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Xiao Xingchen feels like he just swallowed the sugar wax and it is now stuck in his throat, his lungs nourished by the mountains unable to do anything as he is silently asphyxiated to death.
Had he known that joining the wardrobe and props crew would send him to an early grave, he would have mustered up his courage instead and accepted a role in the play when their acting director Nie Huaisang offered him one. It would feel like ridiculing himself in front of the thousands of students in the university, but he could live in the aftermath of it. This task Wei Ying had assigned to him, on the other hand, is a different demon altogether; he can already feel his soul leaving his earthly body even when he has not started doing anything yet.
They just have to prepare for a play featuring a few excerpts from the Outlaws of the Marsh. Xiao Xingchen has known the classic all his life; he knows the 108 Stars of Destiny by heart. Yet, a budget and anachronistic presentation of the Boatman, of all, is rendering him nearly catatonic.
From what he remembers, Zhang Heng the Boatman was seven chi tall, red-haired and all, but nothing in the novel warned him about the Boatman being seven cun long.
Seven. Cun. Long.
Xiao Xingchen is a tall, long-limbed guy. Seven cun is like the width of nine of his fingers put together, which spans about half his forearm.
Sure, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but Xiao Xingchen’s mouth still feels parched at the very nice sight, the length surrounded by unshaved but well-maintained netherhair, travelling up to the dip of that chiselled navel and abs and winding up to the sparse patch on that well-defined chest.
It is a shame that they have to wax such beautiful body hair. Xiao Xingchen is pretty sure that the actual (fictional) Zhang Heng did not bother shaving at all, even if his loincloth could not keep every strand of hair concealed. Nie Huaisang would probably change his mind, too, if he ever witnesses this scenic view.
It looks so soft that Xiao Xingchen wants to put his mouth on it. Even if it were wiry, he would not mind getting them on his lips and tongue. The minor discomfort would be worth it, especially with those deep, stormy eyes looking at him while the back of his throat burns with the taste of him. It is too bad that the lovely shade of grey will be covered by red contact lenses when the Boatman appears on stage.
And what would he not give to have those fine-boned, elegant hands go through his hair and feel the warmth of those vast palms against his cheeks? Even the way those long fingers are snapping is sexy. He would have already sighed a thousand times if only his airway did not feel blocked.
The costume and props may be cheap, but this Zhang Heng is definitely not. The guy is not even wet yet.
Gods, they are going to get the Boatman wet on stage. It is a good thing they cannot make him swim during the play because Xiao Xingchen is going to ascend if he ever sees those biceps and pectoral muscles flexing in the water.
It is a miracle his saliva has not flooded the room yet.
“Hey.”
There is a quiet rumble to the Boatman’s voice, almost effortlessly sultry. Xiao Xingchen wonders what his name would sound like in that deep voice. Without thinking, he mutters his name in place of the introduction they have not had the chance to do as Wei Ying shoved him to his knees to wax the loinclothless Boatman standing unashamedly naked in the middle of the makeshift dressing room.
“It’s Xingchen,” Xiao Xingchen says when he finally gets his throat to work. His voice cracks a little, but he cannot bring himself to care.
The Boatman towering over him blinks a few times, and Xiao Xingchen sees the corners of his lips twitch, softening the expression on his face.
How is he so cute on top of being hot? Xiao Xingchen definitely does not think aloud.
The Boatman chuckles, deep and quiet, but Xiao Xingchen feels the reverberation, causing heat to pool low in his belly.
He almost groans in response.
“Okay, Xingchen,” the Boatman starts slowly (almost savouring every syllable of his name, Xiao Xingchen likes to make himself believe). “It’s Song Lan, but I think the wax has dried.”
It is Xiao Xingchen’s turn to blink.
What?
Xiao Xingchen looks down at his hands resting on his lap. True enough, the sugar wax has stuck to his palms and fingers, sticky and hardened. When he moves to get up, Xiao Xingchen realises that the wax was not the only thing that has turned hard during the time he spent kneeling in front of such a sight.
A light shudder runs through him. For the first time in his life, Xiao Xingchen feels grateful for being lousy with laundry and never bothering to make an effort to soften the stiff jeans he owns, just like the one he is currently wearing beneath the black smock.
Once he is up, he turns away a little, fidgeting, his hands never leaving his lap. In his peripheral, he sees the guy pick up his sweatpants and a towel, but not hurrying to cover himself at all, comfortably fine in his nakedness. Xiao Xingchen clears his throat a few times before speaking. “I’ll dispose of this and prepare a new one.”
He does not wait for a response and turns to leave for the bathroom.
To take care of the wax and himself.
“Wait, I’ll come with,” the guy—Song Lan—calls, pulling his sweatpants on without bothering with underwear. He points to his hair that has been combed back with bright red dye, wincing. “This is starting to burn.”
Song Lan does not bother putting on a shirt, which is only logical as he has to rinse the dye off, but Xiao Xingchen is unable to process anything as his brain shortcircuits and his face burns, so much so that if the earth does not open up and swallow him whole that very moment, he is going to self-combust.
They reach the bathroom at the end of the hall without Xiao Xingchen causing any fire, but as they enter and Song Lan strips straight away before the shower stall, Xiao Xingchen sees himself in the mirror and discovers that his face and ears have turned redder than Song Lan’s dyed hair.