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When Zhao Zhen asks him to move in, Bai Chi gets noisy, but he still says yes. He’s clearly baffled when he’s dragged to a realtor’s — “But, you have a house?” — and told to pick something out. The agent stares at them, wide-eyed while they bicker, until Bai Chi is distracted by the picture of a place he clearly likes.
“We’ll view that one,” Zhao Zhen says.
It’s not big, but it’s cosy, with a garden for Lisbon and a pretty view and, if Bai Chi praises both bedrooms, Zhao Zhen figures he can turn one into a study later.
Furniture shopping is a nightmare. They argue in every store, Bai Chi pushing back, hard, against Zhao Zhen spending money on him. “On us,” Zhao Zhen repeats, insistent, until he gives up — cushion in hand, unseeing gaze on a display behind Bai Chi’s head — and admits, gracelessly, that he doesn’t want the things Uncle Meng has touched. It’s the truth, ripped out unwillingly, but it feels like manipulation when he sees Bai Chi soften and concede.
He bullies Bai Chi into testing a mattress with him — salesclerk’s face averted — and is relieved when he gets grumbled at for his efforts.
Bai Chi cooks for them: soups and stews, congee and dumplings, steamed fish and almost-fancy noodles.
Zhao Zhen is used to someone making his food, but he’s not used to being in the kitchen while it happens. Bai Chi likes to chatter as he works, likes his company; likes to rope Zhao Zhen into helping him — “Slice this, please.” — until Zhao Zhen finds that cooking is now a two-person affair.
They eat late, depending on SCI’s workload; soon after Bai Chi stumbles home and just before Zhao Zhen leaves to perform and, well, assisting him is fun, in the end.
They’re somewhat watching a movie — Korean, horror, Bai Chi sufficiently exhausted to be desensitised to its scenes. Their eyes are tired, heavy, and Zhao Zhen is at constant risk of passing out where he lays, beyond comfortable, with his head in Bai Chi’s lap, Bai Chi’s careful fingers carding through his hair.
Bai Chi, to Zhao Zhen’s delight, has a thing for his hair. He likes to play with it, stroking and combing, nails gently scritching. He’s more focused on the hair than the movie, Zhao Zhen thinks, and shivers at the gentle tugs, as Bai Chi begins to braid.
“I’d thought you might… host parties or… something,” Bai Chi says one morning, passing him coffee. Bai Chi is usually gone before Zhao Zhen’s up; he treasures the weekends, when he wakes, instead, to Bai Chi curled on their couch reading, or gaming, or hugging Lisbon.
“I used to,” he admits, and waits; he can see Bai Chi doing that thing, that trying-and-failing to hide feelings thing.
“You let me pick this house. Is it too simple? Am I too simple?”
“You’re too good. I won’t share you.”
Bai Chi blushes, splutters, rolls his eyes.
It’s not actually a lie.
It’s Bai Chi who starts appearing in Zhao Zhen’s bedroom.
“Was waiting for you to come home,” he mumbles, barely audible, barely awake, the first time. Zhao Zhen doesn’t answer, just smiles, pleased, and acts like Bai Chi belongs on his bed— he always has, as far as Zhao Zhen is concerned.
It’s on the first morning that Zhao Zhen wakes to Bai Chi still there, to Bai Chi tucked in beside him, that they kiss for the first time— soft and sleepy, sweet and warm — and Zhao Zhen thinks, finally, fucking finally; but he would have waited forever, really.
Zhao Zhen has to apply all his self-control not to run to where Bai Chi is sitting with Gongsun and a first-aid kit. Paramedics on their way but you might beat them, Bai Yutong had texted; he’d clearly been right. Bai Chi is blanched with pain, but the knife wound surely isn’t life-threatening, or else Bai Yutong would have had him in the ER already.
Zhao Zhen kneels at his feet, rests a hand upon Bai Chi’s knee, and finds there is nothing he can say, here, in front of everyone.
Bai Chi grips his hand and holds on tight.
Zhao Jue accepts Bai Chi’s dinner invitation.
It’s Zhao Zhen who phones Bai Yutong; Zhao Zhen who appreciates him arriving in his conspicuous car and staying, parked outside— a blatant warning.
Bai Chi makes good food, comforting food.
Zhao Zhen watches his uncle closely— sees him assessing Bai Chi, their home, the selfies on the fridge of them making-out.
“What you have is good,” Uncle says, when leaving. “I’m proud of you.”
He smiles, disturbingly, across the street to Bai Yutong.
Zhao Zhen feels battered; reels with joy and guilt; rests back against Bai Chi, and lets the door close.
They walk Lisbon together on the weekends, no matter the weather: with umbrellas and raincoats, or wrapped in snug scarves, or with their sleeves rolled up when the trees begin to flower. The weather has grown hot enough for hats, and for Zhao Zhen to have switched to sleeveless tunics and floaty shifts, when Bai Chi reaches out on a walk and twines their hands together. Zhao Zhen’s half-spoken sentence vanishes. They hold hands a lot — soft, on the couch; tightly-gripped, in bed — but Bai Chi has had limits: their affection a private thing; not outdoors.
Bai Chi smiles brightly.
(They make love, and they fuck, and Zhao Zhen still can’t help but laugh the first time Bai Chi finally makes an out-loud-actually-verbalised request about what he’d prefer this time. Zhao Zhen kisses him, long and hard, then drags him down against him. Their bodies fit so well. Their hands are music on each other’s skin; their mouths the messengers of all the promises they have made, and all the promises they are yet to make. Zhao Zhen delights in this, every time, after all these months: to receive the gift — the undeserved privilege — of knowing and of being known.)
“None of your tricks,” huffs Bai Chi, though they both know he’s been reading Zhao Zhen’s books in the study— claims he doesn’t want to do magic, just understand it, but he’s been caught doing tiny tricks by lamplight.
Zhao Zhen smiles up at him from the blanket, autumn leaves everywhere. “Not even this one?” he asks, and slides his hand behind Bai Chi’s ear — caress of fingertips, warmth of sweet, familiar skin — bringing out a simple ring.
Bai Chi blinks, and pulls a ring from his own pocket.
They lay on the blanket and laugh their way to yes.