#sxreverseibb

Song Lan nodded, chuckling himself at his own gullibility.

He had never been to Xingchen’s family home before, tucked away as it was in the mountains. But when Xingchen had heard that Song Lan’s family wouldn’t be home this year, and that he was otherwise planning to stay in the city, studying all winter break, Xingchen had invited him to the massive family get together Xingchen’s mothers threw each year. Song Lan had heard so many hilarious, even if now horrifying, stories about it. Even so, he had accepted the invitation immediately.

So this morning, he had asked Wei Wuxian for help. Wuxian, despite being Xingchen’s nephew, was far closer to their age than Xingchen’s sister was. And too late he had realized his mistake, already two coats deep and in enough layers of pants that he had lost count.

“He told me I needed to be careful of frostbite,” Song Lan shrugged, “And then next thing I knew, well...” He looked down to the snow pants, ski jacket, and heavy waterproof mittens Wei Wuxian had insisted on. And this was only what Xingchen could see, Song Lan able to feel the weight of the several layers underneath, the layers which made Song Lan’s usually well-fitting jacket strain at the zipper.

“Just like his mother,” Xingchen shook his head, broad grin on his face, “We’re just going for a walk, Zichen. I live in the mountains, sure, but not the Arctic.”

“I see the error of my ways now,” Song Lan replied wryly, “But could you… ah…” he wiggled his arms helplessly, silently hoping Wei Wuxian was proud of himself, to have brought him down to such a humiliating state.

Xingchen nodded, still obviously amused, but got to work, “You know,” he said, pulling off the three toques stuffed within each other, tossing them to floor, presumably to pull back apart later, “If you didn’t know what to wear you could’ve… always asked me?” Song Lan almost thought he heard a note of shyness to Xingchen’s tone, his averted gaze.

“I would’ve… I just,” Song Lan shrugged, ignoring the feeling of Xingchen’s warm breath on his cheek as the other man carefully unzipped the jacket, avoided thinking too hard about the accidental brush of their hands as Xingchen helped Song Lan pull the jacket off of Song Lan’s well-padded arms. Song Lan sighed, “Didn’t want to bother you?”

That wasn’t quite it. Song Lan had agonized over what to wear on this walk around Xingchen’s family home, fussed over having too many, then too few, options. He didn’t want to seem not under, or over, prepared. So he had finally caved and gone to Wuxian, knowing at least then, whatever happened wasn’t technically his fault.

“Oh, Zichen,” Xingchen shook his head, voice far more earnest than a light-hearted conversation like this necessarily required. It made Song Lan’s head buzz pleasantly, as Xingchen told him, “You can always come to me. It would never be a bother.”

“N-noted,” Song Lan internally flinched at the stutter. He was sure it would let Xingchen read just how much those words flustered him.

“There,” Xingchen said, ignoring the stutter even if had noticed, casting the last of the too-tight jackets aside, “That should be loose enough that you should, ah, be able to take the rest off yourself,” Xingchen was smiling, but he was also definitely averting his eyes.

“Hmm? Oh!” Song Lan flushed realizing, “I’ll, uh… yeah, I can do this bit.”

He debated internally a few long moments whether he should go all the way back up to the guest room to change, or if he should just remove the extra layers of shirts, of pants, right here in the foyer. There were layers below everything he wanted to remove, but the action felt… odd in front of Xingchen. He didn’t want to seem so modest as to trudge all the way upstairs, but the atmosphere had grown oddly tense as Song Lan paused, neither moving away nor moving to pull the excess clothing off. He ended up compromising by shuffling over to the edge of the room and ducking halfway behind a doorway. For the next few minutes, he pulled layer after layer off, neatly folding the excess garments and coming back out to Xingchen in just a simple pair of jeans, socks, and a cable knit sweater.

“There you are,” Xingchen said in what was almost a whisper. Song Lan nodded back, the mood suddenly much quieter. For some reason, it just felt natural to let Xingchen help him back into the jacket that the man was still holding. Song Lan caught his friend’s eye as he zipped up the front, gaze lingering maybe a moment or two longer than strictly necessary.

Then Xingchen pulled away, smile wavering just a little, blinking a little faster than usual, “Your boots?” he said, his voice even lower now.

Song Lan nodded silently and pulled them on, joining Xingchen at the front door as they pushed out into the winter air, cold air greeting them, feathery snowflakes drifting lazily downwards. The wind was thankfully much calmer this morning than when they had arrived the night before.

“This is my favourite weather,” Xingchen remarked, looking around him, at the snow-capped trees, as they trudged slowly through the half foot of snow already accumulated on the path it had been shoveled he night before.

“Mm,” Song Lan said, though he felt his eyes again drift not towards his surroundings but towards his companion, “It’s perfect.”

Xingchen nodded serenely, then glanced down at his arm.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Sorry, Zichen, I forgot I had it,” he turned and they caught one another’s eyes again. Xingchen continued, more quietly now, “Your scarf?” He slowly unraveled the knit garment from where it was still wrapped around his arm, somehow having been woven around Xingchen’s arm even more while Song Lan hadn’t been looking. Xingchen held it out taut, head tilted, looking for permission.

Song Lan nodded in answer and ducked his head, letting Xingchen reach over his head, drape the scarf over his neck. And Xingchen was close now. Very close. Song Lan realized it, and Xingchen seemed to as well. But despite their proximity, neither seemed to want to pull away. Xingchen’s hands still gripped the ends of the scarf in some vague attempt at plausible deniability, as though it only made sense to keep holding onto the ends of your friend’s scarf, long after gravity would do the work of keeping it on their shoulders.

Song Lan felt his cheeks light up with heat again, the scarf, shifting ever so slightly in Xingchen’s unsteady touch, registering as an extension of Xingchen’s fingers.

“Zichen?” Xingchen asked, under his breath.

“Mnm?” Zichen replied, gently, trying not to break whatever delicate bubble they were now caught in.

“I’m… I’m really glad you’re here.”

“I’m really glad you’re here too,” Song Lan whispered back without pause, every fibre of his body electric at the closeness of their breath, visible, merging, in the cold morning air. He almost shuddered at the almost, but not quite touch between them. He smirked, the tension getting to be just a bit too much, “But do you know what I’m even happier about?”

“What?” Xingchen furrowed his brow, confused.

Song Lan bent just a bit closer to Xingchen’s level, the gap between them shortening. He whispered in his best deadpan, “I’m really glad I’m not bundled up like a marshmallow anymore.”

Xingchen burst out into laughter again, the sound even more beautiful this close. Song Lan beamed.

“You,” Xingchen, hands still on Song Lan’s scarf, pulled. It was gentle, wouldn’t have moved Song Lan if he hadn’t let it. Now he and Song Lan were mere centimetres apart, eye to eye, “Are ridiculous,” Xingchen concluded.

And then, quickly, easily, any chill filtering through Song Lan’s system from the winter air was expelled as the rest of the space between them closed. Xingchen’s lips soft, gentle, were pressed to Song Lan’s forehead. There was only the briefest moment of surprise. Of shock. Song Lan’s eyes were wide. They darted up, and Song Lan would be able to count every freckle dotted across Xingchen’s cheek. He had to catch himself, stop himself from falling over completely, leaning a hand to Xingchen’s chest. Xingchen’s hand, was meanwhile struggling to find purchase in the slippery fabric of Song Lan’s winter coat as though to pull him even closer.

Song Lan melted into the touch completely and closed his eyes. His own hand moved instinctively from Xingchen’s chest to his back, and Xingchen’s lips broke away, flashing Song Lan a momentary smile, before letting Song Lan’s hand pull them closer, Xingchen wrapping his own arm around Song Lan.

The snow swirled around, lighting gently in their hair, on their lashes as they held each other close. And gradually, so gradually, yet so inevitably, they turned, were now looking eye to eye again, their noses all but touching. All that would be needed was a slight tilt and…

Their lips met, found each other as though it was always meant to be this way. The two of them, pressed close together in the wind, in the snow.

—

“Zichen?” Xingchen asked blearily, recognizing where he was before he remembered when. He groaned softly as he stretched, rising from the soft dirt to find his partner. He followed the promising crackling sound of fire, the delicious smell of food.

Fish, again, of course, but when they were here, the monotony didn’t really bother him.

He felt the heat of the fire as he approached. This place so familiar to him that even though he had had his sight the last time he was here, navigation was much easier than it had been following less crowded, but less familiar, paths.

“Good morning, Zichen,” Xingchen said, smiling as he held a hand out, silently asking if the other man wanted to take it. Instead of a hand, though, he received only a slightly warmed wooden stick between his fingers, the smell of breakfast from the other end of it making his stomach rumble. He laughed, “Fine. I’m hungry too.”

Zichen did take Xingchen’s hand once the second fish was done though, leading the two of them to sit on a log by the little cooking fire. It wasn’t cold, exactly, but the morning breeze and recent rainfall still made the fire’s sde a welcome spot of warmth.

It was just so blissfully quiet here.

Xingchen had experienced quiet before. The pained quiet of a man overcome by grief. The lonely quiet of wandering the countryside alone. The eerie quiet of a city that always seemed just a bit too devoid of public life. And Xingchen had been able to move through each of those moments with patience and grace.  

This quiet was different. Not the eye of the storm but the end of one. Not just easy to get through but easy to live in. A quiet to find each other in, to grow to learn about one another again.

Xingchen flipped open his palm, letting Zichen slowly trace out one character after another. He shivered pleasantly at the touch, but tried to focus. Tried to learn the little quirks in Zichen’s handwriting style through feel that he had never noticed while reading. An extra flourish here, a lazy refusal to fully lift his finger between strokes there. He concentrated on learning them all, not just so that Zichen could communicate more quickly in future once they became familiar, but also just because they were his quirks and Xingchen wanted to memorize them all.

Breakfast over and diligently tidied up, they went for a walk. One of Xingchen’s hands was left to run along the bamboo trunks as they passed, the other sat firmly in Zichen’s hand. Both the wood and the hand offered comfort, direction, and familiarity, but only for Zichen could Xingchen return the favour.

They made their way towards the source of the river, easy to find by the roaring sound of the waterfall, and sat near the shore, enjoying the gentle mists cast from the water as it thundered down.

Xingchen let his hands explore the ground beneath him, feeling the stones, dirt, and leaves. He let the earth run between his fingers, pausing to pick up a particularly intact branch he found, marvelling at its smooth edges, the cool freshness of its leaves right at his fingertips.

He felt Zichen shift behind him, shuffling closer. Xingchen leaned back in kind, a gentle smile gracing his face unconsciously.

Zichen reached up and traced three words into Xingchen’s shoulder. Xingchen. Together. Happy.

Not a question, but a simple equation. I am together with Xingchen. So I am happy. Some of the most easily understood words, as some of the ones Zichen had been most eager to communicate, after Xingchen’s return.

“Well then that’s how we shall stay, right Zichen?”

Zichen let out an affirming hum and let his fingers travel up to Xingchen’s head, carding his fingers through his hair. His fingers, though, almost immediately got snagged in the tangled locks, and Zichen cleared his throat. His new version of his old affectionate tutting in disapproval.

Xingchen laughed, “I slept on the ground, Zichen, the cold, hard ground, what did you expect?”

Zichen pokes at the back of Xingchen’s hand, telling him to clean the dirt out from them, after which he lifted his lover’s hand to his own head, inviting him to compare.

“That’s not fair, though, you had your head on my chest all night. It’s not nearly the same,” Xingchen smirked mischievously, “Besides, now that I think about it, I seem to remember having to stop you from drooling onto my robes at some point? I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s not where all of it ended up… Are you sure that didn’t tangle my hair?”

Xingchen only laughed harder at Zichen’s indignant pokes to Xingchen’s arm, his shoulder, his back, “Stop, stop! You know I’m ticklish there,” he gasped. And Zichen easily obliged, but not without a small huff of victory.

Xingchen sighed, leaning back further, enjoying the feeling as Zichen went back to running his fingers through his hair. The two sat there for a while, listening as the river rushed by, the wind rustled through the bamboo above. Savoring the moment. Lingering in this hard-earned tranquility.

“I really could stay here forever, you know.”

Zichen hummed, then traced a thus far unmentioned word between them, each stroke hesitant as though trying to maintain the ability to change course as long as possible. Just in case.

Sect?

Xingchen froze, letting the word sink in slowly. The weight of Zichen’s question, what it could mean, what it would take, winding its way down to his core.

A swell built in his heart, constricting his throat and building a pressure of happy tears behind his eyes. He turned, hands on Zichen’s shoulders, nodding eagerly.

“If... if that is what you want? Then yes!” he cleared his throat, conscious of his exclamation, and quieted down, now shy in his hopeful excitement, “Yes we could do that. We could make this our... our...”

And even with this being the most quickly drawn character Zichen had ever traced on him, and even though, with Xingchen’s hands still fixed firmly on his shoulders, the character was written on his less discerning chest, not his sensitive palm, Xingchen understood, and agreed, immediately:

Home.

Suddenly it all came back. Song Lan had mentioned wanting to see some movie or other. Xiao Xingchen didn’t really know what it was, some sort of psychological, horror, action, something, but Zichen had seemed excited about it. Xingchen had casually mentioned that he hadn’t been to the movies in ages, that maybe they should go when it came out. Zichen had eagerly and instantly taken him up on it.

XIngchen usually didn’t go anywhere on weekdays, choosing instead to make sure a-Qing got to bed on time on a school night. But Zichen had been able to get them opening night tickets, had even gone to the trouble of calling the theatre to make sure that they had the capacity to provide described services.

But opening night was on the 16th. And the 16th was on a Thursday. And today was a Thursday. They were supposed to go out today. Right now.

Xiao Xingchen started, almost knocking his cup of tea over in the process, as this clicked into place. How had he forgotten?

He wasn’t ready. Was wearing his loungiest of loungewear – sweatpants and an old tee, his apron still tied loosely around his waist, not having bothered to pull it off while the soup bubbled on the stove, forgotten about it by the time he pulled the pot off and spooned out the servings.

As he dashed out of the kitchen, the apron was of course the first to go. Then he was on his phone, finding Yanli’s name and tapping it perhaps harder than necessary.

The doorbell rang again.

This wasn’t how he had wanted them to meet but… He chewed his lip. He couldn’t very well leave Song Lan standing out in the chilly autumn air...

“A-Qing! Answer the door!” He shouted, as he ran upstairs, T-shirt already hoisted over his head, taking two steps at a time. Yanli’s phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. He was in his bedroom as the rings switched to voicemail. He heard the door unlatch. Heard a-Qing’s childish voice shout “Come in!”

He heard a gentle muttering. The tones of the man’s low voice made him blush even as he rooted through his closet, frantically searching for something, anything, passable.

He strained his ears as he listened, trying to catch any of the words being exchanged downstairs. Had he hurried out of the room because he thought at least it was better for them to meet without his interference? Or was he simply being a coward, leaving the defining moments to others?

This would be the first time a-Qing or Zichen saw more than a photo of the other. Xingchen and Song Lan had gone out on just enough dates for Xiao Xingchen to acknowledge them as dates, but not enough that he thought it necessary to introduce him to his family yet.

Each time he and Song Lan had gone out, Xiao Xingchen had made sure to have a babysitter lined up. A-Qing would already be occupied with whichever aunt, uncle, or grandparent was free by the time Song Lan was meant to pick him up. Xingchen would wait on the porch, or if the weather was bad, by the window, peering out until he saw the lights of Zichen’s car pull up.

He had had a plan. He was going to first have a more serious conversation about “dating” with a-Qing. He would set her expectations, be sure she understood both why Xingchen was bringing a stranger into their little household, and also explain that dating might not be something permanent – that he was introducing her to Zichen in part to check how well he got along with a-Qing. He wanted her to know that no matter the butterflies in his stomach, no matter the easy comfort he felt with Song Lan, no matter how long he could sit quietly with the other, hands intertwined, no matter how well he could see building his life with this man, he needed a-Qing to know that ultimately, she came first. And if a-Qing didn’t like Zichen, didn’t see him as a positive addition to her life, Xingchen would, no matter his personal feelings, always choose her over anyone else.

But he had not yet had that talk with her.

And now he had left Song Lan – who dealt with nervousness through the veil of a cold demeanour – alone with a-Qing – whose seven-year-old mind judged easily and never changed a first opinion.

The phone had now clicked to Jiang Cheng’s voicemail as well.

Xingchen pulled his softest long sleeve shirt over his head, now hastily dialing his mother, who would certainly not pick up, but hoping anyway. Only by the time he was almost done combing his hair did someone finally pick up, answering Wei Wuxian’s phone.

“Mnm.”

“Wangji!” Xiao Xingchen said breathlessly into the phone, relieved, “I’m sorry this is so last minute but… I have a huge favour to ask…”

He was on the stairs minutes later, trying to hide that he was panting, still trying to hear what was going on. At the lack of exuberant shouting, of a coerced game of tag or hide and go seek, he worried that a-Qing might have already rejected him. He worried that Song Lan might, ever an honest man, confess that he couldn’t do this. That actually, after meeting a-Qing, he realized he didn’t like children. Xiao Xingchen shuddered even at the thought.

Zichen just felt so right. He desperately wanted this to work out. But a-Qing was his life. Her misery would always outweigh his own.

He breathed deep, trying to settle into an at least arguably calm state.

He avoided looking too hard in the direction of the only sound in the room. He was afraid that even his deteriorating eyesight would see something he wouldn’t life, that he’d lose this moment of possibility, where there was at least the chance that this would go well.

He adjusted his hair, checking the bun neatly wrapped at the back of his head, “Ah, I’m so sorry, Zichen! I completely forgot we wanted to go out tonight!” he confessed, “the babysitter should be here any minute now, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too…”

He turned towards the dining room, the sounds of previously inaudible voices suddenly discernible. He cut himself off.

“Do you want some more water, Song-gege?” A-Qing had apparently taken her role as host seriously. Xingchen saw the flash of her unmistakeable bright blue plastic teapot,  which she pouted  gently into the nodding Song Lan’s little cup. Zichen’s serious expression indicated that he, too, was taking his role as a guest deadly serious.

The two were set up by a-Qing’s play table – Xingchen able to make out the colourful chairs, the stuffed toys, and an unusually patient a-Yang (likely bribed with a promise of the good cat food) all seated around.

Xiao Xingchen chuckled at the scene. He tried to stifle it, but he had already caught their attention.

“Song-gege!” A-Qing groaned, pouring water all over the table as Song Lan inadvertently turned his whole body towards Xingchen, cup alongside him.

His eyes widened, “S-sorry…” he said, lifting the hem of his jacket and using it to mop up the mess.

“Pfft,” Xingchen finally. His relief to find, not a brawl, not a tantrum, but a tea party making the whole scenario seem even more hilarious than it probably actually was. His laughs grew deeper as he clutched his side, knowing full well that he was asking for a cramp, hoping he could avoid the ordeal hiccups would bring.

“Mrrow!” a-Yang leapt off his chair and ran towards Xingchen, who was now using the railing to support him as he laughed.

“S-stop it a-Yang!” Xingchen giggled as the cat wrapped himself around his legs, making it impossible for Xingchen to proceed down the stairs without tripping on the cat.

Song Lan still sat silently, a gentle flush working its way up his cheeks.

“Song-gege wanted to have a tea party!” A-Qing explained gleefully.

Xingchen nodded, grin stretching from ear to ear as he carefully stepped around the cat, scratching him behind the ears briefly in an attempt to fulfill his bid for attention, “I can tell.”

Zichen nodded, “I was glad to be invited.”

“Any time!” a-Qing beamed, “You’re a much better guest than a-Yang,” she frowned in the direction of the cat, who hissed and dodged behind Xingchen’s legs, “He’s always jumping on the table or leaving without saying goodbye.” She stuck her tongue out at the cat, who ignored her in favour of a bath, “Song-gege would never do that!”

She paused. Xingchen could feel the quick calculations passing through her head, “Will Song-gege be allowed to visit again?”

“Any time.” Xingchen repeated gently, reaching the dining room and holding out an arm to Zichen, “Can we still make it?” he asked worriedly.

Song Lan smiled, glancing quickly at his watch, and smiled at the other man, ”We’ll even have time to get popcorn if we leave soon.”

“And Twizzlers?” Xiao Xingchen asked, glancing sideways at his date.

“And Twizzlers.” Song Lan agreed.

“I changed my mind!” A-Qing shouted, inserting herself between the two and looking up at them both, pushing them apart lightly, "You’re just as gross as Xian-shushu and Lan-gege.”

Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen exchanged a quick glance, before both falling into laughter again.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang once again. They were just in time.

Soon, a-Qing was curled up happily on the couch, listening as the aforementioned “gross” Lan-gege read her favourite story aloud. Xian-shushu, leaning back in a cozy armchair, feet rested on the low coffee table, brought a finger to his lips and motioned to Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen that they could leave, could escape before a-Qing had quite registered that their goodbyes had actually meant they were leaving.

Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen complied, slipping away towards Song Lan’s car.

“So… what did you think of a-Qing?” Xingchen asked nervously, scratching lightly at his pant leg as Song Lan engaged the ignition and backed out of the driveway.

Song Lan was silent for a few agonizing moments before answering, “She takes after you,” he smiled lightly to himself, but Xingchen greedily accepted it for himself, “In all the best ways.”

“Zichen?” Xingchen said after a beat more of silence.

“Mnm?” came the answer.

“What did I ever do to deserve you coming into my life?”

A pause as Song Lan’s face, ever focused on the road, reddened from chin to brow, “Agree to go to psychological thriller premieres that will definitely be full of pretentious and obnoxious film majors and might give you nightmares?”

Xingchen leaned back, comfortable enough to close his eyes as he smiled, “Oh yeah. That.”

It was early days still. Xingchen couldn’t risk making promises. Not to himself. Not to Zichen. Not to a-Qing. But that image – the image of Song Lan patiently awaiting his turn for carefully poured water, waiting until after the stuffed bunny and grumpy cat had had theirs, served by the energetic a-Qing? As much as Xingchen thought it smarter, more cautious, more in line with everything his mother had told him, to try convince himself that he couldn’t be sure, he couldn’t help the only word that came to mind at the thought of the tea party: