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Jiang Cheng sat in his car, opening and closing his messaging app for the tenth, twentieth, hundredth time. His thumb hovered over the text box, but he couldn’t put the words down. He didn’t know what to say.
No, fuck it, he did know what to say, but he didn’t know if he had the courage to say it to Huaisang’s face. He hadn’t been this careless in such a long time. It didn’t matter that he’d been having a bad day. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t slept well. It didn’t matter that he’d drunk too much shitty vodka.
He shouldn’t have gone out with them, his brother, Wen Ning, and Huaisang, not in the state he’d been in. He should have gone home, but he didn’t. He went to that shitty bar, he drank too much, and he...fuck, the things he said.
Jiang Cheng leaned forward until his head rested against the steering wheel, waves of shame washing over him. He’d always suspected he was capable of the same cutting cruelty his mother wielded against him, but he also thought he’d curbed the worst impulses. But he’d let his tongue lash like a whip, and Huaisang had borne the brunt of the attack.
Fuck, he was going to throw up.
A sharp rap against his passenger window drew his attention from the rapidly growing hole of misery he was about to throw himself in. Mingjue stood beside his car, arms held tight across his chest.
Jiang Cheng rolled down the window.
“Are you going to sit out here all night?”
Jiang Cheng had braced for fury, but Mingjue’s voice was devastatingly gentle. Jiang Cheng shook his head and got out before his misery swallowed him whole. He rounded the front of his car, but Mingjue stopped him before he headed up the walk to the Nie brothers’ house. He looked Jiang Cheng up and down and, without a word, he drew Jiang Cheng into a tight embrace.
Jiang Cheng deflated, dropped the last shred of his control, and wept.
Mingjue held him, without judgement, until Jiang Cheng pulled himself marginally back together.
“You’re not gonna kill me?” Jiang Cheng asked as he scrubbed a hand across his face.
“Huaisang told me what happened.”
“And you’re not gonna kill me?” Jiang Cheng prodded.
Mingjue gripped the back of Jiang Cheng’s neck, his strength an anchor. “Kid,” he said, “you absolutely fucked up, but you’re here now. That says a lot.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but he swallowed down whatever else he wanted to add and said, “Go on. He’s in his room.”
Jiang Cheng took a breath. He knew Mingjue was right. He’d put this off too long already.
He couldn’t say how he made his legs work, how he managed to put one foot in front of the other, but he did, and too soon, he stood in front of Huaisang’s door. It was open a few inches, and he peeked in.
Huaisang sat at his desk, legs tucked up as he traced a pencil across a clean page of his sketchbook.
Jiang Cheng didn’t knock. He pushed the door open and waited until Huaisang turned. When he didn’t send Jiang Cheng away, he went in, closing the door behind him.
There was so much he wanted to say, to explain, but Huaisang already knew. He knew everything about Jiang Cheng, every crack and sharp edge, every hidden softness and old wound. So he went in and dropped to his knees beside Huaisang’s chair. He took Huaisang’s hand. He forced himself to meet Huaisang’s clear-eyed gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Huaisang’s smile was a bruised and delicate thing, but it still held love. He stroked Jiang Cheng’s cheek.
“Thank you.”
There was so much he wanted to say, but Jiang Cheng only asked, “May I kiss you?”
“You may.”
Jiang Cheng kissed him, and Huaisang kissed him back. There was so much more to say, but it could wait. Instead, Huaisang stood and pulled Jiang Cheng up with him, took his hand and led him to bed and allowed Jiang Cheng to apologize on his hands and knees, with everything unspoken but nonetheless understood.