Work Text:
Meng Yao is having a pretty terrible day.
He was torn from sleep this morning from the noise of the construction site across the street before his alarm even went off, as if he doesn't have to get up early enough as it is. Rain started pouring down right after he was out the door of his apartment building. He had an umbrella to cover the seven minute walk to the train station of course, but the strong wind disagreed with him using it and snapped its spokes. When he reached the office, hair and coat dripping wet, there were piles of paperwork waiting for him that he's very sure aren't actually his responsibility. Nonetheless he got to the task without a word but was soon interrupted by the company intranet crashing, something that took out the entire floor and that his superior (who is unfortunately also his cousin, not that he'd ever bother to acknowledge their blood relation) saw fit to blame on him, for reasons unknown. Meng Yao isn't even vaguely affiliated with the IT department. He still managed to assist a little in solving the issue because he's not completely clueless when it comes to tech things but naturally this didn't matter to his cousin at all. How someone with so little qualification or leadership skills is able to keep such a position is a constant source of astonishment to Meng Yao but then, other blood relations don't go unacknowledged in this company. Meng Yao tries not to dwell on it too much.
After the work day was finally over – needless to say his dear cousin made the entire floor stay an hour longer to make up for the time lost to the complication – Meng Yao couldn't wait to make it back home as quickly as possible and just stare at the wall for a while but the train had other plans. Thanks to a malfunction of the contact wire his route was canceled for the time being which left him with a detour that would take at least forty minutes longer. And that's how he finds himself in a crowded train with all the people who had the same idea, breathing a sigh of relief when the next announced stop is the one he can get off at and change to the train that will hopefully take him home without further incidents.
On the platform he politely but firmly navigates through the throng, because the transfer time can hardly be called ample, when all of a sudden someone shoves against his back and sends him tripping. Meng Yao already sees himself hitting the floor and, worse, missing his train.
He doesn't fall. Gentle hands catch him under the elbows and steady his stumble. Meng Yao grabs a fistful of fabric on reflex and looks up to see who saved him from a graceless sprawl on the hard tiles.
His Thank You gets lost somewhere in his throat.
Strong jawline, soft mouth, kind eyes, but above all that the stranger looks familiar in a way Meng Yao can't place.
It makes no sense. Meng Yao has a perfect memory. He never forgets a face, or a name, or a detail. He knows beyond any doubt that he has never seen this man and yet he is absolutely certain that they have met before. The dissonance of these impressions is deeply unsettling.
The stranger's lips part in what Meng Yao believes to be wonder. He's still cradling Meng Yao's arms and something about the careful way he holds him feels reverent. His gaze is very warm, tender almost. There's a birthmark just under his left brow. Would Meng Yao reach to press a kiss to it if he got on his tiptoes?
The impulsive thought startles him back to himself. His heart thuds in his chest and although he was saved from a tumble he still feels like he's falling, no solid ground under his feet and no breath left in his lungs. He should say something or remove his grip from the stranger's sweater or do virtually anything other than keep staring but he can't find any words, can't even look away. Something about the man has him entranced, is wiping his mind and rewriting it with nothing but longing to know everything about him, to discover (or relearn?) all of his expressions, his thoughts, his secrets. It's overwhelming and daunting and--
“You feel it too,” the stranger says in what is too much a realization to be a question. His voice is deep, soothing, like a whisper under bedsheets that Meng Yao could fall asleep to.
Meng Yao's throat closes up. Somehow the notion that he is not alone in feeling whatever this is only makes it scarier. It makes it real.
His fingers release the man's sweater at last. The stranger's hands brush along his arms with the movement and Meng Yao is sure he's felt this exact sensation countless times before and it's all too much. He takes a step back.
“Wait,” the stranger calls but Meng Yao lets the crowd sweep him away and doesn't look back.
~ ~ ~
He tries not to think about it. He keeps himself busy with work and very carefully doesn't let his mind wander.
Unfortunately his subconscious isn't as dedicated to the cause.
His dreams recreate the moments at the station in excruciating detail, develop alternate scenarios, conjure new ones. He sees the man's face with a smile on his lips. A shadow of concern marring his brow. Tears in his eyes.
When he wakes he stares into the dark and pretends that there's no void clawing his chest open. He shouldn't miss someone he doesn't know. He shouldn't yearn for something he doesn't understand. He shouldn't be haunted by never learning a stranger's name.
In the sleepless hours of predawn he contemplates going back. He remembers the time and place of their meeting. He might be able to find the man again, if the station is part of his routine. And if it isn't...
Unbidden a scene unfolds in Meng Yao's mind, of the stranger returning to the station too, lingering on the platform, searching for him as well. How it would feel if their eyes met again.
He stomps down viciously on these self-indulgent daydreams. Real life is rarely so gracious. He learned that the hard way.
The truth is that the odds of encountering the man again are slim to none. Suzhou is a big city after all. He needs to accept that and get over it. It's for the best.
~ ~ ~
It's been almost three weeks since the chance meeti horrible day and Meng Yao has gotten very good at convincing himself that he is surveying any crowd he enters a perfectly normal amount, as exerting some level of caution in public spaces is entirely reasonable.
It's early Saturday, the weather unexpectedly mild for this time of year and Meng Yao took advantage of that for a leisurely stroll through a nearby garden. He's on his way back when he passes the homey cafe tucked away on a street corner. It's been a while since he last dropped by so, on a whim, he decides to treat himself a little.
He steps inside, scanning for a free spot when his heart abruptly drops into his stomach because there he is. The man from the station. He's sitting in a nook by the window, a book in hand, a cup beside him. His sweater is pale blue this time but looks no less soft. The light of the midmorning sun plays across his features tenderly like the strokes of a brush over a painting. He's even more beautiful than Meng Yao remembers.
He stands, frozen in place. What is he supposed to do now?
He wants to go over. He wants to turn around and run.
Before anything can come of the turmoil inside him the stranger looks up from his book and their eyes meet. At first, shock blooms on his face but even from across the room Meng Yao can see how it melts into something else, something that Meng Yao might almost dare call joy.
His stomach squirms. During the past weeks he started believing that he must have overreacted because nothing this visceral could possibly be real. But it is. He can feel this unfathomable, breathless thing between them drawing him in, relentlessly.
He falls back on instinct. His feet carry him to the counter as if he'd just entered the cafe and nothing else had happened. His mind is filled with static. He stares at the menu card displayed on the wall without seeing anything. It's fortunate that there's a woman in line before him because he's not sure he'd be able to string together an order.
What is he supposed to do now? He's barely bought himself any time. What if the stranger decides to corner him right here?
What if he uses the chance that Meng Yao's back is turned and leaves?
The thought is unbearable and he's glanced over his shoulder before he can stop himself only to find the man half-turned in his seat as well, looking at him with wide eyes and an urgency as if he really might come over and--
What is he doing? He didn't get this far in life by turning tail at the first sign of an unexpected complication. He'll settle whatever this is once and for all, right now.
As he makes his way staunchly towards the table he can see the stranger's expression shift through surprise to a calmer relief laced with anticipation.
Meng Yao pulls out the chair and sits across from him. The man doesn't seem to mind his brashness, if anything he seems pleased. His eyes, already warm before, are downright fond now and the longer Meng Yao looks at him the more his smile grows until it's become a full grin. It's disarmingly handsome.
Meng Yao refuses to be fazed by it. “What?”
The man shrugs, still smiling. “I'm glad to see you again,” he says in a way Meng Yao can't pin down. He sounds completely sincere but simple pleasantries shouldn't hold this much weight.
“Who are you,” he asks, a little too warily to pass for polite, yet the man's reply is accompanied by that same smile.
“I'm Lan Xichen.”
Lan Xichen. He barely resists the temptation to repeat the name, just to try it out, feel its shape. It remains on his tongue instead, burning and unspoken.
He thought knowing his name would finally ease the longing inside him but it doesn't. It only makes it worse because it doesn't answer why he recognized this stranger, doesn't explain the connection they share. It is not enough, not even close and Meng Yao drops his gaze as he tries to rein himself in.
There's a bookmark peeking out between the book's pages. It looks self-made, a pressed blue flower carefully arranged on a faded piece of paper. Was it a gift? Does it hold any sentimental value? The book cover shows a cloudy sky and the tip of a magnolia branch in full bloom. Song of Clarity, Meng Yao reads and knows that if nothing else he'll be looking this up before the day is out. Anything to alleviate this feeling of distance between them, created by the vast multitudes of things he doesn't know about Lan Xichen.
He meets Lan Xichen's eyes again and is both taken aback and not surprised at all by the gentle patience he finds there. Everything about him is so gentle. Meng Yao wants to sink into it and never resurface.
“How do you know me?” he tries again.
Lan Xichen's mouth opens but he pauses and ultimately doesn't speak, just huffs a little laugh that has no right to send Meng Yao's heart tripping over itself. He frowns in question.
“I was going to say I don't but that doesn't feel quite true, does it?” Lan Xichen's eyes are very dark and impossible to look away from.
“This is absurd,” Meng Yao feels compelled to point out.
“And does it feel absurd to you?”
It doesn't. It feels existential, like breathing, like the pulse in his throat. Intimate. Close. Meng Yao swallows.
Lan Xichen leans in. Theirs is a small table and Meng Yao thinks he could reach out and touch him, like this. He wouldn't even have to reach out very far. “What are you afraid of?” Lan Xichen whispers.
What isn't he afraid of? Attachment, disappointments. Discovery. Rejection. Too many things go wrong in uncharted territory.
Warm fingers curl around his. Meng Yao watches, entranced, as Lan Xichen cups his hand in his own, his touch feather soft. He has slender fingers. A musician's hands. Meng Yao wonders if he plays an instrument. Would he trace the strings with the same care he does the back of Meng Yao's hand? How can something so foreign feel so soothing?
“How does it not unsettle you?” he deflects.
Lan Xichen squeezes his fingers and before Meng Yao knows what he's doing he's squeezing back, as if they've done this a million times before.
“Because you feel familiar,” Lan Xichen replies, then shakes his head slightly. “More than that... you feel safe. I trust you.”
Trust. The word lodges itself somewhere inside Meng Yao's chest.
The hint of a smile curves Lan Xichen's lips. “But then, I suppose I'm not a naturally distrustful person.”
It takes a moment until Meng Yao realizes he's being teased. There's no denying that he is a naturally distrustful person. He's usually better at hiding it but looking back he has to concede that so far he's been lacking poise around Lan Xichen. It's a little embarrassing. He's not sure he's ever been affectionately teased before, certainly not by someone he has only just met. He's not sure how to feel about it. He might not dislike it, and he's not sure how to feel about that either.
Lan Xichen is still tenderly holding his hand.
To think that he's already slipped up enough for Lan Xichen to so easily get a read on him... it leaves him wrong-footed and yet the prospect of letting Lan Xichen see isn't as intimidating as it should be. Meng Yao has never been one for incalculable risks but he thinks he might give it a try, just this once.
“And where do we go from here?” Asking is a show of vulnerability he wouldn't normally allow.
Lan Xichen meets this concession with a smile full of delight. “I could order us more tea.” His thumb caresses Meng Yao's knuckle. “And you could start by telling me your name.”
Startled Meng Yao rewinds their conversation and finds that, yes, he really had failed to introduce himself. Another lapse, one Lan Xichen had taken in perfect stride. Meng Yao feels warm.
“I'm Meng Yao,” he says and doesn't stop his shy smile from showing.
Lan Xichen's answering grin is the softest thing he's ever seen. “A-Yao.”
It's too presumptuous; it should probably rub Meng Yao the wrong way. It doesn't. All it does is fill him with tingling contentment, like something that hasn't been quite right has finally shifted back into place.