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Chapter Text

‘Hey,’ He Tian calls out. ‘Remember this one?’

Sitting on the floor of Guan Shan’s apartment, he can hear rifling in the kitchen, ceramic and glass clacking against each other, Guan Shan contending with tiny cabinets and doors that won’t close and a hanging lightbulb they both knock their heads against, elbows caught on countertops and hips on left-open drawers.

His apartment sits south of the city, hutong roofscapes visible through the kitchen window, a shantytown clinging to the river banks through the window of the bedroom-living room. It’s a small place that leaves bruises on Guan Shan’s edges, boyhood lankiness making room for a taut musculature that He Tian enjoys running his hands across, and He Tian has warmed to it.

He’d hated it at first: too small; too dirty from the last tennants who’d stained the floor and broken the sink; too cheap. Guan Shan deserved better. But it had grown on him, made his own home too big—too much space, too much emptiness. Why was he paying so fucking much for an apartment that made him feel so fucking alone?

Here, he always has something at his back. Here, he can live a life in twenty square metres. Here, there’s Guan Shan.

‘Which one?’ Guan Shan asks, ducking his head around the corner, tea towel in his hands. His hair is wild and still sleep-mussed, t-shirt stained with toothpaste and the beginnings of breakfast.

He Tian smirks at the sight of him, but holds up a scrap of paper. ‘Wolf Warrior 2.’

Guan Shan squints at the movie stub in He Tian’s hand, then rolls his eyes. ‘Are you feelin’ sentimental or somethin’?’

‘It was our first official date,’ says He Tian, drawing a knee up. There’s no room to stretch his legs out fully. He points the ticket at Guan Shan. ‘You’re the one who kept the ticket. And, well, all of this.’

This is an AF1s shoe box kept on the shelves above the mattress and filled to bursting with ticket stubs and restaurant receipts and wristbands and grainy photo booth print-outs. There are torn boarding passes from their trip to Sapporo last February, takeout receipts stained with grease and splatters of hot-and-sour soup, a book jacket of A Perfect Crime with A Yi’s signature scrawled on the back, courtesy of He Tian’s ‘connections’, and photos. Photos of their hotels and nights in the park, laid on their backs with eyes on the stars; photos of He Tian, sleeping and laughing and studying; photos of alleyways and street graffiti and webs of overhead wires. He Tian doesn’t recognise half the stuff Guan Shan has sequestered over the past years, acknowledges with a little shame that Guan Shan has marked every date and day trip and moment spent with each other like a little fragment of them, cherished and kept—a record of time immemorial.

Guan Shan narrows his eyes. ‘What d’you mean—first official date?’

He Tian puts the ticket stub away. ‘Let’s be serious,’ he says. ‘We were dating before we were dating.’

Guan Shan puts the towel over his shoulder and folds his arms. ‘If you’re talkin’ about the theme park you bought out for the day—’

‘The theme park,’ He Tian concedes, ‘and the dinner at Diaoyutai. And the weekend in Hong Kong. The shared beds. We went to see Zuoxiao Zuzhou together—VIP passes, remember?’

‘I thought that was you flashin’ cash. Tryin’ to prove somethin’.’

He Tian looks at him pointedly. ‘You held my hand on the flight home. The whole way.’

Guan Shan says, ‘If that plane went down, you bet I’d die with the satisfaction of breakin’ your fuckin’ hand.’

Oh.

‘You’re unbelievable,’ He Tian murmurs.

Guan Shan shrugs, a callous lift of his shoulders that says, I’m not apologising, and you love me for it.

He Tian shakes his head. Fuck him, he does.

‘What are you making?’ he asks. There’s a scent coming from the kitchen, something savoury and mouthwatering, the crackle of oil heating in a pan. He Tian’s stomach twists with hunger.

Guan Shan jerks his chin in He Tian’s direction. ‘Admit you only stay over for breakfast and I’ll tell you.’

He Tian hums. ‘I stay for the sex and that tea-tree shampoo you buy.’ He bobs his head to the side. ‘And the breakfast.’

Humour tugs at Guan Shan’s lips, and satisfaction wells in He Tian like hot tea poured down his throat and pooling in his stomach. It took him years to win that skill: the art of making Guan Shan laugh. He Tian covets it close, remembers things—events, times, dates—in the number of times Guan Shan’s lips have curved into a smile or laughter has bubbled from his throat, light as a bell whistle and clear as ice. So incongruous with the rest of him, his gruff remarks and his jagged edges patched up with tape.

‘I’m makin’ pancakes,’ Guan Shan tells him, voice warm, like a reward. He Tian should’ve known; there’s flour on his knuckles, the dish towel, and pastry under his nails.

‘Scallion?’

‘And fennel.’

He Tian groans, thinks of Guan Shan’s cong you bing, the crispy edges and chewy centre, sweet-salty dipping sauce that He Tian will lick gladly from Guan Shan’s fingers. ‘You spoil me. I’ll spend the whole day making it up to you.’

‘Yeah?’ says Guan Shan, eyebrows raised. ‘How’s that?’

He Tian wets his lips. ‘I can think of a couple ways.’

Guan Shan’s mouth twists again, and he pulls the towel from his shoulder. He wrings it between his hands, and He Tian frowns at the motion. A nervous gesture?

‘The dough has to rest for an hour,’ Guan Shan says. ‘That enough time?’

He Tian shrugs off his confusion, lets it give way to something far stronger, and holds a hand out. ‘Plenty.’

An hour later, and there’s flour on He Tian’s collarbones and a mouth-shaped bruise on his wrist. The apartment smells sticky with sweat and cum, and He Tian crawls onto his knees to crack open a window before collapsing at Guan Shan’s side again. He sighs. His elbow knocks against the wall, feet pressing against the wall opposite, Guan Shan’s mattress so tightly wedged into a corner that it nearly bends.

‘This place is—’

‘Too small,’ Guan Shan finishes.

He Tian kisses him on the pale stretch of skin that connects shoulder to neck, feels a cord of muscle jump beneath his lips.

‘It’s fine,’ He Tian murmurs. ‘I have an excuse to be next to you.’

Guan Shan huffs, presses his cheek against the pillow until they’re eye-to-eye. ‘You need an excuse?’

‘Fine,’ says He Tian. ‘I need an excuse to get those scallion pancakes.’

Guan Shan scowls, jabs He Tian in the side none-too-gently. ‘Is that you tellin’ me to get in the kitchen?’

‘You know me better than—Hey! Aw, come on, come back!’

Guan Shan ignores He Tian, gets to his feet. He Tian feels a flare of panic, dull and muted by the sensation that pools in his belly when he looks up: Guan Shan, tall and naked and standing before him. No shame, no reddish blush that spreads across his chest. A youth in his prime, and He Tian has the gift of being his audience.

‘Babe, you know I don’t mean it—’ He Tian starts.

‘Wait here,’ says Guan Shan. He swipes a pair of underwear from the floor and snaps the waistband against his abdomen. The condom lands limply on He Tian’s chest, and he plucks it off before it spills. Guan Shan wanders into the kitchen before He Tian can protest, and He Tian looks at the condom.

Not even a post-fuck kiss, he thinks, miffed.

He showers, shoulders curved to stay under the paltry spray of lukewarm water, smokes a cigarette on the external stairwell of Guan Shan’s apartment building, and puts Guan Shan’s room back together: trinket box set away, bed sheets stripped and thrown in the wash, a window cracked to let Beijing’s mid-November air in. He’s setting a candle to light when Guan Shan walks back in with a tray, and He Tian settles back on the newly made bed, their mattress a dining table for two, spines curved, heads bowed.

‘Here,’ says Guan Shan, setting the tray down on the sheets. On it sits the pancakes, a small bowl of dipping sauce, and a box. Small, innocuous. He Tian can’t stop staring at it.

He wouldn’t.

‘What are you…’

Guan Shan lowers down onto one knee, and puts a finger on the box.

He would. He fucking would.

‘You know,’ he says, ‘it took a really long fuckin’ time for me to stop hatin’ you.’

He Tian swallows, breathes out slowly. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, a little acidly. ‘I don’t think that’s how these things are supposed to start—’

‘Let me finish, alright?’ Guan Shan snarls.

He Tian bites down on the inside of his cheek and holds his hands up. There’s a smile pulling at his lips—a shit-eating grin the size of the moon—and it’s an effort to keep it under wraps. Guan Shan’s cheeks are flushed, and his lashes are wet. He can’t meet He Tian’s eyes.

‘I thought that you were better than me,’ Guan Shan continues. ‘I knew you were better in a lotta ways. Not many ways that mattered, but—it mattered to me. I hated your money. I hated your fuckin’ charm. Your looks. I hated that people didn’t hate you like I thought they should’ve.’ Guan Shan shakes his head, sticks a finger in the dipping sauce and touches it to the end of his tongue. His fingers curl while he processes the taste. He says, ‘I thought about killin’ you so much more than was healthy for a fifteen-year-old kid. I thought about fuckin’ you more than was healthy for a fifteen-year-old with that kinda hate in their system.’

He Tian sighs. They’ve covered this before. So many times. Years of rekindling old flames that burned themselves out and spat on them with lighter fluid—until they started again, rebuilt from razed ground, looked back on the past like a haze of smoke.

‘Guan Shan—’

‘And now I love you,’ Guan Shan cuts in. ‘I fuckin’ love you and I hate myself that I didn’t see it comin’. I didn’t see that I’d love how you look, how you talk, how you make me fuckin’ think I can do and be more.’ He wipes a hand over his face. ‘I didn’t see you and me here—my own place, and you in it. Even if it’s shitty and—’

‘Small.’

‘—and small and fuck off, I’m trying to ask you to marry me, you fuck.’

He Tian looks at him for a moment. There’s so much whirling behind his shutters, a hot storm in the winter, a meteorological phenomenon of misplaced anger and obsession and fear. And love. As much love as He Tian can hope for right now.

‘This… Hm.’ He Tian tilts his head. Something, trapped, trembles in his throat. ‘This is a proposal?’

Guan Shan breathes in sharply. ‘Aw, shit…’ He breathes out. ‘I’m fuckin’ this up, aren’t I?’

‘No,’ He Tian blurts. He scrambles onto his knees, grabs Guan Shan by the wrists, the shoulders, cups his cheeks, his jaw in his hands—anywhere he can get his hands on him. ‘No, you’re not. You’re not. I could listen to you fuck your way through asking me to marry you for a lifetime.’

Guan Shan scowls, won’t look at him. ‘You’re an ass.’

‘You’re perfect.’

He Tian sees him pause, sees him digest the fact. Honest, and unflinching. He’s the real thing, jagged edges and all. Loyal to those who deserve it, loving to those who ask for it, a patched up unit of bared teeth and grazed knuckles, straight off the streets and willing to fight to the death, that let He Tian into his bed and then to his life.

‘I didn’t think you were into marriage,’ says He Tian. ‘I would’ve done this a long fucking time ago if I’d known.’

Guan Shan shrugs, looks down. ‘I didn’t. And then… I thought about a ring, and our names, and getting it all signed and all that symbolic patriarchal bullshit and—’

‘You couldn’t help yourself.’

Guan Shan frowns. ‘Your brother helped with the ring.’

He Tian stills.

It takes two seconds to snatch the box from the tray and lift the lid, hinges creaking slightly, and He Tian stares.

‘My mother’s…’

‘He Cheng had it. Said he realised he was never gonna use it himself.’

He Tian’s mother had been a tall woman, nearly his father’s height, taller when she wore heels. Long legs, long neck, jet black hair down to her waist and then cut pixie-short not long before her death, hands that would dwarf his as a kid, a wedding band that would slide loosely over his largest knuckles. He thought she’d been buried with the ring. He thought his father had taken it and sold it for bullion.

‘It should fit,’ says Guan Shan. ‘If you wanna… put it on.’

He Tian says, ‘I haven’t given you an answer.’

‘You haven’t,’ Guan Shan agrees, slightly sour.

‘You haven’t asked me a question.’

In response, Guan Shan takes the box from He Tian’s hands with a gentle tug, and turns the box around, the gold band staring up at He Tian from its velvet cushioning—a promise, a memory, a yes-or-no question that doesn’t deserve a smirk or snarky retort latent with arrogance. Not this time.

‘He Tian,’ Guan Shan starts. ‘I don’t wanna wake up to another day where you’re not next to me. I didn’t think I could feel like this about someone, ‘specially not you—but I do. And I have for a while and it hasn’t gone away so I guess it’s the fuckin’ truth and not some sick universal joke.’ He takes a breath, steadies himself. ‘I love you, Ah-Tian, and I want you to marry me. So… Will you please just fuckin’ say yes?’

He Tian waits for his blood to stop pumping so loudly in his ears, and then he plucks the ring from its hold, twisting it to catch the beam of light that leaks through the windows, flitting with dust, refracting against the gold. The room is so quiet, and anything He Tian could say right now seems too loud, a rude interruption, callous and ignominious in the face of what Guan Shan is offering. He Tian doesn’t deserve it, but that’s never stopped him, a flaw that works well in his favour—acting only on want, a selfish appetite for desire.

‘It’s embarrassing,’ he says, ‘that you think there’s any part of me that could say no.’

Chapter Text

The wedding will be at sunset. The sky: a paintbrush streak of violet and violent pinks, a sun dipping low beneath the mountainside to the west, long shadows cast like a continuous rolling of the die and skin surrendering to goosebumps. At sunset, the lights click on around the main house, lighting cobblestone pathways and courtyard gardens sequestered between guest rooms and trellis walls smothered in magnolias, and a pond full of koi and lilies which, gently filled by a small stream running alongside the grounds, laps quietly at night.

For logistic’s sake, it will be at eight.

Guan Shan’s mother will attend; his father, whose sentence is still long and perpetually unserved, will not, and his grandmother, running her small Sichuanese farmstead single handedly since her husband’s passing, refuses to board a plane. He Tian’s list of attendees fares little better: there’s his brother (it’s his house—he’ll be there), his father and the man’s wife (whose invitations go unremarkably unanswered) and no other extended family to speak of. None that matter.

They’d had options: a villa in Monte Carlo, a beachfront in Bali, a registry office in Beijing, but what sense did it make when they had this? Across the main garden, a cuckoo hums from the willow tree, its leaves turning yellowish in the heat, fragile as a palimpsest. From his bench, He Tian can hear the soft rush of reeds brushing against each other, bamboo stems clacking in a hot, sticky summer breeze; he can smell the redolence of white peonies in late-bloom and low-hanging apricots unpicked from their tree, flower ceding to fruit, sweet and ready to turn beneath the cigarette smoke.

According to He Cheng, their mother had made the bench when she was pregnant; she’d bundled together branches from a larch, cut down from the thickets on the outskirts of the grounds, their bodies destined for a bonfire, and whittled them into something sturdy and smooth enough to sit on, wiping the sweat from her brow, her belly round beneath her dungarees. She’d been good like that, apparently—resourceful, tireless, considered time something worth investing into unloved things.

‘Like me?’ He Tian had asked at the time, wanting to hear stories about his mother the way a chick wants to take its first flight off the cliff edge.

‘Unloved things,’ said He Cheng, a teenager, smoking a cigarette (their father was away for the weekend; he was spared any judgment), ‘doesn’t mean they weren’t loved by her.’

Beside He Tian now, a bird bath stands empty, the stone damp and speckled with mildew, full only of cigarette butts that He Tian has deposited into the basin over the past week. By now, the staff have come to recognise the spot as his: his bench, his ashtray, his thinking spot—like some old philosopher sucking on a pipe and perusing his garden, or a poet admiring the same.

Today, there’ll be no more admiration. No more silent contemplation in the hidden parts of the house. Today, he’ll marry, have another figure sitting beside him on the bench, chastising his habits, silences shared or thwarted entirely by an acerbic comment or expression of disgruntled appreciation. Either way, He Tian doesn’t mind.

He hears the footsteps before he sees the shadow, shoes grinding out paving stones—pausing; continuing—and He Tian stubs out the remnants of his cigarette into the stone ashtray.

‘Come to give me something blue, Zhan Zhengxi?’

Zhengxi stops beside him, eyes bright. ‘How’d you know it was me?’

He Tian leans back, and smiles. ‘The staff don’t bother me here, and you walk quieter than Jian Yi. He’s like a fucking spaniel around here. Process of elimination.’

‘Couldn’t be Mo Guan Shan?’ Zhengxi says, too carefully, a hand resting tentatively on the back of the bench.

‘I’d know him anywhere,’ He Tian says, and then, ‘Sit down and spit it out. You’ll frighten the birds with your lurking.’

Zhengxi lowers himself down, careful. He wipes his palms across his knees, and says, ‘We can’t find him. We’ve looked everywhere.’

‘The spaniel?’ He Tian mocks.

‘Guan Shan.’

He Tian leans back. ‘Hm,’ he says, and considers another cigarette. Instead, he glances at his watch, notes the time. 2pm. ‘We’re getting married in six hours.’

‘The staff said they saw him leave your room this morning, and since then… We didn’t want to worry you, but—you said…’ I’d know him anywhere. Zhengxi leans forward, tries to catch He Tian’s eyes, then looks away. ‘Did he say he was going somewhere? His mother’s gonna be here in an hour, and the rest of the guests in two. I’m just saying, his suit’s still in the room and he’s supposed to shower and—’

‘Nothing since this morning?’ He Tian cuts in. He’d gone up the mountain before the sun rose, until his spine ached from bowing at the headstone nestled between pansies and long grass that stained his knees green. He thought, when he reached flat ground, that she would approve of his choice—of the man who’d chosen him. ‘He can’t have gone far,’ he murmurs.

Zhengxi squints around him. ‘How big is this place?’

‘Ten square miles, give or take.’

Zhengxi pauses. ‘Right,’ he says. Gruffly: ‘We could spend all day looking for him.’

He Tian leans back. ‘He’ll come back,’ he says. ‘You know what he’s like.’

‘What if he doesn’t?’

‘It’s my wedding day, Zhan Zhengxi,’ He Tian reminds his friend, kindly. ‘That’s not a question you’re supposed to make me think about.’ He pulls out his phone, checks the time, notes the unread messages and missed calls—none are from Guan Shan. He pockets his phone again, and peers around the garden. There are rosefinches in the trees, pecking at netted globes of fat and seed; the droning hum of cicadas is loud and lazy, the surrounding fields laden with the winged insects all the way up to the mountains. Even in He Tian’s pocket of shade, it’s hot. The sun is nearly at its peak, turning the sky hazy and humid, and the pond water glistens where it hits the surface and slices through to the rocks and koi underneath. He Tian toys with the ring that sits neatly on his finger—his mother’s; he’d been so ready to wear another today, another metal weight to catch on a fingernail or a scrap of cloth or out the corner of his eyes.

He says, with a sigh, ‘He hasn’t called.’

‘You think he would?’ Zhengxi asks.

He Tian smirks. ‘The guy would feel compelled to pay for someone’s groceries if he knocked into their cart in the supermarket,’ he says, and then: ‘Not that he’d offer or take blame, but—point being he’d call before leaving me at the altar to apologise. Something—’ He flicks his fingers. ‘—vague and pithy, the idiot.’

Zhengxi makes a sound of quiet consideration, quieter surprise. ‘I imagined him thinking he’d be saving everyone the trouble by just… wandering off.’

He Tian chuckles. ‘Nice idea, but he’s not that much of a martyr.’

He can feel the weight of Zhengxi’s gaze, the cautious consideration, a question unasked that’s ready to spill like an overfilled cup. Had it been Jian Yi in his place, there would’ve been no hesitancy or trepidation. Instead, Zhengxi measures himself, and He Tian resents him for it.

‘You…’ Zhengxi pauses, wets his lips. He clasps his hands together, lets them hang loosely between his knees. ‘You don’t seem worried.’

He Tian turns his gaze on him. ‘You really think he’s about to leave me because he’s wandered off for the morning?’

Zhengxi says, ‘I know what he’s like, too.’

He Tian sighs, gets to his feet, rolls his shoulders, and lights up another cigarette. It helps, a little. Zhengxi blinks at the smoke that drifts towards his face, and lifts his hand to waft it away. For one final moment, He Tian observes the garden before him and the cluster of guest houses and staff rooms that hug the opposite edge of the pond. After a week here, he’s ready to leave. The summer pollen has begun to cloy, the heat turned oppressive on the back of his neck, no amount of cool damp towels enough to wipe away the sweat. At night, the incessant pur of the cicadas and shrill caw of nightjars keep them awake at night, and Guan Shan swats lazily at the mosquitoes that find their way into their room, and He Tian misses the city.

He misses Guan Shan’s apartment; how he can touch each wall, fingertip to fingertip, his arms outstretched; the small confines of the one-bed unit in Beijing that gives them more solitude than anything He Cheng’s ten-square-mile property on the outskirts of the city can promise him. He misses the privacy from his brother’s men, the staff, the servile eyes on the back of his neck, and knows, too, that the novelty of the estate is fading in Guan Shan’s eyes.

‘I’ll sweep the grounds,’ He Tian says. Another glance at his watch. ‘We still have a few hours.’

Zhengxi stands, too. ‘What about his mother?’

‘Get Jian Yi to give her a tour of the place. He’ll keep her distracted for a while. He’s good at that.’

Zhengxi shakes his head, but he’s wearing a small, token smile, brimming with fondness. ‘He really is.’

***

Like most of the fixtures around the He’s grounds—the archery range, the pool, the badminton courts—the stables are a mile’s uphill hike that leaves He Tian sweating in his t-shirt and loose cotton trousers, and bestows a strip of sunburn down the arrow-point centre of his nose. Despite this, the sun has done them good out here for a few days; it’s left Guan Shan with a distractingly bronzed hue and an outbreak of freckles on his skin, like seedlings breaking ground, and He Tian has dedicated a certain amount of energy each night to kiss each and every one. Yesterday, his shoulders. Tonight, he’d hoped, Guan Shan’s thighs.

If I could fucking find him, he thinks, I’d be a bit more optimistic about the prospects.

He reaches the stables, takes stance, and puts his shoulder into opening the tall entrance doors that give way after the third push, groaning on their hinges. Dust and stale hay tickles his nose, hot air disturbed. A thin layer of dirt crunches beneath his feet as he peers through the building. Light burns through the windows near the roof, where high, A-frame beams come to a juncture, and the heat inside is stifling. He Tian swipes an arm across his damp forehead; a strip of sweat makes the dark hairs of his forearm glisten.

They haven’t used the stables in years; half of it burnt down a few decades ago, a few racehorses lost in the blaze set by one of the staff, and there’s a fine division between old and new: new wood varnished to a gloss, and the old marked with wormwood and worn down to softness. He Tian remembers having riding lessons as a kid, a straight-backed teacher who was heavy-handed with the whip. The lessons, his father had told him, were a privileged necessity.

Now, the stalls lay empty, and He Tian’s footsteps echo from the rafters. His brother, he notes, looking around, never bothered with the upkeep, didn’t waste time with pedigree breeding. It’s all muscle memory anyway, He Tian decides: thighs tight around the broad back of a horse, feet poised in the stirrups, the burn in his backside after a long ride.

There’s a huff.

He Tian goes still. The sound comes from the far wall, but the stables are barren—it doesn’t come from inside. After a long pause, treading carefully, He Tian backs out of the stables. He sticks to the edge of the building, fingers trailing along the wooden beams painted green that skirt the structure. When he reaches the rear wall, he stops. Straightens.

A wooden awning has been constructed against the back wall; there’s water—still cold, he notices, flicking his fingers through the trough, and a bucket of feed. The awning is positioned well enough to provide perpetual shade, a noticeable drop in heat where He Tian stands under the shadow of the lean-to roof. An old fan motors from the top corner, spitting out a faint sigh of air; cobwebs are entangled in the mesh casing, and it shudders as it sweeps.

‘Huh,’ He Tian says softly.

The pony pays him no notice; she’s stocky, her pale grey coat hidden beneath a flysheet, a familiar, chestnut-coloured mark stamped along her nose. She huffs again as He Tian shifts his weight, taking a step closer, and she noses at the bucket of feed. Flies spin around her, pestering in the heat, and she wafts at them with a mindless flick of her tail. If she recognises him, she pays no notice. He’s not offended; he would’ve been seven or eight at their last meeting, and he’s changed since then.

‘You haven’t, have you, Magu?’ he murmurs. He moves carefully, satisfied as Magu allows him the privilege of placing a hand on her neck, her skin warm. He strokes, soothing, and pats at her flank. She’s middle-aged, but well kept. He thought she’d been sold off, another child’s stubborn companion, or sent to market. He Cheng, it seems, has tended to her well.

He Tian presses his lips together. How much has He Cheng left unsaid, untold? In how many ways are He Tian’s childhood memories fractured and defective, the cracks filled with ill-fitting fragments of incomplete truths?

He Tian shakes his head. Guan Shan, he thinks, would like a pet. Maybe a dog that they can lead around the apartment block at night when the sun has set—a French bulldog, or corgi. Something small. A cat, perhaps. Maybe both. They’d look after it well; they’d have the time.

Eventually, He Tian steps back. The sun has reached its zenith, is now falling down in the sky, and he doesn’t have all day. He spares Magu a passing glance, and she swishes her tail. Her ears flick. She’s satisfied, and needs no fawning. He Tian shakes his head again, muttering under his breath, and moves back towards the front of the stables where the main path of the grounds lies.

Did he expect to find Guan Shan there, slumped against one of the stalls while he breathed in the stale air like a sauna? Probably not. Worth a shot. He’d kick himself if he didn’t try.

Away from the stuffiness of the stables, he’s grateful for the clean air despite the late August humidity, and his fingers swipe deftly across his phone.

Where are you? he types out. Jian Yi’s looking for you.

The network signal is patchy around the estate’s grounds, barely functional further up the mountains, but two ticks show next to his message. Delivered. He Tian shuffles from side to side, rolls his shoulders. Waits. He pulls his hand away from the packet of Chunghwa’s in his back pocket. He’s been trying to quit, didn’t want to smell of smoke on his wedding day, but the habit’s yet to kick.

After a few minutes, the message remains unread, unanswered. He Tian makes a sound of frustration, kicks the toe of his shoe into the dirt path. Dust whirls, settles. He presses his phone’s standby button, and lets his hand drop to his side.

‘Typical,’ he mutters, eyes roaming the landscape, wincing at the sun. ‘Chasing after you even on our wedding day.’

He hasn’t started to panic—not yet. Guan Shan was the one who’d kneeled down on the floor of his apartment, served up scallion pancakes with a ring for dessert, stumbled his way through a proposal that stemmed from vitriol and earnest desire. A heady mix, red-raw, the declaration of love barbed and antagonistic. Importantly: Guan Shan had proposed to him, not the other way around.

He makes his way to the archery range, the pool, the annexed gallery off the back of the house. He finds no more surprises; finds each one emptier than the next. He trusts Zhengxi’s word, doesn’t doubt Jian Yi’s search efforts, but eventually he doubles back down to the house. The sun is finally making its descent, and the smell of cooked meats and soup wafts from the kitchen, an imperceptibly cooler breeze carrying it out to the driveway.

He Tian skipped breakfast, eager to make his way up the mountain before the day grew too hot, but now he has to ignore the twisting of his stomach as he takes the steps up to the main foyer. Inside, He Cheng stands at the bottom of the stairs, and Qiu is tapping away at a small tablet in his hands. He Tian approaches them, appraising. Despite the heat, they’re both wearing their suits, and He Tian’s eyes lingers on the dark earpiece that slips down the back of Qiu’s shirt.

‘Are we expecting trouble?’ He Tian asks.

‘It’s precautionary,’ He Cheng answers, letting his hands clasp loosely behind his back. ‘I’ve stationed men around the perimeter of the estate. I wouldn’t want anyone getting lost.’

He Tian stiffens. He passes his gaze between the two men, and they stare back in stoic silence. The word ‘lost’ rattles around in his skull like loose teeth. Don’t ask, he tells himself. He doesn’t want this to turn into an operation, the grounds crawling with men like a kicked hive.

‘You’re not worried about people wandering,’ He Tian says eventually, a slow-burgeoning smile toying on his lips. ‘Who d’you think’s gonna try and get in?’

‘It’s just precautionary,’ Qiu says again, before He Cheng can answer.

He Tian shrugs. ‘Can’t be anyone too scary,’ he says. His gaze slides to his brother’s. ‘Not with our baba and his wife skipping out on the invite. We’re slim pickings. Well, you not so much.’

‘He’s letting you use the house,’ He Cheng warns. ‘Don’t be ungrateful.’

‘Your house now,’ He Tian reproves. And then: ‘If I’m grateful for anything, it’s him not showing up. Best wedding gift he could’ve given. He can choke on the Double Happiness Cake for all I fucking care.’

‘Don’t be bitter.’

A bark of laughter. ‘I’m getting married, brother. I can be whatever the fuck I like.’

He Cheng’s dark eyes harden into severity, his forehead marked with frown lines. ‘Then for both your sakes, I hope you let yourself feel something that’s worth it.’

He’s not worth it, is the underlying message behind his brother’s words. He Tian knows it—believes it. He’s learnt it well, a lesson scored in the back of his mind that has been taught afresh with every absence. Parents’ evenings and graduations, sporting matches and awards ceremonies and concerts. He Tian doesn’t care. He prefers this to the loathsome possibility of catching his father's watchful gaze while he declares his vows. If it hadn’t been for Guan Shan, He Tian wouldn’t have bothered with an invite.

‘He’s your father,’ Guan Shan had said, pushing a blank invitation towards him. Of the two of them, He Tian had neater handwriting.

He Tian considered him, sardonic. ‘Sweetheart,’ he’d said, a little patronising, if he’s honest about it now. ‘Don’t try to tell me that means something.’

And Guan Shan had shrugged, leaning back. ‘It doesn’t,’ he said, ‘but I know whose money’s gonna pay for the wedding. Least we could do is let the bastard see how we’re gonna spend it.’

Inside the house, the foyer is empty aside from the three men. The staff use rear entrances that give them faster access to the gardens, where He Tian knows they will be constructing the arch, tree limbs woven to curve, setting apart the rows of seating, the small gazebo beset with fairy lights and silverware, where the guests and grooms will share a final meal. Jian Yi and Zhengxi are nowhere to be seen.

‘I should go,’ He Tian says.

‘Are you going to shower?’ He Cheng asks tightly, as if careful to breathe too deeply.

He Tian smirks. ‘Is it that bad?’

‘It’s offensive,’ He Cheng replies flatly. Qiu, beside him, lifts his eyes heavenward. ‘Do we own livestock?’

‘Wouldn’t think so,’ He Tian says. He smiles, leans in close. He Cheng doesn’t budge an inch. ‘Then people might think we actually get our hands dirty.’

***

He takes the stairs two at a time, knows He Cheng and Qiu are watching him from the foyer, and his steps quicken as he approaches the bedroom. The cherrywood floorboards gleam, his reflection flashing beneath him in the glossed wood. He wraps his fingers around the handle, and pauses. He breathes in, twists—the door swings open.

‘Fuck.’

The bedroom is empty. Just like Zhengxi said it was. He Tian slumps in the doorway. Guan Shan’s suit lies zipped up in a bag on the bed, untouched. A light breeze flows through the window, gauze curtains ruffled by the warm air. Inside: a four poster bed, pillars carved, lurid, with the detailed etchings of dragons and phoenixes; a cherrywood chest at the end of the bed; plate glass windows and a frame made of pine.

He Tian can hear the low drone of a lawnmower somewhere on the estate; last minute touches, no blade of grass out of place. His own suit hangs over a wardrobe door, hidden behind a cloth bag. They’d had a schedule: He Tian would dress at 6pm, Guan Shan at 7pm. Too long for them to risk crossing paths, not long enough to steal a kiss, a little rough-handling against the bathroom door, a sacrocanct kind of fuck under the shower spray before they sealed the deal in a way that would feel just as righteous.

He Tian straightens himself. He lifts an arm, takes a whiff.

‘Hoo, boy,’ he says. He Cheng was being polite. He fucking reeks.

No point in sticking to any schedule now; He Tian starts undressing on his way to the bathroom, and he hooks his tuxedo over the door. Hot water washes away the day’s grime and summer sweat, and it takes ten minutes of washing before he feels clean enough. When he closes his eyes, he half-expects to hear the sound of rubber sealing breaking, the glass shower door pulled open, Guan Shan’s nakedness pressing against him, warm-blooded. Instead, He Tian showers alone.

He uses Guan Shan’s bar of soap, towels off smelling of tea tree and, well, clean. The scent alone thrills him; he’s grown used to grabbing Guan Shan by the waist after his morning shower, ramming his nose into the juncture of neck and shoulder—inhaling deep.

‘Fuckin’ creep,’ Guan Shan liked to say, shoving him off, not hard. He’d rub at his neck, like He Tian had left a mark or took out a chunk, glare in the face of He Tian’s glee, like he was plotting revenge, and flush red all over.

He Tian stares at himself in the mirror as he dresses, assesses the maroon cloth of his tuxedo; he buttons his waistcoat, folds the grey handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He twists as he fixes his cufflinks, engraved with a character of the He family name that He Cheng, wordlessly, had handed him in a worn box a week ago. Guan Shan’s suit is grey, his handkerchief maroon. No colour, he’d said. No bow ties. No fuckin’ distractions. He Tian, eager to please, obliged. He wants only to see Guan Shan in a three-piece; wants only to take it off him later.

They’d agreed: no red, no tea ceremony, no liturgical family visitations or dowry lists. A shared breakfast tomorrow morning, and a dinner tonight, but no more. If the bedroom happens to be lit tonight by a dragon and phoenix candle, then so be it. He Tian knows his brother is unsettled by the lack of tradition; he knows Guan Shan’s mother resents it. But there’s nothing either of them can do.

A knock sounds at the bedroom door, and shortly opens. He Tian catches his brother’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror. He doesn’t turn.

‘Don’t you have a perimeter to ward off?’ he asks dryly, adjusting his tie.

He Cheng lingers in the doorway, mute as a fucking boulder. For a moment, he says nothing, and He Tian falters under his gaze. He fingers his tie again, sees a muscle jump in his own jaw. He tries to recall a time when they’ve had a conversation flow easy between them, something that isn’t snide or stolid as glacier. If He Tian ran at him with a pickaxe, would he flinch? Would he shatter beneath the blow? He wonders, not for the first time, if things could have been different between them. Maybe if their mother hadn’t died, the last link of tenderness dissipating; maybe if their father wasn’t a fuck. Maybe if He Cheng hadn’t killed his fucking dog.

‘Let me,’ says He Cheng, striding forward.

‘I can do it.’

‘You can,’ says He Cheng, but large hands clasp He Tian’s shoulders almost compulsively and turn him.

He Tian seizes up, but he doesn’t resist. His gaze falls on his brother’s jawline while He Cheng’s fingers work at the tie; he observes the light shadow of clean-shaven skin, his brother’s wide neck. He Cheng’s mouth is their father’s: stern and unyielding, as if the muscle memory of lifting it has been lost. They’re even in height now, eye-for-eye, but He Cheng, somehow, still seems taller, broad in his back and chest where He Tian’s muscle is lithe.

He Tian straightens. ‘Not too tight,’ he mutters in warning. ‘I need to breathe through the ceremony.’

He Cheng ignores him. ‘Everything is ready,’ he says, looping the tie. ‘You have a couple of hours to relax. Your friends will welcome the guests.’

He Tian’s eyes lift for a few seconds. ‘Are you giving me a pep talk, Cheng Ge?’

‘I’m reminding you, Tian De.’

‘No point,’ says He Tian. ‘I was at the rehearsal yesterday. Noticed you weren’t around.’

He Cheng’s mouth flattens. His voice is deep as a barrel: ‘I had other business.’

‘Like brushing Magu?’

‘No,’ his brother says eventually, after a loud sigh, admitting to nothing more. ‘Like business.’

He Tian scrutinises him. ‘Guan Shan said you helped him with the proposal ring. I’ve been wondering. Why did she leave it to you?’

‘She didn’t. She left it to you. In her will, like most things, she trusted me to keep it safe until you needed it.’

He Tian looks down at his hand. His mother, from what he’s been told, was sharp and keen-eyed, her tongue quick. He’s been told, too, that he’s more like her than his father would like to admit. He asks his brother, ‘Did she think I was gonna sell it?’

He Cheng steps back, nods at his work, then says, ‘I don’t know what she thought. There’s no point in speculating. We’ll never know for sure.’

‘Father might.’

An arched brow. ‘And you’re prepared to ask him?’

‘He doesn’t want to see me happy,’ He Tian says. He glances at himself in the mirror, casts his gaze with mild appreciation over the knot of his tie, and sets himself down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m prepared to ask him fuck all.’

‘I don’t think it’s that. That isn’t why he chose not to come.’

He Tian watches his brother’s heavy gaze turn to the suit bag still lying on the bed next to him. He Tian says, ‘It’s the gay thing, isn’t it?’

He Cheng frowns. ‘I’m not answering that. I haven’t had the discussion with him.’

‘You mean to say, brother, that he hasn’t made his thoughts abundantly fucking clear on my choice of eternal companion?’

‘No,’ says He Cheng. ‘He hasn’t.’

He Tian flexes his jaw, curls his fist in the sheet of his bedding, and lets go. No point. No fucking point. After a moment, he reaches for his phone on the bedside, and sees with a sinking feeling that his message remains unread. Where are you? Concern tugs at the corners of his mouth, sets his brows low and heavy. He glances at his brother, still standing by the mirror, now gazing out the window with an unreadable expression—surveying the grounds, perhaps, or monitoring movements of the staff. He Cheng would know if something had happened, wouldn’t he? His men would have made a report, would’ve come running, cheeks ruddy with the news. He Tian acknowledges his trust in his brother with bitterness.

He shifts. ‘Brother—’

A knock at the door cuts him short, and Qiu’s white, buzz cut head leans in through the doorway. He glances between the two men, assessing the mood, and then says, ‘Mo Guan Shan’s mother is here.’

‘Shit,’ He Tian hisses.

He Cheng’s brows lift; he turns to his brother. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s nothing, it’s—’ He Tian brings a hand over his face. ‘It’s Guan Shan. He’s probably gone walking for a few hours, but… no one’s seen him since this morning.’

Both sets of eyebrows rise, and it’s Qiu who speaks: ‘Hours?’ he says, coming fully into the bedroom. He shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

He Cheng says, ‘My men haven’t reported anything,’ but his frown is deep set in his forehead.

‘We can’t tell his mother,’ He Tian says. ‘Not yet.’

Qiu nods. ‘I agree. Jian Yi’s been waiting on the drive for her, grinning like an idiot. He’s keeping her occupied. I’d… wondered why.’

He Tian gets to his feet. His pulse has started to spike; He Cheng’s carefully knotted tie is suddenly too tight. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ he says. ‘I need to find him.’

‘No one has come onto the estate that I don’t know,’ says He Cheng. He Tian realises he’s saying this to reassure him, saying, in other words, that no one has driven around the grounds and smuggled Guan Shan into the back of their car. ‘He can’t be far.’

‘I’ll go to the control room,’ says Qiu, ‘but I don’t know how long it will take to go through the surveillance.’

He Tian shakes his head. It’s worth a shot. ‘Go,’ he says, and Qiu does. When the door clicks shut again, He Tian moves towards his bedroom window. There’s a trellis fixed to the wall below, and he peers down at the two-storey height. The drop always seemed bigger as a kid. The wood could be rotten now, decked with snaking wisteria that has reached its way up to the guttering around the roof. He Tian puts two hands on the window frame.

‘Don’t tell her you’ve seen me, alright?’ he tells his brother, over his shoulder. ‘I don’t want her to worry unless she has to.’

He Cheng nods solemnly, and He Tian puts a foot on the window ledge and ducks out onto it. He turns. For a second, he’s grateful for the heat—the wood is dry underfoot, no chance of slipping. Guan Shan would kill him if he had to kiss his newly betrothed with a sling and a black eye. He Tian puts a foot on the trellis, tests his weight. It holds. He nods, and starts his descent.

‘Tian Di, wait!’ He Cheng calls out. After a few seconds, his face peers over the ledge, solemn. He Tian braces himself for a scolding. Don’t be an idiot. You’ll ruin the trellis—or your suit.

Instead, He Cheng says, cryptic, ‘Have you tried the lake?’

***

The lake is a man-made feature of the estate dredged out of the grounds almost fifty years ago, a bridal gift from the He’s to their mother, a half-mile stretch of water that reflects the sky clearly on a cloudless day. A gazebo stands on stilts in the middle of the water, accessible only by boat, and the outskirts of the lake are feathered by burr reed and flowering rush, where sometimes the herons like to lay their eggs; at night the gazebo is lit red and gold, bright enough that He Tian can see it smoldering like a bonfire from his bedroom window, if he squints.

On the side of the lake nearest the house, a small wooden dock has been erected, routinely washed down to prevent mould and rusting, and affixed with a jetee where three wooden rowboats have been tied to a stump, sitting serenely still unless there’s a breeze.

Two boats.

He Tian slows to a stop, and stands on the dock. His hands fall at his sides. It’s almost sunset now, the air noticeably cooler, the sky like an artist’s pallet whose fond of pastels and dark, elongated shadows. Time has slipped through his fingers, and he can see a flicker of light within the gazebo.

The bastard.

One of the rows boat dips beneath He Tian’s weight as he puts one foot in the well of the cockpit, and he steadies himself as he settles into it, oars clattering as he drops the blades into the water, the handles knocking together over his knees.

The fucking bastard.

He takes his time, doesn’t look too long behind him except to adjust his steering. The boat knocks against the wooden frame of the gazebo, and He Tian climbs out using one of the columns as a hoist. He doesn’t tie the boat; he doesn’t care. He’s shaking when he stands on the ledge.

The gazebo is small, protected from the elements by a curving pagoda roof upheld by eight red columns and a simple wooden fence that skirts the periphery. Inside, there’s a blanket, pillows, a small banquet for two—suckling pig, abalone and sea cucumber, shark’s fin soup, chicken, a steamed sturgeon nestled in a dish of sauce. Two bowls of rice. Sweet dumplings for dessert. He Tian smelt it halfway across the lake. String lights dangle from the roofing, and thick red candles melt in saucers brimming with hot wax beside each column. Nestled in the centre of it all—is Mo Guan Shan.

He Tian stares.

‘Fuckin’ took you long enough,’ Guan Shan says. He’s propped up with pillows at his back. A paperback lies open in his lap, the spine cracked. He’s wearing his suit. ‘Come eat—it’s still hot.’

‘You fuck,’ He Tian breathes. He’s sweating lightly. ‘You fuck. You’ve been here all day?’

‘Not all day,’ Guan Shan says. ‘Tryn’a avoid you, for most of it.’

He Tian doesn’t move. ‘So you could sneak away and set this up,’ he says flatly. Un-fucking-believable. ‘We’re getting married in an hour. Your mother’s at the house.’

‘I know,’ Guan Shan says, looking up at him. Despite the heavy shadows that have begun to dress the grounds like an afterthought, He Tian can see how his eyes glitter with mirth.

He Tian says, ‘You know.’ Something clicks, and He Tian starts. ‘Does everyone fucking know?’

Guan Shan looks at his watch. ‘Your brother’s gonna be here in an hour with the officiator. He’s agreed to be our witness.’

The inside of He Tian’s head has gone static. ‘The banquet,’ he says senselessly. He doesn’t care about the money, but the logistics have been a year in the planning. ‘The arch, the—’

‘Did you see any of it bein’ set up?’ Guan Shan asks gently, half-murmured over the rim of his wine glass. ‘See any guests? Or were you lookin’ for me?’

He Tian’s legs go out beneath him. He falls into the pillows with a slump, careful not to upend the dishes laid out before them. He knocks into Guan Shan’s side, and his head falls weightless onto his shoulder. ‘Mo Guan Shan, you sly son of a bitch,’ he sighs. ‘Who the fuck am I marrying tonight?’

Guan Shan’s answering laughter is low, and warm—and relieved with the completion of a job well done. After everything, this will be their wedding. The two of them. A witness, a government official, and the two of them isolated on an island. Here, no one can get to them. Here, He Tian can touch the walls, can nestle himself on the floor of the gazebo in the warm August air. The first few stars of early evening have started to glisten, pockets of light dotted across the sky, and the cicadas are a distant hum from the lake.

Growing warm, He Tian unbuttons his jacket, strips down to his shirt and waistcoat.

‘You look good,’ Guan Shan mutters after a moment, a little gruff.

He Tian thinks about the suit bag that had been laid out on the bed. He’d nearly put his hand on it. He realises, now, that it had been empty. A decoy. He says, folding his jacket neatly beside him, ‘I thought you’d gone through the main gate this morning and kept walking.’

‘Really?’

‘No.’ He Tian drags a hand over his face. ‘Why the secrecy?’ he says. ‘We could’ve planned for this.’

Guan Shan shrugs. ‘Your brother told me about the lake a few weeks ago and… I only decided I wanted it then. Thought you’d want it, too. Thought about what you’d do.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. With balls of sheer fuckin’ steel and no apologies.’ He says, ‘Cancelled everythin’,’ and then he cringes. ‘We lost the deposit on a couple things.’

‘Good.’

Guan Shan’s lips twitch. ‘Here,’ he says. He lifts the plate of sturgeon towards He Tian, plucks at a morsel of meat with his chopsticks, and holds it out. He Tian accepts, chews. The fish is tender and salty, the cooking sauce sweet as a plum. He finally notices the gnawing feeling in his stomach.

‘This isn’t enough food, you know,’ he says.

‘A problem for later,’ Guan Shan replies, remarkably serene.

They eat, swap food for kisses between bites, and He Tian laughs himself to breathlessness when he pictures Jian Yi, Zhengxi, and Guan Shan rowing across the lake with great care and a line between Guan Shan’s brows, the dishes arranged in the well of the rowboats. Guan Shan hits him on the arm with the back of his hand for laughing, then softens, reaches up to brush a thumb against the ridge of He Tian’s cheekbone with his thumb. ‘You got burned.’

‘Wonder how,’ He Tian remarks. ‘You’ll have to put aloe on me later.’ Later. When they’re married. Drawing each other into bed as husbands, forever respecting, forever comforting, forever protecting, forever loyal.

Guan Shan clicks his tongue. ‘Not my fuckin’ problem,’ he says.

He Tian grins, the smile splitting apart his face. ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he says. He leans in, cups the back of Guan Shan’s head with his hand, hair soft and warm, and pulls him close. There’s little resistance. ‘After tonight, I’m your problem for eternity.’

Their mouths are inches from each other’s. He Tian can taste the wine on Guan Shan’s breath. Dizzyingly close, he can see the reluctant fire burning in Guan Shan’s russet-coloured eyes. Against his lips, Guan Shan breathes: ‘Good.’

Chapter Text

He gets off the bike outside the main gate to the house, where a guard pats him down and makes him scrawl his signature onto a tablet as proof of visitation, and then, allowed through, he drives the rest of the way up to the house. Sometimes, Guan Shan forgets that the He’s kill people for a living. The process of remembering, like recalling a name to a familiar face, should shock him—and yet.

There are a few cars that already fill the gravel driveway—Western imports that gleam freshly from the production line, white-background license plates with red text, some personalised. Guan Shan doesn’t look at them for too long. Amber light leaks onto the paint work from what look like sconces through the ornate window panes of the house. Guan Shan hasn’t given notice, or spoken to the master of the house for some weeks now, but he knows the man who checked him through the entrance will have called ahead.

Your brother’s bride is here, they will have said.

Guan Shan’s chest feels tight; the long drive out of the city did nothing to dampen his anxiety, the itch on the inside of his wrist. His clothes feel tighter than they were this morning; the motorbike leathers are suffocating. Above, the approach of a hot summer storm turns the sky delirious with purple cloud and flashes, distantly, with the promise of thunder and heavy rains. It will be dark soon.

By the time he turns the engine off his bike, boots the kickstand into place and swings his leg over the back, He Cheng has appeared on the steps of the foyer. A young woman in uniform stands at a distance behind him, eyes cast politely downturned.

‘Mo Guan Shan,’ says He Cheng, his voice cavernous and flat. Guan Shan’s yet to hear him talk in any other tone. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘Yeah,’ says Guan Shan. He scratches the back of his neck. ‘Kinda a last minute thing. Can I talk to you?’

He Cheng considers him—the leathers, the bike, the flushed complexion from a head squashed into a padded helmet in the middle of summer, sweat making his hair stick at odd angles around his face. And his solitude—no plus one. No familiarly tall, dark presence at his side. Guan Shan almost wishes he was.

‘He Tian isn’t with you?’ the man says eventually.

‘He doesn’t know I’m here.’

From the distance of a few metres, Guan Shan sees something flicker in He Cheng’s eyes. Anger, perhaps. Concern. Guan Shan has yet to learn what He Cheng feels that he doesn’t show—if anything at all. He suspects that he never will. His heart is racing; his palms are clammy and damp. They make the task of pulling his gloves off difficult.

‘I see,’ He Cheng says, and then inclines his head behind him to the house. ‘Come inside. Let’s talk.’

***

He Cheng stares at him.

‘Let me see if I understand you,’ he says. ‘You want to cancel the wedding?’

Guan Shan rubs the heel of his palm against his brow. From lifting the visor on his helmet on the ride, dirt and sweat has mingled on his skin and created a layer of grime that now feels gritty to the touch. He pulls a face.

‘Not cancel,’ he says. ‘I just wanna do it different. None of the fancy shit.’

He Cheng leans back in his chair, and the low lighting in his study seems to darken, red wood laden with books. A sand timer runs through grains on the heavy desk, the metal gilded; characters have been engraved around the base that are too small to make out. There’s a board in the corner of the room, a half-finished game of mahjong, and a box of calligraphy brushes sit behind a glass cabinet that Guan Shan suspects may never have been used, or at least not for some decades.

Father’s study, He Tian still calls it. Wanders around the house with the knowledge and memories of a child, as if the synapses haven’t yet reconfigured themselves to present day. It surprises Guan Shan still that He Tian is content with marrying him here, wonders maybe if it’s an act of sheer spite, a fuck you to his father, a middle finger while they exchange their vows.

Probably, it has nothing to do with his father at all—everything to do with himself, and He Cheng, and his mother.

‘Fancy shit,’ says He Cheng, trying the words for size. ‘You’ve already refused a traditional ceremony and the usual markings of a wedding. What else is left?’

‘I dunno. I just—’ How to get the words out right; how to say them with any proper meaning to He Tian’s brother, a man as stoic and taciturn as the mountains that border the He’s property. ‘I want it to be me and him. That’s the whole fuckin’ point, right?’

‘Is it?’ says He Cheng.

‘Yeah.’ Guan Shan shifts in the chair, a little too straight-backed, the wood hard against the ridges of his spine. Their father probably chose the chairs especially for guests, eager to have them face him in discomfort. ‘Me and him. Forever. No fuckin’ frills and pretences and pretendin’ for other people. And I think he’d want that too.’

‘Other people being your mother,’ He Cheng points out, as if that means something. ‘Or your friends.’

‘Am I meant to be provin’ a fuckin’ point to them?’

‘Are you?’ He Cheng says, and then: ‘I suppose not.’

It wasn’t an argument—wasn’t close—but it ends as quickly as it had started. Guan Shan holds He Cheng’s gaze for a few seconds; the sandtimer sits still. Guan Shan looks away first.

‘So you came to me,’ He Cheng says evenly. ‘To tell me I’m not welcome at the private ceremony between you and my brother in my own home?’

‘No,’ Guan Shan says quickly. He knows He Tian feels it too: the small, panicked desire to please the man. To earn some kind of approval in his flat, weighted gaze. ‘I wanna… ask for your help. I dunno what else to do.’

‘You’ll still need an officiator. And a witness.’

‘I know.’ Guan Shan glances downwards. ‘I was hopin’... that last one would be you.’

He Cheng says nothing for a while; he matches him only with that same levelled stare, and then he looks towards the window. There is a rosefinch sitting on the sill, its small body illuminated by the lamplight from within. It cocks its head, and taps it beak against the glass pane. He Cheng inclines his head, and then eventually it takes flight, and is lost to the darkness.

‘We have a lake.’

Guan Shan’s brows knit together. ‘A lake?’

Of course they’ve got a fucking lake.

‘My father built it for her. He Tian and I would row out to the gazebo in the summer when we were children, but it’s probably fallen into disrepair now.’ Half-murmured, he adds: ‘I haven’t been out there in years.’

‘A gazebo?’

‘Your…’ He Cheng pauses, presses his tongue into his cheek, as if looking for the right word, and then, appropriately retrieved, says, ‘Wedding venue. If you’d like. I can have it fixed up in time.’

Guan Shan pictures it: lanterns on the water, a picnic for two, a sunset-pink sky full of stars. He Tian’s face, illuminated by candles, smiling around a morsel of roasted meat. An island made for them to wed, no intruders and no judgment. No interruptions.

‘Yeah,’ Guan Shan says, voice rough. ‘Yeah, that—that would be good.’ He pauses, thinks, plots the proceedings in his head, and then meets He Cheng dead in the eye. ‘One condition.’

An eyebrow lifts. ‘What might that be?’

‘We don’t tell He Tian. Even on the day. I dunno how to work it yet but—we keep it a surprise.’

‘He won’t like that.’

‘I know.’

He Cheng’s eyes narrow, only slightly, and then he says, ‘Alright.’

Something shifts—an odd restructuring of his features. It only lasts a moment, as if an old lamp has flickered that needs a new lightbulb, a blink into darkness—and then it’s gone. He Cheng is, only, looking back at him, lips pressed into a flat line.

Can’t be, Guan Shan thinks. Can’t fucking be.

He Cheng? Smiling? Surely not.

***

‘Ma? It’s me.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Guan Shan huffs. He leans back against his bike where it faces the house, his feet kicked out before him. The He house has gone quiet now, staff off to bed, lights dimmed or extinguished entirely. Around him, the air is charged and treacherous, and he has only a few hours left before the storm. Somewhere, hanging low and luminous behind the clouds, he’s watched by the moon. He needs to make this quick.

‘I’m changin’ the wedding, Ma. I’m not havin’ an audience. You’re not gonna be able to watch. I’m sorry.’

He can hear his mother’s breathing on the other end of the line. He’s never known anyone with her sense of patience, and it’s with a pang in his chest that he hears her say, eventually, ‘Well, it’s to be expected.’

‘I’m sorry, Ma,’ he says again.

On the end of the line, there’s a clatter, a teacup placed into its saucer, his mother enjoying the solitude of her now-quiet apartment, or lamenting its emptiness. He hasn’t asked if she’s lonely since he left. It’s been some years now since he got his own place, small and barely fit for two and yet his, but he still can’t make himself look back. He tells himself (or tries to) that he cannot fill the large gap his father left in their home forever.

‘You always wanted things a little different,’ she says. ‘And now you’re gonna break your mother’s heart by stopping her from seeing her son marry?’

Guan Shan’s eyes shut tight. ‘Ma—’

‘It’s alright,’ she cuts in. ‘I don’t mean it, but I would’ve liked to have been there.’

‘I still want you here,’ he tells her urgently. ‘For the day—for after. We’re gonna have breakfast together. You’ll meet He Cheng, too.’

‘Ah,’ she says, wry in her soft, inoffensive way. ‘The indomitable brother.’

‘Yeah. That guy.’

‘If you’ve decided then,’ she says, sounding defeated. ‘I don’t know what else I can do.’

They talk a little longer, and a boom of thunder not far off moves him quickly onto the back of his bike. It’s late enough now that he’ll be home within an hour, if he’s lucky, but he still drives slow. His head, as it has been for some time with the wedding approaching, feels full.

His conversation with his mother presses to the forefront, with a heavy insistence that demands to be considered, and he wonders if he should be doing more to make her happy. He wonders if she’d ever envisaged Guan Shan standing beside a girl dressed in red, visiting her family with a roasted pig. Someone sweet, and bright, who didn’t mind his quick temper and the roughness around his edges. Someone who slowly paved over the chip in his shoulder. Demure, and pretty, with round cheeks and a complex that would suit her bridal gown. Instead, there is a man in her place, whose mouth tries and fails to be cruel, and who knows how to promise too much with a smile. Someone who’ll make him happy and torment him for the rest of his fucking life until he’s forced to accept that it’s a state of contentment.

He’s doing this for He Tian—he’s doing it like He Tian would—which means his mother, for one of the first times in his life, does not come first. It’s a small comfort that there is someone other than himself at the base of his actions, not just an act of pure ego and selfish desire. But still, it’s a weight in the bottom of his stomach, a twist of guilt that chases him all the way home like the storm.

***

Two weeks later.

He watches He Tian sleep with an eye on the alarm clock. A gauze covers the window, the old frame set open on a latch, and Guan Shan wakes with a sticky breeze on his cheek. It’s almost 5am; the sun will break soon, and chase out the summer-night darkness that never seems too far away from a glimpse of sunlight, the bluish-black of a bruised nail.

He Tian shifts in his sleep, and Guan Shan stills. He Tian has an arm thrown across his head, a fist curled beside his head. The other lies at his side, palm upturned, angled as if reaching. Guan Shan doesn’t know how long he’s been awake; the arm he leans on has gone numb. Time, it seems, has lost itself in the consistent, shallow breaths that slip from He Tian’s parted mouth.

Today, they’ll be married, one way or another, and Guan Shan isn’t entirely sure how it’s gotten to this. Was it only when the hate tasted less sour? A mouthful of vinegar, swallowed, and a sweet aftertaste, like aspartame, that didn’t linger. Was it after the weight of He Tian’s arm, slung heavy around his shoulders, fell away, and he thought—don’t go.

Or perhaps it was only this: lying beside him, catching him as unguarded and unresponsive as Guan Shan will ever have the gift of finding him—and watching him with a fierce protectiveness that scares him. Losing sleep to watch him getting his, an inept sentry at his bedside. Because who is he fucking kidding? The only one who can sufficiently protect He Tian from a threat is himself. And then, if anyone gets onto the estate without He Cheng’s notice, the omniscient watchdog at the helm, perhaps even he couldn’t.

Guan Shan sighs. ‘Fuckin’ hell…’ He shakes himself from this brand of thinking, and comes to only one conclusion. Love: the constant delirium of fearing all the ways it might end.

It is, he’s decided over the course of a few years, like a poison—sometimes something softer, like wine, or adrenaline. It dizzies him, leaves him with bouts of drowsy sated contentment, leaves him shaking. Leaves him, always, wanting more.

He Tian shifts again, makes a sound, a dull smacking of his lips. Taking his cue, Guan Shan rolls onto his side, and shuts his eyes. He Tian wakes sluggishly these days—slower than he ever used to. At first, during Guan Shan’s preliminary opportunities of watching He Tian sleep and come to wakefulness, it was a quick, silent awakening; a frightening readiness for life and death in the same breath. Simply, he was asleep—and then he was not. Now, he takes his time, comes alive slowly. Guan Shan’s come to appreciate the transition.

He appreciates, more, the kiss He Tian now presses to his shoulder, the arm He Tian winds around the front of him, his tug for closeness proprietary and wanting. Guan Shan, feigning sleep, lets him.

‘Good morning, love,’ he hears He Tian murmur, knowing with a swoop of his stomach that tomorrow it will be husband, and then—He Tian lets go. The sheets shift around them, there’s a rustle, and then the soft pad of He Tian’s feet pressing to the floorboards.

Guan Shan’s skin tingles. He keeps his eyes shut only slightly, a faint light seeping in through the gauze of his eyelashes. Dawn has come as it usually does: long before he can notice. He listens for He Tian’s movements in the bathroom, waits while he dresses, and then He Tian leaves. The latch on the door clicks shut and, after a few minutes, Guan Shan moves to the window.

He can already see He Tian walking across the grounds and making his way up to the mountain. The sun has barely lifted itself over the horizon, the light outside a grey haze thick with gnats and the twangy thrum of cicadas riding on early-morning heatwaves. He Tian’s shadow follows behind him, an elongated stretch of black onto the grass.

Guan Shan nods to himself curtly. He Tian is unknowingly following the day’s protocol, and Guan Shan has work to do. He wouldn’t have minded a slow, shared morning—a little tender, a little rough with unkempt anticipation. Wouldn’t have minded at all. But they’ll have a long while for that after tonight.

***

Jian Yi and Zhan Zhengxi are already waiting for him in the kitchens. They look keen-eyed and, at the same time, ready to fall asleep where they stand against the main island in the middle of the kitchen, the wood glossed with oil and etched with scratches from a cleaver.

The room smells of damp stone and chillies and ash. The windowed wall to Guan Shan’s left looks out onto a small, neat orchard of pear trees, and under the windows, cracked open to allow for a breeze, a series of woks have been welded into a stone bench. Log fires crackle already beneath them, the metal hot and bringing a prickle of sweat to the back of Guan Shan’s neck. Which one of them chose to marry in the middle of fucking summer?

Jian Yi has a strip of ash across his forehead; Zhengxi holds a hand-forged poker.

‘How long have you been up?’ Guan Shan asks them suspiciously.

‘Enough to get the fires going,’ says Jian Yi. There’s a bowl on the kitchen island, and Jian Yi nudges it towards him. Beside it, there’s a plate of sliced pears, freshly picked from the trees outside, the white flesh gleaming. ‘Here. We found some mung bean porridge in the fridges.’

Guan Shan wrinkles his nose. ‘It’s hot as fuck outside.’

‘It’s cold porridge—tastes better,’ says Jian Yi.

Guan Shan gives it another look, then shakes his head. ‘I can’t eat,’ he says. He’s hungry, but nausea has started to settle like the pit of a stone fruit in the base of his throat now that he’s awake—now that he knows that He Tian is roaming freely and unaware.

‘He Tian didn’t eat either,’ Zhengxi says, while Jian Yi swipes a large slice of pear and fits it, whole, into his mouth.

‘He was here?’ Guan Shan demands.

‘Saw the lights on,’ says Jian Yi, mouth full. He jerks a thumb to the ceiling. ‘I came down early to check on the pig. Twelve hours roasting and counting.’ He presses thumb and forefinger to his lips and makes a smacking sound.

‘Did he see you?’

‘Nope.’ Jian Yi grins. Pear juice has leaked down onto his chin, and he swipes it away with the back of his wrist. ‘I locked myself in the freezer.’

Guan Shan stares at him. ‘And you’re still alive.’ He looks at Zhengxi. ‘How’s he still fuckin’ alive?’

Zhengxi sighs. ‘He called me. I got him out.’

‘The best phone signal on the estate in there,’ Jian Yi announces proudly, waggling his phone in Guan Shan’s direction.

‘His lips were blue,’ Zhengxi tells Guan Shan flatly, noting his stare.

Jian Yi nudges Zhengxi at the hip, smug. ‘Didn’t take them long to warm up.’

Zhengxi lifts the poker.

‘Hey!’ Guan Shan calls out. ‘I’m gettin’ married today, you chicken shits. Don’t fuck it up for me, alright? We’ve got a lot to do.’

Zhengxi lowers the poker, and the pair shrug at each other. Jian Yi’s smile is impish, unapologetic. Zhengxi has the decency to simply nod. They’ve been here a few days, helping with the upkeep of the estate, working on the gazebo, visiting the local farmers’ markets, and aiding with the pretence of a big wedding in the gardens. Guan Shan appreciates it—their eager willingness to help. He resents it, too.

He looks around. In wicker boxes along the floor, the ingredients are all there, neatly packed. He’ll find the rest set aside in the fridges and the pantry, the meat and fish wrapped neatly wrapped in brown paper and fresh produce gathered gently in netted bags.

‘Everything’s there,’ Zhengxi tells him. ‘Found everything you put on the list.’

Guan Shan nods. There’s something, he thinks, that’s a little sacrilegious about preparing his own banquet. He Cheng had assured him that the staff would do it—he would have someone flown in from Hong Kong or Shanghai, if he wanted. He doesn’t. He’s satisfied with this: himself and old school friends, stumbling their way through the cooking, a touch of nostalgia from the nights they’d spent huddled around a kitchen, a shared table, friendships forged over food.

Guan Shan grabs an apron from a hook near the door, loops it over his head, and knots it tight at the waist. When he turns, Jian Yi and Zhengxi are watching him, waiting. The rest of the pear has gone; Jian Yi’s cheeks are full. He chews, very slowly.

Guan Shan points at him. ‘Soup duty first,’ he says. ‘Prepare the seasonings first, then marinate the fish—don’t start cookin’ ‘til then, alright? Lots of ginger. Lots of salt. Lots of sugar. Don’t be a skimpy fucker—it’s a wedding meal.’ He turns to Zhengxi, whose eyes are wide. ‘Abalone and sea cucumber. You’ve got the recipe I sent?’ Zhengxi nods. ‘Good. I wrote it for a reason. Don’t change it—we’re not experimentin’ today.’

They stare at him, exchange a glance. With a painful movement, Jian Yi swallows the mouthful of pear, and winces. Guan Shan stares back. ‘Am I gonna need to repeat myself?’ he asks.

It jolts them; they’re startled into motion. Their spines straighten.

‘No, Chef!’

***

They cook until noon. There’s little conversation, a few traded quips (Jian Yi) and sharp rebukes (Guan Shan, sometimes Zhengxi). Mostly, there’s a concentrated silence of art in the making—a steady rocking of knives against boards, the scrape of spatulas against the base of hot woks, oil spitting in the metal troughs. Guan Shan surveys the proceedings with a careful eye, sniffs indulgently as he inspects the soup, the chicken, the pig still roasting. The rice sits ready and warm in the cooker. He’s allowed the family chef to make the tangyuan, deep fried and filled with red bean paste, a token gesture that might make the staff hate him slightly less.

They break for lunch in the courtyard, and by one o’clock, the sun is approaching its peak, the heat from the kitchen and the bright glare on the windows layering Guan Shan’s face in a slick stream of sweat. He uses the apron as a towel, and tosses it in a nearby laundry basket.

‘I need to check on the gazebo,’ he tells the two men, perched on a low stone wall. ‘Can you watch over everything? The cook should be here soon—she’ll give you a hand.’

They’re both red in the face, and Jian Yi presses a cold towel to the back of Zhengxi’s neck that isn’t pushed away.

‘Go,’ says Zhengxi, waving a hand towards him like wafting away a fly. ‘We’ll hold the fort.’

‘Any sign of my fiancé?’

Fiancé, Jian Yi mouths exaggeratedly to Zhengxi, with a nudge. Guan Shan ignores him, cheeks flaring—the word slips out with embarrassing eagerness. Husband will follow only shortly after this evening, as easy as the sweat that now runs off his skin. Jian Yi’s still grinning indulgently while he pulls out his phone, swiping through a lock screen.

‘Five minutes ago from Qiu,’ he says, flashing the screen in Guan Shan’s direction. ‘He says He Tian’s in the garden.’

‘Still?’ Guan Shan asks.

‘Guess he’s feeling reflective?’ Jian Yi ventures. He gets to his feet, strolls across to the nearest pear tree. The fruit on it hangs low; some are spotted with black flies, others are gold-fleshed and pristine. Jian Yi puts his hand on one, gives a slight tug. Leaves rustle. The fruit yields, gives way. ‘Don’t worry,’ Jian Yi says, tossing the pear across to Zhengxi, who catches it deftly. ‘One of the men has an eye on him.’

Guan Shan nods. ‘Tell them to keep him there as long as possible.’

‘What if he sees you?’ Zhengxi asks. He takes a small bite, tosses it back to Jian Yi.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Guan Shan says, ‘just as long as he doesn’t know where I’m goin’. But if he’s still there in an hour… give him a nudge?’

‘To start on the wild goose chase?’ Zhengxi says, and then considers him. ‘Sometimes,’ he says, ‘I’m not sure who’s the bigger sadist.’

***

He Cheng is leaving the control room when Guan Shan finds him. The room is set onto the back of the gatekeeper’s house, a small unit filled with wall-to-wall screens and a decent view of the entire estate. On it, Guan Shan catches a glimpse of Jian Yi and Zhengxi returning to the kitchen. His heart gives a single, plangent thud as a camera flicks to He Tian sitting on his mother’s bench, idling away time. He can’t make out He Tian’s expression, only sees the routine flick of a cigarette into an empty bird bath.

‘He doesn’t know yet then,’ says He Cheng, pausing in the doorway of the room as he catches sight of Guan Shan.

‘So far, so good,’ Guan Shan mutters. ‘Guess I underestimated him.’

He Cheng’s eyebrows lift slightly. ‘How so?’

‘He’s a boring fuck when he’s got nothin’ to do.’

A muscle jumps in He Cheng’s cheek, but the man only says, ‘You want to see the gazebo?’

Guan Shan nods. ‘If you’ve got time—or someone else can give me a ride out there. Then I’ve gotta shower and get the food there.’

‘I’ll take you,’ says He Cheng. ‘But we have to stop somewhere first.’

Somewhere turns out to be an abandoned stable set on a slight hill that looks down onto the main house. They take He Cheng’s car up the pathway, the air conditioning on high and the windows blacked-out to lessen the glare of the midday sun, and Guan Shan’s eyebrows are knitted together as he pushes the passenger door shut.

Is this where he gives me a talk? Guan Shan thinks, casting an uncertain gaze around the silent structure.

‘He Tian said you didn’t have horses,’ he says carefully, following He Cheng towards the back of the stables. The man still wears his suit, and a dark pair of aviators to shield his eyes from the sun. Guan Shan feels uncomfortably warm just looking at him.

‘We don’t,’ He Cheng says simply.

They round a corner, where a lean-to has been constructed haphazardly against the brick wall of the stables, and Guan Shan takes in the sight of the filly with surprise. She’s a small, greyish thing, no taller than He Cheng’s shoulders, too small for any adult to ride.

‘She’s a pony, not a horse,’ says He Cheng. ‘Magu.’

Huh, Guan Shan thinks.

He stands off to one side while He Cheng works, finally shucking off his jacket and hanging it over the wood-panelled wall of the shelter. He moves with practised efficiency: he twists the handle of a tap crusted with verdigris until water gushes out, testing the temperature with his fingers until it runs cold, and fills a half-empty bucket with fresh water; he unrolls a paper sack of feed and shovels mounds into a trough, then sets to scattering fresh hay along the dust-dry ground. The pony noses at the feed, accepting the cursory brush of He Cheng’s hand along her flank with a swish of her tail, and doesn’t seem to mind the flysheet that He Cheng unfolds and fastens loosely around her middle.

A realisation: they’re familiar with one another. Have been, apparently, for some time. Guan Shan wonders if He Tian knows she’s here.

Eventually, He Cheng claps his hands together, and dust plumes away from his skin. His white shirt is almost see-through at his back with sweat, but he pulls the jacket back on when he’s done, as if it’s a uniform he can’t part from for long. The pony kicks at the fresh straw, tests the water. The short cut of her mane is feathered by the cool breeze of an old, caged fan that whirrs noisily from the corner of the lean-to. For a moment, He Cheng simply watches her.

‘I’ve never seen a horse up close,’ Guan Shan feels compelled to say.

Through the sunglasses, Guan Shan feels the man’s eyes flicker to his. ‘He Tian said your grandmother lives in Sichuan.’

Guan Shan snorts at the logic. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But she doesn’t have horses. She doesn’t have fuckin’ electricity.’

A weighted pause. ‘After tonight, you’ll have anything you want.’

‘I already do.’

He Cheng misunderstands him, and shakes his head. ‘I mean that—money will no longer be a problem for you or your family. Your mother.’

‘It’s never been a problem,’ Guan Shan tells him. He looks away from the weighted stare and mutters, ‘It’s only ever brought me fuckin’ problems. I don’t care about your family’s money.’

He Cheng checks the time on his watch, and then props himself against the lean-to’s wooden fencing. The gesture suggests he has a moment to spare, a moment to impart some carefully chosen words, and Guan Shan braces himself.

‘He Tian cares,’ He Cheng says eventually. ‘He has to. And any individual who says they don’t because they have too much is lying. In the same way he claims to not care about this family. He has to—and it bothers him. He’d be content to run away with you… and I suppose he sees marrying you to be a solution to his problems. You have family and no money; he has money and no family. At least, that’s the perception, isn’t it?’

Guan Shan stares at him. He’s getting hot and uncomfortable standing here, listening to He Cheng speak aloud the largest collection of words he thinks he’s heard the man say all year. Is he rambling?

Guan Shan says, ‘What are you gettin’ at?’

He Cheng slides off his sunglasses, and looks at Magu. His gaze is shrewd, squinting against the light. ‘If you’re interested in the money,’ he says, ‘then I’ll give it to you now and take you back to the city. You’ll never see my brother again.’

The insult bruises—it stings to anger.

Even now, is he still some poor kid that He Tian looks to have taken pity on? Is this wedding a charity event, where Guan Shan has won a lottery ticket of interest-free companionship and a black AmEx? Why did He Cheng bother giving him their mother’s ring if he suspected he might have taken it to the nearest pawn shop and pocketed the cash?

Consider this an obligatory final warning.

Guan Shan says thickly, ‘And if I’m not interested?’

‘Then enjoy your banquet, Mo Guan Shan. I hear you cook well.’

***

They sleep, that night, beneath the stars.

The food, it turns out, is enough—He Tian can’t take another bite, and they pile their dishes into an empty row boat that He Cheng tows back to the dock. He Tian’s hand trails lazily through the light hairs on Guan Shan’s stomach, and their skin is warm with summer sweat and the dampness of a humid night. Guan Shan is sure he can see every star reflected in He Tian’s eyes; He Tian confesses, at some point, that Guan Shan’s are the dark centrepiece of a sunflower, and he can smell pollen on Guan Shan’s skin.

‘It’s the wine,’ Guan Shan says. ‘The fuckin’—’ He waves a hand. ‘Endorphins and shit.’

‘The adrenaline,’ He Tian says, mouthing at Guan Shan’s neck, his shoulder, wrist, the dip behind his ear.

‘Not adrenaline,’ Guan Shan says. ‘I’m not thinkin’ about runnin’.’

‘Or fighting?’

‘Not yet.’

He feels the curve of He Tian’s smile against his skin, and shivers all over. There is a new weight on his finger, disparate with the lightness he feels everywhere else, as if he’s swallowed a mouthful of helium and is, at any moment, about to drift upwards and through the newly painted roof of the gazebo. He runs his thumb along the metal.

‘Are we staying out here all night?’ He Tian asks.

‘D’you want to?’

‘And get caught sneaking back to the room in the morning like star-crossed lovers?’ He Tian pulls Guan Shan close. ‘Absolutely.’ Their mouths meet; the kiss is firm and possessive. Guan Shan feels as if He Tian has left a mouth-shaped bruise on his lips, the kind that will match the ones on his neck—the underside of his wrist, his thighs—in the morning.

‘The mornin’,’ Guan Shan murmurs. He pauses, then sits upright. After a minute of fumbling, he finds his phone among the pile of their clothes, too warm for the entrapments of any cloth. It’s strange, he’d thought earlier, how entirely unselfconscious he feels here: lying naked on the lake, seeing the reflection of their joined flesh on the water, knowing he’ll be visible by any passerby wandering the grounds in the morning. He Tian’s watching him, bemused, while he taps at his phone screen.

12:53am. A whole hour has passed since midnight. Fuck.

‘What?’ He Tian asks. ‘You’re smiling.’

Guan Shan lets his phone drop back into the pool of clothing—frankly, he doesn’t care if it goes in the fucking water. He’s content enough with this and this alone. He falls back into He Tian’s waiting embrace, and presses a kiss on the underside of his jaw.

‘Good morning, husband.’