Chapter Text
“Build me a city and call it Jerusalem. Build me another and call it
Jerusalem.
We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not
what we sought, so do it over, give me another version,”
—A Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out by Richard Siken
↻
(v.)
“You’ve been taking a lot of photos lately,” Cheng Xiaoshi interjects.
Lu Guang blinks. It takes a beat before he understands what Cheng Xiaoshi is talking about. Lately it’s been like this; a little lag in his synapses when information is passed from one end to another. Lu Guang is naturally perceived as thoughtful, so his silence before saying anything is often read as contemplative, but he knows what this really is. He takes a while to process things because his mind is slowing down, weighed down by the kind of semi-permanent weariness that can’t ever wane. Everything is comprehensible but fuzzy.
He glances down at the camera in his hands. Cheng Xiaoshi is right. He doesn’t know, suddenly, if this is normal. Perhaps not, given that Cheng Xiaoshi is pointing it out, though Lu Guang finally remembers why he’s been doing it. The more photos, the more times he can dive back. A precautionary measure. He’s known this fact for a while, but not exactly when he decided to carry this strategy out. Perhaps about two timelines ago. The details are somewhat hazy.
“Well, we are a photo studio,” he replies, because that’s what he said last time. Memories roll back in, at last, the progression of events that he’s memorized both from the painstakingly detailed notes he wrote in his notebooks in previous timelines and from living these days out himself. Cheng Xiaoshi would say, not that kind of photo studio. Lu Guang will let Cheng Xiaoshi get distracted by his own exasperation at his non-answers that he forgets to wheedle the truth out of him. Afterwards, Cheng Xiaoshi will get bored and ask Lu Guang to do something about his boredom. Lu Guang will not. Cheng Xiaoshi will resort to wasting the afternoon napping. Lu Guang will spend the time picking up a book he’s already read. He won’t think of the photos, doesn’t even know what they look like; it’s enough that they’re there, just as a backup. He won’t remember when he began seeing pictures as practical more than sentimental.
“You know we’re not really that kind of photo studio,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, sure enough. He makes a face. “I swear, Lu Guang, sometimes you’re so…”
Lu Guang drowns his voice out. He doesn’t remember when he started doing that either, when it became a thing he was even capable of. He always listens to Cheng Xiaoshi, even if he says the same things over and over, even if he says things Lu Guang doesn’t want to hear or doesn’t agree with. Cheng Xiaoshi talks and talks and Lu Guang always wants to drink his voice in. But recently something has shifted. He feels foreign in his own body.
↻
(ii.)
The first time he dives back, the second time Cheng Xiaoshi dies, Lu Guang lingers, even if he immediately contemplates going back. He’d been too impulsive coming back here, with no plan in sight, only desire—to see Cheng Xiaoshi once more, to make sure that he didn’t die that night—and recognized now the consequences of it.
He calls Qiao Ling to tell her. Qiao Ling is so devastated she goes into shock. The police put Lu Guang in a holding cell; they find it suspicious that he had installed security cameras and purchased a gun in the weeks leading up to the Vein’s break-in, as if he knew something would happen. Before he’d been arrested, he left Cheng Xiaoshi in the darkroom and went upstairs. His phone was still on the call with Qiao Ling. She hadn’t hung up, though she said nothing. It was alright, Lu Guang thought. For once, he could do the talking for both of them.
“Qiao Ling,” he began. He opened a drawer filled with photos shoved inside. They were pictures Cheng Xiaoshi had taken across the years, though he never had the time to sort through them. Lu Guang remembered some of his own finding themselves wedged in between, a result of giving some photos to Cheng Xiaoshi when he asked for them because they were pretty. Lu Guang could still tap into his power, despite Cheng Xiaoshi transferring his ability to him. He searched for all the ones he took, cataloguing which one was from which time. “I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“I messed up,” he continued. “I wasn’t thinking, I just knew I had to come back, and it—” He let out a shaky breath. His fault. He had his chance to return and he squandered it with a kind of recklessness that was expected of Cheng Xiaoshi rather than him.
He’d been overcome with emotion the whole time he’d been back, a far cry from his usually composed nature. He pushed Cheng Xiaoshi away, unwilling to let him see like this, constantly on the verge of tears, the grief of knowing that Cheng Xiaoshi died clouding his vision, yet he hovered constantly. He yelled at Cheng Xiaoshi for every careless thing he did during a dive. He fought with him, more than he ever had before, and purposely drove Cheng Xiaoshi out of the studio in the hopes that when Vein broke in, he wouldn’t find Cheng Xiaoshi there. But then Cheng Xiaoshi came back, because he could not keep away, because he did not know, because he cared too much, and he died.
The last thing he asked Lu Guang was to not be mad at him anymore. The last thing Lu Guang had ever done for Cheng Xiaoshi was hurt him in his attempt to save him. So many thoughtless decisions on Lu Guang’s end. Now he knew better though, and he had another shot. “It’s going to be okay.”
“...what are you talking about,” Qiao Ling finally said. “Lu Guang, he’s gone. It’s over.”
“No,” Lu Guang said, voice thick. He could hear the cops clamoring by the entrance to the studio. He pocketed a photo. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
In the holding cell they had confiscated everything he owned but hadn’t noticed the photo. Hadn’t noticed the blood dripping from Lu Guang’s side, where skin and muscle used to be, Vein’s parting gift as he told Lu Guang this was what he deserved.
Lu Guang glances out the window, where past the bars he can see the night sky. He will not make it to the morning. He doesn’t want to.
The picture is creased by the edges when he takes it out. It’s an older photo, taken a little over a year ago. Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t smiling in this photo; he hadn’t noticed Lu Guang take it, far more preoccupied picking flowers for Qiao Ling’s birthday, but Lu Guang remembers that he did when his eyes eventually caught Lu Guang’s. He’d always been so unburdened by life, Lu Guang had thought then, in spite of everything he’d gone through, in spite of each life he experienced for every dive, in spite of all his empathy. He was easy to excite, calming to speak to, beautiful to look at. He was not broken down by the guilt of his actions, he was not ashamed of the weight of his emotions. He was everything Lu Guang wanted.
He had to protect that, Lu Guang thought then. He had to keep it alive.
He dives.
↻
(v.)
Lu Guang wakes up, and he feels very, very tired.
“Nightmare?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks, head peeking up to Lu Guang’s top bunk.
Consciousness comes to him in pieces. It’s very cold in the room, he thinks, even though their ceiling fan has been broken for quite a while. “Hmm?”
“You were saying something in your sleep,” Cheng Xiaoshi explains. “I didn’t catch exactly what, but you were whimpering.”
“I see.” He doesn’t have the energy to even feel mortified. Cheng Xiaoshi must notice, because his brows crease in concern. He doesn’t remember what nightmare it had been. He never really does, though it’s not hard to imagine what it might’ve been. “What time…”
“4AM. You’ve been asleep since 6PM. I think that’s the longest I’ve seen you down for the count.” Cheng Xiaoshi places his palm on Lu Guang’s forehead. “Are you—”
“I’m not,” Lu Guang replies. He doesn’t lean into Cheng Xiaoshi’s touch, though he desperately wants to, because Cheng Xiaoshi is warm and familiar and alive. “Just tired.”
“You slept for nearly half the day.” Cheng Xiaoshi sounds faintly amused, and smiles when Lu Guang only wrinkles his nose. Lu Guang waits for Cheng Xiaoshi to jump back down and return to his bunk, but he doesn’t.
“What?”
It’s still dark out. Cheng Xiaoshi hadn’t bothered with turning on a light, but Lu Guang can make out the brightness in Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes, the pensive look on his face. From their proximity, the closest he remembers them to be in quite some time, he notes how long Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyelashes are, how soft the baby strands of hair that fall across his face curl in. Lu Guang takes note of these little things about Cheng Xiaoshi every time, has yet to lose the sense of wonder he feels admiring his features, and he fears the day he will.
He closes his eyes. He needs to stop.
“Mind if I join?” Cheng Xiaoshi whispers.
“Yes. The top bunk will cave in if we’re both on it.”
He can hear the pout in Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice. “But I want to help.”
You always do. He is sick of playing this memory the same way every time. Sick of turning Cheng Xiaoshi away. Sick of sensing Cheng Xiaoshi’s mood drop at yet another failed attempt to reach out. Sick of pretending that he doesn’t want Cheng Xiaoshi to come closer, to lay with him on the bed, to rest his head on Cheng Xiaoshi’s chest and feel his heartbeat, the way he always does for Cheng Xiaoshi when he has a nightmare and needs reassurance that someone is there, that he’s not all alone.
Lu Guang doesn’t even know if doing something different will change anything significant. But he can’t risk it. He knows, even if he has never let it happen, what will transpire if he lets Cheng Xiaoshi in like this. He will understand that this is something more, will understand that Lu Guang is acknowledging that there is something more. Cheng Xiaoshi will ask for more, and Lu Guang will give it. They feel similar to nodes, moments like these, where something between them will fundamentally shift, borderline inevitables Lu Guang is not keen on starting because it means more unpredictable variables, more ways Cheng Xiaoshi can possibly die as if it isn’t always right before September 13, isn’t always at the studio, isn’t always by Vein’s hand.
He wants it to happen. He will not let it.
Lu Guang turns his back on him. It somehow makes it easier. “I’m okay.”
The finality in his tone is enough to dissuade Cheng Xiaoshi, like it does every time. Cheng Xiaoshi sighs, audibly deflating. “Fine,” he mutters. “Could I at least…?”
“At least?”
“...get you hot tea?” Cheng Xiaoshi finishes. “The specialty one Xu Shanshan bought us.”
“Sure,” Lu Guang relents, after a fabricated thoughtful pause. He listens to Cheng Xiaoshi jump off the bunk bed, footsteps thumping against the floor to make him tea, always eager to please.
Where it was once fresh, slightly sweet, a novelty drink meant to be enjoyed on rare occasions, now the tea only tastes nauseating, a product of Lu Guang having consumed it over countless lifetimes. Lu Guang drinks it down anyway.
↻
(iv.)
“Sometimes, I think we’d be better off if we switched abilities,” Cheng Xiaoshi muses. “You’d be more responsible. You wouldn’t mess up as much as I do.”
All Lu Guang does is make mistakes. He feels dizzy when his mind flits back to every time he’s dived back into the past, every time he’s run away from his future. He’s the epitome of irresponsibility. It’s surprising, really, how no one can see through this facade he has managed to build only because he knows the way things will unfold before they even happen.
You won’t believe it, but you’ve always been better than me with this, Lu Guang thinks. “You’d be a terrible guide,” he agrees instead.
↻
(v.)
In the darkroom everything is red.
“Lu Guang,” Cheng Xiaoshi whispers, horrified. “It hurts, I’m not—”
“It’s okay,” Lu Guang reassures him, catching Cheng Xiaoshi right as he crumples to the floor. “You’re going to be okay. You won’t hurt for long. I’ll fix this.”
“How—” He cuts himself off, wincing. Lu Guang shushes him even though he doesn’t want Cheng Xiaoshi to stop talking, because if he stops talking it means there’s nothing left for either of them to say.
“Don’t,” Lu Guang says, despite himself. He cradles Cheng Xiaoshi against his chest, hands circling around his torso to press into the wound to ease the bleeding even if he knows it won’t work. Vein always hits an organ. There is never a world where he survives this. “Don’t strain yourself.”
“I don’t… want to go,” he trails off. “I don’t want to leave you…”
“Cheng Xiaoshi.” He has said this before. It always hurts, being reminded that Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t want this as much as Lu Guang doesn’t, that he doesn’t want to go the same way Lu Guang doesn’t want him to leave, but for the first time the grief in Lu Guang’s heart is diluted. He has lived this over and over. Devastating each time, but somehow, altered too. He’s gradually getting used to this, he realizes, and it scares him. This isn’t how it should be. “I’m sorry. You won’t. I’ll see you again. Promise.”
The gold flecks in Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes vanish.
↻
(i.)
From the single chair, Cheng Xiaoshi is staring at him. It’s the first time Lu Guang is letting him stay in the same room with him as he traces back the memories of a photograph, so he expects it, but what he doesn’t anticipate is how conscious he suddenly feels about it. No one looks at him the way Cheng Xiaoshi does, as much as he does—as if there’s something about Lu Guang that’s worth looking twice at and more.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Cheng Xiaoshi says immediately. “It’s just—your eyes.”
“What about them?”
“They turn blue when you’re using your ability,” Cheng Xiaoshi comments. “It’s a nice color. You’re very handsome.”
Lu Guang feels the tip of his ears turn red in embarrassment. People call him handsome all the time, and it never stirred any particular reaction from him. And yet, coming from Cheng Xiaoshi, he feels different. “I don’t get why you say these things, sometimes.” This is the first timeline, though Lu Guang doesn’t know it yet. Later on, when they will rehash this conversation, Cheng Xiaoshi will defend himself by saying he’s just messing with Lu Guang, that he likes the way it flusters him, because he’s normally so aloof. Lu Guang has no need to get so worked up; Cheng Xiaoshi is only joking.
But in this one, Cheng Xiaoshi responds, “It’s true. I like looking at you. In fact—” He stands up and dashes upstairs. When he returns, he’s holding an instant camera. Lu Guang reacts slowly, doesn’t realize what Cheng Xiaoshi has planned until he’s already done it, clicking the shutter and letting the lens brightly flash in front of Lu Guang’s eyes. “There!”
Lu Guang flinches, but Cheng Xiaoshi is beaming, satisfied with the polaroid when it slides out. He has a nice smile, Lu Guang observes, right before Cheng Xiaoshi plops himself beside Lu Guang on the couch. “Look.”
Cheng Xiaoshi holds out the polaroid. Lu Guang stares at his own face looking back at him, uncomprehending exactly what Cheng Xiaoshi is getting at. “It’s me.”
“It is,” Cheng Xiaoshi affirms. “It’s a really good shot of you, specifically.”
“Because you’re a good photographer?”
“I am.” Cheng Xiaoshi puffs his chest out in pride. “I mean, it’s true, but it’s not why I did that. This is how I see you. Photography is cool like that, isn’t it? It immortalizes something. It can show other people how the photographer looks at things. What he finds special. What he finds worth looking at. What he wants to keep forever.”
Lu Guang knows this. He knows what Cheng Xiaoshi means. In each photograph there are sets of memories created and felt by people with such distinct lives and Lu Guang sees it all, understands how precious it all is. But Lu Guang thinks Cheng Xiaoshi gives him too much credit. He makes him sound remarkable, yet when Lu Guang looks at the photo, all he sees is himself in all his ordinariness.
Still, he understands this to be an admission of some kind, and understands just as well that Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t know what he’s admitting to. It’s clear in his eyes. They are sincere, yet not self-aware. They are also nice to look at. Lu Guang thinks he could look at Cheng Xiaoshi forever, could immortalize him in his mind and never forget, kept like a treasured memory. This, too, is an admission. One that Lu Guang does not have the courage to voice out. He is different from Cheng Xiaoshi in this way. He always holds back.
“Idiot,” Lu Guang says, though he doesn’t answer Cheng Xiaoshi when he whines asking why he’s an idiot. “Let’s focus. I figured out what this man needs from us.”
“Oh, right!”
They don’t talk about it afterwards. In this timeline, they never get to actually say it. They never say it in the subsequent ones either. Lu Guang will not remember this conversation, but will carry it with him in the next lives, a sense of certainty for how he feels for Cheng Xiaoshi and an understanding that Cheng Xiaoshi reciprocates.
It is not enough to change anything between them. Lu Guang is a coward on every front. He always feels like he has too much to lose, despite repeatedly losing everything.
↻
(iii.)
The rain subsided a few hours ago, troublesome to walk in to buy boba, but dismissible, all things considered, lasting briefly, perhaps half an hour, meaning Lu Guang’s errand had been ill-timed more than anything. He finds Cheng Xiaoshi’s drink half-finished on the counter, likely forgetting about it in the midst of their discussion about the dive he had to take. Over there, years back, it’s a sunny place. Lu Guang places Cheng Xiaoshi’s drink in the refrigerator as his mind goes to where Cheng Xiaoshi is, trying to track Doudou’s last whereabouts before he vanished.
The boba had been a truce but not a resolution. They have yet to speak about it. Lu Guang knows he should say something, but for some reason, words fail him. He remembers more of their failure of a chase for Doudou and his kidnapper than anything he might have said.
Cheng Xiaoshi is saying something Lu Guang only partially registers, though he responds instinctively as he rummages through the shelves where he had stacked his books when he moved in. He’d taken on the habit of writing down things in notebooks, especially on the restless nights when he can’t sleep but is soothed by the loud snoring coming from Cheng Xiaoshi’s bunk. The notebooks, having grown into thick volumes of never-ending thought, are hidden with book sleeves of titles Cheng Xiaoshi would never touch, a layer of deception Lu Guang only feels marginally guilty about. He writes in painstaking detail about everything he remembers about the past timelines in the hopes of recreating them perfectly here, but there are inevitable patches missing as a result of not giving it much thought previously and the normal limits of the human mind. No matter. If things work out this time, then it doesn’t matter. And if it doesn’t, then he knows what he should do next, what he should’ve paid more attention to. In this timeline, he observes just as much as he copies.
When Cheng Xiaoshi is not with him, Lu Guang spends a lot of his time going through old photos to recall memories. There is not much from his own pile, but plenty from Cheng Xiaoshi, especially from the point on where they met, which is all Lu Guang needs.
It doesn’t feel like the invasion of privacy that it actually is, dipping into his memories, seeing his subjective perception of interactions that Lu Guang was part of and remembers differently. Lu Guang already knows all this about Cheng Xiaoshi.
He flips through the pages, finds what he’s looking for. It’s not much, but it’s enough.
“Do you know why I decided we should still take that earthquake mission?” Lu Guang begins. Cheng Xiaoshi says nothing, but Lu Guang can hear the sudden hitch in his breath, as if he’s standing right beside him. “I knew those words wouldn’t change their fate. But they could comfort the painful memories of the living.”
“Is that all it can ever be?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks, after a pause. “Is that really all we can amount to?”
It's grounding, to an extent, to have these entries. They tell Lu Guang what to say, keep him accountable on what to expect. But there is always slight variation; inevitably, not everything can be perfectly reenacted. He hasn't figured that part out yet.
Lu Guang doesn’t remember this to be part of the script. If it was, he has no recollection of how he replied. He turns to the first page of the notebook. This had not been from any memory in particular he made after meeting Cheng Xiaoshi, or at least one he remembered. Any memories before Cheng Xiaoshi, he had deemed early on, were not worth documenting, because it had nothing to do with keeping him alive. Yet he had written this one down regardless. Perhaps as a reminder.
“Someone once told me to think of life like a story, one that’s already been written down,” Lu Guang answers. “And we have the ability to access the stories in ways no one else can, but it’s not to edit things out. It’s not to change things. We have them so we can read the story, and so we can understand it. So we can help other people make sense of it, and come to terms with it.”
The disbelief in Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice rises like a tide, washing over Lu Guang. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”
“I don’t,” he says. “But we both know I’m right, so you’re not going to do anything.”
Cheng Xiaoshi clicks his tongue, but he doesn’t protest. Doesn’t say Lu Guang is wrong. “Who told you that anyway?”
“I don’t remember, actually,” Lu Guang says. “But they were wise.”
They looked familiar, he doesn’t say. He has no proof of this. Has no photo to return to. Just his memory, vivid but deceptive, as it always is in one’s own mind. They had your eyes.
↻
(iv.)
There's a pocket of space in between the time of autumn and winter that is Lu Guang’s favorite season. There is a promise of snowfall, but the sky says otherwise, clear as it can be. The air is chilly enough that they can see puffs of their breath when they exhale. Lu Guang has bundled himself up moderately even though he isn’t that bothered by the weather. In contrast, Cheng Xiaoshi is determined to wear as few layers as possible despite being more sensitive to the cold. It restricts his movement, he reasons. That’s why he’s in shorts that barely make it past his knees.
“Especially for what we’re doing,” he insists. “Lu Guang, you can’t expect to go biking if you’re dressed like a snowball.”
“I’m not,” he points out. “And we didn’t have to do this today, you know.”
“But I want to do this today,” Cheng Xiaoshi argues. “I still find it hard to believe that you don’t know how to bike. How come I never noticed this before?”
“We don’t exactly go biking.”
“Hmm. But when we were with Xia Fei—”
“You were the one biking. And you fell too. Are you sure you know how to bike?”
“Of course I do!” Cheng Xiaoshi exclaims, affronted. “Look, I’ll prove it. Watch me!”
Like he always does, Lu Guang listens, compelled to do nothing else. He watches Cheng Xiaoshi hoist himself on the bicycle they rented for the day. Cheng Xiaoshi rubs his hands together, as if to warm himself up, before pedaling down the path of the park they’d been walking along. In his excitement to show off he’d forgotten that the reason they were doing this was for Lu Guang’s sake, to immediately rectify what Cheng Xiaoshi thought to be the serious problem of Lu Guang not knowing how to bike.
“Cheng Xiaoshi,” he calls out, watching Cheng Xiaoshi go farther and farther away than his legs can keep up with. “Don’t go too far.”
“Sorry, sorry!” Cheng Xiaoshi shouts. He turns around, pedaling back to Lu Guang smoothly. He moves confidently. There's a faint redness across his face from the rush of air, perhaps, or the exhilaration of moving fast. “So, impressed yet?”
“You were alright.”
“Good enough,” Cheng Xiaoshi says. “I’m sure this will be easy. I bet you even biked before and just forgot about it! And this is the kind of thing you don't ever really unlearn, so you'll be fine.”
In reality, Lu Guang knows how to bike. He’s relived this memory, so the purpose of this endeavor has been rendered pointless, but it’s his favorite memory. It helps, too, that there is a disconnect between his mind and body, making his movements clumsy. He wobbles when he places himself on the bike, and Cheng Xiaoshi, like he always does, steadies him with one hand on his waist and another on his arm. “Okay, now put your feet on the pedals, and your hands on the handlebars. Straighten your posture.”
“I know how this works.”
“I thought that it’d be more soothing for you if I walked you through the process step by step,” Cheng Xiaoshi reasons. “I mean, that’s how you are with me and it helps.”
Lu Guang likes the way Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand curls around his waist. Even the one gently gripping his arm feels strangely intimate. For all his touchiness, Cheng Xiaoshi rarely holds him like he wants to keep him anchored.
“What will happen is that you need to lean forward and begin pushing the pedals. Keep your grip on the handlebars secure so you won’t end up wobbling. Momentum is the hardest part about biking, I think, so I’ll help you build that and then it’ll be your job to maintain it.”
“So you’ll start something, and I’ll finish it.”
“Well, you don’t need to make it sound like a personal dig at me…”
Lu Guang is grateful his back is turned to him; it makes it easier to hide his smile.
The first time they do it, Cheng Xiaoshi lets go too early. Lu Guang falters, loses balance, and falls off the bike. It’s always natural, because despite understanding the technique, despite having done this before, his body experiences it anew, so he needs to get accustomed to the new task, needs to give himself time to adjust. Cheng Xiaoshi rushes to help him. “Should we have gotten you kneepads?”
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s not that bad.” Lu Guang pats his knees for good measure, wiping off the specks of dirt that have clung to his slacks. A part of him wishes he’d worn shorts, despite the impracticality of it given the season. “We should’ve done this in the summer.”
“That’s exactly why we should do this now. So that when summer rolls around, we can all do it together.”
He doesn’t remember exactly how many times it took them to get it right before, but in this life, it takes four tries. Holding the rear carrier, Cheng Xiaoshi pushes Lu Guang forward as Lu Guang begins to pedal, building enough momentum until Lu Guang can confidently keep it while maintaining balance on the bike. Whenever Cheng Xiaoshi lets go, Lu Guang doesn’t bike for long, stopping himself a few seconds later, but Cheng Xiaoshi is encouraging anyway, says to do it in increments, a bit longer each time.
“Is this a confidence thing Or a trust thing? Or are you nervous?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks in quick succession. He doesn't wait for Lu Guang to reply. “Because I’ll be right behind you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Lu Guang doesn’t doubt that. He remembers how he marveled at it the first time they did this; to be able to rely on Cheng Xiaoshi like this in a way he never had before because he never needed it. There was not much Cheng Xiaoshi could do that Lu Guang couldn’t, even if the former was always better at it. He did not really need this either, but Cheng Xiaoshi seemed to—this idea that he could be the supporting pillar for Lu Guang rather than the other way around, and in a rare display, perhaps a moment of weakness, Lu Guang allowed him, and he liked it. There’s a sense of reassurance he feels knowing Cheng Xiaoshi is right beside him, pushing him forward, so when he lets go, Lu Guang finds himself stopping. He doesn’t want to be apart from him for long. But that’s not the point of this exercise. The point is to be able to do it on his own.
He says none of this. “You’re taking this too seriously. It’s just biking.”
Cheng Xiaoshi gives him a funny look. “I feel like you’ve said something like that before.”
“Whatever.” Lu Guang looks away. “Let’s just do this again.”
“Okay, but,” Cheng Xiaoshi begins. “Go far, okay? Don’t think of me.”
Lu Guang doesn’t even grace that with a response. He mounts himself back on the bicycle and says, “Just get on it.”
The path has been cleared for them for the day. Certainly not intentional, but it’s one of those things that don’t change even with the timelines resetting. With other memories, it fluctuates slightly. There would be more people when there used to be less, few people when there used to be many, no one when there was meant to be a plethora. Miniscule changes that don’t affect anything fundamentally, but somehow Lu Guang finds this one striking, the consistency of it. It’s always just them, at the end of the day.
“Go!” Cheng Xiaoshi says, pushing Lu Guang forward the moment he rests his feet on the pedals. Lu Guang immediately moves. Cheng Xiaoshi is faster this time, forcing Lu Guang to pedal harder than he had before. The thoughts that always cloud his mind begin to wash away in lieu of his need to focus on the goal at hand, to take stock of his own body, the wind against his face, the tight grip of his hands on the bars trying to keep him straight, the movement of his legs pedaling forward on instinct rather than effort.
Cheng Xiaoshi lets go, and Lu Guang feels the loss of his presence, but he doesn’t stop. At some point, he stops pushing so fast and relaxes his hold, and the bicycle continues gliding forward. The loss of control should scare him, but instead he finds himself breathing easier. He suspends himself in this weightless moment of what can only be freedom, if only for a moment, before he can sense that he needs to build the momentum back, and pushes the pedal once again, slower and more purposeful this time.
“Lu Guang! Lu Guang!” Cheng Xiaoshi shouts from afar, overjoyed. “Lu Guang! You did it!” His voice grows louder with each time he calls Lu Guang’s name, and Lu Guang stops, pulling on the brake and setting his foot down. He glances back just in time for Cheng Xiaoshi to come barreling towards him, knocking Lu Guang off the bike and sending both of them tumbling to the ground. The bicycle makes a clattering sound as it falls over.
“Ow,” Lu Guang winces.
“Sorry,” Cheng Xiaoshi replies, but his voice is full of mirth. “I got too excited.”
Lu Guang blinks, resisting the urge to shift with Cheng Xiaoshi’s weight on top of him. The faint scent of cologne Cheng Xiaoshi uses wafts around him, the radiance of his smile and how it reaches his eyes is as clear as the sky. His face is colored in delight. Even through the fabric of their clothes, Lu Guang can feel how cold to the touch Cheng Xiaoshi is from the weather, but Lu Guang is warm all over. He can’t help the way he hears his heart thump tremendously loud in his own ears, the swell of emotion bursting in his gut, overcome with his own affection, his endearment of Cheng Xiaoshi’s entirety.
“That was amazing,” Cheng Xiaoshi whispers in awe. “You didn’t look back once.”
I’m in love with you, Lu Guang thinks.
Cheng Xiaoshi pulls away. Lu Guang’s body doesn’t quite chase him, but it’s a near thing. He sits up as well, watching Cheng Xiaoshi stand up before offering his hand out to Lu Guang.
I’m in love with you, Lu Guang thinks once more, unfailingly, like each and every time before, and each and every time moving forward, as he accepts Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand and lets him pull him up effortlessly.
But he knows, at this very second, as Cheng Xiaoshi lets go of his hand and turns away, something has slipped from his grasp; the sentiment, though unwavering, has lost its stronghold. The feelings, though present, are not as overwhelming as they once were. He understands the way they’ve been tainted by the knowledge of what’s to come, and how it will repeat, and how it never ends, because he changes nothing even though he wants to—wishes he’d grabbed Cheng Xiaoshi in that moment by the collar, wishes he had pulled him to him, wishes he had kissed him.
He doesn’t. He never has. He lets the moment unravel the way it always has. He plays it safe, even if it feels like he’s begun treading in more dangerous water.
Memory is a fragile thing. That’s something Lu Guang has learned from flipping through photos, sifting through memories, living through timelines. He can never perfectly recreate a scene, but he can do something so close it might as well be a replica. And still, the act of revisiting something over and over wears the memory down, like a photo print fading from constantly touching it. Truth will fracture, emotion will numb. If he keeps this up, it won't mean anything anymore.
As Cheng Xiaoshi picks the bicycle back upright, Lu Guang squeezes his own arm tightly, trying to ground himself. He never wants to look at Cheng Xiaoshi and feel nothing.
↻
(i.)
“This is your punishment for changing the past,” Vein told Cheng Xiaoshi once.
↻
(v.)
Lu Guang has always been particular about following things to the letter. Even his rule to Cheng Xiaoshi to let things be, to not change the past when he dives, is to stay true to the history that’s already been written in a timeline only he remembers.
He used to think—and had believed it for so long—that the more loyal he stayed to what occurred in the past, the easier it would be to alter the future. He would keep everything the same as much as he could, except just one thing. Except the end, where Cheng Xiaoshi ends. It was if he was negotiating with the universe; a promise to keep everything intact, in exchange for one thing done differently.
But it occurs to him, at some point—the fifth dive back in time, though he will no longer remember, at this point—the futility of this strategy. The futility of it all. Cheng Xiaoshi’s head rests on his lap, Cheng Xiaoshi’s body cradles against his chest, Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand grips his own, and he’s always in pain, always bloody, always leaving Lu Guang alone with nothing but his power and the memory of being unable to save him every time September 13 approaches.
Everything begins to feel like clockwork. Cheng Xiaoshi gets shot, Cheng Xiaoshi gives Lu Guang his ability, Cheng Xiaoshi dies. Lu Guang finds a photo to dive back into, Lu Guang doesn’t change the past except in all the areas he’s pinpointed to be related to Cheng Xiaoshi’s eventual demise, Lu Guang still fails to save Cheng Xiaoshi. Then it repeats, a cycle.
Factors that he tries to change that have proved pointless: the library photo. Meeting Vein. Emma’s fate. Their police involvement. Cheng Xiaoshi will always find that picture, no matter where Lu Guang tries to hide it. If Lu Guang finds a way to stop Cheng Xiaoshi from going to Bridon, somehow Vein will find them instead. Cheng Xiaoshi will always get to know Emma one way or another, whether in-person or as through the dive, and she’ll always die. The police will always ask for their help, and Cheng Xiaoshi will agree even if it means going behind Lu Guang’s back. Cheng Xiaoshi will always get shot short of September 13. Lu Guang already knows everything.
The knowledge of what would happen next has been a comfort Lu Guang clung onto for so long, but now it’s grown to become a bane. He knows, and it doesn’t change anything. Part of him misses living a life where he didn’t know what would happen next, comforted by the knowledge that whatever it may be, it would not be a bad thing. He wonders if a life like that is still possible.
For all that he keeps track of his watch in every dive, he doesn’t let himself think about how long he’s been doing this. Five timelines, lasting from a few months to years. Somehow, it is possible to feel more than a decade older yet remain none the wiser.
And still, there has to be a way, he thinks to himself, pulling a book by the bottom shelf. He can’t climb any higher; can’t even stand. Vein shot his leg twice then left before the police would come, confident that the blood loss would get to Lu Guang before a paramedic would, and Lu Guang could do nothing but drag himself up the stairs to the bedroom, leaving a trail of blood. Vein never kills him outright, Lu Guang notices, but always slowly. He pulls out a picture he knows is there between the pages. There’s at least a couple in each book he brought over to the apartment when he moved in. Contingencies he’s made. He’s done this so many times already. His mind has frayed as a result of it.
It changes nothing, nothing about what he will do next. He will still dive, and he will still try. But he considers, for the first time, he can’t keep on doing this. That maybe, he tries doing it completely differently. Considers risking everything this time. If none of the major factors make a difference, what does it matter if he upends everything instead? What does he have to lose, when he has lost Cheng Xiaoshi so many times already?
He hopes he can cling onto this resolve. He claps his hands together.
↻
(vi.)
He goes back to the court. The ball slams into his face. He falls to the ground.
Footsteps dashing to his side, protest and arguments coming from different voices—it’s all noisy. Lu Guang opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is Cheng Xiaoshi. His face is bruised and his hair is matted with blood and there is red splattered all over with clothes. Lu Guang flinches, blinks again, and the image is gone. Cheng Xiaoshi is two years younger, dressed in their uniform, and is very much alive.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
Lu Guang sits up. “I’m fine.”
He touches his nose, remembering the nosebleed he had then and has now. It’s a comfort, despite how it still hurts every time. At least it’s his blood.
“Are you sure?” Cheng Xiaoshi stands up. “I can go to the infirmary—”
“No, don’t.” Lu Guang reaches out and grasps Cheng Xiaoshi’s wrist. “I’m fine.”
Cheng Xiaoshi looks at him, searching for something in Lu Guang’s face. Lu Guang doesn’t know what that is, but reluctantly, he lets him go. “If you’re sure,” Cheng Xiaoshi finally says. He walks to where the camera had been tossed aside and picks it up, brushing off the dirt before returning to Lu Guang. “You’re a new student at Guidu too, aren’t you? I live in Hero Studio nearby. If your camera has issues, just go to me. I’ll fix it.”
They play basketball. When they play as teammates, they’re unstoppable, and when it’s just the two of them, the only ones with enough energy to continue playing when the rest of Cheng Xiaoshi’s friends decide to call it quits for the day, Cheng Xiaoshi beats him easily.
He has never returned to this memory before; it’s too far back. A picture can only be returned once—this doesn’t change even with each instance he dives, as if the photograph remembers things that the rest of the world has forgotten—and he doesn’t have much from this time. He doesn’t even remember why he decided to bring his camera on this day.
It’s just as well. There is something sacred about this moment, more than others, that he doesn’t want to lose by repeatedly revisiting. Their first meeting.
He frowns. The thought, for some reason, doesn’t feel right.
“Hey,” he says. “We’ve never met before, right?”
Lu Guang has never asked this before, and it feels daunting, the knowledge that he has purposefully put himself in a situation that he cannot predict. But this is what he resolved to do before he jumped, he reminds himself.
“Hmm. I don’t think so,” Cheng Xiaoshi replies, sounding more thoughtful than suspicious of the suddenness of Lu Guang’s question. They sit on the bench, cooling down. He wags his half-empty water bottle to Lu Guang. “I would remember someone like you. Though I will admit, I don’t remember a lot about the past, especially when my parents were still around.”
Lu Guang’s hand is cold and wet from the condensation from the iced water bottle he’d been given for his nose. His face is numb. “Were you close with them?”
“Yeah,” Cheng Xiaoshi says. “In fact, when they left, I was so angry. They didn’t even tell me why, so I took it so personally. But I missed them so much. Still do, actually. So that makes it all kind of ironic, right? I miss them, and I remember we were close, but that’s about it… I guess I’d remember if they gave me something to work with, but I’ve lived more years without them here than with them, so…” he trails off, suddenly looking sheepish. “Sorry. That was a lot to spring on you.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I get why you’d think if we met before though,” he adds. “You’re kind of easy to talk to. I feel like I can trust you. We had a good game today, didn’t we? I don’t think I’ve ever played with anyone like that before.”
“It was a good game,” Lu Guang agrees, but even with the answer, he feels slightly unsettled. He thought that the indescribable familiarity of Cheng Xiaoshi’s presence was something else, unidentifiable but simpler, coming from a time before their lives had turned out the way they did; not simply a result of everything Lu Guang has lived through, the truth that Lu Guang does know Cheng Xiaoshi, longer than the him in this timeline should. He supposes he wouldn’t know. Lu Guang, to a degree, is the same as Cheng Xiaoshi. He doesn’t remember much of his own past, anything before Cheng Xiaoshi. This, Lu Guang knows for certain, is the product of all the dives. It’s as if his life began the moment Cheng Xiaoshi came into his life.
“Unless,” Cheng Xiaoshi starts. “Was that meant to be a pickup line? Like a ‘did we meet before? Because I swear I’d never forget a face like yours’ kind of thing?”
“I—no,” Lu Guang stammers, caught off guard by Cheng Xiaoshi’s comment. “That’s not—I wasn’t—”
“Oh, I know,” Cheng Xiaoshi replies, grinning, taking pity at the way Lu Guang flounders. He gestures at Lu Guang’s face. “I just said that for the look on your face. It was pretty cute, you know.”
Lu Guang scowls, but the embarrassment hasn’t flushed down from his face yet. “Now who’s the one flirting.”
But Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, and he laughs, and when it grows dark, and they finally part ways, the sound still rings in Lu Guang’s ears like a melody.
↻
He still has nightmares. Those don't subside even with the passage of time. They’re the worst the first few weeks after a dive, but fortunately, in this life, he spends those nights alone in the dorms, waking up to his harsh breathing and the soothing sound of the ceiling fan spinning above him, his single room suddenly a too-large space of emptiness, the windows pulled too tightly closed, the loneliness suffocating. Different from before, where Cheng Xiaoshi would be there for every nightmare, looking at him with concern when he half-climbs to him or snoring soundly below, reminding Lu Guang just by his presence alone that it isn’t real, at least not right now.
When Lu Guang moves in, he takes the top bunk. Nightmares have never been the kind of thing he can map out, despite all his dives, nor have they grown into something he can be numb to. Some things he’s learned that are within his control, at the very least: trashing in his sleep shakes the frame and wakes Cheng Xiaoshi up, so Lu Guang purposefully weans off any caffeine by the afternoon and tires himself out by staying up later than he normally does so his body shuts down when he’s asleep even if his mind is active.
If Cheng Xiaoshi thinks it’s strange that Lu Guang insists on doing things late in the evening despite being clearly tired, he doesn’t mention it. To an extent, Cheng Xiaoshi does understand. When he dives, the memories of the people he’s embodied linger, so he dreams of them, and most are bittersweet. Sometimes Lu Guang wonders if that’s what makes Cheng Xiaoshi so empathetic, and him so selfish—he’s only ever dived into his own body, his own past, and no one else. If he did, he’d have to acknowledge the consequences of his actions, the lives he’s changed every time he dived, and it would make him hesitate. And he can’t. There’s no going back. He doesn’t want to.
His nightmare is new, the way they’re always new and yet still about the same thing: falling into a lake and forced to swim deeper and deeper. Photographs float around him, glimpses of every life he’s lived, every action he’s ever done, every sunset he’s witnessed with Cheng Xiaoshi beside him, every sunrise he never lets himself see because Cheng Xiaoshi is gone. He ignores them all, diving deeper and deeper, looking for something that will change everything. A photograph, the very one. He doesn’t know why, but he feels it, deep in his gut, that the answer is there, and it lies in a memory.
Yet the only memory that awaits him as he reaches the bottom is Cheng Xiaoshi, lying in a pool of his own blood. “Cheng Xiaoshi,” Lu Guang gasps, but then the water rushes into his mouth, filling his throat and lungs and he can’t breathe and his consciousness begins blinking away. He flails, still trying to reach for Cheng Xiaoshi, who is so close, who can still be saved if Lu Guang can reach him, can go back in time, can just hold him—
“Lu Guang,” someone says, and Lu Guang wakes up with a choked gasp. “Lu Guang.”
The voice is gentle despite the violence of his return back to the world. Typical of Cheng Xiaoshi, Lu Guang muses. He always does something unexpected, always catching Lu Guang off guard, right when he thinks he's got him completely figured out.
“Nightmare?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks from the bunk below.
“Yeah,” Lu Guang says, his heart is pounding loud in his ears. He waits for the fearful feeling wrapped around his chest to subside, directs his attention to the ceiling fan above them. Still broken. “What time is it?”
“4AM. You’ve been asleep since 6PM. I think that’s the longest I’ve seen you down for the count. Do you feel sick?”
“Just tired,” Lu Guang admits. He heard rustling from underneath, and then the shift of weight on the frame as Cheng Xiaoshi plants his feet at the edge of his mattress to glance over at Lu Guang. “What?”
“Mind if I join?”
“The top bunk will cave in if we’re both on it.”
“It won't.”
There's something in the finality of Cheng Xiaoshi’s tone that makes Lu Guang decide to pivot. He doesn't want to deny him. “Okay,” he says.
He moves closer to the edge as Cheng Xiaoshi jumps down to climb up with the ladder, setting aside space for him by the wall so there's no risk of him falling over. Cheng Xiaoshi crawls inside, flopping carelessly beside him with a thump. The bed creaks. Lu Guang winces. But Cheng Xiaoshi looks awfully pleased, and the sight settles itself well in Lu Guang’s gut. They don't really have moments like this. Lu Guang doesn't let him get close. There’s no script on what to do here, nothing to guide him but this pang of want, familiar with how he’s kept it at bay all this time, finally letting it slip out.
“Lu Guang,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, as if reading his mind. “Come here.”
Lu Guang shuffles closer. Cheng Xiaoshi wraps his arms around Lu Guang’s torso and pulls him towards him with a kind of effortless strength Lu Guang will never get used to. Cheng Xiaoshi tucks his head against Lu Guang’s chest, right over his beating heart.
“You have a slow heartbeat," Cheng Xiaoshi comments.
His hair tickles Lu Guang’s chin, but Lu Guang doesn’t move away. He slips one arm under Cheng Xiaoshi and rests his other hand on the back of his neck. “That’s normal.”
Cheng Xiaoshi hums. “Have we ever done this before?” he asks. “It feels like we have.”
Not in this life, no, and not in most lives. But perhaps once, twice, infrequent enough that Lu Guang can count it on one hand, they found themselves like this, curled against each other, unwilling to part. When they were both hospitalized, Lu Guang would sneak over to Cheng Xiaoshi’s room just to remind himself that he was still there, and every time, Cheng Xiaoshi woke up just in time to see him looming over him. Come here, he said. You’re injured also. And in those moments Lu Guang was too tired to protest, so they slotted themselves awkwardly in the single bed, barely grazing each other’s slowly healing injuries, sharing body heat in an already warm room, remembering that what happened had finally passed, and it was just them now.
“You’re probably just imagining things,” he says, because that was in another time. In this one, Cheng Xiaoshi managed to convince the nurses to let them share the same room, and it was much better than walking down the hall to find him, but the three feet distance between their beds felt wider than ever. In this life, Lu Guang could only ever glance at Cheng Xiaoshi’s sleeping frame to remember that they made it through this. He didn’t go any closer. He didn’t think he had any good reason to. “Maybe in a dream.”
“Implying that I dream about you, Lu Guang?” Cheng Xiaoshi teases.
Lu Guang gently combs through Cheng Xiaoshi’s curls. Thick and soft under his touch, slightly damp still, though his shower was likely hours ago. Cheng Xiaoshi sighs into his chest. It would be too easy to kiss him like this, to get away with it; Cheng Xiaoshi probably wouldn’t even feel it. “Your words, not mine.”
“Lu Guang,” Cheng Xiaoshi starts, with that lilt in his voice that Lu Guang has come to associate with Cheng Xiaoshi, because he’s the only one who says his name like that. Like it’s something delicate. “Do you want to stay in for the day?”
“Why?”
“So you can sleep a bit more, if you’re feeling up for it,” he says. “And also—I kind of like it here. I don’t really want to get up. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been held like this. Maybe when I was a kid.”
In his mind, Lu Guang watches the way the path opens before him. A slightly changed scene, yet leaving him with the room to keep things the same. Say no. Let this end. They are close in every timeline, but never this close. Lu Guang always loves him from a distance, and he’s always believed that is what has let him get this far.
How much does he allow himself to change without creating a new node. How much of it should even matter, when there is just one node he’s here to prevent, and he has never managed to stop it by playing it safe. He wonders if they were doomed to begin with the moment he dived back, wonders if all his efforts before and particularities about the rules were pointless because he was choosing to play a different game in the first place.
“Lu Guang?” Cheng Xiaoshi whispers. “Did you fall asleep?”
“Yes,” Lu Guang answers, fully awake. Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, a softer sound than it usually is, vibrating against Lu Guang’s chest. Without realizing it, Lu Guang’s arms tighten around Cheng Xiaoshi, though his movements are absentmindedly gentle.
Despite it all, Lu Guang doesn’t say anything more. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t sleep. He listens to the sound of Cheng Xiaoshi’s steady breathing, the grounding presence of his body wrapped around him, and he doesn’t let himself think, for once.