Day 1: Sunday

 

    Zitao wishes it was a sense of adventure that drives him to show up at the hipster coffee joint just outside of campus at 11pm on a Sunday night. If not that, then maybe some subconscious attempt at looking cooler than he actually was, some remnants of his pre-college rebellious streak finally resurfacing. But as he stumbles in through the entrance, getting the strap of his messenger bag caught in the door, Zitao has to admit the truth: he’s stressed out.

 

    And he needs to be caffeinated.

 

    It’s not as simple as it sounds. (Of course it isn’t, he thinks to himself sarcastically.) Imminent final exams and looming GPA requirements aside, Zitao happens to be diagnosed with a rare genetic mutation that amplifies emotions. Or, rather, it amplifies the emotions of other people in his vicinity, and projects them onto Zitao himself. On certain days he’s lucky, and it’s happiness that gets reflected back to him; others aren’t nearly as pleasant. And then there are days like today, when every pinprick of stress from those Zitao passes by buzzes beneath his own skin with an insufferable itch.

 

    When Zitao says he’s stressed, he’s stressed.

 

    And what could possibly go wrong with substituting procrastination and lost sleep with cramming and overpriced macchiatos?

 

    (Zitao is intelligent enough to not be in denial. He’s perfectly aware that this plan will result in varying degrees of catastrophe. And that’s why this will be his first and last near-midnight coffee run.)

 

    (Or so he tells himself.)

 

    He manages to yank his bag’s strap free of the door, muttering some choice words a bit louder than necessary, and stalks up to the counter in a huff. Zitao is completely and utterly done with today.

 

    The young man behind the counter is staring at him with an unimpressed eyebrow raised high on his forehead and one hand frozen with a pen in its grip. As Zitao gets closer, he can see that the guy’s been doodling something ━a cow? A pineapple? He has no idea━ onto one of the flimsy napkins. Knowing the type of people who get hired here, the guy probably thinks he’s an artistic genius.

 

    “Can I help you?” Mr. Unimpressed asks flatly, and Zitao realizes he may have spent too much time trying to decipher the cow/pineapple/whatever and forgotten to order.

 

    “Right, sorry.” Zitao’s eyes skim over the handwritten menu on the wall. “I’ll have a small chai tea latte, please.”

 

    Mr. Unimpressed somehow manages to sound even more unimpressed when he tells Zitao his total, after mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “of course you will”.

 

    While Zitao’s sugary excuse for coffee is being made, he leans against the counter and really takes in his surroundings. It’s not as if he doesn’t know the place; he’s come before during the occasional afternoon, enjoying the quiet atmosphere and small group of customers here much more than the Starbucks down the street. Now, though, the place is deserted. It feels like Zitao is the only one up this late in the entire city, the barista aside. Speaking of the barista…

 

    Zitao’s eyes shift back to Mr. Unimpressed, watching as he effortlessly whips up a latte. He’s tall, so Zitao can’t see everything he’s doing, but it still seems like he could do this in his sleep. (Maybe he is half-asleep right now, Zitao muses. Otherwise I don’t know how he makes it through the late-night shift.)

 

    He snaps back to attention when a steaming cup is placed in front of him, and he takes it with a “thank you” before picking a seat at the table nearest to the counter. This is what Zitao has been dreading; there’s a huge difference between planning a caffeine-fueled cramming session and actually going through with it. He can almost hear his own internal groaning.

 

    Zitao sets his drink down on the table and slides his bag off of his shoulder, which goes well until the strap that was caught in the door earlier decides to break, dumping a small avalanche of books and papers across the floor.

 

    He’s so surprised by the sudden of bad luck that for a few long moments he stands frozen in the center of the chaos, clutching his now-empty bag to his chest. In the silence that follows, Zitao feels frustrated tears prick at the back of his eyes, the day’s stress dominoing through his brain to the point that he’s too upset to even pick up his things.

 

    “Hey...are you okay?” a voice asks uncertainly, and Zitao recovers enough to register that Mr. Unimpressed is talking to him, looking more concerned than judgemental.

 

    (Human decency? Zitao is more than a little shocked. Someone going out of their way to be nice?)

 

    He manages to (mostly) keep it together as he lets out a small “not really”.

 

    Then Mr. Unimpressed does something that nearly leaves Zitao reeling; he actually comes out from behind the counter, gets down on his hands and knees, and starts picking up Zitao’s mess of scattered papers.

 

    Which part of heaven did you fall from???

 

    “Here,” Mr. Unimpressed tells him, handing him a pile that’s more or less stacked up. “Better?”

 

    Zitao nods fervently, and takes the papers mutely until he remembers his manners. “Thank you…” he starts before looking at the barista’s name tag. “Thank you, Kris.”

 

    Mr. Unimpressed ━Kris, Zitao corrects himself━ gives him a half-smile and says, “well, you’re good at looking like a kicked puppy,” which would have been a bit offensive if not for the teasing tone it was said in. Zitao blinks once, twice, and blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

    

    “And you’re good at drawing,” he half-lies, vaguely gesturing toward the napkin on the counter. “That’s a nice pineapple.”

 

    “Cow,” Kris corrects him with another smile.

 

    Zitao is already planning his next midnight coffee run.

 

Day 2: Monday

 

    His next trip ends up being the following evening, and it’s as unnecessary as his drink ━this time, a white chocolate mocha━ is sugary. But Zitao has found that there are few people around his age (and he assumes Kris is around his age) who are genuinely kind without being so spineless that they get stepped on. Maybe he’s jumping to conclusions, considering he’s only had what hardly qualifies as one conversation with the tall barista. It still doesn’t hurt to see if he’s right.

    

    Of course, that could just be Zitao’s optimism talking. Today is one of his happy days, when a mother’s joy in looking at her infant daughter puts an extra skip in his step, and the still-youthful giddiness of first love blossoming around campus draws a smile to his face.

 

    Kris looks less unimpressed this time when Zitao walks through the door, though the same can’t be said for the way he just audibly snorts when Zitao places his order. The latter is in a good enough mood that it doesn’t bother him (or maybe it’s just because it’s Kris, and even though he doesn’t come off as the warmest guy, he certainly doesn’t come off as mean).

 

    Zitao is halfway through sipping his mocha when the sound of chair legs squeaking on the floor draws his eyes up from his history notes. To his surprise, Kris has taken the other chair, and is sitting in it backwards the way that only wannabe bad-boys do when they’re trying to be cool.

 

    (He’s not cool, Zitao repeats to himself a few times. Definitely not.)

 

    “So,” Kris starts. He has his arms crossed over the back of the chair, head tilted to the side as he regards Zitao. “You’re a new customer?”

 

    It takes a moment for Zitao to register that he’s being spoken to before he responds with a quick “No!” Kris flinches a bit, and Zitao is quick to follow up in a more reasonable tone, “No. I, um, come here a lot actually, but yesterday was the first time I’ve come so late. Finals, you know.”

 

    Kris nods, and Zitao fully expects him to get up...but it doesn’t happen.

 

    “Shouldn’t you, um...be behind the counter?” Zitao asks him. He doesn’t want to sound rude, but he also doesn’t want Kris’s absence to drive away potential customers. The coffee joint has enough issues making a profit when it has to compete with that damn down-the-street Starbucks.

 

    But Kris doesn’t seem too concerned. “No one else but you shows up this late at night. They’re normally paying me to wait around and entertain myself.” He shrugs. “What else am I going to do besides stand there and deface our napkin supply?”

 

    “Hey, those are good drawings,” Zitao objects. He’s not sure why he gets the compulsive need to overexaggerate the other’s talent, as long as it makes him smile.

 

    And smile Kris does, the most genuine one that Zitao’s seen on him. “You know, you’re alright...Zitao, was it?” he asks.

 

    Zitao is lost for a few seconds as to when he gave his own name, but he vaguely remembers it came out during the end of their brief meeting yesterday. He fights down an answering grin of his own, and half-succeeds when he answers, “And you’re not bad yourself, Kris.”

 

    “It’s Yifan, actually,” the man in question admits. “The name tag is an alias. I hope you don’t mind I didn’t correct you earlier?”

 

    Yifan.

 

    “Not at all.”

 

    ...Yifan.

 

Day 3: Tuesday:

 

    Being late to class is just icing on the cake of Zitao’s bad day. He’s rushing across campus, mentally yelling things at those he passes along the lines of How can you move this slow? and Did you really think that disaster was good enough to wear in public? and, most commonly, Get out of my way!!

 

    The problem is that every time Zitao shoves past a slow-moving pedestrian, their anger bubbles over and leeches onto him, so he’s stuck in a vicious cycle of frustration. He’d honestly enjoy just punching someone in the face at this point, but considering the martial arts lessons he’s been taking since he was eight, he might snap the kid’s neck. And Zitao doesn’t want to spend the next 20 years of his life behind bars.

 

    (There are, after all, no lattes in prison.)

 

    He’s nearing the end of his sprint when something catches his eye, and he risks a collision with the girl in front of him to look.

 

    He almost thinks he’s imagining it when he sees Yifan leaning against a cement wall, scribbling in a notebook.

 

    If it were any other day, Zitao would be halfway over to him already, but he can’t afford to be any later than he already is when it’s this close to final exams. Two things are for sure, though: Yifan goes to his same college, and Zitao needs to talk to him tonight.

 

Day 4: Wednesday

 

    Zitao doesn't get his chance. He ends up getting ready to leave his dorm an hour later than he usually does, and the second the clock hits midnight, he feels the Shift. A tingle runs down his spine, and for a fleeting moment he feels nothing at all...until a new emotion takes its place ━ one that Zitao knows all too well.

 

    Loneliness.

 

    These are the worst days. Anger and stress aren’t always the easiest to deal with, but they’re nothing compared to the emptiness he feels now. And what’s even worse? Even if Zitao was completely isolated, with no one else’s emotions to soak up, he wouldn’t be able to escape this gaping vacuum of loneliness. Other people didn’t create it; they just made it worse.

 

    The moment it hit him, Zitao walked right back into his dorm room. For now, he could sleep through at least eight or nine hours of this suffering, dreams being a much-needed escape. As for the rest of the day...he had to stay here. The fewer people he came in contact with, the better, no matter how much he couldn’t afford to skip his classes.

 

    Zitao’s last thought before he went to sleep was that he wouldn’t get to see Yifan.

 

    Thankfully, his roommate ━a lanky blonde by the name of Oh Sehun━ knew about Zitao’s condition. He must have understood when Zitao purposefully slept in, because when the latter finally woke up, he found a note waiting for him on top of his dresser.

 

Tao-

Figured it was one of those days.

Got some food for you in the fridge.

Call me if things get bad.

-Your Awesome Roommate

 

    The rest of the day is an attempt to drown out the melancholy feeling settled in his chest with studying, loud music pumping through his earbuds, and the occasional power-nap.

 

    It’s not the first time Zitao wishes he was normal.

 

Day 5: Thursday

 

    This time, when Zitao comes in through the coffee shop door, Yifan is the one to greet him first. “Hey, you’re alive,” He says, and though his words themselves are nonchalant, his face gives away that he was worried. (Worried? About me?)

 

    “I was wondering after I didn't see you two days in a row,” Yifan continues. “Everything okay?”

 

    The lie rolls easily off Zitao’s tongue, nearly automatic after years of practice. “I was sick. Nothing serious, but I’m feeling better now.”

 

    Yifan gives him a nod. There’s a smile on his face as he says, “Good. Now, what’ll it be today?”

 

    “One small caramel macchiato, please.”

 

    This time, Yifan doesn’t even bother hiding his reaction. He shakes his head good-naturedly and tells Zitao, “Go have a seat. I’ll bring it over in a minute.”

 

    Zitao doesn’t know exactly what he’s done to deserve special treatment, but he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it.

 

    He’s just finishing pulling out his chemistry notes when Yifan plops into the chair next to him, setting the drink down in front of Zitao.

 

    “What are you studying?” Yifan asks. He leans over to scan the mess of papers, shaking his head when he sees the subject. “Gross, chemistry. I remember when I took it two years ago; it was my least favorite━ Hang on…”

 

    Zitao looks at the old test that Yifan has his eyes trained on, and doesn’t understand its significance until Yifan laughs, sounding more than a bit incredulous when he says, “And that was my professor. How about that, huh? We go to the same university.”

 

    Zitao nearly smacks himself in the head for forgetting. “That’s actually what I was going to talk to you about,” he admits. “I saw you on the way to class on Tuesday, but I was running late.”

 

    Yifan is still quietly laughing at himself. “You’d think I would have asked. I mean, there are like three universities nearby, but as obvious guesses go…” He trails off, still shaking his head. “So, let me guess: first-year english major?”

 

    (Zitao is just a little offended. He mentally scoffs.)

 

    “Second-year music major, actually, and do I look like a freshman to you?”

 

    “I was kidding, Zitao. Here, I won’t make you guess: I’m a fourth-year business major.”

 

    Fourth year? Zitao feels his mood dim considerably. Has he really picked a friendship so temporary that it will be over in a month after the spring graduation?

 

    That negative thought is pushed aside when Yifan suddenly perks up. “Hey, that reminds me,” he says, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, “I have something for you. Fridays are my day off, so I made sure I finished by today.”

 

    A question is on the tip of Zitao’s tongue until he sees the paper that Yifan hands him. It’s been folded several times to fit into a pocket, and there’s a few smudges from an eraser, but it’s easy to make out what it is: it’s a drawing of Zitao’s face. And it’s actually pretty good.

 

    A drawing...of me? For me?

 

    Yifan is giving him a warm smile. “I figured you were sick, and I thought this would cheer you up. Of course, I couldn’t actually give it to you when you were sick...but hopefully you like it anyway.”

 

    Zitao can’t believe it. “Of course I do,” he says, and means it. He’s so unbelievably happy right now, he can’t think about or feel anything else. It’s like Yifan’s happiness is infectious, the way his smile has Zitao’s lips curving into one of his own. It’s almost as if━

 

    Wait.

 

    Today is not a happiness day. Today is an anger day. Zitao is not angry. He’s happy...because Yifan is happy. The only reason he would be reflecting Yifan’s emotions instead of his default ones would be if…

 

    He panics.

 

Day 6: Friday:

 

    Zitao is still panicking when he wakes up the next morning. His eyes are wide, and his knuckles whiten with how tightly he grips the bedsheets.

 

    He can’t be thinking these...things about Yifan. He can’t be feeling that way about him, as small as that feeling may be.

 

    (You can’t be one of them, his mother tells him. You can like the things you enjoy, Zitao.  You can like fashion, shopping, and your gossip magazines. But you cannot like another boy. Understood?)

 

    He refuses to believe it, even if the proof was shoved in his face Thursday evening.

 

    More time must pass than he thinks while lying there, because Sehun suddenly asks from the opposite side of the room, “Hey, it’s not one of those days again already, is it?”

 

    “No.” It comes out in a squeak.

 

    Sehun is at his side in a second, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Tao, what’s wrong,” he says. It’s not a question. Sehun can read him like an open book.

 

    “Nothing’s wrong; I’m fine.” It might be the weakest lie in recorded human history.

 

    “I’m serious.”

 

    A defeated sigh escapes Zitao’s lips. “Something’s bothering me, that’s all. It’s just something stupid.”

 

    “A crush.”

 

    Zitao keeps his mouth clamped tightly shut. If he keeps silent, Sehun might lose interest and go back to whatever he gets up to on his laptop. What he doesn’t expect is Sehun’s next question.

 

    “So...what’s his name?”

 

    Zitao reels away from his friend as though he’s been burned.

 

    “What the hell even gave you that idea!? I thought we were friends, Sehun, and now here you are accusing me of━”

 

    “Tao.”

 

    “We’ve been roommates for two years, and friends for six! Does that mean nothing to you, you━?”

 

    “Tao.”

 

    “And even if it was true, how would you know, huh? Thinking you know me better than I know myself is just━”

 

    “Huang Zitao!”

 

    Sehun doesn't yell. He whines, he groans in protest, but he rarely yells. So when Zitao hears the sharp way his name is called, he shuts up immediately, letting the other put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

 

    “Listen to me,” Sehun says. He sounds uncharacteristically serious. “You said it yourself: I’ve known you for six years. I’ve had a hunch, and with the way you’ve been so bouncy and giggly lately...I figured it made sense.”

 

    Zitao tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “But…” he says, in hardly a whisper, “He’s a boy.”

 

    “I don’t know exactly what you’ve been told growing up, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.” Sehun’s grip on his shoulder tightens protectively. “You deserve to be happy. And I’m one of many people who would stay by your side no matter who that person you’re happy with is. Got it?”

 

    Zitao nods, not trusting himself to speak.

 

    “Alright, enough with the speeches; get up. I’m not letting your lazy miss two days of classes this week.”

 

    Zitao has never appreciated Sehun more than in this moment.

 

Day 7: Saturday:

 

    Yifan doesn’t even let him order this time around.

 

    “Sit down,” he tells Zitao as soon as the latter walks in. He’s already in the other chair, a steaming cup sitting on the table in front of him.

 

    “What’s this?” The moment Zitao sits down, the cup is pushed into his space, instead.

 

    “This,” Yifan tells him, “is an upgrade from the sugar-with-added-sugar monstrosities you order every time you come. Straight up, no cream, no sweeteners, no distractions: coffee. On the house.”

 

    Zitao eyes the drink in distaste, but it’s not like he’s rude enough to refuse the gift. “Here goes nothing,” he says, and cautiously takes a sip.

 

    It’s horrid.

 

    He fights the urge to spit the hot liquid all over Yifan (wouldn’t that be wonderfully ironic), and manages to swallow it down. His eye may have twitched a few times, but he should be able to get away with a white lie.

 

    “It’s really good,” he says with a half-hearted thumbs-up.

 

    Yifan is biting his lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “Right. And now that you completely hated that…” He brings his other arm up ━the one that’s been out of sight for this whole exchange━ and sets yet another cup on the table, a drink that Zitao recognizes immediately. “I also bought you this one.”

 

    Zitao looks between the macchiato and Yifan, his eyes wide. “How did you…?”

 

    “Know it was your favorite? Easy; you looked the happiest when you were drinking this one.”

 

    Zitao’s heart melts faster than the caramel in his macchiato. “Thank you.”

 

    “It’s no problem,” Yifan tells him, waving it off. “And speaking of no problem, I thought you might want some help studying? It’s fine if you don’t need my help, but I’m exempting most of my finals, and it seems like you have a ton of stuff considering you come to get caffeinated every night.”

 

    Yes, that’s definitely why. If he only knew.

 

    “That would be amazing, but...you really don’t have to.”

 

    “Anything for my favorite customer.”

 

    Zitao really hopes he isn’t blushing.

 

    “I’m your only customer, you know.”

 

    “Exactly.”

 

~*~

 

    Zitao’s night, surprisingly enough, doesn’t end with his coffee trip. Apparently one of Yifan’s friends ━Jongdae, was it?━ is throwing a party, and it will be “good for Zitao’s health” to go and take a break from studying.

 

    Needless to say, Zitao has reservations. He’s not exactly the partying type, and this close to exams it feels wrong to be doing anything beyond studying and sleeping. Still, he trusts Yifan, and what’s the worst that could happen?

 

    (Why do those sound like famous last words?)

 

    The party is in full swing when they get there, and Jongdae greets them at the door with a wide grin and a plastic cup in hand. (“It’s just juice, he reassures Zitao. “I made sure to get a glass of it before it was no longer trustworthy.”)

 

    After a quick catch-up with Yifan and even quicker introduction to Zitao, Jongdae disappears back into the crowd with a goodbye and a cheerful “don’t drink the punch!”

 

    Yifan leans close to Zitao’s ear so that the latter can hear him. “He’s probably running off to make out with that midget boyfriend of his,” Yifan tells him, distaste plain and clear.

 

    Zito braces himself for the worst.

 

    “I just don’t get what Jongdae sees in Baekhyun; he’s such a little twerp. To each their own, I guess; he’s never been happier.”

 

    Five seconds later, and Zitao is lighter than air.

 

~*~

 

    They end up on the edge of the dance floor, which is actually just the apartment’s living room. Yifan tells him that he should experience the atmosphere of a party, but he doesn’t have to dance and/or embarrass himself if he doesn’t want to. It was a sweet notion, and would have gone a lot better if there wasn’t a girl who kept pressing inappropriately against Zitao’s side, openly flirting with him.

 

    He’s sure she’s a very nice girl, and maybe she would have been less touchy-feely if she hadn’t had a few drinks. But it was hard to remember that when Zitao had asked her to stop quite a few times and now he was just getting uncomfortable.

 

    Then the strangest thing happens. All of a sudden, Zitao’s discomfort is replaced with a surge of what feels like jealousy. It’s a confusing feeling: who is he jealous of? Why is it this strong?

 

    ...And then he looks to his left and sees Yifan glaring at the girl with barely-concealed anger.

 

    Oh. OH.

 

    Zitao’s mind goes blank for the shortest of moments, but then he feels giddy butterflies in his stomach, even through the reflected jealousy.

 

    Yifan is okay with his friends liking the same gender.

 

    Yifan is jealous that someone is interested in Zitao.

    And Zitao, for the first time, thinks he might just have a chance with him.

 

---

A/N: Annnnnd here's part 1. :) Hope you enjoyed it! A big thanks to all of you who subscribed already, and I'd appreciate any of your thoughts on the story so far~ The second (and final) part will be up by next Friday at the latest. See you then!