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When it’s done, Zhehan leans forward, plants his face into the table, and sighs.
There’s a small, automatic part of his brain that lights up, reminding him that sitting like this is not a great idea—that he’s going to get a crick in his back and a crease on his face and grime in his pores.
The rest of him is tired. So, so tired.
For the past months, he’s been trapped in the invisible prison of an hourglass, his remaining time trickling out from under him in a slow, steady drip—at first. Then the walls around him narrowed and he fell faster and faster and faster and faster and—
He thought he still had time. Maybe not much left, but time nevertheless.
He never expected his entire world to drop and shatter.
He wanted to be alone to pick up the pieces, to prevent anyone else from getting cut by the splinters. His team helped work on his statement—he only had one chance, and he had to give it his best—but he couldn’t look any of them in the eye knowing that his past carelessness would be putting them out of a job.
Obsessing over image, investing into what people thought of him is—was?—his least favorite part of being a public figure. He can’t say he’s surprised they ended up finding something in all the mud they were slinging.
It doesn’t make it any less bitter.
Most of his team should be able to recover, once it’s over. They’ll have to denounce him; that’s expected. But even if Zhao Wei doesn’t manage to find new places for them within her company, he still has enough friends and will have enough time on his hands to help them find other positions.
And, finally, Xiaoyu can go home. He supported Zhehan when he needed it most, him and Susu both, and now that Zhehan doesn’t need the help, Xiaoyu can get back to living his own life, hopefully untainted by his proximity to the fallout.
As he thinks that, a key turns in the lock of Zhehan’s front door—a key that Xiaoyu has.
Speak his name and he will appear. Zhehan clenches his hand into a fist, tightly enough that he feels the blunt of his nails digging crescents into his palm, and breathes harshly, torn between affection and frustration.
His friends really never listen, do they.
But maybe they wouldn’t be his friends otherwise.
The door opens and closes quietly, and it isn’t long before sock-padded feet draw closer from the hallway.
Zhehan could move, could try to look like he isn’t slowly unraveling, but what’s the point? Xiaoyu’s seen him at all his lows. His current state probably isn’t even the worst, all things considered; right now, he mostly just feels numb.
The footsteps come to a stop near where he’s hunched over the table.
“Xiaoyu, I told you to go home,” Zhehan says without lifting his head.
“It isn’t Xiaoyu,” not-Xiaoyu says softly, and Zhehan would recognize that voice anywhere.
He snaps his head up to look at Gong Jun, standing there in a nondescript T-shirt and jeans, longing and distress thick in his throat. “I told you not to come anymore.”
“Too late,” Gong Jun says, like the brat he is. “It’s okay. No one knows where I am.”
“And how long will that last?” Zhehan feels worn, seeing the stubborn set of Gong Jun’s mouth. Stubbornness doesn’t get people through things like this. “It’s too risky. You need to—”
“Go away and not talk to you for the rest of my life?” Gong Jun’s hand lands on his shoulder, heavy. “I won’t.”
“Who’s the senior here,” Zhehan says, but he lacks the energy to put any heat into it. He turns his head and fixes his eyes on the table, searching for resolve in the swirling figures of the wood. “Junjun. We both knew it was going to happen. If not this, then something else. It’s just fortunate that we aren’t—”
“Don’t,” Gong Jun says harshly, fingers squeezing tight on Zhehan’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. Zhehan. I—”
Gong Jun’s voice trembles, fingers falling slack, and Zhehan feels the lump in his throat swelling in response, tears pricking behind his eyes. He doesn’t turn. He’s absolutely certain that if he looks at Gong Jun at this moment, he’ll break.
The one thing that he’s trying to do is not break—and especially not in front of Gong Jun.
They both know what needs to happen next. Zhehan will be strong, for both of them.
He breathes in, and wills his voice to stay steady. His palm is clammy with sweat; he closes it again into a grounding fist. “Focus on yourself right now, all right?” he says. Steady voice. Steady, gentle voice. “Go back to Hengdian and keep your head down. I’m not going to be the target for much longer. We can’t let them drag you down with me.”
“You focus on yourself right now.” Gong Jun’s hand slides from Zhehan’s shoulder to his arm and squeezes lightly. “You really don’t want to see me?”
Everything he’d worked so hard the past year for—the past decade for—is burning in front of his eyes: they threw him down from the sky, and he’s burned, burned, burned all the way down. The only thing he can think of to do is cut off the oxygen, to remove himself from it all before the blaze can spread to anyone else.
“If they pull you down, too,” Zhehan says, every word tasting like ash on his tongue, “then what would it have been for? What would any of it have been for?”
Gong Jun is silent, but his thumb is rubbing small, slow circles on Zhehan’s arm. It should be comforting—it mostly is comforting—but it also makes Zhehan feel sick. When’s the next time he’ll be able to have this? Is there going to be a next time? Would it be kinder to them both if they tempered their hope?
Would it be kinder to himself?
“Gong Jun—”
“Do you regret it?” Gong Jun says.
The question is unexpected enough that Zhehan blinks and finds himself looking at Gong Jun’s face. It’s still set in that stubborn expression of his. “What?”
“If you regret it,” Gong Jun says with a terrifying sort of calm, “if you would take it all back if you could, then I’ll leave. But if you don’t, then I’m staying. And nothing you say is going to change my mind.”
Zhehan feels his own heart splintering at the words. It’s not pain, exactly, but it hurts all the same—an overwhelming heat spreading from his stomach through his chest to his throat, scorching a path through his defenses and leaving him raw. Gong Jun’s stubborn sincerity was something he’d always loved, but here it’s going to lead him down a road that will be harsh and difficult to travel.
It would only be natural if, one day, it became too difficult to bear.
And that’s fine. Zhehan’s time has been cut short, but he’d cut it shorter if it means Gong Jun can live his life free.
“When I was younger, I thought I’d play basketball for the rest of my life,” Zhehan says. “Then I was injured. I thought I could finally hold the concert I’ve always wanted to, and then it was canceled. I thought my career was finally growing, and it ended like this. I’m used to losing the things that matter most to me, but when it comes to people...” He takes a deep, steadying breath and says softly, “I wanted to be there for you forever. I’m sorry that forever wasn’t longer. But if I have to die for you to live on, then let me die.”
“I won’t,” Gong Jun says. His eyes are wet.
Stubborn. Senseless, sweet, stubborn Gong Jun. “You could lose everything.”
“Everything I have is because of you.” Gong Jun’s hand slides down, down the length of Zhehan’s arm to take his hand. Zhehan realizes, suddenly, that Gong Jun is wearing his ring. “Everything I have means nothing without you.”
The lump in his throat is too thick to speak around, no matter how hard Zhehan swallows.
“I’ll be careful,” Gong Jun says, squeezing his hand. “I won’t do anything public anymore. I won’t say or wear or post anything that could be taken wrongly.”
“You have to give me the ring back.”
Gong Jun flinches at that, fingers curling against Zhehan’s palm like Zhehan’s going to yank the ring from his finger. “I won’t wear it. I’ll put it in my pocket.”
Zhehan elbows Gong Jun’s side. “I know that you know that they’ve seen it in your pocket.”
“Then I’ll put it in my wallet,” Gong Jun says. “I’m not giving it back.”
“Junjun—”
“It’s our promise.” Gong Jun links their fingers together. “Zhehan,” he says, his voice suddenly rough, “can’t you see that I don’t want to lose you, either?”
Somehow—
Somehow that cuts him deeper than anything else.
Zhehan doesn’t fully realize that he’s crying until he finds himself on the sofa, face tucked against Gong Jun’s neck and fingers clutching blindly at his shirt. He’s always been a quiet crier—he doesn’t sob so much as hold everything in until he can’t anymore, and then makes up for it in desperate, gasping breaths. Gong Jun’s arms are wrapped around him, holding him tightly. He feels small, protected, anxious, comforted, loved—and more terrified than he’s ever been in his life.
At some point, he realizes that the hands on his back are trembling. He isn’t the only one crying.
It brings him back to the concert, the way they’d held each other in the dressing room after it was over, letting all the tears flow that they didn’t dare let out under the lights of the stage. They knew, then, that it was a farewell to simpler times.
As they know now.
He takes in a shaky inhale, draws back, and smacks Gong Jun on the shoulder. “What are you crying for, huh?”
“Da-ge,” Gong Jun whines through his stuffy nose, “let me be sad.”
“I’m the sadder one here, so stop crying and comfort me already.”
As far as cheering-up attempts go, it’s not his best work, but it makes Gong Jun smile, weakly but visibly, and pat Zhehan soothingly as he says, “Okay, okay, I’m comforting, okay.”
“You have to stay strong for me,” Zhehan tells him sternly.
“Yes, okay.”
“And make lots of money.”
“Yes, okay, of course.”
“And don’t piss anyone off.”
“Yes, I know, I won’t.”
Zhehan stares him down. “I’m being serious. Don’t. Not even a little bit.”
“I know.” Gong Jun curls in on himself a little bit—but just a little. “Trust me. I know.”
Zhehan trusts him. Gong Jun is stubborn, but he isn’t stupid. This isn’t about watching his step so he doesn’t accidentally cross over a line anymore—it’s about making sure he doesn’t tumble off the edge of the cliff that everyone else will be trying to push him over.
Zhehan trusts him, but he’s scared.
“No more crying,” Zhehan says.
“You already said that.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You did!” Gong Jun nudges him. “You said, stay strong.”
Zhehan clicks his tongue. “That’s not the same thing. I mean that I don’t want to see pictures of you out there with puffy eyes looking like you haven’t slept in two days.”
“Even if I were crying, I wouldn’t look like that,” Gong Jun says. “I know how skincare and makeup work, you know.”
“You can take all my products, then,” Zhehan says. “I’m never washing my face again.”
“Da-ge.”
Gong Jun sounds so exasperated, but also a lot more like his usual self than he has all night. It makes Zhehan smile reflexively, the first little burst of happiness that he’s felt since this all started.
“I’m not and no one can make me,” Zhehan says, chasing that feeling. “What do you think, what if I grew a beard, too?”
Gong Jun still looks pained, but he dutifully studies Zhehan’s jaw. “Can you even grow a beard?”
Zhehan hits his shoulder. “You doubt me? You doubt my hair follicles? I’ll tell you, this face is capable of more than you’ve ever dreamed of.”
“Whatever you say, ge,” Gong Jun says, reaching out and rubbing Zhehan’s chin. His hand lingers, fingers ghosting along Zhehan’s skin, and Zhehan knows that they’re both thinking of the same moment—that moment that feels like a lifetime ago, when all that was between them was uncertainty of a far more naïve kind.
Zhehan wraps his hand loosely around Gong Jun’s wrist. “I don’t regret it. I’ll never regret it for the rest of my life, no matter what happens next. Zhou Zishu was right. The world isn’t important.”
He doesn’t finish the line, but he doesn’t have to. Gong Jun’s expression softens into something that’s at once sweet and sorrowful, his hand moving to cradle Zhehan’s jaw, thumb sweeping over his cheekbone. Zhehan leans forward, and Gong Jun comes to meet him, resting their foreheads together.
They breathe.
“The better the people,” Gong Jun murmurs.
He doesn’t finish the line, either.
A corner of Zhehan’s mouth lifts, cheek pressing into Gong Jun’s hand, and he draws back a little to look into Gong Jun’s eyes. “Looks like I finally get to play Wen Kexing after all.”
Gong Jun hums. His hand slides down so his wrist can rest at the base of Zhehan’s neck. “More like Gao Chong, if you really think about it.”
“Ai.” Zhehan clicks his tongue again and lays his fist on Gong Jun’s shoulder. “You’d deny me this, even now?”
“I’d never deny you anything,” Gong Jun says immediately, with the overwhelming full force of his sincerity.
“Then it’s settled,” Zhehan says, opening his fist and laying his hand along the side of Gong Jun’s neck so that they’re mirrored. “I’ll be waiting for my invitation to your manor, Zhou-xianggong.”
“Will I get to taste your cooking every day, then, Wen-niangzi?”
Zhehan hesitates for only half a second. “Plenty of time to learn, I guess. We can work on your spice tolerance.”
To Gong Jun’s credit, his mild despair is only noticeable because Zhehan has spent a truly ridiculous amount of time staring into his eyes. “If you make it, I’ll eat it, whatever it is.”
“One day,” Zhehan says, “when the world’s a safer place for you. I’ll make you a feast.”
“I don’t know if I should believe in your promises, Wen Kexing,” Gong Jun says, tapping at Zhehan’s neck with a finger, “after all your talk of dying just earlier. How do I know you won’t disappear once I look away?”
“Let’s both make promises, then.” Zhehan presses a little, not a squeeze, but just enough to give weight to his words. “You don’t go ripping out your nails, and I won’t do anything to give either of us white hairs. Fair?”
Gong Jun lets out a harsh exhale. “I really do want to rip them out.”
“I know,” Zhehan says softly, “but it won’t do you any good. It won’t do me any good, either. It’s too late to change my fate.”
His throat clogs near the end of his statement, his voice coming out rough. He feels the tears slide down his cheeks, and he hastily wipes them away, but it’s too late—it’s already spread to Gong Jun.
“Aiya, what did I tell you about crying,” Zhehan says, batting at Gong Jun’s chest, never mind the fact that he was the one crying first.
“I wish I could be with you,” Gong Jun says, looking and sounding truly miserable now. “I hate the fact that I can’t do anything for you.”
“You can keep living.” Zhehan squeezes at the juncture between Gong Jun’s shoulder and neck. “Keep proving to them that you aren’t someone they can bully.”
“And what are you going to do?”
Zhehan takes a slow, deep breath. “Keep living, in my own way,” he says finally. He nudges Gong Jun. “Maybe I’ll go golfing all day. Without sunscreen.”
Gong Jun gives him a withering look through his tears.
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Zhehan says, patting Gong Jun’s shoulder to soothe his expression back into something less dangerous. “I just wanted to see your reaction.”
“I’m being serious,” Gong Jun says.
Zhehan shrugs with one shoulder, a movement far more casual than what he actually feels. “There are still some things to sort out. Contract terminations, closing out the studio, all the legal paperwork. After that…”
“Visiting your ma?”
“Yeah.” He still has to make sure it’ll be safe—there are still all sorts of rumors floating around, and he’ll stay away as long as he needs to keep things from heating up for his ma—but he wants nothing more than a hug and to cry over a steaming bowl of her noodles. “You’re still in Hengdian for a while, right?”
“A few more months,” Gong Jun says. “Until November.”
“That’s good.” Filming will keep him busy, distracted, away from interactions with the public, away from any more rumors—and, of course, away from Zhehan. “You should probably be heading back there soon.”
“I’ll leave early in the morning.” Gong Jun’s fingers stroke the back of his neck. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
Zhehan is too tired to argue, and, more than that, he doesn’t want to. The thought of spending a night alone is unbearable with the knowledge that he could be spending it with Gong Jun instead. “After you leave, don’t come back. Stay low. Don’t come near me until everything dies down. And maybe even for a while after.”
“Stop talking,” Gong Jun says, gently. “If I can only have a few hours here, then I don’t want to talk about that. We can figure all of it out later.”
“What do you want to do, then?”
“Come to bed,” Gong Jun says.
Zhehan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Whatever you want, Lao Gong.”
“Not to—” Gong Jun flushes, scowls, and jostles him. “Da-ge. Not for that! Just to lay down. I’m sure you haven’t had any rest since this all started.”
“Throw in a cuddle and I’ll consider it.”
“As many as you want.”
“And a kiss.”
“Why are you even trying to negotiate with me?” Gong Jun says, smiling enough for his dimple to show. “Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”
“I want the ring,” Zhehan says automatically.
“The—anything within reason.” Gong Jun clutches his hand protectively to his chest. “Stop trying to trick me. You’re not getting it.”
“Junjun,” Zhehan says, and if he sounds desperate, he doesn’t care. “If something happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”
“That’s how I feel about you,” Gong Jun says. “If you want me to go out tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and pretend like the world isn’t ending, that everything is right and fair—” he nearly spits the words, “—then I need this. I need to remember what I’m doing this all for.”
“You’ll remember me even without a ring,” Zhehan says softly.
Gong Jun shakes his head. “Not you. Us. Our future. I’m not letting you cheat me out of forever, Zhang-laoshi.”
“Who’s cheating?” Zhehan says, trying to hide the swell of love and upset behind bluster.
Gong Jun doesn’t fall for the trap. “Don’t try to push me away anymore. Not unless you really mean it. Not unless you’re going to take back your words.”
“Never,” Zhehan says. “I just—right now, I can’t think of a better way to be there for you than to disappear.”
“You can disappear from them, but not from me.” Gong Jun takes Zhehan’s hand and presses it over his own chest, over the steady beat of his heart. “My heart is wherever you are. Take good care of it, okay?”
Take good care of yourself, is what Zhehan hears.
“Forever,” Zhehan says, the words bubbling out of him from the place of deep sorrow he’s tried to contain.
He doesn’t clarify; he doesn’t have to.
“Forever,” Gong Jun says.
Zhehan falls into his arms again, and they sit there together, breathing, just breathing—a moment of calm in the frenetic rush of the world. Zhehan squeezes his eyes shut, committing every sensation to memory for all the times in the future that he knows he’ll long for it—for the heat of Gong Jun’s skin, for the press of his cheek against Zhehan’s head, for his familiar scent and his unyielding embrace and the way his chest rises and falls to the ceaseless rhythm of life.
“Take me to bed,” Zhehan whispers.
Gong Jun links their fingers together.
It feels like a promise.
无边落木萧萧下 不尽长江滚滚来
风刀霜剑皆不惧只要
你我还在
得既高歌失既休 无拘无束亦无碍
但得一知己 慰尽风尘无奈
任山高水远 你在我也在