Tao was tired. He was tired of staying up until one in the morning just to talk to Kris while he was in Canada. He was tired of reading a hundred messages from his fans about how much they loved him and how much he was perfect and how good he looked.

     He really was tired of it all already. Things were getting out of hand for him. The people he loved were in danger and the one person that always made him feel better was on the other side of the world.

     Kris told him not to quit; never to quit; because this was Tao’s dream and he shouldn’t have to give up on it even if people were there, blocking his path. Kris, on the other hand, was dragged into it by a friend. He didn’t want to be there, but he stayed.

     He stayed for his panda.

     It was the fifth night in a row, that night, when he stayed up for Wufan even if he had a fanmeet first thing in the morning. It was the fifth time in a row that he waited, to no avail.

     No one noticed how bad a state Zitao was in the next morning. No one noticed how puffy his eyes seemed, or how the dark circles were just that much deeper that morning. No one noticed how he was staggering back and forth. His head was throbbing. Heck, he couldn’t even see straight anymore.

     One more, Zitao. This is the last of your promotions; just hold on.

     He did. But he’d reached his limit.

     It was at the end of the last song that Zitao staggered into the dressing room, dropping onto the couch and curling up. He was a mess of makeup and tears and it took an entire fifteen minutes of sobbing, paired up with a familiar voice from just outside the door, before he finally out.

     Four hundred and eighty hours.

     That’s how long it took for Zitao to wake up. Wufan’s roses were wilted and his eyebags were as bad as Zitao’s. He hadn’t slept much, worried about the boy. But nothing could scar him like the look of anger in Tao’s eyes as soon as his vision focused on Wufan’s face.

     Wufan hung his head low in apology. Taozi was not quick to forgive. It took him a slap across the cheek and a few weak punches to his chest before he calmed down and broke into tears against Wufan.

     There was a certain age to the way that Wufan spoke—as if he hadn’t used his voice for so long; as if he had been watching Zitao the entire time.

     Twenty days.

     “I’m really sorry, Zitao. I should’ve told you.”

      “It’s okay. Get some rest.”

     “Not until you promise me you’re all better.”

     Zitao stayed silent for a moment. “I love you, Wufan.”

     “I love you too.” And Wufan gripped at both the ring and the wilted bouquet of flowers behind his back.