Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lan Xichen thinks that Lan Zhan doesn’t socialize enough. This is not true.

Lan Zhan has a friend. Her name is Luo Qingyang. She goes by Mian Mian. They go to a café at least once a month. This is socializing.

Lan Zhan has a Lan Xichen. Lan Xichen has two boyfriends, which Lan Zhan finds excessive, in that this number includes Meng Yao. Lan Zhan sees Lan Xichen twice per week, sometimes more often, and frequently, one of those times will include one or more of the boyfriends. Periodically, one of those times will also include friends or relatives of the boyfriends, which Lan Zhan finds not only excessive but also torture. Lan Xichen knows this but believes it “good for him.” Torture, according to Lan Xichen, is socializing.

Lan Zhan has an uncle, whom Lan Zhan usually sees once per week, usually in company with Lan Xichen. Lan Qiren has zero boyfriends. He also has zero girlfriends. He also has zero friends of any kind, for which Lan Zhan is grateful. He almost never has to prepare to see more than two people when he is visiting his uncle, unless Lan Xichen has decided to bring the boyfriends, which he does on occasion. Possibly Lan Xichen believes that Lan Qiren also doesn’t socialize enough and so enjoys torturing him as well.

Lan Zhan has colleagues. He is Vice President of Finance and Operations at Cloud Recesses Center for the Arts. This is a prestigious position for one so young. Lan Zhan believes that he has earned it, despite the fact that his brother is President of Cloud Recesses Center for the Arts and his uncle is Provost. (The aforementioned weekly visit with Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen might technically be considered work meetings, but they count as socializing because the meetings take place over lunch.)

Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren are not Lan Zhan’s only colleagues. There are other colleagues, with whom Lan Zhan is forced to create a “comfortable work environment” by engaging in small talk and occasionally “grabbing a coffee.” The fact that he endures “work lunches” and “grabbing a coffee” is why Lan Zhan believes he has earned the position of Vice President of Finance and Operations at Cloud Recesses Center for the Arts. He’s suffered for it.

None of this is enough socializing for Lan Xichen, who has an inexplicable rubric for how much torture is required and occasionally decides that Lan Zhan needs more of it. This is how Lan Zhan finds himself at Nie Huaisang’s thirty-third birthday party, where Lan Zhan does not want to be.

Lan Zhan knows many of the people here. His own social circle is limited, but Lan Xichen’s is vast, and Lan Zhan has been forced to become acquainted with an unpleasant proportion of it due to the boyfriends, one of whom is Nie Mingjue, whose brother is Nie Huaisang, and Nie Huaisang knows half of Shanghai. Meanwhile, Meng Yao is a Jin, and Jins are the other half of Shanghai.

There is some crossover. One of the Jins is Jin Zixuan, who is married to Jiang Yanli, whose brother is Jiang Cheng, who is very good friends with Nie Huaisang, for reasons unknown. Lan Zhan cannot understand why anyone would ever be friends with Jiang Cheng. Lan Zhan hates Jinag Cheng in a very reasonable and healthy way.

Lan Zhan is not talking to anyone at the party. Lan Zhan never talks to anyone at parties. He doesn’t like talking. He doesn't like parties. He’s only here because he loves Lan Xichen in a very unreasonable and unhealthy way, which causes Lan Zhan to make himself desperately uncomfortable because he likes to please his brother.

Lan Zhan is standing next to Jin Zixuan because Jin Zixuan is inoffensive and makes polite, uninteresting conversation. Lan Zhan finds it inoffensive because Lan Zhan himself is also uninteresting.

Once, long ago, Lan Zhan had thought that he might be interesting. He had almost done something inconceivably rash that would have made him fascinating, actually. In fact, he had almost done several inconceivably rash things that would have changed the entire course of his life and would certainly have made Lan Xichen worry less about whether Lan Zhan was socializing. Instead, Lan Xichen would have worried about other things. Lan Qiren would have also worried about those things. Lan Zhan would have also worried. He had been very worried at the time, afraid of the inconceivably rash things that he might do.

He hadn’t done any of them, though, and this is why he’s standing next to Jin Zixuan, who is having a deeply uninspired conversation with his cousin about a bathroom renovation.

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan gives a quarter turn toward the owner of the voice, who is of medium height and has a pretty face. The pretty face has large eyes and a mouth with sharp, up-turned corners. Lan Zhan remembers the mouth from somewhere, vaguely.

“Lan Zhan,” says the vaguely memorable mouth. “So good to see you!” A hand reaches for Lan Zhan’s elbow, and Lan Zhan carefully moves his arm away. The mouth smiles. “Ahhh, you don’t remember me?” The hand is back, settling comfortably on Lan Zhan’s chest, over Lan Zhan’s very sensible shirt.

Lan Zhan looks down at the hand and thinks about how easy wrists are to break, but the hand doesn’t move, and the voice, when it speaks, laughs.

“Fire Fire,” says the voice. Fire Fire is the name of a club that Lan Zhan has frequented a number of times. “A few months ago. We had a very good time.”

Lan Zhan looks up and realizes the mouth is one that he has fucked.

According to Lan Xichen’s inexplicable rubric, fucking people does not count as socializing. Lan Zhan feels this is unfair, as fucking people involves being with people, and being with people is the general definition of socializing. Lan Zhan does not enjoy being with people, but he does enjoy fucking people. Fucking people does not require him to speak. Fucking people does not require him to be interesting. Fucking people requires him to fuck, and Lan Zhan is good at fucking. He excels at it.

Lan Zhan had exceled at fucking this mouth and the person attached to it, if “a very good time” is any indication. Lan Zhan remembers this fuck. It was good. After a moment, he remembers more—noticing the mouth at Fire Fire, kissing it, bringing the body attached to it home to his apartment, fucking that body against a kitchen counter, then later in his bed, once more the next morning. The mouth had asked whether the man could see him again. In response, Lan Zhan had asked whether the man needed money for the Didi so he would leave Lan Zhan’s apartment. “Mo Xuanyu,” says Lan Zhan.

The hand on Lan Zhan’s chest lightly slaps said chest. “So, you do remember,” the voice says, then the hand begins to slowly move down Lan Zhan’s chest. The person attached to the hand, Mo Xuanyu, leans in toward Lan Zhan’s ear. “And I remember this,” Mo Xuanyu adds, the hand brushing the front of Lan Zhan’s very sensible slacks.

For a moment, Lan Zhan considers fucking Mo Xuanyu again. Lan Zhan hates this party. He hates the people here. He hates the music and the talking and the noise. He hates the way the air feels, the way it clings to his skin with the breath of people and their scents and their sweat. He wants to leave, and if he leaves with Mo Xuanyu, he can fuck all of that hate into Mo Xuanyu’s body, and then maybe Lan Zhan won’t have to think about times when he might have been interesting. He’ll be empty inside, a shell. He’ll shower and then be a clean, empty shell, like something on a beach, something so scoured and lifeless even Lan Xichen would agree that it shouldn’t have to go to parties. Lan Zhan can just exist, clean and empty, indistinguishable from a million other uninteresting shells on the beach.

The problem with fucking Mo Xuanyu is that Mo Xuanyu is at this party, which means he is either a Jin or knows Nie Huaisang, or both. This is a problem because if either of these things is true, Lan Zhan may have to see Mo Xuanyu again, and Lan Zhan doesn’t like seeing people that he’s fucked a second time. Things happen on the second time, like now. People pretend they know him. People touch him. People put their hands on his slacks as though they’re allowed to do so and whisper in Lan Zhan’s ear as though he cares what they have to say.

“How do you know Nie Huaisang?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Who?” Mo Xuanyu’s hand is still on Lan Zhan’s slacks.

“Why are you here?” Lan Zhan asks next.

“Oh.” Mo Xuanyu looks around vaguely. “That guy is my half-brother, apparently.”

Lan Zhan looks in the direction Mo Xuanyu looked. “That guy” is Jin Zixuan. Mo Xuanyu is a Jin. Lan Zhan turns back to Mo Xuanyu. “No,” says Lan Zhan.

“No?” Mo Xuanyu’s brows go up.

“I’m not interested,” Lan Zhan says.

“Oh my God,” says a new voice. “It’s Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan! Hey, Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan!”

Someone is rushing toward Lan Zhan, and Lan Zhan knows who it is. He knows that voice, and then a body squeezes between two other bodies and bursts into being beside him, and Lan Zhan knows the body, and Lan Zhan hasn’t seen it or heard it in thirteen years, but he knows it, and the whole world stops.

Above his big red smile, Wei Ying’s eyes are brighter even than Lan Zhan’s memories. Then the eyes drop to Mo Xuanyu’s hand, still on Lan Zhan’s pants, and the smile falters. Then it plasters itself back, like a piece of paper smeared with glue slapped across Wei Ying’s lips, and Wei Ying’s eyes meet Lan Zhan’s again, laughing. “Whoa, hey,” Wei Ying’s voice says, also laughing. “Is this guy bothering you?”

Lan Zhan’s mouth won’t open. Meanwhile, he can feel his eyes are open too wide.

“What? No,” says Mo Xuanyu, hand removing itself from Lan Zhan’s pants in a startled gesture.

“Good,” Wei Ying says, far too brightly, “because this is my old friend Lan Zhan; he doesn’t like to be touched.” Then Wei Ying shoulders himself directly in between Lan Zhan and Mo Xuanyu and touches Lan Zhan all over, one hand sliding along Lan Zhan’s waist, the other gripping Lan Zhan’s shoulder and turning him away. “We haven’t seen each other in ages,” Wei Ying adds, over his shoulder to Mo Xuanyu. “We have so much catching up to do.” Then he propels Lan Zhan away, still touching him all over, his body against Lan Zhan’s.

Lan Zhan goes where directed.

Mo Xuanyu falls away. Everyone else falls away, a meaningless blur.

“What, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying goes on, no longer propelling him away, “not even a hello? Don’t tell me you still dislike me, after all this time?”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, not of his own volition.

Wei Ying brightens. He should not be able to. He is already the brightest thing in existence. “You remember me!”

This is the single stupidest comment that Lan Zhan has ever heard. He wants to tell Wei Ying so, but his brain is not working.

“How are you, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying goes on. “Did you miss me?”

How does Wei Ying still look like this, after all this time? How does he still talk like this? How does he still make Lan Zhan feel this way? The initial shock should be over by now, because Lan Zhan doesn’t even know this person. He doesn’t know this person. Thirteen years have passed. He doesn’t know this person. Lan Zhan still wants him. That makes no sense. Wei Ying is even more beautiful than he used to be. His body is more compelling. His presence is more magnetic. Lan Zhan wants to sink inside of him and cease to exist. He wants to cease to exist. He wants him. That makes no sense.

“I missed you,” Wei Ying goes on. “Can you believe it? All those times you told me to follow the rules, to act properly.”

Lan Zhan’s heart is beating too hard.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “Lan Zhan. Not even a word for me?”

Lan Zhan can’t think.

“Hey.” Wei Ying, who is still standing close to him, who still has his hands all over him, stirs. “Hey, Lan Zhan. Is this . . .?” He does not finish the question. His hands loosen on Lan Zhan’s body. “It’s been a while,” he adds. “I’m happy to see you. Really.” Then he smiles.

Lan Zhan’s heart stops beating entirely.

“You know,” Wei Ying says, stirring again. His hands slide off Lan Zhan, then lock behind his back. This smile is small, not the kind that breaks his face, the kind that makes him look young, younger than thirteen years ago, a little child.

Lan Zhan wants to eat this smile.

“All those times, when I misbehaved . . .” Wei Ying looks down.

He almost looks chagrined. Wei Ying never looked chagrined before, thirteen years ago. Had he? Lan Zhan can’t remember; he can’t get distracted; he has to put thoughts of Wei Ying’s expression away and examine them later, because now Wei Ying looks up at him again with a new expression, and Lan Zhan is hungry for it, starving. He is starving. He’s been starving. Thirteen years.

“All those times, I wasn’t trying to make you mad on purpose, if you can believe it,” Wei Ying says.

That smile.

“Did you know, Lan Zhan? All those times! I really just wanted to be your friend. Actually, I really wanted to impress you. I just . . . Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying moves closer again. So close, but his hands are still behind his back. “Lan Zhan,” he says again, like a secret. “I just thought you were neat.”

Wei Ying, Lan Zhan realizes, is a little drunk.

“Are you still neat?” Wei Ying straightens. He’d been leaning in. “I bet you are. Look at you.” Wei Ying looks at Lan Zhan, the top of Lan Zhan’s head, all the way down to Lan Zhan’s sensible shoes, then slowly dragging back up.

Lan Zhan requires a distraction, so he says, “Define neat.”

Wei Ying bursts out laughing.

He is too close, and the laughter is too loud. It is unpleasant. Lan Zhan does not step away. The jangling discomfort of it reminds him of a time when he was almost interesting.

“Did you think I was neat?” Wei Ying is suddenly gleeful, touching Lan Zhan again, clapping him on the back, crowding in close. “You didn’t, though. You thought I was a fuck up. Do you still think I’m a fuck up?” His hair has gotten long. It’s swept up behind his head somehow. It’s messy.

Lan Zhan’s mouth is dry.

“You can say it. Lan Zhan. Say, ‘Wei Ying, you’re a fuck up.’ I want to hear it. Just like old times! Except you didn’t say quite those words, did you? You were such a prude. Lan Zhan. I want to hear you say ‘fuck.’”

“Fuck,” says Lan Zhan. It’s what he feels.

Wei Ying laughs again. He throws his head back and laughs, then collapses into huffs against Lan Zhan’s collarbone, his shoulder. “Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, did you hear what you just said? You said ‘fuck.’”

“Yes.” Lan Zhan is holding very still.

“You know,” says Wei Ying, who is suddenly interested in one of the buttons on Lan Zhan’s button-down white shirt. “I’ve been back a while now.”

“How long?” Lan Zhan asks without realizing he is going to speak.

“Two months,” says Wei Ying, still playing with Lan Zhan’s buttons.

“Where were you?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” Wei Ying huffs. “My point is, I’ve been here long enough to hear some very interesting things about you, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan looks down at Wei Ying’s fingers, still playing with the buttons. Lan Zhan’s whole body is on fire. He does not care.

“Some very interesting things!” Wei Ying pulls away from Lan Zhan’s neck so that he can arch his brows at Lan Zhan. “Don’t you want to know what things?”

“Yes.” Lan Zhan wants anything that Wei Ying will give him.

Wei Ying laughs. He blushes. He looks down at his own hand, playing with the button. “Haha, well, it’s kind of a dirty rumor; I’m sure it isn’t true, not the great Hanguang-Jun.” This is an old nickname. Lan Zhan has not heard it in thirteen years. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes.”

“Hm. Well.” Wei Ying stops fiddling with the button and smooths his hand over the front of Lan Zhan’s shirt, frowning at the wrinkles in it. Then his eyes lift to Lan Zhan’s. “I’ve just heard,” Wei Ying says seriously, “that that’s not the only time you’ve said ‘fuck.’”

This is so ridiculous that Lan Zhan has nothing to say to it.

“In fact,” Wei Ying goes on, smoothing his hand down the front of Lan Zhan’s shirt again, “I’ve heard you say it rather a lot. Or, maybe not say it.” Wei Ying leans in again. “I’ve heard you do it. A lot. Fuck, I mean. I’ve heard you go to clubs. And fuck. Isn’t that interesting?”

Lan Xichen knows that Lan Zhan goes to clubs and picks up men and takes them home and fucks them. Lan Zhan doesn’t like to think about it, but he knows Lan Xichen knows, because they had that whole argument about whether fucking counted as socializing. And if Lan Xichen knows, Lan Xichen’s boyfriends know, not because Lan Xichen would share private information about his brother but because Meng Yao is sneaky and finds things out. And if the boyfriends know, Shanghai knows.

So, Lan Zhan has a reputation. He goes to clubs and fucks. He does not do it a lot, but he does do it. He knows it is perhaps the only interesting thing about him. That Wei Ying has heard this is not a surprise.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying pulls back. He sounds like people do when they get punched in the gut. Winded. A little sick. “Did you hear what I said, Lan Zhan? People say you’re a player. They say you don’t even date. They say you sleep with people and—” He breaks off. Then he puts on another smile. “Isn’t it funny, Lan Zhan?”

“No.”

“But . . .” Wei Ying wets his lips. Then his eyes widen. “That man you were with!” He hits Lan Zhan on the chest. “Did he think you were gay? Did he think you were going to hook up? With him? Because he’s heard you—you what, you go out and pull, or—whatever?”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan.

“But why would he think . . .” Wei Ying stops and bites his lower lip. “You’re strangely blasé about this, Lan Zhan. No gossip at Cloud Recesses! Aren’t all these rumors disturbing?”

“They are not rumors.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes. He sways toward Lan Zhan, as though his legs will not hold him up. “Lan Zhan,” he mutters again, “warn a man before you . . . ” Then Wei Ying hits him on the chest again. “Lan Zhan! Were you going to hook up with him? Did I—oh my God, Lan Zhan. Did I interrupt a—a—a tryst?”

Lan Zhan looks at him. Wei Ying is blushing again. “No,” says Lan Zhan. Then he adds, “Not my type.”

Wei Ying’s face goes strangely blank. He blinks. Then he blinks again. “Lan Zhan,” he says finally, his voice light. “What’s your type?”

Wei Ying knows. He must know. He cannot stand there and ask that, looking so innocent, so utterly blank and innocent, blinking like that, clueless. He must know, but how can he, after all this time? How can he now know what he had never known, not even once, except that hindsight makes things clear. Age makes things clear.

“Ah,” Wei Ying says, sounding restless. He takes Lan Zhan’s arm, then gestures vaguely off to the left with his other hand. “What about that one?”

Lan Zhan looks where Wei Ying gestured. Some people are talking, three of them. Lan Zhan doesn’t know them.

“Is that one your type?” asks Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan looks at him again. “Which one?”

Wei Ying blushes. He tugs on Lan Zhan’s sleeve. “Ah,” he says, “the—the taller one.”

Lan Zhan looks back at the people. The taller one presents male. He is good-looking.

Lan Zhan had a type five minutes ago. The type was Mo Xuanyu—attractive, not serious, eager. Submissive. Lan Zhan no longer has a type. A type requires more than one individual, a set of shared characteristics, and Wei Ying is sui generis. Lan Zhan turns back. “No.”

“Hmph. Okay.” Wei Ying looks at the three people again. “What about the one in the blue dress?”

Lan Zhan does not need to look again to know that the person in the blue dress presents as female. “No,” he says again.

“Why not?”

“She’s a woman.”

Wei Ying’s face goes blank again. He looks very innocent like this. He looks over at the three people again, as though he really thinks anyone else on Earth could interest Lan Zhan in this moment.

Lan Zhan keeps looking at Wei Ying.

When Wei Ying turns back, he asks, “Well, what about the tall one, then? Why isn’t he your type? Too tall? You know, Lan Zhan, I think he’s very good-looking. I think you should consider it. I think if you asked, he’d probably say yes.”

“Why?”

Wei Ying, who is still looking very innocent, now looks innocent and startled. “I mean . . .” His eyes rove over Lan Zhan’s body again. He’s being very obvious, but he does not appear to know he’s being obvious. Was he always this way? He was. Clueless. He laughs. “Well, you never know if you don’t try, Lan Zhan. I don’t know! I just have this feeling that you’ll succeed.” His voice lowers. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying’s jaw actually drops a little, parting his lips. Lan Zhan can’t help looking at it. He wants it. He wants to put his dick in it. He’s wanted to put his dick in it for years.

Lan Zhan knows that he could walk over to the tall man talking to the woman in the blue dress and proposition him and have a high likelihood of success. He’s always had a high rate of success propositioning people. It’s because he is very good-looking, straightforward about his desires, and good at noticing when people want his cock. It’s also because they do not know he is uninteresting.

“That’s very . . .” Wei Ying licks his lips, and Lan Zhan stares at his tongue. “That’s very arrogant of you, Lan Zhan. What if he’s married? What if he’s straight?”

“He would not be straight,” said Lan Zhan, “if he went home with me.”

Wei Ying swallows. Hard.

Lan Zhan is good at noticing when people want his cock. “Do you want to know my type?” he asks Wei Ying.

“Um, well . . .” Wei Ying licks his lips again. He looks overheated. Possibly the alcohol is catching up to him. “You know, this is—it’s just what I’ve heard. What you’ve been up to. While I was—away. I’m just—I’m only showing an interest in what you’ve been doing. We were friends, weren’t we? Can’t a friend be curious?”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan. “Shall I show you?”

“Show me?” Wei Ying gives him another clueless expression.

“At my apartment,” Lan Zhan further clarifies.

Wei Ying swallows again. His eyes get even bigger. “Ahhh . . .” He says, uncertain, skeptical. “Your apartment?”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan. “I would take you there. I would show you the type of man I like to fuck.”

Wei Ying looks around for a moment, rather wildly, as though for help. “Ah, Lan Zhan . . .” he says at last. He wets his lips again. Then he makes himself laugh. “Lan Zhan! Is that—haha, you can’t joke around like this!” He hits Lan Zhan on the arm. “Someone might take you seriously! It’s been a while, you know! Warn someone that you’ve developed a sense of humor.”

“I haven’t,” says Lan Zhan.

“Haven’t what?”

“Developed a sense of humor.”

“But that’s funny, Lan Zhan. That’s something we call deadpan. Haven’t you heard of it?”

Lan Zhan is well aware that for Wei Ying, this started as a joke. Wei Ying brought up the rumors with an intent to irk him just like Wei Ying always used to do. Thirteen years have gone by, and Wei Ying had wanted to treat him exactly as he once had, as though to prove no time has passed at all, shocking and offending Lan Zhan and then laughing about it.

Lan Zhan does not care. “I’m serious.”

Wei Ying laughs again. Then he stops. “I—how serious, Lan Zhan? I’m a little worried about how far you’re willing to take this joke.”

“To my apartment.” Lan Zhan turns away and walks. Then he stops and turns back. “Are you coming?”

“I . . .” Wei Ying looks lost, which makes him look young. It really is as if no time has passed at all. He swallows. “I don’t . . .”

“You don’t?” Wei Ying certainly does, but Lan Zhan would never exert pressure. He’s uninterested in it.

Wei Ying is looking him over again. “Sure,” he says suddenly. “Why not?” Then he begins to walk, his stride confident, his hands behind his back, careless.

Lan Zhan catches up.

Wei Ying glances over. “Is this how you do it in clubs?” he wants to know.

Lan Zhan glances back. The fact that they might fuck is not something Lan Zhan can consider. The fact that Wei Ying might be coming home with him is also not something Lan Zhan can consider. The fact that Wei Ying is here beside him, in the same city, at the same time, talking to him, is not something Lan Zhan can even fully comprehend. He has forgotten the question.

Wei Ying is speaking. “You just say, ‘I’ll show you how I fuck,’ and they say yes?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, weaving around a group of people. They are now close to the exit.

“Obviously,” Wei Ying is muttering. “Who wouldn’t? I just meant . . .”

Lan Zhan pushes open the door then stands, holding it open for Wei Ying. Nie Huaisang had rented a villa for his birthday. “What?” asks Lan Zhan.

“Nothing,” Wei Ying says quickly, striding through the door. “I didn’t mean anything! Only, it’s strange! Seeing you again, after all this time—don’t you think it’s strange?”

They are walking on a gravel path. The night air is cool. Wei Ying is coming home with him. “You know Nie Huaisang’s brother and my brother are close,” says Lan Zhan. If Wei Ying had thought about it at all, he might have guessed Lan Zhan could be here. It is obvious that Wei Ying had not thought about it.

“Not that,” Wei Ying says, vaguely waving a hand. “I meant, you . . . I’m going to see your apartment! That is, if you’re not going to murder me.” Wei Ying looks at him, pleasantly. “Are you going to murder me, Lan Zhan?”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Lan Zhan says, just in case Wei Ying has misunderstood any of this.

For a moment, Wei Ying looks absolutely wild-eyed, and then he bursts out laughing. “That’s what I meant, Lan Zhan! That’s what I’m saying; it’s strange! It’s just . . . ah, Lan Zhan. The things you say.” He chuckles some more, on and off. At one point he even has to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes.

Wei Ying, Lan Zhan belatedly realizes, still thinks this is some kind of joke.

*

By the time they reach Lan Zhan’s car, Wei Ying has fallen silent. This is a state that Lan Zhan doesn’t recognize. The Wei Ying of his memory is always making noise, but even in the past he must have had his periods of silence. He could be extremely studious, when he wanted to be, at the conservatory.

Unlocking the car, Lan Zhan opens the door for him. Wei Ying, blushing again, does not look at him or say anything as he gets into the car, a worrying sign. When Lan Zhan gets into the car, Wei Ying remains silent. That Wei Ying is beginning to regret calling Lan Zhan’s bluff is the most likely explanation.

Lan Zhan starts the car, pulls out of the drive, then says, “Where have you been?”

“Hm?” Wei Ying says absently.

“You were gone,” says Lan Zhan, shifting the gear, “a long time.”

“Ahh, you know, ‘without opening a door, you can open your heart to the world,’ Lan Zhan.”

“What did you do?”

“Oh, everything. Why not? You know, Lan Zhan, ‘the noble-minded man is not a vessel.’ Let’s talk about you. What have you been doing? Besides all this clubbing?”

Lan Zhan can’t think of anything he does. He has a small car. He likes to feel the road under him, the engine in front of him. The night sky is above them, and Wei Ying is beside him. Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan realizes that he’s getting hard.

There is no direct stimulus, other than the presence of Wei Ying. The feeling of him, a warmth, a sound, a smell, a change in the air, there in the car, the feeling of Wei Ying. Wei Ying. Lan Zhan’s chest is tight.

“You work at Cloud Recesses?” Wei Ying says encouragingly.

Lan Zhan nods. He makes a sound of assent.

“Do you teach?”

Lan Zhan shakes his head.

“That’s too bad,” says Wei Ying. “I always thought you would have been a good teacher.”

Lan Zhan, startled, glances at Wei Ying.

“What?” Wei Ying demands. “You always explained things in very concise ways, Lan Zhan. It would have been a relief compared to some music instructors.” He means Lan Qiren. “I admire it,” he goes on. “You always said things so simply, but they were correct and true. Don’t you think?”

Lan Zhan has to change the gear, because he is turning.

“Besides, you were the best,” Wei Ying goes on. “The best musician I knew, anyway. And composer! People would have been grateful to learn from you.”

Lan Zhan can feel heat crawling under his skin.

“Do you still play?” Wei Ying asks.

Lan Zhan shakes his head. He has not played the guqin for twelve years.

“Why not?”

“Do you?” Lan Zhan asks, changing gears for another turn.

“Oh.” Wei Ying laughs. “A little. Here and there. Not the flute, though—not really.”

“EDM?”

“You remember!” Wei Ying sounds delighted, and Lan Zhan feels it like a wound.

How could Wei Ying think that Lan Zhan could forget?

Wei Ying’s electronic composition for his penultimate assignment in their summer courses at Cloud Recesses Center for the Arts had resulted in Wei Ying’s expulsion. He had been repeatedly reprimanded for his electronic compositions, but he had kept making them, declaring that MIDI was the future of music. At university, Wei Ying had spent hours expounding on how synthesizer parameters and different types of specialized music sequencers could push the boundaries of musical composition. Lan Zhan had not contributed to the conversation, but he had listened. He had found value in what Wei Ying had said. It had expanded Lan Zhan’s understanding of music and what music could be.

Wei Ying is still talking. “Yeah, you can do a lot of it digitally, now, so you don’t have to have as much equipment as you did when we were in school; they’ve got tracker software you can just run on a standard OS. There’s a bunch of stuff you can do live that you couldn’t do before, you know, just by writing code . . .” He trails off.

“Such as?”

“Ah, well . . .” Wei Ying sounds reluctant. Then suddenly he says, “You can alter a composition in real-time, right? Like, you can just change the scale, just shift all the notes, but if you’re doing harmonies, you can’t just give it a new mode. But you can do it automatically with an algorithm; like, you just write code that takes a chord and shift the notes that don’t fit to the closest pitch that does.”

“What about non-chord tones?”

“Well, sure!” Wei Ying is enthusiastic now. “You have to do something different for that. And sometimes you’d want to reharmonize from a triad to a five-note chord, and the new chord progressions in the harmonies can interfere with the melody, et cetera, but the point is, you can keep iterating the algorithm as you go, especially if you’re doing a lot of cycling motifs, arpeggios, things like that.”

“House ambient,” Lan Zhan guesses, because Wei Ying used to mention this is a music style that uses a lot of cycling motifs.

“Oof, don’t say things like that, Lan Zhan; you get me so turned on,” and Lan Zhan’s heart skips, and he’s already hard but gets harder still, and Wei Ying goes on, “but anyway, house, yeah, but I don’t know; it’s a little acid; there’s some breakbeat? IDM, but no one likes that term. Ahh, what’s with labels, anyway. Have you heard of algorave?”

“Tell me.” Lan Zhan is grateful they still have ten minutes left of the drive. He doesn’t want it to end, even if he really does get to fuck Wei Ying at the end of it. If Lan Zhan wants to get off, he can get off on Wei Ying saying “chord progressions” and “cycling arpeggios.” He knows he can. He probably had at one point, as a teenager, touching himself and thinking of Wei Ying discussing music theory and coming, back when Lan Zhan had almost been interesting.

“So, it’s like DJing,” says Wei Ying, “but unless you’re a snob, it’s music improv, or even creation; you use a piece and you write an algorithm, but you keep iterating it live, and lots of times they put the code up on the screen, so people dancing can see the code. You know how the UK wanted to outlaw raves in like, the nineties, and they defined rave music as “repetitive beats”? Algorave is “repetitive conditionals”—funny, right? Also, true.”

“You do this?” Lan Zhan is looking at the road. “Algorave?”

“A little. Here. Does this have wireless? Of course it does.” Wei Ying fiddles with the car stereo and takes out his phone. “This is an event I did a little while ago; it’s not very . . . pfft.” Then Wei Ying is doing something on his phone, and after a moment, the car fills with a soft, low tone.

The tone changes, then changes again. It has some sort of ringing associated with it, like an echo. There is a melody, which loops twice, then a key change, and the melody loops again, then loops with notes omitted, then the omitted notes play, revealing another melody. This is an ancient musical technique, combining melodies to create a composite, but the mixing textures allow variation of each melody as well as the ways in which they’re integrated. The result is something smooth, evolving, diaphanous for some strains then almost voluptuous in others. Lan Zhan would like to tear it apart.

He would like to dissect it and discover each of those melodies, the way they are varied, the way they are layered, the way they create contrapuntal textures without creating harmony. The music is not even beautiful—not quite. It is a study of physics, of mathematics, of music history and the pedagogy of counterpoint. Lan Zhan’s body aches. He is about to break into a sweat. He almost feels a little sick.

“It’s good,” he says.

“I wasn’t quite going for metric ambiguity,” says Wei Ying.

He means that the downbeat is ambiguous. Each loop causes one to reinterpret where the downbeat falls. It’s fascinating. “I would not change it.”

“And you call yourself a classicist!”

Lan Zhan does not call himself a classicist anymore. He does not call himself anything.

“Want to hear something actually good?” The music cuts off as Wei Ying searches on his phone. “It’s a little older, but it’s something I—it’s not very well known, but it should’ve been. It’s—well. It’s one of the best out there.”

The strum a guqin fills the car, and Lan Zhan almost chokes. Then the next note plays, and the player is Lan Zhan. The notes were written by Lan Zhan. The concert was twelve years ago, his last one. The piece is older than that. He’d written it for Wei Ying, an homage to Wei Ying’s style, his ambient house, avant-garde, acoustoelectric style, played on a traditional instrument.

Wei Ying had gone before Lan Zhan had ever had the courage to share it. He had never told him about it. Wei Ying must have found it on the internet. He could not have known it was meant for him.

It was meant to be a duet.

“You always were the best,” says Wei Ying. “But this was another level. I heard this, and I thought, ‘I know that guy!’ It was so . . . I was sure you were going to be famous. Like, Du Yun famous. Or, I don’t even know, that guy, Philip Glass. Did you really stop? I looked for more, you know. I tried to follow your career, but there—I never found anything. After this.”

Lan Zhan’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “This was all I had.”

“Really? You had so many ideas in school.”

Without Wei Ying there as inspiration, Lan Zhan had not had any ideas at all. He had tried to pursue the type of music he had wanted to write. It had ended up atonal, discordant, acceptable in some circles, but not the music he wanted to create. He’d tried the opposite as well. Everything traditional or Western classical felt almost sickly sweet, too pat, too perfect. Nothing fit. He’d lost an edge, an insight into a world in which music was still alive, evolving, becoming new under the influence of technology. Under the influence of Wei Ying.

The piece is three and a half minutes long. They listen to the rest without speaking.

Wei Ying shifts in the passenger seat, getting more comfortable. He puts his knees up on the dashboard. He’s looking down at his phone.

The concert had been filmed. It’s probably still in the Cloud Recesses Center for the Arts video archive. Lan Zhan does not know of another recording of this song. Unless Wei Ying ripped the track from the video, he is likely playing the video, which means that since he is looking at his phone, he is watching Lan Zhan from twelve years ago, Lan Zhan after Wei Ying left, Lan Zhan whose heart was broken, whose life was over.

Wei Ying could not have known. They hadn’t even really been friends.

The music ends. Lan Zhan’s knuckles are still white on the steering wheel. Wei Ying shifts again, sitting up. “I still write,” he says. “The algorave stuff isn’t quite the same as composing—I mean, I wrote those initial tracks for the one I played you, but the rest isn’t really writing. And when I say ‘write,’ I mean I mess around with shit and the MIDI translates, and you know—with my kind of stuff, there’s a lot of sampling. Not all of it’s original. There’s this one piece—ah, do you want to hear it? I didn’t get the artist’s permission, so I’ve never performed it or anything. I haven’t really shared it much at all! It’s kind of old.”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan.

“Okay, just let me . . .” Wei Ying looks at his phone. Then he says, “I promise, Lan Zhan. I never recorded this for anyone but me.”

The sound of falling rain fills the car. Then something percussive joins in, a slow chugging sound, like a train. Next, a dizi, then a xiao, then a guanzi, blending together in impossible ways that flow up, then down in sad waves, a chamber music trio trudging through the rain. Then, the strum of a guqin, and—

The player is Lan Zhan. The notes were written by Lan Zhan. This is the duet.

Not the duet Lan Zhan had written. Not a duet Lan Zhan could have written. This is a duet that Wei Ying had made of that last concert. Wei Ying had sampled it, then remixed it.

Lan Zhan thinks he might burst into tears.

“I just liked it so much,” Wei Ying says earnestly.

Lan Zhan makes the final turn. “This is my building,” he says, then parks the car. He takes the key out of the ignition. The short range wireless connection to the car’s stereo cuts off, and Wei Ying blinks at him. Then he hastily clicks the sound off on his phone and puts it away.

He’s getting out of the car when Lan Zhan comes around to the other side. Wei Ying looks at him, worried, then gets out. Lan Zhan closes the car door behind him. Then he turns and walks toward the building.

Wei Ying follows.

*

In the building, they wait in front of the elevator. Wei Ying hasn’t spoken again. He still looks worried. The elevator doors open. They go inside.

Lan Zhan pushes Wei Ying against the back wall of the elevator.

“Lan Zhan, what—”

Lan Zhan kisses him. He wants to devour him. He doesn’t devour him. He kisses Wei Ying softly, tasting Wei Ying’s lips. Wei Ying tastes like baijiu. He makes a little gasping sound, opening his mouth, and Lan Zhan sinks in.

It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever had. It’s Wei Ying. His mouth is hot and soft and wet, and Lan Zhan licks it. Wei Ying whimpers. Lan Zhan goes deeper, enveloping him, kissing him soft and hot and slow and deep, just like he always wanted to. Just like Wei Ying should be kissed.

The elevator dings. Lan Zhan pulls away.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying gasps. His mouth is kissed and wet and red. He looks lost.

“Come,” Lan Zhan says. He takes Wei Ying by the wrist and leads him out of the elevator, down the short hall to the door to his apartment. Letting Wei Ying go, Lan Zhan opens the door, walking through the entryway, holding the door open for Wei Ying.

Wei Ying’s lips are parted. He looks dumbfounded, but he steps through the entryway. Lan Zhan closes the door behind him. Then he pushes Wei Ying against the door and kisses him again.

Wei Ying kisses back this time. He is a very active kisser. He uses a lot of tongue and teeth. It’s not polite.

Lan Zhan’s cock is heavy and full and hard. He doesn’t want to use it yet. He wants to know every centimeter of Wei Ying’s skin, to claim it with mouth and tongue and hands. He wants to make Wei Ying cry, needy for him, mindless. He wants to make Wei Ying throb with bliss, euphoric. Lan Zhan wants to satisfy Wei Ying, satisfy him so hard he’ll never want another. He’ll never leave again.

Lan Zhan pulls away.

“Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying grabs him, trying to pull him in for another messy kiss.

Lan Zhan takes Wei Ying’s hands, crosses them at the wrists, then puts them over Wei Ying’s head. Lan Zhan holds them against the door, pinned.

Wei Ying makes a loud sound. He tries to get free. Lan Zhan holds him harder, and Wei Ying moans louder. He thrashes against the door. “Lan Zhan,” he says breathlessly. “Lan Zhan. Please.” His hips are rolling. He’s already mindless. Already an animal, wanting it.

Lan Zhan almost doesn’t believe it, that Wei Ying can be like this, already. “I’ve barely touched you,” Lan Zhan whispers.

“Oh my God.” Wei Ying’s hips buck against the door. Then he tries to kiss him, the line of his neck arching.

“Don’t bite,” Lan Zhan says, then moves his mouth closer for the kiss.

Wei Ying bites his mouth immediately.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan holds Wei Ying’s wrists pinned with one hand, then uses his other hand to hold Wei Ying’s throat, forcing him to remain still. Wei Ying makes another sound.

He’s too loud. He’s too much. Wei Ying has always been too loud and too much. He makes Lan Zhan’s cock throb, and he wants to come. He wants to come in him, and on him, all over him. Lan Zhan wants to do so much to him, and Lan Zhan has to hold Wei Ying’s throat just to get him to stop. Slow down. Give Lan Zhan time to figure out what to do first.

“Yes,” Wei Ying pants. “Lan Zhan, yes, please, yes.”

Lan Zhan takes a breath. His hand moves up to Wei Ying’s jaw, tilting it up to bare Wei Ying’s throat. Lan Zhan leans in to kiss it. Wei Ying’s throat. Lan Zhan gets to kiss it. His hand moves along Wei Ying’s jaw to his ear, his hair. Lan Zhan holds onto it and keeps his mouth on Wei Ying’s throat.

Wei Ying won’t stop talking. “Yes, like that, you can—you can mark me, Lan Zhan. You can bruise me. You can—oh. Oh.”

Lan Zhan is lightly scraping his teeth over Wei Ying’s jugular, and Wei Ying is convulsing.

“Yes, don’t stop; Lan Zhan, do it to me.”

Lan Zhan needs to press his mouth harder into Wei Ying’s skin. He needs Wei Ying’s skin in his mouth. He needs to break the blood vessels beneath and make them bleed, so Wei Ying’s skin will show the contusion. He does it, his mouth on Wei Ying’s throat.

Wei Ying is still talking. “Do it to me, Lan Zhan; you can do it harder. Please just . . .” He makes a whining sound. “Just—just fuck me up. You can fuck me, Lan Zhan; isn’t that what we were going to—don’t you want to fuck me?” He’s wild. He’s trying to free his hands. “Lan Zhan, aren’t you going to fuck me; aren’t I your type?”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s lips are against the delicate skin of Wei Ying’s neck. “Be patient.”

“Patient?” Wei Ying tries to jerk his arms free again. Lan Zhan holds him fast. “What is that?” Wei Ying demands. “A kink of yours?”

Wei Ying struggles. Lan Zhan kisses him. He kisses his jaw, his neck, the long tendon extending to his shoulder. Wei Ying was always wiry, but he’s lost a softness he used to have. Instead, he’s added muscle, still lean, but there’s meat on his bones. Lan Zhan wants it. He wants all of it. Wei Ying’s shirt is in the way.

The current situation is not sustainable. Wei Ying keeps trying to get free. Lan Zhan lets Wei Ying’s wrists go, grabbing the hem of Wei Ying’s shirt, yanking it over Wei Ying’s head. “Yes,” Wei Ying is saying, “fuck, yes.” He tries to lift his arms to get the shirt off. Lan Zhan pushes them down, pulling the shirt over the back of Wei Ying’s head, trapping Wei Ying’s arms in the shirt behind him.

“Hold still,” Lan Zhan tells him, and Wei Ying’s entire body bucks. Lan Zhan needs to see Wei Ying’s chest. He needs to touch it. He’s got a hand on it, the other hand back in Wei Ying’s hair to hold him still, because Wei Ying hasn’t held still, not at all. Lan Zhan is looking at his own hand on Wei Ying’s skin, on the pectoral muscle, sweeping down.

Wei Ying’s abdominal muscles spasm. Lan Zhan feels his mouth drop open at the wonder of it, his hand on Wei Ying’s skin. There’s so much skin. Lan Zhan closes his mouth. He swallows. His mouth is dry. There’s so much skin. He wants it. Wei Ying is talking. Lan Zhan can’t really hear it all, dazed.

“Am I your type, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying is whispering. “Am I the type you like to fuck? The type you like to take home and—and—and play with? Do you play with them, Lan Zhan? Before you—you send them on their way? Do you make them—make them—” He gasps. Possibly Lan Zhan has touched a sensitive spot. The spot is the hair around Wei Ying’s left nipple. Lan Zhan traces it again. Wei Ying gasps again. “Make them do what you want, fuck how you want—”

Lan Zhan puts his mouth on the left nipple. Wei Ying cries out. Lan Zhan sucks.

“Oh.” There’s a thumping sound. Wei Ying’s head against the door. “Lan Zhan, you can’t just—I’m not even . . .” Wei Ying is struggling with the shirt, trying to get his arms out. Lan Zhan bites his nipple. He’s not gentle, and Wei Ying makes a desperate sound. A whine. Then Wei Ying’s gotten out of his shirt, finally. It drops to the floor, and Wei Ying grabs Lan Zhan’s ears. He pulls Lan Zhan in for another kiss on the mouth, more violent tongue, more gnashing of teeth.

Lan Zhan pulls away. His hands move down to Wei Ying’s jeans.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says. “Yeah, get it—” His hands reach down to try to help.

Lan Zhan brushes them aside. “Hands off.”

A whimper. A thump. Wei Ying’s head on the door again. “Lan Zhan, you can’t just—” He cuts himself off. Lan Zhan has Wei Ying’s jeans open, enough to put a hand inside. Lan Zhan’s fingertips brush over the outline of Wei Ying’s cock, over Wei Ying’s underwear.

Wei Ying’s inhalation is audible.

Lan Zhan wants to look down at his fingers, but he doesn’t. He looks at Wei Ying’s face. Wei Ying wants to look down, too. Lan Zhan’s hand is still in Wei Ying’s hair. He forces Wei Ying’s head up, forces Wei Ying to look at him.

Wei Ying’s eyes are wide with what looks like shock. He should not look so surprised. He looks like he’s never been touched before.

Lan Zhan holds Wei Ying’s eyes. His fingers slowly move over the shape of Wei Ying’s hardness. Not stroking. Just touching. Learning the proportions of it. Length. Thickness. Getting thicker.

Wei Ying’s mouth is hanging open. He still looks like he needs a cock in it.

Lan Zhan’s fingertips move down to the base of Wei Ying’s erection, still over Wei Ying’s underwear. Wei Ying finally closes his mouth. He swallows. His eyes are still so wide. That’s enough, now. Lan Zhan changes the position of his hand. He gives Wei Ying a long, firm stroke.

Wei Ying makes an undignified sound. He slumps against the door. “Lan Zhan,” he gasps, then vaguely reaches for him.

Lan Zhan pulls Wei Ying’s underwear down, freeing Wei Ying’s cock. Lan Zhan finally allows himself to look down at it. It’s thick and red. Shiny at the tip. It’s Wei Ying’s. It’s Wei Ying’s cock. Wei Ying’s cock, and Wei Ying wants him. Wei Ying is hard for him. Wei Ying’s cock is hard for him, and he gets to touch it. Lan Zhan swallows, hard. He turns away. “Condom.”

“I—what?” Wei Ying’s words gutter behind him.

“Stay put.” Lan Zhan takes off his shoes. He goes to the bedroom, the bathroom adjoining. When he goes to the club, he puts the condoms in his pocket, so that they are there in case he wants to fuck someone against a door. Lan Zhan doesn’t have condoms in his pocket. He wasn’t going to fuck anyone against a door. He hadn’t known Wei Ying would be there. Lan Zhan opens the drawer, takes out a condom. Takes out two. Then three. Then lube. Then he closes the drawer, turns, and exits the bathroom.

Wei Ying has not stayed put. He’s standing in the bedroom doorway. His shoes are off. His pants are back up. It would have been hard to walk with them down. Wei Ying is talking.

“Is this where you take other people? The people you fuck?” Lan Zhan puts two of the condoms and the lube on the small table by the bed. Wei Ying goes on. “It’s nice. Very minimalist. Did you decorate? Because it looks a lot like a hotel room. Have you ever—” Lan Zhan walks over to him. He pulls Wei Ying’s jeans and underwear down, all the way down. He gets on his knees. “Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying says, shocked.

“Close the door.” Lan Zhan lifts up one of Wei Ying’s legs and pulls the pants and underwear off Wei Ying’s foot, then takes off the sock, then puts it down. Then the other.

“You’re still wearing all your clothes,” Wei Ying complains, plucking at Lan Zhan’s collar, but he’s lifting his foot, helping. He closes the door behind him. Lan Zhan opens the foil package, takes the condom out, and places it on Wei Ying’s dick. He begins rolling down.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “Lan Zhan, are you really going to—?” He swallows. “Are you really going to just—?”

Then the condom is on. Lan Zhan puts his mouth on it. He closes his eyes and concentrates, opening his throat. Then he goes down, and down, and down, and then he has it all, inside of him, Wei Ying’s cock, in his mouth. His throat. His body. He wishes he could have it without the condom. He thinks he could come like this. Easily. He’s never come without his cock being touched. It’s Wei Ying. It would be so easy. Lan Zhan looks up.

Wei Ying has been making sounds. He looks so stricken. He’s spluttering. “Lan Zhan, you just—you just . . . how can you even—oh. Oh fuck. Fuck.”

Lan Zhan is working his throat for him. Swallowing. Time to come off. Time to come off and do a really good job with it. He sucks as he pulls off and grips the root with his hand. He swirls his tongue around the head. He goes back down, sucking, holding it in his hand, and it’s good. The weight of it is good on his tongue. The girth of it is good in his hand. The smell of it is good in his nose. Lan Zhan thinks he could spend a lifetime on his knees, giving it to Wei Ying. Wei Ying thrusts his hips.

He obviously didn’t mean to. He must know that it’s rude. Lan Zhan keeps sucking him, and Wei Ying thrusts again. He’s still talking. He hasn’t really stopped. “Lan Zhan, fuck, Lan Zhan, like that, like that, you look so good. You look so good like that, you look so—your mouth, Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, you’re perfect; look at you. Look at you, look at your mouth, on my—my cock—” He doesn’t seem to know he’s fucking into Lan Zhan’s mouth. Maybe he doesn’t care.

Lan Zhan takes his mouth off of him. “Contain yourself,” he says.

“Wh-what?” Wei Ying looks down at him blurrily, out of focus.

Lan Zhan puts his hands firmly on Wei Ying’s hips to prevent Wei Ying from thrusting. Then he goes back down on him.

Wei Ying convulses. His hips try to buck out of Lan Zhan’s grip. “S-sorry,” Wei Ying is saying. “Sorry. Fuck, Lan Zhan—Lan Zhan, please.” Then again: “Sorry, Lan Zhan.”

It’s not that Lan Zhan minds his face being fucked. He doesn’t. He rather likes it, sometimes. But Lan Zhan likes to be in control. He likes to know what’s going to happen so that when it happens, he will be able to experience it fully. His body will not experience something his mind can’t keep up with. He chooses when his face gets fucked. No one else.

“Please,” Wei Ying is begging. “Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, please.”

Wei Ying’s hips are still trying to twist in Lan Zhan’s hands. Lan Zhan gives it to him faster, harder, and Wei Ying makes a strangled sound. Then Wei Ying’s hands bury in Lan Zhan’s hair, forcing Lan Zhan down, against Wei Ying’s cock. Wei Ying doesn’t seem to know he’s doing this either. In any other case, Lan Zhan would stop. He would take his mouth off. He would tell whoever wants to make him choke on their cock to keep their hands to themselves. He wouldn’t start again until they put their hands up over their head.

Lan Zhan doesn’t want to stop. He can’t bear to. He can’t bear to make himself wait another moment. He wants to get fucked. He wants to choke. He wants to be used like a whore. He doesn’t care. He’s happy about it. He’s happy Wei Ying wants to use him. He can be of use to Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan takes more of it, takes it deeper. He keeps taking it, so that Wei Ying can ruin him and make him whole.

Wei Ying is lost in it. He thrusts his cock all the way to the back of Lan Zhan’s throat and says, “Like that, Lan Zhan, like that, take it, please, please, do it to me, please, fuck; I’m—please, I’m—I’m—” He gasps. “Lan Zhan!”

He comes, thrusting wildly. Lan Zhan can feel it, even through the condom, and Wei Ying’s thrusts are too erratic. Lan Zhan instinctively pulls away, then helps Wei Ying finish in his hand, holding Wei Ying’s dick. Wei Ying gives several short thrusts, then a long one. Finally, he brushes Lan Zhan’s hand away. Wei Ying is still speaking, somehow, but he is only saying, “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan finds this very satisfying. He stands up, then turns away. “There’s the trashcan,” he says, gesturing to the bin on the other side of the bed. His voice sounds hoarse. His throat feels raw. This is satisfying as well. He begins to walk toward the bathroom, but Wei Ying catches his hand. He tugs.

Then Wei Ying is there. Wei Ying kisses him, this time without teeth or so much tongue, but it is strangely still a clumsy kiss. Lan Zhan is surprised to learn that Wei Ying is such a bad kisser. He’s also surprised to learn that Wei Ying wants to kiss him at all, that Wei Ying is wrapping his arms around him and seems to be trying to get closer. He’s completely naked. Lan Zhan is completely dressed. Wei Ying is getting sweat on him. He’s still wearing the dirty condom.

“Get on the bed,” Lan Zhan says, pushing him gently away. “I’ll get you a washcloth.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying doesn’t sound like he’s just come. He sounds full of energy. Excited. His hands move down to Lan Zhan’s belt.

Lan Zhan bats his hands away. “You can have me,” he says, “after you’ve cleaned up.”

“Have you?” Wei Ying grins.

It’s blinding. Lan Zhan looks away.

“I haven’t even seen your bathroom yet, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, jovially. “I’ll come with you.”

Lan Zhan goes to the bathroom. Wei Ying follows. Lan Zhan has satisfied people with orgasms before. He’s satisfied many people. They’ve lain in his bed, lazy and smiling, strung out and used, boneless and blissed out. They’ve never seemed this ecstatic before, like orgasm is a new adventure they’ve only just begun, like walking into the bathroom together is a new adventure they’ve only just begun.

Lan Zhan is not sure if it was the blowjob that made Wei Ying feel this way. It wasn’t even the best blowjob Lan Zhan’s ever given. Maybe it’s the best blowjob Wei Ying has ever had. Maybe Wei Ying hasn’t had many blowjobs. Suddenly, pettily, vindictively, Lan Zhan hopes Wei Ying hasn’t had many blowjobs. He never would have thought that he would wish Wei Ying any less pleasure than he deserves. Lan Zhan just hates everyone who has ever had Wei Ying’s dick in their mouth. That’s all.

“Do you ever fuck anyone in here, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying is looking around the bathroom while Lan Zhan gets out a washcloth. “How often do you do it? Are they allowed to stay over?”

Lan Zhan turns on the tap and waits for the water to warm. “You’re allowed to stay.”

“Right, it’s just one night, might as well make the most of it!”

Lan Zhan freezes. He lifts his eyes. He can see Wei Ying in the mirror. He’s still smiling that delighted smile, and Lan Zhan realizes that this is still a joke for him. Maybe Wei Ying didn’t believe it at first, that Lan Zhan takes men back to his apartment and fucks them. He believes it now, but it’s a lark. A fling. Just one night. If Lan Zhan is lucky and gets to see him after this, Wei Ying will tease him about it. Hey, Lan Zhan, remember that one time we fucked? Lan Zhan’s holding the towel he’s gotten wet. The water is still running.

Lan Zhan’s eyes shift minutely to meet his own gaze in the mirror. Who was he fooling? No one. He knew what this was from the moment he offered. He knew. He offered it anyway. He’s going to take as much as he can get.

Reaching up, he turns off the water.

“Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan turns. He grabs Wei Ying’s dick. He pulls the dirty condom off. He can’t believe Wei Ying kept it on. It’s disgusting. He turns to put it in the trash. When he turns back, Wei Ying’s eyes are wide again and clueless. Why is he so clueless?

Lan Zhan cleans his dick for him.

Wei Ying’s breath catches. “Lan Zhan.” He sounds choked. His hand snaps down, wrapping around Lan Zhan’s wrist.

Lan Zhan stops wiping with the cloth. “Sensitive?”

Wei Ying’s eyes are still wide. They’re luminous. Lan Zhan has never seen anything so bright. He wants to look away. He can’t. “You can do it harder,” Wei Ying says, then lets him go.

Lan Zhan takes a steadying breath. Then he has to take another one. He tosses the washcloth in the sink. Wei Ying’s dick isn’t clean. Lan Zhan doesn’t care. He pushes Wei Ying square in the chest. “Get on the bed,” Lan Zhan tells him.

Wei Ying is startled. Then his eyes flash with something. Exhilaration. He smiles. “Make me,” he says, grinning.

Lan Zhan pushes him. Wei Ying staggers back, and Lan Zhan keeps pushing him, out of the bathroom, into the bedroom, toward the bed. Wei Ying struggles. It’s for show. He’s laughing about it. He still sounds elated. He likes being pushed, but when his legs hit the back of the bed, he sits down on it, legs spread, then grabs Lan Zhan by the waist and hauls Lan Zhan in to stand between his knees. “You’re still dressed,” Wei Ying says, hands going to Lan Zhan’s belt.

“No,” Lan Zhan says, taking away Wei Ying’s hands, pushing him back on the bed. Wei Ying resists. “I’m going to finger you first,” says Lan Zhan.

“Finger me?” Wei Ying says blankly, and Lan Zhan lifts a knee, puts it on Wei Ying’s thigh, then uses it to leverage Wei Ying back onto the bed. Wei Ying has already been taken off-guard by fingering, apparently, as though he’s never heard of the idea before. Startled into compliance, he moves under Lan Zhan, up the bed, until they’re both lying on it. Lan Zhan reaches over to the nightstand for the lube, but Wei Ying catches his wrist. “Lan Zhan,” he says, then says it again, like a chant. “Lan Zhan, let me touch you.”

Lan Zhan pauses.

“Let me touch your skin,” says Wei Ying, and Lan Zhan is taken off-guard, apparently, as though he’s never heard the idea before. Maybe he has never heard it expressed so sincerely by someone who intends to use him for his dick for just one night and then forget about it.

Startled into compliance himself, Lan Zhan lets him. He lets Wei Ying press him back into the bed and hover over him. He lets Wei Ying unfasten the buttons on his shirt. He lets Wei Ying open the shirt. He lets Wei Ying put his hand inside, and Lan Zhan’s heart is beating too fast. He thinks he might be trembling.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers. Then he whispers it again. “Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying is kneeling on the bed beside Lan Zhan’s body. He bends down. He kisses Lan Zhan’s sternum. Then he kisses Lan Zhan’s left pectoral muscle. Then he kisses underneath it, on a rib. Then another rib. He’s not licking. He’s not sucking. He’s just kissing. He’s just pressing his lips. Over and over again.

It’s almost painful, how gentle he is being. How slow. Lan Zhan can only see his messy head of hair, bent over Lan Zhan’s chest.

They’d met at Cloud Recesses Center for the Arts summer program. Wei Ying had come on a scholarship. He’d been studying dizi. He wouldn’t leave Lan Zhan alone. Lan Zhan didn’t know why. Lan Zhan hadn’t been interesting then, either. Wei Ying had been fascinating. He was brilliant. He was talented. He was friendly. He was insubordinate. He was ill-mannered. Lan Zhan had taken ten days to fall in love with him, but only because he had denied it for a week. Wei Ying got expelled. A year passed. They didn’t keep in touch. Why would they? They hadn’t been friends. It hadn’t mattered. Lan Zhan hadn’t stopped loving him.

They’d gone to the Shanghai Conservatory after secondary school. Wei Ying had picked up where he left off, asking Lan Zhan to be his study partner. Joining Lan Zhan at lunch. Practicing when Lan Zhan practiced. Impromptu duets. Late nights writing essays. Wei Ying constantly wanting to spend time with him. Lan Zhan acting like it didn’t matter. Wondering why Wei Ying bothered.

Wei Ying had been arrested halfway through their third year. The word on campus was that he had been arrested for drugs. He was gone three months. Lan Zhan had tried to come see him. He wasn’t allowed. Wei Ying wasn’t allowed back to the conservatory after. He was different after that. He was still Wei Ying. Lan Zhan was still in love with him. Then, six months later, Wei Ying left.

Lan Zhan had tried to find him. He’d failed. He’d tried to go on. He’d . . . succeeded. He has gone on. He has become Vice President of Finance and Operations at Cloud Recesses Center for the Arts. He has one friend. Sometimes he has lunch with his brother. His dreams are fulfilled. He has no dreams.

Lan Zhan has never felt so alone as he does in this moment, Wei Ying kissing his chest, Wei Ying here, at last. It’s a dream. This counts as a dream. Just for tonight.

Wei Ying is touching him. His fingers are stroking the skin between Lan Zhan’s ribs. “Lan Zhan,” he whispers. His hands go to Lan Zhan’s belt.

There is something wrong with Lan Zhan’s heart. There is something wrong with Lan Zhan’s throat. There is something wrong with Lan Zhan’s eyes, something burning wrong, hot and wet and wrong. “No,” he says, then reaches down and carefully takes Wei Ying’s hands away.

“No?” Wei Ying looks surprised. Also crestfallen.

“Later,” says Lan Zhan. He yanks a pillow from the top of the bed down, then pushes Wei Ying onto it. “Spread your legs,” he says, then leans over again to get the lube.

“Wow, you’re so bossy. What if I don’t want to, hm?” Lan Zhan opens the lube. “Are you this bossy with all your other—people?” Lan Zhan squirts out some of the lube, warming it between his fingers. “The other people that you fuck? Do you just tell them what to do, and they spread their legs and let you—let you—” Lan Zhan puts his hand between Wei Ying’s legs. “Lan Zhan! Um.” Wei Ying bites his lower lip.

Lan Zhan glides his finger down. He finds Wei Ying’s hole. He presses there.

Wei Ying’s eyes are enormous. He swallows hard. “Are you going to . . .” He licks his lips. “Are you going to put it in?”

“Yes.” Lan Zhan doesn’t put it in. He circles Wei Ying’s rim, pressing slightly. The muscle is quite tight. He circles again, tugging on Wei Ying’s rim a little, pulling him open.

“Um.” Wei Ying swallows again. “You can just—just do it. I can take it. I’m not very delicate. Lan Zhan,” he adds, shifting so he can tilt his hips up, offering them to Lan Zhan. “Just shove it in; I don’t—” The air whooshes out of him. Lan Zhan has breached him, just the tip of his finger, and Wei Ying’s eyes are comically wide. “Oh,” he breathes.

Wei Ying is tense. The muscles of his rim are clenching around Lan Zhan’s finger. There’s no give at all. Not even a little. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says gently. “Relax.”

“What?” Wei Ying’s hand is clenched around Lan Zhan’s upper arm.

Lan Zhan soothes his other hand down Wei Ying’s thigh. Wei Ying’s muscular thigh. It’s Wei Ying’s. It belongs to Wei Ying. Lan Zhan squeezes the flesh underneath and spreads Wei Ying’s legs a little more. “Relax,” he says again.

“Mm-hm,” Wei Ying agrees. “You can—you can just shove it in all the way. You can—you can really do it to me, Lan Zhan.” His breath catches in a little hitch. “I don’t mind.”

Lan Zhan works his finger in deeper, careful, stretching.

Wei Ying’s hand tightens on Lan Zhan’s arm. His brow is furrowed. His mouth is open. He looks confused. Unsettled.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan takes his finger out.

“What are you doing?” Wei Ying demands.

Lan Zhan puts more lube on his hand and warms it up. “When’s the last time you did this?”

Wei Ying’s mouth clamps shut. Then he says, “This?”

“A while?” Lan Zhan guesses.

“Yes.” Wei Ying nods vigorously. “It’s been a while. Yes. Um. You’re still going to fuck me—aren’t you? You can—it doesn’t have to be—you can just stick it in me,” he lands on at last. “You can just—there doesn’t need to be prep.”

“I like prep,” Lan Zhan says. He puts his finger back. He tugs on Wei Ying’s rim again. Wei Ying’s mouth opens. “I like it wet,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying’s eyes go wide again. “Oh,” he breathes. Then he says, “Oh,” and his back arches. He spreads his legs wider. “Well,” he goes on. “Well, Lan Zhan. Why didn’t—why didn’t you just say? You want it wet?” Lan Zhan pushes the tip of his finger inside. Wei Ying takes a breath. “You like it all—all wet and open?” Wei Ying says. “You want me to be easy for you to just—just slide your big cock in, Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan takes a breath. He goes deeper with his finger. Wei Ying closes his eyes. He visibly forces himself to relax. It’s as though he’s forgotten how to do this, but then he keeps talking. The sentiment seems a comfort to him, as though he could not relax if he thought preparation was for his own benefit. Now that Wei Ying thinks it’s for Lan Zhan’s benefit, he seems quite interested. “You like to get it ready? All wet and ready? I can get wet for you, Lan Zhan. I can be dripping for you. Do you like that?”

Lan Zhan takes another breath. He’s inside, now. Wei Ying is hot, and tight, but his muscles are still too tense, clamped around Lan Zhan’s finger. Lan Zhan begins to work him, stretching slowly, stretching. Wei Ying had always been demanding, but as soon as Lan Zhan or anyone else had ever tried to give him anything, he had laughed. He had pushed it away. He had seemed vaguely alarmed. Wei Ying had always been afraid of things that were just for him, and Lan Zhan goes even slower, even gentler with Wei Ying’s body. Lan Zhan wants it even wetter.

Wei Ying is still talking. He’s babbling. “Do you want me all easy and messy for you, Lan Zhan? I can be easy for you, so easy for your cock, so easy for you to fuck. I can be wet, just like . . .” His breath catches. He has an idea. “Just like a pussy for you, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan’s breath gutters. He jams his finger in too hard.

Wei Ying makes a startled sound. Lan Zhan guiltily meets his eyes. Wei Ying’s own eyes are wide with curiosity. “You like that?” Wei Ying arches his back again. His cock is thickening. Possibly from hearing his own voice say these things. “You like me having a pussy for you? Is that what you want? A wet, hot, tight little pussy?”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan takes his finger out. He wants to put two in. He needs more lube. Wei Ying is still struggling to relax. Some men talk that way about their asses. Lan Zhan has never particularly cared about talking dirty. He would prefer people didn’t talk at all, just in general. He would prefer Wei Ying didn’t talk. Wei Ying talking makes him want to come. Just hearing Wei Ying talk that way, to him, makes Lan Zhan want to hold Wei Ying down and rut against him hard, like an animal, until Wei Ying is covered in his come.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying breathes as Lan Zhan touches his rim with two fingers, now. “Yeah, you like it.” Lan Zhan works Wei Ying’s rim again, tugging it, pulling on it, opening it up. “You like that I have a pussy for you, don’t you. You like getting it ready for you, so you can fuck it.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says again. “Relax.”

“What? Oh. Hm.” Wei Ying’s eyes lose focus. He concentrates. He relaxes, and finally, Lan Zhan pushes deeper, deeper than he has before. “Oh,” Wei Ying says again, releasing a little breath. “Oh, that’s . . . hm.” He bites his lip. “Lan Zhan.” His voice is conversational. It’s also strained. “Lan Zhan, do you like fingering me?”

“Yes.”

Wei Ying makes a tight sound. His eyes are closed. He’s still trying to concentrate on relaxing. It’s possible this is hurting him. Lan Zhan is trying to be gentle. He’s pushing deeper, stretching Wei Ying wider, stroking him inside. “So,” Wei Ying whispers. “So, why don’t you fuck me? With your fingers? Why don’t you finger fuck me? Why don’t you just shove them in there and make it count?” He clenches suddenly around Lan Zhan’s fingers, hard. It’s not an accident.

“This counts,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying’s nose scrunches. “Does it? Because you’re not really—working it are you? You could really work it, Lan Zhan. You could work my pussy. But are you? No. I’m here serving cunt to you all day, I mean literally serving you cunt, and you’re not even—”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s fingers find his prostate. “Be good.”

“I am being good. I’m being—” Lan Zhan’s fingers begin to stroke. Wei Ying’s breath catches. “I’m being so good; I’m practically being—” Wei Ying’s breath catches again. Lan Zhan strokes him more firmly, inside. “I’m a saint,” Wei Ying says, but the words are garbled. “I’m—I’m—Lan Zhan!” The hand that had gone lax several minutes ago on Lan Zhan’s arm clenches. “Oh, oh my God, Lan Zhan; I’m practically—I’m practically a bodhisattva over here; I’m—” Wei Ying gasps. He bucks up. “Oh my God, Lan Zhan, don’t stop, please—please—”

Wei Ying’s eyes are wild. He looks like he’s never been fucked from the inside before. His hand reaches for his own dick.

“Hands off,” Lan Zhan says, pulling Wei Ying’s hand away with his free hand.

Wei Ying doesn’t seem to care. He thrashes on the bed, saying, “Please, please, don’t stop.”

Lan Zhan removes his fingers from Wei Ying’s body. He wants more lube.

Wei Ying is incensed. His hair is so messy. His cheeks are so red. He looks so good. “What the fuck,” he demands, and for a moment, Lan Zhan can pretend that Wei Ying is just a pillow princess, that Lan Zhan is just here to service him. He would be happy to service Wei Ying, to open him up and slick his insides every day. He’d pay money for the opportunity. He’d stand in line. He might murder everyone in line, but he’d stand in it. “What the fuck, Lan Zhan, get back here; get your hand back in here.” Wei Ying tries to grab for Lan Zhan’s wrist. Lan Zhan pushes him away. “Get your hand back in there,” Wei Ying demands again. “Put it inside me. My pussy needs you, Lan Zhan; you’ve made it very needy; take some responsibility, Lan Zhan.”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. He puts three fingers in. He knows it will stretch him, a little. He knows it will hurt, a little. This was the kind of burn Wei Ying was seeking earlier, now that he’s stretched enough not to tear. The pain can feel good, especially when Lan Zhan goes deep, when he can curl his fingers and finds—

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying is squirming on his fingers. “Not like that. Not like that, find that spot for me; do what you were—fuck me like you were before.”

“Here,” Lan Zhan says. He touches gently.

“That’s not,” Wei Ying begins to say. Then he jolts. “Lan Zhan.” He’d been craning his head up to see. Now he collapses on the bed. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, please. Please. Fuck it. Right there. Fuck it—right there—please, can you just—can you just give me your cock? Can you take your cock and put it right there and fuck it really hard? You’ve got a really wet pussy for it now, don’t you? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, but he fucks his fingers harder. He wants Wei Ying on the edge. It’s going to burn more, when Lan Zhan puts himself inside, and Lan Zhan wants Wei Ying so mindless for it he can’t even feel it. So mindless that he likes it.

Wei Ying makes another futile grab for his own cock, but Lan Zhan pushes him away, then fucks his fingers into him, hard. Wei Ying’s spine is arching off the bed. He looks possessed. Maybe Wei Ying really hasn’t felt this before. Maybe other people have been terrible at finding Wei Ying’s prostate. Maybe Wei Ying only tops. Lan Zhan finds the latter possibility highly unlikely. Just look at him.

He takes his fingers out of Wei Ying’s body. Wei Ying collapses. “No,” he moans. It’s a mournful sound. “No, no, no, Lan Zhan, stop torturing me; put them back. Give them to me. Put them back in where they belong.”

Lan Zhan is unbuckling his belt.

Wei Ying looks over at him, then sits bolt upright on the bed. “Lan Zhan!” he declares, half a reprimand. Then his hands are at Lan Zhan’s pants. Lan Zhan has the belt unbuckled. Wei Ying tears at the button. “Let me have it,” Wei Ying says. “It’s mine. You have to put it in me; I get it; it’s mine; take it out; let me see; Lan Zhan, let me see—”

Wei Ying would get to see if he wasn’t clawing at Lan Zhan’s pants, but the pants are finally opened. The pants and underwear are finally pulled down. Lan Zhan takes them off. He takes his shirt off, his socks. His cock is finally out, and now that it’s revealed, Wei Ying just stares at it in shock. His cheeks are so red he looks painted. He looks like he’s ripped open the wrapping paper on a gift and is shocked to find a cock inside.

“Oh,” he breathes. Then he takes up Lan Zhan’s cock in his hands. It’s like nothing Lan Zhan has experienced. Wei Ying does not look like he’s holding a cock. His hands are cupped as though he captured something rare and precious, an exotic creature that might escape.

It’s torture. It’s Wei Ying. It’s Wei Ying touching his cock, Wei Ying with his hands on his cock. Wei Ying is looking at it, his eyes so bright and dark and wondering. “Oh,” Wei Ying breathes again. “It’s so . . . big.” Then he pets it.

He actually pets it, like it really is an animal.

Lan Zhan feels like he might yank Wei Ying’s hair and force it down Wei Ying’s throat, if this goes on. Instead, Lan Zhan is frozen. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to ever move again. He wants to remember this moment forever, the way that Wei Ying cradled and cooed at his cock, as though he’s never seen one before. As though Lan Zhan’s cock is perfect, and Wei Ying wants to cut it off and frame it. As though his rosy cheeks are romanced by it.

Predictably, Wei Ying is still talking. “It’s so big for me, Lan Zhan.” He’s still petting it. “It’s so nice and big for me, and you’re going to give it all to me. Aren’t you, Lan Zhan? You’re going to give me everything, aren’t you?” He pets it some more. “You’re going to fuck me with it, and come inside me with it, and get my pussy all messy with it, aren’t you?” Then he leans over it.

“Wei Ying!” Shocked, Lan Zhan yanks on Wei Ying’s hair.

“I just want to kiss it, Lan Zhan.” Still cradling Lan Zhan’s cock in his hands, Wei Ying struggles.

“Don’t.” Wrapping his fist in Wei Ying’s ponytail, Lan Zhan jerks Wei Ying’s hair again, hard. “Wei Ying,” he says, his voice unable to hide his perturbation. “Use a condom.”

Wei Ying stops trying to put his mouth down on Lan Zhan’s cock. He blinks up at him. “Condom?”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan. Emphatically.

Wei Ying just frowns. “Do you have some kind of disease?”

Obviously, Lan Zhan does not have a disease.

“I mean.” Wei Ying has turned contemplative. “I guess I could have mouth herpes. But I don’t! I swear.” He removes his hand from Lan Zhan’s cock to hold three fingers up. “I’m clean! Trust me.”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s voice is gentler, now. He wants to let go of Wei Ying’s hair. He wants to stroke Wei Ying’s cheek. He’s afraid that if he lets go, Wei Ying will try to suck him anyway.

“Look, Lan Zhan, I . . .” Wei Ying’s eyes widen in realization. “You mean—you’re not going to come in me? All of this, and you’re not even going to give me your come?”

Lan Zhan fails to see how this is as important as the health and well-being of both of their bodies.

“Aiyah,” Wei Ying mutters. “Fine. Fine. Condoms. Where are they? Let me put it on you, at least. At least let me say goodbye.”

Lan Zhan is beginning to suspect Wei Ying has never used a condom in his life. He finds this chilling. He hates everyone Wei Ying has ever had sex with. Wei Ying is an adult. He should have taken care of his own self. He should have known to wear condoms. Lan Zhan doesn’t care. Wei Ying has never had a sense of self-preservation. His past lovers should have known that and protected him. Lan Zhan loathes them.

Wei Ying has found the condoms on the bedside table. He opens one. He takes it out. He sets it on Lan Zhan’s cock and begins to roll down. He’s not clumsy. Wei Ying has always been dexterous. Lan Zhan still suspects that Wei Ying’s never used one before. The soft, gentle touch of Wei Ying rolling on the condom is so unbearable that Lan Zhan has to look away.

Something warm touches his cock. Lan Zhan looks back. Wei Ying is kissing it. He’s opening his mouth. He’s taking in the tip. He’s letting it rest on his tongue, and it’s excruciating. Lan Zhan wants Wei Ying to choke on it. He wants to let Wei Ying do whatever he wants. Lan Zhan wants to come. He’s going to grab Wei Ying’s head, make him take it, and come. Lan Zhan is always going to remember this image, forever. He takes Wei Ying by the hair, gently pulling him away. “Later,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying smiles at him. “‘Time is a constructed thing,’ Lan Zhan.”

“Do not quote Laozi to me.”

“Why not? ‘Doing is the completion of knowing,’ Lan Zhan. I could know your cock really well if I—”

“Stop it.” Lan Zhan pushes him back on the bed.

“It wasn’t Laozi!” Wei Ying says, but he goes.

Lan Zhan climbs over him. “No philosophers.”

“‘Heartbroken,’” says Wei Ying, “‘I can’t bear to sweep them away.’”

“No poetry,” Lan Zhan adds, opening Wei Ying’s legs again.

“‘I really don’t have the talent to be silent this fast,’” Wei Ying complains. It’s a ridiculous pop lyric.

“No talking.” Lan Zhan slips a finger back in Wei Ying, who gasps.

He’s also laughing. “You don’t want me to talk while you fuck me, Lan Zhan? You don’t think Laozi has something to say about how hot my pussy is for you?”

“Wei Ying.” Wei Ying has to shut up. Lan Zhan can’t think. He’s too in love with him. He’s going to come. He can’t concentrate. He wants Wei Ying to feel good. Wei Ying is still too tight, probably. Lan Zhan finds the bundle of nerves inside of him. He touches it. Wei Ying is still talking.

“You don’t think Zhou Jielun has things to say about how big your cock is? How much I want to suck it? How I want to—Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying begins to pant again. He arches, rocking against Lan Zhan’s hand. “How much I want to choke on it,” Wei Ying goes on. “How much I want it down my throat. You don’t think—like that, like that. Do it like that.” He thrashes on the bed. “You don’t think Wang Yanming would have—would have . . .” He pauses to pant. “Things to say? Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, please. Please. Please, put it in me now.”

“Soon,” Lan Zhan says, still stroking him inside.

“Now.” Wei Ying puts his hands on Lan Zhan’s shoulders. He sweeps his palms mindlessly down, then back up. “Right now. Haven’t I been good? Or—I don’t know, Lan Zhan, have I been bad? I’ve been bad; I’ve been so bad; I need a dicking down, don’t I? Do you want to punish me with your cock, Lan Zhan?”

“No.” Slowly, Lan Zhan draws his finger out. Wei Ying makes a sad, frustrated noise. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, wrapping his hand around his own cock. He positions himself, tip at Wei Ying’s rim, and slowly pushes in.

“Oh.” Wei Ying exhales. His hands tighten on Lan Zhan’s back. Nails dig in.

Lan Zhan goes slow. Wei Ying is still clenching far too hard. “Bear down,” Lan Zhan says.

“What?” Wei Ying pants. “I can take it. I can take it. Just shove it in, Lan Zhan, just fuck me. Do it like I deserve.” But he does bear down, eyes fluttering closed as he concentrates, loosening enough for Lan Zhan to sink deeper, and deeper.

Wei Ying is stretched around his thickness, now, taking him, his body hot and tight. Lan Zhan wants to fuck into it. He wants to remain in this moment, suspended. He wants Wei Ying to talk to him. Say something. Sweat begins to bead at Lan Zhan’s brow. Wei Ying’s eyes blink open. They look wet.

“Wei Ying,” says Lan Zhan, concerned.

“Ahh, why do you have to be so considerate, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying shifts around him, opening his legs wider. It sinks Lan Zhan deeper. Lan Zhan struggles to hold himself still above him. “Why can’t you just fuck me? Why can’t you just pound into me? Was it something that I said? Haven’t I been—oooh, haven’t I been slutty enough for you?”

Lan Zhan hears himself make a sound. His hips rock, involuntarily. He’s too hard. Wei Ying’s body is too tight.

“Oh! Is that it, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying shifts again. He’s trying to roll his hips under Lan Zhan’s partial weight. “Is that what you want? Me to be a ready, willing slut for you, all wet?”

Lan Zhan can’t take this anymore. Surely Wei Ying is adjusted by now, and he wants it, so Lan Zhan gives it to him, a slow roll. Then another, a slightly different angle.

“Yeah.” Wei Ying arches. “Like that. Like that, Lan Zhan.” His eyes are tearing up again.

Lan Zhan fucks into him harder, putting more weight on his knees, between Wei Ying’s legs. A new angle. Lan Zhan wraps his hand around Wei Ying’s dick.

“Oh,” says Wei Ying, surprised. “Yeah.” He releases a breath. “Yeah, that’s good, too. You can—you can do that some more, Lan Zhan; you can—you can work my dick all you want; you can . . . oh.” Wei Ying’s hips jerk under him. The hands that have been grabbing mindlessly at Lan Zhan’s back clamp down hard. This angle is the correct one, then. Lan Zhan begins to breathe again. Wei Ying begins to moan.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying convulses again. “There, there, do it to me there, harder, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying’s hands scramble on Lan Zhan’s back, moving down to Lan Zhan’s ass. Wei Ying’s hands are on his ass. Wei Ying urges him in harder, faster, deeper. “Is this—is this how you do it to them?” Wei Ying asks. “You—you bring them home, you fuck them with your big cock, you get a nice, wet pussy for you to fuck, and you fuck them, don’t you? You fuck them until they cry?”

Lan Zhan fucks him. He does want to fuck him until he cries. “Yes.”

Wei Ying cries out. He puts his feet flat on the bed and lifts himself. He wants to drive himself down on Lan Zhan’s cock. Lan Zhan can tell. Lan Zhan wants to help him. His hand leaves Wei Ying’s cock to lift Wei Ying’s hips, to pull Wei Ying down onto his cock, harder, and harder. “Yes,” Wei Ying moans. “Yes, Lan Zhan.” His nails are raking down Lan Zhan’s back. “You pound them with your big cock, don’t you, your big cock, just like you’re doing to me.”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. Wei Ying is slick, and ready, and easy, just like he said he would be. Lan Zhan’s fucking him hard enough that he hears the lube, now. He put a lot of it in. It’s squelching out of Wei Ying’s hole.

Wei Ying gasps. His eyes squeeze shut. He looks away, as though he can’t bear the sight of Lan Zhan above him. “And,” Wei Ying is panting. “And. You wanted—you wanted to do it to me. You wanted me to be one of them. One of the—the—Lan Zhan, one of the guys you fuck.”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan can usually go a long time. He can already feel himself getting close. He can’t control it. His hand lifts off Wei Ying’s hip long enough to pull on one of Wei Ying’s arms. Wei Ying’s hand comes off his back. Lan Zhan grabs Wei Ying’s hand. He puts Wei Ying’s fingers in his mouth.

“Lan Zhannn.” Wei Ying arches, his head tipping back, his entire throat bared. “Lan Zhan,” he pants. Futilely, he tries to pump his fingers into Lan Zhan’s mouth while Lan Zhan fucks him. Lan Zhan wants to savor the feeling of Wei Ying’s fingers in his mouth. He can’t. It’s too much. He can feel his eyes rolling back in pleasure. He closes his eyes. He can’t stop fucking him. He can’t seem to slow down. He wanted to take his time. He wanted to fuck him all night. Just this night, his night.

“—fuck them and throw them away, didn’t you, just like you want to do to me, not good for anything else.” Lan Zhan can’t hear the words Wei Ying is saying. They don’t make sense. He’s babbling. “You can, you can do it to me, just shut me up, make me take it, teach me a lesson, right there, don’t stop, Lan Zhan, you can just use me—” He arches again, gasping. “Yes, right there, don’t stop, don’t stop, just a pussy for you; I can be that; I can be a pussy for you, just another one for you to fuck, for you to use, Lan Zhan, please, please, do it to me harder—you can fuck it harder than that—”

Lan Zhan opens his eyes. He takes Wei Ying’s fingers out of his mouth. He puts Wei Ying’s hand on Wei Ying’s cock. “Fuck yourself,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying kicks him. He cries out. He pushes himself, hard, down onto Lan Zhan’s cock. He kicks again. He’s saying Lan Zhan’s name. Wei Ying’s other hand comes off Lan Zhan’s back, reaching up, flailing. Wei Ying finds the headboard. He uses it, holding on, pushing himself down onto Lan Zhan’s cock. Wei Ying’s other hand is around his own cock, fucking it just like Lan Zhan told him to. Wei Ying is good. He’s so good. Lan Zhan is going to come. He doesn’t want to. He wants to watch Wei Ying. He wants Wei Ying to come on his cock.

“Come,” Lan Zhan says harshly, “on my cock.”

Wei Ying makes a wailing sound. He stops trying to fuck back. He’s thrashing, lost. He keeps saying Lan Zhan’s name, over and over. “Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan.”

“Do it right now,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying does it right now. He does it spectacularly. Explosively. Like Lan Zhan always imagined Wei Ying would come, all over himself. Wei Ying’s hips keep pumping. He starts talking again, speech slurring. It’s still just, “Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan.”

It’s enough. Lan Zhan could come to that even if his dick wasn’t obscenely squeezed into the tight wet space of Wei Ying’s body. As it is, Lan Zhan’s dick was only waiting for Lan Zhan to let go, so he does. He grunts. He comes. It’s not spectacular like Wei Ying, but it’s forceful. He slams his dick into Wei Ying’s body very hard, and spurts. He does it again. Then again, more shallowly. Again, more shallowly.

“Are you—? Is that—?” Wei Ying is babbling. “Lan Zhan, are you coming inside me? Is that—give it to me.” His hands are on Lan Zhan’s backside again, pulling him in. “Give it to me, I want it; give it all to me. Don’t be greedy, now, Lan Zhan; pump it all out into me; I deserve it; keep going.”

Lan Zhan does not keep going. He’s slowing, softening. He’s sweating. His muscles feel as though they had stretched out to either wall of the room and have now snapped back, aching and tight. He stops.

Wei Ying clutches at him. His legs wrap around him. He pulls Lan Zhan against him. Wei Ying’s chest is splattered with his own come, so he’s smearing it against Lan Zhan’s chest. Lan Zhan, who doesn’t like a mess, feels fiercely grateful for it. He feels covetous of it. He would smear it over his whole body if he could. “Don’t leave me,” Wei Ying is saying. “Don’t leave me, Lan Zhan, keep it in me; just a little longer; you can keep it in me, right? Be good to your slut; you can’t use her up like that and then desert her, okay?”

It’s too ridiculous. Lan Zhan can feel himself blush, even after his thoughts about smearing himself with Wei Ying’s come. He lowers some of his weight down onto Wei Ying. It’s a long time to balance above someone.

“Yes,” Wei Ying says, as if reveling in his weight. Wei Ying’s arms tighten around him. Wei Ying’s legs tighten around him. Wei Ying’s face buries itself in the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck and breathes. Breathes. “Give me more,” he whispers. “Lay on top of me.”

Lan Zhan considers this. “Wei Ying. I’ll slip out.”

Wei Ying’s breath huffs on Lan Zhan’s neck. “Fine,” Wei Ying says. “If you want to be mean about it.”

Lan Zhan lowers himself the rest of the way. The angle isn’t right anymore. They’ve lost their pillow. Lan Zhan’s cock slides wetly, not all the way out.

“Ahh, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, after a moment. “You’re too heavy.”

Lan Zhan pulls out the rest of the way. He rolls over, bringing Wei Ying with him. He can’t prevent it. Wei Ying is like a barnacle. Lan Zhan takes the condom off, ties it, and drops it over the side of the bed into the trashcan. Turning back, he puts his arms around Wei Ying. He holds him close.

*

“Are we cuddling?” Wei Ying asks, a few minutes later. He tilts his laughing face up to Lan Zhan’s. “Lan Zhan, are you a cuddler?”

Lan Zhan has never once in his life been a cuddler. He cuddles Wei Ying closer.

Wei Ying snuggles in. He’s making contented, burrowing sounds. Lan Zhan’s heart feels like it might burst. Then Wei Ying kisses him. They’re just little kisses. They land in the place where Wei Ying’s mouth happens to be. Lan Zhan’s neck. “You did me so good,” Wei Ying whispers, between presses of his lips.

The hot feeling comes back behind Lan Zhan’s eyes again.

“So good,” Wei Ying repeats. “Was it good for you? Did you like it?”

Lan Zhan opens his mouth to speak. He doesn’t speak. There’s a catch in his throat. A different sound is going to come out. Possibly a sob.

“It was good for me,” Wei Ying whispers, kissing his neck. “So good, Lan Zhan. You really know how to use your dick, like you’ve had practice. How much practice have you had? How much pussy have you—”

Lan Zhan can’t bear to listen. He puts his hand under Wei Ying’s chin, tilts it up, and kisses him. Lan Zhan’s mouth is too wet. Wei Ying’s mouth is open, soft. Wanting. No longer trying to bite or struggle against him. Lan Zhan gets to pull Wei Ying’s lower lip between his own. Lan Zhan gets to suck on it. Wei Ying whimpers.

Heat curls through Lan Zhan’s throat. Under the skin of his face. Fire courses down Lan Zhan’s chest. Lan Zhan wants to drink Wei Ying like a glass of water. He feels like he’s turning on, and his dick can’t even get hard. It’s still softening. He pulls away. His breath is too heavy.

“Oh my God,” Wei Ying whispers. “Oh my God.” He buries his face in Lan Zhan’s neck.

Lan Zhan puts his hand in Wei Ying’s hair. He tries to steady himself. He tries to even out his breathing. He tries to make sense of Wei Ying’s hair, the messy tangles of it. Lan Zhan finds the red hairband that had been holding some of it back. Carefully, he extracts the hairband, letting Wei Ying’s ponytail down.

The strands are coarse and thick. Some of them are tangled. Lan Zhan feels that he could spend hours combing it out for him. Putting something in it to make it tangle less. He has lots of hair products. Maybe none of them are right for Wei Ying’s hair. Maybe Wei Ying will let him do it anyway. Maybe Wei Ying will let him bathe him. Maybe Wei Ying will let Lan Zhan clean his nails and polish them. Maybe Wei Ying will let him cook for him and feed him and keep him warm and keep him safe from whatever happened to him, whatever took him away.

Lan Zhan swallows. He’s getting carried away. He’s getting carried away just because Wei Ying is letting him pet his hair.

Lan Zhan keeps petting it. He never wants to stop.

*

“Will you at least tell me,” Lan Zhan says after a little time has passed, “how you were?”

“Hm?” Possibly, Wei Ying had fallen asleep. He tilts his head up on Lan Zhan’s chest.

“If you won’t tell me where you went.”

“Oh.” Wei Ying huffs. “Oh, fine, I’ll tell you where I went, Lan Zhan; I went to do crime. Isn’t that enough?”

Lan Zhan pulls Wei Ying a little closer with one arm. His other hand goes back to stroking Wei Ying’s hair. “Are you done?”

“Hm?” Wei Ying says again.

“With crime.”

“Well, the life of a criminal isn’t over until he—” Wei Ying cuts himself off. “Wait. A life of crime is never over! That’s what I mean to say.” His fingers begin tracing shapes over Lan Zhan’s ribs. Wei Ying’s spent come is still smeared on Lan Zhan’s chest. “But yeah, I guess,” Wei Ying says suddenly, after a long moment. “I’ve committed all the crimes I wanted, and—well, I’m not wanted for them anymore, anyway. No one wants me! What do you think, Lan Zhan?” He looks up at Lan Zhan with bright eyes, a lazy smile.

“Ridiculous,” Lan Zhan tells him. Wei Ying has to know that what he’s said is ridiculous.

Wei Ying laughs. “Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, so you haven’t changed.”

Lan Zhan plays with Wei Ying’s hair. He thinks about what Wei Ying’s said. After Wei Ying was arrested, he was not allowed release on bail. He was not indicted, either. He was just held. After he was released, he joked about being a criminal. He said he could not be redeemed. If Wei Ying has been engaged in illegal activity for the past thirteen years, he would have reasons not to talk about it.

Lan Zhan doesn’t care about illegal activities. He cares about Wei Ying. Wei Ying had always been kind. Wei Ying had always wanted to help people. The law can be stupid. The law doesn’t always give people a chance, especially people like Wei Ying, who had so few people who could protect him at the time. Lan Zhan pets his hair some more. “Tell me about your music,” he says.

“Music?” Wei Ying sounds startled. “Oh. Well, I told you, didn’t I? I still compose. I’ve got—well, I didn’t always have a lot of time. But I did it when I could. I mean, sometimes I did it when I couldn’t. It just comes to you, you know? In the heat of the moment. You really don’t do it anymore?”

“I’m going to clean up,” Lan Zhan says, taking his arm out from around Wei Ying.

“I could lick you clean.”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s voice is repressive. He begins getting off the bed.

“What?” Wei Ying says innocently. “I could. My mouth is already dirty; you don’t think it’d look nice with your come in it?”

“Filthy,” Lan Zhan says, because it is. His own come is dry and flaking, slobbered on the side of his dick, pressed there by the condom. He tries not to think of Wei Ying’s mouth with his come in it as he goes to the bathroom.

After he cleans himself, he raises his eyes to look at himself in the mirror once more. The flush is already subsiding. He doesn’t otherwise look different. The sweat has already dried. He never looks fucked when he fucks. He never looks fucked when he gets fucked. He wishes he looked different. He turns around and looks over his shoulder, just to see if the scratching Wei Ying has done on his back has stayed. Some of it has. None of it broke the skin. It’s a pity. The marks will fade by tomorrow.

Lan Zhan wets another cloth. He brings it out to the bedroom. He gets on the bed beside Wei Ying. Slowly, broadcasting his intention, he swipes at Wei Ying’s chest, then moves down. “Ahhh, let me do it,” Wei Ying says, snatching the cloth.

Lan Zhan lets him do it. He watches. “You perform live?” he asks, when Wei Ying appears finished.

“What?” Wei Ying looks startled again. Perhaps he does not expect to be talked to. Perhaps he remembers what a bad conversationalist Lan Zhan always was. Lan Zhan is still a bad conversationalist. He doesn’t care. He’s desperate to know what he can, anything he can about Wei Ying. “Oh,” Wei Ying says. “You mean the algoraves? Yeah, I do that. Sometimes.”

“In Shanghai?”

“Ah, I don’t think so.”

Lan Zhan wants to ask why not. He’d like to watch Wei Ying perform. Instead, he thinks again about what Wei Ying said about being a criminal. Perhaps Wei Ying intends to keep a low profile. Lan Zhan wants to tell Wei Ying he’ll pay for a lawyer. He’ll pay for a dozen lawyers. Whatever crimes Wei Ying committed, they can’t be that bad. Lan Zhan doesn’t say this. If Wei Ying thinks Lan Zhan intends to bring attention to his past life, Wei Ying may get scared away. Instead, Lan Zhan says, “I’d like to hear more.”

“More? Oh, of algorave? Sure, there’s plenty of it on Youku.”

Lan Zhan looks at him.

“Oh. You mean me?” Wei Ying laughs uncertainly. “Come on, Lan Zhan, that’s not really your thing, is it? Don’t you have some yayue to listen to, or something?”

Lan Zhan is disproportionately hurt by this. Of course, he has yayue to listen to. It is an ancient, traditional style of music that is currently experiencing a revival. It is not acid house techno. It is also not Wei Ying.

“Ufff, don’t look like that, I’m sorry,” says Wei Ying. Lan Zhan doesn’t know what Wei Ying saw in his face, but he is apologizing again. “I’m sorry. I know you were always interested in new things; I was being . . .” He looks around. “Here, I’ll show you some; we can . . . where are my pants?”

Lan Zhan gets off the bed to fetch Wei Ying’s pants. Wei Ying obviously wants his phone, but Lan Zhan is too polite to dig through Wei Ying’s pockets. He’s also too polite to steal Wei Ying’s pants and never give them back. He also has the dignity necessary to refrain from burying his face in Wei Ying’s jeans, just to surround himself with the scent of him, but only just. He hands the jeans to Wei Ying, who does not seem to notice he is being handed something. His eyes have gone sort of glassy.

Then he says, “Oh, haha,” and takes the jeans. “You really shouldn’t walk around naked like that, Lan Zhan.” His voice is conversational as he rifles through the pockets. “You’ll give a man ideas.”

This is the way Wei Ying always used to flirt with him. Lan Zhan had not been naked at the time. He’d not just fucked Wei Ying at the time either. This had made Wei Ying’s flirtation hard to believe. Lan Zhan wishes they could go back to cuddling. Wei Ying has found his phone. He’s frowning at it. Flipping through screens. Lan Zhan sits beside him, too stiffly. “I would also like,” he says carefully, “to finish the song we were listening to. In the car.”

“Hm?” Wei Ying looks up vaguely. He’s chewing his lip. “Uh. Oh. The algorave? Or the—the one where I sampled you without your permission?”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask. I just . . .”

“It’s fine,” Lan Zhan says again.

“You’re not—?” Wei Ying doesn’t finish. “You seemed kind of upset,” he says instead.

Lan Zhan would like, at this time and place, to express how he felt about that piece of music. At least it might alleviate Wei Ying’s fears. Lan Zhan does not know the words that would convey such a thing. This is why he used to write music. His emotions rarely feel matched to words.

Suddenly, he wishes he could write again. He hasn’t wished that in so long, but if he still did it, he would be able to say how he feels. The thought of it feels like a match striking against his ribcage, a dull scrape, followed by a low flame.

“Play it,” is what Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying plays the track with the sample of Lan Zhan’s music on his phone. They sit in the bed. Side by side. Naked. Listening. The sad rain. The sad chugging of machinery. The solemn entrance of the flutes, lonely, dreary in that empty raining world. Then the entrance of the guqin, a breath of fresh air. A sudden release of tension.

Lan Zhan can’t help himself. He turns. He puts his lips on Wei Ying’s.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying breathes against his mouth. Then he opens his mouth and tries to suck him in, biting, an active tongue.

Lan Zhan wants to subdue him. He wants to kiss him like the music feels, full and heady and slow and warm and good, so good. Lan Zhan wants to make Wei Ying swell and fall, like notes on a scale. He wants to play Wei Ying like an instrument. Lan Zhan presses him down, and Wei Ying moans. The music is still playing on his phone.

Wei Ying pulls away, breathless. “You can fuck me again, right?” His voice is a whisper. His hand sinks down to Lan Zhan’s cock. “You can put this in me again?”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan puts his hand on Wei Ying’s wrist. He moves Wei Ying’s hand away. “Not yet.”

“Why not? You’re getting hard.”

“You’re not.”

“Only because you made me come twice, Lan Zhan,” says Wei Ying. “That’s not fair. I’m only human!”

“Humans can come more than twice. With sufficient stimuli.”

Wei Ying makes a choking noise. “Is this something you know from experience?”

“Yes,” says Lan Zhan.

“Really?” Wei Ying sounds desperately curious. “From personal experience, or is it all those guys you fuck?”

Lan Zhan kisses him.

Wei Ying pulls away. “I’m serious, Lan Zhan; this is important for me to know; those guys you fuck, do you make them come repeatedly? Or do you usually—”

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan kisses him again. He uses his mouth to press Wei Ying down. He uses his mouth to fill him. He uses his hands to pin Wei Ying to the bed, and Lan Zhan lets the music conduct. His tongue in Wei Ying’s mouth is deep and slow and long, following the waves of the music. His blood is flowing hot and slow and heavy, in time to his tongue. Blood throbs in his cock, slowly lifting it, the music slowly lifting him. His heart is in time with the rest of him, and when the song ends, Lan Zhan pulls up. “Play something else,” he whispers.

Wei Ying’s eyes, once more large, blink. Then he scrambles for his phone.

“Something by you,” Lan Zhan specifies.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying breathes. “Yeah, okay, I’m . . .”

Lan Zhan waits.

A sound plays, an echo. Wei Ying reaches for him. They’re kissing again. The sound is a dizi but played as though at the bottom of a well, the reverb more of a sound than the dizi itself. They are just long, low tones. The slow build of them feels holy, and Lan Zhan pins Wei Ying’s hands down again, kissing him long and slow.

Something tears through the music, a jolt, followed by a slow roll, like thunder. Lan Zhan starts. “Sorry,” Wei Ying breathes wetly. “Sorry, it’s building to the next part; we can turn it off if you—”

Lan Zhan kisses him, pinning Wei Ying’s whole body with his own, settling weight onto Wei Ying. Lan Zhan’s cock settles against Wei Ying’s hip. The thunder-sound tears across the music again, and again. Now there’s a rhythm to it. It’s not disconcerting, now. Lan Zhan closes his eyes. He lets the track spill across his body. He rolls his hips against Wei Ying’s in time to it. Then he does it again.

Another sound layers over the others. It’s electric. It still feels like a guqin. This is not anything Lan Zhan has ever played. It’s not something he would ever have thought to play. “I just like the idea of them together,” Wei Ying whispers. “I feel like they fit.”

Lan Zhan puts his hand over Wei Ying’s mouth. Lan Zhan’s hips rock. He closes his eyes. The track has no melody. Instead, it builds, and builds. Then there are releases, little ones. Tender things. A kindness to the build of tension. Little deaths, but not orgasms. Lan Zhan moves himself over Wei Ying. His half-hard cock is now dragging along Wei Ying’s soft one. Lan Zhan’s hand is still over Wei Ying’s mouth. He moves his hand aside. “How long,” Lan Zhan says, “is this track?”

Wei Ying’s eyes are luminous. His mouth is open. He looks dumbstruck. “Um.” He swallows quickly. “Fourteen minutes? Sorry. I picked a longer one, so we wouldn’t get—interrupted. Lan Zhan—”

“I’m going to come on you,” Lan Zhan says, “in thirteen and a half minutes. Do you want it?”

For a moment, Wei Ying just looks stunned. Then he nods. Vigorously. “Yes, mm-hm, yes, I want it; you can do it all—all over me; Lan Zhan—”

“Good.” Lan Zhan drags his cock over Wei Ying’s flesh. “Tell me when I get close. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.”

Wei Ying’s mouth snaps shut. He looks so shocked. Then he says, “Lan Zhan—”

“Do you need my fingers?”

“I—what?”

Lan Zhan puts his fingertips on Wei Ying’s lower lip. “Open,” Lan Zhan clarifies.

Wei Ying looks stunned again. “What if I—”

Lan Zhan pushes his fingers into Wei Ying’s talking mouth. “Okay?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Mmph,” Wei Ying says, but he makes no move to spit Lan Zhan’s fingers out. He doesn’t struggle. Instead, his eyes roll back. He sucks. Lan Zhan begins to stroke Wei Ying’s tongue. Wei Ying makes a muffled cry. Wei Ying grabs Lan Zhan’s wrist. He doesn’t try to pull out Lan Zhan’s fingers. Instead, he tries to fuck his mouth with them, encouraging them to thrust.

Lan Zhan thrusts his fingers in like Wei Ying wants but resists the speed. Instead, Lan Zhan keeps the rhythm in time with his hips. He might put lube on Wei Ying’s belly. He told the truth before. He does like it wet. Right now, he likes the drag of his cock on Wei Ying’s flesh. He likes the drag of the music flowing over his body. The music makes him feel as though they are in another world. A cocoon. Just them.

Wei Ying moans. He’s being very good with the fingers. Not talking. Letting Lan Zhan listen. Wei Ying is sucking now, happily. He likes having his mouth full. It’s no surprise. Lan Zhan had always thought Wei Ying needed his mouth stuffed. If Lan Zhan hadn’t already come, he would not last thirteen minutes. He would not have already lasted these three.

As it is, Lan Zhan can draw this out, at least a little. They both become too raw, Lan Zhan rutting above him. Lan Zhan rolls off. He reaches across Wei Ying for the lube. He gives the bottle to Wei Ying. “Put it on me,” Lan Zhan says.

The rawness on Wei Ying’s belly has transferred to his face. His eyes are so wide open. He looks vulnerable, like he’s forgotten his joking shield. He takes the lube, as though in a trance, then hurriedly takes off the cap, squeezes some out. It’s too much. A glop of it drops on Lan Zhan’s thigh as Wei Ying tries to put it on Lan Zhan’s cock.

“Sorry,” Wei Ying says quickly. “Sorry.” He tries to clean it up.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s hand covers Wei Ying’s hand and moves it back to his cock.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying breathes. “Yes. Lan Zhan.” His voice is a threaded whisper. His hand strokes over Lan Zhan’s cock, spreading the lube. Wei Ying’s fingers wrap around Lan Zhan’s girth. Wei Ying’s eyes are on his own hand, watching it stroke Lan Zhan’s cock. Wei Ying’s face is full of wonder.

The music is an ocean, coming in waves. Drowning them. Lan Zhan wants to be pulled under.

His hand covers Wei Ying’s again. Wei Ying has not quite established a rhythm. The touches are almost—exploratory. This would be fine, except Lan Zhan needs to fuck. He needs to fuck long and slow and in time to his pulse. Lan Zhan moves Wei Ying’s hand for him. Lan Zhan’s hips begin to rise, fall. Lan Zhan fucks into it. Wei Ying’s hand. He’s getting to have Wei Ying’s hand. Lan Zhan feels virginal, somehow. Everything is new.

Wei Ying’s breath is coming in short little bursts. He begins to whine. His own hips begin to move, as though in sympathy. His cock is making a valiant effort. It’s still mostly soft.

Lan Zhan takes the lube. He squirts out some of it on Wei Ying’s abdomen and smears it around. Lan Zhan gets back on top. Lan Zhan makes use of Wei Ying’s slick belly. Wei Ying writhes. He wraps himself around Lan Zhan and arches up on each stroke of Lan Zhan’s cock. His mouth falls open. He talks. “Lan Zhan, it’s close; it’s close, can you—do you think you can—”

Lan Zhan puts his fingers in Wei Ying’s mouth again. The music does not sound close. It does not have a climax, a beginning or an end. It simply moves. Lan Zhan moves. He looks down at Wei Ying. He concentrates on Wei Ying. Lan Zhan’s muscles go tight. He climaxes. It’s like a flood. Like an ocean. Release.

He’s silent, but waves keep rolling through him, harder than the last time. He holds Wei Ying down. Lan Zhan feels his own face contort. He comes and comes. He almost cries out. A part of him wants to. The tension gradually fades. He begins to slow. His cock is nearly spent. The music ends.

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying is pulling him down, kissing him. He rolls them over. “Lan Zhan,” he says, still kissing. “Lan Zhan, you did so good, that was so good. You’re so good.” He’s still kissing. He’s still talking. He’s covered in Lan Zhan’s come. “You’re so hot. You know that, right? You’re the hottest thing. You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever—Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan. You did it; that was amazing.” He’s still dropping kisses all over Lan Zhan’s face, like he’s—like he’s proud. Like he wants to reward Lan Zhan for doing good things.

Lan Zhan feels like something inside himself is tearing at the seams. Something inside himself is struggling to get out. It’s hot. It’s wet. It wants to roll down his face like rain. “Stop,” Lan Zhan whispers, pulling Wei Ying away. “Stop.” He kisses Wei Ying’s mouth.

They kiss for a while. Lan Zhan controls his mouth. Wei Ying lets him do whatever he pleases. Wei Ying’s hips occasionally stutter against him. His dick is still trying to get hard. Eventually Lan Zhan pulls away. He looks for Wei Ying’s phone. It’s somewhere in the bed. After a minute, he finds it. He gives it to Wei Ying. “Put on something you can come to.”

Wei Ying takes a swift breath. “Lan Zhan. I’m not sure I can really . . .”

“I’ll finger you.”

Wei Ying swallows hard. He’s probably still too sensitive, inside. If Lan Zhan touches him there, it would hurt. “Yeah.” Wei Ying swallows again. “Yeah.” He scans through his phone. Then music plays.

It’s a guqin. It’s Lan Zhan. It’s the duet.

Lan Zhan gives him an unimpressed look.

“What?” Wei Ying looks innocent. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve come to it.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, shocked.

“What, you thought you were the only freak to get off on music?”

Lan Zhan reaches for the lube. He’s still messy from fucking Wei Ying. He doesn’t care. He gets some on his fingers. He puts his fingers in Wei Ying. He’s not very gentle about it, this time. He knows he fucked Wei Ying open enough, earlier. The muscles are much more relaxed than the first time.

Lan Zhan’s fingers move inside him. He finds his prostate. Wei Ying jolts. Lan Zhan strokes him. Wei Ying starts to make desperate sounds. He’s arching off the bed, as though to get away. Lan Zhan had been right. Wei Ying is too sensitive, after what Lan Zhan did to him before. “Stop,” Wei Ying gasps.

Lan Zhan stops. He starts to pull his fingers out.

“What?” Wei Ying snaps. His hand darts down. His fingers lock around Lan Zhan’s wrist. “What are you doing, put them back in, don’t stop.”

Lan Zhan doesn’t stop. Wei Ying lets Lan Zhan go. He lays back down. He starts making wounded sounds, soft at first. Little wet gasps. He gets louder. He might be crying. “It’s too much,” he whimpers. “It’s too much, stop, stop—” Lan Zhan pauses. “Don’t you dare stop, Lan Zhan,” he gasps. “Please. Please, just—just . . .” He twists in the bed. He’s trying to get away from it. He’s definitely crying now. “I can’t. I can’t—”

Wei Ying needs a safe word. Lan Zhan feels like he should have known. They should have talked about it. He’s not about to talk about it now. It would ruin Wei Ying’s orgasm—or whatever Wei Ying is doing. Lan Zhan hasn’t done much consent play. He’s not interesting enough for it. He wants people to take what he gives them in an uncomplicated way. Wei Ying is different. Wei Ying is complicated. He’s always taking things in the most complicated way. Of course he would say no to things he really wants. Imagine giving it to him anyway. Imagine Wei Ying thinks he doesn’t want it, and Lan Zhan gives it to him anyway, hard, like he deserves. Imagine Lan Zhan gives him what he deserves, everything he deserves, all of it. Imagine Wei Ying takes it and likes it.

Lan Zhan can feel arousal pooling in his gut, even though his cock can’t do anything about it. There’s no way his cock could do anything about it. Lan Zhan doesn’t care. He wants to fuck Wei Ying senseless. Into oblivion. He wants to put Wei Ying in a coma.

“Okay, okay,” Wei Ying is saying. “That’s enough now. That’s enough.” He reaches down and tugs on Lan Zhan’s wrist. Lan Zhan pulls his fingers out. Wei Ying wraps his own hand around his cock and pulls. And pulls. He does it again. The music ended a while ago. Lan Zhan regrets it. He wants to watch Wei Ying get off to it. He wants to imagine that his fingers on the guqin twelve years ago were reaching out to a future in which he can play Wei Ying.

Wei Ying comes. It’s not much. It’s kind of pathetic, really. His cock splutters. Wei Ying thrusts a few times. Then he stops. He takes his hand off his cock. He sighs. His eyes don’t open. Silence fills the room.

Lan Zhan is not sure he’ll ever be able to fuck anyone else after this. He’s not sure how his body could want to. He’s not sure how he’ll go on at all.

Wei Ying seems too exhausted to reach for him, to make demands, to kiss him. Lan Zhan gets off the bed. He gets more washcloths. They could use the whole closet full at this rate. He’s sort of tired of cleaning up. He’s tired in general. With the washcloth, he goes back to the bed. Wei Ying might be sleeping. His eyes are closed. Lan Zhan cleans him anyway.

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying tugs on his arm. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Get in here. Get in here with me.” Lan Zhan gets into bed with him. Wei Ying curls up against him. He looks a little ill. His hair is mussed. His mouth is too red. He’s got smudges under his eyes. He’s perfect. “I’ll be gone in the morning,” he mumbles. He’s sleeping.

Lan Zhan watches him for a long time. A very long time. Then he turns out the light. He doesn’t know how he could possibly ever sleep. His heart is in too many pieces. Wei Ying gives a soft little sigh, then cuddles closer. Lan Zhan sleeps.