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“Gonna miss you this year, shijie. What am I gonna do, hm? Whose food am I gonna eat? I'll surely starve and wither away!”
Even through the phone, Jiang Yanli can't seem to resist his childish ways, that sisterly fondness coming through in full force, even through the tinny speakers. “You won't. My A-Xian does wondrous things with rice porridge and chilli oil.”
“En, but who'll bring me jiaozi and roast pork? Santa lao-ren might not gift me an apple this year if you're not around to tell him I've been nice!—how will I have a prosperous new year without an apple?”
His shijie laughs, always ever so kind, and Wei Wuxian softens. “When the weather picks up, and you're no longer snowed in, I promise, I'll bring you an apple.”
It’s all commercial, Wei Wuxian knows. He knows that his shijie knows that he knows it, too. It’s also tradition, darn it. The city is normally just humid enough that December snow is an anomaly, and Christmas isn’t Christmas without his loved ones, capitalist trap or not.
“I’m pouting right now,” he says. “I’m gonna write to the council of seasonal elders and demand they change the date. Or the weather.”
All things considered, it should be a perfect setting. Big town boy, now in an apartment of his own in the big city, engulfed in a beautiful blanket of the purest white. He’s got that skyline view, that sweet sweet underfloor heating; he’s bundled up in blankets, and the TV is actually pretty good this year. His brother, prior to the move, had warned him of all the horror stories of loud apartment block neighbours, but that was completely fruitless because Wei Wuxian is the loud apartment block neighbour, go figure.
“The snow-storm will calm down before you know it. I’ll call you in the evening too, after dinner, so you won’t be so lonely.”
“I guess it won’t be too different, huh? Not that I’m welcome at family dinners,” Wei Wuxian laments, huffing a half-hearted laugh. “Aunt Yu’s probably gonna pitch the biggest party, tell everyone I’ve just been some elaborate hoax this entire time. Adoption as a social experiment.”
“A-Xian,” she reprimands him gently. “I have to go now, Zixuan is taking me out for dinner.”
“Ugh,” he says, and that’s about as much protesting as he can do on that matter. She knows well enough how he feels about that particular peacock, without him needing to repeat himself. But by some miraculous means, she’s happy, so Wei Wuxian has learned to diligently hold his tongue for the most part.
“Keep yourself warm, all right?”
Somewhere, muffled in the background of the phone call, Wei Wuxian hears Jin Zixuan complaining, something-something about being late; something-something else about how traffic is a nightmare at this time of year.
“I miss you very much, A-Xian,” she says, and the fondness is still dripping from her voice. Wei Wuxian smiles to himself, he'll never understand how someone as lovely as Jiang Yanli would ever settle for someone like Jin Zixuan, much less how she could possibly be Aunt Yu's flesh and blood. “Take care of yourself, hm?”
“Miss you too, shijie. Hey, if Zixuan doesn't treat you like a queen at dinner, I will personally plough through the snow and—”
“A-Xian. I'll speak to you soon. I love you.”
“Ahh, okay okay.” He feigns a huff, but he's smiling. He knows his shijie can hear it. “Love you, too.”
All things considered, ‘the most relentless snow storm in decades’ aside, it could be worse.
Wei Wuxian has taken it upon himself to kit out his apartment in drapes upon drapes of homemade paper chains, his rooms adorned in swathes of red and gold. He’ll probably move onto paper lanterns next, if the storm lets up for long enough for him to run out to the craft store any time soon. He doesn't really have a Christmas tree, mostly because he doesn't really expect any presents anyway. Usually, he'd get a trinket and a red packet from his shijie, and a begrudging pat on the shoulder from Jiang Cheng. If he's lucky, Jiang Fengmian might slip him a little bit of money or a gift card under the table.
But he's got a pretty good thing going here. And it's not as if he's totally alone; there's Mrs. Chen upstairs, should he find himself in the mood to listen to some of her colourful stories of her youth. He's got a beautiful blooming almost one-sided friendship with Lan Wangji, too — the [red-hot] ice-cold neighbour just across the hall, who rarely talks to him for fun, but will always have a tray of tea ready, should Wei Wuxian need the company.
Again, a good thing. And one of those things is slightly more appealing than the other, on this humble Christmas-Eve Eve.
Lan Wangji takes approximately 7 seconds to answer the door whenever Wei Wuxian comes knocking. He's got it down to the millisecond. And as usual, in spite of Wei Wuxian's choice to stick strictly to sweatpants and a hoodie, Lan Wangji looks impeccable, in tapered pale grey trousers, a white loose-fitting tee, and his thick-knit baby blue cardigan. He's got his hair bunched to one side, fanning out over his shoulder, and as usual, Wei Wuxian has to take a moment to steel himself.
“Wei Ying.” says Lan Wangji.
“Ah, Lan Zhan! Hello! How are you?”
Apparently opting for the icy route, Lan Wangji frowns. “Did you need something?”
That…is something Wei Wuxian probably should have gathered beforehand. Why is he here, other than to share some of that shiny social energy with his favourite neighbour? But Lan Wangji is a man of purpose, of routine. He asks the questions, deliberates the answers, and then makes adjustments to his day accordingly.
And Wei Wuxian— well, Wei Wuxian is a barrelling bundle of unbridled uncertainty, even at the best of times.
“I—” He says, cooly leaning against the doorframe. “—wanted to know what your Christmas plans are?”
Lan Wangji's gaze is piercing, but not malevolent. Never malevolent. “I have never celebrated Christmas. You know this.”
“Right! Right… But! We're all snowed in, and it's not as if we can go anywhere. And, like, what good is staying indoors, all bored, if we can't get into the festive spirit? A little bit.”
When Lan Wangji moves to shut the door on him, Wei Wuxian finds it in himself to wedge his foot in the way. “Ah, Lan Zhan. Then what if we just make it just like—what if we just sit and watch the news, or something tedious, and eat something good?” Anything not to be totally alone , Wei Wuxian doesn't say. “For you, it can be like any other day. And then for me, I can at least spend the day with someone I care about.”
That, if anything, makes Lan Wangji blanch. He's still got his door halfway closed, and so he cracks it open just an inch or so more. “Like…any other day?”
“En! Remember that one time I came home drunk and you came over and fed me peppermint tea? … Or that time, on your birthday—and your family couldn't make it, so I brought you hotpot and we talked…or rather, I talked, and you listened very intently? Ha ha, Lan Zhan, we’re much better friends than you think we are, don't you know?”
Lan Wangji considers that for a moment, squaring Wei Wuxian up. And then he says, “You are asking– if I would like to spend Christmas with you?”
“It doesn't have to be, like, Christmassy,” he reminds him. “We can just hang out. Maybe you can come over tomorrow evening, and I'll have you back in your apartment before midnight. And then on Christmas day, I'll bring you an apple for luck, and that can be that.”
“Okay.” Lan Wangji says, after a moment of brow-furrowing contemplation.
“...Okay?”
“I will see you tomorrow. I will– spend Christmas with you.”
That was easier than he would have thought. Wei Wuxian makes his return across the hall with a giddy pep in his step. If there are any connotations to two lonely people spending Christmas together, he will remain blissfully ignorant of it for the time being. It's an open secret that he craves Lan Wangji's attention, even his admonishment, at the best of times. And Lan Wangji is so good , so kind , that he gives it in nicely stomachable little doses. Never enough of it, really, but still.
The rest of the day goes by as the past few had, with grave dullness. He shoots his shit playing video games for a little while, then opts to watch a cheesy Hallmark movie that only serves to get him yearning for another human's touch in the shadows of his apartment for a little bit after that. For dinner, he re-heats leftover congee—again, and then turns his attention back to shooting his proverbial shit.
He's distracted though. Because there are connotations to spending Christmas with Lan Wangji. And whether or not Lan Wangji cares to admit to it, they are closer friends than he'd think. Case in point, Wei Wuxian could text him right now, and he'll have a response in less than two minutes. Wei Wuxian could drop something a little too loudly in his kitchen, and Lan Wangji will be at his door to ask if he's okay.
He almost does, just to prove that hypothesis to himself, but he's distantly aware that he can't let his greed get the better of him—not when he's already clung onto the Christmas thing like a goblin would its wares. And so, he peels his phone from where it lays pathetically, half out of charge and face-down upon the counter, and opts to text.
wwx [19:03]
> hey lan zhan 😊
> so hypothetically, if i were to say canned soup for dinner tomorrow, you would say ____ ?
lan zhan 😩🤌🏻
> I would say that I will bring food.
> Do you not have much more than canned soup?
wwx
> um
> :)
> i mean there's a snowstorm and you know what im like, right?
> leaving things until last minute is kinda my thing, and id kinda intended to go shopping on christmas eve
> before you say anything!!! it is efficient bc the food will be fresh!!
lan zhan 😩🤌🏻
> Hm. Have you eaten this evening?
wwx
> i mean im not completely useless :(
> i made a sandwich
> although i did have to cut some mould off the bread
> you know how it be
lan zhan 😩🤌🏻
> I do not necessarily know. How it be.
> I have left tupperware of fried rice outside your door. And I will bring food tomorrow.
wwx
> holy shit lan zhan why are you like this, huh? always trying to fatten me up
> thank you
> i owe you at least one non vital organ. if you ever need an appendix, hmu ❤️
> and if you bring food tmrw, ill bring the fun :D
> or…the mundane. depending on how you wanna do this lol.
> :)
lan zhan 😩🤌🏻
> I do not need your appendix. But thank you for the offer.
There's another kicker, one that Wei Wuxian has long been aware of; long since etched into the back of his mind, the pit of his stomach, regardless of how Lan Wangji feels about him. And maybe he doesn't feel anything at all, actually. Wei Wuxian sees a friend, whereas Lan Wangji probably only ever sees a neighbour. He's so impassive half the time.
But Lan Wangji; handsome, upright, selfless Lan Zhan of number 17, is so thoughtful. And it's kind of hard not to want someone like that, you know? Especially after Wei Wuxian had mostly just barrelled into his life in a heap of an over-friendly neighbour, and Lan Wangji had had the wherewithal to wordlessly grant him permission to stay.
wwx
> okay okay you've twisted my arm, you can have a vital organ of your choosing 🥰
lan zhan 😩🤌🏻
> You may keep your organs.
That's the other thing that probably should be vital to this scenario. The fact that Wei Wuxian has some less than savoury feelings about his across-the-hall neighbour. If he's found himself wracked over by sudden visions of Lan Wangji bending him over and having his wicked way with him against the drier in the laundry room, well that's between him and god.
And it's not as if Wei Wuxian hasn't tried to toe that line, to push his luck and brashly flirt. It’s not as if he hasn't tried to break down that wall to the best of his ability, but Lan Wangji is seemingly an unfeeling closed book.
Lan Wangji is definitely gay. He'd said so himself to a drunken but unforgetting Wei Wuxian after being goaded for spending a good amount of time with Mianmian from downstairs — who, as it turns out, swings her own way, too. So their humble towering apartment block is an LGBTQ+ hot-spot in this city, apparently.
Lan Wangji being gay does suit Wei Wuxian's interests quite nicely, but does nothing to quell those spontaneous bursts of fruitless desire.
And he's coming over for Christmas. Shit.
Wei Wuxian flips open his tablet and pulls up his web browser, trying to find an eloquently concise way of rephrasing “Christmas plans for spending Christmas with the stoic neighbour whom I may or may not like a little more than I should”. The results are a mish-mash of ‘10 Romantic Christmas Date Ideas’, or ‘What to do if you're spending Christmas with a stranger’ — neither of which are necessarily suitable. But alas, Wei Wuxian is nothing if not the grandmaster of improvisation.
“Christmas Day is largely regarded as a ‘Valentines Day’ by many young Chinese people.’
Cute, Wei Wuxian thinks, if a bit forward. He reminds himself that Lan Wangji had agreed to this with a resolute ‘okay’. That if there are any romantic implications, he'd be walking into it with his eyes wide open. Wei Wuxian's only crime is having a shared sense of loneliness.
“Christmas, its capitalist interests aside, is often an occasion for gifts, confessions, togetherness, sleepless nights… All in all, a very merry atmosphere.
It is also the time for men to prepare heart-warming winter gifts to win over their partners.”
Titillating, but nothing that really answers his questions, per se. Except for the fact that Lan Wangji has never celebrated Christmas before, what with his orthodox upbringing, so how's he to know the standardised practices of the festive season? They're going to play it by ear anyway, probably, depending on where Lan Wangji's comforts lie. So what's a cute little ‘heart-warming winter gift’ between neighbourly friends?
And so, with the last of the craft wax-paper he has left to his name, he gets to work.
Now, Wei Wuxian is something of a hobby-artist, so he's confident about this much. Self-professed, of course; he can't afford to go trying to veer off down that career path in this economy — not when he's living paycheck to paycheck as it is. That said, does Lan Wangji even have a vested interest in art? Would he appreciate the meticulous love and arduous detail here? Dubious.
But if Wei Wuxian knows one thing and one thing only about Lan Wangji of number 17, it's that he likes rabbits. Particularly, motifs that resemble his own two rabbits, Wu and Ji — one grey-black and lop-eared, and the other, white as snow and slightly skittish. And okay, maybe Wei Wuxian knows this because he's been trying to suss Lan Wangji out for some time now; maybe he makes a very genuine effort, merely because he cares , and not just because he craves validation and attention of any kind that he'd do anything to see Lan Wangji's mouth twist into one of those rare, gentle smiles. Even if it means wooing him with a Christmas gift that one might see as romantic .
“Lighting home-made lanterns together is seen as a sign of hope for blossoming romances. But be mindful of the pattern that adorns it. One should avoid unlucky symbols, such as shoes, knives and scissors, quantities of objects in fours, or clocks.”
All pretty standard stuff, then. Wei Wuxian smiles to himself, something proud and private, and allows the broad, fluid strokes of his brush to take precedence.
Rabbits – particularly Wu and Ji – are easy enough to draw, simplistic in their roundness, their cute little distinguishable expressions, and their neatly contrasting colourings. But let it be known that Wei Wuxian does not half-ass anything, especially when he's got a particular goal in mind.
He's thinking back to that smile; that time he'd rocked up at Lan Wangji's place, drunk out of his mind and complaining terribly after having been stood up and left in the cold by a blind date. That evening, Lan Wangji had allowed Wei Wuxian to hold Wu and Ji — “ If that is what will cheer you up ,” he’d said, as though it was his sworn duty. He'd brought Wei Wuxian a glass of water for hydration, a cup of tea to warm him, and when both rabbits had dozed off, snuggling together in the arms of an on-and-off snoozing Wei Wuxian, that's when Wei Wuxian had caught him smiling.
So he'd very much like to see that again, please.
With the wax-paper shell done and dusted, he spends a good amount of time shaping rings of malleable wire to make the frame. This part is pure muscle memory—tucking the frame into the lantern shell and making adjustments until it's taut enough to hold and loose enough not to tear. On the off-chance Lan Wangji would actually like to light it, there's a round divot for a tea-light candle, a little hook towards the top with which to hold it.
He imagines all the scenarios in which he might present this gift. Maybe he'll act all coy — “oh this little thing? Nah, it was no bother!!”; or perhaps he'll make a grandiose announcement out of it.
He thinks about it as he lays down in waiting for slumber to take him into her warm embrace. In actuality, he shallowly thinks about all the ways in which he could make Lan Wangji smile—the ways in which he might soften, bit by bit.
And just before the world around him finally fizzles out, making room for all the colours of his subconscious, he realises that he's thinking less about being alone this Christmas, and more about how he might spread his cheer.
–––
lan zhan 😩🤌🏻 [07:59 am]
> Merry Christmas Eve, Wei Ying.
The cheer begins before he's even awake, because as it turns out, Lan Wangji has done his research. A dutiful way to spend a morning, if anything.
Wei Wuxian awakens to the persistent rap of knocking against his door, and it's one of his least favourite ways of throwing himself out of bed (it's up there somewhere on his list behind college dorm fire alarms, and Mrs Yu's grating voice nagging in his ear first-thing). In his sleep-fueled daze, his immediate reaction is to prepare to step into hand-to-hand combat with a fire, then to throw up his defences and accept whichever childhood punishment might be deemed fit.
He's in a state of disarray when he opens the door to an impeccably dressed Lan Wangji, clad in a blue-white gradient cable knit sweater, a single bundle of tinsel braided into his hair, tied half-up into a bun. He's holding a silver-blue bauble, staring as though he comes bearing a noble goblet.
Wei Wuxian is painfully aware of his own hair, right now, the way it's parted itself all askew, devoid of any real grace. He's got smatterings of dried drool in a crusty line across his face, and he's actually just trying his hardest to be awake right now.
“Lan Zhan? Can I, uh, help you there, bud?”
“It is Christmas Eve,” says Lan Wangji, ramrod straight and dripping with a blasé confidence, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
“That, it is. Don't tell me, you're feeling festive, Lan Zhan?” He earns a furrow of brows for that, an insistent bauble dangling in his face. Wei Wuxian has to careen to the side to look Lan Wangji in the eyes again. “You are, aren't you?”
“It is a polite custom to offer a hand in decorating a Christmas tree.”
“Where did you even get this?”
“I—” For the first time in their couple years of next-door-neighbourly friendship, Lan Wangji falters. He's always been so straightforward, so purposeful. Now, there's an unfamiliar twinge of nerves. “I repurposed it.”
Wei Wuxian curls a brow, and with it, the edges of his mouth follow. It would be far too much effort to bite back the ensuing tease. “You repurposed it? From what?— You got a secret stash of Christmas stuff? You been waiting for an opportunity to whip out your, uh–” he squints, “Reindeer-patterned ornamental ball?”
“Yes.” It's said without a single beat of hesitation. And then, “I added a ribbon. With which to hang.”
“Lan Zhan,” he says, torn between amusement and bemusement. The former gets the better of him, as it often does. “Lan Zhan, I don't even have a tree.”
“You don't have a tree.”
“No—I mean, is that a problem? Did you really have your heart set on decorating my hypothetical Christmas tree with me? That's so brash of you, Lan Zhan. Besides, I don't really get presents…not until Aunt Yu is far enough out of reach for shijie and Jiang Cheng to sneak over here, and even then, small gifts are more than enough.” He's rambling, he's distantly aware of that much, and yet, Lan Wangji listens, as he always does. So, so patient, somehow. And still, so, so cold. “Aiyo, Lan Zhan. You know how I grew up. I can't get too many presents, or I'll get greedy. I'll never stop wanting.”
There's a flicker of resonance, Lan Wangji’s face twisting into something…Wei Wuxian has never really seen. Years of this back and forth, and he thinks he's got Lan Wangji’s microexpressions down pat; years of small, subtle surprises, and he's always surprised to be surprised.
“You can hang it somewhere else instead,” says Lan Wangji, slowly and calculatedly. “I will see you later this afternoon.”
“Oh, ‘kay— bye, then.” If Lan Wangji knows how to make an entrance, he's exceptional at exiting. Always with a swish of his hair, with some sort of finality, like his time is too precious for awkwardly spoken parting words. It's always ‘see you later’, too. ‘See you next time’; ‘See you tomorrow’.
It leaves Wei Wuxian feeling a little dazed, swaying forward as if preparing to make chase. He's got this bauble dangling from his finger — and when did Lan Wangji even hook it there? — and all he's got to show for it, really, is a meagre paper lantern.
He wracks his brain and ultimately comes up short. In his sleepy stupor, he settles for hanging the bauble from his humble little bonsai tree perched upon his desk, next to all his little doodles — and actually, that's not a bad idea now, is it?
Back to picturing Lan Wangji’s soft, stupid handsome face again, it seems, Wei Wuxian does what he does best — gives in to the arbitrary ideas that swell in him on a whim. Last Christmas, Nie Huaisang had brought him a little craft set, something for kids, as a jest for Secret Santa. It felt ridiculous at the time, to be presented with felt-tip colouring pens, pots of glitter, bare popsicle sticks, pom-poms, and string. There's a wad of nondescript shapes, stars and hearts and circles, white and plain, made out of flimsy card.
Bingo, Wei Wuxian thinks. If Lan Wangji wants to decorate, he can decorate.
It's childish, probably, the way he's scrawling on these blank shapes, leaving one of each blank, just in case. He pictures his poor bonsai weighed down by haphazardly crafted card decorations, dripping in glitter and absent of any real poise. But then, he's thinking about the way Lan Wangji had stared at him just now — so expectant and innocent, overflowing with his charming need to pertain to…something.
Only when he's successfully sticky with glue, smatterings of red and blue glitter, the pads of his fingers slightly indented from the fibres of too-coarse string, does he allow himself to ease up a little.
If Lan Wangji wants customary, he can have customary. Wei Wuxian will give him the Ultimate Christmas Experience, and then maybe next year, they can celebrate again. Maybe next year, they won't be snowed in, confined to their apartment block, and Wei Wuxian can really turn on the charm.
He showers, lest he get ahead of himself. They're friends, first and foremost. Neighbours, second. And just because Wei Wuxian is a victim to his feelings, his colourful impulses, doesn't mean he has to go and do something foolish like make plans a year ahead.
He turns the water cold, if just to bring himself back to earth, back to the task at hand.
Right, the Ultimate Christmas Experience. Time to dig out ye olde faithful, his tacky Christmas sweater, and get to work.
— — —
It’s easy enough to fall back into the mundane routines of the day. He's a little tidier than he was growing up. His clutter is at least semi organised. But he moves his mini bonsai into the centre of his desk, pushing everything else aside into a pile. His teeny tiny handmade decorations are stacked carefully, splayed out like a fan, still drying.
Perched around the foot of his tree is the lantern, a tiny bunny made of jade he'd bought sometime earlier in the year to celebrate the year of the rabbit; there's a few nick-nacks, too — a few sweet milk candies, a tin of unopened pu'erh tea that he'd been gifted at work on his birthday. All just mindless stuff , mostly repurposed, but enough to flesh it out a little.
He's stuffing batteries into some old string-lights when Lan Wangji arrives, knocking in threes as he always does. Wei Wuxian doesn't answer the door half as quickly, usually stumbling over himself to the door, but Lan Wangji is patient as ever.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, opening his door just a crack. Lan Wangji is five minutes early, as expected; Wei Wuxian has been ready for about twenty, in spite of himself.
“Wei Ying,” says Lan Wangji, poised and upright. He's holding a white pleather messenger bag, looking a whole lot like he's on his way to work. But the appearance of another strand of tinsel weaved diligently into his hair tie says otherwise. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“You said that earlier.” Wei Wuxian smiles, swaying against the doorframe. He's trying to be coy about it, trying for the casually-flirtatious route, and he mentally kicks himself for his lack of self control. “So I take it you wanna be festive?”
“You asked me if I would spend Christmas with you—” Lan Wangji says, and then quickly corrects himself. “—Christmas Eve. You wished to spend it with someone you care—about.”
Lan Wangji is shifting in place. He's never really been the type to fiddle, and maybe that's on Wei Wuxian, he wonders, for pulling him out of his comfort zone on such short notice.
“Aiyo, Lan Zhan. Just hanging out would've been—it would've been enough.”
But he has been a little selfish, hasn't he? He has hoped. Maybe he should feel a little bit bad about it. Maybe he shouldn't have been so enthusiastic. But Lan Wangji is on his doorstep — willingly, he might add — and maybe, maybe he wants this too.
“I want to spend the day the way Wei Ying would spend the day. With friends and family.”
“Hey, you're my friend, too, you know? You're not immune. I totally would've respected if you told me you wanted a completely zen, kinda taoist day of aligning your yins and yangs, and all that good stuff.”
“Hm,” says Lan Wangji, a little too impassively. “May I come in?”
“Oh— yeah! Yeah. Come in, come in.”
Always polite, always so gracious, Lan Wangji spends a good few minutes taking off his shoes, leaving them neatly by the door. Wei Wuxian wants to tease, remind him that he hasn't even been outside! He didn't even need to wear shoes here! But set in his ways, is Lan Wangji. And Wei Wuxian kind of adores him for it.
“So, promise not to run, but maybe I went a little all out. If I get to be the one sharing Lan Zhan’s first Christmas , then I at least gotta make it worthwhile, right?”
The decorations are a distraction, Wei Wuxian already knows that. Paper chains draped from the ceiling in clashes of colours, string lights haphazardly taped up. His balcony doors are a window to a gorgeous snow-capped cityscape. It's all the epitome of festivity, a cliché Christmas card, but it's real life. Wei Wuxian is hyper-aware of himself.
Lan Wangji levels him with a stare. There's no malice, nor annoyance. There doesn't seem to be any hesitation either. Wei Wuxian can't quite read it.
“It is good,” is what he settles on saying. “It is—Christmassy.”
“Lan Zhan! You don't even know the half of it yet. Go, go sit down. Want tea? Mulled wine?—Ah, you don't drink. Maybe I make some tea and wait for it to cool down enough to put it in a wine glass?”
“Wei Ying. Tea is fine. Thank you.”
Unburnt nervous energy aside, they get off to a pretty regular start.
Lan Wangji tells Wei Wuxian about his particularly favourable experience of working from home these past few days, about Wu and Ji and the new enclosure he'd ordered for them. It's all small talk, spoken in as few words as possible, but it's insightful nevertheless. It's always insightful to get a snippet into his life, just across the hall.
“So they've still got you working? Even today?”
“Mn.”
Wei Wuxian frowns. “Tomorrow?”
“I was asked,” Lan Wangji tells him, mug of steaming tea nestled between his palms. “If I would work tomorrow.”
“Ugh, capitalism, am I right?”
“Indeed. But I told them that I could not work tomorrow. That I was going to get into the festive spirit.”
Wei Wuxian dips his head, stealing a glance, if just to seek out a joke. Lan Wangji's gaze remains pointedly stony. “So we're really doing this? Christmas at number 16? Should I have told you to come back tomorrow?—you know, when it's actually Christmas?”
“No.”
“No?”
Lan Wangji's brows pull together. This is—maybe the most childlike Wei Wuxian has seen him, since his own housewarming party, where he'd batted his eyes and dared Lan Wangji to have a glass of champagne. Generally, not a smart idea, but stupid funny at the time.
“No,” Lan Wangji says with a stubborn finality that shuts Wei Wuxian right up. “This is good. And maybe you can come over tomorrow. I— have brought a list…”
He blinks. This is really—yeah. Wei Wuxian is always surprised to be surprised. But it's always worth it to see Lan Wangji anything but hardened and icy. “You brought over a list?”
“Of ways that people celebrate Christmas. Decorating a tree is number one.”
“Oh! Well lucky for you, I prepared for such an occasion!” Wei Wuxian says, waving his arms. He hadn't even sat down yet, instead opting to awkwardly linger upright. At least, now, he's got something to do with his hands.
Leading Lan Wangji by the sleeve of his sweater through the living room and out into his little office nook, he shows him the bonsai with great enthusiasm. This is the part he'd been excited for, and he gets to get it out of the way first of all?
Lan Wangji's expression softens, his gaze flitting from the tree adorning his ornamental reindeer ball, to the gifts - wrapped messily in newspaper; to the makeshift decorations, half smudged and not necessarily pretty. And then finally, back to Wei Wuxian's face, his lips parted slightly.
Wei Wuxian just smiles. He's impervious to do anything but to smile. “See?” He says, pointing to himself. “This one reads minds, don't you know?”
“You—did this?”
“En! You said it's customary , I figured, you being you, you did some research. And who am I to pass that up?”
Back to plucking at loose balls of lint at the end of his sleeve, Lan Wangji huffs softly. “Is there a procedure?” He asks. “To decorating?”
“Hah, to Aunt Yu, yes. She wouldn't let anyone near the tree growing up. I shit you not, Lan Zhan, she'd colour code the tree each year, and she'd measure the distance perfectly between each decoration. Once, Jiang Cheng and I were running around as kids, and I accidentally knocked the whole thing over. Have you ever seen your life flash before your eyes, Lan Zhan? I have.”
Lan Wangji blinks in rapid succession, taking time to process all of that, his expression twisting from confusion to downright concern. Ultimately, he comes up short. “I would like to decorate this one by your rules.”
“Lan Zhan, you're too—” Good? Kind? Cute? Law-abiding? Wei Wuxian doesn't even bother to sum up that thought. “Well, my rules are that there are no rules. So grab a decoration — there are some blanks if you wanna make your own. And, I guess, just throw it on!”
It's an arduous task, apparently, because Lan Wangji tries to find rhyme and reasoning where there is none. Where Wei Wuxian had begun to aimlessly drape paper decorations over his bonsai, Lan Wangji had opted to take one in the shape of a star, proceeding to think incredibly hard about where to put it.
It's incredibly endearing, and Wei Wuxian finds it difficult to believe that this—this man, clad in thick wool and pouting over a hypothetical Christmas tree, is his ice-like next door neighbour. His stoic sometimes-friend.
In spite of himself, he leans his weight against Lan Wangji's side, rubbing the edge of his nose in exaggerated thought. “Hm, how about we put that one on top?”
“Would you not rather be the one to decorate the top?”
“Ahh, why still so polite? It's just me . And you're my guest. So I insist.”
There's a moment — it feels like it's going to become a moment, where Lan Wangji catches his gaze, holds it for a beat too long. It's like he's looking for something; it's like he finds it, too, somewhere in Wei Wuxian's eyes.
Gingerly, he reaches out, twisting the string a few times around the topmost branch until it sits there, nice and sturdy.
“Like that?” He asks. His eyes are narrowing, as though critiquing art. “Or—?”
“Don't think too hard,” says Wei Wuxian, sliding another decoration towards him. “Follow your heart.”
“Follow my heart.” Lan Wangji repeats slowly, hesitant.
The next decoration to be hung is calculated; the one after that is less so. Soon enough, it's all mindless smatterings, Lan Wangji following Wei Wuxian’s lead. The two of them each take a blank shape, and coming up short for ideas, Wei Wuxian opts only to write his name, big and bold and colourful. Lan Wangji follows that, too. His penmanship, utterly perfect, just to be squished on a branch, next to Wei Wuxian's messy scrawl.
“How's that for a Christmas tree?” Wei Wuxian asks, once they've got all the decorations dangling. It's a mess, Aunt Yu would lose her shit. Wei Wuxian loves it. “Great, right? This what you wanted?”
Not for the first time, Lan Wangji levels him with a stare. The kind that makes Wei Wuxian hyper aware of himself; makes him wonder what his life has come to, that he's standing here with Lan Wangji, excited about decorating a fucking bonsai tree. The kind, too, that makes him feel like he's being read. Scrutinised, maybe.
“Are you happy with it?” Lan Wangji asks, quietly. “It is your tree.”
“I'm fucking ecstatic. But it's your first Christmas. And I promised the Ultimate Christmas Experience. I know it's not, like, a real Christmas tree, but is it good for y—”
“It is perfect,” he says. “I am happy. With it.”
“Okay. Okay, great. So, what's next on the list?”
Okay, so The Grinch seemed like an apt pick at the time. Wei Wuxian could have made a whole plethora of jokes about Lan Wangji's uncle being the Grinch. Lan Wangji would be the dog, probably. Oblivious to the outside world and its plentiful joys. But that's a thing — Lan Wangji, in his own, bemused way, seems to be enjoying it. He asks questions, and shushes Wei Wuxian whenever he opens his mouth.
It's worlds away from the way he'd reacted to Love Actually, which had seemingly wrung his heart from his chest before shoving it back between his ribs. But The Grinch, believe it or not, seems to have unlocked some kind of childlike wonder in him.
“I don't understand,” he says, frowning at the screen. “If the Grinch hates Christmas so much, why not simply move away from Whoville? Why go to all of the trouble to steal Christmas?”
“Ah, I dunno? The housing market?” Wei Wuxian laughs weakly. They've been sitting on the couch for the best part of—over two hours? He thinks it might be the longest time he's sat still for anything, but Lan Wangji is cool and sturdy against his side; their elbows brush every now and then. And sue him, it's the closest he's been to another person in a long, long time. “I can't imagine the Grinch's lair on Mount Crumpit would be an easy sell, too.”
“Mn. Perhaps.”
“Hey Lan Zhan. Did you ever think about celebrating Christmas before? Like, when you moved away from home?”
“There was no need to think about it,” Lan Wangji says, and there's a solemn twinge to it. Wei Wuxian pulls his knee up onto the couch, turning to better face him, to better listen. “My brother had no interest until he met his partner. I would have only celebrated alone.”
“So you just, what, you worked through it?” He asks, as softly as he can. He definitely shouldn't pry, but Lan Wangji is letting him in. He's letting him close in ways only Wei Wuxian has opened up between them before. “You didn't take a lot of convincing. When I asked you to be here.”
If he had tried to refute it, it would have been a lousy fight. There's something there, something quiet and unspoken; Wei Wuxian thinks, quite ardently, that he'd like to meet this shufu of Lan Wangji's, give him a piece of his mind.
“Uncle meant well,” Lan Wangji explains, as if reading his mind. “He raised us as we were raised. There was never much room for such holidays. But you said you wanted to spend it with someone you cared about.”
“Ahh, you know I didn't mean it to guilt trip you, right?—”
He nods once. “I felt that it would be—mutually beneficial. To keep you company, so that you wouldn't feel like missing out. To spend the day in company I can tolerate.”
That draws a laugh out of Wei Wuxian. It bubbles out of him, from the depths of his chest; it has him swaying into Lan Wangji's side with the force of it. “Tolerate? How romantic of you, Lan Zhan. So what's next on your list now, hm? How else can my tolerable company make your day special?”
He earns a pointed glare for that. Really, he spent the first half of his acquaintance with Lan Wangji thinking he was hated gutturally; the second half has been spent trying to convince himself that Lan Wangji doesn't just pity him, or something. Tolerable is kind of a step up from that. Wei Wuxian will be sure to utilise it whenever he can.
“Next is exchanging gifts. Although, it has been short notice, and Christmas day is not until tomorrow. Shall I save food for tomorrow, too?”
“We're already being kind of unconventional about this whole celebratory thing. We can do it however you like.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Canned soup is still up for grabs, if you wanna eat here tonight,” Wei Wuxian gives him a gentle nudge, waggling his eyebrows. “Play your cards right, I'll even butter some bread for you. Light a candle. Make a tolerable date of it.”
“Wei Ying,” says Lan Wangji, shifting in place. “Do not joke.”
“Lan Zhan, I never joke about buttered bread.”
Once upon a time, Wei Wuxian might have considered Lan Wangji's presence to be tolerable, if rather boring, itself. He's long been used to Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang's shenanigans that he hadn't really realised that it can also be fun to hang out with someone who doesn't brazenly yell about everything.
Lan Wangji is fun though, in his own peculiar ways.
It's in the way he throws Wei Wuxian's retorts back at him at the most inopportune times (“I thought you didn't joke about buttered bread. Isn't your bread mouldy?”); the way he listens, so serious and so intent. If Wei Wuxian decides he needs a moment to babble about how shitty his Christmases were at home with Aunt Yu, then Lan Wangji will sit and take it all in, frowning and refilling Wei Wuxian's wine glass across the coffee table.
“You're always just here, listening to me trauma dump, huh?” He says. He's long since gotten used to laughing it all off. Not so much, being heard. “You always kinda have been.”
“I care, too,” Lan Wangji says blatantly, as if it isn't earth-shattering. “I have always been clear about it.”
“I just kinda thought you tolerated me.” It's all in jest, but he's also kind of just wanting to hear more about how he's so cared for here. “Y’know, I used to try to flirt with you all the time. Kind of thought you hated me for it.”
“I have never hated you. You are brash and loud, and excitable. I never hated you for it.”
“And for all the flirting?” It's spoken without thinking, and Wei Wuxian makes a mental note to kick himself for it later. Maybe he can laugh it off, say something shameless about how he can't resist pretty things, and then brush it off.
But Lan Wangji is looking at him as though he's conflicted, as though trying to carefully piece together his words. Definitely to let him down gently, Wei Wuxian thinks. And that's fine . He's used to this, too. To realising that his thing for, as Nie Huaisang calls him - the hot guy at number 17 - will only ever be that. A thing.
“Aiyo, Lan Zhan, you don't have to answer that, okay?” He says suddenly, casting him his brightest smile over a spoonful of soup. “C'mon, what's the next thing on the list?”
“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opts to take a long sip of tea instead. Before finally schooling himself, sitting back against the couch, spoon gingerly resting against his bowl. Their knees are touching, and that single point of contact is electric. “What is— the importance of mistletoe?”
“Oh.” He blinks, his brain the sudden scratch of a record. “Oh!—Uhh.” This time it's Wei Wuxian's turn to falter. Lan Wangji is bolt upright, staring off into the distance like some noble emperor. He's dripping with all that devil-may-care confidence, his jaw set. “Why? Ahaha. You got some?”
“I have a print-out,” says Lan Wangji. Who's the brash one now? “In my bag.”
“You couldn't've searched it up? The internet is this really cool, insightful thing, you know. Ah aha.” Wei Wuxian is distantly aware that he's trying to bide his time, to toe the waters. There's no way Lan Wangji is that oblivious. Surely?
“I said that I would spend Christmas with you. I trust you to be the expert here.”
“Lan Zhan,” he says, perhaps as a warning. Maybe a plea. Maybe because he genuinely doesn't know if they're being serious, here. “Do you want to be told?...Or shown?”
It's almost like he's seeing Lan Wangji in clarity for the first time. For all of those quiet, closed-off stares, and all of the ways in which he's sat with Wei Wuxian over the years, accepting him, eccentricities and all — this might be the first time he's understood.
Those stares are invitations to peek into the pages of a closed book. He's lost count of all the times he's seen them, a tender moment beneath the guise of scrutiny.
“Lan Zhan, you're gonna have to tell me, here. I'll never know anything unless you tell me.”
“In my bag,” Lan Wangji reminds him, slowly, quietly. His eyes flit over to his bag, where it sits unopened, untouched by the couch. Wei Wuxian stands up, careful in the way he unpeels himself from Lan Wangji's side, as though any sudden movements might startle.
It's weird enough that Lan Wangji is allowing him anywhere near his bag — it's pristine, white, and Wei Wuxian feels like he's going to taint it in some way. But when he plucks it open, reverently between his forefinger and thumb, it practically spills over with presents, each neatly wrapped in brown packing paper.
“Wha— Lan Zhan, what did you do ?”
“You said you don't usually get many presents,” Lan Wangji says. “This is as much for you as it is for me.”
“You—” Sifting through the bag, there are some folded pieces of paper. A list, as mentioned, clearly printed straight from a web page, all in English, because of course Lan Wangji would go straight to the source. There's some more printouts, too. One with rules for some party games, drinking games involving a deck of cards - presumably for Wei Wuxian. A printed picture, clear as day, of a bough of mistletoe.
Wei Wuxian stills. Had Lan Wangji expected—? Moreover, does he want—? Does he know…?
He glances up, expecting to find that maybe this, amongst everything, has been some weird elaborate joke. God only knows Wei Wuxian has played enough jokes on Lan Wangji during their time.
But Lan Wangji is just sitting there, hands shoved into his lap, his gaze somewhere far away. Wei Wuxian pulls out the sheet with the same tenderness he'd shown the bag. He's buzzing on adrenaline alone; brimming with a thousand questions, each of them circling back the same way.
“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, jolting Lan Wangji from wherever he'd gone in the far corners of his mind. “Do you want me to tell you?” Slowly—slower, he speaks. He's giving him an out, a chance to deny; a chance Wei Wuxian fervently hopes he chooses not to take. “Or do you want me to show you.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, equally as quiet, equally as attentive. He wets his mouth with his tongue, his gaze crawling back up again, landing on Wei Wuxian's face. “Come here.”
And like a moth to a flame, Wei Wuxian goes. He's helpless to do anything but. It should be awkward, sinking down into his own couch, Lan Wangji's breath warm on his lips. And Lan Wangji is initiating something here, isn't he? He's closing the distance, leaving just enough space to breathe.
“You seem to know exactly what the importance of mistletoe is,” Wei Wuxian says, his gaze flickering down to the light shimmer of Lan Wangji's plump bottom lip. “So why don't you be the one to tell me?”
Their first kiss is chaste, a little clumsy. Wei Wuxian isn't sure, but he thinks he might have been the one to lean in, to start this little dance. His lips land just short of Lan Wangji's mouth, hitting the corner. He laughs weakly, and Lan Wangji turns his head, meets him halfway, seals the deal.
His lips are soft, insanely plush. Wei Wuxian is distantly aware that he's still just holding onto the ‘mistletoe’, kind of aimlessly, and he laughs about it.
“Think we kinda missed the point,” he murmurs. “In all the movies, they're usually caught unawares under the mistletoe.”
Lan Wangji kisses him harder for that. His hands trail down along his arms, down from his shoulders where they'd made their home; his fingers peel the paper from his fingers, holding it up in the air between them.
“Did I not catch you unawares,” asks Lan Wangji, his voice a sorry excuse for innocence. “When I asked you.”
“I—I guess you did. Jesus, Lan Zhan, warn a guy first, would you?”
Tragically, his lips still, hanging parted. He's so close, so much . His arm is like a rock, winding around him, and Wei Wuxian is a little dizzy with it. “That might defeat the point.”
“You could've just kissed me. Fuck knows I've been obvious enough. You still can— just kiss me.”
As much as he likes the back and forth, he's kind of dying to get back to the kissing. And he stands corrected — this is the picturesque Christmas card scene. The moon is peeking in, in majestic slithers of silver through his balcony doors, painting the walls in stripes of light.
Lan Wangji cocks his head to the side, his lashes fluttering shut. Wei Wuxian peers up to the paper-mistletoe, and decides he'd much rather have both of Lan Wangji's arms around him, thank you very much.
“Lan Zhan. That's me giving you permission. Kiss me now, would you? Hurry—”
Wei Wuxian isn't sure he's ever been kissed so fervently in his life. Actually, he's mostly wondering why they haven't been doing this all this time; years spent with Lan Wangji mere yards away, years he could have spent kissing him into the couch like this. Against the wall, into the very pillow he lays his head upon at night.
It could be comedic, the way they fall into a tangled heap, Wei Wuxian's head draped over the arm of the sofa. And maybe he's trying to urge this to go further, faster; maybe they should have a conversation about what this all means. But he's got Lan Wangji, sturdy and soft and warm, pressed against him, so by default, his brain is pretty empty.
To hell with the rest of Christmas, he thinks idly. If there's anything else on Lan Wangji’s list that doesn't involve being pressed down and kissed silly, he's not sure he wants to do it.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, muffled into Wei Wuxian's mouth. His fingers are splayed out across Wei Wuxian's waist, the graze of his nails a bright spark, even through fabric. “Wei Ying.”
“Mmm,” Wei Wuxian says, brain still mid-short circuit. He shifts in place, vaguely aware of the sheet of paper stuffed beneath his back, scratchy where his t-shirt has hiked up. “Lan Zhan.”
“Wei Ying, we should—”
“If you wanna talk—” He cards his fingers into the back of Lan Wangji’s hair, guiding him down, down the slope of his neck. Lan Wangji's teeth drag against his skin, their fingers finding one another in a tentative twine that speaks volumes. “Talk while we kiss, yeah? You– ah –wanna be sure I'm okay with this? I'm okay with this. I'm more than okay with this.”
“Mn,” Lan Wangji mouths over his throat, less lips and more tongue and teeth. He hikes Wei Wuxian's leg up around his waist, and even this close, Wei Wuxian wants to be closer yet. “It was…supposed to be sweet. Romantic. I wanted to try– to court you properly.”
Wei Wuxian cranes his head. He's a little dizzy, a little breathless. The string lights are twinkling away in his peripherals, and yet, none are brighter than Lan Wangji.
“You,” he says, drawing Lan Wangji's gaze back up to him. “Have always been there—a constant. And I always wanted you to just…look at me.”
“I always have.”
“The way I look at you.”
Lan Wangji pauses, lifts himself slightly, just to look, to meet his gaze. “I always did. In my own way.”
Laughing, his skin tingling with the phantom remnants of Lan Wangji's mouth, Wei Wuxian reaches up, clumsily dragging his thumb across that plump bottom lip, watching in a daze as it springs back from the pressure. “Here I was, thinking you only tolerated me.”
There's a quirk, an amused twist to the edges of Lan Wangji's lips. Not unknown, but rare enough to coax the breath from his lungs. They've known each other long enough, spent many an evening talking, listening, silently caring. “You talk too much.”
“Eh, you're the one kissing the one who talks too much.”
They kiss until their limbs go numb beneath the weight of them, fingers tangling into hair. They kiss until they're dizzy with it. Wei Wuxian, holding onto Lan Wangji's neck, leans back, and Lan Wangji chases him down and kisses him into the plush of the cushions. They kiss until they're less tentative touches of lips and more sweeps of tongue and kiss-bitten mouths, until Wei Wuxian knows what it feels like to swallow down Lan Wangji's breath on his lips — until he knows what it sounds like to make him feel good.
"Is this okay?" Lan Wangji murmurs, and in a swift move, he dips further down, dragging lips and teeth along the sharp edge of Wei Wuxian's jaw. Wei Wuxian nods, helpless to do anything but lay there, lips parted, holding onto Lan Wangji like his life depends on it. "And this?" There, Lan Wangji presses a soft sigh into the juncture between jaw and neck. Another nod. "This, too?" And then he lightly digs his teeth into pretty untainted skin, biting unspoken words of want into it.
"Yeah–" Wei Wuxian sighs, hands making a steady decline along the planes of Lan Wangji's chest, around his waist to settle upon the small of his back. "Yeah, fuck. S'good, Lan Zhan. More of this, please—"
There's heat pooling in the pit of Wei Wuxian's belly, and all of this is just so new. He's distantly aware that he doesn't really know what he's doing here — he's barely mastered kissing, and now what? Do they go all the way? Because Wei Wuxian will absolutely put out right now, if so.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, tentative fingers peeling back Lan Wangji's sweater, knuckles grazing over the ridges of his bare back. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
"I want you," Lan Wangji says, muffled, mouthing along the jut of Wei Wuxian's throat, the bob of his neck when he swallows hard. “You have no idea how much.” He leaves a kiss alongside his words, everywhere in which they're spoken. “You shook my world, the day I met you—” Another kiss. “—You were too loud. And I found that I could no longer stand the quiet.”
There's a sharp swell of warmth in his chest. Lan Wangji is a distant person, wary, and a lot closed-off. But Wei Wuxian likes to think he's always had some kind of knack of gently coaxing him out of these walls he's spent his life building around himself. And that's reason enough to be proud. That's reason enough to believe.
Wei Wuxian finds himself laughing, shoving his face into Lan Wangji's hair. It's not for a lack of trying to contain himself, but his heart is hardwired to his mouth, apparently. He wears his feelings on his face; they bubble up out of him when he can't restrain it. “You're a sap.”
“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees, letting his forehead drop against Wei Wuxian's shoulder. “Wei Ying's fault.”
“My fault, he says! My fault!” Lan Wangji kisses him for that. To shut him up, Wei Wuxian thinks giddily.
“Mn.”
“Lan Zhan. Tell me you're spending the night here. We gotta get up real early though. Open presents, put that mistletoe to a little more use. You gotta put the presents under the tree though, next to the ones I got for you. Oh, and then we can go to yours.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, hoisting himself up onto his elbows. He's a visionary—lips bitten pink, his eyes less laser focused and far more glazed over. “I told you that I would spend Christmas with you. I will spend it all with you.”
Wei Wuxian pulls him back down for another one of those bruising kisses, full of everything they'd never said until now, full of reverence, brimming with explorative touches.
They don't make it to bed. But before they fall deeper, closer yet, Lan Wangji tells him, “Happy Christmas”. And Wei Wuxian— well, Wei Wuxian can't wait to wake up.