Archive of Our Own

Wei Ying hasn’t closed the shower door all the way—has left it open a crack—and so stream curls out into hallway and makes the house smell like soap and like heat. Lan Zhan is in bed, waiting. A little dazed, a little hungry, feeling like she should get up and move before it’s too late. She does not get up and move and instead she sits, and waits. The movie is paused at at the ready mark of 0:05. A bottle of beer has been left on the night stand, cold and sweating.

Last night Lan Zhan was over at Wei Ying’s for dinner. It was a short dinner, had early and cut off before dessert because Wei Ying had a date—her first date in over a month, her first date since the accident. She was excited about it in an almost angry way, kept on saying, “God why am I even going, I hate dates, I hate—I should cancel, I should—” And then made Lan Zhan look at all the pictures of the guy, all the ones he had up on his profile plus the ones Wei Ying had found when she Googled him. She said, “He looks normal right? He looks normal, right Lan Zhan? Look he’s holding a cat here that’s—I mean that’s normal, right, that—”

Lan Zhan had said she couldn’t say for certain what normal looked like, cat or no cat. Wei Ying hadn’t even huffed a laugh at that. She chewed her lip and nodded like Lan Zhan had said something smart and then disappeared into her room several times for several outfit changes. She called Lan Zhan in and made her tie the ribbons of her top. They wrapped around her midriff and came together low on her back. She couldn’t do it herself, she said, not with her two stupid broken wrists, her two big clumsy casts. Lan Zhan had said, “Turn around.”

This did get a laugh from her: a single panting sound, and then she went quiet. Her waist was a heartbreaking dip to hold. She had a dot of a mole next to her spine. Her hair was long enough that she had to hold it out of the way so it wouldn’t get tangled in the knot. Lan Zhan’s touch must have been a little cold because Wei Ying’s skin rose in bumps and she huffed and Lan Zhan rested a hand on her hip. Lan Zhan was dry-mouthed, traced a line of the ribbon with her thumb. She asked Wei Ying, voice low: “And how will Wei Ying untie this, by herself?”

Wei Ying was quiet, a beat. And then Lan Zhan felt the jerk of her breath and then she was laughing some more and stepping out of Lan Zhan’s hold and saying, “Ahhh Lan Zhan not by myself, I hope!! If all goes well, date night, fingers crossed!!”

All had not gone well, on date night. Wei Ying showed up at Lan Zhan’s apartment the next day, in the lull between late noon and evening. When Lan Zhan opened the door Wei Ying stood in the blaze of a sunset coming in through the building’s paneled stairway windows. At first she was a silhouette, a shape against the light, and then Lan Zhan saw her—face puffy, frustrated, make-up smudged. Her hair was up in the same way she’d done it yesterday, a braid in a high tail, but most of it had come loose, a messy rub of frizz. She had wrapped herself in a big jacket and was holding herself like a fight, a snarl, eyes wet.

A confused and hasty several minutes in the hallway where Lan Zhan thought the date had done something, and she had gone blindingly hot in her head and was reaching for a phone and her car keys and possibly a knife and Wei Ying had to weepily explain that no—no he hadn’t, not at all, it wasn’t that, it wasn’t—

He hadn’t done a thing, she’d said, and then slumped against Lan Zhan’s wall and sunk down until she sat. She sobbed, just a little, and said, “He didn’t—! He was—he was boring and fucking whatever and he didn’t even, he wouldn’t—! And I was like, haha, but wanna come up and he—he said—” She put on a voice, deeper, “Uhhh no thank you good night uhhh, like! What? Why? I listened to him, boring, all night and he—And then I couldn’t—get out of these fucking—!” And she pawed at her top, at the tangled ribbons at her waist, a blurry and frustrated grab that solved nothing and she grunted. Dropped her cast-bound arms. Banged the back of her head against the wall.

Lan Zhan was still coming down from having had to kill a man. She put away her phone, her car keys. She stood in front of Wei Ying, and looked down at her. Wei Ying looked up in return. She looked exhausted, she looked like she hadn’t washed her face. Her mouth was chapped and puffed and wet from the crying—open, the angle of her neck. Lan Zhan saw the glisten of her two front teeth.

Lan Zhan helped her up. Wei Ying went grumpily, wavering, and Lan Zhan held her face, wiped her cheeks with her own sleeve. Wei Ying closed her eyes for this. Lan Zhan said, “Shh,” a private little sound to the line of Wei Ying’s hair, and Wei Ying swallowed. Leaned into her.

“Please get me out of this,” Wei Ying whispered, and fidgeted, and kept her face in Lan Zhan’s neck and pushed her casts into Lan Zhan’s arms and said: “I can’t—please please this stupid top could you please just—”

Lan Zhan undid her top for her: two hands under the warm shadow of Wei Ying big leather jacket. She plucked at the tie, and plucked at it, and it took long enough that Wei Ying made a high-pitched sound of impatience and Lan Zhan had to shush her again. The ties gave. She undid the knot, and unspooled the ribbons, and said: “There you go.” She palmed Wei Ying’s waist, her hot skin. Wei Ying shivered.

“Do you want to eat?” Lan Zhan asked. “Shower? We can watch a movie.”

“Uh-huh,” Wei Ying said. She still hadn’t let go. She sounded small and tired. She said, “Yeah, uh. Yeah.”

Lan Zhan let her go. Wei Ying wouldn’t look at her, she looked at the ground and at the shoes and at the pockets of the coats hanging by the door. She held herself by her bare midriff, right where Lan Zhan’s hands had been a moment ago. Lan Zhan went to get her water.

Wei Ying sat on the couch and drank the water. Lan Zhan ordered them dinner, and watched from the corner of her eye as Wei Ying held the empty glass against her cheek; watched as Wei Ying blew hot air into the glass and fogged it up, watched as Wei Ying went to the other room changed into one of Lan Zhan’s t-shirts. Food came and they ate at the table with the radio on, some advice show where people called in. A single dad with two daughters and a gaping dept. A woman who didn’t know how to manage a friend-breakup. An embarrassed young person with a bad crush on their teacher.

“Oh my god,” was Wei Ying’s reaction to the call, and she gave Lan Zhan a wide-eyed look, food half out her mouth. There was a stretch of a week, right after Wei Ying had broken her wrists, that Lan Zhan had to cut her food for her. Feed her, too. Wei Ying couldn’t hold the utensils right, her fingers awkward in the casts, hands still sore and swollen. The first time Lan Zhan had fed her, when Wei Ying was still disoriented and woozy on painkillers, Wei Ying had put up a tantrum and said—So I’m a baby now, so like I’m a tiny helpless baby who can’t feed herself or shower herself and congratulations, you’re gonna have to—to—cart me around like some tiny baby who—

But she had allowed Lan Zhan to take care of her, had no choice but to allow it. Furiously, at first, then resignedly, then something else. Something sharp-eyed and slow. Mouth open, waiting. A steamed vegetable, a fried piece of eggplant. Her tongue was inside a dark-red cave that Lan Zhan had to look away from. Couldn’t look away from. At the end of each dinner, Wei Ying would cast her eyes down, would say a quiet, thank you. And something too hot and too big would move through Lan Zhan, at that. She knew it immediately, recognized it, the sharp-toothed surety with which she’d tell Wei Ying to open her mouth; told her to sit down, told her to go to sleep, wake up, then put on her socks for her. Brushed her teeth for her. Lan Zhan knew her own desires, disliked them, and had come to terms with the fact that in time she would have to pry this rare allowance from her own fingers, when the time came. The casts would come off, eventually. Wei Ying would get her hands back, eventually. Wei Ying would stop needing her, Wei Ying would return to her life again, return to her job again, and would go on dates again and she would—she would not—

The radio call ended and a song came on and Wei Ying said, “Yikes.” Said, “Your teacher. Yikes. Poor kid.” There was a smear of red oil under her lip. Lan Zhan reached out and wiped it away. Wei Ying stilled under the touch. Lan Zhan cleaned her finger on a napkin and Wei Ying saw her do it and laughed, and scrubbed two fingers over where the smear had been and said, “Ah is it gone? Is it gone Lan Zhan?”

Another call on the radio. This time, a mom who wanted her only daughter to call more often. There was one last piece of meat in Wei Ying’s bowl and she joked that Lan Zhan should feed her that—that she had fed herself for too long and that her hands were sooo tired, now.

Lan Zhan did not acknowledge this. She took both the bowls to the kitchen and threw away that last piece of meat. Wei Ying put up an affronted act, followed Lan Zhan into the kitchen. She slumped against the doorway in Lan Zhan’s oversized t-shirt with an air like she kept on wanting to say something and then changed her mind. Her hair was still a mess. The white-hemmed plaster of her casts had gone greyish in the month since they’d been set. She’d chosen a dark red for the cast covers—a length that spanned her wrists to just below her elbows. Both arms were covered in scribbles. Most of them Wei Ying’s own bored doodles, some of them her friends’. Near her thumb on her left hand, in neat strokes: Lan Zhan was here.

Wei Ying carried the bindings like two heavy sleeves, dangling by her sides, fingers curled in. She took half a breath and said, “Hey are we like . . . okay? Are we like good?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan said.

“Okay,” Wei Ying said, unsure. Then, “I was just joking you know. About the—about the food. I was just full.” She was quiet, then. Lan Zhan washed the bowls. Then Wei Ying continued with a, “Hey like I’m sorry about—like, the doorway drama, before, haha, it’s, I’m just . . . not sleeping super well and um, you know, it’s been a, uhhh, a while since . . .”

“You should shower,” Lan Zhan said. And then caught herself, amended: “Would you like to take a shower?” Added: “And then after that we can watch a movie.”

“Um,” Wei Ying said. “Okay. Yeah okay. We’ll—yeah. A shower sounds nice. A movie sounds nice.”

Lan Zhan nodded at the dishes. Then she went to get a towel for Wei Ying, went to get the plastic covers for the casts. She helped Wei Ying put them on. She asked, “Can you— Do you need any—”

“Nope!” Wei Ying said, plastic crinkling, holding the towel awkwardly to her chest. “Thanks! Nope! Thank you!”

Lan Zhan said, “Hm,” and left, and Wei Ying didn’t close the door all the way and Lan Zhan had go out on the freezing balcony to smoke a secret cigarette from the secret pack she kept behind the potted plant. She had bought the packet last year. This was her second cigarette. The first she’d smoked a month and a half ago, the day the hospital called. It had been three in the morning when the phone went and Lan Zhan was sweaty in the waiting room at three-fifteen. She didn’t recall getting out of bed, or putting on her shoes, or the drive over—only that there had been a call, and then she was in the hospital in the middle of the night, and there was one lamp in the back that was blinking continuously.

It took forever before she could see Wei Ying. Lan Zhan had stepped up to the counter five times by then and said numbly, “Excuse me. I’m here to see a patient named Wei Ying,” and was told to sit down each time again. She watched a dad try to feed a coffee machine coins and the machine wouldn’t take them. And then she was called, and a nurse walked her through a maze of buttercup-yellow hallways, and then there was Wei Ying: sat on a bed, two forearms in a cast. She was bruised and swollen-eyed and had a bad cut down her forehead. She’d bled into the collar of her shirt. It was a white shirt with a cartoon of a bunny in bikini on the beach and it said, Summertime! It was January.

A motorcycle accident, they’d said on the phone. Wei Ying didn’t drive a motor. She’d been on the back of someone else’s ride. Lan Zhan hadn’t spoken to her, that week, hadn’t known what her plans were for the night. She could’ve been anywhere, with anyone.

Wei Ying’s greeting was a wet, puffy-mouthed smile, lifting her two bound arms and saying: “So look at what this dummy’s done this time.”

A nurse took Lan Zhan aside to explain about the painkillers, about what the next few hours and days would look like. Lan Zhan nodded, and thought she was going to throw up, and she didn’t. She took Wei Ying home. In the car, Wei Ying considered her red casts, said, “They let me pick the colour.”

Lan Zhan was driving as slowly as she could. She said, “Wei Ying picked well.”

“Yeah. Looks cool, huh.” She said this very softly. Later, much later, she would mumble out the story in embarrassed parts: some guy, some date, some drinks—too many drinks. And she’d been having a bad week, and she’d been reckless, and she should’ve known he was too drunk to drive but he promised to take her somewhere nice. Top of the hill, a view. They crashed into the brush. It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been so much worse. He got off with a concussion; she with two broken wrists and five stitches. They were lucky, Wei Ying would say, later. Lucky and dumb and so fucking typical and couldn’t she ever just make one fucking decision that didn’t end up in—

But right then she sat like a slumped doll in Lan Zhan car, mouth a pulled comma, eyes shiny. She said, “You can take me home, you know,” and Lan Zhan didn’t answer. She took Wei Ying to her own apartment. It was morning but still winter-dark, the palm of dawn turning slowly. The house was slumbering: quiet walls, quiet shoes lined up by the door. Lan Zhan made them tea, and then found out that Wei Ying couldn’t hold the cup; couldn’t hold anything. Her fingers were swollen and irritated and the cast was in the way and it hurt. Wei Ying said, “Oh god, oh god oh god oh god,” and then panicked until Lan Zhan made her drink a glass of water: held it to her mouth for her, tilted it up for her.

Wei Ying’s hand was a brush of a touch at Lan Zhan’s elbow. It was like watching a baby drink: the small noises she made, the way she stared at Lan Zhan as she drank. How she caught her breath in between.

She calmed down. Lan Zhan suggested a shower. Wei Ying said, “Yeah, yes, that’s,” and then didn’t know how she’d shower: how she’d get out of her clothes, what she’d do with her casts, and the panic rose again and Lan Zhan held her face gently and shushed her and said: “I’ll help. Wei Ying. I’ll help.”

The shirt was a total loss. Lan Zhan had to cut it off her with a pair of scissors, and Wei Ying cried very quietly as she did, and Lan Zhan thought for a moment she’d hurt her somehow. “I just,” Wei Ying said, “I just love this shirt.”

There was a big bruise on her belly. She was all goosebumps. Her bra was a pretty thing, black lace, and Lan Zhan did not look. They were in the bathroom, and the shower was running, and the whole space steamed up quickly. Wei Ying sat on the downturned toilet lid, and Lan Zhan was on her knees and rolled off Wei Ying’s socks for her, took off her jeans for her. There was a bad scathe on her knee. Lan Zhan, delirious with exhaustion and the retreating tide of bone-deep fear, kissed the scathe. Wei Ying put a hand on her shoulder. She was still crying.

Lan Zhan tied plastic bags around her casts. Lan Zhan took off her bra for her, her underwear. Wei Ying leaned sleepily against the wall as Lan Zhan undressed. She did so perfunctorily, quickly, did not look down at her own body or at how Wei Ying looked at her—if at all.

Lan Zhan said, “Try not to get them under the stream,” and meant Wei Ying’s arms, and helped Wei Ying into the shower. It was hot and confusing and the dearest thing Lan Zhan had done for another person in her life: holding a naked Wei Ying with loose hands, washing the muck from her neck; the blood, the dirt. She passed a washcloth over her—her arms, her ribs. Her back. Wei Ying had a hard time keeping her plastic-wrapped casts from getting wet and so Lan Zhan took them, let her rest them on her shoulders, an embrace. Wei Ying leaned into her. Lan Zhan’s hand had stopped somewhere halfway up Wei Ying’s back, a weight in a washcloth, and even through the steam and the humid puffs of water, Wei Ying’s breath was the heaviest heat on her neck. Her breasts were a soft press against her chest.

She washed Wei Ying’s hair for her; was gentle around the stitches. She dried it, braided it. The sun was up and they got into bed. The curtains were drawn as tightly as they could. In the light-speckled dark Wei Ying looked at her across the pillow and whispered, “Sorry.” And Lan Zhan, voice like sandpaper, said, “No.”

Wei Ying was shiny eyes in Lan Zhan’s bed. She was so close, and warm. Her skin had been so soft in the shower. “You were asleep,” Wei Ying whispered. She meant: when the hospital called. When Wei Ying got into an accident.

“And then I was awake,” Lan Zhan said. “Please,” she said, and wanted to—wanted to touch Wei Ying again. She said: “Please let them call me. Whenever. Please call. I’m always—I’ll always—”

Wei Ying’s breath rushed out of her and she said, “Okay okay okay okay,” all at once, all to stop Lan Zhan from talking. She pushed her face close, pushed their foreheads together. Lan Zhan thought Wei Ying would kiss her. She didn’t. She stayed there, a long time, breathed against Lan Zhan’s mouth. They’d been friends for so long—so long. And Wei Ying, she didn’t—Lan Zhan knew she didn’t—

Wei Ying turned in Lan Zhan’s hold, and tucked herself back into Lan Zhan’s chest, made herself the little spoon. Her arms were awkward on the bed. “I’m tired,” she said. It was the first time Lan Zhan had got to watch Wei Ying fall asleep. The first time she stayed awake long enough to do so, slumbering on the surface occasionally and then startling awake—some terror of a dream, some panic—then finding Wei Ying in her arms. Calming down. Dozing again. She got out of bed at ten, smoked a cigarette out on the snowy balcony, watched two seagulls fight over a hamburger bun, and then brushed her teeth in the bathroom. Stared at her bloodshot eyes in the mirror.

A month and a half, since that night. The sound of a coughing motorcycle out the window could have Wei Ying out of it for hours, these days. Sometimes, when Lan Zhan would drive her somewhere, she made Lan Zhan stop the car, suddenly stop the car, and then she’d get out and walk around and catch her breath. Hold her casts over her eyes. She had an appointment to get them off. She’d been counting down the days: eight! She’d said last night, before her date. Eight, Lan Zhan! Eight! Less than nine! I can do eight! I can do eight!

Seven, as of today. Lan Zhan finished her second secret cigarette of the year, went inside, held the butt under the tap, wrapped it in a bit of toilet paper, threw it away. Washed her hands, washed out her mouth. Wei Ying wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t smell it either way, but still. She washed her hands again. Wei Ying hadn’t closed the shower door all the way, and Lan Zhan tried not to think about it. Wei Ying was naked in a room next door. Lan Zhan took a beer from the bridge, took it to the bedroom—left it on the bedside table. She turned on the movie, paused it immediately, 0:05. She sat in the armchair, then changed her mind. She sat on the edge of the bed, then all the way on the bed, against the headboard.

Now the house smells like soap, like heat. Wei Ying turns off the shower. A long silence follows, and now Lan Zhan can clearly hear the sound of her own breathing. The click of her own dry mouth. Wei Ying comes into the room, drying her hair with a towel, wearing only Lan Zhan’s t-shirt. She is all long legs and stubble and dry blushing knees. Her toes, too, have turned red in the heat.

She says, “Ooooh, for me!”, and takes the beer from the nightstand and drops the towel on the chair and gets into bed next to Lan Zhan. She drinks and says, “Aaah, that’s nice.” She pushes her shoulder against Lan Zhan’s, and her wet hair drips—on Lan Zhan’s shirt, the sheets. She says, “This was a great idea. Movie was a great idea. You’re a great idea,” and grins, and has another drink. With her fingers peeking out of the casts’s edge she can only hold the bottle by its neck. Her legs are all bare skin on the bed. She is a warm glow, looks so soft.

Lan Zhan is warm-faced. She turns on the movie and sits back and keeps herself locked: arms at her sides, fists at her thighs, eyes ahead. The movie is about something. A magic bakery, something. A talking crab. Lan Zhan registers it only marginally. Wei Ying participates in the story, talking at the characters, saying things like, “Why would you—why would you do that?”, and, “Aaaahh stop stop talking stop—”, and, “That guy? You think that guy will do a better job than—”

And then, two-thirds into her beer, she is slumped against the headboard and her wet hair is a cold patch through Lan Zhan’s sleeve and she has stopped paying attention. She is plucking at the beer’s label, one moment in thought, one moment distracted—looking at the ceiling, at the painting of a mountain on Lan Zhan’s wall. She blows air into her cheeks, then says on a high breath: “You know what it is, though?” And doesn’t give Lan Zhan a second to answer, answering herself: “It’s just that—this guy, right, he—it’s just rude, a little, to not be up-front about what you want? Because I was pretty up-front about it, like, I said, like we chatted and I said, you know, stuff like—” And here she stutters around what she had said, clearly wanting to tell Lan Zhan without telling her. She still has notions about how prude Lan Zhan might be, about what she can or can’t say in Lan Zhan’s company. She is flushed. “Oh you know, that I’d be down to, to see where the night would take us! Stuff like that! And he was—he was all, oooh you’re so sexy,” she puts on a voice. “Oooh I can’t wait to get my hands on you, and then he doesn’t, like, at all, put his hands on me, and okay, like, these—” she holds up a cast, “are not the sexiest accessory to a night out but come on, like how much of a—!” She stops herself. Suddenly, stops herself. Exhales, stares at the screen blankly. On the television there’s a party scene. Couples are dancing in a low-hanging mist. It throws the room into a blue hue.

Lan Zhan wants to say what she has always wanted to say when Wei Ying gets broken up over boys: then don’t. Then don’t go on dates. Then don’t talk to men. Then stay here. Then come here. Then let me—let me—

“It’s stupid,” Wei Ying says, quietly. She sounds defeated. “I wasn’t even that into him.”

“I know,” Lan Zhan says, a beat later. “I’m sorry.” It’s stiff and obviously curated. It’s one of a handful of answers she’s allowed herself to give, over the years, in fear of what might come out if she was given free range. And so: I understand. I know. I’m sorry. Perhaps next time.

Wei Ying looks at her, now. There’s a film of—of something over her eyes. Something wet, upset. She frowns. She finishes her beer, says, “I’m getting another one, want anything?” And Lan Zhan gives a sound that means no, and Wei Ying clambers off the bed. The hem of the big shirt rides up. Lan Zhan can see her underwear, white cotton with a fraying elastic. Lan Zhan stares at the carpet until Wei Ying is out of the room.

She pauses the movie. Once, a few weeks ago, on a day when Wei Ying had a bad day and was too frustrated with her arms and the pain, she had got drunk on her own on Lan Zhan’s couch. Finished a bottle of wine by herself. It hadn’t taken away her misery, but rather made it slow, made it sticky and bratty, purple-mouthed. She wanted Lan Zhan to brush her teeth for her. Had said, “Pleaaaaase baby pleeeaaase I’m so, I’m tired, my hands, the cast is heaaavy pleaaaase.”

Lan Zhan didn’t say yes. She just walked a swaying Wei Ying to the bathroom, took the toothbrush. Put the paste on it. Wei Ying had said, “Yaaaay,” and then had kept her eyes open for the whole thing. Her mirth, the joke of it, seemed to blur quickly once she stood there—once she found herself having to open her mouth for it. Lan Zhan had done it slowly, woozily; was sure she had been weird about it, eyes glazed, shallow-breathed. She held Wei Ying by her neck, her jaw. Had watched the walls of Wei Ying’s throat contract as she tried not to swallow.

After, Wei Ying had said: “You really think I’m helpless, huh?”

Lan Zhan didn’t reply. She was washing the brush. The water ran dark and purple. Wei Ying was quiet, a moment, then said, “What wouldn’t Lan Zhan do for Wei Ying, hmm?” She was still drunk. She could barely keep her eyes open. “When’re you gonna say no, hmm?”

Lan Zhan caught Wei Ying’s sway with a hand to her ribs. “I only do,” Lan Zhan said, and Wei Ying lilted into her, “what I want to do.”

“Only do what y’wanna do,” Wei Ying repeated, and held on to Lan Zhan’s shirt with short fingers. She swayed and put her face to Lan Zhan’s neck, to her ear. Her mouth was wet. She said, “What don’t you want to do?” She pulled at Lan Zhan’s shirt. Her breath was hot, smelled like toothpaste. “Lan Zhan? What don’t you wanna do?”

“I—” Lan Zhan said, and felt drunk herself. Held Wei Ying by the small of her back, and pulled at her for a mad moment, and squeezed her waist and breathed into her cheek and the corner of her mouth and stopped herself. Swallowed and said, “Wei Ying. You’re drunk.”  

She pulled away. Wei Ying said, “Oh.” She looked woozy, unsteady.

“It’s bedtime,” Lan Zhan said.

“Ha,” Wei Ying said, and closed her eyes. Lan Zhan let her take the bed, slept on the couch herself. The next day Wei Ying had a bad hangover, was dour and moody, wanted to do everything herself. Clean up herself, do the dishes herself, cut the vegetables for lunch and put the plastic shower covers on herself, which she couldn’t, even though she tried, and Lan Zhan came to help anyway and Wei Ying said, “No just—just stop fussing!” and jerked her arm away from Lan Zhan. “God. Don’t you have anything else to do? Am I your only entertainment?”

She locked herself up in the shower for an hour, water running and running and running. She came out with a waft of steam and the smell of Lan Zhan’s shampoo. Lan Zhan didn’t look up. Lan Zhan had promised herself not to look up, to stay at the table, to read her book. Wei Ying, she wanted to project, was not her only entertainment.

But then Wei Ying came to her. Stood close. She was half-dressed in her work uniform—the button-up with the badge, her jeans. The blouse was open. She couldn’t do the buttons herself. She worked at an electronic’s shop, mostly in the back, fixed things and tinkered with things and welded them back together.

Her hair was messily done up. Strands were dripping water. Lan Zhan saw this from the corner of her eye: she did not look up.

“Hey,” Wei Ying said.

Lan Zhan did not look up.

“Hey. Hey I’m sorry. I’m a dick I’m sorry. Hey, hey. Look at me.” She reached for Lan Zhan: damp hands, damp cast, one to Lan Zhan’s jaw, one into the short cut of Lan Zhan’s hair, turned her face for her, turned it up. Made Lan Zhan look at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. She looked flushed, puffy. Unhappy. “I didn’t mean it, okay? I’m sorry. Can you button me up? I’m sorry.”

Lan Zhan closed her eyes only briefly. Then she stood and buttoned Wei Ying up for her. Her knuckles brushed her bare belly. Up, up, up. Lan Zhan could see the thud of Wei Ying’s heartbeat over her breast, under her skin. She buttoned that up, too. All the way to the collar.

Wei Ying lingers in the doorway, now. She has a fresh bottle of beer dangling from one hand, cold class against her bare thigh. She’s leaned against the doorpost in some way—some way. She’s watching Lan Zhan like she’s trying to work something out. Tapping the bottle against her leg, tapping, tapping.

Lan Zhan swallows, says, “What?”, and Wei Ying walks—back to the bed, back to her. She kneels onto the mattress, turns the movie back on, then gives Lan Zhan the bottle to hold. Lan Zhan doesn’t expect it and so she goes with it—holds the bottle, watches as Wei Ying pushes one of Lan Zhan’s knees aside, settles back like that: between her legs, her back leaned to Lan Zhan’s front. She takes the bottle back. She takes a long swig. Lan Zhan can feel the movement of her drinking.

Neither of them say anything, at first. The movie continues: the talking crab is hiding under a pan. The heroine is messing up a recipe. Wei Ying’s elbow is resting on Lan Zhan’s thigh. Lan Zhan says, “Your hair,” which is damp against her, and Wei Ying makes a sound and leans away a little—enough to let Lan Zhan twist it out between them, drape it over Wei Ying’s shoulder.

Wei Ying settles back in. She murmurs something like a thanks. This is not fully new, this is not uncharted—they have sat like this before, slow and comfortable, at parties, out camping, Wei Ying wanting her hair braided, Wei Ying wanted her shoulders squeezed, Wei Ying telling a sad story that she had decided has earned her sympathy and then saying, Hold me!! I’m sad!!, and Lan Zhan complied: holding her.

It’s not new, it’s not uncharted, and still Lan Zhan doesn’t know what to do: with her hands, with her legs. Today has been odd, last night has been odd. This past month has passed like a balloon inflated too tight, about to burst. She needs to take a step back, she knows. She needs to put some space between them again, regain her footing. She needs to ask Wei Ying to sit on her end of the bed again, save herself the ache that will undoubtedly follow.

She doesn’t. She shifts and puts her cheek to the side of Wei Ying’s head—the shell of her ear. Wei Ying doesn’t acknowledge this, says, “You know the thing is—!” And pauses, and drinks from her beer, and swallows and says: “It’s just, like—it’s not like I had super high expectations, you know? I didn’t expect to like, have my world rocked. Like, the opposite. Like I would’ve taken anything, to be honest, he didn’t even have to—try! I just—ugh, you know, it’s been months since—you know, anyone’s actually, since I’ve been touched like, by anyone, and that’s a bit of ah . . .”

On the screen, a scene with a lot of sharp cuts. Someone is mean to the heroine. The room goes from blue to red to blue. The heel of Wei Ying’s bottle touches Lan Zhan’s leg. It’s a cold dot of a press through her sweatpants. The rest of Wei Ying is all heat, everywhere they touch—neck, chest, lap.

Wei Ying breathes, says, “I’m just bummed. I’ll stop talking about it, I promise, It’s whatever.” And then, a second later, almost the same beat: “I miss it. I miss being touched.”

Lan Zhan says, “We’re touching.” She says, “I’ve touched you.”

“I mean—! I mean, like—” And then she turns an inch to see Lan Zhan’s face, says, “Oh you’re teasing, you know what I mean.”

Lan Zhan has pulled up her legs a little, at some point. Had put her hands on her knees, at some point. She doesn’t recall when. The knuckles of her thumbs on each side brush Wei Ying’s bare thighs. Lan Zhan says, “Do I know what you mean?”

Wei Ying shifts. Lan Zhan can only see her profile, now. She puffs air like Lan Zhan made a bad joke, an unconvincing joke. She doesn’t answer. She drinks, and then drinks longer, and the movie goes on. She puts the beer bottle away, on the nightstand, and she’s tense now—fidgets more, breathes like she wants to say something and then doesn’t. She leans back into Lan Zhan and takes her hands and wraps Lan Zhan’s arms around her, says, “I mean you should hold me more. I’m very lonely, you know, I told you I’m very lonely.”

She’s put on a voice that means she’s playacting. That means she’s half pretending, or joking, or doing a bit. She exaggerates the gesture, too: makes Lan Zhan hold her in a too-big embrace, wriggles, pouts.

Lan Zhan allows this. She takes a big breath and allows it, closes her eyes. They stay there, for a while, and the hold eases. The act, too, eases. Wei Ying’s breath smells like beer, the music on the screen means someone is up to something. Lan Zhan’s hands are on Wei Ying’s belly. Wei Ying’s hands are over Lan Zhan’s. She goes back to watching the movie, or looks like she’s watching the movie; quieter, stiller. Her touch has the smallest movement to it: fingers over the slotted spaces between Lan Zhan’s. Over her knuckles, the backs of her hands. It’s barely anything. It’s barely there at all.

And then she takes Lan Zhan’s hands again and puts them under her shirt. Puts them over the skin of her stomach, low, over the sweet fold of her belly. She has a trail of hair, there. Lan Zhan’s smallest finger brushes the elastic of her underwear. Her skin is burning. Wei Ying exhales, shakily, and Lan Zhan puts her face to the side of Wei Ying’s neck—holds her breath.

They both hold. There’s blood rushing loudly in Lan Zhan’s ears, adrenaline—a pooling between her legs. She can’t quite think, can’t quite understand, not what is happening, not the dialogue on screen, not the way her mouth opens over Wei Ying’s skin. She breathes against it. She fans out her fingers, her hold: spans the whole of Wei Ying’s belly.

A sound, a hitch. Wei Ying speaks, and it’s so quiet, and a little unclear, words choppy: “It’s also that . . . Lan Zhan, it’s also that, I haven’t been able, with the, ah—the—my hands . . . Lan Zhan—”

“You haven’t touched yourself,” Lan Zhan concludes. The words rush through her, a harsh heat. She’s wet. Wei Ying tries to arch against her. Lan Zhan palms her: her belly, her ribs. Wei Ying shakes her head, no. She’s let Lan Zhan’s hands go. She’s holding on to her knees, now. The edge of the casts digs harshly. Lan Zhan says, “Have you really tried?”, and Wei Ying shudders, pushes back against her, toward her, and Lan Zhan grabs her—keeps her still. Keeps her from moving.

Wei Ying whines behind closed lips. Lan Zhan squeezes. “Have you,” she says, “really tried?”

“What,” Wei Ying starts, stops. Swallows. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t use your hands.”

Wei Ying shakes her head.

“What else have you tried?”

“I—” A bright flash from the screen. Lan Zhan presses her nose to the soft spot behind Wei Ying’s ear, and Wei Ying says quickly, “I don’t know? Like—what, like what, I don’t—”

“Have you rubbed against something,” Lan Zhan says, and hears herself, and doesn’t know where the words have come from: low and gravelly and a little mean. A little terrible. She pulls Wei Ying closer, and Wei Ying hitches another breath, and Lan Zhan says: “A pillow. A toy.”

All the air leaves Wei Ying. “No,” she says, small, a whisper. “I don’t . . . um, have a, I don’t know how to . . .”

“Hmm. So Wei Ying only ever uses fingers?” And then, “By herself?”

On Lan Zhan’s knees, Wei Ying’s fingers flex. She says, “Yeah.”

Lan Zhan takes a second. She takes another second. She tries to see if she can retreat, now. She tries to see if she has anything left, on the other side. She only finds white-noise, only finds the thud of her cunt, the damp heat at the nape of Wei Ying’s neck; the clench of Wei Ying’s hands on her legs, her quick breaths under Lan Zhan’s hands, under her hold; the way her muscles jump, the small hitch of her hips, the roll of her shoulders. She’s turned on, she’s restless. Lan Zhan can almost taste it, almost smell it.

She says, “Hm. How frustrating.”

“Yeah—ah, Lan—Lan Zhan, mm—” Wei Ying wants to turn, wants to face Lan Zhan, but Lan Zhan holds her in place and says, “Watch the movie.”

Wei Ying is frozen, half turned. Lan Zhan pulls her back into position, same as before. Wei Ying is almost panting, now. Lan Zhan squeezes her hips, high up her ribs, the skin under her breasts and says, “Watch the movie.”

Wei Ying does as told: slowly, uncertainly, but does as told. She leans back. Her legs are shaking, tremors over muscle. Her knees are pulled up, resting together.

Lan Zhan palms her through her underwear. Wei Ying chokes on a sound, head lolls back onto Lan Zhan’s shoulder, she tries to grind up against the touch and Lan Zhan stops—takes her hand away, says: “Wei Ying. Keep watching.”

Wei Ying tries to look at her, and Lan Zhan won’t allow that, too, and Wei Ying whines. Huffs through it, then lifts her head. Looks at the screen. She tries to see Lan Zhan out of the corner of her eye, and Lan Zhan waits, waits until she stops that, too. Watches the screen.

“Good girl,” Lan Zhan says, and opens Wei Ying’s legs with a touch. Wei Ying reacts—reacts easily. Goes easily. She’s so sensitive. Lan Zhan had known she would be—had known it. Goosebumps, restless, the jerk of muscle at every touch. She has her fingers on the elasticated edge of Wei Ying’s underwear, right where her thigh meets her crotch. Her ass. The movie keeps on, colours, colours. Two characters shake hands. Lan Zhan pulls at the elastic, lets it slap back into place. Wei Ying’s mouth opens with a wet sound, and Lan Zhan strokes two fingers over the heart of Wei Ying’s crotch—they both inhale.

Wei Ying is soaking.

“Ah,” Lan Zhan says, and feels the wet between her fingers. Tests it. Wei Ying keeps her sounds behind her teeth, like she thinks that’s not allowed, either. Like the game is to pretend none of it is happening. Lan Zhan touches her, then. She doesn’t press, doesn’t go where she knows Wei Ying wants her—V’s her fingers on the up-stroke, dabs over the wet give of Wei Ying’s pussy. She doesn’t push in. She doesn’t do much at all. Wei Ying gets wetter, wetter. Lan Zhan can feel the gush of it. Wei Ying’s exhales huff out through her nose, and they louder, her hold tighter on Lan Zhan’s legs. Then, with a jerk, she tries to rut up, to chase the touch and Lan Zhan tsk’s her and pulls her down by her hips and hisses: “Stay.”

Wei Ying sobs. Again she wants to turn to Lan Zhan, and again Lan Zhan holds her back from it—this time with a grip to her hair, a full hand to the base of her tail at the base of her skull. Wei Ying gives a cut-off moan, and Lan Zhan loves her, bites her jaw, her earlobe, says, “Poor baby. Shh. Eyes ahead. Good—” As Wei Ying stares, hazy and out of it, in front of her at the blurry screen. “Good,” Lan Zhan says, and keeps her fist in Wei Ying’s hair, this time. Keep her lips to the hinge of Wei Ying’s jaw, her teeth to skin; not biting, just touching. Just breathing. She palms Wei Ying’s crotch. She pushes her fingers over the wet mess. Lan Zhan can feel her react: the tightening of her muscles, the jerk of her back, her pelvis.

“Has it been long?” Lan Zhan says. It’s a growl, close to skin, barely audible. She knows the answer, and still waits for Wei Ying to say, “Uh-huh,” still replies with a, “Has Wei Ying been all alone in her bed?” And Wei Ying can only hum, can only keep her wet eyes on the screen, can only try not to push her hips up. Lan Zhan nips at her, pushes a thumb to where she’s wettest, says, “You need it.” Says, “I can feel how bad you need it.”

Wei Ying says, “Ah—mm—!” And Lan Zhan tightens her hold on Wei Ying’s hair, pushes the crotch of her underwear aside, touches her like that: up, down, between her lips and her clit and around her clit and down, her cunt, collecting her wet and spreading it, and Wei Ying can’t hold it anymore: rolls into it, says, “Oh god oh god Lan Zhan, oh my god, ah—ah—please, ah—!”

She’s about to come. Lan Zhan takes her hand away. Wei Ying cries, holds. Slumps. Says, “What—no, why, ah—why—” She’s out of it, sweaty, confused. Lan Zhan says, “Shh,” again. Lan Zhan kisses her temple, the back of her neck. Wei Ying shudders. Lan Zhan lets go of her hair. She holds her close, a moment: an embrace, like before, unlike before. She puts her hands under Wei Ying’s shirt and palms her breasts, squeezes them, ruts her hips against her, and Wei Ying gives a weak moan. Lan Zhan can hear the dry click of her throat, the lick of her lips.

“Here,” Lan Zhan says. “Come here.” It’s only words—Wei Ying is already there. She helps Wei Ying take off her underwear. She’s shaking, the whole of her is shaking. She says Lan Zhan’s name, a few times, unsure: “Lan Zhan?” And Lan Zhan says, “Shh, yes, I know. I know.”

The movie rises to some sort of crescendo. Lan Zhan has Wei Ying ride her fingers. On the screen someone is chasing someone down, a cake is made and then botched, it’s raining. Lan Zhan lets Wei Ying lean back against her and gives her two fingers and then keeps them still. She says, “Go on.” And when Wei Ying makes a breathy sound, confused, Lan Zhan tells her: “Fuck yourself. Go on.”

Wei Ying does. The sound of it is filthy. Wei Ying uses Lan Zhan’s thighs as lever, her casts a heavy press. She doesn’t try to hold it in, this time, but doesn’t date to speak—only moans, starts with words and cuts them off, “It’s—ah—Lan Zhan—so—fuck—I’m—!”

The TV flashes and highlights the worst of it: the slick glint on Wei Ying’s thighs, the sweat, the wet collected in her thatch of hair. She’s open-mouthed, trying to keep from lolling back her head; her lips are swollen and her hair a mess and she’s a sight, she’s a dream, she’s about to come and Lan Zhan won’t let her. Lan Zhan pulls out of her, holds her by her thighs.

Wei Ying sobs, a little. She says, “Nooo.” She says, “Please, ah—baby—” Pulls at Lan Zhan’s wrist, wants it back again, says, “Won’t you—ah, baby, I need, I need—”

“I know,” Lan Zhan tells her. “I understand,” she says. She won’t put her fingers back in Wei Ying. She strokes her, now, slowly, softly. She’s a sopping mess. Wei Ying curses. She’s twitching, hissing. Lets her legs fall open as far as they’d go. Lan Zhan hums, at that, pushes her thumb to Wei Ying’s clit—not hard enough, not close enough.

Wei Ying gasps, says, “Oh—ah, you’re doing this on purpose. Fuck. Why—”

“Does it feel good?” Lan Zhan asks. “Am I making Wei Ying feel good?”

Wei Ying whines again. She swallows, several times. Says, “Yeah. Yes. Mmm, please, I just—”

“Then let me,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying takes a deep breath. Relaxes back against Lan Zhan. The movie has come to an end, and they’ve missed it. The credits roll and roll. Lan Zhan touches Wei Ying lazily, fingers her lazily. She’s not sure how long they’ve been at it, only that the bed is too hot, and the room is nearly dark, and her sweatpants are clinging to her legs—her shirt to her back. The room smells like sex, like Wei Ying’s pussy, like her own heavy arousal. The credits roll and roll. Lan Zhan wants to keep her here forever; wants to have her fingers in her forever. Wei Ying is rolling through whole-body shudders, is having trouble keeping her eyes open. She’s slumped lower than before, turns her face to Lan Zhan’s neck, speaks quietly into her hiding place. Lan Zhan can’t quite hear what she’s saying—something like please. Something like Lan Zhan’s name, something like, so good so good so—

She’s fucking Wei Ying shallowly with one set of fingers, the other to her clit, building it up. The credits are rolling, still. A classical piece as the soundtrack. Lan Zhan pushes in deep, as deep as she can, and Wei Ying says, “Fuuuck,” says, “Just fuck me, baby, fuck me, just—God, please, can’t you—!”

Lan Zhan can’t hold back for a moment and rides it—the wave, the heat. Fucks Wei Ying good, proper, pulls her back so she can grind her crotch to Wei Ying’s ass, then a blurry few seconds of movement: she heaves Wei Ying up, pushes her down, has her on her knees and her head down in the sheets, ass up. She keeps fucking her, pushes her shirt up, bites her back and her spine and Wei Ying sobs, fucks back against Lan Zhan’s fingers, knees slipping wider on the messy cloth. Her arms she has crossed over her head, in front of her, the clumsy casts catching on the fabric with each bounce—each slapping shift forward, back.

Lan Zhan pulls away. Wei Ying hides her face in the bed and groans. Her pussy clenches, pulses wet, and Lan Zhan can see it happening—can see it. Her stomach drops at the sight, and she holds Wei Ying by the meat of her thigh—presses her face to her ass, then up, to the small of her back. She breathes, there, a moment. Kisses the skin. Kisses it. Wei Ying shivers, says her name, weakly.

“Wait,” Lan Zhan says. “Wait.”

Wei Ying waits. The screen goes black. The room is hidden now, they are hidden. Lan Zhan counts Wei Ying’s breaths, counts her own. She has never felt her own body like this before: so within herself, so divorced from herself. A truck passes by outside, a loud rumble. It throws light against the curtains, throws everything into shadow. Then it’s gone, and they’re alone again.

Lan Zhan says, “Don’t come,” and eats her out. She shoves a hand down past the waist of her sweatpants, into her briefs, holds herself. Doesn’t rub, doesn’t give herself much more; only holds, a small relief. Wei Ying makes sounds like no one’s ever put their mouth on her pussy; like everything is a surprise, like everything is making her lose her mind. She can’t keep still. Lan Zhan gives her a thumb to clench down on, sucks her clit. Wei Ying wails. Lan Zhan tells her, “You like this.” And Wei Ying says, “Ah—ah, don’t—stop—!”

Lan Zhan brings her to the edge like this twice over, until Wei Ying’s knees won’t hold anymore—until she has to flip Wei Ying around, goes down on her like that: Wei Ying on her back, her shirt pushed up to her neck, so Lan Zhan can reach up and squeeze her breast. Pinch her nipple. Wei Ying says, “Motherfucker,” the first time Lan Zhan does it, so Lan Zhan keeps on doing it. She lets Wei Ying ride her tongue, lets Wei Ying put a small fist of a hand to her hair and keep her there.

Then she goes to the kitchen and gets Wei Ying a glass of water.

“You’re insane,” Wei Ying tells her, pushed up on one elbow, accepting the drink. “You’re the devil,” she says, and drinks. She’s still out of breath. She’s not come. Lan Zhan crawls over her, takes the glass from her, puts it aside. Sucks her tits, sucks bruises to her ribs. Bites her hips.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying says, hisses, pushes up into Lan Zhan’s mouth. “Are you always like this?” she asks. “Do you torture all the girls like this?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, and it’s a lie, a bit of a lie, and it gets a tight little laugh from Wei Ying. An uncertain one. And Lan Zhan knows that’s what she wanted, wryly and meanly and she regrets it and hides her face in the crook of Wei Ying’s elbow. Bites the soft skin, pulls it from under the shade of the cast. Wei Ying is trying to take off Lan Zhan’s sweats with her feet, pushing at the waist, holding Lan Zhan’s head in one-handed hold, saying, “Come on come on come on come on,” and Lan Zhan helps her: pushes off her sweats, her briefs. Everything is tossed aside, and she knocks one of Wei Ying’s legs aside, slots between them—gives her her thigh. Wei Ying says, “Ah fuck, wow, ah, you’re—” and doesn’t say what it is that Lan Zhan is. Lan Zhan can guess. Lan Zhan stays up on her knees, like that, pulls at Wei Ying’s leg. Lets her ride, lets her rut, lets her rub her swollen pussy against Lan Zhan’s skin. It’s slippery and doesn’t have much give and Wei Ying goes hard, fast: head thrown back, hips snapping. She has one hand against the headboard as something to push back against. She’s taken off her shirt, somewhere in the process. She’s naked, and it barrels through Lan Zhan in stages: this is what it’s like, to fuck Wei Ying. This is what people see, when they fuck Wei Ying.

And then, with a roiling wave of arousal: I’m fucking Wei Ying.

She falls forward, catches herself on her elbows—grinds down against Wei Ying’s thigh. Wei Ying moans, says, “Yes yes yes,” paws an awkward half-hand at Lan Zhan’s thigh, her ass. Wants her to go faster, harder. It’s a messy ride, for a while, Wei Ying’s thighs clenched around her leg, her arms tight around her and Lan Zhan grinding down, the slippery mess of them. The sweat and the cum and the slick. Wei Ying holds her close, pulls Lan Zhan from her tit to her face, gives her a messy kiss—corner of the mouth, side of her nose. She says, close to Lan Zhan’s ear: “Baby. Sweetheart, come on. Come on, wanna come, let’s come, I wanna—”

“How do you want,” Lan Zhan says, slurs.

“What?”

“How do you want,” Lan Zhan says, and pulls away a little—enough—“to come?”

“How—what? I don’t know, just—keep on, I’m so close, please, you can—”

Lan Zhan squeezes her hip, hard. Comes closer. Bites her: her jaw, her neck. Her cheek. “Do you want something in you?” she asks.

“I,” Wei Ying starts, breathes hard, swallows. “I don’t know? Maybe—mm, I don’t . . .” Her eyes are saucers in the dark. She looks wild, exhausted. Lan Zhan has spent much of her life on the edge of certainty that she would lose her: because Wei Ying might leave, because Wei Ying might get hurt. Because Wei Ying might get bored and just never call her back. Looking at her, even in the dark, is an exercise in heartbreak—managing it. Shaping it into something smaller, something that can fit into a pocket, something that won’t stand in the middle of the room in the dark of night and demand Lan Zhan walk into it, bust her toes, bust her knees on it.

She closes her eyes. She presses her face to Wei Ying’s. She traces the shape of Wei Ying’s mouth with her thumb. Wei Ying sucks it in, and she’s heat, and she’s wet. Lan Zhan says, shakily: “Will it feel nice? Something in you when you come?”

Wei Ying breathes heavily around her thumb. “Yeah,” she says. “Yes.”

Lan Zhan assembles her strap in the dark. She leans in, every now and then, in the process of getting everything out—in the process of getting the thing on—to kiss the insides of Wei Ying’s thighs. To kiss her clit, her pussy. Wei Ying puts a pillow over her face when this happens. Lan Zhan says, “Wei Ying,” and Wei Ying says: “I can’t. I can’t look at you.”

“Okay,” Lan Zhan says. “Then keep your eyes closed.”

Wei Ying doesn’t keep her eyes closed. Lan Zhan sits back on her heels, raised just that bit, and Wei Ying has to clamber over her—has to let Lan Zhan hold her up a little, tilt her back, so she can fuck into her. When it happens Wei Ying takes a big shuddering breath—exhales it on a soundless moan that only pitches at the start. “Ah!” she says, and then stays here: in Lan Zhan’s lap, full. Lan Zhan still has her shirt on, her sports bra. She’s sweat through both of them—can feel the fabric cling to her back, her front.

Lan Zhan strokes her with wide palms: her arms, her ribs. Her spine. Wei Ying leans into her, shudders and shudders. Her arms are around Lan Zhan’s neck, short-cast fingers in Lan Zhan’s hair. Her breasts are a soft press to Lan Zhan’s chest. They’ve been here before. It churns through Lan Zhan: they’ve been here before.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and wants to tell her—something like that, something like how this isn’t new, somehow, how familiar she is, and how dear, and instead she says: “How does it feel?”

It’s not the smallest strap. But Wei Ying is loose, and wet, and took it so well. She says, “Good,” her mouth to Lan Zhan’s ear. “Mmm. Move.”

Lan Zhan moves. She starts slow. She reaches down to feel where she’s going into Wei Ying—where they’re fucking, the wet around the dildo, the stretch of Wei Ying’s cunt. Wei Ying seems embarrassed by this, embarrassed and turned on, hides her face and wriggles, writhes. Lan Zhan fucks up faster. “Good?” she asks, and Wei Ying gives a muffled, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, mngh—”, and then they’re off: gyrating, the slick slap of skin to skin, of the strap, both of Lan Zhan’s hands on the thick of Wei Ying’s ass, pulling her apart, pushing her down. Lan Zhan wants to see her. Lan Zhan pulls away just enough—just so Wei Ying lets go with one arm, and Lan Zhan can look down, and see where they’re fucking; can pinch Wei Ying’s breast, kiss it, kiss her collarbone, her neck.

“Wei Ying,” she says, and means it like, beautiful. Wei Ying says, “Yeah,” says, “Baby,” says, “It’s so, I didn’t—think, you’re so—I never—”

“What?” Lan Zhan says. “Never what?”

“So good,” Wei Ying answers, nonsensically, and her mouth is slippery over Lan Zhan’s. Not quite a kiss, just open mouths; just Wei Ying’s tongue against hers, against her lips. She says, “Am I good? Lan Zhan? Is this good? Do you like it? You feel so good, ah, ngh—do I—do you like looking, ah, do you like it, are you—mmm am I doing okay, Lan Zhan, fuck, f—”

Lan Zhan grabs at her, bites her, fucks her faster. Holds her closer. Says, “Could fuck you,” and can’t finish her sentence, for a moment, too turned on, too close, too hot and dense in her head—tongue thick, Wei Ying’s fingers scrabbling on the back of her shirt. She tries again: “Fuck you forever.” And this punches a sound from Wei Ying, a startled sound and a jerk and she’s moving frantically, now, fucking herself down in tandem, saying, “I’m gonna—baby I’m gonna—please can I—!”

Lan Zhan gets Wei Ying on her back. Fucks into her, works a hand between them, jerks her off, pushes deep. Stays there. Wei Ying’s orgasm crashes in stages: a shudder, at first. A high-backed arch. Then it goes, and it goes, and she shivers and holds on to the sheets and continues, continues. Her eyes are closed, her face twisted. Then she sobs and moans and sobs. Lan Zhan rubs her through it, feels how she clenches, fucks her slowly—shallowly. Kisses her—her chest, her ear. It goes on for a long time. She’s gasping, by the end. She’s sprawled, unmoving.

Lan Zhan pulls out. Goes down, and quickly and efficiently pulls a second orgasm out of Wei Ying—this one a staccato thing that has Wei Ying’s muscles jumping, has her going, “Ah, ah, ah, ah—!”

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Wei Ying says, eventually. Lan Zhan is hovering over her. She’s taken off her strap. She’s pushing Wei Ying’s hair out of her sweaty face. She can’t move away, can’t imagine her face right now, her expression. She feels like it’s all out there, now. Like she can’t look at Wei Ying and not exude love, not stare at her like she wants to hold her, eat her. Put her mouth to her feet, devotion.

“You,” Wei Ying says, weakly, and tugs at her. “Come,” she says, and pulls until they’re on their sides. Until Lan Zhan’s leg is slotted between hers. Wei Ying is slow, soft, lets Lan Zhan hold her the moment she’s confident Lan Zhan has understood: what she wants, what the next step is. “Like this,” Wei Ying says, and then again, against Lan Zhan’s mouth: “Like this,” she says, and they’re kissing, and Wei Ying is rubbing her thigh to Lan Zhan’s throbbing pussy. It doesn’t take much—a minute, two. Lan Zhan rolls them over, a mimic of fucking. Wei Ying sucks on her tongue, holds her face. “It’s okay,” she says. “Come on, it’s okay. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, baby, my baby—”

Lan Zhan comes in the cradle of Wei Ying’s body. The world goes hot. She gushes, she holds Wei Ying too tightly: squeezing, pinching, not meaning to; her hands just want to grab a hold of something, dig into something. She thinks Wei Ying comes too, she’s not sure. There’s so much moving, a lot of mouth, at some point they’re making out and at some point they’re not. And then Wei Ying wants to see her breasts, and gets her out of her shirt, and bra—kisses Lan Zhan’s tits. Says, “Hello, hello,” to each of them. It’s ridiculous. Lan Zhan wants to cry.

She is going to cry, she realises. She’s going to cry between now and a minute from now, because Wei Ying is half laughing, saying, “Fuck, god, okay, wow,” and is lying on top of Lan Zhan, and Lan Zhan had never known love like this. Doesn’t know how to get out of the cage of it, the terror of it. She says, “I need to use the bathroom,” and it comes out off, and wooden, and she knows it the minute she’s said it.

Wei Ying freezes. Looks at her. Says, “Um.” And, “Yeah,” and rolls off, and makes herself smaller and tucked in and says: “Of course.”

Lan Zhan goes to the bathroom. She’s naked, she goes to the bathroom naked, and she closes the door behind her. The light is too bright. There’s a pink smear of Wei Ying toothpaste in the sink, there’s her top and jeans in a pile in the corner. There’s still the hanging weight of humidity from Wei Ying’s shower, hours ago. Hours ago. There’s Lan Zhan, too—in the mirror. Her face is rubbed red. She is naked. She is going to cry. She puts her hand over her mouth to hold it, and smells Wei Ying on her fingers, and closes her eyes.

There had been a time, years ago, when Wei Ying was still a vague acquaintance—a friend of a friend of the family, someone’s cousin who was sometimes around, who was bothersome and loud and arrogant and who Lan Zhan had no problem walking away from. Looking away from. Took active joy from it, at times, being able to leave a house, a party, a wedding, and knowing she would leave behind Wei Ying—leave behind the noise of her, the nagging of her. These days, at her worst, she sometimes tries to resurrect that version of herself: who she had been, how she had felt. How she could collect her cruelty like a handful of pebbles from the path ahead, do away with it just as easily.

There had been a party, once. A birthday party, someone’s kid. The families were brought together. Wei Ying was there, and Lan Zhan knew she was there, and avoided her. She ran into her, though, by accident: had gone into someone’s bedroom looking for the bathroom, and found Wei Ying, talking to some kid—a child, someone’s child. The child was crying, quietly, and Wei Ying was down on one knee, and was speaking softly and was saying: “Aiii I know it hurts, it’s not nice, what she said, she had no right to say that. But also you know what? I think if we ask her now she’ll say she didn’t mean that all. I think she’ll say she was nervous because of the party, or hungry, or something else, and I promise you—sweetie, hey, I promise you, that was not the truth. Okay? Just because someone says it loudly doesn’t mean it’s true. Just because someone shouts it doesn’t mean it’s true. Oh sweetie—oh, oh, baby, come here, hey, come here—” And the kid’s crying had turned to sobbing, and Wei Ying was hugging her, hushing her.

That’s when she saw Lan Zhan: in the doorway, watching, eyes wide. Wei Ying didn’t say a thing. Just looked back at Lan Zhan, unfazed. Lan Zhan closed the door, quietly. It would take years, still, after that, until they became friends. It would take longer still until Lan Zhan understood how her own emotions coiled around that memory—the sight of Wei Ying saying, sweetie, Wei Ying saying, full of conviction, full of surety, Just because someone shouts it doesn’t mean it’s true. She’d thought of that phrase often. She’d thought it every time she saw people argue. Thought it every time someone shouted at her. Thought it, again, in their mid-twenties, just a few months into a tentative friendship—rekindled, found again—when Jiang Cheng screamed at Wei Ying at her birthday party, screamed drunkenly, something about his mother. Their mother, he said. Something about a birthday gift, something about Wei Ying having done something wrong.

Lan Zhan found Wei Ying on the balcony, pretending not to cry. “Busted,” Wei Ying laughed, tearily, and Lan Zhan got as close as she dared to get and said, earnestly: “Just because he shouts, doesn’t mean he’s right.”

Wei Ying had looked up at her, then. The lights from inside the house reflected in her eyes. She said, “Oh.” Said, “Lan Zhan. How are you so smart?”, and Lan Zhan’s heart gave a sharp tug, a sad tug. Later that evening, Wei Ying got drunk and announced she’d be giving everyone a birthday lapdance, and she started and ended with Lan Zhan—too messy, too drunk to do any more. It was terrible, and it was wonderful, and Wei Ying was laughing through the whole thing: her ass in Lan Zhan’s lap, her long hair in a high ponytail, sweeping—looking over her shoulder, putting Lan Zhan’s hands on her hips. Lan Zhan wanted to fuck her. That was the first time she knew it, a punch to her gut: she wanted to fuck her.

Love came later. Love came light, at first, a whisper from a different room; Lan Zhan wasn’t worried, at first, because of how quiet it was. I can do away with this, she thought, and then realised it had been a lie, and the whisper wasn’t soft because it came from elsewhere, but because it came from within, from inside of her. And it was getting louder, and louder, and then once at a dinner party Jiang Cheng started a round of, “Which three people from history would you invite to dinner?”, and Wei Ying said proudly, “My mom and my dad and Lan Zhan.” And Jiang Cheng said, “Dude Lan Zhan is super alive and sitting right there, she can’t be at the dead people dinner,” and then Wei Ying said: “I don’t care. It’s Lan Zhan or bust.”

And then she smiled at Lan Zhan, a big one. A dimpled one, a teeth-showing one. A eyes-into-crescents one. Lan Zhan’s heart did a tumble and fall down the stairs and was done: over, done for, gone.

In the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her for some notion of modesty—some notion of it being much sadder to cry in the nude—Lan Zhan sits on the edge of the bathtub and weeps. She keeps her hand over her mouth. She lets the sobs shake through her as they come. She doesn’t know what she’s just done. She doesn’t know what will come next.

She washes her face. She washes her hands. She—

She goes back to the bedroom, leaden. Her muscles are sore. Her eyes are dry, and everything feels heavy, and Wei Ying is sitting straight up in bed with a dirty sheet around her, biting her thumbnail. She’s turned on the bedside lamp. Then she sees Lan Zhan, and she drops her thumb, and stops—stops moving. Stops breathing.

Lan Zhan holds the towel a little closer at her chest.

Wei Ying says, “Lan Zhan . . .” And Lan Zhan can’t bear it—closes her eyes to it. Wei Ying says, “We, um. Should probably talk about it, huh?”

Lan Zhan looks down at this. Her heart is hammering, loud, she wants to go back to the bathroom. She is going to maybe be sick. Her carpet is a soft cream, and she’s vacuumed it today, and the tracks are still visible.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says. “Hey. Don’t do that, look at me. Come here. Come sit here.”

Lan Zhan hesitates. She doesn’t want what’s to come next, to come. She goes anyway. She sits down, and looks down, still, and Wei Ying is close, still a beacon of body heat, and she says, “Hey, look at me. Look at me.” And when Lan Zhan won’t, she takes her face in her odd cold block of a casted hand, lifts her face up for her and then goes through an emotion: a frown, something softer than a frown. “Are you crying?” she says. “God, are you crying? Why are you crying?”

Lan Zhan swallows. “You—” And she still has to look down for this. “You are—my—” She doesn’t know how to say it. Doesn’t know how to make the words work in the right order. “Only,” she manages.

“Only?” Wei Ying says, a bit confused, a bit harried. She puts her hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “Your only—your only what?”

“Everything,” Lan Zhan says, and her voice breaks.

“God,” Wei Ying says, and, “Jesus. Lan Zhan, Jesus, then why—are you crying? Why are you crying about that? Hey, sweetie, hey—” She moves closer, and huffs, maybe a laugh and maybe incredulity but her voice is soft. She’s being kind. She drops a quick kiss to Lan Zhan’s forehead, her brow, and it still feels like a kindness and she says, “Are you scared? Hey? Is that it?”

Lan Zhan can’t answer. Wei Ying takes it as a yes. She asks, “What are you scared of?”

Lan Zhan swallows. Says, “Everything.” Says, “Also everything.”

Wei Ying takes a breath. “Ah,” is what comes. “Ah my sweet baby. It’s okay, it’s okay, hey shall I go first? Will that be easier, if I go first? I’m gonna go first.” She tilts Lan Zhan’s face up again. She now too has a watery sheen to her eyes. She still looks wrecked, her hair and her mouth and the bruises down her neck. She says, “So of course I love you. Like obviously. Like obviously I’m in love with you, I love you, you’re my best friend, I’m sorry. So what do you think? Do you hate it? I didn’t—I’ve been wanting, and this month, and oh tonight and I was so—Lan Zhan I was so, tired, and it was stupid of me, was a stupid way to get you to touch me, like I could trick or something like I could lure you into, oh, I don’t know, but I love you, okay? Do you hate that, Lan Zhan? What do you think? What are you thinking, Lan Zhan, just . . .”

Wei Ying closes her lips over her teeth and keeps herself quiet like that. She looks like might cry as well. Lan Zhan—doesn’t hear it, at first. And then she does. And then the air is gone, and then she still doesn’t know what comes next. Her heart is still going fast, her face still feels hot. She still wants to cry. Only—only there’s—only Wei Ying’s hand on her shoulder, clammy and uncertain. Wei Ying’s fast breath. She’s also scared. She’s also—

Lan Zhan grabs the shape of Wei Ying’s leg through the sheet. She looks at her hand, there: how big it is, how much of Wei Ying she can hold. Then she grabs at her hip, at her waist, grabs and pulls and holds her close, closer, gets Wei Ying half in her lap and grabs at her still. Hides in her. Holds her. She’s shaking. Wei Ying says, “Ah what—Ah, what does that mean? Baby I don’t know what that—means, you have to—say something, do you like me, want me, squeeze me but not date me, Lan Zhan you have to say words I don’t—I don’t—”

Lan Zhan kisses her. It’s sloppy, she wants too much of it all at once and it’s sloppy. Wei Ying rides it out, half smiles into it, half returns it—a tongue, a suck. A hum that kicks out the bottom of Lan Zhan’s gut. “Please say it,” Wei Ying says into the kiss. She sounds earnest about it. “Please tell me. I want—I need to hear—Lan Zhan—”

“I love you,” Lan Zhan says. It’s the first time she’s ever spoken these words in this order, to anyone, ever. They sound odd, in her voice. They sound too bare, too honest. She means them. “Very much,” she says. Adds, “To what my brother once called a disturbing degree.”  

Wei Ying laughs. It’s a belly laugh. “Oh,” she says, and kisses Lan Zhan again. Their teeth bump. Wei Ying can’t stop smiling. “Your brother knows,” she says, and, “Weird,” and lets Lan Zhan pull her closer, push her hands under the fall of the sheet. They still can’t coordinate the kiss—excited, shivery. Nervous, somehow, after all. Then Wei Ying says they should drink water, and they go to the kitchen, a jittery, strange energy between them: they love each other. Lan Zhan had cried and the world had not ended. She fucked Wei Ying, and Wei Ying wants her, and the thing between them is re-shaping itself; taking up space, expanding. Lan Zhan is holding her breath.

Wei Ying drinks two glasses of water in quick succession. She gives one to Lan Zhan, who sips politely. Then Wei Ying says, “Hey. Dude. Come here,” and leans against the counter.

Lan Zhan goes. “Dude,” she repeats, and steps between Wei Ying’s legs. Each of them has a sheet, an odd wrap of a cloth. The kitchen is cold. Wei Ying whispers: “I wanna make out. Make out with me.”

Lan Zhan puffs a laugh into her mouth. She bites Wei Ying’s lip, drags it into her mouth. It’s a good kiss. She has Wei Ying by her waist: a full arm, wrapped around her waist. Wei Ying dips back. Lan Zhan tilts, fucks into her mouth. It’s a good kiss.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying says, murmured, in between. “Okay. Great,” and lets Lan Zhan kiss her again.

“You know,” Wei Ying says, in some small hour between morning and noon. They’re still in bed. Lan Zhan won’t leave the crook of Wei Ying’s neck. “No one’s fucked me like that. Ever. I just—I feel you should know that. You’re like, insane. And very good. And I can’t believe like . . .”

“What?” Lan Zhan mumbles. She’s very tired. They have not slept in a very long time.

“How lucky I am,” Wei Ying says, and Lan Zhan has to count to five. Then count to ten. Then she pulls up and presses her face to Wei Ying’s—forehead to forehead. She can’t say what she feels. She can only do this.

“Are you hoping for telepathy?” Wei Ying whispers, and Lan Zhan says, “Hm,” and Wei Ying laughs and rolls her forehead to Lan Zhan’s says, “Aaah. Okay. Yes! Okay. Hmhm!! I hear you, yes. Interesting. Oh my, Lan Zhan, what are you thinking, oh my goodness, that’smmmf—”

They sleep, eventually, in the afternoon. An hour, a nap. They eat, they take a slow walk around the block, Wei Ying hanging off of Lan Zhan’s arm, holding her hand. “I get to do this,” she whispers. “I get to do this!”

“You get to do this,” Lan Zhan agrees, and kisses her knuckles, and a man walking a dog walks by and ignores them pointedly.

They have dinner. Wei Ying stops eating, at some point. Slows down. Looks at her food, at Lan Zhan. The space between them grows—uncertain, for a flash. The thing taking shape. Jittery, tense. Lan Zhan licks her lips, pulls her chair closer. Says, “Do you want—” Stops. Says, “Shall I feed you?”, and Wei Ying goes a bit short-breathed, and nods, and opens her mouth. Lan Zhan feeds her. They both get too distracted, after a few bites, too close, too hot. It’s different, now. It’s the same. Lan Zhan hold up a glass for her to drink from, and Wei Ying does, and then they’re making out again: hot and heavy, Wei Ying in her lap, in the chair.

and Wei Ying says, “Jesus. So um, so I like it, um. When you like, it seems I like it when you uhhh—”

“Do things,” Lan Zhan says, “for you.” Wei Ying says, yeah, eyes hazy, distracted. “Good,” Lan Zhan says. And Wei Ying gets embarrassed and hides in Lan Zhan’s cheek and says, “It’s not that, um, I can’t, myself, only, like, sometimes it’s just . . . Um, I get, I don’t know it gets me hot Lan Zhan, I don’t know, it’s like, it’s like I’m . . .”

“Mine.” Lan Zhan turns to her, speaks so Wei Ying can feel it: her lips, the shape of the words. “It’s like you’re mine.”

Wei Ying shudders, nods. “I like that,” she says. Lan Zhan hums. She’s warm from the inside out, her heart too big. Her lungs too tight.

“No more motorcycles,” Lan Zhan tells her, because she has nothing else to add on the matter, because she still wants to talk about it a beat longer. Wei Ying says, ha, no, yes, and Lan Zhan says, “No more hospitals at midnight,” and Wei Ying smiles, a sad smile, and Lan Zhan says: “You’re staying here. You’re staying here.”

“In your lap?” Wei Ying asks, half a kiss, half words.

“In my lap,” Lan Zhan confirms. Wei Ying says, Yeah, and opens her mouth.

The casts come off, a week later. Lan Zhan is there with her. Wei Ying keeps looking over, a nervous smile flickering on and off. The nurse’s saw is a small thing and it’s loud. Lan Zhan comes to stand by Wei Ying, and holds her by the back of her neck, and kisses the side of her head. “Almost,” she says.

“Almost,” Wei Ying says.

Back at home, at Lan Zhan’s, Wei Ying sits on the downturned toilet and Lan Zhan kneels by her feet. She pushes moisturizer into the skin of Wei Ying’s fresh arms: skinny things, hair dark, her wrists still weak. She runs the cream over and over and over. When the white of the cream is gone, she does it again. The small window over the shower is tilted open, and a bit of sun is coming in, an odd angle: a line of light over the tiles, over Wei Ying’s thighs, occasionally over where Lan Zhan holds her—dappled over her knuckles.

“Mmm,” Wei Ying says. “Feels nice.”

Lan Zhan turns Wei Ying’s hand over, palm up. She kisses the heart of it. “Good,” she says, and leans forward, and rests her face into the soft give of Wei Ying’s belly. Wei Ying laughs, and holds her softly by her hair. She echoes: “Good.”