Work Text:
Beasts of the world, lie down and listen. And listen closely.
In the very first scene of Kenneth MacMillan’s Manon, a young woman steps down from her coach. Oh, she’s your typical ballet heroine: gamey, girlish, coquettish. Pretty, of course, and convinced of her own prettiness. A profoundly selfish girl, really — ah, though it's that selfsame selfishness that men find so stunningly irresistible. Her costume is, generally speaking, a pale purple. The purple of thistle flowers. One of the lovelier costumes in the classical canon.
She is, of course, Manon Lescaut. The leading lady.
The programme guide describes her as a girl of sixteen. In truth, this is a highly arbitrary number. She’s been danced by ballerinas of nearly every age — from fresh-faced ingenues to industry legends pushing forty. Casting directors play with a similar age-blindness when casting Juliet, or Aurora. You can get away with this sort of thing onstage. Under the harsh lights of the stage, the wrinkles don’t show.
From out in the cheap seats, a dancer’s face is little more than a pale blur.
Anyhow.
steps down from her coach and into a Parisian courtyard. Giddy and buoyant with the foolishness of youth, she dances through a gangled, miserable crowd. Beggars. Thieves. Brow-beaten servants. Luckless street merchants hawking flimsy wares. You know — common folk. Meanwhile, the demimondaines, powdered and lovely, hike up their ruffled skirts and flirt voraciously with the wealthy gentlemen. Their assignments are covertly brokered by pimps.
This tableau paints a convincing image of urban moral rot. You know, the wickedness of the city and all that.
Manon’s older brother is not immune from such wickedness. Although handsome, well-dressed and winsome, he negotiates the price of his sister’s virginity as soon as her slipper touches the cobbles — steering the attention of a rich lord with a smile. She’s become a lovely little morsel, hasn’t she?
She could be yours, you know. For the right price.
He’s a fantastic salesman. Really. He delivers his pitch without even a shred of guilt.
A cold, cruel, yet profoundly sensible man.
Ultimately, Manon is a story about the ungainliness of people. Their corruptibility. Their perversion. In the war of all against all, only the most self-interested survive. If you are in the business of drawing breath, you have no choice but to be cold. To be cruel, ungainly, corrupt, and perverse. Manon’s decision to weigh love over survival leads to a slow and agonizing death. Her poor lover’s nobility and honour leads him to a similarly wretched fate: penniless, futureless, kneeling alone in the steamy squalor of a Louisiana swamp. Powerless to save the one he loves.
They never had a chance. They were doomed by their ideals.
The rich man lives, of course. The groper, the grasper, the rapist. The thief.
They always do.
Shen Jiu’s dressing room was quite neat.
Scratch that — it was aggressively neat. Intensely neat. Coldly, impersonally, exactingly neat. Spartan, even.
It wasn’t empty, of course. He had the essentials: a mirror, a vanity, and a wrought iron clothes rack. A small sewing kit he kept under the table. A hairbrush. A loose handful of bobby pins. Spare shoes.
But really, that was it.
The drawers were empty. The clothes rack stood naked more often than not. The vanity’s front console was completely bare, devoid of knicknacks, sentimental flim-flam or clutter. (Shen Jiu despised clutter.) From end-to-end, there was nothing but smooth, polished woodgrain, cool and clean against his fingers.
As a result, the space was somewhat unglamorous. But Shen Jiu liked it that way. It was simple. It was quiet. His own personal escape from the hustle and bustle of the Tianqiao Theater.
Fresh out of the shower, he sat at his vanity. He started by putting his perfume on — the only cosmetic he kept in his dressing room. Then, with methodical care, he began to wring out his soaking wet hair.
He gathered it up into one big, black sheath, wrapping it carefully around his fist. Slowly, he started squeezing out the excess water. It dripped over his fist, cold and balmy-smelling.
Minutes earlier, he’d been up on stage, dancing his fucking guts out to Mayerling’s punishing choreography.
Minutes earlier, he’d been twined around the length of Pei Ming’s body like a sex-hungry serpent, all agape, twisting back into a deadly arabesque as Pei Ming’s mouth descended against his shoulder...
Minutes earlier, he had been at the nucleus of a supernova of applause.
That Mayerling pas de deux made for a rather salacious gala showpiece, but it was a guaranteed crowd-pleaser. It was sensational, showy, and a little licentious: the kind of things audiences liked best. As evidenced by the roaring ovation he’d received as the curtains came down.
Shen Jiu leaned towards the mirror, prodding gently at his skin.
It was intermission now.
Maybe Qi-ge would come backstage to see him.
Shen Jiu hoped that he would. Or rather — he’d be extremely annoyed if he didn’t.
It was no coincidence that Shen Jiu had selected an extremely intimate, highly sexualized piece of choreography for the company gala. After all, Yue Qingyuan attended the National Ballet's Summer Gala every single year.
Yue Qingyuan was a jealous man. He liked to pretend that he wasn’t, but he was. Shen Jiu could see the signs. A clenched jaw here, a quick frown there. Always when Shen Jiu was getting a little too friendly with his male colleagues.
By performing with Pei Ming, Shen Jiu had been hoping to stoke some of that jealousy. He wanted to get some kind of rise out of Yue Qingyuan, even if that rise was often annoyingly restrained.
Well, hey. Maybe he'd be able to arouse Qi-ge's passions today.
Maybe Qi-ge would get down on all fours and beg Shen Jiu to take him back. Maybe Qi-ge would barge into Shen Jiu’s dressing room and fuck him roughly against the wall.
Or maybe Qi-ge would simply slink around backstage, looking beaten and miserable, half-angry. He was never really angrier than half-angry. Anger didn’t stick to Yue Qingyuan. It peeled off of him lamely like a wet vinyl sticker.
Well, whatever. Shen Jiu preferred half-angry to indifferent.
Shen Jiu looked into the mirror. What he saw in that mirror was a man. The man had a very flat, affectless look. He looked bored and haughty. Shen Jiu was very satisfied with that look.
It obfuscated the fact that his entire fucking body was killing him.
God. Being a dancer hurt. That was one thing ballerinas never mentioned on TV — the fact that this career could and would warp your fucking bones.
It hurt. It really, really hurt. It fucked up your whole body. It fucked up your back, your hips, your joints, your knees — oh, especially the knees. Nowadays, Shen Jiu’s knees were basically always sore. Even on good days, which were infrequent, they were at least somewhat sore. They were sore before he warmed up. They were sore after warming up. They were sore when he danced; they were sore when he took breaks. They were sore when he lied in bed at the end of the day, perfectly still and supine. Long soaks helped. Acupuncture and massages, too, when he had the time.
As it currently stood, Shen Jiu wasn’t even sure if he was up to being screwed against the wall. The idea sounded nice, of course, but his legs felt like jelly. If Yue Qingyuan really wanted to fuck him tonight, he’d have to be gentle.
Maybe he’d rub tiger balm into Shen Jiu’s calves. Ha.
Outside his dressing room, Shen Jiu could hear the sounds of mid-show hustle and bustle. Costume changes being rushed from department to department, makeup girls running amok, PAs scurrying to-and-fro with their silly little clipboards. Intermission ends in five! Everyone, to your stations!
Yeah, no. Shen Jiu was done for the night. He’d performed his piece: he was going home. Ideally, with Yue Qingyuan on his arm.
He could hear a pair of footsteps approaching his door. He perked up.
Qi-ge?
Careful to mask his excitement, Shen Jiu glanced towards the door.
The figure standing in the door was decidedly not Yue Qingyuan. It was, instead, Luo Binghe. Shen Jiu’s boarish colleague. He stood against the doorframe, gape-mouthed and stupid. Such was his habit. He was always leering at Shen Jiu: sometimes subtly, sometimes openly and defiantly. It was, apparently, his chief hobby.
Shen Jiu reached for his hairbrush. He waited for Luo Binghe to begin taunting him. But the taunts never came. Luo Binghe just hovered and stared, mute and dumb like a wild animal.
Luo Binghe’s taunts were irritating. But somehow, his silence was even more irritating. It implied that Luo Binghe was thinking, and nothing good could possibly come of that.
Shen Jiu turned back towards the mirror, annoyed.
“Just gonna stand there all night?”
Hopefully, Luo Binghe would not. Shen Jiu was waiting for Qi-ge. He didn’t have time for Luo Binghe’s weird bullshit.
“No,” Luo Binghe said. He placed his hand against the doorframe.“I was just thinking about the day we met, Shen-qianbei. In that bookstore. Do you remember that?”
“I don’t,” Shen Jiu said.
He did.
“You were wearing your high-heeled boots and reading a magazine,” Luo Binghe said. “You weren’t very kind to me, but you helped me pick out a gift. You really don’t remember?”
“Why should I remember such an unimportant occasion?”
“It was important to me.”
“That’s none of my concern,” Shen Jiu said tartly.
“You were wearing a fancy shirt with a surplice neckline,” Luo Binghe recalled. “Come to think of it, why were you dressed like that at a bookstore? Were you waiting for a date?”
An accurate assessment. Shen Jiu and Yue Qingyuan had gone out for dinner that night. They’d been boyfriends at the time. They had been ‘on.’ A brief, wonderful episode in a long string of failed attempts at being a real couple.
Currently, they were ‘off.’ But Shen Jiu was hopeful that tonight’s performance would be enough to rekindle Yue Qingyuan’s interest.
“A date? Preposterous,” Shen Jiu said. He yanked his hairbrush through his long, black hair. “Don’t waste your time thinking about such stupid things.”
Luo Binghe made a face. It was a little difficult to interpret — Luo Binghe’s moods were very rarely straightforward — but Shen Jiu thought it might be disappointment.
“Off you go,” Shen Jiu said, waving Luo Binghe away with one hand.
Miraculously, Luo Binghe did as he was told. He shuffled off the wings, vacant and confused. Shen Jiu wondered why he was in such a terrible daze. Showbiz anxiety? Something he ate? Perhaps a late-stage venereal disease was eating away at his skull.
Ha. A likely story.
Luo Binghe was always cavorting about with women. Sometimes they were beautiful, sometimes they were famous. Often, they were both. He rarely had a girlfriend for more than a month or two. Instead, he went through women like candy bars: tearing at their wrappers with greedy fingers, devouring them, then chucking the remainders.
Such wanton, unseemly behaviour.
In fact, everything about Luo Binghe was wanted and unseemly. Vulgar. Unbefitting of their profession. He did stupid Youtube interviews, guest-starred on idol competitions, got his picture in the tabloids. Truly unballetic. You think Dame Margot Fonteyn engaged in such crass commercialism? You think Maya Plisetskaya spent her days posing and pouting in beauty serum adverts? Ha! As if! Only the lowest of dancers attempted to play celebrity. To do so was to admit artistic bankruptcy.
With any luck, a nasty bout of HPV would sort out Luo Binghe’s unchecked ego.
Shen Jiu reached for a hand towel and patted his wet hair dry. The thought of an abashed Luo Binghe slinking to an STD clinic filled him with a sort of mild cheer.
There was a knock at his door. Shen Jiu tried not to brighten visibly. Yue Qingyuan always knocked, even when the door was left ajar. He was a gentleman like that. An incorrigible, intolerable gentleman.
“You can come in, Qi-ge,” Shen Jiu said. He set the towel down and grabbed his hair brush. Faking an expression of cold indifference, he went on brushing his hair. Hair that was already completely smooth and tangle-free. Oh, shush.
Yue Qingyuan shouldered in. He was wearing a nice suit and a nice expression. He was carrying a large bouquet of flowers: blue and white, smelling strongly and cloyingly of their oily petals.
His big, rectangular, handsome face was lit up with a smile, his thick brows slightly creased. He was a big man, and he took up quite a lot of space in Shen Jiu’s boxlike dressing room. He made a small space feel much, much smaller.
Shen Jiu liked it.
“Xiao Jiu,” Yue Qingyuan said with a smile. He had the nervous smile of a man who often dealt with wild animals. “You were incredible out there.”
“Was I?”
“Yes. Absolutely, absolutely incredible. I was riveted.”
“I see,” Shen Jiu said. He turned in his seat. “I suppose it was a decent enough performance, though I’d have liked a more prepared orchestra. The costumes performed more admirably than that boar on second string.”
“Your costume —” Yue Qingyuan’s smile quivered, strained. “Was very beautiful.”
It was sexy, he meant. Shen Jiu raised a brow.
“Pei Ming was a little lethargic on those later lifts, but I’d say his dancing was sufficient,” he said coolly. “Don’t you agree, Qi-ge?”
Yue Qingyuan’s jaw twitched.
“He danced very well.”
“Now, what’s with that pained expression?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m —” Yue Qingyuan lifted his bouquet pointedly, hiding behind the foliage. “I brought flowers.”
“I can see that,” Shen Jiu said, settling his elbow on the vanity table.
“They’re for you.”
“Yes, I gathered,” Shen Jiu said. He rewarded Yue Qingyuan with a rare smile, reaching out to touch the edge of one large bloom. “What are those, lilies?”
“Lilies and blue irises.”
“The theme of the gala is Red Velvet. You should’ve picked roses, or carnations.”
“You hate carnations.”
“I do. But it would’ve been on theme,” Shen Jiu said. He pulled his hand away. “I don’t have a vase for these. Go steal the one from Liu Qingge’s dressing room.”
Yue Qingyuan laughed. He set the bouquet down on the vanity, where the sound of the petals rustled with a soft shushing sound.
“You can vase them when you get home,” he said.
“Hm,” Shen Jiu said. He reached into his drawers for a bobby pin, then turned towards the mirror to secure it. “You know, Pei Ming invited me out for dinner tonight.”
A weighty pause.
“Did he, now?”
“Yes. He was very interested in further exploring our artistic chemistry. ”
“Oh. Oh.”
“Indeed,” Shen Jiu agreed dryly, adjusting his earrings. "Of course, I’m neither blind nor deaf — I know innuendo when I hear it. The man is clearly hoping to get me into bed tonight. Well. After he’s poured a few drinks into me first, I presume.”
Another pause. Yue Qingyuan’s jaw worked, rotating slowly. His face contorted ever slightly into a look of subtle sourness, like he was sucking on a lemon.
Shen Jiu delighted in that expression.
Yue Qingyuan was jealous, damn it. And that meant he cared, right?
“Wow,” Yue Qingyuan eventually said, visibly straining under the pressure to be polite. “I — well, did you…”
Shen Jiu sighed. He dropped his cheek against the palm of his hand, rolling his eyes.
“Qi-ge,” he said drolly. “You detestable, implacable fool. I declined.”
Yue Qingyuan blinked, then relaxed, the tension seeping out his shoulders. His pleasure was painfully obvious, though he made some effort to mask it.
“You turned him down?”
“Of course I did. Did you really think I’d disgrace myself by sleeping with that sleazy philanderer?”
“No,” Yue Qingyuan answered immediately, reflexively. Then, a little more sheepishly: “I didn’t want to believe that you would.”
Shen Jiu repressed a smile.
“Feeling sentimental, I take it?”
“That’s me,” Yue Qingyuan said. “Sentimental.” He edged a little closer. his big, warm body in thrilling proximity to Shen Jiu’s own. “I know it was only a performance, only — only for show, but still, watching him put his hands all over you…”
“Did it get you all steamed up?” Shen Jiu asked, bemused.
Yue Qingyuan smiled helplessly.
“I wasn’t too pleased.”
“You aren’t even my boyfriend, Qi-ge. What right do you have to get jealous?”
“No right. No right at all, I know. I apologize. But I can’t be dishonest about the way I feel.”
Shen Jiu’s eyes slid towards the bouquet: blue and white flowers intermingling, tied up with a pale ribbon. A stock paper card was tucked between their stems. It said: Congratulations!
“Pei Ming is probably in the green room,” Shen Jiu said. “If it makes you feel better, you can go punch him in the face.”
“Punch him?” Yue Qingyuan repeated, mildly incredulous. “Would that make you feel better, Xiao Jiu?”
Shen Jiu declined to answer.
“Hand me my coat,” he said.
Yue Qingyuan did as he was told. He went to the door, where Shen Jiu’s black blazer was hanging, tugging it gently off of the hook. Shen Jiu stood from his seat, ignoring the twinge of pain in his knees. He lifted both arms silently. Yue Qingyuan, taking his cue, stepped forwards to dress Shen Jiu, helping him into his coat.
“Did you have any plans tonight?” Shen Jiu asked.
“You mean, after the gala?”
“Mm.”
“I was just planning on heading home,” Yue Qingyuan said. “Are you inviting me out?”
“No,” Shen Jiu said. “I’m giving you the opportunity to invite me out.”
“Would you like to go for dinner after the show’s over, Xiao Jiu?”
“No.”
Yue Qingyuan laughed. It was a soft laugh. A gentle laugh. A laugh imbued with great care and tenderness. That laugh made Shen Jiu feel all kinds of things: yearning, desire, embarrassment at his own desire, frustration, anger — then, at last, guilt.
“What about tea?” Yue Qingyuan pressed. “We could go back to my place, put a pot of Roman chamomile on.”
“I prefer German chamomile.”
“But you’ll come?”
“Perhaps,” Shen Jiu said, evasive. “You should return to your seat. The second act will be starting soon.”
“Will you be watching it too, Xiao Jiu?”
“From backstage, sure. And only for a laugh,” Shen Jiu said. “Sha Hualing’s transitions are so clunky. I find them entertaining.”
“Then I suppose I’ll see you after the show,” Yue Qingyuan said.
“You might.”
Yue Qingyuan stretched his hand out. A silent offer. Shen Jiu hesitated. Should he take it? He wanted to take it. But there were a lot of things he wanted, and not all of them were wise.
There was a beat. Then, at last, Shen Jiu allowed himself to give in. He reached back, permitting Yue Qingyuan’s hand to slide against his. Yue Qingyuan’s hand was warm, gentle. Rough-textured. Shen Jiu was always newly surprised at the roughness of Yue Qingyuan’s hands, even though he had felt them a hundred times by now. Yue Qingyuan’s palms were slightly abrasive to the rough, coarse with old, half-healed callouses — perhaps the remnants of days spent practicing lifts and carries, before he’d retired to the life of a sedate little schoolteacher.
For a long moment, there was nothing. Just the two of them in a near-empty room, tucked at the back of a packed theater, holding hands.
Then, perhaps feeling emboldened, Yue Qingyuan leaned forwards to kiss Shen Jiu’s wrist.
What an incurable romantic. Cliche after cliche.
Shen Jiu sat perfectly still, frozen in his chair. He was afraid to move a muscle. He didn’t want to encourage Yue Qingyuan — he didn’t want to smile, or nod, or sigh, or let slip any gesture that might indicate either his joy or his hunger. But he didn’t want to disallow him, either. He didn’t want Yue Qingyuan to back off. Therein lay the tightrope walk: the calculated act of neither accepting nor rejecting, of being neutral in the face of Yue Qingyuan’s unvarnished affections.
At moments like these, Shen Jiu wished to be a statue. He wanted to be cold, unfeeling marble. He wanted to let the kiss happen, to suffer it and savour it, without being in any way participant. He wanted to thrill in the sensation of Yue Qingyuan’s chaste, dry lips against his skin — but he wanted to thrill privately, remotely, and on his own mysterious terms.
“You’re wearing the perfume I bought you,” Yue Qingyuan murmured fondly against Shen Jiu’s hand.
Shen Jiu’s heart tightened.
“That makes me happy,” Yue Qingyuan said. “Xiao Jiu. Thank you.”
The feeling in Shen Jiu’s chest was unbearable. Simply unbearable.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Qi-ge. I’m hardly wearing it for you.”
“Ha-ha. I know, I know.”
“It was an expensive perfume,” Shen Jiu continued evenly, his tone carefully modulated to sound airy and casual. (Talking to Qi-ge was a little like dancing: great pains and great care taken to appear effortless.) “I’m loathe to let it go to waste.”
“It suits you well,” Yue Qingyuan said, turning his cheek against Shen Jiu’s hand. “Damascus roses, was it?”
“Perhaps. I never had a keen nose for fragrance.”
“Does it make you think of me, Xiao Jiu? When you wear it?”
“No,” Shen Jiu said.
It did. Every time.
“Ha-ha, well, that’s fair. But I think of you when I wear the cologne you bought me.”
“Did I really buy you cologne?”
“Yes. Last year, for my birthday.”
“Funny. I don’t remember it at all,” Shen Jiu said, withdrawing his hand. “Quit sniffing at me like a dog and go, fool man. You’ll inconvenience the whole theater if you arrive at your seat late.”
Arguably untrue, but who would dare contradict Shen Jiu?
Not Qi-ge. That spineless, spineless man.
Yue Qingyuan stood and smiled. He turned to face the door, and proceeded (as usual) to do as he was told.
He left.
Shen Jiu leaned forwards, arched like a cat against the tabletop. He listened for Yue Qingyuan’s footsteps as they thudded softly away from his door, out into the wings, and towards the side entrance that would take him back down into the theater.
Once he was certain he was alone, Shen Jiu reached across the vanity and grabbed the bouquet Yue Qingyuan had gifted him. The gathered blooms were sweet and fragrant. Shen Jiu brought the soft, supple petals to his nose, breathing them in. The creamy scent of lilies intermingled pleasantly with the sensuous damask of his perfume.
They were nice.
Really nice.
Shen Jiu buried his face against the flowers and let out a deep sigh.
He hoped the positive buzz from tonight’s performance would convince the producers to give him another full season of leading roles.
He hoped his brother would take the doctor’s advice and get to bed at a reasonable hour.
He hoped the persistent ache in his knees wouldn’t prevent him from fucking Yue Qingyuan later that night.
He had plenty of hopes. Most of them were probably doomed — but they couldn’t all be doomed. That was just statistically unlikely, and Shen Jiu trusted the numbers.
It wasn’t always this hard, you know.
Dancing. Loving Qi-ge. Walking, talking, smiling. They were all easy, once upon a time. Effortless, even. But those days were long gone — gone for good — and Shen Jiu didn’t remember them very well.
Back then, Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan had been the dynamic duo of their municipal ballet class. So talented, so promising, so prodigious. Shen Yuan’s specialty had been adagio; slow and elegiac, gliding dreamily from one phrase into the next. Shen Jiu, on the other hand, had specialized in allegro. His strength was his speed and precision, his aggression, his sense of attack.
Yue Qingyuan, meanwhile, was their cool and kind qianbei. A model upperclassman. So chivalrous, so gallant . He protected the twins from would-be bullies, gave them tips, helped them stretch, and ate lunch with them.
Soon, they did everything together. They practiced their battements in front of the same finger-smeared mirror. They sat on the sidewalk side-by-side, all three sets of scrawny legs, sharing popsicles and sesame sticks and Coca-Cola. They played wordgames, hopscotch, jump rope. They walked home together.
Shen Yuan was very fond of Qi-ge, of course, but Shen Jiu had been positively infatuated. When Qi-ge smiled, his heart beat a wild cadenza. When Qi-ge danced with the pretty girls in Capezios, he seethed. When Qi-ge laughed, his mind was polluted with dizzy daydreams of first kisses — insipid fantasies, obviously, but back then, they’d seemed so stunningly vital.
Shen Jiu, as an enterprising nine year old, had been quick to declare himself Yue Qingyuan’s future bride.
When I grow up, I’ll be your wife!
… I thought only girls could be wives?
Well, I don’t care! If you try to marry any girl, I’ll bite her!
Um… Please don’t bite anyone, Xiao Jiu.
I’ll bite whoever I want! If you try to stop me, I’ll bite you too!
Those were simpler times.
More idealistic times.
Evidently, they couldn’t last. Things changed. Life changed. It contracted; it collapsed. Yue Qingyuan fucked off to some fancy private boy’s school on a scholarship, leaving Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan in the fucking dust. Some model upperclassman. Around the same time, the Shen twins were shuffled off to a new foster home: the Qiu household.
God. That place was — hardly pleasant . Oh, sure, the Qiu daughter had been sweet enough, but their oldest son, Qiu Jianluo — he, he…
He was a piece of fuckin’ work, alright? A fish-eyed, gape-mouthed jackass who liked to — to touch, to feel, to [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] whenever [REDACTED] wasn’t around.
All the while, all the fucking while, Shen Yuan’s health began to deteriorate. What had once been daydreaming spells evolved into focal seizures. What had once been the occasional numb arm or fuzzy brain turned into extended episodes of full-on, tonic-clonic systems failure.
Soon enough, Shen Jiu was walking to ballet classes completely alone, his little boy-sized feet scuffing quietly along the concrete. He sat on the steps in silence, stone-faced and alone, prodding at the bruises beneath his clothes.
After that, life became different. The definitions began to shift around. They metamorphosed.
Things that had once been easy — walking, talking, smiling, playing hopscotch and wordgames — became hard. They took enormous, back-breaking effort. He was smothered under the weight of even trying.
He couldn’t joke around with his brother like he used to. He couldn’t daydream of first kisses. He couldn’t pine sweet-heartedly for his Qi-ge. He didn’t remember how. The mental muscle that enabled those kinds of thoughts had atrophied.
But he could still lift his body into the flawless shape of piqué arabesque.
So, he had that.
For all the good it did him.
For the record, he did end up in Yue Qingyuan’s place.
It was a lovely little place. A mature sort of place. A professional sort of place. A respectable sort of place. You know, an upscale condo on the nice side of town — one of those quiet, moneyed neighbourhoods where the cops never hassled anyone. The roads here were dark and recently-paved. The nearby businesses were trendy and impractical. Clockmakers, frozen yogurt, things like that. The lawns, which pocketed the whole of Yue Qingyuan’s street, were uniformly green and perfectly manicured. There was a box of fresh herbs growing in each windowsill, and in each garden, a friendly swarm of purple azaleas. Their blooms shifted uneasily in the late-summer breeze. They would probably die soon.
So it goes.
Ever the gentleman, Yue Qingyuan held the door open for Shen Jiu. Shen Jiu stepped over the threshold curtly, then handed his coat off to Yue Qingyuan. He wandered towards the kitchen. The walls in Yue Qingyuan’s kitchen were snapdragon-yellow, and Shen Jiu hated them. Such an ugly colour.
“You should repaint this damned kitchen,” Shen Jiu said, glancing about the room.
Yue Qingyuan’s voice echoed out from the foyer.
“I can’t. I’m only renting, remember?”
“Paint it anyways,” Shen Jiu said, sinking down to sit at the kitchen table. “Dare your landlord to do something about it.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“It’s offensive.”
“I like the yellow,” Yue Qingyuan said, turning into the room. “It’s cheerful.”
“A very cheerful eyesore.”
The faucet hissed to life as Yue Qingyuan moved to fill the kettle. Shen Jiu closed his eyes. There was a strange throbbing sensation in his right knee, his pulse pounding beneath overworked muscle and sinew. He hoped it would stop soon.
Shen Jiu dropped his chin against his hand, feigning boredom as he watched Yue Qingyuan moved about the kitchen. Secretly, he was enthralled. He really liked watching Yue Qingyuan. Even something as mundane as this — preparing tea — had a kind of novelty and charm to it. Maybe because it seemed sort of domestic.
Yue Qingyuan pulled out a box of tea, then two mugs. A sugar bow. The electric kettle rattled and hissed as the temperature rose.
Yue Qingyuan’s had an old-fashioned, English-style teapot. It was white and patterned with pale crocuses. It was probably an antique. Yue Qingyuan had a thing for antiques. He hauled them out of jumble sales and thrift stores, lavished them with attention, and refurbished them by hand. The china cabinet in his dining room was one such antique. So was the record player in the parlour.
Yue Qingyuan’s shoulders squared as he poured out the tea. Hot, fragrant vapours curled up into the air, grasping and groping towards the ceiling. He turned towards the table, settling both mugs on top of the pinewood. He sat down in front of Shen Jiu. His expression was torn somewhere between pleasantry and discomfort. But that was just how he always was, wasn’t it?
“Would you like some sugar?”
“No.”
“Ah, alright. I guess you like your tea quite strong, huh, Xiao Jiu?”
“You already know that I do.”
“... Ha-ha. I guess I do.”
“Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to? Just to fill silence?”
“ I, ah. I suppose so. I’m sorry.”
Qi-ge was always sorry, and he always would be. Shen Jiu would never let him stop being sorry.
“Are you in any pain?” Yue Qingyuan asked lightly, dropping two sugarcubes into his own mug.
Shen Jiu glanced sideways, a tick in his jaw.
“No.”
“Oh,” Yue Qingyuan said. He paused, his spoon clinking noisy against the ceramic as he stirred. “That’s a relief.”
He didn’t sound relieved. He didn’t sound particularly convinced, either.
“Sometimes, I’m quite sore after I’ve been dancing,” Yue Qingyuan continued, his tone buoyed by a note of joviality that was transparently, flimsily fake. “It’s very normal, you know.”
Shen Jiu took a sip of his tea to avoid speaking. It was strong and powerfully herbal, like cold medicine.
“I’m just saying — if you are in any pain, you don’t need to put up a front,” Yue Qingyuan said. “I mean, it’s just — I know your knee has been acting up recently, and…”
“Oh my God,” Shen Jiu said. “I’m sick to death of people asking about my goddamn knee.”
Yue Qingyuan’s brows knit together.
“We ask because we worry,” he said over the brim of his mug.
“Oh? Is that so?” Shen Jiu sneered. “You think Luo Binghe is pestering me about my health because he wants to see me whole and hale? Don’t be stupid. You know he’d positively delight in watching me break my neck out onstage.”
“Xiao Jiu, you know that’s not true.”
“It is.”
“We talked about this, didn’t we? With Dr. Mu? The things your paranoia tells you, they don’t necessarily reflect reality.”
“I’m not being paranoid. This is reality.”
“It isn’t,” Yue Qingyuan insisted, infuriatingly calm. Shen Jiu felt his blood begin to boil as Yue Qingyuan pressed on, undeterred. “Do you remember the strategies Dr. Mu suggested? For coping with paranoid thoughts? Let’s try some of them right now. For example, let’s question —”
Shen Jiu slammed his hand down against the table. Yue Qingyuan’s teaspoon clinked and clattered; some of Shen Jiu’s tea slopped over onto the pinewood table.
“You shut the fuck up,” he snarled, “with that stupid fucking therapist-talk, or I’ll get up and leave right now.”
There was a beat.
“Alright,” Yue Qingyuan said.
He reached across the table — for a single, stupid second, Shen Jiu thought Yue Qingyuan might try to hold his hand. But instead, he just grabbed a napkin. Silently, he started mopping up the spilled tea.
Shen Jiu’s chest tightened up.
“That Luo Binghe kid fucking hates me, alright? That’s not paranoia. That’s reality,” Shen Jiu said, feeling defensive. “It’s not just him. It’s all of them. All those fucking — subpar dancers at the Tianqiao, they’re all dying to see me forced into an early retirement. There can only be so many principals at once, you know? They’re all vying for my spot. Watching the throne.”
“Your juniors admire you,” Yue Qingyuan said quietly.
“They don’t.”
“They want the best for you.”
“They don’t give a shit about me.”
“Well,” Yue Qingyuan paused, lips pursed. “I do.”
“Because you’re stupid,” Shen Jiu said.
“Because I care.”
“That’s what I said,” Shen Jiu said. “Stupid.”
Feeling cornered, he turned his ceramic mug over in his hands, feigning interest in the image printed on the side. It was a cartoony picture of an old-fashioned teddy bear. The teddy bear had button eyes and tawny mohair fur. It’s stuffing, gruesomely, was escaping out of a slit in his lower belly. It was holding up a big wooden signboard, which read WORLD’S BEST TEACHER! Clearly, a gift from one of Yue Qingyuan’s Cang Qiong brats.
How tacky.
“Because I care, Xiao Jiu, I’ll ask again. I hope you’ll allow me that,” Yue Qingyuan said. There was a brief silence as his words sank in. Then, as promised, he asked again — his voice burred by a gentleness that was nearly unbearable — “Are you in any pain?”
Shen Jiu looked away.
“And if I am? Are you going to get down on your knees and give me a foot massage?”
“... If you like."
“I bet you would like that,” Shen Jiu said snidely.
“I can pour you a bath,” Yue Qingyuan offered pleasantly, taking a calculated sip of his tea. “I have bath salts and essential oils.”
“Trying to get me naked, I see.”
“It doesn’t have to be sexual.”
“But it could be, you’re saying.”
Yue Qingyuan looked embarrassed.
“I just thought you might like, you know…” Yue Qingyuan stumbled over his words, his calm faltering. Hemming and hawing, he reached back to scratch at the back of his neck. “I have ginger root. And, um… lavender oils… and I could read to you.”
“Read to me?” Shen Jiu folded his arms, laughing breathily. “Read what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You can pick anything off my bookshelf.”
Shen Jiu leaned back in his seat. He was sorely tempted to laugh. After all, Yue Qingyuan’s proposition was sort of absurd, wasn’t it? He wanted to pour Shen Jiu a bubble bath and read to him. It was just too corny, right? Right?
And yet, the longer Shen Jiu allowed himself to consider it, the less funny the concept became. In fact, as he stewed there in his seat, legs stinging, it actually began to sound pretty nice. Warm water. Bath salts and ginger. The pleasant tenor of Yue Qingyuan’s voice.
Shen Jiu glanced furtively beneath the table, where his ankles were crossed primly one over the other. Beneath thin, bluish skin, his ligaments were aching. It was an unsettling sort of ache. He could feel a persistent pressure building at the base of both feet — a tautness, as though the muscle and sinews below had been stretched a little too tightly over his bones.
It was painful. Painful and strange.
Christ. But rehearsals started up again in two days. There was nothing he could do about it. There was no time.
Shen Jiu directed his gaze towards the widow, his expression cool and remote.
“Qi-ge,” he said flatly. “It hurts.”
Yue Qingyuan straightened up instantly.
“What hurts?”
“My body,” Shen Jiu answered vaguely. He traced the rim of his mug with one manicured finger. “It hurts, so… go draw me a bath.”
Alone in Yue Qingyuan’s bathroom, Shen Jiu peeled his clothes off.
Yue Qingyuan had one of those fantastic Western-style bathrooms you sometimes see in TV dramas. He kept it quite neat, too — his towels neatly stacked, his shampoos and his soaps organized by size. The bathtub was large and square-shaped, with a built-in headrest for longer soaks. At present, it was filled with warm, soapy water.
Shoving his clothes to the side, Shen Jiu peered into the bathtub. Yue Qingyuan had prepared it, so he wasn’t entirely sure what particular elixirs and brews were now swirling through the water. The scent, however, was divine.
Shen Jiu cautiously lowered one foot into the tub, testing the temperature. It was warm. Hot, even — but not scalding, no. Satisfied, Shen Jiu slowly lowered himself into the water, sinking down to his hips.
The moment his legs slipped beneath the water, his nerves exploded with relief.
Shen Jiu sighed aloud. Lowering his guard, he sank all the way down to his shoulders.
Ginger oil, he thought dizzily. There was certainly ginger here. He could feel it like a glow in his stomach, warm and tight. Shen Jiu had always loved ginger. He loved its suffusive goodness, its fiery health, its spicy-sweetness. Combined with the somewhat fizzying feel of Yue Qingyuan’s bath salts, it made for the perfect panacea.
Slowly, cell by cell, the pain began to fade. It was a top-down process: the first thing to dissipate when the pain in his neck. Then, his shoulders. Shen Jiu shut his eyes, his mind going blissfully blank as warmth radiated down from his clavicle to his abdomen before finally, finally, reaching his knees.
His crumbling, broken-ass knees.
As his body heated up, the pain in his knees began to gradually subside. The relief was so intense, so sorely-needed, that Shen Jiu honestly could’ve cried. But crying would be stupid. So, instead, he simply squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled through his nose.
He wanted to fully succumb to relaxation. He wanted to forget the pressures of Svengali ballet-masters, the cattiness of coryphées, the wandering hands of upstart beasts.
He wanted to stop thinking.
There was a knock on the door.
Ah, right. Qi-ge.
“Is it it alright if I come in?” Yue Qingyuan called out, his voice slightly muffled.
Shen Jiu hummed his assent.
The door clicked open. Shen Jiu kept his eyes shut. He could hear Yue Qingyuan padding through the room in his socks. He heard the door shut. There was some indistinct rummaging — the drawers? — and then, the wispy hiss of a lighter. That stirred Shen Jiu’s curiosity somewhat, so he cracked an eye open. Yue Qingyuan was leaning up against the sink, lighting some tea candles.
Oh. Shen Jiu’s eyes slid shut once more. Candles. That was nice.
“How’s the water feel?” Yue Qingyuan asked.
“Good,” Shen Jiu murmured.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
The candles must have been scented, because the room was filled with a subtly vanillic scent. It was honestly pretty nice, if somewhat soporific. Shen Jiu let out a sigh, shaking his hair out in the water.
He’d taken a quick shower right after his gala performance, but in all honesty, the Tianqiao Theater’s staff showers were pretty basic. This was what he’d needed. A long, hot soak with all the fixings.
If this had been Yue Qingyuan’s plan to get him into bed, it was a lousy plan. The warm, fragrant water had sapped away whatever sexual energy Shen Jiu might’ve otherwise had. He felt ready to fall asleep.
… Not that falling asleep in the tub was a good idea. For one, that was a great way to get a cold. Second of all, he wasn’t even at home. This was Yue Qingyuan’s home. Yue Qingyuan’s bathroom.
Forcing himself to stay present and awake, Shen Jiu struggled upright. He reclined against the side of his tub, chin pressed against the rim.
He could see Yue Qingyuan leaning against the far wall, looking somewhat awkward. He was making a visible effort not to look Shen Jiu’s way — out of respect for Shen Jiu’s modesty, probably.
“You can look,” Shen Jiu said, drained of all his rancor. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Oh, well…” Yue Qingyuan coughed, looking embarrassed. “Not lately.”
“Not lately,” Shen Jiu agreed tiredly.
Still, Yue Qingyuan did look his way. There was no ruttishnes or expectation in his gaze, which was nice. Instead, his gaze just looked sort of tender. He went over to the side of the tub, lingering uncertainly, his hands stowed deep into his pockets.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“A glass of wine,” Shen Jiu answered, cheek pressed against the cool enamel. It was the first thing that came to mind.
Yue Qingyuan laughed.
“I only have beer in the fridge. Sorry.”
“Beer? Seriously?”
“It’s really good beer,” Yue Qingyuan said, a little defensive. “New England IPAs. They’re imported.”
Shen Jiu shook his head, clicking his tongue in disdain.
“Useless,” he murmured. “Aiya... I thought you were a soft-hearted artist. Since when do you drink beer?”
Yue Qingyuan smiled, not in the slightest bit offended.
“Next time you come over, there’ll be wine. I promise. Can I get you something else in the meantime? I can go make you an iced tea.”
Shen Jiu sniffed, shaking his head.
“No,” he said. “But you can wash my hair for me.”
Yue Qingyuan blinked, taken-aback.
"Your hair?"
“I’m too tired to do it myself," Shen Jiu said, playing it off.
Yue Qingyuan's countenance warmed. His eyes were shining — lit from behind with some kind of secret interior light.
"Okay," he said, sotto. “Let me grab a chair.”
He left the room, returning moments later with a short stool. He sat himself down at Shen Jiu's side, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Shen Jiu peered up at Yue Qingyuan through eyes narrowed to a slit. Yue Qingyuan's exposed forearms made for a pleasant sight. They were well-muscled, well-defined and somewhat bronzed. Masculine.
Shen Jiu was always surprised to remember that Yue Qingyuan could, in fact, be very masculine. In his own way, of course.
Yue Qingyuan pumped shampoo into his hands, lathering it up into a light foam. Then, he reached out. He smoothed his warm, sudsy hands over the crown of Shen Jiu’s head.
Shen Jiu closed his eyes. There was a prickle of fear, at first, when Qi-ge touched him. There would always be fear. It had nothing to do with Qi-ge. It was just automatic.
But the fear melted away once Yue Qingyuan’s hands began to gently massage sweet-smelling shampoo into Shen Jiu’s hair. He was so careful. So thorough. So — tenderhearted.
It was almost annoying, being treated with the kid gloves. But it also felt amazing, so Shen Jiu didn’t complain. He just leaned back, tension evaporating as Yue Qingyuan’s fingers worked the shampoo through his hair.
“Does that feel nice?” Yue Qingyuan pressed him softly
“Mm.
Yue Qingyuan's nails scraped lightly over Shen Jiu's scalp, sending a pleasant frisson down his spine.
“How’s your knee?”
“S’fine.”
“Is the water nice?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Could you please tilt your head back, Xiao Jiu? I’m going to rinse.”
Eyes still shut, Shen Jiu obeyed. There was a beat. He could hear the soft, rippling sound of water being disturbed. Perhaps Yue Qingyuan was gathering it up in cupped hands. A very prayerful mental image.
Warm water sluiced over him. It trickled down from his scalp to his shoulders, pouring over his face and mouth. It dripped off his browbone, off of his lips. It warmed his sore neck, teasing out the last, lingering knots of pain. The sensation was indescribably perfect. Really.
Shen Jiu reached up, blearly, rubbing the excess shampoo away from his eyes. He looked at Qi-ge — beautiful, stupid Qi-ge — who was reaching across the bath’s edge for a bottle of conditioner.
Without even really thinking, Shen Jiu asked, “Why don’t you join me?”
Yue Qingyuan stilled.
“Ah?”
“You heard me.”
Yue Qingyuan stalled for a moment. After a brief spell, he ended up reaching over for the conditioner after all, turning the bottle over in his hands with an awkward expression.
“We don’t have to, you know,” he said.
Shen Jiu frowned.
“What?”
“I told you before,” Yue Qingyuan demurred, fiddling with the cap. “This doesn’t have to be sexual. I just want to look after you.
Well and truly irritated, Shen Jiu flashed him with a look.
“What are you on about? I never said anything about sex,” he snapped.
“I just don’t want you to feel pressured.”
“Pressured? What sort of dithering teenage girl do you take me for?” Shen Jiu had a new thought. “If you don’t want to bathe with me, just say so.”
“Xiao Jiu, it’s not that.”
“Isn’t it?” Shen Jiu pressed, mustering up all his strength to straighten his spine. The water shifted around him, iridescent bubbles swirling around his naked thighs. “You never had any issues bathing with me in the past. Have I become so repulsive?”
“You know that’s not true.”
Shen Jiu wasn’t so sure he did.
“Look — yes or no, do you want to bathe with me?”
“I —” Yue Qingyuan lifted his hands up, pleading. “I want what you want, Xiao Jiu.”
“Well, I want you to get in the damned tub,” Shen Jiu said, irate. He jerked his head towards the water, eyes flashing.
“Ah,” Yue Qingyuan said. His expression turned very strange. Shen Jiu narrowed his eyes, struggling to descripher it. Was he happy? Was he flattered? Was he disgusted? Was he disinterested? He was most certainly shy. The high blush on his cheeks made that evident. “Alright. Alright.”
Yue Qingyuan stood up, awkwardly moving to disrobe himself. He unbuttoned his shirt, unbuckled his belt, and shimmied out of his pants. It wasn’t really a convincing striptease, but Shen Jiu took some pleasure in watching all the same. Yue Qingyuan was tall and strong. Lean, firm, corded. He’d been an elite dancer, once, before retiring to the life of a teacher — and his body still showed as much.
“Difficult man,” Shen Jiu muttered, sinking back into the water. Frustration and desire were at war inside of him.
“I don’t mean to be difficult,” Yue Qingyuan said, folding his clothes neatly and leaving them by the sink. He walked towards the tub, swinging one leg over tentatively. The warm, soapy water sloshed against the side of the tub as he slipped in. “I’m sorry.”
Yue Qingyuan’s bathtub was pretty big, sure. But Yue Qingyuan was a large man — there was no escaping it. It was a tight fit.
Not that Shen Jiu really minded. On the contrary. He readjusted himself so that he was resting against Yue Qingyuan’s broad chest.
Yue Qingyuan was warm. Paired with the water, Shen Jiu felt almost suffocatingly hot — yet, the sensation was paradoxically pleasurable. He imagined himself as an ice cube under the July sunshine: fizzling against the pavement, melting away into nothing.
“You’re too big,” Shen Jiu sighed.
“Ah,” Yue Qingyuan said. He paused to card back Shen Jiu’s dark, damp hair. “Am I hogging the tub?”
“Yes,” Shen Jiu murmured. He nuzzled against the hollow of Yue Qingyuan’s throat. “It’s fine.”
Yue Qingyuan wrapped his arms around Shen Jiu, holding him close. They stayed like that for a while, clothed in steam, cloaked in sweet ginger.
“Qi-ge. Last time…” Shen Jiu pressed his forehead against Yue Qingyuan’s chest, hiding his expression. "Did you break up with me, or did I break up with you?"
"You don't remember?" Yue Qingyuan laughed with quiet desperation.
Shen Jiu shook his head, “No.”
A pause. Yue Qingyuan shifted Shen Jiu in his arms, moving him from one shoulder to the other.
"You broke up with me," he said.
"Why'd I do that?"
"I assume I did something to offend you."
"You assume."
"Ah. Well. You never told me why," Yue Qingyuan said, faux-pleasant. "You just — cancelled all our plans and disappeared."
Oh, right.
"I'm sure I had a good and compelling reason," Shen Jiu said.
“Of course.”
"I mean, you're always saying the wrong things."
"That’s true."
“And, you know…” Shen Jiu repositioned his legs, enjoying the soft, slushy sounds of water being displaced. “You never take my side when I need you to.”
“I’m sorry. I want to be on your side.”
“Then do better,” Shen Jiu said, holding his Qi-ge close.
Now, Shen Jiu was many things — but he wasn’t delusional. He knew it was nobody’s fault but his own that they couldn’t seem to stay together. He was well-aware of his own shortcomings. His cowardice, his brittleness, his blunt anger, his paranoia. He made himself unbelievably easy to side against. But he still wanted Qi-ge to side with him regardless. He wanted Qi-ge’s protection. His trust. His unflagging defense.
Add that to the list of flaws: deep, bottomless selfishness.
Shen Jiu sighed, leaning up to look Yue Qingyuan in the eye. Their wet, soap-studded bodies were plastered against one another; they were intertwined like reeds on the riverbed.
“Hey. You put up with a lot, don't you?" Shen Jiu mused, mostly to himself.
Yue Qingyuan blinked slowly, unphased.
"I don't see it that way."
"No?"
“Never.”
“Then you’re the biggest fool alive,” Shen Jiu said.
“Maybe,” Yue Qingyuan agreed.
There was a weariness in his voice. An exhaustion. It struck Shen Jiu with some force. Why was Yue Qingyuan so weary? Why was Yue Qingyuan so exhausted? Was Qi-ge tired he loving him? Was Qi-ge tired of pleading? Was Qi-ge tired of trying? That was a terrifying thought, obviously, but it was also galvanizing. It ignited Shen Jiu. It incensed him. It gave him a rush of such extreme proportions — an urgency, an energy, a desperation.
So Shen Jiu leaned up and kissed Yue Qingyuan.
Yue Qingyuan’s eyes slid shut as Shen Jiu’s lips met his own. All but immediately, he reached up to cup the back of Shen Jiu’s head, holding him firmly in place as he responded to Shen Jiu’s sudden kiss.
At first, Shen Jiu kissed him slowly. But his patience was thin. His lush, clinging kisses soon turned hard with hunger. It wasn’t long before he was pressing his whole body up against Yue Qingyuan, panting through his nose as his kissed his Qi-ge relentlessly.
There was a sense of demand to Shen Jiu’s kisses. Yue Qingyuan, of course, was only too happy to capitulate to it. He leaned back and parted his lips, allowing Shen Jiu full and unfettered access. Shen Jiu pressed his tongue against Yue Qingyuan’s, letting them glide against one another in a slick, liquid slide. It felt good. So, so stupidly good.
He’d never get enough it: the hot sensation of Yue Qingyuan’s tongue moving against his own. It felt so — so dirty.
So erotic.
Shen Jiu’s desire began to rouse itself, shaking its sleepy head. The same could be said of Yue Qingyuan. Shen Jiu could feel his half-hard cock pressing up against the clef of his naked ass. The sensation was so wonderfully familiar that Shen Jiu couldn’t help but smile, dazed. So overager, his Qi-ge. So needy. So desperate for him. But Shen Jiu was desperate too, so he let it pass without complaint. He pressed himself back against the heat of Yue Qingyuan’s hard-on, letting the water slosh and spill over the tub as Yue Qingyuan began to rut himself against the wet, soapy give of his thighs.
“Don’t I feel good?” Shen Jiu panted, guiding Yue Qingyuan’s hands onto his naked body. “Don’t I feel hot?”
“Xiao Jiu,” Yue Qingyuan said, helpless. His lips were swollen with kisses. His eyes were dark and glassy. Steamy droplets of bathwater dripped off his strong body. His breath tasted of honeyed chamomile.
By God, Shen Jiu just couldn’t leave this poor man alone.
“Fuck me,” Shen Jiu blurted out, bringing Yue Qingyuan’s down below the water to grip his ass. “Right here. Right now.”
Yue Qingyuan’s throat bobbed.
He nodded.
They fucked like this: Shen Jiu bent over the side of the tub, ass-up. Yue Qingyuan, draped over him from behind, fucking into Shen Jiu with slow, deep thrusts.
It was an utterly, utterly overwhelming experience. The heat of sex, paired with the heat of the bathwater, left Shen Jiu feeling feverish. Delirious, even. He was flushed, dizzy, and impossibly sensitive. He could feel every twitch and every pulse of Yue Qingyuan’s rock-hard cock, every minute drag of the head against his inner walls, the flex of Yue Qingyuan’s fingertips digging into his hips —
“Qi-ge — hahhhnn… slow down!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s so… so hard to control myself, Xiao Jiu, I…”
“Shit, shit, it feels so… so much, just — uhn!”
“— Xiao Jiu , I love you.”
Yeah.
It was heady stuff.
Jasmine takes the fore with slightly dark rose, slightly powdery carnation,
and an apricot-ish osmanthus floralcy, dominated by a creamy suede .
Sometimes, especially in winter, I suddenly find myself wanting these luxuriant mafia wife perfumes;
— this very luminous and abstract aldehyde accord that seems to hold captive a rose.
However, two seconds on my skin and this promising creation nearly vanishes.
(There are better rose fragrances out there.)
Thoroughly spent and soaked to the bone, Shen Jiu settled back against Yue Qingyuan’s chest.
Lying there in Yue Qingyuan’s bathtub, his emotions waxed and waned at a rapid clip. There was guilt, fear, suspicion, contempt, the occasional spike of anger. (There would always be anger. That was just life.)
But as the bathwater cooled, lowering his body temperature to a more reasonable level, the tension began to ease. Post-orgasm delirium mellowed into something softer. More pleasant.
Something like, you know — affection.
Shen Jiu turned his head, eyes sliding lazily over Yue Qingyuan’s bathroom. The candles were melting themselves down into stubs. Their French vanilla scent, which had once smothered the room, was now imperceptible.
Shen Jiu shifted around. He was planning on telling Yue Qingyuan, ‘Hey, you should probably go blow out those stupid candles,’ but his voice caught in his throat at the sight of Yue Qingyuan’s face.
Was Yue Qingyuan smiling? All signs pointed to no, but the look in his eyes was still arrestingly joyful. He looked happy. Happily dazed, happily clueless and happily brow-beaten. He looked dumb, of course, but dumb in the pleasant, self-content way a golden retriever might seem dumb. He was glowing with adoration.
Glowing with — with love.
He loves me, Shen Jiu thought dizzily. Then: Goddamn. This guy just doesn’t know when to quit, huh?
What a masochist, right?
What an absolute glutton for punishment. Letting Shen Jiu walk all over him, then coming back in for more. What a complete fucking imbecile.
Still, Shen Jiu couldn’t help but feel kinda grateful.
Feeling as clumsy as a child, he reached out and took hold of Yue Qingyuan’s hand. Yue Qingyuan blinked. He regarded Shen Jiu carefully, seriously.
“Qi-ge,” Shen Jiu whispered. “Qi-ge, let’s be together. Let’s be together again. For real this time, okay? Alright?”
Yue Qingyuan stiffened, then relaxed. He smiled. This was a real smile: a money smile, big and bright and wholesome. It was like staring into direct sunlight. It was searing.
Qi-ge shifted in the water, washing the sudsy film off of his skin.
He said, “Alright, Xiao Jiu.”