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It’s nearly midnight by the time they’re back in Zhou Fei’s penthouse, socked feet padding along the grand entryway, hands entwined. Once, Xie Yun made her laugh by sliding across the marble floor in his socked feet, spinning around as though he were an Olympic figure skater. It was the first time he really made her laugh audibly. No polite snickers, not snorts of amusement. A full-bodied, smiling laugh. He’ll never forget it.
Tonight, he doesn’t do anything remotely amusing. He simply follows her into the sitting room, feet heavy, bones creaking, head aching. He used to bound about the room after a gala like this, imitating the various people they’d met that had particularly annoyed A’Fei. He’d beam with pride every time he made her laugh, his heart ready to fly out of his chest.
But now…
“Come sit,” A’Fei says, resting her arm along the back of the sofa.
He does as she says, as he always does, snuggling beside her on the sofa, accepting the arms that encircle him. He rests his head against her breast, curling up to make himself as small as possible. She’s so much shorter than him—cuddling this way is a challenge, but he doesn’t want to hold her. He wants to be held. While he’s still strong enough to take it.
The velvet of her red blazer is soft against his cheek, and her arms are warm. He closes his eyes and sinks right into her while her fingers comb through his ponytail. She searches for all the little braids he’d expertly plaited hours before, finds one among his loose locks and slowly unwinds it.
When he first met her, in a half-empty lecture hall, he didn’t think her capable of such gentleness. He’d leaned over the empty seat between them and attempted to strike up a conversation. After having had to take a few years away from college studies for his cancer treatments, he was eager to be back. Eager to make friends, flirt with girls, do all the things people his age were meant to be doing. But this girl, a seat away from him, merely glared when he’d said hello. She’d told him she wasn’t “here to make friends”—and he couldn’t help but laugh. Which, of course, made her glare even more at him. He did his best to apologize, even as she ignored him. She’d just sounded so much like people on the ridiculous reality shows that played in his hospital rooms. He didn’t think people really said that sort of thing.
It would take several months before he discovered she was more like reality show people than he realized. To him, she was Zhou Fei—or A’Fei, as she eventually became to him. Just a beautiful girl who sat nearby in lectures and occasionally agreed to study with him before midterms. It wasn’t until A’Fei asked if he’d be her plus one to a family event that he learned she was an heiress. With a net worth of millions.
She could’ve fooled him. She always looked so grubby in class, in her oversized sweaters and messy ponytails. Turns out she was attempting to rebel against her mother’s expectations—going to a local college instead of world-renowned university, buying clothes at places like H&M and Zara instead of from designers. In general, she was very pro-everything her mother disliked, which is why he suspects she asked him to come with her to that first gala in the first place.
How they made the slow transition from plus ones at parties, to boyfriend and girlfriend, is unclear in his mind. Sometimes, it feels like they’ve always been together.
Now, three years later with degrees to their names, they’re curled up on her sofa after another long gala she’d been required to attend. She still glares at him. But she smiles, too.
Sometimes, she teases him a little, pulling on his ponytail, pinching his arm when he’s being particularly (cutely) annoying. She can barely hide her smile when he whines about how much it hurts.
She hasn’t teased him as much recently. She holds him like he’s fragile. He expects he is—but it still hurts. He doesn’t want to be a dead man to her.
“Did you enjoy tonight?” she asks, combing her fingers through the now-unbraided hair strand.
“I always enjoy spending time with you,” he says gazing up at her with his usual mischievous smirk.
In spite of the rolling of her eyes, her lips quirk into a very small smile. Just a whisper of amusement, but it’s enough. Enough to feel normal.
“What about you?” he asks.
She snorts. “You know.”
“I know.”
Another braid unwinds in her fingers as he closes his eyes again. She hates these kinds of social engagements—all the small talk and putting up with annoying people her family has ties to. It’s so painfully obvious they all want something from her.
“You went to your appointment yesterday?” she asks.
He’d rather not think about it. Not here, in A’Fei’s world. In this fantasy he skirts around. Even if he’s her boyfriend, he doesn’t belong in A’Fei’s world of marble halls and gilded silverware. He doesn’t belong with her, really. But they hold on. He’s always been good at holding on.
“Yes.”
“With Dr. Nichang?”
“Yes.”
She’d set him up with the best doctors, of course—once she’d come chasing after him. He’d tried to break up with her, to spare her, but she wouldn’t have it. She wanted to know why.
Why didn’t you tell me? she’d snapped when she’d finally weaselled the truth out of him. I can give you access to the best treatment.
He hadn’t wanted to use her, and he hadn’t wanted her to feel obligated to stay with him, either. He’s a dead man walking at this point. It’d be better for him to deal with this alone than drag her into it. But she refused to accept that, of course. She was so stubborn.
“What did she say?” A’Fei asks now.
“Nothing good.”
Her heart stutters in his ear, and her hands briefly freeze mid-unbraid. “What is it?”
Months ago, he would’ve lied. But he made a promise. No more secrets between them.
“I have to start chemo,” he says, keeping his eyes shut. “Again.”
Her fingers tense in his hair, and he feels her breath pause, her chest frozen beneath his head. “Really?”
“Yes.”
It’d been a long time coming, really. He’d thought the fatigue was from school, from his terrible sleep schedule, from his terrible retail job. He made so many excuses, adjusted his life in so many ways. And when nothing made it better, when other symptoms began cropping up, he had no choice but to surrender.
He should’ve known it’d be this. His adolescent cancer, twice beaten, coming back in full force to win. Reminding him he’s living on borrowed time.
A’Fei slowly regains the use of her hands, releasing his half-undone braid. She smooths her hands against his shoulders, pulling him closer—as though her arms could protect from what’s killing him.
“I’m afraid I won’t be very pretty anymore,” he murmurs.
“Don’t talk such nonsense,” she huffs. “You think that matters?”
“Yes,” he teases.
She taps his cheek chidingly. It’s not enough to hurt, but he still pretends it does. He winces, clutches his heart, moans exaggeratedly. He wants to pretend they’re normal.
“A’Fei!” he cries out, looking up at her with baleful eyes. “How can you do this to your poor, weak, tragic boyfriend?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not tragic,” she mutters. “You’ll have the best treatment in the country. You’ll get better.”
His heart sinks as he grins back at her. “If my A’Fei says it, it must be true.”
He’s not so easily convinced, really.
A’Fei reaches beside her, to the side table there, with a small smile. She lifts the lid on her candy dish, the crystal lid clinking delicately against the bowl.
“Here,” she says. “Open.”
“Trying to shut me up, are you?”
She rolls her eyes, shoving the candy at his face. He laughs softly as he opens his mouth and lets her place it on his tongue. This is their favourite game. He pushes it against the roof of his mouth, takes in the flavours slowly. She loves it when he tries to guess.
“Marzipan. And hazelnut.”
She gasps. “How’d you know that?”
“Good memory.”
He feels a little rumble in her chest as she pats his cheek tenderly. His own chest expands in satisfaction. Being able to amuse her still, even in this altered state, is always rewarding.
“Let me spoil you before you begin your treatment,” she says, brushing his bangs off his forehead. “Anything you want.”
“A’Fei,” he chides. “Don’t bother.”
“Anywhere you want to go?” she asks, as though he hadn’t spoken. “Anything you want to eat?”
He shakes his head. A’Fei is enough, even if he can’t say that. He loves her, and he can never tell her. Especially not now, when the future is so uncertain. When he could leave her all alone and grieving.
“Nothing?” she murmurs, offering him another candy. He opens his mouth to accept it. “Are you sure?”
He crushes it against his cheek instead of answering her. “Persimmon?”
“Xie Yun—”
“I don’t want anything.”
He doesn’t mean to be cold, but he hears it in his tone. He feels the way her chest constricts and her hands tense in his hair, and his own chest squeezes in response. This is why he wanted to leave in the first place, before his treatment began. Before he could get short-tempered and miserable and take it out on her. He never wants to become that kind of person. But he can’t bear this, either.
He sits up, her arms falling loosely around him, and gives her an apologetic smile. “Forgive this weary man,” he says, pouting, trying to coax a smile out of her. Take them beyond this tension. “I’m…”
He’s what? How can he even finish that sentence?
He’s not scared—he’s been down this road before. Twice. He knows what to expect. He’s not angry—he’s cheated death already. Twice. He’s had more life and he anticipated, and he should be grateful for that.
He’s not scared or angry. Just…
“Sad,” he concludes, blushing. It’s difficult to admit he has feelings. He’d rather make A’Fei laugh, rather flirt and tease, than acknowledge he feels anything at all.
The hurt in her eyes fades into something far worse. They well with tears she’ll refuse to shed.
“What for?” she asks roughly. “You’ll make it.”
He doesn’t want to argue tonight. If she wants to believe it, he’ll let her believe it. He won’t be the one to take her hope away.
“With you here,” he says, stroking her cheek, “how couldn’t I?”
Her lips spread into a grin—with teeth and everything, and his heart jumps. At least he can do that. At least he hasn’t ruined her yet. His heart beats so firmly in his chest as he stares back at her, reminding him he’s still alive. Reminding him there are still things he can do, people he can be. He’s not dead just yet.
He sinks back into her embrace, and she takes to undoing his braids again. He closes his eyes again, enjoying the gentle pulls on his aching scalp as she destroys each plait. Occasionally, she feeds him another candy, and he guesses. And they can pretend.
Finally, when she’s dismantled most (or maybe all) of the braids, she releases his hair from its ponytail. He can’t contain the small sigh of relief as his scalp relaxes from no longer being pulled so tightly. A’Fei hums gently as a response, her fingers rubbing feeling back into is sore head.
“Let me brush your hair,” she says.
“Alright.”
He really loves it when she brushes his hair.
Though A’Fei is considerably shorter than him, she’s strong. Which is good, considering he’s tired. Exhausted, really. Staying alive takes up so much energy. Parties take up even more. She pulls him up bodily from his drooped position on the couch and drags him down the hall to her bedroom.
In her room, she sets him on the edge of the bed and kneels behind him, arms snaking underneath his to undo the buttons of his dress shirt.
“What are you doing?” he teases.
“I want to brush your hair,” she says, pulling his shirt away.
“And this is part of that?”
“Need to keep these nice,” she says, shifting her position to unbutton his pants. “Can’t have them creased.”
“Of course,” he scoffs.
Like she, the mistress of messy ponytails and old hoodies, would care about creased pants.
“These pants are so expensive,” he jokes, as he helps A’Fei pull them off. “From the prestigious Hennes and Mauritz.”
“Enough,” she says, hugging him from behind to shut him up. She’s still fully clothed, and the velvet of her blazer is so soft against his bare skin. He relaxes into her grip, delighting in how warm she is.
“Cold?”
He shakes his head hastily. She’s far too sensitive.
“Come on,” she says, patting his arm. “Up on the bed.”
She draws away from him, only enough so he can back himself further onto the bed. He takes her hint and sits in the middle with his back facing her, criss-crossing his legs in wait. He always likes when she brushes his hair. It’s so much nicer than when he does it to himself.
Soon enough, he might not have much left.
A’Fei drapes a robe over his shoulders, and he takes the cue to shuffle his arms into the soft, plush fabric. She reaches from behind to pull the tie around his middle, effectively smothering him in heat. His shoulders relax, his head rolling back as the warmth settles in. Turns out he was, in fact, cold before. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
“What about you?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at her—blazer and all. He widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows, fixing his gaze on her blouse.
She smiles. “You’re right,” she says, climbing off the bed. He watches as she glides into her walk-in closet, and emerges a few moments later in a red silk pyjama set. Her hair is still up in her severe bun, her makeup still surprisingly crisp, for being on her face all night. She looks like an old movie heroine like this—so carefully undone.
“Now, we match,” she says once she’s seated behind him, gathering his hair with her hands. She pushes it back with firm, but gentle hands. It’s always a bit of a shock, how gentle she can be, when he’s seen how she treats her own hair.
Her brush is soft against his scalp as she slowly drags it over a section of hair. From top to bottom, she moves so carefully. The bristles on the brush are fine and soft—just a whisper against him. They dance against his scalp so pleasantly, it sends tingles up and down his spine.
“How’s that?” A’Fei asks him gently.
“Good,” he whispers back, closing his eyes.
She kisses the back of his head, fingers caressing the ends of his hair as she brushes another section.
“I’ll take care of you,” she whispers, and he knows she’s not only talking about tonight. “I always will.”
Some small part of his brain wants to fight her, to argue. How can she want that when his beauty fades away? How can she want that when he can’t do anything?
But it’s quickly overpowered by the feeling of A’Fei sectioning his hair with a fine comb, drawing a part right down the middle of his scalp, down the back of his head. The small, thin teeth scrape pleasantly against his skin as she deliberately repeats the motion over and over again. He shivers at the way the sound of hair against comb teeth reverberates in his head.
“Let me take care of you, Xie Meimei,” she whispers, caressing a strand of hair.
She really would take good care of him—better than he ever could. But he can’t do that. He can’t be a burden to her.
“I want to do this,” she says, pulling a small strand at the front of his hairline, sectioning it to begin a French braid. “Let me.”
She used to always do her hair like this in college, when it wasn’t in a ponytail. Two French plaits, falling over her shoulders. If she her hair was wet when she fastened it (and it often was, considering nine AM class is a bitch), the braids would be sleek and shining at the beginning. But by the end, as her hair dried, wispy flyaways would appear, encircling her face like a crown.
He loved watching her change, watching her soften around the edges as the morning wore on. And he was envious, too. At the time, his hair was cropped close to his scalp, having kept it short for so long to facilitate treatments. But A’Fei caught him staring longingly at her braids eventually. She told him he’d look pretty with them, too.
And she was right. She’s always right.
“I can hire a nurse,” she says, tying the end of one braid with an elastic. Bringing him back to the present. “A chef. You won’t have to do a thing.” She begins to work on the other one now. “You can just… focus on getting better.”
He can’t do that. He can’t ask that of her.
“Please,” she whispers. She weaves in more strands of his hair, pulling gently so the braid is secure. “Do it for me.”
And that’s the kiss of death right there. That’s how she traps him so easily. He can’t help himself when it comes to those four words. Ever.
For A’Fei, he’d do anything.
“Okay,” he whispers as she ties the other braid.
He doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s smiling.
As she climbs into his lap and kisses him, he wonders if she could be right. If he really could beat this again.
Maybe with her, he can.