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“…convinced that they can take care of themselves. And your Zhuo Zhi said–”
“He’s not ‘my Zhuo Zhi’.” The words had left Siyang’s mouth before he was even aware of them.
There was a moment of silence, then a faint sound from the other side of the line. “Pardon me,” Ji Jingwu said, all smoothness, but the amusement in his voice was unmistakable. “A slip of the tongue.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Siyang said in his most expressionless tone. “You were saying?”
“Where was I? Your team. They have begun to adapt. You were right to invite other schools to shake them up. Of course Yu Qing is fundamentally sound, if still lacking in a balanced composition of players, but this isn’t something that cannot be addressed with time. Chi Dayong is also stepping up to his role as acting captain. As for your Zhuo Zhi–”
“He is not,” this time, Siyang had to push the words past gritted teeth, “my Zhuo Zhi.”
“Apologies,” Ji Jingwu said easily, not even missing a beat. “But my point stands. You have nothing to worry about. Focus on your recovery and you’ll be able to come back to China soon.”
Siyang was silent for some time. On one hand, he was grateful for Ji Jingwu’s offer to keep an eye on his team—for whatever reason. It helped him maintain a sort of perspective on things, even half-a-continent away. On the other hand, Siyang had also discovered that he couldn’t entirely trust Ji Jingwu’s motives, especially on this one matter.
Your Zhuo Zhi.
Any other day, he would have let it go and moved on to less riddled subjects. Today, something else took hold of him. Perhaps it was the picture Coach Qi had sent him this morning. It was a photo of his team hard at practice. The image was slightly blurry, the sky grey, the green of the courts less sharp than in his memories—but it was his team and it was his court and it should have been his place, with them, among them.
The truth was the entire time he had been here, in this foreign country, Siyang had never been not homesick. Most days, he could simply ignore it and forced himself to focus on his recovery. It was the only thing that mattered. The photo, however, had brought all the things in the periphery into sharp painful focus; all the regret and yearning, all the missed opportunities and frozen half-smiles and the fact that he was here not there.
And now there was Ji Jingwu, bringing up Zhuo Zhi again and again, calling him his.
“If I hadn’t known you and your penchant for silence, I would have been offended. Are you even listening to me?”
Siyang blinked. An apology was at the tip of his tongue, but what came out of his mouth was something else entirely.
“Why do you insist on calling him my Zhuo Zhi?” he asked instead.
Ji Jingwu gasped, a theatrical sound that made a vein twitch on Siyang’s temple. “Are we going to have this discussion for real today?”
“Yes.”
“Because the last time I tried to mention the subject, you hung up on me.”
Siyang frowned. “I did not. The connection was interrupted.”
“Oh, was it.” Ji Jingwu sounded amused. “I suppose that's the story you’re sticking to.”
“There is no story because it’s the truth. Why do you always call him my Zhuo Zhi?”
“Because, as you said, it’s the truth.” The answer came at once, clear-cut and matter-of-fact. “Because he’s in love with you and you’re in love with him and yet you refuse to do anything about it.”
Siyang made no response. He waited instead—for what, exactly, was unclear, but he waited, tense, breathless with suspense.
Except nothing happened. The walls did not crack. The sky did not fall. The ground did not sink. The world did not end. It was all laid out in the open, a part of him he always strived to hide—and nothing happened.
Slowly, Siyang began to breathe again. Perhaps it was the way Ji Jingwu had said it, as if it had been something mundane, a boring piece of detail hardly worth his excitement. And this was part of the reason why Siyang could examine the idea with something approaching curiosity instead of pushing it away like he always had.
“There is nothing of the kind between us,” he finally spoke, his voice betraying none of the panic roiling inside his chest.
“Only because you don’t allow it.”
“That’s not true. He is my friend, and to him, I am his friend.”
Ji Jingwu said nothing for some time. Siyang was a connoisseur of silences, but he found, to his dismay, that he couldn’t interpret this one. Either that or he liked none of the implications that came to mind and therefore chose to play blind to them. He knew very well how much he could ignore when it came to Zhuo Zhi.
“I see,” Ji Jingwu said at last. “Well, if that’s the story you insist on hiding behind, then I’m not going to argue. Although I must confess to a degree of relief as well.”
Siyang frowned. “Why?”
“Purely out of self-interest. Your Zhuo Zhi– pardon me, your team’s Zhuo Zhi has always been somewhat of a puzzle. I’m not usually fond of puzzles, but thanks to you I’ve had some opportunity to observe him in the past few weeks and, let’s just say, I’m intrigued. I should like to see more of him, naturally with your consent as his captain–”
“I don’t,” Siyang heard himself say.
“You don’t what?”
For a moment, Siyang considered backtracking, maybe hiding behind an excuse—something related to tennis because this was what he always did when anyone so much as touched on the subject of Zhuo Zhi—followed by a swift return to safer if ambiguous waters. He needed to focus. This was the last time he could lead Yu Qing to Nationals. He definitely couldn’t afford any distraction.
It took him only the span of one breath to realize that he had absolutely no desire to take any of it back.
“Consent,” he continued before his habit for caution could catch up with him. “I don’t consent.”
“I thought he wasn’t yours.”
“He wasn’t. Isn’t.”
A pause, and then: “The direction of this conversation is very confusing for me.”
Siyang felt the twitch of a smile on his lips. “You’re not the only one.”
Ji Jingwu heaved a loud dramatic sigh. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to decide on a clear direction. Because I’d love to play against him for real, but unfortunately he only has eyes for you at the moment.”
“You will lose,” Siyang said without thinking.
A pause. He could almost see the wince on Ji Jingwu’s face. “Siyang, that’s not something you say to someone who has been nothing but supportive of both your tennis and your love life.”
“My apologies, but you will lose.”
“It’s touching to see how unshakable your love for him is,” Ji Jingwu said wryly.
“Not love,” Siyang corrected him. “Trust.”
“That’s even worse.”
–
Siyang spent the better part of the day in therapy.
Which meant that he had hours and hours with nothing to do but reflect on the conundrum Ji Jingwu had put inside his head, perhaps with a bit of soul-searching on the side. Pain and exertion always sharpened his focus, and by the end of the session, he had finally gathered enough resolve to pick up his phone and made the call.
“Siyang?”
One word—and Siyang suddenly knew why he had always tried to bury Zhuo Zhi under tennis. The mere sound of his name, the havoc it caused, the way his entire body reacted to his voice; no one else had such an effect on him. Unsettling. Maddening. A destabilizing force. A threat to Mu Siyang’s perfectly orderly life.
“Zhuo Zhi,” he replied slowly, careful to keep his voice neutral, steady. “Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all.” Zhuo Zhi sounded cheerful, at ease, but there was something like wonder in the undertone of his voice, as if he couldn’t quite believe that Siyang was calling him. The thought made Siyang’s heart clench. “I’m not in bed yet. What’s up?”
Siyang had to consciously push the image of Zhuo Zhi in bed out of his head. “Sorry for the late hour. I just finished my therapy for the day.”
“Of course. How is it going?”
And Siyang told him in length, all the way painfully aware that none of these were any of the things he actually wanted to say. Zhuo Zhi listened. His silence was comfortable, attentive, and Siyang let himself be carried by that sense of familiarity. It made him realize that he always had Zhuo Zhi at his side, even though he hadn’t always appreciated it; even though he hadn’t always agreed with Zhuo Zhi’s way of playing, way of thinking, way of seeing the world. And so he talked and talked, until the trickle of small talk exhausted itself and a different kind of silence descended between them.
Zhuo Zhi broke it first. “You’re worried about the team, aren’t you?” he said mildly, amusement lurking between the words.
Siyang cleared his throat. “Not exactly worried, no. I trust you all.”
“Just because you trust us doesn’t mean that you cannot worry.”
“True.” He allowed himself a tiny smile. “But I hear things are going well. Coach Qi is keeping me up to date. Ji Jingwu too. In fact, he just called me earlier.”
“Did he?”
There was something, an inflection in Zhuo Zhi’s tone, that tugged at Siyang’s heartstrings. For a moment, he wondered if he had imagined it. And then he wondered if he should do something about it.
The old cautious Mu Siyang would never.
“He came to the school a few times,” Zhuo Zhi spoke again. This time, his voice was agonizingly, painstakingly neutral. “On your request, I suppose–”
“He called you my Zhuo Zhi.”
Siyang bit his own tongue to prevent himself taking any of the words back. But they were out there, laid out on the bed of silence that unfolded right after—and he had to listen to the hammer of his heartbeat instead, all the cacophony in his ears, in the crowded space between them.
“He called me his?” Zhuo Zhi finally responded, his tone a mix of disbelief and no little dismay.
“No,” Siyang said at once, repulsed, somehow, by the idea. “He called you mine. Mine. Mu Siyang’s.”
“Oh.” Another pause, shorter but no less painful. “Well, that’s a given, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“From my part, at least,” Zhuo Zhi’s voice was smooth, a layer of caution over every word. “I’ve always been yours. But I have no idea how it is on your end, or even if you mind at all.”
“I don’t,” Siyang blurted out, reeling. It felt like his entire body was tingling. Zhuo Zhi was his. He said so himself.
“No?”
“No.” He took a deep steadying breath. “I don’t mind. In fact, I’m glad.”
“Really?” Even half a continent away, he could almost see the beginning of a smile on Zhuo Zhi’s face, small, uncertain, but there. “That’s… unexpected, but very nice to hear.”
“Does it make you happy?”
This time, Zhuo Zhi laughed. “It makes me very happy.”
“I’m glad.” Siyang exhaled slowly. He felt like he was floundering and floating at the same time. Perhaps this was what happiness felt like, maddening, dangerous, frightening in a way that made him want to reach into his phone and put his arms around the very person who made him feel like this. “This makes me happy too. And I think we should have a talk. When I return.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Zhuo Zhi replied, and there was something soft and sweet in the undertone of his voice that made Siyang squeeze his eyes shut, wishing for distance to vanish.
“So am I.”
“We can go fishing again.”
“You don’t like fishing.”
“I can learn. I’m a genius.”
“You are.” Siyang was smiling, so widely that his cheeks hurt. “But I think it should be something we can both enjoy. For our first… outing.”
“You can call it a ‘date’, you know.” There was laughter all over Zhuo Zhi’s voice.
“When it’s a date, you’ll know.”
“Now I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Well, then.” Siyang cleared his throat. “It’s late. You have a good rest.”
“You too, Siyang, have a good day.”
“Good night.” Siyang paused—and because today proved to be the day he broke all his rules, added, “My Zhuo Zhi.”
The sound of Zhuo Zhi’s delighted gasp was entirely worth it.
–