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"I liked you," An Long says. "I've always liked you... I still like you."
The words cut through the air, straight down, like a lead weight.
"In the romantic way," he adds. Qingshi is as dense as star-stuff when he wants to be.
The silence that follows is less suffocating than he expected it to be. Still suffocating but the anticipation is always worse than the conclusion.
Like resetting a bone. Your brain says what if the pain is forever, it doesn't get the concept that at some point it will stop. That this is the thing that will make it stop. Your brain just knows it will hurt, and that it's job is to protect you from hurting by making you afraid.
But still. At age twelve he closed his eyes when they pulled his wrist back into place, and at age twenty-two he can't bring himself to look Song Qingshi in the eye while he waits for a response.
And the wait is long. Not just in his head, either, Song Qingshi greets questions and conversations like he'll never run out of time. Like the universe unfolds before him and stops when he does. Maybe it's because it does. Maybe the whole world does stop for Song Qingshi to think. Maybe, as long as Song Qingshi doesn't reply, the night will never end and An Long will always be Schrodinger's Cat, well aware that it's already dead while it listens to the muffled debate outside it's coffin.
"That must hurt," Song Qingshi says, after five minutes that felt like an hour.
The jig is up. The box is open. The earth keeps spinning. "It did," he replies. "It does."
The crack in his voice makes him feel stupid. He's spent a decade knowing his place, had ten years to prepare. His ears ring so loudly with hurt he thought he'd gotten over that he doesn't notice Qingshi move until he feels cold fingers against his palm.
Why do doctors always have such cold hands?
"We agreed you'd tell me when you were hurting."
A promise made after An Long dislocated his shoulder and walked around like that half the day. He did it trying to make an idiot of himself. If he couldn't make Song Qingshi love him, he could at least make him laugh. Annoy him. He'd take any feeling that would make him something.
"'m telling you now, yeah?" An Long sniffles and hopes his best friend has the good grace to assume it's from the cold, same with the way his face is going red.
Qingshi queezes his hand, it's comforting until-- "Ow! Ow, stop, stop, that hurts!"
Qingshi does not stop. "An Long."
An Long feels like some kind of unrealistically wimpy maiden in some schlock drama, trying to tug his hand away and failing "Have you always been so damn strong?!"
Getting more pissed off by the second, Song Qingshi drops his wrist in favor of grabbing his nose and forcing him to turn his head before releasing him again.
He looks... furious. Red all the way up to his forehead with rage, and oh how An Long wishes it didn't make his heart flutter. Falling deeper in love with Qingshi is reflex at this point.
"An Long! You bring me out here in the middle of the fucking night in the middle of winter to tell me you've loved me this whole time and you won't even look me in the eye while you do it?!"
Uh? "I--"
"I! am! not! done! yet! You didn't think to tell me this at some point before me and Wuhuan have been living together for a whole year?! A! Year!" Each statement is punctuated with a hard smack against his arm, throbbing down to the bone.
He grabs Qingshi's wrist to stop the onslaught. "I didn't want to ruin our friendship!" His voice cracks. It's humiliating.
How is it possible for Qingshi to get angrier? He manages it somehow. He can really do anything he sets his mind to.
"You think that little of me?! Of our friendship?! I love you!" His free hand moves faster than An Long can process, smacking him upside the head. Again, again. "I! Love! You! Stupid! Stupid bastard! You think that would ruin our friendship?! You know what would ruin our friendship?! You slowly coming to hate me for hurting you! Without! Even! Realizing it!"
He's going to get brain damage at this rate! Fuck! "Qingshi, Qingshi please, mercy!"
His would-be murderer inhales sharply, but slowly he lowers his trembling hand into his lap. The camping light he brought makes the unshed tears in Qingshi's pretty eyes glitter.
Song Qingshi sniffles and seems like he's trying to make it sound angry. Shouldn't he be the one who's angry? Shouldn't he be the one crying? He's getting his heart broken here.
"I love you, but not like that," he says, and the words hurt more than they should given he knew they were coming.
"Did you ever consider that maybe I could've? If you'd just... told me? Maybe I could have thought about it. Maybe I would’ve liked the option!"
Being told there was a chance he squandered through cowardice hurts worse than being rejected flat out. It feels like Qingshi digging his fingers into the bruises on his heart, a searing hot ache.
"I told you I wanted to fuck you." An Long will be embarrassed later about how watery it sounds.
"You said you would have fucked me if I were a girl!"
"I was going through shit!"
"Well you should have told me about it!" A pause. Qingshi sniffles again and bites his lip. More quietly, he repeats "You should have told me. I could have been there for you."
An Long’s throat goes tight. "How was I supposed to tell you when I knew you didn't feel that way about me?!"
If Qingshi had felt the same, he wouldn't have had to fight against Yue Wuhuan for his attention. If Qingshi had felt the same, he wouldn't have gone to a college hours away and made An Long chase him. If Qingshi had felt the same... Well, wouldn't that have been wonderful?
He grips the fabric of his pant leg, fist white-knuckled.
"Don't you remember what it was like with your little angel before you guys worked it all out?"
He had hoped that maybe getting it off his chest and being rejected would change his orbit, but the world still stops in place while Qingshi stares at him silently, lost in thought. He watches the expressions play off of Qingshi's face. Anger, hurt, understanding, more hurt but different this time, the determined little pinch in his brow.
"I'm sorry I hit you."
An Long scoffs, about to make some joke about kissing it better despite how silly it would sound in the sticky, shaky mess his voice as become, but he feels cold hands firm on his cheeks and--
Qingshi's lips are warm on his. Warmer than his hands. Salty, from tears and probably snot too, which should be more repulsive than it is. It's so horrible to love someone this much. An Long doesn't dare move, doesn't beg for anything more like the thunder in his chest screams for him to do and just lets the chaste kiss linger until Qingshi pulls away.
He sniffles and wipes his face with his sleeves. "I'm telling Wuhuan about this."
Dumbstruck, An Long stares. Watches Qingshi grab his bag. "Okay."
"You're coming over tomorrow," Qingshi says, firmly. "Bring your research notes! And if you try to avoid me I'm going to find you!"
"Okay," he says to Qingshi's retreating back.
"I know where you live! Don't think I won't pick your locks!"