Work Text:
The apartment is silent when Wang Yibo walks in through the door. The ceiling lights are off, the living room only lit by the neon lights of the streets below. He flicks the lights on and slings his white Nike bag off his shoulders, then toes off his sneakers, nudging them together by the door. There’s another pair of shoes already there, familiar well worn Converse, and a coat on the coat hook when he puts his bag up there. This isn’t unexpected – Yibo knows that Xiao Zhan is home.
“Xiao Zhan?” Yibo calls down the hall, to no response.
The kitchen is messy, which is normal. There’s only so much two men who spend more time on redeye flights than they do in their own home can do when it comes to cleaning, and the clean dishes piling up beside the sink are not a priority. The rest of the mess is not normal, though; there are half-eaten takeaway boxes left out on the counter, dried sauce crusted around the edges, and there’s a sticky-looking drip down one of the white cupboard doors and puddling on the floor, spilt sauce, perhaps. Yibo sighs as gathers the old takeout boxes up to put into the trash. There’s a receipt from two days ago sticking to one of the lids, meaning they have been left out on the counter since then. His heart rate picks up a little, his nerves flaring up pointlessly. It’s okay, Yibo soothes himself, he spoke to Xiao Zhan just a couple of hours ago, he’s fine.
Yibo isn’t quiet as he tidies up the kitchen, wiping the counters down and emptying out the cold water in the washbowl. He resents it a little, coming home to a messy kitchen after a fucking long day's shooting, his eyes sore from the makeup removal wipes and his back aching from hours of posing, and then having more work to do at home when he knows Xiao Zhan has been here all day. It doesn’t take him long to clean up, maybe only about five minutes, but by the time it’s done all that Yibo wants to do is get into bed, tired to his bones.
“Zhan-ge?” He calls again, wiping his hands on a hand towel. There’s still no reply, and Yibo tries hard to squash down his irritation and nerves. He clenches and unclenches his fists then takes a deep breath, preparing himself emotionally for whatever mood Xiao Zhan is in.
The light in the bedroom is off, and when Yibo flicks it on he spots Xiao Zhan, relief flooding through him as a croaky “Hey, ‘bo” floats from the pile of bedsheets.
There’s a large lump on the left side of the bed, all the bed sheets pulled up high to cover Xiao Zhan’s curled up body. Yibo pads near silently across the room and around to Xiao Zhan’s side of the bed, and spots the dark fuzz of his hair poking out of his cocoon of bedsheets.
“Hey, Zhan-ge,” Yibo coos quietly, like he’s talking to a sleeping child. Xiao Zhan makes a small noise of acknowledgement but stays wrapped up. “I’m home.”
Yibo reaches out to stroke the top of Xiao Zhan’s head, taking comfort in the warmth he feels there as he scratches Xiao Zhan’s scalp soothingly.
“Have you eaten anything today?”
Yibo knows that he hasn’t, knows that Xiao Zhan hasn’t even left the bedroom for at least a day if the state of the kitchen is anything to go by. Xiao Zhan doesn’t reply and Yibo’s stomach turns. He hates it when he’s unresponsive like this, the selfish anger of it pricking across his hands, numbing his fingers.
“I’ve just got back from Changsha,” Yibo continues, not expecting Xiao Zhan to respond, but feeling like he should say something anyway. “I’m going to make myself something to eat and then I’ll join you, is that alright?”
The bundle of bedding shifts and Xiao Zhan reaches out, his hand making grabbing movements until Yibo slots his fingers between Xiao Zhan’s, his thumb stroking along Xiao Zhan’s own. Yibo spots that he’s wearing his lounge hoodie, the pink sleeves familiar and well-worn.
“I’m sorry,” Xiao Zhan rasps, “I’ll get up.”
Yibo gives his hand a squeeze then gently detangles their fingers. “It’s alright,” he says, because there’s no choice but for it to be alright. “I’m making noodles, I’ll make you some too.”
Xiao Zhan lets his hand flop over the side of the bed and then his head pokes out from the sheets. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, his skin a sickly pallor to match. Yibo swallows. He’s always felt uneasy when faced with other people’s hurt.
“Thank you.”
Yibo nods in response and walks back to their kitchen, trying not to think about anything, trying not to let the knot of frustration and hurt in his stomach grow any larger.
When they had first started seeing each other out of work, Xiao Zhan had mentioned how he can get terribly stressed at times. Yibo had thought it a strange topic of conversation because all of their work usually ended up terribly stressful. He had joked, saying that if Xiao Zhan wasn’t stressed by then end of the week then he really would be the most impressive actor in all of China.
As usual, Yibo had heard, but he hadn’t listened.
The first time that Xiao Zhan had refused to get out of bed, Yibo had been irritated beyond belief. Their schedules don’t allow for time to lie in bed all day, and it was rare enough for them to have coinciding half days in the same city that each minute was precious, so to have Xiao Zhan waste it by saying he didn’t want to leave the house had been frustrating, as well as inconsiderate to the fact that Yibo was now wasting a perfectly good day off to do nothing.
Yibo had pulled at Xiao Zhan’s arm with a wheedling “Zhan-ge, stop lazing about,”, and when Xiao Zhan had snapped at him Yibo had been hurt. It was the first time Xiao Zhan had seriously raised his voice at him, and it had been over nothing at all; Yibo had wanted to go out for drinks and Xiao Zhan hadn’t, as simple as that. They don’t argue seriously – their own happiness is far too important to be in a relationship where they dislike or frequently disagree with each other – so this had shocked Yibo. Xiao Zhan could barely explain himself, apologetic but firm, and it wasn’t until later when Yibo was complaining about the incident to Feng-ge, that he even considered the possibility that Xiao Zhan could be depressed.
There’ve been another few episodes like this over the past couple of years, and neither of them is perfect. Yibo likes to think that he’s more mature now, and Xiao Zhan is– well, he’s not getting better, but he’s not getting worse. Last year had been rough on him but he’d handled it better than Yibo had expected. They don’t talk about it, just like they don’t talk about it when Yibo spends his night in bars, coming home less than sober and more than argumentative. It’s difficult to carve out space for the kind of discussion that begins with “I think you’re unwell” and the fallout that comes after. They should talk, Yibo knows they should, but it’s difficult, and trying to put his emotions into words goes one of two ways: too honest or too practised.
The fridge has a few vegetables and sauces in it, and Yibo peers in, trying to find something that he knows how to cook. A little wave of helplessness flows through him as he stares into the fridge, unseeing for a moment as he thinks about Xiao Zhan’s dejected little voice, his fingers grasping at Yibo’s own.
It doesn’t matter, Yibo decides, slamming the fridge shut and rummaging around the noodle cupboard for the little red Shin Ramyun packages. Nutritional value isn’t as important as actually getting some food into Xiao Zhan, and he’s also aware that he’s a little shaky himself; handling a knife to chop vegetables might be a bad idea.
Yibo boils the water on the hob and stares down at the pan as it starts to gently bubble. It’s only by chance that he is even back tonight – he was supposed to come home tomorrow evening but a mistake with a double booking managed to push his itinerary ahead, leaving him free until 11 am tomorrow. He hadn’t even had plans for tonight; have sex, probably, followed by sleeping solidly through to late morning. He wonders if it would have been better if he’d come back tomorrow as planned, if Xiao Zhan would have shaken himself out of his slump by then.
He freezes, a little surprised at his own tactless thoughts. It’s something Yibo used to take pride in; being able to put himself first in almost any situation. He’s determined, motivated, will see just about anything through to the bitter end. Sharing your life with someone else when you’ve largely lived alone is a huge change, and Yibo feels like he’s fumbling every step of the way, messy and immature in the way he handles everything from choosing a shared apartment to buying the weekly groceries. In the past, no one has really been emotionally reliant on him, or if they were, he’d always had backup from other people. Sometimes he doesn’t know what to do, silent in the face of Xiao Zhan’s own silence.
It’s just difficult, is all. Difficult to navigate something that he can’t win at, and frustrating that he can’t do his best and suddenly Xiao Zhan will be happy and bright and back to normal.
The water comes to the boil, and Yibo adds the noodles.
It’s cathartic to watch the noodles unravel from their pre-packaged circular shape, slowly soaking up the water and expanding into long strings. The food is coming together; visual evidence of doing something to help. That’s the worst part of it, Yibo feels, being so helpless in the face of it all. Noodles are a start.
The soup base is an intimidating red, but Yibo practically grew up on Shin Ramyun, the mild spice of them familiar and comforting. He hadn’t even thought about it when he’d chosen them to eat tonight, but the idea of sharing his comfort food with Xiao Zhan is a nice one. By the time the vegetable flakes have rehydrated, any lingering frustration at Xiao Zhan’s mood has dissipated, leaving Yibo just eager to get some food into Xiao Zhan and to curl up beside him in bed.
He scoops the noodles and soup into two bowls and places them on a tray alongside a couple of pairs of chopsticks and spoons. It requires far too much focus to keep the tray balanced as he walks into the bedroom, but Xiao Zhan is sitting up in bed with the covers still wrapped around his shoulders, which is an improvement from being curled up. His hair is greasy and sticking up in places, but he smiles softly at Yibo as he approaches the bed which just about breaks his heart in two.
“Sorry about the kitchen,” Xiao Zhan says, taking a bowl from the tray and wrapping his long fingers around it as if desperate for warmth. He looks down at the ramyun and his mouth twists for a second. “Not much in the fridge?” Yibo puts the tray to one side and tries not to take that as a stab at his cooking. He’s doing his best.
“It’s what I wanted.” Yibo holds his own bowl and chopsticks carefully and crawls onto the bed, shuffling along the mattress on his knees. He sits pressed right up against Xiao Zhan’s side, shoulder-to-shoulder, and takes a big mouthful of noodles. “I used to eat these all the time when I was a trainee,” he explains, chewing between words, “It just– comforting, I guess. Makes me think of when all I had to do was dance and rap.”
Xiao Zhan hums and takes a bite of his own noodles. Yibo tries not to watch him, no matter how much he wants to, keeping his focus on his own bowl as he listens to Xiao Zhan slurping the soup.
“That and I really don’t know what to do with an entire fish and three ginger roots,” Yibo continues, remembering the less-than-inspiring ingredients in the fridge, and Xiao Zhan laughs quietly. Yibo takes that as a win.
They’re quiet as they eat, but Yibo clings to the feeling of Xiao Zhan moving and warm next to him. When Yibo finishes, Xiao Zhan puts his half-finished bowl inside of Yibo’s own, but Yibo doesn’t say anything. Eating something is better than nothing and Xiao Zhan is prone to arguing, especially when it comes to his own health or wellbeing, constantly putting himself down as secondary to other people’s needs. They balance each other out in that way.
“Be right back,” Yibo says and takes the bowls and tray back into the kitchen. He washes the bowls quickly, eager to get back into bed with Xiao Zhan.
When he goes back to the bedroom, flicking the kitchen and hallway lights off as he goes, Xiao Zhan is back under the bedcovers, his back to Yibo’s side of the bed. Yibo settles next to him and tugs at the mound of bedding.
“Zhan-ge?” He asks, nudging his socked feet under the bottom of the bedsheets. “Can I come in?”
Xiao Zhan turns over, tossing the duvet with him as he flips to press himself against the length of Yibo’s body, covering them both with the duvet. He tucks his face into Yibo’s neck, and tangles their legs together, pressing every inch of his body along Yibo’s, almost as if he’s desperate for touch. He wraps his arms around Yibo, one uncomfortably under his neck and the other across his chest, and Yibo holds him back.
“I love you,” Xiao Zhan mumbles into his neck, voice thick. He doesn’t cry, he rarely cries when he’s like this. Yibo thinks it would help if he did. “Wang Yibo, you’re so good, I love you so much. I’m so sorry. I know you wanted to see me.”
Yibo slides one arm over him and folds into him, their bodies pressing close under the duvet.
“Don’t be.” Yibo kisses the side of Xiao Zhan’s head, then speaks into his hair, “You’re so good, ge. You’re doing so well.” It feels childish, almost patronising, but Yibo doesn’t know what to do. He never knows what to do, other than holding Xiao Zhan through it. “And I’m seeing you, yeah? Is this not Xiao Zhan, here in my bed?” Yibo pets gently at Xiao Zhan’s back.
“I missed a shoot yesterday,” Xiao Zhan says quietly, and Yibo forces his arm to continue stroking his back, up and down. “I just couldn’t, I couldn’t go, and my phone–” he cuts himself off with a deep breath and Yibo squeezes him tight. “It’s bad. It’s pretty bad.”
“It’s fine,” Yibo reassures, and quickly tries to think of who to contact as soon as he’s free, how to smooth this over, if he can smooth this over. Shit, this has never happened before, Xiao Zhan has never missed work. “It’ll be fine, ge.”
Xiao Zhan laughs, and it sounds rough on his throat. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you. Die, probably.”
Yibo holds him closer, heart tugging. It’s a lame attempt at a joke, and it’s not something that he thinks Xiao Zhan would do but… “Don’t. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t die.”
“Fuck, sorry,” Xiao Zhan mumbles, his hands fumbling to grab for Yibo’s under the covers. They’re both fully dressed, Yibo still even has his socks on, but just existing in the same place and holding Xiao Zhan’s breathing body is enough to keep Yibo steady. “I’m a total mess, I’m so sorry.”
“Xiao Zhan,” Yibo says firmly, squeezing him just a little too hard. “I love you so much. All the time, I always love you. And I can’t do anything for you–” Xiao Zhan makes a little noise of protest but Yibo continues, “–other than be here for you. You’d do the same, you do do the same.”
Xiao Zhan has seen Yibo at his lowest; in the claws of the less glamorous parts of being young, rich, and famous, so drunk he can barely walk, so high he can barely speak. He’s held Yibo through his night terrors, he’s carried him up the stairs that time the elevator broke and his ankle still hadn’t healed properly, he’s kissed the bruises on his knees from weeks of non-stop rehearsals. Xiao Zhan has seen it all.
There’s something intimate in someone knowing you like that, Yibo thinks. A kind of unbreakable bond. No matter what happens in the future, Xiao Zhan has known every part of him.
“I don’t know how to say things that will help,” Yibo admits after a moment of silence, relaxed into being able to talk by the darkness of the sheets over them, the heat of Xiao Zhan’s breath against his neck. “You know I can’t. But I can make you shitty ramen, and I won’t make you talk about it.”
“Shitty ramen sounds good,” Xiao Zhan says quietly. “Thank you.”
Yibo rearranges them, the discomfort of Xiao Zhan’s bony arms finally getting to be too much, and tucks Xiao Zhan into his side. Maybe tomorrow they’ll have a bath, Yibo thinks, with the jet sprays and the weird bath milk that Xiao Zhan likes. If not, just being like this is nice. Yibo’s learned to appreciate the little things.
They stay like that for a little while, taking comfort in just the presence of the other. Xiao Zhan’s breathing deepens after a while, and Yibo realises he’s fallen asleep on him, heavy and solid and there. His job done, Yibo lets himself doze, holding Xiao Zhan tight, knowing that tomorrow will be a better day.