Chapter Text
“ - stupid Airplane, if you make me wait one more minute - ”
“Coming, coming!”
The driver watches with mild interest as the mousy youth in the backseat hastily squeaks, his Beijing accent strong, gaping at the Shanghai streets as they whizz past with a foreigner’s wide-eyed stare.
“You said that half an hour ago! Shameless hack, you’re late!”
“Aww, does Shen-xiong perhaps miss me?”
“Miss you? MISS YOU! You - ”
“Ha, I knew it! Your mouth says no, but your heart says yes!”
This...Airplane snickers down at his phone, slapping his thigh and remarking to no one once the shrieking stops.
“Aiya, this Cucumber-bro, truly a pampered son, can’t even wait a bit...if you can’t wait to see me, just say so! Shen-xiong, I am so touched, to think you still have the face to call yourself an anti...my most devoted - ”
“Xiansheng, we’ve arrived. Cang Qiong University.”
“Ah, thank you, laoxiong!”
Proclaiming heartily, and paying the exact fare - this laozi has no money for tips! - he steps out of the Didi, breathing in the smoggy air with a stupid smile.
This is it!
Shang Qinghua has arrived! Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky is a new man!
Goodbye high school! Goodbye pathetic thigh-hugging!
The past year had been...an absolute trashfire, but really Shang Qinghua hadn’t fared too badly. He’d lost the glasses, the weight (with blood, sweat, and tears!) and gained acceptance into a decent university - of course, Cang Qiong is no Beida or Tsinghua - with decent gaokao scores, all things considered. (Studying with a broken heart is not easy!)
Sure, he’s no zhuangyuan, probably not even in the top ten percent of the nation’s testtakers, but let him bask! This laozi deserves to be proud!
...Well, there is that matter of hauling his luggage from the driveway to young master Shen’s (and his, once Shang Qinghua starts paying his share of the rent) dorm first.
Oh shit. It’s already eleven?!
Late! Late LATE LATE!
Cucumber-bro! Spare me!
//
Perhaps it had been too early to celebrate.
These two bags are heavier than the weights he’d tried to pick up in the gym once, before he’d decided (wisely) to stick to the treadmills!
At least there’s a lift.
The heavy slam of doors being pulled open snaps him out of his daydreams.
What’s this?
Qinghua blinks as actual movers in uniform shove past his struggling frame, carrying fancy wrapped furniture that probably costs more than his yearly tuition and - heavens, that is a fridge! Not just any refrigerator, this is a luxury model! Manufactured by brand XXX! (He’d only recognized it because he’d been to his king’s house once, and - )
Hmph.
They’re pushing past him! Hogging his precious lift space!
Who needs all of that anyway?!
(Is that a...bed???)
Didn’t Shen-xiong say the dorms came with furniture? If it’s good enough for Cucumber-bro’s spoilt, delicate self, it’s good enough for this rich son to use!
Ah, what time is it, he was supposed to have all his mortal possessions in the room and unpacked by evening, Cucumber-bro’s really going to kill him now!
To add oil to the already raging dumpster fire that is today, the ungodly screech of tires join pounding footsteps and measured grunts, the occasional scraping of a plastic-foiled edge against wall as the small army of burly men invade the only lift in the tiny lobby.
“Ah, excuse me? Excuse me, laoxiong? Could you perhaps - ah, is there - I really just need to - one trip will do! Have mercy, please da-ge, my limp arms are giving out soon - What. The. Fuck.”
Qinghua fights the urge to screech (it’s late, and he is more considerate than the tires) when the (rather familiar looking, why is that so) navy blue sports car pulls up.
And parks right in the center of the road.
The (tall! so tall ahhh) owner steps out, dark leather jacket draped over broad shoulders. (It’s not even that cold out! It’s just your icy aura!)
This laozi has had enough.
What a menace! How rude!
Must be some spoilt wealthy young master, Qinghua grumbles in his head, to himself, who can afford to not give a shit about anyone else. What a public nuisance!
“What did you say.”
A cold, deep voice interrupts his (internal...?) monologue. Right! In! His! Ear!
Shang Qinghua freezes.
Well shit.
He had seen that car.
On Mo Beijun’s Weibo.
//
Who is Mo Beijun, you might ask?
No one, really. Just the guy whose thighs he’d hugged since the first day of high school to survive, who had shoved him into lockers glasses-first and commanded him to -
“You. Do my homework.”
“Ah, y...y-yes, laoda! Right away! This one will - ”
“Shut up.”
(And the guy who’d smashed his heart into tiny, barely fixable pieces, but really that’s a story for another day - )
“What did you say.”
Hmph.
Qinghua has decided. (A split-second, probably irrational decision borne of nerves and noodle deprivation - he just wants to move in and break into Cucumber-bro’s his stash of instant ramen! - but still.)
You think you can step all over this laozi?! After countless nights of sleeplessness and self loathing - and maybe some pathetic wailing and more spontaneous updates of Proud Immortal Demon Way - he’s not the same man anymore! Not some easily bullied cannon fodder.
This Airplane is going to stand his ground.
Turning around, tilting his chin up and narrowing his eyes in a hopefully intimidating glare, he channels his inner irritated Shen Yuan, jabbing a finger in the direction of the taller male’s chest.
“I said, will this second generation young master please tell your movers to move and let me pass. Does the building belong to you?”
Said second generation scion’s thick brows and sharp, haughty nose twist (very, very microscopically!) into an expression best described by genius author Shang as stunned, like he was sucker-punched in the gut.
Which very few people had the audacity to, take that, Mo Beijun!
Of course, a cannon fodder cannot hope to be on the same level as a king.
Pale blue pupils turn on Shang Qinghua’s measly 175cm, flaring as they search his flushing face and puny body.
Whatever Mo Bei’s looking for (a fight?), he clearly doesn’t find.
Qinghua (tries very hard not to) shudder as his king’s fists curl. He’s seen too many on the receiving end of his blows to not be scared, okay?
That killing intent is unmistakeable! He’s too familiar with his king’s moods ahh!
“You.”
He sneers distastefully, but not with recognition, which speaks of how forgettable this cannon fodder must’ve been, or how...
“ - That Shang Qinghua, you’re so infatuated it’s disgusting, I don’t understand ... pick someone in your own league!”
(At least he hasn’t been exposed.
Then he would truly be dead meat, with no corpse left to collect by the time Mo Bei’s done!)
Ah, since he’s already a dead man, might as well go all in!
“I - I what? This laozi is not a pusho- ”
“You dare?”
Mo Beijun thunders.
“You dare?!”
“Of course I dare!”
Qinghua bites his cheek before something stupid can come out - a yell or a sob.
Curse his shitty luck! Mo Bei had to end up in the same college, the same dorm building? What overused trope is this! Karma! This is karma, sorry fictional characters, this father was wrong! He swears he’s never writing a single webnovel again!
He can’t do this.
//
“Airplane! Where the fuck were - ”
Oh.
Cursing his friend’s junior’s lack of self preservation instincts, which he desperately needs to cultivate, along with actual plot development skills, Shen Yuan drags him from the looming stran- not stranger with snappish elegance (Senior Shen has a reputation to keep!), cooking up excuses (the only thing he can cook) about Airplane’s tardiness and needing to hurry as he literally fucking sprints.
Shang Qinghua doesn’t register the slim fingers curling around his wrist until they’re halfway up the stairs.
“Give me that.”
Shen Yuan frowns, snatching a hefty bag out of the younger’s red palms.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“M-Mo Beijun.”
“We’re here.”
“Look at you. Being unhygienic as usual. Use the tissues. One for your eyes, one for your nose.”
(Mo Beijun had always been a tyrant. Shoving everyone in his path aside. Even Shang Qinghua today, who he hadn’t recognized, a random stranger he didn’t even know.
He didn’t know why he’d expected otherwise. But...)
“Idiot.”
Cucumber-bro mutters, thrusting a cup of lukewarm tea at him with no real bite.
“You still like him.”