Chapter Text
Lan Zhan’s first thought when he opens the door in the dead of the night is: Oh my god, my neighbor is a murderer.
The horrifying thought is followed by a second thought, this one more panic-inducing than the other.
Does this mean I’m harboring a fugitive if I let him in?
Then, Wei Ying somehow manages to smile through the myriad of cuts and dried blood on his face. “Hey, Lan Zhan. Mind if I come in? I’ve had a rough night.”
He stumbles from where he’s leaned against the doorframe, and it is not until now that Lan Zhan notices the hand pressed tightly onto his abdomen.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, taken aback. He steps away to open the door a little more, and then moves back to wrap an arm around Wei Ying’s side. He looks down at his abdomen, trying to find the source of the bleeding and instead finds a small puddle of blood on the floor.
That means Wei Ying came to Lan Zhan’s doorstep and hesitated to knock for reasons he doesn’t know or understand yet. Wei Ying, who is always so sure of himself and walks with an air of confidence around himself, hesitated long enough for the blood from his wound to collect on the ground in a dark stain.
Lan Zhan’s head swims, overwhelmed. There’s too much to process.
“I knew you would let me in,” Wei Ying grins, like he isn’t bleeding on his doorstep. Like Lan Zhan isn’t sure if he’s a murderer or if this was a result of self-defense or some otherworldly option he hasn’t considered yet.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says again, but this time in an attempt to scold him for acting so nonchalant. Wei Ying hums, looking over at him through the strands of hair falling into his face, loosened from the braid Lan Zhan usually sees him wearing.
Lan Zhan scowls. It is two am, and Wei Ying is stupidly happy for someone who appears seriously injured from mysterious circumstances. It’s a little too much for him to handle, and he feels himself slowly losing any semblance of self-control.
For all he knows, the otherwise normal neighbor that lives next door and he knows as Wei Ying is a runaway murderer.
Lan Zhan steadies Wei Ying, tightening his grip on his waist, almost as if solidifying his presence.
He could be a murderer, warns the obnoxious voice in the back of his mind.
With that thought bouncing around inside of his head, Lan Zhan guides him over to the couch, keeping a hand wrapped around his waist as Wei Ying settles into the cushions with a soft groan, head lolling back.
Lan Zhan crouches onto the floor, trying to meet Wei Ying’s eyes.
“Where are you hurt?” He asks, purposefully keeping his voice low.
Wei Ying hisses as he lifts the hand from his stomach, ducking his chin down to—presumably—see how badly he’s wounded.
“I’m not really sure,” He confesses, and Lan Zhan is about to burst into a plethora of scoldings and How could you not know, Wei Ying? when he wearily points to his abdomen.
It is not until then that Lan Zhan notices the sweat building on Wei Ying’s forehead, and the paleness of his cheeks, surely from blood loss, all masked behind his earlier smiles and teasings.
Lan Zhan sighs.
“This,” Wei Ying forces out, voice strained and choked up, “is the worst one though.”
“Wait,” Lan Zhan says, rising back to his feet. He moves carefully, like he knows what he’s doing but his mind is actually going a mile a minute, racing and colliding with all the thoughts bouncing around inside of his skull and oh my god, Wei Ying is most likely dying on his couch and Lan Zhan has no clue what to do.
He stops in the middle of his hallway, and forces himself to take a deep breath.
Breathe, he thinks. Wei Ying is not dying, and Lan Zhan is not accidentally killing him by leaving him to bleed out.
So he does the most logical thing he can right now. He grabs a towel and a bottle of alcohol disinfectant he keeps under his bathroom sink for reasons he can’t remember, and heads back to the living room.
From the couch, Wei Ying is, fortunately enough, very much alive and still smiling. It looks almost ghostly when combined with the lack of color in his cheeks and half-lidded eyes that Lan Zhan can’t tell whether they’re from sleepiness or pure, forceful fatigue.
“Lan Zhan! Are you gonna save me?” He teases, yet again.
Lan Zhan chooses not to respond, walking over to the couch instead.
“I trust you're buying me a new couch after all this is handled,” Lan Zhan finally says, his voice even and not at all betraying the storm of thoughts swirling inside him. He sits down next to Wei Ying, twisting open the bottle of antiseptic like this is a common occurrence. Like Lan Zhan knows what he’s doing.
Not much to his surprise, Wei Ying laughs.
“Anything in order to thank you for saving my life,” Wei Ying responds, and he’s awfully serious for the first time tonight. Lan Zhan looks up at him curiously, as if to see whether or not he means it. Wei Ying is surprisingly easy to read, an open book ready to be flipped through.
But Lan Zhan doesn’t say anything else, choosing to cover Wei Ying’s hands with his own. He gently pushes them away and bunches up the tatters of Wei Ying’s shirt to reveal the skin underneath. He brushes his fingertips over the wound, and cocks his head to the side, listening for any sources of discomfort from Wei Ying.
When he withdraws his hand, there’s blood on it. Looking back up at Wei Ying and the strange display of trust in his eyes, he decides there’s no other option.
He grabs the towel he’d brought earlier, and presses it against Wei Ying’s abdomen, flinching slightly when he hears him groan from the contact.
Then, “Sorry.” But he has to stop the bleeding somehow, and adding pressure is the only way he can think of right now.
“That’s alright, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying’s eyes are bright, “You’re the one saving my life, after all.”
Lan Zhan wishes he would stop saying that. He’s not a lifesaver, not by any means. Lan Zhan is a kindergarten teacher who uses a planner everyday to map out his life day-by-day or week-by-week and absolutely adores his job. He doesn’t know anything about saving lives or bringing the blush back to Wei Ying’s too pale cheeks.
All things considered, he should’ve taken him to the emergency room the second he saw him. But he knows Wei Ying could’ve done that on his own by using his phone to call emergency services, so there must be a reason why he came to Lan Zhan first.
He releases the pressure on the towel, peeling it back to see if the bleeding has lessened. It’s hard to tell, with the streaks of dried blood surrounding the wound.
Lan Zhan forces himself to stand. This time, he goes to the kitchen to fill a bowl with hot water. Returning to his previous seat, he dips a new towel in the water and watches it stain pink as he wipes away the remnants of blood.
“You could die if you don’t go to a hospital,” Lan Zhan says. “I’m not a doctor.”
Wei Ying shakes his head, adamant. “It’s not life-threatening.”
Not life-threatening, my ass, is what Lan Zhan wants to say. But he holds himself back, because if Wei Ying can trust him not to call the police on him for showing up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, bloodied and cut up, then he can trust Wei Ying not to die on him.
When he deems the wound free of blood, he reaches for the bottle of antiseptic. Wei Ying watches his every move, waiting.
It’s hard to focus when Wei Ying is staring at him, with his intent eyes and unusual silence but Lan Zhan manages to open the antiseptic without spilling it anywhere. Silently, he pours some onto a dry area of the towel, and dabs it across the wound.
Wei Ying jerks away from the towel, hissing. “Lan Zhan, that hurts.”
Lan Zhan is completely serious when he says, “You’re the one who got injured so badly in the first place.”
“It still hurts,” Wei Ying mutters, and Lan Zhan finds himself hovering over the wound, hesitating. He waits a few moments before continuing to press against it, unsure of when to stop.
Not to mention he doesn’t have bandages large enough to cover the wound. He carries the kind for knee scrapes and shallow cuts from chopping vegetables on the nights he actually cooks dinner, not for whatever object caused Wei Ying’s wound.
“That’s alright, Lan Zhan. You don’t have to do anything else,” Wei Ying says, already moving to push himself up. Lan Zhan musters the energy to glare at him, and stubbornly presses the flat of his hand against Wei Ying’s chest.
“Stay,” He insists. Wei Ying seems affronted by his demand, but he complies nonetheless, muttering unhappily under his breath.
Lan Zhan meets his eyes, and it’s enough for Wei Ying to shut up.
Keeping one hand pressed against Wei Ying’s wound, he gestures for him to move his hand. After a brief second, Wei Ying seems to understand, and shifts to place his hand onto the towel covering his wound.
Lan Zhan stands yet again, this time in search of cotton swabs and more towels for the various other wounds Wei Ying has mysteriously acquired.
When he returns, Wei Ying is not awake. Frightened at the realization he’s lost control of the situation, Lan Zhan rushes over to the couch, clumsily dropping everything across his living room floor as he checks for signs of life.
Cold, clammy fingers press into the length of Wei Ying’s neck, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he feels the steady thrumming of his artery underneath skin, strong and unrelenting despite his injuries.
Wei Ying’s alive, he thinks. Wei Ying’s alive and he’s fallen asleep on Lan Zhan’s couch at almost three in the morning. Troubled, he hovers over Wei Ying’s body, wondering what to do next.
A small, stubborn part of says he should go to the hospital. Just because Wei Ying has a pulse now doesn’t mean he’ll have it an hour from now. So Lan Zhan stands there, frozen, as he weighs the risk of Wei Ying waking up on the way to the hospital and the risk of him dying on Lan Zhan’s couch.
I’ll finish patching him up first, Lan Zhan thinks. Then I can figure it out.
Staring back at the abandoned towels and cotton swabs, Lan Zhan moves to finish what he originally started. He’s more gentle this time, especially when it comes to the cuts on Wei Ying’s face. He keeps his touches featherlight, trying to patch him up as best as he can with flimsy cotton swabs and a near-empty tube of antibacterial ointment he’d somehow scavenged from the depths of his bathroom drawer, leftover from the time he sliced open his finger while preparing dinner.
At one point, he brushes a strand of hair out of Wei Ying’s eyes even though he’s fast asleep, and tucks it behind his ears. To make it easier for me, is what he tells himself. He repeats the process with another strand of hair, and it’s only then that he realizes how gentle Wei Ying appears when he’s asleep, despite his injuries. Almost like the blade of sleep dulls the usual fierceness that Wei Ying carries around himself, tones it down just enough for him to relax.
All the meanwhile, Lan Zhan listens for the sound of Wei Ying’s breathing. Looks for the rise and fall of his chest and presses two fingers on the inside of his wrist, searching for a pulse that never once disappears. To be on the safe side, he places a finger underneath his nose, trying to make sure he’s still here. Alive and well.
He ends up covering the wound on his stomach with a few of his larger bandages. They’re neatly stacked next to each other, a line of creamy brown squares, but it’s a poor attempt at patching him up regardless and Lan Zhan knows it.
But it’s well past three am now, and he doesn’t know of any place that’s open this late and sells first-aid kits, so it’ll have to do until morning comes.
With a start, Lan Zhan realizes he’s isn’t planning on taking Wei Ying to the hospital. He doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries—Wei Ying had trusted him more than the hospital, after all—and he doesn’t know how to explain his injuries either.
Taking a long, deep breath, Lan Zhan decides to trust his neighbor isn’t an elusive murderer, and let him spend the night on his couch.
Having deemed Wei Ying cleaned up as best as possible, Lan Zhan grabs a fresh towel and a bottle of bleach that a quick google search on his phone told him would take out blood stains, no matter the surface.
Half an hour later, the concrete outside of his apartment is stained five shades lighter from the bleach and Lan Zhan thinks that Wei Ying owes him a doormat before his neighbors start giving him suspicious looks for the mysterious stain in front of his doorway.
Bones aching and dizzy with sleep, he slips back into his apartment. Wei Ying is sound asleep on his couch, his chest rising and falling with every breath. Not wanting to risk waking him, Lan Zhan covers him with a blanket and sinks into the cushions on the other end of the couch.
Fatigue has caught up with him. His bones creak the same way the couch does each time he shifts, but he refuses to get up.
Leaving Wei Ying alone has never been an option, and that’s the last thought on his mind before sleep catches up with the rest of his body, lulling and soothing the aching sensation from the night’s earlier events.
—
He wakes to a soft, but insistent, “Lan Zhan.”
Lan Zhan jolts awake almost immediately at the familiar voice, searching for Wei Ying. He finds him on the other end of the couch, blinking his eyes open sleepily.
“Wei Ying.” Saying his name is a breath of relief, a breath of fresh air after a rainstorm and the sun poking out from behind the clouds after a particularly gloomy day. It’s the first flowers blooming in the springtime and the smell of grass after rain has fallen.
Lan Zhan keeps his gaze focused, never once looking away.
Look at me, he pleads silently. Tell me what happened last night.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Wei Ying asks instead, tugging off the blanket he’d placed over him sometime last night. He goes to sit up, lifting himself up onto his elbows, but Lan Zhan is faster, wrapping his hand around his wrist to anchor him back onto the couch.
“Sit,” He says. He doesn’t relax until Wei Ying finally gives up, curling back into the forgiving cushions of the couch with a defeated sigh and bits of childish stubbornness he never grew out of the way other people did.
“You need to rest,” Lan Zhan instructs. Wei Ying raises an eyebrow, almost as if he’s challenging him.
“Yeah? Are those doctor’s orders?” Wei Ying is always teasing but this time it just stings. Wei Ying shows up on his doorstep bleeding and is still making light of everything, even when Lan Zhan spent most of his night debating on whether or not he should risk Wei Ying’s hatred and take him to the hospital, after he spent countless minutes making sure he was still alive and breathing when Lan Zhan decided to keep him at his apartment.
Lan Zhan waves his hand dismissively, frustrated by how everything is a joke to Wei Ying. “Leave if you want. I don’t care.”
(He does care. Lan Zhan has always cared, maybe a little too much).
And then he stands, because it’s a school day after all. He can’t afford to be late to work on top of everything else.
Looking at Wei Ying would hurt too much right now, so he avoids his eyes, and trusts that he’ll show himself out soon enough.
—
When he gets home, there’s a doormat covering the bleach stain on the concrete in front of his door.
Lan Zhan almost smiles, until he remembers the way Wei Ying kept joking with him, like he hadn’t been seriously wounded. Like Lan Zhan wasn’t scared of losing him for reasons he has yet to understand.
And then he notices the sticky note on his door. Fingertips reach out to smooth it down, and he finds Wei Ying’s handwriting scrawled loopily across it. It’s almost endearing, if he ignores how messy it is.
Lan Zhan, I’m sorry for the blood stain and for joking around with you this morning. Please forgive me.
Yours truly,
Wei Ying
He glances over at the door to Wei Ying’s apartment, like he’s searching for signs of life behind wooden panels.
Ridiculous, he thinks. Wei Ying can take care of himself. He doesn’t need Lan Zhan to help him.
Lan Zhan tears off the sticky note, folding it into a neat little square, and then proceeds to unlock the door to his apartment.
I don’t care, he thinks as he walks through the door. Wei Ying is nothing more than the person who lives in the apartment next to mine. He’s just my neighbor.
He doesn’t have any reason to be this upset.
So Lan Zhan sits at his kitchen table and eats the cold leftovers from his fridge. And then, about half an hour later, he finds himself walking to the nearest store in search of a first-aid kit, armed with the self-spun excuse that he’d used up almost everything on Wei Ying last night and that he can never be over prepared for whatever horrors he could potentially face in his too-small apartment.
At the store, he politely asks for a bag to put the kit in. He’ll be damned if Wei Ying catches him carrying medical supplies into his apartment not even a day after what happened.
Over my dead body, Lan Zhan thinks. It’s followed by a flash of guilt, because Wei Ying was the one who could’ve died last night, not him.
Pushing the guilt far, far away and into the depths of his mind, Lan Zhan decides that he doesn’t care. Wei Ying is his neighbor, and nothing more.
(But then he runs into Wei Ying as he’s unlocking the door to his apartment, and there are fresh bruises on his face from his previous injuries that make Lan Zhan ache, that make him wonder what happened last night, but neither of them say a word to each other.
Wei Ying inclines his head slightly, and then he’s slipping through the door before Lan Zhan can muster up the courage to ask if he’s okay, leaving his world quiet yet again).
—
He doesn’t know how much time has gone by when he’s woken by another knock on his door, this time around half-past midnight.
Lan Zhan knows. He slides out of bed with all the grace of someone who just woke up, and walks towards the door. A sense of dread fills his body from the inside out, pooling in his chest and pouring out of his throat.
He tries to swallow it down, keep it at bay as he opens the door to his apartment.
And then, through the heavy haze of sleep, he notices Wei Ying.
“Wei Ying.” It’s a lot colder than he intends it to be, and he knows this because Wei Ying flinches at the sound of his name. There’s no smile, not this time, and Lan Zhan—calm, always composed and put together Lan Zhan—feels a flare of panic burst up deep within his chest.
He tries to stifle it. This is Wei Ying. He has nothing to worry about. In just a second Wei Ying will smile at him in a way that makes his insides twist in on themselves, and everything will be okay.
Wei Ying doesn’t smile. Instead, he wheezes, “Lan Zhan,” and slumps forward. Stunned, Lan Zhan almost lets him drop to the cold floor. His body jerks at the last moment though, and he finds himself catching Wei Ying in his arms.
Almost as if on instinct, he presses a hand to Wei Ying’s cheek, feeling for warmth that isn’t there.
“Wei Ying.” This time, it’s a prayer. Or a plea, even. A plea for Wei Ying to answer.
It falls flat instead, and the sense of dread from earlier is now flooding out of Lan Zhan’s body, so much so that he’s now drowning in it, unable to breathe from it.
For a long, terrifying second, Lan Zhan doesn’t know what to do. There’s a swarm of thoughts rushing through his mind, building up so quickly that he barely registers any of them. He doesn’t have time to sift through them all, and all he gets are bits and pieces instead, like parts from different puzzles that don’t belong together.
And so Lan Zhan falls apart in the middle of his own doorway, holding his neighbor in his arms and unable to move.
Lan Zhan needs to move, needs to get help, call someone or knock on one of his other neighbor’s door but he’s chained in place by his fears and the weight of Wei Ying’s body, which is horrifyingly cold and limp.
My phone, Lan Zhan thinks, his voice hollow within the chambers of his mind. But he can’t remember where he left it, can’t think clearly for long enough, and he’s back where he started all over again, frozen in place while Wei Ying drifts further and further from him.
“Wei Ying,” He says, not knowing what else to do. He’s leaning against the doorframe, trying to support the both of them but it is not long before he’s sliding down to the ground, watching Wei Ying’s hair spill across his lap, looking even darker next to the unusual paleness of his skin.
And then Lan Zhan notices something. There’s a small stain on Wei Ying’s t-shirt, in the same spot where he was injured.
Oh no, He thinks. This is my fault for not taking him to the hospital.
(Lan Zhan should’ve. It was his fault for trying to play the hero, because he’s nothing close to a hero. Lan Zhan is just an ordinary person with no first-aid training and certainly not a doctor, and now Wei Ying is bleeding.
Wei Ying is bleeding in the doorway to his apartment and it’s all his fault).
Much to Lan Zhan’s horror, the stain grows impossibly larger, blooming a dark red against the crystal white of his shirt and spreading too fast. Lan Zhan’s panic only intensifies at the sight of so much blood, his heart hammering against his rib cage as he presses a hand to Wei Ying’s abdomen in a futile attempt to slow the bleeding.
There’s so much, Lan Zhan realizes. He lets go of Wei Ying completely, covering the wound with both of his hands and pleading, “Wei Ying. Wei Ying, wake up.”
Both of his hands are soaked in blood, and Lan Zhan doesn’t understand how he didn’t notice the blood pouring out of Wei Ying’s wound earlier, because he’s Lan Zhan and noticing details is what he’s best at but he missed this one and he doesn’t understand how it managed to slip past his radar.
Lan Zhan should’ve known, but he didn’t and now he’s dying. Wei Ying is dying. Wei Ying is dying in front of his apartment doorway and—
Lan Zhan jerks awake, his eyes flying wide open in the dead of the night and a name on his lips.
Wei Ying.