Chapter Text
I left my little black book of poetry
in the geography of your bed sheets tonight. I almost
hope you find it and see the poem that I've
written for you, or to you
on its last page.
-
The Anatomy of Being - Shinji Moon
Song Lan has always measured his memories in how well he can write them down. His journals are stacked in his bedroom, leaning against the desk, heavy with everything he’s folded and stuck inside. Things he’s kept, even if it’s worthless. Ticket stubs and post-it notes and order numbers for take-out.
His favourite memories are in a blue journal from when he was fourteen and he went with his family to Disneyland. That journal is the heaviest; heavy with blue memories that he likes to read after his parents visit on the weekends.
He filled an entire book when he was in hospital, but that one isn’t his favourite. On the last page Song Lan put his ID bracelet inside, white and obtrusive like the walls he had called home for the better part of a month. He’s not ready to go through that journal and read it all again, but maybe one day he will. When he’s ready. If he ever will be.
[Wen Qing]
wanna see smth gross?
Song Lan shoulders his way through the corridors as he reads the text message, phone sweaty in his hand in the heat of the arriving summer. The campus bodies make his skin crawl when they brush just that bit too close to him.
The next turn of the corridor is mercifully empty, and Song Lan relaxes, attending to his phone. He’s in the middle of firing off an affirming reply when someone fails to brush past him, and collides with him instead.
“Ah!”
Books tumble to the ground, pages bending and a stray pen skittering across the linoleum like it’s a desperate bid for freedom. Song Lan scrambles for it, rescuing it from the feet of a passer-by. His body is already cramping up, as if it’s trying to armour him against touching anyone else.
The owner of the pen is unhurt and seemingly unaffected, crouched on the ground gathering his books like he’s been there before. He probably has, Song Lan observes with a sinking heart when he realises the student has a vision impairment. His free hand fumbles across the floor as he searches for his phone, which has fallen to his left. Song Lan walks over and picks it up, pressing it into his hand, fingers burning from the brief contact.
The student smiles, standing up straight and tucking a long cane into the crook of his arm.
“Thanks. Sorry, wasn’t looking where I was going,” he says with a light laugh. “Blind jokes.”
Song Lan can only stare at him, struck a little dumb by how pretty he is. His kind, dark eyes look just over Song Lan’s shoulder, but his wide smile lingers as he waits for an answer, amused by his own joke, hoping the person who practically floored him will laugh as well and make the incident careless. Make it fun.
Song Lan wants to, his mouth twitching in what is almost a smile, tugging at the corners weakly. But he can only stare, breath caught in his throat in wonder as he takes in the student’s features – fair, high cheekbones, black hair tousled softly over his forehead. He’s about Song Lan’s height.
Soon the expression on his face falters, the beautiful smile fading to polite curiosity as he is met with silence, the absence of noise swirling around the corridor like fog in the middle of the day. Something that shouldn’t be there at all.
“Um. Thanks again,” he says.
He walks on, extending his cane in front of him, leaving Song Lan alone in the corridor.
It takes him almost a full minute to realise he’s still holding the pen he saved. He looks down at it, foreign in his hand. A name has been printed and taped to the side.
Xiao XingChen.
Song Lan takes a step, but Xiao XingChen is already gone.
There’s no point chasing after him. Song Lan won’t be able to explain why he didn’t say anything, and he doesn’t want to touch Xiao XingChen to get his attention.
Annoyed with himself, Song Lan pockets the pen and unlocks his phone. Wen Qing didn’t wait for a response and sent him a photo of a brain. In fact, it’s only half a brain.
[Song Lan]
thx
so i just bumped into the most beautiful person ive ever seen in my whole life
[Wen Qing]
did u say sorry? (¬‿¬)
[Song Lan]
tbh i tried
[Wen Qing]
hehe
let me guess u just stood there and fell in love?
[Song Lan]
…
yes
he was so pretty
[Wen Qing]
tell my brain it’s pretty too
[Song Lan]
where’s the other half?
[Wen Qing]
that’s classified
A week goes by before Song Lan finds Xiao XingChen again to apologise. It flits past him in a sticky haze of pre-summer disorder, the trains moving too slow or too fast, and the bodies squashed inside the compartments until Song Lan can’t breathe. Sticky spring promising a sticky summer. Like honey gone too soft at the bottom of the jar.
Xiao XingChen pokes around in the back of his mind all the while, handsome and smiling, his voice like a song in Song Lan’s favourite playlist; one he knows, but can’t quite name. Before and after all his classes he looks for Xiao XingChen at the cafeteria or the library, searching for a cane or the sound of his name. The university is big, however, and Song Lan dodges bodies everywhere he goes.
On Fridays, he usually stays back late to avoid the peak traffic period following his afternoon classes. He finishes an assignment, submitting it early. He’s thinking about getting noodles on the way home when Xiao XingChen walks through the library door, laptop in his arms, held tight as if he might drop it. Song Lan rises an inch from his seat before sitting back down again, realising he ought to wait for Xiao XingChen to find somewhere to settle before pouncing on him.
Xiao XingChen finds an empty table and opens his laptop. Song Lan is privately curious as to how well he navigates his surroundings. Perhaps his vision is not all the way impaired, but Song Lan dreads to think it, because then Xiao XingChen would have seen the way he had stared at him in the corridor, unable to speak. Even if Song Lan could speak, he probably wouldn’t have. Xiao XingChen is too pretty to speak to.
But Song Lan needs to apologise and return the pen. He puts his things away slowly, procrastinating, and walks over, opening the message he’s prepared on his phone. His heart thumps around in his chest, flopping like a fish.
Xiao XingChen is aware of him as he approaches, tilting his head slightly in Song Lan’s direction, eyes focusing-but-not-quite-focusing somewhere to the right. Song Lan puts his phone on the table with the pen, making the noise deliberate. He presses play on the text-to-speech function.
“Hi, my name is Song Lan. I bumped into you the other day and I never gave back the pen you dropped. I’m non-verbal, which is why I didn’t say anything at the time. I also wasn’t looking where I was going, so I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
Song Lan hates the text-to-speech function. Hates the robot voice and the way it doesn’t sound like him. But what does he sound like? Some days, even he doesn’t know. He’s the robot voice; the broken-up words guttering out through the speakers of his phone, awkward and alien.
The knot between Xiao XingChen’s eyebrows pulls away for a smile, bright and beautiful and taking Song Lan’s breath away all over again.
“I was wondering what happened to my pen. Thanks for bringing it back,” he says.
He puts his hand on the table, feeling for the pen. Song Lan pushes it closer for Xiao XingChen to find. He picks up his phone and types out another message.
“No problem. Sorry again.”
“I’m Xiao XingChen. But I guess you know that from the label, right?”
Song Lan starts to nod, but then remembers Xiao XingChen can’t see.
“Yes.”
Xiao XingChen laughs kindly when he hears the text-to-speech. “Of all the people to bump into. We can be disability buddies! What are you studying?”
Song Lan sits himself down in the chair beside Xiao XingChen, tapping his phone quickly, his bag a thud on the floor of the library as it falls from his shoulder. “Creative writing.”
“Do you like it? What do you write about?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Xiao XingChen frowns gently. It’s a careful thing; like the expression itself has been considered. Everything about Xiao XingChen seems considered. Laid out like school clothes in the morning, breakfast with orange juice, and the warm sun pooling in through the kitchen window. He’s wearing a knitted jumper, beige with brown buttons, and he pulls the sleeves over his hands as he rests his arms on the table. Every tiny movement considered.
“What are you studying?” Song Lan asks in turn.
“Counselling. It’s my last year, actually. Scary to think.”
Song Lan’s thumbs hover over his phone screen, cold in the air-conditioning of the library. He wants to ask another question. Keep Xiao XingChen talking. Hear his voice until he doesn’t know any other sound.
But Song Lan’s a writer, not a talker. He’s never been a talker.
Thankfully, Xiao XingChen is undeterred. When he does not hear the electronic clicking of Song Lan’s keyboard, he barely misses a beat. “What brings you to the library so late? Wait, what time is it?”
“Six-fifteen. I’m avoiding peak hour. You?”
“I’m waiting for my friend to pick me up. Friday night dandan noodles.”
Xiao XingChen waits patiently for Song Lan’s reply, as if it’s normal, as if he’s done it a hundred times. He doesn't ask why Song Lan can't talk; doesn’t interrupt his typing with another question that makes Song Lan backspace everything and start over.
“I was thinking about getting some myself.”
“Do you go to the place on the corner? Two stops down?”
Excitement ripping through him, Song Lan blurts out an entire syllable. “Yeah!”
Xiao XingChen’s smile blooms across his face. “Whoa! Was that you?”
A little taken aback by his own voice, Song Lan lets out a shaky laugh as he types again.
“Sorry. I can speak a little bit, but sign or typing is easier.”
The little robot voice talks for him; robot, robot, robot.
“Okay. It was nice to hear you, though.”
Song Lan is glad Xiao XingChen can’t see the colour creep to his face like a dead giveaway. He rubs his face, sighing as he calms down from the sudden rush of speaking out loud. It doesn’t happen often, and it’s always jarring when it does, snapping through him like a gust of wind that brings the rain.
Before he can say anything else, someone approaches their table, purposefully silent. Messy hair and a finger to his lips at Song Lan, the stranger slides over to Xiao XingChen, poised to startle him. Song Lan wants to say something, even going so far as to open his mouth, but Xiao XingChen is quick on the uptake.
“I know you’re there, Wei Ying.”
“Damn it. So close that time.”
The stranger, Wei Ying, jumps up on the desk and shuts Xiao XingChen’s laptop with a definitive tick. He shoots a peace sign at Song Lan. Fleeting and quiet, like most of Song Lan’s interactions with others.
“Are you ready to go? Jiejie’s coming too.”
Xiao XingChen stands, gathering his laptop and returning it to his bag. Wei Ying picks up a book that got missed and hands it over wordlessly, the gesture natural and absent-minded.
“Do you want to come with us?”
It takes Song Lan a moment to realise Xiao XingChen is talking to him. It has less to do with the fact that Xiao XingChen isn’t facing him, and more to do with no one ever inviting Song Lan anywhere.
“My treat for bumping into you,” Xiao XingChen adds.
“If I bump in you, will you pay for mine as well?” Wei Ying asks, nudging Xiao XingChen with his elbow playfully.
Song Lan waves a hand in protest, swiping on his phone. He wants to, but the idea of mingling with more strangers sends a cold chill down his spine, tingling right to his fingers as he starts typing again.
“He doesn’t wanna, XingChen. Let’s go, I’m starved!”
Wei Ying grabs Xiao XingChen by the arm and makes to drag him out of the library, and probably all the way to the restaurant, but Xiao XingChen remains grounded, his eyes almost on Song Lan. Just to the left, drawn in by the sound of his phone.
“Aiya, XingChen. Are you taking in another stray? This one’s cute and all, but don’t force your company on him.”
Song Lan pauses on his phone, glancing up at the other two, taken aback by Wei Ying’s comment. But it seems to have passed through the exchange already, left only to sit in the back of Song Lan’s throat like all the words he cannot say. Xiao XingChen’s makes a face at Wei Ying, who rolls his eyes before facing Song Lan.
“It’s only me and my sis, if that changes your mind.”
Song Lan backspaces on his phone and offers Wei Ying a thumbs up. The restaurant they’re going to is on his way home, so if it ends up being too much for him, then at least it’s not inconvenient to take an early leave. Besides, the smile on Xiao XingChen’s face when Wei Ying tells him Song Lan is coming makes it all worth it.
A girl is waiting for them downstairs, long hair in two buns at the top of her head, one of those absurdly tiny backpacks slung over her shoulders. She greets them with a wave, and Xiao XingChen introduces her to Song Lan as they leave the university’s main building, heading for the subway. Her name is Jiang YanLi, Wei Ying’s older sister.
Song Lan trails behind them, taking care not to walk too close, feeling the heat of his own body bouncing up to him from the pavement. Three steps in front, Xiao XingChen takes off his jumper, tying it around his waist, hair rumpled in the recesses of light as the sun begins to set. Beside him, Wei Ying loops his arm through Xiao XingChen’s, guiding him as they walk. Wei Ying talks and talks, as if he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like sharks if they stop swimming. Jiang Cheng finally bought a Switch so I’m going to trick him into giving me stuff on Animal Crossing. How’s A-Qing? Is she staying at your house again? Mattress on the floor? Give her your bed, XingChen, be a good cousin. We’re crossing here. Fuck! A dog! Get away! No, XingChen don’t stop to pet it!
“Are you Wen Qing’s friend?”
Jiang YanLi falls in with Song Lan, her short steps keeping up with his long ones. Song Lan nods, intrigued as to how she knows Wen Qing as well.
“We did the same elective class last year,” she says, interpreting his expression without trouble. “Have you been friends long?”
Song Lan replies in his phone, showing it to Jiang YanLi to read.
“Since we were kids.”
They board the train at the subway. Song Lan stands as far to one side as possible without being rude to refrain from touching anyone, though it's practically unavoidable. Xiao XingChen holds on to Wei Ying, who swings from one of the handles on the high railings, both of them comfortable and still talking. Song Lan pushes down the green in his heart at the sight of it. Green and slimy jealousy, wrapping around him like a clumsy stranger’s hand when trains lurch from the station. He wants it, but doesn’t want it at the same time. Wanting, not wanting. There’s never enough space between him and another person, but sometimes he wonders what that warmth is like.
Two stops, they get off. Song Lan takes a breath, following the other three to the restaurant. He doesn’t finish his conversation with Jiang YanLi, though there is more he’d like to say to her. But it’s easier to be silent. He’s used to it. Fleeting and quiet. Not quite folding into other people’s lives.
They buy noodles, dinner rush a swarm of bodies that Song Lan mercifully gets out of interacting with when Xiao XingChen orders and pays for him. Song Lan tries to object, but Xiao XingChen’s smile has him relenting in seconds, utterly disarmed.
They sit outside to eat, the sun burning gleams of orange through the high buildings. Jiang YanLi fights affectionately with her brother about leaving dirty laundry in his room. Song Lan opens his phone and types to Xiao XingChen.
“I can’t hear it over the noise,” Xiao XingChen says gloomily.
Song Lan sits back in his chair, already starting to delete what he wrote. But Xiao XingChen rifles through his bag, pulling out a pair of wireless earbuds. He hands them to Song Lan to pair them to his phone before putting one in his ear.
Smiling, Song Lan types again.
“Thanks for inviting me,” he says.
“It’s Friday night. I couldn’t abandon you in the library like that,” Xiao XingChen explains, as if it’s so simple. As if it doesn’t mean everything to Song Lan.
“I don’t go out very often. It’s nice.”
“Well, you’re always welcome to come with us. I think it would have been unlikely for us to meet without bumping into each other, so maybe we can be friends?”
Song Lan takes a moment to reply, a little stunned that Xiao XingChen is being so open with him, and so kind. He barely knows what Song Lan sounds like, yet he offers his friendship without hesitation.
“I’d like that.”
They eat, noodles wiggling through the last of the sunshine as it casts the streets in a rusty purple. The bustle of commuters drag their feet home, briefcases weighed down with work and something much, much heavier.
Song Lan listens to the conversation hovering around him, attentive but not contributing. Xiao XingChen mentions the teenagers he’s counselling at the youth centre; troubled, boisterous, making him remember how much he loves helping others.
He’s always smiling, Song Lan realises. It’s infectious. He wants to smile every time Xiao XingChen smiles.
When he goes home, Song Lan writes in his journal.
He writes about all the things he wants to say to Xiao XingChen; questions and answers and stories about himself. Stories he’s never told anyone, but he wants Xiao XingChen to hear them. When Song Lan was six, he fell off his bike and didn’t pick it up again for three years. His fourth speech therapist was the one that helped him say his own name, out loud, into the void of his darkened bedroom when his parents thought he was sleeping. He can’t remember the accident he was in, but he remembers the blinding light, the burning rubber, and the crack of his head on the pavement.
Song Lan wants to fill an entire book with all the things he wants to say to Xiao XingChen, and he very nearly does. His journal (black, leather, a brass logo in the corner) has only a few pages left when he sets down his pen, flexing his cramping fingers. He sticks the receipt for the dandan noodles at the end, his number above Xiao XingChen’s because it had been ordered first.
Song Lan wonders how long the love will last this time; how long until the flame is only sparks. The lighter out of fuel, but the smell of gas lingering. He remembers all the strangers he’s ever fallen in love with. He’s exhausted a rainbow of notebooks about people he’s only exchanged glances with. The girl on the subway reading his favourite book. The baker who smiled at him sleepily in the early hours of the morning before an exam. A mother at the local mall, wrangling her small children, tired but laughing.
Observations of love. The memories pass through his hands like he’s a ghost, unable to close around the feelings he’s found there. But he remembers them all.
[Wen Qing]
hurry up fuckface
[Song Lan]
why are u so rude??
Song Lan enters the campus tea shop, spotting Wen Qing at their usual table, the condensation from her milk tea in the heat printing a wet circle on the laminated wood. She looks up at his arrival, middle finger like a whip. Song Lan flicks his own back at her as he walks over to the counter and orders a drink for himself, bringing it over and sitting across from her.
“I saw your new muse the other day. At least I think I did. Don’t know how many people on campus actually use those canes,” Wen Qing says.
Song Lan remains silent, waiting for her to add to this.
Wen Qing rolls her eyes. “Yes, he’s cute. Have you spoken since last Friday?”
“I didn’t get his number,” Song Lan signs.
“You paired your phone to his headphones, right? Just walk around campus until your Bluetooth connects and say something weird. That’ll get his attention.” Wen Qing laughs.
Song Lan fixes her with a severe look. That’s not funny, the look tells her.
Wen Qing sips at her drink, meeting his eyes with a challenging scowl, daring Song Lan to contradict her further. It’s not a bad idea, but it likely wouldn’t work, and if it did, it would be an invasion of privacy. Song Lan is only in love, after all. It’s never amounted to anything more than passing sailboats, catching different winds.
“He studies counselling, right? I know which building those lectures are in,” Wen Qing continues.
Song Lan shrugs.
“A-Lan, don’t be so boring. If he wants to be friends with you, why not let him?”
Song Lan considers his answer, hands steady over the table.
“It’ll be too hard to communicate,” he explains.
Another roll of the eyes, lips pursed as she takes another sip of tea. Wen Qing never buys his bullshit.
“Not if you have his number. That’s a weak excuse and you know it,” she says harshly.
“There’s no point,” Song Lan insists. “I’m not good with people.”
Wen Qing’s eyes soften. “You still deserve to give yourself a chance.”
Song Lan distracts himself with his tea, swirling the pearls at the bottom where they’ve settled in the minutes he hasn’t touched it. And, oh, how heavy those minutes hang. He’s never been good with people. Wen Qing is his only consistent friend, bright and anchoring, never letting him stray far from what’s important. He’s never sought for any more than that. He’s happy with as few personal relationships as possible. But there’s that wanting, not wanting again. The desire to make some kind of connection, and fold into the pages of someone else’s life rather than just fold memories into the pages of his journal.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard if he didn’t mind being touched. Song Lan thinks of Xiao XingChen. He thinks of Wei Ying’s shoulder knocking with his when they walked, arms together, and Jiang YanLi’s hands fussing over his jumper and his hair. Casual, thoughtless touches, tucked away in the corners of their everyday activities. Always there, always intimate, even when it’s barely anything at all. Song Lan quietly wishes he could be privy to that kind of intimacy. Even just the touch of another’s hand without immediately pulling away as if it burns. As if it’s not something he secretly craves.
Wen Qing is watching him, studying the slightest changes in his face. Song Lan appreciates the way she knows him; the way she can figure him out in an instant. It’s the only kind of intimacy he really knows.
“There’s no harm in trying to make a friend, A-Lan. It might do you some good. It’ll definitely do me some good,” she quips.
“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” Song Lan bites back, hands sharp and quick.
“At least let me try,” Wen Qing says, sticking out her tongue good-naturedly.
The door of the shop swings wide, and someone calls out Wen Qing’s name excitedly as they enter, bright like a bell. She gets up from her seat in time for Jiang YanLi to crash into her arms, squeezing her tightly. More intimacy.
“I didn’t know you would be here! Do you have class soon?”
Wen Qing disentangles herself from Jiang YanLi, beaming at her. “I’m done for the day, actually. What about you?”
“I have an hour to kill. We were going to go to the library to study, but the day is too beautiful to be stuck inside. You guys had the same idea, I see?”
The ‘we’ Jiang YanLi is referring to is Xiao XingChen. He approaches the table, guided by the sound of her voice. He bumps into her back when he takes one too many steps, but she pays no mind, her hand still wavering over Wen Qing’s arm. Close. Comfortable. The three of them have unconsciously grouped together, but Song Lan remains seated by himself.
“Will you join us for dandan again on Friday, Song Lan? QingQing, you should come too. I hate being the only girl.”
“I’m usually at the hospital on Fridays, but I can see if someone will cover my shift for a few hours,” Wen Qing says.
“YanLi, I’m going to get our drinks, okay?” Xiao XingChen interrupts, his fingers finding Jiang YanLi’s shoulder. Song Lan’s eyes linger on the touch. Wanting. Not wanting.
“Okay. Just my usual, please. I’ll be here.”
Xiao XingChen leaves for the counter and Song Lan watches him go.
[Wen Qing]
stop staring
just bc he cant see u doesnt mean yanli wont tell him
They take their drinks out onto the lawn, the low heat of spring buffering in the soft breeze. The grass dances beneath Song Lan’s knuckles as he holds his phone, glaring at Wen Qing, who resumes talking to Jiang YanLi as if nothing happened. How can she say that when Xiao XingChen is right there, looking like that? He’s wearing blue jeans today, legs splayed out and his shoes off, his face tilted towards the sun.
“Do you know what you’re writing about yet?” he asks Song Lan.
I’m writing about you.
“Not yet,” he types into his phone. The text-to-speech connects to Xiao XingChen’s earbuds. Song Lan is glad he doesn’t have to hear it.
“Is it for an assignment? Maybe I can help?” Xiao XingChen offers, sitting up straight. His eyes hover somewhere over Song Lan’s shoulder.
“I don’t have trouble with assignments. I just don’t know what I’m writing in general,” Song Lan explains.
Xiao XingChen chuckles, a deep hum of understanding. “I’d like to read your work one day.”
I’d read it to you, if I could.
“It’s not very good,” Song Lan says instead.
“Don’t say that! Be confident. I’m sure your writing is amazing.”
“You’re too nice. You’ll tell me it’s good even if it’s bad,” Song Lan argues shyly.
Another hum, a gentle wave of the hand. Xiao XingChen’s smile is ever-present, and Song Lan wants to wrap himself up in the sound of his voice. “No, I promise! I can be mean. YanLi, I can be mean sometimes, right?”
Jiang YanLi tears her attention away from Wen Qing, glancing down at the phone in Song Lan’s hands. She hasn’t heard the conversation between them, but she doesn’t need to.
“Xiao XingChen, the meanest thing I’ve ever heard you say is when you told A-Ying that his favourite jumper felt ugly, which it was. It was so ugly.”
A touch of colour spreads to Xiao XingChen’s nose as he huffs at Jiang YanLi, and his face glows in the sun.
“I can give constructive criticism, at the very least,” he adds to Song Lan, making a valiant effort to back himself up. “Just tell me when you know what you’re writing about.”
A beat, ringing heavy on the breeze as Xiao XingChen waits for Song Lan to say something. But he’s hopeless at holding conversations, used to not saying anything at all, or else letting Wen Qing do the talking for him. What else can he say? All my poems are about you.
“I’m writing about love.”
That smile. Like a flame that doesn't burn; a taste of that warmth he’s been wondering about. It makes him smile as well, and he hopes Xiao XingChen can hear the slight hitch that tumbles out through his teeth when he does. Song Lan wants him to know that he’s smiling too.
“You’re right, then. I can’t be mean if you write about love. I really would like to read it,” Xiao XingChen says.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it,” Song Lan says.
“Why not? You’re stuck?”
“There’s too much to write about.”
It feels good to admit it, though it’s only crossed his mind just now, looking at Xiao XingChen. Song Lan has never given much thought as to what he actually writes about, but if he strips it down to its core, it’s always about love. It's all-encompassing, even if he’s only an observer. It’s in Wen Qing’s eyes when he tells her she looks nice, and in the smell of his neighbour's cooking down the hall of his apartment complex late at night. It’s in Xiao XingChen’s smile.
They get dandan noodles again on Friday. Wen Qing joins them, dressed in something that isn’t scrubs for once. Song Lan tells her she looks nice, and she almost blushes, flashing ‘ILY’ with her right hand because sometimes she’s bad with words too, and signing is easier. It’s nice to have her there so she can translate Song Lan’s sign to the others, but he eventually relies on his phone again, paired to Xiao XingChen’s earbuds as their food gets cold.
The weeks disappear this way – in a blur of not-quite-summer afternoons, studying for exams in the library, milk tea on the lawn, and dandan noodles on Fridays.
Song Lan finishes his black journal, adding it to the stack beside his desk. He buys a new one. Blue. More blue memories. Xiao XingChen is in nearly all of them, pressed between the pages with Song Lan’s lecture notes and coffee stains. Sometimes Xiao XingChen is there when he writes it all down, breathing life into Song Lan’s words.
“What are you writing today?” he asks.
Song Lan looks up, his eyes stinging in the harsh library lights. They’ve been silent for a while now, the afternoon sun gathering around their books and notes as they prepare for their upcoming exams. Song Lan is in the habit of apologising whenever he goes for long stretches without speaking, forgetting that conversations are something to be held. But Xiao XingChen insists he doesn’t mind. I’m just glad to be with you, he always says.
“Personal project, I guess,” Song Lan replies. The text-to-speech beeps from his hands as Xiao XingChen’s earbuds are connected to his laptop for the screen reader.
“Like a journal?”
“Yeah.” Song Lan speaks aloud.
He likes the way Xiao XingChen perks up at the sound, ears tugging back as he smiles, eyebrows lifting with interest. Song Lan is very rarely able to muster the courage or the capacity to use his voice, but his speech therapist encourages him to try, and he’ll try anything if it makes Xiao XingChen light up like that. He can manage single syllables, at least.
“Do you write in it often?” Xiao XingChen continues.
Song Lan types in his phone again. Robot voice. “Everyday.”
“You must have so much you want to say.”
Xiao XingChen doesn’t mean for it to sound the way it does, but it coils around Song Lan’s heart, tightening uncomfortably. He looks down at his journal. At the words he’s written and kept to himself; nothing more than memories.
“It’s not really worth sharing,” he says.
But I want to share it with you.
“I’d still like to hear it. Do you want to type some of it into my laptop?” Xiao XingChen angles it towards Song Lan. An invitation.
Song Lan glances at the laptop, his fingers curling with the temptation. But he knows he’ll regret it. To be known – even by someone as wonderful and understanding as Xiao XingChen – terrifies him. His journal holds snapshots of his life, compressed into the pages. His own type of intimacy. He hopes he’ll be able to read them aloud one day, but not today.
“Maybe another time,” he says.
Xiao XingChen slides the laptop back to its former position, resuming his schoolwork.
Song Lan twirls his pen pensively, reading over his journal. He hasn’t stuck anything inside for a while. It’s just endless characters, black and green and occasionally blue, messy in his haste to get his thoughts down. His fingers are never quick enough, even after all these years.
He looks around for something to put inside. Xiao XingChen’s area of the desk is tidy, his laptop straight and a book open where his hand can easily find it. Song Lan’s area, by contrast, is littered with notes and pens, books splayed out and his laptop asleep and forgotten where he can’t even reach it, abandoned in his need to write something down in his journal instead. He’s one to keep his workspace neat most of the time, but long hours in the library are a hurricane.
“Do you want to put something in my book?” he inquires after a brief pause.
Xiao XingChen looks mildly surprised. “Put something in it? Like what?”
“Anything you like.”
Xiao XingChen pats the pockets of his jumper down before pulling out a post-it note. He feels it, smoothing out its crinkled edges, the sticky line fusing to his index finger.
“What does it say?” he says, handing it to Song Lan.
Song Lan doesn’t take it, but reads it before typing it into his phone.
“It’s a phone number.”
“Oh! That’s for you! That’s my phone number!” Xiao XingChen laughs to the point of closing his eyes, his whole body shaking from the centre of his chest.
Song Lan takes the paper in the shape of a cartoon cat. He slides down to the contact screen on his phone and adds the number under Xiao XingChen’s name.
“You can keep it. Put it in your journal,” Xiao XingChen says.
Song Lan sticks it down, the corners curling up in defiance. He likes the way it looks there. A little bit of Xiao XingChen folding between the pages. Folding into Song Lan’s life.
“Maybe you can text me what you write sometimes,” Xiao XingChen adds, a sweet smile leftover from his laughter.
“Maybe,” Song Lan says out loud. Two syllables. He’s doing well today.
Having Xiao XingChen’s phone number opens up a whole new world for Song Lan. Texting comes naturally to him. It’s one of the few things he’s truly good at. He stays up late, end-of-year exams an afterthought when Xiao XingChen lights up his phone in the dark. Have you heard this song? It made me think of you, Song Lan. What are you doing now? The sun’s out. We should get ice cream.
The communication is effortless now. Fingers. Phone screens. It’s intimate. Song Lan can finally allow himself to be heard, knowing Xiao XingChen is listening.
Afternoons in the library are never out of reach either, and Song Lan starts looking for excuses to find Xiao XingChen there. Let’s go for food, for a drink, for a walk. Just you and me. Tell me about the kids at the youth centre, and I’ll tell you about the book I’m reading. We’ll find it braille so you can read it too.
[Xiao XingChen]
last exam today!!
we’re all going to celebrate later if you wanna come?
wei ying’s place, i think?
[Song Lan]
a party? hosted by him?
[Xiao XingChen]
itll be fun!
wei ying’s parties are normal i promise
Song Lan goes. For Xiao XingChen, he’ll go anywhere. Exams are over now, and the last words of their assignments are being touched up and sent off, the university stilling its chaos in the silence of summer as students pack up and leave for the holidays, or finish their degrees. The door of the future is swinging wide, and Song Lan hopes Xiao XingChen will be on the other side when summer is over.
But before then, there's a party. Song Lan doesn’t frequent college parties. They’re loud, they’re sticky. He can never find a place to escape the bodies. But he goes for Xiao XingChen.
Thankfully, as promised, Wei Ying’s party is not a free-for-all and guests have been especially invited, the small apartment accommodating some twenty or so people who have already arrived. A manageable number. Song Lan lets himself breathe.
Wei Ying greets Song Lan and Wen Qing at the door, eyes already glittering, the music rumbling through the hardwood floors.
“XingChen was asking for you,” he shouts over the noise. “Drinks in the kitchen! Lan Zhan is – Lan Zhan!! Don’t drink anything Nie HuaiSang gives you!! He doesn’t pour standard measurements!!”
They go inside, the music and chatter swallowing them whole. Wei Ying scrambles to rescue his boyfriend from Nie HuaiSang’s ulterior motives.
“All good?” Wen Qing signs.
“Get me a drink? This is already so much.” Song Lan widens his eyes as he says it, expressing the overwhelming atmosphere. Not that he needs to explain it to Wen Qing. They’ve been friends since childhood for a reason.
She shoots him a thumbs up and disappears into the kitchen while Song Lan casts his eyes around for Xiao XingChen.
He’s sitting on the sofa next to Jiang YanLi, his smile the first thing Song Lan sees.
Navigating his way through the people, Song Lan takes the empty space beside Xiao XingChen, not quite connecting with him, but wondering if he dares to. The t-shirt Xiao XingChen is wearing looks soft and inviting.
“Song Lan?”
Xiao XingChen’s hand reaches out instinctively to rely on touch to identify the person next to him. Song Lan withdraws an inch, his own instinct taking over, though a part of him wishes it doesn’t. Sitting on Xiao XingChen’s other side, Jiang YanLi takes notice and she whispers into his ear.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you. Habit.”
It’s okay, Song Lan wants to say. I might not mind if it’s you.
Wen Qing finds them, cups in her hands. Before she can give one to Song Lan, he signs to her.
“Can you tell XingChen that it’s okay and I’m happy to see him?”
“Aiya, Song Lan I’m not going to be your translator tonight,” she retorts, giving him a cup. “I’m literally only here because A-Li begged me to come.”
Jiang YanLi pulls Wen Qing down beside her pointedly and they fall into their own conversation. Song Lan frowns and glances at Xiao XingChen in time to see him holding out an earbud.
“Here. I can have you in one ear all night.”
He wonders if Xiao XingChen knows how much it means to him. The thoughtfulness, the attention, the acceptance. There’s no compromise. There’s just Xiao XingChen, pairing his earbud to Song Lan’s phone at a party, never once asking him to be anything other than himself.
“How did your exam go?” he asks when the connection is made.
Xiao XingChen makes a face, mouth downturned, eyes shut tight. “I don’t even want to think about it. I’m already wondering if I’ll have to retake the course over the summer.”
“I’m sure you passed. How could you not?”
“It’s all your fault for distracting me in the library when I was supposed to be studying.” Xiao XingChen’s smile is a coy, teasing thing that tugs at Song Lan’s heart. Tugs it away and takes it for its own. “And texting me late at night.”
Song Lan’s ears turn red and he takes a drink of whatever he’s entrusted Wen Qing to pour him. It’s sweet, so he downs it in one.
They sit this way for most of the night, the drinks swirling between them. Song Lan is in Xiao XingChen’s ear all the while, making him laugh, making him smile. Xiao XingChen sometimes shares what’s said with everyone else, but sometimes he keeps it to himself. Private. Intimate. Like it’s all his own.
People begin to leave in the late hours, stumbling out the door into the night. Song Lan stays as long as Xiao XingChen stays. Even Wen Qing lingers when the people who remain behind are actually those she tolerates, or - dare she admit it - likes. They pick at the remnants of party food, the music dialled below the crumbs of conversation in the low light of the apartment. Good company, like a warm blanket. Song Lan thinks he might miss this after summer is over and everyone goes their separate ways. Jobs, family, travel. Moving pieces waiting to be reset on the board after they’ve had their turn.
It’s past midnight when Xiao XingChen decides to leave.
“It’s so late… someone should go with you,” Wei Ying says, hand at his arm, telling him where he is. “Especially if your phone is dead. Maybe charge it before you go… where is my charger...?”
“It’s fine. I know the way home from here,” Xiao XingChen assures him.
“I’ll go with you,” Song Lan says into his ear.
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“I want to.”
A quiet smile, lost in thought as Xiao XingChen goes to get his jacket. Song Lan follows, shrugging on his own as everyone bids them goodbye at the door.
Xiao XingChen unfolds his cane as they start down the hall, the sound of it clicking all the way to the elevator. Song Lan clenches his teeth, the guilt settling. He looks down at his jacket, contemplating the thick denim. Maybe… maybe it won’t be so bad.
“You can take my arm, if you want,” he says.
Xiao XingChen instinctively turns his head in the direction of the earbud, as if Song Lan is on his left, not his right. Song Lan takes a wide step behind Xiao XingChen to adjust his position. Taking a deep breath, he hooks his arm through Xiao XingChen’s.
Even though the action is voluntary, Song Lan stiffens. The overwhelming need to tear his arm away makes him twitch ever-so slightly, and he knows Xiao XingChen has felt it.
“Are you sure?” Xiao XingChen says cautiously.
Song Lan’s words sink deeper and deeper into the pit of his oesophagus as he fights to speak. One syllable. It’s supposed to be easy, but he’s tired from the party.
“Y-yes.”
Xiao XingChen’s fingers curl over his jacket in response. Song Lan allows himself a moment to ponder it. To get used to it.
They take the elevator down three floors. The shadows in the dim streetlights chase each other through the alleyways, flitting behind dumpsters. The city is always active, even when there’s no one around.
It’s difficult to use his phone with his arm occupied, so Song Lan mostly listens as Xiao XingChen talks, the roll of his words reminding him of that song he can’t quite name. Even after a long evening of sharing jokes and stories, Xiao XingChen still has more to say. A-Qing’s parents are going through a messy divorce. I hope the mattress on the floor is enough when she comes to stay. She’s always telling me about her funny dreams. Sometimes I dream about colours, but when I wake up, I don’t remember what they look like. Wei Ying is always telling me that each person looks like a different colour, but I don’t really get it. But, then, I can never describe how it feels to hear someone and know exactly what they look like to me. A person’s whole personality is in their voice, you know?
Song Lan wonders what Xiao XingChen sees when he hears the robot voice translate Song Lan’s words. Does it bother him? Does he want to know what Song Lan looks like?
“What will you do, now that university is over?” Xiao XingChen asks.
Song Lan types with one hand, slowing their walk to warn Xiao XingChen that they need to stop at a crossing. He presses the button with his elbow.
“Start some projects. Visit family. Send applications.” A little blink; his phone is running out of battery.
“Do you get along with your family?”
They cross the road, taking the steps down to the subway. The next train is in five minutes. Song Lan watches the battery percentage on his phone trickle to single digits.
“For the most part. I appreciate their support,” he says when they sit down to wait, freeing himself from Xiao XingChen to better handle his phone. His arm feels cold now, absent of Xiao XingChen's hand.
“They don’t mind that you want to be a writer?” Xiao XingChen says.
“My mom accepts it. My dad still needs persuading. He wants me to be successful,” Song Lan replies.
“My family pushes me as well,” Xiao XingChen says with a nod. “They think I’m limiting myself, but I just want to help people. It has nothing to do with being blind.”
The ghost of a grimace plays on his face, as if a sour memory has surfaced. Song Lan barely catches it before it’s gone, almost never there.
“What makes you happy is more important. I think you’ll do great.”
“Thanks, Song Lan. You’re a good listener.”
Song Lan laughs, and it rumbles between them, echoing down the empty platform of the subway.
“I get that a lot,” he says.
Xiao XingChen grins, eyes crinkling shut.
Their train arrives, the compartments mostly empty as it rockets through the tunnels. It makes Xiao XingChen sway in his seat a couple of times and he brushes against Song Lan.
Song Lan doesn’t mind.
“Do you want to come in for a drink?” Xiao XingChen asks when they reach his apartment. First floor, grey carpet, motion sensor hallway lights. It smells vaguely like a hospital, which makes Song Lan feel nauseous. Remnants of the evening’s alcohol slosh around in his stomach with the memories of his month-long hospital stay that he left behind in the journal he doesn’t read.
He dithers outside the door as Xiao XingChen opens it, kicking off his shoes at the threshold. It’s dark inside before Xiao XingChen toggles the lightswitch. A solitary streetlamp peeks through a balcony window in the back, the curtains left open.
Song Lan enters and shuts the door behind him, taking off his boots. Xiao XingChen has already moved down the hall and into the kitchen, opening the fridge with a clink of bottles.
Song Lan follows him, entering a spacious sitting room and kitchen. A table sits flush against the wall, littered with papers and books and scrunched up pieces of everyday life. Pieces of Xiao XingChen.
“I only have iced tea, is that okay?”
Song Lan makes an affirming sound and accepts the drink from Xiao XingChen, who walks over to the sofa and flops down, sinking low into the pillows with a sigh. It’s been a long night, but Song Lan is glad he was invited in.
He joins Xiao XingChen on the sofa, putting the drink on the glass coffee table. He unlocks his phone to say something, but the screen dims sleepily, the last of the battery finally running its course.
Xiao XingChen’s hand goes to his ear, touching the earbud he’s left there as the Bluetooth disconnects. A little beep.
“What happened?”
Song Lan glares angrily at his phone, feeling betrayed. He digs around in his pocket for his dead power bank, tugging the cable out of it. He passes it to Xiao XingChen.
Xiao XingChen’s fingers run the length of the chord, touching the end.
“Your phone is dead? Here.”
Song Lan passes over his phone as well, and it feels like he’s giving up an extension of himself.
“That’s okay,” Xiao XingChen assures when he returns to the sofa, taking the earbud out and setting it down with his can of tea, which is next to Song Lan’s, both of them left untouched. “You must be sick to death of listening to me. I won't talk if you can't reply.”
I could listen to you all day.
“Thanks for coming tonight, though. I don’t know why, but everything feels so much more complete when you’re there. Isn’t that funny?” Xiao XingChen crosses his legs on the sofa. His socks don’t match.
No. It makes sense.
“Are you hungry? I think there’s some ramen in the cupboard if you want? While we wait for your phone to charge?”
I don’t want to leave when it’s done. Will you let me stay? It’s late and I’m tired and I don't want to go home.
Their main form of communication temporarily lost, Song Lan reaches out to Xiao XingChen. It’s almost involuntary, like his body is moving without his permission, daring him to convey all these unspoken words with just the touch of his hand.
He hesitates, buffering between wanting and not wanting. The gust of the sailboat one way or the other. He hopes Xiao XingChen will understand the significance in it; the unwavering love in it.
Song Lan’s hands rest on Xiao XingChen’s, clasping around two of his fingers. Xiao XingChen starts, his lips parting in surprise at the touch.
His hands are soft, and his fingers break free to splay out against Song Lan’s, connecting at the tips. Resisting the urge to take it all back, Song Lan closes his eyes, trying to imagine what Xiao XingChen feels.
They interlock, and Song Lan is grounded, surrendering to the warmth of Xiao XingChen’s palm against his own, the empty spaces folding away between their fingers. Xiao XingChen rubs his thumb over Song Lan’s knuckle tenderly, an entire story pressed into his skin.
“You feel nice,” Xiao XingChen murmurs. “But you don’t have to make yourself uncomfortable for me.”
He starts to withdraw, but Song Lan opens his eyes and holds on.
Please don’t let go. I don’t want to disappear. Your hands are proof that I’m more than just a ghost.
“What are you thinking?”
Song Lan takes his fingers back to brush them against Xiao XingChen’s palm. He ponders all the characters he might be able to write there, but none of them would be enough to say what he’s thinking right now. Song Lan has only ever had words. Spoken, unspoken, written down, held close. But Xiao XingChen’s hands are like words he’s never known; a language Song Lan wants to learn.
When he looks back up, Xiao XingChen’s expression carries a hint of sadness. His hand closes around Song Lan’s fingers in his lap, shoulders slumped with the weight of exhaustion, and perhaps something else. Something that only comes when all other thoughts are sleeping. It’s a look Song Lan knows well, for he’s seen it in himself.
“Will you stay the night? I’m so tired, and I don’t want to wake up alone,” Xiao XingChen whispers.
Song Lan squeezes in affirmation.
I’m right here.
Song Lan has never slept in any bed but his own, nor worn any clothes but his own. It’s like touching someone without truly touching them, and he feels Xiao XingChen’s body against his body through the creases of the clothes he’s borrowed. White shirt, sweatpants. They smell like Xiao XingChen.
“Song Lan?”
He likes the way Xiao XingChen says his name; like it’s his favourite word. Song Lan turns in the bed, sheets rustling in the dark. He can just make out Xiao XingChen’s face by the pale light creeping through the open window. Is it the moon, or the streetlamp? It makes Xiao XingChen glow.
“Mmm?”
“University is over, but we won’t stop seeing each other, right?”
Song Lan unlocks his phone. It’s not fully charged, but it’s enough to last him until morning.
“What makes you say that?” he asks.
Xiao XingChen shrugs, the blankets jostling off his shoulder. “It happens. People don’t stay in touch.”
“We will. I promise,” Song Lan says.
“Really? I’m glad.” Xiao XingChen smiles, pulling the blankets back up and closing his eyes. “Wake me up if you need anything, okay? Goodnight.”
Song Lan turns off his phone and puts it on the table beside the bed.
“Goodnight,” he says.
It takes him a while to fall asleep, unaccustomed to having someone in the bed next to him. He listens to Xiao XingChen’s breathing against the pillow, calm and moderate, and wonders what he’s dreaming about. Song Lan hopes it’s a good dream.
When he wakes, it’s late into the morning and the bed is empty. Song Lan squints at the sunshine tumbling into the room, honey bright against the hardwood floors.
He stretches, rubbing his eyes. He slept surprisingly well, wrapped up in Xiao XingChen’s space. It makes him smile. He reaches across and feels the bed is still warm on the other side, the sheets rumpled with remnants of sleep; remnants of XingChen.
He hears movement in the kitchen and rises, picking up his phone as he goes.
Xiao XingChen is making coffee, two mugs together by the kettle on the counter. One is blue, and the other is white with something written on its side in braille. At the approach of feet, he turns around, and Song Lan stops and stares, like it’s his first time seeing Xiao XingChen all over again. His hair is tousled, and pink is smeared across his nose and cheeks, flushed from sleep.
“You’re awake,” he mumbles, digging a lazy knuckle into his eye. “I’m really sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He lets out a shaky laugh, left hand returning to his side as the water finishes boiling in the kettle behind him, the steam rising beneath the kitchen cabinets. Like the heat rising in Song Lan’s chest.
He takes several steps closer, typing into his phone.
“I wanted to,” he says.
“I just – I know you don’t like touching other people, but you keep making exceptions for me. It’s not fair on you,” Xiao XingChen continues, wringing his hands together. “You shouldn’t put yourself out just because it makes it easier on me, or because I asked you to.”
A final step. Song Lan takes Xiao XingChen’s hands in his own. He’s not one to be lost for words, but for once he wants his hands to do the talking; to tell Xiao XingChen just how wonderful he is, and how much Song Lan loves him.
He plays the text-to-speech again, setting his phone down on the counter next to them.
“I wanted to.”
Xiao XingChen smiles weakly, the corners of his eyes crinkling beautifully. “What a ridiculous pair we make. I’m so glad I met you.”
Song Lan doesn’t let go of Xiao XingChen’s hands.
“Me too.”
I don’t know who I’d be without you.
They have breakfast. Coffee and pancakes, the sunlight pooling around their feet at the dining table while they talk about their plans for the day ahead. Xiao XingChen is going shopping with his cousin, and Song Lan needs to clean his apartment.
He has a shower and brushes his teeth with Xiao XingChen’s spare toothbrush, mouth tingling from the new bristles. When he goes to leave, it feels like he’s forgetting something.
“Do you have your charger? Your keys?” Xiao XingChen suggests, framed in the mouth of the doorway as Song Lan hesitates in the hall of the main building.
He pats his pockets down, but he has everything he came with. He looks at Xiao XingChen, and then realises what he’s forgetting. It’s not something he normally takes heed of, but he wants to know what it feels like. He wants to know what Xiao XingChen feels like.
“XingChen.”
Xiao XingChen angles towards the sound of Song Lan’s voice. Song Lan moves back through the door, trying to ignore how fast his heart is beating. He takes Xiao XingChen’s hands again, lifting them up carefully.
“What are you – oh.”
Song Lan pulls Xiao XingChen into a hug.
He doesn’t react at once, and Song Lan is afraid he’s made a mistake, but then arms reach out over his shoulders and Xiao XingChen tightens the embrace, laughing quietly into Song Lan’s ear.
Their bodies fit together, about the same height, Song Lan just that little bit taller. He can feel Xiao XingChen’s laugh hum between their chests, temperate and soothing, finding its way to Song Lan’s heart. There’s a story here, he thinks, and it’s about you and me.
They stay this way for a while, caught up in the touch. Xiao XingChen rests his head in the crook of Song Lan’s neck and Song Lan feels the steady rise and fall of his breathing, falling in sync with his own.
When they finally break apart, there is a reluctance in them both to let go entirely.
“You’re so full of surprises,” Xiao XingChen says, his arms still hanging loosely over Song Lan’s shoulders. “If I’m not careful, you’ll kiss me next time.”
Song Lan’s breath catches, his heart coming to a stuttering standstill. He doesn’t know what hits him the hardest; the way Xiao XingChen said it so casually, or how much he wants to. Really wants to.
“Can I?”
Xiao XingChen’s arms slacken, nearly slipping from Song Lan’s shoulders.
“What?”
Song Lan swallows the lump in his throat, fighting to bring his words to the surface. “Kiss you?”
The dread starts to sink in as the seconds slip by, though to Song Lan they feel like minutes, like agonising hours as Xiao XingChen comprehends what he’s said.
He takes a step back over the threshold of the doorway, dismay and anxiety settling like a hard rock in his stomach. He shouldn’t have crossed that threshold in the first place; the one between loving, and being in love.
Xiao XingChen’s arms fall away, but only so far as Song Lan’s neck. His hands suddenly give pause and Song Lan stops. Xiao XingChen exhales, dark eyes blinking rapidly as he recovers from his astonishment. His fingers find Song Lan’s face; his jaw, his mouth, thumb brushing the corners like it’s searching for all the answers he’s ever wanted to know.
He bridges the space between them, and the kiss burns through Song Lan like the sweetest flame. The secret warmth.