he swallows, eyes scrutinizing every facial feature the man in front ot him possesed before trailing back to his bible. ‘whenever you see me…? wait when did you see me?’ isol doesn’t give a voice to the question, instead opting for a well thought out reply. “i read the bible because it gives me peace usually, but i guess you could say that, yeah.” a shy smile adorns his face before he extends his hand. “uhm…i’m isol. nice to meet you.”
but the thing is, xiaoli always seems to come across him ㅡ the boy with religion pressed closed to him, tucked between his other textbooks and such too much for him to write it off as a mere coincidence. maybe it is. but the sight of the religious text twists something in his chest until he decides he can’t let their opportune meetings pass.
he’s twenty two now, no longer the boy that would nod and comply when his aunt would hold hands with him and the congregation, listening to a chorus of murmured words that made no sense yet words that he would have to try and grasp an understanding of. there’s an unspoken sort of rebellion in the way he jumps at the opportunity to tear the whole thing apart, strip it to its core.
isol is just the beginning. “i read it for the same reason.” he clicks his tongue and the lie comes out far more easily than lies are meant to, without all the reluctance and hesitation. he tilts his head, mouth turned up in a pretty smile when he runs his index finger along the spine of the bible grasped in the other’s hands almost cautiously, as though he’s afraid he would taint it with a mere touch. (he has.) “there’s always so much chaos around us nowadays ㅡ isn’t it nice to find peace and quiet, even for a moment?”
he blinks at the other’s scrutinising patiently, drawing his hand back from the book to shake isol’s hand. “it’s nice to meet you, isol-ssi ㅡ i’m xiaoli.” he hums under his breath. if there’s any sort of malice in his tone, it’s masked by a thin veil of curiosity. “sorry for popping up out of nowhere: it’s just not often i meet someone so devoted, it’s nice to see. different.”
he felt sick rather easily, stomach churning and he ran to the bathroom to relieve his stomach, only to stumble out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and he looks up in surprise when he feels fingers wrap around his wrist- aito turned around quickly, maybe too much so, he felt dizzy and everything was turning- he stumbled a bit and got a good look at xiaoli, surprised the older male reached out to him, but also feeling warm, safe. his lips curl up into a rather shaky smile, he tried to be reassuring, stepping forward, but all slumping against him (he knew he would catch him), arms hooking around his waist and clinging tightly. the younger male started to giggle, hiding his face into the other’s neck, mumbling incoherently, but offering a small hi, and then a soft, high pitched, “glad you’re here!” before trying to nuzzle further into their skin.
it’s easy to get overwhelmed in an underwhelming scenario: read, the heaps of bodies pressed against each other, moving to a nonexistent beat that seemed to play only in their minds and yet something about it was undoubtedly expected of a party. (perhaps that’s why he’s incessant in making excuses for not being able to attend these gatherings when he knows he could be doing something else: studying, talking to his mother, studying, practising dance, studying.) xiaoli finds himself growing bored more easily than he should do so, eyes scanning the same group of people time and time again, wondering when something would change.
the fact that the change comes in the form of hwang aito is readily welcomed, especially when there’s a tinge of pink across his own cheeks that match the other’s and yet he only wishes it’s dark enough to be hidden. xiaoli’s quick to catch the other as they slump into him and it’s barely a noticeable weight that’s added on, light in the way aito rests against his chest and brings him in closer. he’s drunk, xiaoli thinks with a pinch of irritation at whoever had slipped aito so many drinks despite his clear tipsiness, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
a beat passes and he freezes at aito mouthing against his neck, the arms around his waist and the slurred syllables in his words. (it’s a combination that’s far unknown to xiaoli ㅡ someone that he finds dear this close to him, affection shown so easily when he’s spent years being shielded from it lest it made him soft. it’s something miles away from him and yet something he can’t help but crave.) he taps the boy on the waist, gently nudging him so that he raises his head and can read xiaoli’s lips. “hey, heyㅡ how much did you drink?” he asks, eyebrows drawn together, trying to ignore the way his chest aches dully when he realises aito might not remember this in the morning. “aito, look at meㅡ you need fresh air.”
“how in the hell did i ever pull you over here?” he chuckles, not really asking it as he is teasing it. “how could i ever, ever have convinced you to come away to the back rooms, you were so engaged with the artistry of our peers, i know. i stole you away from some riveting conversation.” he rolls his eyes but then sighs. “mother is obsessed with other peoples’ love lives since she has none. including mine.” he rubs a hand over his eyes, pushing away thoughts of yoori, and then chuckles more, lifting an eyebrow at xiaoli. “elope? you want to elope with me, xiaoli? how romantic.”
there should be bitterness in the way xiaoli looks at jonginㅡ resentment when his eyes flicker across a sculptured face and he remembers his mother murmuring ‘why can’t you be more like him?’ㅡ but instead he feels a twinge of pity. they’re in the same position really, stuck with their lives mapped out for them and yet the competition their parents had so desperately wanted was replaced by something else entirely: warmth. xiaoli hates the way he bristles at the other’s fond tone, finds himself responding with his own sweet voice as if they’re living in their own luxuries, pretending there isn’t a world of fake behind those doors. he crinkles his nose. “that’s grosㅡ”
“i wouldn’t be able to describe it. i don’t know why the ajummas all fawn over you, really,” it’s a battle to keep his voice deadpanned and he thinks he does a damn bad job at it. he hums, squinting at the ceiling above them, a stray hand raised to run through jongin’s curls absentmindedly. “riveting conversations about nothing and nothingㅡ that’s the way our world turns, isn’t it?” it is and they both know it, know the darkness of aristocracy, about what lies in the shadows and yet they choose to indulge themselves in each other.
he can’t bite back a laugh. “don’t think about her, i’m the distraction here ㅡ but really, i don’t think yourfiancée’s that bad. she seemed nice enough.” xiaoli pauses briefly, tongue in cheek. (engagements, divorces, breakups: it was all the same when your parents each made seven figures a year.) it’s only at the sound of jongin chuckling that he scowls, tugging on his hair more harshly than before. “there’s no room for romance when you’re selling off your soul, dear jongin. it’s more like aㅡ a suitable arrangement for us.” it’s all make-believe but xiaoli still finds himself smirking. “but you’ve always been one for romance, hm?”
when he hears the words “party at shin’s”, he makes a run for it in the other direction.
there’s something quite meticulous about the way xiaoli avoids parties like they’re the plague ㅡ nothing but a ragtag group (more like crowd) of flushed, tipsy bodies pressed tight against each other, murmuring things they’ll forget about in the morning, finding the courage to do things they never would’ve without the touch of alcohol. he struggles to find any words other than unbecoming, irritating, an inconvenience: it’s only the settling realisation that he promised shin he’d attend if he had time that forces him to get up, albeit unwillingly, and get changed.
except regret sinks in quicker than anything else when, approximately one hour and twelve minutes after his arrival, the boy next to him stumbles into the bathroom and xiaoli can hear retching even from the next room over. he’s seated on the sofa, nose scrunched in a mixture of faint disgust and poorly concealed irritation, cheeks flushed ㅡ either from the heat or the alcohol, it’s unsaid ㅡ when he catches a familiar, unsteady figure stumbling past him.
“aito?” he sets the cup in his hand on the table next to him, mouth suddenly dry when he stands up and blinks wearily at the other’s back. xiaoli reaches out, fingers closing around aito’s thin wrist as he tugs the boy back to him. he squints, catches the tell tale signs of tipsiness (pink dotted across his face, dilated pupils, shifting from one foot to another) and scoffs. “i ㅡ i didn’t know you’d be here.
thank u all for bein so patient w me in terms of answering ims and getting to replies! it’s been a bit of a busy week for me but luckily with christmas break, hopefully i’ll be able to get on much more frequently. i’ll be focusing on messaging ppl back + getting up starters this weekend, so thanks again for waiting <3
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> think? it’s more like know. there’s not a single sound leaving my lips haha
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> isn’t it easier to drive than it is to take a taxi?
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> i do. but i’m bored and i miss you :(
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> what? would you rather study than see me? :3
to pretty boy » you get cuter every time you talk, you know.
to pretty boy » or brattier, i can’t really tell the difference.
to pretty boy » ㅋㅋㅋ you always say you miss me when you’re bored
to pretty boy » i guess you know me too well, huh?
to pretty boy » give me twenty.
in reality, it doesn’t really take him twenty minutes. the way to yeogeum’s is memorised like the back of his hand, some place he had unexpectedly discovered between the early morning and the late nights. (and yet he finds himself at the same place almost months later regularly, caught in a cat and mouse chase, the cheese in the trap. perhaps he’s not as strong willed as he had once thought he was.)
the soju bottles and triangle bibimbaps sit in the plastic bag that he swings as he makes his way up the stairs, fingers running along the railing, footsteps making their way up the familiar path he’s become so accustomed to. he can feel his phone buzz in his pocket, no doubt the impatient texts from yeogeum and he finds the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement as he knocks on the door. “open up.” his voice sounds loud in the quiet of the corridor and he taps on the doorknob. “or am i supposed to be here all night?”
and if aito peeked up from the book he was reading every now and then to check up on the elder, and if their gazes crossed, and he ducked his head to hide his shy smile, and the flush on his cheeks, what about it, really?
ugly words said in a fit of anger don’t really mean anything.
but xiaoli’s irrefutably stupid. he’s always been, ever since he was little and his words cut more, was unsheathed more than his weapons ever were ㅡ or perhaps his tongue was his weapon, lashing and cutting at the first sign of danger, at the fear of being exposed as something entirely different to the front he had worked so hard in maintaining. he pinpoints that as the reason he sees aito (harmless to him, really: a boy with nothing but patient eyes and polite questions) and immediately decides to attack. by the time he realises he’s grown into the very picture of the endless rumours that are intertwined into his nature (monster, monster, monster), it’s already too late.
he tries to ignore the way his stomach twists terribly, contorting at the clear sign of distress in the other boy’s eyes, the excitement of a newfound friend dissipating almost as quickly as it had appeared. (was that me, was that me that made you look like that, feel like that? xiaoli wants to ask, but the rational side of him already knows the answer.) almost like clockwork he can hear the murmurs of the people, whoever else was left in the library at this hour ㅡ the pointed stares and fingers, whispers of “does the librarian want to die?” or “can't xiaoli just let one person pass?”. he already knows by the time he wakes up, it’ll be news over campus that he had threatened the school librarian.
fucking ridiculous ㅡ but word had always spread fast around seongnam where people were more eager to speak than not. whether it was a new couple or a breakup, or a fight that hat occurred recently: everyone knows everything.
he sees aito press the blanket closer to him, a source of comfort when all he had been met with was nothing but anger built on no foundations, nothing but the sheer raw irritation xiaoli felt. (was it even irritation ㅡ or was it just that he was scared of someone wanting to grow close to him for once?) a beat passes between the two of them, a heavy sort of silence resting in the early hours of the night as if a pin could drop, as if there was nobody else in the library other than the pair of them at the moment.
it’s terrible: the way xiaoli’s mouth opens, the beginnings of an apology slipping out. (what could he say to someone he had tried to torn down so viciously?) but he stops himself before he can, as soon as he realises who he is.
he doesn’t apologise. he can’t apologise.
so he watches aito slip away from him like grains of sand between fingers with that same look of sadness etched into his expression ㅡ and xiaoli’s left desperately clutching at something that was leaving him so quickly when he wanted quite the opposite.
it’s foolish: he had expected it to end then. it’s the assumption that he has more power than he truly has, that his words of poison would built a permanent barrier between him and aito, that the would be permanently divided. and yet when he stays up once too late at the library once more and wakes up with the same weighted blanket over him, the same sensation of comfort that derives from the fabric around his shoulders that he had deemed unattainable, the neatly baked and wrapped packet of goods that sit on top of his books: xiaoli feels something in his chest, something he can’t quite put his finger on.
(could ㅡ could he really just want friendship?)
the clock strikes 3am when he makes eye contact with aito, the faint flush of pink across both of their cheeks that he doesn’t dare to mention. it’s happened more than a few times now, the brief flash of silence when their gazes lock and it seems as though they’re analysing each other. fuck, he thinks when he feels his face grow hot, fuck, fuck, fuck.
some type of force compels him to shove his books in his bag, the packet of goods hanging from his fingers when he approaches aito as he appears to be logging off the computer.
“hey.” he taps the table, tongue in cheek. there isn’t any sort of malice in his tone for the first time, and his back straightens when aito glances at him. xiaoli itches to bite out words, to keep his guard up when that’s all he’s been doing for twenty two years, but he manages to shove it all down. “when do you close up?”
religion manages to fit into the cracks of xiaoli’s life in a way no other object or person is able to: old wounds being reopened, lies being poured into them, anything of the sort. it leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth more often than not, like eating something rotten although its appearance lends to no idea of it being so. (isn’t all of religion just a lie, anyways?)
(perhaps that’s why teenage years are full of rebellion. palms pressed over ears every time the priest opens his mouth and his aunt has to pinch him to make sure he listens, hands shaking when he puts them together and mouths amen, empty promises from an even emptier mouth, asking the pastor why god took everything good away from him and watching him fumble for a decent answer.)
he comes to the conclusion that he hates religion. it’s damned to the core, damned as the moment the bite was taken from the forbidden fruit, damned as when they were cast from paradise, damned as when xiaoli catches sight of him, the boy with fingers gripped so tightly around a bible that his knuckles are white. it’s the start of something new entirely.
xiaoli isn’t sure what persuades him to move towards him but he does so anyways.
"john, 8:29." you can almost hear the quirk of his lips when he speaks and suddenly, xiaoli occupies the seat in front of the boy. “’the father hath not left me alone; for i do always those things that please him.’ is that why you’re always reading whenever i see you?”
“Well at least that whiled away part of the night.” thank satan xiaoli has zero misconceptions about what they do together, and what it means. He glances over at him, a grin playing on the corners of his lips. “You know you never answered my texts that one time.”
aristocracy is ugly when you look close enough.
past the glimmer of silverware, the price tag on the dresses mrs kim wears, the chandelier that swings from the ceiling ㅡ xiaoli wonders for a fleeting moment whether he or jongin would be the first to break it accidentally, to watch it topple onto the ground in a myriad of glass and crystal and finds his lips quirking up into a smile. (next time they would ㅡ next time, when he isn’t interrupted from his thoughts by a rough hand that’s wrapped around his wrist suddenly, tugging him into an empty room.)
being rich has it quirks, but speeding up the pace of time is unfortunately not one. perhaps that’s why he finds comfort in the ticking of the clock when jongin’s nails claw at his back, although the back room is anything but comfortable. there’s a deluded sense of power in knowing all the while that their families are somewhere in another room conversing, unaware of the sin that’s intertwined between themselves, connecting them beyond realisation. isn’t this what you wanted, mother, didn’t you want me to get close to the kims?
xiaoli’s on his back when he peers over at jongin grinning at him. “you’re so ugly.” he deadpans, though he finds his own mouth turned up into an equally amused smile and though he knows it’s anything but the truth. kim jongin is infuriating beautiful ㅡ the devil with a pretty face. xiaoli’s thumb grazes over the other’s cheekbone, stopping at his cupid’s bow and brushing over his bottom lip briefly before he pushes the other’s face away. “stop smiling. how d’you manage to get me in this room again, huh?” as though there had been any resistance on his half.
he kicks the other’s leg lightly. “yeah, because your mother was too busy asking me which girl i preferred to marry from her elegant selection.” xiaoli scoffs, pausing. an idea strikes him. “y’know what we should do? pretend to elope.”
he wanted to see the prettiest boy with the frown smile for once.
what’s the point of resisting when your life is planned out in front of you?
to the naked eye, the untrained eye, he’s nothing more than the very picture of capitalism ㅡ bearing the brunt of university, the full weight of education that rests heavily on his shoulders and his family’s, too, until he graduates and goes to med school, finds a job, gets married and ㅡ and ㅡ and just the mere thought of it makes him sick, really. how he spends hours slaving away at his own desk or bent over at the library, spine arched from the tension whilst his parents plot the next twenty years of his life. he thinks there’s something in him that should be angry, that should refuse to be a mere pawn in the game they call power: but he’s in his third year of uni and neither passionate nor offended enough to make a move.
words aren’t ugly if they’re said by you, his mother had said to him once, everything you say becomes law. believe in that, and you’ll have the world at your feet by the time you’re twenty two.
wu xiaoli at the actual age of twenty two finds himself overworked to the point where the words on his textbooks often blur into one messy paragraph that he can’t muster up the brainpower (or willpower, if he’s being honest) to decipher. he remembers when he had been little, with a smaller mind and larger dreams, when he had thought ㅡ foolishly, but at least he had been allowed to think as a child ㅡ that he could be anything he wanted to be. all he had to do was reach up, a ten year old with limitless potential, and achieve. he remembers the brightness of his own eyes, the hopefulness that had piqued the attention of so many elders ㅡ and it’s the very same hopefulness that he sees in the boy in front of him now, patient with xiaoli, scribbling on the note in front of him with determination. (he doesn’t know why, but the realisation makes his heart drop to his stomach, an endless pit that he sees himself falling into. is the boy in front of him really more similar to him than he had thought?)
they could be friends. it’s not impossible ㅡ xiaoli hadn’t spent years secluded on his own with nothing but the cold hand of his relatives, the plastic smiles and resentful stares in school, no ㅡ friends had always been an odd concept to him. (tit for tat, an eye for an eye.) he peers down at the note in front of him, the barest hint of irritation smudged onto his words and wonders, briefly, what the boy in front of him wants. is it his notes, connections, money? his lips press against each other tightly, thinning out into a line as he bites the inside of his cheek. it’s not often he finds himself unable to comprehend someone on campus (there’s the usual people, the “sunbae, would you like to eat with us today?” following a “oh, i lost all of my notes! i was wondering if you’d be able to send me some of yours anㅡ”) and yet the librarian, the fucking librarian, manages to somehow be one of them.
it irks him.
“is that all you want?” he asks, and there’s a tinge of sarcasm in his tone. his eyes drop to the blanket, the bane of his existence for the past few weeks, before he drags them back up to the boy’s face. it’s pretty enough, but unfamiliar ㅡ xiaoli would assume that he would have recognised a face like that upon ever seeing it in campus and yet ㅡ his own eyes narrow as he peers at the boy, leaning closer. there’s a moment of brief silence and he’s analysing the boy’s face, the way his eyelashes fall on his cheekbones, the slight look of surprise on his expression. pretty, he thinks belatedly, i didn’t realise he was quite so fucking pretty. “is friendship really all you want out of me?” a beat passes. two. “i think you’re lying.”
he tells himself his words aren’t ugly; they’re better for the two of them: what nonsense had xiaoli thought of before: they could be friends? ridiculous. “you’re like everybody else, aren’t you?” it’s only at this that he stands up again, hands in his pockets. “don’t be so fucking ridiculous ㅡ nobody wants my friendship in this day and age, unless you’re stupid.” maybe he is. “or unless you want something else from me ㅡ and i don’t have enough time to wait around for small talk.”
the nametag sits atop the boy’s sweater, and xiaoli glances at it fleetingly. “aito-ssi,” he says, tacking on the honorific as an afterthought, “you’re not my babysitter, or my friend, or even an acquaintance, you should remember that.”
🤡 a goofy text.💖 a loving text.🤐 an awkward text. 💤 a half-asleep text.😊 a happy text.🤔 a nonsensical text.🕰️ an early morning text.🌑 a late night text.🥴 a drunk text.🗑️ a text that wasn’t sent.👀 a dirty text.🚨 an urgent text.👯♀️ a supportive text.🔪 a hateful text.😢 a sad text.😡 an angry text.👋 a goodbye text.
🤡: goofy text.
to hwang aito » [attachment.png]to hwang aito » hey do you think i can try this?
💖: loving text.
to baby boy » i didn’t want to leave this morningto baby boy » seeing you asleep on my bed was almost enough to make me stay.to baby boy » almost .. but i’ll see you later tonight, alright?to baby boy » breakfast is on the table.
🤐: awkward text.
to hwang aito » um you left your notebook over at my houseto hwang aito » do you want to come get it?to hwang aito » or i can bring it to you to hwang aito » id be happy to haha
💤: half-asleep text.
to hwang aito » im sooooooooo tiredto hwang aito » where did u go off to >:( does it take four years to fill shelves?
😊 a happy text.
to baby boy » you looked so cute in my hoodie to baby boy » ㅋㅋㅋ did you think i didnt notice?to baby boy » it was basically swallowing you whole
🤔: nonsensical text.
to hwang aito » imagine if we didto hwang aito » we could but liketo hwang aito » maybe we can’t
🕰️: early morning text.
to hwang aito » hey, i know we’re not that close but it’s exam seasonto hwang aito » which means the library’s going to be packed and i can’t make it till later todayto hwang aito » can you keep my usual seat open reserved i get there? thanks
🌑: late night text.
to hwang aito » do you want to come over to the rooftop?to hwang aito » i can show you the constellations to hwang aito » aquarius is super bright tonight
🥴: drunk text.
to hwang aito » ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ wwhwy do u HHATE ME SOM UCH?to hwang aito » i m ea n i hate my self too but i thought to hwang aito » i thhought ud understand me but ure just like everyb ody else
🗑️: text that wasn’t sent.
to hwang aito » let’s not see each other for a few daysto hwang aito » every time i see you, i feel liketo hwang aito » do you want to meet up later today?
👀: dirty text.
to baby boy » filthy mouth on a pretty boyto baby boy » that’s what i like about youto baby boy » shh, don’t look around. nobody else is watching us.
🚨: urgent text.
3 MISSED CALLS TO ‘hwang aito’
to hwang aito » please please please pleaseto hwang aito » i can’t breathe i can’t breathe to hwang aito » i’m scared, i hate it i hate being scaredto hwang aito » hui-ge is here again, he’s alwaysto hwang aito » fucking here
1 MISSED CALL TO ‘hwang aito’
👯♀️ a supportive text.
to hwang aito » i know you’ve been stressed recently about gradesto hwang aito » don’t be stupid, youre one of the smartest brats i knowto hwang aito » you have ge’s support, you’re doing great, aito
🔪: hateful text.
to hwang aito » fuck you.
😢: sad text.
to hwang aito » how could you call me heartless, knowing how i treat you?
😡: angry text.
to hwang aito » why do you act like you know me?to hwang aito » you don’t know the first fucking thing about me.
👋 a goodbye text.
to hwang aito » i’m going out of korea for a few days.to hwang aito » don’t contact me. we need time.
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> what do you mean i would lose? i’ve been going to the library a lot recently so i’ve been practicing my skills at keeping quiet
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> are you gonna buy me food after you’ve lost?
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> other people would be pissed to hear i don’t know how to call a uber? :( haha
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> so hyung? wanna skip class so you can see me? :3
msg*xiaoli🍭 >> [ photo attached ]
to pretty boy » practising doesn’t make you perfect now, does it?
to pretty boy » i like how you think i’m going to lose ^^ it’s cute.
to pretty boy » of course, they’re not all as spoilt as us, you know. poor things have to get taxis.
[ XIAOLI🍭 HAS LOVED A PHOTO! ]
to pretty boy » [attachment.jpg]
to pretty boy » don’t you have to study?
‘ no. you just fall asleep like that a lot, you know? in that chair? and what if you get cold? or sick? so- i put the blanket on you, so you could maybe sleep a bit better, and feel a bit warmer. you always frown in your sleep, did you know? but when the blanket is on you- you snuggle into it, and you have a small smile. you look cute when you smile, xiaoli-hyung :”) ’
the moment he had been talking about ㅡ the tilt of the axis, the sudden, unexpected moment where his entire universe gets flipped upside down ㅡ appears to come in the form of the boy in front of him. he’s not stupid, he’d heard about the librarian before: all stoic and quiet, saying the barest minimum and even that with his eyes, jumping from one object to another, any hints of emotion difficult to come across. he just hadn’t expected to be met with someone so unlike what he had expected. (but then again, what had he expected?) their meeting is almost inevitable with how often he goes to the library and how often the librarian is there: he just can’t help the circumstances under which they meet.
xiaoli wonders briefly, just briefly, what reaction the boy would give him if he demanded he stop trying to take care of him. the library lights are harsh, even harsher when the clock chimes two in the morning and he’s struggling to keep his eyes open when the words seem to all blur together into one, extended phrase. even then, there’s something twisted in him, something strange that refuses to let him accept the well intended actions and instead turn it into something unattractive, something that can give him an excuse to hate the boy. (are you afraid of what it would be if it was anything other than hate?)
maybe that’s why his actions are so unnecessarily and inherently ugly, how his fists seem to find the answer quicker than words, how they’re the very reason the boy doesn’t even have time to look surprised. it’s the panic in xiaoli after he realises he’s become far too accustomed to being taken care of, after he realises he doesn’t really mind slipping in and out of a daze if it means he’ll awaken with the warmth around him, something that’s been painstakingly absent for years too numerous for him to count on his fingers. his parents would laugh at him now, akin to chiming pretentious bells and hiss at him in the shadows, ‘what type of wu depends on the kindness of others? you ought to be ashamed of yourself’ and oh, just the mere thought of that strikes a chord within him, more than he wants to admit.
he blinks, watching the other shakily pick up the blanket that permanently seems to reside within an arm’s reach of him at all times and press it close to himself. xiaoli hates the way his expression falls for that brief moment, the brazen facade replaced with an emotion almost (almost being an awfully important word) as if he’s feeling apologetic. it’s gone in the very same second it had appeared. his mouth parts and he’s preparing an assembly of words, anything that can voice his irritation at being turned soft, when he catches the other scribbling on a post it and he closes his mouth. he can’t feel interested, shouldn’t feel interested, but he doesn’t quite know why he stays either, waiting for him to finish his message.
the end product isn’t something he had expected: no classic ‘i’ll call the security on you’ (as if the security would listen to anyone other than him, anyways) or an apology. it’s everything pretty from the handwriting to the content of the words and he finds himself inhaling sharply without realising, gaze flickering over the words. it’s by force that his face doesn’t flush pink, but he taps on the desk to get the boy’s attention, expression void of any sort of gratefulness.
“it’s none of your fuckin’ business whether i get cold or sick or whatever ㅡ you’re just a librarian,” he scoffs. it’s unmentioned how he does sleep better when the blanket’s around him, more out of pride than anything else. it’s the sight of his name that makes him start just a little, and he bends down, hand reaching out to adjust the nametag on the other so it’s visible to him. “d’you really crave a conversation with me that much, aito-ssi?”
“didn’t know you attended seongnam, too.” (how could he have?) “what are the chances, huh?”
what he personally thinks is the worst part of the reunion (not the suddenness of it, the unexpectedness, the feeling of having the wind knocked out of him until he feels like he can’t breathe) is the realisation that yibo hasn’t changed. physically, perhaps he’s taller than xiaoli now, baby faced charm replaced with something newer, more mature, high cheekbones and a curved mouth: but the way he still holds himself, meek and waiting, like his voice is going to reach a higher pitch when he asks, “gege, what are we doing next?” that — that’s what fucking hurts.
say something, do something. the kid in himself would laugh at the remnants of such a friendship — one hanging by the sliver of skin, by the skin of the teeth — if he could even call it that.
but what can he say to someone like wang yibo? a stranger in his own right, so utterly recognisable yet unrecognisable at the same time. xiaoli hears his awkward laugh, the way he’s out of breath, too, from either the running or the impact of their meeting: either of them could be the answer and xiaoli, xiaoli whose nails are digging into the palms of his hand until he’s almost certain they’re going to draw blood, wouldn’t be able to blame him.
“yeah,” he echoes and for a brief moment, it seems to him like everybody’s watching them, wondering who had the capacity to make xiaoli feel as though he had swallowed rocks and was clutching at his throat. and it’s just so odd; mandarin in a country when he had spoken it only to his parents over the phone — to be speaking it to a figment of his past feels all too unreal. “i heard you call out my name and nobody’s called me ge in so long, i knew — ” a pause. (he knew what? he knew that it was yibo?)
they’re grasping at straws, he knows that much — avoiding the elephant in the room, the conversation they’re both thinking about but neither will bring up — but maybe that’s for the better. maybe xiaoli would rather go his way without bringing up pale skin against the dark sky, arms locked together as they ran down streets, waving a hasty “see you tomorrow!” only to have it never fulfilled. “yeah, i moved to korea a while back.” (no shit, sherlock.) “didn’t — i didn’t expect to see you at seongnam, either. haha. funny way the world has of moving, right?”
he bites his tongue, hand curling into a fist. “when did you come here?”
