Yifan makes Zitao feel safe.

Whenever they had a particularly rough day of training and home just feels a little bit too far away, Yifan is there to engulf him in his warmth, like the soft rays of the sun soaking the day, and Zitao basks in the comfort, resting his body in Yifan’s strong embrace.

But Zitao knows that Yifan is complex.

He is multifaceted. Just as how Zitao is both tough and soft, Yifan is as strong as he is sensitive.

Yifan is passionate. With just a pen and paper, he writes songs late into the night. He tries to conjure coherent lyrics that he can offer to the producers, hoping that he could release his own songs reminiscent to those which have accompanied him growing up.

Yifan can be fragile. In the back of the dance studio, Zitao sits with Yifan. The older is laying on his side with a pack of ice on the small of his back. Yifan squeezes Zitao’s hand until the palms of his own fingers turn white. Zitao wishes that he could switch places with Yifan so he doesn’t have to suffer the pain.

Yifan has a tender heart. He tells Zitao lots of things as they cuddle in bed, stories about his Mother in Guangzhou, his dreams of racing cars and playing basketball with Kobe, and just how much Yifan wants to bring Zitao to Vancouver to relive the memories of his youth.

But Yifan is just too good at hiding his emotions. Unlike Zitao, Yifan is quiet, reserved – calculating, almost. He doesn’t share with others more than needed. Even with Zitao, there are things he keeps.

Yifan never tells him, but Zitao knows the Yifan’s songs are always met with rejection. He knows that every time Yifan comes home late and silently slips into bed next to him, he has just returned from the studio after being turned down. Those nights, Zitao gently spoons Yifan from behind, pretending he’s doing it in his sleep.

Yifan never tells him, but Zitao knows the injury he sustained in his waist does not only agonize him physically, it weighs in the back of Yifan’s mind as well: the thought of how the impulsive, reckless decision he made when he was eighteen to board a flight to Korea would render his passion in basketball to a halt, perhaps even permanently.

Yifan never tells him, but Zitao knows just how much Yifan misses home. Even though home is such an ambiguous concept when it comes to Yifan, Zitao can tell by the silent, longing stares outside the airplane window when they travel, by Yifan’s playlist that consists of nothing other than his favorite childhood artists, that wherever Yifan’s home is, it is not Seoul.

Sometimes Zitao wonders if Yifan also feels some kind of solace in the times that he embraces Zitao. It is only with Zitao that Yifan shares affection with these past few years, yet Yifan himself rarely signals to Zitao that he is in need of comfort. 

And Zitao tries, he truly does. Whenever he notices that his Duizhang is lost in thought, unaware of anything going on around him, Zitao confronts him. “What’s wrong, Yifan?” he would ask countless times, hoping each time he could elicit an answer from the older. Each time he is met with, “Nothing, Taozi. I’m okay,” followed by a small chuckle.

Zitao toys with the idea that perhaps Yifan is just that type of person. That any internal conflicts Yifan feels would be resolved by burying them inside of him. But Zitao isn’t convinced. Humans are social beings after all, Zitao thinks.

So when an interviewer on a talk show asks him what he wants to tell his Duizhang, Zitao picks up the mic. “I am with you every day and I know there are times when you are happy and unhappy. Please don’t keep that to yourself. You can always share them with me,” he says without hesitation.

Yifan can only smile, dumbfounded.

Zitao has tried and failed so many times, that when it finally happens, Zitao has no idea what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do when one night as he is about to sleep, Yifan jerks open the door to their room, slamming it shut behind him, and slumps onto the bed. 

Normally, Zitao would confront him, ask him what’s wrong. But Zitao knows that something’s different. Yifan is still donning the black mask that he wears to prevent him from being recognized on the street, so Zitao couldn’t decipher what Yifan is feeling, or even, what’s happening. He doesn’t yet know how to proceed.

Zitao crawls on the bed, planting himself next to Yifan, hoping that he realizes his presence. Next to Yifan, Zitao can tell that something’s wrong. Yifan is tense, the heat of his body seeping onto Zitao, his breaths ragged. Zitao hovers his hand and finally brushes Yifan’s arm. “Breathe, Yifan,” is all he manages to say.

Zitao is relieved that Yifan doesn’t flinch upon his touch, but Yifan doesn’t acknowledge him; rather, he snatches off his mask–almost hurting himself–and chucks it onto the floor to reveal his face smeared with tears, red with anger. The dam that Yifan has built to contain himself for so long has finally burst that rivers run on Yifan’s cheek and Zitao’s heart sinks at the sight.

Zitao knows that Yifan is capable of such an emotion. Yet, seeing Yifan truly break down, completely raw in front of him is a wholly different experience. Zitao wishes that he had the comforting warmth of Yifan, that he knew what to say or what to do to placate Yifan, but he doesn’t.  

Feeling his head spiral and his throat constricting, Zitao tells himself to focus. He needs to gain composure of himself so he can be there for Yifan. He opts to place his hand on Yifan’s back, rubbing small circles in the hopes that it would comfort Yifan.

When Zitao’s mind has calmed, he realizes that Yifan is crying silently, tears rolling down his cheek with no audible sob. His breathing is erratic, as if something inside of Yifan is begging, clawing to escape, but it can’t. Zitao almost wishes that Yifan would cry loudly, a cry of release–of anger, resentment, sadness–instead, he just sits there, mute, his body taut.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Yifan mutters, his voice cracks. He doesn’t turn to Zitao as he says it nor was he really talking to himself. It was just a thought that Yifan had to externalize, in any way, after being held in for so long.

Oh. The lump on Zitao’s throat reemerges as he puts together the pieces of the puzzle in his mind, understanding what Yifan means. 

This is all of the late nights they have spent learning choreographies that never seem to end – training that have cost Yifan his ability to play basketball.

This is the constant rejection; having no freedom whatsoever for Yifan to create work that he is actually passionate about.

This is being part of the boy band. This is being in Korea. This is being in a land that is so far away and foreign from everything that Yifan knows.

And if this is over, his relationship with Zitao is the ultimate collateral that Yifan must pay.

Anger washes over Zitao. He hates that the world has cornered Yifan into choosing between fulfilling his dream or staying with the person he loves the most.

But seeing Yifan so vulnerable in front of him, Zitao all but sets aside his own emotions for the desire to protect Yifan. He wants nothing else than to shelter Yifan, make him feel safe, make him feel that everything is okay; something Yifan has always done for him.

Without thinking, Zitao climbs onto Yifan and wraps his arms around the older. At this point, Yifan is so weak, all his defenses have ceased, that upon Zitao’s embrace, Yifan cannot support them and he falls back. They lie down, Zitao’s body on top of Yifan’s.

Zitao feels Yifan’s arms shaking as they reach out to latch onto Zitao.

“It’s okay, love,” Zitao whispers into Yifan’s ear. “It’s okay.”

Yifan squeezes Zitao and he – finally – sobs into Zitao’s neck.

Zitao wakes. He feels soft fingers brushing against his cheek. He opens his eyes, only to be met with Yifan’s staring intently at him.

The soft light of dawn seeps from the edges of their curtains, painting Yifan a dark blue. It is not unsuited to the melancholy that remains on Yifan’s face, not having left from the night before.

Zitao is lost in the deep space that is Yifan’s eyes; he feels his mind floating until Yifan pulls Zitao close to his chest. “I love you, Zitao,” he whispers, the sensation of Yifan’s lips against Zitao’s forehead making the younger tingle.

Don’t leave, Yifan, is what his tiny heart mutters, but Zitao doesn’t say it. Perhaps Yifan had forgotten what had happened last night. Perhaps it was just a fluke brought on by heightened emotions. Zitao doesn’t want to test his chances.

Yet, a pit in Zitao’s stomach grows. He knows.

No matter how much his mind tries to rationalize (no, their bond is too deep, too meaningful to break and Yifan would never choose him over anything), in his heart – deep inside his tiny heart – Zitao knows the choice Yifan will make.

If it weren’t so damn sad, Zitao would almost be amused at the sheer irony that Yifan’s passion and perseverance, qualities that have made Zitao fall so deeply in love with the older, is what will ultimately cost their relationship.

And there will be a time where they would no longer be able to do this. To hold each other close in the chill of the dawn, the whole world silent, oblivious to their existence. A time where they would no longer be together, inevitably.

He wishes to stay in that moment, in Yifan’s embrace, forever. Zitao’s heart aches, knowing that it’s impossible. He doesn’t realize that his tears had spilled over, dampening Yifan’s shirt.

Yifan doesn’t comment on Zitao’s visible sadness. “I will always love you,” he says instead, as if he had just read Zitao’s mind. An assurance that whatever happens, his feelings shall stay the same.

“I love you,” Zitao chokes as he fights back his tears, his voice muffled into Yifan’s shirt. He is afraid that he would regret not saying it back to Yifan every chance he gets.

The next dawn, Zitao wakes up to an empty bed.

If Yifan is being honest, he used to absolutely dread the thought of confronting Zitao. He dreaded the thought of being alone with the younger, fearing that Zitao would lash out at him - echoing the word betrayer at him just as how the younger had written on the day of his departure.

Hence, the first thing Yifan does, once he took off from Korea, was to drown himself in work; accepting the acting jobs he was offered in China and the States, flying to Los Angeles to record new tracks, playing basketball in Toronto, and everything in between.

But there was always something nagging at him. A pit in his stomach, a thought occupying the back of his mind. It’s just that Yifan was never quite able to wrap his head around what it was; the sensation that kept him awake at night and subsided his appetite.

But what Yifan does know, is how he absolutely misses Zitao.

It wasn’t just the way his sheets are now crisp and empty without Zitao in them, that whenever Yifan wakes up from too light a slumber that the faintest sounds from outside his window wake him, the only thing for him to nestle is a cold bolster, nowhere near the warmth of Zitao.

It wasn’t just the way that Yifan now eats alone with only the sound of the television accompanying him; without the squeaky but endearing voice of Zitao nagging at him to finish his vegetables because Ge, if you want to play basketball again you need to eat well, feeding him bites of the younger’s food, and then brushing his teeth beside Yifan after. 

It was also the way he knew there is a space in his heart that can only be occupied by Zitao. That nobody quite understood him like Zitao, somehow always capable of making sense of Yifan and his silence; somehow always providing Yifan with affection he didn’t even know he needed.

And when he realizes the extent of just how much he yearns for Zitao, is when he finally recognizes the sensation occupying him is guilt. The thought that he had hurt the only person that can truly complete him consumes Yifan with guilt.

That’s why the first chance he gets to talk to Zitao, he will take it. He will not ask Zitao to come back into his life. He will not ask Zitao to forgive him. All he wants is for Zitao to know how he feels. That’s all. 

So, when that morning his manager tells him that Zitao will also be at the rehearsal that they’re heading to, Yifan makes a rash decision.

Yifan stands in front of the door with a piece of paper that says “黄子韬” in a big, black font pasted onto its surface.

Yifan feels his hands drenched in sweat. He tells himself to calm down as he knocks on the door.

“Who is it?” a female voice greets from inside as the door is opened, revealing a woman with a lanyard that says Crew hanging onto her neck. “Oh,” she exclaims as resembles the letter she is saying, clearly not expecting the person that is in front of her.

Even though Yifan feels like he might explode from the agitation, he tries his best to smile and appear friendly. “Can I see Zitao?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the woman utters as she steps aside, allowing Yifan to enter Zitao’s dressing room.

Zitao was sitting on a chair on the opposite side. He was wearing large headphones, not even realizing that someone other than his management had entered his room until the woman tapped him on the shoulder and said, “There’s someone here to see you.”

With that, the woman leaves, closing the door behind her.

Without a doubt, Zitao is confused - dumbstruck, even. He had taken off his headphones, but he froze in place.

Yes, he had known that Yifan would also be at the rehearsal. It was protocol for their managers to inform each other whenever they would be at the same event to give them enough time to be mentally prepared, preventing a hypothetical fight and consequent media circus. 

So Zitao fully expected that he would see Yifan that day; perhaps a passing glimpse of the older in between rehearsal sessions or even a small Hello as they accidentally brush into each other in the hallway.

But he did not expect that Yifan would come knocking at his dressing room and that they would be alone.

“Hey,” Yifan starts, rubbing at his nape. “Look, I know your stage is about to start in a couple of minutes, so I won’t keep you for long.” Convenient. In fact, Yifan had planned in advance to check the rundown of the rehearsal so he could time this meeting just right and he would have a cue to leave.

“What is it, Ge?” Zitao inquires. Sure, he was shocked, but his curiosity piqued as he started to pick apart his brain as to why Yifan would suddenly come to him like this.

Yifan gulps, swallowing his ego. “I have some time off tonight. Do you want to have dinner with me?”

Zitao chuckles, a nervous reaction. “What?”

“Have dinner with me,” Yifan repeats with a firm tone.

Don’t think, just answer, is a motto that Zitao keeps with him whenever he feels that his heart and mind are heading towards opposite directions. “Alright, Yifan,” he nods - this time, the predilection of his heart is stronger. “I’ll have my assistant clear my schedule for tonight.”

Yifan brought Zitao to a quiet bistro that he frequented. Upon their arrival, the maître d' who knew Yifan ushered them to sit at a table nestled in the corner of the area, away from the windows and the other patrons.

The maître d' poured sparkling water into their glasses, and Yifan focused his senses at the sight of the bubbly, clear liquid. He could feel the heat of Zitao’s body, sitting across from him, and he felt that his nerves were about to burst had there been nothing to distract him.

The maître d' quietly told them to take their time and left.

The time finally came. The moment that Yifan had been dreading and anticipating for so long had finally arrived.

It wasn’t the first time Yifan had seen Zitao for the past five years; which is why they can have civilized small talk, exactly like they had in Zitao’s dressing room earlier. But this is the first time they would be alone together.

This time, it would not be a too-formal talk like the conversations they had with the lawyers when they had to discuss their lawsuits, nor was it tightly concealed friendly banter like the way they acted when Luhan was in the room. This time, it was just the two of them. 

Zitao was silent. After all, it was Yifan that brought them here; that wanted them to meet. Yifan was the one with the agenda, and it was up to him to break the silence. 

He braved himself to look into Zitao’s eyes.

Five years had passed, but Zitao barely looked different, he thought to himself. The only subtle difference Yifan could tell was how the bags under Zitao's eyes had subdued. He must have been able to sleep better these past several years. 

The innocent glimmer in Zitao’s eyes that Yifan remembers so well from years ago is still there. It’s the glimmer that adorns Zitao’s eyes when he latches onto Yifan; when he looks at Yifan as if he was the only thing in the world despite them being in the middle of a crowd. 

What was once a fond memory makes Yifan’s stomach turn as he remembers what he had done to Zitao.

Finally, Yifan takes a deep breath.

He looked down, unable to look the younger anymore. "Zitao, I..." his voice breaks. "I'm sorry."

There are so many things Yifan is sorry for.

For how he abandoned Zitao, despite having spent almost every waking moment with him. How he kept the truth from Zitao who readily told him everything. For how he was unable to reciprocate the vulnerability the younger had so sincerely gave him.

For how he was afraid. Afraid of telling Zitao of the things he had buried deep within him. Afraid if he ever told Zitao the truth, it would make Zitao uncomfortable - or even worse, make Zitao afraid of him. That Zitao would run away from him. 

But most of all, he is remorseful that he ever led himself to believe that Zitao would ever do such a thing to him. Here was Zitao; the person who had listened intently to all of his stories and dreams - no matter how childish or ridiculous they were - and never once has he judged or ridiculed them.

He had kept the truth from Zitao, all because of a conspiracy that existed only in his own mind. He now understood why Zitao had been so defensive and impulsive. It was no wonder.

Yifan wanted to say all of that to Zitao. But his breath hitched, he couldn't continue. Yifan could feel the tears swelling in his eyes, but he held them in. He had to. He doesn't want Zitao's pity. All he wants is for Zitao to know. That's all he could ask for.

"Yifan," Zitao started with an ambiguous tone that Yifan could not decipher.

Yifan held his head up again, only to be met with Zitao’s soft, warm eyes.

"I forgive you," Zitao states without hesitation. "All this time, I have forgiven you."

I forgive you.

Yifan had thought of scenarios in his head as to how Zitao would react to his apology; perhaps the younger would still hang onto the painful emotions of the past and cry, perhaps he would show indignation and demand for an explanation from Yifan, or perhaps he would be indifferent.

But to hear the words I forgive you from Zitao was completely outside the realm of Yifan’s expectations.

Yifan felt an expanding feeling in his chest.

The pit in his stomach - the weight of the guilt that he had been carrying with him for years, wherever he went and whatever he did - had lifted.

Yifan doesn't know what to say. He felt his shoulders slumping, not even realizing that they had been tense in the first place. Before he knows it, Zitao's hand is against his cheek, brushing away a single tear that had rolled down his cheek.

"I remember, Yifan,” Zitao said with a hushed tone. “I remember that you always had an ambition that you wanted to pursue. And I remember how they treated you. You tried your best, but they were never fair to you..." Zitao trailed off, not wanting to think about the painful memory of time and time again seeing Yifan disappointed, slowly losing his light.

"I know I said some horrible things back then, but now… I understand why you left, even though how you did it wasn't fair to me. I have forgiven you," he concluded. 

Yifan remembers how unhappy Zitao had been during their trainee days.

Zitao would always come to him. He was anxious then; suffocated by the pressure of the situation he had found himself in, by the foreign language he had to learn but struggled with for months, by the looming thought that he might screw up and fail. Their training was rough. It was not only Yifan that sustained an injury; it wasn’t rare for Zitao to come home with a sprained ankle and forced to perform the very next day as well.

In the nights Zitao could not sleep, Yifan took him in to sleep in the older’s room; his presence a welcome one. And sometimes when Zitao was just too restless - so restless that he could not sleep at all because of a phantom sensation in his legs - Yifan would sneak out with him, late at night to play basketball and eat at a run-down booth near their dorm and just walk under the neon lights, the whole word dark and silent - the only small bits of normalcy they could afford.

In the times Zitao felt suffocated by the distance from his home, Yifan tried his best to show the younger that he had a home in him.

Yifan felt a strange mix of feelings stirring inside him.

He was sad that he was foolish enough to cost both of them precious time - years - that could have been spent with each other.

But at the same time, he could feel warmth inside his chest.

He never realized just how much Zitao has grown. So much that now, he had the ability to garner enough strength for two people - him and Yifan, no less.

He never realized just how much Zitao loves him. Enough for Zitao to forgive Yifan for the horrible thing that he had done - hell, Yifan would not even forgive himself - and to understand Yifan even in the hopeless circumstance they were in.

Yifan exhales. He reached out and squeezed Zitao's hand inside his.

"Thank you," was all Yifan managed to say, accompanied by a small smile.

The warmth of Zitao’s hand was familiar even when everything else about them had changed.

And the warmth inside his chest; it was his heart. 

A heart that is full again, its condition restituted and filled by Zitao’s presence - indeed, the only person that could do so.

Yifan trusts Zitao. He trusts the younger with his dreams, his hopes, his vulnerability, and his heart. He curses himself for only realizing it years late.

Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts. <3