Work Text:
It’s a cool evening in Tokyo, November turning the trees gold and crimson. Cool enough for He Tian’s breath to fog in the air, warm enough to forego a jacket over his suit. It’s close to ten; he’s missed rush-hour and pushes his way through the last crowd of late-night shoppers and tourists snapping a city in neon lights on their Fujifilms.
His back aches and his eyes are sore. His eyes latch on a yakiniku restaurant across the street, enticing him with a flashing sign that reads ‘TAKEOUT’, and his stomach growls in kind. He doesn’t remember leaving his desk all day except to grab a coffee from the vending machine in the office, have a quick smoke in the courtyard, and slip between meeting rooms.
One more day, he thinks. It’s a familiar mantra. He’ll tell himself that tomorrow, and then the next day, and then the next. His sisyphean responsibility, all in the name of family duty—and money.
In three years, he’ll make partner at his father’s Japanese law firm. In five, he’ll manage it. In ten, he’ll have his own back home or move west. The thought of a ten-year eternity stretched out before him fills him with dread, the same pulsing nausea he’d felt at graduating, the papery weight of his Law degree certificate being passed into his hand, just as his father had promised him.
Just like your mother would’ve wanted.
He Tian pauses on the pavement.
These days, he isn’t sure about that. He pictures collecting her from Haneda Airport, unlocking the door to his small apartment with its expensive furniture, his view obscured by office blocks, the latticed red Tokyo Tower in the periphery, and so many lights that the sky is never dark. He imagines her hesitating in the doorway, a tightness to her smile, pulling him aside in the kitchen while he procures dinner and pours them each a glass of wine.
He Tian, she’d say. Is this really what you want?
And he’d say, Mother, so proud of his placement within the world, so young, pressing a glass into her hand, why should I ever waste time considering what I want?
He’d ask the question, of course, because he doesn’t know the answer. He and He Cheng weren’t raised with their own desires in mind. There’s only the work, the job, each case closed and won. Late nights at the office and takeout for dinner in an empty apartment. When’s the last time he shared the space with another warm body? When was the last time he shared a meal that wasn’t designed for shaking hands and the determined outcome of a case?
Isolation gnaws at him. He knows it must be getting bad if he’s starting to think about it. He’s tired, that’s all.
One more day.
He Tian clicks his tongue and makes to cross the road to the restaurant. On the other side of the street, a brief flash of red that makes him falter before continuing. Red? The pedestrian crossing flicks to white, and the countdown starts. Twenty seconds before the busy highway floods with cars.
Heat prickles along the back of He Tian’s neck. His feet begin moving of their own accord.
He nearly knocks into three people, heads down at their phones, and He Tian has to take a little blame for this. When did it grow so warm outside? It’s too much. Drawing in a sharp breath, he tugs off his suit jacket. Fifteen seconds. There is a pressure at the base of his spine like a guiding hand that says he could not stop if he wanted to.
There again—the flash of red. What is it? He Tian’s neck cranes. Who is it? The smell from the yakiniku is so strong it’s almost nauseating, and there’s something else, too—something acrid and smoking like a winter bonfire. It’s alluring.
Ten seconds. The crowd of pedestrians begins to mesh.
///
Fuck, he’s tired.
More hours than Guan Shan knows he’ll get paid for, and another job that adds to his portfolio and takes him no further than a brief line on a PDF document. It’s all his agent could give him that morning; it’s all he gets most of the time. 4.30-wake ups and coffee on the 6am train to the shoot. He won’t eat—he can never stomach anything that early and he’ll have to pay for the clothes if he gets so much as a milk bun crumb on them.
The thought of food makes his stomach pang with hunger. There’s a yakinuki spot behind him wafting out smells of grilling belly pork that makes his mouth water, but he holds himself back. He doesn’t have the cash to splurge on takeout and there’s a container of red bean soup in the minifridge at his apartment that he batch cooked over the weekend for nights like these.
It ran late tonight: close to fifteen hours of costume changes and makeup for the main lineup, then breaks for lunch, coffee—cigarettes, mostly. He needs a shower now. He’d started to sweat a few hours in, and now his skin smells of smoke and he can hear the hum of the monolights and the snap of the flash that make his eyes sore and bloodshot.
The subway is another ten-minute walk away, and he spots the underpass tunnel on the other side of the street that will get him there in five. Guan Shan runs a hand through his hair while he waits for the rush of traffic to slow and, eventually, stop.
He steps into the street, snarls at someone who shoves past him with no apology.
Somewhere over the crowd of other heads bowed low, he sees a strange flash of red, quick as a fishing line being thrown and pulled back, without the catch.
Odd, he thinks. He carries on.
///
He Tian can feel himself walking as if outside of himself.
Is he really that tired?
He’s standing atop some building, watching his arms and legs move of their own accord, his dark head moving through the crowd of pedestrians as he crosses the street. It happens, he thinks, in slow-motion. He can’t remember. The city lights have gone strange and muted, as if he’s standing spot-lit on a dark movie set.
Is this, he thinks, death?
He tells himself he’s being ridiculous, but he can’t ignore the way each step feels like moving through snow, slow and deliberate, knee drawn up and extended. Maybe not dead, but has he overworked himself? Worked himself to collapsing in the middle of a street at night? Would he have WiFi in his hospital room? How long before Qiu agreed to bring him a laptop?
What the fuck is happening to me? he thinks, bordering a sudden hysteria. But then he sees it. The thread looping itself around his little finger like the movements of an invisible needle, his mother’s careful, delicate hand tying the knot of red cotton below his wrist bone, iron-strong.
A red string of fate.
He Tian swallows, angles his neck, and looks to see where it leads him.
///
‘No,’ Guan Shan whispers. ‘Fuck, no.’
He tries to pull at it, tries to snap it off, but it’s there like a shackle. He digs his heels in, feels a body collide into his as he tries to pull himself to a stop, and mutters an apology. His finger yanks him forward, closer. Somewhere across the street is another person with the same fastening, led inevitably forward.
Guan Shan doesn’t want to see them. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t have fucking time for this. He doesn’t have the money to—
‘Shit,’ he spits. He tries to pinch at the string, but his fingers go straight through. ‘Fuck, please. Don’t.’ His eyes go heavenward, searching for the sky among tower blocks. ‘Not now.’
He’s seconds away; the city is fading around him with every blink, as if the street has become a platform and Guan Shan is being lifted up on it, raised above the earth. The sky has gone pitch, no spill of light pollution or car headlights waiting just the other side of the crossing. There is only this. Guan Shan’s arms have gone textured with goosebumps and he feels suddenly very, very cold. He can see his own breath in front of him.
He can see a light.
He can see him.
///
He can see him.
An angel, He Tian thinks.
Air catches in He Tian’s throat and he can’t quite remember the last time he breathed. His feet still move without his say-so, and his eyes go to the man’s striped orange shirt—to his red hair, his eyes like the first streak of red sunrise.
Red sky at morning, shepherds’ warning.
He Tian heeds it. This is his signalfire.
He can hear his own breathing, the plangent thumping of his heart. Time has slowed impossibly, and He Tian can use it to only look at him.
///
He’s handsome. He’d earn more money than Guan Shan could ever dream with the sharp line of his jaw, the length of his neck. Too tall to be Japanese, surely, wearing a midnight suit like he’s just stepped off a Zegna runway, his jacket over his arm, and a starched white shirt and matching blue tie like every other salaryman in the city. Guan Shan hates him instantly. He can only look at him.
They’re only a few feet apart now. Guan Shan can see his eyes, the jet colour of his hair, his mouth. There’s no one between them. Guan Shan should stop looking at his mouth.
He stops.
His heart thuds so violently he’s sure it’s about to burst.
The man says, in Japanese, ‘It’s you.’
///
He Tian hears himself say it, a helpless revelation spoken aloud, as if opening his eyes onto an eighth wonder that He Tian has newly uncovered.
The man staggers back as if shot, and then, pendulum-like, finds himself flung forward again. The string on his finger looks to tighten, firming his stance. They’re tethered to one another—bound. He Tian has found him.
No, he tells himself, keeping his arrogance in check; no place for it here.
They have found each other.
The man swallows. A breeze catches them both, catches the red fringe of his hair, and the cool air makes his eyes water, as if flooding them with tears, the Virgin gazing sorrowfully upwards. He Tian is struck with imagery, so much of it beatific and dreadful, some artistic muse come to prod the embers of a cooling executive’s heart.
There is no one else around them, and He Tian can’t mistake the words when he hears them:
‘You’re not what I’d choose.’
///
‘Oh,’ says the tall man. And then he laughs—a sharp, barking sound like the first strike of too-close lightning. Something shatters. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘Fuck.’
Guan Shan squeezes his eyes shut. ‘I just meant—You’re—’
He loses sense of his own mouth, feels his tongue growing heavy and tied. He doesn’t know how to get the words out. When he opens his eyes, the man has his head tilted, considering him with close scrutiny.
‘Ni huì shuō Zhōngwén ma?’ he asks, accentless.
Do you speak Mandarin?
Guan Shan blinks. ‘Yeah… You’re Chinese, too?’ he asks in Mandarin.
‘Of course. It’s fate.’ The man looks around him. ‘I work here—for my father.’
‘I work for me,’ Guan Shan replies, which makes the man smile. Guan Shan’s chest feels tight. ‘I’m—I’m with an agency. Modelling.’
‘Of course,’ the man murmurs. ‘No surprises.’ He holds out a hand, the fingers long and slender as a pianist’s, and Guan Shan’s eyes go to the red string at his finger. There’s an industry on this, a whole multi-trillion dollar industry that profits off this moment. How many movies has he seen? How many adverts and ‘Congratulations’ cards and trinkets that cheaply emulate this exact occasion?
Guan Shan wonders how many shoots he’s done, a stylist assistant tying a piece of synthetic material too loosely at his finger, and then to the hand of his female counterpart, smiling suitably for the cameras. Breathless with joy, selling happiness with perfectly farcical exactitude.
It’s easy, standing beneath a reflector. Now, Guan Shan hardly knows what to say. He wishes he had someone to tell him where to put his arms, how to arch his back, where to look, what feeling he should be replicating. Instead—
A car horn blares.
///
They’re both startled out of the moment, and when He Tian pulls on the man’s arm and tugs him over onto the pavement, the man goes with him. They only realise they’re touching a few seconds later, and He Tian lets go with a pang of loss, intimacy severed.
‘Are you busy?’ He Tian asks him suddenly.
His eyes narrow. ‘It’s past ten.’
‘Are you busy?’
‘I—’
‘I can't let you go,’ He Tian says. ‘I’ve only just found you. It’s late—I’ll buy you dinner.’
Something in the man’s expression shifts, brutish suspicion turned to reluctant wariness, as if a devil has taken to whispering on his shoulder, Say yes. He Tian hopes he’s listening to it. He can’t let this be it. He can’t say goodbye now as this man seems to want to. He looks tired, but He Tian can’t let him go.
‘Fine,’ the man says, endearingly grouchy, rubbing into his right eye with the heel of his palm.
He Tian lets out a whoosh of air in relief. He jerks his arm playfully, feels the string tightening around his finger, watches the man’s hand tremor in kind.
‘Come with me,’ he says.
///
His name is He Tian. He’s a lawyer who works out of his father’s office in Marunouchi and has a window view of the Imperial Palace. His haircut, Guan Shan learns, costs as much as his monthly wage. It makes him feel sick.
He’d be more sympathetic if he knew He Tian’s work was deeply rooted in altruism and pro bono cases, but he sees the word ‘Corporate’ on He Tian’s business card—gold-embossed with quality stock—and knows otherwise.
They find a darkened, semi-private booth in a sukiyaki restaurant, sitting cross-legged beneath a kotatsu table on comfortable tatami flooring, and Guan Shan doesn’t look at the menu. He Tian orders for them, his Japanese pristine and as accentless as his Mandarin. He’s friendly with the waiter, who is overly receptive to his smiles.
‘We couldn’t be more fuckin’ different,’ Guan Shan mutters as He Tian dips thin slices of beef into the hot pot and then, once cooked, deposits them into Guan Shan’s bowl.
‘You think so?’ He Tian asks with a lifted brow. ‘Tell me: where are you from in China? I can’t pick out your accent.’
Guan Shan pulls a face and selects a piece of cabbage to stir into the broth. He chews, swallows.
‘Guangdong,’ he finally admits. ‘You?’
He Tian is grinning, wide and indulgent. His teeth are perfect. ‘I told you: fate. I’m from there too. Nanshan—in Shenzhen. Do you know it?’
Guan Shan snorts. ‘’Course,’ he says. He thinks of glass towers and streets sprawling with bougainvillea, four-car garages and sky-rise apartments.
He thinks of his own hometown in the mountain villages of Hongli with his mother before moving south to pay too much for a too-small shared flat in Baishizhou. There, he’d had shit from stray dogs on the doorstep and no one turned their music off at night unless there was a power cut, which happened frequently.
They would’ve lived fifteen minutes apart; their lives would’ve never crossed. Maybe they bought their newspapers from the same corner store. Maybe they ran through the same park. Looked at the same stars. Here, in the most populated city on the planet, they had found each other in the middle of a street.
If Guan Shan hadn’t been placed on the morning’s shoot, if He Tian hadn’t stayed late at the office…
‘What are you thinking?’
Guan Shan blinks. He Tian has an elbow on the table, his chin cupped in his palm. The broth simmers in the middle of the table, fragrant and oily, and Guan Shan considers the smile on He Tian’s lips.
‘Fate,’ he says. ‘You and me. I don’t get it.’
///
‘What’s not to get?’ He Tian asks him.
Mo Guan Shan. A senseless name, but pretty. He Tian imagines scribbling the three characters on a work pad on his desk—in the condensation on his bathroom mirror after a hot shower. He finds himself taken with them. They fit pleasantly on his tongue when he says them aloud. Mo Guan Shan.
‘This,’ Guan Shan says, holding up his hand. They’re still tied. The string fits so neatly around his finger. His hands are smaller than He Tian’s, and He Tian’s eyes go to his face, the delicate arrangement of his features that spend too long . Under the artificial light of the restaurant, He Tian can see the marks on his skin, a smattering pockmarked freckles on the slope of his nose. He has freckles.
Fuck.
‘Right,’ says He Tian, shifting where he sits cross-legged, the position no good for his long legs. ‘You don’t believe in it? It’s real. It’s right here. We both feel it.’
‘I’m not sayin’ it’s, like, a Mandela effect or somethin’. I know it’s real. I just—don’t think it’s always right.’
‘That we’re destined to be together?’
‘Yeah. Who decides that? Who gets to make the decision that this is it for the rest of our lives? And why are we supposed to follow it?’
Slowly, He Tian puts his chopsticks down. ‘The universe, I suppose.’ He lifts a brow. ‘Unless you believe it’s a computerised system beneath which we’re its puppets? Are you an anti?’
‘No, I just—’ Guan Shan breaks off and chews on the inside of his cheek. He’s barely eaten anything, and He Tian wonders if that’s usual for him. He’s thin but not gaunt, his figure slight but strong. He nearly makes a comment about models and coffee and cigarettes, and then thinks better of it: how does his own poorly tended lifestyle compare?
Instead, He Tian eyes the blue artery that runs along the underside of Guan Shan’s forearm, then looks at his lips.
‘I wanna be able to choose, yeah? I wanna feel it for myself—not be told it by somethin’ else. Some fuckin’ divine intervention.’
‘I think it’s a bit late for that, sweetheart.’ He Tian takes a sip of sake. ‘Why fight what we’ve been chosen for? There isn’t a couple in existence that hasn’t survived the pairing.’
Guan Shan narrows his eyes. ‘You and me,’ he says. ‘You think we’re perfect? You think we’re meant to last? We’re nothin’ like each other. Fuckin’—look at you.’
He Tian doesn’t know what he means by that. His heart, he can feel, has started to beat a little faster. He finishes off his sake, reaches for the bottle.
‘So,’ he says, unscrewing the cap, trying to keep his hands steady. ‘You’re rejecting me?’
Guan Shan chews on a piece of cabbage. ‘I don’t even know you,’ he mutters.
He Tian blows air through his cheeks. ‘I admit this isn’t how I thought this would ever go.’
‘You wanted confetti and music and passionate fucking?’ He Tian’s mind stutters on the word—on the image—then Guan Shan’s eyes flash over him, up and down. ‘You don’t come across like some kinda romantic.’
What is it that he sees? He Tian wonders. He looks at Guan Shan and sees his features, the movement of his hands, the shape of his lips when he talks—as if he has known Guan Shan all his life. This must be what they talk about in the songs and the movies: the aching familiarity. The recognition that they’re cut from the same cloth, born from the same star.
He Tian smiles thinly.
Of course, he thinks: his soulmate would be the one who didn’t want him.
‘Romantic?’ he echoes. ‘Oh, hopelessly.’
///
The conversation lulls.
What’s his smile for? Guan Shan thinks. What’s in the look in those eyes? Does he usually drink so much?
He finds himself tracking He Tian’s gestures, analysing them, producing no answers. He’s never met someone like this before. He’s never run in the same circles. Maybe would’ve found him if he climbed higher, secured better shoots, met with designers and show directors and the investors. As it is, Guan Shan met him in the street feeling dog-tired and nauseated. Where’s the romanticism in that?
He can’t forget the feeling—a whole world coming to a stop around him. He wants to. It sits strangely in him, tugs him into an unknown he isn’t prepared to face. He looks at He Tian, whose expression has twisted into something like self-deprecation. Like disappointment.
‘I’m not what you were lookin’ for either, huh?’ Guan Shan mutters. He tries to picture who should’ve been sitting here in his place: some richly dressed socialite or politician, someone who compliments him prettily and knows how to keep up with his humour and his intellect. Someone with money and good breeding. Not a low-grade hired face who lives paycheck to paycheck.
‘What makes you say that?’ asks He Tian.
‘It’s fuckin’ obvious, isn’t it?’
Both dark brows lift in bemused surprise. ‘You’re exactly who you’re meant to be,’ says He Tian. ‘You’re who I’m meant to have in my life.’
‘I don’t have more than ten thousand yen to my name, buddy.’
He Tian snorts. ‘I hadn’t factored money into this.’
‘Lucky you—it’s all I’ve gotta think about.’
‘Not anymore.’
Guan Shan’s jaw tightens. ‘I’m gonna be your kept woman, is that it?’
He Tian rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he mutters. ‘I know what you’re doing.’
The food is forgotten between them, and Guan Shan’s lost all appetite. He wishes now that he’d indulged in more of the sake. Maybe that would’ve given him the liquid courage to get up and walk the fuck out of there. Instead, he stays put. He bears it. Something is pulling at him to stay.
‘What am I doin’?’ he asks. ‘’Cause you know me so fuckin’ well.’
‘I think I do,’ says He Tian. He points a finger at Guan Shan and narrows one eye, as if lining up for a shot. Guan Shan braces himself instinctively, his muscles locking up. ‘I think you’re trying to come up with reasons to dispute us being together. God forbid you achieve something like happiness by finding someone who’s meant for you. Then you’ll have to work on the chips on both your shoulders.’
Guan Shan stares at him. ‘You’re sayin’ I’m happy with bein’ unhappy.’
‘I’m saying it seems to be all you’ve known. You wear it like a skin. You want happiness and security—but who will you be when you actually have it?’
‘You’ve known me for an hour. You can’t fuckin’ know me.’
He Tian leans back. ‘But was I right?’ When Guan Shan doesn’t reply, He Tian taps a finger on the table. ‘Ten thousand yen says I’m right.’
Guan Shan tries to swallow the tightness in his throat when He Tian pulls out his wallet from his jacket pocket and puts a crisp bill on the table, newly printed. Guan Shan’s eyes shift to He Tian’s.
No, he thinks. No romanticism at all.
‘Put that away,’ he mutters.
He Tian grins. ‘I thought so.’
‘You wanna play that game?’ Guan Shan snaps. ‘Ten thousand yuan says you’re used to payin’ your way out of your own loneliness with daddy’s money and it’s never gotten you far. Nepotism isn’t cute for fuckin’ long.’
A muscle twitches at the side of He Tian’s smile. ‘How’d you reach that conclusion?’
Guan Shan’s look flattens. ‘You usually work ‘til ten at night for money you don’t need and a job that’s not gonna pay you any more?’ He sneers. ‘God forbid you get home to an empty apartment and have to look at yourself in the fuckin’ mirror before you call your best whore on speed dial.’
Silence.
For a minute, neither of them says a thing.
Then, eventually, He Tian starts to slide the note across the table.
‘I believe you’ve earned this,’ he says.
His smile has changed, gone thin as a razor blade. There’s something dangerous about it. It isn’t the smile of a rich tycoon or sharkish lawyer—it’s something else. It makes the hair on Guan Shan’s arms stand on end for the second time that night, and this time it has nothing to do with the cold.
///
He’s good.
A little uncouth, but He Tian thinks Guan Shan would do well in a courtroom if he could keep his temper in check. Not much chance of that happening, He Tian knows, and he’s glad for it. It’s becoming.
It’s fucking hot.
Another beat of silence passes between them, then Guan Shan snatches the money from the table, screws it up in a ball, and drops it into the hotpot. There’s a hushed sizzling sound, then nothing. They watch wordlessly as the note soaks up a good amount of salty broth, before slowly sinking to the bottom of the pot.
A waste of good soup, He Tian thinks, ignoring the tightness of his trousers.
‘You shouldn't have done that,’ He Tian says after a moment.
‘My money,’ Guan Shan says. ‘Can do whatever the fuck I want with it. I earned it, didn’t I?’
He Tian presses his lips together. ‘I suppose you did.’
‘Are you laughin’ at me?’
‘I would never.’
Guan Shan scowls at him. There’s a new, interesting shade of red on his cheeks, perfectly rouged. He Tian imagines how it might look beneath a camera, and for a brief moment he envies the editor who might spend a week staring at Mo Guan Shan’s face on a screen. What a privilege.
‘What now?’ He Tian asks. ‘Since we both have such a firm understanding of one another.’
‘You gonna throw more money at me?’
‘Are you going to feed the hotpot with it? It’s not the most suitable garnish.’
‘If I feel like it.’
‘You mean—’
‘If you piss me off enough, yeah.’
He Tian laughs.
///
It changes something, an unlocking like the working of a sore muscle until it’s softened and loose. In the booth, the sound is neatly contained and Guan Shan can hear nothing else—see nothing else. He thinks it’s the most uncalculated sound he’s heard from He Tian all evening, the least contemptuous show of wealth and arrogance yet. Guan Shan considers himself unfortunate for it: he would’ve been lucky to get away from the restaurant with no great affection for him, happily severing the red tie that binds them.
He Tian’s laughter has ruined it, a peak of humanity shattering the veneer.
Fuck him.
‘You’ve gone quiet,’ He Tian remarks.
Guan Shan glances upwards. ‘Have I?’
‘Very.’
The string around Guan Shan’s finger has gone tight, almost unbearably.
‘How long’s this supposed to stay on?’ Guan Shan asks.
‘As long as you want it to, I think.’
Guan Shan nods. There’s a small, serrated knife on the table, which fits neatly in his palm. ‘So I could just… cut it off?’
A spark leaves He Tian’s eyes; his look has gone hard and firm, but he nods.
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘I’m not gonna wear it forever. Is that the idea? Like in that American movie where they’re stuck? I mean, how the fuck did they even take a shit without each other?’
He Tian snorts. ‘You watched that? I thought you didn’t indulge in sensationalism. Isn’t this all some grand marketing ploy to you?’
‘Not all of it,’ is all Guan Shan says. ‘You’d be happy with that, then? Never livin’ our own lives ‘cause some piece of string told us we’re meant to spend the rest of them together forever?’
He Tian takes a minute to reply. ‘Now I know you’re mine—I’ll have a hard time letting go.’
Mine, Guan Shan hears. The word makes his mouth go dry. He wants to revolt loudly and bodily against it, severing his own wrist off if he has to. He wants to have He Tian say it a hundred more times with that same particular look on his face, closer to his ear. Guan Shan finds himself suspended between twin desires, as if on a ropey bridge between two mountainous peaks, each one as dangerous as the other. Probably, Guan Shan should just jump.
‘But you’re right,’ says He Tian. ‘We’d have to cut it eventually.’
Guan Shan considers the knife and draws his lower lip between his teeth. ‘You know other people who got tied?’
‘Other than my parents, only two other couples.’
‘And what did they do?’
He Tian gives him a pointed look. ‘It’s taboo to talk about other people’s tyings.’
‘Yeah, and you always play by the rules?’
He Tian’s smile is devastating. He parts his hands. ‘As far as I know… they spent weeks together before they first parted. But they knew each other before they were joined. The string was just, I don’t know, confirmation that they’d already made the right choice.’
Guan Shan stares at him. ‘They—’ He pauses. ‘You think we would’ve stayed together to find out?’ he asks. ‘If we knew each other before, I mean. You think we would’ve last long enough?’
‘I think you would’ve enjoyed ripping my head off and I’d enjoy watching you try,’ says He Tian, and then: ‘But I think you couldn’t help yourself. You’d swing back like a pendulum. But that’s all hypothetical, isn’t it? Useless talk coming from a romantic.’
‘Not useless.’
He Tian hesitates, opening his mouth then closing it. He takes a glance at his watch, a Patek Philippe design that Guan Shan knows must have cost a large fortune, and presses his mouth into a thin line.
‘It’s late,’ He Tian says. ‘They’ll be closing soon.’
‘You’re not gonna buy the place out for the night?’
He Tian smirks. ‘Don’t tempt me,’ he says, but his voice catches, and Guan Shan hears the unspent words. I couldn’t make you stay even if I did.
///
It’s not quiet out on the street—Tokyo never affords that luxury—but they wander for a little while with an aimlessness that gives the illusion of isolation and a city to themselves. It isn’t the world-stopping hush of their tying, but it’s something.
When there’s a tug on his finger, He Tian almost imagines they’re holding hands.
‘I live over there,’ he says, pointing across to Minato-ku in the south. He can make out his apartment if he squints, one glass tower nestled among hundreds, virtually unremarkable from the rest. Guan Shan follows his gaze, making out Tokyo Tower lit up in the distance.
‘King of the castle,’ Guan Shan mutters.
He Tian grins. ‘What does that make you?’
‘Unimpressed.’
Oh, he’s good, He Tian thinks, laughing. He spots the slight movement at the corner of Guan Shan’s mouth and finds himself warmed by it. Guan Shan’s surliness—for the most part, he realises—is an act. There’s a thin veil of humour beneath it that He Tian snags on like a piece of cotton getting caught on a nail. It won’t brush out unless he unpicks the whole thing; he lets it sit.
‘I’m not far out of San’ya,’ Guan Shan says.
He Tian keeps his voice steady. ‘By Taito?’ He knows the area. It’s twenty minutes north and has been worn-out since the Edo period. He Tian knows his father is working with a development company in the area, that he jokingly calls it pro bono work while pocketing a multi-billion-yen contract.
‘That’s the one,’ says Guan Shan, watching He Tian closely. ‘Got a flat above a backpacker’s hostel.’
‘That must make for an interesting social scene.’
Guan Shan shrugs. ‘Get to practice my English. Might get a job in the States one day.’
‘Aiming for New York, are you?’ He Tian asks.
They’ve made it to Hibiya Park, where the perimeter of the central fountain is deserted, water rushing silently upwards before falling. Two police officers wander up ahead, walking beneath the park’s russet boughs of elm trees and gingkos, their even footsteps crunching in the gravel. He Tian watches their shadows disappear.
When Guan Shan doesn’t reply, he says: ‘I have an office in New York.’
‘You mean daddy does.’
‘No,’ says He Tian. ‘It’s mine—a small business venture. I made an investment when I was eighteen. When I’ve made a name for myself, I might move there.’
‘Made a name?’ Guan Shan asks. He Tian spies his business card spinning lazily between Guan Shan’s fingers, fidgeting. Nervous? ‘’Cause yours doesn’t carry enough weight already.’
‘Not on its own. Not on its own merit.’
They come to the ledge of the fountain. Guan Shan sets himself down on it, forearms on his thighs, spine curved. He looks surly and delinquent-like, saved only by the expense of his clothes, which He Tian has learnt are on-hire and will be picked up by a shoot assistant in the early hours of the next morning. It’s not far off midnight.
‘Why’d you mention New York?’ Guan Shan says quietly. ‘You think I’d go with you, ride your coattails?’
‘I meant nothing by it.’
‘I think that’s bullshit.’
He Tian smiles. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on the heels of his dress shoes, the leather sheen scuffed by the park’s gravel paths.
‘Hopeless romantic, remember?’
Guan Shan makes a sound in the back of his throat, shaking his head. Incredulous amusement, maybe. He Tian hopes for the best.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ Guan Shan says, but doesn’t move. ‘Miss a job and I won’t get called again.’
‘That seems a little unfair.’
‘Not when there’s a thousand other people who could take my place.’
‘Your agency doesn’t realise you’re irreplaceable?’
Guan Shan snorts. ‘Why should they?’ He gets to his feet now, and they stand barely two feet apart from each other, tethered with no tug. He Tian watches, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth, as Guan Shan starts to pull the string from his finger like sliding off a ring. It goes easily.
Not wanting to endure the feeling of sudden loss, He Tian removes his too. The string dangles limply for a moment before falling to the ground.
In an instant, He Tian sees it all through Guan Shan’s eyes.
It’s only string.
‘I want to see you again,’ says He Tian. ‘I want you to give me a chance.’
‘I want doesn’t fuckin’ get,’ Guan Shan huffs.
He Tian holds himself back, then rephrases: ‘Can I see you again?’
‘I’ve got work and shit…’ Guan Shan looks to his feet, scratches the side of his nose. ‘I dunno my schedule.’
‘Call me,’ says He Tian. He feels a bubbling urgency now, forcing his heart to a quicker metronome. The string has been untied, but there is the feeling of something running through his fingers now, as if trying to hold water in cupped palms. ‘We should at least try.’
‘Yeah?’ Guan Shan says, with the tone of voice of someone who rarely likes being told what to do. ‘For who? Who’re we provin’ somethin’ to?’
‘Ourselves,’ He Tian says simply. He swallows. He wants a cigarette, but he forces the addiction elsewhere: ‘I think we owe it to ourselves to try not to be lonely.’
‘You’re a piece of work.’
‘Thank you.’
Guan Shan shakes his head. ‘How?’ he asks. ‘I don’t—’
‘You do. I gave you my card. Call me any time. Midnight, 2pm, whenever you want. I’ll pick up.’
Guan Shan frowns. ‘You’re gonna be disappointed.’
He Tian takes a step back. With some small pleasure, he realises Guan Shan’s having difficulty leaving, so he’ll help him through it. Give him back the agency to leave the park and head for the subway to his San’ya flat. Let him choose. He Tian knows he won’t sleep tonight.
Choose me.
‘Disappointed? I don’t think so,’ He Tian says, meeting Guan Shan’s eyes. ‘You’re already more than I could’ve hoped for.’
Guan Shan clicks his tongue. He tracks He Tian’s retreating movements and asks, ‘You don’t want my number, too?’
He Tian shakes his head, a half-lie. ‘You’ll call.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
He Tian shrugs, trying for nonchalance. ‘If we’re meant to be like I think we are—you’ll call.’
‘Presumptuous.’
‘No,’ says He Tian, walking backwards. He points to the red string. ‘Fate.’