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Han Ying doesn’t question it at first.
Not because the idea isn’t questionable but because he doesn’t question Zhou Zishu, period, full stop. End of sentence, end of discussion.
Technically, his loyalty lies with Helian Yi – industry giant, deputy chairman, Machiavellian schemer extraordinaire and, most importantly, the one who signs Han Ying’s paychecks – but Han Ying’s body and soul belong to Zhou Zishu in every way that matters. It was Zhou Zishu who saved him from poverty, who taught him all that he knows and who gave him something more precious than Helian Yi’s money: composure, discipline and purpose.
So when Zhou Zishu informs him that their next meetings with Qin Jiuxiao will take place in a coffee shop, Han Ying doesn’t think twice about it.
A month ago, Jiuxiao graduated from trainee to a fully-fledged member of Tian Chuang. His first mission is low-profile, intelligence gathering under the guise of an internship at another deputy’s office who has been a thorn in Helian Yi’s side for a few months now.
Usually, exchanges between undercover spies and Tian Chuang’s headquarters are a bi-weekly occurrence, but so far Zhou Zishu has insisted on a weekly report from Jiuxiao. The meetings are always in public, hidden in plain sight in case Jiuxiao is being shadowed. A busy mall used to serve as handover location but ever since a group of pubescent pyromaniacs threw several Molotov cocktails through a great number of windows, the mall has been closed indefinitely.
“It’s a good spot,” is all Zhou Zishu says about the coffee shop. “Not too many people but not too few either. I’m a regular there.”
Come next Thursday, the chauffeur drops Zhou Zishu and Han Ying off at a corner in a friendly but slightly bland neighborhood, all pastel facades and ever-green parks. Han Ying follows Zhou Zishu down the street, for once walking at his side and not two respectful paces behind. Even after years of working with Zhou Zishu, this part of their civilian cover never fails to throw Han Ying off-kilter.
The coffee shop is located on the ground floor of a three-story brick building in saturated earthy tones. Pots with violet flowers frame the glass door, above which a noble ebony plaque announces in loopy letters The Ghost Café.
Sleek, classy, refined, just like Zhou Zishu himself. That’s Han Ying’s first impression of The Ghost Café.
It lasts for approximately four minutes and twenty-five seconds.
Zhou Zishu pushes the door open and enters the coffee shop with quiet but firm steps, Han Ying on his tail. For a coffee shop, the color scheme is rather dark, black and red everywhere, but Han Ying supposes they can afford it with all the sunlight coming in through the supersized windows.
There’s a short line in front of the counter but they aren’t in a hurry to get their beverages. Jiuxiao is seldom on time and it’s not unusual for them to wait for an hour or more until he arrives.
When it’s their turn to order, the girl behind the counter squints her eyes at them. She’s quite young to be working already – Han Ying estimates her age at around sixteen – and has purple beads woven into her plaits. Her eyebrows are furrowed in an exaggerated frown and her lips press together to form a pout.
She’s frowning specifically at Zhou Zishu and doesn’t even try to hide her discontentment. For Heaven’s sake, she doesn’t even ask for their order. Han Ying bristles. He’s all for respecting service workers and fighting against emotional labor and so on and so forth, but this goes too far.
“We would like to order,” he says pointedly.
Zhou Zishu’s eyes briefly flick over to Han Ying but he doesn’t reprimand him for speaking. Han Ying is fully ready to commit to a staring contest with the girl, unashamed of picking a fight with a literal minor. He’s done far less dignified things in his lifetime.
The girl makes a sound only teenagers at the height of puberty are capable of, a deeply annoyed groan like Zhou Zishu’s and Han Ying’s presence couldn’t possibly inconvenience her more, and steps away from the cash register.
“Gē!” she calls. “I’m ending my shift early. The gremlin gave us homework again, I need to write an eight-hundred-word essay on poetry from the Song Dynasty.”
A second barista steps behind the register, drying his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder.
He’s much older than the girl, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, and wears a white button-up under his wine-red apron. Han Ying doesn’t swing in that particular direction (with the exception of Zhou Zishu, but that was one time, alright? That doesn’t make him gay, or bisexual or whatever. It just means he has eyes.) but even he can see that the guy is objectively gorgeous. Bright eyes, elegant cheekbones and a prominent nose, complete with a sinful mouth and silky black hair in an artsy half-up half-down style.
“Poetry, huh, A-Xiang?” he says. Even his voice is attractive, full and lilting. The words seem to bounce off his tongue, excited to be set free into the world. “I don’t see what’s there to complain about. The gremlin has made an excellent choice this time.”
The barista’s eyes wander, from the girl to Han Ying and the customers in line, then latch onto Zhou Zishu.
“You should write about Liu Yong, A-Xiang. One should sing when one has wine in hand, / But drinking to escape offers no reprieve. / I do not mind that my clothes are getting looser. / My lover is worthy of desire.”
The barista’s gaze stays fixed on Zhou Zishu as he quotes the stanza with mischievously quirked lips.
Han Ying is utterly flabbergasted.
The barista is flirting.
The barista is flirting with Zhou fucking Zishu.
In all his years, Han Ying has never seen someone shoot their shot at Zhou Zishu. Usually, there are only clandestine looks thrown his way, followed by furious whispering among friend groups. Zhou Zishu is attractive in an aloof way, the type of face that says don’t even bother trying - and in ninety-nine point nine percent of cases, people don’t.
That’s not to say Zhou Zishu has no suitors, they just stay silent about it. If Han Ying had a coin for every time he’s drunkenly bonded with members of Tian Chuang over a past crush on Zhou Zishu that went nowhere, he’d have five and a half coins. (Duan Pengju wasn’t quite clear if it was a hate crush type of situation or just hate with the added spice of Zhou Zishu coincidentally possessing some very nice collarbones.)
The barista’s attempt at flirting is not only inappropriate, it’s also a breach of conduct. That’s just not how it’s done, okay? If you’re into Zhou Zishu, you better have the decorum and common sense to keep quiet about it.
‘Keep quiet’ is not in the barista’s vocabulary. After he sends the girl away, he laxly props himself up on the counter and leans forward, the fabric of his open collar shifting a little.
“Well, well, well. And here I’d thought my favorite customer had gone and left me to die alone. What can I get for you and your friend?”
Zhou Zishu has no discernible reaction to the barista’s interest in him. His expression is the same one he wears in business meetings, stern and astute, a galaxy away from laughter. He orders for both of them and when the barista refuses to ring them up (“It’s on the house this time. If you want to pay, you’ll just have to come here again next week.”) he deposits the banknotes on the counter anyways and leaves for a table at the back.
Han Ying waits at the counter to pick up their beverages, still somewhat in disbelief. When he gets the black tray with two lovely ceramic cups, there is a distinct difference between them. The foam on top of the left cup is white as snow while the right cup is decorated with a cocoa powder smiley face. The barista tucks the banknotes Zhou Zishu gave him under the cup with the smiley, designating its intended recipient.
Han Ying gawks at him, rendered speechless for the second time this day. The barista throws him a shameless smile and says, “I wait on all my regulars. Next time, you can just stay seated and I’ll come around.”
Han Ying manages a brisk nod and flees the scene as fast as possible.
He wasn’t embarrassed about beefing with a sixteen-year-old but he sure is embarrassed about depositing the smiley face cup in front of Zhou Zishu. A smiley face. For a renowned spymaster and notorious assassin. It doesn’t get more absurd than that.
Luckily, Zhou Zishu doesn’t comment, only takes an absentminded sip as he sifts through e-mails on his phone.
As expected, Jiuxiao arrives forty-five minutes late and plops down onto the chair next to Han Ying. In a hurry to pull something out of his bag, his knees bump against the table and the cups clatter precariously.
“Sorry! Sorry. Had a late shift and then I missed my train…ah, where did I put it…Here!”
He proudly presents Zhou Zishu with an old copy of The Wizard of Oz, identical to the ones that already lie on the table in front of Han Ying and Zhou Zishu. Public operations are always done under a mundane cover, and the one they’ve chosen for The Ghost Café is the tried and true weekly book club for Classics of the European Literary Canon.
Zhou Zishu sets down his phone and levels Jiuxiao a short analytical look. He doesn’t take the book straightaway – which, unlike his and Han Ying’s editions, contains copies of important documents – but asks, “How did you like this week’s read?”
It’s a standard question that translates to Are you safe right now? Technically, there’s no need for Zhou Zishu to ask. Code phrases for conveying varying degrees of danger exist in abundance and it’s within every spy’s capability to use them without waiting for an invitation. Still, it’s always the first question that comes over Zhou Zishu’s lips. Prudence or solicitude, Han Ying is often unsure, but with Jiuxiao it’s clearly the latter. He isn’t the brightest or most skilled spy of his cohort but Zhou Zishu has a soft spot for him, at least to the extent that the leader of the country’s most lethal secret organization can have a soft spot for anyone.
“The first chapters were a pain to get through, but the rest was pretty good, I guess,” Jiuxiao answers quickly, code for: Everything’s alright. (The “I guess” is a Jiuxiao-only addition to the sentence.) It’s obvious that he has something big for them and is impatient to get started.
Zhou Zishu pulls the book toward him and glances inside. “Interesting,” he notes and closes the lid. “Care to elaborate on that, Jiuxiao? You can open the discussion for today.”
Jiuxiao launches into a long-winded essay about The Wizard of Oz that would make absolutely no sense to anyone who has actually read the book. Apart from their new location, there is nothing notably different about their exchange. At least for all of five minutes, until the good-looking barista crashes their book club to bring Jiuxiao his order. Their table is by no means crammed but the barista makes a big show of leaning over Zhou Zishu’s shoulder to set down the cup.
Han Ying shoots Jiuxiao a look à la Are you seeing this shit? but Jiuxiao is too busy getting excited over his Caramel Frappuccino to notice.
The barista intruding is not a big inconvenience – they have coded language for a reason – but it’s also not not a convenience when it just…keeps happening…over and over.
It’s always for some trivial reason, like informing them of the café’s daily special. He’s a good salesman at least. His general attitude and choice of words would have you believe this Iced Mocca-Frappe-Matcha-Whatever-The-Fuck will cure all your illnesses, fix your marriage and do your taxes along the way.
Ten minutes later, he’s back to offer them leftover cookies for free. The cookies are heart-shaped, look freshly baked and are very obviously held out in Zhou Zishu’s direction.
Another ten minutes and he’s back again to take away their empty cups and wipe down the table surface. Instead of walking around the table, he chooses the worst possible angle and uses that as an excuse to drape himself over the entire tabletop, shoulder and bicep muscles shifting performatively under his shirt.
Really, how much more obnoxious can you get? Han Ying is beginning to thoroughly dislike the barista, his good looks and amazing coffee be damned.
Zhou Zishu is either unaware of the barista’s intention or chooses to ignore it. Most of the time, his reactions are a brand of obliviousness that Han Ying hates to admit is very entertaining to watch.
When the barista comes around again, he’s carrying a slice of cake on a porcelain plate and a suggestive smile on his lips.
“We’re closing up soon,” he says, trying and failing to catch Zhou Zishu’s eyes which are fixed on Jiuxiao’s edition of The Wizard of Oz. “And I can’t let you go home without ordering anything sweet. The cake is on me, of course.”
“Han Ying,” Zhou Zishu says without lifting his eyes, “Do you want cake?”
“Uh.” Han Ying wasn’t expecting to be dragged into this. He looks at the barista, who is looking at Zhou Zishu, who is in turn still looking at the novel. When Han Ying doesn’t answer, Zhou Zishu finally looks up at him with one eyebrow raised. “Well?”
“No, thank you,” Han Ying says hurriedly, not wanting to seem rude.
The barista laughs. “That’s not exactly what I meant, there’s only one slice left, so—”
“Jiuxiao, cake?” Zhou Zishu continues.
“I wouldn’t say no,” Jiuxiao says sheepishly.
The barista hesitates, which gives Han Ying a sting of satisfaction, and sets the plate down in front of Jiuxiao who thanks him profusely.
“You know,” the barista tries again, this time managing to hold Zhou Zishu’s attention, “Now that I think about it, I should have some cake left somewhere. I’ll be right back.”
“No need,” Zhou Zishu says. “One slice is fine. This one gets hyperactive when he consumes too much sugar.”
(“I do not,” Jiuxiao protests in the background.)
The barista laughs again and shakes his head. “Alright. Maybe next time, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
I fucking hope so, Han Ying almost says.
When the exchange nears its end and Zhou Zishu gets up to go to the bathroom, Han Ying immediately corners Jiuxiao.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing? That barista…”
Jiuxiao seems confused for a moment, then his expression brightens and he nods. “Yeah. He’s really friendly, right?”
“Not just friendly.”
“What do you mean?” Jiuxiao frowns and scrunches his nose as if he needs to think very hard about what Han Ying is insinuating. “Wait…you’re right.”
“Right! It’s unprofessional, he’s…”
“…he’s like, totally flirting with you. You should ask him for his number. Oh, uhm, I mean…are you even, like…” Jiuxiao lowers his voice conspiratorially. “…gay…or something like that?”
Han Ying doesn’t know how, despite his standards for Jiuxiao being extravagantly low, he still manages to surprise him every time.
“Honestly, how you managed to pass your final examination will always be a mystery to me. He’s not flirting with me. Just look.”
He points to the cash register where the barista is arguing with Zhou Zishu over the bathroom fee. He’s practically shoving a coin down Zhou Zishu’s throat (“I said it’s on me, you’re a regular, you don’t need to pay.”) but Zhou Zishu holds his ground without moving an inch (“I have my own money. I don’t need it. Why is there a fee if you don’t want customers to pay it?”).
“Oh,” Jiuxiao says. “Ohhhhh.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think Zhou-shǒulǐng is going to do something about it?”
“Of course,” Han Ying says, irritated. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ll change locations again next time.”
“Aw,” Jiuxiao says. “The cake is so good, though.”
—
They do not change locations. Not the next time or the one after, or the one after that.
As already established, Han Ying doesn’t question Zhou Zishu and that won’t ever change. Before, that was all there was to it, but now a dreadful however hangs heavy in the air.
Han Ying doesn’t question Zhou Zishu, however, the decision to stay at The Ghost Café is, well, a little questionable. Especially because the barista doubles down so hard on his flirting that his first attempts pale in comparison.
With each visit, his latte art becomes more and more unhinged. And it is art. He steps his game up from cocoa powder to some kind of chocolate syrup and an actual brush. The longer they have to wait for Jiuxiao at the café, the more coffee they consume and the further the designs for Zhou Zishu’s beverages escalate. It always starts quite classy, like a circle of hearts, and devolves into something ridiculous like a photorealistic portrait of Zhou Zishu’s face.
(The only point of divergence is the giant smile coffee-Zhou-Zishu sports, which is extremely creepy.)
If Zhou Zishu had the benefit of the doubt the first time around, he lost it around the time he cast a furtive glance at his artwork of a Cortado (the motif was a bouquet of roses) and stirred the coffee without so much as lifting a brow.
This, Han Ying learns quickly, is standard procedure. The barista takes thrice the usual time to make Zhou Zishu’s orders and embellishes them with the corniest shit imaginable, and Zhou Zishu takes the design in for zero point three seconds before lifting the cup to his mouth, appearing completely unaffected and zen as fuck.
The most Han Ying ever sees him react is at the counter. While the machine processes Zhou Zishu’s card, he remarks concerning the latte portrait, “I don’t have dimples.”
“Don’t you?” the barista says. “I must’ve forgotten. You should smile more often to make me remember.”
Alright. Han Ying has to admit that was kind of smooth. He looks at Zhou Zishu, anticipating some kind of shutdown, but Zhou Zishu only lets out a dry snort dangerously close to a laugh.
Oh well. Hope dies last.
—
“Okay,” Jiuxiao says. “This is weird.”
“Report me something new,” Han Ying says. He’s paging through an annotated edition of Peter Pan, skimming passages to pass time while Zhou Zishu is outside taking a Confidential CallTM. He’s enjoying the novel far more than the baroque drama collection from last time.
“I think the barista wrote his number on Zhou-shǒulǐng’s napkin. Does that count as new?”
“No. He’s been doing that nonstop since we got here. Google the number and take a look at the results.”
Silence and tentative typing. Captain Hook has just kidnapped Wendy Darling. Han Ying is invested.
“Huh. It’s the number of a repair shop. Wait, so is the barista an informant? That explains everything! Uhm, well, half of it at least. Take a look at this.”
Han Ying begrudgingly lifts his eyes from the page. There is indeed a number scribbled on the napkin in elegant handwriting, surrounded by little hearts and stars. He flips it and, as expected, a short stanza is written on the back:
A sight of your beauty causes insomnia / A day in separation makes mania
“Half of it is putting it generously,” Han Ying says and returns to his book.
—
If the barista is an informant as Jiuxiao suspects, he’s not a particularly reliable one. The first time he slipped Zhou Zishu his number, Han Ying finally allowed himself the tiniest twitch of the eye in response. Zhou Zishu caught it – of course he did – and asked a moment later, “Anything you should be telling me, Han Ying? Bad news is better than no news. Is this about Cheng Yi?”
“Pardon?” Han Ying said, surprised. “No, Cheng Yi’s holding his station well, I received a report from him this morning.”
“What troubles you, then?”
“Uhm,” Han Ying said, borrowing a page from Jiuxiao’s book to stall time. “Nothing, it’s nothing, just…your napkin, the barista wrote down his number, I think he’s…”
“That’s not his number,” Zhou Zishu said, barely glancing at the digits. “And no reason to worry. He does that sometimes. Ignore it.”
Han Ying did, in fact, not ignore it, and has been keeping count of all the different numbers the barista has ever written down. Zhou Zishu’s statement has turned out to be true; it’s certainly never the barista’s own phone number on the napkin, but Han Ying still isn’t entirely convinced by Jiuxiao’s informant theory.
In some cases, the numbers do end up leading to important players in the underground world, the type of knowledge a normal civilian definitely wouldn’t have access to. However, the possibility of ending up somewhere nonsensical is much higher. Most of the time, the numbers lead to boutiques that specialize in Valentine’s Day gifts. Han Ying has also been duped into calling erotic hotlines three times now, which is one time too much to count as funny anymore.
Similarly, the stanzas written beneath the phone numbers vary from refined pieces of poeticism to the occasional “Roses are red / Violets are blue / Just give me ur number / So I can call u ;)”.
Han Ying can now anticipate where the stanza of the week will fall on the spectrum from love poem to pick-up line based on the mood of the young female barista.
When the coffee shop isn’t too busy, she often trails after the older man like a little duckling and sits on the counter while he prepares their orders. Although Han Ying first thought her a prickly person, that doesn’t seem to be the case when she is relatively alone with the barista. Then she chirps excitedly about this or that topic, and when she’s more on the quiet side, he can make her laugh with just a word or a look.
The only time the girl slips back into her annoyed teenager persona is when the barista is scribbling on a napkin again. She accepts the poetry with minimal sighing but her tolerance meets its end as soon as any modern words are involved. Then it’s all scoffing and rolled back eyes and “That’s so cringe, o my God. Don’t be such a millennial, gē.”
Han Ying may be a millennial himself but he has never agreed with someone so passionately.
—
The ‘Age of A-Xu’ begins on a gray Wednesday afternoon.
Previously, Han Ying has never really understood the concept of dividing time into a before and after X religious figure. Sure, Jesus’ birth was probably kind of a big deal at the time and the Buddha’s death probably made a lot of people very sad, but he’s never been able to grasp how an event can lead society to literally reset time.
That Wednesday afternoon, he finally gets it.
The day is rainy and miserable. It isn’t miserable because it’s rainy but because Zhou Zishu and Helian Yi had another dispute.
The dispute wasn’t public and there is no hard proof that they argued at all, but Tian Chuang is made up of spies trained to scent any hint of disaccord – and that morning, the air between Helian Yi and Zhou Zishu is charged with electricity.
Han Ying does his best to whip his regiment into shape and dispel the tension. He doesn’t want Zhou Zishu to notice any of the uncertainty that has been festering within Tian Chuang’s ranks for some time now.
The topics of dispute aren’t the problem, it’s the frequency at which these disagreements have been happening lately. Han Ying, part of Tian Chuang’s second generation, remembers a time when Zhou Zishu never had a word to say about Helian Yi’s orders. It didn’t matter how impossible or risky Helian Yi’s demands were, or if his own spies showed doubt about the mission, Zhou Zishu remained a statue, his obedience unshakable, his loyalty unconditional and final.
Han Ying can’t pinpoint when the change happened. It was a slow shift: Zhou Zishu pinching his lips in conferences but saying nothing. Zhou Zishu adding caveats to his orders (“Helian Yi wants our attention on the chairman but also keep an eye on his step-daughter”). Zhou Zishu’s eyes when they lose an informant to a political opponent, dull as if he cannot bring himself to care.
Once, Han Ying overheard Zhou Zishu and Helian Yi arguing through an office door that wasn’t properly closed.
“What are we even doing?” Zhou Zishu said. “What are we fighting for anymore? This isn’t how it was meant to be. We wanted things to be different. Did you forget? Or do you refuse to remember?”
Helian Yi scoffed. “Please, Zishu. It’s a decade too late to pretend you care about morals. If you wanted to play the idealist, you should’ve dropped off my first campaign and gone to live in the woods. Politics are a filthy game. You can’t play unless you’re willing to get your hands dirty.”
“Your hands are not the ones getting dirty, Cousin.”
The exchange has stuck with Han Ying for months. It’s strange to think that Tian Chuang and Helian Yi’s political career by extension started with a simple, innocent vision of something good. Stranger even that Zhou Zishu has continued to believe in it over the years, even when Tian Chuang began training more assassins than spies and Zhou Zishu’s own body count grew into the double digits.
This time, Han Ying has no idea what Helian Yi and Zhou Zishu quarreled about, but he can roughly imagine how it went and keeps his distance as they strut through the rain toward The Ghost Café.
The barista takes them in with keen eyes and, as if sensing Zhou Zishu’s bad mood, dims his usual over-the-top greeting to a warm, firm, “Hey there. What can I get you?”
“Something strong,” Zhou Zishu says curtly and walks past the counter without further specification.
The café is unusually empty and the barista brings them their orders within a few minutes. Han Ying gets his double espresso with wildflower honey (it sounds suspicious as fuck but is actually one of the best things on the menu) and Zhou Zishu gets some white, cinnamon-covered whipped cream monstrosity that looks as if it tastes like vanilla and rainbows.
A choked noise escapes Han Ying. This has to be a joke on the barista’s part and for the first time, Han Ying finds himself wanting to laugh.
Zhou Zishu doesn’t complain, only spends a minute stirring his “coffee” with a furrowed brow, eyes fixed on the spoon going in circles. When he finally takes a sip, the corner of his mouth twitches before pulling taut again. He sets down the cup and turns around in his chair.
The barista stops cleaning the espresso machine to toss Zhou Zishu a wink. “Like it?”
“It’s strong. You really didn’t hold back.”
“Are you complaining?”
Zhou Zishu smiles.
Again: Zhou Zishu smiles.
“No,” he says. “Anything less and I would be disappointed.”
The barista throws the towel back over his shoulder and his lips curl. “There it is. How many more times do I need to remind you not to lock away that smile, A-Xu? You’re a slow learner for your big age.”
Then he turns back to cleaning as if nothing happened.
Zhou Zishu and Han Ying sit in awkward silence. Han Ying is not sure what just happened or why it happened. He’s just – losing his fucking marbles, because what the fuck did the barista just call Zhou Zishu? A-Xu? Really? Flirting aside, Zhou Zishu is the barista’s customer and definitely older than him.
Han Ying is good at denial, so he does just that. Pretends it was a slip-up on the barista’s part like accidentally calling your teacher Mother or Father. Except it happens again soon after, this time with Jiuxiao as an additional witness. Han Ying doesn’t even remember what the barista was talking about, only the name tagged on at the end of a rhetorical question.
Jiuxiao’s eyes grow comically large and the barista actually pauses mid-speech but doesn’t take it back like Han Ying wishes he would. Instead, his countenance brightens after the short deliberation and he dives right back into whatever vaguely sexually loaded topic he’s talking about, suddenly throwing out A-Xus left and right like it’s nobody’s damn business.
Han Ying kind of wants to sink into the ground and succumb to death’s sweet embrace.
Maybe this is just a one-time thing, he thinks.
Needless to say, it’s not a one-time thing.
—
Zhou Zishu has an explanation for A-Xu like he has an explanation for everything at The Ghost Café, plausible but also entirely irrelevant to the real cause of confusion.
“I’m a regular,” is his first response when Jiuxiao brings it up. He says it like the conclusion to that statement should be obvious.
“Yes but…” Jiuxiao says. Unlike Han Ying, he has the privilege of being Zhou Zishu’s protégé and can say the word but without fearing for his job and life. “How does he know your cover name?”
“They used to do takeaways, Starbucks style. Again, I’m a regular, Jiuxiao. Why wouldn’t he know?”
“But…”
Jiuxiao has used up all his free buts for the day. Zhou Zishu shoots him a look that suffices to shut him up. If only, Han Ying thinks, if only Zhou Zishu gave the barista a look like this, they would have some peace and quiet. Speaking of:
“A-Xu,” the barista says reproachfully. He has materialized out of thin air with their orders on a tray. “What’s that? You told me the play for today was Romeo and Juliet. Look, I even made your orders on theme!”
He balances the tray on three fingers and picks up Zhou Zishu’s book without asking for permission, which makes Han Ying wince while Zhou Zishu doesn’t bat an eye.
“King Lear? Really? You could’ve gone for Much Ado About Nothing at the very least. Shakespeare is horribly overrated, anyways. Did you know he may not even have written his own plays? And that he had a thing for one of his male patrons? There’s this cycle of sonnets called the Fair Youth sequence…”
And on he goes. For someone who doesn’t care for Shakespeare, the barista sure knows a lot about him. It’s no secret that he is a true poetry aficionado. His passion for the art form seeps into his voice whenever he goes on a tangent like this, regardless of whether he enjoys the poet in question or not.
Han Ying’s thoughts drift off early on but he notices Zhou Zishu’s eyes fixed on the barista, intense and perceptive as if he’s trying not to miss a single word.
Huh. Han Ying didn’t know Zhou Zishu had any patience for the arts.
After roughly five minutes, the barista stops in the middle of his sentence and breathes out a laugh tinged with embarrassment. “Well, anyways, here are your orders. A double espresso wildflower honey, a vanilla macchiato and a strong one for A-Xu.”
As usual, the “strong one” looks even sweeter than Jiuxiao’s diabetes-inducing Caramel Frappuccino that is pepped up with maple syrup, vanilla extract and an avalanche of chocolate chips. Han Ying sees Jiuxiao’s half-opened mouth, ready to inquire about Zhou Zishu’s choice of coffee, and shakes his head at him. No matter how much Zhou Zishu adores Jiuxiao, he doesn’t seem entirely over the fight with Helian Yi from last week and won’t be too appreciative of Jiuxiao’s natural curiousity.
The information exchange is rather brief this time but Jiuxiao stays for a while longer to finish his coffee. He accidentally grabs Zhou Zishu’s cup instead of his own and before Han Ying can warn him, he takes a sip. His eyes widen, his mouth pulls into a grimace and he splutters.
“Oh, oh wow,” he coughs and sets down the cup. “Oh, yikes, that’s…Oh God, what is that? Zhou-shǒulǐng, I think the barista spiked your coffee.”
“Spiked?” Han Ying repeats sharply, all senses alert. He knew it, he knew that something was off about the barista. “With what?”
“I don’t know, some type of hard alcohol, I think? It burns like hell.”
Han Ying turns to Zhou Zishu, “Zhou-shǒulǐng—”
“Stop,” Zhou Zishu says mildly, but it’s enough to make Han Ying and Jiuxiao freeze in their seats.
“You’re both being ridiculous. He didn’t spike my drink, there’s only a little absinthe at the bottom. It’s a specialty from Italy.”
“Oh,” Jiuxiao says, conflicted and a little crestfallen. “But I…”
“It’s alright,” Zhou Zishu says. “Hyper-vigilance is a side effect of being undercover. It means you’re doing your job well. Here, Han Ying, you try it.”
Han Ying doesn’t need to be asked twice, even if only to try out a new beverage. Unlike Jiuxiao, Han Ying can control his reactions well, but still, his throat constricts in disgust when the coffee hits his tongue.
Han Ying knows what ‘a little absinthe’ tastes like and this is not it. Half of the drink is just straight-up liquor, something with at least twenty-five percent. It’s not bad, but he wasn’t expecting it and has to reign in his urge to spit it out.
He looks at Zhou Zishu over the rim of the glass.
Zhou Zishu looks back at him.
Raises a brow.
“Well?”
And because Han Ying is a good little soldier, he shrugs and says, “I don’t taste anything off.”
—
After that incident, Han Ying officially distrusts the barista. Zhou Zishu can make Jiuxiao believe anything, but he himself isn’t that gullible. And so Han Ying does what he does best. He gathers information.
The barista’s name is Wen Kexing, thirty-one, owner of The Ghost Café and of several other real estate properties in the city. According to the paperwork, he’s the legal guardian of Gu Xiang, sixteen going on seventeen, student at an expensive private school. He only acquired that status about four years ago.
Here is what puzzles Han Ying: according to the records, Wen Kexing didn’t really exist before that.
There are no contracts, no leases, no bills with his name on them that are older than four and a half years, at least no authentic ones. There are plenty of false ones, though. Good forgeries at that, the quality stuff that costs you half a fortune. Even among those, there is barely any information on his background or family except for a fake high school diploma. He doesn’t have a university degree at all, or anything else that would explain his wealth.
The persona ‘Wen Kexing’ simply plopped down onto the city landscape half a decade ago and has been living an oddly quiet life ever since. Small donations to struggling hospitals. Painting workshops. A coffee shop he runs for leisure.
The more Han Ying finds, the more questions he has.
Who is this Wen Kexing? What does he have to hide?
(And why can’t he just hit on people via dating apps like a normal person?)
So he continues digging.
It takes him ages to find a lead but when he does, it’s something big.
Wen Kexing owns a lot more businesses than it appeared at first glance, using multiple pseudonyms all across the city. They have been on Tian Chuang’s radar for some time, suspected of money laundering, illegal trade and ties with an infamous criminal organization known as The Vale.
So far, The Vale and Tian Chuang have never crossed paths, but Zhou Zishu has them keep tabs on all potential threats and rivals. Han Ying is surprised to find the information about The Vale sparse and outdated. The most recent picture of their leader is blurry and almost a decade old, showing a nondescript man in his late fifties at a golf course.
Han Ying isn’t as brilliant as Zhou Zishu, but he’s his second general after Duan Pengju. He’s fucking good, alright. It will take immense time and effort but he knows he can find out who exactly Wen Kexing is and how he’s connected to The Vale.
It’s a shame that he never gets to try, because Zhou Zishu nips his ambition in the bud.
Late at night, he calls Han Ying into his office. Sitting tall in his black leather chair he looks just as regal as Helian Yi when he holds a speech.
“Sit down,” he says.
Han Ying sits and notices the files on Zhou Zishu’s desk. They are Han Ying’s files, the ones he gathered about Wen Kexing and The Vale. His palms begin to sweat. He knows there is no reason to be nervous, but he’s always had the irrational fear that Zhou Zishu will expel him from Tian Chuang should he ever accidentally overstep the boundaries of his authority.
Zhou Zishu taps one of the files. “I’ve noticed you’ve been doing research lately. A lot of research.”
“Yes,” Han Ying says stiffly. “I have.”
“On the café where we hold our meeting with Jiuxiao.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” There it is, that question, whittled to a single knifepoint of a word.
“Because I…” Because I worry.
Han Ying stops himself. He can’t say that. It’s unprofessional and Zhou Zishu will take it as condescending. He doesn’t need Han Ying to worry about him, he needs him to be capable and reliable.
Han Ying tries again, this time forsaking the explanation and going right into his findings.
“Because that barista is not who he says he is. I’ve been digging into his past and there are loose ends everywhere. He’s not a real person, Zhou-shǒulǐng, his documents are all false. He may have ties to The Vale, and the coffee shop is definitely a front for illegal activities, and he probably human-trafficked that girl he works with—”
“Han Ying,” Zhou Zishu interrupts him. “Enough. Your diligence is laudable, but I’m shutting this down right now.”
Han Ying stares at him and before he can stop himself, that dreadful word comes over his lips, “But…”
He cuts himself off, horrified.
But lightning doesn’t strike him where he sits and neither does Zhou Zishu. His eyes widen a fraction and then he gives Han Ying a strangely…soft look. It makes Han Ying uncomfortable. That look is reserved for Jiuxiao. He doesn’t deserve it.
“I vetted the café and its owner before I ever took you and Jiuxiao there,” Zhou Zishu says. “It’s safe. He’s safe. Peculiar but safe. Rest assured.”
—
Han Ying didn’t use to question Zhou Zishu. Not until The Ghost Café.
Now, he can admit that he doesn’t understand Zhou Zishu’s reasons for returning to the café. He doesn’t understand it and he doesn’t like that he doesn’t understand it – but this is not about liking or questioning.
This is about trust.
Zhou Zishu told him that The Ghost Café was safe. Does Han Ying trust Zhou Zishu enough to follow him despite all the unanswered questions?
The answer is yes; will always be yes.
Han Ying drops his research the next day.
—
Jiuxiao’s mission is nearing its end and Han Ying isn’t as relieved as he thought he’d be. The meetings at The Ghost Café have become a staple of his weekly routine, strange and annoying and entertaining but light nonetheless, a welcome break from Tian Chuang’s bleakness.
It’s raining again today and the café is pleasantly void of other people. The girl, Gu Xiang, lounges behind the register and plays with her plaits while doing her homework. Wen Kexing is moping the floors, inky hair falling over his shoulders in waves.
It’s a quiet day, too. Wen Kexing greets them with his usual charm but afterward he’s awfully still, save for a few throwaway comments here and there. No extensive latte art either. Zhou Zishu’s coffee is decorated with a classic cocoa heart that seems rudimentary in comparison to what Han Ying has seen him do at his peak.
Just because Han Ying dropped his research doesn’t mean his interest in Wen Kexing is automatically gone. He keeps close watch of him throughout the late afternoon, notices the slight stiffness in his movements and the way Gu Xiang’s eyes glide off the page every few minutes to check up on him.
Even Jiuxiao picks up on the dampened mood and tries his best to make up for the lack of Wen Kexing by giving everyone at the café an overdose of Qin Jiuxiao. It doesn’t quite work but Han Ying doesn’t have the heart to tell him that.
Despite all of Han Ying’s monitoring, the collapse happens so fast he almost misses it.
One moment, Wen Kexing is on the ladder, stacking up the large canisters of coffee beans on the shelf beside their table, and the next coffee beans are hailing down on the marble floor and Wen Kexing isn’t on the ladder anymore.
Zhou Zishu must’ve reacted even before Wen Kexing lost his footing because he’s already out of his seat by the time Wen Kexing is falling.
It’s not like in the movies where the hero sweeps the protagonist into his arms bridal style. Wen Kexing is not a dainty damsel in distress, he’s a whole-ass one-meter-eighty-something man falling off a ladder.
Zhou Zishu does it just like how he does everything else, hard but efficient. He catches Wen Kexing’s upper arm, abruptly breaking his fall and saving him from a concussion, but also neatly dislocating his shoulder in the process.
Wen Kexing doesn’t let out a single sound of pain as Zhou Zishu lowers him to the floor, braces his other hand against Wen Kexing’s shoulder blade and unceremoniously pops the bone back into its socket.
Han Ying can’t say he’s surprised. He knows Wen Kexing has affiliations with the underground world and it makes sense that he can take some pain. Still, it’s a strange sight. There is no playful swagger left on his face, only the strained expression of someone who is used to enduring.
“Wen-xiānshēng!” Jiuxiao moves to help Wen Kexing up, but Zhou Zishu holds up a fist without looking at him, the silent command for freeze.
This doesn’t stop Gu Xiang who has leaped over the counter with astonishing agility and hurries to Wen Kexing’s side.
“ Gēgē, is everything okay? I told you I can close up the shop on my own, you shouldn’t—”
“A-Xiang,” Wen Kexing says in a pressed voice. “Not now. Back to the register.”
Gu Xiang crosses her arms and frowns. This time, her teenage grumpiness seems like a bad act. Han Ying sees the fear lurking behind it.
Zhou Zishu is still holding Wen Kexing’s shoulder. For a long second, neither of them moves and Wen Kexing leans against him, breathing hard.
“Another migraine?” Zhou Zishu asks. Wen Kexing doesn’t answer, the set of his jaw stubborn.
Zhou Zishu rises from his crouch and extends a hand. “Come on, Lao Wen. The floor is cold. You’ll get sick.”
Reluctantly, Wen Kexing lets Zhou Zishu help him up but pulls away his hand as soon as he’s upright.
“I’m not going home, so save your breath,” he says. “I can work. I know my limits.”
It looks like Zhou Zishu has a lot of things to say about that, but chooses not to at the last second.
“If you went home, we wouldn’t have anyone left to make us good coffee. You know A-Xiang’s brews are not my cup of tea. But you can at least close up once we’re gone. Your business will survive, it’s not like you’re overrun by customers right now—”
“A-Xu, stop.”
“Stop what, Lao Wen?”
“Stop coddling me. I can make my own damn decisions.”
“I know that,” Zhou Zishu replies, tone carefully measured. “I also know that fall could’ve landed you in the ER. You wouldn’t want A-Xiang seeing that.”
Wen Kexing doesn’t counter the statement but his eyes grow narrow.
Tension boils between them, threatening to erupt, and Han Ying has no idea what to do. The whole Lao Wen thing set aside, this conflict seems thoroughly above his pay grade and wholly none of his business. Jiuxiao, bless his soul, doesn’t give a single fuck about any of those things.
“Uh,” he says. “Sorry to interrupt but…if Wen-xiānshēng wants to keep the shop open, can we at least help him pick up the coffee beans?”
Zhou Zishu flashes Jiuxiao a calculating look. Han Ying knows that look all too well. It’s the one Zhou Zishu wears whenever he’s intrigued by a new strategy.
Seeing his opportunity to gain some brownie points as well, Han Ying says, “I can stack up the canisters while Wen-xiānshēng watches the register.”
“I don’t know,” Zhou Zishu says, turning back to Wen Kexing. “Can they, Lao Wen?”
For once, Wen Kexing looks completely caught off guard. “I…”
He trails off and his eyes dance back and forth between Jiuxiao and Han Ying. His stare is disquieting, a little too sharp, a little too pervasive. Han Ying feels it’s the first time Wen Kexing has properly looked at him – not only looked but also seen him. He doesn’t know what to think of that, and why the surge of pride in his chest is so similar to what he feels when Zhou Zishu gives him an approving nod after a mission well-done.
“Okay,” Wen Kexing says in the end. “Fine. I’ll get a broom for you.”
Zhou Zishu follows Wen Kexing to the storage room. At the door, he pauses to look over his shoulder and gives Han Ying and Jiuxiao one of his good job nods. It just about catapults Han Ying into heaven.
Alright. Maybe Wen Kexing and his coffee shop aren’t so bad.
—
Their last meeting at The Ghost Café is on a sunny Friday afternoon.
The café is teeming with customers, jolly and excited about the good weather. For once, Gu Xiang is too busy at the register to do homework on the side. Wen Kexing is whistling as his hands fly over the worktop, churning out beverages with picturesque designs at a supernatural pace.
Once it’s their turn, Gu Xiang says, “You again,” trying her hardest to sound annoyed but it’s clear that she’s happy to see them. Ever since Han Ying and Jiuxiao helped Wen Kexing clean up the café, she has begun to treat them with the same thorny affection previously reserved for Zhou Zishu.
Although the coffee shop is as busy as it can possibly get, she calls for her guardian as usual. A second later, Wen Kexing is at the counter, smile bright and full of mischief, ready to dish out poetic pick-up lines and to take their orders.
“Ah, A-Xu, that coat looks too good on you. A man in hue, all “hues” in his controlling / Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth. That’s Shakespeare for you. I still think he’s overrated, but looking at you, I can’t help thinking his homoerotic sonnets were quite on point.”
Han Ying is so desensitized to Wen Kexing’s ostentatious flirtations that he finds himself surprised when the girl in line behind him starts coughing loudly, her face red as a tomato. Really, what did she expect? God, Han Ying is too burnt out for any social interaction today. It’s been a whole month since he had a weekend off and he’s exhausted.
Zhou Zishu nods as if he fully accepts Wen Kexing’s academic verdict on Shakespeare or doesn’t care enough to argue against it and answers, “One espresso, please.”
Wen Kexing takes the rebuff in a stride and immediately counterstrikes with even more provocativeness.
“Coming right up. You haven’t ever read a Shakespeare sonnet, have you? Probably for the best, they’re very dense and make little sense without some scholarly assistance. My shift ends at nine, by the way, and I’m always ready to help a layman in need. They don’t call me Philanthropist Wen for nothing.”
“I’ve never heard anyone call you that,” Zhou Zishu says. “A slice of lemon cake, too.”
Watching their conversations is always like watching a match of tennis, Han Ying thinks, except Wen Kexing is the only player and Zhou Zishu is a fucking wall that automatically bounces the ball right back at him.
Due to the impatient customers in line, Wen Kexing lets off with a chuckle. “And for you?” he asks Han Ying.
Han Ying is about to order his regular except…Well, why not?
“Something strong.”
Zhou Zishu’s eyebrows shoot up and he exchanges a look with Wen Kexing.
Han Ying has long given up on trying to interpret their non-verbal communication. After the debacle with the ladder, it has become abundantly clear that Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing know each other personally to some extent. Jiuxiao’s theory is that they’re friends and that the flirting is just one elaborate prank from Wen Kexing. Han Ying’s guess is more of an alliance-turned-friendly situation (based on all that he knows about Wen Kexing’s past) with unrequited feelings on Wen Kexing’s part.
He wouldn’t bet his money on it, though. In the end, it doesn’t make a difference. He will never grasp all the intricacies and peculiarities of their dynamic and he’s made his peace with that.
Wen Kexing is grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Don’t go overboard,” Zhou Zishu warns. “I need him functional.”
“Go overboard with what, Zhou-shǒulǐng?” Han Ying asks.
“Yes, with what, A-Xu? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Zhou Zishu shakes his head and walks off, leaving Han Ying to pay. Wen Kexing hands him his change and gives him a wink before switching back with Gu Xiang.
When Han Ying fetches their tray, there’s a Cupid’s arrow drawn on Zhou Zishu’s lemon cake and a smiley on Han Ying’s toffee-colored drink.
For the first time in months, Zhou Zishu acknowledges the latte art. Upon a short glance at Han Ying’s coffee, he says, “Looks like Lao Wen found a new victim.”
Han Ying searches for an appropriate response but the only words that come to mind are I want to sleep for forty hours straight so he stays silent and sips his drink. It tastes like coffee and dark chocolate and the liquor burns pleasantly in the back of his throat, leaving an aftertaste of nougat.
He flicks aside Zhou Zishu’s napkin with Shall I compare thee in that coat to a summer’s day? / Thou art more lovely and also a lot fucking hotter written on it aside, gets out his copy of Rhapsody: A Dream Novel and opens it.
After one and a half hours, Jiuxiao is still nowhere to be seen and Han Ying’s eyes are heavy. The alcohol helped him relax but it also only made him more tired. He’s about to order another one when Zhou Zishu stops him.
“Drinking won’t solve anything,” he says, which Han Ying thinks is very hypocritical of him. “Go home and sleep it off. It’s been a busy month.”
Han Ying shakes his head. “I’m fine. A few hours more won’t make a difference. But thank you.”
“No need to thank me. That was an order.”
“I should wait for Jiuxiao at least, it’s his last day—”
“Han Ying.” Zhou Zishu’s tone flattens a little.
Han Ying is up in a millisecond and bows his head. “Yes, Zhou-shǒulǐng. Apologies. I’ll leave. When should I report back tomorrow?”
“Don’t. Take the day off. I will, too. Duan Pengju wants to be the head of Tian Chuang so bad, it’s only fair we leave the responsibility to him sometimes.”
Han Ying suppresses a smile and nods.
—
Han Ying takes a cab home and sleeps through the entire afternoon and evening. He only wakes up because his bladder is complaining. While he washes his hands, he suddenly remembers that he didn’t pack his copy of Rhapsody when he left the café.
Technically, the novella is unimportant and he didn’t find the first chapter all that engaging, but he still feels the urge to get it back, if only to visit The Ghost Café one last time.
It’s a shame that Jiuxiao’s mission is already done, he thinks on the drive.
He doesn’t ever get to see Jiuxiao or Zhou Zishu this much at a time in his normal routine. Jiuxiao isn’t in his regiment and Zhou Zishu is too important to Helian Yi’s operation to stay in one place for more than an hour, always a dozen tasks and conferences on his schedule. Really, the last time Han Ying spent so much time with Zhou Zishu was when he trained under him years ago. The thought makes him nostalgic.
By the time he parks his car, no lights are on in The Ghost Café and the blinds are already down. It’s disappointing but only slightly. It’s not like this was ever really about the book in the first place.
Han Ying is about to drive away when a movement in his side-view mirror catches his attention. He rolls down the window and adjusts it so that the backdoor of the coffee shop is properly in focus. His eyes didn’t trick him. The person leaning against the plaster beside the door is Zhou Zishu, arms crossed loosely, navy blue coat billowing in the breeze.
Han Ying should leave. It’s none of his business what his boss is doing after work. He can hang around backdoors all he likes and it doesn’t concern—
The backdoor opens and Wen Kexing emerges, key ring in one hand and jacket in the other.
Han Ying rolls up the window, leaving a small slit to let sound in, and sinks in his seat, eyes fixed on the side-view mirror.
He expects Wen Kexing to shoot his shot in a vaguely Shakespearean fashion again, but instead his expression changes in a way Han Ying has never witnessed. His straight brows knit together like daggers drawn, his eyes deaden and his mouth twists, revealing a hint of teeth.
“What happened?” he asks. His voice has transformed as well, an open blade with no handle, impossible to touch without being cut. “Another fight? Did he— Did that bastard hurt you?”
Zhou Zishu uncrosses his arms. Han Ying spots something in his hand. A book. Zhou Zishu brought Han Ying’s copy with him.
“I’m fine. That was one time, Lao Wen, and he apologized the day after. It won’t happen again.”
“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” Wen Kexing bites back. “Did you have a fight?”
Zhou Zishu shakes his head. His jaw is slightly tense. Han Ying knows from experience that bringing up the quarrels with Helian Yi around Zhou Zishu does not do you any favors.
Wen Kexing lets out a breath and turns his face away from Zhou Zishu for a second. When he turns back, his features have mellowed. “Then what’s wrong, A-Xu?”
Zhou Zishu snorts and steps away from the wall. He pries Wen Kexing’s jacket out of his hands and slings it over his forearm. “Nothing. Can’t I just pick up my boyfriend from work? Is that so unusual?”
Wen Kexing’s smile is light but still a little jagged as if slipping back into his old manners is difficult.
“Well, seeing as this is the second time you’ve done it in a year, it’s practically the definition of unusual.”
“You did invite me. Something about Shakespeare? I have the evening off, and the entire day tomorrow too.”
Wen Kexing’s smile fully blossoms. “You’re down bad, A-Xu. Taking time off work for Shakespeare out of all the overdramatic queer men in the European poetic canon? Really?”
“What can I do? I’m in dire need of a teacher.”
“That much is true.” Wen Kexing steps out of the door frame onto the street. “Are you a good student?”
“I don’t know,” Zhou Zishu says. “A great scholar once told me I’m a slow learner for my big age.”
“Don’t worry,” Wen Kexing says, “I’ll whip you into shape. You’ll be an academic by the time I’m done with you.”
Zhou Zishu laughs, a soft yet raspy sound. “You’re setting high expectations, Lao Wen.”
“Don’t I always?”
Wen Kexing leans forward and Zhou Zishu lifts his hand, fingers carding through Wen Kexing’s thick black hair as he pulls him in for a kiss.
They part a few moments later and Wen Kexing goes to open the lock of a red motorcycle nearby.
“You didn’t really take the day off because of Shakespeare, though,” he muses while rummaging through the saddle bags.
“No,” Zhou Zishu says, amused. “But I assumed that wasn’t the only program for tonight.”
“A good answer, but that’s not what I meant. What are you doing tomorrow that’s more important than work?”
“I wanted to take Jiuxiao out for dinner to celebrate. He deserves it. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure if he would survive his first mission. That boy is the worst student I’ve ever had but his heart is in the right place. He’s…”
Zhou Zishu cuts himself off but Wen Kexing finishes his sentence gently. “Like A-Xiang for me.”
“Like A-Xiang,” Zhou Zishu confirms.
“What about the other one? Is he coming to dinner, too?”
“Han Ying? No, I didn’t invite him. He needs a real day off, absolutely no contact with Tian Chuang for twenty-four hours at least.”
Wen Kexing snickers at that. “I know someone else who could benefit from that. You’re alike, you two. Like teacher, like student.”
Zhou Zishu is silent for a moment, looking lost in thought while Wen Kexing puts on a thick leather jacket and stores the other one in the saddle bag.
“If Jiuxiao is my worst student,” Zhou Zishu says, “Han Ying is my best. He’s beneath Duan Pengju but puts in double the effort. He’s always been like that. When I tell him to jump, he asks how high and then jumps twice the amount. It’s strange. He’s so busy trying to prove his worth that he doesn’t see there’s no need to. I already trust him more than all of my other generals put together.”
“I like him,” Wen Kexing declares and passes Zhou Zishu a helmet. “Jiuxiao, too. You should bring them around again sometime. My charm only ever reaches its peak in front of a good audience.”
“Charm is a strong word, Lao Wen.”
“I know. That’s why I used it. When we get to Shakespeare you’ll see my charm even transcends language. Elizabethan English is home to some amazing euphemisms.”
“I can’t wait,” Zhou Zishu deadpans. He fastens the helmet and swings a leg over the saddle behind Wen Kexing.
“Careful, A-Xu,” Wen Kexing purrs, knocking back the motorcycle’s kickstand. “You’re the one without a vehicle here. You wouldn’t want to walk all the way home, would you now?”
Zhou Zishu rasps out another short laugh. “It depends. If you were walking beside me, I wouldn’t mind at all.”
The motorcycle comes to life and rumbles into motion. A moment later, they’re gone, a grey cloud of exhaust gases left in their wake.
And Han Ying of course.
Han Ying, who sits in his car and stares into nothing.
Han Ying, whose jaw dropped the moment Zhou Zishu said the word boyfriend and hasn’t been picked up since.
“What the fuck,” he says into the silence. Then again: “What the fuck.”
But somehow, although he’s surprised, he’s not as shocked as he feels he should be. This is a big fucking deal and yet…it’s the most logical thing to happen since they first entered The Ghost Café.
Looking back, Han Ying feels like the biggest idiot on planet Earth. He picked on Jiuxiao for being a spy without a gift for basic perception, but he’s no better. Worse, he let his bias get in the way. The signs were literally right there but he chose to ignore them.
Why? Because Zhou Zishu has been labeled untouchable in Han Ying’s mind since he first laid eyes on him, and the thought that he might not be was unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
And to think that Han Ying suspected Wen Kexing…Fucking God, he investigated his boss’ boyfriend. It doesn’t get more embarrassing than that.
He wants to bang his head against the steering wheel, except…
He’s so busy trying to prove his worth that he doesn’t see there’s no need to. I already trust him more than all of my other generals put together.
The memory of Zhou Zishu’s words makes Han Ying feel warm and tingly all over. The warmth only intensifies at the idea of being grouped in with Jiuxiao, who is the closest Zhou Zishu has to family apart from Helian Yi.
Maybe, just maybe, there is no need to beat himself up over this. Maybe Zhou Zishu is right.
It doesn’t matter what Han Ying could’ve done better, because it’s good as it is. More, he likes it as it is.
As Han Ying drives away, he glances up at the rearview mirror. The Ghost Café grows smaller and smaller in the distance, flowers shrinking to tiny violet dots. Smiling, he casts his eyes back on the road, knowing that this definitely won’t be his last time visiting The Ghost Café.