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It’s Christmas Eve and Zhou Zishu knows he’s playing with fire.
He’s been aware of this for a long time but tonight, he feels it acutely. The knowledge is a hot, molten weight in the pit of his stomach; the sense of danger a low current of electricity running through his body and igniting his nerve endings.
This morning, Zhou Zishu lied to Helian Yi.
He’s done this before, too, but only ever by omission. White lies he told himself were necessary and barely lies anyway, as if that made it better. But there is no euphemizing what Zhou Zishu did this morning. He lied, blatantly, to his cousin’s face, all the while making Han Ying and Qin Jiuxiao complicit in his perjury.
The most unsettling part? It was easy. Lying to Helian Yi came easy to him, easier even than lying to a mark on the job because he’s known Helian Yi for all thirty-two years of his life.
I’ll be gone a few days, he said. Scouting trip. I’m not satisfied with the recruits Jiang Yizhen brought in. Duan Pengju will report to you while I’m gone, I’m taking Han Ying and Qin Jiuxiao with me.
Zhou Zishu knows Helian Yi doesn’t care about recruitment any more than he cares about casualties. Helian Yi cares about results. He cares about his money, his reputation and his campaign, and the ways Tian Chuang can help him advance in any of these areas.
(It used to be different. Helian Yi used to be different. Noble. Just. Ambitious. Burning with all the righteous anger of a visionary. Zhou Zishu used to be different, too. Where Helian Yi had the vision, he had the will, the grit, unrelentingly and ruthlessly devoted to their cause. Now Helian Yi is so deformed by power and greed Zhou Zishu barely recognizes him anymore, and Zhou Zishu is—tired.)
(They used to be different. They used to be family.)
Zhou Zishu didn’t feel guilty afterward. All he felt was the weight of the realization that he’d passed the point of no return, and restlessness to leave Tian Chuang’s oppressive underground complex behind as soon as possible.
Yet, even now, his thoughts are lost in the maze of gray concrete walls and steel doors. It’s ironic, he supposes, that he risked so much for this evening only to have his paranoia render it unenjoyable.
Zhou Zishu has never celebrated Christmas before. It’s not a traditional Chinese holiday, and there was barely enough money around for those in his family. A certain barista, however, adores Christmas. The Ghost Café has been decked out in lavish decoration for all of December because not only is there no higher authority to tell Wen Kexing no, stop, this is enough fake snow on the windowsills, there is also the bonus factor that Wen Kexing is (mysteriously, according to public records) extremely wealthy and can afford to buy four large Christmas trees for every corner of the café.
Currently, Gu Xiang and Jiuxiao are almost done decorating the second tree. They’re a good team and it looks like they are having fun: Jiuxiao marvels at the expensive golden ornaments Wen Kexing bought and Gu Xiang is perched on his shoulders like a cat, trying to attach a star to the crown of the tree. She succeeds and they high-five. Jiuxiao seems more genuinely happy about the attached star than about any of his successful missions as a Tian Chuang agent.
(What was Zhou Zishu thinking, recruiting him? Jiuxiao is eager and loyal, but he isn’t built for this life. Zhou Zishu knew that, of course, but recruited him anyway out of pure selfishness, because at that time he’d been miserable and adrift and Jiuxiao felt like family where Helian Yi didn’t anymore.)
(But Zhou Zishu doesn’t want to think about that right now, damn it. He wants to be free of Tian Chuang for the duration of this evening, to not have all the life choices he regrets replay in his mind on repeat.)
Gu Xiang swings the back of her shoeless, purple-socked feet against Jiuxiao’s chest and points at the third Christmas tree, marking their next target. Like a horse, Jiuxiao trots in the direction Gu Xiang indicated, balancing two heavy crates of tree ornaments in his arms and the teenage girl’s weight on his shoulders.
Zhou Zishu supposes it’s one good way to get some use out of Tian Chuang’s rigorous training regimen.
Gu Xiang, too perspicacious for the average sixteen-year-old, cranes her head around and catches Zhou Zishu observing them from the counter. She pulls a face and sticks her tongue out at him, the little bells braided into her hair jingling with each step Jiuxiao takes. Zhou Zishu watches her without reacting. Then he parts his lips ever so slightly and sticks his tongue out back at her.
Gu Xiang’s mouth falls open, positively scandalized. She gestures at him accusatorily but by the time Jiuxiao has turned around, Zhou Zishu’s expression is his usual brand of stoicism.
“Well?” he asks. “The tree won’t decorate itself.”
“Yes— I mean, no, Zhou-shǒulǐng,” Jiuxiao answers, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.
He looks more chastened than Zhou Zishu intended, so Zhou Zishu adds, “You’ve set high standards for yourselves with the other two. I expect you to meet them again.”
Jiuxiao beams at the compliment and nods while Gu Xiang crosses her arms and says, “You’re not the boss of me, old man.”
Jiuxiao’s eyes widen comically at the disrespectful address and he quickly turns to carry Gu Xiang away. It doesn’t stop Gu Xiang from pointing her index and middle finger at her eyes and then at Zhou Zishu’s in the universal gesture for a menacing I see you.
Zhou Zishu lifts a brow, unrepentant. Do you, now?
This time, no amount of pretend outrage can hide the smile cracking up Gu Xiang’s face. She rolls her eyes at him one last time before the third Christmas tree commands her attention.
Somebody ought to teach that girl some manners, Zhou Zishu thinks. It’s a half-hearted thought. He knows the chances of that happening are very slim and deep down, he’s glad for it. There are few things in life more precious than a spirit unbroken.
The small quarrel has most definitely alerted Han Ying but by the time Zhou Zishu’s eyes snap to him, he appears innocently enraptured by the task he’s been given. As far as masks go, it’s a good one – except for the fact that the fourth Christmas tree isn’t any more decorated than it was ten minutes ago and Zhou Zishu doubts his third-in-command requires this much concentration to disentangle some fairy lights.
Besides, Han Ying’s observant attention is a familiar feeling. Zhou Zishu knows it like the back of his hand, it accompanies him during intelligence conferences and high-stakes secret missions alike, a second shadow nipping at his heels and watching his back.
His sharp senses were the first thing Zhou Zishu noticed about him, many years ago. Among all the recruits, Han Ying had been the scrappiest. Thin, wiry limbs and a gaunt, hungry face. He’d been half-dead from starvation when Zhou Zishu recruited him from the slums, yet he’d endured each drill the first day without pulling a single facial muscle in complaint. Then, at dinner, he barely ate anything, merely pretending to be interested in his rice porridge while closely studying his new comrades and surroundings.
But, like a pendulum, his eyes always returned to Zhou Zishu. Not with mistrust or envy of his position. Simply… waiting. Waiting for what he would do or order next.
Han Ying still looks at Zhou Zishu like that these days. It worries him sometimes. Han Ying doesn’t study Duan Pengju in a remotely adjacent manner, which is fair. Even Zhou Zishu can admit his first general is kind of a spineless, opportunist dick. A deadly, sharp-witted, effective one, but still a dick. The problem is that Han Ying doesn’t look at Helian Yi like this, either.
Tian Chuang wouldn’t exist without Helian Yi. Zhou Zishu wouldn’t exist without Helian Yi, at least not the man he is today. The man with an entire organization of subordinates at his beck and call, the man who is one of the most enigmatic and powerful figures in the underground, the man who never has to go to sleep hungry or freezing or hurting again.
(The man who is haunted by ghosts and has houses full of skeletons. The man who can never live a normal life. The man who has too much blood on his hands to ever deserve anything resembling happiness.)
Han Ying owes loyalty to Helian Yi and Tian Chuang, not to Zhou Zishu. The distinction is growing more and more important. Zhou Zishu is a sinking ship, and he won’t drag Han Ying or Jiuxiao down with him. Tian Chuang will keep them safe. If he were to leave…
The thought turns his stomach, violently.
That is why I can’t have this, he thinks. That is why I know if Helian Yi ever finds out about this, he will destroy it.
Because this little world of light and laughter contained in The Ghost Café, like a fairytale town caught in a snow globe, is something he treasures more than all the history he shares with his cousin. Worse, it makes him want to forget about Helian Yi entirely, to start anew without him as a free man.
Zhou Zishu knows it’s an impossible fantasy. But that won’t make a difference to Helian Yi. He has made sure Zhou Zishu’s entire life revolves around him. If there’s one thing that will infuriate him more than Zhou Zishu even entertaining the idea of leaving, it will be Zhou Zishu doing it not out of spite but because something or someone has dethroned Helian Yi’s position as the most important entity in his life.
Suddenly, the scene playing out in front of Zhou Zishu seems unnervingly fragile. The colorful fairy lights spanning the room, the beautiful chaotic trees, the mouth-watering smell of food wafting through the kitchen doors. Jiuxiao’s carefree grin, in equal parts confused and amazed by a story Gu Xiang is telling, something about an American Christmas movie. Han Ying, who has never failed a task in his life, failing to drape the fairy lights over the pine leaves in the same artistic way as Gu Xiang and shooting Zhou Zishu a sheepish glance hoping he won’t notice.
It won’t last. It can’t. Because this morning, Zhou Zishu lied to Helian Yi, and when he finds out – and he will find out – everything will burn.
The floor seems to tilt ever so slightly under Zhou Zishu’s feet, the howl of the wind outside the café no longer cozy but unsettling. It reminds Zhou Zishu of the sounds a father makes after you’ve killed his son in front of him, that tortured low wail that continues to ring in your ears for days after the mission, that haunts your dreams and robs your sleep—
The swinging doors of the kitchen open and Wen Kexing enters the salon. He carries several plates balanced expertly on his forearms and open palms, maneuvering around Zhou Zishu and the counter and aiming for the large table in the center of the café laden with a variety of dishes. He’s dressed to the nines in a black suit with burgundy highlights, strands of his velvety dark hair elegantly pulled back into a knot. His patent leather shoes make a fast succession of clacking sounds on the parquet. He deposits the new dishes in one smooth swooping motion and wipes the condensation off his palms on his apron.
The volatile noises of the weather simmer down. The floor is firmly rooted under the soles of Zhou Zishu’s feet. He breathes in through his nose and his stomach settles quietly. He watches Wen Kexing critically examine the decoration and snap his fingers.
“A-Xiang, come here. I need your help in the kitchen, I’m sure Jiuxiao will manage on his own. Also, where are your shoes?”
“But helping in the kitchen is no fun, gēgē,” Gu Xiang complains but slides down Jiuxiao’s back. “Why don’t you ask him? It’s not like he’s being very useful.”
Han Ying gives Gu Xiang a highly offended look at being called out.
“Kitchen, A-Xiang,” Wen Kexing orders. “How else is Santa Claus supposed to bring the presents in?”
“Santa Claus isn’t real, gē! I’m sixteen, you can stop doing this every year. Also, I’ve literally always known Santa wasn’t real.”
“Out! No more blasphemy, child!”
Wen Kexing chases her into the kitchen but doesn’t follow. He stays on the opposite side of the counter and leans forward, bracing his arms on the marble, mirroring Zhou Zishu’s position.
The room feels different with Wen Kexing in it. Contained. Grounded. Without him, it felt like a hopeful dream, and Zhou Zishu has terrible luck with those. Wen Kexing’s presence makes it real. Because while everything else in this snow globe is fragile, Wen Kexing is not.
He is as dangerous as he is beautiful and there is as much darkness in him as in Zhou Zishu himself. The difference is that Wen Kexing has no master but himself, and he would summon hell on earth if only to keep this place safe. It’s the only reason Zhou Zishu can let himself have this, because even if he can’t protect it from Helian Yi, he knows Wen Kexing will.
(He knows Wen Kexing would do the same for him. Fight tooth and nail for his safety. But he isn’t ready to think about that yet.)
“Brooding in the corner, are we, A-Xu?” Wen Kexing says, an amused glint in his dark brown eyes. “Waiting to be swept off your feet by a handsome suitor? Wooed by a charming stranger, silver-tongued and raven-haired?”
“Run out of poems to quote, Lao Wen?”
“Ah, your callousness wounds me, A-Xu. Beautiful flowers are fragile as your love / endless river is everlasting as my sorrow.”
In the kitchen, Gu Xiang groans loudly. “Gē, you said you wouldn’t do this today.”
“Shhh, the adults are talking,” Wen Kexing calls back and places his chin on his open palm leisurely, gaze not straying from Zhou Zishu’s face. “You know, if you think you can get out of helping by just standing around and looking pretty, you’re absolutely correct.”
“I helped,” Zhou Zishu says. “I moved the furniture.”
“And when was that?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“And did you do anything else after that?” Wen Kexing asks, eyebrows rising.
“Yes,” Zhou Zishu says, deadpan. “I stood around looking pretty.”
(Something clatters to the floor in the background. Han Ying probably dropped his fairy lights.)
Wen Kexing laughs and Zhou Zishu’s lips pull into a smile on their own accord without consulting him first. He doesn’t smile often in his day-to-day life, but in Wen Kexing’s presence, it’s become muscle memory.
“So,” he says, quiet enough that no one can listen in on their conversation anymore. “Santa Claus?”
“Oh, she loved it when she was younger. But you know how teenagers are.”
“You’ve been doing this since she was younger?”
Wen Kexing shrugs. “Yes. Well, not all the…” he gestures to the over-the-top decoration. “That part came later. But yes. There was this American Christmas movie we used to watch when we were younger, it was the only DVD in the…”
He breaks off. Zhou Zishu waits. He doesn’t know everything about his lover’s past, but he knows Wen Kexing doesn’t like to dwell on the memories any more than Zhou Zishu does.
“A-Xiang adored it. When she cried – not that it happened often, mind you – but when she did, I’d promise her that we’d watch it next time I came back.”
Back, not home, because it wasn’t one.
“What was it about?” Zhou Zishu asks.
“Nothing. Some family in the suburbs. The story isn’t special, but the spectacle.” Wen Kexing gestures around the café, a wistful smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Trees as high as the ceiling, mountains of presents, tables set for a feast. Everything is gold and shiny and in abundance, and the family is disgustingly perfect. But Heavens, we loved it.”
“Do you still have the DVD?”
“No. It got lost a while ago. It was an old movie, I’m not sure they’re still selling it. But we have our own celebrations now, it’s fine.”
Zhou Zishu nods but makes a mental note to find out if there are still copies of the movie around. Wen Kexing reaches over the counter into a drawer and pulls out a Santa hat and a fluffy fake beard. He sets it down on the counter and gifts Zhou Zishu an o-so-sweet smile.
“So. About Santa.”
“No.”
“A-Xu. It’s not like you’re doing anything else.”
“No. I am.” Zhou Zishu walks around the counter. “I’m helping Han Ying with the tree.”
Wen Kexing laughs and Heaven, Zhou Zishu will never get tired of this sight, will never not want more.
“Fine, be a coward,” Wen Kexing calls after him. “But I’ll get you to wear this eventually, don’t you worry.”
Once he has left for the basement, Zhou Zishu joins Han Ying in front of the fourth Christmas tree. So far, it looks pitiful in comparison to the others. So does Han Ying.
Zhou Zishu claps him firmly on the shoulder and says, “Sometimes, the best way to complete a difficult creative task is to copy the person next to you.”
Wen Kexing would laugh at that statement. Jiuxiao would question its morality. But Han Ying is Han Ying, and so he gives a solemn nod and reaches into the ornament crate with renewed fervor.
—
Presents come before dinner because that’s the way it works in the movies. Personally, Zhou Zishu would much prefer eating first – the food smells delicious – but watching Wen Kexing present Gu Xiang gift after gift in his Santa hat and beard does have a certain amusement factor to it. To their surprise, Jiuxiao and Han Ying also receive a present each: a leather jacket for Jiuxiao and two bottles of good wine for Han Ying.
Concerning Zhou Zishu, Wen Kexing proclaims with a very suggestive wink that his present will be given in private. Gu Xiang rolls her eyes. Jiuxiao gives a flustered laugh. Han Ying looks like he wants to dig a hole in the ground to die in. Sometimes, Zhou Zishu thinks all his experience as a spymaster and assassin was given to him by the universe to get through moments like these with a straight face.
The group disperses to settle down at the table and Zhou Zishu catches Wen Kexing by the elbow. He keeps the touch light, barely a suggestion of restraint.
“You forgot your present, Lao Wen.”
Wen Kexing’s eyebrow lifts but there is a sparkle in his eyes. “You got me a present? Really? I expected you to tie a bow around your neck and be done with it. Not that I would mind. I wouldn’t mind that at all, actually. Let’s have it, then.”
“Not with that beard,” Zhou Zishu says, and gently tugs it off before Wen Kexing can start to argue that there’s nothing in the world that can diminish his beauty, not even a fake beard, and how dare Zhou Zishu insinuate anything else.
The unexpected public display of affection shuts Wen Kexing up for just long enough that Zhou Zishu can press the gift into his hands. Wen Kexing’s graceful fingers remove the wrapping paper and unearth the paperback inside. It’s a collection of poems Zhou Zishu found perusing a bookstore in Taipei on a mission abroad. The preamble, a part-biographical and part-historical account of aestheticism and dandyism, reminded him of Wen Kexing.
Wen Kexing’s reaction is delayed, and for the first time in years, Zhou Zishu feels something like common nervousness. Neither of them celebrates birthdays, and although Wen Kexing has given him many small gifts over the time they’ve known each other, this is Zhou Zishu’s first time gifting.
But then Wen Kexing looks up from the book and he’s happy and Zhou Zishu’s chest clenches because he wants to have this all of the time, wants to have Wen Kexing close and watch him laugh and preen and rage and laugh again.
“Oscar Wilde? Really? It’s like you want me to keep romancing you, A-Xu.”
Zhou Zishu doesn’t affirm or deny, only pulls the Santa hat off Wen Kexing’s head. “The food is getting cold, Lao Wen. Let’s go.”
As it turns out, Wen Kexing has outdone himself with the feast. They eat and eat and eat until their stomachs are about to burst and talk until their throats hurt after a slightly rocky start. At first, Gu Xiang and Wen Kexing are the only ones bantering, teasing and needling each other like any other day. Zhou Zishu supplies a comment or two in between, but the conversation only truly gets rolling once Jiuxiao joins in and starts an argument about the prettiest Christmas tree. Han Ying, previously quiet observer, seems to grow twice as tall in his chair and launches an ardent defense of his and Zhou Zishu’s tree against all plagiarism claims. From that point on, any illusion of formality is dispersed and then it’s like any other day at the Ghost Café.
(Except it’s different because no one else is there to interrupt, no civilians for Zhou Zishu to keep track of in his periphery. Just the four people closest to his heart in a snow globe of warmth, laughter and safety.)
(It isn’t real. He knows it isn’t, because nothing this good and whole can ever truly be safe. Still, for tonight, he wants to pretend.)
After dinner comes dessert, comes music and dancing, because that’s how it is in the movie. Wen Kexing twirls Gu Xiang around the room, her feet on top of his shoes, tickling giggles out of her. Gu Xiang gets Jiuxiao to dance around in dizzying circles with her while Han Ying politely taps his right foot to the beat of the song.
Wen Kexing pours himself a glass of champagne and offers Zhou Zishu one as well. His hair is disheveled from the three waltzes and a few strands have escaped the knot at the back of his head.
“This is the scene where the divorced parents make up and get back together.”
Zhou Zishu accepts the champagne flute. “Are we divorced, Lao Wen?”
“That depends. If I invite you to a dance, will you accept?”
“Unlikely.”
Instead of the theatrical sigh Zhou Zishu expects, Wen Kexing smiles his Cheshire cat smile, leans in and whispers just loud enough for an eavesdropper to overhear, “I expect a lot of ‘making up’ later tonight as compensation, then.”
Zhou Zishu turns his head minutely, the scent of lavender he knows so well tickling his nose. He lets his lips almost brush the shell of Wen Kexing’s ear before murmuring, “Stop bullying Han Ying.”
“But I’m having so much fun.”
“I know.”
Wen Kexing draws back and gives a distinctly uncomfortable-looking Han Ying his untouched glass of champagne, explaining, “The dance floor calls, I’m afraid,” before re-joining Gu Xiang and Jiuxiao.
Zhou Zishu shakes his head, smiling. Wen Kexing is a disaster and Zhou Zishu is so, so goddamn fond.
Of course, Han Ying catches the smile and a look of content settles over his expression. Unnaturally bold, he raises his champagne glass in Zhou Zishu’s direction. Zhou Zishu follows suit and clinks his glass against Han Ying’s. As the others dance, they drink in easy silence.
—
Eventually, even Gu Xiang tires of dancing and the rest of the evening is spent lounging about and playing cards. To everyone but Wen Kexing’s surprise, Gu Xiang is a terrifying opponent at any kind of classic gambling game and although there’s no betting involved, the stakes are high in terms of personal pride. After losing his fourth round (two to Gu Xiang, one to Jiuxiao and Han Ying each), Zhou Zishu wisely excuses himself and helps Wen Kexing retrieve the dirty plates from the dinner table.
They clean up the kitchen in the lazy, content silence only possible in the aftermath of a good, hefty meal chased down with alcohol; the air filled with the sound of clattering dishes and running water as the radio hums old love songs and static. After they’ve stacked the dishwasher, Wen Kexing washes the pots and pans by hand while Zhou Zishu mopes the floor.
From time to time, cheers or loud protests erupt in the adjacent room, muffled by the closed doors. Someone is either winning or cheating repeatedly. There is a warmth tucked under Zhou Zishu’s left rib, burning so intensely that it aches. He treasures it anyway, commits every detail of the feeling to memory, makes of it a candle to use for those black days when he can’t seem to feel anything at all.
The radio crackles and a ballad begins to play. Zhou Zishu doesn’t know what it is about the ballad – maybe he’s heard it somewhere before, maybe he hasn’t – but he leans the mop against the counter and grazes Wen Kexing’s elbow to get his attention.
Wen Kexing makes a questioning “Mh?” noise as he dries his hands on a kitchen towel and turns to Zhou Zishu.
Zhou Zishu offers him his hand and says, lightly, “I remember being promised a dance.”
“Really.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t recall anything about a promise,” Wen Kexing says because he’s a little (big, enormous, gigantic) devil at heart. “Maybe I don’t wish to dance with you anymore after you’ve so ungraciously rejected my offer, A-Xu. Did you ever consider that?”
Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes, a youthful gesture he would never showcase to any other audience.
“Dance with me, Lao Wen. I’ll make it up to you.”
Wen Kexing, satisfied, takes his outstretched hand and they sway to the sweet rhythm of the ballad. Zhou Zishu rests his forehead against Wen Kexing’s and closes his eyes for a moment, soaking in his presence.
“You don’t actually know how to dance, do you, A-Xu?” Wen Kexing muses after a short while.
Zhou Zishu does know how to dance, is quite good at it even. In his lifetime, he’s infiltrated more high-society events than he can count. But he shakes his head and says, “Show me.”
Wen Kexing smiles that smile Zhou Zishu adores: teasing and mischievous, a little self-satisfied like a cat that has just cleverly stolen a treat, and beneath it all an incredible tenderness.
(No one else in the world has ever smiled at Zhou Zishu like that, as if he is something intrinsically precious. No one else but Wen Kexing.)
Wen Kexing places Zhou Zishu’s hand on his shoulder and smooths his own over Zhou Zishu’s waist. He takes the lead and they dance a slow waltz on the freshly cleaned tiles, spinning in idle circles. The kitchen around them washes away into a soft blur of colors and shapes; only Wen Kexing’s face remains in focus.
Zhou Zishu doesn’t care to see anything else, anyway.
—
“Thank you,” Zhou Zishu says, long after the ballad has ended, when they are both leaning against the kitchen counter sharing a glass of wine.
In the other room, a cacophony of groaning and cheering erupts. From the sounds of it, Gu Xiang is still leading. Clever girl.
“Sounds like they’re having fun,” Wen Kexing says, a little tired but endlessly pleased. “Thank me for what, A-Xu? The dance, the food, the stunning looks?”
“All of it.” Zhou Zishu gestures to the other room. “You’ve created something good here, Lao Wen. Thank you. For inviting me, for letting me bring Han Ying and Jiuxiao. I’ve never seen them so carefree. It’s all thanks to you.”
Wen Kexing chuckles but there is something uneasy about the sound. “Of course. A-Xiang asked me to even before you did.”
Silence befalls them. Zhou Zishu waits, sensing there is some thought brewing in Wen Kexing’s head begging to be spoken out loud. Alas, only moments later, Wen Kexing’s shoulders square slightly, indicating that whatever unknown decision troubling him has just been made.
“You know,” he says lightly, taking the wine glass from Zhou Zishu and setting it down out of his reach, “I think it’s time you get your Christmas present, A-Xu. Open your hand and close your eyes.”
Zhou Zishu does as Wen Kexing asked without questioning it. The object that graces his palm is surprisingly heavy for its size. He opens his eyes and finds a key chain, the ring matte gold and the pendant a small ruby in the shape of a teardrop.
It’s pretty and no doubt expensive but leaves Zhou Zishu puzzled as to why Wen Kexing hadn’t gifted it to him in front of the others. Before he can ask or tease, Wen Kexing takes back the keychain and produces four keys from his suit pocket. He holds up the first for Zhou Zishu to see and says, “Café, front door.”
He attaches it to the keychain, then holds up the second key, “Café, back door,” and repeats the procedure. After the second key comes the third, which he labels simply, “The apartment.”
(Of course, Zhou Zishu knows which apartment – the one Wen Kexing owns that’s just a ten-minute drive from the café, the one where they stay when they don’t want to bother Gu Xiang, the one Zhou Zishu has spent dozens of nights at.)
Wen Kexing hesitates before picking up the final key but his voice does not waver.
“Home.”
He begins to attach the key but Zhou Zishu grabs his wrist and stops him.
“Lao Wen,” he says, quietly, warningly. The warmth in his chest has turned to ice. “Don’t.”
Home is not just a property Wen Kexing owns. Home is the house where he lives with Gu Xiang. Home is the place where he lays off his armor. But above all, home is the part of Wen Kexing that is vulnerable. The first few times Wen Kexing offered to take him there, Zhou Zishu said no. He told Wen Kexing it was too much of a risk. That there are more than enough people who would kill to find out the location of Wen Kexing’s stronghold, and if Helian Yi should ever find out, he’d sell the information to the highest bidder immediately. Eventually, Wen Kexing wore him down and convinced him to come anyway, but Zhou Zishu still feels uncomfortable every time he visits the two there – not because he doesn’t feel welcome but because of how dangerous his presence is.
And to think that Wen Kexing would bring a copy of the key? Heavens, Zhou Zishu wants to shake him.
For his part, Wen Kexing seems unsurprised and unintimidated by Zhou Zishu’s reaction.
Mildly, he says, “Why not?”
“Because you can’t. Because I can’t. It’s not safe. Think of A-Xiang. I can’t guarantee—“
“Yes, you can,” Wen Kexing interrupts. “I wouldn’t do this if I honestly thought it could put A-Xiang in danger. I know you, A-Xu. You have your flaws but carelessness is not one of them. The only way this could become dangerous is if you intend it to. Now, look me in the eye and tell me that you would ever do anything that could cause harm to her.”
Zhou Zishu opens his mouth but no words come out. There is a simple answer to this. Yes. If Helian Yi orders it, he won’t have a choice but to obey. And yet, he can’t say it. He can’t say it because it would be a lie. Because in the end, he does have a choice, always had and always will, even if the thought alone feels blasphemous. And no matter what happens, he will always make the one which keeps Gu Xiang and Wen Kexing safe.
Wen Kexing’s smile is at once tender and saddened. “See?”
He frees his wrist and finishes attaching the ring. Zhou Zishu watches, numb, as Wen Kexing presses the small bundle of keys in his hand and gently closes Zhou Zishu’s fingers over it.
“A-Xu,” he says seriously. “I know this is, to a certain extent, risky. But I want you to have these because I trust you. I want you to be a part of my life, always, and I want you to know that, too. The same goes for the people you care about.”
The keys feel heavy in Zhou Zishu’s fist, but he doesn’t give them back. Were he a stronger man, he would. This won’t end well, he knows. If he really cared as much about protecting others as Wen Kexing believes, he would leave the Ghost Café and never come back. It’s only a matter of time until the conflict brewing between him and Helian Yi will erupt, a confrontation years, no, an entire decade in the making. Anyone caught in between will be shredded or used as ammunition. And even if Wen Kexing is strong and lethal enough to not be swept away by the tide, it will still impact his life.
“I’m not worth it.” The words are painful but true, and Wen Kexing needs to hear them. Zhou Zishu speaks calmly and without self-deprecation, “I love you, and I know you love me. But your family comes first, Lao Wen. You’ve worked hard to make this life possible for A-Xiang. Don’t risk it over me.”
“What do you think this is, A-Xu?” Wen Kexing asks, pointing aggravated at the door and the laughing voices behind it. “A-Xiang hasn’t been this happy on any of the Christmas parties we’ve had in the past. She loves having you three around. She feels safe with you. She’ll want to have you all around for every other holiday too now. How can you tell me to put my family first as if you aren’t a part of it?”
And.
Zhou Zishu grasps for words but finds none. His mind is, for once, perfectly silent.
In the background, Gu Xiang accuses Han Ying of cheating. Jiuxiao defends him adamantly until Han Ying admits to the crime dryly. Chaos ensues.
The kitchen still smells of dumplings and braised fish and lavender. The sink drips. The overhead light bathes Wen Kexing’s face silver. Worry casts a shadow on his expression. Zhou Zishu knows every part of his features by heart, knows what they feel like under his fingers, under his lips.
Wen Kexing’s voice has lowered to a whisper. It makes his offer sound almost like a plea.
“You are. If you want to.” And then, because he understands Zhou Zishu like no one else does, “It’s okay to want it.”
It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like betrayal. It feels like abandonment. It feels like ungratefulness. But that doesn’t stop Zhou Zishu from wanting it anyway. The sensation is overwhelming, as if he’s been starving for years without realizing and now that nourishment is in sight, the hunger ravishes him from the inside.
He squeezes his fist until the teeth of the keys dig painfully into his skin, until they feel real. It’s not enough.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he says. The words come out abrupt and clipped but he isn’t angry – just distraught. He needs to retreat, regroup his thoughts.
He doesn’t stay long enough to see Wen Kexing’s reaction, turns on his heels and leaves without glancing back. In the bathroom, he locks the door and splashes cold water in his face with one hand, unwilling to loosen his grip on the keys. He inhales deeply, grounding himself and evening out his hastened breathing. Then Zhou Zishu waits. He knows the conflict is coming, the guilt, the paranoia, the back and forth between the part of him that thinks and the one that wants.
He knows it’s coming…except, it doesn’t.
After the initial emotional turbulence dies down, no bigger storms follow – not even anxiety or excitement. Instead, all he feels is tranquility, as if something inside him has finally clicked into place. The joy unfurling in his chest is small and sweet, like looking at the sky and finding it baby-blue and the sun shining.
It’s because nothing changed, Zhou Zishu realizes. All Wen Kexing did was put a name to something Zhou Zishu already knew in his heart but was scared to admit to himself. He relaxes his fist and brushes his thumb over the keys. Home, Wen Kexing said. Not his home, their home.
It’s that thought at last that manages to close up his throat and makes his eyes burn. It’s also the one that shakes him out of his stupor – he shouldn’t have left this abruptly, should’ve just asked Wen Kexing for space. It’s still a foreign concept to Zhou Zishu that he doesn’t have to take the things he needs, that Wen Kexing will just give them to him when he asks.
Zhou Zishu leaves the bathroom in a rush, praying to catch Wen Kexing in the kitchen, but stops promptly in the short hallway between kitchen and bathroom. Wen Kexing is leaning against the frame of the kitchen door, head lowered and arms crossed loosely. He starts upright when Zhou Zishu stops just short of walking into him.
Zhou Zishu opens his mouth to apologize but Wen Kexing cuts him off by pointing at the top of the doorframe. It’s decorated with a bundle of leaves, tied together with a red ribbon.
Zhou Zishu looks from Wen Kexing to the leaves and back to Wen Kexing, perplexed. “What is…that?”
“A mistletoe.”
“Okay,” Zhou Zishu says, cautiously. Wen Kexing has a right to be upset with him after that exit, but he’s expressing it in confounding ways.
Wen Kexing eyes him up in that intensely observant manner of his, then his expression breaks into a tentative smile. A weight falls off Zhou Zishu’s chest. Whatever this is, Wen Kexing isn’t angry.
“Seriously, A-Xu? You don’t know what a mistletoe is? Have you never seen a Christmas movie?”
“No,” Zhou Zishu says dryly, hoping it’ll make Wen Kexing laugh. He succeeds.
“If you stand under a mistletoe together, you have to kiss the other person. You also aren’t allowed to be mad at them anymore.”
“That last part sounds made up.”
Wen Kexing shrugs, his smile fading away. Sincerely, he says, “I’m sorry, A-Xu. I shouldn’t have sprung that on you without talking about it first.”
Zhou Zishu shakes his head. “Lao Wen. I’m not mad. I just needed a moment to process. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you.”
“It’s a lot at once, I realize that now. If you don’t feel comfortable, you can give the keys back to me for now and we’ll talk about it another time.”
Zhou Zishu lifts his palm and looks at the keys, glimmering even in the half-dark of the hallway. He can feel Wen Kexing watching him, waiting for Zhou Zishu to hand them off.
Zhou Zishu drops them in his pocket instead. Surprising Wen Kexing is no easy task, but from the look of his widened eyes, Zhou Zishu has managed to.
“They’re pretty, like me,” Zhou Zishu says, lips curving into a knowing smile. “I think I’ll keep them.”
He waits for Wen Kexing to answer with a poem or flirtatious comment but from the looks of it, Wen Kexing is, for one moment, speechless.
“About that kiss—”
Before Zhou Zishu can finish, Wen Kexing’s mouth is on his, warm and heady with wine. Zhou Zishu sighs into the kiss, lips itching to draw into another smile. He pulls back briefly to brush a stray strand of hair behind Wen Kexing’s ear and kisses him again, and again, and again, their bodies pressed together so tight there is no place for fear between them.
One day, Zhou Zishu will have to face Helian Yi. It will be ugly. It will be brutal. It will, most likely, be lethal. But that day isn’t today. Today, Zhou Zishu is surrounded by his family, by music and Christmas trees and mistletoes, by warmth and the scent of lavender. Today, he is a free man in all the ways that matter – free to want, to love, to choose.
With each kiss, he chooses Wen Kexing and with each kiss, Wen Kexing chooses him back.
And no matter what happens in the future, Zhou Zishu knows he will never regret this choice.
When they part at last, they are both out of breath. With a lazy grin, Wen Kexing steals another kiss before pressing his forehead against Zhou Zishu’s.
“Knew that’d work out,” he mumbles. “Just like the divorced parents in the movie.”
Zhou Zishu snorts. “Can’t be divorced without getting married first.”
“That can always be arranged.”
“Yes,” Zhou Zishu agrees, smiling. “I suppose it can.”