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The wind whistles, sharp, against the outside of the bus. This time of year, it’s just cold enough to be chilly and uncomfortable, but not quite enough to necessitate heavy winter wear—well, except for Hua Cheng, but he’s always run cold. In contrast, beside him, Xie Lian sits with his hands folded in his lap, wearing little more than sweatpants and a shirt with a cardigan pulled over it. He’s smiling off thoughtlessly into the distance, humming along the the frankly horrendous music selection the driver has piping through the speakers, and Hua Cheng wishes it were directed at him, selfish and greedy; thinks about how he had asked, doing his best to hide his nerves, three weeks ago, if Xie Lian would maybe like to go to a haunted house with him, and Xie Lian’s brows had crinkled and his nose had scrunched up slightly as he had titled his head at Hua Cheng in an unspoken question, and Hua Cheng had hurried to explain to him that tourists from the USA have been getting more common, and so some people have decided it would be worth it to try their hands at an American custom in the hopes of drawing in more money, and Xie Lian had said, ah! , a puff of warm air blossoming out in faint white in front of his face, and grinned, and Hua Cheng had thought, not for the first time, I love you.
So here they are: shoulder-to-shoulder on a bus downtown, the speaker overhead crackly and the air around them a perplexing combination of too loud and too quiet, on their way to the only haunted house in Puxi that Hua Cheng could find, because despite what he told Xie Lian, they really aren’t that common, and since it’s November already by a good few days, most of them have closed up—which could have been avoided if they had come earlier, but, well, Xie Lian had had a couple of mishaps with his roof at the tail end of October, and Hua Cheng hadn’t wanted to take his attention away from more pressing matters, so. Here they are, now. Better relate than never, he supposes—and, besides, he gets to feel the press of Xie Lian’s body, broader than it appears at first glance and warm, against him, which is more than he could ask for.
“Do you think they’ll have performers?” Xie Lian asks, dragging him out of the depths of his thoughts, head tilted and brow raised even as he doesn’t meet his gaze—not that Hua Cheng minds in the least, the avoidance more comfortable for the both of them than direct contact.
“Hm?” Hua Cheng says, to try and buy himself time to sort out a reply, because the dying sun is casting blood-red across Xie Lian’s cheek, and it’s distracting in ways that he wouldn’t have thought could exist, before now.
“I went to an internet café and looked them up,” Xie Lian says, sheepish. “I didn’t want to go in without knowing anything— San Lang, are you laughing at me?”
“This San Lang would never laugh at gege,” San Lang says, but it’s ruined by the way his voice shakes minutely, lips twitching and eye narrowing to a crescent. “Gege is very resourceful,” he adds, because he can’t help it, “taking the time to battle strange technology to learn more—you honour me.”
“ San Lang, ” Xie Lian says, red dusted across his cheeks and nose, and he swats at Hua Cheng’s arm with one hand, the other coming up to tug at a loose piece of his hair, but his lips are quirked into a small, crooked smile, and his eyes are slightly squinted. Hua Cheng can’t help the instinctive fondness that rises in him for this man—graceful and wise in so many ways, but still incapable of keeping any sort of electronic device more complex than a flip phone around without it being broken for more than a week. He is, Hua Cheng thinks, not for the first time, as Xie Lian settles down, cheeks returning to their natural hue, but now with his head pillowed on Hua Cheng’s shoulder, perfectly imperfect.
The bus finally arrives at their stop, the overhead display banner flipping and the automated voice announcing it in tandem so as to make sure all are aware. “Oh, here we are!” Xie Lian says, and his excitement, as he practically drags Hua Cheng to his feet, is palpable. For his part, Hua Cheng is trying not to think too hard about how Xie Lian is holding his hand as they shoulder past those standing up and make their way off the bus. From there, it’s a quick walk to the building that the haunted house is located in—a tall, narrow thing, with a hand-painted sign posted in the window on the bottom storey, between the window and what must be black-out curtains that block the view of the interior.
Hua Cheng has to let go of Xie Lian’s hand to pull out his wallet, much to his regret, and they spend a good five minutes at the door arguing—or, rather, Hua Cheng gently rebuffing every attempt of Xie Lian’s to pay for the tickets. In the end, though, Hua Cheng manages to point out that he’s the one who invited Xie Lian, so he should be the one paying, and then they venture inside.
There’s a tall woman behind a desk in the entrance lobby, and she gives them a bored look as she asks how many tickets they’re buying. “Two, thanks,” Hua Cheng tells her, and hands over the bills to cover the cost, with a little extra, because tipping never hurts.
“Down the hall, second door on the left,” she tells them, and then, as if only just remembering, adds, “no refunds if you leave early,” as if that’s happened before.
“Oh no,” Xie Lian says, as they head down the hall, “do you think they have any especially scary bits?” His brow is furrowed, and he’s started to tap his fingers against his leg.
“They might,” Hua Cheng says. “It was advertised as an extreme experience.” The thought of Xie Lian being upset, though, makes him frown, fingers twitching, and he says, “We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to. It wasn’t that expensive.”
“No, no!” Xie Lian protests, “I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine. This one isn’t scared so easily. But you should know, I might accidentally grab you if something startles me.” He sounds slightly embarrassed to admit it, though—there’s an undercurrent of something there that Hua Cheng doesn’t quite know how to read.
Hua Cheng hums instead of trying to parse it. “Alright, he says; and then, softer, “I won’t mind.” And then they’re at the door, and he reaches out to open it—and as soon as it swings open, the darkness behind is interrupted as a—witch? with green dripping from its hands pops up with a menacing cackle. He almost starts, himself, from the abruptness of it, and Xie Lian, who’s slightly behind him because the door isn’t quite wide enough to fit the both of them at once, draws a sharp breath, and a moment later, his hand grabs Hua Cheng’s, warm and dry, and all Hua Cheng can think of is that, if he were to have masterminded this entire event, he’d have managed to get exactly what he wanted.
They manage to collect themselves after a few moments though, and move into the room, brushing past the witch. The rest of the haunted house isn’t nearly as startling—mostly just fog machines and carefully placed lights and menacing audio effects, though there’s a portion where they have to put their hands in boxes marked eyeballs, brains, guts, and guess what each one actually contains before the bored looking teenager dressed as a mummy lets them pass to the rest of the building. Throughout it all, though, Xie Lian never lets go of his hand, and even, once or twice, squeezes it, and if he had just slightly less self control, Hua Cheng thinks he might have died. As it is, it’s very close.
They’ve been there for about half an hour, and they’re back on the first storey, which means they must be nearing the end. “I wonder what they’ll have next,” Xie Lian says, idly, as they stroll down a darkened corridor. Hua Cheng can’t see him, but the warm rise and fall of his voice, and his hand in his own, is enough to make him feel settled. “Maybe we’ll have to go through a maze?”
“I don’t think there’s enough room left for that,” Hua Cheng counters. “Anyway, what sort of maze would be haunted? ”
“Ah, but San Lang hasn’t considered that maybe there’s a basement,” Xie Lian counters, and though he can’t see it, he’s confident that the other’s brows are raised mischievously. “We might fall through a trapped door and have to find our way out.”
Hua Cheng’s lips twitch, and he’s just about to answer—something along the lines of if gege says —when there’s the distinctive sound of footsteps and a motor revving.
What follows next is a good five to ten minutes of running at breakneck speed as they try and avoid what can only be a performer with a chainsaw, of all things, Xie Lian almost tripping over himself repeatedly and nearly bringing them both down, adrenaline coursing through them despite the logical knowledge that they won’t actually get hurt, and when they finally burst out the exit and onto the narrow, dimly-lit street running behind the building, they’re both wheezing slightly, which turns into laughter moments later. “Hhhah, I really have the worst luck,” Xie Lian says, bending over to pant for breath, though his hand is still holding Hua Cheng’s. “Shouldn’t have—said anything—” He takes a moment to regain his breath, and Hua Cheng tries to regulate his own breathing as well so he doesn’t keep wheezing. There’s a stitch in his side and some of his hand has stuck to his forehead, and he reaches up to brush it away, grateful for the cool night air against his skin.
“Maybe...next year...we can try something else,” Hua Cheng manages, finally. “I’m sure we won’t be chased down by someone wielding a chainsaw if we only go out for dinner.”
Xie Lian lets out a dubious huff of breath, and straightens up. “San Lang forgets that I once set a dinner table on fire,” he says, “I’m sure it could happen.”
“Then this San Lang will have to come along to counter gege’s bad luck,” Hua Cheng says before he can even think about it, and then feels himself flush, hoping fervently that the dim light hides it from Xie Lian.
Xie Lian, though, just grins. “Sure,” he says; and then: “Ah, San Lang! It’s much past dinner time—let me treat you to some noodles, how’s that?”
“Gege shouldn’t,” Hua Cheng protests, but they both know it’s without much heart; and it only takes a little more insisting on Xie Lian’s part for him to cave and agree.
It doesn’t take too long to find a little hole in the wall moodle shop, and Xie Lian orders for them both, because he knows Hua Cheng’s order—something that makes his heart feel ridiculously tight beneath his ribs—, and then after a moment of thought, an order of guotie to share. “As thanks,” he says, and when Hua Cheng tries to protest about not needing to be paid back, waves his hand. “Maybe it’s just for going with me,” he says, and nudges Hua Cheng’s foot beneath the table, grinning crookedly. Heat licks Hua Cheng, and he barely holds back an I would go anywhere with you, smiling in return instead.
The lamian is fantastic, and so are the guotie—food in little hole in the walls always tastes better, for reasons he’s never been sure of; more hearty and flavourful—, and when they finish, they walk side by side down the street, slowly and without much aim, content just to be in each other’s presence. Finally, Hua Cheng manages to draw up enough courage to say, “I hope gege enjoyed today.”
“I did, ” Xie Lian says, sounding delighted. “A new experience, with my San Lang by my side? How could I not?”
That indescribable note is back, and when Hua Cheng looks at him, he finds Xie Lian staring resolutely at the ground, his cheeks flushed, a self-conscious smile at his lips, small and almost invisible, if not for how versed Hua Cheng is in him.
Without thinking, he says, “ Your San Lang?” because he’s an idiot, and then, quickly, “ah, nevermind this one’s foolishness, gege—he presumes too much.”
There’s a beat, and then Xie Lian’s shoulder knocks his, and he glances up. “And what if this one wanted that? Wanted San Lang to presume?” Despite the boldness of the words, there’s a thread of uncertainty there, as if Xie Lian is putting himself, vulnerable, out, afraid of what might happen, but— hopeful.
Oh, thinks Hua Cheng, because he feels it too; so he says, “Then this San Lang would be very happy.” He swallows, and adds, quietly, “This one couldn’t stop thinking of such things when gege held his hand.”
Xie Lian lets out a shaky breath. “Good,” he says. “This one’s secret—it wasn’t out of fear.” I just wanted to hold you goes unsaid, but—there’s a damm in Hua Cheng, and it’s about to burst. He reaches out, twines their fingers together, and drags Xie Lian into an alley, a spark of heat kindling as Xie Lian follows eagerly after.
Hidden by the shadows, they come face to face; and Hua Cheng raises his free hand to brush his knuckles against Xie Lian’s cheek; an unspoken question; watches Xie Lian lean into it, a small plume of white slipping from between his lips as he exhales. “Gege...”
“ Yes, ” Xie Lian whispers, and then, as if he can’t control himself, leans up to press his lips against Hua Cheng’s. It’s inelegant, partially because neither of them can see well and partially because Hua Cheng was already starting to lean down, and the angle they meet at is awkward, but they manage to figure it out after a moment, though they do laugh a little together as they have to break apart for a brief breath to realign; and then they’re kissing, for real, and it’s everything Hua Cheng had hoped for and more—the press of Xie Lian’s lips, soft, against his own; the warmth of his body pressed to his; the nimble fingers that find their way to the nape of his neck; and, above all, the hand still twined in his, held between them.
When they finally break apart, they’re both grinning. “Let’s go home,” Xie Lian says, and squeezes his hand; a promise and an assurance at once.
“Home,” Hua Cheng repeats, and it feels like he’s only just discovering the truth of it as he shapes the sound in his mouth, and his grin widens.