THE MESSAGE XINGYU sent him that contained the address and the time for lunch had also said another word: sorry. Now that Zhang Weiran was standing here, he knew exactly why it had said that—this was clearly a five-star restaurant, and very clearly also a five-dollar-sign restaurant. Weiran couldn’t see himself affording even a glass of water in this place. Xingyu hadn’t even had the decency to tell him about a dress code, so now of course Weiran was sticking out like a sore thumb in his red hoodie and blue jeans among all of the impeccably dressed staff inside and the bourgeoisie-esque people roaming the near streets. He sent a quick message to Xingyu asking if he was already inside, to which Xingyu replied with apparent amusement that “Xiao-Xiao” always arrived perfectly on time—not a moment later or earlier than he needed to be. Of course. Zhang Weiran leaned against the wall and tried very hard not to look like he was loitering.

“Weiran!”

Weiran turned and spotted Xingyu in a suit—in a suit!—bounding toward him. Weiran had seen him in suits before, certainly, but never one that fit him this well; in the few award ceremonies that had demanded of him a suit, Xingyu had satisfied the requirements with a rental and only occasionally splurged on a new tie, but now he was in front of Weiran looking like the glorious fu’erdai he was. Behind him was Xingyu’s clone in a black suit—no, not his clone; there were subtle differences: his features were a little softer, the bridge of his nose higher, the corners of his mouth turned slightly down, his hair much shorter. This must be Xingyu’s beloved Xiao-Xiao.

“Hey, did you find the place okay?” Xingyu raked his hair away from his face. He was wearing it down today, which wasn’t supremely unusual, but definitely made him look almost ethereal, and the smile that he had spread across his face was doing weird things to Weiran’s heart.

“Yes, but the staff have been giving me weird looks the entire time I’ve been standing here. It’s good to see you again.” He tilted his chin toward the man standing behind Xingyu. “Is this—?”

“This is my didi.” Xingyu pushed Liu Xiaokai forward with the kind of gleam in his eye that one gets when receiving a medal. “Xiao-Xiao, say hello.” Xiaokai, on the other hand, looked absolutely natural in this setting, if not vaguely irritated with his brother; he swatted at Xingyu without any real feeling and then offered his hand to Weiran. They shook. His hand was silk-soft, nothing like his ge.

“Pleasure,” he said. “I’m assuming you two are classmates? I hope Xingyu-ge8 doesn’t give you too much trouble.”