Chapter Text
Gong Jun lands in Beijing three hours later than planned and is promptly greeted by a faceful of smog, solid as an elbow strike to the sinuses. It’ll be hell to wrestle outdoors if it doesn’t clear up soon. Ugh, another bad omen in a day full of bad omens. It's enough to make him consider buying a ticket for the next flight back out.
It’s a good job, he scolds himself, for a good promotion, with a great wrestler. Also, bad omens still pay the bills.
Maybe he should visit a temple before tomorrow’s match anyway, if there’s one nearby. He fumbles his phone trying to pull up a map, stumbles over a trash can and scrambles to hang on to his bags, flinches when something hits his arm and turns to—there’s someone right beside him.
He reels backwards, tripping over his luggage with a crash.
“Wow. Hope you’re smoother in the ring,” says the uncle who gave him a jump scare.
“I...am, mostly,” Gong Jun replies blankly, heart still pounding.
The uncle’s lips twitch up in the corner. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” The patterns on the uncle’s jacket and pants are almost mesmerizingly ugly. He’s not sure if his ass or his eyes hurt more, actually. “Ow.”
“...You wanna get up?”
He holds out a hand and yanks Gong Jun upright with a surprising amount of strength. As Gong Jun brushes himself off, he spies a crumpled piece of paper in the uncle’s other hand. It looks like his own name is written on it. Maybe. If he squints. “Um, did Ma-jie send you to pick me up, by any chance...?”
The man’s lips twitch again. “I don’t think she meant it literally.”
Gong Jun laughs sheepishly. “Ah, sorry. And I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, uncle, the plane—”
“Uncle?”
The man glares at him. Something about the jut of that chin, the flash of outrage behind the old-fashioned glasses, sets bells ringing in Gong Jun’s head. “I... Zhou Zishu...?”
Zhou Zishu crosses his arms. “We’re not in the ring right now, you can use the name my mother gave me. Which is Zhehan, by the way. And I’m only a year older than you, you know.”
“I know, I do, I’m so sorry, Zhang-laoshi!” Shit, how the hell could he fail to recognise the very person he’d flown down to fight? “I didn’t realise— I swear I know what you look like! I’ve watched so many of your matches, you’re...” Zhang Zhehan raises a single eyebrow at him. “I... It’s just your, um. Your glasses and your hat and...” and the hideously unfashionable clothes, Gong Jun thinks, but manages to shut his mouth just in time.
The silence drags out between them. Gong Jun wonders if he can still salvage a job out of this. Maybe Ma-jie will let him fight some other industry senior he hasn’t already mortally offended, or—
Zhang Zhehan bursts out laughing. “Alright, stop giving me that hangdog look, sheesh. I feel like I kicked a puppy.”
The laughter entirely transforms his face, and Gong Jun’s breath catches for a moment.
It’s not that he’d been unaware of Zhang Zhehan’s attractiveness—the severe and icy beauty of Zhou Zishu was apparent even in the grainy wrestling videos that Tianchuang uploaded to Youku—but seeing it in person is somehow entirely different. Gong Jun doesn’t think he’s ever seen Zhou Zishu smile.
Zhang Zhehan, on the other hand, seems to smile as easily as talking. “And now what are you staring at?”
“Nothing!” He quashes down the blush that’s threatening to rise in his cheeks. Be professional, he scolds himself, you’ve already made a bad first impression. “Sorry, Zhang-laoshi.”
“And now we’re back to kicked puppy.” Zhang Zhehan shakes his head. “Okay, no more apologies,” he adds, when Gong Jun opens his mouth again. “And stop calling me laoshi, you’re really making me feel old here.”
“Sorry—ah okay, um, Da-ge.”
That makes Zhang Zhehan laugh again, for some reason. It’s just as astonishing as the first time, and Gong Jun catches himself before he can be accused of staring again. It’s just one job, Gong Jun reminds himself, one weekend. Be professional, damn it. “Right, Gong-laoshi, let’s get out of here. We’ve kept Ma-jie waiting long enough.”
###
Their journey to the headquarters of the Siji Shan Zhuang (or the SSZ, as the tiny wrestling promotion owned by Ma-jie is better known online) is uneventful, miraculously. Their ride doesn’t smell bad or get lost or explode, and he manages to make small talk with Zhang Zhehan without accidentally insulting him again. Perhaps his luck is improving.
Then Zhang Zhehan informs him that the dorm rooms are up five flights of stairs. And there’s no elevator.
Gong Jun eyes the narrow stairwell. So much for luck. He sighs, heaves his duffle higher up on one shoulder and reaches for his suitcase—
His palm slides over warm, smooth skin, fingers interlacing briefly with Zhang Zhehan's over the handle.
He pulls back with a yelp, and trips over his own feet.
Zhang Zhehan grins down at him. “You sure you’re smoother in the ring, pal?”
“I just... Yes!”
Zhang Zhehan makes another move towards his luggage, and Gong Jun flails in his direction. “I can carry it, Zhang-lao—Da-ge.”
“You also have a duffle and a garment bag. I can take the suitcase.”
“No, please, let me,” Gong Jun replies automatically.
To his surprise, the smile fades from Zhang Zhehan’s face into a quiet resignation. “I’m fine now, you know.”
“Huh?”
“I can handle carrying a bag up some stairs.”
“Yes...? But you’re a senior?” Gong Jun belatedly remembers the whole Uncle Debacle from earlier when Zhehan raises an eyebrow at him. “I, I mean, you’re my industry senior, not that— That is, um, I’ve already made you wait three hours at the airport, and it really isn’t that heavy, and I’m a, a guest—”
Zhang Zhehan snorts out a laugh. “Alright, alright, carry your own bags, relax.”
“Right, okay, yes,” Gong Jun says, nodding maybe a bit too hard. Zhang Zhehan snorts again, then leads him up the stairs.
It nags at Gong Jun though, as they make their way up. He’s read rumours of the serious injury that caused Zhou Zishu to leave Tianchuang more than a year ago. And though it’s been barely a month since Zhang Zhehan had started working again, he’s already back to putting on weekly matches, and has quickly become the SSZ’s top draw—this, despite the long absence, new character, and much smaller budget of Ma-jie’s fledgling company. So Gong Jun had assumed he was fully recovered.
That was clearly naive of him; no one in this industry could ever afford to wait until they’re fully recovered, could they? And as they finally reach the dorm rooms on the fifth floor, he can’t help noticing that indeed, Zhang Zhehan is favouring his left knee.
Zhang Zhehan unlocks one of the doors and waves him into the small space. “Your room, Gong-laoshi,” Zhang Zhehan says with exaggerated gravitas, holding out the key to him ceremoniously.
“Thank you very much, Zhang-laoshi.” Gong Jun takes the key with both hands and a bow, and is rewarded by Zhang Zhehan’s bark of laughter.
“Okay, now to bring you to Ma-jie.”
Gong Jun glances at Zhang Zhehan’s leg, then quickly looks away. “Are her offices very far away...?”
“Nah, just on the second floor.”
More stairs, Gong Jun thinks. “Ah, um. Would you like to sit for a bit first? I can unpack real quick.”
Zhang Zhehan blinks at him, then shrugs. “Sure, if you like. I’ve already texted her to say we’ll be late.”
“Thanks. Um, just sit anywhere, I guess,” he adds. And when he turns back around from hanging his gear up in the closet, he’s vindicated by the faint look of relief on Zhang Zhehan’s face as he settles onto the single chair in the room.
Gong Jun is old hat at unpacking now, but he makes sure to take his time. Zhang Zhehan gets comfortable enough after five minutes to start regaling him with funny anecdotes about various people in the wrestling community; he seems to know basically everyone. Soon, Gong Jun gives up the pretence of unpacking and sits down on the bed—a little too close, but in his defence the room is tiny—their knees knocking every time Gong Jun laughs at yet another of Zhehan’s terrible jokes.
Zhehan is in the middle of very animatedly telling one about...something (a big fish? A fish with a big mouth?)...when there’s a loud beep, and he pauses with his mouth opened comically wide. He digs around for his phone while Gong Jun stifles his giggles.
“It’s Ma-jie,” Zhehan says, after frowning down at his phone for a long moment.
Ma-jie’s name crashes into him like a clothesline. What on earth is Gong Jun even doing, keeping an employer waiting just so he can sit around and flirt with an attractive man? An attractive, but more importantly, straight man, judging by his terrible excuse of an outfit.
“Please apologise to her for me, tell her I’m coming.” No, he should apologise for himself. “Wait, no, I’ll text her.” He takes his phone out...only for Zhehan to cover it with a hand. His fingers brush over the skin of Gong Jun’s inner wrist, and Gong Jun’s pulse jumps up as if to meet it.
Straight, he thinks, glaring at Zhehan’s awful jacket, straight straight straight.
“Don’t worry about it,” Zhehan says, sliding his hand up to squeeze Gong Jun’s bicep in a reassuring gesture that only kicks his heart rate higher. “Let’s just go see her now.”
He trails behind Zhehan down to Ma-jie's office on the second floor. She's in the middle of a phone call when they get there, and Zhehan knocks softly on the open door.
“Hang on.” She jabs a finger at the screen and lifts a very intimidating eyebrow at the two of them. “You’re here.”
“I’m so sorry,” Gong Jun begins, “I—”
“You said to bring him.” Zhehan cuts him off, an impish smile on his face. “And I did!”
“I said to make sure he gets here. You could have just called him.”
“I know, I know... But look, he’s here! My new rival, Wen Kexing!” Zhehan throws an arm around Gong Jun’s shoulder, and Gong Jun freezes as a surprising line of warmth presses up against his side. Zhehan is close enough that Gong Jun can’t help but catch a faint, alluring whiff of his scent.
Straight, Gong Jun reminds himself again, a little desperately.
“He’s only ours for one event, Zhehan, don’t get greedy. No” —she puts a hand up, stopping him from replying— “shoo. It’s late. Go home, I won’t eat your Lao Wen.”
Zhehan makes a face, but backs off and waves goodbye cheerfully at the both of them before he leaves.
“Sit down already,” Ma-jie says, and Gong Jun realises he’s staring at the empty doorway. He flushes and sits, and she promptly goes back to her phone call, ignoring him. It feels exactly like being called to the principal’s office when he was sixteen.
She hangs up after another ten minutes of wrangling more money out of a sponsor, then turns a piercing look onto Gong Jun, who shrinks back as much as he can into his too-small chair.
“So,” she finally says, “what do you think of our Zhehan?”
“He’s, um, surprisingly...” Silly. Sweet. Blazing hot, underneath his uncle disguise. Gong Jun digs around for something acceptable to say, cursing his inability to lie outright.
“He is, isn’t he? Surprising.” Thankfully, Ma-jie doesn’t wait for his answer. “Nothing like Zhou Zishu.”
“He really isn’t.”
“He was wasted at Tianchuang.” Ma-jie clicks her tongue. “He does stern and intimidating well enough, but he could do so much more. That boy has range, you know.”
Gong Jun nods. He does know; he’s done his research on all the local promotions. Among them, Ma-jie’s wasn’t the richest or the most well-known, and Siji’s roster is fairly threadbare. But as he’d scrolled through their videos online, it had been the match between Zhou Xu and Gu Xiang that had stopped him short: a rare intergender match, yes, but more than that, it had been refreshing and funny. He hopes he’ll get to meet her tomorrow, too.
Of course, he’d still sent out emails to any promotion that seemed likely to fly an indie wrestler out for a match. Work is work. But he’d definitely put more thought into his email to Ma-jie. Which has paid off, so far. "I watched his latest match, the one with Gu Xiang, that was really fun! And some of his older matches, with—”
Ma-jie gives him an approving smile and waves off the praise. “Yes, exactly. We’ll rebuild his fanbase yet. And as for you... If your match goes well, we might consider flying you back in again. Your promo went over well. Very, hm, creative.”
“Um...” Heat creeps up his neck. He’d done the exact same thing he always does, which is to picture his opponent behind the camera and go on about being eager to meet in battle and wanting to see who’ll come out on top. He’s not sure why his words were taken as...as lecherous euphemisms by every person who’s commented on that video, because it's never happened before. “I, uh, thank you...?”
“Keep it up, we want to maintain that audience engagement for your match tomorrow.”
“Ah, er...”
“I’m sure Zhehan’s already full of ideas,” she muses—rather ominously, in Gong Jun’s opinion. “Anyway, I look forward to seeing you two together tomorrow. Good night.”
And just like that, he’s dismissed.
Yet despite the abrupt send off, her words gnaw at his chest with something unaccountably like hope; ‘I look forward to seeing you two together’ echoing in his mind as he washes up in the common toilet and gets into bed. It’s foolish, he knows. He's only here for one job, one weekend, one match.
But when he finally falls asleep, it’s with the words you two together ringing in his ears, and the openness of Zhehan’s smile welcoming him into his dreams.