.

Xu Yan woke up early, washed up quietly. Shen Zhi wasn't awake yet, but a capitalist and a corporate drone are different—Xu Yan had to rush to work, while Shen Zhi could sleep until he felt like opening his eyes.

The curtains were drawn tight, the room dark. Xu Yan put on his jacket and came out of the walk-in closet, walked to the bed, bent down, and stared at Shen Zhi's face. He couldn't really make it out, but that face was so familiar, not being able to see didn't matter. Xu Yan reached out, his knuckle brushed Shen Zhi's cheek, and said softly, 'I'm off to work. Breakfast is in the kitchen, remember to eat something.'

Shen Zhi's breathing was still steady, undisturbed. Xu Yan straightened up and left the room, closing the door gently. Going downstairs, he raised a hand to touch the back of his neck—it hurt a little, Shen Zhi's doing. Last night Xu Yan had propped him up to the bed, and the two of them had tumbled down together; before Xu Yan could react, Shen Zhi had grabbed him by the back of the neck. A drunk person doesn't know his own strength—this move wasn't unfamiliar to Xu Yan; he knew well how forceful Shen Zhi could be in this regard. He'd once suspected Shen Zhi had some particular fixation, but because Shen Zhi kept himself restrained, or rather couldn't be bothered to fully act it out on him, that was how Xu Yan had managed to survive this long.

After being grabbed, Xu Yan didn't struggle either. They were both men—who didn't know that when you're truly drunk you can't get it up. Shen Zhi was probably still feeling off, needed to vent. Xu Yan was having trouble breathing, swallowed, laughed breathlessly and said, 'Baby, happy birthday, don't be angry.' Heaven knew Shen Zhi hated it most when Xu Yan called him baby; in his drunken haze hearing Xu Yan be so improper, he pressed harder, the web of his hand gripping the back of Xu Yan's neck, index finger and thumb pinching viciously at the side of his neck. Xu Yan frowned and let out a muffled groan.

'You're really annoying.' That was the last thing Shen Zhi said. Then he let go, lay down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

Xu Yan lay on the bed catching his breath for a while, his neck aching and numb. He slowly got up, went to the bathroom and wrung out a hot towel, came back and wiped Shen Zhi's face. Finally he crouched down, his fingertip sliding from Shen Zhi's forehead down the bridge of his nose, tapped his lips, and said shamelessly, 'I'm annoying. I've annoyed you for so many years, how are you still not used to it.'

Back in the bathroom, Xu Yan bent down to wash his face. Steam rose up; he raised his head, his face dripping wet, looked at the blurred face in the mirror and inexplicably zoned out. His eyes were sore—probably from the water. Xu Yan reached out and wiped the mirror, saw his own reddened eye sockets.

He too had annoyed Shen Zhi for so many years, how was he still not used to it—still getting upset, still getting embarrassed over such small things.

Busy at the Company all morning, only finding time near lunch, Xu Yan lay on his desk, opened his phone, and sent Shen Zhi a WeChat message: Did you go to the Company today? Is your head still dizzy? If you're dizzy, take a nap and rest.

Shen Zhi had just finished a meeting. When his assistant handed him his phone, the screen happened to light up; he glanced at the message preview, hadn't even seen it clearly when the project director rushed to his side, opened a file and started speaking hurriedly: 'President Shen, just now from the marketing department...' Shen Zhi pressed his brow, took the materials—his head was still a little dizzy.

Until he got off work, that WeChat message still hadn't received any response, not even the usual 'oh' or 'mm' type perfunctory replies. Xu Yan packed up and left work. On the subway everyone was packed in shoulder to shoulder; he leaned against the car door, looked at the reflection in the glass, the tunnel outside whooshed past. Xu Yan guessed Shen Zhi was still angry—angry that he'd suddenly appeared yesterday, angry that he'd turned and walked away in front of everyone... angry that he'd shamelessly annoyed him for years.

Thinking about it that way, Shen Zhi had it pretty tough too.

When he got home, Xu Yan went to the kitchen to cook. The household hadn't hired a Bao Mu; only a cleaning service came regularly, and he did most of the housework. When Shen Zhi opened the door, Xu Yan had just turned off the range hood and was tidying the counter. He was still wearing an apron over a white shirt. Xu Yan was actually a decent person—a department manager at a listed Company, capable with a handsome income, good physique and looks—but unfortunately, he was shameless.

But only shameless toward Shen Zhi alone.

'You're back.' Xu Yan brought dishes to the table, ladled out a bowl of soup for Shen Zhi, said, 'If you're still not feeling well, drink more soup, go to bed early tonight.' He took off the apron, loosened his tie, sat down in the chair. Shen Zhi walked to the seat opposite him. Passing by Xu Yan's side, he glanced down and saw that bruise on the side of Xu Yan's neck, standing out a bit against the fair skin, only hidden by the shirt collar.

Shen Zhi slightly frowned, his thumb and index finger pads unconsciously rubbed together—his hand was strangely a little itchy.

After dinner, Shen Zhi leaned on the sofa reading, Xu Yan nestled into the beanbag chair, turned on the projector, casually found a quiet movie to watch. The living room was dark, only the floor lamp beside Shen Zhi was lit. Xu Yan's whole body sank softly into the chair, gradually grew drowsy, looked at the screen, then turned to look at Shen Zhi's profile—wanted to tell him not to read in this kind of light, why not go to the study. But still didn't say it, afraid of disturbing him. Xu Yan closed his eyes, and drifted off in the blurred sound of pages turning and movie dialogue.

When he woke up, the movie was already ending, the white credits slowly scrolling against the black background. Shen Zhi had at some point sat on the end closer to the beanbag chair, propping his chin watching the big screen, but also seemed to be looking down at Xu Yan—Xu Yan wasn't sure. They were close. Xu Yan reached up and gently pressed his hand on Shen Zhi's knee, just woken, his voice a bit hoarse, asked him, 'Aren't you tired? Let's go up and sleep.'

Shen Zhi answered an unrelated question: 'What did you come back for yesterday.'

What else could it be—came back early specifically to spend your birthday with you, even though you didn't need it. Xu Yan smiled and said, 'Finished up things and came back, forgot to tell you. Definitely next time.'

Definitely next time. Xu Yan had said this who knows how many times, and he had indeed always followed through. It was just that he seemed to always be getting blamed—when he said something, when he accidentally disturbed Shen Zhi... Shen Zhi had never given him a standard. When Xu Yan did something, he didn't know when he might cross Shen Zhi's line, and then be coldly questioned.

Only he was accommodating, learning, like a toddler taking his first unsteady steps, learning to love Shen Zhi in a way Shen Zhi could accept. Shen Zhi never offered any hint; Xu Yan was always figuring out those rules from his cold expressions and words. He was used to it.

Shen Zhi didn't speak. Xu Yan suddenly crooked a finger at him, said, 'Come closer.'

Shen Zhi looked at him. Xu Yan smiled lazily, half his face lit by the dim warm light, with a kind of good-looking that only young men have. Shen Zhi leaned down, moved closer, face expressionless, asked coldly, 'What.'

This time it was Xu Yan's turn not to speak. He reached out and wrapped his arm around Shen Zhi's neck, tilted his head up and kissed him. Together for years, where to kiss, how to kiss to get Shen Zhi to respond quickly—Xu Yan knew best. He sucked on Shen Zhi's lower lip, brushed his chin, fingers rubbing through the hair at the back of his head. Shen Zhi's breathing grew heavier. Xu Yan let go, said softly, 'I just woke up. If you're not tired, let's do it.'

They kissed again. Shen Zhi hooked Xu Yan behind the knees and lifted him up, pressing him onto the sofa. Xu Yan unbuckled his own belt, then fumbled to unbuckle Shen Zhi's. His shirt was crumpled into a ball, buttons pulled open by Shen Zhi, collar loose, tie not removed, hanging loosely around his neck. Shen Zhi's palm cradled the back of Xu Yan's neck, two fingers pressed into the side of his neck—the bruise there hadn't faded yet, his fingertips pressed against it, fit perfectly. His hand finally stopped itching.

Xu Yan tilted his head back, exposed his throat, vulnerable and unguarded. Shen Zhi bit down on it; Xu Yan, in pain, hugged his back. Everywhere hurt, but Xu Yan liked it—he knew Shen Zhi liked it too. Liked making him hurt.

Pain was good too, better than numbness. Having armored his heart for too long, Xu Yan easily fell into confusion. He wasn't afraid of blandness; he was afraid of the other party's indifference, even more afraid that under Shen Zhi's coldness he would gradually come to see clearly and let go. He was willing to grind down his own edges, smooth them, then have a hole chiseled out, smooth again, cycle repeating—one day he would become the one most perfectly fitted to Shen Zhi.

Apart from Xu Yan himself, no one could make him give up. Shen Zhi couldn't either.