“I need your help.”

His best friend acquiesces in the stretch of the conversation, his presence softening as Zitao’s demeanor wavers before him. Sure, he is no stranger to needing to extend a hand to dip into Zitao’s life to improve things, or to piece a situation back together monetarily, but he is not, in retrospect, used to Zitao begging. On the contrary, Zitao would always sooner suffer than bother another person with vindication. “What is it?” He finds himself asking as every ounce of joviality that had once soaked his voice thoroughly now having dried up, and the notion only serves to spell sour things for him. “What do you need?”

Quietly, Zitao idiosyncratically fiddles with his fingers to alleviate the weight of his underexposed request. “It’s just,” he begins to say, smushing his cheek against the ridge of his palm in disdain where he leans on the countertop, still dressed from work and dinner at the president’s house. After having returned home, Luhan had greeted him with a bowl of popcorn in one arm and the television remote in another, chirping in his ear about the movie he had been watching in his old, slightly-stained sweatpants and university sweatshirt. Having had far too much on his mind from the events which had just transpired only a half an hour ago, Zitao had wasted no time in threading his hands in his hair among the stress and letting his turmoil show. “I really don’t know what to do, and I need your advice with something.”

Blinking, Luhan languidly brings another piece of popcorn to his lips as he listens, for the boy’s words turn his gut slightly frigid and leave him feeling uneasy. “What did you do?” He presses skeptically, voice slightly stern. It is not that like Zitao to up so badly that he nearly breaks down in his own kitchen, save for when he had screwed up at the interview and had received the news of his mother’s deterioration just days prior. Save for those two instances, Luhan cannot necessarily say that he is used to this kind of behavior, for it only tends to rear its ugly head when Zitao finds himself lost. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Zitao assures him carefully, before letting out a shuddery sigh, “but that’s kind of my problem, in the first place.”

“You have to spit it out, you know,” his best friend tells him with another handful of popcorn being precariously dumped into his open, waiting mouth, “because I don’t read minds. That would be so rad if I could, though - could you imagine that? God, I would be able to know what everyone on the street was thinking at one time.”

Zitao hasn’t the slightest of ideas how to sugarcoat what it is that he needs to say, and can only seem to piece together the bluntest of admissions which would only bring him shame as his friend babbles away into the open air, seemingly to himself over no one. It’s only several elongated seconds of perusing his thoughts regarding what it is he is about to say before he blurts out, “I think I’m in love.”

They are words that he would have expected his best friend to one day speak in happiness, voice richly saturated with joy and everlasting hope, but all he gets are dimmed, anguished eyes and a fine tremble in the boy’s chin that indicates that he was about to cry. Beneath the thoughtful haze that Zitao might be surreptitiously joyous about it, his voice is strained and downwardly lilting as he speaks, and several popped kernels fall out of Luhan’s palm delicately to the tiled floor as Zitao looks at him in despair.

“Oh no,” Luhan breathes out quietly, lips parting with a delicate sound. “Don’t tell me it’s who I think it is.”

Pouting, Zitao cannot even muster the power to even so much as sigh when his posture sinks as he says, “It’s who you think it is.”

Exasperatedly disbelieving, his best friend’s eyes roll as he cranes his head back, processing the sheer weight of the situation that Zitao has, unfortunately, fallen into. “I told you not to tell me,” he expresses with a sigh, the model’s eyes shying away in shame. “Tao, you know you weren’t supposed to get involved with someone like him. This was supposed to be just a job.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Zitao glances up at him with watery eyes, as every last lifeline that he had wrapped around his shoulders to protect him from the evils of this world finally shred apart, the strings of balance falling between lithe fingers. It hadn’t been his intention for it to go this far - rather, he had tried to distance himself early on to prevent exactly this, to ensure that he wouldn’t have ended up where he is now. Nevertheless, his heart had been weak and Zitao hadn’t been able to resist the temptation to submerge himself in the pool of affection. “You think I’m not aware of how much I’ve completely ed this up?”

“Well, why didn't you try to stop?” His best friend asks exasperatedly. “You continued to let it happen, Tao, and now look what’s happened.”

Sensitive and puny, Zitao whimpers as he slumps into his own arms, fighting the prevalent urge to cry. “I wanted to,” he tells him, “but I also didn’t want to. I made a mistake, and I just… I like him, Han, and I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to reverse the damage that’s been done.”

Silently, the model begins to cry his way through trembles and convulsions as the weight of his poor decisions comes crashing back down on him, rearing its proprietary ugliness as Zitao’s gut swirls frigidly and he finds himself wedged between a rock and a hard place. This reaction, however, speaks absolute volumes for Luhan, someone of far higher intimacy experience than his al best friend who had barely ever had time to even so much as look at boys, let alone kiss them and bloom relationships with them. 

Zitao may be dim, he may be tenderhearted, and he may be very vexatious when arguing, but one thing he is not is a liar. He has never been one to fabricate the truth, regardless of the outcome whether benign or perhaps malicious, but given a profitable career that, for the first time, forces him to lie, Luhan is able to, unfortunately, sympathize with exactly how and why Zitao got himself into this situation.

Nevertheless, his best friend needs to find the silver lining beneath the seraphic cloud that he rides upon day in and day out, delicately and peacefully drifting across the boundary of danger every way the wind blows. “You can’t,” his best friend tells him slowly with a weighted sigh, and the boy’s chin quivers in shame. “I’m sorry, Tao, but this isn’t a game of jacks any longer - you’re messing with someone’s heart, and there’s nothing that I can do to fix that.”

Whimpering, his fate becomes all too clear. “I know.”

In retrospect, a situation such as this would be very easy to correct, had the circumstances been even slightly different. If Zitao were not being paid heftily for biting his tongue and remaining clandestine, it would be much easier to simply confess and lay all of his cards out on the table for his boss to rifle through as he so pleased, but he can’t. If he were not fooling a heart of much scarring and of many an ache, it would be much simpler to be truthful and honest with the one that he loved, for true love is said to be strong enough to withstand even the thickest of barriers. If he were not spreading the image of a beautiful mirage across the bandwidth of a country far too conservative for his own comfort, it would have been okay to reveal himself. If the situation simply hadn’t been itself even in the slightest, it would have helped. 

“Well,” Luhan’s shoulders practically deflate as he weighs what few options they have, struggling to piece together a concise plan of action. “At this point, it wouldn’t be possible for you to back out of this and just call it off without making a mess, so you really only have two options, and that’s to either be upfront and honest with him, or pray to whatever God is up there that he likes you enough to not give a that you lied to him.”

Zitao could scoff, really, because he knows that Yifan would never be okay with finding out he’s been lied to and, as a result therein, having his heart broken, and Zitao couldn’t possibly bring himself to that level of intentional emotional damage. Hasn’t Yifan been through enough? “He could never love me enough to not be angry,” the model shakes his head. “I’m gonna have to resign, aren’t I? And my mom is probably gonna die during the surgery next week, so it’s not like it matters, anyway.”

Life can always prove to be extremely unexpected and rather poorly-timed, but it becomes evident, then, that they couldn’t possibly have stumbled upon worse timing for everything to turn to the way it has now. “See if you can stick it out,” his best friend offers quietly, tiredly, “and see if you can reach a point in the relationship where he won’t wring your neck when you tell him since you can’t just erase the feelings you two already have for each other. If you’re gonna go this deep, you might as well commit to seeing the end.”

Sighing, the model lowers himself onto his arms as his chin presses into the meat of his forearm, for he knows that his best friend is right. There’s absolutely no turning back, nor is there any redemption to be found from how far along he’s allowed this to stretch, so the only thing Zitao can do now is to be painfully honest in one way or another - but how? More importantly, when?

“He will fire me,” Zitao professes sadly, although he knows that it will be for the best. He can’t lie to Yifan for much longer, for he can’t bear the thought of completely tearing his heart in half after it had taken him an entire decade to piece it back together, “but I know that I need to tell him.”

“See how much tighter you can manage to wrap him around your little finger,” the blonde offers as advice, “and hopefully, then, your gender will be completely arbitrary to him and he’ll just love you for you.”

Comfortingly, his best friend leans forward, then, and wraps sturdy arms around frail little shoulders, warm thumbs broadly caressing the juts of the boy’s upper clavicle arches through the thick of his sweater, and Zitao softly weeps into his own pale wrists as emptiness and hopelessness flood his body frigidly, shocking his veins and chilling his stomach in a sickly churn. 

How angry would Yifan be if he knew that Zitao wasn’t, at all, who he said he was?

Stepping out of the elevator on the dreary edges of Thursday morning, as it dings at the third floor and grants Zitao permission to the familiarly marbled hallway of the marketing studios, fills him with dark, prickly dismay as he swallows around a cottony throat and tightens his grip on the manila folder, shoes clacking noisily on the polished flooring as he approaches his studio. Yifan’s request had played in his mind like a broken record from the very moment he said it, and Zitao really wishes that it hadn’t, for he hadn’t been able to forget how much he wanted to respond to it with yes.

Despite everything, Zitao would absolutely love to be able to get close to him in a relationship-y way, to be able to hold hands with him and kiss him softly and tell him that everything will be alright, with absolutely no strings weighing them down. Zitao would love to be able to wake up to him in the morning and see his mussed bedtime hair, unkempt in a way that nobody has ever seen him be before, a man of peak-perfect coif when in the company’s presence. All night, he had been thinking of how homely Yifan would be when he sheds his rough veneer and replaces it with the comfortability of solitude, finally able to be alone and to feel emotion when not economically required to hide.

The shoot this morning will go off without a hitch - Zitao knows that it will, as almost all of his shoots tend to do. By now, just barely creeping toward the edge of nine months beneath the president’s employment, it’s simply second nature to betroth the garments given to him and to stand in front of a camera before tens of lights and a handful of photographers and accompanying assistants. He no longer second-guesses his preferable angles nor the shadows cast by the juts and curvatures which his body makes, and with how blindly the president has followed him along the edge of his heel with no disparage to the gender distinction of the model’s body, Zitao no longer has to worry about anything.

That is until his heartbeat locks itself in the base of his throat when he enters the studio and realizes that the president is mere meters away, speaking with Qian and Joohyun regarding the model pedestalled in the center of the studio behind the lights. His presence must be rather strong, for it’s almost instantaneous that the president turns his head and locks eyes with him, despite the studio door having remained whisper-silent, his rigid expression softening rapidly as Zitao exists beautifully before him. 

Being that the status of their relationship had never actually been finalized, they are still on strictly professional terms when in front of people. That being said, the look in Yifan’s eyes is beyond warm despite the hard press of his lips as he forces himself to remain tidy and intimidating, and Zitao completely understands as he ducks his head to shy his eyes away and heads to the vanities. 

Should he tell him? Right here, in the lack of privacy that is their workspace - or should he, perhaps, wait until they’re alone, whether that be in the expanse of the president’s private quarters or the solitude of an unused hallway? Or, rather, should he keep quiet, continuing to pretend that this won’t all come to an inevitable close? 

Yifan does not speak to him as Qian moves to slide the pointed handle of her comb along his follicles to part his hair, and it makes him both grateful for the lack of confrontation, as well as saddened by the sudden loneliness he feels. He knows what he wants, and he knows that it would make Yifan happy to get what he wants, but it’s too inappropriate of an idea to salvage. Then again, maybe Luhan was right about working to ensure that Yifan loves him to the degree where an extended little lie shouldn’t cut too deeply. 

He knows that he should say something. 

It’s when Qian is blending out the arches of his eyeshadow in the glow of the mirror’s halogen border that the president strides over with suave, timely steps, hands courteously still at his sides as he begins to speak to Qian, beside him, about an upcoming show in Hangzhou, one that will encapsulate the entire Recreation department and the lesser-experienced lineage of the Marketing department, which does not include Zitao even remotely, as he lingers in the upper percentile. It’s when Qian begins to speak, leavening the conversation into a gendered division wherein they give each other ample room to speak, and more importantly, ample room for interruption.

In the mirror, Yifan swiftly nods his head as she tells him about Mr. Park’s newly-broken ring light and now she’s had Treasurer Im place an order for a new one, and Zitao’s heart rabbits wildly in his throat as the conversation begins to end, the president’s arms sleekly uncrossing as he thanks Qian for her partnership.

“Mr. Wu,” he interrupts before Yifan can leave, the conversation stuttering to a sudden halt as their voices fizzle away and the underlying repetitive thrum of Zitao’s heartbeat takes prevalence. The man’s eyes on him are neutral, warmth hidden behind a thickened corporeal facade. “About your - proposition…” 

The moment begins to coil in palpable tension, his nerves pulling taut as everything in him screams to both let it out and say it, and additionally run away without looking back, but Zitao needs to remain determined. Confusion is malleable, to him, but heartbreak unto a withered, tortured soul overgrown with resolve is far too unmanageable. 

If everything falls to pieces despite each bettering choice he’s decided to make, Zitao can only hope that Yifan will not be too angry with him when it comes down to it. “My answer is yes,” he responds after averting his eyes for a brief, nervous moment, and he can practically see the hairline fracture in Yifan’s composure as the words stick to the sheen of his expensively-tailored suit, as Zitao finally agrees to the one thing Yifan had been practically begging him for throughout the expanse of several months. Finally having reached a compromise between two yearning hearts, the aura surrounding the president begins to melt into something much more approachable and lenient, and it makes Zitao want to smile.

Despite the tender moment, Yifan’s composure remains rigid and stark as he clears his throat, abruptly, and curtly nods his head as he says, “I appreciate it, Miss Huang, thank you for considering this offer. If you could, when you are finished with this assignment, I would like to see you up in my office to discuss the deadlines.”

It could possibly make Zitao laugh if it weren’t so pertinently necessary to keep everything tightly locked up in the realm of secrecy, that it was even remotely possible to confuse Qian to an extent to where her face constricts and her eyebrows furrow as she is left out of the circle, once again. Still, Zitao cannot find it in himself to be bothered with it as he revels in the cloud of self-pride floating on his skin, as he’s finally taken the big step required to move toward fixing everything and finally made a decision for himself and his future.

Besides, having swift heels after the long-awaited confirmation only further solidified the fact that nobody had seen the way Yifan’s smile broke through as he turned away, sheltered behind closed doors. 

As Qian shakes it off and resumes applying wax to his eyebrows, Zitao finds himself unable to stop the grin that spreads across his moisturized lips in the vanity chair as another worry finally melts away, one less ounce of stress to hold upon weathered shoulders. Finally.

Despite now technically being able to label himself as in a relationship, Zitao still finds himself just as nervous as before to step into the president’s private quarters, alone. He knows that Yifan prides and equally cherishes his work very much, that his worth ethic far surpasses that of Zitao’s own, but he also would not put it past the man to attempt to have a quickie in the office which would, ultimately, get Zitao fired on fraudulent charges. 

Still, it does well to warm his heart as Yifan greets him with a warmed grin from his desk and a crinkly, white plastic bag looped over his broad fingers as he sets it down and says, “I bought you something to eat for breakfast.”

It’s incongruously sweet and unusually tender a move, not necessarily in the action but rather in the emotion, as Yifan never usually acts prideful toward generosity. For the president to humbly enact such a selfless act without the iteration that it was simply workman protocol, paints an extremely vivid picture of the man’s heart for Zitao to admire and bask in, and it makes him weak at the knees to regard so tenderly. 

However, Zitao knows that eating and trying to finish a meal, above all, has been all but possible these past few weeks, and he very well knows that Yifan may have wasted his money on a meal that he will not actually be able to indulge in, though the compassion outlining the thought still gently remains.

When he seats himself at the rolling chair positioned beside the president’s desk and watches as Yifan reaches into the plastic bag to procure whatever he had purchased likely only minutes prior, the president begins to speak to him by saying, “I apologize if you were feeling pressured,” and with a soft, insecure glaze, warm brown eyes meet his as the man’s hands linger quietly in the bag, “but I really appreciate and thank you for saying yes.”

He blinks, then, and shakes his head, for it’s not like Zitao doesn’t like him. Rather, it’s simply that Zitao constantly struggles with deciding whether it’s safer to say that he doesn’t like him, or if it’s safer to say that he does. Lovingly, he reaches for a broad, soft hand and gently swipes his thumb across the meaty flesh of the man’s palm as he says, “I’m just happy that you can be happy.”

The response causes Yifan’s countenance to jolt, slightly, in surprise, before it begins to crumble and a medley of contentedness and admiration wash across his features. He tenderly accepts the gesture, giving the model’s little hand a squeeze as his own practically dwarfs the size of it. “Can I kiss you?” He asks softly, slightly out of character as Yifan is not normally one to melt like putty in a work environment. 

Still, Zitao is not one to turn him down, and fully consents to the soft press of warm, freshly-moisturized lips against his own over the edge of the desk, somehow discreetly special enough to shadow a teenage kiss in-between classes. 

Yifan is rather tender with him as he slides the items in front of the model for appreciation - from the commissary, a breakfast sandwich with a scrambled egg-white and melted cheese, piled above with what looks like roast beef, and an accompanying milk tea in a plastic take-out cup, a straw stuck through the thin cellophane lid to prevent spilling. “You seemed to like meats and cheeses at dinner,” the man tells him softly as he unwraps the sandwich for him, not sparing even a second of strain when the model needs to be treated as though made of glass, delicate and at-risk, “so I thought you would enjoy a sandwich this morning.”

Softly, Zitao grins at him, his rouge pinking beneath the lighting, and he takes a thankful sip of the milk tea as he glances down at the meal he’s been given. It smells beautiful, rich and striking with the pungently sharp odor of cheese mixed with the warm undertone of the meat, but Zitao knows that he won’t eat it. Likely, it’s quite good, but he knows that his body won’t want it, regardless. 

The lack of action, however, must catch onto Yifan’s subconscious, for his head downward as his hands fold upon his desk before he questions, gently, “Is everything okay? You are not… touching your food.”

It’s not exactly simple to say yeah, everything is fine, I just can’t eat or I’ll probably throw it right back up, but it is much simpler to say nothing and, rather, avert his eyes to avoid the question. Sure, Yifan can be quite compassionate and caring when he wants to be, but he and Zitao cannot relate to each other on very many fields at all; when he had previously expressed his economic distress regarding the lack of control he has over his mother’s fate due to their lack of insurance coverage, Yifan hadn’t been able to relate and had portrayed quite the ableist reaction, as many people who have not previously dipped their toes into poverty tend to. Correspondingly, he had seen the visual struggle on the man’s defined features when Zitao had confessed to being quite mentally ill, as he, likely, had never fallen in love with someone whose brain struggles to cooperate. 

Rather than saying that he is simply not hungry, Zitao wants to please him to the ends of the earth and wants to make him happy, so he leaves room for an answer as he reaches forward, then, and brings the sandwich to his mouth. Not once, as he takes a bite and begins to chew it thoughtfully, do Yifan’s eyes leave him. 

That is until Zitao reaches the point where swallowing the mouthful feels like attempting to ingest broken glass, requiring monumental effort to work it down past the reflexive spasming contractions of his cricopharyngeal muscles. He manages, just barely, and the distress outlining Yifan’s expression deepens the crease between his eyebrows. 

When Zitao attempts the second bite, working it from cheek to cheek as he waits for his throat to slacken, the warm expanse of Yifan’s palm falls down upon his upper back, gently in warm little swipes of encouragement for Zitao to finish his meal. “Take your time,” Yifan iterates carefully, eyes hyperfocused on the sight, as a single strand of melted cheese glues itself to the model’s bottom lip when he pulls the sandwich away and, thereafter, grunts in surprise and begins to look around for a napkin. “Here, I’ve got it,” he states as he reaches for a desktop tissue and wraps it around his index finger before carefully wiping at the model’s stained lips. 

With the man’s soft and uncharacteristic encouragement, it makes it a little bit easier to manage to eat. It’s certainly not a cure by any means, and Zitao is extremely aware that he needs to seek medical treatment very soon for the disorder, but it helps. It helps to calm his nerves that pull his muscles taut to the point of restriction, wherein they allow nothing past and offer no juxtaposed give. 

After merely several bites, however, Zitao feels as though he needs to take a break, exhausted in a newly-strenuous way as he sighs and settles back into the chair as his throat contracts, clenching sickeningly in a way bordering on refluxed nausea, his stomach beginning to churn as he quietly fidgets. “I’m sorry,” he starts weakly, as the president’s eyes stare down at the forgotten sandwich in self-disappointment as if there were something he could have possibly done to assist the model with being able to eat. “I - I’ll try again, just… give me a minute.”

Quietly, Yifan sighs and glances dejectedly away, forcing himself to be compassionate despite his lack of empathy, as he has never, personally, struggled with an eating disorder and, therefore, he is very aware that he could not possibly disregard his privilege to step into a position wherein he could give an opinion. “Is this… normal?” He asks, hoping to be able to figure out how to glance into the model’s tattered world in hope of gaining useful insight. Wordlessly, Zitao nods, his fingers toying with the vinyl edge of the rolling desk chair he sits in. The man exhales slowly, then, giving a timely nod as he begins to piece together the tendrils of consideration. “I’m sorry,” he expresses gently. “Please, take all the time that you need - I’m in no rush. How… how is your mother doing?”

One of the model’s eyebrows upward, then, the question taking him slightly by surprise as he meets his new boyfriend’s eyes. “She’s dying,” he responds monotonously, “and they’re not expecting her to really wake up, but she’s stable.”

That’s at least somewhat good to hear, considering Yifan knows things that he wishes he didn’t, especially considering it closely regards the woman’s impending death. “Is that why you’ve been unable to eat?” He tries carefully to keep the question as impartial as possible. “Is it the stress or the panic that’s making it hard?”

“Both,” Zitao sighs, tears gathering at his waterlines as he glances down at the sandwich sat atop its wrapper on the man’s desk. He really wishes that he could eat more of it, that he could put Yifan’s money to good use. “At first I was just… too distracted to eat, and I would forget, and then by the time I looked at the time, it had been, sometimes, eight hours, ten hours, twelve hours, and on that I had gone without eating. Now, it’s almost impossible for me to even get anything down, sometimes.”

The model hadn’t intended to cry, sniffling softly as Yifan swiftly passes him a tissue for his tears, but it can be so overwhelming, sometimes, to know that you, yourself, are dying. “Please go get help,” Yifan suddenly begs him in far too quiet of a voice, darkened eyes shimmering with tears beneath the ceiling lights and it pulls hard on Zitao’s heart, as something tells him the man never begs to the point of upset. “I will fund it - the treatments, the overseeing, the medications, everything you could need, just as long as you get help. Please.”

Zitao’s lips part in a mild little slit, for it dawns on him that Yifan really can’t afford to be responsible for another death in any way, shape, or form. Not only is his mother in desperate need of surgery that will ultimately save her life, but he’s now dancing along the tightrope of losing the love of his life a second time, certainly in more ways than one. It’s rare that Yifan sheds his rough demeanor so thoroughly, but Zitao knows that it’s the genuine shadow of the finest crevices of his heart, a place which no one has managed to reach. 

“I will,” he reassures the president gently, “just not right now.”

“No, it has to be right now,” Yifan presses sternly with eyebrows drawn downward, concern etched into every feature on his face as he swiftly stands from his desk chair. “How do you know any of us will live to see another tomorrow? How do you know you won’t turn into bed tonight and starve to death before the apex of the sleep, self-convinced that you have time to piss away before it’s too late?”

The man’s voice lingers on the breadth of cracking for a millisecond as he speaks, and Zitao’s heart lurches in yearning to comfort him. He’s right - his own rules, built miles-high and progressively thickened with intimidation over the past decade had chipped away at the mental health of dozens, likely hundreds, of his own models, and he had turned away blind eyes each and every time. Now, he’s finally being forced to reap exactly what he sowed and, thereafter, partake in dealing with the consequences.

Falling into silence, Zitao glances away as his waterlines begin to glisten, for the man is right. He’s killing himself, and he’s not even attempting to stop it despite the knowledge that he should remain here to be Yifan’s rock and to pick up the pieces after his mother’s passing, but it’s difficult. The thought of never being able to see Yifan again, simply due to something he is causing to happen, cuts very deeply, and tears spring to his eyes as his throat begins to tighten.

Glancing up, Yifan’s expression slackens, for he hadn’t expected that reaction, out of any. “No, please don’t cry,” he asks gently, as he reaches for a tissue to hand it off to salvage the model’s makeup. Nevertheless, Zitao persists with shaking his head, casting his eyes toward the sky for the tears to soak back into the corners. 

Yifan is suffering. Despite all that he does to strengthen his intimacy threshold and welcome in a new partner, the roughened aspects of his lasting trauma still manage to peek through the cracks, rendering him helpless and holding him back. Despite the constant reassurance that he has done no wrong, Yifan’s mentality does not improve and his anxieties choose to linger. 

“I’m not her, you know,” Zitao coos just above the hiss of a whisper, and the man’s brows tense inward in surprise. “I know you’re scared and I know you’re traumatized from losing your wife, but I’m still right here, and for the time being, you still have me.”

“Yingtao,” the president warns in a roughened voice, tone rigid in a way that it hadn’t been, in a way that indicates that Zitao is in imminent verbal danger. A hand raises to speak, clenching in mid-air, as the man’s demeanor rapidly oscillates with each thrum of his heartbeat. The model knows that it was absolutely an inappropriate topic to bring up, but it holds importance in this scenario and, therefore, Zitao felt inclined to bring the topic to fruition. “Look - we are not going to talk about this right now, alright? I have more pressing matters to attend to, and you are treading on far too thin of ice for social comfort.”

Sighing, the model can’t help but roll his eyes. “I’m just trying to help,” he exhales, eyes glistening as his demeanor begins to sink. 

“Yeah, well, stop trying,” Yifan spits at him, shockingly bitter and abrasive enough in tone that it takes the model off guard, causing his heartbeat to stutter as his expression tenses in hurt. “I am too preoccupied with finding a way to get you to eat, and because of that, I am not in the mood to converse about anything else. Especially not… this.”

The abrupt coldness in his voice causes Zitao to let out a humorless breath of a laugh, unable to believe that his beloved, sweet, delicate Yifan is behaving so trenchantly, the mention of his late wife having reflexively closed him off, as per usual, and Zitao just wishes that, for once, Yifan wouldn’t regress at times like these. “Mr. Wu,” he mumbles as the president strides across the room, covering meters of space with minimal steps given his long legs, paying very little attention to the model as he pokes his head into his vice’s office and requests that his vice fetch him a meal supplement beverage from the office icebox. “I know you don’t want to talk about this kind of thing, but you really need to, at least eventually. You need to uncork yourself and release everything you’ve held bottled up for ten years because you’re hurting yourself and you won’t stop until you get rid of the toxins. I’m trying to help you.”

“Didn’t I say not to help me?” 

Zitao practically leaps right out of his skin by the shock of the sudden velocity of the man’s voice, so boisterously threatening that it resonates against walls and vibrates in the crevices of the model’s subconscious, unusually scary of a tone. The ruddy glow of fire burns in the man’s eyes, fists clenching at his sides similarly to the clench of his jaw, as Zitao pushes him past his ultimate breaking point. 

Still, Yifan’s heated countenance does not waver. “If I had wanted to talk about such a thing, I would have done so! Being that I didn’t, you have absolutely no right to bring it up, if I didn’t consent to that beforehand. I would expect you to respect my boundaries and my beliefs, Miss Huang, because I have done nothing but respect yours! Fine, then - is this the road that you wish to go down? She’s gone, because of my own insolence, and there’s nothing that I could possibly do to bring her back, is that what you wanted to ing hear?”

Finding that it is likely better to remain impartial rather than act as an ignition catalyst, so Zitao keeps quiet as he slowly rises from the chair to face the demon shadowing him. 

This is not Yifan, who stands before him overwrought with agony and fury as his aura radiates with heat. His outburst, Zitao knows very well, was simply a defense mechanism trained so finitely by his own mind, and Zitao knows that Yifan is not necessarily angry with him, nor for him, but instead at him, rather that he is simply venting as an uncontrolled variable and faces nothing in his way to slow it. The state that he lingers in right now is the very deepest, and most tortured, portion of his heart finally exuding everything that it needs to in order to heal. This rough, violent switch of personality is not who Yifan is, whether traumatized or unafflicted, and it certainly won’t cause Zitao to love him any less.

He remains silent, though, for he knows that Yifan needs to blow off steam and that anything the model could say, whether benevolent or not, would only further catalyze the eruption of the conversation. 

It’s not until Vice Zhang returns, pardoning himself entry into the president’s quarters with a foil-topped portable beverage in his hand, a well-constructed composure written across his features. “Here you are, sir,” is what he says, forgoing the choice to hand it to the president directly and, instead, carefully setting it upon the edge of the desk for Yifan to take as he pleases.

Swiftly, however, the president snatches it from the desk as his gaze falls, eyes intent on scanning the ingredients label to confirm its validity, before he sets it down in front of the model - no, slams it down, he can assume, based on the kneejerk jolt that the model’s shoulders give. “Drink it,” he says, accidentally commands, and can only devoutly hope that the model will accept the command and intake his much-needed calories. Despite the very trying move to act more gently, his eyes are still much too abrasive, composure still much too solid, and Zitao wants his Yifan back.

Besides, Yifan seems to respond to being loved and appreciated, and Zitao is certainly not one to turn down such a necessary request. Sweetly, he glances up at the man with drying tear-tracks painting his undereyes, thankful that he had worn waterproof mascara today. “Only if you hug me first,” he propositions coquettishly, far too willing to bend and break the rules at the sole cost of Yifan’s happiness.

The statement, alone, does not seem to chip into Yifan’s composure deeply enough, for the man simply breathes out an exasperated breath and sets his tongue in his cheek, likely believing that Zitao merely wants to toy with him. “I gave you an order, Miss Huang, and I expect you to follow that order diligently. Must I repeat myself regarding your position of speech beneath figures of authority?”

He speaks many tall words, stretched far past their recoiling point as he strings them out further and further, and simultaneously manages to play a game hard enough to intimidate even the most miserly of clientele, but Zitao knows that he is all talk. “I never said that I wouldn’t follow your orders,” Zitao coos quietly, as he rakes his thumb back and forth over the roughened ridge of the drink’s foil top, “but rather, that I would only follow them if you hugged me first.”

Sighing, Yifan’s eyes threaten to roll as he unfolds his arms with what seems to be a monumental effort and, with disgust in his gaze and a vivid lack of desire, leans smoothly forward to wrap his arms around the model’s frail body. It’s not a hug - at least, not yet, merely a curtaining of limbs in the mirage of a hug, but it’s not what Zitao had meant when implementing his request.

The model lifts a leg, then, to gain leverage over the height of his boss as he placates himself on the man’s desk, knees bent beneath himself to add several inches to his new height, and repositions them so that Yifan is now laying his head upon the model’s shoulder, arms tucked comfortably around the small of the model’s back, and Zitao threads a manicured hand into the back of the man’s hair as they sigh in unison. It’s what Yifan needs, and his theory is only confirmed when the tension in his boss’ broad shoulders deflates beneath his gentle touch, his pent-up stress finally exiting after his outburst. Sure, it certainly helped to uncork the bottle, but Zitao was never going to empty it unless he had tilted it upside-down to drain.

When Yifan begins to apologize softly into his skin, a warm, broad palm carefully massaging his back in comforting little motions, Zitao pulls away to peel away the foil film sealing the beverage and takes a sizable sip, cheery that Yifan, despite never having outright told him, had purchased vanilla replacement shakes rather than Zitao’s notoriously unfavorited banana-flavored shakes.

“Come over later?” The man asks quietly when Zitao has managed to swallow half of the bottle’s contents, at this point, his throat managing to accept that which the boy feeds it. Spending ample time with the man in private is never a good idea, but Zitao has a feeling that his abrupt declination to have the first time he had come over, likely still lingers in the crevices of Yifan’s mind and, therefore, has likely spelled out to him to not initiate nor ask about such a thing.

“I really shouldn’t,” he sighs, has to sigh, really. “I really need to get to the hospital after work to check on my mom, because there are only four more days until her surgery, and - and we never know if she’ll even make it to the surgery date and since I never have time to go see her during work, I usually have to - ”

There’s a hand gently curtaining his, tenderly bathing his soft fingertips in caring warmth as the broad pad of Yifan’s thumb gently careens over his knuckles. “Please?”

Yifan is kind and compassionate, and would never forcibly hurt the one he loves, so why would Zitao think of him any more lowly? “Okay,” he whispers, and the rewarding smile that he gets, bright and beautifully joyous upon such a stoic expression, pulls at his timid heart. 

Yifan - despite strictly reiterating that he is not, in fact, self-conscious about his culinary skills after having had them shunned by Zitao’s less-than-picky preferences - does not cook for him the second time that the model decides to spend the night, but rather, orders food for the two of them to enjoy over candlelight. It’s artificially intimate and somewhat romantic, sure, but Zitao cannot help but feel as though it were somewhat ingenuine, merely a false sense of discrepancy to disguise insecurity. 

Despite having not crafted him a five-star, world-breakingly exquisite meal, Zitao had immensely appreciated the gesture, nonetheless, and had braved it for the sake of giving Yifan the happiness and satisfaction of knowing that, none only was Zitao eating, but Zitao was eating food that he, himself, had made. 

Still, although the gesture was very much well-received, the man continues to show insecurity in his own skills and continues to shy away from the idea of flaunting them any further, as he watches the model dip her glossy spoon beneath the creamy surface of the lobster bisque and bring it to her lips in curiosity. 

It pleases him far deeper than the moisture of his skin will show, to see the model putting forth a fortified effort to eat, despite the casualties it may cause her and despite the difficulties that one had to cross in order to salvage redemption, to brave the elements of her disorder to an extent to battle it face-to-face with each spoonful that she takes. “How is it?” He finds himself asking in far too taut of a tone, riddled with anticipation, for no matter how inadequately the expensive meal could have possibly been prepared, he knows that it will always be far better than his own mediocre handiwork. 

Gluttonous as she always is, despite the lack of desire that her disorder forces her to withstand, she gives a bouncing nod as a little pink tongue wipes away the rest of the cream upon the gleam of the spoon. “It’s good,” the model tells him, the heavenly golden tones in those eyes glimmering warmly in the flickering glow, “but I prefer your cooking, more.”

The statement draws his brows inward in stress, unable to process why she could possibly be so tasteless as to prefer something that his clumsy hands had miraculously thrown together. Although an artist, the culinary practice has never been his forte, and Yifan would sooner excel at embroidering rare Russian mink than caramelizing a cream-based roux. “Don’t lie to me like that,” he scoffs humorlessly, rolling his eyes as he settles his cheek against his knuckles as he watches the model eat. “You’re a pitiful liar - it was written all over your face.”

“I told you it was fine,” Zitao laughs after another spoonful, grateful that Yifan had taken his constant struggle into account to the extent that he would go out of his way to feed the model mostly liquids, as they seem to go down far easier than solids, right now. “You tried your best just for me, and that’s all I could ever ask you for.”

Yifan is far more cautious with him now than he had been previously, touching him only with the lightest of pressures as though he may crumble beneath his touch like sand. Zitao knows that he may be sick, but he’s not precious china - Yifan can be a little bit more stern with him if he needs to be. 

That being said, the warmth of the man’s skin bleeding into the pads of his own fingers is certainly cathartic, as Zitao glances down at their point of connectivity and admires how his little, prettily-nailed fingers elegantly complement the handsome breadth of Yifan's own. He wouldn’t mind perhaps staying linked with him all evening, just like this, enjoying each other’s company as Zitao trudges toward finishing his soup.

When he glances down from the man’s eyes, however, the spoon stills in his mouth as he catches sight of the little gleam that wraps itself around the man’s finger, strikingly luminescent beneath the glow. It’s not perhaps surprising, per se, that Yifan continues to wear his wedding ring, but it’s certainly a little bit upsetting for Zitao to be intimately itemized with such a person who continues to flaunt the item that marks them as taken.

Yifan must notice his gaze, however, for the hand holding his own is pulled back with an abrupt little exhalation of breath, and guilt floods Zitao’s entire being as he reaches, yearningly, for that touch once more. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, suddenly, his spoon clinking against the side of the bowl. “I didn’t - I hadn’t meant to stare - ”

“It’s fine,” the man states curtly, unwilling to move an inch as he runs the pad of his thumb over the engraved letters on the side, engravings that he had specially picked out for his wife in preparation to ask for her hand in marriage with a devout profession of his own unending passion for her. It may certainly be inappropriate to hang onto such a sentimental item when interested in another, but for him, it’s symbolic and is now a part of him. “I never take it off,” he sighs, as he pulls the ring from his finger and admires it in the light, “because it helps remind me that she’s always with me, no matter what. If I ever feel lost or alone, she’s always here.”

He breathes carefully as the words hang in the silent air, for anyone else would have likely gotten angry and would have stood up and stormed out, fed up with hearing the item of their own love and desire proclaim their need in an old flame, but Zitao is mere days away from losing the love of his own life, as well, so he gets it. “You don’t wear it because you still love her,” he comments quietly, and Yifan’s eyes narrow slightly at the wording as he glances over at him, “but you wear it for the romantic support, don’t you? She makes you feel stable and admired, and without that, you feel helpless - don’t you?”

Crestfallen, the man lets out a sigh and sets the ring down on the table, rather than placing it back on his finger, and that initiative over everything speaks absolute volumes. “Yeah,” he nods a little, feeling awkward and bizarrely claustrophobic at the spacious dining table. “I’m sorry, I… most women really hate it. That I wear it, I mean. They hate that I can’t get over it, and I… I hate that I can’t get over it, either, but… I’m trying. I can’t simply throw her away and pretend it never happened - there are still nights, over ten years later, where I wake up in a cold sweat because I happen to dream of it happening to another loved one. When I wear this ring, it makes it feel less tragic, and like she’s simply a part of my subconscious, now, to lead me toward better choices.”

And that, above everything else, is where they are exactly the same; this is not necessarily about Yifan still having valid feelings for his late wife, but rather, is about him learning to cope with his own trauma as it continues to manifest and cause him stress. “Have you thought about seeking help?” Zitao asks in a tiny voice, careful not to push too far so as to not ignite the man’s sensitive temper. “Not to get over it, but for coping. You might have post-traumatic stress disorder, and if you’re struggling with sleep and having vivid nightmares, a solid medication might do you well.”

“Does it happen to you, too?” Yifan asks in a slightly-broken tone, worry pulling his eyebrows inward as the lines in his forehead deepen, and the look in his eyes is absolutely pitiful and damaged in a way that makes Zitao want to hug him. “The nightmares… the frustration… any of it?”

“Of course,” the model tells him as he reaches forward for the ring, sat idly on the table, and it does not go unnoticed the way Yifan’s hands instinctively jerk forward to retrieve it as though it were being stolen. “There are nights, sometimes, where I don’t even sleep a wink - I can’t, not with the nightmares and the anxiety attacks that they bring on, and when I go into an attack, it’s a struggle just to breathe, let alone to sleep. I’m on one milligram of Niravam twice daily, and it helps. For me, it acts almost like a mild tranquilizer and fills me with an evened-out calmness, but other people with disorders might need an antidepressant over anything else.”

The statement seems to sink into the man’s mind, then, judging by the way his gaze slowly depresses until he’s gazing, unseeingly, at the tablecloth as his mind processes everything. Zitao cannot imagine, although he has the shadow of an idea, how it must feel to live as a widow.

“I’m sorry for how I shouted at you earlier,” Yifan suddenly states, visibly softened and repentant for how he has behaved today, despite Zitao knowing just how to calm him back down, as the man threads a hand into his styled hair in stress and pulls at it from the roots, taking his own pain out on himself. “You didn’t deserve that, and I had acted horribly toward you and I regret it because I just… I’m just…” 

He’s