Chapter Text
It all started the night before Chu Wanning's sixteenth birthday on a cold Sunday evening—with the crushing realization that he'd accomplished absolutely nothing productive at Xue Meng's house despite his best intentions.
He'd gone over with his notebook and every good intention of finishing their literature essays that were due Monday morning. Instead, they'd spent the entire afternoon arguing about whether the Tang Dynasty poets were being deliberately obtuse or if their modern translations were just terrible. Xue Meng had somehow turned that into a heated debate about whether ancient people were smarter than modern people, which had devolved into them looking up increasingly ridiculous historical facts on their phones until Huaizui texted him to come home for dinner.
Now, sitting cross-legged on his bed with textbooks scattered around him like accusatory evidence of his procrastination, Chu Wanning rummaged through his bag with growing panic.
"No..." he muttered, upending the bag completely. Pens, highlighters, and crumpled papers spilled across his dark blue comforter, but no notebook. The notebook with three weeks' worth of carefully organized notes and half his essay already written.
He fell backwards onto his bed with an aggrieved sigh, one arm thrown across his eyes as a river of indignant mumblings slipping out of his mouth.
His phone lay somewhere in the chaos of his bedside table, buried under textbooks and knick knacks, and the novel he'd been meaning to finish for two months. As he groped blindly for it, his fingers knocked it straight off the table.
The loud thunk as it hit the hardwood floor seemed to echo in the quiet of his room.
Chu Wanning lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, before letting out a long, suffering sigh. He stretched down to retrieve his phone, squinting at the bright screen as he scrolled to Xue Meng's contact. The ridiculous selfie Xue Meng had set as his contact photo—all peace signs and tongue sticking out—grinned back at him mockingly.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
Just as Chu Wanning was about to hang up with a frustrated lick of his tongue, the line connected with a burst of static.
"Hello, Xue Meng speaking."
Chu Wanning jerked the phone away from his ear, blinking in confusion. The voice was deep, warm, and definitely not belonging to his fifteen-year-old friend. It was a man's voice, confident along with…something else that made Chu Wanning's fingers twitch around his phone.
He double-checked the number displayed on his screen. Definitely Xue Meng's.
"Hello? Anyone there?" The voice had a slight rasp to it as it continued to echo through his phone. "Hellooo?"
"Who is this?" Chu Wanning asked carefully, his natural suspicion kicking in.
"It's me, Mengmeng! Who else would it be?" There was clear amusement in the stranger's tone. "You don't recognize your friend's voi—"
"You're not Xue Meng." Chu Wanning's response was flat, unimpressed. "Could you please put him on the phone?"
A burst of laughter came through the speaker, rich and genuinely entertained rather than mocking. "Ahhh, you're so cold, not even going to humour me a little bit? Fine, fine, I’ll get Mengmeng for you."
Before Chu Wanning could respond with what would undoubtedly be a cutting remark about juvenile pranks, he heard Xue Meng's familiar voice in the background, pitched high with indignation.
"Ge!!! What are you doing with my phone?!"
"What, scared I'll find your secret girlfriend?" The stranger's voice was moving away from the phone, but Chu Wanning could still hear the grin in it.
"Give it back!"
"Ask nicely."
"I am not—just give it back!"
"All you have to do is say please. I know Auntie raised you with better manners than this!”
The sounds of scuffling came through clearly—Xue Meng's increasingly frustrated protests punctuated by what sounded suspiciously like the phone being held just out of reach. Chu Wanning could picture it perfectly: Xue Meng jumping for his phone while someone taller dangled it above his head like they were still children.
"This is ridiculous," Chu Wanning muttered, but he found himself reluctant to hang up. He was rather keen on getting his notebook back tonight, so he kept listening despite his growing irritation.
"Aiya, so spoiled! Come on, Mengmeng, don't pout. I haven’t been home in so long and you’re already giving me attitude, come here, your gege will teach you some manners—"
"I'm not pouting! And stop calling me that!"
More scuffling, a sound that might have been Xue Meng finally tackling whoever had his phone, the stranger’s barking laugh fading away, the loud slam of a door, and then finally, blessed silence.
"Sorry about that," Xue Meng's voice came through slightly breathless. "My brother's being an ass. He didn't say anything weird to you, did he?"
"Your brother?" Chu Wanning sat up straighter, curiosity slightly taking over his earlier annoyance. He’d never met Xue Meng’s brother since the man had long since moved out when he’d first befriended Xue Meng.
"Yeah, Mo Ran. He's visiting for a few days before his next fight or whatever. Complete pain in my ass, as you just heard."
“A fight?” Chu Wanning frowned.
“The damn dog throws punches and whatnot for a living. You like that stuff, right? He’s no good though.” Xue Meng huffed, seeming pleased with himself for knocking his brother down a few notches to someone. "Anyway, what's up? You usually never call."
Chu Wanning was momentarily distracted by this new information. Xue Meng had never mentioned his brother fought professionally—
"Wanning? You still there?"
"Right, sorry." Chu Wanning shook himself back to the present crisis. "I think I left my notebook at your house. The one with all my literature notes? I need it to finish the essay."
"Hold on, let me check my room."
The phone went quiet except for the sound of Xue Meng moving around, presumably searching. Chu Wanning found himself wondering about his brother—Mo Ran. The name suited the voice somehow, strong and straightforward. Chu Wanning knew little about him, only that he was 31, and, as Xue Meng had put it so eloquently, a pain in the ass. But Xue Meng said he fought professionally, which meant what exactly? Boxing? Mixed martial arts?
Chu Wanning, over the past three years, had developed quite an interest in the latter. He had discovered MMA by accident, stumbling across a fight while channel-surfing. He’d been transfixed by the technical precision, the strategy, the way the fighters could turn their opponents’ strength against them. It was like watching ancient martial arts philosophy made manifest in modern combat.
But it was Taxian-Jun who captured his complete attention. Chu Wanning had discovered him when he’d already been well established into his flourishing career, and only fell deeper into this guilty pleasure interest of his. Taxian-Jun’s technique was flawless—a devastating combination of striking and grappling that reminded Chu Wanning of the warrior poets he studied. His confidence, his fluid movement, the way he dominated the cage with such apparent ease.
Chu Wanning had become what could only be described as obsessed. The irony wasn't lost on him that he, who had never shown interest in any physical activity beyond the occasional reluctant PE class, was completely fascinated by professional fighting. He followed every fight, analysed every technique, memorised statistics and fight records. He'd even created anonymous social media accounts to follow MMA news, carefully hiding his interest from Huaizui, whose reaction to discovering his fascination with "sanctioned violence" would be...explosive, to say the least.
"Found it!" Xue Meng's triumphant declaration cut through his wandering thoughts. "It was wedged between my desk and the wall. You want me to bring it to school tomorrow, or do you need it tonight?"
"Tonight, if possible. I was hoping to finish the essay before bed."
"Sure, but I can't drive over right now. Mom and dad are out tonight and they won't be back until late." Xue Meng paused. “Wait, actually, Mo Ran has a car. Hold on, let me ask him if he could drop it off.”
Chu Wanning’s eyebrows furrowed at the suggestion. “That’s…you don’t need to bother him.”
“Trust me, it’s no bother. He’s been driving me crazy all night, might as well put him to good use.”
“It’s alright, I’ll come get it,” Chu Wanning interrupted, firmer than he intended. He couldn’t stomach the idea of some stranger, Xue Meng’s brother, no less, having to run his errand. “I’ll be there soon,” he finished, not waiting for Xue Meng to object before hanging up.
He stared at his phone for a moment, then exhaled, soft and sharp. The room, dim except for his desk lamp, felt too warm and too comfortable to leave. Responsibility pressed down on him, heavy and insistent. He shrugged on an old jacket that barely touched his wrists, debating for a split second whether it was worth searching out gloves or a scarf. It wasn’t.
Jacket half-zipped, he padded down the stairs and peeked into the living room. Huaizui sat upright on the couch with a laptop propped across his knees, dark eyes reflecting the pale blue glow of the screen.
Their gazes met, and Huaizui’s brow lifted only a fraction. “Where are you headed?” His tone was precise and clipped, a voice used to being obeyed.
Chu Wanning stood up straighter, hands straight by his side. “I left my book at Xue Meng’s place. I need it tonight for a school assignment.” He kept his voice steady, matter-of-fact.
A pause. Huaizui’s gaze flickered back to his laptop. “Last minute,” he observed dryly, unreadable.
Guilt prickled sharp and cold in Chu Wanning’s chest. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time. I’ll do better next time.”
An uninterested hum slipped past Huaizui’s lips pressed in impassiveness. “Go, then. And hurry back. Don’t dawdle in this cold.” It was as close to permission as he’d get, and already Huaizui’s attention had drifted away.
Chu Wanning pressed his lips together around the sound of a request that threatened to rise.
Could you drive me?
Instead, he nodded and muttered, soft as habit, “I’ll be back soon,” as if the words mattered to anyone. Sliding on his shoes by the door, he lingered for only a heartbeat, listening for some further acknowledgement. There was none.
He stepped out into the night, and the air slammed into him like a wall. Winter wind whipped through the empty street, sliding icy fingers along his neck, biting at any exposed inch of skin. He shivered, pulling his jacket tight around him and shoving his chin to his chest.
Eighteen minutes. He could walk it in less if he hurried, he told himself. Still, the cold stung, and with every step he felt the ache of solitude more sharply—alone in the dark, lit only by the harsh glow of distant streetlamps.
The world had shuttered itself in. Warm yellow squares of window light winked past as he moved; behind every pane, families gathered for warmth, for comfort, for dinners and lazy laughter. Chu Wanning, shuffling through brittle leaves and fighting the urge to hunch his shoulders against both weather and memory, never let himself hope for such things. Not from Huaizui. Not anymore.
He focused instead on the rhythm of his footsteps, the sound of concrete beneath his boots, the measured way air frosted with each exhale. Inch by slow inch, the distant outline of Xue Meng’s house began to emerge, red porch light burning welcome against the dark.
He squared his shoulders, hugged his arms tighter to his chest, and pressed on.
Chu Wanning rapped his knuckles loud and strong against the door in his frenzy to get out of the biting cold. It was a little louder than he expected, but whatever, maybe it would make Xue Meng come to the door faster if he heard the urgency behind his knock. Chu Wanning nearly exhaled a sigh of relief as the door swung open and warmth trickled out and brushed up against his cheeks, red with the cold.
“Hey! That took you a while, what happened?” Xue Meng’s voice burst out as soon as the door swung open, loud and irritated and unmistakably relieved. Warmth from the hallway hit Chu Wanning’s face; he all but dragged himself over the threshold, barely looking up.
Xue Meng frowned, poking his head out the door and scanning the street. Nothing but empty curb and starlit sidewalk. “Dude, did you walk? Are you crazy? It’s like a negative million degrees outside. What were you thinking?” Xue Meng scolded, but his friend was already kicking off frozen shoes, sighing with near-ecstatic relief at not being out in that biting wind anymore.
Chu Wanning mumbled a noncommittal “Mm,”. His numb fingers were only just beginning to tingle again.
Xue Meng rolled his eyes, grabbing his elbow and tugging him inside. “Whatever. Just come up, I’ve got your notebook in my room.” They hurried up the stairs, Xue Meng keeping up a steady stream of complaints: about the weather, the uselessness of winter, the fact that people should have evolved fur by now. Chu Wanning let it all wash over him, grateful for the distraction, grateful to be inside.
In the tiny organized chaos of Xue Meng’s room, Chu Wanning’s notebook waited on the desk, right where he’d left it. He snatched it up with a small, satisfied sound.
“So how are you getting home, anyway?” Xue Meng asked, flopping onto his unmade bed. “Don’t tell me you’re just going to walk back. It’s even colder now, dude. You’ll turn into a popsicle out there.”
Chu Wanning shrugged. “I walked here, didn’t I? It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
Xue Meng gawked, scandalized. “No, absolutely not. You’re not walking in this weather again. My brother has a car, he’ll drive you home. It’s literally not even five minutes. You’re not dying on my conscience.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and began texting with the undivided dedication he usually reserved for group project complaints.
Chu Wanning stiffened. “It’s really not necessary—”
“Oh, shut up, you nearly turned blue on my doorstep. He doesn’t mind.” Xue Meng craned his neck, shouting so loud that Chu Wanning flinched: “GE!!! Can you come up for a sec?”
Heavy footsteps ascended from the hall, steady and unhurried. Chu Wanning, holding his notebook to his front, glanced up—and then froze as soon as the figure reached the doorway.
It was him.
Chu Wanning blinked a few times because surely, he was seeing things wrong.
The man he’d watched a hundred times, every clipped interview and brutal highlight reel burned into his memory. In the soft light of Xue Meng’s bedroom, Mo Ran—Taxian-Jun in the cage, undefeated and unstoppable—looked even broader and more dangerous than he had in any fight footage. Dark eyes took in the scene, paused on Chu Wanning and held his gaze.
“Mengmeng, ahhh, do you have to text me when we’re in the same house?” Mo Ran asked, crossing his arms and leaning against Xue Meng’s doorway, easy and casual while shooting Chu Wanning a grin with a nod in greeting.
“My friend needs a ride. You can drive him, right?” Xue Meng said as he opted to ignore Mo Ran’s chiding, oblivious to the undercurrent suddenly charging the room.
Chu Wanning stared, throat gone dry, heart pounding as if he’d sprinted the entire walk. His notebook slipped from his nerveless fingers and fell to the floor with a muffled thud.
Mo Ran looked down at him, a quick, concerned smile crossing his lips. “You alright?”
But Chu Wanning couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, his gaze locked on Mo Ran’s face, on the tiny nick of an old scar above his brow, on those thick arms—those arms.
“Ta...T-Ta—” he stammered, brow knitting and eyes going wide in blank disbelief. Time seemed to slow. Was he hallucinating? Was this some weird, cold-induced dream?
He slapped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide, and jerked his head downwards to fix his stare on the floor, cheeks suddenly burning with a shock of embarrassment and disbelief.
Mo Ran raised an eyebrow, amusement sparking in his eyes as if he had heard a reaction like this before. “You need a ride, right?” His tone had warmed, edged with gentle humor.
Xue Meng snorted. “Yeah, ge, he’ll freeze if you don’t.”
Chu Wanning stayed glued to the spot, heart pounding in his throat. Mo Ran—Taxian-Jun—was here, real, right in front of him. He forced himself to nod, barely managing a muffled “Thank you,” from behind his hands.
Mo Ran’s gaze lingered, an amused smile curling his lips. “Hey, no problem. Let me know when you’re ready.”
Xue Meng watched Chu Wanning with open curiosity, missing the shock in his friend’s expression entirely. “Seriously, what’s up with you? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Chu Wanning just shook his head, bending down to retrieve his notebook with slightly trembling hands, eyes wide with bewilderment and disbelief he barely knew how to contain. Mo Ran was already heading back down, and the chill that had burrowed into Chu Wanning’s bones was replaced, abruptly, by a flush of adrenaline and anticipation.
He was going to ride in Taxian-Jun’s car. Alone. With Taxian-Jun. With Mo Ran. Alone.
The thought hit Chu Wanning like a slap of cold water.
His head whipped up, and before he could help himself, he lurched forward and grabbed Xue Meng’s arm, fingers digging hard enough that Xue Meng yelped.
“Are you coming with me?” Chu Wanning blurted, voice a desperate whisper teetering on the edge of being a plea and a command.
Xue Meng stared at him, wide-eyed and utterly confused. “Huh? Why would I—No, dude, the drive’s like five minutes. I’ve still got half this assignment to finish and you know it’s due tomorrow—” He trailed off, caught off-guard by the way Chu Wanning clung to his sleeve like a man dangling from a cliff. “What, are you scared of him or something?”
That was actually a pretty good question, and the answer was complicated. Chu Wanning’s mind was a cacophony of humiliation (for dropping his notebook), awe (for meeting his idol), and the dangerous, almost electric thrill and simultaneous horror of being alone with Mo Ran. That, and a nauseating level of stage fright.
Seeing his friend’s stricken pallor, Xue Meng softened. He patted Chu Wanning’s wrist awkwardly. “Look. My ge might be a world-class troll, but he’s not going to…like, suplex you out of nowhere. Just get in the car, let him annoy you for a few minutes, and you can text me every time you survive a round, okay?”
Chu Wanning let go, realising his hands were freezing and his face was probably on fire. He tried to muster some dignity, failed, and nodded mutely.
“He’s not that bad,” Xue Meng added, with the awkward sympathy of someone who’s never had to comfort a human being before in his life. “If he starts giving you shit, you can, uh, just mouth off at him. Actually, don’t do that, you’ll just encourage him.”
With a last squeeze to Chu Wanning’s shoulder, Xue Meng grinned—like someone completely and utterly oblivious—and nudged him toward the stairs.
“Go, go, he’s probably downstairs already. I’ll see you tomorrow at school, ‘kay?”
Chu Wanning finally found his voice. “…You’re sure he doesn’t mind?”
Xue Meng shrugged. “Yeah man, and even if he acts like you’re inconveniencing him, that’s probably just him messing with you. He’s annoying like that.”
Chu Wanning took a long, steadying breath and forced himself to move, legs feeling barely attached as he exchanged his goodbyes with Xue Meng. Every step toward the front door, down those narrow stairs, felt increasingly surreal.
Mo Ran was waiting in the entryway, keys twirling idly around one strong finger. He looked up as Chu Wanning approached, a mischievous smile curling on his lips as if he could sense every one of Chu Wanning’s scattered thoughts.
“Ready?” Mo Ran’s voice, easy and warm, somehow felt even more dangerous up close. Perhaps it was because Chu Wanning heard that same voice hurl threats and taunts countless times.
Chu Wanning nodded, swallowing so hard it hurt. “Yes. Sorry for the trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Mo Ran said, holding the front door open with a casual smile. In the cold outside, the world seemed sharper, stripped bare—stars glimmering, the wind biting and clean. Mo Ran’s car gleamed under a streetlamp, black and lacquered, with a covert luxury about it. Chu Wanning wondered if it was alright to leave a car like that parked outside rather than in the garage.
Chu Wanning slid into the passenger seat after typing his address into Mo Ran’s phone, clutching his rescued notebook with white-knuckled fingers. The air smelled faintly of peppermint and something sharper underneath—sweat, cologne, and everything Mo Ran. The door closed. Mo Ran settled behind the wheel and the car seemed to shrink, tension gathering in the small, heated space between them.
They were, impossibly, alone.
Mo Ran glanced over, his grin edged with something conspiratorial. “So you’re Chu Wanning, huh? Mengmeng’s told me a lot about you,” Mo Ran started, and Chu Wanning felt himself bristle at that—Taxian-Jun knew who he was. “He’s a little drama queen, isn’t he?”
“He’s…very sincere,” Chu Wanning managed, mortified by how soft his voice sounded.
Mo Ran laughed, and the sound was warm and rich, a shade deeper than anything Chu Wanning had heard inside a cage or through a TV speaker. He pulled the car away from the curb and smoothly down the quiet street, the street lights flickering along his jaw as he glanced over with playful accusation. “I hope he doesn’t give you half this much grief. Seriously, don’t believe half of what Mengmeng tells you about me. Kid’s got a talent for exaggeration. If you went by his version, you’d think I used to spend all my days scheming how to mess with him.”
Chu Wanning pressed the edge of his notebook tighter against his knees, searching for steady ground. “Not usually,” he managed, dry but with an unmistakable wobble. Total lie—he’d listened to possibly over a thousand stories about Xue Meng’s ‘damn dog of a brother’.
Mo Ran caught the hesitation and grinned. With one eyebrow arched, Mo Ran gave him a sidelong look that made it clear he wasn’t fooled for a second.
“That right? Hm, I’ll take your word for it,” Mo Ran added in mock-seriousness after a beat, “You know, I might not be an expert in everything, but I can always tell when a kid’s spinning a story.”
He flicked another look over, almost fond and clearly amused at catching Chu Wanning out. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first of Mengmeng’s friends to get talked into wild stories about what monsters older siblings are. I promise, I’m not nearly as scary as he makes me sound.”
With a quick, reassuring smile, Mo Ran nudged his attention back to the road ahead. Chu Wanning tried to muster up a response, but could only give a small hum. He forced himself to look out the window instead as they drove in silence.
“Hey,” Mo Ran said quietly as they slowed for a stoplight. “You know who I am, don’t you?”
Chu Wanning ripped his gaze away from the blurred world outside. Mo Ran’s expression had gone softer, not cocky, but understanding. Welcoming.
“I—I’ve watched all your fights,” Chu Wanning breathed. “You’re, um, Taxian-Jun.”
Mo Ran’s mouth quirked up, eyes brightening. “No way. A real fan, huh?” He grinned, genuinely pleased, and for a moment Chu Wanning could see him look more like someone’s mischievous older brother than a champion fighter. “Guess I better be on my best behaviour then. Wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation.”
Mo Ran let the air settle for a moment before leaning lightly towards Chu Wanning with a conspiratorial grin. “That make this ride more or less scary?” He asked.
Chu Wanning pressed his lips together, braver than expected. “I don’t know yet.”
Mo Ran laughed at that, bright and easy. “Okay, fair, fair. Well, no one’s ever lost a fight in my passenger seat, if it helps.” The light flipped green and he pressed the gas, all cheer as they rolled forward. “Honestly, you have way better odds in here than out in that wind.” Mo Ran jabbered, shaking his head as he turned the heater up another notch. “Seriously, what were you thinking? It’s freezing, and a kid shouldn’t be out alone when it’s this dark. You’re not even bundled up properly—look at you!”
Chu Wanning bristled on instinct, ready to shoot back something scathing—except his mouth went dry. This wasn’t just any annoying person. This was Taxian-Jun. He was sitting next to Taxian-Jun. His inner fire fizzled out, leaving only an awkward, defensive hiss.
Chu Wanning scowled, mouth flattening into a stubborn line. Mo Ran saw it as more of a pout than anything. “I’m not a kid,” he shot back, defensiveness prickling in his voice. “I’m turning sixteen tomorrow.”
Mo Ran let out a bark of laughter, tone somewhere between cheerful and exasperated. “Sixteen, huh? Already?” His eyes crinkled in genuine delight, nothing condescending. “In that case, happy almost-birthday. Still, sixteen or not, you’re definitely younger than me, and I’ve spent my whole life calling Xue Meng a kid too. You guys are in the same grade. Face it, you’re both still little in my eyes.”
Chu Wanning crossed his arms, not quite managing to hide his pout, cheeks warming at being so easily lumped together with Xue Meng.
Mo Ran grinned at him from the side, clearly enjoying the show. “Sooo, birthday boy…any big plans for tomorrow?”
Chu Wanning hesitated. “No plans,” he admitted, “It’s just a regular day. My guardian is not much for celebrations.”
There was a short silence while the windshield wipers swept aside a curl of fog. Then Mo Ran’s voice filled the space, “No plans at all? Well, that’s no fun.” Mo Ran paused, something akin to sympathy on his face. He flicked a glance over, a spark of mischief lurking behind his sympathy. “Tell you what—since I’m picking up Mengmeng from school tomorrow anyway, why don’t I kidnap you too? You know, give you both a proper playdate.” His grin grew shamelessly wide as Chu Wanning shot him a withering glare at the use of the word ‘playdate’.
“I’m serious!” Mo Ran crowed, hardly fazed by the look. “We can make an afternoon of it, maybe bake something. I may not look like it, but I’m pretty good in the kitchen.” His voice softened, losing some of the bravado. “No pressure, though. Only if you want to.”
Chu Wanning narrowed his eyes, mouth pursed in disbelief as if he couldn’t quite believe he was being offered a playdate—and by Taxian-Jun himself, no less. “You don’t have to go out of your way,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the edges of his notebook. “It’s just another day.”
Mo Ran sobered, tone gentler. “Doesn’t have to be.” After a moment, his lips curved, coaxing. Chu Wanning hesitated, unsure of how to respond. As if sensing his apprehension, Mo Ran added, “No need to say yes or no right here and now. Let Xue Meng know tomorrow if you’re up for it. How does that sound?”
Chu Wanning didn’t know why Mo Ran was over-extending himself like this for someone he’d met barely 15 minutes ago. Chu Wanning just gave a slow, careful nod. “Okay, I…I’ll think about it.” Chu Wanning tried not to smile—but a small, reluctant curve tugged at his lips.
The rest of the short drive was quiet, punctuated by the low hum of the heater and the blink of streetlights passing overhead. Soon, they pulled up to Chu Wanning’s house—a stately, old place, porch light throwing long rectangles onto the walk.
Mo Ran put the car in park, engine idling. “Here we are,” he said.
The fingers clutching his notebook twitching towards the handle of the car door, but raising his hand to push it open. He pursed his lips as he stared a hole into the car door as if willing it to open on its own and for the wind to drag him out forcefully because he found himself not wanting to leave just yet. Mo Ran waited for him patiently, not saying anything which Chu Wanning appreciated greatly, because he didn’t think his thin face could handle Mo Ran questioning why the hell he wouldn’t get out of his car. He’d already over-extended himself towards Chu Wanning so much, who was Chu Wanning to push for more and take more of his time?
Chu Wanning cleared his throat as he redirected his gaze downwards, turning his notebook over in his lap, unsure of what to do with his hands or his words. For a moment, silence stretched, broken only by the distant wind outside.
“Um.” He drew in a breath, “You probably hear this too much, but… you’re really good. Watching you fight is—it’s just…” His voice trailed off; embarrassment clawed up his throat, as if admitting to admiration would burn him from the inside out. “You make everything look effortless, but I-I can see the technique underneath. The way you set up your combinations, It’s…elegant.”
Mo Ran’s eyes shaded with unmistakable delight. For a split second, he looked genuinely taken aback—then his grin broke loose, wicked and bright. “Oh? Getting a full-blown testimonial, am I?” He turned in his seat, elbow hooked over the backrest so his whole focus zeroed in on Chu Wanning, voice dropping to that lazy, teasing drawl. “Gotta say, that’s not how most people do it. Usually it’s just ‘Great knockout, Taxian-Jun!’ or ‘Sign my forehead, bro!’ Not every day I get a review in verse from someone Mengmeng swears doesn’t even like doing sports.”
Chu Wanning bristled, a flush threatening his ears. “It’s not—I’m not—” He glared, but it had none of its usual venom; he just looked cornered. “I don’t— I mean, it’s not like I—” He broke off, jaw clenching, staring daggers at his windshield reflection.
Mo Ran held up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes danced. “Alright, I’ll take it as a compliment. Don’t worry, it won’t go to my head. Or should I say, it’ll go right up there with my other trophies?”
“That—” Chu Wanning’s hackles rose; the defensive tone came back. “You’re insufferable.”
Mo Ran burst out laughing, pleased as if he’d just landed a clean right hook. “Do you always get that prickly when someone thanks you?” He leaned back, voice full of good-natured mischief. “And here I thought I was the scary one. Relax, takes more than a compliment from a blushing high schooler to phased me.”
Chu Wanning scowled, every line in his face spelling out profound suffering. “Who’s blushing? I’m not blushing.”
“Of course not.” Mo Ran chuckled, completely unphased by the sharp look. “In that case, I’ll expect a full technical breakdown next time. You know, what I did wrong, what I could’ve done better…Maybe annotate a fight video for me. I heard from Xue Meng you're an expert with red pens.”
Chu Wanning felt a twinge of excitement at the prospect but quickly admonished himself with an internal slap on the wrist. He clenched his jaw so hard it almost hurt. “No, thank you. I’d rather walk in the cold again.”
Mo Ran’s laughter softened into something almost sincere. “Hey, thanks for the review anyway, Chu Wanning. Seriously.”
Chu Wanning managed only a quiet “...Mn.” He ducked his head, stray strands of hair falling to shadow his eyes. It hit him all at once how badly he wanted this moment to last—even as every awkward instinct screamed at him to escape before he embarrassed himself further. He fumbled for the door handle, forcing his voice out, low and clipped. “...I should go. I won’t take up any more of your time.” His hand trembled just a bit, but he masked it, turning away.
Mo Ran watched him, lingering smile softening at the edges. “Sure thing. Get inside before you freeze again.” He made it sound halfway teasing, halfway protective, and Chu Wanning’s chest squeezed with something sharp and strange.
He muttered an answer, not trusting his voice to behave, and leaned into the sharp bite of cold as he finally eased open the door with a muttered goodbye. As the car door shut behind him, the cold stung his cheeks anew, yet all he could feel was the pulse in his chest and the echo of Mo Ran’s easy teasing. Muttering a goodbye, he closed the door and began to walk up the pathway to his front door.
Just as he was about to make it halfway to the door, Mo Ran’s voice chased after him. “Chu Wanning!” He called out, “Don’t stay a stranger, yeah? And think about that playdate! Could be fun.”
Chu Wanning paused, turning just enough for one last glance to see that Mo Ran had rolled down the window to shout after him. Chu Wanning shot him one last baleful glare.
He hurried up the front steps, gripping his notebook tight, clutching it so it covered half his face as if it could shield him from the world—or from his own ridiculous blush. He replayed the car ride over and over in his mind, ears burning hotter with every memory. For once, the darkness felt like a comfort he was almost eager to throw himself into, rather than something to fear.
Inside, with the door firmly closed and the house blissfully quiet, Chu Wanning pressed his notebook up to his nose, stubbornly hiding the unmistakable smile threatening to break out. His face felt feverish, his heart squeezed between mortification and a fluttering, silly thrill.
He had survived Taxian-Jun.
And, notebook still half-concealing his bright red cheeks, he almost wanted to do it again.
The memory of that night clung to the edges of Chu Wanning’s mind, resurfacing in odd places—on quiet walks between lectures, or in the smoky warmth of a bakery.
He had gone, of course. How could he not? Xue Meng had all but dragged him by the collar after school, squawking about birthday obligations while Chu Wanning burned quietly with embarrassment and anticipation he would have rather swallowed nails than confess. Mo Ran had greeted them in a lurid pink apron, brandishing a spatula with the theatrical confidence of a champion entering a ring.
“Let’s see if you two can make something edible. Try not to set off the smoke alarm, okay?” Mo Ran’s grin was so bright it made the kitchen seem smaller.
It went about as well as a doomed expedition: flour on the ceiling, eggshell in the batter, sugar spilled across the counter like the aftermath of a winter storm. Chu Wanning even managed to burn the flour (“Why the hell did you even put the flour on the stove?” Both Mo Ran and Xue Meng had said in disbelief. Chu Wanning refused to answer.). Xue Meng tried to wrestle the mixer away from Chu Wanning; Chu Wanning scowled, licking icing from his knuckles and pretending not to enjoy himself. Mo Ran watched them spar, correcting their technique with the smugness of a man who knew he could out-muscle and out-improvise any kitchen disaster. In the end, they managed to bake something recognizable as cake. Mo Ran declared it a victory, Xue Meng declared it a war crime, and Chu Wanning—sweater dusted white, quietly flushed—did not argue.
He went home with sticky fingertips and the memory of laughter gentle in his chest, almost as sweet as the cake.
The years turned quickly after that. Mo Ran’s world was one of travel and spotlights, fight cards and press conferences—he was a figure glimpsed for a weekend and then, just as quickly, gone. Sometimes, when schedules and chance aligned, Mo Ran would reappear at the Xue house, bigger and louder every season, with fresh bruises blooming blue and purple across his skin, and stories that sounded half invented. Mo Ran would sit at the kitchen table, hair a little longer, voice a little rougher, and argue with Auntie about the merits of protein shakes versus proper food while Xue Meng rolled his eyes.
Chu Wanning always ended up at the edge of things, hands curled around a cup of tea, head ducked as he listened to their easy banter. Sometimes Mo Ran’s gaze would flicker to his, warm and companionable, as if inviting him into the joke. Chu Wanning would huff, turn away, and say nothing.
He watched every match, naturally. He never spoke of it.
When high school finished, the world scattered them like dust. Chu Wanning packed his belongings in two battered suitcases, left behind the cold hush of Huaizui’s house, and let the new city swallow him whole. He threw himself into his engineering degree: late nights over circuit boards and trembling cups of instant coffee (which had more sugar than coffee), mornings running code until his fingers cramped, a growing sense of competence slowly crowding out the old loneliness.
Xue Meng stayed in their old province for his degree, too wrapped up in his own dramas to visit except during rare, chaotic holidays that left both of them exhausted. Chu Wanning didn’t mind. The distance made things easier.
He worked. He thrived. Sometimes, on train rides home in the hush between commutes, he would think of that pink apron, of the way Mo Ran had laughed when Chu Wanning’s makeshift cake wobbled out of the oven, and feel a heat in his chest that was both mortifying and strangely comforting.
Life went on.
Chu Wanning had never exchanged contact details with Mo Ran to keep in touch once he left, far too embarrassed to even bring himself to suggest it. Mo Ran faded to television screens, to articles glimpsed online, to old headlines and newer rumors. He became almost like a legend—untouchable, distant, a story for other people to finish telling.
Chu Wanning buried himself in the present, letting all those unspoken things settle quietly where neither cold nor time could disturb them.
The world beyond Huaizui’s house was vast and humming, larger than Chu Wanning had imagined in the stifled cold of old bedrooms and quiet suppers. University swallowed him whole before he realized he was even gone, with its endless corridors, the constant whir of fluorescent lights and hallways lined with the clatter of a hundred unfamiliar voices. He took to the city quickly, folding himself into tight routines.
He built a life of solitude not as a fortress, but as an unremarkable, sturdy habit. There were classmates who became acquaintances, sometimes even friends, people who nudged at the edges of his silence with warmth or reckless humor. Chu Wanning was courteous, reserved, because this was easier. He answered texts when he could, ghosted parties when he liked, and learned to accept his own awkwardness as an everyday inconvenience.
Most evenings ended with him alone, sometimes at his desk, soldering components by the yellow spill of a lamp, sometimes wandering the city in the hush between midnight and dawn, letting headlights and neon wash over him until his mind felt clear. Sometimes, he’d pass an electronics shop with fights running muted on wall screens and find himself caught—watching the perfect arc of a spinning backfist, familiar movement cutting through a ring of blue light. He would stand there until the cold pricked through his sleeves, telling himself it was just curiosity, just habit, not longing.
Home was a small apartment two metro stations from campus. He learned to stretch thin money and thinner patience—laundry at odd hours (after he realised just how much piled up), dinner eaten standing at the stove, the comfort of having no one to answer to aside from the slow, insistent voice of his own ambition.
Holidays brought brief interruptions. Sometimes Xue Meng called, a brief change from their usual habit of just texting, full of complaints about professors and classmates, demands for help with assignments. Rarely, there were calls from Huaizui, always brief, formal, a check-in disguised as duty. Chu Wanning never lingered on the line.
As semesters fell away, he grew into someone with strong hands and a steadier temper—someone people respected professionally if not personally. He presented at conferences, took on internships, left meetings with the quiet satisfaction of a schedule well-managed. And in the spaces between, the world of fights and cage lights, of Taxian-Jun and impossible warmth, faded to something worn smooth and private. A small memory, a secret gift that he kept tucked in the drawer with his old school badge and the pink-stained recipe card for disastrous birthday cake.
Every so often, a familiar name might crop up online. Mo Ran taking a young contender to decision, photographed at some press conference, rumored to be opening a new gym in the city. Despite still watching every single one of his fights, Chu Wanning hardly ever clicked on the stories. He told himself it was for the best.
Life was sensible, contained, not unhappy. If it felt, at times, a tad hollow, well, that was only natural. That was adulthood, after all: stepping forward without knowing quite what it was you’d left behind.
It would take a collision—unexpected, ordinary, with moving trucks and Xue Meng’s loud complaints and that old, impossible warmth blazing suddenly—for Chu Wanning to realize that the distance he built was never as far, or as final, as he imagined.
Chu Wanning sat resolutely in the front row of the lecture hall, phoenix eyes sharp, body still as the professor’s words rippled across the whiteboard. Each slide, each squeak of the marker, was taken in and filed away: methodical, precise, nothing escaping his attention, nothing left to drift. He was, as always, exacting with himself; even at rest, there was a tension to him, like a blade half-drawn.
Chu Wanning was neatly copying notes in the front row when his phone buzzed. The caller ID flashed: Xue Meng. He endured a handful of glances as he excused himself out the door of the lecture hall.
He answered, voice cool as ever: “What.”
“Ah, you picked up!” Xue Meng’s voice exploded from the speaker. “Took you long enough, did you join a monk’s order or what? Anyway—don’t worry, this isn’t technically an emergency. Actually, for me, it kind of is.”
Chu Wanning pressed his lips into a fine line. “Get to the point, I’m in a lecture.”
“See, this is what I missed. Such warmth.”
Chu Wanning did not want to dignify that with a response.
“Okay, okay, listen.” Xue Meng took a breath, rallying to business. “You know how I’m moving right?”
Of course Chu Wanning knew Xue Meng was moving. Xue Meng had been broadcasting the saga of his impending move for weeks, each update more dramatic than the last. After much performative grumbling, endless texts about his misery, and dire warnings about the perils of “unguided youth,” he’d finally secured a transfer to Sisheng University, which happened to be the university Chu Wanning was currently doing his third year of his undergraduate degree. The city was, in Xue Meng’s own estimation, packed with “glorious prospects”—though, truthfully, his greater fortune was that Mo Ran happened to live there, much to Chu Wanning’s surprise. His parents, convinced he’d perish or descend into chaos the moment he set foot outside their supervision, had practically conspired with Mo Ran to stage an intervention: the verdict was clear, their precious son would move in with his older brother until further notice.
The weeks leading up to the transition had been a relentless stream of complaints—about packing, paperwork, train schedules, and god knows what else. Chu Wanning, unwilling witness to every tragic twist, received running commentary via messages, occasional calls, even voice memos groaning about the “trial by cardboard box.” Yet as the day drew near and his things sprawled in mismatched luggage, Xue Meng’s bravado only sharpened: in his mind, this was the threshold of a great new era, one he greeted with pride.
There was a rustle, a hollow thud, clearly Xue Meng was narrating while rooting through scattered belongings. “I’ve been shipping out my stuff, but one of my boxes didn’t make it. Can you believe that? Instead of making it to Mo Ran like everything else, it got booted straight to the central post office. It’s been sitting there for days. I can’t pick it up, and I don’t think they’ll hold it for much longer.” Xue Meng huffed. “I have the notice, I’ll forward it. You just need to show up with the code and your ID. Could you get it for me and drop it off at Mo Ran’s place? I’d rather not have to replace half my winter stuff if they toss it.”
Chu Wanning’s fingers twitched against the phone as Mo Ran’s name landed, heavier than it should. It had been years. Would Mo Ran even remember him in any detail?
He suddenly saw himself, awkward and freshly sixteen, destroying a kitchen in the echo of laughter. He suddenly wasn’t too sure if he wanted Mo Ran to remember him. He made his voice steadier than he felt: “Which branch?”
“Thank you!!” Xue Meng crowed in immediate unearned triumph. “The one on…Gongyuan road. I’ll send the QR code and claim slip now. You’re the best. Really—also don’t let Mo Ran open it.”
Xue Meng slowed, voice threading uncertainty under the usual bravado. “You’re on campus right now, right? You have class till late?”
“Just this lecture left. I’ll go after.” He kept it brisk. “Send the details.”
Xue Meng exhaled, real gratitude humming beneath old bravado. “You’re a lifesaver. Gotta run—one more box and I’ll bury myself alive. I’ll—ah—see you in a few days once I get there?”
“Mn.”
“Great, Bye!” The call ended with an abrupt digital beep, leaving the air ringing with Xue Meng’s minor chaos.
Chu Wanning let the phone dangle for a moment. He read the text—an address, a blurry QR code and a string of slightly panicky emojis.
In the hush that followed, he could feel it: his old composure shifting, the faint, absurd anticipation curling under his ribs. Years had gone by—he had changed, surely, and so had Mo Ran. But even so, even now, the idea of standing in that doorway again, greeted not by legend or ghost but by the living, real thing—
Chu Wanning slipped his phone into his pocket, checked his watch; ten minutes left in the lecture. He returned to the hall, finished the notes, and answered two questions that were, irritatingly, less challenging than Xue Meng’s logistics.
Campus emptied in the afternoon. At the post office, he waited behind an old woman mailing mooncakes and a student who couldn’t remember her dorm address. The clerk squinted at Chu Wanning’s ID and the QR code, then vanished behind swinging doors only to reappear with a box that looked like it could fit a grown man if he curled up, never mind Xue Meng’s entirety of winter clothes.
By the time Chu Wanning bundled the box against his chest, awkward and unwieldy, his arms were full and his patience was stretched. He had no car and couldn’t drive even if he did. Of course not. He navigated narrow sidewalks and sidelong glances, shouldering his overstuffed backpack and cardboard bulk onto the train. Every stop lurched, jostled, and inspired in him new, deep loathing for people with rolling luggage.
He missed his transfer by thirty seconds, waited seven more minutes under the icy breath of the tunnel, and finally, twenty minutes and several regrets later, hauled the box up slick city steps to Mo Ran’s address.
Mo Ran didn’t live anywhere near any student housing; instead, Chu Wanning found himself standing before a sleek, glass-fronted building that looked more at home in a magazine article about young tech moguls than in the orbit of Mo Ran’s allegedly bachelor life. Though he supposed it reflected Mo Ran’s success as a fighter. He shifted his grip on the box, squinting upward at the mirrored rows of windows.
Inside was pale marble and a quiet hush. A polished, intimidating front desk guarded the lobby like some mythical boundary: there was even a staff member in a blazer—an actual blazer—behind the counter.
Chu Wanning’s steps faltered. For a moment, he considered turning around and taking the box back to the post office. Surely Xue Meng didn’t really need these—
The woman at the desk looked up and smiled, all corporate politeness. “Can I help you?”
“I…Uh, I’m here to drop something off for Mo Ran,” Chu Wanning managed, awkwardly setting the box down beside him. He didn’t know why he even felt the need to explain himself—why he felt at all like a child carrying a delivery slip or a math award at the wrong sort of parent-teacher conference.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll need the resident to grant you elevator access,” the woman said, measured but gentle, as if she spotted strays with boxes every day. She gestured discreetly to a console on the far wall—a grid of silver buttons beneath a small screen displaying digital numbers. “See the intercom there? Just buzz the apartment number and Mr. Mo will let you up.”
Chu Wanning glanced at the panel, already feeling the heat gathering in his ears. What kind of place needed all this just to get to the elevator? He hefted the box again, shuffling stiffly to the side wall, hoping nobody was watching too closely.
He scanned the grid for Mo Ran’s apartment number, more nervous than he’d ever be in a thousand lectures, and pressed the button with as much calm as he could muster—heart tripping fast, old nerves gathering like thunder behind the mechanical chime of the intercom.
Now, all that was left to do was wait for Mo Ran—no longer legend, no longer a memory, but real, breathing, just an answer and an elevator ride away.
The speaker crackled once and went quiet. For a moment, Chu Wanning thought it was broken. His thumb hovered over the button to try again.
Then a low, unmistakable voice came through, flattened a little by the tiny intercom.
“Hello?”
Chu Wanning’s fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the box. The sound was the same as it was three years ago. It was disorienting, hearing it like this after years, stripped of the noise of an arena through a screen, close enough that it seemed to settle just under his skin.
“I’m here to drop off a package,” he said, keeping his voice even. “For Xue Meng. Clothes.”
“Oh, you’re a friend of Mengmeng’s?” Mo Ran’s voice came through with a touch of realisation. “Alright, come on up.”
The panel buzzed faintly as the lock released. “There, the elevator will take you straight to my floor now.” Mo Ran’s voice added, as if he had sensed Chu Wanning’s questions.
The elevator doors slid open with a smooth, expensive hush. Chu Wanning stepped inside, the huge box balanced in his wide grip and practically covering his face, and nudged the button already glowing with Mo Ran’s floor number with his elbow.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing him in alone with the box and the low hum of the machinery. The ride upward was too smooth, too fast, leaving him with nothing to do but think.
He knew exactly what Mo Ran looked like now. There’d been no forgetting—the fights used to stream live in high definition every quarter, though less frequent this past year, and when there were no fights, Chu Wanning watched his press conferences and interviews. He watched them all. He kept it to restricted to the fights and interviews, though.
Once, a couple years ago, he’d strayed beyond that. A careless click on a headline, the kind of article built to be thrown around on gossip forums: “Taxian-Jun spotted leaving nightclub at dawn with—”. Lines about an “infamous streak” and the fact that he was reported to apparently be packing “an absolute unit” down there had lodged like a stone in his throat.
The image had been too clear, too vivid, and much too stubborn to shake. It had left him red-eared and unreasonably tight in the chest at the sheer indecency of thinking about someone like that, about Mo Ran, and had nearly caused him to break his phone with how hard and fast he flung it out of his hands. After that, he’d kept his interest to sanctioned matches under bright lights, and never again bothered with whatever swarm lived outside the cage.
It was why he hadn’t known Mo Ran was even here—in the same city—not until Xue Meng had told him.
The elevator climbed, soft and soundless, and his thoughts spun in fast, useless loops. He could already picture the reality waiting past the doors, the current version of the man he’d last seen in person at eighteen before he’d left: older now, heavier in the shoulders, the sharpness of maturity tempered into something more dangerous.
He told himself it didn’t matter. This was an errand—pick up, drop off, leave.
Still, his grip on the box tightened. That old, unwelcome heat threaded through his chest as the elevator began to slow. The elevator let him out into a hushed corridor where his shoes squeaked against the sleek tiles.
He started walking. The doors were set far apart, each one a dark rectangle against the white—you could measure the size of the apartments just by the distance between them.
Midway down, he found the one Xue Meng had sent. He shifted the weight of the box, knocked once, short and firm.
Footsteps inside, quick across hardwood. The door swung open—
—and Mo Ran was there, blinking once, slow, at the sight of a large cardboard box hovering at level with his chest.
“What the—?” His voice pitched up in surprise, then broke into a warm rumble of laughter. “What kind of delivery is this? A box with legs?”
Mo Ran didn’t wait for an answer. His hands, large and calloused, closed around the cardboard in a firm, confident grip. Their fingers brushed for the barest moment, a grazed spark of warmth against chilled skin, before Mo Ran took the full weight without effort and lifted the box clear in one smooth motion. The muscles in his forearms flexed under tanned skin; he turned away as casually as if the load were nothing.
“Come in, come in.” Mo Ran said over his shoulder, already moving deeper inside.
“I’m just—” Chu Wanning began, tone edging toward refusal. But the door was already being nudged wider.
“You sure worked hard bringing this here, might as well come in for a bit. Shoes off!” Mo Ran called out over his shoulder, voice half-occupied as he steered the box around a corner, muttering almost to himself, “Was not expecting it to be this huge…though that’s just Mengmeng for you.”
Chu Wanning hesitated, then leaned against the wall to slide off his shoes, setting them neatly by the door. The air inside was warm, touched faintly with the smell of laundry powder and something richer.
When he straightened, Chu Wanning’s gaze landed properly on Mo Ran now that there wasn’t a box between them, and finally took him in properly: Loose grey track pants slung low on his hips, a faded black tank top exposing the breadth of his shoulders and the warm tan of his arms, muscle shaped by countless hours in the cage and gym, muscle that spoke more of years of use than vanity. The sight of it sent a sharp, unwelcome flush creeping to the tips of Chu Wanning’s ears.
The box hit the surface of a counter with a muted thud. Mo Ran was already working his fingers under the packing tape before Chu Wanning had noticed. He winced at the complaints he anticipated from Xue Meng.
Mo Ran glanced over his shoulder—midway through slicing open a stubborn bit of packing tape—and froze. His attention flickered from the battered box to the figure in his living room, lingering there a fraction too long.
He took in Chu Wanning—tall and lithe with a sharp set to those phoenix eyes, perfectly poised with his long hair tied back into a ponytail, endearingly mussed from the wind and cheeks still faintly pink from the outside air. For a second, Mo Ran didn’t say anything. His eyes travelled upward, appraising, and his lips pulled into a slow, appreciative tilt.
“Well,” Mo Ran drawled, voice pitched just above the low hum of the room. “Didn’t realise Mengmeng had friends who looked like…that.”
The words hung heavy between them. Chu Wanning’s frown deepened as he approached the countertop where Mo Ran was standing, slowly placing his backpack down by the side with suspicion sharp in the furrow of his brow—Was Mo Ran mocking him?
Chu Wanning felt his throat seize ever so slightly at the thought. He knew he didn’t amount to much in the looks department and he’d already accepted it long ago. There had never been any use in caring. Handsome or not, it made no difference to the work he carried out or the life he endured. But suddenly, unjustly, he found himself under Mo Ran’s gaze, and that steady, unflinching scrutiny made his skin prickle. A low, humiliating heat rose through him at the idea of being weighed and found wanting.
It was ugly, the sour curl that twisted in his chest. To even care what Mo Ran thought, to want, against all reason, to appear at least bearable to his eyes was shameful. And yet he could not shake it.
The silence dragged a moment longer, and for the first time it hit him: Mo Ran really didn’t recognise him. That stung, a tiny, sour twist in his chest, entirely beyond reason.
“…Like what?” Chu Wanning’s voice was clipped, all caution and a whisker of defensiveness.
Mo Ran braced a hand on the counter, the lean lines of his body angled toward Chu Wanning—composed, confident, gaze never once flickering away. He surveyed Chu Wanning frankly, the curve of his lips like an open challenge. “Like someone dreamed you up and you actually showed.” He rapped his knuckles playfully on the box. “You sure you don’t do print work or something? Anyone ever rope you into a charity calendar?”
For a beat, Chu Wanning just blinked, posture stiffening. Chu Wanning’s face went from slightly defensive to oddly passive, like he was running calculations behind his eyes and coming up short every time. Then his expression turned utterly dumbfounded before he finally settled on shock and mortification as Mo Ran watched this entire journey with glee. His insides turned into a riot of confusion and disbelief. It took a moment for Chu Wanning’s voice to find him.
“What did you just say to me?” Chu Wanning’s voice began to rise and he felt like he was going to start trembling with the deadly combination of his own burning embarrassment and rage. He gazed up at Mo Ran fully with a sharp glare and Mo Ran only returned that with his own infuriating look of smugness as he closed in on Chu Wanning.
“Charity calendar, baobei. You ever done one?” Mo Ran teased as he set his hand down on the counter, fingers drumming a lazy rhythm on the surface—dangerously close to Chu Wanning’s side.
Chu Wanning’s whole body jerked in shock, nearly choking on his own breath. “Ba—Bao—!”The syllables got tangled, his voice coming out strangled as his eyebrows shot up, mortification painted across his face. His hands hovered in the air between them, half shield, half plea, as if unsure whether to push Mo Ran away or hide himself from view.
Mo Ran only grinned wider, leaning in just a touch more, watching with open delight as Chu Wanning instinctively bristled, every line of his posture screaming both indignation and the desperate wish to bolt.
In all these years, people have called Chu Wanning, Chu Wanning. Those closer to him called him Wanning. A playmate in kindergarten had once tried “NingNing”, which, even as a child, he did not take to kindly. Most people, if they spoke of him at all, used different words: cold, distant, unapproachable, stoic—but never has someone ever, in his 21 comprehensive years of living, called him an endearment. Much less baobei.
This is something that most people his age would have experienced long ago, in the throes of first loves and pre-teen crushes, blushing through clumsy confessions. Before that, they would have been cooed at by their parents, using the same endearments. For Chu Wanning however, this was an entire first, as Huaizui never deigned to call him anything apart from his name, and Chu Wanning had gone his entire life so far without any companion by his side to call him as such.
Through his mortification, Chu Wanning answered Mo Ran’s question with a chill that would send many running with their tail between their legs, but it only seemed to serve to keep that grin on Mo Ran’s lips. Chu Wanning’s jaw set, but the high points of his cheeks burned, “No, I have not.”
Mo Ran let out a low, rolling laugh, open and a little teasing. “Shame. Would’ve paid good money to see you in costume.” He grinned, broad and bright, eyes alive with mischief that made it easy to see the fighter’s charisma outside the ring.
Costume? What costume!? A clown costume!?
Chu Wanning stared at him like he’d sprouted a second head. Had Mo Ran gotten punched in the head so much that he finally lost his mind? Chu Wanning may be as dense as a neutron star, but even he could pick up on what Mo Ran meant by that. The realization sent his stomach into an uneasy lurch, fluttering with something warm and ridiculous, while a wave of mortification swept in right behind it. The very idea that Mo Ran could see him that way—could look at him as anything other than cold, rigid, and inconvenient—was enough to make Chu Wanning’s ears burn.
Before Chu Wanning could stammer out a reply, Mo Ran continued with a lazy smile, as his gaze slowly raked over Chu Wanning once more. “If I ran a calendar for the gym, you’d be on the cover. No question.”
Chu Wanning stiffened, every inch of him bristling with confusion and embarrassment. His ears burned a humiliating shade deeper. “You—!!” he managed, voice trembling with outrage and disbelief, but Mo Ran only tutted.
“Not ‘you’,” Mo Ran corrected, his voice dropping low and instructive. “Mo Ran. Mo. Ran.” He sounded out the words as his eyes trailed down to Chu Wanning’s plush lips. “Can you say that for me, baobei?” He murmured, and Chu Wanning could practically feel his composure unravelling thread by thread.
“Pervert.” He hissed out with such venom and finality that Mo Ran laughed.
“Not quite, but I’ll work with it.”
Mo Ran stepped closer, closing the last of the polite distance between them. His shadow fell over Chu Wanning, turning the open area around the counter into a too-small space. Mo Ran was taller up close—broad-shouldered, loose-limbed in that tank top, his arms heavy with the kind of muscle that only came from a life pushing against limits. He didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes lingered, reading every line of Chu Wanning’s face as if trying to size him up. Chu Wanning’s eyes darted to the side in calculation of an escape route but his body seemed to root itself to the spot, as if inviting Mo Ran to invade his space even further.
Mo Ran lingered close, the distance between them shrinking until it felt like only a faint margin stood between body heat and collision. The smell of him—soap, sweat, something rich and sun-warmed—twined too intimately through the air.
A little pause carried as Chu Wanning struggled to form words, then Mo Ran tilted his head, studying the lines of Chu Wanning’s face with open interest. “How old are you, anyway?”
Chu Wanning responded almost immediately. “Twenty one.” He bit out, chin just a little lifted in defiance, thinking maybe that would deter Mo Ran.
However, Mo Ran’s grin spread, bright and unrepentant. “Ah, young. No wonder your skin’s so good.” He leaned ever so slightly closer, the room shrinking to the space between them, the air tilted with challenge and a spark of something just shy of dangerous. “That’s alright. Gege’s got experience. If you want, I could teach you a thing or two. About—” His gaze drifted down, back up with deliberate slowness. “—Life skills.”
Chu Wanning blinked at him in confusion for a moment.
Life skills? What on earth could Mo Ran—
Realisation struck him all of a sudden at the double meaning and his hackles immediately started to rise.
“You—!” A flare of heat ran down Chu Wanning’s neck, equal parts humiliation and fury. Was this how he spoke to everyone? Did he just collect pretty faces and toss out casual ‘gege’s like free samples? Chu Wanning had half a mind to call him out, except indignation choked the words tight. Being seen like this—a little lost, a little breathless—needled right through his pride. He’d seen rumors before, sure, about Taxian-Jun’s so-called ‘antics’ outside the cage, but he’d dismissed them with a huff and didn’t look any further, never looking back. Now, standing on the receiving end, he found himself bristling with a kind of righteous outrage: Improper! Didn’t the man have any boundaries? What kind of adult said things like that to someone he’d (thought he’d) never even met?
Chu Wanning immediately swept his arms up, bracing his hands against Mo Ran’s chest in an effort to push him back. Mo Ran huffed a laugh at Chu Wanning’s futile efforts of trying to move a man practically two times larger than him. He reached out his hands to gently take a hold of both of Chu Wanning’s wrists that were struggling against his mass.
“Easy, easy,” He drawled, as if speaking to a spooked cat as he took a small, willing step back, looking into Chu Wanning’s eyes with a smirk that deepened the dimples on his face. “That better?” Mo Ran asked as Chu Wanning just stared at him, utterly scandalised. Chu Wanning looked between Mo Ran’s face and his own hands still splayed against Mo Ran’s chest, now dwarfed by those large, steady hands wrapped around his wrists, making them look almost delicate by comparison. With a noise of horror, Chu Wanning immediately yanked his hands off of Mo Ran’s chest, but Mo Ran still kept his grip on his wrists.
“Ah, ah, I did what you wanted. How about you do something for me now, hm? Why don’t you tell me your name?”
Chu Wanning tried to feebly twist his wrists out of Mo Ran’s grasp but flustered when Mo Ran’s clear strength over him was displayed so starkly.
Chu Wanning’s fists tightened minutely in Mo Ran’s hands. He hesitated. For a moment, he wondered if he said it, would it spark anything for Mo Ran? Or would it just fall flat, a stranger’s syllables in a stranger’s apartment? Chu Wanning fought against every one of Mo Ran’s advances so far, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see the look of disappointment on Mo Ran’s face if he recognised his name.
So he swallowed his feelings and his pride as he looked at the floor. Then, because there was no choice left, forced out quietly, “Chu Wanning.”
A heartbeat passed and the name seemed to hang in the air. Mo Ran’s brow furrowed, caught on the sound, uncertainty pinching the corners of his mouth.
“Chu…Wanning…?” he repeated slowly, tasting each syllable like he was trying to fit it back into an old picture in his head.
And he kept looking at him—too closely, too intently. Without seemingly meaning to, he stepped right back in, drawn forward as if distance were an inconvenience rather than a boundary. His shadow spilled over into Chu Wanning’s circle of space once again.
Chu Wanning’s back straightened by reflex. He didn’t move away, but every nerve in him bristled. Too close—way too close. Proper distance existed for a reason, didn’t it? You didn’t just walk into someone’s space like you owned it. What was wrong with this man!?
Mo Ran’s eyes moved in slow, deliberate trails, across his face, down the line of his cheek, to the tied-back fall of hair at his nape. It felt like being turned over in someone’s hands, inspected from every angle.
And then Mo Ran’s brows lifted. Recognition flared suddenly, snapping through his expression like lighting.
“Ah!! Chu Wanning!?” It came out half-laugh, half-surprised exclamation, like he’d just tripped over treasure in his own living room and Chu Wanning suddenly felt his wrists yanked forwards in Mo Ran’s realisation. He raised his head to see Mo Ran, jaw slack and eyebrows through the roof, deep purple eyes widened in shock. “Wait, what the—are you serious? That’s why you looked familiar! You—15 centimeters ago, you were such a little guy. Quiet, used to glare a lot. Though it looks like that hasn’t changed, heh—”
He didn’t stop leaning in. If anything, he seemed to forget all about personal space in the rush of memory. “You…wow. You’ve changed. All grown up. Shit,” Mo Ran breathed, “Look at you…you even grew out your hair! It was so short the last time I saw you.” His gaze flickered to the ponytail trailing down the nape of Chu Wanning’s neck and onto his back. Fluster crept into Mo Ran’s laugh. “Did you always have hair that nice? Makes you look…” He trailed off, awareness returning, mouth snapping shut before he could say something mortifying. Or at least, more mortifying than everything he’s already said and done.
Chu Wanning’s breath caught—half from the words, half because Mo Ran’s voice was right there, low and warm and close enough he could feel the shape of it in the air between them. And for god’s sakes, he was still holding onto both his wrists, tugging them this way and that!
Does he not realise how close he is? This man…this man is going to lean right into my lap at this rate!
Mo Ran ducked his head ever so slightly to observe the matured lines of Chu Wanning’s face, and suddenly, Chu Wanning felt his tolerance hit the heavens. “Aiya, you lost too much of that cute baby fat. You’ve—” Chu Wanning had exhausted all efforts in pushing Mo Ran away, and, without thinking, resorted to instinct: he ducked his head down out of the embarrassment of being observed so closely, and shot himself upwards, his head colliding with the underside of Mo Ran’s chin with a loud, painful clunk.
“Fuck!” Mo Ran grunted roughly, immediately releasing Chu Wanning’s wrists to clutch his own chin, as Chu Wanning pressed both hands to the top of his head
They stood there, both trembling in shared pain.
“Jesus,” Mo Ran hissed, trying to shake off the pain radiating through the entirety of his lower face, rubbing his aching jaw and carefully working it open and closed. “Fuck, yeah, alright. I guess I got a little…close.”
Chu Wanning tilted his head up from his hunched position, still clutching his head and glaring up at Mo Ran with red rimmed teary eyes. “You could’ve worked that out from further away!”
Mo Ran blinked at the expression on Chu Wanning’s face as he rubbed his jaw with shallow breaths. He huffed a small laugh, mouth twisting in a half-grin despite how much it hurt. “Maybe,” he admitted, voice looser now, but still breathy, “but then I wouldn’t have been able to see all the little details.”
His eyes flicked over him once more. Quick, restrained this time, but still enough to make Chu Wanning take a deliberate step back on principle, only to have his back meet that damned countertop once more. His head whipped around to glare at the offending structure, and his hand reached out to give a small punishing smack to the surface that aided in his just previous entrapment. Mo Ran watched him in silent confusion as Chu Wanning seemed to go for another anger-fueled smack, but paused, seeming to think it too unseemly, and letting his hand fall by his side. His heartbeat, annoyingly, refused to listen to his indignation.
Chu Wanning looked back up at Mo Ran and startled when he met his gaze, freezing like a deer in headlights. A whole host of thoughts went through his head before he landed on his action plan.
Steadily, he bent down to pick up his backpack, keeping his eyes on Mo Ran cautiously. Then he turned around and began to slowly walk towards the door.
“Hey…” Chu Wanning ignored Mo Ran’s call.
Footsteps began to sound behind him. Chu Wanning walked faster.
“Wanning…!” And at the casual slip of his name from Mo Ran’s mouth, Chu Wanning flushed to the roots of his hair and shot him a seething glare.
“Goodbye, Mo Ran!” He snapped as he flung open the front door, and practically ran out, whirling around to yank the door shut.
“Wait!” Mo Ran exclaimed, his fingers snatching the doorknob just in time before Chu Wanning pulled it fully shut. He pulled the door back slightly as Chu Wanning struggled to pull it back towards him.
“Good. Bye!” He squeezed out through grit teeth, putting nearly his full body weight into pulling the door shut. But Mo ran gave a swift, strong pull and the door pulled away from Chu Wanning, the force dragging Chu Wanning forward so abruptly he almost pitched straight into Mo Ran’s chest with a startled gasp before Mo Ran’s hands caught his shoulders just in time, steadying him.
“You shameless brute!!” Chu Wanning, whose face was already so thin, had endured so much humiliation tonight that he felt he had no face left to save.
“I’m sorry—” Mo Ran started as Chu Wanning swatted his hands away. Mo Ran stared down with wide eyes, holding his hands up in surrender as if trying to calm down a kitten having a hissy fit. “I mean it, Chu Wanning. I crossed your boundaries. I’m sorry.” Mo Ran said simply and soothingly as Chu Wanning breathed heavily from his overexertion.
He suddenly felt at a loss now that Mo Ran had uttered an apology. What was he supposed to say?
‘You did! Take responsibility!’ Felt too much like a blushing maiden who had been defiled.
‘It’s ok. As long as you know what you did wrong.’ Was too much like an old man discipling an unruly child.
So Chu Wanning pursed his lips at this inner turmoil and settled for neither after an awkward pause. “I-I’m sorry too.” He cursed himself for his stutter. Mo Ran blinked at him owlishly.
“What are you apologising for?”
“For…” Chu Wanning was not going to say the word ‘headbutt’. “For hitting you.”
Mo Ran paused and then broke out into a big laugh. Chu Wanning flinched at first at the sudden sound before relaxing. It seemed like the previous tension in the air dissipated with Mo Ran’s bright, easy laugh.
“It’s alright, I’m tough, I can handle it.” Mo Ran chuckled, running a hand through his hair as he grinned with purpose at Chu Wanning. “My number one fan knows what I do for work.” He narrowed his eyes at Chu Wanning with a teasing, dimpled smile, and once again, Chu Wanning’s hackles rose. He took it back! He wasn’t sorry at all for hitting him, only sorry he didn’t hit harder!
“Who’s a fan!?” Chu Wanning barked and Mo Ran laughed again.
“Are you not anymore!? I fight less now that I opened the gym, don’t tell me you got bored of me. Do you still watch my fights?” Mo Ran grinned as Chu Wanning gaped, mouth opening and closing around soundless words.
Mo Ran’s grin turned deadly with each passing second that Chu Wanning struggled to form a straight reply. “Oh my god, you do.” Mo Ran’s grin nearly split his face at the information and Chu Wanning had enough. He really did this time.
“I don’t!” He lied through his teeth and turned right back around and stomped out, ignoring the sound of Mo Ran’s laughter.
“Ah, Wanning! No, I’m not laughing at you, I’m really flattered, really! Come back!”