The sky is blue above them, boundless. Wei Ying smiles in the passenger seat. His sunglasses are pushed up, keeping his hair out of his face. He reaches to turn the radio on, to set a soundtrack just low enough to hear. Lan Wangji wants to laugh. Happiness feels like light.
They stop almost before they start. A sign for fresh loquats, and Wei Ying’s hand on his forearm, on his thigh. Can we, Lan Zhan? he asks. What wouldn’t Lan Wangji give him.
Loquats in his lap and fingers in his mouth, Wei Ying is distracting. He’s always distracting, a menace. Shameless. Lan Wangji wouldn’t have him any other way. He is Wei Ying, just as Lan Wangji is Lan Zhan. He unfolds himself in the passenger seat, posture relaxed, and grins at Lan Wangji behind his sunglasses. His lips are pink, his arms are bare.
Lan Wangji opens his mouth when Wei Ying holds a bite out to him and doesn’t pull away when Wei Ying’s fingers linger. He may even lean into it, tip of his tongue touching the tip of a finger just so. Wei Ying laughs, and waggles his eyebrows at Lan Wangji over his sunglasses. Sweetness fills Lan Wangji’s mouth. Sunlight fills the car.
Later, in the shaded coolness of their hotel room, Lan Wangji will fill his mouth with other things. His fingers will do their own lingering–at Wei Ying’s lips, the furl of his asshole–before pressing in, pressing deep. Wei Ying keens against him.
In the morning, dew still lines leaves and blades of grass as they step outside. Wei Ying curls his hands and body around a paper cup, tea steaming. He blinks blearily, and Lan Wangji can’t stop himself from reaching out, so he doesn’t. A long time ago, he gave in. Wei Ying leans his cheek into the backs of Lan Wangji’s fingers, nuzzles at his hand before leaning back in the seat with a sigh.
Where now, Lan Zhan?
They drive south, and west. They drive as the sun rises above them, clouds white and high. Lan Wangji plays music softly until Wei Ying squirms in the passenger’s seat, hips twisting, and pushes his sunglasses up. Looking over, Lan Wangji finds Wei Ying looking at him, face soft. The look is a little dopey, and Lan Wangji feels his ears heat up.
A moment later he feels the tip of Wei Ying’s finger against his helix. It traces down to his earlobe and then it is gone and Lan Wangji’s ear is burning. He swallows.
Ah Lan Zhan, Wei Ying says. Lan Zhan. You should pull over. Then, I want to kiss you.
He does. Lan Wangji kisses him. He blows him, too, there in summer-green shade. His hand finds the soft skin at the small of Wei Ying’s back as he presses the flat of his tongue to Wei Ying’s cock. Wei Ying sighs, and when Lan Wangji looks up at him through his lashes, when he takes the head of him between his lips, Wei Ying watches him with eyes half-lidded, his lips parted and wet. Lan Wangji hums and closes his eyes and listens to the sound of birds, of distant traffic, of Wei Ying.
In the car, they hold hands. Wei Ying’s thumb brushes his knuckles once, twice, three times. He squeezes their fingers together and offers Lan Wangji his water bottle. Kisses him thoroughly before relinquishing it.
Lan Wangji rides him that night, fucks himself on Wei Ying’s cock until they’re both shaking. After, Wei Ying presses fingers where Lan Wangji’s skin is warm and used, where he is sticky with lube and come. He smiles when Lan Wangji wraps a hand around his wrist, encouraging, and fingers Lan Wangji until his cock is hard between them and his mouth is soft and open against Wei Ying’s shoulder.
We’re on vacation, Lan Wangji says the next morning. Reclining against the headboard, he sips his tea and watches Wei Ying roll out of bed. There is a crease along his cheek and his hair is out of control and Lan Wangji loves him. He loves him.
Lan Wangji stretches, and when Wei Ying comes back to bed, he presses his face to Lan Wangji’s hip, snuffles there against sleep-warm skin. Sunlight slips through the curtain where Lan Wangji cracked them earlier. Wei Wuxian raises his head and blinks at it.
We’re on vacation, Lan Wangji repeats, setting his cup down on the nightstand before folding himself around Wei Ying.
Their destination isn’t going anywhere, and today neither are they.
They walk to dinner, fingers tangling between them. Shoulders bumping, their feet drag, and Lan Wangji can’t look away from Wei Ying’s face in the main street lights. Upturned and open, moon-bright. He catches Lan Wangji looking and winks, leers, blows him a kiss. Shakes his head and stops and pulls Lan Wangji against him for a real one, something solid and grounding.
Because I could, he says when he pulls away. Because I can.
The restaurant they decide on has Emperor’s Smile. Wei Ying orders some and toasts Lan Wangji over their noodles. Under the table, their bare knees are tucked together. Wei Ying hooks a foot around his ankle and waggles his eyebrows, mouth full. He is ridiculous and effusive, moaning and exclaiming over food and drink, over company. Over the view.
Lan Wangji basks in it.
Later on white hotel sheets, Wei Ying basks in him. Spread out, Lan Wangji kisses every part; this rise of nipple, this ridge of hip. This line of thigh and knob of ankle and everywhere Wei Ying. He laughs under Lan Wangji’s mouth. He groans, breath hitching, and comes with his fingers in Lan Wangji’s hair.
Wei Ying offers to drive in the morning as Lan Wangji strokes his forehead. He noses at Lan Wangji’s thigh, his hip, nuzzles until he finds the soft skin of Lan Wangji’s waist.
Let me, he says, muffled by skin and cotton.
In the passenger seat, Lan Wangji reclines. Sun filters through the glass as Wei Ying drums out patterns of rhythm along the steering wheel, as he talks and gestures and sings along occasionally. In his chest, Lan Wangji’s heart feels tight, full to bursting.
They stop for lunch, and a summer storm surprises them. It chases them back to the car, where Lan Wangji slips his hands beneath the clinging fabric of Wei Ying’s shirt to touch damp skin. They kiss, and they kiss, and Wei Ying breathes heavy against him, sighs in the dim light of a thick afternoon rain.
Wei Ying is warm in his arms, a live wire that jerks and whines when Lan Wangji’s fingers brush hot skin, hard cock. In the confines of the backseat, Lan Wangji holds him, back to chest. Mouths at his neck as he re-maps his cock, his balls. It’s close and hot, and Wei Ying shudders as Lan Wangji says his name low in his ear. It is the sweetest feeling, Wei Ying his.
After, Wei Ying bends over him. His mouth is soft and hot. His hair tangles easily in Lan Wangji’s fingers. Lan Wangji cradles him there between his hands, between his thighs. Comes as he watches the top of Wei Ying’s head, his own hand. Comes with Wei Ying’s name on his own lips as Wei Ying swallows around him.
Wei Ying presses his face to the crease of Lan Wangji’s thigh and laughs. It starts low, softer than the rain outside, and then louder until it fills the space between them, until Wei Ying is pushing himself up on fumbling, eager hands to fold himself into Lan Wangji’s space.
You’re perfect, he says. You’re so good to me.
Wei Ying laughs and kisses him. Joy feels tangible, passed between them bright and shining. Lan Wangji thinks of loquats, of Wei Ying’s face when he’s indulged, and holds him close.
When the rain stops, they unfold themselves, cleaning up as best they can with hand wipes. Wei Ying teases him for being prepared for anything, but Lan Wangji only has to raise an eyebrow and gesture between them for Wei Ying to concede he might have a point.
It is easy to ride together, to journey side by side. They are matched, a pair. Lan Wangji closes his eyes and listens to the sound of a flute playing as they drive, to Wei Ying humming, the sound of the road its own kind of tune underneath.
He is so grateful.