When the apartment building's front doors closed behind them, most of the wind outside was immediately shut out.
It was a little past one in the morning. Only a few dim wall lamps remained lit in the lobby. No one was behind the front desk, and a security camera in the corner glowed with a tiny red light. The elevator was stopped on an upper floor, its number descending sluggishly.
Xu Weiran supported Dong Enze as they stood in front of the elevator.
Calling it support was generous. Most of Enze's weight was resting on him. Drunk, Enze was unexpectedly quiet. He wasn't squatting outside the door refusing to move like he had earlier, and he wasn't repeating all the way home that he didn't want to go home. He only kept his head lowered, his temple pressed against Weiran's shoulder, one hand still gripping Weiran's sleeve as he slowly followed his steps forward.
When Weiran shifted one step to the side, Enze shifted with him. When Weiran stopped, he obediently stopped too.
He was almost suspiciously well-behaved.
When the elevator doors opened, Weiran held out a hand to block them before leading Enze inside. Enze leaned against the cold metal wall, his eyes half-open, his cheeks still flushed red from the alcohol. Somehow, the foot that had been wearing only one shoe now had the other back on. The shoelaces were loose, though, trailing across the floor.
Weiran glanced down, bent over, and tied his shoelaces for him.
“Stand steady.”
Enze answered a beat late.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Don’t lean against the door.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“When the doors open later, you’ll fall backward.”
“Mm-hmm.”
No matter what Weiran said, he gave the same answer.
Weiran stood after tying the laces and saw that Enze still had his eyes closed. Unable to resist, he reached out and patted his cheek.
“Dong Enze.”
“Mm…”
“Do you know who I am?”
Enze finally managed to lift his eyelids. He stared at Weiran for several seconds, his gaze unfocused from the alcohol, but then the corners of his mouth slowly curved upward.
“Weiran.”
His voice was soft, with a faintly slurred nasal quality.
At least he still recognized him.
Weiran didn't know why that made him breathe a sigh of relief. He raised a hand and pressed the button for their floor. The elevator doors slowly closed. In the mirrored wall, their figures stood pressed together, Enze's head tilted against his shoulder, the hand clutching his sleeve never letting go.
The elevator began to rise.
The numbers climbed floor by floor. Inside the enclosed space, there was only the low hum of the machinery and Enze's alcohol-scented breath falling against Weiran's neck.
Weiran lowered his eyes to the hand holding on to him.
A few minutes earlier, Enze had been squatting outside the apartment door, eyes red, saying he didn't dare go home because going home would remind him that Weiran was moving out. He had also said he was only a roommate, with no right to decide who Weiran would live with in the future.
Every sentence had come out in broken fragments, but they had been enough for Weiran to piece together all the strange things from the past week.
He had indeed planned to explain everything as soon as they got home.
He would tell Enze that he had never intended to move out alone. Some of the houses he'd rejected had living rooms that weren't big enough. Some didn't have an extra room that could be converted into a dance studio. Others had kitchens too narrow to hold all the things Enze always spread across the kitchen counter when he cooked.
He had even thought about it: if there was a yard, Enze would probably put a bench in it. He might also enthusiastically buy a pile of plants that had no chance of surviving his care. The walk-in closet had to be big enough, because that man's stage costumes and practice clothes were astonishingly numerous. The entryway shoe cabinet also had to be at least twice the size of the current one, or it would be filled with his dance shoes again in less than two years.
That new home they hadn't found yet had always had a place for Dong Enze.
He simply hadn't said so.
Because to Weiran, this had never been something they needed to discuss.
The elevator doors opened when they reached their floor. Weiran supported Enze out. This time, Enze was very cooperative. He even released one hand when they reached the apartment door and lowered his head to feel around in his pockets.
He searched the left, then the right.
Finally, he lifted his face in confusion.
“Keys…”
“Your phone and keys are with me.”
Weiran took out his key card.
“You just need to stand still.”
Enze nodded and actually moved a little to the side, though he still clung to Weiran's sleeve.
The electronic lock chimed, and the front door swung open. Familiar smells and the warmth lingering indoors flowed out together. The entryway sensor light came on, illuminating the shoe cabinet, the mat, and the paper bag Enze had casually left beside the wall when he went out that morning.
Enze paused briefly in the doorway.
Weiran noticed at once and turned back to look at him.
“What’s wrong?”
Enze looked toward the living room. The papers Weiran had looked over that evening were still on the couch. The cup on the coffee table hadn't been put away. The floor lamp was on. Everything was exactly as usual.
He stared for a long time before shaking his head.
“Nothing.”
His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.
Weiran didn't press him in the entryway. He only bent down and took off Enze's shoes. Enze couldn't keep his balance and instinctively put one hand on Weiran's shoulder, but he remained completely still. Once Weiran had changed him into slippers, he obediently followed him inside.
“Drink some water first.”
Weiran had intended to take him to the couch, but Enze shook his head.
“Sleepy.”
“Drink first, then sleep.”
“No.”
“Don’t complain tomorrow when your head hurts.”
Enze stopped walking, as if it genuinely took him several seconds to understand. Then he said quietly, “I won’t.”
He sounded so obedient that Weiran couldn't even get angry.
All he could do was take him into the bedroom first.
There was no light on in Enze's room. The curtains were only halfway drawn, and streetlight slanted in through the window, illuminating the sports bag left unpacked beside the bed and the clothes draped over the back of a chair. The air held a faint scent of laundry detergent mixed with the alcohol Enze had brought home, making the room feel a little stuffy.
Weiran opened the window a crack, then turned on the bedside lamp.
Enze sat on the edge of the bed with both hands braced beside him, his head hanging low. Once he was no longer being supported by Weiran, his whole body seemed to lose its strength at once, his shoulders and back collapsing with it.
“Take off your jacket.”
Enze raised his hands and fumbled around for the zipper without finding it.
Unable to watch any longer, Weiran stood in front of him, unzipped the jacket, and pulled one sleeve down his arm.
“Hand.”
Enze obediently raised his other hand.
Once the jacket was off, the black shirt underneath was creased all over, and its collar carried a faint smell of barbecue. Weiran hung the jacket over the chair. When he lowered his head, he found Enze looking up at him.
His eyes were still red. Weiran didn't know whether it was the alcohol or whether he had genuinely been close to crying earlier. His expression was quiet now, as if he were merely making sure Weiran was still standing in front of him.
Enze's stare made Weiran's chest feel tight.
“What are you looking at?”
Enze didn't answer.
“Lie down.”
This time he reacted immediately. He slowly moved farther onto the bed, bracing himself with one hand as he clumsily lifted his legs. Weiran arranged his pillow, then went to the living room to pour a cup of warm water. By the time he returned, Enze was lying on his side, but his eyes were still open.
“Sit up and take a couple sips.”
“Sleepy.”
“Drink first, then you can be sleepy.”
Weiran sat on the edge of the bed and helped him up. Enze leaned against his arm and held the cup with both hands, drinking a few sips. A little water slid from the corner of his lips. Weiran reached over to wipe it away, then set the remaining water on the nightstand.
“Feel like throwing up?”
Enze shook his head.
“Headache?”
Another shake.
“What about your stomach?”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Weiran studied him for a while. Given Enze's condition tonight, there wasn't much credibility to that “fine.” He moved the trash can beside the bed and placed Enze's phone and a pack of tissues on the nightstand, making sure he could reach them if he felt sick during the night.
He had done everything he could for now.
As for the move—
Weiran looked at the man who had fallen back onto his pillow and swallowed the words at the tip of his tongue.
Enze had a low tolerance for alcohol and blacked out when he got drunk. Six years ago, after the farce of him clinging to the shoe cabinet and refusing to let go, he had forgotten everything by the next day. He had only been able to learn what he'd done from Weiran.
Even if Weiran explained everything now, Enze might not remember it tomorrow morning.
Besides, there were some things Weiran still needed to think through.
Enze's pain tonight had been too deep.
Too deep to be just reluctance to part with a roommate he'd lived with for six years. The unfinished “But I just…” and the intense redness in his eyes when he asked who Weiran would live with afterward had brought a vague answer to the surface of Weiran's mind.
He didn't dare draw a conclusion about that answer while Enze was drunk.
Nor did he want to take advantage of Enze's impaired state and force him to say anything he might regret.
They would talk tomorrow, when he was sober.
Weiran pulled the comforter over him, covering his shoulders, and prepared to get up.
Then the hem of his shirt was suddenly caught.
The force wasn't strong, but it made him stop.
Weiran looked back.
Enze was still lying in bed, one hand emerging from beneath the comforter, his fingers tightly gripping Weiran's shirt hem. His eyes were almost unable to stay open, but his brow was deeply furrowed.
“What’s wrong?”
Enze was silent for several seconds, as if struggling to grasp the single most important thing from his muddled thoughts.
“Did you find a house…?”
Weiran looked at him.
So he was still thinking about this.
“Not yet. I’m still looking.” He softened his voice. “Why?”
Enze didn't answer. He only gave a slow shake of his head.
His hand released the shirt hem.
As if he had finally used up the last of his consciousness, he fell backward onto the bed, his face sinking into the soft pillow.
“When you find one… tell me.”
His voice grew softer and softer. The last few words were little more than breath.
Weiran stood beside the bed and watched him slowly close his eyes.
He really wanted to say right then that of course he would tell him, because it would be Enze's home too.
But in the end, he only answered softly, “Mm-hmm.”
He bent down to straighten the comforter Enze had mussed up, then brushed the hair from his forehead.
“Go to sleep.”
His fingertips lingered against the still-flushed corner of Enze's forehead before pulling away.
“If you need anything, get up and tell me.”
Enze didn't respond.
His breathing gradually became even, as if he had truly fallen asleep. His brow was still faintly furrowed, though, never completely relaxing even in his dreams.
Weiran turned off the bedside lamp, leaving only a thin line of light from the hallway. He stood by the door and watched for a while before gently pulling it closed.
That night, he didn't return to his own room.
He sat on the living room couch, the house-hunting documents he'd looked through earlier spread across the coffee table, several saved listings open on his phone. The photos showed bright floor-to-ceiling windows, spacious living rooms, and kitchens much larger than their current one.
Weiran scrolled down one listing at a time.
Before, when he saw a floor plan, he would instinctively figure out where his equipment could go and whether the soundproofing was adequate. Then he would think about how to store Enze's things, which room would be best for installing mirrors, and whether the yard would be too difficult to maintain.
Looking at them tonight, every space suddenly seemed empty.
Because the person who should naturally have been discussing them with him had no idea that he, too, belonged in the future of those houses.
Weiran set his phone face down on the coffee table, leaned back into the couch, and closed his eyes wearily.
Tomorrow, he had to explain everything.
But the next morning, Enze had indeed blacked out.
He woke close to noon. The hangover made his head feel as if it had been struck with a blunt object, and for the first moment after opening his eyes, he couldn't even tell where he was. The sunlight outside the curtains was painfully bright. He buried his face in the pillow again, and a full thirty seconds passed before fragments of the previous night slowly returned to him.
The barbecue restaurant, liquor glasses, the team captain's laughter, the lights constantly sliding backward outside the taxi window.
After that, nothing but blankness.
Enze abruptly sat up.
The movement was too fast, and pain immediately exploded from his temples. He groaned, hugged his head, and fell back onto the bed, then gritted his teeth and forced himself up again a few seconds later.
His jacket was neatly hanging over the back of the chair. Water, his phone, and tissues had been placed beside the bed, and the trash can had been moved within arm's reach.
He didn't need to ask who had done it.
Enze picked up his phone and saw that the dance company group chat was packed with photos and messages from the previous night. Someone was making fun of him for being unable to walk in a straight line. Someone else asked whether he was awake. At nine that morning, the team captain had left a message: “When you wake up, remember to thank your roommate.”
His heart sank.
Roommate.
Had Weiran gone downstairs to get him last night?
What had he done? What had he said?
Enze tried desperately to remember, but there were only one or two hazy fragments in his mind. He seemed to remember Weiran's scent. He also seemed to remember clinging to something and refusing to let go. The harder he tried, the worse his headache became.
The sound of dishes clinking came from outside.
Enze sat on the bed for a long time before throwing off the comforter and getting up.
Weiran was in the kitchen making hangover soup. Steam rose from the pot, and the light broth's mild scent spread through the living room. At the sound of the bedroom door, he turned around, his eyes lingering on Enze's pale face for two seconds.
“You’re awake?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Enze stood at the end of the hallway, not quite daring to come closer.
“Yesterday, I…”
Weiran turned down the heat.
“You got drunk.”
“I know.”
“You sat downstairs and refused to come up.”
Enze's expression instantly froze.
“And you lost one shoe.”
“You clung to the leaves beside the flower bed and wouldn't let go.”
“I didn't do that, did I?”
“Your teammates said you did.”
Enze raised a hand to cover his face, his ears quickly turning red. From his reaction, Weiran could be almost certain that he remembered nothing.
Then he had probably forgotten what he'd said outside the apartment door, too, as well as clinging to Weiran's clothes and asking whether he had found a house.
Weiran ladled the soup into a bowl and set it on the dining table.
“Eat first.”
Enze pulled out a chair and sat down, cradling the bowl as he took small sips. He must have been genuinely miserable. The man who was usually so talkative was unusually quiet today, not even looking up when Weiran sat across from him.
Weiran had planned to explain everything once Enze finished eating.
But Enze's phone suddenly rang.
The dance company had sent a last-minute notice that there would be a meeting that afternoon to confirm changes to next month's performance. After reading the message, Enze stood up almost immediately.
“I have to go.”
Weiran frowned.
“Now?”
“It’s just a meeting.”
“You can barely walk straight.”
“I’m fine. I just need to shower.”
Before he finished speaking, he had already turned and headed toward his room.
Weiran watched his back. He had wanted to call him back, but in the end, he let it go for now.
He could talk to him when Enze came home that night.
This wasn't urgent enough to discuss at noon with a hangover.
Yet that night, Enze didn't come home for dinner.
A little after ten, he sent a message saying the dance company had added another rehearsal and told Weiran to go to sleep first. Weiran replied, “What time will you be home?” but the message never showed as read.
It wasn't until two in the morning that a very soft sound came from the entryway as the door opened.
When Weiran came out of his room, Enze had already showered and was about to return to his own.
“Enze.”
The other man stopped, deep exhaustion visible beneath his eyes.
“Mm-hmm?”
Weiran looked at him. The words he had spent all day preparing suddenly caught in his throat.
Enze looked so tired he seemed ready to fall asleep standing up. His shoulders were slumped, his hair still dripping water, and a freshly replaced strip of kinesiology tape was stuck to his arm.
“Nothing.” Weiran only said, “Go to sleep.”
Enze nodded and quickly closed his door.
The next day, he left before dawn again.
And so it went for the next several days.
Enze seemed to have learned from the dance company group chat that he had refused to come upstairs that night. He had also vaguely guessed that he might have said things he shouldn't have. Since he didn't know what they were, he could only avoid Weiran even more thoroughly than before.
Breakfast was still left on the table. Someone still took out the trash, and whenever the milk was nearly gone, it was replenished in the refrigerator. But Enze no longer called Weiran's name when he left in the morning, and he tried not to make a sound when he came home at night.
Messages Weiran sent often remained unread for hours.
“What time are you done today?”
No response.
“Let’s have dinner together tonight.”
Not until the middle of the night did he receive a reply: “Sorry, I just saw this. I already ate.”
“I have something to talk to you about when you get home.”
That message wasn't marked read until the next morning, and Enze didn't ask what it was about. He only left a sticky note on the dining table: “Early rehearsal today.”
Weiran could clearly feel that Enze was avoiding him.
It was more obvious and more thorough than the first time.
He had considered going straight to the dance company to corner him. But every time he actually saw Enze, the man was so exhausted he looked ready to collapse at any moment. The dark circles under his eyes grew deeper by the day. His ankles were covered with kinesiology tape, and twice he had even briefly closed his eyes while changing shoes in the entryway after coming home.
The words Weiran wanted to say rose to his lips again and again, only to be forced back down.
It wasn't that he couldn't find an opportunity to confront Enze.
He simply didn't want to trap Enze in the living room and force him into a conversation that might change their relationship when he was too exhausted to spare any energy for it.
So the misunderstanding didn't disappear. Instead, silence dragged it out longer and longer.
On Saturday afternoon, Weiran sat in the living room browsing a house-hunting site.
The weather outside was beautiful. Sunlight passed through the glass and fell across the carpet, illuminating dust motes drifting slowly through the air. The apartment was unusually free of any work-related noise, making even the refrigerator's low hum seem clear.
Weiran scrolled past one house after another.
Large floor-to-ceiling windows, a private yard, four rooms, and a convenient commute.
He saved it, then removed it from his saved listings.
The next one had a spacious living room and a full walk-in closet. The kitchen counters were large enough, too.
He enlarged the floor plan, looked at it for less than half a minute, and exited.
In truth, he hadn't really looked at a single house over the past few days.
It always felt as if something was missing.
Not a room, or a window, but the person who would lie on his shoulder and point at the floor plan, saying the yard was beautiful before complaining that the bathroom was too far from the bedroom.
When they first looked for a place six years ago, the two of them had crowded around the same laptop every day. Enze had had an astonishing number of opinions. Even with their painfully small budget, he had insisted that the windows couldn't be too small and that the kitchen had to fit at least two pots. Weiran had complained about how demanding he was while deleting every obviously unsuitable house.
Now their budget was sufficient, and they had far more options than before, yet Weiran couldn't decide on even one.
Because no one was discussing them with him.
Weiran pushed the laptop away and leaned back against the couch.
Across the coffee table was the carpet where Enze usually liked to sit. It had remained empty for days. Even the coffee table, which was usually pushed crooked, had stayed perfectly in place.
For the first time, Weiran found the overly tidy living room irritating to look at.
Three more days passed. At one in the morning, Weiran received another call from Enze.
When the caller ID lit up, he was sitting at his work desk. He answered before the first vibration had even ended.
“Hello?”
As before, it wasn't Enze on the other end.
The dance company member's voice carried obvious embarrassment.
“Mr. Xu, I’m sorry to bother you again.”
Weiran closed his eyes.
“He drank again?”
“Yeah… We really did try to stop him this time, but he seemed to be in a pretty bad mood today.”
“Where is he?”
“Downstairs at your place.”
Weiran hung up, grabbed his jacket, and went downstairs.
This time, the elevator arrived quickly. When he walked out the front doors of the apartment building, he saw the dance company members gathered around the flower bed in the distance. Enze was sitting in the same spot as last time, both arms wrapped around his knees, his forehead almost buried in the crook of his arms.
When the group saw Weiran, they looked as if they had finally seen their savior.
“We’ll leave him to you.”
“He hasn’t thrown up, and he doesn't seem to have hit anything. He just keeps saying he won’t go upstairs.”
Weiran glanced at the person crouched on the ground.
“Thanks.”
“Really sorry.”
“It’s fine. You guys go home.”
After they left, only the two of them remained in front of the apartment building. The wind was stronger than last time, blowing the shrubs in the flower bed against one another with a fine, rustling sound.
Weiran walked up to Enze and reached out to pat his head.
“Waiting for someone to come take you home again?”
Hearing his voice, Enze slowly raised his face.
When he saw Weiran clearly, he smiled.
The smile was faint, carrying the sluggishness of alcohol and a hint of utterly unguarded dependence. But instead of immediately clinging to Weiran like last time, he lowered his head again and hugged his knees tighter.
“It hurts…”
Weiran's brows drew together, and he immediately crouched down.
“Where does it hurt? Your head?”
Enze didn't answer. He only buried his face in the crook of his arms.
Weiran assumed he had a hangover headache and didn't continue questioning him downstairs. He turned around and crouched in front of Enze.
“Get on.”
Enze lifted his head and stared at his back, not reacting for a long moment.
“Come on,” Weiran urged him. “The wind’s strong.”
Only then did Enze slowly move closer and wrap his arms around Weiran's shoulders.
Weiran caught him under the knees and stood steadily.
“If you can’t hold your liquor, don’t drink so much.”
The person on his back didn't answer.
This was the first time Enze had ever been carried on Weiran's back.
It wasn't as if they hadn't had physical contact over the past six years. Weiran had supported him when he was injured during rehearsal and once half-carried him back to bed when he was sick. They had bumped shoulders and arms countless times while fighting over the remote or fooling around on the couch.
But this was the first time Enze had been carried completely on his back like this.
Enze's cheek rested behind Weiran's shoulder. The black jacket smelled of familiar laundry detergent, mixed with the faint scent of body wash. It was the smell Enze had breathed in for six years in this home, familiar enough that it should have made him feel safe. Tonight, though, it only made his chest hurt more.
That “it hurts” just now hadn't been about his head.
It was here.
It was the place that counted down every day Weiran hadn't moved out yet, without knowing when days like these would end.
Enze closed his eyes, his arms tightening around Weiran without realizing it.
Weiran felt the movement and assumed he was uncomfortable.
“If you feel like throwing up, say so. Don’t throw up on me.”
A muffled voice came from behind him. “I won’t.”
“Last time you said you weren't drunk, too.”
“…I’m not drunk.”
“Sure. You’re the most clearheaded person alive.”
Weiran carried him through the lobby. Enze was lighter than he had expected—or maybe he really had lost weight lately. The hand supporting his knees could clearly feel the tense muscles beneath the thin fabric, while the breath against his shoulder was heavy with excessive fatigue.
Weiran's mind was filled with how he would help Enze sober up once they got home.
Water first, and preferably something to eat. There wouldn't be time to make hangover soup, but there was still honey in the refrigerator. He also needed to find out exactly where Enze hurt and whether he had fallen when Weiran wasn't there to see it.
As for the conversation they had put off for far too long—
Weiran clenched his teeth.
He couldn't put it off tonight.
Even if Enze blacked out again tomorrow, he had to make sure this drunk knew that no one was planning to leave him behind.
When they got home, Weiran didn't take him to his room first. He set him directly on the living room couch.
Enze leaned back against the couch and tipped his head up, eyes closed. Weiran went to the kitchen to pour water, added a little honey, then took a damp towel and wiped Enze's face.
“Drink.”
Enze accepted the cup and took only two sips before setting it down.
Weiran crouched in front of him and carefully examined his forehead and arms.
“What hurt just now?”
Enze didn't answer.
“Did you fall?”
Still nothing.
Weiran was about to ask again when the person on the couch suddenly opened his eyes.
“The house… Did you find one?”
The same question again.
Weiran's movements stopped.
He looked at Enze's alcohol-flushed eyes and was silent for two seconds before answering, “…I haven’t found one I like.”
Enze's brows immediately knitted together.
He drew a deep breath, leaned back into the couch, and closed his eyes. It was as if he had been holding that breath for a long time. When he let it out, even his shoulders trembled.
“How much longer do I have to endure this…?”
His voice was very low, like a mutter never meant for anyone else to hear.
But Weiran heard every word.
The hurt, anxiety, and helpless anger that had built up in his heart over the past week were suddenly lit by that one sentence. He frowned too and straightened to look at Enze.
“Endure what?”
His tone was heavier than he had intended.
“You haven’t read my messages these past few days. You spend all day hiding outside and won’t talk to me when you come home. Now you’re drunk and sitting downstairs again.”
Weiran stared at him.
“Do you really not want to see me that badly?”
Enze opened his eyes.
The alcohol had probably slowed his reactions. He looked at Weiran for several seconds before he truly understood the question. In the next moment, tears fell from the corners of his eyes without warning.
Weiran froze.
He had expected Enze to argue, to laugh as usual and say Weiran was overthinking things, or even to make a drunken scene.
The one thing he hadn't expected was for him to simply cry.
Enze himself seemed unaware of it. He sniffed and raised a hand to wipe his face, but the second tear slid down his cheek before he could.
“Counting down the days like this… is exhausting.”
His voice was distinctly hoarse now.
“Every day, I don’t know when you’re going to leave.”
The last bit of anger in Weiran's chest vanished instantly.
Only helplessness remained, along with a dense, throbbing pain.
So this was what Enze meant by enduring it.
He hadn't been leaving early and coming home late because he didn't want to see Weiran. He had been treating every day as a countdown to their parting. Every time he stayed home, he saw the things that might be moved away. Every time he spent a little more time with Weiran, he became more aware of how much he couldn't bear to let him go.
He had thought avoiding Weiran would help him get used to it.
Instead, he had driven himself to get drunk a second time and sit downstairs refusing to go home a second time.
Weiran sighed, pulled the coffee table closer, and sat on its edge facing the man on the couch.
They were very close. Close enough that he could reach out and wipe the tears from Enze's face.
And he did.
When his thumb brushed across Enze's damp eye, Enze instinctively flinched but didn't pull away.
“So you don’t want to move out?”
Weiran asked the question slowly.
Enze sniffed, his brow furrowing even more. He clearly hadn't heard the whole thing, only catching the words “move out,” and answered pitifully, “Mm…”
The look on his face made Weiran laugh despite himself.
“But this place is small.”
Enze looked at him.
“The house is old, too, and the soundproofing is terrible. If you dance a couple steps in the living room, someone downstairs might come up and knock on the door.”
Enze's eyes were still wet, but he didn't answer.
Weiran patiently explained each point to him.
“The new house will have big floor-to-ceiling windows.”
“A big yard, a larger bedroom, and a living room spacious enough for you to stretch out your legs.”
The crease between Enze's brows slowly relaxed.
“And a big walk-in closet. You won’t have to cram all those stage costumes beside the balcony anymore.”
“If you want, we can install an entire wall of mirrors. The shoe cabinet will have to be big, too, or there’s no way all your dance shoes will fit.”
Watching Enze's expression grow increasingly confused, Weiran's lips curved unconsciously.
“There’ll be a big TV and a big kitchen, too. You can decide what goes in the yard.”
Enze clearly froze.
It was as if he had finally noticed that something was wrong. His alcohol-clouded mind began to turn sluggishly.
Your stage costumes.
Your dance shoes.
The mirrors you want.
You decide what goes in the yard.
Every sentence included him.
Weiran didn't hurry him. He simply sat on the coffee table and waited patiently. He waited for Enze to piece the words together one by one, waited for him to finally understand that the new house with the big windows, big yard, and big living room had never been part of Weiran's future alone.
After quite a while, Enze slowly sat up straight.
His eyes were still red, and the tears on his face hadn't dried, but his expression had changed from wounded to an almost blank daze.
“You…”
His voice trailed off.
Weiran waited for him to ask whether they would move together.
But a drunk man's thought process was clearly nothing like a sober person's.
Enze stared at him and suddenly asked, “So, do you like me?”
Weiran's breath stopped for a moment.
The person who had just been calmly listing the features of the house lost all ability to react for the first time.
“…What?”
Enze seemed to have finally found the question he most wanted answered. He slid from the couch onto the carpet, almost kneeling as he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Weiran's waist.
The impact made Weiran sway backward. His palm immediately braced against the edge of the coffee table.
Enze buried his face against Weiran's chest, his arms tightening around him.
“Do you like me?”
The second time he asked, his voice was already thick with tears.
As if if he didn't get an immediate answer, he would start crying again the next second.
Weiran sat stiffly, looking down at the messy crown of Enze's hair.
In six years, he had never seriously tried to give their relationship another name.
Enze had always been by his side, and Weiran had become too thoroughly accustomed to it. He was used to two breakfasts, another pair of shoes in the entryway when he came home, and someone knocking on his door to tell him to eat no matter how late he worked. He was even used to considering whether Enze could dance in the living room whenever he looked at houses.
He had thought it was simply instinct left behind by living together for too long.
Until Enze began to retreat.
Over that week, Weiran found himself waiting for the sound of the door, getting irritated when the message on his phone wasn't from Enze, and sitting in the excessively quiet living room without knowing what to do with himself. He didn't like Enze removing himself from his life, and he had never imagined a new home without him in it.
If that still didn't count as liking him, Weiran probably couldn't find a more suitable answer.
Weiran slowly raised his arms and wrapped them around the person in his embrace.
Enze's body was trembling slightly. Weiran didn't know whether it was because he had been out in the wind too long or because he was afraid of hearing the answer.
“Yeah. I like you.”
The two words fell from Weiran's lips, and even he was surprised by how calm he felt.
It wasn't an answer forced out of him in the moment. It was a fact that had existed for a long time and had only finally been spoken aloud tonight.
Enze didn't move in his arms.
Weiran tightened his hold and patted his back again and again.
“Don’t cry.”
Instead, Enze hugged him even tighter.
“Really…?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Not just because I’m drunk?”
“No.”
“And not because I’m crying?”
Weiran lowered his eyes to Enze's wet, reddened eyes.
“You’re already crying.”
Enze sniffed, looking so aggrieved it was as if Weiran had bullied him with the truth.
Unable to resist, Weiran wiped the tears from his face, his tone softening too.
“I like you, okay?”
Enze looked at him. After two seconds, he finally began to smile.
It was the first time in days that Weiran had seen a smile truly reach his eyes.
The next second, Enze buried his face against Weiran's shoulder again.
“Then you’re not going to leave me?”
“When did I ever say I was going to leave you?”
“You said you were moving.”
“We’re moving.”
Weiran deliberately emphasized the word “we.”
“It’s been us from the beginning. You just didn’t ask a single question and hid from me for over a week.”
The person in his arms fell quiet.
After a while, he muttered, “You never told me.”
Weiran paused.
He couldn't argue with that.
“Yes, I didn't explain it clearly.” He admitted it readily. “So I’m telling you now.”
Enze lifted his face.
“Moving together?”
“Together.”
“I get my own room?”
“Yes.”
“And mirrors?”
“Yes.”
“A big living room?”
“Yes.”
“You like me too?”
The question had somehow circled back to the beginning.
Weiran looked at him.
“Dong Enze, is that the only thing you remember?”
Drunk, Enze's reactions were much slower, but he nodded honestly.
“Mm-hmm.”
Weiran laughed in exasperation.
He reached out and pinched Enze's cheek—not hard, but enough to make the tear-streaked face scrunch up slightly.
“You’d better not black out tomorrow.”
Enze blinked at him blankly.
“Otherwise, I’m really going to deal with you.”
“How?”
“I’ll leave you downstairs.”
Enze's eyes immediately reddened again.
“Don’t.”
Weiran's heart softened. He pulled Enze into his arms again.
“I won’t.”
He spoke quietly.
“I won’t move out, and I won’t leave you behind.”
Enze rested against his shoulder, as if he had finally received a promise he could truly understand. His entire body slowly relaxed, and the arms that had been tense around Weiran gradually went limp.
Weiran noticed something was wrong and turned his head to look at him.
“Enze?”
There was no response.
The person who had just been asking whether Weiran liked him with red-rimmed eyes had somehow fallen asleep in his arms.
Weiran was silent for several seconds before letting out an exasperated laugh.
“You’re something else.”
He lowered his head and looked at Enze's now-peaceful face. His eyelashes were still damp, and the tip of his nose was a little red, but the corners of his lips held the faintest curve, completely unlike the way he had lain in bed last time with his brows still furrowed.
Weiran didn't wake him right away.
He simply sat at the edge of the coffee table in that decidedly uncomfortable position, letting Enze sleep in his arms for a while.
The main light in the living room was off. The warm glow of the floor lamp fell over the two of them. Wind continued to blow outside, occasionally making the glass tremble softly. The house-hunting site on the table was still open to a house with a large yard, but after sitting untouched for too long, the screen gradually dimmed.
Weiran glanced at it.
This time, he finally knew what those houses had always been missing.
It wasn't better lighting or a more practical layout.
It was Dong Enze sitting beside him.
They would look together, choose together, argue together over whether the yard should be kept, and decide together which wall should hold the mirrors.
Just like six years ago, when two twenty-two-year-olds with barely any money had sat on the floor of an empty apartment eating instant noodles, naturally placing each other in that still-distant future.
Now that future had arrived.
They could replace the old apartment, buy a bigger TV, and have a living room where they wouldn't bump into the table every time they turned around.
The one thing that hadn't changed was—
There were still two people in that future.
Weiran lowered his head and wiped away the last trace of dampness at the corner of Enze's eye.
“If you forget all of this tomorrow,” he said softly, “you’re in trouble.”
Enze slept without reacting at all.
Weiran wasn't really angry.
He held him more securely, the corners of his mouth slowly curving upward in the unseen depths of the night.
At least this time, even if Enze really did black out tomorrow, Weiran wouldn't let the misunderstanding drag on any longer.
Once Enze was sober, he would say it all again.
About the new home, about moving together, and about the feeling that had finally received an answer tonight.
He wouldn't leave out a single word.