Saturday came without a party.
For the first time in months, Jiang Yue spent a weekend without chaos, without noise, without the need to escape somewhere louder than his own thoughts.
It felt strange.
Not bad.
Just unfamiliar, like wearing shoes that fit after years of ones that pinched.
He woke up late—nine-something—and lay in bed listening to the apartment sounds. His mother was in the kitchen, humming. Wei Chengyu's voice murmured something about a work call. The TV was on low, playing morning news that nobody was watching.
Normal sounds.
Family sounds.
Jiang Yue stared at the ceiling and waited for the usual tightness in his chest.
It came, but softer. Like a bruise fading from purple to yellow.
He got up, washed his face, and walked into the living room.
His mother looked up immediately. "Yueyue. Breakfast is on the counter."
Jiang Yue mumbled thanks and shuffled to the kitchen.
Toast. Eggs. Fruit cut into careful slices.
He ate standing up, scrolling his phone with one hand.
Xu Zhe had sent a photo of his cat sleeping on his textbook, captioned: Same energy.
Jiang Yue snorted and typed back: Your cat has better grades than you.
Xu Zhe replied instantly: Rude. True. But rude.
Tang Ruo had sent nothing since his rejection of the party invite. Either she respected it or she was filing it away for future leverage. With Tang Ruo, both were equally likely.
Jiang Yue finished eating, rinsed his plate, and turned toward the living room.
Wei was on the sofa, reading.
Not studying. Reading.
An actual book—thick, worn cover, pages slightly yellowed. Something that looked old enough to belong in a museum.
Jiang Yue stopped, surprised.
He'd never seen Wei read anything that wasn't a textbook or an assignment.
Wei's posture was different too. Looser. His legs were crossed, one arm resting along the sofa back. His face was relaxed in a way Jiang Yue had never seen at the dining table.
He looked almost... human.
Jiang Yue leaned against the kitchen doorway and watched him for a second too long.
Wei's gaze lifted.
Their eyes met.
Jiang Yue's chest tightened automatically, the way it always did when Wei caught him looking.
He forced his voice casual. "What are you reading."
Wei glanced at the cover. "A novel."
Jiang Yue blinked. "You read novels."
Wei's expression stayed neutral. "Sometimes."
Jiang Yue walked closer, curiosity pulling him despite himself. "What kind."
Wei's gaze flicked to him. "Why."
Jiang Yue shrugged. "Because I'm bored and you're the only entertainment in this apartment."
Wei's jaw tightened slightly, but he turned the book so Jiang Yue could see the cover.
It was a Chinese translation of a foreign novel. Something literary. Something with a title that sounded heavy and beautiful at the same time.
Jiang Yue squinted. "Is it depressing."
Wei's mouth barely moved. "It's about choices."
Jiang Yue sat down on the opposite end of the sofa without being invited. "Choices like what."
Wei was quiet for a moment, as if deciding how much to give.
Then he said, "About a person who has to choose between the life expected of them and the life they actually want."
Jiang Yue stared at him.
The words settled between them like something too precise to be accidental.
Jiang Yue's throat tightened. "And what do they choose."
Wei's gaze held his. "I haven't finished it."
Something in Jiang Yue's chest twisted.
He looked away first, staring at the TV that was still playing to nobody. "Sounds depressing."
Wei's voice was quiet. "It's honest."
Silence.
Jiang Yue sat there, too aware of the sofa cushions between them, of the distance that was close enough to feel dangerous and far enough to feel safe.
He didn't know what to do with his hands.
He picked up his phone, scrolled without seeing anything, then put it down.
Wei returned to his book.
For a while, they just existed in the same room, doing nothing together.
It was the most peaceful Jiang Yue had felt in weeks.
Then his mother appeared, jacket on, bag over her shoulder. "I'm going out for groceries. Chengyu has his work call. You two behave."
Jiang Yue saluted lazily. "Always."
His mother gave him a look, then smiled and left.
The front door shut.
Wei Chengyu's voice drifted from the bedroom, low and professional.
And suddenly the apartment felt very quiet and very private.
Jiang Yue shifted on the sofa, restless.
Wei turned a page.
Jiang Yue stared at the ceiling. "I need to study."
Wei didn't look up. "Then study."
Jiang Yue didn't move. "I don't want to study at the dining table."
Wei's page-turning paused. "Then study somewhere else."
Jiang Yue's mouth twisted. He didn't know why the words came out, only that they did.
"The library," Jiang Yue said. "The public one near the river."
Wei looked up slowly.
Jiang Yue added, before he could stop himself, "You should come."
Silence.
Wei stared at him.
Jiang Yue's face warmed. "For studying," he added quickly. "Obviously."
Wei's gaze searched his face for something—sincerity, maybe, or a trap.
Jiang Yue held steady, even though his pulse was doing something stupid.
Then Wei closed his book. "Okay."
Jiang Yue blinked. "Okay?"
Wei stood, tucking the novel under his arm. "I need a change of environment."
Jiang Yue stared at him, then laughed once, disbelieving. "Did you just agree to hang out with me."
Wei's expression stayed flat. "I agreed to study in a different location."
Jiang Yue grinned. "That's the same thing."
Wei walked toward his room to get his bag. "It's not."
Jiang Yue grinned wider. "It absolutely is."
They left the apartment fifteen minutes later.
The air outside was cold and bright, winter sunlight cutting through the clouds in sharp lines. The streets were quieter on Saturday, the usual weekday rush replaced by old people walking slow and kids on bikes.
They walked side by side, half a step apart.
The usual distance.
But something about being outside—away from the apartment, away from the dining table and the open doors and the rules—made the distance feel different.
Chosen, not enforced.
Jiang Yue shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "So. The novel."
Wei glanced at him. "What about it."
Jiang Yue kept his eyes forward. "The character. The one choosing between lives. Are they happy?"
Wei was quiet for a few steps.
Then: "Happiness isn't the point."
Jiang Yue frowned. "Then what is."
Wei's voice was careful. "Knowing what you're giving up."
Jiang Yue's chest tightened.
He didn't ask more.
They reached the public library in twenty minutes.
It was a small, old building near the river, two stories, brick facade, large windows that let in gray light. Not as grand as the school library, but quieter. Emptier. The kind of place that smelled like paper and patience.
Inside, a few elderly readers occupied the ground floor. A woman at the front desk nodded at them without interest.
They went upstairs.
The second floor had long wooden tables, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and windows that overlooked the river. The water was gray and slow, reflecting the pale sky.
Nobody else was up here.
Just them.
Jiang Yue set his bag on a table near the window and sat down.
Wei sat across from him, pulling out his own materials.
The setup was familiar—table, textbooks, two boys pretending to be normal.
But without the apartment walls, without the open door rule, without the performance, something felt freer.
Looser.
Jiang Yue opened his workbook and started.
For an hour, they studied in silence.
Real silence. The peaceful kind.
The kind where Jiang Yue could hear Wei's pen scratching and the faint sound of wind against the windows and his own breathing, all of it blending into something almost meditative.
Jiang Yue worked through math problems steadily, checking his steps, catching his own mistakes before Wei could.
It felt good.
Strange, but good.
At one point, Jiang Yue got stuck on a problem and frowned at it, turning his pencil over in his fingers.
Wei noticed without looking up. "Which one."
Jiang Yue slid the paper across.
Wei read it, thought for a second, then wrote a single line and slid it back.
Jiang Yue looked at the line. It was the step he'd been missing.
He solved the rest.
No commentary. No praise. No correction speech.
Just one line, given and received.
Jiang Yue felt something settle in his chest.
After another hour, his focus frayed.
He leaned back, stretching his neck, and stared out the window.
The river moved slowly below, carrying leaves and light.
A bird landed on the window ledge, stayed for a second, then flew away.
Jiang Yue spoke without planning. "Do you ever think about leaving."
Wei's pen paused. "Leaving what."
Jiang Yue kept his eyes on the river. "Yunbei. This school. All of it."
Wei was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Yes."
Jiang Yue turned to look at him.
Wei's gaze was on his textbook, but he wasn't reading. His eyes were still.
"Where would you go," Jiang Yue asked.
Wei's jaw tightened slightly. "Somewhere I chose."
Jiang Yue's throat tightened. "Not Beijing?"
Wei's eyes flicked to him. "Beijing is my father's choice."
The admission hung between them like smoke.
Jiang Yue swallowed. "And yours?"
Wei was quiet for a long time.
Then he almost slipped—his voice came softer, less guarded.
"I don't know yet," Wei said. "But I want it to be mine."
Jiang Yue stared at him.
He wanted to say something. Something that matched the weight of Wei's honesty.
Instead, he said, "Me too."
Wei looked at him.
Their eyes held.
The library was silent. The river moved below. The light through the windows was pale and honest.
And in that moment, without touching, without breaking any rules, something shifted between them again.
Not the charged, dangerous shift of the party hallway.
Not the tense, electric shift of the study table at home.
Something quieter.
Something like understanding.
Like two people sitting across from each other and realizing, slowly, that they were both trapped in the same story and neither of them knew the ending.
Wei looked away first, but gently this time. Not retreat. Just breathing room.
"We should keep going," Wei said.
Jiang Yue nodded. "Yeah."
They studied for another hour.
When they packed up and left the library, the sun was lower, casting long shadows on the river path.
They walked home side by side.
Not talking.
Not needing to.
And Jiang Yue thought, with a quiet certainty that felt like the beginning of something:
The library wasn't just a different location.
It was neutral ground.
A place where they weren't stepbrothers. Weren't enemies. Weren't a deal or a performance or a problem.
They were just two people choosing to sit across from each other.
And that choice, small and deliberate, felt more honest than anything Jiang Yue had done in months.