Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The court held its breath as Shu He lifted the goblet to his lips. The hall was draped in silence, a silence so deep it pressed against the walls, suffocating, unbroken even by the rustle of robes.
Duan’s gaze was locked on him, every line of his face carved with a trust he should not have had.

“See you later,” Duan whispered, his voice low, his lips curved into a smile meant for Shu He alone.
He believed—he wanted to believe—that this was just another ruse, another hidden move in their endless game.

But when Shu He’s eyes lifted to meet his, when that faint, fragile smile curved his lips, the truth slashed through Duan like a blade. It was not a promise. It was farewell.
Duan’s own smile shattered. He lunged forward, crossing the space between them in a desperate rush. Shu He swayed, his body giving way, and just as Duan caught him against his chest, Shu He coughed violently, blood staining his lips, spilling hot across Duan’s hands.

The goblet slipped from Shu He’s fingers only then, rolling from his grasp to the carpeted floor. The dull thud as it landed was muffled, swallowed whole by the fabric, as though even the earth itself sought to hush the moment.

“You deceived me,” Duan’s voice cracked, thick with anguish as he pulled Shu He tighter into his arms. His tears burned against his lashes, but he didn’t blink them away, didn’t care who saw. “You deceived me in everything…”

The words tore from him like a curse, but before he could say more, the poison already threading his veins surged mercilessly. His body seized with agony, and blood filled his mouth. He choked, coughed, and crimson spilled down his chin, staining Shu He’s robes.

Still—his arms never loosened.

The court blurred, colors fading, sounds dulling. He sank with Shu He in his arms onto the carpet, his body trembling, his strength leaving him with every ragged breath.
The last thing Duan saw before the darkness closed in was Shu He’s pale face, his lips curved in that faint, haunting smile that had deceived him one last time.

And then—there was nothing

Chapter Text

The lecture hall buzzed with idle chatter before the professor arrived. Pages rustled, chairs creaked, the hum of student life filling the wide, carpeted room. Duan sat in the middle row, chin propped on his palm, pen twirling idly between his fingers. His notebook was open, but the page remained blank.

The professor began his lecture, voice droning across the hall, words that blurred together into background noise. Duan’s eyes slid to the clock. Ten minutes felt like an hour. His body was here, but his mind wandered, restless, untethered.

Then—thud.

A cup slipped from someone’s hand at the back, landing on the floor with a dull, muffled sound. Coffee sloshed out, dark against the pale fabric. Laughter rippled, a quick murmur of annoyance followed, but the noise faded as quickly as it came.

Duan’s hand jerked. The pen clattered from his grip, striking the desk with a small clink.

He froze. His chest tightened, a strange ache spreading outward, sharp and familiar in a way he couldn’t place. The muffled sound of that fallen cup echoed in his mind—too heavy, too final.

He sat there, unmoving, even as the students around him returned to their notes. He didn’t understand why his throat felt dry, why a shiver traced down his spine.

The class dragged on, but he hardly heard a word.

When it finally ended, he packed his things slowly, letting the rush of students pass him by. The hallway outside the lecture hall was alive with noise—students calling to friends, shoes squeaking against the floor, the hum of a hundred different conversations. Duan blended into it all, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder, eyes down as he moved with the current of bodies.

And then—without reason—his steps faltered.

Someone stood against the far wall, half-absorbed in his phone, a backpack slung carelessly on one shoulder. There was nothing remarkable about him—just another student, hair slightly mussed as if he’d rushed to class, his expression faintly distracted.

But Duan’s gaze snagged. His chest tightened, the same strange ache from earlier spiking sharp enough to steal his breath.

For a moment, he couldn’t look away.

The boy lifted his head, almost absently, eyes brushing across the crowd. Their gazes locked for no more than a heartbeat. His lips curved, the faintest hint of a smile—automatic, polite, meaningless.

Yet to Duan, it landed like a strike. His stomach dropped, his fingers curled against the strap of his bag, and he stood rooted in place even as the boy slipped his phone into his pocket and stepped into the stream of students.

He walked past Duan without pause, without recognition.

But Duan remained frozen, the noise of the corridor muffled, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He didn’t know who that boy was. He didn’t even know why he was staring.

All he knew was that smile—it had shaken him to his core.

Meanwhile, Shuhe strode towards one of the main hall of their department. Today wasn’t just first day of lectures—it was also day one of Orientation Week, a series of events designed for juniors to meet seniors, explore clubs, and ease into university life.

Shen Song, his best friend since high school, fell into step beside him. “Shuhe! Did you survive the lecture?” he asked with a grin.

Shuhe smiled faintly. “Barely. I fell asleep right after the lecture started.. Let's head to the auditorium."

The crowd of freshers surged back into the open halls for the official orientation activities. Groups of juniors were paired with seniors for icebreakers, games, and introductions. Banners proclaimed, “Welcome to Your New Chapter!” and the hallways buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the occasional shriek of excitement.

Seniors stood at the front introducing themselves and guiding group introductions. Shuhe found himself seated among a small group of freshers, listening as names and majors were announced. Each person answered with varying degrees of enthusiasm, some nervously, some with effortless charm.

The icebreaker games pushing him to talk, laugh, and move beyond the comfort zone of books and quiet. He answered questions politely, laughed when prompted, and occasionally glanced around, taking in the energy.

The seniors guided the group, cracking jokes, teasing gently, and sharing advice. Shuhe listened carefully, noting names and faces, his excitement mingled with nerves.

By mid-morning, the freshers were led outside to the campus quadrangle, where the sun spilled over wide lawns and leafy trees swaying gently in the breeze. Activity booths lined the paths—drama club, music club, debate, art, sports.. many more—and groups of students wandered from table to table, curiosity guiding their steps.

Shuhe followed Shen Song, who bounced ahead, eager to introduce himself to as many clubs as possible. “Look, the poetry club’s over there,” he said, pointing toward a small tent draped with dark green fabric. “I see some of the seniors already. Let's go and get you registered right away.”

Shuhe smiled faintly, adjusting his backpack. The quiet pull towards poetry had not faded since his highschool days. Even now, standing on the lawn among laughing students, it whispered insistently.

They arrived at the tent, where a senior handed out pamphlets with club rules and meeting schedules. Shuhe glanced over them, feeling an unfamiliar mix of excitement and calm. For him, poetry wasn’t just words—it was a quiet anchor, a private world he could hold close even in the chaos of life.

Nearby, other freshers were talking, laughing, joking. Shuhe kept his attention on the pamphlet, though he couldn’t help noticing the way the sunlight fell across a few scattered faces. Every gesture, every laugh, seemed amplified in the open air.

Later in the afternoon, the remaining orientation events continued in the main hall. Teams were formed for simple competitions: word chains, mini trivia, and quick problem-solving challenges. Shuhe found himself paired with a senior who encouraged him to speak up, nudging him gently whenever he hesitated. His voice, usually calm and reserved, carried easily in the circle, blending with laughter and conversation.

Shen Song elbowed him at one point. “See? I told you it’s fun. And you’re doing fine.”

Shuhe smiled, cheeks warming. “Yeah… it’s… interesting.” He trailed off, catching movement at the edge of his vision.

Across the hall, a senior—someone who hadn’t introduced himself—His gaze swept over the group like a shadow, precise and calculating, resting on Shuhe for only a fraction of a second before moving on. It wasn’t cold in a harsh way—it was cold in a way that made space feel heavier, like the air itself had been measured and judged.

As the day wound down, the final activity involved everyone writing a short note or memory about why they chose their clubs, then sharing it with the group.

Shuhe’s fingers traced the edge of the paper, thoughts drifting to quiet mornings with notebooks, the rhythm of verses he had memorized, the small joys of words that could hold so much meaning.

When it was finally his turn, he read aloud softly, voice steady, unassuming: “I chose this because words… they make me feel alive. They make the ordinary feel infinite.”

A few classmates nodded, murmuring in approval. A senior smiled, genuine and quiet, before moving on to the next person. It was a small moment, but it felt like a tether to something larger, unspoken.

By the time orientation wrapped up for the day, Shuhe was tired but exhilarated, a subtle thrill in his chest that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He had registered for the poetry club, experienced the icebreakers, and felt the pulse of the university for the first time.

For him, today had been a whirlwind of names, laughter, and rules. For the story unfolding quietly around him, it was only the first thread being laid—an invisible string beginning to hum between two people who didn’t yet know the weight of what fate had in store.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed since Orientation Week began. Third year of Duan’s university life had settled into a rhythm that felt… utterly meaningless. Lectures blurred into each other, a monotony punctuated only by the scrape of chalk, the rustle of pages, or a classmate’s overzealous pen-chewing.

He sat in his usual middle-row spot, notebook open but empty, pen twirling between his fingers. Words on the board were shapes, sounds, and colors, not information. His mind wandered across oceans of chaos and emptiness, anchored nowhere.

Hollow. That was what it felt like, a hollowness he could neither name nor fill. He had thought perhaps the busyness of university—professors, freshmen chatter, deadlines—might ground him. But instead, it only reminded him of how detached he could be, how alive he wasn’t.

The monotony broke only once, when the class monitor announced the club registration update via the group chat. Duan barely glanced at it at first—he didn’t care. Then his eyes flicked over the list of names, scrolling lazily, barely expecting anything of interest.

And then—he froze.

“Duan Ziang … Poetry Club.”

He blinked. Twice.

“…Poetry? Me?” His voice was incredulous, muttering to no one in particular. “That’s like asking a fish to write sonnets about clouds.”

Another message popped up, blinking insistently: “Get registered in your clubs tomorrow. Last day!”

Duan tossed his phone on the bed, dragging both hands down his face. “Great. Just fantastic. Out of all the options, I get saddled with writing about roses and heartbreak. Life has jokes.”

The next morning arrived with the hum of campus life—students flowing in all directions, voices overlapping, shoes squeaking against polished floors. Duan trudged through it like a man reluctantly accompanying his own existence. 

Classes passed in a haze, punctuated only by his inner commentary: the professor’s voice sounded like “a dying frog on loop,” a classmate’s laugh like “a recorder shrieking in the void,” and the ticking clock became a personal adversary.

By mid-afternoon, he found himself trudging toward the Poetry Club room, dragging his feet and muttering under his breath. The hallway was alive with orientation chaos—freshmen darting this way and that, seniors calling names, banners fluttering. 

Duan’s eyes glazed over the details, yet he cataloged them unconsciously: the flicker of sunlight across a windowpane, the scent of old books mingling with cafeteria aromas, the scuff of sneakers against tile.

He pushed the door open to the Poetry Club. The air inside was calm, almost sacred—soft sunlight spilling over neatly stacked books, pages of poems pinned to corkboards, and the faint scent of ink and paper. A senior sat at the registration table, flipping through forms.

“Name?” the senior asked without looking up.

“…Duan Ziang,” he muttered, dragging the words out.

The senior scribbled something, finally glancing up. “Welcome aboard. Meetings are twice a week. Don’t be late—we don’t like chasing people.”

Duan forced a nod. “Yeah. Totally thrilled,” he muttered under his breath. “Nothing says excitement like being forced into a room of sappy verses.”

He took a moment to glance around. The room was quiet, ordered, strangely inviting for something he had expected to be a torment. Stacks of poetry books, journals lying open with pen marks, faint sunlight catching dust motes in the corners—all of it made him pause, if only briefly. He wondered, fleetingly, if maybe this would be tolerable. Maybe.

With registration complete, he turned toward the door, backpack slung over one shoulder. The hallway outside was bustling, sunlight spilling across students, banners flapping gently in the breeze. He adjusted the strap of his bag, a small exhalation escaping him. Done. Survival mode engaged.

And then—he collided.

The impact was minor in physical terms, a mere brush against someone walking past. But the effect was anything but minor.

A sharp, piercing ache ripped through his ears, sending a thunderous ringing that drowned all sound. His vision fractured, colors smearing into one another, and the floor seemed to lurch beneath him. Waves of pain crawled along his nerves, crawling up his spine, twisting every muscle in protest. Every heartbeat pounded as if the universe itself were thundering inside his chest.

Duan staggered, clutching the wall for support, breath hitching. He tried to steady himself, tried to dismiss it as dizziness, as an overreaction. But it wasn’t just dizziness—it was as if every fiber of his being had been jolted awake, screaming.

“Hey… are you okay?”

The voice was soft, close, grounding—but distant in the chaos of his senses. He blinked, trying to focus, trying to shake the disorientation. His chest heaved; his hands gripped the doorframe tightly.

The ringing slowly receded, colors sharpened, and shapes fell back into place. He swallowed hard, forcing a shuddering breath.

And then…

His eyes fell upon the person who had been there all along.

The same boy from the corridor days ago. Calm, composed, with an unreadable gaze that somehow made the air heavier. Every instinct in Duan’s body screamed at him—recognition, confusion, curiosity, and something he didn’t dare name.

The world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, the bustling hallway fading to a dull blur at the edges of his vision. His heart hammered in his chest, every nerve on fire, and the weight of the moment pressed down.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t move. Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat that stretched like eternity, time stopped.

And then—Duan blinked, caught between disbelief and an undeniable pull towards the stranger. The hallway noises crept back in, but the memory of that piercing gaze would linger, electric, unshakable.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the poetry clubroom, casting long, golden stripes across the polished wooden floor. Shu He sat quietly, hands folded over his notebook, listening as the president welcomed the freshmen.

Words floated across the room—introductions, club rules, meeting times—but Shu He’s attention wandered to the stacks of books, the pinned-up poems, the faint scent of ink that seemed to anchor him in the space.

Shu He smiled faintly, letting the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat match the quiet order around him. Poetry, he reminded himself, was a world he could hold close.

Meanwhile, Duan Xiang leaned against a far wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room with practiced detachment. Seniors introduced themselves one by one; names, club experience, and anecdotes drifted past him like smoke.

He didn’t listen—he couldn’t. His mind hummed with emptiness, restless, untethered.

“Alright, let’s pair up for the icebreaker,” the president announced, “a small exercise. Each freshman with a senior.”

Shu He perked up, anticipation tingling in his fingertips. He glanced at the senior originally assigned to him—a tall boy with easy charm. But just as introductions began, the senior’s phone buzzed. A professor’s message: please come to the office immediately.

The senior cursed under his breath, excused himself, and left the room in a rush. Shu He’s eyes widened. The president glanced around, eyes landing on Duan, who hadn’t even bothered to sit. “Well, seems like he won't be back soon,” she said lightly. “Duan, you’ll partner with Shu He.”

Duan froze, a strange, sharp twist pulling at his chest. He hadn’t even registered the boy’s name before, hadn’t even paid attention. Yet now, somehow, the universe had forced them together. He opened his mouth, considered refusing, but nothing came out.

Shu He approached hesitantly, polite, genuine, offering a small, nervous smile. “Hi… I’m Shu He. Looks like we’re partners.”

Duan nodded, cold and concise. “Duan.” His voice was flat, indifferent, but inside, something stirred he couldn’t name.

The president set the timer. Each pair was to discuss a poem, share their interpretations, and then recite a short passage together. Shu He shuffled through his notebook, picking a poem about a quiet dawn, about mornings unclaimed. He read softly, the words rolling off his tongue with a gentle cadence.

Duan listened, arms crossed, expression unchanged. Yet he noticed—the way Shu He’s voice carried, the subtle tremor of nerves, the faint light in his eyes as he reached for the meaning behind the words. His chest tightened, uncomfortably, and he had to look away, pretending to examine the lines of the poem.

For Shu He, the exercise passed in a blur of excitement and concentration, his pulse quick from the novelty and the mild anxiety of pairing with a senior.

For Duan, every second was a silent war between his composed exterior and the inexplicable pull toward this quiet, earnest boy.

By the end of the session, Shu He scribbled a small poem to submit for the club’s evening exercise. He smiled softly to himself as he handed it in, unaware of the storm it would stir.

Duan lingered at the doorway as students filtered out. He adjusted his bag, trying to shake off the odd sensation that clung to him since the pairing. As he scrolled through the group message, something caught his eye—submissions from the day’s exercise. He hesitated, then opened the file.

A single poem stood out. Simple, unassuming, yet something about it pricked at the edges of his memory, like a chord struck too early, resonating in a hollow chamber he didn’t know existed. He froze, thumb hovering over the screen.

The words were innocent, quiet, and yet they left his chest tight, his mind restless, and a spark of recognition he couldn’t explain flickering in his heart.

Somewhere deep inside, a thread had been cast. Invisible, unbreakable, and poised to pull two lives closer, whether they wanted it or not.

Chapter Text

The poetry clubroom hummed with quiet energy, sunlight streaming through tall windows and catching the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. Two weeks had passed since the icebreaker, yet the memory of that first fleeting interaction lingered like a shadow in Duan’s mind.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes ostensibly fixed on his phone. But every so often, his gaze flicked across the room, drawn, unreasonably, toward Shu He.

Shu He sat at the far side of the semicircle, notebook balanced on his lap, fingers brushing lightly over the pages as he listened intently to the club president. The faint curve of his lips, the tilt of his head when pondering a suggestion, even the soft sweep of hair from his forehead—

Duan’s attention refused to let go.

The president clapped her hands, smiling brightly. “Alright, everyone! Today, we brainstorm an activity for the poetry club. Freshers and seniors alike—your ideas, your voice. Don’t be shy.”

Voices erupted immediately. Some suggested open mics on campus lawns, others a quiet exhibition in the gallery. Laughter broke out when someone jokingly proposed a poetry-karaoke mix, and a senior teased, “Imagine Duan actually singing a verse.”

The name earned a few scoffs and chuckles, but Duan merely shifted in his seat, unimpressed, though he felt a small, involuntary tightening in his chest.

Shu He raised his hand hesitantly. “What about… a trip? Somewhere quiet, inspiring. We could write, read together, maybe even stay overnight.”

A ripple of interest moved through the group. The president’s face brightened. “I love it! A one-day, one-night poetry retreat. Who’s in?”

Agreement spread quickly. Students murmured about locations, schedules, and small details, their voices bubbling with excitement. Duan stayed silent, mask of indifference firmly in place, but his mind betrayed him.

Every word Shu He spoke resonated in him, like notes of a melody half-remembered, a rhythm that felt oddly familiar, painfully so.

When the sign-up sheet passed around, Duan’s fingers brushed against Shu He’s. A faint shock jolted through him. He adjusted his bag as though the gesture were meaningless, but the heat lingering in his chest refused to fade. He shook his head subtly. It’s nothing, he told himself, but the words landed hollow.

Shu He, unaware, left the room with a light spring in his step. He couldn’t shake the sense that someone’s eyes had followed him, fleeting, subtle. He glanced over his shoulder once — no one notable — and dismissed the feeling as imagination. The excitement for the trip filled his chest, warming him from the inside out.

---

By the next week, arrangements were finalized. The bus ride to the retreat outside the city carried a low buzz of anticipation, laughter spilling over conversations, students teasing and joking with one another.

Duan had chosen a seat at the back, headphones tucked in though he barely listened. Instead, he watched Shu He, the faint sunlight illuminating the curve of his jaw, the soft sweep of hair that never seemed perfectly tamed.

Shu He, seated a few rows ahead with chatted quietly about poetry prompts, his fingers brushing the pages of a notebook with practiced care. He didn’t notice Duan’s gaze lingering, constant, magnetic, or the way Duan’s fingers clenched briefly on the strap of his bag.

---

The retreat house emerged against the horizon like a hidden promise. Wooden beams, wide glass windows, and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of pine and water made it feel removed from the world. Students spilled from the bus, chattering, laughing, exploring every corner of the grounds.

A senior, tall and mischievous, raised a hand. “Room assignments! Let’s draw lots for roommates!”

Excited murmurs ran through the group. Shu He’s fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the slip of paper. Across the room, Duan’s hand shook just a little as he read his own.

Shu He.

Their eyes met instantly. No words passed, but the air seemed to thrum between them — quiet, unrelenting. Duan’s chest constricted, a strange ache settling in, and he gripped the paper tighter, unable to look away.

Shu He’s lips curved into the faintest smile, curiosity flickering in his eyes, unaware of the storm quietly brewing in the senior beside him.

The other students continued their chatter, oblivious to the silent current that had swept through the room. Duan and Shu He’s surroundings blurred for a moment — the laughter, the wind, even the scent of pine became background noise.

All that remained was the pulse of recognition, the quiet thread of something unspoken, something that had already tethered them together before either knew its name.

The paper crumpled softly between Duan’s fingers. Somewhere deep in his chest, something familiar stirred—an echo he couldn’t name.