Archive of Our Own ^beta

These days, Mo Guan Shan has his routines, knows his routes, his habits. He plans things with particular care to a sometimes excruciating degree. He should have seen this coming.

Sundays, fortnightly, are market nights.

It should have been this: a plate of barbecue skewers, a bowl of cold rice noodles, a basket of sugary dough sticks to share with Jian Yi and Zhan Zhengxi. They’d commandeer a plastic cloth-covered table at the edge of the market, sticky with sesame oil and black bean sauce, and a decent view of whichever amateur musician was trying to make a name between swapping out the batteries of their portable amp.

The hours would tick by until they’re yawning more than talking, before spilling into a taxi or stumbling, uncoordinated, through the city’s subway network, foggy with beer.

It’s a nice routine, harking back to younger years—shooting the shit at school and looping back a few hours later to play video games and drink bubble tea in the darkened cove of Zhan Zhengxi’s bedroom—except these days there’s alcohol and Guan Shan would usually pop a pill or two if he thought he needed it.

Guan Shan relies on these little rituals. Usually, he would have taken his gloves off just to lick the dough stick sugar from his fingers.

Tonight, he wears them like a second skin. The thought of food makes him feel sick.

There are people everywhere. The usual plinth has been transformed into a stage with AV equipment and rigging; there’s a band performing who Guan Shan vaguely recognises from TV and the drums and bass boom in his ears. His usual food stall is hidden behind a swathe of people, and Guan Shan can’t see a single empty table.

He clings to the edges of the market like a scared dog. Beneath his shoe, there’s a forgotten flyer about some music festival. Tonight—free entry; discounts on the food stalls.

Guan Shan swears.

He punches in his phone’s passcode. There’s a tremble to his hand.

Are you here? he types.

Jian Yi’s reply is immediate. Usual spot. pretty busy… U ok? Vanguard on stage in 10.

Guan Shan looks in the direction of their usual table, set across from a large standing area. Usually, the space is dotted with couples sharing picnic blankets and kids kicking a ball. Tonight it’s impenetrable. He can’t see it over the crowds. There’s no way around, only through.

He swallows hard and digs around in the pockets of his jeans, his jacket. His fingers toy with receipts and chewing gum wrappers and a packet of cigarettes—then snag on a small plastic bag. He tugs it from his pocket, then rubs at his forehead with his knuckles. It’s empty.

He scans the crowds. It’s a near-guarantee that someone here will be selling, but he’d have to scout the place anyway just to get a bump. His hands are sweating in his gloves, his neck prickly with heat. The music thumps against his eardrums.

His phone buzzes again.

Where r u???

There’s a GIF, too—a cartoon animal tapping impatiently at a comically large wristwatch. Guan Shan shoves his phone in his pocket.

‘Fuck it,’ he mutters, and starts walking.

When he walks, he holds down the hem of his jacket with his gloved fingertips. He’s wearing jeans and biker boots and a balaclava pulled up to cover his mouth.

It’s warmer than it should be for the end of April and Guan Shan is sweating, but—safety first—he covers himself the same way he would on the bike: better to be too hot than skin himself along the tarmac of the G42.

There’s a countdown clock on the stage now—four minutes to go until Vanguard is on. Guan Shan reaches the edge of the crowds and drags air into his lungs. He braces, muscles locked—goes forward.

The first touch makes his brain pop. The world pulsates. His eyes briefly roll back in his head, like the comedown after a hard, messy session.

Silver linings: he hasn’t vomited over his shoes yet.

People make way for him, disgruntled, but he can’t avoid the press. Guan Shan imagines the sensation would not be unlike pushing through a mass grave. He can feel the heat of their bodies, see the flashes of exposed skin beneath the crop tops and shorts, the bare hands that swarm about like mosquitoes on Xianwu Lake.

He can’t tell how far he’s gotten. He must be close now.

He’s biting so hard on his tongue that it bleeds, but he can’t swallow or he’ll lose the mouthful of air he’d taken. He does his best, clutching at a self-prescribed mantra: I am not here. This body is not mine. I don’t exist. I can’t be felt; I can’t be seen; I can’t be touched—

These kinds of things happen in slow motion.

He registers, faintly, that he’s let go of the hem of his jacket.

On his tiptoes, squeezing through, trying to make himself narrow and small, his shirt rides up.

There is the smallest patch of skin now visible on his hip, where someone now places their hand.

It comes at him like a freight train.

The darkness is sudden, like going through a tunnel.

His eyes don’t adjust. It’s there in flashes, like piecing together the non-reality of a dream.

But the bed is real. The body crowding over him is real. The sweat is real, sweet, pungent. The hot breath on his neck is real. His gloved hands, now bare, are locked with someone’s, larger, neat. There is a mirror on the wall, opposite the bed. The illustration is near-perfect: A man, a mussed head of dark hair, his head bowed into Guan Shan’s shoulder.

Guan Shan is not an interloper, some hovering omniscient being. He is not the peeping tom at the window or the voyeur in the corner of the room. He is looking back at himself in the mirror. He can feel himself—feel what’s inside him. The pleasure, ricocheting, down to the marrow—pink flesh and sturdy bones and grey brain matter. All of it, rocked.

‘Sorry,’ someone mutters.

The voice does not come from the man on the bed, who is mouthing breathlessly at Guan Shan’s skin.

The hand is gone.

The music is loud.

They move away, and Guan Shan stands there.

He feels like he’s drunk a litre of paint stripper, all his insides chemically cleansed.

He feels like he’s fallen just this living side of an OD.

The crowd eases, clears, and Guan Shan reaches the other side, where the smell of hot food is strong and sickly. He sees the familiar mop of white-blond hair, the spark of Zhan Zhengxi’s light gaze. Jian Yi, spotting his approach, jumps out his seat. He comes close enough to touch.

‘Wā, you made it!’

‘Yeah,’ says Guan Shan, tugging down the balaclava to gather around his throat.

‘Sit, sit. It’s busy as fuck tonight—’

‘We didn’t know,’ Zhengxi interjects, apologetic.

‘—but fucking Vanguard are playing!’

‘Saw your text, yeah,’ says Guan Shan, then swallows twice.

‘You cool to stay?’ asks Jian Yi. ‘I would give my second kidney to get Mickey Chen’s autograph. I think they’re gonna play Cold Nights Out Here.’ He squints. ‘Hey, sit. You’re looking—peaky.’

He goes to sit, then stops. There’s a bin to their right, just emptied, and Guan Shan walks casually over to it. He grips the edge and promptly empties the contents of his stomach into the barrel.

Bile burns his throat. He blinks away salty tears.

He wipes the back of his mouth with a gloved hand, then goes back to the table. He ignores the stares and remarks from the people sitting at neighbouring tables.

Jian Yi says, ‘Holy shit, son.’

‘You good?’ asks Zhengxi, frowning. He pushes across a paper cup of something fruity and sweet and alcoholic.

‘Something happened?’ says Jian Yi.

‘I’m good,’ says Guan Shan, sitting. He takes the cup and drinks it in one, sugar soothing his throat.

‘Are you on something—’

‘I said I’m fucking good.’

Jian Yi looks at Zhengxi, who is looking at Guan Shan. Beside them, the crowd begins to cheer. A tall, gangly man with no shirt and waist-long hair comes onto stage. The screens beside the stage show his face, his smile lazy.

Under usual circumstances, Guan Shan’s interest would be piqued.

He had a poster of Mickey Chen on his door for a few months towards the end of highschool. More than once, he’d stared at his 2D face, his bare chest, the protruding hip bones above the waistline of his jeans, with a bottle of lotion and a box of tissues. Now, nothingness. Guan Shan looks away.

He admits, defeated: ‘Someone—some guy touched me.’

Jian Yi shoots upright. ‘Are you alright? What happened?’

Guan Shan runs his hands through his hair. His gloves glisten with a thin layer of sweat from his hairline. He pulls his hood up, draws it around his cheekbones.

‘It was an accident.’

A bubble seems to have formed around the three of them, Mickey Chen and his pectorals forgotten. They’re talking louder than usual to make their voices heard over the music. It seems fitting to have Vanguard’s heavy, undulating bass in the background.

‘Did you see something?’ Jian Yi asks.

‘You could say that.’

‘Good? Bad?’

Guan Shan’s face pinches. ‘Not—not sure. Different.’

‘Different how?’

‘Jian Yi,’ Zhengxi says quietly. It’s his stop pressing voice. His stop being so much voice. Take a proverbial step back—and then another. Guan Shan doesn’t mind. He’s used to it.

‘It’s cool,’ says Guan Shan. Although, really, it isn’t cool. He can feel that there is a part of his mind that has shut off, gone woollen and spongy. He’ll deal with it later. He shifts on the bench. ‘It was a guy. And me. Like, together.’

‘Together how?’

‘Together together.’

‘Talking?’

‘Fucking, Jian Yi. We were fucking.’

Jian Yi and Zhengxi exchange a look.

Then: ‘Did you know him?’

‘No.’

Then: ‘Did you like it?’

Guan Shan hunches over the table, elbows on the sticky plastic. ‘Not answering that,’ he says. ‘Not thinking about that. Just thinking…’

‘How,’ Zhengxi guesses. ‘Without being triggered?’

Guan Shan nods, glances at him. ‘Yeah. How the fuck. I’ve never—it’s never… It’d just be like, this endless fucking loop of the future. I don’t wanna see it. I don’t wanna know how far that fucking goes. How my life’s gonna go, already decided, you know? I don’t—’

I don’t want to see the end.

‘Hey,’ says Jian Yi. He holds out a hand. ‘Come over Friday.We’ll get dimsum. Play Overwatch. It’ll be chill.’

Guan Shan wants to ask if there’ll be molly, but he knows they don’t like that. Their home comforts are safer, reasonable, cheaper. They don’t come with a warning label and a general sense of unreality.

He considers Jian Yi’s hand, the palm open and honest, skin soft and moisturised. A sort-of lifeline. The safer, reasonable, cheaper alternative.

Guan Shan takes it. Their palms join as if they’re limply shaking hands. Guan Shan’s vision fades out, then refills itself. Time has passed. The living area of Zhengxi’s apartment takes shape around him.

It’s so mundane it’s almost boring.

Jian Yi’s on the couch, mouth wide open, mid-laughter. Zhengxi’s beside him, reading something on his phone while they take turns with the controller. Guan Shan can feel the looseness in his future body, the ease, the mild state of bliss.

There are takeaway containers on the coffee table, a few steamed buns left, going soggy. Guan Shan can taste the salt in his mouth, the char of cigarettes on his tongue. There’s a stick of chewing gum being methodically malformed between his molars.

‘That Reaper’s a fucking prick,’ says Jian Yi, jabbing the controller.

‘You’re playing Mei,’ Guan Shan hears himself say. ‘He’s gonna be a prick to you.’

‘Says the Mercy.’

Guan Shan’s shoulders shrug. ‘I don’t get a hard-on for a kill count.’

‘Booooring.’

Guan Shan lifts his middle finger.

At the market, Jian Yi releases his hand. The unease is still there, stagnant, but Guan Shan doesn’t want to scratch at his skin quite so much. He breathes out, long and slow.

‘Better?’ says Jian Yi.

‘Yeah,’ says Guan Shan. ‘Thanks.’

He looks at Zhengxi, who is watching the stage and probably not listening to the music. He doesn’t like this, but there isn’t much he can do about it.

It makes Guan Shan feel awkward, a little guilty.

He didn’t ask to become Jian Yi’s pet project, or for Jian Yi to turn into something of a therapist. But usually it works, so he needs it. There are a few things in his life like that.

He knows it probably makes him selfish, putting that need first, but he suspects Jian Yi probably needs it too. Zhengxi’s never really been the type of guy that needs looking after—too capable, too sure—and Jian Yi’s mild urge for codependency can be satiated through this small act of kindness.

They both get their fix and everyone’s happy.

Kind of.

They don’t stay long at the market. Vanguard only play four songs, which Guan Shan figures equates to exactly as much as they were paid for a free pop-up concert and no upcoming album release.

Zhengxi has the fortunate position of studying for his doctorate at the university, so his apartment is a fifteen-minute walk from the market.

Most nights, Guan Shan drinks enough that he has to catch the subway home and pick up his bike the next morning, but tonight he’s fully sober. The feeling is strange.

In a way, soberness is its own kind of drug.

The streets are busy near the market, which is in Gulou, perfect for the surrounding cluster of universities, so it takes a while to get out of the district, but they empty the further out Guan Shan rides, his exhaust rattling through the residential zones of Nanjing.

He can’t feel the breeze on his skin, but he feels the resistance on his body, dissipating at stop signs and red lights. It reminds him that he would be taken straight off if he let go of the handlebars—the air would carry him through and through and onto the next life. Or onto nothingness. He hasn’t made his mind up yet. Maybe he’d be supremely unlucky and it would just really fucking hurt.

He filters through a small strip of traffic and merges onto the Huning Expressway, which is quiet and sterile this time of night and runs parallel to the Shanghai railway line. The body of his motorbike trembles between his thighs. The road surface is clean and smooth, newly tarmacked, the kind of road where it’s easy to lose any sense of speed until a train shoots past.

It takes twenty minutes to get home, and his face is sweaty as he pulls off his helmet, strands of rust-coloured hair sticking to his forehead. His apartment is several stories high, the Purple Mountain National Park set behind it. When it’s quiet, he can hear the rattle of the cable car carrying tourists to the top. Once, he heard a whole symphony from the open air music hall.

That thought—nothingness—snags at his mind, a thread of cotton caught on barbed wire. In all the futures he’s seen, he hasn’t seen that one. It makes him, actually, very normal.

It means he’s as fucking clueless as everyone else.

He forgot to turn off the air conditioning when he left, so his apartment is clinically cold when he gets in. He strips his clothes off in the bathroom and steps into the shower. He washes off the sweat, scrubs his skin until it’s red and new, and then goes into the bedroom.

There are two cigarettes left in the pack, but he leaves them in the hallway for later—or tomorrow, if he can help himself. His towel pools onto the floor and he lies naked on his bed, slightly damp. His heart is quick in his chest. He blinks at the ceiling. Counts. Closes his eyes. Opens.

When he sits up again, he hears the soft cracking of his spine.

He has never let someone touch him like that before.

He never thought, getting older, discovering the pleasure that can be sought in a body—in the body of another—that he’d be allowed. That he’d allow them.

Thinking back, there’d been no fear in the vision; no discomfort.

He feels a strange stinging behind his eyes and realises that he’s thinking about crying. Roughly, he brushes at his face and lets out a breath, which comes out shaky.

For a while, he’d told himself this was his penitence, his punishment. On good days, he’d pretend it was his choice. On the busy ones, that he just didn’t care.

Part of him hates it: whoever the man is, there’ll be no nervous anticipation. Guan Shan will look him in the eye and know that the moment will happen, where they will touch each other, how it will feel.

The visions do that to him—little thefts of a life not yet lived. Spoilers.

Guan Shan goes to the bottom drawer of his desk. Beneath a web of cables, old batteries and microfibre cloths, he digs out a small tin that was once home to a cluster of spearmints. The tin rattles when he shakes it, and he carefully tips out a single powder-blue pill into the palm of his hand, chalky and neat.

He looks at it for a while, then places it beneath his tongue. It sits there for a few seconds, fizzing and decomposing. He swallows.

It’s dry and bitter, like paracetamol; he can feel it hitting the back of his throat.

Guan Shan puts the tin back in the bottom of the drawer, then takes a step back. His legs hit the bed. He folds onto it, lies there, goes still and quiet.

His brain has gone supernova bright.

All the light and sound is taken out of the room.

He can’t tell if his eyes are open, if he’s still awake, if he’s still in his body.

‘Cool,’ he gurgles. ‘C-cool.’

If they wanted, he’d let anyone touch him now and he wouldn’t care.

He wakes before his alarm the next morning, feeling sick and strange, having slept poorly and with lurid nightmares. His stomach aches and he stumbles into the bathroom to drink water from the faucet.

Outside, the sky is gloomy and grey and promising rain, and between bites of milk bread and a cup of black coffee, he takes another shower and dresses in jeans and a flannel shirt, then grabs his helmet and keys.

The apartment building is set in a hollow square with a tropical garden sunken in the middle. Chusan palm trees and parashorea stretch towards the second and third storeys, and sheltered walkways line the near side of the building, providing entry to each apartment. At night, nightjars and frogmouths trill from the boughs of the trees.

Outside, his neighbour is leaning against the slatted wooden railing with a scowl.

Wang Jun is in her seventies and has pink hair and no children. Guan Shan’s never seen a husband, but he doesn’t like to assume, so he’s always been polite. He knows she sells aromatherapy oils on Etsy and at the weekend farmers’ market in the city, and whenever she opens her door he can smell lemongrass and something vaguely illegal wafting through the frame, but still—he doesn’t like to assume.

‘Oh, good,’ she says, glancing at him. ‘You’re awake.’

Guan Shan locks his door. Over his shoulder he says, ‘What’s up, Wang Taitai?’

She jerks her chin. ‘The sign’s gone.’

He looks. She’s correct.

Apartment 4J, next to Guan Shan’s, has had a ‘For Sale’ sign posted to the door for nearly a year. Guan Shan doesn’t know anyone who could afford to buy an apartment in his building. He can just about cover the rent each month. He’d wondered how long it would be before the owner gave in and leased it out for another few years. Probably, it’ll be another businessman looking to add a property to his portfolio, and there’ll be a lease sign again on it soon enough.

‘Looks like it,’ he says.

‘I heard something underhand happened there.’

Guan Shan stands next to her at the railing and leans his weight against it, his back to the sheer drop down to the ground floor.

‘Oh yeah?’ he says. ‘Who said that?’

‘Xu Kai.’

Guan Shan sniffs. ‘Reckon the post guy should mind his own business.’

‘This place is his business,’ Wang Jun says mawkishly.

Guan Shan shrugs. His gaze lingers on 4J’s front door, which looks naked now without the sign. He can feel Wang Jun’s heavy stare, always slightly intense. Time for him to go.

‘Mo Guan Shan—’

‘I’m gonna be late for work, Wang Taitai. Talk later?’

She’s stubborn. ‘Your mother would be sad to hear you weren’t taking care of yourself, Mo Guan Shan.’

It stings, makes him swallow, but he heads towards the enclosed, marble-effect stairwell at the end of the walkway before she can say anything else—before he can say anything back.

He takes the stairs two at a time, spirals around until he’s dizzy.

What my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

The rest of the week passes quickly. Guan Shan works at a local bike garage and dabbles in vintage renovations during the quiet periods. The money’s good and the owner trusts his judgement, and it’s the closest thing Guan Shan feels to making something come alive beneath his hands.

Boxes start to appear outside his new neighbour’s front door throughout the week, and on more than one morning, he’s woken up to heavy footfall and workmen manoeuvring large pieces of furniture through the doorway. It’s barely past six.

He’s hungover and riding a low on Thursday morning. The night before had been a bad one, and he probably should’ve called Jian Yi and asked him to come over, but that would’ve been giving into something. Probably, it would’ve pissed Zhan Zhengxi off, which he’s trying to do less of lately.

He’s aware that there are only a small handful of people in his life who might be there when things get Really, Truly Bad, and he’d like to keep them in his back pocket for just that occasion. He wonders if that rationale makes him a bad person, a little too selfish.

Right now, with the loud banging coming from the apartment next door, he’s not too concerned. His head is pulsating; his throat feels like sandpaper when he swallows.

He tugs on an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans and pushes his way out into the corridor. He takes in the scene.

There are two men standing there, near-identical. One is slightly taller than the other, more lithe, handsome in a prettily devastating way. The other is built like a shit brickhouse and has a jawline so set Guan Shan wonders if he ever learnt how to smile.

Brothers? Cousins?

Boyfriends?

They are both unfairly good looking. They are both the sort Guan Shan wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alleyway.

When Guan Shan steps out, they both turn. It has the stopping effect on Guan Shan like seeing two panthers catching sight of him in a jungle.

‘Oh, hello,’ says the taller one. He has obsidian-coloured eyes and they’re glittering. There’s something about him that is so uncomfortably familiar, marrow-deep.

‘Uh, hey,’ says Guan Shan. ‘You’re the new guys?’

The pretty one makes a ‘ha’ sound. ‘Just me. Think I’d give He Cheng an aneurysm if we were roomies.’

The stern one, He Cheng, lifts a hand, which is huge.

Guan Shan looks away.

‘I’m He Tian.’ He Tian holds a hand out and Guan Shan pointedly does not identify the length of his fingers or the size of his palm. ‘Good to meet you.’

Brothers, then.

Guan Shan scratches the back of his neck. He clears his throat. ‘Yeah, you too.’ He steps back. ‘I, uh, gotta get ready for work. See you around?’

Bemused, He Tian drops the hand. ‘I hope so.’

Guan Shan nods in He Cheng’s direction and slips back into the apartment. He shuts the door carefully, easing it into the lock. He leans against it, breathing out slowly.

He can hear their voices through the lacquered wood.

He Cheng’s voice is gravelly and almost reverberates through the door. ‘Interesting,’ he says.

‘Isn’t he?’ says He Tian.

‘He seemed…’

‘Like he needed a bottle of naloxone?’

He Cheng makes a ‘hm’ sound.

Guan Shan sits on the floor. How fucking embarrassing. The shame is a prickly heat that smears across his cheeks. What was it? Was it the t-shirt? His—fuck, his bare feet? Maybe he just had the look on his face, washed out, strung out, just hanging on. He pinches at the skin on the inside of his forearm.

Their voices trail off. Guan Shan hears their footsteps leading to the stairwell. He counts to thirty before he stands and heads into the bathroom. He showers, shaves, moisturisers, puts on enough deodorant that his armpits sting. His clothes are all clean, all dried, and he drinks a large glass of water until he feels sick. He does not look in the mirror.

Technically, lawfully speaking, residents aren’t supposed to smoke in the common areas of the apartment building. There are dedicated zones out the back on the ground floor and on the rooftop, but Guan Shan tends to avoid that area, with some irony, out of a sense of self-preservation. Also, no one has stopped him yet, so there’s that.

It’s late. The sound of closing apartment doors has quietened and the nightjars are busy tonight. Guan Shan has brought out an old jam jar to collect the cigarette ash, which sits precariously on the wooden railing post outside his front door.

He Tian is standing next to him at arm's length, borrowing his lighter, which he returns the same way as it was received: a light throw, carefully caught.

Guan Shan feels a little bad for corrupting He Tian into breaking the building managers’ rules so early on, but he supposes he should start only as he means to go on.

‘So how long have you lived here?’ He Tian asks. ‘You’re my age, I’m guessing?’

‘Maybe,’ says Guan Shan. He takes a drag. ‘Like, three years? My mother moved back to her jiaxiang to look after my grandma so I rented this place.’

‘You didn’t want to go with her?’

Guan Shan coughs slightly. This is already closely personal.

‘Guess not. Got shit to do here.’ He segues. ‘Why’d you move here?’

He Tian grins. ‘Got shit to do.’

Guan Shan shrugs. Fair enough.

Out of the corner of his eye, Guan Shan watches him smoke. He Tian does it casually, elegantly, more an accessory than an addiction. Must be nice. Guan Shan reaches down and picks up the bottle of beer, still cold, that he’d put by his feet. He takes a swig.

‘I met Wang Jun earlier,’ says He Tian. ‘She’s an interesting lady.’

Guan Shan says, ‘She’s probably listening at the door, you know.’

‘I won’t be too inappropriate then.’

Guan Shan glances behind him. Wang Jun’s front door is firmly closed.

‘She’s been here longer than me. She had a sweepstake going about who would move in.’

‘Oh, really? What was your bet?’

Guan Shan shakes his head. ‘I didn’t enter. Not my thing.’

‘Didn’t want to be wrong?’

‘Uh, not really. Didn’t care, I guess.’ He pauses. He’s fishing lightly: ‘Didn’t think anyone would buy the place, to be honest. Not many people can afford to, you know.’

‘I understand,’ says He Tian. ‘I can’t really take credit. My family has money.’

Guan Shan nods and makes a small sound of understanding. He knows that when people say they have money, politely modest and without determining how much, it means they have money. It doesn’t surprise him. He Tian and his brother looked like wealth, but the kind that could probably buy the whole complex if they wanted. Probably, He Tian could’ve chosen anywhere, some big house in the hills. Why’d he choose here?

‘Must be nice,’ says Guan Shan, then immediately regrets the comment.

He Tian gives him an odd look. The transition is smooth: ‘Was that your bike down in the carpark? Looked pretty nice.’

‘Yeah, that’s mine. D’you ride?’

‘I used to. Too much maintenance—I didn’t have the time, honestly.’

Guan Shan chews his lower lip. ‘I work at a bike shop,’ he says, wondering simultaneously why he’s offering this bit of information. ‘Get to work on mine when things are quiet.’

‘Very nice,’ says He Tian, looking at him closely. ‘Did you study engineering?’

Guan Shan stubs out his cigarette. ‘Uh, no. I didn’t—actually go to college or anything. Self taught.’

‘That’s more impressive.’

Guan Shan doesn’t reply. He knows it wasn’t meant to be belittling, but he feels kind of belittled. Around them, the cool spring air is unusually still, and Guan Shan can hear the shrill call of a night owl.

If a night owl comes into the house, his mother used to say, he will come to everything.

She isn’t a superstitious woman, but Guan Shan supposed some things just stayed with people.

Last year, she brought him a book on birds for his birthday, with a subscription to an app that identifies their calls. He’s spent more than one evening at the foot of the Purple Mountain, listening, aware that he is a guest, sitting patiently in the backdrop of what’s probably an intensely private conversation. But then, it’s only fair: they get to listen to everything too.

‘I didn’t go to university either,’ says He Tian lightly. ‘The family business beckoned.’

‘What does your family do?’

‘Psychiatric pharmaceuticals,’ says He Tian. Amused, he adds, ‘Development, I mean—not taking.’ Then, as if reading from a script: ‘It’s a strange, strange world, and we are all of us deeply flawed.’

‘Sounds complex.’

‘Absolutely,’ says He Tian. ‘But I leave that to the scientists and patent attorneys.’

‘What do you do?’

He Tian looks thoughtful for a moment. He taps ash from his cigarette and eventually says, ‘Outreach and engagement.’

‘Like, marketing?’

‘Close. More public relations.’

‘Right,’ says Guan Shan, not really understanding.

When he talks to people, he realises that the world is always much bigger than he ever thought. There are lots of jobs, and lots of places, and people filling in the gaps that should probably have never existed. It makes him feel very small. It makes him feel particularly unimportant, and not particularly useful. He’s not quite sure, compared to someone like He Tian or Zhan Zhengxi, what he has to offer.

He glances at his phone, then sighs.

‘It’s late,’ he says, and gestures vaguely behind him. ‘I’d better…’

‘Sure.’ He Tian stifles a yawn. ‘That’s a smart move. Sleep well.’

For some reason, Guan Shan flushes. ‘Yeah, you too.’

He goes inside, taking the jam jar with him, then locks the door. He disposes of his cigarette butts and puts the lighter on the side table in the hall.

Getting himself ready for bed, Guan Shan considers that the evening had been particularly painless.

There had been no near-touches and only a decent amount of awkwardness on his part. He could’ve perhaps stood on the balcony for the most part of the evening and probably not minded it too much. He can feel that he’s drawn to He Tian in some way, perversely curious about the lifestyle He Tian must live, his privilege, his family, his work—but it’s there on a physiological level too, catching himself on the shape of He Tian’s mouth and the darkness of his eyes and the way he holds his cigarettes.

Keep dreaming, Guan Shan tells himself, folding away his clothes and climbing beneath cool sheets.

In an act of what he assumes is sober self-preservation, he doesn’t think about what he saw at the market or how it made him feel. He doesn’t want to second guess strangers on the street and scrutinise the words they exchange, whether it’s the right or wrong thing to lead him to the future he knows will inevitably come, whether he can somehow avoid it.

He does sleep well that night, listening to the birds in the trees, their bright, yearning calls.

He Tian is on the balcony the next morning, dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt and smoking a cigarette. His hair is wet, and Guan Shan breathes in the smell of mint body wash and mild, musky aftershave. Guan Shan wonders if his assumption about He Tian’s non-addiction was poorly made. He’s not sure how, if at all, this affects his opinion of him.

‘Morning,’ says He Tian, leaning over the balcony. ‘How did you sleep?’

Guan Shan tenses as he locks his door. He pulls a face that he doesn’t think He Tian will be able to see.

‘D’you usually ask random strangers that?’

‘You’re not a random stranger.’

Guan Shan turns. ‘You met me, like, yesterday.’

He Tian smiles. ‘Start as you mean to go on.’

‘Yeah, anyway—I gotta go.’

He Tian stands straight. ‘Are you free tonight?’ he asks. ‘I was thinking about drinks tonight somewhere in town. Give me a local’s tour?’

Guan Shan grimaces. ‘Sorry, I’m busy.’ Feeling guilty, he says, ‘I actually am, sorry. Maybe another time? Tomorrow?’

‘Sure, I’d like that. See you later.’

Guan Shan nods and walks past him, holding his breath until he reaches the stairwell. He takes the elevator today instead, which is cool and empty inside. When the doors close, he leans heavily against the metal, and closes his eyes until he reaches the bottom.

Guan Shan’s visions never lie. Sometimes they miss out elements, the before and the after, the different perspectives—but he assumes that’s no different to the way a normal person would necessarily experience the world, with themselves in the centre, experiencing one biassed version of events.

As it happens, Friday night looks exactly like he saw it: Overwatch, dim sum takeout, beers. Zhengxi goes quiet every few minutes to search for something on Baidu on his phone. Jian Yi doesn’t often take his eyes from the TV screen, hyper-focused, mashing a second pack of strawberry laces between his molars.

Guan Shan is drunk enough to feel warm, his toes lightly numb. He hasn’t got much interest in video games but also finds it easy to spend an entire evening shooting at cartoon characters played by other people somewhere in the country.

When he passes the controller on to Zhengxi for his turn, he says, ‘Someone bought the place next door. Rich kid. He Tian.’ He looks at Zhengxi. ‘You know him?’

‘Why would I know him?’ asks Zhengxi, queuing for a tank role.

Guan Shan shrugs. ‘Said his family was in big pharma. Psychiatric meds or some shit.’

Jian Yi nudges Guan Shan’s knee with his foot. ‘You’re talking to someone new?’ he asks, with a particular look on his face.

‘Guy lives next door—not like I can help it.’

‘What does he look like?’

Zhenxgi leans over, his phone outstretched. ‘This him?’ he asks.

He has the LinkedIn app open on his phone. A photo of He Tian stares back at him, a year or two younger. He’s in a suit, standing against a glass wall that overlooks the city at night, probably at some important function in a skyscraper with a billion yuan raffle. His smile is serene and knowing and he’s holding a champagne flute with a long stem. Guan Shan doesn’t know what his job title means, but it sounds complex. He has a lot of connections.

‘That’s him.’

Jian Yi scrambles forward to get a look. He looks at the photo.

The silence stretches, then he looks at Guan Shan.

‘That’s him?’ Jian Yi says.

‘Don’t,’ says Guan Shan.

Jian Yi makes a small, strangled sound that comes out like a laugh. He pushes another strawberry lace into his mouth and chews noisily. He doesn’t say anything for a while, only lets out a soft chuckle every now and then and shakes his head ruefully as Zhengxi plays his round.

When Zhengxi’s finished, he asks, ‘Any developments on that vision?’

‘No,’ says Guan Shan. ‘Also—don’t.’

Jian Yi holds his hands up. ‘Promise,’ he says.

He holds good on it—he doesn’t mention He Tian or the vision for the rest of the evening. Eventually, they switch the game off and watch old YouTube videos of Vanguard’s shows from their highschool days, and Zhengxi brings out his guitar from their bedroom. He’s a decent player, and Jian Yi’s voice is softly melodic. They play a few songs, revisit one they’d written in the final summer before highschool graduation. The sound of it, humming along, fills Guan Shan with a sharp, pinching ache.

He remembers that time more than he should—things his teachers would say, the watered-down orange juice he would drink at first break, the smell of the basketball court after summer rain. He’d have visions often those days, which made things difficult. Teenagers were handsy and chemically charged and his visions tended to take on a strange, lurid quality.

Mostly he would sit, sullen and subdued, at the back of the class, where no one could touch him. Basketball was easy enough—he was more brutal than he should’ve been, wearing thermals beneath his sports shirt and connecting his elbow with anyone who veered too close. He spent a lot of the time on the bench, which was fine.

He leaves Jian Yi’s well past midnight, filtering through taxis and Friday night traffic, mostly sober now. On the street outside the building complex, he looks up to locate his darkened bedroom window. In the apartment beside it, the lights are on.

He takes the stairs up to the fourth floor. At the top, he feels short of breath and nauseated, so he stands on the balcony outside his front door for some time. Twenty minutes pass before He Tian’s door opens, and he only blinks in surprise when he sees Guan Shan leaning heavily against the railing, his helmet at his feet.

‘You okay?’ he says, around the cigarette pursed between his lips.

‘Yeah, good,’ says Guan Shan. ‘Just needed—fresh air.’

After a pause, He Tian removes the unlit cigarette from between his lips and slides it back into the carton, which he puts into his jacket pocket. He walks over to Guan Shan’s side, keeping the distance respectable.

‘How was your evening?’ he asks.

‘Good, thanks.’

Casually, He Tian asks, ‘Was it a date?’

Guan Shan glances at him out the corner of his eyes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Just—hanging with friends.’

‘I see,’ says He Tian. ‘Friends who let you ride home drunk?’

Guan Shan suppresses a shudder of irritation. ‘You gonna be another neighbour riding my ass all the time?’ Then he says, ‘Don’t shit on people you don’t know.’

‘I can form an impression.’

‘Well—don’t.’ Guan Shan breathes out heavily through his nose. Then he says, ‘They didn’t realise.’

‘I can smell it on your breath.’

Guan Shan turns on him. ‘Will you just—fuck off?’

He Tian slides his hands into his pocket. He seems entirely unbothered by the confrontation, as if they are exchanging pleasantries and Guan Shan isn’t being cruel. The sensation is beginning to build already: like this is the preface to a long, tormented night. Guan Shan can see it almost as if he is standing outside of himself, watching the devolution.

He Tian says, ‘I’d just like to get to know you a little better before you decapitate yourself on the G42.’

‘That sounds like a ‘you’ problem,’ says Guan Shan, feeling petty.

‘A problem?’ He Tian asks, arching a brow. ‘I think you might be projecting there.’

Guan Shan leans heavily against the railing, suddenly very tired. For a while, neither of them say anything. Guan Shan realises he could just go into his apartment without another word and this conversation would be over. Sometimes he forgets that he has any power to remove himself from a situation he doesn’t particularly like—sometimes he exerts that power too often.

Instead, he says, ‘Are you always like this?’

‘Like what?’ asks He Tian.

‘I dunno. Like—you sort of don’t give a fuck. Most people get kinda… pissed off with the way I talk to them.’

He Tian shrugs. ‘I’m used to dealing with volatile people.’

All the air leaves Guan Shan’s lungs.

He may as well have punched him in the face.

The line is delivered with caustic exactitude. Later, Guan Shan will wonder exactly what it was that had such an effect on him. Probably not that he’d called Guan Shan volatile—he’d attribute this to himself already, even if he didn’t expect to hear it from others.

Probably, it was that He Tian talked about dealing with him, as if he were an unruly child, some nuisance on the street. Someone who needs the kind of drugs that He Tian’s family makes.

He doesn’t need them—he just uses them.

‘Like who?’ he hears himself asking, weakly.

He Tian smiles. ‘They’re not important.’ Then he says, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Like I’m done for the night. Or the weekend.’

‘Mm. Are we still on for tomorrow night?’

Guan Shan pulls a face. ‘You’ve kind of—pissed me off.’

‘Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I’m usually lovely.’

‘I find that pretty hard to believe.’

‘Honest,’ says He Tian. ‘You’ve caught me on a bad day. Not that it’s any excuse.’

Guan Shan says, ‘Guess we’re even now.’ He scratches his eyebrow. ‘You wanna, like, talk about it?’

‘Not really.’ He Tian tilts his head. ‘Not yet. If you don’t mind.’

‘We all got our skeletons.’

He Tian looks sad when he smiles again. ‘Silly, brittle things.’ He gives Guan Shan a half wave. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he says, and goes inside.

Guan Shan spends a lot of Saturday thinking about his conversation with He Tian from the night before. Something about it gets under his skin, and he replays their dialogue until he’s dissected each sentence and scrutinised any of the facial expressions he can remember, until he’s not sure if he imagined certain parts of the conversation or if they really did happen.

For a while, he just lies in his bed, considering the idea of going into the workshop just to take his mind off it. He doesn’t do this, but he does go for a walk around the neighbourhood, wandering through the gates of the national park. The walk is steep, quiet for a Saturday, and Guan Shan sets himself down on a bench when he starts to feel short of breath.

He used to be fitter than this, but that’s what late nights, poor diet, and regular alcohol consumption does. And drugs, obviously.

He drinks from a metal water bottle and watches the small clusters of people that go by: tourists and local wanderers and determined runners. There’s a birdwatching group with large binoculars strung around their necks, and someone with a comically large camera lens wrapped in a camouflage print.

It rained overnight, so the birds are loud and active, and the air has a fresh, lush quality about it that makes Guan Shan feel like he can breathe in deeper than usual. He heads back to his apartment as the park starts to quieten, dusky street lights flickering down on the main road, and he takes his time walking back home, feeling cleansed.

He Tian knocks on his door at 6pm and they get the subway—‘No drink-driving tonight.’—to a bar in town that plays quiet jazz music and has the lights on low. Shelves of books, board games and old amber bottles line the walls, and there are oil paintings with obscure figures and ornate frames staring down at them.

A bartender comes over to take their order and He Tian chews on a handful of chilli puffs.

‘This is your usual?’ he asks, looking around curiously.

‘Not really,’ says Guan Shan. ‘Just seemed like yours.’

‘Oh, interesting,’ says He Tian, brightly amused. ‘What’s yours then? I’m thinking motorbike leathers, rock music, and very sticky floors.’

Guan Shan presses a thumb to the corner of his mouth. ‘Not sure I could afford skyscrapers and caviar. This is your middle ground.’

‘You thought of me—how sweet.’

Guan Shan looks away. The bartender comes over with their drinks: beer for Guan Shan, whiskey for He Tian. He’d been nervous before this evening, popping a Xanax before getting in the shower, wondering if he should’ve invited Jian Yi and Zhengxi to soften the spotlight. Talking to him, sitting across from him at a bar, he’s not nervous at all. It feels normal; it feels right.

‘Still having a bad day?’ he asks.

He Tian swallows a small mouthful of his whiskey, looks at it contemplatively, then shakes his head.

‘No, I’m past that. I probably said some things last night I wouldn’t usually have said. I did think about apologising to you, but I’m not sure you would’ve believed me.’

‘I believe you.’

He Tian’s eyes soften. ‘Thank you.’ He looks down into his drink. ‘You know, you haven’t even told me your name.’

Guan Shan blinks. ‘Really?’

This amuses He Tian. ‘Are you so closed off you hadn’t realised?’

Guan Shan takes a swig of beer. ‘Closed off.’

‘I get the sense you’re holding some things in life very close to your chest.’

Guan Shan doesn’t respond to this, but he does say, ‘It’s Mo Guan Shan.’

‘I’m glad to have met you, Mo Guan Shan.’

Guan Shan feels a particular sensation down the back of his spine when He Tian says his full name, which he quickly suppresses by taking another large mouthful of beer.

‘Uh huh,’ he says.

‘You don’t believe me?’ says He Tian. He wipes an errant bead of whiskey from the edge of his tumbler. ‘You know, I had quite a strange feeling when we first met. Like, this realisation of… I don’t know. I just thought, There you are.’

‘That’s fucking weird.’

He Tian shrugs. ‘Isn’t it? I can’t explain it.’

Guan Shan feels like his head has been filled with TV static and white noise. He swallows hard and motions over the waiter who looks at both their glasses—Guan Shan’s empty bottle, He Tian’s barely-touched whiskey—and nods. When he comes back, he deposits two beers in front of Guan Shan and a refreshed bowl of chilli puffs. Guan Shan distantly realises he’d forgotten to eat before he left and quietly prays that he doesn’t make a fool of himself.

The bar gets steadily busier as the evening goes on. They talk about their jobs, their taste in music and movies and food. Guan Shan gives He Tian recommendations of local food spots and watches He Tian’s fingers glide across his phone screen as he notes them down. Eventually, they start talking about high school.

‘I bet you were like that quiet, super-smart kid at school,’ says He Tian, leaning forward onto his elbows, indulgent.

He’s moved from whiskey onto vodka, neat and iced, and seems to have no problem with forming coherent sentences. The only marked difference is in his posture: slightly relaxed, his hair a little mussed from being run-through with his hands. He smiles a lot, as if his natural reaction is to find everything Guan Shan tells him quite amusing, but not in a demeaning way. It’s nice.

Guan Shan snorts. ‘That’s bullshit, sorry,’ he says. ‘I was thick as shit.’

‘I don’t believe that for a second.’

‘Yeah,’ Guan Shan says. ‘Failed pretty much every class. I got into so many fucking fights. Think I spent more time in detention than class to be honest.’

‘Fights? About what?’

‘I dunno.’ Guan Shan rolls his shoulders. ‘Anything, I guess.’

‘What about now? Should I have brushed up on my krav maga?’

‘Nah, I’m chill now. Grew up, didn’t I?’

‘I don’t think fighting is a matter of maturity, necessarily,’ says He Tian. ‘It’s a processing power. Like, do I cave this guy’s face in, do I fuck up his car, or do I just go home and have dinner and realise he doesn’t mean that much to me?’

Guan Shan studies him. ‘Sounds like you got experience.’

‘Contrary to your kind preconceptions, I was also not a saint in school.’

‘Nah,’ Guan Shan drawls. ‘You gotta be lying.’

He Tian grins. ‘Afraid not, Mo Guan Shan. Maybe it wasn’t like you, but—I chose my battles carefully. My brother got pretty sick of me after a while so I moved in with my uncle to try and get my head out my ass.’

‘Did it work?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Guess I can see your face well enough.’

He Tian winks. ‘Enjoy the view.’

Guan Shan looks away. The words sort of—tumble from his lips. Fool.

‘My dad got put in prison when I was a kid, so it was just me and my mama for a while.’

‘Oh, shit,’ says He Tian, his expression unreadable.

‘Yeah,’ says Guan Shan. ‘I wanted to move out since I was like fifteen or sixteen, but I was worried about leaving her on her own. She married my dad when she was still in high school and she’d never been alone, you know? And then she went to live with my grandma and it was like, well, fuck. I’d never really thought about me being alone. I know that makes me sound like an erbi, but—’

‘No, I get it,’ He Tian says. ‘It’s pretty daunting to not enjoy being in your own skin and have to wake up alone in it everyday.’

Guan Shan nods, too eager. His throat feels slightly scratchy, like he might cry. What a fucking wreck. He takes another swig of beer, which might be his fifth or sixth by now, and heavily considers ducking into the bathroom to crush a pill on the back of the toilet seat with his phone—something to shake him out. Guan Shan weighs his odds. He Tian wouldn’t notice. He doesn’t know him well enough.

He tries to distract himself: ‘What are your parents like?’ he asks. ‘You only talked about your brother and uncle.’

‘Ah,’ says He Tian, wearing a strange, uncomfortable smile. He leans back. ‘Quite uninteresting, really.’

There’s a moment of silence. He Tian doesn’t say anything more.

Guan Shan nods curtly. He realises he’s just divulged something deeply personal with a stranger who doesn’t really know him enough to divulge his own—doesn’t trust him. Guan Shan feels vulnerable, layers of clothing and skin peeled back, stinging and exposed.

He starts to stand, his legs feeling numb and useless. ‘I’m gonna go use the bathroom,’ he says.

He Tian reaches out a hand. ‘Guan Shan, wait—’

Guan Shan is too drunk to move fast.

He Tian’s fingers wrap around Guan Shan’s wrist—

The bar disappears.

The scene unfurls, like waking up in the middle of the night, hazy and disoriented, squinting through the darkness.

They’re standing on the balcony outside their apartments.

It’s raining heavily, the air warm and thick with petrichor. Guan Shan is soaked to the bone. He has the sense that neither of them has said anything for some time, and they haven’t broken eye contact in a while.

Guan Shan knows he’s standing in his own body, looking at the same person he’s been sitting across at the bar in the Present, but this feels intrusive. He isn’t there yet. This feels personal and fraught with something Guan Shan hasn’t learnt or experienced yet. Spoilers.

He remembers riding the subway when he was thirteen. The summer had been hot and stifling. The city—the subway—was packed. Bodies pushing against bodies. Someone had touched him, he forgets where now, and the vision had lasted the fifteen-minute ride between stops, an endless loop, time sticky as treacle, like trying to wake yourself up from a nightmare. After, he’d skipped school for a week and slept for most of it, syphoning over-the-counter painkillers from his mother’s purse.

This one is brief and watery, gossamer-thin. It takes all of Guan Shan’s air from his lungs.

Soon, the bar reforms around him, and he looks down.

He Tian still has a hand around his wrist, warm and slightly clammy.

Guan Shan stares at him, wide-eyed. He can feel the slow, steady track of a teardrop running down his cheek. It collects at the corner of his mouth, salty.

His voice comes out hoarse: ‘How the fuck—’

‘I’m sorry,’ He Tian says. He lets go. ‘I didn’t mean to—’ He leans back heavily. ‘Skeletons, you know? I don’t feel like opening that closet door just yet.’

It takes a while for Guan Shan to get to grips with moving his head in an approximation of a nod. He stands there, then realises how long he’s been standing there, and feels strange.

‘I’m gonna go home,’ he says.

A small line forms at the corner of He Tian’s mouth. ‘Sure, okay. If you want to go to the bathroom, I’ll settle the tab.’

Guan Shan goes. He has three oxy in his back pocket and takes one. When he comes out, he hands He Tian a wad of uncounted notes, which He Tian won’t take, and they leave the bar.

The subway is unusually quiet, but it’s later than he’d realised. They don’t speak the whole way home, sitting opposite each other. Guan Shan leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes, feeling the sway of the carriage, feeling sick, strip lights blinking behind his eyelids. He Tian stares out the window into the dark.

Guan Shan doesn’t see He Tian for almost a week. He takes weekend work, checks the peephole on his door to scout for a clear route before work in the mornings, and listens for closing and opening doors at night. This encourages him to smoke more on his work breaks than he usually would, as if to top up for the day, but this only makes him crave it more.

Wang Jun knocks on his door Saturday afternoon, which he ignores, and then she texts him.

Would you like some Company? she asks.

He considers ignoring this too, then rolls over onto his stomach on the sofa.

Not rly, he replies. Sorry.

Wang Jun texts slowly. He imagines her sitting in an armchair, squinting and jabbing at the phone with her forefinger.

People who don’t want Company usually Need it..

Guan Shan wrinkles his nose. She’s at the door again a few minutes later, and he opens it without undoing the catch.

‘Wang Taitai,’ he says, bobbing his head. ‘I’m not in the mood. No offence.’

She’s wearing oven gloves and lifts a ceramic dish. The smell of hotpot wafts through the doorway and Guan Shan’s mouth waters.

‘I brought gifts of glad tidings,’ she says.

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting at Guan Shan’s small kitchen table and blowing away the steam from their bowls. Dishes are washed and drying, dirty clothes put in the washing machine and clean ones folded and put away. Wang Jun tuts at the jar of cigarette butts by the front door and frowns at the drawn blinds over his window.

Soon, cool air flows through the apartment. It’s raining outside, tap-tapping against the window panes, and Wang Jun lights a stick of incense, zippy with lemongrass and ginseng.

‘I know it won’t be as good as your mother’s,’ she says, dipping a spoon into her bowl. ‘No one cooks hotpot like a mother.’

Guan Shan makes a quiet sound. ‘My dad was the chef, actually,’ he says.

‘A chef,’ she says, ‘but a cook?’

Wasn’t around long enough for me to find out, he wants to say, but that would be mean and slightly awkward. Instead he says, ‘This is good. Thank you.’

He’s being honest. She’s a little heavy-handed with the salt, but it’s umami-rich and sour, and the puffed tofu still has bite. His insides feel warm. He knows immediately that he will help himself to seconds.

‘You looked like you needed it,’ Wang Jun says. Her eyes are narrowed, crows-feet wrinkles deepening at the corners. ‘You’re getting thin. Wandering in and out like a ghost.’

‘I’m fine,’ he says with a shrug. ‘I’m, you know, just livin’.’

‘I think I’d call it surviving, wouldn’t you?’ she says, eyebrows raised, looking down at her bowl. She lifts her gaze, measured and expectant, over the edge of her spoon, brimming with broth.

‘Hotpot and a lecture, is it?’ Guan Shan says a little sharply.

‘No need for that,’ she says, tutting, then asks: ‘Have you met our esteemed neighbour?’

‘He Tian? Yeah, I met him.’

‘And?’ she presses. ‘Handsome fella, isn’t he?’

‘I guess.’

‘Mm,’ says Wang Jun. She slurps loudly, daps at her face with a napkin. ‘Couldn’t find anything on him from downstairs, but everything’s online these days, isn’t it? So many secrets, right there in the open.’

‘Guess it depends on what you’re looking for.’

‘You’re young,’ she says. ‘What would you look for?’

Guan Shan huffs slightly, amused. ‘I dunno, I guess… Photos. Job title. Property and business ownership? Anything, like, academic or in the news.’ He shrugs, then waggles his phone in her direction, which is sitting face-down on the table. ‘Some people are careful, but if you’re usin’ one of these, there’s not really any way of hiding.’

Wang Jun tuts. ‘Terrifying your generation,’ she says. ‘You’re all miserable.’

‘I think that’s, uh, a bit of a sweeping generalisation.’

‘Is it?’ she asks. Casually, she says, ‘I had a son. He would’ve been happier without one of those.’

The silence in Guan Shan’s apartment steeps.

In the years he has known Wang Jun, she’s never mentioned something like this. He chews, careful and quiet.

Selfishly, he hopes this doesn’t change things between them. He hopes he’s not expected to return the favour, indulge in transparency and vulnerability, but the hypocrisy pulls him up short. Wasn’t that where exactly he saw fault in He Tian?

‘I’m sorry, Wang Taitai,’ he says eventually. ‘When did he die?’

‘Oh, ten years ago now,’ she says, waving a hand as if to brush away the condolence—no time for something like that. ‘I had him late in life, an old hen. He would’ve been about your age, a little older maybe.’

‘Was he ill?’

‘That would depend on your perspective,’ she says, tucking a strand of sunflower-yellow hair behind her ear. ‘You’re young. Maybe you’d see it differently.’

It makes a little more sense now: the balcony check-ins, the hotpot, the occasional food and handwritten notes and bottles of spring water left on his doorstep, the occasional text. Mothering, he realises.

‘And your husband…?’

‘Divorced a year later. Statistically, not surprising.’

‘D’you still speak?’ asks Guan Shan.

‘Oh, no. Terribly, you know, it was a sort of relief. He was so troubled. I was—almost glad not to be staying up at night wondering if he’d make it home. Would I have to take him to the hospital again? What should I tell the neighbours? Wondering why money was missing from my purse. Mothers worry. It’s in our DNA. But—worrying like that? I don’t think so.’

They finish their bowls, and Wang Jun tells Guan Shan to keep the rest in the fridge and return the pot when he’s ready. He refuses her help washing up, and she loiters in the entryway to the kitchen for a while, picking bits of green from her teeth. It’s dark outside.

Guan Shan props his hip against the sink and squirts washing up liquid into the water. Out the corner of his eye, Wang Jun looks older somehow, smaller—less acidic.

‘Do I remind you of him or something?’ he asks her, scrubbing at the used crockery.

‘Ha!’ she barks. She scratches her nose. ‘I think you must do, you know. I haven’t thought about it much. There are similarities, but I think you’re very different people.’

‘D’you think we would’ve been friends?’

Wang Jun looks at a stack of unopened letters on the side in the kitchen. ‘He didn’t really have friends. Not ones that I knew about. Hard to keep track of.’ She straightens suddenly. ‘You should make friends with that young He Tian. Seems a sensible sort of person—with good connections.’

Guan Shan raises his eyebrows at her. ‘Thought you reckoned he was untoward.’

She shrugs, holds herself as if she’s saying goodbye. ‘People don’t really change,’ she says, ‘you just get to know them better.’

Later that night, Guan Shan’s mother texts him that night as he’s falling asleep.

Wang Jun messaged. You had dinner with her?? That’s nice!! <3

He types back, Yeah, he says. was nice.

I think she’s quite lonely, his mother says, with a teary-eyed emoji. Good that she has someone like you next door!!

The next evening, Guan Shan knocks on He Tian’s door, feeling mullish and penitent in equal measure. He considers the skyline, gloomy and dark, and takes a step back from the door.

He Tian eventually opens the door, dressed in a suit. He looks tired. He’s looking at Guan Shan with a guarded expression.

‘I’m going out tonight with some friends,’ says Guan Shan, without any preamble. ‘There’s a market in town with food and music.’

‘The one near the university?’

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

‘I’ve been before—two weeks ago?’

‘You were there?’

He Tian gives him an odd look. ‘Is that alright with you?’

‘That’s—yeah, obviously.’ Guan Shan rolls his shoulders. ‘So, like, do you wanna come?’

He Tian doesn’t strike him as a particularly indecisive individual. The length of silence, probably, is calculated.

Guan Shan concedes.

‘I’m sorry for last weekend,’ he says, pushing gloved hands deep into the pockets of his black joggers. ‘Things got a bit weird, I see that now.’

‘I forgive you,’ says He Tian. ‘But you’ve got some issues that you clearly need to work through—’

‘Aware, thanks.’

‘If you need help with that, I can help—but I’m not a voyeur for self-destruction.’

Guan Shan squints at him. ‘What do you mean—help?’

‘Well,’ says He Tian. He runs a hand through his hair. His mouth is stretched into something like a smile, but it’s awkward and embarrassed, like he’s going to start having to explain to Guan Shan how babies are made.

Then he says, ‘Look, do you need a sponsor?’

‘A sponsor.’

‘I know what addiction looks like, Mo Guan Shan. And maybe you think you aren’t an addict, but—I know what that looks like too.’

‘You don’t know fuck all about me.’

He Tian shrugs. ‘Not really, no, but I haven’t made any assumptions, either.’ As if he hasn’t just called Guan Shan an addict, he steps back and holds the door open. ‘Come in—I’ll get changed and we can go.’

He leaves Guan Shan standing there while he disappears into the apartment. Guan Shan oscillates between fury and confusion. His feet take him inside. The door closes behind him.

Inside, the layout is identical to most other apartments in the complex: modern, utilitarian, a blank canvas of marble kitchen countertops, chrome faucets and white walls. Guan Shan’s apartment has a slightly dated feel by way of secondhand furnishings and his poor eye for interior design. He Tian’s is expensively pulled together. Everything is black, white, or grey.

A large cream sofa takes up most of the living space, illuminated by the warm glow of a standing lamp in the corner of the room; there is an electric fireplace below the huge mounted TV, and a bookcase fills the back wall. Their homes couldn’t be more different; Guan Shan’s feels… insufficient.

Guan Shan can hear He Tian moving around in his bedroom; he expects grey linen sheets, long, voile-style curtains, and a small cherry wood desk. Distractedly he wanders over to the bookcase, where books are interspersed with obscure miniature paintings, empty vases, and small trinket boxes made of mango wood.

The titles are obscure, too—bound scientific journals, sci-fi novels in English, New World texts on psychedelics and the sixth sense and extrasensory perceptions. At the bottom of the shelf, a collection of poetry, an untouched copy of the Art of War, and the House of Earth trilogy from the 1930’s.

There are old collections of botany with yellowing pages and old drawings; glossy magazines on pseudosciences. Guan Shan’s eyes linger on a small, A5-sized book that simply reads, Second Sight. There is no author, and the book is bound in a mint green canvas with gold lettering. He brushes over the cover with his thumb, feeling strange.

‘You can borrow it, if you want.’

Guan Shan jumps.

He Tian is standing behind him, unnervingly close. He’s showered, wearing jeans and a grey crew neck that lightens his eyes.

‘You look better,’ says Guan Shan, sliding the book back into place.

‘Long day,’ says He Tian. ‘Tricky clients.’

‘Sure you want to make it longer?’

He Tian just smiles. ‘I’m driving,’ he says. He fetches a jacket from the closet near the front door and is methodical in switching off the lights, checking the cooker, locking the windows. Eventually, he nods, and closes the door behind them.

‘Oh,’ says Guan Shan, spotting He Tian’s car. ‘You’re like, rich rich.’

He hasn’t registered it before now, but it’s difficult not to when the doors slide upwards and Guan Shan has to grip the frame to slide himself inside. Leather seats curve around him, cocooning. He’s mildly concerned to see that the seatbelt is only as robust as any normal one.

‘My brother thinks it’s impractical,’ says He Tian, pressing a button. He looks at home here, satisfied on an intrinsic level. ‘But I kind of like it.’

Guan Shan jumps when the engine roars to life, booming through the underground car park, and He Tian laughs. The car settles into a low grumble and He Tian eases them up the ramp and out onto the street.

He’s a safe driver, all things considered. He knows his limits; he knows the car has few. Other cars seem to part for him, so the traffic is an escort more than a hindrance. He plays an American indie rock band through the speakers, instrumentally eccentric, the songs rolling lyrically into one another. Guan Shan likes it.

For the first time in a while, he realises that a thread of excitement is running through him, knotting in his stomach. He tries to push it down, clenching gloved fists in his lap, but there’s a new, vivid quality about the way lights blur past the windows, music and mechanical vibrations pulsing a beat through his skin.

For a few minutes, he pretends he’s someone else, wearing someone else’s skin—as if this life isn’t his and he doesn’t need a fix to get through time and when he touches someone it’s just a touch. Mundane, really.

A boring, normal life. He’d kill for it. Sometimes, he’d die for it.

‘Does my driving scare you?’ He Tian asks. ‘You’re quiet.’

‘You’re fine,’ Guan Shan says.

‘Just fine? Ouch.’

A smile tugs at his lips. ‘Nah, you’re good. See why you like it so much.’

‘But it’s not a motorbike,’ says He Tian, glancing at Guan Shan out the corner of his eye. He’s attentive to the road, wholly decent with his manoeuvres and indicating respectfully, but Guan Shan has the sense He Tian’s hinging on his words, too.

‘Nah,’ Guan Shan says. ‘They’re—different. Different creatures, y’know? Need handling in their own ways.’

‘I get that,’ says He Tian. Another glance. ‘Not as free, maybe. I wonder—sometimes I feel like I’m running away in this car, driving it fast. I bet a bike feels like going to something new. Something better?’

Guan Shan smiles, shakes his head. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Still feels like running away. But that would be nice.’ He looks at He Tian. ‘What are you runnin’ from?’

‘Oh, all sorts,’ says He Tian. ‘Dirty laundry. Dishes in the sink. Family.’

The last one sticks, and Guan Shan takes it like a small morsel of food in the winter, hiding it away like treasure. A pin-prick of honesty, carefully shared.

He says, ‘Washing dishes is the fucking worst.’

He Tian smiles at him, then looks back at the road. ‘Just you then?’ he asks. ‘No siblings?’

‘Just me. Think that’s enough for my mother.’

‘Sounds like you do yourself a disservice.’

Guan Shan shrugs, pretending like He Tian hadn’t offered to guide him to sobriety half an hour earlier. Perhaps they’re both pretending, seeing what will happen. Guan Shan has the feeling it isn’t the sort of thing that will be offered again—that the invitation was an open one, free to collect at any time.

Unanswered, He Tian continues: ‘And what about your friends? Should I be prepared?’

Guan Shan snorts, thinking about how to put Jian Yi into words.

He diverges: ‘I get the sense that people get what they get with you.’

‘Really?’ says He Tian, bemused. ‘That would make things simple, but we’ve all got versions of ourselves. You know, tailoring.’

Guan Shan isn’t sure about that—he feels like he’s himself pretty much all the time, and most of the time kind of wishes he wasn’t.

‘Which one are you now?’ he asks He Tian.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Which version,’ Guan Shan explains. ‘With me.’

‘Ah,’ says He Tian, nodding. His fingers drum along to the beat of the music on the steering wheel. ‘I guess—an inquisitive one. Pretty chill. Pretty bare. Earnest, I’d like to think. Driving but—I don’t feel like I’m running.’

Guan Shan’s cheeks colour. ‘Cool,’ he says, and watches the lights ahead of them turn green.

The market is quiet tonight, free of crowds and Vanguard-lured fans. A few of the stalls are closed for the night and there are several tables free. Music plays from a set of speakers at the edge of the market, far enough away that Guan Shan can’t make out the lyrics.

Jian Yi points a disposable bamboo knife in He Tian’s direction, which would probably snap on impact with one of He Tian’s biceps.

‘So are you one of the assholes that makes my ADHD medication so fucking expensive?’

‘Goodness,’ says He Tian, lowering his burrito. ‘Depends. What are you on—methylphenidate?’

Jian Yi shrugged. ‘Says Concerta on the box. Have to get a prescription every two fucking weeks.’

‘That’s not surprising,’ says He Tian. ‘Did you know its chemical structure is pretty similar to cocaine?’

Jian Yi’s eyes go wide. ‘I don’t do drugs!’

Guan Shan, quietly, slurps at a bowl of ramen.

‘Good for you,’ says He Tian, wryly. ‘But: no, we don’t formulate Concerta. We’ve had a hand in Ritalin in the past, but it’s a messy drug to get through government. Not to massively oversimplify the process, but we do a lot of development, patenting of formulas, then selling that onto the big pharma manufacturers to do with what they please. It’s easier that way.’

‘What are you developing at the moment?’ says Zhan Zhengxi.

He Tian laughs. ‘I’m not sure I can answer that.’

‘Aw, don’t be a spoilsport,’ Jian Yi whines. ‘We’re good people. Honest.’

He Tian looks at Guan Shan, who is watching the interaction on the periphery, then shakes his head.

‘I actually can’t,’ He Tian says. ‘But—most of it’s… experimental. A science fiction kind of reality.’

Jian Yi leans in. ‘Are you going to make a pill that makes us access a hundred percent of our brain?’

‘I would hope,’ says He Tian, ‘you’d be accessing all of it already. That ten percent bullshit is a myth.’

‘Not me,’ says Jian Yi, popping a french fry in his mouth. ‘There’s definitely more in there I could get to.’

‘Maybe if you stopped drinking boba tea and cleaned your ears you’d be able to,’ says Zhengxi.

Guan Shan snorts. They’re on good form tonight—after the initial awkwardness of introductions, they welcomed He Tian like an old friend, putting on charades of mild distrust and an air of overzealous curiosity, mostly on Jian Yi’s part. Guan Shan likes situations like these, where he doesn’t have to say much and no one calls on him to speak or interact. He can watch his friends talk without needing to input and it gives him a warm feeling, like he’s both part of the cast and the crew of a funny TV show where nothing really bad ever happens.

They talk a lot about work, which Guan Shan realises is just something adults do, and Zhan Zhengxi tells them about a research trip he took to Australia a few months ago to study a type of giant moth, which has Jian Yi with his head on the table and He Tian wiping his eyes.

‘Is he usually that deadpan?’ He Tian asks, when Jian Yi and Zhengxi wander off to get beers and dough sticks.

‘Most of the time, yeah,’ says Guan Shan. ‘Jian Yi’s usually the comedian.’

‘Yeah, I got that,’ says He Tian, his eyes bright. ‘He’s a character.’

They’re alone, and the market has started to empty out. Above, the skies have darkened to a deep purple, and there’s a hot-cold charge in the air that threatens rain. They’ll have to leave soon, which Guan Shan thinks is disappointing. The tables are small, and occasionally Guan Shan’s arm presses against He Tian’s. Sometimes their knees touch. Neither of them act like they’ve noticed. Perhaps He Tian hasn’t.

‘Your friends aren’t what I thought they’d be like,’ says He Tian, stirring his iced tea with a paper straw, going soggy.

‘Because of the drink-driving thing?’ asks Guan Shan.

‘I suppose. More just—because of you.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I was… worried they were going to be like you too. I’m glad they’re not.’

Guan Shan leans away. ‘Well, fuck,’ he says.

He Tian shakes his head. ‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘Not in that way. I’m just glad you have good people around you.’

‘Implying that I’m not good.’

‘Your recreational activities leave a lot to be desired.’

‘Says the guy who makes cocaine.’

He Tian gives him a flat look. ‘That’s not quite what I said, is it.’

Guan Shan grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches. His gloved fists clench and unclench over his thighs.

‘Hey,’ says He Tian. ‘Guan Shan—’

‘You ever, like, think before you talk?’ Guan Shan says, twisting to look at him straight on. ‘You ever think, this might fucking hurt? ‘Cause you’re not my therapist. You’ve known me two fucking weeks and you think you can just, like, make these big statements about me and my life and how fucked up you think I am.’

‘I think I know you a little.’

‘You fucking don’t.’

He Tian reaches for Guan Shan’s gloved hand. ‘I think so.’

His grip is firm.

‘That’s not—Stop—’

He Tian pulls up Guan Shan’s shirt sleeve, exposing the smallest flash of skin at his wrist. Guan Shan tries to yank away, but He Tian’s grip is like a vice. It’s tight enough to bruise.

Guan Shan’s heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t want this.

He tries again to pull, but He Tian’s just looking at him, watching, stronger than he’ll ever be.

Useless.

Guan Shan squeezes his eyes shut.

‘Guan Shan, look.’

He shakes his head. The visions are bad enough accidentally—this forced clairvoyance makes him feel trapped, a fox caught in a snare. He can’t tell what’s worse: being forced to see the future, or that He Tian somehow knows exactly what he’s doing. Guan Shan thinks he’s going to be sick.

‘Guan Shan, open your eyes.’

He Tian’s voice is soft, coaxing. When he does open them, He Tian is staring straight at him. He is still holding onto Guan Shan’s arm. His bare fingers are around his wrist, as if feeling for his pulse. Skin on skin.

Guan Shan’s eyes widen.

It’s not possible.

He Tian’s touch in the bar last weekend—the way it lingered, the vision dissipating—it hadn’t been an accident. There had been no fluke or hiccup in Guan Shan’s physiological makeup. He Tian was then, like he is now, deliberately, knowingly blocking.

He Tian is like him.

‘I know you a little,’ He Tian says.

The rain starts then—heavy droplets, falling fast. Some of the tables have umbrellas, but the weather forecast promises a night of heavy rainfall, and the market empties quickly. Guan Shan pulls his hand away from He Tian, whose grip has loosened, and he yanks up the hood on his jacket.

His head feels like someone has switched the channel to white noise, faintly ringing. His ears go hot. It makes it easier for him to think by not letting himself think at all. It wrecks his reasoning. When he’s like this, he can lose hours or days.

Jian Yi and Zhengxi come back then, running over to the table, their thumbs jammed into the necks of opened beer bottles.

‘You guys wanna come back to ours?’ says Jian Yi. He’s pulled his t-shirt over his head, exposing most of his back. ‘This weather is shite!’

‘I’m easy,’ says He Tian, entirely unphased by the rain, dark hair plastered against his forehead. He turns to Guan Shan. ‘What do you want?’

It’s the kind of question Guan Shan does not have any capacity to answer. His world feels like it has been tipped on its axis.

When he was six, his parents took him to see the local paediatric psychologist. They assumed, reasonably, that his visions were the result of a bipolar or, possible but highly unlikely, schizophrenic disorder. It didn’t matter that the visions—drawn on scrap bits of paper or talked about over breakfast—actually came true.

He wasn’t sure that his dad had the time or his mother the emotional capability to realise this, or perhaps they simply chose not to. Either way, Guan Shan didn’t really blame them. One was significantly easier to accept.

His mother came with him to the monthly therapy sessions from the age of eight, dropped him off at the doors of the clinic—which he stayed at for a couple of weeks when he was ten—and picked up his medication until he was thirteen.

He stopped taking them of his own accord, by virtue of stopping talking about it all together. His mother, working two jobs and spending fortnightly weekends travelling to see her incarcerated husband, thought that God must have had a hand. Perhaps puberty had given him a hormonal equilibrium. Whatever it was—her son was cured.

For the past twenty-four years, the visions have been a secret that only Jian Yi and Zhengxi have known about, and Guan Shan has never met anyone else like him. He remembers other kids in the clinic, ones who really were sick, who really did need the medication. He remembers knowing, somewhere deep down, that he wasn’t like them. Perhaps they thought that too.

Until now, he has been alone in this.

Until He Tian.

‘Mo?’ says Jian Yi. ‘You good?’

Guan Shan blinks. He realises he’s soaked through—and they’re all looking at him. Waiting.

He swallows thickly. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘let’s go.’

He Tian drives them to Zhengxi’s apartment. It takes less than five minutes but beats the fifteen-minute walk in the rain. Jian Yi sits next to Guan Shan in the back and spends the duration marvelling at the leather interiors and heated seats. Their beer bottles are empty by the time they pull up outside Zhengxi’s apartment. Zhengxi, riding shotgun, asks technical questions about the engine and whether He Tian is interested in the uncertain future of hydrogen fuel cells.

They pile into Zhengxi’s apartment, peeling off wet socks and leaving their shoes at the door. Jian Yi finds He Tian and Guan Shan a set of dry lounge clothes and ushers them into the bedroom to change. The bed is neatly made and there are textbooks on Asian-Pacific botany on one of the bedsides. On the other, there are three glasses of half-drunk water and a framed photo of Zhengxi in his graduate robes after he’d completed his master’s.

Guan Shan stands by the bedroom door and He Tian starts to strip.

Guan Shan looks away.

‘You’ve gone quiet on me,’ says He Tian, who is now only wearing a pair of fitted black boxers. His torso is inordinately long. So are his legs. He is very proportionate.

‘The fuck you want me to say,’ says Guan Shan.

‘You’ll catch a cold in those wet clothes.’

Guan Shan shrugs, but He Tian might be right: he can feel himself shaking slightly, the cold seeping through his skin. He’s not drunk enough to ignore it, which is a shame.

He is drunk enough to say, ‘You’ve been lying to me.’

‘I don’t think that’s quite true.’

‘What d’you call that? At the market? Feels kinda like you’ve been fucking with my head.’

He Tian tightens the drawstring of Jian Yi’s grey joggers, which are a little too short, falling a couple of inches above his ankles.

‘Are you sure you want to have this conversation right now?’ asks He Tian, folding his arms across his chest.

‘Don’t think I’m the one with the timing problem.’

He Tian sighs slightly. ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘Get changed and we’ll talk.’

Guan Shan jerks his chin. ‘Turn around.’

He Tian raises his eyebrows, then eventually turns. Guan Shan dresses quickly, his wet clothes slapping against the floor in a pile. Outside the bedroom, he can hear the clatter of mugs against the kitchen counter and the low bubble of a boiling kettle. Jian Yi has put the TV on and is streaming music from his phone.

‘Done,’ says Guan Shan. He doesn’t hesitate. ‘Wasn’t just coincidence with you moving in next door, was it?’

He Tian turns. He takes in Guan Shan’s newly clothed form then leans insouciantly against the chest of drawers behind him, looking like a model, long-limbed and dark-eyed.

‘It wasn’t,’ he says, then clears his throat. ‘My brother is on the board for a few psychiatric clinics in Jiangsu. He had your in-patient records from when you were a kid. We were looking for you.’

Guan Shan holds himself very still.

‘Oh,’ he says, trying to think. ‘So all that shit about my dad—you probably already knew, right?’

‘Mostly,’ says He Tian.

‘And—about me?’

‘I know about the visions.’

Guan Shan’s breathing is heavy. ‘That—That shit’s all meant to be confidential.’

‘We’ve helped a lot of people,’ says He Tian, seeming unconcerned. ‘A lot of people who are in the same place you are right now. We—I can help you.’

Guan Shan recoils. ‘Help?’ he says. ‘Like—fix? Like the fucking sobriety shit? Who the fuck d’you think you are?’

He’d been attracted to He Tian, drawn inexplicably to him—and it had all been a farce. He Tian thought he needed saving. Worse, He Tian pitied him. Guan Shan almost feels sorry for him: he’d had to pretend to be Guan Shan’s friend to get to this point. He’d had to go out for drinks with him, meet his friends—wear their fucking clothes.

Later, he’ll realise that he hadn’t even been curious about the nature of He Tian’s work. What he really meant about helping him. But then he’d never been able to engage rationally when any kind of emotion hit him, rode over him like the tidal wave of a tsunami.

He Tian steps towards him. ‘Mo Guan Shan—’

The door rattles. There’s a thump against the wood. ‘Are you two fucking in there?!’ Jian Yi shouts.

Guan Shan is almost relieved. Before He Tian can stop him, he goes to the door and opens it. Jian Yi half-tumbles into him.

‘Sadly not,’ says He Tian, smiling blandly.

It’s one of Jian Yi’s sometimes-likeable qualities: he acknowledges the strange mood by electing to ignore it.

They go into the living area and Guan Shan sinks himself into the empty armchair. There are bottles of beer and a pot of tea on the coffee table. Guan Shan goes for a bottle and draws his legs beneath him.

The rest of the evening goes slowly, flicking between music channels and Xbox games, eating popcorn and wasabi peanuts. He Tian is chameleon-like with his moods—joking and smiling as if there’s nothing wrong, a sublime actor. The only thing that gives him away is that he doesn’t look at Guan Shan once.

They leave before midnight, their wet clothes bound in a towel. He Tian promises to call around in the week to return the ones they’ve borrowed. Jian Yi seems pleased about this. The drive is silent, and Guan Shan is drunk.

‘Can you drop me off somewhere?’ Guan Shan asks as He Tian pulls away from Zhengxi’s apartment complex. ‘It’s on the way.’

He Tian looks at him for a moment, then he looks away. He takes a while to reply.

‘Put the address in the SatNav?’ he says.

Guan Shan puts in the nearest point of interest, a 7-11 on the corner of Dongda Yingbi. It takes twenty minutes and the drive is silent. The roads are serenely quiet. A few hours ago, Guan Shan had felt light and new. His head rolls against the headrest, and he finds it easy to pretend that He Tian simply isn’t there.

Soon, He Tian’s pulling up on the side of the road. He turns the engine off.

‘Here?’ He Tian asks, peering uncertainly through the windscreen.

‘Yeah, this is good. Thanks.’

‘How long will you be? I can wait.’

‘Uh,’ says Guan Shan, his hand on the latch for the door. ‘Nah, don’t. I’ll be a while.’

He Tian looks at him. His gaze is dark, pushing through him—as if he can see the underside of Guan Shan’s skin, the strain of his heart against his ribcage, the controlled pulsing of his lungs. As if he’s thinking about reaching out and touching him, because he can.

The realisation is breathless: He Tian is the only person in this entire universe who could touch him without repercussion. Who could keep him grounded in a storm. His whole life, he’d been hoping something like this existed, an off-switch that wasn’t coke or white spirits or opiates.

A shame, really, that Guan Shan kind of hates him.

‘Are you sure about this?’ says He Tian. ‘We can talk properly. I’ll explain.’

‘I’m good, thanks,’ says Guan Shan, who is never really sure about anything, and gets out of the car.

He walks down the street and doesn’t hear the engine turn back on. When he rounds the corner, out of sight, his whole body shudders, falling in on itself like a house of cards.

He’s been buying drugs from She Li since he was fifteen—the same year he started his job at the grocery store near school and earnt enough from his minimum wage job to buy 100mg of benzos each weekend. He’d graduated from prescriptions of risperidone and Xanax, and She Li was always in good supply.

She Li’s awake when Guan Shan buzzes for his apartment, and he lets him in with a knowing smile. Aside from being kind of a creep most of the time, She Li doesn’t mind when Guan Shan turns up like a stray dog at his door. In fact, Guan Shan thinks he probably likes it.

‘You out already?’ She Li says, wandering into the living room. He’s wearing low-rise joggers and no shirt, and Guan Shan eyes the snake tattoo that winds its way up She Li’s spine and sits, hissing and gleaming, on his shoulder. At his waist, he wears a black elasticated belt with a small curved blade against his hip.

‘Not yet,’ says Guan Shan, taking a seat on the sofa. ‘Just need something different.’

She Li raises his brows, sitting beside him, and leans over the glass coffee table. There’s a large book on Danish architecture in the middle and, inside, a cut-out section that houses a neat stash of plastic pill packets. She Li opens one up and taps white powder onto the glass, which he scrapes into lines with his knife and inhales through his nose.

His face pinches together, his eyes screwing shut, then he shakes himself.

‘Bad day?’ he asks Guan Shan. Then he narrows his eyes. ‘No, I’m sensing a bad couple of weeks.’

‘Somethin’ like that,’ says Guan Shan. ‘Have you got anything or…?’

She Li smirks. ‘Are you really asking me that?’ he says. ‘We got something new the other day. It’ll blow your mind.’ His smirk deepens. ‘Not literally—I wouldn’t do that to you. But it is heavy.’

‘Whatever you’ve got.’

She Li sniffs. ‘Wait here.’

He disappears into another room, and Guan Shan waits, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Already, he feels a twinge of regret—remorse—the fear of uncertainty.

Inexplicably, he hears He Tian’s voice: Are you sure about this?

There’s music playing from a wireless speaker, lyricless house tracks that blur into each other and scratch at Guan Shan’s skull. The apartment is devoid of identity and always makes Guan Shan feel like he’s staying in an Airbnb with cheap IKEA furniture.

She Li’s lived in the same apartment since Guan Shan’s known him, easing Guan Shan away from his steady prescriptions and onto something a little more demanding. Illogically, there’s safety in coming here. He’s never had a bad batch, never OD’d, and She Li tends to him like he knows his needs. That probably makes it more dangerous, but maybe that’s the whole point.

When She Li returns, he’s got a small bag of brownish powder in his palm, and Guan Shan immediately leans back.

‘Uh, She Li—I don’t—’

She Li smiles and shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry, kid. I wouldn’t do that to you.’

Guan Shan nods and tries to settle. His heartbeat has spiked in his chest and he rubs at his head to try and soothe it. He doesn’t know why he has these rules for himself, like one addictive substance is significantly worse than the other—like he hasn’t had fentanyl before and doesn’t still think about it every time he’s looking for a high.

She Li kneels beside him. He puts two unwrapped syringes of naloxone on the table.

‘What’s in it?’ Guan Shan asks.

‘The boys cooked it up a few weeks ago—they’ve been living in that lab trying to get it done.’ He smiles up at Guan Shan, all teeth. ‘We’re calling it Eden.’

‘Biblical?’

‘Transcendent.’

She Li pulls out a pocket-size weighing scales from his joggers and rests a small pewter dish on top. He opens the packet and taps it out carefully onto the dish. He’s meticulous with the weighing—‘Better to be under than over.’

‘Is there fentanyl in it?’ Guan Shan asks, hoping there is. Hoping there isn’t. He can’t stop looking at the powder.

‘A smidge,’ says She Li. A milligram here, a milligram there. ‘I kind of see our friend like salt. You put too much of it in your cooking and that’s all you can fucking taste. Over time, your senses get dulled out. Put just enough in—it brings out everything else. A beautiful, transcendental dance. Like fucking while fighting. You want that equilibrium. You want to come back to it—not to let it ruin your life.’

‘I haven’t already?’ Guan Shan asks.

She Li glances at him, then, satisfied, holds out the dish.

‘Mo Guan Shan—you’re just getting started.’

Time passes.

Probably.

I am not here.

This body is not mine.

I don’t exist. I can’t be felt; I can’t be seen; I can’t be touched.

‘How long’s he been like that?’

‘He’s at seven hours. Going strong.’

‘Fuck… I’m almost jealous.’

‘You want in?’

‘Abso-fucking-lutely not. I’ve got shit to do.’

He has never felt like this in his entire life, and knows he will never feel like this again.

‘Think you’d better bring him back?’

‘I wanted to see how far he’d go.’

‘Like—hasn’t anyone else taken it before?’

‘He’s special to me. I wanted him to go first.’

‘Aw, that’s dark.’

A sigh. ‘But you’re right. I’m not calling a fucking ambulance if he starts foaming at the mouth.’

At fifteen hours, She Li injects a syringe of naloxone on the inside of his arm.

He’s still in the same spot on the sofa. His neck is so numb he can’t move it. His breath comes in huge, shuddering gulps, like someone’s just gone at him with a defibrillator.

It’s not the first time She Li has had to help him get to the bathroom, and the shame will only come later.

He stays there for a while, vomits into the toilet bowl until he tastes blood. He doesn’t look at his reflection; he knows what he’ll see: bloodshot eyes, his face puffy and swollen, constricted pupils. His throat burns from stomach acid and his skin feels shiverish and pimpled with goosebumps.

He takes the oxy that She Li gives him, just to take the edge off.

The way he can feel his body changes from minute to minute: one moment, rash-like and aching—the next as if he isn’t connected to it at all. Like this, he doesn’t own his body—doesn’t deserve it.

It’s dark again outside, raining heavy and smearing against She Li’s bathroom window. Guan Shan climbs into the bathtub and turns on the shower until the hot water runs cold. When he’s sure he can stand, he dresses again in Jian Yi’s borrowed clothes.

She Li is counting cash at the kitchen table when he comes back out. There’s a guy with grey hair on the sofa watching TV, who Guan Shan vaguely recognises from previous visits.

He gives Guan Shan a lazy wave and a curious, slightly repulsed look, like watching a gore movie you can’t look away from.

‘There’s a Lucozade in the fridge,’ says She Li.

Guan Shan procures it, drinks it all in large, desperate gulps, and leans heavily against the fridge door. His head is spinning.

Eventually, he goes back into the living room and lowers himself carefully on the chair opposite She Li. He puts his head in his hands. He can’t stop himself from shaking.

‘So did it take you there?’ says She Li, not looking up from the cash.

‘Huh?’ says Guan Shan.

‘Eden.’

Guan Shan grimaces. ‘It took me somewhere.’

‘Want to go again?’

The terrible thing is—yes. Yes, he fucking would. She Li knows this. Anyone who takes opioids would probably, instinctively, say yes. The rationalising—the rejection—comes after, and requires hard fucking work. A kind of willpower Guan Shan knows he doesn’t have, mostly because he has no reason not to.

It feels like dating someone he knows isn’t good for him but doesn’t have the energy to leave, and he has convinced himself this is love.

For no particular reason, he says, ‘I should go home, probably.’

She Li doesn’t press the point. ‘Alright,’ he says. ‘You can Alipay me the cash. It’s double your usual.’

Guan Shan winces, but he expected it. Anything like what he’d taken last night would come with a cost. He’s feeling it now. A high like that didn’t come for free. He hasn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, dragging himself through forced wakefulness that had felt like the most blissful dream he’d ever felt in his entire fucking life—but that was a lie.

That hadn’t been real.

The reality is this: he’s an addict, spending his paycheck on drugs and trying to hide from the fact that he hates who he is and hates all the things that make him different. It would be easy to say he hates Nanjing, hates everyone around him, hates his life—but there isn’t much wrong with other people, beyond their obvious failings. They aren’t the problem. He is.

He walks home in a kind of delirium, watching as the horizon changes hue, from light greys to dark, blackish blues. The walk is long and his body feels like lead. He calls into a 7-11 on the way, half-collapsing against the fridges at the back when his stomach cramps, and buys a bottle of water and packet of ginger candies without meeting the cashier’s eyes.

It starts raining when he’s ten minutes out, heavy and bruising, and soon he’s soaked to the skin. The streets empty out as people duck into subway stations and taxis; street lights blur in puddles and overflowing drains.

Monsoon season is getting earlier and longer each year now, and the Yangtze will burst its banks before the month is up. Maybe this year it will hit Nanjing, streets and homes flooded, the city seeking refuge in the high hills of the Purple Mountain.

Guan Shan doesn’t pause in the lobby of the apartment complex. He goes straight to the lift. It’s commuting time, and the building is busy with people coming home from work, water dripping from wet umbrellas and waterproofs. When Guan Shan gets in, it goes quiet. He pretends he doesn’t know why. He steps out on the fourth floor without looking back.

There has to be a lot of pretence when you take drugs. A concentrated lack of shame. Sometimes, it’s just enough to convince people you’re having a bad day—one of hundreds—but sometimes it’s fucking obvious. Today’s like that. Today, Guan Shan’s convinced everyone around him knows what his problem is, which usually equates to how much of a problem he thinks he doesn’t have.

Guan Shan turns a corner and doesn’t falter.

He Tian is standing outside his door, smoking a cigarette over the balcony. He’s probably watched Guan Shan from the street.

Rain streams from the rafters; He Tian’s hair is dewy with condensation. He straightens when Guan Shan approaches. The rain is loud, and it feels later than it is.

‘Was it worth it?’ says He Tian.

‘Don’t,’ says Guan Shan.

He Tian lets out a breath and loosens his shoulders. He stubs out his cigarette into a ceramic ashtray and looks at Guan Shan, who looks back.

Time stretches out softly between them.

Guan Shan is soaked to the bone and shivering, but he suddenly finds that he can’t look away. He doesn’t know that he has ever been looked at like this before.

I saw this, he thinks, and I see you.

A person’s face changes the longer you look at them. It softens; their features rearrange. Briefly, they become something new, a sum of parts rather than a whole. In some ways, He Tian becomes less handsome the longer Guan Shan takes in the slope of his right eye, the shadow of stubble, the faint lines in his forehead. His brain notes the asymmetry, registers it.

‘Come in,’ says He Tian, quiet. ‘Let me help.’

Guan Shan steps back. ‘You don’t wanna help me, He Tian—’

‘There’s more to you than what you do and what you take.’

Guan Shan closes his eyes. He’s coming back to himself slowly, in fragments.

He feels like shit; he feels so low.

‘I need like—naloxone and—and a shower and—’

‘Come in,’ says He Tian. He takes Guan Shan’s hand—and nothing happens.

God, he’d wanted this. Exhausted relief comes over him in a wave.

He follows He Tian into his apartment.

While he showers, He Tian takes his key to get clean clothes from his apartment and orders takeout from a place down the street. It doesn’t make sense that Guan Shan should be here when his apartment is next door, but the place doesn’t feel like home right now and he’s not sure he can accept the concept of being alone, or that it would be a remotely good idea. He Tian seems to know this.

They eat at the table, like adults, and He Tian pours tea from an ancient-looking pot. Guan Shan keeps forgetting what time it is. His hands tremor while he eats.

‘I need to text my boss,’ Guan Shan says apologetically, putting down his chopsticks and pulling out his phone.

‘Will they expect an excuse?’ asks He Tian, sitting across from him.

‘I usually—plan things a little better.’

He Tian raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment. When Guan Shan puts his phone away he says, ‘I’ve made up the spare bed. You should sleep here tonight.’

Guan Shan looks away. ‘That’s kinda overkill, don’t you think?’

‘Interesting choice of words. No, I don’t think so.’ He Tian picks up his cup of tea. ‘I’m pretty worried about you, Mo Guan Shan.’

Guan Shan pulls a face. ‘This part of your agenda?’

‘I don’t blame you for thinking so poorly of me, but—no. It’s not. I usually have a good understanding of the people my brother and I reach out to. This time, I didn’t account for something.’

‘And what’s that?’

He Tian looks at him. ‘You.’

Guan Shan feels his face go hot, but he can’t tell if this is from the drugs or something that’s actually real.

He Tian continues: ‘I get that this is objectively the worst possible timing for me to be interested in you. I’m sorry.’

‘Isn’t this, like, a conflict of interest?’

‘Oh, absolutely,’ He Tian sighs. ‘He Cheng will never let me live this down.’

‘Guess that depends if you do something about it.’

He Tian looks at him, momentarily surprised, then he makes a quiet sound of laughter. ‘I guess,’ he says. ‘I got the impression you wanted nothing to do with me after the market.’

‘I didn’t,’ Guan Shan agrees. ‘Think I got a bit of a new perspective.’

‘Nearly overdosing will make you question a few things about your life.’

Guan Shan looks away. ‘How come you know so much about this shit anyway? Like, beyond the science shit. You sober?’

He Tian shakes his head. ‘Not me—my mother. Or, well, she tried.’

‘Your mother?’

This is not what Guan Shan expected.

He Tian smiles. ‘Skeletons,’ he says. ‘More—literal than figurative, I’m afraid.’

‘Shit, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

‘Of course you didn’t. Why are you apologising? She made her choices. I don’t really know why, but she did.’

‘How old were you?’

‘I was ten. He Cheng was eighteen. We experienced the whole thing pretty differently.’

‘What about your dad?’

He Tian’s expression shutters slightly. ‘What about him?’

Guan Shan treads carefully. ‘Like, didn’t he help her?’

‘In his own way.’ He scratches beneath his jawline, pensive. ‘I think he thought he was. He paid for her to spend a few months in a pretty nice rehab centre, although they didn’t call it that then.’

‘It didn’t work?’

He Tian leans back. ‘For a while, yeah. She was amazing when she got out—this whole new person. It just couldn’t last.’ He Tian clears his throat. ‘She used drugs to mask her abilities, too.’

Guan Shan stares at him. ‘She was like me? Like us?’

‘It’s why He Cheng and I do what we do,’ He Tian says. ‘She had this—magnetic ability. Everyone loved her. They couldn’t help themselves.’

A walking aphrodisiac, Guan Shan guesses. He can’t tell what He Tian is thinking; he’s too calm. He regrets the things he’s said now, the things he did. He wishes he’d known, but wonders if it would’ve made a difference. Sympathy for He Tian’s loss probably wouldn’t have made him stop taking drugs.

He asks, ‘What about when she was high?’

‘The drugs dampened it—messed with her biology. She could’ve taken thionamides and dopamine agonists, like someone normal with an overactive endocrine output, but she didn’t think like that.’

‘Prescription meds only work for so long,’ Guan Shan murmurs. He glances at He Tian. ‘You couldn’t help her? Like with me?’

‘Would’ve been nice, right? But I can’t alter hormones and signalling molecules. Just neurons. Plus—I was a kid. I was trying to figure out myself at the same time.’

The conversation goes quiet. Guan Shan doesn’t know what to say. It’s a strange feeling, talking about someone who has died. Guan Shan’s ability shows him images of the future, never the past. He’ll never know what He Tian’s mother really sounds or looks like; he’ll never see the two of them interact. The death of someone creates this strange, cut-out figure in the future, as if the dust has settled on the shadows of their shoulders.

Most of the time, Guan Shan wishes he could see the past rather than the future, in intimate, exquisite detail, but he probably wouldn’t be able to control that either; all he’d see were the bad things—the moments of deep embarrassment from trying to kiss someone in third grade, or the fear of armed men raiding his dad’s restaurant, or the low of every come-down on repeat. The normal memories he has are enough.

Perhaps it would be worse to see so many pasts he knows he could never change than a future he has yet to live.

‘You haven’t eaten much,’ says He Tian. ‘Are you finished?’

‘I’m—not that hungry. Sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ says He Tian. ‘I’ll put everything in the fridge in case you change your mind.’

He starts to clear away the dishes, directing Guan Shan to go and lie down on the sofa. It’s still raining hard outside, and Guan Shan watches it stream down the large living room window while He Tian clatters things into the sink behind him. His eyes feel heavy, and he can feel himself sinking into the softness of He Tian’s evidently expensive sofa.

He sips at his cup of tea, still warm, and blinks hard against the exhaustion.

He’s been hungover before, a night of drinking and drugs that renders him pretty much useless by the following afternoon, cocooned in his bed before the sun has even set.

This is another beast entirely. He knows that if he ever wants to get clean, it will be a lot like this.

What?

His eyes open fully.

Getting clean? He’s never entertained the idea before.

It’s an if—a thread-like thought, briefly imagined. There’s nothing concrete or tangible about it, and he can barely imagine a future for himself where he isn’t taking pills to get him through the night and the day, but it’s there. Who the fuck would he be if he got sober?

He shuts his eyes and presses into the sofa, curling onto his side. He doesn’t want to think about it.

If he does—if he tries—he knows for certain he will relapse. It’s statistically likely, but it’s more that he knows himself. He knows the taste of failure and self-loathing; he knows what it will be like to let himself down.

He lies there and tries to calm his breathing. He’s too tired to follow the thought, so he lets it go.

He lets go.

It’s completely dark when he wakes. Something has woken him, a sound out in the hall, or the heaviness of the rain against the window. Outside, the sky is aglow, as if lightning has illuminated it only moments before.

He knows, somehow, that He Tian is there beside him. He knows that he is awake, too.

Guan Shan sits up.

He feels clearer now; there is still something gnawing in the back of his mind, a false need determined to ruin him—but there’s something else there now too.

He reaches out, and his palm comes to rest on the curve where He Tian’s neck meets his shoulder.

He Tian’s skin is cool. His heart beats slow and steady through his skin. His eyes are dark and steady; they meet Guan Shan’s without expectation.

The apartment is silent. Their movements are silent. There’s the scent of something in the air, like magnolia, and it feels thin.

Their bare footsteps are quiet as they go to He Tian’s bedroom. The sheets are cool and when Guan Shan touches them he considers going back to sleep, waking up another day, where the light would be bright and expose all their shadows. But it’s easy to hide, and he wants to. He wants this.

He Tian kisses him first, sitting next to him on the bed. His breath—his mouth—is warm.

Something hangs between them. A question mark, hovering fragile in the air like cigarette smoke.

Guan Shan has seen this moment—weeks ago at the market. They had brushed against one another, brief. Then, it was shimmering and catastrophic. Now—oceanic. He has never touched anyone, been touched like this before. He never thought he could.

Like this, there’s no need for their clothes.

The air crackles. They don’t speak. That would change it somehow, perforate the quiet, the exactitude with which He Tian is pressing his mouth to the inside of Guan Shan’s thigh and then—fuck, there. His head undulates, testing, registering every response that answers.

Guan Shan is biting his lip hard enough to bleed. He digs his fingers into He Tian’s hair, possessive, the strength almost crushing. He is half-torn between holding him there and pulling him away. He Tian’s tongue slides against him, lilting between rhythmic and chaotic. Guan Shan writhes.

He Tian pulls away before he’s finished, his mouth wet and glistening, clambering back onto the bed. They kiss hungrily, all teeth and tongues. They could swallow one another whole. They couldn’t get closer than this, surely—chest against chest, Guan Shan crowding in He Tian’s lap.

His thighs part; his back arches. There’s the crack of a bottle cap, the press of heat, He Tian’s hands on Guan Shan’s hips—lifting.

There is no pain. There’s just the hot, full glide of He Tian filling him up from the inside. Somewhere, stars are shifting in the sky. The moon is bright behind the clouds, tugging at a shoreline. Lighting strikes twice.

It’s enough for Guan Shan to lose himself right there. His fingertips grapple at He Tian’s shoulders, holding on while He Tian lifts him and lowers him in steady, unwavering measures into the roll of his hips.

Their breathing is heavy; Guan Shan hides his face in the crook of He Tian’s neck, shaking, unable to stop. His heels press into He Tian’s back. He wants this to last forever. He wants this high and unhinged. He wants this at the comedown. He wants this clean, time turned back, as if this is the only pleasure he’ll ever know.

He Tian puts him on his back, crowds over him, enters him again. They find their rhythm easily, somehow known and familiar. Over He Tian’s shoulder, Guan Shan watches themselves in the mirror—their tangle of skin, their lurid movements. It is beautiful and strange and he can’t look away. He Tian’s mouth feasts at his neck; his pulse is staccato in his veins.

The tide rolls closer, cresting, crashing—and Guan Shan goes with it.

He fades then, lying there—shaking and pulsing. He Tian, spent, lies beside him, his chest rising and falling, stuttering. He Tian rolls onto his side, puts his hand on Guan Shan’s hip. His thumb brushes at it lazily.

They sleep for an hour, maybe two. Outside it is still dark, still raining. There is no need to get up or go anywhere. He Tian reaches for him, finds him waiting and wanting, finds new places with hands and mouth.

The storm rages, rolls, bursts across the skyline—Guan Shan feels, for the first time, no past or future, only this.

The morning comes slowly.

The rain has died off now, and the air has a cool, fresh feeling to it. He Tian is already up, opening the windows to the elements, entirely naked. Guan Shan lies on his side and watches him. He feels cautiously unselfconscious, as if waiting for the embarrassment to catch up with him. It doesn’t come. He knows what they did—more than once—and he cannot change it. He doesn’t think he wants to.

He Tian catches his gaze in the mirror, smiles, then turns. Guan Shan’s heart does something strange.

‘Good morning,’ he says. ‘Or perhaps good afternoon.’

Guan Shan blinks. ‘Hey.’

He sits up then, frowning. There is a persistent ache in his lower back, a tight band around his thighs, his biceps. There is a patch of something on his abdomen, dry, and Guan Shan refuses to breathe too deeply. He considers apologising to He Tian’s bedsheets.

‘You slept for quite a while,’ says He Tian. He sits on the edge of the bed and just looks at him, seeming pleased.

‘I, uh—’ Guan Shan clears his throat. ‘Kept waking up.’

‘I hope the bed wasn’t too uncomfortable.’

‘The bed’s good. It’s—more than good.’

The corner of He Tian’s mouth lifts. ‘Good,’ he says.

He Tian has fetched Guan Shan more clothes from his apartment, so they take it in turns to shower and He Tian strips the bed. He does laundry, makes them coffee and steams a basket of mantou, which they eat with a jar of plum jam and more coffee on He Tian’s sofa. It’s very domestic. It’s very—safe. It’s terrifying.

‘I’m gonna be real with you,’ says Guan Shan, holding the mug of coffee against him. ‘I’ve never done something like that before. What we did last night.’

He Tian glances at him, putting his knife down on his plate, then sucks jam from his thumb. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I’d gathered.’

Guan Shan flushes, stinging. ‘That obvious, was it?’

‘Hardly. It just made sense that you wouldn’t be thrilled at the idea of someone touching you in public, let alone putting their cock in you.’

Guan Shan’s flush deepens. ‘You always talk like that?’

‘I’m not ashamed,’ says He Tian, slathering jam onto one of the last buns. ‘Certainly not about last night. Frankly, I’d like to do it a lot more. Theoretically.’

Guan Shan hinges on that word. Theoretically. As in, not in practice. Wants to but won’t. Guan Shan tries, fails, not to internalise it.

‘I thought you said the timing was shit.’

‘Right,’ says He Tian, chewing. He glances at Guan Shan, then swallows. ‘Was that really your first time?’

Guan Shan drinks his coffee, then puts the mug on the table. He squints through the floor-length windows, at the cool sun piercing through the clouds. There is the scent of petrichor, the ground still damp from the downpour, the bright promise of new life. Guan Shan feels as if he hasn’t seen the sun in a while.

‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘But my first time was—I was pretty out of it. Don’t remember much of it. I was a mess.’

‘Was that where I dropped you off? To see that person?’

Guan Shan looks away. ‘I don’t really wanna talk about that.’

He Tian is quiet for some time. He stacks their plates and takes the jam back into the kitchen to put in the fridge. Guan Shan hears a tap running, then the quiet press of He Tian’s slippers against the hardwood floor as he comes back.

He sits beside him, a little closer this time. He takes Guan Shan’s hand, runs his thumb over Guan Shan’s knuckles. The contact gives Guan Shan a quiet thrill.

‘If I help you,’ he says, ‘there’ll be things you’ll need to share with me. You’ll need to let me in.’

‘Sure,’ says Guan Shan. ‘You think I can’t do that? Jian Yi’s helped me.’

‘I know he has. But I don’t think you realise what I’m asking. Jian Yi’s helped you cope—like the drugs help you cope. I want to give you something more.’

Guan Shan snorts. ‘You sound like my dealer.’

He says it before he can stop himself. It’s a bitter stab, and he doesn’t rightly know why he says it. Maybe because he’s in withdrawal. Maybe because He Tian’s threatening to take him away from the pills, and he doesn’t remember a time without them.

He Tian just says, ‘Except I don’t want you to need me.’

Guan Shan winces, looks away. He Tian looks at him so intensely—but there’s nowhere to hide. He’ll be looked at whether he likes it or not; He Tian will seek him out with ruthless determination. There is no going back from this.

‘That’s what you meant,’ he says quietly. ‘That, like, I was gonna treat you like another drug.’

‘You should know yourself before you know me,’ says He Tian. ‘A year, they usually say. Build up your own boundaries. Know your limits. Know yourself. Your worth.’

‘You think I don’t know it?’

He Tian lifts his eyebrows. ‘Do you?’

When Guan Shan doesn’t reply, He Tian says, ‘If we didn’t work out—as an us—I don’t think that could go well.’

Guan Shan chews the inside of his cheek. For some reason, he feels like crying. Acrid, he says, ‘You’re already breaking up with me? I’m hurt.’

He Tian takes Guan Shan’s hand, holds it firmly this time. It isn’t tender; it’s the kind of grip He Tian used when they were at the market on the weekend, insistent and out of patience.

‘I want you,’ says He Tian, and Guan Shan is struck to hear the waver in his voice. ‘I really do. I want to—I want to fuck you, and have you in my bed, and make you breakfast in the morning, and drive somewhere really fucking far with you right next to me. But I need you around for that. I need you safe. And that has to come first.’

The back of Guan Shan’s throat is stinging.

His head feels full. His voice comes out thick: ‘You don’t have to be a fucking martyr.’

‘I’m not,’ He Tian says, ‘I just want you more.’

Guan Shan hides his face. ‘Fuck,’ he mutters. He has a headache brewing. That familiar itch is starting to pull at him, the one beneath his skin that he can’t quite scratch.

He realises what this is. It doesn’t seem fair that he could’ve had what they had last night—and now there is this. It feels masochistic. It’s painful, and leaves him wanting. Part of him blames He Tian for this—if he’d had no intention of their being together, why did he reach for him in the night? Why did he take Guan Shan to his bed, kiss him like a lover, smile at his waking?

I need you safe.

‘Fuck,’ he says again, angrier this time. He forces himself to meet He Tian’s eye. ‘So, what?’ he says. ‘We just—pretend this didn’t happen?’

He Tian shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘We’ll hold onto it until we get to the other side.’

Guan Shan’s cheeks feel wet, and he swipes at them roughly, embarrassed. He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: What if I don’t make it?

He says, ‘A year, then.’

He Tian says, ‘However long it takes.’