan would probably freak the fuck out. In answer, he snuggles even closer and shuts his eyes, basking in the safe, warm comfort of Lan Zhan’s body. God, this has maybe turned into the best day of his life. If only he could actually smell Lan Zhan instead of peanut butter and fox breath it would be perfect.

(Vaguely, Wei Ying is aware that he is not acting like a wild fox would, and that’s suspicious. It’s incredibly hard to care about that when the end of his long national jar-based nightmare is almost in sight, and also he’s getting Lan Zhan snuggles. Bliss.)

“Be good, Xiao-gua,” Lan Zhan tells him, his voice soothing, and Wei Ying would like to hear those words in another context that he’s too sleep-deprived to really explore much right now. Lan Zhan carries him to his truck (good), and then tries to put him in one of the built-in vented kennels on the side (bad!). Wei Ying immediately stops being good, and every time Lan Zhan tries to detach him to get him into the kennel he worms his way back into Lan Zhan’s arms. If his head wasn’t in this Fucking Jar he’d bite Lan Zhan’s perfect gray jumpsuit collar for friction, but if his head wasn’t in this Fucking Jar none of this would be happening.

“Xiao-gua,” Lan Zhan says, exasperated, trying and failing to get Wei Ying into the kennel, “I need to get you back to my rescue so I can help.” Wei Ying knows this! He just doesn’t want to make the ride over there in a terrifying metal coffin, like a morgue fridge. He whines, turning his best pleading eyes on Lan Zhan through the glass, and Lan Zhan sighs. “Do you want to ride in the cab with me?” he asks, and Wei Ying yips and climbs back into Lan Zhan’s arms expectantly. “All right,” he says, shutting the empty kennel and opening the actual truck door, “but you are not allowed to use this as a toilet.” He lifts Wei Ying onto the seat, hands under his fox armpits, and looks at him firmly. “If you do so, I will be very disappointed.”

Wei Ying gives him the most unimpressed look he can muster through a peanut butter jar, and gets a single huffed breath in response as Lan Zhan shuts the door. Was that a laugh? Wei Ying wags his tail, because he thinks he just got Lan Zhan to laugh! The worst day of his life keeps getting better! As soon as Lan Zhan buckles himself in, Wei Ying flings himself across the bench seat and puts his head in his lap. Lan Zhan huffs another near-silent laugh and drops his hand between Wei Ying’s shoulders. “All right, Xiao-gua,” he says gently, “but stay put while I drive.”

Wei Ying thumps his tail against the seat a couple of times, warm and sleepy and content, and he half-drowses as the truck comes to life beneath him. He’s vaguely aware that they’re driving, the rumble of the road soothing, like a child on a road trip lulled to sleep by the white noise of the car. None of that matters as much as the warm press of Lan Zhan’s thigh into his shoulder and the way Lan Zhan’s hand keeps coming down to gently pet his fur. Wei Ying feels kinda guilty about how much Lan Zhan contact he’s getting. He’s aware that he’s cheating his way into it, that Lan Zhan would never touch him like this if he knew the fox in his truck was Wei Ying, shapeshifting human (or whatever). He’s pushing that guilt away as much as he can in his exhausted state, because this isn’t Wei Ying’s fault, really! He’s just going to let Lan Zhan get this Fucking Jar off his head and do whatever other wildlife rescuer things that need doing, and then Lan Zhan will release him into the woods and Wei Ying can go home and take the secret of this day to his grave. It’s a foolproof plan.

The truck rumbles to a stop, interrupting the soothing vibration of tires over roads, and Lan Zhan pets his flank and says, “We’re here, Xiao-gua,” in the most gentle voice Wei Ying has ever heard. He whines a little, because it’s warm in the truck and he may have fallen asleep a little bit on the drive and he doesn’t want to move, okay? “I know,” Lan Zhan says, “You don’t have to do anything.” He scoops a boneless Wei Ying into the crook of his arm and ferries him inside, something Wei Ying only really notices because the texture of the light changes. Everything is muted and muffled through the glass, but what he can see looks clean and well organized and basically exactly what he expected Lan Zhan’s animal rescue to look like. Ordinarily he’d be super interested in a tour, because he has approximately seven million questions about the Cloud Recesses and what animals Lan Zhan brings there and how the whole thing works, but right now he can’t think about any of them because he’s just thinking about the sweet, sweet freedom of getting a jar off his head. It’s like the last fifteen minutes of a long airplane ride before the descent, when his body goes paranoid and claustrophobic and he wants to climb out of his skin and run up and down the aisles and escape. He’s so close! He can keep it together! Lan Zhan never needs to know it was him! He wiggles a little, so excited he can’t, in fact, keep it together, and Lan Zhan squeezes him in gentle admonishment.

“Stay calm, Xiao-gua,” he says, in that careful “talking to animals” voice that Wei Ying has fallen in love with. “You’re doing well.” He keeps Wei Ying in the crook of his arm and carries him around the space, gathering various supplies for what will presumably be the Great Jar Escape, and then deposits Wei Ying in what he thinks is a big industrial sink. The stainless steel is cold under his walked-raw paws, and he whines again. “Ah,” Lan Zhan says, “apologies, Xiao-gua.” He lifts Wei Ying again and shuffles something around, and when Wei Ying’s paws land back in the sink, they’re on top of a towel. It’s more comfortable and less slippery, something his fox brain appreciates, and he wags his tail in thanks.

“Now,” Lan Zhan says, almost absently, probably doing something smart and responsible like putting on gloves, “just hold still.” His hands settle back on Wei Ying’s fur, bringing with them that warm, happy sensation again, and Wei Ying blisses out in it and lets Lan Zhan move him however he wants, a finger or two slipping in between the jar and his fur as Lan Zhan checks him over. He grumbles a little when Lan Zhan examines his neck, sore and scratched up and tender, and Lan Zhan pets him and murmurs wordless soothing things.

“This will be cold,” Lan Zhan says, which is all the warning Wei Ying gets before something slippery and wet and indeed cold gets slathered onto his neck, slicking down his fur and making him shiver. He whines a little, the shock of it knocking him out of the blissful sleepy place, and Lan Zhan makes an apologetic sound. “I know, Xiao-gua,” he says, continuing to spread the whatever it is all over Wei Ying’s neck, his fingers dipping under the lip of the jar, getting Wei Ying’s fur wet all the way up to his chin and his ears. Once it’s inside the jar Wei Ying can smell it, and it mostly smells like nothing. It’s a weirdly familiar nothing, though. Maybe if Wei Ying were less exhausted he’d be able to identify it, but right now his brain is cycling through three different pop songs, remembering how he got his head stuck in this peanut butter jar in the first place, and being delighted by Lan Zhan’s continued attention, even when he’s covering Wei Ying’s head in something cold and wet.

“All done,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying sits down in the industrial sink and waits with an uncharacteristic amount of patience as Lan Zhan does some things that don’t involve touching him. His patience is richly rewarded when Lan Zhan wraps an arm around him, pinning Wei Ying in against his side. Nice. Wei Ying kinda loves being pinned down and squished, and Lan Zhan is so much bigger than his fox form that it’s like, extra pleasant. He wags his tail happily, not paying any attention to anything else that’s happening, which means it comes as a real shock when Lan Zhan says, “This will be over soon,” and yanks on the peanut butter jar.

“Hey!” Wei Ying tries to say with his fox mouth, momentarily forgetting that he can’t actually talk, and it comes out an offended yelp. Lan Zhan’s squishing him, just absolutely crushing his head, his ears hurt and he feels like his skull is going to pull away from his neck. He starts flailing all his limbs as much as he can, trying to escape, screaming at the top of his little fox lungs because what the fuck, Lan Zhan!

“Almost there,” Lan Zhan says, still trying to be soothing, and something twists and something else finally releases as Wei Ying yanks himself backwards as hard as he can manage. Three things proceed to happen in very short order:

1. The jar finally, finally pops off Wei Ying’s head with a hilarious THWOMP!
2. Wei Ying escapes Lan Zhan’s grasp as his grip loosens, launching himself into the sink, and;
3. Wei Ying takes a breath of free, fresh air for the first time in for-fucking-ever, and it’s such a huge relief and so much overwhelming scent information to his poor addled brain that he instinctively shifts back human to lessen the nasal load.

Wei Ying hits the sink ass-first with a reverberating boom, panting frantically,  and oh damn the air smells so good, like Lan Zhan and organic cleaning products and a faint hint of bleach and hardly at all like peanut butter and fox breath. “Oh thank fuck,” he groans, and rolls his head from side to side, eyes shut, all blissed out as his vertebrae crack.

“Um,” comes a voice, and Wei Ying freezes. Fuck. Fuck. He opens his eyes and yep, there’s Lan Zhan, holding a glass jar in his hands and blinking very deliberately, as though he’s expecting his eyesight to clear. This was not supposed to happen, Wei Ying remembers blearily. He was supposed to stay a fox and wait for Lan Zhan to do his wildlife rehab stuff and then escape, not shift back to human form and end up buck-ass naked in an industrial sink with his limbs hanging awkwardly over the sides like he was trying to take a bath but only for his butt and dick. Cool cool cool cool cool, this is happening. Okay. Wei Ying can handle this. He’ll just act normal. First step: A greeting.

Wei Ying raises one hand and gives a jaunty little wave. “Hey, Lan Zhan.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, like he’s still not sure what he’s seeing. His eyes scan down Wei Ying’s body, as if to confirm that yes, there is a whole-ass man in his sink, and then they catch somewhere around Wei Ying’s hips and they widen and the tops of his ears go pink, which is so delightful it takes Wei Ying a moment to remember that his dick is out. 

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, face going red-hot in about half a second. “Sorry.” He remembers there’s a towel under him, and reaches down between his spread legs to grab it and drape it over his junk like the world’s most useless loincloth. At least it means he doesn’t have his dick out in front of Lan Zhan anymore, which is a scenario he’s definitely thought about a lot in sexy contexts and very much not in this one. That task completed, he looks back up to find Lan Zhan no longer staring at his crotch region, which is good, but he’s now giving Wei Ying a very questioning stare, which is less good.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, more certain this time, but definitely in the tone of a question. There are a lot of ways that Wei Ying could try to answer him, but he’s bone-tired and a little loopy and he doesn’t have the energy to lie to a person he really respects, so somewhat unexpectedly, Wei Ying decides to go with the truth.

“So,” he says, going for casual, “I’m a fox.”

“I had gathered,” Lan Zhan says, a little distantly. He turns the glass jar over in his hands, seemingly just for something to do, swallows, and asks, “Is that… typical for you, or was this an unusual situation?”

“Normally I don’t get my head stuck in a jar and have to be rescued by an extremely hot wildlife rehabilitator, no,” Wei Ying says, his mouth moving before his brain. Lan Zhan’s eyes widen at the last bit and Wei Ying replays his words and slaps his face with one hand. Fuck. He said that out loud. He realizes belatedly that Lan Zhan was probably asking a different question, and he peeks out through his fingers to add, “The fox part is normal. I’m a huli jing. I wasn’t, like, cursed or anything.” Wow, Lan Zhan’s ears are really red now. Cute.

“I see,” Lan Zhan says, nodding. He glances at the jar in his hands and adds, “That would have been an unusual curse.”

“Like some kind of weird reverse Cinderella,” Wei Ying agrees, rolling out his neck again and listening to the snap-crackle-pop as things shift back into place. “Thank you for getting that jar off, by the way. You really did me a solid.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head and sets the jar aside. “No need for thanks,” he says. “It is my job.”

“Still,” Wei Ying says. “I owe you a pastry at the very least. This is an almond croissant level favor, for sure.” The tiny logical part of his mind that’s still left informs him that this conversation feels almost normal. They could be joking across the counter at Feline Fancy, except for how Wei Ying is still naked in an industrial sink with something slowly dripping down his collarbones. He lifts a hand to whatever’s dripping and looks at his fingers, rubbing them together, the clear fluid coating them slick and slippery, and he sniffs it absently. Still that not-actually-a-smell smell, and it’s so much more familiar now that it’s blending with his human scent, like he’s smelled it before—

It clicks, and Wei Ying chokes on his next inhale, face flaming, and covers his red cheeks with his hands. “Lan Zhan,” he asks, high-pitched, “what did you use to get that jar off me?”

Lan Zhan clears his throat, looking determinedly past Wei Ying at the wall. “It is the recommended product for this situation,” he says, which isn’t an answer, and Wei Ying squirms around in the industrial sink to snatch at a bottle off the counter and look at the label. Yep. He knows this smell. For reasons.

“This is sex lube, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his voice as steady as he can make it. It’s an industrial-sized pump-action bottle of store-brand water based sex lube, and once again, Wei Ying has imagined being covered in sex lube while in Lan Zhan’s presence, and once again, this is not at all how he’d imagined it.

“It is water-soluble and non-toxic,” Lan Zhan says, still looking at the wall. His ears look red hot, and Wei Ying wants to bite them, and this is not the time, horny brain! “It is important to use something that can be easily washed off and isn’t harmful if ingested.”

Wei Ying puts the bottle of sex lube back down, a wild, high-pitched giggle in the back of his throat, and tries not to think about all the ways in which sex lube might be ingested, specifically with Lan Zhan’s involvement. “Well,” he says, his voice cracking into a squeak. He clears it, swallows (his mouth is still so dry, ugh) and tries again. “Well—” ah, excellent, no cracking “—it worked, so I guess you know what you’re doing.” This is the most embarrassing situation of Wei Ying’s life, and the humiliation of it is really starting to sink in now. God, if his ears were out he’d be smashing them flat to his skull with the sheer power of his emotions. He whines, subvocally, as another dollop of sex lube drips down his shoulder blade, and then fixes a smile on his face. This will be fine! He can salvage this, probably!

“Anyway!” Wei Ying says, brightly. “Thanks again for getting that jar off, but I’ve got it from here. If you can just open the door for me I’ll shift back and then get out of your hair. I’m sure you’re busy.” He braces himself, like he’s going to get out of the sink (why???) and Lan Zhan snaps out of his red-eared fugue state and, like, teleports to the edge of the sink, between Wei Ying and the door.

“Wei Ying,” he says, firmly, as Wei Ying tips his head back to stare up at him and tries to think about anything other than how sexy that voice is and how hot it is to be loomed over, “you cannot leave.”

“I totally can,” Wei Ying says, a little wildly. The air filtration system in the room is blowing Lan Zhan’s smell directly into Wei Ying’s face, and god it’s so nice. He wants to wrap himself up in that smell and never leave, which is absolutely why he should leave. “I’m freed from jar prison, I’m good! Just point me back to town!”

“When did you first get stuck?” Lan Zhan asks, which is a conversational swerve that knocks Wei Ying so off-balance that he settles back in the sink to think about it.

“Uh,” he says, trying to remember the concept of linear time, “I headed out at seven and ran around a little, so maybe like eight?” How’s he supposed to know, anyway? Foxes don’t have cell phones or watches.

“You have been stuck in the jar since eight pm last night?” Lan Zhan asks, and Wei Ying nods. Lan Zhan’s mouth firms. “Wei Ying, it is eleven thirty in the morning. You have been without food and water for fifteen and a half hours. You are dehydrated and hungry. You walked your paws—” good on Lan Zhan, he barely hesitates saying “paws” while talking to a naked-ass human man “—raw, and your neck requires medical attention.” He pauses, takes a measured breath, and adds, “Also, there is peanut butter in your hair.”

That’s a new record for the most words Wei Ying has ever heard Lan Zhan say in a stretch, and he takes a moment to wish it wasn’t a list of his fuckups. His hand moves to his neck automatically, slipping against the lube, and he winces as he traces over layers of cuts and scratches. “I’ll be fine,” he protests weakly, which even he knows is a lie. As if on cue, his stomach rumbles loudly as soon as he’s done speaking, and Wei Ying glares down at it. Betrayal!

“As a wildlife rehabilitator, I cannot in good conscience allow you to leave in this condition,” Lan Zhan says, and then he steps closer and, to Wei Ying’s shock, lightly rests a hand on his shoulder. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, his voice gentle, “Please. Allow me to do my job.”

The world has gone glittery and unreal through his exhaustion, which probably explains why Lan Zhan is touching his bare skin. He’s probably dreaming, right? That makes the most sense. Wei Ying sighs, eyes slipping shut, and he tilts his head back until it’s resting on the counter next to the sink. God, he’s so tired. He’s always so fucking tired.

“Okay,” he says, “but I’m gonna switch back to fox form so I can be emotionally insulated from the most embarrassing day of my entire life.”

Lan Zhan’s hand squeezes his shoulder once and then departs, leaving him cold and lonely. “I accept this compromise,” Lan Zhan says in the solemn way that means he’s secretly amused. “Would you like some water before you shift?”

Wei Ying has never wanted water so much in his whole life. “Please,” he says, trying not to sound as pathetic as he feels. He keeps his eyes shut as Lan Zhan moves around the space, and manages to pry his eyelids open to accept a compostable paper cup about half-full of water. He vaguely remembers reading something on a late-night Wikipedia binge about dehydration recovery, so he resists the urge to chug it and holds each sip in his mouth for a moment before he swallows. It is the best fucking thing he’s ever drank in his entire life. When the cup is empty he passes it back to Lan Zhan and rubs his face with his torn-up, tender hands.

“If you need to take my temperature,” he says, trying to sound playful and aware it’s coming out pleading, “just ask me to shift back, please?” Wei Ying peeks through his fingers, trying to cover his blush. “I know how this usually works.”

“I have an ear thermometer,” Lan Zhan says with extreme dignity, transferring the cup to a compost bin and avoiding eye contact. “But. I will keep that in mind.”

“See that you do,” Wei Ying says primly, and shifts to fox form with an intense shiver of relief. All his human emotions are blunted, and the scent information of the room rushes into his brain in a much more manageable onslaught this time. He detangles himself from the towel with a few kicks and curls up into a ball, breathing Lan Zhan every time he inhales, and prepares to submit to his inevitable humiliation.

Lan Zhan, somehow, manages not to make the process humiliating. This may be because Lan Zhan seems to be dead-set on pampering Wei Ying to within an inch of his fucking life. As soon as he puts his hands back on Wei Ying, Wei Ying goes happy and blissful and half-asleep. He stays dozing like that as Lan Zhan scoops him out of the sink, gets the water going, and proceeds to give Wei Ying the best scrub he’s ever had, working grit and lube and peanut butter out of his fur with sure movements and an unscented shampoo. The suds sting a little bit on his neck and paws, but that hardly registers in Wei Ying’s dreamy mindset. Is this why people go on about having their hair washed at the salon? Wei Ying hasn’t been able to afford a professional haircut since he moved out—he re-shaves his own undercut in the bathroom mirror by feel—and he’s wondering if maybe he should give salons a fresh shot when Lan Zhan shuts off the water and wraps him in a towel.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, softly, depositing him on a fresh towel, removing the soggy one, and wrapping a second dry towel around him as he sprawls out on what’s probably an exam table, “I need to treat your neck. Do you want me to shave you, or do you want to be human for this part?”

Wei Ying considers that question for a while, allowing Lan Zhan to continue scrubbing his fur dry. It takes him much longer than normal since his brain is working at about half speed, but he eventually concludes that it would be more embarrassing to be half-shaved in fox form than to be naked in Lan Zhan’s presence again, so he shakes off Lan Zhan’s hands and stretches. In the next breath he’s a people, feet poking out from under the towel, dick fortunately covered this time around.

“Have at it,” he half-slurs, waving vaguely at his neck, and tries not to fall asleep as Lan Zhan dabs what smells like an antibiotic ointment on the scratches. He wiggles against the towels a little, drying his still damp-skin, because it’s way, way easier than drying fur. #HuliJingBenefits, he’d say, again, if he could actually find any fox spirits instead of furries.

“These already look better,” Lan Zhan comments, tipping Wei Ying’s head to the side to get at a particularly nasty scrape that curves around from the back of his neck. “Is that normal?”

“Mmmhmm,” Wei Ying answers sluggishly. “Healing powers. You know.”

Lan Zhan huffs an amused breath. “I do not know,” he says, smearing ointment on the other side of Wei Ying’s neck. “That is why I am asking. Done.” Wei Ying yawns and shifts back to fox form, fur almost entirely dry now, and presents each paw obediently as Lan Zhan applies more ointment. Lan Zhan follows up the ointment by putting something on his feet, and Wei Ying squints at his forepaws to discover he’s now wearing bunny patterned baby socks. He looks up at Lan Zhan and huffs, because really? Baby socks?

“To keep the ointment in place,” Lan Zhan says, putting a final sock on his back left paw. “And to keep you from scratching your neck.” Wei Ying freezes with one paw floating next to his ruff, and Lan Zhan catches that paw around the ankle and tugs it away. “If you cannot keep from scratching yourself I will have to put you in a cone.”

Wei Ying whines in protest.

Lan Zhan stares at him implacably and says, “Then don’t scratch.”

Wei Ying covers his muzzle with his paws and sighs. Fine. Fine. Baby socks it is. Lan Zhan picks him up, distracting him from further self-pity, and Wei Ying takes the opportunity to shove his nose in the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck, because as a fox he thinks he can get away with it. Lan Zhan’s footsteps stutter briefly, but he recovers and carries Wei Ying out of the exam room, down a covered outdoor hallway, and into another building entirely. The smell hits him while Lan Zhan kicks off his boots, the lived-in combination of food and tea and human, and holy fuck, he’s in Lan Zhan’s house. He’s in the place where Lan Zhan eats and sleeps and (maybe? If he’s lucky?) fucks, and he has to bodily hold himself back from trying to jump out of Lan Zhan’s arms and go huff everything.

“Do you prefer cooked food in this form?” Lan Zhan asks, settling Wei Ying on a chair at the bar-height kitchen counter. Wei Ying nods. He can, technically, eat raw meat, but it doesn’t always agree with him when he shifts back human so it’s better if he just sticks to cooked foods, which is part of his justification for sometimes eating trash can pizza, don’t @ him. “Is ground beef okay?” Lan Zhan asks, setting a bowl of water on the counter in front of him, and Wei Ying nods even more enthusiastically before applying himself to said bowl. Fuck, water is so delicious, how has he been sleeping on water this whole time? Maybe Wen Qing has a point after all.

Sizzling fills the kitchen as Lan Zhan dumps frozen ground beef into a hot pan, and god damn god damn Wei Ying is suddenly starving and can think of nothing else. He whines, sprawling forward across the counter, reaching out with his little paws like that will make Lan Zhan cook faster, and he gets an amused glance over the shoulder as Lan Zhan breaks up the meat.

“It takes time to cook, Xiao-hu,” he says, his voice soft. Wei Ying whines again and gives his best pleading eyes and tries very hard not to think about how nice it felt to be called Xiao-hu. Lan Zhan huffs under his breath, covers the pan, and after some rummaging presents Wei Ying with a bowl of blackberries. Oh, hell yeah, score! Wei Ying snarfs them down while he waits the interminable ten minutes or so while Lan Zhan cooks for him (!!!!) and practically dances on his bar chair when the stove clicks off.

“It may still be hot,” Lan Zhan warns him, ground beef and peas and carrots carefully spread out flat on a plate as steam still rises from it. Wei Ying nods his understanding and, as soon as it’s in front of him, falls on it like a starving fox, which he is, thank you very much. Maybe he should try to eat less ravenously in front of the man he has a massive, massive crush on, but he doesn’t think he can be blamed for his actions. He eats all of it and licks the plate and looks up at Lan Zhan, one baby-socked paw on the counter, and whines hopefully for more.

“Later, Xiao-hu,” Lan Zhan tells him. “You should rest now.”

Wei Ying wants to argue, but he yawns so hugely his jaw cracks, belly full of warm food and no longer dying of thirst and so very, very comfortable. Lan Zhan picks him up and carts him through a door and into a room with a couch and deposits him there. “I will get more water for you,” he says, stroking Wei Ying’s head with gentle hands. “The bathroom is the first door to the right in the hall if you need it. I will leave some clothes there if you want to shift back.”

Wei Ying licks Lan Zhan’s hand in thanks, which he belatedly realizes is definitely too familiar, but he’s way too sleepy now to do anything about it. If Lan Zhan notices, he doesn’t seem to mind, patting Wei Ying one more time and dragging a throw blanket off the back of the couch to tuck around him. “Sleep, Wei Ying,” he says softly, and Wei Ying whuffs a sigh and conks out immediately.

⋄⋄⋄

Wei Ying wakes up slowly, brain sluggish, and stretches out all his limbs as he comes back online. He’s warm and comfortable and everything smells nice and there’s something extra warm under his cheek and something rhythmic and soothing happening with his fur. It’s possibly the nicest way he’s woken up in recent memory, which says something about his bummer of a life. Sometimes he shifts and sleeps on Wen Ning’s bed, when he’s feeling really down, and Wen Ning is a great platonic bedmate and never asks any embarrassing questions, and it’s still nothing on what’s happening right now. He snuggles a little closer into whatever the warm thing is and dozes for a while, floating somewhere not quite inside his body.

Eventually, he regains enough consciousness to parse that his head is in a lap, which explains the warm thing under his cheek. Presumably the person whose lap he’s in is also the one petting him, otherwise Wei Ying needs to have words with his nose about how he only smells one person, and it’s Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying realizes, as though through syrup, that he’s only smelled Lan Zhan since being brought into his house. The couch he’s on smells like Lan Zhan, as does the throw blanket he’s tucked under. There are no other people smells, which means Lan Zhan lives alone, which means maybe Lan Zhan is single? Or at least doesn’t have a live-in partner? This would be great news for the Wei Ying of a month ago, who hadn’t humiliated himself beyond all reason in front of his crush. He’s pretty sure he ruined any chance he may have had when Lan Zhan found out Wei Ying’s the kind of dingus who gets his head stuck in a peanut butter jar. Wei Ying tries to be depressed about that, but Lan Zhan’s hand drifts from his head down under his chin and scritches there, so he promptly forgets he was being sad and tips his head into the touch, chirruping happily.

“Feeling better?” Lan Zhan asks, voice pitched low enough that if Wei Ying was still fully asleep, it wouldn’t disturb him. Wei Ying sighs, yawns, and cracks an eye to peer up at him. Lan Zhan’s reading a paperback book one-handed, his hair half-down from its usual neat ponytail, and that’s a shocking enough sight to momentarily distract Wei Ying from what he’s wearing. More accurately, it distracts him from what he’s not wearing. Wei Ying has literally never seen Lan Zhan in anything other than the gray jumpsuit. He’s imagined what he might look like in other clothes, or in none clothes, but those imaginings in no way prepared him for the sight of The Hottest Animal Rehabilitator In The World wearing a matching two-piece set of flannel pajamas with bunnies on them. It’s so cute Wei Ying kinda wants to die a little, and he covers his face with one be-socked paw because he fully cannot handle this. He is but one wee fox! How can he possibly be expected to function in the face of Lan Zhan’s bunny pajamas?

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, hand trailing to scratch Wei Ying’s chest, “rest as long as you need.” He turns the page of his book (easily! With one hand! Lan Zhan’s hands are fucking huge, another thing that makes Wei Ying want to die a little) and continues petting Wei Ying as though it’s a totally normal thing to have a work acquaintance in fox form on your couch, and also normal to pet them even though most of the time you don’t touch anyone ever, and that’s all very confusing, and Wei Ying is way too calm and peaceful to have energy for anything confusing right now, so he whuffs, tucks his paws around Lan Zhan’s hand, and goes back to drifting. If Lan Zhan’s fine with this, Wei Ying’s going to milk it for all he possibly can, so take that.

The best afternoon of Wei Ying’s life is eventually interrupted by, of course, his fucking bladder. Ugh. Rude. Wei Ying shakes himself and sits up with a yawn. “Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks, starting to set his book aside, and Wei Ying noses at the hand with the book until Lan Zhan gets the idea and settles back down. No reason for both of them to get up. Wei Ying grumbles himself off the couch and slinks down the hall to the first door on the right where, as promised, there’s a nicely appointed bathroom with blue tile and dark wood detailing and, most importantly, a toilet.

First, Wei Ying shoves the door shut with his shoulder until the latch clicks. Second, he pulls off the baby socks with his teeth—his paws hurt much less after food and sleep, and as hilarious as it would be to try and wear baby socks as a grown adult human, he’s pretty sure that would be deeply uncomfortable. Those tasks accomplished, he stretches and shifts back human. He might be an embarrassing trash gremlin, but he’s not gonna try to use a toilet as a fox. He has some dignity.

Wei Ying pees, still mostly zoned out, flushes, and washes his hands. In doing so he washes off all the ointment, but while his skin is still a little reddened and tender, it’s no longer raw, so eh. He kinda wants to shift back fox and continue not facing the world, but now that he’s in human form again it seems cowardly not to stay there. Lan Zhan would probably appreciate having someone around who can respond to questions with mouth words, right? (Also, not wanting to face the world got his head stuck in a peanut butter jar. Wei Ying is pretty sure that’ll never happen again, but he doesn’t want to risk it.) Decision made, Wei Ying investigates the clothing offering to find a pair of gray boxer briefs that mostly fit, gray sweatpants that have been folded so neatly it looks like they belong on a store shelf, and a soft, worn-out t-shirt with a faded botanical print on it, the kind of thing you find in a natural history museum gift shop. The neck is all stretched out, draping open around his collarbones when he shrugs it on, and Wei Ying takes a moment to get over the intense territorial feeling he gets from putting on Lan Zhan’s clothes. They smell like Lan Zhan and laundry detergent, something with lavender in it, and now they’re going to smell like Wei Ying, and a deep primal fox part of him is practically dancing with glee.

Down, he tells himself firmly, putting on a pair of expensive athletic socks and running his fingers through his hair to try and look more presentable. He’s just doing his job. Lan Zhan is so good he’d probably give pants to a goose, if needed. Wei Ying isn’t special.

He pads back out to the living room on silent feet, and Lan Zhan glances up from his book. His face changes when he catches sight of Wei Ying in human form, goes soft around the edges and maybe a little surprised. “Wei Ying,” he says, in a tone that absolutely does some things to Wei Ying’s insides. Maybe Wei Ying can be a little bit special, as a treat?

“Hey,” Wei Ying says, frozen two steps out of the hallway, fully uncertain as to what happens now. It’s like the aftermath of a terrible, terrible hookup, and no one even got laid. Fuck, he should just go, he should insist on shifting and running home, what’s he even doing here—

Lan Zhan’s hand moves to the edge of the throw blanket and twitches it back in an unmistakable invitation, and every higher function in Wei Ying’s brain abandons him. He’s across the room and on the couch, head back in Lan Zhan’s lap, before he can even consider doing anything else, and Lan Zhan drops his free hand to the back of Wei Ying’s head and scritches his undercut, holy fuck, this has truly gone from the worst twenty-four hours of Wei Ying’s life to the best. He curls up into the smallest loaf he can manage as a human and his brain that never shuts up shuts up and he’s never going to leave. It’s Lan Zhan’s fault for offering, really. He has no one to blame but himself.

“Wha’ time’s it?” he asks, a little while later, Lan Zhan’s hand resting warm and heavy between his shoulders.

“Six-thirty,” Lan Zhan says, setting his book aside with a rustle. “You slept a little over five and a half hours.”

“Best nap of my fuckin’ life,” Wei Ying mumbles, yawning. “Your couch is comfy.”

“I’m glad you found it so,” Lan Zhan says, trailing his fingers through Wei Ying’s hair, a little tentatively. Wei Ying butts his head into the touch and sighs when Lan Zhan’s hand gets more confident. “Do you need to tell anyone where you are?” Lan Zhan asks, gesturing with his free hand at a laptop on the coffee table. “It’s been almost a full day.”

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, tensing. “Fuck, shit, yeah, I should tell my roommates. Oh man, Qing-jie is gonna be so mad at me.”

“You can borrow my phone, if you wish,” Lan Zhan says as Wei Ying scrambles upright and grabs the laptop.

“No, this is actually better,” Wei Ying says absently as he wakes up the screen and opens the internet browser. “I have a groupchat app, and it’s harder for my didi to yell at me over text.” Also he doesn’t remember anyone’s phone number, but he doesn’t want to admit that out loud. Lan Zhan seems like the kind of person who doesn’t even have contacts saved, or maybe uses an old fashioned address book.

“I see,” Lan Zhan says, sounding like he doesn’t understand the concept of yelling as affection. He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, and finally adds, “I will get started on dinner. Do you require animal protein in all your meals?”

“Nah, I’ll eat whatever,” Wei Ying says, logging into the browser version of his chat app, and then parses the question. “Lan Zhan!” he protests. “You don’t need to cook for me again! Honestly, I should send these messages and then beg you for a ride home, I’ve already invaded your space and taken up so much of your time.”

Lan Zhan frowns at him, a tiny scrunching of his face. “I brought you into my space willingly,” he argues, “and I keep all patients overnight for observation.”

“I’m not a possum,” Wei Ying points out. “I’m mostly human, and I can use my mouth words to tell you I feel fine. You don’t need to put yourself out to fix my bad decisions.”

Lan Zhan’s eyes narrow, and he cocks his head a little. “Wei Ying,” he says, “do you want me to take you home, or are you trying to be polite?”

Wei Ying freezes. Fuck. Is it that obvious that he wants to wrap himself in Lan Zhan’s throw blanket and never, ever leave this house that smells better than anywhere he’s ever been? Jiang Cheng always tells him he’s the least subtle person on the planet, but Wei Ying really thought he’d been keeping it tamped down. “Uh,” he says, after what is definitely too long a pause.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, setting a hand lightly on Wei Ying’s bare wrist, warm callused skin against his own, “I want you to stay. If you don’t want to, I will take you home, but don’t feel that you need to leave because you think you’re an inconvenience.”

Wei Ying is dying. Wei Ying has been an inconvenience his whole fucking life, who the hell is Lan Zhan to say things like that to him on this, the day of his daughter’s wedding! “Fine,” his mouth says, without waiting for input from the rest of him, “but you’d better be prepared to cuddle me the whole time.” There! That’ll shut Lan Zhan up!

“I accept your terms,” Lan Zhan says, gives his wrist a squeeze, and heads for the kitchen. “I had planned a tofu stir fry,” he says as he goes. “Does that sound good?”

The inside of Wei Ying’s head is all sirens and screaming. Cuddle? Lan Zhan? The whole time? And he said yes? He must have died in the peanut butter jar, Wei Ying decides, and he was good enough to get sent to fox heaven. That’s the only explanation. “I eat food out of the literal garbage, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, suddenly exhausted again. “Tofu stir fry sounds great.”

Lan Zhan pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, looking vaguely pained. “I will keep that in mind,” he says, and then he’s gone. Wei Ying allows himself a full minute to stare at the wall and wonder about his life, and then he shakes himself and opens his messages.

There are a lot, and Wei Ying winces as he scrolls through them. He really tries to be better about communication after the depression-hole in college where his siblings genuinely didn’t know if he was alive or dead for weeks at a time. His mental health hasn’t been that bad in years, but he seems to have triggered a dormant panic in both Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng, and there are a lot of polite but urgent questions about his whereabouts (from his jiejie) and a lot of all-caps furious insults (from his didi). It’s more of the same from Wen Qing and Wen Ning, which is fair since he normally comes back from his rambles around midnight. Fuck, he fucked up again, and he feels terrible about it. Naturally, being sincere about his feelings won’t do.

To: Kissing the Homies, As Is Custom

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
hey sorry! i’m totally fine i just got up to some shenanigans(tm) last night and the shenanigans(tm) are still ongoing hahaha
i will not tell you what the shenanigans(tm) are because it was intensely embarrassing and you will never stop making fun of me for it
so don’t bother aksing i’m looking at jiang cheng in particular

Di(e)di(e)
WEI YING WHAT THE FUCK
YOU DISAPPEAR FOR A WHOLE FUCKING DAY AND THIS IS WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?
JIEJIE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE

SouperJie
A’Ying! 💜💜💜
You’re okay?
Thank you for telling us, we were all worried!
(A’Cheng included no matter what he tries to say!)
Can you at least give us a hint about the shenanigans?

WinNing
!!!
thank you for checking in!
will you be back for dinner? i was making dumpling soup so it’ll be easy to heat up some more if you get back late.

WenQueen
If you disappear like that again I’m renting out your fucking room
Asshole
I have a full schedule, there’s no time in it for worrying about your useless ass

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
wow im really feelin the love in this chilis tonight
the shenanigans(tm) were fox related
i don’t have my phone
this is a borrowed laptop
i’m really sorry for worrying everyone!!!
NingNing i’m not comin home tonight, but thank you for offering soup!
you and jiejie are the only ones who really love me

Di(e)di(e)
FUCK YOU
I’M GONNA BREAK YOUR FUCKING LEGS YOU LITTLE FUCKER

WenQueen
Fox-related, huh
Did you finally get picked up by animal control?
Did you break out of a kennel and you’re messaging us with your naked ass in some poor city worker’s desk chair?

SouperJie
Oh no! Are you at animal control, A’Ying?
Do you need a ride home? I can come get you!
I still have the emergency collar and dog tags.

WinNing
there will be extra soup in the fridge for you tomorrow. 🍲🥰

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
i’m not at animal control and i’m not naked thank you very much
friendship ended with everyone but ningning

WenQueen
Whose clothes are you wearing?

Di(e)di(e)
Wei Ying if you stole clothes off someone’s clothesline like out of a fucking cartoon I swear to god

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
these clothes were lent to me voluntarily!!! what have i done to deserve this level of scorn and doubt????

Di(e)di(e)
Did you want an itemized list or...

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
okay you know what? fair

SouperJie
Will you please tell us where you are, A’Ying? It would make me feel a lot better.

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
i’m safe with a friend

(Wei Ying is pretty sure he can call Lan Zhan a friend now. He’s currently wearing Lan Zhan’s boxer briefs and has somehow extracted a promise for prolonged cuddling, so that’s definitely friend-level at least, right?)

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
genuinely not entirely sure where like, geographically
a lil outside the city? smells like trees and rewilded landscaping

Di(e)di(e)
HOW THE FUCK DO YOU NOT KNOW WHERE YOU ARE GEOGRAPHICALLY??

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
well i was in fox form when we drove out here and too sleepy to look out the window

Di(e)di(e)
YOU LET SOMEONE TAKE YOU TO A SECONDARY LOCATION?

WenQueen
You’re at Lan Zhan’s, aren’t you?

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
what
wen qing!
first of all how dare you
second of all why would u assume something like that

WenQueen
He’s at Lan Zhan’s, everyone

SouperJie
Oh, the handsome wildlife rehabilitator who’s good with every animal and nice to cats and sometimes brings A’Ying hot chocolate? 😊
A’Ying, are you at Lan Zhan’s?
Is this a date?

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
JIEJIE
😳🥺😳🥺

Di(e)di(e)
You let Lan Zhan take you to a secondary location??? How well do you even know this guy?

WinNing
be fair, jiang cheng, that’s pretty normal if it’s a date.
i hope you and lan zhan have a nice time, wei ying!
be safe!

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
it’s not a date!!!
i got into fox trouble and he did his animal hero thing and now he’s doing his job and keeping me for observation overnight because he’s a really good rehabilitator!!!

WenQueen
So you ARE at Lan Zhan’s

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
FUCK
fine
i’m at lan zhan’s
but it’s not a date

SouperJie
What’s Lan Zhan doing right now?

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
…
……
………
making us dinner

WenQueen
Enjoy your date, loser
Have safe sex, we’ll leave the window open for you

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
you know what this laptop is borrowed and i don’t have to sit here and take this from you
anyone else need to get in a last-minute insult before i go do something that isn’t getting mercilessly roasted??

WenQueen
Pretty sure Lan Zhan is gonna “mercilessly roast you” later

Di(e)di(e)
GROSS
I’M TURNING OFF MY PHONE
WEI YING IF YOU DIE I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
WEN QING!!!!!!!
how dare you say such things in front of my baby brother
look at him now, he’s got anxiety

SouperJie
Have a good night, A’Ying!
Check in with us in the morning if you can, okay?
🤗🥰😘

WenQueen
Please don’t make us think you might be dead again
It was a stressful waste of time and I didn’t enjoy it

Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Ying Bananaphone
i will, jiejie
i’m sorry, qing-jie!!! i’m really fine, i swear
i should be home tomorrow mornin y’all
i’m going now
nightnight!!!

Wei Ying logs out and shuts the laptop before anyone else can try to embarrass him to death. He’s the only one allowed to embarrass himself to death! He doesn’t need help! And this is not a date! Wen Qing can shut up about it, okay?

This intense internal monologue lasts through folding the throw blanket and putting it neatly on the back of the couch, and then through Wei Ying locating the water Lan Zhan left out for him (in a bowl and a glass, wow the man is thoughtful) and carrying them into the kitchen. He feels like a bowl of water on a coffee table is a trap lying in wait for him to stub his toe and jostle the table and thus spill it everywhere, and no matter what Lan Zhan says about Wei Ying not being an inconvenience, he knows he is one and doesn’t want to make it worse.

Wei Ying can already smell the rice cooker going, ginger and garlic aromatic on the air, and Lan Zhan looks up from chopping vegetables as he comes in. He’s perfectly at home among the clean gray cabinets and countertops, the blue tiled backsplash keeping the room from looking pinterest-boring. It’s neat and tidy and everything Wei Ying isn’t, and Wei Ying feels as out of place as a seed stuck under his gums. “Where should I—” he starts, hefting the bowl, and Lan Zhan nods him toward the kitchen sink.

“Can I help?” Wei Ying asks, hovering out of the way, a glass of water still clenched in one hand. He’s so aware of how he shouldn’t be here, and is here regardless, and it’s making the back of his neck prickle up. If he can help then he’s not being a burden. He wants to help.

“No, it’s fine,” Lan Zhan says, glancing up from the neat pile of cabbage ribbons he’s created. His eyes catch on Wei Ying’s face, and whatever he sees there makes the knife still.

“Please,” Wei Ying says, avoiding eye contact, turning the water glass around and around. He just—he wants something to do with his hands, wants a reason to be here that he can’t fucking overthink. Maybe it was more stressful than he was expecting to have Jiang Cheng all-caps at him? Either that or he’s woken up enough for his brain to be back on its bullshit, ugh.

“If you would like,” Lan Zhan says, “you could make tea? This—” and he gestures with his knife to the vegetables and tofu waiting in organized piles on his cutting board “—won’t take very long to cook.”

“Can do,” Wei Ying says, relaxing his fingers one by one from around the water glass and setting it down. “Tell me where to look?”

Lan Zhan, unsurprisingly, has a whole drawer of tea, all of it loose-leaf, and one of those fancy kettles with different temperature settings that Qing-jie sometimes looks at longingly in kitchen catalogs before she recycles them. Wei Ying lets himself get lost in the task, sniffing each jar until he decides on a nicely dried-hay oolong with nutty undertones. Lan Zhan, also unsurprisingly, has several specialty teapots, and Wei Ying manages to get a delicate porcelain number with a nearly translucent blue-white glaze out of the cupboard and onto the counter before his hands start shaking. He presses them to the cool stone surface, eyes on the glass jar, vision blurring until the gnarled up leaves inside of it all combine into one green-brown mess. His breath catches in his chest, the world closing in around him like he’s still in the Fucking Jar, fuck, he was in that jar for so fucking long, his family was so worried—

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, from behind his shoulder and as though through water. “Are you all right?”

“I—” Wei Ying gasps, through the tightness in his chest. “I—I could have died.” His voice cracks and he sways on his feet, dizzy, his knees no longer willing to hold him up. “Oh my god, Lan Zhan, I almost fucking died! I could have died!” He collapses, then, legs fully giving up the ghost as he crumples to the floor, the realization hitting him like a freight train. Wei Ying could have died with a fucking peanut butter jar on his head in the woods and none of his friends and family would have known, they would have wondered for the rest of their lives or assumed he’d gone and fucked off on them and not told anyone and—and—

“Wei Ying,” someone says in his ear, “I have you. Try to breathe.” Wei Ying would love to breathe, honestly, but he’s having a really hard time with that. He’s very vaguely aware that he’s leaning against something warm, and more warm things are wrapped around his chest and waist, but that’s far away and immaterial. He can’t stop fucking shaking, why can’t he stop shaking? “Breathe, Wei Ying,” says the voice, a little sharper this time, and Wei Ying claws in air out of reflex.

“I could have died, Lan Zhan,” he says again, brain processing who’s probably holding on to him. “Oh fuck, I could have died and my jiejie would never have known. What if she thought I’d left?” He covers his face with his hands and they come away wet. Is he crying? “I don’t want to die!” he sobs out, voice humiliatingly broken. “I don’t—not anymore—I could have died.” It’s all his brain can focus on, swirling around and around and kicking the inside of his skull like shoes in a washing machine. He’s fought with dogs and dodged cars and spent almost a year of his life not bothering to try and preserve it, and he’s always been able to laugh off the danger before, but this has its teeth in and he can’t shake it.

“Shhh,” Lan Zhan tells him, swaying them back and forth a little, still a warm, solid weight against Wei Ying’s back. His hand moves on Wei Ying’s chest, rubbing little circles into his sternum. “You’re safe now. I have you. Can you try to breathe with me?” It’s soothing, it’s the nicest thing Wei Ying has ever felt, and someday when he can control his limbs again he’ll be able to appreciate it properly. As it is he cries like a baby, cries longer and harder than he did after getting disowned, cries like his jiejie’s in the hospital again and he’s bruised and battered in a hallway and waiting to hear from the doctor. He wouldn’t just—he wouldn’t just disappear on them again like that, but they wouldn’t have known, and he would have died gasping in a peanut butter jar from fucking dehydration, fuck.

When Wei Ying can finally think again, his broken-ass brain allowing him off the merry-go-round of misery, his head hurts and his eyes burn and he’s about ready to go back to sleep for another five and a half hours. He’s pretty sure he just had a panic attack, which hasn’t happened since that last time he got chased by a dog, and goddamn what a bad one. He inhales slowly, reveling in a great wash of, like, inner peace and calm and general relaxation, and someone’s hand strokes the back of his head and the same someone says, “Better?” and hey, so. Wei Ying is straight-up in Lan Zhan’s lap, and they’re curled up together on his immaculately clean kitchen floor, and this has been the weirdest day and Wei Ying doesn’t have the energy to be weirded out by this, too, so he just shoves his face into the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck and goes boneless. “Okay,” Lan Zhan says, the sound rumbling through his ribcage and into Wei Ying’s, and he goes back to stroking Wei Ying’s hair. Fuck, it’s nice though, Wei Ying feels more settled and chill than he ever does. His brain has stopped yelling. His brain never stops yelling, but right now there’s this wave of pleasant, warm energy pouring over him like an emotional shower, like nothing he’s ever felt before, except for earlier that day, when Lan Zhan first picked him up, and… Oh.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says into the collar of Lan Zhan’s bunny pajamas, and the other man immediately tenses up, taking his hands away from Wei Ying’s head and hip.

“I apologize,” Lan Zhan says, shifting in the way that means he’s probably going to try and get Wei Ying out of his lap. The peaceful feeling stops as though someone turned off a tap, which is all the answer Wei Ying needed. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I didn’t say stop!” Wei Ying says urgently, grabbing the hand he can see and replacing it on his hip, where it had been gently cradling the jut of his hip bone. “I liked it, do it more.” Lan Zhan hesitates, and Wei Ying whines, “You promised to cuddle me the whole time, Lan Zhan, keep your promise.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, relaxing slowly, and his other hand settles back at the base of Wei Ying’s skull and the peaceful feeling comes back like sinking into a bath. Wei Ying sighs blissfully and noses at Lan Zhan’s collar, inhaling the slightly smoky smell of his skin, all salt and nice clean man. He really doesn’t want to leave like, ever, but that’s a problem for future Wei Ying.

“You’re magic, huh?” Wei Ying asks a few breaths later, not-quite-dozing but close. Lan Zhan makes an affirmative sound and Wei Ying smiles into his pajamas. “That explains at least one thing,” he muses. “Maybe more than one. What’s your deal?”

Wei Ying's stomach grumbles loudly before Lan Zhan can respond, and Wei Ying cracks an eye open to glare down at it. Betrayed again! “We should eat,” Lan Zhan says, carefully shifting around so he can lever the both of them back to their feet. “I will explain over dinner.”

“Fiiiiine,” Wei Ying complains, allowing himself to be steered back to the tea station, where the kettle still waits for him to push a single button and complete their mission. They don’t really talk again other than quick warnings as they move around each other in the kitchen until the stir-fry is done and they’re at the table (because of course Lan Zhan has an actual dining room table) with steaming cups and bowls piled high with rice and wok-browned tofu. It smells great, ginger and garlic and scallions and mushrooms, and Wei Ying gets through about half his bowl before he comes up for air. Could use some hot sauce, but then, Wei Ying sometimes eats his watermelon with hot sauce on it. He’s aware that he’s an outlier.

“So dish,” he says, washing down a mouthful of rice with a sip of tea. “What’s your—” he gestures vaguely with his chopsticks “—thing?”

Lan Zhan chews and swallows his neat little bite of tofu and rice and sets his chopsticks down. “I—” he starts, then drops his eyes to the table between them. Is he nervous? Weird. “My family,” he continues after a moment, apparently deciding to go in a different direction, “are all limited touch-telepaths.”

Wei Ying chokes on his tofu and has to thump himself on the chest several times, Lan Zhan’s eyes going wide and alarmed. Fuck. Fuck. Has Wei Ying not been humiliated enough in the last twenty-four hours? Must he endure this as well? “Shit,” he wheezes, when he can kinda breathe again, “Oh my god, Lan Zhan, I am so sorry, I swear even I don’t know what I’m thinking half the time, please—”

“I cannot read your mind,” Lan Zhan breaks in, which is so startling that Wei Ying shuts his mouth with a click. “The most important word is limited,” he says, more gently. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t violate your privacy in that way.”

Wei Ying’s much abused fight-or-flight reflex drains away, and he rubs his hands over his face, scrubs them through his hair, and takes a deep, slow breath. “Okay,” he says, “okay, sorry. It’s just.” He waves at his temple. “It’s like I have a colony of squirrels all hopped up on caffeine in here at all times. No one deserves that.” Also I want you to pin me down and bite me and then maybe fuck me until I can’t move and I think about that a lot and would die if you could hear me thinking it, Wei Ying manages to avoid saying out loud. “So if you’re not reading minds, what are you doing?”

Lan Zhan takes a careful sip of tea. “It would be more accurate to say that we are touch empaths, perhaps.” The cup clinks back down on the table, ceramic on wood, and Lan Zhan meets Wei Ying’s eyes again. “If I am in very close proximity to a living being, I can sense their emotions, and I can also project emotions at them. It is stronger with physical touch. From here—” and he gestures to the length of the table between them “—I cannot sense anything more than a normal human would.”

“Huh,” Wei Ying says, the colony of caffeinated squirrels in his head working double-speed. Things start clicking into place, and Wei Ying whistles. “Wow, damn, that must be handy as hell in your line of work.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan eats another bite of his stir fry. “It is much easier to treat an animal when you can sense what’s wrong, and when it will stay calm long enough for you to address the issue.”

Wei Ying nods. He gets to cheat on some of that because he can smell strong emotions, but he can’t do shit about actually calming agitated animals, and now he’s kinda mad that he doesn’t have that power. “Is that why you don’t touch people?” Other than today, when you touched me like… A lot, Wei Ying adds silently.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, looking back at the table, his ears pinking. “It is… impolite to read people without their permission.” He glances up, and then immediately away when he sees Wei Ying watching him fondly, chin propped on his hand. “I also find it… difficult not to project. If I am feeling. Strong emotions.”

“Oooh, fuck,” Wei Ying says, with feeling. “Rude of your magic to do that to you.”

“It is why I prefer to work with animals,” Lan Zhan admits, lining up another perfectly arranged bite on his chopsticks. “It is. Simpler.”

“Word,” Wei Ying agrees, saluting with his teacup the way he would with a beer. Lan Zhan raises his own cup, and they sip companionably. “I thought you were extremely chill about suddenly having a huli jing in your sink,” he continues, because on reflection, Lan Zhan could have reacted much, much worse. “Makes sense that you’re magic, too.”

Lan Zhan nods. “You were not my first magical patient,” he admits, and Wei Ying perks up bodily.

“You know you can’t just drop that and not tell me everything,” he tells Lan Zhan, going for stern but probably sounding too excited to get there.

“Mn.” Lan Zhan nods and takes another sip of tea, staring somewhere past Wei Ying thoughtfully. “Talking animals are the most common. Have you met the local raven colony?”

“Oh, yeah,” Wei Ying says, who has indeed occasionally run into the talking ravens on his nighttime rambles and, on one occasion, shifted back human so he could break into a locked compost bin on their behalf. “I love those funky little birds.”

“They are amusing,” Lan Zhan says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “They insist on paying me for my services in bottlecaps.”

“Checks out.”

“The first magical creature I treated was a qilin,” Lan Zhan says, stacking his tofu slices absently. “She’d been hit by a car, and when I brought her in she was pretending to be a deer. She could sense what I was and took her true form as soon as we were alone.”

“Was that more or less surprising than me?”

Lan Zhan, bless him, actually takes the time to think about that. “There was less nudity,” he says, frowning slightly, “but more fire. I believe it balances out.” Wei Ying blushes hard, regretting perhaps half of his life choices, and shoves more stir-fry in his mouth.

“How strong is it?” he asks, when he can speak again. Lan Zhan cocks his head, and Wei Ying clarifies, “Your mind powers. I know you said you can’t read thoughts but like, how hard can you project? Can you mind-control me if you work hard enough?”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, very firmly. “It is a suggestion only. I am unable to make you feel anything that goes against your nature.” His ears pink again, and he inclines his head deferentially. “I apologize for using it on you without permission earlier.”

“I was having a panic attack,” Wei Ying points out reasonably, “and it helped. I’m not mad.”

“Regardless,” Lan Zhan says. “It is unethical to try and influence a sapient mind without consent. I was—” he hesitates, clearly trying to choose the correct phrasing “—not thinking clearly in my concern for you.”

Wei Ying tries, unsuccessfully, to hide his blush in his hands. “Lan Zhaaaaan,” he whines, “I have had a very long day, you can’t just say nice things like that to me or I’ll start to get ideas.”

“If the idea you get is that I hold you in high regard and care about your well-being, then that is my intention,” Lan Zhan says with his actual mouth words where Wei Ying and the rest of the world can hear him. All of Wei Ying’s insides go squirmy-happy, and the squirrels in his brain freak out, bouncing off the walls and each other and destroying his capacity for rational thought in the process. He whines again, low and wordless, and escapes to the kitchen to refill his bowl before he does something foolish, like crawl across the table into Lan Zhan’s lap and bite his cute pink ears.

“Have you ever run into other huli jing?” he asks when he comes back, around a mouthful of tofu. Please please please—

“I have not,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying feels his hope squash itself, again. “I am sorry,” he says, obviously reading the disappointment on Wei Ying’s face. “I do know a family of tanuki, if you would like an introduction?”

“Oh damn, that would be great,” Wei Ying says, hope flaring up again. “I don’t know any other human-type shifters and I have some questions.”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan nods. “I will reach out to them on your behalf.” He inhales but doesn’t say anything, hesitant again. “The family that raised you?”

“River spirits,” Wei Ying says, understanding the rest of the unasked question. “The Jiangs can breathe underwater. Uncle Fengmian was good friends with my parents, which is why they ended up taking me in once they found me in the system, but they don’t know much more about huli jing than I do, which is ‘every myth and legend I can track down in the American public library system and also personal trial and error.’” He shrugs, trying not to let the old hurt show. “Like, they were very chill about a six year old kid suddenly turning into a fox in order to try and get out of bathtime, but they don’t know what’s ‘normal’ for a huli jing and what isn’t. Are we all ADHD trash gremlins, or is that a me thing?”

Lan Zhan’s eyes narrow when Wei Ying refers to himself as a trash gremlin, but all he actually says is, “I suppose I was expecting more than one tail.”

“Exactly!” Wei Ying points his chopsticks at him. “Am I gonna get more of those as I get older? Will my magic get more powerful? What’s even my lifespan? Who can say? Certainly not me!”

“Frustrating,” Lan Zhan says sympathetically, and Wei Ying nods while he stuffs his face with more stir-fry. Lan Zhan is a really good cook, and it’s not helping at all with the issue of how Wei Ying is basically in love with him. “What do you know about yourself?” Lan Zhan asks, which, phew, that’s quite a question, isn’t it?

“I’m basically a normal fox when I’m a fox,” Wei Ying says, going with the answer that's facts and not feelings, “except smarter. No extra superpowers that I know of, unfortunately. In this form—” he waves at himself “—I have a really good sense of smell, great night vision, sharper hearing than most people, I think?” He drums his fingers on the table. “Oh, my eyes glow when you shine a flashlight in them at night, that’s always a good party trick.” Wei Ying chews on his lower lip, trying to figure out if he’s forgetting something, and then duh, of course. “I’m fangy, too.” Lan Zhan’s eyebrows lift, interested, and Wei Ying helpfully opens his mouth and bares his teeth, tapping his tongue demonstratively to each pronounced canine. “Issth not really, like, unuthual,” he says, mouth still open, and then goes back to speaking normally so he doesn’t spit all over Lan Zhan’s dining room table. “I’ve seen normal humans with similar teeth, you know? But they’re shaped exactly the same in either form, so I’m pretty sure it’s a fox thing. Makes it really easy to dress as a vampire for Halloween, so I always have a costume ready to go.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says from a million miles away, still staring at Wei Ying’s mouth. Wei Ying’s next breath brings in a change in the air, Lan Zhan’s scent twisting a little differently, and he’s trying to figure out what it is when Lan Zhan stands abruptly, empty bowl in hand. “Dishes,” he says, and immediately heads into the kitchen. Wei Ying blinks, the mystery of Lan Zhan’s changing smell leaving his mind immediately, and follows him in with his own bowl.

“Let me,” he says, cutting between Lan Zhan and the sink with the same skill he used to use to always beat Jiang Cheng to their sister’s cooking. Lan Zhan’s mouth thins, and Wei Ying grins at him brightly. “Please! You cooked, I clean. It’s fair!” Lan Zhan eyes drop down to Wei Ying’s mouth again, where he probably has an even better view of Wei Ying’s lil’ fangies, and after a moment he nods. Wei Ying sighs, happy to get to do something helpful, and hums to himself as he washes the dishes and then, after Lan Zhan puts away the leftovers, the wok. He even wipes the counters. They’re basically already spotless, but it seems like the thing to do.

Lan Zhan is once again ensconced on the couch when Wei Ying makes his way into the living room, having taken the opportunity to brew two mugs of a minty lemongrass herbal tea that caught his nose. Lan Zhan accepts the mug with a nod, his eyes soft, and Wei Ying settles down at the other end of the couch, a careful amount of distance between them. That gets a slight frown, and Wei Ying cocks his head in silent question, and Lan Zhan pointedly looks at his own lap and up at Wei Ying expectantly.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, failing to hide his flush behind the mug, “I can’t drink my tea with my head in your lap, at least not without a complicated system of straws, and I don’t have the energy to build a complicated system of straws right now.”

“I promised to cuddle you the whole time,” Lan Zhan says, his jaw set. Wei Ying genuinely thinks Lan Zhan might crawl down the couch and hug him, which seems like a little too much everything right at the moment. In a panic, Wei Ying swings around sideways and puts his feet in Lan Zhan’s lap, instead.

“There!” he says, a little squeaky, settling down against a throw pillow. “Happy now?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, apparently sincere, and he settles one hand heavy on Wei Ying’s ankle, thumb tracing a circle around the bony jut of it. “Is there anything you would like to watch?” he asks, hopefully oblivious to the way Wei Ying’s head has gone all blank and loud at the contact. Right, there was a question, he asked a question.

“Whatever you want is fine,” Wei Ying manages, mostly normal. “I probably don’t have the attention span to care right now.” He inhales the steam from his cup, bright and herbal, and tries not to read too much into whatever’s happening, here.

They end up watching one of those travel shows that’s mostly beautiful landscape shots, the host soft-voiced and speaking gently about food that looks so good Wei Ying almost gets hungry again, even with two bowls of stir-fry in his belly. Fifteen minutes into the episode Lan Zhan shifts a little, his hand stroking the strip of skin between the hem of Wei Ying’s borrowed sweatpants and the top of the sock. “If I am relaxed,” he says, which isn’t exactly a sentence, and then, “May I?”

“Hit me,” Wei Ying says, more curious than anything, and in the next breath his brain goes quiet. “Oh,” he breathes, reveling in the peace. “Fuck, Lan Zhan, is this what it’s like inside your head all the time?”

“Not all the time,” Lan Zhan says, his mouth quirking. “Is it okay?”

“If I had money and it wouldn’t be weird I would pay you to follow me around all day and make me feel this chill,” Wei Ying says, scooching a little lower into the cushions. “It’s like you’re massaging out all the knots in my brain muscles. It’s so nice.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan says, giving Wei Ying another one of those devastatingly soft looks, and they go back to watching the host talk about a particular slow-braised beef soup that’s different from every other slow-braised beef soup. Wei Ying thinks he should be allowed to try all the beef soups, so he can be the judge of which one is best. He tells Lan Zhan this, and gets a serious nod and a little affirmative hmm sound. It’s surprisingly normal, hanging out on Lan Zhan’s couch like this, watching quiet travel shows and drinking tea. Before today they’d never even spent more than fifteen minutes in the same space, but they slot into place together like Legos. Wei Ying almost expects to hear the click.

Don’t get used to this, he tells himself sharply. This isn’t for him, no matter how right it feels. Lan Zhan is great and kind and the best and a very dedicated wildlife rehabilitator and it’s just—Wei Ying made a joke and Lan Zhan took it seriously and now they’re just doing—whatever. Tomorrow everything will go back to normal and Wei Ying will go back to his barren bedroom and on Monday he’ll go to work at the cat shelter and he’s still going to need to go dumpster diving for groceries. This is a—a vacation, and he should think of it like that.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, squeezing his ankle. He glances over, eyes reflecting the golden sunset on the television, brows slightly creased. “I want you to be here.”

Wei Ying covers his face with his hands. “Oh god,” he says, whole body prickling hot and cold, “I’m sorry, I forgot you could—here, I’ll—” and he tries to pull his feet away, so Lan Zhan doesn’t have to be subjected to his brain worms. Lan Zhan’s grip tightens on his ankle and wow, he’s strong, Wei Ying isn’t going anywhere.

“I’m not,” Lan Zhan starts, inhales, and tries again with, “You are not making me uncomfortable. I simply.” He pets Wei Ying’s ankle again. “You were anxious,” he says, soft. “I wanted to reassure you.”

Lan Zhan keeps saying these things, and it’s like every time he does he’s handing Wei Ying a wiggly kitten, and now Wei Ying has an armful of kittens and has to figure out what to do with all of them. “Okay,” he says, weakly, after a little too long, and he turns over onto his side to determinedly stare at a sweeping mountain vista instead of at Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan’s thumb strokes his ankle again, Lan Zhan’s unchangeable inner peace lapping at his shores, and Wei Ying focuses on that and not all the emotion kittens climbing around in his ribcage.

They make it through two whole episodes without Wei Ying talking himself into a spiral again. Instead he’s yawning every thirty seconds, hands pulled up in front of his mouth as camouflage, like that would be enough to hide his sleepiness when Lan Zhan has a direct line to his emotional state.

“We should get ready for bed,” Lan Zhan tells him softly, switching off the screen, and Wei Ying is tired enough that he doesn’t argue even though it’s like eight-thirty and Wei Ying is part-time nocturnal. Lan Zhan gently herds him off the couch, down the hall, past the bathroom Wei Ying used earlier, and through a dim room into a larger ensuite bathroom, where he points out some skincare products and finds Wei Ying a spare toothbrush. Wei Ying reads the labels while he brushes his teeth, faintly bewildered by the options. Retinoid? Serum? He ends up using the cleanser and the moisturizer, which is already a step beyond what he normally does, and grabs a damp washcloth to wipe off the remnants of the antibiotic ointment on his neck. The worst of the scrapes are already scabbed over, and with how much good food he’s eaten today and the amount of sleep he’s about to get, they’ll be fine by morning. The ointment is greasy, and the last thing Wei Ying wants is to leave gross oil stains across Lan Zhan’s presumably-pristine guest sheets. He brushes his hair for the first time in over a day, wincing occasionally as he finds new and interesting knots, uses the toilet, and pads out of the bathroom.

Lan Zhan looks up at him from the bed, where he’s under the covers, leaned up against the headboard with a paperback book in his hand, because it’s Lan Zhan’s bed, in Lan Zhan’s bedroom, where Lan Zhan sleeps, and Lan Zhan’s face is clean and a little shiny with moisturizer and his hair is in a loose braid that curls over one shoulder because he’s ready for bed, in his bed, and a full understanding of what’s happening hits Wei Ying like a freight train.

“Uh,” he says, freezing. Lan Zhan looks right at him and reaches across to the other side of the king-size bed and flips back the cloud-printed blue duvet to display crisp white sheets. Wei Ying’s brain continues screaming, all the squirrels running around and smashing random buttons like they’re on the bridge of a spaceship in the middle of a pitched battle. “I can take the couch,” Wei Ying manages after a moment. There’s a blanket out there and everything, he doesn’t even need to ask for more.

“The couch is unsuitable for prolonged sleep,” Lan Zhan says calmly. “You’ll hurt your neck.” He pats the pillow pointedly. “I promised to cuddle you the whole time,” he says again, like that’s a normal promise to make to a friend (?) after you pull him out of a peanut butter jar.

Wei Ying spends a frantic minute trying to come up with an argument that will get him out of sharing a bed with the man he wants desperately to fuck him senseless without actually saying anything like, “You’re the best thing I’ve ever smelled in my life and I will probably hump your leg in my sleep if I get in there with you.” His body gives up on getting any feedback or instructions from his useless, useless brain, and crosses the room to climb under the covers, peeling off the socks as he goes. The sheets are smooth against his skin, clearly a few days out from being washed but still clean enough that he can smell hints of laundry detergent. Mostly, though, he smells Lan Zhan, that worked-in scent that comes from sleeping somewhere night after night, rising up and wrapping itself around Wei Ying like an olfactory hug. He inhales deeply, wiggles a little, and sighs, the motion of getting horizontal switching most of his brain functions from sexy to sleepy like flipping a lever.

“Fuck, this mattress,” he groans. “God, is this what people mean when they talk about lumbar support? I don’t even know what my lumbar is but it feels supported as fuck right now.”

“It’s your lower back,” Lan Zhan says, eyes a warm weight on Wei Ying as he rolls around. “Specifically the L1 through L5 vertebrae. How old is your current mattress?”

“I dunno, I found it next to a dumpster,” Wei Ying says, too comfortable and sleepy to filter himself. Lan Zhan’s silence takes on a horrified quality, and Wei Ying turns to point a finger at him defensively. “Don’t give me that!” he says to a man who is currently giving him nothing but a carefully blank look. “I can smell bedbugs, you know, I wouldn’t have brought it home if it didn’t pass the sniff test.”

Lan Zhan blinks once, twice, and says, “Thank you for that reassurance.” He lifts his book in question, flashing Wei Ying a glimpse of two men in old-timey clothes staring deeply into each other's eyes. “Will it bother you if I finish my chapter?”

Wei Ying shakes his head, processing that Lan Zhan is almost certainly reading a gay romance novel. It doesn’t bother him at all! He’ll just lay here, in bed with Lan Zhan, and wonder if it’s one of those novels that fades to black before anything juicy happens or if it’s one of the really filthy ones. Oh, god, is he at a sex scene? Are the characters straight-up fucking and he wants to finish reading about them fucking while Wei Ying is over here staring at the ceiling and failing to think un-horny thoughts? Can Wei Ying ask to borrow the novel when he’s done, so he can figure out what Lan Zhan is into and then use that information for evil flirting purposes?

These agonizing thoughts and others occupy Wei Ying until Lan Zhan sets his book down and clicks off the bedside lamp, startling Wei Ying out of his anxious pervy mental spiral, and he realizes with a jolt that he’s half-hard. Fuck. Fuck. He shuts his eyes to the moonlit dark of the bedroom and breathes slowly through his mouth, trying to talk himself down. We are here to sleep, he reminds himself furiously, don’t make this weird. He tells himself this so fervently that he doesn’t parse the sounds from Lan Zhan’s side of the bed, and then a warm hand lands on his waist and Wei Ying launches himself away from it so hard he almost falls out onto the floor.

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks, concerned, and Wei Ying’s heart attempts to escape his chest. He can’t—Lan Zhan can sense his feelings, he absolutely cannot be touched right now, Lan Zhan doesn’t deserve the onslaught of Wei Ying’s Horny Thoughts!

“Sorry!” he squeaks, pressing himself up to the edge of the mattress. “I—I can’t sleep if someone’s touching me!” This is a lie. Wei Ying, in fact, sleeps better if he has someone to curl up against, but he’s heard Wen Qing complain about grabby bedmates and it’s the only explanation he can think of that will keep Lan Zhan from touching him and finding things out. “It’s not like I was really serious about you cuddling me the whole time, Lan Zhan, haha! This is fine!”

(It is not fine. Wei Ying is the cartoon dog surrounded by fire, only instead of fire it’s Lan Zhan’s scent and sheets and bed.)

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says after a moment. “If you’re sure.” His voice is flat and gives nothing away, which makes Wei Ying even more acutely aware of how weird he’s being.

“I’m sure!” he says, a little wildly, unable to stop it. “If I change my mind I know where you are, anyway!” Noooooo, god, why does his mouth keep going like this?

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, like that’s actually a good point. Wei Ying’s night vision is good enough to see Lan Zhan's thoughtful little nod. “Please let me know if you require more cuddling,” he says, and how is he so fucking serious when he’s saying ridiculous things like this?

“‘Kay,” Wei Ying says, weakly, and he watches carefully as Lan Zhan scoots back over to his side of the bed and settles in, hands resting lightly on his chest, his face tipped a little toward Wei Ying. When Wei Ying is sure he’s out of range of any accidental, revealing cuddles, he scooches away from the edge (he doesn’t actually want to roll out) and curls up in his preferred ball, hand tucked under the pillow, blankets pulled up to his ears. It really is a comfy bed, and if it weren’t for Wei Ying’s still half-hard dick awkwardly shoved into the crease of his thigh, he feels like he’d actually be able to fall asleep. He doesn’t dare adjust himself, though, so he shuts his eyes and tries to find some of the inner calm he had earlier, when Lan Zhan was projecting it at him. It’s quieter out here than it is in the city, no gentle wash of cars on the nearby freeway, and there’s nothing to distract Wei Ying from the sound of Lan Zhan’s heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. It would be soothing except for how Wei Ying still feels like he’s fucking drowning in sexual tension. Lan Zhan! Is right there! Offering cuddles! In bed! God, Wei Ying wants to take him up on it, and he’s acutely aware that he absolutely can not.

It takes him a little while, distracted as he is, to realize that Lan Zhan’s heartbeat is a bit elevated. Not, like, a lot, not a worrisome amount, but higher than Wei Ying would expect for someone settling in to sleep, especially someone as calm and collected as Lan Zhan generally is. He risks peeking at him through the dark and his face gives away nothing, the edges of him blurred and gentle in the dim lighting. Huh. Weird. Wei Ying tries to figure out why Lan Zhan would be feeling nervous or excited. Maybe he doesn’t usually share his bed with rescued friends, and he’s just kinda weirded out by it? That makes the most sense, Wei Ying decides, and he shifts around, stretching out his legs and curling back up, and gets a good whiff of Lan Zhan as the air under the sheets whuffs out into his face.

Wei Ying freezes. Lan Zhan smells different again, different like he had at dinner when he was staring at Wei Ying’s canines. It’s deeper, and sharper, and incredibly delicious, and now that Wei Ying is in Lan Zhan’s fucking bed he has the context for what that smell means. He’s never smelled it on Lan Zhan before, but he’s smelled it on other people, in other beds, and the knowledge is a one-two punch to his face and his dick:

Lan Zhan is aroused. Lan Zhan is turned on. Lan Zhan is, not to put too fine a point on it, horny.

What the fuck.

All the caffeinated squirrels in Wei Ying’s head kick into overdrive, wildly trying to file this new, sexy information. He was just reading a romance novel, right? So maybe it was a really juicy scene, and this is just the aftermath, right? He’s horny about some words on a page! It got him all riled up! The only possible explanation!

Except, one of the squirrels notes, except they’ve been laying here for at least fifteen minutes, and Lan Zhan didn’t smell like this earlier when he was actually reading. His heart rate was normal. He only started smelling like this after the light was off, after spending a quarter-hour in bed with Wei Ying, carefully not touching each other, even though Lan Zhan absolutely tried to cuddle. Perhaps, this squirrel posits, perhaps… Lan Zhan is horny… because of Wei Ying?

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Okay. Wei Ying is just. So riled up now, fuck, he’s either gonna have to go sleep on the couch or he’s gonna have to jerk off in the bathroom or he’s gonna have to try and Do Something about it. The last option is the most terrifying, but it’s also the one with the least potential for Lan Zhan to ask him awkward questions about why he’s leaving the room. Wei Ying wets his lips, his heart pounding in his eardrums, and he uncurls from his croissant shape.

“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, and Lan Zhan’s eyes shoot open like he’s been waiting for Wei Ying to say something, the gleam of them barely-there in the night. “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, wiggling an inch closer, Lan Zhan watching him the whole time with a hot, heavy gaze, “I think I want that cuddle now.”

Lan Zhan’s breath hitches. If Wei Ying was a normal human he doesn’t think he’d notice it, but he has fox hearing, and that barely-there stutter prickles down his spine. Lan Zhan rolls toward him, arm lifted to make room under the blankets for Wei Ying, and another wave of Eau de Horny Lan Zhan wafts into Wei Ying’s face and he inhales deeply and doesn’t bother to hide it. Lan Zhan’s breath catches again, and Wei Ying wishes he was capable of crossing a king-size bed in a sexy way, because he basically has to flop his way over like a fish out of water. He tucks his knees up so his shins press against Lan Zhan’s thighs, curls into the protective curve of his body, and Lan Zhan’s arm settles around his waist. It’s nice, even not in a sexy way, but this close the scent of Lan Zhan’s arousal is all Wei Ying can smell and he shivers all the way down to his toes.

“Good?” Lan Zhan asks, his fingertips playing across the strip of skin at Wei Ying’s lower back where his shirt rode up as he crossed the bed. His eyes are dark and almost all pupil, and Wei Ying is getting the impression that it isn't entirely because it’s night.

“It’s good,” Wei Ying says, embarrassingly breathy. He drags his lower lip between his teeth, out of nervous habit, and Lan Zhan’s eyes drop very obviously to his mouth. Lan Zhan’s hand is on Wei Ying’s bare skin, he has to know now, he has to, but. Wei Ying brings his hand up and sets it on Lan Zhan’s cheek, cradling his jaw, and Lan Zhan tips his face into the touch, his breath coming out shaky. He’s not projecting, Wei Ying doesn’t think, he must be keeping himself locked away, and Wei Ying thinks he can see the strain at the corners of his mouth.

“If I—” he starts, and Lan Zhan’s eyes lock back onto his, almost desperate. “Stop me if I’m reading this wrong,” Wei Ying whispers, heart pounding in his throat, and all the squirrels in his head go silent as he leans forward and presses their lips together. Lan Zhan makes a sound against his mouth like he’s been punched, and in the next breath it all floods into Wei Ying, the yearning and longing and desperate, bone-deep want. It’s a lot to handle, and Wei Ying might white out a little bit, because when he tunes back into his body he’s apparently shoved Lan Zhan over onto his back and climbed on top of him. Wei Ying has one thigh in between Lan Zhan’s legs, and any possible misinterpretation of the situation is immediately put to rest by the straight-up boner Lan Zhan is grinding into Wei Ying’s quad. It is not subtle, and exceedingly hot, and Wei Ying whines in the back of his throat and rocks against it instinctively and, oh, right, there’s Wei Ying’s boner, and it’s also fully ready to go. Cool cool cool cool cool.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, when they come up for air, immediately mouthing along the line of Lan Zhan’s jaw between words, “oh thank god, shit, I’ve wanted to do that for ever.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says into his hair, the words guttural and rumbling up from his chest, “is this—can I?” His hands say what his mouth can’t articulate, both of them under Wei Ying’s borrowed t-shirt to drag over his lower back, pulling the hem up as they inch toward Wei Ying’s shoulders.

“Yes,” Wei Ying blurts, urgently, like Lan Zhan might change his mind. “Oh my god, please.” He shoves up to an awkward half-kneel and yanks the shirt off one-handed, throwing it somewhere across the room. Lan Zhan’s hands are on him immediately, wrapping around his waist, a huge warm anchor keeping him close. “You?” Wei Ying asks, which is mostly a question, scrabbling at the buttons on Lan Zhan’s adorable bunny pajamas.

“Yes,” comes the gasped reply. Lan Zhan’s hands leave his waist (tragic) to join Wei Ying at the buttons, and between the two of them they get the shirt open without tearing anything. “Light?” Lan Zhan asks, doing a half-crunch that makes all his abs stand out so he can peel out of the sleeves.

“Huh?” Wei Ying is vaguely aware that he was just asked a question, but those abs though. He reaches out a hand to run over them, soft skin, hard muscle, enough padding that they’d still make a good pillow, and bites his lower lip to stifle a groan. Fuck, Lan Zhan is so fucking hot. Lan Zhan catches his hand before it quite makes it to his waistband and kisses his palm, which is just. Augh. Wei Ying thinks maybe all his bones melted, it’s the most romantic fucking thing anyone’s ever done to him.

“I would like to see you,” Lan Zhan says, shirtless and blue-shaded in the moonlight, his eyes dark and sincere. Wei Ying can feel it, he realizes, feel the desire and fondness and all of Lan Zhan’s focused affection. It’s heady. He’s almost drunk on it, except for how he’s clearheaded and excruciatingly aware of every sensation, like when Lan Zhan drags his teeth across the meat at the base of Wei Ying’s thumb and it skitters straight down to his dick in a hot, wet pulse.

“Yeah,” he says, coherently. “Yeah, light. Good.”

Lan Zhan fumbles (fumbles!) for the lamp, and it clicks on to wash them both in amber. Lan Zhan under the moonlight is one thing, a beautiful carving of marble or jade, untouchable and sleek. Under the lamplight he’s something else entirely, lush and golden and warm. Wei Ying just stares at him for a minute, awestruck, eyes catching on the knot in his throat, the shadow of his collarbone, the dark buds of his nipples and all that fucking skin. Wei Ying wants to lick him all over. Wei Ying wants to eat him alive. Wei Ying wants to strip him naked and roll around on him until they smell like each other, and then he wants to do it all again tomorrow.

“How are you so hot?” he whines. He’s shoved up on one hand and Lan Zhan’s still holding on to the other, which means he can’t grope those gorgeous pecs like he wants to, so instead he noses at the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck and drags his tongue along the tendon. “It’s so fucking unfair that you’ve been hiding this under those jumpsuits the entire time we’ve known each other, Lan Zhan.”

“They are practical,” Lan Zhan says, his free hand on Wei Ying’s bare waist, sliding slowly up his ribcage. “Not everyone I rescue is as pleased about it as you.”

“Not the point,” Wei Ying says, voice cracking in the middle when Lan Zhan presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his wrist. Fuck, was that Lan Zhan’s tongue? Did Lan Zhan just lick him? Wei Ying uses their joined hands to tilt Lan Zhan’s face back to his, and then they’re kissing again, Lan Zhan’s tongue being put to just as good a use if not better than licking his skin. There should definitely be more licking later, though, but right now the tip of Lan Zhan’s tongue is tracing over one of Wei Ying’s canines, and he whines into the kiss and drops his body down and oh yes, now that’s all bare skin on bare skin. Lan Zhan’s hands slide to his back, up and down his spine in a slow, deliberate drag, and Wei Ying shudders like he’s been hit by his own personal earthquake and fucks against Lan Zhan’s thigh in a way that would be embarrassing if not for how it makes Lan Zhan’s breath catch and another jolt of that not-his wanting arc through their joined skin like horny electricity.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, straight into Lan Zhan’s mouth, which doesn’t seem like it should be sexy. Lan Zhan bites his lower lip, both hands speared into Wei Ying’s hair to keep him in place, so apparently he’s into it! What good news. Belatedly, Wei Ying realizes his hands are free again, and he gets one on Lan Zhan’s pec, thumb rolling around the nipple, and the other tucked behind his neck. Lan Zhan makes a deep, growling sound, one that vibrates through both their chests, and he drops one hand abruptly to Wei Ying’s ass and rolls them over in a single sharp movement.

The air punches out of Wei Ying’s lungs as he lands on the mattress, a whole-ass man on top of him. It’s so good, a comforting, sexy weight. Truly, this has become the absolute best day of Wei Ying’s life, and then Lan Zhan nudges his thighs apart to settle between them properly and rocks his cock against Wei Ying’s and Wei Ying nearly atomizes into a fine mist. He loses his entire shit, fully feral for a few seconds, and he bites the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck significantly harder than he means to.

It’s—fuck, Wei Ying has done this before, and it’s a horrible thing to just spring on someone (his teeth are sharp), and he’s pulling his mouth back to apologize in the same instant that Lan Zhan shivers against him like his bones are wind chimes, heat flaring across their connection. He fucks into Wei Ying’s spread legs again, and when he shoves himself up on one elbow his eyes are all pupil.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, dazed with what he’s feeling from Lan Zhan. “I—yeah?” He apparently still has one hand behind Lan Zhan’s neck, and he slides it down until he can rest his thumb against the impression of his teeth in Lan Zhan’s skin.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, his voice about two octaves deeper than usual. He swallows, throat flexing against Wei Ying’s thumb, and admits, “I find your fangs very appealing.”

The horny fog in Wei Ying’s brain is so thick it takes him far too long to actually understand that, and then it clicks and he grins, making sure to flash the ol’ fangs.

“Really?”

Lan Zhan nods, his ears so red the color is spilling down over his cheekbones.

Wei Ying wiggles his eyebrows and tips his head back, looking up at Lan Zhan coyly. “Why, Lan Zhan,” he drawls, dragging his tongue over one of his canines, “I never took you for a monsterfucker.”

“I did not see the appeal before Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, with a tiny shrug and a far-too-sincere expression. His fingers brush over Wei Ying’s jaw, and then down his neck, featherlight and trailing fire. “Your neck has recovered significantly since this morning.”

“What?” Wei Ying isn’t sure why they’re checking in about this instead of tearing each other’s pants off, possibly with their teeth. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“Hm.” Lan Zhan looks way too thoughtful and coherent, his fingers gently tracing over where Wei Ying’s pulse is pounding to beat hell. “If I mark you, how long will it last?”

The inside of Wei Ying’s head is one long, high-pitched ringing sound. Somehow, through the blank screaming, words emerge. “Uh,” is one of them, and it only counts as a word if he’s being extremely generous. “I don’t know,” he manages, eventually.

Lan Zhan makes another thoughtful sound, fingertips still the lightest tease, his thumb resting barely on the knot in Wei Ying’s throat. “Do you want to find out?”

The whine Wei Ying makes in response to that is humiliating, fully beyond his control and absolutely wild. “Please,” he says, tipping his head back, putting the long line of his neck on display in an instinctual submission pose. “Oh my god, fuck, Lan Zhan, please.”

Lan Zhan’s eyes flash, and he doesn’t hesitate at all to lean down and press his mouth under Wei Ying’s ear, biting the sensitive flesh there and rolling his tongue over it as he sucks. Wei Ying makes another utterly feral noise and shoves his hands down the back of Lan Zhan’s pants, and oh wow Lan Zhan is not wearing underwear, and holy shit what an ass Lan Zhan has. He clamps his fingers into the firm muscle and uses his grip to encourage Lan Zhan to just dry-hump him, grinding their hips together frantically. Wei Ying is leaking all over his borrowed underwear, his breath hot and wet against Lan Zhan’s temple, the pain and pressure of the bite pulsing in his cock with every heartbeat. Lan Zhan releases him and pulls back, sets his thumb deliberately where the bruise is throbbing, and pushes on it.

“Good?” he asks, like Wei Ying isn’t trying to fuck him pants-on literally as they speak.

“I almost came in my pants,” Wei Ying says, dazed and unable to self-censor.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, satisfaction radiating off him like heat waves, and he tips Wei Ying’s head to the other side and sucks a matching bruise there. Wei Ying jolts and writhes and says a lot of incoherent, horny things, and when Lan Zhan pulls away he looks so smug Wei Ying almost wants to be mad about it.

“If you are concerned about coming in your pants,” he says, leaning down to kiss the corner of Wei Ying’s mouth, “we should take them off.”

“Love that for us,” Wei Ying says, removing his hands from inside Lan Zhan’s pajama pants and shoving his waistband down instead. He has his legs half-wrapped around Lan Zhan’s hips, apparently (when did that happen?), and he reluctantly moves them in the service of getting to actually see and touch Lan Zhan’s dick. Lan Zhan rolls to the side, escaping Wei Ying’s grasp and severing their emotional connection. It’s weirdly disorienting being left alone in his own brain, and Wei Ying shakes his head and refocuses on stripping. There’s more flailing involved than he’d really like, and the blankets end up fully kicked off as part of the process, but he throws the pants and underwear across the room with a satisfied flare of victory.

Wei Ying rolls back over, already reaching for Lan Zhan, and collides with his chest because he was right there, reaching for Wei Ying, and all of Lan Zhan’s horny energy pours into Wei Ying when they touch. He shudders and moans, crawling closer, pushing Lan Zhan over onto his back and shoving his face into the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck.

“Fuck,” he says, vaguely, “is it stronger now?”

“Skin contact,” Lan Zhan rasps out, hands traveling Wei Ying’s body, thumbing at a nipple, squeezing his ass, scratching up his spine to card through his hair.

“Makes sense,” Wei Ying says, writhing against him a little just to feel that skin contact a little more. He mouths along Lan Zhan’s collarbone and inhales deeply. “Fuck, you smell so good,” he groans. “I noticed it that first day, you smell amazing, I just wanted to climb inside your jumpsuit and rub my face all over you until you were all I could smell.”

Lan Zhan inhales sharply, his hand spasming in Wei Ying’s hair. “All right,” he says, and relaxes against the pillows, splaying his limbs out invitingly.

“What?” Wei Ying asks, and then it clicks, and he blushes. “I didn’t—you don’t have to,” he says, wishing desperately he was capable of keeping his fucking mouth shut literally any time ever. Unpleasant things curdle in his guts, cutting the horny fog, and he tries to kiss Lan Zhan as a distraction, to get things back on track.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, neatly avoiding his lips, one of those gorgeous fucking hands coming up to cup his face. “You want to. What’s wrong?”

Wei Ying whines subvocally, ears wanting to flatten back against his head even though that doesn’t work in human form. “It’s fine,” he lies, helplessly. “It’s—you won’t like it, Lan Zhan, it’s weird.”

Lan Zhan frowns, gaze distant for a moment, and then his face softens and he looks at Wei Ying with a mortifying understanding. “Wei Ying,” he says, gently, and kisses the corner of his mouth while Wei Ying spends a moment thoroughly cursing this horrible touch telepathy and how it’s making it impossible for him to hide his horrible feelings. “It’s all right.” He kisses the other side of Wei Ying’s mouth, his free hand spread possessively across Wei Ying’s entire lower back. It’s very sexy and comforting but the squirrels are awake in Wei Ying’s brain again and they all have anxiety. He’s naked and dick-to-dick with Lan Zhan, why does he have to ruin everything?

“I—” he says, cold and uncomfortable, wanting to curl up into a ball, or shift and run away, “seriously, Lan Zhan, you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Lan Zhan says with perfect sincerity, letting the truth of it pour into Wei Ying’s skin. He kisses Wei Ying square on the lips, a slide of tongue that’s just deep enough to tantalize, and then pulls back. “It’s all right, Xiao-hu,” he says, still cupping Wei Ying’s jaw, eyes ember-warm in the lamp light. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Wei Ying squeaks and shoves his face back into Lan Zhan’s neck, which he knows logically will do nothing to hide his emotions but at least lets him pretend like it. Lan Zhan! Is just! So! He squeezes his eyes shut, because he’s not going to cry before he actually gets to touch Lan Zhan’s dick (yes it’s currently pressing against his hip but that doesn’t count, he needs to get either his hands or his mouth on it before he’ll consider it properly touched) and breathes carefully against Lan Zhan’s skin as he gets hold of himself. Fuck. Fuck. He thought Lan Zhan couldn’t read his thoughts? If he can’t, then how is he reaching right into the dusty corners of Wei Ying’s skull and pulling out insecurities that Wei Ying never even looks at head-on?

“Really?” he asks, like he’s not already stealing greedy little snatches of scent with each breath.

“Really,” Lan Zhan says, giving Wei Ying’s head one last pet before settling down again, loose-limbed and open. Wei Ying lifts his head out of Lan Zhan’s neck to examine his face, still a little doubtful, and the corners of Lan Zhan’s eyes crinkle up. “If you would like to shift first you may,” he says, a playful edge to his voice that Wei Ying has never heard from him before, “but in that case I must insist you shift back before we engage in any further sexual activity.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying squeals, delighted and scandalized, blushing so furiously his face feels like it might burst into flames. “You’re teasing me! You can tease?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan draws his toes up the back of Wei Ying’s calf, drawing a delicious shiver out of Wei Ying as he goes. “Turnabout is fair play. Wei Ying teases me constantly.”

“Fair point,” Wei Ying says, and he has this whole bed full of gorgeous naked man underneath him, and he’s been given permission to go ham on that man, so you know what? He’s gonna.

He starts with the neck. That’s subtle. Even normal humans like to be close to each other’s necks during sex, so it doesn’t stand out as weird that he wants to put his face back in there. Wei Ying nuzzles Lan Zhan’s skin on both sides, pressing his mouth to it, not really kissing but just long wet drags. He nudges at Lan Zhan’s jaw until he rolls his head to the side, and then buries his face into the nape of his braid, inhaling the salty natural oils of his scalp and a shampoo that probably has a little bit of rosemary extract in it. God, it’s nice, and he makes a pleased sound into Lan Zhan’s hair and gets a pulse of pleasure in return. That pulse gives him the confidence he needs to move on, mouth trailing over collarbones and the dip between Lan Zhan’s pecs, and fuck it, he’s here anyway, might as well kill two birds with one stone, so he inhales deeply and greedily, rubs each side of his face on Lan Zhan’s sternum, and then kisses a nipple.

Lan Zhan’s breath catches in nearly a word, his cock twitches and leaks where it’s trapped against Wei Ying’s stomach, and he drives his hips up involuntarily. Delighted, Wei Ying tries sucking, and that gets a stuttered groan and more hip movements and a surging tide of hot arousal. Wei Ying may kind of hate not being able to hide his emotions from Lan Zhan, but the reverse is fucking awesome. Lan Zhan is into this. Lan Zhan wouldn’t be able to pretend he was into this if he wasn’t. This is the enthusiastic consent people wet dream about, holy shit. Wei Ying scrapes his teeth against the hard nub, relishing every reaction, and he’s drunk enough on Lan Zhan’s own enjoyment to go for broke so he nuzzles at Lan Zhan’s armpit.

Look, it's not like Wei Ying has a thing for armpits (though he doesn't judge anyone who does, chase your bliss, etc). On most people,  armpits are objectively gross. He doesn't want someone else's pit sweat all over him, thanks, not his kink at all! It is, however, an inescapable fact that armpits are one of the places on a human body where the pheromones hang out, for all that normal people can't really smell them or react except subconsciously. Wei Ying, however, can smell them, and does react, and that means if he's going to fulfill his promise of rubbing his face all over Lan Zhan he has to include Ye Olde Pits. That’s just like… math.

Lan Zhan, for the record, has really nice armpits. He either shaves them and Wei Ying has hit him at the growout phase or he keeps the hair trimmed regularly, so there's maybe a half inch of black hair that looks surprisingly soft and a little sparse. It's cute. Of course Lan Zhan has cute armpits, Wei Ying thinks despairingly. He'll probably die when he actually gets his eyes on Lan Zhan's dick if it's half as pretty as the rest of him, but what a way to go.

Wei Ying is aware that he's stalling a little, so: fuck it.

He puts his face in Lan Zhan's armpit and inhales deep. Not for the first time he tries to figure out what Lan Zhan actually smells like, and as usual he comes up blank. He doesn't have words for the way his nose works, for the olfactory tapestries available to him even in human form. It's not like the stereotypical “X and Y and something uniquely him,” though he appreciates the literary attempt in spirit. Lan Zhan smells like salt, which everyone smells like, and his rosemary shampoo, and an oatmeal honey soap, and some oils in his skincare routine that are kinda fruity, and a little bit like the animals he works with. Those are the things Wei Ying has words for. Lan Zhan's actual scent is something completely different, deep and complex and layered. It's a little sweet, and a little smoky, and right now there's a definite musky undertone that's the reason Wei Ying feels at all comfortable with his current armpit investigation. Lan Zhan smells like the feeling of getting home after a long day, sitting down on the couch with a nice drink, and knowing you don't have to go anywhere again that evening. He smells like opening the door to your apartment and realizing your sister has stopped by and is cooking something for you as a surprise. He smells like laying in a sunbeam in a meadow, your fur warm, the grass soft under you, and knowing there are no predators you need to worry about. Wei Ying never wants to smell anything else again for the rest of his life.

Lost in his own head and nose, it takes him a minute to realize Lan Zhan has gone tense under him, body held carefully still. There's the slightest hint of apprehension mixed in with the Hornt(™) Wei Ying is sensing, and he lifts his head, alarmed. “Okay?” he asks, anxiety climbing back up his throat, fuck, he told Lan Zhan this was weird, he told him—

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says immediately, his sheepishness bleeding through. He drops a hand to Wei Ying's back and strokes there soothingly. “I apologize,” he says, his ears pink and his face abashed. “I have just discovered that I am apparently ticklish.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, apologetic but also squealing internally about how fucking cute that is. “You didn't know?”

“I hadn't had the opportunity to learn,” Lan Zhan says. He pets Wei Ying's back a little bit more, the apprehension fading into the general hum of their shared pleasure. “You don't have to stop,” he says, so earnest it makes Wei Ying want to cry. “I would like you to continue. Just perhaps don't…”

“I wasn't planning on licking your armpit,” Wei Ying says, out loud with his mouth words, like some kind of weirdo barbarian with no understanding of social norms. “For the record,” he adds, like that makes it a more reasonable thing to say.

Lan Zhan nods, because apparently he's also a weirdo barbarian. “Thank you.”

Wei Ying nods at him, trying to pretend like they're both not complete weirdo barbarians, and he kisses Lan Zhan's nearest nipple, gives it a good swirl with his tongue, and then mouths his way across all those decadently lickable pecs. He makes sure the other nipple doesn't feel left out, working at it until his stomach is actively sticky from all of Lan Zhan's leaking (holy shit, Wei Ying thought he got wet when he was turned on), and then he breathes in the other armpit, careful not to tickle. His hands keep moving, groping every inch of Lan Zhan available to him, of which there are a lot. Ribcage, hip, thigh (and what a thigh; Lan Zhan must do a lot of squats), along his arms, cupping a pec, thumb rolling around the nipple. Every touch ratchets up Lan Zhan’s enjoyment, and Wei Ying desperately wants to know what it’s going to feel like when Lan Zhan comes. He wants to drive Lan Zhan absolutely senseless, wants him as feral as he makes Wei Ying feel.

Wei Ying mouths his way down Lan Zhan’s ridiculous abs, panting humidity into his skin, the musk-scent stronger the lower he gets on Lan Zhan’s body. The happy trail under Lan Zhan’s bellybutton is the roadmap he was looking for, and he’s really trying not to focus directly on Lan Zhan’s dick (he has a different goal), but he inevitably comes face-to-cock with it and has to stop and stare for a minute.

It’s a really, really nice dick. Wei Ying does, indeed, die a little, since Lan Zhan’s dick is just as pretty as the rest of him, but the power of the dick is such that he’s brought back to life immediately afterward. It’s bigger than his, which Wei Ying has no issues with—he can be a little bit of a size queen given the opportunity but he’s flexible, in both the literal and figurative senses, and he’s never met a dick or a pussy he didn’t like—but it’s not like, intimidating. It’d take a little work but nothing that couldn’t happen on a weeknight, not that it’s a weeknight right now, but you know. Hypothetically. The tip is flared and dark, shining wet with the precome that’s smeared all over those abs, and all over swaths of Wei Ying’s skin, and Wei Ying wants to see how he tastes but he can wait a little longer. He drops close and inhales, trying to take Lan Zhan’s sexy/musky/horny self-made perfume as deep into his lungs as he can, and then he crawls a little further down the bed, shoulders his way in between Lan Zhan’s thighs, and shoves his face abruptly into the neatly-trimmed pubic hair at the base of that beautiful dick. It twitches next to his cheek, which is just so hot, and Lan Zhan shudders through his whole body and wraps those gorgeous thighs around Wei Ying’s shoulders, trapping him in the best smelling cocoon Wei Ying hath ever experienced. Wei Ying groans into Lan Zhan’s skin and grinds his face around, smearing the deep, heady scent of Lan Zhan’s arousal all over himself.

Lan Zhan’s thighs squeeze around him, and oh, isn’t that a feeling. Wei Ying wonders if Lan Zhan could crush a watermelon between his thighs. He wonders if he can convince Lan Zhan to try, and then let him lick all the juice off afterward. Wei Ying mouths at the base of Lan Zhan’s dick a little, lost in that fantasy, the salty musky tang in his nose and on the skin of his throat and spreading across his tongue, and Lan Zhan shudders again, both hands coming down to grip Wei Ying’s hair and tug lightly.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, his voice rough and urgent. Wei Ying looks up the long, lithe line of his body to meet dark eyes and a kiss-bruised mouth. He grinds against the mattress a little, unable to stop himself, and Lan Zhan inhales sharply and his eyelids flutter. God damn, this “feeling each other’s feelings” thing is wild. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says again, refocusing, the simmering heat under his skin shifting a little. “I have been celibate for the last three years,” he drops, just as a casual little bombshell. “My most recent test results are from my physical six months ago. Everything was negative.”

Oh. Oh. Wei Ying can feel the sincerity. That’s good, having this conversation is good, and Lan Zhan is definitely right in anticipating that Wei Ying wants to suck his dick at least a little bit. “Cool,” he says, a little wildly. “Great, that’s great.” He tries to think, which has mixed results even at the best of times. “Uuuh, my last hookup was like a year ago? I got tested right after, we’re good there. The results are in my email somewhere if you wanna see them, I’ll need to borrow the laptop again—”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, tugging Wei Ying’s hair lightly but enough to distract him thoroughly from the beginning of his ramble. “Xiao-hu.” His face softens, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. “You’re telling the truth. I trust you.”

Wei Ying puts his face back in Lan Zhan’s crotch, whining, absolutely unable to handle this level of affection. “Shh,” Lan Zhan says, unwinding his thighs and tugging Wei Ying up his body. He rolls them over and kisses Wei Ying into the mattress, kisses and kisses him until he goes limp, happily pinned under Lan Zhan’s steady weight. Wei Ying can’t help rolling his hips up, sliding their dicks together in slow, gentle strokes. He realizes he still hasn’t touched Lan Zhan’s dick, not properly, and he manages to worm a hand between them and wrap it around the shaft. That gets a gasp out of Lan Zhan, and he presses his forehead to Wei Ying’s shoulder and fucks into the ring of Wei Ying’s fist, hot and slick and velvet-smooth. Lan Zhan shivers, noses at Wei Ying’s cheek, and inhales deeply.

“You smell like me,” he says, voice deep, and kisses the corner of Wei Ying’s mouth. “I like it.” Wei Ying whines again, does a nice twisting thing with his wrist on his next upstroke, and takes the opportunity to bite Lan Zhan’s jaw when he tips his head back and gasps. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, managing to stay on track in spite of the myriad distractions, which Wei Ying finds extremely attractive, actually. “What do you want?”

Wei Ying wants everything, which isn’t a useful answer, and in spite of the usual eighteen trains of thought he has going in and out of his brain depot at any given time, right now he can’t think and jerk Lan Zhan off at the same time. He stills his hand but leaves it where it is, thumbing absently below Lan Zhan’s cockhead, and actually checks in with himself.

“I really wanna fuck you,” he says, a little mournfully, as he arrives at his conclusion, “or have you fuck me, I really want that, Lan Zhan, but…” Wei Ying pouts up at him, hoping that if he makes this cute enough he can forestall any of the inevitable disappointment. “I think I’m too worn out for anything penetrative tonight, sorry.” He is—even with the nap and the food and the recovery time Lan Zhan has given him he’s still sore and tired down in his bones. The prep and actual energy involved and the inevitable cleanup? When he thinks about all of it he almost wants to cry, and then when he thinks about this maybe being his only chance it makes him want to cry more. Fuck, why is his brain such an asshole?

Lan Zhan frowns at him, then cradles his face again and presses their foreheads together, breath mingling in the shared air between them. “That’s fine, Xiao-hu,” he says, so soft. “I want that, too, but there’s no rush.” He’s perceiving Wei Ying again, gross, and Wei Ying kisses him and gives Lan Zhan’s dick a nice tug, hoping to distract him, and proceeds only to distract himself when one of his mental trains comes into the station bearing a squirrel. (The inside of his head is a mess.)

“Wait,” he says, pushing Lan Zhan up a little with one hand on a broad shoulder, “wait, you’d switch? You switch?” Lan Zhan has Big Top Energy, not that Wei Ying thinks his mostly vibe-based categorization skills are unassailable. People constantly think Wei Ying is a career bottom, and he fuckin’ loves topping when given the chance.

“I would like to,” Lan Zhan says, brushing hair out of Wei Ying’s eyes, so horribly tender. “With you.” He kisses Wei Ying before Wei Ying has a chance to respond, and Wei Ying drops Lan Zhan’s dick so he can wrap both arms tight around his back and kiss him frantically, trying to tell him with his mouth all the things he can’t with his words. He kisses him until his lungs burn, and when he finally breaks for air, Lan Zhan shows absolutely no regard for his breathlessness by saying, “I want to suck you off until you come in my mouth. Would that be good for you?”

The inside of Wei Ying’s head makes a fax machine sound. “Uh,” he says, eloquently. “Yes? Hell yes? Please? Holy shit, Lan Zhan, warn a guy.”

Lan Zhan smirks down at him. “Wei Ying,” he says, very seriously, “consider this a warning that I intend to suck you off until you come in my mouth.”

“Not helpful,” Wei Ying says, even as he opens his legs and generally arranges himself to make the dick-sucking as easy for Lan Zhan as possible. “I need advance warning, possibly in writing.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, to Wei Ying’s collarbone, “I will keep that in mind.” He sucks on Wei Ying’s nipple for a mind blowing moment that leaves Wei Ying writhing and wildly hard, and then pulls off with an audible pop to ask, “Do you want to use a condom?”

“Uh,” Wei Ying says, still super articulate, “Uh, we’re both good, right? We established that? Not gonna spread anything?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says again, affirmatively, just before he bites the jut of Wei Ying’s hip and sucks a bruise there. Fuck, Wei Ying might literally come untouched, holy shit, he’s going to astral project into another plane of existence as soon as he gets that mouth on his cock. He’s so hard he’s throbbing, every heartbeat reflected in his dick. If Lan Zhan touched his dick he could take his pulse in the ten seconds he’d get before Wei Ying came all over himself. Lan Zhan releases his teeth and licks the mark he left, eyes flicking up over Wei Ying’s body possessively. “Beautiful,” he says, and kisses the bruise, and Wei Ying revises his estimate for how fast he’s gonna come down to two seconds. “Condom?”

Oh, right, there was a question. “Up to you,” Wei Ying says, dragging the words out of the horny flood like he’s dredging a lake (not that he’s done that, but he saw half a documentary about it once). “I’m good with whatever but it’s your mouth.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, a third time. He looks at Wei Ying’s dick thoughtfully, which twitches like it can feel his gaze, and his smug satisfaction sparks in response. “Beautiful,” he says, again, voraciously this time, and he looks back up at Wei Ying. “I want to taste you,” he says, and then he goes down on Wei Ying like he needs it to live.

“Shit,” Wei Ying blurts, one hand landing on the top of Lan Zhan’s head, the other fisting in the sheets because if he doesn’t have something to hold on to he thinks he’ll levitate right off the fucking bed. Hotwettighttongue says his brain, all one thought, and Lan Zhan is not messing around. He’s taken Wei Ying deep, not all the way but down to meet his hand at the base, and he holds him there for a moment and sucks like Wei Ying is a popsicle and it’s the height of summer. Wei Ying wants to shut his eyes and fuck that willing mouth and lose himself in the sensation but he can’t bring himself to look away because it’s Lan Zhan, poised and perfect Lan Zhan, untouchable and beautiful and in between Wei Ying’s legs sucking cock like it’s the only thing he wants in this life. His eyes are shut, his face almost dreamy, and he bobs his head and does a thing with his tongue and Wei Ying moans and leaks precome right onto that hot tongue and Lan Zhan swallows with an expression of absolute bliss.

“Holy fuck,” Wei Ying says, working his fingers into Lan Zhan’s hair so he can feel the heat of his scalp. “You’re so hot, Lan Zhan, god, I would have sucked you off behind the desk at the cat shelter that first fuckin’ day if you’d let me.”

Lan Zhan’s eyes snap open, meeting Wei Ying’s at the same time the flare of Lan Zhan’s arousal hits him. Together it’s like being electrocuted, but sexy instead of painful, and Wei Ying bites his lip and tries to buck his hips up and can’t. “Yeah,” he says, mouth working without needing any input from his brain, “or I’d have fucked you in one of the exam rooms with the door locked, your jumpsuit down around your waist, fuck.” He thrashes his head on the pillow, abs trembling as Lan Zhan takes him down deep again, tongue still doing absolutely indecent things on each bob of his head. “Maybe I wouldn’t have locked the door,” he babbles, “maybe I’d have let you fuck me over the table where anyone could walk in and see you wrecking me—oh god—I bet you’re good at it, aren’t you? You’re so big, you’d fill me up so good, would you like that, Lan Zhan? You wanna fuck me brainless on that pretty cock of yours?”

Lan Zhan growls, a fresh surge of Pure Hornt(™) filling up Wei Ying’s brain in exactly the same way Lan Zhan’s cock would fill up his ass. It’s not that he can feel the sensations Lan Zhan is feeling, some distant analytical part of him notes. He’s not feeling Lan Zhan sucking his dick, at least not from Lan Zhan’s side of things. What he’s feeling is Lan Zhan’s reactions to things, and therefore knows that Lan Zhan is absolutely, positively getting off on Wei Ying’s ridiculous dirty talk, which is good because Wei Ying literally can’t stop. (An ex boyfriend once accused him of being loud on purpose, like he was faking it, and like, okay, Wei Ying can and will keep it down when there are thin apartment walls because he’s a huli jing, not a monster, but even when he jerks off he makes sounds. It’s who he is as a person, you’re gonna need to give him a pillow to bite if you want him to be quiet, and anyway, there’s a reason that guy is an ex, and it wasn’t just because he wanted to police how Wei Ying sounded in bed.)

“Or I could fuck you,” Wei Ying says, panting hard, little juddering jolts traveling up his spine to tingle at the base of his skull, oh fuck he’s close. “You could—ungh— put those legs over my shoulders and I could bend you in half and—ah, fuck, fuck—I could fuck you until you’re begging to come. You want that, Lan Zhan? I could make it so good for you, I promise.”

Lan Zhan pulls off, which is terrible, but it’s so he can gasp, “Yes, Wei Ying, I want that,” in the most blow job-rough voice Wei Ying’s ever heard in his life, and then he drops back down and deepthroats Wei Ying until there’s nowhere else for him to go. He holds him there while Wei Ying twitches and squirms, making little “Ah, ah!” noises, hand clenching reflexively in Lan Zhan’s hair. He’s so deep and Lan Zhan’s mouth is so tight and hot and his brain keeps shorting out at regular intervals, which he eventually figures out (through some truly heroic deductive reasoning) is happening because Lan Zhan is humping the bed, and when he does the pleasure hits Wei Ying in his already over-loaded dopamine centers, or however brains work.

“Please,” Wei Ying begs, so close, tight and trembling; he just needs a little more something, “oh god, Lan Zhan, A’Zhan, baby, please, I’m so close, you have to do it, you have to—”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan hums around him, glancing up, and when he meets Wei Ying’s gaze he deliberately and almost theatrically swallows.

Wei Ying explodes like a birthday cake hitting the ground and just as spectacularly, his orgasm ripping through him so hard he’s amazed it doesn’t yank his bones loose. He makes a noise that comes from the animal part of him, something he’d normally try to keep behind his teeth, but it rattles free from the power of Lan Zhan’s perfect fucking mouth. He’s pretty sure he forgets to breathe for a while in there because when he eventually inhales he’s lightheaded and dizzy. Maybe he hyperventilated a little?

“Holy fuck,” he slurs, still twitching a little with the aftershocks. He’s simultaneously exhausted and horny, sexually satisfied and desperate to get off, which is a real brain-teaser of a way to feel. In the next breath Lan Zhan has crawled up his body and is kissing his fuck-drunk mouth furiously. He smells like sex and Wei Ying, tastes like Wei Ying’s come, and his hard wet cock presses insistently into Wei Ying’s hip, and oh, right, Lan Zhan is still horny as all fuck and Wei Ying can feel that through their skin and his absolutely wrung-out dick makes a valiant twitch as it tries to get back on board for what it thinks is gonna be round two.

“What can I—” he half asks into Lan Zhan’s mouth, and Lan Zhan bites his jaw and says, “On your side,” so once Lan Zhan crawls off him Wei Ying finds his muscles and then engages them enough to roll over. Lan Zhan doesn’t get back on him immediately, which is a bit disappointing, but he keeps one hand pressed to Wei Ying’s hip while he does something in his nightstand. There’s a wet sound, and then a very familiar not-smell, and then Lan Zhan crowding against Wei Ying’s back and that glorious dick pressing between his thighs. Okay, okay, hell yeah, Wei Ying loves this shit, and he (nobly) summons the power to keep his legs pressed together.

“I cannot believe,” he says, dropping his hand to Lan Zhan’s hip behind him and groping that gropable ass, “you’re fucking my thighs with the same sex lube you used to get a jar off my head.” Lan Zhan thrusts, hard, and oh sweet caroline if this is how he actually fucks Wei Ying is definitely gonna die of getting dicked down to death, if he’s lucky.

“I order it in bulk,” Lan Zhan says into his shoulder, rough and low. He snaps his hips forward again, skidding his lube-slick cock over Wei Ying’s rim, nestling it behind his balls for a breath before he tightens his hand on Wei Ying’s hip and repeats the whole thing. It feels good, nerve endings lighting up like a neon cityscape, Wei Ying’s body saying that maybe it is up for anal, actually, because his body is also a liar that overestimates its capacity for bad ideas. Lan Zhan bites Wei Ying’s shoulder, muffling a groan, and the surging arousal thrumming through his body thrums through Wei Ying’s, and his bewildered dick gets hard again, assuming it has to do something about the situation.

“Oh my god, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying pants, tossing his free arm up to wrap behind the back of Lan Zhan’s neck, keeping him close, “fuckin’ a, I can feel you, is it always like this?” He squirms, trying to press back, to get closer. “Are you gonna make me come again, baby?” he half begs, borrowed arousal coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Please, Lan Zhan, I need it, I need you.”

Lan Zhan makes a guttural noise into Wei Ying’s shoulder and pulls away entirely, which is absolutely the worst possible outcome. Before Wei Ying can panic he’s back, dick shoving in like he owns the space between Wei Ying’s legs, and his hot, lube-wet hand wraps around Wei Ying’s cock, and fuck, yes, it really shouldn’t be possible for Wei Ying to be ready to come again so soon but he is. “Yes,” Wei Ying is saying, “please, baby, fuck me, fuck me hard, it’s good,” and Lan Zhan’s fucking him into the grip of his fist without mercy. Wei Ying wants a little more, wants to feel more, so he gets his free hand down between his legs and shoves his fingers into the cleft of his thighs, so every time Lan Zhan fucks forward he can stroke the head of his dick. It’s so wet, lube and precome everywhere, Wei Ying feels like an absolute filthy mess, his pleasure ratcheting up with Lan Zhan’s, every stroke driving them both closer.

“Ah,” Lan Zhan says, behind him, and then, “Wei Ying,” and then he bites a bruise into Wei Ying’s shoulder, hips stuttering as he comes hot and hard all over Wei Ying’s fingers and thighs. The rush of it fires through him and into Wei Ying, as intimate as if Lan Zhan had actually come inside him, and Wei Ying wails into the pillow and comes, dripping, over Lan Zhan’s fist. Wei Ying, generally, thinks simultaneous orgasms aren’t worth the trouble, but as he pants into the sheets and shivers he re-evaluates that thought. If one person coming can just knock the fucking orgasm out of the other person, he decides, vaguely, then why the fuck not? He pulls his fingers out from between his legs, looks at the mess on them thoughtfully, and licks them clean, lazy and pleased.

“Good?” Lan Zhan asks, lips brushing Wei Ying’s shoulder. He’s going slowly soft in the clutch of Wei Ying’s legs, and Wei Ying wiggles around him a little, just to feel it a little more.

“So good,” Wei Ying says, and promptly yawns hugely. “Holy shit,” he mumbles, sleep already coming for him where he lives. “I haven’t come twice that fast since I was a teenager. How did your previous partners survive?”

Lan Zhan kisses his shoulder, and then the crook of his neck, and then the curve of his ear. Something curls through Wei Ying, a mild disruption to the post-orgasm haze, and he frowns while he tries to figure out what Lan Zhan is feeling. Shame? Regret? But also like… relief?

“In the past,” Lan Zhan says, into his hair like it’s a secret, “I held myself back.” He still has one sticky hand on Wei Ying’s soft dick, which is a ridiculous detail that lodges in Wei Ying’s mind. Lan Zhan kisses his neck again. “This is the first time I didn’t have to,” he says, simply, like he didn’t just drop another emotional bombshell on Wei Ying in a day when he’s already had so many emotional bombshells it’s a miracle he’s still intact.

“Okay,” he says, inanely, trying to process the gift of that level of trust. “Did you—did you like it?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan’s satisfaction rolls through them, a cat-purr sensation, and he presses up on an elbow and leans over Wei Ying to kiss him so tenderly it makes Wei Ying want to cry. “I liked it very much, Xiao-hu,” he says, peppering light little kisses over Wei Ying’s nose and cheeks. One more kiss to Wei Ying’s shaking mouth. “Stay here?”

Wei Ying frowns. “You’re going?”

Lan Zhan’s mouth quirks. “Cleanup,” he says, which does definitely make sense, and he rolls away to grab some tissues off the bedside table, because Lan Zhan is the kind of person who has a bedside table and real tissues instead of a roll of toilet paper on the floor. In spite of Lan Zhan’s gentle insistence that Wei Ying not have to move, Wei Ying does actually need to pee again (turns out being actually hydrated will do that to a person), so he slinks into the bathroom to take care of that and other things that require a washcloth. When he emerges Lan Zhan is wiping at the sheets with another washcloth, frowning slightly. He’s still naked, bent over the mattress, and Wei Ying drifts to a stop just to ogle that spectacular ass. Fuck, if he wasn’t asleep on his feet he’d have some plans for the next half hour.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking back out of the sexy fugue state. “I think that was mostly my wet spot.”

“I would normally have put down a towel,” Lan Zhan says absently, “but I was distracted.” He looks at his handiwork, nods, and turns around to catch Wei Ying absolutely still staring. A small smile crawls across his face, barely-there and deeply entrancing. Lan Zhan tosses his washcloth into the hamper without looking and pads over to Wei Ying, tipping his head up with fingers under his chin for another kiss. Lan Zhan: Apparently a kisser! Wei Ying loves knowing this.

“Do you want anything to sleep in?” Lan Zhan asks, gently steering them both over to the bed and pushing Wei Ying down on it.

“Underwear,” Wei Ying says, because if he can live his life without having to unstick his dick and/or balls from his leg in the middle of the night with a simple sartorial choice, he’s gonna. Lan Zhan fetches two fresh pairs and they both wiggle them on. The light clicks off, the night inky-black after the brightness, and Wei Ying wonders whether Lan Zhan expects him to flop over to his side of the bed to actually sleep. “You want me to…” he starts to ask, beginning the scooching process, since it will take him approximately the length of a doomed Arctic expedition to cross Lan Zhan’s ridiculous bed.

Lan Zhan frowns at him through the darkness and crawls in after him with a determined air. Wei Ying finds himself being gently manhandled onto his side, and subsequently into being the small spoon. Oh, nice. Lan Zhan wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him close, skin-to-skin from their shoulders to their ankles.

“Oh,” he says, still a little bewildered at all of Lan Zhan’s easy touches. “Really?”

“Mn.” Lan Zhan kisses the nape of his neck, radiating contentment. “I promised to cuddle you the whole time.” Another kiss, and apparently no one has ever kissed the nape of Wei Ying’s neck before because he feels like he’d remember it giving him this whole-body shivery feeling. “Good?” Lan Zhan asks, his warm breath huffing against Wei Ying’s undercut, his hand cupped protectively around the entirety of Wei Ying’s lower ribcage. Wei Ying stretches, once, limbs twitching as he draws them back in, and he sighs all the tension out of his body in a rush.

“So good, A’Zhan,” he says, already drifting. The bed smells like Lan Zhan and Wei Ying and sex and he’s warm and safe and held in Lan Zhan’s arms and emotions. Wei Ying yawns one more time and he’s out before he can even close his mouth.

⋄⋄⋄

The morning comes with golden light and the gentle sounds of someone trying to cook quietly. Wei Ying, who lives in an apartment on the constantly shady side of the building and with roommates who have no respect for his somewhat nocturnal sleep schedule, finds both of these things bewildering as he blinks himself back to consciousness. He scrubs at his face with his balled up hands, forgetting for a minute that they’re not paws, and rolls over to bury his head under the sheets. In doing so he gets a nose full of Lan-Zhan-Wei-Ying-sex-and-sweat, which does more to wake him up than a slap in the face would. Oh. Oh, right. He’s in Lan Zhan’s bed, at Lan Zhan’s house, and Lan Zhan sucked his dick in this bed last night so hard Wei Ying almost teleported out of his body when he came. Before he can stop himself he wiggles deeper under the covers and presses his face to the sheets, breathing deep and open-mouthed to get as much scent information as he can. He’d thought that Lan Zhan was the best-smelling thing in the world, but now Wei Ying has to revise that, because their mingled scents all over these sheets? That is the best thing in the world, and it rings down to his bones with how spectacularly right it feels.

Belatedly, Wei Ying realizes that Lan Zhan doesn’t appear to be in the bed, although it is very big, so it’s theoretically possible that he’s somehow hiding. Wei Ying sits up, letting the covers drape around his shoulders, and confirms that Lan Zhan isn’t in the bed, nor in the bedroom. Wei Ying, fox who can do math, puts two and two together with the absence of Lan Zhan and the presence of cooking sounds and makes the safe assumption that Lan Zhan is in the kitchen. Is there going to be breakfast? Breakfast for Wei Ying? Wei Ying realizes that he’s starving again, which, given his whole yesterday and the fact that he just slept for (he peeks at Lan Zhan’s alarm clock) about ten straight hours makes perfect sense. He climbs out of bed, rolling out his neck as he does. Every muscle from the base of his skull to the bottom of his shoulder blades is still tight and sore, the only remaining casualties of his ordeal, and if that’s all he’s walking away with, Wei Ying is aware he got off easy.

There’s a neatly folded pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and another pair of socks waiting for Wei Ying in the bathroom, because Lan Zhan is the most considerate peanut butter jar savior/hookup ever. Wei Ying puts them on after he’s done using the toilet and washing his hands, and he splashes water on his face and then wets down his hair a little before he combs it out, just for good measure. When he looks at himself in the mirror he looks… okay. Definitely not as supermodel hot as Lan Zhan looks at all times, but he doesn’t look like he spent eighteen hours with his head in a peanut butter jar, either. He thinks he looks at least a little fuckable, like someone Lan Zhan might want to go a second round with. (Wei Ying realized belatedly he never got to suck Lan Zhan’s dick last night, and he really wanted to.) Now, granted, Lan Zhan saw Wei Ying directly after his head had been removed from said peanut butter jar and still had sex with him, so maybe Lan Zhan’s into that.

One of the squirrels in Wei Ying’s brain reminds him that he’s been staring at himself in the mirror for several minutes, and if he wants to find out if Lan Zhan is down for a round two, that’s information that won’t be available to him in Lan Zhan’s bathroom. Wei Ying thanks the brain squirrel for its important service and follows its advice down the hall and out through the living room into the kitchen, where he’s met by an absolute vision.

Lan Zhan stands at the stove, his back to Wei Ying, hair still in his rumpled sleep braid, a messy ink blotch against the white of his fitted tank undershirt. He's clearly never skipped back day (is that a thing?) and Wei Ying wants to go over there and lick that defined trapezius. The air smells like oil and fried dough and eggs and jasmine tea. It’s all so comfortable and warm and welcoming and Wei Ying suddenly feels like an intruder. He’s stealing this, somehow, he’s sure of it. It can’t be for him. It’s never really for him.

Lan Zhan turns around to reach something on the counter and catches sight of him frozen in the doorway. His face changes, goes soft, that little smile curling up the corners of his mouth and making Wei Ying’s heart beat double-time. “Good morning,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

“Morning,” Wei Ying says, drifting a few steps closer, drawn by that smile. “Maybe a little, but if it wasn’t you my bladder would have gotten me eventually.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says with a nod. “You slept very hard.” He’s right on the other side of the bar-height counter now, almost in touching range. As soon as that thought enters Wei Ying’s head Lan Zhan presses one hand against the counter for balance and leans forward. Caught up in the moment and in Lan Zhan’s specific gravity, Wei Ying mirrors him and receives a gentle morning kiss for his trouble, Lan Zhan’s knuckles brushing his jaw. “Breakfast will be ready shortly,” Lan Zhan murmurs against his mouth.

“It smells good,” Wei Ying replies helplessly, swaying forward a little drunkenly and getting another kiss out of the deal.

“Mn.” Lan Zhan smiles at him fondly again and brushes one more kiss on his mouth before pulling away. “I do not have coffee,” he says, gathering up whatever it was that he needed (smells like scallions) and turning back to the stove. “I apologize for the lack. Please help yourself to anything you want to drink.”

“I’m good with tea,” Wei Ying says, omitting the tea crimes he’s about to commit. Lan Zhan’s going to find out about it soon enough, especially if he watches as Wei Ying finds a nice darkly roasted oolong tea, brews it triple-strength, and then destroys it with sugar and soy milk. (Listen, he’s not a heathen. He appreciates a good, properly brewed green or fancy white tea, but it’s seven-thirty in the morning. Even the ten hours of sleep can’t make up for Wei Ying being awake before nine, but this tea espresso just might.)

Lan Zhan, Wei Ying discovers when they sit down at the table, has made jian bing from scratch, because he’s literally a perfect god come to earth to walk among mortals. Wei Ying tells him this while he stuffs his face, to which Lan Zhan ducks his head and mutters, “Ridiculous,” his ears pink and his mouth soft, the bruise Wei Ying bit into his neck the night before temptingly dark against his skin. Wei Ying shoves another crepe in his mouth and hums happily, washing it down with his caffeine solution and generally basking. Homemade jian bing has to mean something, right? That’s not a meal you make when you’re planning on just kicking someone out of your house post-hookup.

Lan Zhan’s laptop waits on the dining table as well, which Wei Ying only notices about three jian bing in, which he thinks is fair since he can’t eat a laptop and he had priorities. He makes a questioning face at Lan Zhan, who takes a sip of his soy milk and explains, “I thought you might want to check back in with your group chat.” He doesn’t make eye contact, focusing intensely on his plate, ears going even pinker, and adds, “So they know you are safe.”

“That’s a good call,” Wei Ying says, wiping his hands on a napkin and pulling the laptop closer. He logs back in to the app and throws a, “morning, all! things are fine!! he made breakfast!!!!” message in, eats another jian bing, and glances up to see a message from Wen Qing congratulating him on the successful date, threatening to stab him if he didn’t practice safe sex, and asking when he’ll be home. He chokes a little on his next bite and has to scrabble for his tea to wash it down. Lan Zhan starts to stand up, concerned, and Wei Ying waves him off, half-shutting the laptop, face burning.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “Wrong pipe.” Lan Zhan absolutely does not need to see the assumptions of his so-called friends. There was a valid question in there, though, so he takes a more sedate sip of his tea-spresso and adds, “My roommate wants to know when to expect me.” Are we gonna have sex again? Maybe? he definitely doesn’t ask, resolutely ignoring how his stomach churns at the idea of actually leaving and going home to his barren shoebox of a bedroom and his dumpster mattress that doesn’t support his lumbar like, at all.

“Ah,” Lan Zhan says. He fiddles with his teacup, ears red again, and finally meets Wei Ying’s gaze. “If you need to go,” he says, carefully, each word precisely placed, “I will drive you home. But.” His eyes flash a little, his face intensifying. “If you have the time, I would enjoy it if you stayed.”

“Oh.” Wei Ying’s having a little trouble breathing. “For how long?”

“As long as you want,” Lan Zhan says, steadily. “Though I believe you have work tomorrow morning.”

“Right,” Wei Ying says, still trying to get enough air into his lungs. “So that’s something to keep in mind, for sure.”

Lan Zhan’s nod is serious and controlled. “Do you have any other obligations I should be aware of?”

Wei Ying shakes his head.

Lan Zhan nods again. He still hasn’t looked away. “Tell your roommate it will be at least two hours.” He swallows, considers, and amends that to, “Maybe three.”

“Right,” Wei Ying says, and he throws, “info on my eta still tbd, at least 3 hours, byeeee!!!!” and snaps the laptop closed.

They crash together in the space next to the table, plates abandoned, Lan Zhan licking into Wei Ying’s mouth like he wants to taste the tea he was drinking. It’s hot and messy and disorganized. Wei Ying ends up pinned to the edge of the counter, and then the doorframe, and then walked backward into the living room until Lan Zhan can press him down onto the couch and kiss him there. Expecting the flood of sensation from Lan Zhan doesn’t make it any easier to handle when it’s happening, and Wei Ying arches into his body and moans. It’s good, as good as last night, even when Lan Zhan tastes like egg and scallion and jasmine tea, and when Lan Zhan rasps, “The marks are gone,” and pulls away to bite his neck Wei Ying accidentally flails an arm out and yanks the throw blanket off the back of the couch, dropping it half onto Lan Zhan and something else directly onto his face. It’s soft, whatever it is, flooding his sinuses with pure Lan Zhan and hard work, and he pulls it away to find he’s looking at a plain white t-shirt, the kind that comes in multi-packs. Huh. Why was it on the couch?

Lan Zhan has frozen, is no longer biting a fresh bruise into Wei Ying’s jugular, and when he makes eye contact, it’s a little hesitant. “That’s the shirt I wore under my jumpsuit yesterday,” he explains, nervousness buzzing into Wei Ying’s skin. “I thought.” He swallows, bashful. “I thought you could take it home with you. If you wanted.”

All the squirrels in Wei Ying’s brain freak out, pinging around off the walls and each other, because he has never felt so completely understood before in his life and he needs a moment to try and figure out how to feel about it, thanks! His mouth, apparently needing neither input nor permission from any of the squirrels, opens itself and says, “I love you.”

Wei Ying freezes.

Lan Zhan freezes.

They stare at each other, frozen, for a moment. Wei Ying’s not getting anything through their connection. Lan Zhan’s either keeping a tight leash on how much he’s projecting or he’s so shocked he’s not feeling anything, but any second now his brain is going to boot back up and he’s going to be horrified. It would have been bad enough if Wei Ying had blurted that out on the first date, but this wasn’t even a date, it was a rescue, and the last thing Wei Ying wants is to feel Lan Zhan trying to let him down easy. He has to get away, he has to escape, he can’t stay here for this—

Wei Ying a) panics; b) turns into a fox; and c) uses Lan Zhan’s ensuing confusion to wriggle out of his borrowed clothes and bolt down the hall. “Wei Ying!” Lan Zhan says, behind him, and Wei Ying feels a little bad about how startled he sounds but not bad enough to stop. Unfortunately, in his panic he hadn’t really thought this through (I Didn’t Really Think This Through: the Wei Ying Story) and when he bursts into Lan Zhan’s bedroom with his little paws scrabbling on the hardwoods he realizes there’s nowhere to go. Lan Zhan’s footsteps sound out in the hall and, for lack of literally any other options, Wei Ying hides under the bed.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, from the doorway, and Wei Ying presses himself to the wall as far away from the edges of the bed as physically possible and curls up into a tiny, anxious ball. Lan Zhan’s feet come closer, and then there’s his perfect face peering under the bedframe. He relaxes visibly upon seeing Wei Ying, which is unfair since he’s not the one about to get the “It’s not you, it’s me” talk. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, again, his voice soft. “It’s all right.”

Wei Ying whines and cringes smaller. There’s no possible way that’s true.

“It is,” Lan Zhan says. “I’m not angry or upset, I promise. Please, Xiao-hu.” He reaches one hand under the bed, not far enough to invade Wei Ying’s space but an invitation to come closer. “Please come out.”

Wei Ying doesn’t want to. He really, really doesn’t want to, but he has to admit there’s nowhere else for him to go. He can’t actually live under Lan Zhan’s bed for the rest of his life, no matter how much he’d like to try. Grumbling the whole time, he uncurls himself and slinks out, belly to the floor, keeping as much distance as possible between himself and Lan Zhan as he emerges back into the bedroom. Lan Zhan respectfully keeps his hands to himself, kneeling on the rug in his white undershirt and his gray sweatpants and looking perfect and beautiful and so far out of Wei Ying’s league it’s laughable.

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, so seriously, like he’s talking to a reasonable human being and not to Wei Ying, noted fox gremlin. His hands flex in his lap, fidgeting in something like nervousness, but there’s no way that’s what he’s feeling. “I would like to,” he starts, then swallows, presses his hands together, and takes a slow breath. “This will be easier,” he says, hesitantly, “if I can touch you. Will you allow that, Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying glares at him as suspiciously as he can, which as a fox is pretty fucking suspiciously. Why does Lan Zhan want to make him feel this breakup? Is it a guilt thing? Does he want Wei Ying to know how sorry he feels about it? Lan Zhan looks back at him, still sincere, apparently happy to wait for Wei Ying’s decision until the sun goes supernova and collapses into a black hole. Well. It’s gotta happen sometime, Wei Ying decides, and he crawls closer on his belly and sets his head next to Lan Zhan’s thigh and waits patiently for the end of whatever this was. It was nice while it lasted, he thinks, mournfully, and then Lan Zhan’s hand lands gently on his head to scritch behind his ears, and he feels—

He feels—

He feels warm and safe and satisfied, wrapped up in his arms. He feels happy, bubbling over with joy that he’s struggling not to let show  on his face, sure that if he does it’ll be too much, too soon. He feels fond and affectionate, so pleased, so possessive about having him here in his space, where he’s dreamed about having him for so long. He wants, he wants so much, not just sexually but emotionally and physically and intellectually, he wants him here, he wants him to stay, he wants him always and in all the ways—

It’s like looking into a mirror, but none of these feelings are the way Wei Ying feels them, all jumbled together in his head with seventeen other emotions and thoughts. They’re focused and steady as a heartbeat, which means they’re not his feelings, and if they’re not his then they’re—

“Lan Zhan!” he blurts, bursting back into human form, buck-ass naked and with Lan Zhan’s hand still resting on his now much-taller head. “You—really?”

“Really,” Lan Zhan says, smiling that barely-there smile at him. “Since the beginning.”

“You didn’t say anything,” Wei Ying whines, but he’s grinning so huge he can’t actually pout, so he doesn’t bother trying.

“We were coworkers,” Lan Zhan says, seamlessly transitioning his hand from the top of Wei Ying’s head to the back of his neck, thumb resting below his ear, so fucking warm and steady. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Hearing his own reasoning reflected back at him is infuriating, and Wei Ying whines about it. “Okay,” he says, “but now we’re—this isn’t a coworker thing, right?”

Lan Zhan laughs. Laughs! It’s a single huff of air but that’s a definite laugh, and Wei Ying wiggles in satisfaction. “This is not a coworker thing, Xiao-hu,” he says, his other hand dropping to Wei Ying’s waist and pulling him closer. “I would like to take you out to dinner,” he says, “as soon as possible, and after dinner I would like to bring you back here, or go back to your place with you. I want to spend the night together. I want to do it all over again as frequently as you’ll allow me to. I want to be your boyfriend. Your partner.” He leans in, close enough to kiss, and stops there. “Would you like that, Xiao-hu?”

“Yes,” Wei Ying says, urgently, like Lan Zhan might take it back if he doesn’t accept quickly enough. “Yes, Lan Zhan, A’Zhan, I want that, please.” He surges forward and Lan Zhan catches him, kissing him and pouring all his affection and warmth into it until Wei Ying thinks he’ll never be cold again. He’s crying a little bit, Wei Ying realizes, but if he wants to do anything about that he’ll have to stop kissing Lan Zhan so sorry, tears, you’re on your own. “Say it?” he asks, only making enough room so he can gasp out the words, lips brushing Lan Zhan’s. “Can you say it out loud?”

Lan Zhan stands up, fully deadlifting Wei Ying off the ground, and pins him to the bed. “I love you,” he says, thumbing away saltwater from Wei Ying’s cheeks. “Wei Ying. My Xiao-hu. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Wei Ying manages before they’re kissing again, back in Lan Zhan’s bed, their mingled scents rising up from the sheets to wrap around his skin. It smells so good, and he never wants to leave, and it seems like maybe he won’t have to? He kisses Lan Zhan and pulls him out of that sexy undershirt and breathes against his neck and it hits him suddenly that he’s been trying and trying to figure out what Lan Zhan smells like, all this time, and now he knows and it’s so fucking simple he wants to laugh and cry at the same time.

Home.

Lan Zhan smells like home, like something Wei Ying has been missing for years, and it shivers deep down inside his ribs and curls up there like a happy fox.

“Hey,” he says, a little giddy, drunk on Lan Zhan’s love and affection and beautiful fucking mouth. “Do you still have that peanut butter jar?” Wei Ying nips Lan Zhan’s ear and beams at him. “We should build it a shrine,” he says, very seriously, “as a thank you.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, nodding just as seriously. “We will.” His gaze sharpens. “Later.”

“Later,” Wei Ying agrees, right before getting kissed into the mattress again. Later. They have a later, later today and later this week and later this month and later this year. Wei Ying looks at the future as it unfurls before him and it looks like Lan Zhan and it smells like home, and for the first time in ages he can’t wait to see what it has in store.