Chapter Text
The rusty mailbox had been crooked for as long as Zheng Yongkang could remember. He'd give it a half-hearted kick every afternoon on his walk home from school, attempting to straighten the old thing, but it always tilted back stubbornly to the left. Today was no different—except that his chest felt heavier than usual.
"Juntai, wait up!" Kangkang jogged to catch up to his best friend, who was already halfway up the Zhang family's driveway. The two had been inseparable since they were kids, ever since the younger boy's family moved into their quiet neighbourhood in this small town where everyone knew everyone. Zhang Juntai turned, grinning as he adjusted his backpack. "Slowpoke. Zhao-ge's already inside, mom texted."
Kangkang's stomach did a little flip at the mention of Zhang Zhao. He couldn't help it—ever since elementary school, their first meeting, when Zhao-ge had kneeled down to help him untangle his shoelaces with gentle patience, Kangkang had nursed a quiet, hopeless crush. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud, especially not now. The older boy was practically a stranger these days, he was 3 years his senior. His head always buried in books or university prep, while Kangkang and Juntai continued to goof off in the backyard.
The house smelled like soy sauce and ginger when they stepped inside. Mrs. Zhang was bustling around the kitchen, waving them toward the dining table where Zhang Zhao sat, sipping tea with perfect posture. Kangkang's fingers twitched at his sides. His eyes darted away before the older boy could meet his gaze.
Zhang Zhao glanced up from his cup, the steam curling around his sharp features. He acknowledged the youngers presence with a simple nod towards the empty chair across him. His fingers tapped the ceramic cup—once, twice—before setting it down.
Kangkang's face warmed. Like it always did whenever Zhang Zhao even so glanced in his direction. He awkwardly shoved his hands into his pockets. Juntai snorted, elbowing him towards the empty seat.
"Tsinghua University!" Mrs. Zhang beamed, cutting through the silence, sliding a plate of dumplings toward them. "Can you believe it? Our Zhaozhao is going all the way to Beijing!" She boasted as she pinched her oldest son's cheeks, cooing at him. Pride laced her words, thick as the aroma of fried garlic.
Kangkang's chopsticks paused for a second mid-air. He'd known this was coming—everyone did. Zhang Zhao had been the towns academic star since—well, since forever basically. The kind of student teachers whispered about during staff meetings. But hearing it aloud felt like a door slamming shut somewhere in his chest.
The dumplings tasted like ash in Kangkang's mouth. He chewed mechanically, nodding along as Mrs. Zhang went on about how her first born had 'grown up so quick' and 'where'd all the time go'. Across the table, Zhang Zhao listened with polite disinterest, occasionally humming in acknowledgment. Kangkang couldn't stop staring at the way Zhang Zhao's fingers curled around his chopsticks—long, elegant, his knuckles slightly pronounced from years of writing late into the night.
"You're quiet" Juntai suddenly whispered beside him, jolting Kangkang right out of his trance, his shoulders tensing at the sound. "I'm just–just thinking." He lied—well, not entirely, so maybe half-lied?—his fingers tightening slightly around his chopsticks. Thank god the younger boy seemed to buy the flimsy excuse, his attention already drifting back to the pile of freshly fried chicken instead.
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Zhang Zhao's graduation ceremony was held on a Tuesday afternoon. The entire town seemed to turn out for it, filling the school auditorium until the air grew thick with the mingled scents of floral perfumes and hushed conversations between families and friends.
Kangkang sat wedged between his parents and Juntai, who kept elbowing him in the ribs every time Zhang Zhao's name was called—which was often. Honors. Awards. Valedictorian—because ofcourse Zhang Zhao would graduate top of his year.
It felt strange, sitting here knowing Juntai still had another year of middle school ahead of him while he himself would be starting high school next year. The gap between the three of them had never mattered much before—not when he and Juntai were racing bikes down the hill behind the convenience store while Zhao-ge rotted away in cram school. But now, watching the older boy accept his diploma with that same practiced, effortless grace, knowing he'd be off to the big city before long, the distance between them finally hit him like a harsh slap to the face.
The Zhang family hosted a small gathering in their backyard after the ceremony concluded. Paper lanterns dangled from the trees, casting wobbling circles of light over the table of food. Kangkang lingered near the drinks, pretending to examine a bowl of candied walnuts while his eyes tracked Zhang Zhao across the lawn. The older boy moved like he'd already long outgrown this place—shoulders straight, stride purposeful, accepting congratulations with polite nods.
"You're staring y'know" Zhang Juntai mumbled almost incoherently, his mouth stuffed to the brim with food. The younger seemed to materialize out of nowhere at his side holding a paper plate piled high with spring rolls.
"I'm not." Kangkang muttered back, snagging a walnut. He crushed it between his molars, the sweetness sharp on his tongue.
Zhang Juntai rolled his eyes. "Dude. You've been mooning after Zhao-ge since you were like.. what—Six? It's pathetic."
Kangkang choked. His head snapping to glare at the younger boy. "I have not—"
"Uh-huh." Juntai smirked, licking grease off his thumb. "Remember that time you cried like a baby because he said your drawing of him looked like a mutated potato?"
Heat crawled up Kangkang's neck. That had happened when he was in third grade. He'd spent hours sketching Zhao-ge from memory (more like from countless hours of staring like a creep)—only for the older boy to come home from after school classes, take one glance at it and deadpan, "Interesting interpretation."
"Shut up." Kangkang hissed, kicking at the grass. "He never called it a potato.." He murmured almost incoherently, Juntai snorting at the correction. The lantern light caught the scuffs on his sneakers—the same pair he'd worn for years, his mom had sighed and said they couldn't afford new ones. Juntai's shoes were pristine, white as the rice cakes Mrs. Zhang sent out every New Year. The clear gap between them made Kangkang's stomach twist.
A burst of laughter rang out from across the yard. Zhang Zhao stood still, surrounded by teachers and family friends. Someone had draped an arm around his shoulders, Principal Chen, maybe?—and Zhao-ge was smiling that careful, polite smile that never quite reached his eyes. Kangkang knew that smile. He'd seen it during every school assembly, every Olympiad where the adults paraded their star student around like a trophy.
Juntai followed his gaze. "You know he's leaving next week, right?" His tone was careful.
Kangkang swallowed hard. "Yeah, I know." His throat felt tight. Of course he knew. He had been counting the days since Zhao-ge aced the Gaokao exam—since Mrs. Zhang announced that the older had received his acceptance letter. Every day that passed felt like a weight pressing deeper into his ribs.
Zhang Juntai nudged him with an elbow, softer this time. "Hey, atleast you get to start high school without him looming over you like some kind of—" He waved a spring roll in the air dramatically. "—academic grim reaper."
Kangkang snorted. That was Juntai—always finding the dumbest way to make him laugh, even when his chest ached. They'd been like this since they were kids, when Juntai had marched up to him in the school playgrounds sandbox and declared them best friends because they both had Pokemon backpacks. Never mind that Kangkang was older than him—Juntai had always been the bolder one, the one who dragged them into trouble and charmed their way back out again.
A gust of wind sent the carefully set-up lanterns swaying. Shadows flickered across Zhang Zhao's face as he quietly disentangled himself from the crowd. Kangkang's breath caught when the older boy turned—not toward them, but toward the house, slipping inside like a ghost retreating from daylight.
"You should go talk to him." Juntai remarked suddenly, mouth full of what was probably his fifth or sixth spring roll now?—Either way, both options seemed like one too many.
"What? No." Kangkang's palms grew damp around the walnut bowl. "He's—he's probably busy. With, like... important people stuff..?"
Zhang Juntai rolled his eyes so hard Kangkang worried they'd get stuck. "Dude. He's literally just hiding away in his room like the antisocial nerd he is." He wiped his hands on his pants, leaving behind greasy streaks. "Go. Before I force you."
Kangkang hesitated, glancing toward the house. The kitchen window glowed yellow—Mrs. Zhang still bustling around, stacking plates. Zhao-ge's bedroom light flicked on upstairs, casting a rectangle of brightness onto the tree's branches. He'd spent countless afternoons in this yard, laying down in the grass while Juntai babbled about video games. Never once had the light turning on in Zhang Zhao's room affected him this much.
"Come on," Zhang Juntai groaned, shoving him toward the back door. "You're older than me, stop acting like a big baby."
Kangkang scowled. That was the thing—he was older. By exactly one year and sixteen days, not that anyone ever noticed. Juntai had always been the louder one, the one teachers sighed at during lunchtime while Kangkang hovered in his shadow. Even now, with high school looming and Zhao-ge leaving, the difference felt immutable.
Maybe he did have to start growing up.
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The house was quiet when Kangkang entered, his feet padding softly on the floorboards as he crept past the kitchen, where Mrs. Zhang hummed along to a song that seemed to be stuck in her head the past week. The stairs creaked softly under his weight—he knew exactly which steps to avoid from years of midnight snack raids with Juntai.
Zhang Zhao's door was slightly ajar. Kangkang hovered in the hallway, heart hammering. He could see slivers of the room through the crack—a neatly made bed, textbooks stacked with military precision on the desk. A single framed photo sat beside them: Zhao-ge and Juntai as kids, squinting against the sun at some long-ago camping trip. Kangkang remembered that day. He'd been there too, standing just a few feet away, too shy to ask if he could join.
He mustered up all of his courage, raising his hand to knock—then froze at the sound of Zhao-ge's voice. "Are you going to stand there all night?"
Kangkang's stomach lurched as the door infront of him swung open fully. The older boy had changed into an old plain black t-shirt, his sharp collarbones peeking out the stretched out neckline. Kangkang's mouth went dry.
"Uh–Juntai made me come up here" He blurted out, then immediately wanted to kick himself.
Zhang Zhao's eyebrow arched—just slightly, the way it always did when he was amused but not enough to show it. "Oh, Did he?"
"He—" Kangkang swallowed, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. The fabric was worn, stretched thin from too many washes. Zhang Zhao's gaze flickered down to the movement, then back up. "He said you were hiding like an... antisocial nerd."
A snort escaped Zhao-ge—actual, an undignified sound Kangkang hadn't heard in a long time. "Sounds like him." The older boy leaned his body against the doorway with a knowing look in his eyes, and Kangkang fought the urge to retreat a step. There was barely three feet between them now, close enough to see the faint scar above Zhao-ge's eyebrow from when Juntai had accidentally hit him with a baseball bat at age nine.
Heat crawled up Kangkang's neck. He'd never been a good liar—Juntai teased him mercilessly for it, ever since that time in third grade when he'd tried to convince Mrs. Zhang they hadn't eaten all the cakes despite having frosting all over their lips and fingers. Zhao-ge had seen right through him then too, handing them both wet wipes with that same knowing look.
The silence stretched. Somewhere downstairs, Juntai whined—probably getting told off for stealing food off someones plate again. Kangkang wished desperately that he were down there with him, where things were simple. Where he didn't have to stand here feeling like a clumsy idiot in the face of Zhao-ge's quiet intensity.
Kangkang's fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, the worn cotton growing damp under his sweaty palms. Zhang Zhao's room smelled just like the older boy, he isn't sure how to describe it exactly—Sharp? Clean?. Well, definitely nothing like the cluttered chaos of his own bedroom, with candy wrappers thoughtlessly shoved under his closet and half-finished soda bottles littering his desk.
"Well, did you need something?" Zhao-ge asked, voice low and measured in a way that made Kangkang's pulse flutter like a trapped mouse.
The question hung between them, heavier than it should've been. Kangkang opened his mouth, then closed it. What did he need? To say goodbye properly? To confess some stupid feeling he'd carried with him since elementary school? To beg Zhao-ge to stay in this town where nothing ever changed except the seasons and the height marks on the Zhangs' bathroom doorway?
Downstairs, Juntai's laughter echoed up the stairwell—bright and careless, the way it always was. Kangkang envied that sometimes, the way the younger boy moved through life like water, never lingering too long in one place.
Kangkang's throat tightened. "N-No—it's nothing," he blurted out, taking a step back. The floor felt like it was digging painfully into his socked feet. "Juntai was just—just messing with me. Dare. To bother you." The lie tasted bitter, crumbling on his tongue like burnt food. He forced a laugh that came out more like an awkward cough. "Stupid, right?"
Zhang Zhao's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes—a flicker Kangkang couldn't quite name. The older boy reached up to adjust his glasses, the motion deliberate. "Ah, alright then." He replied evenly. Too evenly. The kind of tone teachers used when they knew you were cheating but waited for you to confess first.
Kangkang's fingers twitched at his sides. He should leave. Should bolt downstairs and find Juntai, pretend none of this ever happened. But his feet stayed rooted to the spot, nails digging deep into his palms.
Zhang Zhao exhaled through his nose, almost imperceptibly. "You're worse at lying than when we were kids." He remarked plainly, before turning back toward his half-packed suitcase on the bed, shutting the door softly behind him.
The simple dismissal stung more than it should have.
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The train station smelled like diesel and cheap cup noodles. Kangkang hovered near the ticket gate, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, warming himself from the cool breeze. Around him, families clustered together—mothers fussing over luggage, fathers checking watches. The Zhang's stood in a tight knot near Platform 3, Mrs. Zhang adjusting Zhao-ge's scarf for the third time.
"Mom," Zhang Zhao murmured, patient but firm. He caught her hands gently. "I'll be fine."
Kangkang watched a couple steps away, the small distance feeling like miles. His own parents were chatting with Mr. Zhang about university housing policies, their voices blending into the stations white noise. Juntai elbowed his side sharply.
"Go," his best friend hissed under his breath. "Before he boards."
Kangkang's stomach twisted. He hadn't spoken to Zhao-ge since that night outside his bedroom—had avoided even looking at the older boy during the farewell dinner last night. But now, with the train's engine rumbling to life, something desperate clawed at his ribs.
The platform vibrated under his sneakers as he edged forward. Zhang Zhao was checking his ticket again, shoulders squared against the weight of his backpack. Kangkang's mouth went dry. He reached out and tapped Zhao-ge's shoulder with two fingers, lighter than he'd ever touched anything in his life.
Zhang Zhao turned, and suddenly they were standing close—too close, closer than they'd been since elementary school when Kangkang used to trail after the two brothers like a second shadow. Up close, Zhao-ge smelled like the same laundry detergent his mother used since they were kids, his glasses catching the fluorescent lights overhead.
"Kangkang?" The older boy's brows furrowed—not unkindly, but with that same quiet curiosity that always made Kangkang feel like an equation waiting to be solved.
His throat closed. All the words he'd rehearsed in his head—about admirations and goodbyes and maybe-somedays—dissolved like sugar in hot tea. Behind the older, the station attendant shouted a boarding call.
The sound of the trains doors opening pierced the air like a knife through paper—sharp, final. Kangkang's fingers twitched at his sides, still tingling from where they'd brushed Zhao-ge's jacket sleeve. He could feel the seconds slipping away, each one heavier than the last, pressing down on his lungs until he couldn't breathe.
"You okay, Kangkang?" Zhao-ge asked, and God, his voice was exactly how Kangkang remembered from childhood—calm as still water, with that undercurrent of something deeper he could never quite decipher.
"Y-yeah." His own voice tasted like sawdust on his tongue. Kangkang swallowed hard, forcing his gaze up from the scuffed toes of Zhang Zhao's shoes to meet his eyes. "I'm good, Zhao-ge. Sorry. I-it's just—"
The words tangled in his throat. A couple feet away, Juntai was making exaggerated kissy faces behind Zhao-ge's back. Normally that would've earned him a well-aimed smack or at least a deserved middle finger, but right now Kangkang couldn't even muster the energy to glare. His pulse roared in his ears louder than the stations announcements overhead.
"I just wanted to say—" He sucked in a breath. Beijing was two thousand kilometers away. Two thousand kilometers of unfamiliar cities, unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar evenings where Zhao-ge wouldn't be drinking tea at the Zhangs' dining table while Kangkang pretended not to stare. "I hope everything goes well in Beijing, Zhao-ge."
It sounded pathetic even to his own ears—small and childish, like something a kid would say to a teacher on the last day of school. He braced for the polite dismissal, the pat on the head he'd gotten from adults his whole life whenever he tried to say something sincere.
But Zhao-ge didn't smile indulgently. Didn't ruffle his hair like Kangkang was still that gap-toothed kid trailing after the older. Instead, his expression did something complicated—eyebrows drawing together just slightly, mouth softening at the corners—before settling into something almost tender.
"Thanks, Kangkang." He reached out, hesitated, then gently adjusted the collar of the younger boy's jacket with careful fingers. The brush of skin against his neck sent sparks down Kangkang's spine. "I hope things are good for you here too."
The speaker shrieked again—urgent this time. Mrs. Zhang started crying in earnest now, clinging to her sons arm while Mr. Zhang cleared his throat roughly. Kangkang stood frozen, Zhao-ge's words echoing in his skull like church bells. He'd never heard the older boy speak in a tone like that before—not to him. Like he meant it. Like Kangkang mattered.
Then Zhao-ge was boarding, swallowed by the crowd of people hauling overstuffed luggage. Kangkang caught one last glimpse of him taking his seat through the window—profile sharp against the grimy glass, already turning away—before the train groaned into motion.
Juntai slung an arm around his shoulders. "Wow," he said, grinning. "That was almost smooth."
Kangkang didn't answer. His throat felt stuffed with cotton, his eyes burning. Behind them, their parents were chatting about the weather in Beijing this time of year. Like all of this was normal. Like the axis of Kangkang's world hadn't just tilted irreparably.
The train shrank into the distance, taking with it the last fragments of Kangkang's childhood—the stolen glances, the unspoken words, the quiet ache he'd carried like a pebble in his shoe for years. He stood there until the rails were empty, until Juntai's teasing nudges turned into concerned silence. His best friend knew him too well—had seen the way Kangkang's fingers trembled at his sides, how his breath hitched every time the wind carried the faintest echo of the trains wheels.
"Come on," Juntai muttered, his voice laced thick with understanding. He tugged gently at the older boy's sleeve. "Mom packed leftovers."
Kangkang let himself be led away, but his mind stayed fixed on that final image—Zhang Zhao's form by the train window, already turning toward his future while Kangkang remained rooted in place. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn't want to stay here. Not if it meant watching life move forward without him, always three steps behind.
––––
That night, he dug out his old middle school notebooks from the bottom of his bookbag. The pages were filled with half-assed notes, doodles of various different characters, and Juntai's stupid codenames for their teachers. He ran a finger down a particularly messy sketch of Zhang Zhao—apparently drawn during a math class he'd probably zoned out of, judging by the random numbers written and scribbled over above it—and exhaled sharply. Then he tore out the pages, one by one, until only blank sheets remained.
His desk lamp flickered as he cracked open Zhao-ge's old algebra textbook—stolen a week ago with Juntai, under the guise of "needing a cheat sheet". When really, he'd just wanted an excuse to linger near the older boy's room. The equations swam before his eyes, incomprehensible as hieroglyphics. Kangkang gritted his teeth and started copying them anyway, forcing his fingers to form each symbol with precision Zhao-ge would've approved of.
At 2:17 AM, his phone buzzed. Zhang Juntai: "DUDE UR MOM TEXTED MINE SAYING U ASKED FOR ALL OF MY BROTHERS OLD NOTEBOOKS??? WHO R U AND WHAT HAVE U DONE WITH MY KANGKANG".
Kangkang wiped graphite-smudged fingers on his pajama pants before replying: "new me. deal with it."
The reply came instantly: "FUCK zhao-ge's gone for a couple hours and ur already turning into him?? does this mean ur gonna start drinking that disgusting bitter tea he likes too??"
His thumb hovered over the screen. The streetlight outside his window cast long shadows across the calculus problems—the same ones Zhao-ge had annotated years ago in neat black ink. Kangkang traced a particularly meticulous note 'Remember to check domain restrictions' with his pinky finger, the paper rough against his skin.
: "maybe." he typed back, then threw his phone face-down on the bed before he could overthink it.
––––
Zheng Yongkang was not stupid by any means—sure, he might've been a.. a lazy student...? or.. easily bored maybe?—Well, whatever you wanna call it. The point is, he wasn't stupid. With a little effort (and significantly less time spent feeding into Zhang Juntai's chaos), his grades began to climb like ivy up a brick wall.
By the end of his first year of high school, he'd clawed his way to the top of his class, his name etched in crisp black ink above all the other students on the list. His parents framed the report card proudly, his mother kissing his forehead while his father ruffled his hair with gruff pride. Kangkang pretended to hate the attention, but the warmth in his chest was undeniable. If he kept this up, if he didn't stumble, maybe he could finally close the distance between himself and Beijing—between himself and him.
When Zhang Juntai started high school the following year, Kangkang became his unwilling full-time tutor. Only 'unwilling' because Juntai whined through every session, but Kangkang secretly didn't mind. It felt good to explain equations with the same patience Zhao-ge had once shown him, even if Juntai threw erasers at his head when he got frustrated. Everything felt almost normal—until the cold breeze rolled in, thick and suffocating, and with it, the news that Zhang Zhao was coming home for Winter break.
Kangkang spent the night before Zhao-ge's arrival staring holes into his poor ceiling, picking apart every hypothetical reunion. Would the older boy still wear his glasses pushed up his nose when he read? Would his voice sound deeper over dinner? Did he still dress the same? Or had living in the big city changed his style? By the time dawn bled through his curtains, Kangkang had imagined—and discarded—a hundred different versions of Zhang Zhao, each more improbable than the last.
The reality was much worse than anything he could've imagined.
The Zhangs' dining table had always been slightly too small for two families, elbows bumping against eachother as laughter spilled over steaming plates of braised pork belly. Kangkang counted the grains of rice clinging to his bowl—nineteen, twenty—anything to avoid staring at the way Zhao-ge's throat moved when he swallowed his food.
Whatever fantasies he'd been making up in his head were completely thrown out the window now. The older looked almost exactly the same, plain, exactly everything that Kangkang had been missing. The circles under his eyes were slightly darkened, but his hands still moved with the same precise grace as they carefully peeled shrimp for his mother. Kangkang's fingers twitched around his chopsticks.
"Kangkang, your mother says you finished first in your class last year," Mrs. Zhang beamed at him across the table, oblivious to how his knee jerked under the tablecloth. "Even Juntai's grades have improved thanks to you!"
Zhang Zhao's head tilted slightly, glasses glinting in the overhead light. "Is that so?" the older asked, turning his head to face him. His voice was deeper than Kangkang remembered, he couldn't help but admire the older after not seeing him for so long.
Juntai kicked him under the table. Kangkang choked on the food in his mouth that he somehow completely forgot he was chewing. "It's—*cough*—It's really not that impressive aunty" he managed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Zhao-ge's eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly at the gesture, and suddenly Kangkang was nine again, fumbling with too-large chopsticks while the older boy watched in silent judgment.
The moment shattered when Juntai launched into an exaggerated retelling of Kangkang's latest academic success stories, bragging about his best friends lightning-speed improvement.
Dinner quickly dissolved into easy laughter, the clatter of dishes, the familiar rhythm of two families who'd shared meals for a decade. Yet Kangkang kept catching glimpses of Zhang Zhao—the way his fingers tapped against his glass of water, a habit he'd had since they were kids was suddenly very distracting. When their fingers brushed while reaching for the same bottle of soy sauce, Kangkang recoiled like he'd been burned.
––––
The hallway light flickered overhead as Kangkang followed Juntai's retreating back toward his bedroom—same familiar scuff marks on the baseboards, same crooked family photo hung up on the wall. Juntai flung himself onto his bed with a groan, "God, suddenly I miss when dinner was just us stealing baozi from the kitchen" he muttered into his pillow. Kangkang snorted, collapsing onto the desk chair that still had Juntai's fifth-grade graffiti marking it. He spun once, twice, the room blurring—until his foot caught onto the edge of a stray notebook discarded on the floor, he leaned down to pick it up.
"So," Juntai sat up abruptly, socked foot prodding at Kangkang's knee. "You gonna tell me about how you almost choked to death when Zhao-ge even breathed in your direction earlier?"
Kangkang's palm spasmed around the notebook. "I didn't—"
"Bullshit. You turned redder than Mom's chilli oil." Juntai cut off, but there was something knowing in the tilt of his head—the same look he'd given Kangkang whenever he'd caught the older staring too long at his brother.
The notebook's spine cracked under his tight grip. "Shut up."
Kangkang quickly muttered something about needing to piss—his usual excuse when he needed a minute alone—and slipped out of Juntai's room before the younger boy could protest. The hallway smelled faintly of the Zhangs' lavender-scented floor cleaner, the same brand they'd used since back when he was in elementary school. He was halfway inside the bathroom when a tap on his shoulder sent his pulse skyrocketing.
Zhang Zhao loomed behind him, backlit by the light coming from down the hallway. Had the ceiling always been that low? Kangkang could've sworn the hallway had shrunk, with the way Zhao-ge's head nearly brushed the top. Or maybe his mind was just playing stupid tricks on him—Yeah, probably that. Either way, it made Kangkang's mouth go dry.
"Mom told me about how you've been helping out my brother with his studies." Zhao-ge's voice was quieter than his usual dinner-table volume.
Kangkang's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He counted three heartbeats before managing, "Oh—uh, yeah. He's improving a lot already." He answered honestly—Sure, Juntai still mixed up quadratic and linear equations weekly. But it was still a huge improvement that the younger was even willing to try. Zhao-ge's responding chuckle vibrated right through his ribs.
"That's impressive." The older boy adjusted his glasses with a knuckle. "He'd throw a tantrum whenever I tried to teach him anything."
The memory surfaced unbidden, eight-year-old Juntai pelting Zhao-ge with stationery while Kangkang bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Yeah, that sounds like him" he grinned at the fond memory, despite his hammering heart. "He wouldn't listen to me too, until I threatened to stop hanging out with him."
Zhao-ge's expression did that thing again—the one Kangkang had no name for, where his eyes crinkled at the corners but his mouth stayed still. "Well, then you must mean a lot to him."
The bathroom tiles suddenly looked like the most fascinating thing in the world. Kangkang scuffed his foot against the grout line, pulse thrumming where his shirt collar pressed too tight. "Y-yeah… I guess" he answered, smiling politely before hastily closing the door behind him.
He was praying to god that the older hadn't noticed the heat quickly crawling up his neck, but one look in the mirror only confirmed his ears were already pathetically burning like glowing brake lights.
––––
Winter break evaporated like morning dew—gone before Kangkang could fully savor the rare, stolen moments where Zhao-ge's elbow brushed his at their Lunar New Year gathering, or when their fingers overlapped reaching for the same dish of stir-fried noodles.
They never really spoke much beyond polite exchanges, 'Goodmorning Zhao-ge' or 'Could you pass the sauce, Kangkang?' but even these mundane interactions felt like huge victories. A year ago, he would've combusted from sheer proximity alone. Now, he only stuttered sometimes when the older boy's soft voice curled around his name.
This time around, he wasn't there to send the older off. The train station's departure board flickered with different destinations as Kangkang sat rigid in his desk chair, fingers drumming against his physics textbook. It stung—knowing Zhao-ge was leaving again, this time without so much as a goodbye, but beneath the ache pulsed something fiercer. Determination crystallizing in his ribs like frost on a windowpane. He would make it to Beijing too.
The rest of the year unfolded with mechanical precision—mornings bleached white by fluorescent classroom lights, evenings spent bent over mock exams until his vision blurred. When his homeroom teacher announced his nomination for class captain, the applause of his classmates sounded distant, as if someone had turned the volume down on the world. His mother cried when he brought home his final report card, the numbers so close to perfect they might as well have been. But the only opinion he truly craved was currently 2.000 kilometers away, breathing air that didn't taste of their little hometown.
When summer vacation arrived in a burst of thick humid air and sticky pavement heat, Kangkang found himself counting down the days like a prisoner awaiting parole. Juntai had spilled the news a week ago between spoonfulls of a shared tub of ice cream. "Zhao-ge's coming back Tuesday. Ugh, gotta prepare for two nerds nagging me about math now." The complaint flew to the back of his mind as the news of Zhang Zhao's return lodged itself in Kangkang's chest and bloomed there, tendrils of anticipation curling around his lungs.
––––
Kangkang had been helping Juntai catch up on some topics he'd fallen behind on in the Zhang's living room when he heard ushered voices coming from the front door, Zhang Zhao had returned home with his father who had picked him up from the station earlier. The older boy walked in, giving his mother a deep hug before turning to glance towards him and Juntai. "Is that my shirt?" Zhang Zhao asks his younger brother.
Zhang Juntai blinked down at his oversized tee—the same one Kangkang knew the younger had stolen from Zhao-ge's drawer probably a whole four laundry cycles ago. "Uh... yeah? I'm borrowing it. Why?" The shirt smelled faintly of fabric softener and Juntai's favorite body spray.
"Go change, I feel like using that shirt right now." The command rolled off Zhao-ge's tongue like it belonged there, effortless. His suitcase sat abandoned by the door, wheels still damp with summer rain.
Kangkang pressed his kneecaps into the floor hard enough to bruise. The words in the textbook blurred before him into meaningless symbols.
Juntai scoffed, flicking a highlighter cap at his older brother. "It's literally dirty, Zhao-ge. Go find something else to wear. You have other shirts." His tone dripped with the particular brand of exasperation reserved for siblings who'd been apart just long enough to forget about eachothers annoying habits.
Zhang Zhao's fingers tightened around the handle of his suitcase. "Zhang Juntai. Take it off."
Tense silence pooled between them like spilled ink. Their mother's slippers shuffled against the floorboards as she emerged from the hallway, dish towel flapping in the air. "Zhang Juntai! Can't you listen to your gege for once? He just got back home and you're already giving him a headache."
Juntai rolled his eyes skyward—a silent plea for divine intervention—before stomping upstairs with all the grace of a disgruntled cat. The moment his bedroom door slammed shut, Kangkang became acutely aware of two things: the beads of sweat cooling down the back of his neck, and the precise distance between him and Zhao-ge's socked feet covered in three graceful strides.
"Hey Kangkang" the older boy crouched beside him, knees popping. Up close, his hoodie smelled like train seats(don't ask him what he means by that, he isn't even sure himself) and rain. "How were my brother's grades last year?"
Kangkang awkwardly played with the pen between his fingers. "O-oh, everythings going well." His voice cracked embarrassingly on the last syllable. He cleared his throat before continuing. "His grades improved by fourty percent from first semester to second."
Zhao-ge hummed, nudging at the youngest's abandoned workbook on the floor. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards at Juntai's doodle of a stick figure teacher exploding. "I saw on the school page you finished top of your class the past two years."
The words punched through Kangkang's ribs like a rogue basketball. Zhao-ge checked their school's social media page? He paid attention to his results? He stared ahead at the older boy's reflection in the TV screen—the way his glasses caught the afternoon sunlight. "W-well yeah. But my scores aren't as good as y-yours were" he managed.
A huff of laughter came from beside him, Zhang Zhao adjusted his glasses with a knuckle. "Guess that means you might need some tutoring too" the older answers casually. Kangkang felt like his body was suddenly frozen in place, every limb felt like stone—Heck, he felt like he couldn't even breathe.
"Since you're helping out my brother so much, I should help you out too," Zhao-ge continued, fingers tapping against his knee—once, twice—like he was counting beats in his head. "Your final year of high school is the most important after all." He tilted his head slightly, the living room light catching a small smudge on his left lens. "Wanna give me your WeChat?"
Kangkang's pen nearly slipped from his sweat-damp palms. The older boy might as well have asked for his ribcage, carved out and presented on a silver platter. "Oh— I-I wouldn't wanna bother you—" The words tasted like pennies on his tongue, metallic and sharp. He almost wanted to take them back as soon as they left his mouth.
Zhang Zhao cut him off with a flick of his wrist—the same motion he used to dismiss Juntai's whining. "You would never be a bother Kangkang." His voice dropped to that strange register that made Kangkang's knees go weak. "My brother is probably more of a bother to you. I should be thanking you for keeping him in check while I'm away."
Somewhere between Zhao-ge's third syllable and sixth, Kangkang felt his soul fully exit his body. The Zhang family's wall clock ticked three times before he managed to pull said soul back and reboot his vocal cords. "W-well, I'm sure it would be really helpful." His hands moved on autopilot, pulling up the QR code on his phonescreen with the efficiency of someone who'd been delusional enough to rehearse this moment in the privacy of his bedroom approximately 47 times.
The notification ping was obscenely loud in the quiet living room. Kangkang watched, transfixed, as Zhao-ge's profile picture loaded—a grainy shot of his University's library that somehow looked like it had been proffesionally taken despite the terrible lighting (or maybe Kangkang was just overly biased). His contact name was just a simple 'Zhao'—Brutally efficient. No emojis. No nicknames. Kangkang's own profile—a stupid selfie of him and Juntai that they'd taken last summer—suddenly felt embarrassingly juvenile.
"Just text me anytime, alright?" Zhang Zhao smiled a final time, before turning to walk away. If you asked him, Zhao-ge's smile was the kind of smile that could ruin lives—crooked at one corner, the ghost of a dimple forming on his right cheek, and to be able to see it so up-close and personal felt like a blessing in Kangkang's book. His pulse thundered in his ears loud enough to drown out the sound of Juntai dramatically stomping down the stairs.
"Un-fucking-believable!" Juntai's voice cut through his daydreaming like a foghorn. He'd changed into an aggressively red hoodie that clashed horribly with his sulk. "Mom made me give the stupid shirt back even though it's literally been in my drawer since forever! Can you believe the favoritism?!" he nodded and hummed along dismissively—Sorry Juntai, but he had bigger things to think about.
And if Kangkang noticed Zhang Zhao came back down the stairs wearing a completely different shirt from what Zhang Juntai had borrowed earlier, he pretended not to notice for his own sanity.
––––
The long summer break continued to pass by, things between him and Zhang Zhao were surprisingly much more comfortable now. They had friendly conversations about Zhang Juntai's progress in studies almost every other day—how the younger boy finally stopped mixing up equations, how he'd manage to improve his english pronunciation just enough to hopefully avoid any more constant scolding from his teacher.
Sometimes, Zhang Zhao would even ask about Kangkang's life—how his summer cram school was going, if their teacher was still making all the students do those ridiculous timed drills—and Kangkang would tentatively return the questions, nervously asking about Tsinghua, careful not to expose how much he'd obsessively researched about the older's campus.
He learned that Zhao-ge hated his dorm's communal showers and missed proper home-cooked meals. Each exchange made Kangkang's heart bloom like time-lapse footage of a flower unfurling, petals stretching toward sunlight he'd never dared to reach for before.
This time, when Zhang Zhao left again for Beijing, Kangkang stood with a small smile on his lips, waving on the platform until the train disappeared around the bend, his shoulder still tingling where Zhao-ge had briefly squeezed it in farewell.
He'd barely made it back to his bedroom when his phone buzzed with a notification that sent his heartbeat skittering like a startled rabbit: "Hey Kangkang, just text me anytime yeah? :)" The simple message glowed on his screen, that single smiley face made up of punctuations detonating in his chest like a million fireworks.
Kangkang stared at his phone like an idiot, cheeks burning as if Zhao-ge was speaking directly to him face to face. God. He must look like an absolutely pathetic idiot right now—knees drawn up on his bed, teeth worrying his bottom lip raw, fingers hovering over the keyboard like he was defusing a bomb instead of replying to a casual text.
It took him five full minutes of typing and deleting half-formed responses before settling on something painfully basic: "Ofcourse Zhao-ge, Thanks again! ^^" The moment he hit send, the delivered icon immediately flickered to read. SHIT. Zhang Zhao had been waiting for his reply—SHIT. SHIT. SHIT—
His phone vibrated almost instantly: "It took you that long to say that? You're cute lol. No need to be nervous with me alright?"
Kangkang launched his phone across the bed like it had electrocuted him, the device bouncing off his blanket with a soft thump. WHAT. THE. FUCK. His brain short-circuited, replaying Zhao-ge's words on a loop—cute? CUTE?—before forcibly rebooting. Nope. Clearly Zhao-ge was just joking around with him. The older boy was obviously trying to ease the lingering awkwardness between them with some light teasing, nothing more.
Kangkang scrambled to retrieve his phone like the text might disappear if he hesitated for another second, thumbs flying over the screen: "TT.. Sorry Zhao-ge... I promise I won't be awkward anymore!;;" he hit send instantly, not wanting to embarrass himself a second time.
Kangkang held his breath. The older's reply came slower this time, the typing bubble appearing and dissappearing a couple times, giving his brain just enough space to spiral into full on panic mode—had he overcorrected? Was the excessive emoticons too much? Where was the closest hard surface so he could bang his stupid head against it—before his screen lit up again.
: "Alright :)" Zhang Zhao's reply was characteristically brief. Kangkang finally let out the breath he'd been holding, a sigh of relief at the normalcy. Too many unexpected things had been happening in his life these past few weeks(not that he was complaining), he needed something familiar to ground his racing thoughts.
––––
His final year of highschool began with the metallic screech of rusty lockers and the acrid smell of fresh ink on textbook pages. Kangkang pressed his thumb against the spine of his physics workbook—still stiff with newness—and exhaled through his nose. He was nervous for this year, sure, but also determined. As long as he kept working like his life depended on it (and sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, it really felt like it did), things wouldn't go wrong.
Wow. Thank God he hadn't rejected Zhang Zhao's offer to exchange contacts. Preparation for the Gaokao exam was kicking him in the ass harder than he could've imagined. Even with his usual strategy of studying chapters ahead—highlighted notes bleeding yellow into the pages—he kept hitting conceptual walls that made his temples throb.
At 1:37 AM on a Wednesday, he'd caved and sent Zhao-ge a photo of a problem set he'd been stuck on with a long line of question marks attached to it. The reply came only a few minutes later: a voice message explaining logarithmic differentiation so clearly Kangkang could almost see the older boy's fingers sketching curves in the air.
Sure, it might've been slightly unfair to his classmates—maybe, but every man for themselves in the gauntlet of the national college entrance exams. Besides, Zhao-ge was the one who offered to help—Repeatedly, mind you. So this was technically all the older's doing.
Their rhythm settled into something effortless. Kangkang would text a half-formed question typed out by a student who was clearly losing his mind between classes, and Zhao-ge would respond during his university breaks with bullet-pointed explanations that made more sense than his teacher's hour-long lectures—some "teacher" that was.
By the following month, Kangkang's phone gallery was cluttered with screenshots of Zhao-ge's handwritten notes—neat characters marching across the page with military precision, occasional coffee rings staining the corners like benign battle scars.
It was no surprise that come winter break, Zhang Zhao wasn't able to come home with his mounting projects. The real surprise was how natural it all felt, their conversations continued to flow even throughout the school holidays. No more stammering over text or overthinking emoji choices. Just Kangkang sprawled on his bedroom floor, phone propped next to his ear, listening to Zhao-ge's sleep-rough voice explain newtonian mechanics while rain tapped against his window for the fifth time.
He'd replayed those voice notes more times than any sane person would, sue him. If you asked him why, he'd say 'Listening to things on repeat help your brain memorize them better' or whatever other bullshit reason he could think of.
––––
: "Kangbaooo I won't be coming back this summer btw" The notification glowed accusingly on his screen, the time it was sent read 2:17 AM. Kangkang rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his free hand, the other clutching his phone tight enough to leave indents on his palm.
Kangbao. The nickname—earned a few weeks ago when Zhao-ge had sent him a photo of a ridiculously round steamed bun captioned: "looks just like you lol"—now sat heavy in his chest, it never failed to make a blush rise to his cheeks, no matter how many times the older repeatedly said it. He traced the characters on his screen. Stupid steamed bun. Stupid Zhao-ge with his stupid Beijing dorm room and stupid late-night texting habits.
: "Oh? I thought you were planning to come back Zhao-ge" His reply felt stiff even to himself, fingers clumsy with morning fog. The message delivered with a soft tap of his screen as he dragged himself upright. His room smelled faintly of the lingering musk of a teenage boy—a scent Zhao-ge had long since outgrown. Actually, now that he thinks about it he doesn't think Zhang Zhao was ever capable of smelling bad, not even as a teenager himself. Kangkang pressed his soft palms into his face for one indulgent second before forcing himself toward the shower.
The school day passed in a blur of lectures and mechanically copied notes. His physics teacher's voice droned on about linear momentum while Kangkang's phone burned a hole in his book bag, silent as the grave. Not that he was expecting any specific notification, his friends were all in class, parents at work, and—oh, yeah Zhao-ge was probably just busy or whatever. His shin definitely wasn't pressing against his bag under the table all day feeling for a vibration. Sure, let's just pretend he hadn't listed everybodies contact under DND during class except for Zhang Zhao's.
The notification finally chimed just as he toed off his sneakers at home: "Yeah, I was. But a couple of my friends here suddenly invited me to come on a trip together, thought I'd let you know. Don't be too dissapointed yeah? :>" The reply was light-hearted, attached was a photo that loaded in what felt like agonizing slow motion. It was a group selfie the older had took with his friends, Kangkang's eyes quickly skimmed over the image, he'd recognized a couple of the faces in it from past conversations.
But only one thing seemed to catch his eye, Zhao-ge with a small smile on his face, one arm slung around an unfamiliar girl so effortlessly lovely she might've just stepped right out of a skincare commercial. Her hair cascaded over Zhao-ge's forearm in glossy waves, everything about her was beautiful, everything Kangkang could never be. She glowed, smiling brightly next to Zhang Zhao like she had every right to be there. Which she probably did.
Right. Of course. He isn't sure how he hadn't thought about this before—of course Zhang Zhao would have a girlfriend. His thumb hovers over the screen, tracing the curve of the girl's smile. The realization hits him like a poorly-timed pop quiz, Zhao-ge had never mentioned her in months of texts, not even casually.
Maybe Kangkang had been delusional, mistaking the older's kindness for them being 'close'. Or maybe.. when he thought more rationally, maybe Zhao-ge just preffered to keep this part of his life locked away—a private exhibit Kangkang wasn't privileged enough to see.
His reply takes three drafts before he finally settles on something neutral enough to hide the way his ribs ached: "I see, hope you have lots of fun with your friends then Zhao-ge^^ Take care." The building tears feel like acid, burning behind his eyelids, but he quickly blinks them away before they can fall.
Placing his phone face-down on the desk next to his front door makes a louder sound than necessary. Kangkang presses his palms against his eyes until colors burst behind his lids—stupid, stupid, stupid.
What had he expected? That Zhang Zhao would feel the same way he did across the country like some tragic romance novel? That a few voice notes and some texts meant anything? The girl in the photo had the effortless elegance of someone who belonged perfectly in Zhang Zhao's world. He can imagine it already, their cute weekend dates in the big city and going on trips together during the holiday, not cram school timetables and high school insecurities.
––––
Over the holiday, Zhang Zhao continued to bombard him with pictures and videos of that godforsaken trip—It was sweet of the older to update him this much, really. Any other time this would've made his heart flutter—but now, each notification unknowingly twisted the knife deeper in his heart.
There was Zhao-ge grinning on a beach, Zhao-ge laughing in front of some tourist attraction, Zhao-ge with her—that girl with the perfect hair and perfect smile who always seemed to materialize at Zhang Zhao's side like some kind of rom-com deuteragonist. Kangkang zoomed in on one group photo until the pixels blurred, tracing the way Zhao-ge's fingers casually brushed her wrist. Call him crazy, but he wasn't delusional, he knew what all of this meant.
He still replied to every message with excruciating politeness: "Wow, must be fun Zhao-ge! :D" for the beach video, "Food looks amazing!" for the countless pictures of food. His thumbs moved with mechanical precision, crafting responses that gave nothing away—nothing of how his throat closed up when Zhao-ge sent a selfie with her shadow visible over his shoulder, nothing of the way his stomach dropped when a video clip caught her equally beautiful laughter in the background. Fuck. Did everything about her have to be so perfect? Kangkang felt like he was going crazy (and maybe he really was).
Summer break crawled by in a haze of damp pillowcases and hastily wiped tears. Kangkang told himself he wasn't pathetic—just pragmatic, he always had feelings for the older boy, sure, but he wasn't an idiot. Of course he knew Zhao-ge would go for someone like her: sophisticated, effortless, perfect. Not some twitchy high school boy who still slept with a stuffed animal (carefully wrapped with a soft blanket and hidden under the bed, but still).
Yet when his phone buzzed with another trip update, he'd scramble to unlock it like an addict, devouring every pixel for clues—was Zhao-ge standing closer to her in this photo? Had their hands touched in that clip?—before slapping himself mentally and chucking his phone across the bed.
––––
The next semester arrived with almost cruel levels of normalcy. School resumed, teachers droned, Zhang Juntai still forgot to do his homework. And Zhao-ge—almost infuriatingly—kept texting just as frequently as before. That was the worst part. Kangkang had braced himself for radio silence, for the slow fade of a college boy distracted by a shiny new relationship and piling assigments.
Instead, Zhao-ge still sent him helpful explanations at 2 AM, still frequently asked about Kangkang's mock exam results, still used that stupid nickname. 'Kangbao' Fuck—he had to blink away a couple more frustrated tears already beginning to form. Nothing had changed.
Which only meant everything had changed.
Because now Kangkang knew—knew—those late-night voice notes, none of those were special. The fact that nothing had changed only meant that the older had probably already been dating 'Miss Perfect' (a nickname Kangkang had come up with, he didn't have it in him to ask Zhao-ge for her name like he'd done with the rest of the older's friends) the entire time.
The texts, the updates, the pictures, none of those were ever reserved for him. The realization carved him hollow, honestly he had expected this, he really did. It was only natural that a perfect guy like Zhang Zhao would end up with a perfect girl like her. Yet he still zoomed in on every picture of the two (now saved into a private album in his gallery) like a man slowly losing his damn mind, memorizing every angle in the dark of the night when the hurt in his chest gnawed too sharply.
––––
Zheng Yongkang suddenly found himself often feeling confused. Why? He wasn't even sure himself, well he did say he was confused after all. The irony wasn't lost on him—the boy who could now solve equations in his sleep staring blankly at university brochures like they were written in cipher.
Before all this had conspired, he'd been so sure of what he'd set his sights on, only one university in mind—the one Zhang Zhao was currently attending. He'd mapped out his entire life-plan around this single point: study hard, get in Tsinghua, follow Zhao-ge's footsteps like he'd done since childhood. The plan had been flawless. Until it wasn't.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Kangkang pressed the heels of his palms against his eyelids, rough—until angry white splotches began appearing behind them. A selfish, traitorous part of his brain recoiled at the thought of seeing Zhang Zhao parading his girlfriend around campus next year—that beautiful girl with her perfect laugh and perfect everything who belonged in Zhao-ge's world like Kangkang never could. Fucking stupid. Zheng Yongkang, top of his class, felt like a total moron right now.
His parents noticed first. He had been mindlessly scrolling across university reccomendation lists on his phone during dinner. "You're still deciding where to apply to?" His mother's soft voice pulled him out of his trance, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "But you've only ever talked about Tsinghua Kangkang."
He blinked back at her like a deer caught in headlights, hurriedly shoveling rice into his mouth, the grains suddenly tasteless. He had to buy time to think of a safe reply, one that wouldnt raise suspicion (as if inhaling an ungodly amount of rice wasn't suspicious enough on it's own).
"I-I'm just... considering options.." he mumbled, the lie sat heavy on his tongue. His father merely nodded, the creases around his eyes softening. "Wherever you choose to go, we're always gonna be proud of our son." The unconditional support should have comforted him. Instead, it made his throat tighten with building guilt.
––––
It was past 3 AM on a weekday when his phone buzzed—a vibration that sent his heart lurching against his ribs before he even saw the name of the sender: "You still online at this hour Kangbao?? You know you have school tomorrow right?" Zhang Zhao's text glowed accusingly in the dark. Kangkang stared at the notification, his thumb hovering over the screen. Great. The cause of his current existential crisis texting him right as he'd been drowning in it. Forgetting to turn off his activity status? Stupid as always.
: "Yeah yeah ik Zhao-ge" he typed back automatically, then hesitated. The cursor blinked mockingly. His finger hovered over the delete key before committing: "I've just been confused abt which university I wanna go to." The message sent with the soft tap of his finger that sounded suspiciously similar to a song he would title 'the last of my dignity leaving my body'.
Zhang Zhao's typing bubble appeared immediately—then disappeared. Appeared again. Kangkang's lungs burned, he hadn't breathed in what felt like an eternity. When the reply finally came, it punched all the air from his chest: "Right, I get that. Well if you're confused why don't you try applying to my university? You wanna study the same major as me right? It's the best here in China. Besides, I'd be disappointed if I didn't get to see you here next year..;—;"
Kangkang's traitorous heart stuttered. He deliberately ignored the last part—the painfully cute emoticon, the wistful phrasing—focusing instead on the cold, hard facts Zhao-ge had laid out. Tsinghua was objectively the best for the major he'd been preparing for the past 3 years. The logical choice. The choice he'd dreamed of since starting highschool.
"God I really should stop being so stupid.." he muttered to himself, fingers flying across the screen before he could overthink it: "Hmm... I guess you've convinced me Zhao-ge. I'm sure they'd love to have a better, smarter, soon-to-be valedictorian from our small town like me there."
The reply from the older came instantly this time: "You little brat. Don't forget who taught you everything you know now." Kangkang could practically hear Zhao-ge's laugh—that warm, rumbling sound that used to make his knees weak. Used to? He'd be lying to himself if he said it didn't still make his heart beat a little faster.
He pressed his phone to his sternum, exhaling through his nose. He had to think with a clearer mind, had to let go of stupid childhood feelings. Would he really let his stupid heart get in between him and his future? Fine. He'd apply to Tsinghua. He'd study hard. He'd smile politely when introduced to Zhao-ge's girlfriend. And if his chest ached whenever he saw them together? Well. That was his problem to deal with.
––––
Graduation finally rolled around after months of gruelling hard work. He did it—he really did it. Zheng Yongkang stood at the podium, valedictorian medal glinting under the auditoriums bright lights, gripping his speech notes with fingers that trembled only slightly.
The flowers piled on his lap after the ceremony smelled overwhelmingly strong. Two female classmates had shoved handwritten confessions into his blazer pockets during photo ops—both of which he'd politely declined with a nervous laugh. Backstage, he'd forced Zhang Juntai to film clips of his speech from three different angles 'Do it right or I'm telling Zhao-ge you failed your chem exam again' he threatened.
He immediately spammed Zhang Zhao's inbox with every photo and video of his proud achievements. His thumb hovered over send before adding the final blow: "Valedictorian babyyyyy, guess you're not the only one between us anymore Zhao-ge xP" The reply came faster than expected: "Good job Kangbao!! I already knew you'd get the title, you do have the best tutor in the world after all ;)"—and Kangkang rolled his eyes so hard his temples ached, but the joy unfurling in his chest was undeniable.
The annual Gaokao exam hit like a truck, no mercy. Two full days of grueling exams left his wrist permanently cramped, ink stains blooming across his knuckles like bruises. When results finally dropped at 9:03 AM on an unassumimg weekday, Kangkang woke to his mother frantically shaking him awake—her fingers tapping against the numbers across her phone screen, a bright smile plastered across her face.
His father—who he hadn't seen cry once since his grandfather's funeral—dug his fingers into Kangkang's shoulders with enough force to leave marks while whispering "We're so proud of you son" against his hair.
Of course, his first coherent thought after the initial euphoria was to snap a picture of his scores off his mothers phonescreen and send them to Zhang Zhao with no caption. The typing bubbles appeared soon after: "Don't forget to thank your teacher Kangkang. Oh wait.. That's me lol". Kangkang snorted so loud at the stupid joke, joy blooming in his heart.
Scholarship applications became his new obsession. He combed through Tsinghua's financial aid portal deep into the night, highlighting eligibility requirements in neon colours, while Zhao-ge bombarded him with links to obscure grants: "Try applying here Kangbao, you never know what'll happen" he'd say. Kangkang was eternally greatful for the older's continuous support.
When Kangkang hesitated over the personal statement section of his admission form—cursor blinking mockingly over the question 'Describe your academic motivations'—Zhang Zhao called him, unprompted. "Just write about how annoying I was as a tutor" the older said, voice tinny through his old laptop's speaker, and Kangkang could practically hear his smirk. "That's at least a thousand words of material right there."
The draft he submitted three hours later didn't mention Zhao-ge once (liar—it mentioned him twice, buried deep in the acknowledgments).
––––
Waiting for the acceptance letter to come felt like standing on a cliff's edge blindfolded. Kangkang refreshed his email everyday like he'd damn near gone insane, jumping whenever his phone buzzed—only to be disappointed by weather alerts or Juntai texting to ask if he'd left behind his basketball shoes at his doorstep or not.
Zhang Zhao endured his daily 'what if they reject me' texts and worried spiralling with overwhelming patience, responding with increasingly absurd reassurances: "Don't worry Kangbao, they accepted me. And if they don't accept you it'd just confirm my theory that I'm favoured in life cause I basically taught you to be the same person as me." Kangkang would glare at his screen, then feel the tension leak from his shoulders at the light jokes and comforting replies, smiles replacing the frowns on his face.
The portal to his results came on an unassuming day, he hadn't been expecting it—Well, actually he'd been hoping for it to come sooner, but now that it was really here it felt a little too soon. His heart hammered in his chest as he hovered the cursor over the 'Check Results' button, his parents and older brother who had taken a leave from work in the States to come back in support of his younger brother standing behind him with their hands clasped tight in prayer.
When the big bold words 'Accepted' appeared on his screen, he'd surged out of his chair jumping in excitement. His mother hugged him tight, constantly repeating how proud she was as his father brushed away tears with calloused fingers. His brother watched with quiet pride, the same way he'd looked at Kangkang when he'd first ridden a bike without training wheels.
After their little celebration—his mother squeezing his face between her palms like he was still five years old, his father ruffling his hair with so much tenderness he felt like he could melt into a puddle—his mother quietly disappeared toward the front door.
Kangkang quickly snapped a picture of his screen, thumbs fumbling in his haste: "ZHAO-GE I DID IT OFMG I RLEALY DID IT" he typed, usually he hated typos but now that he was riding high on euphoria, he couldn't really find it in himself to care. The reply that came after was instant: "Congratulations Kangbaooo!! I'm so proud of you!!! I knew you could do it;; I have a surprise for you btww" followed by a winking character sticker that normally would've made his pulse stutter.
He was too busy grinning at his phone to register the shuffling sounds around him—his father clearing his throat oddly, his brother's poorly suppressed chuckle. The soft tap on his shoulder made him whirl around, still buzzing with adrenaline, only to freeze mid-breath.
Zhang. Fucking. Zhao. stood there in a wrinkled Tsinghua hoodie, hair slightly mussed from travel, as if he'd materialized straight out of Kangkang's most secret daydreams.
"W-Wha—" Kangkang's voice cracked, his brain short-circuiting at the entire situation—the older boy smelled like train station coffee and his usual cologne. Zhao-ge's smile was all lazy confidence, but his eyes held something warmer, brighter.
"Surprise" the older boy said, like this was the most casual thing ever, like showing up unannounced after a full year apart during what was probably the greatest most fulfilling moment of Kangkang's life was completely normal.