Archive of Our Own

The barber on the TV had on a full suit, had thin fingers. The comb wasn’t doing much of anything but the sound of the scissors was nice. As far as ASMR videos went, it was passable; Xue Yang didn’t like the background noise, the sound of the barber’s pantlegs swishing as he stepped around the chair. His model was some young dude, buggy eyes, with an upper lip that seemed to curl naturally into an M. A punchable face.  

“A haircut won’t save you,” Xue Yang muttered. 

“What?” A-Qing asked. Her voice came out grainy through the burner phone. Xue Yang rolled up onto his elbows. 

“Nothing. Your reception blows.” 

“No, seriously, what is it? You can’t just call me in the middle of the night. You know there’s a time difference, yeah?” 

“Yeah, and what of it? As if I would care?” Xue Yang fired back. He couldn’t help it. A-Qing made things too easy.

“Okay, if you have nothing to say, I’m hanging—” 

“They’re moving in,” Xue Yang cut in. 

“What?” 

Xue Yang rolled his eyes. On the screen the barber was fluffing up a towel and pressing it against the model’s neck. The screen was bright; Xue Yang turned the volume down. 

“Remember the two guys who keep tailing me? The ones who think they can just arrest me and turn me in?”

“Wait. They’re moving in ?” A-Qing squawked. 

“I don’t know why they try to keep a distance anymore. It’s not like they’ll be able to stop me in time.”

“Didn’t they learn their lesson the last time?” 

“Yeah,” Xue Yang said. He tried not to sound too pleased witih himself. “Last year’s arrest just blew up in their faces. God, I don’t know why I even tell you if you’re just going to make me rehash the whole thing.” 

“Well you’re not getting to the point,” A-Qing pointed out like the little troll she was.  

It was true. He was circling the issue because he still didn’t know what exactly to say. He wasn’t even sure when it started happening. Only that this wasn’t the first time. It had probably been one of those slow gradual things—put a frog in hot water, increase the temperature little by little, it’ll barely notice itself boiling. Once, Meng Yao told him the story as if Xue Yang were dumb and hadn’t heard it before—hadn’t already known that a story like this had been debunked. The internet is a helpful place , he’d told Meng Yao , you know I have access to it too, it's not one of your precious little resources. And Meng Yao hadn’t even hesitated, hadn’t missed a beat—had only segued into some comment about how people were adaptable—that all you had to do was guide them. 

Xue Yang grit his teeth. “I think I’m cursed.” 

Laughter. “What?” 

“I’m cursed,” Xue Yang repeated. He didn’t like that he actually sounded annoyed. But it was too late; A-Qing had also picked up on it, bad reception be damned. This had been a bad idea. 

“You’re going to have to give me more than that.” 

“Ugh—it’s just—you know that movie that you were crazy about last year? The gay one.” 

“Don’t be homophobic.” 

“No, like the one that was actually gay. Oh my god. The magic one, with the dumb guy? One day he wakes up and he can read people’s minds because he’s been a virgin the whole time, and then the mind-reading pushes him down fucking love .” 

A-Qing laughed again. “Okay. Yes. I remember. It was a good movie. I never understood why you hated it.” 

“Because it’s cheesy. And because that guy was lucky his crush wasn’t a freak. Like if it were me, then it’d be—” 

“Grosssssss. I don’t want to hear what you'd do or hear.” 

“Okay but that’s my problem. When they were moving in earlier, I bumped into them, and then...” He stopped and sighed. He knew he was beating around the bush but once he said it, it was true. It would become real. 

He wondered for a moment if Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen were getting bored of seeing him so regularly. The same old routine. His body cut out against the darkness. 

“Oh my god, Xue Yang, if you don’t spit it out, so help me—” 

“Okay, okay. So I brushed against them, right? One of them, the big one. Song Lan. And then I swear—I swear on my life—that I read his mind.” 

There was a pause. And then A-Qing went, “Nice try, Xue Yang,” which was par for the course, really, what had he expected? 

“I’m being serious,” he muttered. “I brushed up against him and I just—it was like, an out of body experience.” 

“Are you sure you’re not being poisoned or something?” 

“Obviously I’m sure, otherwise I wouldn’t be calling you.” 

“Honestly, I don’t know what you want from me,” A-Qing said. 

“I don’t know either! Validation? Hell. I just need to tell someone. In case they do end up killing me, like taking advantage when I’m freaked out. Because it’s freaking me out. It was like—ugh. Listen. When I touched him, I was in his head. Like that gay-ass movie, except it was fucked up. No, listen, this isn't dumb sex stuff. I mean, it is. But it was really my head in his, and thinking felt like trying to lick the surface of a big cement block all at once.” 

“I have no idea what any of that means.” 

They went back and forth for a while, until A-Qing declared that Xue Yang was actually insane, but maybe it wasn’t his fault, he was just low on sleep, and maybe Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen liked him, why else would two men follow a third around the world? They may as well fuck it out. It was her way of ending the conversation. Xue Yang knew this. She was always a rude little shit. And she had that sugar daddy waiting on her which had only made her more spoiled. Xue Yang had never met him but from what A-Qing said, the money was good and things were relatively painless. It was a good life—the guy provided for her in ways Xue Yang never could, not when it was just the two of them. 

He sighed. “Fine, I’ll let you go.” 

“Just get some sleep.” 

“Yeah, yeah.”  

Afterwards, he spread himself out on the carpet. Cheek against rough red wool, or whatever it was. It smelled like old cigarette ash; it probably was old cigarette ash. He rubbed his belly. He was still feeling funny, there was a sharp pain behind his eyes, and he didn’t like it. When he flexed his bad hand it seemed to get worse, which was also weird and uncomfortable. 

If this was Meng Yao’s doing, then he was a genius. Maybe a titrated potion like A-Qing had said, or some sort of drug. But this sort of thing didn’t feel like Meng Yao’s MO. Meng Yao was a snake, but he was an efficient snake. What did he have to gain from cursing Xue Yang with visions of actual fucking devious shit? Of Xue Yang’s mouth stretching over—

The barber on the screen coughed. Xue Yang brushed a thumb across the head of his cock. 

What he hadn’t mentioned to A-Qing: When he touched Song Lan, his arm against the other man’s, there’d been a worm of a thought, a little dent in that cement block. It’d been an image, a small one. Of a mouth full of cock, knees spread wide. Xue Yang couldn’t shake the picture—the mouth-feel of it. He wasn’t sure who it was meant for, who the mouth belonged to. He thought it was Song Lan’s, but when he licked his lips, he could almost believe it was his. 

++++++

Two dead CEOs and one castrated corrupt sect leader later, Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan were fighting in the apartment above Xue Yang’s. Xue Yang tried to make out the words but couldn’t. But there was something about the energy. That, and someone had put a fist through a wall. The sound had been unmistakeable. Probably Song Lan.

Xue Yang shouldn’t have been surprised. He usually spaced out the violence, allowed a few weeks to pass in between hits. His way of being considerate of Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen’s feelings. But Meng Yao had been firm. All three in a week—something about making a point. Meng Yao had wanted a show, something about a shitty madam, some woman who had extracted everything from his mother in the end. Xue Yang hadn’t pushed the issue—knew Meng Yao would have just clammed up. But it was personal—that much was clear. 

He sighed, stretching. It was late. He had the TV on, another barber ASMR video with the shitty the white noise. The barber was doing a sort of neck massage but the noise was distracting. The translation of the I Ching lay at his feet. He was trying to get through the part on oppression, or depletion but it wasn’t sticking. Figured.  

The text on his phone hadn’t changed. The words hadn’t rearranged themselves. Meng Yao’s instructions were clear. Two more kills: one tonight, another next week.

Another rattle upstairs. Footsteps. The door slammed, front door likely. Xue Yang leapt up and pressed his face against the door, eye against the little peephole. But there was nothing. 

His stomach grumbled. Probably the adrenaline. But the thought that came was a good one: He could bring them cookies. There was enough time to bake. Cookies, maybe. Something sweet. See what Song Lan would say then. 

Yesterday, when he castrated the sect leader, he had hesitated. Normally he didn’t hesitate. And it wasn’t actually a hesitation—that was false, it was more that he had done the deed slowly and without enjoyment. He had dug Jiangzai into the man’s belly first, and then he had withdrawn it and swept down. Slow, slow slices so that they had both felt the gravity of what was happening. And it had hit him that he had done this so many times that he was actually bored. There was still a beauty to what he did—it was art, after all, it was all a puzzle. But Meng Yao’s rules had grown so constraining that killing wasn’t even fun anymore, and what was actually fun was the leadup and the aftermath—the chase. It was the danger not of being caught, but of being caught by Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen. 

He decided on baking the cookies. 

He was a bit heavy handed with the chocolate chips. But they turned out good, soft, gooey in the center. He ate three before he threw the rest in a ziploc and went upstairs. 

Song Lan opened the door when he knocked. He didn’t seem mad to see Xue Yang, but he didn’t seem pleased either. His hair was braided—one thick braid that ended at the throat. Xue Yang hated it on sight. The homeyness of it. He couldn’t imagine Song Lan braiding his own hair—so it was Xiao Xingchen’s doing. Some people had everything, others, well…No use going there. 

“What is it?” Song Lan grunted. 

Xue Yang lifted the bag of cookies. “Baked something for you.” 

Song Lan blinked. “You baked something for us.” 

“I’m being neighborly.” 

“We’re not neighbors,” Song Lan said. 

“You moved in above me. Would you prefer that I describe you as stalkers?”

Song Lan’s jaw clenched. He still hadn’t accepted the bag of cookies, and Xue Yang was getting annoyed. Sure, it was a joke. It was an easy way to get under their skin, an obvious fuck you, I know exactly what you’re doing . But if Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen were as good as everyone thought they were, surely they could recognize how Xue Yang wasn’t even all that bad these days. Sure, he had a massacre or two underneath his belt, but that was it. He’d mellowed out, killed those he needed to—those who deserved it—and now he just killed for pay, and somehow the marks nowadays were all bad men anyway. Even if Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen arrested Xue Yang, by now everyone knew he worked for Meng Yao. And if they took it up with the other families, few would want to cross the Jins and follow through with a jail sentence—with any sentence, really. 

In some ways, Xue Yang knew was no different from a struggling actor, or a freelance writer. He played his part and he was paid. A-Qing liked to say he was now a slave to the wage, another cog in the system, but wasn’t that stability? 

There was a movie, he knew, of a man in his thirties bemoaning the things that he thought of, how different they were from the things of his youth. Rent and cash rather than art. But for Xue Yang it was rent and cash rather than murder, and surely that was something. Wasn’t that something? 

Song Lan still hadn’t moved. 

“Well?” Xue Yang dangled the cookies underneath his nose. 

“Fine.” 

Song Lan took the bag. He was about to close the door but Xue Yang snuck in a boot. 

“You're not going to offer me a tour?” 

“We’re still unpacking,” Song Lan said tightly. He set the cookies on the counter.  

“A shame. Need any help?”

Without waiting, Xue Yang slipped in underneath Song Lan’s arm. 

The apartment was, predictably, bare. By the windowsill, a few sticks of incense stood in a cup of rice. A few plates and white mugs scattered across the counter, all cheap shit from the furniture shop downtown, Xue Yang recognized the color, he had the same shit in black. He cocked an ear. The shower was running, ostensibly Xiao Xingchen. A shame, he’d been hoping he’d just have to deal with Song Lan. 

He found a spot on the sofa and sank back.

“Well?” he said silkily. “Aren’t you going to offer me tea?” 

“Fine.” 

“You don’t have to be a dick about it — 

The bathroom door opened. One wet foot stepped into the hallway, a head, long black hair, poked out. 

“Oh!” 

It was easy how beautiful Xiao Xingchen was. But what was nice was that he put in the effort to pretend to be surprised. As if he hadn’t heard Xue Yang knock—as if he really did miss Xue Yang’s whole exchange with Song Lan. Any mediocre cultivator would have heard Xue Yang coming a mile away. 

“Xue Yang!” Xiao Xingchen said. He rubbed a towel against the wet of his hair. 

“That’s my name.” 

“He brought cookies,” Song Lan said dully.  He nodded at the ziploc like it was vermin. 

“How sweet of you.” Xiao Xingchen’s teeth were sharp and Xue Yang took care to sink further into the couch, showing the line of his throat.  Xiao Xingchen stepped forward and stuck out his hand, and Xue Yang looked at it skeptically. When he had touched Song Lan…

“Well?” Xiao Xingchen said. His mouth widened. Xue Yang took the hand, holding it like he would something dead. He swallowed against the warm feeling, the squishing flop of his brain, the squelching exhale in his chest. 

Thinking was like rubbing his tongue against a fine thin wire. He felt his belly being jerked forward. His dick was warming. 

He shook his head when Xiao Xingchen dropped his hand, and when he finally raised his head to meet Xiao Xingchen’s gaze, he found himself already standing, the words coming out of his mouth clumsy and scrambled. 

“I should head out,” he said weakly. 

“I’ll walk him to the door,” Song Lan immediately volunteered. 

At the door, Song Lan was careful not to touch him, which made Xue Yang wonder whether he knew—whether Xiao Xingchen knew . He watched as Xiao Xingchen gave them a long steady look, and then Song Lan closed the door without a word and Xue Yang slumped against the cold paint, the cold walls, the cold railing. One foot in front of another until he was back on the carpet, the TV still blaring, the barber reaching for the scissors. 

Xue Yang snorted. They knew. They must have known. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And he still had Meng Yao’s stupid mark tonight. He still had to do the boring thing, Jiangzai eating its way through another chest. 

It was so annoying, so stupid. Xue Yang pressed his cheek against the carpet, listening to the sounds above, the still air, the sound of water and soap lathering, and he thought of how stupid everything was, the sects and their politics and their investments in cultivation technologies, the registration of anyone with a golden core, the shell corporations, the sugar daddies, the internet, the stuff that Meng Yao had that made his own anonymity impossible, and the two men upstairs, who seemed to think that they knew best, that they knew, truly, what was good. 

++++++

In his dream he was in a bathtub, warm water up to his chest, and his legs couldn’t move, he had the sense that they weren’t there, that they were on a table nearby, which was impossible, and his tongue was gone but his mouth was full. He tried to make a noise but it came out like a squeal, like a dog’s. Fingers curled, he reached up. He felt his face but the shape of it was wrong. When he blinked—his eyes worked, at last—he saw first darkness and then he saw the slender shaft, the descending torso, Xiao Xingchen’s delicate face prickling into a small smile.  It was like that other vision: Xue Yang wasn’t sure if he was himself or if he was Song Lan, but what he did know was that this was what Xiao Xingchen had been thinking, had been waiting for Xue Yang to realize, to share, and—

++++++

His phone buzzed. Two in the morning, enough time to get dressed, to get going. Xue Yang slunk down the stairs, clung to the shadows of the thin empty street. Only the little Japanese convenience store was open. By the water, he thought he could smell Shenzhen, or maybe this way faced Macau. He’d never been one for direction; he still didn’t get Hong Kong, found it to be a maze on top of a maze. Playground of the sects. In the darkness an old woman was pushing a cart of cardboard, and Xue Yang felt himself wind up. She was as small as A-Qing was. Bird-boned. How close they’d been, how forgotten. 

He had to stay focused. 

One hand on Jiangzai. He leapt up. Better to view the city from above. This area used to be an industrial center, they used to make soy sauce here, they used to dry slats shrimp here. A-Qing had told him stories once, what little she remembered from her grandparents. Back then, the city had been all neon lighting: bright edges, empty insides. 

The man was where Meng Yao said he’d be. Walking out of some gambling den, pockets of full, brown Italian loafers with gold horsebit detail glinting under the streetlights. Xue Yang waited until the man walked past the row of cars with the core-activated dashcams, the streetlights with their security camera collars. He didn’t think Song Lan or Xiao Xingchen were close; he would have felt them by now, he would have seen something. 

Underneath the bridge was where he did it. Slid his way behind the man, got so close he could see the individual hairs combed carefully across a thinning spot. Jiangzai found the throat, the cartilage. The man gurgled but that was to be expected. He didn't fight it. He just fell back, his expensive coat flapping open. Xue Yang took a handful of bills just like he was supposed to— make it look like a robbery gone wrong, Meng Yao had said—and pocketed some extra. He’d claim a dry cleaning fee if Meng Yao brought it up.  

He let the body fall. The heavy head hit the asphalt with a satisfying thud. Then he made his way back. 

++++++

He felt funny about it, the more he thought about it. He had done everything right, but it had been startlingly easy, even for him. He wondered if Meng Yao was setting him up for something, and he surprised himself with how much dread he felt at the prospect. 

He was comfortable now, whether he liked it or not. It had been what A-Qing had tried to say in her weird shitty way: He was comfortable, he had a degree of autonomy in his daily life. He could choose what to eat, he had enough money to decide whether he wanted to get take-out or cook at home. He had a fucking bed. This thing with Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan—he had as much power as they did. 

He stopped at the 7-11 and bought an egg sandwich. Chewing, he peered at the camera in the corner, above the clock. He tried not to think about the images of his face that were probably floating around some closed network out there. 

Back at the apartment, the expat tech bros on the first floor were holding a party. Plebs, Xue Yang thought. But they were the ones with the true autonomy, the true power. They made good money, they didn’t have to worry about cultivation techniques, they had good strong passports, they had no knowledge—had no need of knowledge—of sect politics. had grown up with books, with siblings, with holidays that were celebrated regularly and with love. Or at least that’s what the movies said, what the newspapers reported. 

He made it as far as the first landing when the door burst open and a group of them spilled out, giggling over something inane. There was a girl who was asking for a light, she wanted a smoke. Her friend caught Xue Yang as he was looking over, and when their eyes met, he hollered. “Hey, wanna join us?” 

“Sure.” 

“Great, come on.” 

Xue Yang followed them outside for the smoke and then they crowded into a warm living room. Someone had tried to decorate, it was a half-hearted effort: a giant plastic tree in the corner, cheap Christmas lights above the fake fireplace. Xue Yang felt dangerous. Jiangzai was by his hip, there was a patch along his sweater that was still damp from the dead man’s blood when he’d fallen back. 

Autonomy , he told himself. 

They crowded onto a couch. Someone had set up a slideshow on a projector screen, there was a photo of a wall where someone had spray painted the entire surface, the same phrase over and over again, I’m sick I’m sick I’m sick I love you. 

Someone handed him a beer. He swallowed, tasted nothing. 

The cigarette girl poked him in the ribs. “You want some?” She held up a baggie and jutted her chin at the glass table, where two of the guys had already started snorting. 

Xue Yang felt himself grin. “Yeah, why not.” 

++++++

He was high off his mind, he thought he could feel his brainstem wiggling. 

The walls between his ears were brittle. If he could only stretch, he’d be able to wrap his hands around the fake fireplace, the fake mantle, and crush it. Brick in his fists like powder. Jiangzai was jangling by his side, wanting to eat a bit of fun. Metal through the white of an eyeball. The odd reflection of himself in a nostril, the snot. Little grains of powder. His face felt like a mask he could take off. 

It was late. Cigarette girl was long gone, the party was dying down. The same image was on the projector screen but the words were reversed. I love you I love you I love you I’m sick.

Xue Yang came to a stand. He stumbled. “Gonna go back,” he said. A guy in the corner grunted. 

He stepped out. One foot in front of another, no different from earlier, or the day before, or the day before. “He fumbled for his phone, back pocket, warm from his ass grinding itself into the couch. Meng Yao had texted: You did it? 

"Fucking slave to the wage,” he grumbled to himself, and then typed out, yeah. 

He was back at that first landing, head bent, when he slammed into Song Lan. Either he was more fucked up than he’d thought or the big guy must have been trying to be quiet—he must have done it on purpose. 

They both reared back. 

“Watch where you’re going,” Song Lan hissed before pushing past. It was just a glancing brush for him but Xue Yang felt himself fall backwards. He was really more fucked up than he thought, he didn’t know what was in the powder, maybe this was Meng Yao’s doing. 

Song Lan’s face swam above him. Big blunt nose, full lips. Xue Yang bit back a laugh at how far they still were, they weren’t touching but he had caught the gist of the thought. 

“Here,” Song Lan said, and he offered his hand. Xue Yang was sure he knew now, because he looked faintly disgusted despite the offer. 

It felt like a dare—because it felt like a dare, Xue Yang took the open hand, kissed their palms together. 

++++++

As soon as he closed and locked the door behind him, he pulled out the plastic bin underneath the bed and dug through. His brain felt like it was melting. But his blood was hot, his dick was hard, he was so horny he was ready to rut his way into the mattress. 

He palmed the small assortment of dildos, tossed away the human variations. What was left: a blue fist, a thick black tentacle. A long upright tongue. 

He brushed his hand against the black tentacle. No. He wanted something ugly. He wanted something that would hurt him. The fist was new, he hadn’t tried it yet, had ogled at the size. 

He gave his cock two quick tugs, found the bottle of lube, 

When he had touched Song Lan, the image had been clear, it had been the clearest of the visions. It’d been a bird’s eye view, it'd been finally obvious who was doing what. Song Lan was chained to a chair, naked. Big squat cock resting between his thighs. He’d been watching a body rock up and down, all knees and shoulders. Thick dildo glued to the floor. And Xue Yang had known it’d been him—it’d been him on that dildo, performing for Song Lan—and from above Xiao Xingchen had swooped behind him and parted his legs further apart. Slowly, Xiao Xingchen had snuck a finger inside—deep inside, curling, and Xue Yang had felt it in his core, had felt the goodness, the way it made his insides squirm, and he’d screamed because he’d seen something else, had somehow seen his insides, warm and pink and sloppy and full, two cocks making their way in, one and then the other. He was all meat, raw, dripping. And Song Lan’s cock had jolted first—

Xue Yang gulped. He wanted it. That feeling. Two people turning him inside out. The insistent press of those bodies against his. The slick gross swing of Xiao Xingchen’s balls against his ass. The slow drag of Song Lan’s breath.  

He began to rock onto the silicone fist, his hole stretched around the first four fingers, the thumb, the meat of the palm. And then, smoothly, all at once, he slid down. It was too much, all at once. He looked down. Still hard. He took himself in hand, squeezing and rubbing and pulling grimly until he came. 

He made sure he screamed loud enough for Song Lan to hear. 

++++++

“I’m worried about you,” A-Qing was saying. She’d called early in the morning, at the crack of dawn. Since Xue Yang had disturbed her sleep, she may as well disturb his, she’d said, and Xue Yang didn’t have it in him to argue. 

“What are you talking about?” he said, turning on the TV. 

“I haven’t heard from you since the other day. No texts, no dumb memes.” 

“I thought you hated the memes.” 

“Yeah, but at least they tell me you’re alive.” 

Xue Yang yawned. “I’m not that fragile,” he heard himself say testily. 

“Uh-huh.” A-Qing paused. “And the weird thing you were telling me about…” 

“What?” 

“The Cherry magic shit.”

“What about it?” 

“Well, did it happen again?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

A-Qing let out an exaggerated sigh. “Xue Yang, I’m trying to show I care. If you can’t—” 

“It’s just weird!” Xue Yang bit out. He rubbed at his eyes. It was too early, his head throbbed, his hand hurt. He didn’t feel like being nice. The warm funny feeling he’d had last night, the wild warm odd feeling, had been replaced by an itch underneath his skin. He opened one eye and caught A-Qing giving him a decidedly maternal look through the phone screen. 

“Okay,” he said, “That’s it. Everything’s fine. Let’s just pretend everything’s okay and that instead of two stalkers, I have two sugar daddies who follow my every move, because that may as well be happening. I’ll be alive so long as they’re here.” 

A-Qing made a frustrated noise but she changed the subject. Smart girl. They went back and forth the way they usually did. Was A-Qing eating? Would she be coming back to the city next year? Lunar New Year was going to be early; Xue Yang didn’t care if they didn’t do Christmas, but it’d be nice to do something special for their holiday, because it was their holiday, always had been. 

“Yeah,” A-Qing said steadily. “Of course. I bought my tickets last night. Should be landing in Hong Kong the week before—don’t want to be crushed by the holiday travel.” 

“Good.” 

Xue Yang looked at her closely: expensive pink blush, matching nails, wide eyes with the dumb white-colored contacts she liked to wear. She brushed away a loose strand of hair, gave him a toothy smile. 

“Is that a silicone tongue behind you?” 

++++++

He tried to pick a fight with Song Lan the next time he saw him. They were both taking out the trash. Xue Yang didn’t have it in him to figure out whether Song Lan had been waiting for him —whether the meeting had been engineered. It didn’t matter; his skin was still itchy and Meng Yao still hadn’t paid him. Rent was due at the end of the week, but he didn’t want to poke the bear. If Meng Yao was in one of his moods, he could just as easily make Xue Yang go out and carry out two or three other hits for free, just because he knew Xue Yang needed the money. 

“Watch it,” Song Lan grunted. Somehow he’d slipped in front of Xue Yang to toss the black trash bag down the chute. It was surprisingly big, bulky, full. 

“Thought you guys were the crunchy type,” Xue Yang said, just to be annoying. 

“Excuse me?” 

“The two of you—you produce a lot of trash. Thought you’d be more the environmentally friendly types.” 

“What does it matter to you.” 

“It doesn’t. Just think it’s funny is all.” Xue Yang gave Song Lan his best shit-eating grin. He was standing in front of the door, blocking Song Lan from leaving. He could tell it bothered the man, the combination of the awful bright gray light had Song Lan squinting, and the smell of the recycling wasn’t exactly pleasant. Song Lan had on gloves—either out of caution for a Xue-Yang-shaped disaster or for the trash, it was unclear. 

Still, Xue Yang stepped forward. Poked one gloved hand experimentally, felt relief when nothing came, no visions. 

It really was touch, then. Actual touch. 

Song Lan jerked his arm away.

“Smart man,” Xue Yang said. He nodded at the gloves. He got a scowl for that. 

“It was Xiao XIngchen’s idea.” 

As if on cue, the door behind Xue Yang opened and Xiao Xingchen’s voice floated towards them. “If you’re done, you should both come up,”  

Xue Yang followed them out of the trash room and back up the stairs. He wondered what Xiao Xingchen was thinking. He thought of another movie he’d seen months ago, where the camera kept returning to the same place, focusing on the main lead as he stood, smoking, in front of a dark restaurant. Xue Yang had thought it was a lazy decision; there were other ways to show the passage of time; he’d tried to explain it to A-Qing, who had liked the movie, who had thought the decision was a good one. She had said that she liked the way the movie kept coming back to that one spot, that each time the image of the smoking man came up, the viewer interpreted it differently—what the stance meant, the slight lean forwards, the slow drag, the skein of light stretched across the man’s shoulders. It’s all context, it colors everything , she’d said, sounding young and old at the same time, and Xue Yang had scoffed because the statement had cut too close to the bone. Everything, after all, was context. Walking up the stairs, walking down the stairs. The other day he was tired. Earlier he’d been cranky. Now, he was eager. Waiting. Anticipation was making his toes tingle. 

The living room was clean. No mugs in sight. There was the chair from his dream; it was empty. 

Xiao Xingchen strode past the chair and the couch and made a beckoning motion with his thin long arm. “Bring him in here.”

“Are you sure?” 

Their voices rumbled. Xue Yang felt like he was out of his body. There was the odd familiarity, the sense that he had been here, been stripped down, been made raw. But that had been the vision, the dream, the premonition.

Song Lan sat him down on an empty bed, light gray sheets, two pillows. Made perfectly—likely Song Lan’s handiwork. Xue Yang stared at Xiao Xingchen’s face, which hovered before him. They weren’t touching; they were close to touching, but they weren’t. 

“You’ve been poisoned,” Xiao Xingchen said. 

“What?” 

“You’ve been poisoned.” 

Xue Yang straightened up. This wasn’t going how he thought it would. He twisted to look at Song Lan, who was still standing in the doorway. “Do you know what he’s talking about?” 

“When you killed the judge,” Song Lan said. “Ring a bell?? 

“He was a nasty fucker. Got paid off to jail innocent people.” 

“You’re not a Robin Hood,” Song Lan cut in. “Don’t paint yourself that way. You’re a mass murderer.” 

Xue Yang glared. His belly coiled, hot, molten. “If you just brought me here to lecture me about how bad I am—” 

“No,” Xiao Xingchen said. He smoothed his hands over his robes. “Last month, when you killed the judge, the sprinklers went off when you were leaving. Do you remember?” 

“Sure.” It’d been a temporary annoyance, but in hindsight it’d been better that way. If there was a chance he’d left even a shred of a fingerprint, it had likely been washed away. 

“Well,” Xiao Xingchen continued. He was still looking at his robes, his long fingers and their flushed pink nails. “It wasn’t actually water that came out of the sprinklers. Turns out it was laced with something.” 

Xue Yang felt himself stiffen. “The poison…” 

“You probably didn’t feel anything,” Xiao Xingchen said quickly. “And it’s understandable. The poison isn’t meant to kill. Just to wreak havoc on whoever sets it off.” 

“And what does it do exactly? Because I feel fine. Maybe tired, but fine.” 

“Well…” Now, Xiao Xingchen lifted his head, met Song Lan’s eyes. 

“Whoever comes into contact with the water ends up being able to read the minds of the first people they see — but only when they're touching.” 

“Well, as you probably saw, the first person I saw was the dead judge—” 

“The first living people,” Song Lan said curtly. “It’s not just mind-reading. It’s an…attraction. It enhances attraction.” 

Xue Yang felt himself stiffen further. “All because I saw the both of you after killing him?” 

“It isn’t our fault. You can’t blame us.” 

“Do I sound like I’m blaming you?”

“Yes?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Xue Yang,” Xiao Xingchen said sharply. Xue Yang snapped his gaze back towards Xiao Xingchen, who was looking at him with vague amusement. 

“God,” Xue Yang heard himself say. “It was probably the judge’s idea. Sick fuck.” 

“There’s a cure.” 

“Good. I’m assuming you didn’t just bring me here to give me the news.” 

He sat back and waited to see who would say it: Xiao Xingchen who was studiously looking at a spot above Xue Yang’s shoulder, or Song Lan, who was staring at his feet. 

“What?” Xue Yang joked, but his tone came out flat, nervous.

“There’s been a development.” 

“And? God, spit it out. You both remind me of my sister—” 

“Well we’re not. If we were your brothers—” 

Xue Yang threw Song Lan a wicked grin. “You wish you were.” 

Song Lan’s look of revulsion was worth the glare Xiao Xingchen shot at him. “Behave,” he said, tapping the side of Xue Yang’s knee, and this time, when it happened, Xue Yang was prepared, he sucked in a breath and he felt his mouth, warm and liquid, he felt his hips piston up, he felt warm, a wriggling mealy worm fat with want, as Xiao Xingchen reached deep inside him, all four fingers, thumb flexing, he looked down and Song Lan’s cum sloshed down his throat and he saw his belly bow out, his knees wobbling—-

Xiao Xingchen leaned back and nodded. “It’s what I thought. It’ll only get worse,” he said quietly. “More intense. I’ve been doing some research—the only way to get it out of your system is for you to do what it wants you to do. The poison needs a way to complete its circuit—once it does, it loses its potency entirely.” 

“What the fuck,” Xue Yang breathed. 

Xiao Xingchen shifted, sat on the bed beside Xue Yang. Their legs were a hand’s width apart. “They used to use this sort of thing in spy operations,” he said. “I came upon it in my reading. Back then, assassins would slip the poison in a drink and make sure they were near their mark—that their mark saw them first. Easy way to pick someone off if they’re begging for you.” 

“I’m not begging for you,” Xue Yang said. He folded his arms at Xiao Xingchen’s annoying silence. “So this is like a fuck or die situation?” 

“That’s a rudimentary way of putting it, but yes.” 

“Well this poison is rudimentary.” 

“Look on the bright side,” Xiao Xingchen said. With obvious deliberateness, he leaned in, rubbed their shoulders together, then brought a hand up to catch Xue Yang’s chin and direct it towards Song Lan, who was still standing in the doorway. But it was clear he was hard. Xue Yang shuddered. 

When Xiao Xingchen spoke again his voice was low and quiet. “I feel like you’ve been wanting this for a while. And we’d be lying if we didn’t.”  

Xue Yang felt drunk. “So you want…” He made a crude gesture. He didn’t care; he could feel the poison stirring now, the images in his head were flashing, a tightrope of visions, of his hole being turned inside out, of his insides kissing their way into Song Lan’s mouth. The nasty sound Song Lan would make, the way he’d tongue Xue Yang there, the way he might like it. 

“See?” Xiao Xingchen said quietly. “We got a bit of it too—a fine mist that night, we were too close. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you. So there is that. A sort of amplification.” 

“Will you still go after me after this? The following. Watching my every move.” Xue Yang asked. Someone had to be reasonable and ask the important questions. 

Song Lan snorted. “As if you care.” 

“You’re right. I’m used to the stalking by now. Maybe you’re the ones who’d be lost without me.” 

Song Lan stepped forward.  “You—” he started, but Xiao Xingchen shushed him and told him to go to the other room, to get the things they had discussed. They’d waited long enough. 

He turned back to Xue Yang. “Be good,” he said, and he stroked Xue Yang’s knee and smiled at the loud swallow that followed. 

++++++

How long had it taken? He didn’t know. He was panting. His shoulders burned. Earlier he’d been on all fours, had felt Song Lan pummel his way inside like it was necessary, like if he fucked Xue Yang hard enough he could exorcise a ghost. At first Xue Yang had fought back. He’d spat in Song Lan’s face, and then bit his palm. He’d writhed underneath the heavy press of the big stupid man, but the cock had been his undoing. The brush of Song Lan’s cock across his belly. It had made him stutter—Xue Yang had seen Song Lan catch the sound, saw the pleased look flit across his face—and he’d wanted to wipe it off Song Lan’s face so badly he’d bit down once more, at the tender flesh between neck and shoulder, and it’d been good and hot and violent. The crack of Song Lan’s hand across his face, and then the dry forceful shove between his legs. 

He was gaping now. He had to be. He was loose. But it was working. He still felt a little bit of it, the spackling of images, but it was like glitter, just snippets of senses, images that were incomplete. Song Lan’s hand was big and sticky on his ass. Xue Yang breathed in through his nose. He was being guided again, he loosened his jaw around Xiao Xingchen’s cock so that he could moan around the skin, the spit-slick length of him, and then there it was again, the heat. The insistent rub of Song Lan’s cock. In his head he saw a hole expanding, and then nothing. A cock with its head pierced nudging its way in. Spit running down a bare chest. 

He knew when Song Lan finished by the way the man’s hands dug into his ass. It felt better when Song Lan pulled out—he did so slowly, as if he knew that Xue Yang liked it this way. It was lonely, it was empty without a cock lodged inside him. Xue Yang moaned; he didn’t mean to, but he heard Song Lan’s breath hitch. “Fuck,” he was saying, and Xiao Xingchen was shushing him, his cock was pushing its way down Xue Yang’s throat, he had his other hand light around Xue Yang’s neck, like he could hold his cock through the cartilage. 

The snippets floated by: Xue Yang’s body stretched across a stripped down mattress, Xue Yang’s body tied up against Song Lan’s. His head nudged into Song Lan’s balls. The smell of him. Iris and hot jasmine and tea. The things Xiao Xingchen wanted to do to him, to them. 

Hot sun in Xue Yang’s belly. He wasn’t sure if it was—He wasn’t sure. Xue Yang’s knees were quivering. This long on the hardwood. It wasn’t good on the bones. Meng Yao’s voice echoing in his head. 

“Lighten up on him,” he heard Song Lan say. Their voices were distant. The deja vu was annoying, Xue Yang wanted to say, but his lips were swollen, there was still Xiao Xingchen’s cock in his mouth, soft now, like a gun. 

“We should rest,” Song Lan said, and the cock left Xue Yang’s mouth. He felt himself curl on the floor before Song Lan picked him up and carried him to the bathroom. Xue Yang closed his eyes. Body thrumming. The world was light and glass and metal. 

++++++

They ate in silence. Xiao Xingchen had ordered in congee and chicken and steamed bok choy, as if what Xue Yang had was the flu and not their cum inside him. They’d showered but they’d fucked after, and then they’d given him something of Song Lan’s; it was too big, it hung off his shoulders like a great white sheet. 

Every once in a while, Xue Yang caught Song Lan staring at him, black eyes giving nothing away. Xue Yang focused on the congee in his mouth. Part of him wanted to go at it again. His legs thrummed. Maybe it was the poison, maybe they hadn’t gotten rid of it entirely. Or maybe he was just losing it. No different from a TV with a bad case of static. 

++++++

He did a few more jobs. The next day he actually called up Meng Yao and nearly begged the man for a job, anything to get out of the apartment and do something. If A-Qing were here, she’d tell him to get a hobby, but he didn’t want to learn how to knit. He wasn’t ready for that kind of domestication; maybe one day, not today. 

Within a week there were three dead health execs — they deserved it, all inside traders — and a rotten politician. Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan had taken to following him again, two little shadows in the corner of his eye. Like cats. They didn’t make any move to come closer. But they didn’t hang back—they didn’t make themselves scarce. 

He thought about acting out, setting a fire somewhere or going too far on one of Meng Yao’s marks, but he always stopped himself. In truth, he didn’t want to risk it. He’d spent three months here in Hong Kong and he found that he liked it. The feeling of chaos that lurked underneath the surface. The density and the fact that he still felt lost, he still felt like he didn't know this place. It made him feel small and he liked feeling small, he liked knowing that he was among millions of people, that there were streets that were never fully dark, that he could dip into a bakery and order, in casual Cantonese, and be received with the same gruffness that everyone else got. No one cared who he was here. It was nice. It wasn’t roots, but it was nice. 

He downloaded an app that A-Qing had once mentioned and sat through a boring date: a lawyer who liked to work out midday. The guy had scheduled their date as a breakfast, and bought them hot coffees and nothing else, and he kept bumping his arm into Xue Yang’s, as if this were some way attractive, but it wasn’t, and after a while Xue Yang told him point blank he didn’t care about the muscle, it wasn’t what was going to get him to spread his legs. 

The second date was with a dancer. He was nice. Pretty, with a mean streak, pearl earrings because he thought they looked bitchy. They went out for drinks at some fancy French bar that had opened up in Causeway Bay. Xue Yang ordered something green and sweet and the dancer had nodded, ordered a martini for himself. They danced, and Xue Yang blew him in the single stall in the back of the club, his knees sticky, his mouth full but not full enough, and he felt strange, like something was missing, but he continued, he let the guy jerk him off and they went back to the dance floor and gave each other the kind of, okay thank you looks you gave after fucking someone you didn’t want to see again. 

He left not long after. He knew what was missing. His throat was sore. It was raining, just a little bit. Mist clung to the sides of things, and every few blocks Xue Yang looked behind him, waiting for the two shadows and finding none. 

++++++

Three knocks and Song Lan opened, stepped back.

“You reek.” 

“Good to see you too. You gonna let me in?” 

Frowning, Song Lan stepped aside. Xue Yang kicked off his boots, looked around. 

“Where’s the husband?” 

“Here,” came Xiao Xingchen’s voice. Xue Yang turned, and Xiao Xingchen was much too close, he’d somehow swooped in from the hallway, and Xue Yang found himself fighting against the urge to back up. He didn’t like being prey. 

“Well?” Xiao Xingchen said. “It’s late.” 

“And?” 

“Is there something we can help you with?” Xiao Xingchen reached out, thumbed Xue Yang’s bottom lip. From the corner of his eye, Xue Yang saw Song Lan bite his bottom lip. It wasn’t forced, he wasn’t thinking, they weren’t thinking. Xue Yang blinked. 

“I thought the poison had run its course,” Xiao Xingchen said, smiling. 

Xue Yang narrowed his eyes. “What if it hasn’t?” 

“Do you still see things when I touch you?” 

“What if I do?” 

Xiao Xingchen’s hand came up to meet Xue Yang’s forehead. “What do you see?” 

Xue Yang closed his eyes. Saw blackness, cool and pleasant. He cleared his throat.

“I see you on your knees, I see myself getting you ready to take my cock.” He coughed, he could feel it in his dick now, the heat. “I see you asking me for it. Asking for me to be gentle with me, but I know you want it hard. I know you want me holding you—fucking you until you can’t think, until all you want is my cum inside you, until all you are is a sleeve for my cock.” 

The hand lifted. Xue Yang opened his eyes. Xiao Xingchen’s pupils were huge, two giant marbles in that thin face, that lovely face. 

“And Song Lan?” he said, and he brought Song Lan’s heavy hand to rest on Xue Yang’s shoulder. 

“I see him on that chair,” Xue Yang said immediately, like his cock was fused to his mouth. He kept his gaze trained on Xiao Xingchen. “I see him on the chair as I’m fucking you. You have his cock in a metal cage. He’s soft but only because you’ve forced it, he’s small in the cage, he’s small and he wants to be big and hard. And as I fill you—as I make my way inside you—as I make you mine, you’re holding a vibrator to that cage, and you’re holding his legs down, and you’re watching him writhe, we’re watching him beg as I’m filling you with my cum because you’re mine, you’re both mine.” 

The words came out viciously. Song Lan’s cheeks were deep and pink. His jaw flexed, his arm was tight and hard underneath his shirt, and all at once Xue Yang had it, he saw the act in his head, like it was god-given, as if this had been what he’d been searching for all this time: their bodies locked together, Song Lan’s cock pulsing, coming despite the metal, the cage, the forced smallness, the way the cum would leak, the way he’d shiver. How Xiao Xingchen might put the entirety of him like that, the cock in the cage, in his mouth, how Song Lan would moan. 

He couldn’t help himself. He moaned, and as the sound left his body, Xiao Xingchen’s hand came around his cock and Song Lan’s mouth descended onto his mouth, and it was embarrassing, it was hot and it was humiliating, how he came like that, like he was a trigger being pulled, like he was Jiangzai finding bone and gristle and the open night air. 

++++++

He sat on the couch, his fingers tapping against his thighs and his spent cock. Xiao Xingchen lowered his head. Mouth around the metal cage, just like Xue Yang had said. The room smelled like sex. Sunset sloshed down the walls. Outside, a woman was calling out, she was selling fish balls, a specialty, homemade, they’ll remind you of home . 

Xue Yang let out a contented sigh as Song Lan let out a hitched gasp. 

“Must be the poison,” Xue Yang said to himself. 

Kneeling, Xiao Xingchen hummed something merry, Song Lan locked eyes with him. “Yeah,” he said solemnly, but his eyes betrayed him. “Must be the poison.”