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Chapter Text

All it took was a soft huff of laughter and an amused question—“Aren’t you a little old to be working the counter?”—for Xiao Xingchen’s life to begin a steady spiral into the unknown. 

He looked up. There was a man waiting to order, wearing a smile sharp as a knife. Xingchen hadn’t heard him come in.

“Excuse me?”

The man tilted his head, assessing. Dark eyes met Xingchen’s, then dropped lower, all the way down to his hands, then slowly back up, to his lips, his eyes again. He seemed to be frozen in a laugh, permanently smiling, eyes glinting. Xingchen couldn't help but feel unnerved, being stared at like a dessert the man couldn't wait to dig into. The very way he held himself felt like a threat—like the world was a chess board and he could do whatever he wanted with the pieces. Yet Xingchen could not bring himself to look away.

“Not that you don't look spry for your age,” the man continued. His lips curled, judgmental. “But, really, minimum wage?” 

Xingchen opened his mouth to say something and said nothing. He’d had people come in before, demand to use his oven, ask what moisturizer he used, ask if he wanted to join their cult, suggest that he renovate the flooring because they didn't like its aesthetic. Yet this man, this interaction, was somehow the strangest of them all. He was attempting to strike up a casual conversation using thinly veiled insults to do so and Xingchen was hopelessly, inexplicably fascinated. So, he said nothing; instead, he stared. The man looked to be his age, perhaps younger. Shorter than Xingchen. Dressed in head-to-toe black. He had that quality about him that suggested he had a habit of making himself out to be more menacing than he really was. In short, an arrogant prick—but, undeniably, with a hint of something more. A hidden layer that Xingchen immediately wanted to unravel. He had both hands propped up against the counter, waiting impatiently for Xingchen to entertain him, fingers tapping. Nine fingers tapping.

Xingchen blinked.

“I’m the owner,” he said finally, snapping awake. The words tore out of him unbidden—he didn't know why he’d felt compelled to explain himself to a complete stranger with a blatant attitude problem.

The man’s brows went up in mild surprise. He made a face—whether it was one of admiration or mockery, Xingchen couldn't tell—and hummed, contemplative, mulling over this apparently valuable piece of information. His eyes never left Xingchen’s. His amusement never faltered. Xingchen felt a sudden, alien urge to leap over the counter and grab the man by the shoulders, shake him, demand to know what he was playing at. The violence of his own thoughts surprised him.

Just then, he would have loved nothing more than to roll out the unfailing you’re holding up the line excuse, if only to buy himself some time, figure out what the hell was happening. To his dismay, it wasn’t possible. The cafe was just off-campus, tucked between a secondhand bookstore and a run-down pizza shop that Xingchen suspected was a front for something illicit. This early in the morning customers were scarce. Xingchen’s usuals were primarily students and said students had classes to attend. There was no rush, no line, nobody to save him from the man across the counter. 

A shiver ran down Xingchen’s spine and he wasn't entirely sure it was out of fear. He didn't know what the alternative was.

“Okay, then,” the man drawled, what felt like an hour later, with a languid smile that yanked Xingchen back to attention and made his face burn, “since you’re the expert. Pick out something good for me?”

Automatically, Xingchen said, “Good is subjective,” providing the same excuse he always did when a customer asked him to make whatever. He refused to make whatever. He didn't need the complaints that often followed.

The wolfish smile brightened. Xingchen felt it in his bones. There was something childishly gleeful there, beneath the Danger: Do Not Approach facade. It peeked out through the man’s eyes, black voids that hid nothing and sparkled when he laughed.

“Something sweet.”

Xingchen held his gaze and, for once in his life, decided to play along. “Caramel or vanilla?”

“Caramel,” came the immediate answer.

“Three-fifty.”

The man reached into his jacket pocket and dropped four impressively crumpled bills onto the counter, which Xingchen picked up and slipped crudely into the register. They were beyond saving. He handed the man his change along with the receipt and their hands brushed in a way that felt almost intentional. Xingchen found himself feeling a little bit dizzy, a little bit too warm, a little bit something else he couldn't explain, as though there was a poison spreading slowly, hotly through his veins.

“Don’t let me down,” the man said—cheerfully, but with that razor edge that never seemed to go away.

Again, Xingchen blinked dumbly. His usuals weren't the type to toss around casual threats. This was all uncharted territory. But he continued to play the game, spurred on by a burst of confidence rising up out of nowhere.

“I won’t,” he said. He was good at what he did. He wouldn't disappoint. The poison in his veins flared. In that instant, he wanted nothing more than to impress the impertinent stranger.

The man’s grin widened, impossibly, radiantly. He was clearly used to people cowering, shrinking away and fearfully doing his bidding. Xingchen had stood his ground. He must have liked that.

“Pinky promise?” he asked sweetly.

Xingchen’s gaze flicked to the hand the man was holding up, to the pinky finger that was nowhere to be seen.

Before he could reign it in, Xingchen felt his face do a thing, and the man burst out laughing. The sound was so genuine, so infectious that, finally, Xingchen knew he had to turn away. He had to busy himself with the order. His face felt even hotter and the rest of him frozen—with uncertainty, with confusion, with that nameless tingle in his nerves.

A minute later, over the buzzing sound of the coffee grinder, the man spoke again. Quieter this time, more subdued, almost hesitant. “Can you make it to-go? I should—I’m running late.” It was the urgent tone of someone realizing they'd forgotten something, made a mistake, leaped into the deep end without first testing the water.

Xingchen was overwhelmed with the immediate, irrational desire to ask if the man was all right. But that was insane. It wasn't his place to pry. He had no reason to be concerned—he didn't even know this person.

Stiffly, he turned just enough to acknowledge he’d heard; he offered the man a small nod. 

Still, he couldn't stop his thoughts from running rampant as he worked. If the man was running late, why did he linger to chat? Why had he taken the time to joke around, to tease? Why go to Xingchen for entertainment when he could have gone to his friends, to someone he knew, to anyone more interesting?

Xingchen reached up to the overhead cabinet for a paper cup, movements practiced and precise, feeling the man’s unrelenting stare on him all the while.

Regrettably, there were intricacies of human behavior that flew over Xingchen’s head, shifts in attitude and micro-expressions he’d never been particularly skilled at interpreting. He’d never been especially sociable. He’d never gotten along with people his age—even now, his social circle was limited to a single, life-long friend.

And Song Lan was different from the man at the counter. He was quiet, gentle but honest, sincere to a fault. This man, contrarily, was a chaotic enigma.

For now.

Xingchen frowned at his own musings. For now?

He turned with the cup, and slid it across the counter. He stared at his own hands as he did so, careful not to spill a single drop in his distracted state. The situation was baffling—not the man himself, not the way the looked at Xingchen, but the way Xingchen’s body reacted to it, the way his mind descended into anarchy.

It wasn’t until the man wrapped his hand around the cup that Xingchen remembered to let go. He looked up when the man spoke.

“I didn't mean to scare you.” His tone was strangely serious—he said it with a sincerity so unexpected, Xingchen thought it must be an act. It had to be a prelude to another joke; beneath the solemn expression, that omnipresent smile lingered. The man motioned with his left hand to catch Xingchen’s attention. “Happened when I was seven, on my family’s yacht. There was a fuel explosion and we were all thrown in the water. I had to fight off a shark with a plank of wood.”

Xingchen stared. He’d never wanted to kill anyone before, but he thought he might attempt it now.

The man, predictably, broke into a loud, buoyant laugh, bright eyes crinkling as his shoulders shook.

He took his cup, then, and raised it carefully towards Xingchen in a mock toast. He fixed him with a playful smile, still amused at his own stupidity.

“This was fun. Nice meeting you.” 

Xingchen didn't understand people, but he knew there was something distinct about the words. Not that he knew what it was. He offered the man a hesitant, pleasant smile, watched as he turned away.

The man took a sip, narrowed his eyes, made a quiet, appreciative sound, the universal sign for not bad, and made a beeline for the condiments.

Another customer had, in the meantime, arrived at the counter, forcing Xingchen to tear his attention away. Numbly, he took the order and went about preparing it. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked on as the man added more and more sugar to his coffee.

Four packets later, Xingchen was concerned for his health; it had already been sweet to begin with. The man stirred in silence, head down, his hair falling in his face, wisps escaping the messy knot he had it tied into. Now that he wasn't performing—because that’s all it had been, an elaborate show designed to infuriate—he was different. He didn't know Xingchen was watching. His movements remained casual and unhurried, but sharper now. He was on edge, as though coiled for a fight. His hands were careful, actions deliberate like he knew he’d make a mess otherwise, lips pressed tightly together in a childlike concentration. 

Xingchen drew in a sharp breath. Okay, so he was staring at the man’s lips. That was new. He made a note to dwell on it later.

He returned his full attention to his work, foregoing the special effort he’d made for the man before. This coffee wasn't as important, somehow. Still, he forced himself to focus. He didn't want to look anymore. He didn’t want to be caught stealing glances.

Not long after, footsteps sounded on the hardwood as someone crossed to the exit. Foolishly, instinctively, Xingchen turned. For a single, split-second moment, time froze, and the man looked back over his shoulder. It was almost wistful and then, as soon as it’d appeared, it vanished. Before Xingchen could react beyond a shaky exhale, the man stepped out onto the street and was gone.

/

He was back a week later. 

He pulled his hood off as he came inside, dripping rainwater onto the hardwood without a care in the world. Xingchen was not surprised in the slightest to learn that the man was the kind of absurd person to forego an umbrella—as though carrying one would make him less cool. 

Xingchen, eyes distractedly fixed on the doorway, nodded his thanks at his previous customer. She plucked up her Americano and turned to go, passing the man as he approached the counter. He walked with same haughty grace Xingchen so vividly remembered, but this time around, his soaked jacket and damp hair ruined the spellbinding effect. Just a little—he was still a wondrous sight to behold. 

“Hello again,” Xingchen said. 

The man smiled tightly. Then, in lieu of a reply, he sniffled, nose red from the cold. It made something ache deep in Xingchen’s gut, a protective instinct flaring up.

“Same again?” he asked. 

The man ran his tongue over his lips, cocked his head in thought, stared straight ahead into Xingchen’s soul. Xingchen, refusing to be intimidated by somebody who would rather risk pneumonia than carry an umbrella, stared back. 

“How about the vanilla, this time.”

His voice, though slightly hoarse, still held that familiar tone of sneering amusement. It was an act he refused to give up, like he had a reputation to uphold, even when dripping wet and visibly under the weather. Briefly, Xingchen wondered what the man was even doing out in his current state given the downpour—nobody needed coffee this badly.

Xingchen nodded and tapped the correct amount into the register, and the man, without prompting, set down a little stack of quarters on the counter for Xingchen to take.

“To-go?”

The man looked up, blinked with a hint of genuine bewilderment, as though he hadn't understood the question. Xingchen suspected he had a fever. Or was having a bad day. Or a bit of both. All the more reason to stay in bed—there was nothing special enough about Xingchen’s coffee to warrant the sacrifice. 

“You should—you could dry off, before you get going,” Xingchen told him kindly, and the man’s stare grew more perplexed. Xingchen quickly backtracked. “Sorry. Unless you’re in a hurry.”

Xingchen felt like he was malfunctioning. His brain was screaming. Why was he so adamant to get the man to stay? So quick to ask him—a complete stranger—to stay? Why, in the name of all that was holy, could Xingchen not look away from the man’s cold, reddened cheeks?

After a tense moment of silence came the decision. “Sounds good. I mean—I’ll stay. Dry off.”

Xingchen allowed himself a small smile as he reached over for the quarters. He felt  giddy, which was downright insane. Perhaps he had a fever as well. He dropped the coins into the register and the receipt onto the countertop in exchange. The man stood in wait, fiddling idly with the too-long sleeves of the sweater he wore beneath his dripping jacket.

He was subdued today—calmer, curling in on himself instead of coming on too strong. Xingchen considered offering him an Aspirin, then realized that, too, was insane.

He got to work, retrieved a mug and coaster from the storage space beneath the counter. For reasons he couldn't explain, as he went about the motions of making the latte, he started to talk. He never talked—especially not to people he didn't know.

“Everything all right? Any more shark attacks?”

And there it was—slowly but surely turning up like a dial—that viciously amused smile that Xingchen had missed so dearly. Missed. The realization was jarring. He’d missed this man, this complete stranger, his cruel laughter and playful eyes.

“Ah—no. All good. Still nine.”

He glanced down at his hands as he said it, flexing his fingers. They were even redder than his cheeks, thoroughly frozen. Instinctively, Xingchen worked faster. The sooner he finished, the sooner the man could wrap his hands around the mug to thaw himself out.

Before Xingchen could say anything else, the door swung open behind them and a couple rushed in to escape the storm. The man turned to glance at them. Xingchen could have sworn he caught a glimpse of disappointment cross over his features, saw his smile falter. It was almost as though he’d wanted to stay and chat with Xingchen again, for whatever reason he’d done so last time, and they had foiled his ingenious plan.

“Here you are.”

He slid the coffee over on a tray, onto which he’d already placed a spoon and napkins and piled on a few extra sugar packets, just to be nice. 

The man looked down, then back up at Xingchen, eyes endearingly wide. His lips twitched like he meant to smile but suddenly couldn't remember the motions. He cleared his throat and, with a jerk of his head that might have been a grateful nod, picked up his order and scurried off to find a table. 

By the time Xingchen had finished serving the couple—one of whom had taken nearly five minutes to decide which coffee he wanted and another five to pick out a pastry, asking his impossibly patient husband to validate his decisions all the while—the man had made himself comfortable at the small table by the window. His jacket was thrown over the back of his chair, his legs extended under the table, crossed at the ankles. He had an old paperback with him and appeared to be lost in thought, staring down at the impressively battered pages.

It was mid-morning and, following the couple, the lunchtime crowd began to arrive. Mostly it was regulars, people from local businesses Xingchen knew not by name but by order. He served everyone politely, graciously but his mind was elsewhere.

Every now and again he glanced up to find the man watching him from the window seat. Their eyes would lock and the man would quickly look away, back down at his book. Xingchen had a feeling he wasn't really reading it. He hadn't flipped a single page the entire time—it might have been upside down. He seemed distracted. As such, Xingchen was also distracted. He bustled around automatically, but his heart wasn't in his work. It was impossible to concentrate when, hard as he tried, he couldn't fathom why the man had taken an interest in him, why he sat there blatantly staring, and why on Earth Xingchen wanted him to keep doing it. 

He was startled out of his reverie by an exuberant laugh from the table closest to the counter. It was the indecisive man from earlier, wheezing to the point of tears while his husband’s face remained inhumanly impassive. Xingchen blinked, realized he’d almost dropped the plates he was holding. 

“Seven-fifty,” he said to the customer he was currently serving, as he slid two slices of carrot cake over the counter. His hands felt unsteady. He smiled serenely as he took the customer’s outstretched money, as though he could force himself to relax, to get his act together.

These busiest hours passed in a blur. It was usually the lunchtime workload that tired him out the most, but now his body was as exhausted as his mind. He wished he had someone to talk to, to ask them why the hell this—whatever it was—was completely taking over his subconscious.

It was almost two in the afternoon when Xingchen got his first real moment of respite. The trickle of customers had died down; only two patrons remained in the cafe.

Almost immediately, the man was at the counter, demanding attention. His mood had improved substantially; the change was drastic. Everything about him was more alive than it had been a few hours ago. He’d dried off, warmed up, recharged his batteries. With a smirk, he slid his empty mug over to Xingchen, pointedly ignoring the dish return station at the far left end of the counter.

Xingchen indulged him. He disposed of everything, dropped it into the sink hastily enough for the resounding clang to make him wince. He couldn't get rid of it fast enough; he couldn't wait to turn around and hold another questionable conversation with the attractive stranger.

Oh. That was new. Until now, he hadn’t—  

“Did you miss me?” the man asked coyly, before Xingchen could dwell too deeply on his latest emotional breakthrough. 

Yes, Xingchen thought, yes, I did, so much, and I don’t understand why.

Out loud, he said, conversationally, “Just now, or this past week?”

“Hm. So you did miss me. You were counting down the days until you saw me again, weren't you?”

He was delighted. It made Xingchen warm all over. It also made him slightly nauseated—he didn't know why he was feeling the way he was feeling, or what the man in front of him wanted. Was Xingchen an easy target? Was he simply fun to tease? Was the man consciously poking fun at him or was he just like that, a complete asshole? Worst of all, was that Xingchen wanted more of it.

“Which was better?” he asked mildly. He knew that if he didn't say something, anything, he would start hyperventilating. “Vanilla? Caramel?”

“Hm. Both.” He could tell Xingchen looked unconvinced and reassured him, “Really, both. Swear on my life.”

“I have a few more you might like,” Xingchen said. Every time he spoke, the words burst out of him unbidden. He was coming apart at the seams, desperately craving something. “If you come by again,” he added, his tone dropping without his explicit permission.

The man’s eyes came alive, positively sparkling. 

“Good,” he said. “I’ll have something to look forward to.”

It was a natural end to the conversation. The man was going to turn to go and Xingchen would have to wait days, maybe a week, a month to see him again. It wasn't even a given. He might never come back. Xingchen couldn't accept that—he didn’t want it to be over.

Impulsively, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Are you a—do you go to the university here?”

That gave the man pause. This was a personal question. They didn't do personal questions. Xingchen could see his gears turning. Finally, the man snickered.

“No, not my thing.” He made a face, made an eh sound. “Well, been there, tried that, dropped out.”

That was unexpected. He didn't seem—

“How old are you?” Xingchen asked, the question flying yet again past his brain-to-mouth filter. Eyes wide, his hands fluttered up apologetically. “—I’m sorry, that’s—that’s none of my business.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Oh,” Xingchen said. “You look younger.”

“I know.”

He had a young face and bright eyes, his mannerisms—his excitement, or sulky petulance—equally childlike. It explained why he dressed the way he did, why he took measures to come off as more intimidating than he was. Simply enough, he wanted to be taken seriously. He wanted people to cross to the other side of the street when they saw him.

Not Xingchen. Xingchen was staying put. He wasn't deterred. He wanted.

“And you?” the man asked. He fixed Xingchen with an expectant look. “It’s only fair,” he rationalized. 

“Twenty-eight.”

The man wolf-whistled, impressed. “A 30 under 30 entrepreneur.”

His smile was infectious. It made Xingchen’s fingertips tingle. It made him remember how easily he blushed—he wanted to turn away but couldn't bring himself to do it. 

“Okay,” the man drawled, clearly enjoying Xingchen’s little meltdown. “I can see you’re going through something.” He laughed and his shoulders shook with the force of it. “I’ll be back,” he promised, and spun on his heels to go.

“I—” Xingchen started, and faltered.

Still, the man stopped and turned, brow raised in question. 

Before he lost his nerve completely, Xingchen blurted out, “Can you tell me your name?” Then, remembering his manners, he motioned dumbly to himself and added, “Xiao Xingchen. I’m—that’s me—my name.”

The man was smiling again, thoroughly entertained by Xingchen’s stuttering, his tongue poking out from the corner of his lips.

“Xiao Xingchen,” he repeated, slowly, trying the name out, and Xingchen’s heart burst into flames. The man’s smile sharpened, like that of a child who’d just won the best, biggest prize at the carnival. “I’m Xue Yang.”

/

The next time Xingchen saw Xue Yang was not at work.

It was early morning, an unfortunately gloomy Saturday. The nighttime chill lingered in the air, shrouding everything in a silvery haze. The forecast for the day predicted snow. Xingchen hoped it was wrong. 

He’d stepped out for groceries with the intention of getting his errands out of the way first thing, to free up the rest of his day. He no longer worked weekends. When he’d started his business, he’d wanted everything under his strict control—the deliveries, the recipes, the patterns on the china, even the cleanliness of the bathrooms—everything had to be perfect. Now, two days a week, he delegated his duties to a quartet of students he’d hired—dependable kids, recommended by a trusted acquaintance. Still, it had been a tough decision to make, all those months ago, taking that risk, leaving his life’s work in the hands of a couple of kids. Thankfully, they didn't disappoint. 

Simply put, Xingchen desperately needed time off. He needed to breathe. He loved his work, but he’d missed the luxury of curling up in bed a little longer, sleeping in past seven, watching the sun stream in through the windows and paint his room gold. That morning, he’d indulged in said tiny pleasure. 

Now, in the shop, he took his time selecting fresh produce, making idle small talk with an elderly woman who’d asked him to read a label for her. When he picked up everything he needed, he turned to the next aisle and froze. 

Xue Yang—and wasn’t that exciting, knowing his name—stood at the opposite end, basket in hand. He was staring down at the box of cereal he was holding, forehead creased, his bottom lip between his teeth; Xingchen assumed he was debating whether or not it contained enough sugar for his liking. His hair was in his face again, wisps escaping the cruel confines of his hair tie, and Xingchen felt something lurch in his chest. Irrationally,  stupidly, he wanted to walk over to him, and tuck it behind his ears. Maybe let his fingers linger. Maybe—

Maybe he ought to go say hello. Or maybe, he thought, he ought to leave the man alone. Xingchen realized, belatedly, that making someone coffee twice did not  automatically make them your friend. It hardly made them an acquaintance. Xue Yang didn’t owe him anything, not his time nor his attention. Chances were Xue Yang might not even recognize him outside of the usual setting.

With that in mind, Xingchen suddenly felt out of place—vulnerable, without his apron, his uniform, like a knight without his armor. 

Numbly, he stood unmoving, watching Xue Yang put the box back onto the shelf and pick up another. He was an entirely different person when there was nobody around to show off for. Dressed in dark jeans and leather he painted an intimidating picture, but his movements lacked the arrogant quality Xingchen had gotten so used to.

A moment later, Xue Yang abruptly looked up, like he’d sensed Xingchen’s presence. He looked in Xingchen’s direction; before recognition struck, Xingchen saw that his eyes, too, looked different—unfocused, uncaring, almost sad.

Then Xue Yang cocked his head to the side and his expression softened for a single second before he broke into a grin. It was like a switch had been flicked. He dropped the box uncaringly into his basket and made his way over to Xingchen, swinging his arms like a joyous child. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he greeted. 

Without the counter between them, it felt as though something had shifted, a delicate balance slipping off-kilter. There was no metaphorical chasm anymore, nothing to designate an uncrossable line. 

“Hi,” Xingchen said. 

“You’re not working today,” Xue Yang said. He didn't phrase it as a question—naturally, since it was past eight and Xingchen was here and not at the cafe. 

“I don’t come in on weekends.”

“But you’re open.”

Again, not a question.

“I do hire people, on occasion.”

Xue Yang hummed. “So, you’re the kind of guy who gets up at fuck o’ clock in the morning to buy vegetables.”

“And yourself?”

“I was out of cereal. That’s a breakfast food. It’s different.”

“Vegetables can also be a breakfast food.”

Xue Yang snorted. “Yeah, if you’re that kind of guy.”

He said it like Xingchen was an entirely different species. In that moment, looking between their two baskets, Xingchen was inclined to agree. He was carrying fresh produce, flour, baking soda, and the like, while Xue Yang had picked up cereal and Skittles. So many Skittles. 

“You know—it is weird to see you out. Out in the wild, I mean. Not at work,” Xue Yang rambled. “Do you live around here?” His head was tilted again, this time in mild curiosity. 

“No,” Xingchen said. “Not really. Two blocks north past the cafe.”

Xue Yang nodded, slowly, as though in a trance. Xingchen suspected he was a little bit out of it at the moment, whatever that entailed. “So, then, what brings you here?”

“The flour,” said Xingchen.

Xue Yang stared. “The flour,” he echoed.

Xingchen smiled pleasantly. “The flour. This is the only place that stocks this brand.”

Xue Yang gaped at Xingchen like he was the one acting loopy. “You have a favorite brand of flour?”

It was odd to be standing in the grains aisle so early in the morning, illuminated by harsh fluorescents, chatting pleasantly about household products with a man who looked like he listened to death metal for a living. Stranger yet, Xue Yang seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. He was inexplicably sweet, in a weird, threatening way that Xingchen was yet to understand.

“Try baking bread with subpar flour,” Xingchen said.

“If I hear the word flour one more time, I will actually become unhinged,” Xue Yang informed him. Then, “To be fair, you do strike me as the kind of guy to make his own bread. I bet you’re good at it too. It suits your whole—thing.”

Xingchen inaudibly repeated the words. My—thing? “Thank you. I suppose.”

“Your whole vibe, I mean. Anyway, I have been up since four-thirty because a certain roommate of mine decided to FaceTime his girlfriend at the ass crack of dawn because she’s all fancy and studying abroad, and there’s a time difference, and blah blah blah. I couldn't listen to another bad-connection-distortion kissy noise. I had to get out of there to preserve my sanity.”

The most surprising part of that little speech was that Xue Yang had given it in the first place, volunteering personal information of his own free will. Xingchen had been correct to assume he was out of sorts—due to lack of sleep, it appeared.

He couldn't help his huff of laughter. Xue Yang was charming in such a strange, intense way that Xingchen had trouble believing was real. It was as though he practiced his breezy nonchalance in front of a mirror on the daily, perfecting his craft, piecing together his image, keeping it up even when pissed or tired. A notorious introvert himself, Xingchen could tell when somebody else didn't like people. Xue Yang, for one, seemed to hate them. And while his social skills left much to be desired, he still talked and talked and talked, donned a bright smile and achieved whatever he put his mind to. It was a mesmerizing paradox. It was an enticing act to watch. Xingchen, quite simply, could not look away. 

Xue Yang puffed out his cheeks and exhaled theatrically. “Okay. I won’t keep you. I have cereal to eat. You have bread to bake. Each to their own. And, uh—” he grimaced, looking fearfully at Xingchen’s basket, “—are you really going to eat all those vegetables yourself? That’s—and you didn't even put them in the little baggies. You’re one of those guys too—those, what’s it called, zero waste people. That’s so in-character for you,” he said in sheer amazement. “You’re so—”

Again, Xue Yang trailed off, this time lifting both hands and wiggling them around in a vague motion at Xingchen’s person. His basket swayed precariously. 

“You know,” Xue Yang concluded.

“It’s good for the environment,” Xingchen told him. “Every little thing makes a difference.”

Xue Yang stuck his tongue out, made a face. “Sure, sure. Listen, for you—just for you—I’ll recycle this box when I’m done with it.” He shook his basket. “In exchange for a free cinnamon roll with my next coffee.”

“It’s not a gesture of goodwill if you do it for a price.”

Xue Yang stuck his tongue out harder and waved him off. “All right, all right, go eat your vegetables. Honestly, it’s gonna kill you, all that plant food.”

“I’ll be fine,” Xingchen assured him. “I have someone coming over for dinner tonight. We’ll split the plant food. No one’s going to die.”

Xue Yang fell quiet then, his amusement dying down gradually. Within moments he was gone, shuttered completely, nothing left behind his eyes. It happened so quickly Xingchen had almost missed it.

“Right,” Xue Yang said, and his voice was cold now, too, curt and clipped. He cleared his throat. “Right—I have to go. I won’t bother you. Enjoy your dinner.”

He brushed past Xingchen with his head down, disappearing before he could even truly process what was going on. Xingchen was sure he’d missed whatever it was earlier on in their conversation that had triggered Xue Yang’s mood to slip so abruptly. He didn't recall saying anything untoward. Xue Yang was tired, he was moody, he had his own business to take care of. In all probability, he was simply in a hurry.

Still, Xingchen couldn't quite bring himself to believe he’d imagined the hurt on Xue Yang’s face as he’d fled. It’d been real. He later wondered, idly, distractedly, for days on end, what it had meant.

/

Over the next few months, Xue Yang kept showing up—at least once a week, settling into a familiar pattern. 

They talked, they laughed, the fluttering in Xingchen’s stomach increased. He learned that Xue Yang loved lattes and hated black coffee (no matter how much sugar was in it), that he’d never been ice skating or broken a bone (“But I have lost a finger, you know, so it evens out.”), that he’d never managed to keep a potted plant alive for longer than a week (not even his four cacti, may they rest in peace).

He also discovered that Xue Yang was difficult beyond belief, irritable, with moods as fickle as spoiled child’s, stubborn, quick to anger, and, at times, completely unreasonable and entirely uncooperative. And all that towards the man who made his coffee. Xingchen couldn't even begin to fathom how Xue Yang behaved around people he knew and liked. Loved? In truth, it was hard to imagine him loving anyone—deeply, selflessly, unconditionally. 

Still, illogically, Xingchen was entranced. Because Xue Yang’s smile was sweet when it reached his eyes, and he was endearing, startlingly innocent in some aspects and absolutely foul in others. When he lost his temper he never said a word against Xingchen directly, putting in an almost conscious effort to be kind to him, unlike the way he was to everyone else. If Xingchen didn't know any better, he would think Xue Yang liked him. That he wanted to make Xingchen smile. That he desperately sought his attention, his approval. 

In his nearly thirty years on this planet, Xingchen had never made a habit of paying attention to other people—not like that. He had friends and he had acquaintances, and he knew them—knew what they liked, disliked, what movies they watched, what they enjoyed talking about. But he’d never found himself focusing on the way anyone’s brows pinched together in anger, the way their voice sounded when they tried to sweet talk their way into a free croissant, the way their lips glistened pink after a sip of ice cold lemonade. 

In short, Xingchen was confused. Of all the people he could have become obsessively infatuated with, he simply had to choose the antisocial asshole who spat insults with a smile and insisted on using so much sugar that Xingchen had no doubt it would kill him within the next ten years.

Xingchen had never had a crush—he didn't know what it was supposed to feel like. He suspected it might feel like this.

Like the time his heart quite literally skipped a beat when Xue Yang approached the counter with a reusable plastic cup for his coffee, eyes narrowed like he was daring Xingchen to say something about it. 

Xingchen dared. “My eco speech got to you.”

“It wasn't even a speech. It was a single sentence. You didn't even say anything, really. You were just flaunting your stupid vegetables,” Xue Yang insisted. “I don’t know why you think I’m doing this for you, when I’m clearly doing it for the twenty percent discount.” He jerked his chin to motion at the blackboard behind Xingchen where said discount was announced. Xingchen had to press his lips tightly together to suppress a smile.

“I see,” he said. He could play Xue Yang’s game, let him pretend he was doing it for whatever reasons he said he was doing it for. If he enjoyed being contrary, who was Xingchen to stop him.

Xue Yang set the cup down and slid it slowly, almost seductively to Xingchen’s side of the counter. 

“Although,” he went on, as Xingchen took the cup and turned to begin preparing the coffee (Xue Yang trusted him to make whatever and make it good), “I discovered that my building has a recycling bin-system-collection-thing out back.”

Xingchen shot him a warm look over his shoulder. That expression was back on Xue Yang’s face, that tentative half-smile, head down, brows raised expression, like he needed Xingchen to say he was proud of him.

“And?” Xingchen prompted.

“I have been using it,” Xue Yang said slowly, pronouncing each word individually—like it was something difficult to say, and like he didn't want Xingchen to miss a single syllable. 

Xingchen turned away before Xue Yang caught a glimpse of his ridiculous grin. “That’s good,” he said. He waited until he had his face under control before spinning back around to the register to accept the payment—minus twenty percent, of course.

Xue Yang watched him with a dubious, calculating expression, trying to gauge whether Xingchen was poking fun at him, or genuinely satisfied. 

“I mean it,” Xingchen assured him.

Xue Yang hesitated, narrowed his eyes, then smiled, and Xingchen’s heart rate doubled, and tripled.

It was like the Thursday morning the week after that, when he was having a riveting conversation with Xue Yang at the far end of the counter—about gardening, of all things—when a mother approached with her two unruly children to order.

Xue Yang lingered to the side, poking around the free samples bowl for something appetizing. He was genuinely well-mannered when he chose to be, pleasant and agreeable, never interrupting, letting Xingchen do his job, sticking to the sidelines when his bothersome presence was unwelcome, or cutting in when he was needed.

Much like when the mother asked Xingchen to recommend her a pastry for her younger son, who refused to touch anything unless it was sufficiently sweet. With a laugh, Xue Yang inched forward and tapped the display case.

“That one, the pink one,” he told her. “The secret’s in the frosting. If you ask nicely,” he added with a grin, now looking down at the kid who was eyeing him in awe, “the nice man at the counter will give you some extra.”

The act he put on was so unbelievably charming that Xingchen had to blink a few times before the words registered. The woman had looked to him for confirmation and Xingchen forced himself to smile and nod. “He’s a—very knowledgable regular,” he explained, and Xue Yang chuckled.

With her kids having picked out their pastries, the woman took to ordering their drinks, and the boy who’d been staring at Xue Yang tugged at the corner of his shirt to get his attention.

Xingchen watched as Xue Yang looked down, eyebrow cocked in question.

“Where’s your finger?” the kid asked curiously. 

Xue Yang stared down at him—part menacing, part uncharacteristically gentle, and said, very seriously, “I lost it when I wrestled an alligator.” He motioned for the boy to lean in closer, and his voice dropped to a mock whisper. “I won.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide, Xue Yang’s amusement increased tenfold, and Xingchen’s heart struggled against the confines of his ribcage, pounding, growing, swelling. 

With every new visit to the cafe, Xingchen discovered something about Xue Yang he hadn't known before. He was full of endless mysteries, a walking enigma, a puzzle Xingchen wanted desperately to solve.

He couldn't understand how it was possible for someone so jagged to be so soft, to swear like a truck driver and yet be so good with kids, to look like he’d stepped out of a Tim Burton movie yet claim his favorite color was white, to be so vicious and violent yet look at Xingchen with an unspeakable tenderness in his eyes. 

Xue Yang had to have a motive. People like him didn't do anything without getting something in return. 

And so Xingchen wondered. He tossed and turned at night, heat creeping up his neck, and wondered. 

How about him? What was he getting out of this? He always looked forward to seeing Xue Yang. He thought about him when they were apart. His day always improved whenever he saw the familiar figure step inside, no matter what mood Xue Yang was in, or what they talked about, or whether they talked at all. 

It was a crush. It was an all-consuming, heart-wrenching infatuation.

As for Xue Yang—Xingchen was unable to deduce what he wanted out of this. Perhaps a friend. He sought out Xingchen to have someone to talk to, to spend time in the company of the single person he seemed to be fond of. In time, Xingchen learned that Xue Yang didn't make friends. He had no one. He pretended not to need anyone. But he kept coming back to Xingchen and Xingchen treasured that, vowed never to turn him away.

It was almost a year after Xue Yang had first showed up that Xingchen froze in the middle of mixing cake batter, switched off the blender, and stood in the still silence of his kitchen. 

For the first time, he considered Xue Yang might feel the same way. The realization stunned him—he’d been flirting with Xue Yang. And what if, all this time, he’d been flirting back? Xingchen had no experience with such things; he had no idea if it was likely, or if he was so confused by his own desires he projected them onto the person he hoped would reciprocate. 

It was ridiculous, of course. Someone like Xue Yang would never fall for someone like Xingchen. Xingchen was boring, tidy, quiet, careful. Xue Yang was his polar opposite. 

But was it ridiculous? Opposites tended to attract. Xingchen had fallen for Xue Yang, after all—and fuck, that was a weight off his chest, admitting it to himself. It wasn't necessarily far-fetched to consider that Xue Yang’s constant teasing, his sparkling smiles, his incessant poking and prodding and driving Xingchen up the wall were his way of getting Xingchen’s attention—flirting like a sweet first-grader, pulling his crush’s pigtails during their lunch break.

In either case, Xue Yang was never going to make the first move. It was written all over the way he retreated back into himself when faced with anything too serious, anything too personal. If Xingchen knew anything, it was that Xue Yang would never, never in a million years, admit to anything that made him vulnerable.

Xingchen wished he knew for sure. In that moment, he wished more than anything that he understood people. He wanted nothing more than to solve the riddle that was Xue Yang.

/

Xingchen started work at seven. He cleaned, accepted deliveries, bustled around making everything perfect, then opened at eight, and didn't close until seven in the evening. It was a twelve hour workday. It was beyond exhausting.

When the time came to close up, he was dead on his feet. His last few customers of the day seemed to understand, making sympathetic small talk, picking up last minute pastries to take home to their kids.

It was four minutes to seven when the door opened again and, if Xingchen had been a little meaner, he would have told them to go the fuck away.

But it was Xue Yang approaching the counter. Xingchen stood up straighter and raised a hand in greeting. As he came closer, though, Xingchen could see that something was off—Xue Yang’s smile was forced, his eyes rimmed in red as though he hadn't slept properly in days.

Immediately, Xingchen was concerned. The protective instinct he felt whenever Xue Yang wasn't being his usual self flared up.

“Can I—” he started.

Xingchen cut him off. “I’m not making you coffee at this hour. What kind of tea do you like?”

“Tea’s too bitter.”

“You must be making it wrong,” Xingchen said. “Go sit down. I’ll bring it over.”

Xue Yang sniffled. “How much?”

“Don’t worry about it. Go sit down.”

Xingchen picked out something sweet and fruity, plopped it into a big mug, and brought it over on a tray with a spoon and heaps of sugar packets.

Xue Yang eyed him as he came over.

“You should have made that to-go. I only have—” he paused, fished out his phone to look at the time, “—less than one minute to finish it.”

“Drink your tea,” Xingchen said simply.

When the clock hit seven, he crossed to the front and flipped the lock, turned the open sign to closed. He switched off the lights, leaving only those in the back room and over the counter.

He pulled off his apron and tossed it onto one of the tables, then shot a glance at Xue Yang. His brows were knit in innocent confusion, those damn eyes wide and lost. 

“I’ll be right back. I have to clean up.”

He hurried through his closing checklist, then ducked into the bathroom to wash his hands, to stare at himself in the mirror for a good two minutes, wondering if he had lost his mind. Was this a normal thing friends did—hang out in darkened cafes past closing?

Part of him expected Xue Yang to be gone when he came back, but there he was, staring down at his mug with both hands wrapped tightly around it. 

Xingchen slowly crossed to where he was sitting. He didn't want to spook him. He knew how jumpy Xue Yang could be, how his moods could flip-flop in the blink of an eye. He seemed to be having a shitty enough day already.

Xingchen sat across from him.

“Not bitter,” Xue Yang confirmed quietly.

“Told you.”

He waited for as long as humanly possible, gritting his teeth to keep his words from exploding out. 

But he was weak, and Xue Yang was distraught, and so Xingchen gave in and asked the dumbest question in existence—“Are you okay?”—like the idiot he was. 

Xue Yang looked up and blinked rapidly for a moment, seemingly having forgotten where he was, that Xingchen was there.

“Fine,” he said. “You didn't have to—all this wasn't necessary.”

“You looked upset,” Xingchen said plainly. “You look upset.” 

Xue Yang, more forcefully, repeated, “I’m fine,” and fell silent once more.

Xingchen didn't know how to go on without sounding inconsiderate. Xue Yang was on the defense, he was deflecting, but he was here. He’d come here to see Xingchen for a reason.

“Can you tell me, then,” Xingchen asked, “if you wanted to sulk and deal with whatever it is on your own, why you came to me?”

Xue Yang’s blank expression, for a moment, shifted into a snarl. “Why do you care?”

Xingchen took a breath. “Because you’re my friend,” he said resolutely. His heart screamed at that. Not a friend, it said, you don't feel this way about your friends. “And I want to do something to help.”

The anger in Xue Yang’s eyes switched to a bone-deep sadness, then back to anger, settling finally on a dejected confusion. He shook his head like he couldn't believe himself.

“I didn't want to be alone,” he confessed. “I just wanted to see you.”

“Okay,” Xingchen said. “That’s okay. If you just want to sit here, that’s fine. I’ll stay with you. I’ll get myself a cup of tea and join you. If you decide you do want to talk, at any point, I’ll listen.”

Xue Yang didn't speak, didn't even nod, but Xingchen could read him well enough to know he was all right with it.

Xingchen was back not five minutes later with tea for himself and another for Xue Yang, with a side of leftover pastries. 

Xue Yang looked at the tray, then at Xingchen, so startled by this small act of kindness that his mask dropped completely, eyes glassy, hands clenched into desperate fists. He looked wrecked, utterly exhausted.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, for as long as Xue Yang needed. When he spoke again, he was so quiet Xingchen barely heard him.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you why.”

Xue Yang scoffed at that, like it was absurd that Xingchen bothered with him. It was self-hatred with a hint of curiosity. He was trying to figure out why. Why was Xingchen being so nice? Why was Xingchen being so nice to him? 

“Look,” he began bitterly. “I—a while ago, I got into some shit with a bunch of people I’m no longer friends with. Not for the first time. I got a suspended sentence. And so, I am,” he dipped into a sing-songy tone, “on probation. It’s all—honestly, it’s all a huge mess right now.”

For Xingchen, in that instant, everything became crystal clear. Everything Xue Yang did, said, the way he carried himself, the way he bared his teeth at the slightest provocation—it was all to hide how hurt, how vulnerable he was inside.

Xue Yang’s mouth quirked into a small half-smile when he caught Xingchen’s eye. “I didn’t kill anybody. I promise.” He said it sarcastically, of course, unable to take the tension of a serious conversation for longer than a few minutes. When things got too real, too raw, he ran.

But when he went on, the levity was gone from his voice. “It wasn't anything serious. It was—it was stupid. And now—tomorrow—I have a, uh, little get-together with my parole officer. I seem to have violated some insignificant, tiny-bottom-post-script-bullshit rule, and I’m—she’s not gonna listen to me. She doesn’t—she never believes a word I say. She’s a huge bitch.”

“Xue Yang.”

“Sorry,” Xue Yang said unapologetically, but corrected himself nonetheless. “She's a very mean lady.”

With that, he closed down again, turned back to his tea. He took a sip and muttered something that sounded like a compliment, an impressed ‘even better’.

Xingchen hardly heard him. He was thinking. About how Xue Yang was trouble. He was trouble but Xingchen wasn't afraid. He was exasperated. He didn't want to run away, he wanted to inch closer. He wanted Xue Yang to stop being so hard on himself, to let go, let himself be weak. He didn't want to fix him, he wanted to help him fix himself, whatever it was in there that needed fixing, whatever it was that had happened to him that'd made him this way, whatever it was that forced him to sharpen his edges in order to survive. 

“I feel like I owe you,” Xue Yang said abruptly. 

“No. Nothing,” Xingchen said. “You don't owe me anything.”

Xue Yang grimaced and dropped his head into his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair tiredly, newly agitated.

“You’re very kind to me,” he said. The words were muffled, his head still ducked. He didn't meet Xingchen’s eyes. “And I’ve screwed up so much. And I don’t—” His voice shook and his hands tightened in his hair; he was retreating, running, fleeing.

Xingchen didn't have to hear it to know what Xue Yang had meant to say next. I don't deserve it.

Xue Yang’s grip tightened painfully and, before he thought it through, Xingchen reached over and pried free the hand closer to him and pulled it away. He set it on the table, palm down, and covered it with his own.

Xue Yang uncurled and stared at him, terrified, hopeful, lost. He looked so young, so scared. 

“I don’t care,” Xingchen told him. “Whatever it is, I don’t care. You’ve never been anything but civil towards me. I’d say nice, but you’re an asshole, Xue Yang, you must know this.”

That startled a watery laugh out of Xue Yang. 

A moment passed.

Xue Yang sniffled, tried to force his unbidden tears back into his eyes through sheer, stubborn force of will.

“And you’re a saint, Xiao Xingchen,” he said finally, and Xingchen could tell he meant it. 

No one had shown Xue Yang kindness before. No one had ever made him feel safe, or loved, or wanted. Xingchen knew it was up to him to be the first.

For another few minutes they sat, drinking their tea, picking at the food. Xue Yang had taken to viciously tearing apart a croissant into tiny pieces, and Xingchen was exhausted enough to let his mind wander freely. He watched pieces of the pastry flake off, watched Xue Yang pull them apart. He felt too much. He needed sleep. He needed—answers.

Again, his common sense shorted out and, still staring blankly at Xue Yang’s plate, asked, “What did happen to your hand?”

Slowly, Xue Yang stilled. He put down the massacred croissant. 

Xingchen’s brain lagged, took a whole ten seconds to register his own words. He tried to apologize, but Xue Yang spoke first.

“Car accident,” he said. This time, there was no mirth in his voice. “I was little. My parents were killed. And then—” he broke off to laugh. It was a shrill, manic sound. He shook his head. “I’m a textbook foster care delinquent.” He saw the sympathy on Xingchen’s face and went on before Xingchen could cut in. “Don’t say you’re sorry. I know you’re sorry. Everyone’s sorry. It happened. It’s over. It’s fine.”

Xingchen gave a small nod and exhaled shakily. He was so unbelievably worn out, and everything hurt—his soul, his heart. 

It wasn't until half an hour later that they finally got up to leave. They were at the counter, setting down their dishes. Xingchen told Xue Yang to leave them, that he would clean up in the morning.

Xue Yang’s apology was clumsy, like he was out of practice. “I’m sorry for keeping you. You’re tired.”

“It’s all good. And you’ll be fine tomorrow, too,” Xingchen assured him, making a promise he had no way to keep. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Thank you,” Xue Yang said sincerely, hesitantly, the gratitude equally foreign.

He looked up at Xingchen so earnestly, then, that Xingchen’s heart stuttered. He couldn't keep himself from imagining how easy it would be to lean down, close the space between them, to kiss him. 

But he couldn’t. He didn't need to add to Xue Yang’s problems, to ruin the one good relationship Xue Yang had. He didn't want to mess up and lose him.

They parted ways just outside of the cafe. Xingchen watched Xue Yang turn and walk away, and something tugged at him then, like a string had materialized between them, knotting them together, like being apart was no longer possible.

Xingchen had never been in love before. Until now, he hadn't known how much it would hurt.

/

Xingchen was overworked. He took a day off, a Friday, allowed himself a rare long weekend. It had been the students’ idea; they had no classes and Xingchen, allegedly, looked to be a single work day away from collapsing in a heap. “Besides,” one of them had said, “we could use the extra hours.”

That morning, he slept in. He stayed under the hot spray of the shower longer than usual and took his time preparing breakfast afterwards. It was good. He had no complaints. He’d truly deserved this.

Then, the restlessness took hold. Saturdays were for running errands, Sundays for cleaning and winding down, weekdays for working himself to the bone and crashing unconscious the moment he arrived home. All this extra time now, an entire day of his schedule freed, made him antsy. 

Song Lan was at work, but Xingchen called him anyway. He explained the situation, careful not to sound ungrateful. He was meant to be relaxing. The fact that he couldn't was his own fault. They made plans for that afternoon, to catch a movie and, after, a late dinner.

The hours had passed sluggishly. Xingchen spent his day roaming his little apartment like a disoriented ghost, doing nothing of importance, dusting bookshelves, halfheartedly browsing the internet. 

Now, he sat in the lobby of the cinema, the uncomfortable back of the plastic chair digging into his lower spine. Unable to spend another second cooped up at home, Xingchen had arrived early. His friend was running late, caught up in his responsibilities. Idly, Xingchen waited, letting his eyes wander. He had a habit of quietly observing the people around him, to learn about them, how they worked. He found that with every smile, every frown he saw, the picture became a little clearer.

When he saw Xue Yang crossing the lobby on his way to the exit, he initially thought he’d imagined him—admittedly, Xingchen did spent a disproportionate amount of time thinking about him. But, as though sensing the eyes on him, Xue Yang turned; he saw Xingchen, his smile tinged with a hint of surprise, and started towards him.

It had been a while since Xingchen last saw him. Six days, to be exact, but he wouldn't admit to having counted them. Though, these days, Xue Yang made a point to drop by every other day at the very least, and six days without a sign of him had agitated Xingchen more than he cared to admit. Xue Yang would hang around the counter when there was no one there, chatting with Xingchen about nothing in particular, seemingly as desperate for Xingchen’s company as Xingchen was for his. Sometimes he ordered and sometimes all he did was get on Xingchen’s nerves. Xingchen, inexplicably, enjoyed it—immensely; he treasured Xue Yang’s company so dearly it scared him. 

Xue Yang plopped down on the seat next to Xingchen with a barb instead of a greeting.

“Would you look at that, the man has a social life.”

Xingchen didn't point out that he was, in fact, sitting all alone in a cinema lobby, wringing his hands. Instead, the question burst out of him before he could think better of it, “Where have you been?”

Xue Yang frowned, bemused, like he hadn’t expected Xingchen to notice his absence. The expression reverted seconds later to his usual cheerfulness.

“I was out of town. But I was going to come see you on Monday. I swear. Pinky promise.”

Xingchen cracked a smile at the overused joke.

“Everything okay?” he asked, just in case, careful to keep his tone neutral. He knew now, from experience, that Xue Yang reacted violently to pity, to sympathy, to the entire spectrum of human emotion.

“Just peachy. You know you have to go over to the counter to buy tickets, right? They don’t come and serve you here.”

“I’m waiting for someone,” Xingchen told him.

“Ah—could it be the one, single friend you have?”

“Apart from you?”

Xue Yang hesitated. “Apart from me.”

Xingchen hummed in confirmation. “He’s running late.”

“I’ll wait with you,” Xue Yang offered, unprompted. “But give me your wallet first.”

Xingchen’s brows went up. Unbothered, Xue Yang nudged his head in the direction of the snacks counter, then made grabby hands at Xingchen to hurry him up. For reasons he could not explain, Xingchen obliged, and, wallet in hand, Xue Yang scampered off.

Xingchen watched him go. He hadn't even noticed when he’d grown to trust Xue Yang so implicitly. He was trouble, an all-around mess, but he’d never done a thing to harm Xingchen in any way.

Xingchen did have two friends now. And he’d stupidly gone and fallen in love with one of them.

As expected, Xue Yang reappeared a few minutes later with a large cup of soda, pretzels, and two bags of Skittles. The pretzels, along with his wallet, he tossed to Xingchen, having correctly guessed his snack food of choice; the drink and the Skittles he kept.

“So,” he started. He took a sip of soda. “What are you seeing?”

“Haven’t decided yet. We’ll pick something out together.” After a moment, he added, “Anything good? What did you see?”

Lips wrapped around the soda straw, Xue Yang mumbled something incomprehensible and gestured vaguely at a film poster to their left. Unsurprisingly, it was dark and bloody, a zombie thriller of sorts. At times, Xue Yang was so predictable it was hysterical.

“Not my thing,” Xingchen admitted.

“Figured,” Xue Yang said—apparently, Xingchen was equally easy to read. He tore open a pack of Skittles, swearing under his breath as two bounced off the chair and rolled onto the floor. “Anyway. Do you want to do something to pass the time? Something fun? Make out in the bathroom—?” 

He trailed off and burst into laughter. Xingchen felt himself going red. He hadn't thought he was that easy to read. Xue Yang composed himself almost too quickly, sniffed, and said, “Kidding. Don’t worry,” and Xingchen actually felt disappointed.

“How about twenty questions?” Xue Yang suggested, unaware of Xingchen’s ongoing emotional turmoil. “Or ten, or five. However long we have until your buddy gets here.”

A distraction. That was good. He could throw himself into a mindless game and stop thinking altogether. Then Song Lan would show up and they’d see a movie, giving Xingchen another two to three hours of blessed respite.

But of course, Xue Yang was an asshole and opened with, “I’ll start. How old were you when you had your first kiss?” and Xingchen kind of wanted to cry. 

He dropped his gaze to his hands and forcefully broke a pretzel into two, then into four. He breathed in, praying his voice didn't shake. “Twenty,” he said.

For too long, Xue Yang was quiet. Eventually, Xingchen looked back up. Xue Yang was making a face.

“Huh,” he said finally, contemplatively. “I could have bet my entire arm you were going to say you’ve never kissed anyone before.”

Xingchen didn’t know what to make of that. It sounded like Xue Yang was implying he’d given the matter extensive thought. Why had he been thinking of Xingchen kissing people? Why was—

Xue Yang went on, asking, “Who was it?” and there was an edge to his voice now. His pitch was higher, breezier, so casual it wasn't casual at all. It was jealousy. But that was absurd. There was no reason for Xue Yang to be jealous. Xue Yang didn't feel the same way.

“You can’t have two questions,” Xingchen admonished. He was astounded at his own self-control. The chaos on the inside stayed on the inside. On his face he wore a smile, his tone light. 

Xue Yang, naturally, pouted. 

And then, because he was a self-destructive fool, Xingchen asked, “Have you ever been in a serious relationship?”

For a split second, Xue Yang faltered. His face then scrunched up into a frown, thoughtful. “Not successfully,” he said in the end. Whatever that meant. He failed to elaborate; instead, “Okay, now me. Who did you kiss?”

He was adamant. He was jealous. Xingchen had no idea what was happening.

“Nobody,” Xingchen admitted quietly. “I mean—it was a nobody. In college, I got dragged to a party. Just the once. I learned the hard way that I can’t hold my drink. I ended up making out with someone I never saw again. I think. I can’t remember who it was.”

The last part he said with a laugh. He was older now, and knew better. Since then, he hadn't gone out, hadn't had more than a glass of wine at dinner. Hadn't touched anyone, kissed anyone, wanted anyone. Until now.

Xue Yang was looking at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “Xiao Xingchen, you continue to surprise me. Your turn.”

Suddenly, Xingchen had to change the topic. Part of him wanted to follow up on Xue Yang’s answer. He too wanted to ask, who? Who were you with? What happened? But he couldn't take Xue Yang’s wide eyes watching him with that twisted reverence a moment longer. He feared he would snap, lose himself and do something stupid, like lean over and knock the soda from Xue Yang’s hands, haul him in and kiss him, right here in front of the entire world.

Blandly, he asked, “Favorite animal?”

Xue Yang scoffed. “Snake. If you were stuck on a deserted island, would you rather have a friend with you, or a weapon?”

“A friend,” Xingchen said decisively. “If you were the last person on Earth, what would you do?”

Xue Yang popped a Skittle into his mouth, then another, and another. He scowled, genuinely unable to answer. As finicky as Xue Yang was, he was practical, unlikely to overthink anything. Xingchen considered, that perhaps, hard as he tried, Xue Yang didn't see the point of the question, couldn’t imagine a course of action other than the default ‘survive’. 

“Okay. Something less daunting, then,” Xingchen suggested instead. “How about you tell me something about yourself that sounds like it would be a lie, but isn’t?”

Immediately, Xue Yang brightened, pleased at the particularity of the question. His brows pinched and he scrunched his nose the way he did whenever faced with an obstacle. Xingchen wanted to reach over and touch his face. Also, he wanted to punch a wall, maybe scream into a pillow.

“I’m allergic to shellfish,” Xue Yang said finally.

Xingchen, taken aback, smiled despite himself. “That’s not hard to believe at all.”

“Yes, it is,” Xue Yang insisted. “What a stupid allergy. It’s so specific. I would eat fried shrimp all the time, you know, and then eventually I realized my throat wasn't supposed to be swelling up like that. It’s just so—unnecessary, don’t you think?”

The petulance with which he’d said it startled a laugh out of Xingchen. He found himself unexpectedly drawn to those qualities of Xue Yang’s that he would have found annoying in anyone else. It made him authentic. No matter that he donned a persona most of the time—when he was being himself, his shameless, playful demeanor made him so very real. It pulled at Xingchen’s heart, made him feel warm all over.

“It’s a wonder that you’re still alive.”

Xue Yang scoffed. “Back in the day, the shrimp was the least of my problems,” he said flippantly.

It was jarring, how easily these words came out compared to when Xingchen tried to wheedle anything personal from him. Xingchen felt his smile drop awkwardly.

Xue Yang, for once, caught on and shrugged carelessly. 

“It doesn't matter. Don’t worry about it.”

Still, Xingchen couldn't stop himself from ruining everything by asking, for the second time that day, “Everything’s okay now, though, right?”

And Xue Yang shuttered, shut down like an overheated machine, alive one moment and gone the next.

Xingchen knew it would happen. He’d seen it coming before he’d even finished speaking.

Worse than Xue Yang’s anger was the silence, when he pinched his lips shut and refused to talk. He saw concern as criticism, sympathy as false pity. Anything that implied his powerlessness was wrongly interpreted as a personal attack. He’d built up his walls, created a barrier, crafted an image of himself that he wanted people to see. He’d performed the lie often enough to begin to believe it himself—that he was cold as ice, that he had no soul. He’d spent so long out of touch with his feelings, with what made him human, that he lashed at anybody who suggested there was something wrong with him, something to be pitied.

What hurt Xingchen more, was that Xue Yang thought this was normal, closing himself off when things didn't go his way. He couldn't see past his own convictions, blinded by rage and trauma and whatever the hell else, didn't notice how hard Xingchen was trying to get through to him.

Xingchen had to get through to him.

“Don’t do that,” he said, perhaps a bit too harshly. “I’m not prying. I’m not judging.”

Xue Yang said nothing. Bitterly, he ate another Skittle.

“Xue Yang,” Xingchen tried, “do you trust me?”

Right then, Xue Yang looked like he wanted nothing more than to eagerly, fiercely nod yes, of course. But he froze, gazing wide-eyed at Xingchen, expression indecipherable. Finally, tentatively, almost sulkily, he nodded.

“Then you know I wouldn't lie to you. I only asked because I care for your wellbeing. I don’t have any other motive. I’ve told you, if you ever want to, you can tell me anything, and I’ll listen—” Xingchen fell silent. He couldn't pick out the right words. He didn't want to sound desperate, he didn't want to scare Xue Yang away. “If you need me—if you need anything, you can always come to me. That’s all.”

Xue Yang’s face had gone strangely blank. There was nothing there: no sadness, no joy, no doubt. His eyes, however, betrayed an inkling of something else entirely, a childlike fear that whatever was happening was too good to be true. It wasn't quite disbelief, because Xingchen had promised he wouldn't lie and so Xue Yang had no choice but to trust him—but it was close, because Xue Yang couldn't understand why Xingchen cared.

Determined to snap him back to the land of the living, Xingchen reached out and plucked the soda out of his hand to take a sip—a small gesture unexpected enough to make Xue Yang frown.

Predictably: “It’s Pepsi. You hate Pepsi,” Xue Yang informed him, as though Xingchen didn't know this about himself. 

Xingchen said nothing. He fixed Xue Yang with an expectant look. 

“Fine,” Xue Yang said, taking the hint. “Yes, I trust you, and if I need anything, which is unlikely, unless you mean coffee, which I do need, I’ll come to you like a responsible adult.”

“You’re a brat, you know that?” Xingchen said, affectionately. He was suddenly overcome with fondness. Xue Yang was difficult, cranky, bad-tempered and juvenile, yet he looked at Xingchen with such unadulterated softness, always made the effort to reach inside himself for something he didn't even know was there, to be good, to be better. For him. 

“Been told.”

With that, he leaned down to where Xingchen was holding the cup and, never taking his eyes off Xingchen's, took a sip. And because he was annoying, he slurped loudly, and Xingchen, endeared, rolled his eyes.

That was how Song Lan found them, Xue Yang’s face all but in Xingchen’s lap. 

He cleared his throat, looming over them, and Xingchen looked up. As did Xue Yang, still clowning around, lips still around the straw. Xingchen poked him softly in the forehead to get him to back off. 

“Hi,” Xingchen said to his friend, as Xue Yang appraised Song Lan with narrowed eyes and an exceptionally unfriendly scowl. Xingchen forced a nervous smile. “This is Xue Yang. I’ve—from the cafe. We just bumped into each other.”

Xue Yang’s attention then snapped to Xingchen, head tilting, lips curling in the universal sign for you told your friend about me?

“Xue Yang, that’s—this is Song Lan.”

“Pleasure,” Xue Yang said, sounding very much like it wasn't. “I’ve heard so much about you. Kind of. I’ve heard of you.”

Inexplicably, there was immediately something between them—a burning, raging, violent antagonism. Xingchen’s nervous smile became even more nervous. He looked between the two of them: Song Lan serious and composed, Xue Yang an irreformable nuisance, his crooked grin tinged with malice.

“Is he coming to the movie?” Song Lan asked Xingchen, as though Xue Yang were invisible, or unable to understand the blatant displeasure with which he’d posed the question—he might as well have whined and said, ‘Please don't tell me he’s coming to the movie,’ straight to Xue Yang’s face.

Before Xingchen could squeeze in a single word, get started on damage control, Xue Yang answered for him.

“Not interested, unless it’s The Undead 2.”

Xingchen turned to him. “You just saw The Undead 2.”

Xue Yang shrugged. “It was a good movie.” He then stuffed the remaining packet of Skittles into his coat pocket, snatched the soda back from Xingchen, and stood. “You two have fun. I’ve got places to be,” he said. He nodded curtly at Song Lan before turning his gaze to Xingchen; it was soft again, wistful, almost regretful, a jarring juxtaposition to his teasing tone when he added, “I’ll be seeing you on Monday.”

/

The weeks came and went. Xue Yang was a constant presence—in the cafe, in Xingchen’s mind. It continued to ache, the distance between them, even when they were together. It wasn't enough. Xingchen was nearing his limit—he didn't know how much longer he could go on like this, how much longer he could pretend he wasn’t grossly in love before his own inaction killed him.

And Xue Yang kept coming and going, blissfully unaware.

The next time he stopped by right before closing, he sat at the table by the window without ordering anything. There was no smile, no greeting; patiently, he waited for Xingchen to finish serving the last few customers of the evening. It wasn't unusual for him to withdraw this way, to seek out company and then shy away from it. He’d done it enough times for Xingchen to grow used to it. 

Later, when the sign was flipped and the door locked, Xingchen finally approached him. He didn't want to talk—he declined Xingchen’s offer for company, for a cup of tea. He seemed content to sit around in idle silence as Xingchen worked, as he went through the motions of closing up. It calmed him—doing nothing, watching Xingchen bustle around, locking the freezers, cleaning the display cases, checking the taps. Sometimes all Xue Yang needed was the simple, steady comfort of someone’s presence. He didn't want to think. He wanted a distraction from his own mind.

It made Xingchen glad that, when he got like this, Xue Yang came to him, that Xingchen got to be his rock, his silent protector. This was what friends—Xingchen hated the word, but if not that, then what—did, offered what they could to help, to comfort, however odd the problem, however mundane the solution. 

When he finished, Xingchen pulled on his coat and collected his things, fished out his keys. The metallic jingle seemed to startle Xue Yang awake. He was jittery, on edge, absent yet alert.

Without a word, he got to his feet and trailed after Xingchen towards the door. With the lights switched off it was completely dark, save for the orange glow of the streetlamps outside. The light flooded in through the glass, bathing everything in copper. It reflected in Xue Yang’s eyes, dotting their night sky with little pinpricks of golden stars. Xingchen resolutely dug his nails into his palms.

By the door, Xue Yang paused.

They spoke at the same time; Xingchen’s concerned, “What is it?” met Xue Yang’s hesitant, “Can I walk you home?”

At once, they both laughed. Despite his smile, Xue Yang’s eyes remained blank, like he was missing an integral piece of himself just then. Xingchen didn't pry. He wasn't going to push. He wanted Xue Yang to open up of his own volition. So, he stayed quiet, waiting for Xue Yang to answer before he did. 

As he did, he wondered what it was, going through Xue Yang’s mind, what was plaguing him, haunting him badly enough for him to wish to walk the few blocks to Xingchen’s apartment and then twice that back to his own.

“I’m okay,” Xue Yang said finally, insistently, so Xingchen wouldn't ask again. “Do you—”

Xingchen surprised himself by how quickly he replied; eager, embarrassingly so, to spend more time with Xue Yang. “I’d like that. If it’s—if it’s no problem.”

Xue Yang’s eyes softened. This time, it was his face that remained unchanged, but the smile was there, in the way he brightened.

There was a moment of hesitation, then, on both parts, something settling between them, falling into place, and when it passed, Xingchen made for the door, reaching for the handle at the same time as Xue Yang.

They were suddenly standing too close, barely half an arm’s length apart, fingertips nearly touching. The air between them fell still, crackling with a tension Xingchen wanted to crush, to wrap his fist around and extinguish. And right then, he stopped thinking clearly. His thoughts ground to a complete halt and he knew nothing but the blood pounding in his ears, the ache in his chest so painful he couldn't breathe. His body moved without his permission—it was now or never, now or never, now or never—one step forward, his hand going up to Xue Yang’s face, smoothing over his cheek, to the nape of his neck, and when he finally leaned down and pressed his lips to Xue Yang’s, he saw stars.

It was soft, immeasurably gentle, yet heat spread through him like a wildfire; from the tips of his fingers, from his chest, the pit of his stomach, raging, overwhelming. He was drowning, drowning and floating all at once, the room spinning violently like everything he’d been holding inside had had finally burst.

All too soon, he forced himself to pull back.

He opened his eyes to Xue Yang’s stunned expression. His big eyes, black in the dim light, were glassy with disbelief, a twisted confusion like he couldn't understand what had just happened. 

Xingchen took a breath. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he confessed, stunned at his own boldness.

Still, Xue Yang said nothing. He was quiet, motionless in an unfamiliar way that made Xingchen’s blood turn to ice. His brows were furrowed, his breathing shaky, coming rapidly, staring at Xingchen like he’d never seen him before.

Realization struck—he’d gotten it wrong.

Xue Yang wasn’t—he didn’t—

“I’m sorry,” Xingchen said quickly. “I’m sorry. We can—if you want, we can forget I did that. It didn't have to mean anything.”

Xue Yang’s face changed then, from that jarring disbelief to a gut-wrenching sadness, to something resembling hope, then anger, then back to square one, and Xingchen didn't know what to do. He didn't understand what Xue Yang was feeling, he didn't how to make it better. 

Finally, only once Xingchen thought he might shatter if the silence dragged on for a second longer, Xue Yang spoke. 

“No, I—” he started, hoarsely, and trailed off. His grit his teeth, grimaced like he was angry at himself, frustrated at being unable to form the right words. Xingchen had dropped his hand earlier and now made to raise it again, to touch Xue Yang, gentle and comforting, to let him know it was all right, that he didn't expect anything from him, that he didn't want him to do anything he didn't want to do.

The movement was cut short when, out of nowhere, Xue Yang made a desperate, strangled sound and surged forward, fingers twisting in Xingchen’s shirt, drawing him once more into a kiss.

This one was nothing like the first. Xue Yang trembled against him, parted his lips and tilted his head back and surrendered, kissed Xingchen like he would cry if he didn’t, like his life depended on it, on this moment. Again, instinct took over—Xingchen’s hands moved, fingers curling at Xue Yang’s jaw, bruising, pulling him closer. He’d never touched anyone quite like this. He never wanted to touch anyone else like this.

Xue Yang made a low sound that made Xingchen dizzy. He felt it reverberate through his bones, his nerves, through every cell in his body. It was that dizziness that spurred him on, and then his hands were in Xue Yang’s hair, tugging his head back, baring his neck. Xue Yang gasped—hands flying to Xingchen’s hips, fingers digging in so hard Xingchen knew he would bruise—when Xingchen kissed him there, where his jaw met his throat, lips dragging over the delicate skin, over his pulse. He felt Xue Yang tense, he was practically shaking, and then he was pushing Xingchen away—

“Stop,” he managed. “Xingchen, stop.”

As if burned, Xingchen stepped back, stumbling, nearly knocking over the sprawling potted fern by the door.

“No, I—” Xue Yang said again, this time ragged and breathless, and then he broke into a laugh. Eyes bright, teeth bared, shoulders shaking with the effort of breathing. It was his real laugh, carefree and earnest, not a thing performative about it.

“I just mean, not here,” he went on, and Xingchen almost collapsed from the rush of relief that flooded his senses. “You—if you kept going—”

Xue Yang trailed off like the rest was self-explanatory. 

Xingchen huffed, a little bit like a laugh, giddy from the myriad of emotions. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so much all at once. He couldn't recall the last time his heart had beat so fast.

He took a step forward, crowding into Xue Yang’s space again, and returned his hand to his face. He ran his knuckles over his cheek, cupped his face like it was the most precious thing he’d ever held, dragged his thumb over reddened lips. Xue Yang leaned into the touch and seemed surprised at himself for doing so. His eyes were somehow even wider now, staring into Xingchen’s, glazed over, with so much flickering through them—happiness, confusion, fear. His brows knit together as though he still couldn’t believe what was happening, why Xingchen was doing this. 

It was because he couldn't not do it. Beyond the obvious desire that ripped through, even more than that, he wanted to make everything better, to make Xue Yang feel like he deserved this, to make it clear how much Xingchen wanted this, needed this, needed him. 

He wanted to make it known how much he loved him.

“You’re crazy,” Xue Yang muttered then, like he’d heard Xingchen’s thoughts. 

A voice in the back of Xingchen’s mind agreed. He was. He was insane. He had no idea what he was doing. He had no idea how these things worked, never felt this way about another person. He was leaping into the ocean with no idea how to swim.

Aloud, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“For doing this,” Xue Yang said. 

For wanting me, Xingchen heard.

Xue Yang dropped his eyes to the floor, cleared his throat, and looked back up at Xingchen. “I freaked you out, earlier. I didn't mean to do that. I froze up.”

Xingchen started to rebuke him. “You don’t have to—”

“It wasn't that you kissed me,” Xue Yang interrupted. “Just—nobody’s kissed me like that before. That first one. That first time. That was—”

He trailed off, like he didn't even know the word for soft. His voice was practically inaudible, timid in a way that made him out to be a completely different person. His hands were by his sides, subconsciously worrying at his too-long sleeves. 

Then, he laughed—at himself, at Xingchen, at nothing in particular. It was an exhale more than anything. The corners of his eyes wrinkled as he smiled so wide Xingchen thought he might cry at the sight of it. In that moment, Xue Yang looked so happy, Xingchen thought he might do anything, anything in the world, to preserve that smile forever.

Xue Yang shook his head. “A while,” he said, out of the blue.

Xingchen’s brows furrowed.

Xue Yang let go of his sleeves and grabbed at Xingchen’s shirt, beckoning him closer. He didn't tug, merely invited him in.

Xingchen closed the distance between them, covered Xue Yang’s hands with his own where they rested on his waist.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“A while, you said. You’ve wanted to do that for a while? How long’s a while?”

His tone was teasing again. It was so familiar—heat rocketing through Xingchen’s chest, crushing his ribs—that he couldn't help but kiss Xue Yang again. Because he wanted to. Because he could. 

Xue Yang indulged him, but pulled back soon after. “From the start?”

Xingchen remained silent. Maybe. He didn't know. He stared straight ahead.

Xue Yang’s cheeky smile began to falter. He sounded surprised, genuinely, when he asked again, “From the beginning?”

From the beginning. Xingchen hadn't known. He hadn't realized it, then. Not right away.

He nodded; it was an erratic jerk more than anything.

Xue Yang just gaped. He stayed like that for so long Xingchen began to worry he’d broken him. But then Xue Yang scoffed, shook his head in mock disappointment. 

“You mean we could have been doing this months ago?”

The words took a while to sink in. Xingchen sputtered. “You—”

“Why else?” he laughed. “Why do you think I kept coming back? I could barely afford all that coffee.” 

Xingchen blinked. “Months ago,” he echoed, and his bewilderment soon dissolved into wonder. He’d been blind, and Xue Yang had been difficult, and if they had only talked, really talked, he could have stolen that kiss months ago. 

“Tell me, Xiao Xingchen,” Xue Yang said a moment later, breaking the silence, leaning in close, looking up at Xingchen. He pulled his hands out from under Xingchen’s, intertwining their fingers instead. “Do you want to take me home?”

Xingchen froze—hands clenching, heart seizing. Immediately, the heat was back, surging, screaming, howling like everything inside him was aflame. He wanted, he wanted so much, and now, he was allowed to have it. He was allowed this impossible dream. Xue Yang wanted him too, had wanted him all along. 

Xingchen’s flicker of panic transformed into something darker, more visceral, and he knew Xue Yang could see it plain as day on his face. Xue Yang lifted his chin; his smirk grew sharper, more alluring, inviting, fucking stunning and, right then, there was no way Xingchen could say no. He didn't think he’d ever be able to say no to Xue Yang again.

He breathed in and nodded.