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There are two and a half hours left in Feng Xin’s shift when he hears a familiar voice on the drive-through speaker.

“Diet Coke, fries, and ice cream.”

As soon as the speaker says this, he drives straight up to the window and parks. Feng Xin gapes at him, but Mu Qing simply raises an eyebrow.

He’s sitting in one of his father’s cars—a vintage red convertible—with the roof rolled down. It’s nearly two in the morning but there’s a pair of oversized sunglasses on his head pushing back the curtains of hair, and he lounges with a silk scarf around his neck. Feng Xin quickly types the order into the system and walks to the drive-through window, peeling himself reluctantly away from the fan he’d planted himself beside. The sticky heat of the summer night clings to him as he leans out the window.

“How’d you get the car?” Feng Xin asks with a scowl. Mu Qing shrugs languidly.

“How’d someone with a temper like you manage to get a job in customer service?” He replies drolly, letting his head loll against the headrest as he levels Feng Xin with a deadpan look.

Somehow, Feng Xin manages to talk himself down instead of taking the bait and takes a deep breath before plastering on a smile and flashing Mu Qing the middle finger as he turns away from the window. He checks his phone. This shift is dragging. He pokes his head into the kitchen where Hua Cheng is tossing a batch of fries one-handed and texting with the other. How he managed to wheedle his way into a supervisory position is beyond Feng Xin’s comprehension. The ice cream machine takes two good whacks to stop spluttering and work properly. Mu Qing didn’t specify any toppings but Feng Xin knows what he wants. He scoops on some glazed cherries and covers it all in dark chocolate.

“Fries are ready,” Hua Cheng calls out distractedly, refusing to look up from his phone.

“How’s Xie Lian?” Feng Xin asks, unsure why. Hua Cheng scowls in reply like Feng Xin isn’t allowed to ask, and he grabs the small take-out bag and leaves before Hua Cheng replies, if he was even going to. He doesn’t know what possessed him to bother. Hua Cheng is a prick and always will be.

Mu Qing is staring off into the distance when Feng Xin returns.

“Your order is ready, sir,” Feng Xin says in the best customer service voice he can muster. Mu Qing looks disgusted.

“Never use that voice again,” he says, accepting the bag, “on anyone. Ever. I’m doing the world a favour.”

“And is there anything else I can get you today?” Feng Xin asks in reply, ignoring him. Mu Qing curls his nose and opens his bag as if he intends to settle here for the night. Feng Xin leans his elbows on the window, he has nothing better to do.

“Is the bastard working tonight?” Mu Qing asks, eating a spoon of ice cream and sucking on it until it comes out clean. Feng Xin frowns in displeasure, that’s enough of an answer.

“Rip to you,” Mu Qing says, picking a fry out of his bag, bending it in half, and dunking it into the ice cream—a diabolical action Feng Xin has already made his disapproval of known many, many times.

“It’s R-I-P, not ‘rip’.”

Mu Qing snorts. “Takes too long.”

“It really doesn’t.”

Mu Qing shrugs and offers out the bag of fries while slurping on his Diet Coke. Feng Xin accepts a few and nibbles on them slowly.

“What the fuck does Xie Lian see in him anyway?” Feng Xin asks after a moment, they’ve had this conversation a lot. Mu Qing only rolls his eyes and scoops another round of fries and ice cream—this time with a glazed cherry balanced on top—into his mouth. Feng Xin winces.

“No clue,” Mu Qing replies through his mouthful of food. “Busy tonight?”

Feng Xin shakes his head.

“Wanna come with me?”

Feng Xin narrows his eyes at Mu Qing. “Where?”

Mu Qing shrugs. “Dunno—anywhere.”

Feng Xin doesn’t reply and Mu Qing scowls.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns.

“I’m working,” Feng Xin says like Mu Qing is stupid, though he would, in fact, argue that he is most days.

“Then quit.”

“I don’t have the money—”

“You work in a fucking fast food restaurant, Feng Xin. You’ll get another job in another just as shitty one easily, though we both know you could do so much better. I have my father’s bank card and need to get out of this place. You coming or not?” With that Mu Qing revs the car and glares at Feng Xin, and Feng Xin knows that Mu Qing will drive off in a moment regardless of Feng Xin’s answer.

He considers it.

“Also think how fucking pissed Hua Cheng his Royal Bastardness will suffer if you climb out that window right now.”

Feng Xin will probably regret this one day.

He climbs out the window, throws his stupid little baseball hat and apron back inside and skids across the bonnet before jumping the door on the passenger side. The drive-through buzzer begins to sound. Mu Qing puts his foot on the gas.

It’s almost light by the time they stop. Feng Xin blinks awake though he doesn’t know when he fell asleep. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust and he sees the muted lights of a gas station in front of him.

“You drool in your sleep.” Mu Qing lifts his sunglasses just to make sure Feng Xin can read the height of his disgust.

“And you fucking talk,” Feng Xin mumbles back, grumpy from being woken up, the tiredness not completely out of his system. He’ll be grumpy for at least an hour. “Why’d we stop?”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes before opening the door and stepping out. He stretches—one of those long, full-body ones that run up your spine—then rolls his head from side to side. “We’re at a gas station, give a guess, idiot.” With that, he walks around the car and picks up the pump. “And since you’re awake, Sleeping Beauty, you can go pay for it. And get snacks. 8888." He fishes in his back pocket and then tosses a gold bank card at Feng Xin. He catches it and looks at it, his brain taking a few seconds too long to process it. Right, Mu Qing had told him he had his father’s bank card—but he had never said how. They don’t exactly get along, he can’t imagine his father telling him to just go on an all-expenses paid road trip. He looks up at Mu Qing, but he’s carefully watching the numbers tick on the petrol pump. He’ll ask. Eventually.

“That’s a terrible pin number,” he says, watching the light play across the foil.

“And my father’s a terrible person.”

He needs to change the topic. “Anything you want?” Feng Xin asks, pushing open the door.

“I dunno. Anything. Nothing terrible.”

“Would you like a bag for that?”

Feng Xin looks up from the armload of food he’s balancing and fixes the teller with a sarcastic look, but it looks like he’s been through seven stages of sleep deprivation and so Feng Xin only grumbles a begrudging yeah before paying for it and the gas.

“Hey, did I ever charge you for your food?” he asks when he gets back to the car. Mu Qing is fixing his ponytail on his head and then pulling out the curtains that frame his face before shaking them to add volume, or so that’s what he said when Feng Xin asked why he does that.

“Nope,” he replies and holds out a hand for one of the coffees Feng Xin picked up last second.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s the plan exactly?” Feng Xin asks, cleaning the crisp dust on his fingers on his jeans. They haven’t left the gas station yet. It’s quiet, only the odd truck pulling in and out.

Mu Qing shrugs. “There is none,” he says, chasing a strawberry lace into his mouth.

Feng Xin should probably ask all the questions he hasn’t yet.

Mu Qing sighs. “I dunno. Drive until we run out of money or my father cuts me off,” he shrugs again. “I dunno.”

That answers one question.

“Do I wanna know how you got the car?”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “I dunno, do you?”

Feng Xin isn’t sure. Does he? Does he care?

No, he decides, he doesn’t. There is one other question he would like to ask, but Mu Qing is looking at him with something like derision and an arched eyebrow and any chances of asking dissipate.

“Swap,” he says instead and Mu Qing’s face really does twist into something derisive now.

“No.”

“You haven’t fucking slept, idiot. Yes, I see the pile of Monster cans but they’ll only get you so far. Swap.”

Mu Qing stares him down for another few seconds that stretch into minutes before rolling his eyes as usual, and then climbing onto his seat and over the gearbox until he’s hovering over Feng Xin—who feels his heart suddenly lurch and quicken—and straddles him, his shoulders stooped because of the car’s low roof so Feng Xin can feel his breath. Then he lifts his left knee and raises an eyebrow until Feng Xin’s brain kicks back into gear and he’s awkwardly scrambling across the gearbox into the driver’s seat. Without thinking, he starts the car and pulls out, his body working from muscle memory and luckily it’s early enough there are few other cars on the road.

“You couldn’t have done that any more awkwardly, could you?” He manages to ask as his heart rate begins to level out again.

Mu Qing shrugs in his peripheral. “I didn’t feel like getting out.”

Feng Xin spares a glance over at him. He’s sunk into the passenger seat, eyes closed and his arms wrapped around himself. Feng Xin allows his eyes to linger a moment too long. He notices the smudge of black around his eyes. His eyelashes look longer than usual. The scarf around his neck is black and silky with an almost imperceptible darker black leopard print on it. He looks tired.

“Put on your seatbelt,” Feng Xin tells him and eases his foot on the gas. Mu Qing mumbles. The road disappears behind them.

They drive on and off for three days, stopping only to lower their seats and sleep, get gas, piss and clean themselves up in gas station bathrooms. Somehow, they don’t kill each other.

“We should find somewhere to sleep. Like, properly.” Feng Xin suggests after waking with a kink in his neck he tries to massage out. He would also like to wash properly. Maybe even climb into a bath and let his muscles relax. He also wouldn’t mind finding some new clothes.

Mu Qing is driving. The roof is rolled down and he’s playing K-pop girl groups loud enough to be heard over the wind in their ears. He sips a can of Monster—through a metal straw he pulled out of the glove compartment on day two—and ignores Feng Xin.

“I know you can hear me, asshole,” Feng Xin shouts over the noise, but Mu Qing doesn’t react. Feng Xin sighs and reaches back for his t-shirt before sniffing it and curling his nose. It still smells of grease from work but also sweat and something sweet now.

“Well fuck you then.” With that, Feng Xin climbs into the backseat and decides to throw the closest thing to a tantrum he can in the limited space. Why is he even here?

He turns his phone on briefly, only the third time since he turned it off on the first night. Notifications flood through—more from work, from Hua Cheng, from Xie Lian, from his mother, from his father, Coach, and his little sister. He replies to her without reading her messages and tells her again that he’s okay, just taking a break, that he hopes she’s okay, and that he’s sorry. He feels guilty suddenly—or, more accurately, the guilt he’s been holding onto roars violently inside him. He can’t imagine how tough it is at home without him. That’s a lie. He knows all too well. Then he turns off his phone, tucks the feelings back into his back pocket, and tries to sleep.

Feng Xin wakes up to Mu Qing poking his cheek. Mu Qing recoils in disgust as he wakes, and leans an elbow against the steering wheel. Feng Xin has decided to consciously still be pissed at Mu Qing and scowls at him, but he looks unphased by this.

“You wanted to sleep somewhere ‘proper’,” he enunciates and then opens the door and pulls the seat forward to let Feng Xin out.

The guesthouse receptionist looks between each of them slowly and then begins to ask, slowly, “One bed—?”

“Two,” Mu Qing interrupts and the girl’s mouth quirks. Her name tag reads Hu Yiran. Feng Xin keeps stock of this in case he needs to write a bad review. She chews the inside of her black-painted lips as if trying not to laugh. There’s a chain that goes from her nose to her ear. Her phone is open on the desk in front of them to a page of writing. She’s maybe a year younger than him, or ten years older—he can’t tell. He thinks she must be the daughter of the owner. Just a hunch.

“No, you misunderstood me, there are only one-bed rooms available. You left it kinda late, we’re very in demand here.”

He doesn’t believe her one bit.

Mu Qing looks visibly pained.

“One bed is fine,” Feng Xin says, speaking up because he doesn’t want to give her whatever satisfaction she’s looking for and he’s one hundred per cent sure that she and Mu Qing are fighting an invisible psychic war he’s not privy to. His neck hurts, he just wants to sleep, and he’s wearing his disgusting t-shirt for decency’s sake and he needs to take it off now.

She slides the key across the desk. “Check out before twelve.”

“You can sleep on the floor.” Mu Qing pushes past him and goes straight to the bed, landing heavily face-first on it. He rolls over and takes the sunglasses he still has on and tosses them to the floor. Feng Xin picks them up and places them on the bedside table. Mu Qing is starfished in the middle of the bed, an arm over his eyes.

“Move the fuck over,” Feng Xin says and gives him a shove. Mu Qing makes an offended sound and begins kicking at him. His heel clips Feng Xin's shoulder, but Feng Xin manages to catch his other ankle. Mu Qing kicks at him harder.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Feng Xin says, dodging a kick aimed at his face, his left hand still firmly holding Mu Qing’s other ankle and begins to squeeze until Mu Qing grits his teeth. A brief pause in his kicks allows Feng Xin to catch his second ankle.

“Let. Go.” Mu Qing struggles to sit up, propped up by his arms behind him. At some point, he took out his hair tie too and his long dark hair tumbles down around his shoulders and splays messily over his face. He almost looks pretty. Feng Xin ignores the thought.

“Move. Over,” he says instead.

“Fuck. Off.”

“No. Way.”

“Yes. Way.”

Feng Xin regards him for a moment and then drops his legs. “I’m showering,” he calls behind him as he walks to the bathroom, beginning to strip as he does. “We’ll argue after.”

“Have some fucking decency, I didn’t need to see your hairy a—”

Feng Xin cuts him off with a slam of the door.

There’s only porn available on the TV. It also needs to be paid for.

“I’m not watching porn with you.”

Feng Xin manages not to throw the remote control at the wall. “Why the fuck do you even need to say that, obviously we’re not going to watch porn together what the actual fuck?”

Mu Qing shrugs. The guesthouse has a small ‘bar’ which is more like a liquor cabinet and it serves only one cocktail—Sex on the Beach. Feng Xin knows this because when he emerged from the bathroom, Mu Qing was having a long discussion on the room telephone (presumably with Hu Yiran) where he tried to explain how to make an Espresso Martini before exclaiming, “Fine! I’ll have a Sex on the Beach,” and slamming the phone back down. He’s relinquished a quarter of the bed to Feng Xin and now sits reclined with three of the bed’s four pillows behind him, wearing a matching dressing gown to the one Feng Xin wears, a towel wrapped around his hair and his fourth Sex on the Beach in his hand, the fifth and all the empty glasses sitting waiting beside him on the bedside cabinet. Feng Xin got a beer.

“I dunno,” Mu Qing says, his expressions and voice becoming more exaggerated with the alcohol, “you’re a jock or whatever. I don’t know what you guys get up to in locker rooms.”

Feng Xin considers smashing the bottle over his head. He doesn’t though, but only because the towel would prevent any real injury.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? What kind of porn is putting those thoughts in your head?” he asks instead. Mu Qing shrugs and sips his cocktail dry with a conspiratory smile.

“Take out your phone, we’ll just watch a movie on that,” he says, picking up his last drink.

Feng Xin hesitates. He doesn’t have a charger and he doesn’t really want to look at his phone.

“Why can’t we use yours?” he asks, guarded.

“I ran over it with the car before kidnapping you.”

Of course he did. Feng Xin reaches down and slowly roots through his trousers until he finds his phone and straightens up. Slowly, it comes to life, and then immediately it begins to flood with all of his unread notifications. He hopes Mu Qing is too drunk to pay attention to any of them. The last one lingers for what feels like forever, his sister asking him to come home, please. The room feels very quiet.

“Your phone, your choice.”

Mu Qing is the one to break the silence, and Feng Xin knows he’s seen it, that’s the only reason he’d be so nice.

The next morning is cold. Feng Xin woke before Mu Qing who was still sound asleep, the towel still wrapped around his hair and an empty glass in his hand. He debated waking him up. He didn’t. Feng Xin’s phone was lying dead between them. Probably for the best.

He made his way downstairs still in the off-white complementary bathrobe from the night before and had to shake the ancient coffee machine rather violently before it began to spit out a thin, miserable stream of bitter coffee. It was lukewarm by the time his cup filled. He sits on a small creaking bench in a miserable attempt at a flower garden outside of the house. He thinks about nothing. He sips his coffee. It’s completely cold now.

When he comes back to the room, Mu Qing is awake with his head between his knees.

“They were fucking lethal,” he mumbles. Feng Xin just watches him as he groans. “She probably poisoned them.”

Feng Xin rolls his eyes. Mu Qing has always been a lightweight. He goes to the small backpack Mu Qing has brought with him and begins to dig around it. Mu Qing has never been one to tough things out, he knows there must be painkillers in here somewhere. He finds a foil packet tucked away in an inside pocket. He’s about to toss them onto the bed when something stops him.

Prozac.

For just a moment, he thinks he’s read the black printed letters wrong. And then he’s tucking the packet back inside and looking at Mu Qing to see if he saw. He didn’t, his head is still tucked firmly between his legs. He doesn’t need to know what Feng Xin saw.

“Where's your painkillers?” Feng Xin asks, swallowing his new knowledge.

“Jeans. Back pocket.” Mu Qing doesn’t look up, his voice shakes, Feng Xin can see the letters of the word ‘Prozac’ every time he blinks. He needs to stop blinking. This is not his to know.

“Here,” he hands Mu Qing the painkillers with a glass of water from the bathroom. “Check out is soon.”

“You stink.”

Mu Qing looks squarely at Feng Xin as he says this. Feng Xin wants to protest but he knows it’s true.

“My clothes stink,” he mumbles, “not me.”

Fen Xin has been debating bringing the pills up to Mu Qing. So far, he has decided not to. They chew at him from the inside. And now that he knows about them, he’s inadvertently begun pulling out little scraps of memories like a conspiracist and asking himself how he didn’t know. Then he thinks that he’s reading into it. What if they’re not actually Mu Qing’s? Nothing in this car is. He should buy a new phone charger. He needs to scream.

“Whatever,” Mu Qing says and continues to drive.

The sound of a horn blaring wakes Feng Xin so suddenly that he almost busts his nose on the dashboard. His heartbeat continues to race even as he comes to his senses.

Mu Qing is snickering. He’s bent over himself holding his sides together until it’s too much and then he bursts out laughing.

“You should have seen yourself,” he wheezes breathlessly between laughing. Feng Xin is so thoroughly disorientated that he can’t even remember to curse at him.

“Fuck I wish I’d recorded that,” Mu Qing says with a final sigh and then hops out of the car, and pulls something out of his back pocket. Feng Xin’s heartbeat begins to level. He remembers all of his favourite curses and begins spewing them as he too leaves the car and then stops dead. Mu Qing looks back at him, daring him to say something as he slowly places the slender cigarette to his lips and inhales slowly before blowing a steady stream across the hood of the car.

Say it, his expression taunts.

Feng Xin tries to bite his tongue and not give him the satisfaction, he knows exactly what response he’ll get: a roll of the eyes, maybe a snarky comment.

“Why the fuck are you smoking?” He asks all the same. Mu Qing rolls his eyes and flicks the ash towards him before taking one long, deep inhale and once again exhaling across the car towards Feng Xin.

“What’s it to you?” he asks, perfectly arching an eyebrow.

Nothing, it’s nothing to him. If this road trip, kidnapping, whatever the fuck situation he’s in has proven anything to him it’s how little ‘it’, whatever the fuck ‘it’ is, is to him. It’s nothing to him, they’re not even friends, they’ve never been friends, they’ve been two guys who have known each other for far too long.

“Fine, fucking die, see if I care.” He’s always said things like this to Mu Qing, it’s the way they’ve always been to each other, yet ‘Prozac’ flashes like a red fucking warning sign behind his eyes and he wonders if he’s ever been part of the reason.

Mu Qing snorts. “Xie Lian would and you’d have to deal with that if he knew you let me smoke.”

“I’m not letting you smoke,” he replies carefully. “You’re a big boy, you can make your own decisions.”

Mu Qing snorts again. It’s ugly and it’s unappealing and it grates on Feng Xin in a way that makes him want to shove that cigarette down his throat.

Mu Qing takes one last drag and flicks the butt end over his shoulder and then turns with a flick of his hair.

“Let’s get you some clothes.”

The shop smells musty, that strange smell that always clings to old clothes. Mu Qing had dragged him around until they found what he was looking for tucked between a tiny cafe and a taxidermy shop. Only a door was visible from the outside with a small sign reading “second-hand clothes downstairs,” all small letters, a crack running right through the ‘s’ in clothes.

Feng Xin entertained the idea that this was a set-up and Mu Qing was going to murder him. He still thinks it’s more reasonable than Mu Qing willingly entering a thrift shop of his own accord, but halfway down—as if reading his mind—Mu Qing turned around and said, “Figured we should try to save some money.”

Feng Xin was sceptical. As far as he knew, Mu Qing’s father’s card didn’t have a limit and Mu Qing’s never been one to care about overspending. He’s seen it many times. But, he couldn't find it in him to argue, so he conceded and allowed Mu Qing to roll his eyes at every pair of sweatpants and every t-shirt he picked up, allowed him to drop them back into the bargain bin they were pulled out of, and allowed him to riffle through racks, dumping clothes for him in his arms. Oddly, he didn’t pick up anything for himself.

Finally, perching a pair of old Nikes on top of the pile, he stopped.

“Try them.” He was walking away before Feng Xin could reply.

The old woman at the counter eyes him strangely now as he shuffles to the little cubicle at the back and pulls the patchwork curtain closed behind them. It’s worn so thin he has to fight the urge to bend down and see if it’s see-through.

By the time he’s finished, Mu Qing is already waiting by the counter, two white plastic bags stuffed to the brim resting at his feet as he lazily inspects his nails.

“What took you so long,” he says without looking up. Feng Xin just stares at his him unimpressed.

“Let me check what you picked,” he says, and pushes himself away from the counter with his hip and begins rifling through the clothes in Fen Xin’s arms. Feng Xin frowns.

“You picked everything,” he says dryly.

Mu Qing shrugs with one shoulder. “Not everything I picked was actually nice. I was testing your…” he trails off, pulling out a black shirt that is, Feng Xin will be the first to agree, far too shiny, but Mu Qing picked it and he figured he had a reason to, “fashion sense. Really?”

Annoyed, Feng Xin shoves the clothes into his arms and mumbles that he’ll wait in the car and moves to pick up Mu Qing’s bags, but suddenly Mu Qing’s hand is around his wrist, tight. Then he pulls away as if burned and there’s an awkward moment where he should begin explaining himself, but doesn’t, and then, a moment too late, he simply says, “I’ll carry them, just… wait,” and dumps everything in his arms onto the counter abandoning his critique.

When all is paid for, Mu Qing pushes the bag with Feng Xin’s clothes into his arms and then picks up his own despite having more than Feng Xin and it being very unlike him to carry anything of his own. It’s awkward all the way back to the car and Feng Xin could almost be grateful for the awful, preppy voices of the K-pop idols on the radio.

Eventually, they pull up to a hotel.

They stay there for four days. Feng Xin’s doubts about the thrift shop feel vindicated. Mu Qing pays extra to ensure there are two beds—two doubles when they end up arguing in front of the concierge. They don’t do much, Feng Xin revels in the ability to shower and eats the little chocolate on his pillows with gusto. They spend most of their time in their respective beds watching movies on pay-per-view. In the evenings, Mu Qing orders one of everything on the menu and cocktails to be brought up every forty minutes. Feng Xin watches him cautiously each time he takes a sip from a new glass, remembering something he heard once about mixing antidepressants and alcohol. He wishes he had his charger.

Feng Xin wakes up to an empty room on the last morning. It takes him a few moments to take in the scene around him. He pads through the room confused, the only signs of life is a set of his own new-old clothes folded neatly on one of the armchairs in the room. He stares down at them blankly for a moment. He certainly didn’t do that.

The receptionist nods at him and tells him his friend has already left as he hands over the key. Vaguely, he thinks he should be concerned. There’s a possibility Mu Qing has left him stranded here.

He hasn’t.

There’s a weird stretching awkwardness that goes unfilled when they notice each other. Mu Qing is sitting on the hood of his father's car, his knees tucked up to his chest but the black midi skirt he wears is still obvious. He’s also wearing those obnoxious sunglasses again. His face begins to turn angry and he slides off the car.

“Whatever the fuck you want to say, just fucking say it.” He flicks the ash off the end of a cigarette. There’s a small heap of cigarette butts at his feet already.

“It suits you.” The words are out of Feng Xin’s mouth before he realises, it doesn’t matter though, Mu Qing is on the defensive and whatever he would have said, would have been wrong.

“Oh yeah, and why the fuck is that?”

Sometimes he forgets just how close Mu Qing is to his own height. He taunts him so much for being shorter that he forgets it’s actually only a few centimetres. He notices this as Mu Qing squares up to him, his face twisting.

On most days, Feng Xin would feel some sort of satisfaction at such a visceral reaction from someone who tries to play apathetic all of the time. It’s strange. Mu Qing is raring for a fight, but he can’t step up to it. This isn’t one of those times.

“I dunno, it just does… like, yeah.” It’s a pathetic reply but Feng Xin doesn’t actually know how to describe it. Seeing Mu Qing in this long skirt with a pair of what look to be old boxing boots and what he now sees is a crop top just… feels right. It feels like him. It feels like this is what he should always have been wearing.

Mu Qing’s face screws up more, and Feng Xin realises his confusion. He was expecting a fight—of course he was, that’s all they’ve ever done until this fucking road trip. But it also feels like more than that. It feels like he was scared, like he was ready for every response except acceptance.

Mu Qing eases back slowly and cocks his head, his long ponytail swaying behind him as he crosses his arms and appraises Feng Xin.

“Huh,” he says finally and turns with a swish of his skirt.

Huh.

Mu Qing sits with his legs crossed in the passenger seat, his knee knocking against the gearbox, the skirt hiked up his thighs as he leans forward and fiddles with the radio. They’re arguing about the music again, Despite this, Feng Xin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Mu Qing so happy and comfortable, even as he screws up his face and asks Feng Xin if he’s a fucking idiot. It’s nice.

The smell of bleach is almost dizzying in the cramped gas station bathroom. They tried to force the small window open, but it wouldn’t budge. Mu Qing joked that it was like they were hotboxing the place. Someone knocks on the door at some point and when Feng Xin looks over to Mu Qing panicked, he simply rolls his eyes and lets out a pained groan, his face screwing up as he does and he holds his stomach and calls back,

“You’re gonna have to come back, I’m shitting my guts out in here!”

Feng Xin doesn’t know if it’s the fumes, but he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing, and that makes him want to laugh more. The guy outside grumbles and Mu Qing lets out another long groan and blows a raspberry on the back of his hand and Feng Xin doubles over, puts his head between his knees and squeezes his eyes tight, tears streaming down his face as he tries not to laugh.

No one knocks again and Feng Xin sucks in deep breaths, he feels winded from the effort of keeping it in. When he looks up, Mu Qing is watching him with a strange, amused look. Feng Xin checks the Pokemon pocket watch they’ve been using to track the time and then nods to the sink.

“Time to rinse.”

Mu Qing obliges wordlessly. That’s been happening a lot the last few days, doing things wordlessly. Whenever he finds them deep in silence, Feng Xin thinks he should find it odd, but he doesn’t. In the car, he’ll look out at the houses and signs passing them by with the radio turned off, sometimes the roof down and the wind whipping in his ears, sometimes not, and he’ll find that it’s comfortable. And wordlessly they’ll pull over to a diner, just as they’re getting hungry, and go to whatever seat is furthest from the door without discussion. And Mu Qing will wave over a waiter and order them drinks without even asking what Feng Xin wants because he just knows. And now he bends his torso over the terribly small bathroom sink and waits, wordlessly, for Feng Xin to begin rinsing his hair.

“What if I said your hair’s falling out?” Feng Xin asks between cupping water to pour over Mu Qing’s head and massaging the bleach out of his hair.

“I'd murder you.”

Feng Xin smiles. When it’s all done, Mu Qing dries it with an old t-shirt and they inspect the damage. It’s yellow-y and patchy. Mu Qing picks up strands and inspects it in the mirror.

“How long did that girl say to wait until I bleach it again?” He pulls a face as he brings a particularly yellow chunk closer to his face.

“At least a week.”

Mu Qing nods. “Cool.”

A week later in a different bathroom and further from home and with no sign of turning back, Mu Qing removes one of the bandanas he’s been wearing to hide his patchy, greasy hair and sits obediently on a toilet seat. The ventilation is better here, and Feng Xin begins the process again until the bleach is washed out and the silver dye is applied. He wraps his hair up in the black silk scarf and only shrugs when Feng Xin asks if he’s worried about staining it. He sleeps in it overnight and when he walks out of the bathroom of the small hotel they stayed in for the night, he’s stand-off-ish and acts like he’s over it when Feng Xin tells him it looks good. But Feng Xin has learned a lot about him in the last two and a half weeks, and he can tell he’s pleased with himself. He can see something different in him and he hopes to never lose sight of that.

Time begins to lose itself. Feng Xin knows they’ve been away for a while, but at some point, he stopped counting—and with nothing to track the passage of days except odd newspaper dates, it feels disjointed from them. Like they have somehow ascended above time itself and exist independent to it.

It’s late one night when the real world comes crashing back to Feng Xin and he remembers this little world they’re living in isn’t real. They’re arguing about something he knows neither of them actually cares about, but this is what they do. They argue until they have nothing left to say and Feng Xin thinks he wants to punch him. Mu Qing is loud and they’re both maybe two drinks drunker than they should be. He skips ahead of Feng Xin to walk backwards and face him as they debate. It looks like he’s going to trip and instinctively, Feng Xin reaches out a hand to steady him. Without missing a beat, he shakes it off and continues his sentence, though his eyes narrow over Feng Xin’s shoulder. As if on cue, a call comes from behind him followed by a long, low whistle.

“Look what we have here.”

Feng Xin turns to see a group of men around their age sauntering behind him and the alcohol in his blood makes him want to burst out laughing, they look and sound so much like caricatures from a cheap movie.

“Aww, don’t frown—” the leader continues mockingly, “we just wanted to say hi. That’s a nice skirt you’re wearing there, but we just wanted to let you know you’ve come to the wrong place is all.”

“Mu Qing…” Feng Xin starts as the names and the abuse starts in earnest, though he’s not sure what he intends to say; probably that if this gets messy, he’ll handle it, but he doesn’t have the chance. Mu Qing has already strode past him with purpose, grabbed the leader's lapels and punched him so hard he stumbles but doesn’t fall, still in Mu Qing’s grip. Then he punches him again and lets him fall to the ground, hard, while his lackeys look on, too stunned to act. Then Mu Qing catches the guy’s collar again, and pulls him up just to punch him again and let him fall to the floor.

Sometimes Feng Xin forgets just how strong Mu Qing is. He looks lithe and scrawny because of his height, but Xie Lian once told him that he did ballet for years, and even showed him an old photo he has of them pinned in his room. They were young and Mu Qing was scowling at the camera. From what Feng Xin knows, he might have even gone pro, but he only ever mentioned it once and Mu Qing’s reaction was enough for him to never bring it up again. Because of this, Mu Qing’s physique is misleading. He’s tall and skinny, but he holds some serious strength and speed in it.

“Sorry?” Mu Qing asks now and wipes his knuckles on his a-line skirt of choice (Feng Xin has learned a lot about skirts in the past few weeks). “Were you saying something?”

One of the other guys looks like he’s going to say something when Feng Xin stands beside Mu Qing and crosses his arms. He knows he can be intimidating. He knows what he looks like to other people, strong arms and just that touch taller than Mu Qing. He works hard for it. Xie Lian says Mu Qing thinks he takes too many gym selfies. This is irrelevant right now. The guy on the ground spits blood and pushes himself back to his feet. Really, he should just leave, but instead, he charges, head down, arms out completely blind and they both sidestep. He barrels down the road and eventually trips and collapses. Mu Qing is flushed with excitement.

“Anyway,” he says, falling back into step and Feng Xin stumbles after him, none of the men follow them, “capitalism isn’t going to suck your dick, stop trying to defend it.”

“I’m not defending capitalism.”

“Yeah, because I told you not too—”

Feng Xin knows he should probably return home soon. His university results will come out soon. He watches the bank teller's face twist in confusion when he tells her he doesn't have a phone to just transfer money online and patiently asks if she can just transfer the money for him.

"Sorted?" Mu Qing asks when he gets back to the car. He’s wearing those sunglasses again, the passenger seat is pushed back and his legs are hiked up on the dashboard. He wears one white and one grey sock. They need to do a wash.

"Fucking finally," he replies, climbing into the driver’s seat, but doesn't make to move. He sees Mu Qing look over at him.

"What?" Mu Qing asks harshly, leaning forward and lowering his glasses. Feng Xin shakes his head.

"No," Mu Qing says in response. "You have something to say, so say it."

"Oh fuck off." Feng Xin feels an irrational anger begin to crawl over his skin. Different from the usual kind of anger he feels when Mu Qing pokes and prods at him. He waits for him to continue. He doesn’t. This is odd. Maybe overexposure is doing something to them, warping this thing they have.

“Do you regret it?” He asks later that night parked on the side of the road, a bottle of cheap red wine between his legs. The stars look abnormally bright. Feng Xin wonders where they are.

“No,” Feng Xin answers carefully, testing the way it sits on his tongue. It’s the truth. Or at least, right now it is. But there are moments, pockets in time in which he does. But just as often are the moments that glee rises and bubbles in his chest and he wants to scream and he’s so happy to be here, to be beside Mu Qing as the wind whips past them and money isn’t a problem and his parents aren’t fighting in the next room and the burden of life feels non-existent.

Mu Qing looks at him, the street lamp casting odd shadows across his face. He is beautiful. Disastrously so. Enough to make Feng Xin want to never stop running.

“Don’t lie.” He says it softly, a rawness in his voice they’d both blame on the wine if they ever discussed it later, Feng Xin knows they won’t. Not ever. That’s not what they do. Never has been.

“I’m not. Lying. I’m not lying.”

Mu Qing looks at him curiously. A look that’s become more and more common over the past few weeks. Like he’s seeing something he doesn’t understand but should. Like he’s trying to decide something. Then he shifts and turns until his knees are tucked beneath him and he’s looking straight at Feng Xin and that strange look is gone.

“Don’t—” he says softly—so softly Feng Xin’s throat closes up and then Mu Qing is closing the distance between them and suddenly he’s above him, face so close, and the fucking skirt hiking up over his thighs as he straddles Feng Xin.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says, dipping his face closer so Feng Xin can smell the sweet wine on his lips and his heart begins hammering in his chest so much he worries that Mu Qing can feel it. He pauses, eyes searching Feng Xin's face. Feng Xin stops breathing, lets Mu Qing search and find nothing stopping him.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says again, tugging at the hem of Feng Xin’s t-shirt and leaning in so painfully close.

This doesn’t mean anything.

The kiss is too soft to mean nothing. And then one of Mu Qing’s hands goes to the back of Feng Xin’s neck and he presses himself against him harder. At one point, Feng Xin thinks he might have died.

Mu Qing acts the exact same afterwards. He’s grumpy in the morning and demanding throughout the day and it’s almost like Feng Xin imagined it ever happened.

But then it happens again. Over and over.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Mu Qing says, his breath heady as he straddles Feng Xin’s lap and leans into his touch.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says as Feng Xin lays him down on musky and silk hotel sheets alike.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he hisses, breathes, mumbles and says over and over again until it becomes a soundtrack to their nights.

This doesn’t mean anything. Feng Xin is well aware of that.

“What’d you get?” Mu Qing asks, crawling across the messy hotel bed to snatch the 7-Eleven bag from Feng Xin’s hand. He has it open before Feng Xin can say anything. He pulls out the bags of chips and energy drinks and then the white charging cable at the bottom. He holds it up for a moment, dumbfounded and then tosses it at Feng Xin with an air of disaffection.

“‘Bout time,” he mumbles but peels himself from the bed and walks to the bathroom.

It takes three days for Feng Xin to finally plug his phone into a coffee shop socket. Mu Qing looks at it as it begins to flicker to life and the empty battery symbol appears. He doesn't say anything, but Feng Xin feels the need to defend himself. For no reason. They don’t mean anything.

“I’m worried…” he begins and then feels stupid. They don’t talk about serious things—he tugs at the collar of his shirt, knowing it’ll do nothing to hide the purple bruise blooming there—that much is obvious.

“Your sister?” Mu Qing asks and takes a sip of his over-caffeinated cup of sugar. Feng Xin only nods. He begins to toy with a sugar packet despite drinking his coffee black and bitter.

“They’re always fighting,” he says, the words heavy and awkward when he says them. “I think I fucking failed my exams because they were fighting so much.”

Mu Qing stares out the window.

“And maybe it’s arrogant of me or whatever but I’d like to think they wouldn't react well to me just… disappearing. But that’s not fair because I left her alone with them.”

Mu Qing continues to stare out the window. His roots are beginning to show, just a centimetre or two. Feng Xin doesn’t expect him to say anything—he doesn’t know how he’d feel about Mu Qing trying to comfort him.

“We should go for dinner.”

The diversion is clear. It’s typical Mu Qing. Feng Xin doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse.

The host looks them up and down, clearly unsure of what exactly to do with them. Mu Qing had told him to dress up so Feng Xin put on his cleanest jeans, a white t-shirt and an open flannel shirt. Mu Qing is wearing a pair of dress pants and a turtleneck he cropped and cut the sleeves off. The restaurant only serves a set menu and the chairs look like they’re made from velvet.

Without any subtlety, Mu Qing pulls out the gold card from his back pocket and waves it in front of the man’s eyes.

“We have a booking,” he says and tosses the card, which the man instinctively catches. It works though, and he brings them to a small table right at the back.

“Champagne,” Mu Qing orders without even looking up from the menu. The man nods and scuttles away.

Feng Xin doesn’t know what to say to any of this, so he doesn’t say anything.

That night, Mu Qing’s touch feels softer and heavier.

“Have you spoken to her?”

It takes Feng Xin a moment to realise what Mu Qing asked, his mind still hazy and his nerves vibrating with something that’s becoming uncomfortable.

“What?”

Mu Qing hesitates. “Your sister, have you spoken to her?”

“Oh,” Feng Xin replies, it’s an odd question after sex. “No. I haven’t turned it back on yet.”

Mu Qing nods and they say nothing more about it.

Mu Qing’s spending becomes more erratic and lavish. They’re running out of space in the car boot and end up re-donating two bags of clothes. The hotels become fancier and dinner becomes an event where every second night they go somewhere nice, somewhere Feng Xin would never fit in. They shop for suits in thrift stores in affluent areas. Feng Xin even tries on a wedding dress when they began to forget their objective. Mu Qing finds a cane and a top hat and wears them with fishnets like a burlesque dancer. They buy ill-fitting suits and shirts they wear to restaurants while speaking English and feigning foreign accents. The sex goes back to the way it was and they never speak about it or Feng Xin’s family and he never asks about the white pills Mu Qing continues to pop and the trip to the pharmacy where Mu Qing insisted he stay in the car. It begins to feel like this could be it—them—forever. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. He thinks he feels pretty okay about it.

They’re at lunch when it all ends.

Feng Xin doesn’t pay attention as Mu Qing begins to pat his pockets, just continues to pick at the food on his plate when Mu Qing says he needs to go out to the car for a moment. When he comes back inside, Feng Xin raises an eyebrow as he leans forward with his elbows on the tables.

“Do you have the card?” he asks in a low voice and Feng Xin frowns.

“No, you had it when we filled the tank last night.”

Mu Qing leans back in the chair, a grin spreading across his face.

Feng Xin is wary. “Mu Qing—”

“I’m gonna count to three,” he says casually and looks around them, “and then we’re gonna run.”

Their waitress is laughing at a joke some man at a table with three kids has made.

“We can’t—”

“One…”

“Mu Qing—”

“Two…”

“I’m not—”

He leans forward suddenly, palms pressed to the table and says, “Three!” before dashing out.

Feng Xin doesn’t have time to think and he begins running after him, crashing into a table and sending it toppling to the floor, the dirty plates on it smashing. Someone calls out to them to wait but his feet are slapping against the street and Mu Qing is laughing wildly ahead of him, and the car door is opened and the engine is revving and before he can even say anything, Mu Qing is pulling out of the car park, the tyres screeching as he swerves around a corner and he’s still laughing and Feng Xin feels like he's in shock but now he's also laughing because he doesn't know what else to do.

“So I guess this is it,” Feng Xin says after an hour of driving.

Mu Qing looks over at him. Someone behind them beeps and he picks up his speed.

“What’s ‘it’?” He asks tersely.

Feng Xin looks at him like he’s stupid. Honestly, the fact they even lasted this long is shocking, ridiculous even. They should have packed up and turned back around weeks ago. They both knew this wasn’t indefinite. They’ve been existing on stolen money and time.

“This,” Feng Xin says and slumps into his seat, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow. “The money’s gone so it’s time to go back. Where even are we—?”

He asks the last part idly and reaches for the glove compartment to pull out his phone. It’s been charged but turned off for a while now. He couldn’t bring himself to turn it on, that would have been like letting the real world seep into whatever fictional narrative they had carved for themselves with this road and this car. But it’s over now.

Mu Qing pulls over. “What are you doing?”

“Checking where the fuck we are,” Feng Xin snaps back as his phone comes to life slowly. Mu Qing doesn’t reply for a moment.

“Is this what you want?” He asks coldly and Feng Xin looks up at him in confusion. His face is blank and his eyes distant as he stares through Feng Xin.

“What?” Feng Xin asks as his phone begins to buzz and notifications begin flooding the screen.

“Is this what you want?” He repeats and Feng Xin just looks back at him incredulously.

“It’s over, right?” He asks. “The plan was when the money ran out it ends, and losing your father’s card counts as that.”

Mu Qing doesn’t reply, just continues to stare at him blankly in a way that’s beginning to anger Feng Xin.

“This was never going to last forever, we both knew this. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about but I think it’s time to just call it. It’s time to go back to real life or whatever, we’ve been away weeks—”

“We still have some money,” Mu Qing interrupts, and finally looks at Feng Xin, the blankness slipping from his face as he begins to say, “You have savings—”

“No.”

A pause. “Oh come on Feng Xin don’t give me that—”

“Give you what.” He wants to hear him say it.

“You know—that.”

He waits.

“Come on, just… You’re only young once or whatever, you can earn it back—”

“Mu Qing.”

“Oh fuck off you’re so fucking serious all the time it’s just money. You already left your job, what’s spending a little money—”

“It’s not just my money—”

“Yes! It is! You earned it. I don’t get it, why do you have to work all the time and give it to your family who you don’t even like.”

“Stop—” Feng Xin interrupts him, but he doesn’t stop. He continues to talk and Feng Xin begins to feel this hole in his chest. It's not anger. It’s something worse. He doesn’t know when he began to trust Mu Qing, but he did. And now it feels like that was a lie. Of course, Mu Qing never understood him. Of course, he didn’t actually care.

“You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

Mu Qing looks taken aback.

“You have no fucking clue. Yeah, my family fight but that doesn’t mean I don’t fucking care about them. They need that money so they can stop fucking fighting and my sister and I can live better fucking lives. Just because money can’t buy you fucking happiness and your home is so miserable you have to pop pills to cope with it doesn’t mean mine is.” His chest heaves as he says it and he feels vindicated for all of a moment until he watches the colour draining from Mu Qing’s face.

“Mu Qing—” he starts but he’s cut off by a sharp “Don’t,” and closes his mouth.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Mu Qing says, and turns to look back at the steering wheel. “You don’t know fucking anything,” he says louder and then he screams it again, his knuckles clutching the steering wheel and his voice beginning to crack as he screams and screams and screams it over and over again.

“I’m sorry—” Feng Xin begins but Mu Qing only screams louder, his voice becoming thick with each iteration. Feng Xin says it again and again, a constant murmur under Mu Qing’s sobs.

Eventually, he stops. Feng Xin considers saying it again, now that he could be heard, but he already knows Mu Qing has heard him.

They sit in silence until the sky begins to turn dark. Numerous times Feng Xin considers offering to leave. He considers trying to hitchhike to a train or a bus station and finding his way from there, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to leave.

Finally, Mu Qing starts the engine and they begin to drive.

They don’t speak the entire way back. They take turns sleeping in the back seat to avoid having to sleep together despite having done it so many times. Feng Xin is constantly on the verge of screaming. He tries to initiate small talk, but Mu Qing doesn’t even look at him. He turns on Feng Xin’s favourite K-pop groups both to pander and to drown out the silence.

Feng Xin wakes up to his name being called. When his mind clears of sleep he sees that he’s home, but all he can think about is how nice it was to hear Mu Qing say his name. Neither of them speaks. It’s close to three in the morning and there are no lights on inside. Suddenly, Feng Xin doesn’t want to leave this car. Despite the terrible situation their relationship is in, he knows that leaving this car will end the spell they’ve been existing in for close to three months now. He wants to say something.

“Don’t.”

He startles at the sound of Mu Qing’s voice.

“I’m sorry—” he starts but Mu Qing shakes his head.

They sit again, the silence cold and stifling around them.

“I’m sorry,” Mu Qing says and Feng Xin goes to cut him off but he shakes his head again. “I was… selfish.” His nose turns up at the word as if it’s difficult for him to admit. It probably is. “How long did you know?”

It takes Feng Xin a moment to realise what he’s asking. “Since the first guesthouse.”

Mu Qing nods slowly and then lets out a long breath followed by a strangled groan as he sinks back into the driver’s seat and digs the palm of his hands into his eyes.

There are many things Feng Xin could say right now, but there’s been something nagging him since the beginning.

“Why did you ask me to come?”

Mu Qing drops his hands and turns to look at him slowly. “I don’t know,” he says, oddly soft. “I got in the car after a fight with my father about… something, and I just… thought of you.”

Feng Xin nods.

“I guess…” he says and then groans like this is paining him. “I guess I thought if anyone might understand me, you would.”

Feng Xin kind of wants to put his head through the windshield, but he can tell so does Mu Qing.

“I’m glad you thought of me.” It feels weird as he says it, even if he means it.

“Disgusting,” Mu Qing replies and straightens up in his seat. “You should go inside.”

Feng Xin agrees, he should, but he really doesn’t want to. He’d thought about home a lot while he was away, about his sister and his parents and how they were coping without him. He thought about coming back and apologising and opening his results from university, adding his degree to his CV and finding a new, hopefully better-paying job. He thought about his bedroom and all the days he spends in it, waiting for a reason to leave and hearing the way his parents fight, hoping he won’t be dragged into it. He thought about that one exam he missed because he’d been working three jobs and fucked his chances of getting a good grade in a class he actually really enjoyed. He thinks about all of this now too and feels a weight on his chest that makes breathing feel harder. He doesn’t move. Mu Qing is looking at him.

“Tell me about why you left,” he says instead. Mu Qing blows out a breathy laugh and leans his head on the steering wheel.

“Father’s new girlfriend is a year younger than me and I wanted to start wearing skirts and he doesn’t even know I’m gay. And… it was Mum’s birthday.”

Feng Xin feels like a fucking idiot for forgetting. He can’t believe he could forget.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “How many years has it been?”

“Five,” Mu Qing replies without even having to think about it. “She would’ve been forty-one. Y’know, my therapist blames father’s behaviour on him ‘coping’. Bullshit.”

“You have a therapist?” Feng Xin asks, taken aback.

Mu Qing laughs. “Yeah, she has her work cut out for her, huh?”

Feng Xin doesn’t reply. There’s so much he doesn’t know.

“You should go,” Mu Qing says again and turns the engine back on as if this will make Feng Xin leave faster.

He doesn’t want to go. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want Mu Qing to leave.

“One more night,” he says suddenly. “I’ll go back tomorrow. We can get a hotel—”

“You don’t have to do that—”

“I want to,” he can’t believe how easy it is to say it. “I… want to.”

Mu Qing takes a deep breath and begins to pull out just as a light turns on in the house.

They have to try three hotels before they find one with any vacancies. It’s awkward inside the room. It’s the first time they’ve shared a room since the fight in the car and something in Feng Xin feels alive. When Mu Qing looks at him, he sees something more than he ever has before and he itches to hold him. They stand looking at each other awkwardly for far too long until Mu Qing looks away and then turns back.

“If you’re going to kiss me—”

Feng Xin’s hands are cupping his cheeks before he even finishes, kissing him softly. He can feel the way Mu Qing’s breath hitches and the ghost of his fingers trailing over his own hands. When he pulls away, he feels breathless already.

“I lied,” Mu Qing whispers and for a brief moment, panic strikes through Feng Xin until he says, “about it not meaning anything. I lied.”

Words fail him so Feng Xin only nods and kisses him softly again. “I know,” he whispers against his lips. “I know.”

After, Mu Qing lies on his chest, blankets twisted beneath him and Feng Xin doesn’t want to fall asleep. He doesn’t want this to be over. He doesn’t want to go back to real life. He wants to exist in this moment forever. He says as much, expecting Mu Qing to call him sappy or to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. He stays quiet for so long that Feng Xin thinks he’s fallen asleep.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Feng Xin doesn’t reply.

“I think…” Mu Qing replies and then shakes his head as if changing his mind.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He goes quiet. “We could move in together or something. Maybe. But… I dunno, just because things will be different doesn’t mean they’ll be bad. We’ll… figure it out.”

Feng Xin smiles.

They’ll figure it out.