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Prompt: General likes: I love nothing more than some good pining, especially of the mutual kind. I am so there for two morons in love who are too dumb to realise that they're totally together. Have their friends bet on when they'll realise they're together even. Add some misunderstandings or bit of that good old hurt/comfort. Throw in some domesticity. Prompt (if you want to): Both of them trying to court the other and said other utterly failing to recognize the intent behind their actions. Bonus point if they're asking their friends for help and do not realise that the advice reflect exactly something the other has done for them already. They're dumbasses in love your honor. But seriously, I'm up for anything. As long as it's a happy ending. Go wild, have fun
Pangzi is losing his mind.
He is pretty sure his brain is quite literally melting out his ears. It is honestly a shame -- he is wearing one of his favorite tailored shirts today, and if zombies have taught him anything, it is that brain matter is surprisingly difficult to get out of a nice, bespoke suit.
Across from him, the reason for his distress silently places a choice cut of meat in Wu Xie’s bowl, nestling it in alongside the perfectly charred broccoli he had dropped there earlier. To the casual observer, Xiaoge’s expression is as flat as ever, but Pangzi is not your average audience. Over a decade of experience in the antique industry means he is trained to notice the smallest of tells.
This is exceedingly useful when upselling an annoyingly entitled customer or haggling with an inexperienced seller.
It is exceedingly less useful right now.
In fact, it is heartily contributing to his incipient migraine, because it means that where others would see only a blank slate, Pangzi can see something that looks horrifyingly like softness lingering around the corners of Xiaoge’s mouth.
Not to be outdone in causing Pangzi pain, Wu Xie chooses that moment to pause, hands still caught mid-gesture in front of him, and lean back towards Xiaoge. He ducks his head gratefully, quietly thanking Xiaoge and shooting the older man an unabashedly lovestruck smile before returning his attention to Xiao Hua beside him. He keeps his body tilted towards Xiaoge though, and Pangzi has front row seats to the way that makes Xiaoge’s eyes go gentle, all the harsh lines melting away.
It is absolutely awful.
In his least charitable moments, Pangzi has found himself wondering what Xiaoge even did during his ten years behind the Gate, since he quite apparently didn’t spend any time learning how to communicate his feelings. Not that Wu Xie is any better, mind you, but Xiaoge is too old by a lifetime and a half to still be this embarrassing.
Across from him, Wu Xie finally wraps up with Xiao Hua and turns back at Xiaoge -- who is looking at him like he hung the stars and the moon. It is patently ridiculous, especially since Pangzi overheard enough to know that Xiao Hua and Wu Xie were actually discussing the mind-numbingly-boring specifications of regional styles of stonemasonry, all of which Xiaoge probably already knows anyway.
Neither of his best friends seem to care about Pangzi’s unspoken annoyance, however, because they proceed to get absolutely lost in each other’s eyes for a solid ten seconds.
(Pangzi curses internally when they look away from each other, a bright red flush already creeping its way over Wu Xie’s cheeks. He bet against Hei Xiazi earlier in the night that tonight would be the night they beat their previous record of twenty full, uninterrupted seconds of staring. He thought he was a shoo-in for victory, but now...Pangzi takes a mournful drink, nose barely wrinkling even as the distinctive hit of varnish scalds the back of his throat. His two best friends are clearly set on making his life as miserable as possible. The least they could do would be to be embarrassing in ways that earn him money.)
The evening proceeds similarly, with Pangzi downing a glass every time Wu Xie and Xiaoge pull their two-man romantic comedy act. Soon enough, Pangzi is feeling pleasantly sloshed on Hei Xiazi’s favorite liquor -- an eye-wateringly strong wine Pangzi is pretty sure is just one measly ingredient away from being used as paint thinner. He lists over slightly in Hei Xiazi’s direction, intent on telling him as much: “Hei-ye,” a wave of his cup to break Hei Xiazi’s attention from the newest set of courses being haphazardly crammed onto their already overburdened table. Who keeps ordering more? They’re obviously already well saturated with delicacies!
The waiter places a heaping pile of steamed greens that Pangzi vaguely recalls gesturing enthusiastically at on the menu earlier. Ah, probably him, then.
“Hei-ye,” he refocuses, with great effort, back on the task at hand. Hei Xiazi looks up from the new dishes, chopsticks held inquisitively in hand. “Hei-ye, I assumed Xiao Hua was the one with no taste,” Hei Xiazi laughs, not even trying to deny it. “But if this is the kind of liquor you drink, I’m forced to believe it’s actually you. What is this? Rubbing alcohol?”
Hei Xiazi shrugs, hands and eyebrows lifting innocently, “Pangzi, you wound me! It’s only mostly rubbing alcohol.” Hei Xiazi raises his glass, as though for a toast, and winks. “Only the best for you, my friend.”
“Who is your friend, huh? Pang-ye has better taste than that.” Well, usually, ignoring the fact that his two actual friends are driving him up the wall at present. “Security, why’d you let this sleazy ruffian in here?”
“Security” being, in this case, Kan Jian -- who is looking as sloshed as Pangzi feels -- raises his hands in a shrug, tipping some beer onto the ground as he does, and Pangzi rolls his eyes. Useless, the lot of them.
(He still clinks Hei Xiazi’s glass, though. The alcohol is awful, yes, but it is having the desired effect of leaving him loopy and sanded down, which is a prerequisite for spending an extended period of time with Wu Xie and Xiaoge lately.)
He blindly reaches out his chopsticks towards the greens he noticed earlier, only for them to close around thin air with an audible clack. He swivels back towards the food, confused, just in time to see Xiaoge calmly placing the last succulent bite in Wu Xie’s already brimming bowl.
Pangzi glowers, chopsticks still hovering over empty air, and Xiaoge stares serenely back. Wu Xie, entirely oblivious to the war the other members of the Iron Triangle are waging beside him, glances their way, finally noticing his newly refilled bowl.
He looks up at Xiaoge, eyes positively sparkling, and Pangzi wants to gag.
(He drinks another cup of liquor instead, mourning the loss of his greens and any last, lingering brain cells in equal measure.)
It’s not that Pangzi doesn’t support his friends. He does! In fact, he’s fairly certain that no one else wants the two of them to get together more than him. After all, no one else has to actually live with the day-to-day horror of what Pangzi has come to call The Star-Crossed Lovers Shit Show.
No one else has to stumble into their own living room, slippers scuffing against the floor as they wipe grit out of their eyes, only to back slowly out when they realize that one of their best friends is lovingly laying their favorite knitted blanket over their serenely sleeping other best friend.
No one else has to pretend they absolutely did not catch one of their best friends popping a boner over their other best friend practicing swordsmanship, or working out shirtless, or -- as happened at least once -- simply existing.
(Similarly, no one else has to worry if one of their best friends is developing some kind of medical condition due to excessive boners, nor does anyone else have to permanently scar WikiHow with their questions.)
No one else has to remember to knock every time they open a door, lest they yet again stumble across their two best friends tangled together in some kind of sitcom-esque, half-naked pile, because one of them tripped over air and the other felt the need to save them, or something equally stupid.
No one else has to live the life Pangzi has to live and, quite frankly, he’s tired of it.
It’s a few days after dinner when Wu Xie first approaches him about it.
They’re in the kitchen, and Pangzi is rolling out noodles, rolled-up sleeves poking out from under his favorite frilly pink apron (a gag gift from Hei Xiazi that had backfired spectacularly, because Pangzi adored it). Wu Xie is leaning against the counter, careless of the flour he’s smearing into his expensive sweater, nibbling at his bottom lip like he often does when he’s deep in thought. He’s got a bit of dough between his fingers, rubbing it this way and that way without any real rhythm or attention, and Pangzi can feel how the air between them is stretching and collapsing, heavy with unspoken thoughts, in time with Wu Xie’s movements.
Normally, Pangzi would take the hint for what it is and ask after what’s bothering Wu Xie, but today he has chosen to instead invest all of his attention in furiously kneading. He slaps the dough down on the tab, a tad more violently than necessary, perhaps, and thinks bitterly that maybe, just maybe, sheer effort alone will help him forget the struck look in Xiaoge’s eyes when Wu Xie had wandered into the kitchen this morning, sleep-soft and indolent, hair mussed nearly beyond recognition.
(Xiaoge’s hands had slackened entirely, breakfast slipping from his hands and nearly meeting a tragic demise all over the kitchen floor, if not for the older man’s superhuman reflexes kicking in at the last minute. It was unbelievably dramatic, and for a moment Pangzi had honestly thought they’d converted Wushanju into a movie set while he slept, could nearly hear the exact score a pulpy drama would play over the scene. Xiaoge had left the kitchen quickly after, ears tinged faint pink, and Pangzi had nearly bit his lip fighting back an honest-to-god scream . All of this over a half-awake Wu Xie who was, yes, generally quite pretty -- Pangzi has eyes! He is known for his good taste! -- but who also had dried drool spackled across his cheek.)
It’s up to Wu Xie to break the silence, then, and Pangzi thinks for a brief second that he may actually be left to cook in peace -- sometimes, when Wu Xie gets like this, he forgets how to talk entirely without prodding.
“Pangzi,” ah, no luck then. Wu Xie’s voice is muted, clear, but his eyes still have that fogged-out look they get when he’s deep in thought, “How do you let someone know you care about them?”
That’s...surprisingly forthright of him. Pangzi hums, consideringly, flopping the dough down on the counter a few more times before answering, “Well, paying your rent on time is always appreciated. Makes someone feel valued. Treating them to the dozens of hot pots you’ve offered them throughout the years can’t hurt, either...” He lets his voice trail off, as though reflecting on his answer, pretending he can’t see how Wu Xie’s initially trusting expression has morphed into a petulant pout.
Just because Wu Xie is finally coming to his senses doesn’t mean Pangzi’s going to make it easy on him.
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about --” Wu Xie starts, but Pangzi tsks loudly, interrupting him and waving flour covered hands in his direction.
“I’m not done! Don’t interrupt, Little Comrade, that’s bad manners!” A finger waggle, and Wu Xie rolls his eyes, “Perhaps the most important thing, is that if they’re toiling away in the kitchen, maybe even making you noodles from scratch, you shouldn’t steal bits of their dough. It’s all about the little things, you know.”
Pangzi barely squeezes out the last sentence, because he has to leap aside to dodge Wu Xie throwing bits of the dough at him, growling as he does, “Si Pangzi, here, have it, if you want it so bad!!” He throws a fist of flour back, coating Wu Xie in ghostly pale, and Wu Xie sputters, and sticks his tongue out, and Pangzi goes to pull at it, and then Wu Xie is smiling again, sun-bright and galaxy-wide, and it’s worth all the teasing.
They’re both out of breath and significantly messier, dough congealing in Pangzi’s hair and Wu Xie’s sweater entirely unrecognizable, when they finally wind down a few minutes later. Pangzi shakes his head, splattering bits of dough in Wu Xie’s direction, but his voice is lower, more serious, when he speaks:
“You could try telling him, Tianzhen. You know he feels the same way you do.”
Wu Xie pokes him, though there’s no real heat behind it -- unlike his cheeks, which are blushing such a vibrant red that Pangzi wonders how Wu Xie has any blood left anywhere else in his body. “You say that, but he’s just like that, Pangzi, with anyone he cares about.” Pangzi raises an eyebrow, because how many people exactly does Xiaoge care about? -- but Wu Xie pays him no mind. “He doesn’t really have any friends, or family. Not other than us, at least. And Hei Yanjing, I guess, but I’m not sure he really counts.” Pangzi rolls his eyes, but Wu Xie keeps pushing: “What if you’re just reading into it, what then?”
Pangzi tilts his head, silently letting Wu Xie ramble. He has a feeling that’s not what this is really about.
Sure enough, there’s a short pause, and when Wu Xie continues his voice is quiet, so soft it’s barely above a whisper, cocoon-hushed. His throat bobs, dry, and Pangzi wonders what it’s like to have words you’re so afraid of speaking.
(He remembers a scream torn to shreds by sea wind, remembers a car with a Zhang that’s not his own, and thinks he might know, actually.)
“Pangzi, he gets… He gets scared by things holding him back or down. You know that as well as I do, better even. I don’t want him to…” Wu Xie’s voice cracks, but Pangzi doesn’t mention it, just rests a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I don’t want to mess it up, for him to stop feeling safe here. For him to disappear on me.”
There’s an unspoken word there, an again lodged deep in Wu Xie’s throat, but Pangzi can still hear it loud and clear. There’s hurt there, an ocean of hurt as choppy blue as the sea Pangzi had to drag Wu Xie out of so many years ago. It’s a hurt Pangzi wishes he could take, a hurt Pangzi knows Xiaoge regrets, a hurt he knows the older man tastes, every day, like swallowed ash staining the tip of his tongue.
Pangzi breathes in deep, sighs, lets himself resurface from the tugging pull of his own memories. He returns to his dough, parceling it out into sections once more, scarred and knobbled fingers sure and steady. “Tianzhen… It’s been ten years. He’s not the same man you used to chase after.” Pangzi pauses, rolls his next sentence around in his mouth before he says it, lets it form into a smooth stone in the hollow beneath his tongue, “And you’re not the boy you were then, either.”
Wu Xie shifts in place, not denying it, though he tugs the hem of his sleeve down in an unconscious motion. He’s wearing an open collar under his sweater today, the light brown fabric folding loosely over the knitted edge and leaving the puckered line slashing across his throat on full display.
It’s progress, for Wu Xie to let them see it at all -- just like it’s progress for Wu Xie to start this conversation, and progress for Wu Xie to admit some of the kernels of fear he’s sheltering deep in the depths of his heart.
As much as Pangzi has griped and complained and whined, as much as he has rolled his eyes at the far-too-familiar dance his best friends are trapped in, he can appreciate progress. He’s given Wu Xie enough to think about, anyway.
“Alright, don’t make Pang-ye do all the work around here.” He nudges Wu Xie with his hip, a gentle tap disguised by blustery movement. “Help me roll this out, it’s your fault my work station looks like this anyway. Aiya, I’m going to have to start calling you Little Thief.” Wu Xie rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling again. “No true comrade would steal from the hand that feeds them, sheesh...”
They’re quiet while they finish making the noodles, Wu Xie lost in thought as he wipes down the spilt flour while Pangzi whips up some side dishes. Soon enough they’re ready to call Xiaoge in from wherever he was training, and then they’re all fitting in besides each other at their too-small table, an equilateral triangle reformed, knees brushing and plates clinking together. Xiaoge smiles when Pangzi sneaks him an extra serving of noodles, and Wu Xie clacks his chopsticks at them both, joking about how they’re ganging up on him, complaining that soon he’ll be naught but skin and bones.
(And maybe Pangzi slurps his own serving a little extra messily, just to make Wu Xie shake his head and laugh, just to see how Xiaoge’s shoulders go loose and light at the sound.)
(They’re idiots, both of them, but they’re his idiots.)
...They are, first and foremost, idiots, though.
Pangzi is forcibly reminded of this the next day, when Wu Xie comes out to the courtyard to run an old receipt by him and promptly runs directly into a wall, because Xiaoge is also in the courtyard, shirtless, halfway through his morning practice.
Wu Xie sinks to the ground, visibly overwhelmed, and Xiaoge rushes over to him, immediately checking his pulse and temperature. Pangzi sighs, returning to his morning newspaper. He can tell without looking that Wu Xie’s heartbeat is erratic, but unlike Xiaoge (who is frowning and insisting on helping Wu Xie sit up, muttering something quiet about medicine), he knows that it has far less to do with sudden-onset anemia, and far more to do with the proximity of Xiaoge’s naked pectorals.
He flips the paper over to find the sudoku, which has, of course, already been filled in, Wu Xie’s neat pen strokes unmistakable. He sighs, again, and takes back every kind thing he thought about his best friends yesterday. He was wrong; they’re the worst, and he does not deserve this.
The final straw is not, actually, what Pangzi expected.
It’s not because Pangzi loses his temper and reveals all after seeing Wu Xie swoon one too many times, or because Xiaoge breaks down and scrawls his love for Wu Xie across the walls of Wushanju in blood. The latter is, to be fair, marginally less likely -- but Pangzi has long since learned to always hedge your bets when the Iron Triangle is concerned.
No, instead, the final straw is because of a gangly teenager who can’t even grow a solid mustache.
After the absolute shitshow at the Wang Compound, Wu Xie had initially intended to sever all his ties with Li Cu, under the assumption -- a stupid one, in Pangzi’s opinion, which he had loudly and vociferously aired -- that not seeing Wu Xie would help Li Cu return to a “normal” life. Pangzi had promptly ignored any and all such intentions, invited Li Cu over for dinner, and given Wu Xie such a dark glare when he tried to protest that the other man snapped his mouth shut before he even started his complaints.
Pangzi would say he did it for Li Cu, and he did -- it wasn’t fair to the kid to force him into their world and then leave him hanging by a thread, life permanently disrupted with no safety net -- but he did it for Wu Xie, too. He saw the way Wu Xie’s eyes softened when he talked about the little punk. It was an expression Pangzi hadn’t seen in a decade, if he was being honest, and truthfully…
Truthfully, he couldn’t bear to lose it again.
So he invited Li Cu to dinner, and let the kid crash on their couch, and looked the other way when Wu Xie slipped into the living room the next morning. Instead, he reheated some doujiang, clanking the dishes extra loudly, and pretended he couldn’t hear the muffled sobs coming from the next room over, or the deeper, more familiar tones of Wu Xie trying not to fall apart.
(When they emerged, both of their eyes were red and puffy. Pangzi looked them over, and silently added an extra youtiao to each of their plates. This might be one of the few things fried dough can’t fix, but that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t help.)
After that, them all having dinner together quickly became a running tradition, especially once Li Cu proved to be an exceptionally talented home chef. It was easy to slot Xiaoge in when he returned -- even if Li Cu was oddly, inexplicably hostile towards the other man for a few weeks -- and now they get together like this at least once a week. It wasn’t an immediate thing, but Li Cu and Wu Xie slowly began to pick up the pieces of all the hurt that had shattered between them.
Now, Li Cu is arguably too comfortable around them, or so Pangzi grouses to himself. He shoots the teen a wicked side-eye as Li Cu strides into the kitchen without announcing himself, a swiped pair of Wu Xie’s house slippers firmly on his feet.
“You’re late, punk.” Li Cu pulls a face back at him, exaggeratedly rolling his eyes even as he grabs his apron -- dark green, picked by Li Cu himself on a family shopping trip (admittedly under duress, as Pangzi had threatened to purchase one matching his own frilly pink number if Li Cu refused to choose). Pangzi gestures at the cutting board behind him, careful not to slop soup everywhere as he does. “Those mushrooms aren’t going to slice themselves. Get to it, kid, or I’ll make you chop the meat up, too.” It’s empty fussing, and Li Cu knows it. That doesn’t stop him from snarking back, though; the kid has never met a fight he couldn’t pick. Pangzi brandishes his soup-stirring spoon in Li Cu’s direction; this punk!
Soon enough though, teasing aside, they settle into an easy rhythm, Li Cu chopping methodically in the background while Pangzi stirs. They’re about halfway through prep when Xiaoge glides silently into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. Pangzi sees him from the corner of his eye and opens his mouth to warn Li Cu, but he’s too slow -- the hard-fought calm in kitchen is lost in a moment as the younger man picks up on the fact that there’s someone else behind him and whips around, knife raised defensively
“Aiya, kid, put that down, you’ll take someone’s eye out,” Pangzi places his palm over Li Cu’s hand, ignoring the slight tremble he can feel running up the younger man’s wrist. Li Cu sucks in a deep breath and lowers the knife, mouth twisting down as he opens it to apologize.
Surprisingly, Xiaoge beats him to it. The older man cuts Li Cu off before he can speak, tipping his head apologetically, almost embarrassed, and holding up a carton of milk as explanation: “Wu Xie is thirsty.”
Pangzi snorts at that, but doesn’t explain himself when Li Cu casts a confused glance his way. Wu Xie is definitely thirsty, but Pangzi thinks Xiaoge might have misinterpreted what, exactly, their friend is craving.
Having explained himself, Xiaoge ducks out of the kitchen -- no doubt to bring Wu Xie the milk the younger man certainly did not ask for but that the older man got for him anyway, because Xiaoge noticed that Wu Xie was swallowing too dryly or something. At this point, Pangzi isn’t even sure why he’s surprised.
...He realizes belatedly that he may have voiced some of those complaints out loud, given the way Li Cu is looking at him, but the soup is bubbling and Pangzi doesn’t have time to explain. He gestures for Li Cu to get back to cooking, and refocuses himself.
Dinner is a casual affair, as it always is with the four of them. Li Cu seems a bit off, reactions a bit too slow, but Pangzi chalks it up to the lingering effect of the shock in the kitchen.
At least, until Xiaoge carefully selects a particularly plump piece of fish, neatly removing it from the bones with his chopsticks and then placing it in Wu Xie’s bowl without comment. Wu Xie smiles appreciatively, tipping his beer in Xiaoge’s direction in a silent toast before returning to chatting with Pangzi.
It’s domestic, and gentle, and a nearly unnoticeable moment, just one of many between Wu Xie and Xiaoge -- and Li Cu is watching it closely, a contemplative expression on his face.
Pangzi sighs to himself. Given how much the boy is like Wu Xie, that can only spell trouble.
After dinner finds Li Cu and Pangzi relaxing on the porch, partaking in a well-deserved rest as Xiaoge and Wu Xie clean up. The night is calm, and his belly is full, and the fireflies are just starting to peek out, flickers of green light popping in and out of the night sky. It’s all combining to make Pangzi quite drowsy, which is perhaps why he’s slow to respond when Li Cu turns to him and asks, voice muted despite the courtyard’s quiet, “How long have they been together?”
It takes a minute for the words to slot into place, his mouth pulling down in confusion as he thinks through what Li Cu’s asking. Obviously he’s taking too long for the kid, because Li Cu rolls his eyes, jerking a thumb back towards the interior of the house, “Them, Pangzi, who else?”
He nearly snorts when it finally clicks. “Those two idiots? They’re not.” He shakes his head, as if at a great tragedy -- and it is, kind of, if he’s being honest. “Unbelievable, right?”
Li Cu’s cheeks flush scarlet in embarrassment, but his tone is surprisingly contemplative when he replies. “Really? But… The way he talked about Xiaoge, before,” a stutter, just the faintest intake of breath, “When… When we first, uh, first met. He talked about you, too, but it’s always been… Different, with Xiaoge.” Li Cu cuts a worried glance at him, as if concerned Pangzi will take offense, but he doesn’t -- can’t fathom it, even.
(They’ve been friends for over a decade, after all. He knows they love him just as much as he loves them, just as much as they love each other -- but also, that the love they hold for each other is different. Not in quality, just in type. He would say he made his peace with it long ago, but it was never something he had to overcome or swallow down; they’ve always been them, the three of them, the two of them, the all of them.)
“Oh, kid, trust me -- I know.” Pangzi takes a swig of his beer, rolling it around in his mouth, savoring it before he swallows. Good conversation needs good beer, he’s always felt, or it isn’t nearly so enjoyable. “I’m not saying they shouldn’t be together. Everyone else in the business knows they’ve loved each other for years. Longer than you’ve been alive, even.” That earns him a huff from Li Cu and a whack to his shoulder, to the tune of a muttered I’m not that young!
Pangzi rocks back, chuckling even as he rubs ruefully at his newly sore arm. As he does, he thinks he picks up on something in his periphery shift, a blurring in the shadows. He doesn’t turn around to check, though, shifting back towards Li Cu instead. When he continues, his voice is quieter, worn and pock-marked despite his best efforts, “Though I’m sure Wu Xie didn’t put it that way, right?”
Li Cu scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Have you met Wu Xie? For someone who talks all the time, he never actually says anything.” The younger man leans back, propping himself up on his elbows and tilting his chin back to look at the stars, hair wispy shadows around his face, and Pangzi is reminded that he really is so terribly young. When he speaks, his voice is low, hushed, a confession meant for the wind’s ears: “He may as well have said it, though. He told me he’d keep waiting. Another ten years if he had to.”
Pangzi lets Li Cu’s words sit, lets them settle into the open air between them, lets the mood between them turn heavy. Pangzi isn’t surprised, of course, though it still hurts to hear; Wu Xie barely survived those ten years. Who would he be if he had to endure another ten? He finds his hand lingering over his own forearm, remembering all the visible and invisible marks Wu Xie carries with him, all the marks Wu Xie will carry with him.
He shakes himself out of it before the evening can go completely sour, breaking the solemn mood with a snort. “Just ten years? I think he’d wait another lifetime if he had to, two or three if he could manage it.” Li Cu laughs then, full and brilliant and so much like Wu Xie, and Pangzi grins, settling back against his own arms in a mirror of the younger man’s posture. “You know, the other day he asked me -- actually asked me! -- how to tell someone you care about them?”
“What’d you say?”
“Told him to use his words. Surprisingly, he wasn’t a huge fan of that one.”
“But he’s so good at talking about his feelings,” if sarcasm could be tangible, Pangzi thinks Li Cu’s might quite literally blister his skin. “Who could have seen that coming?”
Pangzi nods in agreement, chuckling under his breath before lightly thunking his bottle against the side of Li Cu’s head. “Enough about us old men. How is the future of the country doing? Classes ok? You know you’re going to have to earn enough to support your shushu in our twilight years, right?”
Behind them, Xiaoge turns to go back inside without a word.
Pangzi smiles, softer this time, and tilts his head back to look at the stars, letting himself get lost in the rhythmic slide of Li Cu’s voice.
He’s done what he can. The ball is in their court, now.
Zhang Qiling pauses just outside the kitchen doorway. He can hear Wu Xie humming inside, no doubt finishing up the last few plates after sending Xiaoge outside to check on if Pangzi or Li Cu wanted dessert.
He can also hear, overlaid on top of the clink of washing dishes, as crystal clear as though it’s still being repeated in his ears, Li Cu and Pangzi’s quiet conversation in the courtyard outside.
How long have they been together?
Everyone else in the business knows they’ve loved each other for years.
And, impossibly:
He told me he’d keep waiting. Another ten years if he had to.
Zhang Qiling has lived a lifetime and a half. He has led a family crumbling under the weight of its own failed legacy; he has willingly exchanged himself for the man he loves; he has visited the highest peaks and the lowest valleys. He is one of the most talented, accomplished tomb raiders currently active.
Right now, none of that seems to matter. He clenches his fist at his side, grits his teeth against the sensation of his feet being stuck in concrete.
He is not prepared for this.
He walks into the kitchen anyway.
Wu Xie likes to sing when he does the dishes. Most of the time he’s not even aware he’s doing it, snippets of commercial jingles and old holiday songs leaking out of parted lips without thought. He can’t help it; it passes the monotony faster.
Under normal circumstances, Xiaoge isn’t often able to sneak up on him (which, Wu Xie is willing to admit, has less to do with Wu Xie being particularly perceptive and much more to do with how tuned in he is to the other man’s location at all times). At present, Wu Xie is halfway through his third rendition of a local car dealership’s promo, though, swaying his hips to the infectious beat, and so he completely misses Xiaoge walking up behind him.
“Wu Xie.” And Wu Xie whips around, sloshing water everywhere as he does, heart already sinking, good mood evaporating in an instant. He hasn’t heard Xiaoge use that tone of voice with him since a dark cave on Changbai Mountain, since a cup of tea he should have known better than to drink.
Xiaoge is lingering in the doorway of the kitchen, half-shadowed, and looking intently at him. His jaw is clenched, teeth set, but he must pick up on the panic in Wu Xie’s face because he makes an obvious, conscious effort to release some of the tension.
He steps forward, graceful as ever, and Wu Xie steps back without thinking, nearly tipping himself into the sink, fear overrunning every synapse and capillary and throbbing, visceral and viscous, at the base of his skull. His vision is blurring a bit, and he thinks he may have, possibly, stopped breathing entirely. Xiaoge is speaking, but Wu Xie isn’t really hearing it; it’s garbled in his ears, just something that might be his name and the word “love” in the same sentence, which doesn’t make any sense.
Turns out he really does need to breathe, or he starts hallucinating Xiaoge making some type of confession. How embarrassing. Wu Xie takes a deep breath and plasters a smile he hopes isn’t too obviously fake across his face. “Sorry, Xiaoge, I missed that; could you say that again?”
Xiaoge tilts his head, almost birdlike, a twinge of humor sneaking its way into the curl of his smile. “I asked if you love me. Because I thought it was obvious that I love you.”
Oh, that makes much more sense, Wu Xie thinks, nodding sagely, before he actually processes what exactly Xiaoge just said.
Wait.
What?
The silverware he was washing drops from his hands, clattering on the tile floor, but Wu Xie can’t be bothered -- because Xiaoge has stepped closer, and his eyes are earnest, and he just stepped even closer, didn’t he, and Wu Xie wonders if this is what it feels like to have stroke, because all the air seems to be sucked out of the room and he can’t focus on anything but the tiny curve of Xiaoge’s smile.
Xiaoge closes the final gap between them and brings his hands up to hover around Wu Xie’s face, not touching, not yet. “Can I kiss you? I would like to do that.”
And there isn’t a world where Wu Xie doesn’t say yes to that, is there?
He nods, maybe a touch frantically, and then Xiaoge is letting his hands land, is using them to tilt Wu Xie’s face towards him, and Wu Xie is going willingly, because Xiaoge is kissing him, and it’s everything and nothing like what he expected. It’s delicate, chaste almost, except for the way Xiaoge tugs on his bottom lip as he pulls away, heat building in the space between them, warming the air they share.
Xiaoge is dotted with white bubbles when he leans back, a visible trail of Wu Xie’s soapy hands skimmed along the sides of his arms. Wu Xie can’t help but to giggle at that, nose scrunching up with it, and Xiaoge’s face does this funny thing where it goes completely soft.
It makes Wu Xie wonder how he ever had any question about how Xiaoge feels.
They’re just tilting back into each other, magnets finally finding their poles, Xiaoge’s hands sliding down to his hips, when Pangzi saunters into the kitchen. Wu Xie tries to jump back, but Xiaoge holds him firmly in place, merely turning a blank expression on the interloper -- who snorts, “About fucking time. I thought I was doomed to die young because of you two.” He turns on his heel, then pivots back to jab a finger at them. “I’m staying with Kan Jian for the night. Don’t call me. I don’t want to know.”
He walks out, grumbling the whole time, and Wu Xie turns back to Xiaoge, and gives in to his desire to kiss the corners of that infinitesimal smile, the one only he and Pangzi seem able to bring out.
It makes Xiaoge smile wider, and so of course Wu Xie has to kiss him again, has to see what smug glee tastes like on Xiaoge’s lips.
It tastes like warmth, like home; like the ripest fruit peeled and placed in his bowl; like toasted rice and sugared dough.
It’s a taste Wu Xie can get lost in.
(And so he does.)