Chapter Text
“Usual price,” Xiao Zhan offers, a bored lilt to his voice as he holds out the manila folder containing Huang Yu’s composition on the ethics of ecoterrorism.
Huang Yu scrabbles for his phone in his pocket as Xiao Zhan continues typing with one hand, eager to finish Cao Yuan’s project abstract on third-wave feminism before he has to head home and cook dinner.
“I’ll get an A for sure?” Huang Yu asks, swiping and tapping on his phone as Xiao Zhan levels him with another look. This is all routine, and Huang Yu’s inability to stop questioning Xiao Zhan’s methods is making him a little difficult to work with.
“You know what I always say,” Xiao Zhan says, nodding as his phone lights up where it's placed on the table. “Huang Yu has sent you 100 yuan” dances on his notification bar, and Xiao Zhan releases his grip on the folder. Huang Yu receives it with much eagerness. “If it's not A, no need to pay.”
“Thanks, Xiao Zhan,” Huang Yu says, and then he’s scampering out of the classroom to submit his paper without so much as a look back. He’s lucky Xiao Zhan didn’t charge him a rush fee.
Xiao Zhan types a little more, running the abstract through spell check before he saves it and shuts down his laptop. Dinner is going to have to be simple tonight, or else he can’t pass this to Cao Yuan by tomorrow as promised.
A look outside the window has him sweeping his things hurriedly into his duffel. The sky is already purpling, casting the room in a hazy pink glow.
“-You’re leaving early today.” Xiao Zhan whirls around to see Mu-laoshi, their form teacher leaning against the doorframe. He gestures at Xiao Zhan’s rough, fraying bag. “What, no customers?”
“No more for today,” Xiao Zhan says, letting out a breath. Mu-laoshi had found out about his hustle early in the game, a perceptive skeptic of how the classroom jock had produced a perfect paper on China’s economic reformation. For some reason, he’d kept his mouth shut. “Is today the day you finally turn me in?”
“And actually have to read their essays?” Mu-laoshi says, incredulous as he gestures wildly at the empty seats assigned to the football team.
“You have a point,” Xiao Zhan says, trying to sidestep Mu-laoshi quickly and failing.
“Xiao Zhan- you’re better than this.” Mu-laoshi says, starting on his regular spiel. He’d come almost everyday to preach after finding the classroom in which Xiao Zhan operated after school. He shakes his head, tapping two fingers on Xiao Zhan’s desk—three light knocks that carry some finality and a measure of disappointment. “Go- go- join a club or something. Have fun, do other things like other kids your age. Don’t sit here doing more work than you already have to.”
“I’m fine,” Xiao Zhan argues. “I like writing essays. It only helps me improve, after all.”
“You’re a great kid, you’re brilliant,” Mu-laoshi reminds, eyes cutting to Xiao Zhan’s in a way that’s too knowing. It makes an itch spread across his skin, his fingers twitch at his sides. “You’re already here on scholarship-”
“All the more reason why,” Xiao Zhan says, the words forcing themselves out around a lump in his throat. “I can’t lose it.”
Mu-laoshi’s shaking his head again and Xiao Zhan, he- he has to go.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, laoshi,” Xiao Zhan interrupts, and the resigned look on Mu-laoshi’s face is enough to have him jogging to the bicycle parking racks, wind pulling at his jacket like fingers dragging him backwards.
He fights against its hold, bundling his face into his scarf.
==
Xiao Zhan’s already on the long pedal home when he hears a faint yelling. His mirrors show a disheveled figure running after him, waving their arms desperately.
Sigh.
Xiao Zhan slows his bike and takes off his helmet, only so his pursuer won’t trip. As the person nears, the blurry silhouette starts to form the recognisable figure of Cho Seungyeon, a Korean transfer student and their high school football team striker.
There are thousands of students at Beijing No. 80 High School. To be an exception to the general rule of invisibility means that you’re either a notorious student or a popular one, and Xiao Zhan doesn’t want to deal with either. Anonymity serves his purposes very well, and notoriety can only mean trouble.
By the time Seungyeon catches up with Xiao Zhan, hands on his knees as he catches his breath, Xiao Zhan’s head is already in a whirl. Who could have given him away, and for what purpose? Why else would Seungyeon want to talk to him?
“You’re Xiao Zhan, right?” is the first thing that comes out of Seungyeon’s mouth, a bit of a wheeze that Xiao Zhan takes a moment to interpret. How long had Seungyeon been running after him?
“...Yes?” Xiao Zhan says hesitantly, and Seungyeon breaks out into a wide smile.
“Great, great,” Seungyeon says. “I need your help.”
Xiao Zhan’s heart slows its rapid beating. He’s just another customer.
“One project paper is 100 yuan, one term paper is 150 yuan, rush fee is 20 yuan per hour-” Xiao Zhan rattles off his usual pricing, ticking the list off his fingers. It’s only when Seungyeon gives him a confused look that Xiao Zhan cuts off abruptly. “You’re- you’re wanting to get a paper written, right?”
“Uh,” Seungyeon looks at Xiao Zhan like he’s grown another head. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about, but I heard you’re good at writing. And there’s this- this-” Seungyeon darts a look at Xiao Zhan from under his cap pulled low over his eyes. “This guy. I want to write something to him, ask him out. But I’m not so good at words.”
“This guy,” Xiao Zhan begins unevenly, and Seungyeon shrinks back a little into himself like he’s waiting for a blow. That hurts to see. “No, it’s okay. I mean. Me too, I guess.”
It’s not the first time he’s said it aloud, but away from his family and friends back home it feels safer to speak into existence. The declaration hovers between them in puffs of warm air.
“Woah, nice,” Seungyeon says, and pats Xiao Zhan on the back, which Xiao Zhan leans into weakly. “Yeah. This guy’s really great. Handsome. Talented.”
“Do I know this guy?” Xiao Zhan asks, and Seungyeon nods.
“Everyone knows him. Wang Yibo?”
Wait.
“You want to write a love letter to Wang Yibo,” Xiao Zhan says, sounding a little faint. Seungyeon’s grinning at him now, wide and happy, and Xiao Zhan shakes his head immediately, backing away.
It’s painful how Seungyeon’s smile fades a little, but Xiao Zhan has to be the one to let him down easy.
“Yibo’s not- he’s-” Xiao Zhan struggles a little with the words. “He’s a popular kid, a jock, I don’t think- he’s not going to respond well.”
Who doesn’t know Wang Yibo? When Xiao Zhan transferred in from Chongqing High a year ago, Wang Yibo had been one of the first people he’d heard of. Leader of the racing team, the track and field team, the skateboarding team, the dance team, you name it and he’d be there.
He’s skilled at everything. So talented that he exists on a different plane from Xiao Zhan and the rest of the school. He’s untouchable, but people still hang on his every word, cater to his every whim.
He could have anyone he wanted.
“How do you know that he won’t respond well?” Seungyeon asks, and Xiao Zhan gives him a look.
“How do you not know?” Xiao Zhan questions exasperatedly. “Have you even talked to him?”
“Not really,” Seungyeon says, then follows desperately after Xiao Zhan as Xiao Zhan jams his helmet back on his head. This is a waste of time. “That’s why you need to write the letter. You’ll never know if you don’t try.”
“Seungyeon, I write essays,” Xiao Zhan says, trying his utmost to avoid Seungyeon’s puppy dog eyes as he seizes hold of Xiao Zhan’s bike handles. “Not love letters.”
“I’ll pay you,” Seungyeon rushes out, and Xiao Zhan pauses. “I’ll pay you 100 yuan for a letter.”
“Fine,” Xiao Zhan says, taking in the dark sky above them and the pitiful expression on Seungyeon's face. “Fine. A letter, and I’ll give it to you to put it in his locker tomorrow. Just one, okay?”
It’s still a long ride to the dorms and if this is the price of Seungyeon leaving him be he’ll take it. Plus, Seungyeon’s a friend now of sorts, since they share something in common.
Just one letter to Wang Yibo, Seungyeon’ll get rejected, and Xiao Zhan will never have to do anything like this ever again.
Xiao Zhan’s fingers grip tight to the cracked foam handles of his bike as he pedals home.
==
Xiao Zhan’s dorm room is cramped and small, a one-bedder with a gurgly sink and a clunky toilet. Dragging himself to the induction stove, he pulls out some instant noodles and chopped broccoli from his mini fridge.
Xiao Zhan sends his earnings for the day to his father’s Alipay wallet while waiting for the water to boil. It goes through with his regular texts asking for updates on his mother’s condition. Same old, same old, and yet the medical bills keep rising.
Good thing he swapped to a bike instead of taking the bus. The monthly transport fees add up to a pretty large amount he can send back too.
Bringing the steaming noodles to his makeshift desk, Xiao Zhan turns over a sheet of fresh paper and comes up blank.
He’s never written a love letter before, much less to anyone like Wang Yibo. He has no idea where to start at all. What do love letters even look like?
Scrolling through his phone, he finds Yibo’s Oasis. Other than some pictures of Lego, skateboards, and badly-lit selfies in a dance studio mirror, there’s nothing else. Xiao Zhan can’t find any other profiles of Yibo's either.
Tossing his phone on the bed, Xiao Zhan lets out a yell of frustration. He has enough to deal with, without thinking about- about-
How Wang Yibo had been the student appointed to show Xiao Zhan around when he first came to Beijing No. 80 High School, not that Yibo’d remember. But Xiao Zhan still recalls how Yibo’d dutifully led him around, the complete opposite of how Xiao Zhan’d expected Yibo to behave.
With a skateboard in hand and a sports duffel slung over his shoulder, Yibo had led him to the different classrooms and halls, waiting patiently for Xiao Zhan to mark down each location on his map with a shaking hand. He’d brought Xiao Zhan to the cafeteria, pointed out the better stalls and the best deals.
Xiao Zhan had then expected Yibo to excuse himself and leave Xiao Zhan to face a busy canteen alone. Instead, he’d bought a meal too and found them both a seat at the back of the hall.
This all begged the question of why Yibo’d been chosen to show Xiao Zhan around, out of everyone. He looked busy enough, with students calling to him in the halls, inviting him to parties, to different clubs and events.
“I guess it’s because I transferred recently too,” Wang Yibo’d answered, forehead knitted in thought. “I’m from Henan, and I came to Beijing a few years ago. I get what it’s like being the new kid.”
“Awkward?” Xiao Zhan’d hazarded a guess, and Yibo’d met his eyes, gaze serious.
“Lonely,” Yibo’d said, and Xiao Zhan’d swallowed and looked down at his plate.
After a few silent minutes chewing and Xiao Zhan fidgeting with his sleeve, Yibo’d leaned forwards and Xiao Zhan’d stared at him with wide eyes. “Let me guess, you’re from-”
“Chongqing,” Xiao Zhan’d blurted, and Yibo’s lips had curved into a small smile.
“I can tell. Your dialect comes through a little. I like it.”
Yibo’s eyes had creased at the sides, his smile brightening his face. Though they’d been sitting at the window, Xiao Zhan barely noticed the sunlight streaming in. Yibo’d lit up the room.
But after that, they hadn’t been in the same classes. Xiao Zhan saw Yibo infrequently, and then it’d reduced to rare hallway sightings. Xiao Zhan’d kept unconsciously turning to boys holding skateboards, or blue sports duffels, till he stopped turning altogether.
Sifting through the few memories of Wang Yibo he had always made Xiao Zhan’s chest hurt a little. It might have been because Xiao Zhan’d realised he was gay shortly after their conversation, and then the condition Yibo’d warned him of had set in.
Being alone, speaking in a more standard accent, wearing darker colours—Xiao Zhan embraced being the new kid as much as he could at school. Behind closed doors, he still wore his bright coloured blue sweaters and rattled off in dialect to his parents.
Beijing could take many things from him, but not this.
Drawing a deep breath, Xiao Zhan picks up the pen. He knows what to write.
==
“Xiao Zhan, Xiao Zhan! Slow down,” Seungyeon calls, and Xiao Zhan winces as his bicycle goes hard over a small crack in the tarmac.
“I told you, one letter-” Xiao Zhan says sternly, and Seungyeon grins at him, waving an envelope in his face that makes him pause.
“Yibo wrote back.”
Xiao Zhan’s heart stops in his chest. “What.”
“He did, look,” Seungyeon starts pulling at the seal flap ineffectively, and after about a minute, Xiao Zhan takes the letter from him to open it cleanly.
It’s a simple page within, torn from one of the notebooks sold at their school’s bookstore.
Beijing is a man with two faces. One you can fall in love with, and one you despise, because it looks nothing like the face of your hometown. Thanks, Seungyeon.
“What does that mean?” Seungyeon asks, bewildered, but Xiao Zhan’s barely listening. It’s like rushing water has filled his chest, crashing waves rocking him from the inside. “Beijing is like a two-faced man?”
“He wrote back,” Xiao Zhan says, stunned. “He wrote- I can’t believe it.”
“Nice, I knew I could count on you,” Seungyeon says, slapping Xiao Zhan on the back. “I’ll just text him now, ask him if he wants to hang out-”
“You can’t,” Xiao Zhan interrupts, wild-eyed. He seizes the letter. Somehow, even though the name on the letter isn’t his, the letter feels like it fits between his fingers. “Don’t you know what this means?”
Seungyeon just gives him a blank stare. Xiao Zhan sighs.
“It’s a long game. Everyone else is playing the short one. He wants you to write back.”
“No,” Seungyeon says, smiling wide. “He wants you to. I’ll pay, don’t worry.”
==
People used to look funny at me when I talked. So I just stopped. And when I finally decided that what they thought didn’t matter, I talked and I sounded just like them. I can barely remember what Henan sounds like.
I get what you mean. I worry that I’ll head home and people will see me, but not really. They’ll think I’ve changed, when all I want is to be the same, you know? But maybe Henan sounds exactly like you. Maybe Henan is you, a mix of everyone who left and didn’t.
That sounds smart. Cho Seungyeon, have you been hiding all this time?
I guess so. I sometimes feel like I still am, too.
==
“What are you guys going on about?” Seungyeon says, flipping through the stack of letters that sit on Xiao Zhan’s desk. “Places being people, people being places. I have no clue what you’re saying.”
Somehow the careless way he’s sorting through the letters Xiao Zhan and Yibo have exchanged, with Yibo’s handwritten scrawl on the top page, makes heat rise to Xiao Zhan’s cheeks.
He pushes the feeling away. It isn’t his to feel after all.
Xiao Zhan is just the messenger.
“I put in some points I thought you and Yibo had in common,” Xiao Zhan shares, and they both sit on Xiao Zhan’s worn couch that he thrifted from a store down the street. “He gets it, you know. Some of it, not all. But still. Some.”
“Gets what,” Seungyeon says, and his eyes are careful. Just like how he’s pronouncing his Chinese words, precise and effectual.
“He’s a transfer too,” Xiao Zhan says, and Seungyeon blinks at him. “Well, not from overseas, but he’s not from Beijing.”
“Neither are you,” Seungyeon says, and Xiao Zhan thumbs at the corner of a page, feeling it crinkle.
“Neither am I,” Xiao Zhan concurs, and before Seungyeon can act on that curious look in his eyes, Xiao Zhan continues. “Why did you come here?”
He hasn’t actually had time to sit down and talk to Seungyeon. Before this letter writing business, they’d never crossed paths.
“There’s a famous arts school here, that’s the aim I guess,” Seungyeon shrugs. “But my applications haven’t been getting any replies.”
“Why?” Xiao Zhan asks, even though he already knows.
“You need all these essays, and I’m just- I guess I can’t write like what they want.” Seungyeon thumbs at the split seams of the couch. “Not yet at least.”
“Not yet,” Xiao Zhan agrees, and Seungyeon shoots him a small grin. It only takes a short while for the grin to slip, and Seungyeon to groan as he drags hands down his face.
“If we ever meet, Yibo’ll never believe it was me who wrote any of this,” Seungyeon groans, and Xiao Zhan swallows.
“He will,” Xiao Zhan insists, ignoring the throb in his chest. “I’ll help you. I’ll make him believe.”
“You’re the best investment I’ve made in a long time,” Seungyeon says, eyes shining. “I love Wang Yibo, and my best friend Xiao Zhan is here to save the day.”
Xiao Zhan meets Seungyeon’s gaze with a half smile. His chest hurts. “When did I say you were my best friend?”
“You didn’t have to, I said so, so it’s true,” Seungyeon argues, and Xiao Zhan shakes his head and cracks a laugh. “I’m sleeping here tonight, and you can’t kick me out. Best friend rules.”
Xiao Zhan can’t help but roll his eyes good-naturedly as he sets up the second mattress he keeps below his bed. It’s nice to not feel so alone.
He shifts the sheaf of letters behind his laptop, out of sight. That’s where it stays for the night.
==
“Is there a reason half my class has been failing their essays, Xiao Zhan?” Mu-laoshi asks, and Xiao Zhan’s head jerks up from where he’s been bent over writing, fingertips messy with ink.
He whips around, but there’s no one in the classroom. Even the usual stragglers who occupy the back row till the next class shuffles in have left.
Xiao Zhan gets to his feet, face flaming.
This isn’t like him at all. Worse, he’s been caught out by a teacher. If it had been anyone other than Mu-laoshi, he might’ve been stripped of his scholarship.
“No, laoshi,” Xiao Zhan says. As Mu-laoshi raises an eyebrow, he bites out, “I’ve been busy.”
“Not that this is not what I wanted for you,” Mu-laoshi continues, and Xiao Zhan comes to a halt by the door. “But you don’t look as happy as I’d hoped you would.”
“How do I look, laoshi?” Xiao Zhan asks, helpless. His blue fingertips leave a trail across his palm as he curls them inwards.
“Like you’re bottling something up, even more than before,” Mu-laoshi says, and Xiao Zhan looks down, swallows. “Maybe the essay writing was better.”
“I think so too,” Xiao Zhan finally struggles out, and without waiting for Mu-laoshi’s reply, steps out of the door and doesn’t turn back.
The next class, Xiao Zhan keeps his letterpad in his bag, and his bag cleanly zipped. He can’t let this thing with Yibo get out of hand.
Yibo’s not writing to Xiao Zhan, remember?
==
Yibo’s number comes scrawled in the eighth letter.
Do you really only want to talk once a day?
It makes sense. Xiao Zhan’s hand had been cramping anyway.
He makes an account for Seungyeon that he logs into, and types.
In a few seconds, Yibo replies.
==
Seungyeon. Do you know what it’s like to be sick?
Not really. But it follows me around.
Your family?
My mum.
Oh. Sorry.
It’s okay. Some days are better than others.
But the days don’t ever give you a break.
They’re relentless like that. You?
Me.
Me what?
I’m the sick one.
I’m so sorry, Yibo.
There’s no need, you didn’t make me sick.
Is that why you’re in Beijing?
For treatment. And dance.
Can you still dance?
In my head? Yes. Physically? Not all the time.
Does it hurt?
Sometimes.
Why do you do it?
Why do you?
I don’t have a choice.
Neither do I. If I only listen to the sickness, then it’ll make my choices for me.
Take care of yourself, Yibo. Don’t make me worry.
Seungyeon, are you concerned about me?
Yes, of course.
There’s a pause. Then-
We should meet.
==
“He said you should meet up?” Seungyeon asks, eyes as wide as saucers.
Xiao Zhan exhales sharply, a dull pain in his side. “He said you should meet up.”
“Holy shit, Xiao Zhan!” Seungyeon yells, grabbing Xiao Zhan’s arm and slinging him into a rough hug. “You’re amazing. I knew I could count on you!”
It’s become tough to distinguish between himself and the Seungyeon that he’s playing. With every message, every text, Xiao Zhan gives a little too much of himself that he can’t take back.
Why is it so easy to pour his secrets into Yibo’s hands, and trust that he’ll hold them tight?
“But how, what do we do?” Seungyeon asks, voice slipping as panic bleeds into it. “I don’t know how to talk about what you guys talk about.”
“You do,” Xiao Zhan insists, seizing Seungyeon’s shoulder and giving him a little shake. “Just remember why you like him in the first place.”
“Why I love him,” Seungyeon corrects, and Xiao Zhan takes a deep breath. “I love him because he’s cool, he’s good looking, he isn’t a jerk like the other guys, you know. What else is there to love?”
“I don’t know,” Xiao Zhan says. Yibo’s grin flashes before his eyes, clear in the summer light. “Maybe because when he smiles, it’s like the sun. And when he’s dancing, he moves like flowing water. He seems cold, but when he cares about you—actually cares—it’s like there’s nobody else around but you.”
By the time his stupid mouth has caught up with his brain, it’s too late. Xiao Zhan raises his head only to meet Seungyeon’s bright, accusatory eyes.
Fuck.
“Seungyeon, no, I didn’t-” Xiao Zhan makes out, and Seungyeon shakes his head, slow and final.
“I’ve been so silly,” Seungyeon says, sounding gutted, and Xiao Zhan grabs onto his sleeve in desperation.
The first friend Xiao Zhan’s had in such a long time can’t walk away from him too.
“That’s what you say when you love someone,” Seungyeon insists, and Xiao Zhan’s heart falls to his stomach. “When you love Yibo.”
Xiao Zhan’s mouth is opening and closing on its own now, no sound able to make its way out. His words have all been strangled in his throat.
“Seungyeon, I’m so-” Xiao Zhan begins, tears filling his eyes when Seungyeon slaps him on the back, chuckling heartily.
Stunned, Xiao Zhan stares back at Seungyeon who sighs loudly. “I need to become like you. If you don’t even like Yibo and you can talk like that, I really have to step it up.”
Oh.
“Yeah, definitely, I mean, I’ll help you do it,” Xiao Zhan assures, then sighs in relief as Seungyeon gives him two thumbs-up and a wide grin.
“Awesome,” Seungyeon confirms, and hums a happy tune as he moves to swipe through the messages on Xiao Zhan’s phone. “You’re such a great actor, man.”
“That’s right,” Xiao Zhan says weakly. “Acting.”
==
They make plans to meet Yibo in a small hole-in-the-wall hotpot restaurant across town for dinner.
Well, Seungyeon does.
Xiao Zhan will be sitting on a bench in the park opposite, and Seungyeon will have him on call so he can listen in.
Xiao Zhan doesn’t know what help that’ll provide, especially since he can’t intervene, but Seungyeon had insisted. It’d make him feel more confident, he’d said, pleading eyes and all. So Xiao Zhan had agreed, and earned another best friend hug for his trouble.
Xiao Zhan meets Seungyeon at the school bus stop after taking some time to fill in a few application forms for the arts school that Seungyeon has his eye on. He figures he’ll just give it a shot, and Seungyeon doesn’t need to know even if the application fails.
They reach the restaurant early. Yibo’s already there, leaning against the shop wall next to a sleek, black motorcycle.
“Shit,” Seungyeon suddenly says, and stops smack in the middle of the pavement. Xiao Zhan smashes into him, almost taking the both of them tumbling to the ground. “I changed my mind, maybe not.”
“What do you mean maybe not?” Xiao Zhan demands, both of them watching from behind a bush as Yibo checks his watch. “You’re going in there, Seungyeon.”
And with that, Xiao Zhan pushes him out of the bush just as Yibo looks up and catches a glimpse of him. Obviously recognising Seungyeon, Yibo gives him a short wave.
Great. This is great. Of course Yibo would know Seungyeon. He’s a school athlete, not a nobody like Xiao Zhan.
With that, they walk into the hotpot place together, and just like they’d planned, Seungyeon grabs a seat next to the window so they’re visible to Xiao Zhan.
Xiao Zhan takes his seat on the bench, pointedly ignoring how Yibo’s dressed up a little, done his hair up with wax. Putting his earphones in, Xiao Zhan winces as Seungyeon’s voice comes crackling in through the call.
“So,” Seungyeon’s saying, scratchy like he has a cold. “Nice place, huh.”
“It’s nice, I guess,” Yibo says, and then there’s silence.
There’s a shuffling noise as they order their respective dishes, then silence again. Why isn’t Seungyeon talking?
“I ordered the Henan specialities,” Yibo says, and he sounds unsure. He’s looking at Seungyeon intently, a gaze that makes Seungyeon squirm.
“Ah, those, uh, what, Henan accent,” Seungyeon blabbers, and Xiao Zhan stares through the window at him with dread. He’s remembering the letters wrong. “You have a strong Henan accent, I like it.”
“I do?” Yibo says more than asks, his head quirked in obvious confusion.
“Yes, but it’s multi-dimensional,” Seungyeon continues, like a dumpster truck that's been set on fire, speeding down the highway. “Like the two faces of Beijing.”
“Two faces,” Yibo mutters, and his fingers tap against the tabletop consideringly. “I see.”
This is torture. Xiao Zhan’s on the verge of despair.
Yibo’s obviously wondering what on earth’s happening to Seungyeon, and Seungyeon isn’t helping the situation at all.
Whipping out his phone, Xiao Zhan sends a desperate text to Yibo.
Sorry. I’m nervous.
It’s only a few seconds, but then Yibo’s staring at his phone on the table and picking it up. He glances at Seungyeon, then back at the phone.
“You texted me?” Yibo asks, and Seungyeon thankfully has the presence of mind to pick up his phone and grin weakly at Yibo.
“Yup,” Seungyeon says, and mouths something dramatic at Xiao Zhan through the glass as Yibo looks back down at his phone in his lap.
Why are you nervous?
I get nervous when I’m around you.
Yibo pauses, then a small smile lifts the corners of his lips. He peeks up at Seungyeon, who’s dutifully pretending to type, and back down again.
Why? I’m just another guy.
Xiao Zhan’s heart gives a little pang.
These words are his. That smile belongs to him.
Swallowing, he types a little more.
You mean a lot to me.
Yibo’s about to reply when suddenly Seungyeon gets to his feet, scraping his chair back noisily in the small restaurant. Yibo’s head snaps up to watch Seungyeon with alarmed eyes.
What? No, no, no! What is he doing?
Xiao Zhan can’t help but look on in horror as Seungyeon makes an agitated noise. Yibo’s gaze darts to the other patrons in the restaurant, then back to Seungyeon.
“Wang Yibo! I like you! You’re smart, good-looking, and nice,” Seungyeon exclaims, flinging his arms out wide and almost knocking over a server’s platter as she attempts to get past him. “I just want to hang out with you.”
Xiao Zhan freezes as Yibo blinks back at Seungyeon. He looks down at his phone, obviously trying to match Xiao Zhan’s texts with the enthusiastic footballer in front of him.
There’s an expectant moment that hangs in the air, Seungyeon’s shoulders rising and falling. Then-
“Let’s do it,” Yibo says, a wide grin spreading over his face, and suddenly Xiao Zhan can’t watch.
He can’t watch as Seungyeon sits back down, and Yibo offers him some tripe. Or when Seungyeon gets a little sesame sauce on his mouth, and Yibo wipes it off obligingly. Or when Yibo looks a little too long at Seungyeon, clutching tight to his phone where his messages with Xiao Zhan sit.
Xiao Zhan gets on his bike and pedals away into the dark, in the vague direction of his dorm.
His job is done here, after all.