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It’s so hot that Murong Lian has to grab one of the chairs in the boarding area to steady himself after he makes it off of the train.
He props his suitcase upright, pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, and mentally curses the man he’s here to see.
Gu Mang, you fucking bastard. This is what you call “just a little warm”?
It’s not like summer isn’t a drag back home, but this is a whole different level of suffering—sticky like a film of honey that even a shower won’t wash away, oppressive like the lead blankets they pile onto him in the radiology department.
Of course, Murong Lian knows full well that Gu Mang doesn’t have much say over where he’s dispatched. A fucking decade in the service and some crusty old captain still decides what he eats for breakfast—Murong Lian would quite literally rather chop off his left hand than be subject to such indignities.
Yet here he is, sweating his balls off to visit Gu Mang in the flesh. Never mind that he was already in Shenzhen for work, just a train ride away. Never mind that Gu Mang’s been out here for five years now and it’s the first time he’s made the trek. Who cares how much longer Gu Mang is going to be here—isn’t he still the one giving Gu Mang some face?
But as he shakes out his sleeves and catches his breath, a mental image floats up unbidden. Gu Mang sitting at his desk in his uniform blues, rifling through some hopeless sucker’s file. a bowl of watery congee to the side. Phones ringing all around him in the cluttered office, specks of dust shimmering down in the slanting morning sunlight. Gu Mang’s brow creased slightly in concentration, dark eyes inscrutable behind curtains of long lashes.
Who does he think he is—a spy in one of those old Hong Kong police movies?
Yet something about the apparition makes Murong Lian’s throat tighten. The intensity of Gu Mang’s gaze calls to something primal within him, some part of him that’s always wanted Gu Mang to turn that gaze towards him. Won’t you notice me, won’t you look at me? How is it that you’re the one everyone’s always looking at?
Murong Lian snorts quietly as he waves over a porter for his suitcase, ignoring the pinched sensation in his chest. It’s such a familiar feeling that it’s almost comfortable, a breathless aftertaste that he’s reflexively associated with the man he’s about to see.
He’s long stopped bothering to put a name to it.
“This is shit,” Murong Lian proclaims as he walks out of the cool hotel lobby into the balmy and bustling August evening.
Gu Mang just smiles and turns to lead the way down the street, freshly untucked white uniform shirt billowing out behind him, bargain bin leather shoes clicking against the uneven bricks.
“It’s hotter than hell…” Murong Lian continues talking to Gu Mang’s back. “And it reeks …”
“You haven’t even seen anything yet,” Gu Mang says after a beat, still not turning around.
“And just what is there to see?”
“Oh, you know. Clubs, bars… brothels…”
“Fuck off,” Murong Lian snarls, and then adds after a pause, “Like I would trust your taste anyway.”
“Ah? Really now. But when it comes to men—”
“You better shut your mouth, Gu Mang.” Murong Lian’s every syllable drips with warning.
“Relax, relax,” Gu Mang finally looks over his shoulder to grin crookedly at Murong Lian. “Just joking, Lian-di.”
Murong Lian irritably smoothes down a stray flyaway and drags his gaze over to the other side of the street.
Stray dogs scamper across the road, warily eyeing the handful of middle-aged men who are squatting on the sidewalk, flicking cigarette ash over the curb, undershirts hiked over their bellies. Roadside vendors hawk their wares from rickety stands, blatantly trying to catch Murong Lian’s eye, as if they can tell he’s an out-of-towner from half a block away.
To be fair, the sapphire-blue silks probably aren’t doing him any favors in that regard.
A couple of minutes later, Gu Mang sighs. “Let’s get a cab. There are nicer restaurants in the old district—I heard the place in that whatsitcalled hotel is pretty good.”
“I’m not hungry,” Murong Lian says stiffly.
It’s true—he feels rather nauseous, as if his insides have begun to liquefy in the heat. Murong Lian tends to run cold rather than hot, but right now, nothing sounds better than dunking a bucket of cold water over his head, as if the shock could help him feel like he were standing on solid ground again.
“You’ve had a long journey today, you’ll feel better after you eat something,” Gu Mang continues airily, as if Murong Lian had said something else entirely. “How about I’ll take you out properly tomorrow. We can have a snack around here tonight.”
Murong Lian makes a noncommittal noise, thinking to himself that he should remember to ask the senior partners at his firm for some recommendations first thing tomorrow.
Right now, he doesn’t even have the heart to look around at the places they’re passing, so he reluctantly goes back to looking at Gu Mang instead.
Gu Mang seems cheerful enough, striding forward briskly, his jacket slung over one shoulder, epaulettes glinting as he gestures at the shops and stalls, keeping up a running commentary that Murong Lian isn’t retaining a word of.
Who knows if it’s the noisy crowd around them or Gu Mang’s doggedly upbeat monologue, but there’s a humming noise in Murong Lian’s ears that only seems to be getting louder. As soon as he hears the word “favorite,” followed by “Mo Xi likes this place too,” he nods carelessly in that direction.
“Yeah sure, that’s…” Murong Lian pauses, realizing that he’s opened his mouth before even knowing what he’s agreeing to.
Maybe it’s because he’s exhausted. Maybe it’s because hearing Mo Xi’s name automatically makes it impossible for him to back down. Whatever it is, now it’s too late to change course.
“…That’s fine,” he grumbles, narrowing his eyes at the small shop with a small crowd at the flimsy tables out front.
The windows are all scratched up, glowing like they’re covered in red spiderwebs under the garish storefront lights. Murong Lian realizes it’s not even a proper restaurant—there’s only a counter in the center, with takeaway containers piled high to the side. A handful of roast birds hang behind the greasy glass, glossy skin burnished deep gold.
“Roast duck?” Murong Lian asks.
“Goose,” Gu Mang flashes him a crooked smile and sidles up to the window, calling over the counter to the boss in effortless Cantonese.
Murong Lian raises an eyebrow, his curiosity reluctantly piqued.
“Officer Gu!” the owner exclaims, grinning ear-to-ear. From his easy manner, it’s obvious that Gu Mang is a regular here, but Murong Lian can’t make out much more of their mile-a-minute banter.
It’s not like Murong Lian has ever been one for small talk anyway, so it’s hardly a loss. He manages to stop himself from reaching for a cigarette.
Brushing imaginary lint off of his collar, he glances around the tables on either side of him. There’s a harried-looking young family at one, a giggling gaggle of teenagers at another. Just as he decides they’re all too boring to deserve his attention, he sees Gu Mang nodding out of the corner of his eye. He catches a couple of words he recognizes—“my little brother.”
Murong Lian clears his throat so loudly he starts coughing.
At least that’s enough to catch Gu Mang’s attention. After shooting Murong Lian a furtive look over his shoulder, he quickly orders.
The boss nods cheerfully, and then the cleaver comes down behind the glass in a series of rhythmic dull thuds. Murong Lian’s stomach rumbles despite himself as he catches sight of the steam spiraling up from the meat.
Gu Mang brings the tray over to an empty table and carefully sets everything out—a couple of cold beers, plates of generous slices of goose with crisp, ruby-red skin, and small bowls of pale, glossy golden sauce.
“Plum sauce.” Gu Mang says helpfully, cracking open a beer.
Murong Lian reaches for the other can.
“Cheers, Lian-di.” Gu Mang grins, a flash of a sharp little canine peeking out. He gently touches his beer to Murong Lian’s. “Go ahead, try some.”
Murong Lian gingerly bites down on a small piece of goose. The skin somehow shatters and melts in his mouth at the same time, and the meat is tender perfection, sweet and aromatic with just a hint of gaminess. The bracing astringence of the plum sauce cuts through the richness such that Murong Lian thinks he could eat this all night long… even though just ten minutes ago, he was insisting that he wasn’t hungry.
They eat in silence for a while. It’s rare that Murong Lian doesn’t insist on being entertained, or that Gu Mang doesn’t feel compelled to entertain. But somehow, as they sit in each other’s company right now, the usual pretenses are stripped away. Perhaps it’s the heat, still suffocating after sundown. Perhaps it’s the darkness, perhaps it’s the strange mix of the unfamiliar and familiar. Perhaps it’s a touch of practiced disinterest, even resignation.
Perhaps it’s a mutual feeling of being far from home.
Eventually, Gu Mang breaks the silence. “I never thought I’d say this, but there are things I’ll miss about this place. Like eating here.”
“Generally, you need to leave a place before you can miss it.” Murong Lian arches a brow.
“Hah, don’t play coy with me—didn’t I tell you? I’m getting reassigned. And I know Mo Xi—”
“Of course he told me too,” Murong Lian interrupts. “What should I make of it, hmm? Do you even remember the first time you said you’re done here, that you’re coming home? That was three years ago. And now look where we are. You’ve cried wolf too many times, Gu Mang. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Murong Lian feels a twinge of guilt—after all, he knows it’s not Gu Mang’s fault. But the lashing out is like a habit he can’t break.
Gu Mang could put him in his place if he wanted to, but for some reason, his smile only widens. “How’s the new house coming along? Almost done, I heard? Don’t be surprised when I show up in my new bedroom next month.”
“ Your bedroom? Are you daft or delusional?” Secretly grateful for the change in topic, Murong Lian clicks his tongue, his derision too pungent to be entirely unaffected. “See if I don’t have the guards bar you at the gate. And don’t even think about climbing over the fence.”
“Come on, how many bedrooms are you gonna have in that mansion of yours again? Your Gu Mang-gege’s got nowhere else to stay.”
“Dream on, darling.”
What Murong Lian doesn’t say is that at the back of the new villa, there’s a room on the second floor, spacious and airy, overlooking the pond and the paulownia trees in the rear courtyard.
After nightfall, the view through the window is of the moon rising through the tree branches, its reflection tranquil on the water.
And there’s a little balcony too, just beneath the lowest roof eaves, with a ledge from which it’s easy to swing onto the gently sloping roof, where there’s an unobstructed view of the stars.
Murong Lian’s been thinking that it wouldn’t be a bad home office. Or a study. Or just another guest bedroom.
Of course, if he’s being honest with himself, he knows exactly who he had in mind when he designed it.
But he sure as hell isn’t sappy enough to say it out loud.
Plus, doesn’t the Mo family have a giant fucking manor anyway?
So Murong Lian scoffs and rolls his eyes, nibbling at another piece of goose, even though his appetite is already sated.
The corners of Gu Mang’s lips quirk up knowingly, but he seems to have decided against prodding Murong Lian any further in this direction.
Gu Mang leans in across the table, lowering his voice. “So tell me, how’s everyone else doing? I heard Mengze recently got a big promotion… and Yue Chenqing’s graduated now, hasn’t he? Hard to believe…”
After delivering an hour of Linyi’s freshest gossip, Murong Lian is in a much better mood, and Gu Mang has polished off all the remaining food and beer.
Murong Lian lazily reaches into his pocket, drawing out a sleek metal case and perfunctorily waving it towards Gu Mang.
“Officer Gu, I’d offer you one, but I don’t like being rejected.”
“Ah, sorry Lian-di,” Gu Mang smiles. “If you were my informant, I’d take it.” He shoots a sidelong glance at the cigarette that’s already between Murong Lian’s fingers.
Murong Lian knows what Gu Mang really wants to say, but he lights the smoke anyway, taking a slow drag. “The doctors cleared me, you know.”
Gu Mang raises his eyebrows. “Is Doctor Jiang going to say the same when I visit him?”
Murong Lian blows out a plume of smoke without replying. At the same moment, even though the air has been painfully still all evening, a light breeze stirs out of nowhere. The smoke he just exhaled drifts sideways into a hazy screen between him and Gu Mang.
Before Murong Lian can react, Gu Mang’s gaze meets his, eyes slightly narrowed. Murong Lian doesn’t know if it’s the smoke or the lights flashing from the KTV next door or the reflection from his own shirt, but for a split second, Gu Mang’s eyes seem to flash an otherworldly blue. There’s a look in them that makes Murong Lian feel like his hands and feet have been plunged into ice, an unfamiliar expression that’s wild and wary, cool and calculating.
It catches him off guard to the point that Murong Lian suddenly worries if he’s missed something, in all these years Gu Mang’s been away from home.
Just what has Gu Mang seen here? What has he been through? Murong Lian has never really cared to know before, but now, he suddenly dreads the possibility of knowing. He notices, as if for the first time, the pronounced hollows in Gu Mang’s cheeks, the way his collarbone juts out below his loosened lapels. In an instant, it feels like the brother he’s finally seeing has turned into a stranger when he wasn’t looking.
But then Gu Mang blinks, the smoke dissipates, and the mirage fades. Gu Mang wrinkles his nose, night-dark eyes curving into crescents, even as something weary lingers in the set of his mouth.
Murong Lian wonders if he’s seeing things. Maybe he’s come down with heatstroke.
He’s so distracted he doesn’t even notice his cigarette has burned all the way down to the filter until it singes his fingers and he jumps.
Usually, Gu Mang would laugh and chide him, but for some reason, he doesn’t today.
After a long pause, his voice is unexpectedly soft when he speaks up. “To tell the truth, I’m scared of getting my hopes up myself… but this time, I’m really ready to come home.”
There are a thousand different barbs Murong Lian could usually fire back with, but in the face of Gu Mang’s unadorned sincerity, he’s rendered temporarily speechless. In the end, he simply nods.
The days are cool and crisp by the time the last brick is finally laid down in Murong Lian’s new villa. The paulownia trees are shedding their leaves so quickly that he has to skim them off of the koi pond each morning.
Twilight has already fallen, bathing the courtyard in a dreamy blue cast. Murong Lian is heading up the stairs after a long day at the firm when he hears the voices coming from upstairs—a cool, deep, solemn baritone, and another man’s voice, clever and quick, inexplicably comforting.
He has to grab onto the bannister to steady himself.
First of all, are his security people sleeping on the job? The hell is he paying them for if they’re going to let this fucker just sneak in here on a weekday night?
Second of all, why does Mo Xi need to show up too—oh, forget it.
“Gu Mang!!!”
Murong Lian bounds up the stairs two at a time like he’s twelve years old again, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Whose fucking house do you think this is!”
Then again, is he wrong? Murong Lian asks himself, catching his breath on the landing.
…Welcome home, Gu Mang.