Chapter Text
"If you force me to go to this stupid school all year, I'm going to jump off the roof of it."
"No, you wont," Shang Chao sighs. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter, leather creaking under his fingers. He flicks his gaze to the rearview mirror to check the severity of his brother's pout; Shang Nai leans against the window with his palm squishing his cheek, glaring at every passing building.
From the passenger seat, Yang Cheng twists to smirk into the backseat, "Yeah, there's no way you're jumping anywhere with that brace."
Shang Nai jolts upright. "I could. I'm just not supposed to. And besides, it's not even that bad!"
"You had surgery, Nainai," Shang Chao drawls.
"And I'm better," he retorts.
Yang Cheng re-situates himself, shoulders wiggling against the leather passenger seat before he fidgets with his bangs. "You know, I never got to see your show last year, Shang Nai. You've got to heal up so I can catch your next one."
Shang Nai goes quiet in the back.
Another glance through the mirror, and Shang Chao is relieved to see his brother's posture is better. He chews his lip, but he isn't scowling. Shang Chao leans closer to the passenger seat, and mouths a quick thank you to his friend, who shrugs it off.
They park closer to the school building than Shang Nai would like. He tries to argue, but his brother insists its better for his injured ankle. "I'm not a baby," he mutters. "I'm fifteen. I'm a sophomore."
"Well, you're my baby brother," Shang Chao argues. "And, as the senior class rep, it's my job to make sure everyone gets in the building safe."
Yang Cheng snorts. "No, it isn't. And you're not our rep. Xia Qing is."
Shang Chao's eyes grow twice their size. He tries to scream at his friend telepathically, and when Yang Cheng is too busy fussing with getting his backpack on while his right arm's in it's sling, Shang Chao grits his teeth and huffs, "He didn't know that."
"C'mon, man. He's a smart kid, give him some credit."
Shang Nai's cheeks turn a tinge pink at the wink Yang Cheng offers him.
Yang Cheng thinks he's smart.
Yang Cheng, the cool senior with dark hair and stormy blue eyes, who corrects his stuck-up brother about electrical engineering and is so fit from riding his bike everywhere… He thinks Shang Nai is smart. He wants to see Shang Nai dance.
He bites his tongue to keep from wincing as he walks in their shadows into the school building.
Maybe spending extra time at their shared high school won't be so bad. Maybe Shang Nai could ask Yang Cheng to help tutor him, and then Yang Cheng could see that Shang Nai was pretty mature for a sophomore, and that he was pretty, and that he was funny. That Shang Nai could be perfect for him.
But, as Shang Nai empties his backpack into his locker and shuffles his notebooks to prepare for his first class, his hope fizzles out. They won't share any classes. Yang Cheng won't have any opportunities to be impressed with him. And, until the final bell rings and the three of them pile into Shang Chao's car to go home, Shang Nai will be surrounded by immature losers who whisper and jeer at him; the ghost of the halls who's only shown up for a few weeks before vanishing again.
He checks his reflection in the small mirror hung on his locker door: the dread in his eyes, and the scowl of his mouth. Shang Nai takes a breath, puts his best smile back on, and slams the door shut.
The first month of a new year always drags, but this one feels especially long. Yang Cheng drums his fingers against his calculus textbook, foot impatiently bouncing. His laces have come untied again, but trying to do them with one hand is so annoying that he's stopped bothering to fix them.
Plus, it just reminds him that his stupid arm is still broken, in its stupid sling, and he feels angry all over again.
"Hey!" Shang Chao calls, fixing the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder as he trots out of the building. He circles the bench, nudging Yang Cheng's scuffed sneakers with the toe of his new loafers. "Thanks for waiting, Ming Laoshi wanted to talk to me about my fall internship credits."
"It's fine," Yang Cheng says, a little more bitterly than he means.
But, Shang Chao is a smart guy. He's discerning, and he's been able to see through Yang Cheng's bullshit for years. He nudges their shoes together again, and drops his voice, "Hey. You okay?"
Yang Cheng feels stupid for complaining about it. "Just…Worried about my bike."
"Still?"
"It got trashed," he reminds his friend. He shoves his textbook back into his bag and yanks the zipper closed. Snaking his good arm through one strap, he stands up, and takes the lead toward Shang Chao's car. "And my arm's so busted, I'm having trouble taking notes in my classes, and I'm gonna have to go in and get the cast removed in two weeks, and I don't know how I'm going to afford it—?"
"We'll help," Shang Chao interjects.
Yang Cheng spins on his heel. He glares back, and spits, "Don't you dare. I can't accept that. You know I can't accept that. It's enough that you're driving me to school every day."
Shang Chao waves a hand in the air, rolling his eyes. "That? Please. My brother insisted. This, though, this one can be me."
"No."
He throws an arm over Yang Cheng's shoulder and forces him to keep walking. Squeezing at his arm, shaking some sense into him, Shang Chao argues, "Okay. We'll float you, and you can work it off. Does that make you feel better?"
Not particularly. But Shang Chao has never had to struggle the way Yang Cheng has; in his new shoes, with his genuine leather messenger bag, and his fresh haircut and whitened teeth, and his famous father—? Shang Chao hasn't had to worry about things the same way.
It's another thing they'll never understand about each other. And while Yang Cheng is thankful for their friendship, he wonders sometimes why they have one at all.
"…We'll talk about it," he concedes. “Okay, okay. Let's talk about something else. Like the take-home assignment for Electo/Mag."
Shang Chao groans, letting his posture flop forward as they walk. Slumped down, hair falling over his eyes, he agrees, "It's barely the first weeks, why do we already have a take-home assignment?"
"You'll manage it," Yang Cheng grumbles. "I'll… figure out the timing around work."
He knocks his elbow into Yang Cheng's good arm. "We'll figure it out. We're partners, right? Come over and work on it with me, and I'll keep plugging away when you're working."
Yang Cheng nibbles the inside of his cheek. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."
They slide into the leather seats of the car, and Shang Chao turns the keys into the ignition. "It'll be fine. And when you're out of that cast, you'll really be able to do some heavy lifting for the project. I'll put you to work."
He smirks to himself in the reflection of the passenger side window. "Sure," Yang Cheng agrees. "Fair's fair."
Yao Luan's always been good at math.
It's his best subject; he skipped right over Algebra in his freshman year, and has been accelerated ever since. He's been following along with the grade above him for three years, calculating and formulating and showing off. He's got to, if he's going to get into a STEM field in college and test into an architectural design program. His degree won't be guaranteed to him like other majors are. He has to prove he can hack it.
That he's good enough.
All summer, Yao Luan ran the numbers and calculated statistics and thought about the failure rate for the plan gnawing on the edges of his brain. He crunched, and crunched, and crunched. He thought it over until it kept him up at night. He talked himself into it, and out of it, and back again; a dizzying Fibbonacchi spiral for weeks until school started again.
And then, in the halls, he was stunned back into silence. He forgot all of his very compelling arguments and the math that backed him up, and could only think about the sound of that bright and sharp laugh, and how it could cut him into pieces and worm its way into his tendons and eviscerate him. How Yao Luan would be torn to shreds in this very hallway, a sorry excuse for a pathetic Junior, pining like some sort of pathetic creep.
Shang Chao is kind, though. Shang Chao wouldn't make fun of him.
(All of Shang Chao's friends might, though.)
So, for weeks into the year, Yao Luan lets himself succumb to his cowardice and hide behind the shaking fear inside of his rib cage. He backs down. He watches his exam papers, and the whiteboard, and the swirl of numbers and equations in Calculus 1. He flips his textbook pages, and smiles when Shang Chao cracks a joke in their one shared class.
He should tell him, though. Yao Luan wants to tell him. Yao Luan wants to take a leap and confess to Shang Chao—handsome and smart and breezy—that he can't stop thinking about him. Yao Luan is haunted by the quirk of Shang Chao's lopsided smirk, closed lips pulling only to one side and his eye crinkling like you're in on the joke with him. That Yao Luan can't focus on homework because he's distracted by the soft flutter of Shang Chao's brown hair, and the easy, effortless way it falls over his gray eyes. That Yao Luan has a crush.
Yao Luan has a stupid crush, and he can't get over it, and Shang Chao is graduating his year, and it's his last shot.
Shang Chao is kind! Shang Chao is impressed by Yao Luan's clever mind; he'd said so, when Yao Luan was a freshman in his Geometry class. Isn't this advanced for you? No? Wow, you're pretty smart, then, huh, kid? Keep at it, I might call you up for help on my homework.
He never had—Shang Chao is a genius in his own right. Another thing that made him so impressive, so cool, so lovely. So easy to love.
Yao Luan pulls a sheet of lined paper from his notebook, grits his teeth, and starts to write.
He's a coward who can't say it aloud, but he's a smart kid. There's gotta be another way to say it.