It is late in the sixth month of the year, the evening of the day before the Lan clan’s summer session begins, when the commotion happens. It is well into the evening, and the gathered disciples from a number of great clans are resting under the Lan clan’s roofs before the next day’s gift ceremony and the commencement of the cultivation seminar, when all of a sudden by the inner gate there is a clanking, as of roof tiles becoming dislodged; a long, tenor shout; and then a series of thunks and thuds.
Then silence.
All the disciples within earshot come running. They pour out into the courtyard just inside the gates, robes swishing and catching the light of the ascending moon, and form a circle around the source of the commotion. There is a body lying at the foot of the wall. Blood trickles out from under his head, matting his long hair and forming a sticky red-brown pool in one of the stone indentations.
Someone has the presence of mind to check his pulse. “He’s still alive!” he shouts to the group. “Get help!”
The rest of the crowd whispers. Who is he? What an awful fall! Were the roof tiles loose? What was he doing up there? Whose clan does he belong to?
Others notice the shards of two shattered jugs near the unfortunate disciple’s body. The jugs lie in a pool of clear liquid. That smells of alcohol! Was he drunk? What a fool!
But the crowd of murmuring disciples part and fall silent as the Lan clan’s leadership rush out into the yard and immediately attend to the injured young man.
“His breath is faint,” Lan Xichen says upon examination. “Uncle, how is the bleeding?”
Lan Qiren is cradling the disciple’s head. Red paints his white robes. “It’s bad,” he says. “We can stanch the bleeding if we bring him inside and lay him flat, but there’s no guarantee he’ll survive the trip.” He barks at two Lan disciples to bring a stretcher.
At the injured man’s wrist, Lan Wangji shakes his head. “His pulse is weak. His qi is uneven. If either gives out before we’re able to treat the head wound, we will lose him.”
The three share uneasy glances. “How can we stabilize them?” Lan Xichen asks.
“There is a way,” Lan Wangji says. “I can align his qi with mine using the Tang technique.”
Lan Xichen drew in a breath. “That’s not—”
“It is feasible. And I am willing.”
“You don’t even know who he is!”
“He will be staying with us throughout the lecture session,” Lan Wangji notes. “And by then we may find a way to undo the … side effects of the alignment.”
“It will affect you as much as it affects him.”
Lan Wangji shoots his brother a look. “I have confidence in my restraint.”
“Do it,” Lan Qiren orders, a short syllable. “We don’t have time for argument.”
“Yes, uncle.” Lan Wangji bows his head and begins the incantation.
–
Several hours later, Wei Wuxian comes to with a gasp.
you are the crack of thunder that sounds on a humid summer day
rumbling through to warn of a deluge to come i am not ready. i have no umbrella.
i am not prepared for the assault of you
your arms, like wild willow branches your laugh, the sound of normalcy shattering your body, a wind tunnel through which giant aircraft lumber
the seismic shock of you fissures running through the ground steam rising from the cracks am i standing on a geyser ready to erupt how do you keep me here like you’ve wound a wire fence around me
at night, i listen to the heat running through the vents the floors are hard beneath my back i hear the thunder in the distance i feel you coming
i’d lie outside all night and just wait to be soaked with you
who wants to read a pretentious poem about writer’s block
i am dead dry kindling i scratch against the surface with dull nails my eyes myopic my mind reaching for a word that it can’t find
i’m always reaching i grasp lines, i grasp sometimes entire interactions i can’t close my fingers around a scene
the thirstier i get the drier my throat falling backwards into a spiral of dull black can’t find the word. can’t find the word. can’t even find the spark to set myself afire
i’m trying too hard i’m beating my fists against a wall of iron the metal will not give my hands are bloody with the futility of trying
this isn’t even poetry this is unpoetry not an original phrase not an original idea just coughed-up digestive fluids and the dregs of whatever i’ve put inside me to try to spark the damn fire
where is the wisdom where is the truth where are the gems that used to leap into my head how have i lost the engine to generate them broken gems, jagged on the floor my feet bleed every bloodletting leaves me drier
i would set myself ablaze for the chance to live again to let out some light, to radiate some heat but every sentence is broken at the ends it’s made of dull plastic. there is no shine. there is no weight. and then i roll to the edge of an idea and look out over the precipice and see nothing
on ed’s state of mind post-canon. SPOILERS for the ending of our flag means death.
–
These days, it’s so much easier to be Blackbeard than to be Ed.
To tell the truth, it’s always been easy. It was easy from the very first act of violence. He had been beaten down and kicked about by rage and hate, and his father was dumb and easily fooled, and to watch the light go out of his eyes had been the greatest thrill of young Edward Teach’s life. The Kraken had been born then, and ever since it has been so easy to close his eyes and give in to the creature inside.
He’d convinced himself for so long that the creature was all there was to him.
But the days and months piled up. Boredom crept in, the desire for something different. The Ed inside him, long dormant, was waking up.
No - Ed had always been there. Ed was the one stopping his blade every time he made ready to gut a man. Ed was the one that whispered inside him of a loneliness that couldn’t be cured by dalliances with Calico Jack or raucous celebrations with his crew. Those things helped on the surface. Most of the time, Blackbeard convinced himself that Ed was asleep, or maybe even finally dead. But Ed always came back, wanting something else. Wanting nourishment that Blackbeard couldn’t figure out how to feed him.
And then he happened, and Ed finally was able to crawl out of his dormancy and see the sun for the first time. There had been so much hope then, a sense of overwhelmed giddiness - things were finally changing. He was changing, and it felt so much like a change for the better.
And then …
Anyway. It’s all in the past. He’s Blackbeard now, and for the foreseeable future. Whenever there are people around him, he’s on, so he tries to eschew time alone and stay on deck with his crew as much as possible. He’s picked up a half a dozen decent seamen to replace the motley group of fools that had been jettisoned when his transformation began, and though they’re not as much fun, that was okay, because Blackbeard’s not fun any longer.
He’s a killer again. A killer, even, like he never was before. Every man he runs through, he imagines he is killing Ed, little by little. He must kill and kill until that presence inside him is gone, gone, gone.
But Ed is still there.
On bright days with no wind, when the seas are too calm, he thinks he’ll itch right out of his skin The sun burns right through him.
Nights, when the cool wind touches his cheek, he’s reminded that he lost his beard, once, when he was soft enough to shave it off. It’s been growing since, but slowly, and the protection to his face isn’t as absolute as it once was.
The empty library shelves torture him. He puts driftwood on them, raided treasures, severed hands until they start to smell. He never has enough to fill all of the shelves. They demand books. They demand paper, and leather covers, and him. Ed thinks of that underwater library sometimes and gets queasy. He clutches his head and tries not to think of all the vanished words, never to return.
He replays that night in his head far too often. Tries to figure out what became of Stede. Maybe there’s some other explanation. Maybe something happened to him. But what could have kept him away not just that night but for the full week Ed waited, sitting on the ship’s railing and scanning the horizon for a rowboat?
The optimism that had buoyed his head for those days soon hardened over and fell, leaden, to the bottom of his stomach. Ed would have known if something had happened. He was sure of that. Stede was out there, somewhere in the world, okay. He just … wasn’t coming.
There’s the hope that sits in his heart. Someday they would be hailed by a fearless ship with none of the proper dread at seeing Blackbeard’s flag. When they get close enough, Ed will know it’s him. That hope persists, but with each day that goes by, it keeps not happening. It would be so much easier if he didn’t have any hope left. But he does, and that’s what keeps him hurting.
It is late in the sixth month of the year, the evening of the day before the Lan clan’s summer session begins, when the commotion happens. It is well into the evening, and the gathered disciples from a number of great clans are resting under the Lan clan’s roofs before the next day’s gift ceremony and the commencement of the cultivation seminar, when all of a sudden by the inner gate there is a clanking, as of roof tiles becoming dislodged; a long, tenor shout; and then a series of thunks and thuds.
Then silence.
All the disciples within earshot come running. They pour out into the courtyard just inside the gates, robes swishing and catching the light of the ascending moon, and form a circle around the source of the commotion. There is a body lying at the foot of the wall. Blood trickles out from under his head, matting his long hair and forming a sticky red-brown pool in one of the stone indentations.
Someone has the presence of mind to check his pulse. “He’s still alive!” he shouts to the group. “Get help!”
The rest of the crowd whispers. Who is he? What an awful fall! Were the roof tiles loose? What was he doing up there? Whose clan does he belong to?
Others notice the shards of two shattered jugs near the unfortunate disciple’s body. The jugs lie in a pool of clear liquid. That smells of alcohol! Was he drunk? What a fool!
But the crowd of murmuring disciples part and fall silent as the Lan clan’s leadership rush out into the yard and immediately attend to the injured young man.
“His breath is faint,” Lan Xichen says upon examination. “Uncle, how is the bleeding?”
Lan Qiren is cradling the disciple’s head. Red paints his white robes. “It’s bad,” he says. “We can stanch the bleeding if we bring him inside and lay him flat, but there’s no guarantee he’ll survive the trip.” He barks at two Lan disciples to bring a stretcher.
At the injured man’s wrist, Lan Wangji shakes his head. “His pulse is weak. His qi is uneven. If either gives out before we’re able to treat the head wound, we will lose him.”
The three share uneasy glances. “How can we stabilize them?” Lan Xichen asks.
“There is a way,” Lan Wangji says. “I can align his qi with mine using the Tang technique.”
Lan Xichen drew in a breath. “That’s not—”
“It is feasible. And I am willing.”
“You don’t even know who he is!”
“He will be staying with us throughout the lecture session,” Lan Wangji notes. “And by then we may find a way to undo the … side effects of the alignment.”
“It will affect you as much as it affects him.”
Lan Wangji shoots his brother a look. “I have confidence in my restraint.”
“Do it,” Lan Qiren orders, a short syllable. “We don’t have time for argument.”
“Yes, uncle.” Lan Wangji bows his head and begins the incantation.
–
Several hours later, Wei Wuxian comes to with a gasp.
you are the crack of thunder that sounds on a humid summer day
rumbling through to warn of a deluge to come i am not ready. i have no umbrella.
i am not prepared for the assault of you
your arms, like wild willow branches your laugh, the sound of normalcy shattering your body, a wind tunnel through which giant aircraft lumber
the seismic shock of you fissures running through the ground steam rising from the cracks am i standing on a geyser ready to erupt how do you keep me here like you’ve wound a wire fence around me
at night, i listen to the heat running through the vents the floors are hard beneath my back i hear the thunder in the distance i feel you coming
i’d lie outside all night and just wait to be soaked with you
Cicadas sing a sharp song in the trees. The heat blisters the pavement. It’s a miserable summer afternoon for most people, which is why Wei Ying loves it. It’s nothing compared to sticky, swampy Yunmeng summers. In dry heat like this, the sun feels good and the trees are brilliant green and Wei Ying loves being alive.
He doesn’t love being in class, but at least everyone is miserable along with him in this heat. Lots of mopping brows, lots of unsatisfied murmurs. Is there any relief to be found in Gusu on such a day? Some have heard there’s a lake a bit further up in the mountains, big enough for swimming. But they’re not allowed to go up there; it’s off limits to everyone but Lan inner disciples. Only Wei Ying knows for a fact that it’s there; that’s because he’s been sneaking off up there every night since summer school started.
Lan Qiren enters and the room falls silent. The frantic wiping of sweat of brows continues, a current of activity in the quiet classroom. Lan Qiren surveys them silently and frowns. He’s sweating, too.
“Due to the excessive heat,” he says, coughing, “the upper grounds of Cloud Recesses will be opened to students for the duration of the day. That includes the lake. The back hills and the waterfall are still off limits.” Nobody picks up this last bit, because the minute Lan Qiren says “lake,” the room starts to buzz with whispers.
Not even Lan Qiren can quell them; there’s a torrent of nervous energy in this room, and it won’t survive an entire lesson. Sure enough, about twenty minutes before the end of the class students start gathering their things as though they’re ready to bolt. Wei Ying knows they’re only waiting for one of them to take the lead, and they’ll all start filing out with or without Lan Qiren’s say-so. Well, that’s a position he’s always happy to fill. He stretches out, grabs his backpack, and leaves the room without a word or a look back.
He heads up the stone stairs carved into the mountain, backpack slung loosely over one arm, whistling to himself. The other students will have some time catching up to him; he knows the way to the lake, and they don’t; besides, they have to go change, and Wei Ying always keeps his swimsuit in his backpack, just in case. So he climbs the stairs solo and pushes through the line of vegetation that lies between the path and the lake.
He’s about to emerge from the trees when a splash draws his attention. Quickly, he hides and peers over at the lake.
Someone’s already there and swimming. Wei Ying sees dark hair, pulled into a neat topknot, and the lines of what looks like a fairly strong body, blurred by the moving water. Some student has beat him to it. Which is a little surprising, because Wei Ying’s the only one with the chutzpah to sneak off in this direction when they’re supposed to be somewhere else. He watches in kind of dumb fascination as the swimmer moves to the near edge of the pond and surfaces.
Oh. Oh, that explains it.
It’s Lan Qiren’s annoyingly perfect nephew, Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, who is too good to attend classes with students his own age. Lan Zhan who, rather than making friends with such students, serves as a sort of disciplinarian, regularly snapping unruly students back into line with nothing more than a cold glance from his admittedly perfect face. Lan Zhan, who Wei Ying had to learn to avoid early in the summer, because he kept catching him trying to sneak out or tiptoe into forbidden places. That Lan Zhan.
Wei Ying steels himself to be utterly annoyed by whatever happens next.
Lan Zhan lingers for a time, head and shoulders above water. Then he approaches a large rock where his things sit in a neat white bundle. In one fluid movement, he lifts himself up with both hands on the rock and swings into a sitting position, his toes in the water.
It all happens like slow motion. Wei Ying’s brain sputters, then lurches, then goes completely on the fritz.
He’s—he’s—he’s actually perfect.
Wei Ying knew he was perfect, but that was an annoyance like everything. The beauty of his face was a mockery of everything Wei Ying stands for. He could find words to speak when faced with that stern face, but his words have dried up now, because Lan Zhan’s body is – Lan Zhan’s muscles are –
He has no idea Wei Ying is watching him. His face is serene, his body relaxed, and the sun beats on him like a spotlight, turning the edges of his skin to gold. Wei Ying is gobsmacked. How dare he. How dare he sit there with that expression, not knowing that he’s turning Wei Ying’s insides into molten lava just by being there … with thighs like that .. and a bare chest like a sculpted statue … and good god his arms, and his shoulders, and he already has an annoyingly perfect face, only now it’s matched up with that — thatbody, and Wei Ying has never wanted to close his mouth around a drop of water the way he does now, as water trickles down Lan Zhan’s chest.
Oh, and he’s wearing a fucking Speedo.
It’s common knowledge that a Speedo looks stupid on like 95 percent of guys, and yet Lan Zhan looks as though it was created solely to fit him. And nothing is left to the imagination. Holy fuck,that knowledge is going to burn though him until he’s cinders. He struggles to concentrate on something – anything but that.
It’s going to be a very different experience the next time Lan Zhan disciplines him.
Oh. Oh, now his mind is up and running again, but the direction it’s going is dangerous. Lan Zhan angry with him, Lan Zhan throwing him against a wall, Lan Zhan tossing him to the grass. Standing over him. Kneeling over him. Those powerful thighs and well-muscled arms. A hard hand on his wrists, unyielding no matter how much Wei Ying resists. Lan Zhan forcing Wei Ying to his knees. Lan Zhan between Wei Ying’s legs, edging forward, pinning him down as…
“Fuck,” he swears, suddenly and far too loudly. Lan Zhan looks up. Eyes suddenly sharp, he leaps to his feet and scans the tree line. Wei Ying has no choice. He just hopes Lan Zhan doesn’t glance between his legs when he shows himself.
He steps forward from the trees, waving a halfhearted hand. “Hi, Lan Zhan,” he says with a grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Lan Zhan’s brows knit. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Oh, but I am!” Wei Ying keeps moving forward, despite his best intentions. Lan Zhan’s body is like a gravity well, drawing him closer. “They lifted the restriction so we could all come up and swim today. It’s brutal out,” he says, squinting and raising against the sun although he’s actually perfectly comfortable.
“Oh.” Lan Zhan looks at him warily. “So others are coming?”
He says it evenly, but Wei Ying wonders if there isn’t some trepidation there. He’s perturbed enough that Wei Ying’s entered his space; what are twenty-some classmates going to do to him? “They’re changing,” he says. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.” He grins. “Just you and me for the time being.”
Hethinks the look in Lan Zhan’s eyes is anger, but he doesn’t know for sure. “How do you know this place?” he asks, sounding unsure and not at all like his usual gentlemanly self.
“Oh, your uncle explained how to get here when he gave us the notice this morning,” Wei Ying lies. “I just didn’t have to go back and change like the others, so I got here faster.” He taps his backpack. “Swimsuit’s in here.”
Lan Zhan’s eyes widen. “You’re going to change … here?”
“Why not? Ain’t nobody here but us boys,” Wei Ying says, and winks. He’s suddenly terrified of showing Lan Zhan his naked skin, but he can’t afford to show it. He strips off his T-shirt.
Lan Zhan turns as though offended by the sight. Well, sure he would be, since no one else can measure up to him, Wei Ying thinks. “Hey Lan Zhan, is this what you do while the rest of us are suffering in class?” he asks breezily, stripping off his shorts and boxers. Lan Zhan’s back remains resolutely turned. “Just swimming out here like a fish all day long? I bet I could beat you in a race.”
“There’s not … room here to race,” Lan Zhan says. He still won’t look.
“We’ll go down to Biling Lake next time,” Wei Ying challenges. “You can look at me now. The swimsuit’s on. I won’t offend your sensibilities.”
“I’m not offend—” Lan Zhan turns, and then something clips the edge of his word. He stares at Wei Ying like he’s got three heads.
“Oh, well, glad to hear, then.” Wei Ying sits down on the rock where Lan Zhan had been. “So. Mind if I take a dip?”
The coolness returns to Lan Zhan’s voice. “Suit yourself.” But he’s still staring at Wei Ying.
For just one moment, Wei Ying remembers all those earlier fantasies. That’s exactly the look he imagined on Lan Zhan’s face in those moments. The look where he can’t quite keep his anger in check. The look that says Wei Ying’s getting to him. Wei Ying has no idea how he is gettingto Lan Zhan in this moment, just sitting on a rock. Unless…
Nah, couldn’t be.
The next moment, Lan Zhan’s diving into the water. His body is an arc of movement, a single curved line, and Wei Ying loses his breath again. Apparently he needed to be reminded that Lan Zhan’s body is a flawless machine. His brain is pinging madly and he wants with all his heart to just drop into the water and swim for Lan Zhan like a shark. That would probably be a bad idea. He knows he probably has an advantage in an underwater tussle, but somehow, he doesn’t really want to win anymore.
Lan Zhan has emerged, in a shallow portion of the lake, his head and half his chest visible above the water line. He has eyes on Wei Ying. “Well?” he asks, something curiously hesitant in his voice.
“Well, what?” Wei Ying feels like he should be holding his breath. He’s careful to keep his voice casual.
Lan Zhan looks down, then to the side, then to him again. It’s a very un-Lan-like action. After a short silence, he ventures in what is almost – not quite – a tentative voice, “Are you coming in?”
Wei Ying stares down at him. The silence that follows is pregnant with possibility.
“Wei-xiong!”
Nie Huaisang bursts first through the treeline, then, following him, the rest of the students in noisy gaggles. “Wei-xiong, how did you find this place so quickly? We all got turned around looking for it—”
Splashes sound here and there as the students find their way into the lake. Soon, the whole place is echoing with the sound of laughter and chatter. Wei Ying’s gaze finds Lan Zhan, through an increasingly dense thicket of people. Lan Zhan is looking at him with eyes that are almost sad. A moment later, he turns away.
It’s disappointing. Wei Ying had thought – perhaps imagined? – that there was something starting to happen there, something thawing in the relationship between them. He considers giving chase. But Lan Zhan is striding through the trees and disappearing before he can say a thing. So much for that.
Still, Wei Ying has an image he didn’t have before. Lan Zhan, dipped in gold, his body bare and his chin uplifted toward the sun. It’s printed in indelible ink on his mind now, along with a memory of Lan Zhan’s gaze, softer perhaps than Wei Ying has ever seen it. He closes his eyes and savors both the picture and the memory for a moment. Then, grinning, he rejoins his friends.
This is based off a personal experience. Tw for fat-shaming, homophobia, and general assholery from an asshole kid.
The bell rings cheerfully as Bitty steps through the doorway. This was one of his favorite places when he was younger. The eclectic curios, every shape and size and color, packing the shelves were an endless source of fascination for young Eric Bittle, and the owners were friends of the family, so they knew Bitty well and didn’t freak out when he picked up a ceramic pepper shaker or glass figurine and held it in his hands like an ancient treasure.
He walks through the store with that same sense of wonder now, 30 years later, and brushes his hand reverently over the shelves. They’re not looking for anything in particular today, but Bitty has told Jack about this place so many times, he simply couldn’t help but visit. Besides, you never know when you might find the perfect accent piece for the new home.
Chicken-shaped serving bowls, a porcelain figurine of a girl dancing, a set of silverware in a dusty wooden case. Bitty is spoiled for choice. As he browses, there’s a movement at the back of the store, and he catches a glimpse of someone hauling boxes through a door. He wonders who runs the place now. The sign still says Thompson’s Antiques, but he knows Mrs. Thompson passed and Mr. Thompson is getting on in years. Could it be that…
A prickle of fear runs through him.
The figure in the back drags the box to a nearby aisle and starts unpacking it, placing items on a low shelf. Bitty’s curiosity overflows. He moseys into that aisle and begins to speak, but the man raises his head before he can get a word out. He has to catch his breath all over again.
The man’s face goes slack. “I know you,” he blurts.
Eric puts his hands on his hips and gives a bright smile. “Davey Thompson. So you’re here after all!”
~~~
“Davey, this is Eric. Eric, this is our little boy Davey.” Mrs. Thompson’s smile is bright as she urges her son forward. “Why don’t you two go play at the playground while Mommy and her friend talk?”
The kid is tough-looking, with ruddy cheeks and a thick build. Eric reaches out his hand to lead Davey along the way. The minute they’re out of earshot, Davey snatches his hand back like he’s just touched a hot stove. Eric turns, surprised.
“You’re fat,” Davey says.
Eric blinks.
“You look dumb,” Davey adds on. And thus a quote-unquote “friendship” was born.
~~~
Davey stands up. He still has the same tinted cheeks and stocky build that Bitty remembers, but his face is sunken somehow, and he’s built up muscle where baby fat used to linger on his arms and shoulders. He’s got a tattoo on one arm – a Japanese koi fish, mid-splash.
“Nice ink,” Bitty comments.
And Davey Thompson, for possibly the first time in his life, smiles at Bitty. “Thanks.”
“The shop looks nice,” Bitty says, surveying the shelf like it’s his domain. “Hasn’t changed much since I used to come here.”
“You’re – you’re Eric Bittle, right?” Davey says, sounding almost scared of the answer. “From school?”
“From way before school,” Bitty responds. “You’re looking good.”
“Uh. Thanks. Same to you.” Davey looks uncertain, almost sheepish. There’s a moment of awkward silence. Davey tries to break it. “Um. So. What are you –”
He doesn’t seem to have the strength, or the will, to come up with the rest of the sentence. Bitty picks it up. “I’m a pastry chef,” he says. “I have a bakery and I cater, and I’ve put out three cookbooks. Can you imagine that?”
Davey looks kind of stunned. “Wow,” he says slowly. “Good for you. Where’s the bakery?”
“Up in New England. Providence, Rhode Island, to be exact.”
Davey snaps his fingers. “That’s right, you went to college up there. For hockey, wasn’t it?”
~~~
Bitty takes a swing at the ball. He misses, and it goes tumbling behind him into the net.
“Hah, you’re the worst goalie,” Davey says.
Somehow, Bitty finds the courage to say, “Let me play forward.” But his words are swallowed by the passing of a car on the cross street.
“What?”
“You be goalie.” Bitty gives the phrase all the menace he’s got in an eight-year-old body.
Davey laughs, a cruel laugh that sounds like ripping paper in Bitty’s ears. “Why? I can score on you all I want. That’s why we made you goalie.”
Resentment simmers like a low sun in Bitty’s gut. He wants to challenge Davey to play him on actual ice. He knows Davey can’t skate. As bad as he is, Bitty can’t possibly lose to him there. But the words stay stuck inside, plastered to the inside of his stomach, making him feel sick.
“Worst goalie ever,” Kevin chimes in.
“The worst, the wooooorst,” all four of them sing to him.
Bitty crouches low and is glad they can’t see much through the oversized goalie mask. Someday, he thinks, someday I’m gonna get them.
~~~
“Something like that,” Bitty answers easily. “And you’ve been here running the store?”
“Pretty much.” He doesn’t look very proud of that fact.
“I remember you used to say you were going to be an astronaut.”
“Ah, well –” The rose tint on Davey’s cheeks grows a shade deeper. “We were kids. I figure I missed my shot to make something of myself.”
All of Bitty’s nurturing instincts come alive. “Don’t say that. You’re doing well. Doing good, honest work. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Nah, man. It was just the easiest thing to do, once Mom got sick. I had to be here for her, and I … just stayed.”
Bitty gazes at him. This isn’t the attitude he expected from Davey Thompson, not in the slightest. He seems so defeated, as though Bitty’s arrival has reminded him of everything he isn’t. Bitty doesn’t want to be that for him, but he doesn’t think he has a choice in the matter. He quashes the small, self-satisfied demon that’s cackling in the back of his head. He’s not that kid anymore, either.
Just then, the chimes jingle at the front of the store. The babbling voice of a young child brightens the room. “Ah,” Bitty says, “there they are. He had to keep them outside a while before they calmed down. Little kids just work themselves up into a dither sometimes.” He offers an apologetic smile to Davey and retreats down the aisle toward the front of the store.
Suze is quiet, but it’s clear she was crying her eyes out earlier. She hangs on to her Papa with a fierce fist. Robby’s eyes are bugging out at the sight of the store. “What’s that?” he keeps asking, tugging on Jack’s slacks. Jack himself looks a little the worse for wear, but happy. That kind of tired-happy that they see in each other’s faces every night once the kids are in bed.
“Come on, Rob,” Bitty says, holding out his hands. “Want to see Daddy’s favorite store?”
Robby holds out his hands to be picked up. Bitty obliges, despite the warning creak of his back. He turns to take Robby further into the store and sees Davey standing there, staring them down.
He points. “I know you, too.”
“Ah, here we go,” Bitty says with a laugh.
“Were you in school with us? I don’t think that’s right, but—”
Jack holds out his hand for a shake. “Jack Zimmermann,” he says. “And you are?”
“My old friend Davey,” Bitty fills in. He can’t help but put a pointed emphasis on the friendpart.
Davey clasps Jack’s hand but doesn’t seem to want to let go. “You’re Jack Zimmermann? The hockey player?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
Davey pumps Jack’s hand about four more times before finally letting go. “It’s – it’s good to meet you.” He looks at Suze, still curled up in Jack’s other arm. “And these are your kids? Or—” He turns to Bitty, face contorted in confusion. “Are they your kids?”
“Both,” Bitty answers cheerily. “Davey, meet my husband.”
Davey Thompson very nearly has a coronary right there.
~~~
“Hah, you’re just small all over, aren’t you?” Davey says with a pointed glance at Bitty’s crotch.
“You can’t help how you’re born,” Bitty retorts, but he pulls up his boxers right quick.
“Yeah, some people are just born stupid,” Davey agrees. Bitty instantly regrets replying at all.
Kyle whispers something in Davey’s ear. They both laugh.
“You’re right,” Davey says. He turns back to Bitty. “He’s right. They do say things about you.”
Bitty’s heart drops to his stomach. “W-what things?”
“You know! That you’re—” Davey flaps his wrist.
He doesn’t seem to have the nerve to say the word, but he doesn’t have to say it. The others in the locker room laugh.
For not the first time, Bitty is tempted to just ask, “So what if I am?” But he can’t. Not to these people. This isn’t how he wants his coming out to happen. So he just turns away and pulls on his sweatpants, ignoring the rills of laughter that echo against the lockers, and feels small. Small all over.
~~~
Davey recovers from his shock and nods his head rapidly. “Oh, I get it. Uh, congratulations. Uh, Bittle, could I talk to you a sec?”
He has that sheepish look again. Bitty watches as he retreats into one of the side aisles. “Gimme a sec,” he tells Jack, setting Robby down, and follows Davey.
When they’re isolated, Davey turns to him sorrowfully. “I, uh—” Davey looks at the floor. “I was pretty mean to you in school.”
It isn’t what Bitty expected, not at all. To be honest, demons in the back of his head aside, this sort of thing doesn’t bother him so much anymore. Why should it? He’s married with two kids and a brand new home. He doesn’t spare a lot of time thinking about the distant past. “Um,” he starts, suddenly terribly embarrassed.
“No, let me—” Davey raises a hand. “Just let me. I said a lot of nasty things to you back then. I’m really sorry about it. I think about it a lot, and I’m just – I’m really sorry.”
There is a piece of Bitty that’s happy, even smug, at hearing this apology. But mostly he just pities Davey at this point. What a thing to carry around your whole life. “We were kids,” Bitty says. “Kids say dumb things. It’s all water under the bridge.”
“Still.” Davey says.
“I can’t say it didn’t hurt me,” Bitty goes on. “But I turned out okay, don’t you think?”
Davey laughs grimly “Yeah, look at you … and look at me.” He shrugs.
“You seem to be doing all right,” Bitty says charitably.
“I’m not an astronaut,” Davey says.
Bitty laughs. “Neither am I. We’re all good.” He pats Davey on the shoulder. A moment passes between them, silent, as they both listen to the sound of the past giving way to a new, kinder present.
After the moment passes, Bitty grins “Come on, I’m going to introduce you to my kids. Do you have kids?”
Davey flushes. “Yeah, I got a teenager. A real smartass. I wonder where he learned it.”
“Pictures!” Bitty declares. “Get that phone out, I demand pictures.”
Davey struggles to pull his phone out of his jeans pocket. This time, he flushes with pride. He narrates the story of each photo as they walk back toward the front.
It happens late at night. The hall where they sleep was made for the training of many disciples, and as a bedroom it is too big for the three of them by far. But something is so fragile about the life they’re building here, so tentative, that finding separate rooms was just never an option. None of the three of them is free of nightmares.
Chengling’s soft snores sound in the corner of the room. Across from him, Zhou Zishu can’t sleep. Something is restless, moving along under his skin like a jagged bolt of lightning. He’s alert and awake, and his senses are sharp, free of that muted muffledness that plagues him by day and dulls him to sleep at night. He feels sure that if he were to lift a jug of wine to his lips, he might even taste it.
He sits up. The air is cool tonight, a draft wafting in from the wooden doors out to the courtyard. He stands, looks around the room. Chengling sleeps on his side, curled in on himself like a pillbug. Tonight, at least, he seems free of dreams.
Wen Kexing’s bed is empty, Zhou Zishu realizes with a start. The sheets are in disarray. Where could he have gone? Wen Kexing is enjoying this little game of house they’ve been playing; surely he wouldn’t sneak away in the middle of the night. Still, Zhou Zishu’s heart patters a little faster at the sudden doubt. There’s something so elusive about him. The way his smiles fly by, the way his eyebrows arch. Zhou Zishu sometimes feels like he’s constantly reaching out, and Wen Kexing is always flitting away.
For@anonprecious on Twitter, who requested a Nielan kiss “as a suggestion” many moons ago. This takes place during the Sunshot campaign, so Mingjue is not yet Xichen’s “da-ge.”
The Sunshot Campaign has been hard on him.
This Lan Xichen can tell in a single glance. Even if he were meeting Nie Mingjue for the first time and not another in a series of a thousand strategy meetings, he’d be able to tell. The others, maybe not, because Nie Mingjue holds himself so upright, conducts his affairs with a practiced stiffness that discourages anyone from looking deeper. But the signs are there, as he leads the meeting, even if Lan Xichen is the only one who can see them - an exhalation, the grip of his hand on the table loosening, the circles of grey under his eyes.
The strategy session mercifully ends, and the other young military leaders make their way out of the room with all the tireless enthusiasm of youth. Lan Xichen remains. Nie Mingjue sits on a bench with his head low, propped up on one weary palm. He lets out a heavy breath. Lan Xichen approaches him carefully, as though he was a cobra that might strike if disturbed. But Nie Mingjue only looks up at him, and if anything there’s relief in his eyes when he sees who’s there.
“Xichen,” he says, the name breaking halfway through as his voice gives.
“Mingjue-xiong,” Lan Xichen returns. Nie Mingjue’s shoulders slump. He would never slouch like this in front of his soldiers. It gladdens Lan Xichen’s heart to know that this upright general can relax in front of him. He drives himself hard, and he deserves to be able to relax somewhere, with someone. Luckier still that Lan Xichen is that someone.
He steps forward and eases himself onto the bench next to Nie Mingjue. “When was the last time you slept?” he asks.
Nie Mingjue shakes his head and mumbles.
“How about your last meal?” Lan Xichen prods gently.
“I ate.” Nie Mingjue evades his gaze.
“When?”
“This morning.”
Lan Xichen wants to laugh. This serious, justice-minded man can be as stubborn as a toddler. “Well, you’re eating again tonight,” he says. “Come to my room, I’ll have dinner brought in for us.”
Nie Mingjue shakes his head, but there’s no conviction in it. “I need to look at these maps,” he says, even as he lets Lan Xichen pull him up and away.
He follows Lan Xichen through the passageways and tents like a guilty schoolboy, and they come at last to Lan Xichen’s quarters, a remarkably lovely room for the temporary nature of it. There’s a low table, some ornaments, an incense holder. Lan Xichen finds a stick and lights it, letting the soft perfume disperse into the room. “Sit,” he urges, and Nie Mingjue follows. “And remove your armor. We won’t be attacked tonight.”
Nie Mingjue grumbles a little at this, but he pulls off the heavy breastplate and belt, letting them sit unceremoniously beside the cushion where he sits. As he does, he can’t help letting out a little groan of relief. Lan Xichen hears it and tries not to smile.
He has food brought; the two eat in relative silence, though Lan Xichen tries to lighten the mood with a few observations about the state of the camp, the little dramas by the younger soldiers that play out under his nose. Nie Mingjue is not really listening, or at least he has nothing to say in response. He just eats – trying not to appear rushed, though his bites are ravenous – and “mm”s an assent once in a while. It’s fine. Lan Xichen is just happy to have him there, not behind his desk or hunched over a scroll, peering at faded characters in dim light.
When he’s finished, Nie Mingjue of course tries to get up and go. Lan Xichen is there, with a hand on his arm, tugging him back down. Nie Mingjue glares at him, taken aback. Lan Xichen scoots closer to him, pulling his cushion to sit side-by-side with him, and lets his hand wander down from arm to weathered hand. “Stay for a while,” he urges.
“I have things to do,” Nie Mingjue protests, but Lan Xichen shakes his head gravely. He’s learned from years with his brother that sometimes a protest is also an admission. Nie Mingjue wants to stay. He just needs Lan Xichen to insist.
So he does. “I told you, no one will attack us tonight,” Lan Xichen tells him. “You might as well stay and put your worries aside for a time. I can play for you if it will help ease your mind.” He conjures the silver-blue xiao into being in one hand.
Nie Mingjue looks at it, then at him, and shakes his head firmly. “I don’t need music,” he says.
“A game, then?” Lan Xichen gazes at the shelf, where a worn go board and two pots of stones sit. “Or would you prefer a drink? I can fetch some wine for you…”
“No, no.” Nie Mingjue waves a hand, dismissing both the suggestions. “I need–”
“–to go back to work?” Lan Xichen finishes. “Don’t you think you’ve worked enough for one day?”
“People are fighting and dying while I–” But Nie Mingjue doesn’t have the strength to continue the sentence. He pulls his hand out from under Lan Xichen’s and hides his face in it. “I have to carry on,” he says, his voice muffled. “I have to be strong.”
It’s almost comical. This man, who is the essence of strength to so many people, worrying he cannot be strong. Lan Xichen, not for the first time, envisions taking him in his arms and allowing him to rest there. He wants to be that haven for him. But this moment isn’t about him, and hope is a dangerous creature. He lifts his hand to Nie Mingjue’s back, just daring to stroke it gently, and shakes his head.
“What you have to be is healthy,” he corrects. “What good is a Mingjue-xiong who can barely read a map because he hasn’t slept in days? Without eating, will you have the strength to carry your sword?”
“I’ve eaten,” Nie Mingjue says. “And I can’t sleep.” He sounds weak. Defeated. Lan Xichen’s heart aches.
“Then release your tension,” he advises. “Surely you have a preferred way to do that.”
Nie Mingjue pauses, looks up. “Yes,” he says cautiously, “Battle.”
Lan Xichen almost wants to laugh. “Not battle. Something to calm the spirit and release the resentment. Meditation.” Nie Mingjue scoffs. “Or take to the woods and hunt game. Challenge one of the soldiers at camp to wrestle you. Whatever it is. Do what you need to do so you can return to that war table with your mind and body whole. But leave that saber alone for the night.”
How Lan Xichen despises that saber. It’s a priceless, high-level spiritual weapon, but every time Nie Mingjue wields it, it takes a piece of his soul. Lan Xichen remembers, long ago, a gentle, serious boy who nonetheless loved fiercely – loved his brother, loved his friends, loved the trees and the sky. Loved justice, and he still does, but his love used to come with a brash grin and a light in his eyes. That saber, and this war, have crushed that.
There are several long seconds of silence. Nie Mingjue appears to be thinking. Lan Xichen can usually tolerate extended silence, but now, the quiet unnerves him. He has no idea how Nie Mingjue will respond. He sits as one would sit upon a cushion of pins, uncomfortable and itching to move.
But eventually Nie Mingjue seems to shake himself out of it, and catches Lan Xichen’s gaze with his own. There’s something soft in his eyes, and also something like interest. It’s a rare, unguarded look – and it makes Lan Xichen catch his breath. “Do you have any other suggestions?” Nie Mingjue asks, and there’s something in his voice not unlike humor.
“Women?” Lan Xichen is hardly the person to suggest it, but he knows that’s a preferred tactic for many a soldier. “We could ride to the nearest town. Find a girl who’s willing.” Or for sale. Lan Xichen isn’t about to cast aspersions in the heat of war.
“Not interested.”
NIe Mingjue looks ready to check out again. Lan Xichen stumbles over himself in an effort to keep his attention. “Then – then men, if that’s your preference,” he says.
But he gets a glare in return. “I’m not taking a stranger to bed.”
The words strike Lan Xichen funny. There’s nothing odd about them, surely, but between the lines there’s something to discover. First, that he didn’t immediately say he wasn’t interested in men, which is the reaction that question would get from many a soldier. And he made it sound like there was someone he’d consider – someone he already knows. A bright spark of hope lights up in his chest. Is it possible? “Then–” he says. Carefully.
Nie Mingjue eyes him. This time it isn’t the angry glare, but a sort of caution – as though he half-expects Lan Xichen to make some move. Again, that spark of optimism catches in Lan Xichen’s chest. Perhaps it would be okay if…
He leans in, lifts his hand to that weathered face. “If that’s how you feel,” he says, leaning closer to Nie Mingjue than he’s ever been, “then…”
He’s very careful as he presses his lips to Nie Mingjue’s closed mouth. Afraid to drive him away.
He isn’t driven away. Paralyzed, perhaps, as Lan Xichen pulls back again and gazes at him as beatifically as he can muster. Shocked, if the wide eyes and the slight part of his lips are anything to go by. But he doesn’t flee. Or pull back, or get up. He just stares, and slowly lifts a hand to his own lips.
“If you are interested,” Lan Xichen says, barely above a whisper.
And then Nie Mingjue lifts an eyebrow, and the corners of his lips twitch. “Really?” he asks, sounding incredulous.
Lan Xichen shrugs. “It’s just a suggestion.”
“A suggestion–” The words echoed back at him are devoid of any artifice. The Nie Mingjue before him is the boy Lan Xichen knew all those years ago. The one capable of so much love. Any shame or trepidation that Lan Xichen felt at offering that kiss vanishes. What he wanted to communicate, he has. Be the consequences what they may.
“Or we could play go,” he says, truly meaning it. Whatever he needs, Lan Xichen is willing and happy to give.
“Let’s do that.” Nie Mingjue says with some determination. Lan Xichen nods. Perhaps he feels a bit of disappointment, but not enough to regret what he’s done.
As he rises to bring the board and stones to the table, Nie Mingjue surprises him once more.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Xie Lian says, “I’m really grateful for the donation, but I don’t think it’s right to name the library after me.”
But the man in the three-piece suit seems insistent. “You’re a groundbreaking force in the world of philosophy,” he says ardently. “I’ve read your Man, Thrice Ascended at least ten times. What you have to say about the concept of self as the infinite is revolutionary.” He grins. The leather of the eyepatch over his right eye gleams in the sunlight. “The leastyou deserve is to have libraries named after you.”
Xie Lian looks him over. This Hua Cheng is known as a reclusive billionaire, but there’s nothing withdrawn about him now, as he surveys Xie Lian with a bright eye. Instead, he’s almost preternaturally relaxed, hands in his pockets, smiling as bright as if he’d captured the sun. Despite the money and the insistent words, there’s nothing intimidating about him.. Xie Lian rather likes him.
“Well, thank you, I suppose, Mr. Hua,” he says carefully. He still isn’t sure about the Xie Philosophy Library concept. He looks up at the building and tries to imagine his name on the placard; it just seems preposterous. The dreams of a very young graduate student who thought he could change the whole nature of philosophy. Now, a fool’s wish. That it would be granted so suddenly, and by the young man in front of him who can’t be out of his twenties? Unimaginable.
“No need to thank me,” Hua Cheng says, shaking his head. “The very least I could do. Do you need a ride anywhere, Professor?”
**
Hua Cheng’s car might as well be a spaceship for how much it sticks out among the dumpy minivans and compact cars that surround it in the parking lot. Black, sleek, and gleaming, it truly seems to have beamed here from some point in a glittering future. Hua Cheng unlocks it with the touch of a button, and then, with another, the passenger side door swings open of its own volition. Xie Lian peeks inside. The interior is black as well, but for some touches that stand out in burning crimson.
“Go on, Professor.” Hua Cheng is leaning on his side of the car, casting a sideways glance at him. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Xie Lian obeys, ducking his head to get in. “You really needn’t call me Professor,” he says as Hua Cheng joins him on the driver’s side.
“What should I call you, then?” Hua Cheng’s smile is devastatingly brilliant, and Xie Lian is glad he’s sitting, because his knees have just gone to jelly. “I could call you gege, if it’s not too informal.”
He’s teasing – at least, Xie Lian thinks he’s teasing – but honestly the word comes out of his mouth more naturally than professor, and Xie Lian likes the sound of it better. “Gege is fine,” he says lightly.
“But in return,” Hua Cheng says, starting up the car, “you have to call me San Lang.”
“Why?” There’s something buzzing in Xie Lian’s brain now about the concept of naming, what we call ourselves versus what others call us, but he shunts it aside.
“Why do you think?” The car pulls out of its space, and a low rumble echoes in Xie Lian’s gut as it starts to navigate the parking lot. Hua Cheng is glancing at him between peeks in the rearview mirror. “You know what they say about us billionaires, we’re eccentric. Humor me.”
“Very well, San Lang,” Xie Lian replies, and he likes the sound of that, too.
It’s ten minutes of buzzing around the downtown streets before Xie Lian realizes he never gave a destination. “San Lang,” he says carefully, “where are we going?”
“Here and there,” Hua Cheng says. “I want to pick your brain about Man, Thrice Ascended.”
“Oh.” Xie Lian is flattered, and honestly the concept of riding around aimlessly in this sleek machine appeals to him. “Go right ahead, then.”
“To tell you the truth,” Hua Cheng says, “I have trouble wrapping my head around the concept of the self as infinite. Unless you believe in a higher power, the concept of self seems painfully finite to me, as it only exists between birth and death. Isn’t that a pretty limited span?”
“Only temporally,” Xie Lian replies. “Did you know that there are 22 million seconds in the average lifetime?”
“22 million is a lot, but it’s not infinity,” Hua Cheng counters.
“Ah, but a second isn’t instantaneous. Seconds take time. If you’ve ever tried to hold a plank for more than a minute, you know that well.” And he really does look like the type who could hold it. If not for two. “The unit of time I’d rather use is the moment.”
Hua Cheng glances at him. The car pulls onto the highway. “The moment?” he asks, gently spurring Xie Lian forward.
“Exactly,” Xie Lian says. “The moment isinstantaneous. Maybe there are hundreds of millions of moments in the span of a single second of time. Maybe more than that. We can conceptualize, then, that each second of a lifetime contains within it infinite moments, and each lifetime 22 million infinities.”
“But a moment is hardly an appreciable measure of time,” Hua Cheng says. “How many moments can we experience asmoments with our limited consciousness? The moments experienced are still finite to the mind of the human who tries to count them. Even if you count as fast as you can, you can’t count to 100 within the space of a single second, much less infinity.”
“You’re asking good questions,” Xie Lian comments.
Hua Cheng glows a little. “I told you, I’ve read the book a thousand times.”
“Well, if you did read the book, then you know that our concept of moments here is merely a framework.” They’re driving along the coast now, the bay blue and the sun starting its daily fizzle from yellow to red. “The infinities that truly populate the self are not of time, but of possibility.”
“Infinite choice in each moment.” Hua Cheng nods. “Explain it to me one more time, please, won’t you, gege?”
There’s a little plaintive moan in his voice - just a sliver of an entreaty - and it gives Xie Lian the goosebumps. Here is someone who’s truly appreciating his work, and he’s pleasant to look at and his voice is pleasant to the ear, and Xie Lian is reeling with how much good sensation is rolling into him with every second of this drive. It’s like the best of good dreams, and he doesn’t want to think of it ending.
“In any moment – and I do mean moment, with our earlier definition,” he says, “I could lean to the left. I could lean to the right. I could blink. I could lean to the left but just a little bit harder. I could think of the color red. I could think of the color blue. I could speak. I could stay silent. I could open the door and throw myself out of this car, if I wanted.”
“Please don’t,” Hua Cheng interjects, sounding a little unnerved.
“It’s just a possibility,” Xie Lian reminds him. “There are, essentially, an infinite number of things I could do with each moment of my life. Each of them takes some time, but the process of choosing is instantaneous. So you have infinite possibilities in every single moment of infinite moments.”
“Not infinite possibilities,“ counters Hua Cheng. "What you decide to do in one moment, as you said, takes time. The time it takes to perform that action necessarily negates the infinite nature of the next moment. You can’t make certain decisions while performing other actions.”
“Your possibilities are still infinite in each moment,” Xie Lian argues. “Just because some actions can’t be taken doesn’t mean there aren’t still infinite possibilities open to you. Think of numbers. An infinite number of numbers end in the digit 4. It’s still an infinite set, even though numbers that end in the digit 5 aren’t included.”
Hua Cheng frowns. “Perhaps my limited mind isn’t fully able to capture it,” he says after a time. “You’re very impressive, gege.”
Heat blooms in Xie Lian’s cheeks. “Thus,” he says, “we have the three ascensions. When the mind is able to grasp the concept of infinity within limited time, it ascends once. The second ascension comes when one accepts that infinite actions can be performed within that limited time. And the third ascension…”
“…is when the mind grasps that the possibilities are infinite for each of an infinite number of moments,” Hua Cheng fills in. “Infinities within infinities, all within the self.”
They’ve pulled off to a scenic outlook point on the bay. Hua Cheng eases the car into one of three parking spots and turns off the engine. He turns to Xie Lian. “Gege always explains it so well,” he says brightly. “Thank you for indulging me.”
Xie Lian can feel the flush creeping into his cheeks. He looks away. “You’re welcome.”
Another beep, and the car’s doors are opening again. Hua Cheng gets up, rounds the car to Xie Lian’s side, and holds out his hand.
They stand for a time side by side, watching the reddening sun dip its toes into the rippling water of the bay. There’s a strange peace to standing here, Xie Lian thinks, with this person he barely knows but is so ardent about his work. I’m safe.I’m appreciated. The sureness of that is unexpected but so, so welcome. Xie Lian thinks back, trying to remember the last time he felt that way. He can’t recall.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs. Cars thunder past on the road behind them.
“This is one of my favorite spots,” Hua Cheng says. “I’m always taken by the vastness of the ocean here. It seems so full.” He gestures down to where the water buffets the base of the cliffs below them. “Like it’s a moment from overflowing.”
Xie Lian ponders this. “I’ve never thought of the ocean as full or not,” he says. “The implication being that no more water can be added; that it’s complete as is, existing within its bounds.”
“It’s a philosophical puzzle, isn’t it?” says Hua Cheng lightly. “Of course, climate change is solving it as we speak. Rising sea levels and all. It seems the ocean has the potential to be boundless, even as we denote lines between sea and shore.”
“And the question then becomes, how accurately can we draw those lines? And is it human folly to even attempt to do so?”
“Of course,” Hua Cheng says, “none of these problems has practical application.”
Xie Lian laughs. “Most of philosophy has no practical application. That’s why it’s philosophy.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Hua Cheng replies. “Your philosophy has had effects on my psychology, at the very least. To think of myself as infinite has changed the way I look at the world.”
“And how does it look?” Xie Lian inquires, tilting his head.
Hua Cheng gazes at him, then turns back to face the sea. “Boundless,” he says.
Xie Lian nods. The wind whips past them, whispering coldly against his cheeks and ears. He shudders.
Without a word, Hua Cheng removes his long coat and drapes it over Xie Lian’s shoulders. The coat is warm with his body heat, and all that heat seeps into Xie Lian in a rush. He draws in a breath. When Hua Cheng’s fingers touch his neck to adjust the collar, he wants to shiver again, this time not from the cold.
“Gege.” Hua Cheng’s honey-rich, low voice touches his ear like the strains of a cello. “Would you let me take you someplace nice?”
Xie Lian looks out at the darkening bay. He thinks of the view from his office window, the wall of an adjoining brick building. He could go back there, write and read until the early morning hours. Perhaps he would sleep on the cot he’s laid out in there. Staring at the mottled ceiling, contemplating eternity.
Or he could go with Hua Cheng, who is holding out his hand, looking hopeful.
Xie Lian takes it.
They drive for another 10 minutes along the coast, then take an exit into an area filled with green fields. Huge houses dot the landscape – this is the domain of the super-rich, Xie Lian thinks, because these fields aren’t used for farming. They’re simply green as far as the eye can see, well-manicured, sometimes interrupted by copses of grand old trees with outstretched branches. Some of the houses are surrounded by lush flower gardens. It’s not an area Xie Lian’s ever been too, nor does it seem like the kind of place he would want to live. But it’s fascinating just to see it for the first time.
Hua Cheng pulls down a narrow road, then turns onto another. Xie Lian squints as he makes out something odd on the horizon. Whatever it is, it’s silver, and a cluster of buildings sit low and flat around it. When wide concrete paths start to interrupt the endless greenery, he realizes what he’s looking at.
“I thought,” he says gingerly, “when you said someplace nice, you meant a fancy restaurant.”
“We can go to a restaurant,” Hua Cheng answers airily. He pulls the car into the yard, and they park. Holding Xie Lian’s fingers loosely, he leads him along the paths toward the airfield. The private jet sits on the runway like a horse at the gate, already humming. A movable staircase leads up to the main entrance. A number of people are working around it. One of them sees the pair approaching and offers Hua Cheng a bow.
“How soon can we be ready?” Hua Cheng asks him.
“Twenty minutes,” the man says. “We’ve been prepping since we got your text.”
Xie Lian wonders when Hua Cheng had managed to text them. “This is your plane?” A silly question; Hua Cheng nods easily, as though everyone has a private airfield with a jet ready to go at any moment. “Where are you taking me?”
Hua Cheng meets his gaze with a smile. “Where would you like to go? Tokyo? Hong Kong? Thailand is stunning this time of year.”
“San Lang,” Xie Lian starts, his heart pounding. Hua Cheng smiles that much more widely at the sound of the name. “Isn’t this a little…”
“Much?” Hua Cheng finishes for him. “Not at all. Not for gege.” He lays a hand on the small of Xie Lian’s back – Xie Lian gasps at the touch – and ushers him forward until they are both standing at the bottom of that staircase, the airplane’s door a wide unblinking eye at the top. Hua Cheng bows and makes a gesture with his hand toward the staircase – after you.
Xie Lian’s brain rockets into high gear. He has brought nothing with him but his briefcase, and even that is still in the car. No one knows where he is or where he’s going. He’s traveled a little in life – nothing too far from home – but this would be a trip like no other, totally unplanned and utterly irresponsible. Every ounce of common sense in his brain is urging him to shake his head politely and back away.
But this man. This fascinating man, who is offering him the world. For every voice inside Xie Lian that says no, there’s a current of pulsing blood in his veins whispering yes, yes.
“I’m not sure,” he begins, tentatively.
“Gege,” Hua Cheng murmurs, “You speak of self as containing an infinity of possibilities for every moment of life. But the paradox of infinity is that some infinities are larger than others. At this moment, you have more possibilities than ever before. Given those infinite possibilities, at this moment, what will you choose?”
He’s right. The possibilities facing him right now are truly endless. And hidden in Hua Cheng’s words, there is a challenge – do you dare? And Xie Lian finds, to his surprise, that he does. He not only dares, he wants. To see this through, to learn more about this man, to take a crazy chance. His heart is pounding with the force of his desire. And once, just once in his studious, conservative life, he listens to it.
He smiles at Hua Cheng, lifts one hand to the railing of the staircase, and begins to ascend.
In this mountainous country the snow falls readily, and the hardy pines withstand the winter storms. Shang Qinghua was delighted to come across this patch of land, dotted with trees that wear white shawls along their many arms. His boots crunch as he makes his way through the snow, his breath coming out in visible gray puffs.
Mobei-jun follows behind him at a short distance. He does this sometimes, just follows Shang Qinghua like a particularly loyal pup. Some dog, Shang Qinghua thinks, looking over. Huge and imposing, looking as though you could break a tree trunk over his head and he wouldn’t be the slightest bit dazed. But he still tails Shang Qinghua silently, unsmiling. His eyes have a kind of spark in them, though, and Shang Qinghua knows well by now that it’s not a spark anyone else has the privilege to see.
Shang Qinghua crouches in the snow and rolls a snowball slowly in his hands. Does he dare? It’s not as if his king isn’t aware of every movement he makes. He can feel those cold eyes on him. But when he glances over to where Mobei-jun stands in the snow, dark cloak a monolith against the whiteness everywhere, the temptation is just irresistible. “My king!” he calls out. “Look alive!”
And he lets the snowball fly.
It hits Mobei-jun squarely on the chest. Mobei-jun looks down, briefly, at the spot of impact, and then back up at Shang Qinghua’s face. Confusion hovers in his eyes.
Shang Qinghua slaps his hands on his hips, elbows bending. “Well?” he says. “Now you get to hit me back!”
Mobei-jun looks even more confused.
“With a snowball,” Shang Qinghua coaches. “Just reach down and roll one up. Then try to catch me!”
Pensive, Mobei-jun stares at him for a moment. Then, carefully, he kneels down and takes a clump of snow in one broad hand.
Shang Qinghua shrieks and runs.
He hides behind the skinny trunk of a nearby tree, but Mobei-jun is there before he can blink. The snowball plonks against his ribs. It stings, and the “ow” is out of Shang Qinghua’s mouth before he can stop it.
Mobei-jun pulls back, horror in his eyes.
Shang Qinghua laughs. “Don’t try to kill me with it,” he lectures. “Just try to get me covered with snow.”
“Why?” Mobei-jun asks.
“Because it’s fun! But my king, you’ll have to give me a handicap because you’re much quicker then–” and Shang Qinghua lets fly the snowball he’s been hiding in his left hand the whole time. It explodes with a satisfying thud against Mobei-jun’s shoulder, caking his right side with snow. Shang Qinghua erupts with a shriek, as if he were the one hit, and dashes across the snowy landscape to hide behind a different tree.
This time, Mobei-jun doesn’t immediately follow him. Instead he walks slowly, boots crunching in the snow, toward Shang Qinghua’s hiding place.
Assuming his king has got the gist of the game now, Shang Qinghua squats and rolls up another snowball. He tosses it at the approaching Mobei-jun. It misses. Shang Qinghua makes another.
Mobei-jun is getting closer. This time Shang Qinghua hits him low in the belly. Mobei-jun actually staggers back a step, which seems odd. He’s been hit by far more powerful things than snowballs before and stood his ground. Shang Qinghua hurls again, hits again, and again Mobei-jun takes a step back before resuming his approach.
Okay, so he’s definitely doing this for Shang Qinghua’s benefit. Shang Qinghua can’t help but find this more than a little endearing. He tosses a few loose bits of snow and retreats to yet another tree. Mobei-jun follows. But about twenty feet from the tree, he halts and just stands there, like a massive black statue, and waits.
Shang Qinghua pauses mid-rolling of a snowball. “My king?” he ventures, peeking out from behind the tree.
Mobei-jun is quiet, but his eyes catch Shang Qinghua’s as if to say, go on.
“All right,” Shang Qinghua says with a laugh, “but you’re asking for it.”
He rolls up a neat row of snowballs, half a dozen altogether, and takes two in his hands, letting them go one after the other. They both hit their target. Mobei-jun takes two steps back, one for each hit, and his huge frame seems to waver, as though he might be blown over by a breeze. Either this snow has magical properties or … Shang Qinghua catches his breath. …or he’s playing with me. He’s not sure which option is more impossible.
He tests his theory. The third snowball is lobbed gently, and lands with no sting on Mobei-jun’s hip. Mobei-jun looks down at it, then wavers again. Then he turns his gaze to Shang Qinghua, and the message in that gaze is unmistakable. Do it again.
Shang Qinghua is delighted. Mobei-jun doesn’t have a sense of humor as a rule, and yet there can be no doubt of what he’s doing. Laughing aloud, Shang Qinghua pelts him with the remaining snowballs, one-two-three, and claps his hands in joy when Mobei-jun feigns injury and falls to one knee, then flat onto his back in the snow.
“My king,” Shang Qinghua calls out. “I had no idea you could be this much fun.”
He expects Mobei-jun to sit up and give him a death glare. After all, a demon king admitting to such pedestrian pleasures would be embarrassing in the extreme. But Mobei-jun lies motionless, his cloak splayed out against the snowy field, edges flapping in the wind.
Maybe there’s magic in the snowballs after all, Shang Qinghua thinks with some distress. He clambers out from behind his tree and hurries toward the felled figure. “My king?” he cries, falling to his knees beside Mobei-jun’s still form. “Are you all right?”
Mobei-jun is still. His eyes are closed. His vestments are covered in crumbling white.
“My… king?” His skin is still its usual icy pale – can’t tell a thing with his complexion normally like that. Shang Qinghua leans down further, straining to sense whether he’s breathing. Carefully, he shifts a rare unfettered strand of hair to the side so he can better access Mobei-jun’s nose and mouth. Yes, he seems to be still breathing…
…and his eyes are open.
And he’s got one hand on the top of Shang Qinghua’s head.
“My–” is all that can get out of Shang Qinghua’s throat before the demon king pulls him down into a kiss.
Mobei-jun’s other hand clamps onto Shang Qinghua’s lower back, holding him there. His lips are warm despite the freezing temperatures. He kisses Shang Qinghua for a long moment. Somewhere above, a bird cries out in a crude caw. The winter breeze touches Shang Qinghua’s cheeks.
Shang Qinghua can barely draw in breath when Mobei-jun finally lets him go. He stares, trying to put together what has just happened. Mobei-jun did all of that – to get a kiss? “My king–” starts to issue from his lips, but his thoughts get tangled up and what ends up coming out is an undignified “No magic snowballs?”
Still just a breath away, Mobei-jun tilts his head just so, confused.
“I mean – I thought –” Shang Qinghua straightens up. “You couldn’t be – so the only other possibility was –” He tries to pull his thoughts together. “My king, were you – teasing me?”
Mobei-jun doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls himself up off the ground and pulls Shang Qinghua up to his feet alongside him. “There’s snow on you,” he says, looking displeased, and bends to brush off the snow that’s caked at Shang Qinghua’s knees.
Shang Qinghua’s face goes hot. “There’s – on you too,” he says haplessly, and tries to pat off some of the snow on Mobei-jun’s shoulders and chest. He can’t reach very well, and it’s in vain anyway: When Mobei-jun straightens up, he shakes the remainder of the snow off of himself in a single movement.
“You fought well,” he says, serious as the grave. “You felled me.”
His expression is too somber. Shang Qinghua bursts out laughing. “I suppose I did!” He puts his hands on his hips and preens like a rooster.
Mobei-jun watches him with a wary eye. “Don’t think too much of it,” he warns.
Shang Qinghua ponders a Mobei-jun who is the laughingstock of the demon world for purposefully losing a snowball fight. It’s hilarious. “Haha, don’t worry, my king, I’ll keep this just between us.” He pats Mobei-jun on the shoulder.
Those icy eyes shift, darting down toward the place of contact. He grimaces. Shang Qinghua pulls back with a rueful chuckle and pulls his hand behind his back meekly.
Mobei-jun clears his throat. “I suppose this entitles you to a favor,” he says.
Afavor. Shang Qinghua hadn’t even thought of it. Now, his brain starts prickling with ideas. He should make Mobei-jun give him a foot massage. Bathe with him. Make him more handmade noodles. He should make Shang Qinghua king for a day.
But no. He’s already created an entire world. And although the noodles were good, it was clear Mobei-jun hadn’t ever cooked before. His king’s hands are too cold for a foot massage, and Shang Qinghua is afraid he’d melt in the bath. He shakes his head clear of the ideas and smiles brightly up at Mobei-jun’s stern face. “I suppose I’ll be satisfied,” he says, “with just another kiss or two.”
“You have earned the spoils of war,” Mobei-jun intones, and draws him close again.
“But the intimacy between them no longer stopped at holding hands. They would passionately kiss in the alley behind Grandma Meng’s Hall, and after nightfall, they would go to some deserted forest and rub their ears together.” -2ha, Chapter 185, machine translation
Chu Wanning never thought his life would be like this.
He never even imagined it. Even when the wanting was at its greatest, when he had to shut himself away to keep from losing his mind to the wildness inside him, he never dared to dream that Mo Ran would love him as hopelessly and passionately as Chu Wanning loved him. It was a love, he thought, that would never make itself known. He would live suffering, driven by will alone to make it through the lonely nights, the agonizing moments when a smile or a touch left him burning up inside. It would be painful, but he would endure.
But this … this now, is …
Mo Ran finds him on the way to breakfast. “Shizun,” he’d say, ruddy-cheeked and bright-eyed in the morning light. “Before you eat, come with me around the corner. I want to show you something.”
The first time, Chu Wanning genuinely thinks there’s something he’s meant to see. But when they turn the corner, tucking themselves behind a small shed, Mo Ran presses him against the wall and kisses him. Hot, damp lips against his own. Chu Wanning’s mouth falls open, silently pleading. Mo Ran licks into him vigorously. Every nerve in Chu Wanning’s body lights up. He reaches out to grab Mo Ran’s robes and clings tightly to him.
“What did you want to show me?” he manages to say between hurried breaths.
Mo Ran rubs the back of his head and toes the ground. “I just actually wanted to kiss you this morning,” he admits.
After that, Chu Wanning knows. But he still goes with Mo Ran, every single time.
Shizun, help me with my sword form. Shizun, let me help you carry that back to the Red Lotus Pavilion. Shizun, just one moment of your time in private. Shizun, I’ll be practicing in the back woods near the river, just so you know where I am.
Each time, Chu Wanning ends up panting, flushed, hair disheveled, lips kiss-swollen and sensitive. Mo Ran grins at him. His heart pounds. All he wants is to grab Mo Ran by the back of the neck and to pull him into another kiss. But each time, he’s too embarrassed to do so. He curls his fingers close to his sides and does his best to look unmoved.
It’s useless. Mo Ran knows. He’s tasted it in every kiss.
There’s no dissuading Mo Ran, and there’s no taming his own unruly heart, so Chu Wanning figures he might as well be cooperative. Today, he waits behind the dining hall, where Mo Ran has dragged him many times to kiss and embrace him before or after meals. This time, he might as well just skip the dragging part and wait here for him.
Mo Ran’s voice echoes loud from inside the hall. “Shizun?”
Chu Wanning rubs his temple. Discretion is not one of Mo Ran’s specialties.
“Shizun … excuse me … have you seen my Shizun?”
It’s embarrassing. Now everyone in the dining hall is aware that Chu Wanning isn’t in the room. Any minute now, someone will look out into the alleyway and find him, and then he’ll have to explain himself. It’s a disaster. He should just leave.
He stays anyway.
Mo Ran’s voice, coming from outside the dining hall now: “Shizun!” What is he, just howling at the moon at this point? Chu Wanning is irked. But he waits for Mo Ran to come around to the side of the hall, then peek into the alleyway.
“Shiz–” he starts.
Chu Wanning shushes him with a hiss and a glare.
Mo Ran cuts himself off and walks with big galloping strides toward Chu Wanning. “Shizun,” he says in an exaggerated stage whisper, “what are you doing out here?”
Idiot. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Uh.” Mo Ran looks around. “I’m not sure. Is this a new method of cultivation?” His gaze returns to Chu Wanning, and there’s hurt in his eyes. “Shizun … are you avoiding me?”
“No, I’m not avoiding you,” Chu Wanning snaps. “I’m waiting for you.”
“You’re…”
“This is where we always end up, anyway.” It’s not worth the extra words of explanation, but Chu Wanning finds his tongue looser of late. The influence of this man, who speaks his feelings so freely.
“So…” Mo Ran is still putting it together. “So you came here … first?”
Chu Wanning wants to call him a moron and walk away. He wants to flick his sleeves and turn on his heel and make himself scarce. But most of all, he wants Mo Ran to stop thinking and kiss him already.
After a minute, he loses patience, grabs Mo Ran by the arms, and hauls him in.
Mo Ran makes a surprised sound against his mouth, but a moment later, he remembers himself and throws his arms around Chu Wanning, holding him close. So much warmth, all of a sudden everywhere, and Chu Wanning is dizzy, mouth open, letting Mo Ran lick into him hungrily. His hands are fists against Mo Ran’s arms, clutching his robes. Chu Wanning moans into the kiss. He’s underwater, the rest of the world silent against the sound of his own hurried breathing and Mo Ran’s soft groans, and he’s never before wanted so badly to drown.
They could get lost in each other like this. It would be so easy. They could kiss like this all day. Chu Wanning is frightened by how much he wants that.
It scares him awake. The world comes back into focus. He pulls away, aware suddenly of the midsummer breeze, the sounds from the dining hall. It takes a few tries to gasp in enough air to speak.
“That’s enough,” he spits out. “Let’s go eat.”
Mo Ran won’t let him go. “Shizun,” he says, sounding dazed, with a low, ragged edge to his voice. “You wanted to kiss me first?”
“Discreetly,” Chu Wanning corrects.
“You wanted to kiss me discreetly?” He’s stuck on the “you wanted to kiss me” part, Chu Wanning can tell. He’s beaming and grinning, and the whole picture is heartrendingly charming. Mo Ran is equal parts dangerous beast and delighted child, and Chu Wanning, to his own dismay, loves both halves equally.
“Now let’s eat,” Chu Wanning presses emphasis onto the words.
But Mo Ran still doesn’t let go. “One more time,” he pleads. “Discreetly.”
What is he supposed to do with that? He doesn’t have the heart to refuse. Chu Wanning sighs, tips his chin up, and lets himself be kissed to distraction one more time.
They’ve reunited at last. They’ve talked for hours, they’ve dined together, they’ve bathed together, and they’ve made love - oh, how they’ve made love. Hua Cheng is as full and sated as he ever has been. They cuddle close on the big bed, Xie Lian tracing idle patterns on the swell of Hua Cheng’s chest, and Hua Cheng wants for nothing.
So when Xie Lian asks him in a quiet voice, “What do you want?” he’s startled.
“What do I want?” he echoes back, not knowing if there’s context to this phrase that he isn’t picking up on.
“Yes,” Xie Lian says, “you’ve done so much for me, but you never ask for a thing for yourself. Isn’t there something you want?”
The answer comes readily, and it’s the truth. “I have gege here with me. What else could I possibly need?”
Xie Lian bats him playfully on the shoulder. “I didn’t say need, I said want. There must be something. A place you want to go, some treasure you want to acquire. I want to give you something.”
Hua Cheng’s heart constricts painfully in his chest. Does Xie Lian not know of the gifts he gives him day after day? Just looking at him like he does, just his smiles and laughter, and his presence. The fact that Xie Lian wants to be with him is the brightest treasure of all.
He lifts a hand and tucks a strand of flowing hair behind Xie Lian’s ear. “Where in the world can I not go?” he says. “What treasure is not mine, the moment I will it to be? You can give me no gift worth more than yourself.”
“Oh,” Xie Lian says, and his face falls. “Of course.”
This won’t do. Hua Cheng can’t stand Xie Lian looking like that. Surely he can think of something he can ask for. He racks his brain for some item, some experience that he would like to have under his belt. How can he bring that smile back?
And then it occurs to him, like a whisper in his ear. Quiet but steady, the wish rises in his chest, a lantern buoyed aloft by a flame. Yes, there is something he wishes. Something that is petty and selfish, but perhaps Xie Lian wishes for it to be so.
He sits up, forcing Xie Lian to do the same, and takes both his hands. “I want you to come to the Ghost City with me,” he says. Admitting it feels foreign and strange and exciting. “I want to take you through the streets for all to see. I want you to come stay at Paradise Manor with me – not forever, but for a while. I will see to your every wish. I want every last disgusting creature down there that calls itself my servant to know–”
“–that I’m yours,” Xie Lian finishes. His eyes are clear and bright.
“No,” Hua Cheng says. “That I’m yours.”
Xie Lian is silent.
Hua Cheng worries. “Would you?” he asks, as tentatively as a child.
In response, Xie Lian leans in and kisses him.
The kiss is long, slow, sweet. Xie Lian’s lips are soft. Hua Cheng has tasted them so many times tonight, but this kiss is different. There’s a promise in this kiss.
Xie Lian hums softly against his lips as they part. Hua Cheng blinks.
“That’s a yes,” Xie Lian clarifies.
“Yes, you’ll come with me?” Hua Cheng finds he’s terrified to find out for sure.
But Xie Lian’s answer is another kiss. This time the hunger rises in Hua Cheng’s gut, and he pulls him close and collapses to the bed, Xie Lian on top of him. Xie Lian licks at the seam of his lips, boldly, and in shock and delight Hua Cheng opens to him. They kiss for long minutes, letting the heat flow between their bodies.
And afterwards, Xie Lian says, “That’s a yes too.”
All right, Wei Ying will have to give Nie Huaisang some credit - his blind date is gorgeous. Gorgeous, but he doesn’t have much to say. Wei Ying peeks over the edge of his menu and examines that unsmiling face.
This Lan Zhan appears to be engrossed in examining the wine list — probably a wine snob, probably a snob in general, Wei Ying thinks with an inner pout. Well if this isn’t gonna be a love match, at LEAST Wei Ying’s gonna have some fun with him before the night is out.
“Lan Zhaaan,” he says, drawing out the syllable. “What’s more interesting, me or the booze?”
Lan Zhan lifts his gaze, regards him for a minute. “Do you not want wine?” he asks. Dispassionately. Like he doesn’t care himself.
Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “It’s not a question of whether I want wine,” he informs Lan Zhan. “This is a date — don’t you want to pay some attention to me?”
In response, Lan Zhan sets down the wine list and fixes his gaze on Wei Ying.
Lan Zhan’s shower is big. Big enough to have one of those wooden shower seats and a sliding double door. That’s impressive, Wei Ying thinks, and it’s his first coherent thought of the morning, only made possible by the hot water sluicing down over his body. He picks up Lan Zhan’s shower gel and pours a dollop into his hand, then goes about the business of making himself clean.
He runs that hand down his ribcage and winces a little; that’s a fresh bruise in his side, and it’s one of many. Wei Ying looks down at his body and sees them everywhere; big welts at his hips, little red spots where Lan Zhan’s fingers had dug in last night. He can’t see his own neck, but he knows they’re there.
Wei Ying is sitting in the beanbag chair when he mentions it, hunched over forward as he plays Mario Kart solo. Lan Zhan is reading, and trying to keep himself from stealing glances at Wei Ying. It’s not easy. Wei Ying’s legs are miles long, extended on the carpet. He’s got his video game face on – intense, focused, just barely biting his lower lip.
Lan Zhan has just forced himself to look back down at his book when, in a sweeping motion, Wei Ying throws down his video game controller. His eyes dart Lan Zhan’s way. “Hey, want to skip prom with me?”
Lan Zhan blinks. He closes the book and sets it aside. “You’re not going to prom?” he asks, trying to tamp down on the throbbing of his heart. He was sure Wei Ying would have two or three dates to prom by now. It was that certainty that kept him from asking Wei Ying himself – that certainty, and maybe a lack of courage.
Wei Ying blows air through his lips. “Pffft. Who wants to go to prom? All that dolling up.” His expression changes, and he flips onto his stomach on the big beanbag chair, legs kicking up in the air. “Why, have you got a hot date for prom already? Who is she? Do I know her? When’d you ask?”
Lan Zhan is actively trying not to stare at Wei Ying’s legs. “No.”
“No, I don’t know her? Or…”
Lan Zhan sighs. “I do not have a date for prom.”
Wei Ying claps his hands. “Sweet! Then hang out with me that night. I’ll show you a good time.”
It feels like a flirt, but Lan Zhan doesn’t dare hope it really is. Sometimes Wei Ying’s just like this. It’s maddening, and he’s maddening, but Lan Zhan can’t get enough of him. Ever since he walked into history class freshman year with a jumbo-sized cup of Coke and a carefree smile, Lan Zhan’s been gone.
Ofcoursehe will skip prom with him.
So on the night where giggling girls wear corsages and flirt near the punch bowl somewhere across town, Lan Zhan comes over. For a while it’s like every other time they hang out: They go upstairs to the attic den and sit by the big TV shoulder to shoulder. They play Mario Kart without talking and, in Wei Ying’s case, without blinking (Lan Zhan’s pretty sure). But at about 10 PM, Wei Ying abruptly jumps up and switches off the TV.
“Uncle Jiang has to be asleep by now,” he says. “Sweet. Time to go.”
“To go?” Lan Zhan’s vision is still swimming with red and blue shells.
Wei Ying grins and winks at him. “You didn’t think we were going to stay around here all night?”
Which is how Lan Zhan ends up sneaking down the steps and out to the driveway and “borrowing” Jiang Cheng’s bicycle. He’s not sure how he feels about the ethics of all this, but he’d follow Wei Ying anywhere, any way he can. So they make a beeline through the night and end up in front of the Yunmeng Secondary School building. Wei Ying leads Lan Zhan around the side of the building and tucks their bikes in the shadow of a tree.
“What are we doing at school?” Lan Zhan asks.
“Whatever we want. Come on.” Wei Ying heads toward the building.
“You’re going to break into school?”
“No.” Wei Ying makes a face at him, half-lit by a lamppost ten meters away. “It’s not breaking in if I don’t go into the building.”
“Then what are…”
Wei Ying hefts his backpack on his shoulders and points toward the fire escape. Lan Zhan follows that pointer finger all the way up. “The roof?”
“Well,” Wei Ying says too loudly, “I’m going up. You can stay here.” He makes another face and trots toward the fire escape, leaping onto the first step with a ridiculous amount of grace for a teenager carting a heavy backpack.
You can stay here, he says, but Wei Ying must know that’s impossible. Lan Zhan clenches a fist. “I’m coming,” he says.
They scurry up the stairs and across the landings like mice in a maze, and Wei Ying swings himself over the concrete barrier and onto the roof. Lan Zhan follows, cautiously. The roof is plain, ugly even, just concrete and an HVAC unit that gurgles dangerously in the darkness. But the view is all right – sprawls of suburban houses, vague orange glow above the treetops, bright full moon above. Lan Zhan gets a little lost looking around at it all. Then his eyes fall on Wei Ying and he’s even more lost.
Wei Ying’s wide-eyed, walking in a circle with his arms outspread. The moonlight and the muddled light from streetlamps join to illuminate him, the sharp curve of his nose and those smiling lips. Lan Zhan has, yet again, the urge to hold him still and kiss him. Wei Ying is always on the move, and all Lan Zhan wants to keep him in one place long enough to make his feelings known. But that would be so unfair to Wei Ying, who is so beautiful when he’s in motion. So all Lan Zhan can do is follow.
After a few excited laps around the roof’s perimeter, Wei Ying settles next to him and swings his backpack down from his shoulders. When he unzips it, Lan Zhan can see the plaid peek of a picnic basket and a couple of cans of beer.
Wei Ying takes one can and offers the other to Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan shakes his head. Wei Ying shrugs, then pops his can open and drags out the blanket.
Several minutes later, as they lounge quietly on the blanket with the wide sky above them, Wei Ying mumbles, “Lan Zhan.”
“Hm?”
“What are you gonna miss about high school?”
There’s color in Wei Ying’s cheeks, and Lan Zhan can feel his ears go hot in response. He turns over the question in his mind. There’s not much about high school that he won’t have in college, and he’s looking forward to that more than he’s worried about missing high school. He turns the question on Wei Ying. “What will youmiss?”
“Oh, man, so much.” Wei Ying lies on his back and lifts his arms, pretending to draw a bow and aim it at the moon overhead. He lets go of the imaginary arrow and snickers. “Those stupid pep rallies we had to go to. Huaisang’s locker full of dubious items. Failing math quizzes.”
“You’ve never failed a math quiz in your life,” Lan Zhan points out.
“I’vetried,” Wei Ying says with a laugh. “I’m gonna miss the pool.”
“There will be pools at college,” Lan Zhan says. “Better ones.”
“Yeah, but will they have the charm of our dumb little kiddie pool? Will they have locker rooms that smell like beef for no good reason? Huh, Lan Zhan? Will they have that?” He points his finger at Lan Zhan and closes one eye as though aiming a gun.
Lan Zhan plays along, putting a hand on his chest and looking down as though he’s been shot. Wei Ying cackles.
They spend hours up there, talking of this and that. Mr. Wen’s hair, whether Jiang Cheng really could shove Wei Ying in a locker like he always threatens to, what they’ll major in when they get to university, everything. Wei Ying slings over casual questions and Lan Zhan answers them, calm, looking up at the few visible stars. He’ll miss this, he thinks. Even though Wei Ying is going to the same university, it’s a big campus, and it won’t be like it is now, with Wei Ying a few doors down or a classroom away. And there will be so many new people, and Wei Ying will find a whole other group of friends. Lan Zhan will inevitably be left behind. He wishes he had the courage to tell Wei Ying how he felt. He wishes he had any confidence that Wei Ying feels the same.
So he’ll hold on to this night, the two of them alone beneath the canopy of sky, the smell of beer and the sting of insects. He’ll hold on to the look on Wei Ying’s face now, happy and flushed from alcohol, and the way his hair spills out of his ponytail onto the blanket like a waterfall. He’ll hold on, and he’ll want, and then when he has to, he’ll try to let go.
Lan Zhan doesn’t remember when they fall asleep, but when he wakes, the beginnings of dawn are painting the eastern sky pale blue. Wei Ying is curled up, head on Lan Zhan’s stomach, and Lan Zhan reaches down to touch his hair, pet him gently. “Wei Ying,” he urges.
Wei Ying sits up, blinks, and gives a big yawn as he stretches out his arms. “We slept?” he complains. “I wanted to stay up all night.”
“You had to sleep off the beer,” Lan Zhan says, kneeling and then standing up. The heat that had been Wei Ying’s body is dissipating too fast, and the morning air is chilly against his bare arms. He crosses them over his chest, trying to hold in some warmth.
“I was never drunk,” lies Wei Ying. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and unfolds from a crouch to stand with Lan Zhan.
“You’ll be unstoppable in college,” Lan Zhan says with some consternation.
“You’ll be there to keep me under control,” Wei Ying replies. Strangely enough, it’s the first time he’s talked about the two of them still hanging out when they go to school. Lan Zhan’s heart twinges with a painful bit of hope.
Wei Ying saunters to the edge of the roof and leans on the barrier. “Well, Lan Zhan, how’d you like prom night?” he asks, offering a winning smile.
Lan Zhan just nods. Wei Ying smiles wider.
“How about a dip before we go home?” he says.
Minutes later, they’ve shinnied over the fence like a pair of climbing monkeys, and Lan Zhan is standing awkwardly next to the school’s outdoor pool. Leaves have fallen in from the tree that arches over the pool area, big maple hands with spread fingers. Wei Ying is stripping somewhere near him. Lan Zhan has the good sense not to look. Instead, he turns his eyes to the western sky, still dark with night. The last remaining star winks at him.
And then he has Wei Ying’s arms around his waist. “Take off your clothes,” he drawls, trying to ruck up Lan Zhan’s sweater from the hem. Lan Zhan shakes out of his grip, but not before Wei Ying has laid a warm hand on his bare side. Heat courses through Lan Zhan even after they’ve parted, and he fixes Wei Ying with an angry gaze.
“Fine, if you want to wear clothes into the pool, see if I care!” And Wei Ying drops his pants in a rush of motion and cannonballs into the water in just his boxers. Water splashes onto Lan Zhan’s slacks, and he looks down in dismay. As he does, Wei Ying sends up another fountain of water, and this time it soaks him up to his sweater. Dismayed, Lan Zhan grumbles and starts to strip.
Wei Ying does the backstroke at a remarkable pace as Lan Zhan eases down the ladder into the pool. The water is cold, not icy but chillier than the mild air around them. Lan Zhan swims a lap or two, then relaxes against the side of the pool and watches Wei Ying horse around. He gets splashed several times. It’s fine. He doesn’t care. Wei Ying’s attention is on him, so he’ll take whatever shit he’s given.
Wei Ying grabs his hands, pulls him underwater. Lan Zhan opens his eyes and blinks away the sting of chlorine. Wei Ying is a big fish, his whole body one sinuous movement. Lan Zhan could grab his elbow, pull him close. Kiss him under the water like some sort of fantasy. He could.He’s strong enough.
But he runs out of air too soon, and comes up sputtering to the surface. Wei Ying surfaces next to him and laughs uproariously.
When he’s had his fill of the pool, Wei Ying hoists himself up and out, then pulls two big towels out of his backpack. Lan Zhan marvels that they were able to fit. Wei Ying has thought this through, going so far as to bring spare boxers for the pair of them, and Lan Zhan is impressed. If only this was a date he’d planned out so thoughtfully. Lan Zhan’s stomach sinks as he reminds himself that no, it’s not.
Wrapped in towels, the two of them lean against the chain link fence and watch the sun come up. The orange-yellow light makes Wei Ying squint and shield his eyes. Lan Zhan can’t not look - with the rays of the sun streaming onto him, he’s all lit up, his face illuminated planes and long shadows. He’s breathtaking, and Lan Zhan indeed forgets to breathe, gulping in a lungful of air like he’s just come to the surface after minutes underwater. He forces himself to exhale slowly, normally. Why is Wei Ying so beautiful? It isn’t fair.
“We should probably head home soon,” he forces himself to stay. “Your uncle will wake up.”
Wei Ying affects a labored sigh. “I guess,” he says. “I’ll be in trouble anyway, but you should probably head home and rest.”
“Mn.” Lan Zhan turns and walks toward the corner where his clothes are piled up. Or, he starts to walk. He doesn’t get much further than an inch. Wei Ying has him by the arm, both hands stopping him.
“Wait,” he says. “I have an important question for you.”
Lan Zhan can do nothing but give him his full attention. He turns to face him.
Wei Ying flushes. The color in his cheeks rises so suddenly that Lan Zhan worries he’s gone feverish from the early-morning swim. His hands are still wrapped around Lan Zhan’s bicep, strength and warmth against his skin. “It’s a very important question,” he says, and there’s some tension in his smile.
“Go ahead.” Lan Zhan ignores the strange lurching feeling in his chest. The sense that something is happening. “What is it?”
“It’s like this.” Wei Ying beams at him, hands tight where they tug at Lan Zhan’s arm. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”
Everything stops. Time stops. Breathing stops. Lan Zhan forces out a “What?”
“I mean, I set everything up.” Wei Ying says, a whine in his voice. “We spent the whole night together, and now we’re watching the sun rise and it’s prom night and I’m shirtless. What else is it gonna take?”
Lan Zhan’s thoughts have gone so still, he has to kick them back into gear. “For me to kiss you?” He hears the words come out of his mouth and can’t believe it. He can’t believe this moment is happening.
“Yeah,” Wei Ying says. “I thought you would have done it months ago. Unless I’m misreading everything.” His hands loosen their grip, then let go, trailing down his arm and away.
There’s dismay in his gaze all of a sudden. Lan Zhan can’t bear to see it. He lifts a hand to Wei Ying’s face, touches where he’s dreamed of touching for four years. “Wei Ying … really wants me to kiss him?”
Wei Ying laughs. “I’ve made that pretty obvious by now, right? Lan Zhan, don’t tell me–”
Lan Zhan muffles any further words with his lips.
Wei Ying is sweet under him, so sweet. Sweet and yielding, and when Lan Zhan licks the seam of his mouth he opens to him, the kiss deepening but still soft, still gentle, still careful. Lan Zhan is aware that his hands are trembling.
They break apart and look at each other in the rising sunlight. Wei Ying’s cheeks are rosy, and his lips are wet and shining, slightly parted.
Lan Zhan kisses him again, and this time, he’s not careful.
He pushes Wei Ying against the chain link fence, feeling it sway under their combined weight, and drinks from his lips again and again. Wei Ying’s arms wind around his neck. A groan breaks free from Lan Zhan’s mouth. Wei Ying answers it. Beneath the slanted sun’s rays, they kiss and kiss, Lan Zhan sighing, Wei Ying moaning and pushing his body against Lan Zhan’s wantonly. Heat fills Lan Zhan’s body all the way down to his toes. He licks into Wei Ying’s mouth in desperate, powerful sweeps of tongue. The broken noises Wei Ying keeps making are driving him crazy.
He only stops kissing him when he can’t kiss anymore. When they’re both too out of breath and flushed to continue. They breathe raggedly, as though they’ve just run a marathon. Wei Ying’s hands cling to his back, his head bobbing against Lan Zhan’s shoulder.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan begins, not knowing where he will go from there.
Wei Ying cuts him off with a delirious sigh. “Finally,” he murmurs against Lan Zhan’s ear. “Finally, finally, Lan Zhan, I’ve been waiting so long.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Lan Zhan asks, truly confused. They could have been doing this years ago.
“You know.” Wei Ying’s voice drawls, smooth and sweet as honey. “You were Lan Zhan, you didn’t worry about things like that. I was just nursing the same crush that every girl in school had on you. Was I so special that I could have what all of them couldn’t?”
Lan Zhan holds him close. His heart is thudding with happiness and his mind is singing. “Wei Ying is very special.”
“Does that mean we’re boyfriends now?” Wei Ying asks, still a shudder of uncertainty in his voice.
It’s the silliest question he’s ever asked. “Mn.”
“And when we head off to college–” Wei Ying wriggles in his arms happily. “I can’t wait to tell everyone I’m spoken for.”
“Wei Ying. We should go home.”
Wei Ying throws himself forward, squeezing Lan Zhan around the waist.
Lan Zhan sighs and tips his chin forward, his lips catching Wei Ying’s cheek. Wei Ying makes a happy noise. “Five minutes,” he whines. “Give me five more minutes and then we’ll go.”
A jogger passes on the distant sidewalk. The neighborhood is waking up, and they’re still half-naked and damp. Lan Zhan really shouldurge him to go now, lest they be caught. Instead, he holds Wei Ying close and kisses his hairline. He’s waited four years. He can certainly spare five minutes.
They go back to Wei Ying’s place, and get in trouble, and pester Jiang Cheng about the prom. He has brought back with him loads of gossip, which he shares over the breakfast table. Wei Ying hooks his foot around Lan Zhan’s ankle under the table. It feels like fireworks. Lan Zhan fixes him with an incredulous stare, and Wei Ying just grins.
Wei Ying walks him to his house; they kiss, hot and messy, outside the front door before Lan Zhan walks in to inevitable scolding. It’s worth it. He couldn’t have imagined a better prom night.
it means monsterfucking, basically :D cw: tentacle!kink
He is so, so lonely.
He has the fish for company, and when the ripples nip at the shoreline he can feel solid ground, but he yearns for conversation, for a warm touch. This lake is well-hidden in the forested mountain, and as its spirit he cannot leave. He learns from the tree spirits around him what humans are, how they move and speak, and he yearns to see one for himself. But all he can do in this place is meditate, and cultivate, and try to tamp down on the longing that sits like a rough stone in his gut.
And then there is Wei Ying.
Wei Ying appears before him for the first time during spring, when dappled sunshine falls on the forest floor. It is Wei Ying who coaxes him from the lake with a bit of food and gentle words. It is Wei Ying who gives him his name – Lan Zhan, he calls him, and the words in Wei Ying’s voice sound lively and bright. And it is Wei Ying who returns, again and again; who brings him human-made treasures and tells him their names; who teaches him what a smile is, what laughter is; and tells him a million stories that Lan Zhan would never have known of the humans, how they work, what they want and need in their lives, what they do every day. Lan Zhan is fascinated. He’s most fascinated when Wei Ying speaks of emotions, and he wonders if he is able to have them. If he does, then – and Wei Ying has told him stories of it – he thinks he loves Wei Ying.
He loves Wei Ying, and he thinks – he thinks he yearns to touch him.
This human form is illusory; he’s made it to echo the way Wei Ying looks. Haltingly, one day, he says that he’d like to show Wei Ying his true form.
Wei Ying only smiles and says, “Go ahead.”
It would be too much, Lan Zhan thinks, to completely transform. So he decides to transform just below the waist, his human legs morphing into not one but several long, smooth tendrils that taper to soft points at the end.
“You have tentacles,” Wei Ying says, incredulous.
“Tentacles.” Lan Zhan files the word away into his memory – just one of the hundreds of words this man has taught him. Wei Ying’s eyes are wide, and if it weren’t for the hint of a smile on his lips, Lan Zhan would be afraid he’d scare him away.
But Wei Ying puts out a hand and reaches out from the shore. “Can I touch them?” he asks.
A shock of delight goes through Lan Zhan, and he reaches out, meets Wei Ying’s hand with one tentacle.
– the warmth, it’s more than the warmth of sunlight on the lake, it’s intense and alive and so solid –
Lan Zhan gasps and pulls away. But where Wei Ying’s skin suddenly isn’t, there’s nothing but cold, and he immediately wants that heat back. He looks helplessly into Wei Ying’s eyes. “I want to touch you too,” he says. “Is it okay?”
There’s something wonderful in that gaze, in the shine of Wei Ying’s eyes. His smile widens. “It’s okay,” he breathes, and stands stock still, waiting.
He slides a tentacle around Wei Ying’s waist, but what he feels isn’t skin but cloth, and he has no use for cloth. So he lifts it away, and while Wei Ying exclaims in surprise, he doesn’t protest. Without all of that between them, he reaches with ardent tentacles and pulls Wei Ying into the water.
He’s forgotten himself, and his human arms erupt into more tentacles, reaching out to touch Wei Ying’s skin on his hands, his arms, the flat rock of his chest, the smooth wash of his hair. Wei Ying turns into the touch, angling his body toward the grasp of Lan Zhan’s tentacles, unafraid of them or of the water. When one tentacle slithers across his face, Wei Ying purses his lips in what Lan Zhan thinks is called a kiss.
Wei Ying’s hands reach out. Lan Zhan meets them. Wei Ying runs his hands along the length of one slippery tentacle, and it feels like the summer sun, no, warmer than that. Lan Zhan opens his still-human mouth and a groan escapes him. His tentacles undulate in rolling movements, seeking more skin to touch.
This is how he knows how to move, fluid, like water. He keeps moving, keeps twining around Wei Ying’s so-solid, so-human body. One end dips between his lips and – and Wei Ying sucks on it, exquisite pressure and pleasure all at once flaring up inside Lan Zhan’s body, right down to the core of him.
Where else can he find that heat, that pressure? Wei Ying bats the other tentacles away from his face – clearly that’s off limits. But he finds something in the crux of Wei Ying’s thighs, something,harder and hotter than the rest of his body. Greedily, Lan Zhan circles around it, envelops it. Wei Ying makes a hungry noise and arches his back.
The noise fills Lan Zhan’s ears, sets the core of him pulsing and wanting. Gasping, unable to find sufficient breath in the water or in the air, he draws tight circles around Wei Ying’s wrists and ankles, holding him in midair as Lan Zhan keeps eliciting those delicious sounds. His tentacles are all throbbing with warmth, wherever he touches Wei Ying, and when he slides one tentacle up from his thigh and finds a cleft to dive into, Wei Ying lets out not just a noise but a word, a yes.
Lan Zhan goes deeper.
Wei Ying’s face distorts, then relaxes again. Lan Zhan asks carefully, “Have I hurt you?”
Wei Ying grabs one of his tentacles, brings it to his mouth, kisses it ardently. “Keep going,” he says, his grin wide as the world.
His skin is hot, his breaths coming short. Lan Zhan’s consumed by a kind of hunger he’s never felt before. He dips into Wei Ying’s mouth again, caresses wherever he touches skin – between Wei Ying’s legs and in that crevice he’s found at the center of him and against his hands and feet – and it’s more heat than he’s ever felt in his life, more heat than the hottest summer day, and somehow it’s all radiating into the core of him. Lan Zhan finds he’s echoing Wei Ying’s moans. The sounds of the two of them, the wet slide of the tentacles and the gentle lap of the lake beneath them and the wind in the trees – lift Lan Zhan to a place he’s never been, a state of being he’s never known he could attain. The heat in his gut billows like a forest fire and erupts, and he throws his head back and shouts to the skies.
And answering shout – Wei Ying’s, and it goes on and on – echoes his. The pleasure starts to drain from his body, strength going with it. He pulls his human arms back into being and cradles Wei Ying carefully as his body seems to sigh and melt into relaxation. Wei Ying is still smiling. As Lan Zhan gathers him close, he lifts a hand to touch his face.
“That’s more than I expected,” he says, “and everything I wanted.”
Lan Zhan is still not entirely sure what happened, but Wei Ying seems happy, and if Lan Zhan can indeed feel emotions like humans do, he supposes he is happy too.
Xie Lian isn’t sure just how much Hua Cheng actually sleeps, but he does know that he wakes each morning tangled up in Hua Cheng’s arms, the coolness of his body like water against his skin. It’s waking up afloat on a lake, sometimes with his head tucked against Hua Cheng’s chest, sometimes Hua Cheng holding him from behind. Every day, waking up in Hua Cheng’s arms is like a blessing, and he always breathes in and sighs a ittle in contentment.
This morning he’s woken up with Hua Cheng’s head tucked into his shoulder, lips brushing his neck. Xie Lian sighs, as he always does, but he also shivers from the almost-contact. Hua Cheng’s mouth that close to his neck is making him warm all over, already. It *seems* that Hua Cheng is still asleep, and Xie Lian doesn’t want to disturb him, but they’re too tangled up for him to extricate himself. So instead, he brushes his lips over the crown of Hua Cheng’s head, slides his arm tighter around his waist, and settles in.
For a moment, there is peace.
Then, Hua Cheng’s lips purse against Xie Lian’s skin.
Xie Lian takes in a breath and forgets to let it out again.
Another kiss, and then another. Blossoms of kisses, pressed to his shoulder and neck, and at once Xie Lian is gasping, holding tight to that cool skin as heat plummets downward. “S–San Lang, you were awake?” he asks, or tries to ask – it comes out in barely a whisper, and Hua Cheng does nothing to acknowledge it. He just keeps kissing, and laves Xie Lian’s neck with his tongue ardently. Xie Lian clings to him, trying to control his breathing.
He lifts a hand to Hua Cheng’s face, cups his jaw. Hua Cheng turns his head and presses kisses into his palm. “Gege,” he murmurs, biting at Xie Lian’s fingers, “you feel good.”
“So do you– ah!” Because all at once Hua Cheng’s hands are on his hips, sliding robes away. It’s indecent – it’s too early, or he’s too sleepy, there must be *some* good reason they shouldn’t be doing this – but that just makes Xie Lian arch up with want. Hua Cheng has taught him how to do many things that shouldn’t be done, and all of them have been wonderful.
Hua Cheng kisses up the line of Xie Lian’s throat to his jaw, his chin, his lips. He lingers there, darting soft, too-short kisses onto Xie Lian’s mouth, drawing small noises of need out of him until, fed up, Xie Lian tangles a hand into his hair and holds him there. A groan escapes Hua Cheng, the first such noise he’s made, and a thrill of triumph makes Xie Lian smile into the kiss.
Those cool hands at his hips move, stroking his thighs, and without thinking Xie Lian opens them, an unspoken invitation. But Hua Cheng doesn’t move to press himself in between them; instead, he slides one hand upward to tease clever fingers at the base of Xie Lian’s cock. His hands flush warm when he needs them to, and they’re just warm enough now to make Xie Lian moan when he takes him in hand and strokes. It’s almost too much – almost, but not quite – and Xie Lian can’t help a desperate hitch of his hips upward, pushing himself through the tunnel of Hua Cheng’s fingers impatiently.
Xie Lian reaches for Hua Cheng, trying to reciprocate, but Hua Cheng evades his touch. “This is for you,” he says, a guttural growl pressed against Xie Lian’s lips. Xie Lian knows better than to fight him on this. He lets his head loll against the pillow and grabs Hua Cheng’s arm instead, feeling the tense and release of his muscles as he strokes. The sensation shatters his control, and he moans openly, hips pistoning up again and again.
It doesn’t take long. Hua Cheng has assaulted him with sensation from the moment he woke, and it’s all Xie Lian knows right now. He comes with a sob, clinging to Hua Cheng with all his strength, and the aftershocks leave him shuddering and limp. Hua Cheng kisses his mouth, his chin and his neck, the jut of one collarbone. Xie Lian lies there, boneless and mindless, breathing hard.
In the wake of the sensation, love and gratitude floods through him. His San Lang, always so devoted. To have his touch, his kiss, is a blessing beyond blessings. Xie Lian nuzzles into Hua Cheng’s shoulder, practically purring. “Love,” he murmurs, “San Lang, thank you.”
Bitty angles his head to the side. Above him, Jack snaps another picture.
“I’m not going to put them online,” Jack says. “I’ll keep them on the camera, then delete them after.” After what? Bitty wants to ask, but he also kind of knows the answer.
He smiles. “If you say so.”
He feels gorgeous, lying here nude against the blue sheets. Above him, Jack’s in jeans and socks and nothing else, the strap of the camera lying against his bare chest. Bitty wants him down here, but he also wants to keep feeling this way, like he’s a piece of art to be admired, even worshipped. Jack tilts his head, makes an approving noise, and snaps two or three shots. The camera’s click is like a touch, Like each time, Jack’s putting those big callused hands on him and saying don’t move, i want you just like this.
But Bitty can’t not move. He slides around on the sheets, finding different ways to drape his arms over the sheets and his stomach, turning his head to catch the radiant sunlight. Jack follows him with every move, kneeling over his legs, sometimes scrambling to the side or off the bed to get a shot. “Bits,” he says, and his voice is thick with want.
“Put the camera down,” Bitty coaxes, “and come here, sweetheart.” He knows what that tone of voice does to Jack, can see the evidence of it in the tent of his jeans. Jack breathes harder behind the camera, but he keeps shooting, as Bitty turns to his side and arches his back and stretches like a lazy cat.
He spreads his legs, and Jack takes the invitation, kneeling between them. He holds the camera in one hand, and places his other hand flat against Bitty’s stomach. The contact burns Bitty like a brand, and he arches up into it, letting out a little impatient sigh. Jack captures the sigh, looks at the image on his camera, and nods. “Make more noises like that,” he says.
“Make me make more noise,” Bitty challenges.
Jack grins, a wide, eager smile. He slides his hand down Bitty’s stomach and teases at the head of his cock.
An involuntary “ooh” comes out of Bitty’s mouth, and Jack snaps at that moment, making a throaty noise that’s half-pleased, half-yearning. “You should see these, Bits,” he says. “The way you look–”
“Jack…” Bitty thrusts his hips up. “Too much talking.” He shoots Jack a look that says, you know what to do.
And Jack does. His hand comes down to encircle Bitty’s cock, so much heat all of a sudden so much there and Bitty arches up as the sensation seizes him. His jaw opens, and he breathes heavy exhales as Jack snaps and snaps. Jack strokes him, one deep stroke from root to tip, and Bitty shudders, the pleasure zinging through his blood. He blinks up at Jack with big, pleading eyes.
Jack slides his hand down to Bitty’s balls and teases him there; Bitty keens at the intense sensation. Snap, snap sounds from somewhere above as Bitty tangles his hands in the sheets and balls up the fabric into fists. “J– Jack,” he starts, breath coming faster.
Snap. Snap. Jack’s hand back on his cock, stroking faster, the sounds of the camera echoing in Bitty’s ears. He pulls himself together and lifts a hand to Jack’s upper arm. “Jack,” he pants, “if you do not get down here within five seconds, I cannot guarantee the safety of that fancy camera of yours.”
And at last, at last, Jack sets the camera down on the bedside table and leans down to meet him.
“Lan Zhan.” The name drips with honey, and Lan Wangji lifts his head upon hearing it.
He’s by his master’s side in an instant. Wei Ying is in the bathtub, and as Lan Wangji approaches, he gestures to the soap on the small table. “Wash my hair,” he orders, and Lan Wangji obediently picks up the soap and starts to work up a lather between his hands.
Wei Ying makes ecstatic noises as Lan Wangji runs his fingers through the long sheaf of his hair. “Scratch my head a little,” he half-moans, and Lan Wangji complies, raking his nails over Wei Ying’s scalp.
“Too hard?” he inquires, his voice low and modest. Servile.
“Just right, ah, Lan Zhan, I do love this game of ours. Rub my shoulders now, my slave.”
It’s Wei Ying’s game – he came up with it, as he usually does. Lan Wangji hadn’t known what to expect at first. He certainly didn’t expect to feel his mind go blissfully blank, his limbs feel light and his his cock to go full at the very idea of tending to Wei Ying’s every need. Now, he relishes the chance. Fingertips tingling, he lowers his hands to Wei Ying’s shoulders, kneading the corded muscle there. Wei Ying gives a blissful groan, and Lan Wangji stifles the answering moan that’s building in his throat.
“Now your mouth,” Wei Ying instructs. Lan Wangji lowers his hands to the joints of Wei Ying’s shoulders and presses his mouth to the side of Wei Ying’s throat. Wei Ying twitches. The scent of the bathwater and soap filters up through Lan Wangji’s nostrils. He inhales, licks the line of Wei Ying’s neck, breathes hot breath on his ear. Wei Ying’s skin is sweet and warm beneath his mouth, and Lan Wangji has the urge to pull him out of the tub now and take him to bed. But he knows he’ll get there in the end. It’s his reward for serving his master well.
As if hearing his thoughts, Wei Ying murmurs, “After this I think I’ll have you take me over to the bed. Massage my legs first and then we’ll see what happens.”
Lan Wangji’s hands tighten on Wei Ying’s shoulders at the thought of working his hands on those smooth thighs. His imagination stirs, and in his mind he can hear Wei Ying panting on the bed, carefully and breathlessly instructing Lan Wangji how to open him up and take him. Let go, he’ll breathe. Fuck me until you’re satisfied. Leave bruises on me, my beautiful slave. I want to hurt tomorrow.
But that will come in time. For now, he yields when Wei Ying turns in the bath to capture his lips in a kiss. “How do you feel about me?” Wei Ying asks, a grin draping across his face crookedly.
“I love you, master,” Lan Wangji says with fervor.
Wei Ying giggles. “Very good, my slave, I love you too. Now bring me my robe and take me to our bed.”
