Archive of Our Own ^beta

I read somewhere that loneliness is the sorrow of being alone, whereas solitude is the joy of it. This is what I seek, and what I crave. Solitude is my sanctuary, and I guard it jealously, like a child with a favourite toy. I will admit no one. No one shall intrude upon me ever again. To love me is to be alone, because who on earth could compete with my solitude?

---

“He wants you to stay for a month.”

His brother’s voice on the other end of the phone is light, but Lan Zhan can feel the weight of his words, as if Lan Huan has placed an anvil on his chest.

“A month,” Lan Zhan repeats.

“Yes,” Lan Huan replies. “He’d like to review the latest edition of the fourth-year textbook with you. Apparently, there was some feedback about the practice dialogue from some of the professors, and they’d like to speak with you in person.”

“The dialogue was reviewed by the appropriate government departments before publication, as is proper procedure,” Lan Zhan says flatly. “If the professors have any objections to the material, they can file a complaint with the board.”

“It’s not a complaint,” Lan Huan assures him. “At least, not one that warrants a case file. They merely have some suggestions they’d like you to take into consideration for future editions.”

“They have my email,” Lan Zhan says curtly.

“A-Zhan,” Lan Huan says, voice gentle. “You know that Uncle has relationships to maintain at the universities. A little personalized attention goes a long way.”

Lan Zhan remains silent.

“Besides,” Lan Huan continues. “You haven’t been home since new year’s last year. You didn’t even stay through the lantern festival, and that was the first time we’d seen you since the pandemic. Uncle misses you. We both do,” he adds.

Lan Zhan resists the urge to sigh.

“Please consider staying, A-Zhan. Uncle worries about you. It would mean the world to him to have you home for a while.”

Lan Zhan grits his teeth, but his voice comes out level when he replies. “I’ll consider it. I will have to find someone to take care of the cottage while I am gone. The rabbits will need to be cared for.”

“Of course,” Lan Huan agrees. “Perhaps you could ask Nie Mingjue’s brother?”

“Huaisang?” Lan Zhan asks, somewhat skeptical. “I do not know if his schedule would allow for a whole month on the coast.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Lan Huan says. “You never know, he might be willing to work remotely, and I’m sure his social media feeds would benefit from some breathtaking coastal scenery.”

“Hm,” Lan Zhan huffs. He doesn’t relish the thought of Nie Huaisang in his home, poking through his personal items and neglecting his beloved pets. “We’ll see.”

“Book your tickets,” Lan Huan urges. “The house-sitting situation will work itself out. Promise you’ll stay, A-Zhan.”

“All right,” Lan Zhan concedes. “Please give Uncle my regards. You may tell him I will stay for a month. I’ll see you both for the Spring Festival.”

“Thank you, A-Zhan,” Lan Huan enthuses. “I’m sure it will be a wonderful visit.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan replies.

He has his doubts.

---

The cottage is small; it’s a simple rancher, a rustic thing, set back into the forests of Roberts Creek. It’s an open concept living space centered around the kitchen, with a breakfast bar at the counter and a dining table near the window overlooking the backyard, which is a sprawling acreage that gives way to more forests. There’s a half-sized sofa situated in front of the gas fireplace with a television mounted above it on the wall, and a single bedroom and a bathroom are just down the hallway.

A wraparound deck extends at the back for at least 20 feet into the yard. The first five feet are sheltered, the roof having been built out to cover it, but the rest is left open to the elements. A pair of weathered deck chairs are perched near the edge, the raw finish of the wood showing through where the amber coloured stain has been worn away by years of sun and rain.

It’s deathly still as Lan Zhan stands in the sliding glass doorway, calm and numb. There is no wind, the sky is shrouded in thick grey clouds, and the forest is silent, as if in commiseration.

His mother died here, he thinks.

How long had she been alone here, he wonders, her breath slowing to a crawl before ceasing forever? Had she gazed past the trees and into the horizon at dusk, imaging the ocean not that far beyond, before the sun set on her life?

He will never know.

The lawyer is saying something about papers to sign, bills to be paid, and an account that has been set aside to handle the funeral costs. Lan Zhan barely hears him, nods along in agreement as the lawyer outlines the details of the trust fund his mother has left him along with the cottage. There will be property transfer taxes to be paid, release forms to be signed for the cremation of the body.

He’d booked a one-way ticket from Shanghai, unsure of how long these things would take. Lan Huan had offered to accompany him, but since the will had specified only Lan Zhan himself, he had declined, preferring to confront this ghost on his own. It’s a strange and tentative kinship he shares with his mother. His memories are scant, watercolour visions from his childhood, dreamlike mirages punctuated by the sound of her laughter and her low, soothing voice. There is love there, aching and real, and Lan Zhan clings to it like a drowning man clings to a piece of waterlogged driftwood.

He recalls one night in particular on the balcony of their Shanghai apartment. His mother had brought the portable stove they used for hotpot outside, and together, they roasted marshmallows over the open gas flame. She had explained that back home in Canada, they would eat them with graham crackers and chocolate, but this would have to do, for now. One day, she would take him home to the Pacific Northwest. She would teach him how to comb the beach for kindling and start a fire from scratch.

Lan Zhan has never lit his own fire, but suddenly, he wants to try.

He calls his realtor and makes the arrangements to sell his apartment. He waits until the sale is final before he contacts his brother to say goodbye. He calls his uncle and informs him he will be relocating to Canada. He understands if this means they must part ways, but he is willing to work remotely. He can write and translate anywhere, after all. Lan Qiren is furious, but Lan Zhan holds firm, and in the end, he wins out. The whole process takes less than a month.

The next time he stands in the back doorway overlooking the overgrown yard, Lan Zhan can hear the sound of birdsong and the humming of insects. He smells the damp grass and the salt in the air and he thinks, maybe, he’s finally home.

---

And so begins my third life. I’ve come early into cronehood, and I welcome it with open arms and whatever is left of my heart. To be a maiden was to suffer the perpetual, omnipresent gaze of the world, and to be a mother was to suffer its judgement. To think, at last, that I might live as myself, unobserved. For once, no one is looking at me. Finally, I am unseen.

---

The city is noisy and cluttered and wet, and the café Nie Huaisang has chosen for their meeting is packed to the gills with raincoated customers clamouring for artisanal coffee creations. Lan Zhan is incapable of showing up anywhere less than five minutes early, even when he knows that Nie Huaisang is guaranteed to be ten minutes late. He sips his London fog at a seat near the back, absently checking items off the to-do list on his phone. He tries to limit his trips into Vancouver to once a month; the traffic is tedious, and the ferries are always late on the way back to the coast, which means a handful of errands is a whole day affair.

Nie Huaisang shows up at exactly fifteen minutes past the hour, stuttering apologies and gingerly wrapping up his sopping umbrella. Lan Zhan simply nods at him, waiting for Nie Huaisang to get himself settled before suggesting he get himself a beverage.

“Right, yes, of course,” Nie Huaisang jitters, and then he’s flitting off to the counter for a coffee. He returns several minutes later bearing a hideously frothy concoction topped with caramel.

“So,” he begins. “I hear you need a house sitter.”

“I do,” Lan Zhan confirms. “Are you available?”

“Sadly, I am not,” Nie Huaisang says, although he doesn’t sound particularly contrite. He takes a fussy little sip of his coffee before he continues. “But I know someone who is.”

“Oh?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Yeah,” Nie Huaisang nods. “That’s why I asked you out today. I want to introduce you to him.”

Lan Zhan raises an eyebrow in question.

“He’s an old friend from high school,” Nie Huaisang explains. “He’s new to the city, and he’s looking for a place to stay.”

“He’s homeless?” Lan Zhan asks, already skeptical.

“He’s in between housing situations, yes,” Nie Huaisang says. “He’s been crashing on my couch for the last week while he looks for something permanent. A month with a roof over his head would give him a bit of breathing room, you know?”

“You trust this person?” Lan Zhan wants to know.

“With my life!” Nie Huaisang enthuses. “He’s a good guy, I promise. I wouldn’t suggest you let a psycho take care of your home.”

Lan Zhan regards him critically, but says nothing.

“Look, just give him a chance, okay?” Nie Huaisang pleads. “If he gives you serial killer vibes, it’s fine, you don’t have to say yes. But I think it’d be a good fit.”

“You want him out of your house,” Lan Zhan says flatly.

“I live in a studio!” Nie Huaisang splutters. “It’s a little cramped, is all.”

Lan Zhan huffs out a breath at him.

“Just—” Nie Huaisang abruptly cuts himself off as his phone buzzes on the table. “He’s here,” he says, turning toward the entrance.

Lan Zhan follows his gaze as the door to the café swings open to admit a tall, slender man, the hood of his jacket pulled down over his forehead and a scarf hiding the lower half of his face. Nie Huaisang waves him over, and he makes his way through the crowd to their table, leaving a trail of raindrops across the floor as he goes. He’s carrying a worn-out messenger bag that he drops unceremoniously on the table before starting to unwrap himself.

“You made it!” Nie Huaisang chirps. “Wei Ying, this is Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, meet Wei Ying.”

Lan Zhan stares as Wei Ying pulls his hood back, revealing long black hair pulled up into a topknot. His dark eyes are wide and sparkling, and they crinkle up at the corners as he unwinds his scarf to unveil the most brilliant smile Lan Zhan has ever seen.

“Pleased to meet you,” Wei Ying says, voice as clear as a silver bell, and Lan Zhan feels a tug behind his ribcage, like a fishhook in his heart.

“Likewise,” he manages in return.

“Wei Ying and I went to high school in Toronto together,” Nie Huaisang offers. “He’s new to Vancouver and needs to make new friends.”

Wei Ying laughs, loud and unfettered, his eyes disappearing into crescents as his smile widens. “Is that your way of saying you’re sick of me?”

“Never!” Nie Huaisang avers. “But I’m sure Lan Zhan could use some more friends.”

Lan Zhan gives Nie Huaisang a baleful look, but Wei Ying just laughs again.

“Well,” Wei Ying sings. “I’m always in the market for more friends. Huaisang says you’re good people,” he winks.

“Does he,” Lan Zhan says dryly. He’s pretty sure Nie Huaisang mostly tolerates him because their families are old friends. He’s far too dull and sedate for Nie Huaisang’s insatiable appetite for drama.

Wei Ying cocks his head to the side, considering him with wide, shining eyes. Lan Zhan meets his gaze and holds it, suddenly feeling hot under the collar. He notes the small waterdrops still clinging to Wei Ying’s bangs, the thickness of his long, black eyelashes.

“Huaisang says you live on the Sunshine Coast?” Wei Ying asks.

“Roberts Creek,” Lan Zhan confirms.

“What’s it like?” Wei Ying asks. “I’ve never been.”

“Quiet,” Lan Zhan supplies. “Small.”

“That must be nice,” Wei Ying smiles. “Did you grow up there?”

“No,” Lan Zhan replies. “I am from Shanghai.”

“Oh!” Wei Ying exclaims, clearly taken aback. “That’s quite the change. What prompted the move?”

“An opportunity presented itself,” Lan Zhan says. “I took it.”

“All right, then,” Wei Ying says, eyes sparkling. “What does a big city guy like you do in a little place like that?”

“I write,” Lan Zhan says simply.

“That’s one way to put it,” Nie Huaisang dryly interjects. “Lan Zhan here is part of the Lan publishing empire.”

“You mean the Lans who produce all those language textbooks?” Wei Ying says, eyes growing wide.

“The very same.” Nie Huaisang says. “Lan Zhan is the author of, what? Like a dozen ESL textbooks and Mandarin for beginners? He’s got some super-advanced degree in Chinese poetry and translation.”

Lan Zhan glances sideways at Nie Huaisang and says nothing.

“So, I have you to thank for years of suffering through Chinese school?” Wei Ying grins.

“My Uncle,” Lan Zhan corrects him. “You are far too old to have used any textbooks of mine.”

Wei Ying laughs again, and Lan Zhan’s heart trembles.

“Maybe I should try one,” Wei Ying smiles. “My Mandarin sucks.”

“It does,” Nie Huaisang agrees, and Wei Ying kicks his chair under the table.

“I’m going to get a coffee,” Wei Ying declares, rummaging through his bag in search of money. “Anyone else want anything?”

“No, thank you,” Lan Zhan says, watching in horrified fascination as Wei Ying unloads a plethora of random items onto the table. There are wireless headphones, hand sanitizer, a notebook with a pen trapped between the pages, a toothbrush, and a bottle of tabasco sauce. Finally, he emerges victorious with a handful of crumpled five-dollar bills.

“See?” Nie Huaisang says as Wei Ying makes his way toward the counter. “He’s nice.”

“Nice,” Lan Zhan repeats, eyes on the back of Wei Ying’s neck.

“I mean, yeah, he’s a little chaotic, but he’s a good guy, I promise.”

“Hm,” Lan Zhan huffs.

“Give him a chance,” Nie Huaisang wheedles. “Besides, who else have you got?” he adds, voice sly.

Wei Ying returns to their table with a large latte, the surface of which has been artfully arranged to look like a rabbit.

“It’s almost too cute to drink,” Wei Ying chirps. “Almost,” he says, before taking a generous sip. Lan Zhan watches, enthralled, his stomach flip-flopping as Wei Ying licks the foam off his upper lip.

“Do you like rabbits?” Lan Zhan blurts out.

“Hmm?” Wei Ying hums. “I love rabbits. They’re delicious!”

Lan Zhan balks, and Wei Ying explodes with laughter.

“Kidding,” he giggles. “I swear, I’m just kidding. Huaisang tells me you have rabbits? And you need someone to look after them?”

“I do,” Lan Zhan replies, sitting up straight and recovering himself. “For a month,” he clarifies.

“What a coincidence,” Nie Huaisang interjects. “Wei Ying needs a place to stay for the month. Must be fate.”

“Must be!” Wei Ying agrees cheerfully, smile wide and genuine. “What do you say, Lan Zhan? Will you trust me with your babies?”

Lan Zhan flushes, the tips of his ears feeling hot.

“Perhaps,” he manages. “Would you like to meet them first?”

“I’d love to!” Wei Ying smiles. “When should I come over? I have to take a ferry, right?”

“That is correct,” Lan Zhan confirms. “Would next Saturday be agreeable?”

“Of course,” Wei Ying enthuses, eyes shining. “I’m free as a bird right now, so really, any day is fine. How do I get to your place?”

“I will pick you up from the ferry terminal,” Lan Zhan replies.

“Excellent,” Nie Huaisang says. He takes another prissy sip of his coffee and glances at Lan Zhan over the edge of his mug. “I knew this would work out.”

Lan Zhan shoots a hooded glare at him.

“We’ll see,” is all he says.

---

The journals take up the better part of two bookshelves, one in the bedroom and one in the living room. They are varied in size, different heights and widths making for a haphazard sightline. Some of them are fancy, leather-bound tomes with brass locks and weathered covers, while others are simple notebooks, their pages overflowing with handwritten scrawl. Many of them are only halfway finished, while others are stuffed full of scribbled loose-leaf pages tucked into the seams. Some entries are dated, but most of them are not.

Lan Zhan runs his hand over the rough script. His mother’s handwriting is by turns beautiful and fluid, hasty and stretched thin. He can track her thoughts through the slant of her letters, the press of her pen making indents on the underlying pages. He can see where her musings outstripped the speed of her hand, where her train of thought was almost too rapid to transcribe.

He sits on the floor and peruses them for hours, shifting from one book to another as the mood strikes him. There is no consistent narrative from one volume to the next, and it is impossible to tell where she began and where she finished. Each entry is like a gemstone, alternately rough or polished, unique and glistening with the memory of sunlight through rain. He lines them up and strings them together like beads on a string, a necklace of hazy vignettes. There is love, and there is loss, and there is life in the shadow of a woman who exists now only in the deepest recesses of his heart.

The first volume he chooses is the one with the earliest date. There’s no way to tell if it’s actually the first entry she wrote, but it comforts him to have a starting point, a place to begin this journey of his own. One by one, he scans the pages to his laptop as a high-definition pdf. He highlights, and he annotates. He translates her words into Chinese, mulling over the implications of each character, the subtleties of her reflections finding purchase in each stroke. He remembers her struggles from when he was a small child, her frustrations as she stuttered out protests in broken Mandarin, only to be dismissed by his father. He remembers her whispering to him desperately in English as she stroked his hair and held him close, her lips against the shell of his ear.

“I promise,” she’d said. “I’ll take you home with me. Just you, and me, and the ocean.”

“What about Gege?” He’d asked.

His mother’s eyes had flashed with sorrow, but she smiled at him all the same.

“Your brother is happy,” his mother had said. “He’ll be fine with Baba.”

“I want to stay with Mama,” Lan Zhan had declared, burrowing his face into her stomach.

“I know, baby,” she’d said.

“I know.”

---

When you were born, I cried for days. I was so sad that you weren’t a part of me anymore, but I was so happy to meet you. You, impossibly small and perfect, so ready to be loved. I wasn’t ready, with your brother. Buy you, my darling, my love. You came along just in time. You saved me, and I lost you, and I’ll never be whole again.

---

“Wow!” Wei Ying exclaims. “What a beautiful property.”

“You like it?” Lan Zhan asks, surprised at his desire for Wei Ying’s approval.

“I love it!” Wei Ying declares. “My family—I mean, my foster family—they have a lake house property back in Ontario, and I always loved it there. I love being outside the city,” he says.

“I’m glad,” Lan Zhan says, and he means it. “I hope you will be comfortable here.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will be,” Wei Ying avers. “That is, if you’ll have me.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan replies, his heart suddenly lodged in his throat. “The rabbits are out back,” he says, unlocking the door and making his way into the cottage.

Wei Ying follows him through the house to the back doorway, and Lan Zhan slides it open, ushering Wei Ying out onto the deck. The rabbit hutch is off to the side, sheltered under the overhang of the roof. Lan Zhan has installed a cat door to allow the rabbits to come and go as they please, their enclosure inside the house extending well into the corner of the living room.

“Aww!” Wei Ying exclaims. “Cuties!”

The black rabbit perks up immediately, while the white rabbit remains warily in its corner.

“What are their names?” Wei Ying asks.

“The black one is Yin,” Lan Zhan says. “The white one is Yang.”

“You didn’t!” Wei Ying laughs, the sound reverberating through Lan Zhan’s ribcage.

“I did,” Lan Zhan says, not at all defensive. “It felt right,” he offers.

“Well,” Wei Ying says. “Nice to meet, Yin and Yang!”

Lan Zhan opens the top of the hutch, and Wei Ying reaches inside, easily scooping up Yin and cradling him against his chest. Lan Zhan watches in silence, his heart fluttering like a moth.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Wei Ying croons, and Lan Zhan is struck by the fact that he is suddenly jealous of his own rabbit.

“All you need to do is refill the hay feeder,” Lan Zhan explains. “You can add fresh greens or treats if you wish. And you may let them roam around the house for a few hours a day.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Wei Ying sings. “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?” Wei Ying asks. “I know we just met, but I promise to take good care of your place.”

“I trust you,” Lan Zhan says, surprising himself because it is true.

Wei Ying smiles at him like the sun cresting over the horizon at dawn.

“Thank you!” he says, eyes curved into crescents. “I’ll do my best.”

“No, thank you,” Lan Zhan replies. “I am grateful for your help.”

Wei Ying shifts Yin to one arm and extends his other hand expectantly.

Lan Zhan removes his spare keys from his pocket and passes them into Wei Ying’s outstretched hand, his fingers grazing Wei Ying’s palm, lingering for half a second too long.

“I guess it’s all settled, then,” Wei Ying says.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan agrees.

Wei Ying smiles, a tug on the fishhook, and Lan Zhan wonders if he’ll ever feel normal again.

---

There is this idea that happiness is a choice, that one must choose to be happy in the here and now, as opposed to chasing after happiness that lies in the future, on the other side of success. Because once you have succeeded, are you really happy? Or have you simply moved the goalpost beyond the next challenge, and now you must begin the chase all over again? To chase happiness is to never be happy, but to choose it seems impossibly greedy. How can I be happy, when what I chose was to be free?

---

Life in Shanghai is just as he remembers it, loud and fast and constantly in motion. Lan Zhan falls easily into step with his uncle; the strictness of his routine is a comfort against the frenetic energy of the city. They rise at five and sleep at nine, and they eat their meals in silence. In the morning, they discuss their itineraries for the day, and in the evening, they talk about work, about the theory of translation, and about Lan Zhan’s latest project.

“How is the book coming along?” Lan Huan asks.

It’s the sixth day of the new year, and his brother has joined them to help with the cleanup. The floor has been swept, the garbage taken out, and the ghost of poverty has been chased out the door. Lan Zhan refills his brother’s teacup before settling back into his chair.

“The first edition is complete,” he replies. “Volume two is fully outlined.”

“Hmm,” Lan Qiren hums approvingly. “And how many are planned in the series?”

“Eight,” Lan Zhan says.

“How wonderful,” Lan Huan enthuses. “I’m sure that immigrant parents will be thrilled to have more accessible material for their children.”

“Indeed,” Lan Qiren agrees. “Preventing the children of diaspora from losing their heritage language is a worthy cause. It’s a shame that so many of them do.”

Lan Zhan takes a sip of his own tea and tries not to feel the swell of resentment that rises in his throat at those words.

“And how about your other project?” Lan Huan asks, his voice cautiously low.

Lan Zhan swallows carefully, considering his response.

“The chronology remains elusive to me,” he admits. “I am considering grouping by theme, rather than piecing together a timeline.”

“That won’t disrupt the narrative?” Lan Huan asks.

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “There is no narrative, as such. It is not that neat and tidy.”

“I imagine not,” Lan Qiren says, voice clipped. “She was not an especially organized person.”

Lan Zhan feels a defensive spike of heat, but he will not rise to the bait, taking another sip of tea and refusing to meet his uncle’s pointed stare.

“How much time do you devote to this side project?” Lan Qiren asks curtly.

“Only what I can spare,” Lan Zhan replies, equally curt. “Do not worry, Uncle. I only bill the company for the time I spend on the textbooks.”

Lan Qiren’s eyes flash with annoyance. “I was not suggesting otherwise. I am merely curious as to how much of your time is wasted on something so frivolous. You can’t really mean to have it published.”

“I will decide what to do with it once it is complete,” Lan Zhan says, resentment surging.

“And when will that be?” his uncle challenges. “A year? A decade?”

“Uncle,” Lan Huan tries, but Lan Qiren presses on, ignoring him.

“How much longer do you intend to hide in that forest?” Lan Qiren asks. “Away from your family? Away from your responsibilities?”

“My responsibilities have not been neglected,” Lan Zhan retorts. “I have fulfilled all the duties in my contract, and I continue to produce high quality work. If you are unsatisfied with my output, you may always dismiss me.”

“Don’t be absurd!” Lan Qiren snaps. “You know I would never do that. The quality of your work is not in question, but your choices are. Why do you insist on isolating yourself?”

“I work better alone,” Lan Zhan grits out.

“But do you live better?” his uncle demands. “Do you think it’s healthy to be constantly by yourself? Away from the people who care about you, in a country that’s not your own? What, do you plan to grow old and die alone?”

“Uncle!” Lan Huan exclaims.

“Your father lived like that,” Lan Qiren says, relentless. “Selfish and alone. The loneliness is what killed him, in the end. Your mother was no different. Is that what you want for yourself?”

Lan Zhan swallows thickly, tamping down on the devastating rage that’s threatening to overtake him.

“Do not spend your life chasing ghosts, A-Zhan,” his uncle says, suddenly sounding tired.

The silence rings out between them, heavy and oppressive. Lan Zhan’s vision is blurring at the edges, his fists clenched numbly in his lap. He reminds himself to breathe, to reach for calm. His pulse begins to slow, and the world settles around him as feeling returns to his fingers. He takes a deep breath and straightens in his seat, letting the sorrow sink to the bottom of his stomach.

Just then, his phone begins to vibrate, buzzing incessantly where it lies face down on the table. It startles them all, and Lan Zhan seizes the opportunity to flee.

“Excuse me,” he says, before scooping up the phone and striding out of the room.

Once he is in the safety of his own room, he swipes the call open and brings the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he says.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying sings on the other end of the call. “I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up, but I thought I’d better call you instead of just sending you a message.”

“Is everything all right?” Lan Zhan asks, immediately concerned. He glances at the clock on the wall, and his worry spikes. “It’s only 5:00am where you are.”

“Yes! Everything’s fine. Well, sort of,” Wei Ying amends. “It’s nothing terrible,” he rushes to add. “It’s just a little gas leak, is all.”

“A gas leak?” Lan Zhan repeats in question.

“Yeah, I think it’s coming from the stove? I started to smell it at around midnight last night, and it’s pretty bad this morning.”

“Are you all right?” Lan Zhan asks. “What about the rabbits?”

“Oh, don’t worry, we’re all fine,” Wei Ying assures him. “I slept outside on the deck with them last night, because I couldn’t leave them inside, obviously.”

“It’s February,” Lan Zhan says, aghast.

“Yeah, it’s not warm,” Wei Ying agrees, voice absurdly cheerful. “Anyways, I just wanted to let you know before I call someone today. No one’s awake yet, and it’s Saturday, so I don’t know if anyone at the city is going to be available, but there’s bound to be someone over here who can help me out. I just have to figure out who that is,” he laughs.

“I apologize for the trouble,” Lan Zhan says, mind spinning. If the city doesn’t send someone until Monday, that means Wei Ying will be stuck outside for two whole days.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s not your fault,” Wei Ying tells him. “A little fresh air won’t kill me. Besides, you have a fire pit in the backyard, I’ll just huddle there for warmth. Or wait, maybe not, an open flame is probably not the best idea right now,” he rambles.

“Fire,” Lan Zhan says, the thought finally striking him. “Call the fire department. They will take care of it.”

“Oh, good idea!” Wei Ying exclaims. “You’re so smart, Lan Zhan.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” Lan Zhan asks.

“I’ll be fine!” Wei Ying sings. “And as soon as the gas leak is taken care of, I promise I’ll deal with the electrical issue.”

Lan Zhan balks.

“Electrical issue?”

“Yeah, um, about that,” Wei Ying says, voice sheepish. “I may have had one too many electronics plugged in, and I kind of blew a fuse. But it’s okay! I can fix that, I promise.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, somewhat exasperated. “Just call someone. I will pay for it.”

“No need, I swear, everything will be fine, and I don’t want you to incur any extra costs.”

“I mean it,” Lan Zhan says. “Call someone, Wei Ying.”

“Okay, fine,” Wei Ying concedes. “But I’ll make sure to wait until Monday so you don’t have to pay weekend rates.”

Lan Zhan closes his eyes and sighs. Wei Ying must hear it, because he is immediately contrite.

“I really am sorry,” he says, voice going small.

“No need,” Lan Zhan says. “I will take care of it.”

“Are you sure?” Wei Ying asks. “I mean, you’re not exactly in the same time zone, and it must be getting pretty late over there.”

“I am sure,” Lan Zhan says, coming to a decision. “Call the fire department. I will take care of the rest.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying agrees. “Sorry again to have disrupted your trip.”

“No need,” Lan Zhan repeats. “It was already disrupted.”

“What?” Wei Ying asks, voice laced with curiosity. “How do you mean?”

“I will be cutting it short,” Lan Zhan replies. His uncle will be furious, but Lan Zhan has weathered that storm before.

“Oh!” Wei Ying exclaims, sounding surprised. “How short?”

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” Lan Zhan says. “Good night, Wei Ying.”

“Oh, yeah, good night,” Wei Ying replies, obviously thrown off guard. “I mean, it’s morning for me, but, uh. Yeah. Have a nice sleep.”

Lan Zhan ends the call and returns to the living room. His uncle and his brother are sitting in silence, the tension thick like morning fog. They both turn to look at him as he enters, and Lan Zhan steels himself against the oncoming storm.

“I have to go home,” he announces.

“What?” Lan Qiren says, clearly taken aback.

“There is a problem with the cottage that requires my attention,” Lan Zhan says. “I will be leaving tonight.”

“A-Zhan,” Lan Huan tries. “You don’t have to leave like this.”

“I believe I do,” he says simply. He turns to his uncle, who is regarding him with angry, tired eyes. “I apologize for the abrupt departure, and I regret that I will not be meeting with your colleagues.”

“Our colleagues,” Lan Qiren corrects him, eyes flashing. “You are still a part of this business, A-Zhan.”

Lan Zhan remains silent, setting his jaw in defiance.

“You are still a part of this family,” his uncle says. Suddenly, he sounds resigned, and Lan Zhan can feel the fight draining out of him. “You are a part of this world. That won’t change, A-Zhan.”

Lan Zhan nods minutely. He knows this is the closest thing to an apology he’s likely going to get. 

He takes his leave an hour later, having changed his ticket and ordered a DiDi. Lan Huan waits with him outside of their apartment building before it arrives.

“Uncle means well,” Lan Huan pleads with him. “He’s worried about you. We all are.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan murmurs, his eyes on the horizon. “I appreciate your concern, but it is not necessary.”

Lan Huan regards him for a long moment before he speaks again.

“Are you happy there, A-Zhan?”

Lan Zhan thinks of the cottage, of his work and his rabbits, of the stacks of journals he has yet to read. He thinks of the way the forest smells as it wakes up in the morning, the distant sound of the sea as it calls to him at night. He thinks of his mother, alone and silent for so many years in the sanctuary she had inexplicably left to him. Why had she done it, he wonders?

“I am not unhappy,” Lan Zhan finally answers, voice low.

“That’s not the same thing,” Lan Huan chides him.

“I know,” Lan Zhan says, and then the car is pulling up to the curb, and Lan Zhan bids his brother goodbye.

Once he’s on the plane, he closes his eyes and lets his thoughts unravel. The weariness of the day falls away from him, and Lan Zhan drifts into sleep, where his dreams are hazy and his heart can breathe.

---

They say it takes 10,000 hours to master a skill, but only 21 days to make practicing that skill a habit. It seems somewhat ridiculous to me to think that 21 days is all it would take, that I might re-wire my brain to crave the act of drawing, or painting, or maybe even knitting—a skill I have always admired but know nothing about. Perhaps I shall try it, clumsy as I am. I desire some sort of routine, some cheerful repetition, because though I may write every day, it is more of a bloodletting than a joy.

---

Wei Ying meets him at the front door, smile sheepish and eyes sparkling. He chatters at Lan Zhan as he makes his way inside, even taking his suitcase from him and wheeling it into the living room as Lan Zhan removes his shoes. He’s all bundled up in an oversized sweater and a scarf, the tips of his fingers barely visible as he gestures with both hands.

“The electrician is already gone,” Wei Ying is saying. “Turns out it was a simple fix, and the good news is, nothing in the freezer had time to fully defrost, so your food is still good, but you might want to cook that piece of salmon that’s in there. It got about halfway melted, and it’s not good to refreeze it, the texture gets all mushy.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees, eyes sweeping over the living room. The rabbits are dozing happily in the corner of their enclosure, snuggled together for warmth. Everything seems to be in its proper place, but all the blankets in the house have been bunched up at one end of the couch into a makeshift nest. It’s freezing, Lan Zhan notes.

“I opened all the windows and the back door to let the house air out,” Wei Ying explains. “The gas smell is almost gone, but I wanted to be extra sure, just in case the rabbits are sensitive to it.”

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, eyes coming around to rest on Wei Ying’s face. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and his chin is tucked behind the edge of his scarf. He’s peering at Lan Zhan with wide, shining eyes, watching him expectantly, and suddenly, Lan Zhan forgets what words are, staring back dumbly.

Wei Ying’s cheeks seem to redden just a touch more, and then he is ducking his face a little further into his scarf, averting his eyes and clearing his throat.

“Well,” he says, voice pitched just a touch too high. “I guess I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“Pardon?” Lan Zhan asks.

“You’re home now,” Wei Ying shrugs. “You don’t need a house sitter anymore, so I guess I’ll just. Go. Um.” He averts his eyes again and absently scratches at the back of his head, right near the base of his ponytail. Lan Zhan’s eyes are drawn to the small wisps of hair curling gently against his neck. “Do you know when the next ferry leaves?”

“Where will you go?” Lan Zhan asks, ignoring Wei Ying’s question.

Wei Ying shrugs again, his shoulders scrunching up beneath the scarf. “Not sure yet. Huaisang has another friend staying with him right now, so it won’t be there, but I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m sorry,” Lan Zhan says, genuinely remorseful. “You don’t have to leave,” he blurts out.

“I really should, though,” Wei Ying protests. “This is your home, and I don’t want to intrude. I mean, we barely know each other.”

Something about that stings, but Lan Zhan pushes the feeling aside.

“You needed this month to find housing,” Lan Zhan states simply. “I promised you that, and I have derailed your plan by coming home early.”

“It’s your home,” Wei Ying laughs, and the rueful sound makes Lan Zhan’s heart constrict. “I’m not upset, don’t worry. I’ll be okay,” he says. “I always am.”

“You do not have to leave,” Lan Zhan repeats, suddenly stubborn.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying shakes his head. “You don’t have to be so nice to me.”

“What if I want to?” Lan Zhan challenges, surprising both Wei Ying and himself.

“Uh, I mean,” Wei Ying splutters, “I’m kind of a nuisance. Like, a big one.”

“I do not think so,” Lan Zhan insists.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says again, voice wavering just a little. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Lan Zhan repeats. “Wei Ying. Please stay.”

Something dark flickers across the surface of Wei Ying’s eyes, but it disappears so fast, Lan Zhan wonders if he imagined it. He’s gone perfectly still, staring at Lan Zhan like he’s never seen him before, and Lan Zhan waits, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

Finally, Wei Ying speaks.

“Okay,” he says, his voice small and tentative, and Lan Zhan can feel his own shoulders relaxing. He hadn’t realized just how tense he’d become.

“Good,” Lan Zhan nods, glancing sideways and reaching for the handle of his suitcase. “I’m going to unpack,” he announces. “You may close the windows now. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Right,” Wei Ying says, and his smile is back, bright like sunlight on dewdrops. “You’re probably pretty tired, huh?”

“I will adjust,” Lan Zhan replies. “I will do my best to stay awake until evening.”

“I promise to be quiet if you want to take a nap or something,” Wei Ying tells him.

“Thank you,” La Zhan says. “The windows,” he reminds him. “Do not forget.”

“Yes sir!” Wei Ying salutes him. “I’ll get right on that.”

Lan Zhan nods at him, then turns to head down the hall. His bedroom is not quite how he left it, Wei Ying’s giant backpack propped up in the far corner and a glass of water abandoned on the nightstand. The sheets are slightly rumpled, and Lan Zhan is struck by the thought of Wei Ying wrapped up in his comforter at night, long hair curling against his pillow. He swallows and shakes his head, but the idea nags at him as he unpacks his suitcase.

He takes a shower to clear his head and refresh himself, and when he finally emerges into the living room again, Wei Ying is perched at the far end of the couch, typing away at his laptop. The blankets have all been folded neatly and stacked in a pile beside him, and he’s removed his scarf and thrown it on top. Lan Zhan’s eyes drift down Wei Ying’s exposed neck, tracing the line of his throat to the jut of his collarbone.

Wei Ying looks up and smiles, and Lan Zhan chides himself for staring. He makes his way into the kitchen and takes inventory of what’s in the fridge. Aside from a few takeout containers, there’s not a lot there, since he cleaned it out before he left for Shanghai, but there is some broccoli and some garlic, which will be enough to stir fry and feed both of them. He takes the salmon Wei Ying had mentioned out of the freezer and leaves it in the sink to finish defrosting, then he goes about washing the rice.

“Do you cook a lot?” Wei Ying asks, climbing onto one of the bar stools and propping his elbows on the counter.

“I do,” Lan Zhan confirms. “I take it you do not?”

“What makes you say that?” Wei Ying grins.

“The takeout,” Lan Zhan says. “In the fridge. Did you drive into town for that?”

“I had to, didn’t I?” Wei Ying says, his smile gone lopsided. “No one delivers all the way out here. You did say I could use the car, right?”

“I did,” Lan Zhan replies. “I had thought perhaps you would use it to get groceries.”

“I got a little bit!” Wei Ying exclaims. “Just a few basics, though,” he admits. “I’m a lousy cook. I mean, I can survive on pretty much anything, and I get distracted pretty easily, so if I don’t get takeout, usually I just end up eating the all ingredients I bought to make things separately instead of actually putting together a meal.”

Lan Zhan stops mincing the garlic to stare at him.

“I ate a whole stalk—or is it a head?—of celery the other day,” Wei Ying says proudly. “And a bag of carrots the day before that. I just dipped them all in hot sauces. So it’s not like I’m just eating junk food, or anything.”

Lan Zhan keeps staring at him.

“What?” Wei Ying asks, eyes wide. “I also make sure to eat at least one citrus fruit a week, so I don’t get scurvy,” he explains.

“Scurvy,” Lan Zhan says flatly.

“It’s a real thing,” Wei Ying nods. “Can’t be too careful,” he winks.

“I see,” Lan Zhan says, equal parts amused and disturbed.

“You don’t eat meat, do you?” Wei Ying asks, leaning forward on his elbows. “I didn’t see any in your freezer.”

Lan Zhan darts his eyes down to where the collar of Wei Ying’s sweater is slipping off his shoulder.

“I do not,” he answers, tearing his eyes away and concentrating on his knife strokes. “Only seafood.”

“Fish have feelings too, you know,” Wei Ying teases.

“Certainly, they do,” Lan Zhan concedes, unbothered. “It is merely a preference.”

“Hmm,” Wei Ying hums. He props his chin in his hands and tilts his head a little to the left. “Where do rabbits fall in the animal hierarchy?”

“The top,” Lan Zhan says without hesitation.

Wei Ying laughs, delighted. “You must really like them, huh?”

“I do,” Lan Zhan says, moving on to chop the broccoli. He slices off the ends of the stems and passes them across the counter to Wei Ying. “For the rabbits,” he clarifies.

Wei Ying smiles sweetly at him, and Lan Zhan feels the same pull as before, the same small lurch toward something he won’t admit to wanting just yet.

It’s a simple dinner of pan-seared salmon with lemon butter served over rice, and stir-fried broccoli with garlic on the side. Wei Ying eats with enthusiasm, chattering away happily between each bite. He’s effusive about the salmon, declaring it some of the best he’s ever had.

“Ridiculous,” Lan Zhan murmurs, his ears heating with the praise. “It is always better before it has been frozen.”

“I think all the seafood is good out here,” Wei Ying gushes. “Back in Ontario, everything’s been frozen and transported for so long, it’s just not the same. Toronto has great food, don’t get me wrong, but you can’t beat the fresh seafood on the coast.”

“Did you grow up there?” Lan Zhan asks, and Wei Ying nods, chasing his mouthful of rice with a long sip of water.

“I was born in Wuhan, but my parents moved to Canada when I was three. To Vancouver, actually, but I didn’t stay there long.”

“Oh?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying continues. “My parents died a few years after we arrived. Car accident,” he explains. “Uncle Jiang came and got me out of foster care after about a year after that, and then he took me back to Toronto with him. Been there ever since.”

“I’m sorry,” Lan Zhan says, somewhat taken aback by Wei Ying’s casual demeanor and light tone of voice.

“It’s no big deal,” Wei Ying says, dismissing Lan Zhan’s concern with a wave of his hand. “It was a long time ago. I barely remember them. I do remember my mother’s laugh, though,” he adds. “She was always laughing.”

Lan Zhan regards him in silence. His own mother had stopped laughing by the time he was five.

“Anyways,” Wei Ying continues. “I thought I’d give it a try out here. Live someplace different, you know?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees. “I do know.”

“What brought you out here?” Wei Ying asks, leaning forward in his seat. “How does a big city boy like you end up in a cottage in the woods?”

“It was my mother’s,” Lan Zhan replies. “She left it to me when she passed away three years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Wei Ying says, eyes apologetic. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right,” Lan Zhan assures him. “We were estranged. I had not seen her for many years.”

“Still,” Wei Ying insists. “It’s never easy to lose family.”

“No,” Lan Zhan agrees. “It is not.”

The silence settles comfortably after that. They finish their dinner and clear the table together, Wei Ying loading the dishwasher as Lan Zhan scours the wok.

“So,” Wei Ying says, closing the dishwasher and leaning his hip against the counter. “You’re really going to put up with me for the next…” he pauses to count on his fingers. “21 days?”

“It would appear so,” Lan Zhan replies easily. “Although, perhaps it is you who will have to put up with me.”

Wei Ying’s joyful laughter rings clearly through the kitchen, and Lan Zhan feels the same sense of pleasure he feels when listening to birdsong at dawn.

“I doubt that,” Wei Ying says, his laughter subsiding at last. “You look like you’re fading pretty fast, though. Jet lag finally catching up to you?”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan admits. He can feel the fatigue in his spine, the tightness at the edges of his eyes. “Perhaps I will turn in early.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Wei Ying promises. “You won’t even know that I’m here.”

Lan Zhan pauses to look at him, at his gangly frame beneath his oversized sweater, at the way he slouches ever so slightly against the counter. He looks comfortable. Easy.

And Lan Zhan is more aware of his presence than ever.

“I doubt that,” he murmurs, an echo of Wei Ying’s own words.

Before Wei Ying can reply, Lan Zhan turns to leave, pausing briefly at the entrance to the hallway.

“Good night, Wei Ying,” he says over his shoulder, and then Lan Zhan retreats into his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

---

I often rise in the middle of the night, convinced that I can hear you crying. You used to rage against being left in your crib, refusing to sleep until I came to fetch you, propping you against my shoulder, where you would fall asleep grasping at my hair. You despised everyone else, even your uncle, who until that point had never met a child he could not charm. You recoiled from your father, kicked at your brother, and would accept no comfort but mine. They called you difficult, and petulant, and oh, my love, my darling. How I adored you.

---

It’s still mostly dark out when Lan Zhan wakes up feeling uncharacteristically groggy. It always takes a night or two to adjust, he reminds himself, rising and stretching with stubborn determination. He glances out the window, assessing the weather. It’s raining, but not heavily enough to deter him, and so Lan Zhan dresses for his morning run.

He pads down the hallway into the main living area and stops, surprised to find Wei Ying awake. He’s sitting cross-legged on the end of the couch, blankets pooled around his waist, and he’s staring blearily at the screen of his laptop. The faint blue light casts an eerie glow across his tired looking face.

“You’re awake,” Lan Zhan says softly. It feels too early to speak louder than a whisper.

“Good morning,” Wei Ying smiles, equally soft. “Somehow, I just knew you’d be an early riser.”

“Did you sleep?” Lan Zhan asks, suspicious of the bags under Wei Ying’s eyes.

“Not really,” Wei Ying admits. “But that’s normal for me. I’m kind of a night owl.”

“Even owls need to sleep,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying huffs out a quiet laugh.

“I’ll take a nap later,” he says, waving his hand in dismissal. “Now that you’re up, do you mind if I make some coffee? I didn’t want to make any noise earlier in case I woke you up.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan replies. “Make as much as you like.”

“Thanks,” Wei Ying says, his smile splitting into a yawn.

“I’m going for a run,” Lan Zhan tells him. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, but please, make yourself at home. You do not need to ask for my permission to make yourself comfortable here.”

“Thanks,” Wei Ying says again. “I’ll try and remember that,” he adds, hiding another yawn behind his hand.

“Good,” Lan Zhan says. He lingers for a moment longer, staring at Wei Ying’s collarbone where his threadbare t-shirt has slipped down to reveal it. He gives himself a shake, then he bends down to put on his running shoes.

“Have a nice run,” Wei Ying calls out to him. “Don’t get eaten by a bear, or anything like that.”

“Ridiculous,” Lan Zhan huffs, but he can feel the corner of his mouth quirking up as the door closes behind him.

It’s cold, and it’s wet, and it’s always torture getting started, but once he’s past the five-minute mark, he’s established a steady pace, and then it’s easy to keep going, to lose himself in the rhythm of his feet hitting the trail. He feels the tension leave his body, the stiffness from the long flight and the strain of his visit falling away from him as surely as the rain slicks off his jacket. His thoughts unspool and untangle, and the euphoria hits him when he starts to sprint, carrying him through the second half of his loop and all the way back to his door.

The smell of coffee greets him as he enters the cottage, and he finds Wei Ying has relocated to the breakfast counter, long legs dangling off the bar stool as he swings his feet back and forth.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying exclaims as Lan Zhan takes his shoes off by the door. “Guess what?”

“What?” Lan Zhan asks, coming into the kitchen and retrieving a glass from the cupboard. He fills it with water from the tap and drinks deeply, his eyes on Wei Ying’s excited, glowing face.

“I found a place!” Wei Ying beams. “Well, a room, at least. One of my mother’s old students—she was a teacher, see—he lives in Vancouver with his partner, and I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for weeks, but his inbox was full and my messages kept going to spam. Turns out they have a spare room—it’s being painted, they just renovated—and he says I can stay with them for as long as I want!”

Lan Zhan swallows the last of his water, but his throat still feels dry. His breathing has returned to normal, but his heart is throbbing painfully, as if he was still running. 

“Isn’t that great?” Wei Ying is saying. “I’ll pay rent, of course, but it’s nothing compared to what having my own place would cost me, and he says I can come and go as I please, it won’t bother them at all, and he’s happy to finally get to know me again. He was a teenager when my mom taught him, and he used to come see me in foster care after she died, but I haven’t really heard from him since I moved to Toronto. Can you believe it?” Wei Ying asks. “Talk about a lucky break!”

“Hmm,” Lan Zhan hums. He wants to be happy for Wei Ying, but there’s something tightening inside his chest.

“There’s just one catch, of course,” Wei Ying continues. “I can’t move in until the end of the month, so you’re still stuck with me, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says, the pressure in his ribcage evaporating. “I promised you that you could stay. I will not go back on a promise.”

“So serious!” Wei Ying teases him, eyes sparkling. “Of course you wouldn’t, you’re way too nice for that.”

Lan Zhan can feel his mouth quirking up again. “There are not many people who would say that about me,” he cautions.

“Why not?” Wei Ying asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“Because,” Lan Zhan falters, unsure of how to elaborate. It seems obvious, he thinks, that people would find him severe and unapproachable.

“Well,” says Wei Ying, entirely unperturbed. “I think you’re really great.”

Lan Zhan freezes, his mouth going dry. He can feel his ears warming up, his whole body flushing with a dizzy swell of heat.

“Do you want some coffee?” Wei Ying asks. “You must be cold after running around like a crazy person in the rain.”

“No thank you,” Lan Zhan gets out. “I do not drink coffee.”

“But you have such a fancy espresso machine!” Wei Ying exclaims, incredulous.

“It was my mother’s,” Lan Zhan explains. “I did not have the heart to get rid of it.”

“I guess that explains why there were no actual beans until I bought some,” Wei Ying muses. “Well, many thanks to your mother for having such good taste. I’m going to drink my weight in long shots, if you don’t mind.”

“Please do,” Lan Zhan replies. “I only maintain it for my guests.”

“Do you get many guests?” Wei Ying asks, his head cocked to one side.

“No,” Lan Zhan admits. “I’ve hosted my brother once, but I do not admit many people.”

“Why make the exception for me?” Wei Ying is curious.

Lan Zhan pauses, considering his answer. To say it was convenient seems cold, and to say it was fate seems ridiculous. Why had he allowed Wei Ying into his home so easily, when he usually guards his space so carefully?

“The rabbits liked you,” he finally declares.

Wei Ying throws his head back and laughs. Lan Zhan drags his eyes up the line of Wei Ying’s throat, heat pooling low in his gut.

“Okay,” Wei Ying giggles. “Okay, fine. I can live with that.”

“I’m glad,” Lan Zhan murmurs.

And I can live with you, Lan Zhan thinks.

---

The news that Wei Ying has a place waiting for him at the end of the month seems to invigorate him. He bustles about the cottage, humming and chattering almost constantly, happily cleaning up the kitchen whenever Lan Zhan makes a meal.

“Gotta make myself useful,” he winks, wiping down the counter after breakfast the next day. “I have to earn my keep!”

“You do not have to,” Lan Zhan insists, taking the cloth out of Wei Ying’s hand and wringing it out over the sink. If their fingers happen to brush together in the process, it is purely by accident, he tells himself.

“Actually,” Wei Ying says, leaning forward against the counter. “I was thinking I could do some work in the yard. It’s a little wild out there.”

“It is,” Lan Zhan agrees, rinsing out the sink. “I confess, I do not do much to maintain it during the winter.”

“What about in the summer?” Wei Ying asks. “Ever consider planting a garden? You’ve got tons of space for it.”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan replies. “I had plans to build one last year, but I never got around to it, unfortunately.”

“Want me to take a crack at it?” Wei Ying asks, eyes lighting up like fireflies in the dark. “I could build you a whole setup,” he gushes. “You’ve got so much free space to develop! You could have vegetables in the main plot, and a shade garden at the back under the trees. Oh! How about a rockery? It wouldn’t take much to raise a few beds, build you a wall, lay down a path, set up a trellis. What do you say?”

“That’s far too much work,” Lan Zhan protests. “You’re only here for another three weeks, and I can’t possibly put you to work in the cold.”

“Oh, come on,” Wei Ying wheedles. “It wouldn’t be work, it’d be fun! Didn’t Huaisang tell you? I’m a professional landscaper. Well,” he amends, “I do professional landscape work. I’m actually an industrial designer by trade, but I sure do know how to build an amazing garden!”

“You do?” Lan Zhan asks, intrigued.

“Yep!” Wei Ying chirps. “I love playing in the dirt. But seriously, let me do this? I’ll draw up all the plans and let you review everything before I start, but really, it’d be awesome!”

“It’s still winter,” Lan Zhan protests. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!” Wei Ying avers. “This weather is nothing compared to Ontario, and rockeries are best to build in winter, so the timing is perfect. I promise, you’ll love it, and besides, it gives me something to do. It’ll keep me out of your hair while you write your books and think your writerly thoughts. And I promise I’ll still feed the rabbits in the meantime,” he adds. “I need to maintain their good opinion of me.”

“You’d do all that?” Lan Zhan asks. “You’d do all that, just because I’m letting you stay here?”

“Sure!” Wei Ying chirps. “But honestly, it’s not just a favour, I genuinely love having a project. Come on, Gege, let me do this for you?”

Lan Zhan falters, his ears flaming hot, his stomach doing a backflip at the sound of those gummy syllables.

“Please?” Wei Ying wheedles. “I really want to.”

Lan Zhan grips the drying washcloth, his knuckles turning white. That tightness in his chest is back, but somehow, it hurts more this time.

“I can pay for materials,” Wei Ying tries. “I don’t mind.”

“Nonsense,” Lan Zhan retorts, collecting himself at last. “I will pay for everything. Including your labour,” he adds.

“No way!” Wei Ying cries. “I won’t do it if you pay me. This is my thank you, okay?”

Something about that strikes Lan Zhan painfully in the heart.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Lan Zhan breathes out.

Wei Ying blinks at him, and they stare at each other for a long, taut moment, deadlocked over the counter as the clock ticks away in the background.

“All right,” Lan Zhan concedes at last, and Wei Ying whoops in victory. “No labour. But I will pay for all the supplies.”

“Deal!” Wei Ying beams at him, a smile spreading wide across his face. “I’ll get those plans drawn up and make a list of materials after I take some measurements. Then we’ll go shopping!”

“All right,” Lan Zhan says again.

“It’s gonna be great,” Wei Ying assures him. “I promise.”

“I trust you,” Lan Zhan says, wondering at himself. He hasn’t changed a thing about the property since he moved in three years ago, and now he’s agreed to let Wei Ying transform the whole yard.

Wei Ying smiles at him, clearly pleased.

“Well,” Wei Ying says cheerfully, pushing off the counter and turning into the living room. “I’ll let you get to work, and I’ll get to drawing.” He rummages around in his bag and comes up with a small sketchbook and a pencil. “It shouldn’t take me more than a day to work out a plan. Do you have a tape measure?” he asks.

“I believe so,” Lan Zhan replies. “My mother kept a tool shed beside the firewood pile outside. It should still be in there.”

“Great!” Wei Ying chirps, dropping down cross-legged onto the couch and propping his sketchbook in his lap. “I wonder if there’s enough sunlight coming in to put in a little greenhouse,” he murmurs to himself. He nibbles absently on the end of his pencil as he thinks, and Lan Zhan’s heart constricts with a painful fondness.

He turns back to the sink and hangs the washcloth over the faucet to dry, then he settles himself at the kitchen table with his laptop to start work for the day. It takes him a little longer than usual to get started; his focus keeps shifting to the figure on the couch. Wei Ying mumbles to himself as he works, and the low tones of his voice blend pleasantly together with the sound of his pencil scratching across the paper. Lan Zhan tears his eyes away and forces himself to work, but his concentration keeps slipping, his thoughts full of Wei Ying and his infectious enthusiasm.

By the time noon rolls around, Lan Zhan has made very little progress on volume two, and he gives up for the moment, closing his laptop and returning to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Wei Ying is still bent over his sketchbook, the picture of concentration, and Lan Zhan realizes just how much he likes the sight of Wei Ying in his home. He’s fully immersed in his task, oblivious to Lan Zhan’s staring. He looks happy, and comfortable, and Lan Zhan is struck by how strongly he wants him to stay that way.  

Finally, Wei Ying puts his sketchbook aside and stretches both arms high above his head. His sweater rucks up with the motion, and Lan Zhan drags his eyes down the line of his body, coming to rest on the thin sliver of skin showing above the waistband of his jeans.

“Okay, time to go outside and take some measurements,” Wei Ying says cheerfully. “But feed the rabbits first,” he reminds himself, scooting off the couch and heading toward the enclosure. “Can I let them out?” he asks.

“Of course,” Lan Zhan replies, eyes tracking Wei Ying across the room. “They would like that.”

“Hi little guys,” Wei Ying greets the rabbits as they hop towards the door. “Come on out, I have treats for you!”

Lan Zhan watches as Wei Ying crouches down, offering each rabbit a treat as they emerge. Yin takes his immediately, but Yang sniffs suspiciously at Wei Ying’s fingers before finally accepting the tasty morsel. Wei Ying pets them both in turn, cooing softly as they respond to his ministrations, and Lan Zhan feels another incessant tug.

“I knew I’d win you over,” Wei Ying is saying to Yang, who is nosing at Wei Ying’s hand in hope of more treats. “You totally love me.”

Lan Zhan flushes from head to toe, his whole body suddenly aflame.

Oh no, he thinks.

---

Sometimes I wonder if all the love I’ve felt in my life is just a trick of memory, flickering and delicate, like a candle flame ready to be snuffed out by the slightest puff of air. But love is such a violent thing, and to have it forced upon you is to suffer the worst of its lashings. Your father’s love was like a noose around my neck, a suffocating threat. Your brother was too soft, too gentle, like nothing I have ever understood. But you, my darling, my dearest. I knew you from the start, and when I think of you now, I know that my love was all too real.

---

Early the next day, Lan Zhan drives Wei Ying into Sechelt. It’s a blessedly clear day, crisp and cold and sunny, and Wei Ying radiates happiness as he chatters away in the passenger seat. Their first order of business is a truck rental; Wei Ying had been quick to point out that Lan Zhan’s sleek little hybrid sedan was not equipped for transporting all the materials they are going to need.

“I’m going to need a lot of lumber,” Wei Ying explains. “Also, some rocks. I scoped out what’s lying around in your backyard, and there’s a lot to work with already, but I need a few more anchor pieces for what I want to do. And soil. We’re going to need so much soil.”

“I will defer to your judgement on everything,” Lan Zhan says.

“You’re sure you just want to let me run wild?” Wei Ying teases. “Things could get expensive.”

“My mother left behind a substantial trust fund to care for the property,” Lan Zhan assures him. “I have yet to really tap into it.”

“Oh, excellent!” Wei Ying enthuses, his eyes shining. “I mean, I promise to be thrifty, I’m really good with stretching money, but it’s nice to know you have some capital to work with.”

“Spare no expense,” Lan Zhan tells him, voice serious. “I trust you, Wei Ying.”

“I’m so glad,” Wei Ying smiles, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

It takes the better part of the day to gather everything on Wei Ying’s list. They buy the wood and the soil at the hardware store, and they visit a reclamation yard for the rocks. Lan Zhan rolls his sleeves back and heaves the largest of them into the truck bed, gratified by how Wei Ying stops to stare at him.

“Holy shit,” Wei Ying says, obviously impressed.

Lan Zhan says nothing, schooling his features to appear nonchalant, but his ears are heating up, and he can’t help feeling at least a little pleased with himself. 

They stop for a late lunch at an Indian restaurant, and Wei Ying inhales a lamb vindaloo while Lan Zhan savours his malai kofta. Wei Ying is radiating excitement, and he rambles on cheerfully about his plans for the yard. Lan Zhan listens carefully, offering up very little of his own commentary, happy to bathe in Wei Ying’s enthusiasm. He wonders absently what his mother would have thought of these plans. The only garden she’d kept had been small and overgrown, clearly neglected in the final days of her life. Lan Zhan wants to think she would have liked what they are doing. He wants to think she would have liked Wei Ying.

Their last stop is the grocery store, where they stock up on food for the next week. Wei Ying adds a plethora of things to the cart that Lan Zhan wouldn’t think to buy, like chili flakes, cayenne pepper, and fresh jalapenos.

“Sometimes I just slice them up and eat them on rice with siracha sauce,” Wei Ying explains, as if it was a totally normal thing to do. “Or I just dip them whole into gochujang.”

“That is horrifying,” Lan Zhan tells him flatly, but Wei Ying just laughs.

“Where do you get all your Asian food staples around here, anyway?” Wei Ying asks, adding a bag of black pepper kettle chips to the cart.

“There is a store in Gibsons,” Lan Zhan replies. “I sometimes have them do special orders for me. Other than that, I go into Vancouver once a month.”

“Smart,” Wei Ying nods. “I’m going to put in a vegetable garden for you,” Wei Ying declares. “I’ve heard that gai lan and bok choy do really well in the soil around here, and they’re super easy to take care of.”

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says. “I appreciate the amount of thought you are putting into this.”

“It’s what I do,” Wei Ying says cheerfully. “I like to pretend I’m good at it.”

“I doubt you need to pretend,” Lan Zhan says, heading for the checkout.

“Well, you can withhold judgement on that until I’m finished,” Wei Ying winks.

“You are certain you have enough time?” Lan Zhan asks. He feels a slight twinge behind his ribcage whenever he thinks of Wei Ying leaving.

“Positive,” Wei Ying replies. “I work really fast once I get going. I promise I won’t leave you with a half-finished project. And if worse comes to worse, I could always come back and finish it in the spring. That is,” he adds, suddenly tentative, “if you’d be okay with that.”

“Of course,” Lan Zhan says immediately. “You are always welcome, Wei Ying.” After a moment he adds, “Besides, the rabbits would be happy to see you again.”

Wei Ying laughs, delighted. “Well, in that case,” he says, “I can’t disappoint the rabbits!” 

“Certainly not,” Lan Zhan agrees.

They have peanut sauce noodles for dinner that night, Wei Ying enjoying his portion with a dusting of chili flakes and sliced jalapenos on top. They do the dishes together, Wei Ying reaching across Lan Zhan to grab the washcloth from the sink, their hips bumping against each other in the process. A shiver travels up Lan Zhan’s spine as Wei Ying’s hand brushes past his own, and for a moment, Lan Zhan imagines tangling their fingers together under the water.

---

The following days are a whirlwind of activity for Wei Ying. Rain or shine, he spends hours in the yard digging out the garden plots, building up the borders and filling them with soil and compost. He clears out the weeds in the corner of the yard, and then he puts down a layer of rubble as a foundation for the rockery. He piles the largest stones up into a peak, then stabilizes them with smaller stones and topsoil. It takes shape much faster than Lan Zhan was anticipating, and he watches from inside the cottage as the yard is transformed.

“Told you I work fast,” Wei Ying chirps, his clothes stained with dirt and his cheeks flushed with the cold. “Still a lot to do, though. I’ve decided I’m going to build you some strawberry towers, and I think a raspberry bush would do well off the left side of the deck. I’ll put in a climbing trellis for it, and then you’ll have tons of fruit in the summer.”

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, genuinely touched. “Are you sure this is not too ambitious?”

“Nah,” Wei Ying says, waving off Lan Zhan’s concern. “My motto has always been to attempt the impossible and see how far you can get.”

“And how far is that?” Lan Zhan asks, amused.

“All the way across the second largest country in the world,” Wei Ying laughs. “Not bad for a start, right?”

“No,” Lan Zhan agrees. “Not bad at all.”

Wei Ying soldiers on, happily absorbed in his work, coming inside at the end of each day covered in dirt and smiling like the sunrise. On sunny days, he doesn’t even come in for lunch, so Lan Zhan makes sure to bring him sandwiches and hot coffee that he enjoys on the deck while Lan Zhan sits with him and drinks his tea. Wei Ying chats about his plans for the fire pit and how he wants to build a bench around it.

“That way you won’t have to move the deck chairs every time you want to use it,” he explains.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan nods, taking a sip of his tea.

“Although I suppose it is nice to have lounge chairs in front of a fire,” Wei Ying muses. “Maybe I’ll just build a bench on one side, then make you some more chairs.”

“Did we buy enough wood for that?” Lan Zhan asks. “And are you sure this is not too much?”

“I told you,” Wei Ying says. “I go big or go home, and I’ve got plenty to work with. Furniture is my specialty, by the way.”

“Is it?” Lan Zhan asks, intrigued. He’s always eager for Wei Ying to talk about himself.

“Yeah. I studied industrial design with an emphasis on furniture building and small space living. Not that I have to worry about space outside,” he adds with a smile. “But I had big dreams about building whole communities of smaller houses. Not tiny homes, just reasonable sized dwellings that make the most of the environment they’re in.”

“Do you still want to do that?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” Wei Ying replies. “I had some plans to start a company with my brother back east, but, well. That didn’t exactly work out.”

“I see,” says Lan Zhan. He doesn’t want to pry, but his curiosity is piqued.

“Well,” Wei Ying says, swallowing the last of his coffee. “Better get back to it. Only so much light in the day this time of year.”

“Indeed,” Lan Zhan agrees, collecting Wei Ying’s dishes and turning back toward the cottage. He takes one last glance over his shoulder as Wei Ying returns to the half-finished rockery, happy and dirty and humming to himself. He’s got a smear of dirt on one cheek, and Lan Zhan desperately wishes he could brush it off with the pad of his thumb, but he chastises himself for the thought and returns to the house.

It goes on like that for the rest of the week. Lan Zhan rises at dawn to go running and do his yoga routine. By the time he gets back, Wei Ying is usually stirring, and Lan Zhan makes sure to have a coffee ready for him before he goes to take his shower. Wei Ying smiles blearily at him, and although his mood remains light and cheerful, Lan Zhan can’t help but notice the darkening circles under his eyes.

“You’re not sleeping well,” Lan Zhan says to him one morning over breakfast. Wei Ying is picking sleepily at his omelette, and when he looks up at him in question, Lan Zhan notes the sluggishness of the movement, the way his shoulders remain slightly stooped.  

“It’s nothing,” Wei Ying waves him off. “I told you, I’m a night owl, and all these early starts are just catching up to me a bit.”

“You’re not comfortable on the couch,” Lan Zhan surmises. “It is too short for you.”

“It’s fine,” Wei Ying insists, sitting up straight and reaching for his coffee. “I get like this sometimes when I have a project,” he explains. “I’m all wired and hyper-focused, so it’s hard to fall asleep. Too excited, I guess.”

“I appreciate all the work you are doing,” Lan Zhan tells him. “But I cannot have you exhausting yourself.”

“I’m okay, I promise,” Wei Ying assures him, but Lan Zhan remains skeptical.

“Take the bed tonight,” Lan Zhan decides. “I will sleep out here, instead.”

“No way!” Wei Ying exclaims. “This is your house. I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed.”

“You are not kicking me out,” Lan Zhan retorts. “I am offering it to you.”

“Well then, I refuse,” Wei Ying grins at him. “So there.”

“Hm,” Lan Zhan huffs. “Stubborn.”

“Sure am,” Wei Ying sings. “Don’t fight me on this, Lan Zhan, because you’re going to lose.”

“We’ll see,” Lan Zhan says.

Challenge accepted, he thinks.

---

As it turns out, I hate knitting. I haven’t the patience for it, and so, I bid that attempt at a habit goodbye. Perhaps I have no patience for hobbies in general, my soul being too restless and angry to sit still. My heart is like the hummingbirds that visit my bird feeder, darting back and forth, skittish and hungry. What must I feed it, in order to tame it?

---

The next day, Lan Zhan wraps up work in the early afternoon and heads out into the yard where Wei Ying is building a trellis. He fetches the axe from the tool shed and moves toward the pile of logs he keeps stacked at the side of the yard under a tarp. He selects the largest one and moves it away from the rest, standing it up on the nearby stump he uses as a platform for chopping.

“Hi!” Wei Ying exclaims happily, popping up beside him. “What’re you doing?”

“Chopping firewood,” Lan Zhan explains. “I would like to have a fire tonight after dinner. I hope you will join me?”

“Of course!” Wei Ying exclaims. “I love a good fire. I’ve secretly been dying to use your fire pit since I got here,” he gushes. “Do you need any help?”

“No,” Lan Zhan assures him. “Please, continue with your projects. I do not wish to disturb you.”

“All right,” Wei Ying smiles. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Lan Zhan nods at him, and then he rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

An hour later, Lan Zhan has a large, neat pile of freshly chopped wood at his feet. His heart rate is up, and despite the chill of the day, he’s sweating a little, and he can feel the beads of perspiration trickling down the middle of his back. It feels good to move his body, to channel some of the distracted energy he’s been feeling into a solid, physical task.

Sensing eyes on him, he looks up to find Wei Ying staring. He’s kneeling on the ground, gone stock still, his dirt-covered hands gripping the edges of the pot he is filling with soil. His cheeks are dusted a charming shade of pink, and when their eyes meet, the flush deepens, and Wei Ying quickly looks away.

“Is everything all right?” Lan Zhan asks, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Yep,” Wei Ying squeaks, loading more dirt into the pot. “Everything’s fine.”

“All right,” Lan Zhan says, quietly pleased with himself. He returns the axe to the tool shed, and when he re-emerges, Wei Ying is still bent over the pot, the back of his neck equally as flushed as his face. “Dinner will be ready in an hour,” Lan Zhan tells him.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says into the pot, and Lan Zhan can feel the edges of his mouth creeping up.

Lan Zhan takes extra care with dinner that night, a seafood pasta featuring freshly caught spot prawns in a lemon butter sauce with gem tomatoes and fennel. As a topping, he prepares a chili-spiced bread crumble especially for Wei Ying, reserving a small portion without spice for himself. He checks on the bottle of pinot grigio he has chilling in the fridge, an old housewarming gift bestowed upon him by Nie Huaisang, before Nie Huaisang was made aware that Lan Zhan does not drink.

“Well, keep it anyways,” Nie Huaisang had said. “It’ll come in handy one day, I promise.”

Wei Ying comes in just as Lan Zhan is plating the pasta, and he pauses in front of the counter to admire Lan Zhan’s work.

“Wow!” Wei Ying exclaims. “This looks amazing!”

“Go wash your hands,” Lan Zhan orders. “It will be ready in five minutes.”

“Yes sir,” Wei Ying salutes him, and then he is grabbing a change of clothes from his backpack and bounding off down the hallway to the bathroom.

When he returns in fresh clothes with his hands and face scrubbed clean, Lan Zhan is pouring him a glass of wine.

“Wow,” Wei Ying says again as he slides into his chair. “This is like a five-star restaurant quality meal, Lan Zhan. What’s the occasion?”

“No special reason,” Lan Zhan replies. “You’ve worked very hard this week. I wanted to appreciate that.”

“You spoil me,” Wei Ying smiles, giving his wine glass a swirl before inhaling the bouquet and taking a generous sip.

“Not at all,” Lan Zhan demurs.

“A person could get used to this sort of treatment, you know,” Wei Ying winks at him.

“Indeed,” Lan Zhan agrees, watching Wei Ying carefully as he takes a bite of the pasta.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying enthuses. “Yes, okay, this is fucking fantastic!”

“I am glad you like it,” Lan Zhan says, suffused with sudden warmth at the praise.

“I love it,” Wei Ying gushes. “I could eat a million plates of this.”

“There is plenty more,” Lan Zhan assures him. “Eat as much as you like.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Wei Ying says, tucking into his meal with gusto. 

In the end, two servings are enough, and Wei Ying pushes his plate away with a satisfied sigh.

“Amazing,” he says, sipping at the last of his wine. “Thank you, Lan Zhan.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Lan Zhan admonishes him gently. “Would you like to shower before we start the fire?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Wei Ying agrees.

“Go ahead,” Lan Zhan tells him. “I will clean up.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying smiles at him, and then he disappears down the hallway once more.

It doesn’t take long for Lan Zhan to clear the table and load the dishwasher. He puts the kettle on for tea, and then he goes outside to prepare the fire pit. It’s already dark out, the moon a pale sliver in the sky. He moves the two chairs down from the deck, then he fetches the warmest blankets from inside, placing one on each seat. He puts an extra one aside for Wei Ying, just in case.

He arranges a handful of crumpled newspaper in a pile in the middle of the fire pit, then he builds a pyramid around it with kindling before layering the larger pieces of wood on top. He’s just lighting the paper on fire when Wei Ying emerges from the cottage, freshly showered and bundled up in his thickest sweater and his scarf.

“Have a seat,” Lan Zhan says, gesturing to the chair on the left. “I will be right back.”

He heads back into the kitchen and prepares two large mugs of chamomile tea, adding a few teaspoons of elderflower honey to one of them. When he brings them back outside, he finds Wei Ying has settled himself comfortably in the chair, the blanket draped over his knees.

“Here,” Lan Zhan says, offering Wei Ying the tea with the honey in it. “To warm you up.”

“Thanks,” Wei Ying says, accepting the mug with a sweet, contented smile. “Such service!”

“I could say the same to you,” Lan Zhan counters, dropping smoothly into the other chair. “You are making excellent progress on the garden. I’m very impressed.”

Wei Ying beams at him, clearly happy with the praise.

“The rockery,” Lan Zhan continues. “It is especially well done.”

“You think so?” Wei Ying asks, eyes sparkling.

“I like it very much,” Lan Zhan replies, gratified at how Wei Ying’s smile stretches wider at his words.

“Good!” Wei Ying says. “It’s almost done. And just wait until you get all the plants in for spring. It’ll be a year before it really takes off, but when it does, it’ll be fantastic.”

“You will have to tell me what to plant,” Lan Zhan says. “I am not an experienced gardener.”

“Oh, for sure,” Wei Ying enthuses. “I’ll make you a whole list of things to buy and tell you where to plant them. There’s a ton of shade-dwelling plants that I think would do really well here.”

“I will follow your directions,” Lan Zhan promises. “I would hate for all your hard work to be wasted on my incompetence.”

Wei Ying laughs, his long fingers flexing around his mug. “You’re not incompetent, you’re just new to all this. Let’s face it, there aren’t a lot of opportunities to have a yard with a garden in Shanghai.”

“No, there are not,” Lan Zhan agrees. “I lived exclusively in high-rise apartment buildings. We had a balcony when I was a child, and my mother kept a small herb garden there, but that was all.”

“How did your mother end up in Canada?” Wei Ying wants to know. “You said you were estranged?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan answers. “She left when I was six. I went to live with my uncle, after that.”

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, voice quiet. “What about your dad?”

“He left shortly after she did. He couldn’t stand to look at me,” Lan Zhan confesses. “He said I had her eyes.”

Wei Ying inhales sharply, clearly aghast. “Lan Zhan…”

“She was born in Vancouver,” Lan Zhan continues. “Shanghai was difficult for her. Mandarin was a struggle. And she did not love my father.”

“How do you know that for sure?” Wei Ying asks.

“She wrote about it,” Lan Zhan says, his eyes on the fire. “She left many journals behind. She suffered greatly after moving to China with my father.”

“Why do you think she went with him in the first place?” Wei Ying asks, leaning forward in his chair.  

“She was pregnant with my brother at only 19,” Lan Zhan explains. “It was the only thing she could do at the time.”

“Wow,” Wei Ying breathes. “She didn’t have any other family?”

“No,” Lan Zhan says. “At least, none that would have her, after they found out.”

“That’s terrible,” Wei Ying says.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees. “People were unkind to her. My family was no exception.”

“That’s so sad,” Wei Ying laments. “It must have been so hard for her.”

“It was,” Lan Zhan says. “It was impossible for her to stay. I understand that now,” he says quietly. “I forgave her a long time ago.”

“I doubt it was easy for her to leave,” Wei Ying offers. “She can’t have wanted to abandon you.”

“No,” Lan Zhan says. “She did not. I know that, at least.” 

“What happened?” Wei Ying asks, eyes wide in the dark.

“She tried to take me with her,” Lan Zhan says softly. “They apprehended us at the airport. My grandfather charged her with attempted kidnapping.”

“What?” Wei Ying gasps.

“The case was eventually dropped after my father begged him not to pursue a conviction,” Lan Zhan continues. “But she lost the custody battle in the divorce because of it.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes.

“She left, after that,” Lan Zhan says. “She came to the coast and built the cottage. She loved it here. It is the only place I know of that she was ever truly happy.”

The fire flares upward, a pillar in the dark, smoke curling softly into the cold night air. Lan Zhan can feel its heat on his face, and he is soothed by the sound of the crackling wood, the smell of the smoke mixed with the damp scent of freshly laid soil.

“Want to know why I really came to Vancouver?” Wei Ying begins, his voice quiet and small.

Lan Zhan hazards a glance at Wei Ying’s face, but Wei Ying isn’t looking at him. He’s staring into the fire, the dancing flames reflected in his wide, dark eyes.

“I was disowned by my foster family,” Wei Ying admits. “It’s stupid, really. But they’re old money, and they have a reputation to maintain, and I just. Didn’t want to tow the party line anymore.”

“What happened?” Lan Zhan asks softly.

“They got into a dispute with another old family, the Wens,” Wei Ying explains. “It was some convoluted bullshit about an admissions scandal to the University of Toronto. My brother, Jiang Cheng. He got passed over for a master’s program in favour of Wen Chao, whose grades weren’t nearly as good. Turns out the Wens bribed the director of the program.”

“Shameful,” Lan Zhan exclaims. “I take it they were exposed?”

“Yeah, it was a huge mess,” Wei Ying replies. “They fired the director and admitted Jiang Cheng, but Auntie Yu went on a whole crusade against anyone in the Wen family, including Wen Chao’s cousins.”

“Why?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Spite,” Wei Ying spits. “She accused them all of cheating. My buddy Wen Ning and his sister Wen Qing, they didn’t have anything to do with it, but Auntie Yu launched a campaign to have them both investigated. Wen Qing had just been accepted to medical school, and Auntie Yu was determined to get her kicked out.”

“And did she succeed?” Lan Zhan wants to know.

“She sure did,” Wei Ying says bitterly. “They revoked Wen Qing’s scholarship and canceled her enrollment. Wen Ning later dropped out of undergrad due to all the harassment.”

“That’s outrageous,” Lan Zhan declares.

“It was pretty evil, yeah,” Wei Ying agrees. “Anyways, I got into a huge fight with Auntie Yu about it. I stood up for Wen Qing and tried to get her name cleared in a very public way. I had a petition and a social media campaign and everything. It gained a lot of traction, and Auntie Yu was furious. She said I was an ungrateful brat and a traitor to the family, then she kicked me out of the house.”

Wei Ying pauses to take a sip of his tea, his eyes still on the flames. Lan Zhan remains silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I hid out with my brother for a bit, but his parents were paying for his apartment while he went to school, and I knew if they found out, they’d pull their support. We’d had plans to start a company together, but without the Jiang’s seed money, it would have been three times as hard. Jiang Cheng insisted we didn’t need it, but what could I do?” Wei Ying shrugs. “I couldn’t ask him to ditch his family on my behalf. That wouldn’t be fair.”

“It wasn’t fair what they did to you, either,” Lan Zhan points out. “That sort of behaviour is reprehensible.”

Wei Ying just shrugs again, eyes huge and sad. “Still,” he insists. “I couldn’t come between Jiang Cheng and his parents. Our sister is already refusing to speak to them because of me. I couldn’t stay and make it worse. And so, I left.”

“Why Vancouver?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Wei Ying admits. “I figured, my parents had wanted to live out here, so why shouldn’t I give it a try? And besides,” he adds. “Wen Ning got into school again at SFU. I promised Wen Qing I would keep an eye on him.”

“And what happened to her?” Lan Zhan is curious.

“She got into med school in Montreal,” Wei Ying replies, smiling softly. “I told her she should expect a visit one day. Maybe I’ll crash her graduation ceremony,” he quips.

“Hmm,” Lan Zhan hums. He watches Wei Ying watch the fire, raking his eyes over the planes of Wei Ying’s face, the sharpness of his cheekbones illuminated gold by the firelight.

“I’m really lucky, you know,” Wei Ying murmurs.

“Oh?” Lan Zhan asks, voice equally low.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying sighs. “I am. Things always work out for me, in the end. It gets hard, but I’m determined to be okay. And I was loved, once,” he muses. “A lot of people can’t say that.”

Lan Zhan grips his mug tightly, the pain in his chest flaring to life, feeling the pull towards Wei Ying more acutely than he ever has before.

Wei Ying sighs contentedly, hunkering down in his chair and draining the last bit of tea from his mug. Lan Zhan watches him, his heart climbing up his throat. He wants to reach out and stroke the hair back from Wei Ying’s face. He wants to brush his thumb across Wei Ying’s eyelashes where they are flickering against his cheek.

He does neither of these things, opting instead to stoke the fire and add another piece of wood on top of the embers. They sit in silence after that, subsumed by the darkness and the noises of the night. The sound of singing frogs echoes through the forest, a steady hum against the backdrop of the crackling fire.

“This is nice,” Wei Ying mumbles. “You’re really nice to me,” he says, and Lan Zhan watches as Wei Ying’s head starts to droop, listening intently to the sound of his breathing. Finally, it evens out into the steady rhythm of a deep, peaceful sleep, and Lan Zhan quietly rises to put out the flames.

Once the fire has been extinguished, he collects the mugs and returns them to the kitchen, leaving the door wide open on his way back out. He kneels in front of Wei Ying’s chair and assesses the situation. Wei Ying is fast asleep, just as Lan Zhan had hoped.

It’s now or never, he tells himself.

Gently, so gently, he manoeuvres Wei Ying out of the chair and into his arms. It’s tricky at first, Wei Ying’s legs still tangled in the blanket, but he manages to extricate him from the layers of fabric and bring Wei Ying to rest against his chest, his head against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. He pauses for a moment, holding Wei Ying still, afraid that too much movement will jostle him awake, but Wei Ying sleeps on, oblivious, and Lan Zhan hoists him up into a bridal carry.

It's easy enough after that to carry Wei Ying into the cottage, moving smoothly down the hall and into his bedroom. He lays Wei Ying gently on the bed and loosens the scarf around his neck, giving him more room to breathe. He removes Wei Ying’s boots and heads back out into the hallway, dropping them by the front entrance before heading back out to retrieve the blankets. He comes back inside and closes the door behind him, then he returns to his room and covers Wei Ying with the thickest blanket, tucking it up securely around his shoulders.

Wei Ying stirs, and Lan Zhan freezes, his heart hammering loudly in his ears. But Wei Ying sleeps on, murmuring something soft and unintelligible, and he turns his head into the pillow with a sigh. Lan Zhan lets out the breath he’s been holding and allows himself one small indulgence, brushing Wei Ying’s bangs back from his face with the tips of his fingers, loving the sight of Wei Ying’s long hair splayed across his pillow.

Lan Zhan retracts his hand and retreats into the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water and tells himself to breathe. It takes a few minutes, but he manages to get his heartbeat under control, his pulse evening out with every deep inhale he takes. It’s well past his usual bedtime, and he’s starting to fade. Sleep beckons as the adrenaline begins to recede, and Lan Zhan arranges the remaining blankets on the floor before plucking a cushion from the couch to use as a pillow. It doesn’t take long for his eyelids to droop, for his thoughts to unravel, his heart full of longing.

Wei Ying, he thinks, and then sleep rises to claim him. 

---

Lan Zhan wakes before dawn the next morning. He rises slowly from the floor, his back twinging slightly, and begins a series of stretches to relieve the stiffness. He replaces the couch cushion and folds up the blankets before padding down the hallway to his bedroom.

Wei Ying is fast asleep, curled into the blanket that Lan Zhan had wrapped around him last night. His breathing is deep and slow, and Lan Zhan moves silently to the closet to retrieve his running clothes before sneaking out again, closing the door behind him.

The air outside is wet and cold, the rain having started up again overnight. Lan Zhan darts along the trails at an accelerated pace, cutting his run a little shorter than usual and arriving back at the cottage with his pulse beating a satisfying rhythm through his veins. Wei Ying is still asleep when he checks on him, so Lan Zhan carefully fetches a change of clothes and then goes to take a shower, satisfied that Wei Ying will be well rested today.

It’s nine o’clock when Wei Ying finally emerges from the bedroom, red-faced and flustered. Lan Zhan is seated at the kitchen table, indulging in a late breakfast and working on a crossword puzzle.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, voice accusatory. “What the hell!”

“I trust you slept well?” Lan Zhan asks, taking a careful sip of his tea.

Wei Ying’s flush deepens, and Lan Zhan tracks it down his neck, wondering how far it extends beneath his sweater.

“You tricked me,” Wei Ying whines. “I can’t believe you just put me to bed like that!”

“You needed the sleep,” Lan Zhan says. He’s trying his best to keep his face neutral, but he can feel his mouth twitching.

“Lan Zhaaan!” Wei Ying wails. “How could you just—Just!” he splutters.

“Just what?” Lan Zhan asks, feigning innocence.

“Carry me!” Wei Ying explodes. “Me! A grown man! Like a baby!”

“A princess, actually,” Lan Zhan corrects him. “You are surprisingly light.”

Wei Ying buries his face in his hands and groans. Lan Zhan takes another slow sip of tea.

“I’m so embarrassed right now,” Wei Ying laments. “I’m so embarrassed I’m going to die.”

“That would be a shame,” Lan Zhan observes. “You haven’t finished the garden yet.”

Wei Ying scowls at him through his fingers. “You’re the worst,” he mutters.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees easily. “There is fresh granola for breakfast, if you want it.”

“Of course you make your own granola,” Wei Ying grumbles. “Of course you do.”

Lan Zhan says nothing and continues with his crossword.

Wei Ying helps himself to the granola, scooping it into a bowl from the pan where it is cooling on top of the stove. He comes back to the table and drops sulkily into the chair opposite Lan Zhan.

“The worst,” he hisses, stabbing at the granola with his spoon.

Lan Zhan regards him silently, hiding the hint of a smile behind his mug.

“You’re off to a late start today,” Wei Ying observes.

“I am not working yet, no, but I rose at my usual time,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying gasps dramatically. “Are you procrastinating?” he asks.

“I chose not to start work until you woke up,” Lan Zhan explains. “Because I knew you would immediately interrupt me when you did.”

Wei Ying flushes again, his cheeks staining pink, scowling at Lan Zhan with an exaggerated pout.

Lan Zhan finds it painfully endearing.

“Fine,” Wei Ying huffs. “I will admit, I was a lot more comfortable last night. And you were right, I probably needed it. I feel a lot better today.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan tells him. “You should take the bed again tonight, as well.”

“Nope,” Wei Ying says with an emphatic shake of his head. “No way am I letting you sleep on the couch again. You’re way too tall for it.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Lan Zhan informs him. “I slept on the floor.”

“That’s even worse!” Wei Ying exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“You are my guest,” Lan Zhan says firmly. “And you are working yourself to exhaustion.”

“I’m not exhausted!” Wei Ying protests. “I’m just happily engaged in my work every day.”

“Very physical work,” Lan Zhan points out. “And all for my benefit. I cannot allow you to lose any more sleep for my sake.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, voice firm. “I will be fine on the couch. This is your home. I can’t let you sleep on the floor.”

“It is my home,” Lan Zhan agrees. “Which means I can decide what to do inside of it,” he counters. “And I am deciding to sleep on the floor.”

“You’re being impossible,” Wei Ying whines. “You’re not doing this!”

“I am,” Lan Zhan insists.

“I can’t—I mean, I won’t—I just,” Wei Ying stammers. “If you do that I’ll just—I’ll sleep with you on the floor!”

Lan Zhan freezes, and Wei Ying turns scarlet, eyes growing huge in his face.

“You’ll sleep with me,” Lan Zhan repeats.

“Beside you!” Wei Ying blurts out.

“On the floor,” Lan Zhan says.

“Yes!” Wei Ying squeaks. “Beside you on the floor!”

They stare at each other in silence for a long, taut moment. Wei Ying has gone completely still, eyes wide, and his lips are pressed together in a long, thin line. Lan Zhan feels like his ears are on fire, and his mouth has suddenly gone dry, his tongue thick and heavy with what he’s about to say.

“Well,” he gets out, voice a little hoarse. He swallows before he can continue. “Sleep beside me, then. But do it on the bed.”

“What?” Wei Ying asks weakly.

“I said,” Lan Zhan replies, collecting himself and steeling his resolve. “Sleep beside me on the bed.”

Wei Ying is looking at him like he’s grown another head. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. “I am.”

Wei Ying studies him, working his lower lip between his teeth. Lan Zhan stares back, schooling his features to reveal nothing, but his heart is racing uncontrollably, his pulse loud in his ears. Wei Ying remains silent for so long that Lan Zhan begins to worry that perhaps he has overstepped a boundary. He holds his breath and waits to be rejected.

Finally, Wei Ying speaks.

“Okay,” he says, voice shy. “I go to bed pretty late, though. You’re sure that’s okay?”

“I am sure,” Lan Zhan replies, instantly flooded with relief. “I am not a light sleeper. You will not disturb me by keeping to your own schedule, and I will try not to wake you before dawn.”

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, smile crooked. “I appreciate that.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan nods. “Thank you for compromising.”

Wei Ying laughs, coming alive at last, his whole body shaking with mirth. When he finally comes up for air, his eyes are shining and his smile is stretched wide, and the tension from the last few minutes evaporates like dewdrops in the sunshine.

“Okay,” he giggles. “You’re welcome.”

Lan Zhan nods again, overwhelmed by fondness. He pushes back from the table and clears away his bowl. “Would you like a coffee?” he asks, moving toward the sink.

“Yes please,” Wei Ying replies, voice a sing-song.

Lan Zhan reaches for the bag of espresso beans on the counter, and Wei Ying pokes at his granola.

“You’re still the worst,” Wei Ying declares.

“Mn,” is all that Lan Zhan says.

---

If sorrow is blue, and rage is red, then I think that regret must be grey. It’s soft, yet stark, cloudy like all memory inevitably becomes. It seems I am surrounded by grey at all times. The coast is drenched in grey by the incessant rainfall, reflected in the ocean that mirrors the clouds. And yet, I find nothing as soothing as a soft grey day at the beach, the sound of the grey-blue waves crashing against the grey-green rocks on the shore. It’s peaceful there, in a melancholy way, and I can think of you, my dearest love, without sorrow.

---

After dinner that night, Lan Zhan sets up his laptop to work at the table. He selects a journal from the shelf in the living room and carefully flips through the pages. This volume more than others must be handled with care. Tucked between the pages are dozens of watercolour paintings, each one roughly the size of a postcard. Some of them are simple washes, darker strips of colour giving way to pale, translucent waves. Others look more like test patches, colours laid down side by side in careful strokes to see how they might blend together. Hazy ocean landscapes, cloudy grey skies, or the forest outside at dawn, all of them nestled between her notes on how best to work with her materials.

“What are these?” Wei Ying asks, picking up a faded moonscape that Lan Zhan has placed off to the side. “So pretty!”

“My mother was teaching herself to paint,” Lan Zhan explains. “I am…” he pauses, considering how much he wants to reveal. “Transcribing her process,” he offers.

“Hmm,” Wei Ying hums, surveying the other pieces laid out on the table. “These are really nice,” he says. “Did she ever do any full-sized pieces?”

“I have not discovered any,” Lan Zhan admits.

“That’s too bad,” Wei Ying muses, studying the painting in his hand. “I really like this one.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees. “Perhaps when I am done documenting her notes, I will display them somewhere.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Wei Ying enthuses. He gestures at the journal lying open on the table. “May I?”

“Please,” Lan Zhan says, struck with a sudden pang at the idea of introducing Wei Ying to his mother’s thoughts.

Wei Ying handles the journal carefully, mindful of the sections that are more weathered than most. He flips silently through the pages, nodding and humming at certain passages. Lan Zhan watches him intently, his work forgotten.

“She seems like she was a really thoughtful person,” Wei Ying says.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan replies, pleased by Wei Ying’s response. “She spent most of her time alone,” he says. “She was very reflective.”

“Do you think she ever got lonely?” Wei Ying asks.

“I am certain she did,” Lan Zhan says quietly. “She guarded her solitude very carefully, and yet…” he trails off.

“She missed you,” Wei Ying says softly.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan replies. “I believe she did.”

Wei Ying smiles at him, warm and compassionate, and suddenly, Lan Zhan needs him to understand.

“I am translating her journals into Chinese,” he tells Wei Ying.

“Why?” Wei Ying asks, cocking his head to one side.

“Because she lost her Mandarin,” Lan Zhan explains. “It was part of why she was rejected and isolated in Shanghai. It was very hard on her, not to be heard.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, voice thick with sympathy.

“My uncle says that I am chasing ghosts,” Lan Zhan continues. “He does not understand. All I want is to give her back her voice.”

Wei Ying smiles at him again, eyes shining with sudden moisture.

“I think that’s wonderful,” he says, voice low and level.

A soothing warmth is unfurling in Lan Zhan’s chest. A tightness he hadn’t known was there is loosening and draining away. Wei Ying shifts the journal in his hand, but just as he opens his mouth to speak, something slips from between the pages and falls to the floor.

“Oops!” Wei Ying exclaims, bending to retrieve what appears to be a folded-up piece of paper. “Sorry,” he says, scooping it up and offering it to Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan accepts it and carefully unfolds the page. It is not unusual for his mother to have stored extra pages in her journals, and Lan Zhan is expecting another hastily scrawled entry, but what he reveals is a printed flyer instead.

“What is it?” Wei Ying asks, leaning closer.

“A flyer for the Sunshine Coast Art Crawl,” Lan Zhan says, reading off the page. “From five years ago.”

“Neat,” Wei Ying says. “I love art crawls! She must have gone to see it?”

“Perhaps,” Lan Zhan murmurs, but then his eyes widen as they alight on his mother’s name in the list of featured artists. “No,” he breathes, his heart skipping a beat. “She didn’t just go. She was in it.”

“What?” Wei Ying exclaims, sounding delighted. “Lan Zhan, that’s amazing!”

Lan Zhan stares at the flyer in silence. He’s not sure what he’s feeling. He’s not shocked, not exactly, but he had not been expecting this. That his mother, by all accounts a perpetual hermit, would put herself out there like that is a pleasant surprise. It casts her in a whole different light.

“Lan Zhan, seriously, this is fantastic!” Wei Ying is saying.  “You know what this means?”

Lan Zhan tears his eyes away from the flyer to look at Wei Ying’s excited face.

“There’s more of her art out there somewhere!” Wei Ying declares. “She must have done more, maybe even larger pieces. What if she sold some of them? Or what if they’re in local galleries?”

“I did not think of that,” Lan Zhan muses, his eyes returning to the flyer. His mother’s name stares back at him, stark black lettering against the yellowing paper.

“Let’s go look for it!” Wei Ying enthuses. “We’ll hit up all the galleries on the list! Maybe visit some of the studios? We’ll find some, I know we will!”

Something is fluttering in Lan Zhan’s chest, a nervous anticipation he’s never felt before.

“What if there is nothing?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Then it’s probably in someone’s house somewhere,” Wei Ying surmises. “In which case, lucky them, but Lan Zhan! Shouldn’t we at least try?”

Lan Zhan regards him seriously. He takes in the excitement in Wei Ying’s eyes, the way he is rocking back and forth onto the balls of his feet with enthusiasm. It’s infectious, and touching, and Lan Zhan can feel his heart constrict with an impossible affection.

“All right,” Lan Zhan agrees. “I’m afraid it could be a while before I have time to do that. Would you accompany me on Saturday in two weeks?” Lan Zhan asks. He knows that it will almost be time for Wei Ying to return to the mainland at that point.

“Absolutely!” Wei Ying avers. “I can’t wait!”

“You won’t mind taking a break from the garden?” Lan Zhan asks.

“It’s just one day, and hopefully I’ll be almost done by then,” Wei Ying answers. “And I can get up a bit earlier on Sunday to make up for it.”

Lan Zhan can feel the side of his mouth quirking up. “Shall I wake you when I get up?”

Wei Ying laughs, flushing a little. “No thanks,” he says. “I was thinking, like. Seven. Speaking of which,” he adds, “isn’t it almost your bedtime, old man?”

“It is,” Lan Zhan replies, suddenly reminded that Wei Ying will be sharing his bed tonight.

Wei Ying’s grin falters a little, and Lan Zhan wonders if he is remembering the same thing.

Lan Zhan carefully refolds the flyer and begins to collect the small paintings, inserting them back into the journal one by one. Once that task is complete, he shuts down his laptop and rises from the table.

“Do not stay up too late,” Lan Zhan says.

“Okay,” Wei Ying says, voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable.

Lan Zhan nods at him, then he heads off down the hall toward the bathroom. He prepares for bed as he always does, taking a quick shower and brushing his teeth. He climbs into bed and retrieves his book from the nightstand. He reads for about an hour before his eyelids begin to feel heavy, then he puts the book aside and turns out the bedside light. He lies awake much longer than normal, his heart a heavy metronome in his ears. It’s silly, he thinks, to be so nervous about something so simple, but it takes him at least an hour to relax enough to fall asleep.

It’s a light, fitful sleep, unlike his usual heavy slumber, and he finds himself awake again at 1:00am, when Wei Ying finally comes to bed. He’s easing carefully under the covers when Lan Zhan turns groggily to look at him, and Wei Ying freezes, eyes going wide in the dark.

“Is this still okay?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan rasps, voice thick with sleep. He shifts a little further to the side in order to give Wei Ying more space.

“Okay,” Wei Ying breathes, sliding the rest of the way onto the bed. He lies on his back for a moment before turning away from Lan Zhan and curling up like a shrimp on the edge of the mattress, the blankets pulled tight around his body.

Lan Zhan stares at the expanse of his back, his eyes falling on the nape of Wei Ying’s neck. He’s braided his hair for sleep, and it lies gently across the pillow, small tendrils curling softly where they have escaped from the plait. He wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers through Wei Ying’s hair, to brush it over his shoulder and drop a kiss at the base of his neck.

He gives himself a small shake and turns himself away from Wei Ying, closing his eyes and concentrating on slowing down his breathing. He silently tells himself not to be greedy; this is enough, he thinks.

It has to be enough.

Slowly, so slowly, he drifts off to sleep, his heart longing desperately for what does not belong to him.

---

The following days start to bleed together, a happy mirage. Time flows by like a river, polishing away the minutes like stones underwater. Lan Zhan wakes every morning to the sight of Wei Ying curled into his sheets, inching closer to the middle of the bed with each passing day. Eventually, he starts to sprawl, his limbs long and loose, and Lan Zhan wakes up one day to find Wei Ying’s arm flung across his chest.

Wei Ying is lying on his back, his arm outstretched so that his hand is lying palm up directly over Lan Zhan’s heart, his fingers curling gently toward the ceiling. Lan Zhan turns his head slightly to look at him, his breath leaving his lungs in a rush at the sight of Wei Ying’s peacefully sleeping face in the dark. His lashes are thick and black against his cheeks, and his breath is coming out long and even.

Slowly, softly, Lan Zhan lifts his own hand and encircles Wei Ying’s wrist with his fingers, the pad of his thumb resting against Wei Ying’s pulse point. He lies like that, staring at the ceiling, his breath smoothing out alongside the steady rhythm of Wei Ying’s heartbeat cradled in his grasp, and he aches.

Much to Lan Zhan’s agonized delight, Wei Ying starts coming to bed earlier and earlier, until they are practically turning in at the same time. Within half an hour of Lan Zhan getting settled against the headboard with his book, Wei Ying will arrive in the bedroom, freshly showered and bearing his laptop. He climbs into bed and props the computer in his lap, clicking about while he hums a nonsense tune. Sometimes, he just starts chattering away, and Lan Zhan will put his book aside in favour of conversation for the next hour or so.

“I’m in the home stretch now,” Wei Ying is saying. “I’m going to have to pick up some more soil for your strawberry towers, but the rest of the garden is all laid out now. I can’t wait to give you the grand tour,” he effuses. “I promise, you’re going to love it!”

“I have no doubt about that,” Lan Zhan replies. “You have outdone yourself in a very short amount of time.”

Wei Ying beams at him, clearly pleased with the praise. “I timed it pretty well, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan agrees, and the hook sinks deeper, a sharp reminder that Wei Ying’s time at the cottage is almost up.

“And you thought I was too ambitious,” Wei Ying teases. “Admit it, you underestimated me.”

“I would never do that,” Lan Zhan tells him, deadly serious, but it only makes Wei Ying laugh.

“You’re so funny when you’re all solemn like that,” he smiles, eyes glistening.

“Oh?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, smile going lopsided. “I can’t believe you take me seriously.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Lan Zhan counters, still serious, and Wei Ying dissolves into giggles until he’s slipping sideways, bumping their shoulders together in his mirth. It’s a gentle nudge, nothing more, but Lan Zhan feels shaken right down to his core, his heart ricocheting off his ribcage.

“Because I am clearly just trying to make you say nice things about me,” Wei Ying grins at him.

“You are very talented,” Lan Zhan tells him.

“What?” Wei Ying laughs.

“You are an extremely skilled craftsman. You look at a space and know immediately how best to improve it,” Lan Zhan continues.

“Wait,” Wei Ying deadpans. “Are you seriously—”

“You have extensive knowledge of local flora despite having lived back east until now, which would suggest a remarkable intelligence when it comes to absorbing and recalling information,” Lan Zhan presses on.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying cries. “Stop it immediately!”

“You—” Lan Zhan begins, but he is suddenly silenced, frozen by the press of Wei Ying’s finger against his lips.

“Shhh,” Wei Ying shushes him, eyes bright and face flushed, and Lan Zhan feels the sound deep in his gut where a dangerous heat is coiling. The urge to open his mouth, to suck Wei Ying’s finger inside and bite down, is almost overwhelming.

“No more of that,” Wei Ying is saying. “My poor heart can’t handle it when you say those things with such a serious face!”

Lan Zhan stares at him, ears aflame, his heart lodged high in his throat. It takes all of his self control not to grab Wei Ying by the wrist and haul him forward into his lap, but then Wei Ying drops his hand, leaving Lan Zhan’s lips burning in the aftermath of his touch.

“Have mercy on me,” Wei Ying continues, his smile quirked sideways. “You win this round, okay?”

Lan Zhan swallows heavily, but he finds his voice at last. “All right,” he manages. “It is very noble of you to admit defeat,” he adds.

“No more compliments!” Wei Ying insists, face still flushed. “I mean it, Lan Zhan!”

“As you wish,” Lan Zhan concedes. He puts his book aside, knowing that he will no longer be able to concentrate on the text, and turns off his bedside lamp. “Good night, Wei Ying.”

“Good night,” Wei Ying says, his voice still full of laughter. “Sleep well, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan murmurs, his eyes already closed. He concentrates on slowing his breathing, clearing his mind and relaxing into the bed, and eventually, he drifts off to sleep.

---

When I think of what I left behind, I cannot help but wonder: Why were ease and luxury so suffocating? My life in Shanghai was so sleek and smooth, a fortress of looming glass towers, just like the one that was my prison. Now, in the shadow of indifferent trees, I find myself drawn to richly textured, earthy things. Knobbly, handmade blankets. The bumps and ridges of handmade pottery. Uneven slabs of hand-cut soap. Wet soil and dry kindling. Wood smoke and sea salt. An empty bird’s nest, or an abandoned fox den. I look upon the sanctuary I have built, and I breathe a sigh of relief, because I know now, beyond a doubt, that my home will not be my tomb.

---

Two nights later, Wei Ying comes to bed like he always does, but this time, he arrives without his laptop or his phone. He climbs silently into bed and lies down immediately, turning to face Lan Zhan and curling toward the middle of the bed. When Lan Zhan turns to look at him, Wei Ying is not looking back, his eyes downcast and unfocused, dark lashes fluttering ever so slightly. His body is tense, one hand holding the comforter tightly against his chest, the other tucked under the pillow beneath his head.

Lan Zhan lowers his book, immediately concerned. “Wei Ying?” he tries, but Wei Ying still won’t look at him. “Is something wrong?”

Wei Ying remains silent, and Lan Zhan waits him out, not wanting to push it. Wei Ying shifts a little, curling a little further into himself, and then finally, he speaks.

“You know how I was going to live with Xiao Xingchen for a while?” he says, voice small.

“Your mother’s old student,” Lan Zhan confirms. “Yes, I remember.”

“Well,” Wei Ying says ruefully. “It all fell through, so that’s not happening anymore.”

“Why not?” Lan Zhan asks, genuinely surprised.

“He’s taken in this kid off the streets,” Wei Ying explains. “She has nowhere else to go, and she’s being chased by some asshole delinquent who keeps harassing her.”

“That’s terrible,” Lan Zhan says. “But does he even know this girl?”

“I’m not sure how they met,” Wei Ying admits. “But it sounds like she’s in a really tight spot. Of course Xiao Xingchen would help her out. He’s just that kind of guy.”

“Is the situation permanent?” Lan Zhan wants to know.

Wei Ying shrugs, still not meeting Lan Zhan’s eyes. “Who knows? It’ll be a while, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Lan Zhan says, feeling conflicted. He’s wholly sympathetic to Wei Ying’s disappointment, but some traitorous part of him is eager to know if that means Wei Ying will stay longer. He’s also offended on Wei Ying’s behalf. “This is not fair to you.”

“It’s okay,” Wei Ying says. “It’s not like we’re actually family, or anything. He just knew my mom.”

“Still,” Lan Zhan insists. “He made you a promise.”

Wei Ying simply shrugs again, defeated. “People break promises all the time. At least he had a good reason.”

“But this puts you in a precarious position,” Lan Zhan protests.

“I’ll be fine,” Wei Ying sighs. “I always am. Xiao Xingchen says he’ll help me find someplace else, and besides, I’ve already contacted Wen Ning. He lucked out with a single dorm room, so I’ll just sleep on his floor until I find something permanent.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan breathes. “This isn’t right.”

“It’s okay, I promise,” Wei Ying says. “It’s probably for the best,” he adds. “Xiao Xingchen is married, after all. I don’t want to be a third wheel, you know?”

Lan Zhan watches him in silence, willing him to look up and meet his gaze. But Wei Ying remains curled into himself, his soft mouth turned down at the corners. He looks small, and young, and tired.

“What do you want?” Lan Zhan asks him softly.

Wei Ying raises his eyes at last, huge and sad.

“I want to belong somewhere,” Wei Ying says, voice just above a whisper. “With someone.”

Lan Zhan feels it like a kick to the gut, but then Wei Ying is looking away again. He’s ducking his chin and laughing it off, but the sound is hollow and tired.

“Don’t listen to me, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. He’s gripping the sheets so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. “I’m just spouting nonsense because I’m tired. Let’s go to sleep, okay?”

Silently, Lan Zhan puts his book aside and switches off the lamp. He lies down carefully, sliding fully under the covers and turning on his side to face Wei Ying, who has closed his eyes, refusing to look at him again. Lan Zhan hesitates for a moment, but then he shifts his body forward, moving closer to the centre of the bed. Slowly, he reaches out his hand, breaching the space between them to run the back of his first two fingers against Wei Ying’s knuckles where he is gripping the comforter.

Wei Ying’s eyelids flutter open at the touch, but he doesn’t recoil. He makes eye contact with Lan Zhan as Lan Zhan gently strokes his hand, and Lan Zhan holds his gaze, refusing to look away. Wei Ying seems to be searching for something, and Lan Zhan hopes with all of his heart that Wei Ying finds it in him. Eventually, Wei Ying sighs, his eyes drooping shut, but he scoots a little closer until they’re only a few inches apart, their heads bent toward each other as if in prayer.

Slowly, gradually, Wei Ying’s hand relaxes, losing his death grip on the blankets, and Lan Zhan strokes their fingers together, growing bolder the longer Wei Ying does not pull away. Finally, he slips Wei Ying’s hand into his own, his thumb running gently back and forth across Wei Ying’s knuckles.

Wei Ying sighs again, his breath ghosting across Lan Zhan’s face, and soon, he’s fast asleep, his fingers warm in Lan Zhan’s gentle grip. Lan Zhan lies awake, memorizing the planes of Wei Ying’s face, the curve of his mouth, the fall of his hair across his brow. He inches even closer until the features of Wei Ying’s face are blurred in the dark, their foreheads just barely touching. He closes his eyes, and he tries to tell himself that he will never need more than this.

He wakes the next morning with Wei Ying in his arms, their legs tangled together and their heartbeats in synch, Wei Ying’s head tucked securely under his chin. He lies there, unmoving, for an extra hour past when he usually wakes up, and he wishes he could keep this forever.

---

It’s Friday evening before the Sunday that Wei Ying is scheduled to leave when the storm rolls in. The coast has been drenched in a hazy, orange-gold light all afternoon, which can only mean lightning and thunder are on the horizon. Wei Ying comes in triumphantly from working on the yard; he’s managed to put the finishing touches on the last of his projects, having laid down a stone path that leads through the garden beds and around the outside of the rockery.

“All wrapped up with one day to spare!” Wei Ying crows, scrubbing the last of the dirt off his fingers. His cheeks are flushed pink from the chill in the air, and his ponytail has been delightfully tousled by the increasingly violent wind. “I don’t suppose you have another bottle of wine hiding somewhere? I’d love a celebratory drink.”

“Will this do?” Lan Zhan asks, opening the fridge to retrieve a bottle of craft cider. “I picked it up at the farmer’s market on Wednesday. I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Will I ever!” Wei Ying exclaims, leaning forward over the counter to peer at the label. “Dry-hopped apricot? Don’t mind if I do!”

Lan Zhan pops the bottle open and pours Wei Ying a glass. “Congratulations,” he says. “Your work is truly remarkable.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet,” Wei Ying teases. “You might want to withhold your praise until I give you the grand tour.”

“No need,” Lan Zhan says. “I have seen enough to know that I will be thoroughly impressed.”

Wei Ying laughs, his eyes scrunching up into crescent moons. “Want me to show you now?”

Just as he finishes asking, a bolt of lightning splits the darkening sky outside, and a clap of thunder rolls over the cottage, rumbling up against the walls. The wind picks up in intensity, howling by the windows, shaking them in their frames, and another strike of lightning sets the sky on fire as the rain begins to pour down. 

“The rabbits!” Wei Ying cries, abandoning his cider on the counter and dashing toward the back deck. “They’re still outside!”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan calls. “They will know to come in,” he tries, but Wei Ying is already out the door.

Lan Zhan quickly follows him, greeted by a powerful gust of frigid air as he exits the cottage. The overhang of the roof provides very little shelter as the rain is swept sideways by the force of the wind, and Lan Zhan can feel the spray on his face. Wei Ying has opened the top of the enclosure and is attempting to coax the spooked rabbits out of the miniature hut in the corner.

“Come on, babies!” Wei Ying calls above the roar of the storm, but the rabbits shy away from him, backing farther into the hut as another clap of thunder shakes the cottage. “Lan Zhan, help me!”

Lan Zhan lifts the top of the enclosure all the way off, and Wei Ying climbs inside, kneeling down to try and fish the rabbits out. Yin comes bolting out of the hut and ricochets off the opposite side of the enclosure in his panic, and Yang follows suit, the two of them ping-ponging back and forth as Wei Ying tries fruitlessly to catch them both. Lan Zhan steps over the barrier into the enclosure and attempts to help, but he fares no better, and Wei Ying begins to laugh helplessly. They are trying their best to herd the rabbits toward the cat door, but they keep running around them in circles, evading their hands and refusing to go inside.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying laughs, voice breathless. There are tears in his eyes from laughing so hard, and his cheeks are flushed red from the onslaught of the icy wind and rain. By now, they’re both soaked, and Wei Ying’s red t-shirt clings to his slender frame like a second skin, rivulets of rain running down his neck to pool in the dip of his collarbone.

Lan Zhan freezes at the sight of him, the rabbits forgotten, flooded by a sudden heat despite the icy downpour around them. Wei Ying is still laughing, his smile stretched wide, his eyes bright and teary, beautiful and alive, and something in Lan Zhan breaks, giving way like a dam collapsing in a flood.

He thinks it might be his heart.

He doesn’t remember moving, but the next thing he knows, Wei Ying is in his arms, his eyes growing huge as Lan Zhan slips his hand around the back of Wei Ying’s neck and pulls, and suddenly, they are kissing, hot and wet and insistent. Lan Zhan pulls Wei Ying flush against him, chest to chest, his arm wrapped tightly around Wei Ying’s waist, and he kisses him, and kisses him, slipping his tongue into Wei Ying’s mouth as Wei Ying gasps helplessly against him.

Wei Ying groans into Lan Zhan’s mouth, spurring him on, and Lan Zhan dives deeper, their tongues sliding together, lips wet and hungry. He fists his hand in Wei Ying’s mess of a ponytail, angling his head for better access, and Wei Ying melts against him, into him, clawing at Lan Zhan’s back for purchase as he sways even closer, his legs unsteady.

Lan Zhan bites down on Wei Ying’s lower lip, earning him a startled gasp, and then Lan Zhan breaks the kiss just long enough to reach down and hoist Wei Ying right off his feet. Wei Ying’s laugh is airy, breathless with delight, and he wraps his legs around Lan Zhan’s waist as Lan Zhan presses him back into the wall of the cottage and kisses him again, mouth harsh and insistent. The storm rages on around them, lashing them with the wind and the rain, but all Lan Zhan knows is the heat blossoming in his gut, the hot press of Wei Ying’s lips, the sound of his own heartbeat drowning out the thunder.

He can feel Wei Ying’s hands running through his hair, hear the breathless little noises that escape him between kisses, feel the way the muscles of his thighs are tensing to hold himself steady in Lan Zhan’s arms. He pries their mouths apart and latches onto Wei Ying’s throat, sucking harshly on the skin there until Wei Ying cries out, his voice raw, his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut. Lan Zhan drags his mouth along Wei Ying’s jawline to his ear, sucking Wei Ying’s earlobe into his mouth and working it between his teeth.

Wei Ying whimpers, a broken, desperate sound, and Lan Zhan surges back to claim his lips again, greedily swallowing all his helpless noises. Wei Ying clings to him, shuddering in his arms, and Lan Zhan gentles the kiss ever so slightly, then he pulls back just far enough to speak.

“Don’t go,” Lan Zhan rasps against Wei Ying’s lips. “Don’t leave me. Just stay.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying gasps, voice cracking.

“Stay where you belong,” Lan Zhan tells him. “Here. With me.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying repeats, voice broken. “Lan Zhan.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan breathes, kissing him again, sweeping past Wei Ying’s teeth with his tongue. “Please. Tell me you’ll stay.”

Wei Ying laughs, a wet and wonderous sound.

“Okay,” he whispers, breath hot against Lan Zhan’s mouth. “Okay.”

And Lan Zhan kisses him, again and again, until he can taste Wei Ying’s tears in his mouth, and he knows with every fibre of his being that he’ll never want anything else but this.

The rabbits slip silently inside, and Wei Ying laughs, and Lan Zhan’s love soars amidst the thunder and the rain, his heart beating in perfect time with Wei Ying’s. He carries Wei Ying inside the cottage, tumbling him onto the couch and following him down, and Lan Zhan kisses him, and kisses him, heedless of the way they are soaking the couch cushions.

Finally, he thinks.

This is enough.

---

The painting is a simple thing, a collection of rocks on the seashore, wet with the ocean and coloured by the sky, suffused and glowing under a silver-grey cloud cover. The colours are muted and soft, ghostly transparent, yet vibrant in the way the light is captured and held, like sunlight glowing through salt-green sea glass.

Lan Zhan stands transfixed, hand in hand with Wei Ying, the two of them silent in the middle of the pristine gallery space. Cautious patrons mill softly about, murmuring to each other over this piece or that, but Lan Zhan takes no notice of them, wholly absorbed by his mother’s work.

This is what she’d found, he realizes. This is what she chose to share. The voice that she wanted to be heard.

“How much is this painting?” he asks a passing gallery attendant.

“Ah, this one,” the woman says brightly, but her eyes are soft and a little sad. “It’s three hundred dollars, but unfortunately, the artist recently passed, so all proceeds outside of the gallery fee will go to charity.”

“I’d like to purchase it,” Lan Zhan tells her.

“Of course,” the attendant smiles. “If you’ll just follow me…”

Lan Zhan trails after her to the sales office, Wei Ying by his side, and together, they complete the purchase, opting to buy the frame, as well. It’s sleek and simple, a light-coloured wood, perfectly in line with Lan Zhan’s own minimalistic tastes and the rustic look of the cottage. The gallery attendant wraps up the painting and sees them to the door, encouraging them to come again.

“We get new pieces every few weeks,” she says. “If you like the work that comes out of Roberts Creek, we’re featuring an artist from there next month. I believe she worked out of the same studio as the artist who did the painting you just bought.”

“She what?” Lan Zhan breathes, struck motionless with surprise. Wei Ying gently squeezes his hand in encouragement.

“We’d love that,” Wei Ying supplies. “Do you happen to know if the artist herself will be making an appearance?”

“She will,” the attendant enthuses. “She’ll be on hand for opening night to talk about her work and answer any questions.”

“In that case, we’ll be here,” Wei Ying chirps, smiling sweetly. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“My pleasure, gentlemen. I’ll see you next month,” she says, waving them off.

Once they’ve loaded the painting carefully into the trunk and are securely in their seats, Wei Ying reaches over to grab the back of Lan Zhan’s neck, leaning across the console to pull Lan Zhan into a deep, slow kiss. When they finally come up for air, Wei Ying is grinning at him, eyes shining with excitement.

“Lan Zhan,” he croons. “What did I tell you? We found it after all. All we had to do was try!”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees, his hand drifting up to cradle the side of Wei Ying’s face. “Thank you for coming with me,” he says.

“No need to thank me,” Wei Ying smiles. “I’d follow you anywhere, you know.”

“Then follow me home,” Lan Zhan says, his mouth turning up at the edges.

“Okay,” Wei Ying laughs, eyes crinkling up wetly at the corners.

“Okay.”

---

I think, in the end, if we wish to be free, we must go our own ways, on our own terms. If you wish to go fast, you must go alone. But if you wish to go far, my dearest, my love, I hope with all of my heart, that you find someone to go with you.

Fin