Work Text:
1
In the middle of his work meeting, Song Lan’s phone pings. Instinctively, he closes his hand around it to silence it, before surreptitiously glancing down.
A notification lights up the screen. A message from Xingchen.
Song Lan glances around. Lan Qiren is giving his quarterly briefing, and the others are either squinting at the minute text on the screen or gazing off into space.
Pressing his phone in the space between his bag and his computer, Song Lan unlocks it and opens Xingchen’s message.
Xingchen has sent him an image of two pebbles, resting side by side at the edge of the road. They lie on a thin line of grass that pushes up through the cracks in the concrete. Bathed in the sunlight, one is a deep grey, the other cream-coloured.
Us :), reads Xingchen’s caption.
Saw them on my walk and thought of you :)
Song Lan’s hand clenches, involuntarily, on his phone.
“Is that urgent?”
He looks up to see Lan Qiren’s mouth pressed into a thin line. A few other pairs of idle eyes shift in his direction.
“Not at all.” Song Lan silences his phone. “My apologies.”
Eyes back on the presentation, Song Lan thinks of the two pebbles on the road, the rounded shapes nestled together into the soft blades of grass. Xingchen must have been on his lunch break. Maybe later, he will send Song Lan a picture of his food. Xingchen has gotten into the habit of updating him about things he sees and does when they are apart, and Song Lan finds that he likes it.
Likes feeling that Xingchen is beside him, all day.
There is a pressure in his face. It presses upon his cheeks, tugs at them, and curls inward into his chest. It makes him want to –
Want to burrow his face into his sleeve and clench his fists a little.
2
They’re halfway through the meal when Xingchen stops chewing, furrows his brow, and stares at the table like it’s revealed a secret.
“Zichen.” Xingchen points at the black and white salt and pepper shakers, fitted next to each other in the tray beside them.
Song Lan blinks. His fork hovers over his pie. “What?”
“Look.” Xingchen is already smiling at his own thought. “That’s us.”
Then, he gestures at their outfits. Song Lan is wearing a black shirt, one that he owns about three of and wears on rotation because they’re comfortable and functional. Xingchen is wearing a white blouse that he got at the thrift store that they visited the previous week. (Do I look pretty in this? Xingchen asked when trying it on, and Song Lan could not do anything but nod, a lump in his throat, because Xingchen looked pretty in everything.)
“Mn,” Song Lan nods, now.
Xingchen smiles up at him, and then returns to his food, humming under his breath as though nothing has happened. Song Lan picks up his fork again. He doesn’t quite remember what he was eating.
3
Song Lan checks the time and his heart sinks.
“I’m sorry, Xingchen. I have to go.”
“Zicheeen…” He can hear Xingchen’s pout from the other end of the line, and warmth squirms in his belly. There is a rustling sound, and then a sigh. “Your work only makes you wake up at six to stop you from talking to me. Fine.”
There is a squeak of mattresses. Song Lan Imagines Xingchen lying down on his own pillow.
“When will I see you next?”
Song Lan swallows.
“This Saturday?” he suggests. “We can check out that new community garden you told me about.”
“Okay!”
Reclining on his pillow, Song Lan holds the phone closer to his ear, letting Xingchen’s voice linger.
“I look forward to it.” He says finally, before reaching over to the light switch. “Goodnight, Xingchen.”
“Goodnight, Zichen.”
Reluctantly, he hangs up and sets his phone on the bedside table. As the screen goes dark, the night closes in.
The house exhales into silence, empty and still.
Then, Song Lan’s phone pings again, lighting up the room.
A new message from Xingchen.
Sleep well, Zichen <3
And then –
That’s us <3
Xingchen has attached a picture. A picture of two cats – one black and one white. They are curled on the same cushion and cuddled up together. The white cat’s head is nuzzled into the black cat’s stomach, and the black cat’s cheek presses into the top of the white cat’s head.
Song Lan’s hand tightens on his phone.
Close to his face, the light from his phone shines into his eyes, lit with Xingchen’s name, and Xingchen’s affection.
Does Xingchen –
Is Xingchen –
He realises that he is trembling a little. Sometimes, Song Lan wants things that he’s too afraid to think about.
Goodnight, Xingchen, he types, finally.
Song Lan presses his phone to his cheek, and wonders if Xingchen knows of it:
Of that soft thing in his chest that curls around the warm thought of Xingchen, long into the darkness.
4
Song Lan is in the bathroom of his workplace when his phone buzzes with a message from Xingchen. An image.
He opens it without thinking, and then freezes.
Xingchen has sent him two cats again: one black and one white. Except this time, they are extremely close to each other. Far too close. And caught at an… unfortunate angle.
Beneath it is Xingchen’s caption:
Us :)
Song Lan shoves his phone face down on the counter and jerks around, as though Lan Qiren or Nie Mingjue might be behind him, ready to jump out of a cubicle to chastise him for spending his bathroom breaks looking at –
– At cats humping each other.
Song Lan vaguely notices that his face is burning.
He locks his phone. Unlocks it. Locks it. Unlocks it again. The image is still there, and so is Xingchen’s message.
He swallows, suddenly very aware of how quiet the room is, of his own body, and how loudly his heart is beating.
What? He types, then deletes it. Types Xingchen, what do you and deletes that too. Across the screen, Xingchen has already gone offline.
Song Lan closes the message and shoves his phone back into his pocket. Is Xingchen doing this on purpose? This must be a joke, one that he is not equipped to respond to. Song Lan has never been good at all that. At the strange, fluid world of social interactions that Xingchen navigates more gracefully than he does.
—---------------------
“You didn’t text me back, Zichen!” Xingchen pouts, the moment he comes through Song Lan’s door. “I thought you liked seeing cute cats playing!”
Song Lan’s stomach churns a little. He carefully avoids Xingchen’s eye.
“Playing?” He repeats.
Xingchen opens his phone, bright and innocent. “Yeah! Look at them, they’re so – Oh.”
Valiantly, Song Lan looks up to see Xingchen staring at the image on his phone with his eyes wide and mouth open.
“Oh,” Xingchen says again. “I wasn’t wearing my glasses when I sent that.”
“Yeah,” Song Lan says, a little too quickly. “I was thinking that you probably didn’t see it properly.”
Song Lan shuffles his feet. He can feel the heat rising in his cheeks again.
Xingchen, incredibly, giggles. Song Lan takes another peek up at him again to find Xingchen leaning toward him.
When did he get so close? Song Lan can smell the floral scent of his hair. If he just reached out, he would be able to trace the beautiful line of Xingchen’s jaw, to his lips, and –
Song Lan snaps his gaze up to Xingchen’s eyes, which is a mistake, because they immediately crinkle, sparkling with something that ignites a reciprocal flutter deep in Song Lan’s stomach.
“You really don’t want to think of us as those cute cats?” Xingchen murmurs. He is even closer, now. His voice is lower. “Doing that?”
“I…” Song Lan’s heart pounds in his chest. He feels frozen in place.
When Xingchen kisses him, he does not know better than to catch Xingchen by the shoulders and press his lips back into Xingchen’s, until Xingchen makes a little sound at the back of his throat and tangles one hand in his hair to tug him closer. The other hand trails down Song Lan’s chest, and heat awakens beneath his skin, following Xingchen’s touch.
When they break apart, Xingchen’s eyes are shining.
Song Lan does not quite remember how to breathe.
“So,” Xingchen murmurs, lips brushing against his ear. His lashes are lowered, and strands of his hair tickle Song Lan’s cheek. “What were the cats doing, again?”
5
Xingchen’s hand is in his, their fingers interlaced. Their shoulders brush up against each other with every step, and Song Lan feels it in the quiet of his heart: the warmth of his Xingchen’s hand, the shape of his shadow beside him.
The park is quiet in the late-afternoon way, light thinning into the warmth. It breaks across the lake in flecks of pale gold, and burnishes the loose strands of Xingchen’s hair.
Song Lan loves holding Xingchen’s hand. He loves looking at Xingchen.
He loves Xingchen.
On the lake, a pair of swans paddles across the lake. They are enough that their wakes overlap, white and black against the green surface. The water holds them in the same gentle current, rippling and settling around them.
Song Lan tries about three times before the words don’t die in his mouth.
“That…” He clears his throat, and points at the swans. “That’s us.”
He turns to find Xingchen already looking at him. In the slanting light, he is so beautiful that Song Lan’s arm falls uselessly back towards his side again.
“Us,” Xingchen smiles, and then tugs him closer and kisses him.