The Man in Red

There are moments in life that arrive without sound. No announcement. No warning. Just a shift in the light, a flicker in the air, a feeling that something has begun to move, even if nothing has moved at all. Lan Wangji did not know the name of that moment when it came. He did not know that the envelope left on his table would lead to anything more than polite obligation. He did not know that love would come without instructions, without metaphor, without fire.

When Lan Wangji entered the house, the first thing he noticed was that something was out of place.

There was no scent of cooking. No music from the living room. The floors had been cleaned recently, and the windows were cracked just enough to let in the faint hum of summer air. Everything appeared undisturbed. Still, he knew immediately that someone had stepped into his room.

It wasn’t difficult to guess who.

He removed his shoes by the door, placed them neatly beside his brother’s sandals and an unfamiliar pair of boots he chose not to examine too closely. The invitation was waiting when he reached his space. Resting precisely in the center of his table, aligned with the grain of the wood as if it had always belonged there.

Lan Xichen had a gentle way of placing things. Not careful, exactly, but deliberate. As if giving something shape would soften the weight of giving it at all. He must have left the envelope while Wangji was at work, no doubt with the quiet suggestion that he attend. 

Wangji didn’t open it.

Not immediately.

The envelope was cream-colored and thick, square and unmarked except for his name across the front. The handwriting wasn’t Lan Xichen’s. It had a flourish to it, not quite showy, but practiced. There was no return address. 

He stared at it for several moments, then set down his bag, his keys, and the folder of notes he had promised to finish before Sunday. He folded his sleeves and walked to the kitchen, methodically measuring water for tea. He counted each motion as he moved. Four scoops, one for the pot. Seep for three minutes, no longer. He poured carefully.

He did not return to the table until the light had shifted, softening the color of the envelope until it looked more like ivory than cream.

That night, he fell asleep later than usual. His dreams were shallow, full of pale music and unfinished lines of thought.

The next morning, he opened the envelope. Why now? Simply because enough time had passed that avoiding it no longer served any purpose.

The paper lifted cleanly beneath his nail. Inside was a card. Heavy, white, unadorned except for the lettering.

You are cordially invited.

A date. A time. An address.

He replaced the card in the envelope and slid it into the second drawer beside a spare pen, a half-finished ink stick, and the notes he hadn’t yet memorized.

He did not mention it to his brother, but he told himself he had no intention of going.

But he did not throw it away.

The morning of the event arrives like any other. Soft light across the floorboards. The sound of birds is too far to name. The scent of jasmine tea, faint but certain, from the pot he placed by the window the night before.

He wakes at six. Sharp at six. By six-twenty-five he is dressed in linen pants and a long-sleeved shirt with wide cuffs, comfortable and pale. He eats in silence, rice with sesame oil, tea barely sweetened.

After all his day, when the dishes are dried and returned to the cupboard, he opens the wardrobe and he stands before it for some time.

Inside, everything is organized by tone. Whites to the left, blues to the right. Two pieces in black that he does not wear. One in grey he wears only when he must. He doesn’t reach for anything immediately. He looks first. And then he waits for the right one to come forward in his mind.

The invitation said to dress well. He could interpret that a thousand ways. Most would wear black. Tailored, modern, meant to impress. He knows this. But it makes sense to others, but not to him.

He thinks of the comic, which he loves. The one tucked between volumes on ancient architecture and Song dynasty ink work. The one with watercolored mountains and robes that drift like mist. The one where they speak in riddles and rules and long silences that say more than any declaration.

The robes were always white. White like moonlight on paper. The hems were always pale blue, soft as breath.

He selects a shirt made of silk cotton, white with a faint texture that reminds him of old scrolls. The collar is stiff but not sharp. The buttons are mother-of-pearl, smooth and cool against his fingers. He checks each one as he fastens them, left hand steady while the right does the work.

He chooses pale trousers. Pressed. Clean-lined. He hesitates between two jackets, one dove-grey and one blue so light it nearly disappears in daylight. He lifts the second one from its hanger. Hold it in both hands.

It is the same shade as the sky in panel seventeen, when the main disciple walks alone through the pine forest at dusk. Yes, this one.

No tie. No jewelry. Nothing unnecessary.

He checks the cuffs. The inner seams. The drape at the shoulder. He smooths the fabric twice as always. Once for the eye, once for the hand.

The sun has begun its descent. The light through the high windows runs gold along the edge of the floorboards. He does not look back at the envelope in the drawer. He remembers every word on the card without needing to read it again.

He leaves at 17:26.

The car is already waiting when he steps outside. One of the family drivers, assigned years ago and never replaced. The man greets him with a quiet nod. He knows not to speak unless spoken to. They understand one another perfectly.

Lan Wangji settles into the back seat. The upholstery is dark and smooth. The scent is familiar. Eucalyptus and leather, faint traces of sandalwood where he once spilled oil from a meditation pouch. The driver pulls into the lane with no conversation and no music. Only the rhythm of tires on pavement and the occasional blink of a turn signal.

The city unfolds around him. And he  watches it through the window, eyes trained not on people or motion, but on form. A broken gutter. A roofline shifted by time. Shadows caught between buildings like trapped breath. The world is too full sometimes, too loud, but in the car it is manageable. Outside cannot reach him there.

They pass a café with blue lights. A woman crossing the street holds a bouquet wrapped in brown paper, peonies and something smaller, pale yellow. Her jacket is too thin for the weather. She walks quickly. The man behind her does not keep pace.

The driver turns left at the third light. Then right. Then left again. At 17:58, they arrive.

The building is classic. Nothing ornate, nothing traditional. Just cold vertical lines, framed in gold trim and ambition. A valet moves to open the door, but Lan Wangji steps out before he can reach it. 

The entrance glows, filtered lighting with a warmth that flatters skin tones and softens the edges of clothing. It’s artificial, but effective. Lan Wangji registers it, then forgets it. He does not linger on aesthetics meant for others.

He walks through the doors right at 18:00. Exactly as the envelope said.

The elevator is mirrored, but he does not look at himself. He watches the numbers light up. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Rooftop.

When the doors open, the sound arrives first. Music. Voices. Glass against glass. Laughter in short, sharp bursts. He steps forward into the noise, shoulders drawn back, posture composed, movements exact.

Golden reflections on the glass walls. Strings of filament bulbs stretched across the beams above, each one glowing like it means to be watched. The bar is sleek, all matte black and polished brass. People are already gathered in small groups, drinks in hand, expressions arranged into pleasant shapes. No one notices his arrival. He prefers it that way.

The music is live. A quartet, set to the side near a wall of ivy and lanterns. The pianist is good. The violinist is not. He hears the missed beat on the third phrase before his second step into the room.

He crosses the floor like ink moving across paper, and finds the far corner, where a row of low plants shields two small benches from direct view. The lighting is softer here. He stands near the edge of the space, one hand lightly resting at his side, the other brushing once along the inside of his sleeve. The texture calms him.

He has arrived.

The noise is not unbearable, but it is close. From a distance, he could be mistaken for someone calm, someone at ease, someone watching simply because he prefers not to speak, but inside, his thoughts are moving too fast.

He has already catalogued the lights. The sound levels. The tempo of the music. The number of people who passed within arm’s length. The way his shoulders tensed when someone brushed too close and how long it took him to release the breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

He has not touched his phone. He has not spoken to a single person. He has not moved in six minutes.

If anyone asked how he felt, he would not have an answer. He is not anxious. Not quite. He is not in pain. But the world around him is too large in all the wrong places and too narrow where he needs room to breathe.

He begins to plan his exit. Planning to stay five more minutes.

And then he feels it.

Not sound. Not motion. Something else.

The atmosphere folds. Something warm, something golden, something not meant to be in this room full of half-sincere smiles and surface-level charm.

Across the space, someone has just stepped into view. Someone dressed in red.

The color is impossible — not bright, not gaudy, but deep and alive. Crimson at the shoulder, darkening to oxblood at the hem. The suit fits him with easy arrogance, collarbone visible where his shirt has been left open, hair half-tied in a way that should seem careless, but does not.

He laughs. Loudly.

Lan Wangji feels the sound more than hears it. Low, full and effortless. It breaks through the noise without needing to rise above it. People around him shift, smile, move closer, pulled by orbit. But Lan Wangji does not move. He watches, because he cannot help it.

There is something about the man in red that holds him still. He forgets to count.

He does not realize he has been staring until the man turns toward him. Their eyes meet. Just for a moment.

Lan Wangji looks away instantly. He focuses on the glass in his hand, empty but still cradled as if it serves a purpose. His fingers press too hard against the stem. He shifts it. He corrects his grip. He tells himself to move. He does not.

His heartbeat is not fast. But it is not slow, either.

He does not glance up again. He doesn’t dare. It is enough to have seen.

He expects that to be the end of it.

But footsteps approach. One set, moving steadily in his direction.

Lan Wangji does not look until the figure is almost beside him and by then it’s too late. The man in red is standing in front of him.

His eyes are dark, and his smile is quieter now. Not less warm. Just  different.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is light, but grounded. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Lan Wangji’s breath catches. He searches for the correct answer, the polite one, the useful one, but none of them come. His body offers only stillness and his mouth does not open.

The man doesn’t press. He doesn’t lean in. He just lifts one hand in a soft, small gesture.

“It’s alright,” he says. “You just looked like you needed someone to come to you.”

Lan Wangji looks at him.

He has never met this man before. He does not know his name. He is certain they have never spoken. But something inside him shifts again, softer this time. Like the weight of tension slowly leaving the body after hours of holding still.

The man glances down once, as if debating whether to say more, then looks back up. His eyes are kind.

“I’m Wei Wuxian,” he adds, offering his name like a gift, not a test.

Lan Wangji cannot answer. But he holds the name like a note that hasn’t finished echoing.

He doesn’t realize he’s struggling until it is already happening.

His grip on the glass is too tight. His shoulders locked. His gaze anchored not to Wei Wuxian’s eyes but to the space just beside them, where it’s easier to focus. He knows the feeling. He is not in danger. Nothing is wrong. And yet the air feels wrong against his skin. The light hums just slightly off-key.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t speak again right away.

He stands there, waiting. As if he’s used to silence, or at least not afraid of it. His presence is not heavy. It’s not invasive. If anything, it feels like standing near a warm lamp in winter. Something you don't notice until you're cold enough to want it.

Then he smiles: “I don’t think you like it here,” he says.

Lan Wangji opens his mouth and again closes it. He doesn’t know how to answer something so accurate.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head, considering. “Would you like to step outside?” he asks. “No pressure. Just for a bit of quiet. I promise I’ll do the talking. Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

Lan Wangji breathes in, but the air does not help. His hands remain steady, but his chest is not. A part of him still believes that leaving would mean defeat. That he should endure, that the rules require it. But Wei Wuxian is already turning, gesturing with one hand toward the exit. Before Lan Wangji fully realizes it, he is beside the building, in the shadow of the structure, where the space folds into a small garden. One of those hidden corners meant more for aesthetics than for use.

“I know a bench over there,” Wei Wuxian says. “Looks like the kind of place you can sit without anyone asking questions and relax.”

Lan Wangji says nothing, and he doesn’t nod right away. But he moves, and that alone is answer enough.

Wei Wuxian walks beside him, just slightly behind. Not leading. Not pushing. He hums something under his breath. A tune without words. Lan Wangji notice that. Notice everything. The rhythm of his steps. The way he doesn’t glance at his phone. The way he doesn’t look back to the party, as if nothing important is being left behind.

They reach the bench. It’s clean. Cast iron with wooden slats, worn smooth by weather. The garden is small, pressed between buildings, lit only by one warm bulb under a ledge. There is ivy. The scent of soil. The hush of city breath when no one is watching.

Lan Wangji sits first and Wei Wuxian sits beside him.

Not close enough to touch, but not far enough to be distant. Exactly right.

They sit in silence for a moment. Then Wei Wuxian lets out a quiet sigh, tilts his head back, and speaks into the open air: “I hate those things,” he says. “Parties. I always end up pretending I’m not pretending. And half the people think I’m being charming when I’m just trying not to leave.”

Lan Wangji does not answer. But it seems that Wei Wuxian doesn’t expect him to.

“I came because my friend said I needed ‘to get out more.’” His voice carries a smile, even if his mouth doesn’t. “And I said fine, as long as there’s an open bar. And here I am.”

Lan Wangji looks at him.

He doesn’t understand how someone can be so bright in a space meant to dim people down. The red of his jacket catches the faint light and turns to something deeper. Something ceremonial and sacred.

“You looked like you were drowning,” Wei Wuxian says gently.

Lan Wangji blinks.

“But still standing.” His tone softens even more. “That takes practice.”

A pause.

Then, quietly, “I’ve worked with people who do that.”

Lan Wangji turns to him fully now. Not all at once.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t push. He just adds, “I’m a psychologist. Sort of. Not the kind with a couch and a clipboard. I work in a hospital.”

Lan Wangji processes the words one by one. Psychologist. Work with people. Noticed. Something inside his chest folds quietly inward, like a curtain drawn against too much sun.

Wei Wuxian smiles again, softer this time. He leans forward a little, arms resting on his knees: “I just didn’t want to walk away and leave you there. Not when I could do something else.”

The bench holds them both in stillness.

Lan Wangji finds that he is breathing differently now. Not shallow. Not measured. He turns his head and looks at Wei Wuxian again.

Then their eyes meet and for the first time in what feels like years, something inside Lan Wangji unfurls.

He still doesn’t speak.But he doesn’t need to.

He lets the corners of his mouth slightly shift. Not enough to be called a smile by most. But Wei Wuxian sees it and smiles back. Fully, bright and honest.

No more words are needed, because the moment says everything.

A few months later

Lan Wangji never meant to fall in love.

Not because he believed he could not, and not because he thought love was out of reach. But because the idea of it always came wrapped in instructions he did not understand.

People spoke of sparks, of chaos, of passion that moved like storms. They spoke of wildness. Of games. Of unpredictability as if it were something beautiful. He learned early that this version of love was not made for him.

He thought, perhaps, that love for someone like him would look different. Quieter. Narrower. Something that could fit into the lines of his world without tearing the corners. But even that wasn’t quite right.

Because his life with Wei Wuxian was not narrow at all. It was expansive. Wide in the way that space feels wide when you are finally breathing again.

He is still surprised. Sometimes.

He wakes in the morning to the soft sound of blankets shifting, and there is Wei Wuxian, hair tousled, face pressed half into the pillow, breathing deep and even. And for a moment, he cannot understand how this came to be.

Not because he doubts it, but because it is so much.

Love is for him like the repetition of sound. A laugh he knows will always come at the same kind of joke. The rhythm of Wei Wuxian’s steps in the hallway. The way Wei Wuxian hums before speaking, just under his breath, as if testing the words first. The glasses that slide down his nose when he’s working. The sweater he wears every time it rains, even indoors. The notes he leaves folded in strange places.

Lan Wangji has learned all of it and his love is not casual, also not impulsive. But it does not come and go.

When he loves, he memorizes.

He memorized the way Wei Wuxian held his hand the first time. He memorized the tilt of his voice when he said, “It’s okay if you need to be quiet. I’ll stay anyway.” He memorized the feel of sitting beside him in the dark, not speaking, not touching, just being.

No one tells you that love can be that. No one says that love, for some of us, feels like being able to finally sit down in your own mind and know someone will wait with you there.

Wei Wuxian never asked him to be different and Lan Wangji would tear down the world brick by brick if it meant keeping that safe. He is not romantic in the way people expect it. He does not write poems, not singing and he does not leave surprises.

He prepares tea the way Wei Wuxian likes it without being asked. He refills the soap when it is almost gone. He keeps the light on in the kitchen when Wei Wuxian works late.

Tonight, Wei Wuxian is at the table with his notes. The sweater is too big. The sleeves bunch near his elbows. His glasses have slipped again, and Lan Wangji knows he will forget they are on his face when he stands up later.

There is nothing unusual about the moment. But for Lan Wangji, it is everything.

He moves behind him. Touches his shoulder gently and when Wei Wuxian looks up, Lan Wangji leans down.

He kisses him. Kisses him because he wants to. And he can. And nothing in him says no.

It is a slow kiss. A warm one. 

When it ends, Wei Wuxian stays close, one hand resting at the side of Wangji’s neck, his thumb moving once in a soft arc and Lan Wangji closes his eyes.

“Do you still love me?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t answer right away.

He simply leans in again, brushes their foreheads together, and breathes in the scent of paper and tea and the man he would follow everywhere.

This story began with one image in my head. Lan Wangji, standing at the edge of a party he didn’t want to attend, dressed in white and blue, holding too much inside. I wanted to explore what love might feel like for someone like Lan Wangji. Someone autistic, structured, sensitive, often misread. I didn’t want to change him. I didn’t want to “fix” him. This wasn’t written to be dramatic or angsty or loud. Just a small research from me for everyone who’s ever loved quietly, and deeply, and with their whole being.

Yours

Mimosa Confiante