Work Text:
How many elevens can you fit in forever?
One of the first things Gong Jun had learnt about Zhang Zhehan was his birthday.
Giddy with nerves about starting a new project and dipping his toe into the revealing waters of dangai for a second time, he had spent the entire night before their first meeting researching everything he could about Zhehan (and yes, that included all the fuckboy pictures – neon pink tank top, horrendous white jorts, baseball cap worn backwards and all. Gong Jun’s dick had twitched in interest, too, but he’s still in denial about that, because, well, what the hell).
Horrified, strangely aroused, and then horrified by his own arousal, Gong Jun had quickly clicked off image search and located Zhehan’s Baidu page, containing a prolific list of all his previous roles. Gong Jun might not call himself the most avid of television watchers – it’s weird watching TV when you’ve seen all these actors around, as real people, and they’d treated you like shit because you were a nobody – but he didn’t live under a rock; he’d watched Nirvana in Fire, and he’s pretty sure he’s seen his younger cousin watching the Legend of Yunxi at some point (Ju Jingyi was her celebrity crush – Gong Jun approves; he’d met her at some event and, contrary to popular belief, she’s utterly gorgeous even up close. He may be gay, but he has functional eyes, and it certainly helped that she was one of the only people who didn’t act like he was invisible). Personality aside, he had definite faith in his future partner’s acting ability, at least; he knew he would have to work doubly hard to match him, but he liked that – Gong Jun has always appreciated a good challenge.
Aside from that, though, there wasn’t much that caught his eye. Stuck playing carbon copies of the same dull, arrogant love interest in overdone idol dramas, it was no surprise that this Zhang Zhehan hadn’t managed to leave a lasting impression despite his great skill at acting.
Now, Gong Jun is self-aware; he knows his weaknesses, one being that he takes a while to warm up to people, and he was willing to do his part to catalyse the end of what will be his inevitable awkwardness with his co-star. He scrolled back up to view Zhehan’s personal details, looking for potential things they had in common to facilitate future conversation (spoiler alert: he doesn’t find much).
When they met the next day at training, no amount of research could’ve prepared Gong Jun for how intimidating Zhang Zhehan’s presence was in real life (or how insanely, unbelievably attractive he was – the pictures really did not do him justice, wow. He had his hair tied up in a little ponytail and he was wearing a Gucci embossed T-shirt paired with pink camo shorts, and Gong Jun wanted to burn his entire wardrobe but also kind of maybe fuck him against it and uh oh, that’s going to be a problem that future Gong Jun will have to deal with).
He had felt like a tightly strung bow all day, palms sweaty and brain an empty mess of nerves. At least Zhehan was kind enough to look away politely every time he’d tripped over his own feet. By the time the day was coming to a close, they hadn’t exchanged a single word apart from hello.
As Zhehan packed up his things beside him, Gong Jun mustered up the courage to start a conversation — but all that came out of his stupid mouth was a stuttered, “Zhang-laoshi, I hear your birthday is on the eleventh of May.”
Zhang Zhehan had blinked his big, round eyes up at him slowly, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion (and oh God he’s so pretty, Gong Jun wants the ground to swallow him whole).
“Ah… Um, yes; yes, it is.”
“Mine’s on the twenty-ninth of November. We both have the number eleven in our birthdays, haha.” Oh my God Gong Jun Simon what the fuck are you even saying shut up shut up shut up—
Zhehan had levelled a questioning gaze at him, not sure as to where this was headed.
“That’s… that’s nice.”
As he spoke, he hoisted his backpack over his shoulder, biceps flexing nicely as he did so (stop staring, you creep, he’s going to notice), and smiled warmly at Gong Jun.
“I’ve got to go now, but it was nice meeting you, Gong-laoshi. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
As he turned and left, all Gong Jun could do was drown in embarrassment at the disaster of a conversation that had just unfolded.
(Meanwhile, Zhehan was holding back a smile, mentally beating himself up for actually finding this awkward, attractive beanstalk of a man endearing, what the fuck.)
When the two of them had first begun officially shooting Shan He Ling, they were like ice and water — Zhehan cold from wariness, and Gong Jun quiet with nerves. There was, as Ma-jie had so delicately put it, no spark. This was a great cause of concern for the directing crew — the difference between dangai dramas and the typical heterosexual romance was that they relied so much more heavily on chemistry. When dialogue was cut by the strict, bespectacled eyes of censors, chemistry alone needed to wordlessly convey affection; where physical touch could have sufficed, chemistry was needed to replace gentle kisses with a simple, softened gaze. You needed chemistry to make sure that just eye contact alone could convey the message I love you so much it feels like my soul has been set on fire, and from this moment onwards I swear that wherever you go I will unhesitatingly follow; you needed chemistry to make sure that just a sultry graze of the back of your hands could translate into I can’t wait till night falls because I would like you to fuck me, please and thank you; you needed chemistry to get across the message that this orphaned child — you know, the one that's been following the two of you around everywhere for the past few weeks, that child — yeah, we’ve actually had an unspoken agreement and he's our adopted son now, even if he can’t call us diedie and baba outright.
So, yes, chemistry was more than important.
To fix what seemed to be their startling lack of it, they were made by Ma-jie (that ruthless, incredible woman to whom they now owe so much, ruling the set with her iron fist) to spend every waking moment in each other's company — not that there was much else to do, locked up in the punishing heat of Hengdian. Meals, travel, after-work hours… Even the one time Zhehan had gone to watch a film further out in town, when it’d all gotten a bit too maddening having to see the same people every waking moment, Gong Jun had instinctively followed. The thought of telling him to leave didn’t even manage to cross Zhehan’s mind before Gong Jun gave him The Eyes (the puppy ones, not to be confused with The Eyes ™ much later on, the ones that always sent a thrill running down Zhehan’s spine — those eyes were reserved for when the dark had settled and their bedroom doors locked) and he lost all ability to deny him anything. They were almost made to share trailers, too, but Ma-jie realised that that would perhaps be too cruel and potentially counter-productive, so they managed to get away scot-free from that one. Throw in a few more "bonding experiences" (read: Zhehan trying his best — and failing — to hold back his laughter whenever Gong Jun tripped over his own feet on set, and Gong Jun glaring at him and calling him rude but cooking him food during their lunch break anyways), and finally, the Hengdian sun succeeded in melting the ice, with the two of them becoming inseparable — by choice, this time. It soon became instinct for Zhehan to lean in and brush the stray strands of hair out of Gong Jun’s face whenever they had breaks from filming (and maybe he started coming closer and closer just to hear the other’s breath hitch), just as it became instinct for Gong Jun to wordlessly massage Zhehan’s knee whenever he rested his leg on Gong Jun’s thigh, as they sat on the couch together running their lines.
Three weeks into filming, they grew to be like oil and fire. Wrapped up in that hypnotising summer heat and burning with the heady excitement of a newfound romance, they were alight with a burning intensity that threatened to consume them. Every touch was explosive, and every gaze shared electrifying. Retrospectively, maybe the flames they set off were too hot, too bright, too threatening — maybe that's why people were so quick to put them out.
They had a glorious two months in the little, comforting bubble that was Shan He Ling. Armed with supportive cast members that teased but never stared whenever they were caught with their faces just a bit too close, as well as the mundane, encouraging protection of relative anonymity, they felt invincible. The months after that, with sudden fame throwing them onto the highway and distance dragging them at full speed, posed the first challenge to their relationship, but it was nothing they couldn’t handle. Any rare but precious gaps in schedules were spent holed up in Zhehan’s cosy apartment in Shanghai, and lonely nights were made warm cocooned in their respective blankets, with the other’s smiling image on FaceTime as company. Some days were tougher than others, but they made do — and it’s good that they did, because nothing could have prepared them for the storm that awaited.
They used to joke that they didn’t have much in common apart from the number eleven (and their astounding stubbornness, but that doesn’t really count if you consider how they’ll always let the other have his way) and so, gradually, it became their thing. It started when Zhehan, the disgusting romantic that he was, read The Fault in Our Stars and called Gong Jun at two in the morning, sniffling and demanding that they have an “always” of their own. Gong Jun, groggy with sleep from a rare early night, had immediately sat up when he heard the muffled sounds of Zhehan crying through the phone. When he’d heard the cause of Zhehan’s distress, he'd smiled in fond relief.
“Idiot,” he’d whispered into the phone. “This is what you woke me up for?”
Zhehan had laughed wetly on the other end of the phone.
“It’s important, okay?” He paused, and then added, “I forgot how sexy your voice is when you’ve just woken up, by the way. It’s so deep. Hi, I’m Gong Jun, your resident DILF, how would you like to be fucked today?” He lowered his voice comically to imitate.
Gong Jun groaned exasperatedly, but was still unable to keep the smile off his face as he shifted into a more comfortable position with his phone against his ear.
“You’re insufferable.” His boyfriend was a menace, and he’d take every possible chance to tell him as much.
Zhehan had giggled in response, before there was a rustling sound as he also readjusted his position. “No, but seriously, Junjun. Can we have our own thing, pretty please? It’s so romantic.”
Gong Jun could practically hear the pout in his voice. Everyone always thinks he’s the one who manipulates Zhehan with his puppy eyes, but if they only saw the way Zhehan could sajiao when he really put his heart into it — Gong Jun doesn’t think it physically possible for any human to deny him anything.
He sighed in playful relent. “Fine, fine. What do you have in mind?”
He knew that this was mostly a joke, that it had been months since they’d last seen each other and that the real reason Zhehan called was simply to hear his voice, but he was content with humouring the elder. Deep down, he also sensed that there was something more personal about this proposition — with their every action analysed under a microscope, their relationship had become much of an open secret amongst eagle-eyed fans; and whilst Gong Jun was more than happy with showing off his laopo, there were also times when both wished they could have something private, a secret of their own.
They considered things like stars and moons or cute pet names, but those could apply to any relationship, and they wanted something more unique to them. After debating back and forth on what could accurately represent them, they'd finally settled on the number eleven.
Of course it had been Zhehan who suggested that, too, even if purely to tease Gong Jun about their first ever conversation – Zhehan will never let him live that one down – but Gong Jun had laughed and let the word sit warmly in his chest, keeping him grounded as he hummed in contemplation. In many ways, it was the only thing they had that really, undeniably overlapped — the eleventh of May, the twenty-ninth of November. Eleven was the crossover in the Venn diagram that was their lives together, keeping them inextricably linked — just like their cheekily intertwined fingers under the table during livestreams, or their interlocked pinkies backstage after Zhehan promised him forever, that fateful evening in May.
Eleven. It became an unspoken promise they shared, synonymous with forever, yet also a singular moment.
So, perhaps it makes sense that the first time they see each other again is in July, exactly eleven months later. They’ve always had an uncanny affinity with the number.
When everything had happened in August, with Gong Jun’s entire world crumbling at his feet, he’d raged. He’d just arrived at the venue for a photoshoot when his assistant, who was scrolling on Weibo, gasped audibly behind him, face paling. He hadn’t thought much of it, until he overheard her talking about it with his make-up artist when they both thought he had dozed off. He’d snatched her phone from her hand to see it for himself, and there it was, the damning hot search that foreshadowed the many others to come in the next, torturous twenty-four hours. It was the final nail in the coffin after weeks of malicious whispers and cruel accusations, the harshest indictment for a non-existent crime. He’d reached for his phone, only to see that he’d been logged out of all of his social media accounts by his manager. Knowing him too well, she had changed all his passwords the minute she found out to prevent a disaster if he were to post anything on impulse. Helpless, he’d thrashed and cried and screamed like a child, madly demanding to leave the shoot and board the first plane to see Zhehan, to hold him and make sure he was okay, and maybe burn this corrupt, perverted world to the ground on his way back. He noted faintly that he was being immature, reckless, but his desire to make sure Zhehan was alright drowned out all sensibility. His first priority has always been Zhehan.
How is he expected to go through all of this alone? All the while, this was a haunting mantra ringing in his head – and the loudest, most terrifying thought of them all, because Gong Jun is still human, still selfish: how am I supposed to keep doing any of this without him?
Dizzy with grief, with rage, with disbelief, he’d promptly collapsed onto his knees and retched onto the tiled floor.
When he’d calmed down and his brain been reduced to a blank, fuzzy mess of static, he called Zhehan.
“I’m okay,” was the first thing he’d said when he picked up. “Worry about yourself.”
Zhehan had sounded more okay than Gong Jun himself, and he had wanted to laugh at the disgusting injustice of it all. Instead, he’d grit his teeth, infuriated by how Zhehan — that maddening, impossible man whom he loved so, so much — was still telling him to worry about himself, to protect himself quick before the fire spread to him, too, not even letting Gong Jun get a word in even if just to care about his fucking boyfriend, to comfort him and offer him a shoulder to cry on.
“Zhehan”, he’d said, quietly, forcing the other’s name out of his throat as if it were a treasure that he resented having to share. “You know I’m not going to leave you.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, a deafening silence compared to the endless instructions that Zhehan had been pouring into his ear just seconds prior, all of them pleading Gong Jun to leave, leave now, I’ll be okay, please Junjun just do what everyone else is doing and go, I can do this by myself, you have to get as far away as you can from me. At the stubborn certainty in Gong Jun’s voice, however, Zhehan had laughed. There was more pain in that laugh than Gong Jun had ever heard in his lifetime, and any remnants of his heart had shattered right then and there.
“I know.” Zhehan had sounded so tired, so defeated, frustrated, but soft, still as soft as he’d always been. “I know. I wish you would.” He’d sniffed, and then, quietly, “But I’m also glad you’re not.”
At that, Gong Jun felt the hot tears that had been scalding the corners of his eyes finally break free, his vision swimming as the back of his throat burned with all the things he wished he had the words to say. Instead, he stayed quiet.
It was silent for a moment, before Zhehan exhaled shakily.
“So, what now?” he’d asked quietly, sounding so lost and afraid, and no, this isn’t right, this isn’t him. Gong Jun isn’t stupid; he knows his boyfriend isn’t perfect, that Zhehan was no flawless, fearless hero, but the uncertainty permeating his voice? That was a stranger to Gong Jun. He’d heard Zhehan sound nervous, anxious, afraid before — but he’d never heard him sound so lost. It was as if Zhehan didn’t know which direction to go in anymore, now that his life had been stripped from him and any alternative routes long incinerated. Gong Jun’s arms burned with the desire to hold him close and set fire to the world.
“I don’t know,” he’d finally replied, lead stones settling in his stomach. “But whatever happens next, I will be here. Nothing you do or say can make me go. I love you.”
“Okay,” Zhehan had relented quietly, and Gong Jun felt relief flood his chest. Then, softly, “I know.” And he'd hung up.
Gong Jun had known, right then, that it would be a while before he’d be able to hear the elder’s voice again, but that was okay. He was fine with waiting. He’d promised that nothing would make him leave, that he’d always be here, just as Zhehan had so readily promised him, and he’d meant it. Everything else in the world could change, but that would remain constant.
A few days later, Gong Jun got the call from Xiao Yu that he’d been expecting.
“No posting.” Xiao Yu had said in lieu of a hello. “You can text him through me for now, while we wait for things to calm down; no one will think to trace my number, and Zhehan is adamant that nothing you do can lead back to him. Call him paranoid, but after what happened—“
“I get it,” Gong Jun interrupted. It’d be easier to be angry, to throw a fit and demand that the unfair world give him back all that he was owed, including the lover who was meant to be by his side, but he knew he would do the same thing if he was in Zhehan’s shoes.
“He told me to try and convince you again to unfollow him on social media, even if all his accounts have been suspended now, and to delete all mentions of him.” Xiao Yu paused to allow Gong Jun to object, but at Gong Jun’s determined silence, he signed, knowing it to be a refusal — just as they’d all expected. “Worth a try. Anyways, keeping traceable contact to a minimum includes no meeting for the foreseeable future.” To prevent Gong Jun from protesting, he’d quickly added, “Zhehan says this is not up for argument.”
Gong Jun had sighed. He’d been expecting this. His manager had told him the same thing this morning; she’d warned him of the risks of associating with Zhang-laoshi purely out of professional obligation, knowing full well that her lecture was falling upon deaf ears. Nearing the end of her speech, she’d sat down next to Gong Jun, and said, voice softened, “As your manager, I know I can’t tell you to break-up with Zhang-laoshi, and as your jie, I wouldn’t even if I could. I know you’re a sensible person, but you know how sensitive everything is right now, so please tread cautiously, and don’t do anything that could jeopardise your career. I,” — she inhaled deeply before continuing — “I spoke to Yu Xiang, and Zhang-laoshi and I both agree that it’d be a good idea if you didn’t see each other for a while.”
Gong Jun had smiled weakly, thanking her for her concern; he knew he had a responsibility to the people working with him, who relied on him to feed their families. He couldn’t afford to act selfishly, no matter how much he yearned to.
“…Gong-laoshi? Are you still there? I know it’s a lot to take in, but we spoke with people on your end too, and we all agree this is best for both of you,” Xiao Yu said.
Gong Jun swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. As long as I get to know he’s alright.”
At that, Xiao Yu’s voice had softened.
“I’m sorry it had to be this way. He’s doing this for you, yes, but for himself, too,” Xiao Yu said carefully, and it was only then that Gong Jun noticed how tired and hoarse his voice seemed, too. “You know Zhehan. Just give him a few months to figure things out for himself, to figure out how he fits in with all this — to reconcile your life together with the life that’s just been snatched from him without warning. He may be strong, but this is a whole lot for one person to take in in such a short amount of time, and— Well. You get it, I’m sure. He acts all tough but…” — and here Xiao Yu exhaled shakily — “but he’s really just a man with a heart of gold, too kind for this world and definitely too kind for this industry. It’s why I agreed to be his assistant; so I can be there, by his side, and keep the sharp things from hurting him… Just this time, they were too quick for me to stop.”
And while a small part of Gong Jun’s heart irrationally yelled that I want to be there too, he found comfort, more than anything else, in knowing that Zhehan wasn’t alone.
“Thank you,” he managed to say past the desert that was slowly filling up his throat. “For taking care of him for so long.”
Xiao Yu was silent for a while, and when he started speaking again there was an obvious tremor to his voice.
“I know how it feels, trust me, seeing someone you care about so deeply face all this pain that he doesn’t deserve and not being able to do anything about it – but he’s a smart man; he can take care of himself. Try not to worry. He loves you more than anything; I’m sure you know that, and the last thing he’d want to do is hurt you. Just give him some time.”
Gong Jun swallowed, nodding even though he knew the other man wouldn’t be able to see him.
“Oh, and before I forget — I’m not sure what this means, but I’m sure you do — he told me to tell you he’s got no intention of breaking his promise.”
“I know.” At this Gong Jun had smiled, softly but surely.
I will always be here.
Even through all of this, he’d never doubted that for a single minute — distance, silence, or not. They would never leave each other.
“And I’ll be waiting.”
Park bench outside your apartment complex, whenever your recording finishes. Thank you for being so patient with me.
Then,
I’ve really, really missed you, Junjun.
The past few months had been the longest, most painful months of Gong Jun’s entire life. In the beginning, every time they Facetimed each other, Zhehan had been anxious. He kept telling Gong Jun to check that the door was locked or that there were no hidden cameras in his dressing room, that there was no way Gong Jun would be caught speaking to him, and Gong Jun’s heart had broken every time at how deeply Zhehan was hurting. Thankfully, as time passed, he gradually got better, until he no longer jolted at any slight disturbance on Gong Jun’s end.
And while that was nice, being able to see Zhehan through the screen and watch his hollowed cheeks slowly fill out and regain their colour, it was far from easy. Nights were spent staring up at the ceiling, Zhehan’s soft breathing ringing out from the tinny speakers on Gong Jun’s phone as his heart ached with the desire to wind his arms around that familiar, narrow waist and pull him close until their bodies were soldered together, never to part. As time passed, and Gong Jun’s career continued to rise, work also naturally increased, and time for long conversations on the phone about everything and nothing became few and far between. In some ways, he childishly resented his work, partly for stealing his precious time that could be better spent talking to Zhehan, and partly because every time he stared at yet another shining stage or array of blinding lights, his heart tugged with the reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be here alone; that where his singular shadow graced the plush, red carpet beneath his feet, there should have been another silhouette following closely behind.
And every time he saw familiar faces feigning friendship, from the same people who had tucked their tails between their legs and ran, the weight of his ring would pull gently on his fourth finger, reminding his hardening heart of the harsh-lipped, soft-hearted man who, through it all, kept choosing to forgive.
The last time they’d talked, the conversation was cut short by Gong Jun’s assistant knocking on the door to signal that shooting was about to begin prematurely. Zhehan had hesitated as they were about to hang up, reaching up to bite his thumb before Gong Jun swatted the camera in disapproval as he had always done.
Zhehan had paused before saying, quietly, “I think I’ll be ready soon. If that’s okay. We’ll have to figure out the details, make sure you don’t get caught, but… Soon, I think. I miss you, Junjun.”
Gong Jun had felt tears rush to his eyes, and he'd had to rapidly blink them away in order not to smudge the eyeliner that his make-up artist had carefully applied earlier. The whole situation had been relatively calm for a while, and he knew that, slowly but surely, things were taking a turn for the better. Everything was far from over, but he’d established himself well enough in the past few months that his career wouldn’t be easily shaken by unproven rumours, and all the risks were worth it if it meant he could see Zhehan again, hold him close and breathe him in.
He lets his driver go home early that night after wrapping up recording, driving himself home via the long route to throw off any potential fans following him as his fingers tap the wheel in anticipation. As he rounds the corner and drives into his street, he sees a small figure wrapped in a thick coat and scarf, of which an identical version hangs in his own closet, and Gong Jun’s breath hitches as he makes his way gently towards him.
When Zhehan hears his footsteps, he stands and turns to face him, eyes widening and filling up with unshed tears. His nose and the tips of his ears are dyed a blush pink by the cold, and his pretty, perfect eyes are shining, just as they had when they’d first met.
He looks beautiful, as always. Gong Jun never wants to have to look away.
“Hi,” Zhehan breathes, delight lacing his voice. There’s a spark dancing in his eye, the same light that has always been there, that Gong Jun hadn’t realised, until this exact moment, he’d been afraid would be gone, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He didn’t even realise he’d been holding his breath.
“Hey.” Gong Jun smiles back, gaze soft and echoing the same, ceaseless I love yous that are reflected in Zhehan’s own, as he crosses the three metres between them to pull him into his waiting arms.
Eleven is a prime number. Maybe that makes it more special, rarer; there’s less overlap between it and all the infinite multitudes that come next, the same way a leap year is special because you only get to experience it so often. A lot of the time, love requires waiting, it requires patience and turbulation, but the moment you meet again will make all that time apart seem insignificant.
“I don’t like this show.”
Gong Jun tears his eyes away from the screen, turning to place his attention on Zhehan, who is scowling next to him as if the television has personally offended him.
“What is it this time?”
“Her name is Eleven.” Zhehan’s frown deepens, directing his glare at a very amused Gong Jun. In front of them, Stranger Things plays on the flatscreen TV, buffering every so often from the VPN that Gong Jun used to torrent the show. He’d heard people raving about it on Weibo, and since they didn’t have anything to do that afternoon, had persuaded Zhehan to start the series with him (it’s very clear that Zhehan isn’t enjoying it; he’s been complaining for the past half hour, and if it wasn’t actually kind of a good show, Gong Jun would’ve relented long ago. Zhehan claims the dialogue is boring, but Gong Jun thinks he’s just stubborn and, since he’d very adamantly insisted before starting that he hated all western TV, refuses to give it a chance).
Gong Jun schools his expression into one of feigned seriousness, but even then he can’t stop the corners of his lips from twitching in mirth. He raises an eyebrow.
“… And?”
“And? That’s our thing!” Zhehan cries, pouting in spite of himself. “Junjun, she stole our thing!”
Gong Jun stares at Zhehan, incredulous, before bursting out into laughter at the genuinely distraught look on his face. Before long, Zhehan can’t hold it in anymore and joins in, the two of them laughing themselves to tears on the couch.
It’s so reminiscent of old times, doubling over at the most ridiculous, inane things whilst the people around them give each other questioning looks. It happened often enough back on set, with the rest of the crew raising their eyebrows or shaking their heads fondly, not privy to the joke but appreciating their boisterous laughter amidst the stress of work.
Except this time, the curtains are drawn tight, and there’s no one here but them, hidden in the little cocoon they’ve built where nothing can touch them, and all their troubles seem miles away. It’s nice, in more ways than one; they’ve both had about enough of being scrutinised. Here, in the comfort of Zhehan’s living room, they can leave the windows closed and suffocate in each other’s breaths, block out the gaps in the curtains with their intertwined silhouettes and stay imprisoned in their little bubble together, where everything is okay, they’re okay, and it’s nice, nicer than any golden stage and beaming lights. Here, Zhehan can wordlessly clamber onto Gong Jun’s lap, pull him into an impassioned kiss that steals his breath away even after all this time, soft lips pressed against his like yet another unbreakable promise, sealing their fates together with nothing more than a quiet smile.
A sudden, grotesque howl from the television screen breaks them apart, panting for breath and stunned by the noise. Gong Jun is about to lean in again, one hand latching onto Zhehan’s jaw and the other his waist, when he makes the mistake of catching sight of the screen through the corner of his eye and lets out a shrill scream.
“Oh my God, what the fuck is that?!” He shrieks.
Zhehan starts in surprise, turning to see what caused such a reaction, just in time to see a Demogorgon rip out of a wall, slime and scales and all.
“Why does it have so many teeth?” Zhehan wrinkles his nose in distaste, before the two of them exchange a glance at the utter absurdity of it all, bursting out into peals of laughter yet again.
“Yeah, I think that’s enough of that.” Gong Jun gets up from the couch after a while and reaches for the remote, ridding of the disgusting scene on screen of what appears to be a Demogorgon trying to deepthroat a six-foot-tall white man.
Right on cue, Zhehan’s stomach rumbles, and Gong Jun grins, heading towards the kitchen to make them some food while Zhehan smiles happily from the couch. Every time Gong Jun cooks for him – which is, well, too often to count – he finds himself reminded of all the times the younger made chicken soup and fish noodles for him on set, as well as the sneaky 2 a.m snacks they always used to have whenever a storm delayed their night shoots. They would hide in Zhehan’s trailer and play drinking games to pass the time, except the penalty was to eat the snacks that their managers would definitely have confiscated had they known. They called it a penalty, but they’d both try to lose on purpose (as Gong Jun liked to say, it takes a strong man to resist a good old bag of Lang Wei Xian), and they’d end up chatting aimlessly and eating snacks for hours. (If the makeup jie-jies scolded them or sighed exasperatedly the next morning as they entered with sheepish smiles and slightly bloated faces — well, Zhehan and Gong Jun's hefty apology red packets made up for it.)
“Hey, Junjun,” Zhehan suddenly calls. Gong Jun pokes his head out from the kitchen door, eyebrows raised and gaze as gentle as ever. Attentive, as he's always been when it comes to Zhehan. Something in Zhehan’s heart instinctively clenches, and he finds himself overflowing with so much gratitude and joy and love that for a moment, he doesn’t quite know what he wants to say. He feels so lucky, so lucky that the winds are changing, so lucky that he gets to love and be loved so deeply; that for this moment, the two of them can stay here, together, with Gong Jun cooking for him in his kitchen while he lounges on the sofa, singing tunelessly together and laughing without restraint – no matter what happens, he’ll have this, always, and the lingering remnants of tension in his heart finally subside in exchange for a bright, uninhibited smile.
"I’ll come with you to set tomorrow, yeah? I haven’t seen Cheng-dao in a while, anyway, and I should probably go say hi, take him up on that offer to shadow him for a few weeks before I decide to take up directing for real," Zhehan says, casually but decisively.
Gong Jun freezes, taking in his words, before he feels his lungs explode from the sheer warmth that overcomes him. Zhehan may have said it with nonchalance, but he hears the strength and vulnerability buried in those words. He hears the admission that Zhehan is okay now, truly, that everything has been set into motion once more; that he’s getting ready to step back into the life that he loves so much, the life that belongs to him. He knows this means that Zhehan can finally look at the hope of the future without seeing the pain of the past, holding his memories close to his heart without feeling like they’re burning his skin, and awe floods him and drowns out all his senses as he stands before this man, stronger than anyone he’s ever known.
Gong Jun could spend every day of the rest of his life with Zhehan (and he will), and he’d still have more to learn from him. Slowly, the shock on his face softens into a devastating, euphoric smile.
"Okay." There’s a lump in Gong Jun's throat, a heat that threatens to choke him as he feels his eyes grow damp. "I’d really, really like that.”
That’s the thing about the number eleven. It seems to end there, tangible, two uneven strokes on paper, almost parallel. But what you don’t see is that the lines stretch on, even as the ink runs out, past the edges of the notepad; the two ones reach towards each other, shooting off into the distance, until eventually, they cross paths again.
So we beat on, boats against the current, nothing but hope setting our sails; we work harder, burn brighter; we reach out and run towards you, waiting for the day we cross paths again – and while for the last four months this impossible dream has eluded us, your light at the end of the dock, glowing blue like forget-me-nots, seems so close now that if we were to just try and reach out and grab it—
How many elevens can you fit into forever?
The answer? As many as you’d like, for as long as you’re willing to wait. There are an infinite possibilities, but what I’m certain of is this — eventually, we will see you again, different but the same, and the bettered versions of you and me will bridge the narrowing gap between our lines, making our way towards each other. I will pull you into my embrace, and think, “It’s been a while, I’ve missed you”; I will hold you even, impossibly tighter; and I will smile and say, “Welcome home.”