Work Text:
[ Friday, xx August 20xx, 9:37am
From: Yue Qingyuan
To: Shen Qingqiu
Subject: Fall Semester :)
Qingqiu,
Just a reminder to submit your syllabi when you can. They were due last week.
Looking forward to catching up at the meet-and-greet next month. I think you’ll be pleased with the new grad student cohort. I’ve attached the list if you want to see who will be rejoining us.
Qingyuan ]
[ Friday, xx August 20xx, 9:37am
From: Shen Qingqiu
To: Yue Qingyuan
[Automatic Reply] Subject: Re: Fall Semester :)
Thank you for your email. I am away on sabbatical from xx February 20xx through xx September 20xx and may be slow to reply. If this is an emergency, please contact the Department Head, Yue Qingyuan, at [email protected].
Shen Qingqiu
Associate Professor of Literature
Cang Ciong University ]
---
Shen Qingqiu decided that very little had changed in the seven months he’d been away on sabbatical.
The halls of Cang Ciong’s literature department were just as he remembered them, familiar and bright and one of his favourite places in the world. His office was just as he’d left it, with his books and his desk and his view over the greenery that wound between the buildings on campus. And in the faculty lounge where they’d all gathered that day, Liu Qingge was still lurking impassively in one corner while Shang Qinghua flitted from person to person as he scrambled to get into their good graces.
Or, well, at least their funding proposals.
With a satisfied smile, Shen Qingqiu scanned the delicious spread of food at the back of the lounge. The yearly meet-and-greet, where faculty and graduate students gathered to face down the oncoming semester, was intended to unite them all after the summer and make the incoming student cohort feel like a valuable part of the department.
For Shen Qingqiu, it was a cherished excuse to eat free food and pester his colleagues until they admitted how much they’d missed him.
He’d just finished preparing a plate for himself when he spied Yue Qingyuan heading towards him, head bent in conversation towards a figure he couldn’t quite make out.
“It’s no bother,” Shen Qingqiu heard a voice tell the Head of Department in response to something just said, and he froze with his plate clutched in his hands, because he recognized that voice. He’d heard it a hundred times in class—before its owner had gone on to graduate—eagerly answering questions and leading the way in discussions.
“There you are,” Yue Qingyuan said as he caught sight of Shen Qingqiu. His smile showed he was genuinely pleased to see Shen Qingqiu, eyes creasing at the corners in welcome, but Shen Qingqiu couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from the tall, quiet figure standing beside his longtime friend.
He knew those dark, intense eyes and that unruly ponytail as well as he knew that voice. He could practically see them in the very front row of his undergraduate lectures year after year after year.
“Professor,” Luo Binghe said, dipping his head in greeting—so much more formal than the bright ball of energy that Shen Qingqiu remembered from class. The last time Shen Qingqiu had seen him, he’d wished Binghe good luck with his Master’s and admonished him to keep in touch. He was the brightest student Shen Qingqiu had ever taught in all his five years at Cang Ciong. They’d spent hours upon hours discussing literature and theory; by the end of Binghe’s degree, Shen Qingqiu had almost thought they were friends.
And then—
Then, Luo Binghe had disappeared without a trace, turning down his offer of acceptance into Cang Ciong’s Master’s program and attending Huan Hua instead. Shen Qingqiu hadn’t heard from him for two years—and here he was now, standing there in the lounge looking like he belonged there.
“Binghe,” he stammered in a brilliant display of wit, taking a step back so he could properly look up at his former student. It had only been two years—how did he seem to have grown so much taller? “You’re–you’re here.”
Something shuttered across Luo Binghe’s face at Shen Qingqiu’s surprise, and Yue Qingyuan frowned. “I thought you knew. His name was on the list of incoming doctoral students I sent you last month,” he said.
Shen Qingqiu blinked, holding his plate of food awkwardly in front of him. He most certainly had not known, and—well, it was true that he’d taken to ignoring his inbox while he was away. He’d figured Yue Qingyuan would tell him anything important to his face.
He looked at Binghe blankly, a dozen questions spinning through his mind. After a moment, he managed to get one of them out.
“Who are you working with?” he asked, because apparently it wasn’t him. The idea made something odd catch painfully in his throat. It felt hot and uncomfortable, because if Luo Binghe was going to study at Cang Ciong again, it should be with him.
“I haven’t chosen a supervisor yet, Professor,” Luo Binghe replied evasively, as if he didn’t want to answer the question, and Shen Qingqiu frowned, that uncomfortable feeling fading into something he recognized: outrage.
Had someone rejected Binghe? Anyone in the department—anyone in the world—would be lucky to have him as a graduate student.
Those thoughts kept turning over in Shen Qingqiu’s mind even long after the stilted conversation ended, along with a voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Liu Qingge’s.
Perhaps you should have checked your damn emails.
---
[ Monday, xx September 20xx, 8:47am
From: Cang Ciong University Library System
To: Shen Qingqiu
Subject: Long Overdue Items
Dear Shen Qingqiu,
We would like to remind you that the following items are now long overdue:
Monsters of the Endless Abyss in Contemporary Literature by Tianlang-jun
Please return these items at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Cang Ciong University Libraries ]
---
The third floor of the main library held its usual hush—too studied, too careful, too-often broken by the sound of footsteps or the alarm on someone’s phone. Amidst it all, Shen Qingqiu stared at the conspicuously empty spot on the shelf in front of him.
Who else could have possibly picked out Patterns of Monstrosity in Poetry and Prose? Shen Qingqiu was pretty sure he was the only one who had ever checked it out. Maybe if he stared at the shelf long enough, it would magically reappear.
“Professor,” a voice said solicitously, pitched low enough that it wouldn’t carry more than a few feet.Shen Qingqiu turned with a start. He didn’t know how he hadn’t sensed its owner’s approach. Luo Binghe was tall and imposing in jeans and a black shirt, his curly ponytail spilling over his shoulder.
His dark eyes watched Shen Qingqiu carefully, and Shen Qingqiu shifted self-consciously, wanting to tug at the line of his sweater vest.
“Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu said, and then flushed, because his own voice was far, far too loud. He wasn’t teaching a graduate seminar this semester, so he hadn’t actually expected to see much of his erstwhile former student.
Which was naturally why he seemed to have run into him almost every day for the past two weeks—in the hallways of the department, in line at the little cafe in the central building, buying sticky notes at the campus bookstore. Every time, Binghe was distant but polite, and Shen Qingqiu found himself wanting to find a way to ask how he’d been, why he’d never responded to his emails, why he hadn’t told him he was returning to Cang Ciong.
With a slight dip of his head, Luo Binghe held out a familiar-looking book. Shen Qingqiu noticed faintly that it still had a couple of bent tabs in it that he’d forgotten to remove the last time he’d checked it out.
“I just needed to check a few references,” Binghe said, and Shen Qingqiu blinked as he accepted the book. “My apologies, Professor. I have to get to class.”
And before Shen Qingqiu could say anything else, he was gone.
---
[ Thursday, xx October 20xx, 12:09pm
From: Liu Qingge
To: Shen Qingqiu
Subject: Re: (,,>﹏<,,)
No, you can’t use the printer in my office. Get someone to fix your own.]
[ Thursday, xx October 20xx, 12:10pm
From: Liu Qingge
To: Shen Qingqiu
Subject: Re: (,,>﹏<,,)
I’m making coffee. Do you want any?]
---
Shen Qingqiu headed back to his office, the stack of essay topics in his hands still warm and redolent of fresh ink from Liu Qingge’s printer. Juggling the papers a little so he could check the clock on his phone, Shen Qingqiu sighed in relief.
He had just enough time to drop by his own office to grab his bag and his textbook before heading to class, so long as he didn’t take any detours or—
Or run into any walls, he thought a little dazedly as he practically bounced off of something broad and hard. As his papers scattered everywhere on the floor, a pair of large, strong hands came up to grip his upper arms, slightly rumpling the knit of his dark sweater.
“Sorry, Professor,” a familiar voice said, a little breathless and a lot contrite. Those hands tightened a little around his arms to steady him as Binghe peered at his face with an apologetic look.
Shen Qingqiu just stared up at him for a moment, nothing coming out of his mouth. Binghe’s hands were very warm and very steady. He didn’t even fully realize how warm and steady until Binghe pulled them away to kneel gracefully at Shen Qingqiu’s feet as he gathered up the papers that lay like fallen leaves.
In their soft sleeves, his arms felt suddenly cold and forlorn.
Wait, Binghe, he wanted to call out once Luo Binghe had handed him the papers, all perfectly aligned with crisp edges, but it was too late. Binghe was gone, and though Shen Qingqiu made it to class on time after all, he kind of wished he hadn’t.
---
[ [Draft] [Saved] Tuesday, xx November 20xx, 1:12pm
From: Shen Qingqiu
To: Luo Binghe
Subject: Hello
Hi Binghe,
I hope your semester has been going well. I just wanted to check if
]
[ [Draft] [Saved] Wednesday, xx December 20xx, 10:01am
From: Shen Qingqiu
To: Luo Binghe
Subject: ???
Hi Binghe,
Is something wrong? I really don’t know why you never
]
---
Shen Qingqiu was going to need caffeine for this. A lot of caffeine. He looked longingly at the little kettle he kept on one corner of his desk, but it did not, unfortunately, begin to boil itself.
When he checked it, there wasn’t even any water left inside.
With a sigh, Shen Qingqiu straightened his green sweater and headed for the little kitchenette in the faculty lounge. Somehow, he wasn't even surprised to find Luo Binghe there.
They looked at each other for a moment before Binghe finally spoke.
“You look like you’ve been ambushed by demons, Professor,” he said.
“Worse,” Shen Qingqiu told him. “First year papers. None of them even have thesis statements.” He could already feel the headache coming on, deep behind his eyes. He turned to find the kettle but found himself being gently motioned aside by Binghe instead.
“Let me,” Binghe offered, and before Shen Qingqiu knew what was happening, Luo Binghe was moving around the kitchenette as if he owned the space, as if it had been made for him—boiling water, measuring tea leaves, reaching for a mug in the cupboard that had a fantastical hybrid of a rhinoceros and a python on it.
Ah. Shen Qingqiu had wondered where that one had gone; he must have left it here last week, while he and Shang Qinghua were complaining in the lounge about funding deadlines.
“Your papers were never like that,” Shen Qingqiu said mournfully as he watched Luo Binghe work. Binghe had once written an essay on monsters in classical literature that left him sighing at its elegance.
Binghe slowly poured water into the cup. “It’s because you’re a good teacher,” he said.
Shen Qingqiu blinked. The essay he had been thinking of had been Binghe’s first essay in his first semester in his, well, first year of undergrad. He shook his head fondly, because Binghe had always been like this. It struck him suddenly that this was perhaps the longest he’d spent in Binghe’s company since running into him at the meet-and-greet, and the closest they’d come to interacting like they used to.
Maybe that was what made him say, “You’re the best student I’ve ever had, Binghe. I’m glad you’ve come back.” He smiled. “It would have been a shame to have lost you forever to a place like Huan Hua.”
Binghe peeked at him from where he was gently stirring sugar into the cup of tea. His lashes were ridiculously long; Shen Qingqiu had always known that objectively, but it hit him now in a way that felt very close and very real. “Really, Professor?” Binghe asked, his voice a little uncertain.
It was enough to make Shen Qingqiu feel very confused. “Surely I must have told you that before,” he said. He’d certainly thought it a hundred times. There was no way Binghe could have failed to know.
Washing the spoon in the sink, Binghe shrugged. He wouldn’t look at Shen Qingqiu for some reason. “When I graduated,” he finally said after a long moment, “I asked if you’d supervise my Master’s thesis. I’d already been accepted to Cang Ciong. But you said we could talk about it later, and that you’d help me find the right advisor for me.”
“I—” Shen Qingqiu began, and then stopped, because—that did sound like something he would say. Something he had said, because he had meant it. He’d wanted Binghe to have the very best. But surely Binghe hadn’t—
“I thought you didn’t want to work with me, and that if I accepted the offer from Huan Hua instead, I could become a better scholar before returning here.” Binghe cast another sidelong look at him through those eyelashes. “I hoped maybe then I could make you proud of me.”
“Binghe—” Shen Qingqiu said helplessly, and then stopped again, because what was he supposed to say? I’ve always been proud of you? I wish you hadn’t left?
I wish I’d told you sooner?
“You don’t need to say anything, Professor,” Luo Binghe said, handing over the finished cup of tea. His fingers brushed against Shen Qingqiu’s, somehow warmer than the heat coming off of the mug in his hands. “I have to get to class.”
This time, when Binghe turned to leave, Shen Qingqiu reached out and caught the back of his T-shirt between his own fingers.
“Binghe,” he said, his voice somehow not catching in his throat at all. For the first time in months, words came easily. “You should come by after your class. We could talk about your term papers.”
The smile that crossed Binghe’s face was bright, unguarded, and immediate. “I will, Professor,” he said, without any hesitation at all, and something warm seemed to flutter in Shen Qingqiu’s chest.
It was only when Shen Qingqiu was back in his office, facing down the first-year papers stacked on his desk, that he finally took a sip of the tea.
It was perfect.