Work Text:
me at the window
Sometimes, You Shulang idly wonders if he is transparent: if the light passes right through him, destined to shine upon the others, but never himself. If there is something about him, small and thin-limbed as he is, that makes him invisible to the human eye, overlooked by every passing gaze, forgotten like an unpleasant afterthought – not worthy of even being considered an annoyance. If that is his fate – to be reduced to nothing more than a speck of dust in the air, discernable only if one knows exactly where to look.
It is a childish notion, a juvenile dissatisfaction with his lot in life – a selfish, greedy desire for things to be different; but he is a child, still, perched on the worm-eaten windowsill, forehead pressed to the dirty glass, its morning chill seeping into his skin, eyes tracking the first pinkish splutters of the sunrise on the horizon, so he allows himself the discontent, at least for this moment of weakness.
No one is there to witness it, after all, but the rising sun – its faint light his only companion.
Still, if it were true, it would make so much sense then, why no one ever seems to see him: a too-serios, too-quiet boy, swallowing down every plea and complaint, having long since learned that tears never help anything at all; that no one will come.
It is as if the life itself passes him by – his small form perpetually stuck behind a frost-painted window (so he can see that other side, but never break through the invisible wall, never grasp the revelry that lies beyond it), hand desperately stretched out in search of something human that will touch back, starved for a taste of sweetness, hungry for a sense of warmth he'd never felt.
All he knows instead is the bitterness – the taste of loneliness learned long before he even knew what to name it. The world keeps happening in a room he cannot enter, the rusty key in his hand no match for the shiny new lock – other children sharing gap-toothed smiles and sticky-fingered hugs, diving into the whirlpool of easy affection with reckless abandon; bringing their every trivial grievance and minor ache to the harried nannies, just so they can be offered an absent-minded head-pat or two; putting on their best teary-eyed, unconditionally loving and naively hopeful expressions for the visiting adults, longing to be granted a benevolent smile and become the lucky chosen one.
And You Shulang, accustomed to burdening no one but himself, stays in his corner, eyes focused and downcast, crayons scribbling quietly over the paper, coloring in the pictures with unprecedented precision, strangely conscientious and measured for someone his age; the rift between him and the rest of the world stretching on into infinity, the rising mist clouding him from everyone’s gaze.
He had tried so hard, at first, freshly scraped off of the orphanage's doorstep, still full of wide-eyed, childish naivete and desperate hope that he'd ever be enough (not too much, not too little): to be good and quiet, obedient to the rules that haven’t even been voiced yet, to mold himself and fit into whatever little space was left, to lessen the burden his existence seemed to bring to everyone around him (why would his birth family abandon him otherwise, if not for some innate, inborn flaw of his – invisible to his own eyes, but still unmistakably there; a rotten core, destined to spoil even more with the passage of time), to fold onto himself like fresh-washed laundry, edges crisp and neatly stacked – unobtrusive yet pleasing to the eye, to sit alone in the quiet hurt, knees and palms scraped raw and stinging, and sweep the pain under the rug with a gentle, agreeable smile; to be no one's problem but his own.
And still, it did not do him much good, lent him no love nor acceptance, just left him feeling even less like someone, and even more like something: a lonely, creased paper crane, wedged in-between the dusty stacks of something forgotten and nothing remembered; or a fly trapped between two windowpanes, destined to thrash about until it inevitably exhausted itself and died with the arrival of autumn.
He had tried again, twice as hard, once he’d been chosen (because he looked tidy and unobtrusive: more furniture piece than child; because he looked like he required no effort at all) – to be the perfect, dutiful son, to leave no space for a reproach or complaint. To do his best, hoping for nothing more than the tiniest taste of sweet relief.
It led him to the same outcome, again: the same sight of a door being shut in his face, cutting off the warm glow of a home; the same chill seeping in his bones; the same quiet settling in like a sentence.
And so, he learns his first lesson: the sweetness of the world will never be his; whatever he does, he’ll never be enough.
Always a fast learner, he doesn’t linger in the disappointment of it all – just swaddles the loneliness in his too-short arms, his only cherished possession, and teaches himself to assemble some semblance of quiet happiness from the scraps he’s given, day by day: the cotton-candy-colored light of every new dawn, reflected and stowed in the depths of his eyes (his favorite time of the day, the quiet mark of the time unspooling); the crisp morning air tangled in his hair (a reminder that he still exists, that time doesn’t just pass through him); the laughter of the fellow children in the orphanage, their joy foreign to him like the images in a kaleidoscope, but still infectious in its simplicity; the quiet gratitude in the overworked nursemaids' eyes whenever he completes a task by himself, their burden lightened.
He learns to lie to himself as easy as breathing, to forget the bitter taste that lingers on his tongue like slow-acting poison – somewhere between the never-opened packages of sweets, stacked just out of reach, and the frost marks painted across the windows, covered in molten gold every time the sun rises. Convinces himself there is nothing good about sweet things anyway, that he would never like them, even if they were freely piled high on his plate.
Wonders when he’ll be good enough at it that he’ll be able to persuade himself he doesn’t need that human connection either (forever out of reach, just like that box of sweets – never meant for his own filthy hands), that he doesn’t long for another hand to hold his own.
When he can stop lingering by the window, a hungry, lonely ghost.
There's water rushing into his mouth and nose, murky and stale as it tries to flood to his lungs; he's drowning. The weight of another body, it’s owner thrashing about in animal fear and clutching at his hands and feet in a death grip, drags him under. He's starting to panic himself, faced with a real possibility of dying, his head clouding with the lack of oxygen.
He considers it then, just for a moment – letting the boy in his arms go, pushing him away and leaving him to his fate, brought about by his own deliberate foolishness and stubborn pride; wouldn't that be fair?
It is a cruel thought, and so he discards it, pushes through the haziness in his eyes and the burn in his muscles to get in another breath of air, to shove himself just a bit closer to the shore.
The body in his arms slumps down heavily, the boy having finally passed out, and so he drags them both away from the gaping maw of the lake's deep waters, the spidery weave of the fishing net cut loose and left at the bottom.
Back on solid ground, his hands won't stop shaking.
He knows what it's like now: trying to save someone who'd rather drag you down with them instead.
it is a mass of ice melting
There is something about the way Fan Xiao looks at him sometimes: dark, hungry eyes tracking his every move, every minute twitch of his muscle, a starved predator on a prowl – as if Shulang is the only thing that can sate him, the only light reflected in the depth of his eyes – the last matchstick still burning in the palm of his hand, keeping the sharp-toothed darkness at bay. As if he really is his god, brimming with holy might of salvation, capable of pacifying the rushing waves with a casual flick of his fingers – a thing to be devoutly worshipped, held onto with shaking, bloodied hands, kept hidden in the cavity of his chest.
He admits to it easily, too, like a seasoned sinner, the murky darkness of their bedroom just before the first stirrings of dawn his makeshift confessional: says Shulang’s steady heartbeat is better than any lullaby, chasing away the relentless roaring of the waves; that his flesh is better than any communion, the taste of him lingering on Fan Xiao’s tongue a sweet relief from the bitter tang of sea water; that being in him, Shulang’s arms holding him close, face pressed into the crook of his neck, drowning in the scent of wild roses, is so much better than sinking into the darkness on his own.
It should unnerve him, perhaps, that morbid, scorching intensity of Fan Xiao's desire, tinged with a hint of nauseating seasickness, but after a lifetime spent wandering through the sea of people like a stray piece of driftwood, unnoticed and unseen, having those ravenous eyes perpetually trained on him feels like his greatest treasure, his hard-earned reward; after all, earth that had turned to permafrost cannot feel the warmth of spring, not unless you set it aflame.
There is also something about Fan Xiao’s touch, fervent and constant, as if he cannot stand to keep his hands to himself (his steady grip on Shulang's elbow, tugging at him like an over-excited child; the warmth of his coat draped over Shulang's shoulders, his hands lingering there to smooth over the non-existent creases; the rough-hot swipes of his tongue, trailing heavenly fire in their wake; the stinging press of his teeth, leaving blooms of red and purple across Shulang’s skin) that makes You Shulang feel human in ways he'd long since forgotten how, alive in the most exquisite manner – flesh once again rendered weak and mortal.
It's in the way Fan Xiao does not really need him (lone wolf that he is, long since used to carving out a bloody path in his life with his own fangs and claws, to lick at the old wounds in dead silence), but wants him still, with a fervency worthy of a fanatic believer laying himself in supplication across his god’s altar, clings to him still with all of the gentle ache of a newborn cub, too-big tail wagging behind his back, wet eyes staring at him beseechingly.
It makes You Shulang soften into something young and free, jagged, icy edges of his carefully cultivated exterior melted into sweet spring water, a long-ago snuffed out flicker of fragile hope burning back to life. The yearning ache inside of him soothed at last.
He'd been so unsure of it, at first, cautious as a parched prey animal at the waterpoint, afraid of dragging Fan Xiao (so full of youthful energy and brightness, of hidden, twinging hurt), from the broad, sunlit trail, and into the darkness of judgement – into the same thorny path that had already left himself bruised and bloodied. Of dooming him to the same bitterly lonely fate.
And yet Fan Xiao, still filled with the reckless boldness of youth, had swept on, unstoppable like a tsunami, brash and unafraid, easy and open about his affections to the point of shamelessness, diligent about learning all of the things You Shulang had to offer to the point of obsession, single-minded and endearingly clumsy in his pursuit.
Unexpectedly strong and dependable, shielding You Shulang from the ill-winds of fate, offering his shoulder for Shulang to lean on – to take on half of the weight of the sky; to learn, at last, what it feels like: a sunlit home with someone waiting for him, a simple meal spread out on the table, a honeyed kiss pressed to his lips; a cigarette shared in the middle of the night, sweet with the aftertaste of powdered roses, worries drifting away like dove-gray smoke; a warm body clinging to him in his sleep, heavy-limbed, an anchor in the midst of roiling darkness.
To be, finally, in the same room as the rest of the world, the lock picked apart by clever fingers, no longer stranded behind a frosted window – the taste of sweetness no longer ephemeral on his tongue, the warmth of another hand in his own no longer just make-believe.
To have someone who sees him, and still welcomes his touch, gladly returning it with his own; to hold hands, warm fingers intertwined like lotus roots, the thorns no longer littering his path.
It does feel good, after all, to be cradled by a storm.
He dreams of a box of candies sitting on the center-most table like a treasure chest – multi-colored wrappers glittering in the light like gemstones, painting their gaunt faces in envious hues. The children circle it, sticky-fingered, impatience evident in their every move, buzzing with anticipation like flies, mouths salivating at the imaginary taste of that sweetness.
The packaging rips, the candies scatter and the wrappers crinkle, the sounds deafening in the otherwise dead silence; he holds his breath and bites down on his tongue.
There is a candy in his palm, cherry-red and perfectly round, a sweet scent wafting from it as it melts against the warmth of his skin. He crams it into his mouth before the others can catch onto the scent, like sharks onto blood; it floods his mouth with saccharine sweetness, tongue suddenly turned bloated and clumsy.
He tries to swallow it down, his mouth welling with syrupy liquid, making him splutter and choke; it dribbles down his chin and smears across his lips, crimson under the festive lights. The sweetness on his tongue turns cloying and rotten; when he catches his reflection in the frost-painted window, his mouth is covered in blood.
He takes another mouthful of poison.
how real hunger has a real taste
He's seven, the first time someone really sees him and offers him their hand.
It's winter, the streets covered in a delicate layer of ice and snow, sparkling in the sun like a fine scatter of diamonds, the cold ever present – crawling into every nook and cranny, settling into the air with a heavy presence, leaving him with nowhere to hide. He's frozen to the bone, the marrow of him covered in frost-painted patterns, his threadbare shirt doing nothing to keep him warm, his stomach an empty, gurgling abyss – it's been too long since the last time he'd had something to fill it with.
He's digging through the trash with a stick – the bark on it peeling from the cold, his fingers and toes frost-bitten, stiff and clumsy with the chill – desperate to find a piece of something he can sink his teeth in and swallow, when there is a soft sigh behind him; a startled intake of breath.
When he turns, alarmed, thinking it’s another homeless person he’ll have to fight for the scraps, feet almost slipping on a patch of ice hidden beneath a layer of trash, there is a woman standing at the mouth of the alley, staring right at him, bright-eyed, concern etched into the soft furrow of her brow, teeth worrying at the skin of her rose-colored lips.
She's rather tall, towering over him even with the distance still stretching between them – her shadow creeping almost all the way up to his toes, her frame thin, but still elegant under the drape of her coat; and there is something about her face, the faint smile lines, and the scatter of freckles over her nose, that makes her seem infinitely kind: a soft, genial glow to her round eyes, honey-warm in the harsh winter sunlight, and a gentle quality to her small smile, the imprint of barely-there dimples on her cheeks.
There is a tanghulu stick clutched in her hand, hawthorn berries blood-red and perfectly round, the crisp, sugary glaze on their skins twinkling in the sun with the same radiance as the layers of frost clinging to the roofs and windows on the bustling street behind her.
She approaches him as if he is a wounded animal, one careless sound away from bolting in fear, her steps measured and cautious, ice and snow crunching underfoot, her eyes never leaving his face.
"Hello there, little one," she crouches down in front of him, heedless of the hem of her coat brushing against the trash-covered ground, the tanghulu stick held out invitingly towards him, the subtle sweet smell of it tickling at his nose. "Come home with me?"
There is a gentle quality to her voice as well, well-suited to her face, soft and melodious like a spring bird's; it carries the same tinge of sweetness her scent does (something light and powdery, like roses), strangely warm and comforting against the crisp backdrop of winter frost. She smells, he will come to learn, like home.
He wants to refuse her with the same quiet stubbornness that dragged his feet away from the doors of the orphanage after he'd been dumped there for the second time in his life. He had decided, then and there, to never wait for a miracle again, to never depend on anyone but himself again, to never burden anyone with the inconvenience of his existence, to take whatever the life throws at him in stride, and overcome it with his own ability, to survive in this world on his own merit; to never wait for a savior who will not come.
His second lesson well-learned: the world was not a gentle place, not a good one either; no one would save him, if he didn’t save himself.
And yet he is still young, his heart not so hardened, and so the fragile hope in his chest stirs, dying embers coaxed to life by the woman's consideration, by the warmth in her gaze.
She'd seen him, seen him, the quiet, stick-thin figure covering among the waste, and still chose to linger, to come close and talk to him, to offer her hand; to walk beside him, and offer a better tomorrow.
He's young, still, longing for a place to call home, and so he drops the stick he's been using to rifle through the trash, wiping his palm off on the fabric of his trousers, and takes her hand, his small, frost-bitten fingers curling tightly around her warm palm (it's rough, the skin cracked and calloused with all of the work she does on the daily, but to him, her touch is the softest he'd ever known).
She tuts at him gently, looping her scarf around his shoulders, and slipping his hands into a pair of knitted gloves produced from her pocket. As she straightens up from her crouch, she plops a rounded berry into his mouth, her eyes crinkling in laughter at whatever face he makes as the sweetness of the sugary glaze melts on his tongue, followed by a sharp burst of tartness: the taste of a dream suddenly come true.
He starts walking first, steps determined, impatient to get her out of the foul-smelling alley, but slips on the ice again, his worn-out shoes in no way suited for winter, body weak with hunger and fatigue.
Quickly steadying him on his feet, she bends down again and scoops him up despite his protest, muscles straining with effort as she settles him in her arms, pressing him close to her body to shield him, paying no mind to the dirt on his clothes smudging against her coat. They go like that, slow but steady, his face hidden against the warm crook of her neck, awash in the scent of wild roses.
The stark winter sun paints them both a brilliant golden.
There is a thin strand of moonlight spilling across the bed sheets, its pale glow just enough to leave a faint trail of light across Fan Xiao's half-opened lips and the sharp contour of his jaw.
A few months ago, his heart still full of newfound tenderness, You Shulang would've gotten up to draw the blinds firmly closed, carefully guarding his lover's rest. Now, the space between their bodies crawling with frost, he contemplates throwing them fully open, just so he can have the momentary satisfaction of seeing Fan Xiao flinch.
Such a ridiculous, vindictive thought – such a stark contrast to his usual indifferent composure, the very bones of him having been shattered by the man in his bed.
He should hate him, should fight tooth and nail to see him bruise and bleed. And yet, with Fan Xiao's hand clinging to the hem of his shirt, unable to let him go even in his sleep, he cannot make himself commit even this small act of cruelty.
His fingers ache for another cigarette, eager for the burning sting of it even if his mouth already tastes of ash, and so he tears himself out of Fan Xiao's grasp and steps out onto the balcony, the guest bedroom door falling shut behind him none too gently.
Outside, the night wind tears the dove-gray wisps of cigarette smoke into pieces before they can drift up into the moonlight.
No one comes to drape a robe over his shoulders.
rotten children
There is a certain calm that comes with being underwater, swallowed by the lily-covered surface of the lake and cradled in the pit of its stomach, sparse sunlight filtering through to illuminate its sandy bottom. For a moment, he is weightless, suspended in time – bound to nothing, owing no one; free like a dead man. The cold, murky water seeps into his clothes, into his skin, his very bones, like paralytic venom shooting through his veins, trying to weigh his limbs down and drag him into its deadly embrace – and yet, it doesn't slow him down, nimble fingers laying out the fishing traps, his heart beating at a slow, steady pace; he has felt a far worse bite of the cold, knows the way its jagged teeth sink into flesh, so these almost playful nips of the chill do not faze him.
His lungs burn, almost at their limit, another familiar feeling, but he stays in place, securing the last knots on the net with his usual careful precision, before finally pushing off the bottom and breaking the surface to take in a deep breath, water cascading down his face.
There is a cacophony of voices nearby, a bit closer to the shore: other boys in similarly patchwork clothes setting their own traps, pushing at each other to move just a bit further away from the land, to dive just a bit deeper, eyes alight with competitive pride.
You Shulang, well-aware of his own limits, of the general fragility of human life, has warned them many times, voice level but resolute, has cautioned them against playing stupid games of chicken with fortunes, of losing their lives to the dark, seemingly abyssal depth of the lake at its center, where the waters became glacially cold and grievously treacherous.
They do not listen, of course, having long since branded him abnormal and alien for his apparent aloofness, having twisted his worry into ill-intent, having taken his seriousness for self-importance, bristling at his every word and suggestion. It was his latest lesson: he would never fit in with the likes of them. Teenage boys are pack animals, their foolishness growing with their numbers, hungry for a sense of belonging, ever-greedy for an even slightly bigger catch, for their peer's momentary admiration, for that moment at the brink where adrenaline makes them feel all-powerful, more gods than boys.
For all that he resents that foolishness, having had to bear the brunt of it once already, he doesn't blame them, not really – how could he, when he knows they do it out of hunger, starved for so many different things, just like he himself is. And it's a hollow thing, that hunger, a parasite living under their skin, unescapable, scratching at their insides and gnawing at their too-prominent ribs, carving itself into the marrow of their bones. It is understandable, the length one would go to, to quench it, to scratch that ceaseless itch – tearing at each other, racing against time and death itself just for another bite.
In truth, he's just as greedy at that rotten, spoiled core of his, and would love nothing more than to also selfishly gamble with his fate (isn’t that what his life is worth in the end – a net-full of fish exchanged for a fist-full of coin), to sink his teeth into a pound of flesh, to tear off another bite to fill his stomach with – he would have done so, before, a street urchin with everything to gain and nothing to lose, one more skipped meal away from never getting up.
It’s different now, when he has a home to return to, a family to wait for him. When he knows how hunger gives way to sweetness, how love tastes on the tip of his tongue.
The relief that comes over his gentle-eyed, warm-faced mother, every time he returns, her fingers calloused and work-worn (hours spent doing odd jobs just to get him an education, to cloth and feed him and his dreams), but achingly gentle as she cradles him in her arms. The childish excitement of his didi, round-faced and sticky-fingered, trailing after his every step, his eyes star-bright and his voice sweet with gege this, gege that.
He cannot be reckless with the usual abandon of youths, cannot leave them to fend for themselves, not when he already owes them so much, when they've already given him the most precious gift of all – a family, a place for him to call home, warm, living hands to hold with his own.
The hungry wound in him yearns for this simple connection so much more than for the common feeling of being sated.
And so, he cannot let himself drown, not in the murky waters, and not in the wildness of adolescence.
Not when he finally has a path that leads home.
"I'm gay."
The world feels heavy and foreign on his tongue, clumsy and unpracticed, stinging like a brand; it tastes like ash, like every other secret left to rot, like the admittance of original sin.
Perhaps, this is what has always been wrong with him, his incurable congenial condition, that fatal flaw at the core of him – untreatable however hard he'd tried to mold himself into a good person; instantly recognized by everyone but himself. The real reason he's been discarded, time and time again.
He braces himself for the impact of this confession, for the slow disappearance of the warm light in his mother's eyes, for her silent judgement.
He thought he'd take this secret to his grave: a shameful affliction not meant to ever be mentioned, destined to be buried together with him. But every bruise on his body, every bloodied wound, and every tense silence in the wake of the violence survived and perpetrated has left his mother more and more worried, lips bitten-red and eyes bloodshot. And so, he had to come clean.
She shuffles close, the soft swish of her skirt deafening in the otherwise silent room, crouching in front of him like on the first day they'd met, eyes startingly clear behind a thin sheen of tears.
As she cradles his face, her hand is as warm as ever. The judgement never comes.
I may think of you softly
There is something about Fan Xiao that makes You Shulang, usually so unflinchingly composed in the face of any adversity, freeze for a startled moment the first time he sees him, heart still beating in a staccato rhythm after the collision, his breath a bit short and uneven, a dull pain throbbing in his chest. The pause is imperceptible, of course, unnoticeable to anyone but himself, the years spent as an office director making his body move on auto-pilot, face pleasantly neutral. Nevertheless, it leaves him feeling strangely unmoored.
Perhaps it's those eyes: big and round like those of a puppy, startingly gentle on his otherwise strong-featured face, dark like twin abyssal pools, with a strange, shimmering light to their center, partially hidden by the thick sweep of his eyelashes. Or maybe it's the entirety of Fan Xiao: his broad frame draped in a dark, expensive coat, and his strong arms, the slightly woody scent of his cologne picked up by the dry wind, the measured, self-assured way he steps out of his car, as if he is entirely unconcerned by the damage done to it, and the startling, daring insolence of him draping his coat over Shulang without even waiting for his assent. The absolute nerve of him – trampling over any semblance of propriety with a careless smirk.
Or maybe it is the subtle prickling of danger that arises in him when Fan Xiao draws near, like a subtle tremble in the air before a lightning strike.
It doesn't matter, Shulang convinces himself, hands clutching at the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip as he drives away once all of the necessary formalities of the collision have been handled, his chest still a bit tight with residual pain and worry; that instant spark of perturbing attraction means nothing at all – not when he has a boyfriend waiting for him at his apartment, not when he'll never see the man again.
Except Fan Xiao keeps appearing before Shulang's eyes, a sharp-tongued, deceitful tempest, thrown into his path again and again, like a heavenly tribulation meant to test his resolve. Like the most torturous of temptations.
He is a strange man, made up of many contradictions: the cruel twist of his mouth offset by an almost child-like clinginess, the arrogant tilt of his chin tempered by the aggrieved, wounded look on his face whenever he’s scolded, the visage of him smudged at the edges, sharp pieces of past and present scattered like shattered stained glass. He drifts through the sea of people like a false god: plush lips spilling honeyed words, but eyes unnervingly cold with a strange light – like the naga fireballs rising to the river's surface just to make you tread deeper into its treacherous waters. And Shulang should be an old hand at it: knowing where not to dive head-first; still, the depths of Fan Xiao’s eyes (bright with mischievousness, clenched shut against the sunlight, wet with panicked tears) beckons him with a siren’s song.
How can it not, when Fan Xiao, unstoppable as a natural disaster, fragile as a burning matchstick, makes him feel alive, makes him feel seen.
It is strange: the constant, precise prodding at his sore spots should make him feel annoyed, a dragon bristling with its reverse scale touched; the ceaseless teasing, always dipping just slightly over the line of his boundaries, should drive him mad, should leave him feeling disturbed and disrespected, and yet. Instead, it makes him feel young and unpolished, strangely free; Fan Xiao’s nonsense landing with no more sting to it than playful nibbles of a teething puppy. It is as if Fan Xiao’s mere presence inexplicably drags the truth out of him, where it had been lodged in the back of his throat for who knows how long; as if one look at that smug, handsome face can crack You Shulang’s mask of indifferent politeness, despite it having been firmly stuck to his face for several decades.
It starts with a cigarette, the burn of it familiar, the taste less so – powdery-sweet, like something he would never allow himself to have, like something he never knew he'd wanted.
Or perhaps, it starts with a child's cry; with the steady warmth of another body pressed into his side, shoulder to shoulder, ready to catch him should he falter, bearing half of the unbearable weight.
It feels as though for Fan Xiao, there is no frost-painted window to separate them, no mystic veil to render Shulang invisible, no glass wall to put him just out of reach. Instead, Fan Xiao's hands find him with an easy grace of someone used to taking before asking, to clamping his jaw tight around things he wants to make his.
You Shulang tries to resist it, at first, to cling to his reasonings and rationalities, but constant dropping wears away the stone: the easy affection and the incessant clinginess make his heart soften; the unguarded joy that Fan Xiao displays at his presence makes him swell with warmth; the teasing hidden behind the excuse of having poor mastery over the language brings his own sharp-tongued retorts to the surface; and the trembling, vulnerable core of him, laid bare for Shulang to see, finally tips over the scale.
There still are so many questions left unanswered, so many stones left unturned: the mystery of those cold, razor-sharp flashes in Fan Xiao's eyes, there-and-gone when he thinks no one’s looking, the strange way his voice peters out sometimes, trailing off in Thai, his tone somewhere between devout and malicious, the mask that seems to peel off at the corner every so often, revealing a hungry, sharp-toothed abyss underneath.
Except that once the tidal waves crack it open, and Shulang follows the trail of blood left in the wake of the fracture, it's not a monster he finds – it's still Fan Xiao, shuddering and unspooling at the seams, still stuck inside a tsunami.
And so, he thinks to hell with his forethought and restraint, he’ll take this gamble, allowing his composure to crack in an equal measure – allowing Fan Xiao to love him, allowing himself to love Fan Xiao in return, with the same reckless, youthful abandon, his cold-blooded calculations and equanimities be damned.
He will let himself have it, this long-awaited taste of sweetness, the all-encompassing phenomenon that is Fan Xiao's love: potent as a tidal wave, constant as a stray dog trailing your steps, warm as the last flicker of a matchstick; he will let himself burn with it, with every touch freely offered, with every quiet moment spent together, with every dish learned and cooked just for him, with every cigarette shared, smoke curling in the sacred space between their lips, every precious sting of Fan Xiao’s teeth on Shulang's skin.
He knows now what his mother meant back then: about having a person show him this world wasn't too bad to live in.
Fan Xiao, and all the reckless, wild affection of his – is Shulang's gift from the gods, an apology for the overflowing bitterness of his fate and a repayment of his good karma; a piece of heavenly ambrosia to serve as his first taste of sweetness.
And so Shulang will cherish him, will press him close and hold him tight; the greatest mercy granted by the gods.
His love. His.
Coda:
He wakes up to the lingering heat of Fan Xiao's mouth pressing kisses to the back of his neck, teeth occasionally worrying at his skin in playful little nips, the blooming purple marks from yesterday adorned with an additional layer of redness.
The windows are open, curtains billowing softly, the smell of petrichor heavy in the air even as the rising sun paints the high-rise buildings across the street golden, their glass-covered surface shattering the sunlight into a thousand unruly sunbeams, making it look as if the city is aflame.
He turns around, capturing Fan Xiao's mouth with his own, pressing into him, chest to bare chest, the world still a bit hazy at the corners, sleep-warm. As Fan Xiao's hands start to wander along the lines of his body, he snakes his hand up to take him by the throat and press him back into the sheets, lips separating with a wet pop; awash in the morning light, Fan Xiao looks like a spring dream come true: his skin taking on a golden glow, his eyes turned a lighter, honeyed shade by the spill of the sun into their bedroom.
Lips quirked into a sly smile and eyelashes fluttering coyly, Fan Xiao stretches out under his hand, muscles rippling with effort – temptation personified.
The curtains stay open; the light does not sting.