Thursday morning arrived with unexpected autumn rain—the kind that made Beijing's already gray sky feel heavy and oppressive. Xiaoran woke to the sound of water against windows and the realization that he'd forgotten to charge his phone overnight. It was dead, which meant his alarm hadn't gone off, which meant he'd overslept by forty minutes.
He scrambled through his morning routine with chaotic efficiency, barely making it to his Acting Fundamentals class with two minutes to spare. Professor Qin gave him a look that suggested she'd noticed his frazzled arrival but chose not to comment, launching immediately into discussion of emotional preparation techniques.
It wasn't until lunch that Xiaoran managed to charge his phone and discovered seventeen missed messages. Most were from the group chat—Zhou Mei sharing a meme about academic suffering, Chen Lili asking about weekend plans, Fang Ling debating the merits of various bubble tea flavors with the passion of someone defending a dissertation.
But three messages were from Lin Yuze, sent at increasingly concerned intervals:
*7:47 AM: Confirming our library research session is still scheduled for 3 PM today. I reserved study room 4C.*
*10:23 AM: You haven't confirmed. Are you attending? I need to know whether to maintain the room reservation.*
*12:15 PM: Your phone appears to be off. I'm assuming you're either in class or experiencing technical difficulties. I'll maintain the reservation until 3:15 PM, at which point I'll assume you're not attending and will use the time for independent work.*
The messages were so characteristically Yuze—formal, precise, revealing concern through logistical details rather than emotional expression. Xiaoran felt warmth spread through his chest even as he rushed to respond.
*Sorry! Phone died overnight and I overslept. I'm still planning to attend. See you at 3.*
The response was almost immediate: *Confirmed. Bring your movement notes and any questions about the presentation structure. I've prepared an outline for review.*
*Of course you have.*
There was a long pause, then: *Was that sarcasm or acknowledgment?*
*Affectionate observation. You're very organized. It's actually helpful.*
Another pause. Xiaoran could practically see Yuze trying to parse "affectionate observation" and determine how to respond to something that was neither criticism nor pure praise.
*Organization is efficient. I'll see you at 3.*
Zhou Mei looked over Xiaoran's shoulder at the message exchange and grinned. "He's so awkward. I love it. You're going to corrupt him with your casual emotionality and he has no defenses against it."
"I'm not corrupting anyone. We're just working on a project."
"A project he's now texting you about multiple times with increasingly worried undertones," Zhou Mei pointed out. "That's not purely academic behavior."
"Maybe he's just thorough about project management."
"Xiaoran, sweetie, no one texts three times about a study session unless they're genuinely concerned about the other person's wellbeing. He was worried about you." Zhou Mei's expression was knowing. "And you're smiling at your phone like you're pleased he was worried."
Xiaoran consciously stopped smiling. "I'm not—"
"You are. It's cute. You're allowed to like him."
"I don't know what I feel," Xiaoran admitted quietly. "It's complicated. He's my friend, I think. Maybe. He's certainly important to me in ways I didn't expect. But after everything with Jintao, I'm not sure I trust my own judgment about attraction versus appreciation versus trauma bonding or whatever this is."
Zhou Mei's teasing expression softened into something more serious. "That's really self-aware. And valid. You don't have to figure out your feelings immediately. You can just... let them exist and see what develops naturally."
"That sounds terrifying."
"Welcome to having emotions like a normal person instead of suppressing everything through academic focus." Zhou Mei squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "You're doing great. And for what it's worth, Lin Yuze seems like a good person. Emotionally constipated and socially awkward, but fundamentally decent. That's a significant upgrade from your ex."
"The bar is literally on the floor if we're comparing to Jintao."
"Fair. But still—Yuze respects your boundaries, asks for consent before touching you, maintains control even when biology makes it difficult, and genuinely seems to care about your wellbeing even though he's terrible at expressing it. Those are green flags, Xiaoran."
They were. Xiaoran knew they were. But acknowledging green flags meant acknowledging the possibility of something beyond friendship, and he wasn't ready for that complexity yet.
The afternoon Art History lecture was dedicated to collaborative presentation logistics. Professor Huang outlined expectations, provided rubrics, and answered questions about format and timing. Xiaoran took detailed notes, hyperaware of Yuze three rows back doing the same.
When class ended, they walked together to the library, falling into comfortable silence. The rain had intensified, and neither had brought an umbrella. By the time they reached the library entrance, both were thoroughly damp, Xiaoran's hair dripping and Yuze's jacket darkened with water.
"This is suboptimal," Yuze observed, attempting to shake water from his sleeves with minimal success.
"Suboptimal is a very diplomatic way of saying we look like drowned cats," Xiaoran said, wringing water from his shirt hem.
"I don't typically engage in colorful metaphors, but yes. Drowned cats is accurate." There was the barest hint of amusement in Yuze's tone, almost imperceptible but definitely present.
Study room 4C had heating, thankfully, and they both positioned themselves near the vent to maximize drying efficiency. Yuze immediately pulled out his laptop and a printed outline that was color-coded, indexed, and intimidatingly comprehensive.
"I've structured the presentation in three sections," Yuze began without preamble. "Historical context and philosophical framework, analytical deep-dive into specific examples, and contemporary application through our creative demonstration. Total time should be twenty-five minutes, leaving five for questions."
"This is incredibly detailed." Xiaoran scanned the outline, impressed despite himself. "You've mapped out transitions, timing for each section, even potential audience questions and prepared responses."
"Preparation prevents poor performance," Yuze said, as if this were obvious universal truth. "I don't believe in improvisation for academic presentations. Everything should be planned, practiced, and polished."
"What about the creative demonstration part? That's inherently improvisational—me responding to your music in the moment."
"Your movement will be improvisational within a structured framework," Yuze corrected. "I'll play the composition, you'll respond through movement, but we'll have practiced enough that your responses are informed by familiarity with the piece rather than purely spontaneous reaction. Controlled spontaneity."
"That's an oxymoron."
"It's a technique. Jazz musicians use it constantly—improvisation within established chord progressions and rhythmic structures. You're applying the same principle to movement."
Xiaoran considered this. "So we need to practice together. Multiple times. Get familiar with how the music and movement interact."
"Exactly. I propose we schedule at least three practice sessions before the presentation. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of next week. One hour each session. I'll reserve a practice room in the music building with adequate space for movement."
"That's a lot of time commitment."
"This project is worth thirty percent of our grade. Time commitment is appropriate." Yuze was typing something on his laptop. "Also, I want it to be excellent. Not adequate, not good enough—excellent. That requires practice."
"You really don't do anything halfway, do you?"
Yuze looked up from his laptop, expression genuinely confused by the question. "Why would I? If something is worth doing, it's worth doing to the best of my ability. Anything less is wasted effort."
"What about things you do just for fun? Just because you enjoy them?"
"I enjoy music. I do it to the best of my ability."
"But do you ever just... play? Without goals or structure? Just for the pleasure of making sound?"
Yuze was quiet for a long moment, clearly grappling with the concept. "No. Music has purpose—composition, performance, skill development. Playing without purpose is... I don't understand what that would accomplish."
"It wouldn't accomplish anything. That's the point. It would just be joyful." Xiaoran leaned forward, genuine curiosity overriding his usual caution about pushing Yuze's boundaries. "Have you ever done anything purely for joy? Without it connecting to goals or achievement?"
"I experience satisfaction from accomplishment. That's sufficient."
"Satisfaction isn't the same as joy."
"Isn't it?" Yuze looked genuinely uncertain now. "How do you differentiate?"
Xiaoran thought about it, trying to articulate something he'd always understood instinctively. "Satisfaction is... completion. Finishing something difficult, achieving a goal, meeting a standard. It feels good, but it's the good of crossing something off a list. Joy is different. It's lighter, less connected to outcome. It's laughing until your stomach hurts, or dancing badly to music you love, or eating amazing food without thinking about nutrition, or spending time with friends without any agenda beyond enjoying their company."
"That sounds inefficient."
"It is inefficient. That's what makes it joyful—it exists outside productivity metrics."
Yuze was staring at him with an expression Xiaoran couldn't quite read—not quite confusion, not quite fascination, something in between. "I don't think I've experienced that. What you're describing. I'm not sure I know how."
The admission was so vulnerable, so honestly lost, that Xiaoran felt his heart clench. "You've never just... been happy? Without it being connected to achievement?"
"I've been satisfied. Content with work well done. Pleased with positive outcomes." Yuze's voice had gone quieter, more uncertain than Xiaoran had ever heard it. "But what you're describing—that lightness, that purposeless pleasure—I don't have a reference point for it."
"That's incredibly sad, Yuze."
"Is it? I've accomplished significant things. I have clear goals and consistent progress toward them. By objective measures, I'm successful."
"Success and happiness aren't the same thing either."
"Perhaps not. But happiness is nebulous and subjective. Success is measurable and achievable. I prefer clear metrics." But even as Yuze said it, something in his expression suggested doubt creeping in around the edges of his certainty.
Xiaoran wanted to push further, to argue that a life measured only in achievements was missing something fundamental. But Yuze was already showing unusual vulnerability by admitting to his lack of understanding. Pushing too hard would just make him retreat behind his walls.
"What if we made a deal?" Xiaoran suggested carefully. "I'll help you practice excellent structured presentations—show up on time, prepare thoroughly, meet your standards for academic work. And you let me show you some things that are joyful but purposeless. Not as substitutes for your goals, just as additions. Supplements to balance out all the achievement focus."
Yuze looked deeply skeptical. "What would these 'purposeless joyful' activities entail?"
"I don't know yet. We'd figure it out together. Things that have no productive outcome but make you happy in the moment." Xiaoran smiled. "Consider it a social experiment. You're always so focused on control and discipline—what if you practiced letting go occasionally? Just to see what happens?"
"Letting go sounds dangerous."
"It can be. But it can also be freeing." Xiaoran pulled out his notebook with movement sketches. "We don't have to decide now. Just think about it. In the meantime, let's work on this presentation structure you've created, because it really is impressively thorough."
They spent the next hour reviewing the presentation outline, making refinements, discussing transitions and timing. Yuze was an exacting collaborator, catching logical inconsistencies Xiaoran had missed, suggesting improvements to argument flow, ensuring every element served the overall thesis.
But periodically, Xiaoran would catch Yuze watching him with that same uncertain expression—like someone encountering a concept that didn't fit their existing worldview and trying to determine if the concept was wrong or if their worldview needed expansion.
Around 4:30, Yuze's stomach growled audibly. He looked mortified, as if biological needs were personal betrayals.
"When did you last eat?" Xiaoran asked.
"Breakfast. I had a protein bar at 7 AM."
"Yuze, it's almost 5 PM. That's ten hours. You need actual food."
"I was focused on preparing for this meeting. I don't usually notice hunger when I'm working." Yuze was already packing up his materials, clearly intending to continue his day without addressing the food issue.
"We're getting dinner," Xiaoran said firmly. "There's a place near east gate with amazing dumplings. We can continue discussing the presentation while eating. That way you're still being productive while also not starving."
"I should practice—"
"You should eat. Your brain needs fuel to function optimally. Consider it a practical efficiency measure." Xiaoran was already standing, making it clear this wasn't a negotiation. "Come on. Thirty minutes maximum. Then you can return to your practice schedule."
Yuze looked torn between his routines and the undeniable logic of Xiaoran's argument. Finally, reluctantly, he stood. "Thirty minutes. Then I need to practice."
"Deal."
They walked to the dumpling restaurant through rain that had softened to drizzle, the evening air cool and clean-smelling. The restaurant was small, family-run, with plastic stools and fluorescent lighting and absolutely incredible food. Xiaoran ordered for both of them—pork and chive dumplings, spicy wontons, cucumber salad, and hot tea.
"I can order my own food," Yuze protested.
"You were staring at the menu like it was written in code. I'm efficient." Xiaoran grinned. "Consider it payback for all the organized outlines and structured timelines you provide."
When the food arrived, Yuze ate with the focused intensity he brought to everything, clearly hungrier than he'd admitted. Xiaoran watched with amusement as Yuze methodically worked through the dumplings, pausing only to acknowledge that they were, in fact, excellent.
"See?" Xiaoran said. "Sometimes taking breaks for basic needs actually improves overall productivity. You'll practice better with food in your system."
"Logically sound," Yuze admitted. "Though I dislike the inefficiency of needing to eat multiple times daily. It would be more optimal if humans could refuel once and maintain function for extended periods."
"You say the most robot things sometimes."
"I'm not a robot. I simply prioritize efficiency over comfort."
"That's exactly what a robot would say."
For a moment, Xiaoran thought he'd pushed too far into teasing territory. But then Yuze's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to count as one by his standards.
"If I'm a robot, you're aggressively social programming attempting to override my efficiency protocols," Yuze said, his tone dry but not unkind.
"That's the nicest insult I've ever received," Xiaoran laughed. "You're getting better at this banter thing."
"I'm learning through exposure. You're a comprehensive tutorial in casual social interaction whether I want one or not."
"And yet you keep showing up to study sessions and accepting dinner invitations."
"The study sessions are academically necessary. The dinner was logistically efficient given my hunger state." But Yuze's tone suggested he knew exactly how transparent that rationalization was.
They finished eating and Yuze insisted on paying despite Xiaoran's protests—"You ordered, I'll pay, basic fairness"—then walked back toward campus through the now-clearing evening. The rain had stopped entirely, leaving everything damp and reflective under streetlights.
"Thank you," Yuze said as they reached the point where their paths diverged. "For the food. And for the conversation. It was... not unpleasant."
"High praise from Lin Yuze," Xiaoran said with mock solemnity. "I'll treasure this 'not unpleasant' rating forever."
"I'm not skilled at expressing..." Yuze trailed off, struggling. "I don't know how to communicate appreciation without sounding formal or distant. It's not that I don't feel it. I just don't know how to translate feeling into appropriate social expression."
The honest admission made Xiaoran's chest tight. "You're doing fine. I understand what you mean even when you say it awkwardly. That's what friends do—they translate each other's communication styles."
"We are friends, aren't we?" Yuze said it like a discovery, like he was surprised to find himself in this situation. "Actual friends, not just project collaborators pretending friendship for social convenience."
"Yes. We're actual friends." Xiaoran felt the truth of it settle into place. "Is that okay with you?"
"I think so. It's unfamiliar territory. But not entirely terrible." Yuze was quiet for a moment, then: "I should go. Practice schedule. But... I'll see you Monday for our first practice session. 7 PM, music building practice room 3B."
"I'll be there."
Yuze nodded and turned to leave, then paused. "Xiaoran. About your earlier offer—the purposeless joyful activities experiment. I'll consider it. I make no promises, but I'll think about it."
He left before Xiaoran could respond, disappearing into the evening with his characteristic purposeful stride. Xiaoran stood there for a moment, smiling at nothing in particular, feeling warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Lin Yuze was learning friendship despite himself. Was admitting to vulnerability. Was considering the possibility that life might include more than structured achievement. It was progress—slow, awkward, uncertain progress, but progress nonetheless.
Xiaoran's phone buzzed with the group chat exploding:
Zhou Mei: *WHERE ARE YOU? You disappeared after class.*
Chen Lili: *Are you okay? Did Jintao show up again?*
*I'm fine! Was working on project stuff with Yuze, then we got dinner. Just heading back to dorm now.*
The chat went silent for exactly three seconds, then:
Zhou Mei: *YOU GOT DINNER? LIKE A DATE DINNER?*
*Like a 'he hadn't eaten in 10 hours and I forced him to consume food' dinner. Not romantic.*
Fang Ling: *That's literally caregiving. That's inherently intimate.*
*He's my friend. Friends make sure friends eat.*
Zhang Wei, joining the chat: *Yuze texted me that he had dinner with you and it was 'not unpleasant.' In Yuze-speak, that's basically a declaration of love.*
*It's absolutely not. He's just learning how to have casual social interactions.*
Zhou Mei: *Whatever you need to tell yourself. But we all see what's developing here.*
*Nothing is developing. We're friends. That's all.*
Chen Lili: *Famous last words before every romance ever.*
Xiaoran turned his phone to silent and headed to his dorm, refusing to give the group chat's teasing more thought. They were reading too much into simple friendship. Just because Yuze was awkward and Xiaoran found his awkwardness endearing didn't mean anything romantic was developing.
They were friends. Good friends, even. That was significant and valuable without needing to be anything more.
But as Xiaoran got ready for bed that night, he found himself replaying the dinner conversation—Yuze's confusion about joy, his admission of never experiencing purposeless happiness, his willingness to consider Xiaoran's experiment despite obvious discomfort with the concept.
And Xiaoran realized with some surprise that he genuinely wanted to help Yuze discover joy. Wanted to see what Lin Yuze looked like when he laughed unreservedly, when he relaxed completely, when he allowed himself to simply be happy without it connecting to achievement or goals.
It wasn't romantic. It was just... caring. Deep, genuine caring about someone else's wellbeing and happiness.
That was allowed. That was normal. Friends cared about friends.
Xiaoran fell asleep telling himself that, ignoring the small voice suggesting that the way his heart beat faster when Yuze almost-smiled might indicate feelings that extended beyond simple friendship.
Problems for future Xiaoran. Present Xiaoran needed sleep and had practice sessions to prepare for and a movement piece to develop and absolutely no time for complicated feelings about his brilliant, awkward, emotionally constipated friend.
Absolutely no time at all.
The fact that he dreamed about piano music and dumplings and the particular way Yuze looked when he was trying not to smile was completely irrelevant.
Completely.