Chapter Text
Waking up. Getting out of bed. Showering, brushing his teeth. Putting on clothes. Hopping on the shuttle to the set. He felt like an android, just following instructions to get through the day. If he allowed emotions inside him, he knew they would overwhelm him. And right now, he didn’t have the capacity for that. He had a job to finish, a final scene to shoot. On his way back home, riding his motorcycle and feeling the wind on his face, he would allow himself feel everything he had been avoiding.
Everybody's emotions were on edge that final day. Every hour, you could hear sudden bursts of tears. People were hugging each other, making promises to stay in touch. And in hidden corners, you’d even bump into people kissing, reaping the rewards of finally gathering the courage to confess their love. He barely had time to interact with his co-star outside of their scenes, with the ever-growing line of people wanting to congratulate him, take pictures with him, and have him sign some random photocard for their nieces.
He quickly stopped by the wrap party, but since the main goal seemed to be getting hammered and he still had a long ride ahead of him, he waved his goodbyes and started heading toward his motorcycle. Each step felt heavier, just like his heart. He gathered all his strength to keep it together, to wait until he could ride to some quiet spot and finally release all the emotions that had been boiling inside of him the entire day.
As he started sliding the helmet onto his head, he heard a slurred, distant voice: “Hey, you, handsome young man! Stop right there! Where do you think you're going?” He prayed to all the gods and goddesses that the voice didn’t belong to the man he had, until then, successfully avoided the whole day. Turns out, the gods and goddesses didn’t love him.
“Hey, Bo-di! Wait, wait!” the panting man called, running closer and closer. “Where are you going? The fun is just starting, come back inside,” he said, tugging at the young man's sleeve. When the boy didn’t move, a pout formed on the man’s lips. “Aya, Bo-di, c’mon! Why are you being so stubborn? Come back inside, right now!” The young man stood his ground like a marble statue—motionless, silent, his face betraying no emotion.
“Bo-di…? Why aren’t you moving? Is everything all right?” The pang of concern in the man’s voice seemed to pull the other back from wherever his mind had drifted. “Mn, I’m okay, ge. I just need to get going. It’s a long way home” he said, his tone attempting to be casual, as if he were just saying goodbye to a neighbor he would meet for basketball the next day.
He could see the hurt in the other man's eyes, and he couldn’t bear it anymore. Gently, he placed his hand on top of the still-tugging hand on his sleeve and loosened its grip. “Ge, enjoy the party. I really need to get going. We’ll talk later, okay?” He began sliding his helmet onto his head again. “Later? Later…” the man huffed, “Later when? There’s no later, Bo-di. There’s no later for us anymore. This is it. And you were leaving without even saying goodbye to me,” he said in a wobbly voice.
The hand that was tying the strap of the helmet paused for a brief second, and then continued its motion. He got on his motorcycle, started it, and left. Just like that. No words were spoken, no goodbyes exchanged. Only the overwhelming weight of leaving his whole heart behind. He couldn’t say goodbye, he wouldn’t say goodbye, he refused to say goodbye. There was no good in that 'bye’ —how could he bring himself to utter those words?
Two months had passed. If this were one of those rom-com time leaps, the scene would show the young man pulling over at a viewpoint on the road back home, shouting, kicking the ground, and sobbing uncontrollably. Then, it would cut to him getting home, dragging himself straight to bed, and sleeping for three days straight. After that, it would show one of his lowest moments—sitting on the couch, spooning ice cream directly from the tub, wearing the same pajamas for an entire week.
The montage would then shift: he'd shower, shave, order a proper meal, and finally pick up his phone. One by one, he'd respond to the worried texts and missed calls, slowly starting to feel like a human being again. Then, he would bury himself in work as usual—much to the relief of his manager.
It was the end of September when he saw the name Xuan Lu flash across his phone screen. "Bo-di! How are you? All the guys are missing you, you never send any messages on the group chat" the cheery woman said on the other side of the line. "Hey, shijie! I'm fine, I'm good. Just busy as usual, you know how it is... picking up the pieces after the Untamed hurricane, hehe" he said in a lighthearted tone, hoping his castmate wouldn't notice the cracks in his emotional state.
“Lao Wang, speaking of The Untamed … Zhanzhan’s birthday is coming up, and I'll be making a surprise visit at his concert. Are you interested in coming along with me?” she said, her voice brimming with excitement. The sudden mention of that name made his mind go hazy.
“Mn, sorry shijie, I'm shooting for my new series right now and my schedule is really packed... I'll check, but I’m pretty sure I have a late-night shoot that day,” he replied, offering another white lie, silently praying he wouldn’t get caught again. “Oh…” came the familiar disappointing tone. “Sure, Lao Wang, I totally get you. You should really use up all that 21-year-old energy while it lasts.” Once again, he shoved those stubborn feelings deep down, trying to suppress them as they dangerously resurfaced.
He checked his phone in the morning and saw the date, October 5th, clearly written. That old friend, the ache in his heart, made its presence known once again, as it had already become customary. He went through the day as usual—skateboarding around the set to occupy his mind between shots, replying with one-syllable words to other people's attempts at conversation, dancing to a song only he could hear in his mind—the regular routine.
As night began to approach and the director called ‘Cut!’ on set, he headed to the van, hoping the exhaustion from the early start of the day would wash over him and lull him to sleep for the whole ride to the hotel. His usual driver, Peng-laoshi—a thin, gentle man from Zhejiang—greeted him and asked the usual question, "Yibo-laoshi, do you want me to turn the volume down?" He gave his usual reply, "No, Peng-laoshi, it's okay."
The car started moving, and he could feel sleep creeping up on him like a tsunami, his mind flickering in and out of focus. On one of those occasions when his mind turned back on, he suddenly heard…
…If falling in love with you is just a dream
How should I go back to sleep after waking up?
If I lose my memory
Can I fall in love with you at first sight again?
That song. That damn song. The song that haunted his dreams—and his nightmares. The song that followed him around in his head every waking moment. The song that encapsulated the most beautiful and painful memory of his. The song that reminded him he was a coward, a worthless boy who ran away. The song that made him hate himself, because he couldn't bear to have something flawed in his strive-for-perfection life.
Then his spinning mind came to a halt for a second, and he thought, ‘But… there were tears in his eyes… When he sang that song, and when I left him behind in my cowardly move. Maybe, just maybe, those tears were the same kind as mine? Tears of an aching heart, fear, confusion, frustration, tears of… love?’
Shit! Fuck! “Peng-laoshi, please, hurry back to the hotel. I need to get to my motorcycle and ride to Beijing as soon as possible,” a surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins.
“...hahahaha seriously, how do you remember this kind of thing, shijie?” he heard that faint but so familiar voice, making his heart sprout wings and fly around the room. “Zhanzhan, you can't remember any of this because you were too busy making love-eyes at your didi…” a mocking woman's voice teased.
There it was. The elephant in the room. And why did he have to show up right now? Should he wait outside? Should he go inside? Should he return to his motorcycle? Should he text—
“Bo-di? Is that you…?” says the wide-eyed man who had just stepped out of the private room at the hotel. “Ge… Sorry… I’m— Ge… I don’t—” Before he could finish his sentence, a warm body crashed into his, enveloping him completely, almost lifting him off his feet. “Bo-di…” the trembling voice whispered, “Thank you, thank you… Bo-di… Me too, I—”
“Shhh… Zhan-ge, there's no need for thank you and sorry between us…”
Another time leap. This one is like the animation of calendar pages turning, slowly at first, then faster and faster, while the background fades into black-and-white clips of the couple laughing together, walking hand in hand through the park, cuddling in front of a fireplace, grabbing the keys to their first home, painting each other's noses while renovating, getting a dog, and in their award-winning speeches saying “I want to thank the directors and producers who believed in me, my mother and father for supporting me, and my husband—my inspiration, for never letting go of my hand and making my life feel like an eternal summer.”
And then, for the second time in my life, I found the piece of the puzzle I didn’t know I was missing: a chubby, beautiful baby girl who smiled for the first time when she heard her Baba singing, whose first words were “Lotus,” and who filled an already happy home with more laughter and warmth. And the three of them lived happily ever after.”
-
Xiao Zhan glanced at Wang Yibo, tears streaming down his face, his big brown eyes filled with so much fondness and love. He intertwined his fingers with the other man’s and whispered, “Yibo, I love you so much…”
The girl looked at both men, her shining eyes curving into fond half-moons. She crawled across the living room, wrapping her arms around them, one on each side, and whispered, “That’s the most beautiful love story there will ever be… I love you, Babas.”