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It’s been too long since Xue Yang has felt the cold edge of a blade against his throat, and even longer since it was personal. Being hunted by anonymous thugs in a bleak grime-crusted port town is one thing, but when your very own enemy comes all the way out to a bleak grime-crusted port town specifically to find you? That’s special.
Even if it’s because you stole something from him.
“Where is it?” Song Lan asks in his deep, rich voice. It rumbles through Xue Yang’s own chest where they’re pressed together, and he hums contentedly. It has been far too long.
It’s heady to have Song Lan’s attention again, all that simmering anger and power focused entirely on himself. This close, Xue Yang can count the individual scars on Song Lan’s face by only the flickering streetlight, and he wonders how many of those scars are from other people. The largest one, at least, the one that caresses his jaw, came from Xue Yang’s switchblade. That had been a breathtaking fight.
“Where’s what?” Xue Yang asks, tilting his head back so he can widen his eyes and feign innocence. In response, Song Lan adjusts the angle of his knife so that it scrapes against skin, sending a pleasant tingle down Xue Yang’s spine.
The blossoming promise of violence is enough to soothe Xue Yang’s frustration that Song Lan had managed to pin him to the rough brick wall without breaking a sweat. In a perfect world, he would have met Song Lan blow for blow, but Xue Yang has been living in unlocked train cars for months, bouncing between progressively more remote townships and trying to find somewhere Jin mob goons aren’t. Not very successfully, since they’re like cockroaches, spreading into every corner Xue Yang once felt safe in. And however irritating it is to admit, one of the cockroaches was bound to get a lucky shot in at some point. At least it was a slash to the shoulder and not a bullet somewhere more vital.
So yes, he should have avoided a fight until his right arm wasn’t a throbbing mess, but Xue Yang hadn’t seen Song Lan in months, and he’d been right there. Right there fencing some very shiny things, and Xue Yang’s self-control hadn’t been up to the burden.
“Where is it, Xue Yang?” Song Lan repeats. There isn’t any hint of impatience yet, so Xue Yang’s still got work to do. He tries to wriggle his wrist out of Song Lan’s grasp, but he can’t get free, and instead, he winces at the hot trickle of blood from the wound in his shoulder. Xue Yang isn’t going to come out on top of this if he plays fair.
He considers resorting to name-calling. Song Lan never likes it when Xue Yang calls him a sky rat, even though that’s what everyone who isn’t a sky rat — sorry, a privateer — calls them. But regardless, stale insults aren’t going to get Song Lan angry enough to let go, so Xue Yang discards the idea.
Fortunately, Xue Yang’s got years of experience getting under Song Lan’s skin, and he’s willing to get creative.
Song Lan’s breath is warm on Xue Yang’s cheek compared to the cold evening air, and their mouths are already so close. It takes almost nothing to close the distance. At first, Song Lan doesn’t react. His lips remain in his permanent frown of disapproval, but when Xue Yang pulls back to grin at him, they part in a small gasp. Song Lan stares, his breath uneven, and Xue Yang smirks back, running his tongue along his lower lip.
Song Lan’s eyes narrow as he follows the movement, then he meets Xue Yang’s eyes for a long, heavy moment, and Song Lan kisses him back, deep and hard.
The steel at Xue Yang’s neck doesn’t move an inch, but Song Lan’s other hand slips inside Xue Yang’s jacket and under his shirt, curling around his waist to pull him close. Long, calloused fingers spread out across Xue Yang’s ribcage, wringing shaky breaths from his lungs.
The kiss is desperate and devastating, all clutching and pulling and teeth against lips. Xue Yang buries his one free hand into Song Lan’s hair like he’s wanted to for years. Song Lan’s mouth is so hot, and his hand is so big on Xue Yang’s body that he starts to lose track of where he is and melt into the heat of it.
He gets so thoroughly kissed that Xue Yang can’t quite remember why he’d been on alert in the first place. That is, until Song Lan eases back and holds up a small silk pouch, embroidered with golden cranes. Seeing the bag is like a bucket of ice water, and annoyance twists Xue Yang’s features into a scowl. Not because he wanted to keep the trinket, but because Song Lan got it off him so effortlessly.
Undoing the ties with the help of his teeth, Song Lan inspects inside the little bag, which is unnecessary and obnoxious. It’s not like Xue Yang keeps an assortment of priceless jade bracelets in his pockets. This is obviously the right one. Once Song Lan confirms authenticity or whatever he felt the need to check, he tucks his prize neatly into his pocket.
“Thank you,” he says, skating a thumb across Xue Yang’s lower lip. He kisses him again, softer this time. “Come and find me if you want to stop running,” he says, then steps away and disappears into the shadowy end of the alley. The thud of his boots on the wet concrete fades as quickly as the warmth of his body.
Xue Yang presses a hand to the cut on his shoulder, and his fingers come back sticky with blood. “Fuck,” he mutters. But he doesn’t get time to dwell on the way his heart is racing or his lips are tingling, because there’s a depressingly familiar yell of recognition followed by pounding footsteps.
And just like that, he’s on the run again.
It takes two weeks before he cracks. Two weeks of close calls and crawling through the pollution-clogged arteries of the capital only to come to the bitter realisation that Jin Guangshan isn’t going to give up on killing him. And after that, it’s another week of lurking in a district of the city he knows Song Lan sometimes passes through before he finds him. Buying produce, of all fucking things.
The whole scene is so painfully mundane, compared to the way Xue Yang is perched on a rickety fire escape next to a boarded up window, hiding in his coat collar from the persistent early morning drizzle and ignoring the way his entire body aches from fatigue.
In the background, screens play a recording of Jin Guangshan’s smug, round face imploring citizens to vote for him. Apparently, corrupting every elected official isn’t enough; the man wants to run for office. Disgusting what a fortune in bribes can do for your reputation.
So Xue Yang makes a decision while he watches Song Lan inspect those sad, wilted carrots like they’re an ancient tome of wisdom. He might be incurably sanctimonious for a career criminal, but for all of the opportunities he’s had, Song Lan hasn’t ever actually tried to kill him.
There are multiple shuttle ports in a city this size, so Xue Yang waits until Song Lan leaves the market, then follows at a safe distance, trying to blend in with the stained walls of the buildings.
Song Lan leads him north to the docks and to a small landing site that’s run down even for this end of town. Like every other transit point in this city, the guards at the entrance are paid well to stay in their pokey shed and not ask questions, so when he approaches the shuttle port, it’s laughably easy for Xue Yang to slip through a hole in the rusted wire fence and dart from shadow to shadow until he finds a familiar hull.
Song Lan’s ship isn’t anything notable, just a standard dual-engine courier vessel rated for short bursts in the thermosphere but mainly designed for continent-hopping at speed. If you look closely, there are a few well-disguised gun ports, and if you could read the faded registration painted on the side, you wouldn’t find it in any database.
Song Lan didn’t thoughtfully leave the door open for him, unfortunately, so Xue Yang slips around the back and, with some effort, disables the alarm on the emergency hatch. Climbing inside is a struggle since there’s a ladder, and Xue Yang’s shoulder is still giving him grief. He grimaces through the pain and hauls himself through the narrow opening.
The interior is stuffy and dim, the tiny windows admitting almost no light. The bulk of the space is a cargo hold, fully loaded and strapped down. Rather than risking attention, Xue Yang scuttles over a stack of crates and wedges himself into a corner. There isn’t much room, and he’s shoved up against the bulkhead at an uncomfortable angle, but after some wiggling, he manages to bundle his jacket into a decent enough pillow and fall asleep.
The ship is moving when he wakes. At a low altitude, if the shudder of the deck and the strained whine of the engines are anything to go by. Wherever Song Lan is heading, he must want to stay out of the official shipping lanes.
The turbulence is what actually rouses Xue Yang, but it should’ve been the bright, curious eyes peering over the pile of crates Xue Yang had curled up behind.
Xue Yang blinks — unlike the weirdo that’s staring at him — and a face swims into focus.
“Hello,” the face says, a small smile playing at soft, pink lips. Something about the distinctive cupid’s bow tugs at Xue Yang’s mind, but his head is aching, so it takes him a minute to place it.
“Xiao Xingchen?” he says, squinting. The face nods, and yeah, that’s unquestionably him. Those cheekbones are once in a century. Xue Yang vaguely recalls footage of him at a protest, not long before the university riots in ’64. He was an activist, like Song Lan used to be, before he realised that was pointless and turned to a life of airborne skulduggery.
Xue Yang experimentally twists his neck, which didn’t think much of his improvised pillow. “Aren’t you meant to be in prison?” he says to Xingchen.
Xingchen nods again, his smile dimming a fraction. “I got out.” He doesn’t elaborate. Xue Yang assumes that means he wasn’t released, per se, since no one gets out without reeducation, and this guy seems to still have his wits.
“Why are you talking to it?” another voice says, followed by another face. This one is much younger, a teenager. Short-cropped hair frames her face, and strangely light eyes are narrowed in suspicion. She’s familiar; Song Lan’s light-fingered shadow, usually with a few grease marks smeared on her cheeks and more than a few credit chips in her pockets.
“He’s a stowaway!” Xingchen says, in a tone someone else might use to describe a treasured gift.
“He’s a biohazard,” the teenager replies with a sceptical twist to her scowl.
Xue Yang glares at her, even though she’s not wrong. Months of mildew and dirt cling to his skin, and he hasn’t changed clothes in weeks. His jacket had been the only thing hiding the bloodstains — mostly other people’s — and he’d taken it off.
“Hmm,” Xingchen says, lips pouting just enough to be distracting. “We should probably do something about that.” His eyes are fixed on Xue Yang’s shoulder, a brighter crimson than the dark, dry stains littering his shirt. The joint gives a petulant throb. “Let me help you up,” Xingchen says, pushing the stack of crates aside and offering a hand.
He looks pristine, almost luminous against the worn steel-dark interior of the ship. Xue Yang takes his hand, and long fingers curl around his own, hauling him gingerly out of his nest in the corner. For someone so willowy, Xingchen is surprisingly strong and deftly manoeuvres Xue Yang up some stairs and into an alcove that’s been converted into a bare-bones medical bay. There’s a narrow bed in a patch of sunlight that’s so bright, Xue Yang scrunches his eyes closed against the glare.
Once Xingchen settles Xue Yang on the gurney, he passes him a bottle of water, directs him to drink the whole thing, and then starts rifling through drawers and dropping rustling packages into a kidney dish.
Xue Yang sips at the water and watches the way he moves. There is something both careless and confident in his grace, a fluidity that never quite sharpens enough to reveal the control below it. He’s either a dancer or a highly trained killer.
Xue Yang hopes he’s both, but Xingchen strengthens the case for assassin when he pulls out a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses that are too big for his face.
“A-Qing,” he calls leaning around the makeshift partition that obscures them from overlooking the cargo hold. “Can you bring me some water? I think I will need—” he swivels to glance at Xue Yang, “more.”
Xue Yang is so enchanted that he doesn’t even rankle at that. “Are you going to wash me?” he asks.
“I’m going to wash that,” Xingchen says, pointing at Xue Yang’s shoulder.
“Why are you on this rust bucket?” Xue Yang asks, head tilted, watching a beautiful man try to wrestle latex gloves from a box that doesn’t want to let them go.
“Hey!” A-Qing appears holding a chipped bowl almost as big as she is, sloshing water across the floor as the ship moves below them. “If you’re going to insult our ship, at least be accurate. I keep her rust-free.” She sets the bowl cautiously on a small table and turns to Xingchen. “Captain says not to let him die.” She gestures at Xue Yang with a tilt of her head. “Since he wants to kill him himself.”
“Noted,” Xingchen says, expression fond. A-Qing disappears with a wrinkle of her nose.
When he turns back to Xue Yang, Xingchen says, “I am here for the same reason you are, I think.” Then he makes an apologetic face and reaches for the buttons on Xue Yang’s shirt. “This will most likely hurt.”
“You say that to everyone you undress?” Xue Yang says, genuine amusement creeping into his voice.
Xingchen doesn’t raise his eyes as he gently pulls back the fabric. “It does come up fairly often in this line of work.”
Xue Yang wonders how long he’s been flying with Song Lan. Is it just these last few months while Xue Yang was hiding? Or is it longer. Did Song Lan come home from run-ins with Xue Yang to have Xingchen tenderly clean his wounds? He wonders if these long fingers have smoothed their way across Song Lan’s skin and pictures Xingchen wrapping Song Lan’s knuckles, slender pale hands moving over broad, scarred ones.
Xingchen takes Xue Yang’s sudden inhale for pain, and his mouth turns down in concern. Xue Yang shakes his head, and gradually, Xingchen peels the shirt away from the gash. Xue Yang is sure he can feel the tug of each and every fibre that fused with his skin.
Once the shirt is off, Xingchen hums quietly while inspecting the damage. “It’s not as bad as I thought,” he says, “but you should keep it cleaner than this.”
“I’ve been busy,” Xue Yang says through clenched teeth.
“I know.” Xingchen bobs his head in a half-nod and wets a cloth in the bowl of water. He doesn’t expand on that; he just places a steady hand at the back of Xue Yang’s shoulder and starts mopping away at the layers of blood and dirt.
Xue Yang contemplates his face, the long arch of his neck, the slight crease between his brows as he works.
“What do you know?” Xue Yang asks, after a while.
Xingchen glances up from where he’s wiping down Xue Yang’s forearm and scrutinising each of the cuts and bruises. “Only what Song Lan has told me,” he says. When Xue Yang’s mouth curls in contempt, he clucks his tongue and continues. “I know that you ran afoul of the Jin family back in the capital.”
“They’re obsessed with me,” Xue Yang says, aiming for a tone of resigned haughtiness.
Xingchen nods. “And they’ve been trying to kill you for nearly six months. That must be exhausting.”
Xue Yang laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but Xingchen is so earnest, and it bubbles out of his throat before he can stop it.
“Yeah, well, they’re not very good at it,” he says, grinning. Xingchen smiles back at him, and Xue Yang tries not to sink into the safety of it. Xingchen is right; he is exhausted. And maybe this man is beautiful and graceful and kind with a smile so bright it hurts, but that doesn’t mean Xue Yang should let his guard down. God, he wants to, though.
Once Xue Yang is deemed clean enough, Xingchen moves on to his pile of medical supplies, and they don’t talk much during that because Xue Yang is busy making muffled sounds of pain and chewing a hole in the inside of his own cheek.
“Sorry,” Xingchen says, sounding more disapproving than apologetic. “But you really haven’t been taking care of it.”
At this point, Xue Yang is on the threshold of irritable, and doesn’t want to re-tread that ground, so he says, “What else do you know about me?”
“I know that you and Song Lan are very good friends.”
Xue Yang pauses and plays that back in his head. “What the fuck?” Xue Yang says, flinching away from the millionth alcohol wipe Xingchen is inflicting on him. “You have a really weird definition of friends. I hate him. He hates me.”
“Mmm,” Xingchen agrees with a nod. He takes a firmer hold of Xue Yang’s shoulder and cleans away a trickle of fresh blood. “I know that you’re good in a fight and prefer knives to guns. I know that you know how to use your opponent’s size against them, and if that doesn’t work, you can annoy someone into making a mistake.”
“Okay, okay. He talks about me, I get it,” Xue Yang grumbles.
“Do you?” Xingchen says, looking up at Xue Yang, eyes wide and curious, mouth slightly parted. When Xue Yang doesn’t reply, he continues. “I know that you’re smart and resourceful, and you have saved Song Lan’s life more than once.”
The engine whine shifts down in pitch, and the water in the bowl sloshes as they change direction. “How would I torment him if he was dead?” Xue Yang says, widening his eyes, but he’s a beat too late, and Xingchen’s smile sharpens.
“I’m glad he wasn’t alone while I was—,” he pauses, looking at the mess on his gloved hands. “Away.” Then he smiles again, a little sad.
“I don’t think you understand,” Xue Yang says, increasingly off-balance. “We hate each other. Three weeks ago, he had a knife to my throat.”
Xingchen raises his eyebrows. “Yes,” he says, calm and deliberate, like he’s being very patient. “He told me.” The way that Xue Yang’s heart rate picks up at the memory of Song Lan’s mouth, moving hard and desperate against his own is mortifying, and probably really obvious. But Xingchen does Xue Yang the courtesy of focusing on his shoulder and ignoring Xue Yang’s trembling.
After a few minutes of quiet, Xingchen says, “I’m also glad that this is where you chose to come when you had nowhere else to go.”
Xue Yang doesn’t have an argument for that, so he goes back to studying Xingchen’s face. He looks different from the mugshot broadcast all over the news. Somehow both more and less tangible. Even in a simple linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up, he is so out of place on this cramped, clanking ship.
He works efficiently, confidently, like he’s done this so many times before, and Xue Yang wonders again what it must be like to have someone waiting for you, ready to patch you up with a firm but kind grip.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Xingchen asks as he presses the adhesive edges of a dressing against Xue Yang’s skin. Xue Yang shakes his head. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to rest?” He asks, that gentle smile playing at his mouth again.
Xue Yang grins, toothy and loose with the intimacy of it all. “Depends if you rest with me,” he says. Xingchen laughs, a quiet huff, his eyes closed in sincere mirth, and Xue Yang finds himself counting the crinkles at the corner of his eyes.
“Perhaps later. A-Qing found you some clothes,” Xingchen says, straightening from the stool he’d been perched on. “I think you’ll want to be dressed for our next conversation.” Xue Yang immediately wants to disagree, and from his face, Xingchen can tell. But he presses a bundle of fabric into Xue Yang’s hands, then belies the warm invitation in his eyes and leaves.
After gingerly slipping the too-large black t-shirt over his head and swapping his soiled pants for faded jeans — also too large, which he refuses to think about too much — Xue Yang relocates the switchblade from his jacket pocket to the jeans and checks that the hunting knife in his boot is still secure.
He puts a hand against the window to steady himself as the turbulence gets more frequent. They’re flying low, only a few dozen feet from the ocean, their wake a frothy white trail behind them. The ship shudders and rattles as they breach some sort of energy field.
Ahead, a rocky coastline looms, and a city takes shape in the distance. Xue Yang has never seen it before, but he recognises it from the stories.
It’s nothing like the grey glass and steel of the capital or the sodden wood and brick of the mining towns. This city stands proud and unapologetically colourful, decked in trailing red banners that mark their independence, with towering ornate pagodas easily clearing the high stone walls.
Xue Yang had never truly believed it was real. But the silhouette is unmistakable, nestled in the crook of ancient sandstone spires, an impossible city. Jingwei, the last free port.
They land on an outcrop on one of the stone pillars. The rail near the window is the only thing that keeps Xue Yang on his feet, and he clings to it as the ship rumbles towards solid ground, in what might be the most undignified landing in the history of air travel.
When Xue Yang steadies his legs enough to poke his head around the partition, A-Qing skips past him. She punches him in the arm as she goes. “Looking a bit pale there, city boy. You don’t fly much, do you?” She giggles as she clatters down the stairs into the cargo hold and slams the pressure release with her palm.
Xue Yang follows her down as the loading door inches down with a strained grinding sound. Warm sunlight fills the space, and Xue Yang shields his eyes with a grimace.
Behind him, he can hear footsteps, and Song Lan and Xingchen materialise out of the shadows. Song Lan gestures Xingchen down the stairs first with an intimate hand at his lower back, then focuses his attention on Xue Yang.
“Do I have to disarm you, or are you going to behave?” he asks.
“I already did,” A-Qing chirps from Xue Yang’s shoulder, brandishing his two knives and stepping swiftly out of reach. And okay, the jeans are too big, so that was an easy mark, but he’s reluctantly impressed that she managed to get the one out of his boot without him noticing.
“If I promise to behave, do I get my weapons back?” Xue Yang asks, voice tight.
“Yes,” Xingchen says. He steps up to Xue Yang and looks him dead in the eye. “Do you promise?” It’s a bit alarming how rapidly the tension bleeds out of Xue Yang with just that calm voice and some sustained eye contact.
Over Xingchen’s shoulder, Song Lan’s expression is amused, which sort of undermines the effect. “Fine,” he says and holds out his hand to A-Qing. She scowls at him, but when Xingchen nods, she hands the knives back with a pout.
“Thank you, A-Qing,” Song Lan says.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to see A-Yuan. I’ll be home for dinner.”
Xue Yang takes two steps to the door and sees a dark tuft of her hair disappear down a rough-cut stairway in the stonework. The city from inside the walls is no less vibrant, and the air smells clean and salty.
“Money works differently here,” Song Lan says when he joins Xue Yang in the doorway. “You can exchange this for ingots.” He holds out his hand. A small silk bag dangles from his fingers and twists in the wind. Xue Yang recognises the embroidered cranes, and when he takes it, the shape inside is the same. “With your skill, any crew will take you on. Just don’t run your mouth, and you’ll be fine.”
Song Lan isn’t looking at him; his gaze is fixed on the city below. And yes, Xue Yang is always the first to accuse Song Lan of being uptight, but the tension in his jaw right now looks like it could crack a molar. Xue Yang leans against the doorway of the ship and slips the jade bracelet out of the bag. Holding it up to the sunlight, he decides it would look best against the delicate skin of Xingchen’s wrist.
“Any crew, huh?” he says, glancing back at Xingchen, who gives him a startled, but delighted grin. “This one seems alright. Better the devil you now, isn’t that right, Song Lan?”
Song Lan doesn’t move except to swallow, then, slowly, he turns to look at Xue Yang, the slightest curl to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he says and huffs in a way that could be a laugh, breaking into a proper smile.
It makes Xue Yang’s heart lurch around in triumph, and he can’t look away. “I will absolutely be running my mouth,” he says.
“That’s fine,” Song Lan replies, his eyes darting to Xue Yang’s lips. “I know how to shut you up now.” The effect is embarrassingly immediate, and Xue Yang can feel a blush creeping up his neck. Even more embarrassing, it’s bullshit, and they both know it.
“You’re going to kiss me in front of everyone?” Xue Yang makes an effort at raising a sceptical eyebrow. Song Lan’s eyes dart away, uncomfortable. “Didn’t think so,” Xue Yang says.
“He might not,” Xingchen says, stepping forward and taking Xue Yang’s hand, twining their fingers. “But I will.”
Song Lan’s discomfort morphs into smugness. So Xue Yang squeezes Xingchen’s hand and says, “I’m gonna talk so much,” and laughs when Song Lan heaves a resigned sigh.