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“Then the second wave will circle back. Once the distraction is in play, Song Xiao will—”
Yu Wenzhou coughs into his hand, interrupting his own lecture. It’s a wet, hacking sound that he barely notices because he can’t breathe. He doubles over, bright red spots dancing in front of his vision. And then it’s over.
The adrenaline rush leaves him gasping. Everything is too bright and too sharp, his limbs vibrating with the need to act. And then a glimpse of crimson brings it all crashing down. It takes a moment to identify the curdling feeling in his stomach as terror; a wave of pure fear unlike anything he’s felt in his life.
Sitting in the center of his palm is a bright red blossom.
“Captain.” Huang Shaotian’s voice is shaky, barely more than a breath. It would be funny in less awful circumstances.
Yu Wenzhou clenches his hand into a fist. The petals are soft between his fingers. Quickly, he shoves both arms behind his back and addresses the room. “We should get back to training.”
This time Huang Shaotian doesn’t whisper. His chair flies backward as he stands. “Training? Are you kidding me!”
Everyone in the room goes perfectly still, like a caricature of a terrible moment. The only signs of life are the tiny flickers of motion as Blue Rain looks between Huang Shaotian and Yu Wenzhou. In the silence, the gentle humming of computer equipment fills the room like any other day.
A tight pit of nausea settles in Yu Wenzhou’s gut. His throat itches. “There’s nothing to be done,” he says, once he trusts himself to speak. “We may as well keep practicing.”
Huang Shaotian storms out of the room.
Thousands of years ago, the flowers were thought to be a form of divine punishment, but modern medicine knows better. The affliction has been identified as a variant of Human Respiratory Virus. At the time of writing, there is no known medical cure.
— “Modern Miracles, Modern Science,” January 2002
The knocking isn’t a surprise, nor is the abrupt opening of the door without so much as an invitation. Outlined by the frame, Huang Shaotian stands with clenched fists and red, blotchy eyes. He rubs at his face before marching resolutely into the room.
“Do you ever stop working?” he demands. A beam of evening sun glints off his dangling necklace. Everything about him is quiet, like the entire world is holding its breath.
The entire world except for Yu Wenzhou, who taps his pen against his mousepad. “We didn’t get a chance to discuss everything in practice today so I’m drafting an email to the team to cover the items we missed.”
Before he can blink, Huang Shaotian launches himself across the desk, hands fisting in Yu Wenzhou's shirt collar, dragging him forward. There’s no time to process what’s happening before the edge of the desk catches Yu Wenzhou across the stomach. The world tilts and the wind is knocked from his lungs.
Huang Shaotian’s face twists into an ugly snarl. “Do you even care that you’re dying?”
Yu Wenzhou gasps for air, hands scrabbling to push himself back into his own space. The pen clatters to the floor. It lands with no more force than a gentle clacking but the tiny sound ricochets like a bullet.
Huang Shaotian stumbles away, eyes blown wide. He tugs at his fingers. “Shit. Fuck, Wenzhou, I—”
“What else am I supposed to do?” Yu Wenzhou spits the words like daggers between heaves of air. With painstaking effort, he straightens in his seat. His knuckles are white where they're gripping the edge of his desk. The disease has no cure. It’s as simple as that. Yu Wenzhou would rather not spend the little time he has left looking for a solution that doesn’t exist. He’d rather be here. With his team, doing what he loves.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room is Huang Shaotian’s heavy breathing. He exhales a shaky breath and squeezes his eyes shut. Something in Yu Wenzhou’s heart squeezes tight in response. And in recollection.
The relaxation technique is the one he taught to Huang Shaotian so many years ago, when their friendship was a new and fragile thing. They were so hesitant around each other back then, both desperate to put the past behind them but neither knowing how. Until the day Huang Shaotian admitted that sometimes he was loud to distract himself from being nervous. It was an olive branch, and not a particularly subtle one, but it worked; Yu Wenzhou offered to teach him a few of the breathing exercises he used when he felt overwhelmed. Those sessions were the start of a true friendship between them.
The memory washes away the knot coiled between Yu Wenzhou’s shoulders. His hands loosen their death grip on the desk. “I’m sorry Shaotian, but there’s nothing to be done.”
After a few rounds of deep breaths, Huang Shaotian’s shoulders slump. When he opens his eyes, he looks like a kicked puppy. “You could ask me. Why haven’t you asked me?”
Yu Wenzhou’s breath hitches at the jumble of emotions beating against his rib cage. Hope, perhaps. Or maybe disappointment. He can’t see the future but he’s been told he has a talent for prediction. And he knows how this ends. He carefully tucks away his feelings so he can say what he needs to without losing his composure. “We already had this discussion, remember? I know you don’t feel that way about me in return.”
Huang Shaotian opens his mouth and shuts it again. He looks like a fish, and Yu Wenzhou stifles a laugh. Normally he’s the one people make fish jokes about.
“You could still ask,” Huang Shaotian says quietly.
Yu Wenzhou does his best to keep the despair out of his smile, but judging by the way Huang Shaotian’s face falls, he doesn’t succeed.
There’s a known correlation between requited love and recovery, but it’s only that. A correlation. Detractors of the theory point to the fact that in all cases when the disease was supposedly cured by a love confession, it was the patient who initiated the discussion. Thus, the “cure” must somehow come from the patient themself.
— “Modern Miracles, Modern Science,” January 2002
“In a surprise announcement, Team Captain Yu Wenzhou won’t be playing in the match today, not even in the team competition. Highly unusual behavior from Blue Rain’s captain.”
Li Yibo wraps up his introduction from his usual place in the commentator’s box. And just in time. The individual competition is about to start.
Despite the unusual lineup, the match proceeds as usual. Even without their captain, Blue Rain displays their signature tight-knit teamwork. There’s speculation that whatever caused the captain not to play, he must have given very detailed instructions to the team.
In the end, however, it isn’t Yu Wenzhou’s name on everybody’s lips. His strange absence is forgotten in favor of far more dramatic gossip. The announcement of the match’s MVP is still echoing across the stadium when it happens.
Huang Shaotian jumps into the stands and punches a fan in the face.
.
“You’re not supposed to drink during the season,” Zheng Xuan says, taking a seat on the barstool next to Huang Shaotian.
“I’m banned from the next four games. You’re the one who doesn’t have an excuse.”
The bar is small and grimy. The kind of place where no one will recognize them. Huang Shaotian downs his beer in one large gulp and signals the bartender for two more. Zheng Xuan takes his without complaint. They drink in silence amidst the trashy music and snippets of conversation that occasionally break the surface of the background noise.
“I don’t think the captain has much time left,” Huang Shaotian whispers into his drink.
Zheng Xuan lifts his glass and drinks until it’s gone.
The symptoms progress slowly at first. The afflicted shouldn’t be lulled into a false sense of security. Once the speed begins to increase, the disease has already entered its final phase.
— “A Brief History of Medicine,” 1970
The hospital is cold.
Huang Shaotian shivers as he and Yu Wenzhou exit the stark lobby into the heat of the day. It took so many terrible arguments to convince Yu Wenzhou to see a doctor, but Huang Shaotian barely counts it as a victory. All he can think about is the doctor’s words when he handed over the prescription.
It won’t give you more time but it will make you comfortable.
The familiar shape of Blue Rain looms large as they exit the taxi. They’re right on time; practice is going to start soon. If they rush, Huang Shaotian will have just enough time to review his notes before the team trickles into the room. The extra prep time is important, not just so he can be the best vice-captain for Blue Rain, but because Yu Wenzhou no longer runs their practices. These days, he mostly sits in the back of the training room and observes. Sometimes he leaves early. The flowers come more often than ever.
Huang Shaotian tugs at Yu Wenzhou’s sleeve before they reach the building. They’re barely outside a minute but already his shirt clings to his chest from the humidity. A drop of sweat trails down the back of his neck.
“Shaotian? What is it?” Yu Wenzhou’s cheeks look sunken in the bright sunlight but other than that, he looks the same. As if he was plagued with nothing more than a losing streak and a bad night’s sleep.
Huang Shaotian wishes it was true. He would give anything to make it true. He’d trade his place on the team, his account card, everything in his bank account, anything. “Ask me, you have to ask me.” Huang Shaotian pushes on before the usual rejection can come. “Why won’t you ask me? Don’t you know that I—”
“Yes.”
It’s so surprising that Huang Shaotian nearly falls over his own feet despite standing still. “You know?”
"I know how deeply you care. I also know that even if you were to say you liked me back in the way I wanted, it isn’t true. You’re just telling yourself that because I’m going to… Because I’m sick.” Yu Wenzhou raises a hand to his throat, where just forty-five minutes ago he coughed up blossoms until he blacked out.
“No, no, no. You’re wrong, so you’re so wrong, it’s not like that. How can you be so smart and so dumb at the same time?”
Yu Wenzhou rests a hand on his shoulder. His smile creases the skin around his eyes. “It means a lot to me that you tried.”
Huang Shaotian swallows his rebuttal. What’s the point? Yu Wenzhou has already made up his mind. Everyone thinks of Blue Rain’s captain as being such a gentle and easygoing guy, but Huang Shaotian knows the truth. Underneath all of Yu Wenzhou’s kind smiles is a core of steel.
They walk together towards the entrance of the building. A bead of sweat drips from Huang Shaotian’s temple and pools at the corner of his eye.
In olden days, it was common practice for friends and family of the sick to line up and proclaim their love. The majority of scientific studies have called this practice into question but it remains a popular trope to this day.
— Medical Accuracy in Television: A Retrospective
Huang Shaotian doesn’t love him back.
Or rather, he does, but not in the way Yu Wenzhou aches for. Not in the way he wishes was true. Yu Wenzhou loves their friendship, he wouldn’t give it up for all the championship trophies in the world. But sometimes—fine, a lot of times—he wishes things were different. He wants to kiss the words from Huang Shaotian's lips. He wants to watch him experience the depths of happiness and wonder and pleasure. He wants to hear his own name whispered in the dark like a secret only the two of them know.
(Why won’t you ask? Please, please, please Captain, let me tell you.)
It’s selfish not to ask, but Yu Wenzhou is the one dying. He’s allowed to be a little selfish about it.
He doesn’t want the last thing he hears before he dies to be Huang Shaotian lying to him.
The disease poses a unique challenge in terms of treatment. Most patients do not die from the disease itself but from asphyxiation due to a blocked airway. Treatments such as intubation have proven all but ineffective.
— “A Brief History of Medicine,” 1970
Huang Shaotian throws himself face-first onto his bed. No one’s willing to say it out loud, but he isn’t stupid. He can see it.
Yu Wenzhou doesn’t have much time left.
In Huang Shaotian’s whole life, there’s never been a problem he couldn’t solve with a little quick wit and a streak of stubbornness. It’s what got him into Blue Rain, what kept him together after Captain Wei left, what won him his very first championship. But now there’s nothing he can do to help Yu Wenzhou, and he hates it. He hates it so much he could—
He screams into his pillow. He screams until his throat is raw, and then punches the pillow for good measure. Stupid flowers, stupid Yu Wenzhou, stupid everything. Stupid Huang Shaotian, for not telling Yu Wenzhou how he felt before all this happened. Maybe if he had, Yu Wenzhou might believe him instead of thinking he was saying it out of pity.
Huang Shaotian has never felt more helpless in his life.
.
(The announcement of the match’s MVP echoes across the stadium when Huang Shaotian hears it.
“...glad they benched him. With any luck, it’ll be permanent. Blue Rain’s better off without Captain slow-hands dragging them down.”
The previous evening, Huang Shaotian watched Yu Wenzhou cough up flowers until his body trembled with exhaustion. Yet he never stopped typing. At the end of the night, Huang Shaotian received a flash drive containing every single one of Yu Wenzhou’s plans for Blue Rain over the next five years.
“They should have kicked him off the team years ago.”
It’s not that Huang Shaotian doesn’t think; he knows how to keep his cool under pressure. When he jumps over the railing into the stands, he knows exactly what he’s doing.)
"Recent human trials suggest that it isn’t the reciprocation of emotions that cures the disease, but rather that the patient cures themselves by coming to terms with their unresolved feelings. In 18 cases, it was observed that the state of glycosylation during the progression of…”
— The New Journal of Clinical Virology, 2023
The hospital room is quiet, save for the humming and beeping of various machines.
Yu Wenzhou’s parents are downstairs in the hospital cafeteria, his teammates back at Blue Rain. Even Huang Shaotian took a breather after Yu Wenzhou convinced him to accompany his parents for food. It’s a relief to finally be alone.
The coughing is practically an afterthought, he’s so used to it. The bright crimson flowers don’t startle him anymore. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and empties the blossoms into a medical waste bag. The flex of his fingers catches his eyes. His hands are thinner than they used to be.
He misses playing Glory.
Thoughts of Glory turn to thoughts of Huang Shaotian. Yu Wenzhou should probably regret that his feelings have brought him to this, but he can’t imagine a life without Huang Shaotian in it. Another round of coughing wracks his body and he gasps for breath. The flowers pile higher, bright red against the stark hospital room. His chest is on fire, burning with the need for air. But every breath only brings more flowers, and the coughing only gets stronger.
The heart monitor beside his bed screeches a cacophony of alarms into the silence but he barely notices, too busy trying to breathe around the bouts of flowers pouring from his mouth. A flurry of movement follows. Nurses. His parents. Huang Shaotian. Yu Wenzhou wishes he could tell them he loves them.
(Ask me. Please, please, ask me.)
It takes a long, muddled moment to realize the words aren’t coming from his memory, but from Huang Shaotian at his bedside. Standing behind him, Yu Wenzhou’s parents look on with despair etched into their faces. Yu Wenzhou hates that he’s going to disappoint them. He coughs another round of flowers into the medical waste bag.
He might be selfish but he’s still human. He doesn’t want to do this alone. His arm moves before he can think about it. A rush of relief sweeps over him when Huang Shaotian immediately grasps his hand.
“Captain, please.”
Yu Wenzhou’s throat is too raw to speak, the weight of the flowers a constant pressure in his chest. The coughing crawls to a stop but they all know it won't last. Instead of answering, he tugs Huang Shaotian’s hand closer and brushes his lips against his knuckles. The choked-off cry that comes from Huang Shaotian isn't a sound Yu Wenzhou has ever heard from him before. He wishes he could say something reassuring, but he doesn’t have the strength. He squeezes Huang Shaotian’s hand and nearly winces at how hard it’s returned.
“Wenzhou.”
The bubble in his chest bursts. Yu Wenzhou doubles over and spews another heap of flowers. It doesn’t stop. His lungs burn. Vaguely, he’s aware of Huang Shaotian’s hands brushing through his hair and down his back. It doesn’t help the coughing but it feels nice. The murmur of voices in the room swells. His parents. Speaking to him, telling him everything will be alright. Yu Wenzhou closes his eyes and focuses on the feeling of gentle hands in his hair instead of the agony in his lungs. Calmness settles over him like a warm blanket. Whether or not Huang Shaotian returns his feelings, it doesn’t matter. He’s here now, always at Yu Wenzhou’s side when it matters. He wishes he could say how much it means to him, but Huang Shaotian is smart. Yu Wenzhou has no doubt he’ll figure it out once he’s gone.
“No, no, don’t go. You’re not allowed to leave me,” Huang Shaotian says as if reading his mind. Even here at the end, they’re in perfect step.
Yu Wenzhou has told himself before that it doesn’t matter if the love they feel for each other isn't the same. It's enough that Huang Shaotian is here, always by his side during their brightest moments or their worst. But now, for the first time, he truly believes it.
In the next breath, everything clears.
With one final, chest-wracking heave, Yu Wenzhou expels not bright red blossoms but the withered husk of dried petals. They crumble in the air and turn to dust. And then it’s over. He can breathe again. He falls back against the bed, dragging in air until he’s dizzy with it. The pressure in his chest is completely gone. Around him, the room explodes into a frenzy of noises and beeping and nurses running in and out. The word cured is whispered in hushed voices, as if saying it too loudly might make it suddenly not true.
Eventually, the room falls quiet, and Yu Wenzhou realizes he's still holding Huang Shaotian's hand. When he follows the line of their entwined fingers up to his face, he looks completely wrecked. Yu Wenzhou hasn't seen him cry since the disastrous finale of Season 8. Back then, it had taken him weeks to admit how upset he was, and even then, the few tears he shed were more frustration than sadness. The Huang Shaotian in front of him has blotchy eyes and a red face, and a smile wide enough to fill every crevice of Yu Wenzhou’s heart.
A light squeeze to his shoulder breaks him out of it. His father’s stoic facade is cracked by the tear tracks running down his cheeks. “We’ll give you two some time alone,” he says. Behind him, his mother stops dabbing at her eyes long enough to kiss Yu Wenzhou on the forehead.
“Take good care of him,” she whispers to Huang Shaotian before she leaves. It’s a long-running family joke that she’s never been the subtle type. In that regard, Yu Wenzhou takes after his father.
Yu Wenzhou blinks behind his glasses, suddenly unsure what to say. He cleans his glasses with the hospital bedding, frowning when the world is still a bit fuzzy behind the streaks on the lenses. He’s about to take them off again when Huang Shaotian huffs, and plucks the glasses right off his nose. Yu Wenzhou watches in bewilderment as he fishes a small object from his shirt pocket and starts wiping the glasses.
A tiny cleaning towel, Yu Wenzhou realizes, when Huang Shaotian offers them back to him. This time, when he puts them on, the world is clear.
“What would you do without me, right?” Huang Shaotian’s fledgling smile freezes on his face as his gaze rakes over the bright red medical waste bin of fresh bloody flowers. He stumbles backward. “Fuck, this whole thing is my fault. Maybe it’s better if I—”
Yu Wenzhou pitches forward, his fingers clutching Huang Shaotian’s wrist with what little strength he has left. The sharp movement makes his vision go blurry. Exhaustion closes its claws around him, and he can barely get the words out. “Don’t go.”
His plea is quiet but it lands like an avalanche. Huang Shaotian’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t leave and that’s all Yu Wenzhou cares about.
“Okay, okay. Not going anywhere. See, I’m right here like a good vice-captain.” He wriggles his fingers in Yu Wenzhou’s grip.
Yu Wenzhou tugs at his wrist. “Good. Come here, closer.”
It’s almost like being back in the training room, the way Huang Shaotian does as he’s told. Closer and closer until he’s perched on the tiny strip of bed at Yu Wenzhou’s hip. Yu Wenzhou takes a moment to study him. He’s dressed in his usual jeans and an obnoxiously bright t-shirt, but his hair is unkempt and there are dark bruises beneath his eyes.
He squirms under the scrutiny. “Captain?”
They’re still holding hands.
“Shaotian.”
And like an avalanche, everything changes. With a quiet sniffle, Huang Shaotian throws himself at Yu Wenzhou. His arms are tight around Yu Wenzhou's chest yet he doesn’t disturb any of the tubes and cords plugged into the various machines. Yu Wenzhou thinks he hears his own name mumbled into his neck amidst the heaving of Huang Shaotian’s shoulders. Eventually, Huang Shaotian untangles himself so that they're sitting side by side. There isn’t much room for them both on the small bed, but it’s hardly the first time they’ve squeezed themselves into a too-small space. The familiarity of it is comfortable.
“I never told you how I felt,” Huang Shaotian says softly. “But you still got better. I’m so glad.”
Yu Wenzhou breathes in the familiar smell of him, tinged with sweat and the sterile smell of hospital chemicals. “So am I.”
He has a working theory about his recovery but he’s too tired to get into the details. And even if he wanted to, that’s when the door to his room opens and all the nurses flock back in, along with his parents and the entire Blue Rain roster. Even the team’s owner stops by to shake Yu Wenzhou’s hand. The next several hours are a parade of doctors and nurses and tests and specialists, but they all confirm the same thing: Yu Wenzhou is no longer sick. The only good part is that they save Yu Wenzhou the trouble of explaining his theory about his recovery, that it was his acceptance of his feelings that somehow caused the flowers to wither.
By the time he's ready to be discharged, Yu Wenzhou’s fingers are itching to get back to his computer.
“No way, Captain. The only place you’re going is to bed.” Huang Shaotian’s face turns bright red as everyone laughs. “Shut up, shut up, not like that. He needs to rest!”
Yu Wenzhou is so happy he can’t bring himself to care that even his parents have joined in on the joke.
Soon after that, he’s back home at Blue Rain. In a reversal of their usual routine, Huang Shaotian firmly steers him away from the training room and towards his dorm room.
“Sleep first, then Glory, isn’t that what you always tell me? Don’t worry, Captain, you can boss me around again once you’re fully recovered. ”
Yu Wenzhou would argue that it’s captain’s prerogative to bend the rules for special circumstances, but another wave of exhaustion closes over him. He nearly stumbles on a smooth stretch of hallways. A terrible wave of familiarity sweeps over him. He freezes, waiting for the explosion of flowers to steal his breath, but it never comes. Just clean, easy air. It was a simple stumble, not a relapse.
He doesn’t argue when Huang Shaotian takes his arm and helps him the rest of the way.
It’s a relief to be back in his own bed after a prolonged hospital stay. Huang Shaotian putters around while Yu Wenzhou takes a much-needed shower and changes into clean pajamas. He putters around some more when Yu Wenzhou settles into bed. When he putters around the doorframe and still doesn’t leave, Yu Wenzhou makes a decision. He isn't sure it's the right decision, but he had time to think while the doctors were running all their tests in the hospital after he recovered. Huang Shaotian has been trying all this time to tell Yu Wenzhou something, and he deserves a chance to say it.
“Shaotian.”
In the doorway, Huang Shaotian whips around as if yanked by an invisible string. Yu Wenzhou crooks his finger, and it's all the invitation Huang Shaotian needs. He hesitates for a moment at the dresser by the closet before swapping out his jeans for a pair of soft sweatpants. Slowly, he makes his way toward the bed, and when Yu Wenzhou doesn't object, slips in beside him.
The bed isn’t small like the hospital bed; there’s plenty of room to spread out. Neither of them spread out.
“I’m late, but you know I’m slow.” The old joke is comfortable and familiar, like a favorite sweater. What comes next isn’t as easy, but Yu Wenzhou has never been one to back down. “Shaotian, I’m ready now. I’m finally asking. Will you tell me how you feel about me?”
All of Huang Shaotian’s tiny movements go still. Even his mouth, which drops open in a tiny, silent oh, stays frozen in place. It shouldn’t be as cute as it is. There’s a sheen at the corners of his eyes that might be the reflection of the bedside lamp or might be something else. And then the moment passes and he lights up as bright as the Guangzhou skyline outside the club’s large windows.
Huang Shaotian presses closer, his heart reflected in his eyes, and begins to speak.