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Summary
“So what year did you think it was?”
Zhehan laughs. It’s a strange sort of sound, not the way he usually laughs. They’ve been joking around between takes and warmups since the first few excruciating days at bootcamp, so Gong Jun’s had a lot of occasions to hear the way Zhehan really laughs, when the cameras aren’t rolling and he doesn’t have to sound handsome. He sounds in character, actually: he sounds like Zhou Zishu.
“2023,” Zhehan answers. He rubs his neck, smears his palm over his face. He’s gripping the apple so tightly that his thumb has broken the skin of it. “It really was the craziest dream.”