Work Text:
Shen Yuan, to no one's surprise, is always sick, having convinced himself that sustaining on a nearly exclusive diet of instant noodles and convenience store buns is normal for a guy his age. Despite this, he's never prepared for the dull ache that settles into his bones after a telltale evening of sniffling too much.
So, when he can't get out of bed to begin his usual daily routine of sitting at his desktop for the better part of the day, he takes the initiative to order groceries from his phone before he inevitably passes out into a fever induced sleep.
He doesn't usually add much to his cart: cold medicine, eggs, juice, some fruit he swears he won't push to the back of his fridge, more frozen meals. Meituan has proven to be helpful, and he's got his routine with it memorized: rush to the door when he hears a knock, mumble out words of gratitude when taking the bag of groceries from someone’s extended hand without looking up, and shutting the door with his backside. Simple, foolproof.
Except now he's sick, and not entirely coherent. He’s deep in feverish sleep when his phone begins to buzz steadily with messages from his Meituan delivery driver, the app itself notifying him that it’ll be arriving soon. He doesn't wake up the first time there's a knock on his door, unable to appreciate how polite it sounds.
No, Shen Yuan is jolted out of bed to the sounds of near thumping on his apartment door, emerging from his comforter bleary-eyed and looking around like he's never seen his own room before. He hurries to blink the sleep out of his eyes, clumsily grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and leaving fingerprints all over the glass. He trips on a house slipper on the way there, swearing loudly, and the thumping at the door pauses briefly before settling back into a refined series of knocks.
What the hell, Shen Yuan thinks, but doesn’t pay it too much mind, busy stumbling to the doorframe and supporting himself on it with his right arm while turning the doorknob with his left.
His Meituan delivery person doesn’t hesitate to start talking, immediately saying, “I tried calling five times and I was knocking for ten minutes.” He has a nice voice, even and smooth.
“Oh,” Shen Yuan says, keeping his gaze trained on his house slippers to have something to focus on. He feels dizzy from how quickly he got himself out of bed. “Sorry about that.”
They’ve already been standing there for longer than Shen Yuan’s thirty second average, so he resolves himself on meeting the eyes of the man in front of him to thank him properly for undertaking the nearly impossible task of rousing Shen Yuan from his sleep.
Except, he never even gets to even begin taking a breath to utter out a ‘thank you’, because he starts to cough the moment he looks up.
The man in charge of his Meituan delivery doesn’t just have a nice voice, he has a nice face! What the fuck! Why is this the guy Lord Meituan assigned to do Shen Yuan’s sorry excuse for groceries when he could easily be on television, wooing women with just a look alone!
But the very objectively attractive man in front of him is not on television, and Shen Yuan wouldn’t know even if he was; he’s on Shen Yuan’s doorstep, putting the bags he was holding down on the ground gently before reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder, steadying him as he sways from the force of his own coughing.
“Are you okay?” The young man is asking, eyebrows creasing in concern. Shen Yuan tries to wave him away, tell him he’s fine, but all that comes out is a heaving breath as he leans more of his weight on the door frame.
It takes another few minutes for the coughing to dissipate into rough inhales. He’s vaguely nauseous as he struggles for breath, too aware of the rattling in his chest.
“Um,” the young man tries again. Shen Yuan closes his eyes; he can't stand to see concern painted over such a handsome face. “Should I…”
The unfinished part of his sentence hangs in the space between them as Shen Yuan collects himself. “My groceries,” he rasps out.
“Oh,” the young man in front of him murmurs, leaning down to pick up the two bags he had placed on the floor. “I’ve separated them,” he explains, handing him a bag that makes a rattling noise when it's handed to him. “These are your, ah, meals, along with the medicine you got, and in this one—”
Shen Yuan’s vision wavers, and he uses his hand not holding a bag already to push up his glasses and rub at his eyes.
There’s the sound of something cracking, and of the splatter that follows.
When he opens his eyes again, the young man in front of him has egg yolk splattered on his shoes and up to the ankle of his pants.
And, because this is much worse than any coughing fit, he says hoarsely, “Oh, fuck me.”
The young man’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “That was my fault, I’m very s—”
“No,” Shen Yuan says flatly, waving him off with his still-free hand. God, he doesn't have the energy for this. “It's fine. Um.” He watches egg yolk slide its way down his shoes, sticking to his soles. The fever is getting to his head, because before he can think better of it, he says, “You should come inside.”
The man is nervously glancing past Shen Yuan’s shoulder, then to his left, down the hallway where the elevator is. “I’ve caused you enough trouble already—”
“Come on.” Shen Yuan turns around abruptly, bag of frozen meals heavy in his clammy hand, rushing towards the kitchen counter to put it down. He only turns around when he hears his front door slowly shut, even more concern coloring the handsome youth’s face than before.
He should really ask his name, now that their relationship has extended beyond just an exchange of goods and services and devolved into... whatever is happening right now. He bows his head slightly, hand on the bridge of his glasses to make sure they don’t fall. “I’m Shen Yuan.” He straightens up, giving a mournful look at his white tile floor, a carton of broken eggs all around them. “Sorry about... everything that just happened.”
To his credit, the young man bows faster than anyone Shen Yuan’s ever met, long tied-up hair swinging to the side so quickly it alarms him—doesn’t his neck hurt?! Maybe he’s getting too old.
“Luo Binghe,” the young man states, and oh, isn’t that quite a name. Shen Yuan might look him up when he isn’t paying attention. “My deepest apologies for inconveniencing Shen Yuan in such a way.”
Shen Yuan believes him, Luo Binghe’s rich voice taking a despairing tone nearly making a chill run down his spine. He wants to scold him for not standing up straight, but it's better if he gets out all his apologies now rather than later.
Luo Binghe straightens up only to look at him with a question on his face, and it makes him fidget. Forget the fact that there’s eggs all over his floor, he invited a stranger into his house without a second thought and no plan of what to do with him. His head feels like it’s overheating.
“Your pants.” Shen Yuan’s voice is breathy again; he's exerted himself too much in the past few minutes. “I should wash them.”
Luo Binghe succeeds in looking just as despairing as he sounded before. “Shen Yuan isn't well. He should go back to bed.”
Wait. What? “No, no,” he says quickly. Shaking his head proves to be a mistake; the room spins imperceptibly. Fuck.
Luo Binghe’s face comes back into focus, unimaginably earnest. “I’ll clean up,” he says, shooing Shen Yuan away. “I can take care of the rest.”
The fever must be frying his neurons or whatever is rattling around in his brain because he believes him, this random stranger who's almost too attractive to be delivering his groceries telling him he’ll clean up the mess Shen Yuan had created. He must be dreaming. He can only mumble out something he isn't sure Luo Binghe hears as he trails slowly back towards his bedroom to the sound of his kitchen cabinets opening.
He doesn't close the door to his bedroom behind him, falling into bed and shutting his eyes against his better judgement. His sleep is fitful, and he wakes up to the sound of soft footsteps shuffling into his room.
Shen Yuan’s shirt is clinging to him, sticky with cold sweat as he jolts awake. He’s taking sharp inhales, eyes still screwed shut when he hears, “Shen Yuan?”
Why was this voice so meek? Shen Yuan peels his eyes open, eyesight just good enough to make out the man at his door. Luo Binghe has procured an apron from God knows where, and he’s holding a bowl in his hands.
“Ah,” is all Shen Yuan can come up with. “You're still here.” He clumsily reaches for his glasses on the nightstand next to him, sliding them on.
Clearly, he watches as Luo Binghe tilts his head to the side like a puppy. “I am,” he responds. “I made you something.”
Any sense of self-preservation or safety precautions Shen Yuan would've normally taken when dealing with a stranger just weren't… working. His fever has completely disarmed him, he’s realizing, as he weakly replies, “Is that so.”
The eager nod Luo Binghe gives him is almost too much to be able to stand, really. Have some dignity, sir!
Despite it, Shen Yuan waves him over with his hand, watching as Luo Binghe slowly walks over. He sits gingerly at the edge of Shen Yuan’s bed, as if he doesn't want to take up too much space, as if he wasn't doing Shen Yuan a kindness. Absentmindedly, Shen Yuan notices Luo Binghe is wearing a different pair of pants, egg-free.
He hands him the bowl, and Shen Yuan’s eyes almost well up.
It's beautiful, the glistening congee he’s inhaling. There’s sliced beef and scallions delicately sitting atop it, the one thin swirl of hot chili oil making his stomach growl instinctively.
His face heats up, but Luo Binghe just gives him a warm smile, pushing the bowl further into Shen Yuan’s hold. “I can get you a spoon,” he offers, handsome features so open. So willing.
Maybe he shouldn't be eating another man’s cooking, much less a stranger's, but it would be too much of a shame to let such a good meal go to waste. Resigned, he says, “You can find them in the drawer next to the sink.”
Luo Binghe nods, heading off in the direction of the kitchen. It’s just Shen Yuan and his growling stomach for a moment. He sighs in spite of himself. Lord Meituan works in mysterious ways, Shen Yuan muses.
The moment the spoon Luo Binghe brings him is in Shen Yuan’s hand, he eats as if he hasn't been fed in weeks. It’s a half-truth; he hasn't had a home cooked meal in ages. Quietly, Luo Binghe watches him from the edge of the bed. Quietly, Luo Binghe feels his heart twitch.
Of course, Shen Yuan is too busy indulging himself to notice the myriad of emotions flitting through Luo Binghe’s eyes. Once done, he puts the bowl on his lap with a contented sigh.
“There’s more if you’re still hungry,” Luo Binghe tells him.
Shen Yuan considers it, ultimately shaking his head. Luo Binghe reaches for the bowl, and Shen Yuan hands it to him without thinking. Only after does he flush with embarrassment, stammering out, “You… I can do it, give it here—”
Pressing the bowl to his chest, Luo Binghe gives him a firm shake of his head. “I got it,” he says smoothly. He’s probably very popular with women, Shen Yuan thinks, very pointedly ignoring the tug he feels in his chest.
“Does Shen Yuan need anything else?” Luo Binghe asks him, rising to his feet. Shen Yuan quickly shakes his head because, really, how much more of this can he take?
“Is Shen Yuan sure?” Luo Binghe presses, something in his tone slightly strained. Not that Shen Yuan catches that, shaking his head once more.
“You’ve done enough,” Shen Yuan assures him, pulling the covers off himself. He stands and stretches his arms over his head, a chill running through his body as the cold air of his apartment hits him.
Luo Binghe looks away quickly the moment Shen Yuan makes eye contact with him. He doesn't think much of it, it must be weird to see such a gangly guy vulnerable as all hell. “Listen, can I pay you?”
“What?” Luo Binghe says sharply. Shen Yuan almost jumps at how quickly the change in tone he had gotten accustomed to shifts. “Pay me?”
It makes Shen Yuan feel stupid when he explains, “Since you wasted your time here, you were probably supposed to be working, Meituan waits for no one, I think—”
He gets waved off with a bowl-less hand. “Don't pay me,” Luo Binghe says firmly. “I won’t take Shen Yuan’s money.”
Without saying much else, Luo Binghe walks out of Shen Yuan’s room. Dumbfounded, Shen Yuan follows him into the kitchen. “I can't just not pay you,” he insists. “Think of it as me making up for lost wages.”
“I’m not taking Shen Yuan’s money,” Luo Binghe repeats, setting the bowl in the sink. He takes the apron off, setting it on the countertop. “If Shen Yuan wants to thank me, he should come up with another way to do it.”
Was… was he being propositioned? Shen Yuan’s brain briefly breaks, and he almost bursts out laughing before he reels it in. The intense contrast in his reactions results in a coughing fit, one that makes him squeeze his eyes shut as he doubles over at the waist, clutching his chest.
“You should go to a doctor.” Luo Binghe sounds genuinely concerned. “I can take you.”
“I’m good,” Shen Yuan wheezes out. As if he could stand to hear a so-called medical professional berate his health again. “Really, I’m fine.” He clears his throat, giving Luo Binghe a thumbs-up in reassurance.
Luo Binghe doesn't look convinced. He glances to the watch on his wrist, then back at Shen Yuan, and lets out a sigh. “I have to go,” Luo Binghe says ruefully, as if all he wants to do is spend his afternoon with a sick stranger. “There’s more congee on the stove, if you want.”
Shen Yuan’s ears get warm, embarrassed at being taken care of by such an obviously capable young man. Really, he should be taking care of a nice girl like this, not a cagey shut-in!
“Thanks,” Shen Yuan replies meekly. “I can, ah, walk you to the door.”
There’s no egg by the door, either; it’s like his clumsy accident never happened. Shen Yuan’s hands twitch at his sides.
“Shen Yuan should really go to the doctor,” Luo Binghe murmurs. He has to be at least half a foot taller than Shen Yuan, head tilted slightly downwards to look him right in the eye. He brushes his hair behind his ear.
“Maybe,” he concedes, opening the door to let Luo Binghe out. “Thank you again, I—”
“How will Shen Yuan repay me?” Luo Binghe says suddenly, unmoving from Shen Yuan’s doormat.
“Huh?” He looks up so quickly his glasses slide down his nose. Pushing them up, he stammers out, “You can pick.”
“Dinner.” Luo Binghe says firmly. “On Sunday. I’ll bring groceries.”
“Wouldn't you rather I treat you at a restaurant?” Shen Yuan asks, bewildered. “I can't really cook that well.”
“I’ll be cooking,” Luo Binghe says easily, putting his shoes back on.
“That’s not me paying you back, that's me getting into debt,” Shen Yuan blurts out without thinking.
Luo Binghe’s face goes blank before his features slide into one of pleasure, a rich laugh coming from him. “Don't worry about it,” he says, meant to be reassuring, but he doesn't deny that Shen Yuan would be further indebted to him. “I’ll see you then.”
Luo Binghe bows, and then he’s gone. The soft click of his door latching shut snaps him out of his reverie, looking around like he's never been in his own home before.
Just who was this guy?