Chapter Text
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying shouts from the bathroom. “Can I use your deodorant?”
Lan Zhan, who’s currently chopping onions next to Jiang Cheng in the kitchen, smiles, but doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to; Wei Ying will do what he wants, and Lan Zhan is all too ready to indulge each and every one of Wei Ying’s whims.
Jiang Cheng, on the other hand, isn’t so soft-hearted.
“You said you didn’t need anything from the store,” he shouts back, glaring at his pot of sauce as it refuses to thicken in a timely fashion.
“I don’t,” Wei Ying says, perfectly cheerful as he walks into the kitchen smelling of Lan Zhan and hops onto the single empty spot on the counter (which is kept that way specifically for him, not that Jiang Cheng will ever admit it). “See? I can just use Lan Zhan’s stuff when I run out of mine.”
“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees. He reaches over and turns up the heat on the stove. The sauce bubbles ominously.
“You’re spoiling him,” Jiang Cheng accuses, stirring the bubbles away.
“He is,” Wei Ying agrees, unperturbed. He pokes Jiang Cheng’s side with a socked foot—the one with a hole over the middle toe. “You’re just mad that I’m using his stuff and not yours. Don’t worry—I can use your stuff, too!”
“Don’t even think about it,” Jiang Cheng snaps, turning the heat back down.
“Too late!”
Rolling his eyes, Jiang Cheng looks at Lan Zhan. Says, “Collect your menace.”
Amused, Lan Zhan pushes the chopped onions into a bowl, rinses his hands, and wraps a freshly cleaned hand around the back of Jiang Cheng’s neck, thumb pressing lightly into a bruise he gave him the night before. Usually, Jiang Cheng likes this. Usually, however, Lan Zhan’s hands are fucking dry.
With an outraged shriek, Jiang Cheng pushes Lan Zhan away and points his spoon at Wei Ying. “You—!”
“Me!” Wei Ying crows, delighted.
“Shut up! Are you proud of yourself? Influencing Lan Zhan with your evil tricks?”
Unrepentant, Wei Ying grins at him. Lan Zhan leans on the other side of the counter, watching them argue with unconcealed fondness. Jiang Cheng, whose neck is still fucking wet, refuses to be swayed by the indulgent look in either of their eyes.
“You love me,” Wei Ying says, slipping a hand up the front of Jiang Cheng’s shirt.
“Shut up,” Jiang Cheng says without heat. “You’ve got no proof.”
Wei Ying graciously lets this slide, even though his hands are currently warming themselves under a soft red henley that’s too long in the torso and too tight in the shoulders for Jiang Cheng. Everyone knows who the shirt really belongs to, and it doesn’t matter.
“Dick,” Jiang Cheng mutters fondly. Wei Ying’s smile grows even brighter.
“The sauce,” Lan Zhan says.
Swearing, Jiang Cheng jerks away from Wei Ying and starts performing damage control. He ignores the way Wei Ying laughs and the way Lan Zhan looks at him, and throws himself into saving their dinner. He already knows how they feel about him; there’s no more mystery to Lan Zhan’s ‘glares’. No confusion about whose bed Wei Ying will sleep in. No reason to worry about anything but the food.
Or—well. The food, and protecting the sanctity of his couch from his boyfriends’ insatiable horniness, but that’s another story altogether.