Wish Upon A Falling Star

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

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Weizhou doesn't stay for just a few days. It's been weeks and he's turned into some sort of a permanent fixture in Jingyu's apartment. Living with someone else after being alone for so long gets a bit awkward in the beginning – sometimes he forgets to knock before entering the bathroom, sometimes he cooks for one instead of two – but Weizhou makes things easy. He doesn't require much space and he's not obnoxious or rude or any of those things that makes people unbearable. He cleans when Jingyu goes to work, sits on the balcony for hours with his guitar and does the laundry (even though he hates it). 

Jingyu finds out that Weizhou has a slight case of OCD and watches him knit an entire metre of scarf just because. It's pretty damn hilarious.

It's like Jingyu has somehow acquired a wife, but without the hassle of a wedding.

He comes home, slips out of his shoes and steps into the living room to see Weizhou on the couch. "Why are you still here?"

"Hm?" Weizhou runs his thumb over the guitar strings, doesn't look up even when Jingyu cuffs his head on the way to the kitchen. It's a gentle knock, but he makes noises like he'd been stabbed through the chest. Jingyu grins and sees the composition book propped on Weizhou's knee, the scribbles on it, tiny squiggly things Jingyu can't read. His voice carries over into the kitchen, a petulant edge to it, "What do you mean? Are you kicking me out?"

"I would've kicked you out a long time ago if I wanted to." Jingyu starts measuring rice into a pot and moves to the sink, rolling up his sleeves. "It's just—" weird, he wants to say. He doesn't. "Are you searching for something? Someone?"

"Nope."

Jingyu rinses the rice once, twice. He pours excess water into small pots of herbs on the window sill that Weizhou has taken to growing lately. "Then?"

"I'm still trying to figure things out."

The stove sputters to life after Jingyu's second attempt and he turns it down, leaves the rice to cook. He still has some tofu and black beans in the fridge, but they've run out of soy sauce two days ago and he's too tired to go to the store. Maybe they can just eat plain rice – he can already hear Weizhou complaining, who can get pretty finicky when it comes to food. He wanders back to the couch and shoves Weizhou to the side, sinking into Weizhou's lap with a sigh. The composition book crinkles unhappily under his head before Weizhou tugs it free and places it on Jingyu's chest. He stares up at Weizhou's unshaven jaw. "What does that even mean?"

"I'm searching for inspiration, you know? A muse. I want to write the best songs and get so famous, they'll make documentaries about me." Weizhou grins with all teeth. He gets like this whenever he talks about music, about the glitz and glitter of an imaginary stage. Sometimes, Jingyu catches the wistful, faraway look on Weizhou's face that makes him wonder what Weizhou has left behind. "You're gonna have to buy a television for this dump when that happens."

"They make documentaries about serial killers too," Jingyu says after a half-minute, chooses to ignore that uncharitable comment about the apartment. His chest lurches violently at the thought of Weizhou leaving, but he should've expected it. It's not like Weizhou would stay forever. Musicians are fickle, aren't they? "You can always start there."

Weizhou raises an eyebrow. "Are you volunteering to be the first victim?"

"You gotta murder someone famous," Jingyu scoffs, because everyone knows that. He throws an arm over his eyes and murmurs, already slipping into sleep, "They won't care if you hack up a nobody from Dandong."