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Wei Ying shouldn’t be alive.
The streets are much colder than he remembers. People bustle past him in their haste to reach unknown destinations. Permanent sneers etch into passing faces, feet pound on the wet pavement. Their clothes, their fashion—they’re different, too. Wilder. Frankly, the LED lights and pulsating colors are more Wei Ying’s speed than the bland clothes of his own time.
My own time.
Rain falls from the sky in sheets, shrouding the businesses and countless neon signs in mist. Wei Ying keeps his head down as he trudges along.
When he woke up almost twenty-four hours ago, he had taken quick stock of his surroundings. Sneaking out of the facility had been surprisingly easy—disturbingly so. The drab hallways, lit by flickering fluorescents, had been empty of staff. Fogged windows had lined the passageway. Tanks on the other side contained Sleeves suspended in cryogenic goo.
Based on the structure's signage and despairing condition, Wei Ying gleaned that these Sleeves were made from prisoners.
Even now, he questions whether he snuck out of the facility or was allowed to leave. If not for his identity crisis, he might have investigated more before slipping out past the barbed wire fence.
But this body he’s wearing—it’s not his own.
Since the invention of cortical stacks, re-attaching your consciousness to a new body has become standard. The tiny sliver of metal contains a person’s mind, coded and stored as Digital Human Freight, or DHF. It’s installed at the base of the neck when a person turns one year old. A baby’s initiation into modern society.
But Wei Ying never expected his Stack to survive the explosion.
If it had, he expected the Protectorate to destroy it. Terrorists like him weren’t taken lightly.
Fuck. Wei Ying shivers against the sinking temperature. Of all the articles of clothing he managed to gnab during his escape, a jacket was not one of them. Figures.
The reality of his situation inevitably sinks in. How long was he out? What happened to the rest of the Envoys? His brother and sister?
A face pops into his head, then, against his will. Elegant and pale, with bone structure like the man was sculpted from the finest marble—perhaps even jade.
Lan Zhan.
A sob tears itself free. Wei Ying shouldn’t be thinking about Lan Zhan. The chances he lived through the blast are slim to none, Meth or not.
Meths like Lan Zhan are privileged enough—rich enough—to afford regular re-sleeving. Or, in other words, afford the monumental price tag that’s been slapped on immortality. They could die countless times and come back in the same immaculate body. Most Meths owned a warehouse filled with replacement Sleeves, all identical and perfect.
Of course, that doesn’t guarantee Lan Zhan’s Stack lived through the destruction.
Hoping to find him again will only hurt Wei Ying in the end.
Hell, he doesn’t even know where he’s headed. It’s not like he has a home to return to. He's gathered very little information about his new body. Primarily that his Sleeve was designed for released criminals. A low-level model without any of the bells and whistles such as top-notch musculature and fine, genetically engineered features.
A glance through a ramshackle restaurant window offers a glimpse of his reflection. And, to be honest, his face isn’t ugly. It’s kind of… handsome. His high cheekbones and dark eyes, full lips chapped from his time in the deep freeze, silky hair that falls well past his shoulders—each characteristic is reminiscent of his original body.
Wei Ying scoffs. Could the Sleeve manufacturers be so petty as to create a body designed after the Yiling Patriarch? And push it on criminals?
No. In all likelihood, this body belonged to someone else before Wei Ying. A delinquent, an upstart—just like him.
“Fuck,” Wei Ying curses again. His throat burns from misuse. Frantic, he searches his surroundings for a hotel. Somewhere—anywhere—he can stay for the night.
Pink and vibrant neon signs depict people striking salacious poses, their bodies either scantily clad or totally nude. Places bear names like “Street 69” or “Kittens R’ Us,” which almost certainly doesn’t contain a single house cat.
Wei Ying smirks. In a past life, he would’ve loved this district. The smell of debauchery and poor life decisions hang in the air, mixed with the muskiness of precipitation.
But right now, a hotel is what he needs if he wants to live through the night.
What will you do if you do live?
Wei Ying falters in his steps. He has no fucking clue. This world is foreign to him, like he’s set foot on another planet. From the news bulletins he’s seen, interstellar travel is still a reality, but it extends far past the reaches he knew.
He doesn’t have a place to go. The possibility that any of his comrades survived the Envoy settlement attack is slim. For now, at least, he’s safer not to get his hopes up. Anyone who knew him before, whether it be his friends, his siblings, his—
He won’t think about it. He can’t think about it.
Wei Ying stalks deeper and deeper into the shady part of town. After all his wandering through the city, he’s starting to think there’s no such thing as a “nice” part. Darkness fills every crack and crevice of the sprawling metropolis. Even Wei Ying, self-proclaimed king of hedonism, can’t stomach some of the things he’s witnessed so far.
It’s only been a couple hours, too.
The tears come faster now, with more ferocity, cascading down his cheeks in rivulets that join the raindrops. As night descends, even the signs and floating advertisements do little to light his path.
His feet feel like lead weights strapped to his ankles. Adapting to a new Sleeve is a lot like learning to walk as a baby. Right foot, left foot. Right again. The act of walking requires a great deal of focus. It’s physically and mentally taxing.
I’m lost.
In more ways than one. Wei Ying has no one to call, no knowledge of this futuristic hellscape. This place bears no resemblance to the peaceful Burial Mounds or his home in Yunmeng.
Wei Ying comes to a jarring halt in the middle of the road. Jiang Cheng.
The crowd doesn’t take kindly to the interruption and shoves him roughly off the main pathway.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get out of the way!”
Wei Ying cries out, unprepared for the set of hands pushing him down. He can’t catch his balance, not with these new legs, and teeters over into a puddle.
Polluted water splashes in his face and floods his sinuses with disgusting runoff, filling his mouth with mud. Even as he ducks and rolls, there’s no graceful way to recover his fall. He allows himself to tumble and doesn’t stop until he crashes into the wall of the nearest building.
Metal digs into his spine, and Wei Ying winces. Somehow this body feels weaker than his old one. A stumble like this would’ve stung in the past but not to this degree. Not enough to knock the air out of his lungs.
Wei Ying tries to regain his bearings. When he blinks his eyes open again, most of the crowd has dissipated. He doesn’t know how much time has passed since the stranger shoved him over, but it’s definitely nighttime.
This is so pathetic. Wei Ying’s breathing turns ragged. Overwhelming misery washes over him, wrenching more tears and sobs from his aching body. His vision blurred, he can hardly make out the surrounding sex clubs and dingy eateries anymore.
Not that he wants to. He stupidly wants someone to hold him--to whisk him away, back to a time when everything made sense.
His thoughts inevitably circle back around to Lan Zhan. Noble, stoic Lan Zhan who brandished a sword with impeccable skill. Beautiful, so fucking beautiful, and willing to sacrifice his own life for Wei Ying of all people.
Why? Wei Ying wants nothing more than to ask Lan Zhan why he would do something so—so—
He coughs out a sound halfway between a laugh and cry. Exhaustion sets in the longer he sits, his back to the wall. A rat scuttles by with a soggy sandwich in its maw. Up until this point, Wei Ying forgot about food and, well, eating.
Now that he’s been reminded, his stomach protests. Loudly.
“Why the fuck is this happening to me?” Wei Ying says, tilting his head back to peer at the sky. His view, of course, is obstructed by floating vehicles, skyscrapers, and more digital billboards and holograms than he could’ve ever imagined possible.
This sucks. This really, really sucks.
Wei Ying drags in another breath that transforms into an anguished wail. Maybe he should give up while he’s still ahead. What’s the point in finding a hotel if he can’t afford a room? If he doesn’t have plans for afterwards? What’s the point of continuing to exist?
Tears stream freely down Wei Ying’s face. Visibility is a thing of the past now. He can barely make out the neverending barrage of hovering advertisements. Vibrant neon fades to pastel.
He can, however, make out the outline of a figure.
Rather than the bright clothing Wei Ying has grown accustomed to while perusing the area, the stranger wears clean, spotless white. Untainted by the grime and dirt of this overpopulated city.
Wei Ying blinks, hoping it’s just a hallucination. The outfit, the robe—it’s familiar. A vision from his past that’s simply impossible.
The stranger crosses the walkway in confident strides. Instead of being toppled by the flow of traffic, the people clear a path for him, parting like a stream around a sturdy, unmovable rock. Wei Ying imagines his jaw must be on the floor right now.
It takes a few seconds for it to sink in that this god-like figure is approaching him.
Wei Ying stiffens. He bends his knees and splays his palms on the ground on either side of his hips. Wobbly as he may be, he should be able to rise to his feet and flee if necessary. This could be an assassin sent to finish off the last of the Envoys upon hearing of his revival. Or maybe just a serial killer enticed by the smell of fear and frailty, a shark circling a pool of blood.
Either way, Wei Ying senses his demise.
The stranger progresses forward, though, and there’s nothing Wei Ying can do to stop them. He sits with his back to the wall, body poised, and waits for the other shoe to fall. Literally and figuratively.
In a flurry of white, the individual halts within arms reach of Wei Ying. A cloak shrouds their face in shadow, heightening the mystery, and the billowing fabric masks their physique. For all Wei Ying knows, this person could be skin and bone. Not even a threat to Wei Ying, stumbling around like a newborn fawn on gangly legs.
Wei Ying decides that if this is how he dies—Sleeve-death or Real Death—he might as well enjoy it.
“You know, most people don’t wear an outfit like that when they’re trying to blend in.”
Silently, the figure crouches down to eye level. The jerk doesn’t even acknowledge Wei Ying’s scathing criticism of his attire. Rude.
“I know,” they say in a deep, husky voice that sends a shudder down Wei Ying’s spine.
“Then why are you traipsing around in that getup?” Wei Ying shrinks into himself, a complete contradiction to the confidence in his voice. “You’re not exactly being subtle about murdering someone in public.”
The stranger freezes. Wei Ying hopes to score a peek under that ridiculous hood, but from this vantage point, he can only make out the jut of a pale chin and a pink bottom lip.
“I would never—” they cut themselves off.
A long pause follows that the locals have no problem filling. Vehicles zip through the sky, winding between towering structures, and accompanied by the usual chatter of humanity. Intermittent raised voices, some in argumentative tones and others elated. Music blaring from speakers inside local stores.
The stranger releases a barely audible sigh. They lift their arms, and Wei Ying immediately goes on the defensive. He’s fully ready to bolt. Cautious, he zooms in on the figure’s hands.
They curls around the fabric of his hood and—
Wait.
The fabric falls away in slow motion. Wei Ying watches in silent shock as the hood settles around their neck, revealing even more of that smooth unblemished skin.
This is no stranger.
There’s no mistaking the nearly translucent pallor of his skin, like a sculpture come to life. Light eyes meet Wei Ying’s, glimmering an enchanting shade of caramel brown. And that stoic expression, it’s—
“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying hardly recognizes his own voice. “Lan—oh my god—”
This entire bizarre, fucked up world fades to nothing. Wei Ying pushes past the blurred edges of his vision and focuses all his attention on the ethereal human being crouched in front of him. He’s a spectacle in all white, even more so now that Wei Ying knows his identity.
“How did you know it was me?” Wei Ying manages between hiccuping sobs. “How are you alive? You should be—”
Lan Zhan gently reaches out to smooth his hand down the side of Wei Ying’s face—this new face. He knits his brows, giving Wei Ying a onceover. “I’ll explain later. We need to get you to shelter.”
Before Lan Zhan’s arrival, that’s all Wei Ying could think of. But now, with Lan Zhan here in the flesh, he couldn’t care less. He’s still not sure this is really happening.
The soft pads of Lan Zhan’s thumbs sweep under his eyes, wiping away lingering tears. Wei Ying barely stifles the urge to lean into the touch. How long has it been since Lan Zhan touched him?
“Really, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying laughs wetly, “how are you… you’re here.”
Lan Zhan flashes him a small smile—the barely noticeable kind he’s known for. Without any prompting, he wraps his arms around Wei Ying’s middle and lifts him like he weighs nothing. Wei Ying half-expects him to toss his body over his shoulder like a sack of flour but, instead, he shifts his limp body and cradles him against his chest.
If circumstances were different, Wei Ying may giggle. It’s not like Lan Zhan often carried him bridal style.
But the situation is what it is. Wei Ying no longer has his body—this is still a stranger’s body in his eyes. Neither of them are who they were before the Envoy settlement was destroyed. They’re older, even if Wei Ying seems to have found himself in a young Sleeve.
Wei Ying curls close to Lan Zhan’s chest and buries his face in the soft white fabric of his robe. His breath stutters. He still smells like sandalwood.
His melancholy returns in a disorienting rush. As much as he doesn’t want to continue crying, he has no control over the tears that spring to his eyes. Burning, brimming. Powerful. And Lan Zhan, the absolute fucking saint, doesn’t say a word.
200 years ago — The Burial Mounds, Envoy Encampment
“You’re worried.”
Lan Zhan’s voice floats on the breeze. Wei Ying has always loved its sound. Soothing, lilting. Like a caress when it reaches his ears.
The sun rises over the mountains in the distance. Wei Ying smiles softly, taking in the scenery. He wonders why Lan Zhan followed him out here.
“I am,” Wei Ying admits. There’s no point lying to Lan Zhan. “But I worry every day, so that’s nothing new.”
He and Lan Zhan joined the Envoy settlement five years ago. Wei Ying has no idea how he convinced Lan Zhan to go with him, not when it meant he’d had to leave behind his family. Leave behind his legacy as a Meth and member of one of the noble Cultivating groups.
And to run off with the illusive, infamous Yiling Patriarch. The man who killed at least 1,000 Protectorate soldiers in his lifetime before officially defecting.
The Envoys were reluctant to accept Lan Zhan at first but warmed up to him within a couple years. Their philosophy was simple: to fight against the Interstellar Protectorate’s soldiers, rebelling against the tyrannical forces that kill unnecessarily wherever they go—the hideous, fucked up system put in place centuries ago.
“They don’t know our location.” Lan Zhan lightly places his hand on Wei Ying’s shoulder. “And we would know if there were spies among us.”
Wei Ying nods. “Ideally.”
“We’ve trained for years, Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan squeezes, softening his voice further. “If anyone could pick up on a traitor in our midst, it’s us.”
It’s true. In the early 2100’s, the Interstellar Protectorate created the perfect “super soldiers,” later dubbed the Envoys. Genetically modified human beings, designed to do the United Nation’s dirty work.
Little did the Protectorate know their creations would turn against them.
Recruits like Lan Zhan and Wei Ying were coached to hone the abilities granted to the original Envoys. Heightened intuition, foresight, and hearing. All skills that could be mimicked with enough training.
“I know,” Wei Ying sighs. He pats the hand on his shoulder, wishing he could press a kiss to Lan Zhan’s knuckles. “But I know how they threatened me when I defected.”
When Lan Zhan goes silent, Wei Ying turns. Lan Zhan stares into the lake, over the edge of the rock they’ve chosen as their perch, and clenches his jaw. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Strands of black, wispy hair flutter in the wind, and Wei Ying aches to wrap them around his fingers.
I should tell him. I should tell him how I feel.
Harboring romantic feelings for your closest friend is torture. But the yearning grows worse with every passing day. Wei Ying wakes up in the morning and longs to scream, “I love Lan Zhan!” until he’s hoarse. From the mountaintops, in front of the rest of the camp—even in front of Jiang Cheng, his insufferable brother.
“You know, Lan Zhan…” Wei Ying hesitates. This is much harder than he thought it’d be. “I need to tell you something.”
Lan Zhan jerks his head up, wide eyes snapping to Wei Ying. “Yes?”
Right as Wei Ying opens his mouth, the rock beneath them shakes. His words trickle back down his throat, replaced by a gasp. Glancing down, he notes that the ground itself is shaking.
“What the hell?” Wei Ying swivels to face the treeline. Soaring high above the landscape, hanging in the sky like a vengeful wraith, is a Protectorate hovercraft.
A combat-craft.
Wei Ying doesn’t think; he just runs.
“Wei Ying!” Lan Zhan screams, horrific and piercing, but Wei Ying pushes forward.
He sprints into the forest, leaping over protruding roots and fallen tree trunks. The further he runs, the more the earth trembles beneath his feet. A cloud of smoke rises into the sky in the distance—directly above the center of the camp.
Over the sound of his labored breathing, Wei Ying can make out crunching leaves and footfalls. Lan Zhan, the fool, is following him.
Wei Ying looks over his shoulder and shoots a murderous look at Lan Zhan. “Go back!”
“I can’t!” Lan Zhan easily keeps up with Wei Ying. After all, they went through the same intensive training, the same grueling regimens. They even attended the stuffy Lan lectures together as teenagers. “You know I can’t.”
“If you die—”
“And what do you think I’d do if you died?”
Wei Ying almost stumbles. His face aches, more so than the muscles in his legs. Tears prick at his eyes, and his lungs burn with the ferocity of his exertion.
“Lan Zhan, please,” Wei Ying wails at the top of his lungs, “I lov—”
In an instant, the world is engulfed by flames.
Present Time
The Cloud Recesses is no less extraordinary now than it was in the past.
As per its namesake, the mansion is a sprawling masterpiece floating thousands of feet above the Earth amongst the clouds. Ornate and eye-catching buildings make up the mansion as a whole, housing the countless Lan heirs and heads of the family—Lan Zhan included. Lofty trees line the perimeter and drape their spindly yet powerful branches along the ground. A mossy rock garden makes up the center of the main plaza. The faint sound of trickling water greets Lan Zhan upon their arrival, along with the domineering shouts of the renowned Grand Master.
Wei Ying grits his teeth. Will he ever understand the Meth lifestyle?
I suppose the money is nice…
But money is hardly at the forefront of his mind when Lan Zhan carries him to his bedroom. It’s lavish in a simplistic way, all white walls and gray furniture, integrated with touchscreens, holograms and other technology. Obviously more advanced than anything that existed before Wei Ying went under. Just as Wei Ying would picture a fancy ass room in this dystopian wet dream.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying manages as Lan Zhan finally sets him down, “this is…”
“Different, I know.” Lan Zhan retains his stoic expression, but there’s no mistaking the overwhelming relief radiating off of him.
“This feels like an entirely new world,” Wei Ying confesses. It’s been one of the only things on his mind—other than Lan Zhan and the rest of the Envoys. “I don’t even recognize Earth anymore. Wait, this is… this is Earth, right?’
Lan Zhan nods. The barely there smile he wears grows with each passing second.
“Holy shit, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying twirls in a circle, appreciating the decor. “I always knew your family was loaded but this? Do you rake in even more cash these days? Please don’t tell me Lan Qiren runs his own mafia now.”
For some reason, Lan Zhan appears reluctant to discuss his status as a Meth. Not that Wei Ying can blame him; they have a pretty piss-poor reputation.
Much like Wei Ying earlier, Lan Zhan murmurs, “You’re alive.”
Wei Ying shrugs. “You could say that.”
“I thought your Stack—”
“Me too,” Wei Ying replies honestly, “but I thought yours was also destroyed. I guess we’re all experiencing miracles lately.” He pauses to ruminate. “Which reminds me, how did you find me?”
Lan Zhan purses his lips. “I heard a rumor.”
A rumor? That sounds… ominous.
“Should I be concerned?” Wei Ying folds his arms. “I don’t exactly have a fan club waiting to protect me.”
“I will stay with you.”
Lan Zhan steps closer, as he had in the streets, but Wei Ying is better able to make out his facial features in this lighting. Still enthralling, still untouched by the hands of time. Cultivators like the Lan’s are among the most revered Meths because their legacy—their motivation to attain eternal life—ties into their strong spiritual connection with the universe rather than wealth.
If anything, Cultivators are honorable Meths. The only kind that the average citizen won’t spit on if given the chance.
Lan Zhan looks the part of an ethereal deity worthy of Meth worshippers’ reverence. In the back of Wei Ying’s mind, he wonders how many clones Lan Zhan has cycled through since he’s been away. There’s no way this is his original Sleeve. How many?
Why do I care when I should just be happy he’s here? Wei Ying chides himself.
“Before you ask,” Wei Ying says, “I have no idea how they preserved my Stack. To my knowledge, everyone in the settlement…” He hesitates, his gaze distant. “They died that day.”
Lan Zhan fidgets like he wants to say something but holds back. Wei Ying notes the microreaction.
“And you—” Wei Ying turns on Lan Zhan, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I should’ve known! Of course your family has the cash for DHF backups and a big ole’ chamber full of cloned Sleeves.”
Now that Wei Ying says it out loud, he realizes how much of an idiot he’s been. Of course the Lan’s had DHF backups. Probably not for every heir but, at the least, their inner circle. The head of the family, Lan Qiren. Lan Zhan’s brother, Xichen. And Lan Zhan himself.
Gingerly, Lan Zhan wraps his hand around Wei Ying’s finger, now shaking where it presses into his chest.
“I got lucky.”
“So did I,” Wei Ying replies. “I get to stand here with you.”
Lan Zhan’s eyes widen and then soften. His grip on Wei Ying’s finger is loose but grounding. A comfort in a sea of confusion. Wei Ying clings to the feeling eagerly, hoping he won’t sink into the depths of his old memories. They commonly overtake people during the first couple months following a re-sleeving. Hence why most Sleeving facilities keep therapists and psychologists on-site.
From what Wei Ying knows, though, Envoys have always been an exception to Sleeve Shock. In the case of natural-born Envoys, they were programmed that way. Recruits like Wei Ying spent hours learning to manage Sleeve Shock and break out of Virtual Reality constructs.
“Oh, Lan Zhan…” Wei Ying reaches out to cup Lan Zhan’s cheek. He’s been dreading asking this question since he woke up. “How long has it been?”
Grief twists Lan Zhan’s features. The deep furrow between his brows and bags under his eyes are enough of an explanation. He leans into Wei Ying’s touch, his eyes fluttering shut.
Wei Ying has to know. “Please. How many years?”
There’s a weighty pause, heavier than any thus far. Wei Ying holds his breath and skims his gaze over Lan Zhan’s face. He hopes that the longer he stares, the easier it will be to commit every detail to memory. No matter what happens from here on out, he won’t forget Lan Zhan. The man who followed him to the Envoy settlement, who stayed even though he knew full well what their association with the group meant for them. The man who died with Wei Ying.
“Two,” Lan Zhan eventually breathes.
“Two?”
Lan Zhan remains silent.
Only two years? Wei Ying lets out a relieved, breathless chuckle. He totally blew this situation out of proportion!
“Oh,” Wei Ying scoffs, “then—”
“Centuries.”
Wei Ying’s chuckle turns into a choked gasp. The world drops out from under his feet. He blinks at Lan Zhan, quickly scanning his expression for any sign of a joke. But that contorted, morose mask of stoicism remains firmly in place.
“Cent…” Wei Ying feels dizzy. “Centuries?”
Lan Zhan lifts shaky hands to Wei Ying’s face and cups his cheeks. Those long fingers and smooth palms convey reassurance. Maybe even love.
The truth is, Wei Ying has loved Lan Zhan for longer than he can remember.
Seriously, when did he realize he’d fallen? He couldn’t say. Especially considering the brutal years of denial when they were young classmates at a strict boarding school, funded by the wealthy Cultivator families and hosted at the Cloud Recesses.
Wei Ying hadn’t wanted to believe he had feelings for someone like Lan Zhan, the complete antithesis of everything he stood for. He just liked to tease Lan Zhan—that’s what he’d told himself, for longer than he’s willing to admit. But as time went by, he couldn’t avoid the truth anymore.
Not when Lan Zhan left status behind to join Wei Ying and the Envoys.
But Wei Ying, regardless of how he feels, has never dared to tell Lan Zhan.
Until now.
Lan Zhan’s tenderness eclipses any shock Wei Ying has been feeling up to this point.
“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan!” The words bubble up inside Wei Ying like carbonation in a shaken soda bottle, the kind Wei Ying used to love. “I hope I don’t scare you off, but I need to tell you.”
Lan Zhan stiffens. Trepidation flickers in his light eyes. Wei Ying won’t back down now, though; he can’t. He lifts his hands in a placating gesture and straightens up to his full height.
“I should’ve told you a long time ago,” Wei Ying says, “A long time ago.”
“Wei…” Lan Zhan’s shoulders tense. “Wei Ying—”
“But I need you!” Wei Ying raises his voice. “I’ve always needed you!”
Disbelief and wonder war on Lan Zhan’s face. More emotion than Wei Ying has ever seen him express at once.
Wei Ying sucks in a breath and then releases it explosively. “I love you! I—I—”
Exhausted, he deflates. He never planned to tell Lan Zhan, but death changes you.
The rest of his confession dies in his throat. He can’t find the right words, stumbling over each thought as it crosses his mind. His outburst of rash confidence abruptly gives way to fear, tinged with disappointment.
“Oh, god,” Wei Ying gasps. Self-doubt barrels into him like a bullet train. “I’m so sorry, Lan Zhan. What was I thinking, springing that on you?”
Lan Zhan’s eyes have widened to near comical proportions. Wei Ying worries they may pop out of his skull soon. Why can’t he ever approach touchy subjects in a calm, civilized manner? Certainly his brother would have plenty to say on that front. The fucking hypocrite.
“Wei… Ying.” Lan Zhan pauses, gaping down at Wei Ying like he’s seeing him for the first time. Which, in a sense, he is. “You don’t have to do this.”
Well, that isn’t what Wei Ying expected. He blinks rapidly.
“Don’t have to—what?”
“Pretend.” Lan Zhan lowers his voice, his smile shattered. “You have only just returned. I know you must be confused.”
He thinks this is because I swapped Sleeves? Wei Ying shakes his head furiously.
“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong.”
Lan Zhan stays quiet.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying pleads and finally allows himself to fist his hands in the front of Lan Zhan’s shirt. He’s grateful Lan Zhan shed the cloak upon entering. “Listen to me. I would never lie to you, okay? I just—I know I’m being ridiculous, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance again.”
A flicker of understanding dances in Lan Zhan’s eyes, urging Wei Ying to continue.
“And don’t misunderstand.” Wei Ying hardens his gaze. “You don’t have to force yourself to return my feelings. Or even answer me. But I had to tell you or I couldn’t live with myself.”
As much as being completely vulnerable in front of Lan Zhan hurts Wei Ying, he knows the sting of regret would hurt worse. He’s been given a second chance, after all. An opportunity to bare his soul to Lan Zhan, no matter how frightening a prospect that may be.
Lan Zhan rests trembling hands over Wei Ying’s.
“You are serious.”
Of course! Wei Ying barely contains the exclamation. He’s feeling rattled and just short of manic. Like a firework before it goes off, vibrating with energy.
“Like I said,” Wei Ying answers with a hint of pleading eagerness, “I would never lie to you. Definitely not about this.”
A mix of emotions flash across Lan Zhan’s face. Shock and bewilderment sprinkled with what Wei Ying hopes is excitement. It’s a difficult emotion to parse when it comes to Lan Zhan.
“And… you are Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan questions, childlike and innocent.
Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “You already know the answer.”
“I want to be certain.”
“Yes,” Wei Ying drawls, quite tempted to shake some sense into Lan Zhan. Isn’t he supposed to be the level-headed intellectual between the two of them? “It seems you were more convinced before I opened my big mouth.”
Maybe Wei Ying misjudged the situation. It’s not like he hasn’t before. He’s notorious for misinterpreting people’s reactions or, as Jiang Cheng used to say, “twisting reality to his liking.” It was his own way of calling Wei Ying selfish; granted, he’d had a point.
Even though Wei Ying would accept any relationship with Lan Zhan and be pleased just to stand by his side, he has to be honest with himself. And that means acknowledging his not-so-platonic desire for Lan Zhan.
If Lan Zhan truly doesn’t feel the same...
“I’m such an idiot,” Wei Ying laughs, the sound laced with self-deprecation. “I’m sorry, Lan Zhan. I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position, huh?”
Frustration flashes in Lan Zhan’s eyes. There’s a hint of melancholy, too, but Wei Ying tries not to think too far into that. Before Lan Zhan can provide his input, Wei Ying speaks up.
“I shouldn’t have—”
“I feel the same.”
“—said all of that knowing—” Wei Ying snaps his jaw shut. “Wait… what did you say?”
Lan Zhan clenches his jaw but keeps his eyes soft. Calmly, he repeats, “I feel the same way.”
Wei Ying’s pulse pounds in his ears like a drum. Thud, thud, thud. He can barely hear his own thoughts. His bottom lip quivers when he manages to speak again.
“Lan Zhan…”
“I thought you were gone,” Lan Zhan carries on, lowering the volume of his voice. “All this time, I was certain you were dead. That your Stack was destroyed in the attack.”
“I don’t understand it myself.” Wei Ying worries at his bottom lip. “I thought the… well, the firmware, I guess you could say, was more fragile than that.”
Lan Zhan nods. “I assumed so, too.”
“But when I woke up…” Wei Ying narrows his eyes. “I figured you had something to do with my preserved Stack.”
“I wish I could say I did,” Lan Zhan admits. It’s pitiful, almost—weary.
Wei Ying senses there’s more to it than simply “wishing” he could say he saved Wei Ying’s Stack.
Lan Zhan’s words come fast now. “Wei Ying, I—I can’t even bring myself to care why you’re here. I know I should but…”
“You’re telling me,” Wei Ying snickers, “I don’t know who to thank for my new lease on life. Are you sure your brother doesn’t have any connections that you don’t know about?”
Lan Zhan lifts a hand, stroking Wei Ying’s cheek. In this life and his past life, Lan Zhan has always treated Wei Ying with care.
Although their friendship started on rocky terms, two young boys with drastically different ideologies, they respected each other. The lectures hosted at the Cloud Recesses were meant to shape young minds. At first, Wei Ying’s adopted parents (namely his mother) questioned their decision to send Wei Ying to study alongside his siblings. He wasn’t Jiang Fengmian’s biological son; he wasn’t born a Jiang.
His father sent Wei Ying and instructed Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli to watch him closely. Of course, his parents never expected Wei Ying to take an interest in the unattainable son of the Lan’s, one of the coveted Twin Jades.
Their unlikely friendship blossomed in a hopeless place—as did Wei Ying’s love.
As much as Wei Ying tries to block his memories of the Envoy settlement out of his mind, he can’t forget the times they shared. Laughing over meals and swapping stories with their comrades. Training together in the relentless midday heat, dripping with sweat. Lan Zhan exhibited more and more affection with each passing day. He even got to the point of letting Wei Ying embrace him, which was unheard of when they were teenagers.
Wei Ying brings himself back down to earth.
“Hold on,” he drawls, “did you just say that you…?”
Lan Zhan refrains from making direct eye contact.
“When you say you feel the same way I do,” Wei Ying says, shoving down the knot of anxiety in his chest, “what exactly do you mean?”
“I lost you.” Lan Zhan approaches the response in his usual matter-of-fact manner. Like he can’t believe he has to push past Wei Ying’s thick skull. “I didn’t think I would ever get you back, Wei Ying.”
“So…”
Lan Zhan crooks his lips into a tiny, hesitant smile. Wei Ying forgot how much the simple gesture brightened Lan Zhan’s face.
“Okay, there’s a possibility I’m hallucinating.” Wei Ying scrutinizes Lan Zhan. “You could be the result of my overactive imagination. Maybe I’m in Stack Heaven? Oh, or Hell? Now there’s a thought. I bet the philosophers are all over that.”
The words roll off his tongue without any regard to his subconscious’s pleas. Talking serves as the distraction he needs right now. It’s much safer than considering the concept of a Lan Zhan who might actually—might really—
“Maybe I would be more sure this isn’t a dream,” Wei Ying blurts, “if you kissed me.”
Wow. Brilliant.
Lan Zhan’s eyes bulge, but Wei Ying can hardly appreciate the reaction. His stupid heartbeat is going to deafen him if it doesn’t chill for a second.
“Are you…” Lan Zhan glances down, and Wei Ying’s blood turns molten when he realizes where he’s looking. “Are you sure?”
“This is a dream, right?” Wei Ying musters up courage he’s sure he doesn’t possess. Because, well, fake it until you make it, right? That’s what all the influencers say. “What would it hurt?”
And Lan Zhan—elegant, otherworldly Lan Zhan—presses his lips to Wei Ying’s in a clumsy kiss.
He swallows Wei Ying’s shocked gasp, even with their mouths closed. The fingers resting on Wei Ying’s cheeks stroke along his jaw until they’re buried in his hair, a dark mess of tangles.
Lan Zhan kisses like he used to fight. Unwavering even as his fingers tremble against Wei Ying’s skin. In the instant before Wei Ying closes his eyes, he watches Lan Zhan squeeze his own shut, tightly enough that it almost looks painful.
Using his hold on the nape of Wei Ying’s neck, he drags him closer until their chests are pressed together. A gust of air leaves Wei Ying’s lungs when they collide. Distantly, he wonders if Lan Zhan can feel his heartbeat through their clothes. Its tempo builds the longer they remain joined at the lips, beating quick like a frightened rabbit’s.
If anything, it’s a pleasant sort of thrill. The thrill of adventure or trying something new. The thrill of moving forward.
Lan Zhan is kissing me. Wei Ying finds the will to move his arms and reciprocate the kiss. He wraps his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck as best he can and melts into the embrace.
“Mn,” Wei Ying hums against Lan Zhan’s lips, delighting in the tingling sensation it creates.
Lan Zhan wraps his other arm around Wei Ying’s waist and, in one fluid motion, hoists Wei Ying into the air.
Their mouths separate, and Wei Ying hurriedly wraps his legs around Lan Zhan’s torso to avoid a nasty fall. He lets out a stunned chuckle. “Lan Zhan!”
Lan Zhan merely lowers his mouth to Wei Ying’s throat and nuzzles his nose into his skin. “So long,” he mumbles nonsensically. “I waited… so… long.”
Heat zips down Wei Ying’s spine. How long has he wanted Lan Zhan to touch him like this? To actually want him?
“Ah,” he breathes, “me too.”
Vulnerability doesn’t come easy to Wei Ying,but it’s never been much of an issue in front of Lan Zhan. He’s not the judgmental type his strict upbringing would imply, and, despite their differences, Lan Zhan has always understood Wei Ying better than anyone else.
Lan Zhan carefully walks them over to the foot of his bed. His arms—way too fucking strong, they should be outlawed—clutch Wei Ying tight. Not for a second does he feel like Lan Zhan may drop him.
“That Lan arm strength,” Wei Ying teases.
Lan Zhan appears far too distracted to acknowledge him.
He deposits Wei Ying on the mattress, riveted on Wei Ying’s exposed midriff. Wei Ying releases Lan Zhan’s neck and fists his hands in the sheets, savoring the soft texture on his palms. The aroma of sandalwood wafts from the bed, and Wei Ying inhales the scent hungrily.
These sheets smell like Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying embarrassedly lets out a whimper and spreads his legs to accommodate Lan Zhan’s waist. Lan Zhan seizes the opportunity to climb on the bed. As hot as he looks hovering over Wei Ying, crawling on all fours, Wei Ying can’t help but think he’d look even better pressed to the bed. He gets the feeling Lan Zhan will be up for it, too.
Once Lan Zhan is close enough, Wei Ying grabs his shoulders, which earns him the flabbergasted expression he secretly hoped for. Laughter bubbles up in Wei Ying’s throat and, before he can second guess his intuition, he pounces.
“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan cries shrilly and, holy fuck, that’s cute.
“Yes, yes,” Wei Ying manages between cackles, “that’s me.”
Wei Ying is a jungle cat who’s caught his prey. Lan Zhan falls backwards, lying in the center of the bed, and gapes at Wei Ying with rosy cheeks. Meth or not, he’s just a simple man here.
“Is this okay?” Wei Ying asks. It seems like he’s been doing a lot of that—asking permission. For existing, for smiling. But he’ll always take care of Lan Zhan and respect his boundaries. “You’re looking a little… pink.”
Lan Zhan tucks his chin against his chest. It’s far more bashful than he’s ever looked before. “Yes, it’s—it’s fine.”
Fine? Wei Ying props himself uncomfortably on his elbows. He’s hypnotized by the rhythmic rise and fall of Lan Zhan’s chest. The bit of skin peeking out of the top of his shirt. The spill of his hair, long and regal just like in Wei Ying’s fondest memories.
“Just fine?” Wei Ying teases. Purposely holding Lan Zhan’s gaze, he gives his chest a light shove, and he collapses onto his back, bouncing the tiniest bit upon impact. “Really?”
Lan Zhan huffs. The flush extends down his neck now and disappears under the collar of his shirt. Curious, Wei Ying brushes his fingertips along the places the blush is darkest, a rich scarlet begging for attention.
Wei Ying shifts on the bed until he’s straddling Lan Zhan’s hips. As thin as he looks, Lan Zhan can’t disguise his strength. Wei Ying can make out the cords of his muscles along toned biceps and triceps, savoring the plentiful cushion his sturdy thighs provide. All-in-all, this isn’t a half-bad seat.
“Have you been working out more since I was gone?” Wei Ying curls his lips in a smirk. “I’m sensing some squats in your regimen.”
Lan Zhan melts. “Yes.”
Wei Ying opens his mouth to make a joke about his own workout routines when the realization sinks in: this isn’t his body.
Even if he’s using it now, the reality is that he wasn’t born into this Sleeve. These bones, these joints and muscle and sinew—they don’t belong to him. He’s a stranger inside his own body.
Dysmorphia sets in, heavy and cloying. Like the weight of the world on his slim shoulders. What if Lan Zhan prefers his original body? What if he isn’t attracted to this new version of him? Or what if it’s the opposite and he only entertains the thought of having sex with Wei Ying because he’s—
Wei Ying inhales sharply and presses his palms flat to Lan Zhan’s chest. His eyes slide shut on the exhale and solid hands move to his thighs.
“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan squeezes gently. “What’s wrong?”
“I…” Wei Ying stutters over his next breath. “How can you say you want me when I don’t even look like myself anymore?”
Lan Zhan’s expression turns fierce.
“I always want you.”
“Even if I’m—”
“The body doesn’t matter,” Lan Zhan interjects, deadly serious. “You are beautiful in any body.”
He rubs his palms into the meat of Wei Ying’s thighs, pulling a soft, drawn out moan from his lungs. Wei Ying worries, for a terrible fucking second, that he’ll start crying again. Lan Zhan can’t be real. Most people in his position wouldn’t be able to see past the Sleeve. Lovers often struggle in keeping relationships if one or both of them has to re-sleeve. As much as it would hurt, Wei Ying could understand why Lan Zhan couldn’t see past his outward appearance.
“You’re not freaked out by this.” Wei Ying raises a brow at Lan Zhan. “That was our first kiss, and I’m not even the Wei Ying you remember. Is it that I’ve gotten hotter?”
Lan Zhan sees right through his mask of humor.
“You’re beautiful in any body,” he repeats.
Wow, he really needs to stop saying that; it’s detrimental to Wei Ying’s health.
Wei Ying removes his hands from Lan Zhan’s chest and places them over the hands perched above his knees. Slender, elegant fingers. He recalls watching Lan Zhan strumming his guqin in the middle of the Envoy encampment. Sitting cross-legged on top of a rock with the instrument in his lap, creating soothing music amidst the universe’s chaos.
Wei Ying sinks his teeth into his lower lip and considers his next course of action. Never in a million years did he imagine he’d have Lan Zhan spread out underneath him.
Decided, Wei Ying grins. He grinds into Lan Zhan’s lap, delighting in the sight of Lan Zhan’s dilating pupils. Parted lips beckon to be claimed again, but Wei Ying prefers his current position.
“Truly, this is the best seat in the house,” Wei Ying murmurs and punctuates the sentence with a roll of his hips. “Too bad we couldn’t have done this earlier.”
Lan Zhan jerks his head in a nod. His scrunched face would seem displeased on anyone else, but Wei Ying reads it as what it really is: restraint.
Wei Ying slows the roll of his hips. “You know, Lan Zhan, if this is too much—”
“It’s not,” Lan Zhan blurts, far too quickly. He appears taken aback by his own outburst.
“You look like a baby bunny that wants to flee.”
“A bunny…”
“Aw,” Wei Ying coos, “do you still keep rabbits? I’ll be sorely disappointed if the answer’s no.”
Lan Zhan nods, but his eyes drift down to the crotch of Wei Ying’s pants. Right—Wei Ying is trying to set the mood here.
“Well, anyway. My point stands. I don’t want to scare you away.”
“I…”
“You’re holding yourself back, aren’t you?”
Lan Zhan pales. Bingo.
“You don’t have to,” Wei Ying urges. He shimmies his ass for emphasis. “In case it wasn’t obvious, I’ve wanted this for a while.”
“I’ve never…”
Now it’s Wei Ying’s turn to blanch.
“You—really?”
He’s starting to see the full picture. The extent of Lan Zhan’s misery and loneliness.
“No,” Lan Zhan mutters. “I always hoped…”
That you would come back to me.
Wei Ying throws caution to the wind. He scoots back enough to press his hand over the growing bulge in Lan Zhan’s pants, satisfied to find Lan Zhan already half-hard. Wei Ying grinds down harder, dragging out each motion and moaning shamelessly; it’s not like anyone will hear them.
Or at least he seriously hopes not.
“Did you…” Wei Ying licks his lips. “Did you ever think about this?”
He hadn’t meant to ask out loud, but the damage is already done—and, rather than look disgusted, Lan Zhan throws his head back. His lashes flutter.
“Well?” Wei Ying rubs Lan Zhan through his pants. He keeps his touch light, the whisper of a caress. “Did you?”
Lan Zhan parts his lips but no sound comes out. Wei Ying goes hot all over. No matter how level-headed Lan Zhan may be, his body’s reactions are honest; he can’t help himself.
Eventually, Lan Zhan manages a soft, “Yes.”
Oh, fuck.
Wei Ying grinds the heel of his palm into Lan Zhan’s straining erection. Instinctively, Lan Zhan’s hips jump off the mattress, seeking friction when Wei Ying pulls his hand away for a second. A startled giggle spills over Wei Ying’s lips when he bounces in Lan Zhan’s lap, quickly steadying himself before he loses his advantage.
“And people called me shameless,” Wei Ying purrs. He takes pity on Lan Zhan and reaches for the waistband of his pants. “You even called me shameless. But you’re the one moaning and squirming around, confessing that you fantasized about me.”
Lan Zhan merely whimpers. It’s a thin sound, reedy and fragile, like a wire about to snap. It’s criminally sexy coming from Lan Zhan.
“How did you picture me?” Wei Ying finds it’s much easier not to focus on his re-sleeving when devoting his attention to Lan Zhan’s desires. “Was I laid out like a feast? Tied up like a present? Or… did you have me in your lap like this?”
At the mention of their current position, Lan Zhan arches off the mattress. Wei Ying grapples for purchase in the sheets, Lan Zhan’s chest—anywhere he can reach. With a pleased but desperate whine, Lan Zhan sinks deeper into the covers.
“So needy,” Wei Ying says in a low voice.
And Lan Zhan—he says the unthinkable.
“Fuck.”
Heat rushes through Wei Ying’s body. Oh wow. So, apparently Lan Zhan cursing really does it for him. Why does that make a horrifying amount of sense? He can count on one hand the number of times he heard Lan Zhan curse before their untimely death. He wonders, distantly, if Lan Zhan cursed more while he was gone, or if he should feel honored knowing he weakened Lan Zhan’s resolve.
“You know,” Wei Ying remarks, as if commenting on the weather, “of all the kinks I suspected you had, I didn’t think that was one of them.”
Lan Zhan visibly gulps the air. “What—what kink?”
Wei Ying lifts up so as to slip his fingers under the waistband of Lan Zhan’s pants. He teases along the top and hovers over the button and zipper. “I think you like this. Being praised. Or maybe you like being talked dirty to...?”
The button snaps open easily, and Wei Ying beams at the tent in Lan Zhan’s pants. He wriggles his hips until he finds a more comfortable position between Lan Zhan’s thighs. Teasingly, he brushes a fingertip up and down the length of the zipper, cool metal against warm skin. He fondles the zipper itself for a couple tense seconds before tugging downwards.
Lan Zhan heaves a huge sigh of relief once he’s exposed to the world.
He wears crisp white boxers. A perfectly preserved pair that, even if he owned them for centuries, would never show its age. Because the Lan’s are freaks of hygienic nature.
“Oh,” Wei Ying murmurs.
He can’t even play coy, staring Lan Zhan’s dick in the face, regardless of whether there’s a layer of fabric in the way.
“Lan Zhan…”
Lan Zhan’s hands are balled into fists at his side. Wei Ying notices for the first time and taps the closest with his free hand, urging Lan Zhan to unfurl it. Once he does, Wei Ying interlocks their fingers, delighting in the image they create.
“Relax,” he insists, squeezing Lan Zhan’s hand. “I… I get it. It’s a lot for me, too.” Wei Ying pauses to chuckle. “See, I won’t even make the joke that just ran through my head. All you have to do is tell me to stop, and I will, Lan Zhan. No questions asked.”
Fortunately, Lan Zhan returns his smile. Wei Ying notices a small change in his posture. Even from his perch, he detects Lan Zhan’s muscles relaxing. Their intertwined fingers remain by Lan Wangj’s hip, tangled and perfect.
“The talking...” Wei Ying can’t quite figure out how to phrase it. “Is that okay?”
As he anticipated, Lan Zhan mumbles, “It’s okay.”
This has got to be Stacks Heaven.
“Fantastic,” Wei Ying says. He smooths his hand over the tent in the fabric, and Lan Zhan bucks his hips. “Music to my ears.”
Wei Ying would never want to admit it, but he’s only ever given one blowjob before. Back at the Envoy camp, there weren’t many people to choose from. Plus the one person Wei Ying had his eyes set on—coincidentally the owner of this dick—wasn’t a feasible option at the time. Or at least not to his knowledge.
How ironic, then, for Wei Ying to give his first and second blowjob at the Cloud Recesses. Among the many places he enacted his teenage rebellion around campus, his dormitory was no exception. At the time, his closest companions were his brother and Nie Huaisang. They were practically inseparable then—before Wei Ying allowed himself to get caught up in Lan Zhan’s orbit.
There was, however, one night during Wei Ying’s stay where the lines of friendship were blurred. By the notoriously horny Nie Huaisang.
Wei Ying vividly recalls a contraband phone with hours of downloaded porn, a creaking mattress, and two clumsy teenagers looking to experiment. They took turns that night, and Wei Ying learned the sheer power of the phrases ‘fuck yes’ and ‘baby’ in the bedroom. Sadly, they were naive and inexperienced, so their fooling around didn’t last long.
As awkward as the experience might’ve been, though, a blowjob is a blowjob. Wei Ying isn’t going into this completely blind.
But, even through his boxers, Lan Zhan appears bigger than Nie Huaisang.
Wei Ying pokes his tongue out from between his lips. Tentatively, he bends down and licks a stripe from the base to the tip, eliciting a full-body shudder. Lan Wangj’s hands find purchase in his hair, but Wei Ying doesn’t complain, humming against Lan Zhan’s length through the fabric. The vibrations must feel pleasant, if Lan Zhan’s moans are anything to go by.
With a snicker, Wei Ying slips his fingers under the hem of Lan Zhan’s boxers. He presses a quick kiss to Lan Zhan’s clothed cock, and peers up through his lashes. “Should we take these off?”
Lan Zhan—serious and severe Lan Zhan—whimpers.
Wei Ying snorts out another laugh and slides his fingers further down. The fabric whispers across the back of his hand as he strokes over Lan Zhan’s hips, down to the space between his legs, and outward again. This earns him a second, even more pathetic sounding whimper.
Now that he’s been given permission, Wei Ying prompts Lan Zhan to lift his hips off the mattress and works on getting those damned boxers out of the picture. They glide over his skin, and Wei Ying eyes the goosebumps along Lan Zhan’s legs, as well as—
Holy shit.
Both of Wei Ying’s suspicions have been confirmed. First, Lan Zhan is unmistakably, unabashedly hard. Second, he’s very well-endowed.
Wei Ying’s mouth waters. Of course—of course Lan Zhan has an incredible dick. It has to in order to be on par with the rest of his body. Flushed and throbbing, it lies against his stomach the moment it springs free of his clothes. The head is already wet with precome, and the sight draws a wanton grunt from Wei Ying.
“Oh, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes, “have you touched yourself while I was gone?”
A glance upward shows Lan Zhan nodding.
“Fuck.” Wei Ying traces a fingertip along the vein on the underside of his cock. “What did you think about?”
Lan Zhan whines like he’s been punched in the gut. “Wei Ying.”
“You can tell me. I won’t judge you.”
As if that weren’t obvious.
“I… I can’t,” Lan Zhan manages between gritted teeth.
Wei Ying tilts his head to the side, glancing between Lan Zhan’s scarlet cheeks and the leaking tip of his cock. “Why not?”
Lan Zhan shakes his head and the strands of dark, silky hair framing his face sway.
“Ah, who did you think about?” Wei Ying switches from a fingertip to the full circle of his fingers. “Don’t tell me it was Jiang Cheng?”
“No,” Lan Zhan growls, and oh. Maybe that’s not the direction to take.
“Alright, alright. Then…” Wei Ying sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and then lets it go. “Did you think about me?”
Lan Zhan spreads his legs further, knees bent and heels dug into the mattress. Wei Ying realizes Lan Zhan hasn’t removed his shirt yet—they should fix that.
“Take your shirt off,” Wei Ying commands but keeps his voice soft. Feeling wicked, he smirks. “Or else.”
And the absolute jerk—he sits up and does exactly as asked. He strips the shirt off quickly, without ceremony, and tosses it aside. Just as Wei Ying suspected, the rosy flush tinting his cheeks extends down past his neck, over the planes of his abdomen. Wei Ying pictures licking every inch of that heated skin and has to withhold a moan.
“So obedient.” Wei Ying gradually stoops until his lips hover over the tip of Lan Wangj’s cock. “Normally you seem stubborn, Lan Zhan. Do you only obey me now?”
Lan Zhan has yet to untangle his fingers from Wei Ying’s hair and scrapes his nails over Wei Ying’s scalp. Electricity trickles along the path of his touch and zips down to the tips of his toes. In Lan Zhan’s hands, he’s on fire.
Wei Ying presses his lips right under the head of Lan Zhan’s cock. As expected, his skin is warm to the touch and, based on the minute twitch of his hips, sensitive. Wei Ying trails his lips lower, kissing along every inch of Lan Zhan’s length, focusing on that protruding vein.
When Lan Zhan writhes in earnest, Wei Ying decides to take mercy on him. He stops kissing and starts his next task.
He flips through his memories for information, drawing from Nie Huaisang’s porn collection. Vaguely, he remembers the way the people in the videos performed for the camera.
Nie Huaisang, wherever you are, thank you for being a horny disaster. Wei Ying wills those videos to run on a loop in the forefront of his mind, as if he can take notes on them here and now.
Wei Ying keeps each detail in mind as he starts well and truly sucking. He mimics the porn star’s actions to his best abilities, and claims a small victory in his mind every time Lan Zhan releases a particularly loud grunt or keening whine. When Wei Ying takes a second to focus on his slit, Lan Zhan bucks into his mouth and—oh. That’s definitely a step in the right direction.
Minimal teeth? Check.
Working the base of Lan Zhan’s cock in tandem with his mouth? Check.
Keeping Lan Zhan just slick enough for it to feel fucking amazing? Checkity check.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan groans, long and warbling. He fists Wei Ying’s hair and shoves him down in an unspoken request for him to take him deeper. “I—”
Wei Ying hums around Lan Zhan and makes a big show of pulling off. A strand of saliva connects his bottom lip to the tip of Lan Zhan’s cock.
“Do you like it? Do you like my mouth on you?”
Lan Zhan jerks his hips upward, and his dick brushes Wei Ying’s cheek. He can’t quite tell if it’s an accident.
“Are you close?” Wei Ying fights to keep his tone conversational as he continues to stroke Lan Zhan. “Hm?”
An unintelligible string of words falls from Lan Wangj’s mouth. That’s a yes.
“I think we shouldn’t… move too fast,” Wei Ying mumbles, hoping the words don’t totally remove Lan Zhan from the mood he’s created. “I’m going to try one more thing, okay?”
But Wei Ying’s smile falls.
Wait a damn second—does Lan Zhan own lube?
“Ah…” Wei Ying scrubs at the back of his neck. Embarrassment and arousal thrum through his veins. “Do you have any, uh. Lube?”
Lan Zhan breathlessly gestures in the direction of his bedside table. Wei Ying’s brows crawl up his forehead. Oh? He supposes it makes sense for all those nights Lan Zhan was forced to jerk off alone in his massive bed.
As much as Wei Ying hates putting distance between them, he sacrifies it for the sake of safe sex. He’ll eat his own arm before hurting Lan Zhan. Contrary to the Protectorate’s belief, he’s no monster.
“Really, you’re full of surprises.” Wei Ying dives for the drawer. A small bottle of lube sits beside a tablet, manicure kit, and—
Wei Ying’s jaw drops. He snatches the lube and tosses it on the bed, then reaches back into the drawer to retrieve the familiar instrument. Carefully, not quite sure if he’s seeing things correctly, Wei Ying lifts it high for Lan Zhan to see.
“You kept Chengqin.” The growing need between Wei Ying’s legs is getting harder to ignore. “You kept my—my fucking—”
To anyone else, the flute wouldn’t seem like much. Monochrome, no extravagant designs. But Lan Zhan crafted the bamboo instrument with his bare hands, while living in the Envoy encampment. The Protectorate believed it held the secrets to his power, associating it with the heightened senses Envoys were known for. In a way, the tool did contribute to Wei Ying’s capability, but you couldn’t tell just from looking at it.
Lan Zhan visibly swallows. “It… required many repairs when our disciples found it in the rubble. But it reminded me of you.”
I’m in way too deep, Wei Ying decides with finality. There’s not much he can do at this point to turn his emotions off—no matter how convenient that would be.
“I can’t believe you.” Wei Ying slips Chengqing back into the drawer. “Did you have those poor kids go digging around for it?”
He jumps on the bed, and Lan Zhan quickly readjusts himself, still hard and leaking against his abdomen. This ridiculous man made the Lan disciples search for Chengqing. He wonders how he coerced Lan Qiren into agreeing to that search party.
“We’re definitely doing this,” Wei Ying says. “Fuck, the more I learn, the more I want to ruin you, Lan Zhan.”
To his delight, Lan Zhan moans, low and pleased. Wei Ying seizes the opportunity to swirl his finger around the rim of Lan Zhan’s entrance, licking his lips at the sight. He’s gorgeous here, too—not that it comes as any surprise.
“Have you ever touched yourself here?” Wei Ying asks, genuinely curious. He can’t decide whether he thinks Lan Zhan would be the type. It can be awfully intimidating the first time you finger yourself. “Relax, relax.”
Lan Zhan whispers something undecipherable and then exhales. “A… few times.”
God, he’s really pushing every single one of Wei Ying’s buttons right now. Leave it to Lan Zhan. His thigh muscles tremble beneath the peach expanse of his skin, pulled taut like a rubber band about to snap.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Wei Ying praises. “I can’t get over it. Every time I look at you, I notice something else.” He presses the tip of his finger in just the slightest bit, and Lan Zhan groans. “Even here.”
“You are—” Lan Zhan breaks off to squeeze his eyes shut, slowly but surely allowing Wei Ying’s finger past the tight ring of muscle. “You’re beautiful, too.”
Heat erupts beneath Wei Ying’s skin. No matter how much he loathes his body for it, praise absolutely does it for him. Especially from someone like Lan Zhan who wouldn’t lie to him. If he says Wei Ying is beautiful, he means it wholeheartedly.
“Fuck,” Wei Ying growls for what feels like the thousandth time. His cock begs to be freed from the confines of his pants or at least touched. He takes a break from toying with Lan Zhan’s entrance to fish himself out of his pants. “I wish you knew what you did to me.”
Lan Zhan cranes his neck, but scoring a view of Wei Ying’s cock is near impossible from his vantage point. He moans anyway, mouth agape. Their eyes meet, and Wei Ying’s cock twitches perceptibly. Maybe next time—if there’s a next time—Lan Zhan can use his mouth on him.
Wei Ying’s eyes roll back in his head and he pants, fucking into his fist. “I bet you would take me so well, Lan Zhan. I can already tell you’ll take my fingers perfectly.”
Lan Zhan keens brokenly as Wei Ying pours a generous amount of lube on his length, as well as Lan Zhan’s entrance. He’s impressed to find the liquid heats up the moment it hits the air.
The lube has a decent odor, too, and Wei Ying finds himself tempted to lick it off his fingers. What do they put in this stuff?
Wei Ying shakes off the urge and returns to his previous mission. Lan Zhan’s incredible ass—that’s his main focus now. Other than his dick, which is almost too overstimulated to touch. Wei Ying shivers violently on the next pass of his hand along his length, smoothing his thumb over the tip.
He takes it back; there’s something special about this fucking lube.
“Like I said,” Wei Ying insists, keeping his voice soft, “try to stay relaxed.”
Even though Lan Zhan claims to have fingered himself before, he clenches down when Wei Ying adds a second finger. Wei Ying stops fucking his fist and massages along Lan Zhan’s inner thigh in slow, methodical motions. Lan Zhan gradually loosens up under his ministrations, and Wei Ying smirks despite how much he’s getting off to the simple act of fingering Lan Zhan.
“See? I was right.” Wei Ying works both fingers inside Lan Zhan. Meticulously, he scissors them and coaxes Lan Zhan open, pushing in further with each thrust. “You take me so fucking well. I should’ve known you would.”
Lan Zhan moans far louder than he has thus far. Wei Ying didn’t realize that was even possible. And, fuck, if those noises aren’t the hottest thing. In most situations, Lan Zhan maintains his composure and speaks only when he deems necessary. He chooses his words wisely, always eloquent and precise.
But here, under Wei Ying’s hold, he’s a babbling mess.
Sweat slicks his hair to his forehead. Perspiration beads on his skin, gathering in every crevice and dip. His lips are red and slick from the kisses they exchanged and—Wei Ying realizes—from Lan Zhan sinking his teeth into them. His chest heaves and his heels scrabble for purchase on the slick sheets every time Wei Ying grinds his fingers into him particularly deep.
Only I get to see him like this.
Wei Ying’s hand frantically grapples for his own length where it’s pressed hot and heavy to the mattress. Something about remaining nearly fully clothed sends a jolt of delight through every bone in his body. He’s in control—and Lan Zhan loves it.
Wei Ying chases his pleasure, encouraged by the friction the bedsheets and his fist create. He plunges his fingers into Lan Zhan in time with his own canting hips. It doesn’t take long for Lan Zhan to relax further and allow Wei Ying to shove both fingers up to the second knuckle.
“Do you think you can take another?” Wei Ying breathes. His brain is struggling with the whole speaking thing. “I bet you can. It’s like you were made for this.”
Lan Zhan thrashes against the bed, and Wei Ying moves his hand from his aching cock to Lan Zhan’s. The moment their skin makes contact, Lan Zhan reaches out to grab a fistful of Wei Ying’s hair. He doesn’t push him down—although Wei Ying wouldn’t be opposed if he did—and instead just tugs. A sound halfway between a laugh and a whine bursts from Wei Ying’s chest.
“You like that?” Wei Ying twists both hands simultaneously, pleasuring Lan Zhan from both angles. It’s such a fantastic reaction that he can’t even bring himself to be upset over his neglected cock.
“Ah, you’re so tight. I can’t believe you can fit your own fingers in here. They’re so much thicker and longer than mine.”
Lan Zhan shakes his head. “Your fingers… are perfect.”
Lan Zhan’s lips shape around a silent curse, and Wei Ying swivels his hips and curses vehemently. Wei Ying imagines he’s inside Lan Zhan, that the sheets around his cock are instead warm, plush skin enveloping him fully. Wei Ying’s eyes flutter open and closed, overwhelmed by the sensation and enticing mental image.
“You’re doing so good for me.” Wei Ying curls his fingers, seeking out that special spot he knows will send Lan Zhan over the edge. “Can make you cum from just my fingers, huh?”
Lan Zhan meets Wei Ying on the next thrust of his fingers, grinding downwards. And, oh—that’s definitely something. Wei Ying tries a new angle, searching and absolutely needing to find Lan Zhan’s prostate. At this rate, he’s worried he’ll find his release first, which can’t happen.
He’s here to dominate and take care of Lan Zhan; he will come first.
“Oh, fuck,” Wei Ying whimpers, his own self-control weakening. “You feel amazing, better than anything I’ve ever—ah.”
Wei Ying grinds his cock roughly into the bed, his imagination running wild thanks to the fucked out little noises Lan Zhan keeps making. It’s almost like Wei Ying is actually inside Lan Zhan right now. Like three fingers are enough to match his actual girth. He prods vigorously when he rocks his fingers into Lan Zhan again, crooks them just right, and nearly comes on the spot when he nails his target.
Ha! Bingo!
Lan Zhan lifts one of his legs and brings his heel down on the space between Wei Ying’s shoulder blades. An absolutely gutted noise comes rushing out of his lungs. He jerks in Wei Ying’s hold, balls drawing up tight with his impending release. Wei Ying’s thrusts against the mattress become erratic, matching the pace of the hand he works over Lan Zhan’s length.
The temperature in the room has reached an outlandish height. Wei Ying can hardly think straight, can’t think of anything but Lan Zhan’s cries and his own fingers, the soft squelching sound echoing inside his skull.
“Oh,” Wei Ying breathes harshly, “I found it. Have you ever—shit, have you ever touched here before?”
All he gets is a weak, “Wei Ying.”
“You definitely could.” Wei Ying prods the same spot again and again, relentless in his efforts. “I’d love to have your fingers inside me next time.”
Lan Zhan wiggles his hips and begins riding the fingers in his ass as best he can on his back. It’s an impressive feat, considering Lan Zhan’s experience level. He manages scarily well, and the heel on Wei Ying’s back digs in harder, bringing Wei Ying’s face within inches of Lan Zhan’s cock as he strokes him.
“You can come on my face,” Wei Ying manages between raspy breaths. “I want you to.”
Lan Zhan’s movements become jerky and progressively more erratic. He certainly paints an erotic image, pulling in Wei Ying’s fingers, flushed from head-to-toe. Wei Ying files this away to fantasize about later. Lan Zhan is a vision.
“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying cants his hips. He hardly cares whether he stains his pants or clothes. Hell, he doesn’t even care about the sheets, even if he probably should.
The bed shakes beneath them with the force of their combined thrusting. Mental images flash quicker through Wei Ying’s mind. Lan Zhan’s legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks into him. Lan Zhan seated on his lap, riding his cock like he was made for it. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan—
“Please,” Wei Ying cries out. He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for at this point. “Please, come on.”
That’s it—he wants Lan Zhan to come. Needs it like he needs to breathe. He props himself up as best he can, without ever stopping the movements of his hands, and peers through his lashes at Lan Zhan’s face.
As he hoped, Lan Zhan still wears a delicious blush. His eyes open, as if sensing Wei Ying’s attention, and dart down to lock stares. They hold eye contact as Wei Ying lets his mouth drop open, panting and cursing freely as he works Lan Zhan toward his climax.
“There, yeah—fuck.” Wei Ying can barely form a coherent sentence anymore, his own release approaching rapidly. “Before me, you need to—Lan Zhan.”
Lan Zhan holds out, though. Wei Ying whimpers and searches his memory for any sure way to make Lan Zhan come. Then, it hits him.
“Hey, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying prompts. “You don’t have to hold back anymore.”
Wei Ying’s cock aches as he lifts off the mattress and repositions himself. He makes sure to keep his fingers inside Lan Zhan.
He leans over, pressing his mouth to Lan Zhan’s ear, and whispers, “I’ve got you. Let go.”
And Lan Zhan does.
Wei Ying pulls away just in time to see the expression on Lan Zhan’s face. He squeezes his eyes shut while his mouth gapes in a silent, blissed out scream. Scarlet tints his cheeks and throat, a captivating contrast against his pale skin. Strands of hair flutter around his face or cling to his sweaty forehead.
It’s earth-shatteringly gorgeous.
“Oh my god,” Wei Ying cries and smashes his lips to Lan Zhan’s, eagerly swallowing the pathetic whimpers he makes as he comes down from his climax.
Wei Ying fumbles his hand out from between Lan Zhan’s legs. His fingers, now sticky with Lan Zhan’s release, wrap around his own dick. He’s so sensitive at this point that he nearly loses it the second his hand makes contact, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed.
Forgetting finesse for the moment, Wei Ying speeds up his pace. Sparks of pleasure-pain zip down his spine, down his limbs, and heat pools at an alarming rate in his lower abdomen. He’s extremely close—right on the brink of orgasm.
Lan Zhan recovers slightly and wraps a hand around the nape of Wei Ying’s neck. He deepens the kiss, turning it filthy and wet. He’s practically fucking Wei Ying’s mouth with his tongue, even though the rest of his body has gone immobile, loose-limbed and spread out.
While Wei Ying continues to fuck into his fist, fingertips that most certainly do not belong to him brush across the tip of his cock, right along the slit. And, just like that, he topples over the edge.
Desperately, he presses into the kiss, his teeth clacking against Lan Zhan’s. He curls his other hand into a fist, balling the sheets in his tight grip. White fills his vision as he squeezes his eyes shut, and his legs tremble. After he paints their stomachs with thick ropes of come, he collapses on top of Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying feels boneless, like a puppet with its strings cut.
He inhales deeply, too spent to open his eyes. He can’t even bring himself to care about the gross, sticky state of their chests pressed against each other.
“Oh,” Wei Ying breathes, “wow.”
What an understatement.
Lan Zhan cards his fingers gently through Wei Ying’s hair. Lazily, Wei Ying leans into the touch and makes contented little noises against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. Holy fuck. Talk about the most mind-blowing orgasm he’s ever experienced.
And they hadn’t even, to quote Nie Huaisang, “gone all the way.”
Wei Ying isn’t sure he’ll live through that if he’s ever fortunate enough to be given the opportunity.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan murmurs tenderly into the side of Wei Ying’s head. “I… I love you.”
Wei Ying nuzzles against Lan Zhan’s shoulder and sighs softly. His limbs feel loose and pleasantly pliant, as if this body’s truly his. Any soreness in his joints and muscles, the surge of dopamine and oxytocin from his brain—it all belongs to him now. Regardless of the Sleeve.
And Lan Zhan loves him.
Lan Zhan loved him in the past and still does now, even in his current state.
If Lan Zhan can look past his outer appearance, can’t Wei Ying? It may take some time, but he wants to.
Maybe he can handle a second chance at life in this body after all.
Suddenly, there’s a hiss from the opposite side of the room, like a portal door sliding open. Wei Ying furrows his brows. That’s impossible; Lan Zhan locked it. And it’s not as if they’re expecting visitors.
Wei Ying shrugs off his concern and, instead, focuses on Lan Zhan’s body heat. The rise and fall of their deep, calming breaths.
But a disembodied cry of terror shatters any illusion of tranquility.
Wei Ying jolts to attention and tumbles to the side, off of Lan Zhan. Years of training taught him how to be ready for a fight regardless of his physical condition. He crouches, one hand reaching towards his bare hip where he used to keep his serrated blade, the other raised threateningly.
His eyes dart to the doorway and his jaw drops.
Two people stand on the threshold, achingly familiar.
“What the fuck?” The taller of the newcomers shouts. “Is—Wei Ying?”
Wei Ying releases a shuddering exhale. His lips barely move when he speaks. “Jiang Cheng?”