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2010

In front of him was the sea: the whole expanse of it, stretching from sky to earth, glimmering deep blue and white. Ayanga had only ever seen it in movies, or in the video advertisements where a smiling auntie promised him an unforgettable vacation that he would never be able to afford. It was foreign to him, this body of water. He knew the grasslands and desert of Ordos, knew the concrete smog of Beijing – but had never known the sea in front of him, so wide that it swallowed the horizon whole. Immediately he wanted to learn it, to consume what it had to offer, to reach out and touch – and so he did, only to be met with the glass of the car window. 

Next to him, Zheng Yunlong laughed. “Da-ge, wait a minute. I’ll stop just ahead.”

He could think of nothing but the sea. “Why not stop now?” 

“Old man, do you want to get run over by the cars behind us?”

“You call me the old man when you’re thinking about the cars behind us?”

“My dear banzhang,” crooned Dalong; his eyes were swimming in laughter. “You’ve always been the responsible one–are you throwing that away just for this moment?” 

Ayanga reached out to clamp his mouth shut. “Shh.”

Through his hand, Dalong grumbled: “Hypocrite,” though he did start to drive faster. They zipped past the narrow highway, flying along the road until it started to widen into the shoreline, concrete meeting sand. Ayanga peered through the window, and saw that they were approaching a small beach, one that curved inwards before dissolving at the tip. 

As Dalong drove closer, the car wheels began to protest, making an ugly whining sound that made Ayanga pinch Dalong with his other hand. “Stop,” he said. “Do you want to wreck your car, idiot?”

Dalong stopped. When neither of them moved, he raised his eyebrows.

“Well?” said Ayanga, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice. “What are we waiting for?” Dalong’s eyes looked down at his mouth. With a jolt, Ayanga realised that he still had his hand clamped over it. “Oh–sorry,” he said awkwardly, immediately extracting his hand. 

Dalong shrugged. “I didn’t mind.”

Like nothing had happened he left the car. Ayanga stared at him, feeling confused, before deciding to forget about it and climb out of the car. He had a mission to accomplish. But before he could close the door it suddenly started to rain. It was not light rain, but a downpour that reverberated off the windshield of Dalong’s car like the sound of a thousand drums in unison. Immediately Ayanga felt his clothes become wet, and his hair flattened down into his eyes, leaving the sticky residue of hair gel streaked across his face.

Dalong turned to him, big eyes imploring. “Sorry.”

Ayanga laughed. He wiped the hair gel off his face with his shirt, and punched Dalong lightly in the shoulder. “What are you sorry for? I love the rain.” Grabbing Dalong’s wrist, he dragged him forwards. “Let’s go–let’s go!”

Together they ran: slowly, at first, but then Ayanga kicked off his shoes and Dalong followed him, laughing as their feet sank into the sand, marking a trail towards the sea. Stumbling, shivering, soaked to the bone, they made it to the edge of the shore–right where it met water–and oh! How the waves were running towards them, charging into them like a stampede of battle-horses. He could not charge back, because he did not have the ability to do so; but how could he have, when he had only met the sea today? He could only hold Dalong’s hand and watch the waves come back and forth, ebb and flow. A scale in motion. Feeling like a child he turned to Dalong and said: “It’s–the sea. Dalong. It’s the sea.”

Smiling, Dalong asked: “Did it meet your expectations?”

“Yes,” breathed Ayanga. “Thank you.” He gripped Dalong’s hand tighter, and met his eyes. Dalong’s hair was flopping haphazardly into his face: he looked a bit like a wet dog, Ayanga thought fondly. “You look stupid,” he said, reaching out to brush his hair out of his eyes. It was an instinctive gesture: he had done it a million times in the mornings, when Dalong’s hair was just too horrible for Ayanga to bear–but when he met Dalong’s eyes he swallowed. Dalong was staring at him unabashedly, big eyes wide and dark. His lashes looked like they were trembling; or perhaps it was the rain? 

Suddenly feeling awkward again, he put his hand down. “Why’re you staring at me like that?”

“Sorry.”

Ayanga frowned. Dalong was not normally–like this. “What’s wrong, Dalong?”

“Sorry,” said Dalong again, and kissed him. 

Ayanga scrambled for Dalong’s shoulders, shocked. He had not expected it, but somehow his body refused to break the kiss. Perhaps it was attuned to the way Dalong was kissing him, as if he had something to prove, and Ayanga realised as they broke for air that he wanted to let Dalong prove it to him, whatever it was. So he stood there, barefoot and wet on the beach, and let himself be kissed. Let Dalong’s tongue slip into his mouth, let himself close his eyes and imagine, just for a moment, that nothing would change after this. That the rain would wash the moment away, and that he would not have to think about their relationship metamorphosing into something that terrified him enough to want to run away from it. But he stopped thinking when he felt Dalong shiver against him–was it tears, or the rain again? Whatever it was, Ayanga gently pushed Dalong away. 

Dalong stared at him, panting. His eyes were wide. “Gazi-ge.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know,” said Dalong, but he looked defiant, stubborn. Only Dalong would be so bull-headed at a moment like this. “I’m not sorry about that, though. I had to.”

“But I’m sorry,” said Ayanga. He couldn’t think clearly; unknown words and thoughts were swirling in his head. “I didn’t know you–that you–Dalong.”

Dalong shrugged. The fire had left his eyes; now he just looked–tired. Slightly rueful. Chastised, like he did when Ayanga scolded him for being late to class or falling asleep during practice. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect anything, really.”

“I just. I didn’t know…”

“It’s okay,” repeated Dalong firmly. The rain had started to cede. Now Ayanga could see Dalong clearly–the rest of his body unblurred, no longer fuzzy from the rain. He could see the way Dalong’s body was slouched down: not in the subconscious way that he had adopted from being too tall, but in a way where he seemed to want to curl inwards, shrink himself into the bones of his body, and he wondered if he really thought it was okay. He had always thought it was easy to read Dalong, who was an open book, always happy and silly and ready with a smile; so how come Ayanga had not known this page of his mind? 

“Dalong…” 

“It’s okay. I know.”

They were quiet for a while. The rain was completely gone now, returning into the sand, the sea. Waves wobbled into the shore, turning into sea-foam at their feet, and Ayanga looked out at the source, that still-foreign body of water. He wondered: how much of it was rainwater? Did the rain feel as much of a stranger to the sea as Dalong felt to him at that moment? 

He remembered their conversation in first-year, where he told Dalong he’d never seen the sea before. Don’t worry, Gazi-ge, Dalong had replied. I’ll take you to Qingdao to see it, one day. But he had shown Ayanga something even more foreign than the sea in front of them, and it filled him with that terror again. 

And yet–despite it all–Dalong stayed. On that beach in Qingdao, with damp clothes and damp feet, they stood together. The waves came and went, the clouds made way for the sky, the birds overhead flew past, and still–Dalong stayed by his side. 

“Thank you,” he said; there was nothing else to say.

Dalong smiled. “You wanted to see the sea. Look, Gazi-ge.” He pointed out in front of them. “The sea.”

2012

Secretly, he’d thought that Rent would make everything weirder. They were playing lovers, after all. But Dalong and him had a synchronicity on stage that could not be dulled by whatever change their relationship was undergoing, and it was easier in these already-written roles. He was Angel, and Dalong was Collins, and Angel was in love with Collins. They dreamed of opening a restaurant in Sante Fe together. Or at least Collins did, and Angel loved him–so she’d go along. They wanted to live together forever, take care of each other for the rest of their lives. 

It was all just the stage. And it was easy to fall into it: Angel and Collins weren’t them. Angel was sweet and wonderful and kind to everyone, and Ayanga had never thought of himself particularly as any of those things. Angel wore makeup and dresses, and Ayanga didn’t. Angel loved Collins, and Ayanga didn’t–he didn’t–

Angel and Collins weren’t them, but sometimes Ayanga wondered. Sometimes Dalong’s hand lingered on his waist for too long during a rehearsal, and Ayanga would feel the phantom touch of it for the rest of the day, even after they had climbed into their bunks at night. Sometimes Dalong would smile at him in the middle of singing I’ll Cover You, and Ayanga would feel himself flush from head to toe, like he was twelve and nursing his first crush on a girl at school. And when he–as Collins–looked at Angel, it reminded Ayanga of that day two summers ago, when Dalong had taken him to see the sea in Qingdao. Where Dalong had looked at him, wild and wide-eyed, and kissed him on that beach. 

At some point it started being too real: they belonged on stage and so Angel and Collins belonged to them, and Ayanga took the intimacy this allowed them greedily. Often, he felt like a starving animal feasting on the scraps of whatever Dalong would give him on-stage, because when they were off-stage Dalong was still nice and funny but he did not touch Ayanga more than was necessary–no more wrist-grabbing, hugging, or tussling; merely the occasional friendly pat on the back of his shoulder. 

At first Ayanga had thought it was because he’d gotten a girlfriend, but when they broke up Dalong was still–withdrawn. Not quite the same as he was, before the summer in their second year. But rehearsing for Rent had made him so attuned to Dalong’s physical touch that the loss of it when they finished rehearsal was a hard one to accept. He never knew what to make of it: there were times when he wondered if Angel really had possessed him to act this way; Xiao-laoshi had told him that a good actor should inhabit all aspects of their character. But still he did not feel fully Angel, for he did not feel like she did in her dresses, or in her makeup and high-heels: the only constant was how she felt about Collins, because he understood it as a love that could not be overshadowed by anything else. 

Ayanga tried to compensate for that unfamiliarity by putting in twice as many practices as the others. One day, during one of their last rehearsals, Ayanga stumbled slightly during his dance solo. A jolt of pain shot through his ankle. Whimpering, he slid down onto the hard floor, clutching his ankle in the process. There was pain, and then a sudden comforting coldness: Dalong had put an ice pack on his ankle. “Gazi-ge,” he was saying, looking concerned. “Are you alright? Should we go to the doctor?”

It was just them in the room. Everyone else had left to catch a wink of sleep. Ayanga was still unhappy with his dance solo, and since Dalong was somewhat involved in it, he’d offered to stay and practise with him. “I’m alright,” said Ayanga, wincing. It wasn’t so painful anymore, just a dull throb that he knew would result in a bruise tomorrow. “Let's continue practising.”

“Ge,” said Dalong, sounding exasperated. “It’s late. At the very least, we should get some rest.”

“Why do you call me ge?” said Ayanga, wrinkling his nose and ignoring the later part of his sentence. He’d always wondered. It wasn’t like there was any reason why he should have continued once he’d known Ayanga’s age. 

“Because you’re an old, old man.”

“We have a one year age difference.”

Dalong shrugged. “You feel like you’re my ge, that’s all,” he said. “But I won’t anymore, if you don’t want me to.”

“You can do what you want,” said Ayanga. Jokingly, he added: “Long’er-didi.”

Dalong’s face coloured a brilliant shade of red. “No–please–don’t.”

“Why not? Didi doesn’t like it?”

Dalong’s face got even redder. 

Oh–Dalong was into that. Didi,” he cooed, seeing the chance of obtaining blackmail material. He slipped back into his best Angel voice. “Yunlong-didi. Didi. My didi.” Suddenly he was Angel confessing her love to Collins, and he reached out to cup Dalong’s face in his hands. “Dalong,” he breathed. “My Dalong-didi.”

“Gazi,” Dalong choked out. For a moment Dalong looked like he might kiss him. But then his expression shuttered, and he removed Ayanga’s hands from his face. “Please don’t do this to me. Not when you’re just joking around.”

“Who said I–who said I’m joking?”

Dalong levelled him with a look. “Are you not?”

“I–” Faced with the scrutiny of Dalong’s knowing expression, he turned his face away. “I don’t know.”

“Then figure it out,” said Dalong. He glanced down at Ayanga’s leg. “Are you sure it’s alright?”

“Yes–don’t worry about me. Go back and get some rest. It’s late.”

“Okay,” said Dalong simply, and left the room.

After he left, Ayanga slumped onto the practice-room floor and groaned. Now the throbbing in his foot had transmuted into a throbbing in his brain. He spent the rest of practice stretching out his foot and thinking about what Dalong said, and hating that Dalong knew him so well, because he did need to figure it out.

It had been two years since Qingdao and he had gotten no closer to finding an answer. Or perhaps he was just a coward, something he’d never been in his life, not since he bought a one-way ticket to Beijing with 400-yuan in his pocket and never looked back. Yet he kept thinking back to that day on that Qingdao beach: the sand on their feet, the rain in Dalong’s eyes. The salt on Dalong’s lips as he kissed him. The sea, beautiful but terrifyingly foreign. Dalong’s repeated mantra of It’s okay, it’s okay, a promise that he had kept. 

On the day of the final performance Ayanga woke with a jolt. He felt nervous in a way he had not felt since he auditioned for Beiwu, standing ramrod-straight in the examination room as he waited for an examiner to call his name. He knew he was prepared: he’d practised Angel’s mannerisms on-stage for months; a year, even, but he didn’t know if it was enough. It was his only chance to impress people enough to continue on this path. If not, he would have to go back to Ordos, and start again. Follow in his brother’s path, become a sheep herder. Sing to his little cousins and the sheep instead of the audience he dreamed of.

All his worries melted away on stage. He was Angel, and Dalong was Collins, and they were in love. They protected, sheltered, and covered each other, and at the end of I’ll Cover You Collins smiled at Angel and waited, a brief pause. But when Ayanga looked up to meet his gaze Collins had faded away; what was left was Dalong’s gaze upon his, and suddenly Ayanga understood. Suddenly Ayanga understood exactly how Angel felt about Collins, because he realised that he felt the same way too. 

The kiss was a surprise, but it also felt familiar: like he was coming back to something right, an answer to a question he left unresolved for two years. It had been scary, then, but here, stripped bare by the harsh stage lights and the eyes all around them, Ayanga felt strangely comforted. If it could be made sense on stage, then it could be made sense off-stage as well: they tended to bring their roles into their personal lives as well. 

After the performance and the hooting calls and the flowers from their friends, Ayanga marched up to Dalong backstage with a newly-found resolve from the performance. “Come with me,” he ordered.

“Yushen’s treating us to dinner,” Dalong complained. “What are you–why are you–mmphf–!” 

Ayanga cut him off by shoving him into the nearest changing room and kissing him. 

Dalong stared at him. “Gazi…” he said slowly. 

“I’m sorry,” said Ayanga. “I’m sorry it took me so long to understand it.”

Dalong continued to stare at him.

“But I do, now,” said Ayanga, forcing himself to continue. “I understand it. And I–I want–” he trailed off, feeling embarrassed. 

Dalong was silent for a while. Then he said, quietly: “What do you want?”

“You,” said Ayanga, before he could regret it.

Dalong’s eyes flashed wildly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Ayanga.

“Say it to me.”

“I can’t,” said Ayanga, because it was true. He wouldn’t be able to get the words across in Mongolian, let alone Chinese. Words had never been his strongest suit. Instead, he said: “I’ll show you.”

There was a CD player in the changing room, and somebody had put the entire Rent soundtrack in it. Ayanga skipped to track 19, forwarding to the moment where Angel sang: Be my lover, and I’ll cover you…

“Don’t–play around with me,” said Dalong hoarsely. He looked like a wreck. “Gazi, I swear, if this is some sick joke–”

“Silly Dalong,” murmured Ayanga, because he was being quite silly. Ayanga had never been more sure of anything in his life. “Why would I joke about something like this?”

“You’ve done it before!”

Ayanga reached out to put his hand on Dalong’s neck. “I’m serious,” he said. “I promise. I’m sorry I made you wait for so long.”

Dalong looked at Ayanga, wide-eyed. Then all air seemed to deflate out of him. “I would’ve waited longer,” he whispered, ducking his head. “I would have waited for you. For however long it took. That’s why I said it was okay.”

“Thank you,” said Ayanga, feeling himself start to choke up. “Dalong–you’re too good to me. After Qingdao, you were still so nice to me, when you didn’t have to be. You took care of me when you didn’t need to. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you…”

“Gazi,” said Dalong seriously. “Don’t be an idiot. You’ve spent four years taking care of me. Banzhang. Why are you talking about repayment?”

“I never did that much.”

“To me, you did,” said Dalong, firmly. “I wouldn’t have made it without you. I want you to know that.”

Outside there was a loud bang, and a sudden pattering of footsteps: the rest of the cast had come backstage, ready to change out of their costumes and go celebrate.

Inside, Ayanga pressed his forehead to Dalong’s. “You know,” he said, after a pause. “That was my first stage kiss.”

“Oh?” murmured Dalong. “Did it meet your expectations?”

“Yes,” said Ayanga, unable to keep himself from smiling. “I’d like an encore, actually.”

“Gladly,” replied Dalong, and kissed him again. 

2013

He took the train down to Shanghai, because it was easier than going to the airport. He’d been in rehearsal for the whole day, and was only able to rush down to the train station at 5pm, where he had to jostle through a group of disgruntled aunties and uncles to secure a ticket for the 6pm train. He’d been worried he would have to get a standing ticket, but luckily there were still a few third-class seats left, and Ayanga happily bought one before dashing off to the train platform to avoid missing it.

When he got to Shanghai it was another train ride, where he was stuck between a screaming toddler and an auntie having a loud argument on speakerphone, and then finally he arrived at Dalong’s apartment building at around 11pm, exhausted and ready to crash on the first surface available. 

Dalong opened the door. “Hello?” he said, looking confused. When he saw Ayanga, he looked even more confused. “Gazi? What are you doing here?”

“Um. Happy anniversary,” said Ayanga awkwardly. He unwrapped the bag he had been holding in his lap for the journey and thrust it in Dalong’s hands. “Here. I got you some lamb meat skewers from Beijing. From your favourite shop.”

Dalong stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then suddenly, he said, almost awed: “You remembered. I was starting to think… wait–come in first,” he said, quickly ushering Ayanga inside his apartment and closing the door. “I actually thought you forgot about it.”

Ayanga laughed sheepishly. They had two anniversaries: their first kiss, and then the day they got together. Ayanga had not initially thought about the first one as an anniversary, but on that day last year Dalong had taken him to a really nice restaurant. When Ayanga asked him why, Dalong said, “Well, it’s the anniversary of our first kiss,” in an extremely nonchalant way that meant that it was probably not something nonchalant to Dalong, which made Ayanga feel like the shittiest boyfriend ever. 

He endeavoured to do better the next year, which was why he had dropped everything to come to Shanghai tonight. “Well. I made sure to not forget this year.”

“Gazi…” murmured Dalong. He pulled Ayanga in for a hug, nestling his head into Ayanga’s neck. “You came,” he mumbled.

“Dalong,” said Ayanga fondly, brushing his hands over Dalong’s hair. Mischievously, he added: “Did you miss me?”

Dalong’s eyes darkened, and he pulled back to draw Ayanga in for a kiss. He always kissed Ayanga like he was desperate for him, which Ayanga appreciated, because he was desperate for Dalong too–so much time apart meant that the time that they spent together was always crazy and intense, where they breathed in as much of each other as they could before they had to part again. “Slow down, slow down,” laughed Ayanga, when Dalong attempted to take off Ayanga’s shirt. “Let me put my bag down. I’m not going anywhere.”

“When are you leaving,” mumbled Dalong into his shoulder. 

“After the weekend,” said Ayanga, gently extracting Dalong from him and dumping his bag on the floor. 

“That’s so soon,” groaned Dalong. “Can’t you stay longer?”

“I wish,” said Ayanga, because he did. But he couldn’t be in Shanghai for so long in the same way that Dalong couldn’t be in Beijing for so long: work called. They both knew it. He kissed the pout off Dalong’s mouth. “Let’s not think about it, okay?”

“Okay,” said Dalong mulishly, but he allowed Ayanga to drag him into the bedroom. 

Afterwards, in the dark, Ayanga turned to Dalong. “Happy anniversary,” he whispered.

“Happy anniversary,” Dalong whispered back. He pulled Ayanga closer to him, wrapping his hands around his waist. “Our second one, huh?”

“Our second one,” repeated Ayanga. Second of many, he was thinking, though he did not yet dare to say it out loud for fear that it would not come true. Instead, he closed his eyes, and allowed the warmth of Dalong’s body to lull him to sleep, chasing a dream that was still being built in his own mind. 

2016

Dalong decided on a whim that he was going to get better at cooking. Ayanga humoured him, because a relationship was all about compromise. He just didn’t know why Dalong had to pick Beijing as his culinary starting-point. His kitchen in Shanghai was better, and they ate out in Beijing more often, as they had a lot more mutual friends there. They were also way more familiar with the cheap student eats, places they had frequented since university, and it was always a comfort to return to them when they were back in Beijing together. Ayanga enjoyed cooking for them sometimes too: usually Mongolian food, things like mutton soups and dumplings that he found were only good if cooked by himself. Dalong was always more than happy to eat whatever Ayanga cooked for him, and just as happy eating takeout nearly every day (something Ayanga knew he did when they weren’t together), so it was a flexible system that worked out well for both of them. 

But because a relationship was all about compromise, Ayanga didn’t say anything. He did, however, suggest that Dalong start simple, because he knew from university that Dalong was not only bad at cooking, but also too lazy to properly follow a recipe, which usually resulted in a dish that was barely edible. He was also incapable of having common sense in the kitchen: one time, he had left a leftover pear fungus soup boiling for too long that it turned into syrup. Ayanga had merely sighed, ordered Dalong to throw the pot away, and ordered a microwave to be delivered as soon as possible.

A relationship was about compromise anyways.

So he forwarded Dalong some video of an old auntie patiently teaching her audience how to make tomato-fried egg, and watched as Dalong put on a floral-patterned apron, furrowing his eyebrows in intense concentration as he watched the video. He even rewinded it twice before starting, and screenshotted nearly every single step. When he finally started, he peered at each screenshot for approximately one minute each before actually attempting the step, just to make sure the oil was the right temperature, the eggs were well beaten, and that the tomatoes were around the same size as the auntie had cut them in the video. 

Ayanga had never seen him so concentrated before. He was bemused that a simple tomato-fried egg had captured Dalong’s concentration like this, but he decided to leave Dalong to work his own creative magic in the kitchen. He had to practise a new song, anyways. 

Thirty minutes later, Dalong called him into the kitchen. “I made it,” he said proudly. 

“Looks good,” said Ayanga, and he wasn’t lying–it did look good. Really good for a first attempt, and exceptionally good for it being Dalong’s first attempt.

“Give it a try?”

Ayanga took a bite. It was a bit salty, but he wasn’t going to tell Dalong that. “It’s very good,” he said, humming appreciatively. 

“You think?”

“Yes,” said Ayanga, and kissed Dalong on the cheek to accentuate his point. “Very good. I’m impressed.”

Dalong beamed. “I’ll cook more, then.” 

Ayanga opened his mouth to argue, but when he looked at Dalong with his floppy hair and the floral apron he was wearing, he found he did not have the heart to do so. Dalong just looked too cute. “Sounds great,” he said, thinking that Dalong would forget about it in the span of one week.

Dalong didn't forget about it.

The Beijing kitchen filled up with all sorts of things. A friend of theirs had suggested that they buy an air-fryer, and while Ayanga had completely forgotten about it Dalong had seriously taken her suggestion: he’d even asked her for the brand and model she was using so that he could buy the exact same one. After two months of using it in Shanghai, he’d shown up in Beijing with a new one and dumped it on the counter table. 

Then came the mixer. Then the noodle shaver. Then the fancy mandoline slicer, which was admittedly very useful because it saved them a lot of time in the cutting process. They ended up eating out a lot less, and when Dalong left Beijing Ayanga always had so much leftovers in his fridge that he ended up bringing a lot of it to share with his castmates at rehearsals, who would laugh and ask him if he had a wife who was cooking for him at home until Tan Weiwei shushed all of them and gave Ayanga a knowing look that made Ayanga feel both relieved and worried at the same time. 

He wasn’t sure that Dalong was ever going to be a masterchef, but he was getting halfway decent at making meals. Ayanga was proud of him, although he wished that Dalong would make less potato-based dishes, because he was getting quite sick of eating shredded potatoes for five days straight. He could really use some variety. 

The next time Dalong came to Beijing, some of their friends who lived in Urumqi had scheduled to come over for the weekend. Dalong wanted to prepare a meal for them, and Ayanga was happy to humour him, since that solved the problem of where to take them out for dinner.  

On the day they were scheduled to arrive, he went with Dalong to the provision store down the road and pointed out the best brand of black vinegar, then drove him to the wet market and left him to fend for himself as he went to run some errands. When he came back to the market he had to stop Dalong from going too overboard with trying to haggle over the price of something as stupid as a carton of eggs, because you never wanted to aggravate the provision store grandmother, or she would charge you triple for everyting else. At home, he largely left Dalong to his own devices, just popping into the kitchen every so often to make sure nothing was going wrong. 

Dalong might have improved a lot, but he still had not forgotten the pear fungus soup incident.

“I don’t need help,” Dalong said stubbornly, when Ayanga offered to help him cut the vegetables. “I can do it myself.”

“You’re going to take too much time,” warned Ayanga. “We still need to clean up afterwards.”

Dalong glared at him. “I said, I can do it myself.”

Ayanga rolled his eyes. “Why do you have to be such a child, Zheng Yunlong? I won’t take any credit. I’ll just help you chop some vegetables.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous–here, give me the knife, I’ll just chop this and be gone–”

“I said I’m fine!”

Ayanga stepped back, feeling slightly shocked. All this for chopping some vegetables. “Fine. Then do everything yourself,” he said curtly, and slammed the kitchen door on his way out. He resolved to not check on how Dalong was doing at all, because Dalong clearly did not need any help, but one hour later, he heard a muffled yelp and a string of curse words through the kitchen door. Rolling his eyes, he turned back to the book he was reading, but then there was another yelp, and another string of curse words. 

Sighing, he decided it was best to make sure that Dalong had not burned himself down. He padded down the hallway and stopped in front of the kitchen door. “What’s going on?”

“Everything’s fine,” called Dalong from inside. “You don’t need to come in.”

Ayanga pinched the bridge of his nose. That meant that he did need to come in. “I’m coming in.” If he sounded a little bit too curt–well. It was warranted, in his opinion.

When he opened the kitchen door steam came bellowing into his eyes. Coughing, he closed his eyes and waved his hands around to disperse it. When he opened his eyes, it was to a kitchen with flour strewn all over the place, and something funky-looking boiling on the stove: probably a sauce of some kind that had gone wrong. There was also a confusing sweet smell wafting through the kitchen, which made no sense given that Dalong was making a salty, savoury dish. Shaking his head, he turned his gaze towards Dalong, who was refusing to meet his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” mumbled Dalong. His face was red. “I’ll just clean up, and start again.”

Ayanga looked at his phone. It was 5pm. Their friends were due in an hour. “I don’t think there’s time, Dalong.”

Dalong’s face turned an even darker shade of red. “But I can,” he said stubbornly.

Ayanga opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again. It wasn’t going to get them anywhere. He was just going to get mad, and then Dalong was just going to stubbornly say nothing, and then they would end up being in a bad mood for the rest of the night. So instead, he said: “How about we eat out? We haven’t done that in a while. It’d be nice to take them out too.”

Dalong didn’t say anything.

“We can bring them to Ghost Street,” offered Ayanga, knowing that there was nothing Dalong loved more than going there when he was in Beijing. “We can get hotpot.”

Dalong still didn’t say anything.

“We can go to that one hotpot restaurant–the really good one. And they even have the best fried milk… you remember, the last time we had it, you made that horrible joke…”

Finally, a tiny smile started to form across Dalong’s face. 

“What was it again? That in my mouth, the milk looked like–”

“Okay, okay,” said Dalong loudly. “No need to repeat what I said when I was drunk. Let's do that.”

Inwardly, Ayanga sighed in relief. “Okay. Let’s clean up first, though.”

“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” murmured Dalong later, when they were cleaning down the counters. “You were just trying to help, I know. I was being unfair. I just wanted to prove–well.” He looked down again, flushing slightly pink. “I just wanted to prove to you that I could cook an entire meal by myself, because I feel like sometimes you think I can’t–”

Ayanga sighed. “You know I don’t care if you can cook or not, right?”

“Yes, but.” Dalong waved his arms agitatedly. “Sometimes I feel. You can do so much, and you cook for me sometimes when we’re in Beijing, so I wanted to cook for you too, you know? I wanted to be able to do it too.”

Ayanga looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t realised that was the reason why Dalong started cooking. He simply thought he was bored and needed a new hobby. “Is that why you started cooking?”

“Yes,” said Dalong. His face was now completely red. “I know. Kind of stupid, right?”

“Not at all,” said Ayanga. He pressed a kiss to Dalong’s cheek. “I do appreciate it, Dalong. But cooking is always more fun when you do it with other people, you know?”

“But you never cook with me,” said Dalong plaintively. “All the times when you cook. You do it yourself.”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d want to…”

“You never asked me.”

“Well,” started Ayanga again, before he realised that Dalong was right. He’d always assumed that Dalong wouldn’t be interested in cooking, and even when Dalong had started cooking, he still thought it was a passing hobby that Dalong would forget about immediately. “Next time,” he promised. “We’ll make something together. Something big and showstopping. And we can invite people around.”

“Oh, can you invite Tan Weiwei? I really want to meet her.”

“I don’t know if she’ll accept, she’s way too cool for us,” said Ayanga, though he made a mental note to ask her the next time they had rehearsals. 

“Well, we can make food that is cool enough to be on her level,” said Dalong. “Like, oh, I don’t know, Buddha Jumps Over The Wall–”

“Buddha Jumps Over The Wall?” spluttered Ayanga. “That’s the cool dish you want to make?”

“I mean, yes, like what’s cooler than Buddha jumping over the wall?” said Dalong, although he was laughing. “We can also make Ants Climbing A Tree to go with it.”

There was silence as Ayanga stared at him incredulously. Then, like a dam had burst, they both burst into laughter. 

“Buddha jumps over the wall as ants climb up a tree,” mused Ayanga. “A perfect dinner plan.”

“We’ll be the talk of our Wechat circle,” said Dalong, and smiled. “Welcome to Ayanga and Zheng Yunlong’s household. Please have some Buddha Jumps Over The Wall and Ants Climbing A Tree.”

“Indeed,” said Ayanga, though he was thinking about what Dalong had said. The Ayanga and Zheng Yunlong household. Was that what their friends thought of them when they came over to their places in Beijing or Shanghai? But how could they share a house when they could never put it down on paper? Swallowing the thought, Ayanga dried off the last of the dishes and tied up the garbage bag, just in time for the doorbell to ring.

“I’ll get it,” said Dalong. Beaming, he bound over to the door. Ayanga wiped off his hands with a cloth, and put his best smile on his face. There were friends to greet, and no time to dwell on matters as insignificant as those.

2017

In December, Dalong told Ayanga that he wanted to buy an apartment in Shanghai. Ayanga knew it had been coming–Dalong had gotten his Shanghai hukou a year back, and had hinted at buying a place ever since–so he sat down with him to work out a budget. They had never really discussed finances, simply because it had not come up: Dalong rented a place in Shanghai, and Ayanga in Beijing, so there was no need to discuss splitting rent. If they were together, they alternated paying for things without comment, and for the few three-day holidays they’d managed to squeeze in, it was an unspoken rule that Ayanga paid for the transport and Dalong for the accommodation (or rather, Ayanga sent Dalong a link to book the hotel and he did). Since it had worked so well, that was the end of the subject as far as money was concerned.  

So Ayanga was surprised to discover that Dalong had quite a sizable sum of money tucked away for the purpose of buying an apartment. Dalong was not a big spender, but he certainly did not live frugally, and the number that he was showing Ayanga was a little bit impossible to believe. “Did the bank put an extra zero by mistake?” he joked. 

“Yes,” said Dalong, in his very serious tone that meant that he was being very unserious, “in fact, they’re all extra zeros. Don’t tell anyone my dirty little secret. I need to maintain my aura of being classy and rich.”

“Your aura is the last thing from classy and rich,” Ayanga shot back, because it was true. “You would eat takeout every meal if I didn’t stop you. You would also wear the same clothes for the week if I didn’t stop you. And also accidentally end up with a beard on stage.”

“The original Don Quixote did have a beard, which shows that you clearly weren’t paying attention when we watched it. It’ll make me more historically accurate.”

“I dare you to say that to your makeup artist tomorrow. Go ahead. I dare you.”

Dalong laughed. “You’re just jealous I have better beard growth than you,” he said, nuzzling his stubbly chin into Ayanga’s neck. Ayanga yelped and swatted him with the bank statements on the table in front of them, which brought Dalong back to the topic. “I mean, I started putting some money aside for this ever since we graduated. I talked to my parents about it last year, and they insisted on adding to it. Said it was an investment for the future so they could come and visit me more. Well, whatever. I’ve just been sending more money back ever since.”

Ayanga thought about the money he had started to save for the same purpose. It was not as much as Dalong’s, but there was no point in comparing: it wasn’t like he had parents to help him, and he had recently helped his older brother buy a place back in Ordos. “So then, rich man, what are you looking for?”

Dalong levelled him with a look. “As if you aren’t earning more money than me, Mr. Variety Show King,” he said. Which was probably true. They both knew that musicals didn’t earn them that much, and Dalong refused to do anything but them. Ayanga was way less picky, a trait he'd developed out of necessity and had never grown out of, even though he was fairly comfortable now. 

But he also enjoyed exploring different mediums, because he felt that it helped him grow as a performer, and the thrill of trying something new and foreign was what kept him in the industry–something Dalong never understood. Dalong was a musical actor, through and through. He felt the theatre stage was versatile enough to explore everything he wanted to explore. They’d argued about it before, because Ayanga wanted better for Dalong–wanted to ensure that more people knew who he was–and Dalong refused to hear reason. 

There was a show coming up that Ayanga wanted them to join together, and Ayanga had been agonising over how to persuade Dalong to join. It was going to start filming later this year. Ayanga had a couple of months to come up with a battle plan. 

Dalong didn’t really have many specifications. He wanted to stay in Puxi and have an easy commute into the theatres. He didn’t want to stay anywhere too loud (“People’s square, then,” Ayanga said jokingly), but he also didn’t mind a little bit of noise. Two bedrooms would be nice. Maybe three if the price wasn’t unreasonable. “How about you?” Dalong asked. “What do you want?” 

Ayanga thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know. It’d be nice to have sunlight. Be a bit higher up. And of course, a piano–” Then he remembered that it wasn’t him searching for a flat, but Dalong. “–but it’s okay. What I want is not the most important thing here.”

Dalong frowned, but he didn’t say anything. He did, however, proceed to drag Ayanga to every single flat viewing available–properties all across Puxi, from a cute but way too ridiculously-priced place in the Former French Concession to a new rental development in Zhongshan Park that was a little bit too sterile for his standards. Everywhere he went he introduced Ayanga as his “good friend” and insisted on asking Ayanga’s opinion on every little detail, like whether he liked the colour of the wooden floors or the view from the apartment. If Ayanga didn’t like it he immediately crossed it off his list and went to the next place. It was all a bit perplexing, because it wasn’t Ayanga buying the property, but he was happy to go along and provide moral support for Dalong in any way possible.

Finally, towards the very end of the year, Dalong dragged Ayanga to a place in Hongkou. It was located in a gated residential area towards the southern edge of the district, an easy commute–or even walk–to where Don Quixote was being performed. It was on the twenty-eighth floor, nearly at the top, resulting in a great view of the city below. The compound even had a cute park, and lots of trees that would turn green during spring, the agent assured them. 

“And might Mr. Zheng have any young children?” The rental agent inquired politely.

Dalong pursed his lips in a way that meant he was trying his best not to laugh. “Nope. No big ones either. Completely childless.” 

“Oh! I mean, it’s not a problem!” squeaked the rental agent, scrambling to reply. “Just wanted to check, because there is a very highly-regarded kindergarten just down the road.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” said Dalong. He shot Ayanga a look. Ayanga shrugged at him: they’d never talked about children. He’d figured it was impossible to even consider it when he’d entered into a relationship with Dalong, so he’d never thought about it after that. 

“The living room is incredibly spacious,” added the agent, gesturing around them. “There’s space for all you might need–a TV, sofa, dining table, even a small corner for–”

“Oh, Gazi,” interrupted Dalong, his eyes lighting up, “your piano would fit really well there–you can get lots of light, too, for when you practise.”

“Mm, yes,” said Ayanga, though he didn’t think it was that important. But it was true: the corner was perfectly sized for a piano, and when the sun was up, warmth and sunlight would diffuse perfectly onto the piano. It was right next to the big glass windows too, and Ayanga could look out into the skyline for inspiration during the day and night…

“Will Mr. Ayanga also be staying here as well?” asked the rental agent, interrupting his train of thought.

“Yes,” said Dalong simply. 

There was a pause, before the rental agent said: “That’s good–there are two rooms, so each of you can have your pick. Shall we look at them?”

As the rental agent turned into the hallway, Ayanga met Dalong’s eyes and tried not to laugh. It was evident that Dalong was trying not to as well. The master bedroom would be Dalong’s, and of course Ayanga would stay there too, when he was around. Which he always would be, if he was in Shanghai. The other would be some guest room that Dalong could use as an excuse if anybody asked, or if his parents visited, which they inevitably would.

There was a lot of storage space in the closet, which Dalong murmured was a “Good thing, Gazi, because you have too many clothes,” and also a huge bed, which Dalong looked approvingly at: many beds were not long enough for him, and he’d stayed in so many horrible beds on tour last year that Ayanga had forced him to go to a physiotherapist when he was back in Shanghai. The master bedroom also had its own bathroom, which was a good idea, so they wouldn’t have to fight with any guests who were staying over. It even had a little balcony, too, where Dalong could put all the plants he wanted to grow when the weather was a little better. When Dalong mentioned that he was a singer, the agent was quick to point out the double-glazed windows and the sturdy walls that were “so thick that you couldn’t hear a squeak from the other room,” which would be good for other… loud activities as well. 

It had everything Dalong needed: an easy commute, a quiet neighbourhood, two bedrooms. At the end of the tour Dalong seemed to be quite impressed. He looked expectantly at Ayanga. “Well?”

The rental agent looked between them one more time, clearly still trying to make sense of their relationship. Luckily she did not ask, but took the silence as a cue to let them discuss. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” she said, stepping out into the corridor.

“Well?” repeated Dalong, after they heard the front door click shut. “What do you think?”

“It’s nice. Way nicer than all the places we’ve seen earlier.”

Dalong nodded. “I think so too. I really like the place–but do you?”

“Well, I think it suits you,” said Ayanga. He did like it, but that wasn’t the most important thing. “I think you’ll really take to this place.”

Dalong frowned. “Gazi,” he said slowly. “Why are you speaking as if I’m going to be staying here by myself? Like you have no part in this?”

“Because… you’re buying the place?” offered Ayanga, still confused. “Why would I have a say?”

There was a pause, before Dalong glanced quickly at the front door and pulled Ayanga towards him. “Of course you have a say,” he said, very seriously. 

“I really shouldn’t…”

“Why not?”

“It’s not my money,” said Ayanga weakly. “I don’t think–I don’t think I should be the one making any decisions.”

Dalong took another long look at him before saying: “You’re such an idiot.”

“What–? I just think, it’s you buying–”

“Gazi, Gazi,” said Dalong, cutting him off. “You are my partner. Why would you–why would you–think–” He shook his head, then pressed his forehead to Ayanga’s. “We’ve been together for so many years. We’ll be together for even more years to come. Of course any place I stay in will be yours too. Why would you think otherwise?”

“I’ll never be able to write it down on paper,” murmured Ayanga, because he wouldn't. He didn't have a Shanghai hukou, and he did not want to go through the process of transferring his hukou ever again. Especially when it was important that he keep his Beijing one. “I’m not spending any money on this either.”

Dalong scoffed. “Why would you spend money for a place in Shanghai?”

“Because if it’s our place, then I should–”

Dalong cut him off with a kiss. Afterwards, he said: “Gazi, you worry too much about these things. When you’re in Shanghai it’s my responsibility; when I’m in Beijing it’s yours. It’s always been like this. Don’t be stupid. If I needed help to buy this place of course I would ask. But I don’t, and I want to do this, for both of us. So you have to tell me if you like the place or not, because it’ll be yours too, you know.”

“I–” said Ayanga, feeling himself start to choke up. He didn’t know what to say, but he was thinking about his own place in Beijing, and how much he hated it: he only kept it because they needed to have a place to call home in Beijing. But it was not home because Ayanga was renting the place; it was home because Dalong was there too. And perhaps that was it: whatever Ayanga wanted he wanted for the both of them, and it was comforting to know that Dalong felt the same way as well. “I do like it,” he finally said.

Dalong beamed. “Then it’s settled.”

After talking to the agent they made their way down to the park. Despite the bitter cold, there were hoards of children whizzing around with their scooters, bikes, and little toy cars. They were going in all directions: towards the rainbow-painted playground, the twisting lanes back into their blocks, even towards the lake that had probably frozen over. Ayanga was contemplating asking Dalong if they could walk towards that lake when a high voice called out: “Uncle, uncle, watch out!”

Before he could turn a solid weight barrelled into him, and he stumbled slightly before Dalong caught him with a reassuring arm to his back. 

“Sorry uncle, sorry uncle. I didn’t mean to,” said the kid sheepishly.

“It’s okay,” said Ayanga, patting the kid on the shoulder. “But be careful next time–you don’t want to hurt yourself or anybody else, okay?”

“Okay! I promise to be careful next time,” said the kid quickly.

“Good boy–now go on ahead.”

“Thank you, uncle,” said the kid, before scurrying away again.

“Always the banzhang,” noted Dalong, after they watched the kid disappear into a narrow lane. “If we had kids…” he trailed off, smiling wistfully.

“I’d be the disciplinarian?” offered Ayanga.

“Not necessarily,” said Dalong, looking contemplative. “But I think you’d turn everything into a learning opportunity for them.”

They fell silent, thinking. Ayanga could imagine it: their kid in this new apartment, who could fill all corners of the living room with laughter. Who could take the second room, where they would draw rainbows and animals all over the walls together as a family. Who could play with the neighbourhood children and go to the kindergarden down the road. Who they would love fiercely and nurture into the best person they could be.

Then he thought about their jobs. Their growing popularity. The fact that he wanted more, wanted to keep advancing into the spotlight, and how a child would be impossible with the eyes of the nation watching him. Maybe if they were to be unknown for the rest of their lives, it would be possible. But he didn’t want that for either of them. 

When he met Dalong's eyes he knew Dalong was thinking the same thing, and they both smiled at each other ruefully. There was no use in dwelling on something they couldn’t have. It was something Dalong had taught him to do: he had told Ayanga that the only reason why he waited so long after the first Qingdao kiss was because he was confident that Ayanga liked him too, and that he just needed time to figure it out. A child was not something they could wait for, not unless they retired from the stage, and so there was no point in thinking about it until that day came.

“Uncle,” said Dalong, after a pause.

“Huh?”

“The kid called you uncle,” said Dalong, shaking his head. “See, he knows how old you truly are.”

Ayanga grumbled. “Idiot, he said uncle twice. He was talking about you as well.”

Dalong bumped his shoulder against Ayanga’s. “We’re going to be the fun uncles for all our friends’ kids, aren’t we?”

“We already are,” said Ayanga, thinking guiltily about how they always slipped extra in the red packets for their friends’ kids because they couldn’t think of anything to buy. “Spoiling them rotten with cash and presents.”

“You’re the one who spoils them–remember the huge colouring set you gave Tingting for her third birthday?”

“Excuse me, do you remember who it was that suggested I buy an even bigger set?”

“Not me,” said Dalong innocently, even though it was absolutely him. He had even suggested Ayanga buy an extra set of watercolours and a kid-sized easel, but Ayanga decided that Tingting’s parents would probably kill them if they showed up with so much. 

It had started to snow. Despite the bitter cold the snowfall was gentle, and it caught softly on their heads: Dalong was not wearing a hat, so Ayanga beckoned him closer and gently brushed the snow off his head: just like he did when they were in university and Dalong showed up to morning rehearsals late, shivering and snow-speckled from the bitter January cold, and just like he knew he would be doing in the years to come, because Dalong never learned from his lessons. 

Dalong looked up at him, red-cheeked and smiling. He looked happy, thought Ayanga, and felt a secret thrill that he was the one that made Dalong happy. “It’s going to be wonderful, Gazi. Our new place.”

Ayanga reached out to hold Dalong’s hand. In their huge winter coats, nobody would be able to see anything. He wanted to say a million things to Dalong at that moment–thank yous, apologies, plans for their future. The plants he would buy Dalong for their balcony, the shelves they would fill with pictures of their musicals. How he felt so much love that it was bursting out of the seams of his coat. 

But he had never really been good at words. Especially not in his second language. Instead he said: “I'm thinking about getting a place in Beijing next year.”

Dalong squeezed his hand. “I'll be there.”

2018

“You’re out of tune.”

“I know,” said Dalong, rubbing his eyes. It was obvious he was tired, and his eyes were starting to display the glazed-over look that signified he would be snoring at three times his usual volume that night. “Can we run through it a bit slower?”

“We don’t have that much time,” warned Ayanga. Of course he felt sympathetic, but the performance was tomorrow, and they were not prepared: the middle section was incredibly messy, and the harmonies were not tight enough. He didn’t want them to go on stage and give a bad showing, especially not when both Dalong and him wanted to make sure that Liang Pengjie got a satisfying stage. 

Dalong sighed. “I know.”

“Just endure–a little longer,” murmured Ayanga, placing a comforting hand on Dalong’s neck. Dalong leaned into it, sighing. “From the start. Pengpeng, you know where to start, right?”

On the bed opposite them Liang Pengjie was trying not to goggle at Ayanga’s hand on Dalong’s neck. Ayanga tried not to smile, wondering what he–or really, the other kids–thought of their relationship. They weren’t necessarily trying to hide anything, but they weren’t going around telling people either. “Pengpeng?”

Liang Pengjie blinked, then shook his head frantically. “Yes–yes, sorry Gazi-ge! I was listening! I know where!” 

“Let’s start, then. One, two, three…”

But despite Ayanga’s best efforts, it still wasn’t coming together. He’d resumed the original tempo that they were working at, knowing that they were still under time; yet Liang Pengjie was shaky at best, and Dalong seemed to get even more out of tune. He already tended to sing flat at the beginning unless you corrected him, but being this out of tune was embarrassing for his standards. He was a leading musical actor in China, for god’s sake.

“You’re still out of tune,” said Ayanga. Perhaps he should have stopped there, but he was getting annoyed: Dalong was better than this. Their song had also been arranged in a way that was best suited to Dalong’s singing style – it shouldn’t have been hard for him at all. “In fact, why is it worse than before? Why are you getting more and more out of tune?”

Dalong closed his eyes. “That’s why I asked to go a little bit slower. Not everyone is as stable as you, you know.”

Ayanga took a deep breath, inwardly counting to three. There was no use in shouting at a moment like this. He took his hand off Dalong’s neck. “If you snap out of this mood, you won’t have a problem. We’re performing tomorrow. Do you want to give the audience a bad showing?”

“Maybe if we could go slower, like I asked, I could resolve some of my pitch problems.”

“Do you realise the time constraints we’re under? Did you not hear the Zhai Li Shuotian group’s practice, and how good they are right now? How will we be able to get up to their standards if you can’t even sing it under-time?”

“I know. I still need to adjust, okay?”

“Maybe you’re just not working hard enough–” Ayanga started, but then immediately stopped. Horror dawned on him. That was something they did not say to each other, no matter how furious they got during arguments. “Dalong–I didn’t mean–”

“I’m not having this argument with you,” Dalong interrupted, voice as hard as steel. He got up, heading for the door. “I’m going for a walk.” 

The door clicked shut behind him. Ayanga sighed, pressing a finger to his temple. He’d managed to both fuck up rehearsal and make Dalong angry. Well done, he told himself sardonically. 

“Um,” said Liang Pengjie. His eyes were wide. “Should I, um, leave?”

Ayanga sighed again. He had almost forgotten that Liang Pengjie was there at all. “No, what’s the point? We don’t want more people down in our team. Give him a few minutes. He’ll be back.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes as Ayanga went through their arrangement, noting down any places that could be made simpler. It might not have been a hard song, but there were parts that were unnecessarily complicated–perhaps they could get rid of it, or remove a line from the harmony? He was contemplating this when he noticed that Liang Pengjie was staring at him, looking both conflicted and terrified, as if he wanted to say something but was afraid that Ayanga was going to murder him for it. “Just say what you want to say.”

“I don’t think… I should…”

“Just say it. I won’t be upset.”

“I… Ithinkyoushouldapologize.”

Ayanga raised his eyebrows. He’d already planned to do that, of course, but he knew he had to give Dalong a few minutes to himself first. He did want to hear what Liang Pengjie had to say, though. “Oh, why?”

“I just think,” said Liang Pengjie hastily, “Long-ge cares a lot about you. And what you have to say. So, um, you might have kind of… hurt his feelings…”

“We’re singers,” Ayanga pointed out. “It’s our job to make sure we’re in tune.”

“Yes, but Long-ge’s not just any singer, he’s your–” Liang Pengjie’s eyes widened, and he frantically cut himself off. “Sorry! I didn’t say anything!”

Ayanga chuckled quietly. “No, you’re right.” Liang Pengjie’s mouth dropped. “I mean, that I should apologise. I know. I’m going to do that. But about the other thing…” Ayanga hesitated, wondering if he should be honest. No harm done, he reasoned. Plus, he suspected the kid might also be–well. “Yes. You’re right about that too. It can be hard sometimes, when they’re not just any singer. Horrible work-life balance. Maybe if you ever fall in love with someone you work with, you’ll understand.” 

Liang Pengjie’s eyes looked like they were about to fall out of their sockets. “You mean you two are…?”

“It’s not obvious enough?”

Liang Pengjie kept staring. Then something in him seemed to relax, and he grinned, fluttering his eyelashes. “I mean, who do you think I am? Of course I could tell.”

Ah. So he was right. “What gave it away?”

Liang Pengjie appeared to truly contemplate that question. “I don’t know. Just the way you guys are always looking at each other, I guess. Like you have a secret language that you’re not telling us. And that we’re all outsiders to it.”

“Ah,” said Ayanga, feeling a bit sheepish. “Yes, I guess we’re too used to doing that. That’s what all those years have done.”

“How… long?” 

“Since university.”

“Wow,” whispered Liang Pengjie. “That’s so long ago.” He peeked up at Ayanga, and said, blushing: “Thanks for telling me. It means a lot. Especially because I really admire you both. So to know that you’ve managed to be together for so long, in this industry… it’s really inspiring. I hope that one day I can have a relationship as strong as yours.”

“You sure you want to have a relationship like ours after that argument?” asked Ayanga cheekily, though he felt quite proud from the praise. His relationship with Dalong never felt like something he had to manage. It just felt natural. Whatever that was meant to happen happened; fate had just decided that there was no point in breaking them up. It would be too much work anyways: they shared too many things, and it was impossible to remember what belonged to who in the first place. Like, was the sweater he was wearing supposed to be his or Dalong's? Ayanga genuinely could not remember. 

He did still have to apologise, though. 

With the wisdom of someone beyond his years, Liang Pengjie intoned sagely: “Yes, of course I do. All healthy couples argue sometimes. It’s how they stay together.”

Ayanga laughed. “I suppose you’re right. I better get on that apology then.” He winked at Liang Pengjie, who shot him a quick thumbs up before looking down at his phone; Ayanga noticed the opening WeChat screen, then the first group that appeared: LAOYUNFAMILY~ 1975 + CAICAI GROUP! and shook his head. No doubt he was about to spill all the gossip to the rest of the kids. 

It was not hard to find Dalong, but it never was, after arguments: Dalong could never be bothered to go too far, and he was too tall and striking to go incognito anywhere. So it only took Ayanga approximately two minutes to find him in the hotel stairwell, staring out of the tiny window beside the garbage bins. “Gazi,” he said wearily, turning around when he heard Ayanga approach.

Ayanga surveyed his face quickly. He didn’t look as murderous as before, which was a good sign. “Dalong.” He took a cautious step closer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Dalong sighed. “I know.” 

He still wasn’t meeting Ayanga’s eyes. Ayanga reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, but Dalong flinched away, and Ayanga’s hand fell limply to his side. Grimacing inwardly, he decided to try a different approach. “I know you’ve been working really hard. I’ve never doubted that. I just have–impossible standards, sometimes. Ones that even I cannot reach. So it was wrong of me to say that to you.”

“No–you can. You can reach them.”

“What–no! I can’t. That’s what makes me a hypocrite. I’m sorry, Dalong.”

“I will never be able to understand music like you do,” said Dalong shakily. Tears had started to well in his eyes. Before Ayanga could protest, Dalong placed a hand on his wrist and said: “No. Let me finish first. It’s how we were born: you had music in you, from the start. You can pinpoint pitch and understand harmony much better than I will ever be able to do, no matter how hard I try. You will always be my banzhang, my ge, the person I look to whenever I need help. There’s a reason why I always rely on you to tell me if I’m off-key. Because you know better than I do. I will always look up to you. But I work hard too. I might not be as good, but I do work hard…”

“Dalong,” whispered Ayanga, feeling part of his heart start to break. “Of course you do. I was wrong to have said that. I don’t have an excuse–just know that I didn’t mean it. But it’s not a competition, okay? I’m not better than you.”

“But you are.”

“No.” He took Dalong’s face in his hands. Tears had started to roll down his cheeks, and Ayanga brushed them away with his hands, feeling terrible and sick at the same time. “Listen to me, Dalong. I might be better in some things, but you are also better in others. It doesn’t make either of us better than the other. Do you know how much I rely on you too, when it comes to music? I watch back your performances to hear you sing, so I can learn from what you do on stage. The way you portray emotions, the way you translate them to song. To the stage. I can’t do it the way you do, which is why I admire your performances so much. Did you know that?”

“Oh,” said Dalong; his voice was tiny even through the echo of the stairwell. Ayanga was reminded, suddenly, of the barely nineteen-year-old boy who he had met at Beiwu, who whined when Ayanga woke him up early to exercise and cried under his blankets when he thought nobody was in the dorm. He had not come in with a burning passion for musicals, but when they left, he was the most passionate out of them all, and he’d worked, harder than anyone, to dedicate his life to musical theatre. It was hard to even get him to be on Super-Vocal in the first place: Ayanga spent at least two months waxing poetic about how nice it would be to introduce musicals to the nation, how nice it would be to work together on stage, finally do that Phantom duet they had been dreaming about for years before he finally grumbled and acquiesced. Of course he worked hard for the stage: Ayanga knew that. There was no excuse for what he said. “I didn’t. I didn’t know.”

“Then you’re an idiot, Zheng Yunlong,” said Ayanga. He felt his own eyes start to sting. “If you think I can reach for the impossible, I can only do it together with you.”

“For someone who says he’s bad with words, you’ve gotten better at apologising,” said Dalong. He pressed his forehead to Ayanga’s. “Gazi. You really are so much, sometimes. But I will also do better for you, in the future.”

Ayanga was aware that they probably looked like two idiots right now: heads pressed against each other, eyes red, smiling. “We both will.”

“We probably should get back,” said Dalong, after a while. “Pengpeng must be wondering if I’ve killed you by now, or something.”

“You know, he told me to apologise to you.”

“Oh? Is that why you came?”

“What–of course not! I would’ve come regardless. But it was cute. He was so embarrassed.”

Dalong raised an eyebrow. “So you told him about us?”

“Yes. But he guessed already. I also guessed that he guessed, because, well, you know.”

“Mm.”

“I knew from the moment he opened his mouth, frankly.”

“Nobody understands a son better than his father,” mused Dalong. “Even if his father is infinitely annoying. And does nothing but nag. And embarrasses his mother in front of him.” He was smiling, though, so Ayanga figured he was forgiven.  

“So you’re the mother?”

Dalong shrugged. “It’s what the fans are calling me, isn’t it? Long-ma, or whatever. I don’t really care. It’s just a name. It’s not like they’re actually our kids. Or that they’re really part of our family.”

Their family, thought Ayanga, feeling warmth blossom in him. Just the two of them. “You should see what’s going on in their group chat. I think they’ve decided the family relations of everyone in the Laoyun family.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” said Dalong, snorting. “Where does Shenshen fit into this, by the way?”

“He’s Caicai’s godfather’s brother’s wife, apparently.”

“Godfather’s… brother’s… wife…” Dalong started laughing. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Let them have their fun,” said Ayanga, although he agreed. It really was ridiculous. He was forgetting who all of his nephews were supposed to be; new ones were appearing every day! At the end of this show he would be leaving with enough family members to last him ten lifetimes. As well as a weibo following a thousand times the size it was before. It was all quite overwhelming.

Dalong sighed. “I miss Shanghai,” he said. “The show is fun, but I’m tired. I want to go back to sitting in the park without a camera trained in my face for the whole day.”

Ayanga brought Dalong’s head to his chest, gently brushing through his hair. He didn’t want to tell Dalong that he would probably never be able to do that again. Their phones had been blowing up all day with congratulations and offers. Their weibo followings were doubling every hour. Ayanga had never seen so many videos of himself plastered all over the internet before, and while it was cute that so many people seemed to like Dalong and him together, he was starting to worry that strangers were getting too close to the truth. 

He wasn’t going to worry Dalong about that, though. “Me too,” Ayanga said honestly. “Let’s go to your favourite dumpling shop when we're back. You can eat out the entire shop and I’ll pay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

2020

“You should do it,” said Heng-jie, when he was asked to be a part of the Perfect Summer show. “It’s a good opportunity. Lots of fresh young meat there, they’ll bring in a big audience.”

Dalong’s response, when Ayanga asked him about it that night before bed, was to shrug and say: “Sure, why not?”

“I just–don’t really know. It doesn’t really seem like my kind of show…”

“Mm.”

“The cast is all so young, you know, from all those survival shows where they sing, dance, and rap. And it’s not a show where I can just be singing and teaching people about musicals, or introducing Mongolian culture. It’s a fun variety show. Set in Hainan. I’m afraid I might be a little, well, out of place, and that I won’t understand–are you even listening to me, Zheng Yunlong?”

Dalong paused from where he was scrolling on his phone, and slowly looked up at Ayanga. “Yes.”

“You are so annoying sometimes,” said Ayanga, trying not to sound too petulant. He knew that Dalong was listening. Dalong, as forgetful as he could be, did listen to what Ayanga had to say. He just tended to absorb what was said to him at an incredibly sluggish speed when he thought the subject was not important, so it was clear that he thought this subject was not important, when it clearly was; why else would Ayanga have agonised over it for the whole day? “I could use more than a one-word reply.”

At an even slower speed than before, Dalong said: “I already said. You should do it.”

Ayanga threw up his hands in frustration. This was not going to get him anywhere. Why had he even bothered to ask? “Did you even listen to anything I said earlier?”

Dalong looked at him steadily. “Yes,” he said finally. Ayanga gritted his teeth, about to retort, but then Dalong continued: “You’re worried that you won’t fit in. And that you can’t display your best. I don’t think you have to worry about that. You’re great at talking to people. You know more about the new shows and newfangled lingo that the kids use than many people our age do. You can also use this show as an opportunity to show the things you love to an audience that might not know that much about it.”

“You should have said all that earlier,” Ayanga muttered grumpily, though he was already feeling much better about the whole thing.

“Do it,” repeated Dalong firmly. He turned off the light, and wrapped his body around Ayanga’s, gently kissing a line down Ayanga’s neck. “Gazi. Don’t worry so much about this.”

Ayanga relaxed into his hold, arching his neck to the side to give Dalong better access. “Give me a reason to forget, then.”

“Gladly,” said Dalong, and slipped his hands lower. 

When Ayanga woke up in the morning, he reached out for Dalong, but turned around to an empty bed. He frowned: he was pretty sure they both had the morning free. There was a thermos filled with coffee on his bedside table, however, and when Ayanga blearily fumbled for his phone, he saw a WeChat notification pop up from Dalong: Got a call. Had to go to the studio. Recording. Do that show. 

Which was how Ayanga found himself in Hainan on a hot July day, sweating out of his makeup, having an absolutely miserable time and trying not to show it. It wasn’t even that the cast were bad people. It was just awkward. The younger cast members didn’t really want to talk to each other, especially not the girls with the boys (which Ayanga found completely understandable, if only considering their personalities), and it was clear that they were trying their best to dodge any dating rumours that might arise from too much interaction. 

While Ayanga didn’t have to worry about that, as there was no chance of any romance sparking for him on this show, it left him to be the middle-man, the over-enthusiastic uncle trying to bring everyone together. And from the first day, he knew that it was going to be an exhausting job.

How are things going? texted Dalong, on the first night. Made any new friends?

Having a great time, lied Ayanga. Made lots of friends. Then he shut off his phone and threw it to the side of the bed, staring in frustration at the camera they had put in his room. It was off, of course, but still. Ayanga hated things like that. He didn’t like the fake shade of green on the walls either, or the way everything looked like it was built for a five-year-old kid, although of course he’d exclaimed over how cute it was when the camera was on. 

Still. He’d agreed to be in this show. And he didn’t do things by halves, so he would give it his all. So everyday he tried to make conversation with his castmates, and made sure to include the shy ones in things, such as Jin Zihan, who was as quiet as a mouse and barely said more than three words at a time. Most of the cast was not overly chatty, save for Li Wenhan, who had the incredible ability to put his foot in his mouth and probably needed more PR training, so he wasn’t lying: it really was exhausting. 

Of course, not all of it was bad. He liked Xuanyi-meimei, who was fun to be around and didn’t make him feel like he was dragging on a conversation for no reason, but he could tell she was restraining quite a lot of herself, especially when she smiled placidly at the camera when Li Wenhan made another terrible comment about women. The other boy was not bad either, and managed to get Li Wenhan out of their faces for most of the time, which was a relief. But Ayanga still felt exhausted every single day, in a way that he hadn’t felt since the back-to-back tours and shows in 2019, a bone-deep weariness that left him unsettled at the core.

It was the sun, he reasoned. This overly-touristy island. And the constant draining of his social battery. And, of course, being away from Dalong. Last year he had Dalong nearly every single day by his side; whatever issues he had could be solved by working through them with him. Sometimes he wondered if their friends were right: had they become too codependent since Super-Vocal? Maybe it was good that they were spending some time away from each other. 

It didn’t feel good, though. It felt–lonely, and he hated it. He missed Dalong desperately. He could probably tell Dalong he missed him, and Dalong would immediately call him, but he didn’t want to for the stupidly petty reason that Dalong hadn’t said he missed him either, and Dalong was always the first to say these things. So instead, he texted: How’s the recording?

Good. Then, as if he had been reading Ayanga’s mind: Miss you. 

Ayanga felt marginally better. Miss you too. 

A video call request popped up. It was Dalong. He was wearing a ratty t-shirt from one of Ayanga’s tours and sporting the two-day old moustache that made him look like a creepy old man. He looked terrible and sleep-deprived and Ayanga still wanted to kiss him. “Gazi,” he said, voice warm even in the static, and Ayanga missed him so much he thought his heart would burst from it.

“Dalong,” he said, trying to smile. He didn’t want to burden Dalong with his problems, not when Dalong looked so tired. Perhaps another day.

But Dalong knew him too well, and he frowned at Ayanga, bringing his phone closer to the screen  “What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Dalong frowned. “Come on, tell me.”

“It’s just…” Ayanga sighed. He didn’t know how to verbalise it–all the frustration, the tiredness. The way he woke up in the morning dreading the impending glare of the camera lens. How he would collapse into his bed at the end of a filming day and numbly scroll through his WeChat circle instead of replying to anyone, because he was too exhausted to do anything else. In the end he settled for the simplified truth. “I don’t know. I just miss you.”

Dalong was silent. Then he said: “Do you want me to go there? I can find some excuse.”

“No, no,” said Ayanga. It didn’t make much sense, with how busy Dalong’s schedule was this upcoming week. “You’ve got work to do, I’ve got work to do. Our schedules are already so packed, I don’t want us to push anything back and then regret it when it gets messier in the upcoming months. We’ll see each other soon, anyways. It’ll be fine.”

“If that’s what you want,” said Dalong, which made Ayanga frown. It wasn’t just about him. It was about Dalong too. Dalong had been nothing but patient and understanding this last year as Ayanga had lined his schedule up with events and shows and brand deals, resulting in a calendar so full that Heng-jie would threaten to let Dalong know just how much sleep he got at these events if he tried to add any more.

He was glad that Dalong understood, of course. He had been worried, after they decided to stop promoting together for fear that the media attention would get even more invasive, that Dalong might not like the idea of him continuing to raise his profile. Yet surprisingly Dalong had not said anything bad. He had been supportive when Ayanga started taking part in more diverse shows, although he would send Ayanga screenshots of Ayanga’s own face caught between expressions and say that his expression management needed work, just because he knew Ayanga was sensitive about that. When Ayanga mentioned that he didn't like the idea of Dalong being by himself all the time, Dalong rolled his eyes and reminded him what the first four years of their relationship was like. Plus, at least most of the filming was in either Shanghai or Beijing, and it wasn't hard to coordinate to make sure they were in the same city at the same time, so they could at least come home to each other.

But Perfect Summer wasn't in Shanghai or Beijing. It was in Hainan, a fucking island on the other side of China. And he couldn't run away from the cameras at night to cuddle with Dalong in the privacy of their own bed, or follow him into their bathroom to nag at him for forgetting to close the lid on the toothpaste again. They had done it all together last year, braving the cameras together, so much that not having Dalong here now felt like a bruise that remained tender to the touch. He smiled wanly at Dalong. “I'll be okay.”

“Hmm,” said Dalong, looking unconvinced. Mercifully he decided to drop the subject. “A producer asked if I was interested in taking on some more acting roles. Something about a singer in 1920s China.”

“Oh? Singing the Shanghai oldies?”

“How hard it is, to wait for your return,” crooned Dalong, attempting to sound like a Shanghai oldies singer and failing miserably, “I’ve counted over three years while waiting…”

Ayanga let him finish before shaking his head. “That was terrible. You sounded like a bleating sheep. Mehhhhhhh. A sheep running away from clippers. What standing do you have to call yourself a big dragon?”

Dalong wiggled his eyebrows. “You like my big dragon.” 

“Stop,” groaned Ayanga, though he couldn't help but laugh. Through his shitty phone speakers, he could hear Dalong laugh as well. “Shut up, you stupid–stupid–”

“Yes, stupid what?”

“Stupid big–sheep!” 

Dalong burst into laughter so loud that Ayanga could feel the vibrations through the speakers. “That's me. A stupid big sheep. Mehhhhhhh.”

Good thing none of this was recorded, thought Ayanga, as he stuck his tongue out at Dalong. The audience would think they'd lost their minds. 

“It'll get better,” said Dalong, suddenly sobering. “I really believe that. Gazi. Come back to me in one piece, okay?”

He was so cute. Ayanga loved him so much. “I will.”

Dalong smiled, eyes crinkling. “See you soon, old man. Get some sleep.”

“See you,” echoed Ayanga, and forced himself to end the call. He tried not to sigh again, resolving to believe in what Dalong said: it would get better. Of course it would.

Dalong ended up being right. Things got much better when Yin Zheng arrived. At least Yin Zheng was someone he was close to, and his age, so he didn’t have to be the only weird uncle on the show. They spent their shoots gossiping away in the corner about their recent shows–Dalong and him had watched Winter Begonia together and he'd never had the chance to commend Yin Zheng for his performance–and their respective love lives, to which Yin Zheng sighed and said: “Not everyone can be you, Gazi.”

“What does that mean?”

Yin Zheng patted him on the cheek. “Not everyone meets their soulmate when they're twenty,” he said. “Especially not in this industry. How many years has it been? Nine?”

“Coming on ten,” said Ayanga, trying not to sound too proud. “In a few weeks.”

Yin Zheng whistled. “Fuck, that's impressive. Got anything planned?”

Ayanga frowned. He'd been so busy that he hadn't thought about it. As the years went by, anniversaries became less and less of a big deal: all the days they could spend together in a year blurred into one big celebration. Last year, they'd been to busy to plan anything, so they just ordered takeout and had sex. Afterwards, lying content in Dalong's arms, Ayanga remembered thinking that this was better than any fancy dinner they'd ever had. 

Still, ten years was an important milestone, so he resolved to ask Dalong about it. Are we doing anything for our anniversary?

Aren't you still filming? 

Ayanga frowned. Yes, but I know this is important.

No, don't worry about it. I want filming to go well for you. We can always do something later. Don't worry about me.

Ayanga frowned. He might have been okay with not doing anything, but he knew Dalong wasn't. Contrary to what their friends believed, Dalong was the one who cared a lot more about anniversaries and special occasions. Ayanga was happy to go along with what Dalong wanted, or help plan anything he wanted to do. No, what do you want to do?

I know your work is very important to you. I want you to be happy.

A relationship is a two-way thing, Ayanga texted back. You should have a say. I want you to be happy, too.

What makes you happy makes me happy.

Ayanga took a deep breath, trying not to get annoyed. Sometimes Dalong tried so hard to be nice that it was at the expense of his own happiness, and Ayanga hated that he still did it with him, nearly ten years into their relationship. That applies to me as well. This anniversary is important to the both of us. 

There was a long beat of silence before Dalong replied. You’ve worked so hard to get where you are, he wrote. I know it was so hard for you in the past. I want to let you have the freedom to do what you want with your career. You’ve worked hard for this success, and all these show appearances, so I only want you to have everything you’ve worked so hard for.

Ayanga felt his vision go white. Furious, he switched to sending a voice message. “Can you not treat me like I’m some poor idiot who can’t do anything for himself? Yes, I had a rough childhood. Yes, it was hard to get here. But I am doing fine now, and I have been doing fine for a long time, and you know this because we’ve spent the last ten years together, so I don’t need your pity! I don’t want my partner to let me make decisions because he pities me; I want him to make decisions alongside me, because he’s my equal! Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in this relationship, because I’m the only one making decisions, when that shouldn’t be the case!”

Dalong didn’t respond. Ayanga waited another hour before sending another message. Surely you must know that after ten years you are more important to me than my career could ever be. 

I know, Dalong finally responded. I’m sorry. I’ll think about what I want us to do.

He never brought it up afterwards. Ayanga got busy, and Dalong got busy too, and their daily texts usually consisted of a hurried good morning, good night, and a quick update of their days. Ayanga put aside all thoughts of their anniversary, figuring that Dalong would just tell him when he decided. Even if he just wanted to call, it was fine–at least Dalong knew that Ayanga wanted them to do something. 

Perfect Summer continued to get better as well, and Ayanga was starting to enjoy himself. After Yin Zheng came Zhang Meng, whose company he always enjoyed, and they spent the time gossiping away at the piano about the younger cast, letting Li Wenhan run his mouth until it got too embarrassing to be aired. 

“How’s the husband?” asked Zhang Meng one night, when the director paused filming to let Li Wenhan’s manager chew him out. 

Caught off-guard, Ayanga spluttered, “We’re not married.”

Zhang Meng widened her eyes at him. “You sure? Every conversation I have with you is like, Dalong this, Dalong that, let me call Dalong to check, let me see if Dalong’s free, let me see if Dalong wants to get some of this as well, Dalong, Dalong, oh, my Dalong is the best, the cutest, my baobei!”

“I’ve never said any of that!”

“You sure have.”

Feeling childish, Ayanga stuck his tongue out at her. “You’re just jealous.”

“I really am,” said Zhang Meng, pretending to swoon. “You guys are so romantic. I wish I had a love as beautiful as yours…”

Ayanga laughed, although he felt something unpleasant settle at the bottom of his stomach. “I don’t know if we’re that romantic. We haven’t really spent that much time with each other recently.”

Zhang Meng raised an eyebrow at him. “Relationship troubles?”

“No,” said Ayanga, although he did–wonder. Were they talking less because he had gotten mad at Dalong that day? Dalong was a notoriously horrible texter, but when he was at home, he would text Ayanga a photo every day of the extremely ugly cactus that their neighbour put on his shoe rack, just to prove that it was 1) still there and 2) still ugly. Ayanga knew he’d been home for the past two days – they had a synced iCloud calendar – so why hadn’t he texted Ayanga the pictures? Their anniversary was also in two days, and Dalong hadn’t said anything about it yet. “Just. We’ve both been so busy.”

“Ah.” Zhang Meng nodded sagely. “Yes, you’ve both been really busy recently. You should definitely take a long break with him after this show. Go somewhere nice.”

“Yeah,” said Ayanga, although he knew they were both booked until the end of the year. With a sinking feeling, he wondered if they could even find some time off next year. Dalong hadn’t planned that much, just a musical and a movie, but Ayanga had lined up at least fifteen prospective projects he wanted to do. Dalong was more important than those projects, but he hadn’t expressed any interest in taking a vacation together, so Ayanga had not factored it into his planning. 

The day of their anniversary dawned, and Dalong still didn’t say anything. There was merely the customary good morning text and nothing else. Ayanga went to the shoot in a sour mood, dreading the performance he would be doing later on in the day. At least he was doing it with Zhang Meng and not the others, and she knew how to keep quiet when she saw him frowning. 

They gathered at a square, right off the Hainan coast, where a crowd was starting to trickle in: it was a live performance, so Ayanga knew that he would have to put in more effort to look lively, or Heng-jie would have a lot to say to him.

Ugh. All this for a silly reality TV show that was unlikely to do much for him anyways.

When it came time for their performance Ayanga was more than ready: he had sung the same song earlier in the year with Zhou Huajian, and the chords came to him like second nature. He played the intro with a flourish, pausing to let Zhang Meng come in–but when he looked up to cue her she was merely smiling at him, without a microphone in hand.

Ayanga frowned at her, and gestured to the microphone perched on top of the piano. She just kept smiling. “Play it again,” she said.

Not wanting to cause a scene, Ayanga started again. This time, when he reached the first line, a low voice sang out: “For you, I spent half a year of savings, to cross the ocean to come see you.”

There was no mistaking whose voice it was. Ayanga’s hands trembled as he continued playing. “For this meeting between us,” the voice continued singing, “even my breathing has been repeatedly practised.” 

It was Ayanga’s turn to join. When he’d first sung it on Our Song, he’d been confident he could partner with Zhou Huajian, and excited to show the audience that he could sing in a different style–that his voice could be theatrical, but also soft and sweet when needed. But here, he couldn’t even think about a vocal colour to use; he was trying his best not to choke up. “Words could never express–even a bit of my affection,” he sang, voice shaking. “Because of this regret, I’ve thought and thought about it at night, unwilling to fall asleep.”

“Memories, they always slowly accumulate…” the voice sang, and Ayanga couldn’t take it anymore. He looked up. He was met with Dalong’s big eyes and quiet smile, and he was so thankful that he could have cried, cameras be damned. Dalong’s hair was a mess for broadcast standards, and he had circles around his eyes, but his smile was open and genuine. Keep going, he mouthed to Ayanga, so he did. Together they sang into the chorus, soaring into an easy harmony: singing with Dalong was like wearing his favourite jacket, or slipping into a well-worn pair of shoes, a familiar comfort that could be replaced with no other. No matter how practised he was for all of his duet performances, nothing could beat the synchronicity Dalong and him had on stage: singing with Dalong was easier than breathing.

When Ayanga played the final chord there was a smattering of applause from the audience, and Ayanga remembered with a jolt that they were being filmed. He looked helplessly at Dalong. “Dalong…”

“Gazi,” said Dalong. He gave Ayanga a look that said, we’ll talk later.

Ayanga turned to look at everyone else. Zhang Meng was smirking at him, but the younger cast were looking at them with expressions of confusion and curiosity. “Gazi-ge, is he your friend?” asked Jin Zihan, probably the first question she had asked him throughout the show.

“Um,” said Ayanga. He shared a quick look with Dalong. “Yes.”

Zhang Meng came to the rescue. “This is esteemed musical theatre actor Zheng Yunlong, a close friend of Gazi’s since university! He was on Super-Vocal too, if you’ve watched the show. The one with the big eyes. Look at him. Aren’t his eyes so big?”

There was a chorus of oohs and ahs. Ayanga made a mental note to buy Zhang Meng a very expensive dinner after the show. “You do have really big eyes, ge,” said Li Wenhan. “Super big. Like a cartoon character. Wow.”

Dalong raised his eyebrows. “You must be Li Wenhan. Gazi has told me a lot about you.” Which Ayanga had done, and none of it was very nice. Mostly he ranted about Li Wenhan’s propensity to say the wrong things at the wrong times, which happened so much that it must’ve been some sort of talent.

Li Wenhan beamed. “Only good things, I hope.” 

“Of course,” said Dalong dryly. “The best.”

Next to Ayanga, Zhang Meng hid a smile. Ayanga nudged her in the side, although he was hiding his own smile too. Luckily Li Wenhan did not seem to notice anything, and he started complimenting them for their song choice instead, saying it was a “touching re-enactment of a boy and a girl coming to see each other again after a long time,” which really made Ayanga’s mouth struggle to keep a smile from forming. For all his faults, Li Wenhan really was hilarious.

After everyone finished their performances, and the director called it for the day, they all went back to the house. Zhang Meng bid them goodbye, as she was catching a flight back to Beijing, and the younger cast dispersed around the house, no doubt to scroll through their phones for the rest of the night. Wanting to get away from prying eyes, Ayanga said: “Let's take a ride.” 

“A ride?” echoed Dalong, looking confused.

Ayanga gestured at the shiny blue motorcycle in front of them. Dalong laughed incredulously. “Where did you find this thing?”

“Do you want to go or not?”

“Of course,” said Dalong, hopping on the motorcycle. “But you’re driving.”

Together they zipped through the gates, down the winding path that opened up into the main coastal road. Ayanga drove them as far as the motorcycle would take them: past the touristy promenade, across a bridge that wobbled precariously as they crossed, until finally there was nothing in front of them but a wide open road that led directly to the sea.

Dalong whooped, raising his fist in the air, and shouted, “Let’s go!”

“Let’s go!” Ayanga shouted back. It was the happiest he’d felt in ages. 

On they went. It was like they were university students again, unknown to the world, ready to take on whatever would come their way. The sea called to him the same way it did ten years ago, in Qingdao, and Ayanga charged towards it, laughing. He did not know how long he drove; minutes, hours, perhaps even the whole night, but suddenly they reached the end: a cliff that overlooked the water below. 

Ayanga took his helmet off, Dalong followed, and together they ran towards the edge of the cliff, hand in hand with each other. Legs crossed, fingers intertwined, they sat and watched. It was pitch-black, but the stars overhead twinkled merrily, lighting up the ocean below. The waves were gentle, creating sea-foam that burbled happily into the sand, shoring up into the rocks. Once, Ayanga would have found it terrifying. Now, with Dalong next to him, he felt that it was beautiful. 

“Happy anniversary,” said Dalong. 

Ayanga scooted closer to him. “Happy anniversary,” he echoed, resting his head on Dalong’s shoulder.

Dalong put his arm around Ayanga. “Ten years, huh? Can you believe it?”

“Not really,” said Ayanga, because he couldn’t. If someone had told him ten years ago that he would be celebrating his tenth anniversary with Zheng Yunlong, he’d have scoffed and told them that they were crazy. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” murmured Dalong. He pressed a kiss to Ayanga’s temple. “We’re getting old, aren’t we?”

“Are we ready to go square dancing with the aunties?”

Dalong’s eyes crinkled. “You’ll be the one doing the dancing–you’re the one with better bones, after all. And the ability to dance. I’ll watch you from my wheelchair.”

“Hah! And you call me the old man?”

“My face will be eternally young, but my bones might tell a different story.”

“It’s because you don’t stretch enough,” said Ayanga, completely aware that he had nagged Dalong about this for years and that it would never amount to anything. “I’ve told you that you need to stretch everyday, loosen up your muscles…”

“I know a better way to loosen up my muscles,” said Dalong, waggling his eyebrows. 

Ayanga shook his head at him, although he couldn’t help but smile. “You are a child, Zheng Yunlong.”

“Says the even bigger child,” retorted Dalong, before he sighed. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“For what?”

“The other day. When you scolded me. You were right.” Ayanga opened his mouth to interject, but Dalong shushed him with a finger. “See, the thing is, I want to do everything with you,” said Dalong, quietly. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like I didn’t want to be with you, or that I was letting you make decisions because I pity you, when the truth is–” His voice broke. “Gazi–I don’t think I could live without you. I take everything you do for me–for us–for granted, because every part of me is yours to have.” He looked at Ayanga with wide, guileless eyes, and Ayanga felt a part of himself crumble. “I always just figured–the little things I might want, aren’t that important. But I know that was unfair on you, now.”

“Oh, Dalong,” said Ayanga, sitting up. He reached out to brush Dalong’s hair from his face. “I told you already. If they’re important to you, they will be to me as well.”

“I know,” said Dalong. He leaned his cheek against Ayanga’s hand. “I’m sorry, Gazi. I know it was unfair of me.”

“It’s okay,” said Ayanga gently. “I know you meant well, and that you want me to be happy. But I can’t do that without you feeling the same, so now you have to tell me what you want.”

“I want…” Dalong trailed off, looking sheepish. “I’d like it if you're home more. If we could spend more time together. Or at least, be in the same city for more than two-thirds of the year.”

“Done. I’ll talk to Heng-jie about it. Anything else?”

“Could we go watch Fang Shujian’s musical when you’re done filming?”

“Oh! I didn’t even know it was on. Of course we should go watch it. Anything else?”

Dalong hesitated. “Let’s take a break,” he said. “Next year. After your musical. Let’s go travelling.”

Ayanga smiled. “Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere,” said Dalong. “Everywhere. As long as it’s with you.”

Together they looked out. On that cliff, overlooking the water below, they sat quietly. The summer wind blew in their faces, making Ayanga shiver. But he did not feel cold: Dalong was by his side, and he was warm and good. The water rocked under their feet, cradling the waves into the night, and Dalong curled his fingers around Ayanga’s.

“Look, Gazi,” he said. “The sea.”