Chapter Text
A bell jingles cheerfully as someone steps out of one of the many quaint stores lining the street. Luo Binghe makes his own coffee at home, but he always keeps an eye out when he walks past a cafe, in case they had some fresh-baked good on display he hadn’t tried making yet. Sure enough, he glances through the large window taking up the majority of the front of the shop and spots a cherry tart with some sort of pistachio crumb on top.
He turns away from the display, preparing to head inside and buy a slice to take home and study, too busy trying to figure out if it's a sucrée or sablée crust to notice the door chime again, closer this time. Suddenly he feels a warm body stumble into his chest and then bounce back off of it. A very warm body. Hot, almost, where it made contact with him. He looks down and sees a large dark stain forming on the front of his sweater. Ah. How cliche.
Sprawled on the ground is a man, bundled up in several layers of coat and sweater, a long, pale green scarf falling loose onto the damp, slush-covered sidewalk beside him. He sits speechlessly for a second before his eyes dart from the spill on his clothes, to the comically large cup that’s rolled a few feet away, lid split off and missing, and lastly to his empty hand, still clenched as if holding onto something.
A beat passes like that, the man gaping at his empty fingers as Binghe glowers down at him. He springs to his feet and starts spluttering out apologies. Binghe should probably slap on a charming, non-threatening smile, shrug off the offense, and move on, but he’s not feeling especially charitable. It was tea, at least, not coffee that had been split on the wool sweater, but it was old. The fibres were delicate, not well-suited to a rigorous stain-removing scrub. He watched as the man grew increasingly flustered, staring resolutely at the ground and rambling off more and more inane excuses. It’s almost impressive, how little sense he’s making. Half the words he’s saying don’t even sound like they belong to human language.
And then Binghe gets a little bit of breath punched out of his chest. The man’s glasses, which had frosted up in the cold, have fallen down his nose, and he looks up at Binghe with large, glossy eyes. Which went from pleading to narrowed, a furrow forming on his forehead. Finally becoming irked by Binghe’s lack of response. Hm.
He decides to push it.
"This was a gift from my mother," he says.
"One of the few I have left." The man's brows knit further together.
"She’s dead," he adds for emphasis, in case it wasn’t coming across clearly enough. It was true, but he hoped she’d forgive him for using her like this. The man blanches, his already pale face going stark white. Go on then, Binghe thinks, show him some pity, say you’re sorry, and spend the rest of your day feeling like trash.
After a moment of frozen indecision, he bends over and fetches his scarf off the ground. Was he just going to leave, walk away and forget about this whole interaction?
Instead, in a flash of movement, the man loops it around Binghe’s neck.
"This was a gift from my sister, so. It’s not the same, but…" He mutters, still holding on to its tasselled ends, his hands just barely brushing Binghe’s chest.
He wanted him to be happy with a dirty rag he’d just scraped off of a filthy sidewalk?
And somehow, he was. There was something small and burning inside him, much hotter than the tea had been. He touches the scarf, tentatively, and stares at it. It’s soft.
It is then abruptly tugged from his hold, chafing at his neck as it goes. He follows the movement, looking up, and the man has backed up a few steps and gone bright red. He opens and shuts his mouth wordlessly before scrunching up his whole face and letting out a strangled groan.
"I’m so sorry. That was so weird. I. I…" He trails off, chewing his lip, scuffing his foot in the grey, day-old snow. He gives another halfhearted tug at the scarf. Binghe stares down at the top of his head a little longer, his gaze sharp and assessing.
"Taking it back already? I thought you were sorry." He finally lets a smile come to his face. He’s surprised to find he doesn’t have to fake it.
The man snaps his eyes up and grimaces, regardless. He admits that it was a little mocking.
"Thank you. You’re forgiven," he adds, softer. Dangerously close to genuine. He prys open the other’s fingers, which were stiffly curled around the scarf, and wraps it snuggly back around his own neck.
The man looks shocked. Is this not the outcome he’d been going for when he handed it over? Too bad. It was Binghe’s, now.
Several expressions, each more distraught than the last, pass over his face. He turns white, then pink, before finally going completely blank. He spins on his heel and all but runs away. A few bewildered pedestrians move hurriedly aside as he goes.
Binghe stands there, breathing deeply into the subtle fragrance of tea and bamboo left on the scarf tickling his nose.
It's a long time before he makes his own way home, snow slowly starting to drift from the sky.
He finds himself standing outside the front of the same coffee shop.
After all, he had been interrupted, even if that wasn’t the real reason he came back. If the stranger from yesterday didn’t shop up, he’d at least have the excuse of buying a slice of the forgotten tart, though he knew it wouldn’t taste as sweet following failure.
To his luck, he spots him through the window. Same overlarge coat, lumpy, no doubt from being stuffed to the seams with no less than three separate sweaters just like yesterday.
He gets as far as opening the door but takes a scant few steps inside and is forced to undergo an extreme sense of deja vu as the man in front of him grabs his drink and whirls around, slamming right into Binghe’s chest again. He doesn’t get as far as falling over this time, because Binghe’s instincts kick in fast enough to catch him, wrapping one arm around a small waist, the other hand coming up to support his head.
The man stares up at Binghe, mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. His hair is soft and downy where Binghe’s hands thread through it at the back.
The coffee cup makes a dull thud as it drops to the floor. It bounces, valiantly holding together, until it lands again and promptly splits open and splatters loudly, splashing his shoes.
“We’ve got to stop running into each other like this,” he quips, pitching his voice low and alluring, but the man doesn’t seem to hear him, transfixed on the puddle on the ground. Going into shock over what is essentially little more than spilt milk. Binghe feels reluctant to let go before he can get any real mileage out of the pose, but it doesn't seem like he’s going to get a reaction any time soon.
That is, until the man's head turns slowly back to take stock of himself, waist cradled delicately, his legs nearly interlaced with Binghe’s own, and he flushes bright red and scrambles back. So many interesting shades he’s seen that face turn into. He opens his mouth to say something but snaps it back shut when he makes eye contact with Binghe. Or, more importantly, with the pale scarf wrapped around his neck.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He’d thought about leaving it at home. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to be recognised. The first impression he’d made was… not great. He’d been in a bad mood from the start, he only came to realise later. There was no real reason behind it, but it bled through to their meeting. Lately, everything seemed to grate at him.
Now, though?
He was in peak condition. He hadn’t slept much, mind turning over the first few minutes of excitement he’d had in ages, but losing a few hours had never held him back. Not least of all today, when luck was going his way, to drop his stranger almost into his lap, and he couldn’t keep a smirk off his face.
It doesn’t quite work, as the man’s flush recedes as he mutters an ‘oh my god’ under his breath. And then he steadies himself, inhaling deeply.
“Tea or coffee,” he asks. Binghe raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, let me buy you a drink. To say sorry. Again.” Binghe is about to suggest that he take up that offer later that night instead, but the man whips around to face the counter. He stares resolutely up at the long list of options written up on the wall, behind the worker who doesn’t bother trying to hide the way he’s been watching this all unfold.
“You really don’t have to. If anything, I should be the one offering. I’m the reason you lost two of your own already.”
“No way.” The man barks at him, glaring, before his eyes catch on the scarf again and he has to turn away in embarrassment.
“You– I— That—— Ugh. I can’t believe I tripped over my own feet and spilt my tea on you, twice. Please, just—” He breaks off what was almost a whine and sighs, dropping his head into his hands.
“Please just let me buy you something.”
“I can’t say no if you’re asking so nicely,” he demures, but inside he’s burning. He thinks he might be enamoured, just a little, as he watches this stranger act so ashamed over what anyone else would angrily deny was their fault.
The barista, tired of waiting, asks for his order. He hadn’t bothered to check what they offered, more interested in his new companion, so he picks a drink at random that earns him a badly disguised look of judgement from the man next to him, who rattles off the overlong name of his own drink, an ‘Orange Pekoe Morning Sunshine’. Binghe wonders if he’s ordered the same thing three times in a brown now.
He goes to pay for half anyways, but the man glares at him again, so he relents. It’s a debt he’s willing to find time to repay. They shuffle off to the side, but as soon as he’s about to finally ask for a name, the man’s phone goes off, making him jump. He digs through a deep pocket and drags out the offending item, cutely disgruntled. He then quickly becomes horrified in response to whatever he sees. He stuffs the phone back into his coat and almost runs to the door.
Binghe, who has been through this once already, hastily grabs onto the man’s wrist before he can dart off. He jerks backwards slightly from being stopped and turns with a confused expression, and then he realises what he was doing.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, but I really have to go. I paid, right?” The barista, making their drinks and blatantly staring again, nods.
“Right. Enjoy your coffee! And, uh, my tea,” he finishes with a weak smile, and shakes out of his grip, stepping out into the street.
Binghe stares. He slipped away, again. He watches as a throng of people sweep past the shop, allowing the man to vanish into the crowd.
He stares blankly into the distance. Soon enough the drinks are done.
Maybe his luck hasn’t turned after all, because the barista puts the two cups down, he calls out,
“Shen Yuan!”
Shen Yuan, in response to the gentle nudging (nearly outright begging) of his family, has started a new routine.
In the morning, he gets up. As in, he wakes up earlier than midday. It was crazy how much more light the apartment got when he had more than a couple of hours in his day before sunset, and he begrudgingly admitted that he didn’t feel quite as much of the murky fatigue he usually did around this time of year, with the days growing shorter to spite him.
When it wasn’t as freezing, he liked to step out onto the balcony and breath in the fresh air. His parents nagged him about being in the penthouse, fretting about fires and elevator breakdowns, but Shen Yuan liked the freedom he got from standing above all the other buildings.
After rolling out of bed, he showers, gets into clean(ed by his housekeeper), non-pyjama clothes, and goes outside. Every. Day.
It was exhausting.
They’d tried to spin it as a way to lower his blood pressure or get more vitamins or whatever, a never-ending stream of medical professionals hemming and hawing at him at his parents' behest.
Shen Yuan thinks his family is more worried about him becoming a complete asocial shut-in than any risk to his health at this point. He knows they worry less when he follows whatever their latest scheme to enrich his life is, so he goes along with it anyways. He lov—, likes them, but sometimes he feels more like a precious pampered poodle than their son. And now they’ve got him taking himself out for walks.
Despite all his moaning, it was all going FINE until he tripped over thin air and into the unfairly firm pecs of some tall, dark, and handsome asshole straight out of a crappy romance novel. TWICE!!!
Internally, Shen Yuan is aghast. How. In the fuck. Did he manage to spill not just one, but TWO hot drinks on the same man? Was he going fully blind behind his glasses??
But you know what? He was mature. He was a normal adult, going about his business, who definitely didn’t have to psych himself up for two hours to leave the house that morning, effectively putting him back to square one in his parent-approved lifestyle.
But. He couldn’t. Stop. Thinking about it!! He was always spiralling back to his latest embarrassing display, which had happened in the very place he had centred his new normal around.
The first time was bad enough. He’d been waiting for the guy to apologise or tell him to fuck off, he didn’t really care which, and had instead gotten the full silent treatment followed by a complete non-sequitur of a tragic backstory. Shen Yuan, who doesn’t do the best in even the most normal of social situations, panicked, and dumped meimei’s present on him before admitting defeat and making a tactical retreat.
The second time, though? He was deeply relieved when his phone interrupted, reminding him about the doctor’s appointment he’d already slept through and rescheduled three times already. If he missed another one, his brother would throttle him. So he’d darted off, and once again, put the whole thing out of his mind. Especially the fact that the stranger was wearing his scarf!! Seriously, what was he thinking, giving it to him in the first place? And why was he actually WEARING IT!!?
Not thinking about it. He never has to think about it again, if he can help it.
So now he was standing outside in the middle of winter, slowly freezing to death as he stared at his phone, trying to find any other highly-rated, diverse-menued, within-walking-distance-to-his-apartment cafes in the area.
Slim pickings. And he did still want to try that new tea they had, even after failing so miserably at getting some so far.
For lack of a better option, he finds himself going the same way he’s used to, unable to brush off the lingering shame as he lets muscle memory take him to his destination. Surely, it would be fine. The scarf-stealing stranger had been there the two days before, but at 10 am, when Shen Yuan usually made his pilgrimage to secure a hot drink and occasionally a pastry. Surely, he had no chance of a third repeat.
And yet, when he nears the coffee shop, where he would normally just barge straight in to get it all over with as soon as possible, he checks who’s inside, just to be safe.
Sitting at one of the cosy tables, in a low, overstuffed armchair, is the romance novel protagonist in all his glory. And, yup, tucked under his long, artful curls is his goddamn cashmere scarf.
Shen Yuan refuses to deal with this. He walks straight past, taking the long way home, where he digs out some old, probably-stale green tea that he burns when he makes it, and resolutely does not cry into a pillow about the injustice of the world.
Maybe he screams into it, just a bit.
Binghe has been waiting in the over-hot coffee shop for hours when Shen Yuan shows up. When Shen Yuan stops outside the door, looks straight at him, and then walks away.
Binghe turns up the next day in a face mask and glasses, his hair braided and tucked up into a beanie. He makes sure to sit at a different table. He’s still wearing the scarf, but it’s hidden under his coat.
Shen Yuan turns up on time today but still takes a moment to scan the interior of the cafe, gliding right over Binghe before he steps inside. It stung a little to be proven right about why he hadn’t come in, but he makes up for it. He’s able to stare unabashedly from where he’s been grouped in with all the other unimportant people, too absorbed in their own lives to see the fascinating creature in their midst.
Shen Yuan orders, the most composed Binghe has seen him. He goes for a new but just as oddly named tea, a ‘Monks Pear Silver Needle’.
Binghe had tried the one from yesterday, found it overly sweet and floral, and had tipped the rest out into the trash. Today, he’d finally ordered that tart, sitting half-finished on a plate in front of him, just as bad.
The barista calls out Shen Yuan’s name, and he collects his drink. He heads for the door, then thinks better of it, making his way to sit at the table across from Binghe. He’s glad he chose to camp out in the quieter part of the store.
He watches from the corner of his eye as Shen Yuan takes a sip and burns his tongue. He frowns and swipes idly at his phone until it cools a little, and then he tries it again, more successfully this time. Binghe feels a curl of the same pleasure he sees on Shen Yuan’s face deep in his gut.
They stay like that, Shen Yuan sipping his drink, Binghe occasionally taking small bites of his cake to keep up appearances. They share an amiable silence, set apart from the muffled chatter of the other customers.
Eventually it has to end as Shen Yuan stands, rolls his shoulders, tugs his coat back on, and leaves.
Binghe lags behind. He buys the same drink Shen Yuan had before he follows suit, and even though the sweetness is cloying, he drinks the whole thing down.
They come to follow a schedule.
Binghe will come early and buy a pastry that he can pick at for the next half-hour or so until Shen Yuan arrives. He’s inconsistent, sometimes making Binghe wait until the afternoon until he stumbles in, hair windswept and generally dishevelled. He’s always bundled up in the same coat, even when it got warmer out.
Then Shen Yuan would order, different each day. Always a tea, never with milk. Every now and then he gets something from the small bakery display (nowhere near as good as anything Bighe could have made) and finds a table in the least occupied area of the cafe. He’ll pull out his phone, or, as he’d taken to bringing, a laptop.
Binghe observes his every move, every micro-expression that flits across his face as he stares into whichever screen he’s chosen for the day. When Shen Yuan leaves, Binghe will recite his order to the barista, and leave. He finds himself imagining how they would taste in stolen sips from Shen Yuan’s own cup. From his mouth.
He always finishes, savouring the way the bergamot or honey or whatever flavour Shen Yuan had chosen for that day would linger for hours on his tongue.
Binghe is almost happy, in a way he hasn’t been since he was young. What had started as an idle curiosity has become a comforting habit. No matter what else is going on in his life, he can sit down in his regular seat in the cafe and be calmed. When Shen Yuan turns up, his heart races.
He thinks he must have been lonely, to latch on to the first stranger who showed him a touch of kindness, who acted a little bit more interesting than the masses. He can’t find it in him to fight it, the way he falls deeper into… something, each day he watches Shen Yuan nibble at a croissant and fiddle with his phone. Entirely innocuous, completely unaware of how he’s captured Binghe’s attention.
It’s intoxicating.
And then Shen Yuan stops showing up.
Binghe dutifully arrives each morning and lingers well into the afternoon, but he doesn’t come.
After three weeks, Binghe gives up.
He regrets ever setting eyes on Shen Yuan. Indulging so unthinkingly, so obliviously, not forcing himself to stop earlier. Now, without it, he feels empty.
He hadn’t noticed how barren his life had become until he felt a spark of something worthwhile, only to watch it fizzle out and die before it could catch.
Shen Yuan had seemed tired, in the days leading up to his disappearance. His face, already naturally thin, had turned almost gaunt.
Binghe had been too comfortable in his routine, too afraid to break the spell and risk ruining everything.
Now he had nothing again anyway.
His thoughts are dark as he wanders the streets late one night, too restless to sit still or go to sleep. He finds himself walking a familiar route, pushed forwards by his melancholy, the feeling compounding each time he finds himself in the dark shadows between streetlights.
When he makes it to the stoop of the cafe, against all reason, the lights are on, a single point of light on an otherwise pitch-black road. Like a moth drawn to a flame, peers inside, and nearly chokes on the crushing wave of euphoria he feels.
Because inside the cafe is Shen Yuan. He’s huddled in one of the booths, several cups scattered around him, tapping at his laptop keyboard.
Binghe isn’t—ready for this, hadn’t expected it. He’s wearing the scarf, bright and obvious around his neck. No mask, no glasses, nothing to disguise himself with. Not even a hair tie on his wrist to hide his easily recognised mane. He ends up waiting in the alleyway next to the shop. No one else was out this late to see him lurking there. More importantly, he wouldn’t scare Shen Yuan away.
His heart is beating loudly the whole time, almost painfully, rattling his chest. Nothing ever goes right for him, but it’s so hard not to hope, knowing Shen Yuan is sitting just a few metres away.
It’s not long until that familiar little bell above the door chimes, ringing clear into the night, and Shen Yuan steps out.
Binghe is pulled along in a daze, following just far enough away to not be suspected. He can’t bear the thought of any more distance between them right now.
Together, they end up in front of a tall apartment building, sleek metal and glass towering high above them. Binghe lingers outside, and watches as the glow of the lobby bathes Shen Yuan in golden light. He disappears into an elevator. Binghe watches the number above it climb.
He stays until the next morning, his eyelids feeling like sandpaper every time he blinks. Waits until Shen Yuan exits the building once more, blinking blearily into the morning sun. Binghe feels his heart pick up again, on cue, the thump-thump-thump of it drumming through his veins.
He’s in the apparently 24/7 cafe yet again, currently buffeted by the morning rush. Logically, he knows that Shen Yuan won’t be here this early, not anymore. But if there was any chance, no matter how small, that he would miss him, he couldn't risk it.
He hadn’t bothered going home. He’d grabbed a pack of masks from a convenience store on the way, putting one on and throwing the rest in the trash, beelining for the coffee shop.
As the day drags on, it quiets. The barista working today, some new girl he doesn’t recognise from when he was coming regularly, has been shooting him looks that get less subtle with every passing minute until she steps away from the counter and comes over to his table.
"Can I get you anything?" She smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Any other day, Binghe might’ve been tempted to say some pretty words and watch easy infatuation wash over her face, but the urge isn’t there. It’s the opposite.
The girl shifts in place, waiting.
"People normally come up to order, but that’s okay! We don’t have a menu I can hand out, but if you know what you want, I can bring it over, no problem!"
He wants her gone. What if Shen Yuan came in while she was here, distracting him? He says nothing and directs his attention back towards the door, even if the sun glaring through the glass is giving him a headache.
"I’m really sorry, but if you’re going to stay in here I need you to order something."
He almost respects her nerve, except for how her voice cracks when he looks at her. He’d been told he had a cold face, once, fit to match his name. He’d learned to soften it, to make himself seem more approachable.
He isn’t doing that now.
He cocks his head, slow and deliberate.
"If I order something, you’ll leave me alone?"
She eyes him warily above her customer service smile, but very obviously doesn’t want to push this any further if she doesn’t have to, and nods.
He buys a single cup of black coffee.
His attention flickers over each new person who passes by, their features blurring into nothing more than abstract colours as he waits for a flash of black and jade.
He notes umbrellas and raincoats starting to be brought into the fray, as it starts to drizzle outside. It worries him. He would be fine, but…
Shen Yuan seemed so—not quite frail, but delicate. Needing to be handled with care. Maybe he wouldn’t come today.
No.
He would.
Or Binghe would…
He’s going to come.
He recognises, absently, that he’s probably supposed to be somewhere. Doing something. At his father’s company, sprung on him out of nowhere, trapping him in its claws. He wonders if someone’s registered him to be on leave. The doorbell jingles, and the thought is pushed from his mind. But it’s not him.
The girl from earlier, the barista, comes over. His coffee sits cold and untouched on the table.
Pointedly, he takes a sip, ignoring the unpleasant taste, and she goes away.
He’s being treated like a pest. Like he used to, before he found out how to make himself wanted.
It should be crushing him. He doesn’t care.
The sun sets, and a worker flips the overhead lights on. It’s the usual man now, the girl having finished her shift hours ago.
The rain outside thickens into a downpour.
Eventually, the door swings open again. Brown coat, houndstooth, soaked through and buttoned all the way up, a hood pulled over their head. Binghe turns back to the street. No one is there. He stares listlessly down at his cup of coffee, the fatigue starting to set in.
He nearly falls out of his seat when he hears the familiar shout of Shen Yuan’s name. He whips around, and he’s there, in the houndstooth, walking up to the pick-up counter.
His nose is pink.
Binghe wants to eat him alive.
He peels out of his chair, his legs stiff from staying still so long, and makes his way over.
"What drink did you get?" he asks urgently, the first thing he could think of.
"It’s a, uh, White Peony Peach Tranquility?" Shen Yuan phrases it like a question, his voice muffled by the high collar obscuring his mouth.
Binghe hums in acknowledgement, looming over Shen Yuan, drinking in the sight of him. Then, using the self-control he was lacking a few moments ago, he steps aside with a murmured ‘thank you’.
Shen Yuan goes to leave but hesitates at the door. He glances back at Binghe, who is obviously staring at him, and. He smiles. The bottom half of his face is covered, but his eyes crinkle up into crescents.
Binghe feels like he’s dying. Like someone’s ripping his lungs into pulpy tatters. It’s intoxicating. He never wants this moment to end.
Of course, it does, as Shen Yuan exits, followed by the ringing of the bell.
Binghe manages to hold off for all of 30 seconds before bolting out after him.
He stumbles forwards, eyes locked on Shen Yuan’s silhouette until they’re almost nearing his building, following the same path as the previous night. Binghe had made sure to memorise it.
He hadn’t been recognised, despite not wearing any disguise. He tells himself it's fine. It means that when he finally does make his move, Shen Yuan will see him how he wants to be seen.
Fueled by the remains of his earlier adrenaline, he pulls up the hood of his jacket and speeds up. He bumps into Shen Yuan, and his hand darts quickly in and out of the other man’s pocket.
"What—"
"Sorry," he clips out, already slipping away into the shadows before Shen Yuan can realise what had happened.
Clutched in his fist is a plain leather wallet, and he pulls out a small, sleek keycard.