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Here in the flashing dark, the bass so loud Lan Zhan can feel it in his teeth, in his eye sockets, everything pulses. A huge, gargantuan beating heart, every compression and release a neon freezeframe of movement—dizzying, all-encompassing. Heat and sweat rise with every beat, the thick, headying scent of a hundred people moving as one rising with them. Flash—a head tipped back in abandon, flash—the shine of hair wet from dancing, flash—hands on a bare back, flash—
It’s like looking into a kaleidoscope, watching the colours and shapes twirl and move and mesmerise, then realising that everything is twirling and moving, and it’s in every one of your senses and you can’t take the kaleidoscope away from your eye and you can’t escape. It’s intoxicating. It’s suffocating.
Lan Zhan finally makes it to the bathroom door and shoulders his way inside. The lights are hazy, but steady, so much steadier than the flash flash flash of the club, painting wood-panelled walls and scintillating taps in golden shimmer. There is a vase of flowers by the sinks. There is a security guard, hands folded in front of him, next to the hand dryers.
The cubicle door is one of those haze-screen ones, presumably so that security can monitor for illegal drug activity, clear glass until he closes it behind him and presses lock and the matt grey of the haze-screen flickers on, shielding him from the outside. He sits down on the closed toilet lid and attempts to settle his breathing—in, out, slow. The sound of someone entering and the thumping of the club brought in with them, jarring against the peace he’s not yet managed to settle into, and then muffled again as the door swings shut. The terribly clear noise of them doing their business and the whirr of the taps and dryer. The distant aggression of the music again as they leave. Quiet, once again, deafening.
The mask is heavy. He reaches up to undo it, lowering the prickle of silver and sapphires into his lap, creasing his dress pants. It stares back at him, the eye socket illusions flickering off, inanimate. It’s a beautiful mask, but this was a bad idea.
Lan Zhan groans, softly as not to alert the guard, and lets his forehead fall forwards into his hands, massaging the crease left by the mask. The image of Nie Mingjue floats unbidden to the front of his mind, leaning back on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand, Lan Huan’s feet in his lap. You should come, didi, he had said, and sipped his wine, and crooked his lips into a knowing smile. You’d enjoy it.
Enjoy it. Lan Huan had laughed, and smacked him, and said, A-Yao is a bad influence on you, corrupting my didi like that, and then Nie Mingjue had crooked his head and started sliding his hand up Lan Huan’s leg and Lan Zhan had left the room.
It’s not that—It’s not that he’d thought he wouldn’t enjoy it. It’s not that he doesn’t want to enjoy it. It is, perhaps, a little beyond his comfort zone—anonymous sex party in one of the swankiest clubs in New Shanghai, invitation only, a late night even if he doesn’t end up picking anyone up—but that’s not a reason not to attend. He likes sex. He likes—Lan Zhan thought he liked the thought of anonymous sex. Certainly some of his hookups have been anonymous enough—no names exchanged, no love lost—but perhaps his limits stop at not being able to see someone’s face. Even if it’s just fucking, he at least wants to know what his partner looks like.
That’s not the reason you’re not enjoying it, though, is it. He rubs his thumb over a sapphire on one of the mask’s antlers, the faintest smear of oil appearing and disappearing again. It’s a club, and it’s bound to be loud and hot and full of people, even if it is swanky, and it’s not like he’s never been clubbing before—Wei Ying has dragged him out more than enough times—
Wei Ying. Ding ding ding, goes the little voice. He mentally scowls at it. If Wei Ying were here, things would be fine. If Wei Ying were here, he would be dragging Lan Zhan right into the middle of the dance floor, pressing his back up against him and grabbing his wrists to try and get him to dance. He would be laughing and bright and all eyes would be on him. It wouldn’t be long until some cocky asshole sauntered up and started dancing right up into Wei Ying’s space, and Wei Ying would bite his lip and wrap his arms around his neck and the asshole would smirk at Lan Zhan over Wei Ying’s shoulder and slide his hands down over Wei Ying’s ass, and Lan Zhan would have to slink away to a quiet corner to breathe through the red haze coming down over his eyes—
Perhaps it is better, then, that Wei Ying is not here.
There’s a soft ping, and a white message appears against the grey of the door. Cubicle in use for 10 minutes.
Lan Zhan sighs, and sits up straight. The messages are just reminders—hints that even though your door is locked, you’re not completely alone—and as silly as they are, it probably wouldn’t behoove him to stay in here moping for another ten minutes. He puts the mask back on, the eye sockets flickering back on and allowing him to see as normal, and stands, pressing the flush button before unlocking the door.
The security guard doesn’t look at him as he washes his hands, casting an eye over himself in the mirror. The dragon mask gives Lan Zhan another several inches, making him look even taller than he is, and the sliver of chest visible through his unbuttoned shirt is just sexy enough. He looks good. He’s not sure what his goal is for tonight, but at least he looks good.
He nods a thanks at the security guard and breaches the club once more.
Now that he has had time to collect himself, everything is slightly more manageable, and he navigates through the press of bodies to the bar with only minor difficulty. He’s been here for less than half an hour, but Lan Zhan is already parched.
He orders himself a tonic water and turns to watch the room as best he can through the flashes of light. Everyone is masked—as per the entry requirements, of course—and the shine of eagles and wolves and cats catches the light, flickering like wet sand in sunlight. What would Wei Ying wear, he wonders? What animal could even come close to representing—
“Hi.”
He should have foreseen this, really, positioning himself alone at the bar. Well. Maybe his goal is just a quick fuck after all, anonymous or not. He takes a deep breath and turns on his stool.
“Hello.”
The guy is wearing a scintillating golden mask, with big pointy ears like a dog’s, but a neater snout, sharper lines. A fox, perhaps? Paired with a plain grey t-shirt with a neck so wide his entire clavicle is exposed and tight black jeans, it’s a look. A good look. Lan Zhan feels his interest prickling.
“Sooooo,” the guy says, hopping up onto the bar stool opposite him and leaning against the bar. “Wanna buy me a drink?” There’s something weirdly tinny about his voice. A modulator, probably. Lan Zhan’s mask came with one, but he’s only got it set to 30%, preferring to keep some of his own richer tones. The guy shuffles his stool forwards closer to Lan Zhan. “I like your mask.”
“Thank you,” Lan Zhan says, and calls the bartender over. He tilts his head at the fox, who grins and leans his chin on his hand to order a whisky. Lan Zhan’s brain very happily reminds him that whisky is Wei Ying’s drink of choice. He firmly shuts it up.
Whisky in hand, the fox takes a sip, and knocks his knee against Lan Zhan’s. “You’re fucking sexy, you know. It’s so loud here, holy shit, I can barely hear myself speak.” He pauses, casting his gaze over the dance floor. “I thought I was gonna want to dance tonight but I’m kinda over it. But if you wanna—”
“We could go somewhere quieter,” Lan Zhan says. He is not entirely sure what compels him to say it, only that the fox is bright and energetic, and his neck looks fucking delicious, and his hand is currently on Lan Zhan’s knee, and he reminds—he has a nice smile.
He shows it off again—wide, teasing, toothy—and leans closer to Lan Zhan. “Oh yeah? You know somewhere?”
“There are—rooms, upstairs,” Lan Zhan says. He had seen the sign when he came in. “Better for—talking.”
“Talking, huh,” the fox says, and hops down off his stool. He slides his hand into Lan Zhan’s, leaving his whisky on the bar. “Okay, big scary dragon. Take me to your lair.”
Lan Zhan drags his gaze back up from where it had caught on his clavicle, and stands. The intense atmosphere in the bar had shaken his confidence, had sent him hiding in the bathroom; now, with the fox slinking through the crowd in the direction of the stairs, he can feel it settling once again into the muscles of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin.
He’s got a hunger bruising at the underside of his skin and demanding to be satiated. He’s done this before. He knows what happens next.
There must be a sound barrier above the dance floor, because the music suddenly dims, softening as they reach the top of the stairs. The fox turns back to him, the same easy grin dancing beneath the bottom edge of his mask, mesmerising in the moving light. The bicep on the arm extended towards Lan Zhan catches flashes of it: blue, pink. He wants to taste that light.
Up here, it is clearer that this is no ordinary club night, no ordinary party. The bodies entwined against the balcony rail behind the fox are moving, sinuous, skin on skin in the haze of light and sound. There are couches and chairs and tables spread around the span of the balcony, and on them more couples, more-than-couples, hands and mouths and glistening lips. The heady feeling of desire, infectious all around them. Lan Zhan can feel it pressing at his edges.
He shifts their grips so that his hand is wrapped more firmly around the fox’s fine-boned wrist and tugs him, swift, towards the far end of the balcony, to the alcoves hidden behind thick sways of old-fashioned velvet curtain and glittering beads. The fox laughs breathlessly, the sound of it lost to the gasps around them, stumbling against Lan Zhan’s back and righting himself with a hand on his waist. It burns through the fabric of his jacket and shirt like a brand.
Lan Zhan slows as they approach an open alcove, the curtain pulled back enough to reveal a sumptuous sofa, a low table, and thick pile carpet. He turns so that he is facing the fox, whose grin is different, now, with a hint of—nervousness? Excitement? There are only two people whose smiles Lan Zhan can read well enough that he would be able to tell, and he is fairly certain neither of them are here tonight, despite his brother’s suggestion that he would enjoy it. The fox is shorter than Lan Zhan, just enough that he has to tilt his head a little to look at him, and it’s so reminiscent of the way that Wei Ying watches him when he’s talking that Lan Zhan gets stuck, for a moment, on why he’s doing this when he knows—
The fox’s fingers trail up the inside of his wrist. He leans in, close, close enough that Lan Zhan can feel the warmth of him against his chest, and dips his head against the side of Lan Zhan’s jaw. The cool metal of his mask is sharp, unusual on his cheek.
“These fucking masks,” the fox says, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Can’t even kiss you.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to Lan Zhan; his mask is large and prominent enough that drinking without a straw has been a challenge, so of course kissing would be too. That’s fine. They’re not here for sweet romances. He ignores the part of him that sinks at the fact that he won’t be able to taste that alluring smile and circles his fingers around the fox’s wrist, pulling his hand out from the back of his jacket. “I am sure we will make do,” he says. The fox laughs, a high sound, a little shocked. Lan Zhan feels the gentle glow of confidence settle fully into his chest. “Here.”
He steps them back into the alcove, the fox following, attention rapt, the silvery haze of his mask’s socket illusions flashing a little in the dim light. The curtain may look old-fashioned, but it slides shut behind them automatically, and the lights in the room come up soft and golden. The music from the club is muffled, enough to be heard but not enough to be distracting. He can hear the fox’s breathing.
Lan Zhan slides his fingers up the fox’s bare arm, feeling the thin skin over his wrist, the shape of his bone there, higher to the softness of the inside of his elbow, warm and intimate. He places his thumb against it, presses down; the fox’s breath catches, a small sound that fixes itself in Lan Zhan’s chest. It’s easy, then, to move his other hand up to the fox’s shoulder, to slide it over his neck, to settle it at the base, spanning his clavicle. The fox has gone very still, hands frozen on Lan Zhan’s jacket. He wishes he could see the fox’s eyes, curses the mask’s silvery eye socket illusions. He wants to know how wide they are. How huge his pupils have gone.
“Turn around,” Lan Zhan murmurs, reluctantly releasing his thumb against the fox’s elbow, moving his hand to the fox’s waist instead. The fox stares at him, then turns, slowly, Lan Zhan’s fingers dragging against the exposed skin of his neck. His hair is tied up in a messy bun, tucked under the strap of the mask. Lan Zhan looks at it, an innocent buckle above the temptation of his nape. He thinks about undoing it. What that would mean.
But there are rules this evening, and the fox entered this alcove with him under that understanding. Lan Zhan is not so desperate to see the shape of his eyes that he would make the fox uncomfortable. Instead, he steps closer, dips his fingers under the hem of that plain grey shirt, pushing it up until he can feel smooth, warm skin. This close, Lan Zhan can smell the faint scent of him—sweat and whisky and something softer, floral. Jasmine, perhaps. His mask is—a pain, really, but he maneouvres it over the fox’s shoulder, enough that he can press his nose against the joint of his neck and shoulder and breathe that scent in. The fox makes a little noise in his throat. Lan Zhan tightens his fingers at his waist, inhales again, deeper, suffusing himself with it. There’s something tugging at the back of his mind, some thought that won’t articulate itself. Something because of the jasmine. He ignores it, and opens his mouth.
“Ah—h,” the fox exhales, the back of his head bumping against Lan Zhan’s temple as he tips it back. He tastes like skin and salt and boy. Lan Zhan sucks on the same spot again, harder, and the fox makes another noise, rugged in his throat. Good. Lan Zhan likes a vocal partner. His neck is wet, hot; Lan Zhan can feel the fine silk of hairs there under his tongue. He scrapes his teeth over it. The fox’s breath comes faster. He bites down.
“Oh, fuck, oh, that’s—ah—”
It’s easy, then, once he’s laid this claiming mark—easy to drag his fingers over the supple expanse of the fox’s belly, to feel the push-pull of his breath, the movement of his ribcage. Lan Zhan slides his hand up, bringing the fabric of the shirt with it, fingers tightening and loosening of their own accord—a hunger in them that aches in his teeth and strains at the front of his dress pants. His thumb catches a nipple, and Lan Zhan circles it, pressing down—then follows the movement with his tongue, teeth and mouth on the crest of the fox’s shoulder. He drags his lips over the top of his back and to the knob of bone at the top of his spine, lingering enough that the fox drops his head forward, leaning against the curtained wall, hands clenching and unclenching in the fabric there. His ass is pressed plump and firm against Lan Zhan’s cock. The fox grinds it back; a guttural sound leaves his throat.
“Move,” Lan Zhan says, instruction low in his voice. The fox does as he says, rocking his hips back and back and back with increasing desperation. Lan Zhan palms him over the front of his jeans, presses down hard on his matching arousal and squeezes. The fox half-shouts, “Fuck!”, and his hand wraps around the back of Lan Zhan’s neck, holding him close.
“Please,” he gasps, writhing, his body sinuous. Lan Zhan’s breath is hot and fast with the taste of him. “Please, fuck me, fuck me, I want—”
“Needy,” Lan Zhan comments as he flicks open the button of his jeans. “Whiny.”
“Because—because of you, you’re—” the fox gasps, rocking forwards now, hips stuttering as Lan Zhan slides his hand inside his underwear, strokes over the blazing heat of him. “You have no idea—”
“No idea?” Lan Zhan asks. It’s only through years of practice that he manages to keep his voice steady, low, commanding. The veil between his cool exterior and the savage beast on the inside raring to be let loose is thinning. He tightens his fist around the fox, flicks the head of his cock hard enough to hurt. The fox sobs, ragged. Lan Zhan bites his neck again, and speaks against the flush of his skin. “I have some idea.”
“Please,” the fox sobs, again, and the vocal modulator flickers with it, his real voice breaking through with the sob. Something jolts through Lan Zhan. He can’t—He doesn’t understand why, why that one sob should affect him so much—this is just some guy, some hot guy he’s picked up in a bar with a bright smile and—Perhaps someone spiked his tonic water, perhaps the atmosphere really did get to him, perhaps he’s just so horny that his body is making its own decisions for him. Finding the closest thing to what he wants the most, and painting a pretty picture over it, just like a mask, dressing it up in the pretense that Lan Zhan could have—this. That he could have him.
“Uh,” the fox says, not sobbing now, and Lan Zhan realises he’s frozen, one hand down his pants and the other twisted around a nipple, mouth open against his trapezius. “Is everything okay?”
The modulator is back again now, a slight tinniness to the words, and the panic gripping at Lan Zhan’s throat lessens, a little. He’s just some guy. Some fox-masked twink in a bar.
“Fine,” Lan Zhan replies, his voice rough. He clears his throat, and loosens his grip on the fox’s dick, wiping the precome off on his stomach. “Get on the couch.”
The fox is hesitant, at first, his shoulder pressing against Lan Zhan’s chest as he turns, breath catching. He stops, halfway leaning into him, and Lan Zhan can see how red his lips are, bitten and wet. His shirt is still crumpled at his waist. He looks very young, suddenly, unsure in his movements, and Lan Zhan wraps a gentle hand around his wrist, giving him a nudge towards the couch. “Go,” he says, softer now, and the fox stares at him, and stares at him, then nods.
On the couch, Lan Zhan turns him round again, makes him lean against the back of it, then spreads the fox’s knees and slides his palms over the curves of his ass. It’s easier, like this, met only with the back of his head, easier to remember—to forget. To forget who he is not.
His jeans peel off slowly, and Lan Zhan traces the skin revealed by them, a freckle just under the curve of his left cheek. He presses his thumb against it, watches the skin dip around it, watches it go pale with the pressure. His index finger slips under the black edge of the fox’s briefs, hot and intimate. The fox gasps, pressing his masked face into his arms against the back of the couch. Lan Zhan moves his finger in, upwards, searching: finds the warm centre of him, hungry, wanting.
“Please,” breathes the fox. Lan Zhan looks up at where his shirt is pushed up around his shoulders, the golden glisten of his back, the line of his spine. “You can.”
He’s burning when Lan Zhan presses his finger in, dry and seeking. His throat makes a little hiccuping noise, and his shoulders shake; Lan Zhan slides his finger out, then back in, and out again. “You like it,” he says, watching the way the fox’s hand clenches and unclenches in the fabric of the couch, like it had in the curtain. “You’re desperate for it.”
“So desperate,” the fox breathes, and pushes his hips back, pleading. Lan Zhan gives him what he wants, swapping to his middle finger, all the way, finding the place that makes the fox shudder and moan into the couch cushions, mouth sliding up and down the fold of his arm. “Fuck, ah, please—your, I want—”
Lan Zhan teases him for a little while longer, rubbing over his prostate, the dry friction hot on his skin. The fox goes weak with it, his body sinking down against the couch, and Lan Zhan has to hold him up by the hips, to hold him in place. It’s only when the fox is mumbling nonsense into his arm that he relents, standing, crossing to the table.
The fox lifts his head, confused as though he’s only just woken up, and watches Lan Zhan methodically remove his jacket, unbutton his shirt, slide off his pants. He’s wet against the front of his underwear. He takes that off too. The fox makes a little noise when he sees his cock, something caught between shock and desperation and panic. Lan Zhan smirks and selects a condom from the bowl on the table.
The fox pants the whole way through, whines that he doesn’t need lube, that Lan Zhan should just take him, just fuck him raw on the floor. Lan Zhan wants to. He’s conservative in the pump he does into his hand. Lube for appearances’ sake.
Being inside the fox is hot, and tight, and exhilarating, made even more so by the way he writhes and gasps underneath Lan Zhan, unable to stay still, unable to shut up. When Lan Zhan is finally in to the hilt, he leans forward and wraps a hand around the fox’s jaw, the tips of his fingers against his lips, thumb pressed into the soft flesh below his ear. “Needy,” he says again. The fox laughs desperately and tries to rock his hips back against where Lan Zhan has him pinned.
He intends to start slow. He does start slow, mostly: long drawn-out thrusts that the fox matches in groans, thrusts that make Lan Zhan want to scream. He’s impatient—he always has been. He doesn’t want to hold back, and he’s pretty sure the fox doesn’t want him to either. So he doesn’t.
It gets rough fast, one hand on the fox’s jaw holding his head down against the couch, the other tight on his waist, tight on his ass, tight on his thigh. The noises the fox makes are a revelation. Lan Zhan can feel every gasp and every cry and every sob resonating right through his skin, right to his cock, leaving him wanting more, more, more. He increases the pace until he is sure the slapping of their skin together will be leaving bruises. The fox still won’t stop moving, so Lan Zhan pins him harder, leaning down so that he can bite his shoulder, his neck, his nape. He’s pretty sure the fox is crying. Lan Zhan feels like a firecracker, burning up at breakneck speed, every part of him sparking.
The fox sucks Lan Zhan’s fingers into his mouth, sobs around them, hot and open and wet, and that’s enough. Lan Zhan feels the crest of his orgasm like the roar of the ocean, dragging him under, swallowing him. He presses his forehead against the fox’s back, not caring that the mask is in the way, not caring that it’s being pushed askew. Everything narrows down to that single moment, that single feeling of the heat around him, in him, all over.
He recovers enough to notice the fox’s quiet whimpers, the movement of his hand over his wet cock, trapped against the couch cushions. Lan Zhan stays inside him, knocks his hand out of the way, gets him there himself. The fox comes with his head tipped back over Lan Zhan’s shoulder, the edge of his mask pressed into his ear, the incessant bob of his adam’s apple and the slick red of his lips, open in ecstasy. He’s stunning. He’s absolutely beautiful.
The guilt crashes over him like a wave breaking. Lan Zhan is not allowed to find him beautiful. Sexy, hot, fuckable, yes, but beautiful—beautiful is not for some twink in a bar. Beautiful is a carefully guarded corner of Lan Zhan’s heart, tended and hidden away behind vine-grown walls and a door with a key that he will never find, and beautiful aches and beautiful yearns but beautiful doesn’t just find its way onto the face of a man in a fox mask with Lan Zhan’s hand on his throat and Lan Zhan’s come in his ass. The fox is not him. He’s never going to be him. He can’t—Lan Zhan can’t let himself believe that, even just for a fantasy, even when he will never know who this beautiful boy is, because his heart is treacherous and his desire has him by the throat and that carefully tended beautiful garden is where Lan Zhan will make his grave.
He doesn’t want to be here. He can’t, not with—he needs to leave. But he can’t just leave the fox like this, so Lan Zhan stays quiet as he slides out, as they clean up, as they get dressed. The fox is quiet, too, clearing sensing that something is—something has changed. He gives Lan Zhan a little smile, next to the curtain that will lead back out into the club and the real world; it’s got a melancholy edge to it, like a lost song.
“Thank you,” he says, voice soft. Lan Zhan wants to kiss him. Lan Zhan wants to throw him out the door and never look at him again. “That was—fun.”
Lan Zhan nods, aware of how stiff he is. The strap of the mask is digging into his head now, the weight of it almost unbearable. He wants to take it off. “Mn.”
“I’m gonna—I should get home, probably. Beauty sleep. Hah.”
Lan Zhan nods again, aware that he should be saying something, should be doing something, but he—can’t. His emotions are in turmoil. His thoughts are a mess.
“Okay,” the fox says. He presses the button to open the curtains. The sound of the music outside pulses back in, unwelcome and discordant. “Um. Bye.”
Lan Zhan stands there for a long time after the fox has left. The mask can hide his eyes and his face and his voice, but it doesn’t do anything to stop the wetness from dripping down the side of his nose, off his chin. It doesn’t do anything to stop the breaking.
*
Wei Ying usually messages him every day, several times a day—stickers, pictures of what he’s eating, questions about which shirt to pair with which shoes. Sometimes, he’ll go quiet, absorbed in the all-consuming thrill of a new project, only surfacing days later at Lan Zhan’s apartment door with a grin on his face and some invention in his hands, sleep-deprived and messy and so so proud of himself. Lan Zhan will sit and listen to him talk about how his new toy can absorb the viruses it finds on the cloud and disable them completely, before they even reach any mainframes, let alone personal devices. He’ll make Wei Ying tea and give him fresh towels for a shower and pointlessly tidy things until Wei Ying crashes on the mattress next to him and clocks out for a solid fourteen hours.
So it’s not unusual, to not hear from him for a while. For several days. He hadn’t mentioned being excited about something new, last they had spoken—Lan Zhan scrolls back up, rereads their messages about the new air garden above the shopping district, vague plans to go and visit together—but then it’s never a given that he will. Lan Zhan has become accustomed to Wei Ying’s flightiness. His excitement about the world is one of Lan Zhan’s favourite things about him.
But it has been two weeks. Two weeks is the longest, since they found each other again, that Wei Ying has not messaged him.
Lan Zhan has checked his socials, and he’s shared a couple of things, liked a couple of things, so he’s not—nothing bad has happened to him, but it’s just. Weird. That he hasn’t.
His last message, from two weeks ago, reads: we’ll have to watch it together sometime! I know you are gonna be allllllll over the mc lmao they are such freaks 😜
Lan Zhan had replied with a thumbs up emoji. He had been getting ready to go out, halfway into his shirt, mask glittering on the bed behind him. He had been planning to reply more enthusiastically when he got home. He hadn’t.
He sighs, and rolls over in bed, tugging the blanket up higher over his chest. A travelcraft floats silently past his window towards the stop at the end of the block, bright lights glancing in shattered lines across his ceiling and wall, caught in the slats of the blinds. 23:48, his screen winks at him. His work alarm is set for five. Something churns in the base of his gut.
He flicks back to Wei Ying’s profile, stares at the picture of him grinning up at the camera with sand in his hair and the sun on his cheek. His arm casually hanging around Lan Zhan’s shoulder, his own expression barely discernible behind dark sunglasses and the slight frown of his lips. Nie Huaisang had taken it not long after Wei Ying had returned, out of nowhere, back on New Earth with new scars and a new weariness around his eyes. They had gone to the beach out to the east, evening sun and a gentle breeze, a whole group of them from their old college dorm. Some sort of five-year reunion. Lan Zhan wouldn’t have gone, had it not been for Wei Ying.
He sighs again and tosses his phone away across the mattress, staring up at the plain ceiling, the square light fitting just visible in the dark. He’s not an idiot; he can clearly see the connection between that evening and Wei Ying not messaging him. He just can’t understand why.
It’s not like—it’s not like Wei Ying doesn’t know he’s sexually active, surely? They’ve never explicitly discussed it, but he’s certainly mentioned—things, in passing. It wouldn’t be a reason to stop messaging him, that’s—that is far from what Wei Ying is like, the kind of person Wei Ying is. Wei Ying is a self-described sexual agency evangelist. He wouldn’t stop messaging Lan Zhanbecause he found out he fucked. If anything, he would be messaging him more, wanting to know details—
Huaisang must have told him, Lan Zhan has surmised. Maybe it was the anonymous nature of it that had turned him off, maybe it was the fact that Lan Zhan was so desperate to work the need out of his skin that he would fuck some guy in a mask just for the thrill of it. Maybe he didn’t like the fact that it had been an invite-only party. Elitist, and Lan Zhan would agree with him. He had still gone anyway. Maybe Wei Ying resents that he didn’t invite him. Maybe he wanted to get in on the fun.
But none of this reasoning makes sense, not for Wei Ying, not for the guy who would make out with someone in a crowded club and catch Lan Zhan’s eye over their shoulder, mouth open and lips wet and eyes challenging, showing off, showing him just how daring he was. No. There had to be another—
He’s jealous, says a tiny voice in time with the churning in his gut. Jealous of you, jealous of that fox, jealous of what happened—
Shut up, Lan Zhan tells it, rolling over. He can’t—can’t allow himself to think that, can’t allow himself to imagine—to dare—
A pool of light on his mattress: his phone screen lighting up. Lan Zhan stares at it. He can taste his own disgust at himself, for doing what he did, for allowing himself to hope, to imagine, to pretend. His heart is a tarry spread of desire, of unchecked wanting. It clings to what it touches and it doesn’t let go. That beautiful, secret garden, drowning in the thick black slick of it.
His phone screen lights up again, and he rolls closer, sliding his hand out across the sheets to drag it towards himself, to squint at it in the darkness.
00:09. Two messages; Wei Ying’s face in sand and sunlight. His heart leaps in his throat, his chest twisting hot and vicious with—hope, desire, desperation. Fear. He opens them with a thumb that only trembles a little.
hey
we need to talk
The churning in his gut gets faster, louder, stronger, until it’s crashing in his ears, pressing at his throat. He swallows. Swallows again. Stares at those four words, the black on white of them, the world of loss that they hold. Lan Zhan can taste his heartbeat. He feels like he’s been shoved off a cliff and is tumbling down, down, down into the smash of rocks and ocean below.
The screen fades, going dark. He taps at it again to wake it, stares and stares and sees the little typing bubble pop up, three dots bouncing like children in line for ice cream. They disappear again after too short a moment, and he waits, keeps tapping his screen to keep it open, waits again until a full minute has passed. They reappear, for longer this time; his stomach clenches, sick with anticipation. Wei Ying types for a long time. Lan Zhan’s thumb hovers over his keyboard, stuck with what to say, terrified to interrupt him. His entire life revolves around those three little dots.
They disappear again.
Suddenly, his phone fills up with the image of Wei Ying, the ease of his grin, the sunlight tucked into the corners of his eyes, the drape of his arm on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. He’s calling.
Lan Zhan fumbles for the reply button before he can think, staring at the screen, the 00:01 that appears as he listens to silence, and then a breath, shuddering.
“Lan Zhan.”
Wei Ying’s voice is small, unsure. He breathes again, steadier this time, and Lan Zhan clings to the sound of it.
“Lan Zhan, I—” A pause. Soft, away from the receiver, a quiet fuck. Then his voice, louder again and more sure of itself. “Lan Zhan, we need to talk about that night.”
Lan Zhan’s stomach executes a perfect three turn somersault. He swallows. “Okay,” he says.
“Why didn’t you say anything,” Wei Ying says, not a question. “You—you didn’t even—”
“I am sorry,” Lan Zhan interjects, hearing the upset in Wei Ying’s voice. “I—I regret it. I should not have—”
“You regret it,” Wei Ying repeats, voice flat.
“Yes,” Lan Zhan replies, and he can feel the pulse of his heart breaking, can feel how Wei Ying is hurting, even if he still doesn’t understand why or what—but that doesn’t matter, because he is hurting Wei Ying, and he can’t hurt Wei Ying. “I acted out of selfish need, I—I am a person of desire, I could not—you know how these things go. It did not. It did not mean anything.”
Silence. Wei Ying’s breath, and the sound of footsteps passing, and then silence. When he speaks, his voice is cold, hard.
“It didn’t mean anything.”
Lan Zhan feels at once that he has done something terribly, horribly wrong. He leans forwards, stares unseeing at the dark expanse of his sheets. “Uh. No.”
More silence. He feels like he’s been punched in the chest. There’s some part of him that is screaming at the injustice. He wants to ask, what the fuck is your problem, he wants to reach through the phone and shake Wei Ying, he wants to cry. The rest of him feels just as cold as Wei Ying’s voice.
“I see.” Wei Ying’s voice breaks the silence, steel-like. “Okay. I understand. Right. Uh—bye.”
“Wai—”
The line goes dead before he can finish the word, deafening silence against his ear. He takes a deep breath, and then another. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck has he done.
It takes him three attempts to unlock his phone, fingers shaking and the room too dark for face recognition. The glare of two weeks of unsent messages stares back at him. He types, fast. Desperate.
Wei Ying I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Please can you explain what I’ve done wrong
Blue tick. No reply. His thumbs stutter on the keyboard.
Wei Ying I am so sorry I didn’t know you would get this upset about it
It was just a quick fuck at a party you know that’s the kind of thing I do
I don’t know what has gone wrong
are you jealous? I should have invited you I’m sorry
or not? i know it’s the kind of thing that you hate i know it’s super elitist im sorry im doing my best to try and break out of these things but mingjue invited me and i thought it would be fun and i should have thought it through bett
A bubble, dots. He pauses halfway through his harried typing, watching them bounce, pulse in his mouth.
What?
He stares at the message. What what? He backspaces the last couple of words, then the whole thing. Huh?
Wei Ying’s answer is swift. Why should you have invited me I was there
He stares at it. I was there. I was there. He was—
His heart is jackrabbiting so fast it is going to explode out of his skin. Hang on. You were at the party?
There’s a much longer pause, this time. Lan Zhan stares at his phone screen until it goes dark, then stares at the faint shine of it in the dim light, and thinks of the flash and pulse and sweat of the club—thinks about how he had thought Wei Ying would have been right there, in the middle of it all, how Wei Ying wasn’t there, but—
His phone lights up. Wei Ying’s grinning face on a sunny beach. His shirt, open. The curve of his clavicle.
Lan Zhan nearly drops his phone.
He doesn’t, because he fumbles it fast enough to reply before it rings out, to press the green button with shaky fingers and hold it to his ear, breath coming heavy, fast—
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying’s voice says on the other end. It’s thick with tension, with restraint. “Lan Zhan, tell me you knew.”
“Knew what,” Lan Zhan says. He thinks he might die.
Wei Ying’s breath comes out long and shaky. “Fuck,” he says. “Shit. Fuck. Lan Zhan, I thought—You really didn’t know?”
Lan Zhan swallows with a throat that is completely dry. He feels numb, unreal. Like he is looking down on himself from a great height. “Didn’t know what.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and sobs. The same jolt goes through Lan Zhan that had gone through him then, when the modulator had glitched, when the sound of a sob had knocked him sideways and frozen him in place. His fingers are so tight around his phone that he’s scared he might break it. That had—the fox—the smile and the teasing and the fine-boned wrist and the line of his neck and the smell of him—jasmine, of course, always jasmine—that had been—
“Wei Ying,” he says, and Wei Ying sobs again, and says, “It was me, Lan Zhan, it was me.”
*
Their knees press against each other on the carpet, the living room lowlit with the uplighting around the ceiling, the melancholic glow of the fish tank along the wall, the dim lamp in the hall. The climate control hums softly, punctuated by the occasional whirr of the fish tank’s filter. Their matching breath, slow steadiness belying the tension pent up beneath, fills the space between them. Lan Zhan looks at him, looks and looks and looks at him. Wei Ying looks back, his eyes wide, red-rimmed, wet.
“I am sorry,” he says again. Wei Ying shakes his head and tightens his hands around Lan Zhan’s, silent. His thumb presses against the soft skin between Lan Zhan’s thumb and forefinger, denting it, his nail scoring a neat line into the flesh. Wei Ying shakes his head, and tightens his lips, and squeezes. “Wei Ying—”
“No. Shh.”
Lan Zhan shushes, and waits. The clock display on the screen on the wall above them blinks 00:53. Another travelcraft passes by, streaks of light on the ceiling. Wei Ying had been outside, on the other end of the call. He’d come here on the travelcraft at midnight to see him, to talk to him, because—because Wei Ying had been the fox, and Lan Zhan had been with him, and Lan Zhan hadn’t known, he hadn’t realised, and everything within him is grieving at the fact.
“I thought you knew,” Wei Ying says, after a long while. It’s the most he’s spoken since he entered the apartment, slipped his shoes off, wrapped his fingers around Lan Zhan’s wrist and dragged him onto the living room floor. Since he’d sat down and pulled Lan Zhan down with him, had pressed their knees together. Since Wei Ying had looked at him with wide, red-rimmed, wet eyes.
“I thought you knew,” Wei Ying repeats. “I thought you knew it was me, I thought you were—I thought, maybe this is how he wants it.” He lessens the pressure on Lan Zhan’s hand, the skin where he had pressed his nail pale, then reddening. “I saw you at the bar and I—There was only one person who would come to a sex party in a suit and polished shoes and drink tonic water, and I thought—I thought you knew.”
“I am sorry,” Lan Zhan says again, because it’s all he can say. He hates himself. He hates himself for not recognising him. For giving Wei Ying the entirety of who he is, and still not recognising him. For getting so caught up in the fantasy and the want that he didn’t even recognise what he had right in front of him.
“No,” Wei Ying reprimands him, firm, stubborn. “No apologies. It was—It was literally anonymous, of course you wouldn’t—You didn’t know I was going to be there. I didn’t tell you. I just. I thought, if this is the only way I can have him, then this is the only way I can have him, and I—”
The words ring like a sound grenade through Lan Zhan’s ears. The only way I can have him. Wei Ying—Wei Ying wanted—
“I’m sorry,” Wei Ying continues. Lan Zhan meets his eyes and sees that he is freely crying, tears dripping silently off his cheeks. He moves to wipe them, but Wei Ying’s grip on his hands is too strong, and he shakes his head again. “I’m sorry that I took advantage of that, that I—I didn’t tell you, that I didn’t let you make a clearer choice—if you had known it was me, then maybe you wouldn’t have want—”
Lan Zhan tugs his hands free, with force, and presses one over Wei Ying’s mouth, spanning the entirety of his face and jaw. Wei Ying’s eyes widen above it.
“I wanted,” Lan Zhan says, and it comes out low, desperate. “Wei Ying. I wanted him—You do not know how much I wanted him to be you.”
Silence. Wei Ying stares at him over his palm, his eyes roving Lan Zhan’s face, questioning, shocked. Lan Zhan feels him swallow. He leans in, closer, the soft puff of Wei Ying’s breath against his skin. Lan Zhan is flayed open, raw, the walls of his garden torn down and tar spilling in, unstoppable. He wants Wei Ying. He wants him with everything he has. Lan Zhan wanted him then, with everything he had.
“Wei Ying,” he breathes, close enough now that he can see Wei Ying’s individual eyelashes even in the low light, dark with tears. “Wei Ying, I have wanted you for as long as I have known you.”
Wei Ying’s hands twitch on his knees. His eyes are huge. His breath is hot, hotter than hot, on Lan Zhan’s palm. He hasn’t moved since Lan Zhan put it there.
He lifts his hand, gently, slowly, then slides his thumb down, over Wei Ying’s cheekbone and the curve of his nose and the bow of his upper lip. Settles it, light, on the plump pink of his bottom one and holds him there. Wei Ying stares. His mouth is wet; every time he exhales, Lan Zhan feels it. He pushes, slightly, and Wei Ying opens for him like a promise, lets Lan Zhan press his thumb against his teeth, between his teeth, slippery on his tongue. He closes his lips around it, achingly slow, and sucks. It goes right to Lan Zhan’s every extremity.
“Wei Ying,” he breathes, leaning forwards far enough that they have no choice but to tip backwards on the thick pile of Lan Zhan’s carpet, Wei Ying’s knees giving way to him, his hand bunching in the fabric of Lan Zhan’s sleep shirt, his lips wet and hot and open. Lan Zhan holds himself up above him, feeling every inch of where they are pressed chest to chest, hip to hip. Lan Zhan wants to devour him.
His thumb slips out of Wei Ying’s mouth, messy, a line of glistening spit following it down his cheek to the curve of his ear. Lan Zhan brushes his hair back, caught in the hungry depth of his eyes, their breathing perfectly aligned. Everything else has faded away. There is only this: Wei Ying, and him, and everything they are.
“The masks,” Wei Ying says, voice so soft it could be a whisper. “They were—You had no idea how much I wanted to—” He pauses, and his tongue slips across his bottom lip, moistening it. “Kiss me, Lan Zhan, I want you to kiss me.”
Lan Zhan drags towards him like syrup dripping from a spoon: slowly, slowly, then all at once. Wei Ying’s mouth is perfect. His breath fans hot against Lan Zhan’s chin, hungry puffs of it, and Lan Zhan swallows it into his own lungs. Wei Ying’s hand in his shirt twists and writhes; Lan Zhan presses him down, pushes him into the carpet with the force of his hunger, drinks from him like a wanderer who has been without water for days and has come across a pool as clear and as sweet as moonlight. Wei Ying tastes like whisky, and want, and home.
They don’t make it to his bedroom; they don’t even make it to the couch. Wei Ying’s real voice—his real gasps, and real whines, and real moans—is something that no vocal modulator will ever come close to replicating. He is everything. His hands are needy and shaky on Lan Zhan’s back, his ankles smooth against his thighs. His throat tastes of sweat and the lingering sweetness of jasmine. Wei Ying is just as hot and tight as he had been the first time, whimpering again and again as Lan Zhan fucks into him, the sweet swell of his ass under his hands. He cries, again, tears so beautiful they make Lan Zhan want to completely change careers and become an artist. He presses Wei Ying down and licks them away, open mouth on his chin and jaw and cheekbone and on his lips. Lan Zhan kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.
After, they sit in the bathtub, 01:41 glaring somewhere on a wall, forgotten. Lan Zhan will not go to work tomorrow. They will go to bed, wrapped around one another like vines twisted together, and they will sleep. Then they will wake up and fuck again, and he will get to see Wei Ying in daylight: the way his eyes sparkle when he teases Lan Zhan, the way they go wide and deep when Lan Zhan teases him back. He will make them breakfast and they will lounge around his apartment and kiss some more, and then they will talk, and he will tell him about that night, and about all the desires that had always lingered at the edges of his mind, but that he had never let himself hope for. About how Wei Ying is a beautiful bower, tended and cared for. About the tar.
And Wei Ying will climb on top of him, and tell him that he is not tar, but rainwater, sweet and vital and all-encompassing, and that the garden wouldn’t survive without that water. And then he will laugh and tease Lan Zhan for his cheesy metaphors and kiss him and push him down onto the couch, and the rest of their afternoon will sweep by like a sunbeam sweeping across an empty floor.
In the bathtub, he drags a hand through the water, up Wei Ying’s thigh, around his waist. Pulls Wei Ying back against him and rests his temple against the side of his head. Wei Ying hums, happy, and holds Lan Zhan too.