Chapter Text
Buns are Wen Kexing’s favorite.
He likes kneading them. He likes how they give way beneath his hands. How they’re soft and unassuming, but still a challenge.
There’s nothing better than a perfect bun.
Cookies are a cheap trick, there for a euphoric moment and then gone.
And cakes have always struck him as a little bit disingenuous. How good can a cake really be if it has to hide beneath all that frosting?
Buns, on the other hand, look plain on the surface; no one comes to the bakery just to take a selfie with a bun. They’re sweet, but the kind of sweet that’s easy to miss unless you’re looking for it.
Wen Kexing has just finished the last tray of buns; they’ll rest in the refrigerator, and whoever is working in the morning will pull them out to rise for a few hours before baking. He finishes stowing the day’s leftover food in the refrigerator and wipes down all the cooking surfaces, then he buttons up his coat and heads for the door. His backpack is heavy on his shoulder; he has a 20-page paper due the next day and has borrowed every book in the library about his favorite obscure ancient poet. He hasn’t started writing yet, of course, because what self-respecting literature major writes their papers in advance of the deadline?
Well, maybe some of the other lit majors do, but he hasn’t heard about it; being a few years older than the other students, he doesn’t quite fit into their social scene. And besides, with his work schedule, he doesn’t have time to hang out anyway. When he first decided to go back to school after dropping out, he had to choose two out of the three: working, finishing his degree part-time, or having a healthy social life. He chose the first two, because he has bills to pay, and because he’s never been good at making friends anyway--acquaintances, yes. He makes a sparkling first impression and does casual chit-chat with the best of them; that’s what makes him such a valuable employee at the bakery (aside from his bun-kneading skills, of course). But letting people get close? That’s...just not how he’s wired. Besides, he’s got Ah Xiang, so he’s not a complete loner.
Yet he is alone tonight, and every night, when he steps out of the bakery and turns back to lock the door. He has the key in hand, his back to the street, when a crash shatters the night and his heart leaps into his throat.
Spinning around, Kexing sees...nothing. There are a few parked cars, but there isn’t even anyone walking home on the sidewalk. He scans his eyes along the street, which is spottily illuminated by streetlights. Pharmacy, convenience store, fried chicken shop, alleyway, knocked-over garbage bin--
Oh, and a body sprawled out next to the bin.
Well, okay. Maybe a body is not nothing after all.
But it’s something he really does not want to deal with.
Another glance up and down the street reveals, however, that there’s no one else around, which means he really does have to do something. He can’t just leave someone lying there on the street, hurt or maybe even dead.
Besides, it’s not like he’s never seen a dead body before…though, as a rule, he tries really hard not to think about that.
He palms his phone, ready to dial in an instant if something is wrong, and crosses the street.
As he draws cautiously closer, he sees that the body seems to be a man’s. A man with longish hair, partially tied back. His eyes are closed, and he isn’t moving.
Shit.
Kexing glances around one more time, but help still isn’t forthcoming, so he kneels at the man’s side. His hands flutter for a moment as he tries to decide what to do and eventually land on the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
It’s there, and it’s strong. Plus, the guy’s eyes fly open, and he jerks away, which is another clue that he’s not, in fact, dead.
“What are you--?” the man gasps.
Kexing slips a hand around his back and helps him sit up.
“You must have passed out,” he explains. His heart is pounding harder than ever, but it’s with relief now. Thank god the man isn’t dead. He really didn’t want to have to make that call to the police, not to mention waiting around to answer their questions and cooperate with whatever other police procedures go along with investigating a dead body.
Although he does feel a little bit guilty for having such selfish reasons for being glad the guy is alive. It’s not like he isn’t happy this stranger is alive; he is . And the guy looks fine, too, now that he’s getting his bearings.
Actually, he looks more than fine, Kexing can’t help but notice. His eyes are dark and gracefully shaped, his nose is straight, and his jawline would be deadly if it weren’t softened by the gently waving hair that frames his face and falls a few inches above his shoulders. The top part of his hair is pulled back into a little nub of a ponytail, leaving his fringe and some loose hair over the back of his neck. Kexing thinks he must be in his mid- to late-twenties, so they’re approximately of an age.
In fact--could he be a student at the university? Because he looks oddly familiar, like a classmate you haven’t seen since elementary school. A ghost of someone who barely exists anymore because they’ve changed so much--and you’ve changed so much--since you last met.
“Who are you?”
Kexing blinks and averts his eyes. “Oh, sorry. I’m Wen. Wen Kexing. I work at the bakery across the street.”
The man nods uncertainly, glancing around like he isn’t entirely sure where he is.
“Are you...sick? Do you need some help?”
“No,” the man replies instantly. Then, looking slightly abashed, he adds, “Thank you. I’m fine. Sorry to inconvenience you.” He gives a vague wave toward the street. “You can go.”
Kexing is unaccustomed to being so summarily dismissed, especially by someone who so obviously needs help. It amuses him a little bit--the kind of amusement that makes you want to do exactly the opposite of what has been suggested. “How about we go into the bakery for a little bit? I can get you some water, and you can rest while you call someone to pick you up. Sound good?” Without waiting for an answer, he hooks his fingers under the guy’s arms and hauls him upright. There are times when people have no idea what’s best for themselves and need someone to decide for them; he does it on a daily basis with Ah Xiang and her boyfriend, and it’s obvious that this guy needs him to do it now.
He still tries to protest, though: “No--I’m fine--I don’t need--”
“It’s no trouble, and it’s nice and warm in there,” Kexing interrupts placatingly, looping the man’s arm over his own shoulders and bearing most of his weight. “I’ve got a key, and no one else will be in for hours, so there’s nothing to worry about. No one will mind.” He explains all this mainly to distract the guy while he hustles them both across the street and into the shop, which is still unlocked.
“But--” the guy tries one more time as Kexing lowers him into a chair.
“Wait here a second. I’ll grab you a glass of water.” Before he can finish his protest, Kexing ducks into the kitchen, flipping on lights along the way. He returns a few moments later with some water and a plate with two different kinds of buns and a cookie, all of which he sets down in front of the stranger, who is still slumped in his chair. “Drink,” Kexing urges. “Eat.”
Reluctantly, the man takes a sip of water. Then a longer drink. Then he drains the glass.
“Great,” Kexing says encouragingly, nudging the plate closer. “Now how about a bite?”
“I’m not a child,” the guy grumbles.
Now Kexing really does grin.
“Sorry. What are you, then?”
“What am I?”
Kexing shrugs. “Or who. Whatever works for you.”
The guy gives him a hard look, like he’s trying very hard to discern what Kexing is really after.
Which is nothing, so the guy’s out of luck. All Kexing wants is for the stranger not to die so he can go home and eat dinner. And Kexing would feel a lot better about the guy’s prospects if he would just eat something.
“I’m Wen Kexing,” he says for the second time, because he’s learned that if you want someone to give you something, you need to offer up something of your own first.
“I’m...Zhou Zishu.” It looks like it pains him to say his own name.
“Zhou Zishu,” Kexing repeats. He likes that. A pretty name for a pretty man. ( Stop thinking thoughts like that about a sick man, you idiot. )
He grins again, a little bashfully this time. God, he’s hopeless.
“I really don’t need you to take care of me,” Zhou Zishu insists. “It’s not like this is the first time this kind of thing has happened.”
“Oh? You make a habit of falling into garbage bins and passing out?”
That earns him a look just a few steps shy of a glare. He’s a prickly fellow, this Zhou Zishu.
Kexing doesn’t mind that. He likes the prickly ones; they don’t try so hard to get close to you, and they don’t mind when you’re not willing to open up or share your feelings .
Then again, they’re also the ones who disappear before you wake up in the morning without leaving their phone number or any way to get in touch.
“Sometimes,” Zhou Zishu hedges, glaring at the wall beside them, as if this whole thing was the wall’s fault.
“Are you sick or something?” Maybe it’s not polite to ask, but Kexing did just pick him out of a pile of garbage. Doesn’t that earn him some kind of answer?
For a long moment, Kexing thinks he’s not going to get a response. But then Zhou Zishu says, “I...have epilepsy. I must have had a seizure. It’s not a big deal,” he adds when he glances over at Kexing’s face, which must have been contorting with some blend of alarm and sympathy. “Usually I don’t pass out, but this must have been a bad one. I’m always fine afterward, just a little tired.”
“But what if you hit your head on the sidewalk?” Reflexively, he reaches for Zhou Zishu’s head (to do what?), but Zhou Zishu leans out of reach, looking annoyed again.
“I didn’t. The bin must have broken my fall. I really am fine, and I’ll take my medicine as soon as I get home.”
Kexing lets his hand drop and leans back in his chair. “Okay, okay. But is there someone you can call to pick you up? Because, no offense, you look ready to drop.”
Zhou Zishu sinks even deeper into his chair and grabs one of the buns off the plate. He takes a huge bite and spends the next minute chewing.
Kexing knows it’s just a tactic to distract from the question, but he’s cheered nonetheless by this evidence of Zhou Zishu’s good taste. He has to admit that he would have been disappointed if Zhou Zishu had gone for the cookie instead.
“Did you make this?” he asks after he finally swallows (his adam’s apple bobbing in a way that should not be as alluring as it is). (Wen Kexing, get your head on straight.)
“I did. Is it good?”
Zhou Zishu shrugs and glances away again, and Kexing laughs aloud. “Thanks for that ringing endorsement of my baking skills.”
Instead of responding to that, he says, “I’ll catch the next bus. There’s a stop a few blocks down, isn’t there?”
“You don’t look like you can even get up out of that chair, let alone walk to the bus stop,” Kexing retorts. Among the few people who can call him a friend, he’s known for his bluntness. Couldn’t you be a little bit nicer? Ah Xiang is always whining at him--usually when she’s about to make a bad decision and he’s explaining exactly why he can’t let her do that.
Zhou Zishu takes another bite from the bun, glares abstractly around the shop, and says nothing.
“Can you call someone? A family member or friend?” he tries again.
“No.” The word is short and sharp and does not invite any further questions.
Okay, then.
The solution is obvious to Kexing, but hesitates, for a moment, to say it. There’s no way this guy is going to agree, and does Kexing really want him to?
Honestly, he does, for reasons he doesn’t want to think too hard about and would be too ashamed to ever admit. But he also wouldn’t mind not having to take responsibility for a prickly stranger with epilepsy who most definitely does not want his help.
But he speaks up eventually, because someone has to. “I live right down the street. It takes three minutes flat to walk there. Why don’t you come with me, and my roommate will drive you home whenever you’re feeling better?”
It is evident from the expression on Zhou Zishu’s face that he has no intention of accepting the offer, so Kexing barrels on: “You’re in no condition to go anywhere on your own. So either you come with me, or I call an ambulance to take you to the hospital and get you checked out. I don’t want it on my conscience if something happens to you on your way home. So what do you think? The hospital or my place?”
Admittedly, the offer sounds a little less than chivalrous when he says it like that, but his intentions are pure--really. The fact that Zhou Zishu has a perfect face and--if his eyes don’t deceive him--a body to match under that heavy coat...well, that’s irrelevant. He would do the same for anyone, no matter how they looked.
He tries to keep these thoughts out of his expression as he holds Zhou Zishu’s gaze.
The only sound in the bakery is the mosquito-hum of the fluorescent light bulbs overhead.
Emotions kaleidoscope across Zhou Zishu’s face: annoyance, reluctance, regret, frustration...and finally, resignation.
“Fine,” he sighs, and Kexing knows he’s won.
After he badgers Zhou Zishu into finishing the second bun (he doesn’t touch the cookie; he claims he has no sweet tooth), Kexing once again prepares the shop to be locked up for the night. When he extends a hand to help Zhou Zishu out of his chair, he conspicuously leaves Kexing hanging and uses the table to heave himself to his feet instead.
Even though he won’t accept any help, Zhou Zishu walks slowly, with his arms folded tightly across his chest as if to hold the pieces of himself together. Kexing keeps pace with him and sneaks glances along the way to make sure the guy isn’t about to pass out again, but he manages to stay vertical. It takes twice as long to walk home as usual, and though Kexing usually takes the stairs up to the fifth floor, he calls for the elevator instead, convinced that Zhou Zishu will drop after two stairs.
When they reach room 529, Kexing fumbles with his keys while Zhou Zishu frowns down at the floor. He’s been indignant the whole walk home, as if he’s being forced here at gunpoint--which, Kexing admits to himself, is not so very far off; he’s not here of his own free will. Not entirely.
He shrugs off the guilt, gets the door open, and sweeps Zhou Zishu inside with one arm.
“Are you back?” Ah Xiang shouts from the kitchen. The apartment is hot and stuffy, and the windows are fogged up, which means she’s been trying to cook again.
Zhou Zishu glances over at Kexing, and Kexing pretends not to notice.
“What have you done now?” he calls, threading his way through the clean but cluttered living room. A glance through the kitchen door reveals Ah Xiang stirring a pot that’s boiling much too rapidly. There are brownish spatter marks all over the countertops and the backsplash.
Although Kexing tries to hustle Zhou Zishu inside quickly, Ah Xiang must catch a glimpse of him as they pass by the kitchen, because there’s a smile in her voice when she says, “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
He ignores her and swings open his bedroom door. Zhou Zishu steps inside, and Kexing is instantly self-conscious. He tries to look at the room through a stranger’s eyes: bed, full-sized and made (sort of; the blankets are thrown over the sheets and pillows, at least, even if they’re askew); on the floor, a rug woven in rainbow colors; purple shades on the windows and a magenta one on the lamp; a tall bookcase full mostly of classic and critically acclaimed contemporary literature...with a healthy supply of danmei novels, LGBT fiction and nonfiction, and gay erotica its own shelf a bit below eye level.
Okay, so the whole room is pretty gay, if you know what you’re looking for. That’s not ideal--unless Zhou Zishu also happens to be gay, in which case he would recognize the signs immediately, and then...well, then he would still be sick and exhausted, and nothing would happen between then, but at least they would have one thing in common.
Zhou Zishu, however, is staring at the floor. There’s a hole in one of his socks, and the tip of his toe peaks out; it’s pale and bloodless, as if he’s been cold for too long.
“Sit, sit,” Kexing urges. Zhou Zishu looks up at him, then at the bed, then the desk chair. “Take the bed. You need to rest.”
“I’m fine,” he grumbles, but he takes off his coat and lies down on top of the blankets. Kexing, after a moment, opens the closet and retrieves a spare blanket, which he unfolds and throws on top of Zhou Zishu. Unexpectedly, he doesn’t complain, just tucks the blanket around himself and leans his head back against the pillows, closing his eyes.
He looks, suddenly, small and pale and utterly depleted. He must have been barely holding himself together on the walk home.
Kexing hovers awkwardly by the door, trying not to stare at the stranger in his bed.
“Do you need anything to drink or eat? I think Ah Xiang is making...something. It might even be edible.”
“No,” Zhou Zhishu says, but Kexing slips out the door anyway to check on what’s happening in the kitchen.
“It’s Japanese-style curry,” she announces before he has a chance to ask. “It’ll be ready in five minutes.”
Kexing turns down the heat from high to medium to reduce some of the splattering, then levers himself up to sit on the counter.
“So,” he says.
She stops stirring the pot and sets aside the spoon. Thick brown curry sauce pools beneath it.
“So,” she says, crossing her arms. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
He mimics her gesture. “Absolutely nothing.”
She smiles, and it's a sweet smile (almost in spite of itself). “It’s been a while since you brought anyone home.”
“It’s not like that. I don’t even know the guy. I found him on the street, and he was sick, so I thought it was safer to bring him here than send him home alone.”
She doesn’t look even the slightest bit convinced. “Right. You’re so selfless, bringing home a guy who looks like a god to share your bed for the night.” Her expression turns from skeptical to thoughtful. “Or maybe he looks like a goddess? I need a better look. Will you bring him out for me to see?”
Kexing rolls his eyes. “I’m not parading him around in front of you. Besides, he needs to rest. He really is sick.”
“So is Weining, but I think it’s just because he didn’t want to go to my martial arts club meeting this afternoon.”
“Ah Xiang,” comes Weining’s plaintive voice from their bedroom. “Don’t say that. I always want to see you practice martial arts.” His voice is thick and scratchy.
“He doesn’t sound good,” Kexing remarks, and Ah Xiang scowls. For the millionth time, he wonders how they’re still together after all this time.
He wonders what it’s like to be with someone for so long. To trust that they’ll be there tomorrow, in a week, in a year. Forever. That’s what Weining is always promising anyway, and they managed to stay together all through high school and now the first two years of university, too. Is there a difference between five years and forever? Both seem like an eternity to him.
Really, any relationship longer than a month seems long-term to him. And it isn’t because he doesn’t want a relationship that lasts. It just never works out. No one ever wants to stick around once they realize that his heart isn’t as charming as his face.
“I think it’s ready now,” Kexing says, peering into the pot of brown sludge. It’s so overcooked that the texture is more like glue than stew. “Could you get some pain medicine from the bathroom while I dish this out?”
As soon as she’s gone, he stirs two cups of water into the curry. That helps a little with the texture, though the vegetables are thoroughly overboiled, wrinkled and shrunken. Oh, well. That will just make it easier for Zhou Zishu to eat; he won’t even have to chew.
“Should I put on headphones?” Ah Xiang asks with a toss of her head. He flips her off, and she returns the gesture. Then they share a grin, and she wishes him a good night.
Kexing returns to his room, balancing two bowls of stew and two bottles of water, and kicks the door closed behind himself with more force than he intends. But Zhou Zishu doesn’t open his eyes, and the rise and fall of his chest is slow and even.
Very quietly, he sets one bowl, one bottle, and the medicine on the bedside table. Then he switches off the overhead light, turns on the desk lamp instead, and settles down to eat his own curry (it’s greasy and oversalted, but at least she knows how to use the rice cooker properly) and start writing the 20-page paper that’s due in less than 24 hours.
Every once in a while, he looks up from his old laptop to check on Zhou Zishu, but he doesn’t move or wake in the six hours that Kexing hunches over his desk, books spread out everywhere and about fifty tabs open.
He can’t help but notice, in the fifty or so times he checks, how smooth the visitor’s face is now that sleep has softened his expression. Kexing wants to stroke his thumb along the fine ridge of his brow, trace the angle of his jaw, feel the tickle of his delicate lashes.
God damn . How did he end up with such a drop-dead gorgeous guy in his bed? A drop-dead gorgeous guy that he absolutely cannot touch , because you don’t hit on sick people who have nowhere to go and no one to help them; the balance of power there is just wrong.
But you can look. There’s no harm in looking. Especially when those lips part, just a bit, and release a sigh that unspools like a silken thread...
Which is why he ends up taking at least an hour longer to write his paper than he anticipated.
When he finally hits save for the last time at well past 2 a.m., he feels as if a metal rod has replaced the vertebrae in his neck--that’s the danger of still being in school when you’re twenty-eight years old; your body can’t handle all-nighters anymore. Very slowly, he turns his head one way, then the other--and discovers a pair of eyes fixed on him.
“You’re awake,” he says, reaching up to massage some of the knots from his own shoulders and trying not to show how the sight of those eyes is affecting him. “Feeling better?”
Zhou Zishu, now propped up against the headboard, blinks at him, then at the room. “Depends on how you define ‘better.’”
Okayyyyyy, Kexing thinks.
“Okayyyyyy,” Kexing says. And Zhou Zishu winces.
“Sorry. You really helped me out tonight, and I’m grateful. I just feel kind of--”
“Weird?” Kexing suggests, and he nods, looking relieved that he wasn’t the one who had to say it. “Yeah, I would feel weird, too, if I had just woken up in a stranger’s house. But whatever. Everybody in this house is weird, so you fit in just fine.”
“Everybody?” Zhou Zishu repeats. “Was that your girlfriend out there?”
Kexing can’t help but laugh. “ No . That’s Ah Xiang, my cousin. My dad’s twin sister’s daughter. She’s twenty. Her boyfriend lives here, too, and we have a couple of cats around somewhere, but you probably won’t see them, because they’re little creeps.” (He might be just a touch salty that they like Ah Xiang better than they like him, even though adopting cats was his idea, and he’s the one who pays for their food and litter and catnip toys.)
“So it’s just the three of you? In this big place?”
Kexing shrugs. “Sometimes there’s more. Other roommates have come and gone over the years. But the three of us are always here.” He catches something in Zhou Zishu’s eye that makes him say, “Why? Do you need a place to stay? Because we have a spare room you could rent. The last tenant took the bed, but we can get another one--”
“No, no,” Zhou Zishu interrupts before Kexing gets too far ahead of himself. “No. Thank you. I was just curious.”
“Right. Yeah.” He glances around, and his eyes land on the now-cold bowl of curry. “Do you want me to heat that up for you?”
“No,” Zhou Zishu repeats. (Kexing thinks it must be his most-used word.) Then he picks up the bowl and begins to eat.
The idea of anyone eating that cold, congealed, salty mess makes Kexing’s stomach turn, but the man on his bed finishes it off within minutes without complaint.
“Thank you,” he repeats, stiffly, when he sets aside the empty bowl.
Then they sit in silence for several beats, and it is very much not the comfortable sort of silence.
“So, anyway, I don’t know what you want to do now, but it’s two in the morning, and I’m pretty sure Weining is asleep. He’s the only one with a car--rich bastard--so you’ll probably need to wait until tomorrow to get home unless it’s an emergency. Or I can order you a ride--”
“No,” he interrupts (of course). “I’ll stay. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”
Again, Kexing reads a flicker of something in his face. “I can spot you the money for the car,” he says, aiming for offhanded and mostly succeeding.
The way Zhou Zishu looks down at his hands tells Kexing that he guessed correctly.
“I can go if you want me to,” he says instead of responding to Kexing’s offer. “Really, it’s not a problem. I don’t want to im--”
“No, no, no. I didn’t mean that. I want you to stay. I mean, it’s better to have you here than worry about something happening to you on the way home.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me now,” Zhou Zishu insists, and Kexing is beginning to suspect that he has just three modes: 1) “No” mode, 2) “I’m fine” mode, and 3) unconscious. “But,” he adds, “I don’t think my roommate would hear me knocking on the door at this hour.”
“Knocking? Don’t you have a key to your place?”
Kexing reads the way his gaze drops, trailing along the floor this time, catching on the bookcase, and skimming over the shelves. ( Please, please don’t look at the gay shelf. )
“It’s not...technically...my place,” he says at last. “I’m just staying there for a little while.”
“With a friend?” Kexing can’t help but ask, even though it’s obvious to him that Zhou Zishu wants to drop this line of conversation.
But Kexing can’t let it go, for reasons that aren’t entirely clear to him. Maybe he wants, altruistically, to make sure that Zhou Zishu is really okay. Yeah, that’s got to be it.
“Sort of. A junior from my high school. He graduated two years after me and moved here for university…” He trails off, like he’s hoping he won’t have to finish that thought, but Kexing is a pushy asshole, and he can’t leave it alone.
“So you reconnected, and he’s letting you stay with him while you...what, look for a new place?”
Zhou Zishu shrugs, then nods, and Kexing doesn’t believe him for a second, but he doesn’t get a chance to call him out because Zhou Zishu raises a hand and points at the bookcase. “What’s that?”
He’s pointing directly at the danmei shelf.
Because of course he is.
And before Kexing can think of anything to say to distract him, he’s out of the bed and leaning in close to squint at the titles. He removes a volume and flips through it, and Kexing is about to combust because he knows exactly what is in those pages.
He can’t tear his eyes away from this trainwreck, so he sees the exact moment when Zhou Zishu comprehends what kind of book he’s looking at: he’s running his finger down a page, and then he freezes, and his shoulders stiffen, and he stops breathing. His ears turn a violent shade of red.
Then, very calmly, he closes the book, slides it back into the open space on the shelf, and selects a different volume from a higher shelf. This one is a collection of maudlin poetry, not in the least racy and a little too heterosexual for Kexing’s taste, even if it is a classic. He reads several pages, which is enough time for his ears to return to a less sanguine hue and also for Kexing’s blush, which he can feel from the base of his throat all the way up to his hairline, to fade.
He’s not closeted. Not at all. And he’s not ashamed to be gay, either. But...the guy is in his room. He’s staying the night . He looks like that .
It would have been safer for all parties involved--particularly one or two of Kexing’s more volatile emotions--to leave sexuality out of the mix entirely.
When Zhou Zishu finally puts the volume away, he says, without quite looking at Kexing, “You must like to read.”
He has to clear his throat twice before he can speak. “I’d better. I’m a literature major at the university.” Then he adds, “What about you? What do you do?”
Zhou Zishu wanders over to the window and looks out. The neighborhood is densely shadowed at night, and the few tired streetlights don’t stand a chance. It’s too far from the main roads to have any traffic at this hour, and most of the windows in the surrounding apartment buildings are dark. Over his shoulder, Kexing can see a lonely candle in one window across the street. Who does anything by candlelight these days? he wonders. But the flame is a warm, red-orange glow, and the way it dances in the breeze almost seems to beckon to him. Come and share my light.
Later, he won’t be able to explain why he does it. It makes no sense; he doesn’t even like candles.
But the idea of seeing Zhou Zishu’s face by candlelight is...intriguing. More than that: irresistible.
He leaves the bedroom and comes back a moment later with a lighter and four candles swiped from Ah Xiang’s date-night stash. Zhou Zishu watches but doesn’t ask any questions as he arranges the candles on the desk and then flicks at the lighter with his thumb until it produces a tongue of flame. When all four candles are dancing cheerily, he reaches for the switch on the desk lamp.
“Do you mind?” he thinks to ask at the last second, aware that he’s being extremely weird but helpless to do anything about it.
Thankfully, Zhou Zishu responds with his trademark, “No.”
So he turns out the electric light and places a candle on the bedside table, another on top of the bookcase, a third on his dresser, and the last one he leaves on the desk so that all four sides of the room are lit.
As soon as he’s finished placing them, he’s overcome with a feeling of satisfaction. Yes, this was the right decision. The soft light is easier on his tired eyes, and the wax smells good--like flowers and pine needles and cinnamon.
Then he looks at Zhou Zishu’s face, and he grabs the back of the desk chair.
The candlelight clings to his cheekbones and shadows the hollows beneath them. The flames are reflected in the dark of his irises. His complexion, wan from illness and exhaustion, warms to molten gold.
I know you .
The thought comes to Kexing unbidden, and it is accompanied by such a feeling of certainty that he can’t doubt it.
“Do you go to the university?” he asks, and the sound of his voice shatters the stillness of the room. Time resumes, and Zhou Zishu unfreezes and sits on the edge of the bed. Kexing lowers himself into the chair, his knees feeling loose and not quite steady.
He wonders if he’s having some kind of episode. Does he need to eat something? Is he about to pass out?
“I did,” Zhou Zishu answers. “I graduated several years ago.”
“Then do you live nearby? Or do you go to the bakery?” Kexing presses, but Zhou Zishu shakes his head, frowning a little now. But Kexing can’t let up. “I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before. I wasn’t sure at first, but now…”
I know you.
He’s staring, he knows he’s staring, but he can’t make himself look away. The candlelight makes stars in Zhou Zishu’s eyes.
“I don’t know you,” Zhou Zishu says, and the way it echoes his own thoughts strikes him like a slap. He sits up straight and tears his gaze away.
“Right. You’re right. You probably just...look like someone I used to know. Sorry, it’s late. I must be tired…”
“We should sleep,” Zhou Zishu suggests quietly, and Kexing nods. “I’ll take the floor.”
Kexing is out of the chair at that suggestion, already pulling more blankets from the closet. “No, no, no. No way. You’ve already slept in the bed, anyway, so it’s yours for the night.”
Before Zhou Zishu can protest, he’s already spreading an old bedspread on the floor and flopping down on it (which is a bad idea, because the floor is hard beneath). He covers himself with a couple of throw blankets. Zhou Zishu lays himself back on the bed, and then Kexing can’t see his face anymore.
“Pass me a pillow?”
It’s more of a throw--maybe even a chuck--than a pass; the pillow hits him square in the face. He’s about to protest, annoyed, when he hears it: Zhou Zishu’s laugh.
It lasts only a second, but he feels it like fingers combing over his scalp, like warm bathwater on his skin, like the tickle of a feather between his toes.
It’s several long moments before he can breathe again, and several more before he can speak. “Where did you say you came from originally?” Because he can’t believe he’s never heard this laugh before, can’t believe he’s hearing it for the first time when the memory of it emerges from somewhere deeper than his brain--from his kidneys, from his liver, from the deepest chamber of his heart.
“I didn’t,” he says, and Kexing thinks that’s going to be it. But then he goes on, and the word is tight, like it doesn’t want to let go of the back of his throat: “Beijing.”
Of course. The hint of the north in his accent is obvious now.
“And you?” he asks a moment later, still sounding unwilling to speak.
“Here. Shanghai.” Well, the suburbs anyway, far from the glamour of the city proper. “And you never lived here when you were growing up? Or came to visit?”
“No.”
So that was it, then. He has to be wrong. He was just experiencing deja vu or something earlier. A brain glitch.
He tries to put that nagging sense of recognition out of his mind so he can get some sleep before his 8 a.m. class tomorrow, followed by a full day at the bakery. Rolling over so that his back is to his bed, and Zhou Zishu in it, he draws the blankets up under his chin and closes his eyes.
It should have been difficult to fall asleep on the hard floor with a stranger in his room, but instead, he finds himself almost immediately in that floating, weightless place between waking and sleep.
“What did you say your name was?” comes a voice out of the darkness. It wraps around him like a familiar embrace, like a body that knows every contour of your own.
“Wen,” he murmurs. “Wen Kexing.”
“Wen Kexing,” the voice repeats, more breath than sound. And Wen Kexing shivers as every hair on his body stands on end.
Then neither of them speak again, and Kexing drops over the ledge into sleep.