Archive of Our Own

Each time Lu Guang resets the timeline, he loses a piece of himself— a memory will always go missing.

He realised this quickly into his first few dives: he forgot his father’s face first, and then, eventually, his mother’s. This loss, however, didn’t upset him because his parents had been terrible people who’d given him memories he would rather have blotted out anyway.

So Lu Guang learnt to write things down; it didn’t matter where— as long as he carried it in a notebook or even a piece of paper on him, he found the writings would follow him well into the next dive.

But this. This is a memory he will forget. The one he chooses to let go.

(It keeps coming back though, keeps finding its way to him. Like rain to the sea, stars to the moon, this too is set in stone— it’ll haunt him for as long as he dares to go back.)

This is the smoke from Cheng Xiaoshi’s occasional cigarette, when Lu Guang catches him out on the balcony with nicotine dangling down the curve of his mouth.

Stress reliever, he likes to call it. Knows Lu Guang can’t stand the stale, burning stench of cheap tobacco and burning paper and so, he opts for smoking outside— as outside as he can within their little apartment.

Considerate and kind, even with death sticking out playfully from between his teeth.

Sorry, he says, in a way that tells Lu Guang he is not, but we all die anyway, no?

Ironically, this is not the thing that kills him.

Lu Guang almost wishes it was.

He always returns back to January. 

Lu Guang looks around.

The air is frigid and cold—it’s winter in the Sichuan province, which means that the photo studio closes early. Sure enough, he catches sight of the 'closed' sign, slightly askew because Cheng Xiaoshi always forgets to reposition it after flipping it over.

There's a pang in his chest, as he pushes the door open and walks through.

Their apartment, cosy and a little messy greets him warmly. The smell of spices fill the room and from the kitchen, Cheng Xiaoshi can be heard humming a song Lu Guang vaguely remembers from a soap opera.

He lets himself sink into their old couch. Feel the ache of everything sifting throughout his body, like wind through the cornfields.

It should be easier by now. To feel so much and not feel it enough at all.

Cheng Xiaoshi once told him the aftermath of diving needed time. 

My hands feel like they don't belong to me at all. He'd explained, sprawled out in Lu Guang's lap. With the back of his hand covering his eyes, Lu Guang hadn't been able to discern Cheng Xiaoshi's expression.

I'm a stranger inside my own body. Sometimes I forget I can move my feet. It's a shock when they do. I just— I need time. To know I won't get washed away by everything.

He'd sat up then and Lu Guang could suddenly see how ancient he looked. Heavy, as if the weight of whatever it was he seemed to be carrying after each dive had been suffocating him. Think of it like clearing your computer's cache, Lu Guang. 

It was worse. So much so, Lu Guang couldn't believe Cheng Xiaoshi experienced it on a regular basis.

The feeling of memories being resown in his head, the overload of information that left him hot and burning, the ache of failing yet again and if he just closed his eyes, he could feel it there— Cheng Xiaoshi’s cold, stilled hand in between his.

Somewhere along the dives, 'clearing cache' became staring at the ceiling until the world around Lu Guang stopped tilting over.

He had to move forward. Couldn't waste any more time because Cheng Xiaoshi would be waiting.

Always waiting, inside the photographs, for Lu Guang to come back.

Cheng Xiaoshi is a monument, in this manner. The constant, in the sea of change.

Funny because in real time, Cheng Xiaoshi hates change. Resists it, as much as he can. Fights back until he grows tired of it. Makes Lu Guang soften, just thinking about it.

He moves towards the kitchen where Cheng Xiaoshi, who’s making dinner (shrimp dumplings), will call out and ask for his help. He knows this for a fact because this is another inherited memory he has lived before.

“Pass the filling here,” he says, just as Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth.

“Gah!” Cheng Xiaoshi startles, nearly dropping the spoon in his hands. He shoots Lu Guang a withering look. “I think I just lost ten years of my life— why’d you sneak up like that?”

“Scaredy cat.”

“No dumplings for you then.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” Lu Guang levels him with a stare. “You wouldn’t.”

His skin still feels prickly, legs like lead, unused to the sudden change in environment— after all, the last dive had ended in gunshots and blood, right here in their apartment.

You’re here now. Safe. Focus.

“I would,” Cheng Xiaoshi hands him the ingredients. The filling smells heavenly— Lu Guang takes a small, appreciative sniff. “But today I’m feeling the power of friendship and kindness.”

“Thank the gods.” Lu Guang says. (Ironically, he doesn’t believe in such things. Hasn’t since the day Cheng Xiaoshi first died. Whatever devotion he had left, he’d placed it quietly into Cheng Xiaoshi’s unknowing palms— gave himself to those hands, the same ones that need him in return.)

Cheng Xiaoshi gives him a funny look.

“How’d you know I was about to call you anyway?” he asks, delicately folding the dough. Lu Guang watches, impressed, as the dumpling begins to take shape.

“Because,” he says, dusting away a lingering flour streak across Cheng Xiaoshi’s shirt. “I know you.”

Lu Guang can’t sleep.

Partly because the February night air still consists of an icy chill even though it’s supposed to be spring.

Mostly because the reason for his insomnia is shifting uneasily in the bed below, groaning softly, with a tender voice calling out for a mother he barely remembers in the dark.

Like a wounded animal, Lu Guang thinks, blearily climbing down the bunk-bed stairs.

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” he calls softly, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. “I’m here.”

It’s quiet for a moment before Cheng Xiaoshi rolls over to face him slowly, his blanket rustling as he moves. Cracks one eye open, like he’s still trapped somewhere inside his head. Caught right in the middle of dreams and reality.

“…Lu Guang?”

“Mm. Scoot over a bit.”

That gets his attention; he straightens up, any sign of lethargy immediately driven away.

“What for?” he says flatly. “I’m not a child you know. I don’t need comforting.”

“It’s not that,” Lu Guang shuts his eyes, holding back a sigh. Would it kill you to ask for it sometimes? “I can’t sleep if you make a ruckus.”

For this is the only way Cheng Xiaoshi will comply; anything soft and gentle only will make him angrier, sharper. Make him square his shoulders, draw his walls up higher.

Lu Guang has learnt that only words twisted with reproach will reach him— Cheng Xiaoshi only seems to understand comfort at the expense of his own self-worth; in thinking that everything is his fault, in that disappointment, only then is he able to finally accept solace.

Sure enough, Cheng Xiaoshi obediently shifts to make room without another word. Lu Guang climbs into the space beside him triumphantly, and thinks: I win.

He shouldn’t, but Cheng Xiaoshi has always managed to bring the worst out of him— all his childish and petty parts, the bits of him that have gone rotten— out into the sun.

In a way, this is exposure therapy he supposes. Therapists would say it’s excellent in helping him confront his fears.

Strangely, he doesn’t mind. Even stranger yet, Cheng Xiaoshi accepts these parts of him willingly with open arms— somehow takes them and turns the bad into something almost good. Looks exhilarated, when Lu Guang’s feeling mean enough to show it.

On instinct, his hand drifts towards Cheng Xiaoshi’s, nearly brushing against it before he regains his senses and lets it drop.

“I dreamt of my mother.” Cheng Xiaoshi murmurs. In the dark, he looks smaller. “Of the day before she left. We had ice cream, y’know? And movie night. Then she read a story just before I went to bed and when I woke up in the morning, she was already gone.”

Lu Guang leans in slightly closer, letting their shoulders touch.

“Sometimes I’m scared, Lu Guang,” he whispers, fingers curling around his sheet. “What was so important that she left her kid all alone and never reached out? Not even once? Did my mother not love me enough to stay?”

Lu Guang swallows, chest tight.

“Cheng Xiaoshi.” he says, as soft as he can. “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

“Do you...” Cheng Xiaoshi begins, then catches himself. Even with the pitch black shrouding them, Lu Guang can trace the faint outline of his silhouette with his eyes. He’s trembling. “Will you leave too?”

Will you leave? means something else entirely here— something neither of them are brave enough to say because to speak it out loud means to make it exist. To make it exist, means to stop running around each other in circles and to have it come true.

Yes, Lu Guang thinks, gritting his teeth. Arbitrarily. Badly. Carefully. I do. Yes, yes, yes.

But here’s the thing: Cheng Xiaoshi is afraid, and Lu Guang’s an undeserving coward.

So in lieu of his thoughts, Lu Guang says: “I can’t promise forever, but I’ll stay as long as I can.”

Cheng Xiaoshi twists around, his mouth a tender line.

Because this is as good as an answer. This is close enough to what he’s asking for.

“Good enough.” He says casually, but there’s a warmth in his voice that had not been there before. He inches just a bit closer to Lu Guang. Lets their limbs entangle, catch each other under the sheets.

The February night is cold, but this space between them is warm and they are weaving something here— something good. Something soft. Neither of them names it for what it is.

The next morning, and all the mornings after, they never bring this night up again.

But sometimes when Lu Guang wakes up with the space next to him empty (it still lingers with the heat and scent of Cheng Xiaoshi; like he never even left), he’ll walk into the kitchen to find a mess of chamomile stems— each one of their heads plucked cleanly— and a cup so hot, it burns before he even touches it.

Everything Cheng Xiaoshi does leaves a memento of some sorts— he’s a souvenir in that manner.

Lu Guang’s favourite. The one he just keeps on losing.

Lu Guang is not a spring markets type of person.

He’s terrible at choosing fresh produce to bring home, and he’s not remotely interested in the crafts that are promoted by eager business owners, desperate to reel in even at least one customer.

But today he’s here because it’s Qiao Ling’s birthday (also because he was dragged out against his will) and Cheng Xiaoshi is cooking her favourite dish: braised beef hot pot.

And really, this whole picking-the-produce and jostling-around-with-Cheng Xiaoshi thing isn’t that bad.

In all honesty, it’s…nice.

To be able to do everyday things like this without the constant grip of anxiety. To continue arguing over which mayonnaise they should get, which offers to look out for and has Cheng Xiaoshi thrown out the receipts, or has he squirrelled them away in his wallet again instead of disposing it like he should?

All of this, and more, Lu Guang wants. Craves, so badly, there’s a swell in his heart.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s cheeks are flushed from the heat.

With his messy hair and boyish smile, it’s really no wonder women keep twisting round to glance back at him. He isattractive, Lu Guang knows this intimately well— has watched enough times the way his collarbones peek out just the slightest when his shirt dips, the curve of his mouth, the way he looks back ever so often at Lu Guang and lets himself soften when their eyes meet.

Lu Guang wants so badly, it hurts.

“Hey misters!”

They turn to find a beady-eyed woman lounging in the doorway of a booth draped with velvet curtains and faded paper charms. She looks older, in her fifties maybe, with streaks of silver running through her tangled hair. In her hand is a cigarette, with smoke curling lazily upwards.

We all die anyway, no? The corner of his mouth twitches down on instinct. He forces it straight.

The woman smiles at him knowingly, with a grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Amid vegetable stalls and cheap plastic balloons, both she and the booth look wildly out of place.

“Oh the very picture of youth,” she laughs, blowing out a wisp of smoke. “Would you handsome fellas be interested in having your fortunes read?”

Lu Guang takes one look at the booth and says, flatly, “No.”

The woman beams, like she expected this response. “First reading’s free,” Her bracelets clink as she waves them closer. “You two look like you could use a little…guidance.”

Cheng Xiaoshi perks up instantly. “Free? Did you say free?” He pokes at Lu Guang’s arm. “C’mon, don’t be such a stick in the mud!”

Lu Guang scowls. “I just don’t want to waste time on cheap tricks.”

“Cheap tricks?” Cheng Xiaoshi gasps dramatically. “But what if I’m destined to be young, handsome and rich? I’ll never get to know because of you!”

“You’re already unbearably full of yourself. Rich would make it worse.”

“Aww, you think I’m handsome?”

Lu Guang glares but Cheng Xiaoshi only smiles wider, tugging insistently at his wrist.

“Tell you what,” The woman says, clearly amused. She flicks the ash from her cigarette. “If I’m wrong, you can go back to arguing about mayonnaise. And just so you know, Kewpie mayo is the best brand to get.”

“Thanks!” Cheng Xiaoshi says. And then: “Oh, she heard us.”

“And so did probably everyone else within a fifty-mile radius,” Lu Guang tells him, but he doesn’t stop the hand that pulls him along inside.

The interior of the booth is dimly lit and heavy with incense. The smell is much too strong for Lu Guang— it makes him feel nauseous. There are clocks are scattered everywhere inside: cheap plastic alarm clocks, elegant wood-carved ones and a huge grandfather clock in the middle of the room, ticking away like a heartbeat.

“Sit,” the woman orders, suddenly sharper. “And give me your names and ages.”

“Piece of cake,” Cheng Xiaoshi says flopping onto a stool. Lu Guang follows reluctantly. “I’m Cheng Xiaoshi. Twenty-one. This grouch here is Lu Guang and he’s—”

Tick. Tick. Tick…

The clicking of the moving clock hands— some faster, some slower— stop abruptly.

An eerie stillness settles over them, and Cheng Xiaoshi nervously glances at the wall, where all the devices now hang silently.

“Um,” he mumbles. “Does this happen often?”

The woman gazes at Lu Guang, eyes boring almost uncomfortably into his. There’s something accusatory in it, and belatedly, Lu Guang realises that she isn’t smiling anymore.

“Oh dear,” she says, suddenly displeased. “You’ve gone and done something you shouldn’t have.”

There’s a lump in his throat. Lu Guang blinks. Tries to swallow around it. Tries to speak but his mouth feels dry, like there’s cotton stuffed inside.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches, seemingly lost.

“You can’t do it kid,” the woman leans forward, a strange glint in her eyes. “You can’t win. They’re coming.”

Lu Guang stiffens immediately.

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” he says, but his own voice sounds a million miles away. “Let’s go.”

Somehow, he manages to hold onto his companion. Grounds himself enough to yank Cheng Xiaoshi out of the booth, away from that woman, away from the cloying smell of thick smoke and incense, away from those stupid clocks and into the sunlight.

“Wait, hey, wha— Lu Guang, calm down! She was just— ow, my arm—”

It’s too bright here. Too loud. Too many people. They come to a stop somewhere quieter, though where exactly Lu Guang’s not sure. He can’t find it in himself to care.

How did she know? He runs a hand through his hair. It’s trembling— won’t listen to his to brain to stop, stop, stop.

Cheng Xiaoshi sighs beside him. “I didn’t even get to hear if I make it past eighty.”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer. His grip still hasn’t loosened.

Cheng Xiaoshi frowns then, at the quivering fingers curled around his arm. Something like fondness passes by his face as he gently pries Lu Guang’s hand away. Holds it carefully, like he’s afraid Lu Guang will shatter into pieces. Like he knows, somehow*.* Maybe he does. Maybe, this is him saying, I know Lu Guang. You’re scared, I am too. You’ve been carrying us all along, so let me carry you now.

Or maybe it’s just pure, unfiltered wistfulness on Lu Guang’s part.

“…Cheng Xiaoshi,” Lu Guang says, aching, aching, aching. “You have to always follow my words when we dive into photos, okay?”

“Okay.” Cheng Xiaoshi echoes. Tugs Lu Guang gently along, like he’s guiding a lost child back to safety. “Okay. Let’s go home.”

Sometimes, still, when Lu Guang wakes up, he does not know where he is.

Their hotel room in Bridon? Their bedroom, with the locked door and walls bloody? Or maybe back in the old house where they first met each other as children?

(Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t remember. Fair near broke his heart when Lu Guang realised it was because of him— becauase he gave a memory away for the better, except Cheng Xiaoshi was the one who forgot this time and Lu Guang was wretched enough to remember.)

But then there’ll come the sound of pipes running, the rain outside a quiet hush and from time to time, Cheng Xiaoshi can be heard snuffling in his sleep.

It’s occasional— there are days he wants to never open his eyes again; wants to keep his eyelids squeezed shut, like he’s seven all over again, making a wish and blowing out the candles on his cake. But then, like magic, there will always be tea waiting for him at their coffee table and with it, Cheng Xiaoshi.

Today is one of those days. As they sit, Lu Guang silently sipping his drink and Cheng Xiaoshi eyeing him, Qiao Ling walks in and places a large package on the table.

Or tries too— it’s big enough that she has trouble setting it down. Lu Guang rises to help.

“Many happy returns Mr Cheng,” Qiao Ling makes a show out of bowing graciously before flopping down in between them. “Twenty huh? Still feels like you’re twelve to me.”

“At least I don’t look twelve.” And then, as an afterthought: “But thanks.”

“What’s this?” Lu Guang cuts in, gesturing to the package before Qiao Ling can retort. He’d rather they not get into a brawl now— the day has barely begun and he already can feel a headache coming on.

“Ah,” Qiao Ling says, sliding it over in Cheng Xiaoshi’s direction, dispute forgotten. “It’s from Xu Shanshan and Dong Yi. They send their wishes by the way, and say they’re sorry they couldn't make it today.”

“Eh,” Cheng Xiaoshi waves a hand. He unwraps the package with his free one.“It’s fine, tell them to enjoy the honeymoon.”

The present turns out to be an assortment of patisserie delicacies and boxes of Italian snacks— eclairs, macaroons, tiramisu (They come in cans? Cheng Xiaoshi asks dubiously) and other packaged goodies with foreign names none of them even try to pronounce.

“My turn!” Qiao Ling hands Cheng Xiaoshi a badly wrapped rectangular box. When he looks at her questioningly, she says sheepishly: “Sorry. You know how bad I am at gift wrapping.”

(It’s true— that one time they let her handle gift-wrapping a collection of photos for a client, she’d somehow managed to get her finger cut. Not just a small cut either— a big fat line across her index finger with rivulets of red dripping down.

It was the tape dispenser’s edge was all she said. After that, they turned her down whenever she offered to help. )

Her gift is a pair of basketball shoes and socks to go with them.

“Qiao Ling jie…” It’s the first time Lu Guang catches him speechless. (And also the first time he’s addressed Qiao Ling properly, with the use of honorifics and all.)

Cheng Xiaoshi is a man of many words, so to see him at such a loss— in Qiao Ling’s books— is a unanimous win.

“Hmph,” She sniffs triumphantly. “So you do know who’s older then? Do me a favour and actually take care of these will you? The state of your current ones are disgusting.”

“I could kiss you.”

“Urgh!” Qiao Ling wrinkles her nose but she’s smiling. “No please don’t, the thought alone makes me want to barf.”

Despite his valiant efforts, Lu Guang can’t quite manage to suppress the snort that slips out; both of them whirl round on him expectantly.

Well? Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes are saying, What have you got for me?

“Happy birthday.” Lu Guang tells him.

They’ve gone through these motions since they were kids. Birthdays are better when you’re with people you love! Cheng Xiaoshi told him that a long time ago, when they could still be small. When it was easier back then— when the world was kinder and they could still be boys.

You don’t remember, Lu Guang doesn’t say. Instead, he shoves a paper bag into Cheng Xiaoshi’s arms. In every dive, he gives Cheng Xiaoshi the same thing; an old polaroid camera— one Cheng Xiaoshi’s been hankering after but never bought because it sold for a hefty sum.

It’s why he’s surprised this time when Cheng Xiaoshi goes very still and unlike all his other Cheng Xiaoshis, very, very quiet.

“Do you not like it?” Lu Guang asks, heart racing. Was Cheng Xiaoshi disappointed? Had Lu Guang changed something? Would the future be affected?

“No,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, eyes shining. “I like it very much.”

“Okay.” Qiao Ling interrupts, eyeing them suspiciously. “I don’t know what’s going on here but I need to sleep. It’s too early for all of this. I’ll leave you guys to your ‘friendship is magic’ schtick.”

Yep, there’s that headache coming on again.

Lu Guang wants to die.

—

Dinner is great.

Lu Guang will even so far as to say it’s the best hotpot he’s ever had. The aftermath? Not so much.

Because why on earth is he dragging— nearly carrying even— Cheng Xiaoshi to the nearest convenience store all because the idiot had decided to have his soup spice level set to ‘extremely spicy’?

He’s barely responsive; only moving when Lu Guang nudges him, or drags him along.

Like a puppet, Lu Guang thinks forlornly as he takes another quivering step. God, Cheng Xiaoshi was heavy.

“Lhu Khwuang,” Cheng Xiaoshi sputters desperately. He’s let his tongue go limp, dangling down pathetically from his mouth. “Mah thung’s on fyayur!”

Lu Guang gives him an unimpressed look.

“Congrats on finding out firsthand about the power of chili padi.”

He reaches over for the banana milk he’s just purchased and opens it. Passes it over to Cheng Xiaoshi. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

Like a man dying of thirst, Cheng Xiaoshi chugs the drink down greedily. Then, he sighs— a long, drawn out thing of relief— before collapsing weakly against Lu Guang.

“Thought I was going to die.”

“You big baby.”

“You don’t have a right to be saying that when you’re literally Chinese and can’t handle spice.”

“Touché.” Lu Guang says, amused. 

They sit like that in silence for a good while.

Neither of them have a watch so it’s hard to tell how much time has passed, but the number of people slowly dwindle, and the stars gradually become easier to count in the darkening sky.

Across them, there is a man smoking cigarettes.

He's been present the whole while they've been there, smoking through an entire pack and now he’s reaching for a new one, the crinkle of plastic jarringly loud in the quiet much to Cheng Xiaoshi’s chagrin. He keeps looking over now, at the smoker, with furrowed brows and his lip in between his teeth and Lu Guang can't help the words that spill out. 

“He’s allowed to,” Lu Guang says, in response to the frown that appears on his companion’s face. “It’s an outdoor area. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“God,” Cheng Xiaoshi scowls deeper. “Why the hell would you even want to smoke? What can be so hard that you gotta pick up a cigarette? Don't these people know that secondhand smoke is just as bad for the others?”

And Lu Guang can only think back to a timeline where Cheng Xiaoshi held a joint in between those slender fingers lovingly. Can only ache once again, with all the things he cannot say.

“Would you want to?” he says before he can stop himself. “It’s sort of like a… stress reliever isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Cheng Xiaoshi says. “Or maybe they just don’t want to destress properly. Maybe they’re just looking for the easy way out. Dying earlier doesn’t solve anything, it literally just accelerates your problems.”

“How do you destress properly then?” Lu Guang wonders.

"Easy," He likes the grin that stretches across Cheng Xiaoshi's face. Makes him look playful. Wolfish. “By annoying you and Qiao Ling duh.”

“I hate you.” Lu Guang says, and beside him Cheng Xiaoshi laughs softly. 

Up in the clouds, the stars in their scattered constellations blink at them steadily. Almost owlishly— like they’re waiting. Watching.

Cheng Xiaoshi lies down on his side. Lets his head fall into Lu Guang’s lap.

From this close, Lu Guang can see all the freckles and tiny dots sprinkled over the vast expanse of his face. Places where the sun kissed him and lingered, leaving behind speckled spots shaped like tiny islands.

For some reason, this reminds him of the sea. Because even the waters need something to cling onto. Because when the moon rises every night, the waves come home to the shore, the island, the beach. 

He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding.

“Happy birthday Cheng Xiaoshi.” Lu Guang whispers, hands coming to carefully cradle the boy in his arms. 

The ocean can live independently in its great endless beauty.

But there is no island without the waters. Without its purpose, how can something exist? 

May brings about persistent rainy showers and leaky ceilings.

Cheng Xiaoshi, adamant about cleaning it himself instead of wasting money over something so simple, insists on tidying up the whole house while they’re at it. (Needless to say, it isn’t long before both the plumber and the roofer come in to fix the ceiling. Cheng Xiaoshi sends him away with an abashed glance and it makes him look like a scolded puppy. Lu Guang has to fight the smile that threatens to break across his face.)

He’s dusting the bookshelf when Cheng Xiaoshi comes barrelling over, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

“Lu Guang!”

He extends an outstretched hand and Lu Guang peers down curiously to see what he’s holding.

It’s an old photograph, crinkled around the edges.

Two boys, teenagers, still soft around the edges— one laughing so hard his eyes are a hazy blur and the other watching him, entranced by what he finds there, on his friend’s face.

It makes fondness so big well up inside Lu Guang’s heart that he’s scared it will spill right out onto the floor, all over them. Because if you think about it, really, the heart is just a box— there’s only so much one can feel in the moment. There’s a limit on how much it can hold, how much it can carry.

People always say to think outside the box. Lu Guang says no thank you to that; he’s perfectly content sitting inside this little box housed beneath his ribs. Because it gives, where the mind refuses. It remembers, when memory fails him.

“Earth to Lu Guang? ” A gentle tap in the middle of his forehead brings him back. It takes him a second to realise that Cheng Xiaoshi had just flicked him and was now pressing the back of his hand to that same spot, fretting like a mother. “Doesn’t seem like you got a fever.”

“Sorry,” Lu Guang shakes his head slightly. He still feels a little dazed. “You were saying?”

Cheng Xiaoshi makes a face then, one that says: Wanna talk about it?

Lu Guang presses his lips into a firm, thin line. A clear, ungiving No.

“I was just thinking how different things were.” Cheng Xiaoshi says, clearly rebuffed. The hurt lingers on his face. Lu Guang wants to wipe it away. “You don’t smile like that anymore.”

Lu Guang hums but doesn’t agree or disagree.

“We should take a new one. Start fresh, just you and me.” Cheng Xiaoshi suggests when he realises Lu Guang isn’t going to speak.

“Sure.” He nods and it’s enough to win a smile from Cheng Xiaoshi, who immediately leaves to set up the camera. Afraid maybe, that Lu Guang would change his mind.

He can’t find it in himself to tell Cheng Xiaoshi that they shouldn’t, he shouldn’t because a new picture could very well alter the timeline and then Lu Guang would have to raise his walls even higher; seek out more outliers that were sure to come. 

Because if he fell now, then grief would surely be waiting to catch him with its endless hands.

But should he fail— and the thought makes his heart run cold— then at the very least, they will have this.

He will have this and he will remember.

Time can undo everything Lu Guang has worked for but the memories, it cannot erase. Everything he’s seen and touched— it’s all very real. It exists inside of him.

There are times he lies in bed awake at night, simply because he does not recognise himself anymore; is he Lu Guang from the present or the past, or the future? Who had begun this whole thing? Where was that boy now?

The answer he’s decided on is this: he exists not wholly, but in fragments. Pieces. Shards of cracked mirrors pieced together, the jagged edges held together by resentment. A kaleidoscope of failures. A reflection of all the Lu Guangs he’s ever been.

In this way, Lu Guang is an amalgamation. 

In this way, he can finally close his eyes and let go.

Cheng Xiaoshi buys some seeds to grow in a pot.

“What plant?” Lu Guang asks yet again because Cheng Xiaoshi is being difficult; for reasons unknown to Lu Guang, he’s insisted on keeping it a secret.

“I don’t kiss and tell.” Cheng Xiaoshi grins smugly, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream. It only grows wider when Lu Guang sighs wearily. “It’s June’s secret, you’ll know when it grows.”

“Then how am I supposed to help you if I don’t even know what you’re supposed to be growing dumbass?”

“You’ll know when it grows.” Cheng Xiaoshi repeats. “The secret of June— what a lovely month.”

Lu Guang doesn’t prod him.

Obviously, they do not grow.

Sure, the seeds have somehow miraculously sprouted, Lu Guang will give him that much credit considering how he only ever remembers to water them once every three days.

But the seedlings have already started wilting, brown and frayed at the tips and still, Cheng Xiaoshi remains oblivious to this.

So as per usual, the seedlings also becomes one of Lu Guang’s many responsibilities. Partly because he too is curious as to what will bloom: a rose? A bit flamboyant but it would suit Cheng Xiaoshi. Qiao Ling likes them too. Marigolds? Lu Guang heard they were easy to grow.

This is giving him another migraine, just thinking about the endless possibilities— this is another unexpected node, an outlier that hadn’t ever occured before in all the past timelines.

Lu Guang doesn’t understand why this Cheng Xiaoshi is so unlike all the others. This Cheng Xiaoshi— he feels things deeper. More prone to emotional outbursts and every once in a while he’ll surprise Lu Guang with things like this.

Lu Guang didn’t even know he was interested in gardening.

(It doesn’t matter though, Lu Guang will save him regardless. Because this is still the boy he cannot live without. Because their fates are already fiercely wrung tight around each other’s necks— there is no undoing the knot anymore.)

—

“Cheng Xiaoshi, have you watered the seeds today?”

“Ah. I forgot to…”

—

“Lu Guang look! Hurry!”

It must have been around five in the morning when he’s jolted awake by Cheng Xiaoshi shaking his shoulders. He jerks up immediately, chest unbearably hot and tight against the balmy heat. His skin feels foreign, like there’s thousands of needles sinking in all over.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

His eyes dart all over Cheng Xiaoshi in a blur— chest, arms, face— but finds nothing. No bruises or bleeding. No signs of violence. Just brown, so bright it hurts, staring back. Wide-eyed and surprised. Deer caught in headlights.

“What?” Cheng Xiaoshi says, baffled. “What do you mean? I just came to tell you that the flowers have bloomed.”

The words land oddly against the roar in Lu Guang’s ears. Slowly, he loosens his shoulders. Exhales, long and hard. Ah, he can’t stop shaking. Perhaps it was the chill in the air? But it had been so warm just a second ago.

Why is it, Lu Guang thinks wearily, that whenever I finally mangage to fall asleep, something always happens?

Cheng Xiaoshi scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly. He has the decency to look ashamed. “Okay so maybe that wasn’t the best way to wake somebody up… I’m sorry, Lu Guang.”

“…Never mind.” Lu Guang says, not unkindly. The sound of his heartbeat fades back into the background. “They’ve bloomed?”

Quietly, Cheng Xiaoshi pushes the pot into his palms.

Blue. The soil is overrun with flocks of flower heads so blue, they look almost iridescent in the darkness of the morning. The sight makes Lu Guang freeze in place and all he can see is blue, blue, blue.

“I know you took care of them for me.” Cheng Xiaoshi says fondly. “You big old sap, did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“They’re for you.” He adds. Lu Guang still doesn’t move. “They’re forget-me-nots and…” he trails off, courage suddenly running out of momentum.

“And?” Lu Guang murmurs.

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs, suddenly bashful. “It reminded me of you.”

Something grows inside of him, so quick the magnitude of it scares him. Grabs him tenderly, by the neck. Whispers: How lucky you are, to have someone who thinks of you. To have them see something as insignificant as packaged seeds and let that lead the way to you.

Lu Guang glances down at the flowers.

How can the world feel so small in my hands? The thought slips into his mind. How can it be so blue?

“Thank you.” He says, and entirely means I love you.

It’s pouring outside and they are watching the TV. Some obscure indie film which he does not bother remembering the name of. On screen, there are two people— one blonde, one brunette— on a boat. They are talking, and the conversation goes like this:

Venice is sinking, my dear, Blondie gives his glass a swirl. Inside it, crimson liquid sloshes lazily. What’ll we do now? Move countries? Where shall we go?

I wish you’d stop, Brunette sighs. She picks at her fingers, her left brandishing a large diamond ring. So what if it’s sinking? It’s still standing proud, isn’t it?

You’re staying?

Where will I go? I have everything here and if I move, I have nothing. If it does sink, then I’ll also have nothing. I’d rather have everything to lose than nothing to gain.

From beside him: “How can a country sink?”

“It’s a city,” Lu Guang tells him. “Not a country.”

“Same thing,” Cheng Xiaoshi clicks his tongue. He’s sweating even with the storm raging outside; the July humidity does that— brings about peculiar cramps and sucks the water dry out of their fatigued bodies. “She’s right though— I’d rather stay and die having everything than start over having nothing.”

Lu Guang wishes he wouldn’t do this; this perpetual bad habit of saying things he never meant. Cheng Xiaoshi’s always been one for throwing caution to the wind— it’s who he is, but it sours Lu Guang’s teeth all the same.

He clears his throat, swallowing around a lump. “You think so?”

“Oh I know so.” A beat. A flicker of hesitance that says, Should I say it? Am I allowed to?

“I know how lonely you’ll be if I’m gone,” Cheng Xiaoshi studies his hands. Folds and then unfurls them. Lu Guang watches quietly. “But hey, lucky you! ‘Cause I won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

In the movie, the woman begins to cry, fingers clutching at her lover’s shirt as though if she held on hard enough, she could fixate him there entirely. She pleads with the man, who in turn shakes his head firmly. A string of sentences in a foreign language tumble between them— French? Spanish? And then in jarring English so clear, even Cheng Xiaoshi frowns at the screen, she says: Don’t go.

Two syllables. Two people. Two worlds held together on the cusp of the same breath— Don’t go.

In a way, Lu Guang envies her— she at least can try and hold onto her lover; Cheng Xiaoshi keeps slipping further and further away. Invisible hands that take him somewhere else— somewhere Lu Guang isn’t allowed. There’s no holding him, no fixing him in place.

They are here, under the warm glow of the flickering light, and this is real, and yet Lu Guang can’t help but feel weary. Wary. Afraid, afraid, afraid.

He’s done the math, knows the most basic rule very well: An equation will always contain an operator— plus, minus, multiply, divide.

This is the division between them: one line that segregates, and two dots on either side of that line. Cheng Xiaoshi and Lu Guang, divided by that line— two worlds apart. Two circles, separated by time and space, life and death.

“Lu Guang?” Amber eyes find him. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” Lu Guang blinks. Cheng Xiaoshi’s face comes into focus. “Just thinking. You should try it sometime.”

He slides a cushion underneath his back. It’s been aching lately. Tender. Sore. The rain does that to him often— leaves him full of aches and holes and sensitive sores. Reminds him that he is not who he’s pretending to be— that he is not twenty one, not really.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks over. A pause. Lu Guang can tell he really wants to say something by the look on his face.

“Sometimes, you…” he trails off. Sometimes it’s like you aren’t here. Where do you go? Reaches over to gently push Lu Guang onto his belly. “Never mind. Here, let me.”

Lately, he’s taken to massaging Lu Guang’s back— the parts that smart and burn— with some sort of herbal oil. It’s a nice feeling; keeps Lu Guang grounded. Packs all the bad, bad thoughts into a box and throws it away well into tomorrow.

“Is this better?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks.

His hands tickle the back of Lu Guang’s neck. The smell of the oil is strong— it makes Lu Guang wrinkle his nose. The TV has been turned off, he realises drowsily as he slowly twists over to face Cheng Xiaoshi. As have the lights.

It’s still raining— the soft thrum against their window is evidence of that and the occasional lightning that flashes through their living room makes Cheng Xiaoshi look smaller somehow. Quieter. Unlike himself.

Wordlessly, Lu Guang reaches for his hand. Finds the outline of it, so painfully familiar, he could recognise it with his eyes closed. Flat. Rough. A little sweaty. Always a little sweaty, because Cheng Xiaoshi is a nervous man who hates showing it, and so, it manifests under his hands, his feet, over the arch of his forehead. Lu Guang knows this well. 

“Lu Guang.” Cheng Xiaoshi says, carefully.

He raises his other hand— the one that is not clasping Lu Guang’s— to his face. Rests it gently against the side of Lu Guang’s cheek, like he’s waiting. Like he’s scared to move any closer. Maybe he is.

This is the importance of hands— to ask, Can I? without really saying it out loud and the answer that comes in the form of frigid fingers curling around each other, winding desperately like the roots of a withered plant. Like hooks that have forgotten how to let go.

And perhaps they have; somewhere between losing Cheng Xiaoshi and then having him back, in that pocket of time, Lu Guang has unlearnt how to let go of the things he loves most.

There’s a part of him that’s been sitting inside, clenching his fists for so long, he’s sure there are claw marks embedded into the palm of his hands.

Lu Guang exhales. Leans just a touch closer into the tenderness and Cheng Xiaoshi lets out a bated breath. Smiles softly, when he thinks Lu Guang isn’t looking.

(That’s not true; Lu Guang’s always been watching. He always, always has.)

This is what defines them, this is who they are; an endless stretch of skin on skin, palm to palm, cell to cell— how much is Cheng Xiaoshi’s? How much Lu Guang’s?

Where do they begin? Where do they finish?

They’re sitting on the couch, drenched in sweat when Qiao Ling bursts through the door. Around her waist is a ridiculously yellow, inflatable ring… Duck? Chick? What animal was that supposed to be?

“It’s August,” She declares, sliding her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Oh my god,” Cheng Xiaoshi groans. He lets his head fall on the back of the sofa. “We didn’t know that! Do you want a medal? Should we call the Nobel prize people?”

“Touchy.”

“Forgive me sis, but it’s fucking scorching and the AC’s broken. So hurry up and get to the point.”

“It’s August,” she says again, pointedly ignoring Cheng Xiaoshi. “Which means it’s officially beach day. So pack your stuff and get moving kiddos.”

Cheng Xiaoshi wrinkles his nose. “Remind me who died and made you boss?”

“I suddenly seem to recall a certain somebody still hasn’t paid this month’s rent…”

“The beach sounds lovely ma'am! Need me to pick up any drinks? Ice cream?”

“Mm since you’re offering— boba for me then,” she smirks, already heading into the kitchen to pack more drinks. “And don’t be late!”

Cheng Xiaoshi turns back mournfully. “I have been successfully blackmailed.”

Lu Guang doesn’t even look up. “You should hurry.”

And that was that.

It’s about as normal as a day spent with Cheng Xiaoshi and Qiao Ling. Which is to say that it isn’t normal at all, not one bit— they’ve bickered over almost every single thing since leaving their place and are now engaged in a battle over the rights to the sole cookies and cream flavoured ice cream.

It’s barely been two hours, and Lu Guang already wants to go back home.

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” Qiao Ling points her spoon towards him. “Don’t you dare eat that.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles brightly. “First come, first serve. Next time maybe try to grab it faster eh?”

She narrows her eyes. “You only got it first because you cheated. Lu Guang wasn’t even finished counting down!”

“It’s called strategy.”

“You mean desperation?”

She lunges forward, spoon aimed at the sweet treat. Cheng Xiaoshi parries with his own just in time.

“Hey!”

“Hand it over,” Qiao Ling threatens, reaching for the ice cream. “Now!!”

“Oh yeah? Make me!”

Needless to say, of course Lu Guang had to intervene before things got anymore messier.

By ‘messier’, he means that Cheng Xiaoshi would unceremoniously be crowned the loser, and therefore would not get any ice-cream. No ice cream would result in a high likelihood of Cheng Xiaoshi sulking, surly in a corner for the rest of the day. No thank you.

But looking at him now, golden brown from a mixture of sun and sand, Lu Guang can’t help but think that everything, all of it, was worth it— if his misery was money, then he’d make sure Cheng Xiaoshi lived like the richest man in the world.

And Lu Guang’s no photographer— he understands the importance of capturing moments well enough, it’s just… he doesn’t really understand why the photos have to come out aesthetically pleasing to the eye.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Someone said this to him a long time ago (yet another lost memory), and he’d been indifferent to it, scoffed at it even.

But this.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s face softened by the light. The sea. His dark hair caught wildly in the wind, a trail of black smoke flagging behind him as he looks back. Lu Guang thinks he finally understands— lets the pieces fall into place inside his head— the importance of beauty and why people go insane for it.

“C’mon Lu Guang!” An outstretched hand. “C’monn!”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s knee deep in the water now, and wading through it like a child.

He doesn’t know that Lu Guang’s already there— has been for a very long time now. Don’t come here, Lu Guang **wants to tell him. It’s awful, you’ll hate it. Too dark. Too quiet. Not a place where you belong.

“I’m fine thanks,” he shouts back instead, drawing his knees closer to his chest.

There it is again— that wavering reluctance that stops Cheng Xiaoshi in his tracks. Like he’s thinking, trying to find the words to say to reach into Lu Guang and turn him inside out. Lay his skeleton bare.

The slight dip at the corner of his mouth tells Lu Guang that he’s unhappy with something— though exactly what, Lu Guang can’t tell— but the moment absolves as Cheng Xiaoshi turns away from him, and stumbles deeper into the sea.

“Suit yourself!” he calls over his shoulder.

Lu Guang watches him go. Further and further. Till the waves lap gently against his waist, and then eventually, his chest. Till he’s just a pin-prick of black, passing through the vast, endless blue.

That same night, it rains. Hard enough that the trees around them shake and rattle strangely, their leaves shed by the heavy downpour. Hard enough that Lu Guang, who finally miraculously manages to slip into slumber, finds himself rudely pulled out of it again.

The bed underneath is uncharacteristically quiet, Lu Guang notes and when he peers down to check, an empty bed greets him back.

He finds Cheng Xiaoshi quickly enough; downstairs, looking out the kitchen window— it’s the biggest one they have in the apartment. Once, Cheng Xiaoshi had told him it was the best spot for watching the seasons change— You can see it in the trees, Lu Guang, he’d said, See how their leaves fall? See how they rot? That means it’s time for change.

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” Lu Guang says. The lack of sleep makes his voice sound odd. Disconnected, like he’s not really here; as if he’s talking through a radio. “What are you doing?”

Cheng Xiaoshi twitches at the sound of his voice but doesn’t move. “Just thinking,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Quietly, Lu Guang pulls out two chairs. Arranges them carefully, in such a way that one chair faces the window, and the other across its companion.

Companion— the dictionary Lu Guang rifled through defined this as a person with whom time is spent. Belonging to a pair of things intended to complement each other. Bound together.

Were they companions? No, this was something else, surely. Something deeper. Intangible— this thing between them couldn’t be defined by any word; it existed purely in its own meaning.

Cheng Xiaoshi finally looks over. His eyes, and the pinch of skin just below, are an aching red. Illuminated by the white light of the moon, he looks porcelain. Delicate. Beautiful. Terrifying.

“The leaves, Lu Guang,” he says, pointing somewhere beyond the glass. “They’re rotting.” It’s time for change.

Lu Guang will remember it all: the smell of petrichor. The stench of decomposing leaves. The wooden companions and the pale moonlight. How Cheng Xiaoshi reaches over and weaves their fingers together seamlessly.

How pretty they sit, folded like that. Intertwined. Complete.

He remembers thinking: I want to kiss you. Keep you here forever, till the end of time.

Lu Guang remembers.

He doesn’t think he can ever forget.

When Lu Guang wakes up on the twelfth of September to a throbbing migraine and his heart wringing itself somewhere at the bottom of his stomach, the first thing he decides to do is to go and visit a temple.

Irrational. Very unlike him; Cheng Xiaoshi would probably, no definitely, laugh his head off if he could see the predicament Lu Guang’s in.

A temple? he’d howl, head thrown back. Are you crazy? This early? Is the world ending? Are we dying?

He’s snoring away in his bed, tucked into his blankets like a caterpillar inside its cocoon.

“No,” Lu Guang tells his sleeping form, desperately trying to hold on to this memory— the one where Cheng Xiaoshi comes swaddled in softness and sleep. “I won’t let you.”

(Lu Guang will grovel if he has to. He’ll be a good, pious man if that’s what it takes to keep living with Cheng Xiaoshi.)

When he eventually comes back, knees sore and mouth aching, he’s mildly surprised to see Cheng Xiaoshi sitting at the coffee table. It’s still dark outside despite it being early morning— midnight hues and shadowy alleyways full of flickering figures at every corner. He’s not sure if it’s his brain acting up again. Doesn’t stick around to find out.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks up, lips curled at the edges. “You’re late. Where’d you go so early?” Pushes a mug towards him and the vague scent of apples and flowers tickle his nose pleasantly.

“The temple—” Lu Guang begins, reaching for the cup. Cheng Xiaoshi watches him like a hawk. It makes the breath catch in his throat, and he quickly clears it away. “The temple. To pray.”

“What’s this?” Cheng Xiaoshi laughs.“Is the world ending? Are we dying?”

“Fool.” It shouldn’t come out affectionately, but it does— The Cheng Xiaoshi Effect.“That’s not funny.”

“You look awfully nervous for someone that’s just finished praying.”

“Just tired.” The lie feels sticky in his mouth.

“Hm.” I don’t believe you at all. “So who’s the lucky girl?”

Lu Guang stares, nonplussed.

“C’mon, you don’t think I'm stupid do you? I mean, who goes to the temple this early?” He gestures outside.“Our Guang Guang’s all grown up now, huh?”

There’s a bitter undertone creeping into his words— makes them sound harder and harsher but Lu Guang doesn’t comment on it. His brain's still stuck on Who’s the lucky girl?

“So spill, who is it? Ah but— before you say anything, you can’t have Qiao Ling! She’s my sister so…”

Lu Guang swallows.

He’s suddenly very keenly aware of how little space exists between them. Why on earth had they bought a table so small? Whose idea was it? He can feel the heat emanating off Cheng Xiaoshi, the closeness of their feet such that if one of them were to even move just a little, they would have no choice but to collide. Entangle themselves, and then they’d have trouble unwinding. Separating.

“It’s not Qiao Ling I want.”

Cheng Xiaoshi furrows his brows and something cracks open in Lu Guang’s chest. “You idiot.” Lu Guang says, burning. “I went to pray for you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. Once. Twice.

“Ahh,” he grins, dawning realisation colouring his eyes. He stretches over into Lu Guang’s space and nudges him playfully.“How nice of you to think of me, Lu Guang the saint!”

He falters when Lu Guang doesn’t play along. When he realises that Lu Guang means it.

Wavers under the weight of Lu Guang’s stare because beautiful things do not know their worth until they are fiercely looked at, like this, with meaning and Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t the sun nor the stars— he’s the whole damn universe in Lu Guang’s solar system. He’s everything that is good and clean.

“Oh.” he says, ears flushed endearingly. “You were serious— I mean—that was… very kind of you.”

Their knees knock together, and Lu Guang vaguely wonders if Cheng Xiaoshi can feel it too— the fervent impatience, the fear and desire radiating off of Lu Guang’s skin, surely, surely, making it’s way into Cheng Xiaoshi, pouring through all the little cracks and occupying him slowly.

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” Lu Guang reaches out an outstretched hand. Thinks better of it when he realises just how flustered Cheng Xiaoshi is. “Can you not go anywhere today? Can you stay by my side?”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes snap up, alarm flashing through them. For all that he’s an idiot, Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t slow.

“What?” he frowns. “Lu Guang, what’s going on?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer. He lifts his mug instead and hides behind a long, steadying sip. The tea has gone cold.

“No,” Cheng Xiaoshi laughs jerkily. Lu Guang notes the realisation under it, can almost hear the gears shifting and turning inside his companion’s head— he’ll have figured it out by now; after all, they weren’t partners for nothing. “You wouldn’t—”

Startles when Lu Guang turns his gaze on him, his silence a blazing answer in itself. Here was the truth, staring at Cheng Xiaoshi dead in the eye saying: Yes I would. Yes I already have.

“Lu Guang,” he breathes, the sound fragile. “Oh, Lu Guang. What have you done?”

A pause.

“I think you know.” Lu Guang says, voice smaller than he intended it to be. “Please don’t ask.”

For a long moment, Cheng Xiaoshi only watches him, chest rising and falling like he’s learning to breathe all over again.

“How many times?” he asks, uncharacteristically quiet.

“…Four.” Lu Guang tips his chin up defiantly.

A sharp inhale.

Lu Guang expects an outburst from him— anger maybe. Or an accusatory Hypocrite, with a cruel twist of his mouth. But instead, all Cheng Xiaoshi says is: “Oh.”

A long pause.

“Aren’t you sick of me?” Cheng Xiaoshi wonders. “Why go through all of this? You’re in so much pain.”

“Just tired.” Lu Guang lets his head fall onto the other’s shoulder. He feels older than his years. “Of everything. Not you, though. Never you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi is so warm. He’s warm in a way that Lu Guang never is; in a way that sets Lu Guang alight on fire, no smoke.

He’s the personification of mismatched socks and sulky lips. Angry one moment, and easily cajoled the next. Hot one minute, and then cool the next. A broke bastard who never brings his own wallet when Lu Guang’s around because he knows— knows Lu Guang will frown at him, but still pay both their shares anyway.

Lu Guang wishes time would just come to an end here, with them in their run-down apartment, folded against each other like forgotten old laundry. Wishes it would end like a picture— like those polaroids of Cheng Xiaoshi’s hanging in his room. 

“Can I ask you something?” He’s fidgeting with his fingers. A bad habit reserved for when he’s nervous. “Have we— I mean, are we—”

Can’t bring himself to say anymore.

Lu Guang understands what he's trying to say. He taps his fingers against the rim of his mug.

“No,” he bites out. The word comes out pained. “We just keep going around in circles. We keep missing each other.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Cheng Xiaoshi moving. Even before Lu Guang finishes speaking, he’s leaning across the table until he’s close, so very close and it’s all happening so fast— there’s a light brush, the touch of a feather, against Lu Guang’s temple, just above his eyebrows— and Cheng Xiaoshi is puling back. Already turning his face away.

It’s so impossibly quick, it might as well have been a dream but with every passing second, Cheng Xiaoshi’s ears grow impossibly redder.

His own forehead— the place where Cheng Xiaoshi left a kiss— was also heating up at an alarming rate.

“Oh.” he says, jabbing and pinching at the skin of his arm. He’s still here. Not a dream.

“Lu Guang.” Cheng Xiaoshi exhales, cheeks still flushed endearingly. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

And for a flickering moment they stop being Lu Guang and Cheng Xiaoshi, Cheng Xiaoshi and Lu Guang.

They become just two people on the couch of their apartment with an AC that needs fixing, two pairs of socks under a table that is much too small and Lu Guang lets himself stop believing in things like unchangeable nodes and precautions.

Manages to make himself forget the photo nestled inside his pocket. (Taken a few good years ago and sure to erase him from here and leave him stranded, heartbroken once again right into the middle of January.)

There is an old dream he remembers.

In that dream, Cheng Xiaoshi had once told him that he was good at leaving.

You leave like it’s the only thing you know.

Because it’s the only thing I’ve been taught. It’s easier to leave first. Hurts less.

Dream Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, studying him in that unflinching way of his.

Hurts who less? You? Or the people you leave behind?

Both.

Liar. Dream Cheng Xiaoshi says wryly. Lu Guang can hear the smile wrapped around it. If it really does hurt lesser, why do you look like that every time you see me?

He'd woken up in tears.

There’s a saying Lu Guang hates more than anything else in the world: Time heals all wounds. This is entirely untrue— what time does is drag you through the mud. Kicking and wailing, through the days that become months which eventually turn into years. There is no healing, only a scar you learn to live around.

The wound of losing someone you love never really fully closes. Sure the skin stitches itself back up but still. Still there is a hollow there, where the old skin had once been. Still there is a gaping mouth the new cells cannot smother. Still that mouth asks, When can we go back? When can I see you walking through my door again?

Today I have you in my arms, Lu Guang thinks. Tomorrow, what will we become?