By the time the luxury bus pulled into the underground car park of their apartment building, Mo Fei had been asleep for nearly the entire journey.
He had managed to stay awake long enough to eat an unreasonable amount of Chen Yu's cake, declare his undying devotion to his best friend and complain that his feet were attempting to separate themselves from his body.
After that, he had curled up against the sofa cushions and promptly abandoned the living.
Zhang Yichen had spent the remainder of the journey with an unconscious idiot leaning against him.
Not that Mo Fei had been particularly cooperative in his sleep. He had shifted positions several times, stolen most of the available space and, at one point, attempted to use Yichen's arm as a pillow while muttering something about expensive shoes.
Now, with the others already dropped off and the bus finally coming to a stop, Yichen glanced down at the violet-haired head resting against his shoulder. "We're home."
Nothing.
"Mo Fei."
A faint noise emerged from somewhere beneath the dishevelled hair.
Yichen waited. The noise did not develop into anything resembling a response.
He gave Mo Fei's shoulder a gentle shake. "Get up. Unless you intend to sleep here."
"Mmm." That apparently reached him. Mo Fei reluctantly lifted his head, blinking at the unfamiliar brightness filtering through the windows.
His sunglasses had disappeared into one of his pockets, his jacket was creased, and the elaborate hairstyle that had nearly caused a national emergency earlier that evening now looked as though several birds had considered renting accommodation in it.
He stared at Yichen, then at the door. "...Home?"
"Yes."
With the solemn determination of a man undertaking a task of extraordinary difficulty, Mo Fei pushed himself upright.
Yichen watched him shuffle towards the exit. He made it down the steps. One foot touched the ground. The other apparently received no instructions.
"Ah—"
Yichen caught him before he could introduce his face to the concrete. For a moment, Mo Fei remained folded against his chest, fingers loosely gripping the front of Yichen's jacket.
Neither moved.
Mo Fei lifted his head. "...Hello."
Yichen looked down at him. "Are your legs decorative? What are you, a fall risk?"
"They're on strike," Mo Fei retorted. "My feet have resigned. My knees are considering it."
Yichen glanced towards the building's private entrance, then back at the exhausted creature hanging off him.
The driver had already stepped out to ensure they had everything, but there was little point pretending Mo Fei would make the short journey without another incident.
With a quiet exhale, Yichen slipped one arm beneath his knees and the other around his back.
Mo Fei left the ground. "Hehe." That was the extent of his protest. He adjusted himself in Yichen's arms, tucked his face comfortably against his shoulder and closed his eyes again.
Yichen stared at him. "You're not even going to pretend you can walk?"
"Why?" Mo Fei mumbled. "You're doing wonderfully. Hehehe, five stars."
And just like that, he settled down.
Yichen shook his head and carried him towards the private entrance.
The underground car park was quiet at this hour, its polished concrete reflecting long strips of overhead lighting. Their footsteps echoed faintly between the parked cars, accompanied by the low hum of ventilation and the occasional distant engine.
Beyond the glass doors, the residential lobby glowed with warm, subdued light.
Mo Fei, meanwhile, had apparently decided that being carried was the most sensible arrangement anyone had proposed all evening.
His arms rested loosely around Yichen's neck.
Every now and then, his head shifted against Yichen's shoulder, violet strands brushing the side of his jaw. The faint scent of his cologne lingered beneath the warmer traces of stage make-up and whatever sweet thing Chen Yu had fed him last.
Yichen's thoughts briefly returned to a certain unfortunate cookie. His jaw tightened. He was going to remember that for a very long time.
The lift doors opened with a soft chime.
Yichen stepped inside and pressed the button for the top floor.
The mirrored walls reflected a rather peculiar sight: Zhang Yichen, still impeccably dressed despite the long evening, carrying an internationally celebrated model who looked as though he had been retrieved from the aftermath of a natural disaster.
Mo Fei stirred when the lift began moving.
Yichen looked towards the ceiling. He had no idea how this man had survived adulthood.
The lift rose smoothly, its faint mechanical hum filling the silence.
Somewhere around the middle floors, Mo Fei shifted again and tightened his arms around Yichen's neck.
By the time they reached the top floor, Yichen was beginning to suspect that Mo Fei had developed the ability to fall asleep between individual sentences.
The doors parted, revealing the quiet private corridor leading to their neighbouring apartments.
Warm lights ran along the walls, illuminating the polished stone floor and the dark wooden doors at either end.
Everything was still.
After the thunderous music, screaming fans and relentless flashing lights of Starlight Festival, the silence felt almost unnatural.
Yichen carried him towards his apartment. "Your door."
Mo Fei made a questioning noise.
"The passcode."
Without opening his eyes, Mo Fei lazily rattled off the numbers.
Yichen entered them.
A soft electronic chime sounded, followed by the click of the lock.
The door swung inward. He stepped inside, nudged it shut behind him and carried Mo Fei towards the living room.
The apartment was dark except for the soft amber glow filtering in from the city beyond the enormous windows.
The city stretched beneath them in a glittering sprawl of traffic, illuminated towers and distant advertisements. The air inside was cool and faintly scented with the fragrance Mo Fei liked to use around the house.
Yichen lowered him onto the sofa.
Mo Fei immediately sank into the cushions with a long, blissful groan. "Ahhh. My beautiful home. My precious sofa. I've missed you."
Yichen straightened, watching as Mo Fei struggled out of his jacket. A frown settled between his brows. "So I'm the last to know."
Mo Fei had managed to free one arm. He paused, the jacket hanging awkwardly from his other shoulder. "Know what?"
"Your house passcode."
Mo Fei blinked.
Yichen folded his arms. "Everyone knows it. Even Sima Li."
Mo Fei simply looked at him and he chuckled. "That's what you're upset about?"
Yichen gave him a flat look.
Mo Fei laughed again and finally tugged the jacket free, dropping it beside him. "I don't even know yours," he pointed out. "Besides, I just told you mine. Enjoy. Don't rob me."
Yichen scoffed.
Mo Fei looked entirely pleased with his own reasoning. There was no point continuing this conversation.
Yichen stepped closer as Mo Fei stretched, lifting both arms above his head with a long, unrestrained yawn.
His fitted top rose slightly at the waist, and he twisted from side to side, trying to ease the stiffness in his back.
"Ahhh, I'm finished," Mo Fei complained, dropping his arms. "Completely finished. My bones have become decorative ornaments."
Yichen's gaze lingered on him.
The jacket was gone now, leaving the fitted top that had been concealed beneath it for most of the evening.
His violet hair was thoroughly disordered, a few strands falling across his forehead. The faint traces of make-up around his eyes had softened after hours of wear, and his lips were slightly dry from the performance.
He looked exhausted.
He also looked—
Yichen pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "You looked good today."
Mo Fei glanced up. His expression brightened, and a smile spread across his face. "You too."
Yichen gave a quiet hum.
Mo Fei leaned back against the sofa, apparently taking the compliment as permission to begin talking again. "Although I nearly died in those boots. Do you know how long I was standing?"
He shook his head at the memory.
"And Sima Li!" Mo Fei continued, gesturing vaguely. "That man has no shame. None. He was singing and dancing like he'd personally paid for the entire festival. Then Xu Qi'an came out, and Yang Ling started shouting, and everybody went insane."
He paused to rub the back of his neck. "Still, it worked, didn't it?"
"It did." Yichen smiled.
Mo Fei looked pleased.
He had been rather proud of that part.
The opening performance had originally been a considerably simpler arrangement. He and Sima Li had both been scheduled among the opening artists, while Yichen's appearance had been reserved for later in the festival.
That was before Mo Fei decided to turn their separate schedules into one enormous collaborative performance.
It had taken some convincing, several frantic conversations and a rather impressive amount of last-minute coordination. But the organisers had accepted the change quickly enough.
Why wouldn't they?
They were getting Zhang Yichen.
And considering Yichen had been perfectly prepared to skip the festival altogether, the sponsors had every reason to welcome an arrangement that guaranteed his appearance.
Mo Fei had supplied the idea. Everyone else had helped make it possible, and somehow, against all reasonable expectations, the whole thing had worked.
"Did you see the audience when you came out?" Mo Fei asked, grinning. "I thought somebody was going to faint."
"Someone probably did."
"Exactly! You should thank me. I gave them the opportunity to witness your beauty."
Yichen's mouth curved faintly. "How thoughtful."
"I know. I'm a generous person." Mo Fei stretched his legs along the sofa and winced. "Anyway, I'm sleeping for at least two days. Don't call me. Don't wake me. Don't tell me the world is ending. If the world ends, let it end quietly."
"And if you're hungry?" Yichen asked.
Mo Fei considered this. "...Wake me. But only if there's food."
Yichen hummed.
Mo Fei continued talking, something about ordering breakfast when he eventually returned to the land of the living. But Yichen's attention had begun to drift.
Not away from him. Quite the opposite. His gaze travelled over the violet-haired man lounging across the sofa, one leg stretched out, the other bent carelessly at the knee.
Mo Fei was still talking, his hands occasionally moving to emphasise whatever complaint had seized his attention.
Yichen could hear him.
Mostly, but another image had begun intruding upon his thoughts.
Mo Fei beneath the Starlight spotlights. Violet hair catching the light. Sunglasses slipping down his nose.
That infuriating smile as he walked towards the centre of the runway, every movement perfectly timed to the music.
He remembered the way the crowd had screamed when Mo Fei lifted his chin. The way he had turned towards the cameras, completely aware of what he was doing to the people watching.
And then there had been that moment when Mo Fei approached him with Aria's hand already clasped in his own. That ridiculous, shameless grin. The hand extended towards him.
The little curl of his fingers.
Come on.
Yichen had seen him on countless runways.
He knew how Mo Fei moved when he was working. Knew the confidence that settled over him the moment he stepped beneath the lights, the effortless precision of his walk, the way he could command attention without saying a word.
But tonight—
Tonight had been something else.
Mo Fei had looked as though the entire stage existed solely for his amusement and Yichen had found himself watching him far more than was professionally reasonable.
"...and then Chen Yu said he'd packed enough cake, but honestly, I don't think he understands how much energy I used today. I could eat another whole box right now. Actually, do we have anything in the fridge? Because if we don't—"
Yichen bit his lower lip. His fingers curled against his palm.
Mo Fei was still talking. Still completely oblivious.
The memory of that smile beneath the stage lights returned with irritating clarity.
Yichen stared at him for another second, then his restraint snapped.
Fuck it.
A low growl escaped him.
He reached forward, caught Mo Fei by the hand and pulled him towards him.
"Ah—Yichen, what are you—"
The rest disappeared against his mouth as Zhang Yichen kissed him.
Mo Fei went still for half a heartbeat, caught completely off guard.
One moment, he had been discussing the urgent state of his refrigerator, the next, Zhang Yichen had apparently decided that conversation was no longer necessary.
His fingers caught the front of Yichen's shirt.
Then, rather than push him away, he tilted his head and kissed him back.
Yichen's free hand settled against his waist, steadying him as he leaned closer.
Mo Fei's hair brushed his cheek, soft and faintly scented with the products the stylists had used earlier that evening.
The apartment remained quiet around them.
Far below, traffic continued moving through Beijing, its distant sounds barely reaching the top floor.
Mo Fei's grip tightened slightly, for several seconds, neither spoke.
Which, considering Mo Fei had been talking almost continuously since they entered the apartment, was a remarkable achievement.