part two hundred and twelve

[exomeme]

      

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episode 2b.

[(Anonymous)]

"You're still here?"

Lu Han notices the shadow near the bike rack and smiles, giving Zhongren a quick wave. The kid slouches over, tugging his cap a little lower over his eyes.

"I was practicing," he says. He shrugs. "I didn't notice how late it got."

Lu Han smiles and finishes unlocking his bike. He'd been studying with his friends, and it's late enough that the sun has fallen most of the way below the horizon. It's cooler now too, the weather slipping into late fall, and night comes sooner. "We go home in the same direction, don't we? I'll walk you home."

"I'm not a kid," Zhongren protests immediately, but Lu Han laughs it off.

"Come on," he says, and pushes his bike towards the gate.

The sun falls the rest of the way as they walk, Zhongren always trailing a half step behind Lu Han and his bike. This is a city that is always busy, and only in brief flashes of touch is there peace. They thread through main streets, Zhongren walking so close to Lu Han that he inevitably bumps into him every few meters, and every time, he inevitably jumps back and apologises. The tenth time or so this happens, Lu Han sighs and grabs Zhongren by the wrist, balancing his bike with one hand.

"Still a foreigner," Lu Han teases. He leads Zhongren off to a smaller street, one with fewer people.

"It's hard to get used to," Zhongren mumbles. He pulls his hand out of Lu Han's grasp, and Lu Han starts - he'd forgotten he was holding it.

Lu Han's been to Zhongren's house once - it's not far from his own, and it's near a karaoke place he likes to frequent. Zhongren doesn't ask how Lu Han knows how to get there, even after taking countless detours. Lu Han is just glad that Zhongren doesn't seem to know about his infamous lack of direction.

Zhongren is strangely quiet.

They stop by a supermarket, Lu Han popping in to pick up one of those packs of strawberry milk that's ostensibly for kindergarteners. Zhongren gives him a strange look at the check-out, but takes one anyway when Lu Han offers.

"You're never too old for strawberry milk," Lu Han opines around the straw.

Zhongren simultaneously narrows his eyes and raises a brow, giving his face a beyond incredulous expression. "Hyung, this has Doraemon on it."

Lu Han laughs and yanks down his cap. "You're never too old for Doraemon either," he says.

It's not long before they near the gate of Zhongren's apartment complex.

"Thanks for walking me back," Zhongren says. He holds up his almost empty carton. "Thanks for the milk, too."

Lu Han waves and gets onto his bike. "See you tomorrow!" he says, and waves goodbye.

His father is at the dining room table when he gets home. Lu Han tells him that he'd been studying at school. His dad just grunts and tells him there's dumplings in the fridge and to hurry and eat so he can go study more.

When he'd been smaller, and when his grandmother had still been alive, the four of them used to gather in the kitchen every weekend to make dumplings together. Lu Han had never quite gotten the hang of pinching together the full dumplings, even if he had become quite the pro at rolling out the skins. His grandmother had passed away when he was eight. That had been a long time ago.

Lu Han closes the fridge, his hands still empty. He doesn't think his father notices, even when he murmurs that he's going to his room.

He throws his bag under his bed and changes out of his school uniform into a t-shirt and pair of sweats, the motions almost routine. He pulls out an exercise book and opens his pencil case, but for the first time in weeks, his hand hesitates over the handle of one of the desk drawers instead. Jerkily, he yanks it open. A sheet of stationary sits on the top, a single line scrawled on the first line. Lu Han pulls it out, pushing aside his exercise book and replacing it with the half-written letter instead.

He picks up his pencil, the tip hovering over the second line.

He rereads what's written:

Two words. 艺兴.

He could start with How are you? or It was nice seeing you or even Hey, you idiot.

The pencil falls to the table with a click-clack, and he buries his face in his arms.

The clock counts the seconds.

The seconds disappear into the past.

The past... The past clings to Lu Han's shoulders like a sheen of spring rain, like the petals of pale pink flowers littering the sidewalk, unable to let go.

Without looking, he reaches over and balls the paper in his fist. It crinkles and crumples, and Lu Han throws it under his bed like it had never existed.

The clock counts forward.


end of episode 2.