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Chapter Text

The last time Lu Guang drank, it had been out of obligation.

A single glass, rimmed with salt, pressed into his hand by a well-meaning professor during one of those one-on-one conferences a research degree tended to warrant. The conversation had been an odd mix of praise and critique—his meticulousness admired, his rigidity gently scolded. He drank it to appease, to close the silence between yes sir and unfortunately not, sir. To check a social box he hadn’t signed up for.

He drank out of spite. If casual conversation was the price of an A, then fine.

Now, sitting in the corner of a college bar that smells like citrus and regret, Lu Guang wonders if he came here out of the same thing. Obligation. Or maybe just surrender.

The masquerade theme is barely holding together. Formalwear clings to sweaty limbs. Masks are more decorative than mysterious, often discarded entirely. Chandeliers glint above the chaos like they disapprove of everything below.

He is, by all accounts, only here because Qiao Ling shoved him into it with the force of ten years of friendship and a spreadsheet of excuses he’d used to dodge events past.

"You can still be a recluse in a mask," she'd insisted.

The air thickens with the cloying scent of citrus and the bite of cheap alcohol, saturating the wooden countertops and settling into the crevices between raised voices. Laughter floats high and hollow, spinning toward the gold-glass chandeliers overhead, where the light fractures against polished surfaces and strains to remain elegant in the chaos. A live quartet struggles to hold court near the front of the bar, its careful notes competing with the thrum of bodies and the jagged spill of conversation.

Lu Guang suspects the masquerade theme had been slapped together by someone desperate to boost drink sales, cloaking commerce in the promise of mystery, allure, and the thin veneer of glamour. Students had flooded in early, drawn by the five-dollar drink window, eager to indulge in something reckless under the guise of celebration. The result was precisely what he expected—perfume layered over sweat, silk ribbons unraveling onto sticky floors, masks discarded, forgotten, or never worn at all.

The atmosphere grates.

It’s suffocating.

Lu Guang is not a drinker. Nor is he particularly social. The two facts are not unrelated.

Lu Guang tucks himself into the farthest corner he can find, shoulders drawn in as if to make himself smaller, less noticeable.  His untouched drink sweats on the table in front of him, condensation gathering in uneven rivulets against the thin glass. He hadn’t even ordered it—someone had shoved it into his hand in passing, a careless offering, maybe an attempt at generosity. The brandy smells sharp, medicinal. A passing curse. This must have been God's way of punishing for his crimes. 

Across the room, Qiao Ling cuts through the crowd like a live wire, radiant and effortless, her mask swinging from one wrist. She belongs here, always has. Her presence occupies space with intent, her laughter filling every pause with purpose. He watches her with a kind of detached admiration, the same way he watches storms pass behind glass—too beautiful to deny, too chaotic to invite in.

Almost instinctively, Lu Guang pushes up his mask. 

His drink—untouched—sits between his fingers. He checks his watch. Forty-one minutes. If he waits ten more, he can slip out without hearing an earful about it later.

He debates it, running through his options. That’s reasonable. Then he’s leaving.

Then—

A body drops into the seat across from him.

Not gracefully. Not with any sense of coordination or intention.

The camera is the first thing he notices. The guy practically collides with the table, one hand gripping the edge to steady himself, the other clutching a well-worn camera. The strap dangles loosely from his wrist, frayed at the edges like it’s been through years of abuse. 

Then—far too loudly—

“Hey, babe.”

Lu Guang freezes.

He doesn’t look up immediately, doesn’t acknowledge the words, as if ignoring them might undo the entire situation. Maybe he misheard. Maybe—

An arm drapes over his shoulder.

Casual. Familiar. Like it belongs there.

It most definitely does not.

Lu Guang finally glances up to meet face to face, expression flat, unimpressed, already calculating the quickest way to remove this nuisance out of existence. 

The guy’s grin is wide—too wide, forced at the edges. But his eyes flicker, just for a second, past Lu Guang’s shoulder. A silent cue, quick and calculated.

Play along.

Lu Guang follows the glance.

A few feet away, a man in an unbuttoned collared shirt and too much cologne is watching them. There’s nothing overtly threatening about him, but his posture lingers a little too possessively, his smile a little too expectant. The kind of presence that pretends not to notice discomfort, that acts like persistence is a compliment. 

Annoying.

He returns his attention to the idiot currently invading his space.

Messy dark hair, slightly flushed from the heat of the bar, grinning like he hasn’t just made the worst possible first impression. His unusually long eyelashes flutter against his cheek– too pretty for someone this irritating.  Lu Guang exhales through his nose. He doesn’t have to do anything. He could ignore it: walk away, let this guy handle his own mess.

This would be his way of getting his sins forgiven. 

He picks up his glass, takes a slow sip, and deadpans—

“You’re late.”

The transformation is immediate.

The guy brightens, like a switch flipped, and leans back against the booth with an exaggerated sigh. His shoulders loosen, his grin softens into something more natural—charming, practiced, like he’s played this role before. He tilts his head just slightly, like he’s letting himself relax into the moment. The performance is seamless. "Ahh, you know how it is, love. Busy schedule."

Across the table, he drums his fingers against the wood in an easy rhythm, eyes flicking toward the creep still lingering at the bar. Still watching.

Lu Guang debates his life choices. He doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing. Fine. If they’re doing this, they’re doing it properly.

He tilts his head, lets his gaze flick lazily—slow, considering. Then he leans in, just enough to invade his space in retaliation.

"Busy schedule?" He tilts his head, voice flat, unimpressed. Cool, but edged with something dangerously close to amusement. "Is that what we’re calling it now?"

The guy catches on immediately. His smirk sharpens.

"Oh? What else would we call it?" he hums, propping an elbow against the table, chin resting in his palm.

Lu Guang hums thoughtfully, swirling the untouched drink in his glass. Lets the tension settle. Lets the pause stretch just a second too long.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Lu Guang reaches up and smooths out the already-straightened collar of his shirt.

Lu Guang feels the second he stops breathing.

Interesting.

Lu Guang watches amusement flicker behind wide brown eyes before the other catches himself, tipping his head with an exaggerated smirk. Recovering quickly, but not quickly enough.

Lu Guang doesn’t move back immediately. He lingers just long enough for it to register—for the performance to blur at the edges, for the stranger’s grin to flicker, just barely.

Then—too quick to dwell on it—he leans back, slow and smooth.

"You look a mess," he murmurs, finally picking up his drink.

Across from him, the stranger exhales—a little too obviously, like he’s laughing at himself. His fingers tap against the table once before stilling.

Then, with zero hesitation, he reaches across the space between them and laces their fingers together.

Lu Guang stills.

Not because it’s too much. It’s surprisingly effective.

He barely has time to process it before the guy lifts their joined hands and presses a quick, feather-light kiss to his knuckles.

Lu Guang does not react.

A beat.

Two.

From the corner of his eye, he watches as the stranger hesitates, expression souring. His posture changes, interest dimming under something closer to irritation. He downs the rest of his drink and, finally, finally, turns away.

"He’s leaving."

"Hah!" The idiot across from him squeezes his hand once—victorious, warm—before letting go. He slouches back into his seat, stretching, looking far too pleased with himself. “Okay, lifesaver, I owe you one.”

Lu Guang sets his glass down with a quiet clink. “Yes. You do.”

"Cheng Xiaoshi, by the way," the guy says, tapping his camera. "Figured I should at least introduce myself before you start charging interest on that favor."

Lu Guang debates ignoring him, but ultimately, it’s easier to just get this over with. "Lu Guang."

"Lu Guang," Cheng Xiaoshi repeats, testing the name like he’s committing it to memory. Then he grins. "Cool name."

"Are you drunk?" Lu Guang asks flatly.

"Rude." Cheng Xiaoshi gestures to the camera. "College newspaper sent me to cover the event. I don’t drink on the job."

"Mm." Lu Guang gestures vaguely toward the camera. "Are you supposed to flirt on the job as well?"

Cheng Xiaoshi smirks, drumming his fingers against the camera body like he’s considering the question. "Only when absolutely necessary," he says, tilting his head. "And this? This was a life-or-death situation."

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Life or death?"

"Did you see that guy?" Cheng Xiaoshi leans forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "He looked like he was two seconds away from mansplaining whiskey to me."

Lu Guang hums, noncommittal. "Tragic."

"Right?" Cheng Xiaoshi sighs dramatically, reclining against the booth. "And just when I thought my night was doomed, in walks my knight in shining—" He waves a hand vaguely at Lu Guang’s all-black attire. "—something."

Lu Guang gives him a flat look. "You should go back to work."

"I should," Cheng Xiaoshi agrees, but makes no move to leave. Instead, he rests his chin on one hand, studying Lu Guang with blatant curiosity. 

Before Lu Guang can shut it down, a blur of red silk and gold sequins drops into the seat beside him, nearly knocking over his untouched drink.

“Well, well, well,” Qiao Ling sing-songs, resting her elbow on the table and propping her chin up with her hand. Her mask, now completely abandoned, dangles carelessly from her wrist. She grins at Cheng Xiaoshi, then at Lu Guang. “Imagine my surprise when I turn around and see you socializing.”

Lu Guang exhales slowly. “I’m not—”

“No need to be shy!” She waves him off before turning back to Cheng Xiaoshi.

She studies him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, before her expression brightens in realization. “Wait a second.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, confused. “Uh—”

Then Qiao Ling bursts out laughing . “Oh my God, Lu Guang, you didn’t tell me you finally met my roommate.”

Lu Guang pinches the bridge of his nose. “You never introduced him.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you always hide in the library!” She cackles, turning to Cheng Xiaoshi. “ This is amazing. I can’t believe this is how you two met.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. “Wait. Hold on.” He points between them. “You two— know each other?”

“Know each other?” Qiao Ling snorts. “I’m basically this guy’s emotional support animal.”

Lu Guang gives her a flat look. “Don’t say that.”

But Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t listening anymore. He groans, rubbing his temples. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Lu Guang watches him struggle to stay upright and sighs. Of course this is what he gets for trying to do a good deed. 

There’s a beat where she just watches them, lips pursed, as if filing something away for later. Then she leans back, scanning the bar. “You know what this night really needs?”

“The answer is no,” Lu Guang says preemptively, already dreading whatever Qiao Ling is about to say.

“Oh, come on,” she whines, nudging Cheng Xiaoshi. “Back me up here.”

But Cheng Xiaoshi is still caught up in his existential crisis, muttering, “Roommates. Of course. Because why wouldn’t the universe conspire against me like this?”

Qiao Ling ignores him. “A dance,” she declares triumphantly. “That’s what this night needs.”

Lu Guang levels her with a stare. “No.”

Cheng Xiaoshi groans louder. “God, no.”

“Oh, don’t be such killjoys! It’s a masquerade ball, for crying out loud. People are supposed to be twirling around dramatically under chandeliers, not sulking in booths like you two.”

Lu Guang rubs his temples. “If you want to dance, go dance.”

“I would, but it’s no fun alone,” she replies, grinning wickedly. “Besides, I think our dear Cheng Xiaoshi here could use a distraction.”

Cheng Xiaoshi glares at her. “I could also use a hole to disappear into, but I don’t see you offering me one of those.”

Qiao Ling ignores that, already reaching for his arm. “Come on, up you go.”

Cheng Xiaoshi huffs. “It’s not fair,” he mumbles under his breath. Then, perking up slightly, he adds, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

Lu Guang glances pointedly at his untouched glass.

"I’ll buy you water?"

Lu Guang doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Cheng Xiaoshi takes that as an invitation to stay.

Of course he does.

The dancing goes as well as expected—meaning, not well at all.

Qiao Ling is the first to disappear into the swirling mass of bodies, seamlessly slipping between partners, twirling under golden light with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times before. She throws a wink over her shoulder, triumphant in her matchmaking, before melting into the crowd.

Lu Guang, however, remains firmly seated, unmoving. He raises an eyebrow at Cheng Xiaoshi, who is still slouched in the booth, watching the dance floor like it’s a battlefield he has no intention of stepping onto.

“So,” Lu Guang says, voice flat. “You’re not going to dance?”

Cheng Xiaoshi shoots him a withering look. “Not unless you plan on carrying me onto that floor yourself.”

Lu Guang hums, tilting his head as if considering the option. “Tempting.”

Cheng Xiaoshi narrows his eyes. “That’s not funny.”

Cheng Xiaoshi is quiet for approximately three seconds—an impressive feat, really—before he leans forward, arms crossed on the table, and asks, “So, what do you drink?”

Lu Guang, who had been hoping that silence might settle in, glances at him, unimpressed. “I don’t.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, considering. “At all?”

“At all.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Challenge accepted.”

Lu Guang sighs through his nose. “That was not—”

But Cheng Xiaoshi is already up, slipping through the crowd with an easy, practiced sort of fluidity, camera still slung over his shoulder. Lu Guang watches him go, mildly bemused, but makes no move to stop him. If this is what it takes to get some peace and quiet, then fine.

A minute later, Cheng Xiaoshi reappears, two drinks in hand, looking far too pleased with himself. He slides one across the table.

Lu Guang eyes it. “What is it?”

“Something safe,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, taking a sip of his own drink. “Sweet, no strong aftertaste, won’t make you hate me.”

Lu Guang exhales sharply through his nose—something too soft to be called a laugh, but too amused to be anything else. He lifts the glass, inspecting the amber liquid inside. It doesn’t smell too strong.

“Fine.” He takes a slow, cautious sip.

It’s… deceptively pleasant. The sweetness hits first, smooth and honeyed, with only the faintest burn at the back of his throat. He lowers the glass, thoughtful.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him, expectant. “Well?”

Lu Guang sets the drink down. “I’ve had worse.”

Cheng Xiaoshi beams, like this is some grand victory. “See? I’m great at this.”

Lu Guang hums, noncommittal, and takes another sip.

The conversation between them shifts after that, almost without either of them noticing. It’s still playful, still edged with Cheng Xiaoshi’s characteristic dramatics and Lu Guang’s dry retorts, but there’s something easier in it now. Something less like an obligation and more like the natural push and pull of conversation between two people with nothing better to do.

Lu Guang realizes, distantly, that he’s been here longer than he meant to be.

He should leave.

He’s about to say as much when, without warning, someone stumbles against their table.

The impact sloshes the remaining contents of his drink dangerously close to the rim. Lu Guang reacts quickly, steadying it, but not before an unwelcome weight settles against his side.

“Whoops,” slurs the person now half-slumped against his shoulder. A man, drunk off his ass, clearly unaware of personal space. “Didn’t see you there, man.”

Lu Guang stiffens, jaw tightening. “Then move.”

The guy laughs, sloppy and unbothered. “You’re real serious, huh?” He squints, as if trying to place him. “Wait. Do I know you?”

“No.”

Cheng Xiaoshi, to his credit, reacts instantly. He shifts forward, sliding smoothly into the space between them with all the finesse of someone who has done this before. “Hey, buddy,” he says, all easy charm. “How about we give my boyfriend some space, yeah?”

Lu Guang stares at him, deadpan.

The drunk guy blinks, sways slightly. “Your…?”

“Boyfriend,” Cheng Xiaoshi repeats, resting an arm over Lu Guang’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers squeeze lightly, like a silent reassurance. “And he’s not really the touchy type.”

The guy makes a noise, somewhere between understanding and disappointment, before stumbling back into the crowd without another word.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him go, then slowly removes his arm. He turns back to Lu Guang, grinning. “You’re really racking up favors tonight, huh?”

Lu Guang takes a slow sip of his drink. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Who, me?” Cheng Xiaoshi places a hand over his heart, mock-affronted. “I’d never.”

Lu Guang levels him with a look. “Weren’t you supposed to be taking pictures?”

Lu Guang’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Cheng Xiaoshi blinks, caught off guard. “Huh?”

Lu Guang levels him with a flat look. “You know, the reason you're here? The reason you have that camera slung around your neck?”

“Oh. Right.” Cheng Xiaoshi huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his head. “Guess I got a little distracted.”

Qiao Ling snorts. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“Mm.” Lu Guang gestures vaguely toward the camera. “You took a photo of me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi freezes for half a second too long. “What? No, I didn’t.”

Lu Guang simply raises an eyebrow.

A beat. Then—

“Okay, maybe I did.” The guy spins the camera lazily in his hands. “But in my defense, you’ve got a very broody, ‘mysterious loner’ thing going on. It’s like, peak candid photography material. Girls dig it!”

Lu Guang sets his glass down with a soft clink. “Delete it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi's grin only widens. “What if I don’t?”

They stare at each other.

It lasts just long enough for the noise of the bar to fade into the background, the air between them pressing heavy with something unspoken. Lu Guang doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just lets the silence stretch.

Cheng Xiaoshi's smile falters. Just a fraction.

Then, instead of arguing, Lu Guang simply says, “Your framing is bad.”

The guy’s jaw drops.

“Excuse me?”

Lu Guang leans back, arms crossed. “You shoot on instinct. Your motion is fine, but your composition is lacking.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks, processing. Then—

“Oh my god,” he mutters, half to himself. “Did you just critique me? In the middle of my fake date?”

Lu Guang exhales through his nose, long-suffering. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cheng Xiaoshi grins at the preview on his camera screen. “You wear the mask well, though. Real mysterious.”

Lu Guang looks at him, unimpressed. “Take the actual pictures your job is paying you to take."

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, easy and warm, and lifts his glass. “To fate and all that.”

Lu Guang exhales, shaking his head, but after a moment, he clinks his glass against Cheng Xiaoshi’s anyway.

For the first time that night, Lu Guang forgets to check his watch.

Cheng Xiaoshi is, by all accounts, a man of many talents. He can weave through a packed bar without spilling a drop of his drink, talk himself out of a parking ticket with nothing but charm and a well-timed grin, and convince strangers to pose for impromptu photo ops just because they "looked cool."

But right now, as he stares at the name listed under "Archival Committee Head" on the email he just received, he’s feeling something suspiciously close to regret.

Lu Guang.

No. That can’t be right.

Cheng Xiaoshi squints at the screen as if willing the name to rearrange itself into something else, someone else. But it stays the same—elegant, precise, intimidatingly neat. Just like the man himself.

His own reflection stares back at him in the smudged glass of his laptop screen, looking vaguely betrayed.

Well, shit.

The next day, Cheng Xiaoshi trudges into the campus library, camera slung over his shoulder, laptop tucked under one arm, and a very specific mission in mind.

The library is quieter than usual when he arrives, the soft hum of the air conditioning a steady backdrop to the rustle of pages turning and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. The main atrium, bathed in warm light filtering through high-arched windows, gives off the illusion of serenity. A deception, really.

Cheng Xiaoshi knows better. Libraries, for all their outward peacefulness, are just silent battlefields. Students waging wars against deadlines. Sleep-deprived researchers calculating the probability of their next mental breakdown. Undergraduates pretending they understand what ‘empirical data’ actually means.

This mission, like most of his ideas, is equal parts brilliant and poorly thought out.

First step: editing photos. Second step: tracking down the head of the library’s archival committee to charm his way into getting his exhibit approved. Third step: revel in his success.

The plan is perfect. Foolproof. The only thing standing in his way is that he has no idea who the head of the archival committee actually is. But that’s a minor issue. It’ll work itself out. Probably.

As it turns out, fate doesn’t make him wait long.

There, tucked into a desk near the back, sits the very man himself—poised, unbothered, and every bit as unimpressed as Cheng Xiaoshi remembers.

A figure, seated at the front desk, flipping through a stack of papers with an air of quiet precision, movement crisp and deliberate. The exact opposite of someone who just last night had played along with a ridiculous fake date scenario in the middle of a crowded bar.

Lu Guang is exactly as Cheng Xiaoshi remembers him. Which is unfair, considering they technically haven’t met yet.

Same sharp lines, same steady, composed presence. The only difference is the lack of a mask, but even without it, his expression is as unreadable as ever—neutral, distant, like he exists at a slight remove from the rest of the world.

And yet, despite the complete lack of acknowledgment, Cheng Xiaoshi knows—knows—that it’s him.

Something in his gut twists with the certainty of it. It’s instinct, or maybe something deeper than instinct. Recognition that shouldn’t be possible, but is anyway.

Cheng Xiaoshi nearly chokes on his own breath. For a moment, Cheng Xiaoshi debates turning around and pretending he never saw him. He could drop out of the exhibit. Become a hermit. Move to the mountains and take pictures of birds for the rest of his life.

For a split second, he just… stands there.

Then Lu Guang shifts ever so slightly, barely glancing up from whatever he’s reading. “You’re staring.”

Cheng Xiaoshi startles like he’s been caught doing something illegal. “I am not.”

“You are.”

Okay, so maybe he is. But that’s hardly his fault. Lu Guang’s face looks weird without the mask—less distant, somehow, though that’s not quite the right word. It’s distracting.

“I—uh.” Cheng Xiaoshi clears his throat, throwing himself into the nearest chair before he loses his nerve. “You’re the head of the archival committee, right?”

Lu Guang exhales quietly, setting his book aside. “Who’s asking?”

“A photographer in need of approval for an exhibit,” Cheng Xiaoshi replies smoothly, recovering fast. “So. What do you say? Help a guy out?”

Lu Guang just looks at him. A long, unreadable stare.

Then, finally—“No.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. “No?”

Lu Guang picks up his book again. “No.”

This… might be harder than he thought.

“Wait.” He blurts it out, volume wildly inappropriate for a library. “You’re the guy from last night.”

Lu Guang finally sets his pen down, steepling his fingers together like he’s trying to decide whether entertaining this conversation is worth his time. His expression remains unreadable, but there’s something just a little too pointed in the way he tilts his head.

Lu Guang stares at him like he’s considering whether it’s worth the effort to respond. Eventually, he sighs and leans back in his chair. “What do you want?”

“Great question! Funny you should ask.” Cheng Xiaoshi drags a chair over, plopping himself down uninvited. “You see, I’m here on important business. Life-changing, even.”

“I see you’ve submitted an application for the upcoming photography exhibit,” says Lu Guang matter-of-factly. 

Cheng Xiaoshi grins. “And I see you’re the one reviewing it. What a crazy, absolutely wild, what-are-the-odds kind of coincidence.”

Lu Guang does not smile. “Is it?”

Damn. Tough crowd.

Cheng Xiaoshi swings a leg over the chair and settles in like he owns the place, arms draped over the backrest.  “Look, about last night—I get it, you probably think I’m some reckless, irresponsible photographer who—”

“You are.”

Cheng Xiaoshi splutters. “I was going to say ‘creative visionary,’ but sure, let’s go with that.”

Lu Guang arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh.”

Cheng Xiaoshi waves a hand, undeterred. “I submitted an application for a photography exhibit last month. The library committee has to approve it before I can move forward. And—” He gestures grandly, “—since you’re apparently the head of that very committee, I thought, hey, why not cut out the middleman?”

Lu Guang’s gaze flickers to the stack of pending applications beside him. “You do realize that’s not how this process works.”

“Details.” Cheng Xiaoshi waves it off. “Look, I promise you, this exhibit is gonna be great. It’s got depth, heart, and at least one old man with a fantastic mustache. What more could you want?”

Lu Guang picks up his pen again. “A coherent application.”

Lu Guang doesn’t bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, he reaches for the tablet beside him, scrolling through what Cheng Xiaoshi belatedly realizes are his own photos. His posture remains rigid, his movements precise, but his eyes scan each image with the kind of careful scrutiny that makes something itch under Cheng Xiaoshi’s skin.

“So?” Cheng Xiaoshi props his chin in his hand, feigning nonchalance. “What’s the verdict? You gonna approve my application or crush my dreams?”

...Yes, yes he will, by annotating every single photo Cheng Xiaoshi submitted.

Across the library, Lu Guang flips through the stack of submitted photographs, a red Sharpie in hand, ruthless in his critique. The ink bleeds across the pages in sharp, unforgiving strokes—circles, lines, curt annotations in the margins. Overexposed. Poor framing. Too cluttered. It’s a bloodbath.

And then he stops.

There, tucked between the images of cityscapes and candid street shots, is a photograph that absolutely should not be in the submission pile.

A photo taken just the other night.

At the bar. 

Of him.

Lu Guang stares at it, silent.

It’s a well-composed shot—annoyingly so. The dim golden glow of the bar casts soft highlights along the sharp angles of his mask, half-obscuring his face. His glasses are absent, swapped for the sleek, dark lines of his disguise, and there’s something almost unfamiliar about him in the frame—relaxed, watching the room with quiet amusement, unaware of the camera.

A fleeting moment, captured effortlessly.

It shouldn’t be in here.

He flips the photo over, as if expecting some kind of explanation. Nothing. Just blank space.

As Lu Guang flips the photo between his fingers, his gaze flickers up—just briefly—toward Cheng Xiaoshi, who is currently pretending to be very, very focused on his laptop.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at him today, but it is the first time he’s looking at him with the memory of this photo fresh in his mind.

Because this is what he remembers:

Cheng Xiaoshi, in a black dress shirt, sleeves carelessly rolled up to his elbows, collar open just enough to make him look like he belonged in that bar—effortless, charming, like he had walked into the masquerade without a single worry in the world. A deep green waistcoat, slightly wrinkled, like he’d been moving too much to keep it pristine. A half-tied ribbon at his wrist that probably started the night neat and ended up a casualty of his restless energy.

The mask had been simple—sleek black, accented with gold filigree, nothing too flashy, but it framed his eyes in a way that made them seem sharper, more mischievous, catching the dim light of the bar just right. He had looked…

Lu Guang exhales, slow and measured, and pointedly does not finish that thought.

Instead, he glances at Cheng Xiaoshi now, sitting across from him, very much not in a masquerade-worthy outfit. Today’s look consists of a faded hoodie and jeans that have definitely seen better days, a camera strap slung haphazardly across his chest. His hair is messy, like he either just woke up or never quite managed to brush it properly in the first place.

Not remotely the same. And yet, somehow, still him.

Lu Guang taps the Sharpie absently against the desk before setting the photo down.

“You submitted this by accident,” he says, voice level.

Cheng Xiaoshi, who has absolutely not been secretly watching for a reaction, blinks innocently. “Did I?”

Lu Guang gives him a look. “Yes.”

A beat of silence. Then Cheng Xiaoshi leans in just slightly, all teasing curiosity. “What, you don’t like how you look?”

Lu Guang doesn’t take the bait. “That’s not the point.”

“No, no, I think it is the point.” Cheng Xiaoshi grins, resting his chin on one hand. “You looked good. I did you a favor.”

Lu Guang sighs, rubs his temple, and finally, with all the patience of a man considering whether to throw someone out of a second-story window, says, “That’s not the issue.”

“Oh?” Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head. “Then what is?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he picks up the Sharpie, uncaps it, and—without breaking eye contact—writes, in decisive strokes, directly on the bottom of the photo:

“Unacceptable.”

He slides it across the table.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks at it. Then at him. Then back at the photo.

And grins.

“Ohhh,” he hums, entirely too pleased. “So you do care.”

Lu Guang’s expression does not change. “I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I don’t.”

Cheng Xiaoshi picks up the photo, flipping it between his fingers the same way Lu Guang had just moments ago. “If you really didn’t care, you would’ve just thrown it out.”

Lu Guang’s lips press together into a thin line.

Cheng Xiaoshi, sensing his advantage, leans in again. “You took the time to write on it. Why?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s grin widens.

...

Cheng Xiaoshi has deciphered numerous things today.

1. Lu Guang does not take bribes.
2. He also does not appreciate grand gestures.
3. Or unsolicited labor.
4. Or Cheng Xiaoshi, apparently.

These revelations come to him slowly, piece by piece, like the slow, painful unraveling of a very unfortunate mystery novel.

It starts with coffee.

First, Cheng Xiaoshi embarks on a quest to acquire Lu Guang’s favorite coffee. This involves asking an alarming number of people around the library, pestering the barista at the campus café, and, ultimately, presenting Lu Guang with a very specific order—meticulously brewed, precise temperature, absolutely no sugar. "What does Lu Guang drink?" The answer is underwhelming: black coffee, no sugar, no cream. In other words, the most joyless drink known to man.

A foolproof plan, or so he thinks. Fine. Easy enough.

Armed with the coffee, Cheng Xiaoshi marches into the library, scans the room, and spots Lu Guang at a desk near the back—poised, unbothered, radiating the kind of patience that suggests he’s already at his limit for the day.

Perfect.

Cheng Xiaoshi strides over, placing the cup down with a flourish. “For you! A token of goodwill.”

Lu Guang stares at it. Then at him.

“…What.”

“You’re welcome,” Cheng Xiaoshi grins, plopping himself into the seat across from him, uninvited.

Lu Guang’s expression remains impassive, like he’s waiting for the punchline. “I don’t take bribes.”

“Pfft. It’s not a bribe. It’s just… a friendly gesture. Between two people who are about to have a very productive conversation.”

A long silence.

Lu Guang picks up the cup, turns it in his hands, and—just for a fraction of a second—pauses. Then he sets it back down, unreadable.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches this unfold with the slow, dawning realization that this is not going to be as easy as he thought.

Fine. Plan B.

After the coffee incident, Cheng Xiaoshi pivots tactics. If bribery doesn’t work, surely acts of service will.

So he spends the next half hour loitering near the front desk, waiting for an opportunity to be helpful. Eventually, it presents itself: a cart stacked high with books, precariously teetering on the edge of disaster.

Perfect.

“I got it!” Cheng Xiaoshi announces, swooping in.

He does not got it.

The cart tips. The books go down in a spectacular avalanche of bad decisions.

From across the room, Lu Guang watches this happen in real time. There’s a visible moment where he looks like he might intervene—followed immediately by the choice not to.

When Cheng Xiaoshi finally rights the cart and grins triumphantly, Lu Guang just says, “Please leave.”

This, unfortunately, does not deter Cheng Xiaoshi.

He tries again—helping wipe down tables (accidentally knocks over someone’s water bottle), fixing a flickering desk lamp (almost electrocutes himself), neatly stacking periodicals (somehow misfiles them all).

Eventually, Lu Guang closes the book he’s reading, looks at him, and asks, in a voice that suggests he is deeply considering violence,

“…What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing!” Cheng Xiaoshi beams. “I’m just, uh, really invested in making this library the best it can be.”

A slow inhale. A slower exhale.

Then, finally, Lu Guang says the words Cheng Xiaoshi has been waiting for all day:

“What do you want?”

Success.

...

Additionally, through his observations, Cheng Xiaoshi has learned the following:

5. Lu Guang does not appreciate unsolicited assistance.
6. Has the patience of a saint (except when dealing with me, apparently).
7. Dislikes interruptions but hasn’t actually told me to leave yet, so that’s something.
8. Knows way too much about library logistics for a normal student. Suspicious.
9. Definitely smarter than me, but that’s not saying much.
10. Keeps looking at me like I’m a particularly persistent stain on his desk.

A brief delay, and then a flip.

On the next page of his notebook, he scribbles down a few more discoveries:

• Lu Guang always clicks his pen exactly three times before he starts writing. Not twice. Not four times. Three. Like a little internal reset button. Cheng Xiaoshi’s tested this by watching him from across the room (discreetly, of course, because he’s not weird), and it’s eerily consistent.

• When he reads, he tilts the book just slightly to the left. Not in a lazy way—more like he’s angling it for optimal focus. He’ll hold it steady for long stretches, barely moving, only breaking the stance to turn a page with practiced efficiency. Cheng Xiaoshi once tried to mimic it and ended up cramping his neck.

• He has exactly three different frowns: the mild disapproval one (common), the “I’m reconsidering my life choices” one (slightly rarer), and the deep, furrowed-brow “I need this idiot to stop talking” one (frequent, especially around Cheng Xiaoshi). Additionally...

  • His default expression is neutrality, but his focus-face is something else entirely. Slightly furrowed brows, the barest downturn of his lips, an almost imperceptible tension in his jaw like he’s bracing for something. Cheng Xiaoshi has caught himself staring once or twice (purely for research purposes, of course)

• When he thinks, he presses his thumb against the curve of his lower lip. Cheng Xiaoshi shouldn’t have noticed this. He really shouldn’t have. But the movement is subtle, almost absentminded, and once he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it.

• When he’s frustrated, he taps his pen against his notebook precisely three times before stopping himself.

• His hair always looks perfect, even after hours in the library, and Cheng Xiaoshi is starting to suspect dark magic.

He pauses, staring at the list.

“…This is getting weird,” he mutters to himself, flipping the notebook shut.

...

Lu Guang flips through the application file, unreadable.

Then, finally, he says, “…Your composition is good, but your framing is too instinctual. Try thinking before you shoot.”

He blinks. “Uh. Thanks?”

Lu Guang sighs, setting the tablet down. “You rely on impulse, not intention. You don’t consider the relationship between subject and background. The emotional weight of the frame is undercut by your lack of precision.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stares.

That is—objectively—the most pretentious thing anyone has ever said to him. And yet.

Somewhere between the monotone delivery and the surgical dissection of his work, Cheng Xiaoshi feels an inexplicable twinge of respect.

He narrows his eyes. “Are you one of those people who thinks all art should have some deep, philosophical meaning?”

“No,” Lu Guang says simply. “But it should at least be intentional.”

It takes him a second to process the words because—hold on. That almost sounded like a real critique.

Something about that sticks. Cheng Xiaoshi rolls the words over in his mind, not sure if he’s annoyed or intrigued. Probably both. Definitely both.

He leans back, tapping his fingers against the table. “Alright, fine. Maybe you have a point.”

Lu Guang arches an eyebrow, like he hadn’t expected Cheng Xiaoshi to actually agree.

“But,” Cheng Xiaoshi continues, tilting his head, “if I’m gonna rework my shots with more ‘intention’ or whatever, I’m gonna need a model.”

Lu Guang blinks once. Slowly. Like he’s giving him the opportunity to retract whatever ridiculous thought just left his mouth.

Cheng Xiaoshi beams. “Be my model.”

Lu Guang stares at him. “What.”

“So we can figure this out together,” Cheng Xiaoshi explains, grinning. “You give me critique. I put it into action. Hands-on learning. Totally reasonable request.”

Lu Guang looks about five seconds away from standing up and walking into the ocean.

“You want me,” he says, voice utterly devoid of emotion, “to be your model.”

Cheng Xiaoshi nods, delighted. “Yep.”

“Because you—” Lu Guang gestures vaguely, “—lack framing skills.”

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

Lu Guang exhales sharply through his nose, pinching the bridge of it like he’s developing a migraine in real-time. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on! Think of it as an educational experience.” Cheng Xiaoshi props an elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand. “You clearly have Thoughts about my work. What better way to make sure I learn than by throwing yourself into the process?”

“I would rather—” Lu Guang pauses, considering his words. Then, finally, he settles on: “—Not.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

Lu Guang levels him with a look of pure exhaustion. “It wasn’t.”

It’s gonna be a long semester.

[NEW CHAT STARTED: Wednesday, April 15th, XXXX]

Me (2:13 PM)
hiiiiiiiii this is cheng xiaoshi i hope u remember meeee!!

(A beat. No response. Typical. He watches the three little dots appear and disappear before finally—)

Lu Guang (2:13 PM
How did you get my number?

Me (2:13 PM)
qiao ling gave it to me, srry is that cool?

Lu Guang (2:14 PM)
It's fine. 

Me (2:14 PM)

how are your classes going?

Lu Guang (2:14 PM)
Fine.

Me (2:14 PM)
wow so talkative today

did u always have this much personality or is it just for me

(Nothing. Cheng Xiaoshi rolls onto his side, squinting at the screen like he can will Lu Guang into responding faster. Then—finally—another reply.)

Lu Guang (2:16 PM)
Do you need something?

Me (2:16 PM)
yeah actually. be my model.

Lu Guang (2:17 PM)
No.

Me (2:17 PM)
ok but like consider this: yes

Lu Guang (2:18 PM)
I have considered. No.

Me (2:18 PM)

:(((((

Lu Guang (2:19 PM)
If you send me one more frown face I’m blocking you.

Me (2:19 PM)
😡

Read at 2:21 PM.

[NEW CHAT STARTED: Wednesday, April 15th, XXXX]

Me (8:42 PM)
why is he like this.

Qiao Ling (8:43 PM)
Lu Guang?

Me (8:43 PM)
WHO ELSE

he literally refuses to be my model. won’t even CONSIDER it.

Qiao Ling (8:44 PM)
lol. and this surprises you?

Me (8:44 PM)
yes????? am i not charming and persuasive?????

Qiao Ling (8:45 PM)
…do you want an honest answer or should I lie to spare your feelings

Me (8:45 PM)

:(((

Me (8:46 PM)
ok but like. real talk. do u think he secretly wants to say yes but is just being difficult for fun.

Qiao Ling (8:47 PM)
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Me (8:47 PM)
why was that so long. that was Suspiciously long

Qiao Ling (8:48 PM)
no reason

(He squints at his screen. That is absolutely a lie. But before he can press further, she changes the subject—deliberately, he’s sure.)

Qiao Ling (8:48 PM)
anyway. you’re still texting him all the time tho huh?

Me (8:49 PM)
??? yeah obviously?? gotta wear him down

Qiao Ling (8:49 PM)
uh-huh.

Chapter Text

It starts with a buzz.

A quiet vibration against the cafeteria table, just sharp enough to startle Cheng Xiaoshi Xiaoshi out of whatever half-sleep he had been clinging to between sips of burnt coffee and the questionable warmth of late afternoon sunlight slanting through grimy student union windows. He doesn’t check it right away. He already knows it’s not anything good. Notifications never are.

Eventually, when the guilt of pretending to be busy wears off, he flips his phone over. It lights up with that particular kind of university optimism that makes his skin crawl.

Subject: RSVP Reminder: Interdisciplinary Mixer for Media & Cultural Cohorts ✨

Where: Museum Annex, Floor 2
When: Tonight @ 7:30 PM
Dress code: Smart casual
Note: Attendance encouraged. Opportunities to network, build connections, and decompress before midterms!

Underneath it, another notification from Professor Wen:

"Hi Cheng Xiaoshi – just a reminder that we’d love photo coverage from tonight’s mixer. Think candid. Think collaborative. See you there."

No signature. Just a timestamp and a silent sense of expectation.

He resists the urge to faceplant into the table.

Professor Wen is the kind of advisor who always sounds like she knows something you don’t. A veteran of the journalism department, always dressed in clean-cut wool coats and impossibly sharp shoes, her feedback lives somewhere between cryptic encouragement and devastating brevity. Cheng Xiaoshi respects her. Maybe even likes her. But she has a way of making requests sound like obligations, and obligations sound like fate.

And so, here he is. Back in his dorm room with half a sandwich on his desk and a black button-up still in its plastic packaging.

He doesn’t even really like event photography. It feels less like documenting truth and more like donning three mismatched masks at once: the polite guest who nods at unfamiliar faces, the fly-on-the-wall who doesn’t belong but refuses to leave, and the imposter who keeps his camera up just long enough to pretend he understands the language everyone else seems fluent in. He remembers feeling like this in high school too—at award ceremonies, club meetings, any space that asked him to be simultaneously present and invisible. That uneasy tension never really left. These events are all pageantry and posturing, and his role in them feels less like a participant and more like a bystander tasked with preserving a moment he isn’t truly a part of. He used to think capturing moments meant understanding them. Lately, it just feels like surveillance.

Still, he goes.

The Museum Annex looms like a cathedral to someone else’s ambitions. The doors open with too much ceremony. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, everything echoing slightly too long. He passes a curated wall of student art on the way in—collages of culture and contrast, hands and headlines, street signs layered over protest shots. The kind of stuff that makes his chest twist in a way he refuses to name.

He scans the crowd. Mostly upperclassmen. A few visiting faculty. People who wear confidence like cologne. Familiar faces drift past—students from the newspaper, art theory majors with deliberately mismatched earrings, the campus radio host who once tried to interview him during a fire drill.

He adjusts his grip on the camera. Checks his aperture. Breathes in through his nose.

Candid. Collaborative. Professor Wen’s words echo faintly as if they had been stitched into the lining of his jacket.

He starts taking photos.

Click.

The profile of someone mid-laugh. A cup half-raised. Light catching on a row of glasses.

Click.

The curve of a hand gripping a portfolio. A pair of strangers talking like old friends.

Click.

A flash of red fabric, blurred in motion.

The lens gives him distance. It gives him language. Something to speak when his brain empties out, when the noise in the room piles higher than his ability to climb over it.

He moves through the gallery, camera steady, expression neutral. For all his chaotic energy in other spaces, here he is methodical. Observant. Invisible, if he wants to be. Which tonight, he does.

Xia Fei spots him near the exhibit of experimental posters.

“Caught you lurking,” he says with a smirk, all polished charm and chaotic warmth in a suit that fits too well for someone who claims he doesn’t care about fashion. “Trying to disappear into the walls again?”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “They’ve got better lighting.”

“You say that like it’s not true.”

They linger near a print collage of subway graffiti and empty stairwells. The room hums around them. Cheng Xiaoshi fiddles with the zoom. Xia Fei talks, lightly, always talking, filling the silence without cracking it. He means well. He always does.

Eventually, Cheng Xiaoshi drifts again. He does not go to find Qiao Ling, though he sees her—mid-discussion with someone in a herringbone blazer, probably debating some political theory that gives her life. His desperation topples over that he even considers talking to Liu Xiao, though Liu Xiao is holding court near the wine table, all velvet smoothness and curated charm. Willingly talking to him would probably have taken a couple extra shots. 

He lands beside the faculty from humanities—people who know of him only through context or hearsay. One taught his semiotics elective; another always loiters in the back row during campus gallery openings. They greet him with polite recognition, the kind you offer to someone whose face you’ve seen printed beneath headlines like “Young Artist Spotlight” or “Third-Year to Watch.”

Someone chuckles and says, “Still attached to that camera, I see. Hope we’re not all being immortalized.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles. “Only the flattering ones.”

Another adjusts their glasses, leans slightly closer. “Remind me what you shoot on again?”

He recites the model, the lens, the editing software. They nod. Approving. It’s like giving a password. It earns him entry, at least briefly.

Someone else—not Wen, but someone like her, perhaps a colleague—says, “Your piece in last month’s magazine… that image of the abandoned hallway? It had a kind of weary grace. Unflinching. Are you always so precise with mood?”

“I try,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, but the words land crooked in his mouth. He takes another sip of the wine that is already making his stomach feel too warm, his head too light.

Professor Ji tilts her head. “It felt personal.”

“I think most things are.”

She smiles. 

Cheng Xiaoshi says a polite thank you and drifts again.

It’s second nature by now—his version of social camouflage. He slips between groups like light bending through glass, catching words and gestures but never staying long enough to leave a reflection.

Someone calls his name once, maybe twice. He pretends not to hear. Keeps his head down like he’s lining up a shot, even though his camera’s been idle for ten minutes.

The wine has settled into his stomach like a bad idea. Not enough to blur anything—just enough to warm the edges of everything he doesn't want to think about.

His hallway photo. The one Professor Ji brought up.

He remembers when he took it. Late at night, building half-empty, nothing intentional about it—just a moment he found on his way back from a study session that went nowhere. He hadn’t even looked at the photo again until Wen submitted it on his behalf.

Now people say things like “weary grace” , and it makes his skin itch. What does that even mean? Why do they assume he meant something by it?

He didn’t.

…Did he?

Cheng Xiaoshi presses his thumb against the sharp corner of his camera grip.

Click. A shot of nothing. Just the floor. Just so his hands have something to do.

When he looks up again, the gallery has thinned. Only a few groups remain. Faculty with plates of half-eaten hors d'oeuvres. A couple students leaning too close under gallery lights. Laughter bounces from the stone walls—too loud, too intimate, like he’s eavesdropping on a world he was never fully invited into.

Collaborative. Candid. The words from Wen’s message echo like a riddle.

He backs into a hallway near the side exit. Less polished, less lit. It smells faintly like old concrete and whatever museum glue they use to keep labels from peeling.

He just needs to breathe.

Instead, he finds himself at the bar.

It’s tucked into a corner of the hall, where the lighting softens just enough to pretend intimacy. There’s a bowl of limes no one’s touched and a stack of drink menus no one’s reading. The drinks are free, technically, but there's a tip jar filled with too many one-yuan coins and not enough gratitude.

The bartender is a student volunteer wearing a name tag that says Kenny and the dead-eyed look of someone who’s been pouring lukewarm wine for two hours straight. Cheng Xiaoshi offers a silent nod and raises two fingers. Doesn’t matter what the drink is. He just needs his hands to be full.

The cup clinks gently against the counter as he takes it. White wine again. Slightly sweeter. Or maybe that’s just the aftertaste of social exhaustion.

He turns away from the bar, glass in hand, already tuning out the room again—until the air shifts.

He doesn’t hear Lu Guang’s voice first. He sees him.

Across the gallery, by the far entrance. Same posture. Same expression. Calm, focused, like he’s listening harder than anyone else in the room. It would be impossible not to notice him. Not because he’s loud—but because everything around him seems to fold inward a little, like even the walls know he’s paying attention.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes catch on the figure next to him.

A girl.

She’s laughing—bright, open, one hand lifted mid-gesture like she’s saying something clever. Lu doesn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth tip up slightly. Cheng Xiaoshi knows that expression. It’s Lu’s version of engaged. Of interested.

Something hot creeps up his neck.

He orders another wine, white this time, even though he hates it less than the red. Sips it slowly. Doesn’t flinch at the taste this time, which probably means he’s more tired than he realized.

The projection across the room keeps playing—grayscale footage of some old protest from a decade he doesn’t remember. Everyone in the frame looks like they knew what they were doing. Or at least, they believed in something.

He takes a longer sip than he should. Winces.

He lifts the camera. Centers the frame. For a moment, everything in his head flattens into silence—the white noise of the mixer, the eddy of footsteps and conversation, all blurred like static just out of frequency. Through the lens, Lu Guang becomes not just a subject, but a still point in a spinning room, a single line of clarity in a page otherwise overwritten with noise. There’s something grounding about the sight of him, like the air settles around his edges, like the world folds a little neater in his vicinity. Cheng Xiaoshi feels the pull of that steadiness—not envy, not admiration, but something weightless and disorienting, as if the stillness itself is proof of something he doesn’t know how to name. He doesn’t press the shutter. He just looks.

How is it that someone can occupy so little space—be so quiet, so restrained—and still take up this much room in his mind? Not just in memory, but in atmosphere. Cheng Xiaoshi can feel him even when he isn’t there. Like a silence that somehow got inside the walls.

It’s uncanny, really. The way Lu Guang lingers. Not in presence, but in absence. He leaves no scent, no sound, no signature—just that ghost of perception, like a thought you can’t stop retracing. Cheng Xiaoshi Xiaoshi has met louder people. Wilder ones. People who shout their names into every room they enter. Lu Guang is the opposite—he folds himself inward, speaks like punctuation, and yet somehow demands attention without asking for it.

It’s unnerving. The way a glance from him feels like a slow excavation, like being seen in x-ray clarity while he remains a locked safe. In less than two weeks, Cheng Xiaoshi has gone from not knowing Lu existed to knowing too much and not enough, all at once. His presence carves an outline in his awareness, and now everything else has to be arranged around it.

They start walking—closer. Not toward him, just toward the bar. Of course.

He turns around like he’s browsing the drink table. It’s all fruit slices and napkins and unlabeled bottles. His glass is still half full but he sets it down anyway, like he’s suddenly not sure what to do with it.

Their voices get closer. Clearer.

“—I don’t think the exhibit order was intentional,” the girl says. “But the emotional arc is kind of striking.”

Lu Guang hums in agreement. A low, thoughtful sound. “It forces you to reconsider the framing once you double back.”

“Exactly,” she says, sounding pleased. “I knew you’d get it.”

He could leave. Cheng Xiaoshi could just walk off. Drift back into the gallery and disappear into some crowd again.

Instead, he stays.

“White or red?” the girl asks, now at the bar.

Cheng Xiaoshi stiffens. She’s beside him before he can even make a decision.

She glances at his untouched glass, then up at him. Smiles. “Is the white any good?”

He blinks, caught. “It’s fine.”

“That sounds fake,” she teases, unbothered.

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “Depends what kind of disappointment you’re into.”

She laughs—bright, brief—and glances over her shoulder. “Lu Guang? What do you think?”

Lu Guang joins her with the same easy silence he always brings. His gaze flicks to Cheng Xiaoshi just briefly. A nod. Nothing more.

Cheng Xiaoshi lifts his glass slightly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Lu Guang’s expression doesn’t change. “You’re at the bar.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

The girl glances between them. “You two know each other?”

“Cohort stuff,” Cheng Xiaoshi says quickly.

Lu Guang doesn’t correct him, but his eyes linger a little longer this time. Not cold. Just... curious.

“I’m Yuyan,” she offers, holding out a hand.

Cheng Xiaoshi shakes it. “Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“Nice to meet you. Lu Guang’s told me a bit about you.”

Something clenches. “Oh?”

Yuyan doesn’t notice. “Just that you’re the photographer with the chaotic energy.”

Cheng Xiaoshi forces a smile. “That’s a generous interpretation.”

Lu Guang sips his drink, says nothing.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward, exactly. But Cheng Xiaoshi feels it in his teeth.

“Anyway,” Yuyan says, setting down her glass. “I should track down my roommate. She was supposed to meet me twenty minutes ago.” She shoots them both a grin. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

She disappears into the crowd, leaving Cheng Xiaoshi and Lu Guang alone.

Lu Guang watches her go. Cheng Xiaoshi watches him.

Then, lightly, “So. That was...”

“A classmate.”

Cheng Xiaoshi snorts. “She said you talked about me.”

Lu Guang’s gaze returns. Steady. “You come up.”

Something in Cheng Xiaoshi’s chest jolts.

“Oh,” he says, tone a little too neutral. “Hope you left a good review.”

“I said you were persistent.”

Cheng Xiaoshi makes a face. “Ouch.”

Lu Guang pauses. “And that you were good.”

Cheng Xiaoshi looks up.

“At what you do,” Lu Guang clarifies.

“Right.” Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, a little too fast. “Of course. Professional respect. Very collaborative.”

Lu Guang narrows his eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

A beat.

“You’re weird tonight,” Lu Guang says finally.

“I’m always weird.”

“Not like this.”

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth. Closes it again. Then—

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Lu Guang’s brow lifts, subtle.

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “To the mixer.”

Of course he’s here. He always shows up to things like this—quietly, like someone slipping into a film midway through the first act.

He exhales through his teeth. His camera is still in his hands. Useless. Heavy.

There’s a plaque to his left, commemorating the annex’s renovation. “Dedicated to the spirit of interdisciplinary exchange and creative growth.” He resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Lu Guang doesn’t answer right away.

He tilts his head slightly, studying Cheng Xiaoshi with that unnerving, precise sort of stillness he does when he’s choosing his words like they’re puzzle pieces. Like he’s not speaking to win—just to be exact.

“You looked surprised to see me,” he says.

Cheng Xiaoshi scoffs, too quickly. “No. I mean—maybe a little. It’s not your scene.”

Lu Guang’s eyes flick once over the room. “It’s not yours either.”

“Yeah, well.” Cheng Xiaoshi takes a sip, realizes his glass is still empty, and sets it back down too hard. “I’m being collaborative.”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow.

“Candid. Whatever.” Cheng Xiaoshi runs a hand through his hair, makes it worse. “Wen wanted coverage. I’m just here to smile politely and act like I know how to hold a camera.”

“You do know how to hold a camera.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

The words come out too sharp, and he doesn’t mean for them to, but they hang there anyway—sarcastic, bitter, exposed. Cheng Xiaoshi winces internally. Tries to backpedal.

“I just mean—whatever. You know how this stuff is.”

“I don’t,” Lu Guang says simply. “Explain it to me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth, but his mind blanks. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm his face is, how close they’re standing, how his heart feels like it’s trying to crawl up his throat.

“Forget it,” he says, softer now. “It’s stupid.”

Lu Guang doesn’t look away. “It’s not.”

That nearly does him in.

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs—short, self-conscious. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Lu Guang looks confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

That shouldn’t knock the wind out of him. But it does.

Cheng Xiaoshi rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’m just—” He gestures vaguely at the air. “—off tonight.”

Lu Guang tilts his head again, thoughtful. “Because of the photo?”

Cheng Xiaoshi freezes.

He doesn’t answer.

“You haven’t been shooting,” Lu Guang says. “Which is unusual. And you’re avoiding the gallery floor.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs again, but it cracks this time. “Do you observe everyone like this, or am I just special?”

Lu Guang doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re not subtle.”

“I’m trying not to be,” Cheng Xiaoshi mutters.

Lu Guang doesn’t reply right away. Just studies him, expression unreadable. The music from the main hall floats in soft and distant, like a soundtrack to someone else’s night.

Then, evenly, Lu Guang says, “You take a lot of pictures of me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi startles, like he’s been caught stealing. “What?”

Lu Guang’s voice is mild. Almost curious. “You’re always pointing that camera at me.”

“I’m—what?” Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, too loud, too fast. “No I’m not.”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow. “You are.”

“I take pictures of everyone.”

“Not like that.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s throat goes dry.

He tries to scoff, but it catches halfway up. “Okay. You’re gonna have to explain what that means.”

Lu Guang takes a small step closer—not aggressive, just close enough that the silence between them folds a little tighter.

“You look at people like you're trying to find the story in them,” he says, calm and precise. “But when you take photos of me… it’s not about the story. You’re looking for something else.”

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

Lu Guang tilts his head slightly. “So. What are you looking for?”

Cheng Xiaoshi swallows.

His fingers tighten reflexively around the camera strap at his shoulder. For a second, it feels like his whole body is holding its breath.

“I…” he starts. Then falters.

Say anything, his brain hisses. Make it a joke. Change the subject. Push him away. Lie if you have to.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, he says the worst possible thing:

“I think maybe I just… want to see how you see me.”

The silence that follows isn’t loud. It’s soft. Still. Dense with implication.

Lu Guang blinks once. Slowly.

Then: “That’s not nothing.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s pulse lurches.

He tries to recover. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“I know what you meant.”

The words are gentle, but firm. Final, in a way that says: You’re not getting out of this one with sarcasm.

Lu Guang looks at him for another moment. Then steps back.

His voice is quieter now. “You should take a break. You look like you're about to bolt.”

“I’m fine,” Cheng Xiaoshi says automatically.

Lu Guang just gives him that look—the one that sees too much, says too little.

And then he turns and walks away.

No drama. No flare. Just absence.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Cheng Xiaoshi stands there a beat longer, like his body hasn’t caught up to the exit.

Then he lifts the camera. Just to feel something familiar.

He doesn’t take a photo.

Cheng Xiaoshi is not sulking.

He is simply… sitting. Quietly. Furiously. In the corner of a too-small student lounge with his laptop balanced precariously on one knee and a form open on his screen titled: CAMPUS HOUSING REQUEST FORM - MIDTERM ADJUSTMENT.

He didn’t even know people could switch housing mid-semester. Apparently, if you’re persuasive enough and your last roommate nearly set the kitchen on fire trying to cook ramen in a coffee pot, the system has mercy.

His finger wavers over the keys, thoughtlessly tapping the delete bar until there's nothing else to erase. The form feels accusatory. Mocking, almost. Each field an invitation to articulate dissatisfaction in sterile, administration-approved language.

Reason for request: hazardous living conditions.
Additional notes: nobody apart of a frat house.
Delete...

He exhales. Stares at the blinking cursor.

Still, it feels like he’s failing at something—though every rational part of him knows he’s not. At everything. At explaining himself. At being normal. At pretending he doesn’t care. The pressure of it all—school deadlines, gallery expectations, the exhibit Wen keeps mentioning with increasing urgency—it crowds the edges of his thoughts. Tension coils in his jaw until he pops it, absently scrolling through the application, eyes drifting without focus. He rereads the same line again and again without absorbing it, like the words are sliding off his brain before they can stick, and by the time he notices he’s opened a new tab, he doesn’t remember clicking.

Down the hall, someone laughs too loudly, the sound sharp and distant all at once, and for a second it feels like the whole day has slipped sideways—like time is moving in a straight line and he’s just a few paces behind, always catching up, always arriving a beat too late.

His chest is tight. He doesn’t know why.

No, that’s a lie. He does.

It’s Lu Guang.

Lu Guang, who saw him at his worst and said nothing. Lu Guang, who walked away instead of turning it into a conversation.

Cheng Xiaoshi should be grateful. Hell, he is grateful. Or… something adjacent to it. It’s just—he’s not used to people doing that. Not pressing. Not dissecting. Not turning him into a project or a pity case.

It should’ve made things easier.

Instead, it’s like his whole brain is stuck rerunning the silence.

He’s tried to joke about it. Minimize it. He always does. But there’s something about Lu Guang’s restraint that gnaws at him. The way he didn’t flinch, didn’t recoil, didn’t offer sympathy or even smugness.

Lu Guang just left. Quietly. Without demanding clarity or closure. Without using Cheng Xiaoshi’s own discomfort against him.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He admires it, in a way that feels too raw to admit out loud. That stillness. That control. That maddening ability to take in chaos and not return it. Cheng Xiaoshi wishes he could do that. He wishes he could hold still, too.

But he’s not like Lu Guang.

He’s messy. Noisy. Easy to read and easier to dismiss. A sore loser, even when no one’s declared a game.

And that’s the part that stings, maybe.

That Cheng Xiaoshi feels like he lost something in that exchange—something invisible but sharp. And he can’t even name what it is.

Lu Guang didn’t make him feel small.
He just made him feel seen.

And that’s…

...

So now he’s here. Filling out some form he doesn’t even really need, because pretending to fix things feels better than admitting he can’t.

Lu Guang, of course, is not helping.

He's perched on the opposite armrest of the couch like he's in a library exhibit on How To Sit Politely, one leg crossed neatly over the other, laptop open, face the picture of calm efficiency. His fingers tap rhythmically against the keys, probably compiling a spreadsheet or decoding nuclear launch codes or whatever it is Lu Guang does when he's pretending not to judge.

Cheng Xiaoshi glances up, just for a second.

Lu Guang doesn’t look over. Doesn’t sigh or comment or even frown. Which is worse, somehow—because it means he knows. Knows exactly how long Cheng Xiaoshi has been sitting here, circling the same three sentences like a moth around a dim lightbulb. How many times he’s typed and deleted the same miserable answers. How completely and utterly stuck he is.

And he’s not saying a word.

Not even a sarcastic little “need help?” Not even a raised eyebrow.

The silence between them feels loaded, but it’s hard to say with what. Patience, maybe. Or quiet exasperation disguised as patience. Or just Lu Guang being Lu Guang, which is its own special brand of suffocating.

Cheng Xiaoshi shifts, aggressively casual. “You know,” he says, voice low and scratchy, “most people would at least pretend to pretend they’re not silently judging you.”

Lu Guang types one more word, then closes his laptop with a soft click. Finally, he looks over.

“I’m not judging,” he says. “I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to stop sulking.”

“I’m not—” Cheng Xiaoshi cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I’m not sulking.”

A beat. Then, maddeningly, Lu Guang just says, “Okay.”
The way people say okay when they mean whatever you need to tell yourself.

His fingers hover above the keyboard, inert.
Qiao Ling would call it sulking.
Xia Fei would likely grin, crouch beside him, and offer some absurd commentary about how “emotional sabotage via Google Form is a bold new direction.”

Cheng Xiaoshi would roll his eyes and deflect, because acknowledging it would make it real.

Simmering has always been easier than exploding.
A slow burn is quieter than a fire alarm.

He learned that early—somewhere between being ignored in group projects and having classmates speak over him without noticing. Cheng Xiaoshi has lived the life of a ghost before. He has mourned it. He knows the peculiar grief of invisibility: of being passed through, spoken around, seen without being perceived. It never mattered how bright his thoughts were if no one stopped long enough to notice them.

So now, every time someone does see him—really see him—it feels less like validation and more like exposure. Raw and unasked for. And lately, Lu Guang’s been doing far too much of that.

Across the room, the vending machine whirs and spits out a water bottle. The ambient hum of conversation and fluorescent lighting feels strangely distant. Cheng Xiaoshi tunes it out. The form stares back at him like a dare.

And still, the cursor blinks.

Question 7: What are you looking for in a roommate?

He types.

Respectful. Quiet. Neat.

Pauses. Backspaces. That’s boring.

Doesn’t leave passive-aggressive notes about fridge space.

Backspace. Too bitter.

Doesn’t wear glasses like he knows everything.

He scowls. Okay, that one was personal.

Pause.

He exhales through his nose. Clears the line.

New entry:

Night owl. Doesn’t mind silence. Doesn’t talk unless spoken to.

His fingers keep moving, detached from conscious thought.

Over-organized. Drinks black coffee. Reads for fun. Probably owns a label maker. Doesn’t believe in joy.

He stops. There’s a moment of stillness, so sudden it feels loud. Then he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall.

Goddammit. He knows he’s being dramatic. He’s aware of the spiral. The problem is, knowing doesn’t stop him from falling into it anyway. That’s kind of his whole thing.

He pauses.

Then exhales. Behind his eyes, a slow, pulsing ache gathers—like something has been building there for days, waiting for permission to surface.

He recognizes this version of himself. The one that spirals inward, quietly. The one who keeps working long past the point of burnout because slowing down feels too close to failure. The one who flinches at the idea of asking for help, even from people who would offer it freely. Especially from Qiao Ling.

She has already done more than enough. She gave him a place to stay. Covered his half of the bills more times than she’ll admit. Created a kind of stability for him when he had none. Cheng Xiaoshi can’t shake the guilt of that. It sits in his chest like a stone. The idea of being a burden—of falling behind and letting that weight shift to someone else—is unbearable.

So he tells himself to work harder. To do more. To keep his head down and earn his place, even if no one is asking him to.

Even if he does not know what that place is supposed to be.

Whatever it is he wants—whatever it is he is chasing—it still doesn’t have a name. It’s just a feeling. A shape in the dark. Something that tugs at him from far off, vague and unreachable. It feels like recognition. Like belonging. Like the quiet hum of being understood without needing to explain himself.

Sometimes, it looks like Lu Guang.

It is ridiculous. Cheng Xiaoshi knows that. He knows how fast things get under his skin, how easily his brain latches onto any thread of tension and spins it into something bigger. But even knowing that, he can’t stop the thought from returning.

Lu Guang had said nothing about the other night. No questions. No subtle jabs. No cold avoidance. Just… silence. Like he had folded that moment up and stored it somewhere private, without punishing Cheng Xiaoshi for it.

And somehow, that made it worse.

He had expected awkwardness, at least. Maybe even pity. But Lu had just gone on with his usual steadiness, offering space without distance. Letting Cheng Xiaoshi sit in his mess without pointing it out.

It was disarming. It was maddening.

And Cheng Xiaoshi is a sore loser. He can admit that.

He wants to be better. Not in some vague, aspirational sense—but in the real, gritted-teeth way of someone who has decided he is tired of falling short. He wants to be sharp enough. Steady enough. Deserving enough to meet people like Lu Guang where they already stand.

Whatever he is chasing—whatever impossible version of himself he thinks will finally be enough—he will keep chasing it. Even if it wears him down. Even if it leaves him hollow. Because if he slows down, he might have to ask why it matters so much.

He scrolls down to the next section, pretending not to notice how tight his chest feels.

Ideal Roommate Traits - Check all that apply:

☐ Social
☐ Independent
☐ Talkative
☐ Early riser
☐ Tidy
☐ Respectful
☐ Introverted
☐ Creative

He checks:

☑ Introverted
☑ Tidy
☑ Respectful

Then hovers.

☑ Creative

He checks it. Unchecks it. Checks it again.

...

Cheng Xiaoshi stares at the screen.

Chapter Text

COMM346: Critical Approaches to Media & Culture is a class with a reputation. Not a good one.

It’s one of those academic horror stories that get passed down year to year like folklore. A course that requires students to "develop a multimedia critique of visual semiotics under late-stage neoliberalism," which — according to campus legend — is just code for: You will cry over a PowerPoint slide and still get a B.

It’s taught by a professor who, allegedly, once failed someone for misusing Helvetica. Another student claims she graded him based on “aesthetic tone” and “emotional conviction.” He had done a project on garbage bins.

So, naturally, Cheng Xiaoshi signed up for it thinking it would be “fun.”

He stares at the new group project roster with a level of dread usually reserved for natural disasters and parental phone calls.

LU GUANG
ZHAO MIN (??? who is this???)
CHENG XIAOSHI

God. Fine.

They meet two days later in one of the windowless study rooms of the library basement — which Cheng is 80% sure was designed by an architect who hated joy.

Predictably, Lu Guang is already there.

He’s seated at the corner of the table, laptop open, posture straight, expression unreadable. He looks like he’s about to politely dismantle a panel at an academic conference. There’s an annotated copy of the syllabus on the desk in front of him, pages color-coded and tabbed. He has a pen that clicks quietly.

He also looks like he’s already reviewed five academic journals and chosen violence.

Cheng Xiaoshi bursts in four minutes late, slightly breathless, one headphone still tangled in his collar, clutching a half-finished energy drink and a messenger bag full of chaos.

“You’re late,” Lu Guang says, without looking up.

Cheng Xiaoshi exhales through his nose. “Technically, I’m ‘just in time.’ Which is also the name of a documentary I once edited about the Chinese postal service. Want to watch it?”

Lu Guang blinks. “No.”

Fair.

Cheng Xiaoshi drops into the chair across from him with a little too much force, unzipping his bag and pretending he meant to spill three loose highlighters across the table. He’s pretty sure one of them rolls under Lu Guang’s chair. He makes no move to retrieve it.

Lu Guang, of course, has already opened a folder labeled “COMM346 MIDTERM – OUTLINE V3.” The subfolders inside are also numbered.

Cheng Xiaoshi opens a blank Google Doc and stares at the blinking cursor like it just insulted his mother.

Thirty minutes pass.

Zhao Min arrives in a flurry of suede boots and gum that smells like mango-flavored nicotine. She’s carrying an iPad and absolutely no sense of time. Her eyeliner is perfect. Her concept notes are not.

She blows a bubble, pops it with practiced flair, and says, “Sorry, I had to stop by the art building. Someone was doing a performance piece where they read their breakup texts into a bowl of soup.”

Cheng Xiaoshi raises a finger. “Was it chicken broth?”

“Lentil.”

Lu Guang exhales so quietly it could be a glitch in the HVAC system.

Zhao flops into the nearest chair, tossing her iPad onto the table with a slap of false confidence. She pulls up a slideshow deck that is equal parts vague aesthetic boards and loose bullet points that say things like:

• “Capitalism but make it ✨personal✨”

• “maybe use Sufjan Stevens? is that too obvious??”

• “transcendence but through clutter”

Lu Guang studies the screen like it personally offended him.

“It needs structure,” he says eventually, voice clipped. “Not just aesthetics.”

Zhao tilts her head. “Ugh, you’re one of those people who thinks visuals need ‘context.’”

“They do,” he replies, tone so flat it practically cancels out gravity.

Cheng Xiaoshi, watching the tension build like static between two very different brands of intensity, feels something twitch behind his eye.

This group is going to eat him alive.

So, as is his instinct whenever someone is about to have a feelings-based fistfight in public, he throws himself into the line of fire.

“What if,” he begins, leaning forward with the unearned confidence of someone about to make things worse, “we base the whole thing on dissonance?”

Two heads snap toward him.

He shrugs. “Like... deliberate contrast. Dreamy visuals layered over grim themes. Or the opposite—something raw and unfiltered underscoring sentimentality. The tension is the point. The discomfort makes it real.”

The room goes still.

Zhao makes an intrigued face.

Lu Guang is harder to read. His eyes narrow—not critically, just... assessing. Like he’s turning the idea over in his head and checking it for cracks.

Then he says, slowly: “That’s… not bad.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks.

“I’m sorry, did you just say something I thought you’d never say?”

“I said it’s not bad,” Lu repeats, with the audible patience of someone actively trying not to retract it.

Cheng beams. He tries not to, but fails. “You like my idea.”

“I tolerated it.”

“Same thing.”

Lu Guang clicks his pen twice. Then again. Then looks away.

...

They work until nearly midnight.

Zhao leaves around nine with a flippant, “I’ll totally do the citations later,” and a wink that suggests she will absolutely not do anything of the sort. The door clicks shut behind her like the punchline to a joke that hasn't landed yet.

And suddenly it’s just them.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t notice how much noise Zhao brought with her until it’s gone. The room feels too still now. Not quiet — charged. The kind of quiet that’s full of unspoken things, all hanging in the air like humidity.

The whiteboard’s a mess of smeared diagrams and half-legible ideas in three colors of marker. Overlapping question marks. Circles around nothing. Scribbled phrases like “DOES THIS COUNT AS META?” and “VISCERAL DISSONANCE???” and one large “IDK” scrawled at an angle like it gave up halfway through being a thought.

Lu Guang is unbothered. Calm as ever.

He’s refined the shared doc so precisely it could qualify as an academic museum exhibit. Each bullet point has been filed under a numbered heading, subheading, and theme category. Color-coded. Hyperlinked. Glossaried.

Cheng, for his part, has doodled a sad-faced avocado on a Post-it and labeled it “alienation under neoliberalism.”

Their laptops hum softly. The heater kicks on again, a low metallic groan from somewhere overhead. Cheng yawns into the back of his hand. He can feel the weight of the day pressing into his spine — fatigue curling up at the edges of his vision, thoughts slow and slippery.

But not slow enough.

Not enough to stop noticing him.

Lu Guang.

Sitting there, just across the table. As always. Spine straight, sleeves rolled precisely, mouth set in that small, unreadable line. He looks like a still from a film that never got finished — like he was pulled from a frame mid-thought.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes flick over him again.

Not lingering.

Not technically.

Just... observing. As one does. For research.

How is it that even sitting there doing nothing, Lu Guang radiates purpose? How can someone be that composed at 11:42 p.m. on a Thursday night, surrounded by academic chaos and existential dread?

Lu Guang sits like he’s been engineered for stillness — spine straight, expression neutral, hands steady. Every gesture calibrated, every silence purposeful. It’s not just composure; it’s armor. Cheng isn’t sure if he admires it or wants to ruin it. Not maliciously — just enough to prove Lu Guang is human underneath. He wants to see him slip. Miss a beat. Say something unscripted, look startled, laugh by accident. Anything. Because right now, Lu’s calm feels like glass — flawless, cold, and impossible not to tap just to see if it’ll shatter. And maybe that’s the worst part: the not-knowing. The wanting. The sick little ache of wondering what Lu looks like when no one’s watching — when the wires come undone, when the weight shows. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t want to witness it like a voyeur. He wants to be the reason it happens.

He doesn’t know why.

No, he does. But he’s not letting that thought grow teeth.

Then — movement.

Lu reaches for something near the center of the table. A binder clip. Cheng reaches at the same time, thoughtless, on autopilot.

And their hands—

Touch.

Just for a second. A second too long.

Knuckle to knuckle. A light, accidental brush.

But it hits like a defibrillator.

Cheng Xiaoshi freezes.

His body goes utterly, terrifyingly still — like the contact pulled the plug on his nervous system. His breath catches in his throat, not a gasp, not even a full inhale — just a soundless stop.

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

His hand is still half-extended, fingers hovering in the air like they forgot what they were doing. The contact’s long gone — barely a graze, skin against skin — but Cheng feels like the ghost of it is still buzzing across his knuckles, stubborn and warm and dangerous.

He exhales. Too hard. Tries to reset his voice.

Fails.

“Cool night, huh?” he says — and immediately wants to eat his own tongue. It comes out high, bright, and deeply cursed, like a dolphin trying to flirt.

Lu Guang finally looks up. Raises a single eyebrow.

“What?”

“The... the night,” Cheng stammers — voice pitched just a shade too high, like he's auditioning to be the voice of a cartoon squirrel. “It’s cool. Outside. Weather.”

Lu stares at him for a second longer than necessary. Not blankly — not judging — just... processing. Like he’s buffering the ridiculousness and trying to decide if it warrants a response.

Eventually: “Are you having a stroke?”

Cheng Xiaoshi groans into the collar of his hoodie. “God, I hope so.”

He pulls his hand back fully, curls it into his sleeve like it might self-destruct if left exposed any longer. His palm is still warm. Not from the clip. Not even from the touch. From the implication of it. From Lu Guang existing this close to him, this quietly, like it’s nothing.

He doesn’t say anything else. Can’t. His thoughts are too loud, ricocheting around his skull like a pinball machine lit entirely by red flags and tension. 

...

They finish around 11:30.

Not because they’re done — just because the silence is starting to feel like it might swallow them whole if they sit in it any longer.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t remember what the last thing he typed was. Probably something about “symbolic clutter” and “refracted longing under economic precarity,” but at this point it could’ve been the alphabet. Backwards. In Wingdings.

Lu Guang shuts his laptop with the same quiet precision he does everything. Cheng fumbles with his charger like it’s a puzzle box and not, in fact, the same object he’s used every day for three years.

They pack up in silence. Not tense — not quite. Just... careful. Like the air between them hasn’t settled yet. Like it’s holding a breath they forgot to let go of.

The campus is suspended in the kind of stillness that only exists at the tail end of a long day — too late for rush, too early for calm.

Outside, the night is quiet and damp, the pavement slick from an earlier rain. Everything smells like wet concrete and something faintly floral—maybe the landscaping crew planted jasmine too early this year, or maybe the air’s just been holding onto warmth in weird places.

By then, the buildings nearby are nearly empty — tall shapes against the sky, windows dark except for the odd flicker of a vending machine or the slow turn of a hallway motion light. The Visual Arts Center looms across the quad, all sharp lines and pretentious glass, half-lit like it’s waiting to be photographed. Cheng’s passed it a hundred times on the way to his Tuesday seminar in Media Ethics, and he’s still not sure if the sculpture out front is a metaphor or a bike rack.

The Humanities building across the walkway hums faintly, its aging HVAC system wheezing through the vents like a tired ghost. Posters cling to the brick walls by thumbtack and sheer will — announcements for thesis showcases, charity zine sales, the Spring Lantern Festival next week. One of them flaps in the breeze, curling at the corners from the rain.

Farther off, the glow of the student union is still faintly visible — a promise of fluorescent lighting, half-priced muffins, and terrible espresso. The little 24-hour noodle cart near the econ department is probably closing up, if the smell of soy sauce and fried scallion still hanging in the air is anything to go by.

The pavement is slick from earlier rain, and the breeze is soft in that just-warm-enough spring way — not chilly, but damp, like the air’s been steeped in too much day and hasn’t let go of it yet. The faint scent of jasmine clings to everything, sweet and unplaceable, like the world’s been holding its breath.

Above them, the sky is wide and open — cloudless for once, stars barely visible past the light pollution but trying anyway. One of the dorms across the quad is playing music low through an open window: tinny guitar, maybe something acoustic and sad. Someone laughs too loud down by the bike racks. A skateboard clatters. A door slams. The campus isn’t asleep — just drowsy. Blinking slow. Dreaming with its eyes open.

They walk in silence.

They pass the edge of the quad, where the grass is overgrown in patches and the cement path has started to crack from winter wear. A banner hangs loose from the library balcony: SPRING FESTIVAL – APRIL 12 in peeling vinyl letters, half lit by a flickering floodlight.

And Lu Guang is just... walking beside him. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal.

Cheng keeps glancing sideways, pretending he’s looking at the architecture or the sad, abandoned student art piece made of water bottles and regret. But really, he’s watching him.

Lu looks the same as always — neutral expression, even gait, coat buttoned clean. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about how he moves, and somehow that makes it worse. He doesn’t walk like someone who’s out late; he walks like he belongs to the night itself. Like it’s just another place he navigates with practiced efficiency.

And Cheng hates that he notices this.

He hates that he’s memorized the pace of Lu’s steps without meaning to. That he can already guess which hand is buried deeper in his pocket. That he recognizes the faint tension in his jaw that means he’s overthinking something, or — worse — nothing at all.

Lu walks through the world like it won’t touch him unless he lets it. Cheng walks like everything might be a trap.

It’s not envy. Not exactly.

It’s awe, maybe.

And underneath that, something warmer and dumber and harder to name.

He feels like he’s caught between things — too wired to sleep, too tired to think straight, walking home with Lu Guang beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world and also the most narratively suspicious.

The night hums around them in slow motion. A breeze stirs the tree branches above — soft and aimless, like it forgot what it came here to do. The leaves shimmer under the lamplight, all blurred green and gold. Somewhere behind them, a door slams shut and locks with a heavy, echoing click. Even the campus feels like it’s holding its breath.

He keeps his hands shoved deep into the sleeves of his hoodie. Half because the air has that springtime chill clinging to the edges — more damp than cold, but enough to bite. And half because he doesn’t trust them. (Read: if he doesn’t hide them, they’ll act on their own. Reach out. Brush again. Touch by accident. Again.)

Lu Guang is quiet, as always. Walking with the exact level of awareness that suggests he notices everything but chooses not to say anything unless it matters. His gait is steady, deliberate. Controlled, the way everything about him is.

Cheng Xiaoshi wonders what it would take to shake that calm.

And then — as if summoned by fate, poor judgment, and Cheng Xiaoshi’s inexplicable need to prolong whatever this almost-something is between them — they pass a late-night food cart parked on the edge of the sidewalk.

The kind with a faded umbrella and steam curling up from beneath the grill in lazy, backlit plumes. The cart glows faintly under a flickering streetlight. A hand-drawn sign is taped to the front in bold red marker:
NO CASH. CARD OR LUCK.

Cheng Xiaoshi stops like he’s been yanked by an invisible cord. Turns to face it like it's a revelation.

“I need one.”

Lu Guang blinks, expression neutral. “Now?”

Cheng Xiaoshi is already fishing in his back pocket for his wallet. “It’s a post-midterm ritual. You wouldn’t understand. It’s sacred.”

Lu Guang raises a single, unimpressed eyebrow. “You have rituals for street meat?”

“I’m a man of culture,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, pulling out his card like it’s a key to some secret society. “We can’t all be sustained on stress and spite.”

Lu Guang says nothing. Which Cheng Xiaoshi takes as tacit approval.

He orders two without asking — one with mustard, pickles, way too much relish; one plain, dry, no frills. He hands the second one to Lu like he’s offering a peace treaty at a Model UN summit.

Lu accepts it with a kind of quiet resignation — not reluctant, just... practiced. Like he knew this was going to happen. Like he already did the math and decided resistance wasn’t worth the energy.

They end up at the bench like it’s inevitable — low concrete, tucked just outside the radius of the food cart’s flickering light. The kind of spot that collects shadows and holds onto heat like memory. The air smells like steam, salt, and the distant sweetness of jasmine fighting through city grime.

Lu Guang sits first. Cheng Xiaoshi drops beside him, close enough their elbows nearly brush.

Neither of them moves.

The silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable. Not quite. Just... aware. Like the air itself is listening. For a while, they just eat.

Cheng watches out of the corner of his eye. Not directly — just in flashes. Like his gaze keeps tripping over Lu by accident.

He doesn’t know why it feels different now. Maybe it’s the late hour, or the residual static from the group project high. Maybe it’s the bench, too narrow, too warm, too close. Or maybe it’s the fact that their hands touched earlier and the world didn’t end, but Cheng hasn't stopped feeling it since.

The silence between them stretches and settles, soft-edged but sharp around the middle. There’s something about sitting side by side that makes the quiet feel louder. There’s no eye contact to manage, no need for conversation, but the weight of it — the possibility of it — hangs in the air like condensation.

Above them, the sky is soft with haze. A few stars push through the city glow, stubborn and flickering. Cheng imagines the universe is watching this scene like a drama with subtitles. Episode 7: The Tension Gets Worse.

Lu Guang eats like he does everything else — with minimal movement, maximum efficiency. There’s something oddly elegant about it. Like even his chewing has been optimized.

And maybe it’s the fatigue, or the soft orange glow of the streetlamp, or the way Cheng’s own thoughts feel extra loud tonight, but for the first time, he wonders what Lu Guang looks like when no one’s watching him. Not when he’s trying to perform competence or composure — just... when he’s still.

What does Lu Guang’s laugh actually sound like? Not the quiet huffs he gives when amused. A real one. Does he laugh loudly? Does he snort? Has anyone ever gotten him to do it?

What does he look like when he’s tired in a way that shows? When he stops holding himself together with invisible wires and lets the seams fray a little?

And — more than that — what would it take for him to show Cheng any of it?

The city hums around them — low traffic, a dog barking in the distance, something metallic clattering as it rolls down a slope too far away to see. Cheng takes a bite of his hot dog and immediately regrets it. A smear of mustard lands just at the corner of his mouth, bright and obvious, shining under the lamplight like a cosmic joke. He feels it — can tell from the texture alone that it missed his mouth entirely and has settled somewhere along the edge of his face like a crime scene.

He fumbles for a napkin.

Misses it once. Twice.

It’s right there, but the angle’s weird, and the cart only gave him one napkin, which is now damp and slightly sticky, and Cheng is absolutely not going to lick his thumb like an animal in front of Lu Guang, thank you.

He’s mid-flail when Lu shifts beside him.

No warning. No comment.

Just a quiet, precise motion — and then Lu reaches over and presses his thumb gently against Cheng’s lip.

Wipes the mustard away with a single motion. Deliberate. Calm.

“Mustard,” he says, like that explains anything.

Cheng Xiaoshi stops breathing.

His entire nervous system short-circuits. His hands freeze midair. His thoughts collapse inward like a dying star.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even intimate. It was clinical. Casual.

But it landed.

A light thumb. A tiny motion. That was all. But the gravity of it hits like a sucker punch. The casual familiarity. The ease. The unspoken you were flailing and I didn’t want to watch it anymore.

Lu Guang wipes his hand on the napkin. Calm. Collected.

Like he didn’t just casually make skin contact with the epicenter of Xiaoshi’s emotional dysfunction.

Cheng blinks. Opens his mouth. Regrets it instantly.

“Oh,” he says. Which is not a word. Not an appropriate response. “Thanks.”

Lu Guang doesn’t acknowledge the reaction. He just looks back down at his hot dog like it didn’t happen.

“I was going to tell you,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “But you kept missing it.”

“You—” Cheng Xiaoshi wheezes. “You watched me struggle?”

Lu Guang shrugs. “You were very determined.”

“That’s evil.”

“It was efficient.”

Cheng Xiaoshi buries his face in both hands. “This is a hate crime.”

“It’s condiments,” Lu says dryly.

But when Cheng Xiaoshi peeks at him through his fingers, Lu isn’t smirking. Isn’t laughing. His face is as still as ever — but his eyes…

They’re softer.

Not teasing. Not pitying.

Just… seeing.

And that, somehow, is worse.

That Lu Guang saw him — flustered, flailing, failing — and didn’t mock or ignore or correct. He just helped. Briefly. Quietly. Then let it go.

They finish their food in silence.

The streetlight hums above them. A moth flutters once, dives toward the light, misses.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t stop thinking about it.

Not during the walk back.

Not when they part ways at the quad — a simple, distracted, “see you tomorrow,” like they do this all the time.

And not later, when Cheng Xiaoshi finally crawls under his thin blanket and stares at the ceiling like it might offer answers.

He doesn’t think about the mustard.

He thinks about the hand.

The motion.

The fact that Lu Guang didn’t hesitate.

He thinks about the quiet way Lu made room for him in that moment without asking anything in return.

He tells himself it meant nothing.

He knows it didn’t.

That’s the problem.

Cheng Xiaoshi wakes with the kind of full-body jolt usually reserved for fire alarms and post-apocalyptic dreams about missing a final exam he never studied for.

He lies there for a second. Eyes wide. Brain rebooting like a corrupted file.

And then it hits him.

The memory arrives in fragments, like a montage of shame:

• The hot dog.

• The mustard.

• The thumb.

He sits up so fast he nearly knocks his laptop off the edge of the bed. The blanket ends up tangled around his ankles like a metaphor for every decision he’s made in the last twenty-four hours. His hoodie is halfway off, his T-shirt is on inside out, and his hair looks like he lost a fight with static electricity.

Across the room, Xia Fei is already up — shirtless, gel in hand — styling his hair with the quiet confidence of someone who has never emotionally combusted over eye contact.

“You good?” he asks, not looking up.

Cheng Xiaoshi groans and faceplants into the mattress. “Lu Guang touched my face.”

Xia Fei doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. You said that in your sleep.”

Cheng lifts his head slowly. “What?”

“Twice.”

Cheng screams into his pillow. Quietly. Just enough to communicate that his soul is broken but he still respects the noise policies of the dorm.

A long pause.

Then: “It was just his thumb. Just a wipe. Casual. No big deal. People touch other people’s faces all the time, right?”

Xia Fei finishes with his hair, grabs his toothbrush, and heads to the sink like this is all deeply ordinary.

“Do they?” he asks mid-spit.

“I mean—maybe not me specifically. But in general.”

Xia Fei shrugs. “Dude. Are you spiraling over a condiment?”

Cheng flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling like maybe it'll offer answers or mercy. “I am spiraling over the implications of the condiment.”

Xia Fei rinses, spits, leans casually against the wall. “Did he, like… linger?”

Cheng Xiaoshi makes a strangled noise. “No? Maybe? It wasn’t about the duration. It was the intention.”

“What was the intention? Cleaning your face?”

“That’s what he wants me to think.”

Xia Fei’s expression is blank. “I’m sorry. Is Lu Guang part of some condiment-based conspiracy now?”

Cheng sits up like he’s been called to testify. “Listen. He could’ve said something. Or handed me a napkin. Or looked away and let me suffer. Those are normal people options. But no. He just reached over. Like it was nothing. Like touching me is a thing he does now.”

Xia Fei gives a long, slow blink. “Okay. But counterpoint: maybe it was nothing. Maybe he’s just polite.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” Cheng howls.

He flops dramatically onto his back again. The ceiling offers no clarity. It’s just drywall and existential dread.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters. “He’s so—measured. Like he knows exactly what effect he has and deploys it like a weapon. Every eye contact? Intentional. Every word? Minimal damage, maximum precision. And then he touches my face like it’s the most efficient route to wiping mustard and not an act of spiritual destruction.”

“Did you… like it?” Xia Fei asks, not unkindly.

Cheng Xiaoshi is quiet for a moment too long. Then: “That’s not the point.”

“That’s exactly the point.”

“It’s the fact that I liked it!” Cheng Xiaoshi yells, burying his face in the pillow again. “I am not emotionally stable enough to be touched with that much gentleness!”

There’s a pause. Xia Fei crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed, and lightly thwacks Cheng in the back of the head with a rolled-up pair of socks.

“You’ve been into him since he insulted your file structure.”

Cheng Xiaoshi groans louder. “He organized my chaos. I didn’t stand a chance.”

Xia Fei shakes his head, amused. “So… what’s the move?”

Cheng Xiaoshi lifts his head like a corpse reanimating. “There is no move. We pretend it didn’t happen. We go to class. We die with dignity.”

“You screamed into a pillow five minutes ago.”

“Then I die with moderate dignity.”

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Cheng Xiaoshi stares at it. Doesn’t move.

Xia Fei sighs and picks it up for him, checks the screen, then smirks. “Well. Would you look at that.”

Cheng Xiaoshi squints. “What?”

Xia Fei tosses it over.

Lu Guang (8:43 AM)

Remember we’re presenting second block.

Don’t be late.

Underneath that:

Lu Guang (8:43 AM)

Also bring the photo draft. The one with the broken vending machine. You had the better version.

And under that:

Lu Guang (8:44 AM)

Also

You missed a spot

He freezes.

The third message hits like a delayed explosion.

He reads it once. Twice. His eyes don’t blink. His fingers tighten around the phone like it’s vibrating with divine consequence.

His breath catches in his throat. Not a gasp—just a slow, stunned intake like something cracked open in the middle of his chest and now everything is leaking out.

He says, very softly, like he’s just witnessed a terrible miracle,
“Oh my God. He’s referencing it.”

Xia Fei doesn’t even look up from tying his shoes. “So it was a thing.”

Cheng Xiaoshi nods once. Hollow-eyed. Dazed. Like the words have physically left an imprint on his soul. “It was a thing,” he murmurs. “Oh my God. It was a thing.”

He lies back on the mattress like gravity’s finally caught up with him. The phone slides off his chest and lands somewhere in the sheets, forgotten. He stares up at the ceiling with the wide-eyed intensity of a man who has seen the void and been winked at by it.

There’s a long pause as he lies there, dramatically sprawled like a Victorian widow on a fainting couch, while Xia Fei finishes buttoning his shirt.

Finally, softly:

“I think I’m in love with him.”

Xia Fei doesn’t even pause. “You said that in your sleep, too.”

The presentation goes too well. Like, cosmically, suspiciously well. The kind of well that makes Cheng Xiaoshi nervous, like the universe is winding up for something mean.

He walks out of the lecture hall on legs made of pure caffeine and leftover adrenaline, gripping their rubric like it’s a war trophy. The afterglow is real — a high so sharp he can feel it behind his teeth.

“We killed that,” he says, mostly to himself, but half-hoping Lu Guang will confirm it.

Lu walks beside him, slow and deliberate, his usual expression unreadable. “It was acceptable.”

“Acceptable?” Cheng clutches his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “That was transcendent. That was art. I saw the professor tilt her head and go completely blank when I said ‘emotional dissonance in curated nostalgia.’ I saw her write three question marks. That’s power.”

“She was confused.”

“Confusion is the foundation of modern media theory.”

Lu Guang exhales. It might be a laugh. Might be a sigh. With him, it’s hard to tell.

They fall into step like it’s a habit now. Cheng still talks too much, Lu still responds in calibrated syllables, but the rhythm of it has softened into something less like friction and more like balance. Cheng doesn’t remember when it stopped feeling like a group project and started feeling like... whatever this is.

Maybe they’ve looped enough shared Google Docs to qualify as emotionally entangled.

Somehow, without planning to, they end up walking toward the student union. Coffee is the assumed conclusion, as natural as hitting “save” after a mental breakdown.

Lu Guang says he doesn’t drink coffee after noon. Still orders something black and bitter that smells like ambition and regret. Cheng gets a pumpkin-flavored monstrosity with enough syrup to collapse a lung.

They sit under a tiny metal table with a busted umbrella, bathed in the weak afternoon sun. Students swirl past them in waves, bikes squeaking, sneakers slapping the pavement, laughter cutting sharp through the air. And for once, Cheng feels like he’s sitting still while everything else moves.

They talk.

About things that don’t matter. About why the third slide in their presentation still haunts Lu Guang. About how Zhao Min is probably live-tweeting her own existential crisis. About nothing, really — which is starting to feel like a kind of something.

...

They don't talk about the message.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks don’t pass so much as congeal — time dragging in sticky, uneven waves, like the tail end of a heatwave that just won’t break. The semester’s winding down in theory, but no one seems to have told the professors that. Deadlines pile up like loose trash in a windstorm: forgotten reading reflections, group projects where no one responds to the chat, half-drafted presentations Cheng Xiaoshi swears he already gave in a dream once, maybe twice.

Outside, the season flips quietly while his back is turned.

The spring rain — the kind that used to make the window glass tremble during long studio nights — is long gone. No fanfare. Just gone. Replaced, gradually and then all at once, by a sun that feels less like illumination and more like interrogation. By a heat that doesn’t just cling — it sticks, seeps into your skin and refuses to leave, turns your shirt collars damp and your thoughts runny.

Every inch of campus is covered in pollen and plastic optimism. Fliers paper every wall and corkboard like someone’s trying to shout their enthusiasm through bad typography. Clubs. Showcases. Final events. End-of-semester hurrahs. “Community-building” plastered over poorly laminated posters in six different fonts. There’s a kind of desperation in the air — everyone performing happiness just a little too loudly, like if they yell hard enough about how much fun they’re having, the fear of graduating or failing or vanishing will dissolve.

It doesn’t. Cheng Xiaoshi can feel it, low and constant under his skin: that buzz, that static tension. That almost.

Almost done. Almost enough. Almost holding it together.

But not quite.

He doesn’t even realize it’s May — actual May, the month, not just the concept — until Qiao Ling slaps a neon pink flyer onto his forehead one humid Thursday afternoon, knocking his headphones half-off and nearly making him spill the third coffee he’s forgotten to finish this week.

“Volunteer,” she says. “Dumbass.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks at her. Then at the flyer. Then at the sky, as if maybe it’ll offer some kind of reprieve. It doesn’t. It’s aggressively blue. Mocking, even.

The flyer is for the Spring Unity Festival, which is apparently some annual tradition he’s managed to ignore every year until now. A “celebration of interdisciplinary joy” or something equally vague and cursed. Basically a chaotic campus-wide flea market of student orgs screaming about their value while trying to sell overpriced mochi and hand-drawn pins. Not mandatory. Not graded. Which makes it, in his opinion, extremely avoidable.

“Why me?” he says flatly.

Qiao Ling’s already pulling another stack of fliers from her tote bag. She’s wearing aviators and a t-shirt for the AV Club that says TECH OR DIE in blocky font. “Because I’m running the stage schedule, and I need someone with poor boundaries and zero self-preservation instincts.”

“Oh, so me specifically.”

She grins. “Exactly.”

He tries to resist. Honestly. He mumbles something about deadlines. Half-lies about a take-home final. But Qiao Ling is unmoved, and Cheng is chronically weak to aggressive friendship.

He ends up agreeing to “help a little.” That apparently includes setup, tech support, emcee duty, tear-down, and possibly crowd control if things go sideways — which they will, because this is a school event and all school events are barely contained disasters.

And as if that weren’t already enough impending social carnage, Cheng somehow — in the blur of sleep deprivation and competitive sarcasm — also ends up agreeing to play in the annual teachers vs. students basketball game.

That part is entirely Xia Fei’s fault.

He doesn’t realize how much he’s signed up for until it’s too late to back out. That’s his usual strategy, honestly — say yes fast, think about it later. Except the “later” always comes, and it always asks for payment. He looks at the schedule Qiao Ling made, printed in absurd Comic Sans and annotated in five colors of highlighter, and feels a slow, crawling fatigue sink in somewhere beneath his ribs. Setup, check-in, stage management, tech, emcee breaks, cleanup. It’s a full-body itinerary. She says she can’t do it without him, and maybe that shouldn’t matter so much, but it does.

Because Qiao Ling didn’t have to help him apply to this school. Didn’t have to sit at the kitchen table that one brutal November and walk him through the financial aid forms line by line while he tried not to let his hands shake. Didn’t have to talk to her family about covering the gap left by his scholarship, when they were already helping her. She did it anyway. No drama, no debt-tracking, no strings — just, “I believe in you. That’s enough.” But Cheng can’t take that at face value. He’s not built for unconditional anything. So he tells himself, quietly, daily, pay her back. Do more. Be worth it.

That’s how he lives now: like a ledger. Not just grades and deadlines, but people. Every act of kindness tallied in his chest, marked and weighed and filed under to be repaid. The fact that no one else seems to be keeping score only makes it worse. He doesn’t know how to rest around people who’ve given him things — not until he’s sure he’s earned it back with interest. So he helps. He overhelps. He takes on so much that he starts to disappear behind the work.

It’s not just the festival. He’s still got finals, too — photo critique, design theory, that awful ethics paper he’s putting off because it makes him want to walk into traffic. His photography final is due in four days. He still hasn’t edited the last batch of photos. He still hasn’t taken the last batch of photos. His professor told them to focus on liminality, and Cheng’s whole life feels like a liminal space right now — the problem is, when you’re stuck in the middle of things, it’s hard to remember how to step back far enough to get the shot.

He used to love photography. Still does, technically. But even that’s started to feel like an obligation — like one more thing he has to prove he’s good at, or risk losing the one part of his identity that doesn’t feel like a borrowed jacket. When he has time to think clearly — on rare, late nights when the caffeine hasn’t yet hit and no one is asking anything of him — he remembers why he started. The silence of it. The way holding a camera gave shape to the world, gave permission to look at things. But lately, the camera’s just been heavy. One more tool. One more task.

And then there’s Xia Fei.

They’ve been close since first year. The kind of close that doesn’t need constant upkeep — just presence. Late-night gym trips. Shared playlists. The occasional wordless conversation carried entirely by exchanged looks. Cheng doesn’t know what exactly Xia Fei sees in him — but it’s real, whatever it is, and solid in a way that feels both reassuring and suffocating. Because Xia Fei is good at things, the kind of good that makes it look easy, and Cheng has never stopped feeling like the messier half of the equation.

So when Xia Fei said, “You’re playing, right?” — smiling, casual, already tossing him a jersey — it didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like faith. Like he was being handed a seat at a table he hadn’t earned. And Cheng’s immediate response — yeah, of course, obviously — came not from desire but from panic. Because he used to love basketball. And he’s terrified of what it means that lately, even that doesn’t feel like enough to bring him back to himself.

Basketball was supposed to be his clean space. A no-thought zone. Something physical, rhythmic, pure — a game that only asked for movement and attention, not interpretation. But even that’s started to rot under the weight of his own expectations. He hasn’t played a real game in months, not since early spring, and every time he’s thought about going to the gym just for fun, something else has always felt more urgent. Work. Grades. Proof. He keeps promising himself that after finals, after the next project, after one more sleepless night — then he’ll shoot around again. Then he’ll let himself have joy.

But the “then” never comes.

The morning of the festival starts too bright.

The sun is already high by the time Cheng Xiaoshi drags himself across campus, hoodie half-zipped and a half-eaten granola bar clenched between his teeth. His badge lanyard is twisted. His shoelace is undone. He’s carrying two extension cords, a bundle of zip ties, and an unopened can of EXTREME ENERGY: TROPICAL GUNPOWDER that he fully intends to drink even though he knows it tastes like battery acid and regret. He hasn't slept properly in forty-eight hours. He can feel the edges of reality warping a little every time he blinks.

Someone’s already blasting music from the quad speakers — something bubblegum and too cheerful, a cover of a pop song that sounds like it’s been run through six filters and a voice modulator. Booths are being assembled at rapid speed by student volunteers in matching shirts. Balloons are being zip-tied to tables. Someone’s already yelling about the location of the stage lights. The air smells like sunscreen, artificial strawberry, and grilled squid.

It’s everything all at once, and Cheng is already ten minutes behind schedule.

He throws himself into the work because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Tapes down mic cords. Helps haul the risers into place. Jokes with Qiao Ling, even if the jokes come a little too fast, a little too sharp. He burns through two more caffeine drinks and eats half a convenience store sandwich while walking. He doesn’t remember what flavor it was. He doesn’t think it had one.

Time slides off of him. His body moves without asking permission. He’s not even sure what part of the day it is — morning? afternoon? — when Xia Fei finds him leaning against a speaker case, trying not to throw up.

“You good?” Xia Fei asks, offering him a water bottle.

Cheng Xiaoshi takes it, unscrews the cap, and pours a little directly onto his face before realizing that wasn’t the intended use. “So good,” he says. “A model of health and grace.”

Xia Fei snorts. “Come on. Game’s in twenty.”

That sentence hits like a brick to the solar plexus. Cheng had been hoping — irrationally, unreasonably — that maybe the game got canceled. Maybe everyone forgot. Maybe a fire drill or weather warning or divine intervention swooped in and gave him a way out.

No such luck.

He drags himself into the locker room and changes into the jersey. His limbs feel disconnected from each other. His hoodie smells like dried sweat and anxiety. He sits on the bench for a moment with his head in his hands, trying to remember if he stretched. Trying to remember when he last drank actual water. Trying to remember why he thought this was a good idea.

The gym is packed when they walk out. The bleachers are loud with student voices, the buzz of anticipation rising like static. Everything echoes too sharply — sneakers on the floor, the microphone feedback from a distant announcer, the bounce of a warm-up ball against the hardwood.

He feels his pulse behind his eyes. His mouth is dry. His hands shake slightly.

Xia Fei bumps his shoulder. “You got this.”

Cheng Xiaoshi nods, too fast. “Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

The whistle blows.

The game begins.

His ears are still ringing.

The sound of the whistle feels miles away, like it’s underwater, like it belongs to another building entirely. The light overhead flickers too harsh, too white. His nose feels like it’s broken — not from pain exactly, but from the pressure, the wrongness. He tries to sit up and immediately regrets it. The court floor is cool under his palms, but his face is burning. Something is dripping. Probably blood. Hopefully blood. Hopefully not, like, brain fluid or anything.

His head pounds like a warning.

Around him, the gym buzzes with voices he can’t track. Too many feet. Too many faces. Everyone’s either rushing toward him or carefully pretending they’re not. His vision tugs at itself like it’s buffering. He blinks, once, twice, but the blur doesn’t go away.

He scans for something — anything — familiar.

Not consciously. Just instinct. Survival.

His eyes skip across the scoreboard. The lines on the floor. The neon green of Xia Fei’s jersey. Someone’s phone held up, filming. A trash bin knocked over in the corner. The row of plastic folding chairs where their bags are dumped.

And then, unreasonably — illogically — he thinks about ice cream.

Because Qiao Ling, earlier this morning, had said “Let’s get ice cream after the game, okay? My treat. You’ve been weird, and I’m buying you mint chip whether you want it or not.”

And he said yes. Of course he said yes. Of course he did.

He had meant to make it to the end of the game. Had meant to make it to the part where he could laugh about all this. Shake it off. Sit on a curb somewhere with a scraped knee and a cone and pretend that everything didn’t feel like it was caving in.

But now?

His whole body buzzes with pain and caffeine and failure.

His hands go to his face and come away slick and red.

Someone is shouting. Multiple someones. Footsteps thunder closer. A whistle cuts through the air.

And then—

“Jesus—Cheng Xiaoshi. Look at me.”

That voice.

Through the ringing. Through the panic. Through the blood.

He blinks up, dazed, and the gym ceiling shifts into a new shape.

Lu Guang’s voice shouldn’t be the one cutting through the noise.

An asteroid slamming down on him right about now would be ideal.

He’s crouched beside Cheng Xiaoshi like he’s done it before. Like this isn’t weird. Like this isn’t a breach of some unspoken, perfectly-constructed barrier they’ve spent the last month tiptoeing around. His brows are drawn in concentration — not alarm, not pity, just… focus. Like he’s trying to calibrate something delicate. Like Cheng Xiaoshi is a lens that needs adjusting.

Cheng Xiaoshi's mouth opens but doesn’t produce anything. A grunt. A breath. A curse maybe. He can’t tell. He thinks, vaguely, that Lu isn’t supposed to be here — that this moment should belong to someone else, anyone else — but of course it’s Lu Guang. Of course it’s Lu Guang, in that annoying calm way of his, as if Cheng bleeding on the floor is just another logistical problem he’s already halfway to solving.

“Can you stand?” Lu Guang asks.

He doesn’t answer. Just tries to nod. The movement sends a spike of nausea through him so sharp it nearly folds him in half.

Lu Guang’s hand is suddenly under his arm, steady, guiding. Not urgent. Just there. And Cheng lets himself be hauled up because the alternative is lying on the gym floor in a pool of his own drama, and he’s already lost enough dignity today.

The nurse’s office is too quiet.

Not the sterile kind of quiet, but the heavy, slow kind that makes you too aware of your own breathing. The kind that settles on your shoulders and wraps around your ankles and makes you feel like you’re taking up too much space just by being here.

The light from the setting sun bleeds in through the blinds — soft orange, low and slatted, striping the tiled floor in tired gold. The air smells faintly of rubbing alcohol and that sterile plastic that coats every medical surface on campus. It’s too clean. It makes Cheng feel like an intruder in his own breakdown.

Cheng Xiaoshi sits hunched on the edge of the cot, the scratchy paper beneath him crackling with every slight movement. He presses a crumpled paper towel beneath his nose, though most of the bleeding’s stopped. His other hand trembles in his lap — a twitchy, involuntary rhythm he doesn’t seem able to stop.

The overhead lights are too white. They make everything feel like a dream sequence from a film he forgot he was in.

His eyes sting, hot and wet and aching in a way that has nothing to do with the hit he took. His fingers are curled into the hem of his hoodie, knuckles white, sleeves bunched up over his wrists where Lu had cleaned the dried blood. His hands won’t stop shaking. Not badly. Just enough that he keeps trying to hide it, and failing.

Lu Guang kneels in front of him, sleeves rolled to the elbow, quiet and focused. He’s holding a small first aid kit open on one knee, the gauze and tape inside rustling faintly when touched. His hands move with the steady precision of someone who’s either done this before, or practiced it in his head enough times to look like he has.

"Tilt your head forward," he says. His voice is soft. Not a whisper, but it cuts through the stillness like one.

Cheng Xiaoshi obeys. His spine curves forward, vertebrae aching from bad posture and too many nights in library chairs. Lu presses something cool and wet beneath his nose — a cloth, maybe. It smells faintly like antiseptic.

Neither of them speaks. For a moment, it’s just breath. The distant thump of bass from the festival outside. A muffled cheer.

He hasn’t talked to Lu Guang since the presentation.

It’s not like they fought. Nothing dramatic happened. The project went well — incredibly well, in fact — one of those rare, freakishly coherent collaborations that made the professor use words like “sophisticated” and “striking,” and left Cheng with the surreal feeling of being both proud and vaguely uncomfortable. Afterward, there were handshakes, compliments, a few classmates patting them on the back. And Lu Guang had looked at him — not like it was over, but like it meant something. Like he was waiting for Cheng to follow up on it. A question left hanging in the air: What now?

But he hadn’t answered.

He had smiled, sure. Said “thanks” and “yeah, same” and all the standard exit phrases. But the second they left the lecture hall, he started walking faster, muttering something about another class, and didn’t look back. And after that, he just… didn’t reach out. Not because of anything specific. Not because he was angry, or scared, or even confused. Just because his brain was too full — too crowded with more immediate fires to put out — and whatever that was between them, whatever it might be becoming, it felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Lu Guang had texted him. Twice.

Once just a few words: Hey. Exhibition is due before the semester ends.

Cheng Xiaoshi read it in the library bathroom, somewhere between rewriting a bibliography and Googling whether excessive caffeine can cause cardiac events. He stared at the screen for a while, thumb hovering over the keyboard, thinking about a dozen different responses that all felt like too much. Yeah, I know. Thanks. Do you want to meet? Sorry I’ve been weird. That thing during the critique—did you feel it too? In the end, he didn’t send anything. Just closed the app, shoved the phone back in his bag, and told himself he’d answer later.

That was three days ago.

He knows it looks bad. He knows Lu probably thinks he’s avoiding him — which is fair, because he is — but the truth feels softer and sadder than that. It’s not avoidance in the active sense, like slamming a door or ghosting someone you’re mad at. It’s more like… inertia. The kind of tired that settles into your spine. The kind of tired where even thinking about what you feel takes more energy than you have left to give. Whatever is happening between them — the weird not-friendship, the glances that linger too long, the silence after that night on the roof — it demands clarity. And Cheng is all out of clarity.

He’s also, honestly, a little afraid.

Because Lu Guang is calm in ways Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t know how to be. Steady, thoughtful, unreadable in the kind of way that makes you want to keep trying to read him. His entire existence lately has been held together by momentum and masking tape, and Lu — just by being there — threatens to unravel all of it. Not even on purpose. Just by looking at him too long. Just by caring too quietly . And Cheng doesn’t have the space for that kind of unraveling right now.

He tells himself he’ll reply later.

After the festival. After finals. After the basketball game, the volunteer shifts, the write-up for his portfolio. He tells himself he’s almost there. That he’s close to breathing again. That if he just holds out a little longer, maybe the static in his head will clear enough for him to finally, finally figure out what to say.

But it never really clears.

It just reshuffles.

Lu Guang’s hands are meticulous. Not gentle in the patronizing way people get around the wounded, but in that quiet, methodical way that says: I see this, I can handle this, I’m not going anywhere. He folds a new gauze pad between his fingers like he’s memorized the steps, like he’d rather be precise than fast. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does. Cheng feels every movement like it’s being etched into the marrow of his spine.

The cloth brushes under his nose again. It’s just cool enough to sting, and he twitches, but doesn’t pull away. He’s too tired to flinch properly. Too wrung out to pretend he doesn’t care that Lu’s hands are still here. That Lu is still here.

Cheng Xiaoshi exhales shakily. Not enough to call it a sigh. Just… the sound of his body losing the strength to hold anything in.

“I’m fine,” he says.

It’s a bad lie. Thin and automatic. The kind of lie you say because the alternative is something you’re not ready to admit out loud.

Lu Guang doesn’t call him on it. He just tilts Cheng’s chin up a little higher, thumb steady against the hinge of his jaw.

“You’re bleeding less,” Lu says.

Not "you’ll be okay." Not "that was scary." Just a neutral observation. Controlled. Grounded.

It makes Cheng Guang’s throat close.

Because he doesn’t want comfort, not exactly. He wants this. This anchored, maddening steadiness. He wants someone to look at his mess and not immediately try to sweep it up. He wants Lu — who should be angry, or confused, or at least indifferent after weeks of being ignored — to stay like this a little longer. Like it matters. Like he matters.

And that’s the part that burns the worst.

His fingers clench in the hem of his hoodie. His breathing hitches again.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, without looking up. Then, again, quieter: “I’m sorry.”

Lu doesn’t move. Doesn’t say It’s okay. Doesn’t reach for him.

Instead: “What are you apologizing for?”

His voice isn’t soft. It’s just quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t allow you to look away from it.

Cheng’s lips part. Nothing comes out.

He doesn’t know how to say: for needing you. For breaking in front of you. For making you see all the parts I usually keep hidden behind late-night jokes and stage banter and half-finished projects and perfectly rehearsed competency. For making this real.

“For everything,” he says, eventually. “For being like this.”

And Lu Guang—finally—leans back just enough to meet his eyes.

“You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You’re bleeding through fabric you keep pretending is bulletproof. That’s not a personal failing.”

Cheng bites down on the inside of his cheek. Tries to hold the tears back.

Lu Guang’s voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t sweeten. He’s not here to make it easier.

“Stop apologizing for falling apart,” he says. “You’re allowed to. You’re not impressive because you’re suffering quietly.”

That—

That lands like a blow.

He turns his face away and it’s not shame, exactly. It’s not even embarrassment. It’s the awful, aching terror of being seen too clearly.

And Lu Guang just… stays.

Kneeling. Close. Still.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t mean to start crying. It just happens — slow and shapeless, spilling down his cheeks without ceremony, like his body has decided it’s done pretending. The moment Lu’s hands brush gently against his jaw again, something folds inward and won’t unfold, and he realizes—horribly, quietly—that no one’s touched him like this in weeks, maybe months, maybe longer. Not just to patch him up, but to stay. He chokes back a breath that sounds more like a sob, wipes at his face with his sleeve even though Lu’s already seen everything, already felt the shaking, already stayed through the silence. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, barely audible, and then again, “I’m sorry,” as if two words can cover the mortifying truth of needing someone so badly it hurts.

Lu Guang doesn’t react the way he expects — no sigh, no edge of discomfort, no kind and tidy redirect. He just stills, for a breath, like he’s waiting for something honest to land. “What exactly are you apologizing for?” he asks at last, voice not sharp, not cold, just low and patient, like he genuinely doesn’t understand the crime Cheng thinks he’s committed. The question makes Cheng flinch, not because it's cruel, but because it is too reasonable, too kind, too real, and it cuts right through the scripts in his head that tell him he’s too much. His mouth opens, then closes again, because he doesn’t know how to say: for being messy, for being hard to love, for not making it easier to stay.

He swallows, hard. His whole body is tight, coiled, like even admitting that he needs anything will make it all collapse inward. “I just… I don’t want to be a problem,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word. “I don’t want to be one more thing someone has to deal with.”

Lu Guang doesn’t even blink. “You’re not a problem,” he says flatly. “You’re a person.”

Cheng Xiaoshi lets out something between a breath and a laugh — brittle, ugly. “Same difference.”

“No,” Lu says. Still calm. Still so fucking steady. “It isn’t.”

And there’s no softness in it. Not the false kind. Not the gentle-for-show, wrap-it-up kind. Just this sharp, grounded certainty that makes Cheng want to either curl up on the floor or hold onto it with both hands. Lu looks at him like he’s not a burden, not a performance, not a fire to put out — just a person. Just Cheng. Bleeding a little. Breaking a little more.

And still worthy of being here.

Of being seen.

Of being cared for.

...

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, barely a whisper. “You just… being here. It makes it worse. It makes it better. I don’t know what the hell to do with any of it.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” Lu Guang replies. “You just have to feel it.”

The silence after that should feel comforting, but it doesn’t. It’s taut. Electric. Cheng’s breath catches somewhere between his ribs, and he realizes—viscerally—that he’s too close.

Or not close enough.

Lu Guang’s hand is still resting lightly over his. Steady. Anchored. Not pressing. Just… there. Like he always is. Like he always has been.

And it’s unbearable.

Because Cheng Xiaoshi wants more.

Wants to bury his face in Lu’s neck and disappear. Wants to curl forward and be held like it wouldn’t destroy him. Wants to stop pretending he doesn’t know what this is. What it’s been, building in every glance and every silence and every moment they didn’t talk about what that night on the roof felt like.

So he does something stupid.

Something selfish.

He kisses him.

It’s quick. Messy. A sharp inhale and then lips colliding, not perfectly, not even gently — just urgently. Desperate, like he’s afraid he won’t be allowed to do it again. Like it was sitting just behind his teeth for weeks and finally broke loose on its own.

Lu Guang freezes.

Cheng Xiaoshi pulls back instantly, panic flaring white-hot in his chest. “Shit,” he mutters, too fast. “I didn’t—forget it, I didn’t mean—”

“You did,” Lu says.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks up, startled.

Lu Guang’s expression isn’t angry. It’s not even surprised. If anything, he looks… annoyed.

Ohgodohgodohgod—

He’s going to hate me. He already does. Why would I do that? Why would I do that.
It’s only been—what?—six weeks, not even two months, Jesus Christ, we’re juniors, we’re in the same track, the same elective, we’re going to see each other every week until we graduate—

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck—

What was I thinking?
What the hell was I thinking?

This is so stupid. I’m so stupid. God, I’m an idiot—

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s throat works, but no words come out.

Because the answer is everything and nothing. Because he doesn't have the language for this — not the kind that doesn't come out crooked. Not the kind that won't sound like unraveling.

He shakes his head instead. Not to disagree — just to deflect. To avoid collapsing. His vision blurs a little at the edges, and he scrubs at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie like that’ll erase the whole moment. Like he can still walk it back if he just makes himself small enough, sorry enough.

But Lu Guang doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t even blink.

And Cheng Xiaoshi hates him for that. Hates that he’s so steady. That he’s so fucking here. That he doesn't laugh, or flinch, or turn this into something he can brush off with a joke tomorrow.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he says finally. The words drop like stones. “That wasn’t fair.”

“To who?” Lu Guang asks.

The question throws him.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks up — just barely, just enough to see Lu’s face in profile. Still unreadable. Still maddeningly calm.

“To me?” Lu Guang says, when Cheng doesn’t answer. “Or to you?”

Cheng Xiaoshi exhales, a shuddering thing. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

“You didn’t,” he replies instantaneously. 

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs — bitter, self-conscious, like the sound escaped before he could catch it. “Pretty sure I did.”

Lu Guang tilts his head at that. Not unkind. Just deliberate. “You kissed me. You’re allowed to want something.”

“I don’t even know what I want,” Cheng Xiaoshi snaps, and it comes out too loud, too fast, like the truth finally slipped through a crack. “I just—felt like if I didn’t do something, I was gonna explode.”

He expects Lu to recoil. To close off. Maybe even to stand up and end it here.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Lu Guang’s gaze softens. Just barely. Like a door that was never locked, just resting on its hinges.

“Then you did the right thing,” he says.

Cheng Xiaoshi swallows.

He wants to argue. Wants to pick the moment apart until there’s nothing left but scraps. But Lu Guang is still watching him — quiet, sure, steady — and it undoes something in his chest. Not in a painful way.

In the way that feels like permission.

And maybe that’s worse.