Work Text:
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
- Pablo Neruda
Chu Wanning has dreams.
He dreams of blood-washed battle fields, cries of the dying, and a cruel smile; flashes of rows and rows of white teeth that resembled fangs more than anything else. He felt acutely how sharp they were when they made marks on his skin, like a scratch of a sharpened blade slicing across the softest of silk; cutting his skin open to bleed. He remembered clearly the fear, the sorrow, and how he wanted everything to just stop in that moment. He would cry for the faceless stranger to wake up, and he’d hit and slap him in an effort to stop. But his body was powerless and weak, and the stranger was so very strong when he pinned him down. Some days he hears what the stranger says, a litany of curses and mad rambling against his ears, humiliating and degrading.
Chu Wanning would wake up then, sheets soaked through with sweat. His heart would be racing, thudding loudly in his chest cavity. He’d lift a shaky finger up to his lips, as if to check if it’s been bitten raw like it was in his dreams. But what scared Chu Wanning most wasn’t how real the dreams felt, it was the fact that his pants were tenting treacherously. He had to fumble with himself in the quiet of the night, soft moans swallowed up by his pillow, coming hard when he thought of the hoarse voice that haunted his dreams. He’d sit up then, thoroughly shamed, his hands sticky with his release.
He had enjoyed it.
--
Chu Wanning was a crime fiction writer, winning numerous awards and accolades for his fresh ideas and effortless delivery.
He started out sometime after college, too confused with where he wanted to go in life with his arts degree. He vaguely considered the route of a journalist, but quickly decided against it as he had a thing against continued human interactions and being thick skinned enough to pry into people’s lives. Eventually he settled on writing, for he had a head full of ideas and enough imagination to flesh out the characters. The traction was slow at first, but began picking up speed as his mind started conjuring up more and more scenarios. His first book was published after two years of hard work, in between meeting with different publishing houses and having to scrimp and save on his meals. Needless to say, Chu Wanning was terrible at taking care of himself, especially when he’s too consumed with work. He was on the tailend of his meagre savings when his book finally exploded onto mainstream media, after multiple reviews from a very niche group of crime novel enthusiasts.
Xue Zhengyong took Chu Wanning’s popularity in stride, and advised that he should acquiesce to one of the many magazines that were clamouring to interview him. In the end, Chu Wanning settled on choosing the least tabloid looking brand, and was reluctantly photographed after the journalist started gasping about how good looking he was and they needed photos to complement the interview.
After the spread was released, Chu Wanning found himself getting hounded by the press and a rabid group of supposed fans. It was absolutely ridiculous that Chu Wanning had to tell them to focus on his works instead of his face. He ended up moving from his downtown shoebox apartment to the other side of the state, just for the sake of maintaining sanity.
“Wanning, you’re too far away, how should we communicate about your next release?” Xue Zhengyong had sighed heavily down the phone.
“As usual, via email and phone calls.” Chu Wanning answered.
Xue Zhengyong was mumbling something about renovating the office, hiring new people, and reuniting with his long lost nephew. Chu Wanning hummed noncommittally, squeezing his phone in between his ears and shoulders. He was distracted, for he was in the midst of cleaning up dirty dishes. It had been probably, what, one week since he touched the kitchen? And it was starting to stink and attract flies despite it being the dead of winter here.
“Oh. Wanning.” Xue Zhengyong paused suddenly, his tone taking on an edge.
“Yeah?”
“Have you been receiving those bouquets again? I’m sure it’s nothing, but maybe letting the police know would be good.”
Chu Wanning lowered the soapy dish in his hands, and wiped his hands on the rag. He turned and stared at the huge bouquet of flowers sitting on his desk. The arrangement was beautiful as ever, stalks of red begonias surrounded with camellias, peonies and wildflowers. The flowers came every week, since the beginning of his career and right up to now. Initially he wondered if it was a prank by Xue Zhengyong or his exes, but after checking in with said confused individuals, he understood that it wasn’t them. Unknown to Xue Zhengyong, Chu Wanning did go to the police at some point in time, but was brushed off since technically nothing criminal had been done, besides the loss of privacy, and that he should probably expect such behaviour when he’s a public figure. And so Chu Wanning gritted his teeth, received the flowers, and prayed that it really was just a harmless gift from an appreciative fan.
One thing that bothered him however, was how that person managed to get a hold of his address. Chu Wanning was incredibly tightlipped and underground about himself, and he hardly ever left his house. It was one of the many considerations that Chu Wanning factored in when he finally decided on moving. For the first few weeks after moving, Chu Wanning would stand by the door, anxiously waiting for a delivery. At the end of the night, he’d fall to bed relieved, and eventually shove the thoughts of them away. His relief was short lived however, for the flowers came once again after a month’s lull. There would never be a card or brand packaging. It was just always a bouquet of flowers, and a harried looking deliveryman who was unable to answer Chu Wanning’s questions.
“How would I know who sent this? I’m just a delivery guy.” The person would huff, before turning his back and walking off.
At this point, Chu Wanning wasn’t sure if he should be frightened, or somewhat relieved that nothing had been done to him at this point. Perhaps it really was just an appreciative fan. Albeit a creepy stalker-like one.
“Wanning?” Xue Zhengyong’s voice came down the phone, bringing Chu Wanning back to the present.
“Er, yeah. I’m sure it’s just nothing.” Chu Wanning replied. “But anyway, I got to go, I’ve got things to do. I’ll talk to you soon.”
With that, he hung up on Xue Zhengyong, and sighed slowly.
Chu Wanning touched lightly at the petals of a begonia, noting that it was always the arrangements’ mainstay. He knew vaguely of the flower’s meaning, knew that it symbolised beauty as much as heart-wrenching sorrow. The scent was also familiar to him somehow, but each time his thoughts focus too much on why it felt so, the thought quickly slips away, into the haziness of a distant dream.
Chu Wanning pulled out a bottle of Shiraz, and poured it absentmindedly into a mug. He has wine glasses somewhere in his cabinet, but he couldn’t be quite bothered. He sat down, nursing the red wine in his hand, taking slow sips out of the mug. He was shivering slightly despite turning on the thermostat to the extreme. His late mother has always said that he’s had a weak constitution since birth, and an extreme aversion towards the cold. One whip of cold wind against his face was enough to send him to bed, sick for the week.
He stared at the flowers in front of him, some already drooping sadly. The bouquet was sent more than five days ago, and despite the cold, its age was showing. A petal fell, and in a daze Chu Wanning watched it in slow-motion as it landed. A lone piece of begonia, stark red against the marble white of the table.
“You must be a very sad man.” Chu Wanning murmured, feeling a strange sense of melancholy wash over him.
Chu Wanning sat there for a long time, nursing mugs of wine after another, until the weak sunlight eventually turned into inky darkness. He got up slowly, buzzed. He staggered towards the bedroom in darkness, and laid down on his bed, feeling sleepiness overcome him instantly.
He dreamed.
In his dream, he was blindfolded, and tied to the ends of the bedpost. He laid, spreadeagled, fear coursing through his veins. He stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, anxious. He tugged at the soft material that bound his wrists, but it stayed secure. He wanted to scream, but couldn’t find the voice to. His chest heaved with exertion, and he felt cold sweat blooming over his body.
There was a soft rustle next to him, and he startled. A palm landed on the soft curve of his waist, and Chu Wanning shuddered. The touch was hot, scorching as it trailed across skin, dipping in between the ridges of his ribcage.
“What are you doing?” Chu Wanning gasped eventually, as the fingers moved over his nipple, circling, touch feather light.
The hand stilled for a moment, but its owner did not answer. There was a puff of air, and Chu Wanning shivered when he felt a hot, wet tongue lave at his nipple. The person continued to shower attention on Chu Wanning’s chest, and Chu Wanning found himself in the midst of a warm fire, heating up the entirety of his insides.
The touch came to the side of his hips, reverent in the way it slid across skin. It skated across planes of silky softness, down the length of his legs, to his feet, up again to his arms, neck, and back down to his navel. It avoided the point of interest in between Chu Wanning’s legs, and Chu Wanning bucked up into the touch, uncaring who it was now that he’s so consumed by the fire in his veins.
“Please.” Chu Wanning rasped, not sure what he was asking for.
The answer came in the form of a hand wrapping around his weeping cock. The hand tugged, pulled, and jerked, propelling Chu Wanning towards white hot pleasure. His lips fell apart as he moaned, keened, and cried. He felt like a rubber being pulled in all directions, so strong was the warmth in his belly, and it built itself up into a crescendo, exploding in a shower of lights behind his eyes.
Briefly, he felt the person lean over, pressing the softest of kisses to his forehead.
“Wanning.” The person rasped. It was a voice that was entirely too familiar.
A multitude of meanings and emotions translated into two syllables. Pain, joy, sorrow, tenderness.
Chu Wanning found himself too sated, too sleepy to pick out the emotions behind his name, and he soon found himself diving once again under the spell of sleep, afloat in a shower of flower petals.
---
Chu Wanning woke up with a start.
Sunlight was drifting in through the cracks of his curtain, which flowed softly in the blowing of the air conditioner.
He sat up, heart in his throat. The dream had felt too real, the sensations too genuine. Could it have been? He looked down at himself, and let out a sigh of relief when he found himself clothed in his own attire. He got up, stared at his own wrists and ankles, and found nothing particularly incriminating. His clothes were on the right way, and apart from the general soreness from a good round of sleep, there was nothing to suggest that his dream had been real.
Chu Wanning shook his head, chiding himself for overthinking. Such dreams were just like the ones he’s been having, albeit it was much gentler this time round. His psyche must be tapping on his loneliness. Perhaps it was time that he got a pet, maybe a cat or a dog. He showered, feeling languid and relaxed under the spray of warm water. The troubling thoughts washed their way down the drain, floated away like the remnants of a fever dream. Afterwards, he puttered about the kitchen, managing to avoid a fire disaster and prepare his lunch at the same time. In between eating, he managed to write out a few lines of his upcoming book, and clean up after his own mess.
It was overall a productive day indeed.
Later on in the night, Chu Wanning would pack his bags, for there was a meeting tomorrow that he’d have to attend in person with Xue Zhengyong. His train was meant to depart at eight in the morning, giving him enough buffering time for the afternoon meeting. He walked about the house, turning off switches and locking windows, for he was sure that if he were to do it next morning instead, he’d most likely miss a couple of things. He eventually fell onto bed sometime around midnight, exhausted.
The clock above him ticked, lulling him into sleepiness. There was something in the house that bothered him, but he couldn’t quite place a finger on it. He mused over it for a couple more minutes, wondering if it was a switch that he has forgotten, or dishes that were yet to be done. But as with night time thoughts, they were quickly whisked away into nothingness, for moments later, his eyes slid shut, and his breathing slowed, settling into sleep.
If Chu Wanning bothered to think harder, or if he had the same sense as the protagonist in his stories, he would notice that the stray petal on his table had already been cleared the night before.
---
Chu Wanning arrived at the publishing house five minutes to lunch time, and was ushered by Xue Zhengyong into a room, extremely excited.
“Chief, what on earth?” Chu Wanning spluttered, as he was forced to sit on a chair.
“Okay, you know how you’ve been asking for a new editor ever since the last one-”
Chu Wanning cleared his throat pointedly, unwilling to talk about the mismatch disaster of the century. Song Qiutong could only be described as… useless. She was frivolous, only cared about how pretty she was in front of others, failed multiple times in flirting with Chu Wanning, and was technically worse than Chu Wanning when it came to remembering deadlines.
“Long story short, I have a new editor for you.” Xue Zhengyong continued excitably. He motioned at someone outside the door.
A figure walked in, gait confident and strides long, and Chu Wanning found himself sucking in his breath as his new editor appeared.
“This is Mo Ran, my nephew. I think I’ve mentioned him to you a couple of times before.” Xue Zhengyong introduced the young man. He continued to talk about how Mo Ran has had internship experience with another publishing house, and that although he’s young he’s really good at what he does.
But Chu Wanning tuned Xue Zhengyong out, just as Mo Ran’s gaze landed on him. His eyes were a dark shade of violet, bright and enigmatic. Mo Ran walked closer towards Chu Wanning, and held out his hand. Chu Wanning glanced over at the proffered hand, which was littered in small scratches, and vaguely wondered if it hurts.
Chu Wanning paused for a moment. He was never someone who enjoyed touching others without reason, but for the sake of manners, he stood up and shook Mo Ran’s hand. Standing up, Chu Wanning was aware of the height difference between both of them, and it was a far cry from the times he had to stare Song Qiutong down and resist the urge to chew her out.
“Nice to meet you.” Chu Wanning mumbled, focusing his eyes on somewhere behind Mo Ran’s head instead of locking onto an intense gaze.
“Nice to meet you, Wanning.”
There was a moment of silence, as Chu Wanning frowned, uncomfortable with his overly familiar tone. Xue Zhengyong quickly stepped in, hitting lightly over Mo Ran’s head and talking about how the young ones lack manners and that Chu Wanning shouldn’t feel too bad about it.
Chu Wanning looked down at the hands that were still wrapped around his own, felt like there was some important point that he was missing. The voice was somewhat familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. He was still in the midst of trying to sort out his thoughts when Mo Ran released his hand, bending down just a fraction to catch Chu Wanning’s eyes. This time round he had a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Chu Wanning abruptly thought of a long forgotten blade, sharp in its edges, ready to slice and rip through flesh. As quickly as the cold smile came, it left his face, leaving Chu Wanning to wonder if he’d imagined it all.
Then, Mo Ran grinned at Chu Wanning, "I look forward to working with you.”