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That evening, Xia Fei's eyes keep fluttering closed as he fights to stay awake, sitting through a movie he'd suggested to Vein. He thinks about the hypocrisy of his heavy eyelids, about what the harm would be in letting his head loll to one side and land softly on Vein's shoulder, when beside him there's shifting. A hand settles on his head, and predictably warmth spreads through his aching limbs.
"Felix, you're exhausted," Vein says. The shoot he endured today had been more demanding than usual — an outdoor shoot, with winter on its way out but still lingering in the cold breeze. Plus, the director had been particular, looking over each batch of photos with a straight face and dismissive wave of his hand. Again. Not quite. More of this. Xia Fei had to keep reminding himself to smooth out his expression into something even and easy. It went overtime, just to pour salt on the wound.
Vein doesn't seem fazed by his exhaustion. He's petting his head now, a little like he's a dog — but Xia Fei just mumbles, "...I’m not." It comes out as a sleepy slurring of his words, an obvious lie.
"You've still got your makeup on from your shoot earlier."
“So?” Leaning into Vein's touch, Xia Fei lets his head land on Vein's shoulder. He sighs quietly as fingers card through his hair, with a practiced ease. It could be said that he's a moth to a flame — but then he'd never been burned by his laoban. Antithetical to his red eyes and hair, Vein is like a stream he lets his body sink into with little resistance.
“It's important to take care of your skin. Your face is what you're being paid for, after all.” He's not quite nagging — Vein has a matter-of-fact way of putting things. But somewhere that softness still lurks. Maybe the low lilt of his voice, maybe the way he doesn't push Xia Fei away. Who knows, he's too tired to think it all through now.
“...Do it later.”
“What was that?”
“Later.” He points to the screen. “Watch, this bit’s good…”
Vein breathes out a laugh. “Your eyes are hardly open.”
Xia Fei's lips move but he isn't even sure what he says. And, try as he might, his eyes are closed — he lets out a whine when he’s no longer pressed beside Vein, feeling for the warmth of a body sleepily and finding empty space instead.
When Vein returns from wherever he's slipped away from, Xia Fei is half asleep, slumped on the arm of the sofa with a hand propping his face up. The move is still on; its distant and dreamy; words he’s almost memorised, the swell of a familiar orchestral score he’s stayed up late listening to to hand in lab reports on time. Vein’s quiet hum merges with the music of the movie, and the sofa dips beside him. Again, he’s warm. Xia Fei makes no complaints when Vein’s calloused fingers graze his skin. He cradles Xia Fei’s face, and he’s too sleepy for his heart to trip up in his chest the way it normally would, but he feels something. A subdued, dull ache, as Vein gently guides him to sit up a bit.
“What?” he mumbles, opening his eyes only for Vein to press softly on his eyelids.
“Close them again — you can get your beauty sleep after this.”
Xia Fei does as told, but makes sure to add: “I’m going home after the film…”
“Of course,” Vein says, voice dripping with an amused sort of disbelief. Xia Fei doesn’t have it in him to argue. He just lets Vein dab at the corners of his eyelid with a cloth, dampened by makeup remover. Usually, Xia Fei scrubs the products off his face with little regard for how delicate he is to his skin. Vein of course, is different. He’s methodical, and gentle, and he wipes the eyeliner, then the highlight soaked into his cheekbones as if they have all the time in the world. There’s something else too — a reverence in Vein’s touch, a tenderness that he melts into, eyes still closed, as he hears the credits roll.
Face dampened from the remover, Vein brings a dry cloth to his skin, and when he opens his eyes again, Vein’s lips are curved upwards, his eyes bright.
“Still tired?”
Xia Fei shakes his head, even though his head feels as if it were stuffed with cotton, and all he can do is stare at Vein holding a maroon colored cloth and the soft slope of his lips and the sharpness of his red eyeliner; he thinks about them swapping, and Vein blearily entrusting him to wipe away the red around his eyes. Maybe then he wouldn’t scrape the makeup off his own face so vigorously, impatiently. Vein wouldn’t let him do that (or he would, but Xia Fei wouldn’t dare be so careless).
“Laoban?”
“What?”
“I’ll stay here tonight.”