Chapter 3: Movie night
The next few days saw Zhang Wei and Zhou Feng as a constant presence. They arrived each morning, their military-issue jeep crunching on the gravel driveway, and spent hours in the study with General Lu and Bai Lian, voices a low murmur behind closed doors. They’d emerge for lunch, a tense and practical affair where Bai Lian would discuss supply lists and secure routes, her eyes flicking occasionally to Lu Yuan with a frozen politeness that never reached their depths.
Zhou Feng began participating less in the meetings. “It’s logistics and network maps,” he’d grumble good-naturedly to Zhang Wei over coffee. “My skills are more… applied. I’m better off making sure the kid doesn’t feel like a ghost in his own home.” The argument, presented to General Lu, was pragmatic. Lu Yuan couldn’t contribute, so why burden him with a dread he couldn’t act upon? They could always tell him when the time drew near. Bai Lian had sold the logic with cool efficiency, her lie smooth and convincing. The real reason—a venomous desire to leave him unprepared, a silent hope the chaos would swallow him—remained hidden behind her pretty, concerned face. They bought it. Zhang Wei, though uneasy, agreed. General Lu, burdened by strategy and a son he’d never understood, acquiesced.
Lu Yuan knew a secrecy hung in the air, thick as the pollen from the magnolia tree outside his window. He caught the clipped sentences that died when he entered a room, the weighty glances. But his mind, a scholar’s mind transplanted into a world of staggering novelty, was effortlessly distracted. The internet was a bottomless treasure trove. He binged documentaries on electrical grids and pastry baking with equal fervor. He developed a minor addiction to a mobile game involving irate avian projectiles. When the digital world grew overwhelming, he retreated to the garden.
His affinity for green, growing things was a deep, marrow-level comfort. Though the spiritual roots that once let him commune with forest ancients were gone, the solace remained. He’d sit for hours by the koi pond, fingers tracing the veins of a broad lotus leaf, feeling a faint, phantom hum from the earth that was both familiar and agonizingly out of reach.
One such afternoon, the rain misted the windowpanes, making the world outside a soft green blur. In the living room, the cold fireplace stood like a gaping mouth. Zhou Feng had commandeered the large, worn sofa, pulling up some ridiculous American comedy on the large screen. Lu Yuan, draped in an oversized sweater, curled up beside him, a massive bowl of buttery popcorn between them.
In the kitchen, the meeting droned on. Bai Lian’s voice, sharp with insistence, cut through the door. “…the convoy from the north won’t wait, Wei. We need to commit.”
Zhang Wei’s response was a low rumble, inaudible. His attention, however, was fractured. He stood by the kitchen island, his back to the counter, his gaze fixed through the doorway into the living room.
He watched.
Lu Yuan laughed, a sudden, unguarded sound that seemed to brighten the dim room. He threw his head back against the sofa cushion, his throat exposed, the line of his jaw clean and sharp. Zhou Feng, grinning, snatched a piece of popcorn and with a casual flick of his wrist, tossed it. It arced, landing perfectly between Lu Yuan’s parted lips.
“Hey!” Lu Yuan protested, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. He swatted at Feng’s arm, a light, familiar slap. “I have hands, you oaf.”
“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” Feng chuckled, his own arm casually coming to rest along the back of the sofa, behind Lu Yuan’s shoulders. Not quite touching, but enclosing.
Zhang Wei’s knuckles tightened around his glass of water. He should be relieved. This was the ideal outcome. Lu Yuan was keeping his distance, just as his formal, forehead-to-the-floor apology had promised. He was befriending Feng, who was easier, less complicated, without the history. The obsessive, spiteful pursuit had vanished, replaced by this… this natural, glowing camaraderie. It was what Zhang Wei had wanted.
So why did the sight make his gut clench with a hot, sour emotion he couldn’t name?
Lu Yuan shifted, settling deeper into the sofa, his shoulder now pressing fully against Zhou Feng’s side. He murmured something about the plot, and Feng leaned down to hear him, his dark head close to Lu Yuan’s softer, ink-black hair. They looked… comfortable. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with the old, calculated lust of the original Lu Yuan. This was worse. This was genuine.
Bai Lian’s words finally pierced his focus. “Zhang Wei. Are you even listening?”
He jerked his gaze away, meeting her cold, knowing eyes. She had followed his line of sight. A thin, icy smile touched her lips. “Let them be,” she said, her voice sugary with false benevolence. “Feng’s good at distractions. It’s for the best.”
The rain stopped. Days blurred. Lu Yuan’s world became a pleasant triangle: his digital explorations, the serene silence of the garden, and Zhou Feng’s increasingly constant companionship. Zhang Wei was often there too, but he was a more distant vertex, quieter, watching with that intense, unreadable gaze.
One evening, the others were gone—General Lu at a late briefing, Bai Lian allegedly inventorying supplies in the city. The house felt vast and empty. Zhang Wei had stayed behind, claiming fatigue. He found himself pacing the library, unable to concentrate on any of the tactical manuals.
The sound of laughter drew him—Lu Yuan’s, followed by Zhou Feng’s deeper chuckle. It came from the direction of the games room. He walked silently down the corridor.
The door was ajar. Inside, the soft glow of a antique floor lamp pooled over a billiards table. Lu Yuan was bent over the green felt, lining up a shot, his expression one of utterly comical concentration. Zhou Feng stood close behind him, not touching, but his body curled around Lu Yuan’s smaller frame, his hand pointing to a cue ball.
“Angle’s off, kid. Here.”
Feng’s large, soldier’s hand came down, covering Lu Yuan’s on the cue. He adjusted the grip, his front pressed lightly against Lu Yuan’s back. “Like this.”
Lu Yuan stiffened for a fraction of a second, then relaxed, allowing the correction. “It feels… awkward,” he murmured.
“It’s right. Trust me.”
Zhang Wei saw the shudder that went through Lu Yuan at those words. Trust me. He saw the way Lu Yuan’s head tilted back, just slightly, his nape brushing the front of Feng’s shirt. The shot was taken. Balls clicked, one sinking into a corner pocket.
“Ha!” Lu Yuan straightened, turning within the circle of Feng’s arms, beaming. “You were right!”
Feng didn’t step back. He was looking down at Lu Yuan’s upturned face, the smile fading from his own, replaced by something darker, more intent. The air in the room changed, growing thick and charged. Zhang Wei felt it from the hallway, a primitive alarm ringing in his blood.
“You’re a quick study,” Feng said, his voice a low rasp. His hands came up to rest on Lu Yuan’s hips.
Lu Yuan blinked, the naive confusion in his eyes entirely real. He didn’t pull away. This new world’s rules of intimacy were a mystery to him; he followed instinct, and his instinct told him Feng was kind, Feng was safe. A friend. “Feng?”
Feng’s thumbs stroked the sharp crest of Lu Yuan’s hip bones through the soft fabric of his sweats. The air between them was hot, charged with an intent Lu Yuan didn’t fully comprehend but his body responded to, a flush spreading up his throat. “You have no idea how you look,” Feng murmured, his voice gravelly, his gaze dropping to Lu Yuan’s mouth.
Zhang Wei knew what that was a prelude to.
Before he knew it, his body moved, his shoulder clumsily bumping the doorframe with a thud that shattered the silence. He stumbled into the room with a forced casualness. “There you are,” he announced, his tone artificially bright. “Hiding from the dread planning committee?”
They sprang apart. Zhou Feng took a swift, smooth step back, his hands dropping to his sides, his expression shuttering into neutral politeness so fast it was violent. Lu Yuan blinked, off-balance, clutching the billiards cue like a staff. “Zhang Wei! We were just… the ball went in.”
“So I saw.” Zhang Wei strode to the table, acting surprised at their intimate position, forcing them to step apart further with his physical presence. He picked up a stray cue ball, rolling it in his palm. “Looks like fun. Mind if I cut in?” The cheerfulness in his voice was a brittle lie. “We could make it a proper game. Teams.”
They spent the afternoon together, taking turns having Lu Yuan on their team, and joked around. Lu Yuan, ever eager, shone with a competitive glee, laughing when Zhang Wei deliberately sunk the eight-ball early to give him the win. But beneath the surface, the undercurrent was a live wire. Zhang Wei was acutely aware of what he had interrupted, and that it signified a change in Zhou Feng’s feelings. The possessive curl of Feng’s body, the dark hunger in his eyes—it was no longer just protective friendship. It was claim. Just because he had interrupted them this time didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be a next. The knowledge was a cold stone in his gut, watching Feng’s hand casually brush Lu Yuan’s lower back as they passed, seeing the way Lu Yuan unconsciously leaned into the touch.
As they were playing the last game, the setting sun bleeding red across the green felt, Zhang Wei lined up a shot, his voice deliberately offhand. “So, Lu Yuan. You spend a lot of time in the garden.” He took the shot, missing poorly. “Ever thought about more… active training?”
Lu Yuan tilted his head. “Training?”
“Combat training.” Zhang Wei straightened, leaning on his cue. He casually brought up if Lu Yuan would be interested in coming to the military base and participate in some combat training. “My father’s unit runs morning drills. Hand-to-hand, blade work, firearm safety. It’s brutal, but it’s the real thing.” It would mean spending several hours each day training hard, a time usually spent with Zhou Feng.
Feng gave him a sharp look but didn’t protest. He rested his own cue against the wall, his jaw tight. He also knew that Lu Yuan could only benefit in receiving some combat training if the apocalypse was near. The logic was unassailable, a perfect shield for a selfish impulse. “It’s not a garden party,” Feng said, his tone flat. “They’ll break you down to rebuild you.”
Lu Yuan was surprised but delighted at the offer. His eyes, so often clouded with gentle distraction, sharpened with a keen, vibrant light. He really wanted to see the combat of this world. The mysterious energy here was too thin for cultivation, but the raw, physical discipline of martial forms—that was a language his soul understood. “Yes,” he said, the word immediate and sure. “I would like that very much. I accept.”
Zhou Feng watched the eager curve of Lu Yuan’s smile, the way it was directed at Zhang Wei now, a new channel for his fascination. “Fine,” Feng said, the word clipped. He walked over, standing close to Lu Yuan again, a silent reassertion. “But you don’t go alone. I’ll be there.” Zhou Feng said he would accompany him as well. “Someone has to make sure they don’t actually kill you on day one.”
Zhang Wei met his friend’s gaze over Lu Yuan’s head. It was an accusation: the proposal had been good, but terribly inconvenient. Zhou Feng didn't suspect Zhang Wei of having any ulterior motives, settled in his belief of Zhang Wei and Bai Lian's solid relationship. They both didn't know that the battlefield was drawn. And Lu Yuan, beautiful, naive Lu Yuan, stood between them, beaming at the promise of learning how to fight, utterly oblivious to the war already raging for possession of his body, his trust, his very future.