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“Up,” Xue Yang says. He’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with his arms stretched upward. Up toward the ceiling and up toward Song Lan.
“You’re heavy,” Song Lan tells him, voice faux-stern, arms crossed.
Xue Yang pouts like he always does when he wants something—a little sweet, a little conniving. Manipulative, in a way that makes Song Lan feel so desperately fond.
“But Yangyang can have a piggyback ride? As a treat?” Xue Yang says.
Xue Yang wheedles, because of course he does. Because they both know that Song Lan’s resolve is paper-thin when it comes to Yangyang. Or Xue Yang at all, really.
And it’s fun. A game. Something special shared between the two of them, like so many other things, now.
He smiles, bright and beautiful, up at Song Lan. He looks so free like this, so happy. Song Lan could look at him forever. He kinda wants to. Maybe Xue Yang wouldn’t even be mad about it if he were Yangyang. Sometimes, if Song Lan looks at Xue Yang for long enough, Xue Yang gets twitchy, caustic. A little prickly. Less so now than in the beginning, but—it still happens on occasion. But never when he’s Yangyang. Then, Song Lan is allowed to look as fond as can be.
Which he is. Very fond.
He’s learned to treasure these moments, even though they seem to come more and more often these days.
“Then aren’t you forgetting something, Yangyang?” Song Lan asks.
“Uh, no?”
“Please,” Song Lan prompts with another laugh. His gut feels warm, like water being heated by the sun’s rays. “You have to say please when you are asking for something.”
Xue Yang scrunches his face up and then sticks out his tongue. “Says who?” His eyes shine with mirth and mischievousness.
Things have been kind of—easier, lately. Smoother. Like everything has finally slotted into place in their lives. Song Lan spends so much less time worried about shaking the foundations of both their living situation and their… personal situation, even if he still doesn’t know exactly what to call it. Everything works, so he’s learned not to question it. There’s no need to. If the two of them are happy and content, then there’s no need to put a name on it, right?
“Says gege,” Song Lan says.
Xue Yang scrunches up his face again, making a big deal of thinking about it, and then finally relents. “Fineee.” He stretches out the word before continuing. “Up, please?” His tone could probably be better, but Song Lan only finds himself rolling his eyes and relenting.
Yangyang seems a little older today than he sometimes is. Childish, but with a bit more pushback than usual. It could be frustrating, but today Song Lan only finds it endearing—today and every day, really.
Xue Yang isn’t exactly small in stature, and he’s certainly not light with how much muscle is on his body, but Song Lan is strong. And maybe he’s been putting in a few more hours at the gym, just so that he can more easily hoist Xue Yang around when he’s Yangyang. So, it is relatively easy to lean down and scoop Xue Yang into his arms, allowing him to cling to Song Lan’s chest like a koala. It feels nice to have him so close, arms and legs wrapped around Song Lan’s torso like he just can’t get close enough.
“This isn’t a piggyback,” Xue Yang says, from where he’s buried his face in the crook of Song Lan’s neck. His hair and breath tickle Song Lan’s ear.
Another laugh. “Complainer,” Song Lan accuses.
“I even said please,” Xue Yang whines.
Song Lan relents to this, too. Because of course he does. He carries Xue Yang over to the kitchen counter, sets him down, and then turns around so that Xue Yang can climb easily onto his back. It’s easier to hold him like this, with Song Lan’s arms supporting Xue Yang’s thighs, but it does feel a little less close. If Song Lan were to pick a favorite way to carry Xue Yang it would be the way he was holding him before. But really—any way is nice. Any way makes Song Lan feel closer to Xue Yang, like maybe Xue Yang needs him, or trusts him.
Which is silly, kind of, because Song Lan knows that Xue Yang trusts him. Song Lan wouldn’t be privileged to see and know Yangyang, otherwise.
But having a physical reminder of it? Song Lan maybe likes those, too.
“Do you want to stay inside, or go outside?” Son Lan asks. With Xue Yang on his back, wanting a piggyback ride, they have to do something. Very rarely will Xue Yang want to go outside like this, and usually only when it’s dark out, late at night where no one will see. Even as Yangyang, he can be easily embarrassed. Or perhaps only because he’s Yangyang.
Usually, Xue Yang sports a devil-may-care attitude that borders on threatening.
“Wanna stay in,” Xue Yang says, once he’s squirmed into a comfortable position on Song Lan’s back. “I’m so tall now.”
“You are.” Song Lan takes a moment to think, running through a mental list of things he’s able to do with just one hand—or two, for a short amount of time. Xue Yang doesn’t need Song Lan to hold him up; he just wants the closeness, the thrill of a piggyback ride. But Song Lan likes being able to hold him.
His favorite piggyback ride of theirs was actually not with Yangyang, but with a slightly-tipsy Xue Yang who refused to leave their neighborhood dive bar unless Song Lan gave him a piggyback ride back to their apartment.
There had been a thrill in knowing Xue Yang still wanted something like this from him, even when he wasn’t little. That he trusted Song Lan enough, that he wanted him enough, to have that closeness while he was still—mostly—his normal, sharp self. The few beers Xue Yang had downed over the course of that evening had rendered him barely even tipsy by the end of it, but Song Lan watched as he leaned into the safety of that almost-persona and demanded Song Lan carry him home. Like maybe Song Lan would refuse him, if he were stone cold sober.
As if he could refuse Xue Yang anything, at this point.
Especially not this.
“Let’s make some tea, then,” Song Lan says. It’s a task he’s perfected doing with one hand and Xue Yang on his back, and since Xue Yang seems a little older today, he’ll happily sit with Song Lan and drink some tea.
“And snacks,” Xue Yang says, which means cookies. The kind with milky, over-sweet strawberry filling. Personally, Song Lan thinks they taste a little like toothpaste, but Xue Yang loves them. And Song Lan loves the way Xue Yang’s mouth tastes after eating them, so it’s a wash.
“And snacks,” Song Lan agrees.
He chooses an earthy green to go with the cookies, and sets about preparing the tea.
They sit on the living room floor to drink it. It’s not quite a tea party, because Yangyang has never been interested in that kind of play, but there is an element of formality to it. Something cute and different than what they normally do. Song Lan even puts his cookies into one of their nicer bowls.
It’s nice, just sitting quietly with Xue Yang. Having this moment. It’s the kind of relaxation Song Lan needs out of his weekends—and he seems to be getting it more and more frequently. He looks forward to these moments, his new routine.
They chat about nonsense for a while. About Xue Yang’s favorite TV show of the moment, a book Song Lan is reading, and most importantly—what they’re going to have for dinner.
“You can have the last one,” Xue Yang says, holding up the last cookie for Song Lan.
“Are you sure you don’t want it?” Song Lan asks.
“I want gege to have it,” Xue Yang says, with more sincerity than usual. And then he reaches over and holds it up to Song Lan’s mouth for him to eat.
For once, the cookie doesn’t taste like anything bad. It just melts over Song Lan’s tongue like the simple, warm feeling of being offered something treasured. He kisses Xue Yang’s fingers afterwards. And then his mouth, short and sweet.
After a little while, Xue Yang starts to grow quiet. He’s not yawning yet, but he often gets tired after they eat and wants to take a nap. Sometimes it seems to just be an excuse to cuddle up in Song Lan’s bed, but other times he just conks out from working himself too hard.
So, that’s where they end up. Both of them in just shorts and underwear, tangled up in crumpled sheets that Song Lan will wash tomorrow to renew their crispness.
The afternoon light has waned into something orange and rosy that casts long shadows through Song Lan’s bedroom. The hours Song Lan spends with Xue Yang—whether he’s Yangyang or not—often pass too quickly. Tomorrow, they’ll both have to wake up early and go into work. And before that, they’ll need to eat something for dinner. But for now, Song Lan tells himself that he can stay right here, stuck somewhere between sleep and awake, and luxuriate in their closeness.
Song Lan rubs circles over Xue Yang’s back for so long that the tips of his fingers begin to feel a little numb.
“What if you meet someone?” Xue Yang says, out of the blue. His whole face is tucked up in Song Lan’s neck and his fingers are fisted in the back of Song Lan’s shirt.
The words and the question take Song Lan by surprise. He thought Xue Yang was asleep. And had been, for a long time.
“I — what do you mean?” Song Lan asks slowly.
There’s a quality to Xue Yang’s voice that sounds—more serious than Yangyang usually is, but it’s also not a question that Xue Yang seems likely to ask as himself.
Xue Yang’s face remains hidden and his hands only clench more firmly in Song Lan’s shirt. He worms himself impossibly closer, his voice growing muffled against Song Lan’s skin. “What if you meet someone?” he repeats.
For a moment, Song Lan’s hand stills over Xue Yang’s spine.
When Xue Yang whines, Song Lan resumes rubbing his back.
Song Lan thinks about it, about the possibility of meeting someone who could possibly displace the enormity of how he feels for Xue Yang. It feels impossible, utterly and completely. How could Song Lan possibly want anyone more than he wants Xue Yang and what they already have together, even if Song Lan doesn’t have a name for it?
Even if it’s not perfect, it’s more than Song Lan could ever have hoped for. He is—for the first time in a very long time—happy. Fundamentally content. No one in the world could push Xue Yang out of his heart. Not when Xue Yang has grown roots there. Not when Song Lan has allowed him to.
“It’s not going to happen,” Song Lan says. He feels Xue Yang shudder underneath the palm of his hand, his breathing quick and shallow.
“You sure?” Xue Yang asks. His voice sounds almost purposefully small. Hesitant, but hopeful.
Song Lan has never felt so sure of anything in his life.
“I’m sure,” he says.
And then he gathers Xue Yang closer in his arms, holding him even tighter than before.