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Chu Wanning could never find himself having had enough.
“Thank you,” said Mo Ran – after finishing his portion of overcooked congee, or after receiving from Chu Wanning the empty bowl that had once contained his heartfelt, warm, and undeniably better-cooked meal, to be set aside with the dirty dishes. Or when Chu Wanning had personally walked up to him to pass something he’s asked for, engulfing Chu Wanning’s occupied hand with his warm ones fully, tenderly, before taking it with utmost care. Or perhaps after a gentle, curious night, where they both were tangled and soporific; Mo Ran still kissed the rim of his eye, coaxing it to close completely, then near his tragus, where he’d say it as light as a brush of his lips, as easy as his breath.
“Thank you,” said Mo Ran – with his chin resting gently on Chu Wanning’s head, of which was between Mo Ran’s bicep and forearm and an open hand reaching his ear – when Chu Wanning managed to come clean with his feelings. The dull ache behind his eyelids was his only warning before he involuntarily let out a hiccup, its sound almost comical with all the force behind it, louder than how much he could swallow back.
“It’s okay,” he’d say. “Thank you, Wanning.” A kiss. “For being honest with your feelings.”
His lips, which were parted to release a shuddering breath, trembled ever so quietly. The red flush of shame did not stop on his cheeks; it deepened in the pink of his lips, a tempting sight, mimicking mellow petals holding on against the wind stubbornly, refusing to let go. Sliding his arm down to instead cup Chu Wanning’s cheeks, Mo Ran took those poor, trembling petals onto the mercy of his lips, grounding them, shielded from the wind. And at that moment, he swore, he felt celebrated.
It was no conquest.
He hadn’t lost.
Not when sudden calls interrupted their dinner. Well, barely. Both couldn’t wait to break the silence on the dining table (in which an etiquette they adopted ever since they moved in together) to start a conversation over the empty dishes like any other night, but Chu Wanning’s phone beat them to it.
But Mo Ran only inclined his head, a smile adorning his handsome face like it had always been there, never leaving. It was enough permission for Chu Wanning to leave the table. He’d turn towards the kitchen mid calls to see Mo Ran setting dirty dishes aside, then cleaned the table. And when Chu Wanning was done with whatever urgent matters barely getting discussed over the phone, Mo Ran would walk up to him, bring up the back of his fingers to rub lovingly along his cheeks, then he’d bend to kiss the scowl off Chu Wanning’s joined eyebrows.
“What is my Wanning getting so upset about?”
Before he could answer, he felt his feet ground him on the floor. Mo Ran’s touch still lingered, his voice echoing in his head. His heart lurched. Gently. It hurt in the best kinds of ways.
How could it not? Mo Ran had said, “let’s make that house happen.” Not as a passing whim, but like a vow he’d tuck into his sleeve for safekeeping. He spoke of it between sips of tea and coffee (one being saccharine sweet, the other in an attempt at sugar intake), and he spoke of it under the mercy of gentle, evening rain, the witness to his panicking eyes, begging Chu Wanning to stay. And stay he did. He pictured the kitchen bathed in morning light, Chu Wanning’s books spread (neatly) across the rooms, the air would smell faintly of the Haitang of his shampoo, the smell of Mo Ran’s cup of coffee, and even Chu Wanning’s vile attempt at cooking.
There was no real built house yet, but there would be a pink blossom tree out back, so they’d have blossoms in spring and shade in summer. And they would fill it – not with grand furniture or showy ornaments, but with the sound of utensils hitting the plates, conversations after dinner, the creak of floorboards under familiar steps, of doors announcing each other’s presence, the kind of warmth that’d linger even when no one’s home.
Then Mo Ran would let him choose.
Mo Ran would leave the matters of furniture and the like to Chu Wanning’s more sophisticated tastes. “But the spatials, let me consider,” he’d say, “because then, we’ll have busy lives, so I want to savor every late night and weekend’s rest with you, amongst the things that we’ve chosen.” Amongst the things that would remind them of one another. The things they took part in building, both having their own freedom to choose.
To choose. Parts of themselves, to be one in spatials.
Chu Wanning’s heart was as heavy as the world, yet Mo Ran would love every shape of it. Every piece that was shattered, clumsily put back together, out of place; but Mo Ran believed, always believed, that it would beat the same. His heart was as unchanged as ever, but Mo Ran believed it would always be capable of loving – fiercely, ardently, passionately, of his creations, of the ideals that he persisted to pursue, of the people that he cared about. Then, he only felt his heart filled to the brim. Mo Ran never judged, not even when the cracks in his heart spill the love that it could hold so much. Not even when he tried to escape the overwhelming feeling, almost afraid, almost as a survival instinct.
But Mo Ran only pulled him back, letting all the spill to turn into vast seas where he’d drown. Chu Wanning needn’t worry, because Mo Ran would always be there waiting for him whenever he was ready to bring himself to swim up to the surface. Mo Ran would be there, pulling him out once he was close enough, to be brave. And when he was out, he swore, he felt celebrated.
Chu Wanning was not one to cry, yet Mo Ran had never shown any dismay. How could he have? When Chu Wanning cried, it was a rare moment of vulnerability, shown only to Mo Ran, who always cherished every moment of it. No matter how much Mo Ran had reassured him that he could always drop his guard with him, no matter how much Mo Ran knew Chu Wanning had always been on the edge of everything, had always been so vulnerable, yet so stubborn to show. Not when he was afraid of other’s judgement, came from his aloofness and indifference.
But Mo Ran only had taught him that any mess could wilt, had only shown that he would kiss away the fire of his anger. And when it was storm, he had said that no one would know when it would cease to ruin. That he needn’t take it into his hand to fix, to control. He felt celebrated.
Celebrated for his good and bad, for what made him, him.
It was five in the morning when he swiped his bent leg further up under the quilt and felt the sheet’s colder, emptier. He blinked the sleep away with tired, tender eyes. Then, on que, he sat up slowly, leaning onto one hand, the other rubbing a sleepy eye. There was a rush of dopamine and energy unlike any other morning, not when it was still so early in the morning. His heart started to warn in quiet excitement, and as if on instinct, he raised up fully, his body a single-minded focus to walk out of their bedroom.
To find Mo Ran.
And there he is, by the dining table, pumping a pink balloon with white, little kitty sketches all over it. Behind him, more balloons float around the floor, most already arranged on the wall, varying in pastel colors, each of them a variation of the kitty drawings of different adorable expressions. His short sleeves are rolled all the way up to his shoulders, biceps visible with slick sweat. His bangs, with a strawberry hairpin given by Nangong Si’s daughter the other day, are pinned onto the crown of his head, away from his meticulous eyes from getting in the way.
Then his gaze swept across a round, layered cake with what seems like white chocolate icing and dark chocolate shavings, maraschino cherries on top of fluffy, swirled frostings, fresh out of the refrigerator (in which he was an expert in that judgement), complete with unlit white candles atop.
Before he could drool over the delicacy, a soft gasp comes from across the room.
“Wanning,” a smile is growing on Mo Ran’s lips. Chu Wanning wants to run. “Happy birthday eve. Or morning, whatever.”
Then it hits him again. Somehow, under the lull of the lingering sleep of his subconsciousness, he knew that Mo Ran would be here, when he was left to wake up alone in their bed. Somehow, even in his hypnopompic state, he’d illustrate of Mo Ran greeting him; but today, it would be the special kind of greeting.
How could he not? His body and mind have probably been used to it. Of Mo Ran celebrating him, to the point that even he remembered his own birthday.
And Mo Ran allows it. Chu Wanning allows it.
He’s being celebrated, and he feels celebrated. He’s always felt celebrated.
“Mo Ran, it’s so early…,” but Mo Ran rushed to get the lighter right beside the cake, his smile never leaving his lips. He quickly worked on the candles, his face now lit with faint light, kindled. As Mo Ran walked towards him, he counted that there were five candles.
Mo Ran’s smile suspiciously grows bashful.
“I know this might sound stupid but, Wanning, I have a confession to make: there are five candles because today is also our fifth time celebrating your birthday; I kept up with the count in those four years, do you notice? Because truth be told, I was too focused on my theses and exams I was a hairbreadth away from forgetting, so the first time we celebrated your birthday, I could only find one candle at the store, and dumb me, there were only two the second time it happened.”
Stupid, indeed.
“But don’t worry,” he softly reassured, “there will be more for you to blow in the years to come.” He said it so gently, so mercifully, Chu Wanning wanted to scream.
“I’m not a child, Mo Ran,” he retorted, so sincerely kind, so affectionately, because Mo Ran wouldn’t take it any other way.
“Oh, I know,” his eyes are like twin crescents, his dimples could hold twin pools.
“Make your wishes, baobei.”
Chu Wanning appreciates the candles through hooded eyes.
If you feel that you are a person who is not easy to love, that there is so much filth within you, and there are so many things about you that are so difficult to be accepted by others… I hope that, somewhere along the way, you find someone who is willing to accept both the good and the bad within you.
Someone who’s so adamant to prove you wrong. Someone who will see not just the beauty you try to show, but also the mess you try to hide; someone who reads through you, and will still choose you, wholly and without the slightest bit of hesitation, in both your brightest lights and your bent, forceful glint.
Someone who won’t scare you the moment you realize that they’ve seen through you. Because you are understood. You are chosen. You are celebrated. Everything that you are.
He blows the candle.
“Happy birthday, Chu Wanning.”