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“Bold thing to say to a literature professor,” He Xuan remarks, shooting a look over the edge of his book at the man sprawled carelessly over one of the cozy armchairs in the library’s reading corner. Hua Cheng is a little older than him, a little bolder, and probably the only art student He Xuan has ever met who claims not to know a single ounce of poetry and is proud of it. He paints an interesting picture sitting here, clearly knowledgeable of every great master He Xuan pulls off the shelf only to follow up this knowledge with loud declarations of how every piece of poetry ever written is complete and utter nonsense.
If He Xuan were anything like his colleagues, he’d take clear offence. Like this, though, with a half-empty box of cookies and half-full cups of hot chocolate between them, it's intriguing more than anything.
“Assistant professor, wasn’t it?” Hua Cheng replies, playful more than he is mean. He leans forward and his breath smells of the orange-flavoured liquor he spiked the chocolate with, something poured out of a bottle which looks expensive enough to cover a full year of rent for He Xuan’s little apartment. “I clearly remember that being the reason you couldn’t pull up my grade on that essay on the influences of visual arts on poetry. Did you hide it till now just to mess with me?”
There is a mirthful look in Hua Cheng’s eyes, a mischievous glint that looks bright even in the bloodshot red of his right eye. His eyepatch sits aside on the round table between them, black leather folded neatly and laid down on top of a foreign volume of analysis of impressionist paintings. It’s not the first time He Xuan has seen him take it off, the red iris and sclera enclosed by old, scratch-like scars along the surrounding skin laid bare to the world; but every other time, it was just like this, the two of them sitting together in some secluded area on the university campus or in its immediate proximity.
“Naturally,” He Xuan answers with a deadpan expression. The single word drips rivers of sarcasm that Hua Cheng catches in his chocolate mug, the amused smile on his face warm enough to send fires shooting up He Xuan’s spine.
He hides his face behind the pages of flowery poetry, no line nearly as impressive as the sight of the man sitting in front of him. Even surreptitiously hiding like this, he can still practically feel Hua Cheng’s gaze tickling him.
“Either way, my point still stands,” Hua Cheng says. His long legs are stretched out in front of him and He Xuan can see from under the bottom edge of the book the way he is wiggling his feet playfully, the black leather of his designer shoes catching the yellow-toned lamplight. “Poetry is boring and tacky at best. I know much better things to spend my time on.”
“Oh?” He Xuan closes his book, finally admitting that he is no longer actually reading although he could as well have put it away half an hour ago. “Like what?”
Hua Cheng’s lips quirk up, eyes sparkling almost gleefully. His elbows are propped up on the small coffee table and his full attention is turned onto He Xuan. Oddly enough, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable and even the butterflies churning around in He Xuan’s stomach only warm him instead of sending his skin crawling the way it usually does when he is the centre of attention.
When Hua Cheng reaches out a hand to take He Xuan’s own, he lets it happen, turns his palm up to meet it, threads their fingers together, eyes fixed on that gentle, careful point of contact. He only looks up again when he hears Hua Cheng humming thoughtfully, finds himself staring into those awfully trusting eyes.
“Like you, for instance.”
The aftertaste of chocolate and orange-flavoured liquor rest on He Xuan’s tongue, the armchair swallows up his frame, his hand is kept almost scaldingly hot. He feels the blood rush to his face and yet he does not feel out of place in this moment, does not feel ashamed.
For a moment, at least, He Xuan is certain he could never feel anything but comfort when he is with Hua Cheng.