BOSF 024: Like

“Xiang Yang…” 

Ji Yan’s voice broke into a sob as soon as he spoke, unable to continue. Tears streamed down his face, unstoppable. He didn’t want to look weak in front of Xiang Yang, frantically wiping his eyes to hide his embarrassment, avoiding his gaze. Seeing Xiang Yang again intensified the ache in his chest, and guilt surged stronger than ever, swelling endlessly in his heart.

He sat frozen, afraid to move or approach. For the first time, he lacked the courage to go to Xiang Yang.

Xiang Yang, however, looked at him calmly. Their roles seemed reversed—before, Ji Yan had always been the one to approach, while Xiang Yang waited. But this time, Xiang Yang took the first step, walking toward him.

Hearing the footsteps, Ji Yan looked up, staring blankly at Xiang Yang.

After a year and a half apart, Xiang Yang had grown taller, his features sharper and more defined. Sitting on the low staircase, Ji Yan had to tilt his head to meet his gaze.

Without a word, Xiang Yang reached out and gently wiped the tears from Ji Yan’s cheek.

Only then did Ji Yan dare to meet his eyes. Those dark, steady, gentle eyes were unchanged, as if nothing had shifted between them.

Unable to hold back, Ji Yan’s nose stung, and he threw himself into Xiang Yang’s arms. When Xiang Yang didn’t push him away, Ji Yan buried his face in his chest, tears soaking his shirt. He cried silently, trembling, gripping Xiang Yang’s clothes tightly, terrified that Xiang Yang might not forgive him.

The once-slight boy had grown, his strength modest but enough to hold Ji Yan up. Xiang Yang lowered his head, looking at the person in his arms. Then, he wrapped his arms around Ji Yan’s shoulders and back, hugging him tightly after so long apart.

They were finally together again. The pain and sadness of their separation seemed to dissolve in this silent embrace.

Ji Yan’s eyes were red from crying, and he felt pathetic. The house had quieted—no more sounds of his parents’ arguing, likely in the calm after their storm—but he still didn’t want to go back.

At his age, boys cared about pride, especially not wanting their parents to see them cry. Even when he failed exams, Ji Yan hid his tears under his blanket at night. Standing outside, he still had nowhere to go.

So Xiang Yang tugged at him, leading him to his home.

Ji Yan noticed Xiang Yang holding coins and keys, probably on his way to buy something when he saw Ji Yan on the stairs. Lost in thought, Ji Yan instinctively headed toward Xiang Yang’s old room. Stepping into the house again brought back a flood of memories of their time together, full of nostalgia.

But Xiang Yang tugged him again, pointing in another direction.

Ji Yan froze, not immediately understanding. When Xiang Yang walked that way, it hit him—Xiang Yang’s room had changed.

Shocked, Ji Yan glanced at the door of Xiang Yang’s former room, now hearing Li Lilian’s faint laughter as she played with her child. Xiang Yang’s room was now Xiang Jie’s. Of course—Xiang Jie was three now, no longer in a crib, old enough to talk, demand toys, and claim space. The living room was cluttered with toys, clearly for Xiang Jie.

Having been apart so long, Ji Yan only now remembered how awkward Xiang Yang’s position was at home, especially since Xiang Jie’s birth. Watching Xiang Yang’s back as he headed toward what used to be a storage room, Ji Yan’s heart ached again.

He’d heard classmates talk about fighting siblings for rooms. To adults, it was trivial, but to kids, a room’s size reflected their status at home.

Xiang Yang opened his new room’s door, turning to wait for Ji Yan. Perhaps because time had passed, he seemed unbothered by the change, or maybe he didn’t care.

Ji Yan knew Xiang Yang cared about little, a trait tied to his condition. He struggled to read others’ emotions, living in his own world. So, those he held dear were especially significant.

Though he’d already cried, Ji Yan felt like crying again. In vulnerability, his defenses crumbled easily. Still, he held it together and stepped into Xiang Yang’s room.

The small space held the familiar bed and desk, but the Lego blocks were gone, replaced by piles of origami filling the floor—flowers, boats, planes, cranes, some that Ji Yan had taught him, others he didn’t know.

Ji Yan picked up a colorful origami piece by his feet, made from torn junior high textbooks, shaped like a dog.

When he’d taught Xiang Yang origami, it took repeated demonstrations for him to learn, and his folds were clumsy. Now, Xiang Yang’s work was skilled, with clean creases and lifelike shapes, as if honed through countless tries.

At Ji Yan’s house, Lin Yueqin would’ve said origami was useless, with no future. She was practical, but Ji Yan didn’t want to be like her. He wouldn’t impose his views on Xiang Yang or stop him from doing what he loved. He only asked, “Do you like origami?”

He’d once asked if Xiang Yang liked drawing, and Xiang Yang’s vague “mm” left it unclear if he truly liked it or was just responding.

This time, Xiang Yang answered firmly, “I like it.”

Ji Yan looked at him, surprised. In their time apart, Xiang Yang had grown. Though still quiet, he now responded. Ji Yan thought of the resource class, with its specialized teachers who knew how to guide students like Xiang Yang. Maybe during their separation, Xiang Yang found his passion, progressing quickly. Ji Yan was happy but also regretted not witnessing it himself.

His fingers brushed the origami dog, and as he looked down, tears fell again.

Crying again, Ji Yan saw Xiang Yang’s helpless expression. Xiang Yang leaned down, clumsily wiping his tears, saying, “Don’t… cry…”

Looking up, Ji Yan laughed through his tears.

Xiang Yang’s head was low, their faces close. His youthful features had matured, his handsome face now striking. Ji Yan leaned forward, kissing the corner of Xiang Yang’s lips.

Xiang Yang paused, his dark eyes reflecting only Ji Yan.

Ji Yan knew it wasn’t impulse. He’d wanted to do it. The feelings he’d avoided thinking about had found answers during their time apart. He’d thought time would erase everything, including emotions, but avoiding Xiang Yang only taught him the bitterness of longing. He wasn’t trying to make Xiang Yang forget—he’d been forcing himself to, trying to be “normal.” But he couldn’t. He didn’t know when these feelings started, only that he’d thought he liked girls, leaving him defenseless with Xiang Yang. By the time he realized, it was too late.

“You really don’t blame me?” Realizing how cruelly he’d acted, Ji Yan’s guilt deepened, tears welling again.

Xiang Yang, seemingly without anger, didn’t resent Ji Yan’s absence. But Ji Yan knew he must’ve been hurt, just unable to express it.

Xiang Yang gazed at him, his dark eyes as focused and earnest as ever, reflecting only Ji Yan.

Like always, looking at Xiang Yang calmed Ji Yan, easing the pain of his parents’ fights. He didn’t press for answers, knowing Xiang Yang might not think in such complex terms.

Instead, he pulled Xiang Yang closer, kissing his lips. He’d once pushed him away out of fear, but not now. He’d already paid for his selfishness.

Xiang Yang’s eyes flickered, but before he could react, Ji Yan pulled back.

Setting down the origami dog, Ji Yan hugged Xiang Yang. After a brief embrace, he kissed his cheek.

He used to love touching Xiang Yang’s stubble, and his hand instinctively found Xiang Yang’s chin. Xiang Yang shaved himself now, but new stubble was soft and prickly.

Still ticklish, Xiang Yang’s chin tucked slightly, but he didn’t stop Ji Yan, his arms holding him as if reluctant to let go.

The room was small. Xiang Yang took one step back and hit the bed, falling onto it as Ji Yan pushed.

Ji Yan leaned over him, playfully kissing his chin.

Xiang Yang let out a soft hum, his Adam’s apple bobbing instinctively. Ji Yan found the sound oddly alluring, his face flushing. Without thinking, his lips traced Xiang Yang’s jawline, kissing his Adam’s apple.

With a gentle bite, Ji Yan froze, feeling Xiang Yang’s reaction—something pressing against him.

And he, too, had reacted, stirred by Xiang Yang’s muffled sound.