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“I think,” Xie Lian says, smiling bravely, “I think…I think I messed up, San Lang.”
Hua Cheng, to his credit, doesn’t flinch; the pen in his hand spins and spins, and he asks, “why does gege think he messed up?”
“I mean, well,” Xie Lian loosely gestures to his whole self, and then their surroundings, “the general…everything, I suppose?”
“Gege must be mistaken, because I don’t see anything messed-up.”
“That’s because San Lang is too good to me,” he sighs. Hua Cheng grins at him. “I wish San Lang knew how much of a mess I am. Everything I touch goes to dust, you know? I’m surprised I haven’t brought some kind of misfortune upon you yet…”
He’s horrified when his voice cracks, and Hua Cheng’s entire posture shifts, the pen rolling somewhere into the couch cushions as he shifts forward, towards Xie Lian, instead, eye wide. “I just mean,” he tacks on, “it’s just how things are, you know? It’ll be fine, I suppose…I just haven’t learned to, hm, grow around it? I think?”
“Gege,” Hua Cheng says very quietly, “are you alright?”
“I’m fine!” Xie Lian tries for his usual chirpy tone—oh, that’s strange, he has a specific tone around Hua Cheng, he never realized before—and fails miserably, and finds that he has to make a quick swipe at his eyes to maintain composure. Stupid idea, really, because Hua Cheng’s expression does that thing again. “I’m fine, San Lang, I promise, I’m just tired, haha…”
It really isn’t okay, Xie Lian knows, but he can’t find the words to tell anyone that. Keeping it from Hua Cheng, who only cares so much and makes sure Xie Lian is well and—point is, keeping it from Hua Cheng is awful, but he has no words for anything else. He shudders when he’s folded into Hua Cheng’s embrace, because he still can’t make himself speak it out loud.
A job he hates, a degree he can’t get, an apartment he can hardly maintain; Xie Lian is a mess, and his parents would be sorry to see it. He inhales breath after wet breath and ruins Hua Cheng’s shirt and holds onto him because he can’t really figure out what else to do. Every step forward feels difficult, even when logically, he knows he has his day mapped out, and the day after that, and the day after that; it’s a loose framework, an outline he’ll stick to, until he runs out of steam.
“San Lang,” he says, cries, even, and there is nothing else he can say. Hua Cheng’s comforting words filter in and out of his ears, and he is adrift.