Work Text:
To Chicheng, Suowei had always been sunlight made into a person—warm, alive, and quietly stubborn in ways that made the world bend around him without him ever noticing.
Even on his worst days,
even when exhaustion dragged at his limbs and the past tugged at the frayed ends of his spirit,
he still carried this glow—like he was made to bring life back into anything that had forgotten how to breathe.
And maybe that was why Chicheng found himself moving mountains for him without complaint. All Suowei had to do was giggle, whine, or look at him with those ridiculous soft eyes, and
Chicheng would be booking a reservation, rearranging his entire day, or offering his shoulder like it was built solely for Suowei to lean on.
But he never interfered in his work.
Not out of disinterest—never that—
but because he knew how fiercely Suowei clung to the independence he had carved out of his own survival.
For someone who’d once lived by counting coins and praying they lasted the week, Suowei treated every small victory in his career like a sacred thing.
It grounded him.
Gave him security, dignity.
A reminder that he could finally afford to choose what he wanted, not what he was forced into.
And Chicheng saw that. He saw the pride in Suowei’s tired smiles, the determination in his calming breaths after long meetings, the soft relief in the way he sank into Chicheng’s touch at the end of a long day.
So he praised him in the ways Suowei understood best—quietly.
A brief kiss to his forehead. A warm dinner under soft lights. A gentle, “You did well today,” murmured against his hair. And Suowei, always pretending he wasn’t on the verge of melting, would smile—small, tired, but so achingly genuine—and let himself be held.
Since the day Suowei’s mother passed away, Chicheng had only seen him break once. On the morning after the funeral, when Suowei had looked so empty and so young, clutching the sleeves of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
He had cried then—messy, silent, devastating tears—and Chicheng had held him for as long as he needed, long after the place grew quiet.
And after that day, not a single tear.
But sometimes, Chicheng would catch him pausing in the middle of work, fingers frozen on the keyboard, eyes unfocused and far away. Not sad exactly—just lost in a place Chicheng could not reach.
And he never disturbed him.
Never forced comfort.
He simply stayed close, giving Suowei space to drift through whatever memory had pulled him under, trusting he would return when he was ready.
Because loving Suowei meant knowing when to hold him—and when to let him have his quiet, private ache.
And Chicheng loved him more than sunlight, more than breathing, more than anything he knew how to put into words.
Suowei had always been the kind of person who insisted on carrying his own weight, even when the load threatened to crush him.
It wasn’t pride, not in the arrogant sense.
It was survival
—something carved into him long before Chicheng ever touched his life.
He’d grown up learning that if he didn’t save himself, no one would. So even now, even with Chicheng loving him so openly, he still clung to that instinctive independence.
Chicheng wanted, more than anything, to give Suowei the softness he had been denied.
To spoil him,
shelter him,
give him a life free of the constant ache of working until his bones hurt.
He wanted to say,
Let me provide for you,
let me take care of you,
let me carry some of it.
But how could he, when Suowei found peace in pouring himself into the things he loved? His art. His work. The things that finally made him feel capable instead of afraid.
And then there was the mistake—the one Chicheng would never forgive himself for.
The day they were scammed, the day everything Suowei had built was threatened because of one naïve decision on Chicheng’s part.
The consequences had landed on Suowei like they always did: silently, painfully, without complaint.
He sold everything he owned.
His company.
His childhood home.
The savings he had guarded like a lifeline.
He emptied himself out, piece by piece.
Just to bring Chicheng home.
But he never touched Chicheng’s belongings. Never even considered it. Because to Suowei, nothing he owned—no house, no business, no memory—was worth more than Chicheng himself. He had already lost too many people in his life. Losing Chicheng wasn’t an option he could bear.
And Chicheng… he found out in jail.
He found out that while he was counting the days through iron bars, Suowei had been outside tearing his life apart to save him. Selling the very home where he had once learned to laugh, where his mother had cooked his favourite foods, where his father had taught him how to hold a paintbrush.
Chicheng cried himself to sleep every night in that cell.
Not because of the injustice.
Not because of the humiliation.
But because the love Suowei had shown was so painfully unconditional that it felt like his heart couldn’t hold it.
So when he got out—when those gates finally opened—the first thing he did wasn’t to breathe or celebrate.
It was to go and bring back Suowei’s childhood home.
The little worn out house with peeling paint. The kitchen where his mother’s voice still lived in the corners. The small, sunlit room where he used to sketch late into the night. The place he had lost once already when life took too much from him, too fast.
Chicheng bought it back—not as compensation, not to erase the past, but to return a piece of Suowei’s soul that should’ve never been taken in the first place.
And through all of it, Suowei remained strong. Calm. Unshaken on the surface. Even when his voice trembled at night. Even when his hands went cold in his sleep. Even when he stared at the reclaimed home with a look that broke Chicheng’s heart all over again.
Sometimes Chicheng wondered how someone who had been hurt so deeply could still stand so tall.
Sometimes he wondered how he ever became the one Suowei chose to protect so fiercely.
But most of all, he wondered how a heart like Suowei’s could still love him—completely, relentlessly, without holding anything back.
Even their affection had its own kind of rhythm—this magnetic push and pull that only they understood. Suowei loved teasing him, poking at him, tugging at his patience only to soothe him seconds later with a pout, a whine, a warm press of his cheek to Chicheng’s shoulder.
He made a game of it, dancing just out of reach and then crawling back with that tiny, smug smile that made Chicheng melt every single time.
He was light. He was mischief. He was softness wrapped in stubbornness.
But when Xiaoshuai told Chicheng the truth—what those three weeks without him had really done to Suowei—something inside Chicheng cracked open.
Three whole weeks.
Three weeks where Suowei barely slept.
This was the same Suowei who could pass out anywhere—on desks, in the back of xiaoshuai's clinic, on wooden benches during breaks when he used to juggle three part-time jobs.
Sleep came to him easily, like a loyal friend.
But apparently, without Chicheng beside him, it didn’t come at all.
The bed had gone cold. The nights too quiet. The emptiness too loud.
And Suowei, who had spent most of his life sleeping alone, suddenly couldn’t close his eyes without feeling the ache of absence under his ribs.
Xiaoshuai mentioned the sniffles—how some nights Suowei tried so hard to hide the soft sound of crying. How he curled into himself, exhausted and restless, as if waiting for someone who wouldn’t come.
That loneliness…
That fear…
It had been all-consuming.
Chicheng had been his only comfort, his only warmth, his only home—and even that had been taken from him. No wonder he couldn’t sleep. No wonder he broke in ways he never showed in daylight.
So when Chicheng finally walked out of those prison doors, when he finally had Suowei back in his arms, what happened next was almost heartbreaking in its purity.
Suowei slept.
He slept like a newborn, like someone finally allowed to rest after weeks of drowning. The moment his cheek touched Chicheng’s chest, he was gone—breathing soft and uneven, body curling instinctively toward the warmth he had missed so violently.
Throughout the night he tossed and turned, as if searching, as if afraid. And every time, Chicheng was there—wrapping his arms around him before the fear could even settle. He pressed gentle kisses to the silent tears that escaped when Suowei dreamed. He smoothed the tension from his back and whispered,
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” even though Suowei couldn’t hear him.
Suowei slept the entire day and night, latched onto him like the world outside didn’t exist. His fingers clung to the fabric of Chicheng’s shirt, knotted tightly, even in sleep—like if he let go, Chicheng would vanish again.
And Chicheng didn’t move.
Not once.
He didn’t dare.
Because for the first time since everything had gone wrong, he finally understood the full weight of what Suowei had gone through.
And he wasn’t going to let him face that kind of loneliness ever again.
Ever since that night—ever since those weeks of fear and separation—neither of them let distance slip between them for longer than absolutely necessary.
Work still tugged them apart during the day, but no matter how late it was or how drained they both felt, they always ended up in the same bed by nightfall, breathing the same quiet air, sharing the same warmth.
And Suowei… became clingier.
Not in an obvious way. Not in a dramatic, possessive way. Just softer. Needier. A little more transparent with the affection he used to lace in teasing and mischief.
Chicheng never mentioned it. Never teased him, never pointed it out. He simply accepted it—cherished it, even. Watching Suowei cling to him like a warm cat finally allowed onto the bed made Chicheng feel like his chest was too small for all the love inside it.
Where it used to be Chicheng who pulled him into a hug after a long day, pressing a kiss to his forehead and rubbing his shoulders, things had shifted.
Now it was Suowei who came barreling into him the moment he walked through the door.
No hesitation. No teasing preamble.
Just—
speed-walking across the room with that determined little stomp, face already crumpling, eyes definitely-too-bright, arms stretched out as if demanding immediate rescue.
He would bury his face against Chicheng’s chest, arms looped tight around his waist, and let out this long, drawn-out whine that went straight to Chicheng’s heart.
“Chicheng… my day was so TIRED…”
“Mmm-hmmm, terrible… worst day ever…”
“My feet hurt… carry me…”
All muffled, all dramatic, all absolutely adorable.
And Chicheng—who used to pride himself on being composed, even stoic—would instantly melt into a puddle. His hands would come up automatically, holding Suowei like he’d been crafted to fit right there.
He’d kiss the top of his head. Stroke his back. Sway him gently like soothing a sleepy child.
And Suowei would nuzzle closer, like he intended to climb inside his ribcage and stay there forever.
Sometimes he’d start complaining in broken fragments about clients, deadlines, colors not blending, Xiaoshuai being annoying, or how the studio smelled weird today.
Other times he didn’t say anything at all—just leaned, breathed, let himself exist safely in Chicheng’s arms.
And every single night, Chicheng thought the same thing:
If this is what being needed feels like—
he never wants it to stop.
Because Suowei wasn’t just clinging out of fear anymore.
He was clinging out of love. Out of trust. Out of the comfort of knowing that no matter how chaotic or exhausting the day had been, there would always be one place that was warm, steady, and waiting for him.
Right here.
In Chicheng’s arms.
Which brings him to the present moment—
a weekend that felt far too quiet, far too still, for all the wrong reasons.
Chicheng had a business trip.
A week-long business trip.
Their first real separation since everything happened.
And the moment Suowei learned that, he shut down just a little. Not dramatically. Not with tears or anger.
Just… avoidance.
He kept his head ducked, busying himself with tasks that absolutely did not need doing. Refused to meet Chicheng’s eyes like one look would make him crumble.
Chicheng tried cornering him in the hallway.
“Weiwei.”
But Suowei—sweet, anxious, stubborn Suowei—bolted immediately.
“L-Let me arrange your outfits! You can’t pack like a normal human being, your ties will get wrinkled—your socks need matching—don’t follow me—”
He rambled the whole way into their bedroom, practically diving into the open suitcase like it was a life raft.
And he did arrange everything.
Precisely. Tenderly. With this quiet, desperate care that made Chicheng’s chest ache.
He folded every shirt with slow, careful hands.
Rolled each pair of pants just the way Chicheng liked.
Tucked in toiletries, chargers, spare pens, a little first-aid packet, even a tiny sketch he had made of them together. As if each item was a way to stay present beside him.
Watching him, Chicheng felt something heavy and unbearably soft settle in his throat.
This wasn’t organizing.
This was Suowei trying to hold onto him without saying the words out loud.
And when Suowei finally stood up, dusting his knees and pretending everything was normal—pretending he was normal—Chicheng had reached his limit.
He moved.
Fast.
He scooped Suowei up like he weighed nothing, ignoring the startled squeak, ignoring the immediate flailing, ignoring the dramatic, mortified wails of—
“Put me down! I didn’t—Chicheng! I’m fine! I’m just being helpful!”
Sure he was.
Chicheng didn’t even respond. He simply carried him out of the bedroom with calm, unshakable determination, Suowei twisting in his arms like a panicked cat caught doing something embarrassing.
He sat down on the corner of the couch, placing Suowei on his lap and caging him in with both arms and his knees—effectively trapping him in a warm, immovable fortress of model-strength limbs.
Suowei froze.
Tiny. Cornered. Bad at hiding feelings.
Still very much avoiding eye contact.
Chicheng leaned in, resting his chin lightly on top of Suowei’s head.
“Now,” he murmured, voice low and far too gentle,
“do you want to tell me why you’re running away from me?”
Suowei didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just made a small, pathetic noise in the back of his throat.
He was caught.
And Chicheng wasn’t letting him go until he talked.
He tightened his hold just a little—not enough to restrain, just enough to let Suowei feel the security of it. The steady chest beneath him. The warm arms around him. The quiet heartbeat that never failed to soothe him.
“What’s wrong?” Chicheng asked softly, brushing a thumb along Suowei’s cheek.
“Didn’t we agree? I take care of the external matters… and you take care of everything at the company.”
He punctuated the words with a gentle boop to Suowei’s nose.
Usually, that got at least a huff or a half-hearted swat.
Today, Suowei just blinked—still refusing to meet his eyes, staring instead at the fabric of Chicheng’s shirt like it held all the answers to his misery.
His hands found Chicheng’s collar anyway. They always did.
Small fingers fumbling, twisting, pulling him unconsciously closer. Like his body betrayed every attempt at distance his mind was trying to create. Like he was magnetized, drawn to warmth even while pretending he didn’t need it.
He didn’t speak.
But his lower lip wobbled.
A tiny movement, quick, barely there—but Chicheng saw it.
He noticed everything about Suowei.
The way his brows furrowed in that soft, almost childlike confusion.
The way his mouth formed that unconscious pout.
The way his eyes slowly filled, tear by tear, until they glossed beautifully under the light.
And still—still—Suowei refused to say a word.
As if admitting the truth out loud would make him feel pathetic.
As if missing someone was something he wasn’t allowed to do.
Chicheng sighed, brushing a finger along Suowei’s trembling jaw.
“Dabao…”
At the word, Suowei flinched—but didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned a little closer, forehead bumping weakly against Chicheng’s chest.
His breath hitched.
A small, quiet, helpless sound escaped him—almost a whimper—but he clamped his mouth shut immediately, shoulders tensing as if feeling was some kind of crime.
Chicheng tilted his chin up with the gentlest touch.
“Tears already?” he whispered, affectionate and impossibly tender. “And I haven’t even left yet.”
Suowei squeezed his eyes shut.
A single tear escaped anyway.
And that—
that was all the answer Chicheng needed.
Chicheng pulled him close—close enough that Suowei’s breath ghosted warm and uneven against his neck. The hug was soft, yes, but it carried weight too, something deeper and almost unbearably intimate.
Suowei melted into it instantly, burying his face in that familiar space between Chicheng’s jaw and collarbone, as if hiding there would make the entire situation go away.
He sniffled—quiet, embarrassed, aching.
Chicheng’s arms wrapped around him securely, one hand rubbing slow circles across Suowei’s back, the other cradling the back of his head. He swayed them gently, the way one might calm a frightened child or soothe someone waking from a nightmare. Because that’s what this was to Suowei—fear.
That old loneliness clawing at him again.
And God, Chicheng didn’t want to leave either.
He wished he could stay right here, with the warm weight of Suowei against him and the faint, shaky breaths dampening his collar. But work called, and responsibilities didn’t disappear just because his heart was breaking a little at the thought of a week-long separation.
So he held him tighter.
Held him like he was holding his entire world—because he was.
Suowei’s grip only tightened. His fingers curled into Chicheng’s shirt with so much force that his knuckles turned white, trembling faintly. As if letting go meant Chicheng would vanish this very second. As if the hug was the last thread tethering him to something safe.
He knew he was being dramatic.
He knew he was being petty.
It was just a week.
A week he could absolutely survive. A week he could fill with work and friends and sleep and normal life.
He knew that.
But…
But knowing didn’t stop the knot in his stomach.
Knowing didn’t ease the dread curling under his ribs.
Knowing didn’t silence that old, buried fear—the one that whispered that people who left didn’t always come back.
His voice came out small, muffled into Chicheng’s skin, barely a breath.
“But…”
And he couldn’t finish the sentence.
Couldn’t say the truth out loud.
Couldn’t admit how terrified he was of sleeping alone again, of the silence, of the cold bed, of the memories that sometimes came alive in the dark.
Chicheng felt him tremble.
He held him even closer, pressing a slow kiss to the side of his head.
“It’s okay,” he whispered.
But Suowei only clung harder.
Then suddenly—abruptly—he pulled back.
Not far, just enough to break the hug. Enough to make Chicheng blink in surprise.
He kept his head down, bangs falling forward, refusing to make eye contact. His cheeks were still damp, lips pushed out in the tiniest, sulkiest pout imaginable. His breathing was uneven, but he was clearly fighting to pull himself together with whatever dignity he had left.
Except he had none left.
Not when he looked like this.
Not when he was still clutching Chicheng’s shirt in both hands.
Not when his eyes were shiny and swollen from crying.
And then—voice small but firm, dripping with frustration and wounded pride—he muttered,
“I’m going to tie you.”
Chicheng blinked. “...Tie me?”
Suowei nodded aggressively, still not looking at him.
“Yes. I’m going to tie you. To me.”
A sniff.
“And then you can’t leave ever.”
It was so earnest.
So fiercely determined.
So heartbreakingly cute.
Chicheng felt his lips part in wonder at first—
—and then the laugh burst out of him.
Warm. Loud. Disbelieving.
The kind of laugh that came straight from the chest, bubbling up uncontrollably because of course Suowei would say something like that. Of course his clinginess would turn into this kind of dramatic, possessive declaration.
He cupped Suowei’s face gently, wiping a thumb over a streak of tears.
“Tie me to you, hm?” he teased, still smiling. “That’s your grand plan?”
Suowei’s pout deepened, cheeks flushing.
“Yes,” he muttered stubbornly, crossing his arms behind chicheng's neck still sitting trapped between Chicheng’s legs like a very angry, very sad kitten. “Then you can’t go anywhere.”
Chicheng laughed again—
but softer this time.
Fonder.
Because only Suowei could mix heartbreak, neediness, and absolute chaos into one single sentence.
And only Suowei could make Chicheng want to kiss him senseless for it.
Suowei’s pout only grew deeper, frustration blooming on his face like a storm he couldn’t control. He jabbed a finger into Chicheng’s chest—weakly, like he didn’t actually want to hurt him, just make a point.
“It’s all your fault!” he snapped.
Chicheng raised an eyebrow, amused. “Mm? What is?”
“Everything!” Suowei burst out, cheeks puffing, eyes shiny with a new wave of emotion. “It’s because of you I can’t eat without thinking about you, can’t sleep without you, can’t wake up without looking for you in the bed!”
He sniffled loudly—far too dramatic for someone who was still sitting flush against Chicheng’s body, practically glued to him.
“My whole routine is ruined because of you,” he continued, voice wobbling. “Everything is your fault. This—” he gestured to his own wet eyes, his trembling lip, the tiny emotional meltdown happening in real time “—is your fault too!”
Chicheng nodded solemnly.
“Yes,” he said in the gentlest voice imaginable. “It’s all my fault.”
Suowei blinked in surprise, thrown off by how easily he agreed—but he recovered quickly, huffing as if victory wasn’t nearly satisfying enough when Chicheng wasn’t fighting back.
“It is! I wasn’t like this before! I didn’t cry like this! I didn’t—didn’t need someone like this!”
Again, Chicheng nodded.
“I know.”
“You’re not supposed to agree so easily!” Suowei wailed.
“I’m sorry,” Chicheng said calmly, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his damp cheek. “For ruining your routine.”
Another kiss.
“For making you think of me when you eat.”
A third kiss, lower on his jaw.
“For keeping you awake without me.”
Suowei’s sniffles grew quieter, his breaths less shaky.
“And for making you cry,” Chicheng added softly, kissing the corner of his eye where a fresh tear escaped. “That one’s on me too.”
Suowei’s fingers curled into his shirt again, small and desperate.
“It is,” he whispered, lip wobbling yet again. “It’s all your fault I’m like… like this.”
Chicheng tucked him into his chest, hand cradling the back of his head.
“Then I’ll take responsibility,” he murmured into Suowei’s hair. “For all of it. For you.”
And finally—finally—Suowei sagged into him with a soft, broken exhale, letting himself be held the way he’d wanted all along.
Chicheng doesn’t move.
Not even a millimetre.
Instead, he settles his weight just a little more firmly over Suowei—pushing him on the couch as he hovered over him, careful but possessive—letting their bodies mold together until Suowei has no choice but to feel exactly how grounded he is. How present. How here.
Suowei’s huff is all sharp edges and wounded pride, but his arms betray him instantly—sliding up, looping loosely around Chicheng’s shoulders, tugging at the soft hair at the nape of his neck like he needs something to hold onto or he’ll float away.
His cheeks are warm, flushed from the crying and embarrassment, eyes still wet at the corners. The pout on his lips looks almost childish, but the emotion behind it is raw, aching, real. And Chicheng drinks in the sight like it’s rare treasure.
Because it is rare.
His Suowei doesn’t unravel often.
So Chicheng indulges.
He leans down and kisses him—temple, cheek, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Light kisses, teasing ones, hovering ones that almost land but don’t, just to make Suowei’s breath stutter. Each one melts a little more tension out of his smaller frame.
His hand rubs slow comforting circles on Suowei’s waist, thumb brushing soothingly. The other cups his jaw, fingers tracing the delicate line of his cheekbone, the soft heat of his flushed skin.
Suowei squirms, not to escape but because he doesn’t know what to do with this level of affection. His pout deepens, his thighs shift under Chicheng’s hips, and he mutters:
“Just… just go. Go on your damn trip. Leave me alone.”
His voice cracks halfway through the bravado. The tiny quiver at the end ruins the whole act.
Chicheng’s breath hitches in a soft laugh against his cheek.
“Oh?” he murmurs, lips brushing Suowei’s skin. “You sure? Want me to leave you alone while you’re clinging to me like this?”
And he emphasizes it by shifting his hips just slightly—just enough that their bodies slot even closer, chest to chest, breath mixing, heartbeats pressed together.
Suowei’s fingers tighten in Chicheng’s hair immediately, betraying him entirely. His face reddens deeper, and he tries to look away, but Chicheng follows, kissing along his jaw until Suowei sighs—half annoyed, half melting.
“You’re impossible,” Suowei mutters.
Chicheng smiles, slow and warm.
“Maybe. But you still love me.”
Another kiss, softer this time, lingering at the corner of Suowei’s trembling mouth.
“And I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers, forehead settling against Suowei’s. “Not until you stop pretending you want me to.”
Chicheng shifts just enough to wrap both arms securely around him, tucking Suowei fully beneath him—protected, enclosed, hidden from the world and from his own spiraling thoughts.
Suowei’s face buries into his chest like he’s trying to disappear into the warmth there, breaths warm and shaky against Chicheng’s skin.
For a moment, Chicheng only holds him. One palm smoothing slow, steady paths down his side, the other cradling the back of his head. He can feel Suowei’s heartbeat racing—stubborn, embarrassed, scared.
Only then does he speak.
“Hey,” Chicheng murmurs, voice low enough to keep Suowei from flinching. “Look at me.”
Suowei shakes his head instantly, pressing even harder into his chest.
So Chicheng softens.
He adjusts his hold, thumb brushing the shell of Suowei’s ear, and continues anyway.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he says gently. “Seven days. That’s all.”
No teasing now. No chuckles.
Just truth.
“I’ll call you every morning,” he promises, pressing a kiss to the crown of Suowei’s head. “And every night before I sleep.”
Suowei’s fingers curl tighter in his shirt. His breath stutters.
“And whenever I have a free moment, I’ll text you,” Chicheng adds, voice warm, steady, certain. “If you call, I’ll pick up. If you need me to stay on the line until you fall asleep, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
A shaky exhale leaves Suowei—half relief, half fear he can’t name.
Because they’ve danced around this for weeks.
The quiet panic Suowei gets when Chicheng isn't with him in the nights.
The way he pushes it down, then pretends it’s nothing, hides it behind whining or jokes or dramatic theatrics.
Chicheng finally, gently, pulls it into the light.
“You’re not asking for too much,” he whispers into Suowei’s hair. “You’re not being clingy. You’re not being unfair.”
Suowei’s breath hitches, and his grip on Chicheng tightens to the point of trembling—knuckles white, arms locked around him like he might slip away if he loosens even for a second.
“So sleep well for me,” Chicheng murmurs, lips trailing a ghost of a kiss along his temple. “Eat properly for me. Take care of yourself for me.”
Another shuddered inhale from Suowei.
Another desperate tug toward Chicheng’s body.
“And when I come back,” Chicheng finishes softly, “I want to find you healthy and smiling. I want to come home to you.”
It breaks something in Suowei in the softest way.
He doesn’t speak—can’t.
He only presses himself deeper into Chicheng’s chest, hiding the tears gathering in his eyes, holding him with a kind of fragile urgency that says more than words ever could.
They melt into the couch together, limbs tangled, breaths syncing without either of them trying. Chicheng shifts them carefully—rolling onto his back, guiding Suowei to sprawl over his chest like a sleepy cat who refuses to move. One arm rests securely across Suowei’s waist; the other smooths slow, idle strokes up and down his spine.
Suowei’s cheek is pressed against the warm rise and fall of Chicheng’s chest, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the fabric of Chicheng’s shirt. He feels small like this, held like this. Small but safe.
After a minute, he mumbles into Chicheng’s collarbone, voice thick from crying but already trying to brighten.
“…Bring me something.”
Chicheng hums, brushing his knuckles against Suowei’s jaw. “Anything. What do you want?”
It’s like flipping a switch.
His little magpie brain starts fluttering.
“I want the local food,” Suowei says immediately, lifting his head slightly. “The ones you always get to eat without me. And maybe—maybe a pretty shirt? Those vintage ones i showed you last time? Oh! And maybe a book on arts. Or—” He pauses dramatically. “A rock. A shiny one.”
Chicheng snorts before he can stop himself, chest shaking under Suowei’s cheek. “A rock?”
“A travel rock,” Suowei insists, poking him lightly in the ribs. “To prove you were thinking about me every second of every day of every hour.”
“Every second of every day, hm?” Chicheng echoes, smile spreading involuntarily.
“Yes,” Suowei says, nose scrunching adorably. “Every. Single. One.”
And just like that, the fear that had twisted him up earlier… slips away.
Replaced by a soft wonder, a childlike excitement he’s trying so hard to steer them both into.
Chicheng sees it—sees exactly what he’s doing—but he doesn’t point it out.
Instead, he tightens his arm around Suowei’s waist and drops a long, lingering kiss to the top of his head.
“I’ll bring you everything you asked for,” he murmurs. “Food, shirts, books… and your special rock.”
Suowei makes a pleased little noise—half huff, half purr—and burrows deeper against him.
“Good,” he says sleepily. “Because I’m collecting proof you love me.”
Chicheng laughs softly, rubbing his thumb behind Suowei’s ear.
“You already have all the proof you’ll ever need,” he whispers.
Suowei doesn’t reply—he only squeezes him tighter, hiding the small smile he can’t fight.
The afternoon then slipped into evening far too quickly for either of them.
Eventually, reality tapped its insistence against the door—Chicheng’s suitcase waiting by the entrance, Gangzi already on the way, the sky outside turning a deep, dusky blue.
Suowei clung a little tighter as the minutes drained away, arms looped around Chicheng’s torso, cheek pressed stubbornly against his chest. Chicheng held him just as close, memorizing the weight of him, the warmth of him, like he needed it to breathe through the coming week.
But time never stopped just because two people wanted it to.
When the message finally came—The car has arrived, sir—Chicheng exhaled slowly against Suowei’s hair.
“…I have to go, Weiwei.”
Suowei didn’t lift his head. He just nodded against Chicheng’s shirt, a tiny tremble running through him. Still scared, still hurting a little—but calmer now. Steadier. Like he had finally accepted that this wasn’t abandonment.
It was just… life.
Chicheng tilted his chin up gently with two fingers.
Those big eyes were still glassy, lashes still a little damp, but he was trying so hard to hold himself together that it nearly broke Chicheng’s heart.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Chicheng murmured. “And I’ll bring everything you asked for. The food. The shirts. The art book. And the most beautiful rock I can find.”
A reluctant, wobbly smile curled on Suowei’s lips.
“You better. I want a premium rock.”
Chicheng chuckled, brushing his thumb across Suowei’s cheek. “I’ll find the most premium one in the entire region.”
“…Okay.”
A soft whisper.
A surrender.
Suowei stepped back, just enough to let Chicheng stand, but his fingers remained tangled in the hem of his coat until the very last possible moment—until Chicheng leaned down and kissed his forehead, slow and grounding.
“I’ll call you the moment I land,” he promised.
“Mm.” Suowei swallowed. “And before you sleep.”
“Yes.”
“And when you wake up.”
“Of course.”
“And—”
Chicheng pressed another kiss to by the end of his lips to cut him off gently.
“I’ll call you, baby. As much as you want.”
Suowei’s eyes softened, vulnerability flickering openly for once.
“…Okay. Then go. I’ll wait.”
Those two words—I’ll wait—tugged at something deep and tender in Chicheng’s chest.
He cupped Suowei’s face one last time, memorizing every detail.
Then he stepped out the door, turning only once to see Suowei standing there, arms wrapped around himself, trying to look brave.
Their eyes met.
And Suowei gave him the smallest, shyest nod.
Go. I’ll be right here.
Chicheng smiled—warm, sure, unshakable.
Because he always kept his promises.
And as the door clicked shut behind him, Suowei touched the spot on his forehead where Chicheng had kissed him and whispered to the empty room:
“He always comes back.”