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It’s not that Qiu Qiu hasn’t been aware of Huang Xing’s existence all school year long, it’s just that hasn’t been paying him close attention. Between his own friends and varsity basketball, he has a lot going on, so it isn’t until they’re paired up for a class project that Qiu Qiu really has the opportunity to observe Huang Xing up close.

Qiu Qiu has seen him in the periphery: fleeting glimpses like a burr in his awareness—in the library sometimes or the gym bleachers, hunched over and with his head down; sometimes in the hallway but mostly in the back of the classroom, minding his own business, lost in his own world. In a school of thousands, things get lost in the ebb and flow; they’re two planets moving in the same orbit whose paths are never meant to converge.

Huang Xing keeps to himself and never really speaks to anyone outside of when a teacher asks him a question in class. When Qiu Qiu pulls up a chair next to him after project partners have been assigned, it’s also painfully clear that he’s socially awkward. He flinches at the sound of Qiu Qiu’s chair scraping the floor, and this propels Huang Xing to look up, like a bird startled into flight.

And Qiu Qiu is prepared to introduce himself, with some inane small talk because he’s not a complete asshole despite the fact they’ve never so much as glanced in each other’s direction the entire school year, but then Huang Xing looks at him with a face as delicate as polished jade and eyes dotted with a beauty mark in the corner like the final brush stroke of a great master.

And then Huang Xing says, “A-ah, you’re my partner…” in a deeper voice than Qiu Qiu anticipated for someone with that kind of face, and Qiu Qiu can only say, “Yes, yes I am.” 

—Stunned into speechlessness for the first time in his life.

The novelty wears off to some extent because school does have a way of keeping everyone busy. 

Qiu Qiu’s main goal this year is to pass his classes so he can play the next game. Coach has been adamant about making sure the team isn’t failing, as they’d be the laughing stock of the school otherwise. The cliche is true to some extent— jocks are indeed academically challenged — but only because there can only be so many hours during the day you could devote to studying while also practicing your sport. 

Qiu Qiu’s time most days is split between basketball practice and sleep. He’s often too tired to crack open his work books, much less retain information being communicated in class with a brain that’s only half awake. 

In actuality, he’s not that great of a student as he tends to focus on the wrong parts of assignments, getting lost in passing details and generally uninterested in subjects outside of his hobbies. His grades aren’t particularly abysmal, but his parents don’t possess any lofty dreams for his future either.

Huang Xing is the complete opposite. He’s a little scholar and goes to self study sessions after classes. The first time they meet after class to discuss the details of their project, he sets down all manner of paraphernalia on the table: pens in a neat little row arranged by colour, as well as a printed copy of the project outline. He has binder of his own research notes, the pages brimming with post its and swathes of text highlighted in eye-catching neon. Qiu Qiu doesn’t even know what the project is about. He fell asleep in class and only came to when his name was called while the teacher was announcing the class pairings.

Huang Xing is prepared — truly a grade-A student worthy of the title. He looks at Qiu Qiu with a mild expression when Qiu Qiu shows up at the school library fifteen minutes late with every intention of leaving for the Internet cafe after some perfunctory exchange. It’s a Friday after all, and he rarely has time to play with after-school practice taking up most of his free time.  

“Sorry I’m late!”

Huang Xing doesn’t directly address his tardiness, instead nodding and gesturing for him to sit down. “Thank you for meeting with me,” he says, as if he were the CEO of a company and Qiu Qiu his direct subordinate. 

“Ah, don’t mention it, don’t mention it! It’s for the project so…”

“Did you want to do the presentation, Qiu Dingjie?” Huang Xing asks once Qiu Qiu has taken a seat, already waiting for the opportunity to beat a hasty exit. 

“I can lend you my research notes so you can use it to create a script,” Huang Xing offers.

“Ahh… I was thinking I could take on a more indirect role…” Qiu Qiu scratches his cheek. “Like manning the projector on the day of the presentation.”

Huang Xing’s expression doesn’t change, but somehow Qiu Qiu gets the feeling he’s being appraised. Huang Xing has one of those stares that penetrate to the bone. He also seems to possess the ability to not blink for long moments, and then when he does blink, it’s even more unnerving, his long eyelashes sweeping his cheeks as he glances over his stack of research notes.

“Have you ever created a powerpoint, Qiu Dingjie?” 

“…No…”

Huang Xing nods, as if he expected that much. There’s a wry smile dimpling the corner of his lips, a sight to behold because Qiu Qiu has never seen him express an emotion before aside from mild irritation. 

“Then we have a lot of work to do, it seems.”

Work, it turns out, consists of thirty minute-long meetings everyday after class. Qiu Qiu can only make it a third of the time, as he still has basketball practice from four pm to five pm. On days he doesn’t have practice, he goes to play with his friends at the Internet Cafe, but Huang Xing doesn’t need to know the finer details of his schedule. All he needs to be privy to is the fact that Qiu Qiu is a busy guy. 

It becomes increasingly obvious they belong to such disparate worlds when, after a jaunt at the Internet Cafe, Qiu Qiu bumps into him on his way home. There’s an alleyway two streets from the Internet Cafe, dimly-lit and lined with dustbins, the walls covered in curlicues of spray-paint. No one really goes there, except the uncles working from nearby shops, to smoke during in between hours, or otherwise dump bags of garbage.

Qiu Qiu sees Huang Xing there, entirely by accident, crouched next to a pile of cardboard boxes stacked together to form a little shelter. He recognises the uniform first—neat and orderly, as expected—, and then he gets closer and sees the rest of him: the book bag slung over one shoulder, crowded with pins, and his haircut, standard if not for the long fringe sweeping the sides of his forehead. He’s feeding an alleycat from a tin of sardines, a soft smile on his face that takes Qiu Qiu off guard. 

Huang Xing still has his chin tilted down, but he flicks his gaze up to meet Qiu Qiu’s, eyes crinkling a bit as if he’s sensed his presence long ago. The skin around them is rubbed a tired pink, but his eyes are clear, like a lake Qiu Qiu could see the bottom of, luminous and shimmering. The lighting in the street is pretty terrible this time of the night, but Qiu Qiu can still make out the beauty mark flecking the corner of Huang Xing’s eyelid, and the shadows that caress his pale, perfect face. 

He opens his mouth to say hello, realises it’s too late for that now, and shuts up instead.

Huang Xing rises to his feet. He gives the cat another pat on the head before walking over to join Qiu Qiu. “Are you on your way home too, classmate?”

Classmate. 

Qiu Qiu feels his neck prickle with a strange warmth. Part of it is guilt, because he’s been making up a slew of excuses to avoid meeting up with Huang Xing for their project. It’s not that his company is terrible, it’s just that Qiu Qiu can’t focus long enough to work on the project together, strumming with anxiety and the uncontrollable urge to keep staring at Huang Xing. He’s doing it right now, like a complete idiot. Huang Xing is — pretty; that fact is uncontested. But he’s pretty in an almost disarming way, like a nocturnal blossom that only reveals itself to the few who bother to look. The Huang Xing of the day is different from the Huang Xing of the night time. During the day, he’s unobtrusive and meek, entirely detached from the world.

Next to him, Huang Xing seems like a different person altogether, carrying himself with the kind of easy confidence that Qiu Qiu almost envies.

They fall into step together without realising. The white noise of the street—of trees rustling overhead, and the angry yowl of cats in the next street over, the sharp pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck braking nearby, people trickling out of restaurants, laughing, shouting — is the perfect leitmotif to underscore the quiet thumping of Qiu Qiu’s heart. 

“How’s the project coming along?” Qiu Qiu asks, a poor attempt to cut through the awkward silence. 

“It’s… you know,” Huang Xing says vaguely. He pockets his hands, and they continue to walk the length of the street. Here it’s all residential houses, with washing lines fringing all the windows and an intricate network of cables crisscrossing electric posts. 

Qiu Qiu nods, and he pockets his hands too just to give them something to do. “I—I’m sorry about. You know…” He trails off, unable to look Huang Xing in the eye. “I got… busy .”

“I understand,” Huang Xing replies evenly.

“I’m not—blowing you off or anything!”

“I know.” Huang Xing’s inflection doesn’t change at all, and that’s what’s making this conversation all the more awkward. “Like Qiu Dingjie said, he’s busy. That’s perfectly understandable.”

“Don’t say it like that…” Qiu Qiu mumbles, guilt weighing him down tenfold. He’s busy, but he’s also been shirking his duties as Huang Xing’s project partner. He’s never been that great of a student, but he’s not such a shitty person that he’d let Huang Xing do all the work. He has his pride too; he has honour.

“I’ll make it up to you!”

That stops Huang Xing in his tracks. “W-What?”

“I—I’ll come to your house, tomorrow! Let’s do the project together!”

“Qiu Dingjie…”

They’re not close, so of course Huang Xing would call him by his full name, but something about that rubs Qiu Qiu the wrong way. He has a nickname, he wants to say, but they’ve barely spoken to each other outside of these quick after-class meetings Qiu Qiu has barely been invested in. To bring that up now would be awkward, social suicide. Huang Xing would think he was some kind of weird person. Which, Qiu Qiu thinks crazily, he probably is, if he’s contemplating asking Huang Xing to switch to calling him Qiu Qiu.

In the end, he dismisses the idea, embarrassed for himself. He gives Huang Xing his best smile, clapping him on the shoulder—the first time he’s ever touched Huang Xing outside of accidentally brushing past him in the hallways in school. “Let’s add each other on WeChat!”

He fishes his phone out of his pocket, unlocks the screen and then hands it over. Huang Xing pauses for a moment but adds himself to Qiu Qiu’s list of contacts, sending himself a random sticker so his own phone buzzes in his front pocket. Qiu Qiu makes a point of starring him in his contacts list so he appears on the topmost part of his inbox, then he grins at Huang Xing who’s still— looking at him with a strange expression on his face like he’s trying to decipher code.

They’ve only ever interacted in school; their meetings agreed upon beforehand with the assumption that Qiu Qiu would actually turn up as promised. Now they’ve crossed the barrier; now Qiu Qiu has no excuse to avoid him.

“You like One Piece?” Huang Xing asks.

Qiu Qiu blinks at him, and then realises he’d meant his wallpaper—a random image he’d downloaded of Luffy. “Ah, yeah. It’s cool. I like it.”

Huang Xing nods. He doesn’t say anything more after that, and the rest of the walk is silent. Finally they reach the end of the street, and Huang Xing points to the opposite direction of where Qiu Qiu is headed. “I’m going this way. It was nice chatting with you, Qiu Dingjie. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll send you my address.”

He turns on his heel and leaves, just like that, no word of parting whatsoever. Qiu Qiu watches him, Huang Xing’s form getting smaller and smaller the farther along he is. He finds himself calling out to him, but his voice gets stuck in his throat and his words falter, losing courage. “Call me Qiu Qiu!” he says, but the sound of it doesn’t carry far enough down the street. 

Huang Xing pauses, but only for a brief moment, and then he keeps walking until he disappears round the bend.

Huang Xing lives four bus stops away from Qiu Qiu’s favourite Internet Cafe. It makes it easier to find him. His family lives in a modest neighbourhood in the more modern part of the district, full of mid-rise apartments painted beige in a mostly failed attempt at a makeover. Small family-owned restaurants crowd the first floors of these buildings: traditional herbalist shops, a laundromat, a few dingy cafes with tables set up on the sidewalk.

Qiu Qiu shows up early, ten minutes ahead of schedule. He figures he owes it to Huang Xing to be early after he’s made him do all the work while he went off and played to his heart’s content. Huang Xing had sent him his address last night over WeChat. Qiu Qiu spent ten minutes agonising over how to respond, and in the end had sent him a stupid waving emoji instead, signalling his agreement to today’s schedule.

Now he’s here, on a Saturday, waiting for Huang Xing to buzz him in. Huang Xing’s voice comes out scratchy through the intercom, as if he’d just woken up from sleep. It’s also deeper than Qiu Qiu remembers, which is. Interesting. 

“Ahhh, you’re early! Let me get dressed first, then I’ll open the door for you. Wait there for a second.”

‘Getting dressed’ takes no longer than ten minutes, which is just as well because Qiu Qiu is starting to get looks from a few passersby. He bought a bunch of snacks for today’s session—some junk food from a convenience store on the way—as a peace offering. Huang Xing’s on the ninth floor, his door at the very end of the building which means it’s a full pilgrimage to get all the way from the elevator to his place. 

Qiu Qiu doesn’t live somewhere nice like this. His family isn’t poor, but they aren’t that well off either. His dad works in the municipal government; his mom runs a noodle stall next to the public university. When he rings the doorbell and Huang Xing answers it promptly, he has to take a step back from how nice the living room smells—there’s that pervasive note of cleanliness perfuming the air, interspersed with whatever scent diffuser Huang Xing’s family is using. 

Huang Xing’s also wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt with sleeves that cover him up to the fingertips. The collar is in a loose style, showcasing the deep line of his collarbones. Qiu Qiu stares for a moment and then stammers out a greeting. He’s usually more articulate than this; he has charm enough when he’s around friends, but something about Huang Xing makes him feel nervous and tongue-tied.

Huang Xing eyes the plastic bag in his hand. “Ah,” he says, eyes curving into perfect crescents. “You bought snacks. I was just about to make something! My parents are away this weekend so it’s just me at home. You can take your shoes off. There are guest slippers on the rack.”

Qiu Qiu must look like an idiot standing in the entry way and not doing much else that Huang Xing begins to fuss over him, crouching by the shoe rack and taking out a pair of soft, leather-lined house slippers.

Qiu Qiu toes his shoes off awkwardly, embarrassed when his soles leave a visible streak of grime on the polished hardwood floor. Huang Xing says nothing, remaining at his feet and waiting till his shoes are completely off to guide the slippers on, as if Qiu Qiu were in primary school and still requires the assistance. He might as well; he has no idea what he’s doing, or what he’s letting happen. All he knows is Huang Xing’s hand is soft, and his grip is gentle even when wrapped around Qiu Qiu’s ankle.  

“Ah, here. There you go! Ah, perfect fit, perfect fit…”

“Uh, thanks. I guess,” Qiu Qiu says, shifting from foot to foot like he’s testing the slippers; the insides are soft; they feel expensive. 

Huang Xing, still crouching, gives him a soft smile. “Come on. I’ll show you to my room,” he says, and abruptly goes to stand to his full height. Qiu Qiu has to be careful not to knock into his forehead from the sudden proximity, but before anything too embarrassing can happen, Hua Xing turns and leaves.

The rest of the apartment looks like something pulled from a catalog. The furnishings are unassuming, even forgettable, the chairs and cabinetry straddling the line between chic and timeless. The walls are a clean, uncluttered cream colour, so unlike Qiu Qiu’s apartment which two generations of his family have lived in to the point that the paint has begun to peel off like skin.

Huang Xing’s room is a different matter. Huang Xing leads Qiu Qiu there, passing the living room with its generous view of the park across the street, the open kitchen with its gleaming, modern fixtures, down a narrow hallway where the walls are decked with family photos, all chronicling his childhood from infancy to present. There’s even a picture of him smiling with a full mouth of braces.

Qiu Qiu pauses behind him, waiting for Huang Xing to open the door. Huang Xing seems to hesitate, and then he fumbles with the knob and leads Qiu Qiu inside. “I haven’t cleaned yet. I apologise for the mess.”

The mess isn’t so much as a mess but a few random pieces of clothing thrown haphazardly across an unmade bed. It’s clear Qiu Qiu caught him when he’d been least expecting it, possibly right when he was getting ready for the day. Like the rest of the apartment, Huang Xing’s bedroom is painted in the same bland shade of cream, though a tone darker, and he has shelves and shelves full of— things: video games, plush toys, figurines, books on art and drawing, books of the coffee table variety, books living under his desk, and everywhere a person might stuff a book. On one side of the shelves are half-finished sketches overlaying each other: people and scenery, some of small animals. The drawings are done in pencil, a few in ballpoint. There’s one that catches Qiu Qiu’s eye, and it’s a basketball game in full swing but from the point of view of someone sitting in the bleachers. 

Huang Xing points him to the low table on the floor, surrounded by plush pillows, the area carpeted. There’s a stack of books on the table forming a small pile, and a laptop humming on sleep mode.

“Your room’s nice,” Qiu Qiu tells him, because it’s true. He has to share one with his cousin, and he sleeps in a bunk bed, a makeshift curtain the only privacy afforded to him. He hears every creak and groan from the bunk above him. The desk is jointly owned and his cousin is the most obnoxious snorer. 

“Ah,” Huang Xing says, seemingly embarrassed. He rubs the back of his ears and plucks something from his shelf of sketches before quickly pocketing it. “Thanks. I’ll prepare some snacks. Did you want to eat the ones you brought first? What would you like to drink?”

“What do you have?”

“Cola, water, sunmeitang. Tea?”

“I’ll have a Cola, please.” 

Huang Xing nods and then goes to fetch him his drink. Qiu Qiu thinks the awkwardness would prevail for the rest of the day, their conversations punctuated with pauses and tension, but he’s actually surprised when that isn’t the case. Huang Xing, despite his aloof demeanour in school, can hold a conversation, a chatterbox if you give him an opportunity to speak about his interests. He likes to draw and wants to go to art school, he says, but both of his parents work in the medical field. It’s a tale as old as time, but somehow he doesn’t seem too pressed about it. There’s a clear demarcation between an occupation and a hobby. He wants to make money, but also devote time to art. 

Meanwhile, there’s Qiu Qiu, who often feels lost and resentful of his dearth of opportunities. He’s looking to get a basketball scholarship after high school, but that also hinges on whether or not he doesn’t flunk his classes year after year.

“I’m a bad student,” he tells Huang Xing, feeling sorry for himself all of a sudden. “I’m sorry I let you do all the work. That was a scummy thing to do.”

“Not at all.” Huang Xing fiddles with a string of spicy squid between his fingers, the dye in the seasoning staining his skin red. “I figured… ah , Qiu Dingjie is busy. He’s got all these things going on…”

Qiu Qiu snorts. “That’s not an excuse.”

“Mn,” Huang Xing says, neither confirming nor denying it. But he flicks his eyes to meet Qiu Qiu’s gaze squarely, then he says, soft, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Qiu Dingjie. I actually admire you a lot.”

Qiu Qiu comes over again, but on a weekday this time, and because Huang Xing’s parents keep such long hours at the hospital, he thankfully doesn’t run into them. Afternoons at Huang Xing’s apartment is better than any Internet Cafe: there’s no stale stench of fried food, or angry shouting from nearby booths, or someone keeping tabs on how many hours he’s burned gaming. 

It’s quiet, but not oppressively so, and sometimes Huang Xing even puts on some music while they go over the finer details of the project. He listens to the trendy stuff, much to Qiu Qiu’s surprise: songs you’d often hear playing in the background of  any video on Douyin. He can carry a tune is the most surprising thing, though usually Huang Xing sings under his breath so no one hears him, blushing in embarrassment when Qiu Qiu catches him anyway. 

It’s almost funny how well they work together. Qiu Qiu doesn’t feel like he has to be funny to keep him interested; Huang Xing listens to what he says, quiet when pensive but responsive when the mood calls for it. 

And the mood, yes, there’s that too, the mood, ah, the mood: Qiu Qiu doesn’t understand it himself but he feels different when he’s around Huang Xing. Something about being in his room, being surrounded by all his things, ensconced in Huang Xing’s familiar scent, brings him some semblance of comfort. School has always been a sore subject for him, because he can’t seem to do well academically no matter what he does, but in Huang Xing’s room, none of that even matters; everything fades into the background, like the white noise that follows just before sleep. 

And he does that too a few times: he falls asleep at Huang Xing’s desk, once even waking up with a blanket covering his shoulders, another time tucked in Huang Xing’s bed with his slippers off, and his jacket put away, Huang Xing next to him at his desk, typing rhythmically on his laptop.

It’s hard to ignore Huang Xing after that. How can Qiu Qiu ignore him, when they’re in the same class and they see each other a few times a week? The project is almost finished, with Qiu Qiu putting in more hours than ever, and Huang Xing directing him every step of the way, teaching him how to apply effects on Powerpoint, and helping him summarise his notes for the presentation. They do other things too, besides work on the project. 

Qiu Qiu brings his assignments when he comes over, mostly because Huang Xing’s room is conducive to studying. He likes the peace, and he likes the quiet. He likes the company, most of all, whether he’d admit to it or not. Huang Xing usually gives Qiu Qiu the desk while he hunches over his coursework on the bed, sometimes with his headphones on, or sometimes openly playing music on his phone. 

Qiu Qiu doesn’t mind it. He’s gotten used to it after a few short weeks. It’s the same way he’s gotten used to this new routine of taking a detour from the Internet cafe and heading towards the bus stop to Huang Xing’s neighbourhood. 

Of course, the peace doesn’t last; his friends get on his case after he consistently blows them off to spend time with Huang Xing. They’re mostly guys on the basketball team, kids he’s known for years who he went to sports club with and share his love of basketball. 

“Where have you been these last two weeks, huh? Let’s go get chicken skewers!” Li Cheng, the oldest of the group, has a way of coaxing everyone to do whatever he says. He’s charismatic, popular, everything Qiu Qiu hopes he would be at this stage in high school. So of course he goes: he tells himself he’ll only be half an hour but time moves differently when he’s with his friends: slow and fast all at once. By the time they all emerge from the Internet Cafe, bleary-eyed from hours of game time, it’s already midnight and Qiu Qiu’s phone has blown up with unanswered messages: half of them are from his mom, while the other half are from Huang Xing, asking how his day has been, and whether he’s still coming over for their study session. Reading through his chats makes a tight knot form in his throat, but he leaves Huang Xing on read, too guilt-ridden to respond.

The next day, of course, is when he runs into him. It’s not like he can avoid him forever, being that they’re in the same class, but Qiu Qiu’s friends, being the loud and boisterous type, have formed a sort of protective barrier around him, keeping everyone including Huang Xing out. They’re a tight knit group who keep to themselves, laughing and joking in between classes and throwing a basketball around when the teacher isn’t around.

With Huang Xing being seated all the way in the back, they might as well be on opposite sides of the Great Wall. Their social circles don’t overlap. Huang Xing doesn’t even have one to speak of. Qiu Qiu sees him speak to a few of their classmates outside of class, but mostly he takes his lunch inside the classroom or alone. 

Plenty of times, Qiu Qiu’s been tempted to join him, but nerves always win out. What would his actual friends say? He and Huang Xing, they aren’t really friends. Not in the real sense of the word. So what if Qiu Qiu knows where he lives? So what if he’s slept in his bed? That means absolutely nothing. They’re just working on a project together. Huang Xing just happens to have great taste in snacks.

Qiu Qiu sees him after class in the courtyard, seated under a tree, sketching. He has headphones on, and his face is a blank mask of quiet calm.

“A-Xing,” Qiu Qiu says, approaching him from across the courtyard, waving. It’s fifteen minutes till basketball practice and he’s already changed into shorts and a PE shirt. Huang Xing doesn’t hear him; he keeps his head bowed and his pen moving skilfully across a page in his sketchbook. But then he seems to notice his lighting blocked off by someone’s shadow— that someone being Qiu Qiu. Huang Xing lifts his eyes from his lap and flicks his gaze to meet Qiu Qiu’s. Something in his expression shifts, and though it’s too fleeting for Qiu Qiu to truly interpret, it leaves him feeling a certain type of way. 

“Ah,” says Huang Xing, giving him one of those soft, polite smiles as he slides off his headphones. “It’s you.”

Qiu Qiu doesn’t know why it irritates him to be called you. As if they’re complete strangers. As if Huang Xing doesn’t care. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, even though it’s perfectly obvious what he’s doing and it’s just meaningless small talk. He’s looking for a way to apologise after he’d pointedly ignored all of Huang Xing’s messages and kept him waiting all day, but Huang Xing’s making it difficult with that neutral expression of his, and his flat, uninterested tone. 

“Mn,” says Huang Xing, quiet for a long moment as he moves his pencil across his sketchbook, long dark strokes like the most beautiful calligraphy. “Nothing important, really.”

Qiu Qiu wants to ask if he’s mad at him. He probably is. Qiu Qiu isn’t great at knowing the right words to say—his essays are a testament to that—so instead he jogs over to the vending machine nearby and buys Huang Xing a bottle of his favourite plum drink. He hands it to him, a silent offering, but Huang Xing merely glances at it, then away. 

“I’m not thirsty,” he says, going back to his sketch. “But thank you, Qiu Dingjie. You can keep it.” His eyes sweep across Qiu Qiu’s clothing, and he nods in patient understanding. “Ah, so you’ve got basketball practice today?”

“Yes— yeah ,” Qiu Qiu says, feeling like this is his golden opportunity to make amends. His heart is racing, his palms slick with sweat, but Huang Xing isn’t even looking at him, his demeanour cold and unfriendly as if someone had flipped a switch. Qiu Qiu stands there with the drink in hand, and then feels stupid when he’s completely ignored. It does something to his stomach, to his throat, an ache that builds and engulfs him up to the eyelids. 

“All right, then,” he says.

“Mn.”

“I—I’ll see you around,” Qiu Qiu adds, walking backwards, one step first, and then three until he’s outside of Huang Xing’s general orbit.

Huang Xing makes a noncommittal sound. Qiu Qiu glances over his shoulder a few times but not once does Huang Xing ever lift his head.

Qiu Qiu hates confrontation. If he can avoid it, he would, but there’s a limit to how long Huang Xing can keep ignoring him. They haven’t fine-tuned the finer details of the project quite yet, even though it’s due in a couple of weeks and Qiu Qiu will be the one presenting it in class because of Huang Xing’s social anxiety. 

Either Huang Xing doesn’t check his WeChat messages or he’s actively ignoring Qiu Qiu’s attempts to win back his favour. It’s like charming a cold beauty back in the old days, the way Huang Xing keeps him at arm’s length. 

Qiu Qiu blocks his path on the way home a few days later, gripping the straps of his backpack for strength as he steels his resolve and looks him in the eye, and says, his face burning, his ears pink and his nose twitching:

“Do you hate me, or what?”

“What?” Huang Xing has the gall to look taken aback. Or as taken aback as someone with his temperament can look, which means there’s the most minute of shifts in his expression. 

“No, I don’t hate you.” Huang Xing says, but he doesn’t sound convincing at all. His words are even, devoid of emotion. Someone with a mild case of indigestion would look more affected. “Why would I hate you, Qiu Dingjie?”

Qiu Qiu doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know why it’s important to him that Huang Xing doesn’t hate him. He’s only known him a few months, but he can’t stop thinking about him, or looking at him, like his entire existence is a compass pointing to a true magnetic north. He sees him now everywhere: in the back of the classroom, in the halls, across the courtyard when Qiu Qiu is running laps with his teammates. Not once does Huang Xing ever look back. Not once. 

And he always calls him by his full name, as if to remind Qiu Qiu of the fact that they’re not friends; they’re friendly , because they’re classmates. Project partners, sure. But friendship is a line they haven’t crossed, and stretching their interactions beyond the status quo is a futile and useless endeavour. Qiu Qiu doesn’t know what he’s hoping to achieve; after the project, they’re highly unlikely to approach each other ever again.

It starts to rain, then, in lines slanting downwards, as fine as tinsel. In no time at all, it picks up, getting wilder and meaner as the wind stirs it into action.  Huang Xing opens an umbrella, and Qiu Qiu is surprised when he tilts it sideways to cover him too. His expression is more unreadable than ever, but if he’s willing to share his umbrella then—that’s something at least.

“You’re going to get a cold if you go home completely wet like that,” Huang Xing points out, watching outside the edges of his umbrella as rain falls around them, hitting the nylon canopy in a steady cadence: plink plink plink. “Come over today. I’ll lend you some dry clothes.”

Qiu Qiu looks at him. After a beat, he nods in silence. They take the bus to Huang Xing’s neighbourhood as the weather gets steadily worse, turning into a full on deluge. By the time they actually get to Huang Xing’s apartment, their uniforms are soaked through, having been lashed by wind and rain in between running for cover. 

Qiu Qiu remembers to kick off his shoes in the entryway before he tracks mud across the polished, hardwood floor. This whole routine is familiar to him now that it’s become almost rote; he knows where to hang his backpack (behind Huang Xing’s door there’s a row of hooks where he keeps his jackets); he knows his way to the guest bathroom, and even, where Huang Xing’s stash of snacks lives (in the kitchen cupboard, on the second shelf).  He makes quick work of his uniform, thawing out in the shower until he’s warm again and no longer shivering from the rain. He’s the first one to finish; Huang Xing is still showering in the guest bathroom when Qiu Qiu emerges from the en-suite, swaddled in a fluffy towel. Huang Xing’s left him a change of clothes, and they sit on the bed in a neat stack: an old pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt with a sports logo, no underwear because that would have been awkward.

Qiu Qiu hastily puts them on. They’re soft against his skin, the shirt threadbare from too many washes, the collar stretched out beyond capacity so that it opens around his shoulders. He’s still fiddling with it when the bedroom door opens and Huang Xing walks in holding bottled drinks. “Ah, you’re dressed too. Good.” 

Huang Xing’s hair is still wet, damp and flat against the sides of his face. So is Qiu Qiu’s. He’d tried drying his hair with the bath towel earlier so now it stands in uneven tufts at the back, damp in sections and frizzy in some. 

Qiu Qiu takes a sip of his drink. He realises he’s got nothing to say to Huang Xing—at least, nothing he’d prepared beforehand that won’t sound trite. No words of apology slip past his lips, and he feels, all of a sudden, shy and embarrassed.  Shy, because he’s wearing Huang Xing’s clothes, and his bare arms look stark white against the dark sleeves covering him down to the elbows.  Embarrassed, because he’d been such a shitty person to him, ignoring his messages and not showing up to their planned meeting with no excuse whatsoever. 

Qiu Qiu is about to say something when he hears rustling behind him. Then the bed dips as Huang Xing kneels on the mattress and the bed shifts along with his weight. There’s a quiet click as he powers on the hairdryer. “I’ll dry your hair,” he tells Qiu Qiu as if Qiu Qiu is the one who needs it, as if he’s the one whose hair is dripping wet lines down his shirt. He doesn’t ask him for permission. He just…does it, passing the blowdryer across his hair methodically, warm gusts that leave Qiu Qiu’s scalp and neck tingling. 

Huang Xing doesn’t touch him unnecessarily, his fingertips don’t even make contact; it’s over within minutes, but it still leaves Qiu Qiu feeling unmoored, his skin alight with goosebumps.

Afterwards, Qiu Qiu watches from the corner of his eye as Huang Xing dries his own hair; he’s tempted more than once to return the favour, but he forces himself to look away instead, swallowing against the tight knot in his throat.

It’s Huang Xing who speaks first, and it’s so innocuous what he says too: “Are you hungry? I can make us dinner early. My parents aren’t home.”

Qiu Qiu wants to ask, when are they ever, but his parents are busy working themselves to death too, and they hardly see each other except on the weekends. “I’ll help,” he says, and that’s precisely what he ends up doing: playing assistant to Huang Xing who commandeers the kitchen with a deftness that’s almost astonishing. He knows where everything is kept, and delegates Qiu Qiu with the smaller tasks: to hand him the peeler, the cutting board, and then wash them afterwards while he cooks, fully absorbed in the activity, his brow furrowed in concentration. It’s just fried rice with leftover vegetables and meat—nothing elaborate—but the fried rice comes out fragrant with soy sauce, the meat soft and tender, the vegetables perfectly firm and not soggy the way Qiu Qiu’s sometimes gets when he tries to cobble together a meal on his own.

They sit down and take their meal in the living room, cross-legged in front of the coffee table while the TV plays in the background. Outside, the rain has evened out to a steady drizzle, turning the world a misty grey. They don’t talk for a long while. Qiu Qiu puts down his chopsticks, then he says, “The project—”

Huang Xing glances at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Ah…” he says, looking suddenly thoughtful. “Yeah, the project.”

Qiu Qiu nods. “We can work on it after dinner,” Huang Xing promises him. “I finished most of my homework in school anyway.”

Qiu Qiu has seen this in action: Huang Xing doesn’t really have any friends that Qiu Qiu knows of so he spends most of his free time finishing up homework from his other classes. He’s diligent in his work, but sometimes Qiu Qiu wonders if he ever gets lonely. Who sits next to him at lunch? Who laughs at his jokes? His sense of humour is drier than the Gobi desert. Some people might think he’s being mean, but Qiu Qiu knows that he’s not: he’s far from it. He’s the most kindhearted person Qiu Qiu knows.

They wash the dishes in silence. In Huang Xing’s room, they sit down to discuss the project. Mostly, Qiu Qiu watches Huang Xing correct the draft to his presentation script, circling key points and writing recommendations in the margins. It’s late when they finish. 

Qiu Qiu, seized by a sudden courage, decides to spend the night. He calls his mom from the hallway, assuring her he’ll be back in the morning and that he’s simply waiting out the rain at a friend’s house. His mom asks him which friend, and Qiu Qiu hesitates before telling her it’s someone from class he’s doing a project with. “He’s really smart,” he tells her, as if that even means something. “One of our top students. Huang Xing,” he adds, and feels an embarrassed flush rise up to his ears, along with the familiar flutter at the pit of his belly whenever Huang Xing crosses his mind. “I’ll call you, all right? I need to go. We’re doing homework.”

It’s a lie, but that gets her off his case. He slips the phone back into his pocket and enters Huang Xing’s room, finding him with his back turned to the door and his headphones around his neck. He’s finishing up a sketch, humming under his breath. His hair isn’t in its usual neat style that he wears for school, with a section in the back standing unevenly like nutgrass. There’s a beauty mark, just at the edges of his hairline, made visible by the fact his hair is tousled, for once.

“Sorry—I had to call my mom,” Qiu Qiu tells him. 

Huang Xing looks at him over his shoulder, offering him a soft smile. “Mn. I heard. Is your mom all right?”

Qiu Qiu shrugs. He’s never had to think about this question before, because none of his friends ever ask about his parents. It’s an unspoken rule; they may spend a majority of their free time together but school and home are topics that never surface. It shatters their fragile peace. But Huang Xing, Qiu Qiu is learning, is different from his friends. For one, he rarely does what Qiu Qiu is expecting, and for another, just looking at him fills Qiu Qiu with an unnameable feeling in his chest, like he’d swallowed helium or touched a live wire. 

“My mom’s fine,” he assures Huang Xing, and Huang Xing nods and leaves it be, knowing when to buoy them back to the safe harbour of mundane topics, namely, homework. He helps Qiu Qiu finish his problem set, and then it’s time for sleep at 11PM. Huang Xing takes the floor and lays out a sleeping mat, but Qiu Qiu feels bad relegating him there, so he offers to share the bed. Besides, it’s Huang Xing’s bed, and there’s room enough for two in a double. His own bed is a single, so he can only roll onto one side or the other: either Qiu Qiu faces the wall, or the flimsy makeshift curtain he’d draped around his bunk to cocoon himself from the rest of the world. 

Huang Xing keeps the desk lamp on, and it casts long shadows across the room, illuminating his profile and softening the sharp angles of his face. He sleeps with his hands folded on top of the covers like a doll, the corners of his lips turned up, his eyelashes stirring with every breath. Qiu Qiu stares at him until his eyelids fill with the syrupy warmth of exhaustion and he dozes off himself, still wearing his glasses and clutching his phone open to Douyin. He comes to, some blurry hour later, to Huang Xing’s soft voice in the dark.  

“Qiu Qiu,” Huang Xing whispers, sounding both close and faraway at the same time. Qiu Qiu feels like he’s dreaming, and maybe he is, or maybe he isn’t; with Huang Xing, he’s stopped being able to tell. Being around him always feels like Qiu Qiu’s in another world entirely, one where it’s only the two of them, buffeted against the sharp noise of reality and responsibilities. 

“Are you asleep?” Huang Xing asks, and then a weight is suddenly lifted off Qiu Qiu’s face as his glasses are plucked from his nose. He can’t see anything apart from the vaguest outline of Huang Xing’s face, and his grip on his phone slackens as Huang Xing takes that from him too, his fingers closing around nothing but air.

Then the bed shifts next to him, the mattress dipping, closer and closer. “I don’t hate you,” Huang Xing says, his knuckles brushing Qiu Qiu’s cheek in the barest of touches. His breath is warm against Qiu Qiu’s skin, a soft, silky caress. “I could never.”

The presentation is a success, barring a few minor hiccups. Qiu Qiu doesn’t make an utter fool of himself, that’s the most important thing, and Huang Xing is able to chime in with details of their research, impressing their teachers and earning some scattered applause. All in all, it’s a great partnership, over in a flash, and Qiu Qiu feels dazed and giddy in the aftermath, the way he usually does after playing a high-stakes basketball game. 

After class, as people get ready to leave, Huang Xing takes his sweet time stacking his books and organising the contents of his bag. He’s slower than usual, and he doesn’t look up at all even though Qiu Qiu is standing by the door like an idiot, waiting for him to acknowledge his presence. 

The hallway behind Qiu Qiu is awash with a rush of students, unleashed by the toll of bell. The rest of the class files out the door, in ones and then twos, with Qiu Qiu’s friends tugging him along until he’s stumbling backwards—away from the door, away from the classroom, away from Huang Xing who doesn’t glance up, even once, not until Qiu Qiu is completely out of sight.

It’s a bit anticlimactic, how life goes on, unchanged, afterwards. Qiu Qiu’s still got basketball practice most days of the week; on Friday afternoons, he blows his entire allowance at the Internet Cafe. Weekends are a combination of errands, more basketball and goofing around with his friends if he can cobble together enough change for pocket money.

And yet— the whole thing feels strange, knowing that Qiu Qiu no longer has any justifiable reason to keep any kind of communication with Huang Xing. He stares at their WeChat history, and their last messages are all about the project, five days ago. Qiu Qiu has not spoken to him since, not out of choice but because he feels like he’s being ignored again. It’s like they’ve gone back to being complete strangers. Qiu Qiu doesn’t even know what prompted the sudden shift when they were still on good terms only a few days ago. 

On a Friday evening, right after a two hour gaming streak at the cafe, Qiu Qiu bumps into Huang Xing by happenstance. Or, bump isn’t the correct word to use, because he hears the soft cry of cats in the adjacent alleyway, and something inside him propels him to look. It’s the same alley from months ago; maybe it’s the same cat, he thinks. 

And lo and behold, he’s right, and there Huang Xing is too, crouched on the ground feeding the cat from a tin of sardines. It’s a familiar scene, just like last time, down to the street lamps blanketing everything in light and shadow.

For a moment, the past seems to overlay the present, but Qiu Qiu is certain now the way he hasn’t been before, of that stirring inside his chest that makes it difficult for him to breathe.

“You can’t keep running from me forever,” Qiu Qiu tells Huang Xing, and he hadn’t intended to sprint before—because there’s no real reason to, Huang Xing is unlikely to take off in the opposite direction—but he finds himself taking the sidewalk in large, hurried strides. His heart begins racing, even though it’s barely any cardio compared to the amount he has to do while actually training for a game.

When he stands in front of Huang Xing, Huang Xing doesn’t immediately get up. He stares at Qiu Qiu first before rising to his feet and wiping his hands on the seat of his pants.

“I’m not running from you,” he says. 

Qiu Qiu doesn’t believe him. But he lets it go. There’s a look in Huang Xing’s face he’s never seen before and it disarms him into conceding. “All right,” he says, and then is startled when Huang Xing turns to walk away— just like that, no preamble whatsoever, rude and infuriating like they aren’t in the middle of a conversation. 

It’s the last straw, the final nail in the coffin, and Qiu Qiu’s anger ignites inside of him, and bursts into flames. 

He jogs to catch up to Huang Xing down the street, cupping his hands around his mouth. “I thought you said—I thought you said you didn’t hate me!”

It’s not what he’d meant to say, but it’s what comes out. Huang Xing pauses, and then he does turn to look Qiu Qiu in the eye, still with the same inscrutable expression wreathing his face. His lips part; they’re too soft to belong to any boy, Qiu Qiu thinks. But Huang Xing is not just any boy either. 

He’s— he’s—

“I don’t,” Huang Xing says. Then more quietly: “I don’t hate you.”

“Then, then— what ?” Qiu Qiu says, and this is the moment that he bursts out laughing, sharp and mean. His eyelids prickle, there’s that warmth again in the corners, and he feels desperate and out of control, aiming at everything and nothing. Huang Xing is so close that he can almost touch him. But when did Qiu Qiu start wanting to? 

“What?” Huang Xing asks, in that same even tone. He must sense Qiu Qiu’s desperation because he crosses the distance, bridging the berth between them until it gets smaller and smaller. Finally, it’s nonexistent. There’s a line, and he’s just crossed it, both in the literal and figurative sense. Outside is the before, and inside here is the after.

“Why do you always look at me like that,” Huang Xing asks, but it’s not really a question that Qiu Qiu can answer, either. 

Huang Xing cups Qiu Qiu’s face, and his thumb strokes the shape of Qiu Qiu’s mouth, seeking, and then he leans over and kisses him. Of course, it comes with no warning whatsoever, because that’s just the type of person he is: he goes and does whatever he wants. And it seems that what he wants right now is to kiss Qiu Qiu. 

Qiu Qiu melts, a little, at the edges, caught off guard that even his brain shuts off. 

The kiss lasts only as long as the lilting pause at the peak of a sigh, and then it’s over in a blink. Then Huang Xing is stepping back again, his face full of wonder like it was Qiu Qiu who’d kissed him and not the other way around. Qiu Qiu blinks at him, struck dumb, and then hears the rapid pounding of his heart. Blood rushes to his face, his ears. 

“A-A-Xing!” 

“I—you look like you wanted me to—” Huang Xing gestures vaguely to the whole of Qiu Qiu, now equally embarrassed, scrubbing a hand across his face and groaning. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to do that .”

Qiu Qiu doesn’t ask what he must have looked like to Huang Xing, because how can a person seem like they want to be kissed? What kind of face was he making just then? He realises, however, that this is true: that he does want Huang Xing kissing him after all. Not just that, but he wants Huang Xing touching him too. It doesn’t matter where; he would be happy to simply hold hands. He’s not a greedy person; he could survive on so little.

Qiu Qiu seizes him by the shoulders, and he surges up, on his toes, and kisses Huang Xing full on the mouth. Their teeth knock together painfully, but he keeps his grip tight around Huang Xing’s shoulders. He can hear Huang Xing sucking in a breath, can smell the scent of sweat on his hair, clean and familiar. He’s never kissed anyone before. Fuck, he’s never been kissed by anyone before, either. He has no idea what he’s doing, where to put his hands, how to move his mouth. It’s like learning a new language, feeling out its rhythms and sounding out the words for the first time. At some point, you find the right cadence all through trial and error. 

And isn’t that what being young is all about: that you could be stupid but also daring? Maybe this is what first love feels like, too, a buoyant lightness inside your chest that makes it feel like anything is possible. 

Huang Xing’s arms circle his waist, dragging him close, but it’s Huang Xing who also pulls away first, his face flushed from the tip of his nose all the way to his neck and ears. Qiu Qiu imagines it’s the same for him. He can tell from the heat on his own face that he isn’t faring any better.

“I thought you wouldn’t want me around anymore,” Huang Xing says.

“Who said that?” Qiu Qiu shoves him on the shoulder. “Who said I wouldn’t?!” Another shove. “You’re making assumptions about me! I never said that!”

Huang Xing nods, looking sheepish as he bites his lip. “Mn. I just thought—never mind. You were always so cool to me. I didn’t think we’d ever be friends, Qiu Dingjie.” 

“All you had to do was ask,” Qiu Qiu tells him, mumbling the words into a bony shoulder. His heart won’t stop beating madly. The weight of Huang Xing’s hand on the small of his back is like an anchor keeping him locked in place, pressed chest to chest against the hull of Huang Xing’s body, real and warm and so alive. He can hear Huang Xing’s heart beating too; he can hear the sound of his slow breaths, measured, moving across the shell of Qiu Qiu’s ear, making him shiver down to the ends of his toes. He’s half an inch taller than Huang Xing, and yet in the circle of his arms, he feels so small. 

“I’m asking now,” Huang Xing whispers, his fingers touching Qiu Qiu’s hair, sweeping it back from his face. 

“What?”

“Qiu Qiu,” Huang Xing says, and Qiu Qiu realises this is the first time he’s ever called him that, out in the open, tender and incredibly reverent, “Can I kiss you? Please? Qiu Qiu,” he says. 

Qiu Qiu feels something inside of him move, shift, like drifts of snow melting from the highest peak of a mountain. “Sure,” he says, already leaning forward to meet Huang Xing’s waiting mouth. “Kiss me.”

Huang Xing makes good on his promise and smiles when he does.

Basketball may be Qiu Qiu’s favourite sport, but these days his life doesn’t solely revolve around after school practice. There are other things keeping him busy, and though academics still aren’t his strong suit, at least he isn’t failing, and he’s able to hand in his assignments on time. Small victories count for something after all. It’s not the end of the world if he doesn’t graduate with honours. 

Qiu Qiu takes it one day at a time.   

At the school gate, there’s Huang Xing waiting for him with his phone in hand, an earbud plugged into one ear as he bobs his head to music. 

Qiu Qiu calls his name once he’s within ear shot, waving his arms like a pinwheel. 

At the sound of his name, Huang Xing glances up. Then his expression softens and he waves back, crossing the distance to meet Qiu Qiu halfway.  

Fin.