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Yibo sees the hot trend when he lands in Changsha on Monday night, while he's scrolling through Weibo on the ride from the airport to the hotel. Sitting at a respectable number two on the leaderboard, between Zhang Yimou's newest action flick and a viral photo of swarming cicadas that someone took in Xiamen that morning, the trend reads Xiao Zhan Little Prince Explosive Reading. All those individual words make sense, but not together, and not in that order. Yibo twists the AirPod in his left ear and, with some trepidation, clicks in.
The top post contains a brief, unilluminating description, a handful of links to Bilibili, and a series of twelve stills set against a pale yellow background. Apparently the trending search has to do with a performance art piece by Ai Weiwei that had been released a couple of hours ago, quickly spread through likes and shares. Xiao Zhan wasn't the only high profile celebrity invited to participate, but he was the only idol. That's nothing super out of the ordinary, though — Xiao Zhan has always been marketed as an intellectual. He's smiling in his still, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the lower half of his body obscured by a wooden table. He's holding a book in his delicate, long-fingered hands.
Yibo takes a deep breath, lets it out, and tries not to dwell on the pink swell of Xiao Zhan's lips or the cut of his jaw or the definition in his forearms. He swipes out to the main body of the post again and, against his better judgment, scrolls down to the clip with Xiao Zhan's name next to it, taps to click it open. The same room from the stills pops into view. After a moment, Xiao Zhan slips into frame, settling carefully into the wooden chair in front of the table. "Hi," Xiao Zhan says, the word tickling Yibo's ear, warmth sweeping down the side of his neck to pool in his gut. "I'm Xiao Zhan, and this is Provocative Literature. I'll be reading from my favorite book, The Little Prince."
The van lurches on a turn when Xiao Zhan starts from the beginning, but Yibo stays glued to the screen, thumb rubbing along the edge of his phone case. The sound of Xiao Zhan's voice has always been soothing, light and melodic, even though these days it mostly just reminds Yibo of things he isn't allowed to have.
Saint-Exupéry's words wash over him, and it doesn't even feel like there's anything out of the ordinary going on until Xiao Zhan turns the page for the second time, mid-sentence, and his breath hitches into a sigh. Yibo's eyebrows rise as Xiao Zhan wiggles restlessly against the chair beneath him, fingers trembling where they're clenched tight around the book. What? Yibo thinks, his own breath caught in his throat, and he tilts his phone closer to his face as one of Xiao Zhan's hands drops from the book and slams against the table.
His screen isn't nearly as high-res as Yibo would like, but he can just make out the flush spreading across Xiao Zhan's sharp cheekbones, the noticeable bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows and keeps reading. "In the course of this life," Xiao Zhan says, eyelashes fluttering, fidgeting even more now, "I have had — oh, God — had a great many encounters with, with a great many people who have been concerned with matters of consequence." He rises half off the chair when he finishes the sentence, mouth open, and lets out a life-ruining little noise that makes all the hair on the back of Yibo's neck prickle. Holy shit.
Yibo has no idea what's happening below the table, but that almost makes it worse: maybe there's a hand jerking him off, or a vibrating ring clamped tight around the base of his dick, or something tucked up inside him, being controlled by a faceless person behind the camera. It could be anything making Xiao Zhan look and sound like this, as he tries to collect himself enough to continue, and Yibo clamps his mouth into a thin line to keep from making any noise himself. He doesn't know what he's trying to prove, but it feels important.
"I have lived a great deal among grown-ups," Xiao Zhan continues, all in a rush, words slurring together. He's struggling to keep his eyes on the book. One of his hands drifts down, almost certainly to adjust himself, or get a palm on his dick, and Yibo's breath dies in his chest. "I have seen them intimately, ahh, fuck, I don't think I can do this anymore—"
The rest of what he's saying trails off, even though Yibo strains to hear it over the roar of blood rushing through his ears. He watches Xiao Zhan tip forward, gasping, his hand rustling rhythmically beneath the table. His face twists into a rictus of — something, pain or pleasure or embarrassment. The sweetest groan falls out of his mouth, full-bodied and rough, before the video fades to black.
"Laoban," comes a voice to his right, loud in a way that means it's probably been said at least twice. Yibo jumps as he snaps his head up, phone dropping out of his loose, sweaty grip. They've made it to the hotel, and his manager has already slid the van door open for him in the underground parking lot, which would be fine except that Yibo is pretty sure he just watched his long-time crush orgasm on the internet, and there's a raging hard-on poking up to tent his cargo pants. Fuck.
Yibo slings his Nike bag around to cover his crotch when he disembarks from the van and keeps a tight grip on the strap as he slouches all the way to the elevator. He manages to make it up to his room with little incident, even though every step he takes makes his dick rub against his underwear in new and interesting ways. Two paces behind him, one of his other handlers wheels his suitcase to the door.
Haiyi taps something on her phone, mouth twisting, and says, "Plan to head out at six tomorrow morning." She passes him his keycard, a sympathetic look on her face.
"Yeah," he says, voice admirably level. "Thanks. Good night." He sticks the card in the slot, pushes through with his luggage, and leans back against the door as it swings shut behind him, exhaling slowly. It's quiet in his room, noise dulled by carpet and thick walls. The lamp next to the bed bathes the room in a muted glow. He's still intensely hard, the ache between his legs sharp and demanding. The responsible thing to do would be to take a cold shower and pass out for the next five hours. He has a long itinerary full of shoots for Day Day Up over the next several days, and even if he didn't, he could use the rest.
Instead, Yibo abandons his shoes and his bags by the door and grabs the remote off the TV rack. He climbs into bed as he switches it on, thumbing over to the Bilibili app, and of course Xiao Zhan's video is trending there, too. Two clicks and Yibo's exactly where he wants to be: sinking back into a mountain of pillows, fingers reaching down to unbutton his pants and unzip his fly, Xiao Zhan's mellow voice filtering out through the speakers.
This time, Xiao Zhan is rendered in such high definition that Yibo would be able to see his pores from the bed, if he had any. But of course Xiao Zhan doesn't; his skin is as immaculate as ever, which would be more annoying if he didn't look so lovely, eyelashes casting shadows against his cheekbones as he stares down at the book in his hands. Yibo pulls himself out of his boxer-briefs and stretches his legs wide, sighing when he finally fits his clammy palm around himself. It's distressingly easy to hone in on the flex of Xiao Zhan's throat as he swallows between words, on the faint glisten at his brow that Yibo can see now on a bigger screen. Maybe he should feel worse about actively jerking off to a former co-star, but it's not like anyone else is around to see. If Yibo can't have what he really wants, isn't this the next best thing, gifted to him on a silver platter?
When Xiao Zhan's voice starts to waver, Yibo arches off the mattress and fucks up desperately into his fist, eyes tracking the flutter of Xiao Zhan's chest and the telltale flush creeping down his neck. The slap of his palm against the table is like a physical thing, a punch straight to the gut. Yibo curls his toes in the sheets and tightens his fingers around his cock, reaches down with his free hand to rub the soft, sensitive skin behind his balls, and comes right as Xiao Zhan's mouth forms around the word intimately.
He's panting as he slides down to lie spread-eagle across the bed, jizz cooling on the shaft of his cock and dripping into the snarl of hair at its base. After a moment, he digs his clean hand in his pocket and fishes his phone out again, swiping over to WeChat.
Yibo hasn't messaged Xiao Zhan in several months, not since before the New Year, when Xiao Zhan had sent something blandly complimentary about Legend of Fei and Yibo had replied with a smug sticker, the easiest response without saying too much. They've interacted a little bit in various group chats since then, but nothing super elaborate. He'd hoped not talking as much would make the feelings go away; a foolish hope, he realizes now, stomach twisting in knots. Yibo opens their personal thread, types, saw your new art piece. it was cool. and hits send before he can chicken out.
His heart slams against the roof of his mouth a beat later. It was cool?! Why couldn't Yibo have said something scintillating and cultured about Ai Weiwei instead? How come he always turns into such an idiot when Xiao Zhan is involved? Recalling the message would be way more incriminating than just leaving it, so he can't even do that. Yibo is going to throw his phone and then himself out the window, and his manager is just going to have to deal with the consequences.
He does not do either of those things, but he does drag himself to the bathroom and morosely clean himself off. Brushes his teeth, splashes water in his face, and assiduously applies the latest brightening cream that he's supposed to be endorsing. Perhaps if he tries to stop thinking about it so much, he can pretend like it never happened. Perhaps Xiao Zhan is already asleep, and Yibo won't have to deal with this anymore once his busy week kicks off.
No such luck, of course. In the main room, Yibo's phone pings with a new notification, and his heart does a cartwheel in his chest. When he gets back to bed, stripped down to a clean pair of underwear, the thumbnail of Xiao Zhan's video stares accusingly at him from the TV, like it's taunting him for not having switched to CCTV5 yet. glad you thought so, lao wang, the message on his phone says. When Yibo opens their thread again, Xiao Zhan has also sent a sticker of Wei Wuxian making a heart with his arms. It's so familiar that Yibo's jaw clenches reflexively against the wave of longing that crashes over his head. He forces himself not to ask why Xiao Zhan's still up this late, but it's a near miss.
the hot search seemed to find it very provocative, he sends back instead, trying to avoid thinking about whether or not he's being too obvious. When he swipes over to Weibo again to see what's going on, Xiao Zhan's hot search has knocked Zhang Yimou off the top spot. you're trending number one right now, he says, sending a screenshot along, and watches Xiao Zhan's typing indicator blink under his name until his eyes cross a little.
The message, when it comes: and what about you? did you find it provocative?
It feels like all the blood in his body rushes up to his head all at once, hot and dizzying. His cheeks burn as he rereads the tiny words on his phone. Could Xiao Zhan be… fishing? And if so, for what? Either way, the evidence of Yibo's preoccupation is still staring straight at him from the flatscreen across the room. you could say that, Yibo types slowly, trying to figure out how to respond in an appropriate manner, or something approximating it. that's what the whole piece is about, right? the intersection of sexuality and art, how even the most mundane things can be reimagined and restimulating.
The next reply comes faster. wooooow, wang-laoshi, Xiao Zhan says, and Yibo can hear the teasing tone of Xiao Zhan's voice so clearly that the corner of his mouth lifts despite himself. have you gotten more cultured since we last saw each other?
oh shut up, Yibo taps out, something in his chest twinging. don't tell me the intellectual metatextual circlejerk of it all isn't why you agreed to do it
it wasn't, Xiao Zhan replies. Then: not the main reason, anyway. A beat later: how else was i supposed to get your attention
"What the fuck," Yibo says out loud. He sits straight up in bed, the knot in his chest winding even tighter. you, he starts typing, and his fingers are suddenly shaking so much that he accidentally hits send on the message too early. you signed onto an ai weiwei project just to get my attention?
pretty good as far as emotional gestures go, right? is the response, and Yibo can see the way Xiao Zhan would be ducking his head and laughing at himself if he was saying it in person, right in front of him. How could he not? Spend enough time with someone, studying all their tics and little habits, and everything becomes an echo of what you know about them. Yibo's phone pings again. thought maybe you'd gotten tired of me, you know. it's been a while since we talked
you're so stupid, zhan-ge, Yibo types back, the absurdity of saying it over text message breaking over his head like a bucket of cold water. He exhales, chewing on his lower lip. you've always had it
had what?
Yibo hits the call button before he can second guess himself. The moment before Xiao Zhan picks up, Yibo remembers he's not even wearing a shirt right now, but then the call connects and it's too late to do anything but barrel onward. "My attention, you idiot," Yibo says, because the truth is still too revealing. He swallows thickly as Xiao Zhan's wide-eyed face swims into view. "You could've sent a message any time."
"Hello to you too, Yibo," Xiao Zhan says, and it's not a surprise that his voice makes Yibo feel a bit gooey inside. Of course it wasn't just the video clip. He's in an identical hotel room probably somewhere halfway across the country, hair floppy and soft-looking. Yibo wants to touch it so badly his palms itch.
"Zhan-ge," Yibo says, a little too accusatory. He tries to smooth the wrinkle in his forehead. "Seriously. What are you trying to say?"
Xiao Zhan tilts his head up for a moment, the line of his jaw working. After a moment of quiet breathing, he says simply, "I just miss you," he says, that familiar smile sliding onto his face, and — ah, yes, there's that head duck. "I don't know if it was something I did, but I thought maybe giving you space would make you start talking to me again, but that wasn't working, and then I just thought — well, shit. Maybe this will work, and then I can tell him how I feel."
Yibo grinds his teeth for a moment, heart thrashing wildly in his ribcage. "And how do you feel?"
"I like you, Wang Yibo," Xiao Zhan says, smiling wider, head tilting. It's the simplest phrases that mean the most in the end. "Enough to masturbate on the Internet to get your attention, anyway. Just thought you ought to know."
Yibo lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. It's like all the liquid in his body has suddenly turned fizzy, bubbling up into his throat. "You really have a way with words," he manages, shaking his head.
"I'm no Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, but I get by," Xiao Zhan says.
"I like you too, by the way," Yibo says, loud and abrupt, but Xiao Zhan grins at him anyway, relaxing into the headboard behind him. "You can be a black box sometimes, you know, Zhan-ge? I couldn't get a read on you at all, so I just kind of stepped away. It hurt less." He flicks his eyes to the ceiling and then back down, the corner of his mouth curling up. Might as well go for broke, right? "Also, I definitely jacked off to your video. Sorry, not sorry."
"Oh my God," Xiao Zhan says. The palm he drags over his face doesn't do shit to hide his giggling. "Yeah, fine, alright. You and half the rest of China."
"Only half? Don't sell yourself short," Yibo says, throat aching just looking at the way Xiao Zhan lights up when he laughs. He can't quite believe he gets to have this again, but the world works in mysterious ways or something. He'll have to have his team send flowers to Ai Weiwei, probably.
From Xiao Zhan's end of the call, there's a knock on the door, and the fuzzy voice of someone calling through it. Xiao Zhan says, "Alright," and then grimaces at his phone again. "Listen, I have to go, early call time tomorrow, but maybe we can — I don't know, talk again sometime soon?"
"This week is really bad," Yibo groans, chewing on his fingernail, "but I'll see you when I get back to Beijing, alright? We'll make it work."
The soft expression on Xiao Zhan's face is better than anything Yibo's seen in a while, up to and including the hot search video. Go figure. "Yeah," Xiao Zhan says. "We will."