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The back of Shen Wei’s closet is as neatly organized as the front, which is how Zhao Yunlan knows that he’s hidden The Sweatpants deliberately. He whistles as he digs through the folded sweaters in a drawer–something pop-y, Xiao Guo has been bobbing his head every time it comes on the radio–and is only mildly disappointed when he finds no faded, cheesecloth-hole fleece between the blue and grey cashmere. It was a long shot anyway, this drawer: but leave no stone unturned, that’s the motto of a detective. No sweater unexamined? No drawer disregarded?
In all honesty The Sweatpants are a lot less comfortable than the replacement pairs (three of them!) that Shen Wei has foisted on Zhao Yunlan in transparent attempts to get him to switch, but at this point it’s about the meaning of the thing, and the meaning is about being stubborn. Also, the prissy little moue of Shen Wei’s mouth when Zhao Yunlan annoys him is adorable and kind of unfairly hot.
Returning to the hanging racks (hey, Zhao Yunlan never claimed to be organized, just effective), Zhao Yunlan pushes past a bulky garment bag and gropes around to drag a handful of clamp hangers into the light. The texture of the fabric is all wrong to be what he’s looking for, so he almost shoves them past his shoulder before his eyes catch up to his fingers, and then Zhao Yunlan can’t do anything but use his eyes, for staring.
Because.
It’s– skirts.
A lot of them, he realizes, as he swallows and starts to flip through the hangers behind them. Skirts that flare out, some of them long enough they must hit the ground. Skirts that are cut close to the hip and taper, made of the same neat wool that characterizes Shen Wei’s suits. Skirts that are actually dresses; Zhao Yunlan sees something with a lot of straps and has to take a moment to press his hands over his face and breathe.
“Hei Lao Ge,” he tries; it comes out strangled to near silence. Figuring he might need the visual aid, he grabs a skirt at random–it’s one of the tight suited kind–and drapes it over his arm, abandoning the closet for now so he can find Shen Wei in the kitchen. Shen Wei is diligently chopping scallions. Zhao Yunlan takes a moment to feel a fond wash of affection, and also to check out his ass.
(It’s nice ass.)
“Hey,” he says, now that Shen Wei can hear him, and is rewarded by Shen Wei turning immediately towards him, smiling. He sees when Shen Wei recognizes what Zhao Yunlan is holding, because Shen Wei’s face goes blank.
Right. “You know, if you wanted to wear skirts for me, you could have said,” Zhao Yunlan says, curling his tongue around the words as much as possible. Shen Wei’s cheeks go gratifyingly pink.
Still, his voice is calm when he answers, turning back to the counter and picking up the knife. “Do you not like the trousers? I seem to recall you mentioning the opposite. Several times.”
Zhao Yunlan laughs, because he’s busted and doesn’t want anything less, and comes closer so he can rest an arm on Shen Wei’s shoulder and kiss his cheek. The up-and-down motion as Shen Wei chops jostles Zhao Yunlan’s elbow. It’s a familiar rhythm. “I do, oh yeah I do. But I didn’t know this was on the table.” He shakes the skirt slightly in Shen Wei’s peripheral vision.
Shen Wei doesn’t answer. He goes tense under Zhao Yunlan’s touch, and Zhao Yunlan forces himself to stay relaxed in counterpoint, to not jerk away. “Hey. I’m not gonna be–you’ve seen me in drag, Xiao Wei. And I looked good as shit, I know you agree.” It was a case, a couple months ago–gay bar, Zhao Yunlan had to go undercover. His first attempt had actually not been so flattering, but one of the queens they were working with had taken one look at him, said something to the tune of “oh no honey, you do makeup like a cop,” and sat him down to re-do the whole thing herself. Zhao Yunlan has been meaning to go back and pay her to teach him how to do it; his cheekbones looked damn sharp. He just hasn’t had the time. Crimes, you know.
The knuckles of Shen Wei’s right hand have gone tight around the handle of the knife. “It…is not drag. For me.”
“Okay,” Zhao Yunlan says, slowly. The lights in his brain that say BIG DEAL! DON’T FUCK THIS UP! are suddenly blazing, and it’s so distracting he can’t quite parse what Shen Wei is trying to tell him. “Is, um. Is this stuff now drag, then?” He nudges his fingers under the collar of Shen Wei’s pressed shirt, trying to sink reassurance into the soft skin. The scallions are very green against the wood of the cutting board: little spirals.
“No,” Shen Wei says. He starts cutting again, with a little bit less than his customary smooth grace. “In Dixing, things are not as separated. I do not ascribe to one…I only wear the skirts when I am down there. Haixingren nowadays do not do well with…fluidity. It was something I had to learn.”
Zhao Yunlan imagines Professor Shen arriving to class, bespectacled and mild in something like the skirt in his fist, and being harassed for it. A thrill of anger so complete he feels himself buzz from his forehead to his toes takes him, and for the next couple of heartbeats he can’t see anything but red. Then he imagines the way Professor Shen’s legs would look, crossed underneath the tight tailoring, and has to close his mouth so he doesn’t say something stupid and possibly reductive like I’m so extremely bisexual or will you put this skirt on right now and fuck me in it. He brushes a thumb along Shen Wei’s ear to gather some time to compose himself.
(It’s a nice ear.)
“Well, fuck those Haixingren,” he says, when he can trust himself not to leer too aggressively. “You always look good in whatever you wear. Whatever you don’t wear too,” he adds, and lets himself make that suggestive, because he thinks it will make Shen Wei laugh. He does, quietly and a little bit startled, in that way that never fails to punch Zhao Yunlan right in the chest. Fucking hell, he loves Shen Wei.
“Let me cook,” Shen Wei says, nudging Zhao Yunlan off him. Zhao Yunlan sticks his tongue out and retreats, making it clear with his body language that he’s put-upon and suffering. Shen Wei doesn’t laugh again, but he does shake his head, his eyes dancing, and that’s almost as good.
He leaves the skirt upside-down over the back of the couch, like he’s forgotten to put it back. He hasn’t. He thinks Shen Wei knows that, but he doesn’t say a thing.