Chapter Text
I touch your wrist with my wrist and get them confused.
The wind turns over and your skin turns to braille
beneath my palm
Ours is a careful verse - but this isn’t
a quiet poem.
-
The Anatomy of Being - Shinji Moon
Xiao XingChen’s parents raised him to be kind. Be kind to strangers, to your family, and your friends. Don’t be any trouble. Don’t be a burden. Be kind, A-Chen. Be Kind. Be Kind. Be kind.
It knocks around like a loose stone in his shoe, always there, even when he thinks he shook it out. Kind is all he knows how to be. There’s no room in his heart for anything else.
Most days it’s fine, and he evens out his footing despite the stone.
He surrenders his time and patience to others; a different person depending on who needs him. A good influence and tutor to his cousin, wild and reckless, running away from home every other weekend. A teacher to strangers who demand answers to their endless questions about his vision impairment. A shoulder for his friends to cry on when they lose that part of themselves they were trying so hard to hold onto.
He wonders what it’s like to be selfish; to think about himself, for once, and be his own person.
But who am I? What do I want?
Other days Xiao XingChen can’t breathe. He supposes that’s fine too. He wouldn’t want to trouble anyone for a paper bag, anyway.
Be kind, A-Chen. You never know what someone might be going through, and a little bit of kindness can go a long way toward their happiness. Don’t you want others to be happy?
What about my happiness? How do I be kind to myself?
When he enrolled in university, Xiao XingChen left home hoping to find something. What exactly, he isn’t sure. Perhaps a semblance of self beyond that of simply being kind. It’s been nearly four years now. He hasn’t found what he’s looking for.
He’s found other things, and they fill gaps in his life he didn’t even realise were missing. Friends, noisy and smiling over Friday night noodles and weekend karaoke, and the kids at the youth centre, reminding him that he’s made the right choices. There’s comfort in that, at least. In the sound and touch of other people around him, assuring him of his place among them. Grounding him and guiding him. Some days, it really is fine.
But, Xiao XingChen is still looking.
[Xiao XingChen]
someone floored me in the corridor and didnt say anything
i even did a blind joke bit
[Wei Ying]
no xingchen not a blind joke….
anything but that
[Xiao XingChen]
as if u dont laugh every time
wait.. they took my pen..?
it must have fallen out of my bag...
[Wei Ying]
aww i gave u that pen…
rip pen
ascend, old friend
may we meet again someday
u good for lunch later?? sushi?
[Xiao XingChen]
arent u supposed to be studying?
[Wei Ying]
yeh im in the library and everything
jie’s supervising me
but she sucks at it since shes letting me text u without consequence
no i spoke too soon!! shes confiscating my phone!!
dont forget abt me xingchen!!
[Xiao XingChen]
shes just giving u hands on experience for when you have to confiscate phones from kids in class
my lecture finishes at 1 so ill meet u guys then?
[Jiang YanLi]
we’ll be there!!
It’s been two weeks, but Xiao XingChen continues to ponder over Song Lan’s single syllable, caught between the crisp voiceover of his phone, like a fragment for Xiao XingChen to keep for his own. Usually he needs to hear someone’s voice several times before he remembers who it belongs to, but Song Lan’s sticks after just one word. It’s a song that plays on a loop in Xiao XingChen’s head, following him wherever he goes. He wonders when he’ll hear it again.
He twirls his pen as he half listens to a lecture on his laptop, the air-conditioning of the library prickling his skin, just that bit too cold. He’s sitting at the same desk as last week, and the week before that, twirling the same pen that Song Lan had returned to him. It’s the only pen Xiao XingChen owns; a gag gift from Wei Ying after he’d asked to borrow one during their first ever class together, not knowing Xiao XingChen was blind and had no need for pens. He’s almost never used it. Maybe once or twice to sign a document. But he finds himself fidgeting with it lately, digging it out of the bottom of his bag where gum wrappers and old receipts have crumpled, lost and forgotten beneath his books. He wonders where Song Lan had kept it, for the few days it was with him.
Xiao XingChen hears footsteps approaching, heavy on the carpet between the tables and lounges. He looks up to see someone standing in front of him, silhouetted vaguely against the bright library fluorescents. He pauses his lecture and takes out an earbud to offer the person his attention. The clicking of a phone keyboard makes him smile.
“It’s Song Lan. I didn’t think to find you here at this time.”
“Hey,” Xiao XingChen says, unable to let the smile go entirely. “I’m catching up on a lecture before my next class. What are you doing here?”
Song Lan’s typing moves closer as he pulls out the chair on the left side of the desk to sit down. Xiao XingChen can’t see him anymore, but can feel his leg resting nearby under the table.
“Came in early to finish an assignment,” Song Lan says. He uses the same voiceover that Xiao XingChen uses for his devices.
Though he can’t quite decipher what kind of person Song Lan is physically, Xiao XingChen finds his presence curiously soothing. He’s easy to talk to, and doesn’t harass Xiao XingChen with questions like most strangers do. He doesn’t ask why Xiao XingChen is blind, or what he can see, or what he can’t see. He asks normal things, and tunes in with genuine interest. Xiao XingChen feels his attentiveness; his silence which says, I’m here. I’m listening.
“Our timetables must be quite similar,” Xiao XingChen muses. “We keep bumping into each other here. Are you still joining us for noodles later?”
Xiao XingChen waits for Song Lan’s reply, the gentle tapping of characters on his phone echoing in the liminal gaps of library hush, the sliver of light from the screen bending with the motion of his hands. Xiao XingChen knows he must be looking in the wrong place, but he can’t help it. Without Song Lan’s voice to know where his face is, he needs something else to focus on.
“If you’ll have me. Wen Qing said she’d come too,” Song Lan says.
“Oh, YanLi will be happy. A few other people are tagging along and we’re going for drinks afterwards,” Xiao XingChen adds. “You’re more than welcome.”
There’s a brief pause before Song Lan types again, and Xiao XingChen thinks he already knows what the answer might be.
“Maybe next time.”
“Meeting new people can be too much sometimes, right? I get it. Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng are nice, though. For abled people, at least.”
Xiao XingChen hums a laugh, and he’s pleased when Song Lan laughs as well. The sound is calm and deep, and Xiao XingChen is pulled in by it, savouring another little fragment.
His eyes shift away from the light of the phone to where Song Lan’s laugh comes from. He’s sitting closer than Xiao XingChen initially thought, and he finds it reassuring. He wants Song Lan to be comfortable in his company, because that’s how Xiao XingChen feels.
“It’s cool to meet someone else with a disability,” he says. “I have some online friends, but it’s not really the same.”
“You must have thought I was weird when we met,” says Song Lan.
“Only at first,” Xiao XingChen admits. “But I’ve had worse interactions with people knocking into me, so I didn’t think about it that much. It was really kind of you to bring back my pen.”
He unconsciously reaches for it where he’s left it on the desk, spinning it against the surface a couple of times to hear the way it scrapes.
“It wasn’t mine. And you deserved an apology,” Song Lan tells him.
The pen stills on the last word, obtrusive and, in many ways, unwelcome. It settles in Xiao XingChen’s heart the same way mud would settle between his toes back home, rescuing laundry from the heady heat of plum rain. He wants to wash it off.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he says unsteadily. “It’ll go to my head.”
“But it’s the truth,” says Song Lan.
Xiao XingChen waves a hand in an attempt to be dismissive. “It’s forgotten already. I’m just glad we had the chance to meet.”
“Me too.”
Song Lan begins to say more, but then the ticking of the backspace key erases whatever he’s written and he falls quiet, leaving Xiao XingChen hanging.
Tell me everything. I want to know you.
“I’m going to finish this lecture,” Xiao XingChen says instead.
“Do you want me to go?” Song Lan asks.
“No!” Xiao XingChen speaks before he thinks. Don’t be selfish. “I mean. No, you don’t have to. We can keep each other company, if you like. I won’t distract you, I promise.”
Song Lan stays, opening his laptop next to Xiao XingChen’s, fans whirring, sharing heat on the desk. Xiao XingChen turns down the volume of his lecture to better hear the measured sound of Song Lan’s notebook pages turning over in his hands.
The low heat of spring finally begins to ease for the day when Xiao XingChen arrives at the noodle bar later that afternoon. Under the shade of the restaurant’s shallow alcove, he waits with Wei Ying for the others to arrive.
“It’s busy,” Xiao XingChen says, angling his ear towards the door. Patrons murmur and dishes clatter inside, the active thrum of an entire city condensed into a single restaurant. The PVC curtains flap as people walk in and out.
Wei Ying peers through the window, his shoulder brushing against Xiao XingChen’s as he turns. “There’s one table left. Might be a squeeze with so many of us. Do you know if Wen Qing is coming?”
“Song Lan said she was, yeah,” Xiao XingChen says.
Wei Ying shudders. “She’s scary. My theory about med students stands uncorrected.”
“She can’t be that scary if YanLi likes her.”
“Jiejie likes everyone, though. Even Jiang Cheng. Her judgement isn’t reliable,” Wei Ying says with a scoff, turning back around and leaning against the window. “Oh, I think that’s them. Fuck, Song Lan is so tall."
“He’s tall?” Xiao XingChen says.
“Taller than you. Taller than Lan Zhan! Poor ZhanZhan. He likes being the tallest.”
Wei Ying waves as the other two approach, the erratic motion cutting through the pattering of commuters on the street beyond the alcove. Two sets of feet find them, and a hot sigh of relief.
“Are we the first to arrive?” Wen Qing asks, shaking out her hair.
Xiao XingChen does his best to pay attention to the sound of her voice as he is not yet fully familiar with it. It’s sharp and careful, as though she means everything she says. No room for second-guesses or regrets because days are short and her patience is thin, and she never has enough time to be with the people she loves.
“The others will be here soon,” Wei Ying says, nudging his elbow against Xiao XingChen’s arm for him to take. “Come on, we’ll go inside and grab the last table.”
Squashed together in plastic dining chairs and a well-worn booth seat, conversation comes naturally and eagerly through the shout of take-out orders and hiss of steam from the restaurant kitchen. It’s the good, familiar kind of noise that Xiao XingChen looks forward to on Fridays, everyone sharing their weeks, talking over each other and laughing. Jiang Cheng, slaving over his final game design, and Lan Zhan playing a piece of his latest composition from an audio file on his phone. Jiang YanLi mentions another movie night as a much-needed break, and Wei Ying promises that, when their final year of university is behind them, he’ll treat them all to hotpot and a proper movie, in a proper theatre.
Through it all, Xiao XingChen has his earbud paired to Song Lan’s phone, listening to the voiceover, his noodles getting cold. He doesn’t mean to ignore his friends, but he finds himself drawn in by Song Lan and the contemplative, catalogued things he says. He thinks meals taste better when they’ve been cooked by someone you love, and plums are his favourite fruit, and when he goes back home for winter, it always snows on the third day. When he writes, he prefers a paper and pen to a laptop, and he never throws anything away.
Xiao XingChen wishes he could see the world the way Song Lan sees it; written down, folded over, held close. He wants to tuck it all away and keep it safe in the growing space in his heart.
“I know you want to go home, but are you sure I can’t persuade you to come for drinks with us?” he says when they leave the noodle bar. He feels a hard tug of guilt for even asking, but Xiao XingChen doesn’t want to part with Song Lan yet.
The little group hesitates on the street corner, the gathering dusk shrouding Xiao XingChen’s vision. He clings loosely to Wei Ying’s elbow, waiting for an answer as if the selfishness of it isn’t about to crush him.
“It’s just around the corner,” assures Jiang YanLi. “I have to be up early tomorrow, so we won’t be out late.”
“XingChen must like you a lot, Song Lan. He never asks twice! Ow! Jiang Cheng, don't hit me.”
Xiao XingChen’s face burns. It’s not like that, he wants to tell them. But he doesn’t like to lie, either.
“We’ll come,” Wen Qing finally says, translating Song Lan’s affirmation for Xiao XingChen.
Xiao XingChen smiles, and he almost forgets about the guilt. He’ll wash it off later, he thinks. For now, he can have Song Lan for a little while longer.
The evening soaks up drinks and low bar music, the candles on the table flickering lazily in the breaths of conversation. Xiao XingChen raises his empty glass to the nearest flame, chasing the light as it catches the diamond pattern and ripples pleasantly through his hands. It matches well with the atmosphere of his friends around him, and how much he enjoys being with them, even though it’s late and he’s getting tired.
He hears the clicking of Song Lan’s keyboard before the text-to-speech plays in his earbud.
“Can I ask about what you see?”
Xiao XingChen raises an eyebrow, twirling the glass in his hand. Song Lan must be watching him. He forgets that other people can see him; perceive him in ways he doesn’t understand. What does Song Lan see, when he looks at him?
“Only if you tell me about what you can say.”
Song Lan hums as he types. “I can say whatever I want.”
“But you don’t.”
Xiao XingChen can’t help but smirk at the silence that follows, knowing full well that he’s caught Song Lan off guard. He’s curious as to what it is Song Lan won’t say, backspacing on his words as if they can be so easily erased from his thoughts as well. But Xiao XingChen knows better, and he wishes there was a way for Song Lan to let him in.
“You shouldn’t be afraid to speak your mind,” he continues. He could choke on the irony.
“I’m not,” Song Lan protests.
“Alright, I’ll pretend that isn’t a lie,” Xiao XingChen says, not unkindly. It’s not his intention to make it awkward for Song Lan. Anything but that.
“If I start saying whatever I want, I won’t know how to stop,” Song Lan maintains. “It’s better to write it all down.”
Xiao XingChen sets the glass down, but his eyes remain fixed on the candle flame, flickering between them. He acknowledges the sentiment behind Song Lan’s reasoning; don’t overshare, don’t be a burden. Don't be where you aren't wanted.
“Better for you, or for everyone else?”
“Both, I guess. Even if I could speak, I think I’d prefer to write. It’s easier.”
“You must write a lot, then. Is it still all about love?” Xiao XingChen asks.
He wonders if Song Lan is in love. He has to be, to write about it all the time. Perhaps he feels it so much that he needs to put it down somewhere. Perhaps it’s heavy. Xiao XingChen doesn’t know.
“Love keeps going,” Song Lan says. “I learn something new about it every day.”
“What did you learn today?”
There’s a long pause as Song Lan seems to think, drumming a rhythm on the table. Xiao XingChen resists the urge to take his hand; to feel the words at the tips of his fingers.
“Love is making someone smile,” Song Lan finally says.
Who makes you smile?
“Surely you knew that already,” Xiao XingChen says evenly, prying for more information; for any piece of Song Lan that Song Lan is willing to give.
“I did. But it's nice to be reminded,” Song Lan explains.
“Alright, you don’t have to tell me.” Xiao XingChen smiles. “Secretive Song Lan. I can tell when you’re keeping something to yourself.”
Song Lan says no more, and Xiao XingChen respects this. It’s long since been drilled into him that he shouldn’t inquire after people’s thoughts or personal lives if they don’t want to share them. But a part of him thinks Song Lan does want to share; every time he erases a message, there’s more than just words left unsaid.
Xiao XingChen isn’t surprised to find A-Qing at his apartment when he gets home that evening. Keys and cane on the hooks by the door, he kicks off his shoes to the crackling of the television in the sitting room down the hall. The only reason he even has a television is because of A-Qing.
“Did you bring leftovers?” she asks from the sofa. It sounds like she’s watching anime, turned up against the dull vibration of the air-conditioning.
Xiao XingChen dumps his bag on the dining table. “How would I know to do that when you don’t text me that you’re coming over?”
“You should know by now that I’m probably going to be here,” A-Qing rebukes, pausing the show so she doesn’t miss anything. “It’s your own fault for giving me keys.”
His fault, as if Xiao XingChen doesn’t feel responsible enough for his cousin. Her mom is on the line every other weekend, asking him where she is. Xiao XingChen’s own moms remind him to look out for her as well, concerned she will stray too far. Be kind, A-Chen. Take care of your family.
But who will take care of me?
A-Qing would live with Xiao XingChen if she could, finding more of a home in his chipped mugs and mattress on the floor than anything her parents have to offer. Going rogue, A-Qing calls it. Like it’s an adventure, and not the existential realisation that neither of them really belong to their own family. Xiao XingChen’s aunt has always harboured an unspoken resentment for him because of this, but he doesn’t care. If she’s upset that her daughter prefers to stay with the adopted son of country bumpkin lesbians, then he’s not going to waste her time pretending he doesn’t enjoy A-Qing’s presence.
He likes the noise of another person in his apartment. When Xiao XingChen left for university, no one warned him of the loneliness that would travel with him, and how it would find him in every corner of his apartment, creaking underfoot like a loose floorboard.
He wonders if this is what it means to be selfish; to seek out others when they aren’t there. To simply want something more than what you are given.
Do I want more than what Song Lan gives me?
“Did you at least tell your mom where you are?” Xiao XingChen opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of water.
“Yes,” A-Qing retorts. “She’s on my ass all the time now. And, like, why? Where else would I go, anyway?”
“How is she supposed to know if you don’t tell her?” Xiao XingChen says in a thinly-veiled attempt to save face in case he one day has to own up to the fact that he puts his cousin’s happiness before the feelings of anyone else in his family.
“I can’t help that she won’t leave me alone, alright? She’s such a pain.” A cushion falls to the floor as A-Qing retreats back into the sofa and puts her show back on, the harsh tones of music determining an end to the conversation.
Xiao XingChen sighs. He’s tired. He doesn’t remember the last time he wasn’t tired.
“I’m going to bed, okay? Don’t stay up too late.”
He drags his feet to the bathroom, setting the unopened bottle of water on the bench next to where he keeps his pain pills, blister packs broken open at random. His hands wrap the edge of the sink as he comes to terms with the headache blooming behind his eyes. A headache called Does Song Lan Think I’m Annoying? It’s been a griping, half-baked nuisance all evening, prodding and poking, looking for a way in.
It’s here now, heavy and sharp.
Xiao XingChen’s grip tightens around the cool ceramic and he closes his eyes, feeling nauseous. He tries to blame it all on being tired, and not on the squirming guilt in his stomach at asking twice.
'He never asks twice!'
Had Song Lan even wanted to be there? Had he felt obligated because Xiao XingChen had asked a second time?
Had it been a burden for him?
Be kind.
Don’t be a burden.
Xiao XingChen cleans his teeth and goes to bed without taking any medicine. It’s a quiet punishment for now, but he’ll have to reckon with it in the middle of the night when it inevitably becomes a migraine.
Xiao XingChen can hear the television faintly on the other side of the wall. It’s a sound he’s starting to get used to, and one he doesn’t want to stop getting used to. He misses his brothers and sisters, their thundering feet and snappy conjecture only memories now. Xiao XingChen doesn’t regret leaving home, but the penetrating silence of living alone makes his thoughts unbearably loud. He’s desperate for something to drown it all out; anything to make it feel like he’s more than just a mirror for everyone else’s problems.
[nie huaisang owes jiang cheng 115 ¥]
Wei Ying
movie night at our place this weekend confirmed!
Jiang Cheng
is this an invite or a command?
Wei Ying
you fucking live here so its neither
xingchen u can invite song lan!
not wen qing tho
I was right she’s scary
Xiao XingChen
I’ll invite him, but im not sure he’ll want to come
Jiang YanLi
I’ll invite qingqing
Jiang Cheng
good idea
Wei Ying
pfft of course you think its a good idea….
jiang cheng has a big fat crush
Jiang Cheng
dont make me come in there
im not afraid of ur stinky laundry
Wei Ying
do it
then i can go to hospital and wen qing can take care of me (✿◠‿◠)
and i can have ur jealousy on a drip to sustain me
JIE HE’S COMING IN
Jiang YanLi
i should go intervene but…..
bed…. so comfy..
if put my earbuds in…. i cannot hear
Xiao XingChen
are we taking bets?
Nie HuaiSang
250 on a-cheng
Jiang YanLi
ur really going to bet against a-ying?
do you even have 250 ¥ to ur name?
Nie HuaiSang
not yet (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
high risk, high reward
Jiang YanLi
have you no sense of self-preservation?
Luo QingYang
ill take that bet
im bored
Nie HuaiSang
wheres lan zhan to raise the stakes and defend his boyfriends honour?
Lan Zhan
wei ying doesn’t have any honour
Nie HuaiSang
OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Jiang Cheng
i won
Luo QingYang
dammit
Wei Ying
lan zhan ╥﹏╥
Nie HuaiSang changed the group name.
[mianmian owes nie huaisang 250 ¥]
Jiang Cheng changed the group name.
[nie huaisang is a bitch who cant hide from me forever]
Xiao XingChen
i just realise i don’t have song lan’s phone number……
Wei Ying
wow u suck at this
how r u supposed to go on a date if u dnt have his number
Xiao XingChen
???
Nie HuaiSang
date?? did i miss smth?
Jiang Cheng
no wei ying is just being an asshole
Wei Ying
what!! come on youve all seen the way song lan looks at xingchen
taking advantage of his blindness smh
Xiao XingChen
how does he look at me??
Jiang YanLi
like…
idk how to put it
Lan Zhan
like you’re the only person in the room
It’s raining when Xiao XingChen leaves the library. The hot, burning days of summer are over, escaping like loose change through the holes of his pockets. The first plum rain of the season pinches at his sneakers as he contemplates facing the streets without an umbrella. Xiao XingChen hates plum rain season.
He can’t call for a Didi without someone to hail the car when it arrives, though he'd prefer to avoid doing that as well if he can; avoid being probed with questions about his sight by yet another stranger.
He swipes open his phone, chewing on his lip as he thumbs over WeChat, hesitant to double-tap it open; to admit that he needs someone. Song Lan is upstairs in the library. A single call and he would be beside Xiao XingChen on the steps in minutes.
How do I be kind to myself?
Xiao XingChen wonders if there’s anything in the world more shameful than needing someone.
He locks his phone and slips it back into his bag, taking a step down, the handrail slick beneath his palm.
“Wait.”
Xiao XingChen would know Song Lan’s voice anywhere. In a crowd of hundreds, he would hear it first.
Overhead, the pale light of the sky disappears as the rain rumbles across the surface of an umbrella.
Song Lan types hastily. “I saw that it was raining. Let me go with you.”
Let me. As if it’s an easy thing; as if Xiao XingChen doesn’t long to take Song Lan’s hand and somehow feel like he deserves it.
“No, Song Lan, it’s okay. Since you’re here, I’ll – I’ll get a Didi. I can manage,” Xiao XingChen insists, the hollowed-out version of himself playing a tinny tune of self-loathing that he doesn’t really feel, or feels too much to know any better.
Song Lan says nothing, and yet says everything by simply standing beside Xiao XingChen, shielding them from the rain. He’s close enough that Xiao XingChen can smell his perfume and sense the heat of his body underneath the umbrella. Xiao XingChen raises his hand, mechanically seeking to fully comprehend the distance between him and the other person, searching for the proximity.
Song Lan’s arm is strong and solid, his denim jacket damp from where it was caught in the rain. But he flinches, pulling away abruptly. A few drops trickle down Xiao XingChen’s neck as he temporarily loses cover of the umbrella.
“Sorry,” he says, letting his arm return to his side. “I should have asked first.”
“You can hold the umbrella at the bottom. We should go, or you’ll be late,” Song Lan says.
Xiao XingChen wants to protest again, but he folds up his cane and reaches up for the handle of the umbrella instead. He can feel the weight of Song Lan’s hand just above his own, not quite touching, leading the way down the steps and onto the rain-soaked streets.
“You didn’t have to trouble yourself,” Xiao XingChen mumbles.
He doesn’t expect a response from Song Lan as he navigates the crowds and heavy rain to the subway, but Xiao XingChen wishes he would say something; anything to distract him from the chaos of his own thoughts. They’re already beating a headache behind his eyes. He wonders what he’ll name it this time.
Song Lan’s steps slow, and he pulls at the umbrella to signal a stop. Xiao XingChen hears the pulsing buzz of the crosswalk, and the polite shuffling of other people around them, waiting for the lights to change. He knows where they are.
“You can leave me at the station, Song Lan,” he says. “You must have so much work to do. You have to finish your thesis, right?”
They cross the road, commuters blurring past them, obscuring the sleet of rain. At the steps to the subway, Song Lan closes the umbrella. Xiao XingChen doesn’t have it in his heart to let go of the handle, afraid it will mean losing Song Lan entirely.
They scan their passes and head to the train platform, the squeak of their wet shoes shrieking down the passage.
Song Lan types something. Then he backspaces and types something else. He holds his phone to Xiao XingChen’s ear so he can hear the message.
“I’ll go if it’s what you really want. But I’m here if you want me to stay.”
Xiao XingChen’s grip tightens around the umbrella, wishing it was Song Lan’s hand, warm against the cold wind rushing through the tunnel in front of them. It mimics the rush of people on the platform, jostling and reorganising, always on the move, creating their own breeze. But Xiao XingChen can only feel Song Lan, unaffected by the rush, standing still just for him.
“I know the youth centre is out of your way, but…” he hesitates to finish; to accept Song Lan’s kindness.
“It’s not out of the way if it’s for you,” says Song Lan.
Somehow, the world is quieter without Song Lan.
In his office, Xiao XingChen hears the whirr of the photocopier in the corner, and the chattering of the persistent rain outside the window, and the voices of other counsellors down the hall in the tea room. Sound is at the forefront of his senses, ever-present, even in moments when there is nothing to really listen to. And Song Lan, for all his silences, is amplified to a hundred, drowning out all other noise.
There’s a knock on the glass door, and it swings open.
“Are you still working?” Wei Ying shuffles into the office and perches himself on Xiao XingChen’s desk.
“I’m done,” Xiao XingChen says, tabbing through the form on his computer to make certain he’s filled out everything. “What time is it?”
“Nearly seven,” says Wei Ying. “Jie’s making pulled pork just for you, so you better give her some face! Let’s go!”
Wei Ying tugs half-heartedly on Xiao XingChen’s jumper sleeve, and Xiao XingChen smiles in spite of the headache that’s been clawing at his temples ever since Song Lan left him at the door of the youth centre.
“She only does pulled pork when you nag her. Don’t make it about me,” he says.
“It can’t always be about me, though,” Wei Ying sulks, though anyone who knows him can tell he’s faking it. “Jiang Cheng said I need to practice humility.”
“He’s not wrong,” Xiao XingChen says, closing his laptop and sliding it into his bag. “But hurrying people just because you’re hungry probably isn’t the way to go about doing that.”
“Ah, Xiao Laoshi is so wise,” Wei Ying quips, sliding off the desk and offering Xiao XingChen his arm. “This one is grateful to be brought under the wing of your tutelage. Jiang Cheng will be so pleased!”
Xiao XingChen shakes his head, though the smile lingers. “If you learn humility, HuaiSang won’t be able to pay his bills, and then Jiang Cheng will never get back the money he’s owed. You’re going to tip the balance.”
“It truly is Jiang Cheng’s lot in life to be infuriated by someone. I guess it may as well be me,” Wei Ying says sagely as they leave the building. He pulls up an umbrella and chuckles. “Maybe I shouldn’t have scammed him so hard on Animal Crossing. It’s his own fault, though! To think he calls himself a gamer.”
They take the train back to Wei Ying’s apartment, swaying on the poles and talking about nothing and everything. Exams and video games and aliens. Whatever finds its way into Wei Ying’s head usually finds its way out of his mouth as well. He effortlessly brightens Xiao XingChen’s mood, even when he’s been dealing with angsty teenagers all afternoon and has since named his headache Song Lan Walked Me All The Way To Work And I Forgot To Say Thank You.
“We’re thinking about hosting a party now that exams are done,” Wei Ying says over dinner. Jiang YanLi’s pulled pork and steamed vegetables. “You think Song Lan and Wen Qing will want to come?”
“I don’t know,” Xiao XingChen says truthfully. “Wen Qing might if YanLi invites her.”
Wei Ying stuffs food into his mouth and then writes on a notepad, his foot knocking against the leg of his chair as he chews; reassuring Wei Ying sounds. He’s always fidgeting, giving Xiao XingChen constant feedback on where he is and what he’s doing. He doesn’t do it on purpose, but Xiao XingChen appreciates it all the same.
“Okay, Jie can invite Wen Qing, and you can invite Song Lan. I like a round number for party guests. You know, I’m impressed Song Lan has stuck around all this time. I thought Jiang Cheng would have scared him off by now.”
Jiang Cheng throws a fairly solid object at Wei Ying across the table, who laughs and throws it back with more ferocity than necessary, jostling Xiao XingChen in the chair to his right.
“Tsk. What’s Jie’s one rule?” Jiang Cheng snaps.
“Are you gonna tell on me, Jiang Cheng?” Wei Ying pouts shamelessly. “You threw it first, so I retaliated accordingly. You shouldn’t be so rude when we have guests. That’s another one of the rules. So many rules… Jie’s spending too much time with Lan Zhan.”
“Like you know how to be anything else but rude,” Jiang Cheng says. “Anyway, the party was my idea, so stop taking credit…”
[Xiao XingChen]
thanks for walking me to the subway today
[Song Lan]
thanks for letting me
Plum rain season descends upon the city like a wave, puddles dashed through the streets as the sun makes way for sticky rainclouds. Most days, Xiao XingChen glances up at the sky and barely registers any light from it at all.
He finds himself not minding it, not when Song Lan sends him stories between the pieces of their long, late-night conversations; little flashes of phone screen in the dark to help him forget the rain. Xiao XingChen keeps them close, reading them over and over until he falls asleep.
He takes up space in Song Lan’s life, and Song Lan takes up space in Xiao XingChen’s heart. It opens up and asks for more, and when they’re together, Xiao XingChen stops looking for whatever it was he was looking for when he left home.
“Hey, Song Lan.”
“Mmm?” I’m listening.
Xiao XingChen lays down on the lawn outside the tea shop, dewy grass on the back of his neck and the sun filtering through the maple leaves overhead. Their shadows dance through the light in the breeze, giving Xiao XingChen something to watch. It’s one of those rare, temperate days of summer when the air isn’t heavy with almost-rain.
“Who do you write your stories for?”
He’s remembering the short piece Song Lan had sent the night before. It had fallen through the cracks of Xiao XingChen’s dreams, its remnants printed on his pillow in the slatted dawn of the following morning. He slept and woke thinking about Song Lan.
“What do you mean?” Song Lan replies with his phone as usual, placing it by Xiao XingChen’s left ear.
“You write so beautifully. Surely there is someone who inspires you.”
Song Lan seems to fidget for a moment before typing.
“I mostly write for myself,” he says.
Xiao XingChen frowns carefully, turning this over in his head. He knows Song Lan is hesitant to share; to open up and have his words heard. Xiao XingChen understands.
Still, he’s curious.
“You don’t let anyone read your work?” he asks.
“I let you read it.”
Xiao XingChen sits up, tilting his head to the side at Song Lan. He can somewhat see the distorted outline of his figure in the patchy shade of the tree.
“Only me?” he says.
“I wrote it for you,” Song Lan tells him.
Xiao XingChen smiles, but he doesn't know how to interpret this. It tells him nothing and everything all at once, the phone’s text-to-speech refusing to spoil its meaning. Xiao XingChen wonders if Song Lan said it this way on purpose just to tease him. It’s not really in Song Lan’s nature, but so often the things he says carry something more; something unspoken.
Cataloguing this thought for later, Xiao XingChen looks for his tea where he’s left it on the grass near his bag.
He finds it at the same time Song Lan reaches to retrieve it for him, and their hands connect over the plastic film of the lid. Xiao XingChen withdraws at once, mindful of Song Lan, as he always is, though the brief contact is like a burn, leaving traces of Song Lan on his skin. It’s a proximity he privately craves during slow hours in the library, Song Lan never more than two feet away. Three months have passed since they met, and Xiao XingChen has forgotten the way Song Lan felt when he passed Xiao XingChen his phone in the corridor. He wants to know it again.
However, Xiao XingChen respects boundaries. He’s adhered to them all his life; those wants and needs of others. Song Lan is no different to anyone else. How Xiao XingChen feels about him is irrelevant.
“I’m sorry,” he says, casting out another cautious feel for his drink.
It’s pushed gently into his grasp, cool ice against the tepid glare of the sun. Song Lan’s fingers brush the back of his hand, steady and lingering. Xiao XingChen impulsively looks down, wishing to see what Song Lan sees.
“Don’t be,” Song Lan says. His voice is calm, carried over on the breeze. Xiao XingChen’s favourite sound.
It’s late, and the party’s over, but he invites Song Lan into his apartment anyway, their knees almost bumping on the sofa. Xiao XingChen finds himself wanting; wanting that piece of Song Lan that no one else gets to have. He wants to give over every part of himself just to hold it.
“Are you hungry?” he says. “I think there’s some ramen in the cupboard if you want? While we wait for your phone to charge?”
Without his phone, Song Lan’s silence is strangely profound, weighed down with so many unspoken things. There is a barrier between them, and Xiao XingChen doesn’t know how to break it; doesn’t know what to do to tell Song Lan that he’s listening, even when there’s nothing to hear.
He almost doesn’t register when it’s Song Lan who bridges the gap, once again making that conscious decision to reach out and touch Xiao XingChen. It speaks more than his words ever could; it sings; it shouts. It’s the loudest thing Xiao XingChen has ever heard. Song Lan’s hands are delicate and even. They’re the same hands that have always done his talking for him; signing, writing, typing. Xiao XingChen wonders what they’re saying now.
“You feel nice,” he says quietly. “But you don’t have to make yourself uncomfortable for me.”
He can’t bear the thought of Song Lan making such an exception for him.
He tries to pull away, but Song Lan holds fast, keeping their fingers intertwined. Xiao XingChen’s heart is sitting somewhere at the base of his throat, squirming, squirming, squirming. He fights with himself knowing this isn’t something Song Lan is comfortable with.
But he doesn’t want to let go.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
Song Lan takes their hands apart, but his touch remains. Fingers trace Xiao XingChen’s palm; an imperceptible tickle, like the flicker of a flame. He waits for Song Lan to write something, but when he doesn’t, the answer is there anyway, without the need for words. Song Lan’s hands fold with Xiao XingChen’s, telling him, I’m right here.
The late hour curtains around Xiao XingChen like a damp sweater. He’s tired. He’s been tired for a long time, caught up in other people’s happiness, never making room for his own.
But Song Lan makes him happy, and Xiao XingChen wants to be selfish. He wants to set fire to every lesson his family ever taught him. He wants Song Lan to be the exception, too.
“Will you stay the night? I’m so tired, and I don’t want to wake up alone.”