Work Text:
Renjun didn’t remember when it happened. He used to love writing, the rush of words spilling from his fingertips, scribbled plotlines on rough scraps of paper he’d eventually end up losing. Sometime between his last story and now, he’d lost his love for writing.
Except, he hadn’t. Not really.
No- sometime between his last story and now, he’d fallen in love. His writing slipped from fictitious stories laced with unsaid wishes and yearning, to pretty love letters, adorned with adoration for a boy he had grown to know. Now, when he flips open draft books and documents on a screen, the titles aren’t of stories to share, but letters to one, all varying in content but similar at its core.
“ I love you.”
Dearest, they each began. Dearest, was this love, a treasure he kept warm, pressed against his chest. He’d wrapped his arms so tight around this love, desperate to keep it close, wanting to feel it with every beat of his heart because it felt like home. He’d loved his love so strongly, he wanted it to be known in every letter, drafted or spontaneous, carefully crafted or scrawled on a post-it note he found in the second drawer.
And so his elaborate stories disappeared. Of dancers on a show, of two teens living on the beach. Of boys who grew up together and fell in love, of strangers who met on a rainy day in the warmth of a cafe. He’d imagined these stories up, each a gift to the world and himself, carefully packed with pieces of his hopelessly romantic heart.
When Renjun fell in love, he felt those pieces beat back into his chest. He’d met a boy, with eyes that sparkled in the dim light, and a smile that made you feel like you were floating. A laughter you could only feel lucky to hear when you did, a heart so kind it made him pinch himself, because how is this real?
But it was, it was real. For a year, it was real. Gradually, his lonesome nights turned to ones with company. From scrolling mindlessly on his phone until 3am to, “Hey, I bought some ice cream. Wanna watch a movie?”
And he let it, easily, because he didn’t know any better. Hell, he didn’t think it could be any better. The bed was small, but months in, a night alone made the bed feel too big. It was made to fit two, he thought, body pressed into the cavity of his love’s, barely dressed in a t-shirt too big for him. Too warm, too cramped, but still made for two.
He was made for two.
He was made to love, Renjun thinks, when he finds himself cooking meals to share when he rarely ever cooks on his own. Made for two, yes, as he buys chocolate that he doesn’t like as part of his meal, just so he can give it to his love when he sees him later.
Renjun was made for two. There’s too much love in his heart to keep it all in. Who better to give it to than a boy so genuine in his words who doesn’t articulate himself as well as Renjun- who has spun stories of fantastical love- but his words mean more than Renjun could dream his own would.
Until, they didn’t.
Almost as suddenly as Renjun had fallen in love, he found himself alone. Fallen out, no. This love was something that had grown to be a part of Renjun, grown so easily beside himself he didn’t know how he managed to live without it. No, Renjun found himself alone. One day he’s giggling, tangled in between limbs and sheets, and the next he’s screaming into his pillow, sobbing heavy tears into the sheets, wondering, where the hell did I go wrong?
If this was a story that Renjun had written, it would’ve gone like this. He’d write the protagonist sobbing, bawling their eyes out for a night, then pull them together the next day. Maybe, a heavy heart would be written in. But definitely, the protagonist would leave. They would know what to do, easy, and they would leave the relationship, because it’s obvious, it’s so goddamn obvious that he doesn’t love you anymore .
But Renjun hadn’t written in a long time. When he woke up the next morning, eyes swollen, throat hoarse from the night before, he’d washed his face with cold water, put on some nice clothes, and forgot about it. His heart would ache, all day, until he saw his love. Then it would ache a little less, while they’re together, different from before, but still together. Then it would ache again, heavy and unforgiving, as soon as they part.
And it would happen over, and over. For weeks, months. Something inside Renjun told him to get out, to leave because he doesn’t love you!
But then he’d see that face, the smile, not quite the same directed at him, but still world-stopping, and he’d push it aside. He’d smile, and Renjun would understand that it’s his fault his love found someone else more intriguing, and he’d beat himself up over it. He wasn’t enough, and it was his fault, and everything is falling apart because Renjun fucked up somewhere.
And his love, he felt the change, too. He’d felt himself pull away, and he’d felt terrible. So when Renjun constantly asked to hang out, he said yes. When Renjun wanted to see him, he let him. No, he wouldn’t ask himself. No, he hadn’t been to Renjun’s house in weeks unless Renjun was drunk and in need, but it’s okay, because Renjun wants to come over at 3am, and who is he to reject the offer of a warm body in his bed at night?
The guilt would eat at his love until it got too much. Until he was staring at Renjun go insane right in front of him, and his heart didn’t beat a beat out of place. Renjun could be sobbing on his room floor, and it wouldn’t do anything to him. He would just be… tired.
Because this love didn’t love how Renjun loved. Renjun knew it, but let the voice that once spoke genuine vows of love to lie to him that he was fine, that Renjun hadn’t done anything wrong, he promises.
But how could Renjun believe that, when Renjun can see it happening? There are no sparkly eyes in the dimly lit room, no laughter when they’re together. There’s nothing there. Nothing left.
Where the hell did I go wrong?
Renjun loved writing. Even near the end, he had written love letters, still adorned with the same adoration, but spelt out with a heavy heart.
Long before it was over, he knew it was over.
Love was cruel to Renjun. It came to him in the form of a sweet boy who knew no better, and Renjun couldn’t blame him for the way he was swept away, because Renjun honestly should have seen it coming. He was a fool to believe that his first love would last, because first loves never last, and this boy was bound to break his heart from the minute he first saw that smile.
It was Renjun’s fault, in the end. He should’ve seen it coming, should’ve ended it when he felt it slip, because why would he make his love feel so guilty for so long? His love had suffered for so long. Didn’t he care?
Renjun just wanted to be selfish. For once, he wanted the love he wrote into stories to be his to live. He wanted to keep whatever was left of the initial love pressed to his chest, held so tight it began to suffocate in the hold. When it turned from a gentle embrace to a desperate clawing at remains, Renjun didn’t know. All he knew is that he wanted it, he wanted it forever, to hold onto, to let hold him. He wanted this love so badly, he didn’t want to go back to writing.
But here Renjun is, anyway. Typing at a keyboard. Posting stories for the world to see, once more. Alone, on one side of his too big bed, in a t-shirt that fits him fine. Yearning for a boy he once had, traits of whom will be written into every love interest he writes from now on.
Perhaps Renjun will learn to love writing again.
Maybe then, will his bed feel less empty, his heart less heavy. Maybe his stories will be hits, and the world can yearn for that love with him. Maybe he’ll write better than he ever has before, and thousands can hope for a love as beautiful as the one he conjures up with his words.
(Though nothing will feel quite like that teary smile that used to kiss my lips when my love letter falls from his fingers.)