“You’ve got to stop.”

Yixing tries not to jump (because, honestly, he should have been expecting this) as the familiar voice floats through the darkness, light suddenly flooding the room and glancing off of metal and glass as Luhan flips a switch.

“Why are you still up?” Yixing asks him, ignoring the same seven words he’s heard countless times, shucking off his jacket and throwing it over the back of a nearby chair, the article of clothing quickly followed by his backpack.

He smells like outside air, wind, and the greasy, deep-fried hazes that always seem to encompass the food vendors that line the streets of San Fransokyo.

Luhan, from where he’s perched in front of a dimmed computer screen, frowns, mouth turning down at the corners and large eyes narrowing.

“Yixing, I’m being serious. You keep ignoring me,” he says, also ignoring the same five words he’s heard countless times.

Yixing sighs, meandering over to the fridge in the corner of the tiny garage that he and Luhan had converted into a workspace a few years prior.

He rummages through the contents inside, pushing past bottles of bubble tea and an old carton of organic soymilk before spotting the takeout he had stashed there earlier, glass chopsticks still shoved into the mix of rice and orange chicken inside the flimsy cardboard box.

When Yixing straightens, kicking the fridge door shut with a scuffed sneaker-clad foot, Luhan is there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and still scowling.

Yixing averts his eyes from the other’s gaze, distracting himself by shoving a mouthful of food into his mouth.

It’s cold.

Luhan is still dressed in the clothes Yixing had last seen him in, black skinny jeans and a button-down shirt, snapback fitted on his head backwards, Yixing notes as his eyes wander back up to the other’s face.

“What?” Yixing asks defensively as soon as he meets the elder’s gaze once more.

“You know ‘what’,” Luhan responds, snappy and tapping his foot on the floor the way Yixing knows he does whenever he’s angry or worried or excited.

Yixing finally gives up trying to avoid the topic, because obviously he’s not going to get anywhere by playing dumb.

“Look,” Yixing starts, pushing away from the fridge and walking to sit in front of his own computer, clear glass screen reflecting his face back at him, “I just ran into Jongin on the way home from class, and he was headed to meet up with Jongdae, you know, his boyfr-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, his latest plaything,” Luhan interrupts, brow still furrowed unhappily as he takes up a place on the ratty old couch in the middle of their workspace, curling his legs underneath him, sneakers abandoned on the floor, and Yixing just gets a glimpse of neon green socks.

“Anyways,” Yixing continues, “he was headed to –”

“Cloud-Kissed Tower?” Luhan interrupts again, tone hard and flat, the tiny sliver of hope that he had been holding onto that maybe Yixing hadn’t gone there again disappearing.

Yixing doesn’t answer, instead taking another bite of his cold rice and switching on his computer, which flickers to life in a heartbeat, images surfacing on the transparent screen.

“Really, Yixing?” Luhan asks, posture stiff, back ram-rod straight, and Yixing can almost feel the heat of Luhan’s anger slowly simmering to a boil under the surface. “How many times are you going to go jumping? How many times am I going to have to wait here until you get back, worried out of my mind?” 

 Yixing swallows hard, pushing down the guilt that Luhan’s words raise, defensiveness and his own anger moving to take its place.

“And how many times do I have to tell you that it’s none of your business?” Yixing snaps back, setting his food down. “This is my life to live, not yours.”

“I never said it wasn’t your life to live,” Luhan grits out between clenched teeth.

Even though this argument has happened a million different ways, some things always stay the same.

Like the bitterness Luhan can taste on the back of his tongue, sharp and tangible and a product of his unending frustration.

Or the way Yixing curls his fingers into the arms of his chair to keep himself from leaving crescent-shaped nail marks in his palms.

“So stop telling me what to do,” Yixing says, turning back to his computer, in hopes of ending the conversation.

He hates fighting with Luhan as much as Luhan hates arguing with him.

But some things aren’t any of Luhan’s business.

Why should it matter if Yixing enjoys going jumping?

It’s Yixing’s only time during the day to relax, to let go and free-fall.

There’s the exhilaration of course, that rush of adrenaline as he tumbles past metal and glass, the lights of San Fransokyo blurring the city below him, everything hot pink and ice blue and acid green, as he lets the wind grab him and throw him down from the top of Cloud-Kissed Tower, one of the tallest skyscrapers in San Fransokyo, way past the height of the colorful wind turbines that float in the air above the city.  

 There’s the burn of anticipation before that, the shiver of excitement that runs up his spine when Jongin ushers him forward to the edge because it’s his turn next, Jongdae already a speck in the distance, his whoop of joy already swept away by the wind.

But Yixing doesn’t jump for the adrenaline rush or the excitement or the pleasure.

Yixing jumps for the illusion.

He jumps to forget who he is, what he is.

Heavy silence hangs in the air for all of two seconds before Yixing hears Luhan get up from the couch, his footsteps quickly fading into the distance before there’s the sound of a door opening and then slamming closed.

Yixing sighs as soon as the silence returns, slumping farther down into his chair, reaching up to remove the black beanie he still has on his head.

He runs a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat from running all of the way home earlier in the hopes that Luhan wouldn’t have been back from his job at Sweet Bean Café before Yixing burst through the door, the feeling of euphoria that came with jumping already long gone, lost amid the crowds and streets of downtown San Fransokyo as Yixing had pushed his way through the nighttime rush.

For a while, Yixing just sits in front of his computer, not even attempting to get started on the homework he has due the next day.

He can’t focus when he knows that Luhan is probably in his room upstairs, still angry and probably disappointed.

And it’s more the thought of disappointment than of anger that has Yixing’s stomach twisting into knots.

Finally, when Yixing’s computer screen dims, going back to sleep, Yixing gets up, abandoning his backpack in the garage and heading up the stairs that lead into the small apartment that he and Luhan have shared for the past five years.

It’s a small space, only made smaller with the amount of personalization the two have thrown into it.

There’s the countless photographs taped to every square inch of wall space, their own faces beaming back out at them. Luhan with his mouth full of noodles, eyes wide when he had realized Yixing had snapped his picture, the background cluttered with cardboard boxes because they had still been in the process of moving in. Yixing, asleep, with his face pressed to the screen of his computer after he had pulled an all-nighter studying for final exams. The two of them laughing, arms around each other’s shoulders, squinting in the sunlight as they had struggled to take the picture on their own.

There are the countless coffee cups that Luhan always brings home from work, all of them scattered around the tiny kitchen, his favorite one, a small mug with a baby panda painted onto its side, sitting center stage in front of the window that looks out over the street below.

There’s the collection of snapbacks that the two share, most of them thrown haphazardly onto the shelf near the door, others neatly arranged thanks to Luhan’s organizational skills.

Yixing sighs, heading to his own room, debating between apologizing first or waiting it out.

He changes out of his school clothes, pulling on loose sweatpants and a large t-shirt with “Sweet Bean Café” typed across the front, a gift Luhan had given him after he had returned from his first day of work smelling like espresso and sugar cream because he had spilt a customer’s order all over himself.

Yixing had laughed when Luhan had told him, trying to brighten the worry that had graced Luhan’s features, the humiliation of the incident still clinging to his best friend’s shoulders.

Yixing has just left his room, prepared to head to the kitchen to call out for food to offer as a peace offering, when Luhan emerges from his own room, the two of them catching each other’s eyes and pausing in their movements.

Luhan still looks considerably pissed, eyes cold and mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Hey,” Yixing starts, apology on the tip of his tongue, but Luhan abruptly turns and leaves before Yixing can get the words out of his mouth.

Yixing blinks, a little surprised, because, sure, Luhan’s been mad at him before, has yelled at him and slammed doors and been as ing stubborn as Yixing can be.

But Yixing’s never been ignored before.

Yixing is quick to follow him, snatching a fresh snapback from the shelf on the way and finding Luhan in the kitchen, boiling water in the glass tea kettle on the stove.

Luhan is staring out of the window at the flashing, twinkling lights of the city, shoulders tight with his hands bracing himself against the edge of the countertop.  

“Luhan,” Yixing begi