Chapter Text
"Hanguang-jun announces Asia tour ahead of 10th debut anniversary. On February 7th 2025, the singer-songwriter released an official tour list on his social media accounts—"
Wei Ying bolted upright so fast his phone nearly went flying. Sleep? What sleep? He was wide awake now, his heart trying to punch its way out of his ribcage.
"No fucking way," he breathed, then louder, "No fucking way!"
His fingers flew across the screen, scrolling so frantically he almost skipped past the tour dates. Hanguang-jun. His Hanguang-jun. Going on tour again.
Wei Ying had been through this particular brand of torture before—watching tour announcements roll past like a slow-motion train wreck, each one missing his city by hundreds of kilometers. Shanghai, Beijing, Guangzhou, the same rotation every time. He'd spent years refreshing Weibo at ungodly hours, hoping against hope that maybe, maybe this time would be different.
An Asia-only tour though? That had to mean more cities, right? More chances?
He squeezed his eyes shut, hands pressed together like he was praying to every deity who'd listen. "Please, please, please—"
Deep breath. He opened his eyes and started reading.
"Journey of Light tour list: Shanghai 2025-8-15 and 2025-8-17, Beijing 2025-8-22, Guangzhou 2025-8-24, Chengdu 2025-8-29, Tokyo 2025-8-31..."
Wei Ying's excitement deflated like a punctured balloon. Four cities? In all of China? For an Asia tour? He'd expected at least nine or ten stops, not this—this bullshit.
Chengdu was the closest, only three hours away by bullet train. But going there meant train tickets, accommodation, food, and that was before factoring in the cost of the concert ticket itself. Even if he started saving this second, scrimping on every meal and picking up extra shifts, he'd never make enough before the presale began in a month.
Whatever. It wasn't like his luck had ever been that good anyway. He couldn't even snag Hanguang-jun's limited edition magazine last month—the website had crashed within thirty seconds. Concert tickets for a tenth anniversary tour? He'd have better odds winning the lottery.
Still, morbid curiosity made him keep reading. Japan, South Korea, Thailand, Singapore, Philippines, Chongqing—
Wait.
Wait.
Chongqing?!
Wei Ying's brain short-circuited. He scrolled back up, reading more carefully this time, his pulse starting to race again.
Chongqing September 28, Wuhan October 3rd, Xi'an October 5th—
"Oh my god," he whispered. His hands were shaking. "Oh my fucking god."
Xi'an. Xi'an. The city he'd been calling home for four years, the place he'd run to with nothing but the clothes on his back and a heart full of guilt. Hanguang-jun was coming here.
He took a screenshot with trembling fingers and immediately opened Weibo, typing so fast autocorrect couldn't keep up.
[@hanguangjuning: remember when i said id lose my mind if hanguang-jun ever came to my city??? well that day is HERE and i can confirm im feeling INSANE]
The responses started flooding in before he could even blink.
"Xianxian!! You're so lucky! I hope you get tickets!!"
"I just saw the dates, I won't even be in China then 😭😭😭"
"I’m gonna try to atten both Shanghai shows, I don't care if I have to sell a kidney"
Wei Ying let out an actual squeal, flopping back onto his bed and kicking his feet like a teenager. Nine years. Nearly a decade of following Hanguang-jun's career, running a fan account, organizing streaming events, drawing fanart, saving up for merch. And now there was a chance. An actual, real, tangible chance to see him in person.
Sure, he'd have to perform financial gymnastics that would make an accountant weep. Sure, he'd have to pray to every deity in existence that his internet wouldn't lag during the presale. Sure, the odds of actually getting a ticket were probably worse than his odds of ever getting his ponytail perfectly centered on his head.
But it was possible.
He could picture it already—standing in a crowd of thousands, all of them singing along to songs that had kept him alive through the worst years of his life. Maybe, if the universe decided to stop shitting on him for five seconds, he'd get picked for the random fan interaction. He'd go up on stage, look Hanguang-jun in the eyes, and—and—
Maybe Hanguang-jun would see something in him. Maybe they'd talk backstage. Maybe—
"What are you screaming about at six in the fucking morning?"
Wei Ying yelped, nearly dropping his phone again. Wen Qing stood in his doorway, still in her scrubs, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised in that particular way that meant she was two seconds from throwing something at his head. Despite the bags under her eyes that spoke of a brutal shift, she still managed to look intimidating.
"Qing-jie!" Wei Ying scrambled upright, grinning so wide his face hurt. "You'll never guess—"
"Did that idol of yours finally notice you exist?" She said it like a joke, but there was a hint of fondness underneath the sarcasm.
Wei Ying clutched his chest in mock offense. "He already noticed me! He liked my art! He even commented on it!"
"That was three months ago, and you're still not over it."
"I will never be over it! I have it framed on my wall!"
"I know. I see it every time I have the misfortune of entering this room." Wen Qing's expression softened slightly. "So what is it this time? Did he like another one?"
"Better!" Wei Ying bounced on his toes. "Well, maybe not better, but equally good!"
"Did he message you?"
"What? No. Qing-jie, he has millions of followers, he's not going to—wait, are you messing with me?"
"I just worked a twelve-hour shift. If you think I have the energy for games—"
"Okay, okay! Hanguang-jun is coming to Xi'an! He's having a concert here in October!"
Wen Qing blinked. "Here? Actually, here?"
"Yes! Here!" Wei Ying waved his phone in her face to show her the evidence. "It’s crazy, right? He usually only does Shanghai and Beijing, but this time there's like, ten cities, and Xi'an is one of them, and Qing-jie, I have to get tickets. I have to. I'll die if I don't."
"You failed to get his magazine last time," Wen Qing pointed out, but her tone was gentler now. "Concert tickets are going to be a bloodbath."
"I know." Wei Ying slumped dramatically. "But I have to try. This is—Qing-jie, this might be my only chance. Ever."
Wen Qing studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes seeing far too much as always. Then she sighed. "Put on a shirt. You're going to catch another cold."
Wei Ying looked down. Right. He'd jumped out of bed the second he saw the notification, which meant he was still shirtless in the February chill. The workshop didn't get much heat from the main house, and he'd already given everyone his cold last month after refusing to wear proper layers to bed.
He grabbed the first shirt he could find—an oversized Hanguang-jun concert tee from 2019 that he'd bought secondhand—and shoved it on, then retied his hair into a loose ponytail.
"Better?" He asked, grinning.
"Marginally." Wen Qing's mouth twitched. "When's the presale?"
"A month from now. Qing-jie—" Wei Ying clasped his hands together, eyes wide and pleading. "Can I use your phone? Mine's ancient, and it lags like crazy, I'll never get through—"
"If I'm not on call."
"Yes!" Wei Ying actually jumped. "Thank you, thank you, I love you, you're the best—"
"Save it." But she was almost smiling now. "Popo made baozi. They're in the kitchen. Eat them before they get cold."
"Are you going to sleep?"
"I'm dead on my feet. And if you wake me up with your screaming, I swear I'll—" She paused, considering. "The next emergency C-section I perform will be on you."
Wei Ying laughed, bright and startled. "Qing-jie! That's so violent! I'm telling A-Ning you're threatening me!"
"A-Ning's not here, dumbass. He went to attend a conference in Nanjing a couple of hours ago with his professor."
"Oh. Right." Wei Ying's smile turned sheepish. "I forgot."
"Clearly." Wen Qing's eyes narrowed. "Which means you're watching A-Yuan today. I texted you about it yesterday."
Shit. He'd been watching Hanguang-jun's livestream yesterday and had definitely not read those texts properly.
"Right! Yes! Of course I remember!" Wei Ying said, far too quickly. "I'll come get him after breakfast!"
Wen Qing gave him a look that said she knew exactly what he'd been doing, but she was too tired to call him out. "Don't let him eat too much sugar. And make sure he naps."
"I know how to take care of A-Yuan, Qing-jie."
"Do you? Because last time you watched him, he somehow ended up with paint in his hair."
"That was one time—"
"Go eat. I'm going to bed." She turned to leave, then paused. "And Wei Ying? I hope you get the tickets."
Something warm bloomed in Wei Ying's chest. "Thank you."
She waved a hand dismissively and disappeared down the hallway. Wei Ying listened to her footsteps fade, then looked around his little workshop-turned-bedroom.
It had been Popo's traditional Chinese medicine shop once, back when she still had the energy to run it. The space was technically part of the main house but separate enough to have its own entrance, a tiny bathroom, and a kitchenette that barely qualified as functional. When Popo's health declined and business dried up, she made the painful decision to close it last April.
Wei Ying had been sharing the upstairs bedroom with Wen Ning and A-Yuan at the time—three people crammed into a space meant for one, A-Yuan's toys everywhere, Wen Ning's textbooks taking up every surface. When Popo offered him the workshop, he'd refused at first. He was already living here rent-free, taking up space and resources the Wens could barely spare. He couldn't possibly take more.
But A-Yuan was getting bigger, and the room was getting smaller, and god, Wei Ying had missed having some semblance of privacy. Missed having a door he could close. Missed being able to stay up until 3 AM drawing without worrying about waking anyone.
So he'd cleaned the workshop himself, scrubbed years of dust and herbal residue from every surface, patched the walls, fixed the plumbing. He'd furnished it with secondhand finds—a mattress from someone's curb, a desk with uneven legs, a lamp that flickered if you looked at it wrong. And he'd made it his. Hanguang-jun posters on the walls, the framed screenshot of that comment, his art supplies scattered across every available surface. It wasn't much. But it was the first space that had been truly his since—
Since before.
Wei Ying shook off the thought and headed for the kitchen, his stomach growling at the promise of Popo's baozi. A-Yuan would be awake soon, and then the day would dissolve into the usual chaos of toddler entertainment. But for now, he let himself feel that bright, fragile thing called hope. Hope to see his favorite artist.
Hanguang-jun had consumed his entire existence since that sweltering summer of 2016, back when Wei Ying was barely fifteen and bored out of his mind. Unlike the crop of generic idols flooding the charts, he was the real deal—writing his own lyrics, directing his own videos, and pouring actual artistry into every project. He was a classically trained prodigy with a terrifying amount of talent and a face so handsome it was practically a human rights violation. It was zero surprise when he skyrocketed to global fame, but the more the world fell in love with him, the more that bridge between them felt like it was crumbling into an impossible, widening chasm.
But that was fine. That was okay, because Hanguang-jun's music had become the steady heartbeat underneath Wei Ying's entire life. Through the absolute mess that was his adolescence and into the even bigger mess that was—is his early twenties—those songs were there. He knew every lyric by heart, could date a concert just by what Hanguang-jun wore, and had memorized every scrap of personal information the man ever shared. He was, objectively, one of his biggest fans.
It didn’t matter that his collection was almost non-existent. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t drop hundreds of yuan on albums, limited edition photocards, or those concert tickets that other fans seemed to snag without a second thought. To the rest of the fandom, he probably looked like a fake, someone who didn’t support Hanguang-jun enough because he couldn’t put his money where his mouth was. But what was he supposed to do? Post a public apology that said: "Sorry, I’m fucking broke and trying to keep a toddler, an old woman, and two exhausted students alive on a bartender’s wage and whatever scraps I can find. My money goes to Popo’s meds, not Hanguang-jun’s merch." The guilt of being a fraud gnawed at him sometimes, a constant, dull ache in his chest. But the music—the music was free, and that was the one thing that truly kept him going.
Even after he’d been forced to walk away from everything, leaving his physical collection to gather dust in a life he no longer owned, the music stayed. And god, he loved it so so much. It wasn’t just idol pop; actual professors at reputable universities were out here making video essays dissecting the sheer poetry of his lyrics. The instrumentals were a whole other level of genius, weaving in the guzheng, erhu, and dizi with a finesse that had Hanguang-jun single-handedly making traditional Chinese instruments the next big thing globally. Western journalists were constantly scrambling to write about his "unprecedented influence," and fans from every corner of the map were actually picking up these instruments just to feel a little closer to his art.
Wei Ying had actually learned the dizi once, back when the world was a little kinder. Shijie had gifted it to him for his twelfth birthday, and for a glorious, brief window of time, he'd been good. He’d played until his fingers were nothing but cramped knots of muscle, right up until the moment Madam Yu would come storming down the hallway, her voice sharp enough to draw blood as she screeched about him shattering her peace.
But that was a lifetime ago. He hadn't touched an instrument in years.
The thought made his throat tight, so he pushed it away and focused on the baozi instead. Popo had made them exactly how he liked them—more filling than wrapper, the edges crispy from the pan. Her hands shook as she worked these days, took her twice as long to prepare anything, but she still insisted on cooking for all of them. The woman was stubborn as a brick wall and twice as immovable.
She was probably resting now, and A-Yuan would be awake soon, which meant Wei Ying had to hurry upstairs before the kid woke her. He hated being alone and would cry if someone didn't come for him, afraid that he’d been discarded by those he cherished. Wei Ying understood that particular brand of fear in his very bones.
He rinsed his plate quickly, dried it, grabbed his charger from his room, and headed upstairs.
The main house was a significant step up from the workshop, boasting three bedrooms, a living room that didn't feel like a hallway, and a kitchen where you could actually prep a meal without knocking something over. Wen Qing had claimed one room for her own, a necessity given her brutal resident's schedule—she needed to be able to pass out the second she walked through the door. Popo had another, while Wen Ning shared the third with A-Yuan, though the kid was practically a permanent fixture in Wei Ying's room anyway. It worked out, honestly; it meant Wen Ning actually got the peace and quiet he desperately needed for his master's degree. The guy was brilliant, but he was constantly buried under a mountain of textbooks and research papers, looking like he hadn't seen the sun in weeks.
Wei Ying, meanwhile, existed in the messy spaces between—shuffling from exhausted bar shifts to mindless hours at the grocery store, picking up whatever manual labor scraps he could find, and losing himself in fanboying online whenever he had a spare ounce of energy. Watching A-Yuan had become his primary duty because he was the only one with hours flexible enough to bend, but honestly? He couldn’t imagine anyone else being the one to wake and dress his little radish, to teach him the names of colors and numbers, or to listen to whatever rambling, nonsense story the boy had invented that day.
It wasn’t a chore. It was the absolute opposite of one. In fact, a single day without seeing A-Yuan made Wei Ying’s chest tighten with a sharp, frantic brand of anxiety. The kid was the only anchor keeping him from drifting away entirely during this weird, liminal period of his life, a soft place to land when everything else felt like it was crumbling.
"A-Yuan? Little radish, are you awake?" Wei Ying crept into Wen Ning's room, hoping no toys were lying on the floor waiting to trip him up and force him to swallow his screams. Even though Wen Ning's room had gotten neater after Wei Ying moved out, it was still overrun by knockoff lego pieces and miniature cars.
The early morning sun only offered a meager sliver of light through the curtains, barely illuminating A-Yuan’s small, sleeping form. He’d outgrown his tiny crib ages ago, but with their finances constantly doing a disappearing act, a real bed of his own was still just a distant maybe. So, he kept up his usual rotation, drifting between everyone’s rooms like a little nomadic radish, all of them hoping they could scrape together enough money for his own space before he had to start school next year.
Wei Ying crept closer to the bed, watching as the little radish’s nose twitched like a bunny’s in his sleep. Usually, A-Yuan was up with the sun, perfectly synchronized with Popo’s internal clock, so seeing him still out cold was a rare, blessed miracle. Wei Ying toed off his slippers and slid under the covers, pressing a soft kiss to the boy’s forehead and curling around him until the weight of his own exhaustion finally pulled him under. At least this way, when A-Yuan eventually blinked awake, he wouldn't have to face the morning alone.
Surely enough, a couple of hours later, baby hands tapped his cheeks repeatedly.
"Xian-gege, wake up!"
"Five more minutes."
"I'm hungryyyy," A-Yuan whined.
Wei Ying sighed and sat up, pulling the toddler into his lap. A-Yuan squealed when he started tickling his sides.
"Xian-gege, noooooo!"
"Shh," Wei Ying whispered. "Qing-jie is sleeping. If you're too loud, she'll yell at us again."
A-Yuan made an exaggerated shushing motion and whispered, "I want breakfast."
"Hmm, me too. Your Xian-gege is starving. I'm craving a cute little radish, what do you say?"
"Noooo, don't eat me!" A-Yuan hid behind his hands.
"Aha! So you admit you're a yummy radish! Come here!" Wei Ying bit gently at the boy's chubby cheeks, and A-Yuan fake-cried, pawing at his chest.
They played for a while longer, then Wei Ying helped him wash up and served the leftover baozi for breakfast, washing dishes while A-Yuan ate.
Then, s usual, he dressed him in clean clothes, helped him brush his teeth, and took him out to pick up groceries from Popo's list. They walked hand in hand, talking animatedly, stopping to admire the Chinese New Year decorations still hanging around the neighborhood. They'd be gone by the end of Lantern Festival, and they'd have to wait a whole year to see them again.
They headed to the grocery store where Wei Ying worked, grabbing ingredients they needed some they did not—namely a chocolate bar A-Yuan nearly threw a tantrum over—before proceeding to the checkout.
"Good morning, Ying-ge! Good morning, A-Yuan!" one of his younger coworkers greeted.
"Morning, A-Tong. How's your dad?"
"Lively as ever. He won several rounds of mahjong yesterday and won't stop bragging about it. He said he missed having an opponent as formidable as Wen-popo." She scanned his items, placing them into his reusable bag.
"She misses it too, but the cold's hard on her knees. Wen Qing told her to rest for now." A twinge of sadness crept into his voice. He really wished her health would improve.
"Tell her I said hi! I'll send some of that ointment Guo-yeye swears by." She scanned his employee code and payment.
"Will do! Come on, A-Yuan, say goodbye."
"Bye, bye!" the toddler waved, already wrestling the bag from Wei Ying's hands to get his chocolate.
"No, you promised you'd eat this after lunch. And don't fake cry. Your tears won't work on me twice."
A-Yuan pouted but relented.
They scrambled home just as the sky broke, rain beginning to pelt down in a way that had them sprinting for cover. The second they were inside, Wei Ying set to work on lunch, though he ended up spectacularly distracted by a fresh batch of Hanguang-jun edits while ostensibly "searching for a recipe." He eventually managed to plate the food, quickly mopping a suspicious sticky patch off the floor while waiting for Popo to make the slow, agonizing trek from her bedroom. They shared a meal filled with easy, familiar chatter, scrubbed the dishes for the hundredth time, and then, at last, it was nap time. Which meant Wei Ying could finally, finally lose himself in his fanboy duties.
He dived into Weibo first, and god, the #HanguangjunJourneyOfLight tag was absolutely exploding. Thousands of new posts had flooded in since his morning meltdown alone. There was everything: breathtaking fanart of him in ethereal white robes against shimmering stage backdrops, endless speculation threads dissecting potential setlists, and fans sharing their military-grade presale strategies. They were comparing ticket platforms and getting into heated debates over which stop would be the most legendary to attend. Wei Ying scrolled and scrolled, his heart doing those stupid, frantic little flips every time a high-res photo of Hanguang-jun graced his screen.
"Xi'an stop confirmed for October 5th! Who's going??" someone posted, and he physically couldn't stop himself from replying "ME!!" with an embarrassing amount of exclamation marks. He immediately jumped over to Xiaohongshu to see the damage there. The vibe was different—all color-coordinated mood boards and elaborate Hanguang-jun shrines glowing with LED lights and professional prints in expensive frames. Wei Ying felt a sharp, tiny twinge of envy looking at their pristine collections, followed immediately by a wave of guilt for being so petty. His own little stash downstairs—posters he’d snuck into the print shop to make and a set of bootleg photocards from Taobao—felt almost shabby in comparison, but it was his all the same.
He finally surrendered to Douyin and lost a solid twenty minutes to the black hole of fan edits. Someone had set a performance of "Inquiry" to slow-motion close-ups of those long, elegant fingers dancing over guqin strings, and he watched it four times in a row, feeling his face heat up more with every loop. He added it to his favorites and hopped over to Twitter, because the international fans always brought a different kind of energy. Sure enough, @HGJUpdates had the full tour breakdown pinned, and the replies were ecstatic. "FINALLY AN ASIA TOUR!" someone screamed into the void. "I'm selling my kidney for tickets, who wants to buy it?" He let out a quiet snort, then froze as A-Yuan shifted against him, holding his breath until the toddler settled back into a deep sleep.
Instagram was his next stop. There was an endless stream of photoshoot outtakes, behind-the-scenes clips, and that one video of Hanguang-jun sassily shooting down an invasive question during a radio interview that Wei Ying had memorized to the point he could mouth the words along with him. He double-tapped everything in sight, dropped clusters of heart emojis, and shamelessly joined other fans in their thirst comments. Then he fell into the TikTok rabbit hole of past concert footage—Seoul, Tokyo, Bangkok. The way Hanguang-jun commanded the stage. The way that voice filled every corner of a stadium. The way twenty thousand people sang his lyrics back to him like they were reciting prayers. He wanted that. God, he wanted to be part of that crowd so badly his ribs actually ached with it. To stand there and scream until he lost his voice. To hear those notes live, not through the tiny filter of shitty phone speakers. To be in the same arena, just once, breathing the same air as him.
Wei Ying checked the presale information for the dozenth time that day, screenshotting the details again even though he'd already memorized them. October 5th. Presale March 8th at 10 AM. Hopefully, he would have Wen Qing's phone lined up as backup. He bookmarked the ticketing site, tested his login credentials, even practiced the checkout process with a different event to make sure he knew exactly how fast he'd need to move. The pit tickets would sell out in seconds—not that he could afford them anyway. He would probably end up in the nosebleeds if he got anything at all. But even nosebleeds meant he'd be there. Even nosebleeds meant he could say 'I saw him'.
A-Yuan let out aother tiny, soft sigh in his sleep, and Wei Ying couldn’t help but glance down at that peaceful, perfect little face. It was ridiculous, really—lying here in someone else’s room, frantically scrolling through his phone like a love-struck teenager instead of a twenty-three-year-old man drowning in adult responsibilities. He should be hunting for more shifts. He should be digging into Popo’s medication costs. He should be doing literally anything that qualified as productive. But he was physically unable to stop. He couldn’t stop the frantic refreshing, couldn’t stop consuming every single scrap of news, and he definitely couldn’t stop the bright, desperate ache of want blooming in his chest. It was that same visceral hunger that had managed to keep him alive at nineteen when everything else had been stripped away.
Wei Ying switched back to Weibo, to his own account—@hanguangjuning, 238k followers, his pride and joy. He already posted about the concert news this morning, but he had more to say.
[Okay but seriously, if you're in Xi'an and going to this concert, we NEED to organize a fan project. I'm thinking coordinated lightsticks for 'Solitude'? Or maybe a fundraiser in his name? Drop ideas below, let's make this unforgettable for him!]
The responses started flooding in before he could even blink, and he grinned at his phone, typing back as fast as his thumbs would allow. He let himself sink into that familiar buzz of community. These people didn't know the real Wei Ying—they didn't know about the Wens, his soul-crushing shifts, or the fact that he was perpetually one bad week away from financial ruin—but they knew this part of him. The part that lived for Hanguang-jun's music. The part that desperately wanted to give back even a tiny fraction of what that art had given him.
He let himself scroll for another ten minutes, then finally locked the screen and pressed the phone to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut.
By three in the afternoon, the house was stirring again. Wen Qing emerged from her room in red silk pajamas, looking like she'd barely slept as she silently heated up leftovers. She interrogated A-Yuan about his morning while simultaneously chiding Wei Ying for the chocolate-induced sugar high he'd clearly facilitated.
The rest of the day dissolved into its usual quiet rhythm until it was time for Wei Ying to head to the bar. He had to practically pry a clinging A-Yuan from his pant leg before handing him over to Wen Qing.
His shift was remarkably unremarkable, just like the rest of the day. As a teenager, Wei Ying had loathed the mundane, always chasing high highs and low lows in a desperate bid for attention. But as an adult and after well, everything he'd learned to crave the mundane. He felt a deep, quiet gratitude for days where the most world-shaking events were concert announcements and a toddler's tears over a candy bar. It was the kind of peace he'd only found by running far, far away from the life he once knew.
Before his shift ended, he caught his boss and asked for extra hours, spinning a half-truth about surprise bills that needed covering. The manager gave a gruff promise to squeeze him into the schedule. Wei Ying felt that fragile spark of hope brighten just a little more.
That hope stayed there as the days crept toward the presale. The Lantern Festival passed, the new year decorations came down, travelers returned home. The days grew longer, the weather slightly warmer. Mundane days.
But five days before the presale, everything shattered.
"Wen Qing, slow down. I can't understand you," he said over the phone.
"Wen Ning—he was hit by a car. He's in the hospital. I don't—I don't know if he's going to make it."
Wei Ying's blood turned to ice.
"Jiejie got hit by a car! It's all your fucking fault!"
Panic flooded his veins, but he forced himself to stay steady. Wen Qing was already falling apart. If he broke too, there'd be no one left to hold them together.
"Where are you? I'm coming to get you."
He found her collapsed on the cold linoleum outside the ER, a crumpled heap against the sterile wall. Her hands were trembling with a violence that made his blood run cold, and her face was a map of raw, wet grief. Wen Qing never cried. She was the anchor, the iron-willed doctor who held everyone else together, and seeing her like this felt like the world was tilting off its axis.
Wei Ying dropped to his knees beside her, his own breath hitching in his throat.
"Jiejie," he whispered, and the sound of his voice seemed to be the final straw that snapped her composure.
She lunged for him, clinging to his shirt like he was the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly dissolved into chaos, sobbing into his shoulder with a desperate, gut-wrenching sound. Wei Ying wrapped his arms around her and held on with everything he had, even as his own heart tried to punch its way out of his chest. The sharp, cloying scent of antiseptic dragged him back to memories he’d spent years trying to outrun—to hospital beds and pale faces and the crushing weight of things he couldn't fix.
"He's out of surgery," Wen Qing choked out. "They said—they said it went well, but he lost so much blood, A-Ying, and his leg—"
"He's alive," Wei Ying said firmly, stroking her hair. "He's alive. That's what matters."
She nodded against him, trembling.
When she finally pulled back, wiping her face with shaking hands, Wei Ying helped her stand. "Can I see him?"
Wen Qing hesitated, then nodded.
Nothing could have prepared him.
Wen Ning looked so small in the hospital bed, swallowed by white sheets and machines. His face was pale, bruised along one side. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. IV lines snaked from both arms. His right leg was elevated, wrapped in bandages and a temporary cast.
Wei Ying's vision blurred.
Jiejie lying in a hospital bed, her leg in a cast, her face so pale—
"This is your fault. You brought this on our family. If only you died back th—"
He gripped the doorframe, forcing air into his lungs. Not now.
"A-Ning," he whispered.
The boy didn't stir. The heart monitor beeped steadily. Wei Ying focused on that sound and let it anchor him.
Wen Qing stood beside the bed, one hand hovering over her brother's like she was afraid to touch him and make him fall apart. "The doctor said he'll need physical therapy. Months of it. And they want to keep him here for at least two weeks to monitor for complications."
Wei Ying nodded, not trusting his voice.
"I need to call Popo," Wen Qing said suddenly. "And A-Yuan—"
"I'll go," Wei Ying said immediately. "You stay with A-Ning. I'll check on them and come back."
"A-Ying—"
"I'll come back," he repeated. "You shouldn't be alone for too long."
The house felt too quiet when he arrived.
Popo sat in her chair by the window, A-Yuan curled in her lap. The old woman's face was drawn with worry, but she managed a small smile when Wei Ying entered.
"How is he?"
"Stable," Wei Ying said, kneeling beside them. "The surgery went well. He's going to be okay."
A-Yuan reached for him, and Wei Ying gathered the toddler into his arms, burying his face in soft hair. A-Yuan smelled like baby shampoo and home. Wei Ying's hands shook.
"Xian-gege sad?" A-Yuan asked, patting his cheek.
"A little," Wei Ying admitted. "But I'm okay. Ning-gege is going to be okay too."
Popo reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "You're a good boy, A-Ying."
He had to look away.
‘You wretched boy, you ruin everything you touch!’
He stayed long enough to make sure they'd eaten, put A-Yuan down for the night, and promised Popo he'd call with any updates. Then he returned to the hospital.
Wen Qing was exactly where he'd left her, standing vigil beside her brother's bed.
"Go home," Wei Ying said gently. "Get some sleep. I'll stay with him."
"I can't—"
"Jiejie." He took her hand. "You've been awake for almost twenty-four hours. You're going to collapse. A-Ning needs you healthy when he wakes up."
She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes, then at her brother, then back. Finally, she nodded.
"There's something else," she said, her voice cracking. "The bills for the surgery alone—and the hospital stay, the medications, the therapy after—" Her breath hitched. "We can't afford it. Even with my resident's salary, we can't—"
"I'll take care of it," Wei Ying said immediately.
"A-Ying, you don't understand. It's going to be tens of thousands of yuan—"
"I'll take care of it," he repeated, firmer this time. "All of it."
"How? You can't—"
"I have about a thousand saved up, it should be enough to cover the meds. And I'll borrow the rest. I'll figure it out." He squeezed her hand. "You don't need to worry about this. Just focus on A-Ning."
Wen Qing stared at him. "A-Ying, that's your concert money."
The words hit him like a physical blow. The presale was in five days. He'd been so close.
But then he looked at Wen Ning—gentle Wen Ning who helped him when no one else did—and the choice wasn't a choice at all.
"Wen Ning is more important than a stupid concert," Wei Ying said quietly.
Wen Qing's face crumpled. She pulled him into a fierce hug, shaking against him. "Thank you. A-Ying, thank you, I don't know how we'll ever—"
"There's no need for thanks," Wei Ying said, holding her tight. "He's my brother too."
The next morning, Wei Ying withdrew everything from his account. The number on the screen felt both significant and pathetically small. He called Guo-yeye, then A-Tong’s father, then two other friends from his bar shifts. He explained the situation and promised to pay them back, accepted their concern and their money with gratitude.
It still wasn't enough. But it was a start.
When Wen Qing returned to the hospital that afternoon, Wei Ying showed her the receipts of all the payments he made.
“I told you I’d handle it.”
She looked at the screen, then at him, and started crying again.
"I'll pay you back," she whispered. "Every yuan. I promise."
"There’s nothing to pay back," Wei Ying said. "You never asked me to pay you back for everything you did for me. We're family."
She nodded, clutching him to her chest.
Wei Ying stayed until visiting hours ended, then walked to work through the cooling evening. His phone buzzed with notifications that he refused to open. He knew they would be about the upcoming presale, and he was in no mood to see people’s excitement over something he was no longer a part of.
He silenced his phone and kept walking.
The concert didn't matter anymore. It couldn't matter.
All that mattered was making sure Wen Ning came home.
All that mattered was protecting his family.
The ticket sale came and went, a slow-motion car crash that Wei Ying pointedly refused to witness. He ghosted his own social media accounts for days, physically unable to stomach the sight of lucky fans screaming over their confirmed seats. It was easier to pretend the whole thing didn't exist—to bury the crushing disappointment of missing his one real chance to see Hanguang-jun—under a mountain of more immediate, soul-crushing problems.
Because honestly? He was drowning. The debt he’d taken on to save A-Ning was a staggering, silent weight, and he kept the true scale of it locked away from Wen Qing like a shameful secret. It far outstripped his meager earnings, forcing him into a desperate, unending cycle of extra bar shifts and late-night art commissions. He spent his nights hunched over his tablet, churning out piece after piece while A-Yuan’s soft, even breathing provided the only rhythm to his exhaustion.
Wen Ning had finally blinked awake with his memory intact, a small mercy in a year that had been remarkably short on them, though his body was still a fragile, bruised thing. They’d shifted the household dynamic again, moving A-Yuan into Wei Ying’s room permanently to give Wen Ning the space and quiet he needed to heal without a toddler using his cast as a racetrack.
His life dissolved into a blur of frantic caretaking: wrangling a high-energy radish, monitoring Wen Ning’s recovery, and taking over the kitchen duties as Popo’s health continued its slow, heartbreaking decline. He scrubbed, he cooked, he worked until his eyes burned, and then he worked some more, chasing every extra yuan like his life depended on it. Because, in many ways, it did.
The sheer, physical weight of the new routine was wearing him thin, leaving him permanently dead on his feet. But he couldn't let himself break, not when everyone else was struggling just as hard. Wen Qing was stuck in a specialized kind of hell, serving under a misogynistic attending doctor who seemed to take personal delight in crushing her spirit with impossible hours. Wen Ning was a ball of quiet anxiety, drowning in the schoolwork he’d missed with graduation looming like a threat. Even Popo was fading, frustrated by a body that refused to cooperate with even the simplest tasks. And A-Yuan... his sweet, little radish was growing quieter, his bright energy dampened by the exhausted, overworked atmosphere of the house. Wei Ying still tried to play, still cracked jokes and staged impromptu puppet shows to see him smile, but it felt like trying to light a fire with damp wood—it was never quite enough.
All he could do was hope the debt would disappear soon and life would return to something resembling normal.